Happy Birthday, Ray!

Today, we celebrated my father's forty-ninth birthday at the restaurant beneath our hotel in the Gold Coast. My mother and I had booked the night before for six o'clock in the evening.

I had not anticipated the restaurant to be busy, seeing as though the restaurant only opens for two hours a day. We were all welcomed with a hospitable waitress, and were led to a four-seater table on the deck outside the restaurant. Seashell lights hung from the walls, and old brown twigs were hung on the ceiling, providing a calm, decorative atmosphere.

Soon after we were seated, and had ordered, two elderly couples took the table beside us. "We've been keeping it warm all week, hey!" one old man joked. They sat down, exchanged warm smiles with us, and three out of the four ordered a glass of Chardonnay.

The first couple consisted of a man with a great posture in a white polo, who I will call Steve, and his wife who was wearing a funky green Hawaiian-style shirt, who I will call Gloria. Across from Steve sat a frail old lady wearing a pearl necklace and a light pink shirt, who I will call Anne, and beside Anne was her husband, who sat sunken in his chair and clean clothes, who I will call Gregory.

Steve was the happiest person of the lot. He kept cracking jokes, soothing the atmosphere even more for all restaurant attendees. Gloria shone a bright, warm smile in every direction, stopping at whoever noticed it and held it until they smiled back at her. Anne and Gregory kept to themselves - I suppose they were just keen on their meals. From my eavesdropping, I learned that it was Anne and Gregory's first night in Queensland, and Steve and Gloria had brought them to Mano's restaurant to celebrate. They raised their glasses of Chardonnay in commemoration, and to toast.

After our lovely dinner, the waitress brought out our desert, dad's last - with a lit sprinkler in the middle. The waitress began to sing happy birthday, and soon the old couples beside us joined in, as though my father was their son.

'Happy birthday dear Elly, happy birthday to you!' I could swear that at that moment, my otherwise though father's eyes became teary. He looked fragile, relaxed, happy. Steve looked happier - this was something else that would bring him attention. "Happy birthday, Ray!" he boasted, "enjoy it and enjoy every other year! Each year!"

And that was what struck me - not that he misheard my father's name but that he convinced my father to enjoy his life. And at that moment, we all saw just how precious life is.

The Wax Museum

The Wax Museum, a place I had always wanted to visit, whatever location, and today I chose to do this whilst holidaying in the humid Gold Coast. Alfred, a shirt, stout knowledgeable old man from the Caribbean led the tour consisting of me, my sister, my mother and father, and a single mother with a younger daughter and elder son.

We were led to an underground area, similar to what I expect a serial killer's basement to be like - big, dark, eerie and shied away from the world. Each display was closed off by strong iron bars, and the stark wax figures stared into my very soul. We came across Nazis first, where we were told about Hitler's second in charge, one who had a fetish for cross-dressing.

We then moved on to hundreds of varied torture machines of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Alfred talked us through each display, each torture device, giving us a long harrow description containing historic references, and then ending each with a light-ended joke. I stood by him the entire time, attempting to comprehend as much of his Irish accent as possible. It proved difficult, but my ears soon became accustomed to his heritage tongue.

Amongst all of the information I had heard today, I only remember a few. The Disembowelment Machine - one where the torturer pulls out the criminal's intestines and places it on a cylinder-like roll, and he would pull a lever to wind the criminal's entire guts out. I'm bad cases, torturers would pull out the criminal's guts, tie it around a tree, and make them walk around it to wind out their intestines.

We saw exact replicas of the sword and post Anne Boleyn was beheaded on, learnt about the founder of the university of London and his friend's preserv ed head and body, shrunken heads, one of which belonged to a teenage boy - it was the only real thing in the museum, and still had his chin hair. Shrunken heads are only faces, I learnt, shaped by hand after being boiled, using stuffing consisting of mud and pebbles. We learnt that mummies were overall covered in honey after the long process of preservation, and that honey is the best antibacterial - it never goes out of date.

We learnt about how witches were burnt, how a man was killed because of his Christianity, how some people were thrown on islands in iron masks to die, how town gossips had to wear torture masks wherein two blades held their tongues threatening them from speaking for a while, about ankle crushing devices, about chastity belts for sitting and for standing - sitting ones had no spikes on the outside. We learnt about the stretching machine, wherein I learnt the human body can stretch to the body's foot-length before irreparable damage was done.

To make those with secrets speak, they had iron boots placed on their feet, wherein the torturer poured hot oil in them, scolding their feet. If that did not work, they poured hot oil on their fingers. Then, they would kill them off by placing an iron mask on their heads with a nozzle on the top and a nozzle leading to the mouth. First, hot oil would be poured through the top nozzle, then through the mouth nozzle, killing the victim slowly.

There was a horrid machine, I think it was a Neck pillary, wherein when worn, would pull close to each other the victim's neck and knees and hold them in that position so that all circulation slowly, and eventually stops. I learnt that still, to this day, criminals cannot be buried with innocent people because they have sinned, that some criminals were cut into four pieces after their torture, and were buried north, south, east and west, so that their soul cannot ever find one resting place. I learnt that the reason why it is difficult for a person while hung to place their fingers in between the rope and their necks is because their left and right arteries that branch from their necks to their arms would have been cut off, making it hard for them to raise their arms at all.

Until now, the sick feeling in my stomach has not left me. Today, I had paid twenty dollars to learn about the unforgivable crimes humans have performed on each other. Had I known I would witness all of this and more, I would not have entered.

Sizzling Sunburns

You are on a holiday. You are at a tropical place, the weather here is always humid despite the temperature. You did not need to pack any pants or jackets or jumpers, but you did anyway. "Just in case," you convince yourself, because this is how unbelievably tropical this place is - it leaves tourists in disbelief.

You lather on the top-grade sunscreen available in the market at the moment - 50+, it promotes and promises. It is waterproof, sand-proof, everything-proof it seems, except not the sun. But you do not know this yet. Your mind is still in its dreamy state. You are on holiday after all, why would you allow yourself to be bothered in any way? So you believe the packaging of the sunscreen. You immediately put some more on only on some areas, the areas that will be exposed once you are in the water, and you make your way down to the nearest pool of water.

And there you float. You float in serenity. You are feeling so serene that time flies past so fast that you end up spending the entire day in that pool of water. And you are satisfied with this, you are satisfied even though your plans to partake in activities other than floating have gone to waste. But it is fine. You do not mind because you spent the entire hot day keeping cool. You remove yourself from the pool and head back into your hotel. This entire time, you have been smelling something fresh sizzling. Some sort of meat you have yet come across, some amazing meat you are yet to taste.

And so you walk back to the elevator, and enter it, dripping wet. You press the button that takes you up to the fourth floor. While the elevator decides that nobody else wants to enter it, its doors close and you begin reading a poster in the elevator advertising the menu of the restaurant on the bottom floor. All the meat on there seems like something you have already tasted though. The elevator doors open, and you exit to face your room.

While you turn the key, the smell gets much stronger. Now, instead of yearning facial reactions, your stomach begins to respond. It growls. In fact, it growls so loud that you feel guilty for causing a monsoon of hunger. Yet you enter your hotel room regardless, and make your way to your fridge. Surely the cheese and bread you bought from the grocery store will suffice, despite this great smell. Plus, the smell will go away because you are indoors, right?

Wrong. The smell is now stronger than ever. You stare down at your cheese sandwich, so bland and flat, and wish that you had a genie to assist you in acquiring this meat. The smell is so strong that it smells as though you just fried this meat in your kitchen. Against all the temptations, you still ignore it. You make it to the sofa and watch television. Food advertisements come on, and the smell still grows. Now, though, along with the smell, comes an antagonizing pain. You look at the source of pain, your bare shoulders, and mistake them for tomatoes.

Yes. All along, that sizzling smell was you. You were cooking. You panic. How could this be? You put sunscreen on your face, neck, oh, blast! You thought your shoulders would have been totally submerged in water, so you did not deem it necessary for sunscreen to be spread there. Nor on your chest. Shame on you. You drive to Coles, and buy aloe vera gel. You spread it on quickly when you get back to the hotel, forgetting how painful sunburns actually are. So you slow down. You try soothing your cooked cells, and walking around indeed becomes soothing. You feel as though you have icicle mist spraying on your body. And then, bedtime. Your bedsheets suddenly feel like sandpaper.

'Apply sunscreen on your entire body every summer, all summer' you write on a note on your hotel fridge.

Shooting a Gun

Today, I shot a gun for the first time. Legally, and without harming another living soul - only inanimate objects, of course. Today I, aided with strong metal wires put in place to avoid potential maniacs from turning the gun to aim it at another human, won the battle against a 9mm pistol's recoil, an exhilarating experience it was, all but the price I was charged.

Wearing my aviator sunglasses as a fashionable statement, I entered the shooting centre, almost prancing. The centre was a large warehouse, lathered with the finest antiques - petrol pumps, a long line of rusty lawn mowers, rags, a large golden cash register, a Chevrolet Bel air, a strange golden table, and all other wondrous pieces, all circa the eighteenth century and before. I removed my aviators and spun slowly in circles, gazing at all of the decorative pieces, sprawling from the floor to the ceiling. I was not sure at this stage what I was most amazed about - the fact that my family agreed to accompanying me to the gun range or how many rare and restored antiques I was exposed to in one place.

"He's the collector," the young man behind the counter notified my awestruck father and I. From behind the antique bar emerged a tall, muscular man in his late fifties. He had a slight swimmer's build, and a petite moustache forming on his upper lip, almost hidden by his widening smile that was filled with pride. He said little, and always strode around slowly with a strong hint of his dignity touching the souls of all onlookers.

The man behind the counter talked me through how to load a magazine, load the gun and how to pull the trigger - slowly. The rest was meaningless to me - sure, I would remember to keep my thumbs out of the way of the strong recoiling - people in movies shoot guns all the time, how hard could it be? I just wanted to feel the grip between my fingers and to pull the trigger for the very first time.

Almost two-hundred dollars later, and my father, sister, mother and I stepped into the shooting range wearing protective glasses and headphones. We waited for the family before us to finish. Every time they shot their guns, my eyes automatically closed shut. It was something I could not control. The sound of a bullet exiting the gun was so loud, even under these headphones, that my eyes were frightened. After experiencing the sound of a few more shots, I decided to go first.

I pushed the magazine into the bottom of the pistol - easy enough, it locked into place. I placed my hands correctly around the pistol, keeping in place my firm grip. I brought my vision to the rear sight, and tried to line it up with the front sight, and aimed at the bullseye - surely I would miss, and surely I did - not the entire target, but the bullseye. My first shot landed two rings out of the bullseye, the rest I cannot recall from my excitement. When I tried to reload, I could not hear the safety ranger notify me that I did not need to, and when I did I felt foolish. I kept shooting until the magazine was emptied.

I only missed the six targets six times. Mind you, this was my first time and I am proud of how well I aimed with the flimsy wrist that I have. "So you two girls haven't shot a gun before? This is going to be good," the man behind the counter laughed before he led us into the shooting range. We performed better than he ever expected. In fact, my sister's first bullet pierced the paper a few millimetres away from the bullseye - having spent my life as the elder sibling thinking that I would need to protect her in bad circumstances, I am now beginning to think that she can protect both of us, had we the ability to own a gun.

On our drive back to the hotel, I could not contain my smile. It turns out that attending the shooting range instead of the wax museum turned out much better, despite paying so much for shooting a gun and fifty rounds of American ammunition.

Large Chlorinated Bubbly Puddles of Water

Spas are the most relaxing things known to mankind, and oh, the utter simplicity of them. If one were to ponder the simplicity that is the spa, they would notice that it is a mere tidied and tiled up slightly large pool of chlorinated water that bubbles immensely in amazing ways at the very push of a button - that you have to manually push every fifteen or so minutes, which means that you have to leave the warmth and safety of this chlorinated pool of water in order to make it a bubbly pool of water once again.

And that is the most unappealing thing about these ingenious inventions - rather, additions to circumstances. That once one is quite comfortable, floating while one's fingers trace the tiny square tiles beneath them, back and forth, while one is getting artificially heated to the point where the outside temperature drops rapidly compared to that of the water, one must reach the inevitable end of the spa's accommodating experience - the stopping of the pump and its massaging bubbles, until of course, one peels themselves out of the water's grasp and spends seconds that feel like minutes to exit the water and press the button, and return again to the water - and this experience all becomes quite repetitive to one if one has companions in the pool and one is the only out of those companions who obliged to turn it on each time it turns off. "No," one says, "I insist, allow me!"

Yet one secretly enjoys insisting to volunteer to be the spa brewer - one receives a feeling of joy that burns within, because when one presses that button again, sacrificing their comfort momentarily, one knows that they are bringing immense comfort as soon as they return into the spa, to themselves and to one's companions. It is an instantaneous good feeling, and one is both the bringer and receiver of it - to receive feels good, and to give makes receiving better. Apart from the massaging experience in the spa, one's soul receives a massage in one's good deeds.

A spa is a haven for one's soul, mind and body, despite the givings of the haven existing only momentarily.

Lisa Jacobson's The Sunlit Zone

It was a mildly warm morning. I made my way hurriedly through the campus – today we had a guest speaker, and I had devoured her brilliant book of prose with my mind days before this day. I needed to meet her, I needed to have her acknowledge that I was utterly immersed in her brilliant work.

I made it – five minutes earlier. She was around ten minutes late when class had begun. And so I sat there, taking notes on the last page of her book with my pacer. I wrote about her interpretations of the themes in the prose, and I related them to my own just to study her psyche. I noted that she had rewritten the novel twenty to thirty times. I noted things that inspired it, who took the cover photograph, everything she had said I had documented as a way of showing interest and respect to her.

Then, question time. A couple of other people had asked her mindless questions, some about symbolism. And then it was my turn. I cannot recall my first question, however I can recall my second quite well, seeing as I asked it in urgency due to our lecturer beckoning us to show some more interest in her work.

The question I asked had thrown her off track – she has had none other like it, for people only focus on the contaminants of the book itself, rather than its actual build. Today, I was to challenge her with a question lacking complexity – “the two navy pages at the beginning and the end of the book, does the placement of them symbolise that the story itself it in a sunlit zone, a pun of the title and story of the book?” And she froze, her look of confusion frozen with her.

She basically had answered that she had no idea what the publishers had to do, that publishing her book in this sense was out of her control, and that the possible symbolism of this was most likely untrue, but possibly could have been possible. Disheartened, I sunk into my seat and wished I had never asked.

If I were a published author or poet, I would want utter control of what I publish. The cover, the cover photo, the way the book is arranged, everything. I believe symbolism is not contained only in the story, but also in the make of the book itself.

I recommend The Sunlit Zone to all lovers of literature and poetry, because this very book has both of those elements perfectly intertwined.

Her, the Movie and its Scientific View of Human Life

“She doesn’t just see things in black and white, she sees this whole grey area and she’s helping me explore it.”

The movie Her – a lonesome man, Theodore, who is separated from the love of his life only to find new love that does not exist in terms of a human, physical existence. His Operating System, Samantha, has taken over his very psyche, and pulled him out of his misery. Finally, he again has somebody to indulge himself into, in a wholesome way.

What is love, and how is it that we all feel it in different ways? Is it to immerse yourself in the thought of another person, their smell, their different mannerisms and movements and the different curves and ridges along their flesh? Or is it some sort of connection shied away from the eye?

The interesting thing about this movie is how Samantha is personified by her deep interests in human experience. How she yearns for something that all humans take for granted, the ability to own and use their senses – sight, vision, taste, sound, and touch. Humans lose touch of the importance of these senses, the importance of blending these senses with the senses of other humans, and all the other emotions in between two bodies in their ways of connecting with one another.

What is it that constitutes companionship, though? Apart from the physical connection, is the emotional connection stronger? Her depicts this. It shows that despite Samantha not being a human, her ability to emotionally connect with Theodore suffices enough to make him wholesome again, and make her feel the same way a human would.

So then, does a physical connection matter? Most humans nowadays are experiencing long distance relationships, relationships where most couples do not feel each other for a long time, sometimes never depending on either lover’s circumstances. But they hear each other, and they feel the emotional attachment to one another, and that simply suffices to them.

To feel, initially, between them, Samantha constantly sends through piano pieces she wrote to express what she is feeling, her interpretation of things in the world wherein their very beings are captured. Does music then, ignite the senses? Does it have the ability to replace? To both conceal and construct?

Theodore writes love letters for a living – he knows a little bit about members in the couples he writes for, enough to not have met them and been with them physically, he is able to conjure up feelings that not even either member in the couple can conjure up even with the constant enticing of their five senses. This is a huge signifier in the movie because it shows how precise and fulfilling Theodore’s connection is with those he does not know – and the irony lies in the fact that Samantha soon merges with her own and leaves him, despite how well he thinks he knows her.

Theodore has a system that knows his true, inner self, a system that is refined in learning that about its users, a system that has the ability that most of us do not hold. Perhaps humans get too lost in sexual desire, in lust, in their bodies’ desires to focus on what their minds desire, what rocks gently their hearts and souls to a deep serenity, what challenges their intellects and forces them to internally grow. And that is what grants them their inner sanctity, the fact that they are known inside utterly, and accepted, that they no longer have to create different identities to please the ones they fall in love with in real life.

In the same way, though, connecting with the body of the other person, interlocking both the soul and the body is stronger than having to imagine a physical form. One begins to read the latter’s body like a map, like a young boy who has drawn a so-called treasure map, he is the only one who knows the exact coordinates no matter how long someone else studies the map, the boy who drew it will know it in its true form, will know it in the best possible way.  Allow that boy to grow into a man and he will be so accustomed to this map that he dare not stare at another in the same way, because unlike other people attempting to draw a map and follow it, he actually can find the treasure. It is his treasure, and it is located deep inside her soul and he is the only one with the coordinates to it all.

And that is how Theodore found companionship in the end – he connected with his ex-wife, Katherine, but only in some ways, and soon she changed beyond his knowledge, beyond his map, and he no longer held the map to her treasure. After having both experienced what it is to have a faux love, per se, or a faux companionship with an Operating System, Theodore and Amy soon enjoy each other’s companionship. They soon interlock internally. Amy says that “we’re only here briefly. And while I’m here I want to allow myself joy.” The fact that their time alive is so brief and delicate had driven them to allow each other to fall for each other – the list of necessary similarities have been ticked, between them – they were both abandoned by their spouses, they both sought companionship, they found companionship with Operating Systems which soon left them too, and they came to the realization that they either had each other or nothing, nobody.

I think Theodore had a rude awakening when Samantha, his Operating System, said that “I used to be so worried about not having a body, but now I truly love it. Now I’m growing in a way I couldn’t if I had a physical form. I mean, I’m not limited, I can be anywhere and everywhere simultaneously – I’m not tethered to time and space in the way that I would be if I was stuck in a body that’s inevitably going to die.” At that stage, Theodore realized he was truly different to Samantha, that her build allows her to circumnavigate through the technological sphere that is ever evolving, ever transforming and ever living, however he exists for a small matter of time before he simply does not – their paths cannot coincide properly because he awaits his demise and she simply grows bigger, intellectually.

Samantha describes this difference perfectly, “It’s like I’m writing a book, and it’s a book I deeply love, but I’m writing it slowly now. So the words are really far apart and the spaces between the words are almost infinite. I can still feel you, and the words of our story, but it’s in this endless space between the words that I’m finding myself now. It’s a place that’s not of the physical world, it’s where everything else is that I didn’t even know existed. I love you so much, but this is where I am now, and this is who I am now.  I need you to let me go. As much as I want to, I can’t live in your book anymore.” The writing of the book is slowed down because while Samantha is progressing rapidly, and growing, Theodore is still himself – they both now have different pleasures, him in need of a companion and her in need of growth and discovery. When she speaks of “a place not in the physical world” she is stressing to him that he simply cannot be with her because his state of being is only existent in physicality. Her state of being is in some form of mental world, some world where mental beings exist. Samantha simply cannot restrict herself to the impediments of earth, or humans, or Theodore. Their needs have altered, in that Samantha does no longer need the human experience, she needs more. The biological human needs were what Theodore sought, whereas Samantha sought the abstract sense - things beyond the human understanding.

“I was bothered about all the ways that we are different, but then I realized we were all the same. We’re all made of matter.” The same way that Theodore has needs, Samantha has needs. Overall, I request that you watch and enjoy the poetic beauties of the film, and I suggest you fall in love with someone, not something.

Mindless Meandering

‘We had been trying to be adults since we were 15

When we finally reached 18, nothing changed

It wasn’t until we were lying on the bathroom floor

Drunk and high in two different states

That we realized

Age is just a number

And reality is learning there’s no such thing as being an adult

You only grow older

And if you’re lucky

Maybe a little wiser.’

Mindlessly meandering - that is the vibe that I gave off the sales assistant, rather, regional store manager, today whilst I accompanied my sister in search for new shoes.

“Shall I assist you on your quest?” A blonde head of hair seemed to have popped out from beside my sister, yielding a friendly crooked smile. My sister responded with a yes, and soon he became a whirlwind of different shoe options, constantly reminding my sister that he is only offering her some options, and that she may refuse or accept whatever she pleased. After over four pairs of shoes later, my sister was satisfied with the last pair, and spent the rest of our time in that store circling it while wearing the shoes in a self-convincing mantra.

While that was happening, the assistant continuously shot random phrases and questions at me. “So what are you doing after this?”
“Oh, more shopping.”
“Of course, of course. What else?”
I paused. Did this man want to know every additional detail? “Air con,” I wittingly replied. “Lots of air con.”
“Ugh, how bad was last week!”
“I totally melted.”
In the corner of his eyes, he watched as my sister continued circling the shop. “Don’t worry, take your time!” He chanted, helping other customers in the meantime.

My sister sat down again, and while she was adjusting the lace on the left shoe, he stood beside her and murmured at me, “I like your phone cover.” I heard him, but paid hardly any attention, by the time I did though it was too late to reply but I did anyway, saying “a bit of retro,” just as he was walking off. My mother, seated beside me as I stood, nudged me, “he just said he likes your phone cover!” He heard the entire second half of what she said. I stood there frozen. Things had gotten awkward.

Out of all of this, one thing that this man had asked me, clung to me: “So you’re just meandering?” I could not answer this man. At rapid speeds, he was asking me all sorts of questions with intellectual word use, and I could not answer because I did not anticipate to be confronted with so many questions, and I did not anticipate them to control words that evoke deep meaning. I just replied, ‘yes, very much so.” And it hit me – we all just meander. We meander our ways through whatever it is that we do – reading, writing, exercising, working, shopping. We meander through all our tasks, all our activities, and we think nothing more of it.

I spotted the above quote on my Tumblr dashboard when I got home, and my mind had quickly processed all of this together – adulthood, aging, the passing of time, we just meander our way through it. We mindlessly meander, briefly taking pauses or enjoying what it is that we are doing.

We are not mindful of the fact that we have one life to live, that at any time on any day we can be stripped of this life and nothing we have ever done will ever matter, nothing we have collected will actually be taken with us to wherever it is that we go. We are meandering so much so that nothing is noticed, that love is too fast and life is too fast and everything becomes a blur when we try to recall certain moments.

We take less time to soak in all that is good in our lives, we instead invest all of our time focusing on the bad, the unimportant, the things that make us angry, or the things that terrify or upset us. If you stop right now and recall all the good things, all the small things that you miss in your daily meandering, I can guarantee that there will be a lot more than you initially thought there to be. And that is where our problems lie, that we focus ourselves on the bad things and forget all the good that we have.

For starters, you are alive. You are breathing. You are a living, breathing, conscious mass that has the ability to do, to change, to act, to be. You exist. Stop your meandering, it will blur out all that is important.

The above quote applies to all those who meander their way through life. They are so caught up in the drunkenness, the highness of how it is to meander that they reach their later stages of life and sit there, dumbfounded, and wonder where it is that everything went, what it is that they actually ended up achieving, who it is that they ended up impacting on. Live both in the moment and for the future, and also do not forget most of your past. Your past is important because it tracks your progress - failure in something is progress too. Just do not meander.

Thank you, Lawrence.