Sunday, June 28, 2009


So, Michael Jackson is gone. So too has another part of me.

Growing up in the 80s, Michael Jackson was one of the leading artists for my adolescent days. Days that were my most carefree, when food on the table and roof over the head appeared magically without a thought; days when my hormones were running wild and my mind kept morphing with the most vivid of imagination.

What could be more inflammable to the teenage imagination than a one-gloved, military-clothed, moon-walking, crotch clutching sensational performer? And the ability to command hysterical screams from millions and make teenagers faint with a single gesture of a hand? Damn. If I had become a singer out of that era, I would probably owe my singing career to the King of Pop. Of course I had other singers around that time. But MJ was like no others.

No others were like MJ. No others could be nearly like him, with the way he amazed and enchanted us with his musical talents, choreographic creativity, larger and weirder than life charisma, and his ability to rock, and shock.

Who else could make you shake your hip when he's singing and dancing, and shake your head when he's not? Yup, nobody like Jacko.

There IS nobody like Michael Jackson because there is no other person, past or present, who virtually lived out his whole life on a stage under the watchful eyes of millions, through the lenses of relentless media. No person could come out of that kind of abnormal environment and be normal. While at the same age, we grew up from our childhood, he probably grew tilted 45 degree under those stresses out of adulthood. Perhaps that contributed to his musical talent in some way.

As soon as I stepped out of my carefree days, my youthful days were gone. A multitude of artists had splashed all kinds of color with their signature and style on my canvas of youth. When I demystified the appearing act of food on the table and roof over my head, the picture of my youth was completed and framed. I can no longer go back to that times and change the picture. But the picture is not dead.

The colours are alive. The colours change their hue according to the activities of the artist who painted it back then, until the artist passes away. The colour dies. And a part of me dies.

We feel sad when we lose something that we hold dear to. When I learned the news of MJ's death, I felt at a loss. The patches painted by MJ can no longer morph. This is it - a major part of my picture of youth is dead. Freezed.

That's what Michael Jackson is to me - a painter of my youthful days. A creative painter. Remarkably creative. Out-of-this-world creative.

Of course, there's something immensely different between dying at the ripe old age of 80s or 90s and an untimely death at the age of 50, in terms of shocking value. And MJ did know how to shock, even with his death. It'll leave behind a legacy like no others - hung. Work undone, work could have been done ...

So, the Michael Jackson that we adore is dead. All of his creativity was spent ...

Unless ...

He has some pre-arranged bizarre kind of funeral in store for us?

With MJ, I guess you'd never know ...


Sunday, June 21, 2009

Hold Tight

I love my two little children more than my own life. Whenever they sleep with me, I would cover all of us under the same blanket and hold onto them lest they would disappear into the deep of nights.

There's nothing more content than immersing myself in the children's body warmth and falling into sleep surrounded by the coolness of the night. Although, waking up to a brand new day with them sleeping soundly by my side would probably better that.


It was a hot night - nothing unusual considering the hot spell we've been having lately; I was tired - as usual after a hard day at work; and I don't usually switch on the air-conditioning unit in my room until I've decided to call it a day.

But it was a tad hotter that night; and I was a speck more tired; so I switch on the air-cond a bit earlier than usual and clicked into my nightly online escapade. Barely 10 minute spent online, my mind was already getting blurry white and my eyelids were feeling heavy. I laid myself into the soft comfort of my bed and pillows amid the cooling air for a brief nap.

As I was wandering in the foggy edge of total unconsciousness, I was pulled back into the bright light by the rustling sound when my 7-years-old little boy climbed into bed beside me.

"Baba's too tired to read tonight ..." I murmured.

When they were younger, my children used to insist on having their bedtime stories read by the mersmerising voice (ahem...) of mine despite my tired plea. As they grow older, they started to be more understanding - either that or they are just fed up with the futility of their insistence. Also, as they grow into the bedtime reading habit, they're more willing to read themselves to sleep.

As the air was getting cooler in the room, I was shaken to consciousness again, this time coming all the way back from the darkness of deep slumber.

"I'm still tired, boy," I murmured again, in a slightly agitated tone.

"Baba, Baba, come sleep under the blanket with me," my son whispered.

I had the sweetest dream that night ...

Or, was that the dream I had?


I cherish all the tender moments I have with my children. When it happens, I'm sure my heart couldn't contain another ounce of contentment. But when the children tug my hand and yearn for my companionship in such manner during such time, the contentment in my heart will melt, overflowing in smooth heavenly bliss.


I'm going to miss them, very, very, very much when they grow up and no longer yearn for my presence by their side as such.

Don't grow up too quickly ...


Saturday, June 13, 2009

Soul Searching

Well, it's been more than a year ...

Why do I blog?

Well, actually that's an easy one. I started blogging for reasons no more aesthetic and therapeutic than making some extra money for a cup of coffee, Starbuck's hopefully. But, as they say, making money IS an art, and I guess there's nothing more therapeutic than watching the bank account grow, at whatever rate. Still, after having been blogging for more than one year now, I'm no more an artist in this artistic category than a child holding a crayon in front of the wall of his parent's bedroom; and I am probably in need of therapeutic treatment more than before I started blogging.

However, during the time spent on blogging, another interesting question arose.

Why do I write?

Well ...

I write, therefore I am.

No idea what the heck that means. But I've always wanted to say it - so cool - and felt an urge to complete the incomplete hanging sentence: I write, therefore I am ---- a frigging giant pen?

Now, why do I write?

Actually, I did not realise this question even exists. But after more than a hundred posts in a year time, I have to ask myself this question - where do I find the interest and passion to continue this words-ridden, previously unthought of pastime for so long?

I was never into writing; except for newspaper, neither was I into reading. That is why this question is so intriguing. The quality of my written works aside, the satisfaction and pleasure I find flowing within me during and after the process of writing was indeed a pleasant surprise, and still is.

Facing a screen of whites, I would turn my attention to the ocean of choice, take a deep breath, concentrate and plunge into the sea of thoughts. At the point of entry, millions of thoughts would come rushing by. I would wait until I'm floating weightlessly in the middle of it all, clear my mind and pluck those that can be threaded together. After some careful consideration, I would build them into carriages of words, and complete the train of thoughts. Work's not done - tracks need to be laid. Smooth turns, unexpected twists, rising tensions, free-falling rushes, enchanting tunnels, brilliant flashes ... and Voila! A ride is created.

In actual fact, the process is less easy than as described. For me, the process has to be repeated probably ten to twenty times to complete a decent piece. But that's just made the finish product so much more gratifying for me.

When I lay the process out that way, I realise maybe it is not the writing that I enjoy.

I appreciate creativity, in whatever shape and size. Creativity fascinates me. I admire creativity.

Perhaps, it's the creativity behind the writing that really enchants me. Or perhaps I am simply enjoying the process of creating a post. But is there any difference between writing and creating a post? Certainly.

I get as much satisfaction from a piece of more than 1000 words as a piece with no word!

In essence, after some soul searching, I think I can conclude that I write, because I enjoy creativity. Writing is but a means to an end.

But there's one very important element in my enjoyment of writing - YOU.

Would I find the same pleasure with a pen, a piece of paper, and a piece of writing that ends up in my locked drawer? I very much doubt so. I blog, therefore I write.

For whatever reason I'm enjoying writing, I would probably do it for a while longer, hopefully a lot longer, in this blog and my other blog.

Yes! I've actually started another blog half a year ago to house the lighter side of my creativity in greater frequency, and to earn some more coffee money (if you haven't already noticed this at the sidebar of this blog for the last few months).

Of course, there's one obstacle in my pursuit of this fulfillment - time. With works and family commitment, time is hard to come by and when it comes, I have to struggle with fatigue from work. Sunday is the most productive day for me in this pursuit.

Still, for now at least, I think I can say that I do enjoy writing, and will explore more ways to satisfy my desire for creativity in the future through writing - fiction, "faction", short stories, long stories, random thoughts, etc, etc. So, bear with me.

I hope you enjoy my writing as much as I enjoy the writing.


There - another train is built, another track is laid, enjoy the ride!

Well ... try.


Thursday, June 11, 2009

Pssst ...

Miss me??





Guess not ...

Sigh ...



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