As per usual, me being me, by which I mean:
Me =
- clumsy
- accident prone
- hungry
- temperamental
- spontaneous
- scatter brained
- impulsive
- impetous
- gullible
- tendency to make fun of all the above, in an attempt to concile myself with my iniquities, and also so it adds a rosier-tinge to my badly-painted self-portrait in the world's eyes.
*Teehee*
(Hope the latter works, because the former didn't.)
So anyways, today's activities were basically, dragging myself out of bed after a 7am-sleep, and being treated to yummy Curry Mee in Dickens Street. Good stuff, although, I must say, it is nothing, without pork. Nomnomnom, me loves me porkies. ^__^
After that, we walked over to Chowrasta Market, the must-go haunt everytime I'm back, where I (to the disgust of my mom, and probably most of you too) sniff the air, like a dog smelling bacon on a wintry night, erm, and erm, smelling the books I get excited about.
o.O I know.. erm... it's a book-fetish I have. It's not so weird, once you let me explain, really. *goes off track as usual*
* * *
Back in the days, where I grew up in a lovely, high-beam-ceilinged, hand-painted tiled floor, airwell, complete with the wooden pantry where all food is kept (Here's some old-day HACCP standards for you, and noone gets food poisoning) and of course, stolen from too; the long narrow, wooden stairs leading up to a landing, where well ventilated rooms (all quirky and unique in shape) sit comfortably next to each other. We have the usual, old, heavy cupboards, filled with equal parts of mothballs and linen, lining the landing which led to a "servant's quarter" which, quite inhumanely housed, the iron bed, ironing table and laundry area. Imagine, waking up and your WORK IS ALREADY STARING YOU IN THE EYEBALL. *shiver*
So, yes, consolation was, opposite this bed, was a ceiling to floor glassed cabinet with the bottom half being a cupboard with shelves. This particular piece of furniture was stuffed full of books. You name it, you got it. These precious tablets of fantasy, knowledge, imagination and just plain ol' comical humour were squeezed in tight against each other, as dignified as they could look, and were passed around the family. Time goes by, some disappear and go on to new families with the original owner's name & date of purchase elegantly scrawled on the front corner pages, some as gifts, some as congratulatory 'furtherments of study' bestowed upon the achievement of a degree/diploma/certificate/medal/trophy; while the others stayed, got shuffled around, and new ones were introduced, by the boxes.
As I grew taller and older, the gap of the books within my childish grasping fingers diminished accordingly, and I could now read novels, classics - upgraded from the comics and fairytales I had already tired of. (I suspect the top level had a few racy and not-so-suitable for female eyes-type of books, magazines and editions. But I'll never know, because we moved out before I could so justly investigate.
I tried, I did.
Mom screamed bloody murder, when she saw me precariously perched on the edge of an open cabinet, my toes trying to grip the delicate edge between me and 'ouch', while my fingers were groping around the top, trying to grab ANYTHING I could satisfy my curiousity with.)
Which then brings me around the world and back (and you out there too, thank you for being such a saint), to the smell of those books. They ALL had that smell, being stored together with tomes kept in the family for ages and ages, stained by eager fingers, thumbing through the lives played out in fast forward, watermarked by falling asleep in the bath and sneakily reading while at it, some pencilled marks here and there, eating while reading and all the other activities of any avid-reader-family that contribute to that delicious look, smell and feel of these books. That same, exact smell greeted me everytime I slid those glass doors, all tingly waiting for my next imaginary adventure.
That same, exact smell exists right now, in dingy, musty, crowded and dust-filled lots of the secondhand book traders Nasir, Mohammed, Iskandar and Samar, with the faint wet-market smells wafting up and the muffled cries of afternoon traders outside the building selling their wares. So, imagine being me, and everytime I smell those smells, all this comes flooding back to me (takes me faster than I explain it, I assure you). Those smells, to me, represent
HOME
* * *
And that is why, I eagerly smell every book I get excited about. Best part, I've not gotten any weird exotic respiratory diseases and so far, in my book-sniffing experiences, I've not come across a FOUL book before. =D
*PHEW* OK, back to square ermm 0, by which, we are approximately now at square 5216563281.3864, we went back, to bathe, freshen up, and I tried my utmost best to get some work done. After which, dinner was designated to the Brown field, where THREE different areas serve THREE different types and choices of food. The Malay/Mamak sections were open at the time, the Chinese ones open at night, and the ones in the field were of a varied choice. Looking at all these stalls, I didn't know what to eat, and so contented myself with a lovely, lovely, very toffee-ish-tasting Nescafe Ais, by this adorable, hardworking Indian boy, who (by KL Standards) speaks indiscernibly like a Northern Malay, and quickly switched his orders into Tamil, delegating them to the stalls according to order. THIS, to me, is the essence of Penang, and the essence of Malaysia (which, I shall and have probably, gone into, in another post).
Then, we drove up the winding roads, past the new bungalows on the hillsides and finally, reaching the neon-strip of tourist and bootlegged paraphernelia (I've been wanting to use that word for a few days now, forgive the literary snobbery). I launched into Penang mode only to discover that the missing DVD from my collection (thanks Eelyn, for Houdini-ing my "Grandma's Boy" into oblivion) and so just settled for lesser choices.
After which, Mom said I should go eat and so we ended up in Yunus. Me, scouting the area for any uninformed friends, and coast being clear, went to stand and chat my life away to Yunus. He talked about everything, the old and new, and then asked me what I wanted to eat. As usual, he knew my fave, which was the Tomyam Mama Mee soup, with an egg. His signature is chopped up roasted chicken, which he fries again with spices and chilli, generously spooning this mixture onto steaming noodles, fried or soupy. So, I finally got my food, made my way to the table and it already had my TTKKKM (Teh Tarik Komtar Kao Kurang Manis - ask me this in person, me is lazy) sitting on the table.
IanPenguin called, and I manuevered the chopsticks with one hand, and the phone with the other. I felt quite restricted as I could not quite have my noodle/soup combination and eat it at the same time, it was, nooodle nooodle... soup soup...sipsoupsipsoupslurpppp..
When I finally signed off, I went for the noodles, heart, soul, stomach and (obviously, due to the results later on) no mind and no inhibitions.
My last wonderful bite, had the eggyolk, pale yellow on the outside, like a soft-baked cookie, with a deep yellow heart, just the right amount of noodles, soup and of course, the yummy bits of chicken. *NGAUPP* I took my bite, and chewed a bit, and when I swallowed, not only did my esophagus expand, so did my eyelid-coverage.
Along with all that yummy goodness, there happened to be a huge chicken bone hidden somewhere.
OK. I know.. there are tons of remedies sworn by your cousin's mother's father's friend's brother's inlaw's uncle's son's aunty's pastor's wife's neighbour's dog's gardener's grandmother (usually, ladies who are not prone to 'swearing').
I have tried everything. EVERYTHING. Everything, I mean, everything I could possibly think of, from my mixed heritage/experiences/cultures/friends/etc and even what the Internet could offer.
*Sigh* Results were stated (still how I am feeling right now) on FB, right HERE complete with my imaginary mind (as explained by the bookery above) and pop-culture's evil nuances through the inexhaustible Final Destination sagas.
