Smashing weekend. Many happy things and chats and stuff. Firstly, there’s the release of my new collection of shorts, Broken Mornings. Then there’s the swell of support of my friends, instructors, gym buddies, et cetera for me to go ahead with the BodyBalance training.

I guess I have been somewhat stressed about these couple of issues for awhile, perhaps unnecessarily. It’s nice to get them over with. No big deal, right? But as much as I enjoy self-bashing and self-criticizing, it’s still nice to get a book out (even in electronic form, though some friends have already asked me if I’m gonna get it published properly, you know, on paper) and a new challenge in terms of fitness.

It’s about telling myself I can’t do something, then going ahead with it anyway. Nisa says I am a sucker for punishment, that I always have something to prove. Perhaps. Perhaps I have nothing to prove after all, not even to myself. Yet every new challenge keeps life interesting and my blood pressure at an impressive level.

You face some shit, especially those of your own making, and suddenly you realize you don’t have to take it, not even from yourself. You learn to be more honest with yourself.

Take writing for example. I am so frightened of it, or more accurately, of writing badly and being perceived so. Yet it’s better to fail, and to fail spectacularly and publicly, than to crimp and save every word and hide all my thoughts and feelings and desires. This way, I won’t get any bad, death-deserving reviews, but then, what’s the point really, of writing in the first place? You want to get those damn words out there, on the chance someone, somewhere, will get it. Will get what you mean, even the words that you had felt had failed you, it could touch them, it could move them.

That’s enough surely.

Same for BodyBalance/fitness/yoga/Kenny’s-new-obsession. There are times when I feel like giving up, when my legs are teetering while everyone else in the damn class seems to be just cruising… But I don’t. I remember what it’s like being twelve and fat. Overweight. Practically obese. Kids are cruel fuckers. The names they will call you.

I’m not fat anymore, not for a long time now. But I can still hear those names. Some days I think I’m still fat. The fat kid who never could do well in any sports. Ha ha. Look at me. Mean bastards. So now I push myself. I can do this. I’m not flexible, I can barely straighten my fuckin’ legs, much less reach them. But I will do it. I will get it done.

Nisa’s right after all. I have something to prove. But to myself. I owe the twelve year old Kenny this much.

Yes. Well. No surprise I had much de-stressing to deal with over the weekend. Saturday: a foot massage at Henny’s, then dinner with her and Yuli (Uptown Hawkers, with the usual really bad buskers mangling rock classics), followed by a movie session (Layer Cake, which ran like a better Guy Ritchie film/pre-Casino Royale audition for Daniel Craig - good shit). Sunday: caught the last third of Blood Diamond at Jason’s, then mamak session at Nasi Kandar Kayu/The Curve… Talking to Jason reminds me why it’s worth it going through all the crap in life: you get to learn something if you want to, then it’s your choice to do something about it.

Yeah. A very uncoordinated time, but damned good one at that. More, please.

N.B. Just received this recent photo from Dona, of her and Michael, still in Italy. One of my favourite couples and fantastic friends. We should all be so lucky.