Youngest kid of six with an inferiority and black sheep complex, but determined that God saves not just his soul to heaven but the remainder of his manic-depressive life, so others won't say he became a Christian and remained a jerk.
i won't be transparent before i'm opaque. and you'll get to know me starting from the small things: who my favourite bands are. what kind of movies i like. who are my heroes.
I’m convinced that when confronted with sincere, real love, the Jesus factor will become obvious. But let’s not plant the cross before we carry it. I’m not trying to con you.
Some dreams are meant to be achieved. I know that. But maybe other dreams are meant to drive us, privately. Never known to anyone but ourselves.
It is a sadness that, when choosing between crying and sighing, will choose sighing. I'd almost say that melancholy is being sad about sadness itself.
On memory and nostalgia
It saddens me when life moves forward and people decide that certain things are worth forgetting.
I've learnt that the word irregardless is filed as a non-standard word in the English language. That's a lexicographer's way of saying it's not a real word.
Crowds are fickle things. So when we stand in the thousands and cry against the present government, do we know who we're actually crying for?
People always want the best for themselves. But I want to sometimes take second or third or fourth best, just so that the loser down the road doesn't always have to come in last. It must feel like shit to always come in last.
On growing old
Leasehold property make me feel sad. It doesn't matter how old the family photos are that you put on your wall. It's your family but it's not really your wall.
I ask you, if God loves everyone, and if God is also incapable of loving evil, how can there be such a thing as an evil man?
On a daily basis
One line quips, like this.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Have you ever had your gender identity challenged?
If yours came in the form of some cathartic childhood experience or a monumental adolescent moment, maybe you have a case. Mine came this past weekend, under pouring rain, in the form of a dainty blue parasol.
The Malaysian rain is cruel, this much I can say. It goes across fourteen states, seeks out the neighbourhood you’re in, waits for a day when you are not in possession of your standard rain armour, chooses precisely the portion of night when you are least prepared for it, and then rains itself helter skelter.
I was at vernon’s, together with gordon and carol, and it began thunderstorming just before we left. If like me you live in greater kl and are aware of recent precipitation trends, you’d know that rain falls circa 5pm when everyone’s leaving the office for home. it can go on as late as 8 but nothing much further than that. In all unlikelihoods, though, I was found out at vernon’s without the security of my standard black umbrella at what must have been midnight to1am.
Flashback: you might remember my last encounter with a Pink Umbrella – I had a torrid time trying to exchange a pink umbrella with ktm commuters – I’ve since obtained an umbrella black as midnight on a moonless night. Unfortunately, though, I did not have it with me that night.
Vernon produced two umbrellas as he sent us off. Gordon threw his open – a huge multi-coloured one good enough for two. Ok, so he n carol came in the same car, so fair game. What I got, however, was a totally different thing altogether. My umbrella had tassels! Or whatever you call them when they’re not on carpets – you know, it had frilly things on the rims. Ribbony skirting, if you will. Literally, my umbrella had a girly edge. It was my very own surrey with a fringe on top.
“I’m not carrying this!”, I exclaimed at gordon n carol. “carol, you carry this and I’ll hide under the big one with gordon”. (I knew exactly which was the girlier thing to do.) No was the reply. It wasn’t practical. Our cars were parked on different sides of the road and though it’s just five paces away, it’s five paces under crazy windy rainstorm (the kind where the rain goes sideways).
Resigned, I shrugged off whatever was left that resembled machismic pride and stepped into the rain with the frilly parasol in my hand. She-ra here I come. I swear, apart from the fact that it was black as night and hailing oceans, I knew for an absolute certainty that I looked like this:
It didn’t even really help that in my haste to get in the car, I closed the umbrella while it was on top of me while awkwardly half-standing by my opened car door. All the rain on the dainty shelterpiece fell on me, like one more kick after a round of laughter. I barely closed it – the latch didn’t quite hold, so I left it half-opened on the passenger seat floor and fled for home.
Right now, the parasol sits in the backseat of my car, dried up, folded tight, tassels hiding beneath a mountain of incidental back seat objects. I don’t think I’ll be driving many colleagues to lunch these few days. If I get evasive about lunch plans, you’ll know what I’m actually on about.
Vernon: thanks mate, for your parasol, or your mum’s, or whoever’s. I’ll say that whatever insult I’ve made of it should be offset by my appreciation of its function and the extension of its limited fame. Now why don’t we arrange a secret meeting for the recovering of said shelterpiece?
Labels: gender, happenings
9:32 am ]