Thursday, July 23

Pray, Love, Remember.

She has a million phobias. Tarantulas, ghosts, cockroaches, rejection, lizards, darkness, etc. Then there's oblivion.

To be forgotten, to forget; to not be remembered, to not remember. 

The biggest insult, and the deepest cut, is to be forgotten by the people who were once part of your life. To wake up and not remember a thing about the ones who once touched your life, is the scariest thing in the world. 


She wants to be remembered forever, because she never forgets. It isn't so much about committing all the wrongs and scars into memory; but more about engraving the deep set eyes into a foamy sea of reveries. "Yes, I once knew you."

You were once so important to me. You are important to me, still.

Memory is like a locked room, hidden in a corner, meant to be neglected. It's a room that she loves to visit, every now and then, and they key hangs around her neck like a noose. A slave to the past, clinging to it like opium. 


That's the nearest thing to immortality. That's the proof of her existence. Nothing scares her more than to cease to exist in your world.

Sunday, April 5

Schrödinger's Cat

Image from

If one has left this entire system to itself for an hour, one would say that the cat still lives if meanwhile no atom has decayed. The psi-function of the entire system would express this by having in it the living and dead cat (pardon the expression) mixed or smeared out in equal parts.

Too long a hiatus. 

It still feels like a dream: managing the social and digital platforms of the most popular English radio station in the country. Met a few Hollywood A-listers, some music legends, and called some of the most prominent radio announcers in Malaysia "buggers". 

There is no glamorous job. Only a job that satisfies. 

That aside, on Schrödinger's cat. I vaguely remember a fellow Experimental Writing classmate, Helen, basing one of her weekly submissions' on this theory. 

What does a Liberal Art student know about Quantum Physics? It depends on the student, really. I only know that it problematises the Copenhagen School's interpretation of Quantum Physics. That it is only logical to presume that the cat is either dead or alive, and not both as the Copenhagen School would theorise. 

Put simply, there is no grey area to any situation. 

Poor cat. 

So yeah, there's no grey area to this situation. But that is Science and this isn't, someone I know would argue. And then he will bite his own tongue because human relations, as he once explained to me, is, in fact, very scientific. 

The answers to that mind-boggling question of why we are attracted to whoever we're attracted to can be found in the area of evolutionary biology. Pheromones. Physique. Survival of the specie.

We are cells. Stardusts. Not ethereal and intangible fragments called 'souls'. 

Image from

Since we've established the premise of this situation, which is (cynically) scientific, then perhaps it's safe to presume that the cat in the box is dead. 

Logically, should one wish for the cat to live, one would have taken the cat out of the box as soon as possible. 

One wouldn't even put the cat in the bloody box. 

Plain as day and you wonder why I didn't see it. It's a thing I'm known for, being a glutton for punishment (which applies also in other matters, but let's not go there). My hamster female brain is unable to logically process things as it comes. The best thing it does is triggering the tear glands and I've cried a few times over it, wondering if the stupid cat is even alive. 

Or was there even a cat from the start. 

Hamster ramblings. Lines of discombobulated thoughts that refused to be framed coherently and logically because of the way my sex is hardwired. 

But I don't want the cat. 

I want the man himself. 

Sunday, September 14

A Diagnosis

He must be the unhealthiest doctor I've ever visited. 

The glass of Jack Daniels just left his lips when I walked into his office. A pack of cigarettes - Pall Mall lights - rested at a convenient distance from his left hand. The crisp thud of glass meeting table surface resonated in the office as he winced. 

I waited for him to finish his last notes. He wrote in an almost languid manner: like the slow waves of an otherwise still lake, made to move only by a zephyr's urging. Seated at the edge of the patient's chair was a disinterested face masking my slightly bothered heart.

He looked at me expectantly - he knew why I visited. I had briefly explained my malady when I called to book an appointment. Eyes fixed on the fresh page of my file, we recapped my complaints. 

There was a dull, empty ache that has been bothering me for a while. 

It wasn't something that particularly affected my daily routine. I could still go about my life as usual like every other healthy person even when the symptom surfaced. Yet it was annoying, and so I made up my mind to get it checked and sorted out, the flat throbbing below my stomach. 

"Shall we do a physical examination now?"

It was very direct. I remember he once said that doctors don't like to waste time. But of course, how could you afford to when most of the time it's a matter of life and death?

The ceiling was a dazzling white that became a blinding empyrean when he probed my insides. I trembled. He noted. His hands moved knowingly, applying pressure as it traversed my horizontally laid anatomy. Paying attention to every pulse, every spasm, every change in temperature. 

"Face that way."

I never liked clinics and hospitals. They smelled of anesthetics and early goodbyes. They made me fear that which I know very well - my body. 

And fear makes one compliant. 

The obedient patient that I was followed all his instructions. Positioning my body as he asked, breathed and coughed as he ordered, revealing whatever he demanded. I asked questions. He replied some, and ignored most. But with every question asked the pressure applied increased. It sometimes hurt. I knew then to keep my questions for later. 

A blood sample had to be collected at the end of the examination. He drew blood, and it hurt. 

"Am I still passive?" he asked.

More notes were scribbled in his cursive doctor's handwriting before he finally gave a diagnosis. Yearning, he said. Yearning was it. He has stopped the ache for a while, a relapse is inevitable. There wasn't any medication but only therapy. 

"If you ever want it, you can just call me."

I exited his office, with the doctor's estimation that the symptom will resurface in a month's time. I have yet to book an appointment.

Monday, August 18


It's been 2 weeks since the departure and already I've forgotten how the Queen's English sounded like. There was no need for me to control my jargon, or churning my brain for adjectives to go with every sentence. 

He came like a thief in the night. 

So sudden I was caught off guard. So sleek I was hopelessly trapped, without knowing I've walked into a floral cage. 

He had always treated me kindly, with the utmost respect and manners that befit a lady of high station. Doors were held open for me, paths cleared with a hint of a bow that accompanied that British "After you". He was never authoritative as a master. In fact, he never did establish that he was one. 

Never explicitly, that is. 

There were shadows of it, his superiority. The very subtle, almost invisible, condescension when he spoke of his education and his home. They became more apparent the nearer he came, the closer we were. 

"My colonial mistress."

I think I secretly loved it. Being under him, subjected to his command, eager to learn his ways, fervently emulating the crisp British accent. He said that I was intelligent and that it was good that I understood his "banter". I still remember his likes and dislikes, the topics that he love and the areas that he warned about. I think I must quite liked that period. 

The period of being with him, when he kissed me under the artificial stars of the street named after him.

When it was time to finally depart he gazed briefly in silence towards England and said as he turned back to me, "I have a feeling I might remember you." There was no official handing over of power, no fanfare or shouts to celebrate independence after he left. 

Is it really over though, if you remember every detail of the past? That the colonial history should continue to haunt and shape what you are right now.

"Maybe 2 years, or 4 years later, I may be back again... or you should really come to London."

Saturday, July 5

The Last Peel

"From the beginning, the only thing I couldn't tolerate about you was how impossible you were to ignore."- Jennifer Delucy 

There were four bottles of red wine and one white wine -- an assortment of Merlot, Carbanet Sauvignon and Sauvignon blanc -- standing upright on a sheet of synthetic grass in the balcony of a KL café

Muffled excitement, subtle jokes, puffs of tobacco and a hint of exhaled marijuana were golden youths under a starless night sky. 

"Cheers! To the last kopek."

Wine glass chinked against wine glass. The eager gurgled while the bourgeois sipped. Chatter resumed. We talked about dreams and love and responsibilities and age. The grass was warm to the touch, as were their hearts. 

So many things to gain and so little to lose. He asked, "So how was it like?" But how could it be any different? A more apt question would be the plans and the direction decided upon, of which would be answered as such:

"I'm travelling solo towards Nowhere; I wouldn't mind bunking with a fellow traveler during the journey."

"Yeah. Whatever happens, happens."

"Cheers to that."

Another question was raised en route to the car, regarding the after party that was, unbeknowest to him, non-existent. 

"But why?"

"I live in a nunnery."

A reckless laugh, and a request for confirmation of safety. It was pointed that he was just as tipsy, and a possibility of some sort of liaison was enunciated. Alcohol, it was due to the alcohol. 

A greeting, or rather farewell, peck on the cheek came with the embrace that followed the last hearty chuckle. Thirty seven degrees of human warmth and musk. 

That was all there is to it on a burgundy night.