Ten Trials of Hanis.

Of course, the post's title is a  play on the famous Twelve Trials of Hercules.

Phase One
When: Window shopping for flight tickets.

1) Expensive tickets should equal to less time spent in transit, right? No. Apart from Turkish Airways and MAS, everyone else have to go to transit. And when they say transit, the average is 10 hours, each way.

2) Finding the perfect tickets aka Etihad with the lowest amount of transit (3 hours and 7 hours) for our proposed date. Mid October. But then, disaster struck, every Monday the price increased. From RM2059, it went up to RM2558. What to do, apart from pushing the trip back 2 weeks to get the cheaper price.


Phase Two
When: Buying tickets

3) Choosing the perfect seats. Perfect my foot. All I know is that I'm a frequent bathroom user. But sitting too close is not too appealing. 20 minutes of Google and hmm haw in front of a screen.

4) Done key-in and about to put in card details when I realised that the airline only accept credit card. Card I own with the limit more than total price? Debit card.

5) Daily limit on amount transferred from bank account to Paypal. Very nice lady at call centre tells me that I can top up(no fee) and send amount(fee) and both have different limits. Huzzah.

6) Try to pay. Paypal would not process payment. 9 minutes on the phone with Paypal guy (I swear he sounds European) with 5 being on hold. I listened to Boyzone's No Matter What twice. The guy is a saviour. Huzzah.

Phase Three
When: Booking the accomodation

7)A misunderstanding of prices. 

8)As prepayment is 25%, I decided to pay it all first, then friend can pay me back later. I went and withdraw money from my travel fund account, deposit into my debit card account and transfer to my Paypal. 

Before finding out since it involves another currency it would not take from my Paypal balance and instead, take straight from my debit card.

9) Tried transferring back money, found out it takes days and a fee. And my name on Paypal should be the same as my bank account. Guess who decided to register on Paypal using a short version of their long name? Me. And to change it, requires me faxing, not emailing certain documents.

10) Withdraw more money the next day, deposit into debit card. Tried making payment via paypal. Message: Your card has been declined by card issuer. Emailed card issuer. Received reply for message sent last week.

Called in, was told my card has been blocked. For god knows why. Had a report send it, told to wait for 15 mins. Finally, payment. Huzzah.

But the good thing is that I finally have made the arrangements needed for this trip.

Tickets. Accomodation. Now, all I need to do is:

1. Check if need vaccination
2. Check if need winter coat in November and if yes, if I can rent/borrow.
3. Research where to go. What to do. (Hamam aka Turkish bathhouse, here I come)
4. Check exchange rate history.
5. Travel insurance.
6. Medical insurance coverage.
7. Consulate or embassy for Malaysia.
8. Make a list of clothes to buy.
9. Save up for shopping money.

I actually enjoy doing all of this.

Confession No. 64

It was a year ago

that my heart fell out of its shelf

splattering onto my lap

dripping my dreams and wishes

soaking into the rough fabric

as my heart flutters against my fingertips.

Needed: Someone Who Knows.

I disappear again, but here I am, with a plea.

Well.

I'm planning to go to Istanbul in November. Early November because my initial plan of doing it mid October is spoiled by the increase of ticket's price and the more expensive accommodations.

But by delaying the trip for two weeks, I'll be able to save around 700 ringgit. Provided that I buy the tickets this week, in fear of those increasing as well.

So.

Based on my research, it would be cold-ish and rain-ish. But there are different opinions on the number of tourists by then. Some say it would be less, some say it would still be the same as the months before.

And being the control freak, I just love researching every single detail and planning it out.

Which is why I'm making a plea here.

If anyone reading this lives in Istanbul/Turkey or have been there or know anyone else who lives/has been there, do contact me via comments or hanis-is-gorgeous@hotmail.com

No, I'm not asking to be given free boarding. 

I think it would be easier if I can ask few people directly the questions regarding this upcoming trip rather than just relying it on Google.

Thank you.

Meaning of a Name.

Hanis the devout.

I grew up thinking that was what I should be. For I was told that the meaning of my name is to be devout, in the religious sense.

I waited for the calling, of the moment, or the pull, the urge, desire to reflect the meaning of my name.

But it never came. I tried to be. I failed.

But then, one day I decided to google the meaning of my name.

And oh what a difference two simple letters can make.



Hanisah the devout.

Hanis.

Hanis the.

Hanis the brave.



Now, doesn't that seem more suitable with me?

Oh Memory, Why Do You Torture Me So?

I've been blessed with amazing memory, that works in unique ways. No, I don't memorise or remember everything, but some things stand out.

I can remember the first time I talked to Eli, back in 2000. It was near the canteen, on these odd stone chairs during lunch.

The time I got a temporary glittery tattoo on my arm. In secret.

The last day at National Service.

That first night in college.

The first time I talked to Mamon, front row in a class in CS2.

That time a group of us watched UP during Ramadhan, before having iftar together eating otak otak (fish wrapped in leaves and grilled on charcoal).

The panic that buried itself in me the day before my Survival Modelling final. And the way I cried in the shower and on the phone to Mama because of that. (Got an A- for it, overreaction much?)

Coffee date.

You see how I tend to remember experiences, more than what I've read.

Its an interesting parlour trick to wow your friends and family. But there is a dark side to it, as usual.

Like the fact that I remember in 6 days, it will be a year I found myself talking to you and god, falling down into that pit full of snakes, that sparkled with promise from the top.

And all the other things that I realise, would make me seem creepy if I were to share it here.

Perhaps, to celebrate a year after sipping on perfection I shall arrange everything to how it was, a tremble in the air as I wait. Perhaps. Maybe. Possible.

25th Feb.

It is funny how life works. You have no clue what you want to do with it. But the moment you have settled for something, inspiration comes. 

And you think; This is what I want to do. 

24th Feb.

I have not neglected this outlet. I have just been busy; More like tired. Typing via a smartphone is not really fun, unless you already have the whole set of words in your mind. Every time I get a laptop in front of me, all my mind is telling me to do is to open a tab for 9gag, and another for Wikipedia.



I'm aware it has been more than a month since my last post. Ages since my last reply to comments. No wonder most of you aren't reading this anymore.



I read every new comment. I click the reply button but then, that voice in my mind tells me that a simple short reply would not be enough. And I put it off, telling myself I'll do it later. And as we all know, the thought starts to gather procastination dust.



I get ideas for new posts in my head, but they never come out right. Those creative pieces are done in mere minutes. Something that coffee and a muse can do.



To say how serious my tiredness/laziness has been is that I haven't had like, a proper long conversation with Mokesart for a long time. Weeks I think. He has been very understanding.



If it was me, I would have thought up of dramatic reasons behind this.



Every time I think of something creative to write, I'll be slightly reluctant. 95% chance of it being inspired by a certain person. Of longing. Of need. Of, oh god rejection. I'm not a broken record player, cause each of them reads differently. But between those lines is the same message.



"I hope you'll read this one day."



And there's a 95% chance you won't.



Unless I compile all of them, all of those prose, poetries, words, stories written with the whisper of your name running up my spine and send it to your inbox.



Never.



*a breath*



I wish to write here more often. But what about? Would any of you readers, amazing people, come forward with suggestions?



Would you smack an idea against my head, bring some senses into these fingers?



I need to write.



Or start a food based blog, cause it seems if I'm not cooking, I'm eating.

Confession No.63

are you out there

standing on a balcony

taking another drag 

from that damn nicotine stick

with love on your lips

hate in your eyes

magnified by the artificial rush.

This Bubble.

In this moment

of time

this little bubble

molded to every creases

planes and curves

a ball of pressure

burns as bright as

a nebula

hidden to the naked eye

but the waves

of power radiates in the molecules

of air between us

affecting in the tiniest ways

an osmosis of emotions and cells

the nebula divides unequally

spreading the weight

pulling us down to our knees

as the emotions

fill the space

beyond this bubble.

In All Honesty.

Give me a little ledge of bargain;
Not to plead or beseech.
But to spread out the reasons upon reasons in favour,
And to burn the reasons upon reasons against the thought of me for you.

Wipe the ashes down your skin,
And press the ember upon your soles,
As you watch my little ledge.

Give me a little slice of attention;
Not to feast upon or devour.
But to carefully and slowly spread every inch of time
Over these words that tumbled, escaped and slipped from heart to mouth

Such fragility formed upon cracks in that heart:
The heart that craves a little slice.

Give me a small measure of respect,
Not fake endearment or genuine hatred;
For in all honesty, that is what I need.

20 November 2013

She sashays life

Like a Parisian runway

Toast of the show

In colours of the rainbow

That glitters with confidence

Radiant as the sun. 

Two Thousand Thirteen.

Two thousand thirteen. 

I wish to lay a bouquet of water lilies upon your tombstone. Write a beautiful eulogy that will bring tears to the attendants of your funeral. 

Thank you for the new chapters of my life. I am no longer a student, knee deep in complicated formulas. I am no longer that scared little girl, clinging on to the familiar. If I were to write all the chapters it would be cross genres. 

Thank you for the new relationships. Well, some died. Some grew. And some .. remained frozen in time. I learned that there is no reason to settle for less. To be more open in a friendship. To .. choose which facets of your personality to be shown. 

Thank you for the new self esteem. I have taken steps to improve it. I am more aware of the ways to improve myself. Learned that loving myself, comes first. For the man who does not himself, cannot value others. 

Thank you for the .. sadness. Those moments had taught me so much. 

Two thousand thirteen. 

I hope your successor shall carry on the efforts you made. Be a better year, in so many ways. I shall look back and think of you in fondness. 

Confession No.62

When you realise

Nine months later

That you're back at square one

270 days of

Fooling yourself 

That you have moved on. 

Super Quick Update.

I know the last few things I have posted have all been creative ish. So, in this super quick update, here is what I have been upto:

1. Started my 6 months on the job training at the bank. I am currently in Electronic Banking and been reading manuals since my first day last Monday. And oh, attending meetings. 

2. Wrote a script for a short skit for my soft skills class. Got some compliments for it. 

3. Skyped once with Mokesart. I know, finally. He then said I have an Asian American accent. 

4. Bought shoes. Shoes. Shoes. Shoes. 

5. Become that girl who goes to eat sushi on the weekend. Alone. 

6. Watched Catching Fire. Alone. Awesome. 

7. Wrote so many creative lil poems, some posted here, others are being locked up in my notebook. 

8. Went to this year's Big Bad Wolf Book Sale and bought 21 books. 

9. Talking about books .. I have finished my 97th book for this year. 3 more and I have to save up for that Kindle I promised myself.

Can You See Me?

Can you see me?

Can you see the dark blue of the pashmina around my head? The bright yellow of the bag resting against my hip contrasts against my black abaya. I am a figure leaning against the door of a train coach.

Can you see how my eyes move along the screen of my phone? The words of the e-book has captured me in its magic, despite being surrounded by strangers. It might be rush hour around me, but I'm in Nantucket with Helen and Lucas.

Can you see how my lips sometimes mouth the words to the song I'm listening to? I will lean my head back with eyes closed, softly humming the tune, and sometimes, I will let my mind wander to those hidden thoughts.

Can you see me as I crane my head to check what the next station is? How my nose wrinkles up slightly as my personal bubble is violated, again. The way my body moves slightly as I let out a yearn-filled sigh.

Can you?

Can you see me with me standing in front of you, your name written on my palms? Or will I forever remain at the furthest fringe of your attention?

I Can See You.

I can see you.

I can see you standing in one of those tiny art galleries near my office. In a red t-shirt and cargo shorts. The shadow of a beard, hair curling at the edges with the nicotine scent of your vice. 

I can see you shifting your weight onto your right leg as you look at the paintings in wonder. Interest gleams in those eyes when you see something you like.  You pick it up, those long fingers carefully tracing the edges of colours. 

I can see you turning around to ask the gallery owner if there is more like this. In places like this, you know there will be about 5 different versions of a scene. Your lips break into a wide smile, showing those shiny pearls as the man takes out the paintings. 

I can see you holding yourself back from gathering up the whole collection and running out the door. Your fingers curl into your palms as you lean forward, those eyes taking in every single detail that makes one painting different from the others. 

I can see you smile, nod and say something to the owner. 

I can see you turning to look over your shoulder at me, and ask :

"Do you think this will look good in our bedroom. "

I can.

I can only see you in my mind's eye as I sit at my desk. Only imagining what would never be.

The Pain We Cause.

If we were to feel all the pain

We inflicted on others

Would we walk around

Eyes on the ground

Hearts set in stone

Afraid of the smallest contact

Fearing the possibility

Of that pain?

To..

She preaches the code
Like it is the new holy book
She shakes her head
Slightest violations serious misdemeanours
But like all holy men
She doesn't see
How she straddles the code
And abuse the loopholes
Laughing her guilt off
A hidden knife
Stab.
Back.

Desire: Dream.

I wrote this few months ago and let it rest in my notepad app because ... at that time it felt too personal. It slipped my mind till last night and when I read it, I no longer felt the yearning in the following story.  I do hope you will enjoy this. 


I dreamed that you were waiting for me. You were leaning against a red brick wall, spirals of smoke escaping from your lips. Upon seeing me, you stubbed the cigarette against the wall, adding another scorched mark before sliding those hands into deep pockets of your coat.

The air was cold but when you slowly smiled that all consuming smile I felt a warmth tingling in my toes. My knees weakened and it took all of my self respect to not fall into your arms.

My name dripped from your mouth and yours was like my very last breath. Our feet touched each other as I stare up into your eyes. Fire licked at the air between our bodies, tempting every senses to be fulfilled.

Those long, nicotine stained fingers carressed my cheek as your eyes searched my face. They saw the longing, the trembling of my lips, the fear.

Your voice, as deep and sinful as melted dark chocolate mixed in a tall glass of iced blended coffee.  You swayed me with the tone. You dazzled me with a chuckle. You repeated the question.

"What do you want?"

I want the world. I want to sit on the Spanish Steps at sunset on my birthday. I want secondhand smoking. I want sinfully delicious acts whispered in secret. I want everything and it all flashed in front of my eyes.

You read my thoughts and laughed, deep in your chest. And asked me for the third time.

"What do you want?"

Trembled.

I knew what I wanted.

"I want to get to know you. Get deep under your skin and feel every hum. I want to see you lose control of your temper. I want to watch glee fill your limbs and sadness drips down your cheeks. I want to see you as a mere human."

"Why?"

"If I dream of you after all that, it won't be some fool's longing."

And I could stop sighing your name into my palm and wishing your face upon every forsaken star. Perhaps, with all of the luck in the world I would stop trembling at the faintest memory of you.

I woke with the nicotine breath of your name on my lips.

The Girl in The Mustard Yellow Scarf.

She has a scarf the colour fashion magazines call mustard yellow around her head. A pair of classic sunglasses covered the dark eyes. Adele sang about first love into her ears as she stood on a rough, grass grown pavement with her eyes on the approaching cars. None were the one she's waiting for.

A quick glance at the watch on her right wrist.

A soft silent sigh.

She swirled her head to the right, wondering if she should go buy some fresh mango slices from the nice lady at the roadside stall about 35 steps away.

She swirled her head to the left, for another look if the car is in sight.

It wasn't.

Mid swirl, she stopped. Her eyes locked at a spot. And her world turned black and white.

Time stopped for her.

And in the way life seems to work, the song seemed to play from around her. As if she's in a movie made by a fresh eyed romantic director.

In the world of black and white, she was of colour, the mustard yellow scarf as evidence.

In the world of black and white, she saw one car of colour. Parked at a spot she clearly remembered.

And in the way a romance movie sometimes work, her memory hit on a replay button.

She remembered the way her nerves were jumping around like beans in a pan. The smell of vanilla on her paisley patterned shawl. The way she stopped at one spot and looked to the left, and paused.

The angle of his raised hand. The tilt of his head. The way the sun shined against his sunglasses. The way his lips formed silently around her name.

The taste of hope in her mouth.

And with a rush of wind in her ears everytime went back to normal. There was no car there. No sight that makes her heart jumped into her mouth.

The song switched in her earphones. A stranger walked by, their bag clipping against her arm.

Her lips quirked up into a wistful smile but there was no trace of regret. As her ride approaches from afar, she gave one last look at that spot.

Her steps were positive and proud of herself as she walks away. There were no what-if for her.