How I Got Attacked and Survived

"As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect."

Chapter I of The Metamorphosis,
Franz Kafka

I was out at the back of Acharya Compound, checking out Mom and her litter of pups - which she produced shortly after Socks Mother's Day event. Her nest was nothing more than a shallow hollow in the red earth right beside an anthill and all exposed to the irascible elements of the Indian clime. During a rainstorm, someone had so kindly moved Mom and her li'l teat-suckers to a place with a more auspicious feng-shui (less feng and less shui).



Single Mom.
Mr Good Samaritan had also thoughtfully provided an umbrella (a bit of it seen in the top left of the picture above) so that the raindrop spray wouldn't shower the single mother and her four pupsicles. There was initially 6 (or 5) to begin with but life expectancy for puppies here is kind of bleak. Only one survived the previous combined litters of Mom and Socks. Yes, death happens to cutesey puppies too - not just to overreaching drug junkies, terminal cancer patients and Saddam Hussein.

Then I saw this praying mantis swaying rapturously as if in deep religious bliss (it'd probably speak in tongues as well if it had a tongue) on the umbrella,



"~!@#$%^&*+"
I got its attention soon enough. It turned it's head around and looked me right in the face (well, camera lense, but you get what I mean),



"Ya lookin' at me, punk?"
And below is the picture I took right before it leapt and flew at me - and tried to kill me,



*Roar!*
With a whirr of wings (and probably also a battle cry too high pitched for human ears), it landed right on my crotch and I tried to shake it off by doing a rapid succession of seriously sexy pelvic thrusts - I bet that must have been hilarious to watch but unfortunately for the rest of you, no one was around to video tape it and turn it into a YouTube meme.

It then quickly scuttled from my unmentionables to my butt and for all those that have tried to look at their butt before without the aid of a mirror, they'd know just how bloody difficult it is to check out your own bum properly. I'm not normally spooked by bugs. I'm pretty comfortable around their ilk and I once carried a praying mantis in my hands to the mess hall to freak Shaki out during breakfast - but a mad insect with sharp, pointy appendages going guerilla on my nether region is a big nono. Naturally, I started panicking and tried to shake it off. Please, don't ask me what I was shaking.

I stopped after a awhile, thinking that the green ninja bug couldn't possible have held on after so much gyrating. I cautiously ran a hand over my pant seat and touched nothing out of the ordinary.

Then I peered on my right shoulder - and the mantis was perched right there, looking as ugly as fuck and waving its lethal looking claws threateningly at my face.

I flicked it off, no longer caring if I might hurt the little creep. My beautiful face was at stake there.

It landed on a windowsill.



"I seeeee yooouuu!"
I don't know whether it was because it saw me in the window pane or that it had a real bone to pick with glass, but it started menacing my reflection.

Like this,



*slash slash stab stab* "Die now, bitch! Grrr!"
After awhile, it apparently got tired of that and turned around, finding me again,



"C'mere you!"
I backed away real slowly.

This has been another meaningless filler post brought to you by me. The ol' Compaq is back but I'd have to reinstall the broadband connection thingamajig before I can come online again. Signing off from Shaki's girlfriend's laptop now (she's in Goa for the weekend). A Happy Belated Diwali to one and all!



Survived a mantis attack,
k0k s3n w4i

Dream Girl

"People who insist on telling their dreams are among the terrors of the breakfast table."

Max Beerbohm

I saw you in a dream, and in many dreams before and after. Those dreams always started out different and their stories went in different ways but somehow, you're always at the end of them. You seem to be in distress - I think you want my help. I think you need my help. And I want to help you, but I would have to find you first. I have seen you many times but I do not know your face. I have heard you speak to me but I do not know your voice. I would call after you and ask you if you know what you mean to me - if I only knew what name to call you. I do not know just how your hair would catch the light in the sun or how my smile would look like reflected in your eyes. I do not know the scent of your wake, the life in your laughter, or the warmth of your breath when you kiss me. And I do not know if you've seen me in your sleep the same way I have seen you in mine.

I know nothing about you but I know you. And when I meet you outside my dreams, I'm going to recognise you.

"Hey," I'll say to you.

"Aren't you that girl I've always been dreaming about?"



Feeling it,
k0k s3n w4i

Heeren Street

"Blows are sarcasms turned stupid."

George Eliot, English novelist

George's a woman, by the way. That was just her pen name.

Looks like the gnarled, throttling fingers of medical school are wrapped firmly around my neck and are wringing whatever joie de vivre I managed to scrape together from the joy-parched earth of Manipal out of me. For like the thousandth time - I did keep count - I rue the day I opted for this course and learning.

Okay, now that I've explained my unenviable state of existence I'll go straight to the point. I was too busy to update this web journal yesterday and the day before (yes, it is possible for me to get too busy, believe it or not) and from the looks of it, I won't be updating in the next few days either. Rebecca (what I call my laptop) came down with a pernicious worm, and after reading through a whole lot of really dull technical papers on how to get rid of it, I have came to the realisation that reformatting the ol' notebook is way less troublesome ('cause someone agreed to do it for me). Anyway, she had been kind of sluggish these few months - so it's mind-wipe for ya, Becky girl! Thanks, Lingghezhi. I'll pay you in House episodes, as usual.

Oh yeah, and here's a few pictures of Malacca's Jonker Street's out-glammed lil' sister, Heeren Street. It's also known as Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock and it runs parallel to its more popular counterpart.

Pigeon and some seriously old roof.

I always enjoy a walk through the narrow road which is flanked on both sides by sleepy and (some) crumbling old peranakan townhouses that date back to the Dutch era in Malacca all those centuries ago. They are often known collectively as the Millionaires' Row, and I guess it must have been some sort of Beverly Hills of the Malaccan town in its time.

Or not.

Dilapidated. Pretty lapidated too, if you ask me.

Of course, emergency reconstructive surgery works have already begun on some of the more salvageable townhouses.

Pretty, ain't it?

Most of the old house had intricate sculptures of phoenixes and flowers adorning the frontal facade, made from pieces of I-don't-know-what-but-i'll-just-say-painted-porcelain-bits-because-it-sounds-classy. Though they are in essence of Chinese aesthetics, the ethnic flavour in their crafting is hard to ignore.

And here's one of my favourite buildings in Heeren Street.

*Low whistle*

Incredibly picturesque, no?

On certain nice, clear days, I would take a walk down this lane alone and just drink up in the quaint oldness of everything along the walk - I've done so every time the urge got me. Sometimes, I even leave the main road and take walks through the maze of back alleys cobwebbing through the ancient houses and shops erected in a higgledy-piggledy fashion between Heeren Street and Jonker Street.

Where some Baba kid of yore played footie.

It's hard not to be proud being Malaccan. I really do love the town I grew up in.

I have always been partial to this street because it is still largely unspoiled. There's no millions of garishly coloured light bulbs strung across the road, posh pedestrian pavements and a-buck-apiece antique stores lining the drive like in Jonker "Commercial Cow" Walk. There, the ambience and charm of a few hundred years of Baba Nyonya history lay firmly buried under tasteless state capitalisation of heritage - particularly during the weekend nocturnal flea market. The feel of wonderment and discovery is just not found in Jonker anymore.

That atmosphere of awe is still intact and beating here in Heeren, thankfully.

Feel it?

However, I think that is fast fading too.

Aaargh!

Damn you, Digi. First my movie theatres, now my favourite street.

Homemade,
k0k s3n w4i

The Sound of Falling in Love

"No, you may not call it a date."

Her

This is about me. Not anybody else.

I remember having to lie to all our friends so no one would follow, wanting to join us. She had her share of jealously protective and possessive girlfriends, and all girls have one in particular that sticks on quite firmly like a sixth finger, needing to be be at their side at all times of day and wanting to know the littlest details of their girlfriends' life and doings. Of course, it can really be incredibly annoying if that girlfriend happens to be rather close as well to the bloke that was in love with said girl. She would be incredibly tiresome then. She would park herself right between the boy and his sweetheart at all times of the day, and talk to them in turn but hardly ever letting them exchange a single word between - whether it was in a McDonald's having lunch, in a movie theatre, in a car or in all three of the tuition classes they happened to share. It was quite hellish.

Then there was that one day. I don't know how important it was for her, but it certainly was for me. It was the first time ever we have gone out alone together, unchaperoned and unaccompanied. It was only for less than a couple of hours - and we had to enter the movie theatre separately so there would be no chance for anyone to stroll by so conveniently and go "A ha! The jig is up," on us.

It was all kind of cute really the way we took the secrecy bit so seriously. So childish, yet so very necessary. I won't say it was worth it. I won't say what need not be said.

The movie was Di Xia Tie. At that time, it was my third time watching it.

I don't remember when I watched it the first time but I think I saw it alone. However, I do remember that I definitely watched it on my own the second time. That song would come on at certain special scenes and it would get me every single time. I love the even rhythm of the piano and its clarity of a feeling that wants no elaboration. I love the earnestness of the voice that sang it. I love the string of repetitive gibberish that was used in the place of lyrics. It was one of the few songs I felt rather than heard.

There was another version sang by Elva Hsiao but with proper words. It felt strangely hollow, though.

I watched Di Xia Tie for the fourth time after that "not-a-date", and that was the last time I heard that song, four years ago. Until yesterday night. Last night, I suddenly felt the indomitable desire to listen to it again. It took me the best of 3 hours to finally hunt it down.

It was the beautiful, beautiful sound of falling in love.



Quite hopeless,
k0k s3n w4i

3 Words: Fish Paste Noodle!

"There is no love sincerer than the love of food."

George Bernard Shaw

Amen. Stop tuh wars foh tuh lub of grub!

Today, my dear beloved readers, is one of those short post days when I feel physically unable to meet the demands of vigorous typing and prolonged periods of general consciousness (the natural state of humankind is somnolence - just like cats and certain breeds of dogs). My schedule says that I got Death by Microbiology Test tomorrow and I'm already feeling the wanderlust of the North Indian Grand Backpacking Escapade (yes, giving awesome names like that does make things awesomer) which the compadres and I are still in the addictive and surprisingly fun process of planning. The embarkation of this enterprise is still months away from actually happening, though. Damn you, Lonely Planet!

Anyway, back to this short post of mine - welcome to one of my favourite lunch slash dinner places in Malacca;

Ly Sing.

This is where I go to get my weekly fix of Hong Kong Fish Paste Noodle when I'm in Malacca. Frankly, I can't vouch for the veracity of the 'Hong Kong' bit - but if Hongkies don't actually eat Fish Paste Noodle, they are missing out on some seriously delectable munchables, I can tell you.

Here's a standard bowl;

All parts included. No assembly necessary. Batteries sold separately.

I'm not very good with this food review business so I'll just point out what those floaty things in the bowl are. That black mass of jelly-like stuff is (was) dried seaweed, and the golden-brown, crinkly things are minced fish meat wrapped in deep-fried, extra-satisfyingly-OMG-crispy foo-chuk (soya sheets) - all hot-tubbing in a savoury yet clear soup with fragrant pieces of fried onion and chopped spring onions swimming in it. Underneath it all lurks the noodle part of the bargain. I usually opt for equal parts of mee and kuey teow.

You can have the option of having a tom yam soup base but I wouldn't go that way if I'm you. Not many people like that.

And those white, irregularly shaped bits that looks like wads of crumpled tissue paper is the fish paste (well, sorry to disappoint you but they don't come in little squeeze tubes).

Believe it or not, this used to swim in the ocean.

I've seen them prepare make the fish-paste pieces from a tupperware container stuffed to the brim with the fluffy, squishy white goop. They would spoon bits out and drop them in a pot of boiling soup with the noodle and seaweed to cook. After that, the fish paste would shape up and lose its squelchiness, becoming firm like fishballs (but suppler, more absorbent and waaay softer). In both consistency and taste, I prefer fish paste though they are pretty much made out of the same thing.

One of the best time to pay Ly Sing a visit is 6 o' clock or thereabouts in the evening, when they open for the dinner crowd. You'll usually be the only customer then. After 7.00 pm, it's a mealtime mêlée for seats, especially in the weekends. They are open around lunchtime too but I could never wake up that early when I was on holiday. Plus trying to beat the schoolchildren-chauffeuring Mommies and Daddies for a table isn't really my kind of sport.

And to get there, just drive to where that replica of an ancient Portuguese sailing ship-come-museum is located. Then, drive on till you reach that beached gunship belonging to the Malaysian Navy (TLDM). You should be able to see the corner shop practically standing right in front of you in Plaza Mahkota then. Just remember that it closes really early at night - about after 9.00 pm, I think (but I can't say for sure because I'm usually sleeping at that time).

This has been another quality post brought to you by the dedicated crew of k0k bL0k. We live to serve *kowtows*.



Devourer of fish paste,
k0k s3n w4i