An acquaintance of a close family member committed suicide today. He jumped off a building. Leaving two small kids and his wife.
My close relative, over the phone, was shocked and, I suspect, wanted to determine whether or not I was crazy enough to go and kill myself.
I am not the most well-balanced person, so I guess the suspicion was to be expected.
I was also secretly worried that my relative would go and commit suicide. So, whatever.
I think about the guy who killed himself today. He must have had a terrible time and couldn't bear it anymore. And then survivors' guilt would set in and everyone else around him would feel terrible.
When I was younger, I was besieged with fits of despair. Morose and angry, I would sulk and plot my revenge on the world. I carried out one of them, to my ultimate dissatisfaction.
Back then, I had a purpose in life. Much like the breeders who wish to overpopulate the Earth, I was on my sacred mission - to seek the Truth.
To find out which is right and which is wrong. Ultimately, it led me to a more chronic state of frustration and despair.
And then, I discovered this idea. Not mine. I read it somewhere.
Idea: Don't seek the truth. Just stop cherishing opinions.
Me: But...that is my function...my aspect.
Idea: Says who?
I discovered that all of pain and suffering - ALL OF IT - came from putting so much weight into opinions.
Something happens, and it is neither good, bad, right, wrong, happy nor sad. It is our judgment, our opinions that make it so, for us.
A man committed suicide. Jumped off a building. Leaving behind two children.
For some, a tragedy. For others, stupidity. And what is the truth? varies from one sphere of influence to another. From one community to another.
Value is in the eye of the buyer, wrote Gaiman. And how we love putting value into things.
I found myself, digging even further into the pits of despair, simply because of...other people's opinions? How lame is that. How pathetic it is that how we feel and think and act could be controlled so much by how other people see us and our actions.
We are the worshippers of opinions. And even those who say, "I don't give a damn!" sometimes try to ensure that other people understand very well that they do not give a damn. And sometimes, when they sense that other people might not be able to see it that way - their way - they get emotional and angry and frustrated.
All we are doing, all of it, are merely role-playing.
All the world's a stage, eh?
I do not know the secret of happiness. And anyone who tells you that, is most probably a fraud trying to fuck you or to get your money.
I do know, though, the secret to despair, having lived with it all my life.
Despair, is most normally associated with self-image. About how we are perceived to stand in this world. How our roles are seen as. The trickster, the victim, the sage, the whore.
Duality, triplicality, dodecahedrality of man.
All these bad feelings of anger, resentment, frustration, hurt and suffering all comes from perception. And more often than not, the perception is not even ours to begin with.
And even then, our own perception can sometimes be suspect.
Anger, despair, suffering, pain, are all addictive. Once you have a taste of it, you will crave more. You begin to fall in love with your role. As tormentor or the tormented. You begin to create scenes for yourself. And so you create a scene.
Then, you build the stage, and you play your roles.
All this emotion, is merely delusion.
I mean, if you're really unhappy at something, you'd go for something else, right?
If I go to Jalan Telawi 4, and every time I go there, I get beat up by some rapper-wannabes, I wouldn't go there any more.
If every time I punch myself in the face, I feel excruciating pain, I'd stop punching myself in the face, right?
The fact that some people stay in painful conditions and positions and relationships - when they have a choice not to - is because somehow, in some way, it works for them, and their roles.
When the roles overcome us, and consumes us, and we are left with little more than a caricature of ourselves, I guess that's when some people jump off buildings. Or worse.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Malay Diarrhea: Secret Invasion
Humans, as a species, are suffering from identity crises. Crisises? What's the plural for crisis? Crises. That's it.
Fuck the humans, let's look at something I do know about - Malays.
Malays suffer from identity crises. Compounded, perhaps, by recent developments when the Indonesians start saying that all the cultural heritage of the Malays here in MALAYsia are theirs.
Well, if the Indians ever figure it out, they would start claiming some or most of Indonesia's culture as their own. I mean, Anduman (Hanuman)? Garuda? Jentayu (Jatayu)?
Garuda and Jatayu are Hindu Gods. I found them in the Mahabharata. Even the Malay and Indonesian languages of this region, were heavily influenced by Sanskrit, which came from India. Also, by the Dutch and Portuguese(beranda/verandah, tuala, sabun, biola, etc), the Japanese way, wayyy before World War 2 (cawan) and especially the English (nasional, basikal, etc)
Malays of this region - and related clans - were pagans first, then Hindus and finally, Islam. And some Christians to add flavour.
Si Tanggang (Malim Kundang in Indonesia) used to eat barbecued monkey until the Islamisation of the 1970s changed his favourite food to the 'halal' smoked bananas.
The act of bersanding and tepung tawar were remnants of a Hindu past. Walimatul Urus, an act of announcing marital bonds to ensure less slander and suspicion of legit couples fucking each other, was carried over from Islamic Arabic culture.
The only three original words in the Malay language, according to a lecturer (I don't sleep during lectures) were Padi, Api and Babi. The only things you need to survive.
A hot meal of pork chop with rice.
And so today, I see the poorer Malays pretending to be Arabs. The middle class Malays wanting to be English or American. And the rich wanting to reconnect with their roots by claiming to having come from poor families. To be Lat's Kampung Boy.
Boy, you don't know what poor is. You don't want to grow up in a kampung. I would have much rather plonked down RM400 to buy some Yu-Gi-Oh cards and play truant to watch a movie than go through bushes every day and playing with snakes.
The Malays of this country are the best adapters to their environment. I only know this one single race - the Malays - that can affect accents almost as effectively as any native speaker.
My Japanese teacher said that no one can replicate the sound of 'tcschu' - the 13th letter of both the hiragana and katakana. We could.
I have never met a white dude or dudette who could get the 'idgham' and 'ikhfak' sinus vibrations right, when reciting the Koran. I mean, 'izhars' and 'mads' are easy, but when the double stroke 'tanwins' meet the 'waus', I have only heard a majority of Malays get it right.
I am sure there are some. Anyone can do it, if they try hard enough, but this natural affinity for languages, I have only found in Malays.
It doesn't stop there. There are several silat disciplines which actually derive certain philosophies and techniques from the Chinese Wing Jchun.
The fact that Malays can draw from so many influences and assimilate so many cultures into our own is not a weakness or something to be ashamed of. And I am not justifying.
Why re-invent the wheel? One trait the Malays have been accused of is that we are lazy. I say, yes. We are lazy. So we think of short cuts. Why suffer? Why crave pain? And then complain about it?
We Malays are a lazy bunch. So we think of ways to make our work easier, whenever possible. And we sure do love parties. Even during demonstrations, Malays are the first to assemble, and the last to go home. Why? Cause we love to par-tay!
And our assimilation of other cultures show an all-embracing acceptance of our role as cosmopolitan citizens of the world. A role everyone should embrace.
We even put that into the constitution. Malays are the only race in the world, perhaps the entire universe, not bound by genetics. Anyone can be a Malay. Doesn't matter if you're Chinese, Indian, mat salleh, Klingon, Vulcan, Jedi, whatever.
You go by the criteria of said constitution, and you are a Malay. For over 50 years, this has been the only way to really eradicate racism - by crossing a boundary no one has ever crossed before. Fuck DNA.
Why? Because Malays are shape-changing Skrulls(Marvel Comics)! No! We are Borgs(Star Trek)!
As Bruce Lee said, "A rock is hard, but a water, it can be soft, and sometimes it can be hard. SO hard, it can break rocks. Be water, my friend. Be water." SOmething like that.
And yet, somewhere along the way, some of us took a turn somewhere. Instead of embracing other cultures, they resist change and anything which has not been in place for at least a few decades.
Somebody wrote a book about cultural identities, called Routes. It was an answer to Alex Haley's seminal work Roots. The non-fiction book followed a race of Bedouins who supposedly were unchanged with the passage of time.
These desert nomads have, over the years, accumulated different cultural practices based on which area they have been to. And they consider that - a culture of assimilation and absorption - as the one true culture.
And believe it or not, that is the world culture.
Don't tell me the Chinese came up with the British curriculum. Don't tell me Indians invented men's shirts with buttons on the right(a remnant of the past when men dress themselves and women get help from maids. Hence, blouses almost always have the buttons on the left).
Who invented noodles? The Chinese, or Italians? Was Marco Polo the culprit?
If we are truly staying true to our culture, please reject electricity. Faraday, Edison and Tesla and others were the ones responsible. Not Mat Sabu. Not Eddie Kurniawan. Not Joko Suprianto.
What was one day merely invention, may someday be a part of culture. Take the television, very much part of world culture as song and dance.
Mozart did not invent music. Neither did Beethoven, Elvis Presley nor Eminem. And definitely not the Jonas Brothers.
Books were not invented by JK Rowling or Tolstoy.
We all, as humans, share a rich heritage. Don't waste it by fighting over our inheritance, as we are wont to do.
Fuck the humans, let's look at something I do know about - Malays.
Malays suffer from identity crises. Compounded, perhaps, by recent developments when the Indonesians start saying that all the cultural heritage of the Malays here in MALAYsia are theirs.
Well, if the Indians ever figure it out, they would start claiming some or most of Indonesia's culture as their own. I mean, Anduman (Hanuman)? Garuda? Jentayu (Jatayu)?
Garuda and Jatayu are Hindu Gods. I found them in the Mahabharata. Even the Malay and Indonesian languages of this region, were heavily influenced by Sanskrit, which came from India. Also, by the Dutch and Portuguese(beranda/verandah, tuala, sabun, biola, etc), the Japanese way, wayyy before World War 2 (cawan) and especially the English (nasional, basikal, etc)
Malays of this region - and related clans - were pagans first, then Hindus and finally, Islam. And some Christians to add flavour.
Si Tanggang (Malim Kundang in Indonesia) used to eat barbecued monkey until the Islamisation of the 1970s changed his favourite food to the 'halal' smoked bananas.
The act of bersanding and tepung tawar were remnants of a Hindu past. Walimatul Urus, an act of announcing marital bonds to ensure less slander and suspicion of legit couples fucking each other, was carried over from Islamic Arabic culture.
The only three original words in the Malay language, according to a lecturer (I don't sleep during lectures) were Padi, Api and Babi. The only things you need to survive.
A hot meal of pork chop with rice.
And so today, I see the poorer Malays pretending to be Arabs. The middle class Malays wanting to be English or American. And the rich wanting to reconnect with their roots by claiming to having come from poor families. To be Lat's Kampung Boy.
Boy, you don't know what poor is. You don't want to grow up in a kampung. I would have much rather plonked down RM400 to buy some Yu-Gi-Oh cards and play truant to watch a movie than go through bushes every day and playing with snakes.
The Malays of this country are the best adapters to their environment. I only know this one single race - the Malays - that can affect accents almost as effectively as any native speaker.
My Japanese teacher said that no one can replicate the sound of 'tcschu' - the 13th letter of both the hiragana and katakana. We could.
I have never met a white dude or dudette who could get the 'idgham' and 'ikhfak' sinus vibrations right, when reciting the Koran. I mean, 'izhars' and 'mads' are easy, but when the double stroke 'tanwins' meet the 'waus', I have only heard a majority of Malays get it right.
I am sure there are some. Anyone can do it, if they try hard enough, but this natural affinity for languages, I have only found in Malays.
It doesn't stop there. There are several silat disciplines which actually derive certain philosophies and techniques from the Chinese Wing Jchun.
The fact that Malays can draw from so many influences and assimilate so many cultures into our own is not a weakness or something to be ashamed of. And I am not justifying.
Why re-invent the wheel? One trait the Malays have been accused of is that we are lazy. I say, yes. We are lazy. So we think of short cuts. Why suffer? Why crave pain? And then complain about it?
We Malays are a lazy bunch. So we think of ways to make our work easier, whenever possible. And we sure do love parties. Even during demonstrations, Malays are the first to assemble, and the last to go home. Why? Cause we love to par-tay!
And our assimilation of other cultures show an all-embracing acceptance of our role as cosmopolitan citizens of the world. A role everyone should embrace.
We even put that into the constitution. Malays are the only race in the world, perhaps the entire universe, not bound by genetics. Anyone can be a Malay. Doesn't matter if you're Chinese, Indian, mat salleh, Klingon, Vulcan, Jedi, whatever.
You go by the criteria of said constitution, and you are a Malay. For over 50 years, this has been the only way to really eradicate racism - by crossing a boundary no one has ever crossed before. Fuck DNA.
Why? Because Malays are shape-changing Skrulls(Marvel Comics)! No! We are Borgs(Star Trek)!
As Bruce Lee said, "A rock is hard, but a water, it can be soft, and sometimes it can be hard. SO hard, it can break rocks. Be water, my friend. Be water." SOmething like that.
And yet, somewhere along the way, some of us took a turn somewhere. Instead of embracing other cultures, they resist change and anything which has not been in place for at least a few decades.
Somebody wrote a book about cultural identities, called Routes. It was an answer to Alex Haley's seminal work Roots. The non-fiction book followed a race of Bedouins who supposedly were unchanged with the passage of time.
These desert nomads have, over the years, accumulated different cultural practices based on which area they have been to. And they consider that - a culture of assimilation and absorption - as the one true culture.
And believe it or not, that is the world culture.
Don't tell me the Chinese came up with the British curriculum. Don't tell me Indians invented men's shirts with buttons on the right(a remnant of the past when men dress themselves and women get help from maids. Hence, blouses almost always have the buttons on the left).
Who invented noodles? The Chinese, or Italians? Was Marco Polo the culprit?
If we are truly staying true to our culture, please reject electricity. Faraday, Edison and Tesla and others were the ones responsible. Not Mat Sabu. Not Eddie Kurniawan. Not Joko Suprianto.
What was one day merely invention, may someday be a part of culture. Take the television, very much part of world culture as song and dance.
Mozart did not invent music. Neither did Beethoven, Elvis Presley nor Eminem. And definitely not the Jonas Brothers.
Books were not invented by JK Rowling or Tolstoy.
We all, as humans, share a rich heritage. Don't waste it by fighting over our inheritance, as we are wont to do.
Monday, September 28, 2009
I Bust The Windows Out Your Car
After dealing with a dizzying state of euphoria - caused by the discovery of one of my Holy Grails in life - to find a device that could display media files I have accumulated since I was 16 - downloading on 14.4 kbps connection, to the more-or-less broadband speeds we have today.
And tonight, I finally found it. Hurrah! Or...fucking hell ass bitch slut-ho whore-priestess!
This is like an orgy! I was ejaculating all over my living room as my TV set displayed videos I got 13 years earlier. And they're not even porn.
And then, finding myself unnaturally happy, which warns me of a state of manic depression, I calmed myself down and started reading Epic Illustrated - a collection of strange and fanciful comics by Michael Moorcock, Harlan Ellison and other wonderful writers and artists.
After that, I called a meeting with a team of scriptwriters for a TV series I am doing.
Mostly consulting them on the storyline and characterisation. I got my own basket of stuff I need to write. I also provided some reference material, which I now could play on my TV set.
Goddamn, man!
I fucking love this thing! Feels like I was born to use it. That it's my manifest destiny or some shit.
Oh well. Got a long day tomorrow. Sleep.
And tonight, I finally found it. Hurrah! Or...fucking hell ass bitch slut-ho whore-priestess!
This is like an orgy! I was ejaculating all over my living room as my TV set displayed videos I got 13 years earlier. And they're not even porn.
And then, finding myself unnaturally happy, which warns me of a state of manic depression, I calmed myself down and started reading Epic Illustrated - a collection of strange and fanciful comics by Michael Moorcock, Harlan Ellison and other wonderful writers and artists.
After that, I called a meeting with a team of scriptwriters for a TV series I am doing.
Mostly consulting them on the storyline and characterisation. I got my own basket of stuff I need to write. I also provided some reference material, which I now could play on my TV set.
Goddamn, man!
I fucking love this thing! Feels like I was born to use it. That it's my manifest destiny or some shit.
Oh well. Got a long day tomorrow. Sleep.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Demon-Cracy: Reinforcement
All throughout Raya, I got people telling me that I would be happier as them. You know, married, breeding like viruses, pretending to pray, wearing a tudung, having kids like roaches.
Now, you see what that is? That's insecurity.
When people seek out other people to tell them that they also want what they have, or believe what they believe in, that's insecurity.
When people ask you to agree with them, and you're not a doctor diagnosing a patient, a scientist doing an EIA or a consultant conning all the money from one person's company, if it is not at all functional, then they are insecure.
JUDGMENT!
Yes, I am judgmental. Know how I got this good? Because we all judge. I get judged to my face.
"Oh, you're like this because you're like this and that."
Way to go, Professor X. Why don't you rape my mind while you're at it.
So yeah, judgmental.
And people who assume that everyone else want what they want, or want them, are arrogant.
Now, you see what that is? That's insecurity.
When people seek out other people to tell them that they also want what they have, or believe what they believe in, that's insecurity.
When people ask you to agree with them, and you're not a doctor diagnosing a patient, a scientist doing an EIA or a consultant conning all the money from one person's company, if it is not at all functional, then they are insecure.
JUDGMENT!
Yes, I am judgmental. Know how I got this good? Because we all judge. I get judged to my face.
"Oh, you're like this because you're like this and that."
Way to go, Professor X. Why don't you rape my mind while you're at it.
So yeah, judgmental.
And people who assume that everyone else want what they want, or want them, are arrogant.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Demon-Cracy: Anatomy of a Cult
I figure that the fastest way to make money is by establishing a new religion or cult.
I mean, Calvary Church has hundreds of millions. They're constructing a 200 or 400 million ringgit church complex in Cheras or some shit like that.
Governments spend billions, maybe trillions each year on religion. Tourism because of religion also is worth billions. If not trillions.
You don't even need a proper religion. Just a cult will do.
So here it is: Demon-Cracy. My cult.
To make it legit in Malaysia, this cult, Demon-Cracy, worships nothing. No, scratch that. Demon-Cratics will worship other people. Meaning, we will do things, not because of fear of God, but fear of other people.
The catch-phrases will be:
"What would other people say?"
"Oh My Makcik Bedah Mulut Jubur!"
"Praise be to other people."
"In the name of Other People!"
The holy text would be comics written by British authors.
The basic tenets are simple.
1. Everyone else is wrong. Demon-Cratics are right. Whosoever says that we are wrong will be destroyed, waged war upon, invaded and all their oil confiscated.
2. Whosoever commits violence in the name of Demon-Cracy or Other People are freedom fighters. The rest are terrorists.
3. Demon-Cratics have the right to be offended with everything, especially fax machines. I FUCKING HATE FAX MACHINES! GOD HATES FAX!
4. List of things Demon-Cracy disapproves of:
a. abortion-rights people. Anti or pro.
b. vegetarians, vegans and such.
c. FAX MACHINES! FAX MACHINES! FAX MACHINES!
d. Twilight fans, aka TWITS.
e. atheists.
f. Jonas Brothers
g. Celibacy. All Demon-Cratics must fuck by 25 or lose their demon-craticness.
h. FAX MACHINES!!!
Stand on Afterlife:
After we die, we will join the Lifestream, as seen in Final Fantasy VII. One day, a meteor will come and Demon-Cratics will be part of Lifestream, which will save the world once again from the evil forces of Skeletor.
How to be a Demon-Cratic:
- simple. Send me money. Lots of money.
I mean, Calvary Church has hundreds of millions. They're constructing a 200 or 400 million ringgit church complex in Cheras or some shit like that.
Governments spend billions, maybe trillions each year on religion. Tourism because of religion also is worth billions. If not trillions.
You don't even need a proper religion. Just a cult will do.
So here it is: Demon-Cracy. My cult.
To make it legit in Malaysia, this cult, Demon-Cracy, worships nothing. No, scratch that. Demon-Cratics will worship other people. Meaning, we will do things, not because of fear of God, but fear of other people.
The catch-phrases will be:
"What would other people say?"
"Oh My Makcik Bedah Mulut Jubur!"
"Praise be to other people."
"In the name of Other People!"
The holy text would be comics written by British authors.
The basic tenets are simple.
1. Everyone else is wrong. Demon-Cratics are right. Whosoever says that we are wrong will be destroyed, waged war upon, invaded and all their oil confiscated.
2. Whosoever commits violence in the name of Demon-Cracy or Other People are freedom fighters. The rest are terrorists.
3. Demon-Cratics have the right to be offended with everything, especially fax machines. I FUCKING HATE FAX MACHINES! GOD HATES FAX!
4. List of things Demon-Cracy disapproves of:
a. abortion-rights people. Anti or pro.
b. vegetarians, vegans and such.
c. FAX MACHINES! FAX MACHINES! FAX MACHINES!
d. Twilight fans, aka TWITS.
e. atheists.
f. Jonas Brothers
g. Celibacy. All Demon-Cratics must fuck by 25 or lose their demon-craticness.
h. FAX MACHINES!!!
Stand on Afterlife:
After we die, we will join the Lifestream, as seen in Final Fantasy VII. One day, a meteor will come and Demon-Cratics will be part of Lifestream, which will save the world once again from the evil forces of Skeletor.
How to be a Demon-Cratic:
- simple. Send me money. Lots of money.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Kanye, I Agree With You
This is already stale but, before it gets staler...any more stale...umm...crawling with maggots...BEYONCE HAS ONE OF THE BEST MUSIC VIDEOS OF ALL TIME!
And in Jay-Z's words, he didn't kill anybody. Give the dude with the annoying shades a break. But people will make fun of this for at least a few more months.
And in Jay-Z's words, he didn't kill anybody. Give the dude with the annoying shades a break. But people will make fun of this for at least a few more months.
Raya Report
Just reached my apartment in Bangsar. I topped off the one week Raya celebrations with sending my father to a medical center in Kuantan for his monthly checkup with the amiable Dr Ooi.
Blood sugar level is slightly high, and blood pressure is surprisingly normal. Some minor eye issues. Otherwise, the old man's fine. Despite protests that he should be given MORE cookies and glutinous rice, in an attempt to die by food.
It has been a strange Raya. My little house beside the swamp received no less than 400 visitors, draining 25 1.5 litre bottles of 100 Plus and more than two jumbo boxes of teabags.
200 ketupat puluts were gone by the second day, and we exhausted all our supply of ketupat nasi as well. rendang on the second day, though carefully refrigerated, was only an inch of spices in one of the smaller bowls, sans the meat.
My family is a family of teachers. Three generations of students came for a Raya visit. Just today, on the fifth day of Raya, seven cars filled with students arrived. Thankfully, after I have left for KL.
We also have a large extended family. While my family do not believe that much in reproduction - only one of four siblings are married - others treat it as some sort of religion. One aunt brought 24 grandchildren, in three separate visits.
The last remaining sibling my late grandfather had also brought his brood of around 20 family members.
Raya angpows finished yesterday.
Two days before Raya, I suffered a mental burnout. So I got myself some painkillers. I took one every day since Raya eve.
The only clan who did not show up was the KL branch. Kuantan - check, Cameron Highlands - check, Pekan - check.
The Chinese side came in three separate visits over two days.
One of them proceeded to do some free plumbing on my house while the rest sampled some of the food we served.
In truth, I have always hated Raya. It usually meant drama and pain and suffering. And hard, hard, work.
This time, I decided not to be a victim anymore and do things as I see fit. We bought most things, instead of cooking them from scratch, and sets of plates and cutlery my mother has accumulated over the years - enough to feed 2,000 people at one go - made way for the now traditional (traditional for three years) polysterene cups and plates with plastic cutlery.
The only problem was, to keep my father - suffering from stroke, diabetes and heart disease - from eating too many things that could kill him.
I almost had a breakdown on the eve of Raya when, fueled by my burnout, I speculated that if he continued to eat ketupat pulut and the super-sweet kandi - not a stripper name, but an east coast delicacy involving shaved coconuts, milk and lots of sugar - he would die come the evening of the first day of Raya.
It was tough, but I decided not to be part of something that could very well kill him.
Well, he's still alive, angry as hell, but still breathing, and all the guests finished off most of the unhealthy stuff. My father could very well hate me till the end of his days, but I did what I thought - and think - is best. As much as I could.
Raya also gave me a chance to show some people a spice garden I set up for my mother. There are now, at the back of my house in Bukit Kuin, several pots with basil, sweet basil, rosemary, thyme, oregano, Italian parsley, chilvers, cilantro and sage growing in them.
The basil turned out especially good. It grew to hip length and we used it to cook that traditional Bukit Kuin dish - the fresh mushroom fussilli. Which we forced Malays to eat, sans the parmesan for a healthier diet. They hated it, but I don't give a fuck.
Meanwhile, this year also marked the first year my mother stopped making biskut dam - the texture of which has been a closely-guarded family secret. Gone also are Biskut Jakarta and Bangkit Susu, which came about because of a mistake in mixing the ingredients.
This year also saw myself running out of Raya money-packets. So for any of my friends and bosses in KL with kids, sorry, but no money for the kiddies. I'm all tapped-out.
Despite the simple and meagre preparations for Raya, I managed to burn several holes in my pocket.
Also happy to report that my nephews are growing like weeds. Am not going to have kids because I believe they are a huge responsibility and only millionaires should have them.
Imagine if you have nine kids. Between 10-20 years time, you would have to spend between 500,000-1.5 million on their college educationS. And that's for a low-level institution. Fuck Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Johns Hopkins, MIT, Brown, Imperial, Cambridge or Oxford.
People who believe that kids will simply grow into responsible adults on their own and magically, miraculously, find their own way in the world are irresponsible motherfuckers.
If I could have chosen, I would not have been born. And I am not saying that with an ounce of emotion, but with the utmost pragmatism. I do not think my parents should have had four kids, because they could not afford to. But what's done is done and that is the hand we've been dealt, so there.
They did the best they could. Best effort.
Anyway, on a more upbeat note, this Raya I met an old man who is conscious. When I say conscious, I mean someone who knows what is important in life, and forsakes drama and pain and suffering in favour of a calm I have never seen before, but have read about in Buddha comics.
Oh, and during this Raya, four people commented on my single status, to their utter regret and dismay, as I took a hammer and pounded on their notion and understanding of family.
For the record: I do not put breeding at a high place on my priority list. Fucking? Yes. Breeding like sheep? No.
And just because you have something - like the ability to beat up your wives, does not mean I want it to.
With that, I conclude my Raya report. Now, back to work.
Blood sugar level is slightly high, and blood pressure is surprisingly normal. Some minor eye issues. Otherwise, the old man's fine. Despite protests that he should be given MORE cookies and glutinous rice, in an attempt to die by food.
It has been a strange Raya. My little house beside the swamp received no less than 400 visitors, draining 25 1.5 litre bottles of 100 Plus and more than two jumbo boxes of teabags.
200 ketupat puluts were gone by the second day, and we exhausted all our supply of ketupat nasi as well. rendang on the second day, though carefully refrigerated, was only an inch of spices in one of the smaller bowls, sans the meat.
My family is a family of teachers. Three generations of students came for a Raya visit. Just today, on the fifth day of Raya, seven cars filled with students arrived. Thankfully, after I have left for KL.
We also have a large extended family. While my family do not believe that much in reproduction - only one of four siblings are married - others treat it as some sort of religion. One aunt brought 24 grandchildren, in three separate visits.
The last remaining sibling my late grandfather had also brought his brood of around 20 family members.
Raya angpows finished yesterday.
Two days before Raya, I suffered a mental burnout. So I got myself some painkillers. I took one every day since Raya eve.
The only clan who did not show up was the KL branch. Kuantan - check, Cameron Highlands - check, Pekan - check.
The Chinese side came in three separate visits over two days.
One of them proceeded to do some free plumbing on my house while the rest sampled some of the food we served.
In truth, I have always hated Raya. It usually meant drama and pain and suffering. And hard, hard, work.
This time, I decided not to be a victim anymore and do things as I see fit. We bought most things, instead of cooking them from scratch, and sets of plates and cutlery my mother has accumulated over the years - enough to feed 2,000 people at one go - made way for the now traditional (traditional for three years) polysterene cups and plates with plastic cutlery.
The only problem was, to keep my father - suffering from stroke, diabetes and heart disease - from eating too many things that could kill him.
I almost had a breakdown on the eve of Raya when, fueled by my burnout, I speculated that if he continued to eat ketupat pulut and the super-sweet kandi - not a stripper name, but an east coast delicacy involving shaved coconuts, milk and lots of sugar - he would die come the evening of the first day of Raya.
It was tough, but I decided not to be part of something that could very well kill him.
Well, he's still alive, angry as hell, but still breathing, and all the guests finished off most of the unhealthy stuff. My father could very well hate me till the end of his days, but I did what I thought - and think - is best. As much as I could.
Raya also gave me a chance to show some people a spice garden I set up for my mother. There are now, at the back of my house in Bukit Kuin, several pots with basil, sweet basil, rosemary, thyme, oregano, Italian parsley, chilvers, cilantro and sage growing in them.
The basil turned out especially good. It grew to hip length and we used it to cook that traditional Bukit Kuin dish - the fresh mushroom fussilli. Which we forced Malays to eat, sans the parmesan for a healthier diet. They hated it, but I don't give a fuck.
Meanwhile, this year also marked the first year my mother stopped making biskut dam - the texture of which has been a closely-guarded family secret. Gone also are Biskut Jakarta and Bangkit Susu, which came about because of a mistake in mixing the ingredients.
This year also saw myself running out of Raya money-packets. So for any of my friends and bosses in KL with kids, sorry, but no money for the kiddies. I'm all tapped-out.
Despite the simple and meagre preparations for Raya, I managed to burn several holes in my pocket.
Also happy to report that my nephews are growing like weeds. Am not going to have kids because I believe they are a huge responsibility and only millionaires should have them.
Imagine if you have nine kids. Between 10-20 years time, you would have to spend between 500,000-1.5 million on their college educationS. And that's for a low-level institution. Fuck Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Johns Hopkins, MIT, Brown, Imperial, Cambridge or Oxford.
People who believe that kids will simply grow into responsible adults on their own and magically, miraculously, find their own way in the world are irresponsible motherfuckers.
If I could have chosen, I would not have been born. And I am not saying that with an ounce of emotion, but with the utmost pragmatism. I do not think my parents should have had four kids, because they could not afford to. But what's done is done and that is the hand we've been dealt, so there.
They did the best they could. Best effort.
Anyway, on a more upbeat note, this Raya I met an old man who is conscious. When I say conscious, I mean someone who knows what is important in life, and forsakes drama and pain and suffering in favour of a calm I have never seen before, but have read about in Buddha comics.
Oh, and during this Raya, four people commented on my single status, to their utter regret and dismay, as I took a hammer and pounded on their notion and understanding of family.
For the record: I do not put breeding at a high place on my priority list. Fucking? Yes. Breeding like sheep? No.
And just because you have something - like the ability to beat up your wives, does not mean I want it to.
With that, I conclude my Raya report. Now, back to work.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Malay Diarrhea: Victim Stories
I have been observing child-rearing practices in this country since, well, since I was a child. Which was not long ago. One important element are the victim stories.
It used to be that I watched the common practices with righteous indignation, a righteous outrage at the stupidity of it all, and the patterns they make.
This past Raya - and I'm still accepting guests tomorrow and taking my father to the hospital the day after - I have had a chance to view things from a fresh perspective.
Fresh, because I had just recovered from a mental burnout. Two days before Raya, I found myself unable to access certain parts of my brain. It was fatigue, and I suspect some sorts of delayed nicotine withdrawal.
Anyway, yes, the way people teach their children and the kind of people they grow to be have always fascinated me. Not because I want children. I do not subscribe to the thought that starting a family is an achievement. Having kids is a triumph only if you are a virus.
I mean, like Chris Rock said, even roaches have kids.
Nope. My interests were purely observational. I wished to determine how we beget so many idiots and unconscious people in such a short amount of time.
The key ingredient, I believe, are the victim stories.
At a very young age, kids are taught this:
"Ooo, kesian diaaa..."
Which translates to "Ooo, poor thing."
Sound familiar? It is prevalent in almost all cultures, just more pronounced among the Malays, because Malays have more kids, in this country. A friend from a milk company, amidst glasses of yellow liquid, told me that the Malay population grew at a standard 4% the previous years while the other races remained stagnant at 0%. I do not know the veracity of this data, because Malaysians DO NOT share information. Which is another grouse.
How can we be a more learned society, when we do not share information? Knowledge and experience should be shared, if we want to see a better world around us. Otherwise, we will be overrun by idiots. However, that's another story for another day.
This "Ooo, kesian diaaa...", despite seeming insignificant, is actually very important.
It tells the child that the fastest and best way to get what he or she or it wants, is to be pathetic.
You be pathetic, in pain, suffering - essentially a victim - and you get what you want.
These are the same people who would later grow up and try to pass off as victims at every juncture. I do not know about other races, but whenever I hear anyone trying to make themselves seem like the aggrieved party over something or a situation the responsibilities of which lay in all parties, I hear the "Ooo, kesian diaaa..." phrase.
The kids, upon hearing this, would take it a step further. Any child would go and complain, haplessly, about his or her siblings who victimised him or her.
Or, they would go the other way and start victimising the other children.
Look at our stories of war heroes. I have the utmost respect for Leftenan Adnan, who fought till the very end to defend his country - this country, and the brave soldiers at Bukit Kepong who gave their all to kill the damned Communists.
However, the context these stories were put in were quite...pathetic. The Greeks treated Leonidas, who led 300 Spartans against the Persian Horde in a suicide strike, as a success story.
William Wallace was drawn and quartered, true, but his fight was worth having your entrails removed while you're still breathing.
Horatius at the bridge. Peter of Holland, who held back the ocean with a finger in the dam. Robert Bruce of Scotland - after failing countless times - was taught tenacity and diligence by a spider.
Abraham Lincoln went through so many trials and tribulations before triumphing as one of, if not THE, greatest presidents ever in the history of the United States of America.
The tale of the Ronin - the masterless Samurais in Japan who waited for years to exact their revenge on a cruel daimyo.
Even in Islamic history - the first war was in Badar or Badr, where a force of 300 farmers and slaves and merchants fought 1013 elite Quraisy soldiers was a tale of overcoming the impossible.
And yet, when our people, the Malays, tell our young the stories of Leftenan Adnan, the focus was on, "Ooo, kesian diaaa..." NO! Leftenan Adnan did not give up nor surrender. He didn't give a shit. He knew he was going to lose.
Leftenan Adnan: Fuck it, man, I'm taking down more than they're gonna take down - me.
He did not need pity. He died a man. The Japanese hated him so much, they took his body and had every Japanese soldier present bayonet him in the face.
What a way to go. If I go to jail for something I wrote, and died there, after one assassin shanked me to death, then it would have been a great career as a journalist.
And what of the tales of other heroes? Tok Janggut in Kelantan, Tok Gajah, Mat Kilau and Datuk Bahaman in Pahang. Datuk Maharajalela, Tok Sagor, Seputum in Perak. Mat Salleh in Sabah. We have enough to form our own League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
And yet the stories we keep telling our kids are sad ones. Or rather, the context of the stories. Stories are just stories. We do not know whether they are true or just make-believe. But we can infuse any spirit we want to.
"Ooo, kesian diaaa..."
Fuck that shit, man.
And hence, our society is weakened and destroyed.
I put such a strong emphasis on this victim thing, because whenever anyone tried to help victims, they start lashing out at people. As a superhero, this makes my job a lot harder.
Victims exhibit unconscious and insecure behaviour. They constantly seek sympathy and pity. Take it to the next level, and they start believing their own victim stories, and turn into self-defeating piles of bullshit.
These people would worship pain and suffering. Pain becomes a currency. Suffering is an indication as to what they could and SHOULD have. And they are all emotion and no reason.
In the anime Kino's Journey, the titular character went to a land so technologically advanced that all the work is done by robots and computers. And yet, people still go to work. What do they do? They check the calculations done by computers - an impossible task.
When Kino asked one of them, they told her that since all is taken care of, the only way for people to determine who deserves MORE, they measure stress levels. Hence, whoever is in more pain, deserves more.
Absurd? Well, that is the kind of world we live in today. The world ruled by the ego.
"I have suffered more than you, therefore I am superior."
"I felt more pain than you, therefore I deserve MORE."
"You wanted me to do this? I did not want to do this, because it will hurt me. I'll show you! I'll do it and suffer and try to make you feel guilty."
"Respect my pain! For I am the ultimate victim!"
I shut up when people acknowledge my pain. I have learned that much, at least. I mean, we are humans, we do suffer from things. I had a very bad migraine during my burnout. If people were to punch me in the face or stab me in the back, then naturally there would be pain. Acknowledging it is one thing. Glorifying it is another.
Do we really want these people to control the country?
And when they grow old, they become needy old people. Unconscious, sleep-walking old people who only know how to suffer and try to make other people's lives miserable as well.
Pain and suffering, again as currency. And at the heart of it all, the victim stories. The stories we tell ourselves.
I am not saying that this is outright bad or that another option is good. This is just how I see things.
I mean, being a victim could very well work for you. You might make millions, billions, by being a victim. If you are happy with that, then by all means, go ahead.
My only intention is for people to be aware of what they are doing. Whether I am right or wrong is inconsequential. In each of our universes, everyone else is inconsequential.
Be a victim. Or don't.
If you can live with yourself like that, then by all means go ahead. If you can't, then by all means don't.
I merely believe that sooner or later, people will be fully self-aware. Perhaps it is the moment before they die, when everything becomes clear. Maybe sooner. There is no better or best way. There is only each person's way.
Oh well.
Cheers.
It used to be that I watched the common practices with righteous indignation, a righteous outrage at the stupidity of it all, and the patterns they make.
This past Raya - and I'm still accepting guests tomorrow and taking my father to the hospital the day after - I have had a chance to view things from a fresh perspective.
Fresh, because I had just recovered from a mental burnout. Two days before Raya, I found myself unable to access certain parts of my brain. It was fatigue, and I suspect some sorts of delayed nicotine withdrawal.
Anyway, yes, the way people teach their children and the kind of people they grow to be have always fascinated me. Not because I want children. I do not subscribe to the thought that starting a family is an achievement. Having kids is a triumph only if you are a virus.
I mean, like Chris Rock said, even roaches have kids.
Nope. My interests were purely observational. I wished to determine how we beget so many idiots and unconscious people in such a short amount of time.
The key ingredient, I believe, are the victim stories.
At a very young age, kids are taught this:
"Ooo, kesian diaaa..."
Which translates to "Ooo, poor thing."
Sound familiar? It is prevalent in almost all cultures, just more pronounced among the Malays, because Malays have more kids, in this country. A friend from a milk company, amidst glasses of yellow liquid, told me that the Malay population grew at a standard 4% the previous years while the other races remained stagnant at 0%. I do not know the veracity of this data, because Malaysians DO NOT share information. Which is another grouse.
How can we be a more learned society, when we do not share information? Knowledge and experience should be shared, if we want to see a better world around us. Otherwise, we will be overrun by idiots. However, that's another story for another day.
This "Ooo, kesian diaaa...", despite seeming insignificant, is actually very important.
It tells the child that the fastest and best way to get what he or she or it wants, is to be pathetic.
You be pathetic, in pain, suffering - essentially a victim - and you get what you want.
These are the same people who would later grow up and try to pass off as victims at every juncture. I do not know about other races, but whenever I hear anyone trying to make themselves seem like the aggrieved party over something or a situation the responsibilities of which lay in all parties, I hear the "Ooo, kesian diaaa..." phrase.
The kids, upon hearing this, would take it a step further. Any child would go and complain, haplessly, about his or her siblings who victimised him or her.
Or, they would go the other way and start victimising the other children.
Look at our stories of war heroes. I have the utmost respect for Leftenan Adnan, who fought till the very end to defend his country - this country, and the brave soldiers at Bukit Kepong who gave their all to kill the damned Communists.
However, the context these stories were put in were quite...pathetic. The Greeks treated Leonidas, who led 300 Spartans against the Persian Horde in a suicide strike, as a success story.
William Wallace was drawn and quartered, true, but his fight was worth having your entrails removed while you're still breathing.
Horatius at the bridge. Peter of Holland, who held back the ocean with a finger in the dam. Robert Bruce of Scotland - after failing countless times - was taught tenacity and diligence by a spider.
Abraham Lincoln went through so many trials and tribulations before triumphing as one of, if not THE, greatest presidents ever in the history of the United States of America.
The tale of the Ronin - the masterless Samurais in Japan who waited for years to exact their revenge on a cruel daimyo.
Even in Islamic history - the first war was in Badar or Badr, where a force of 300 farmers and slaves and merchants fought 1013 elite Quraisy soldiers was a tale of overcoming the impossible.
And yet, when our people, the Malays, tell our young the stories of Leftenan Adnan, the focus was on, "Ooo, kesian diaaa..." NO! Leftenan Adnan did not give up nor surrender. He didn't give a shit. He knew he was going to lose.
Leftenan Adnan: Fuck it, man, I'm taking down more than they're gonna take down - me.
He did not need pity. He died a man. The Japanese hated him so much, they took his body and had every Japanese soldier present bayonet him in the face.
What a way to go. If I go to jail for something I wrote, and died there, after one assassin shanked me to death, then it would have been a great career as a journalist.
And what of the tales of other heroes? Tok Janggut in Kelantan, Tok Gajah, Mat Kilau and Datuk Bahaman in Pahang. Datuk Maharajalela, Tok Sagor, Seputum in Perak. Mat Salleh in Sabah. We have enough to form our own League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
And yet the stories we keep telling our kids are sad ones. Or rather, the context of the stories. Stories are just stories. We do not know whether they are true or just make-believe. But we can infuse any spirit we want to.
"Ooo, kesian diaaa..."
Fuck that shit, man.
And hence, our society is weakened and destroyed.
I put such a strong emphasis on this victim thing, because whenever anyone tried to help victims, they start lashing out at people. As a superhero, this makes my job a lot harder.
Victims exhibit unconscious and insecure behaviour. They constantly seek sympathy and pity. Take it to the next level, and they start believing their own victim stories, and turn into self-defeating piles of bullshit.
These people would worship pain and suffering. Pain becomes a currency. Suffering is an indication as to what they could and SHOULD have. And they are all emotion and no reason.
In the anime Kino's Journey, the titular character went to a land so technologically advanced that all the work is done by robots and computers. And yet, people still go to work. What do they do? They check the calculations done by computers - an impossible task.
When Kino asked one of them, they told her that since all is taken care of, the only way for people to determine who deserves MORE, they measure stress levels. Hence, whoever is in more pain, deserves more.
Absurd? Well, that is the kind of world we live in today. The world ruled by the ego.
"I have suffered more than you, therefore I am superior."
"I felt more pain than you, therefore I deserve MORE."
"You wanted me to do this? I did not want to do this, because it will hurt me. I'll show you! I'll do it and suffer and try to make you feel guilty."
"Respect my pain! For I am the ultimate victim!"
I shut up when people acknowledge my pain. I have learned that much, at least. I mean, we are humans, we do suffer from things. I had a very bad migraine during my burnout. If people were to punch me in the face or stab me in the back, then naturally there would be pain. Acknowledging it is one thing. Glorifying it is another.
Do we really want these people to control the country?
And when they grow old, they become needy old people. Unconscious, sleep-walking old people who only know how to suffer and try to make other people's lives miserable as well.
Pain and suffering, again as currency. And at the heart of it all, the victim stories. The stories we tell ourselves.
I am not saying that this is outright bad or that another option is good. This is just how I see things.
I mean, being a victim could very well work for you. You might make millions, billions, by being a victim. If you are happy with that, then by all means, go ahead.
My only intention is for people to be aware of what they are doing. Whether I am right or wrong is inconsequential. In each of our universes, everyone else is inconsequential.
Be a victim. Or don't.
If you can live with yourself like that, then by all means go ahead. If you can't, then by all means don't.
I merely believe that sooner or later, people will be fully self-aware. Perhaps it is the moment before they die, when everything becomes clear. Maybe sooner. There is no better or best way. There is only each person's way.
Oh well.
Cheers.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Eid Aid
We at The Malay Male would like to wish Selamat Hari Raya to everyone who wishes to be wished Selamat Hari Raya.
And thank you to those who gave money to the poor folk in the village. It will be a better Raya for those poor sods here this year.
Cheers!
And thank you to those who gave money to the poor folk in the village. It will be a better Raya for those poor sods here this year.
Cheers!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Stories We Tell Ourselves
We all have stories we tell ourselves. We had them when we were children:
"I'll run away and be a circus ringmaster. THEN you'll be sorry!"
"This is not my world. This is not my life. One day, my REAL parents - who are secret agents and are actually royalty will take me away. THEN you'll be sorry!"
"They didn't believe me. One day, they would know that I was right. THEN they'll be sorry!"
And we have them as adults:
"I'll run away and be a circus ringmaster. THEN you'll be sorry!"
"This is not my world. This is not my life. One day, my REAL parents - who are secret agents and are actually royalty will take me away. THEN you'll be sorry!"
"They didn't believe me. One day, they would know that I was right. THEN they'll be sorry!"
The sad truth is that, no one cares what story you keep telling yourself. Why? Because they're too engrossed with their own stories.
Here's my story:
I have a wife who is a Thai-Japanese Jew. She got killed by Malaysians while trying to save some blind paraplegic orphans.
Out of grief, I morph into a steel-winged humanoid monstrosity. Satan came to convince me to join his battle against God. I kill Satan.
I kill all the angels. And then I throw this planet into the sun.
Then I explode myself and take the whole universe out with me.
THEN you'll be sorry.
The focus is always on how WRONGED I was. For that, I needed justification, and that's why I killed the Japanese-Jewish Thai. Heiress.
In our stories, somebody has to suffer. Or rather, everyone has to. Including ourselves.
That's bullshit.
But we keep on telling our stories to ourselves. We all do.
"I'll run away and be a circus ringmaster. THEN you'll be sorry!"
"This is not my world. This is not my life. One day, my REAL parents - who are secret agents and are actually royalty will take me away. THEN you'll be sorry!"
"They didn't believe me. One day, they would know that I was right. THEN they'll be sorry!"
And we have them as adults:
"I'll run away and be a circus ringmaster. THEN you'll be sorry!"
"This is not my world. This is not my life. One day, my REAL parents - who are secret agents and are actually royalty will take me away. THEN you'll be sorry!"
"They didn't believe me. One day, they would know that I was right. THEN they'll be sorry!"
The sad truth is that, no one cares what story you keep telling yourself. Why? Because they're too engrossed with their own stories.
Here's my story:
I have a wife who is a Thai-Japanese Jew. She got killed by Malaysians while trying to save some blind paraplegic orphans.
Out of grief, I morph into a steel-winged humanoid monstrosity. Satan came to convince me to join his battle against God. I kill Satan.
I kill all the angels. And then I throw this planet into the sun.
Then I explode myself and take the whole universe out with me.
THEN you'll be sorry.
The focus is always on how WRONGED I was. For that, I needed justification, and that's why I killed the Japanese-Jewish Thai. Heiress.
In our stories, somebody has to suffer. Or rather, everyone has to. Including ourselves.
That's bullshit.
But we keep on telling our stories to ourselves. We all do.
Splitting the Atom: The Malay Male Family Values
Raya is coming. I'm heading to Kuantan tomorrow. Not for rest, mind you. Raya, for my family, means more opportunity to inflict and enjoy pain.
My parents believe that unless you are doing the impossible, like solving cold fusion, you are not working hard enough. And not working hard enough means you are useless.
In the past, if they saw me sitting down, that's a no-no. That's like, causing a huge embarassment to the family.
It took me years to get over that bit of emotional manipulation.
Every Raya, there will be a competition for who is the most pain. My father, stroke or no, will be cleaning the house. My mother will be cooking for guests tomorrow, though the only people who really eat the dishes would be my Chinese relatives.
When my father was in better health, he would go into the jungle a day or two before Raya, to cut down bamboo. He'd go on top of a hill, cut the bloody things, and launch them - javelin-like - to the foot of the hill.
Then, using his saw, he'd cut them up into pieces two-feet long. Stash them into the trunk of his car, and drive them home.
Usually, there would be around 40 sticks. I had the unenviable task of cleaning them. Using some coconut fibre and a piece of last year's bamboo, as well as some wires, I would fashion a makeshift brush. That's for the insides. The outsides, I just use 'Good Morning' towels.
Then, my father would cut a cooking oil can - the 50kg one. The big one, with his metal scissors.
Placing the 'daun lerek' - banana leaves are for amateurs - which could only be found in the jungle as well, my sisters would fill the bloody bamboos with glutinous rice and coconut milk.
Then, the lemangs will be boiled in the cans, for around four hours. Then, another four hours near a roaring fire.
The dual-cooking process ensures the perfect lemang. But it's too much fucking work! Fuck!
Why can't we just buy the goddamned things?
And the drama! Oh, the drama!
I would be assigned the heavy lifting. As well as pressing coconut milk from the flesh.
Here's the process. Around 15 years ago, my parents went to the border between malaysia and Thailand. Rantau Panjang. They found something. The Holy Grail - a coconut pressing machine. It weighs around 50-70 kg. So they lugged it around the small town and carried it on the bus.
Used to be that every year, my mother would use a coconut-gtaing machine - we have two! - and that was then. Even before that, she would hank down on a fucking kukur kepala thing.
CAPTION: A Housewive's Nightmare: The dreaded kukur kelapa.
She would hanker down, and start cursing everything and everyone as she grates 50 coconuts (40 for the lemang, 10 for everything else).
After the flesh has been grated, it would be my turn at the pressing machine. Cool huh? NO! It would have been cool, if it was merely pressing a button. But no. I am the motor. I was the one who would turn the thing and squeeze every drop of coconut milk from the flesh. SQUEEZE!
Fuck all that, man. Nowadays, we just buy the coconut milk. We buy the ketupat pulut.
And cookies, well Ikea has a lot of those. Some signature cookies, we still do, like Biskut Jakarta which replaces butter with something else to get that salty, tangy taste.
Biskut Dam, as it contains another secret - how to make the surface texture spongy, in order to make it extra crispy.
Biskut Arab, also known as Biskut Makmur. Yet another secret, as it melts in your mouth, instead of crumbling.
The rest? We buy everything.
And still, I know that the family will still find some drama. I don't want any more drama. I just want to go back and sleep. Maybe watch TV. However, I have an inkling that there would be tasks to do. Herculean. Like, cure cancer or AIDS, or eradicate poverty or some shit like that.
My real task would be to convince them that you don't have to be in pain, to accomplish everything. That's World War 2 talk, man. Even hard work, becomes less of a chore or burden, when you take out the emotional, righteous components.
You want to be in pain, you want to be right, while making others wrong, then that's exactly what you get.
Oh well. I'll see what I can do.
My parents believe that unless you are doing the impossible, like solving cold fusion, you are not working hard enough. And not working hard enough means you are useless.
In the past, if they saw me sitting down, that's a no-no. That's like, causing a huge embarassment to the family.
It took me years to get over that bit of emotional manipulation.
Every Raya, there will be a competition for who is the most pain. My father, stroke or no, will be cleaning the house. My mother will be cooking for guests tomorrow, though the only people who really eat the dishes would be my Chinese relatives.
When my father was in better health, he would go into the jungle a day or two before Raya, to cut down bamboo. He'd go on top of a hill, cut the bloody things, and launch them - javelin-like - to the foot of the hill.
Then, using his saw, he'd cut them up into pieces two-feet long. Stash them into the trunk of his car, and drive them home.
Usually, there would be around 40 sticks. I had the unenviable task of cleaning them. Using some coconut fibre and a piece of last year's bamboo, as well as some wires, I would fashion a makeshift brush. That's for the insides. The outsides, I just use 'Good Morning' towels.
Then, my father would cut a cooking oil can - the 50kg one. The big one, with his metal scissors.
Placing the 'daun lerek' - banana leaves are for amateurs - which could only be found in the jungle as well, my sisters would fill the bloody bamboos with glutinous rice and coconut milk.
Then, the lemangs will be boiled in the cans, for around four hours. Then, another four hours near a roaring fire.
The dual-cooking process ensures the perfect lemang. But it's too much fucking work! Fuck!
Why can't we just buy the goddamned things?
And the drama! Oh, the drama!
I would be assigned the heavy lifting. As well as pressing coconut milk from the flesh.
Here's the process. Around 15 years ago, my parents went to the border between malaysia and Thailand. Rantau Panjang. They found something. The Holy Grail - a coconut pressing machine. It weighs around 50-70 kg. So they lugged it around the small town and carried it on the bus.
Used to be that every year, my mother would use a coconut-gtaing machine - we have two! - and that was then. Even before that, she would hank down on a fucking kukur kepala thing.
CAPTION: A Housewive's Nightmare: The dreaded kukur kelapa.
She would hanker down, and start cursing everything and everyone as she grates 50 coconuts (40 for the lemang, 10 for everything else).
After the flesh has been grated, it would be my turn at the pressing machine. Cool huh? NO! It would have been cool, if it was merely pressing a button. But no. I am the motor. I was the one who would turn the thing and squeeze every drop of coconut milk from the flesh. SQUEEZE!
Fuck all that, man. Nowadays, we just buy the coconut milk. We buy the ketupat pulut.
And cookies, well Ikea has a lot of those. Some signature cookies, we still do, like Biskut Jakarta which replaces butter with something else to get that salty, tangy taste.
Biskut Dam, as it contains another secret - how to make the surface texture spongy, in order to make it extra crispy.
Biskut Arab, also known as Biskut Makmur. Yet another secret, as it melts in your mouth, instead of crumbling.
The rest? We buy everything.
And still, I know that the family will still find some drama. I don't want any more drama. I just want to go back and sleep. Maybe watch TV. However, I have an inkling that there would be tasks to do. Herculean. Like, cure cancer or AIDS, or eradicate poverty or some shit like that.
My real task would be to convince them that you don't have to be in pain, to accomplish everything. That's World War 2 talk, man. Even hard work, becomes less of a chore or burden, when you take out the emotional, righteous components.
You want to be in pain, you want to be right, while making others wrong, then that's exactly what you get.
Oh well. I'll see what I can do.
At the Mountains of Madness
More than 48 hours without sleep. Self-induced. I need to see what it was like to be unconscious again. I also needed to find out physical limits.
Was about to write a damn long article. But. Time for some shut-eye.
Was about to write a damn long article. But. Time for some shut-eye.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Conscripts
I had a meeting with an IT guy today before going for an assignment, went to the office afterwards, finished a couple of stories, found two bunches of papers plonked on my keyboard, treated an old friend to breaking fast while going through one bunch of papers, got my old camera back, went for a 9pm meeting, had an 11.30pm post-meeting meeting.
Then went home and finally went through the other bunch of papers, at 3am. It's almost 6am and I finally finished for the day.
Am replacing someone do their work tomorrow, or rather, this morning. If I sleep, I might wake up at noon. So, I am staying awake and going through some translation work a friend did.
I counted from this date, till end of next year, and I believe I am doing seven movies. The same number of TV series and telemovies. Each TV series is around 26 episodes each.
Got six documentaries in the works.
I would offer some of this load to people, but it is quite hard to find reliable, good writers nowadays.
From last year till now, I have gone through around 50 potential writers for all this extra-curricular work.
The creative team I am forming right now look like winners of a reality show. Survivors of an ever-changing landscape. Appealing to the ego, we are the unregistered, outlaw writers.
We are the survivors of the deadly, "I want to be appreciated and be told that I am good" affliction. It's nice to have, but cultivating a dependency to that bullshit is death.
Oh well. That's how it goes. That's how the world flows. Back to work.
Then went home and finally went through the other bunch of papers, at 3am. It's almost 6am and I finally finished for the day.
Am replacing someone do their work tomorrow, or rather, this morning. If I sleep, I might wake up at noon. So, I am staying awake and going through some translation work a friend did.
I counted from this date, till end of next year, and I believe I am doing seven movies. The same number of TV series and telemovies. Each TV series is around 26 episodes each.
Got six documentaries in the works.
I would offer some of this load to people, but it is quite hard to find reliable, good writers nowadays.
From last year till now, I have gone through around 50 potential writers for all this extra-curricular work.
The creative team I am forming right now look like winners of a reality show. Survivors of an ever-changing landscape. Appealing to the ego, we are the unregistered, outlaw writers.
We are the survivors of the deadly, "I want to be appreciated and be told that I am good" affliction. It's nice to have, but cultivating a dependency to that bullshit is death.
Oh well. That's how it goes. That's how the world flows. Back to work.
Captain Poonani and the Planet Queers
The world, is in peril. Gay-a, the drag queen of the Earth, can no longer withstand the terrible distraction plaguing our planet. She send five magic rings to five special young people.
Kwame: Earth!
Wheeler: Fire!
Linka: Wind!
Gee: Water!
Matit: Gay!
Captain Poonani: By your powers combined, I am Captain Poonani!
Captain Poonani!
He's a hero!
Gonna take demonstrations down to zero.
He's our powers, magnified, and he's fighting on the queers' side.
HM: You'll pay for this, Captain Poonani!
They're the Planet Queers, you can be one too, cause fucking your brother is the thing to do.
Amir and his Thai-honeys, are not at all gay. Hear what Captain Poonani has to say!
Captain Poonani: Snap snap!
Kwame: Earth!
Wheeler: Fire!
Linka: Wind!
Gee: Water!
Matit: Gay!
Captain Poonani: By your powers combined, I am Captain Poonani!
Captain Poonani!
He's a hero!
Gonna take demonstrations down to zero.
He's our powers, magnified, and he's fighting on the queers' side.
HM: You'll pay for this, Captain Poonani!
They're the Planet Queers, you can be one too, cause fucking your brother is the thing to do.
Amir and his Thai-honeys, are not at all gay. Hear what Captain Poonani has to say!
Captain Poonani: Snap snap!
Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow?
This was done more than three years ago.
In my travels, I have seen the future. And what a strange future it is.
Let me tell you how the world will work.
The best and most popular website will one day be scripted and designed by a 14-year-old kid in Amsterdam, on Dec 22, 2012, using only open source.
It will be a website that connects vibrating vaginas and dildos across the world. When the geek does an app for Facebook and blogs and Twitter and Youtube and Google Wave, it will revolutionise the Internet.
It will redefine the term 'poke' in a Facebook context. Twitter will come up with something called Clitter.
Everyone's dicks and vaginas and clitorises will be linked together. Smartphones, when ringing, will vibrate battery-operated vaginas and dildos, causing arousals and orgasms all over the world.
This vibration by the world's dominant species will shift tectonic plates and destroy Japan several times over.
And this is how the world will end.
And then the bubble will burst yet again. And Kevin Costner's dystopian future world of The Postman will come to pass.
In my travels, I have seen the future. And what a strange future it is.
Let me tell you how the world will work.
The best and most popular website will one day be scripted and designed by a 14-year-old kid in Amsterdam, on Dec 22, 2012, using only open source.
It will be a website that connects vibrating vaginas and dildos across the world. When the geek does an app for Facebook and blogs and Twitter and Youtube and Google Wave, it will revolutionise the Internet.
It will redefine the term 'poke' in a Facebook context. Twitter will come up with something called Clitter.
Everyone's dicks and vaginas and clitorises will be linked together. Smartphones, when ringing, will vibrate battery-operated vaginas and dildos, causing arousals and orgasms all over the world.
This vibration by the world's dominant species will shift tectonic plates and destroy Japan several times over.
And this is how the world will end.
And then the bubble will burst yet again. And Kevin Costner's dystopian future world of The Postman will come to pass.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Amir Hafizi and His Ego
I have one of the biggest egos in the universe.
And that's my ego talking.
At any point in time, you might see me talking to myself. Yes, I have sunk to that level. It would be some number of years before I put on transparent plastic bags as a costume and start fighting crime on Bangsar's rooftops.
There is so much...noise... inside my head. And that noise, is the ego. It is telling me that I am him. Like in the kabbalah.
Let me backtrack a bit, so that the white ambulances don't come to the office tomorrow. I won't be there anyway. Got an assignment.
We all accumulate labels and roles, over the years. I have.
The Bottomless Pit of Despair. The Angel of Death. The Lord of Destruction. The Idea Man. The Writer. The Journalist. The Malay Male. The Malay. The Male. The Philosopher. The Fucker. Man. Machine.
And yet all of it, are merely labels. Roles I assigned myself. Aspects. Functions. A costume, a mask to wear. This image we have of ourselves, manifests as the ego. All the time, every time.
When you meet somebody, you are not meeting him or her. You are meeting a representative of that someone. You are meeting their ego.
Egos love drama. Egos love pain. Egos love reacting to everything, so they can get more pain and more drama.
Not that it wasn't useful. At times, playing the roles got me through things. It is neither good, nor bad. It just is.
I was taught, very early on, that even while you do things, or when you write, you can project an image that you desire. I write, with a targeted thought in the readers' brain. I want you to think or feel something.
It is my ego communicating with your ego.
For example: a rabbit.
A rabbit, its fur as white as snow. Its throat slit with a razor and rivulets of crimson red blood running down its pelt. Fear. Horror. Gore.
All this facade.
The ego seeks to define itself as higher, better, smarter, faster. The best way is to diminish the perceived - your perception - standings of other people. You push people down, so you would look taller. Like Sarkozy. Bada-bing!
The ego is always insecure, and always, always, wants things. Desires things. Hence, the ego can never be happy, which is a state without any desire. When you want nothing, know that you are truly happy. When you want people to know you are happy, you are no longer happy.
Therefore, if you want to be happy, don't want to be happy. How do you achieve this? By being is. By being completely in the now. Your thoughts may be in Second Quarter projections, but you are here, right now.
Consider this: What was the most wonderful orgasm you have ever had?
Mine was when everything turned white. There was a ringing in my ears, and I smelled nothing. I began to realise, faintly, that my body did not itch. Know that in a normal state, your body itches. A lot. And I'm not talking about genital warts or herpes. Even right now, your body itches. A lot. Everywhere. Now you are aware of it.
Cool huh? I got that - the itching part - from a Robert J Sawyer book.
So total, absolute bliss, was pure silence. A complete halt to the thinking process. Because incessant thinking, created the ego in the first place.
Now, as soon as I got out of that wonderful zone, my only quest was how to simulate it, in a real world environment. How do you simulate that effect in an office full of people? How do you attain that in the middle of a particularly dreadful situation?
Because there have been times when I simply wanted to run away and jack-off in a toilet so I could achieve that state again.
The method that worked, after many trials and errors, was being aware of living in the exact moment you are in.
It means a world without chatter. Without clutter. Everything was white. Like in a hospital ward for the criminally insane. White, padded walls. SOmething like that.
Fighting my ego only made it bigger, stronger, which was what it wanted. Resisting any type of emotion would also cause it to grow.
The only strategy that worked, was to accept it. Accept and know that I am feeling bad, angry, sad, spiteful, and I began to notice the ego getting smaller. Acknowledging what you feel at that very moment, focusing on that instance, prevents your 'self' - the true self - from putting meaning into it. Putting your emotions into context, creating meaning into it, makes the emotion and the ego bigger.
For example, somebody said something hurtful to you. You experience pain. And then, your ego starts to tell you, "He/She has been like this before. Remember that time in July?" Or, "Oooohhh...when the time comes, I'm going to slit his/her throat!"
These things, these thoughts, bring you somewhere else in time. To something which does not, at the moment, at that exact and precise moment, exist.
So, one careless word becomes a reason for war. Divorces. Hatred.
Somebody tell you you are wrong.
"Ooooohhhh...I was right before! Remember that time when...?"
Or/And
"Wait. Just wait. I'll be proven right! I will be RIGHT!"
You actually did something wrong.
"Oh no! Why didn't I do this or that? I could have done this or that."
and/or
"This person will remember this, and one day, exact revenge on me! And I will FEEL bad!"
The ego loves drama and pain. And drama and pain, only works either in the past or the future.
Acknowledging the present, acknowledging the emotions and the circumstances - acknowledging the ego - actually diminishes its presence.
Fight or flight? There is a third option. Stay. And use your superpowers to become one with the universe.
Must admit that it is not a complete process. But when it works, it's fucking sweet. When you know that any kind of instinctive reaction, wrapped in contextual emotion, you can pause for a split second, between instances, and live in the now.
That pause, is very important. SOme very successful people, they do not react to a situation. Their responses are no less slower than anyone else, but they have less - not the absence of - instictive reactions. And that, my friends, separates us from animals.
That small moment, took us to where we are, tens of thousands of years after we decided to put on a loincloth.
The underlying philosophy for all this is taken directly from Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth. As seen on Oprah.
I shall continue to explore the methods, and share my findings here. The hypothesis is that one can be in control of one's actions, 100%. And that happiness can be found, not in being right or in victory, but in living life, purely in the moment.
That, or a straightjacket.
And that's my ego talking.
At any point in time, you might see me talking to myself. Yes, I have sunk to that level. It would be some number of years before I put on transparent plastic bags as a costume and start fighting crime on Bangsar's rooftops.
There is so much...noise... inside my head. And that noise, is the ego. It is telling me that I am him. Like in the kabbalah.
Let me backtrack a bit, so that the white ambulances don't come to the office tomorrow. I won't be there anyway. Got an assignment.
We all accumulate labels and roles, over the years. I have.
The Bottomless Pit of Despair. The Angel of Death. The Lord of Destruction. The Idea Man. The Writer. The Journalist. The Malay Male. The Malay. The Male. The Philosopher. The Fucker. Man. Machine.
And yet all of it, are merely labels. Roles I assigned myself. Aspects. Functions. A costume, a mask to wear. This image we have of ourselves, manifests as the ego. All the time, every time.
When you meet somebody, you are not meeting him or her. You are meeting a representative of that someone. You are meeting their ego.
Egos love drama. Egos love pain. Egos love reacting to everything, so they can get more pain and more drama.
Not that it wasn't useful. At times, playing the roles got me through things. It is neither good, nor bad. It just is.
I was taught, very early on, that even while you do things, or when you write, you can project an image that you desire. I write, with a targeted thought in the readers' brain. I want you to think or feel something.
It is my ego communicating with your ego.
For example: a rabbit.
A rabbit, its fur as white as snow. Its throat slit with a razor and rivulets of crimson red blood running down its pelt. Fear. Horror. Gore.
All this facade.
The ego seeks to define itself as higher, better, smarter, faster. The best way is to diminish the perceived - your perception - standings of other people. You push people down, so you would look taller. Like Sarkozy. Bada-bing!
The ego is always insecure, and always, always, wants things. Desires things. Hence, the ego can never be happy, which is a state without any desire. When you want nothing, know that you are truly happy. When you want people to know you are happy, you are no longer happy.
Therefore, if you want to be happy, don't want to be happy. How do you achieve this? By being is. By being completely in the now. Your thoughts may be in Second Quarter projections, but you are here, right now.
Consider this: What was the most wonderful orgasm you have ever had?
Mine was when everything turned white. There was a ringing in my ears, and I smelled nothing. I began to realise, faintly, that my body did not itch. Know that in a normal state, your body itches. A lot. And I'm not talking about genital warts or herpes. Even right now, your body itches. A lot. Everywhere. Now you are aware of it.
Cool huh? I got that - the itching part - from a Robert J Sawyer book.
So total, absolute bliss, was pure silence. A complete halt to the thinking process. Because incessant thinking, created the ego in the first place.
Now, as soon as I got out of that wonderful zone, my only quest was how to simulate it, in a real world environment. How do you simulate that effect in an office full of people? How do you attain that in the middle of a particularly dreadful situation?
Because there have been times when I simply wanted to run away and jack-off in a toilet so I could achieve that state again.
The method that worked, after many trials and errors, was being aware of living in the exact moment you are in.
It means a world without chatter. Without clutter. Everything was white. Like in a hospital ward for the criminally insane. White, padded walls. SOmething like that.
Fighting my ego only made it bigger, stronger, which was what it wanted. Resisting any type of emotion would also cause it to grow.
The only strategy that worked, was to accept it. Accept and know that I am feeling bad, angry, sad, spiteful, and I began to notice the ego getting smaller. Acknowledging what you feel at that very moment, focusing on that instance, prevents your 'self' - the true self - from putting meaning into it. Putting your emotions into context, creating meaning into it, makes the emotion and the ego bigger.
For example, somebody said something hurtful to you. You experience pain. And then, your ego starts to tell you, "He/She has been like this before. Remember that time in July?" Or, "Oooohhh...when the time comes, I'm going to slit his/her throat!"
These things, these thoughts, bring you somewhere else in time. To something which does not, at the moment, at that exact and precise moment, exist.
So, one careless word becomes a reason for war. Divorces. Hatred.
Somebody tell you you are wrong.
"Ooooohhhh...I was right before! Remember that time when...?"
Or/And
"Wait. Just wait. I'll be proven right! I will be RIGHT!"
You actually did something wrong.
"Oh no! Why didn't I do this or that? I could have done this or that."
and/or
"This person will remember this, and one day, exact revenge on me! And I will FEEL bad!"
The ego loves drama and pain. And drama and pain, only works either in the past or the future.
Acknowledging the present, acknowledging the emotions and the circumstances - acknowledging the ego - actually diminishes its presence.
Fight or flight? There is a third option. Stay. And use your superpowers to become one with the universe.
Must admit that it is not a complete process. But when it works, it's fucking sweet. When you know that any kind of instinctive reaction, wrapped in contextual emotion, you can pause for a split second, between instances, and live in the now.
That pause, is very important. SOme very successful people, they do not react to a situation. Their responses are no less slower than anyone else, but they have less - not the absence of - instictive reactions. And that, my friends, separates us from animals.
That small moment, took us to where we are, tens of thousands of years after we decided to put on a loincloth.
The underlying philosophy for all this is taken directly from Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth. As seen on Oprah.
I shall continue to explore the methods, and share my findings here. The hypothesis is that one can be in control of one's actions, 100%. And that happiness can be found, not in being right or in victory, but in living life, purely in the moment.
That, or a straightjacket.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Civil War: Which Side Are You On?
I have a few white friends, living in Malaysia, and a few more outside.
What I love about having white friends in Malaysia is that I can do to them what people from other races do to me.
Me: Easy for you lah! You're white!
White Dude: Whuh?
Me: You're white, man. All you have to do is go into a bar and women will start playing 'Hump the White Gods'. And just go to any company. They'll pay you RM100K just for showing up and lending your white-ness to the affair.
That was fucking racist, I must admit. And the looks on the faces of my white friends are just priceless.
I know that it doesn't really work that way. Just the same when people tell me that it's easy for me, cause I'm considered Malay.
I mean, I've been waiting for my UMNO money for 29 long years. I even started a company, because I heard it's easy for Malay companies to get free money. Hell, I was even a card-carrying UMNO member(my father registered all of his mutants), until some idiot stole the card. Probably thinking when I become an Opposition politician, or get imprisoned, they can use it to blackmail me.
I don't know. I am writing this because I have just finished reading Marvel's Civil War series of comics.
It was about a tragedy with irresponsible use of superpowers resulted in the US Government passing a bill to forcefully register all super-humans. Anyone who refuses to register will be arrested.
It was really a study of America's civil liberties issues as well as the balance between liberty and freedom, and should the two ever exclude each other. Right-wing versus left-wing.
It split the Marvel Universe in two. Iron Man and his peeps on the side of pro-registration and Captain America against the act.
It ended with the assasination of Captain America after he surrendered to the authorities. SPOILER!
There were some really cool comics sequences involving two journalists covering each side.
I'm always a sucker for comics talking about journalists. Cause they paint them so mighty and holy. The kind of journalists you read about in the 50s and 60s.
I have a comics story I wanted to pitch to Vertigo. I don't know if ever I get that chance, but it's about Clark Kent using only his powers of journalism to topple down Lex Luthor. In a world where there was no Superman.
Four issues. No super-powers. Oh well.
Anyway, the journalists in Civil War - Ben Urich and Sally Floyd managed to interview Captain America, before he died, and Floyd, who was on Cap's side in the beginning, asked some really good questions.
Floyd: How many times have you logged into MySpace?
The point she was making was that Captain America was out of touch with the NEW America. He doesn't even recognise the country anymore. How can you defend something you know nothing about.
Which was an argument they used on KJ. He spent so many years overseas, is he in touch with the people?
Floyd and Urich's investigation on Tony 'Iron Man' Stark also revealed him as a war-profiteer. Like Halliborange. I mean, Halliburton. Defense contractors.
Which leads me to my point.
Anything - ANYTHING - that seeks to divide us into neat little labels - Malays, Chinese, Indians, Muslims, Hindus, atheists, punk-rockers, vegetarians, thinkers, tinkerers, Bajau Lauts, PR, BN, PIS, whatever, are done by forces that seek to profit from us all.
You MIGHT be able to turn a profit from peace. There is ALWAYS profit to be made from war. Personal, tribal, or otherwise.
If at least two people are fighting over what's right and what's wrong, any idiot can come in between them and tell them anything, sell them anything, that could turn a profit.
Imagine if there was a real war between Malays and Hindus. Any shitty political party can come to either side and say, "I'm on your side." and they get the all-important support. The Almighty Votes.
Fights, wars, they cost money. Full-scale, they use bombs and tanks and fighter-planes. On the smaller scale, they use writers and blogs and posters. And yes, even the purchase of a cow's head. Or Malaysian flags in Indonesia.
In any event, in any conflict, follow the money. Somebody profits somewhere. They might be good people, or bad people, depending on whose side you are on.
At the end, there is always profit to be made from the flaring of egos and the creation of the 'other'.
Spiritually, philosophically, their egos benefit. When there is anger, hatred, a feeling of being wronged or victimised, our egos all benefit from having experienced more things that define them as being different than everyone else.
Not saying it's good or bad. It's just is. To say whether or not something is good or bad, right or wrong, is to enter into judgement of it. Maybe it is, maybe it's not. It's up to you.
A million Jews die. To some, it's a tragedy. To others, a divine retribution. To another group, statistics. Numbers. History.
A person just stabbed you in the back. To some, it's evolution, others, treachery, betrayal, blablabla. To an astronomist, and somebody living a world away, inconsequential.
We judge everything at every moment. We do. Good. Bad. Orgasm. Not saying we should or shouldn't. Just be aware that we do. Just be aware and mindful that it is us making that call, and not something else that feeds on negativity. The eternal victim. The forever righteous asshole. The arrogant lying bastard. Which are, in turn, judgements as well.
Be aware of the power, and the choices we make. For it shapes the world.
I'm so cool. JUDGEMENT!
What I love about having white friends in Malaysia is that I can do to them what people from other races do to me.
Me: Easy for you lah! You're white!
White Dude: Whuh?
Me: You're white, man. All you have to do is go into a bar and women will start playing 'Hump the White Gods'. And just go to any company. They'll pay you RM100K just for showing up and lending your white-ness to the affair.
That was fucking racist, I must admit. And the looks on the faces of my white friends are just priceless.
I know that it doesn't really work that way. Just the same when people tell me that it's easy for me, cause I'm considered Malay.
I mean, I've been waiting for my UMNO money for 29 long years. I even started a company, because I heard it's easy for Malay companies to get free money. Hell, I was even a card-carrying UMNO member(my father registered all of his mutants), until some idiot stole the card. Probably thinking when I become an Opposition politician, or get imprisoned, they can use it to blackmail me.
I don't know. I am writing this because I have just finished reading Marvel's Civil War series of comics.
It was about a tragedy with irresponsible use of superpowers resulted in the US Government passing a bill to forcefully register all super-humans. Anyone who refuses to register will be arrested.
It was really a study of America's civil liberties issues as well as the balance between liberty and freedom, and should the two ever exclude each other. Right-wing versus left-wing.
It split the Marvel Universe in two. Iron Man and his peeps on the side of pro-registration and Captain America against the act.
It ended with the assasination of Captain America after he surrendered to the authorities. SPOILER!
There were some really cool comics sequences involving two journalists covering each side.
I'm always a sucker for comics talking about journalists. Cause they paint them so mighty and holy. The kind of journalists you read about in the 50s and 60s.
I have a comics story I wanted to pitch to Vertigo. I don't know if ever I get that chance, but it's about Clark Kent using only his powers of journalism to topple down Lex Luthor. In a world where there was no Superman.
Four issues. No super-powers. Oh well.
Anyway, the journalists in Civil War - Ben Urich and Sally Floyd managed to interview Captain America, before he died, and Floyd, who was on Cap's side in the beginning, asked some really good questions.
Floyd: How many times have you logged into MySpace?
The point she was making was that Captain America was out of touch with the NEW America. He doesn't even recognise the country anymore. How can you defend something you know nothing about.
Which was an argument they used on KJ. He spent so many years overseas, is he in touch with the people?
Floyd and Urich's investigation on Tony 'Iron Man' Stark also revealed him as a war-profiteer. Like Halliborange. I mean, Halliburton. Defense contractors.
Which leads me to my point.
Anything - ANYTHING - that seeks to divide us into neat little labels - Malays, Chinese, Indians, Muslims, Hindus, atheists, punk-rockers, vegetarians, thinkers, tinkerers, Bajau Lauts, PR, BN, PIS, whatever, are done by forces that seek to profit from us all.
You MIGHT be able to turn a profit from peace. There is ALWAYS profit to be made from war. Personal, tribal, or otherwise.
If at least two people are fighting over what's right and what's wrong, any idiot can come in between them and tell them anything, sell them anything, that could turn a profit.
Imagine if there was a real war between Malays and Hindus. Any shitty political party can come to either side and say, "I'm on your side." and they get the all-important support. The Almighty Votes.
Fights, wars, they cost money. Full-scale, they use bombs and tanks and fighter-planes. On the smaller scale, they use writers and blogs and posters. And yes, even the purchase of a cow's head. Or Malaysian flags in Indonesia.
In any event, in any conflict, follow the money. Somebody profits somewhere. They might be good people, or bad people, depending on whose side you are on.
At the end, there is always profit to be made from the flaring of egos and the creation of the 'other'.
Spiritually, philosophically, their egos benefit. When there is anger, hatred, a feeling of being wronged or victimised, our egos all benefit from having experienced more things that define them as being different than everyone else.
Not saying it's good or bad. It's just is. To say whether or not something is good or bad, right or wrong, is to enter into judgement of it. Maybe it is, maybe it's not. It's up to you.
A million Jews die. To some, it's a tragedy. To others, a divine retribution. To another group, statistics. Numbers. History.
A person just stabbed you in the back. To some, it's evolution, others, treachery, betrayal, blablabla. To an astronomist, and somebody living a world away, inconsequential.
We judge everything at every moment. We do. Good. Bad. Orgasm. Not saying we should or shouldn't. Just be aware that we do. Just be aware and mindful that it is us making that call, and not something else that feeds on negativity. The eternal victim. The forever righteous asshole. The arrogant lying bastard. Which are, in turn, judgements as well.
Be aware of the power, and the choices we make. For it shapes the world.
I'm so cool. JUDGEMENT!
Women in Refrigerators
Somebody said something to me recently.
"Asian men all think about looks, while non-Asian men appreciate us for our brains."
I was like, "What? Really?"
It got me thinking. "Are Asian men all that shallow?" After some seconds of soul-searching, with my experience of over 29 years of being an Asian man, I can say that yes, we are.
And we would say anything that women would want to hear if we can get them to suck our dicks.
Hell, I'd say the sun circles the earth; I'd say the world is flat! - if the woman would suck my dick for saying it.
I'll say, "I like you for your brains." while my hands massage your tits.
I'm not white, but I don't think it has anything to do with race. It is a gender thing.
I mean, last time I checked in Thailand, earlier this year, some white guys may have different standards for beauty than the typical Asian dude - tanned skin instead of white skin, for example - but they still go for AN idea of beauty. Tits and ass always grabs the attention. End of the day, it's all up to the person.
I was hanging out with a friend of mine the other day, asking about this.
"Yes, cause all Malay men are monkeys," she said.
"Intriguing," I said. "Please, continue."
SHE: Here's the deal. Malay men, they look for someone who would make them look good. Cause it's all about societal pressure with them. They need to show-off to their peers that they are successful. Success, comes in someone looking good and the ability to bear children. Meaning, as hunter-gatherers, they succeeded in getting the right prey. Then they go for all these other women. Malay men cheat like hell.
Me: Wow.
SHE: Chinese men, they look for more or less the same thing. Different priorities, but same shit. Their standing in society must be accentuated by their choice in a mate. Their relationship is more functional than true.
Me: Word?
SHE: That's why, for most Malaysians, I see very little capacity for love or passion. It's hard to find people who are at the very least capable of affection.
Me: Affection? What about -
SHE: I'm not talking about sex.
Me: Blowjobs?
SHE: That's disgusting. YOU'RE disgusting.
Me: SOme like it hot. SOme like it dirty. SOme like it, in the pot, and on the dresser, two notes of twenty.
SHE: Meaning?
Me: You is all hos, motherfucker!
I spent some time with my friend, on the subject. She began to list things that men do to women.
Me: Shiiiitt! And I can get away with that?
SHE: If you want to be a motherfucker.
Me: Wow.
SHE: You men think you're superior to women because you have a dick!
Me: Yay!
It was a weird, gender-bending week. And if I learned anything from all this shit-talk about relationships is this:
THANK GOD I'M A MAN! AN ANCHORMAN!
The world is not fair. Thank God I have a dick. Oh, thank you, God! Thank you for giving me a dick. I am superior than half the world's population because I have a dick.
"Asian men all think about looks, while non-Asian men appreciate us for our brains."
I was like, "What? Really?"
It got me thinking. "Are Asian men all that shallow?" After some seconds of soul-searching, with my experience of over 29 years of being an Asian man, I can say that yes, we are.
And we would say anything that women would want to hear if we can get them to suck our dicks.
Hell, I'd say the sun circles the earth; I'd say the world is flat! - if the woman would suck my dick for saying it.
I'll say, "I like you for your brains." while my hands massage your tits.
I'm not white, but I don't think it has anything to do with race. It is a gender thing.
I mean, last time I checked in Thailand, earlier this year, some white guys may have different standards for beauty than the typical Asian dude - tanned skin instead of white skin, for example - but they still go for AN idea of beauty. Tits and ass always grabs the attention. End of the day, it's all up to the person.
I was hanging out with a friend of mine the other day, asking about this.
"Yes, cause all Malay men are monkeys," she said.
"Intriguing," I said. "Please, continue."
SHE: Here's the deal. Malay men, they look for someone who would make them look good. Cause it's all about societal pressure with them. They need to show-off to their peers that they are successful. Success, comes in someone looking good and the ability to bear children. Meaning, as hunter-gatherers, they succeeded in getting the right prey. Then they go for all these other women. Malay men cheat like hell.
Me: Wow.
SHE: Chinese men, they look for more or less the same thing. Different priorities, but same shit. Their standing in society must be accentuated by their choice in a mate. Their relationship is more functional than true.
Me: Word?
SHE: That's why, for most Malaysians, I see very little capacity for love or passion. It's hard to find people who are at the very least capable of affection.
Me: Affection? What about -
SHE: I'm not talking about sex.
Me: Blowjobs?
SHE: That's disgusting. YOU'RE disgusting.
Me: SOme like it hot. SOme like it dirty. SOme like it, in the pot, and on the dresser, two notes of twenty.
SHE: Meaning?
Me: You is all hos, motherfucker!
I spent some time with my friend, on the subject. She began to list things that men do to women.
Me: Shiiiitt! And I can get away with that?
SHE: If you want to be a motherfucker.
Me: Wow.
SHE: You men think you're superior to women because you have a dick!
Me: Yay!
It was a weird, gender-bending week. And if I learned anything from all this shit-talk about relationships is this:
THANK GOD I'M A MAN! AN ANCHORMAN!
The world is not fair. Thank God I have a dick. Oh, thank you, God! Thank you for giving me a dick. I am superior than half the world's population because I have a dick.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Multi-Million
I was rearranging the many things on my plate, thinking how I can settle all of them before going back for Raya, when suddenly I had a call. A multi-million dollar deal call. ANOTHER multi-million-dollar deal call.
I tell you that if I get a dollar for every multi-million dollar call I get, I'd be a millionaire.
Caller: The thing that we worked on two years ago, that nearly got done, we finally did it today. Last week, actually. And this other thing, the thing we wanted to do, it's happening, man! It's happening!
I wonder why I inspire so many hopes and dreams. I must be an angel. An ANGEL! Call me Lucifer Morningstar.
All throughout my 20s, I spent it all on trying to be rich. You wouldn't believe the kind of projects I came up with, in order to be really wealthy.
Green energy. The Kyoto protocol. Hydrogen fuel-cells. Supplying 'halal manpower' to the middle-east.
It would have worked. All of them could have worked. However, I don't live in a world of could-haves and would-haves. I live right now. And right now, I got loads of work to do.
If I spent my 20s trying to be rich, I think I'll spend my 30s trying to have fun. Cause I want to live happy. I don't give a shit if I die poor.
And all those things that came my way? Well, I've always been a lucky bastard. My tarot card is the Wheel of Fortune. Fortune favours those who are prepared. So be prepared.
All that glitters is not gold, and some gold have to be polished to see the shine.
So I said to the caller, "Sure, man. I got two meetings tonight. An 11.30am assignment tomorrow, and two meetings after that. Friday's my off day, but I have a meeting at 4pm. Saturday is free, except for something I need to do at night. Oh, that reminds me. Most nights, I'm not available. Unless you can catch me after I finish early on some discussions.
"But yeah, let's meet up."
I tell you that if I get a dollar for every multi-million dollar call I get, I'd be a millionaire.
Caller: The thing that we worked on two years ago, that nearly got done, we finally did it today. Last week, actually. And this other thing, the thing we wanted to do, it's happening, man! It's happening!
I wonder why I inspire so many hopes and dreams. I must be an angel. An ANGEL! Call me Lucifer Morningstar.
All throughout my 20s, I spent it all on trying to be rich. You wouldn't believe the kind of projects I came up with, in order to be really wealthy.
Green energy. The Kyoto protocol. Hydrogen fuel-cells. Supplying 'halal manpower' to the middle-east.
It would have worked. All of them could have worked. However, I don't live in a world of could-haves and would-haves. I live right now. And right now, I got loads of work to do.
If I spent my 20s trying to be rich, I think I'll spend my 30s trying to have fun. Cause I want to live happy. I don't give a shit if I die poor.
And all those things that came my way? Well, I've always been a lucky bastard. My tarot card is the Wheel of Fortune. Fortune favours those who are prepared. So be prepared.
All that glitters is not gold, and some gold have to be polished to see the shine.
So I said to the caller, "Sure, man. I got two meetings tonight. An 11.30am assignment tomorrow, and two meetings after that. Friday's my off day, but I have a meeting at 4pm. Saturday is free, except for something I need to do at night. Oh, that reminds me. Most nights, I'm not available. Unless you can catch me after I finish early on some discussions.
"But yeah, let's meet up."
The Heavy-Handed Immoral Teachings of Amir Hafizi of Bukit Kuin
What the fuck is happening to our country, man? We are drowning in religious fervour. Racism. A few more powder keps and a few more idiots, we will have May 13 all over again.
Ask Anwar. He might have a date set-up.
I want Anwar on the case, man. Anwar is our best hope.
I want Anwar to say when we are going to have a race riot. Cause you know why? Cause if he said it, it ain't never gonna happen.
Anwar: There will be a race riot in Shah Alam with 50 dead on Sept 16, 2009.
Safe!
Come Sept 16, I'll be in Shah Alam, visiting relatives and co-workers. Not a machete on me.
Anwar had a hand in this arabica coffee bean-nisation of our country. That's how I see it. I could be wrong. If I'm wrong, well, fuck you. This is an opinion, and everyone's got one like they do assholes, right? Well, here's my asshole.
Before the 70s, Malaysians were fucking each other on the fields. Everyone looked like everyone else. SHit, I looked at my parents' old photos and I had trouble distinguishing the Ooi Eow Jins from the Michael Veerapens to the M Shariff and the Zuhrah IIs.
My father told me that in the past, Malays celebrated Hari raya by going to mosque in the morning, buying a bottle of whisky, putting it in their baju melayu pockets, taking a bus to town, and drink while watching the matinee. Usually a Tarzan movie.
"Steady Tarzan! Steady Tarzan!"
What the fuck happened, man?
My relatives, the old ones, they were wearing tight baju kebayas with corsets - fucking corsets, okay - permed hair and oversized aviator sunglasses.
Nowadays, they all dress up like pyramids.
What the fuck happened?
Shah of Iran happened. The Islamic revolution. On a global scale.
Now, I'm not gonna condemn any religion - especially Islam - cause I think that's not the real issue here. All religions, teach good things. Even Scientology.
At the philosophical level, all religions teach you how to be good. Nothing wrong with religion.
Nope.
Now, the social aspect of it is fucked up.
Humans like to compete. All humans are like stuck in a perpetual Olympics. They compete over everything.
"My father got heart disease, diabetes and stroke."
"Oh yeah? My father got heart disease, diabetes, stroke, high blood pressure and a bad leg. I winnn! I winnn! I winnn!"
What the fuck did you win?
Now, religion was, and is okay. And then, the spirit of human competition, the need for the ego to be better than everyone else - or at least be at a passing mark - comes in and ruins everything.
People started competing on how pious they were.
"I fast a full month in Ramadan."
"I fast for a full month in Ramadan AND six days in Syawal."
At first, this was still okay. I mean, it was harmless.
And then, when they start running out of shit to compete, in the category of self-improvement and rituals, they start comparing other things.
One of them - just one - is how better they were at keeping people in line. When the spirit of competition amongst humans enters religion, and pushes it to this stage, that's when the shit hits the fan.
And for their role models? Politicians.
Man.
Word?
Politicians? Politicians need to be popular. Nothing wrong with that. But if you base your life on politicians all you'd ever think about is being popular. Botox injections, wives with big hair, mansions, palaces, Nokia N-series, Toyota Harriers. Popularity and religion is a dangerous combination, if it is focused on certain paths.
And guess what? We are on one of those paths right now.
I recall the original teachings of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. He was preaching about how people are similar, despite the obvious differences in class and race, amongst other things.
In fact, some scholars have him being called derisively by the Quraisy as "that man who tells us to eat with slaves."
"I ain't eating with slaves, motherfucker! They be black!"
Muhammad's original revolutions, according to some sources, from the social viewpoint, was about breaking down social barriers.
Now, around a millenium and a half later, people who claim to be following the religion are putting those barriers back up.
Think about it. Muhammad would not have had much success with Islam if it was only intended for one race. He showed tolerance, compassion and mercy. That's why a lot of enemies joined Muhammad. That's why a small religion became the global power we see today. An all-inclusive, all-embracing philosophy. Uniting, not dividing.
Way I see it, if any preacher starts preaching hate, fuck 'em. I don't care if it's hatred towards people of other religion, hatred towards UMNO, Dr M, PIS, PR - that's not religion, that's politics!
If Muhammad is alive today, would he condone those acts?
There was a story that on his death bed, Muhammad was shown the future by God. And Muhammad said this, with sadness in his voice, as his last words, "My people, my people..."
Same thing with Jesus, Buddha, I-Ching, Joseph Smith, Moses, Krishna and Sea-Man.
If they had a time machine TV, and saw the future, they would go nuts!
Joseph Smith: Not in my name, you cracker-ass cracker! Not in my motherfucking name!
I Ching: Tiu nia maaahhh!!! Tien aaah!!! Tim kai ahhhh!!!
Buddha: Dude...chill...I said all this shit at the deer park, man. What's wrong with you? Mellow out. Karma, man. Karrrrmaaaaa...
Moses: I parted the Red Sea for this shit? And where's my Ten Commandments? What the fuck is this Terms and Conditions that have replaced my easy to read guideline?
Good God, man. Please, please, stop abusing religion and using it as a front for hate and racism.
We got here, where we are today, in this kind of religious intensity, cause of Anwar's generation. I wonder how religion and race-relations would be like, when my generation, Gen-X, start turning 50.
One can always dream.
Ask Anwar. He might have a date set-up.
I want Anwar on the case, man. Anwar is our best hope.
I want Anwar to say when we are going to have a race riot. Cause you know why? Cause if he said it, it ain't never gonna happen.
Anwar: There will be a race riot in Shah Alam with 50 dead on Sept 16, 2009.
Safe!
Come Sept 16, I'll be in Shah Alam, visiting relatives and co-workers. Not a machete on me.
Anwar had a hand in this arabica coffee bean-nisation of our country. That's how I see it. I could be wrong. If I'm wrong, well, fuck you. This is an opinion, and everyone's got one like they do assholes, right? Well, here's my asshole.
Before the 70s, Malaysians were fucking each other on the fields. Everyone looked like everyone else. SHit, I looked at my parents' old photos and I had trouble distinguishing the Ooi Eow Jins from the Michael Veerapens to the M Shariff and the Zuhrah IIs.
My father told me that in the past, Malays celebrated Hari raya by going to mosque in the morning, buying a bottle of whisky, putting it in their baju melayu pockets, taking a bus to town, and drink while watching the matinee. Usually a Tarzan movie.
"Steady Tarzan! Steady Tarzan!"
What the fuck happened, man?
My relatives, the old ones, they were wearing tight baju kebayas with corsets - fucking corsets, okay - permed hair and oversized aviator sunglasses.
Nowadays, they all dress up like pyramids.
What the fuck happened?
Shah of Iran happened. The Islamic revolution. On a global scale.
Now, I'm not gonna condemn any religion - especially Islam - cause I think that's not the real issue here. All religions, teach good things. Even Scientology.
At the philosophical level, all religions teach you how to be good. Nothing wrong with religion.
Nope.
Now, the social aspect of it is fucked up.
Humans like to compete. All humans are like stuck in a perpetual Olympics. They compete over everything.
"My father got heart disease, diabetes and stroke."
"Oh yeah? My father got heart disease, diabetes, stroke, high blood pressure and a bad leg. I winnn! I winnn! I winnn!"
What the fuck did you win?
Now, religion was, and is okay. And then, the spirit of human competition, the need for the ego to be better than everyone else - or at least be at a passing mark - comes in and ruins everything.
People started competing on how pious they were.
"I fast a full month in Ramadan."
"I fast for a full month in Ramadan AND six days in Syawal."
At first, this was still okay. I mean, it was harmless.
And then, when they start running out of shit to compete, in the category of self-improvement and rituals, they start comparing other things.
One of them - just one - is how better they were at keeping people in line. When the spirit of competition amongst humans enters religion, and pushes it to this stage, that's when the shit hits the fan.
And for their role models? Politicians.
Man.
Word?
Politicians? Politicians need to be popular. Nothing wrong with that. But if you base your life on politicians all you'd ever think about is being popular. Botox injections, wives with big hair, mansions, palaces, Nokia N-series, Toyota Harriers. Popularity and religion is a dangerous combination, if it is focused on certain paths.
And guess what? We are on one of those paths right now.
I recall the original teachings of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. He was preaching about how people are similar, despite the obvious differences in class and race, amongst other things.
In fact, some scholars have him being called derisively by the Quraisy as "that man who tells us to eat with slaves."
"I ain't eating with slaves, motherfucker! They be black!"
Muhammad's original revolutions, according to some sources, from the social viewpoint, was about breaking down social barriers.
Now, around a millenium and a half later, people who claim to be following the religion are putting those barriers back up.
Think about it. Muhammad would not have had much success with Islam if it was only intended for one race. He showed tolerance, compassion and mercy. That's why a lot of enemies joined Muhammad. That's why a small religion became the global power we see today. An all-inclusive, all-embracing philosophy. Uniting, not dividing.
Way I see it, if any preacher starts preaching hate, fuck 'em. I don't care if it's hatred towards people of other religion, hatred towards UMNO, Dr M, PIS, PR - that's not religion, that's politics!
If Muhammad is alive today, would he condone those acts?
There was a story that on his death bed, Muhammad was shown the future by God. And Muhammad said this, with sadness in his voice, as his last words, "My people, my people..."
Same thing with Jesus, Buddha, I-Ching, Joseph Smith, Moses, Krishna and Sea-Man.
If they had a time machine TV, and saw the future, they would go nuts!
Joseph Smith: Not in my name, you cracker-ass cracker! Not in my motherfucking name!
I Ching: Tiu nia maaahhh!!! Tien aaah!!! Tim kai ahhhh!!!
Buddha: Dude...chill...I said all this shit at the deer park, man. What's wrong with you? Mellow out. Karma, man. Karrrrmaaaaa...
Moses: I parted the Red Sea for this shit? And where's my Ten Commandments? What the fuck is this Terms and Conditions that have replaced my easy to read guideline?
Good God, man. Please, please, stop abusing religion and using it as a front for hate and racism.
We got here, where we are today, in this kind of religious intensity, cause of Anwar's generation. I wonder how religion and race-relations would be like, when my generation, Gen-X, start turning 50.
One can always dream.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Intermission: Onslaught
Got loads to do, promised a lot of people shit. Daniel and Eric, I think we need to regroup after Raya. Anyway, I gotta get this out of my head.
Since I am the new I-Ching, some people expect me to be all zen and shit. Dude, when I fart, I don't see rainbows shooting out my ass.
I still get angry. I just don't grab the closest head and pistol-whip you with my 9mm. I fucking pop a cap in yo ass, motherfucker, that's what I do.
The Section 23 shit, man, I wrote a long-ass article on it, and then I deleted it.
Now, I'll let the State Government to deal with the resolution of that issue, which to me right now, involves a lot of finger-pointing and blaming the previous Government.
Some people are saying, since that dude who pulled that chair from under that Indian dude in the meeting on Saturday had a ponytail, he must be an UMNO man.
Shit. Then Haris Ibrahim is an UMNO Youth leader.
Hairstyle doesn't determine political affiliation. What kind of retarded shit is that?
"Well," said one idiot. "What about skinheads?"
What about skinheads?
"They be bald."
So ALL bald people are Neo-Nazis? Are you calling Shaquille O'Neal a Neo-Nazi? You calling Raja Petra a Neo-Nazi? All those cancer patients are all Neo-Nazis. All those Muslims in Mecca, performing the Haj - Neo-Nazis the lot of them.
Which is fine, man. Not my problem. It's your mess. Do what you gotta do. Settle it.
I'm not writing to talk about that issue and its resolution. I am intrigued about what made these people so angry. There are temples being built everywhere in Malaysia. Why are they angry now?
I believe it has something to do with ambient emotional energy.
Since the rule of Pak Lah, so much hate has been projected. And after him, there has been a lot of demonstrations of that hate.
As an expert on hate as well as the world's leading psycho-historian, I can say for sure - FER SHOW! - that hate begets more hate.
It's the ego. When an ego, or collective ego, hears the yells and shouts of another ego, it starts to grow. It starts to push. It starts to manifest in many forms. It convinces itself that it is under threat. It becomes a monster that could someday destroy the world.
I saw it happen, man. In the Marvel Universe, once, Professor Charles Xavier - the world's most powerful telepath - took all of Magneto's memories and personality away, after Magneto took adamantium out of Wolverine's body.
Magneto's ego, combined with Xavier's suppressed dark emotions, and took hold of both Xavier and Magneto's powers. The combination became Onslaught - a being of pure psionic power.
Onslaught eventually killed 30 major heroes in the Marvel Universe, who sacrificed themselves so the X-Men can kill it.
Including Reed and Susan Richards. Iron Man. The Hulk. Next Marvel movies about X-Men and Fantastic Four, everyone's gonna die!
Anyway, yeah, we've been putting all this hate out there, and some people who love to compete start trying to compete with the craziness.
Humans are so crazy, we'll compete about anything. Over anything.
The other day, I was a bit distracted. My father got his fourth stroke, and I gotta be the goto guy.
"I'm distracted."
"Why?"
"My father, he just had his fourth stroke."
"OH," said the competitor. "I can't count the number of times my father had the stroke!"
I was stunned. Apparently, there's an event at the Olympics for whose father had the most stroke, and I was in the Malaysian heat.
What the fuck, man?
The fuck you want from this shit? A medal? Shit.
If idiots can try to fight over whose father had the most stroke, they will fight over who can be crazier at demonstrations.
People are so addicted to competitions and competing with one another, if our Gods are living in KL, they would have the Gods do illegal racing every night. And keep score.
And it won't matter if Joseph Smith (Mormon) beat Xenu (Scientology) by 100km. The motherfucking Scientologists will say, "Oh, he ain't in his spaceship. That's why he lost. He was just in a Subaru Impreza. Wait till he gets his spaceship and go warp speed."
So, be excellent to one another. And party on, dudes.
Since I am the new I-Ching, some people expect me to be all zen and shit. Dude, when I fart, I don't see rainbows shooting out my ass.
I still get angry. I just don't grab the closest head and pistol-whip you with my 9mm. I fucking pop a cap in yo ass, motherfucker, that's what I do.
The Section 23 shit, man, I wrote a long-ass article on it, and then I deleted it.
Now, I'll let the State Government to deal with the resolution of that issue, which to me right now, involves a lot of finger-pointing and blaming the previous Government.
Some people are saying, since that dude who pulled that chair from under that Indian dude in the meeting on Saturday had a ponytail, he must be an UMNO man.
Shit. Then Haris Ibrahim is an UMNO Youth leader.
Hairstyle doesn't determine political affiliation. What kind of retarded shit is that?
"Well," said one idiot. "What about skinheads?"
What about skinheads?
"They be bald."
So ALL bald people are Neo-Nazis? Are you calling Shaquille O'Neal a Neo-Nazi? You calling Raja Petra a Neo-Nazi? All those cancer patients are all Neo-Nazis. All those Muslims in Mecca, performing the Haj - Neo-Nazis the lot of them.
Which is fine, man. Not my problem. It's your mess. Do what you gotta do. Settle it.
I'm not writing to talk about that issue and its resolution. I am intrigued about what made these people so angry. There are temples being built everywhere in Malaysia. Why are they angry now?
I believe it has something to do with ambient emotional energy.
Since the rule of Pak Lah, so much hate has been projected. And after him, there has been a lot of demonstrations of that hate.
As an expert on hate as well as the world's leading psycho-historian, I can say for sure - FER SHOW! - that hate begets more hate.
It's the ego. When an ego, or collective ego, hears the yells and shouts of another ego, it starts to grow. It starts to push. It starts to manifest in many forms. It convinces itself that it is under threat. It becomes a monster that could someday destroy the world.
I saw it happen, man. In the Marvel Universe, once, Professor Charles Xavier - the world's most powerful telepath - took all of Magneto's memories and personality away, after Magneto took adamantium out of Wolverine's body.
Magneto's ego, combined with Xavier's suppressed dark emotions, and took hold of both Xavier and Magneto's powers. The combination became Onslaught - a being of pure psionic power.
Onslaught eventually killed 30 major heroes in the Marvel Universe, who sacrificed themselves so the X-Men can kill it.
Including Reed and Susan Richards. Iron Man. The Hulk. Next Marvel movies about X-Men and Fantastic Four, everyone's gonna die!
Anyway, yeah, we've been putting all this hate out there, and some people who love to compete start trying to compete with the craziness.
Humans are so crazy, we'll compete about anything. Over anything.
The other day, I was a bit distracted. My father got his fourth stroke, and I gotta be the goto guy.
"I'm distracted."
"Why?"
"My father, he just had his fourth stroke."
"OH," said the competitor. "I can't count the number of times my father had the stroke!"
I was stunned. Apparently, there's an event at the Olympics for whose father had the most stroke, and I was in the Malaysian heat.
What the fuck, man?
The fuck you want from this shit? A medal? Shit.
If idiots can try to fight over whose father had the most stroke, they will fight over who can be crazier at demonstrations.
People are so addicted to competitions and competing with one another, if our Gods are living in KL, they would have the Gods do illegal racing every night. And keep score.
And it won't matter if Joseph Smith (Mormon) beat Xenu (Scientology) by 100km. The motherfucking Scientologists will say, "Oh, he ain't in his spaceship. That's why he lost. He was just in a Subaru Impreza. Wait till he gets his spaceship and go warp speed."
So, be excellent to one another. And party on, dudes.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Land of the Lost
I went to a natural reserve a few weeks back. I found the keepers of the place, hopping mad.
They were angry! Angry because a few years earlier, some Western scientists came to the reserve, took some plants which were traditionally known as having medicinal properties. Then, as the story has it, these 'scientists', they went and patented certain vital processes to make the plant in any way beneficial.
Hence, from that day forth, if anyone wanted to do anything with those plants - which, further according to the story, is being studied as a cure for cancer - they will have to pay those 'scientists'.
Even if our own sons and daughters want to study it - hell, even if our people want to get treatment from it. They have to pay those 'scientists' who just took a trek to our jungles. Spent a week in the country, and took the things.
There are other stories. Bacteria to process oil sludge, apparently, was discovered in our backyards. Other people took it, and then they sell it to Petronas.
Now, I'm not for us closing our doors or keeping everything to ourselves. In Islam, there is no concept of real ownership of land and resources, because everything belongs to God.
However, as caretakers of the land, we need to ensure that we do not allow opportunists have their way. They will make a mockery of things, with their rampant greed and desire. Ego at its worst.
The plant, if it is indeed a valid cure for cancer or even athlete's foot, should be shared with the world, for free, not profitted from by pharmaceutical companies that send 'scientists' to go trekking in the forests and jungles under our care.
We have read of this before. When the Europeans went to America, they confounded the Native Americans, who knew nothing of land ownership. How can they? Their belief system centers around a philosophy that they belong to the land, not the other way around.
A few altercations later, and after Manhattan was sold for 20 dollars, the Native Americans began to guard their lands jealously. And yet, they still fell for it.
Legend has it that one man went and asked for land from the Native Americans.
Man: How! Kemosabe!
Native American: Wassup, biatch?
Man: Me want land.
NM: No can do!
Man: Then let me have enough space to bunk down for the night. Let me have as much land as this blanket will cover.
NM: Knock yourself out, bra.
The man then proceeded to unravel his blanket and marked a 40-acre land with it.
These tales, even the ones told by our reserve keepers, they may or may not be true. I'm guessing they're just tall tales. However, it does give food for thought.
My parents are at an age when they start talking about dividing the lands they have accumulated over the years.
I know that I won't be able to sell those plots. I can't. Even if it's worth USD400 million. I'm sorry, they're not for sale.
Not because I'm greedy. I mean, I can't eat soil. What do I look like, an earthworm?
As the caretaker of the land, it is my responsibility to ensure no one abuses it. And I don't trust anyone else but me.
They were angry! Angry because a few years earlier, some Western scientists came to the reserve, took some plants which were traditionally known as having medicinal properties. Then, as the story has it, these 'scientists', they went and patented certain vital processes to make the plant in any way beneficial.
Hence, from that day forth, if anyone wanted to do anything with those plants - which, further according to the story, is being studied as a cure for cancer - they will have to pay those 'scientists'.
Even if our own sons and daughters want to study it - hell, even if our people want to get treatment from it. They have to pay those 'scientists' who just took a trek to our jungles. Spent a week in the country, and took the things.
There are other stories. Bacteria to process oil sludge, apparently, was discovered in our backyards. Other people took it, and then they sell it to Petronas.
Now, I'm not for us closing our doors or keeping everything to ourselves. In Islam, there is no concept of real ownership of land and resources, because everything belongs to God.
However, as caretakers of the land, we need to ensure that we do not allow opportunists have their way. They will make a mockery of things, with their rampant greed and desire. Ego at its worst.
The plant, if it is indeed a valid cure for cancer or even athlete's foot, should be shared with the world, for free, not profitted from by pharmaceutical companies that send 'scientists' to go trekking in the forests and jungles under our care.
We have read of this before. When the Europeans went to America, they confounded the Native Americans, who knew nothing of land ownership. How can they? Their belief system centers around a philosophy that they belong to the land, not the other way around.
A few altercations later, and after Manhattan was sold for 20 dollars, the Native Americans began to guard their lands jealously. And yet, they still fell for it.
Legend has it that one man went and asked for land from the Native Americans.
Man: How! Kemosabe!
Native American: Wassup, biatch?
Man: Me want land.
NM: No can do!
Man: Then let me have enough space to bunk down for the night. Let me have as much land as this blanket will cover.
NM: Knock yourself out, bra.
The man then proceeded to unravel his blanket and marked a 40-acre land with it.
These tales, even the ones told by our reserve keepers, they may or may not be true. I'm guessing they're just tall tales. However, it does give food for thought.
My parents are at an age when they start talking about dividing the lands they have accumulated over the years.
I know that I won't be able to sell those plots. I can't. Even if it's worth USD400 million. I'm sorry, they're not for sale.
Not because I'm greedy. I mean, I can't eat soil. What do I look like, an earthworm?
As the caretaker of the land, it is my responsibility to ensure no one abuses it. And I don't trust anyone else but me.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Conscious and Unconscious States
So I was having dinner with a New Age woman.
And she said to me, "All these unconscious people make me sick."
"Really?" I said.
"Yes. I may not be fully conscious, but I am like, 50% there."
"Ah," I said. "In the act of perceiving levels and assigning labels, that is also being unconscious."
Really conscious people would not see levels. There is no 'better', 'higher', 'smarter'. It doesn't exist. Or rather, the methods to quantify it does not. Therefore, what is, is. What is not, doesn't.
Something exists, and yet humans assign it value. Gold is just gold. Aurum. A very stable metal. It is humans that deem it a precious metal.
"Value is in the mind of the buyer, not the seller." - Sandman, by Neil Gaiman.
An event happens, and the event is at it is. Somebody dies, for instance. Some of us would decide that it is a tragedy. Others, justice.
Quantum physics, which is basically hokey science, says that the universe doesn't happen without the mind entering into it.
What this means is that humans - all humans - have the power of Marvel's Scarlet Witch. Reality manipulation. Probability altering.
Being conscious simply means seeing the big picture. Not losing the forest for the trees. A truly conscious mind sees the overall patterns, the grand design. They would not get lost in the smaller fractals, but perceive things from a possibly more advantageous vantage point.
This, gives us choice. It gives us options and the power to decide our own universe.
And she said to me, "All these unconscious people make me sick."
"Really?" I said.
"Yes. I may not be fully conscious, but I am like, 50% there."
"Ah," I said. "In the act of perceiving levels and assigning labels, that is also being unconscious."
Really conscious people would not see levels. There is no 'better', 'higher', 'smarter'. It doesn't exist. Or rather, the methods to quantify it does not. Therefore, what is, is. What is not, doesn't.
Something exists, and yet humans assign it value. Gold is just gold. Aurum. A very stable metal. It is humans that deem it a precious metal.
"Value is in the mind of the buyer, not the seller." - Sandman, by Neil Gaiman.
An event happens, and the event is at it is. Somebody dies, for instance. Some of us would decide that it is a tragedy. Others, justice.
Quantum physics, which is basically hokey science, says that the universe doesn't happen without the mind entering into it.
What this means is that humans - all humans - have the power of Marvel's Scarlet Witch. Reality manipulation. Probability altering.
Being conscious simply means seeing the big picture. Not losing the forest for the trees. A truly conscious mind sees the overall patterns, the grand design. They would not get lost in the smaller fractals, but perceive things from a possibly more advantageous vantage point.
This, gives us choice. It gives us options and the power to decide our own universe.
Seduction of the Innocent
I was watching the Shah Alam Seksyen 23 cow's head protest with interest. Even wrote a long article for my site, on the issue.
As I was writing it, I realised that it would not make things any better. In fact, the best thing to do would just to shut up about it, until the whole thing blows over.
Remember the yoga issue? It was a big hoo-haa, a few months ago, and just last week I saw nipples poking out of leotards as the woman bent her body in a 'greeting the sun' or ura-renge or 'reverse lotus' or some shit like that. And the woman was as Hindu as me.
The yoga issue is dead, until someone mentions it.
So you see, things like this, you gotta let it slide. People in this country are too lazy to do shit, and for that, we are thankful.
We're so lazy, even after all them kids got abducted and killed with vegetables, I still see lazy-assed parents who let their kids run free.
Let me say this: thank God I like Thai pussies. Cause if I was a freako-child-molester, your kids are gone, man.
Snap-snap! Gone! It'd be like taking babies from their candy.
I was having dinner with a 'spiritual' friend the other day. Spiritual in the sense of, 'follower of pop psychology' spiritual. Neo-religionists. New Age motherfuckers.
People who try to find religion through the underlying philosophies, foregoing the rituals and chantings and magic and supernatural shit.
And even these 'spiritual' motherfuckers were outraged. Outraged!
"We should kill 'em, that's what we should do!"
"Yeah, them are all idiots! We kill idiots, right?!"
I was like, "Hold on! Hold your horses, motherfucker! Hold your goddamn horses!"
Check this out. Pop psychology, and really, all religion, their message has always been the same:
1. Be excellent to one another...
2. And party on, dudes!
- Bill and Ted
The Bible said, "Blessed are the poor in spirit."
The fuck does that mean? Wimps are going to heaven?
No. 'Poor in spirit' could mean, 'people with less ego'.
And we all know that ego is basically something that shows us boundaries. Limits. Borders. Differences. Because the ego needs to be defined, and the easiest way to do that would be to highlight the differences we all have. That's the ego's game.
"He's a rocker. I suck rockers' dick!"
"I'm a rebel. These people are the administration!"
"She likes Twilight! What a stupid bitch!"
Though I must say, Twilight is some fucked up shit. What the fuck are these vampires doing, with no weaknesses?
"But they do have weaknesses! They feel pain! They have feelings!"
Fuck that shit, man. Feeling pain is not a weakness. Feelings are not a weakness. It's not a weakness if every living thing has it.
Kryptonite, that's a weakness. Dying if exposed to sunlight, that's a weakness. Feeling pain is not a fucking weakness when you have super strength, and you regenerate like shit.
Anyway, religion. The message has always been the same. That's why these religions are so popular. Cause in the past, they had to make sense to people. Only way the people are going to embrace it.
I mean, sure, some idiots fell for, "My God can beat your God, cause it has a hammer. What your God got? Extra hands? Shit."
The rest of the motherfuckers, had to be convinced through reason. Logic. It's only today that religion can just be a fashion statement and followed by idiots who don't know what's been written and what's not.
That's why we got all these crazy UFO religions.
Scientology. The Mormon Church (Church of Later-Day Saints, if I'm not mistaken), Blainetology.
Did you know that the Mormon faith said that God lived on the planet Kolu and had actual sex with Mary, and Jesus came to the American Indians, which are a tribe of lost Jews?
Not gonna judge there. It's your faith, man.
And Scientology. Based on science fiction written by L Ron Hubbard. Actually, I can relate. My own personal belief is augmented by comic books and animation.
Cause when I was growing up, comic books made more sense than any religious teacher, of any religion, to me.
I'd ask a question, see? "Why can't we do this?" The answer? "You're an apostate, bitch!" What?
Religion has grown into somewhat a distorted version of itself in recent centuries. And I'm talking about ALL religions.
I mean, when Muhammad, Jesus or Buddha started preaching, they weren't that fanatical.
Muhammad said that all men, be they slaves or rich people, are the same. He created a revolution and people who agreed with him, followed him. The poor AND the rich. Cause it made sense.
Buddha started out as Siddhartha, a prince who was trying to figure out the meaning of life and death and why are humans so divided, manifested by castes and shit.
His message? Everyone's the same, biatch! In fact, everything was the same.
We're all made of the same decaying organic matter as everything else - Tyler Durden.
Jesus? Same message.
Their all-embracing aproach made it easy for everyone to follow their teachings.
And then, a few thousand years later, instead of a message of unity and acceptance, all these people want to do is to show divisions. How my God is better than your God. Cause he got a hammer? What the fuck, man?
"My God can fly!"
"Oh yeah? Well my God got spaceships. And Lasers! LASERS! Tee-tee-tee-TEW!"
You know what that reminds me of? Comic books. Cause we kids, we used to ask each other:
"Which is your favourite superhero?"
"Batman."
"Superman."
"Spider-Man."
"The Flash."
"The Flash is faster than SUperman!"
"No he ain't!"
"Think about it. The Flash, all he got is speed. He gotta beat everyone at speed."
"Superman can do anything!"
"Oh yeah? Then why didn't he just create diamonds and live life rich?"
"Well, Superman's gonna beat Spider-Man's ass any day."
"Not gonna happen," I said.
"Why?"
"Different companies, foo! Superman's with DC and Spider-Man's with Marvel."
Bada bing!
Now, when you find yourself in a religious discourse, and it degenerates into something like this, know for a fact that you're acting like children.
"My religion better than your religion!"
"My hell better than your hell."
"My God better than yo God. Cause he got a hammer."
End of the day, it's the same God. A'ight?
As I was writing it, I realised that it would not make things any better. In fact, the best thing to do would just to shut up about it, until the whole thing blows over.
Remember the yoga issue? It was a big hoo-haa, a few months ago, and just last week I saw nipples poking out of leotards as the woman bent her body in a 'greeting the sun' or ura-renge or 'reverse lotus' or some shit like that. And the woman was as Hindu as me.
The yoga issue is dead, until someone mentions it.
So you see, things like this, you gotta let it slide. People in this country are too lazy to do shit, and for that, we are thankful.
We're so lazy, even after all them kids got abducted and killed with vegetables, I still see lazy-assed parents who let their kids run free.
Let me say this: thank God I like Thai pussies. Cause if I was a freako-child-molester, your kids are gone, man.
Snap-snap! Gone! It'd be like taking babies from their candy.
I was having dinner with a 'spiritual' friend the other day. Spiritual in the sense of, 'follower of pop psychology' spiritual. Neo-religionists. New Age motherfuckers.
People who try to find religion through the underlying philosophies, foregoing the rituals and chantings and magic and supernatural shit.
And even these 'spiritual' motherfuckers were outraged. Outraged!
"We should kill 'em, that's what we should do!"
"Yeah, them are all idiots! We kill idiots, right?!"
I was like, "Hold on! Hold your horses, motherfucker! Hold your goddamn horses!"
Check this out. Pop psychology, and really, all religion, their message has always been the same:
1. Be excellent to one another...
2. And party on, dudes!
- Bill and Ted
The Bible said, "Blessed are the poor in spirit."
The fuck does that mean? Wimps are going to heaven?
No. 'Poor in spirit' could mean, 'people with less ego'.
And we all know that ego is basically something that shows us boundaries. Limits. Borders. Differences. Because the ego needs to be defined, and the easiest way to do that would be to highlight the differences we all have. That's the ego's game.
"He's a rocker. I suck rockers' dick!"
"I'm a rebel. These people are the administration!"
"She likes Twilight! What a stupid bitch!"
Though I must say, Twilight is some fucked up shit. What the fuck are these vampires doing, with no weaknesses?
"But they do have weaknesses! They feel pain! They have feelings!"
Fuck that shit, man. Feeling pain is not a weakness. Feelings are not a weakness. It's not a weakness if every living thing has it.
Kryptonite, that's a weakness. Dying if exposed to sunlight, that's a weakness. Feeling pain is not a fucking weakness when you have super strength, and you regenerate like shit.
Anyway, religion. The message has always been the same. That's why these religions are so popular. Cause in the past, they had to make sense to people. Only way the people are going to embrace it.
I mean, sure, some idiots fell for, "My God can beat your God, cause it has a hammer. What your God got? Extra hands? Shit."
The rest of the motherfuckers, had to be convinced through reason. Logic. It's only today that religion can just be a fashion statement and followed by idiots who don't know what's been written and what's not.
That's why we got all these crazy UFO religions.
Scientology. The Mormon Church (Church of Later-Day Saints, if I'm not mistaken), Blainetology.
Did you know that the Mormon faith said that God lived on the planet Kolu and had actual sex with Mary, and Jesus came to the American Indians, which are a tribe of lost Jews?
Not gonna judge there. It's your faith, man.
And Scientology. Based on science fiction written by L Ron Hubbard. Actually, I can relate. My own personal belief is augmented by comic books and animation.
Cause when I was growing up, comic books made more sense than any religious teacher, of any religion, to me.
I'd ask a question, see? "Why can't we do this?" The answer? "You're an apostate, bitch!" What?
Religion has grown into somewhat a distorted version of itself in recent centuries. And I'm talking about ALL religions.
I mean, when Muhammad, Jesus or Buddha started preaching, they weren't that fanatical.
Muhammad said that all men, be they slaves or rich people, are the same. He created a revolution and people who agreed with him, followed him. The poor AND the rich. Cause it made sense.
Buddha started out as Siddhartha, a prince who was trying to figure out the meaning of life and death and why are humans so divided, manifested by castes and shit.
His message? Everyone's the same, biatch! In fact, everything was the same.
We're all made of the same decaying organic matter as everything else - Tyler Durden.
Jesus? Same message.
Their all-embracing aproach made it easy for everyone to follow their teachings.
And then, a few thousand years later, instead of a message of unity and acceptance, all these people want to do is to show divisions. How my God is better than your God. Cause he got a hammer? What the fuck, man?
"My God can fly!"
"Oh yeah? Well my God got spaceships. And Lasers! LASERS! Tee-tee-tee-TEW!"
You know what that reminds me of? Comic books. Cause we kids, we used to ask each other:
"Which is your favourite superhero?"
"Batman."
"Superman."
"Spider-Man."
"The Flash."
"The Flash is faster than SUperman!"
"No he ain't!"
"Think about it. The Flash, all he got is speed. He gotta beat everyone at speed."
"Superman can do anything!"
"Oh yeah? Then why didn't he just create diamonds and live life rich?"
"Well, Superman's gonna beat Spider-Man's ass any day."
"Not gonna happen," I said.
"Why?"
"Different companies, foo! Superman's with DC and Spider-Man's with Marvel."
Bada bing!
Now, when you find yourself in a religious discourse, and it degenerates into something like this, know for a fact that you're acting like children.
"My religion better than your religion!"
"My hell better than your hell."
"My God better than yo God. Cause he got a hammer."
End of the day, it's the same God. A'ight?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Take Beeer!
Amidst the protest against the temple at Seksyen 23 Shah Alam last week, few people noticed what could possibly be a flash-mob viral-marketing campaign organised by Carlsberg.
Observe the three guys holding the banner which read: Take Beeer!
SOURCE: Malaysiakini
Observe the three guys holding the banner which read: Take Beeer!
SOURCE: Malaysiakini
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Keangkuhan Ego Pendita Ala-ala Langit Agam (KEPALA)
Aku tidak tidur selama 48 jam. Sengaja aku memaksa diri sendiri, pasal aku nak delirium Nostradamus, tanpa mengambil peyote.
Pagi tadi, ada kerja. Balik pejabat, kerja lagi, kemudian mengharung sesak lalulintas KL untuk majlis buka puasa. Bukan aku makan pun. Aku datang pasal nak buat kerja. Sambil menyelam, minum air.
Sekarang, 'menyelam' alam siber dan minum air kopi pekat. Tunggu meeting satu lagi.
Aku tak lama lagi (tahun depan), akan masuk umur 30. Aku boleh bosankan semua orang dengan pendapat aku pasal 'state of self-actualisation' yang merupakan hikmat tertinggi komik Prince of Tennis.
Atau, aku boleh buat macam Alan Moore, dan cakap aku berhenti menulis untuk menjadi ahli sihir hitam yang sekarang memuja Tuhan Ular Rom - Glycon - yang menjadi boneka stokin.
Atau aku boleh senaraikan semua 'pencapaian' aku setakat ini. Atau aku boleh senaraikan pera ngai orang yang aku tidak suka. Seperti mereka yang palsu. Mereka yang hanya tahu mengumpat dan membenci.
Tapi, itu semua sudah aku buat, masa aku muda remaja dulu. Aku dah tua. Aku dah malas. Dah liat. Dan itu sahaja yang mampu aku kongsi dengan semua.
Pergi mampus la ko nak berdemonstrasi ke, ko nak cuba buat orang lain rasa cam kimak ke. Ko nak bertanding dalam perlumbaan yang tidak dianjurkan sesiapa dan hanya wujud dalam otak sempit ko.
Kejarlah! Kejarlah syurga yang kau nak. Kejarlah rasa betul pada diri sendir dan betapa salahnya orang lain.
Ya, mungkin orang lain salah. Mungkin aku salah. Mungkin kau betul. Mungkin aku betul.
Yang penting:
ADA AKU KISAH?
CAK.
CAK.
CAK.
Berdepan dengan manusia yang badan-kesakitannya amat tinggi boleh memenatkan. Dan boleh mengaktifkan badan-kesakitan aku sendiri.
Kewujudan aku tidak bergantung pada pertuturan dan pemikiran dan perasaan sesiapa. Kalau Tuhan kata wujud, maka wujudlah aku. Pergi mampus sama pukimak-pukimak semua.
Malah, nak cakap pergi mampus pun, aku dah penat. Aku letih.
Tenaga aku lebih penting digunakan untuk kerja aku yang menimbun. Menimbun pasal aku timbunkan sendiri. Aku timbunkan sesuka hati. Tiada beban batu digalas. Pasal aku ketagih menggalas batu. Takde batu, tak best. Aku memang kena ada batu.
Pasal akulah Sang Elektron. Satu lawan seribu. Hanya berbekalkan kuasa 230,000HP. Mana mungkin melawan Orga(sm), mana mungkin melawan kombinasi Blue Dream dan Raja Ubur-Ubur si pemukul curi yang hodoh dan tak best pasal emo.
Sapa tak baca Pendekar Laut memang tak paham.
Aku kosongkan kepala sebelum bermesyuarat. Pasal taknak cakap sorang-sorang. Tadi, dah menakutkan barista-barista berapron hijau. Pasal aku dah mula cakap sorang-sorang.
Mamat yang sukar dikenalpasti etniknya, mencebet beg kamera dan beg komputer riba, beserta sebuah beg plastik berisi empat kotak rokok.
Aku rasa macam Plastik Man. AKulah rebel yang asal. Mana ada budak sekolah menengah yang mampu melawan kerebelan aku?
Aku ludah di kaki writer's block. Aku kencing di muka koheren. Akulah syaitan penulisan yang bakal menulis tanpa henti sampai masa tetamu aku datang.
Tidakkah kau tahu, yang alamak...sudah sampai daaaa...okeh. Gua chow dulu.
Pagi tadi, ada kerja. Balik pejabat, kerja lagi, kemudian mengharung sesak lalulintas KL untuk majlis buka puasa. Bukan aku makan pun. Aku datang pasal nak buat kerja. Sambil menyelam, minum air.
Sekarang, 'menyelam' alam siber dan minum air kopi pekat. Tunggu meeting satu lagi.
Aku tak lama lagi (tahun depan), akan masuk umur 30. Aku boleh bosankan semua orang dengan pendapat aku pasal 'state of self-actualisation' yang merupakan hikmat tertinggi komik Prince of Tennis.
Atau, aku boleh buat macam Alan Moore, dan cakap aku berhenti menulis untuk menjadi ahli sihir hitam yang sekarang memuja Tuhan Ular Rom - Glycon - yang menjadi boneka stokin.
Atau aku boleh senaraikan semua 'pencapaian' aku setakat ini. Atau aku boleh senaraikan pera ngai orang yang aku tidak suka. Seperti mereka yang palsu. Mereka yang hanya tahu mengumpat dan membenci.
Tapi, itu semua sudah aku buat, masa aku muda remaja dulu. Aku dah tua. Aku dah malas. Dah liat. Dan itu sahaja yang mampu aku kongsi dengan semua.
Pergi mampus la ko nak berdemonstrasi ke, ko nak cuba buat orang lain rasa cam kimak ke. Ko nak bertanding dalam perlumbaan yang tidak dianjurkan sesiapa dan hanya wujud dalam otak sempit ko.
Kejarlah! Kejarlah syurga yang kau nak. Kejarlah rasa betul pada diri sendir dan betapa salahnya orang lain.
Ya, mungkin orang lain salah. Mungkin aku salah. Mungkin kau betul. Mungkin aku betul.
Yang penting:
ADA AKU KISAH?
CAK.
CAK.
CAK.
Berdepan dengan manusia yang badan-kesakitannya amat tinggi boleh memenatkan. Dan boleh mengaktifkan badan-kesakitan aku sendiri.
Kewujudan aku tidak bergantung pada pertuturan dan pemikiran dan perasaan sesiapa. Kalau Tuhan kata wujud, maka wujudlah aku. Pergi mampus sama pukimak-pukimak semua.
Malah, nak cakap pergi mampus pun, aku dah penat. Aku letih.
Tenaga aku lebih penting digunakan untuk kerja aku yang menimbun. Menimbun pasal aku timbunkan sendiri. Aku timbunkan sesuka hati. Tiada beban batu digalas. Pasal aku ketagih menggalas batu. Takde batu, tak best. Aku memang kena ada batu.
Pasal akulah Sang Elektron. Satu lawan seribu. Hanya berbekalkan kuasa 230,000HP. Mana mungkin melawan Orga(sm), mana mungkin melawan kombinasi Blue Dream dan Raja Ubur-Ubur si pemukul curi yang hodoh dan tak best pasal emo.
Sapa tak baca Pendekar Laut memang tak paham.
Aku kosongkan kepala sebelum bermesyuarat. Pasal taknak cakap sorang-sorang. Tadi, dah menakutkan barista-barista berapron hijau. Pasal aku dah mula cakap sorang-sorang.
Mamat yang sukar dikenalpasti etniknya, mencebet beg kamera dan beg komputer riba, beserta sebuah beg plastik berisi empat kotak rokok.
Aku rasa macam Plastik Man. AKulah rebel yang asal. Mana ada budak sekolah menengah yang mampu melawan kerebelan aku?
Aku ludah di kaki writer's block. Aku kencing di muka koheren. Akulah syaitan penulisan yang bakal menulis tanpa henti sampai masa tetamu aku datang.
Tidakkah kau tahu, yang alamak...sudah sampai daaaa...okeh. Gua chow dulu.
Cerita Bapak Aku Kencing
Bila sesiapa tanya aku ada cerita nak buat filem tak, aku jawab, "Ada. Cerita bapak aku kencing."
Pastu semua blah, macam aku nak hanjingkan diorang.
Tapi, memang betul, cerita pasal bapak aku kencing kat tepi jalan dengan Menteri Besar, drebar dan ketua kampung.
Tempat diorang kencing tu jadi pintu masuk kampung aku.
Filem ni bakal dibeli Miramax dan akhirnya menang Academy Award.
Matilah, taknak percaya.
Oh well. Nak buat macamana?
Seperti biasa, aku ikhlas.
Pastu semua blah, macam aku nak hanjingkan diorang.
Tapi, memang betul, cerita pasal bapak aku kencing kat tepi jalan dengan Menteri Besar, drebar dan ketua kampung.
Tempat diorang kencing tu jadi pintu masuk kampung aku.
Filem ni bakal dibeli Miramax dan akhirnya menang Academy Award.
Matilah, taknak percaya.
Oh well. Nak buat macamana?
Seperti biasa, aku ikhlas.
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