Jolly Folly, Mighty Morphin'

My throat's getting uncomfortable. I sucked a whole tube of HALLS today to get rid of that contraction in the throat that makes you cackle and crack. The sound when you tug and pull at an uneven zinc sheet. The sight of a bubble of dense, off-white phlegm in the sink. Next, the feel of a running fever.

We had a Malaysian Cultural Night on Sunday, that gave us a treat to a cuisine that closely echoed ours.

There was a certain familiarity in the crunch of the sambal kangkong I must say. That split-second bite of emptiness - when the edge of your teeth is in the hollow stem, before you hit the inner wall of the opposite surface, when the potent chilli welds its magic on the unchallenged tongue.

Peanut Sauce - Cloyingly sweet, but coats the tough, cold satay with so much panache. It has such style! I find myself dipping my prata and rice in it. It kills you with its oil and viscous sinfulness, but you'd kill yourself for not letting it slither down your expectant gut.

Keropok - Conjures the image of a huge stack of flat Keropok in its uncooked state. Like a tower of 50-cent coins. Flat and only slightly translucent, kept under the watchful eyes of an Indian mama-shop mama. Once it dives into the sputtering oil, it dances out of its shell and curves and twists into waves of poppy crisps. From a bad hair day of rebonded tress to a spanking new afro! You just have to see the expression on the eater's face - it speaks volumes.

I laosai the next day afer having had the Malaysian dinner. Must have been a pretty exciting collision inside me - amongst the sour, sweet, bitter and spicy, but more so, between the angel of bliss and the devil of longing.

Posted by Brandon at Wednesday, February 25, 2009 | Permalink

I've concluded that my inner state is a pinball game with no outlet. The ball springs to life, and catapults into the unknown. It hits the walls that repel it. It never has a state of rest, it cannot hide in some cache, it works endlessly. It moves endlessly.

~

I look at chocolate and wonder what's the deal with it. It's so dark. It sits masqueraded in a block of brownie, lies basking on a poke-faced cookie or snuggles up to some cream on a cake. Nothing conspicuous. Just chillin'.

Then some days, it feels like putting on some theatrics. It overflows and the shine you see in the cascade overwhelms you. It melts in your mouth and spreads on the discerning tongue, caressing it, subsequently capturing it. It's joined by its cousins, more, and more.

Chocolate is a culture. It provides orientation to a world lost in dietary obsessions. From the cocao, chocolate is transformed from a natural being to a social entity, with laden meaning and value. It mediates exchange, love and relationships, without asking anything in return. No matter whom you pair it with or let it work its magic alone, it does not complain. It surrenders to you as much as you surrender to it. Chocolate in French is pronounced SHO KO LA, with the end trailing in a soft exhalation of air. It does, leave you breathless - and asking for more.

Posted by Brandon at Saturday, February 21, 2009 | Permalink

Everyone in the team gets a timing that each of us must hit for this 1250 metres piece on the rowing machine.

I look at mine, and tell myself, "Holy Crap. No way, I can't go that fast!" I speak to coach about it. He says, "Believe it or not, this is a pretty comfortable pace for you." I say, "Ok, we'll see."

He just had to say, "Don't see, go do it."

Now, that made me haul it - HARD. I remember sitting on the machine, the pupils in my eyes constricting fairly involuntarily. Everyone around were morphing into spectators in this massive show-down. It was short, it'd be over in 4 minutes. I could imagine the cells in my blood asking themselves where that force of a gush came from. My eyes were on the monitor, but occasionally, I'd peek at my neighbour's monitor during the piece. Everyone does that, trust me, you notice it because the mirror in front allows you to frequently catch those lightning glances left and right, glances of affirmation and confirmation, glances of motivation and de-motivation.

Because rowing is sometimes not beating yourself. It's about beating your friend, the very friend who would be rowing with you in the same boat come race season. That's when your glance shifts to new competition - the Havard antagonism, the Yale rivalry.

Haul it - HARD!

Posted by Brandon at Sunday, February 15, 2009 | Permalink

Sometimes, no matter what happens:

I still like the shorts and slippers.
The sticky armpits
Mummy's recommendation of armpit deodorant.
Metal chopsticks.
The faint sound of Pokemon from the TV.
Aunt's incessant coughing.
Fresh sheets and a round bolster.
More greenery than white.
The chipped, cheapo plate at hawker centers.
Outdoor swimming pools.
Cheap eats
Trains.

Posted by Brandon at Friday, February 13, 2009 | Permalink

After dinner last night, I was pregnant as usual coz of heavy eating. But funny thing was the bulge stayed and never went away, causing me a sleepless night and multiple trips to the toilet to just sit there, hoping my efforts to push something out of me would work.

At 3.46am, it came. I decided to name it "Diarrhea". Its premature arrival in the middle of the night, coming in a shocking gush. It was all water and fortunately, there was no blood. I was weak in my thighs, where a huge sweat has broken out. I could barely stand, as a giddy spell was hitting me...

The doctor looked at me with concern written all over her face. But she was happy for me. She examined it like it was a fairly routine thing for her to do, ignoring the smell of the new conception. I was discharged, in all sense of the word.

Posted by Brandon at Sunday, February 01, 2009 | Permalink