Tuesday, September 30, 2008

`The Original Fire Has Died and Gone, But the Riot Inside Goes On`

Bad Juror. Bad dream. Bad morning. Bad day.

The 50 degrees centigrade heated discussion with my Juror happened 12 hours ago. It's been a while since my last clash with the Juror. I can handle well disputes over all aspects but the dormant fire within me gets flaming like California forest fire when the Juror's laying down statements I hoped I'd not hear again, ever. I remember how the Fat Woman spit out words I hate from her huge lips. The Juror and the Fat Woman used different words but they came out the same like sterile, sharp scalpels. The Juror paid my subscription instead for an online IELTS review after I failed to subscribe through my Mom's credit card. The Juror chose to wire money, got the reference number. I assumed the Juror had the details like recipient's name. I swapped three emails with the company, they need the money named to a person. Told Juror about it, Juror got furious, heated like my Mom's stainless kettle whistling at six in the morning. Juror loves blaming like my Creator. Juror spent her remaining energies on blaming, wrangling repeatedly of `it-might-have-beens` and `it-could-have-beens`. I do not like to be sulked in `have-beens`. People addicted to `have-beens` may not get rich, financially and emotionally. The squabble between me and Juror became annoyingly loud, I could see my dear friend Berna assumed the role of an interested reader. Her eyes on the boring Smile magazine I took from the cheapest airline in the country. I laid down my primitive instinct, my Id and gave Juror my Ego. I said sorry. But Juror's aura did not change. It was still dark. I heard a polite woman whispering to Juror like's she's gonna help. I'd love to do some task ala `nip/tuck' that very moment, put that polite woman's lips into Juror's and I'd hear polite words. Polite words a 28-year old man would expect to hear from a 34-year old human. My Id drove myself again, I stopped talking until we bid goodnight. I blew the fire but the clash inside goes on.

I need to smoke and sip black coffee. I'll talk about my bad dream, bad morning and bad day when my Ego is back. Stop knocking on my door Superego, I don't like you.

Friday, September 26, 2008

My Zahir

I was having coffee and smoking with my Zahir this morning. Zahir told me some passage about the book Brida by Paulo Coelho.

When Brida was a kid, she was once with her father in the beach. Her father asked if the water's cold. Brida dipped her foot on the water and exclaimed it's cold. Her father carried her, dropped her into the water and asked how's the water. Brida said it's lovely. Brida's father told her don't just dip into something you want to try, you plunge in it.

Zahir said one has to abandon the thing he had have, as one tries new thing.

Learning this while sipping the stale coffee and inhaling the mint of smoke in my lungs, it felt like my heart began to stop beating that sunny morning. That's what I usually do, suppress undesirable feelings, make myself numb and escape reality. I must have been overusing this defense mechanism. I've read from Saunder's book that too much exhibition of defense mechanism is harmful. I can't stop my Zahir from coming abroad. Zahir once said to me- I'm not gonna stop you from going where you want, you might not know what you might become when you don't get there. I feel the same towards my Zahir. That's why I did not stop my Zahir a few months ago when Zahir went to Tokyo. And now Zahir wanted Zurich, or back to Tokyo. I just can't let Zahir live more in this small city, where Zahir has to teach, educate and amaze people with Zahir's principles, brilliant ideas and beautiful outlooks about life. I want Zahir to grow more, learn more, work with minds like his, or more than his. I love you my Zahir, I'd be guilty as hell if I don't see how great you might be if I stop you.

I will be leaving this place also. I've always wanted more. But what about the ties that bind Zahir and I? What about the carabao horn accessory we talked about with giggles? The chair you wish to build, the dress you want to make? How will these happen when ocean's between us one day?

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

The Green Man Meets The Fat Woman

Nurses today are like my marbles I had when I was a kid, which I used to fill in Club Valentino rum transparent bottles (lapad). Too many marbles, some went unused for months, even years. Favorite marbles, secretly considered my lucky charms, were chipped but shimmering, glistening and worn smooth. Those unpolished ones kept in bottles and unused, never gave a glare.

I don’t want to be filled in that lapad.

An hour ago, I ran to a tertiary hospital with hope of grabbing a job. Yesterday, my boss referred me to her husband, who’s one of the big bosses in the hospital. I brought along copies of licenses, certificates and the resume which took me almost a year to be finalized. And satisfied my ego. The big boss, my advocate, my backer looked for the biggest boss who wasn’t around. We went to the chief nurse, a stocky dark woman, with a dark caramel neck. The big boss spat to her my backgrounds like I am the best nurse in town. He left me. I stood in her too-small-for-a-stocky-woman office, with my black leatherette Issey Miyake weekender bag on my right shoulder. She threw questions with me standing like a tornado. I grew dizzy standing in the too-small-for-a-stocky-woman office, with documents piled lazily in all corners like my bedroom’s clutters when I was in college. Florence Nightingale wouldn’t be so happy seeing a chief nurse’s office like this. After about three stupid questions (Thank you for those mind-boggling questions Madam, as ‘Thank You Girls would reply’), I decided to sit on a blue plastic chair. A canteen chair I guess. Her eyes were hooked on my certificate of employment while asking if I ever had a job. She was not reading, just flipping through my documents to appear doing a task of a nurse recruiter.

I worked in a primary hospital for seven months. Mastered inserting needles and cannulas into anybody’s vein, small or large, palpable or not. Had mastered ¾ of the basic nursing skills, entry-level skills. Had been in charge of 20-30 patients, I could finish 30 patients’ charts in an hour or so.

The chief nurse took this experience like it’s nothing. I could sense her telling me to erase my working experience on the resume. She boasted on her strict implementation of standards at work.

Oh really Madam, do you mean standard like your 7 months in service ER nurse I saw who never squeeze the intravenous fluid drip chamber to fill it halfway with fluid? A smart clinical instructor squeezed the drip chamber an hour after.

She obviously did not value my experience, told me mine is so unlikely from theirs. I don’t disagree with this. We have no vacancy and I shall call you if we need one- these words came out like scalpels from her huge lips. But being a nurse equals being therapeutic, positive, an advocate and supporter. Therapeutic versus non-therapeutic approach- one of the concept nurses have been mastering. This chief nurse moved the lever within me. She moved both ends, pulling my self-esteem a bit down, pulling my being furious up.