I’ll be going away for a bit.

To Santa Monica, to St. Andrews, Sans Francisco and Honolulu.
For the little sun that goes unseen
Right where the beauties’ been
For the sight of sound, the sound of sin


All rolled up into a humble place called Betong. The one is Southern Thailand, by the way, and has nothing to do with the Pahang place of the same (or possibly just similar) name.
Just for a short trip, with the family (the parents and the bro, and oh, wouldn’t it be smashing…), and Betong’s not short on the sights as well as the fun, apparently. I’ll post about it after I get back on Saturday night.


(I’m pretty sure I’ll be back. I doubt this is a trip to sell able bodies in Thailand as a means to support my family’s clandestine activities -- which mean that I will never possibly know of it, and seeing my bulk would make for a very good sub rosa trade to cannibals of the Wakka Wakka Islands.)


I’m optimistic.


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


There was once this girl, who found herself in mud.


She realised, soon enough, that mud is a terrible place to be in; it stank, for one, and it is gruellingly sickening to sit knee-high in muck, with the cold pressing onto her, constricting. It was humiliating, it was lonely, and it was painful, at times, when she wondered how it was like before the mud and the muck, when it was green grasses and meadows and the promise of eternal spring. The oaths, given beneath the moonlight, swore under the presence of the stars and the nightly wind.


The worst of all was the feeling of sinking in. Of falling deeper into the ever convulsing mud.
There were hands that came, to pull her out. Ropes and sticks and four-wheel drive wenches at points, which she would grab on, hoping that they would pull her away from the mud, and farther away from the meadows before, into someplace new and fresh; a village, perhaps, where she might start anew, with a flower shop at the beside the clinic, exhibiting fresh flowers daily on porcelain china propped at the front of the shop, under a homely sign promising the freshest and loveliest. And people will stop by buying flowers, praising them as they go, or simply just to bid good morning as they passed. A new start to a new, unknown, but certainly better life.


She would hope and wish, and she would let go and fall back into the mud, because she still wishes for the meadows before it, and in the mud by the roadside was where she could see it best.


And she wallowed. She cried. She sank deeper, lamenting, hoping and not knowing whether she would wait or take what that is given; wait, for the hand to take her back to the meadows, or take the hands that offered to help her to the village.


At one point she was too deep, and she was scared. But she wanted the meadow more than the village.


She wallowed. And I think she is still there, sitting in the mud, crying when the cold and the stagnation and the stench closed her lungs and squeezed her throat, or when the night proved too reminiscent an experience, with the stars and the moon, retelling her the stories about the great green meadow, the promises and oath, so that she remembered and wept. I think she still takes a hand sometimes, letting herself being hauled closer to her feet, closer to dry ground, telling her that the village welcomes her, if she would just come. And she would let go and fall, too afraid to lose sight of the meadow.


A long time ago I saw this girl, and I asked if she would like to go to the village, but her voice told me that I understood too little to empathise, and that the mud wasn’t such a bad place to be, so long the meadow remained a canvas close enough to feel and smell.


And I told her; wouldn’t it sound ridiculous, when I told you, that something living -- even an animal, to say the least -- would know when to get away when being trapped too long in a state of torment?


Isn’t it basic instinct?


And she said I wouldn’t understand. I’ve never seen the meadow.


And I thought; yes, perhaps, until I’ve seen the meadow, and know what’s it like to make an oath and found it shattered one day, to find myself in the mud, I would see to myself if the mud is worth staying in for the meadow. And then, perhaps, if I may know enough to stand up and walk away, I might just return here and tell you about it.


I might just ask if you would need help to get up.


And I walked away.


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


In my absence from the net for these 3 days, do take notice on a few things;


1) If a new post were to appear here during this period, and contains something about World Domination and the Salvation of Cow-kind, please know that it is written and published by an enigmatic figure known as The Cow. I don’t know this person or thing, but I know who to blame when something unwanted is posted here during these 3 days.


2) If my MSN goes online and starts spreading messages about World Domination and the Salvation of Cow-kind; What and How to Act According to the Decree of Cow-hood, please know that I have nothing to do with it and they’re probably a spam virus thing, which I will deal with when I get back.


3) If you receive a phone call by a person claiming to be me, and promptly invites you to the Meeting of Bovine Minds, DO NOT AGREE OR ACTUALLY -- IN A CASE OF UTTER AMAZINGNESS -- ATTEND THE THING. If you do, you will be trapped in a cellar for a week and then used as an experiment to better understand the human anatomy. Trust me, I know. I may not be subject to it, but I KNOW.


4) If you dropped by my house and is invited in by a butler, who is very big and fat and walks oddly, as though not used to moving on two legs, and has a coat of white with black spots (patches), who speaks in a Swiss accent and has a tendency to go Moo sometimes, who identifies himself as Mr. Moo, DO NOT ENTER THE HOUSE. Just leave and call me when I get back. I don’t have a butler.


5) There might just be a chance that national TV (like RTM1 and RTM2, TV3 perhaps, but definitely not on Astro) will broadcast a special announcement saying that the world is considerably f***ed up and that humankind is to go bye bye, for the Time of the Cows have Arrived, do not take it seriously and just go to sleep. But if somehow, and just damn somehow, you wake up and see the streets overrun with Cows and Buffaloes and maybe even Goats stamping on people and gutting everyone with a special Gutting gun, please run. As far as you can. I will deal with it when I get back. Don’t call the military or the police or the U.N. Just run.


Well, that’s that about it. Take care ya’ll


Goodnight people!