Two Deaths in Silence

We have a friend who is dying. It was sudden. There he was entertaining us, fake punching us, there he was passing out the cards, or ordering the eighth beer tower between the three of us while we're puking our guts out on the floor.

Now he is lying on the bed comatose. Distant, unreachable.

We are sitting on opposite sides of his death bed. Sometimes we glance at each other, hesitantly, never knowing what to expect.

I feel like telling them. The one dying. The one living.

That she has left. That my heart and soul has been ripped asunder. That there is a void in the centre of me so large, so massive, so powerful that it feels like everything might fall in.

But I cannot speak it. It would feel like a mockery.

To speak of living death before the dying.

We both of us die in the still tense silence.

Solitary Walk

It is a pleasant thing sometimes to walk alone incognito in sprawling deteriorating and decrepit streets.

Nobody to wait for. Nobody to catch up.

To look at those dirty chipped walls sometimes stained with beautifully unappreciated art. To see the rats quickly dash by as if we couldn't notice it. It need not worry. We are mutually indifferent.

There is more life in the areas of developmental entropy. There are flies, mosquitoes, cockroaches as there are weeds, little flowers that struggle up from the cracks of broken undulating concrete.

Last night I walked past a scrawny wrinkled who looked too old with a child sleeping in her lap. His head was on where her thigh should be. His legs dangled from her other thigh. She had called out to me from the darkness. The bowl in front of her sat empty. Symbolic more than useful.

I didn't know what she said in her foreign language. But I understood. Completely.

She played on my mind even as I walked on. Even though I didn't see her clearly, she weighed so heavily on me. Eventually I returned and pressed more than I usually did into her hand. I felt the wiry thinness of her fingers clumsily grabbing the money from my fingers as if afraid I would change my mind.

At the least it should spare her a day off the streets and a decent meal.

So why did I feel worse after that act of charity?

The Morning Assembly

The morning sun cast glowing yet cool shafts of light through the thick clouds, softening the edges of everything it touched. The dew still hung precariously on the edges of the flowers and leaves. The birds had not finished their song nor the butterflies their dance.

King Baloo was already standing on the pavilion with Prince Balroukh on his right perched above a massive armoured war elephant, which stood at least a head taller than the largest in the platoon. A golden aura glowed from the many fine gold threads carefully laid their breastplate and sewn into their fine splendid garments.

Before them not too far away were the prisoners they had captured after a 10 year battle with Tuk'aranth. They were hemmed into an irregular rectangular crowd that stretched into the horizon by the row of soldiers on both their sides. They were bloody, filthy, ragged and yet despite their misery there was not a sound from any of them or the soldiers. Silently the stood. All the eyes in the crowd were riveted to the two glowing figures they could barely make out, even those at the front of the crowd.

The commander after what seemed an eternity of silence turned to King Baloo and said, 'Your Magnificence, they are ready.' After King Baloo acknowledged him and the commander returned his gaze to the crowd.

King Baloo turned to the mass of bodies before him and finally turned to the Prince touching hi

m on his left shoulder.

'The time has come, my son,' he said gravely.

Prince Balroukh turned to him with a searching look. And King Baloo saw the silhouette of his head mirrored in his son's eyes.

What kinda man are you?

And your choices are: tits, ass or leg.

As if women could only be served up in three pre-packed choices like supermarket chicken, only without the shrinkwrap and foam bottom. But I suppose those choices tend to be the primary ones because they are the most visual ones. And the theory for the moment is that us men, on average, tend to be more visual than women in their sexuality, supposedly because we are wired different. This I think is reflected in the quality of porn men and women enjoy. 

What we know as porn - everybody's shaved smooth, perfectly proportioned (all the guys are huge cocked and the women with at least Cs, a fine looking ass and shapey legs that look great in heels), minimal story line (oh no, I have no money to pay you with. Maybe ...), the focus is mostly on the woman (there she's enjoying going down on him, now she's riding him cowgirl, now reverse cowgirl, her face close up showing her what I call overmoaning) or the scene of penetration (close ups of the mechanics from the standard set of angles), alternating between the two with an occasional five to ten second shot of the guy either with his eyes tightly shut and mouth wide open or silently repeating some phrase that definitely has the word 'fuck' 'yeah' and 'baby' in it or with his aggressive look when he's going at her hard and fast asking her whether she enjoys it that way. All that. That's the kind of porn men generally enjoy. 

Women, or those that I happened to know (or perhaps I don't know enough!), generally don't tend to get into that (unless of course they are extremely horny at the time, then you can put on Tom and Jerry and still get it on). For them, the problem with male porn is there is no interesting plausible well thought out story that is borne out by an excellent cast of well acted characters. There is no artworthy demand made of the actors other than to coo, scream or hurriedly demand that they be fornicated, licked, sucked or sodomized in a harder and faster fashion, and so to them, that is not acting. They think its tacky to keep heels on whilst having sex in bed. They dislike how it usually ends. And would not like it in real life either.

So sometime in the 90's a new more auteur generation of porn film makers  looked towards catering to the women's market. So now women don't buy porn. They buy erotica. That's made for women porn. It's more focused on the characters as people, they have motivations, there's a story, the sex scenes are more tastefully done - they are shot softer, with decent music, more shots of the couple together, better looking guys, and with less intensity and frequency on the shots of the scene of penetration, and focus more on the, you got it, foreplay. 

Or maybe it's because it keeps with our simple lifestyle we simplify our choices: T A L.

But that's the problem with simplicity sometimes, its restrictive, confining, especially where it concerns women, these mysterious exquisite creatures capable of such mesmerising beauty and charming qualities. Yes, I concede that those areas tend to be the main thoroughfare, and yes sir, I can appreciate their visually aesthetic aspect but surely, surely, a lover of woman cannot be satisfied with just that immensely satisfying though it may be. Her entire body in the right circumstance can transform into a finely tuned instrument of a sexual passion (and maybe love!). Her entire physical being is open for exploration, experimentation, stimulation, emancipation and climax. 

And there are many interesting less travelled routes and visited areas that possess their own particular charms and are worth more than a quick casual glance, in terms of popular culture. At the top and just behind her earlobe, the bottom of her earobe, the front of her neck where it meets her jaw, underneath her jaw, that cleft between her chin and the bottom of her lip, or the back of her neck, my glades of tranquility. Then there is her back, like a mesmerising vista of the changing unchanging ocean winking here and glittering there in the sunlight. So much to explore, to trace, and always, always too little time: the craggy region of her shoulders; the neglected, side from her chest to her hips; the length of her spine down past the small of her back til just a spasm into the vally of her ass; and both left and right sides of her back. Then there is delicious slide from the top of her ass down to her smooth slender calves. Or lingering at the peak of her toes. Or the back of the length of her arm. Or an unbroken straightline from her chest until the tip of her chin. Or the inner of her thighs. For example. 

The best part is that there are many modes of transport down these neglected thought immense charming routes. One can travel by nose, lips, tongue, a single hair, side of the face, and of course, hands. They all yield different facets of the routes fascinating both for traveller and route every time. Heh. Which is why if someone asked me that question these days, I'd tell him. 'Journey man, son. I'm travelling all the time.'

(Puts on a dark grey fedora and breaks into a folk song on a guitar)

Coming On Strongly

There are occasions when some people come on strongly.

To explain, take the following example. Let's say you meet X at a social function either through introductions or just happen to do so somewhere. You have a pleasant conversation because you find that both of you share common interests at some level - movies, music or whatever. And then you exchange numbers and say, yeah, let's meet up sometime. Although really in truth, you in all probability would not bother calling or meeting up unless X is a hot, sexy and horny babe\stud\[whatever] who flirted with you and grabbed your crotch\stuck a finger up your ass\[whatever gets your goat, sicko].

But this time. X calls up next week and asks to meet up. And you're like, uh, really? Wow. Were you that fookin' interesting? But you're busy, really. So you tell him, hey maybe some other time. At this point, the conversation should prepare for ending with the goodbyes and false promises to stay in touch.

But X doesn't get it. He perseveres and says, okay, how about the week after that? I'm good for the week days, blah, blah, blah.

So you check your diary but god damn, for real okay, it's full. Sorry man, you say. I'm full up. Hey, I gotta run, I'll check my diary and get back to you okay?

But X doesn't get it. Okay, how about the week after that one? he asks calm, as a fookin' cucumber, as if he completely missed the bit where you said, Hey I gotta run.

So you reply, Dude/tte/[whatver tf] I said I gotta run, I'll get back to you. Have a nice day.

But X replies and very coolly and calmly almost as if you were the annoying one, Okay, why don't we just fix the date since your diary is open there.

And you're like, what the fook is wrong with this psycho bastard and the shrill violins in Psycho now start kicking up in your head. You now imagine he wants to meet you beause you will be his latest victim. You imagine him spiking your drink and then bundling you back to his place where he saws you off piece by piece. Death claims you soon after he saws off your arm from excessive bleeding. Some of your body parts are incinerated and some are kept in the fridge.

But perhaps you were overdoing it, but his perseverance was becoming annoying if not scary. What the hell you wonder was so interesting about you that X wanted to meet you so badly? It's not like you sucked/fooked/[pon pon] X at any time during the conversation.

So you tell him, I told you X, I gotta run. Bye.

Okay, X replies. You hit the end call button.

You feel relieved. After that stunt, there was no way you were going to meet with him. His coolness was creepy.

Until he calls you again next week. And when you start avoiding X's phonecalls, X diligently leaves voice messages every time to remind you about meeting up with a request to return his\her\[whatever] call over the course of several weeks, with three to four voice messages each week.

Okay, so the point up for discussion is, do you have an obligation to meet up with X after saying in casual conversation that you would? Or to put in another way, could X rely on what you said in casual conversation concerning your interest in meeting up with him? If X could not rely on that statement of interest then what else in that conversation could he or should he not rely on? X may fairly form the opinion that you are a person not to be taken at your word and unreliable.

The dilemma is this: You don't want to take it any further with X but as a parting gift you want to do X a favour. But how do you tell X about this, in the gentlest possible manner, without you sounding like some shitfaced arsehole? I mean to see the X's side would be: how can you without even knowing me, come to the conclusion that I am not worth your time just because I am a little more persistent than others? How dare you be so presumptuous you shitfaced arsehole?

But then why should you give a shit seeing as how you don't want to meet X and X probably (and usually) has no other friends which is why he wants so badly to meet with you after the first conversation? You can't be nice and spend time with everyone, especially those you don't want to or like. Time is your most important asset. You don't want to waste it on people you don't like or don't want to meet.

Right?

However that still leaves the question of why you feel X's persistence to be a turn off to be answered. Perhaps it is because X is making immediate demands on your time over the expected measure of time you expected to spend with him. To give an example. You were only psychologically prepared to spend about 5 minutes with X but because of his persistence, it has upset your mental state because the conversation has gone on for 10 minutes. And because of this upset mental state, it has provoked a negative consciousness which X has come to be cloaked with.

But when you come right down to it - even on this issue of why you feel that way - I think you just shouldn't give a shit.

Kon Low Mee Sg. Besi

For those of you dying for a fix some good old style Kon Low Mee (KLM), I found you all a joint yo. As you can see from the photo, this particular KLM hails from Sg. Besi where they have been a fixture for a long time now. It's very easy to miss this shop because they only open from 6:00 pm onwards right up until 1:00 am. They are open every day of the month although they are closed on one day of the month and are not at liberty to say when. It's as much of a secret as their KLM recipe. Don't try it. I attempted once and had to fight a vicious kung-fu battle and managed to barely escape with 2 large bowls of KLM in my gut. It was fortunate that I had mastered the wild pig snorting flying fist of oink before I went there, if not I was sure to have lost the honour battle with their resident sifu.

 

To get there is a bit of a pain because the road you have to be on is the one leading from KLCC towards the Sg. Besi highway/toll. So be aware of the rush hour for that area (hint: morning from 8-9am and evening from 6-8:30pm). The joint is just off Jalan Sg. Besi and next to a car audio shop. In fact, at around 6:00 pm when they first open you will even have trouble spotting it because the stall is inside. Your best bet is to look for a car audio shop next to the road with a lot of cars parked by the side of the road on your left. Once you sight it, I would not recommend parking by the road side because it is a very busy area even though you are very likely to see some impressive cars parked there waiting to have their ICE (In-Car Entertainment) system souped up (and not by the KLM soup that comes with it aight). 

Now the first thing I noticed right off the bat was that they are generous with the mee here (it may have well change since the last oil hike because I think the portions have shrunk - especially the chicken - the last time I was there). My first time I here I asked for the large portion and they sent me a fucking mountain. I could barely finish the damn mee and had long past finished off 2 portions of the chicken (I shall explain the significance of this next time if I remember) when I stuffed the last few strands in my mouth. So, even if you're quite hungry, I'd recommend you start with the medium (because the small size is really a waste of time and only good for supplementing an unfulfilling medium). My usual orders are there for display although I left out the damn soup!

As you can see from the pictures, the noodles are excellent and sit in a puddle of sauce when it comes, so you can get a real nice dark texture going with the noodles. After you mix it in good (with a bit of the soup too) that should conjure up something pretty close to them old style KLM those with the char siew. The chicken however tends to drive the KLM here because its flavour is more potent and holds its own against the noodles. I think it's because of those fried bits on the top that you see on the chicken. There's the soup which I don't really count on because it's not very consistent - nice some days and but rather salty on others; sort of like Malaysian politicians but thankfully its not full of shit. 

The Photographer

I take too many photos these days.

For a long while, I never really consciously thought about creative focusing, interesting angles and other technical matters. I just wanted to click the damn button and get it over with. It didn't take me long to know the routine. Wait for everybody to get in. Let them comb their hair a bit with their fingers. Let them arrange themselves and then re-arrange them a bit. I don't know why those fucking tall idiots always have to plant themselves right in the middle. Go to the side lah! You know you are tall right, move to the side! If there was one thing I could say to them it is, be the frame.

Then give everybody fair warning and count out aloud. If you have a tripod, even better, use your hands also for gesture support, like making a wave with your arm and counting with your fingers. Trust me, it helps. This helps cut down those monkeys that time their lids to shut at just the time your finger nails that button and lets those about to sneeze know when to time it. I can understand those poor buggers because I also have sinus.

Then one day I thought I'd look through some of the more recent family photos and you know what shocked met? That I didn't remember any of those photos. And even more was the fact that I was really taking one photo the whole night. Okay, I'm exaggerating but you know what I'm talking about. Those same family photos that where everybody was properly seated or standing and all smiling obligingly. I now call those photographic evidence because it's just to show who came to the party and who was conspicuously absent. It was so fucking tedious that I was happy to come across some accidental candid shots or some out of focus shots simply because they broke the monotony.

Why do we keep taking the same photos?

Strangers in the House

Even as I walk through these familiar corridors, I see a few unfamiliar corners and nooks that I have not visited, or escaped my notice every now and again. There are those doors that I open often and others not. There are those I keep open because the passages are used so often. And there are those that I have yet to open even once. I am afraid of some of them. Though some of them disinterest me too. Some I feel I never have to open. The funny thing though is that with all of them the more time that passes, the more I become fearful of opening them, afraid of what I might or might not confront.

Silly boy, a soft menacing raspy voice whispers in my ear, what makes you think this flimsy door can keep me in? And what makes you think I haven't been out? What makes you think I have not entered your room and held your neck in my jaws, feeling the warmth pulsating through your veins, had you one bite from death? The door is an illusion, my boy.

That's what I hear in the intense silence that envelopes me every time I stand in front of those doors I haven't opened as I contemplate whether to open them. There is never anybody in the long corridors to my left or right.

Behind one once, I heard a raging yell roar over the thudding sound of something being beaten when occasionally a whimper may bubble up only to disintegrate upon surfacing. Behind another, I heard measured deliberate footsteps which never seemed to stop or turn away because the volume of footsteps did not decrease no matter how many steps were taken. Behind another, I heard a loud heartbeat beating amidst Beethoven's Fifth.

Who or what are these and how did they get in? What are they doing in my house?

Or do I need to imagine them?

WFKT behind Hock Lee's Supermarket @ Bukit Damansara

It was approximately about yesterday afternoon when Art Harun sent a synchronized message to me. Just to explain what this means to you uninitiated to Navel Gazing habits is this: Fools' minds seldom differ. When they do actually meet, they achieve a synchronicity. It is through this medium of synchronicity (I love using this word dammit! I feel so 80s; cue 'Wrapped around your Finger' by Police for me please) that telepathic messages can be sent. Okay enough science today! The message was clear and simple. We gonna eat them WFKTat a Chinese restaurant comprising many stalls located behind the Bukit Damansara famous Hock Lee Supermarket.

So after we parachuted down from a plane Art rented for the occasion and stored our parachuting gear, Art immediately secured us a classy spot near the fridge where they keep the drinks and kept cool food, where we could enjoy a quiet and immensely thought provoking conversation amidst the slamming of the fridge doors (because they uh, tend to go there. A lot.) and bellowing orders (you gotta love the efficiency of the Chinese - their orders always take the shortest route, from their throats, blasting right over your head, to the other fella's ears - none of your goddamned technology can beat that!). Art went to place a request from the high priest of WFKT who had a small magic wok of WFKT at the front right end of the shop, there he would stand stirring, toiling, and showering the many blessings upon the many WFKT that leaveth his magical and now holy wok. He also ordered some rojak to fill the time before our feast. A cool cincau proved some relief against the glowing warmth of the restaurant.

After several rousing bouts of conversation and hence working up an appetite, there he cameth, the high priest of WFKT, dishelved, completely driven and focused, his legs bolting with such robotlike precision, completely uninterested in any bit of conversation whatsoever except to tell you your change. Such dedication! Hail thou wok of the righteous! Thou homage to ambrosia that deserveth to be inducted into the Pantheon of Your True All Time Favourite Foods In the Whole Wide World. He came with those two well worn plastic blue and red plate for each of us with carried WKFT, with two equally aged red chopsticks. They look like they had met each other many times before and had nothing left to say to each other. And then gone he was, away to serve the cause of WFKT. My change accurately and transparently spread out on the table. His footsteps lost in the above described din. And there we were, left with the WFKT.

[WARNING: Art ordered us KT sans tau geh so if you do like it with tau geh please be warned! Eating it with tau geh would not taste in the same manner in which it is described below! We at Navel Gazing do not wish to be misleading in our food reviews although we are expected to be terribly creative.]

Now the first thing you would notice about the KT here is that it's the thin sort. Not the usual fatties. I quite like these sort because you get more covered area with the ingredients than if you had a thicker one. So this makes it more tasty. The second thing you notice is when you dig in is that you notice how light the WFKT is. That's because he doesn't use so much oil and so this allows room for the taste to slowly bloom towards its peak, which should be just about after half way through your WFKT. Very cunning chap he is! He has obviously experimented much to get the optimal amount of oil and blend of ingredients. Too much oil helps intensify the flavour but leaves you feeling muted after.

And the taste is quite distinct in its playful suggestions of a Marxian Communism that truly embraced a Wagnerian sort of Capitalism and saw it as a necessary step before achieving itself in the first few mouthfuls. And just as you are about to be let down, you feel yourself transported to the ancient China when people fought with fists in those Jackie Chan kung fu in ancient China movies, and seated at one of those restaurants that get trashed up because people like Jackie Chan's chracters, Drunken Master for example, trashes the place in some huge assed kung fu fight. Hopefully you would have finished your WFKT by then and gotten the hell out of there.

And as you gradually but surely hit that peak of its taste, you become Drunken Master. You are Master of Kung fooking Foo. You can do all those fonky moves like Jackie Chan. Like that one up there. But I'm talking taste here alright! Don't get any funny ideas. But it's no wonder we were here, this is wicked stuff. And after scoffling down the whole thing, you still felt kinda light enough to scoffle down one more. But I can understand why Art likes to come here, its economic use of oil does not impinge on the potency of the WFKT, and we all now know just how expensive the damn thing is as of today. Bastards!!

Anyway, towards the end I like to pick up the little loose bits and pieces because they tend to be pretty potent in taste and give it a boost. And finally, it's great to have that black jelly still on hand to round everything off. That way you can slake your thirst and wash everything else down!

Wooooo - ha!

Talking

As I am talking to the man. So I am talking also to the man he was, the man he wants to be, and the man he is. Most often they are in unison, in thought and deed.
But when they are asleep. Then emerges the man they cannot help but be. The man they try so much to hide. The man they cannot explain.
And sometimes I talk to him too. He is the most honest of them all.
He and me are not so different from you and I.
I told him I wished I could be more honest with myself.
He just smiled.

Too busy

Tonight I am the almighty. I am he who does not sleep. he that is and ought.

he that was, is and will be.

But tonight only.

Then I become human again. flawed. decaying. mistaken.

Then my feet touch the earth. soiling. toiling. feeling the sharp unfriendly grains of earth. feel the sweat and sun. on my back. on my body.

The air. is heavy to breathe. thick. sleepy.

I forget. what I was. who I could be.

Too busy. struggling to breathe. too busy.

Always too busy.

Surreptitious

Once upon a time, I used to have a circle of close friends. There were about six of us, including myself. We would go out for lunches and dinners at least two or three times a month. And we would go any and everywhere, because we enjoyed searching out some new restaurant, or dish, or menu to savour.

One day, it was my turn to propose our venue for lunch. As I was recently told about the delights of a beef ball noodle soup place that was located around Leboh Ampang, I proposed it by email to all of them in the morning. By noon, I had received confirmations of attendance from all but two of my friends. I remembered that day distinctly because it was the first time that any of us had replied after noon.

I admit that I was used to the customary enthusiastic and excited confirmations. Both their replies however came the next morning. Both were declines without reasons. This was the first time in fourteen years of knowing each other that such an invitation was declined without profuse apologies, heavy regrets and a reason. It was at this precise moment I think the perfect circle of our little group began to fracture and disintegrate.

When I called them up, after a great deal of avoidance, they confessed that they could not join us because the place was not halal. Their husbands forbade them from going. When they tried to insist their husbands spat a taalik at them. They would stand divorced if they stepped out of the house to eat at a non-halal restaurant. They wanted very much to join us for lunch but they did not want it tear their family apart. They said that now they could only eat at restaurants which was certified halal.

After I explained this to our other friends they sympathised. We resolved to stand by our friends and so agreed to only eat at halal places only. I managed to arrange a lunch at a suitable venue at the appointed time. We were all quite taken by surprise to see that both those friends had taken to the tudung. They seemed a little embarrassed at first especially since one of them had even proclaimed that she would never put it on. But after the conversation began, things were as before and we just about forgot about the latest turn of developments.

The next time we arranged lunch at a halal restaurant which was owned by a Chinese restaurant owner. I am not quite sure how they knew this but my friends said that they could not eat there, halal approved sticker notwithstanding. When I pressed them on this they mentioned that their husbands had told them that Chinese always ate pork and would have touched the utensils in the kitchen. That would make it not halal. So we did not go in and eventually ate at a place they deemed suitable.

They could not come the next time because they had to go for a ceramah held by someone, so the four of us had lunch together without them.

The next time they came with their own utensils and their own pre-packed halal food because there may be non-Muslim staff that cooked the food and even though the meat may be halal, the pots, pans and the air would not be. Conversation which used to flow stagnated to stutters of dialogue that soon dissolved into the tinkling of forks and spoons with the plates. They looked like they endured lunch more than they ate.

The last time we tried to arrange lunch ended in painful accusations. I think I accused them of being unreasonable and stupid about their religion. And they accused me with the others for not understanding and accommodating them. I think their parting shot was that we were all sinners destined for hell.

We have not heard from them since. Those angry words are still suspended in our email boxes and our hearts its poison still seeping even though it has been three years since.

Next year, my husband and I have finally booked our haj package. We have been meaning to do it for some time now and finally have the time and money.

I am still not sure whether I would be happy to bump into them.

The Indecent Online Proposal

There are times when even the most vigorous and extreme exercise of one's imagination cannot better those moments fashioned unplanned in real life. The best fiction therefore sometimes comes from history. Despite my rather intense hetrosexuality and frequent declarations of it, ever since I was in secondary school, I have been chatted up by homosexual men.

My first chat up happened in my teens when I was at Tower Records at Picadilly Circus in London one summer wearing one of those short short pants that I liked to wear with my big ass geeky glasses that almost took up half my head. Anyway, I was flipping through some compact discs in a rack somewhere when a tall thin smiling mat salleh approached me with a look of fascination about him. After pretending a while to browse the CDs near me, he turned to me and told me that I wore a beautiful set of glasses. Perhaps things may have been different if I shared his opinion but I was convinced my glasses were ugly and geeky. Naturally when confronted with this completely opposite apprisal of my glasses, I knew he was bullshitting me although at that time I did not quite understand why. We talked for a while about my glasses and he asked me where I was from, where I studied until I felt he seemed a little too interested in me. It wasn't in anything he said but more form the way he felt. The almost imperceptible forward lean, the smile that strained at the edges and eyes that seemd a little too bright. I made my excuse and left him to wander the store until I later met my parents and told them all about that man rounding of my account with my impressions of him. My mother, always one to give her opinion straight up, smiled and explained to me that he was gay and was probably trying to chat me up. And that was my first direct encounter.

My later ones were not terribly interesting or notable until the latest one. This for me has got to be one of the ultimate chat ups as far as I'm concerned. It happened one evening when I was finishing up some work in the office when I was added as a contact by someone named 'GAY' on Skype. So it was completely unexpected and though one can expect to get chatted up in a chatroom, in my experience it is quite rare for me to be called upon to chat with someone out of the blue. And one thing I have to admire about him is his persistence. Normally when I tell a guy that I'm a guy online, that pretty much ends the conversation. And let me also state that I am not in favour of publishing chat histories, but the sheer novelty and hilarity value of this conversation far outweighs the prejudice to the guy who chat me up who anyway remains gay. No part of the conversation has been edited for maximum reading pleasure. I have also taken the liberty of translating those portions where I feel translation is needed literally to better understand the converastion for anybody who doesn't understand Malay.

[17:39:20] GAY says: i

[17:39:37] Daef says: i

[17:39:46] GAY says: aku ini gay (i am gay)

[17:39:53] GAY says: pandai isap (clever suck)

[17:40:01] Daef says: oh... you bukan awek lah (oh... you not a chicklah)

[17:40:07] GAY says: bukan (no)

[17:40:13] GAY says: saya pandai isap (I good at sucking)

[17:40:15] Daef says: oh, not interested

[17:40:35] GAY says: oktakkan x nak try (okay, cannot be don't want to try)

[17:40:36] GAY says: sedap (taste good/tasty)

[17:40:52] Daef says: tahu sedap tapi dari laki not my thang dude (I know its good but from a guy, not my thang dude)

[18:05:50] GAY says: try ler sekali (try ler once)

[18:06:09] Daef says: tak naklah (don't want lah)

[18:06:14] Daef says: just not into guy and guy action

[18:06:21] Daef says: I'm a pussy lover

[18:06:25] GAY says: kesianler sama aku (take pity on me ler)

[18:06:32] GAY says: betul aku pandai isap (really, i suck good)

[18:06:42] Daef says: kalau you pandai sangat takde hal cari orang lain kan? (if you are so good at sucking then you should not have any problems finding someone else)

[18:07:02] GAY says: susah nak cari orang (it's hard to find people)

[18:07:21] Daef says: lah... betul ke ni (lah... true or not)

[18:07:31] Daef says: nampak engkau tu ada 1199 contact (looks like you have 1199 contacts)

[18:07:39] Daef says: mesti ada sorang tu nak u hisap kan dia (sure got someone there who will want to suck you)

[18:08:24] GAY says: betul (true)

[18:08:29] GAY says: takada seorang pun (not one person)

[18:08:58] Daef says: sorry lah dude... kalau u awek, i dah memang sudi terima tawaran hebat tu (sorry lah dude ... if you are a chick, I will definitely accept your great offer)

[18:09:09] Daef says: tapi… (but)

[18:09:48] GAY says: kesianler kat aku (take pity on me)

[18:09:56] GAY says: saya lama juga tak isap (I have not sucked in a long time)

[18:10:06] GAY says: takkan x ada hati (cannot have no heart)

[18:10:17] GAY says: tolong ler (help ler)

[18:10:29] GAY says: sekaliler (once only)

[18:13:09] GAY says: apa dia (what is it?)

[18:13:20] GAY says: saya mau offline (i want offline)

[18:13:24] Daef says: aku kesian memang... dan ada hati tapi i memang tak suka lah (I pity you really... and I have a heart but I don't like it)

[18:13:25] Daef says: sorilah

[18:13:31] Daef says: guys just not my thing

[18:13:43] Daef says: kalau i tahu, i bagi tau (If i know [find somone], I let you know)

[18:14:48] GAY says: u jangan tengok aku ini guy (you don't look at me as a guy)

[18:15:02] GAY says: u ingat rasa orang isapler (you think of who want to suck you)

[18:15:04] Daef says: takleh lah... porno laki ngan laki pun i tak tahan (cannot lah... guy on guy porn also I cannot take)

[18:15:12] GAY says: kesian ler kat aku (take pity on me ler)

[18:15:23] Daef says: bukan tak kesian dude, memang kesian tapi takleh tolonglah (not that I don't pity you dude, I really do but I cannot help)

[18:15:29] GAY says: u bagi i isap je, cukup (you let me suck only, enough)

[18:15:37] Daef says: sorry man

[18:15:46] GAY says: kalau kau ada hati memang u , tolong aku (if you had a heart, you would help me)

[18:15:48] Daef says: kalau nak sangat, guna lah pisang besar ke (if you need it so much, use a big banana lah)

[18:15:57] Daef says: aku ada konek dan hati beb but not for you (I got a cock and heart babe but not for you)

[18:16:02] GAY says: aku cakap serius (I speak seriously)

[18:16:06] GAY says: ok bye (Asshole! Give you free blow also don't want!)

Writers of the Damned

Writing is something I enjoy when I'm going with the flow and flowing with a go. So easily do the words slip and slide out from the little nooks and crannies of my soul. How simply does my literary muse, who praces around naked flaunting her bold beautiful perfect body, in the playground of my mind sensually caress those words from my tortured and twisted mind like a master guitarist stroking those clear liquid notes from a cheap plywood guitar. Expressions of divine clarity fall upon my head like a tropical shower leaving me soaked to the bone, but fresh, alive and not a little soggy. Each sentence that I embrace again soon after I have manifested it, drape themselves like harem concubines on their plush velvet sofas, beckoning me to play with them a little longer, touching them that much firmer, provoking me try different positions perhaps and even spending the night with them. O Kaliope, may I follow behind thy shapely form through the forests of the bewildering. Lead this fragile though portly writer of ill repute away from our nemesis.

The trouble is that muses are fickle, finicky and malicious as they are inspirational and money spinning. Sometimes they strip the remnants of any talent (even its faint echoes) and leave me naked in a crowd of poets. Or perhaps, they whisk away my wings in midflight, as my spirits soar those great wordy heights letting me spin uncontrollably and inevitably to my doom far below. Or they go quiet, leaving me alone to stare at a big white empty screen with the cursor winking mockingly at me as if challenging me to even type a sentence worth re-drafting. Damn you, I sometimes wish I could cry out to it as I do to the heavens during those twilight hours as the sun blazes itself in a quiet fury of orange, pinkish red and streaks of deep dark blue into the dark cold silent night. I'd advise against doing it in the afternoon especially under the tree. Ye gods are known to reply rather swiftly during those times. My fingers ache to roam free on the keyboard but it knows not where to go, so it sits like a Buddha but isn't one for it sits not in reaching towards enlightenment but in waiting for inspiration. Like an old man who wasn't told that the bus does not pass by that bus stop anymore.

In moments like these, these blindingly dark moments of empty voids, these feeble and futile mechanical attempts at creation, I run into a damn. It's not just any damn. There is no flow although there is go but the go is to no. No one that can save you here. No one can hear you scream or write when damned. Your eyes will take on a glassy indifferent texture. Your skin suddenly becomes dry. The potency of your sex drive disappears refusing to erect itself in one of the body's most prized organs. Give up already. It's too late. The grim reapers coming. Soon your flesh will peel and fall off. You will fart embarassingly and uncontrollably with great stench. Your teeth will rot and drop down your throat when you sleep in that cardbox house of yours. You will mispell. You will only get up at night and scrounge for works of good literature but only be able to read the contents of your nocturnal cartons. You will carelessly fling your punctuation marks like a man amok. If you don't have a huge gut with your intestines spilling out, don't worry, you'll get one. And then you will become a Writer of the Damned, rising from the dead to churn out ill suited words to be placed in ill fashioned sentences in magazines so cheap you need to split your five sen coin to be read by nobody except those squishy eyes balls that sit precariously in your skull threatening to spill out. Or worse, end up writing in one of our local mainstream newspapers. Hiss...

The Malaysian Deejays (A narrative descent into madness)

The Malaysian radio and I have a very indifferent relationship. I only tune in during moments when I'm infected by extreme ennui. And when I do so, it is as a man who has lived in the cozy darkness of his own careful listening suddenly and violently thrown out of his warm and familiar cave into the full glare of slick neon melodies, repetitive lyrics and perfect harmonies, but worst of all, for me anyway, are the deejays. I don't hate deejays per se. Seriously, I don't. Just the Malaysian ones.

The first thing is that they talk to much. Our deejays don't just talk. They yelp, they bark, yap and flap. And the worse part is that they feel they have to do it within a very narrow band at the higher volume levels. Can they go on? Yes, they can and do. As if the music was there merely to decorate what passes for the deejays as witty and intelligent banter. Then there are those with exaggerated accents. Where do they come from? Why are they on the radios? Those fellas are like a screeches from a blackboard. Then there are those popular call in programs that are now a regular part of the show. Those are pretty much hit and miss sometimes. The problem sometimes is that our deejays talk more than the caller does. They are only too ready to sacrifice the caller for a cheap joke and hope people don't notice it for what it is.

Deejays for me are merely there to usher the music, apprise us of some interesting trivia about the song and its performer(s) then to shut up and make sure they play us good music. They are not the program. They merely embellish the song or the program. And they should do so in a calm and clear manner in a gentle and pleasant voice. Not in a cackling cacophony. They are like our air hostesses on Malaysian Airlines that make our musical journey pleasant and comfortable. They are supposed to take care of our listening habits. Ensure that we truly know what it is we are listening to and what to look out for when we listen. Not sell us out like five a dime whores to the music industry, forcing us to listen to corporate-driven compositions designed to sound good but empty of proper healthy musical ingredient like intelligent or beautiful lyrics and subtler and cleverer melodies. The music served up is as disposable and current as a freshly used condom.

Truth be told deejays are the guardians of music, the gatekeepers of the Apollo with each of us, the sentries of our musical souls. Theirs is not just any duty; it is one divinely ordained for music is the food of love, and God is Love. If seen in this light, how lightly now do our deejays look upon their duty! Hear how they soil themselves with their cheesy jarring chatter, play up their manic and artificial interest like monkeys that just snorted four six inch lines of cocaine each (think that's just four cups of strong coffee?), and bellow and laugh at their own jokes. Oh ye, Malaysian deejays! Repent! Oh repent! For Satan hath a taste for those that know not when to shut their mouths and play the music. Lucifer loveth those that bellow over the microphone like a water buffalo in heat or speak with unnecessary inflexion in their tongue. If not, off with their heads! Their heads, dammit! On a freaking pike! Argh.

(Breathe. Doctor told you to breathe.)

Hm.

(Stretches)

Wonder what's on the radio?

Click.

A Dream of Death

Just now, in the afternoon, when I think I was sleeping, I dreamt. The unusual part about it was that I dreamed at all because I rarely dream. And as mine usually tends to go, it was so vivid as to feel real and hinted at some kind of fatality, usually relating to me. It began with me being suddenly being aware I was in a car. I was driving along a road that curved to the left and sloped gently uphill. I could not tell whether there was anybody in the car because all I could see was the gravelly black smooth tarmac rushing below the front of the car. The car was nondescript, but I felt it was a car I was confident with because it was one I handled regularly. For some reason my dream sight was only on the road. What little of the sky I glimpsed seemed grey and forbidding. I felt as if I was not supposed to look up.

The car is speeding along for what felt like a short while before I was suddenly attacked by a mood of impatience. I could even remember angrily asking in my dream, why the car was not moving fast enough. It felt purely automatic because right after that I felt my right foot, of its own accord, push deeper on to the pedal. I felt like someone given an opportunity to experience and feel the entirety of events unfold in unparalleled intimacy but prohibited from participating. The curved road gradually became steeper and steeper. But instead of slowing down, it was speeding up.

Soon after I felt the car very slowly and gradually start to lose control. Its grip on the road became more tenuous. I could feel its body drifting to the right hinting at the terrors it would unleash once it has committed itself. About this time, the road was rather steep because the sky could not even be seen. All I could see was the inky blackness of the road. Strangely, despite all these warnings and feeling everything so keenly, I felt indifferently distant. Then the road disappeared from view. The car skidded out of control. Its body spun off the road to the right into space, if not an emptiness. I could not see above or below. There was a moment of calm where everything seemed to freeze in mid-flight and for some reason I was looking at the roof of the car which was a creamy white. My attention was fixated on the car ceiling light. I remembered vaguely wondering whether it worked or not before suddenly the creamy white was violently shoved aside by a torrent of dark blue, green, brown although the creamy white did flash occasionally. I think the car was tumbling and when it did I began to ask whether this is how I would die. I felt nothing.

My eyes opened suddenly. I found myself staring at blank whiteness wondering in that instant whether it would be replaced by those darker, sinister colours. Then my field of vision quickly expanded as it took in my surroundings as the sensation of feeling rediscovered the rest of my body. I found myself in bed but there was no sense of relief. That sense of indifference I felt in my dream must have crossed over. Because it still lingers on my skin and face.