Sunday, May 28, 2006

series of unfortunate events

Just thought I'd relate on a long series of unfortunate events which happened last night. It all started on a dark, rainy night...

I was on my way to pick up Rita for cell. Of course, I had complete directions with me. But, I lost the first turning, and things went haywire from then on. Started panicking, as I had absolutely no idea where I was going. Furthermore, I was running low on fuel, it was raining heavily, and I was getting late for cell. To make things worse, I was doing worship AND Word. Imagine them not having any cell lesson. Lol. The leaders would kill me. Or maybe, they'd just get me a chauffeur. Haha.

Anyways, in the middle of a disoriented search for a nursing hostel in the middle of nowhere, I decided to make the fateful turn. Tried to cross the road to get to the other side so I could make a U turn, misjudged the speed of the oncoming cars due to the heavy rain, and next thing I knew, I saw a huge yellow jeep looming behind me. And I just thought..."Crap".

BAM! Hit my back, the driver paused for a while, looked down, and then drove off. It was pretty hard to stop--was raining and all. Plus, he was going in one direction while I was going in the other. But I remember how calm I was when he hit me--took out a piece of paper, wrote down the car plate number and description of the vehicle, and then went back to looking for the place. Getting lost is scarier than getting hit.

Found it in the end. Then, we went to cell. Or rather, we TRIED going back to cell. Can you believe it? I got lost even looking for the street of the house where we're supposed to have cell. And I've been going there for years! :S

Sigh...we found it anyway. Started cell an hour late. When I left cell, I had to stop at the petrol station. I stupidly tried to fill the car with diesel. The nozzle wouldn't fit, so I had to play the damsel in distress and get the attendant running to me. Helps being a girl sometimes. Haha. I hope my feminist friends aren't reading this. :P

Anyway, he told me to use the other one--unleaded petrol. If I tried to use diesel, my car would go haywire, and I'd have to spend 2000 bucks on repairs. If that happened, well, I'd find myself a nice grassy place to dig for a grave. Haha.

Well, I got back home relatively safe. Mum said nothing yet, because she didn't see the car. But when she DID see me the next morning, she seemed quite upset. Was worried about my safety. Well, if I were her, I'd be worried too. So, I just thank God that I was safe. Wondered for a while what would happen if suddenly my car died, or went too slow while I was crossing. That'd be 'bye bye Su-Lyn'...

*shivers*

I still have a lot to offer the world! Coming up with a revolutionary counseling theory, saving the Palestinians, and last but not least...

That shall remain a secret. ;-)

If I revealed it, it'd just show how shallow I am sometimes. :P So, I shall leave readers with my noble intentions, which will hopefully, inspire them to do something great too. A tiny drop of kindness spreads ripples far wider than imagined.

So, that was pretty much my series of unfortunate events. Actually, come to think of it, it doesn't seem so much like a series. More like a big messy jumble, like a yarn of knotted wool.

Well, I DID only have three hours of sleep the night before, had a tiring day doing subject registration. So, I pretty much collapsed at the end of it all.

Good things to note though: managed to settle both Jaymee's and my registration. Plus, I felt that the cell lesson went really well. Got everyone talking, and I was in fact, inspired by a girl's testimony. She said that she had a friend who had staunch Hindu parents, who refused to let her go to church. So, she just prayed, got a whole bunch of other people to pray too, and now, the friend's attending church regularly.

The power of prayer...

It gives me hope, and flamed the fervency of my prayer for the people I know who refuse to believe in a God who can save. One day, I know that they will turn around eventually...

Written at 12:46 AM

2 comments

Friday, May 26, 2006

Marionette

Marionette

She enters the kitchen, and begins to cook. Nothing fancy, just enough to sustain her hunger. Besides, she doesn't have the energy--the work in the office has drained her, like a vampire feeding upon her. That is how she pictures her job--a shadowy cloaked creature, large and looming, that suddenly captures her in its vise-like grip. Then, it sucks her blood, ravenously at first; but as her pulse slows, so does the sucking. Slowly but surely, she will die. Like the vampire, this job will kill her eventually. She never wanted it; it was thrust upon her by her over-controlling mother.

However, she had no choice but to take it. Job opportunities are dwindling; her once-close friends who are jobless look at her with secret disdain, their sweet words masking jealousy and bitterness. Somehow though, the bitterness always shows through, like the undisguisable taste of bitter gourd accidentally mixed into a soup. Sharing her frustrations and sense of meaninglessness from her work does not seem altogether possible. So, she grits her teeth, plasters a smile on her face, and asks her female secretary to bring her coffee in the nicest way possible. She has discovered that women do not like bringing other women coffee, and if forced to, will gripe about it behind her back like irritated starved hens. Men are no easier--if they see her acting nice, they call her 'soft'. If she acts like the rest of them, she is called the impolite word for a female dog. Whichever way, she loses.

She has done this for years. Already, she feels old and jaded, even though she is only 28. "Whatever happened to living your dreams?" she once wondered aloud, in the presence of a friend.

With a loud snicker, her friend answered, "Reality check, hun. We work to live our lives, not our dreams. It's just to pay the bills and buy the bread. Have you ever met someone who's happy working? If you do, do introduce me. Hell, I haven't met anyone at all."

She has kept quiet ever since, assimilating herself into the pervasive mundane culture--she cannot escape it. Everywhere she goes, she sees the same gray unsmiling faces, pretentious briskness of walk, as if they can't wait to get through the working hours. But even when they return to their homes on the subway, their faces do not change--still grim, as if they have another battle to fight through in their business suits at home. And so it has been for the past few years. The faces do not change; only their clothes, which get more and more expensive, the richness of its quality contrasting sharply with the paleness of their faces.

Occasionally, a pleasant unexpected event would happen, like an erratic drop of cool rain from a blistering hot sky. A phone-call from an old friend, a sincere praise from her tough boss, or invitations for a coffee or dinner. However, nothing ever came out from those times she spent with men. Her goofy colleagues were a definite no-no, but even the distinguished, well-dressed men introduced to her by well-meaning friends held no appeal to her. There was no spark, no catch of her heartbeat. All they possessed were oodles of cash and credit, which they whipped in front of her when the bills for the expensive dinners arrived. The paper and plastic left her cold. They were no different than anyone else; trapped in prisons of the mundane. What she longed was for someone to liberate her, to unlock the key and give her freedom so that her soul would soar and sing.

She has not found him yet. When she goes to the office, her soul is doing anything but singing. She settles herself into her desk, checks her mail, and gets ready to pick up the phone. After several hours, it is time for lunch, and she heads down to the cafeteria, a tired-looking room with harried waitresses serving food that is edible at best.

"Yo Polly! Over here!" a male voice hollers out to her.

She walks over to a crowded table and puts a bowl of noodles down. The guys have loosened their ties and made the usual dirty jokes. Bill is telling Helen one that appears to be funny, as she throws her head back with laughter.

"So Polly, any dates tonight?" Henry asks, a grin on his face.

"Why? You wanna ask me out?" she replies with a smile. She knows that he is only pulling her leg.

"Hands off her, Hen! She's taken tonight," Helen interrupts, with a wink.

The guys hoot with laughter.

"Ooohh--Polly. Which old fogger wants to grab your butt now? Don't hit him too hard, you just might give him a heart attack!"

Polly rolls her eyes at them, and turns to Helen. "Since when? Don't tell me it's another one of your rich friends. You know I hate them! They're all just so pretentious."

"Hey, I went through a lot of trouble setting them up with you, Polly," Helen retorts hotly, her chubby cheeks turning red. "The least you could do is show some appreciation."

"Sorry," Polly quickly replies. "I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. It's just--you know...they're just not my type."

"Yeah, I know. No worries about it." Helen's anger disappears as quickly as it appeared. "This one, I promise you, is different." A bright smile dances on her lips.

"Really?" Polly remains skeptical.

"Yes, yes! He's intelligent, warm, charming--a perfect gentleman," Helen enthuses. "Not to mention he's got a, ahem, very big..." She glances meaningfully at Polly.

"Big brain?" Polly asks, innocently. Then, she cracks with laughter. "How on earth do you know that? You slept with him before?"

Helen wrinkles her face with distaste. "Of course not. Do you really think I'm that crude? He dated my cousin before."

"But don't worry," she adds, looking at Polly's face. "He's not a womanizer. He's only dated her, and one or two other girls before. Loyalty's his middle name. Another plus for you."

"If he's so great, why aren't you dating him?" Polly asks, raising an eyebrow.

"He's got no dough," Helen replies bluntly. "He doesn't even have a Rolex! How on earth is he gonna maintain me, darling?"

Polly laughs. "I should have known. Only you would look at his bank account above all things."

"Most sensible girls would," Helen says, smiling. "So, do you want to give him a try or not?"

"I suppose there's no harm in it. Go ahead."

As Polly sips her coffee and listens to the details of the date, she tries to suppress a tiny flutter of hope that has sprung in her heart.

Tuesday evening.

Polly is dining in a casual restaurant which serves surprisingly delectable food. A much more pleasant place than restaurants that stink of opulence and the slimy charm of owners who care more about ratings than the needs of customers. To them, the customers are warm-blooded gold stars. This restaurant is vastly different; its warm coffee-colored walls lighted softly with shaded lamps soothe her heart, which has oddly given her the jitters earlier on, as if she were on her first date. Overdressed and desperate to impress. But she is not. Yet, this man, Erik, he calls himself, awakes a competitive spirit in her; one that has lain dormant for a very long time. He is far more intelligent than any other man she has met. That intelligence comes with self-acceptance--not conspicuously boastful, yet, not self-undermining either. It is as if he were an apple acknowledging the fact that it is red.

Polly is sorry to see the end of the evening. At the doorstep, he drops a light kiss on her hand, and drives off. It is only later when Polly realizes that he has not said anything much at all about himself throughout the meal; aside from the occasional duel of words and thoughts over certain issues, Erik was just listening intently to her life stories, which she could not help but pour with such ease.

The next several days pass uneventful. Polly is beside herself with agitation, wishing that he would call. On the outside though, she portrays the same cool impenetrable armor, if somewhat stronger than before. She keeps herself busy by giving orders, and making sure that they are obeyed. Whispers sharpened with hatred grow louder, threatening her further into a corner where she crouches, protected behind a garrison of defense that are armed themselves.

After a particularly difficult day, Polly collapses into her couch, mentally and physically exhausted. The phone rings unexpectedly. It is Erik, asking her out to dinner. Polly cannot hide the smile from her voice as she answers in the affirmative.

As before, Erik listens to her vent her frustrations. Although she tries to dig out more information from him falteringly, she doesn't succeed. Her questions are smoothly deflected with other questions turned at her. Instead of finding out more about him, she ends up revealing more about herself. Small chinks of light begin to appear through the thick stone wall that has protected her all these years.

A longer time period passes before Polly receives another call. This time, Polly accepts the call neutrally, like a steel knife that has been heated, its surface seemingly cool but is in actual fact, holding immense heat. When they dine, Polly shoots all sorts of questions at him--childhood stories, hopes, dreams, failures, expecting empty, pleasant responses. Strangely enough, Erik is open as a book. He answers everything with absolutely no inhibitions; his replies imbued with a passion that Polly has never seen before. It pleases her, yet scares her at the same time. She has had not many wishes come true; so when this one does; it throws her off-guard. She is not sure what she is meant to do with this fulfilled wish.

When he drops her off at home, she invites him in for a drink, half-expecting him to decline. Instead, he accepts, and she pours them both a glass of wine each. They drink in silence; the only sound being the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. The glasses soon empty, and Polly gets up to refill them. He stands up, and pushes her against the wall roughly before she can do anything. Fear reflects upon her eyes instantly. She opens her mouth in protest, and he kisses her in response. Rough and filled with an intense hunger that burns, claws at her heart as it begs to be satisfied. She loses all sense of the outside world; all she hears is the echoing notes of desperation, loneliness and pain, a furious symphony played by two in tandem.

The symphony rises to a crescendo in bed, ending in a magnificent finale. There is no applause; only quick, shallow breaths in the dark that gradually slower, getting into the rhythm of gently beating hearts.

Polly wakes up, but finds the spot next to her empty. He has already left. No note, nothing. She gets to work with an irritating dark cloud in her head, which she tries to brush off. Her feelings are right; he calls three days later, but he is utterly cool and pleasant, like the first time they met. Subsequently, they have met, talked, drank coffee together. Still, the same cool demeanor, heated up by the occasional philosophical debate. Polly tries to protect herself by acting like him--cool and distant. Sometimes though, the already weak defenses would crumble, and she would relate secrets close to the heart. He never judged; he only listened.

Soon, Polly begins to find herself thinking of him in everything she does and says. Before she makes a decision, she would inevitably think of him--his thoughts, and his reactions. Then, she would act wisely, and imagine him being pleased and silently impressed with her. Sometimes, he would act warmly towards her, presenting her with a few rare gems of insight to his being. Then only she realizes that on that fateful night, she never quite asked him enough to know everything. So, she hordes the gems like a miser.

Yet, even with the many gems she holds, she knows that the wall still stands strong between them. The wall that he has crafted with guile; like a mirror in a roomful of mirrors, where one will stumble into glass, thinking that she has found an entrance or exit. He will not probe deeper to discover the hidden corners of her heart, as if he does not care to know her, while she desperately desires to know him. She cannot help it; thoughts of him pervade her actions, his occasionally warm replies delight her, her battles with him of wit and skill with him engage her thoroughly.

Slowly but surely, she loses feeling in her limbs. Polly feels that her control over her mind is slipping from her grasp. The garrison that used to guard her is all but broken, leaving her cold in the open. Naked with no one offering a warm cloak, or even an eye of interest. That was the worst of it all; that she had opened up her heart so willingly to a person who did not care about seeing it, much less cherishing it or holding it safe. The heart begins to lose its vibrant red color; its flesh turns harder, like wood. The fingers and toes are already stiff like cardboard, with strings at the ends to help them move. Polly has become a marionette. And Erik holds the strings.

She stays that way for months, until one day, she decides to cut herself free. She wants to feel again with her own heart, think with her own thoughts, and act unbridled of him. Her friends have noticed how she has changed, and have expressed concern. Even her colleagues have stopped joking with her. Helen herself has drifted off, leaving her alone while hanging out at the bar with the rest of them. Polly is now a recluse.

One day, a small free thought appears in her mind:

I want to break loose.

So Polly begins the painful process of becoming human again. As she starts to cut contact with him, she feels the strings snap, one by one. The skin becomes softer, and flesh starts to materialize. Every memory she keeps physically of him is thrown out with determined hands. The harder memories are those stored in her head. With will power, she manages to erase even those. Now that her head and limbs are fully restored, what is left is her heart. Without that, her flesh remains cold, still like a corpse. She cries when she looks at her damaged heart with all sorts of strings tied to it. It isn't going to be easy, detaching those strings, some of which are thick as ropes.

But, in the end, she manages to detach almost all but one of the strings--the thickest one. Polly remembers the kiss, his uninhibited responses and the connection they shared for one night. That is the hardest to break. With her eyes shut tight, she wrenches off the string, drawing blood. She screams in pain, and then starts to cry, as the blood begins to flow through her body, warming her flesh.

She is now free.

Written at 4:23 AM

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Kittens for sale!

My lovely baby kitten--should call her a cat, is pregnant. So, anyone wanna have kittens? They're for free! :D Please let me know if you want one or more, or if you know anyone else who adores kittens.

Btw, should mention that my baby Zsa Zsa is an EXTREMELY adorable little bundle of fur. So, you can just imagine how her babies will look like. ;-)

Written at 2:52 AM

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reflections before another hectic 4 months

The moment of truth shall come tomorrow...when I shall know whether I got an A or a B for Business! Lol. I'm such a drama queen...I already know the grades for Abnormal Psych and Sociology--but those were the ones whose grades I was sure of. Haha.

Been cleaning up things today--preparing for the start of a new sem. Of course, in the midst of preparation, I had to discover the joys of playing o2jam--thanks to my brother! I've been playing it for hours since I discovered it. Lol. Of all the times....why now?!!! Sigh...but ah well, I suppose if I discovered it earlier, I probably wouldn't have done so many productive things during hols.

It's not the subjects so much that are worrying me in the new sem. It's more of the things that I'm doing on my own--my paper on 'Women Leaders in the Church' for one, of which I have no supervisor. :S Wish Julian could help supervise--but, well, he's probably too busy. So, I'm out in the waters on my own. Then, there's my other paper 'Work Experiences of Mentally Ill Malaysians', which I'm not so worried about as I've got a very experienced supervisor. :D

Have been contacting a lot of counselors. Spoke to a few...one guy said that he only uses 5 % of what he learned in counseling. And he said--Malaysians aren't open to counseling yet, so don't expect much when you start counseling. That discouraged me quite a bit...Then, I started speaking to other people. This particular woman raised my spirits again and really inspired me to continue striving for my dreams. She told me that she tried doing other things like law and interior design, which didn't fulfill her. But when she started counseling, it was what got her up in the morning with a smile on her face. I could feel the passion she had for it. And THAT'S what I want when I work. Instead of just being an ordinary job, it's a calling. A passion. A dream. It's something which infuses your entire being with a sense of purpose, knowing that this is what you're meant to do, fulfilling God's great will. That is what makes us live life, not merely endure it.

Written at 12:50 AM

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Tuesday, May 23, 2006

ROJAK

Very sleepy now...pretty tired I suppose. Sleep deprivation. Woke up pretty early this morning and visited my old secondary and primary schools. Managed to give out questionnaires to 3 counselors. Had a talk with one of them too. Apparently, he only uses 5 % of the theories he learned. You can't stick to one particular theoretical orientation--have to adapt them to your clients, take a bit here and there and mix em all up to produce ROJAK!! I never believed much in the eclectic approach. Sigh...he said that it's really hard to make it as a counselor in Malaysia, as the people here are so much less open compared to Westerners. Since most of the theories we use are Western, it's hard to apply them to Malaysians. "Counseling is fun," according to him. "But not something he really likes doing."

I never ever want to be like that--spending years in a job which you're not passionate about. Whatever happened to living your dreams? It may sound idealistic, but it's certainly not impossible. Dreams are what stretches our fingers to the sky. When we start living them, the sky becomes our earth, and we will walk upon clouds.

Written at 1:20 AM

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Sunday, May 21, 2006

to-do list

Attended the KL Writers Circle meeting today. Apparently, the trick to getting your book published is to get a literary agent, and write something that sells. You don't even have to be a good writer. Just write tons of stuff to papers, magazines etc to establish a readership, write something hot and controversial (preferably), and voila! A published book.

Call me an idealist, but I don't want to write something just for the sake of selling it. This may sound corny--but I want my writing to change the world. OK, rephrase...maybe not change the world. But at least, something that gets the reader to pause and think, becoming more aware of his/her mindset, feel challenged to think outside the box. Dare to change the interior design of his/her mind.

Pretty high hopes. Lol. But, awareness is the first step to change.

School's starting again in about a week--so darn fast. This month just flew by. Wondering if I'm taking on too many things though...

1. Paracounseling
2. 'Work Experiences of the Mentally Ill' paper
3. 'Women in the Church' paper
4. Dr Ng's research assistant
5. Tutoring Research Methods and Abnormal Psych
6. Teaching English
   
7. Working on my novel

Is that a lot? My mum asked me why I'm doing all this for. Number 3 is purely for the sake of my curiosity. Number 1 is just for experience sake. Number 2 is to boost my CV. Number 4 is to build contacts with counselors. Number 5 and number 6--just because I like teaching. Can't believe I'm saying that now...I used to abhor teaching. After teaching Helena English though, I've changed quite a bit. There's nothing quite like the joy of seeing someone learn. Knowledge is one of the best gifts that can be given. When you see that lightbulb above someone's head go 'PING!' as you explain something, your heart just makes a small leap. After all, what you're doing is really entrusting her with materials which she will use one day to weave the fabric of her mind. Highly resistant to change.

Btw, my previous post was the result of sleep deprivation and an intense desire to free myself from the clutches of a thing called 'love'. Maybe not love, infatuation perhaps? Not exactly that either. How does one describe a condition when your entire being becomes like the tide, pulled and pushed at the will of the moon? Your every emotion and thought are manipulated by the words and actions of another being. A mortal.

Only a mere mortal. Time I wrest the power from him and regain control of myself again. Thing is--how?

Written at 2:12 AM

2 comments

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Broken dreams

She snuggled close to him, feeling his gentle breath upon her bare shoulder. His fingers ran idly down her back, evoking sighs of pleasure. She didn’t want this moment to end. Yes, she knew she was an idealist. But who honestly could live without dreams? She imagined black-suited lawyers with their hair severely pulled back in a knot, dealing with their clients mechanically day after day to get a huge wodge of money. Money that was shoved in a bank for the future. For what future, she had no idea. The only 'future' event that the money was most often used for was their funerals--an elaborate occasion with empty eulogies about their efficiency. Never about their dreams. They had none.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, vanishing images of grim lawyers.

"Oh, nothing much," Laurie answered, running her fingers through his soft hair.

He nibbled her ear in response. "I love you." Heartfelt and sincere, full of meaning that was able to be conveyed through speech. The rest was delightfully conveyed through the body, its subtle nuances far more expressive than words. They had been together for years, ever since they first met in college. Back then, they were both young and idealistic, having imagined that they would save sex for marriage. After all, it was the best thing to do, as everyone said. Safe from HIV and unwanted pregnancies. Most of all, it was the morally right thing to do. They always focused on that, and downplayed the other more immediate dangers. Perhaps they considered the soul to be in more danger of corruption than the body, which was easily mended through pills and doctors. The skill of healing the soul was much more complex, they implied. But Laurie didn't think so; the priests sitting in the dark rooms seemed to be experts at it, judging by the almost gleeful glint in their eye as they welcomed sinner after sinner, cleaning their souls.

After a while however, they got bored of waiting. Or rather, he did. The moment he quietly proposed that they do it, Laurie acted aggrieved, at first.

"How can you even think of such a thing?" she had screamed at him before throwing him out of her house. Even as the words flew from her mouth, desire flamed within her heart, like a roused dragon that had been asleep a thousand years. She tried to suppress them; confessing to a bored-sounding priest in hope that he would help her to forget them. All he told her was to try and forget them as soon as possible. Otherwise...three blank dots were left delicately in his speech, enabling her to imagine the worst thing that could ever happen to her. But the more she tried to forget them, the more the desire was incited in her heart. Until one day, she found herself thinking of nothing but a dark room with both of them in it, cementing their love through a new language that was not of words.

She had gone to him first, knocking on the door with slight trepidation. He had shown surprise; after all, ever since his proposal, she had cut all contact with him. Yet, here she was at his doorstep looking anxious, but at the same time, holding a glint of desire in her eyes.

"May I come in?" Laurie had asked. She had not waited for a reply, and had just walked straight in. His room, usually tidy, was messy; scrunched-up balls of paper littered the floor while a heap of dirty clothes lay around the room in an unaesthetic fashion.

"What's up Laurie?" he had asked, almost unnecessarily. He knew as well as she her purpose of arriving. She had been sitting on the edge of the bed, the shade from the lamp hiding her face in darkness, masking her facial expression. She had started to move away from the dark, towards him. As she drew near, he saw purpose, anxiety, (love?) written on her face.

Laurie held his fingers and put them to the buttons on her shirt, undoing them. "I'm ready," she had whispered, sultry like the large-bosomed heroines in badly written romance novels. But, this was real. Although it wasn't like how the novels described it to be (mind-blowing and utterly passionate), the sincere love they shared covered the occasional fumbling mistake with forgiveness, flushed embarrassment with passion. This was what they had always dreamed of, after all. Though not ideally perfect, it was satisfactory for the both of them, as they lay side by side in gentle silence in the aftermath, their love stronger than ever.

Then, it crashed. Unexpectedly. She was not prepared for it. After all, weeks of stolen nights with him did nothing but brighten up her ordinarily gloomy face. The smile of fools, they called it. Everyone noticed it, as they also noticed the bounce in her feet, laugh in her voice, smile in her eyes. So, when it happened, Laurie felt as if she had been pulled hard from the topmost clouds in the sky to the hard cement below, no cushions provided.

It started with a seemingly innocuous message in his mobile. Hi, that night was absolutely fantastic. ;-) When next, Johnny boy?

As long as she had known him, he had never permitted her, or anyone else for that matter, to call him Johnny boy. It was too much like what his ageing aunts used to call him as they played gin rummy, occasionally giving him a few coins from their winnings to buy his favorite ice-cream. An ancient endearment, a relic. Jonathan disliked the past, preferring to live in the present, unbridled by the chains of the past. Laurie had been permitted to call him Johnny boy only on one occasion--when they were making love.

In the heights of pleasure, Laurie would scream that name long and loud. He never seemed to mind it as he released all his inhibitions, the passion of full release, transcending realms of past and present. That name remained locked in the bedroom, only brought to life by the fusion of two bodies, moving to a furious beat amidst a crescendo of utterances full of aching pleasure. Laurie always thought that it was her body only that unlocked the sound of that name.

She thought wrong. The anger hit her like a bucketful of thick hot blood. The beautiful white wedding dress, preserved in Laurie's imagination, complete with frills and pearls, was splattered in blood. Ripped, torn, burned. The pain of betrayal left a bitter seed in her soul, spreading bile and green poison, embracing her memories with toxic claws so that they choked, and died. Her spirit writhed in agony for a full day. After that, the poison and blood were flushed down, having done their work, cleansing her of the false memories and love she once had. She was clean as a surgical knife.

It was time for revenge.

Laurie started by mentally reviewing the secrets he entrusted to her, to be locked in the safety vaults of her heart. She played with the idea of chopping his balls off and feeding them to her ravenous pregnant cat. But, she decided against it. Too messy, and she wasn't adept with a knife, which might lead to an accidental death. Laurie wanted to hurt him, not kill him, and watch his suffering while sipping martinis, preferably in the company of another man to enhance her satisfaction.

She knew what would hurt him the most: a scholarship to a prestigious university that depended on his excellent sports performance. An upcoming football game with Red Bulls from Elton High would, in all likelihood, determine his winning of the scholarship. A game watched by a noisy, cheering audience and inconspicuous talent scouts. A game which would hold his finest moment, or ugliest disgrace. If there was anything Jonathan loved more than her, it was his beloved football. Laurie smiled to herself--May 19th would not be a day of celebrations. It would be a day of mourning, anger and grief--the whole school partaking in a mass of anger and grief, with Laurie as the priest.

She had one week to prepare for the destruction she would commit.

May 19th. 1900. An hour before the game.

"Hey Laurie." He kissed her on the lips softly.

"Jon..." She allowed herself to be kissed, closing her eyes.

"This is the big game, Rie. The final one--before I’m off! Can you believe that?" he spoke with gusto, but his smile was anxious.

Laurie reached out and stroked his face with light fingers. Her voice was soft; the tone was light, yet heavy with conviction at the same time. What he did not notice was the subtle malice laced in the voice. "You'll get 'em. You always have. Why should this be any different?" Then, she kissed him, savoring the taste that was still clean, unsalted from tears. They would fall soon enough, and this time, Laurie would not be there to kiss them away. Only a piece of tissue, if she felt generous. More likely, there would be nothing at all.

The game began. At first, they were winning. Then, Jonathan started to stumble. They were minor mistakes at first, mistakes attributed to growing fatigue. However, a break did not seem to recover him. In fact, after the break, his performance steadily decreased. He couldn't seem to catch the ball, attack his opponents for the ball, or even perform his trademark lightning run that usually eluded his opponents. The cheers that rang loud from the audience softened in volume, turning into confused murmurings, and then stopped altogether. They were too stunned even to boo.

Needless to say, they lost. Terribly. The opposing team was ecstatic in their unexpected victory, slapping the losing team on the back with praises on what a good game they played. The male cheers of victory soon died down as the visiting team left. All that was left was the black silence that hung in the air, thick and dank. Throwing their towels behind their backs, the boys went to shower wordlessly, leaving Jonathan sitting alone on the bench, wondering what the hell had happened to him.

Laurie approached him, a lone figure in the night lit garishly with large field spotlights. She sat down next to him.

"It's all right, tomcat," she said, using his pet name.

"No, it isn't. I failed. I failed them," he said, his voice thick with emotion which he struggled to control. "I failed us..."

"Nothing you couldn't help. You just had a bad night--worrying about the game, your friend Ron. No wonder you played terribly!"

"Ron played better than me," he muttered. "And I didn't worry. I didn't worry at all. I knew that I'd nail this game. But I didn't."

"You're NOT a failure, Jon!" Laurie said sharply. "It wasn't your fault you lost. It was the bloody referee, those other stupid team-mates of yours. Not to mention that the other team was fantastic. You had nothing to do with it, because this was your best."

"It's my best, huh Rie? So I guess, I really don't deserve that scholarship after all. Come on Rie--stop trying to comfort me. We both know it was my fault we lost this. I couldn't play! I just couldn't play! Maybe I never could in the first place!"

Jonathan kicked a ball in anger, fear, and self-loathing. His face was despondent with the stain of failure, colored by hopelessness. "Forget it. I'm going home."

He stomped off; leaving Laurie in the slight drizzle that had begun to fall, her lips curved in a smile.

The next day, Jonathan was called to the principal's office. He was not getting the scholarship, as expected. But, far worse than that, he was apparently charged with selling steroids to one of the weakest players on the team--Ron. Ron was already discharged from the team, with a rather joyful expression on his face. Finally, months of teasing and torture from the bigger guys on the team would stop. He was free at last. Jonathan would not be expelled; he would only be discharged from the team, with no hope of returning to play in future games.

The moment he stepped out from the office, he saw the looks of disgust on his classmates, and even his friends. Classic looks of alienation, which he himself once threw, were now directed at him. He was now an outcast. The emotions which he had suppressed the night before quickly rose to the surface. He gritted his teeth hard, using all his might to keep the tears from spilling. Laurie. He had to find her.

"Laurie! Oh, Laurie!" Jonathan could scarcely contain his joy when he spotted her, sitting at the table in the cafeteria, talking and laughing with a guy whom he did not recognize. She looked up at his shout (in annoyance?), whispered something in the guy’s ear, and walked towards him.

"Jonathan, hi," she said, politely.

"Laurie?" he said, confusedly.

"Oh Johnny boy," she sighed, with a smile on her lips as she led him into the quiet courtyard.

"Laurie. Oh, Laurie, I'm screwed! I'm suspended from the team. Can't play ever again." His face scrunched up in pain. "Thought I was selling steroids. Bloody hell--all I did was keep them for him! I never gave them to Ron! But they don't believe me, none of them. Not a single one...oh God...what's happening, Rie?"

"Jon...I know you didn't do it." She smiled like a cherub.

"You believe me?" His eyes lit up with hope.

"Yes, Jon," she smiled. "That's because it was me. I drugged you--made you perform the worst ever in your most important game. Sold the steroids to Ron--he thinks it's you though. Lesson to learn: never leave your mobile phone around, or illegal stuff either. Shouldn't have left 'em steroids hanging around, Johnny boy."

"I-I don't understand. Why?!"

"Because I hate you," Laurie snarled, the anger she had pressed down rising up quickly to the surface. "You cheated on me, you bastard! Hi, that night was absolutely fantastic. When next, Johnny boy? How dare you? After all the promises you made, everything we did. We made love together, for crying out loud. It wasn't a bloody one-night-stand. It wasn't sex! It was love!"

She began to cry, hot tears that burned. She wiped them away roughly. Swallowing, she said, "Well, too bad for her, whoever she is. Her lover's now a social outcast. Told her the news yet? See if she sticks around. I doubt she will. Only a whore will touch you now."

She smiled savagely. Victoriously.

"But Laurie!" Jonathan was aghast. "That message wasn't for me. It was an unregistered number, wasn't it? It was some chick from school that got the wrong number--she messaged me again. I can show you the bloody message."

Jonathan slapped his forehead. "You didn't even bother to check, or ask me! Laurie, how the hell could you do that? How?!"

The smile was gone, replaced by a white clenching horror. "I--I..." Laurie whispered, growing faint. "I don't know." She felt dizzy; her vision grew black, spotted with stars. This couldn't be right. She couldn't have made a mistake. Then, she remembered another thing--something which she meant to tell Jonathan, but had forgotten in the excitement of the last several days. She had not been getting her period for three months.

Laurie gladly sank to darkness, grasping at the chance to forget her foolishness for even a while...

Written at 3:46 AM

2 comments

I need to sleep...

Think I haven't been getting enough sleep. Need to readjust my biological clock soon. And second on my to-do list is to break my heart strings which are entangled to him. They're turning into chains, heavy and clanky. I can't move, I long to break free. But free of what? Free of this mirage of love? A mirage that has more weight than a 150 pound man. How do you escape a ghost which you cannot see, yet able to feel its talons gripping your soul possessively? For goodness sake, someone tell me how I can exorcise these ghosts, pale imitations of love which refuse to leave, forever whispering, embracing tighter and tighter with arms that grow more and more solid. Till I can't distinguish mirage from reality...

Written at 3:27 AM

2 comments

Thursday, May 18, 2006

bloody french verbs!!!

Je suis très fatiguée...je déteste faire les verbes français!!! C'était très difficile! Aaarghh!!! Je veux un professeur français. Est-ce que vous savez personne? Sigh...je n'ai pas su qu'il va être tellement difficile.

Désolée...I mean, sorry. Doing too many annoying French verb exercises does this to you. Wasn't cursing in French, btw. Was just yelling how tiring and difficult learning French verbs is. Just drives me crazy, especially when they refuse to give you the right answers. Stupid people...how on earth are we supposed to learn???

Oh well, never mind. I shall press on--keep learning it even if it becomes the death of me.

Written at 4:04 AM

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teacher's day!

I received my first teacher's day card! :D My student is just so sweet.... Now I know the joys of teaching. Lol.

Went out for dinner last night. My mum smsed me this weird message as I was dining with him: 'Make sure Mr X returns you back the same condition in which you left home'. Go figure what that means. :S Come back in the same unopened virginal condition? Same sober state? Same emotional ie: somewhat pleased state? Mothers...

Written at 12:50 AM

6 comments

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Of fame, glory and bloody French verbs

My dreams of fame and glory are gone! Vanished like the mist of the morning. Gone gone gone!! Sigh...really wanted to present my paper at World Congress of Psychotherapy. Haha. Such idealistic dreams. :P But well, perhaps it isn't my time yet.

Finally got around to continuing my French studies, after a four-month hiatus. Finding it rather difficult now. Can't seem to really distinguish between le passé composé and imperfect tenses. And there're just so many stupid irregular verbs that don't follow the darn rules! The worst are those online exercises which make you feel really stupid by having statements like 'that was a silly answer!' appear when you click the wrong answer. Stupid people. Have they not heard of the Pygmalion Effect??? (I'm starting to use...misuse? this term a lot)

Now, I think I know how my student feels about those English irregular verbs. Haha. Maybe I should do what I taught her to do--lump a few verbs together in a ridiculous story form and draw pictures.

Written at 3:44 AM

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Monday, May 15, 2006

Da Vinci Code

Da Vinci Code movie is coming out 18 May! Tom Hanks is in--woo hoo! :D But before we get too excited, we shall examine the facts and fiction of Da Vinci Code. Sure, Brown never claimed that the theories in his book were true, only the "artwork, architecture, documents and secret rituals". Fair enough. But he even got those 'accurate' facts wrong! For example, he claimed that the Priory of Sion was a secret society founded by Godefroi de Bouillon in 1099 to protect the bloodline of Jesus and Mary. "The modern Priory of Sion has a momentous duty...they must nurture and protect the bloodline of Christ" (p. 345). In actual fact, the Priory of Sion was founded in 1956 (Leonardo Da Vinci, born in 1452, would have lived to be 504 years old if he were really to be a Grandmaster of this society!). And it was founded by Pierre Plantard & Andre Bonhomme. Plantard himself admitted that he forged documents to create a story of a bloodline descending from Jesus and Mary (Malaysian Campus Crusade for Christ, 2006).

Brown can't even get basic historical facts right. :S All the nonsense he spins in his book is purely to get $$! After all, no one can resist a good conspiracy theory, especially one involving the not exactly clean Catholic Church. If people will read about Paris Hilton's stupid exploits, they'll definitely want to read something bigger and dirtier. So, let's examine the 3 main lies of the DVC shall we?

Bible is the product of man (p. 231)
Christianity asserts that the Bible was inspired by God (2 Tim 3:16). So, which is true? Let's look at the brief history of the Bible to get some rough picture of how we got the (Protestant) Bible: 39 Old Testament and 27 New Testament books.


Athnasius (AD 367) is considered the father of the Protestant canon--listed 22 book OT and 27 book NT. Three subsequent councils (Rome, Hippo & Carthage) formalized that list (Wikipedia Encyclopedia, 2006). Did all the churches in early times use the same scriptures though? Answer's no, they didn't. Different collection of books were authoritative in different areas, depending where the apostles preached (Taylor, 1999). As time passed, more and more NT books from the apostles were added to the Scripture collection (Warfield, 1982; Gleghorn, 2006). So, there was no one meeting by a bunch of old greying church fathers deciding what the Bible was. Those grey fellas just kept arguing back and forth through the years about what books to include and what not to. In fact, there were 7 main books which caused a lot of dispute:
James, 2 Peter, 2 and 3 John, Jude, Hebrews, and Revelation (Wikipedia Encyclopedia, 2006). The main problem was authorship--till this day, no one knows who wrote Hebrews. But anyways, in the end, those books were accepted because they fulfilled most of the criteria for canonicity, mainly their consistency with the overall Christian doctrine. The early church used mainly 4 criteria for canonicity ie: which books to include in the canon (Wikipedia Encyclopedia, 2006)

1. Apostolic origin
1. attributed to and based on the preaching/teaching of the first-generation apostles (or their close companions). Not necessarily apostolic authorship, but apostolic authority, which is apostles imposing books on church as law. They don't necessarily have to write it (Warfield, 1982).
   
2. Universal acceptance
1. acknowledged by all major Christian communities in the ancient world (by the end of the 4th century).
3. Consistent message
1. containing a theological outlook similar or complementary to other accepted Christian writings.
4. Liturgical use
1. read publicly when early Christian communities gathered for the Lord's Supper (their weekly worship services).

Is the Bible authentic and reliable?
The main argument used against the Bible is that there're so many different versions of it and no original copies. These are reasons why the Bible is reliable:

1. Tons of manuscripts (copies)
   
1. There are 11, 000 OT manuscripts and 13, 000 NT manuscripts. Other accepted ancient literature don't have even half the number of manuscripts. The Jews who made the copies were extremely careful and had their own intricate copying system (allaboutthejourney.org, 2006)
2. Archaeological evidence (godandscience.org, 2005)
1. No archaeological discovery ever contradicted a Bible reference
3. Scientific evidence
1. Radiocarbon dating confirms Biblical records of destruction of Jericho and Egyptian plagues
4. Prophetic evidence
1. 333 Messianic prophecies fulfilled
2. Worldly prophecies (eg Rev 13: cashless money system)
5. Historicity of Jesus
1. Jesus mentioned by non-Christian historians (Jewish historians, Roman historians, atheist HG Wells)

Conclusion : The Bible is NOT a product of man, but inspired by God. Despite whatever denominational differences in regards to the interpretation of the Bible, one truth surpasses all differences: that Jesus Christ came down to earth, died for our sins, and rose again on the 3rd day.

The deity of Christ
Brown claims that "Jesus was viewed by his followers as a mortal prophet" (p. 233) and that his deity was established by a "relatively close voote" (p. 233). Brown also claims that in the Council of Nicaea (AD 325), Constasntine established the divinity of Christ for political reaons.

1. Divinity of Christ was already affirmed by early Christians (AD 50 onwards)
1. Martyr (2^nd Century church father) baptized people in triune God (Deem, 2004)
2. Pliny the Younger (Roman governor) persecuted Christians who worshiped Christ (111-113 AD)
3. Various early Christian manuscripts (50- 600 AD) talk about deity of Christ (Bible.ca, n.d.)
4. Early Church fathers (AD 110-370) reaffirm deity of Christ (LetUsReasonMinistries, 2005)
2. Council of Nicaea (AD 325) (Wikipedia Encyclopedia, 2006a; Cohen, 1995)
1. Nature of Jesus deity: same or of similar substance as God the Father.
2. Arian controversy: Arians said Christ was begotten, or created from God => not same or eternal, even if Christ is most perfect of creations.
3. Result of Council: Christ is of same substance and co-eternal with God.
4. 1^st ecumenical conference of bishops of Christian Church
5. Convoked by Constantine I as he wanted the Church to solve all the religious disorder
6. Attendees: about 300 bishops
7. Create statement of belief and canons, define the faith properly—unify the Church
8. Created Nicene Creed: Church statement of belief (Belief in God the Father and Jesus Christ the Son)
   
3. Constantine (Wikipedia Encyclopedia, 2006b)
1. Came up with Edict of Milan (AD 313)
1. Neutrality of Roman empire towards religious worship
2. Gave Christianity same status as paganism, NOT state religion
2. Emphasized freedom of religion
1. He kept the Roman shrines
   

4. Bible about the divinity of Christ

1. Mark 2:7-10—“⁷Who can forgive sins but God alone? ¹⁰The Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins.”
2. Mark 14:61-62—“Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed one. I am. And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven.”
3. John 14:6—“I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except though me.”

Conlusion: Jesus Christ is the Son of God.

Mary Magdalene

Brown claims that "(Jesus)" intended for the future of His Church ot be in the hands of Mary Magdalene" (p. 248) [based on Gnostic Gospel of Mary Magdalene] and that the "early Christian Church 'conned' the world by propagating lies that devalued the female" (p.124). Brown also claims that the Gnostic gospels describe a marriage relationship with Jesus (p. 246), and that as a Jewish man, Jesus would have been married (p. 245).

1. What does the Bible say about Mary?
1. 1 Cor 9:5—“Do we not have the right to take along a Christian wife, as do the rest of the apostles, and the brothers of the Lord, and Kephas?”
2. If Jesus had been married, Paul would have used him as an example.
3. Jesus showed no special concern for Mary Magdalene at the cross. Instead, he just talked about his mother (John 19: 2-27).
   
2. Gnostic Gospels
1. Contains strongest evidence for marriage in Gospel of Philip

i. “But Christ loved her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her often on her mouth. The rest of the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval. They said to him, 'Why do you love her more than all of us?' The Savior answered and said to them, 'Why do I not love you like her?' When a blind man and one who sees are both together in darkness, they are no different from one another. Then the light comes, then he who sees will see the light, and he who is blind will remain in darkness” (sections 63-63). (Roberts, 2004; Magdalene.org, 2005)

1. If Mary really was Jesus's wife, why would his disciples get offended when he kissed her?
2. Other sections in Gospel of Philip (sec 58-59) reveal that kissing could be a metaphor for revealing truth (Roberts, 2004)
   
3. So really, even the Gnostic Gospels don't say ANYTHING about a marriage, except that Jesus shared special knowledge with Mary.
   

b. And that is if we even take the Gnostic Gospels to be true. Gnostics basically teach that only certain people have secret knowledge about God while the rest are unaware (Robinson, 2006). Also, they say that God is both Mother and Father (Sunshineforwomen, 2006). Thus, their teaching isn't consistent with the basic Christian doctrine. They also have no apostolic authority. Most of the Gnostic Gospels were written between 200-300 AD (Roberts, 2004). The Biblical Gospels (Mark, Matthew, Luke, John) however were written between 50-100 AD. A biography written about Christ 200 years after his death is in all likelihood, pretty inaccurate. It's like the game Chinese whispers, where you whisper something to one person, and she repeats it to another person, and so on. At the end of it, you'll get quite a different picture. Jesus was a rather famous guy--tons of people would have written stuff about him, some true, some false. So something written two centuries after his death is probably based mostly on hearsay.

3. Jesus flouted a lot of customs

1. He talked to Gentiles and included women in his ministry. Besides, he also had a special calling. So, just because most Jews married doesn't mean that Jesus married too.
   

4. Women in the church

1. Early church leaders might have oppressed women--not allowing them to actively lead the church, being the culture in those days. But, NOT the Bible. "In Christ, there is no male or female" (Galatians 3:28), women are "fellow heir of the grace of life" (1 Peter 3:7), and "fellow workers for the Lord" (Rom 16:1 & 2).
   

Conclusion: Jesus Christ did not marry Mary Magdalene.

And now for our final conclusions:

1. Bible is authentic and reliable—God-inspired.
2. Early Christians before Constantine’s time already accepted that Jesus is Son of God.
3. Jesus Christ was a bachelor.

Cheerios! Now go and have fun and watch the movie! ;-)

Written at 12:43 AM

3 comments

Sunday, May 14, 2006

JD chicken wings and Freud

What a tiring but lovely day! Cooked dinner with Lynn for her family and Ee Lynn. Well, it WAS supposed to be for her family--but while we were still battering the chicken, her family for some reason, decided to eat out, even though we bought ingredients for 7. :S Go figure. Ah well...it was great anyway. Made our fabulous kailan with oyster sauce, Chinese crispy fish with mushroom sauce, and JD chicken wings! Fried chicken wings with a fabulous JD sauce--JD, tabasco sauce, and ketchup, mixed with a little butter. HOT with a hearty kick in it. ;-) Lovely. Of course, I was the only one who liked it. The rest found it too strong. Unadventurous mortals.

Went for paracounselor training today. Pretty basic human personality stuff--did the surface of Freud, Rogers and Maslow. The counselor who taught us said that these would be the three primary counseling theories we'd use. Maslow and Rogers I get...but Freud?? He's so outdated--hardly anyone uses Freud these days! Besides, psychoanalysis takes years to do, and even then, you aren't entirely sure that all your conflicts have been resolved. After all, who knows what other things lurk in that deep subconscious of yours? His theories aren't even falsifiable. How on earth do you prove or disprove the unconscious or how it works? You also need to be trained in psychoanalysis before you can even try to make the unconscious conscious, if you even know what that ghost of an unconscious is... And that's supposed to be one of our therapeutic goals. :S Heck, feminist therapy sounds more practical.

Sigh...I know I should be open. But really, I just can't agree with using psychoanalysis. Takes a great deal of expertise to do it in the first place. And it isn't practical either. Takes freaking long years to do...and hardly anyone can even remember what happened before age 6! All right--that's all for my vents about using silly ole Freud. Everyone--use CBT!!! It is irrational beliefs that cause emotional upsets, not sexual fixations with Daddy or Mummy, or some repressed desire to have sadomasochistic sex.

Sex isn't everything.

Written at 2:55 AM

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Friday, May 12, 2006

feminist therapy = belief system?

Been reading on feminist therapy. The more I read about it, the more uncomfortable I feel about actually practicing it. Feminist therapy sounds more like a belief system than a therapeutic school. Feminism, after all, really is an ideology, no more different than communism or capitalism. Where do you draw the line between practicing therapy and imposing your beliefs upon your client? Social activism, encouraged by some feminist therapists, is a no-no to me. That is serious imposition of your values upon the client--that they should be out there trying to change the system. Then again, feminist therapy points to the system as the pathology, not the client. So perhaps, it is a valid therapeutic tool. But really, it sounds too much akin to asking your client to go and evangelize to people. Then again, maybe that's valid in Christian counseling. So, asking your client to fight for women's rights could be acceptable in feminist therapy. Oh well, the whole therapeutic process really does depend on what you believe at the end of the day--if you believe that all the troubles of women are caused by patriarchy, then feminist therapy would be perfect for you!

I, on the other hand, aren't entirely sure of that. Not everything has got to do with gender. That would be emphasizing too much on the differences between men and women, and failing to appreciate them just as human beings, with identical needs and desires.

Also, therapist self-disclosure--usually encouraged in order to produce an egalitarian therapeutic relationship, isn't something that I'd want to do. There's a very fine line between disclosing for the client's sake, and disclosing for your own benefit. Boundary violations also become a lot more probable when the therapist self-discloses. Think it's MUCH safer and ethical not to disclose at all.

Sigh...and they'll be training me on feminist therapy. Well, maybe they can clear up my doubts. After all, they're the ones who've been counseling battered women for years.

Written at 11:52 AM

2 comments

Lost

For J. Enjoy. :-)

Lost

He drifts around lazily, unconcernedly. Looking up at the sky, he sees that it is not actually blue, like what the adults have always been telling him. It's really different shades of gray, shades of a maximum-security steel prison. He closes his eyes, as if sensing for rain. But he isn't, not now. The sun is too hot and will burn up his corneas like eggs if he does not take great care of them.

With his eyes closed, the memories flood back quicker, an unstoppable torrent. He remembers the hurt that rent and lacerated his heart, caused by a single mortal. He laughs quietly. How ironic that she should be the one--the only one who ever managed to chip a hole in his armor so that a sliver of light shone through. No, not light. It was a shred of darkness--thin, but black enough to frighten her away, sparking the entire tragedy. He shifts his thoughts to other things, less painful, easier to swallow.

A childhood memory passes: he was almost six, still cute enough to have his cheeks pinched by women young or old, widow or spinster, married or divorced. They treated him like nothing more than a warm-blooded cuddly ornament. And he obliged them, displaying nothing of his acute knowledge and sharp senses. One day, as the school bus neared his house, a bunch of boys thought it would be fun to push him off the bus while it was still moving. If he had not instinctively grasped the metal bars on the side, he would have fallen off and struck his head on the hard pavement. From that day on, he swore that he would protect himself at all costs. Hence, the karate classes.

"Hello, you seem a little lost." A pleasant voice sounds, waking him from his reverie. He opens his eyes and sees an old man on a raft, bobbing next to him. His white hair shines golden in the sun. In his hand is a staff with an unusually ornamented head, seemingly religious in style. Marc is sure of these things. Even the old man's posture is slightly imposing, like that of an earnest evangelist, though softened with friendliness.

"I'm not really lost," Marc replies, smiling. He decides to try a friendly but cool tack. "I'm just not sure where I want to go at this point."

"Ah yes...that's what they all say," the old man answers, benignly. "I can help you. After all, you don't want to be floating around all day, no?"

"Actually, I wouldn't mind," Marc answered brightly. "Better than landing somewhere and finding out that it's the wrong place."

"Yes, yes," the old man nods understandingly. "I can help you. I know right place. Guaranteed." He winks, heartfelt and sincere.

"What place is this?" Marc asks, though he knows the answer already. "And how do you know it's right?"

The old man taps the head of his staff and mutters something as he does so. A small book appears in his left hand, its color changing as different motes of light strike it. The old man holds it with caution, as if he is handling a brand new book in a bookstore, afraid to soil it in case he might be forced to buy it.

"This," the old man taps the book, smiling. "Is the answer."

"Answer to what?" Marc asks politely. He is beginning to get bored. He knows where this is heading, what the old man will say, and how he will respond. He also knows how it will end, and longs for the ending to arrive quickly.

"This book tell you where you need to go. What happens when you reach there--glorious things. Beautiful things. Peace. No more drifting around like got nowhere to go. No more feel uncertain of wrong things. Only truth left." The old man smiles at Marc, a smile of expectation.

The corner of Marc's mouth twitches. He would have to break that smile, unfortunately. "Only truth?" he echoes.

"Yes, yes," the old man replies, almost exultant. "Only truth."

"Well, then, why don't you tell me what the truth is?" Marc says.

A shadow of doubt passes the old man's face. "Tell you what?"

"The truth. What your book says."

The old man hesitates. "Truth...the book says," he begins, uncertainly. "Well, actually...don't read book much." A sheepish grin curves his mouth.

"But I know it's the truth!" he adds in tones of extreme certainty. "Trust me." He blasts a full smile of wisdom and sincerity upon Marc, inviting him to discover a place of refuge, of peace and tranquility. A stop to a tiring search. For a moment, Marc is tempted. Then, he remembers a promise he made to himself; to never tire of his search, even if it seemed to be eternal. Truth is a gem; you would not expect to find it so easily in a common market of stones.

"No, thank you," Marc replies, politely. The old man looks perplexed for a moment. Then, he lowers the staff into the water, and begins rowing away, never looking back at Marc.

Marc goes back to lie upon his wooden raft. He closes his eyes, feels the movement of the waves, carrying him with gentle arms. He recalls another memory; this one glides like silk through his mind. He was seventeen, barely an adult. Yet, he was already thinking like one, though he didn't act it, or so he thought. He realizes how arrogant he was when he was young, and smiles at the memory. How it must have infuriated other boys, who worked hard to gain the affections of girls, while girls naturally flocked to him, attracted by his charm and intelligence.

Yet, for all the seemingly close contact he had with them, he never fully exposed himself. To do that was foolish, as he had learned the hard way before. Too hard...the memories sweep past. Silk of hair, soft lips that whispered hope and beckoned release, the feel of warm flesh in the dark. The euphoria lasted for a week. He should have known it was too good to be true. It was an illusion; but unlike a dream, this one hurt. It was as if she had ripped out his heart, stomped on it with hob-nailed boots, and given it back to him crushed and bloody. He was very careful after that, keeping them at a distance with a smile and pleasant, non-committal replies. Occasionally though, he would reply a little warmer, making them feel as if they were finally getting somewhere. It was much easier to draw confessions out of them, secrets that were close to the heart. He felt powerful then, fully armed and ready to strike back should they ever dare to hurt him.

The sky grows black, occasionally streaked with white bolts of lightning. Marc is not worried, though feels slightly sick being tossed about by the waves. He wishes he would find the place quickly. Though he has no clue where he is, he decides to trust his gut instincts and head north. Picking up the stick, he strikes it through the waves, pushing hard.

But the waves prove too powerful for him. They whip the raft around playfully, exhausting his efforts at moving towards one direction. With a burst of strength, he pushes forth. The waves growl in return, splashing over him in anger. His hands slip, and the stick is gone.

"Fuck."

How on earth could he get to the place now? Already, the rain has started to fall; large cold drops pouring down, soaking him to the bone. The thunder roars with menace, while the lightning flashes threateningly. The waves hit him around like a beach ball, mocking him. For once in his life, he feels lost.

"Come, we've got to get you out of here."

Marc turns, and sees a girl, her long brown hair whipped by the winds. She is on a raft too, but strangely enough, it appears to be unaffected by the rough waves, as if it were on smooth glass. She smiles at him, extending her hand.

"You know where I want to go?" Marc asks.

"There's only one place we all want to go. A place of light. I know how to get there."

"I'm not certain if yours is the right way, or the right place even."

"There is only one way, and it is always right, no matter what they say."

"That's what they all say. How sure can you be?" Marc demands, feeling annoyed. He is soaked to the bone and shivers with the cold. Funnily enough, she seems to be perfectly dry, as if she is wrapped in a protective bubble shield.

She gives him a gentle smile. "When you decide to be certain, nothing else can change it. It's when we start to look elsewhere that the image shakes. Becomes nothing more than a mirage. Do you understand?"

"No," Marc replies bluntly. He begins to feel more than a little annoyed. Patronized is the word, as if he were a five-year-old child being taught about the evils of stealing cookies. "Everyone's so sure that what they believe in is right. They don't really check themselves, check the facts. Check to see if what they believe in is really true or not. They want to believe so much that they don't bother searching for anything that suggests otherwise."

The rain pelts down in heavy sleets, plastering his hair to his cheek. Marc brushes it off impatiently. His eyes flash with anger. The girl looks back at him; her large eyes filled with sadness, and something else (a longing?) that Marc can’t quite comprehend.

"When we see something often enough, we fail to notice it after some time. Instead, we chase the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But when you finally get there, there's nothing."

"There is nothing," she repeats. "Come with me, Marc, please." She extends her hand again, her eyes filled with a desperation that Marc had only seen once before. He remembers the same desperation reflected in a woman's eyes as she sat beside the hospital bed, holding the hand of her dying husband.

The waves rise in tantrum, pushing him further away from her. She is shouting something at him, but he can't hear her; the sound of her voice muffled by the cries of the storm. But he can still see her; oddly enough, she appears to be wet now, drenched by the cold stinging rain. Her shouts grow fainter and fainter; her figure becomes less and less visible as the waves throw them apart, while the thick rain forms a silver screen between them.

"Come out of the storm, Marc." He looks around. There is nothing but violent crashing waves and inky black sky, a canvas against the relentless pelting rain and sharp biting wind. He hears the words though he can't see her. Where is she? A sudden despondency grasps his heart, and he begins to feel cold inside, almost as cold as the bitter winds that scourge his skin.

"I'm through!" he yells, standing to his feet, shaking his fist at the sky. "I'm done! I don't want to do this anymore. I'm tired of searching, all right? Tired..."

Marc slumps to his knees. The storm shows no sign of abating. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and curls up on the hard raft, trying to get some warmth. Soon, he falls asleep.

When he tries to open his eyes, a bright light fills them, forcing him to shut. He squints at the bright sunlight and turns his eyes away. Sand grinds against his body. He gets up, and sees a vast ocean before him. He is no longer on the raft. Looking around, he sees the raft, broken and splintered on the shore.

"Marc."

He turns behind and sees the girl, a beautiful smile curved on her lips. She begins to walk towards him, her brown hair caressed gently by the breeze. Instinctively, Marc's feet move forward till he meets her up close, standing only a few inches apart. She brushes a tendril of wet hair from his cheek tenderly.

"You made it."

Written at 3:10 AM

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Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Be a Man!

My first short story.

Be a Man!

The night had crawled in furtively, without notice. Karen was only aware of it when she felt warm fingers gently caressing her thigh. Peering through the fashionable square lens perched on her nose; she raised an eyebrow and twitched her lip in disapproval. That meant no. She turned her attention back to the bright screen in front of her, her fingers tapping the keys speedily and soundlessly.

For once, just once, he would dearly love to take hold of the black machine that lay intimately in her lap, and throw it across the room. Then, he would ravish her, glasses knocked askew, hair in loose damp tendrils, the usually tight knot unraveled. He looked at her again, sitting upright against a pillow in a black silk robe, her entire attention upon meaningless symbols on a screen. He might as well be a block of wood, ignored and overlooked. Old and forgotten. An obsolete in this age of sterile technology.

Unable to do anything, he slept, disgruntled and dissatisfied.

When he was a young boy, he was a mother's dream. He would obey all school rules. Well, almost all. He never obeyed the rule about not bringing outside food into the canteen. To him, it was incomprehensible, like telling someone in the middle of a field to get off the grass without stepping on the grass. Besides, his mother fully encouraged him to break the rule, packing his lunches for him with a bright wicked grin on her face, as if relishing the prospect of rebellion. Then, he would carry his yellow lunchbox to school carefully, opening it with impatient fingers in the school canteen during recess. His food was greeted with enthusiasm not only by him, but by his friends as well, who usually tried to trade their limp tuna sandwiches with his golden-brown Cornish meat pies.

His lunches were the source of his popularity when he was young. As he got older, however, he realized that friends were not so easily impressed with meat pies and brownies anymore. They wanted more complex things, invisible things. A thing called status. Never the same; it was always changing like a weathervane in a wind. It puzzled him very much, and he grew to abhor it. But his abhorrence was not the cool, devil-may-care type, swathed in leather and an arrogant smile. It was in the opposite direction that he unfortunately fell in--the geeks. Everyone's favorite target. He was no less popular. The constant bullying left an indelible mark on him, tearing his self-confidence, leaving him frightened and angry, yet unable to lash out. The burning hostility simmered inside; small sparks exploding at innocent targets like his dog and younger brother. Most of it still remained, festering like an open sore at the taunting girls in miniskirts, and the loud boys with aggressive sneers and strong cruel arms.

But all that was gone now. He was married to a beautiful woman. Not just beautiful, he mentally corrected himself, but strong and successful too, as she always reminded him.

"Bye dear." Karen kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Have a good day at work."

"Of course," he smiled brightly as she tottered off on her professional yet trendy heels.

He finished his lukewarm coffee and left the cup in the sink. Looking at his watch, he realized that he'd have to leave fairly quickly if he wanted to be punctual. He cast one look at the cup in the sink, its dirty white china in stark contrasted against the gleaming sink. He glanced at his watch again--he was late. He'd have to go. Then, he remembered the narrowed gray eyes, slightly quivering upper lip. If there was one thing she hated more than anything else, it was mess. He started to move away, but his feet would not inch.

"Oh, what the heck." He switched on the tap, rinsed the cup quickly and left it on the side to dry. Hopefully, she wouldn't notice the slight brown tinges inside the cup. Grabbing his coat on the chair, he ran out and sped away in his car.

"Late again!" The file of papers slammed against the smooth mahogany desk. Expensive stuff. Meant to impress. However, looking around at the ostentatiously furnished office, he was less than impressed. Everything was an excess of oil and silk, smoothness that irritated, the stink of money lingering in the corners. Mr. Kragner's face was bright red, and the fat lips were moving rapidly, occasional flecks of spit landing on the smooth rich wood of the desk.

"How many bloody times has this happened already? You idiot! Late reports, bad sales. What the hell are you trying to do? Get your ass fired?"

He opened his mouth, ready to spill it all and reveal the truth of his incompetent teammate, Alan. Incompetent, but persuasive--a lethal combination. "Come on, buddy. I don't know what else to do! You know what'll happen if ole Kraggie hears of this. He'll kick me out of here faster than I can say 'prick!' And I need this job so bad. He won't dare fire you. You've been in here too long."

"I'll buy you a beer," he added. "Go for a few rounds with the boys." He quirked his mouth, just a little. The meaning was clear as sky. No one was more popular than Alan--the smooth talker, life of the party. If it wasn't for him, he probably wouldn't have fit in so well with the rest of them. At least here, he was tolerated. Maybe even liked, if he dared hope. And Alan never failed to remind him of that.

He closed his mouth. He could not speak. And so the barrage of insults and curses continued, shredding the skin of the heart, drawing blood.

Stand up for yourself, you idiot, a voice sneered.

I can't.

Wuss. No wonder she walks all over you. No wonder they ALL laugh at you behind your back, kick your ass when you're down. Loser. You pathetic wimp!

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

You can't shut me up. You can shut HIM up though, but you don't want to. No, not that. You can't. Wuss.

SHUT UP!!!

"What's that, Burns?"

"W-what?" he shook his head and looked disjointedly at his boss.

"Get the hell out of here," Kragner said, disgustedly. "One more slip, and you're fired."

He left almost as soon as the clock struck five, unable to stomach anymore of the sympathetic (secretly gleeful?) looks of his colleagues. One more pat from Alan, and he would punch him square on the jaw. He swore he would. Alan patted him again, but of course, he did nothing. Instead, he just left when five came.

"Alan, Bruce still here?" Lucy the secretary asked. "Phone call from his wife."

"No, babe. He's gone back. Probably to lick his wounds," Alan snickered.

On the way back home, he brooded. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get rid of the words that bounced around his head.

Wuss. Loser. Chicken. Wimp.

Again and again. Round and round they bounced.

By the time he reached home, it was late. He had stopped at a pub earlier on, deciding to test the truth of 'drowning one's sorrows'. It worked. In fact, he didn't feel so afraid anymore. If anyone messed with him, why, he'd just give him a clean sock on the jaw. Time to stand up and fight. Yes siree. Now, the world would listen to Bruce. He was the king. The boss.

In this spirit, he opened the door, his hand a trifle unsteady. Kicking off his shoes, he noticed an unfamiliar pair of trendy expensive shoes. She'd probably gone off on another one of her high-powered shopping trips, to match her high-powered lifestyle, to suit her high need for power. Well, tonight was different. Bruce giggled to himself. Tonight, he would show her who's the boss.

He walked up the stairs, his footsteps muffled by the thick cloth of his socks. Underneath his bedroom door, he could see dim light spilling through the narrow gap. She was probably on her laptop, making love to it, instead of to her rightful husband. Bitch. How he stood with her all these years, he didn’t know. Well, it was time to make her perform her wifely duties.

Bruce opened the door quietly and walked in. "Hello honey."

"Hi Bruce!" the woman replied cheerily, looking up from her laptop. "Listen, I know this is a bit sudden and all. Just hope you don't mind. Borrowed some stuff from her wardrobe like she said."

The words made no coherent sense to Bruce. He had no idea what she was talking about. Weren't shoes kept in closets, not wardrobes? Whatever it was, she shouldn't be working, closing million-dollar deals and clinching yet another award. She had enough to fill a bloody museum. His anger rose, burning in him like whiskey going down the throat. Some wife she was, smiling at him as if nothing was wrong, as if everything was the way it should be. The successful wife and her puppy-dog husband. Give the begging dog a few pats, yes that's it, and he'll run away happy, tail wagging in the air. He clenched his fists, his eyes bleary and red with rage.

With a growl, he jumped onto the bed, pinning her arms down. She gave a surprised cry. Not this time. This time, he would be satisfied. He would stand up like a man. Tall, strong, aggressive. He started to rip her clothes off; her desperate fearful cries sweet music to his ears. She tried to push him off her, but he was much stronger, even in his drunken state. He held her arms down, enjoying the power he had over her, her resistance helplessly decreasing, heightening his pleasure. Then, she bit him suddenly on the arm. He shouted in pain, and punched her eye back in rage. She was quiet after that. Subdued. Bruce smiled at his conquest.

Early next morning, Bruce awoke to an empty spot beside him. He rubbed his temples; his head felt as if it was bursting. He tried to remember what happened last night. Got drunk, and yes, he had sex with his wife. Finally, after so many months! It was time she did what she was meant to do. With a smile on his face, he showered and dressed himself. When he got down, he saw her reading the newspaper, the papers hiding her face.

"Good morning, Karen!" he greeted sunnily.

"Isn't it an absolutely lovely day?"

He opened the fridge, and took out a milk carton, drinking straight from it, all the while keeping an eye on the woman. He knew how much she hated that habit of his, never failing to pierce him with her gimlet gaze. Where were those stone eyes of hers now? Hidden behind ink and old paper, covered with shame. Swaggering towards the dining table, he pulled up a chair and sat directly opposite her.

"Come on Karen, don't I get a morning kiss?" he grinned.

No answer.

Frustration began to claw at him. He ripped the papers down, expecting to see cold gray eyes, insolent and rebellious.

However, he did not see insolence and rebellion. He didn't even see gray eyes. They were blue--large and fearful like lambs to the slaughter.

"Jenny?"he whispered, his fork clattering to the floor.

Jenny, one of Karen's closest friends, nodded. The fear vanished and was replaced by despise and loathing.

"You idiotic bastard."

Written at 5:44 AM

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house-husbands rule!

Darn stupid letter in the post today by some misguided Christian probably--' wives should submit to their husband'. Not that I don't agree with that. But the way he phrased it was as if no woman should have authority over men. My response in return, which hopefully, the Star will publish, enlightening the masses.

Household managers have decision-making authority

I am writing in response to the article ‘House-husbands can lead to topsy-turvy homes’ written by CTH (The Star, May 8), who mentions that sons of house-husbands would be “feminine male and gay”. How will doing household chores change one’s sexual orientation? Research shows that sexual orientation is determined by a complex mix of biological and environmental factors. Furthermore, using gender to prevent one from pursuing a particular occupation violates Article 8(2) of our Constitution, which prohibits gender discrimination. Everyone should have equal opportunity to pursue their careers, be it a woman who wants to be a CEO, or a man who wants to be a house-husband.

Besides that, how can a son of a house-husband be “feminine”? Managing a household is no easy task, as most housewives will attest. When a son models his house-husband father, he is modeling responsibility, management and multi-tasking skills, among other things. These so-called “feminine” qualities are highly valued in the corporate world.

CTH also mentions that the person who earns the most will make the final decisions in the home. The man cannot be a house-husband as his wife will then have decision-making authority over him, which is inconceivable to CTH. This is illogical because income has nothing to do with making household decisions. How can someone who works outside for at least 8 hours everyday make effective decisions regarding the home? Someone who spends high quality and quantity time with his/ her children is better-equipped to make good household decisions.

Nonetheless, his/her partner’s say is equally important as marriage is a partnership. Good decisions are based on the unique expertise and cooperation of both parties. Like all corporations however, someone needs to make the final decision as not all issues can be agreed upon. Thus, the final decision-making authority ought to lie with the household manager, be it the housewife or the house-husband.

Conclusively, there is no contradiction between being a house-husband and having the final decision-making authority in the home.

Written at 3:22 AM

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Tudung ruling

One of my angry rants about some stupid government move (made by the PM, no less!) which the Star never published.

Tudung: Symbol of Faith

I am writing in response to the article ‘Recruits see no problems in following directive’ (Sunday Star, March 26), in which three non-Muslim recruits see the tudung has having “no bearing on their religion or culture”. Although they view it as such, many others have raised objections against the government ruling, which requires that policewomen wear the tudung during official parades.

These objections need to be taken seriously as such a directive makes a mockery of the Islamic faith by reducing the tudung to a secular uniform. Women choose to don the tudung to express their Islamic faith. The tudung is not just a piece of cloth, anymore than the Quran is just a book. By forcing both Muslims and non-Muslims to wear it, the significance of the tudung as a symbol of Islamic faith is destroyed.

Furthermore, forcing non-Muslims to don the tudung goes against their religious freedom, as they are made to wear a symbol of a faith that is different from theirs. What has happened to the religious freedom that is the core foundation of this multiracial country?

The Federal Constitution maintains that Malaysia is a secular state. Yet, directives such as these only undermine the Constitution. The police are the protectors of a secular state. Thus, it is illogical for a religious symbol to be made part of their uniform, even if it is only for official functions.

Leaders of this country need to uphold the Federal Constitution so as to maintain peace, harmony, and progression. Otherwise, it is very easy for extremism to penetrate, leading to the ultimate destruction of this nation.

Written at 3:17 AM

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busy busy busy

Holidays now, and keeping busy, busy, busy. Preparing to present my abnormal psych research 'Work experiences of Malaysians with mental illness' in the World Congress of Psychotherapy, hosted by Malaysia for the first time this August. Can you imagine??? Presenting to professional psychotherapists from all over the world... *dreams* Like a dream come true, not that I've even dreamed of this before. But still...this is just the cat's pyjamas. Of course, it costs RM 650 to present. But, I know that if God wills me to do this, He'll provide. :-) So, fingers crossed and prayers muttered, I'll get to present my research!

And my paracounseling training in AWAM has started too. We'll be learning about feminist therapy, which should be interesting. Never studied it much--time to crank out some research! Personally, I like CBT. Battered women need something else though. Sigh...what can you tell a woman who can't get out of something? Seemingly utter helplessness. Plus, I'm not even married, or even had a boyfriend before. So what do I know? Not like the other old married female trainees with three kids and a dog. :S

Well, where experience fails, research and theory surely count for something...

Written at 2:46 AM

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