Killing time

Over the years writing this I’ve sat in airport lounges all over the world and tapped away while waiting for my flight to be called. It’s a good a way as any to kill the dead hours in that indeterminate zone between here and there. I’m doing it again now.

This time I’m sitting in Kuala Lumpur’s KLIA airport. Specifically I’m sitting in a small bar called Bones near the departure gates. There’s a Tiger beer in front of me, almost done, and I can hear in the background a replay of the Confederations Cup match between Japan and Mexico. Every so often a PA announcement will disturb the airport white noise to call for Mr so and so to report to the counter, or to announce the boarding of flight number at gate whatsit. No need for me to pay much attention – my flight is hours away.

The whole day really has been about killing time. My flight is just before midnight, but I had to check out before noon. I only had 4 hours sleep after a festive wedding reception, and feared that the lack of much sleep, a day wandering like the apocryphal Jew, followed by a 13 hour flight in a crowded plane, would pretty much do me in. Well, I’ve to set foot on the plane, but I’m doing ok.

I packed and checked out and was picked up by E from my hotel. We caught up with all the news and gossip over a breakfast for lunch in a French patisserie in Bangsar. That was good. With bags in tow she then dropped me at KL Sentral where I was able to check in my luggage for this evening’s flight. Very fortunate.

I caught a cab to Mid Valley then having decided to kill time watching a movie. World War Z was my first choice, but that was booked out. I settled on watching After Earth in the Gold class cinema. Was ok, and 90 minutes were used up.

With Malaysian ringgit to be spent I found a curious place on the top-level of the Gardens. What the fuck. I spent 40 minutes and 60 RM lying on warm tiles in a room heated to the mid 40 degrees C.  I sweated, as was the notion, ridding myself, as the notion goes, of the various toxins in the bod. It’s not my idea of a fun time, but it seemed to do me the world of good. Probably a good thing too after the quantity of toxic liquids I consumed last night. Better out than in.

That was good enough for me. It was near 5 and time, I thought, to head back to KL Sentral and catch the KLIA Express. It’s a great train that takes you to the distant airport in a hurry, and in relative comfort. It’s something we might have in Melbourne if our politicians weren’t such provincials.

I’ve been hear at the airport since a little after 6pm. I’ll have my beer, or two, grab myself a meal, might browse the duty-free, before using my final ringgit on chocalates, as tradition demands. Tomorrow, London.

My first Bollywood wedding

It’s late Saturday afternoon and I’m here in my hotel room. After a long massage I returned to my room for a hot bath, wash my hair, start the process of getting beautiful for tonight. I ordered a salad from room service and picked at that, and just now have got up from my bed where for the last 30 minutes I’ve been reading. Soon enough I’ll have to dress – suit, tie, a splash of cologne, a big smile. Right now, as it is, I’d just as happily spend this Saturday night quietly.

That’s not a reflection anything really, other than perhaps an over-chilled state of mind. This morning I was up early in suit to attend the Indian wedding ceremony in a temple in the Indian part of town. Though I grumbled about being up so early – 6am – I was up for it. With shoes off I stood and watched and waited, fascinated by the variety of things happening in the temple – worshipers standing before the temple quietly giving themselves to their religion; the priest – or whatever they call them – bare-chested and with a medicine ball for a belly attending to the daily ritual. In the background a constant stream of music, like snake-charming music, barreled along at a good tempo, the thump of the drum, the tortured wail of – a trumpet?

Then the ceremony began. Fozzy was in an Indian outfit out of respect for his wife and her family. Nali was done up in the full and extravagant regalia  of an Indian bride. We circled them as the priest performed his rituals of marriage, his assistant beside him. On the ground were a bunch of bowls with different things in them, and a brazier in which coals glowed red. All the while the Indian music continued without a break, a cacophony of music right of a Bollywood movie.

All round it was curious. Back home a wedding is performed in solemn silence. Here the noise was so insistent there was no chance of understanding what was happening, even if I knew the language. All the while people are snapping pics, and worshipers wander by, and a little man directed the two photographers here and then, stopping occasionally to consult with – or instruct – the priest, or else rearrange a necklace of flowers around the grooms neck even as the ritual was going on.

I was glad to be there. This was an interesting experience, and probably not something I’ll ever be witness to again. I was myself. Fascinated as I was my eyes travelled over the interesting faces, pausing now and then to take in a more interesting face, and body to go with it. I felt my usual charged self, on top of things, engaged and interested and willing to participate if the need arose.

Now and then I chatted to people I didn’t know, and lined up for a feast of a cooked vegetarian breakfast. Then we returned to the hotel.

I had a short nap, did some shopping at Mid Valley Megamall, and the rest you know.

I’m mellow for now. Most of the kinks have been ironed out of me by a succession of massage, but I still feel a tad dopey, and not 100%. That seems normal for me after flying. I know that as the moment comes nearer, as I don my suit and knot my tie and admire myself in the mirror, that I will feel that slow infusion of anticipation. Tonight is the reception, the fun part as Nali’s dad said, eight courses, a bunch of booze, perhaps an interesting cultural experience, and opportunities as yet unexplored.

I may be more circumspect than at other times. More thoughtful and reflective. That feels right. Maybe. Inclined more to watch and learn, than to do. Yet I expect that cometh the moment I’ll be in there again, like Flynn, lapping it up, engaging, laughing, teasing, maybe even flirting. There will be that part of me ever watching, logging the impressions; but the other side of me, the side most people know better, will likely be at the forefront, the public face of H smooth and unflappable and just sometimes a lot of fun.

Guess it’s time to begin the process. My uniform awaits.

Second class citizens

I glossed over this in the post about The Beach Club, but I recall back at the time the simmering outrage I felt that the local lads weren’t allowed in. It offended my sense of fairness, and dislike of privilege (oh ok, it is fun sometimes). I’m a strong believer in personal democracy – the natural democracy between individuals who believe in a fair go for all.

All the same it felt then as it does now that I was more offended by this injustice than those disadvantaged. I think there is an acceptance of a hierarchy whereby Caucasians sit at the pinnacle. In part I think that’s part of the Malaysian character. They’re an easy-going lot generally, perhaps too much so. I don’t know if they get too worked up about much, and this is the sort of thing they’ll take with a shrug of the shoulders. As in many places in the world I think in Malaysia there is perhaps a subtle sense of inferiority. Being white is where it’s at, and explains much of the rapt fascination throughout much of Asia for western culture, most visibly the EPL.

It’s a sort of reverse imperialism that might explain why Malaysian men aren’t allowed into a Malaysian bar – except in this instance I think it’s purely economic. The girls don’t go there to meet the local boys, and so the owners – likely Malaysian – have made the pragmatic decision to invite the local girls in while stopping their male counterparts at the door.

It’s hard to understand how such a thing can be permitted. Certainly where I come from anti-discrimination laws prevent it. More to the point it’s criminal that nationals of this country are discriminated against in favour of foreign nationals. It’s a strange situation that seems to have been accepted without too much argument. I know in Oz there would be riots if they attempted that there, and I’d be in the thick of it.

It’s unjust, and I can tell you I don’t want to lord it over anyone – certainly not by virtue of my skin colour or passport.

Moths to a flame

A couple of years ago I visited a notorious KL nightspot called The Beach Club. Back then I had no idea  what I was heading into. Tonight, a little after 6 and with the sun still shining, I decided to go back.

I have vivid memories of my one and only visit there. I tell stories about it. People are enthralled in the telling, but often I’ll go beyond mere reportage and venture into commentary. People get hooked by the voyeuristic thrill, the sheer titillation of  something so different and raw. Then, if they venture further, they encounter the deeper elements – anthropology, sex, culture, and philosophy.

Given all that it’s no surprise that I found myself there again today – there’s something headily irresistible about that combination. This time I went in the daylight hours, when I thought it might be safer.

What I remember of that last time was a stormy KL night. It was Friday, and Whisky and I dashed through the soaking rain to the shelter of the bar. Whisky had intrigued me with his comments. He wanted me to see for myself, and gave me no idea what to expect. At first glance I found a bar open on all sides with a thatched roof and the feel of the pacific islands. It was rocking inside, jam packed with Caucasian men and Asian women, but no-one more. As I later learned Malaysian men – the locals – were denied entry.

I’d only entered a few paces when I felt someone pinch my arse. I turned to find a pretty Malaysian Chinese girl grinning at me. Over the next 30 minutes that experience, and variations of it, were repeated again and again. Very quickly I learned that the normal rules of sexual engagement were here reversed. Pretty well every woman there had the aim of scoring a man for the night. Most of the men were happy to be scored. For all that it was disorientating. Everywhere I looked there was  a set of eyes searching for mine – they only had to catch a moment for the girl to be there by my side “hello darling, what’s your name…”. As I climbed the stairs a stray and unknown hand caressed my bum. I, and every man there, was fair game. Was this what women felt like, I wondered, ogled wherever they went by the hungry eyes of men? Here they had turned from prey to predator; and we, the stronger sex, were for once the objects  of desire. We had become the prey.

I found it unwelcome. I’m very happy to be approached by women. It’s nice to be desired. I’m happy to oblige more often than not. But here it felt like there was no escape. I just wanted to have a beer with a mate, and told them so, but every minute or so another would be there.

Why made it stranger, I later learned, was that most of these women were regular girls. By day they were secretaries and shop assistants, receptionists and dental assistants and call centre operators. Come Friday night they dolled themselves up and set out to find a Caucasian man and a good white cock at a minimum; and hopefully to put something in their purse at the end of the night.

That was the deal pretty much. Doubtless there were fully fledged working girls among them, but most were regular folk quite happy to prostitute themselves for the night for very practical considerations. That’s one thing women have over us: that pragmatic view on sex.

In the course of the evening I got to talk to many, and found myself increasingly fascinated. Truth be told I had a grudging admiration – we were the pawns, the breed that could be exploited for our indiscriminate sexual addiction. They pulled the strings even as they beseeched us to take them home. For us it was, as it is always, all about our cock (amen). For them it was something far greater and more enduring than that. This was ambition.

I remember one very sweet looking Chinese girl, petite and very attractive in a red checked shirt that matched mine, offering herself for the remainder of the night for 600 RM. She was an executive PA. There was another, from Uzbekistan I think, studying to become a pilot. She was attractive in that sexy, knowing way. There was nothing sweet about her, but what there was was raw and honest. She explained candidly all that she would do and why she did it. She promised me a superior experience and I believed it. Had there not been a financial transaction in the offing then I’d have taken her up on it – but if there wasn’t there would be no offer.

I left that night with a new slant on the possibilities. There was no judgement in me, but I found the experience both exciting and discomforting.

So today I went back. It was near empty as I got there – Thursday night and early, as I expected it to be. As I stood at the bar ordering a beer a Chinese girl stood at my shoulder looking at me. She seemed to have no meaningful English. She followed me when I went outside to sit, and remained until I politely told her ‘not tonight’.

I sipped on my beer as clutch of women gathered. It was clear that these, the  early comers, were true professionals. They had that look of street hookers common to all over the world – the skirts too short, the lipstick too bright, the heels either too long or too chunky, and the lashes  too obviously fake. They had big hair and revealing cleavages  and an auditors eye.

Another came up to me, older, the most obvious of all the very obvious. She smiled as she spoke, asking where I was staying and then offering me a massage back in my room. “Already have,” I said, at which she scoffed, nude massage she said. I slowly shook my head, sorry, I’m not interested.

Truth is I was interested though. Not in a nude massage back in my room. Not with her. But I was fascinated. There was another standing nearby, younger, prettier, as yet still relatively unspoiled. I felt like crooking a finger at her and beckoning her to me. Our eyes met several times as if she sensed my indecision. I had to stop myself from calling her over, but then perhaps I should have.

It might seem a cliche, but I just wanted to talk to her. Wanted to ask her if this is what she did, or what she did in her remaining time. I wanted to look in her eyes and find some understanding. This is different from the shop assistants casually playing the role of hooker on a Friday night, this is life perhaps. At least I wanted to find out if it was.

I realised that The Beach Club was an unstructured brothel really, a capitalist mentality managed on anarchist principles. The management were happy to see these girls – and even more so the Friday night amateurs – because they drew the crowd of lustful men who bought their overpriced beer for themselves and cocktails for the girls. On that basis I understood that I contributed to the seedy ethos just by sitting there.

Did that worry me? No. I’m sure a part of the unwritten business model embraces the fascinated dilettantes like me. We come, we drink the overpriced beer, we talk to the girls even if we choose not to take up their offer. Whatever. Maybe society is better off without places like this. Maybe. There is something untidy about it, yet at the end of the day it’s an exercise in free will. It’s tawdry, yet it clearly serves a purpose.

As for me, the day I stop wondering about things and poking my head in strange places is the day I’m too senile to think for myself. The morals of it mean nothing too me – morals are so confusing if you’re Jewish or Catholic (though clearly remain so for many Catholic priests). I won’t judge. The world needs its seedy underbelly just to stay healthy, and my interest is anthropological and all the rest of it.

In KL again

So I’m in KL now, again. Flew in overnight. Got on the plane feeling bloody tired (flight was at 12.45am), and got off the plane at the other end more tired. Had a row of seats to myself and managed 4 hours sleep maybe, but still felt unnaturally buggered.

It’s a relief then to touch down finally with the hope of a soft bed to recuperate in. That’s not so easy in KL unfortunately. KLIA – the international airport – is not so bad. It’s still a fair hike out-of-town, but the express train delivers you there in a hurry. LCCT is a different story.

For a start LCCT – the domestic terminal that Air Asia flies into – is a barely glorified tin shed. Very rustic. Then you make it out of the terminal and there’s no train and the city, depending on traffic (which is usually awful) is about an hour away, by bus or taxi.

I caught a taxi. I couldn’t be fucked piling onto a bus and being deposited some place I’d have to catch a taxi from anyway. I was aching and tired, and craved a shower, and nothing less than being delivered to the door would do.

So an hour later there I was standing at the check-in counter of the Impiana being told, to my general unsurprise, that my room wasn’t ready yet, and probably wouldn’t be for hours. Drat I thought, but with a resolution the Stoics would have admired I gathered myself, found a place to change into a fresh shirt at least, and then sat down for a buffet breakfast (I have to write about these buffet breakfasts some day).

I went for a walk then, and not unexpectedly found myself in KLCC, the Petronas Towers. I made my way to a familiar haunt when in town, Kinokuniya. As usual I bought a couple of books I have no space for in my luggage, and  wandered downstairs to an elegant restaurant where I sat by the window sipping on an iced lemon tea and read one of my new books. It was 30 minutes of relative serenity, but then my aching bones reminded me I needed some comfort.

I made my way back to the hotel to find that my room still wasn’t ready. I slumped into a nearby chair and for something to do had a long mac. The caffeine was useful to.

About half an hour later I finally got the nod. I did all my ablutions, including a lukewarm shower, changed into some fresh clothes, then arranged a massage. I felt sore, and though I was still tired sleep was neither a pressing need or a good idea. A massage, however, was just the ticket.

The massage was sensational. It’s a strange truism that I have less massages now that I own a massage shop than I did before when I didn’t. I’ve always enjoyed the excuse to slip away mentally while therapeutic hands treat my body. It’s been good for me in keeping a dodgy lower back in reasonable nick.

Today’s massage was  the typical 5 star hotel production – in house spa, several cups of tea, a chilled towel, a choice of oils with different qualities, gracious staff and elegant surroundings.

I opted for a 90 minute Balinese massage – my favourite massage style. as you do in places like this I was required to slip into a brief and flimsy looking pair of paper briefs. I felt ridiculous, but at least I was reassured to find they were XL.

The massage passed like that. My masseuse, Lysa, from Kota Kinabulu, was friendly and very talented. She kneaded and stroked my tired muscles. I felt myself melt into the massage table, not wanting it to end. But it end it must.

Since I’ve been pottering around my room sorting little bits and pieces out. Tonight I might pop across to the Grand Hyatt for the happy hour. Later I might wander down to Bukit Bintang. Naturally I look pretty ordinary – I love Asia, but it fucks with my hair every time I step off the plane. Dealing with it.

Tomorrow I check into another hotel, in readiness for the wedding on Saturday. Today is my day, and perhaps part of tomorrow. Then it’s all my friends.


My KL week

The Chow Kit station (Kuala Lumpur Monorail) (...

The Chow Kit station (Kuala Lumpur Monorail) (exterior), Chow Kit, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m coming to the end of my time here in Malaysia, and I’m looking forward to getting ‘home’ – home being such a variable concept right now that it belongs in inverted commas.

Having said that, even if the bricks and mortar and the familiar bits and pieces are missing for the moment, there are other things I look forward to – seeing Rigby again and the joy in his eyes when he beholds me; the small family I have left to me, more meaningful now than ever before; and my friends, and familiar ways and accents, the city of Melbourne, my bars, good coffee, trams, the footy, and the weather. And, I guess, to return to sort things out.

This last week has been a mixture of anticipating that, of working and keeping myself separate.

Monday and Tuesday I was back working again. Not necessarily suit and tie, more pants and shirt, but it was still the most formal I’ve been for a while (outside of funerals). I spent the two days pretty intensively interviewing people and making notes in the office. I’ve spent the rest of the week turning my notes into a report, with another short visit to the office.

Most nights I’ve tried to make myself scarce. I’m staying with Whisky, as I have every other visit. Every other time he’s been some variation of single, and so I’ve been welcomed warmly and we’d take the opportunity to carouse for days on end. This time he has a girl he’s very tight with, who lives in the same building. I’ve been welcomed just as warmly as ever, but have come second to her. That’s fair enough, though a little uncomfortable. I feel the unwelcome presence sometimes, and have either taken myself off, or been asked to. And so I’ve gone out alone most nights lately to grab a bite and to keep me occupied. It’s fortunate that I’m so accustomed to solo travel and enjoy my own company, but the timing hasn’t been great.

Whisky flew out to Madrid last night, and so I promised to get out of their collective hair altogether on Thursday night. I’m lucky to have a good friend who was able to help out. She suggested that I spend the night at her hotel to do some quality testing. Why not? And so Thursday afternoon I travelled across town to book into a hotel nearby Chow Kit.

It was a rainy afternoon. I went walking after checking in, camera in hand, feeling for once like a tourist. It was a refreshing change. I walked up and down, going up streets and then back again, through smelly laneways and obscure looking arcades that turn into markets. It was fine.

Chow Kit seems a predominantly Indian neighbourhood, though I gather many are Muslim – it certainly was a focus of the current Hari Raya celebrations. The main streets were lined by stalls that closed in the sidewalk like a tunnel. The stalls sold all manner of things, from cheap trinkets to the usual rip-off cases and clothes, mobile phones, shoes, DVD‘s – though these mainly Bollywood and local stuff. It was not an area geared to western tourism, and so did not market to them. And I saw no other westerners there.

As you might imagine it was busy with people, women in sari’s shopping, shopkeepers for once mutely keeping their mouths shut, and on the road beyond in the rain cars and busses and taxis and two-stroke motorbikes went along.

In the heaviest of rain, I found myself in an imperfectly covered food market. It was marvellous. Water dripped from holed and sagging tarps. Underfoot the ground was merely wet, or slushy from the passage of feet. Surrounding me were shoppers pausing at different stalls to peruse the produce on display – fantastically coloured fruits, some I had never seen before, and vegetables and spices and the odd stall touting hot food – samosas or freshly fried pastries, and the usual selection of cold sweets, sticky and colourful. I took shot after shot wandering up and down the place, the only white face in the joint.

On the way out I bought myself a murtabak for a late lunch and headed back towards the hotel in the drizzle. There in the virtual backyard of the hotel, I found another fantastic sight. In the intersection of a few secondary roads was a clearing with a few large, knotted, sinuous trees like you see often in Asia. The clearing was chocka with cars in various states of repair, and a cloth covered area with car parts. Around the cars worked a bevy of skinny, dark skinned, smiling men, their hands and clothes dark with grease. Underfoot the road was greasy with years of caked on oil. In between the odd skinny dog, not unlike the pariah dogs of India, wandered around. And in the distance in the clouds and through the trees were the twin towers of KLCC, shining brightly in the dim afternoon light as if encrusted with thousands of diamantines, and strangely beautiful.

Here I had come across the regional car repair hub, open to the air, the elements, and anyone who cares to wander through. For me it was another example of the great diversity of sights in Asia. Anything is possible.

Near dinner time I ended up in the hotel bar – well, I was here to check the facilities. As I expected it was near empty. Checking in earlier and walking through the hotel I had thought most of the guests Arab, here for Ramadan perhaps, or else Indian. I didn’t expect the local pub to be busy, and it wasn’t.

Still and all I stopped for a beer the gracious bartender was happy to pour me. I sat in the faux English pub and watched a Korean music program on the big screen. Watching foreign TV is often a fascinating experience, and pretty educational. There’s no doubt we of the west have a narrow view of the world, and it sometimes comes as a shock to find those dusky foreigners have a culture we have nothing to do with. That’s a good reason to travel right there.

I watched. not so enthralled by the musical content, but fascinated by the differences. Much was familiar of course, the good looking hosts with fashionably/weirdly coiffed hair, gabbling on happily but in a language I couldn’t comprehend. The acts themselves were different, what I saw anyway. I only saw one act who performed their own instruments. The rest were very pretty boy and girl bands. The boy bands seemed huge – up to about 15 members, all under 20, all with haircuts out of the Beatles songbook, all good – if wet – looking, and all with a variety of moves I’m sure send the Korean girls into raptures.

The girl bands were smaller, but just as pretty. I’ve never been there, but my observation is that Koreans are the most attractive of the Asian peoples, which is saying a lot. I was sipping on my beer when a group typical of this ilk came on. All the girls wore short shorts and tops that more often than not exposed flat midriffs. They had lovely hair and big smiles and long legs and all the other moves. A less virtuous man than I might have had impure thoughts watching as they performed their song (Mister Bang Bang, no less).

It was at about this moment I was asked how I was by the staff there. Without saying a word I simply looked back at the screen – which they were viewing with as much fascination as I was – and they broke into happy giggles.

Not much more to report than that. I’m back in Bangsar, about to watch some footy, later to catch up with Donna, visiting here on the way to Thailand. Fly home Monday night.

Don’t swim in your Y-fronts

I’ve written before how lately the surreal has become so common as to become almost real: surreal is the new real people, in my world anyway. Last night, once more, I was given cause to remember that.

There I was sitting at a rough-hewn table at a grungily raw bar on Pantai Cenang beach sipping on a cold San Miguel watching some characters off para-sailing high above the beach as the sunset. Here I am, I thought, jobless, homeless, and practically cashless, a cold drink in my hand, a plate of freshly barbecued chicken satay before me, a cool breeze in my face and a view of the beach prettily framed by palm fronds. What gives, really?

In fact, it’s pretty cheap to live that way on Langkawi. The cocktail I started with was about $6, the satay $2 for six of them, and the beer was another $2. The ambience was free. I sat there and reflected. As befitting the place (Babylon) reggae music played in the background while I watched the people from a surprising range of nations go by. They were fat and thin, young and old, some exuberant, and others natively indifferent. Sipping at my beer I watched as smoke billowed from the bbq as the cook fanned the flames with a rattan paddle, while the sun set poetically in the background. This is my groove I thought idly. One of them anyway.

Later I stood and walked down the near-empty beach with my flip-flops in my hand. It was surprising how quiet it was, and a little disappointing – I was up for a party. Here and there a couple holding hands walked through the shallows – everyone was a couple – and others sat quietly beholding the sea that came in and out, over and over again. I ended up at the Yellow Cafe, which was definitely not happening place either. I sat at a lounge facing the sea and ordered another cheap beer. As I did so an extended Indian family came up from the water’s edge to one of the tables. It soon became obvious that some of them had chosen to take a dip in their undies, including dad, who stood there in his sagging, threadbare and definitely uncool y-fronts. Did I want to see this? No, I didn’t, nor, it seemed, did one of the waiters, who basically suggested they should scram to the nearest toilet. That was met with oblivious mystification, and worse was to come.

You have to understand that the old man was about 20 foot in front of me directly in my line of sight. As I tried to look by him he wrapped a towel around his waist and began the shimmy to remove the aforementioned undies from beneath it. Oh come on man…No, don’t…Oh my God, I thought. I looked away, looked back over my shoulder as if there was something there in the empty shell of the restaurant I couldn’t miss. Some part of me wondered about different cultural mores, while the rest of me revolted. True, had it been a pretty girl I probably would have looked on with rapt fascination. It wasn’t though, and regardless, not something I should have to witness – especially when I’m trying to enjoy the serene ambience of the beach.

Perhaps I was discombobulated by the sight – who wouldn’t be? – for I soon ended up back at the hotel, had a nightcap, a chat, then off to bed.

I’ve been sleeping poorly lately, unusual for me. The bed here is good, king-sized and with a soft mattress, but the night before I had tossed and turned like I never do, restless from the moment I closed my eyes.

Last night I slept divinely. Unlike the dreams that have dogged me lately, I instead wrote stories in my sleep last night. I had closed my eyes with the plot of a new story in my head. As I slept the story was fleshed out, words put in place becoming paragraphs. Not for the first time I wished there was something I could plug into my head to upload these things and keep for posterity.

Not to be, but I did scribble a lot down this morning over breakfast.