Selamat Hari Merdeka, Malaysia

Last week, I was at the neighborhood vegetarian eatery, thinking about the 1Malaysia concept. The idea of Malays, Chinese and Indians uniting for the good of the country has plenty of flaws because of the way Malaysia is run. I was thinking about how superficially created the three-races-together image is, a marketing ploy for tourists to the land that bills itself "Truly Asia".

When I approached the counter to pay for my dinner, the Indian server spoke to me in Chinese. Then I thought, hey, maybe 1Malaysia isn't too far-fetched after all.

Happy Independence Day, Malaysia. You've done well in these past 50-odd years.

Salon thoughts

"Haircut," I said to the tiny girl manning the cashier.

"Shampoo?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. I sat down on the chair when another woman started dripping water on my hair using a container similar to the kind that was being used for ketchup in eateries sometime ago. It took me a while to figure out that she was going to shampoo my hair in the chair, not at the sink, which is what I was used to. She expertly worked up a lather, very careful not to let any suds fall to the floor. Shaping my hair every which way, she demonstrated her skills in the longest shampoo session I have ever had in my life. My hair smelled terrific afterwards.

The stylists were all hip, as if ready to go on a night out. They had touchscreen phones and looked too cool for a salon beside a supermarket. I thought my stylist was going to be the young gay Chinese lookalike of Ely Buendia seated irritably in one corner. But no, it was the tiny girl manning the cashier. When she stepped toward me, I had a glimpse of her tattoo-covered calves.

She said that I have the unholy triumvirate of hair woes: too thick, frizzy and naturally wavy. Either I use chemicals (which I have had enough of) or I blow dry every day (which I do, but always in a hurry and most likely in the wrong way). She knew my hair better than I did in the three decades I have been on this earth.

Her cropped black jacket, though it looked plastic and not leather, made her look cool. Her short hair was perfectly coloured into an oddly natural-looking light brown. Her folded-up cut-offs, fanny pack and shiny scissors actually made her look like a manga character with a superhero alterego. I imagined myself writing about her exploits. Snip! Snip! Snip! Without a strand out of place.

There was no iced tea, no massage, no brush to dust off the stray hair that had entered my shirt. The stylist walked to the counter. She really was the cashier. The price was somewhere around what I expected, but it was still more than four times what I would pay for back home. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to tip so I lingered for a few seconds longer. She gave me her card. Now I have a heroine. Her name is Litz.

Bits and pieces

My collection of disparate images has been growing. Time to let them out.



Lantern, Ayala Alabang, Metro Manila, Philippines, December 2011


A Christmas gift, Antipolo City, Philippines, December 2011


Seen from above, Teresa, Rizal, Philippines, December 2011


My notebooks, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, April 2012



Tube ice on a truck, Luang Prabang, Laos, April 2012


Shivz Grill, Bangsar, Malaysia, June 2012



Mailbox, Temple of Fine Arts, Brickfields, Malaysia, July 2012

When Love Arrives

Transitive Verses, part 5

Even more embarrassing thoughts from the commute. I really shouldn't be posting these but I feel compelled to for some reason I cannot understand.


the men arguing at the corner have it better
they're exchanging ideas, mind to mind.
the neighbour who honks and waves as he drives past
at least makes a sign that you exist.
who dares to escape this haze
when sandals scrape the pavement
where the cats don't budge an inch.
why try to decipher
what madness one wrestles with,
walking through cobwebs
just to see eye to eye with you.

[SkyBus, 3 May]

Can't even tell if you are a star and if you are, what what makes you so bright?
The street lights race across the window but fail to measure up to you
Like minarets against the dome.

I've changed more than you know, eyes lined awake, nails black as jet,
But I only want one kiss from the dusty, pockmarked face
Of the big white moon tonight.

[SkyBus, 8 May]

Transitive Verses, part 4

baju kurung

has someone ever told you, little girl, that your head is above the clouds?
see: the sun won't show you the world yet but time ambles on for none.
the tracks grumble under the weight of heavy slumbering wheels.
you need to keep reality in check, you and your paisley dreams.
envy the man beside you with a screen, defeating evil in pixels.
watch your neighbours sleep grey naps as the day begins
and your mind wanders far with you and your paisley dreams.
so count your black shoes and whistle as buildings fly past,
watch the city wake with a groan, the cranes spring to life,
as the mist rolls on and leaves trails behind
for you and your paisley dreams.

[LRT, 2 May, morning]

comment message update

when they say the screen is blurred
they mean their eyes have swelled--
you've been away too long
that your absence weighs upon the waiting,
the ones you left behind.
the mothers feel as though
they've lost all their children
while watching the drama
on a blue-and-white screen.
(their sentimentality is catching)
a woman's heart is crushed every second
into tiny fragments that cannot be recovered
and this will happen over and over
until all turns to dust.

[SkyBus, 2 May, evening]

Transitive Verses, part 3

I took so many photos on my recent trip that I needed to balance them out with words.


walang pamagat

pahintulutan mong mangyari
ang lahat ng itinakda
ng unibersong maalam.
hindi magaganap ito
kung hindi ka sumang-ayon;
hayaan mong magkatotoo
ang mga dating hula.
hindi magtatagal at mauunahan ka ng tadhana
tanggapin ang bawat alay
at iyong ibigay ng buo
ang bawat kataga at hininga.

bawat yapak ay ipinangako na.
ikaw at ako ay hamak na tauhan
sa isang masalimuot na dula
kung saan hindi tayo and bida.

[21 April, Suvarnabhumi Airport]


untitled

there are no lifesavers
but there is no tide.
let the boats pass by
and melt in the breeze.
wish the sands were closer
without having to row.
let the vessel tilt but not precariously
the clouds won't be heavy
on this mid-day cruise.
we've shared so much sun between us
an hour more upstream,
disconnected from home,
lulled by the humming of an engine.

[22 April, on a boat on the Mekong river, Laos]

Transitive Verses, part 2

Flying is a great time to clear your head.

Bangkok

The city is a network of synapses,
constantly fired by an unknown source.
Unseen in the daylight,
resplendent at night.

[20 April, AK836 KULBKK]


unrelated

I
across the aisle,
a crossword puzzle teasing each empty square.
across the room,
the blank tile on a board of words.
across the sea,
a trail of messages floating on unseen waves.
across this table,
the vast void between you and me.

II
you are nothing but a character in my head,
floating in a plot i am itching to finish,
its elements suspended in limbo--
a story waiting for a writer
who cannot find his pen.

III
ultramarine on teal,
a band of midnight blue
lightning flashes behind the space
where darkness kisses
the last flares of sunlight
over a rusty hue.

the fading symphony of colour
arranged in seven bars.

shivering in this well-lit cabin,
wishing for warm arms
to fight the blues and yellows.
the odd fishing boats scattered
below me like fallen stars.

[20 April on AK836, KULBKK]


Suvarnabhumi

Maghapon sa loob ng paliparan,
Hindi man lang makalipad.
Nakapusturang pormal
Habang nakaupo sa tabi,
Nagsusulat ng mga pangalan
Ng mga hindi nakikilala
Ngunit paparating sa ilang saglit.
Nakikita mo ba ang palatandaan,
Napapansin ang paparating?
Pagod na naghahanap ng anino
Habang nakasabog ang mga papel sa sahig.
Walang katapusang paghihintay,
Walang humpay na pagdagsa,
Ang listahan ay walang hangganan,
Laman lamang ang iyong pangalan.

[20 April, Bangkok-Suvarnabhumi Airport]

Transitive Verses, part 1

This is the first installment of short free verses written in transit. I'm rusty at poetry, so by making these attempts public, I am forcing myself to polish what I write and cause as little embarrassment as possible. Here goes.

Nine Hundred Seconds

As the pink flames beckon me to take
The first one hundred and twenty steps back to earth,
A single thought crosses my mind.
When the lights perform their reversal,
The twinkling beacons are bittersweet reminders
Of your sudden absence.
And then I question the loneliness of heights--
Perhaps a spiteful poet's invention.
In my head nine hundred seconds
Go on perpetual repeat,
My feet retracing each step
Back to the moment when
I bid you a silent goodbye.

[LRT, 18 April, 7:15am]


untitled

waiting for the red dots on the clock to blink
into their next configuration.
a trivial game is better
than the thought of a lifetime's splendid summers
fading before your eyes.
anything.
even the radio kindly lends an upbeat tune
to pick up the speed of a heart
beating ever so slowly.
waking up with dry, uneasy eyes
and squeezing words from silenced lips--
a terrifying routine as comfortably hidden
as rehearsing lines never to be spoken.
the lonely umbrella against the door
is the sole witness to the distant but visible
pulse of the lighthouse,
measuring the distance between us
as muted memories drown
in these clipped, vague replies.

[Skybus, 18 April, 8:10pm]

Hey now, you're an Allstar

Get your game on, go play.

Two months into the job, I'm very proud to be an Allstar working for a great airline brand, one of the great Asian business stories of the past decade. Everyone at RedFort, our freezing-cold HQ, works hard and plays hard, from the ramp boys to the FAs to the office staff. There's so much talent and dedication here that it's catching.

Formula 1 drivers in the office? Check!

A fun corporate culture: Allstars in beach wear to celebrate the Philippines' AirAsia launch

Barclays Premier League Trophy visits RedFort

It's an office with no doors. You can literally walk up to our Group CEO, Tan Sri Tony Fernandes, to say hi. (I did.)

In total, there are nearly 10,000 of us working across the region. It's quite a change coming from a company of 15 to a department of 150, but I'm thankful every day for the chance to do something I enjoy.

Our latest TVC

AirAsia (say ehr-EYzhuh) flies from Clark to Kota Kinabalu and Kuala Lumpur. Philippines' AirAsia now flies to Kalibo (Boracay), Puerto Princesa (Palawan) and Davao from Clark. More destinations coming soon. We're also hiring. Fly with us!

Friday the 13th

An interlude before the Islamic Arts Museum post.

Friday the 13th, you are full of surprises. NoKor's missile fails to launch. Jessica Sanchez gets saved on American Idol. Young people stage a flash mob at SM Megamall.

On my end: a field trip without the hoped-for flight simulation, a Scrabble game (which I lost) while Grease played in the background, and lastly, my housemate knocking on my door to ask me to cut her hair (which I do).

For a supposedly unlucky day, this was quite interesting. Now if only my weekend could top that.

The routine

It's been a month since I arrived in Kuala Lumpur. I have settled into a simple routine.

My day starts at 550am, right when the nearby mosque's call to prayer starts. My breakfast is muesli or granola splashed with either a yogurt drink or Vitagen (a Yakult equivalent). I prepare my Nutella-and-jam sandwich to take to work before taking a shower. At 650am, I am ready to leave. Since I live in the last building of condo, I take the long and winding road to the gate. It is still dark by this time. The lights of the 120-plus steps down are turned off early, so I dare not take it.

The 15-minute walk downhill is an interesting one. The covered walkway is dotted with food vendors with tables of viands, sandwiches or curry puffs. I pass by school children waiting for their buses. Most of the women I walk alongside are fully covered, except for their hands and faces. I take the LRT to KL Sentral, where I ride the bus for the hour-long trip to LCC Terminal, where I work. I try to take a nap on the way to the office.

I leave the airport sometime between 630pm and 8pm. It's hard to fall asleep on the bus when my mind is still active, so I usually check social media on my phone. Seeing KL Tower and Petronas Twin Towers in the distance as the bus pulls into town never fails to makes me smile. Then it's back on the train, which is efficient and often just as cold as our freezing office.

I take a cab uphill from the station if it's late, raining heavily or if I am carrying groceries. Otherwise, it's a climb up to the condo. I like to describe it as going up Batu Caves, only the slope is gentler and longer. On most nights, I pass by mamak stalls and tables of diners. I feel safe having people out. Our area is quite mixed, with low-class flats and a high-end condo not far apart (ours is somewhere in between). But with the ongoing construction, property values are sure to rise soon.

So that's my routine, which I wanted you to imagine. It's pretty tiring, but I'm happy with it. I get to do some walking that actually counts as exercise and I have quiet time for reflection. Will tell you more soon. Stay tuned.

One morning in Makati

[A post to mark my entrance to Twitter. I am hoping to follow users who bring something to the table much more beyond what they had for breakfast. This true story goes against that strategy by going with it, if that makes any sense at all. (None) ]

My brother dropped me off at the carpark at 630am. The clinic would not be open until eight. I had time to kill. After a sandwich and several chapters of a novel later, I claimed my medical results, though not before a reprimand from a woman I mistook for a man (I approached the wrong counter). When I looked at the results—four copies, the original and the actual figures—I was relieved that I was deemed fit for employment. But at the same time I was bothered that the results, at first glance, look impossibly perfect. Is anyone ever that well?

I walked to the embassy. The directions were etched in my mind after looking at Wikimapia the night before. No signage around the building, except for the one that said “renovation”. A guard stuck out his head out of a window and told me to go to the adjacent blue building on the other side. Finding the next blue building too far to be next door, I popped into one that I pronounced green. The guard confirmed that I was in the right building, but too early.

Starbucks was the nearest seating option. I killed half an hour with half a sugar-free iced latte, a newspaper and a society magazine featuring an artist who had been my roommate. She looked lovely, but not exactly the crazy, carefree girl I remember spending a few days with.

At the appointed time, the tiny temporary office of the consular section only had a handful of applicants, something I was not used to. In the past two years, I had been in three other embassies and they were always busy and much bigger. I was fortunate that although the birthday of Prophet Muhammad on Monday is an embassy holiday, the woman at the window was nice enough to give me an earlier claim date for the visa.

It was too early to go home (the earliest shuttle leaves at 3pm), so I went to the mall. The cab driver seemed to think that I wasn't familiar with the Greenbelt area but did not need to be corrected. Looking at shoes and bags, I had to constantly remind myself that my 15 kilos baggage allowance is not nearly enough for clothes. That killed the temptation to spend (even if I only have few shoes and bags...for a woman).

I headed for the salon for a quick trim. The stylist, spying the clinic's name on my envelope, seemed to know it would be a while before I would be back. Or maybe I'm just reading too much into his words. “I love it,” I told him, referring to the haircut, as I handed the tip.

Window shopping. Rack after rack of clothes. Settled on a P100 necklace. I have always wanted an owl to call my own.

The soup was excellent at the Italian place. I must have looked like I was enjoying it because my seatmate asked what I was having and promptly ordered it. She must have been fairly satisfied because she thanked me before she left. As the server set down the pepper mill and the chili oil, I had a moment of nostalgia. When we were only a few buildings apart, my mom and I would have lunch served with the jug of oil with the whole garlic at the bottom. Oh, snap out of it.

One thing struck me about this morning: I was greeted by different people, from guards to cleaners, so many times in the span of a few hours. Greeting people may be part of their jobs, but they don't get so much appreciation or recognition for the services they perform. I felt as if something invisible had revealed itself to me. (That'a supposed to be dramatic? I know it's simple. All of this is.)

I spent the afternoon and evening at another mall doing more mundane things. (Did you hear that one about driver's license renewal?) I did manage to spend half of P6000+ worth of gift certificates. I won't bore you with the details, but will you let me bore you even more (again) without them?

Sex and the single scientist

While reading New Scientist, I saw this.

The visual is so funny that I had to tell my brother, arguably the bigger nerd between the two of us. He said this TV show theme song started playing in his head.

No guarantees that you'll find guys as funny as those on the show on New Scientist Connect, a.k.a. dating.newscientist.com, but I suspect they're there, if you look hard enough. (You might need a scanning electron microscope though.)

The service is run by The Dating Lab, which provides similar services to other media brands.

AdConfessions

An approachable world-famous designer can be cuter than a popular footballer.

It is amazing how self-conscious even a non-fan can be on the couch next to the Younghusbands.

The most unexpected thing you can do at 9am: walk into Shamcey Supsup's dressing room by accident.

When the male Brazilian models are out, navigate their dressing room with care. Too many shoes scattered on the floor.

The downside to drastic haircuts is having to re-introduce yourself to people you've met before.

My lack of interest in freebies is strangely comforting. My lack of interest in parties, even those with many famous artistas, is comfortingly acceptable. Honestly, Jett Pangan was the only person I regret not seeing. Ok, maybe Lloydie too.

You mustn't take things too seriously, not even at awards shows.

A note to my future big boss

The band you mentioned last year when we spoke played tonight. The perfect timing isn't lost on me. Someday I will walk into your open office and sing one of their songs to you and make sure you don't forget it.

Halloween costume option #1 + true graph

My hair looks like this already. I need a trim. If I had a yellow jumpsuit, I'd be April O'Neil. Except I have a laptop, not a mic.

This came from the TEDTalk "What we learned from 5 million books" by Jean-Baptiste Michel and Erez Lieberman Aiden at TEDxBoston. The data are real.

Lunchtime post

Having a office far, far away from home, there is one thing I am thankful for (aside from the commute forcing me to walk). On your lunchbreak, after quickly gobbling up enough food to get you through the middle of the day, you can go to three good galleries and leave the toxicity of your workplace behind.

...

Now back to the grind.

Am I a mystery to you?

This will explain a lot.

Also, if you happen to pass by LoudBox, the sound production house near the Mile Long-Makati Cinema Square stretch, two of my 032211 paintings are there. Need a landmark? Head towards Pharaoh. ;)

Lactobacilli Shirota Strain

When the power went out early this morning, I became concerned with the state of my Yakult in the refrigerator. The world needs good bacteria.

Flavored Yakult from Singapore, in bottles 20ml larger than those in the Philippines. (Also twice as expensive.)

Lessons from a 12-hour blackout:

1. A day without email is a day of peace.

2. Without electricity, there is time to read.

3. You can lose the capacity to read properly. See me skim.

4. No amount of napping will get back all the sleep you lost.