My face folded into a curious squint. Two days ago, as I searched the night sky for an answer, this Malay word genied out of this unilingual brain of mine: kebiasaan. It just came out of nowhere.

I did not even know if there was such a word.

“Kebiasaan? Hmmmmm?”

I summoned my eleven years of formal Malaysian education, and concentrated on the word.

“Biasa means normal.”

“Does kebiasaan then mean normalcy?”

“Or does the word mean ‘usual’ as in ‘Jadi satu kebiasaan’, which would mean ‘become routine’?”

“You sure about that?”

“Oh… I don’t know. Really, I don’t.”

“Just curious JC. What did you notch for your Malay language paper?”

“Now, now. Let’s not exhume any dark memories here.”

Like heads on a totem pole having a conversation, a panel discussion took place in my mind, and it led me down a path of self discovery. This was what I unearthed. My Malay is beyond hope.

Normalcy
NORMALCY. In my world, this has become a bit of an estranged word, banished like a leper to its own colony.

Of late, my life has been lived so intently, so intensely, that I now actually long for the opposite. So long it has been since I’ve experienced peace within. Enjoyed any form of normalcy or free abandon. These days, when I’m at rest, I no longer feel restful. But restless. This anxiousness in me that refuses to cease—it is of the sort that builds in the stillness, intensifying as time drains away.

There is a lot to be desired in the new career path I’m on. But a lot of what’s bad is invisible to the naked eye, blanketed by its sheen. So don’t wish for it too hastily. In the life I’ve chosen, I’m no longer subjected to Monday Blues, but I’ve lost one of life’s simple and most fulfilling pleasures… a reason to Thank God It’s Friday. Sure, I do arrive at new milestones, a cause for celebration. But before any corks can be popped, and sips taken, this voice within never fails to remind me, “You’re not there yet. Not even close.”

My Friday may one day come, many years from the last eighty I’ve missed. This hope, this Utopia I’ve envisioned for myself… it is all I have to hold on to.

For now, all I can do is reminisce the days before this innocence was lost. Back when the burden of destiny was left to fate. When happiness was something that happened to me, instead of an active pursuit. At a point in time when I could sit at the fringe of the ocean, watch the sea swell and shrink around my feet, and experience bliss.

A life of sentences? Or a life sentence?
Rome was not built in a day. Neither are successful authors.

International Best Selling Author.

I’ve forged and re-forged these words in my mind, allowed them to steer each of my actions. When I committed myself to this dream, I may have been unaware of what I was committing to. I’ve often asked myself this. Have I subjected on myself, the most ruinous ‘sentence’ in my life? A self-imposed fatwa that could well follow me to the grave, or maybe even expedite my journey there.

Where the writing of Fuel was concerned, I did not merely throw words onto the wind. I made a complete emotional investment, enlisted everything I had. Commitment is when you plant your seeds and your feet on the same patch. I had done that. And I’m not sure if it was a mistake.

To hold or to fold
Just the other day, I was reminded of the words to this song, “Don’t go chasing waterfalls… Please stick to the rivers and lakes that you’re used to.”

With all the turbulence that has entered my life, the question of whether I should stay the course has grown louder in my mind. On one hand, letters are trickling in from readers, telling me how powerful the book is, how it has changed their lives. On another front, there is mounting pressure for me to return to the life I’d left behind. Standing at the centre of the swirling debris, it has become extremely difficult for me to find a way out of the storm. Do I have the strength to weather it? The stomach to turn back? The freedom to ride it? So deep I am in the eye, that I may have lost the ability to differentiate stubbornness from resilience. All I know is this. If I stand too long at a crossroads, I’ll get run over by all sides.

These days, more frequently than before, I catch myself day dreaming of fair weather and wishing for normalcy. I’ve experienced many moments of joy in the last 500 days, but none that I felt I deserved. The strings have cut into my hands, have been stained red, taut in every direction. My grip ungiving, I stand here trapped in the wire, a prisoner in time, detained by the dream I’m trying to attain.

I took one last lingering glance, and had to let her go. My baby’s on its way, in bits and bytes to the printer.

Three days ago, as I was going through the book one last time, I made a rather drastic change—I turned three chapters in the middle to first person. I think it helps the story move a little better. God, I hope I’m right. Personally, I feel it could have been the worst or best writing decision I’ve made on the book. Those of you who know me know I’ve given up walking the middle line a long time ago.

Am not sure what I’m feeling right now. It’s a mixture of relief and nervousness I think. A bit of an odd blend don’t you think?

So how long before the book is available? The printer says it will take 2 weeks. When they’ve completed their job, I’d no longer just be a writer, but an author.

“How does one become a butterfly? You must want to fly so
much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar.”

- Trina Paulus

Just returned from a week in Bali. It was a very experiential trip I felt.

The highlight of my trip was a massage Sophie and I got atop a mango tree on a hilltop. Surrounding us were dark green forests and stunning lime green paddy fields. Down below was a gushing river. The cool breeze, the sweet scents of massage oils, the sound of the tumbling water. I started to drift off to sleep for a while. And then the masseuse massaged my nipples, and the sirens went off. Unlike most other men who would have found that arousing, any caress in that area sends me into a ticklish fit. I think the next time I go for a massage I should use a black marker and draw a periphery around my nips, sort of a no fly zone marking.

The other cool thing we tried in Bali was Kopi Luwak, the world’s most expensive coffee. Kopi Luwak retails on the world market at US$500 a pound, and is priced as such because of the process it has to undergo to make it what it is – coffee beans are ingested by these furry mongoose-like animals called Luwaks, and eventually passed out. The coffee beans are dug out of their droppings, and made into Kopi Luwak. The enzymes from the digestive tract of the animal act on the coffee beans, lending it its special flavour. Gross I know, but isn’t that the coolest thing you’ve heard of.

Our itinerary was as follows. Arrived and stayed a night in Seminyak, close to the capital. We stayed the next 2 days in the cultural village of Ubud, and then it was back to the capital till we left. We visited quite a number of temples. All picturesque, but it’s something you’ve got to see with your own eyes so I won’t bore anyone with the details.

This trip was a delightful gastronomic experience for me. Unfortunately my stomach did not hold up too well on this trip. I always ended up eating something wrong the night before, and suffered all of the next day. At day’s end, when the storm in my belly subsided, I started getting adventurous again and I could not help but put my stomach to the test again, sampling all kinds of weird chillis and whatchamacallits. And I went through the same ordeal for the six days we were there.

I grew quite close to a couple of the tour guides on our trip, Pak Ketut and Darta. Pak Ketut was the owner of the house we stayed at in Ubud. He spoke only Indonesian and drove us North to where they produced Kopi Luwak. He also accompanied us furniture shopping, and recommended us all the best places for food.
Darta was the tour guide assigned to us by the tour agency who made the arrangements for us. Darta had a huge interest in the English language and took up this profession so that he could meet Westerners to improve his English.

In the few days we had with Darta, I asked him so many questions, he thought I was a writer. By the trip’s end, I learned about all the different types of temples in Bali, the story of the Ramayana, the different status that got bestowed on a place based o the materials used for a building roof. I learned that the people of Bali had their birthday every 210 days, meaning that their birthday was on a different day each year if they used our calendar. I even learned of the layout of Darta’s house, where his brother slept, where the kitchen was placed, where they raised their pigs.

This trip was very different from my first to Bali. But the essence of it was quite the same. Both served as an eye opener to the graceful and peaceful culture of Bali, a way of life that has captured my intrigue till today.