I came home from work today and saw this boy on a bicycle staring intently at three male cats surrounding a female cat across my street. They were taking turns. She was tired and could barely stand on her own feet. I’ve been listening to Ferns’ ‘Dear Derelict’ on a loop for the longest time. The song almost brought me to tears. My brother was trying to play The O.C. theme song on the melodion tonight. His fingers are sticky and he is munching on some garlic bread sticks while pulling up his pants. He is wearing the same bermudas since he was 11. The elastic is worn but he insists that he is losing weight. For the first time, I wish he’s right and I’m wrong. He likes to put his head near the speakers.

To those who came for the film screening on Tuesday night, thank you for making it happen with us. To those who missed, here’s a second chance.

My dad used to tell me that God will cut off my tongue if I tell a lie. So I used to check the length of my tongue in front of the bathroom mirror. I also imagined what it would be like to live without a tongue... not being able to swallow and sing and stick it out for fun.

I grow up knowing it to be a lie and God isn't the kind to cut off my dad's tongue in punishment. But I've told many lies. I lied about my height mostly. And I also lied about living an ok life. I was told that I'm meant to live a great life but I think I'm starting to believe all the lies I used to tell (except the ones about my height).

Jim doing his thing:

He’s got hands like mine, his heart is like his father’s. Somewhere in the playground he found himself. A little colour blind and a little adventurous. In the eyes of another boy he is the most beautiful song. They say he is a peacock, but I’ve got a swan for a brother. Neck full of feathers and mouth full of laughter. Father loves him like no other.

[my sister reading Craig Thompson's Blankets and my new bird car-freshener in fresh woodland scent]

I'm trying to write a 'straight' review instead of drawing my reviews, but it's hard, I tell you. It's a book of short stories by an expat who writes about Malaysian characters (with one story set in Singapore). My mind is taken on a pensive ride... wondering a whole lot about what makes these stories Malaysian . I mean, it’s about the people of Malaysia and so does that make the stories Malaysian, even if it’s written by an expat? I’ve met Malaysians who consider their citizenship a cancer or disease to themselves (and their unborn children) and desire more than anything else to get a PR in another country. So I don’t think anyone is Malaysian because it says so on his/her birth cert... it's probably more than that.

Yet in hindsight, I find myself guilty whenever I’m reminded of how I used to think when I was in secondary school. I’ve always loved music, movies and art and when I flip through a magazine or newspaper and find ‘bad design’ or when I hear a local band with indecipherable lyrics, I’ll poke my sister and say, “See so Malaysian la the design/singing... look at the font/listen to his accent... ughh.” Being quite self-deprecating, I believed that everything awful was probably Malaysian—which is not an uncommon thought among teenagers who are less exposed and misguided by the media. But the question still beckons, what is ‘Malaysian’? Is there a definitive voice/sound/visual/style that could be pinpointed as ‘Malaysian’? And are we too caught up in searching for a national identity to relate to that we forget to look within ourselves? Among the mishmash of cultures and languages, we try to find parallels of similarities without ever being personal—we easily leave it to seasonal Petronas ads to do that for us.

And so, perhaps what is ‘Malaysian’ lies not in the way we sing or play or write or speak because those are auxiliaries to who we are, but in the heart and passion of an individual. This is a multifaceted topic and I feel I’m only scratching at the surface and I’m sure many have covered this before, but this is definitely therapy for me before I work on my review, although I doubt it will be any easier. At least now I got this somewhat out of the way.

On another note, I was watching Kylie Kwong one night and found out that she doesn't know the proper way to eat a xiao long bao or Shanghai dumpling (the kind with soup wrapped in the dumpling). Anyway, she made a real mess, but that's ok I guess since people love her and she's got her own cooking show. I found this interesting diagram from a chopstick wrapper in Singapore's Din Tai Fung restaurant:

[click to learn!]

I didn't get much sleep last night despite being physically tired. I'd skip breakfast and have my lunch earlier and eat my dinner a lot later. I'm fascinated by the patterns we make on the bed sheets when we greet the dawn. Sheets that were neatly tucked in the night before are now loose and creased. Every line crossing each other and folding into another mark the landscape like a huge map without destinations and cities. This is a flagless state. Unconquered and untamed, the leftovers from the dreams we had. We take the safe and hide the wild.

Singapore was hot, humid and crowded. Being a few degrees closer to the equator makes a huge difference, I suppose. I also took my first ever first-class bus—I was served drinks, a meal (fish and chips) and a choice of tea, coffee or hot chocolate to wash it all down. In every seat you’d find a small yellow pillow for your napping comfort and if you’re cold, they’d even bring you a blanket. It was so comfortable, you wouldn’t even mind their constant bombardment of Celine Dion through the speakers. I can never afford a first-class plane ticket so this will suffice for now and I’m not complaining.

I’m used to taking naps in front of the TV but none of my napping experience prepared me for three nights on a deeply butt-embossed faux leather sofa. It was anything but luxurious, but at least I had a place to rest my head. All in all, Singapore was a much needed break for me. For four days, I had time to take my mind off work and every ounce of responsibility surrounding it.

The Man+God exhibition closing on Friday night was better than I expected it to be. I’m not so much a dance fan, but Lee Swee Keong was so conscious of his entire body, he made it seem so effortless... every muscle move is laced with grace. I used to think that contemporary dance was too stuck up and avant-garde to be understood, but that night I was converted. Maybe it was the live music performed by Ronnie Khoo (and 2/3 Ciplak) and gang of breathy musicians that made it work for me. Maybe it was in the knobs and shrieks.

I was also tempted to steal some of the interesting post-it messages to God. I don’t regret not stealing, but I pinch myself for not bringing a camera that night. Anyway, here are minor glimpses into my HDB experience. Pat, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t find any intellectual Singaporean guys for you (the closest I got was an old man who got his harmonica amped) but I did get you some interesting gifts. Oh, and I got myself an iPod.