'Timmy, look at the state of you! come here and let's get you inside and sorted out."
That's the great thing about mums and coming home. You need sorting out, other wise you wouldn't be back. They know you need sorting out or you wouldn't be back. You know they can't sort you out anymore and they know you know that, but there's still the illusion that they can. That they will. And whilst you haven't got the heart to tell them they won't, you've got even less heart to admit it to yourself.
My mum reckoned she could tell a lot about a man from his hands too. My dad had spent years manufacturing chalks, so anyone with soft hands was a cut above in her book. I knew resistance was futile. My mother's obsession of knowing my life in KL was too deeply grounded to be shaken now. I placed my open heart at her disposal whilst she ran through her naggy mummy's love over and under like an super advanced chatty jukebox, fretting at the discovery of every details.
'Your life is pretty tiring, Timmy. You don't even have time for yourself. How can you work seven days a week? Tomorrow I'll boiled you herbal tea. You've been wasting too much time with that guitar as usual.'
Whether the time spent refining my guitar technique was wasted or not was debatable. It's true that I had spent more hours that was probably healthy alone, hunched over my beloved Ibanez guitars, but I was striving to be as good as I could be. Ever since I'd been an adolescent, and most of my mates had been into chart music, prog rock, fusion or most commonly jazz, I'd lost my heart to RnB singer-song writers like Marvin Gaye, Passion, Gabe Bondoc and John Mayer especially, and I wanted to be able to do what they did. The way they could hold an audience with just a song and a voice and a finger-picked guitar transfixed me.It was as impressive in its own quiet was as seeing a comedian make people laugh with nothing but a microphone and a few choice observations.
To Be Continue...
That's the great thing about mums and coming home. You need sorting out, other wise you wouldn't be back. They know you need sorting out or you wouldn't be back. You know they can't sort you out anymore and they know you know that, but there's still the illusion that they can. That they will. And whilst you haven't got the heart to tell them they won't, you've got even less heart to admit it to yourself.
My mum reckoned she could tell a lot about a man from his hands too. My dad had spent years manufacturing chalks, so anyone with soft hands was a cut above in her book. I knew resistance was futile. My mother's obsession of knowing my life in KL was too deeply grounded to be shaken now. I placed my open heart at her disposal whilst she ran through her naggy mummy's love over and under like an super advanced chatty jukebox, fretting at the discovery of every details.
'Your life is pretty tiring, Timmy. You don't even have time for yourself. How can you work seven days a week? Tomorrow I'll boiled you herbal tea. You've been wasting too much time with that guitar as usual.'
Whether the time spent refining my guitar technique was wasted or not was debatable. It's true that I had spent more hours that was probably healthy alone, hunched over my beloved Ibanez guitars, but I was striving to be as good as I could be. Ever since I'd been an adolescent, and most of my mates had been into chart music, prog rock, fusion or most commonly jazz, I'd lost my heart to RnB singer-song writers like Marvin Gaye, Passion, Gabe Bondoc and John Mayer especially, and I wanted to be able to do what they did. The way they could hold an audience with just a song and a voice and a finger-picked guitar transfixed me.It was as impressive in its own quiet was as seeing a comedian make people laugh with nothing but a microphone and a few choice observations.
To Be Continue...
mate, how come your date is at June? is this the latest?
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