the major minor details

On a morning

2010-07-14T21:53:00.000-07:00

Living with parents paid off the day when the small lump of terror slowly crawled its way back up the hose of the shower head. It was six in the morning and I began my daily routine of washing up before breakfast. Bed-headed and sluggish, I turned on the bathroom light and was fronted with one of my worst nightmares.

With lengthy antennae guiding the path, the insect moved gingerly up upwards tube, though it’s just the size of my thumb, its dark shell shined of pure evilness. I froze against the bathroom door, all my cells refrained from normal functioning due to the absurdity of the scene. Trust my luck to run into the creepy creature in a dozy state of mind. Again.

Fully awake with horror, I contemplated my choices when my brain reactivated, weighing between yelling for help and staying to keep watch until others wake up. Tackling the damned thing myself is never an option. So I tiptoed towards my parents’ bedroom, and in a child-like tiny voice, I informed them about the monstrous discovery. Watching my parents debated about who’s going to get up was like an extract from a typical parental situation in which the baby starts screaming its head off in the middle of the night, and each weary parent compete who craves the bed more.

My mom followed me to the bathroom with half-lidded eyes. The insect was nowhere to be found. Its vanishing during my moment of flee was just what I had expected. Since I’d be completely useless except to infuse panic, I left my mom to the hunt behind closed door. Sitting in the living room, I envisioned myself as a father-to-be waiting when his wife was in labor, though anticipating not for a life but a death. Nothing but the occasional sounds of splash and smash indicated what’s happening.

I may be a lot of things whereas my mom is not, but when it comes to bug clearance, she’s definitely got the upper hand. Talk about irrational fear, what’s to be scared of when the enemy is so much smaller compared to an average human? Why is there a feeling that the insect would lunge for attack when all it ever could do is to take flight from the crime scene (which in case it actually flies, it’ll be tons scarier)?

At last, the door re-opened. The battle is won and the morning of peace is preserved. I screened the contaminated bathtub and sprayed every corner of it. When there’re pests like this, who needs coffee?

A Lunch

2010-05-02T06:31:00.000-07:00

Saturday we were having an early lunch at this French bistro. As I sliced the club sandwich, over the old French jazz song in the background, a man's angry voice caught the attention of most people in the restaurant. Looked up from my plate, I saw the bistro manager standing nervously in the middle of the restaurant, hands folding in front of his short, plumb body.
The source of the commotion was a tall lean man, his face in mid to late thirties, but his real age betrayed by the thinning top of his hair. His opponent was your avenge dad, you know, the kind with a little too much body fat, blessed with a honest face and the relaxed manner of someone who just wanted a quiet Sunday outing with his family after a week's work.
"You have to apologize to my wife!" the tall guy demanded. The dad had his back to me, so I wasn't able to hear what he replied. The tall guy saw me staring, looked at me for half a second before returned his gaze to the dad, pulled a long face and stated his request of the apology again.
At some point, the restaurant manager interfered. This time, the dad told the story. His voice carried away across the corridor, to everyone who just desired a light lunch before the noon rush. "My daughter was passing through here, she accidentally crashed to (the tall guy's) wife. I guess my daughter apologized in a voice too low for them to hear," the dad continued, "Then (he) told my daughter to apologize again. She ran to me and said someone was talking to her in an unfriendly way, so I came to try to understand what happened."
My interest was lost in the midst of the little speech. Though none of my business, I couldn't help but remark that in a situation like this, the wife and daughter in question had to be feeling at least embarrassed, if not a little mortified, that the men were making a scene out of nothingness.
Why it means so much for the guys to have the young girl apologize to the wife, and why it is so hard to just tell your girl to say sorry in a way she means it? The bottom line is, is this for your wife/daughter or just for yourself? Men, you have to patronize one another to prove that you are indeed – a man. Please, just save us some peace and quiet, and find something else more fruitful than picking up petty fights during lunch.
Shortly after the unhappy incident, the husband and wife got up to leave. The man headed first to the door, the woman gathered up her things and followed him. No one was holding hands.

Adieu mon amour

2010-04-16T08:41:00.000-07:00

I wish I could be French.

The French have it all. "It" referring to the poetic dialogues which flow like a beautiful chanson, runway luxuries against slender silhouettes, layering gourmets and lollipop macaroons. Just about everything you wish you have. But most of all, we love the French for their celebrated breezy attitude towards life.

And I adore the Paris in my mind. I remember walking along the Seine, the golden statues on the bridge with joyous expressions like newly-borns; I remember cheese baguette and strawberry tarts, each savoring mouthful dating that this was the best meal I had during the trip; I remember the insane freeze at the top of Eiffel Tower and the breath-taking beauty left us speechless.

Don't get me started on Versailles! Glimpses of what it meant to be royal and extravaganza. Wandered down the Hall of Mirrors with ghosts of monarchy, glittering chandeliers lit up the velvet floral wallpapers in each parlor. Outside, lush green gardens were just as alluring in traces of drizzle as they would be under the mid-summer sun.

But most of all, I fell in love with the Happy Prince in the Vuitton garden nearby the Museé du Louvre. Oh that serene smile! Even with pigeons' droppings all over his marble shoulders.

I wish I could be French so I can understand how it is to have natural grace. Well, wouldn't mind being Frenched in those lovely Parisian streets either.

On "Savages"

2010-04-10T09:01:00.000-07:00

Last night I was watching "Last King of Scotland" on Pearl, and the scene which haunted my sleep was when the character played by James McAvoy being tortured by the President for sleeping with one of his many wives. To pay for it, he was hung up in mid-air by hooks which dug through the skin (yes, metal hooks the size of a fist). The plain brutality stung my eyes, not unlike the time when Marion Cotillard got beaten up by the cop in "Public Enemies".

Human beings always do the most barbaric things to each other. Countless stories throughout history unfold bloody samples of just how inhumane our race can be. Not even carnivore is capable of skinning one of their kin alive, just for the fun of it. The idea is enough to shake a person of right mind. Back in high school psychology, conformity was applied to worldly massacre during the Second World War, but that's no denying nor excuse for the underlying evilness rooted in the human self.

Our modern day run its own horror show on daily basis. Though claiming to be civilized, can you be blinded towards the backstabbing, boycotting, bullying witnessed in an ordinary office each day? It's not hard to miss, really. When one has to demean another to achieve self-gain, how is that different from holding one at gunpoint and tell him to do or die trying? Cruelty can take place in different forms and many of which are mental.

So if this life is just a game to you, play nice.

On "The Pseudo Sin City"

2010-04-10T08:48:00.000-07:00

My dear friend: On one of the days when I took the day off and went to Macau, our flashy neighbor. It only took a 65-minute boat ride to get there, so the trip didn't feel like a getaway at all.

I was among one of the few people who got off from the boat with a fluent Cantonese accent and without a French handbag. While most others made a beeline for the Venetian free shuttle bus, I got on the MGM bus 'coz I wanted to look at the glass gallery there. But instead of taking a stroll around the luxurious galleries, I sat down on a bench at the "open" plaza, which was in fact covered in what looked like plexiglass, protecting the visitors under contained sunlight. The whole décor was amusing in a sense that they tried so hard to create an air of Southeastern Europe with those blue-and-white porcelain tiles, but inserted all these ridiculous great panda dolls all over the place. Wherever a panda doll crept out from behind the pillar waving at you, or dressed up like a tourist with an adventurer's hat, the plaza looked more like a theme park than the square of a six-star-hotel. But guess what? I don't think the visitors came for the hotel's interior design anyway. Since I had nothing to offer but to plague the place with mockery, I left shortly after the PR people eyed me warily.

All the times I'd been to Macau, I'd never been to the Hac Sa Beach until then, though I did always want to see it. Yes, the sand was of a darker shade, but if you're expecting coal-like grains which are used in beauty treatments, you're in for disappointment. Not to say that the beach wasn't nice itself. Never quite a sunny-and-beach girl, walking along the shore was my high point that day. Somehow a scene from the latest version of "Pride & Prejudice" came to my mind, in which Mr. Darcy walks towards Elizabeth across the fields at the break of dawn in that one single shot, with that poetic and delicate piano sonata in the background. Just how nice it would be to walk on the beach against the chilly wind in a winter day like this.

I didn't spend a thing in the pseudo Sin City, except that I dropped my favorite pen, which was a gift. Sarcasm has its price.

On "The Way Home"

2009-12-24T03:16:00.001-08:00

My dear friend: Lately, the way home turns out to be quite an enjoyable walk though the company is not much. My place is at the end of the street, away from the main road, just straight ahead. Housing in Hong Kong is never a house, for ordinary people.

I used to complain about the walk being far from the train station, and it takes me a decade to grow fond of this little lane around the corner. With paperbark trees on both sides, this three-minute's walk at night is serenity itself realized. Just me, my favorite songs plugged in my ears, and the walk. Even when my shoes are killing me.

Seasonal decorations bring tiny yellow fairy lights wired between the branches, those plain ones which glitter as you pass, not the flashy ones which couldn't decide which color they are. It is only when I allow my mind to roam free to the what-ifs and what-could've-beens. As I headed towards the driveway, someone somewhere upstairs was having a party. Holidays cheer all around.

Between festive lights and hollow days, I hope you'll find what you're looking for.

On "The Thorn in the Heart"

2009-12-15T06:58:00.000-08:00

My dear friend: I wonder if Michél Gondry has ever made a dull movie during his career. The latest film "The Thorn in the Heart" is a heartwarming documentary which started off as a small project but is now large enough to fit the big screen. Commercialism is obviously not the first thing on the French's minds, but the sharing of art. Fancy that.

The film is about the story of the director's aunt, Suzette, her life as a small town teacher, mother, wife and friend. As the tall, old lady tells her life journeys, one cannot help but be captivated by her engaging, artless manners. One of the focuses is on the complicated relationship between Suzette and her son. Family dramas reveal difficult circumstances, accusations from both sides and unresolved discontents. Suzette concluded during an interview that her son is a thorn in her heart.

If someone has walked through life without having a thorn, I'm not sure whether to congratulate or pity that person. A life full of cheerfulness without pain, however are the joyous colors painted, the room in the heart would be empty. Every day spend on a bed of roses without thorns, would end in regrets. Hope you'll find your thorn and be grateful, for it may awaken you.

So it goes

2009-12-08T07:16:00.000-08:00

My dear friend, you ask me to write, so this is how it goes.

Not many years ago, I used to be easily inspired. A wide-eyed juvenile whined in disbelief at how things didn't come together with age, forming pretentious prose which carried more vocabularies than meaning. Every turn at street corners contained a surprise in waiting; heartbreaking music could've made my day; and motion pictures a constant supply of reflections and unrefined life philosophies.

Like every other thing, old habits changed. Time between writing lengthened from weeks to months, until I ceased writing at all. Sometimes the only time I would pick up a pen is to confide in a plain old journal. Between the lines, faded pages unfold disappointments, fears and though it's scarce, a ray of hope even I dared not to trust.

My way of self-expression narrowed towards the one-man-audience. Gullible as I am, had I turned into a heartless soul of worldly promises and fruitless desires? At the near end of year I find myself once again in front of my laptop, typing away. No great discoveries or intellectual views to share, here's the honest representation of Me Me Me, with in-your-face, forget-me-not loudness. All I'm counting on is that there're still worthy subjects around the street corner, a rainbow of lights to bring out the better side of us, if you watch closely.

Just something to hope for.

July 10 2009

2009-08-09T02:27:00.000-07:00

How to learn about a strange city in a few days? Well, you can't. With the limited time we allow ourselves to take, it's likely that my friend and I will rush though everything. Yes, we are going to a place we have never been before, hurricane-style.

One of the best things about traveling is the pre-journey anticipation. It is a nice feeling, to have something to look forward to, when your everyday life is documented in routines.

The confirmation from the travel agent on hotel reservation, the obsessive-compulsive-like foolishness in planning your outfits for each day of the trip, and even the extra cash you spent on tiny things to accommodate the foreign weather, are enough to bring unexplainable thrill and make my rational self shrieking with the unrealistic visions of joy. What would happen on the trip would be entirely a different story.

It sounds oh-so-attractive to dream about the unknown future, and it is too easy to over-romanticize when there is no opposite to convince you otherwise. Upon learning about your destination, people would comment on the weather and the food: "Wouldn't it be too hot?" "Oh, remember to try this and this and this!" I nodded and smiled, as if I have any idea if the temperature is going to kill and if the food is going to be ruined in the summer heat. So still at the pre-trip stage, one can only make the best preparation and let the rest take care of itself.

Whether I over pack or under pack, whether I may find myself in the middle of nowhere with no one who understands the few languages I speak, I know it would be a time to remember, cheesy as it sounds, 'coz we will be planning (or not planning) every step of the days, and years later, when flipping through the photos we had taken, we would trace the journey of our youth.

Blindly sentimental or ignorantly shallow?

2009-08-09T02:19:00.000-07:00

There's something about people going to a concert or a movie or similar events with just a single purpose. Like the teenage girls who scream when they see the latest whatever pop idols (insert your own eyes-rolling reaction please) and grab ten copies and tell whoever would listen, "These five are for listening and giving out, and these five are just for keeping!” Underlying are their undying loyalty towards the worshipped and self-proclaimed superiority that they are willing to give more than they should have for something they think are definitely worth it. Does it?

People who buy expensive tickets just to listen to one particular song, a musical maze which they overheard from the radio while tuning for ghost stories broadcasts late at night, and think the artist has touched their souls with melodious sensitivity. They go, "Oh my, nothing else can express what I'm feeling/thinking/seeing right now, this is so for me, me, me!" No, it's not about you, not really. It's actually about being in that moment, in that confined space and time, with that exact amount of emotional upheaval; that's how you are captivated by that line of poetic relevance and that heartbreaking falsetto.

Don't say, "I must hear that live! I must see that again! I must look for a way to express my narcissistic tendency in a healthy way!" Quit being shamelessly self-absorbed and if you think you can relive that second of masochistic despair upon a reencounter, whether the musician play the same note with the same conviction as heard or that actor repeats the line which you are oh-just-so-dying-to-hear (but bear in mind that the performers always, always has to repeat the same act for countless times, and they already do before you meet them), you are in for a disappointment. Every time you want to re-enter that magical place of guilty pleasure, you cannot while a sea of faces surrounding you, because it's all too personal, too private, too special to share.

Try not to go to something you think you would enjoy for the wrong reasons. If you love something, you don't love just for that one second, that one word, you love it whole and all. The same goes for disliking something and someone. There are, and so it should be, more reasons than one. Be in that moment for the experience. Of course, some people would pretend that they know all about the show and can't help bragging about how they can tell which song it is just from the first notes of guitar hooks (how else are they gonna take the mighty road against all others who are there just for the music?) while they secretly search for backgrounds online, and curse to themselves when the artist does a bossa nova version of their favorite song.

i-heart-Emily

2009-08-09T02:08:00.000-07:00

As usual, I missed the ten thirty-five bus, so I stood under the sun and waited, quietly (and quite impatiently, to tell the truth) watching the queue increase in numbers and people looking irritated and bored (much like myself). Finally, after the duration of two random songs, the long awaited vehicle came.

I quickly took the seat opposite the driver's, as it was the only one available and from my experience, it was quite a bumpy ride, full of slopes and turns, so knowing my luck, standing with such little support as a fragile hand rail would probably result in losing my balance and sitting on somebody's lap, which would not be a nice way to start the day.

The last person aboard had no choice but stood with his back to the driver (grabbing nothing but a hand rail for support, of course), with his head turned in alignment with the direction of the bus moving toward. As we are all aware of how uncomfortable it would be to look directly at strangers in such a confined space (whether in a lift, a room or a crowded bus), so my attention focused on this person's arm, the closest thing in my face which didn't have eyes to stare back.

Sketched through the length of the man's left arm from elbow to hand, skin whiten as a mark from the cut, scarred the words "I", followed by a heart shape, and the name "Emily", with the Chinese word "love" slightly above the heart symbol, translating the pain and love over the years.

He didn't look a day over thirty. Couldn't keep my eyes off the scars, I wondered where Emily was now. Did she know this man? Was she aware of his existence? What did she think of the gesture if she knew? Did she reciprocate the feelings? Did she mark a similar token on her arm too?

The wounds were long healed, obviously, but to leave a blemish this clear that it must have been painful at the crazed moment of devotion. The faded remains tattoo the extend of self-destruction we would go to for love, just as the holes in our hearts we dig to get rid of love.

Whatever happens to that man from now on, the imprint on his arm signifies the affection once burnt so deep that it will continue to last for a lifetime, never letting him go.