I think it’s been days enough that I can finally sit down and properly write something. I’ve been meaning, I’ve been wanting, to write for quite sometime now but the hour was never right.

I’ve been too busy, and for the first time, I shan’t apologise for that, as I have been too busy lving.

There’s that old line: “What’s the point in living if you can’t feel alive?”

I feel like I’ve just opened my eyes.

Sitting at a table I’ve not touched for a year, my table, I am surrounded by books, stacked upon one another or filed together like the letters of some absurd alphabet. I am pleased.

This feels right.

I know I shall have to move over to my computer later, an ancient thing that runs Windows95 and whines pitifully when I push it too far, which is always, and type this down and publish it as bytes. But that is plastic and circuits and electricity. That is later.

Currently, P.J.Harvey is moaning “Meet Ze Monsta” on my stereo and I imagine Dona grinding her hips to this, and I am almost certain Marco would frown a little, wondering why I didn’t put on “Dancing Queen” instead.

I don’t have ABBA. Not here.

Have my tastes in music changed so much after a mere year away? I doubt it. I love all my home music still – Meshell Ndegeocello, Ben Christophers, k d lang, Beth Orton… They are from before. And they are here still. They know their place in my history and I am gobbling them up after a year’s absence.

But this past year – our past year together – there were different bards and sirens to sing of it – David Bowie, Moby, Bananfishbones, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, lovelylovely Kylie and of course ABBA.

Music with balls. (Well, maybe not that last one.)

Things are different here, and not just the sounds. Television is greatly improved; nothing’s dubbed in German. All is pure – English, Cantonese, Mandarin, whatever. And I never minded the subtitles.

You learn to ignore the labels.

I’m actually speaking tons of Cantonese here, playing catch-up. My dad thinks it’s atrocious and mulls the fact my Mandarin’s improved instead. My friends here are in equal measure tickled and annoyed that my English sounds the way it used to when I was debating or being serious (the later a rare event indeed) – a perfectly trying hybrid of American and British flavours.

That alone should offend both Erich and Belinda but you can’t please anyone, can you?

I have apparently lost any ability to converse in Manglish, the local hodgepodge of horrible English and several other tongues.

Imagine returning to Chicago with a Cockney slang or Manchester with a Texan drawl and you get the idea. I sound weird.

But not to myself.

I always sound the same, in my head, where it matters. No matter how many tongues I may switch, there is only one voice. You only start to worry when that number is exceeded…

Amy, of course, was both overly enthusiastic and impossibly shocked when she heard my voice after draggin me out of bed with a phone call Monday morning.

Amy’s a dear old friend and reminds me of a younger, more Asian Joan Rivers. Our resident Gossip Queen. I have no idea how she knew I came back. I hadn’t informed anyone yet other than my closest family of my return, wishing rest and respite.

Guess that’s rather out of the question now.

Strangely, I’m reminded of the fortune cookie I had on the flight to Malaysia. Normally I abhor the stuff (though Blue would disagree vehemently, I’m sure) but this one was somewhat different. It had not one, but two slips of paper fortune in it. For all those uninterested, they read:

 
1. A surprise awaits you.
2. An old friend will call you.

 
Which, I suppose, was really true of Amy’s phonecall.

(But back in the real world…)

A call from Amy is a rather cuddly, bubblegumgush affair. Like the sugary, girlish whispers of a childhood sweetheart. While she spoke in English, she insisted I use Cantonese, which I did, though not without a certain amount of chagrin.

With Justin, it was Mandarin and he recognised my voice immediately. Ours was an easy and straightforward buddy talk. He seems as sure and confident of my return as he always was of everything I did. Justin makes me believe in myself and more.

And more. Yes.

I’ve not spoken to Serene yet. I miss her. She’s such a giving person. I’ve promised myself and her to quit painting her as a perfect angel, but I swear, she makes Mother T and dead Diana look like a pair of absolute cunts.

Serene is not sweet; she is not fiery. But she is good and true and that is plenty.

I’ll meet all these friends and more when I drive up to Kuala Lumpur this Friday.

Last night, I went out to town with my oldest friend, Wern. He looked the same and insisted I hadn’t changed either. We fell so swiftly and easily into our usual banter it seemed I never was away at all.

He complained of having no one to talk about Neil Gaiman and Tori Amos after I left. I was luckier: I had Monkey and Manuel to menace. In fact, I have many friends, and not all of them for torture.

Have my tastes in friends changed so much after a mere year away? I doubt it. I love all my old friends still – Amy, Justin, Serene, Wern… They are from before. And they are here still. They know their place in my history and I am gobbling them up after a year’s absence.

But this past year – our past year together – there were different faces and voices to sing of it – Manuel, Maria, Ms. Downey and Ms. Stone, Erich and the two Mikes, lovelylovely Dona and of course ABBA-loving Marco.

Friends with halos. (Well, maybe not that last one.)

Wern asked me what I was gonna do next. “Is the grass really greener on the other side?”

“Maybe.”

I turned to him and looked at the beautiful lightning streaking across a dark, moonless sky.

“It’s pretty good here too.”

.

Copyright © 2002 Kenny Mah Ying Fye.