Little Miss Incognito

Suffice to say I have found myself a new hideaway where I can go OTT and TMI (that's Over The Top and Too Much Information for the uninitiated) if need be. I needed a channel to go carte blanche on matters I am not ready to share with the whole world. Although, of course, I don't mean to suggest that the whole world reads this pathetic little blog of a little person. Oh pooh, you know what I mean. Fret not, I have too much of a sentimental hold to forever abandon this site. I'll keep coming back, just as we always come back to pictures of the past, especially those of gayest moments.

Why I I

I am So Happy, It's Sad

I fall in love and it tortures me
the inner peace makes me restless
I fall in love and it consumes me
the inner joy besets me in melancholy
I fall in love and it torments me
the inner contentment feels insufficient
I fall in love and it proves deep
the inner security is shallow
I fall in love and it brightens me
the inner glow casts me in darkness
I fall in love and it comforts me
the inner luxury gives me blisters

by Zwelibanzi Moya, a mentor and dear friend I gained in Johannesburg, ZA

The start of something beautiful scares me aplenty. The mind plays foolish tricks and questions the unquestionable, speaks the unspeakable, judges the unnavigable. But I tell myself it's going to be okay as I shush myself to sleep, for he is ready to be a friend. Not like the last one. And again, he, my friend who will always be a friend no matter what, is right, He is always there for me. I am never alone.

Still, I just want to be okay today.

2009 As It Were

I am 24 days late for a closure. 2009 is taking much too long to rid itself from my system; evident from the way I script XX January 2009 on every single leaf of my class notes thus far. Perhaps it’s a Freudian slip and my psyche is not ready for my penultimate year of college. Though I wonder if a large part of it was not for the non-closure and confusing twists and turns my emotions have gone through last year.

So here’s my attempt at putting 2009 to rest.

I ended one long-term relationship after long, difficult deliberation. I patched things up with a friend I once thought I lost, after he surprised me in Chicago on my birthday. I struggled through Economics to get to the part I think love most, only to find myself doing worst at it. I gave a portion of my heart away only to find it returned to me dent and fragile as ever. I experienced, for a period, how cultural, racial and religious differences mean nothing if you care for one another.

I saw my friends grow and am happy that our friendships have blossomed to a new level of understanding. I saw myself grow in ways I am still trying to decipher whether it is good or bad. Nonetheless, I have grown and the more things I learn, the more I learn how little I know. I learned to let go of bitterness of the past and instead focus on the fact that Allah trades one thing for another.

2009, as it were, was a year of reconciliation, understanding with reason and choosing sides for me. If you were a part of my 2009, be it through rain or sunshine, I bid you many thanks. It’s your choice to be a part of my 2010 but know that I have a place for each and everyone of you in my heart. Because a person this small should only have a heart so big to fill it in with a mélange of emotions that keeps her feeling big and stronger.

I turn 21 this new year of 2010. Let's see how I take this one.

I'm Not Dying a Katok Virgin

Two years is the amount of time I have patiently confined myself to a diet regime of halal meat that strictly meant Indian/Pakistani cuisine in long stretches of time. Two years is half the duration of my complete stay in Chicago. Two years, simply said, was halfway through the battle against myself.

Yet, I have failed myself. I am not dying a katok virgin, and I'm not proud of that fact.

You think I'm religious? I think not. I think going katok is the least of my worries in the mass of sins and debt I've accumulated against the Almighty. In fact, I don't think it's such a big deal as some legitimize this action by claiming that it stems from the nawaitu of the proprietor. Believe in a valid reason, they say, and your action is vindicated from the wraths of dosa.

Now that is my problem. My being in a major city that allows me access to halal meats and poultry forces me to believe it's not permissible for me. Therefore I have sinned.

Pacing around town with an empty stomach on a cold October night in Chicago was perhaps not the smartest action. The time was 10.30pm. It was a time when restaurants were already closed or were closing their doors to customers, and Cheesecake Factory saw to a long queue waiting for their awesome cheesecake suppers. It was a time when famished people who decided to forgo a sensible early dinner like me was bereft of many choices. Walking into a tavern whose menu bore Buffalo Wings as a specialty was not much help either.

So I succumbed to the physical pain of walking for too long; the psychological angst of waiting too long; the incessant seduction of the devil; and to the expectation of consuming a gastronomical treat I yearned ever so much.

The buffalo wings was not worth the smeared record that was my strongest principle. Dry and tasteless, the buffalo wings repleted me with the strongest lesson that gluttony doesn't pay. I swear that would be my first and last.

I do not blame the night on my companion (who, by the way, happened to take pictures with the intention of blackmailing me). I blame myself. But I am not so intent on wasting my time on matters of the past, the control of agency and the complications of timing and circumstances. Rather, I am more worried about the sense of self and the grip on limitations and principles I am slowly losing.

In more ways than one, this episode tilts me to a series of self-doubt I am not strong enough to combat alone. Sometimes, I feel more alone than ever eventhough the materials of life, I claim, keeps me happy. Friends are long immersed in their own pursuits of academia or life in their separate colleges, while close friends have new close friends of their own.

Self-doubt is undoubtedly self-destructing. I am praying for a turnaround.

Singing In The Shower

Sometimes it's as simple as sharing a cake in the car, this pursuit of happiness. Other times it's singing in the cold shower after a sweaty, manic Monday or finding yourself lost in tangles of dreams as you pore over pages of a good book. Some prefer the intangible feeling of remembering the tune to a song they were struggling to recall. I wish it was all that AND finding the missing piece to the puzzle that is me.

Sediakan Payung Sebelum Hujan

What do you do when you finally get to meet someone you've always wanted to meet?

This person is the present day Batman, who so mysteriously appears and disappears from your life, and of those times, mostly during the night. You may want to personify him like the Chipsmore, "sekejap ada, sekejap takde". But when the other is there, you share stories--some intimate, some serious, others silly, and most, random.

And so, you've counted months and weeks to match this persona you think you know, and the voice and laugh you definitely recognize to a person you've never physically met. Again, what do you do when this reverie decides to come true?

Do you conjure up a list of 1001 topics to talk about? Do you talk like you know each other or do you just act cordial and slightly formal? Do you lean on old jokes you've cracked, or do you rely on new ones you've just learned? Do you ask the person if "he saves the best for the last, or eat everything all at once" like you've always wanted to ask?

I chose to fire him a raging spitball instead. Which, by the way, landed peacefully on his left forearm.

"So, how is MY summer so far"?

I raise the white flag. Nobody can be as geeky, and un-cool as me, raging spitball and all. And all summer long I'll keep that in mind.

5454 S. Shore Drive, Shoreland 606

A once 5-star luxurious hotel accommodating notable figures like Ernest Hemingway and Al Capone and beautifully located on the feet of Lake Michigan - this is what The Shoreland is. Chancing my eyes upon this 12-floor grandeur of 20's style architecture some time in September two years ago, I never expected it was going to be the place far away from home that I call home.

The Shoreland is a stellar example of beautiful on the outside and not-quite-beautiful on the inside. For a second, its exterior may fool you into expecting lavish, velvety tapestries, shiny glimmery chandeliers and plush red carpet. Once you step inside the lobby, you are left cold with the shattering reality of its dirty windows, peeling paint, loosen pipes and cracked floors.

There are "vintage" mismatched sofas flanking your left, shopping carts on your right, a TV corner and a harpsichord with missing keys on the far right, and a shabby reception desk before you electronically swipe your ID and consider yourself home. (What enigma holds behind the shopping carts? Left-over carts from the nearby Walgreen's and Treasure Island, possibly pushed over all the way to the Shoreland by lazy persons like me who think it's okay to leave a cart to be reused again and again, for the greater good).

Enter elevators - the kind that creaks and heaves, forcing you to pray hard that it would not crash down or get stuck like that movie called Speed that scared jack out of you when you were six. It is also the moody kind that selects the floors it wants to take you to; mysteriously leaving out the 3rd, 7th and 11th floor on many occasions.

The real thrill of exploring this rundown hotel of a dorm is felt as you navigate your way through childishly mural-painted walls. Each floor - all seven floors of houses - have adopted the mural way of life (pun intended), establishing house themes and colors to orient disoriented first timers into feeling at "dorm".

The sixth floor, my floor, happened to choose the worst theme of time travel, and possibly boasted the worst-skilled student painters. Images of distorted dinosaurs and the same moustached man in an astronaut suit, mexican poncho, roman robes one wall to the next will creep first timers like it did me.

Yet again, with every trivial detail, creepy mural and all, The Shoreland just grows on you. From the boiler that clangs all through winter and rudely intrudes your (okay, my) wildest dreams, its frequent annoying fire drills that magically always sets off at 3am, its falling-apart dressers and headless showers, to the dilapidated ballroom, The Shoreland earns your fondness. It becomes your home.

Next year, when greedy developers raze this beauty to the ground, or remarket it as a prime condominium completely removed from its identity, I will look upon the lake and smile to myself. I have indeed gained a place far from home that I call home. If not through pictures and legacy, The Shoreland will continue to live in our hearts.

5' Thoughts About 6' Under

There is something about deaths that just silence me. News of so many of them just seem to creep up on you all at once that it begs you to think you must have crossed that minefield of time. Unrelated deaths of three, four or five people just seem to breeze by you one day at a time, overwhelming you with the reality of it all. 

The reality is that people die, every single day, every single minute. With every sneeze that you take, you escape death, but death preys on some other person, at another place in the world. 

This academic quarter I received heavy news of the passing of both my late grandfather's brothers, Aki Chu and Aki Dea; my grandmother's sister-in-law, Wan Dea; an Uncle Julian (an aunt's uncle who died of cancer), and the tragic death of a first year Malaysian from Pennsylvania State University.

The last and most recent (May 25, to be exact), gripped me senseless particularly because he passed away from a drowning incident while camping at a National Park in Tennessee. All my life, I have been indignant about having to produce permission letters from parents before a field trip, and scoffed at unfortunate events chaperons pull out of thin air to scare us schoolkids at campgrounds. Evidently, shit happens and I un-rest my case.

And old age? Old age strikes. It strikes us in the face, hard. Last summer I had "that" conversation with my aunt, Tam, who out of the blue adviced that I be strong and understand that my loved ones are aged and time will take its toll. She ranted on and on about having to let go, especially since I am studying thousands of miles across the seas from home.

Considering the weakling that I am and  the close call we had last year, naturally I burst into tears. Secretly, and away from her eyes of course (I looked out the window throughout the uncomfortable 15 minute car drive). I was disgruntled and upset that she chose to give me such a peptalk at an occassion I am most happy--driving to a bazar ramadhan. To me, these things should be unspoken of. I will pretend to be strong when the time comes, because I know I will have to.

Perhaps it is unkind for me to confess that the deaths I mentioned did not particularly break my heart. Instead, the corporeality that it could be my grandmother(s) devastates me. And this is why the home bells are ringing. I do not regret for a second that I booked the next flight home once I received the ultimate rejection. 

In a month's time, I will be home. I will be home for Nenek, whom has been ill for so long now. And Wan, I will be home to take you to the grocery store, to drive you around (with the exception of the city centre and Bangsar due to obvious reasons for a girly manual car driver like me), to demand good food and fatten myself up, to tumbuk-tumbuk your legs, and to literally sleep under your ketiak at night. 

I will be home. Unless home means the eternal hereafter, I will be home, I promise.

Well Hello 'ties!

It ends here, my teen days. I struggle to regurgitate my life experiences thus far, wondering yet again if I have reached milestones that should be reached come this day, for the 20th time.

Retrospection leaves me sullen because I feel like I have not done as much as I should have, tried as hard as I could have, pursued as far as I would have liked. Oft times I wish I were in another's shoe, living another's dream, climbing mountains, going places, creating fiction, crafting breathtaking art . . . anything I'm not.

If time machines are but a creative reverie, I would gladly place myself back in those times when I should have, or shouldn't have. I'd let experience work its miracle backwards, leaving me free from these nagging thoughts that "I should have" or "I could have".

Two decades may not be time enough to prove myself worthy of the world, of course. But yet in this course of my life now, I have met many who seem to carry the world in their hands, so seemingly accomplished. There is so much that hinders me from believing that I am already a woman. And still there is plenty to make me realize there is no place in the world for a childish NJ. A child at heart, perhaps, but not a child of sorts.

There is so much to learn, although I feel like I learn new things every now and then. Today, for instance, I learned that my silly insecurities of not being loved, and being under-appreciated is unfounded. There is love all around me, if only I'd learn to see it. And there is greatness in me, if only I'd learn to use it.

Well hello twenties. I shouldn't be scared of you, should I? As long as this youth blood courses through my veins, I shall seek for my place in this world, my place next to someone, my place in a future. 

This post calls for OAG's Generasiku. Same old same old perhaps, but the song breathes a fresh meaning for me as I grapple with my relatively new and more profound understanding of youth. Let the good (and bad) times roll!

p/s: Thank you for seeing me through my 20 years of life, no matter who you are and which phase of my life we have crossed paths. You wouldn't believe how much meeting each and every one of you have helped define a part of me. Arigatou. Xie xie. Syukran. Terima kasih daun keladi. Praise to the deity for allowing me such passage. Alhamduillah.

Musings, Revisited

Many atimes I ponder if the world would come to a halt had it been me behind a piercing scream, shattered glass and dead silence as the lights dim out and emotions, lost. A month before, a week before, a day before, an hour before, today, as such. . . it doesn't matter. Impending birthdays bring that sense of uncertainty whether your sense of being creates some sense for the world around you. They make you pause and wonder if there are many more to come. There are dreams to catch, people to love, and lives to lead. How many more fortnightly days of March will I take reign before these are mine for keeps?

Elephant In The Room

Have you heard that elephants don't forget? And like them, I never forget a smell. Now all I ask is if you'd let me not forget you. So speak truth, will I ever get a whiff of you? 100 or so days to come, in my wishful thinking.

It's Only When I Sleep

Good call.

Good call to what I did

as the night consumed
and a brand new day
unraveled forward. Because

At last,
we meet in my dreams.

At last,
we spy the sun rising
the same instant.

At last,
the motions of the world
raced to a halt before us.

At last,
we spoke, with the space, none
between us.

At last,
I saw you as I want to see you.

At last,
we felt as I want us to feel,
and sure.

Meet me in my dreams
again and again
over and over
eternal and forever
till it's all but just a dream.

Fourth Wall

"Leave me alone,
You'll keep on singing the same old song
Till the day you people wake up.
A fool's walking stick supports the clever.
But why do you sit idle
While this bedframe
Also needs a nail or two?"

"You have eyes and you can't see?
Or has language of the eyes
Become as hard as the language of the ears"

"Promises do not mean delivery.
Clouds may be in the sky
But it does not mean it will rain"

- I Will Marry When I Want, a play by Ngugi Wa Thiong'O & Ngugu Wa Mirii

The lines scream poetry, profundity and weight.

Thrilled and honored, aptly how I feel about participating in the impending African & Carribean Students Association's play. I face the challenge of fooling reality, sure thy skin is not black.

But I am already falling in love with the beauty of its language, and the wisdom it delivers. And love; it is strong, it can move mountains, it can cross the seas, it transcends time.

Meanwhile some lines; some lines just speak to me, reprimanding me, reminding me of things wanting of me.

Take me on board, now.

Fishcake & Curry, I am Nobody!

Not too long ago, I used to believe that maybe, just maybe, I got to where I am now because I did have an extra something; that X-factor nobody actually knows what they're referring to. I was inflated with the prospect that I could go far in life with the talents I thought I possessed. I felt that writing comes naturally, command in English was a breeze, and communicating with people - not a big deal. So, I thought I was set for life. If you look at me or read these words and feel that I am somewhat special, I must thank you profusely, but I beg to differ.

I am nobody, and I am going absolutely nowhere.

I am very conscious of the fact that I may not be the most intelligent student who was scouted for the Olympiads, nor was I the girl with an unbeatable rapport of being number one. I wasn't your passionate debater who could yap on and on, learnedly, regarding any subject matter. More still, I am most certainly not a girl who thrives at all things Mathematics, and God knows how I try, but never will.

I may not be all those, but I was confident that I was a bright girl. To me, being bright means being able to comprehend/pick up things easily, able to converse like I know shit, able to sense, feel and prioritize. It is one thing to be studious and smart, but it is another to be outgoing and quick. It is not with pure conceit that I say so, just out of desperation to believe that I am good at something.

Some of you may be familiar with my obsession for stalking while some of you don't. Let it be known here that stalking can lead you to a myriad of places; connecting you with brighter, smarter, more talented pool of people that you knew existed, but were never exposed to. This mere activity of clicking, reading, more scrolling and anticipating lends you insight to how inept, stagnant and ordinary you are. At least, that's what it did to me.

With the power of stalking bestowed upon me, I am led to the stark reality that I am nothing! I see peers who write creative stories, strangers who pen long, flawless posts in a command so natural and effortless, and I am left feeling envious. This is not even talking about the friends who write about global issues and current affairs. Reading those genuine, well-articulated ideas make me feel under-accomplished and completely throws me off the track from aspiring to become a writer/columnist one day. I hungrily feed on inspiring quotes and entertaining stories by Malaysian peers whose blogs get heavy traffic and in the end I just feel hopeless.

Yes, I dream to write one day, but seeing what I see now truly leaves me with self-doubt if I would ever make it. A very special person has gotten his words published in the newspaper at the age of 19 for gods sake, and I am not even contributing to the campus publication. Some of you will surely argue that my writing is pretty good, but how do I explain this thirst for being more than I am? How do I make you see that this totally demolishes any harbored thoughts that I had something special? Clearly there are millions of more talented individuals out there, and I am very much outnumbered and conquered.

It's on rough days like yesterday, that this again occupies my mind. I have been suppressing these insecurities for a while now, but I think my state now calls for some personal bashing. I see more clearly now, all the signals I should have seen. A friend keeps mentioning how intelligent and smart my other friend is, but has he ever said the same about me? No. I have never written anything worthy of mention by anyone or worthy of resonance to anyone; and that's good indication to myself that I am lacking.

Yes, I know I know, I have made it through school with good grades and all that shmatzy, and yes, Alhamdulillah, I am studying abroad here in the United States, but do you see? Do I really have something more to make it even further in life? Will I ever have something more to bring to the table?

Fishcake and curry, let me wallow in self-pity; because right now I feel like I'm nobody.

Yes, I Know Who I Am

The Feist: 1 2 3 4

1, 2, 3, 4
Tell me that you love me more
Sleepless, long nights
That is what my youth was for

Oh, teenage hopes
Arrive at your door
Left you with nothing,
But they want some more

Chorus:
Oh, oh, oh,
You're changing your heart
Oh, oh, oh,
You know who you are

Sweetheart, bitter heart,
Now I can't tell you apart
Cozy and cold,
Put the horse before the cart

Those teenage hopes,
Who have tears in their eyes
Too scared to own up,
To one little lie

Chorus

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9 and 10,
Money can't buy you back the love that you had then
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9 and 10
Money can't buy you back the love that you had then

Chorus x 4

For the teenage boys
They're breaking your heart
For the Teenage boys
They're breaking your heart

I know who I am. I am one of two who has changed heart. I am one of two who has drifted apart. From the bottom of my heart, I'm sorry. But I think I'm ready. I'm ready for the future, for the possibilities, for living life! This is it. I know what I want. I know what I feel. Let's just wait for time.

Tamat Riwayat

Worn, seasoned jeans is the most comfortable thing in the world after a grandmother's warm embrace and reassuring words. It is a safe choice, it is true and it is follows through, in spite of your most torrential weight fluctuations or worst pimple outbreaks.

How can I not remember the first time I laid eyes on you? It was 2006, at One Utama that I went for jeans hunting with Papa. You gave me the fluttery, butterfly-in-the-tummy sensations people get when they meet something they really desire, and something they knew would be the best thing that could happen to them. It was a fit! All I needed to do was get your length altered at Uptown and an inspiring love affair began soon after.

You saw me through my best days. You saw me through my worst bad-hair days. You saw me through my saddest moments or loudest experiences. You served me selflessly through my stint in conservative INTEC by accompanying me on my countless dates with S, on my 24/7 Calculus-studying at Starbucks with K, on my pasar-malam trips with the six-pack. You were always my choice for movie trips and open houses with KYS buddies. I am sure you will not forget carrying Yaya nor her spits and her pen scribblings on you. Ayell never really got to know you, but I'm sure you'll never forget how tiny he was when he was born.

Most importantly, I am glad that you have gotten to see your fair share of this Land of the Free called America. We both have seen much and experienced aplenty here. I'm sure you love Chicago and New York City as much as I do, and I still feel pangs of remorse that I did not take you with me to San Francisco and the roadtrip I went on last year.

Albeit I may have shortchanged you many times for that $3.99 jeans I purchased at Charlotte Ruse, or that unbelievably cheap, genuine Roxy jeans from Bandung, or your two Levi's half-sisters, skinny jeans black and gray, or my new penchant for leggings; you should know that you were my true love. There is only so much skinny jeans can do by looking great with boots, but you gave me faith in myself by looking so great on me always. I thank you endlessly for that.

Now that time has taken its toll and the many number of washes have eaten you up as they see fit, I guess it is time I accept that we bid farewell. I do not have the heart to physically throw you out--like I did to your older, bootleg-cut of a stepsister--but I'll be seeing you less and less. May we meet again at place where all jeans, things, friendships and relationships go untainted, unspoilt and forever ready to make someone happy.

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran

p/s: If this is just about a pair of jeans, why do I feel so empty?

Lest You Be Fooled

Don't be fooled

1. One day I wake up smiling,
the other I arouse scowling.
Should I feel guilty;
should I say nay;
should I stay away?
But beaming so hard,
and beating so fast,
thy heart feels.
Something.
Oh yes it feels.

2. So I have a dream.

A dream that goes far
beyond the horizon
beyond the continents
beyond the seas.
Can't you see and smile for me?

Will you notice and smile with me?

3. Despicable are my actions,
ugly are my thoughts
void are my promises.
But can you blame
a heart so weak, a life so broken
a hole so empty?

. . . into thinking that this is poetry or lyrical thoughts of any sort. It's a shameful jumble of thoughts hiding behind a guise so decent that you could be fooled. I have attempted (and failed) myriads of times at writing verse and have resigned to the fact that I can't write poetry for peanuts!

Yes, laugh and be merry,
oh this poem sucks don't worry! ; )

Pray for Nenek

Hi. If you happen to read this, do pray for my nenek, my dad's mother. My sister just told me that she's warded in UH, PJ on December 16th, Malaysian morning time. My brother and my sister visited her during lunch hours, and she was in pretty bad shape. But then, in the evening she took Yaya and Ayiel to visit nenek again and she looks a lot better.

I know I should accept whatever happens, and nenek is already 85+, but all the same, I can't be there. I haven't gotten through my dad, and I know he doesn't plan on telling me, that's why he didn't even text me. In April-May this year, none of my family members contacted me for a long time, because they were hiding something from me. It wasn't until Midwest Games (May 24-26) that they suddenly called me, and slow-talked me to tell me what happened.

What did they expect me to do? Laugh? Of course I'll cry. What with not knowing something as crucial as that, and me worrying about why they didn't contact me, and not telling me when I texted/called them?? Alhamdulillah that things worked out then, but what if it was the opposite? What if it was bad news? Would my grandmother (wan, not nenek) be adamant that I didn't know until I came back for the summer (which she didn't even know of, since my going back was a surprise)? Would they only give in when it's too late??

Aaargh, I don't understand why they must keep things from me. I'm turning 20 next year, I have every right to know. If I find out things last minute, the more lah I'll fret and worry and cry tersedu-sedu because I feel guilty I didn't know. Don't they know that???? I mean, I knowlah they don't want to me to worry because I'm all alone here in Chicago, but to me, I'd rather know and not be shocked by bad news all of a sudden, when it's too late.

Anyways, yes, please pray that she gets well soon, or Allah will bless her in any case. I don't know why she's warded, she's mainly healthy. I'm guessing it's just sakit tua. Thank you all.

Jolly Good Dream

One good thing that came out of my easy-come-easy-go-teary-state now is that I had a jolly good dream last night. I should probably put all this blogging on hiatus since final exams are looming even faster than I can say jeronimo. . . But this dream was so weird, and subconsciously presented everything I want/need/desire that I feel the need to document this as something significant in my life. Of course, now as I speak, half of my recollection of that dream has gone kaput. Why oh why can't beautiful dreams stay vivid in one's mind so that one can bring it up and smile to oneself and just let everyone else think one is crazy?

Let's see, so I know the dream involved my sister, my brother, Myra (5 year old apple of my eye), myself and my dad. Hmm, it seems like us three siblings and Myra took a flight to somewhere I didn't quite know initially. The plane went through a series of airpockets, and you could say it was one bloody rocky plane-ride that got me grunting and twitching in my sleep. The destination?? Just to the northside of Chicago, or more specifically, Skokie since in that dream we headed to Aunt Enson's (the Malaysian Student's Department's education attache) home! Yes, even in that dream I was laughing like a headless chicken since we could have just taken the CTA trains or driven. It was a bloody one hour trip away from my the southside, for pete's sake! Heh, but if it was realistic, the next part, which is the crunch, ladies and gentlemen, would never have come about.

From Aunt Enson's house, we magically transported ourselves into an airplane, and once again, made our way through the clouds. This ride saw to a crash landing; imagine how pissing scared I was, crying and ducking on my brother's lap. Selfish aunt, I don't even know if I remembered Yaya should have been first priority. Hehe. Anyways, well, it was a highly unlikely miracle that we landed safely despite the "crash" landing! I lost all sense looking at the clear white snow everywhere and anywhere at the place we landed. Walking for a few minutes brought us to, get this, the city of Kathmandu! Hold your horses, that's not the most bizarre part just yet. We stumbled upon some Shepa dude (heeeh, I'm making an assumption here, since they're the only kaum ethnic I know in Kathmandu from reading Geography back in the lower secondary years=P) and he took us to a huge treehouse.

Boy-oh-boy, it was my dad's house (because, well, in this dream, he was in that house). Is this friggin cool or what? There's an almost zero probability that one has a dad who owns an effing big treehouse in Nepal of all places! I forgot the details of the tree house (I keep smiling to myself as I type tree house now), but I do remember that we had to climb two flights of stairs before coming to a one-floor living space that had a living room, bedroom and cozy dining room. Macam that Disney movie Meet the Robinson's (or was it the Robinson's family or something) who made an awesome tree house at some jungle on an island they got stranded at. Surreal, and downright crazy now that I think about it. Underneath all that, I think what made me happy in that dream was just the amount of time we spent together, all five of us, in that dream of a house. Yaya, of course, was so happy since it was a treehouse. Which 5 year old doesn't get excited at the fct that she's LIVING on a trehouse?

All the blurry details in between, we moved to a different location, where my dad promised to build us another treehouse. So, we traveled to where it was (by foot, by car, by plane, beats me!), and this second house was Ya Allah even more amazing than before! It was located at this terraced hill, which looked like, you know, steps. The house was right in the middle, at the bottom. Imagine an amphitheatre, and the big ring in the middle was where the house was.

The three of us got so excited that we beat Myra at being so childish and jumpy and all that hullabaloo. But the most awesome feature of this house was that some big ass waterfall actually cascaded down to our doorsteps! It was like living at the foot of Niagara Falls or something. Yes, I'm not talking about those teeny tiny waterfalls at Ulu Yam or Kuala Pilah, this was the big mother-nature gift. Hahaha! We had so much fun running away from the crashing water, and it was amazing that my normal paranoid self did not get all tensed up about how it may destroy the house, how we might be drowned, etc.

My interpretation on all this muse? I definitely yearn for those times when I was smaller and my dad would take the three of us on a holiday, either to Cherating or Langkawi. The last time my dad took me on one was when I was nine. We went to the East Coast--Kuala Terengganu and Kota Bharu--and I probably had the best time of my life just having him all to myself. Things went downhill soon after and I never got another holiday with him. It would be weird too, to go on a family holiday now, since we're all adults, my brother, sister and I. My sister has her own family, and my dad also got remarried. Heh, it would never be the same again, I guess.

But yeah, I'm guessing Sigmund Freud was dead accurate when he posited that dreams are a manifestation of one's repressed desires. However, I assure you that my "repressed desires" have nothing to do with the incestual desire Freud believes every person innately have. Heh, apparently he thinks that every little boy goes through an Oedipus Complex whereby he becomes fixated at mommy's titties and yearns for mommy sexually. Meanwhile, the girl would harbor the same sentiments towards the father; sadly mistaken that daddy is her love of her life Hm. I don't buy any of that, astaga.

But again, I told you I have a deprived childhood, and it's all coming back to me now. . .

Wheee! Can I be young and six, and do cartwheels and play tag all day long, and get to spend more time with my father before I have to grow up and grow boobies and can drive on my own that I don't need him to take me places anymore? Hehe. Stay tuned.

Tears Are Words The Heart Cannot Express

I am one for crying. That being said, I cry at least once a month. That once, of course, due to the hormonal welling of estrogens. Notwithstanding, a single mistake, a dose of happiness and a pinch of sadness can make me cry. Yes, it isn't only sadness that I cry for. I cry truly as a celebration for all the emotions that color (or stain in some cases) this life. This is not counting the many times I would bawl as I watch movies or read books that touch my heart, end with that "feel-good" sensation, or was just plain disturbing. I'm not even talking about the times I feel tears coming to my eyes as I hear beautiful songs with words I can only dream be dedicated to me. Neither does it include the countless times I breakdown in angry tears or heated sobs.

Some feelings are hard to describe, whilst some are even unfathomable. Some feelings are so heavy that it puts the weight of the world in your shoulders. Some things are better left unsaid. Some problems leave you thinking every night before you go to bed. Some situations make you pray all night that you would dream only of happy things, the complete antithesis of the reality that's dawning. Some special friendships end so abruptly that you wonder if it was all but a dream.

Some moments get so lonely in a place far from home, a place so cold it makes your heart freeze, and a place you just don't have many friends, that you rely on every little bit of the past to make you feel happy. Some lovers leave you looking at albums and albums of your pictures together, every single time you work on an essay but just can't concentrate. Some phone calls don't go the way you expected. And of course, not all the courses you take in life end up the way you planned it to; attesting to the famous "Manusia merancang, Tuhan menentukan".

And for all these, oh yes, I cry. I cry until the tears drown my cheeks and booger fills the capacity of my nasal ways. I bawl 'till I culminate to that point I can just laugh through all those tears; be it happy or sad, angry or frustrated. Yes, crying makes me feel silly afterwards, but it just makes me see clearer through all that cloud. A woman (yes, I'm a woman now) just needs a good day for a good cry to fill whatever void or say whatever words the heart cannot express, of which I have many. So yes, I'll cry whenever I please, whenever I need, and wherever I want, thank you!
It doesn't hurt to be to cry at times!