China Boleh

The Prophet Muhammad PBUH of course knew what he was talking about as regards China -the bit about seeking knowledge all the way to the PRC. And the Prophet can never be over-quoted. Heck, if I was not Malaysian, I’d want to be a China national, I guess.
Zero eight, zero eight, zero eight. Was that an opening ceremony to end all opening ceremonies or what? There goes Malaysia’s hosting dreams of the Olympic sort, although I’m not so sure our leaders have quite woken up yet. I mean, we even THOUGHT of bidding for 2008? Were we really surprised, even if we were genuinely disappointed, when we weren’t even short-listed?
After the opening ceremony of Beijing 2008, I think western tongues will not be wagging so arrogantly anymore, about any sort of supremacy they may be feeling over we minions in Asia. If the United States or Germany or England or the like tops ANY aspect of that incredibly perfect display of pyro, techno and physio precision activity, I will genuflect.
Okay, so the Americans had a 651 athlete-only count and President Bush in the stands. So what? Can Dubya spell Olympics? Can he spell O? Besides, despite the handful of Monagesque athletes, HSH Prince Albert was there for the excited flailing of arms while Charlene Whitstock, his former-Olympian girlfriend, maintained control over her delight with a broad grin and a wrist wave.
It was mind-boggling that the few hundred cheerleader-type girls lining the inside periphery of the march were all the same height and girth! Upon making that notation, my 79-year old mother added, “Well, there are so many of them, they can pick the perfect ones…”
Is that China’s secret? Citizenry mass? If it is, it can only be one of. Because to allow that night to happen the way it did, there had to be subservience. There was obedience. There was unquestioning loyalty. There was genius amongst the planners. There was diligence among the coolies.
And then there were very nimble Tai Chi exponents, plus children who can contort themselves into bite-sized pretzels. God bless those munchkins, eh Husna?
For all the thousands with multi-coloured lights embedded into their zoot suits, there was a lot of nothing to do in the year running up to August 8th, but to practice blinking the right shade in the right rhythm. At the same time, a portion had to memorise accurately the flapping of a dove’s wings.
Then again, I could be wrong. Our commentators, free of wit and loose of will, said burung layang layang but I don’t know swallows to be the symbol of freedom or unity or peace in any language, race, creed or sport.
After Great Britain marched past, the same commentators remarked excitedly and rather belatedly something to the effect of, “Itu rupa seperti Putri Anne. Ya, Putri Anne.” Sadly, you guys bunyi seperti orang Malaysia.
Among other bumblings, one was heard saying Swaziland, was it, when the Kiwis came out. Then his pal corrected him because the latter must have read N-E-W Z-E-A-L-A-N-D as New Zealand and not Swazi. Good lord, can we send him there?
I wanted to die of awe and pride when the Olympic Flame ended its longest ever torch run, with the highest ever torch run. I stayed up late into the night to read the names of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum Dum in the production credits.
And practice my flying dove.

I've been uncovered! I said un-covered - I believe I was discovered much earlier than now. This blog is now a secret shared by more people than myself and the one visitor a long time ago who never visited again. At least three more people.
I have confessed to friends that yes, I do have a blog. One on which I post very rarely. I rather think that my six postings of the past year is already brave. Lets not tempt the daredevil stage but perhaps I SHOULD come back again soon.

35

Five years later I meet another 35-year old. Interestingly enough, as I age, they don’t. Loves me to death supposedly, promises me the world supposedly. A professional, intelligent, nice-looking.
Then today July 10th, 10 months later, I am staring at a lonely future, yet again, through swollen and teary eyes. I thank God for the decision to adopt. My two babies will not leave me for another 18 years at least.
My cousin offers me added fortification if the movie I am being taken to tonight, by a colleague, doesn’t work. Oh it’ll work alright. For the duration of the movie.
Then when I get dropped off, I’ll just sniffle onto my sewing. Oh drat, I’m sewing something for my ex-. Now what do I do with THAT project. Oh wait, pink doormats CAN become stylish.
I’d better get used to this new reference. Ex-. Hmm. It sounds so, distant.
Two weeks. That’s how long the numbing pain should pervade. After that, well, its numbing right? After that I will be numb. I’m not sure what the sequence was that people talk about. Was it shock, anger, denial, reconciliation, acceptance, healing and then all that nonsense starts again?
If shock takes 14 days, am I really looking at over two months before I start to heal? Which, I hear, is the indefinite, almost infinity kind of process, this healing bit.
Out come the P2P Mariah Carey files blaring on the BOSE iPod dock. Good old Mariah. I can always rely on her music to get me through the darkest days speedily. My theory is that if I just wallow and hurt myself more than I can imagine, the pain will saturate. When I am thoroughly suffused in this way, when I have memorized all senselessly loving lyrics, I’ll go for a walk through the most expensive fabric store in town, and buy some yardage for my next sewing project.
So therapeutic, sewing is.