Clothes

This afternoon, I sat in a cafe close to home. Around a week ago, I was in the same cafe, having just finished a light lunch, and seated down to enjoy my flower tea which is supposed to soothe the mind. Then the phone suddenly rang. It was from the hospital. Dad's condition went from stable to critical again, and it does not look good. I nearly dropped my cup in my haste and rush to the hospital. I made it, to spend the last half an hour or so with dad. Later dad passed away.

Together with mum and brother, I picked out dad's favourite clothes. Taiwanese tradition says that at the moment of burial or cremation, the deceased must wear clothes that he likes to wear most in order to have a good 'passing' to the next life. At the foot of his coffin, we were also asked to place other sets of dad's pajamas, undergarments, socks, shirts and jackets. Even the deceased need to change.

I shifted through dad's cupboard, my nostrils tickled with the scent of fabric softener, closet freshener, and the scent of dad. It is a mixture of scents which whenever I bury my nose in the fabric and close my eyes cause this strange calmness and tranquility within to take over. I picked out a black tailored suit , which still had the original labels on the sleeves. Dad had them made the year before his retirement, but because he was always so thrifty and so hard on himself, he never wore it. I picked out a white striped shirt, the collar of which was a little gray and worn out. Of the underwear he had, most of no more than rags, and some even had holes in them. Dad would often joke that they kept him cool, especially in the sweltering heat of Summers in Taiwan. Of the T-shirts he had, many I recognise from years ago. One was from more than ten years ago, in the Summer of '94, when we took a vacation to the States... another was a T-Shirt which I got after my high school graduation trip to Spain. Both were worn out, and the markings and wordings have become faded. Dad had taken them to wear, even though there were a dozen brand new clothes lying around unopened and still in their original wrapping. He was such a person, who had a lot to spare, a lot to give to others, especially to me, but never gave enough to himself, and never really had the opportunity to enjoy the luxury and good life he had built up from scratch.

In the drawers were old pictures of dad. Some taken so many years ago, when I did not even exist. He looked so young, so energetic then. He was skinny, like me, and always had tanned skin, which my brother inherited. The oldest son of a poor family from southern Taiwan, he was the first son to go to university and was attracted to the bright lights and big city of Taipei, where he soon became a little bank clerk. Dad worked his way up, gaining promotions and recognition through hardwork and dedication, and eventually won an opportunity to go abroad to work. Because of dad, my life, and the life of my whole family changed dramatically. Without dad, I probably would not be writing this now.

Dad once told me he came to the big city with just two thousand New Taiwan Dollars, which in today's terms can just about pay for a good meal at a nice restaurant. He saved every penny, and sent much to my grandparents for their pension. He married my mum, worked two jobs, bought a motorbike, then a car, then a house, then another house. Dad worked till he fell ill, till he became depressed, and for many years dad lived an isolated life with himself and his books.
I often tried to cheer him up, console him, and tell him that he should enjoy his retirement, and enjoy the fruits of his own success and prosperity. But dad's happiness and health continued to ail. In the past year or so, I heard little from him, and could not easily reach him. Last month, when he entered the hospital for chemo therapy, he was jubilant and had faith in the treatment. He said when he returns, he wants to finally buy the big 44 inch plasma screen TV dad has been looking at for sometime. "If I'm going to be home so often now," he told my mum, "might as well make it comfortable and enjoyable." And then he was gone.

He once told me that when he was young, he could not afford the luxury of good food or relaxation, but now that he can afford it, his health cannot. But even so, he always made sure I had enough, and even more than enough. I held onto the old clothes, and browsed through the old picture albums of me and dad on trips here and there, I began to feel the sadness creep up on me. I feel it oftentimes these days, between rushing from place to place to deal with funeral arrangements and everything that dad left behind. That emptiness and hollow feeling of feeling nothing in a place deep inside which once was filled with something concrete you could point to, something solid you could touch and speak of. Now there are only memories. Memories, and little pieces of paper with dad's scribbles, and little cards and letters I had sent dad in the past to tell him how much I appreciate his sacrifices, and to tell him how he must take better care of himself.

The empty bed, the empty bedroom, and now the empty cupboards and drawers. Remnants and reminders of my dad who worked so hard, but did not have the time or place to enjoy himself.

Jinshan

“When you get on a bus, you have to get off too,” my dad once said metaphorically, as he arrived at the seaside resort of Jinshan (金山). This little town perched on the Pacific Ocean is probably one of his most favourite places. Located on Taiwan’s magnificent North East Coast National Scenic Area, it is a wide valley which faces the blue, blue sea, with its back against lush, green mountains that is often adorned with clouds and mist. Dad loved the local seafood, often caught early in the morning, and freshly prepared to be eaten in the many restaurants along the white sandy beach. He also loved the delicacies of duck and goose, especially the wing bits which he loved to nibble on.

When I was little, I was told, we went to Jinshan on a family outing. Probably not more than three, I was petrified of the water, even though I was safe in a raft, and dad walked within hand’s reach beside me. I cried and cried and wanted to be taken ashore again. It was a terrible experience, watching all these giant waves crash against us, I think I must have feared that my loved ones would be swept away and lost forever. I cried and cried, and made my dad promise that we would never go near the sea again.

I rode the minibus today, and watched the same waves crash against the barren beach this morning. Indeed, a loved one is now lost forever. The ocean was not pacific as I remember, but murky and gray. The waves were violent, tumbling in a white rage, as they battled against the jagged rocks. The wind was piercingly cold, dampness wound together with salt. An island shaped like a tortoise poked its body not far away from shore, almost surreal in the thin layer of haze. Rugged cliffs wound along the shore, revealing a different kind of wild and raw beauty that this little island has to offer.

We headed up a mountain overlooking Jinshan, towards a tower that potentially could serve as the final resting place of dad’s urn and ashes. In recent years, a number of majestic temples have been built in and around scenic areas with good ‘feng-shui’ with the purpose of housing urns containing remains of the deceased. ‘Spirit and Bone Tower’, these buildings are literally called (靈骨塔, lin-gu ta), and they are grand structures normally containing a great hall with statues of various Buddhas and Bodhisattva, and on the different storeys are rows and rows of little safe-like containers where you can purchase a spot and place the remains of the deceased in.

Like in real life, an ‘urn safe’ is hard to come by, and are as hot as real estate. The best positions are often taken, especially those closest to light or the window, or those not too high up or not too low down. You can purchase a safe and you will receive also a Certificate of Ownership, which is (ironically) for life. According to local customs, every person is born at a different time and date, and these details read together with the horoscope determine which position and direction is the most suitable for a restful stay. Certain people, like my dad, must have a place facing the North, while others, like me, will fare better if I were to face West.

So together with my mum and brother, we wandered through the many hallways and corridors of this gigantic building in search of a suitable place for my dad. Again, like in real life, a safe for the urn does not come cheap. You can choose to be squeezed together with many others in an appartment-styled complex, or choose to have a more quiet VIP-mansion treatment with your personalised box with a window view to the sea. The difference is the price tag, which can amount to thousands or tens of thousands of Euros. The funeral business is a propserous, and apparently profitable one, here in Taiwan.

Dad was always a thrifty person, and he never wished for luxury or excesses. We picked a place for him in the standard urn room, which is fairly reasonably priced, and located in a good place suitable for his person. But before deciding anything definitive, I proposed that we ask dad for his opinion.

It may seem crazy and pure mysticism to a foreigner, but there are ways you can communicate with the deceased. Since dad’s death, a temporary shrine has been erected in our living room, and it is before this shrine that we offer fresh fruits and food to dad twice a day. You can ask the deceased simple questions, like whether he has finished his meal before taking the food away, or complicated ones like the ones I plan to ask dad about what he thinks about the temple we visited today. Tradition holds we take two coins and flip them into the air. A head and a tail means yes... two heads means that the deceased is humoured at your question and laughing at you, while two tails is a definite no, and may be interpreted as being angered if it appears too often consecutively. One must wait a few more moments before asking again. Some say this is just about probability, about chances...but I have come across (personally) times when a head and tail does not appear, even after ten or twenty throws. This, people say, may be because the spirits are angry or unhappy about something...it may be because the proper rites have not been followed, or maybe because not everyone in the household is present, or maybe because a drink is missing. So tomorrow after dad has his morning meal, I plan to ask him, and I am curious how he will answer.

Tou-chi

Dad is supposed to come home today. According to tradition, on the first seventh day after death (頭七), the deceased would return home to visit loved ones. During the first seven days, the spirit of the deceased does not realise it is dead yet, and wanders the world living and believing as it it were still alive. Then comes the realisation that the spirit has already moved into another plane of existence hits, and the spirit goes home to take one final look, before finally moving on.

Hence the elaborate ceremony this morning, with a three person-recital of Buddhist sutras, clash of symbols and rhythmic knocking of a woodblock. The purpose is to send prayers of goodwish and wellbeing to dad, so that he will have a speedy and troublefree passage into the next life. Offerings of fresh fruits and food, together with the burning of wads of 'paper money', paper lotuses and scent of incense is done to ensure that dad does not go empty-handed and empty-stomached. And of course, the diety standing at the first gateway of the Underworld needs offerings of fruits and paper money, so that dad can easily go through.

It took almost two hours. Throughout, my brother, two cousin and I stood in front of dad's temporary shrine, hands together before our chests in a prayer position, and now and then knelt and bowed in reverence to dad. In a cold drizzle, we burnt the offerings, and watched the smoke rise and rise into the heavens.

Last night, I slept on the floor in a little room right behind dad's shrine. In the first moments before falling asleep, I meditated and suddenly felt something never felt before. It was as if I felt my body dissolve into nothing, felt my arms and feet and torso and head evaporate into dust and disappear into everything else around me... I have heard of people describing that moment close to nirvana in similar ways, how body and matter simply disappears. How emotions and feelings become so insignificant, as one realises the inter-connectedness and natural way of all things. But then, I remember feeling afraid and foreign at the whole experince. I am not sure how long it lasted, but I knew I was frightened before finally falling asleep, and sleeping into the earlier hours of the morning. The scent of incense burning filled my lungs, and the chanting of nuns echoed in my ears.

With almost two weeks of holidays due to the Lunar New Year festivities, many things are closed here in Taiwan. And today we received news that the cremation can only take place at the beginning of March, almost one whole month after dad's death. Tradition dictates that the day of cremation be carefully chosen, and has to coincide with the date and time of birth, in short the horoscope, together with the date and time of death of the person. The Lunar Calendar (農曆月曆) acts as a guidebook of when to do what, when and how. This is important to ensure that the deceased can rest peacefully, and in doing so, the lives of those still living will not be adversely affected. Also the 'feng-shui' (風水) of the ultimate resting place of the urn is extremely important... each person has to be facing a specific direction (north, south, east, west), and the timing and place of storage must be carefully planned and coordinated too. They say a peaceful resting place has repercussions on the success and properity of the decendants, and so whether dad's urn is put to rest at the right time or place is supposed to have much influence on the future success and happiness of me and my brother.

To be honest, I simply go along with the rituals, and admire it for its ability to continue for thousands of years till this day. That a tradition could survive so long must have its merits and meanings. But then again I think to myself why one should exert oneself to such extremes? If your heart is not pure, if your mind is not still and contains ill thoughts, what is the purpose of pompous processions and ceremonies? What better way is there to pay respects to the deceased than remember him in your heart, and to be grateful to him for all that you have? I watched the paper money and paper lotuses burn in the fire cauldron, as choking smoke rose to pollute the atmosphere.

I accompanied mum to the Household Registration Office in the afternoon. I rode the motorcycle in the pouring rain. Taiwan has never felt so damp and cold in my memory, as I rode the winding streets that coiled along the misty mountains. I love to look up at the mountains, watch the lowlying clouds float by and shroud the mountain tops in a thin, thin veil. Part of this love comes from being able to imagine the pretty, timid face that is half hidden.

Dad used to ride the same motorbike up the mountains and down to the seaside nearby in those two short years from his retirement to his recent passing. He loved the feel of speeding on the motorbike, and the freedom of going and coming as he pleased, even though it were the same roads he had travelled over and over again. Perhaps he loved it as much as I loved riding my bicycle back in the Netherlands. Today, I rode that motorbike, and felt how easy it was, despite the raindrops on my glasses and the piercingly cold wind, to feel liberated.

Within five minutes, dad’s name was taken off of the official records. His ID was taken away, and my mum was issued a new one. Where previously the space after the word ‘Spouse’ was written with my dad’s name, now stands an open and gaping space. Mum's eyes watered and she fell silent. Taipei City government gave us a bag with a condolence card, a free picture frame gift, and a booklet containing all the laws and regulations and essential information about inheritance. How very attentive and thoughtful.

My mum looked at that, and her eyes watered again.

Memories

I went back to the hospital that dad passed away in barely a week ago. This time, it was because of my mum, who has an appointment to undergo the second phase of her chemo therapy. She had to postpone it, because the funeral arrangements will most likely take up the better part of this and next week, and the doctor said he will schedule a time soon for her to go in and receive her injection of toxins necessary to kill those cancerous cells.

Hospitals are never a happy place. All those ill people and sick patients, the stale air, the masks, and coughing... it makes me feel somewhat just being in the hospital. Imagine how dad had to spend many, many hours and days at the hospital, and all alone by himself.

I heard more about dad's final days from my mum. Ironically, tomorrow dad would be going into the hospital for the second part of his treatment. He had so much faith in the doctors, but his body did not. His body failed him, and could not take the poison any longer. He was nauseatic and dizzy after the last chemo therapy session. He went home, and stayed in bed for almost ten days, throwing up and unable to eat or drink. Just the thought of food made dad sick and throw up. It was as if his body rejected the drugs intended to kill the cancerous cells that had spread to his lungs. And in doing so, dad's body could no longer cope and slowly shut down.

His kidneys were already failing, and his liver functions too. And he was getting extreme pains in the chest area, for his lungs had slowly begun to be infected with cancer. But even so, the when he was taken up in hospital, he would beg my mum to take him outside for a cigarette. She did as dad wished, but felt embarrased, as dad always chose to smoke on a terrace right next to a sign which explicitly says that smoking is prohibited. I went to that place, and stood there for a while, imagining dad puffing away at his cigarettes, his arm wired to the infusion tube. In the bushes I found a cigarette butt bearing the markings of his favourite brand.

Next mum took me to a place where dad once stood and waved goodbye to her at night. Whenever she came to visit, dad would tell her to go home and rest, worried that mum might tire herself out. Dad would accompany mum to the main door, and stand there while he waved goodbye. Once, he stood there, but could not hold his urine in, and had to urinate there and then. This happened a couple of times as his illness worsened in those final days. Dad was too embarrassed to tell anyone, too embarrassed to let others clean up after him. But if only he had realised it was only natural and nothing to be ashamed of...

Despite his ailing health, dad remained humble and grateful. Mum recalled conversations they shared while he was in hospital. He thanked her genuinely for her company, and for her support and care. Once, even though he was already so frail and so weak, he even got out of bed and thanked the doctors for their attention and treatment. By his deathbed, in those final moments as life slipped away, I held his hands and told me how thankful I am for his being and his presence.

According to Taiwanese tradition, the deceased would wander the world for seven days and not realise that he has passed on to another plane of existence. And on the seventh day, which is tomorrow, the dead comes back home to revisit family members.

Will dad come back tomorrow?

Dad's room

I sat in dad's room and looked around. Piles of clothes folded on the table, his old duvet, neatly arranged at the bottom of his bed. The pillow casing littered with strands of his hair, hair he was beginning to loose from the chemo. If I were to lie in his bed and close my eyes, the scent of the sheets, and warmth of the blankets would together make it seem as if dad were next to me still... but of course, he is no more.

I took on the task of cleaning out his clothe cupboard. All the shirts, underwear, trousers, suits, ties, socks... each one a little memory, each one a piece of dad's life, and the moments that I shared within them. Some were new, brand new, and still inside their packaging. Dad had a lot of clothes, but most of the time he wore just a few, that became his trademark. This meant that a lot of T-Shirts were little more than rags that if you tore at them, they would simply rip.

Some clothes I had worn before, but dad had taken into his own closet to wear, because he did not think it necessary to buy new clothes for himself. This is the kind of self sacrifice dad made, so that I can live and lead a better and less worrisome life.

Most of the clothes I packed into a bag, ready to donate to charity. But others, I folded and piled away, as momento... Folded and piled away, like the pillowcase containing strands and smell of his hair.

Next were the medicine... dozens and dozens and dozens of packets of medicine for his illnesses, most still unopened and unused. There were needle-heads too, and wound cleansers, would he needed to inject insulin shots and keep dad's sugar levels under control. Mum said that dad lived the last few years of his life constantly under medication, constantly needing to go to the hospital for check-ups and diagnosis. But a lot of times he did not want to take the medicine. It was as if dad had given up... which explains the packets and packets of pills and tablets still unused, still unopened.

Later in the afternoon, dad's one of his three sisters and one of his two brothers came by to pay respects to dad's shrine. They had journey hours, standing all the way on the train journey from the south of the country, braving the holiday crowd all trying to get back home after the long vacation, just for a glimpse of dad.

We sat down in the living room, bowed before dad, and worshipped him with incense sticks, while we remembered dad for all he was, and all he gave.

In memoriam: Dearest Dad 1947-2008

I lie in bed. It is dark outside, and cold. Gusts of wintry winds rush down from the mountains that surround our house in a loose embrace. Mountains that during the day are shrouded in mysterious mist, but during the night disappear into the darkness.

I lie in bed, feel my hands. The same hands that days before had been cupped around my dad's hands. How warm they were then, how soothing that felt, how very comforting, as I knelt beside dad's hospital bed. The coldness of the floor did not touch me, the sobbing around me entered my ears but had little effect on me. I found such strange source of strength in caressing dad's fingers, cheeks, forehead and eyebrows. My finger tips filled with warmth, my palms sensed sensations never before felt, as I became closer to dad than ever before.

In dad's ear, I softly whispered, "Do not worry, dad. It will be alright. It will be alright, dad. Just relax, and let nature take its course. Let nature be." So softly, so gently, I wondered whether dad heard me at all. But of course he did, because he was right there, right there beside me.

Butterfly kisses spread across his face... kisses that on my lips was so endearing, so necessary, and so natural. In life I probably would have never dared to touch and feel my dad like this, but I knew he needed it then, was was glad I was there to give him the comfort and the peace that I hoped he could receive.

The cardiograph no longer oscilated, and his heartbeat gradually slowed and slowed, like a machine coming to a halt. Then all was still... the gasping stopped, the wheezing ceased, the heaving of dad's chest underneath a thin, thin layer of hospital cloth smoothed and could no longer be seen. Sobbing started, deep and painful, heartfelt and mournful. But I held dad's hand and there and then felt such inner stillness and tranquility that I had never felt before. The feel of dad's fingers, the strokes along his frail, thin arms, the softness of his cheeks which had caved in a little because in those final days he could no longer eat or drink... I was connected with dad, and the connection calmed me, cooled me, and wooed me into a place of solace, a place of peace. A place I could see in dad's lightly closed eyes, half-open mouth dad had been able to find.

"Do not think of the past, just let it all go. Have no fear, have no remorse. Just let it all go, dad, let it all go."

There was no struggle, no pain. Dad passed away so silently, so softly that I did not realise it. Only when the doctor came and pronounced it officially did it register. 2.21pm, New Year's Eve (6 February 2008). Taipei Veteran's General Hospital, Room 12, Ward 121. I was there. Mum was there. Brother was there. And so were the nurses, who tended to dad's final needs in their angel-white uniforms in those final few days.

I held onto dad, dressed him and washed him. No fear, no remorse, no deep hurt. Just this tranquility, this unexplainable sense of tranquility that overcame me and soothed me like a warm, silent drizzel on a hot summer's day, that felt like romantic kisses on my face and, deep down inside. I helped dress dad in a blue sweater, the one with 'Atlanta 1996' bearing the Olympic Flame. Brother wore it, and like many a times with his old clothes, they became mine. I wore it, and left it at home. Then dad took it, like he would do with my old clothes, and he wore it too. I patted his chest, in encouragement, in comforting dad, and no longer felt the rising or falling of his chest. But through the fabric, I could feel the warmth, the sacrifices, the emotions dad never dared expressed out loud.

"May you have no fear, no pain, no regrets. Relax, dad, relax and let go."

I sit in dad's room, close my eyes, and feel his presence. I open my eyes again, and see the clutter he left behind and had no time to tidy before the rush to the hospital. A razor, crumpled up pieces of papers, receipts, bank statements, an empty 'A-Bian' mug that I used to use all the time, rubber bands, packets of medicine, insulin needles, a black leather-skinned notebook bearing his handwriting, pens and an empty plate. On his pillow were strands of hair, which fell and remained as a reminder to the chemo sessions he underwent. The chemo sessions that meant his end.

I stroked dad's douvet, felt the soothness of the fabric, and buried my nose to smell dad... Memories flooded. And for the first time after dad's death, the tears too.

In those final moments, I held onto dad, hugged him, and gently rocked him as I whispered into his ears. As a child, dad would put his arms around me, rock me to sleep as he whispered stories into my ears. Stories of made-up characters, of myths and legends, stories that sometimes did not even make sense, but nonetheless would lead me to snooze in his warm embrace under the warm blanket we shared. But often, very often, dad would fall asleep first, while he had his hand on my cheek and as he gently stroked my forehead. Those final moments, in the hospital, I stroked dad in return, caressed his cheeks and his forehead, and like so often, so very often before, he too fell asleep first...

Two books lay on his bedside table. I picked it up, and flipped through the pages. Dad had taken them out from the hospital, even though he was so sickly in those final days. He never finished reading them, but now I placed them in front of his shrine and offer it for him to read. Together with his glasses, for he was near-sighted and would have to squint in order to read the little words on the pages. And the squiting would always make his thick brows look like he was puzzled, when he actually was not. Dad loved to read. Newspapers, novels, current event journals... and perhaps my letters too, letters that I had painstakingly taken hours and hours to type in Mandarin. Letters the paper of which had yellowed with age, but were neatly arranged in a drawyer next to his bed inside his room. And next to them, pictures, carrying memories of me as a child, of mum, of our trips to the mountains, of our wanderings in nature, of his colleagues and friends, of relatives and far away places. All brought together, all captured and now treasured and remembered as a dear man passed silently away.

"Why did I not cry? Why did I not cry as he passed away in my hands?" I asked mum.
"Because the dearest and closest one has no need to cry."

I smiled, while little pearls wallowed in the corners of my eyes. I smiled, just as I had smiled at dad moments after I had travelled and rushed thousands of kilometers to enter his hospital room. I remember it clearly, how it was pouring with rain, how I could see my own breath in weak clouds in front of my face, how I and my suitcase were dripping with water. But that did not matter... not compared to seeing dad in front of me. All the tiredness of travel, all the cold and dampness disappeared seeing dad.

There were tubes everywhere... some red, some green, some connceted to his chest, others burried deep inside his nostrils. And there was a respirator too, that covered his face like a mask, through which dad breathed, each time the clear plastic would cloud a little whenever his breath touched the surface. I immediately knelt beside him, found his hand and placed it in between mine.

"Dad, I am here. I am home now. I am right here beside you, dad. Have no worries, have no fear. It will be alright, dad." It would not be many hours later until he opened his eyes, and watched me. His eyes were a little yellowish, with red strands at the side. And they were moist too. He watched me, and I watched him.

I do not know what made me smile. But seeing dad again, made me smile. A comforting smile, a smile with behind it, pure joy and stillness. I am sure that if dad could, he would smile too. That dazzling smile, that beautiful, cheerful smile that did not appear often, but when it did, would brighten even the darkest of my days. That smile, that smile which is now so beautifully captured in a portrait of him which hangs above his shrine in our living room...

"May you be blessed, may you be peaceful, may you have happiness forever more. May you move on, without fear, without remorse, without pain, without regret. May you find peace, may you find wisdom, and may you let go, let go of everything in this worldly life, and prepare for the next."

I knelt before dad's shrine, the smell of incense fill the air, the sound of a Buddhist chant echo on and on and on. Before his table, different dishes I had prepared, and a bowl of rice, next to that chopsticks. A pile of paper money, a bowl of fresh fruits. And beneath the shrine, his favourite pajamas, his slippers, toothbrush and toothpaste, his razor. And there is his mobile phone too, and his watch, his books, and the pack of unfinished cigarettes that he could not smoke any longer in those final days, because he was so fragile and frail... I knelt  before dad, before his smiling portrait, before the food and books and cigarettes, and kowtowed. In deep reverence, in deep, deep gratitude, in deep affection and warmth towards my dad... my dear, dear dad.

He could no longer eat in the last ten days. Returning from chemo, he was so weak, he lay in bed at home. He threw up many times, and his hair began to fall. The poison, the toxic poison that numbs your body and spirit aimed to killed those cancer cells, but which kills all other cells too. Dad could not handle it... he could endear toil and misery and hardship in life, as he worked hard to provide us with a good and prosperous life, but dad could not handle the toxins. He was so frail he would spill water as he drank, and he could not even go to the bathroom, so ended up wearing diapers. Diapers I had helped change in that final moment of passing.

And dad groaned. As he lay in bed in the days before he was hospitalised, he would groan now and then. But he never wanted to bother my mum, and stubbornly refused to go to the hospital, stubbornly refused to have a maid hired to take care of his daily needs, needs like bathing, eating, drinking that we all take for granted, but for my dear, dear dad must have been such a struggle for life.

When he was rushed to the hospital, he was in shock. And later, slipping in and out of unconsciousness. I was on my way, sitting on that plane, my heart pounding and my eyes wet from worry that it might be too late... In those few moments of sleep as the plane roared and turbulently soared towards Taiwan, I saw dad in my dream, saw him suffering, saw him waiting, and groaning in pain and crying in longing. That made me cry even more as I woke, and made me wish I could be beside him right then and right there...

But he was peaceful, he was still. Though he tried to cough a couple of times to get the phlemn out, as I knelt beside his bed, he was still and peaceful. And I did not cry, not when I whispered soft words into his ears, not when I caressed his hands. Instead, I smiled seeing him, and hoped he would smile back too.

I thought of his pain, his misery, his suffering and unspoken emotions that were all kept inside all this time. As I felt his forehead, lightly and slightly stroked the lines on his cheeks, the crusty dust in the corners of his eyes, I felt closer to him than ever before. It was as if I took away his pain, took away his emotions and unspoken words that he did not dare speak because he did not want others to worry... I understood. I understood how and why he was always so hard on himself and so thrifty, because he wanted us to have a good life and good education.

"May you be peaceful..."

I understood. I understood how he held on till those final moments, because he wanted nothing less than to see the whole family reunited on New Year's Eve, and spend those precious little moments together, altogether, as one family.

"May you be free..."

I understood. I understood how dad would have liked us to live happily, to live healthily, to treasure every living and loving moment, even though it would be without him.

"Dad, rest well. Dad, rest well now."



I understood why... why I did not cry. I did not cry, not because I would not miss dad's breath on me whenever in my childhood he held me close and told me little tall-tales as he tried to get me to sleep... I did not cry, not because I would not remember dad's sacrifices and devotion, dad's toil and pain. I did not cry because I wanted dad not to see me cry.

Dad's final sight of me was me smiling, was me at peace, was a vision that would allow him to go, and would allow him to let go. This is what I, having been away from dad for so long, could offer dad in his final moments. But dad, I hope, dad would understand...

I hope that dad would understood that my prayers, my smile, my soft stroking and caressing of dad's hands and forehead, together with the soft brushing of my cheeks against dad's cheeks would be able to give dad timeless tranquility and peace, forever, forever more.

Back home

I have never packed my bag so quickly and just headed to the airport hoping there would be a flight.

And yet, some 17hrs later, I am half way across the globe, back in the home I grew up. I even took out the garbage just now, blending into the locals as if I have always been here. But truth is, I had just landed mere hours ago, and am still trying to get used to the climate, the noise and the busy-ness of life in Taiwan. It is hard to get used to the buzz and liveliness, the decorations and occasional blast of fireworks, for tomorrow is the local New Year's Eve.

Immediately after arriving, I headed straight to the hospital. Rain and a damp, damp cold that made my breath vapour greeted me in Taipei. What seemed like an endless bus and metro journey to the hospital due to cogestion finally ended as I hauled my drenched lugguage and soaked clothes into the gigantic Taipei Veteran's General Hospital. My stomach tensed as I walked through the doors of Room 12 in Ward 121, an intensive care unit intended for liver disease patients.

The sound of a whizzing first caught my attention. Machines, with colourful graphs measured heartbeat, breathing and blood level. My dad lay under a thick blanket on the hospital bed, his face covered with a respirator that had been plugged into his nostrils and masked his mouth. An incessant sound of breathing in the room otherwise glum and still. But strangely I did not shed a tear then and there, as I had dreaded I would on the long flight home... at least not yet. Dad lay there, almost in a feoutal position, like a baby needing care. I saw mum standing there, smiling weakly at me as I entered the door. I hugged her tightly and said: "I'm home".

I stayed at the hospital for anumber of hours. Knelt down beside my dad's bed, I watched him as his chest heaved up and down. His eyes were crusty at the corners, because he had not opened them for almost two straight days. The nurse said that if you speak to him, he can hear you, but he just cannot respond. His thick brows would at times twitch, and he would at times clench his eyes together, but they did not open. It was as if he was in a deep sleep, and could not awaken, no matter how many times you called his name.

On the plane over here, I was exhausted, drained from lack of sleep and from the images in my vidid head of how dad may be suffering. So for most of the flight I actually slept... but it was not a deep sound sleep, but sleep that would have me awaken to be panicked and disorientated, wondering where I was, and whether everything is but a bad nightmare. Perhaps dad is in such a state of mind, lost between consciousness and unconsciousness, but unable to return and speak, even though sometimes his arms and legs and facial muscles would twitch if you touched it.

I knelt beside dad's bed, and placed one hand on his hand, on the hand that was most free from tubings and wires and artificial vessels implanted into his skin. With my other hand, I gently caressed my dad's high forehead. He used to do this to me when I was a child.. Softly, I said, "I am here dad, right here next to you. You have nothing to fear, nothing to be afraid of. I am here dad, just let go of the pain, just let everything go." His eyes would twitch as if in response, but his lips merely heaved as he gasped for breath through the respirator.

The doctor updated me on his condition. Indeed, as my mum had said, dad had fainted and had a terrible seizure Sunday in the early hours. After he was rushed to the hospital, the doctors put him under intensive care. Blood sugar levels were many times the norm, and his body was becoming poisoned because his liver was not functioning properly due to his cancer... He has been under surveillance since, at times his life signs seemed to fade and grow faint, but now it appears he is stable. But the doctor showed me X-rays of his lungs. There were grey blobs, on both sides, as big as a coin, dotted here and there. The spread, the doctor said. Which explains he has some difficulty breathing, and why every two hours or so they must suck out the phloem collected in his lungs to prevent flooding.

I held his hand tightly, and whispered again those words so softly, "I am here dad, please do not be afraid. I am here with you."

Rushing home

It's 4am.

Earlier, I burst out crying on the phone while talking to a friend, and she kindly invited me over to comfort me, and so that I will not be alone. I don't know if it was the soothing and calm voice of my friend, or whether I had held in my tears while speaking with mum... but I felt hurt and distraught and just poured tears out. My friend offered her shoulder, and warm soup to soothe the pain.

While I was at my friend's place, mum called again. Dad's condition has gone into critical again. She was crying. And I couldn't help but also cry... I told myself to be strong, but I'm not. Mum said that dad is holding on, even though it is very painful, and he is groaning a lot from the pain. Holding on, as if he wants to see me and my brother.

Earlier mum said that she would call me when the situation is really bad. But I didn't expect it to be only hours later. I must go back home, go back to Taiwan. My suitcase has been packed, and it's now just a matter of going to the airport and seeing if there is a last-minute flight to catch.
But it's Lunar New Year in two days, and most likely all the flights are fully booked....

I cannot bare to think that I may have to wait and wait, while my dad holds on and waits for my return......

"Hang on there," I said to mum, my voice wavering, tears wallowing, "Please hang on there. Please tell dad to hang on there and to be strong. And you be strong too. I will be home soon. I promise I will be home soon. I promise. I promise..."

And now I only hope I can live up to that promise sooner than soon.

Intensive care II

Spoke to mum again. It was almost 2am Taiwan time. She just returned home from the hospital. Dad's condition has stabilised, and the doctors told my mum to go home and rest.

Calling me was the first thing that mum did. She told me more of what happened. She was faced with a critical decision, but she could not make it. The doctors asked her whether they should treat my dad in case his condition worsens... by the looks of it, they too do not seem optimistic. The doctors wanted to know whether when the time comes they should resucitate my dad with electric shocks and place him on life support. My mum coulnd't make the decision... but thankfully dad had regained consciousness then. And he signed the form by himself.

It sounded like a death sentence. The form basically is a consent that dad does not want the doctors to resuscitate him when worst comes to worst. My grandpa had undergone the electric shock therapy and had all these vessels placed into his nostrils and mouth. It was painful. Dad does not want that. Too much suffering before, before...

Apparently mum and dad had a long conversation in the hospital. Dad was grateful, and also apologetic towards my mum for all the things that had gone terribly wrong. Mum told me how frail dad's health has become, and how he cannot possibly undergo another treatment. It will just kill him. But not undergoing treatment would also kill him, only much slower.

Mum told me about dad's moans of pain... his groans of suffering. She said she couldn't bare to hear that... how unbearable it was to hear, how painful to hear and to be unable to do anything. She too needs rest... she too is a cancer patient and cannot undergo too much stress......

Now the burden is on me to deal with a number of things. Brother couldn't care, couldn't be trusted, so I must step in and face the bureacratic machinery of having to certain arrangements just in case.

I prefer not to, because it is all so unpleasant to have to deal with money, inheritance, property when already you are dealing with a loss that is slowly but surely taking place....

I don't know what to think...

Intensive care

I called home three times today. Nobody picked up.

I called my mum's mobile, but there was no connection.

Something was wrong.

Moments later, my mum called. Something was wrong.

My dad has been taken up in hospital after fainting. He has not been able to eat in the last ten days because he would keep on throwing up. The chemo therapy is really badly affecting his liver functions, and he does not feel well at all. His lungs are really infected with cancerous cells. And it is very painful. He is thin like never before.

The ambulance arrived within five minutes. They climbed the five storey flights of stairs and took him down in the stretcher. The doctors rushed him into intensive care. My mum was scared stiff and is still shivering. He threw up many times, and urinated on the bed. He thanked my mum many times, grateful that she was there by his side, and seemingly sorry for all that has happened in the past.

But the situation is stable now, and he is under surveillance. It was better than being at home, because the doctors and nurses are watching over him. Thank goodness for the health care, thank goodness that it is free.

"Please don't worry," my mum said, " You must know how to face this. Know how to deal with this. Please don't cry. Be strong."

Should I rush back home now? Pack my bags and leave as soon as possible? What of my work, my appointments, deadlines and meetings? What of all the things that need planning?
But what of my dad? What of his pain, his suffering, his fears?

Torn... torn...

Sudden snow

It suddenly started to snow. The flakes striking the hard below at a slant because of the North Sea winds. In those moments when the winds fade away, the snow drifts around like aimless flies in the air, and when the winds pick up again, they fallen and fly in the direction of the winds.

Just yesterday, a huge storm was predicted, and it had rained a lot. Even so, I braved the storm and went to catch two movies at the Rotterdam International Film Festival. And tonight, it suddenly started to snow. I only realised when I stepped outside from a bar I was drinking at with friends. And I had to cycle home in the wild weather of damp snow and strong winds. When I got home my pants were so soaked that as soon as I steped on the carpet, there was a pool of water dripping still.

Friday evening. I spent dinner together with friends from work. Nothing like talking and relaxing over good food with friends. After a series of incidents at work involving colleagues, it was good to 'air' it out and share the experiences. You try your very best to do your job, and there are those who want to claim the glory and the fame. You work every single day of the week, even though you are only paid part-time, and there are those who say to you that you should work even harder. You try to not make trouble and simply try to dedicate yourself to finishing the tasks ahead, and there are those who 'snitch' behind your back and try to report to other people everything you are doing wrong. And all the while I think to myself how petty these people are... how bored they must be to have nothing else to do than talk behind other people's backs and talk about other people's flaws... I think to myself how these people can actually be in positions of authority, or at least think and believe that they wield so much power other others.

I see this kind of pettiness and politics, and I scoff and laugh inside. Such a small workplace, but so much ridiculousness and unnecessary problems. For what? So that one person can feel better than another temporarily? So that one person can show off to the boss how much s/he has done and suck up to them by tramping on the efforts of others? Disgusting. These kind of people make me want to have nothing to do with them. They are digging their own graves.

Go Texel!

A boy in the water.

The waves roared, and winds howled chillingly. We strained our eyes and tried to look more carefully. Were our eyes deceiving us? Shivers went up my spine. A black figure, standing up straight, surrounded by white foamy water, stiff and still.

We ran towards our bikes, sand sinking into our shoes, but all we could think of was getting away from the pitch dark beach, and getting away from this mysterious figure standing there all alone in the water. Who stands all alone with crashing waves at his feet on the beach at night? A boy? A suicidal person? A... the word and thought too spine-shivering to spell out... ghost?

Moments later, two travellers strolled along the dark stretch of beach. We made peace with the waves, and were no longer much bothered by the piercing winds. We made peace with our minds, and were laughing and relieved that our minds, tainted by ghosts and whatever junk is fed through modern entertainment media, was merely paranoid and overly imaginative. Wooden poles stood, braving the waves as the waves ebbed and flowed, riding out the restless winds that seemed to get even fiercer as the night crept forward.

An low overcast sky, air salty from the North Sea. I strolled with my friend into the night, further along the beach. Destination unknown, led by our steady steps and curiosity, accompanied almost comfortingly by an endless stretch dunes that seemed to offset the rage of the sea that now and then tried to suck us in with its foamy palms of waves. The sea sizzled, the rays of a lighthouse far, far away swept across the sky. Sand carried the markings of our footsteps temporarily, before they were swept clean by the winds.

We clambered up the dunes, anxious to find out how far we could go, how far we could look. Grass beneath my feet tickled my skins through my jeans, the sound of stems snapping joined the howling voices in the wind. The night and the unique landscape had made adverturers out of us, and even in the cold and darkness, it was as if we tried to challenge nature. Grass tossed their heads, and dances in waves as gale force winds blew across the island. We stood our ground on top of the dunes with silent admiration. Perhaps the bowed bodies of the grass around us was a gesture of respect. Here we were, on an island we set foot on only hours ago, but already I seemed to feel its rawness and barren beauty take over and free us from mundane thoughts back home.

Corrals of sand felt soothing on my toes. The fresh, natural, salty air filled my lungs. Before us, a stretch of darkened land lay, quiet and mysterious. Here and there, faint glows of light illustrated where settlements were, but they were sparse and far in between. The beams of the lighthouse continued to sweep across the land and sea, while I admired the contrast between the roaring sea and a sleepy land that was separated by a column of mere dune formation.

And so Texel would continue to amaze in many ways, even though my stay there was little over a day. As the biggest of the five Dutch Waddenlands, Texel has a little over ten thousand souls, and sheep, cows, horses and wild birds that combined more than outnumber the islanders. Its size is just a little smaller than Singapore, but unlike the island-state, the surface is not scarred with buildings. Instead, its vast stretch of beach and sand dunes has recently become a National Park, whereas its sprinklings of pine forests, and vast open polders and fields are left relatively undisturbed, and mainly used for agriculture and grazing.




In addition, the island hosts Ecomare, which is the Center for the Wadden Sea and North Sea, and which provides shelter to injured and lost birds and seals. Looking into the dark eyes of a seal, and seeing that innocent expression on its face, you wonder how anyone could have the heart to club them to death. Seals are often said to be a measure for the health of the environment. With increasing human recreational activity, extensive drilling for gas and oil in the North Sea, and the explosions of bombs and rockets of the Dutch military which uses parts of Texel as a training ground, the seals are defenceless and losing their natural habitats. A small grey stuffed seal I 'adopted' at the souvenir shop will serve as a constant reminder of how cute these creatures are, and of the small donation contributed to saving these and other natives who were there before people came.


We travelled the length of the island along its many cycle paths, coming across colourful wild pheasants, empty nests on barren tree tops, waving to the uninterested sheep that grazed in the fields. Even in wintry weather, Texel-sheep are kept outdoors, and that is perhaps the reason why they are especially treasured by those who sleep under warm duvets stuffed with their wool. Like me.

People told me it was crazy to weekend in the middle of winter on an island that is traditionally only brimming with tourists in the summer sun. But my friend and I are travellers, not tourists, and the more unconventional the journey, and the less crowded the place, the more it seemed to be enticing. And besides, it was cheap(er) off-season, and you get the added bonus of having feeling like you alone have the privilege to enjoy the nature all around. With the exception of the odd gaggle of geese and grazing crowd of sheep, that is.

The cold was indeed at times unbearable, and whenever the weak January sun revealed its face and warmth were precious few moments. Rhythmic cycling movements together with the light humming of the wheels against the paved paths led us from one place of beauty to another place of stunning scenery... through dense woodlands, criss-crossing through dune landscapes that resembled a foreign planet, along the coastline, up to the northern-most tip of the island, where a red lighthouse stood out perched atop a little dune. The bright red was such a stark contrast to the grey skies, light blue hue of the sea, and the ever-moving and shifting grains of soft sand that silently flew at the command of the gusts like a thin, long veil across the beach.

The grains of sand flew as the winds blew, onto destinations unknown.

Long, long journey

City lights shine on the harbor
Night has fallen down
Through the darkness and the shadow
I will still go on

Chorus:
Long Long Journey
Through the darkness
Long Long way to go
But what are miles across the ocean to the heart that's coming home?

Where the road runs through the valley
Where the river flows
I will follow every highway
To the place I know

Chorus:
Long Long Journey
Through the darkness
Long Long way to go

But what are miles across the ocean to the heart that's coming home?

Long Long Journey
I don't know where
Long Long way to go
But what are sighs and what is sadness to the heart that's coming home?

Chorus:
Long Long Journey
Through the darkness
Long Long way to go
But what are miles across the ocean to the heart that's coming home?

Long Long Journey
Out Of Nowhere
Long Long way to go
But what are sighs and what is sadness to the heart that's coming home?

Letter

I tried to write a letter to my parents, almost immediately after hearing the 'news' on Sunday. I began... but I am not sure how to finish it. For once, perhaps, I am lost for words, and not sure what to write.

I wanted to write to them, to console them, to tell them that things will be alright. But somehow I feel like if I do that, I am sort of lying through my writing, and that is the worst kind of writing.

I want to write to them, to tell them that they should not be afraid, to somehow make up for me not being able to stand by their side as they undergo the chemo therapy... but no words, not even all the metaphors, similes and flowery language that I can splash across the page can ever compensate for the touch of a hand when you are afraid and needing to be held.

I want to write to them, to tell them about my life, and how great it is going, despite the ups and downs, so that they will not worry and have to think about whether I am eating well or dressed warm enough. But somehow my letters in the past used to make them cry, because they are that powerful and filled with emotions. And the last thing I want to make them do is cry.

So I am facing a half-written, or perhaps half-finished however you look at it, letter.

A letter that is missing and longing for the other half.

Cancer

I could have cried when she told me. Burst out, emotions and all. Probably could have yelled out, in pain. But I held my tears, because once they fell, she could hear me crying on the phone, and I would not be the good brave boy who stands up after falling.

Dad has been hospitalised. Xrays reveal gray dotted areas have spread on his liver, and are now reaching his lungs. But he continues to smoke, and pretends as if he is strong enough to take it. I imagine his face, his eyes... I remember the way he used to rock me to sleep in his arms, as he told me stories he made up on the spot...

He is weak, mum said, sometimes even having difficulty walking especially with his worsening diabetes... And they have to restart the chemo again. Hair might fall out. They dare not put too much dosage, for his body may not be strong enough to take it... He is moody, and doesn't like to be told that he shouldn't smoke at all. I remember the smell of cigarettes on his fingers, and the sound of his sometimes coarse, but at the same time soft, voice which I have not heard in many, many months....

My hands shivered, and I closed my eyes. To stop the tears falling, and falling. I remembered the nightmares that I often have at night... scenes of me watching dad suffer and choke from his coughing... scenes of him dying, and me, helpless and weak, and unable to stop it...

Mum's voice continued, sometimes wavering, sometimes weak. She was afraid to tell me, afraid I would worry too much about then, afraid that I have enough stress from my work. I told her I can take it, and that I'd prefer if she told me everything.

Dad is not the only one who has to undergo chemo again. Two new lumps were discovered. The doctors had said that this would be a possibility. "I'm so sorry," she said sadly, "I had made plans to come see you and stay with you in March, but it wasn't meant to be..."

It wasn't meant to be. I swallowed and as bravely as I could sound, I told her not to worry about that, not to worry about my ungrateful, selfish brother or his girlfriend, or about the house here. "Please just take good care of yourself," I said slowly, "And please just tell dad to take good care of himself. I can handle the rest. I really can." Because I always have.

Two bombshells within the timespan of five minutes. Outside the winds howled, and barren trees danced lifelessly to the sorry tune against a bleak gray sky...

I had expected it, I had known it was simply lurking around the corner, trying to entice me whenever it could, trying to taunt me, however it would. But I never realised it would be this hard to hear it, to really hear it, and know that it is happening.

The sanitised smell of the hospital hallway. The clean white linen of the ward that somehow never seem, and never can be, clean enough. And somewhere, out there, is my dad.

I wish I could take away his pains, his fears, his tears deep down inside, and just tell him that it would all be alright, that it will all pass like all things in life. Tell and reassure him, as he told and reassured me, when I was little and hurt. But between us spans the distances of time and oceans. Soft little words, so difficult to say, so hard to hear.

Take care, take care...

Rat and mouse

I received the plea for help early in the afternoon, and within the hour or so I was at ground-zero: The kitchen of my friend which had been accordingly quarantined due to mice infestation.

There was at first not much to see but cupboards once filled with foods and pots and pans, now empty and bare. Then something moved. And shifted again. A little head, beady eyes. Disappearing into a small gap. My first encounter with the culprit. Little black bits lay on the floor here and there.

I opened my backpack and took out my expert mouse catching device. Two plastic tupperware boxes that only the day before contained home-made soup and stirfry vegetables I had brought to work with me. Now they were to serve as the mice's temporary prison hold.

That is if they could be caught. My friend started seeing them around her feet a few days ago. Five, or more, little mice, fur still gray and fresh, but nonetheless already cunning and ever so hungry. It is a real nuisance, a mouse in the house, as I only know too well from my own encounter with Musco Mousovic exactly a year ago. And at first my friend wanted to go buy mouse traps and poison, but I offered to help, hoping perhaps a little suffering could be averted. After all, as a Rat myself, I feel for the predicaments of my fellow rodent-kind. That, and plus I had nothing planned on this rainy Saturday.

At first I left the cupboard doors open, and lured the mice with bits of chocolate, croissant, and even sweet smelling stroopwafels. Later they would be treated to bits and pieces of MMs, and we wondered whether the mice go wild from the sugar high. But an open door was no invitation to dinner, I realised, as the mice would not come out, even though I could hear them squeak and scurry behind the wooden boards. So I closed the doors and left them to be.

Moments later, a mouse came and stayed. It had somehow burrowed and fallen its way into a cupboard where the only way out was if it could climb up the vertical walls like Spidermouse. Effectively, it was trapped, and I could see it, sniffing away, chasing its own tail in confusion, perhaps unaware a pairs of eyes were watching.

I sneaked up on it, and swiftly covered the little mouse with the semi-transparent lunchbox turned up-side-down. Gottcha! The mouse sniffed the box, and hurried around it bumping its little head against all four sides. It even stood up and seemed to be trying to gnaw and scratch its way out. I tried to close the lid by sliding it under the box, but the mouse was smart, and squeezed its agile little body through the gap in that instant as I was trying to seal the lid. It leapt and ran, and vanished.

Disheartened, I closed the doors and hoped it would come out to play again. And it did, not long thereafter. Again, I repeated the procedure, and this time with help I used a thin board to slide under the box and cover it. We watched it as it leaned against the side of the box, eyes seemingly filled with sadness.

But when the path of man and mouse in house built for man cross, the mouse must yield. I wanted to push the mouse out the window, but was realised that it would be a painful and horrible death, which would have defeated the purpose of me catching them. The black beady eyes begged for mercy. In the end, I took the mouse out to a grassy area in front of the house, and released into the shrubs. It was drizzling, and the droplets kissed my skin as white fog escaped my lips with the words "Goodbye little mouse." Soon thereafter it would be joined by one of its darling sibling.

Legend has it that there was once a race between animals in all the land, and the Emperor announced he would classify the years according to the first twelve animals that arrived. The Rat crept into the ear of the Bull, and rode all the way to the finish line, only leaping forward to win at the very last moment. So it came to be that the Rat is first in the Chinese zodiac.

It may not be warm, or be filled with ample rice or dried fruits and pungent sweets and biscuits outside, but they will manage. They will manage, I know, because they ingenious, cunning, cute and ever so inventive creatures. They will find a way to live, because they have a strong will and sense of surivival.

That I know.

Storm

I cycled to work, but walked home. Almost as soon as I got to the office, it started to drizzle, then rain, then pour and storm. By the evening, the pavement in front of my office building was a puddle, and I had to jump and hop to avoid being splashed by showers of water coming from rushing cars.

Weekend already. Originally I had wanted to go for my 'Friday Night Swim', but because of the bad weather, I just decided to go into town and grab something to eat. I didn't feel like cooking... in fact, I don't feel like anything, except that I feel myself falling ill with a runny nose. Not good, and certainly not helpful to my already down mood these days.

I actually dreamt of my work yesterday, and sometimes even when I'm not at work, I feel my thoughts wander towards the things that are waiting to be down at work... The organisation is going well and according to plan, but the problem now is the money. So far we've only managed to raise around ten thousand, but need around 5 or 6 times that amount to make sure that it is success, and that we don't go into debt like last year. I feel like since I'm the main person, I'm responsible for the finances, and I really feel the pressure of having to make sure that the budget is sound.

But it's so hard to ask people for money, and even harder to get it! I've already tried mailing a number of law firms, but only three replied, and gave only a couple of hundred. Compared to the thousands of Euros we need, that's nothing. And other organisations that we have approached seem to be not interested, or at least, have not replied. Frustrating.... frustrating that you write to people, but they do not reply. The waiting is the most frustrating of all.

Besides this, or maybe because of this, I feel really disorientated and distracted lately. I feel like I'm losing touch with myself, losing that sense of inquisitiveness and that sense of inspiration that has carried me through all these years. And that too is frustrating, and there is not really anyone I can talk to about it...

The reason perhaps why I don't write as much these days, because my mind is a fuzzy mess, and I'm not sure what to write sometimes.

Except rambles like this one.

Change

We cook separate meals and eat at separate times. I used to cook for everyone, do the shopping and make sure there is enough food in the fridge. But why? I realise that is just foolish, because the other two who live with me don't care. So I stopped cooking, stopped doing any housework except clean up after myself, and started coming home just to have dinner and sleep, before I head out the next day. True, like my brother lamented once, I treat this place like a hotel. A hotel he seems to own and run. So more reason for me to treat it as such: a place I don't care much about, because it's occupied by him and his girlfriend, even though they should have long moved out.

And now there seems there will be some changes soon. My mum called my brother and told him (for the nth time) to move out. And this time it seems he'll actually do just that, because my mum wants to come to Europe and stay for a while to have some rest and take it easy. Just a week or so ago she started having complications with her bowels.... and it was where she was operated on to remove a cancerous section... When she was here back in September, I had encouraged her to take a break from her work, and now it seems she'll be doing that.

I guess there are a number of reasons. One is to make sure my brother moves out and stays out, and the other is for my mum to spend some time with me.... because frankly, she still can.

I've set in motion a number of things that will ultimately mean that the chances are high I'll be moving overseas very soon. This means, after almost 15 years of living in Europe, my time has come to an end here. Time to go somewhere else, more promising, and more accepting of people with a different skin colour. Europe has declined in the last few years, disappointingly become somewhat intolerant and xenophobic, and thereby with its decline taken away any of my plans of staying here. Shame, because I like the living environment, and every one that I know and have come to care about and love are here... but I just don't see a future here for me for some reason. So, time to move on to the next best alternative.

I don't want to 'jinx' anything, so I won't mention any details. A lot still depends on my applications for a study and also applications for a fully-paid scholarship... I sent all that out a few days ago, and as I was standing at the post office, and watching the documents being sent, I felt like that (could have been) was a life-changing moment... like it was my ticket out of this life and onto a freer and happier life elsewhere, away from the miseries with my brother, away from feeling like a 'stranger' a lot of the time even though I grew up living in this country.

We'll see. Whatever will be, will be.

"Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,
Tod und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her!
Fühlt nicht durch dich Sarastro Todesschmerzen,
So bist du meine Tochter nimmermehr.
Verstossen sei auf ewig,
Verlassen sei auf ewig,
Zertrümmert sei'n auf ewig
Alle Bande der Natur
Wenn nicht durch dich Sarastro wird erblassen!
Hört, Rachegötter, hört der Mutter Schwur!"

The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart,
Death and despair flame around me!
If Sarastro does not through you feel the pain of death,
Then you will be my daughter nevermore.
Disowned may you be forever,
Abandoned may you be forever,
Destroyed be forever
All the bonds of nature,
If not through you Sarastro becomes pale! (as death)
Hear, Gods of Revenge, hear a mother's oath!

The Kite Runner

I read the book, and I went to watch the movie. The Kite Runner is an extremely moving tale about friendship, betrayal, and the hauntings of the past that return to haunt. As a line in the movie simply puts it, the longer you do not deal with a problem the worse it will get.

Set in Afghanistan, you follow the childhood and adulthood of a boy. Kite flying brought him much joy, and was a reminder of a past in which the snow was pure, and the streets still filled with the smell of kebab. The invasion of the Russians, the grip of the Taleban, and Afghanistan was changed. And so too was the life of the boy. He left, to start life in the promised land, yet images and bonds of the past were not so easily cast away.

Touching, moving, tear-jerking. Not only because it deals with the struggles within each of us to be honest and brave even in times of fear, but because it reveals the truth and the its forcefulness to transcend lives, times, and places. The truth tears people apart, but also eventually serves to bring strangers together.

And it reveals another truth too. One that too often this sexist world is unwilling and unprepared to face... that boys, and thereby men, for men are but boys of bigger growth, can be rape victims too.

I came out of the cinema, eyes still somewhat moist from the end scene. Awed, and taken aback. And taken back...back to when...

"Wow," my friend said, "What a great movie."

I agreed with her.

"It's horrible... Sodomy. How could people do such a thing... to kids?"

"It can happens," I said, "It happens a lot."

"Yes, and the sad thing is it's not talked about. It happens a lot more than we realise, but men just have a hard time talking about. Society just cannot see men as victims."

"True. It's hard to talk about. You're looking at a victim right now."

No word spoken

I have been home already four days, but not a word was spoken with my so-called housemates. I know they are home, they know I am home, but we seem to pretend that the other is not home. If one hears the door open, the other does not go out of the room until the other is out of sight. I can hear where they are, and when I do, I do not go out of my room. If they are in the kitchen, I simply cook an hour later. Home sweet home.

As I came home from swimming this evening at around half past eight, I saw a silhouette walk in the same direction as my house. I cycled closer, and realised it was the hunched back of my brother, who looked tired and beaten. I got home first, and left the door open. Moments later he came through the door. I greeted him, and spoke to him. He just stood there, stared at me as if I were the most vile creature in the world, and said nothing.

I chuckled deep inside, and turned to walk up the stairs... how petty! How disgustingly petty and childish! I have not seen him for two weeks during Christmas and New Years, and he looks at me as if I am some sort of viscious criminal trespassing in his house.

But believe you me, I live here, I pay the mortgage, and I have more right to be living in this house than he with his precious little girlfriend. Of all the many ways I have helped him, helped them when they needed my help, this is the way they treat me... I could easily kick them out, I could easily make them homeless and force them to find a place of their own, which they should have done years ago, but I tolerate their presence, and let them enjoy the luxury of the house and let them occupy the whole house as if it were their own. And so ungrateful, so loathing of my parents just because my parents told them a few months ago to go find a place of their own. They are the occupiers, but this is the kind of treatment I get... to be treated as if I am the unwelcome occupant who should not be there to ruin their wonderful petty little lives. They do not know what is coming for them. And they have been warned.

Anyways, in the past few days I have set in motion a number of things that will perhaps fundamentally change my life. Finally, after all this time of pondering and wondering, I managed to fill in my application to study another degree this coming September. There were more than ten pages of application forms to be filled in, and a number of motivations to be written.I had been procrastinating and putting the task off, but somehow after I came back from my holidays, I felt such a sudden urge to write the application.

And now it is done! Not only that, I am also applying for scholarships, which will hopefully, hopefully, hopefully be able to cover all my expenses of studying and living. It will be a real adventure if all my plans go through, and I will be able to get a new start to life in another country, and get away from petty little things and people like my brother.

As I was filling in the application forms, I was feeling really giddy and happy with myself. If there is one thing I can do, it is write, and I somehow have a way to write motivation statements that even flatter me. The crisp language, the clear choice of words, the subtle rhyming and smartly structured sentences... I get such a kick out of writing it!

Now, let's hope that whoever will be reading it and assessing my application will be just as, if not even more, impressed as I am.

Home again...

I pulled away from Strasbourg as the day began to dawn. Slight drizzle followed by rain, greeted with sunshine as the train snaked through frost-biten hills and mist-veiled valleys.

Two weeks already. To think then I was so looking forward to taking a break from life and work, so looking forward to see my friend(s) and baby Aslan. Hard to believe that that time has already gone by, and a new year has just begun.

I entered their home to be greeted by a beautifully decorated Christmas, dazzling with lights, and spreading the house with the scenet of fresh pine. Yesterday as I took off the decorations, the needles have browned and some have fallen, as the tree looked a little tired, from the almost constant feasting, laughters, and wonderful memories now captured in my mind, and fleetingly snapshotted with my camera.

I never thought much of Christmas, other than that it was a commercialised hype hijacked to make people buy and buy. And I never can understand why people can get so excited about a new year, or how some can get so crazy to attack passerbys on the streets with fireworks, or even set cars, if not themselves, on fire. But once again, I was taken into a home, and my friends showed me the spirit of sharing and caring that makes this season of lights, Gluhwein, carols and tasty home-cooked delights worth all the while.

And Strasbourg is such a romantic place, such a magical town decked with lights and tinsles, as if the entire (old) city were one big Christmas tale brought to real life. The bitter cold in those few days, and even a shower of snow, covered the land in a chilling white, but somehow gave it a warm, homely feel.

Now, back home, back to the rain and windy climate of the Low Lands. Tomorrow, work awaits, and schedules, and deadlines, and appointments too. But that is tomorrow, another time and another place.

Now, the pictures and short little clips will be able to relive the moments and memories of the weeks gone past.

Museum of Children’s Toys and Little Trains

In the Museum of Children’s Toys and Little Trains live the forgotten fantasies of us adolescents. The bobbing motion of the white rocking horse, the colourful pieces of a jumbled puzzle, the scratched paintwork of little cars and little buses that have long lost their tires, and the whirring and clanking of metal wheels against little railway tracks compete with flashing planes suspended from the ceiling for the attention of buried memories. Memories buried beneath under the surface the realisations and worries of adulthood as we each grow older.

Aslan ran around the museum excitedly, his screams and babble audible throughout the museum. There was a time when I played with little model railways, and imagined myself taking long journeys to lands far, far away as the trains sped around and around along the same tracks. Each round taking me further and further away from the real world, and into a world of my own that is where everything is pretty and where imaginings are real. On Christmas Day when I was twelve, I was told that I am too old for toys. And I have never seen them since.

But Aslan returned the toys to me, and in a number of different ways. Ever since he appeared in my life, I would venture into toy stores again, even if it is just to look and see what kids play these days. And at times I would think to myself what I could possibly buy him that would capture his wandering little mind for more than five minutes. For the past week or so staying with him in his little bedroom, I am surrounded by baskets and baskets of colourful playthings that sometimes unexpectedly make funny music and queer little noises when you accidentally step on them. Aslan does not seem to be too interested in his toys, even though he is only 18 months. He seems to have more fun with the buttons on the DVD player, and with taking out the shiny discs and putting it in again. And then taking the disc out again, playing around with it with his pudgy little fingers, before dragging it on the floor. Of course, he does not yet understand what scratches can do to a DVD.

Joy is also to be had when he presses the on/off button while you are trying to vacuum. On. Off. On. Of. Again. And again. And again. I get annoyed and tell him to stop, but he does it again and again. I want to raise my voice, but seeing his big inquisitive eyes staring back at me, I cannot but think to myself that it is his nature to play, and try to find another way of getting on with my ‘adult’ tasks. The washing machine with its electronic display, dials and buttons is also fast becoming another one of his favourite ways to pass time. The wet floor that has soiled his trousers and sleeves, and the washing powder in his hair does not seem to be cause for concern for him. Was I as curious as he was at his age? Was I as intelligent as he is, or is sure to become?

And how Aslan loves to bathe! Getting wet is his gift to anyone who has the fortune of having to bathe him. And I have willingly accepted that fortune, knowing very well that my clothes will be soaked and my hair drenched after he has had his fair share of splashing and rolling around the bath tub like a fish in water. Seeing him enjoy sponging himself as he watches his baby shampoo bottle bob up and down in the bubbly bathtub makes it all worthwhile.

Who would have thought that he has grown so big? And his voice so loud, his screams so penetrating? More and more, he has a temper of his own. And when it pleases him, he can throw a tantrum by rolling around on the floor and crying his tears out one minute, and the next he can climb back on his pudgy little feet again, and run around the bedroom as if the hideous fit moments before were all a planned and well-enacted scene.

But strangely, when his mother is away, he becomes ever so quiet, ever peaceful. As if his fits of baby fury were all meant to torment his poor mother who’ s not had a good night of unbroken sleep ever since he was born. A mother’s consolation of hearing from strangers and friends that the boy in her arms is so cute and so beautiful. And that Aslan certainly is. And a mother’s joy that overshadows whatever havoc and (dis)stress the baby can possibly cause is in watching the child’s eyes slowly close as he rests his head lovingly on your lap.

It is a sight that even angels would vie to catch a glimpse of.