Dentistward Ho!

One Saturday not long ago, I went to the dentist to have my molar’s filling repaired. There was I voluntarily going up those stairs, not in pain and yet risking it.

that tooth is due for a root canal transfer, that’s what I’ve been telling my self the past two years.

checked myself in, filled my details on a card that the attendant gave and waited in the empty waiting room. On the TV that day was Lagaan, quite a movie I’d say, one of the only few Hindi movie that I have any intention to watch ever. I only watched the first few minutes of the montage and the attendant called me in.

she got me sitting on that chair, fiddled with the headrest to fit my height and prepared the tools. This was when the dentist came into the room already enmasked.

she had light brown eyes, this doctor and spoke with a cute Californian lilt to her Malay but not too much as to make it annoying. Maybe she studied overseas, or she might just be an ex-student of Kajang Convent School, a few of my friends that schooled there had the same way of speaking. I’d guess she’s not yet thirty, because she called the early 30’s attendant, “kakak”, fresh out of college maybe.

she told me to open my mouth and I obliged. Told me to open it wider and I tried to accommodate her demand as far as I could, even bordering on uncomfortability. She inspected the insides of my oral orifice and asked whether it was the second molar on my right jaw. I nodded a bit. It’s not nice to stare into a lady’s eyes however attractive they were so I focused my attention on a crack on the overhead light, a fine sliver of a thing, could only be seen at an angle.

she then told the attendant to prepare the ‘fat’ drill bit and use a ’slow’ speed. Hearing this information, I unconsciously feed it into the morbid imagination furnace and imagined a terry gilliam styled short animation, styled like the ones he did on Monty python.

I looked at my watch, 1405, without letting go of that sucker thing they put in your mouth to suck away excess saliva, that I was holding.

she then started drilling, for the longest time ever. This is where my thoughts goes back to the time I got this molar originally filled.

must have been an exposed nerve at that time, the dentist kept on pushing the filling mixture into every nook and cranny of that cavity. But that’s all are memories, real two years ago and this is the present, the now.

the fact I felt no pain that Saturday could only mean either two things. One, that the dentist was a genius and/or very lucky, two, that the nerve ending died. I pray to The Most High the first supposition is the answer.

the dentist with the lovely eyes that was probably contacts then told me to spit and gargle. All manner of metal fillings, drilled away bits of who know what mixed with saliva went into the sink. Wiped my mouth with the provided tissue and thought now was the time for the actual filling to be done. Alas not. Another round of drilling ensued. My jaw was now starting to get tired maintaining this maw.

the drill turned off, another round of spit-gargle-wipe. She put something metallic and very shiny into my mouth, affixed it to the troubled tooth and slowly screwed it tight. A vice of some sort.

then, with the help of the assistant, she put that argent gunk into that gaping hole she made earlier.

this is when I felt something rub against my temple. Maybe not rub, probably brushed would be a better word. t’was the doctor’s bosom.

she was there mending something close to my brain, and mind was shifting elsewhere.

when she finished, she unmasked herself, lowered the chair I was in and gave some advice. That I should seriously consider about going to the university hospital for my root canal transfer, for they would charge less than a practice, student doctors and all.

All that I could think about then was her eyes and her beautiful mellow face.

I stood, nod my head (a gentleman’s nod) and left the room to settle my bill. She just smiled.

sitting on that couch, in the waiting room, watching what’s left of Lagaan 50 minutes after it started. Hoping this movie is on bittorent. Stood when I heard the attendant behind the counter, paid my myr 70.00 and asked the receipt for claiming purposes. Walked slowly with all the bags I was carrying (a backpack full with clothes and a laptop bag) and slowly worked my way down the stairs a less worried man.

a nipple on my temple,
how easy and simple,
for my sanity to topple,
and bad thoughts to double.

haha! Damn…

update…

The tooth got infected.

Morbid Dream

i always had a daydream that could be considered as morbid by some.

i would be moving at a great speed along some backstreet on foot or by cycling and my head would get grazed by a sharp structure usually rusting metal roof eaves. i would fall, hand clutching forehead, rusted fragments and dirt stirring along with blood. the impact was terrible, my own momentum pushed the the wound right pass my skull. the rusted metal shavings mingling together with some tissue which were formerly parts of my own frontal lobe. my brain functions would now be whacked and i remain an invalid till the day i die.

these last few weeks saw the replacement of my usual morbid daydream with a new one.

my limbs are tied to stakes on the ground. the place is dark, but i can see a chair near my legs. on that chair stands a girl. she was wearing iceskates, and she jumped…

but a wierd thing happened this week, the girl’s face is now known to me and i just have the feeling that she might do it if she wants too.

ha ha ha

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If You Push Hard Enough…

…Mountains will give, for a wise man once said,”For every action there’s an opposite and equal reaction.” I really hope it’s as easy done as said. Really want things to be achievable, alas, all are dreams.

…They’ll believe whatever you say. Write US-centric articles, emphasizing the difference of culture between the fifty states (California:Hippy Central, New York:Big Apple, Hawaii:SunSeaSurf &c), refer to Washington DC as “the nation’s capitol”, all will believe we are all living in the US of A.

…People will ignore you. They will grow sick of you, you pushy bastard! All have limits. Push hard and strong but subtly.

All is false, but the truth. The truths contradicts eachother.

NaNoWriMo

The National Novel Writing Month this November is a bit of a misnomer isn’t it? It’s not a national event, it’s a voluntary international affair.

But, oh well what the hell, I’m joining it. I’ll doubt I make the cut come 11:59 November 30, hell, trying don’t hurt does it?

So expect unanswered SMSs, emails and IMs from me. I would be probably be too busy procrastinating. Now I’m lost in proto plotweaving.

*^*^*

update: I was lost and got out too late…

Damn rut…

Is it writer’s block when you could write but have no compulsion to continue after the first paragraph? Everything written feels like crap.

fiction no.1:

by the blade we live! by the blade we rule! by the blade we prosper!

The shouts were without any sense of weakness. The shouts as promises were sincere.

These are the shouts of those who knew what was expected of them, the hard life that is upon them.

To be sent to the far reaches of the outer sphere is an honour and burden taken by these young.

A thousand bushels per cycle for the house of each selected, a thousand for each that does not return after ten solar cycles, ten bushels for each young that would return after their tour.

Not that it matters very much though, the average income is a thousand bushels per cycle per capita. It is a matter of house honour to send as many young to bridge the gap of the Warp and worked to contribute towards the betterment of the race.

To be one who had stared into the starless eternal night for ten cycles and stayed sane. To understand the insignificance of one’s self when looking at the ego-busting sight of the galactic disk. To truly understand loneliness and helplessness when working in a on a one person sentry pod for days.

fiction no.2:

He made the sky his playground, he flew without effort and without any fear of falling.

On the ground was detached from everyone else, for only when gliding in-between the clouds that he felt truly in-control.

there were some more, but not up to standard and/or are deemed not safe for the image of me that I am trying to project to the world (the stories would only justify the suggestion that I am, regretfully a freak) and could harm the sanity of you, my readers.

*+*+*

I finally made up my mind, my political standpoint is the same as this guy. Just that for different reasons, eluvium’s views are because of philosophy, while me, on the hand, due to apathy.

*+*+*

Hope I’ll get out of this rut, write a book, write another, quit my job and father a son. ktnx. Bye.

Sleeping Rosebud

Today I slept on the train and missed my stop and and continued to go for another three. Then there at Segambut I got off as to ride on the opposite line, making my way back. It was this decision made of early morning folly that lead to her.

Rosebud as lips
Tired even before the day started
Swayed by the shake and rattle
Serenaded by the uneven beats

Rosebud as lips
Hope you rest and start anew
My stop is here-
and so I leave.

Wrote this at the old station, where it is sometimes deserted and lonesome to be in and yet so comfortable and soulful, writing next to a bench here a guy slept, looking at his clothes he is not homeless, yet he doesn’t show that he is shameful to be supine and relaxed. Oh how I envy him…

I didn’t even saw rosebud’s eyes, but i know it was closed, her fingers was blocking her face and no I didn’t take any picture. I want to be the only one…

Heh…

Tardiness.

I’ve been lazy. Very lazy.

***

Thoughts flashing/playing/sneaking in my head lately:

• What makes Explosion In The Sky sound so good even without lyrics? Emotional input by the listener?, Superior improv?, The band’s own advanced introspection, cooperation and understanding on how to impart a coherent but multifaceted whole (style, effect on listener, “story”) song?, Am I being a little bit out of my league trying to grasp music theory even though I only listen to them and never played any instrument to my and other people’s satisfaction…
• Wondering whether it is possible for anyone to translate Pynchon’s work to Bahasa Malaysia with even the same effect on the reader, because everyone read different and feels different and have different expectation of what a book should be like.
• The egalitarian Resource Based Economy, where everyone produces for every one the best products and serve everyone the best services without the involvement of money (e.g. The war effort of America in WW2.) thus eliminating middlemen, lawyers and (gasp!) bankers. The difficulties over the model when the poblem arises of who should say what’s the best for everyone. The prospect of design by committee is a bit daunting for someone like me that feels that in terms of creativity; the individual is superior than a collection of people that have to each of them different notions of good.
• Wondering sometimes that I am asexual and then doubting it whenever I see females.
• Wondering sometimes that I am emotionally retarded and confirming it when people sometimes ignore me when I speak. Do I feel the same as others when I react differently? Or is it just my apathy?Am I paranoid?… Yes.
• Why is there noise in my PC sound system?
• My supposed road to financial freedom and dreams of early retirement.
• Are males threatened by me? Do I give female wet dreams? Why this ego?
• Does anybody enjoy my presence on earth?

Ranting

The pleasure of silence without any care, I think I need long holiday badly. The tender touch of the wind in my hair. Have anybody felt this way;wanting to see everything as beautiful. The blade of long grass dancing in the breeze making murmurs that something will come and disturb this fleeting peace. The smile of a passing stranger making no judgments. Flocks of birds flying in formation seeking sustenance to fuel the high intake of their calorie consuming existence. The kind of silence that will make the thoughts in your head go in different branches covering a multitude of topics and ideas and memes then sudden all have and underlying theme, a theme that is not you, or something that you thought was never you, the thought of doing horrible things for the sake of doing them, murder, rape, mutilation and seeing acts of kindness suddenly shift to the perverse. My black and white is merging and becoming gray, why am I so intrigued by this decadence of my own morals and of the morals of others when I’m sure that it wouldn’t make a difference to my outlook and the outlook of others of me. This yearning for anarchy I have in my wants turning to me being the archetype of the system, a dictator who orders the live of other even when I and people who know me know that I could not.

One night a moth flying around saw something that interests it very much, it saw a flame. It wants to be one with it, to embrace it. When it got near the flame, the moth felt pain in it’s wing and so it got as far away from the flame it could. Then it found the concept of opposites because it flew straight into an open freezer, where it froze to death and caused many curses to come out of the woman that owned the freezer that has now a moth trapped in deep frost as the woman only opened the freezer again two months later when she got home from abroad.

I am the moth and the flame is words, texts and meaning and syntax. While the freezer is the complete chaos of misunderstanding and no-meaning. The women is you, dear reader.

Makings Of A Perverted Mind.

It is was on a saturday evening when I was getting back from KL, i was on a bus going from kajang towards Semenyih.

As usual i sat upon the last bench on the bus as it would have the room to house these bamboo poles I call legs. I was actually sitting in-between a chinese kid who was busy sending SMSs to another person apparently not on the bus and three malay girls who were as usual too busy to care what other think of them,because they were like as any group of likeminded people did when they were together, they were busy entertaining each other. Amidst all this giggling and whisperings about pretend glances from men imagined and real towards them, and frantic keypad clicking. I noticed a solitary person in the in the bus, not busy with anything, and unlike me was hardly even awake at all.

From my bench behind her I saw that she had used her long straight hair as a kind of curtain. Whether it was to hide her face from the sun or to hide it from other people I wouldn’t know. but in doing so she had unintentionally revealed her neck. the kid beside me had finished sending his SMSs and busy reading replies and now was in throes of heavy T9 assisted thumb typing and the three malay girls are going off the bus and was looking for other places to giggle in. In time the SMS kid also arrived at his wanted destination, maybe he going to meet his friends. There was now not much to look at so I did as any guy in my situation would do, concentrate on the girl.

The sun was succeeding in doing what it was doing in the dreamy light of near sunset, which was to make skin of girls look silky and details be emphasized with shadows going eastwards. her neck was creamy pale white. with fine fuzz from beyond the sight barrier that was her collar, those small hair were coming up her neck in an inverse ‘V’ pattern until it came to the pit behind the neck where it would start to grow longer in fine filaments of darker than black and abruptly up from that her hairline starts.

It is known in wet and warm countries like this to shave the fine hair behind the neck to allow for better contact of skin and air, but the girl apparently have never heard done that. what does this imply? the girl doesn’t care about sweat? her hair was long on the back so it was useless to do so? I am thinking too much?

Then as usual, she did what people on busses do, she stood up and rang the bell. well so much for that. she got off that bus and walked home. I stayed on sweating amidst the indons and banglas and nepalese and vietnamese and malaysians and others that are smelling of the undried sweat the malaysian climate was excelling at producing. who am i amongst these people on this unair-conditioned bus , but the sweatiest of all, of stench and of lust. I am the paragon of this ‘thing’ here. when it came to my stop, the other passengers allowed me, their dominar, to get down first as proper respect demands.

Then I felt the urge of making lactic acid sting these legs of mine. so I walked home, while my mind and eyes were busy gawking and interpreting the abstract patter on the sunset sky. Seeing orgasmic symbols everywhere. HAHAHA!

Past Paranoias And Dealing With Them

I’ve been reading Thomas Pynchon’s books these couple of days. And now have better control of my paranoia, that unerving fear that people are hating me for thing that i know but they don’t know but I seem so relaxed about it.

This pananoia i had since i was in primary school, having a lomographic memory, almost accurate if not for the embelishments made by my own imaginations. that weakness that smart people get; that you don’t know what other people are thinking. leading people to assume that you think that they are stupid when all you are thinking about is “what are other people thinking?”.

Then when in my secondary school i was getting surpassed by my classmates who were not burdened with neuroses like mine. then when at the supposed finishing line of that period of education, i gave up and broke down my own confidence till it becomes not a wall but a ditch, so I may fall into it when cornered. Graduating from secondary school, last in my class of 40. I have this feeling that I’m to my classmates too dumb/inappropriate/unintellectual/stupid/lazy too be among their select 39 brains and that the second class wouldn’t want me among themselves for i’d be too smart for them, this i realize due to reading Thomas Pynchon’s books the same paranoia/neuroses and egostistical thing i would make up for what happened when all you wonder about is “what is on other people’s mind concerning me?”

Then i college, I had been infected with the feeling that my own altruism is a handicap. That punk culture is dumb but yearning for anarchy of systems and idealogies, even as what I was studying then was Information Systems/Theory/Applications and being good with it. What’s this? A discord between gifts and desire? HAHAHA!