I have my bad days. This blog has allowed me to chronicle them. I have my good days. Those are the ones I would like to remember fondly. The most beautiful thing about all these is that I have made more friends online through my blog than in real life. This is what I told Rebecca MacKinnon when she asked me how blogging has impacted my life at the Global Voices IRC before the interview with Mack Zulkifli and Jeff Ooi.

That is not all. This blog has helped me rekindle friendships with a few of my ex-classmates and ex-schoolmates who found me through my blog. We have not met in more than twenty years. Getting an email from a friend from the past is like being able to relive part of that time when we were studying together. How wonderful can that be?

Rebecca asked about my blog readership. I truly do not know and picked out a figure from thin air and told her in jest that it is around twenty. As she rightly added, that is beside the point. I blog not for any reason other than to keep an account of the significant moments of my life. “I blog for myself,” I told her, “writing is an escape for me.” That reminded me of what Fazri said: “I write to express, not to impress.” Very wise words from a young man.

Nevertheless, it is heartening to know that people who read my blog have found meaning in my writings. Dr. Cheah has something nice to say in Spinal Cord Injuries : The Life After, an entry he published in May last year. Mack too has put in an entry titled Stubborness, Good or Bad. This was posted in his previous blog called Branding Conversations. I have not thanked them both properly for their kind words and am doing it here.

Likewise, I scour blogs looking for inspirational stories of people who have triumphed over great difficulties and come out stronger. These are truly exceptional humans who never gave up in the face of adversities. I, too, derive strength from these people. It is like climbing a mountain together. We continually push each other to go higher. It is this teamwork that will spur us on. Every word we write, we try to turn the word “impossible” into I am possible.

Yvonne Foong is a young woman who suffers from a debilitating condition called Neurofibromatosis Type 2. Yvonne has been blogging since 2001. In her blog, she shares about her life. It is humbling to read how she courageously overcame her disabilities to live life to the fullest. If only I have half of Yvonne’s fighting spirit, I am confident I would have achieved something and made my life more meaningful than it is now.

Two weeks ago, I received an email from Selina Zainal. She recounted how she was diagnosed with spinal tuberculosis one year ago and how the disease had destroyed two of her lumbar vertebras and how she had experienced severe pain and months of treatment. I read that email several times but I could not find the correct words to tell her how impressed I was with her bravery. I still have not replied to her properly. Selina, if you are reading this, know that you too have inspired me and I pray that all will be well with you again.

I know the havoc an immune system disorder can wreak on an otherwise healthy body. Crowded places must be avoided. The flu season is feared like the plague. Still, she trudges on that uncertain path, wondering when and where she will catch the next infection from. The human spirit is one that can never be conquered if we have the heart to overcome it. Nebula is one such person. We have chatted occasionally. She wrote something beautiful about me in Embrace Life! Nebula, you too are embracing life in your very own ways. One who can share her struggles openly is certainly one who is not giving up so easily. You go girl!

My life is not all a bed of roses. I do have my own demons that I sometimes find difficult to exorcise. Lately, there is this poem that I always look back to when I am faced with a situation that I feel has become hopeless. Becky could not have put it better. Thank you for those beautiful verses. I am reproducing it here:

Turning Lemons into Lemonade

I have a lemon,
What shall I do?
Make me some lemonade?
Or sit here and feel blue?

And between now and then,
I shall take the ‘lemon’in my hand,
Make me some cool ‘lemonade’,
And share it with my friends!

Related entry:
The Beautiful Things About Friendship

Every bend, every tree, every bridge on that road had been embedded in my tender mind. Dad and Mum had taken me on this windy country road many times. I was about five or six. My memories of those times were mostly of whitewashed milestones, inanimate objects, towering durian trees and bamboo clumps rather than of people. The greenery was refreshing. Streams gurgled and birds chirped. I loved it, except for the motion sickness. The windy road made me nauseous.

That evening was different. Mum spoke in a hushed voice. I have never seen her looked that anxious before. Her eyes, they reflected sadness. The road looked different in the dark. Smell, I remembered the smell, of the PVC car seat. I was edgy. It irritated my nostrils. I was getting ill. The only illumination came from the car headlights. Occasionally the flickering glows of fireflies broke the monotony of the dark sheet of black that enveloped everything, everything.

The trees seemed unfriendly, vicious. They rose up like enormous monsters that threatened to swallow us with a single gulp should we stray from the road. All was silent except for the constant whirring of the engine and the incessant eerie screeching of the cicadas. It was all silent. Mum did not say a word. I wondered why, why we were making that journey in the middle of the night. She could have waited till Dad came back from work.

The hike down to the house was a harrowing one. Rocks that were stacked into steps were sometimes loose. I do not remember if I was carried or climbed down by myself. I do not even remember the fifteen minutes journey down. Did Mum cry? I cannot recall. Maybe she did. Did I see the body? I truly cannot remember. But I remember the casket, the edges, the colour, the trimmings. The corners, those sharp corners of the casket, they kept popping up in my mind.

I remember running around the casket in a game of catch. There were flowers. I had to wear black. They were sewn on the spot. The sewing machine never stopped churning out shirts and pants and shorts. I hated how it smelt, how I sweated and how the sweat made the clothes smell worse. It was stiff and tore easily. My cousins all had to wear black too. I was punished by Mum. My cousins complained to her that I threw stones at them. I do not remember the pain but I remember the rotan, thin and supple, and Mum wielding it threateningly at me.

The hearse was a big vehicle. Did I accompany the casket in it? I am not very sure. Maybe I did. We passed Titi Kerawang. We passed the Sungai Pinang town. We passed paddy fields, stilted kampong houses, orchards. These are all a blur as we raced to the church. There was Mass. I did not understand what the priest said. It was taking too long. I shifted uneasily on the hard bench.

At the cemetery, slabs and slabs of granite, polished, stood erect in rows. Some had small portraits. They looked old. At the front row, freshly dug red earth piled up high by the edge of a hole. The casket was put in. It was deep. There were tears, some sniffles too. I did not cry. I did not even feel anything. It was just another unusual adventure. Throwing stones at the other kids was fun. Maybe I will do that again when Mum is not watching.

Those are very scant recollections of the first death that I ever experienced. The emotions of the moment were lost on me. I was too young to understand. What is death? What is life? I hardly knew him, save for the few days that he came to stay with us. As I think back, I mourn for the fact that I did not get the opportunity to know him better. I would really love to be pampered by him, to be patted on the head, to sit on his lap, or just sit beside him and inhale the fragrant aroma of his pipe tobacco.

Pipe, I have that, passed down to me from Mum. The pipe that he had used is one that I will fondly remember him by together with a portrait that was probably enlarged and used for his funeral. A careful scrutiny revealed engravings on both sides of the pipe. On the left is “Invicta Finest Briar” and the right “Allegro Hand Made.” Those are the only precious possesions I have that are his.

He was a war hero too. He helped some British soldiers evade capture by the Japanese during World War Two. He was given a certificate of appreciation. It is a cloth scroll framed and displayed proudly in the house that has become my uncle�s now. That is all I can remember of my Ah Kong, my maternal grandfather. May his soul rest in eternal peace.

When they had eaten, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these others do?” He answered, “Yes Lord, you know I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” A second time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He replied, “Yes, Lord, you know I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Look after my sheep. Then he said to him a third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter was hurt that he asked him a third time, “Do you love me?” and said, “Lord, you know everything; you know I love.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.

(John 21:15-19, NJB)

The Pope’s Funeral Mass began at 1000hrs (+0200). The first reading was Acts 10:34-43 and second reading was Philippians 3:20-4:1.

The Astro parabolic dish was installed on the outer wall of my apartment because there is a direct line of sight to the satellite from there. My neighbours whose apartments are obstructed had to find other ideal locations.

The building manager refused to allow the dishes to be sited at the rooftop. They designated a couple of places where these dishes can be placed, namely at the sixth floor of the car park building annex. This is a sensible move since the dishes will not be installed in a haphazard manner.

Those staying at the higher floors had to fork out extra money to run their cables from their apartments to the sixth floor annex. That is in addition to the RM100 installation charges. Most do not have a problem with this arrangement.

However, what I cannot swallow is that the building manager is practicing double standards. The above image is proof. They had allowed that particular parabolic dish to be installed without question. They hold the key to the rooftop exclusively. When confronted with the evidence they feigned ignorance and made no effort in demanding that that offending device be removed.

Instead of doing something that will benefit all apartment owners and residents here, the developer cum building manager have allocated two lots of parking bays at the common area for themselves. To add insult to injury, they even have the impudence to build collapsible barriers to prevent others from parking there.

Unless I have missed out something, my understanding of a common area is that it should not be for the exclusive use of certain parties only but for the utilisation of all the apartment owners. After all, the quit rent for the premises within the fenced compound are being paid for from the management fund. Each apartment has to contribute RM90 monthly into the management fund towards the upkeep of the common area.

The Majlis Perbandaran Pulau Pinang (MPPP) is unable to do anything because according to them that is not within the ambit of their authority. The building manager ignores our repeated complaints. Staying here is like living during the feudal times. We are at the mercy of the building manager who does everything to their own whims and fancies.