Night Visitor

Have I told you? Recently, I have begun to have a nightly visitor. Yes, you read that right. Somebody in my neighbourhood visits me every night after I have fallen asleep. He either watches me while I sleep, or he will enter my room through my open window and share my bed. At times, he will explore my room in silence.

I don’t know when it started; I suspect it began after I stroked him at the lift landing area last month. One evening, when I returned from work, I saw this beautiful black and white cat sitting at the lift landing swishing his tail. He started mewing when he saw me, so I talked to him and stroked him a bit. (What? It was just a few words!)

He followed me to my door, but I didn’t let him in. I did give him water though. I think that was my undoing.

Now he visits me every night, through my open window beside the corridor (I didn’t know cats can jump that high!). The first time I discovered his presence was when my alarm clock went off. I opened my eyes and saw him doing his catwalk on my desk. He looked at me calmly after I did a little scream, strolled to my window, turned to make eye contact one last time, and leapt out onto the corridor in one fluid motion. Now that’s a cat that’s schooled in theatrics!

While I don’t mind cats outdoors, I don’t want them in my house, and most certainly not on my bed! Some people think that cats are cleaner than dogs. I don’t think that’s true. Cats clean themselves by licking their fur. Now which do you think is cleaner? Fur with unseen dried saliva or dried fur cleaned with shampoo that has been rinsed out?

Some friends have suggested that I sleep with the air-conditioner running and keep my window shut. Well, I can’t. My poor nose would keep me awake all night. Others have suggested that I use the fan in place of the air-conditioner, with shut windows. Well… same difference.

At least he doesn’t defecate in my room. I’m thankful for that. I just hope he doesn’t think so highly of me as to leave dead rats or cockroaches on my doorstep as an offering. I think I will freak out.

Hmm… I think I ought to stop petting animals that don’t belong to me.

It’s Christmas

“Tis the season to be jolly… Falalalala Lalalala…”

That jingle was blasting where I was standing in queue for my much needed caffeine fix over the weekend. With sprigs of plastic holly and silk poinsettia bunches replete in the café, it was unmistakably Christmas season.

This is the season when many of my friends would gripe about the commercialisation of the holiday, and how stressful it was to be shopping for Christmas presents. One would complain about her colleague who spent an entire morning comparing the merits of a red and gold colour theme versus blue and silver for her Christmas tree. I know of a couple who would intentionally go on holidays every year so that they could be “far from the maddening crowd”. At least they’re consistent. They disappear every year during Christmas.

Of course I have my fair share of gripes about this season. (You didn’t honestly think I would be doing a zen thing here, did you?)

Let’s start with the mildest of them. Each year, as I jostling with the crowds and stand in endless queues that don’t seem to move, I would resolve to kick my bad habit of procrastinating. “No more last-minute shopping!” I would tell myself, only to find myself in the same situation the following year. It doesn’t help that my ears get tortured on those shopping trips, what with all those stupid jingles about reindeers that have caught a cold and bells that actually ring.

I remember there was a year when I was waiting for my turn at the cashier’s, when I saw a card that the lady in front was holding. The front of the card read, “Hope. Joy. Peace.” It reminded me of other cards I have seen or received that read “Happy holidays!” or “Season’s greetings”.

I don’t understand why people bother with gifts if they can’t bring themselves to acknowledge the reason for giving? Why fuss over a tree and its colour theme, if tjhey can’t acknowledge / don’t know / don’t wish to know what the tree represents? Why send cards that speak of hope, joy and peace when they don’t wish to acknowledge the Source of all that?

Do you know what irritates me the most? Reading this greeting that seems to be everywhere – Merry X’mas.

It is one thing to be ignorant about the meaning of Christmas (although I really cannot fathom how, since the Christmas story is told in school textbooks and even in the newspapers), but quite another to deliberately omit the reason for Christmas. Of all the things that people remove, they have removed Christ from the holiday’s name. How convenient. If you really want to shorten the letters you need to write or type, why not shorten “Happy New Year” to HNY instead? Since most greetings would string the two in one sentence anyway? Or how about shortening the “Merry” to just an “M”? Something like, “M Christmas & HNY!” By the way, I think my suggestion is ridiculous too. I made that suggestion just to emphasise my point – that the omission of “Christ” from the season is uncalled for.

You see, without Christ, there wouldn’t be a Christmas. So whatever you do, don’t leave Him out.

Merry Christmas.

The magical bench

There was a time during my childhood when the only books I was willing to read were those written by Enid Blyton. I would look forward to once-monthly trips to the old “Popular” bookstore in Havelock then. Once-monthly, because that was how often my dad got paid. I remember that the moment I stepped into the air-conditioned store (a rarity for stores in those days), I would drop my parents’ hands and like an arrow that was finally released from its bow, head for the children’s section to read as many Enid Blyton stories as I was able to. Hours would pass as I sat in the bookstore aisles, reading and re-reading the adventures of pretty dolls, nasty golliwogs, mischievous pixies and bad-tempered gnomes. I would imagine what Moonface who lived up in the fascinating Faraway Tree looked like, and cheer for Scamper the cocker spaniel and the other six members of the Secret Seven in their solved mysteries. On those trips, it would take numerous urgings from my bored parents and an exasperated sister before I would finally choose my purchase for that month.

One of those choices was entitled “The adventures of the wishing-chair”. I remember how fascinated I was by the escapades the wishing-chair would bring Peter, Mollie and Chinky on, and how the enchanted flying chair would always be there to get the trio out of scraps with incensed sorcerers and cruel ogres in the nick of time. I remember wishing I had a similar chair that would get me out of difficult exams and away from strict teachers.

I recently ran into an old friend with whom I had lost contact with for 16 years. 16 years is a long time. People change. I was therefore pleasantly surprised to find that we easily picked up from where we left off 16 years ago. Then a recent chance encounter led me to realise that this person had been keeping certain critical information from me and that affected my opinion of this person’s character. To put it bluntly, I had swallowed a pack of lies. How silly of me. I had naively thought it was possible for some things to remain constant in this world.  I should have known better. After all, it would hardly be the first time I had been fed similar lies.

You know what they say about how it never rains but pours? A few days after the above incident, I was stood up. Not once, not twice, but thrice. In a span of three days, three friends flaked out on me separately for breakfast, lunch and tea. And these people didn’t even know each other! They couldn’t have conspired on some heinous plan even if they badly wanted to. It was as if the stars and planets had aligned themselves against me to send me a message. I suppose I should be thankful it didn’t happen a fourth time in that weekend. (Anyone wants to stand me up for dinner? Drop me a line!) These people didn’t bother informing me that they wouldn’t be able to make the appointment(s), until after the appointed time. Was I worth no more than an after-thought? I was miffed.

These events came hot on the trail of other challenges I had been facing in various areas: mainly related to changes at work and people in various spheres. I don’t know which step to take next so I had been standing in the same spot.

I actually began writing yesterday’s blog entry in response to these recent events. When I am confused, I turn to writing as a form of therapy to loosen the knots in my mind. That is usually where my problems begin: in my mind. Writing forces me to confront the tangles in my thread of thoughts, unravel, and finally organise them. For someone whose words usually flow easily (at least in writing), it took me triple the usual time needed to write yesterday’s entry. I wrote and deleted. I rewrote and edited, and then deleted some more. It is yet another indication of the amount of gunk that needs to be cleared from my mind. The final copy turned out totally different from what I had originally intended.

While it may not be apparent in yesterday’s post, the process of writing yesterday’s entry reminded me that I am not a victim. I can’t prevent people from “doing things to me”, but I do have a choice in how I think, how I perceive things and how I react to them. Yet, however therapeutic it had been, yesterday’s writing process failed to lift the haze of confusion befuddling my mind. I still have no inkling how to move forward. In times like these, I will recall my childhood wish for a wishing-chair that would arrive in the nick of time to deliver me out of my scraps.

Then again, perhaps I do have one.

Some of you have already heard about my favourite bench. It is a wooden bench at the reservoir opposite my house. I would sit on that bench after every run, just to watch the world go by. While it can comfortably seat two and snugly fit three, I would singly hog the entire bench. The weather-beaten bench looks much older than it really is because of the abuse it had taken from people. Graffiti, knife carvings and dubious stains mar its beautiful wooden grain. In spite of its humble appearance, it is in my opinion, an enchanted place. It is a place where I gain inspiration, obtain guidance, receive comfort and attain counsel. Time seems to stop when I am on that bench. It is there that I often get flashbacks on past events that have made me who I am; it is there that I get occasional glimpses of the future. Some of the most meaningful conversations I have ever had in this lifetime were held there. In a world echoing with the voices of deceit, Truth meets with me there.

Azza had been nagging at me to get back there. (I suppose there is a limit to how much whining and complaining a man can take after all.) :p  After testing the limits of what yesterday’s writing process, I know I need to spend some time on that bench again. When every arena seems to be falling apart, I know one who can hold it all together. And I know I’ll find Him there – He’s someone whom I know will never stand me up.

You see, wishes do come true. I have my own version of a wishing-chair after all. And it is a magical place.

The wonderful world of make-believe

“Tell a lie often enough, loud enough, and long enough, and people will believe you.”
- Adolf Hitler

Considering the atrocity he initiated, the man was evidently a master of fraud.  The Holocaust was testament that Hitler knew what he was talking about. The unfortunate problem with pathological lying is that after a while, it is not only everyone else who will believe the liar. The liar himself begins to believe his own stories. About a year ago, I was given an interesting book entitled “House of Cards” by William Cohen, which I finally started reading only recently (sorry Pip!). It is a blow-by-blow account of the events leading up to the fall of the great Bear, which set off a chain of events that eventually ushered in yet another great bear. I know, I know, bad play on words…  Anyway, while I haven’t finished the book, it was fascinating to read how those so-called top financial experts managed to spin a web so seductive that they themselves were enticed into entanglement by the threads of lies that shone with promise then.

So what makes a lie? I don’t think lies are merely the falsities we say. They can also be the truths that we omit or hide. If you think about it, we live in a world full of lies. Our political systems thrive on lies. Politicians pretend to care for their people by visiting disaster sites, but do only enough to avoid the wrath of future voters. Many of our human relationships are based on half-truths. I will not voluntarily tell most people about the things I said and did when I lost my cool, because I want to uphold a certain image. Sometimes, people lie to themselves. I suspect that people who get indignant when they are criticised behave as such because they have managed to convince themselves that they are better than what they truly are. You may be familiar with what I am saying. Some people refer to it as the ego.

As more lies are being spun around us, we become dull to the voice of truth. Just last weekend, I happened to watch one of those filler programmes on television showing how the movie “The Chronicles of Narnia” was made. I had watched the movie before, and I knew that computer-generated imagery (CGI)was involved in the creation of mythical creatures but apart from that, I admit that I had never really given it much thought. I was dismayed when I found out that even the wolves in the movie were created from CGI. I had always thought they were real! I realised that I had bought into a lie because I had been sucked (or suckered) into the make-believe world created entirely on machines running matrixes of 1’s and 0’s.

What I find scary is that I suspect many of us want to be lied to because it makes us feel better in a world that we already know is flawed. Like junkies chasing that elusive high, we need more stimulants, brighter colours, faster action, sleeker moves and greater excitement to mask the dullness, lifelessness and despair that lies beneath the surface. When most people ask “How are you?”, they expect to hear “I’m fine!”, punctuated with a bright smile. We want to make believe that our politicians actually care about us more than they do about our votes. We are easily appeased when a tragedy strikes, and company honchos issue statements beginning with “we deeply regret…” because we want to believe that companies actually care. We need to make believe that we are a better person/worker/son/daughter/friend/lover than most people around us. When we seek affirmation, we are essentially saying, “Don’t tell me truth that is painful to hear. Make me feel better. Lie to me.”

Now that you’ve read this, doesn’t it make you wish that I didn’t sound so negative today?

What a wonderful world we live in.

A year on

An ex-colleague from a previous workplace once commented, “You know that saying ‘It’s better to have loved and lost, than to not have loved at all?’ Everytime I hear that, I would wonder what kind of idiot would say something like that.” I remember agreeing with him.

That was three years before 2009.

25 October 2009. Henceforth I shall know this date as that when I put my dog to sleep.

It was almost a year ago. A day when I couldn’t bring myself to envision what this month, a year later, would be like. It was a day when I hid in my room, under my blanket, away from people. My memories of the days that followed were hazy.

Whatever it was, I’m thankful he didn’t suffer. It was the ones he left behind that did. I had thought that the hardest part was making the decision to euthanize. I soon realised that it wasn’t. The hardest part was the doubt and guilt that came after. Did I make the right decision? Was I too impulsive? Did I rob him of a chance to recover? Was I being selfish? Did I do it too early? Did I do it too late? Did I just murder my dog?

I remember resuming my normal activities as the days passed. I remember not saying much to my family. That, my friend, is a typical traditional Chinese family. We don’t talk about feelings. Nobody in the family knew what anyone else was thinking. Perhaps we were all thinking that if we didn’t talk about it, it would go away. What “it” was, I don’t know. I spoke to no one except two friends whom I knew I could trust. As far as I was concerned, everyone else who tried comforting me would have done me a bigger favor by knowing when to keep their mouths shut. On hindsight, I realised they meant well but…

My thoughts of guilt and doubt were interspersed with reminders of what I had lost. I found that people who were left behind by the passing of a loved one actually also go through a little death inside. People left behind are reminded of their loss constantly. Like when a neighbor passed my house and I braced myself for the warning bark, I heard only silence. Like when the lightning flashed across the sky and I expected restless pacing and anxious pants, I experienced only stillness. Like when I sat down at the table to dinner and expected a wet nose nudging my knee to beg, I felt emptiness at my feet.

Very soon, you no longer need the constant reminders of what was no longer there. You become painfully conscious of it. I remember slowing my steps when I approached my door at the end of the day, because I knew there would no longer be someone wagging his greeting. I remember consciously making a detour so that I didn’t have to walk past the pet store. I remember telling myself to stop looking for him at every corner

Time dulls the pain. Azza was right.

When you concentrate on living a day at a time, very soon you’ll be surprised that a huge chunk of time has passed. I don’t know when it began, but as the days passed, I realised that the afflictive thoughts of what I have lost were gradually displaced by the more pleasant thoughts of what I have had.

Thoughts of how he had artfully trained my mother to rub his tummy, trained my sister to pet him and trained me to fetch the leash so that he could bring me on walks.  Wonder at how he knew whom he could bully and get away with it. Memories of how he chased my nephews around the house, badgered my elderly grandmother for table scraps but put on his best behavior in my dad’s presence and wisely avoided the neighbor’s cats. You know you have put on those old rose-tinted glasses when you can smile while looking at the deformed chair leg that he had gnawed through during those teething months.

I thought I was the only one in the family who was thinking of the upcoming anniversary. The younger one (he just turned four) surprised me last week when he suddenly asked me to get another Benji so that they could play hide and seek again. I think one day I will. Not yet, but some day.

Now I know this: it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. Really.