Lennie develops on the night of the lunar eclipse

The blank Polaroid lay flat on the table. "Shake it! Shake it!" I said excitedly.

"No! That's the wrong way," said Rach. "You'll mix all the colours up." Tickled by the cleverness of the sentence in her head, Rach grinned and said, "Let's watch Lennie develop."

( |o }===:::

At times, the imposing nature of age—that always increasing, never decreasing number—gets the better of me. Almost. It is as if I were a subject strapped onto a sterile metal table in a lab, society and all her expectations giving me a curt, disdainful glance before proceeding with the mandatory exam.

Married? No.
Attached? No.
Car? Second-hand; purchased this year.
House? Parents'.
Income? Err... it's complicated.
Career success? Blank.
Goals? Blank.
Spiritual health?
Relationships?

And so they prod before the morphine kicks in and I am dreaming again that I am singing and playing in front of an audience, their monotonous queries fading into the background.

( |o }===:::

The office celebrated the August babies today, in what must have been a stroke of numerical genius in my favour. There were four candles side-by-side on the cake, and I had trouble blowing mine out without killing someone else's lifeline. You'd think that perhaps, one would get better at blowing out candles as they grow older, but no, that's simply not true. Your puff of candle-blowing power decreases from a developing bad posture, your accuracy suffers from neckache and your reluctance to answer to the call of a higher integer means that you need to try at least three times before you 'succeed', thus inadvertently prolonging the moment of symbolic aging in the spotlight.

( |o }===:::

I once bought a book at a warehouse sale that was about a white explorer who had been caught by the natives in some far-off land. As I don't remember the details, we shall imagine that they were bloodthirsty cannibals who hissed, snarled and sucked their ulcers dry at the chance to taste this exotic white meat. Did it taste like chicken? Or did it taste like the stillborns, only perhaps less tender (and much hairier)? While they danced around the fire and lowered him into the gigantic charcoaled pot, he suddenly remembered a piece of news he'd read a few weeks before embarking on this suicide mission. It had said that on this exact date, there would be a total solar eclipse happening in the region he was in. Battling fear and a semi-conscious urge to crap his pants, he cried out to the translator (for how else would the locals know what he was saying?) and the people: "WAIT!"

The croak came out dry, bouncing off the skin of the pounding drums and an earth that roared under the soles of hungry warriors. Again:

"WAAIIIIIIIIIITTT!"

The celebratory march stopped. Cold eyes peered at him, spears lifted. Warily, the white explorer gazed for a hint of hope in the sky—and there it was. A sliver. Pacman nibbling into the sun. Pointing to it, he put on his best imitation of God and said, "I will kill the sun."

Needless to say, the white explorer lived to tell the story.

( |o }===:::

If you didn't already know, a total lunar eclipse happened today. Rach called it a 'happy birthday present to you from God' as we watched it live over the Discovery Channel website while engaging in collective oohs and aaahs. Sure, it was cool, very cool in fact, but a more meaningful 'present' were some simple acts of care showed by thoughtful friends. Overall, it was a very nice birthday, and a possible reminder to a weary cynic of 'churchese' that God cares. So thanks to you guys who rock so well.

"Lennie develops, 2007"

Polaroid: RM3.50. Company: Priceless. Line: So corny

Gone

Today, I understood a bit of what a monkey, squirrel, bird, panda, tiger, fern, crawler experiences when it loses its hideout to men in chainsaws and tractors. You feel bare. You feel like you could run for a thousand miles with your little heart churning out blood and fear, yet still end up in the jaws of a well-camouflaged croc or at the end of a shotgun. You dart for cover, but to your disgust, it's a measly hibiscus plant. To quote 99% of horror movies: You can run, but you can't hide.

Then there's the excruciating heat. The ground burns beneath your feet, and whatever overhead shelter there was from the scorching sun has blown away; collapsed; ceased to exist. If you're unlucky and wear a thick fur coat in this hot and humid climate, you begin sweating like a pig. If you're an actual pig with a thin epidermis, sunburn and skin cancer might just kill you off before a pack of hungry coyotes. You become a helpless victim to the elements.

This afternoon, I lost some of the "protection" I've known my whole life when I arrived home to a facade that looked different. It was our mango tree. It was missing. Suddenly, the whole house and garden seemed naked. Anyone on the street could look right in. In fact, it felt mighty weird, as the mango tree had been with us from as far as I can remember (which is a very long time ago), and had served us well, bearing luscious fruit and generously sharing its shade.

But today, its stem held itself up proudly for a last time; its branches grandly bowed and swayed for a nondescript finale. Only my dad was there to see it go. As the men started hacking into its 30-degree inclined trunk; as they fell blow after blow into termite-infested branches, the tree's two decades of love and labour became mere memories. The same tree I had tried climbing as a kid; the same tree I had curled up with a book in (and failed, for it wasn't destined to multitask as furniture); the same tree my parents and relatives spent hours gazing up its branches for signs of a yellowing fruit; the same tree my mum fell from and oozed blood from her head; the same tree a pair of yellow birds in the neighbourhood frequently sang lovesongs on; the same tree the garden squirrels played hide and seek in; the same tree the bats and birds loved to lepak in (while relaxing their anus muscles over my car)—this same tree was now gone. All that remained, when I returned home, was a story half a foot tall; sawdust and debris all around; roots still in the ground.

And the Sunday sun blazed down as usual. Only this time, there was no one to shelter me.

Neighbours Pt II (Wildlife edition)

A fly sticking around before the rain

A cat imitating a punk headbanger after the rain (click to zoom)

Rabbit vs. Grandma

Rabbits are territorial, and so are grandmothers. If you lived in my house, you'd soon realise that the toilet downstairs is akin to a battlefield where a silent but tense power struggle is waged out every day between rabbit and grandma. The former loves to dash in for a quick poo if no one's looking; the latter tries to clampdown on such loose behaviour by constructing an elaborate rabbit-proof barricade before she heads off to bed (which is when Lump roams the lands). So far, it's been effective. For someone who's 97 years of age, I think her contraption is brilliant.

Lump surveys the mountainous terrain ahead

A closer look reveals the extent of creativity at work here

Neighbours

One rainy Saturday a few weeks ago, I decided to document my neighbours. I must admit, I've never spoken to any of them. My family used to trade New Year cookies for Raya ones with the neighbour on the right, but that tradition dissipated into a mere childhood memory when the 'datuk' from next door passed away.

The neighbours on the right

An old Chinese lady used to live on our left, but a few years ago, she opted out, and sold the place to the management of a printing factory nearby. The management then proceeded to conveniently dump what must have been a hundred and two male Nepalese workers in that house. The feisty, loud-mouthed neighbour two doors down kicked up a big fuss, and recently, the number went down to ninety-nine. I don't have a major problem with them... except for well, perhaps one. There's this young Nepalese chap who thinks it's very amusing trying to peep at me whenever I get down from the car, close the gate, etc. Once I was trying to wash the car, and a bunch of them—him included—just returned from the factory. He grinned, sat down at the porch and proceeded to gaze in my direction as if I were some kind of Saturday matinee Tamil movie. I felt like throwing my dirt-soaked sponge at him, but for the kinky connotations such an action could imply.

The neighbours on the left

My room faces the back, and the dudes at the back are total slobs. I don't waste my time observing their daily routines, but take a look—doesn't it just look like a junkyard? The water drainage pipe is hanging from the roof, and each time there's a thunderstorm, some part of the house creaks and falls away.

Room with a view: the neighbours at the back

And as a bonus, check out this back neighbour's neighbour (pictured below). Is it too much to ask that the people in my neighbourhood be more civilised?

The back neighbour's neighbour

Janice is back! But where are the housemates?

"lol", 2001

Janice, a good friend who used to hang with me in Canberra, is back in Singapore after spending some time in the States dancing and making coffee and going for Bible classes. Wheeeee! If you didn't know, Janice is a professionally trained psychologist who prefers working in a cafe and trying out new recipes. She's a good person to talk to, and one of the handful who can stand shopping with me. So she totally rocks. See you soon, Janice!

Since I'm reminiscing my uni days, here is an ex-housemate of mine, Nat, caught reading during the summer hols. She used to blast Britney over her hi-fi and torture the rest of the housemates with it. Hers was an amazing display of consistency, except for the times when she blasted the Backstreet Boys. Then when Jess, my other housemate, tried using Hootie and the Blowfish to out-blast Britney, Nat would retaliate by knocking up the volume even more. Things could get pretty ugly, especially if you had to study with 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' on repeat. Besides that, Nat also dressed a lot in pink. Shocking pink. Tight tops in shocking pink. But what's most shocking is that she was the oldest amongst us at—what, 26 then? Yep.

"Natalie in Summer", 2001

And here's Jess, my musical buddy, singing in the N1 laundry where we used to jam till the grog or our throats ran dry, or until Nat or the weird neighbour from upstairs appeared, yelling at us to shut-up-do-you-know-what-freaking-time-it-is? How I miss those good ol' days.

"Nights at N1", 2001 (My favourite shot of Jess)

3a.m. in a living room on Foch Road

I'm on the last leg of my Singapore trip. The guys are already asleep--William felt sick after walking in the drizzle with me and Cheok didn't have a weekend. He's been working non-stop on a pitch, and tomorrow it's yet another day at work, except that he has a shoot tomorrow, which sounds slightly more relaxed. I would say I'm so glad to be out of advertising, but I just checked my new office email and there are some pretty out-of-this-world deadlines there. They are rather impossible IMHO, taking into account I'm just one person, and I am technically on leave/holiday till Monday. But anyway. Might be forced to do it tomorrow before taking the bus home.

William has just walked past me looking quite green. He's now in the toilet, but I haven't heard major puking yet. Okay, he seems alright. Maybe he's just tired. I did, after all, wake him up at 8.30 this morning to lead the way to the MRT station so that I could meet Felix at Buena Vista and go to church. Church was... rather standard.

There's been a cool breeze blowing since I got back. We're on the 12th floor, with a rather good view of what used to be a red light district haunted by transvestites. There are some dodgey pubs around. Coincidentally, I read an article earlier that said that transsexuals are recognised in Singapore, except that they need to undergo a full sex-change operation. The gender on their birth certs don't get changed too. Some male-to-female transsexuals turn to prostitution because they're out of money and can't find anyone who'd be willing to employ them.

But the streets below us are now empty and quiet--it's friggin Monday tomorrow after all. Somewhere, some construction is going on as I can hear a machine drilling and smell the black oil carried by the night air. The occasional car passes by every minute or so. At this moment, life is slow and I don't want my holiday to end.

The air is brilliant and blowing, and this moment belongs to me, here.

Singapore Pt. II

Singapore is a fine city. In both senses of the word. It's my second visit to Singapore in a year, which makes that a personal record. One day I imagine I might work here, since I know more than five people and therefore shouldn't feel completely lonely, and also because it's a fine city. If you earned the same amount as you did in that country up its border (where I currently reside), all you'd need to do is multiply that by 2.3 and wahlau, you'd be rich! Your parents would be happier with the extra pocket money and so would you. Yes, I might work here one day. (I'd just have to deal with not being able to understand Mandarin-speaking cabbies and waitresses.)

What I have been doing since getting here on Friday night.
Eating fine food (had Jap and one of those real-meat-with-juices-flowing burgers today), tossing between getting a Macbook or a normal laptop or the office's Dell one, hanging out with my ex-colleagues Cheok and William who have been really angelic, walking in and out of shops, spending a bomb on stationery, shopping, getting fat, learning to surf the web on an iBook and discovering the joys of two-finger page scrolling, oversleeping (woke up at 1.35pm today; how absolutely piggish), and attending the TOMMY EMMANUEL concert at Esplanade.

I'd been wanting to see Tommy in action for some time now, but when I was in Australia for a month last year, he was shuttling in between some weird-named Scandinavian country and another planet. Then this year, while reading Mia Palencia's blog, she happened to mention that she'd been to a Tommy E gig last year. Lo and behold, a whim like a dim sum came ker-plonk into my brain, and so I googled "Tommy Emmanuel" and "tour", and excitedly found out that he was going to be playing in a few months in Singapore!

So who's this Tommy guy actually? Well, he's an oldish chap from Melbourne, Australia with two daughters and a few more kids via World Vision, who also happens to be among one of two(?) Certified Guitar Players in the world. He's most known as a fine fingerstyle player, which is a playing style that combines a moving bassline, rhythm and melody/lead section played at the same time by the same guitar player. He also does rather crazy stuff on the guitar. I mean, he doesn't pick strings with his teeth or salivate all over the strings, but what he does is beat it up real bad till it sounds pretty good. Like today, he used a drum brush to beat the guitar body below the saddle to create a purely rhythm jamming session. The pickup on the first guitar used today is also VERY sensitive, and each time he thumped over the soundhole, a heavy 'boom' akin to a kicked bass drum was produced.

But what THE highlight of the night was for me, by far, a song called 'Initiation', which he wrote after spending time with the Aboriginals in Alice Springs as a lad. I'm not sure of the time span between the inspiration and actualisation of the song, perhaps 30 years as he joked, but what he had wanted to do was to capture the sounds of the Aborigines and produce that on a guitar. Today, he did just that, immaculately, splendidly, magically. Using heavy delay effects and certain other effects (I'm guessing a Phase Shifter though I've never used that effect myself), he created a populated oasis in the middle of an arid bushland, where the calls of the original inhabitants of Australia melded with their droning beats, clucks, atmospherics and waaah-waaaaah didgeridoo sounds. It was the most amazing thing I've seen produced on a guitar, ever. (The Esplanade has wonderful acoustics too, which did wonders to the listening experience.)

With that, I'll end my adventures for today. Tomorrow, if I wake up on time, I'll visit Felix's church with him. Then on to more shopping! :D

Aged Dawgs

Reading the news can make you laugh. Really:

TOKYO - Japan will get its first nursing home for dogs with round-the-clock monitoring by doctors and a team of puppies to help aging pooches feel younger, a pet products company said Wednesday.

Owners pay 98,000 yen (US$800) a month to keep their dogs at the Soladi Care Home for pets, which opens Friday, according to a joint release by Soladi Co. and the Endo Veterinary clinic in Tochigi, eastern Japan.

Veterinarians at the home will offer round-the-clock monitoring, and residents will be fed specially fortified food, the release said.

The home, which can accept 20 dogs at one time, will also employ puppies to play with the aging dogs to help them keep fit and feel younger, the release said.

With $800 US DOLLARS, EACH MONTH, multiplied by 20 'residents', I think I could run a mini zoo. Heck, I think I could upkeep the whole of Zoo Negara (just the animals, not the workers).

The disproportionate distribution of wealth, and the careless way it is often spent, depresses me. I know poorer people would similarly balk at basic wage earners like me dishing out RM4-5K on a camera, which is what I plan to do soon (crosses fingers). The parting of the hard-earned cash will be painful and I'll probably unwillingly subject myself to bouts of post-purchase dissonance. All these money issues. If only things here were more reasonably priced, relative to the standard of living. (For e.g., the camera system I want would only be USD$1K if I lived in the States, or a few hundred if I lived in Europe. I'd still have money left over from a month's salary, rather than slogging for a few months just to get a cam.)

Does the current system not encourage people with lowly incomes to steal? :(

Stuff you don't want to hear at night

After waiting weeks for my Spidey 2 download to finish, I sit down in a semi-comfortable chair, turn off the lights and double-click the file only to find that...

IT'S IN FRENCH!!!!!

:(

~

There are two big yellow tractors and two big dust-coloured trucks filled with dirt outside the gate. For the past few nights, they have been digging a big long hole in the road about one foot deep, covering it back again so that I can drive out to work in the mornings, then returning late at night to dig another big long hole at exactly the same spot. Despite staring at the mess below, I fail to understand why. There are no pipes, no wires, no anything to make sense of the confounded hullabaloo that is happening at 3am. I pity my parents as their room faces the din. To add to the annoyance, tonight, the workers have decided to dig to Indian music on the radio.

BANG! Another crazily loud bang that sounded like a collision between a bike and a car. In reality, it's just more of the careless shoveling. I bet they feel honoured they have the power to keep people from having a decent night's rest.

A glance out the window again, and finally, I see the pipes. They look like gigantic red caterpillars with a never-ending wobbly midsection. They'd better not be of some dodgy material, supplied by some corrupt government contact's brother-in-law and designed to disintegrate in two weeks.

Gah. Loud noises can drive you mad.

~

When I horridly broke my Kyser the other day, I recalled that I'd lent a friend my old Dunlop trigger capo. So I texted her and asked if she could return it. She came along on Wednesday night, and presented to me a SHINY NEW SHUBB CAPO. And 2 boxes of Ferrero Rocher! She apologised and said she had lost the capo at a friend's wedding; would this new one do? Would it?! Of course it would! I still want the black Kyser (in memory of my old one) but this is great. Thanks, Debbie!! :D

Champs, we're back in business.

In the ruins

Nine years I have loved you.
Nine years you have loved me.
Nine years on, you lie in the ruins.

Today, for clamping you the 'right' way for a song I wrote (which is upside down of how I usually clamp you), you paid a hefty price. You died in service. Faithfully, just like always.

This picture is in memory of how a spanking new you looked like outta the package, and the spot where you received your death blow. Now I will wait to get one of your black brothers, but remember, I will miss you.

Kyser, you're da best!

xxx.

(P/S: I am sad. Kyser is the best!)

(P/P/S: This is a capo, not an idiosyncratic instrument of torture.)

Teabags & Tears

I am sitting with a damp, used teabag lodged between the plastic lens of my spectacles and a shut left eye. The words 'Cane's Green Tea' dangle freely from the upturned bag, rustling in the fan breeze against my static hair. I look like a pirate, a joke, or both. I have just finished reading Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife, reciprocating its pleasure with my tears. Tomorrow is a work day and this is my feeble attempt to escape social scrutiny.

Babies: A lazy Sunday post

My niece is learning to walk and talk. I'll teach her some really cool stuff soon, like how to say, "My name is Apu Nahasapeemapetilon and I work at the Kwik-E-mart" real quick and with an Indian accent, or "My Ah Yee is supercalifragilisticexpialidocious".

... ... ...

(Okay the real reason why I'm posting is cos I like these pics. And I am waiting for Gmail to upload some files. That's all. Lazy brainless post, yes.)

Jo on Angie's carpet

Erin on Angie's sofa

Friday the 13th Pt. 2

Oooh! It's the second time I'm blogging about Friday the 13th. This time, the ominous day has just started.

(SFX: Cue pipe organs)

My mum has just complained that my bedroom's table fan was BLACK. Black as soot, she says. The water was BLACK. BLACK BLACK BLACK! Okay, I get the point. She adds that she cleaned parts of my window too. And the water was... BLACK! She says I've been breathing in dust. Oh well. That makes me a vacuum cleaner I guess.

On a brighter note, I'm happy that April has been an extremely prolific blogging month for me. Noting this to Grace in Canada, she says that there is a positive correlation between blogging and being extremely busy. I challenged her on this, asking her to prove her point. She couldn't. Haha. So much for sounding like an academic. (Grace graduates in a few weeks and will work for a company that sells bottled water; proceeds of which are donated towards digging wells in Africa.)

I will be off to Singapore this Saturday till Monday, in search of a nice, hopefully not too expensive electric guitar gig bag and another sling/messenger-style bag. Was looking at the Crumpler website and am considering being crazy and buying one of their SG148+ bags. Yes, it IS crazy, however way you look at it. But.... it's nice... :( And it's 'in'... :(

Boss doesn't like the logo I designed for the company's rebranding exercise. So I have been procrastinating since this evening, because I believe that not doing anything about it will result in better ideas. The subconscious, after all, is king. I close my eyes. Slowly... a hip hippo in dark pink materialises... the radiation from the monitor is warming up my brain waves... surely there is a God... mmm.... donuts.

I have also just submitted my application for sponsorship to the 10th Rainforest World Music Fest. The person whom I thought was gonna go with me as photographer pulled out, so I'm gonna apply to go alone. Such are the misunderstandings in life. I feel a mix of numbness, and mild annoyance. I think it's annoyance I am trying to numb. But it's okay--my desire to go is greater than the desire for company, though I may regret saying that later.

16 Hours Later...

Yesterday, after a night spent battling a battalion of 'Z's' in order to finish an important PowerPoint proposal, I left my office at 4.45pm, reached home around 5pm, and went straight to bed. I reckoned I'd nap for a while and wake up for dinner or in the middle of the morning with a screwed biorhythm and some hunger cravings—nothing really major so I didn't bother removing my contacts. I vaguely remember two dreams: one was set in someplace akin to my old primary school but I was in my secondary school years; I remember how I was with some mafia-like fifth-former who ordered around a bunch of third-formers in a very militant way and how twelve of us managed to squeeze into a car that was headed for a party in a rubber estate. The second dream featured an eight-winged thorned insect, which was more interesting than scary, but obviously my dad in the dream didn't think so, as he kept spraying it with insecticide for what seemed like an eternity, and it was, because by the time he was done despite me shouting that's enough!!!, the acid had bored holes into my favourite sleeping bag-comforter, which I love because it is so silken and which now lay in tatters on the floor, a sorry memory of what it once meant to me (the insect was now strangely missing). I was pissed and mad and sad at the same time, and was trying to think of how I could get someone to buy the same sleeping bag for me from Australia and mail it to me. I slept again after that, and might have woken up for a microsecond. (My subconscious gut tells me this is what happened.) The next thing I knew, my dad was knocking on my door asking me to get up. Whoa, like get up? I felt really disoriented. I opened my eyes, and tried to focus. Vision was beginning to clear: books looked like books and CDs looked like CDs. Crap, my contacts are still on?! A depressing realisation started sinking in. It was bright. I looked at the clock. It was nine. In the morning. I felt really, really bad.

It was time to go to work again. For the record, I slept sixteen hours straight.

C'mon Hijau, Fight, Fight, Fight!

I am so screwed. It's L.A.T.E. and I'm not even halfway done through this PowerPoint proposal for a TV capsule due tomorrow morning. I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight.

To keep awake, I have consumed in the past hour:

• Dozens of rotten pistachios left over from Chinese New Year (they've gone green and soft)
• Preserved mango from the Philippines (finished the pack)
• Passionfruit Boh tea
• Oxygen and water
• Email

My eyes are slowly closing. ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Better more H's than Z's.

A Commemoration of an Insignificant Incident

At precisely 7.31pm, Monday 9th April 2007, the pimple in my left audio cavity erupted, first leaving a trail of blood and puss, then a slight wooziness on its former tenant. Minutes later, the heat of such an explosion was sensed, like warm blood trickling into my middle ear, though I know I'm probably just being paranoid. Wooozyyyy...

Lennie Feels Deaf (Not Dumb) in Her Left Ear

I need reprieve.
I need a sterilised needle and a steady hand.
I need a dab of alcohol; a cooling tide.
I need this monster
punctured
ruptured

placated.

(The sufferer lets out a high-pitched scream only heard by musical dogs and Superman.)

Pesky pimple in my ear,
When will you freakin' disappear?!
OI! TALKING TO YOU LAH PIMPLE!

Hmm-bop

I am a phoney. I am a faker. I am a professional poser.

Twice, yesterday, I caught myself trying to impress random strangers by:

a) Speaking in good English
b) Bopping my head to jazz music
(Three times, if you count that pseudo-artsy look I was trying to achieve with my face.)

GOSH! WHAT A LOSER!

Ever since I was old smart enough to realise that certain patterns of behaviour I displayed (mainly showing off on the guitar or banging the drums in church) were probably due to insecurity issues unresolved during my childhood, I have luckily managed to move past the chagrin of being such a loser and plonked myself in the frontlines of the punch line: me.

Which is why, in these days of post-enlightenment, I am sometimes wary of how I behave at gigs. (And in another setting, how I play in church. I have a specific prayer to address this—just need to remember to say it.) You see, although I am a phoney, a faker and a poser, I am an honest one. Hence, if I suddenly realise I am bopping my head to music in a gig, I try to check my motivations. Was it automatic? Did it happen subconsciously as I got into the groove? Or was I just trying to show I can keep time? It sounds pathetic, but that’s because it really is.

I can’t say that I’ve ceased this bad habit of fishing for compliments, because obviously, I haven’t. Somewhere deep inside still lurks that inferior beast squealing like a spring pig for attention. Two options remain: to reach a celestial level of snobbery so that earthly comments become so inconsequential to my identity I could flick them light years away with a gigantic middle finger, or to remember to root my identity in a Higher Being, which I am so slack in doing.

In the meantime, if you ever catch me smiling to myself while bopping to a beat then suddenly stopping, know that I was merely rejoicing in the idiot that I am.

P/S: The North Rhine Westphalia Youth Jazz Orchestra was good. Better than expected. Their discordant rendition of ‘Rasa Sayang’ with haunting vocals made my night. And unlike the Earth, Wind & Fire concert or the gig at Little Havana, this was FREE. :D

Happy Birthday, Pa

It was my dad's birthday yesterday. His 64th, to be exact. I didn't buy him anything. Neither did we go out to celebrate.

My father doesn't believe in celebrating birthdays. I suspect birthdays weren't grand affairs in his family of eight kids when he was young. Why else the wrinkled, disapproving mug when refusing my invitation to organise a rare family dinner? I don't think it's mere modesty.

All he said were, "I just don't want" and "You organise for Mummy's birthday lah." That's it.

In his room are birthday and Christmas presents from my sis/bro-in-law and I from years ago; some shirts still in their plastic wraps. He is not into fashion. While the culture of gifts has always been en vogue, he doesn't buy into it; hardly any of it.

The birthday presents I remember receiving from him as a kid were watercolours, oil pastels and poster colours—practical things to help you advance in school (or at least in art class). No big presents for milestone years. No big fat angpaus for scoring A's. No bribery. (He did, however, get me my third guitar which I, uh, unfortunately broke.) :(

Sometime early this year, a few incidents helped me to be mindful of my parents'—and in particular my father's—mortality. As my parents age, I am saddled with the responsibility of a grown-up daughter. For the most part, I don't do much. I don't pay rent. Or help with the bills. Instead, a small amount of cash out of my monthly salary has so far acted as 'compensation' for taking care of me all these years. Thinking about the 'what if's' sobered me a little.

So what is one refused invitation for a family dinner together? My father does not want us to fuss over him. He doesn't even relate very well to us. Yet despite his failings as a father—and all fathers are failed humans, as are mothers, children and grandparents—he has provided for the family the best he could. Not in the same way other fathers would. But in his own way, faithfully, yes.