and a happy new year!

inspired by damien j gomez.

deux ex machina.

“did you see that?” i ask, looking out of the window.
“see what?” she asks, following an imaginary line from my eyes.
“i don’t know. just thought you might come up with something.”
“right. can we stop playing these games?”
“sure. do you have a better idea?” i run my fingers through my hair.
“yeah. let’s take a walk.”
“great. let’s.”

we leave the coffee shop and make for the busiest thoroughfare in the city. an excellent choice.

“excellent choice,” i make sure my feelings are heard. i cough twice and wipe the sweat forming on my brow.
“alright, alright. i sense your sarcasm. so sue me.”
“no, really. i enjoy competing for your attention with insane drivers who swear by their vehicular oath to never, ever find out what that pedal next to the accelerator does.”

she laughs, and i smile wryly. i enjoy seeing her laugh more than a good joke. it’s hard not to wish that she laughed for everything. but it’s a rewarding challenge to make her laugh harder each time. she has a beautiful laugh. and if that’s anything, you should see her smile for photos. absolutely beautiful.

“do you want to go somewhere else?”
“no, s’orite. here’s fine. we’ll just walk. walk and talk.”
“okay.”

we start walking down the street, with her on the inside. i never let a lady walk on the outside. i don’t know why, though. i just do. i probably had a reason for that some time ago, when i first started doing it, but i’ve forgotten, and it just seems like i was born doing things this way. much like the many other things i do as a habit.

“hey? you here?”

like that.

“oh... sorry. something occurred to me. just a silly thought. what’s up?”

she smiles like i’m keeping a secret from her. and i wonder if i am.

“i just asked if you enjoy taking walks. i love the idea. but it’s not always that exciting to walk alone. unless you’ve got stuff to clear out from your mind. then the last thing you want is someone to talk more stuff into it. right?”
“yeah, i agree. pity there aren’t any nice streets around here. they all lead straight into oblivion. and the view on the way there isn’t that pretty either. can’t complain much, though. there aren’t that many people around here who appreciate stuff like that. y’know, the whole ‘stopping to smell the roses’ crowd? they’re non-existent.”

we pass by one of those new-fangled bakeries, and we slow down to take in the aromas permeating through the air.

“ambrosia.”
“ambrosia? this is good stuff but i hardly think it’s food fit for gods, let alone food that makes them immortal.”

i laugh. “ambrosia literally means delicious in greek. smells heavenly, doesn’t it? guess that’s close enough to count. my stomach says that we should stay and explore, but my mind... no, my heart yearns to venture forth.”

she catches what i was going to say, smiles, then stops herself and raises an eyebrow.

“your heart? wha-”

i cut her off. “cholesterol.”

she laughs again. a bit harder than just now. another wry smile from me. lucky me.

“what would your ideal walk be like?” i ask.

“my ideal walk? well, it wouldn’t be the standard walk-down-a-quiet-beach-with-the-sun-rising-in-the-horizon or the walk-through-someone’s-enormous-orchard-lined-with-all-sorts-of-fruit-trees. actually, i don’t mind walking anywhere. though i’d like to be walking with someone who can talk me through the scenery and make things seem more interesting than they really are. either that or i’d like to be walking alone with my sketchbook and my head full of crazy images. i’m supposed to be taking my art seriously but i never have my pencils and my book with me when i get a good idea.”
“you draw? show me your stuff sometime. it’s not all landscapes, is it?”
“no, hardly. static backgrounds bother me. i like to focus on things. small things. things people wouldn’t ordinarily notice. the small print of everyday life.”
“i like that thought. when did you start drawing?”
“since i was thirteen. my grandpa took up art after he retired. a little like beck’s grand-dad.”

i make to ask a question.

“beck. y’know? the guy who did those great songs... loser, new pollution... and that new one... devil’s something.”
“haircut. yeah, beck. was just gonna check if i was thinking of the same guy.”

wow. beck.

“yeah, his grand-dad was a revolutionary artist. did some really insane things, but i guess that’s the definition of revolutionary in the art world. my grandpa wasn’t all that revolutionary, but he painted some great stuff. i was really inspired by him.”
“no landscapes?”
“no landscapes.”
“nice.”
“yeah, he was great. really had so much respect for him. did you pick up anything from your relatives as a kid?”
“i guess so. just not sure what exactly. probably my love for music. dad says music runs in the family. making, i’m afraid, so i’m not really running along the same lines as my ancestors. i can play the drums well. i love the sounds they make. rhythm drives my music. i love listening to music, but not for the lyrics.”
“that explains how you can listen to beck.”

“yeah,” i laugh. “absolutely.”

we talk music for a while. favourite everythings. she likes all kinds of music; same as i. neither of us can stand dance music. train’s drops of jupiter, yes. goo goo doll’s iris, yes. coldplay, yes. we both wish oasis would make songs like they used to. prodigy? no thanks, we’ll pass. fatboy slim? nope, on a diet. we both wish we were at dylan’s tour-concluding concert at prince albert hall in manchester.

“so what happened exactly? i keep hearing different accounts of it,” i ask her.

“well, the version i heard goes like this: dylan pulls out his electric guitar after a couple of songs and starts playing, much to the chagrin of the crowd. some call him a sell-out and some jeer him. the jeering gets worse after a few more songs and just before he plays ‘like a rolling stone’, there’s this bit of silence. someone shouts ‘judas!’ and the crowd cheers. dylan retorts in disgust: ‘i don’t believe you. you’re a liar!’ and then he turns back to the band and yells, “play fuckin’ loud!” and they break into the best version of ‘like a rolling stone’ i’ve ever heard. oh, and the slowest.”

i break into a grin at that last bit. “fantastic. well, i guess it’s okay that we missed the show. nobody can really blame us. we weren’t born yet. heck, my folks weren’t even old enough to go themselves back in ‘66.”

a shop belonging to the metropolitan museum of art in new york greets us. we look at one another, nod in approval and head in.

“lookit this. that looks familiar, don’t it?” she says, pointing at a small figuring precariously perched on a small glass display.
“that’s the symbol they use to represent physicians. it’s called a caduceus. it’s actually the wand of hermes, the greek god of being late for meetings.”

she bursts out laughing and grabs my shoulder to steady herself. i pretend that she doesn’t, and continue, smiling, “i’m just kidding about that last part. i can’t remember what he was the greek god of, but yeah, that’s his wand.”

her laughter subsides and she composes herself. “hermes was the messenger of the gods, and their maker of fine silk scarves and ties. hence the winged feet and the smashing sense of fashion.”

“oh yeah, that’s right,” i acknowledge, with as straight a face as i can muster. i can imagine us spending the rest of the day with smiles permanently stuck to our faces.

we make our way along the various trinkets, statuettes and replicas to the postcard stand.

“i know this one from all those art classes i used to take. it’s van gogh’s starry night! it isn’t gorgeous but i do wish i could paint something like that just so that i could put it up in my room. oh, and this one’s guernica. a real classic that every art student should know. and this one’s ‘the night café’ and this one is his room when he was staying in arles in france.”
“whoa… slow down. getting dizzy here from all that information.”

she turns and smiles. “i got carried away. sorry.”
“no, don’t be. just getting acquainted with the artist’s extended relations now.”
“extended relations?” she asks, now thinking i really must be feeling dizzy.

“yeah, verti gogh.”

another laugh. i’m getting good at this. she frowns for a moment, contemplates something then turns back to the postcards.

“and this one! this one’s a self-portrait after he cut off part of his left ear.”
“why would he do that?”
“beats me. anger?”
“i’d cut off someone else’s ear if i was angry. if cutting off ears is my thing, that is.”
“maybe he missed someone else? he was at odds with gauguin at the time.”
“some miss!”
“possibly a suicide attempt? he was depressed throughout his time in arles.”
“i don’t think you can bleed to death from the ear.”
“ears aren’t very useful, are they? you only need the parts in your head to hear something. so what does that whole cartilage and skin part on the outside do?”
“seems to me like it channels the sounds into that hole in the side of your head. not much else other than that. maybe vincent didn’t see any use in having ears.”
“maybe he took the call ‘friends, romans, countrymen, lend me your ears’ literally.”
“possibly.”

we conclude our discussion and leave the shop, satisfied with our discoveries.

discoveries that probably have nothing to do with what we saw in the shop.

hours more pass, and we slip into deeper conversation.

“you know,” she pipes up, as we cut across a small park, “sometimes i wish that a solution to our problems or dilemmas could just appear like a bolt from the blue. like if god just spoke to us and told us exactly what we need to do. sometimes i just feel helpless not knowing exactly what to do.”

“deux ex machina,” i say, staring blankly ahead of me.
“doose what?”
“deux ex machina. literally, god out of a machine. it’s an old trick used by playwrights when they came to a point in the story where only the hand of god could possibly unravel everything and make for a happy ending. they used to have actors hoisted up with ropes and mechanical props and he’d descend on the stage from above, pretending to be god. god out of a machine.”
“yeah, i could use one of those right now.”
“right now?”
“yeah.”
“we all could, i guess.”

the goddess then proceeds to hug me before taking a few steps back.

“i’m sorry. i’ve had a lovely time today, i really have. i’m glad i met you today. but i must be going.”
“where? why? it’s not that late, is it?”
“i just have to go, i’m afraid. i don’t know if i’ll ever see you again.”
“why not? i can take down your number or something. a phone call will fix everything.”
“no, no. you won’t understand.”

i take a look around. i’m not standing in elysian fields anymore.

“then make me.”


“i can’t, i’m sorry. i really have to go now. take care. you’re a wonderful person.”

and i realise that i really didn’t need to hear that. it just made things worse.

she walks in the direction we came from, heading towards the large iron gates that guard the park. she turns left around the gate and i catch up to her just then.

“hey stop! i didn’t get your name!”

she turns around and smiles.

“strange. i didn’t get yours either. doesn’t matter now, does it? it didn’t matter for the last 5 hours.”
“yeah, but what else can i remember you by?”
“memories.”
“please, tell me your name,” i plead.
“i’m the gentle breeze that blew through your life. think latin and french.”

she turns and disappears. i suppose i truly never will see her again.

but i know her name now.


aurelie.

---

"rejoice," he said. and rejoice i shall.

take a butcher at these, willya?

kids nowadays. won't they ever learn?

meow

beer?



perfect roses for that perfect someone.

"scrooge was better than his word. he did it all, and infinitely more; and to tiny tim, who did not die, he was a second father. he became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. his own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him."

so the day passes, and one wonders how many lives christmas has touched. a life or two has turned for the better, i'm sure, and that's enough to sustain the spirit of this grand occasion till the end of our days.

merry christmas to all of you!

oh, and my leg's much better. i'm on medical leave until the 3rd of january.

a new design. drawn by me. photoshop-ed by me. html-ed by me. just reused my bro's excellent javascript, that's all.

hope you guys like it.

the instant it happens, the realisation that something is not as it should be hits you. you buckle and fold and crash to the ground in a heap. the remarkable absence of pain leaves you gasping for breath. in between which escapes groans of despair and helplessness. the feeling is gone. you can't move save for the twisting of your torso as you roll back and forth on the ground. your mind is cleared to make way for the anguish of not knowing exactly what has gone wrong. seconds pass as the whole world blurs before your eyes. and the laughter echoes in your ears and your friends cry to you: "get up, man." there's no place for disbelief. they think you're acting.

6 hours later and you're back from the hospital. a suspected ligament tear in your knee and you've forgotten what uninhibited walking feels like.

that's where i am now. praying and hoping that this will pass. that's it has no implications for the rest of my life.

another moment in my youth. an insignificant one.

a freak accident.

--

i couldn't lift my left leg yesterday and i knew it was all in my mind. i could if i really wanted to, but i just couldn't imagine myself doing it. i was already defeated and knowing that made it difficult to see a way. i think i've forgotten my inability now. i put my leg up onto my bed just now without having to use my hands for the first time since sunday. small victories. never thought i'd ever feel that way.

at the very least, i don't need to go to work until friday (unless they need me back urgently, but i don't think they do) so i have time to write my next few chapters and finish up my applications. oh, and to read. coming from someone who hates reading, that just goes to show how much free time i reckon i have till friday.

Chapter Two: The Brits Arriveth

By the 19th century, the British, Dutch, Portuguese, French and Manchester United had managed to put dozens of countries under their often tyrannical rule. There was as much bickering as there was signing of treaties between these empires. For example, the British and French agreed to put aside their differences and just get along for once, though this treaty did not last very long. It ended abruptly when Sir William G. Farquhar (great-grand-uncle of the Farquhar we all we know) and his French diplomatic counterpart Pierre-Luc “Viva la” Gastón met in Geneva to sign the cessation-of-hostilities documents. Gastón took offence to Sir William introducing himself as “Farquhar” and Sir William was gravely insulted by Gastón bringing his mother (“Mother Farquhar”) into the whole thing. A brief swordfight broke out which the French won 3-2 in extra-time after Gastón unleashed his trademark move, “Le Kique du la Gróin.” The King of England immediately declared that the French language would henceforth be referred to as ‘Freedish’.

The Dutch and the Portuguese, not to be outdone, signed a ground-breaking treaty that guaranteed amongst other things that, a) the Dutch would get some of the Portuguese territories for nothing, b) the Portuguese would comprehensively defeat the Dutch at hopscotch to get it back, and c) neither nation would win a World Cup in any sport, no matter how good their teams were.

About that time (9:34 pm), the British realised that they needed to change their strategy if they wanted to remain as the largest empire on the planet. You see, the other European countries were catching up with them in terms of territorial possession and a quick investigation into the matter by the King’s Counsel revealed the reasons for this: It seemed that recreational activities were the cause of the English people’s inability to expand their empire. While the other European countries played a morning football match and went on with the exploration and expansion after that, the British were caught up playing Cricket. They’d be out of bed at sunrise and on the pitch earlier than those other blokes, but the game would drag on until the scheduled lunch-time break, whereupon the players would head off for lunch, only to return an hour later to resume play. Then they would carry on with their hectic involvement in ‘overs’ and ‘fours’ and ‘leg-before-wickets’ until their scheduled tea-break. After tea, more cricket would follow until sunset. By then the British explorers would be so weary from standing still in the sun that they stumble onto their ships, chart a course to their next destination and steer their ships into the nearest cliff face. “Six!” the umpire would cry, having seen the players’ marbles cross the boundary. The Welsh, however, abstained from such recreational activities because of the ongoing vowel shortage that was plaguing the cntrysd. They did, however, reinvent the wheel in the late 18th century, a feat that has long been recorded as the least important in the history of mankind.

The King of England, meanwhile, realised that the British East India company needed to find a suitable port-of-call (so called because calls would port there) in South-East Asia so that merchant ships from India could refit and refuel themselves for the arduous journey to China. China was a goldmine for British merchants, who thronged there by the hundreds and thousands. Months of digging and sieving ensued (which created what is known today as the Gobi desert) and after realising that there was no gold in China, the merchants decided to sell whatever they had left (Clothing, Tobacco, Premier League jerseys, their dignity, etc.) to buy a trip back home. On the basis of this, trade soon flourished between the two countries and the need for a stop-over became increasingly evident.

The British East India Company’s head office, led by the Governor-General of India, Lord Hastings, hastily gave Sir Stamford Raffles, the Lieutenant-Governor of Bencoolen and his trusty aide, Major Farquhar, tacit approval to take his ship (“The Flaming Lamborghini”) with its crew to establish a trading post on the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula. The Dutch East India Company too, had intended to set up a trading post at a similar location to complement their assets in the East Indies and Spice Islands, but just as they were formalising plans to race ahead of the British, a keen bystander observed that the Dutch West India Company had gone missing. A thorough search set the Dutch back by 150 years and even then, the British had to drop hints that it had been left somewhere near the Caribbean before they could find it.

After touring several islands and taking notes, Raffles came to the largest island so far on his journey. An extract from his logbook read as follows:

28th January 1819
We arrived at a small island that was covered with dense jungle. A small settlement greeted our eyes, as well as a crude harbour and a handful of small, primitive boats. Initially, I suspected it to be a fishing village, but on closer observation, Farquhar and I concluded that the settlers were slightly more advanced than mere fisherman. As we neared, a large sign over the harbour became visible through the fog. As we strained to read its seemingly foreign characters, it suddenly dawned on me that the sign was in English! I was startled, to say the least. An English-speaking settlement, here? I could not believe my eyes. I read the sign out loud to my crew. It said, ‘Tekong Ferry Terminal’ in big, bold letters. When our ship was within touching distance, we suddenly heard shots ring out from deep within the jungle. Cries filled the night sky and the thunderous rumbling of a thousand hoofed Gods struck fear deep into our hearts. We fled in our Indiaman, as fast as she could go. By midnight, we were out of view of that treacherous island, and thankfully so. However, in our haste, we have run aground on the larger island just opposite. Bother.

29th January 1819
Woke up today with a terrible hangover after yesterday’s misadventures. I was dribbling from the mouth and ‘God Shave the Queen’ was playing in my head. She needs one, really. Ah well, on to pressing matters. Farquhar and I realise that we have stumbled onto an island much larger than the previous one. Small fishing villages line its shores and the people go about their daily chores with considerable glee. There’s no sense of time but day and night and each one’s impending arrival. Carefree, they are, and the joy they seem to experience from just living is beyond any measure I have ever come across. Pity we have to wreck this place and kick the poor sods out. Ah well… the things I do for Her.


Raffles introduced himself to the locals and was led to the Temenggong (the village head) of the island where he concluded a preliminary treaty to set up a trading post without having to annihilate the village and kill everyone. Temenggong Abdu’r Rahman even offered to throw in his shiny jewellery. Such was the respect the villagers had for Sir Stamford Raffles, Major Farquhar, the British explorers and their large, dangerous guns.

On February 6th, a formal treaty was concluded with Sultan Hussein of Johor and the Temenggong, the de jure (meaning ‘in judicial contexts’) and de facto (meaning ‘in fact-o’) rulers of Singapore respectively. The British moved in soon afterwards and peace, calm and a slower pace of life came with them as well. By that we mean that all they did was play cricket.

The fisherman, however, were ‘recruited’ by the British to help build settlements and make significant contributions to the infrastructure of the fledgling country, while the British themselves were trying to figure out how many ‘overs’ and ‘balls’ they had left to get through with before their next scheduled tea break. Word-of-mouth news of the new trading post spread like wildfire fanned by evil, winged demon-goddesses from the vile, putrid depths of Hades. Naked demon-goddesses.

Within a year, Singapore was earning revenue, even though it came primarily in the form of toll payments collected from passing merchant ships that wanted to take a peek at the demon-goddesses. Three years more and its trade surpassed that of Pahang which had, for years, banked on its acclaimed attraction, ‘Gimpy, the Lost Viking’. Three more treaties, one Anglo-Dutch, one Anglo-Malay and one Mayo-Mustard resulted in the British having absolute control over Singapore in return for less flogging, increased payments, pensions and a side order of fries.

The British began to profit greatly from their newest trading post. Singapore would prove to be a vital possession of the British in Asia. They did, however, briefly lose Singapore to the Japanese close to 130 years later, though Singapore did play a critical part in stopping the Japanese Army’s expansion southwards during World War II. This was, in part, due to the fact the Japanese Army had run out of south to expand into. However, despite this set-back, the Japanese managed to defeat the British army and its allies comprehensively. The fierce one-week resistance that the British put up before fleeing for their pasty-skinned lives is testament to the resolve that saw them through more that 130 years of calm and prosperity. Details of the Japanese Occupation are in Chapter 4 : The Bicycle Brigade Strikes. Until then, on to Chapter 3 : Growing Pains-in-the-Arse.

Chapter 3 akan datang