Log 31-07-13

July 31, 2013

I need to take this idea of avoiding women seriously – I am convinced, they can sense something is very wrong with me.

Perhaps I am decaying and releasing invisible vapors like a ball of camphor that only women can pick up. Or maybe it has something to do with touch – just a while a go I attended Ah Pao (tractor man) and WC daughter’s, JJ, “moving into new house do.”

It’s not like back home in Singapore – in a Chinese kampung setting – when a newly married couple moves into their new home – they go the full Monty, red banners, lion dance, getting the local medium to chase out malevolent spirits and of course – everyone expects me to be there.

I am after all, the man who is responsible for bringing together the tractor man and WC’s daughter – JJ. I realize tractor man isn’t exactly Andy Lau or Aaron Kwok. I even realize that he may not be even be anything near averagely appealing to a woman.

But as I said to JJ when she asked me one year ago,

“Do you wish me to marry this man?”

I told JJ. Ah Pao is a good man. I even mentioned, I am willing to vouch for him – he’s a very good man. Not a handsome or for that matter exciting or even intelligent man – but nonetheless a good man.

Good to even take on the responsibility of raising your son as his own – I intimated to JJ, this was something that Ah Pao had given his word on, “I will treat her son like one of my own.” That was what he had said to me – I told JJ her beauty was a waning candle – it will not last forever. Time is not on your side.

Good enough to even settle your husband’s debt with a substantial dowry – which I mentioned to JJ would take her forever with the helium interest rates the triads usually extracted from gambling loans.

I intimated to JJ, Ah Pao sold his 3 acre land to me – with part of the money he’s willing to pay off your debts and the rest he’s going to go into business by hiring out his tractor.

JJ did not express anything – she’s always demure, unreadable even – she never looks at me. Not when I look at her. She only looks at me when I am looking elsewhere as I often do.

JJ I could sense wasn’t very keen on Ah Pao – I told her love will come later. I remember the conversation well – we were having soup in her father’s backyard. I was wearing my bush jacket. The night was closing in and somewhere in this conversation – I must have been thinking aloud – I mentioned, “You will make me so happy, if you marry him.”

I was slightly startled as I had expected her to be quiet as usual. but when she asked in a clear and deliberate tone, “if I marry Ah Pao will that make you happy master?” She looked directly at me for the very first time – she asked again only this time she was not afraid to look and even peer deep into my eyes – I said yes, that was when JJ made the commitment there and then to take Ah Pao as her husband.

Now you understand why I don’t have a choice but to go this evening – tradition plays a big role in village life. It’s as if everyone has a part to play in a highly choreographed show – don’t for one moment be lulled into the pretentious belief this bush jacketed man who struts around in mirror polished shoes, swept back hair, sunglasses and briar pipe is me – it isn’t. Next time when you decide to wander off the featureless plus highway and decide to take the snakey kampung roads for a change of scenery – look carefully at the many technicolored figurines in the many Indian temples you past by – look closer and you will probably make out a figure of a man standing in a bush jacket wearing polished lacked shoes and holding a pipe – ask the Brahmin priest who is this man and he will say, “the keeper of the great wheel of life.”

The role of this man is written in stone, it’s as old as the hills – he’s been here for so long that in the psyche of kampung folk it’s inconceivable to ever believe for one moment that life could ever be any different.

Through the ages, this man has seeped into the groundwater of the kampung way of life to become a set piece of village life – in a funeral, birth, wedding, temple festival, crisis – this man has always been there – as to be a landowner one must be able to step into this role in the way an actor speaks only the lines written for him by the stage manager – as the mere sight of this man is very comforting to kampung folk – in a funeral. This man prevents fat aunties from fainting – during the annual school races, if he doesn’t sit with the headmistress, it will rain. Good to banish away high blood pressure – as the sight of the man in the bush jacket palliates anxieties and fears – in the way he appears before young Malay boys before the sunnat – Good to go even when two groups are facing off with parangs in an oil palm estate – when this man appears, it all simmers down.

To be a landowner. I have to play this role.

That could why I went despite the risk – I made it a point to be brief with JJ. To even keep a distance. I sat away from the main table as I didn’t want JJ to pick whatever I was broadcasting subconsciously. Even made sure I was wearing freshly laundered underwear this time, just not make certain, my essence would not betray me.

I realize all this sounds rather ridiculous – but that’s just how it is to me – don’t even know what these women are picking up on – except to say it can’t be so different from a crie de couer or some distressed signal that wounded fish beams out to attract predators.

I stayed away.

And all went well. Till she came over to the table to offer me some red bean pork knuckles (I am very fond of them)- her arm brushed against mine when she leaned over the table to put down the heavy earthen pot – I even steadied her by holding her waist (how stupid when one considers my last entry specifically emphasized the need to be careful) – I didn’t think anything about it at the time – as things were going so well that I had even decided to have a few drinks and was genuinely starting to enjoy the party – but at that moment, my bubble of consciousness bursted – it was the way JJ turned and looked at me.

It was her singularity of action when she snapped her head and turned to look at me – as if she was suddenly struck by some realization that even surprised her. I could see it in her eyes, the way she looked at me.

She must have sensed it – brushed so close against it in the way one feels the blazing heat from an open fire – something was wrong with me – I’ve been mortally wounded – it was written so clearly in her eyes.

“Do not grieve master. JJ will make you happy again.”

I know I shouldn’t feel this. But at that moment when our eyes locked and I sensed JJ fingering into my desolate soul – I was so happy to see another person in this wasteland.

Log 30-07-13

July 30, 2013

Road Works: Finalizing the road works in the rear end of the estate – experimenting with large sized stones. Built it all by myself with my bare hands.

Conversation: Gave the quarry proprietor and his fat wife a public dressing down for his sub standard quality of stones - he told me that I am not reasonable and he will not do any business with me again – I told him that’s fine as I plan to start my own quarry business and drive him out of town.

I also told him from now onwards his lorries are no longer allowed to trespass into my lands to deliver stones to the rest of the small holders. He would have to take the Northern main road / as my intention now is to make his life difficult by driving him out of business.

Both he and his wife looked concerned when my Landcruiser zoomed off - concerned enough to send me two free lorries of stones thereafter with an apology.

I told the guards to turn back the lorries as they are now not welcome on my lands any longer.

I mean business. I realize no one really respects me, they just fear me – that is fine. I can live with that.

Crime:

-  K’s fruit bunches were stolen again last night. If a strong signal is not sent – more thefts are likely to occur this season – the small holders will go hungry - went down to the crime scene with a few tribesmen trackers - they say two lorries – at least five men, judging from the tire tracks, these are quarry lorries - I went over to T and sat down with those low lifes in the kopitiam and told the leader that I wanted to all the proceeds of the sale – I told him to consider the felicity and well being of their wifes and children. I went on to recount, the world is round and what goes around will come around and if they could just take their theiving ways elsewhere, I would regard it as a personal favor.

The ring leader told me he would look into it – I picked up his daughter from school when I went to see him. She was bouncing on my lap as we talked. I believe he understands now that I mean business.

- went over to see WC this morning. As I have reliable intelligence that he is a paid informant who has been feeding my enemies news concerning my designs - I told him that although his relationship with me was now finished. And from today I will treat him as if he doesn’t exist – as he has betrayed my trust - I was not angry (that is a lie).

I went on to share with WC, he should think about the welfare of his grand son. I reminded him that I am kind man, not the type who nurses grudges (that’s also a lie) - and one day when I become the largest landowner around these parts then when he passes on – he can do so with a happy heart as he will always know that I can be counted to grease the wheel of life for his daughter and grand children.

I reminded WC, last year it was I who had saved his daughter from being kidnapped by the triads. It was because of my personal intervention that had prevented his only daughter from been sold into a prostitution ring – this I reminded WC by slamming the table forcefully, I am the sole reason why his daughter isn’t drugged up and forced to give blow job after blow job to pay off her husbands debts – I reminded him, I did all this at great personal cost to my reputation by standing as a guarantor for the loan that his good for nothing drug addict son-in-law had taken out and defaulted.

I reminded WC that I could have very easily have had my way with this young girl – and no one would ever fault me - as by the laws of the old country – she is technically my bond servant – I own her – instead I used my influence to make sure she was gainfully employed, protected even as from time to time, I would visit her and even drop by at school and speak to the head mistress to find out whether the child was been teased at school. Above all I reminded WC, I never so much as once touched his daughter.

I even reminded WC, I did all this so that no one would ever look down on him and his daughter who is now a single mother – and this I did to improve her prospects of getting married to a decent man who I even found for her. 

I told him I did all this and much more despite so many vile rumors circulating that I had gone to such lenghts to slake my own tyrst.

I asked WC is this the way you repay the keeper of the great wheel of life for his uncommon kindness?

I tapped him on the head with my pipe repeatedly and asked him, who taught you how to disrespect me?

WC wept like a baby throughout the entire conversation. He kept insisting that he was innocent. Till I reminded him that I was trying very hard to be a reasonable man – that was when all names, dates and specifics came right out.

Before I left, I told WC life can be very beautiful, if only we all make an effort to remind overselves from time to time that village life is not so different from being part of one big happy family - we all have to play our part -  on my way out, I broke two chopsticks and placed them on the altar of Kwan Kong with one lighted joss stick.

WC poured the ash from the joss stick urn on his head and wept as I walked out.

I am happy that at least he still remembers the customs of the old country.  

From today onwards WC does not exist – as far as I am concerned he has gone to the other side.

There is no such thing as forgiveness in my heart for those who betray my trust – it doesn’t exist. I never forget or forgive those who betray me. Never!

I will need WC again. I want him this time to feed disinformation to my enemies.

I do not understand. Really, I do not. As all I ask in return for all my trouble is so very little. A bit of respect……that is all. Even that it seems is so difficult – I really do not understand.

Concerns: I need to manage the perception that I don’t come across as a ruthless and cold hearted psychopath – I need to smile more and control what regularly comes out of my mouth.

I wished, I believed in God. But I don’t. I have turned my back on him for 10 years. I am good to go for another decade. If I believed in God, perhaps I could take comfort in the following.

He said ‘My son, Darkness thank you. Thank you for going through this. I need you to go through this alone, so that you and your plantation can be the man I call it to be. I’m so sorry, but you need to go through this by yourself, to bring a change to your generation,”

Mumbo jumbo! I hope they put him in jail and throw away the key for ten or more years.

Dreams: last night I slept well for the very first time in weeks – I don’t dream any longer about Honduras – but I still dream about that lonely old man who sits on the rattan chair all by himself.

Log 29-07-13

July 29, 2013

Today I popped down to Taiping to run a few errands and stop by at the secretive Planters and Miners retreat in Maxwell Hill – which incidentally doubles as the Masonic lodge once a month – on Monday’s they serve a killer lamb chop with mint sauce accompanied with lashings of sherry.

I reckon the change of scenery would snap me out from my melancholy. Besides it’s a good opportunity to get out from my camouflage and boots into a bush jacket and laced polished shoes – I was hoping to play a round of croquette, enjoy a Havana on the balcony that overlooks Taiping town. Play a few rounds of billiards in the McCallum room, a hand or two of gin rummy in the library (that incidentally was featuring a rerun of Rambo that evening) – the lodge is nestled on the blind side of Maxwell Hill – hidden away by a row of tall cleverly planted Dama Minyak groves.

Nothing about the Planters and Miners lodge has changed in the last 135 years – not its plumbing or even its prewar electrical wirring with it’s rounded brass toggle switches – the only sign of modernity is the recently renovated conservatory which uses aluminum and tempered glass instead of cast iron and Pilkington glass circa 1890 – apart from this historical aberration everything about the lodge is like stepping into a time machine that takes one back to the age of polished leather, mahogany rest, sombre oil paintings of planters and miners of lore staring gravely down from high above – it’s really another world from another age.

Well that at least was what I planned to do – after visiting the photo shop in Taiping – that is operated by the ever efficient, eager beaver lady proprietor – super duper prim and proper, always respectably distanced and exuding absolutely zero sex appeal – Mrs Pang –

By accounts to the best of my knowledge as providence would have me bear witness for the last four years – Mrs Pang is the very definition of social correctness, decorum and as far as appearances go – a woman who has as much interest in the illicit thrill of sex as probably a penguin would have for the Sahara.

So it came as a great shock to me. When she placed her hand on my shoulder when I was editing the photos as I always do and asked in a whispering rush.

“Doctor is everything all right.”

I really can’t remember how the conversation turned to food and lightbulbs – all I know is the proprietor mentioned she needed a lightbulb in her bedroom to be replaced – she mentioned, as she looked into my eyes passionately – there was a school girlish glint in her eyes, when she mentioned her husband was away on a business trip in Indonesia – she wanted me.

I can tell. She was wearing perfume.

From this and other similar incidences – I can only draw the logical conclusion – women (only they can do it, not men) can intuit something is wrong with me – something is broken in me – they can sense it – as its the third time this week that this has happened with three separate women who I have always considered to be very correct in their demeanor for as long as I can remember – I must be sending out signals like a distressed fish that all is not well.

From now onwards, I need to avoid them.

They can sense I am weak. I need to run deep and silent.

Log 28-07-13

July 28, 2013

Plantation: Roadworks commenced today on front fork roads – granite rocks from SC was unsatisfactory. Only two lorries were ordered. The rest from EK.

Back section filled in with large rocks – this is experimental. I will see how they perform during the coming rainy season.

Weather: It has rained twice. A suggestion that the rainy season may be creeping in – so far only light drizzle. If it rains this week. I need to prioritize walking around the estate and to find out how the new road works are performing. I expect some tweaks would be required. Two weeks from now I have scheduled for touch up of road works.

Concern: Top soil run off’s – I need to be smart about this. I may not be able to control how much water comes down from the heavens. But I can certainly channel and even slow it down to a crawl. To do this successfully – I have found large stones to be very effective the blunting the cutting power of fast running water – I got 50% of the solution right last season by digging those giant ditches – now with these large stones to act as water breaks – I believe, I can nail this problem once and for all this coming rainy season.

Birdhouse: painting of grills, ceiling and walls have begun yesterday – during morning inspection. I told J and his wife – I was not happy with his shoddy work. They would paint it again. And again, till its right.

Health: My appetite seems to be returning – or maybe I am just making up another row of intelligent excuses to consume alchohol – eat mainly in CT. Taken to the habit of drinking a small bottle of tiger for lunch. During dinner a large bottle. I think this improves my appetite – so that presumably fools one part of my brain to eat even when I don’t feel like eating – I need to be mindful that my brain is not cunningly steering me towards alcoholism.

It never fails to amaze me how lucid my line of reasoning is when I have committed myself to do a thing. Such as fleshing out the wisdom of wearing the same clothes for days. Or brushing my teeth only on alternate days. Wearing the same pair of socks for days.

Hygiene level is reasonable – but judging from the number of flies hovering around me all the time. I may not be an objective judge.

I need to get over the idea that I am unbreakable. Need to set aside all this macho Michi claptrap and just consider the theoretical possibility that I may be suffering from a form of depression and dysthymia.

I need to find out a safe and reliable way to get medication for my condition. I need to do this secretly in the city. I need to make friends with a lady psychiatrist.

Sleep: still comes with considerable great difficulty and much effort. I have to stop moving uneccesarily and cultivate the discipline to remain very still in the dark – if I can keep to this simple discipline – restful and nourishing sleep is possible.

Mental state: I seem to be thinking about rocks all the time – large rocks for the roads, large rocks to construct a patio flooring – large rocks for water brakes – large rocks to skirt the roads leading up to my house.

What the fuck is happening here with this Flintstone mode? – spent the whole day on Friday building a rock road like giant Lego set. I know the work is satisfying and it’s even conceivable it’s a form of therapy along with the idea it’s sound and logical from an engineering standpoint.

I just need to be mindful, it doesn’t go out of hand.

Politics: I should not speak too much. I should just encourage others to speak while I listen intently.

- my enemies will never get a buyer for that parcel of land. I will make sure of that. Not at that price. 160 per acre is way too high. A fair price would be 100. No! Cannot go above 100 as it’s terraced land and there is the possibility another acre would be taken in the next ten years by the government to run more power lines.

I am willing to consider 120 with a possible swap option and CE. But on one condition – the other parcel of land at the back, that they must also sell to me for 120 per acre.

Otherwise no deal. I will wait them out. Starve and make life difficult for them.

I must find a way to use time as a weapon if I am to win decisively – otherwise there is a danger this rivalry may end up being a costly war of attrition that may bankrupt me.

I have decided to suspend all major business decisions for the time being and just concerntrate on this plan to enlarge my land holdings.

Keynote: I need to hold it together. If I even let go so much as one second – everything will just unravel like the spool giving out string – it will be fast and furious.

I need to snap out from this sourpuss dandy mode. I cannot be letting my guard down. I am surrounded by sharks. They can smell blood – sense even I am wounded. Fresh blood is trailing. I must continue to pretend to be strong and unbreakable. I must just focus my mind to accomplish this mission.

Nothing else matters except this mission. Not my happiness. Not even my well being – I have to see it through. I have accepted the idea. I live from now onwards only for this purpose.

I need to get more land – time is not on my side – the kids are growing up fast. They will need more $ than they think, they need – I need to circulate and put my ears close to the ground to be effective – need even to make the effort to shave and sit for coffee with the village elders during the evenings. Pause and make small talk with the merchants.

I cannot allow myself the luxury of leading a hermits life surrounded only by my tribesmen and dogs, building rock roads all day long – this is a form of fantasy I reckon. An effort by my diseased mind to escape my responsibilities. I cannot allow myself to fall into this degenerative state where I can no longer distinguish between fact and fiction – I have to be sharp like a samurai blade.

I have to win! And there is so many things against me – I can trust myself. I think that is the part that bothers me the most.

* Hari Raya will fall on the seventh – need to time the next harvest precisely to make sure everything comes together like it should – small talked with tractor man. He wants to build a birdhouse – told him, it’s a long term game. Minimum 5 – 7 years gestation period. Risk and commitment is very high. Market still in a state of flux.

I need to brush my teeth and try to sleep now.

I will write later. I am in the field.

RSCN4651

The 73 year old Hainanese man servant had always harbored reservations concerning his master – the man who lived on the hill.

A constant source of embarrassment to the man servant was that his master was a new planter – hardly the sort who had the pedigree, lineage, breeding and cultivation to appreciate many of the nuanced aspects of fine straits plantation living. This exasperated the man servant no end and was a constant reminder of how age had caught up on him – compelling him to take up this third rate position. To paraphrase – his master simply didn’t appear to have either the finesse or for that matter the cultivation to appreciate how a planter should live.

Instead, he lived his strange life – one where he would be attired in camouflage whenever he was out in the field with his dark skinned tribesmen – men who were always perched on the trees nearby – and it was this aspect of his master’s outlook to life that most enraged the Hainanese man servant.

Like a round peg that can never fit into a square hole. That was exactly what his masters was to the Planter’s way of life.

An aberration like a speck of dust mucks up a picture.

It’s just so irritating thought the man servant as he clenched his teeth and looked out at the man who he secretly despised sitting on his rattan chair.

Apart from his bush jacket that the Hainanese man servant approved of – the rest of the man was unalloyed effrontery in every sense of word to the whole idea of the luxurious and opulent Planter’s way of life – for one his master preferred to sleep on a military camp bed. Instead of a spring mattress. He always slept in the open with the dogs. When the wet season came, the camp bed would be moved to his chambers which required the entire household and few strapping farmhands to move every single piece of furniture. Leaving only a camp bed, rattan chair, side table with an oil lamp.

Even at home, he thinks, he’s in the field – murmured the man servant to himself.

There was no television in the mansion. There was nothing about the house architecturally that the man servant found endearing.

Absolutely nothing at all – unlike the other plantation mansions the man servant once served – there were no frivolous Romanesque arches and cupola’s – no kitsch French windows – no Persian rugs – no chandeliers – no color even, except a sickly grayish white that reminded the Hainanese man servant of a barrack – even the long design of the house with its grilled 8 by 4 windows looked more industrial than stately – only two objects stood out in the whole house – placed on the majestic thirty or so foot long table cut from a length of a single Chingay tree – a violin and a radio sat at end – the radio was always tuned to the BBC world service.

The violin had been smashed to pieces two weeks ago – leaving only the radio and now it hadn’t been turned on for nearly two weeks.

While picking up daily groceries this morning from the village market – since Siti has been sacked. The Hainanese man servant had overheard – how the gang of four – the bandits who had been terrorizing the small holders had been knocked over the head by the mysterious Orang Minyak.

This was just one of the many monikers this kampung self styled Batman was known as – he went by other names – quaint names – to the honey hunters who often harvested deep forest in the night – he was known as the wind – as he was often seen riding his mountain bicycle at full toss through the meandering plantation roads just at the edge of the jungle with his Doberman running beside him. To the Tamil rubber tappers who woke up at three in the morning when latex runs fastest. As it is cool. The man was known as death – they say, he never misses. Never. They say, you can never hear him. Till it’s too late. They say, he is not of this world. They believe him to be from that other dark world.

As the Hainanese man servant looked out of the kitchen window at his master who was still sitting on the rattan chair looking at the bird – he wondered to himself whether his master could have been this man – this character.

After all, the oil man – orang Minyak first appeared just around the time his master took over these lands and built a mansion on the hill – his master was an accomplished bow hunter and was well known by all to have a disdain for firearms as it had a tendency to scare away the birds. On almost every single case in the last four years when the oil man struck – arrows belonging to the man who lived on the hill was found in the scene of the crime – on every occasion, those arrows were presumed to be stolen.

For the very first time the Hainanese man servant began to peer deeply at the figure who sat on the rattan chair – he could make out that all too familiar hardness – that patina that only comes from regular use, like how a rifle gives out it’s bluing to a hard metallic sheen – he wondered to himself whether it might be possible.

His eyes turned to the black and white picture of a younger planter in Africa – it depicted him standing next to a tall African who carried a spear. Another was a sugarcane landowner in Nicaragua seated beside a blond European girl – back and forth, the man servant’s eye darted from the picture to the man – finally as if seized by some uncontrollable fit of curiosity – he went over to the telephone ledger and looked up the telephone number to the provincial planter’s club to nearest to the East – which wasn’t a club at all, but rather one of 37 plantation mansions strewn across South to North of Malaysia.

This network of plantation houses was conceived by John Dunlop during the rubber boom days in colonial Malaya – to allow planters to travel the length and breadth of Malaya using the serpentine plantation roads for field inspections – circa 1915.

Of the original 37 guest houses – each identical in design, size and number of staff. Only 13 survive today – neither the electrical, plumbing or furnishings have changed since the 1900′s – The rest of the other guest houses were destroyed by faceless conglomerates or firms who the Hainanese man servant often described as McDonald planters.

Of the 13 guest houses – the Hainanese man servant knew exactly which one his master claimed to have stayed the night before.

He decided to make a call – after hearing the voice on the other side had mentioned – “your master his a strange one. He sleeps in the open with his dogs.”

The Hainanese man servant realized how foolish he was to have allowed his imagination to run so wild. He even chuckled.

Feeling a wave of satisfaction sweeping over him – his attention was drawn again to the man seated in the rattan chair and suddenly thick vapor of disgust enveloped him – what the man servant saw instead was a pathetic figure of a poor excuse of a planter – a man who even looked somewhat old and haggard – a weak man.

A man who only thought he was strong. But didn’t realize that everyone laughed at him behind his back – yes, a wealthy man, no doubt – a landowner – but in paper only. And this probably accounted for his master’s common peasant ways – he still has dirt under his fingernails. The man servant murmured as if thinking aloud. Not to mention his atrocious table manners – a despicable man – a man who could never aspire to do great things. As there was nothing about him that stood out, except perhaps the suggestion – he was irredeemable.

With these thoughts tracing through his head – the 73 year old Hainanese man servant of the man who lived on the hill began to let out a burst of uncontrollable laughter. It began slowly as a chuckle and gradually it grew so loud that it echoed throughout the cavernous mansion – a sardonic crie de couer.

One where one can never be sure whether the man servant was laughing at his lamentable position for having to take up this third rate appointment or that he simply realized his master could never be that man – the villagers all called the Orang Minyak.

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Log 24-07-13

July 25, 2013

The blue police land rover stopped at the East gate of the plantation – five policemen dismounted and walked up the hill to the estate mansion.

At the gate, they were received by the planter’s 73 year old Hainanese man servant – standing behind him was Sami, the day watchman with his shot gun.

The Hainanese man servant noticed one of the policeman was holding a transparent plastic bag with arrows. He recognized them as those belonging to his master.

The 65 year old Subramaniam aka supermaniam – a famous hammer who once cut his teeth on the beat in the city in his younger days – who now served as an auxiliary police inspector in the reserve constabulary – Inspector Subramaniam could just make out the shape and form of the planter who sat some distance away from the gate in a rattan chair – from what he saw, it seemed the planter was only concerned about the flying birds above him – and cared very little for what was going on.

“We need to speak to the landowner.” The inspector asked

“What does it concern.” Exclaimed the Hainanese man servant.

“Last night four foreigners where tied, stripped naked and thrown outside the local constabulary. We believe your master can help us in the investigations.”

“I don’t see how that is possible – my master was in the provincial planters club last night. He only returned this morning.”

“Are these not your master’s arrows? They were found in the scene of the crime. Four mile North from here in Tejuruh Estate.”

“Now open this gate and call your master out.” Inspector Supermaniam boomed as he took one step closer towards the Hainanese man servant – at that moment, an invisible line had been crossed.

The dogs began to stir. The tribesmen bodyguards who were usually indolently roaming the grounds disappeared – even the kitchen hands, gardener along with farmhands had began to stop work and look up – the planter could sense there was something dangerous in the air.

When the planter stood up and glared towards the gate – Inspector Supermaniam instinctively took a step back. The man approaching was in bush jacket – there was something in the way his highly polished laced shoes clicked authoritatively on the concrete road – or maybe it was the granite hard features of the man who sported sunglasses. Perhaps it could have even have been the smoking briar pipe in the hand. The confident manner in which the man had brought normality back to a once shattered calm – the dogs began to calm down, the farmhands, servants and gardener began to return to their work – as for Inspector Supermaniam. The sight of the approaching landowner had magically transported him back to the moment of his youth – where he had remembered seeing this same man. A storm of memories.

Supermaniam had grown up in a rubber estate not far from here – throughout his youth. He had often seen the planter who wore the bush jacket. The man who all feared – the image of this mythical figure was so strongly imprinted in the mind of those who turned the wheel of life through the grace of the good earth – that even Supermaniam couldn’t help but feel all his vigor giving way to a sort of resignation – one where even he knew the man who stood before him that morning was none other than the same figure of lore who he had seen and heard of in his youth.

All that he could do was exclaim as best as he could to the granite faced man who as a child he knew to be the keeper of the great wheel of life. He had even remembered the dark early dawns during his youth when he had regularly seen such hard men returning from their nightly patrols to fight the communist – heard stories of how the man with the bush jacket was invincible.

“We are here to return back your arrows Sir.” The granite face man remained hard as if those words hardly register – he was waiting for something else.

Then it came, “It must have been stolen…”

And with these words, the gentlemen planter smiled supremely.

Log 21-07-13

July 21, 2013

Whenever I dream. I dream only about Honduras. I do not know whether this is some lingering effect of the drug that my drink was spiked with – I really do not know – I’ve never been to Honduras. Never even consciously dreamt about it once. Not that I can remember. So why do I suddenly want to go there now in my dreams.

Coming to think about it – how do I really know whether it’s actually Honduras – I don’t seem to recognize any landmarks that I can associate with a place in Honduras.

I need to stay focussed. I need to brush my teeth and sleep now.

But why of all places….Honduras?

I miss my Samurai wife acutely. No. I mustn’t go there.

strange event: The guilds today upped their offer again for me to write what I write. Just imagine. Now the price is. Are you ready for this? 5,000 Imperial Shekelians per article. Of what? Fantasy, fact, creative writing, story telling and confessions that you really whether it’s a story or really something real.

Just imagine 5,000 Shekelians.

I said no and told them to fuck off. This just goes to show you that blogging can be profitable even if you only happen to get a couple of hits a day – you don’t need a lot of people to make money from creative writing – you just need maybe a bus full of women who are willing to use real money to buy fake money in a game setting and pay to read what a man marrooned in his mind writes.

To do list:

(a)6 packs of fertilizers tomorrow on the rubber slope.

(b)Speak to Wong and seek his advice on road works.

(c)Speak to Vun.

(d)place order for gravel.

(

Log 20-07-13

July 20, 2013

Bird house: Vun observed loads of birds at 0730. But he’s not a bird man. I need to judge for myself – will go there again tonite. May even decide to spend the night there and camp out with the dogs and couple of tribesmen.

The moon is nearly full, but no quite yet. Or maybe not. I’ll decide later.

Important developments: Popped down to the village barber who doubles as the clandestine services that even puts the CIA and Mossad to shame – as this old barber knows everything that’s happening within a vicinity of 200 miles radius – his intelligence has always been reliable – after recovering from his initial shock of seeing my unkempt appearance – the 73 barber proceeded to transform me back to the respectable image of the gentlemen planter – somewhere between the haircut and suggesting a hot towel as he mentioned I looked sunburnt – the director of intelligence services whispered to me that my enemies are confounded as to why the man who lives on top of the hill has declined their offer to buy the parcel of land adjacent to his – it seems they can’t understand – yes, the price they’re putting up may well be high – but they know, by buying that piece of land – I would get them out once and for all. They don’t understand the reasons for my disinterest.

Paying more attention to my appearance:

Need to get my act together. Tomorrow I will attend church for the very first time – need to sit next to the 36 year daughter of my nemesis – this can only be done if I look the part of a respectable gentlemen planter.

As in these parts. No one. not the police or even the pastor himself will ever consider it odd – if a well pomaded man dressed in a Zegna bush jacket, mirror polished shoes and holding a briar pipe just strolls right in during the middle of a sermon and decides to sit next to the 36 year old still single Patricia – I know no one will be sit beside her, as she sits next to the pastor – so when he’s up there on the pulpit – in I come.

I know it sounds one, two, three dead simple. But it’s really quite complicated considering my crumbly state of mind. Patricia judging from what the head of intelligence intimated to me seems like a frigid woman.

To paraphrase, a woman who has managed to assassinate the idea that a man can ever bring her happiness and hence considers their species optional / possibly with even hints of disdain – but paradoxically a frigid woman who desires to love and be loved in return.

That at least is my version of the DIY Mossad agent psychological profiling.

Now at age 36, Patricia has missed the boat – as she makes her way inexorably to auntiehood – the finality of that realization seeps slowly into to her – this along with the chastening passage of time has rendered her older than her real age. This I can understand – and now, I imagine the 36 year old spinster has taken comfort in the idea, “thank you Jesus my aim is improving.” (you have been so kind not to burden me with a man). That’s to say, I am dealing with a woman who has not only given up all prospects of finding happiness with a man – she might even despise men. Her father after fooled around, she has many reasons to see nothing good in all men – which accounts for her die-die devotion to God.

As since her father up there in cloud land can never hurt her – his love will always be true and pure – unlike the defiled love of a mortal man who can only betray, hurt and leave one’s heart scattered like dust in the wind – I understand.

I need to understand Patricia like a hunter understands the nature of his prey - it is cold business, to go deep into the depths of her shattered dreams and to stand there surveying the carnage in the way I often stand on a mountain whenever I am in the field prospecting for land.

As I said, it’s not that simple. As when I turn the corner and walk right up to her and sit down – within than brief span of time when our eyes lock – I would have to stir some remnant of love in her – to suggest a hint that love is a many wondered thing – to raptured her - at that moment when she sees me, I need to see her exclaim with every cell in her being – he is here!

The man who Patricia sees must not be the broken man, but a perfect imitation of the mythical lover – the man she has been waiting for all these years. The man that her father has sent to her.

In that split second when our eyes catch – and I see her all her fears and fascination tracing like meteorites through her eyes – then I know for certain the key has turned the lock and the door is now open – the first is the most important door.

Without it – it’s no good. If I am going to infiltrate my enemies – I need to get it right the first time!

My main predicament is the only thing that I can attract in my run down state these days are flies – if I look like a bag man, it’s no good – it just doesn’t come around.

To pull this off I need to come across as diabolically handsome, charming, renaissance gentlemen planter in my bush jacket when Patricia sees me – just as James Bond can never do his job, if he didn’t have a Walther PPK, Rolex submariner and nifty gadgets from Q – I cannot pull this off, if I simply cannot create that quiet and still space when a woman first lays on a man who knows to be different from other men – as this men will walk into her life - though she knows only too well, this man may well be dangerous and may probably only bring her only grief (as her father and his friends constantly refer to me as the devil who stays on that hill).

Yet within this sliver of a moment in time – this woman would feel stirred – as if something deep inside her that has remained dormant for all the years has suddenly been unmoored – released – what that thing could be is speculation, an image, memory, a photograph, smell – and now all these suppressed hopes and fears is bubbling up to the surface from the depths of time – that is the power of the past.

We often think it is a dead and a worthless thing. Like one of those old shoes that we keep reminding ourselves we need to throw out. But it isn’t. The past is powerful.

As in our brief encounters in the past – during formal toffee nose functions where all the ladies seem only to sport Laura Ashley – I have often seen that look of fear and fascination whenever our eyes catch – inquiring eyes with hints of fascination – “is it true what the villagers say, the devil lives on the hill?” – “is it true how the villagers say you once faced off with ten men who came in the night only run down screaming that they had seen the devil.” – “is it true doctor that you are a man who is cold heartless, cruel and evil as my father said you are.”

That is why it has to be slam and dunk – love at first sight – to release a storm a mysterious thing that Patricia once yearned in the moment of her youth called love – to make it appear in a look, a touch and gentle way in which a man holds the ladies bible (bc I don’t have a bible, just a door stopper).

And at age 36 as she stands on the threshold of spinsterhood – suddenly the mythical lover appears before her – a man who would look upon her for eternity as if she is the only woman who every existed in this world.

That to me is the gold standard of infiltrating the inner sanctum of my nemesis – through his weakest link – his daughter – Patricia.

But let’s get practical I can’t do this if I look like a bag man. Fortunately, the Internet came to my rescue. As I visited a metrosexual forum where skinned obsessed males – who I suspected were gays trawling for good look guys gave me some good advice on skin care – got to learn hoe to use one of those cucumber face mask, then ST.Ives clay mask along with 4 other bottles of cream and face care products – this may seem easy peasy for most men – but I have really only used Lux soap all my life – don’t even buy shampoo – a bar of Lux has always been good to go for everything from washing my clothes if I run out of washing powered on the field to waxing the strings of my hunting bow.

I need to focus on to this today – tomorrow is show time. Tomorrow Patricia, the daughter of my nemesis will exclaim with her eyes when she sees the man in the bush jacket – Halleluyah lah!

I only have one shot – and in my current state, it hard not to believe this is a bridge too far.

I cannot fail. How else can I find out more about the designs of my enemies – she holds the key – Patricia.

I must be able to sweep her off her feet – one look – one moment where even time itself dissolves away leaving only the image of the man who she knows deep in her heart of hearts that only her father in heaven had brought to her.

That is how it must go, like a sappy Mills & Boons love story.

When I think about it – my life is like a fucking B movie – it’s surreal as to be unbelievable – but that is really how it is.

Log 2 – 19-07-13

July 19, 2013

Task: Manured the lower section above the rubber estate – planned to broadcast 10 bags of NPK. But had to settle for just two as the wheel barrow needs fixing – the physical work was good.

Bird House: Observed BH till 2015 hr – few birds fly back through side entrance – or maybe I just can’t see them from the main entrance as its too high – need to conduct a visual check tomorrow at 0600 hr.

Harvest: Completed harvest today 11 T. Went over to SC to reassure him that I will begin harvesting on 18 days from now to help him out with the stringent oil content penalties issued out by the greedy oil barons recently – this is the time to build relationship with the disenchanted, marginalized and powerless. One day they will remember me for my reasonableness. That at least is what I hope. We shook hands. W looked happy.

Hunt: This is should be the supremo highlight of my day, but for some inexplicable reason it isn’t – I didn’t feel this one where the bow hunter merges seamlessly with his weapon of silent death. Not this time. I am not saying it didn’t go textbook wise well. It did. But I just couldn’t feel this one, not even at the moment of quickening.

Strange….very strange.

This morning before dawn, went out hunting. As sleep still eludes me. Or rather pretended to go to hunt. Otherwise it would have been odd to the servants.

Due to my diminishing self confidence that I can only describe in terms of a degenerative disease – all I excepted this morning was maybe to bring back a dead monitor lizard run over in the night by a car on the main road – just didn’t feel I had it in me, not even if the quarry presented itself to me like a barn door painted in fluorescent.

Somewhere between two palms – I caught sight of them in the western terraces – a pack of hogs – 300 meters away and closing in to the river at roughly the pace of motorized wheelchair – they’re slow at dawn – I could just make out the mother with 4 piglets togging behind / shifted by position on the terraces to stay down wind and took a position behind a row of ferns – I had to shift my position to get a clear shot as the river’s edge has tall reeds this time of the year – when they approached and stopped at the river’s edge. They were still too faraway.

They were still too bloody far away for a clean kill- I felt that if I closed in, the chances of giving my position away and scaring them off was high – as the twigs, branches and fronts are crispy this time of the year.

So I waited for them to come to me – or maybe I secretly hoped that they would go further and use that as an excuse that the right conditions simply didn’t present itself.

I say that to myself every time I come home empty from a hunt – why not just wait and wait and use that excuse to explain away that I am not really losing my edge – it was just bad luck.

So I waited… till eventually the nearest hog was within the kill range – at 80 yards. This one had wandered off from the pack – I decided to go for this one of the piglet – the wind was changing direction, picking up even as the ferns began to ruffle – I brought along the wrong type of arrows to bring down a hog at that range – a bullet tipped 300 grain arrow would have to do.

In bowhunter parlance that means a through the heart shot – roughly the size of a packet of ciggies – I can’t really say what made me go for that shot even at that range using the wrong tool for the job. Maybe it was the light, it was at exactly the moment – when light just begins to flood the plantation – it bluish and everything is rendered clear like cut crystal – I could see the profile of the target clearly, judged the windage by how the ferns swayed and adjusted by making a few mental calculations.

That part went well – that’s good. I know, I can still think when I am under pressure - at that moment, when that hog dipped it’s head into the river – I took him out. Right through the heart – a clean and professional kill. No fumbling – everything was smooth like a well oiled machine from the judgement of the yardage, angle and even the moment of release. Perfect. 

I am very happy about this hunt. Even though it’s just a modest piglet hog. Felt that all familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins before, during and after the shot. I needed that as I carried the hog on my back all the way up the hill – prided myself with even the idea that I stayed calm and still through out the opening and closing which lasted at least a good hour.

It felt so good to know that I could control my emotions and detach myself as I always do during a hunt – to be there and still somewhere else like a lotus on a calm mirror lake.

As that is what it takes to live off the land – one must learn to wait and be so very still – to be there, yet so detached that there exist no such state of mind known as excitement, pleasure, rush or even the slightest flutter of emotions – waiting…the ability to still the mind, control ones breathe even – is what it takes for an arrow to fly through roughly the distance of two street lamppost to hit a pack of cigarettes – any larger it would strike cartilage, bone. It’s no good.

But I pulled it off.

But as soon as I approach the dead hog - in truth, I can’t be sure it was skill at all - maybe it was just a fluke shot.

I can’t explain why I was suddenly assaulted by self doubt. Maybe it is the anguish that I still feel. An indescribable pain that runs so deep that all there is a darkness – I can’t be sure – not at that range - it was skill – that’s the problem – nonetheless, it’s good as even the servants have been whispering lately why hasn’t the master brought in any game recently – this would go a very long way to create the image that everything is well and fine.

What bothers me is I have been hunting long enough to realize - a good shot can only come from deep within – only in this hunt. I couldn’t quite feel the shot, get into the grove where its so smooth that its even intuitive – and know deep down it was good.

Like I said, I can’t be sure – was skill or luck. It’s just a niggling thought. I want to be sure as an indication to show that I am not crumbling away bit by bit – Nonetheless, I am happy for whatever progress I made even if it’s a fluke.

Beggars can’t be choosers, it seems…

Log 19-07-13

July 18, 2013

Estate Management: I must begin manuring the lower section. I must do it tomorrow – I will start with 5. Or maybe 10 will be better – this routine will I hope be form of mental therapy to level out my deteriorating health – along with the theoretical possibility that I beginning lose it all.

I am deeply convinced I am dying from within. I am not being able to sleep well. My appetite is non existent. And I am even beginning to wear only camouflage as it allows me to go days without having to laundry my clothes – I am neglecting hygiene – this I am able to accomplish very sensibly and even logically why it makes perfect sense for me to wear the same underwear for four consecutive days – side A, the side B. Reverse it and start all over again. Pity I can wear my undies side ways, or it could even last eight days.

What concerns me is how I am able to rationalize with remarkable ease the wisdom of wearing my briefs for four consecutive days – if a rash came. I am sure it would have prompted some part of my brain to junk the idea – but so far, it’s all well and fine down there.

Another reason why I believe that I am losing my mental stability is this morning – the gardener found me sleeping in the front section of the birdhouse. I went there at 7. Slightly too late for me to spot the birds flying off before the sound system kicks in – by the time I went there, it had been going a full ten – so that was a failed attempt to monitor the bird population in the BH.

I decided to lie down on my camp bed – I remember feeling sad that there were no birds – then I slept – that part is fine.

But when I sleep, the alpha dog Praetoria the doberman pitcher will always be on combat mode – this mode means he will treat everyone as a threat to me and kill if the person touches me – it doesn’t matter even whether Praetoria sees the gardener everyday and his wife feeds him twice a day – in combat mode praetoria would have killed Ah Kee – fortunately, the gardener was discreet and did not approach me to wake me up even when the sun was directly above me – the source of here is – why didn’t I wake up when Praetoria barked when the gardener approaches the gate – instead I slept through it all. Had Siti being there, she would have neared me and placed an umbrella over me – or perhaps she would have woken me up as I was sleeping with my sunglasses and field boots on – something which I never ever do – not even for a siesta.

Tomorrow I need to chain Praetoria and Richie up – the gardener and especially Vun’s wife will wonder why – they like the idea of the dogs protecting them when they work in the front section – I will tell them that they have ticks and need to be quarantined – the rest of the dogs do not pose a threat, they are just foot soldiers.

Why didn’t I wake up on the first bark? How is it possible for me to have slept through the entire incident? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE!

The other reason that convinces me something is seriously wrong with my head is my recent erratic archery that I now find both a labor and a source of exasperation – despite my best efforts to nail down the cause for my erratic hits have yielded zero – my bow is perfect, it tuned specifically by a formula that I developed specifically for a plantation theatre – poundage is set low deliberately to facilitate repeated shots and eliminate porpoising of the flight of the arrow – yardage corresponds to the number of trees that I stand from the target – in a plantation yardage is a child’s play – one doesn’t require complex sniper trajectory calculations along with the complexity of windage and elevation – a distance of 5 palms from the target translates into roughly 100 feet. As each palm is separated from another by a distance of 20 feet / give or take a few feet. That means that a skilled archer would have very little trouble hitting a target the size of a saucer from even a distance of 70 meters. Beyond that is the stuff of Hollywood Rambo mania – 70 meters is good to go in a plantation. As with a well selected and correctly grained arrow, one should be able to find the mark speedily.

In my opinion the bow is the ultimate first strike wonder weapon – between a bow and a shot gun in even full moon, it has no equal providing the other side doesn’t have FLIR – I found this out as my enemies engaged professionals to get me out – Thai’s who usually come over this time of the year to steal valuable perfume wood from the virgin jungle this time of the year – but with FLIR. I discovered, there is 3 ways to fool the operator (as it is impossible to fool that machine) – the operator is the weak link – in the dry season, 3. Wet, 4 plus minus one or two depending on terrain, vegetation and height of trees.

Most importantly besides accuracy, judgement of elevation and yardage should be accomplished with a split second – that is to say, when the target presents itself (even a moving target) – the bow hunter must be able to calculate the yardage, select the right aiming pin, nock the arrow, cycle back, release and hit a target the size of a 50 cent coin from at least 40 yards – that is what it takes for one man to take out ten goons armed to the teeth trying to take a man out with a dog.

Boil it down – if the bow hunter cannot loose an arrow within three seconds and hit the target dead on – he’s no good. If he can only get 6 or 7 inches up or down or side ways – he’s fucked. Even if he delays 1 or 2 seconds in his yardage and elevation calculation he is double fucked – which mean his ability to control the outcome of a battle goes down to zero.

These days all I even seem to be having a problem hitting a barn door.

When all these observations are combined – I can only assume the worst case scenario – both my mental and physical state is deteriorating much more rapidly than I first imagined – I may look fine and well from the outside, but deep down….I am damaged goods.

I need to be mindful of this reality – I cannot allow my ego to assume that all is well and fine just because I want to feel macho – I need to be honest with myself and try my very best to put myself into a regimen of constant work instead of mulling on this whole business.

This will be my priority. Without the cold and calculating weapon of my mind – I cannot possibly survive for long – with enemies who are even prepared to slip drugs into my benign drinks when they know I am just about to take a long drive – I cannot be complacent and assume that I can trust myself any longer.

I simply cannot – what I wonder would have happened if it was Siti instead of Ah Kee?

I need to do all this without the truth leaking out from my character that I am slowly and inexorably dying from within. No one must know…..no one except me.

- I must do these there things.

(a) Write a list of what I need to do tomorrow the day before.

Log 18-07-13

July 18, 2013

Land Inspection: Drove all the way to SR to met up with the reclusive village elders in the highlands – this is the traditional Malay warrior heartland, where men of standing still carry the traditional Kris (ceremonial knife) as a sign of their status and authority during formal occasions. Supertition runs deep in these forgotten parts – where spirits are very real.  The mythical Orang Bunyan live here they say – even in the village below the highlands, the Malays do not dare to venture here as curses, spells and spirts guard every pass.

I am very familiar with their ways – as I am often seen with the tribesmen in the jungle whenever we come across the highlanders prospecting for perfume wood in the jungle –  they do not regard me as a human being, not even a Chinese – as by nature, they consider the Chinese greedy. Rather they see me as the tribesmen see me – as the white monitor lizard they all call a “Ah Mak.”

It is very difficult to explain this idea where fact and fiction, mythology and the practical realities of life can merge so seamlessly to create a way of life that has gone on for centuries – where they even have their own parlance which differs considerably from standard Bahasa – in these parts, the verb is used first as in the ancient times – words that have long sinced died come alive here. It is a world that my enemies do not dare to thread. As the highlanders are a law upon themselves – men who turn the wheel of life by regularly going deep into the jungle to search for valuable perfume wood have no fear and very little respect for authority. 

When I first came here I invested heavily in building deep spirited ties, relationship and good will – while my enemies considered them lazy and useless people who often stole their palm bunches - I lived amongst these dark skinned men and learnt their ways, customs and even imitated how a noble man will hold his Kris when he speaks; along with respecting their customs like how one throws a coin into a river to appease the water spirits before crossing it. Now I am here to call in all my favors, good will and friendship. It is time as they say here, for one hand to help clean the other.

Relationship is taken very seriously in these parts – a man’s word is his bond. Break it and you will likely to end up dead.

Life has changed very little here for over two centuries - on the way up to the mountain – I shared with the elders my plans to acquire more land. I gave them my word as a “Orang Kaya,” (noble man) that once I acquire these lands, they can harvest the crops. They seem to be agreeable as they do not like my enemies who seem to give nothing back to the local community.

In these parts a man’s word is his bond. So we sealed our agreement in the ancient way where a man cuts his hand and shakes the hand of another noble man - once we reached the plateau at the very top of the hill oil palm estate - I was able to survey the virgin jungle sorrounding the lands of my enemies who they have put up recently for sale. I could just make out the three rivers – it is very clear to me work must start now. My tribesmen and the village elders agreed as well.

For this diabolical plan to work, we do not have much time. As the Monsoon will arrive early this year in my opinion – maybe even as early as mid August.

Secret arrangement have been made with both the tribesmen and villagers to begin damming up the river.  There is no law against this.

When the Monsoon naturally comes – their lands will be flooded very naturally. They would naturally say, “its the work of that fucking city troublemaker again.” They will naturally believe I am responsible for this. I along with the village elders of the highlands and the tribesmen would naturally deny this – after all who would ever believe that a respectable landowner would spend his time romping around in the jungle to survey rivers? They would all naturally believe that I would rather be playing golf or sitting in an aircon cave. That after all is what landowners naturally do during the dry spell.

The long and short of it is simply this, my enemies wouldn’t know what hit them.  Then and only then will I approach them to dictate terms to them buy these parcels of swamp land from them.

All warfare is based on deception. Above all warfare is the ultimate game of cerebral fitness – I must never allow my emotion to get the better of me. I be cold and calculating in my designs to arrange a decisive victory.

Health: I seem to be losing weight rapidly. I suspect this is due to my inability to sleep well coupled with a general lack of apetite. I need to rest seriously.

Log 18-07-13

July 18, 2013

Birdhouse: 1935 is when the birds return to roost – from what I have been able to make out, there are not too many so far – nonetheless, it’s a respectable start considering it’s less than a year. Most birdhouse owners don’t even get any birds visiting their houses – the super species of swiftlets I spotted the other day have not decided to commit to stay and breed in my bird house. Not yet at least, I need to spend more time to observe them.

Things I need to do

(a) 4 giant fiber glass ponds need to be strategically placed around the bird house to encourage insects to breed – the more insects there are around the BH – the more birds will be come. I need to identify the location of these sites tomorrow.

(b) Roof to collect rain water needs to be constructed – as one tank will be within the house, if my water supply is sabotaged or poisoned.

(c) I need to get fishing nets and string them up to prevent the owls from attacking the swiftlets – this is not a priority. I will consider this only after November.

(d) Gardener needs to spray the entrance of the bird house every morning – I am not happy with the general state of housekeeping – I will need to talk to him and his wife AFTER Ramadan – I do not want to discipline my workers during their holy month.

Moral of workers: I fast alongside my Muslim farmhands as during the month of Ramadan, they have a tendency to slow down. I have deliberately asked Vun and his wife to cook for me during this month – as my real intention is to gather daily intelligence on what they eat to gauge their quality of life. From what I am able to make out, they seem to be tightening their belts.

The food I get will be the best. As the farmer is considered the master. If the quality of my own food has only a few pieces of meat. Then what are their wife’s and children eating? Even then I can tell with very little difficultly, they are careful with their expenses – this is understandable as this year has been the worst year for the oil palm industry. The double whammy of decreased yield due to El Nina and depressed commodity prices means many harvesters will have a bleak Raya.

I need to create jobs for them – I will speak to Vun tomorrow and tell him to paint the birdhouse and metal works as a means of supplementing his income.

Siti – the young Malay girl who washes and irons my clothes and fetches provisions from the village has been sacked – when I told her parents they asked me why – I told them, surely you must know – they nodded their heads and said the girl is in love. They have known this for a long time. I simply replied, I am a married man. A man old enough to be her father. Inshallah, that she will get married to a man who shares more in common with her – I did not share with them Siti placed her hand on my shoulder and asked, “what is wrong with you master.” I feel it is wrong that my servants touch me – I need an imaginary line to separate me from them always – discipline must be maintained even if everyone in the village believes I only have an imaginary wife.

I will miss Siti. As when a woman loves a man. Everything that she does for that man is perfection onto itself. As she puts her heart and soul into it – my clothes are perfect, my bush jacket well pressed, shoes polished, she even goes through the bother of cycling to the coconut groves to select the youngest and freshest coconuts for me daily – but it is dangerous for her to be close to a man who is slowly dying of some incurable disease. I must work on the assumption, I cannot or should not trust myself in this present state of mind. I do not know how bad the deterioration will be and since this is the first time that I am going through this. It is best if she goes away.

I have be cold, distant and indifferent. Discipline must be maintained.

Village gossip: Now that the whole village knows the imaginary wife of the farmer who stays on the hill will not attend the annual school dinner again – no one believes I am a married man any longer – I do not go to the village any longer – only the driver and the kitchen hands go there – even my attempts at imposing some form of seclusion does not prevent the young school teachers to request field trips for their classes to see how oil palm is harvested – I oblige these visits. But increasingly I find these young teachers to be more brazen in their teasing and their suggestive comments – in truth there is a side of me that relishes this sort of attention as I am a man – and I want to remember how it feels like to be with a man with a woman again – it has been so long, that at times I feel like one of those crusaders who have been away for so long from home that they can hardly remember the sweet repose home offers any longer.

Mental Health: I am deteriorating rapidly. Lost another kg. Soon my body will begin to cannibalize muscle to sustain life – I must make an effort to eat regularly and drink more water and smoke less.

Even my alpha dog who guards me when I sleep can senses that I have been mortally wounded – he has begun to stop other dogs from coming close to me – he always alert in combat mode – Praetoria knows. Dogs can smell grief and sadness along with impending danger – they can pick it up. Praetoria fears that the other dogs will bully me. As the pack always goes for the weakest – this is the politics of how canines see the world.

Imagine the irony of it all. All these years of fighting and being away from home. All the risk I have taken – I cannot even remember how many times I have faced off with the men my enemies send to harass me.

Yes. It may seem there is some redemption to my constant sacrifices and sufferings. My lands are worth millions. I do not need to worry my wife and children will not have enough money when I am gone.

It matters little to me whether they appreciate it or not. I have gone beyond that – found resolution in the belief – I have accomplished by goal. Whether they care enough is no longer important to me any longer – beside the vapidness of just wealth – what else do I have to show for all these years – a dog who mulls and worries over me. Surely such a man has to be a joke to everyone, especially himself.

Life is indeed cruel. Not just plain cruel, but sardonically cruel. There is an elegance to this barbed repartee – and I am glad that I can still laugh at myself.

But I am wallowing again in self pity again, am I not? Asking myself the same litany of why along with was it really all worth it.

– I must stop this gyre. Before this overwhelms me. Maybe it is best, if I dress now and go out for a morning patrol with Praetoria.

It’s after all a brand new day.

Log No.2 17-7-13

July 17, 2013

Worries about recent developments : It makes no sense to me why my enemies have decided to sell their lands – I have fought them for four years for every single square inch – its been a hard, long and relentless war with no breaks.

Now are you telling me – they are throwing in the towel? That is not possible. Makes hardly any sense to me.

They know I want these two parcels of lands that they are putting up for sale – its after all adjacent to my current estate – its a logical fit.

I think they want me to approach them. they know, they have gone too far. Or at least some of the wiser ones in their gang know – they know, I will hit back. And if I don’t, that just means I bidding for time. They want to sit down, talk, hopefully reach an amiacable solution – detente, if not that perhaps a sort of understanding where we will live and let live.

No!

Since I own the sorrounding lands around these two parcels of estates – I will begin to dam up the river on my side secretly tomorrow - I will transform their lands into a lake. They will NOT know this NOW of course – as it is the dry season. But when the monsoon comes and the water table begins to rise – who in their right mind is going to buy an oil palm estate that looks like Lake Toba?

If I can do this, then I would have succeeded in using time as weapon against my enemies. Then I will wait for them to come to me – and when they do that, I will ask them why in the world would I want to pay so much for mosquito infested swamp land? Perhaps I will even give them a lecture on the facts of life.

Why do they want to sell now? Why? What do they intend to do with the proceeds of the sale? Are they going to regroup and start an oil mill? Or maybe they have other designs that I am not even aware of – I must find out. I do not understand. These sister fuckers have fought a bitter war against me for so long and now they want to sell? Make peace? Be friends? Forgive and forget? Do I look like Jesus Christ, Gandhi or even someone who just turns the other cheek? Makes absolutely no sense to me at all - no, this has to be a trap – they want to contain me like a trouble maker - box me up in this area - while they go somewhere else and enlarge their territories and once they are strong, they will come for me again - I am not going to fall into their trap. Not this time.

This afternoon I told the broker who approached me about the land that I am not interested. I DO NOT WANT TO BUY THEIR LAND! I wished him luck for trying to find a buyer – I do not believe he understands what I mean. They want to be vicious. So can I. They want to play dirty. So can I. From today onwards the gloves come right off.

I need to think like a Mossad field agent. Instead of behaving like someone whose losing it - need to infiltrate my enemies inner sanctum - need to wear my Zegna bush jacket tomorrow and try to break into their toffee nose social circle – need to get close to the 32 year old spoilt daughter of the ring leader.

I know she is intrigued by me. I can tell by the way she just freezes and reaches for her neck whenever she notices me walking into the room whenever I attend one of their arty farty functions – I am a hunter. I know she is confused by what her daddy tells her about me – he’s a trouble maker, he will just give you grief, stay from him!

What else can account for her expression of fear and fascination – she wants to know, yet at the same time she is afraid – I need to go to the golf club and work my charm on her. I hate golf. But I have to pretend that I like it to get close to Patricia – I need to get so very close to her that I even have her between my legs when I show her how to put a ball into a hole – yes, many things other than balls can go into holes, I imagine - I need to find out what exactly her father and those sister fuckers are planning to do – turn her against her own father – as this latest move just doesn’t make any sense to me at all.

I think it is a good idea that I turn up one Sunday in her church – and pretend that I need God back - she would not expect me there. So I have the element of surprise – in the art of war, surprise is everything.

As everyone knows that I have turned my back on religion along with mumbo jumbo. I will pretend that I forgot my bible and sit next to her. Then one thing will lead to another and eventually all the beans will spill out – as it is, without intelligence, I cannot plan. I cannot see what’s coming. That has to be dangerous.

After what they have done – I do not believe I can take the risk and just wallow in self pity – I need to be focussed like a laser beam – treat this like a failure is not an option mission.

Street Fighting: I must be careful with the way I manage my frustration – especially my anger – I recently had three bouts and in every single case, it has ended with my sparring partner having to go to hospital – if this keeps up – everyone will think everyone will think, I am a psychopath who is mentally unstable and dangerous - I need to get less physical and just focus on instructing the students in my friends fight club by limiting my training the punching bag -  I need to be calm, cool and composed with my sparring partners. No one must suspect that this man is dying deep within. No one must ever know. I must be very gentle and just limit myself to the punch bag. No more bouts. No more for the moment. Its just too dangerous. As its conceivable that I should NOT trust myself.

Log 17-7-13

July 17, 2013

WEATHER: I am convinced after yesterday’s brief rain – the monsoon will arrive earlier than usual – perhaps even as early as mid August. I need to speed up on the road works, pits, drains and replanting program.

TO DO LIST: I need to identify the trees that need to be removed and replanted. This cannot be delayed.

BIRD HOUSE LAB: I have informed the contractor to start work. He wants the full details – I have told him to proceed room by room, so as not to confuse him. He will start work in two days.

BIRD HOUSE CARETAKER: I will have to instruct him to paint the bird house and grills.

EXTRAORDINARY EVENTS: My enemies have started to inform buyers that they are interested to sell their lands – the price they are asking is exorbitant – something has definitely spooked them – I will make sure no one buys their lands. By purchasing the sorrounding lands and rediverting the river to dry out their parcel of lands - this has to be done delicately. I want them to understand life is very cruel - eventually when they realize no one wants to buy their lands maybe they will come grovelling to me - I have informed the village elders, if anyone buys their lands, they will never get my cooperation. I suspect at current oil palm rates, they find it difficult to pay of their monthly bank loans – I will wait them out.

ARCHERY: I still have great difficulty line finding that mythical line. My arrows are everywhere. I cannot get her out of my mind. Its useless. I need to get back to my old line where I can pick off a 50 cent coin from 50 yards. This is no good!

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The bow is perfect. I tuned it personally myself last night set at 55 lbs draw weight - the arrows perfect, 300 grains, fletched at 5 degrees rotation with 200 target points. It must me. There is something seriously wrong with me. Something deep in me is broken.

Log 16-7-13

July 16, 2013

Bird house filling up nicely. Time of observation: 1130 to 1430. Weather: before mild rain. I have never seen such agile swiftlets before – their flight arch is tight. Yaw and pitch snappy. They are strong. Alpha birds, the creme of the crop. That why only such birds have managed to make the epic journey across the sea from Sumatra during the recent haze – the rest who are not in this top physical quality have perished – the question now is will they settle and breed.

I suspect they will, there are hardy lot – so even if the temp and humidity is off – they will settle. With such quality of birds the genetic pool will be very good.

Instructions to bird house keeper:

- I want daily reports during 0700-0800 and 1800 to 1945 daily.

- security is good checked outer parameter fence for anomalies – none.

Bird House Control Room: to scientifically manage a bird house. I need a lab. I have vicious enemies. I must design this lab in such a way where I can defend it, if it is breached. Deception must be used strategically. If they come which I believe they will – I must be able to funnel them into a killing zone. Doors must be narrow so to blunt their numerical superiority. I must have the capacity to hold out, water, generators and food to last 30 days must be provisioned.

It will be designed for one purpose – to neutralize effectively and cleanly. Meanwhile I will lull my enemies into a false sense of security. That way when they come. They will be complacent and I will be able to terminate the threat robotically, metallically and professionally.

They are vicious. But they do not know how vicious I can be after what they have done.

Mental Health: No one must know I am so very sad. They must not even suspect this. I must assassinate my emotions and the show must go on – to perform to play the role of the unbreakable man.

I must take refuge in discipline – but it is difficult. Today during archery practice – I couldn’t even get a decent grouping at 50 yards – it was everywhere – I must be thinking about her.

Today I broke my violin. I will never play again. I have decided – as it is a time machine that makes me think of her. I must be focussed. I must be focussed. I must be focussed.

My Muslim farmhands believe the farmer is a man who respects the Hadith, so he fast alongside them in the month of Ramadan – truth is I have no appetite at all – I have lost 2 kg. I must eat.

The only person who suspects something is not right with me is Siti – the 23 year old daughter who cooks for me in the month of Ramadan – she notices I do not touch the food. Perhaps she even detects a lingering sadness in the way I so often look out on the world vacantly – today she touched me on the shoulder and told me, “what is wrong with you master?” I will need to sack her. Although we do not share the same fate, this girl secretly loves me. It is too risky to have her around. I may succumb to temptation. Tomorrow I will terminate her services.

No one must be allowed to know that I am damaged goods – they must never know that I dying slowly but surely deep within me.

Discipline. I must switch to Mossad agent mode and fool them all. I am happy. The world is going exactly as I expected it. I will return home to my family one day. I must project this image and snap out of my grief. I must.

Concerns: today I told the headmaster of the school that I can no longer from time to time lecture the school teachers – he told me it was regrettable as the school has through the years relied on my inputs whenever the teachers are befuddled about math and physics.

I did not reveal to him the real reason why – I just feel sone of the school teachers, especially the pretty ones seem to delight in making fun of my imaginary wife – they don’t even have the courtesy to treat me like a landowner – instead they seem to spend so much of their time teasing me.

There is a girl. She knows something is wrong. She is the only one who doesnt relish what the rest do regularly – she knows sometime is wrong.

Everyone who knows, suspects or even has a hint of suggestion that I am dying within must be eliminated.

I am unbreakable. I am unbreakable. I am unbreakable.

I must return to my work. Work is good. As I do not think about my Samurai wife when I work.

My wife believes I am a monster. When I was poisoned she saw a side of me that she has never seen before – she always suspected she didn’t marry an ordinary man – maybe I am a monster.

Can she not fucking understand that I have to be a hard man to thrive here – put any Singaporean man here for one month and he would curl up and die. But not only have I survived, I have succeeded. Singaporeans like to think the world is a fair place. Truth is only a hard and cold hearted man can survive here. Not even the police can be trusted here. As those daughter fuckers are all on the take – I am going to buy more land this time in their turf – I want to send out a clear message, I am attacking you, prepare for war.

My mind is running wild again – I must calm myself. I must be so still that I am a rock. I must think like a Mossad field agent.

I need to brush my teeth now.

Log2

July 16, 2013

Weather: The dry spell is beginning to bite. This I can tell the durian flowers are beginning to peek up – soon it will be hot as a tin roof.

Judging from the cloud patterns and the way the Magpies seem to be heading North. It will be dry and very hot – I do not believe the rains will break in late August as they usually do. The cumulus clouds they too fast and high when they past the mountain ranges.

Countermeasures: I have instructed the harvesters to stop all herbicide land clearing – I will need the moisture of these weeds during the coming dry season.

Fix list:

- Bridge needs to be strengthened before the wet season come,otherwise the lorries cannot tranverse. I need to go to that section and study what needs to be done.

- work on Bird house control room will begin in four days. I need to come up with engineering blueprints what I want to do, otherwise the contractors will be confused. I want everything to be clear so that we do not have any problems.

- tractor: roads need to be done, along with the new trenches that I have set up.

A. Trench line in front of bird house in front of terraces need to be 2 feet deep. Objective to stop soil run off in that area.

B. Large collection pool on the hill in front of back terraces need to be landscaped so that it can collect water effectively – the mount will be hunched. A “V” shape needs be landscaped.

C. The small collection pond on the T junction needs to be enlarged in such a way where the banks will not break when they get too full. I want it to be 3 times deeper this time.

D. A second collection pond needs be dug for the bird house – this pond will be cemented as I want to use it to breed insects for the birds.

E. The collection pond to the east entrance needs to be deeper by three times – the last job was bullshit – another pond needs to be dug.

F. The transplanted trees are so-so but they are surviving – I need to hunch them. To create a mount.

G. Excavator needs to come in to deeper the river that is silted up / have to find a solution fast.

H. Need a lightning conductor.

Archery: I can tell from the groupings of my shots that I am very disturbed. There is no consistency in them. I must be having problems focusing. I much prefer to believe my arrows are bengkok.

Bandits: I have decided to delay my hunt for the bandits who have been terrorizing the small holders. The tribesmen took me yesterday to a camp they must have set up two weeks ago deep in the jungle. I spent a long time there – too clean. Professionals. Not even so much as a spent cigarette or tin can. Professionals. They bury everything faraway. They travel light and live off the land.

Four mounted post camps judging from the size of the holes on the ground. I was wrong, they must be at least 6. Split into two teams. One for day and night. Or could it they operate as cells independently. Fucking professionals. They never stay more than 2 days. Never near the river’s edge. They always choose 4 to 5 year palm areas to hide. Walk in single file to hide their numbers. I told to chieftain I wanted to see all their rubbish – he says they bury them. I told him dig every square inch of the area up – the chieftain was confused, I told him I need to see their spirit – then he understood. fucking Professionals. We scrapped enough for me to tell these outsiders are not your run of the mill perfume wood thieves that come every year this time from Thailand – cardamon flavor cigarettes, from the way the hogs are eaten, Ku Shan cigarettes, broken oil lamp with lard, a bottle of what seems like tiger balm, but I cannot read the label. From their rubbish, these are Shan pathfinders – I am sure of it, the Thais must be using them, as only they know how to move with the power of invisibility at night. I found a co-axial wire. Only less that 4 millimeters – E5 – military grade. It’s gold plated. It is just a small piece, but what is it doing here? No I have made a mistake. They must have FLIR. Not night vision. That is why they only steal at night and no one seems to be able to know when they strike – in the day, they hide.

Their boots are all worn with shoelaces tied twice around their heels. This makes their prints on the ground distinct to the back – these men must have combat experience in plantation warfare.

Only those who are accustomed to field life will know these secret art of war. By the looks of it – I need to be smart about this. And stop my fantasy that I am some batman. These people are serious. FLIR is hard to beat at night. Impossible even. But in a plantation, I know at least 9 ways to fool the operator or confused him. I did it as when I first came here my enemies hired professionals to get me out. They used FLIR as well. FLIR cannot be beaten, but one can certainly confuse the operator, that is all I need, one brief moment of confusion, then I strike – we need to move along the cool deep muddy trenches in plantations to hide our heat signature. The tribesmen do not know why I have asked them to do this – I tell them they have an evil eye that can see in the dark.

Before we move in. We need to start small fires along the fronts piles. This we will do by shooting flaming arrows from afar. Their attention will be directed there. I am taking a risk here. They only have one FLIR. This is the nature of fools who believe that technology is the basis of the art of war. Then we will take them on the otherside along the narrow passage as they make for the highlands to get a better view with their wonder toy – yes there 9 ways to defeat FLIR in a plantation. If it is in a desert maybe zero. In the jungle 2 ways, but in an oil palm plantation 9 ways.

I must be mindful that I do not transfer my grief to do what I need to do. Perhaps one reason why I find this so satisfying is that I angry. It’s one way to channel my anger. I cannot allow my judgment to be clouded by delusions of granduer – FACT: they are professionals!

The time is not right. To do all this, we need the moon to be full. I need the reeds to be like a tinderbox. To start so many fires that they are confused. I will not fight them, that will be suicide – I will starve them out.

Yes, I will do that. Fucking professionals!

9 ways in a plantation to defeat FLIR. I want to steal their toys. These thieves have so many wonderful toys that will keep me occupied and I wouldn’t need not wallow in my grief.

Personal: I must not be bitter or feel angry that she does not appreciate my sacrifices. I must not allow anger and frustration to color my thoughts – just occupy myself in work. As long as my hands and feet move I am fine.

I am convinced I do not have long to live – the rot has begun deep inside me – I can feel it. I can sense it even. Feel it’s texture even as it passes over me like a serpent slitthering quietly across my consciousness – it is death.

No one must ever see my pain. No one can. I must pretend to be strong. I must be unbreakable before my enemies. They must never know the desolation in my heart or the lost that clings to me like seaweed. NEVER. I must remind myself to smile more often and make an effort to small talk.

Ramadan: my Muslim farmhands have stopped complaining. As I work harder than any of them and fast along with them – they dare not complain as they feel ashamed that a non Muslim seems to be able to fast better than them uncomplaningly – I told them all, in this month of Ramadan, we must only think good and clean thoughts – one of them said to be, “you know the Hadith well teacher.” it is just as well, as I have no appetite to eat anything these days.

School dinner: it’s coming. I dread it. Perhaps I should just get a high class call girl who I normally make friends with just to drive their sportscar to sit beside me? That shouldn’t be too difficult. They’ll even do it for free. That should shut those school teachers who keep wondering why the handsome farmer who lives all by himself on the hill claims to have a wife but no one has ever seen her before – what do they really want from me? Why do I seem to attract so much attention? If I am a canto pop singer cum actor, it would make sense – but all I am is a mam who wants to sit down beside his wife and to show all the things I have accomplished. I am thinking again. I must stop now and work.

I need to work. Drown myself in it even till every pore is filled with round heavy sweat.

Log 1

July 15, 2013

Weather: hot spell doesn’t seem to behave like the dry season. Yesterday at sector 6 – 25mm of water – it is still raining. Checked fruit set at S terraces all the way to edge of land to river – fruit set all irregular. Local intelligence suggest this is occurring throughout the district of Matang – yield will be low – productivity will not be good as next year.

Countermeasures: instruct farmhands to begin manuring using P NPK @ 2 kg per palm / weeding is not necessary.

Birdhouse: recent rains have attracted new birds – I suspect judging from their size and the speed these new visitors fly, they must have flown all the way from Sumatra to escape the haze – need to check further on the origins of these new birds.

They don’t fly like any birds I have ever seen before.

Manpower: discipline is poor with the lorry drivers – they fear the treacherous road downhill that leads to the entrance – I will have to drive the lead convoy before drivers are demoralized – from my assessment this is doable.

Landscaping will begin in 2 days. Will plan to dig trenches as judging from the weather – the monsoon will break early this year – weeding has been curbed to prevent soil erosion.

Village Moral: Ramadan has begun. I too will have to fast to show my men that it is possible to still work during the dry spell – I have to lead from the front. No choice.

Fish, poultry, veggies and especially prawns have gone up. I need to find out whether this is market driven or a syndicate is manipulating market – if my men cannot even buy food at reasonable prices, there will be mayhem.

I have set a meeting to see the syndicate bosses and will inform them if they cannot supply produce at reasonable price, maybe I should go into the fisheries, leafy veggie and poultry business?

Negotiations are likely to be heated. I will speak to the Thai’s to bring in my own produce and sell it 25% cheaper. If that doesn’t hurt them, I will subsidize it to make it 50% cheaper so these syndicates cannot make profit.

Crime: small holders have been complaining last month theft of crops has increased. I suspect these are outsiders. They are well organized. At least 4. Their methods suggest they may even have night vision as their tire tracks are too straight. Not possible to drive that way without lights on a quarter moon. They must also be using walkie talkies as no one seems to see them. Professionals.

I will go deep into the jungle with painted camo with six of Orpuk best tribesmen who know how to move silently in the plantation tonight to hunt these Marauders down. It will be a quarter moon – their night vision will not work so well, so long we keep below the terraces to hide out heat signature – since they have so many nifty toys, I will rob them. They can go to police if they are not happy. No one is ever going to believe a bunch of cheap slipper thieves that the respectable and educated landowner who lives on the hill would actually dress up like batman and romp around the jungle in the middle of the night – they would probably think these thieves have been watching too many movies.

I am sick and tired of small holders coming to me to cry and plea for justice. I will take the war to them tonight and strike when they are sound asleep.

Personal: I am very sad. But no one must ever know. Or even suspect that I am damaged goods. I must hide my weaknesses and keep up appearances as a strong man. This way my enemies will believe I am unbreakable.

Concerns: the annual school charitable dinner is coming up. This is a big affair in my village – this is the third year when the seat that is supposed to be occupied by my wife will be empty again. I don’t think anyone believes in my excuses anymore – the girls all say, the handsome farmer who lives on the hill is not married. He is just bluffing – I do not like the way, they giggle and smile mischievously at me whenever I past by them. They should have more respect for the landowner. If not, at least some reverence for the bush jacket .Some of these girls even have the gall to ask openly, “do you prefer boys to girls?” They fucking think I am a homosexual. Fuck them lah. While giggle. At times, I feel so slighted that I just want to take that trouble maker ring leader for a ride in my car – she assumes I am a gentlemen – maybe when she least expects it, I’ll suddenly rip off all her clothes pin her down and give her a good and rough shoving till she can’t walk for a week – there is only one problem, I have a feeling she may actually like it, instead of reporting this matter to the police. How then? And what if my Samurai wife hears about this? I will be deader than dead. Double or possibly triple mati lah .Besides I never been unfaithful to my Samurai wife.

Maybe I should not be so self centered and think that the world revolves around me – I should just attend the school dinner eat my food and behave as if my Samurai wife is sitting beside me on that empty chair.

The show must go on.

physical: Ran 20 kilometers this morning with a 30 kg back pack and a hunting bow. I need to make the kit lighter. Maybe Richie can carry some of my kit. I will make a harness for my dog to carry all these things.

Brotherhood, Confederation, Internationale Gaming Consortium and every single virtual and imaginary entity in the digital realm - go – please just go and leave me alone –  go tell the Confederation that I am no longer interested in their their new experiment of proofing a new form of fiction and creative writing genre – I am not going to ever write essays for virtual money any longer -  I am just not interested any longer in anything that involves fantasy and clouds in the city.

I just want to be left alone and from time to time write for no one but myself and my gold fish.

So kindly respect my wishes and just go.

Go!

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Sadness, love and death

July 12, 2013

It is so very easy to lose the trust of the woman who a man loves with all his heart. I have vicious enemies. They have tried everything humanly possible to undo me – and every time they have failed.

Arrogance was the reason for how they fixed me – something poisonous was slipped into my drink. After that I said certain things to my wife that I would do – things that when I read back can only have been induced by this street drug that they must have laced in my drink.

To cut a long story short. The trust and love is gone.

It’s that simple.

I think, I have to be blame as well. I have been here for four years. To thrive and survive in this business, I’ve had to be hard. Paranoid and a bully. Not the sort of nice guy that I think you really want to invite to a BBQ on a weekend in Singapore – it is conceivable that I may not even be able to live in Singapore any longer as when a man has to regularly work in a surrounding where knaves, cut throats and people who just want to spike his drink to bring him down – he can only be hard, paranoid and a bully.

I want to be clear the Confederation pays me 3,000 Imperial Shekelians I write for each essay, it’s one way to pay for my fertilizer – most is a mix of fiction and what just passes off as creative writing.

But this entry is real. Its mine. This setback will kill me. It is not the street drug they laced in my drink that will do me in – it’s effects are worn off – what will slowly hollow me out and leave me a mere shell of a man is the realization that I am now truly alone in this whole wide world.

I do not want another woman. Not even Miss Universe. Only her, even if she is old and crinkled like a prune with bad teeth that is all I have ever wanted – domt even want to look for another one – just her – my Samurai wife.

Slowly this mix of regret and sadness will begin to kill me from within. I can feel it coloring my minutes, hours and days.

How silly of me to believe those who you one loves even know the sacrifices I have made for them in this four years long years. The awful truth was they were just all happy like cock that I was faraway.

I wonder as I sit on my rattan chair and look at the birds – a why do the birds, trees and skies look so very sad?

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“last night I had a strange dream of a very old man sitting on a rattan chair. He must be in a plantation or orchard. There were large men wearing dark glasses discreetly standing near and far this man. He did not look happy at all. He looked very lonely and sad. As if even all his wealth was a worthless pile of sand.

I noticed, this old sad man in my dream wore the same square Rodenstock glasses as the one I have.

I wonder what does this dream mean?”

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