La Promesse

"I will meet her again and marry her one day," said he.

That was the ending of the film I've just watched. It's about a guy being ditched by his heroine. With glassy eyes he looks into the sunset and weeps before riding into the dusty town road on his faithful donkey. The ambiguity of the ending does not provide comfort as the audience is left figuring out will he or will he not sell off his donkey to the abattoir-owner to find the said-heroine in some distant land to fulfill his promise.

It reminded me somewhat of "Au Hasard Balthazar", a 95-minute Black and White filmed by the undisputed maestro, Robert Bresson. The whole movie was about this donkey, whose life was so miserable and unredeeming I felt like pelting stones onto his aggressors (read: human) and onto the director for having the audacity to make a film so sincere with its depiction of suffering and acceptance. Forget Disney feel-good schmaltz: this cinematic purity left me with escalating despair and numb sadness about the cruelty of the world. I came out of the cinema needing pints of alcohol badly to drown my jaded cynicism, the latter floated effortlessly to the surface every five minutes or so.

The story, that of a donkey's life who suffered in the hands of various humans is austerely filmed in agonising slow takes. I winced to think that I sat through the entire length of the cinematic experience watching martyr-like surrender of the character. I hate martyrs. I agree wholeheartedly when Nietzsche said that Man eventually, in the end, does everything out of his own vanity. Martyrs top that list.

Schopenhauer on the other hand painted self-denial and self-sacrifice in golden colours, idolising and etherealising these values. This coming from the same man who said that life is all but suffering, and that it is merely a mistake created through carnal desire. Oh whatever. Give me Sympathy for Lady Vengeance and Kill Bill anytime. Poetic redemption beats martyrdom. It does not indulge in self-denial and self-sacrifice. It exalts beheading gracefully with a samurai sword to whoever f***s your life.

I think Schopenhauer should've drunk more wine, have some good unadulterated sex and watch the sunsets more. Zen master Ikkyu would've gained a much more profound understanding of life from observing a flower petal than on sitting on misery of life. And he doesn't condone self-sacrifice.

Martyrdom. Spare me those. If you have to go down, go down in style and fury. If you burn bridges, burn them completely to ashes. If I have to wait for someone in the sunset, I'll pack my board and head to Sumba.

And that is why my mom is seriously thinking of disowning me.

How to Lose Fifteen Pounds in Three Years

My ex-es are in trouble.

The first one told me this morning that he had just broken up with his girlfriend of several years. The second one told me tonight that he had just survived being hit by a motorcycle with his lips receiving four stitches.

I knew my ex-es for so long I felt like I had committed some form of incestual relationship with them in the past. I noticed also that as soon as I started seeing them, they'd start losing weight so instead of them being the muscular hunks I long to be with, I ended up with lanky pretty boys looking good in tight pink t-shirts and really low slung jeans.

In fact, I have coerced both of them into wearing tight body hugging t-shirts just so I could ogle at them at all time and having their arses admired by the gays at the same time. The weirder thing was that after I stopped seeing them, their weight continued to spiral down so much so that when I saw them again I started counting their ribs and wondered if my seed-eating habit had created such an impact on them.

I converted my first ex from a tartare steak-eating hot blooded Italian into a macrobiotic tofu-eating herbivore buddhist. I converted my second ex from loose baggy rock t-shirts aficionado into body-hugging knits erect nipples show-off. I think I did a good job. They came out of the relationship better citizens of this world.

When my ex-es are in trouble they often lament the good old days when they still had me. They forgot that I used to make them my punching-practice bag and that I would often force them to wake up at 2 am to talk about nietzsche and calvin and hobbes. They forgot that I would force them to listen to my singing since no one else was willing to. They forgot that I used to force them to let me pluck their eyebrows on their birthdays and would shove a handkerchief into their mouth as they cried in pain while I tweezed their facial hairs without mercy shouting at them to not be some sissy and to take it like a man.

The Fireplace Incident of 1998

I came out of the surf yesterday with blood oozing down my knees and shins. It looked grave but I felt rather like a warrior. I gritted my teeth and thought of Mel Gibson in his Braveheart being tortured and still refusing to give in.

I was reminded of the year 1998 when I was hoovering my ex's living room and accidentally knocked my head over the sharp corner of the fireplace. When I looked up the mirror I saw blood all over my face pouring from that 1 cm hole in the middle of my forehead. My ex's friend, Cristopher, happened to be in the house reading some magazine so I called out to him because I suspected I was going to faint any time soon. Chris ran into the room and saw me with blood gushing out of my head, the thick red liquid covering my face like Sissy Spacek in Carrey. Any normal human being would have run out of the room then to grab some towels to stop my bleeding. Chris ran out of the room to grab his camera. "Look here," he said and snapped my picture. "That was cool," he said before running out again to look for a towel.

As there was no first-aid kit or any bandage in the house I had to run to Boots to grab the necessary bandage. Some unseen forces must have pushed me for as I was crossing the zebra-crossing I tripped and fell on both knees so I must then run to Boots limping with blood on both knees.

I walked with a bad limp for the next few days and a bandage across my forehead. I went in to clubs and bars and the bodyguards and fellow dancers thought I was this chick with some form of walking disability so they took pity on me but I could see the admiration all over their faces as I gritted my teeth and danced my night away and for that few days I was treated with sympathetic kindness from everybody as befits those in the less fortunate lot.

The Rationale of Irrationality

Even though I do irrational things most time, there are times when I would question my own irrationality and ponder on it.

This was the surf yesterday at Cherating:



This was the cut on my right knee but I've got them on both knees front and back:


And this was my mates cleaning my wounds for me:


Yesterday, I came face-to-face with myself and questioned why on earth would I:

1. Subject myself to overexposure of the sun causing premature aging of my skin not to mention premature wrinkling of my face and hence having to spend tons of money in buying skincare products?
2. Risk cataracts on my eyes and sun-blindness being in the water when the sun is shining directly into my eyes?
3. Times and times again suffer painful sunburn on my cheeks and nose which took several days to heal?
4. Be willing to suffer fin cuts, rock cuts, reef cuts and bruises?
5. Be an unwilling offering feasted upon by sandflies and have their larvae hatched under my skin?
6. Have not enough sleep but still wake up at ghostly hours just to go into cold water when the sky is still dark and everyone else is sleeping soundly?
7. Suffer stiff shoulders, necks and arms but still have to paddle and can't allow myself to rest?
8. Be willing to gulp down sandy water and have tons of salty water up my nose that I feel sick?
9. Scare myself to death?

Is it like falling in love?