Live And Dream

Neil Gaiman writes of Morpheus or Oneiros, the Sandman, or Dream and how he resides and presides in all the fantastic little worlds we concoct in our heads. The tall, enigmatic and eclectic figure has become a favourite of mine since a few good friends of mine so brilliantly concluded that I deserved the pleasure of the first four books of the library.

Everyone has their own dreams, desires, delights and despairs. Not everyone will have theirs come true; indeed few truly do. It is said that the pursuit of the dream, or maybe the essence of the dream itself, something intangibly and utterfly wonderful that is just beyond reach, can be more rewarding than any actual reality, however it may coincide with what the dreamer may have originally, well, dreamt of.

When I'm driving alone on the highway, watching the shrubbery whizz by a few feet from my shoulder, I tend to break into song if a particularly cooperative track plays on the radio. Yes, you read right. Naz sings. Only when he's alone, though. Don't get your hopes up. No. No. Not even for two bucks.

No.

Others have their own dreams or fantasies. I know of a couple of school-mates who envision themselves as suave and cool secret agents, kicking in doors of empty classrooms and brandishing fist-pistols at imaginary shadow enemies while one or two bewildered girls walk on beside them. Then they glance up and realise that yes, every classroom does indeed have at least one security camera, and their antics have been immortalised in digital form.

Some use the medium of photography to weave a tale of intrigue or bright lights, snapping pictures of themselves in poses and expressions more suited for morgues or Halloween rags. A few others simply see themselves as celebrities and papparazzi at the same time, unable to resist the urge to shoot themselves (with a camera) at any given opportunity.

A wise woman once said, "I don't get it."

Now, I know what you're thinking; wise people usually get it, but I wasn't done yet.

"I don't get it. Everyone here goes to pieces about how hot or sexy Beyonce or J-Lo are, but then they strive to look like Nicole Ritchie."

Alright. First thing's first.

1. Jessica Alba
2. Scarlett Johansson
3. ...
4. ...
....
N. Nicole Ritchie
N+1. Rosie O' Donnell

That's the official hottness list, summarised by yours truly. Angelina Jolie is one of the ladies duking it out for third and fourth. And the list doesn't include the lucky ones who've been with me.

Back to business, the wise woman mentioned before also went on to talk about cats, marriage, shopping and cars, though I have prudently decided that you can, in fact, have too much of a good thing.

A girl I know in school half-shrieked in a lecture recently, "You think I'm FAT?!?!?"

This, from a waif in Prada or Gucci, who looks like the weight of her assorted riches might unbalance her easily.

It's just weird. And yes, I don't get it. How and why some actually rationalize the idea that a walking skeleton with a painted face and perky, err, humps, can be remotely considered umm... humpable.

Of course, neither do I get why half the world is fascinated with Beyonce and J-Lo's monolithic prosteriors or the absence of undergarments on a formerly-bald teeny-bopper or a hotel heiress' bedroom antics. Maybe it's just me.

Or maybe, just maybe, those members of the XX population that I have discreetly pointed at can rethink their remodelling campaigns.

Jessica Alba >>>>> All.

Except Khadi!

Hot Dog

I'm a cat lover. It's true. I regularly make cute noises and/or snap my fingers at any half-cute cat I see wherever I go.

I usually don't have anything in particular against dogs, though. A certain someone and her Fluffy would attest to that as well. By the way, I still think the other one comes from the pits of hell.

Most dogs can be lovable and cuddly, things you'd go ga-ga over, almost like an extra-hairy little baby. Except I don't usually have the urge to kick them. So many movies and films have been made about dogs, not too many on cats, so surely they must all be this way, no?

All except the ones in Lorong Melayu.

You know how weird or scary or freaky or horny things happen on one particular street or district? Like Elm Street or Fear Street or Sesame Street? Well, down here in ol' Singapore, we have our very own stretch of road where dogs turn into vicious little mongrels.

There is a house there, with a flat-screen plasma TV. Now, you might think that many a house would have that spiffy addition to their living and/or bedroom(s), yes? You'd be right, too. But stay with me here, this house in particular has said appliance outside its walls. Yes, outside.

Like, climb-over-my-gate-and-run-off-with-my-Sony outside.

You can even grab a few pillows and cushions while you're at it.

Of course, I haven't finished my narrative. This beacon of pilferage is often watched over by a sentry. Not an armed security guard or anything, but a dog.

You see what I did there? I put everything together? Back to my story...

At first glance, the dog isn't all that impressive. Not big and imposing like a German Shepard or inspiring terror like a pit-bull. It's just... there. Still, the first glance is all it takes for the little bastard to snap.

And I mean snap.

If you've ever seen someone go beserk, or an elephant run amok, you'd know how someone or something can snap. Rage, drunkedness, so many things can lead to somebody just losing it. Unfortunately for the residents of Lorong Melayu, even a gust of wind can set this volatile freak off.

I've been walking down that stretch of road for over half a decade now, and I can safely say that there has never been a time where I had not been barked at by some crazy dicked bitch whith the intensity of Leonidas hurling his spear at Xerxes.

Seriously, that little monster sounds like he has a lighted pineapple up his urethra, barking like his owner's spiked his food with ecstacy. Now, that'd be funny. A canine junkie. But then I wouldn't be surprised if this one was thrown out of some competition years ago after failing a doping test.

I must confess, there have been many a time where I've walked my lady love home on a dark, quiet night, with only the wind and the stars to accompany our silent footfalls, only to have our moment shattered by a yipping that can only be described as moronic and maniacal.

Sigh. What I'd give for a shank of meat coated in arsenic.

Chapter N

The boy waited in the afternoon gloom, made possible by the lack of initiative that the majority of his species is endowed with as the living room light remained darkened. His hands, like two bifurcated serpents wriggled endlessly across the largely-empty table, glimmering slightly from the thin, stretched plastic covering that pointed to a mother too busy to wipe off the furniture.

Rocking back and forth like a children's toy head that bobs, back and forth, he was staring at the single sheet of paper as I saw him through the portal of the cell he called a home. I wanted to announce my presence, it was the decent thing to do, but I couldn't, so mesmerised was I with the laconic flurry of twitching that supposedly added up to a boy. It was impossible. Not much more than a heap of murmuring and muttering. snickering and shrugging. That was what it was. But a boy, nonetheless. I sighed.

And stepped into the cell.

Almost immediately, I was accosted by two squealing little dervishes, twirling around my legs. Treading carefully, for I would want to refrain from allowing the larger of the two a swift and painful examination of my bag, I smiled bleakly and waited for them to let me pass. The larger of the two returned that macabre facial expression with a gap-toothed one of her own, chin and nose barely reaching my hip which seemed so able to simply, crunch.

The boy had not turned to look at me, acknowledge my presence. It is a special instance to be ignored by one who is unable to comprehend that ice is indeed colder than water, but I let it pass. File that away with all the other imbecilic brush-offs that my life has been punctuated by.

So it began.

Wordlessly handing me the sheet of paper that had appeared so tantalisingly distracting from the outside world, he went back into the semi-comatose state as I was left to interpret what I held in my hands. An angry red mark caught my attention. A single angry red mark. One stroke, one joint. Synapses fired, and it was a seven, I belatedly realised. Hot on the heels of that pleasant thought, my eyes wandered down a bit and found that the angry red seven was imprinted, by hand, over another digit, in ink.

No, digits.

Seven, from thirty. That's almost 25 percent, I gleefully told myself. An improvement.

At this point, let me take you somewhere else. Imagine yourself trapped in a crumbling building, alone, hungry, bleeding, unarmed, tired, scared and broke. You can even not have an eye or any other appendage. And you look out a crack in the plaster (with your one good eye) and see about seven zombies marching towards you. These things can be large, snarling, razor-clawed and be retro-fitted with rockets, but deep down, you know they are going to eat your brains. Slowly.

Then you sigh, look away, and tell yourself, at least it's seven. Not worse.

Back to the fallout of present-day Naz, that's how I was consoling myself. And at the same time, I felt my brains were being slowly chewed out while I could only wait.

Exasperation or irritation or aggravation would only be as accurate in describing my state of mind as saying "The sky is a little big."

For some reason, I recalled the term n that was widely used in mathematics, where that single character signified an unknown number, usually in a long repition or pattern. Here is where I stood. A lonely road-sign on the endless highway to nowhere.

David Eddings once used the phrase "... a look totally devoid of anything remotely resembling intelligence" and it was at that moment where I shared a special bond with the author. Survivors of war and catastrophes have their own little support groups and reunions. Right then I had joined the select council for Those Who Had Faced Down Blinding Stupidity And Lived To Talk About It.

Roughly an hour and a half after stepping into the chamber, I stood wearily, mumbling something about returning the next time. Thoughts whirred through my mind like hamsters in pudding as I had to stop to think of an appropriate time for the next session, hoping that it would not precede the end of all things.

I walked out, under my own power, a fact that I am strangely proud of. You try sitting through ninety minutes of such mind-numbing tedium. Watching two old women slap each other would have made me a better person than what I went through that day. Even the elevator seemed to be a throwback to days where lead and asbestos were reliable building materials. I punched "1" and the door closed, slowly, every so slowly. And did not even attempt to reopen to accomodate a desperately-sprinting woman who looked for all the world like she was escaping a rapist, but in reality was probably just wanting to buy 4-D.

The descent was painfully slow, just like everything else in the vicinity. Another sigh, another day gone by. Bye-bye brain cells.