Back and Forth

Is it beginning or has it ended

You’re hurt and aren’t yet mended

You might have let go

You don’t want to know

Looks like your life’s been upended

With flipping tummies and vertigo

Gravity does push, pull, and throw

You plunge and rise

With misery and delight

Life’s scary if your phobia’s an acro

Your winter’s full of your cries

Still not over summer’s surprise

Gets better from here

Nothing more left to fear

Truth’s worse than the worst of lies

Lots more to come, my dear

Laugh insanely or shed a tear

It doesn’t matter

Former or latter

It’s scarier when the end isn’t near

Is it beginning or has it ended

The Tale of Everend

Her eyes grew large as he said the words she was waiting to hear; once upon a time…

She knew what was to come. She had heard this one a million times. Each time, the story was the same, and yet so different. She had so many memories, and she didn’t know how Papa did it; her favourite parts never changed; and still, there was so much new detail in every retelling. Papa had a way with words, and his stories had so much more life that her little crayon men had ever had. Each time the story started, she held her breath, letting it out in little gasps that punctuated the many wondrous events in Everend.

It was a beautiful place, was Everend! She liked it better than all the other places he made up or borrowed, including Peter Pan’s Neverland. She got Peter; he didn’t grow up, neither had she. But then, she couldn’t imagine running away from home to play Injuns and Pirates for eternity. And it wasn’t that she wasn’t bloodthirsty enough! With a wooden sword in her hands, she had made the boys scream like little girls! But running away from Papa had never crossed her mind! 

And yes, Everend was the best!

Oh, but Sir Dunnohoo was in trouble! His horse had the runs, and a runny horse doth not gallop!

She burst out into peals of laughter! That line always got her, especially the way Papa said it. A runny horse doth not gallop! Sir Dunnohoo was a scream, and she loved the way he blustered through the advantage. The real hero was of course the heroine! Everend was her kind of place, where the heroine was always the hero, and the knights were in distress because of their runny horses!

For a while, she rested into that soft glow that came so often with these precious moments. She could see the animated expressions on Papa’s face, his eyes widening in horror as he described the troubled knight’s climb up 542 stairs. Papa didn’t like stairs, and while she gladly skipped over them, she made a moue of dismay at Sir Dunnohoo’s plight. Papa then flailed his arms around, describing the knight’s exhausted triumph at the top of the stairs, and his confusion on seeing the princess he had come to rescue skip past him! Ah, the princess! She sat up, riveted, waiting for the delightful narrative of her favourite character!

Princess Li’lness, the only heroine to ever have an apostrophe in her name (she remembered the day she found out what an apostrophe was in grammar class; how much she had laughed, much to her teacher’s disapproval); Li’lness was the perfect princess. She wore pink, and kicked bad men on their shins with her dainty, pointy shoes. Her best friend was an ogre… oh, Papa was coming to the place were Sir Dunnohoo would hang his helmet on the ogre’s nose!

Sir Dunnohoo saw the pretty princess looking at him, and decided to turn on all his charm.

Papa stopped here, as he usually did, to smooth his hair down and lick his thumbs before shaping up his eyebrows. She went eww, which of course sent him into another round of spit and polish! She playfully punched his arm, which finally got him to continue with his narrative.

He yanked off his helmet, taking care not to let the chin strap mess up the moment, and in a carefree manner, tossed it onto the nearest hooked object… Ohgoaaargh’s nose! (Ohgoaaargh’s dad saw him and started with ‘oh god’, which halfway turned to aaargh; yes, that’s him in that photo with the bitten-off nose!)

Her eyes widened, her hand stifling her giggles as Papa hammed his way through the utter chaos that followed, his hands becoming ogre claws and his voice becoming that of a strangled squeaky knight. Oh, this was the best part ever!

But soon, things got more serious. It was not all laughter and games in Everend, and this is where Papa got inventive. Depending on what he had been reading and what was on his mind, Everend faced a slew of inventive hazards. Today, the evil witch was going to choke on a poisoned orangeberry (a little orange with freckles and lots of personality!) To make matters worse, the worker gnomes were going on strike because someone gifted them a mirror—now, why would someone do that—and they didn’t like their own faces! Everend’s economy was collapsing, and soon would come a time when Everend would be sold to Walt Disney who would just turn it into another theme park! There were so many to save (the evil witch had to be saved too; after all, she was essential for fairy tales and shouldn’t be bumped off!) and it was up to the brave princess to do it all!

She gasped, sighed, and laughed her way through the princess’s brave antics (her favourite part was the orangeberry ending up in Walt Disney’s potpourri and causing a sneeze-a-thon, especially amongst all the grown men in cartoon character suits who worked for Walt Disney!) At last, the story came to a satisfying ending, with Princess Li’lness putting Sir Dunnohoo to sleep and going into the hall to join her Papa for a post-dinner drink.

She clapped heartily, and got up to hug her Papa. She hadn’t heard the story in years, and today, she had begged Papa to do it, with bell and whistles, for her son. Barely a year old, her son listened with rapt attention for all of two minutes, before nodding off. But Papa had gone on, for his little daughter. As she hugged his frail frame, she wondered if she would ever get to hear about Everend again. After Papa was gone, what would happen to Princess Li’lness and Sir Dunnohoo. She held on, squeezing him tighter as she teared up. She could see Everend’s biggest enemy coming closer with every year, and there was nothing she could do. As her Papa held her, she could sense him smile, comforting her as only her Papa could. He patted her head gently as his mellow voice sang out the little rhyme he had always hummed to her as she fell asleep… 

Everend, oh Everend

Sleep tight, you’re safe tonight

All’s well, and everything’s right

I can’t help but wonder

Everend, will you ever end…

Staring into Space

I've been staring into space
It's dark out there
I see things
Swimming in the murky depths
Thoughts melting into fears
The future clawing its way up
Out of the past's long-dead grave
The same old stories
With the same old endings
And it's all still as scary
I've been staring into space
Seeing if I can spot myself
A happy me in a happy morrow
It's dark out there
Maybe it's night there
But then the shadows I see in the depths
Do not comfort, do not ease my worry
I've been staring into space
The moon's bright as ever
Its dark side is still the darkest
It's still scarred all over
Beyond its numbing light
Things do swim in the dark
They might be quiet, but I see them
Beyond the moonlight, in my morrow
I've been staring into space
I've been thinking too much
It's all coming together
It's all falling apart
It's dark out there
What remains does swim by
Dismembered, tentacled
It does not comfort
It does not ease my worry
And still, I stare into space
I can't help but stare into space

30... 31...

One year, and so much has changed. I hit 30 with a sense of panic and desperation. With most important life's goals unattained, (I just typed gaol instead of goal... wow, talk about Freudian slips!) I was at that juncture where the mortality of life hits you and you realize that you might never get to live the life you always wanted. My book was still unpublished--a much-edited manuscript collecting digital dust and self-doubt. I was still in a full-time job and was still working late nights and weekends, spending what free time I could get catching up on my sleep backlog. My relationships with various significant others were all beginning to suffer the neglect I was inflicting on them.

The imaginary nervous imp representing my life expectancy gulps as it examines the statistics: I smoke, I drink, I'm overweight (thanks to my love of food in general and red meat in particular), my work, life and relationships are wrought with stress, and I have a genetic legacy that's pure murder (two granddads lost to heart attacks before they hit the big five-oh, and one grandmom lost to cancer before I grew up enough to remember her face; the other grandmom died a slow, agonizing death and just passed away at 90-something... I'm not sure what I prefer any more) I might have a few years left, but that's more luck than anything else. Not much time left to do much in, and given how much is left (EVERYTHING), not much hope for getting much done either!

Perspective is the great purifier. One thing can change, and everything can look so very different!

I hit 31. My book is still unpublished, but I have an incredible literary agent who was kind of enough to sign me on, and is cheerfully optimistic that we'll soon taste success. Based on that one event, I took my life and turned it around. I quit my full-time job for a consulting role, just so I would have more time to write. I took some risks and created opportunities that would get me closer to my agent, the publishers, and a writing career. The divorce came to a (relatively) painless end (unrelated, but fortuitous). The relationships are better, overall; ambient de-stressing, I guess. The imp is no less nervous as the statistics still seem ominous, though I've started toning down the excesses in some, if not most, departments. The genetic legacy I can't change. When grandparents gang up on you, there's little you can do. The rest of my unattained wishlist still deals with status quo, but the items on it glow with hope, beaming up at #1 who's slowly coming to life.

I might still kick the bucket in a few years, but now I can joke about the projected Mayan end of the world (that's one joke with an expiry date). I'm going to die a published author (or at least an author with recognized potential), and that's better than dying with a neglected manuscript no one knew about. Alternately, I might live the whole big life (marriage, bestsellers, world travel, kids, cynicism v2.0, arthritis etc.) and might die a slow, agonizing death at 90-something. I don't know that I want to lose my senses, motor skills and bowel control before I go. But then, such is life. You never know what the end's like and you can't really flip the pages to find out (point is, if you could, would you?)

Am I happy? On some days, yes. Does 31 feel better? With the new perspective glasses, yes. Is 32 going to be even better? I hope so; better is always good (is that an oxymoron?) Is this what's called growing up or can I just not deal with failure? I don't know. Am I overthinking this? Probably. Should I stop? Yes.

Think Write

To die will be an awfully big adventure

Fly away, Wendy bird, fly away  

How terrible it is, to be bound in this way

Our choices and our perception define us, limit us

No, I do not agree

I can make it possible, anything possible

What about… No, we’re not going there

God, my head’s such a mess

I was simple enough when I was born

Then, life happened

Halfway through and so much left to do

I have to build a totem pole

The sheer joy of working with your hands

Wet mud, wood shavings, paper

Writing… always writing

Trying to find ways to keep the flame alive

Nothing else matters, nothing else will stop me

You can get used to just about anything

But does it make sense to live this way

When the next big adventure is death

The Want Rant

From the first outraged wail you emit as a filthy, wrinkled baby to that last whispered sigh of ‘if only’ as you feebly kick the bucket, it’s all about what you want. You’re a relentless need-machine that needs to be fed, clothed, sheltered, coddled, reassured, and admired. A need goes wanting, and you turn into a miserable, insecure crib-fest. You make others around you even more miserable and you throw a tantrum a mile-wide that is like a vicious net, cast wide to capture anything thrown your way to appease your hungering need. It satisfies your ravenous being for a while, and then you start all over again.

You are wrecking feelings, lives, just by unleashing the expectation of your wanton desires on everyone and everything that crosses your path. You don’t care what others want. Oh, you pretend to. You take perfunctory note of another’s odd, convenient wish and make it happen. Then you sit back and wait for the appreciation and the gratitude. It’s all about gratuitous payoff; and if it isn’t instant, we have another tantrum coming right up. 

What is this trail of destructive self-indulgence that you leave behind? Why do you need company when alone and solitude when surrounded by people? Why do you crave what you don’t have and demean what is yours for the taking? Why can you not just accept what is and build on it? Why can’t you just be, damn it!

But no, you want what you want. You’re not going to let it go. If you can fulfil that void within you by yourself, then you will. If it needs to be done at another’s cost, then you will do that too. If not, you will reduce yourself to a blabbering, pathetic beggar looking for sympathetic alms and will not let up till you have what you need. You machinating, sanctimonious excuse for a human being! You will continue to cannibalize your life and those ill-fated enough to be caught in your selfish kamikaze dive till you’re sated.

With these final, damning words, I look away. I’m done with my conversation with my reflection for today. Tomorrow, it will be something else. I just hope it’s a tad more pleasant.