Being cold and miserable just doesn’t cut it anymore. Where’s the despair? Where’s the sense of hopelessness that you wish the rain can fill? Where’s the infallible grief and growing anger and prolonged destitution? Or that emptiness that pierce into the skin, filling the bones, replacing the soul? Snap out of it, mister. You’re just caught in the rain. You haven’t seen the end of the world.

That would’ve been a sight.

*****

This morning it rained. Heavily. Normally I would roll over and sleep, tortilla-wrapping myself with the blanket and dreaming of Scarlett Johansen lettuce dressings. But today, by virtue of the dad being away from home, morning chores were doubly mine.

It rained like the heavens upended the northern Atlantic ocean, so that it was heavy, unending and piercingly cold. Just enough to plant the seed of misery.

I went to work so late I probably shouldn’t have gone to work at all. But there was urgent work to be done.

And the rain came and go in drizzles. Dreary clouds just stapled itself to the sky, unmoving and stubborn.

Office Internet killed itself. I had to sit through an hour of troubleshooting before the people at TM unwillingly filed a report, promised a technician and cut my call.

My work crawled at snail’s pace, then morphed and shaped itself into coiling streaks of colours, and danced away to the Limbo.

I had my forehead on the table. I spotted a coin on the floor. Left it there.

The carpet turned to mush and I sank like an anvil in quicksand. Everything was grey.

A man wearing a sombrero hat over his diving suit floated my way. “You too?” he said. “Lots of people here today. Must’ve been the weather.” He paddled away, trailing bubbles that stayed in place.

I decided that it was probably best if I headed for home.

It still managed to rain. It’s raining now, in lapses. All the better.

Because I can now tortilla-wrap myself, and maybe dream of Milla Jovovich lettuce dressings.

Sweet dreams.

Sitting On A Rock, watching a lonesome dark cloud roll across the horizon, and catching a little wind with a Snickers Mini in hand. If there’s such a thing as a Random-Stroke-of-Zen Moment, that would’ve been it.

As always, the rock and the wind would give birth to a lot of ideas. Paper planes and kites. Paragliding. Or bagfuls of dandelions, opened to the breeze. That would’ve been sight.

How long was it since I hiked up Broga Hill?

A couple of things have changed. For one, the oil palm plantation below now has an enclosure, and there are people there charging climbers two ringgit to park their cars . An opportunistic vendor now parks his coconut stall at the foot of the hill, enticing weary climbers with thoughts of ice cold coconut drinks (in truth, almost lukewarm). Some authoritative figure of some sort enacted a few signboards along the way, and - wherever needed - aiding ropes were now available to speed up the ascent.

Other than that, and the fact that it’s now a tourist attraction, and the overlong cattails, everything’s still the same.

Stamina now shot to dust, but I still made it up at least. And I headed for the rock without a thought, ready to push off anyone with the gall to sit on it.

(Which begs the question; Can one buy a rock? If one would invest an insignificantly significant amount of money, can a gigantic piece of rock be bought and fitted around with electric barb wires and a moat filled with piranhas just so only one may sit on it?)

In place of dandelions, I shot a stalk of Lalang into the air, the way that the father thought me. The stalk danced momentarily in the wind, deciding whether or not to follow the flight and, knowing the scientific hopelessness of it, simply danced to the ground.

I felt like it reflected a bit of something, but it’s a fogged mirror, which I drew a face on and forgot.

A conversation. And then, as it happened, a reminiscence. Of old coke vending machines, and some talk over flowers. And days of sharing headphones. Train rides pondering the questions. Planning and watching everything fall.

One cold night, shivering for no reason, and about to do something really stupid.

I used to think that the past should serve as a means to walk forwards. These days it felt like it was tethering me back. I’m grounded at the balls of my feet, and the roots are only growing daily. Can’t lift my feet. Not going anywhere.

It was a long time ago. I keep feeling like it happened yesterday. But it wasn’t a case of not letting go. I’ve unclenched my fingers and watched it fall, but it’s that mess in the hall I’m too lazy to sweep.

I’m not making sense. But it’s midnight, and I can afford that type of leeway.

Bright Lights and Hospitals

It started sort of like déjà vu. Then it went down a different road, one that led to a roller coaster ride that can only careen into unforeseen tragedy. At any rate, I spent that morning staring up a lot. Between wincing, groaning and swearing off all sorts of vices just to make the pain go, I stared up. And up that morning consisted of ceilings, a glimpse of the dawning sky, and lights.

Really bright lights. That burn an afterimage of gargantuan French Fries into the retina.

The mental projection of that Eskimo wearing Oakley goggles and standing on a patch of ice resurfaced. Soft snow floated down, but I knew I couldn’t taste them. The Eskimo naturally said; “Fucked up again, huh? You never really did learn.”

“Good job reminding me.”

He lit his cigar. “Well, it’s not entirely your fault. You’ll find out. But lets start with exercising in the mornings now, can’t we?”

“Set my alarm then.”

He blew out the smoke, jabbed the cigar at me and walked away.

The doctor looked like he had been watching too many soap operas. He listened to symptoms like cherishing Bach, and talked methodically.

“Could be a stone in the urinary tract,” he said, nodding as though concurring with himself. “Anyway, we’ll find out after the test.” He left, him and his Einstein moustache. I twiddled my thumbs under the covers, wondering where the pain went without any medication administrated.

They then carted me off for a CAT scan, but not before parking me by a random wall. They said there was a line going for the scans. I sure didn’t see any, but maybe they meant the procedural type. So I twiddled my thumbs some more, and nodded at the parents if they looked this way. I’ve already ruined their weekend morning, so reassurance was the next best thing to do.

At the wall was a painting framed by plastic made to look as expensive, engraved wood. I couldn’t tell what it was about - it was one of those abstract pictures, but considering the hospital setting I’d say it must’ve been medical related. It had coagulated colours and crude boils. I was putting my money on the titles like Jimmy’s Acne, or The Cancer Dirge.

The CAT scan was horrifying. Every hum of machinery meant a few hundred bucks gone. I was also getting radiation into the body. They probably mutated something.

They then wheeled me into a room, and told me that the CAT Scan didn’t do the trick well enough, and they had to ultrasound me. I already had a few pregnancy jokes made up but the doctor looked like he needed coffee and candy, so I kept my tongue.

Ultrasound gel feels cold. It dawned that I had a really large gut. Like, huge.

The nurses (attendants?) started talking over me as they wheeled me out of the room. “Could use with some automatic doors,” Dude said. “High-end stuff.” “Yeah, yeah, the expensive ones,” said Dudette. “Like in America.” “Shut up, Shut up,” I said, but only in my head.

The bright lights ran along with the ceiling, burning lines and lines of large French Fries.

The last doctor I had to see looked excitable, and he took time to explain where the problem was with a helpful but distracting graph. He then signed the medication and asked me to come see him in a week’s time. The sound of the door closing also sounding like the cash register going Ka-Ching.

And it did. But at least I get to pay back.

And with that, Saturday afternoon started.

******

That happened last month. I wanted to write about it but I got distracted by having to review StarCraft 2.

It wasn’t serious, but before I was driven to the hospital it felt like it was. If having to wake up to puke water all over the toilet, followed by numbing pain to the gut and creeping tendrils of unconsciousness didn’t do enough to scare me into a hospital trip, I don’t know what else would.

I think it’s time I really wake up for a morning jog. The dogs could do with the exercise too.

*****************

Like that painful morning, the month came and gone. I practically walked out of the hospital and into closing week (there was about seven other days in between, but that flew by too). And because I was so distracted by so many things, I handed up work much slower than usual. Time to buck up this month.

I’ve also been playing a lot of StarCraft II. I’m no good in it; RTSes are never in my gaming forte, but it was undoubtedly a lot of fun, even when losing. Ok, maybe losing every Custom Game match wasn’t so fun, but it kept me playing still.

Right then. Wish me luck.