Spring Cleaning

I just had a tooth removed yesterday.

It was to be an eventual thing anyway, this tooth that has been bothering me since January this year. However, I procrastinated and postponed and reasoned myself out to delay my decision to visit the dentist to have the whole mess extracted out of my life. My ultimate fear was to have huge gaping hole staring at me from the bottom of my gum. And the pain of it.

Upon extraction, pumped up with anaesthetic to the brim, I would expect to feel nothing for the first few hours.

But as reality dawns and anaesthetic wears out, I could already imagine the pain I would have to go through.

And the gaping void that was once filled. Even with a mess that had to be removed. My tongue would wander to the once-filled space and would miss having it there. The contour, the feel and the touch of it. I told myself it would take time to get used to this new-found space.

But well, might as well. My dentist was proud of me and so was I with myself.

Sometimes my mind would wander off and I would miss my tooth. I miss it dearly for the life of me and I cried for having it eventually removed. I have cried buckets of tears anyway for the pain it caused me but now, like a survivor accepting its fate, I cried tears of learning to come to terms with the loss and one day, one day I know I will forget of ever having that tooth in my life before.

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?

Guess Who's Coming to Town

A friend just mailed me his halloween photos. I thought they were hilarious.

Terms & Conditions

To be "in" in HongKong, a friend said, you must be:
1. Below 100 pounds (45 kgs), no matter how tall you are.
2. Have the latest manicure/pedicure (the latest trend being acrylic nail polish in purple).
3. Have the latest designer bag.

If you fail in any of these departments, be warned that your chances in snatching a man will diminish.

Do I care to fit in the "requirements"?

I think there are better and more important things to do in life.

Jingle Jingle

Walk past any shopping streets and you can hear the irritatingly cheery and annoyingly jingly jingle bells and other christmassy tunes already. Well, considering we are only forty days away from Christmas.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way..." I imagine bosses of department stores, fat and with cigars in between their lips, merrily jingling all the coins in their leather pouches. What's with all those tunes? Once again for another forty straight days we will be subjected to those torturous tunes. Not only are they repetitive and vomit-inducing after a while, in some instances it raises your blood pressure and makes you feel like stepping on the next person's shoes.

The tunes were supposed to evoke a christmassy feeling, hypnotising anyone within its reach into consumption-compulsive zombies, succumbing to marketing geniuses who hail christmas as a time for giving. Those tunes make you forget that you hated your boss and that you would really like to kick your colleagues in the arse. Instead you are filled with a frenzied need to give, give and be loving to all. I made that mistake once, years ago.

I think sometimes we all need to feel that lovey-dovey no war all peace sort of feeling. And all those non-stop happy jingles and people rushing doing their shopping does make one want to be part of the maddening crowd.

Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock
Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring
Snowing and blowing up bushels of fun
Now the jingle hop has begun!

Scandals and Accusations

Last week my mom and brother were in town. One evening after a lazy dinner they were rummaging through the DVD drawer when my sis ran up to my mom, pointed her finger at me and told my mom that I have in my possession, a sick, perverted and humanely deprived DVD whose rightful place should only be in a rubbish chute.

I had a hunch on which DVD she was referring to and quickly grabbed the said DVD into my hand.

My sis said, "It is so sick I almost threw it after watching it halfway!"

I stuttered, "Why did you even watch it? Didn't you see the cover?" By the cover I mean the cover depicting a group of males and females crawling on their knees, naked except for the chain collars and leashes on their neck. With a cover like that, I wouldn't expect a slapstick comedy or a touching human drama out of it.

"Well, you put it in the drawer so of course I was going to watch it!" my sis defended.

You see, in April a friend of mine lent me a Paolo Pasolini DVD that he managed to get his hand on when he was in Italy. He cautioned: there is no English subtitles. I said, fine, I think I'll do fine with the Italian subtitles.

The movie is based on a book by Marquis de Sade, whose name gave birth to the term sadism. Titled Salo' o le 120 Giornate di Sodoma (120 Days of Sodom), I thought anyone in their right mind would get an idea of what the movie is all about. Sade, sadism, sodom. You get the drift. In fact, the film maker was murdered after making this movie.

Of course with a movie like this, I couldn't have possibly watched it when my dad or my mom or my brother is in town visiting. I can't possibly pop the DVD into the player and watch some depraved S&M on the big screen with my dad and my mom walking past the living room every few minutes.

My sis has been taking a break from her job so she too is at home almost everyday. I couldn't have possibly watched it too when she's around. What would she think of me?

Also, I need to watch this movie with someone. The subject of the movie is too disturbing for me to watch it by myself and have no one to discuss it with afterwards.

Hence, I have been keeping this difficult movie in the drawer for months. The thought that my sis would pop it in the DVD-player like any other DVD never once crossed my mind.

"Mom," my sis continued, "That is one sick movie. People being tortured and treated like animals and all that!"
My brother looked at me,"What sort of sick movie is that you're watching?"
"How could you watch that type of movie?" my mom asked.

I tried to explain that that was my friend's DVD and I merely borrowed it but that I haven't even get to watch it. I tried to explain that the director made it based on a famous writing by a famous French writer. I tried to explain that I borrowed it out of curiosity.

But there under the glaring living room light my explanations fell on deaf ears.
My mom shook her head. My brother gave me a disapproving look. My sis kept repeating that the DVD should be thrown away. There under the glaring light I felt like a sadist who have just been found out. At the back of their heads my family think that they've got a sick daughter who is into sado-masochism and perversion. I felt like an accused.

That I have a pair of pointy knee-length black leather boots with 4-inch-heels in the drawer didn't help.

Let's Waste Time

..chasing cars
around our heads..

Trolls and Ghouls' Night Out

While the trolls and the ghouls were out on Halloween weekend night painting the club scenes red, there I was in my room packing my day bag and preparing for bed. Halloween weekend should mean a night out partying. Call me lazy but I couldn't give a damn. I'll trade a night out painting the town red in second-hand smoke galore with fresh ocean air anytime.

I had envisioned a quiet (okay: boring) Sunday ahead. Robby is in Bali, stranded in a deserted nusa dua beach. My mates were all up surfing since Friday. I thought I could just live out my Sunday in peace. But I had to be honest to myself.

So after waving innocent goodbyes to my mom and bro being whizzed away in a cab to the airport at the gates at 5.30AM, I quickly changed and by 6AM whizzed away in Keith's car. As we drove past the streets we saw the ghouls and trolls from last night, looking exhausted from all those fumigation; their horns crooked, their wings lopsided.

It was strange that as their days ended ours had just begun. I felt smugly superior that while they will spend their Sunday recuperating, I will be in the ocean riding waves. But I bet they don't give a damn.