The Table (and People Around It)

I sipped slowly on that warm coffee, with a cigarrete between my fingers, listening to stories after stories being told, one another, some appeared – mediocre, some fascinating, and some embarassingly funny, occasionally overshadowed be the loud sound of passing vehichles. I threw the cigarette and lit a new one. This time, I would pretend to look in a distant direction, as if I had seen someone I know, briefly, I would  turn back again to the table and be engrossed with the next story told.

I was always the quiet one in the crowd with a warm, sometimes over friendly smiles. Most of the time, I would listen with approving nods and making eye contacts, while non-chalantly keying in passwords on my iPhone to check on old messages, ones that I’ve seen a thousand times that night, not because I was bored, that I was just showing you that while I have messages to check on, I was still listening, giving approving nods while y’ll talk. I sat, with my right leg crossed, occasionaly lighting up yet another cigarette – while listening to stories about the two-storey terrace house you guys used to live in six months ago, or that crazy, wild night at the club, and some random names would come up in the middle of the conversation, someone of equal importance.  I always appear to be over agreeable, constantly smiling and giving affirmative response to what’s being said, cracking a few laughs and  ocassionaly I rolled my eyes, as if to think deep and hard about what you guys had just said. I guess, in some ways, you all were waiting for that one over-thought joke, but still silence, interested, while ocassionally appeared afloat in my own world.

To an outsider, I’m the blank canvas, one that without many words and thoughts, or that arrogant twat who seemend annoyingly to be more interested in that two thousand dollar phone than engage your in senses tingling table talk. Except the fact that I’ve met you (all) for a lot less than the time you guys have known each other for, that I don’t live under the same roof with you guys six months ago, and that I was part of the crazy night redezvous crew. Back then, in this linear time frame, I would be having drinks with my friends, getting drunk, or I would end up in the office, working ‘till the next morning. I guess it’s not that much of a difference than what you guys had, just different place, different people.

It would be a lot different, if everyone present at the time were newly known stranges, when there is no mutually shared memories, no iside jokes, or no the friends of our friends, people would really take the time to ask about each other in a more appropriate manner. I would laugh, if you cracked an inside jokes, and I would feel embarassed if you turned to ask me ‘Do you know what it mean?’

I guess the reason I haven’t barged in excitedly and yelled ‘Oh my god, I’ve totally done that too,’ was because it felt odd to me, and it’s self-serving. In a crowd reminist about the mutual experience of good old times, is random, personal and could be easily misconstrued as an attempt to vilify and intrude into other’s common ground. No. We share the same table, but that doesn’t mean that we have the same ideas of life. That’s the beautiful part of it that people never seemed to understand.

Or perhaps, the language barrier was the reason that sets me apart from the rest on the table. It’s alright. It’s just uncomfortable, as if I’m speaking an alien language, when I’m basically telling you the same thing. I don’t feel comfortable speaking it, when you don’t feel comfortable hearing it. We call that a tie, only that I’m the only one there to cover my ass when things get awkward.

Some of you asked questions, not because you are genuinely interested, or needed answers. I could tell it was just a friednly gesture. I do that too. ‘Do you work tomorrow?’, an ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer could’ve end the conversation right there, and I’m not the one to elaborate, that yes I’m working but I think tonight is going to be really awesome, so, like I might feel too tired to work tomorrow. Actually I tried it once when someone had asked me ‘what’d you think, N?,’ I was in the middle of expressing my thoughts, and was quickly cut short by someone who thinks they have a more interesting thought. And there goes my answers, really.

And I didn’t tell most of you that I spent a period of time away from here in that strange unfamiliar place that seemed a little too far away. I would go to school, work my ass off for the grades and when I’m not studying, I spent my time strolling down the street, catching busses, eating kebabs by the beach and people watch. On cold, rainy winter days, I would spent the entire day in that huge multi-storey book store with a cup of flat white, soaking up heat, and reading story books for free. It wasn’t my idea of fun, no, not like sneaking out of dorms, and getting wasted, but that’s what I did back then. Don’t get me wrong, I probably should’ve tell guys that I’ve snort a few lines, got passed out in my Uni’s toilet, and my friend slipped and fell because he stepped on my puke. But I’m not sure if that would  make me a more relatable person. ‘That’s crazy, man,’ and that would be the end of it.

Perhaps I was afraid that if I over mentioned the name of this particular place,  I’d appear like an arrogant brat who brags about life in a different city, or perhaps that the fact that my fasination with columns, that intricate joints, and beautiful staircase would be met with indifference, and maybe even yawning aggression. I never once thought that enjoying concrete textures would be any better than you enjoying the textures of hanging fabrics, or perhaps ‘laxing by the hot bubly pool, but rather the differences make an interesting table talk, if only it would be recieved and returned with enthusiasm.

The next time if I just sat, listened, and smiled, perhaps you guys should give it a second thought about judging someone who’s quiet, or maybe shut up for a little while and think a little bit harder, that memories are forms that has taken shape in your brain, as vivid as a picture. It requires no effort to talk about memories. And for someone who do not share the same memories could only rely on vast imaginations, so forgive me if it took me longer to imagine, what it’s like to be part of you. I don’t mind making few filler conversations in between stories, like tonight’s seemingly odd weather, or if I happened to read the newspaper today, I would talk about that shoking news of that poor old lady who got hit by a truck. When in dire need, when really pushed, I might tell you guys something non-threatening that has less chance of being misinterepreted for something else, such as my cravings for pandan chicken, of my addiction for coffee.

Perfectly harmless.

Triage

If I had a night job, I would be able to take you out during the day.

Or maybe, it won't make a difference.

The Hang Man, and the Fear of Falling

The ride up was bumpy but smooth with occasional blinding lights, swaying, stopping on side track. I love the view, distant light in the city - swallowed by the dark, starless night. Your were already crying silently, masticating the pain, digesting every single reason you came up (out) with. You were quiet with occasional murmurs, which I couldn't make out. Low hindered voice, cracking through cold  air. I guess colder nights are hardest, blowing random access memories; poking through strands of thoughts like new seeds efflorescence into life; one after another, questions that demand not answers, but closure.

Your bitter smile hinted exactly opposite what your words meant. I know. It's not so much of a memory that is waiting to be tucked into the basement of your head. I wish it was that easy for you. But, rather it felt like a new wound that was left pried open, and everything else that you had left was taken out of it. The charred remains left to burn, vanished in thick air. I empathize, and yet I feel silly (for you). You are lost deep down, but I can't tell you that, just because I am as lost as you (you lost me). 

| Three perfectly aligned dots, and the straight line across. 

Everything seemed different, the subtle tone between black and white, a lesser hue of grey. It blurs the line, as real as it could be fake, as wrong as it cold be right; fabricated truth to lie, or lying to tell the truth, nothing seemed relevant, for you it's just a changeable variable. And we walk, run, pause, chase then pause, nowhere to go, been to everywhere, familiar, yet you felt different. It's not what you yearn for, perhaps not as mesmerizing, or perhaps it's still raw. I tried to figure out what I don't understand, everything is changing, right before me. I grab the moving pieces, like three (or a million) dots, a line across, and they cease to exist. 

I didn't know what to expect, but I was expecting something. Something beyond the sea, further than the edge of earth. Unaccustomed land, not that kind of ground you plant your footprints, certainly not the sky that could be reached (felt) with raised hands, eyes closed, the idea of zeitgeist of blue and yellow, and a red convertible. I lost grasp of what is real; even doubted your seemingly sincere presence. It's a pleasant discontent, a seemingly perfect solution to an uncomfortable problem; a coping stance that requires fearless leap of faith and generous forgiveness.

| The deaf and the uncomfortable silence.

The straw was green, and the drink was ice-cold-sweet. I finished it as if it was bitter, hot. Thirteen miles away, walkable even; one day later, I could not wait. I fear tomorrow, when you would finally worked out your direction, and decided that this is not what you want. And yet, it's these rush that keeps me going, pushing me further, to be loud, to be silent, to be out of reach, and to be close to you.

Cold air blazing above, soft pillows underneath; it was perfect. At least I think it was perfect. I thought I'd ask you, as if a simple explanation could justify a lifetime of heartache. I thought I'd tell you, as if forever was part of the plan. But I realize it was merely a blanket whisper, heard only in dreams, deep into dark, stale night.  

Help me carry the fire, cut across the land, help me with the lights. Keep me alight for now, this road won't go on forever.

When the sun came, it's a brand new pain.

Soon

III: Greater Good

Where the luminance bounce in the inner linings, something lightens, whether the understanding of old acquaintances, be it the new found connections, that shadows that brought the edges deeper than it already is, completely tucked behind, diminishes with the yielding light, into the darkness. Never to be found. In the stark silence, a quiet click was so loud, then it came, out of no where, the cacophony of of voices, talking, occasionally laughing in a language I could not understand. Strange distinctions, strange familiarities, unknown connections.

Since October skies ceased, days had been inconsistent, dreams of random nightmares, haunting in sequences. Sleep is scarce, remaining leftovers are satisfaction spent seeking that path that lapse between both worlds, sometimes drifting, unknowingly into the state of unconsciousness, always with a grin. But I refrained, and resisted the transition, often too much. A visceral reaction, to be in control, to subdue that intensity into stillness. Expected, but uninviting. Impossible almost.

Then, If I'm alive, still resisting the form of transformation between various states of consciousness, can you perhaps see now, even when everything is basked in darkness, for night is best to see with not your eyes, but senses, when all else fails; truth emerged with touch and thoughts, the greatest things of all. For during the night, I remember things which I would've otherwise left behind, tucked away by the ethereal noise.

[Being] With you ticked me off, in a way i could hardly understand, Like fire daggers striking in snow covered forest. The truth with you in an ambiguous thing, like a game without rules, word roams without directions, strayed off the path, into wilderness. To understand your mind, I would only dwell in it, to know your thoughts, I'd almost reverse my role, to play beneath a foreign mask, out in the merciless sun. Somehow, I managed, saw what you saw, just fragments, but it was more than enough to piece everything together. The power of memories, one you always seemed to discard (overlook). It was terrifying.

But it seems I find every possible reason, every possible excuse to question you intentions, to question everything that seemed too good. Incomprehensible, at least for me, always hoping to find a clean shirt tucked underneath the filthy laundry. But it did paid off, almost every single time, it appears when you are least expecting it, hits it right home. Perhaps, all this while, you wanted me to tell you everything is okay, or acted as if it were okay. I would, and I have told you that I'm all good, despite everything on the inside suggests otherwise. But I couldn't tell you everything because there are to many things to begin with sometimes I'm just drowned it it.

More than often your naivety, to the point of innocent, ignorance is a blessing I am envious of, because everyone who sees, with their eyes that is, could not possibly be happy about the way things had turned up. And why would anyone be? With you, it's different. You happiness is a result of inept definition of the world according to you, where it does not involve seeing or feeling; ignorance. Where no grief dwells, no regrets felt, not sorry for everything. Why would you?

At this point, you might be thinking, this was all about me, perhaps seeking some sort of remorse, or it was about you, where it all started. But it really isn't.

Neither both.

There is no hostility, there is no hatred, no regrets, with much love.

The anomalies of intentions, no random efforts.

It's all part of the greater good.

I,II

II: The First Thing We Saw, Far, Far Away | The Length of Truth

The clouds gaped and folded, closed across the moon. The night passes by, as the world seemed to disappear all together into the stale, soporific air. The rain finally stopped, as if to make way for the cold lightnings, no sounds, just constant flashes of harsh, blinding lights against the canvas of pure darkness. And you awoke, out of darkness that was not sleep, not dream, but something beyond the comforting sight, magnificent, pointing steadily towards the promise. In that stroke of light, the cradle of a future emerged, vaguely on the hindsight. Hope stretched far across the sea, drawing the outline of the past, dark silhouettes are now gone, the sea, visible glimmering waves, vanishes into a thin line, touching the sky above.

I remember the truth, like the warm and humid September nights, sublime agony and a million dotted lines the sweat once trickled. The vine grew after the rain, snakes up the barren land, within the gaps that split open like fresh wound. Rooted freshly at the tip of the ground, drawing moisture, dissipates heat, a container where the inevitable occurs. How many nights spent, watching the trees shiver in the midnight breeze? The perfect stillness, an after image of the future, captured in the thin glow.

The fool within us slowly stepping into murky waters, to strangle truth, to bend and twist, as if to drown it with force, every limbs, every strengths, every muscles conjured. The truth is undeniable, it is a great power that is able, and must exist on it's own without binding to any sort of beliefs and definitions., despite individual perceptions. The absolute is the same for everyone, regardless place, time or culture. With you, however, the truth is an ominous thing, your voice that promises that same thing, darted from that point of origin, torn and beaten up, long lost, confounded.

The perfect stillness outside is now gone, the whistling wind seeps through the window pane, the fluttering curtain fabric, the notion is clear. Through the window glass. A dozen trees strummed by strong merciless wind, sand and tiny pebbles flew, carried by angry ghosts. Loose pores sinks deeper, skeletons revealed. Destruction, deadly - just when normal life felt almost possible, when the world held some kind of meaning, when order finally fell into place - even some strange loveliness, it haunts, consuming it's own debris, to fortify and manifest it own existence, finally exploding brighter than ever.

I admire the length you go, just to obscure, or even manipulate the truth when you know it better, it finds it's way out eventually. Regardless the great lies you made up, or the layers of beliefs you stacked up upon, it takes the form of time, shaping it existence. The infusion of boundless chaos, injected upon controlled order, the world according to you.

That glimpse - not the imposing dark figures, not the towers raising steadily ahead, but that blistering light into the future. The wonderful feeling to be caught up in hope and deadly expectations. One step forward, to dive below, everything falls into perspective.

The first thing we saw, far, far away, nothing mere than unfulfilled fantasies. That little dream, as wide as night, deeply rooted in our vulnerability, filling all inadequacies with made up realities.

Hence we landed,

feet on flames.

Burnt into ashes,

in the light of day.

I

I : Well-Worn Shoe | The Foundations of Truth

It was rather accommodating, though it tends to get dirtier in one of these nights than any other, and every time, I’d scorn as if I never understood. Often in this light I’d be awake starring out in the dark. And it is darker in one of these nights than any other and every time, I’d wail just a little, just enough to shed a little of its weight. It is often vague, and when I’m lucky, it reflects vivid light and reveals an image. I’d stare as if I’ve seen it before. The familiarity is unmistakable, although I cannot begin to fathom the reflections of what it is; supposedly real. I’m only guessing.

Towers raising still and solid above the earthly rock, thunder blares and streaks followed by rains pouring in bucketfuls. Many nights since then have become a ritual of guessing, a million riveting thoughts penetrating its wall, eventually feeling unsatisfied, confounded. It is extremely easy to be confined by everything that is beyond us, taunted by a shadow of cosmic proportions. A wronged journey could send towers crumbling from above the earthly rock, imminently shattering every foundations of truth, revealing the barren ground it once stood.

There, your figure emerged behind the pillars, standing at the edge of the top of your tower, so high it vanishes into the clouds, swallowed by the moonless sky, and yet your shadow, dark against dark, outlined only by intermittent strikes of lighting. But you, your hands clad in silver lining that glows and sparkles, rested firmly on the pillars, stood still and proud looking down, smirk on your face, unshaken by the blares and flames of neighboring towers, crashing down, burnt to ashes and red hot glowing rocks.

I wish I were you, I wish I were exactly like you, so I could penetrate your thick mind, so I could read everything that’s hidden so well in the basement of your thoughts. I wish we traded shoes, just so you could feel the ground underneath your feet, stumble and fall because of the untied lace, hurt and bleed, just so I could understand how hard it must have been to walk tall and proud, all alone, dismissing the most innocent gaze, even, even hidden underneath that shield.

Your foundations are of immaculate artistry, however strong yet brittle, never fails, even under the enormous weight it held upon, constructed upon layers of confidence, perpetuates a truth that lies, to fill a void with gaps, defiance of sanctity, everything imagined.

My well worn shoes, they brought me close, so close to you – just like the first thing we saw for the very first time, far, far away.

Just a glimpse, it was strangely reassuring.

It was only meant to be.

I think my blog is a rather accurate indication of just how busy my life gets. Amidst my unbelievably hectic working schedule, I’m here blogging because when I say I’m back, I really mean I’m back. But to be fair, I just nailed the Shell’s renovation project and “Bintulu Waterfront shoplots” project – YAWN, so I think it’s safe for me to murmur a very soft sigh of relieve that it’s finally over. There, I just said the ill-fated word. It’s not like I haven’t learnt the fact that it’s never over, I might as well just chill while I can. Though, I know I’m about to piss people off. There’s still so much work ahead of me. By the way, I’m really trying to hard sell myself these days, because I’m thinking about taking a leap of faith. Ahem. I don’t anything know yet, but I just might. I think it’s probably about time.

* * * * * *

I think the shop-lots are just plain dumb and people are getting clever with the names these days – “Open malls”, “Outdoor Mall” , “Shopping Village”. How fucking lame is that. The thing is no matter how interesting people try to name these shop-lots, it’s not going to make the concept any more exciting than it already is. The problem I have with these shop-lots is that the planning itself is a waste of space. It creates too much useless in-between spaces that will inevitably turn into smelly back alleys in the long run and finally when the whole place eventually runs down it creates another slum block in the city. If anything, it just doesn’t provide an otherwise appealing shopping environment at all. “Shopping Village” apparently. Are you fucking kidding me?

I was on my routine surfing today and I came across a rather interesting piece of article - 17 Jobs That Are Guaranteed to Get You Laid . Apparently - Architects are on the top of the list. Now I really don’t know what to make of it, but I do love the idea that architects are sexy beings. Take that, other jobs chronic masturbators!

* * * * * *

I was given two fish tanks couple of weeks ago, and it’s still lying around the car porch. I’m yet to clean it – and it’s so dirty it’s shameful. Then I will have to fill it with water and start all over the new-tank-cycle process before I can put any fish in. Longer story short – it’s a long process, and I have no time for it. - It sucks.

I was thinking of just leaving the tank outside, so I don’t have to move anything inside the house just to accommodate the new tank. Too much work. Mom said if I were to place the tank on that particular spot I picked, I’d have to paint the wall first; otherwise, I’d have to move the tank again if we decided to paint it just right before Chinese New Year, which would suck even more because people get cranky during spring cleaning. And I’m not about to move the fucking tank anywhere once it’s up and running because moving a 4 feet tank takes some real muscles and I ain’t got that. So really, the only viable option I can think of is really just leave the tank outside at the car porch and move my fish there. The good thing about this is that I won’t have to worry about the fish splashing water all over the place when she throws a tantrum every now and then. But again, since I don’t live in a posh neighborhood, people here have the tendency to steal things – pets included so it’s not entirely that safe to have the tank outside. I can’t decide.

By the way, I’ve committed a sin so big - I could never look myself in the mirror again, I’m ashamed of myself. Yesterday after dinner, mom told me there are cakes in the fridge and asked if I wanted any. So I asked what kind of cake. And she went on and dropped the shameful bomb at me – that her girlfriends at work bought her those delicious cakes because it was her birthday the day before.

and I was like SHIT !!!

I guess there’s no point I bitch and moan about how sorry I am right now. I’ll make it up to her, and when I say I will, damn right I will.

In the mean time – I’m off to get laid.

The architect’s style.

Damn right I am.