My wife

Sherry Wong is all kinds of wrong.

She has the most annoying laugh. It is shrill and always last a second too long than what is usually warranted. I always try my hardest not to make her laugh because it really grates on my nerves.

Then there's the fact that she talks too fast and too much. Her words come out at a speed that even light fails to defy. And of course she goes on and on and never seem to find a full stop in her speech. About the only way I know to shut her up is to kiss her and never let go of her mouth until I either need to stop to take in air or I find the time has lapsed enough for me to steel myself for another onslaught of her never ending speech.

Of course there's the fact that she's the worse end of high-maintenance. She is the high-strung high-maintenance kind of woman.

It takes a lot to keep her happy and satisfied. The demands that she makes on my time, energy, resources and finances... don't get me started on how ridiculously impossible they are! And when her demands aren't met? Here comes the high-strung part. The drama, the tantrums, the scene... the war and battle that would ensue following her shrieks, accusations and tears.

Sigh...

Sometimes I wonder what madness in me drives me to see her as nothing less than perfect despite all the negative aspects I just detailed.

But of course the moment those thoughts crosses my mind, the image of her loving, beguiling, mesmerizing, bewitching... (I could go on and on) smile reminds me exactly why Sherry Wong despite being the definition of a train wreck, is the only woman to have ever manage to capture me heart, mind, body and soul.

Oh, don't mistake my seemingly beguiled reaction to her womanly charms as being easily cowed. I fought raging demons inside of me who wanted to strangle her within an inch of her life too many times to count. I triumphed over concerned friendly protest, wise parental advice and all other form of deterrent to my misguided romance. You can't imagine the various stop and danger signs in the highway of our romantic journey which I thoroughly ignored and sped by.

But in the end, the idea of this person who knows me inside out and accept me for who I am, wrong as I may have seemed to her as well... well it was just too perfect to resist.

And now Sherry Wong who is all kinds of wrong, is all kinds of right and is my happy bride.

A book that changed my life

Books have the power to impact our lives and leave lasting impression on our persona long after the books are read. While this is true about all kinds of books, there is one book in specific which have personally impacted my life to such a huge extent as to drastically change the way my life is shaped.

The book in question is 'Angela's Ashes' written by Frank McCourt and apart from it being my all time favorite book, I have it to thank for the change in my life's point of view.

For those who have not read the book, 'Angela's Ashes' is the memoir of Frank McCourt recounting his poverty stricken life in Ireland and how he survived the hellish childhood which by rights he should not have survived, but did and in such a spectacular way too.

If this was a book review, I would tell you more about the book, but the point I'm trying to make today is how the moving story Frank McCourt told changed my life and not to highlight the details of the book.

Before reading the book, I had somewhat of a defeatist attitude towards life.

My life which tends to ere towards the unfortunate way wont to make me indulge in the negative aspects of life.

When given lemons in life I used to just wallow in the bitterness of it all instead of trying to make the best of the situation.

My attitude was, if everything in life was going wrong, what can I do but deal with the cards that has been thrown my way as gracefully as I can.

It never occurred to me to try and overcome the issues in my life and try to make the best out of a bad situation.

My negative attitude in life changed subtly at first and then more vigorously the longer I let the thoughts behind the book sink into my psyche.

If someone could live through and not only survive a nightmarish upbringing, but actually thrive and be all the better for it, why can't I, whose condition in life is far better than that told by Frank McCourt, rise against my odds and find a way to blossom despite the obstacles that was in my way.

Looking back, life is so much better after I took a page out of Frank McCourt's book and allow myself to always rise above the negativity and shine.

I wrote a song

The day I met you,

The sun was shining,

The birds were chirping

And so I wrote a song.

The first date we had,

You wore a blue dress,

We had dinner in a blue cafe,

And I wrote a song again.

 Chorus:

In every day, in every little way,

There are moments so precious,

That words must meet with music,

And so I wrote a song about it.

Next was the first kiss,

You were a real shy miss,

And your lips meeting mine was bliss,

Of course I wrote a song about this.

Then there was that time

I told you, you had to be mine,

And you cried when I said I love you,

I wrote a song about that too.

Repeat chorus

And on our wedding day,

As we laid our hearts bare,

And promise forever to each other,

Definitely I wrote a song

As our lives are entwined,

And we welcomed our tiny one,

Our life is complete,

And I wrote a song with a beat.

Repeat Chorus.

Dream time man

In my dream is the only time

When love is mine to have

Where loneliness is abated for a while,

During restful sleep

In daylight when reality greets me,

I am alone and loveless,

Searching desperately for the one,

Who always visit me nightly;

Where could he be,

This dream plane man,

Who thrills my heart,

And make me dread my waking hours;

Perhaps somewhere in life,

If destiny deems fit to intervene,

I will meet the epitome of my dream,

And then perhaps I won't need to eagerly wait for sleep.

A springtime romance

It had been a long winter. Kiki never thought it would end. It felt as if she had been sleeping for forever waiting for the cold season to be over.

Kiki was especially eager for spring to begin for it will be the first time she would be old enough for 'Spring Fever' also known as mating season or season of birth and growth!

All winter long Kiki spend her hibernation time dreaming of the cute husky that would steal her heart and gave her babies. How she longed to start her own family.

She had learned from the nurturing her own mother had given her, how lovely it was to be a loving mother and spouse. She had even picked the candidate she was going to flirt with come spring!

That fluffy Raoule had the strongest muscle and the biggest growl and he seemed to be the best gatherer there was out there in their neck of the woods.

Finally, spring was here and Kiki left her cave and ventured outside, her nose twitching at the new scents spring brought.

Kiki spend the day sniffing around for Raoule's smell. He had the sweetest smell ever that she can recall probably because he was forever covered in honey.

Kiki smiled happily when just as she suspected, Raoule was deep into a bee hive scrounging for the freshest honey he could get his hands on.

Kiki pounded on Raoule and the startled Raoule growled in what he thought was an unprovoked attack until he turned around and saw that it was Kiki.

Raoule quickly changed his growl to a welcoming purr and offered Kiki some of the honey he was busily indulging himself on.

Ah, young romance! How quickly it blossomed-

Crack!

Raoule fell to the ground and Kiki was startled and self preservation made her dart away to safety.

Kiki cried non stop as she ran away to her hiding spot. She cursed herself for not staying by Raoule's side to see if he was still alive. Kiki was about to head out of her cave to go back to Raoule when her mother stopped her.

It was a well known jungle lesson: stay away from areas where gunshots were heard - those humans are highly dangerous.

So it was, that, that spring instead of enjoying her new found romance, Kiki spend it mourning the loss of her young love.

Close enough to touch

I have been chasing this 'phantom' for months. I got interested in her when she left a shy note in one of the books I was studying.

'Hi Stuart. We are in the same course and I have admired you for three semesters. I love how you explicate the 'Ode to Psyche'. Brilliant.  I couldn't resist writing this note when I saw you dozing there. Maybe one day I'll have the courage to face you head on. Your secret admirer, J.'

Ok. So it wasn't an earth-shattering note, but I liked what she said about my explication of Keats's poem. Not many of my fellow course mates appreciated Keats as much as I did.

I begin listing down all the female course mates with names that starts with J. There were at least fifteen female Js in my class that semester. After some deduction I'm left with two likely candidates: Josephine Mathews and Joanna Muhammad.

I tried approaching these two ladies, but somehow or other I never seemed to be able to get to each one of them alone for more than five minutes at a time.

It was almost the end of the semester and the finals were upon me and I know I might not have another chance to discover who my phantom was once the semester was over.

I had almost given up hope of discovering her identity when one evening after a study session at the library I felt someone staring at me. I turned around and near the library's entrance I saw a glimpse of Josephine Mathews. I didn't want to overreact or anything, I mean she could have just been staring because my hair was a mess or something, but my gut told me that this was the girl who I had been hunting for the entire semester.

I left the library in a hurry and trailed after her. She was walking really fast, as if spooked and I had to run just to keep her in my sights.

I called her name but she either didn't hear or chose to ignore. I sprinted after her and just as I was close enough to touch her, she stepped into oncoming traffic and I watched almost as if frozen as the car hit her and she was flung backwards and landed sprawled on the concrete, blood seeping from her head.

The life of a book

Printed,

Bound,

Packaged,

Shipped,

Stocked,

Browsed,

Bought.

Read,

Enjoyed,

Read,

Loved,

Read,

Treasured and shared;

A life well spent.

A Raindrop

She loves it when it rains. It bewilders the mind of those who knew her why she loves the rain so much. It's not the normal enjoyment of a comfortable climate; it goes beyond all normal enjoyment and far exceeds what one would term obsession.

Whenever it is starting to rain, she will be out the door, ready to feel the first few raindrops that fall until it is no longer a gentle splatter but a deluge, and there she would stay all day if the rain did not let.

Many a times she comes down with fever due to her strange need to douse herself under the sky's natural shower. All who were close to her, tried to reason with her. Telling her how dangerous it was for her to subject herself to frequent fever for no good reason other than to enjoy the feel of the rain on her skin.

But she paid them no heed and continued her ritual of standing outside every time it rained and this goes on till the day she was to old and frail to go outside and her time on earth drew to a close.

Such is the nature of things, that a few hours before she passed on it rained as it has never rained before and she whispers to her only daughter who was waiting by her bedside, "Willa, that is your father come to get me now. Every raindrop that has ever fallen on me were the tears of your father crying that we were so soon parted and every time I feel a raindrop on my skin, it reminds me how much I am still loved and now your father is crying heavily with joy that soon we'll be together again."

Searching for answers

33 turning on 34 this year I have spent the majority of my adult life searching for answers to my life questions.

Why have I always been single and never been in a relationship? What am I doing with my life? What defines me as a person when I have no career to define my status as an adult? Where is my life headed? What will become of me when I'm old and grey and alone still?

These questions haunts me daily and likewise the search for answers to these questions dogs my step every day that I spend on this earth alive and breathing.

I try to find these answers to validate my existence on earth, to know that somehow my life matters. These answers I am looking for are not trivial and neither are they futile despite the hard time I am having in finding them. These answers matters because they will allow me to clearly understand what my purpose in life is.

Author Mitch Albom says, "“The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.”

A sound advice I should heed and perhaps the answers to my questions about life lies somewhere in that sage advice.

However sound the quote from Albom is, I still have to figure out for myself the answers to all the questions that has been hounding my step ever since I turned the other side of twenty and realized that my life wasn't turning out as I had expected it too.

A number of upheavals and stumbling-blocks in my journey from a fresh faced 15 year old who felt that life was her own personal playground to do with as she pleased to a scarred and jaded 33-turning-34 dependent woman who has no real say in her own life, has left me with more questions and still no concrete answers.

Suffice is to say my life up until now and seemingly on-wards until a certain undefined time in the future, is to search for answers that might or might not be found to these plaguing questions I have failed to answer for over a decade now.

Perhaps, Sweedish Statesman and United Nations official, Dag Hammarskjold who says “In the last analysis, it is our conception of death which decides our answers to all the questions that life puts to us” holds the key to my quandary.

Maybe in the end, all these questions will be answered by the certainty that one day death will come and claim me as it does to each and everyone who lives and perhaps by then the answers would have been irrelevant or had answered itself. But until that day arrives, for certain I'll still be searching for answers.

Come as you are

‘Come as you are. This party is a celebration of your innermost self. If you are a stylist, come dressed to the ninths. If you are a struggling artist wear your most messed up painter’s frock. If you are a chef at heart, show them your chef’s attire. Whoever you are at heart, that’s who we want to see at this event!’

Amanda Wong had read and reread the mysterious invitation time and again. It did not say who the invitee is or for what the occasion is other than that cryptic statement about being ‘a celebration of your innermost self’ and the date, time and venue of the event.

She would have thought it was some stupid prank her friend Trina was playing, had she not receive an excited phone call from said friend earlier also wondering about the invitation that she too had received.

Amanda decided that she would go to this event and find out what it is all about.

Later at the event

“Friends, the most outstanding appreciation of tonight’s theme, Amanda Wong who came dressed simply in T-shirt and jeans, the epitome of who she really is at the moment, a self-assured teenager whose 16th birthday we are celebrating tonight! Happy Birthday Amanda!” Came the voice on the loudspeaker and everyone at the party cheered for her.

Amanda was stunned. She had totally forgotten that today was her birthday, so fixated was she on the mysterious party and as it turned out it was all for her!

The Ballerina

It was opening night for The Swan Lake. She was staring for the first time as the key dancer for the American Ballet Theatre. She was Odette and she was about to dance the dance of her lifetime.  All her life this moment had been what she had dreamed off, what she had worked so hard to achieve.

Thinking back, she realized her dreams would have not been possible had it not been for Mrs Shaw. Mrs Shaw was her neighbor, and more importantly her dance teacher.

She had lived next to Mrs Shaw for as long as she can remember. Her earliest memory was being in Mrs Shaw’s dance studio, watching her teach her students the art of ballet. She was there because Mrs Shaw was babysitting her. Her parents were always occupied with work and they paid Mrs Shaw to look after her.

Truth is, she was glad her parents were absent so much from her life and left her more often than not in Mrs Shaw's care. She would not be where she was now, had it not been for the time she spent with Mrs Shaw.

Mrs Shaw not only taught her what it meant to be a ballerina, she instilled in her the love and unquenchable desire to be the best there was at what had become her passion in life. It was from Mrs Shaw that she learned all that she needed to in order to get to where she was now.

The journey to become the prima ballerina of the best dance company there was had not been an easy road to travel. Many times she had almost given up when the training gets too demanding and she felt like she couldn't possibly improve anymore in the art of ballet. However Mrs Shaw, herself a dancer with the same dance company when she was in her youth, would never let her give up on her dreams so easily. Mrs Shaw would cajole, advice, inspire, reprimand, and whatever else it took for her to keep her chin up and her toes pointed towards her ballerina dream.

And now, the moment she had worked her entire life to achieve was upon her and she knew that from that moment on there was nothing that could hold her back from grabbing her dreams in both hands. The best thing was, at this moment of her triumph and success, the woman who made it all possible was watching from the front row seat; Mrs Shaw was her special guest for the evening, as was justified for she was the one who made this dream all possible. 

Broken dreams

Perhaps the truth hurts,
Admitting it to myself twist me rotten inside,
Leave me broken and defeated;
For in truth,
None is to blame but myself;

How could I have not seen, not realized?
The dreams that I deferred,
 Shelved and collecting dust,
Casualties of my tortured past,
And still no one to blame but myself.

I and I alone is responsible,
The unhappiness and discontentment,
The apathy and disillusionment,
It shouldn't have lasted for so long;

I am awake now,
Finally cognizant of my self-destructive mode;
Hoping it is not too late,
Trying to reclaim the path strewn with broken dreams;

Tomorrow is a brand new day,
A new beginning is always promised.