Detritus, Do Try Us

Before I moved to Adelaide in 1986, detritus piled on my front yard overnight by strangers would have distressed me. But now, it’s gold to me. In my garden, the compost bins are my prized possessions. I have four working all the time, 24/7, so that with every change of season I will have a batch of wonderful sweet-smelling compost to nourish my garden. Aside from providing rich nutrients for my rose bushes, fruit trees and veggie patch, the detritus in my compost bins also help produce long, fat and unending supply of earthworms for the chooks. Detritus is dead organisms including leaf litter, kitchen scraps, faecal matter that colonies of microorganisms feed on for their own proliferation. These microorganisms in turn are devoured by other organisms such as worms, millipedes and other small animals. The combination of organisms, their wastes, and other dead matter is detritus. Pronounced as d-try-tus.

Detritus, to me are also those foul, disgraceful people who discriminate against others simply because of race, colour or looks. It was bad for me in the early 80’s. At work, as the factory accountant of two major corrugated cardboard box factories in Sydney, life was top notch. My office was no more than five minutes from home, which meant no brain-numbing peak hour traffic jams. Home was in Little Bay, friends insisted on calling it La Perouse, maybe as an Aboriginal enclave, it would be a brunt of ridicule if word got back to my parents in Penang. Your son lives amongst the blacks, aren’t they the lowlifes of Sydney? But, I like to think it was because it sounded more French. Although I was fresh from university, the office workers didn’t make the workplace miserable for me. The internal control systems and procedures I introduced in many facets of the business were implemented without fuss, no one subjected them to criticisms. Except on one occasion when I challenged the gung-ho attitudes of the second factory’s supervisor – also a trade union representative, towards his unabashed reimbursements for what I deemed were personal expenses. By the time I arrived back at my office, news had spread about the showdown between the novice accountant and the union boss. The General Manager summonsed me to his office and proceeded to vacate his executive chair for me. Sarcasm and poisonous venom seethed through his clenched teeth. I hear you want my chair! Here, take it, as he lifted his bum off his chair. No sir, I am not after your job, I am only doing my job. I don’t aspire to be the top dog, but I am your watch dog. Your job is to let me do my job. He was fine after I explained what the problems were, although I couldn’t wipe the scowl off his face. A wog, with the name Buliani, he changed his name to Bulian, sounded like gold. Could I have made my life easier if I changed mine to gold too, but I figured Kim would still be Asian to the white guys. At work, I gained a reputation of being a tenacious bulldog. I think for the first time they didn’t see accountants as boring bean counters anymore, historical data when properly used become the building blocks of a successfully managed business. Successfully managed doesn’t translate to successful, of course. But once I stepped beyond the factory’s premises, my status reverted to that of a puny bespectacled chink, a derogatory word for a slit-eyed Chinaman- also derogatory. Sydney in the early 80’s was still a white society. The pubs were smoke filled, with bronzed Aussie cobbers in their blue singlets and King Gee hard yakkas saying hooroo for goodbye, Sheila’s for women- usually thick bodied, thick-haired with thick makeup, and arvo was short for afternoon. You’d hardly see a Chinese unless you went to Chinatown for your favourite chicken chow mein, sweet and sour pork or stir-fried beef in black bean sauce. Being a minority means trouble, especially if you’re puny in size, bespectacled and Chinese. I was one of them, and outside of work, I came across piles of racist detritus. Sydney in the 80’s was clearly delineated with the Greeks in Hurstville and Marrickville, Italians in Glebe and Leichhardt whereas Redfern and Surry Hills were Lebanese territories after they pushed out the native aborigines. The Vietnam War was responsible for pushing the Vietnamese into Cabramatta and Fairfield. Big troubles in Little Vietnam, was the story of Once Upon A Time In Cabramatta. Illicit gambling, drugs and prostitution were the main game in town. Scrawny bespectacled Chinese didn’t belong there either, a rare visit there for their rare beef pho was never comfortable, gang fights were common, and those wartime scars the gang members wore were badges of honour. They held daggers and thought the cops with guns should be afraid of them. It was common to be tooted in the streets, va fangul, fa’an culo, the wogs had a primal need to dish out profanities and show the Italian Salute at anyone they disliked. It did not take me long to differentiate them from the Greeks, poutsa, malaka! Their salute resembled that of the Italians, the Iberian slap was universal to all detritus, a raised arm and a heavy slap on the biceps for a good sound effect.

Looking back at life then, those harmless taunts were mostly from testosterone-laden fun-seeking youths bored with life that was without internet and social media. Fast forward to 2005, the pile of detritus had turned decidedly toxic. The Cronulla riots were Sydney’s first major race riots, the outbreak of mob violence mainly between Lebanese youths and Anglo-Celtic youths spread from Cronulla beach to the suburbs. The next big pile of detritus will surely present itself one day in Australia, in the form of white supremacists. When they do, do try us. After all, we are no longer the minority, not in Sydney anyway. We would treat them like detritus, as compost and let the slimy worms do their magic on them.

Too Subtle? Add A Subtitle

When I posted a photo of my naked back after a full body massage, a friend decided that it was too subtle for him, it doesn’t depict a happy ending at all. Hey, isn’t it no longer true that a picture speaks a thousand words? Can’t you see the bruises on my skin from the Gua Sha? Surely a subtitle isn’t necessary.

Subtlety is a fine art, I reckon. If you’re too obvious, you may come across as obnoxious or certainly unrefined. If you’re too careful, you’ll be too vague and the message is lost. I am still new at blogging. But, I know there is an art to learn about subtlety. Show your cards too much too readily and the readers will rebel at your condescending manner of writing. Show them too little and they will also turn off. I read somewhere that a writer has to play hard to get with the reader. Show but don’t tell. Share but not everything. Tease them, keep them interested to be interesting. Don’t bash their brains with the minutest details, a big no-no. A blog isn’t a cook’s recipe, the reader doesn’t need to know all the ingredients, they just want a taste of the story.

Subtlety. Sometimes I wish I know how to be subtle. Take for instance, the idea of where to retire. It makes perfect sense for me to seriously consider retiring in Penang. My hometown has everything I want, sunshine, beaches, great street foods, cheap durian, camaraderie amongst childhood friends, and importantly, affordable but rich lifestyle. Every Aussie dollar is worth almost three times the local currency there. Everything I want is there, but not everything I need. The Mrs just won’t think about it. The argument is so obvious there’s no need to argue. But when we can’t make sense when the case is so obvious, we will have to resort to subtlety. We had lunch at Kilkenny Road today. The Vietnamese Hum Chim Paeng cost A$4 each. I casually said we could have had ten of them if we were in Penang. That’s subtle enough, right? Maybe I should have added a subtitle to it, the Mrs didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

A friend chipped in: These days it is hard to find good hum chim paeng. It’s too flaccid, lacks the crispness on the outside and fluffiness on the inside. Let me know if you find a good source.

Hey, yours cost only RM1 each. That’s why! Read my blog, The Heritage In Our Dotage. How can I be subtle to say that if you insist on paying mediocrely, you will deserve mediocrity. Any good hawker will hang up his pots and pans for good if his skills and knowledge are not valued.

Woman In Gold, a 2015 movie starring the fantastic Helen Mirren reinforces the point about subtlety. A true story, based on Maria Altman’s quest to reclaim her family’s stolen artworks, including three portraits by the famous artist Gustav Klimt. One of them is renamed Lady In Gold, an attempt by the Nazis to erase the memory and name of Adele Bloch-Bauer 1. Maria Altmann, Adele’s niece was ably and successfully represented by lawyer Randy Schoenberg, grandson of the famous composer Arnold Schoenberg. The Altmann and Schoenberg families fled Nazi Austria for America.

Prior to 12 March 1938, many who were able to flee Vienna, did not. Was it not obvious to them that their livelihoods were at risk, that they would lose all their possessions and freedom? Sadly for many Jews, even their lives. Was Austrian-born Hitler too subtle about his war-mongering? I wonder why the Austrian government at the time did so little to warn its citizens. Hitler’s war machine The Wehrmacht was formed in 1935. At its peak they numbered 18 million personnel, before WW2, their budget was 25% of GDP. That wasn’t a subtle number. Why did the rest of Europe bury their heads in the sand? Did they need Hitler to publish a news bulletin with bold subtitles to inform them of his war plans? The Third Reich annexed Austria in the Anschluss until their surrender in April 1945. Austria remained under joint occupation by the Western Allied and Russia until 1955. That is the high price of misreading something obvious, it cannot be subtle.

Message In The Massage

In the 80’s, my friends in Sydney shared titillating stories of their experiences in massage parlours. Back then, getting a massage wasn’t mainstream and definitely not in the main streets. How did they know where to go? Google Maps didn’t exist then, they couldn’t simply Google for Best Thai Massage. They were more lascivious, I was envious. For them, a full body massage meant one thing, a happy ending. Before that, I thought happy endings only happened in fairytale stories. Sure, happy endings meant their massage ended happily. But of course, right? Why wouldn’t anyone be happy after a session by a qualified masseuse?

My first full body massage was in Phuket. My mother went along but she settled for a foot massage only. The Thai woman was rough and harsh I remember. She treated me like how Murray, my son’s puppy, would treat a rag doll. Teeth gnashing, jerking me aggressively left and right as if I was meat for playing prior to devouring. And then the unexpected thing happened. She climbed on me like a 10th dan Judo black belt and proceeded to treat me like a sparring partner. When I had my back stomped on and limbs twisted and pulled, I promised myself that would be the first and last full body massage for me. That was a clear message to myself. There would be no happy ending. My mother and wife were on either side of me. They would be suffering just as badly, I reasoned.

Today, the massage landscape has totally transformed. From Adelaide to Kuala Lumpur to countries in the Baltic Sea, massage parlours are mainstream, in main streets and side streets. It has become a huge industry, in every corner of every shopping mall. The message is clear, massage is the new gold rush. The massage therapy industry is worth a staggering US$18 billion in 2018 in the US alone with over 350,000 massage therapists at work. In Australia it’s worth $4 billion employing 37,400 people. Globally, the numbers would be mind blowing. The message is abundantly clear here. The industry is ripe for a major global chain to conquer. A Grab or Uber equivalent, book an appointment on an online app for an in-store session or a house call?

Benefits of Massage Therapy are numerous.

1. Stress relief

2. Relaxation

3. Pain relief

4. Pain management against muscle stiffness, soreness, spasms

5. Injury recovery or part of rehabilitation program

6. Self indulgence or feel good reasons

7. Health and wellness

8. Pre-natal and pregnancy

In the 80’s, mainstream medical practitioners were suspicious of massage. No doubt, my friends’ spouses were also. Which was why they shared their experiences quietly and privately. Today, massage therapists see themselves as part of the health care industry. Some private health insurance companies today provide cover for costs of massage therapies.

I must confess here. I broke a promise not to have another full body message, unintentionally though. I visited her to relief my neck pain, a common complaint for today’s office workers. Soon, neck pain will be the most common ailment for everyone who owns a smartphone. We are forever looking down at our phones with a crunched up neck, instead of looking straight ahead.

Anyway, she was an expert masseuse from mainland China. A sister brought me to the woman’s parlour, her prepaid vouchers were expiring soon, help me use them up, she said. Sure! I love freebies. A free massage, why not?!

A friend who lives in Hong Kong castigated me again. Why don’t you give rather than receive, he advises. If no one gives, there is nothing to receive. It starts with the giver. Be the giver instead of the receiver.

Sure, I understand this, totally. But consider this, my friend. The receiver gives the giver a chance to give. Without someone to receive a gift, there can be no giver.

Anyway, back to the free neck massage. The China woman was good! And then she said, you are “heaty” inside. You need to drink more water. Better still, you need a good full body Gua Sha. That will reduce your heat. Gua Sha will help remove stagnant energy or Chi thereby reducing inflammation, promoting healing. How did she know I was suffering from internal heat, I wondered. Can she read my sex life too? Anyway, for sheer indulgence, a free full body Gua Sha cannot be declined. She who must give, I shall receive humbly. Here is my photo taken after. A happy ending, I was happy it ended. Urghhling!

So, Sow, Sew And Show

Ah Beng has been away for over a month. The pumpkin seeds he smuggled into Penang have sprouted, he told me he planned to sow them a few weeks ago. He is eager to show the young men in today’s world, culinary knowledge is superior to carnal knowledge. Not only is he the gourmet cook, he is also the gourmet farmer. Sow it, grow it, throw it in a pan. Then, show it and crow about it. He is the epitome of the modern day urban hero. The paragon of the modern man. Move aside, metrosexuals. Move aside, spornosexuals. The spornosexual’s reign did not last long. Most of us cannot persist with the punishing and rigorous gym work required to sculpt our bodies into those of sports stars and porno stars. Too much effort! We don’t have the discipline. Ah Beng has an unfair advantage already, he is naturally tanned, and never requires a shave, there is no body hair for him to worry about. He is slim built, an early follower of the IF gurus in my chatgroup. Fasting intermittently, his belly no longer overhangs from his belt. He is an ardent tennis player, enthusiastically during the weekend. And, of course I imagine he also contorts his body like a yogi but I do not have access to his bedroom where he professes to perform. I have seen his Tai Chi moves, he isn’t quite as lethal as the Drunken Master, he may appear drunken only, after a long session with his favourite Yamazaki whiskey. Yet, he’s still the best candidate amongst the sixty year olds in my group to be crowned the Urban Hero. The Urban Hero is the new modern man who embodies all the sexy charm of the late 20th century metrosexual, such as window shopping with the spouse and the must-have muscular, tough, lean and mean features of the 21st century spornosexual, and adding to that, an irresistible acreage lifestyle in a groovy hobby farm with a you-beaut state of the art commercial kitchen.

The Urban Hero also knows how to sew, skills learned when he was a Metrosexual. I still haven’t figured out why Ah Beng is itching to do some stitching. Why would the ability to sew be relevant to the Urban Hero? Does it enhance his sex appeal to the ladies? Maybe it ties in with today’s conversation about the environment and climate change. Reduce our carbon print. An old suit becomes new again with fresh buttons. Becoming green is a prerequisite for being taken seriously, it seems. He is still very much moisturised and teeth-whitened, well informed of everything under the sun, and stylish in his smart casuals. He is well-versed in the fine arts, fine wines and fine foods. It’s not cheesy to admit he knows all there is to know about cheese. He no longer calls himself Ah Beng, but I still do because I have known him since his childhood days. His appreciation for music, cinema, drama, interior design, even garden designs still raise eyebrows. He is the latest version of cool, I suspect he owns a guide book on how to be suave. Just like a James or a Bond, he is now known with an Anglo monosyllabic name. Calling himself Ah Beng just wouldn’t cut it anymore. Can I chip in and call him Beckham? Or Ronaldo? With the right name, his demonic sex appeal will break many hearts.

Hey Ah Beng, you have been in Penang now for four weeks. That means four weeks without the discipline of IF. Do you remember IF, Intermittent Fasting? Or has IF evolved into Intermittent Feasting, Incessant Feeding, Intoxicated Frenzy? How many kgs have you put on since your arrival at the island of Incredible Food? After all, Penang holds the enviable title of Street Food Paradise, doesn’t it? Too many durian excursions? Excuses, excuses. You sow the seeds, now show us a selfie.

A Discrepancy About This Crap Pansy

Whilst I was reconciling my bank account, someone called out crap, he’s a pansy. Yes, I think that was what I heard. Unless we are in a garden centre, Pansy is a word we seldom come across today. In my youth, we did not think it would be disparaging, we merely used it as harmless mockery. But, did we unknowingly hurt anyone who may have been openly effeminate or secretly gay when we loudly taunt them for being “girlish”, a pansy? Some boys were less boyish. They weren’t prone to dirtying their school uniform, their white Bata shoes were always brand-new white. Did they apply the white talcum-like powder coating to their shoes each day after school, I wondered. Maybe their mothers were OCD sufferers, their obsessive compulsive disorder made them particularly fussy about white shoes and white school uniforms. Why were we insensitive to those less boyish boys? Did we label them as pansies simply because they were careful not to dirty their shoes or just because they sat on carefully placed plastic sheets and not on bare earth? Just because they didn’t join the rest in hurting one another in their pretend World Championship Wrestling matches? Just because they shuddered at those who were game enough to feed live houseflies to their fighting spiders? Just because they couldn’t play football in the mud? Today, I find it irreconcilable to pigeonhole someone’s sexuality from their aversion to filth, insect cruelty and rough games. The discrepancy between then and now in how gays are treated is massive. Then, homosexuals got frowned at and sometimes got beaten up, now homophobia is frowned at and LGBT people have legal rights.

Murray, my son’s pup has the most adorable pleading eyes. He would melt anyone’s heart just with his cute, exaggerated doelike demeanour. When I am at work, he will not sleep in his own comfortable bed. Instead, he will pester me to let him sleep on my lap until I surrender. The last surrender cost me an expensive jumper from Prague, he tugged at my sleeves a bit too vigorously, the resulting tear caused me to shed a tear. Murray, no teeth! no teeth! Too late, he showed me his teeth. His playful tug at my sleeves was only to get my attention, hey hug me, put me on your lap. He didn’t mean to destroy my jumper, but he made me feel like a toothless tiger that day. I was supposed to be the alpha male in my office. Now I have to work with his head resting on my arm, his pillow. Worse was to come. Murray sleepily reached out for my hand which was busily moving the computer’s mouse. He planted his hand firmly on mine. Hey, Murray! We males do not hold hands! Is that meant to be a handshake? Weren’t you taught how to shake hands? A strong grip, a quick up and down motion, and let go. It’s not supposed to last more than two seconds, unless you’re posing for the paparazzi. Any longer and it will be deemed we are holding hands. Murray, two alpha males do not hold each other’s hands! This crap pansy, the friend in Hong Kong scoffed at me, I was sure he did. What’s this, urghhling? Holding hands with a male?

Anything wrong with that? I was tempted to ask, but I knew I would attract even more sarcasms. In Africa, Arab countries and South Asian countries such as Bangladesh, males holding hands would not provoke a homophobic reaction. It is a sign of friendship and respect for men to hold hands. They would not readily reconcile the discrepancy between them and the homophobic West. My gloves are off. Ok, no more handshakes. No more holding hands. To reduce the spread of pathogens, we should fist bump or offer high fives instead.

Sharing Is Caring, But Daring?

Sharing is caring. The Salvos trademarked it in 1950. It does make perfect sense, right? To care for someone, you’ll need to share whatever is precious to you, be it love, food, sharemarket tips, your best wine collection even!

In kindergarten and primary school playgrounds, young kids learn quickly that they need to share to make friends, gain an advantage (protection), be popular. The demands of evolution taught us to share, not so much to care for others, but to care for ourselves. The early hunter-gatherers realised that with their Stone Age weapons and inferior mode of transport, any success in winning a meal would require a group effort. Share the hunt and share the meal. Caring only came later, after the hunger was satisfied. Sharing often involves a selfish motive. Cavemen shared their caves for safety in numbers. Some shared their beds to have orgies. Spy networks and national security agencies share information to catch would-be terrorists. Sharing is indeed ultimately caring for our own well-being, it took some well-meaning person to make it sound magnanimous.

My father left home when he was nine. Home was in Shaoxing, some four hours away from Shanghai, the place of his apprentice indenture. There, he learned to gobble down food quickly or go hungry. There was never enough to share. He never learned the luxury of enjoying his food slowly and deliberately. The skinny lad went home penniless after two tough years of hard slog, sweat and tears. He never admitted to crying, but I imagine he did. His masters shared a little of their business knowledge and laundry skills with him, was that caring? Not long after he returned home, the reality of desperate poverty forced him to move to Malaya where greener pastures were painted for him. There, opportunities were aplenty, he even taught himself basic accounting and English. During the Japanese Occupation, he was arrested by the sadistic men from the Land of The Rising Sun, on suspicion of spying against them. Unknowingly, all he shared was a chess game by the roadside with a communist sympathiser. That was enough reason to capture and torture both men. My father shared a chess game with a man he hardly knew, but he did not have the predisposition to care whether the man survived in a Japanese war prison. His own survival was being challenged. He reckoned he only survived because a fellow cell-mate, a teacher, gave up the fight to live. The dying man shared his plain rice porridge with my father, but only because he did not care to live anymore. By the time I was born, my father had built a profitable laundry business which catered to the needs of European expats, tourists that flocked to the Pearl of the Orient and RAAF personnel who were based in Butterworth. By then he also owned some rubber plantations in Sungei Petani, and a factory that produced smoked rubber sheets from the latex. These business enterprises were not only his. He organised many relatives and clansmen from the San Kiang community to join him in these ventures. Many made comfortable livelihoods from the laundry operations that serviced the hotel industry in Penang. Many later made a small fortune from the land sold off after the rubber plantations were no longer productive. Why did he share his investment opportunities with them? Was that from caring? My mother surely believed it was from love and caring for her siblings and cousins. Yet, there were audible claims that he did it out of selfish motives. There was the case of an uncle who died almost immediately after his retirement. He never got to really enjoy the fruits of his hard work. Pa provided his brother-in-law with a solid business opportunity, the latter’s prosperity was assured so long as he worked hard at his own business. Did he work himself to death? I adored this uncle. My affinity for breeding fish can be directly linked to him. Could he have provided a similarly positive outcome for his family had my father not shared those opportunities with him? Some of his children grew up to become successful professionals with glittering international careers. One even became a Datuk recently, akin to a British knighthood. I am incredibly proud of this cousin brother, he’s the one and only from my clan to earn this title. Did their lives markedly improve from moving to Penang from their small town? Can we suggest that their move to better schools in a more competitive environment vastly improved their tertiary achievements? Would they have done as well if not better, had they not venture out to Penang? Sharing is caring, but you have to be daring. Best intentions do bring unintended consequences. We do not need to be praised for sharing. After all, the motive can be deemed to be a selfish one. But, do we need to be daring to share? Peoples’ expectations and circumstances cannot be managed, a well-meaning helping hand may turn out to be disappointing or insulting to the receiver.

There was also the case of another uncle who my father concluded was not able to operate a laundry business successfully. So, he was given a monthly stipend to help make ends meet. Well, a sinecure actually, since there was no work to be performed. The couple had thirteen children and needed all the help they could get. As far as my mother was concerned, that was her way of sharing and caring. Many years later, I learned from one of the children they felt their father was unfairly left out of the many opportunities that were available to the clan. They felt unfairly disadvantaged and forgotten. Maybe their father didn’t share the truth that he was helped along the way. Maybe they didn’t care about that. Sharing is caring, the benefactor will think, but will the beneficiary extol the virtue of the giver if the gift is viewed as paltry, or worse, contemptible? That’s too daring to contemplate.

My own history is littered with disappointments also. When I embarked on my quest to create a retail franchise system in Australia, I naively aspired to copy what I believed was my father’s greatest achievements. A business leader who helped pull many out from the villages and out of poverty. After the 2008 Global Financial Crisis hit, the retail scene was a devastation after Lehman Brothers’ collapse triggered a panic in financial markets globally. Businesses were not able to borrow from the banks, the illiquidity was due to investors pulling their money out of the banking system which they no longer trusted. One by one, the franchise stores folded due to either high borrowing costs or zero borrowing capacity. Those who saw me as their business leader sharing with them brilliant business insights and a panache for great prosperity soon didn’t care much for my well-being after the collapse of their business. It would be daring for me to show my face to any of them now. Sorry folks, this urghhling only meant to share good things, he really cared. Sharing is caring, only for the daring.

Dandelion, A Delight

Many of my friends didn’t know the Dandelion is actually a nutritious plant. Definitely not a useless, annoying weed. Rich with antioxidants, it has many health benefits when consumed in moderation. Every part of the plant is edible, even its roots. In Korea, the roots are prized for their medicinal qualities, and are expensive to buy for the average family. In traditional Chinese medicine, Dandelion has long been used to treat stomach and liver disease, it is also believed to fight inflammation and diabetes. Herbalists use it to treat acne, eczema, high cholesterol, heartburn and even cancer. Modern science still lags behind the ancient practice, no conclusive studies have been finalised. But, there have been some progress.

A promising 2012 Canadian study reported that Dandelion root extract induced apoptosis in prostate and pancreatic cancer cells, reducing their growth and preventing their spread. A 2015 Canadian study reported that Dandelion extracts successful blocked UV B radiation when applied to the skin. A 2016 Danish study showed that Dandelion promotes or stimulates pancreatic cells to produce insulin, blood sugar levels are better controlled.

There are numerous recipes available, this one is particularly easy to prepare. Dinner will be ready in approximately five minutes.

1. Pick Dandelion from your garden. Preferably those in the shade, they are less bitter. Wash Dandelion thoroughly.

2. Soak hard tofu in boiling water.

3. Blanch Dandelion in boiling water for 2 minutes. Immerse for an extra minute if you don’t like the bitter taste.

4. Break the tofu into crumbs.

5. Rinse blanched Dandelion in cold water.

6. Drain with colander.

7. Wring dry the Dandelion .

8. Cut Dandelion into small pieces. All of it is edible.

9. Mix cut Dandelion with tofu. Add sesame oil.

10. Add soy sauce, salt, sugar and pepper.

11. Finally, sprinkle roasted sesame seeds on to the dish.

Snake In The Eagle’s Shadow II

Not long after I started blogging, I was censured by a reader. Be silent. Read more first. Read a lot more. That was an attempt to censor me, my viewpoints aren’t worth the bytes they occupy. In my blog, Snake In The Eagle’s Shadow, I described how a few people in my life still think they have the power to censor and censure. I was told to stop sharing food pictures in one group chat, and video files in another. Ask for permission first. Seek approval from higher authorities first, in other words. When I sent photos of my roses, I thought it seemed harmless enough. No! I was castigated for being insensitive. There are some less fortunate ones who may view you as a show off, bragging about your koi and garden. Time and time again, I am being “told off” or criticised. What is the point of being in a chat group if we only can chat about the weather and wish one another pleasantries such as Thank God It’s Friday or send mundane, brain-numbing Good Morning messages. Or is it that they can share whatever they like but I need their approval first? There is no need to be gender specific, so I will continue with they.

When I blogged about Rasputin, I was challenged, “Are you not making sweeping statements?” Rasputin was, of course, a controversial character in his time, he died an untimely death after five attempts on his life. There will be strong, opposing views about him; needless to say, I would not assert that whatever I wrote were indisputable facts. After all, that is what controversial means. Much of what I wrote were stories told by the Russian tour guide. After checking the veracity on the Internet, I decided her stories were worth sharing. I am first to admit my research is hardly scholarly. “Sweeping statements? Which ones?” I asked. They said they hadn’t done any in-depth research themselves. They couldn’t say if I was making any sweeping statements.

Last night, the Censorship Board sent another representative to caution me.

Did you ask your mother if you can post such deep secrets about her? Did she give you permission to use her photo? Best if you remove it. They don’t think you should post personal stuff online. Remove your blog. There is a protocol, you cannot simply post any deep family secrets online. You shouldn’t make judgemental statements.

Later, it got personal after I defended myself. “What deep secrets, which are the judgemental statements that are so detrimental to our mother?”

“You just can’t take criticisms, always seeking praise.” “What?! I’m not after praise, I just want to be left alone to express my thoughts” I retorted. I don’t need to be censored. And I don’t deserved to be censured either!

“You’re getting all obnoxious and uppity” they decried. In my younger days I would have cried. Why am I being picked on again? The Eagles are soaring above ferociously, eager to pounce and tear off my head with their talons.

“Why do you need to air grievances to the world? Why are you so self righteous?” Obnoxious, uppity and self righteous, three injurious stones cast at me.

What grievances did I write about in Please Appease To Ease And Please? Am I being self righteous when I write about my observations about life around me? About my childhood? Isn’t it my right to write about my life, my views, biased or otherwise? Am I not allowed to share my stories, as long as they are accurate from my perspective, truthful without sensationalism? As long as they aren’t vicious, vindictive or poisonous? Is it pointless to share our stories? Am I being egoistic, narcissistic, tragic to think my stories need to be shared and read? The eagles are soaring above, will they dive and pounce on the snake again?

Blogging takes guts. I didn’t know that. It would be fun to pen my ideas down, improve my vocabulary, add a new discipline to my thought process. There is a big price to pay though. I make myself vulnerable to harsh criticisms, open ridicule or worse, backstabbing about my character. I am made to feel like a lemon today. Urghhlings, leave me alone.

Please Appease To Ease And Please

In the 1930’s, she would have been considered a siren from Shanghai. Her cheongsam revealed her enviable 32-24-34 figure, perhaps unknowingly to her, since she never considered herself attractive. To me, she is as regal as any monarch, as considerate as any good care-giver, as glamorous as any movie star, and she will always be my loving mother. When I was a young boy, I knew her to be extremely thrifty. She was most certainly a frightening sight to the wet market vendors in Chowrasta market. Five cents was worth five minutes of haggling, and if she caught the fishmonger in a good mood, maybe even a bonus prawn or two would have been thrown in. In truth she was from Ningbo, but in those days, not many knew where that was. So, people knew her as the woman from Shanghai. Shanghai sounded more metropolitan, modern, sophisticated. Although deprived of a proper school education, the two years she got was sufficient to make her literate, elegant and intelligent. She was irresistible to my father, their courtship was short. Maybe she knew she had to be fast, for he was one of the more eligible bachelors, entrepreneurial, ambitious and dapper like Gregory Peck.

She’s now nearing 96, although she would quickly and firmly correct me. 97, according to the Chinese lunar calendar. They add a year, after all, aren’t we born into this world upon conception?

I returned from my two week holiday five days ago. Before I left, I told her I would be away for only twelve days. Did I deliberately miscount it by two days so that my absence would sound shorter to her? Or maybe subconsciously I don’t count travelling time since days spent travelling isn’t really a holiday? Maybe she is upset it has been 20 days since I last visited her. Twenty days to any nonagenarian would feel like a very long time, I realise. Which would explain why she is in a prickly mood. She repeatedly says she’s well past her use-by-date. Every day is a bonus, there won’t be many to come, she predicts. She struggles to get up, mutters to herself that her head is spinning, time isn’t on her side anymore.

When your twins were born, you let me sleep on a urine soaked bed.

She informs me of this abomination today?! Could I have been so deliberately cruel? And if so, why? I love her! She’s my cherished mother, for crying out loud! After all, she has been exhibiting early signs of dementia. It is not a disease but it can be quite debilitating on the elderly, characterised by impairment of brain functions such as memory loss and judgment, confusion may impact on daily activities and communication abilities even. I bought a new queen sized bed for my parents of course, before they arrived to celebrate the birth of my twin sons. Maybe she dozed off one afternoon when she helped put my eldest son to sleep on his mattress. I couldn’t afford another bed then. Maybe she unknowingly smelt his wet blanket when he moved himself closer to her face. He was two years old when his brothers were born, he wasn’t quite ready to relinquish his smelly wet blanket. Their mother recuperated in hospital for three weeks, all the more reason to lug his blanket everywhere.

A situation like this can easily get out of hand. Emotions can run wild, will I feel aggrieved, should I strongly protest, and protect my reputation? Will my other siblings believe this ridiculous accusation? They may want to readily believe the old lady, venerable but also vulnerable, usually clear headed yet exhibiting the onset of dementia. Do I defend myself and risk further angst and emotional stress to everyone present? She may even protest that I, without any medical advice, write that she has dementia. She may even ask me to withdraw this uninformed opinion.

No, I have to be calm. Everyone has to be calm or calmed. How do we care for a loved one who is dementing? Arguments will only agitate her, added stressors will aggravate her mood swings and even change her behaviour. I have seen her turn aggressive and angry, never her normal traits, not even when she became an octogenarian. I used to joke I would rather see her angry, at least I’d know she is still well. If she is strong enough to slam her hands against the dining table, she is well enough for me not to worry about her health.

Please appease her, I remind myself. Calm her down, show her affection, and reassure her she is very well loved, forever our precious mother. Please ease her tension. Talk about her good old days, add humour to the conversation, take her out for a meal. She will like that. Please her, make her feel life is good. Make today a real bonus.

Framed As Important, Famed As Impotent

NATO! A few of my friends called out to me, as I strode towards the group of grey retirees for a lunch appointment in Penang. This was the first morning back to my hometown. I was there to attend RU8, this being the eighth reunion of school mates born in 1958. Time is not on our side, RU’s will be an annual event from now on. I was relieved the welcoming party introduced themselves, for I wouldn’t have rated the chances of recognising any of them high. After all, 44 years is a long time, and many a scar will not heal in one lifetime

NATO? Why, I asked. Apparently, a friend based in Hong Kong had conspired with them and framed me as one who talks big and talks a lot but without any action to back up his words. No Action Talk Only. Does the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation which includes the United States deserve such a slur on their reputation? I suppose the alliance has been a benign, impotent body during the bulk of its existence after the last Great War. Its abject failure in the Balkans after it bombed Yugoslavia, its disastrous foray into Libya to oust Gaddafi, Libya went from the wealthiest African nation to now a failed state, and its weak effort in Afghanistan to contain the Taliban militancy deserve acute criticism, especially when the war on terror was declared over, five years ago, in 2014 by President Obama. But, I’m not impotent, I declared. Was I misheard? Did I say I was important? Unfairly, I am now famed as an irrelevant clown whose feverish gobbledygook rants serve no purpose other than make a fool of himself.

When I shared my stories of me as an irresistible, incorruptible and indestructible hunk like Keanu Reeves, it was made very clear that those heroic, galant stories were born in my dream world. There, I was more powerful and faster than Superman, a better equipped fighter than Batman, and more iron-willed than Ironman. In my dream world I can reach apotheosis. Which is why I cannot understand why some of my grey haired friends shamed me by publicly calling me NATO. They confuse my dream world with my physical world, although both are real to me, when I am there. For them, it’s only real when the physical attributes can be detected by our sensory organs. Their reality requires them to touch, smell, taste, see or/and hear. How do I convince them that is far from the truth? Our brain has never been outside our body, yet it can experience our physical surroundings. The reality of our physical world is very different to that of the bat, its world revolves around its sonar capabilities. So, how real is real when two animals’ reality in the same physical world is so vastly different? The human brain uses electrochemical signals to interpret the data it receives, creating a reality that we perceive. A reality that in fact is quite subjective. For instance, some will see green when others see red, and others can’t decide at all what they see. Let me repeat that: what is real is actually a subjective interpretation by our brain. Quantum physicists still cannot answer the fundamental nature of reality with their photon experiments. The outcome of the “double slit” experiment can change depending on whether or not we choose to measure some property of the light particles involved. If the way the world behaves depends on how we look at it, or if we look at it, what then is “reality”?

It is true that our brain can also let us feel and experience events in our dream world. After all, who hasn’t had a wet dream? And since we can feel, hear and see in our dreams, why is our reality there not considered real? Have we not experienced fear, screaming out during a nightmare? When our brain is experiencing it, both worlds are as real as each other.

I need to confess I also live in a third world. No, I don’t mean a third world country. My virtual world is a happy, busy place, its inhabitants are mostly retirees sharing food pictures and rowdy beer sessions. There, in the digital universe, my friends gather 24/7 from all parts of the globe. A quiet introvert in the physical world, in the virtual world, I am unchained and totally free to express myself. My friends have not yet told me to shut up there. A word I coined is extrovirt, one who is an extrovert in the virtual world.