Scott free... almost

Thirteen hours more, and I'll be off on my month-long vacation! I've calculated that I'll be on eight different planes within that duration. I hope I don't get airsick with all the hours up there. I don't have a good stomach for travel. If you believe in prayer, you can pray for me. Otherwise I might just try to consume as much alcohol as I can up there - it's free and for a good purpose, I'm sure. (Though they say it's bad cos it dehydrates you; I bet they're lying just to save costs.)

And I'm bringing my work along! Yes, nothing like good 'ol work to keep your blood pressure up and heart beating while on a holiday. Thanks to that spell where I was so excited I kept procrastinating, I have now on my plate: one music review, one movie review, one book review, one feature article.

I should be paid in Aussie dollars.

Earthquake!

Since 11+am today, we've been feeling tremors in our office building. My paranoid self says it's probably another earthquake and corresponding after-shocks going on in Indonesia. My colleague says it's some construction work going on somewhere behind the office. (The nearest Caterpillar was spotted two blocks away though — too far to cause our partition glass to shake and our fats to tremble like they did.) Rachel has tuned in to a live earthquake watch website, but so far, nothing that fits the timeframe has been reported. I remember though, that the last time I felt tremors in my old office—and which were later confirmed as after-shocks—our search on the Internet at that hour yielded zero results. I'm not sure if it's psychological, but I'm beginning to get a headache — a definite symptom of after-shocks. If I concentrate harder, I might even begin to feel nauseous. Oh no, I think I can't work!

It's definitely time to go home.

10 Things I Miss about Australia

(In no particular order)

1. Taking a walk around Lake Ginninderra, Belconnen, which is just a stone’s throw away from the residences of the University of Canberra. Although it is a manmade lake, nature has populated the surroundings with an undeniable sense of serenity and beauty. In autumn, trees shed their golden-red leaves, and as the season turns over to winter, cyclists, joggers and strollers disappear from the tarred path. The lake becomes barren and quiet. Once in a while, if you’re lucky, you can spot black swans and other long-necked birds gracing the lake’s surface.

Ducks going for a dip in summer

Two birds at the mini-pier at Lake Ginninderra

Seconds later, they fly off together into the setting sun

2. Jamming and singing with Jess, my housemate—an excellent musician and the person who got me into the habit of drinking scotch during winter, especially before singing. Less than a quarter glass (on the rocks or with juice) would be enough to warm up our voices and get the blood flowing to our numb fingers, even though our buttocks froze on the metal-framed chairs.

3. The open spaces, the starry skies, the clean air, the bush, wallabies hopping by, shooting stars, double rainbows, the beach, grey gulls, going on a road trip, the land, the strange feeling that this was home.

A sample of the bush landscape

4. Playing guitar for Bethany International church, where practice for four songs lasted two hours and there was always an ample supply of Indonesian food and hospitality awaiting us after. Church population: +/- 20.

5. Busking without fear of being robbed of my guitar/spoils. Although I did this only once, I would do it again. And again. And again. Judith, my Kenyan friend sang in her rich African timbre while I harmonised with a raw Chinese voice and played guitar. Grave accent differences aside, we managed to collect AUD$40+ within two hours, on a slow Sunday afternoon in Canberra’s city centre. I guess many Canberrans have either a really kind heart or too much money.

6. Eating Australian Milo from the tin. Aussie Milo, compared to Malaysian Milo, is smoother, richer and ain’t as sweet. It’s like a prime piece of real estate in heaven. It doesn't fully melt in your mouth — you have to chew it.

7. Doing a Tim Tam Slam. Ironically, I learnt this trick from someone I met online who lives in the States. You bite the ends off an Aussie Tim Tam (again, the original is far superior to the Indonesian-made ones found in Malaysia), then dunk one end into a steaming cup of coffee. Suck through the top like a straw. I usually like to dip both ends in to wet them, so that sucking up the coffee (best unsweetened) is easier. Watch out though—slammed Tim Tams usually melt quite fast, leaving a chocolatey mess on your fingers.

8. Taking photographs where everything looks crisp and clear under the Aussie sun, versus the muddy colours you get in KL because of the smoke and haze.

9. Being able to wear my Akubra hat out without attracting weird stares. (Then again, the sight of a Chinese girl wearing an Akubra hat will always attract stares even in Australia—probably more amused than weird, though.)

10. The thriving live music and arts scene. Jazz in the basement, jazz in the park, folk, singer-songwriter, film screenings at the university and rock gigs at the refectory left me feeling more ‘cultured’ and a very satisfied soul.

( |o }===:::

A few days from now, I will make my way once again to the vast land of Australia for a holiday. I wish it were spring or autumn (it’s winter now), but since I can’t change the seasons, I’ll try to make the most of it. At least I can recall the services of my long, woolly winter coat. I'm so excited I can't work. I can’t wait.

Knowing You

There seems to be a growing derth in meaning in many contemporary praise and worship songs. Stuff like "Looking out my window / I see the trees blowing in the breeze / Looking out my window / I see the birds flying in the sky" (Planet Shakers) doesn't really do it for me. Ugh.

Okay, so maybe it's wrong to assume that just because I can't relate to these lyrics, it's a bad song. But perhaps Christian songwriters need to do some soul-searching. After all, our source of inspiration is God, who did more than create the most majestic living artworks in the universe. Our songs should strive to capture greater depth and meaning. Yes, they can be simple, as musical and lyrical accessorising run the risk of reducing a song's purity, but we do need to be mindful of at least two dangers.

1. Being simplistic
The Bible holds many basic truths. A lot of which have been sung over and over again, reincarnating themselves in words that reflect the language of the time. The ease of using familiar themes becomes a crutch. There is no end to songs with the words 'love', 'presence', 'glory', 'grace', 'awesome'. While I'm not saying this is bad, my point is that we often just limit our expressions to these themes until it feels like a nauseating rewrite of a 1990s Church Top 40 song in the latest musical fashion. Meanwhile, the temptation to rhyme also gets in the way, as words that rhyme don't always offer the best meaning. We need to be careful that we don't dilute, or worse, twist biblical truth just so our verses end in a nice rhyme.

2. Being emo. Totally
While being emo is in, we also need to remember that we worship God with our minds too, not just until the ends of our hair stand up and our hearts are flush in a warm fuzzy frenzy. Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshippers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is Spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth. (John 4:23-24, NIV). Sometimes I need to be reminded of God's all-sufficient grace; His Lordship; His power; His victory over my sin and past; that He holds my future. I can't sing 'I love you Lord' when what my mind and heart really need are things like healing, comfort or forgiveness at that moment. If I need faith. If more than half the songs in a worship session mush me into a lovey dovey feeling, I think we will die a diabetic church.

If we are to write songs, let it come from the heart. Search the Bible for nuggets of untapped words, wisdom, truths. But more importantly, we need to go back to our own growth as Christians, for it is in a personal walk with God that our hearts are actually lifted up, encouraged, humbled, touched. The music and words will then flow out naturally.

KNOWING YOU
Graham Kendrick

All I once held dear, built my life upon
All this world reveres and wars to own
All I once thought gain I have counted loss
Spent and worthless now compared to this

Knowing You, Jesus, knowing You
There is no greater thing
You're my all, You're the best
You're my joy, my righteousness
And I love You Lord

Now my heart's desire is to know You more
To be found in You and known as Yours
To possess by faith what I could not earn
All surpassing gift of righteousness

Oh to know the power of Your risen life
And to know You in Your sufferings
To become like You in Your death, my Lord
So with You to live and never die

Evacuate! I just farted*

From smelling like flowers, my post-gig panties are toxic enough to knock out a two-year-old toddler. Imagine what my outer clothes smell like.

Even now, the room reeks of stale cigarette smoke any clogged nose can trace to my post-gig bag. The hair’s washed and I’m relatively clean, but the olfactory offence remains. I don’t want to speculate how many minutes of my life was cut short tonight — not that I lead a very interesting existence anyway.

But the point of this post is not to give a lecture on public smoking and its ill-effects on the health of an innocent bystander. You see, there really is no point in this post at all.

I have just returned from Moonshine—an acoustic gig at The Curve’s Laundry Bar—where Qings and Kueens, Mia Palencia, Reza Salleh, and Couple played earlier. And boy was I excited when Melina Williams made a guest appearance on her five-string bass, smiling a little more than usual.

While the overall music failed to leave a big impression, what I discovered from my first Moonshine outing is that I need some gigging buddies. People who love live music and can endure uncomfortable standing positions, smoky rooms and questionable crowds. Tonight, my sole company left halfway because he couldn't stand the smoke. (To his credit, he took a walk and waited outside till I had my fill of music.)

I shall now tell you a humble little tale of a smoke-fearing ex-copywriter and how having smoker friends helped her overcome the fear.

( |o }===:::

Once upon a time, I worked with an ad agency. We worked long hours; stressed hours. Hours stuck in an office with no air-cond after 6pm. Hours stuck in an office where almost everyone smoked.

Nicotine calmed their nerves, and the familiar movement to and from the lips—inhale, exhale—became a crucial extension of their physiological posturing. Fagging was also an important social activity where the latest gossip within the company would be exchanged; Marlboros and Mild Sevens burning together; the muted orange glow counting down the lifeline of their conversations.

They usually smoked in the stairwells or near the lifts. But it was when they smoked inside, at their desks, that I almost died.

At once! In my mind! I would see an image of the respiratory passageway from my nasal cavity down to my lungs turn from a clear blue to red, spreading out across the veins, arteries and alveoli like the changing colours of karaoke lyrics; then to black, as the poison seeped into my condemned bloodstream. Every time I breathed this defiled air in, the image replayed itself, as I imagined my oxygen cells dying, withering, screaming in vain for some fresh air. I’m dying! My nose would start getting congested with grey snot and I’d get a headache. Subconsciously—and this is where the trouble really starts—I’d also try not to breathe.

I admit, holding your breath while trying to think of creative ideas isn’t very smart. Nonetheless, my body was just trying to preserve itself. I did try dropping some hints to my smoking colleagues, such as wrinkling my nose in disdain, but obviously, the smoke clouded their vision. I hated it/them.

The turning point came when some of these smoker colleagues became my friends. It was something you had to accept in a relationship — much like bad breath. I got used to lunches under the hot and humid Malaysian sun (i.e. smoking section), as less considerate colleagues blew smoke and bad breath in my face. I learnt to hide disgust when ash from other tables flew into my water and food. I’d gaze enviously at the diners inside, enjoying free air conditioning and piped in muzak. And when the awful haze came, my tolerance greatly improved. How on earth my colleagues could think of sitting outside in the thick of pollution while others were sweeping pharmacies clean of surgical masks is beyond me. But they still had to eat—and smoke—and so I joined them.

Perhaps what I’d like to say is this: although I don’t enjoy the smoky confines where live music often takes place, I’ve somewhat learnt to live with it. And thanks to my ex-colleagues, the mental image of me dying at that very moment! from tar and carbon monoxide poisoning now haunts me less.

I guess breathing in some smoke is better than not breathing at all.

*Taken from a cool T-shirt someone wore at the gig today.

Faizal

Faizal is five. He has a bright smile, twinkling eyes and a carefree mop of curls. He also has cerebral palsy. But that's not the biggest of his problems.

Last year, when I first visited him in an Orang Asli kampung, he was a mess. Saliva dripped from his grinning mouth unto his T-shirt; grubby palms mixed drool, food, dirt and bacteria in an unholy union. His awkwardly clenched fingers had trouble holding on to things. Including his parents' love.

Faizal was left to his own devices in a toddler's walker that refused to co-operate with his bowed, growing legs. Without proper motor control, he did not know how to negotiate a flat surface on his own. Without proper bladder control, he dirtied his home with human waste.

A few months after my initial visit, a pastor who had been following up on the family decided to take Faizal home to care for him. He is married, with two small children of his own. Aware that Faizal would need round-the-clock attention, he divided the caregiving task amongst family and friends he could trust. A schedule was drawn out. Faizal's future was shared by these individuals.

Last week, when I dropped by Kampung Jus, Faizal looked decidedly more cheerful. He has a new chair that trains him to sit up straight. His clothes are cleaner. I didn't see him slobber. At present, things look more positive.

Yet he desperately needs to undergo physiotherapy soon to learn the things we take for granted. Things like walking and passing motion. His future would be so much brighter if he could at least learn to be independent. Coming of age is certain; what about improvement?

There was a time when Faizal's family stole provisions that were meant for him — fortified milk from the government, to be exact. The clinic eventually found out about it and later, channeled new supplies for Faizal through the pastor. Which father, if a son asks for bread, would give him a stone? Anger at the selfishness of this family is understandable but perhaps uncalled for. There are many things within the Orang Asli culture that leave the average person shaking their heads. Foremost amongst which is a subsidy mentality — certainly not something you can change overnight.

But perhaps there is a slow change of heart. Recently, Faizal's father called up the pastor to thank him for taking care of his son. I don't know what else transpired, but the pastor seemed to think it was a good sign. Does the father miss his son? I don't know. Does Faizal miss him? I seem to recall the pastor saying so.

Yet for now, I know that Faizal is at least in good hands.

Faizal with his new RM400 chair

Pensive

Reaching out for the uncertain, 13 May 2006

Under the Weather

Besides being a cool song by KT Tunstall, it also describes what I feel now.

Sick.

From Plastic to Fabric-Faux Leather

Finally. After months of hardship on a plastic chair (the light blue-grey kind found in cheap restaurants), my tush has found rest in an unclaimed typist's chair.

My new workplace chair is blue and black. The backrest is covered in bright blue fabric, while the black seat is made from what looks like mock leather. (I didn't examine it too closely—you never know what people have done while on their chairs.) To be honest, it's a rather strange sight—like one of those sorry rejects found in second-hand furniture shops, waiting for a sympathetic soul to bring it home. Maybe we were meant to be.

It used to belong to Bryan, but since he quit and the new owner thought it a tad too noisy, she opted instead for a silent plastic chair, leaving this one abandoned in a corner. Stumbling upon it was like getting together with an old friend. I would choose its occasional creaks and tantrums over hard, unwelcoming plastic anytime.

It can't grow or shrink according to my moods, but at least it's rather comfortable. Stuck on the short side, I've added a cushion to the seat. Built to be caring and considerate, it's even got armrests for the weary limbs, wheels to spin your perspectives in motion, and a wide berth for the generously girthed. It's wonderful.

Another colleague tried to claim it, but he was too late—the seat was already starting to bear my shape and smell. Like a gentleman, he acquiesced. He's got a roller chair anyway—without a backrest—but still, that's better than the plastic stuff I had.

For the past two days since I adopted it, life has been happier. The sun shines down brighter and I've even been feeling rather generous, buying a few kind colleagues lunch. Finally, maybe, I can do some work in the office without changing positions every three minutes; crossing and uncrossing my legs, standing up, sitting down again, etc. After all, nine to ten hours on a plastic chair can be hell; a surefire way of getting pins and needles, backaches and decorated thighs.

I like my new chair.

"Life is Difficult" (a.k.a. A Lunchbreak Spent Breaking Into Church and Removing Musical Instruments)

I got a call today asking for help in packing the church keyboard for a memorial service. Thinking that explaining which keyboard to take (Korg or Roland?), which amp (brown Peavey? black Peavey? big black Peavey? big big big black Peavey? how about this hh...h...Hartke?), which jacks (what's a jack? oh, the heads are different? what's the difference? how many?) and adapter (adapter is which one ah?) might prove too taxing on the person's memory and my patience, I said alright, pick me up during lunch.

And so we drove to church, just to find the outer gate locked. Great. After some unnecessary phone calls, which could have been avoided had proper arrangements been made, someone came down and opened the grill. He had a caller on hold, so he passed me the keys to the main sanctuary. I stared and sighed. It meant I'd be going solo.

Ding! Level 3.

For those of you who hold keys to secured/commercial properties, you'd understand the intricacies and annoyances that come with having to open up/lock up. First, the shrieking, grating shutters. Then more locks. My church has two - one in the middle, one at the bottom. I selected the slim, cylindrical key for the bottom lock, then the flat, fat one for the belly. Turning this way and that, jiggling them, both finally clicked open. Next, I pushed the shrieking, grating shutters up. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK! Metal-on-metal, the shrieking, grating shutters killed my ears all the way to the top.

Second, the glass door. Took a wild guess at the bunch of keys and selected one. Amazingly, the lock turned. So far so good.

Third. Disarmament. I punched in the security code, then rushed in to disarm the system. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEE---- it cried, then faded.

Now, it was time to pack. I walked to the stage, laid my hands on the keyboard, then...

"Err, I double-parked lah. I think I'll go down and check on my car."

Grrr. "I can't carry all the stuff down alone," I said.

A pause.

"Never mind lah, I'll come up again. How long you need?"

"Ten minutes."

And so he left.

After getting the Roland from the stand, the jacks, the adapter, the pedal, and the keyboard bag from the back, I packed them up and was almost done. Then he reappeared.

"Finish ah?"

"Yah, almost."

I walked towards the big black Peavey amp and stared at it. It was cumbersome.

"This is kinda heavy. You could get the smaller amp from the first floor or SS1 church," I suggested.

"Nevermind lah. Get it here. Convenient. Can right?"

Okay. I unplugged it.

"I'll carry the heavier one," he said, and proceeded to carry the amp. He lifted, struggled, shifted his feet, tried again, shuffled, then slowly hobbled across the stage. It was quite comical.

Since he wanted a keyboard stand, I grabbed the spare stand from the PA room. I heaved the almost five-foot keyboard bag unto my shoulder, then dragged my way out, bumping now and then into the walls, door, stairs. Of course, with the church keys in hand, it also meant I had to lock up.

Dumping the keyboard bag on the floor outside, I repeated all the earlier steps, in reverse. Alone. With the church armed once more, I considered it almost an accomplishment.

After returning the keys and loading the car, we were off. On the way back to my office, stuck in a jam and having a rather meaningless conversation...

"Quite heavy, ah, the instruments?" he said.

"Yeah."

"I thought very easy - just take the keyboard."

I nodded. Right.

"Which one heavier ah, the keyboard or the amp?"

"Err, I think they're about the same lah, just that the keyboard is harder to carry cos of its shape."

"Oh. Hmmm. So, the musicians have to carry all this when you go for camps lah?"

"Yeah."

"Ooohhhh."

A pause. Then came the afternoon activity's conclusion.

"Hmm... life is difficult," he said, shaking his head.

( |o }===:::

Rolling my eyes under my sunnies and grinning to myself, I couldn't help agreeing.

Floored

Darn you Melina.

You and your five-string bass. Kicking ass like nobody's business. You literally floored me and everyone else, including every (male) bassist who played tonight. Totally. You're like the Fingers of the female muso community. Males too. That wasn't meant to sound rude, by the way.

How do you move your digits so fast?

You have effectively obliterated my theory that girl guitarists / bassists / whatever can't be as fast as guys. I still think there are guys who are faster than you, but then again, there are more guy players, period. What am I to do now without a valid excuse?

Stop slapping and pulling in between bars - you make me and my bass playing look sorely juvenile.

You are one crazy nut.

How did you get so good?

Oh, and you sing while you play. Now that's amazing. The most I can do while spewing out lyrics is play simple notes, let alone a whole verse full of complicated bass riffs. You're da bomb.

You know, you looked so cool today. Absolutely sizzling. It's like you'd kill any band member who played the wrong note or went off-time. Maybe that helps keep them in check. Or maybe the non-smiling schlock heightens the drama of your playing. For a moment, I was tempted to take up the bass seriously; practising, practising, practising at the expense of my guitar playing. I want to look cool on stage too. But luckily, I came to my senses. I doubt I can be as good as you even if I practised solidly for two hours a day (anything more and the fingers would be in a permanent cramp). And it pricks me that you're *slightly* younger than me. Damn.

Melina William of Tempered Mental, you rock my socks. If you're ever looking for a girl band or another singer-songwriter to form a duo, you know where to find me.

Love,
An unwilling groupie

Night

What is it about the night that beckons me? Is it the quiet, the solitude, the space and time to think? Thoughts still under its gravity, straying to loved ones past and present. Under the same sky, we are now in our private worlds, connected by an ethereal thread called history.

What is it about the night that beckons me?

Is it the swelling tide? Just like the surging realisation of desires in our hearts? Is it the second chances we give ourselves? Or is it the overdue hour of reconciliation?

Gently, night rests her head upon me and eases me to sleep.

Marilah Mari, Pergi Mengundi

"Marilah mari, pergi mengundi,
Jangan lupa kewajipan pada negara"

I finally registered as a voter last Thursday. It was all a matter of coincidence: I went to Carrefour and so did the mobile registration booth. It took all of one minute. I handed in my IC, signed a form and was free to go.

Why did I do it? After all, I missed the last two elections for various reasons.

Do I really care that it's a 'kewajipan pada negara'? No. And what's one vote anyway? Well, multiply that with the number of virgin voters and people who use that as an excuse and you'll find that it's quite a lot.

To me, being a registered voter simply means:

1. My option to vote is open, just in case there's an emergency and EVERYONE'S vote counts.
   
2. Anwar's coming back into politics. UMNO's becoming more Islamic, cosmetically at least. Perhaps (in a lofty dream), there will come a day when some heroic opposition party upholds a vision of Malaysia that I believe in and will vote for. They'd need all the support they can get from sensible and progressive people like me.
   
3. Even if the party I vote for loses and Malaysia becomes further entrenched as an Islamic state (God forbid), at least I know I tried and won't be cursing the day I didn't register at the mobile booth in front of Carrefour.
   

So really. Do yourself a favour and register as a voter so that you don't set yourself up for sleepless nights or complain about the country's governance without first exercising your rights to vote. The country's future is partly in our hands. Or so we'd like to think.

A Tribute to a Friend

He had wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling too much. “I should use more moisturiser,” he once said, grinning, as though sincerely apologising for the natural ravages of time. He sang along heartily to 'You’ve Got A Friend' at his first Double Take gig, hitting the high notes with his tenor while I self-consciously paused to check my pitch. His encouragement to me, a stranger, before and after I nervously performed a self-penned song at my sister’s wedding was unexpected strength to a wavering heart. I appreciated the wisdom, maturity and sensitivity he brought with him; byproducts of what I imagined were hard lessons from a previous life.

We shared a few brief moments together; several occasions of acquaintance: a casual dinner, a guitar lesson, a jazz gig, a visit to a warehouse sale, a coffee. Nothing really extraordinary or consequential considering our many years of existence. We talked about life, our interests, our dreams. I asked about his family. He asked about mine.

As a photographer, he once told me how he strived to capture ‘the moment’ when a person is at their most beautiful. The moment when they are unaware that they are most exposed. I observed that his easy smiles and encouraging words helped in taking pictures, drawing out the best things in the person opposite the lens.

He showed me his portfolio of work. There was commissioned work—weddings, portraits—and then there were pictures from mission trips in sun-bathed, disease-laden lands. The latter was simply amazing. The colours were rich and vivid; the stories in each were real. He paused at one: of an Indian girl holding a bottle. His missions team had been de-licing the hair of the villagers, he said. Right after he snapped the shot, the girl in the picture passed him the bottle, then fainted from the fumes.

He encouraged me to go on a missions trip. I did, and taking pictures of the Orang Asli there was one of the most rewarding things I’ve done.

Through God’s grace, our paths met. In a few small ways, my life was changed. Yet until heaven beckons me, he will never know.


*Laurence Thong departed earth and arrived in heaven on 12 February 2006. This was posted in an earlier blog.

Beginnings

Many times we start something with the best of intentions. We hang on to Hope - that most courageous thread; that most convenient outcome. We suspend our doubts for just as long as is needed to ground our feet in mud. It is dirty, it is sticky, but it is where we will plant our next step.

Blog, I charge thee to take root here and grow.