Durian Love.

I've been living in this quiet neighbourhood for almost 13 years now, and though it may seem like such a long time, I spent most of it within the comforts of my room. I don't go out much, and honestly there isn't much to distract a person from a hermit existence here, if you really wanted to indulge in it. So I must shamefully admit; I don't really know my neighbourhood that well.

Nevertheless, like people, my neighbourhood has its funny quirks and interesting idiosyncracies, ones that are hard to ignore after living here for 13 years. For example I know that on most mornings, at the very least, when the sun has just come up, I see Mr. Gentle Giant.

Mr. Gentle Giant is this man with a kind face, wears spectacles, has fluffy hair, a moustache and possibly a stubbed chin, though I can't be sure - I'm never close enough to make out his face clearly, and is ridiculously tall. He sticks to routine, and if you should happen drive by my house one day at probably 8.30 am in the morning, you might chance to see this thin, tall man, with shorts and slippers, carrying his dog in the mornings.

That's right. I think I remember noticing a leash, but he would always have his small dog in his arms (carrying it like a baby) and walk serenely by the roadside every morning. Of course, when I see him, I'm either too late, or too early for something I'm supposed to be doing somewhere and chances are I'm rushing, but when I do notice Mr. Gentle Giant I can't help but smile to myself.

Then there's also the Durian lovers.

The Durian lovers are these married couple (I think, but I might be wrong) who happen to sell Durians every wednesday nights by the roadside at the night market near my house. They drive a van with them, the ones with the flaps by the side, and they set up a small stall with generator lights, lay out durians, and sit down on plastic chairs and wait for their customers.

Every time I see them, I almost never see customers, and instead I see them talking with each other. They'd look at each other, making jokes, and they'd always be smiling or laughing, and at other times, they'd just sit next to each other holding hands looking exactly like those new couples you saw when you were 16 and in high school.

And all this actually makes me wonder sometimes, If I can actually do without the zillions of dollars I should be making, and all the beautiful supermodels I should be marrying, without the bungalow houses, the fame and fortune and whether I can live out the rest of my days with something just as simple as carrying a dog in my arms in the mornings, or just sell durians with my wife every wednesday nights.

Strange, isn't it?

Learning the Blues.

There is something to staying up till 4am in the morning, doing what Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong call "learning the blues".

It's not pleasant, nor happy.

But definitely some kind of fix.

At least, when nothing else is.

Otanjobi Omedetou!

Perhaps this birthday, I shall try celebrating it with a little more gusto and a little less self-sabotaging.

=)

If only to say what I really mean...

Dear Father,

I know I was not the son that you dreamed of. You wanted someone simple, someone who didn't think too much, someone who was not overly ambitious. Perhaps you wanted your son to continue the legacy of you and your father before you, living out simple lives, close to the people you love. Perhaps, I shall even go so far as to say, you would have probably wanted a son who was a little less eccentric, someone who didn't think about the world and beyond and focused on the here and now.

For all that its worth, I am truly sorry dad. Your genes could've given birth to someone a lot like the person you wanted, (indeed, I see them all time) perhaps 9 times out of 10; but you won the unlucky lottery and ended up with me instead.

I believe someday we will look back and say, "We did the best we could under those circumstances," and though it may not seem like it, I have appreciated every little thing you have done for me. It doesn't go unnoticed dad, the cleaning of my room, the bits of money you leave for me, and even the eventual appreciation of my need for privacy. Again I reiterate; I am not a good son, and I've said some horrible things to hurt you, but I have always always appreciated everything you've done for me.

Just to let you know, that while I was growing up, I have only fond memories of your raising me. I remember the time when I was hungry in the middle of the night, and while arwah was too grumpy and sleepy to cook me something, you led me downstairs and made a plain omelette with rice, which tasted lovely at that time. I remembered you reading to me bedtime stories of the Wright brothers, the first men to fly, which I keep as inspiration up to this day.

I try to think of a bad memory I have of you dad, but I can think of nothing. You have been a good father and if your son isn't what you hoped he would be, it is not due to your failure as a parent. Sons simply don't turn out to be what you hoped them to be, and someday, when I am a father, I will grow to understand that too.

Thank you for everything you've given to me dad. I can never repay such a debt that I've owed you, but in the words of a famous poet, the plan is to let you know that I understand what you've done for me, what you've gone through, and I intend to say with all sincerity,

Thank you. And I love you.

Yours truly,
Khairie

To you.

I was considering on writing you a text message, just to let you know of this strange twist of fate that will bring us together (in 1 hour and 40 minutes to be exact), but on second thoughts, I decided not to. Perhaps, it is best that we apply the default setting of life, and maybe it will not be uninteresting to see how you would react if you should happen to bump into a stranger who seems and sounds familiar. I wonder, and it is not without the curiosity of a greatly excited boy/scientist - how would you react? Will I be good enough an actor to fool you? Will you recognize me through my facade?

We've never met before although we have been friends for a very long time. I keep trying to remember things about you, what you looked like, how you spoke and what you felt. I knew we would meet someday, although it was not a prophetic conclusion. Merely a hypothesis riddled with skepticism, though it was something I kept thinking about.

We've grown in very different ways and I am certain our keeping out of touch is no mere coincidence. We love each other dearly, of that I am certain - but the question is, could we love each other more if we knew more about the other? Or would we grow to love each other less?

Rather than face something that real and tangible we both decided to do what seemed the best way of dealing with our differences - we froze our relationship in this cryogenic container, letting our ideals of the other grow in our minds and know as little about the other as possible, occasionally putting in a greeting or two just so we know that the other is alive, but never exploring the other, not like we used to at the very least.

What I find most fascinating however is that although we've grown up in very different ways, but by us wanting to save the world with our own methods, we have, amazingly, arrived at one, significant, point - today. Our first meeting. The coincidence that I will forever rationally dismiss yet subconciously can never let go. Fate, Destiny, the very things whose existence I doubt, yet whose occasional occurence will continue to haunt me, you, you, my dear, living contradictory proof of the weakness of my logical thought.

I don't know if I've told you this, but I thought of a phrase that day, and could think of no one to dedicate it to. I wish I could tell you this tomorrow, but perhaps, rather than break open our cryogenic container and risk losing it all on one go, perhaps I could act out that Khairie that you know and remember. Whatever happens my dear, when you read these words, know that I was glad to have met you, if only it was my first and last time doing so.

And in case I haven't told you, I wanted to say:

If life was a symphony, then knowing you would be a peak cresecendo in its midst.

Yours truly,
Khairie

Perhaps my only wish this year for my birthday, is that I catch some light that reflects off people like you.

Dear God,

Dear God,

If you truly exist, and are truly omnipotent, then I will be glad to know that you will get this letter. I am writing to you to complain about your appalling incompetence, and your massive hypocrisy in the creation of this world.

Today I read a friend's blog who wrote about Rachel Corrie, an activist who died while standing against a bulldozer that tried to break down a palestinian home.

In her words, she wrote "She died at age 21 in 2003, crushed by Israeli bulldozers when she tried to prevent it from demolishing a Palestinian home."

So young, and to have died such a horrible death.

The current events in Gaza have led me to believe that you are, at least, a hypocrite. You send your prophets and your angels to preach that we should be good to each other, and that we should be kind to one another, and yet, for all that power you wield, you let thousands of people die horrible, unfair deaths everyday. You promise a wonderful afterlife, but I am not bought, dear God; You seem to have put a neat category of Heaven and Hell, but exclusively reserve judgement to which we have no part in.

I then ask you, dear Divine one, to lend me your power, and let me take over your job.

With such power in my hands I will redesign your creations, I would create a shining new world that everyone can participate in. I will change the very nature of Man, and if Man truly cannot be happy, I will snuff out our existence with one stroke.

I will eliminate pain and suffering, and no one shall, or can challenge this notion. It is a twisted, poor display of logic to say that some exist merely as a contrast to what happiness is, and I will not accept it. I will have no one suffer merely to make others happy.

If you cannot, or will not, change the world, then it is time you stepped down and let me be heaven's justice. I will undo the wrongs that you have committed.

Amin.
Khairie

Perfection.

I wake up and she's already dressed. I ask her, where are you going? And she replies that she's going to meet Eric. A sunday spent with another guy other than her boyfriend, I'm altogether impressed and annoyed. She looks at me, realizes it and smiles. She leans forward, kisses me on the cheek, and tells me I should go see Di, a girl friend of mine. It's been a while since you guys met, she says. She finds no qualms about me hanging out with another girl; her look portrays that confidence and trust that makes her completely secure with everything.

She walks out the door without looking back, and I spend the day with Di. She keeps no contact throughout the day, she's annoying that way; she is immersed completely and entirely with what she's doing at that time, and has no room nor time to be distracted by something else. I try to do the same with Di, but find myself stealing a few seconds throughout the day thinking of her; I never initiate first contact though - my time now is with Di, and it would be rude to deny her that time. Besides, she hates checking on, and being checked on.

We finish hanging out and I come home to find her still out. I pick up a book and start reading, while waiting for her to come back. Finally she walks through the door and comes over and again that kiss on the cheek. How was your time with Di? she asks. I tell her it was fun, and she tells me about her day with Eric. It does not become a battle of who had more fun or who missed who more - she is simply too mature for that.

She walks away and she tells me we're going out to have dinner. Again, I feel annoyed that she would assume I would be free to go out, but the annoyance is short lived. She says she's already made bookings at this restaurant. I want to tell her off, to say that she shouldn't have done that, but what I'm really annoyed at is that she knows exactly what I want to do. She doesn't feel like she has to wait for me to make things happen - she can move mountains without my help.

We go for dinner, and we talk. We talk of politics, of science, of religion, and also the little gossip here and there. Time seems to simply fly by - 2 hours flow naturally. She picks up the bill.

We then decide to go to a jazz bar for drinks and good music. Again, her attention is focused on the performance and the music, and she pays no heed to me. She immerses herself within the hypnotic tunes of the performers, and finds no real need to speak. She is completely in her own world. I try to do the same, but find myself observing her. Without looking she holds my hand, and we sit in the dark, not speaking, but enjoying the music together.

The performance ends, and we head home. The day is perfect, but we both get the feeling it must end. We find no reason to stretch an already perfect day by having sex at the end, and we both knew it without saying a word. We change, and she leans forwards, kisses me, tells me she loves me, turns off the light and goes to sleep.

To my perpetual muse.

I still remember the first time I saw you.

It was thousands of days ago when all 3 of us boys got the call that your sister was bringing 'a friend' and us being boys, speculated on how hot you'd be.

We were all faaar from disappointed. We still remember the green thong, the cool yet funny charisma, the long flowing hair, the sexy tattoos. On some occasions, we still talk about you, and how each of us made a fool out of ourselves in front of you.

Growing up as a hopeless boy with a massive crush on you I did plenty of stupid things that I can remember. Writing that story about how big your boobs were and trying to come up with our own 'song', sending you those flirty messages at 8am in the morning, bringing those 'kiddie girls' to go out clubbing with you - at each juncture you could've been every other girl and dismissed me and left, but you never did. I can imagine you just shaking your head and smirking and saying "boys will be boys," and then still keeping in touch.

At this point I can close my eyes and random bits and pieces of memories, (ones I know you won't be able to remember) come trickling back in. That talk we had about drugs, about girls and body language. That night I sent you home drunk and puking, and then me delivering the keys to you the next day while you were having a hangover at work. You sitting at the passenger seat of my car with your legs hunched up telling me why you'd have to turn me down, while smoking your cigarette, nestling it gently between your two index fingers.

I remember you being unbelievably hot just doing that.

The funny posts you had on your shared blog, the karaoke sessions. That night the HUGE fat dude tried to pick you up and you had to flick the finger to tell him off. Another thing I remembered that I loved doing while I was out with you was checking out other guys checking you out.

It made me feel like the coolest guy on earth doing that.

They say that 'Love at first sight' doesn't exist, but I still feel the same way about you now, several years later after I first saw you. There's still that desire to just put my arm around you and pull you close and just kissing you, but at the same time, there's also that boyish hesitation.

You've always called yourself my older sister, and for the longest time I've rejected that notion. After all, you don't normally want to kiss your older sister, but now thinking back, if I did have an older sister, I'd like her to be exactly like you.

And now you're getting married to FB, and again, there's that boyish voice in my head being bitter. But it's been a while since we've met, and this boy has grown up a bit. If you can picture me with a slight smirk and just a hint of resentment in my eyes saying, "Congratulations Diana, I'm happy for you," then you would've known everything I've wanted to say already.

And I really do mean it.

Have a great one, my perpetual muse. And don't you dare slip out of touch.

p/s: Maybe his new nickname should be F.H eh? Lol.