3 facts - 1 fiction

My grandpa ate eye-balls of the swine. 

I would open the door of the cooler, and find a bowl of eye-balls staring back at me. Eye-lashes still attached. I stared back at them, sometimes daring them to blink back.

He believed they would heal his worsening eye-sight. He would ask my mum to boil them with Chinese herbs in a pork bone broth. My brave mum had no choice but to face this weekly task of making this magic potion. 

My grandpa lived until he was 93 years old. His eye-sight was perfect. I know this because he could still see me, even though I believed I was invisible to everyone else in my family. 

 

1 fact - 3 fictions

On 14 November 2008, her family (mother Lily, brother Chad, and cat Mr. Buttons) and friends (all ten of them who truly matter, and also because Chad knows them by name) gathered around her brother's pad. She pretended to be surprised. They ate a lot, drank too much, wished her happy 30th birthday, sang her a song, danced to 90's music, nibbled on cheese and kissed her cheeks.

She didn't say one word. No one suspected. She didn't say good-bye.

When people started to leave, she said "Thank you for coming", "See you soon" and "I'll catch you later". When she left her mother and Chad, she hugged them both tightly and whispered into their hair "I love you both".

Exactly ten days ago, America welcomed her first African-American President.

Pink Smoke, Like Plastic Bags

I believe in the power of having good thoughts.

Imagine them coming out of your pores like pink smoke

and twirls around your body before dispersing into the universe.

I believe in good thoughts, I do.

Imagine them like plastic bags dancing on air

and they float and fly where the wind takes them.

I believe the good thoughts will return, somehow.

Imagine them catching unto something or someone

and bringing them hope, love and making wishes come true.

I believe in good thoughts, I do.

Loose Thread

So as usual, I had a story in my head. And because I didn't make the effort to capture it, it flew away. Liz Gilbert said in her TED gig that you have to take hold of the that loose end of an idea, tug and pull it towards you. It will fall away like a loose thread from a knitted sweater, and you have to be quick to keep tugging to gather the thread in to a ball of creative energy. Otherwise… the idea, the story will end up in a messy heap on the floor, and you will wail in despair when you realise it could've been gathered and turned into something possibly beautiful.

What's stopping me then?

Battle of Wills

I will not feel regret.

I will not feel down.

I will not feel disappointed.

I will not give up.

I will not doubt myself.

I will not be dormant.

I will not be invisible.

I will be heard because I have something to say.

I will move forward because I have somewhere to go.

I will believe in myself because I am good enough.

I will do more because I can.

I will be grateful because I am lucky.

I will be joyful because there is much to be loved.

I will continue to be hopeful because there will always be change.

There will be love, faith, laughter and many, many happy days.

Faking It

When I stared at my TBR (half collapsing) book self, there were tough choices to make. Which ones will I pick for this 'trip'? Which ones will give me comfort for the first couple of months at least? Which ones will help me take the pressure off? Which ones will take me to another world?

It was a naturally choice to start with Peter Carey's My Life As A Fake to begin my journey with. It is Peter Carey after all, you can't go wrong. The Frankenstein inspired storyline, set both in Kuala Lumpur (the city I'm leaving) and Melbourne (the city I shall be calling my new home) is apt for my transition, I thought.

It has thus far gave me a peace of mind through two chilly sleepness nights.

A new life beckons nevertheless. I need to get on with it.

Books, my loves, can only do so much.

A Picture Hides a Hundred Things

She seems to reek of happiness. The new house, the cute baby, the sports car, the great teaching job, the loving husband with his own successful IT consultancy business. They do paint a pretty picture. Everything looks so perfect, so grand. And there you are, wondering if she really had it all.

The scene behind the picture is not always what it seems.

His sudden burst of temper. His questioning of her competency. She doubts if she's a good mother. The growing distance between them that he doesn't acknowledge. And yet, he pushes the invisible gap wider and wider. She reaches out and he backs off. She back offs and he turns away. He is always right, and if she thinks he isn't then it is she who doesn't understand. She says sorry, too often. The baby cries, he snaps, yells, and on a few occasions raised his hand ready to slap. She begs of him to help her, to seek help, to help them both, to save themselves. He looks away.

Bruised ego, lost identities. But they do paint a pretty picture, they do.