Jezebel

She stood at the bar consoling an endless glass of wine, her in-my-eyes-perfect figure, not too slim with curves in all the places that mattered, silhoutted in a black dress. Her breasts, two perfect orbs resting precariously in the fragile nest of her plunging neckline. Her eyes were dark and intense, her nose straight and narrow, her lips I wanted to kiss, framed by her long almost straight hair.

She looked close to perfect. Except for those arms entwined around her. Obsessive, jealous, claw-like tentacles guarding her, protecting her. But I was left defenceless to her gaze. Her eyes looked at me, thru me, at some infinite point beyond my comprehension.

Every now and then she would tear herself from him, and make her way thru the crowded tex mex restaurant cum bar to share a glass of wine and wayward laughter with me. We spoke of mundane things like the weather but our chemistry was hardly lukewarm.

But he was never far away, always watching her every move like a gargoyle from a dark concrete corner. Always hovering near us. With a giant flap of his leathery wings he would be beside us squatting on a barstool or crouching on the bar between us or hanging from the giant speakers mounted on the wall, above us.

And like some helpless, habitual prisoner she would return to her dark, dank dungeon yet at once long for the sunshine and freedom without.

But evidently even creatures from nightmares heed some dark, evil calling. When he left to answer nature's call I saw an opportune moment to say goodbye. And I did. She crumbled in my arms like a badly baked loveletter. I kissed her on her cheek, my lips floating dangerous centimeters from hers. Her lips were parted expectantly the way a carp gasps for air at the water surface. I was tempted to suck the life from her welcome lips.

Instead I broke free from her embrace even as the shadow of giant wings broke from the gents toilet. Yellow, bloodshot, suspecting eyes scanned us for the slightest hint of misdemeanor. Gargoyles speak a forgotten tongue but do they read body language, I wondered.

My eyes said goodbye and I dissappeared into the crowd and out the door. I've never been one for grand entrances but I sure know how to make an exit.

The night greeted me with its Rempits, Fengtaus and Machas. The acrid KL air was a curious blend of cooling asphalt, carbon monoxide and the decay of the day gone by. My sensitive nose picked up a familiar scent. It was trouble brewing in the air.

I whispered a silent prayer for strength. To the deaf gods of my unanswered dreams.

Flying ain't easy at first...

Flight

I can fly. Really. Not the way a bird flies, flapping my arms wildly. Certainly not like superman, leaping over tall buildings at a single bound and many times faster than the speed of light. How ridiculous is that? My flight is somewhat like that of an astronaut in zero gravity. Except I can't bounce around like the man on the moon. When I fly, I feel like a leaf floating on the surface of a slow-flowing river, carried by the gentle undercurrent.

I discovered I could fly about a year ago, maybe less. Almost by accident. I was in a relatively relaxed state of mind at that point when I started to drift. I've learned there is a method to it. I stand with my feet apart, parallel to my shoulders and concentrate on not concentrating. Let the mind drift as it will. My body then falls forward slowly til it's at a fourty five degree angle to the ground. My toes are still touching the ground, the same way a scuba diver achieves neutral buoyancy by pumping air in or out of his BCD (Buoyancy Control Device) when he's taking his dive exam. Then my body floats off the ground completely.

When I first started flying I did not go beyond the confines of my bedroom. I just drifted around the room, looking down on my bed and the other things within my room, and generally getting acquainted to drifting, sometimes resting at the corners where the walls meet the ceiling. I have always liked corners.

Then I found myself outside. I was nervous at first not knowing how to control my flying, clinging on to the branches of trees and sometimes lamp posts so that I would not drift off into oblivion. As my confidence in my newfound abilities grew I ventured higher and further. Now I drift above treetops and double storey buildings without fear. I feel the same serenity that I do when I'm diving, without a care in the world.

I haven't been too far tho, only within my neighbourhood of section 5 and Bukit Gasing. I like flying over the green canopy of trees there. Perhaps one day I shall fly over the Petronas Twin Towers or the Eiffel Tower or the entire length of the Great Wall of China. Or maybe see the whales swimming off the coast of Newfoundland.

I want to fly off to all these places but there is never enough time. I always get home by 6.30am. When my alarm clock goes off. And I find myself on terra firma and the warmth of my bed. I shall have to learn to fly faster or set my alarm for later if I am to go further.

Or, perhaps one day I won't set my alarm.

Outside my window

(They left my windowsill a long time ago but

are now in my house. Framed in an 8 x10)

Empat nombor ekor?

(My crew taking a break at a shoot up Gentings.

They look good together, no?)

Ayuttaya

( A couple of us took a day trip out to Ayuttaya from Bangkok.

The missing arms on the Buddha were sawn off by thieves)

Hari ini kita main PS2 pulak...

(I was looking for a nice kampung house to photograph

when I chanced on these kids near

a paddy field about 35mins from Alor Setar)

A Night Out

I paid the cab driver seven dollars and we got out. I almost walked into the breast pocket of a tuxedo. I looked up. Inside the tuxedo was a 7 foot tall, 35o lb mass of intimidating, steroid-induced musculature of perhaps Lebanese origin. He looked familiar, I must have seen him in half a dozen movies. Always as a dungeon master, a torturer or an executioner. "Beautiful girls inside!", he grunted in an Australian accent. We followed him to a counter of a shoplot with neon lights that spelled out Showgirls, the world's most famous stripshow.

"That's twelve dollars apiece", grunted Mr. Executioner. "And five dollars each for my fee". I took two tenners from my wallet to pay. " It's daylight robbery!", exclaimed Godfrey. I looked at Mr.Executioner. He stared back with a look that said," I will rip your puny heads off and decorate my 6-year old daughter's room with your lifeless carcasses!" "Right, let's go in chaps!", I said merrily. The girl behind the counter handed us three tickets. One entrance fee all night long read the small print on the ticket. We pushed the door open and went in.

The club was dimly lit and the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke permeated the air. In the middle was a stage. On the stage were six stainless steel poles. Wrapped around one of the poles was a scantily clad brunette.

She was wearing a shocking pink bikini and gyrating seductively around the pole to the rythm of Maniac by Michael Sembello, the undisputed king of strip joint pop. Two caucasian guys were sitting at the stage, at her feet, unblinking. We picked a table away from the stage, but not too far away.

"How you goin?", chirped the waitress. "What would you like to drink?" We ordered three Fosters. "You want to sit at the stage?", she offered. "Nah, we're fine here thanks", I replied.

The waitress brought our Fosters,"You sure you don't want to sit at the stage?" "We're fine thanks".

We drank to the office in KL for sending us here and to our client for agreeing to run our recently produced TV commercial in cinemas. Which explains how a fine example of Muhibbah-ness ended up in a strip joint in King's Cross, Sydney. Godfrey* is Indian, Iskandar* Malay and me, Chinese. All we needed were a few other friends who were Portuguese or Iban or Kadazan. (I refrain from grouping them under "dan lain-lain". None of my Portuguese or Iban or Kadazan friends worth their beer would ever be subjected to being called "dan lain-lain").
*names changed to protect identity of fellow strip joint advocates

The brunette on stage was now pulling on her bra strap. She slid the right side off her shoulder, then the left, not removing her bra immediately but holding it in place with one hand, teasing the blokes at the stage. They stuffed dollar bills into the garter on her thigh to make her take it off completely. I cursed the exchange rate under my breath. Then slowly she "Let's go guys!", Godfrey said suddenly. "Eh, we just got here la!", drawled Iskandar. "But it's boring" "No it isn't!", I interjected.

The brunette was already topless now and on all fours, her bum facing the two blokes. Resting her 36Cs on the floor, she used her two hands to pull at the elastic of her g-string, first to her left and then her right. This brought on a trading frenzy. The two blokes practically fell over each other to hand her dollar bills which she stuffed into the garter. She proceeded to inch her g-string down her thigh, revealing her "Come on la guys, let's go!" It was Godfrey again.

Outside, we flagged down a taxi and told the driver to take us to the Shangri-La Hotel at the Rocks. Godfrey was still going on about how the show was daylight robbery. Iskandar and I were silent. We felt robbed too. Of a fairly decent night out.

We went to our respective rooms in the hotel. I sat on my bed and took out my Marlboros from my shirt pocket. A piece of paper drifted from my pocket onto the floor . I picked it up. It was the ticket with the one entrance fee all night long printed on it. I lit a cigarette, took the phone off the hook and dialled 704. "Hello", a lifeless Iskandar answered on the other side.

"It's showtime!", the devil in me said.

An e-mail to a friend;

I left my window open last night to let in the cool, PJ breeze. I was awoken this morning by the fluttering of small wings. A yellow canary was perched on my window sill. Seeing me stir, it flew toward me and landed on my pillow. I thought it would peck out my left eye. But instead it leaned close to my ear and whispered," Cherylene has resigned!" Before I could respond she was out the window and into the bright morning sky. Leaving me to ponder what a little birdy told me.

1. Falling in Love

"You got mind-f***ed by a circus?!", shrieked Yasmin from my Nokia. "But it was beautiful!", I tried to explain. I had passed up a buka puasa get-together with my friends because I had felt like being alone. That was a huge mystery to my friends. I never said no to a social gathering. "Oh fine, are you in love?", demanded Gbum, ever the drama queen.

I was. Deeply. With a circus.


circus . noun . a travelling company of acrobats, trained animals, and clowns


Yes, I too imagine men in white overalls dragging me to an unnumbered, padded cell, somewhere north of Ipoh. So in love was I, for three whole days I walked the earth in a daze. The last time I spent three days in a daze was....... A really long time ago.

2. A Circus

Not just any circus, the object of my unnatural love, but The Circus. The Cirque Du Soleil.

Five minutes into our introduction, I was swept away, into that wonderland that lovers escape to. Except this was a literal wonderland, set within a blue and yellow big top, pitched on a park in Singapore, in a corner where Beach Street meets Bugis Junction. A wonderland filled with painted clouds, and man-made stars and Tim Burton-esque costumes and characters.

My ex-girlfriend had been bugging me for days, and finally dragged me, kicking and screaming to a day trip in Singapore to watch the Cirque. I didn't want to spend my Saturday watching tigers leaping thru flaming hoops and cotton candy-wigged clowns with red, bulbous noses juggling tri-colored balls. Tigers belong in the jungle and clowns belong in McDonalds with a hundred screaming kids. In circuses, multiply the screaming kids by another hundred. But Barnum & Baileys the Cirque is not. The wild animals in the Cirque are merely hinted at and the clowns don't graduate from the Global University of Clowns. The uniqueness of the Cirque Du Soleil is that it is part play, part pantomime, part musical, part opera, part circus and entirely awe-inspiring.

As we found our way to our seats within the big top, one of the performers was ushering spectators to their seat. A few were sitting at the edge of the stage. One performer, angry face painted on and wearing white boxing gloves was taking long strides in the aisles, oblivious to everyone around him. The lights faded to darkness, someone made an announcement about not taking pictures using cameras with flashes. And then,"Ladies and gentleman, Quidam!"

3. Quidam

A little girl is ignored by her parents. She hears a knock on the door, opens it and is confronted by a headless man with an umbrella. He hands her a hat. Perhaps he has no need for it. She puts on her hat and sits down to daydream. She sings, in French I think, it doesn't matter, her plaintive song transcends all language barriers. The music becomes somewhat mysterious and as it builds up, the sofas in which her parents are in lift off the floor followed by the floor lamp, then the door. The whole living room floats away with her parents in it, unaware. Leaving her in a magical world of wonder and weirdness. And the audience, in awe. I heard a gasp escape my lips, but I'm not sure. The music drowned it out.

I greeted each new scene with my mouth agape. They were played out flawlessly by acrobats, trapeze artists, clowns and dancers of every size and color. I can't remember which scene melted me, was it the one where the entire room floated away? Or the one where her father did his half balletic acrobatics in the air with an angel from the other world? Or the one where a man and a woman, painted like statues, twisted their bodies into impossible sculptures of beauty and strength using each others weight only for leverage. Or the one where a woman did her dance of death suspended fom the ceiling by two lenghts of silk fabric. Or was it the music, performed live, sometimes joyous, sometimes sad, sometimes haunting and mysterious.

I came out of the big top light-headed . It was akin to being hypnotised and not fully recovering. Like I left part of my consciousness in there. According to the Cirque Du Soleil touring schedule, my consciousness is probably in the big top in Hong Kong right now.

4. The Aftermath

Two weeks later I feel like I'm still in Quidam, except the music is coming from my Quidam CD on the car stereo and the visuals are coming from inside my head. A printed little card attached to the back of my Cirque Du Soleil fridge magnet descibes it aptly; Twenty years since its creation the Cirque Du Soleil continues to captivate and inspire millions of dreamers across the world.