are we clear now?

Clarity under intoxication

I'm still trying to articulate my thoughts on that. I've been saying it quite often these past few weeks, without really explaining what I mean; all of which has left some people wondering if I've got full control of my mental faculties. More so when I'm trying to express it over a drink, or six.

Here goes. First the disclaimer; this epiphany-like condition only applies now; previous bouts (read: ten years ago) were purely an exercise in futility in trying to shove everything in my head down the drain. Needless to say, the only thing that went down the drain was the contents of my abused guts. Onwards to 2009 (hope this isn't the start of a ten-year cycle).

I seriously reckon over-thinking is a disorder. I mean, it just sends you (me) down this downhill slope right into Despair Zone. Myriad scenarios, situation, outcomes and permutations race around my brain, in some damaging Brownian motion. Then wham! bam! The collision. And the realisation that everything will end in abject failure. Which is not pleasant, in whatever manner imaginable.

But with fermented rye and barley and wheat and God knows whatever else is put in liquor, the fog parts, to reveal the dark clouds. Therein lies the clarity. No what-ifs, no questions up in the air, no will-it-work-outs helter-skeltering about in this thick-skull. And for that moment in comforting intoxication, I know everything will come to naught. No buts, no maybes, just a stake-driven Nyet.

After all, what can be more welcome than the absolute truth, boiled in whiskey and garnished with ginger ale?

And the next morning, when everything is one smorgasbord of a mess, the carousel starts again.

Clarity under intoxication - now do you get it?

sing when you're drinking

It's been ages since I last posted; more than a week constitutes ages in blogland, I reckon. Just didn't have the mood, the drive, the mental capacity to write anything beyond the darkest shade of black. Which would have bored most of you, I'm sure. Oh no, not another morose post, I would have heard you sigh. So does that mean I'm in a better mood now? Hmm, by the merest iota of difference, yes.

Some credit has to go to the Famous Grouse. Yes, that scotch bird who looks out furtively over every bar shelf. And it's not a bad drink, by any means. One of the more under-rated drinks, if there ever was one. Whether with soda, coke or ginger ale, it goes down relatively smoothly. Then again, after five shots, everything goes down smoothly.

I wouldn't say I've fallen off the wagon, but I'd say I've missed getting sloshed and having my brain cells die in the rushing flood that is booze. And momentarily submerging all the demons in the swirling mixture of malt and barley and rye and God knows what else. The fact that sobriety is constrained to the day is even more liberating, for some convoluted reason.

So yeah, only time will tell how long the drunken debauchery will last, but while it's alive and kicking, then all I can say is "kampai".

Here's a completely random piece of text; a verse from The Smiths. Can't find the video for the song, though.

Loved and lost
And some may say
When usually it’s nothing
Surely you’re happy
It should be this way ?
I said "no"
And then I shot myself
So, drink, drink, drink
And be ill tonight

peering over the fence

Thus far it's all quiet on the western front. No outward signs of warmth or affection. Which is good, of course. I think. Makes life a whole lot easier, this weaning off process. I think, no, I feel I'm doing a decent enough job of not stumbling into the pit again. I must say though, ambivalence and apathy can be very, very difficult to project, and maintain. Very difficult indeed.

Why have I got a sudden increase in spots on my face? Dammit! Now I'm beginning to display symptoms of a 16-year old. As if the whining and pouting weren't juvenile enough.

I was told gay people get it on more times than straight ones. I wonder how true that is. Does sexual orientation strongly influence frequency of copulation? Then again, comparing gay and straight joints, the patrons in the former tend to be less inhibited with their actions and appear to be more 'warm' than their more conventional counterparts. One really feels the 'love' spreading around Frangi's on Friday nights, that's for sure. Which would correlate directly with bedroom activity; almost every gay couple heads off for a menage a tois, most straight swingers tend to congregate in the mamaks after that, cursing their misfortune at not being able to pick up girls, and vice versa.

And why am I writing about this topic? I don't know; guess my mind was distracted by an article I was reading minutes ago, on Rock Hudson. Yep, the epitome of machismo, the man's man, the icon of manhood. Until he stumbled out of the closet.

"We don't judge." Coined some time back in Langkawi, after a couple of several drinks; I reckon it's a mantra for a more peaceful life. After the piper has played, does it really matter who swings which way, or who likes what, or who wears what? Everyone has to pay the piper in due time, so why the need to look over one's shoulder, peep through the hole, peek under the table to see and judge what others are doing? One of Man's greatest failings is pointing out the speck in another's eye, without realising the plank in his or her own.

Okay, that came out rather preachy I felt.

For the next couple of days, I'm going to do a spot of people-watching. Something to kill time, like those old, old people in nursing homes or in one of those rustic small towns in England; Midsommer comes to mind instantly. I'll just watch the world go by, and the people with it. I'm sure that should provide enough ammunition for one decent post, at the very least.

And maybe I might just copy down my thoughts into a notebook. Heard of it? It's ye big, and can be written upon. I know, it's 2009, laptops, baby, laptops. When I do have excess cash to spend, then yes. For now, the two ringgit notebook will have to suffice. Or maybe a three dollar one, for a touch of elegance.

et tu, amicus?

Sometimes I wonder, why is having feelings for a friend such taboo?

I mean, thinking about it, shouldn't one get to know a person first before establishing a relationship that is more than platonic? I doubt anyone in the right frame of mind would say "oh, I've developed feelings for an acquaintance." Yet there always seems to be this burden of guilt that accompanies any confession of feelings towards a friend, more so if these feelings are first expressed to a third party. No doubt, falling for one's friend is always tricky, cause it stirs up the whole issue of "I want so-and-so as a boy/girl friend but I don't want to lose our friendship." Which makes one deduce that entering a relationship means the inevitable demise of a sound friendship.

Given, it's not easy, and revealing your feelings can be akin to tip-toeing around egg shells. The most horrifying reaction would be one of shock, where the object of your affections cries bloody treason and crucifies you for 'betraying' the friendship. That would mean, suppressing one's emotions is fine and dandy, but expressing them is a sin. Ask yourself, do you really want to spend a considerable amount of time with such an immature and ignorant person? I reckon, anyone who chastises a person for 'letting it all out' isn't worth the effort, trust me. Ahh, but then again, you wouldn't know if you don't ask, you retort. Fair enough; but if you do get such a response, then you know. Move on, move up.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying a proposal should always be met with acceptance. However, rejection should always be administered considerately, and as honestly as possible. After all, one should feel happy that there's someone else out there who fancies him/her. Happy, not egotistical. And it shouldn't be made into some sort of laughing matter when relaying the episode to your locker mates, drinking buddies or gossip mongers. If you can't respect another's endeavour, then it speaks volume of your character.

Here, I must state that 'you' doesn't refer to anyone or any scenario in particular; it just makes using an object of focus in this post easier. Yes, I'm trying to pre-empt any possible remonstrations and outcry that may arise. Or will arise.

Besides, I reckon it's more fun to write about stuff like this than Malaysian politics (shudder).

same ol' brand new me

Looks like the days where I could drink merrily all night long and awaken feeling none-the-worse for wear are long gone. Christ, what a massive headache; spanning a little over a day. I've really got to stop making exceptions for taking the odd drink or three; and this even applies to Bailey's, woman's drink or not.

Cameron's was one big laze fest; the massive crawls notwithstanding. The frequent 'winter' showers just further reduced the average metabolic rate to 'Barely Active'. Plenty of food, coupled with an overdose of CTT. Oh yeah, and copious amounts of whiskey on the side. I'm not going to venture into idiocy that is the Malaysian driver. Instead, I rather delve on the crisp weather that still prevails in Cameron's; the sinful strawberry-based desserts at Rajuu's, and the friendly services provided by the Country Lodge. It always helps to be in the company of like-minded travel mates, and this round was no exception, the Anfield-Old Trafford verbose spats included.

My drinking resolution having taken a severe beating, the relationship version fared slightly better. Didn't whine, pine, whinge or cringe. Not outwardly, at least. A random message caught me by surprise, and threatened to turn my scheme on its head, but Glenfiddich provided a very welcome respite. Why I'm letting this crawl under my skin, god only knows. Or maybe I do, as well.

So yeah, the weekend getaway was an opportune interruption from my schoolgirl-esque lamentations and tantrums. I'm back, feeling wonky, drowsy and a tad bit silly. Above all, the cold, bone-chilling weather seems to have done my head a world of good.

When I find out what that 'good' is all about, you'll be the second to know.

all quiet on the cold front

Okay, I'm at a chilled state of mind now.

I'm chilling, mentally. I'm mentally chilled.

Or should it be 'chill' without the -ed?

Hmm, I digress.

Okay, yeah so after consulting Guruji, I decided to sweep everything off the table. No, not for a menage. Figuratively speaking.

I'll be apathetic to any gestures, whatever-like to any signals. I'll be cooler than ice, I'll be ice-cold.

So I'm going to stick my heads in the clouds over the weekends, warm my lard-protected innards with whiskey, and blow some flavouring to the clean, crisp air around me. And when I return, you can call me Mr Freeze. Iceman sounds better though. Hmm, I need to think about that one. Mr Freeze sounds frigid.

Back to the matter at hand. Regardless of the moniker, I won't give a flying fuck. Cause I'm chilled (chill?).

Disclaimer: Author reserves the right to change persona, outlook and approach due to sms-es, calls or personal contact over the next few days. He is, after all, infatuated. Totally.

eesh

Wednesday is turning out to be one of those gloomy, low-key days that often occur about twice a week. Considering it's the middle of the week, that's not too bad. Though, I was expecting this week to be quite a shoo-in to the long weekend. Ah well, something about being unable to eat a cake.

All things considered, I'd have to find someone else to occupy my time. Which isn't easy given my exquisite tastes (laugh, and be damned). Yeah, it's always an issue for me, getting rid of someone from my head. There have been one or two cases of extended hauntings, months after I decided to move on. That's just the way my brain works, I guess. I fall easily, take ages to dust myself off, and then willingly tumble down again. Hence, this overwhelming annoyance with my idiocy.

Funny, some might be under the impression that I've broken up again. That impression would be wrong, to say the least. I'm just being fucking childish about not getting my way. Of which, I've done nothing. I hint, therefore I expect a positive response. I gesture, so all attention should be heaped on me. Eesh, how do I stand myself, I do not know.

What next? Don't bloody know. I'll probably be all roses and butterflies sometime next weekend. But maybe I should stop playing these foolish games. Blah blah blah, should this and should that and shouldn't those. Should can take a walk for all I care. A very long walk.

Time for a smoke.

ever so rarely, i can be an idiot

I guess the current 'campaign' is heading nowhere; nowhere near where I want to be. I'm oscillating between knocking my head on the wall and knocking my head on the table. Either way, it's knock, knock and yeah, knock. In many ways, I should know better. I really should. Is it any wonder I have all these bite marks?

So now that I've ascertained that the wall in front of me is way tougher than the one they had in Berlin, it's back to the drawing board. Knock, knock and knock. I could easily avoided all this balderdash if I'd screwed my head on a little bit tighter. And been more sensible about things. I don't jump, I plunge. And plan out my moves after I'm below the surface.

Okay, that's the end of the self-recriminating rants. Onwards march, I reckon. First on the agenda, a clear head. Hmm, perhaps something else should be first. Alright then, first on the list, ermm, a make-over. Yeah, that sounds like what most self-help wannabes would regurgitate. Next, go out more often. The streak stands at 8 consecutive weeks; that's two months' worth of weekends spent polishing the bars, sweeping the dance floors and gargling my mouth with ultra-sweet fizzies. Which reminds me, I really need to find a healthier alternative to the Cokes and Ginger Ales I've been guzzling down; I'm thinking Soda Water. I'm sure it has minute amounts of sugar and trace calories. I hope. Third, and most importantly, fuck everything. I'm just doing it my way. Like Frankie said. Yeah.

Once I've done all that, and patted myself on the back, looking rather smug, then I'll go clear my head.

All which means there'll probably be a similar epiphany within the next couple of months.

Yeah.

and then there were none

Sometimes, I wonder if it's worth playing all these mind games.

Is it really beneficial to chart your moves, to analyse every action and plan for the next step? Are feelings nothing more than mere chess pieces, to be moved and captured with the sole intention of triumphing in the end? And what is this triumph? What do you get out of this, other than the opportunity to bask in the egotistical afterglow of some self-damaging contest? Where's the honesty? And what about the axiom of expressing one's true emotions? Measly pawns that are sacrificed to achieve what is inevitably a hollow victory.

And yet, there's the question of risk. How far is one prepared to go in order to 'seal the deal'? What if only one hand is clapping at the wind? There is no rewind button, no 'Previous' icon to click on. What's said will remain said, and no amount of backtracking will change that. How far will you go? How far will I go? The awkwardness if faced with a resolute 'No'; the deafening silence that follows; the tension that forms a perpetual wall between the protagonists; situations that create hesitation in the most daring of gamblers.

I reckon the risk of rejection (or should I say, fear?) is inversely proportionate to the degrees of separation between two people. The more layers there are, the more inclined one is to spilling the beans. Direct contact (close friend, colleague) brings the biggest risk. Can you face someone every day, knowing he or she sees no future with you? Would I be able to sit down and have coffee with a group of friends, knowing one of them is privy to my inner feelings, and is not reciprocating them? Take a minute to think it through, before spewing out oft-used phrases like "just do it" or "you gotta do what you gotta do" or even "go with the flow".

The two main weapons missing from most people's armoury (and definitely mine) are confidence and a thick hide. The former to express yourself, the latter to survive potentially damaging rejection, both psychologically and emotionally. I can only speak for myself when I say it only takes a few minutes to swiftly unravel what has been carefully nurtured and protected over the years. To avoid that, you and I wait and see. We play a waiting game, collecting positive signs and explicit signals, accumulating them until there is no doubt whatsoever that we'll receive an affirmative response to our propositions. You yearn for a gentle gesture, I anticipate a revealing word; anything that resembles a carrot to which we can pursue with renewed hope and youthful zing.

But enough of these purposeless laments, these needless groans and moans that will eventually be quite grating even to me. I'm shrugging off the dusts of disappointment that litter my mind; I'm putting events into perspective. I'm reaffirming my commitment to ambivalence, which is comforting in some sadistic form. Or is it masochistic?

After a while, who cares.

it had to be valentine's day, didn't it?

Oddest thing, I can't seem to recall even one memorable Valentine's throughout my life. A good one, that is. I've had a couple of utterly horrible ones over the years (15 and counting). But never one which really justified the exorbitant prices paid on the day. Just one of those inane things, I guess, like never having flown or gone to the beach before. Am I bothered? Not really.

Okay, so here's the plan; which is by no means a walk in the park. Since it's been said that everything comes in threes, I've decided to have one more love affair. Which implies that I'm disregarding earlier relationships. Yeah, sorry. So strike two, and I'm batting at base (or whichever baseball term used to describe one last throw of the dice). One more crash, and it's the highway.

Now I just have to find a party to my love affair. See, i told you it wasn't easy.

Anyways, to those celebrating their love or feelings or whatever it is they celebrate on 14 Feb, Happy Valentine's Day.

And for those who aren't, whiskey, cigarettes and a dance floor.

sobriety is relative

Ever since I fell in love again, life has been nothing but a bed of roses framed by a star-filled canvass.
Yeah right! Ah well, at least there's still one in a million chance...
Hmm, this turn of events (also known as subject of infatuation) shows that I've progressed from tall blondes (farewell Maria, it's game, set and match).

Back to serious business (matter of relativity, of course). Okay, I'll begrudgingly admit, Hartamas isn't that bad a place to jolly about. Two consecutive nights there, and I'll say this much: it has its attractions. In terms of sights and space; the latter referring to, of course, the relative ample free parking available during the earlier part of the night. And the clubbing hive of Hartamas is undoubtedly Supper Club. Sit down at the mamak opposite (next to 7-Eleven) and you'll nod in agreement. Really.

Thus far, I'm pleased with my resolve. Barring certain idiots who have tried spiking my drinks, I've kept away from alcoholic beverages with relative ease. True, it takes more effort to loosen up the tongue and body movement, but slowly and surely, I'm getting the hang of it. So maybe I'll treat myself to a binge sometime in December this year. If only I could say the same of cigarettes.

Then again, I said I was quitting drinks, I didn't say I was becoming a saint.

somebody told me

An insightful weekend, by all means. It's incongruous how I spied upon the inner workings of my emotions over Chinese tea and cigs. Spied, or should I use 'revealed'? Mere pedantry; it's now inconsequential. Yeah, definitely helps talking, and talking, and talking; I reckon for 6 and a half hours or so. Sometimes I don't fancy being told I'm wrong; there are moments when I dislike being right. This time, I looked forward to being wrong, I couldn't be fucked to be right. Being open really helps in grasping clarity of thought and action; no strings attached, no hidden agenda. I'll get by with a l'il help from my friends.

Well, I want to believe the signals and signs and gestures and everything else. Of course I do. But believing and reality are sometimes poles apart; and bring about painful repercussions when confused with one another. I should know, I've been culpable of several disastrous mix-ups over the years, when I was way younger. Every gesture is thoroughly analysed to the point of being completely remoulded from the original act. You erect a magnificent castle beyond the clouds, only to find out you're barking up the wrong tree.

So you learn from your cock-ups. You 'collect' these gestures, these actions; and you store them in your treasure chest. You gently cup every word, every sentence and put it away safely. And once your treasure chest is overflowing, that's when you know it's time to cash in, to run the final mile. You know you're safe, the hook has landed, you stuck it in. It might have taken an extra year, but it's worth it. But there's a catch. Like points accumulated, they expire. So you toil and keep filling the chest, but what's at the bottom has dissipated into thin air; your interest's feelings have waned with each passing month and now he/she thinks you're not interested, or has outgrown the sweet emotions he/she felt for you. And all you're left with is a treasure chest full of dusty memories.

Okay, so how do I relate this to myself? I'm not sure; I think I got carried away with the analogies and forgot what my point was. Wait, I know. I need to have a cut-off point, a point in time when I decide to just rush in headlong instead of loitering by the sidelines, analysing and permutating. Come to think of it, I've been in a couple of relationships which have lasted more than 11 years, collectively. It's time to shake things up, and follow the path least travelled. The moment I overcome my debilitating fear of humiliation. Which is, like, never.

liberation, at a price

I had an epiphany last night.

I accepted the fact that I've been burying latent emotions beneath layer upon layer of delusion, suppression, regret and guilt; for many years, at that. It's like a plug in a hole; remove the former and everything comes pouring out, a trickle at first, followed closely by a gush of pent-up feelings. On saying that, it was almost matter-of-factly, how I stripped the festering layers that bandaged my psyche; coupled with the occasional thousand yard stare. My emotional priorities have changed, overnight, and I'm mildly taken aback that it's taken me this long to see things more clearly, and perhaps more rationally as well.

It's not so much as being emo but rather, it's understanding why the emotions linger. Above all, I don't feel the need to justify them any more. That's the way it is, live with it, and if you don't like it, then there's the nearest exit. The devil may care; I care even less. If I'm happy, then I will laugh; I don't need a reason to be happy. And if I'm distraught, then I will despair till I can despair no more, for only then can I say I've addressed what I feel.

I'm being rather disjointed, admittedly. But emotions themselves are swirling colours that spiral in and out of the heart, and such cannot be penned as easily as, say, a book review.

So how does this self-proclaimed enlightenment allow sight of the path ahead? For starters, I've learnt to accept. Acceptance of the loneliness within. Loneliness is categorised by three types - situational, developmental dan internal; I'm strongly contending all three categories. And this has been a constant membranous layer enveloping my mind and heart for more than twenty years. Many a time I've felt lonely in a group, more so in a crowd. But it's never been permanent, for I've continuously wrestled it into submission with companionship, conversations and a circle of friends. Yet it always returns to rear its head, at the slightest given opportunity. In my current vulnerability, it has gained a foothold.

And thus, yet another battle begins.

top of the singles' chart

So do I really want to stay single for ages?

That question distinctly implies that I have choice, doesn't it? "Yeah okay, I don't want to be single, whoop, here's my woman." I'm still tip-toeing around this forlorn, lonely planet called Singledom. It is a bleak kingdom, one without colour, ruled by the harsh King Loneliness. A land painted grey, devoid of life. Oops, slid into DM mode there.

Very well, I'll dispense with the theatrics. But the gist, the essence of my lamentation remains. Being single is so bloody boring. With a capital B; boring, that is. Why is that? Why do many people rejoice in breaking the chains of couplehood? They revel in their newfound freedom, released from the shackles that bound them to the monotony of monogamy.

(shudder) This is without doubt the longest stretch of singleness that I've endured in the past 15 years. Damn, now that piece of statistic amazes even me. Have I become so accustomed to having someone that I've absolutely no inkling on how being single works? I think so. Uh-oh, waves of palpitations are building up; i sense a bombardment of my recently-improved psyche. Breathe, fool, breathe. Repeat this: I will not be single for more than six months, I will not be single for more than six months. Dammit, six months is but a month away, give or take a week. Hope springs eternal, yet there's a rocky road and couple of chasms between hope and reality. And throw in a forest or two for good measure. Really need to have a D&D session soon.

Actually, it's not that I'm desperate or anything. Woe betide anyone who dares imply otherwise. It's more like, I can't stand loneliness. Sigh, okay, I've admitted it. So there, once in a blue moon and all that. Being lonely has always been foreign to me; now it's like close kin. And loneliness has brought a host of other unwanted imps with it, namely boredom, listlessness, tepidity.

"At first I was afraid, I was petrified."

Sometimes I feel there's a supernatural malevolent cat stalking me; it almost always launches itself at my tongue when I try to strike up a conversation with a quarry of interest. And mangles it beyond recognition. As things are, it takes me just over a decade to even approach a woman; the period is usually halved if there's sufficient alcohol flowing through my much-narrowed veins. Think Darcy, bereft of Victorian-esque charms. An awkward hello, a mundane piece of vocal contribution, a tense silence, a quick fiddle of the handphone, and it's Houston, we've lost contact. To a tee.

Then there are days when I walk on sunshine. Confidence is sky high, charm out of this world. A swirl of the glass, a flick of the cigarette, and an eye on proceedings. The end result tends to be the same, but yeah, like I said, confidence is sky high. You can't take that away from me.

But all in all, singlehood isn't exactly how I envisioned it would pan out to be. When attached, suddenly there's a party every weekend, you get plenty of flirtatious talktime, and life's generally a blast everywhere except in your relationship. You go solo, and everything disappears into thin air, compatriots who vowed to paint the town red with you have all of a sudden taken vows with someone else, and you're more often than not the proverbial third wheel in nearly all outings. You're consigned to the 'singles' tables at dinners and weddings, and asked constantly about plans to tinker the wedding bells. Right, I plan to get married, that's why I'm sitting with all the other singletons. Idiot alert.

Pre-New Year Resolution # 7: By hook or by crook, I'm bringing a date for the next function/ dinner/ reception/ wedding I attend. Even if it's some random stranger.

Yeah.