Journeying

JULY 4 — A week is a long time in politics, so it is said. This is strange because it really is just seven days whichever way it’s stretched. It is not as though you can add a bit here, and subtract a bit there, a week is a week, but I take the point. The all-pervasive point is — a lot can happen in one seven-day stretch.

This week I have dragged myself, practically kicking and screaming, cold turkey shivering away from my ever active computers. Divorced myself from the impressively handy yet awfully addictive Internet and therefore also separated from frankly fascinating Facebook and gigantean Google.

Instead, I have been journeying physically and spiritually, as opposed to virally virtually through cyberspace, on my own external and internal odysseys.

I journeyed physically — to Kedah. I was accompanying my stepson north on his first day at university, a fresher beginning a startling new journey into the twilight world of late teen education — a wannabe Lat, possibly a Zint or Puyuh, but probably not a Redza Piyadasa nor an Ibrahim Hussein — his star yet to shine.

Each kilometre of travel brought a fresh revelation, with said teenage stepson ever busy saving his energy, for what I know not — sleeping on the rear seat, and my wife, bless her, navigating not the highway I was travelling, but her way through dreamland.

In that sense, I journeyed with a car full of passengers — but solo.

This week I also journeyed spiritually, in the sense that, due to the week’s momentous events, I was forced to take pause, catch my breath and reflect upon other people and their own, equally engaging and yet very disparate, journeying.

In one extraordinarily full week, but still only holding the regulation seven days, two celebrities, in Los Angeles and California respectively, took their final transcendent journeys across the Styx from the land of flesh, moving inevitably on to other, more ethereal, intangible places.

The once black, but increasingly whiter, moon-walking, healer of worlds, stranger in Moscow Michael Jackson and the larger-than-life, coiffure-bouncing Bionic Man marrying, ex-Charlie’s Angel posing Farrah Fawcett left for their own individual journeys beyond this mortal coil.

The King of Pop was finally deposed by his own heart, which, ever too large for one gentle man, gave out and reluctantly ushered in the uniquely unimpressive post-Michael Jackson era.

Older people, saddened by yet another departed star, recalled where they were when they heard of Elvis Presley, or John Lennon, dying; younger people, not caught up in the moment, wondered just what all the fuss was about “‘cause it’s not like he was Bono or the Jonas brothers or anything”.

Michael, now Mikaeel Jackson, has began a fresh journey, one of the soul/Ka/Atman alone, sans the other four Jacksons, sans Bubbles, sans everything.

Farrah Fawcett, once Farrah Fawcett-Majors and pin-up to the 1970s, finally succumbed to the cancer which for so long had been held in abeyance, denying her chances of ever appearing in Playboy magazine, again.

And while the world looked to America, and wept a crocodile tear or three, 26-year old Neda Agha-Soltan was gunned down amidst the Iranian election protests. Her death, in Tehran, enabled her to achieve the fame she was unable to realise in life. As her death whipped around cyberspace on Facebook and YouTube, outraging those who needed to be outraged by her death, many thoughts were spared regarding legitimate protest and undue repressive force.

Where fans of the two media stars — Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett — had wrung their hands and engaged in some degree of self flagellation over their deaths, the death and ultimate journey of Neda Agha-Soltan inspired yet more political protests against overwhelmingly oppressive injustice. Though, ultimately, Neda’s 15 minutes of fame will dwindle as more, and yet more, atrocities come to life, there will be one corner of the Internet which will be forever — Neda.

Closer to home, one small silvery insect — the lepisma saccharina — was much lauded in the Bangsar suburb of Kuala Lumpur. This tiny blue/gray lover of papery environments — newspapers, magazine and even old books — 10 years previously had lent its common or garden name to a newly nascent enterprise begun by one Raman Krishnan (T.R.R. Raman)

During tenth anniversary celebrations The lepisma saccharina (Silverfish) or to give it the proper title — Silverfish Books — celebrated 10 years of its existence in publishing and bookselling. This highly successful enterprise was spearheaded by the much loved and frequently misunderstood Raman Krishnan, organiser of literary festivals and controversy.

The first Silverfish decade is over, and, while small publishers everywhere are cautious and concerned about their futures, Silverfish marches on. Having brought fresh writing to eagerly waiting bibliophiles and launched many local writers, including yours truly, into Malaysia’s stellar orbit, Silverfish Books now takes its first, tentative, baby steps, journeying forward into an undoubtedly continuing illustrious future.

There is a sense of new lamps for old, of decay and re-birth in the air as that celebrated chanteuse, lissom, multi-talented Fly FM DJ Hunny Madu finally said yes to Khairul, and now begins a wholly different journey towards marriage, being a spouse and fecundity.

To the immense disappointment of many Malaysian men, and no doubt many others worldwide the delectable Hunny, aka Hani Farhana binti Mohd Hatim accepted to become affianced to Khairul Azhar Abdul Wahid. At some point in the not-too-distant future, they will marry and journey together.

Change is everything, and everything must change. Change is the one definitive factor in this world, nothing remains as it was. I move from my post in front of endless reams of information, on the Internet, teenagers move on, media icons pass from this world to the next, young protesters too. Anniversaries are celebrated and new partnerships solidified.

Ideas change, relationships change, we move forever forward on our own personal odysseys, going towards the unknown and unknowable, forever metamorphosing towards destiny/fate/Kismet and forever journeying.

Not Published Today

Yusuf Martin says those people searching for my column in The Malaysian Insider today will be disappointed as, for some reason un-communicated to me, it has not be published.

New Malaysian Essays 2

Hopefully coming to a bookshop near you soon - my essay; Colourful Language

Tin Pot Crooks

JUNE 27 — One week on and still this silvery state is as dry as a snake’s underbelly wrapped in sand paper slithering across parched, hot sand at midday, during the dry season.

It is dry in the sense that there has not only been no rain, but even the memory of rain is buried so deep within the collective subconscious that it would take a particularly adept hypnotherapist to delve there, wade through amassed dream symbols, cultural icons and stigmas to retrieve it.

However, this week has not dried in the news sense. But before I launch into this week’s theme I would like you, dear reader, to reach into your mind, grab hold of your imagination and give it a good hard tug, stretch that stiffening imagination for all it is worth. Now, if you are ready, read on.

Imagine, just for one second, imagine, way back to the days when tin was a household word across the world. Imagine if this silvery state, which had produced enough of that particular metal, had placed a trademark on the word tin. Imagine the revenue that word alone would bring.

From L. Frank Baum’s original books there would be enough income, but when Victor Fleming and Judy Garland made the Technicolor film, the profits would have soared exponentially, over the rainbow in fact. The yellow brick road would have led all the way to the silvery state coffers with every mention of the Tin Woodsman (or Nick Chopper as he is oft called).

Every time that hero dog Rin Tin Tin bound across the silver or TV screen, bent on rescuing small boys from wells or big boys from even bigger boys with guns, money would trickle in. From Belgium to Europe and across to the Americas, the merest mention of the boy detective Tin Tin ( pronounced Ton Ton) would aid the state bank account and bolster the treasury.

Then, with our country so rich, there would be no need for crime, no need for hapless individuals to ram forklift trucks into ATM machines, with the thought of enriching themselves at others’ misfortune. No need, indeed, for these characters with little imagination, then to abandon their project having slammed the forklift truck into said ATM, to no avail.

The attempted, and failed, robbery makes me wonder, if after ramming the vehicle into the wall the wannabe robber, dressed in helmet and jumpsuit, then sat around like one of the vultures in Disney’s “Jungle Book”, obviously in two minds, saying to himself

“What am I gonna do?”

“I don’t know, what you wanna do?”

“I don’t know, what you wanna do?” unable to make a decision.

The same could be said for those enterprising fellows who, having attempted to break into a jewellery shop, in Seremban, gave up after discovering that there were two walls to drill through, not one. Obviously their hearts were just not in it.

Perhaps they too had been lured into a life of crime by Tamil films, as three Serdang robbers were reported to admit. Only Tamil films – I am certain that both Bollywood and Hollywood might be quite upset that their combined efforts had come to no avail – and that it is only Tamil films (or Kollywood, as the South Indian film industry is referred to) that have the power to turn clean-cut, honest, everyday citizens into ferocious criminals.

Perhaps the courts, in their in-depth understanding of the human psyche and forensic psychology, may seek either to turn these men’s minds around by using reverse psychology, or plump for the tried and tested horrors of abreaction trauma theory.

In the former, the criminals may be made to watch nothing but love stories with Rajinikanth, Kamal Hassan and Vijay singing and dancing around trees, protesting their undying, and non-violent, love for the likes of Trisha, Meera Jasmine and Jyothika, to A.R.Rahman tunes. The idea being that, if Tamil films about crime can make honest men criminals, then nothing but Tamil love films would do the opposite.

In the second scenario, said criminals would be strapped to chairs, with small electrodes attached to their bodies, in a small cinema. They would then be force-fed a diet of the worse criminal Tamil films ever, but every time a criminal act was committed an electric current, strong enough to hurt, but not cause any additional mishaps, would shoot through their bodies, resulting in a conditioning so severe, that they could never watch another criminal act without jumping with shock.

But then, maybe I am too unkind to all these apprentice criminals, maybe it is the fault of the police themselves that so many individuals are trying out for a new career. Perhaps if police personnel spent less time sending 900 of their number to gatecrash functions like the 43rd anniversary of the DAP, in Klang, or arresting innocent bystanders talking in mosques, there might be more of them to patrol the streets and deter people considering a career change into criminality.

Certainly if more police were on the streets, then they would have been on the lookout for the notorious ‘Arab’ gang – three men and two women wearing purdah, who stole RM50,000 worth of jewellery from a goldsmith’s shop.

It is curious, is it not, that many stores, banks, etc., request people not to wear crash helmets, so that their faces can be readily seen by surveillance cameras, but do not give a second thought to women covered from top to toe. Perhaps that may change now.

Still these Middle-Eastern, possibly Arab criminal women may have secretly been hankering after a refreshing spa, or the salon services now offered by seven inmates at Kajang Prison. According to sources there is a queue for such services and desperate people may resort to anything to obtain them.

But as the heat continues all I really want to break into is a cold drink, to arrest my thirst. And, as I do so, I must remember not to watch any Tamil films and to stop pontificating upon revenue lost by not trademarking tin.

As seen in The Malaysian Insider

Building Trust with ERA - UT Today 2009

LINK

PS. yes the illustration is mine too.

Of transforming Speakers and Ents

Good day dear reader, or if you are reading this at night, good night dear reader, sleep well.

Today, or indeed tonight, we begin our journey together, and, hopefully, it will be as good for you as it will be for me. I wish it to be mutually fruitful – I see mangosteens are already in the stalls, and some Thai durian too, so dig into the delights, but as Jim Reeves plays gently in the background, I say – say because I can’t sing (my wife will attest to that) – ... welcome to my world, won’t you come on in.

And what a world....

Here in the rural heartlands and amidst the pastoral kampungs it is the actuality of life which counts, and concerns.

Simple, honest things like have the wandering water buffalo attacked my mango saplings once again, does my wife know I still secretly smoke or what was the last excuse I made not to do that particular vital, but non-urgent, task.

Other game-playing tends to be limited to the much beloved football, badminton or sepak takraw. More intense and sophisticated games are left to those with a mind and stomach for such things, like Locusta and Lucrezia.

Having said that, and, breathing a huge sigh of relief, I am pleased to announce that peace has finally returned to my beloved land of water buffalo, mining pools and frogs who parp like Toad’s motor horn. In fact, in this lengthy dry spell, no frogs have parped for some time, so Toad’s horn remains as silent as the non-existent winds, and the ground continues to become crispier, crunchier.

Despite distinct moments of, no doubt stirred, portrayed insurrection, vain, inglorious uncivil war has been narrowly averted in these silvery lands. Convoys of laden military and police trucks have been seen returning from whence they came, and all is relatively quiet within the hallowed halls of quaintly politicking peoples, their machinations and whisperings kept out of the public’s hearing.

But, deeply within the Machiavellian machinery, which purports to be the state government, lawsuits abound with lawyers continuing to make money as previous Speaker sues incumbent Speaker for assault and false imprisonment, when it was only a simple miss-hearing. The Speaker needs a pick-me-up, is what was said, but sadly in these days of decreasing standards of English, what was heard was – the Speaker needs to be picked up, and carted off.

There is a thought that, no doubt at some point, the incumbent Speaker will sue the vanquished Speaker for broken fingernails, pulled muscles and loss of wind, though it seems that is one thing politicians are never short of – plenty of hot air.

This back and forth suing, the initial coup-de-etat, the subsequent court cases et al, demonstrates just how elastic law is in this part of the world. Perhaps it is a legacy of the British, as most evils here are purported to be. They were, after all – with thanks to Sir Henry Wickham and Henry Ridley – responsible for the huge rubber plantations, the gathered latex, and hence the expectant elasticity.

The claim and counter-claim fiasco leads to an intensely farcical situation, perhaps worthy of Brian Rix and Whitehall, or a belly laughing P. Ramlee comedy – replete with a ballad or two, to take the sting out of the satire.

But, thankfully, coffee slurpers are now free from molestation by uniform-wearing, baton-wielding servants of government. They may now continue to slurp whichever beverage is their particular delight and are no longer dragged kicking and slogan screaming from kedai kopis in front of wannabe Steven Spielbergs and their YouTube mini-films.

Those individuals burning candles, or wearing black, are now allowed to burn candles or wear black, both even, at the same time, without arrest. I wipe a much fevered brow, and confess that I was a little concerned when the electricity went out in the kampung, for fear that I would be arrested for lighting nightlights. I sharply pulled the curtains shut and crouched over the flame.

Intensely aware that it was now illegal to wear black, I managed to get away from the fashion police, by wearing my black Marks & Spencer underwear under seemingly legal and conservative trousers, as no be-uniformed protector of power would want to go down there, believe me.

Further afield, there are rumours, that in a bid to save the ailing local car manufacturer, and to strengthen the national guard in preparation for the next general election, Proton are to team up with Mattel, maker of the original Transformer toys, to make a cross between Robocop, Transformers and the original Proton Saga, called – TransRoboSaga Gen Tiga.

This all in one battle robot, quick change artist and family saloon will be on our streets minding our government for us, so we don’t have to worry about their safety at the next general election. All the public will have to be concerned about is how long the Milo tin body armour will last, and where to buy hard hats to fend off the flying auto parts as they transform.

As road running cyclists prepare to burn a token amount of rubber at Tanjung Rambutan, a strange expectant silence has descended under the now infamous democracy tree, along with even stranger threats from the council to destroy the plaque now embedded in the tree, and quite possibly the tree too. Maybe the council thinks that the tree is an Ent, and is concerned that, having wandered far from the Forests of Fangorn, the Ent may, mistakenly, bombard the Ipoh dewan mistaking it for Tolkien’s Isengard.

But, out here, amidst the mining pools and the distant blue mountains the biggest fear is the lengthening dry spell, and how much longer do we have to keep watering our gardens before the rain eventually comes.

Frog noises we endure, political wrangling too – all we need is enough water to dampen our plants, fish in the mining pools and rice.

As seen in The Malaysian Insider Saturday June 20th

There is in the longing

There is in the longing
Something profound
Full and compelling
Urging
Inciting
Willing the wanting
Obliging the having
And
In the denying
Satisfies
Fulfils.

The observer
Left to yearn
Gazes
Appreciates
Learns cognition
Is gratified
Warmed
Within that glow
Of
non-possession.

The desired
Pulls back
From objectification
Freed
Permanently other
Untainted
Glowing
Unique
But
Touched
By adoration.