Me, You, Us

He was sixteen when he first saw her. Sixteen and bored and his mother had him attend a “summer” camp. Strange for a camp to be called a “summer” camp in Malaysia, which had just a monsoon and a dry season. Yet, “summer” camp it was, a collection of sixteen year olds sent to a out-doors camp in the quiet town of Sematan, with beaches to the front and a mountain to the rear. It was not a romantic getaway.

He barely remembered the camp, except for that one-day when he dropped a frog into the girls sleeping quarters, while they were bedding in for the night. The screams drowned out his own laughter, as panic ensued and frightened girls made for every available exit, whether door or window; it did not make a difference. The monstrous frog was going to slaughter them, digest them and make green goo out of their remains.

He exchanged high-fives with his laughing buddies as they stood behind the bush that grew along the front porch drain and then he saw her. This vision of porcelain skin, dimple cheek and a single braid cutting across her face. She had made it to the stairs yet tripped and fell. And in the chaos was being stepped on.

He leaped from his hiding spot, grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the side, as the stampede of girls rumbled down the yard and across the empty field.

Lights turned on and curious onlookers scrambled out to inspect the commotion. But it was all distant to him. He was here and here was with her.

“You want some chewing gum?”

Yes, the first words he spoke to her were about chewing gum. A pathetic first impression.

The memories of the camp were a blur, but he remembers writing her phone number on the wrappings of a stick of chewing gum. And losing that wrapper. And wondering where things would have gone, had he called her and told her how he felt.

This was the time before Facebook or Twitter, a time when phone stuck to the walls and not in your pocket. It was a time of change and though much changed over the years, the memory of her porcelain skin, dimpled cheek and that single braid cutting across her face kept appearing.

Fate did not give up on him.

He is thirty-nine now, and sitting alone at a table in a garden. He had stop smoking a year ago, and reverted back to chewing gum to curb the lustful sting for cigarettes.

And he smiled.

Nearing forty and with months to live, he reached out for support. Eventually meeting old friends from his child-hood and especially those with memory of that porcelain skin, dimpled cheek, single braid cutting across her face girl from “summer” camp.

He had scrawled her number on a chewing gum wrapper and this time, he kept it safe, tucked away in his wallet. He had called. She had answered.

“Do you still want the ice-bucket?” the waiter asked.

“You can take it away. But do bring another glass.”

The waiter smiled. Sixteen and already working tables, he thought to himself. I was sixteen and foolish. And I spent foolish years but at the time of my last year, I will make it right. His thoughts rambled along.

And then he saw her, porcelain skin, dimple on her cheek, with a streak of white hair cutting across her face. And he was sixteen again. And they were sitting at a table in a garden at a place called Summer House.



Folly for Satire




All lies,

All you believe,

They are all life’s lies,


Power is masked,

Behind the idea of strength,

To be equal is strength says the feminist

To be masculine is strength says the chauvinist male,


False truths,

Your society fed down your gullible gaping mouth,

Silly ideas, silly, silly ideas,

Small woman, smaller man,


You scream strength and ideals,

But control the world between your thighs,

You flirt your way through life, hypocrite;

Your weakness is your strength,

You are the satire,


You scream brawns and muscle,

Musky stench, condescending male beef machine,

Big muscles, small brains, egos bigger than your balls,

Your strength is your weakness,

You are the satire,


Puny mortal,

Men and Women are all satire…





All lies,

All you perceive,

They are all life’s lies,


Truth is masked,

Behind the words of the powerful,

Incorruptible leaders, untouchable leaders,

Are the most corrupt, the most vile,


False truths,

Your perceptions are all painted fairy tales,

You believe what you are fed to believe,

Truths and perceptions, false men and false women,


You believe the painted faces,

Speaking truths through a silicon window,

She’ll say anything they’ll tell her to,

Your truth is what is made for you,

You are the satire,


Your perceptions drive you,

To a burning death, sheep to the slaughter,

To ruins, follow the leader, to burn, to burn,

Your ideas will not save you,

You are the satire


Such puny mortals,

Your truth and beliefs are satire…




Puny mortals,

Puppets for powers,

Your very life is a satire,

Amusement for the universe,


Humans are a virus upon this earth,

Breeding to destroy,

Never content,

Greedy little critters,


You devise contraptions,

For the sole purpose of destructions,

The sole reason for elimination,

An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth

And all are left blind and toothless.


You are a satire onto itself,

A joke within a joke,

In spite of your religions,

Your religion seems but ONE,


Total destruction of each other and everything in between


Puny mortals,

Blame the gods when life is bad,

Forget the gods when life is good,

But you serve only one real god,



Holy men, hiding behind their masks of religions,

Plotting destruction on each other,

Rewarding each other for death delivered,

Heaven and Hell, filled with the murderers,


Your life is a satire,

A joke,

An oxymoron of everything you say you are,

A lie within the truth, you make yourself believe,


Satire is your belief,


Your very own personal joke,

So are we wrong to say this?

Ask yourself.

The Road to Suicide

Suicide is never going to be an easy topic to approach and often times it is muddled by religious sentiments casting a shadow over the life-self-taken. It is harder to comprehend when the life-self-taken is young and seemingly still full of years.

The person who chooses to take his/her own life follows a pattern that can be tracked and monitored. Only if people are aware and watchful for the signs.

  1. Frustration at situations around them or situations out of their control,
  2. Depressive mood,
  3. Clear intent of suicide – they actually tell someone; what they want to do,
  4. Reaching out for attention.

Suicidal tendencies can affect anyone at anytime. It is not a disease of the insane; in fact it is an affliction of the sane. A bright mind unable to cope with the harsh reality of life. A bright mind that could have been helped only if those around him/her stop to listen.

p/s There was a suicide in my organization and I took a peek at the person’s last few blog entries. Depression and frustration were evident, the person wanted to be heard.

There was that Moment.

There was that Moment.
by Maclean Patrick

There was that moment,
A minute captured in a second,
A breath bottled in a thought,
A light that formed a beacon,

It was that moment,
A step in between the strides,
A glance in a gap between the smiles,
The one you could not hide,

Then it was that moment,
A word caught in phrase,
Among saying and forgetting,
Spoken to leave lovers in a daze,

There was that moment,
Where dreams were more reality,
A moment beyond a touch,
And love was never a fantasy.

A day without my iPhone.

I left my iPhone at home and I’m not missing it. Instead, I welcome this sense of not being connected to the world for a day. I’m not jittery about the thought of missing calls or text  messages. A day of not hearing from me would not kill any-body. In fact, I know all the people who would contact me and most would do that after work, when I am at home flipping through the television channels.

I blogged about the day when I did not have email for half a day at work and I did not miss it. Now, I want to go 8 hours without my iPhone and (frankly speaking) I am really not missing it.

So if  you ever feel the need to have some time off for yourself, just leave your hand-phone at home and go about your life. A moment of dis-connection would do you wonders. It lets us focus on ourselves for a few hours, giving us that space we need to breathe and know that in life; not texting or calling people, would do us no harm.

Credit to warriors who make mistakes.

Critics are worth absolutely nothing: all they do is point an accusing finger at the moment the strong suffer a defeat, or when they commit a mistake. True credit goes to those who are in the arena, their faces covered in dust and sweat and blood, fighting on bravely.

True credit goes to the one who makes mistakes, who fails but little by little gets things right, because there is no effort without mistake. He knows great enthusiasm and deep devotion, and spends his energy on something worthwhile. That is the true man, who in the best of hypotheses will know victory and conquest, and in the worst of hypotheses will fall, yet even in his fall he is great, because he has lived with courage and stands above those small-minded souls who will never know victory or defeat.

(Part of a speech that Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States, gave at the Sorbonne in Paris on the 23rd April 1910)

Story for a friend.

I’m in the habit of writing short stories to illustrate what my thoughts are on a given subject. It is the character in my story that becomes my voice, some how speaking in the third person is a lot easier than speaking out straight.

I wrote a story for my friend Norhayati, when I was in Kuantan in April and she has posted it onto her blog. She had titled her post True Love according to Maclean Patrick. I am no expert on this matter of Love but those are my thoughts on the matter.

As a writer who writes on themes of love and hope and lost, people often asks me on Love. Some-how, people think that writers, who write about love and such; should have this profound answer that will encapsulate and dispel questions people have about love.

Unfortunately, I myself am going through a process of discovery and reflection. It is only because, I have the talent to put my thoughts into writing and to share these thoughts with mt readers that the idea of me (a simple writer) holds the answer to that age old question, “What is true love?”

All I can say is, the answer is not in gaining the answer. True love (most times) has to be lived out. If you still want to know what my answer is, then hop over to Norhayati’s blog and read True Love according to Maclean Patrick.