360 degrees

Ricky was driving along the Market Street when he said "... people change Ryan".

We had conversations about life in general that evening as he showed me around San Francisco whilst my other friends, Nelson, Erik, Macky and Pablo were sampling local delicacies. Talking about past, present and future as we drive over the hills was befitting the highs and lows, the steep and dips of the city. It's tantamount to how we run our very own lives.

San Francisco gives me that quaint feeling. It is probably because the city is quaint and has a sui generis vibe. With the sun of reassuring presence, it has a major effect on how the glistening waters of the bay and the crisp atmosphere of the cabled streets conjure up that sense of beaming elation. As you approach the hilltop, the slanted drop ahead guides your way to the street meted by trees and parked cars leading to as far as the pier. It is an amalgamation of European influences where the city follows the bends and curves of its natural landscape. San Francisco reminds me of Bridget Bardot.


Ricky and I stopped for dinner. The Italian restaurant was situated right across the park near St. Peter's church. The evening was in gradual progression as the light breeze, the deepening hues and the gulls conspired a beautiful setting for the sun. It was beautiful and perfunctory. Just like my friends who have moved on and established a life beyond my understanding of how they were. Years played a major role in honing these characterisations and it's beautiful to listen and watch such vicissitude.

You don't have to look closer to see life's metaphors in San Francisco. It is right under your nose wanting to change your life.

In the company of Christopher Boone

I am tired.

I am traveling for nearly 12 hours. I am writing this (25/09/09) aboard the plane cruising across the blue skies of the American territory. One thing is for sure. I am not flying US Airways ever again unless someone pays for my ticket and I get a first/business class seat. By the time my holiday is over, I would have done 12 take-offs and landings. That's a hell lot for a two-week sojourn.

Since this is my free time to write (despite the hindrance factor of lack of rest and sleep), I thought I'd say few things about my travel:


- I finished reading the 272-page "The curious incident of the dog in the night-time" by Mark Haddon (not driven by boredom of transfers and long haul flights but by intriguing interest)

- The salad being served by US Airways is not bad and the trolley dollies are in their forties on average - they must choose their staff by wisdom/experience not by beauty/youth

- The system of custom arrangements in Charlotte, NC is mind-boggling - not because it's complicated but simply strange/odd (find out yourself)

- The way taxes on all items are calculated is unnecessarily Daedalean

- I must haven't read the memo about flying to the States that skinny jeans are no longer recommended when traveling (no sight of them)


I am a stranger and I am tired. Eating American fast-food is bliss but masticating massive portions is too much of an effort.

Invasion

I’m off to town.

My errands for today are:

- Buy a Lily Allen “It’s not me, it’s you” album for Nelson
- Rummage through racks for on-sale cashmere jumper in High Street shops
- Off to Fortnum and Mason to get Jeff's "Queen's Tea"
- Find a cheap and cheerful V-neck plain white tee from Topman
- Try on that black framed Retro glasses and excogitate really deep and hard about buying it
- Change currency because a rate of 4.75% per transaction is a rip off
- And a travel guide for I don’t necessarily trust my friend's sense of direction

I am off to another town tomorrow. I'm glad it's only the currency I have to change not my language.

first

I saw the sun
Veiling to thousands of setting
And the winter
Has been forever bitterly cold
With decaying petals
Nurturing the earth in its zillions
And the moon
That has risen to countless nights

With the time's passing
I see your face, your eyes
The comfort, indubitable
Peaceful, unabated bliss

How to make water circles

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there lived a family near the foot of the mountain. They lived a happy life together. The house which had five rooms was more than enough for five children, a husband and a wife. It was blissful living just like the other families living at the same foot of the mountain.

One day, they decided to look after their dying elder. He was the wife's father who had an affliction of an ailment where miracle's the only cure. He was draconian; a stern father during his ruling times. In his darkening and numbered days, he remained a patriarch that he was with regards to his perception of the world. The children used to sit at dinner and their mother would tell stories about how she was brought up with strict upbringing. Folly was a myth.

One day, their mother was taken ill. It was sudden and no one knew what caused it. It was after a parade where their parents participated in the annual celebration of the town's fiesta. That evening, she started writhing as if in a lot of pain. She was delirious and speaking in tongues. Neither the medics nor the quack doctor could pacify her despite the latter’s use of potions and some mumbo jumbo to assuage her agony. The family was petrified, spooked and thought she was dying. It lasted a good hour of unease. And just like magic at 10 pm, she stood up and said "I'm hungry. Who cooked dinner?”, nonchalant of the befuddled faces around her.

Up in the other room, her father was dead. They thought her agony was supposedly his.

hippo-cricket

It is disappointing to know that long respite, reflection and major overhaul of oneself don’t suffice the judging public. Their built-in pre-conceptions are lethal not to mention the deadly, noxious bite. Think of a rabid dog or a cobra in that instance.

Since this is of spiritual notion (since for some, being spiritual is an excuse to an abominable behaviour without contrition), allow me to look at it in that direction. “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone” – and so the person did. It’s hurled at a distance allowing the wind and the birds to carry it with vicious intent. Without knowing the repercussions of one's actions, friends called Betrayal and Hypocrisy upped the ante of malicious and vile lasciviousness. The sisters of hate and envy collaborated in pursuing the deed.

I dreamt last night of a man in Abercrombie top and diesel trousers. He was talking to the four elements with a golden wand in his right hand. Beneath him was a slain snake and scattered white feathers of a dove. When he spoke to the wind, he admonished it with sturdy earth. When fire was summoned, he breathed to it with benumbed water. Earth was trembling, but he gazed at it until fire swallowed it wholly. The water dried up and vanished into ether.

I woke up and despite the vividness of the dream, I couldn’t picture the man's face.

He's forgotten.

"Shoot that damn copter.. can't hear the monologue"

I stood upon the very same ground of people who shaped the face of the cultural Britain; the very age when Shakespeare reigned supreme in entertaining Queen Victoria. I stood for three long hours as I watched "A New World - A Life of Thomas Paine”, at Shakespeare Globe Theatre with Jan and Pat. It was an experience worth doing few times over. It ended with a rapturous applause and left me wishing yet unhopeful, warm-hearted yet fuzzy. They're damn real actors who needed no microphones and retakes to deliver their craft despite that hovering helicopter above the Thames. It was painstakingly admirable.

These photos will try to capture the words to express a pleased customer/patron in me although the overwhelming effect is unjustifiable from the above stills.

a..what?

I am lost for words. I have been staring at this notepad forever. I thought I’d write about people in different sizes and shapes passing me by as I dangle my feet like a child on this wooden bench. Few minutes later, I got an inspiration from the sounds of shoes from all directions and the metaphor it bestows. However, the massive red sign from that shop across fronting "SALE- CLOSING DOWN" seized my fragile attention span. But not until the woman in her coughing fits rattled me from both her phlegm-laden bark and her industrialised puffing.

But still, I ended up with nothing. Around me are floating, discernible and surreptitious metaphors and similes of living. Picking one at this juncture seems like a disruption of existing banality. Expounding one means a jilted lover haranguing a mistress or vice versa.

I am sat on this bench for a while now. It is not because I am tired but it feels good as the wind blows an autumn chill. Covent Garden in early evening dusk amidst the noise of buskers and street acts is a delight. The "Big Issue" seller is even a class act to follow. I have shared this long bench with more than a dozen of strangers as my intended acquaintances. I eavesdrop hoping that they divulge something of relevance to Living. But as what they were originally, they remained a stranger. People are less mindful these days.

My patience is wearing thin; just as thin as the merino wool jumper I whisk the cold front away. When all hopes are gone for a subject, they came along like Misses Muppets. In their American accent they muttered, "Is someone sitting here (emphasis on "here" like a whirring engine)? Do you know where Lei-ces-ter Square is(imagine the bountiful accentuation in this question)?”.

I knew I had a purpose today.

good ogling

Good day y'all.

It is Friday and relief is plastered all over my face. Few more hours and the weekend of rest looms. However, rest is something relative for me.

Inside the tube, I’m back to my favourite pastime...rubbernecking.



The man next to me is chewing his nails like nougat.

It is a major feat when you hold the newspaper in a reading stance with your eyes closed just like the man across me.

Sushmita Sen lookalike embraces the new world technology: an iPod with a massive headphone, an iPhone, an extra blackberry and a jawbone Bluetooth. She'll either go deaf or be potentially mugged.

A professor looking gentleman proofreading a paper in green and red and blue and black inks. I find it groovy.

John Lennon incarnate in the left far end of the carriage reading "the lost symbol" book.

Ah, the Tom Cruise lookalike wearing his aviator sunglasses pulling masticated gum between his fingers and teeth.

And I am a wannabe lunatic (if not yet one) who types incessantly on my phone minding other people's lives.


Can someone invent a mind reading device?

No Shit.. Sherlock

It's concluded that there's no price for happiness, no matter how much we try to pay up for it, in debt, in advance or through inheritance.

The flow of champagne and wine reaches the brain for a period of exhilaration and hurts the next day. The mix of seafood a la carte satiates the tongue and stomach but for most, end to far too many trips to the sanctuary of the loo. The laughter fills the room as well as the unending hellos then it fades to a deafening silence or routine reality. Unless you are convinced that the person you live your life with as a companion is not bought by your millions, you can sleep at night with a little extra hour of peace feeling that you actually belong; to this person, your job, to your friends or interestingly, to your family. The world is easy to buy if you have money but the more you get to amass wealth in terms of security, the more you tend to feel insecure.

I don’t know why I am saying this because I am neither rich nor of wealth in related terms. As far as I know, La Tasca for 38.40 is relatively transcendent to what it affords the other senses beyond smell and four other primal faculties. I am talking about, belongingness and unadulterated happiness. This is despite the bread being another bread, the tapas just like other tapas and paella that most Spanish restos serve with so much hype. However, the aftermath has a rolling effect to what you eat. The food creates an ambiance that makes it more palatable and leaves an impression of being one of a kind. That, you actually remember despite the slight patch of redness on your cheek from too much prawn. Your company then means something.

Arguably, happiness is relative. We still try to buy it and convince ourselves that it's what makes us happy. I saw the Gucci ring for 120 pounds. It’s beautiful but will it replace my lost marriage? Will it add confidence to the now reclusive self? I still think it would make me smile. However, I doubt if it would make me happy.

I heart London

The week is running away to a rather fast cycle. It is midweek and few more days, the Tower Bridge will have to relinquish my viewing pleasure to the Golden Gate. I am looking forward to my assault on US soil with nothing but my openly adopted and poorly adapted British accent.

I just finished testing the new program the NHS Trust (GSTT) is going to implement in the next few months. Luckily, the venue was suitably located at the periphery of the Thames. Walking along the Thames always gives me pleasure and utter consolation for being away from home. In fact, this reminds me that home is relative to the peace and happiness we derive from where we toil and while away the days of our sane adult lives. Thames today is pale golden from the occasional reflection the sun affords. The wind beats wildly against the pallid leaves as it signals the approaching onset of autumn. With the chilly air, the river even radiates a benign yet beautiful melancholia as gloom grips its path.

Perhaps I have done this a million times. But there's not one single moment I ever stopped loving the way it whispers back to me like a lost traveller or a forlorn lover. In your aloneness, you feel connected and intertwined.

Nelson told me to leave London for a life in the land of the free. I thought about it for a while but freedom is relative. There are many avenues to be free. I am sat here parallel to the Thames and I feel that I couldn’t be freer than that.

I think the wind and raspy sounds of leaves above me whisk the worries away from my nebulous mind. For me, it is a good psychotherapy session every time.

Titula

There are a lot of things in life that I would like to do before I die. Life expectancy these days is getting shorter and shorter and getting to experience a wealth of life’s conjunctures is becoming hopelessly slimmer. We get tired of that expression, "so many things to do yet so little time".

True enough, I don’t think studying my doctorate degree is possible with commitments that are rather fiercely occupying my social calendar. I don’t see myself enhancing my mental status, title and salary to greater extent for the glory of recognition over my basic need for human touch and occasional buffoonery. However, I am sure those who do PhD have valid reasons for treading the difficult road. They have a larger gap in their brain to fill. As for me, it has enough cache for everything else I desire for. Its dimensions are measurable. Hence, finishing my ongoing Master’s degree at King’s is good enough.

So, for those things I need to do before I die? This is a rather trite and simple question to answer. It's always verging to what we usually need and crave for; things that are lacking in our existence. As for me, this question is about harmony, balance and palliation. Over the years, life has taught me painful yet valuable lessons about existence, co-existence and subsistence. Thus, the quality of dying is dependent on how I’d feel at that moment and how it would feel as I look back. I certainly would love a permanent, indelible mark to my own past.

A published book will do. How hard is that?

Kanye has left the building (and the planet)

Should I be thankful that a controversy happened as I toiled my night away until 4am?

MTV's Video Music Awards ceremony was held last night in New York and started at 1am UK time. If not for Beyonce, I could have been swimming amongst dolphins and piranhas in my dream. But no, I thought I’d wait for Beyonce and see how she'd affirm her multi-talented self to some talentless fame-hugging twits (take note Rihanna). It didn’t take long before a certain Mr. Kanye West purposely snatched the microphone away from the helpless and shocked Taylor Swift to announce to the audience and the whole wide world that Beyonce deserved the award for “Best Female Video”. Was he drunk or insane? Kanye stan-ning for Beyonce was verging to absurdity and stupidity that as the camera panned across Beyonce's direction, she was a picture of ambivalence (Talking about awkward; major awkwardness). The twitter engine must have gone a twitter; cooing a million per second.

I thought I’d be happy with the red carpet and silly pre-awards interview of these entertainers. Actually, it was nice to see them like groomed canines pampered, dandled and powdered by their owners i.e. doting designers and stage parents. I’d be happy to see the iconic "Single Ladies" take home the “Video of the Year”. In fact, I’d be glad to see how Beyonce would slave herself to her alter ego Sasha Fierce so as not to offend Mr. Jay-Z as she struts herself in skimpy tanga. That's a good excuse. "Sorry hunny, it wasn't me. It's Sasha". Nonetheless, I’d expect a sterling performance from her.

So, she did not win 9 awards (9 nominations- won 3). If she did not win at all, it would be travesty but “Video of the Year” was truly deserved. The wait was worth it as she had another day-in-the-office-kind-of-performance. It's always of an epic magnitude. I was ready to sleep when she ascended the stage to accept the award but like a Hollywood film, she summoned the young starlet, Ms. Swift to finish her acceptance speech. Whether it was staged or purely from the heart, it was brilliant. Beyonce just created tomorrow's headline, "the good tramples evil".

And so my life plummeted back to reality. It's 4am and still, I was awake like a fruit bat (nibbling on a banana).

I hope I’m not alone suffering from post –VMA fun. I am wide eyed in the dark but I am sure Kanye's bruised ego (and career) is keeping him awake too.

Epiphany

Lost
wading through hallucination
of alluring earthy incense
of inviting crystal waters
of clear skies
where titillation of souls
bereft of pain and longings
for weary, ample bosom of infatuation
all that is lost with your eyes
as you glance, a gaze
from a distance.

beautiful

I am back in the same predicament. Standing-room-only is the order inside the tube in this summery Saturday. It is no longer surprising to have 4-5 people invading my own personal space as they bump and stare at close proximity. It can be intimidating and uncomfortable.

The Southbank fair is in full swing. Stalls litter the Thames walkways and promenade-wanderers are just satisfied with the blessing of unperturbed sunshine. Thames is at its sublime glory when its flaccid serenity harmonises with revelries. This is when you hear and read nothing on papers about how horrid and unpredictable London weather is. The hoi polloi just absorb the spectacle of the day and douse their thirsts with bottles of lager and beer. This is when I get outnumbered by “the multitude” in their millions as I pray for dark clouds and the immediate turn of season to winter. I think London in her gloomy state looks vulnerably beautiful. I seem attuned to the spirits of her past.

So today is a brilliant day to catch the last burst of summer. As merriment ensues, I believe that somewhere in this planet, streaks of agonising moments try to compensate. I believe in balance. For every joyful rendezvous and wide smiles reciprocate hatred and pain.

It didn’t take long to manifest itself. My mother, being a sentimental and overwrought kind, phoned from overseas. It's just past midnight in the land of struggles and false hopes but my mother had something to say. It must be difficult to have children of independent ages and minds. They tend to be more mindful of themselves minus the concerns of their parents. It was a long lecture about my siblings. They’ve gone AWOL. I told her, “Today's Saturday and I’m sure they have better things to do on a Saturday night". But as always, mother’s concerns are real. They are programmed with different expectations and mode of understanding.

It is nearly 8 pm and the sun is now in hiding. But the clear sky pervades. Somewhere, someone is in agony but fun has just started for me. Selfish and covetous I know, but they'll just have to wait for their turn. Balance will be restored.

A rather small Circle

I want to learn from this lifetime. They say learning is a tool no one could ever take away even in your darkest hours; in fact, a saving glory. At this stage of living, I look back and see bodies of slain dragons and ash-burnt human remains. It was messy, truly messy; something a broom and a scrub with strong bleach couldn't clean. Maybe not alone.

I seldom get sentimental but sometimes it is easy to call Cecile and blurt things out without reservations. Gehrie and Marl are just as effective but life takes priorities and precedence. Butch is logistically verging to being impossible at times, expensive and is either too taxing or downright head on but nonetheless, sensible. A dose of hearing and advise could go a distance. These are the people who occupy my primetime “Oprah” moment.

I told someone to write a reflective account of a certain incident that happened few weeks ago where learning development’s a vital evidence of the exercise. I got the essay-like account and was moved by the detailed events. It was ended by how work colleague’s support imparted an ingrained understanding and convalescing confidence. Last weekend, I learned that what was imminent was not what it seemed. Realisations made itself known like that nicely packed lunch at the Hamburg conference. It lacked the oomph of a decent lunch that I actually missed the hospital canteen. But deep conversations offered a holier than thou and meatier than steak merits. Nanie was a revelation.

I am on my way to work and sitting on my lap is a banana cake. I’d like to learn baking soon. Some things taste good after intense heat, shaking and stirring.

85.54 pounds

You are severely malnourished if you weigh just over 85 pounds for your 5'6 frame. Skinny jeans-loving metrosexuals of homosexual tendencies and fashionista wannabes would kill for a low BMI such as that. In this recent economic climate, being light and emaciated means being able to shop at kiddie section of department stores and get a designer top for much less. There’s a whole lot more possibilities for 85 pounds. You get a wealth of sickness as well on top of acquired vanities.

My friend is an idealistic recluse who defies stereotyping by winning friends through his socially adaptable manners. Today, he was telling me about his date. The Chinese restaurant overlooking the Thames against the backdrop of tall skyscrapers of Canary Wharf was a testament of potential possibilities that modernisation is not death but a sweet facade to an aging romantic interlude. He said it was beautiful despite the measured angles of concrete buildings and predictable lines of natural habitat. Being artistic didn’t qualify his statements of romance but succumbed to the age-old notion of relative myopia to environment as he focused on what was beautiful right in front of him.

If only 85.54’s a weight dimension. This same measure that made his mind go all fuzzy. The bill landed that crisp amount from the banana fritter, coffee and other earthly needs failed to assert power over hunger. Instead, it bowed down to the lure of the smiles and interesting but albeit forgettable conversation.

He's made to feel of his worth. Over 85 pounds of dinner made him queasy and forgetful of his own mindful interest of reality. He lost his own personal battle against himself and the world he believed to have revolved around him. He looked at the included tip and it was almost 10 pounds. He thought that 85 pounds for two wasn’t that bad after all.

85.54 was a good and happy number.

too much, too little, too soon...

I am going to die anytime soon (drama, a plus). I have never felt so much discomfort and unflattering intumescences until this arresting body-blitzing 4-day toil of Hamburg. I am banged (bunged) up. Lack of sleep, dose of alcohol and shared toilet facility were key ingredients to major alteration in my intestinal peristaltic groove. It's a given, every time. It is an unpleasant feeling for me but I am certain that it is unpleasant to read.

It takes a little over an hour to reach London from Hamburg but travelling from Heathrow to Golders Green takes longer than that. I’m back in a familiar ground and I don’t hear that slightly harsh accentuation of a language called German anymore. All I hear from my fading earshot is the cockney accent of typical women yakking about dastardly men; together with the smell of that vinegar-y Marks and Spencer’s take on Caesars salad munched by a rushing single parent.

Gone are the monotonous and boring long lectures about kidney treatments and the less palatable packed lunch at CCH (Conference Congress Hamburg). Gone are the towering colourful cocktails at Reeperbahn and the sexually charged yet jovial conversation over expensive supper of company sponsored meal and bottles upon bottles of Rosemont sauvignon blanc.

Now, all that my senses partake upon are familiar stuff. And it is taking me longer than forever to be home than the flash of culture of that German city. The world is small in mere fact. The local travel makes it indigestibly hard to prove the point. My phone battery is dying and I’m stuck underground.

Relativity is in overdrive and I’m sucked into it.

itchy feet

I am flying today. Attending a conference is not really an exciting venture unless it takes you out of your work premises. More so, if it means outside your locality and even better if it takes you somewhere abroad where you haven't been. It gives that kind of double whammy of anticipation: the conference and the place.

For a 4-day conference, I packed unusually light. The EDTNA conference will be held in Hamburg and is a yearly congregation of renal people to find a reason to showcase achievements from their countries in this field. I thought smart clothes will do just fine. Pointy shoes always look smart in skinny trousers and few shirts. The essential however is not how you look (well, kind of) but the gadgets to keep you entertained when people start to fail in the amusement department. The iPod and camera are reliable, unfailing assistants. A weekend leather bag and my ever efficient man-bag complete the ensemble and I am off to Heathrow. The last swig of lukewarm tea is unpleasant but a necessity to keep me at least buzzing until I get my fix from the airport mania.

Early morning toil is not everyone's cup of tea. Take the off-mood station cashier who banishes every single soul asking for help. I asked for an extension to my 3-zone ticket but was snarled at. I am in my best behaviour yet so I gave him a polite snarl back. I hate travelling for roughly 45 minutes to Heathrow. The only consolation I get is the animated faces of people I cohabit with, inside the stuffy Piccadilly line. The couple across occupy the entire length of the carriage with massive backpacks and other paraphernalia. From the accent whips a Kiwi tone and evidences of a major, really major round-the-world assault. The man next to me whose bony elbow keeps on poking me seems washed-out and sallow; reaping the effects of too much London fun if I am not mistaken. Looking around, I am sort of overdressed for the early morning. I look like in a party mood compared to most of them.

"Shit! Where the hell is my passport!".