(double posting today because the post that went up this morning was meant to go up yesterday; except I did a quick lie-down on the sofa which ended up in me blacking out until 4.30A.M., at which time I woke up and dragged myself to bed)
Woke up this morning to the kind folks at ISSUE Magazine telling me thank you for your short story, but it’s not what we’re looking for. It was depressing, but at the same time strangely heartening to know that yes, there still are editors who give personal attention to the stories writers write, no matter how cliched or badly written or sloppily put together.
That’s not to say that rejection didn’t suck. It did. I retreated to my room, intending to cry, but ended up reading 2 chapters of Mr. Green’s The Fault In Our Stars and rolling about in bed for 15 more minutes before it was time to music practice. So off to music practice I went, and the events of the morning was soon forgotten.
I think the ability to forget is a hugely underrated ability. It’s practically a superpower in the form of a coping mechanism.
Recall a story I read in KL Noir: White about an alien race that invaded earth in the likeness of condoms, and for most parts of the story, they busied themselves with the biting off of penises. The story ended with the human race coming to an agreement with the aliens – by putting them in a pork factory where they, presumably, are free to bite off as many penises as they’d like, as long as they belonged to dead pigs.
I’m just sitting here thinking: if someone bought that story, there has to be someone out there desperate enough to buy one of mine. Or two. Or all of it.
Crime in Malaysia has been awfully gruesome in the last few weeks. A little girl was beheaded by a madman. A teenager was gang-raped by 30 men. I don’t know what would make people do things like these, and I doubt I ever will. The image of John Coffey by the riverbank, with tears running down his face and the bloody, naked bodies of the Detterick twins comes to mind.
Dyana Sofea lost the Teluk Intan elections by a narrow, narrow margin. It was like the Thomas Cup all over again, only this time I was less emotionally invested. As a general rule, one should be as emotionally distant from political happenings as possible. It’s better for the heart.
I only just discovered the wonder that is Norah Jones’ voice earlier this week. How I have lived this long without knowing about her escapes me, but I’ve been hooked all week long. I could fall in love with that voice. Maybe I already have.
Grandma is here to stay for the next 2 weeks or so. I’m able to understand, with approximate degrees of accuracy, 10% of the words she says. One day she will pass on, and I will be left wondering why I never took the effort to learn an extra Chinese dialect so I can converse with her. She is, after all, an old lady who makes wildly inappropriate jokes about death. I have a feeling that we could have been buddies, if we shared a common tongue.
The modern world of instant connectivity may have brought us all closer together, but it seems that the closeness we now share only serves to accentuate our differences. The world was simpler when it faded from white to brown in a smooth gradient. It seems that the closer we get, the more we realize how distant we truly are from one another.
What a world that we live in.