Compartmentationalisation

It's near noon and the house is my own. The clothes are hung out in the backyard, almost signalling that everything is as its usual- laundry flapping in the mid-day sun outside a home is like a lamp to a lighthouse. Or something close to that.

It is quiet, and while I relish silences, this is one I can live without. The vegetables in the kitchen have been washed, the fish thawed and the rice boiled. Now it's off to the hypermarket to buy garlic and a hoodie to keep a beautiful person warm and protected. A normal kitchen on a normal day must never run out of garlic.

Every night when I leave for home I leave something inside me behind. As soon as I step into the porch whatever happened in the day dissipates. Maybe they don't belong in the house. Or maybe I have learnt to put plastic brackets in my head, making compartments and ensuring the things running in my head never meet each other. Like how kosher food is. No dairy and beef allowed to be in a joyous stew where matter run in, out and around each other.

The fan is whirring at high speed, the street outside my house is empty and the renovators next door are calling up the dead with their construction work. And this little world seems so far away from the other place that is slowly making itself the other of this only home I know.

his name means strength

He's the most beautiful person I know. He rolls a special sentence of no-sense words only for me, and only on special days (and only he knows when). He is always going on about ice-cream and banana pies from McDonald's, doing a little steering-wheel motion to tell us that we should go to the neighbourhood drive-through. He almost always obliges a hug and a kiss which are things that I love to receive. While he is often fidgeting, when you say it's prayer time, he clasps his hands together and keeps really, really still and repeats your prayer word for word. While he does not understand the directive 'smile', he has the silliest grin that comes with squinty eyes. And he adores writing 'I like to eat...' on his magnetic drawing board. And eating, naturally.

He is the most beautiful person I know and I hope he knows it too.

Auto Mode On

A rough and tumble performance art piece between a bedroom songwriter, spoken word mistress and quirky visual artist.

I've been watching too much television these past few days. It's not that there's anything good on, it's just easier to blank out and let the screen take over your thoughts.

Last night I dreamt I was driving along the roads of Kuala Lumpur, and suddenly four or five skyscrapers just fell and collapsed into a massive dark gray cloud. The buildings had turned into rubble, and it was declared Black Tuesday.

Real Life Papery

Today was spent papering the studio for tomorrow's art riot. Well, I didn't paper as much as I would like to, having to pore over maps and draw out the city tour plan for when the UK group arrives here in about two weeks' time.

We had a good time canvassing the heart of the city on Thursday. Koon, my fellow travelling companion, knows the corners of the city like the ends of her elbows. We staked out streets and saw the city council sweeping them clean of illegals (human and non). A truck full of captured foreign workers rolled past us as we emerged from an alleyway.

As we crossed the dirty backalley to the dilapidated wet market on Petaling Street, a few men carrying shoe racks laden with fake footwear on their backs ran into our path. We jumped to the side to avoid the hurling Nikes and falling Vans.

We unshod our feet to watch devotees in prayer at the temple. We poked into shops (things like these are better done in numbers) and mostly walked. We ended the day eating a nice meal of claypot chicken rice by the roadside.

And this claypot chicken rice dinner is somewhat the basis for our performance art tomorrow.

I wish I had time to get a haircut.

Spanishness

More untravelling! Anne returned from Spain bearing gifts to add on to my travel-photos collection, plus a sketch of her route and a happily-orange pencil from the Greenwich line.

On a bright, orange-pencil-happy note, I will finally be doing some travelling soon, starting with Kelantan in a few weeks. But what really stoked me is that we'll be returning via the Jungle Railway route - one of the things I told myself I'd do last year but never got to it. So yes. And all shall do the happy hop.

Will be canvassing the city tomorrow.

Leave

Book peddling can be barrels of fun. One more day tomorrow.

More invasions of the chapbook-type (if you picked up a copy today, thank you-hope the drawings keep you happy :)), perhaps an impromptu reading/jig/sequential hopping and some spray-painting.



2/3.

One more paper to go next week. And today, just before I flew out of the exam hall, I barely realised that today will be the last day I'll be seeing my coursemates, till perhaps, a very long time, if ever. We said goodbye, and shook hands. Brief promises to keep in touch were made. They are done with the dastardly deed of education. I still have one more bleeping semester to go. And that was how three years of threading (or more aptly, thrashing) in the same pool came to an end.

Now who to lunch with when school reopens?