Showing posts with label essey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label essey. Show all posts
Aidil Adha 1999...It was so quiet, it was actually deafening.....
Note : Written few years ago (circa 2002-2003, bad grammer and all). Tribute to Syed Abdullah B. Syed Mustaffa, allahyarham. A Father, husband & grandfather. Al-fatihah.
19th November 1999. I was at home in Taman Rinting, barely awake when a call came and everyone was suddenly up and ready. It was in the middle of Ramadan. The day was normal and everyone were in no mood to go to the hospital. It was Saturday, there were no sound of school busses and cars dropping school kids at the primary school nearby. It was so quiet that it was actually deafening. Everything was quite as the Toyota Cielo left the house with my two brothers tagged along in their own cars. My older sister opted to stay back. Just incase anything came up. There was nothing in his eyes other than emptiness and some hope.
I don’t actually remember who was driving that day. It might have been my brother. My mother or myself. During the short drive to Hospital Penawar, many things going through my mind. Only yesterday morning that I remember helping my older sister to prepare breakfast for my father. It was porridge and mashed potatoes. In a split second things got complicated as his body started to shake nervously, in a subtle but alarming way. We called the ambulance and everybody waited anxiously for the result.
My father just got home after spending nearly 9 months in various hospitals. First, it was in Hospital Sultanah Aminah before being transferred to Johor Specialist Hospital at Jalan Abdul Samad. He spent a couple of months there to undergo some treatment to check and improve his condition. My mother spent the whole time there, it was like a second home for my mother. She slept there and accompanied my father, going back to Taman Rinting only if anything important came up. She never drove at night before, let alone in a thunderstorm but in those days one could only understand what true love really means. She braved anything that comes by, as nothing was impossible to her. As I was studying then and live in Ulu Tiram, I wasn’t able to visit my father that often. My second brother was working back and fort from Pasir Gudang to Bintulu and Kerteh, so every chances that we had we would went to the hospital. The condition seems to be under control and doctors were trying to find the cause of the illness. My brothers and I would sit outside the main entrance, sipping extremely hot coffee from the vendor machine and checking out the hot cars the doctor’s drive in.
Everything was fine a year ago. It was still in the midst of Hari Raya. My father was getting ready for work when a sudden pain on his back left him lying and not being able to stand up, let alone walks. An ambulance had to be called to our house to pick him for a checkup in Hospital Sultanah Aminah. He was released a couple of weeks later but was advice to relax at home for the time being. We were quite shock as my father doesn’t really have any major illness prior to this incident. He was really active, likes to jog and occasionally plays soccer. He was a very health conscious person and doesn’t smoke. He was a workaholic and dedicates much of his time to work and family
We spent some the time in our house in Ulu Tiram and his condition wasn’t improving. Just seeing his taking the stairs to the second floor was really painful for us. He took one small steps at a time, and managed to complete it in just less than an hour. It was really different, seeing a vulnerable side of my father that has always been very strong and active all his life. In a split second, everything changes, quite drastically. My father, being a stubborn man that would not just let fate had the better of him, tried to fight it but to no avail, until he was again admitted to hospital for the second time, to Johor Specialist Hospital.
He was diagnosed of having a kind of bone cancer. An injury that might occur during a sporting activity might lead to the damage of my father’s spine and this lead to more serious injury. My father was the kind of person that doesn’t like to go to clinics or hospital whenever he wasn’t feeling good. He rarely took medical leaves and only took his annual leaves at year end to spend time with us. Drive to Kedah or Penang to visit our relatives there.
My father was born in Kedah. Yan Kecik, Kedah. I still remember my grand father’s house although we haven’t been there for quite some time. The last time in 2002, to visit our late uncle that was critically ill then. He passed away soon after the visit. But that was in Sungai Petani, not Yan Kecik. I’d heard the house was rented out to another family. The crystal clear stream not so far from the house. Duck and fishes, it was just like in a travel advertisement shown in television, picture perfect.
His condition wasn’t getting any better so the hospital recommended to transfer my father to Mahkota Medical Center in Malacca. The hospital here was bigger, with spacious room and better facilities. That year we spend Hari Raya Korban in Malacca, with everyone sleeping in my father’s room and ate ketupat, rending, satay. It was a definitely special moments and quite bizarre, celebrating Aidiladha with the whole in a totally unique place……
Tags: father, death, tribute
“This is Clint Eastwood Music. This is music with no name.” A look at music and the genre / labeling process.
Note: Taken Cronically Donut 'zine #9, November 1998. Written by Syed Syahrul Zarizi
Music is at its most exiting when we don’t quite have a name for it yet. Once the press has come up with a label for the music, then anyone can do it. First, you have the Sex Pistols and the Clash, and then someone says ‘punk’ and before you know it you’ve got The Stranglers, Shame 69 and the Police. It’s the different between The Beatles and (Hey! There’s something called a ‘Liverpool sound’! ) Gerry and the Peacemakers.
Normally this pre-label period only lasted a moment. That is why we all want to claim that we saw special band at that one special gig – the one before the whole world discovered them. Because that was the moment before the press told us that this new music was called and what we were supposed to think about it. Over on one side we have all that ambience-with beat or techno-with-prettiness stuff. Intelligent techno? Electronic Listening Music? The names haven’t stuck, because they are inadequate to describe what’s going on. Then we’ve got all thin dance stuff that won’t fit neatly into any genre at all. That’s why it’s so good. It’s still free to borrow from anywhere, sound like anything and no one can deliberately set out to sound like it because no one can say exactly what is sounds like.
It might sound like Beth Gobbon’s voice, but then again it might sound like the wah-wah guitar in KarmaComa, the drone at the beginning of the Method Man track, the over-eager kick drum in Bug Powder dust, or the rhythmic sway of Ben Harper via The Dust Brother.
There’s always been music around that defies genre barriers, but normally that is called avant garde and it doesn’t sell. What is different today is that this stuff sells. Gets into the charts, even. So why now?
Art has always reflected the state of contemporary science and technology. The inpressionist fed off the discovery of photography; the futurist borrowed from the speed and violent of the automobile and the train; cubism took reality apart as quantum theory and special theory of relativity were taking classical physics apart; the atom bomb spawned the theater of the absurb. So where is science now?
Last year at the Santa Fe Institute – where cutting edge thinkers think about cutting edge, they held a congerence to discuss ‘The Limits of Scientific Knowledge.’ Is it possible for science to know (they asked) what it cannot know? Good question.
So what is it that we don’t know?
We don’t know the speed and mass of a particle (uncertainty principle). We don’t know how the universe works (Unifies Field theory). We don’t know what the weather will be like next week (Chaos theory). We don’t know how to make a killing on the stock market (Complexity theory).
It’s hardly surprising that, in an age when science finally admits it hasn’t got a handle on things after all, that people want to listen to music without label, music that doesn’t follow any clear rules, music or possibilities.
Freed from the rigid disciplines of what’s hip, you can float in the freedom of the cool. Let it take you wherever you want to go. This music have no agenda. But it probably sets the next one.
The Birth of Cool Phive, 1995
1
I remember reading sometime ago about an Indonesian writer that wrote a novel about nothing. That’s an idea. In the age where one can quickly be bored with usual repetition and daily protocols, experimentation is getting more and more advance and can get confusing. Surging forward with one style is a way to prevent oneself from being a part of the norm and million other creative writers.
I don’t know what was the outcome of the novel but I’m sure it was interesting. But what I don’t really understand was the writer’s writing process of such a novel. Was it the same with other millions writers out there? Or was it something else, that in the process in creating ‘nothing’ there is ‘something’ that was needed to make it works?
From what I understand, the ‘nothing’ must only be on the theme, because if it was applied to other aspect of writing the novel, ‘nothing’ will ever come out. It is hard to think and talk about nothing. Last night, as I was laying on bed, starring at the white ceiling, I will tried to think of nothing, but I doubt I can really do it for a long time. The most might be seconds, maybe less.
The writer must really have ‘nothing’ to say. Or does have something to say about ‘nothing’ what I am sure about is that I am not sure what he was writing about. What was his novel about?
“This is really disturbing.” I said to myself. “Is there’s such thing as nothing?”
2
I grew up on a healthy diet of the Beatles, Jamali Shadat, the Favorite group, Santana, Buddy Guy and many other great things. My gather has a great collection of LP’s and not so successful cartridges. They were pop bands, a go-go and blues.
When I was in my mid-teen, I discovered Hendrix. It was a pleasant surprise. Still shocked, I asked myself, was this blues, rock and roll or progressive rock? It was just as the first time I’ve listen to the Stranglers, Leftfield and Goldie. What the hell are these? What should I call it?
We sure do have many questions in out life. Every day, there are new questions that come to our mind. These questions need to be answered. And when there were no answered, we made it up ourselves.
There are also many uncertainties in our life. Many things we don’t understand and some of it we don’t have a clear explanation about it. There should be more explanation about it.
“Can someone explain it to me? Please, please we are begging you, just lie if you have to.”
This is how and why the labeling and name-calling begins. It was from the pure pressure and the need to secure the insecurity of the people that make other people to put words into our mouths and tell us what to do, listen to and how to live our life. We are the one that asked for it.
Many people realized this there are some questions that can’t be answered. Or there are more than a way to answer a question? Here where Dadaism come in and people that were bored with punk turn to no-wave or other avant-garde or alternative genre that even I don’t understand. They want to be alone, they want to be free. They don’t want to be tangled in any things that will poke the normal folks imagination or be label as the next in thing.
Neeli Cherkovski, a writer from the Beat generation said,
There are in many sense, a person can be free. A man live all his live on a wheel chair can feel free as a bird when he go to the park with his friends in weekends. A blind man feels free when he talks to someone.
Will we be free from the labeling and all the name-calling? I doubt because it is just human nature. But if you look inside yourself, you will realize that freedom is in ourselves and our mindset is sometime the real threat.
Percussion music is revolution. Sound and rhythm have too long been submissive of nineteenth century music. Today we are fighting for their emancipation. Tomorrow with electronic music in our ears, we will hear freedom…. At the present stage of revolution, a healthy lawlessness is warranted. Experiment must necessarily be carried on by hitting anything – tin pans, rice bowls, iron pipes – anything we can lay our hands on. Not only hitting, but rubbing, smashing, making sound in every possible way… What we can’t do ourselves will be done by machine, which we will invent. ~ John Cage, 1939
Music is at its most exiting when we don’t quite have a name for it yet. Once the press has come up with a label for the music, then anyone can do it. First, you have the Sex Pistols and the Clash, and then someone says ‘punk’ and before you know it you’ve got The Stranglers, Shame 69 and the Police. It’s the different between The Beatles and (Hey! There’s something called a ‘Liverpool sound’! ) Gerry and the Peacemakers.Normally this pre-label period only lasted a moment. That is why we all want to claim that we saw special band at that one special gig – the one before the whole world discovered them. Because that was the moment before the press told us that this new music was called and what we were supposed to think about it. Over on one side we have all that ambience-with beat or techno-with-prettiness stuff. Intelligent techno? Electronic Listening Music? The names haven’t stuck, because they are inadequate to describe what’s going on. Then we’ve got all thin dance stuff that won’t fit neatly into any genre at all. That’s why it’s so good. It’s still free to borrow from anywhere, sound like anything and no one can deliberately set out to sound like it because no one can say exactly what is sounds like.
It might sound like Beth Gobbon’s voice, but then again it might sound like the wah-wah guitar in KarmaComa, the drone at the beginning of the Method Man track, the over-eager kick drum in Bug Powder dust, or the rhythmic sway of Ben Harper via The Dust Brother.
A song is anything that walk by itself ~ Bob Dylan
There’s always been music around that defies genre barriers, but normally that is called avant garde and it doesn’t sell. What is different today is that this stuff sells. Gets into the charts, even. So why now?
Art has always reflected the state of contemporary science and technology. The inpressionist fed off the discovery of photography; the futurist borrowed from the speed and violent of the automobile and the train; cubism took reality apart as quantum theory and special theory of relativity were taking classical physics apart; the atom bomb spawned the theater of the absurb. So where is science now?
Last year at the Santa Fe Institute – where cutting edge thinkers think about cutting edge, they held a congerence to discuss ‘The Limits of Scientific Knowledge.’ Is it possible for science to know (they asked) what it cannot know? Good question.
I know but I don’t know ~ Blondie
So what is it that we don’t know?
We don’t know the speed and mass of a particle (uncertainty principle). We don’t know how the universe works (Unifies Field theory). We don’t know what the weather will be like next week (Chaos theory). We don’t know how to make a killing on the stock market (Complexity theory).
It’s hardly surprising that, in an age when science finally admits it hasn’t got a handle on things after all, that people want to listen to music without label, music that doesn’t follow any clear rules, music or possibilities.
Freed from the rigid disciplines of what’s hip, you can float in the freedom of the cool. Let it take you wherever you want to go. This music have no agenda. But it probably sets the next one.
The Birth of Cool Phive, 1995
1
I remember reading sometime ago about an Indonesian writer that wrote a novel about nothing. That’s an idea. In the age where one can quickly be bored with usual repetition and daily protocols, experimentation is getting more and more advance and can get confusing. Surging forward with one style is a way to prevent oneself from being a part of the norm and million other creative writers.
I don’t know what was the outcome of the novel but I’m sure it was interesting. But what I don’t really understand was the writer’s writing process of such a novel. Was it the same with other millions writers out there? Or was it something else, that in the process in creating ‘nothing’ there is ‘something’ that was needed to make it works?
From what I understand, the ‘nothing’ must only be on the theme, because if it was applied to other aspect of writing the novel, ‘nothing’ will ever come out. It is hard to think and talk about nothing. Last night, as I was laying on bed, starring at the white ceiling, I will tried to think of nothing, but I doubt I can really do it for a long time. The most might be seconds, maybe less.
The writer must really have ‘nothing’ to say. Or does have something to say about ‘nothing’ what I am sure about is that I am not sure what he was writing about. What was his novel about?
“This is really disturbing.” I said to myself. “Is there’s such thing as nothing?”
2
I grew up on a healthy diet of the Beatles, Jamali Shadat, the Favorite group, Santana, Buddy Guy and many other great things. My gather has a great collection of LP’s and not so successful cartridges. They were pop bands, a go-go and blues.
When I was in my mid-teen, I discovered Hendrix. It was a pleasant surprise. Still shocked, I asked myself, was this blues, rock and roll or progressive rock? It was just as the first time I’ve listen to the Stranglers, Leftfield and Goldie. What the hell are these? What should I call it?
We sure do have many questions in out life. Every day, there are new questions that come to our mind. These questions need to be answered. And when there were no answered, we made it up ourselves.
There are also many uncertainties in our life. Many things we don’t understand and some of it we don’t have a clear explanation about it. There should be more explanation about it.
“Can someone explain it to me? Please, please we are begging you, just lie if you have to.”
This is how and why the labeling and name-calling begins. It was from the pure pressure and the need to secure the insecurity of the people that make other people to put words into our mouths and tell us what to do, listen to and how to live our life. We are the one that asked for it.
Many people realized this there are some questions that can’t be answered. Or there are more than a way to answer a question? Here where Dadaism come in and people that were bored with punk turn to no-wave or other avant-garde or alternative genre that even I don’t understand. They want to be alone, they want to be free. They don’t want to be tangled in any things that will poke the normal folks imagination or be label as the next in thing.
Neeli Cherkovski, a writer from the Beat generation said,
“In every artist I know there’s a yearning for anarchy. You are rushing toward anarchy because you want to be left alone; you want to be able to write and say what ever you want. At the same time, you are yearning for a sense of order.”
There are in many sense, a person can be free. A man live all his live on a wheel chair can feel free as a bird when he go to the park with his friends in weekends. A blind man feels free when he talks to someone.
Will we be free from the labeling and all the name-calling? I doubt because it is just human nature. But if you look inside yourself, you will realize that freedom is in ourselves and our mindset is sometime the real threat.
Next Transit
the bridge, originally uploaded by williumbillium.
I wrote this story in 1997/1998 and was included in Cronically Donut. It was about my beloved grandfather. We love him. I ‘m not that good in writing short story and this is a very rare example. Simple, raw, edited here and there but it still represent the younger me. I just want to keep some of the sweetness for myself. Al-fatihah. The bus terminal was beginning to be flooded with commuters. Boys and girls, young and old in various shapes and sizes walking through and along path of people. Minding their own business and glancing to others with an unspeakable sign of approval whenever they accidentally bumped to each other’s. It was 1.30 in the afternoon. The sun was shining brightly just above us. It was humid.
The air was thick with overwhelming feeling of canned excitement and boredom. It was crowded but unlike Hari Raya, not too many smiling faces are visible. That was the time when people walked with one hand holding to their ticket like their life depends on it. Then again, maybe it is. It was probably the weather that has been so unpredictable these past few days that have been affecting people’s mood.
One last look outside the window confirms the bus have started moving. Three minute past two and for a Malay, that can be considered on time. The driver puts on a steady speed and stopped at a corner before turning right. It moved to second gear before stopping again at a traffic light. The traffic was normal but the number of express busses seems to be doubled than on normal day.
Going back to my grandfather’s house is like a pilgrimage for me. A sort of going back to nature and a place I feel most unique, then and still is. Listening and looking at familiar voices and faces. The sound of birds and crickets bring me back to where Mother Nature is the purest. The sound of chicken has long gone but the sound of lorries and busses passing in front of the old house still shook us at night.
But among the sound, the smell, the sound from the nearby mosque are what I really miss about the house. It wasn’t just the sound of the Azan or the people reciting the Yassin every Friday night but something else; something more intimate. It just isn’t the same. Something has changed. Sometimes, at the break of dawn, from the bedroom where my mother and father always sleep in whenever we were at the old house, I could see the sun, casting it brilliant light. Spreading it all around like an artist putting on his last touch on his masterpiece. But today, I can’t feel it dept and intensity anymore. There were no details. It’s like the color were all wrong or didn’t match with the picture at all.
Eventually, as the journey began to get older, time took it toll on me. The thing that has been haunting for the past few weeks begin to dance in my head again. The past rose to mind. I can’t really recalled when was the last time we made our own dodol, a traditional Hari Raya dish made with coconut milk and sugar. My second eldest brother was the one that usually steered the dodol and took turns with my eldest brother. It was a long process and the fire have to be controlled or else it would not turn up right. From liquid, it will turn into a thick, dark mixture. One way to check whether it is ready or not, is to put in a small piece of banana leaf. If the leaf did not stick to the dodol, then, it is done. So, it was the ghost of Hari Raya that has been haunting me all this time. Those were the good old time, when there was no such thing as Raya without our own home made bamboo canon. The sound of thunderclaps was long gone even though the old Chinese shop that sells it (illegally, I supposed) still exists. Memory endures, no matter if it’s beautiful or not. Age are just a bunch of numbers that I’ve found later can’t be altered mathematically but with today medical wonders, nothing is impossible. Then again, that is cheating. It will not last. Time is man made, just to make sure nothing will happened at the same time. Not even Hari Raya Puasa and Chinese New Year.
The vibration from the bus gave a relaxing massaging effect on my lower back. It was an old bus. Maybe a Volvo. I don’t have a Walkman’s on and beginning to regret not buying any reading material before boarding the bus. No radio, no television. There wasn’t any kind of entertainment whatsoever. It was dead silent. The bus was only half full with passengers. I can almost hear my heartbeat. All I can hear is the beautiful sound of the V8 engine.
The journey will probably took two hours. It had been half an hour since the bus left Larkin Terminal and for the last twenty minutes or so, I had been closing my eyes really tight ignoring the sun that have been shining into my face. I 've been trying to catch a quick nape, but to no avail. I opened my eyes and adjust the curtain to shield my face from the sunlight that was successful in poking my lazy eyes. In front of me, a small child, a girl was standing looking at me. Smooth skin and short ponytails. Her cute and innocent face would cheer anyone’s mundane afternoon. What time will tell and do to the child. Maybe I just miss my grandmother.
The idea of holding to old memories is to accompany me through journey like this. It works, but not all the time. Like the time my cousins and me were caught swimming in the mosque’s pond where people use the water to clean themselves before performing the prayer. Or the parit way back there nears the banana trees owned by a Chinese family. My grandfather gave us a good scolding, and made us promised not to do it again. It wasn’t the first time that we were caught swimming there but that was surely the last. He made sure of that. We went to far, sometime, not knowing that our behavior is just too much for his fragile body. It was memory like that, that really make me miss my kampung. It wasn’t something that I am proud of but sure is a good story to tell when all of us meet again, especially during holiday and festive seasons. Something that makes us smile, a smile tat shows gratitude, appreciation of a good intention, sadness and love. I love the time, the attention and the intuition.
I’ve not been visiting my grandfather ‘s house as often as I used to. Since I was small, every holiday were spent there. I live and went to school there for 2 years, when my mother was working in Kluang. And at 13, I was already a season traveler, going back and forth between Ulu Tiram and the old house every chance that I have. Over the years, the trip became less frequent and now I am lucky if I can find the time to go there once every two months.
I really missed the old house. Last time I went there was two months ago. That was a long time. The old mosque beside the old house, the short terawih prayer, one of the quickest anywhere but still I find it very hard to pass number eight. The fruits trees, of course durians and the small pond behind the mosque. The water was green. There were many flat stones scattered around the pond which origin is still a mystery to me. I used to throw it into the pond and with the right and technique; the stone will bounce on the surface of the water, and fly beautifully. I even tried with a fifty-cent coin once but it went straight to the bottom of the pond. I stared in amazement, how can a big ship floats and a flat fifty-cent coin sinks so quick? In it, I can see my reflection. Round eyes, a little skinny, clean haircut, with a straight face, looking back at me as he was searching for something. The water calms down just to bring with it an image of a family and friends. A smile appears and teeth begin to show.
The pond was filled with fishes. Haruan, Keli, Belukang, Sepat. It was here that we released all the fishes that we caught around the house and nearby paddy field. There were one bathroom and a toilet, and the house was always crowded with people coming in and out, from nowhere. The mosque’s pond were where we had our bath, the water was cold. It was great.
Those were the days. I’m all grown up and the only time I get to meet all of my cousins now are during Raya Puasa. It just isn’t the same. You know, being all grown up. Nothing is the same today. My grandmother is still very strong. She got a small and fragile frame but still able to do housework even teenager will find exhausting. Her eyes are not as clear as it used to be and one has to speak out loud when talking to her. That were some of the price a person have to pay for being old. She still has her humor though and this is what really matters. She teaches Quran to the kind around the kampung when she was younger. The house itself is not as busy as it used to be. It has seemed many visitors, many kind people in the old days. Now, my aunt that works as teacher look after the house and my grandmother.
Things haven’t been the same since my grandfather died. I was in form 3. He loves to tell stories. He was a good storyteller. On a cold, starless night. My cousins and me would sit in front of him for a threat of ghost stories. He told us many kind of stories but this was our favorite. The old tanjung tree never fails to be included in one of the stories. It was a small tree that located between the house and the mosque. It was said, there is a genie looking after the mosque that would punish anyone that would dare to do anything sinful in the mosque. There were also stories about spirits of the fallen Japanese soldiers. War victims, some headless after been beheaded by Japanese solder that still exist and roams around searching for their heads. It was scary. Whenever we had to pass the tree, we would run as fast as we could, or avoid from passing the tree altogether. But when the morning came, the horror ends. The tree and us become friends and friends play together.
My grandfather’s hair was white, silverfish white. And he always keeps it handsomely combed to the back. He was hardworking man. He loves gardening and always keeps the orchids neat and tidy. Maybe that is one way to remember him. Every time the durian season came, we would take turn to collect the durians. It was so close to the mosque that sometime, people that come to pray at the mosque took some of it home. He definitely left us something sweet to remember him by
He used to be a teacher. A headmaster or something. But I’m not sure what subject that he teaches. Maybe history, geography. Maybe language. Maybe the way he speaks or the way he dressed that look quite rigid and conservative, yet never out of date, just like our language. He was fierce teacher, my mother told me. Always expect the best from his children but never pressured them to do anything they didn’t like. He treated his student just like his own, with respect and always tried to discipline them with rattan whenever it was needed. He never hit us though, but we never fails to test his patient with our naughty behavior that was always out of line. On a cold , starless night. Me and my cousins would sat in front of him, listening carefully to every details, anxiously waiting to know what happen next. We know it was true. He was too old, with too many experiences to make up lies. But what I remember the most about him was that he was a very warm and caring grandfather.
Ramadan must be the most exciting month of all. We have to fast, of course it was a challenge then but when the night came, the fun begin. We went to Tarawih together and after that, it was the time for the bamboo canon demonstration. Being too close to the mosque, each pop of the canon equal scolding from my grandfather for not respecting the Quranic verses that were recited by the Imam. Ramadan is a holly month, he said to us. All ghost and demons are chain for a month until Syawal. He kept on telling us that, and sometime his lectures turns to another story that kept us away from the bamboo canon and firecrackers for a while. I think he look nice and very wise with all his hair white. Make him looks more serious.
He didn’t turned old in front of us. He was already old since I can remember. My grandfather would buy kaya bread for us whenever he went to town to hangout at his favorite kopitiam with his friends. Fellow old-timers.
The old mosque has been there for as long as I can remember. Sitting beside my grandfather’s house, it must be ancient. Timeless. It just stood there, how many Raya have it endures and how many marriages have it witnessed. It wasn’t that old, really. In fact it was younger than my grandfather. It have always been with us, sometime it is hard to tell it age.
My sleeps was interrupted when the bus suddenly came to an abrupt halt. My journey isn’t over yet. I have to take another bus before I arrived at the old house. The sound of the Azan, showing that it was time for the Asar prayer. This time, the bus ride will take about 30 minutes. My eyes still feels sore and thirst was starting to creep up to my throat. I boarded the next bus to Muar.
Then, one day, the news came. The time has come to make way for a new mosque.
The parallel of the two was very obvious. They somehow connected to me; to my life. The first memory I ever had. My childhood adventures and all the basic things that I had learned in life all revolve around them. How they have taught me everything I now and how I come to appreciate it more and more every year. How familiar it was to the wonderful people that I will later meet and stumble upon in my life for many years to come.
And when both of them left, there, on the steeps in front of the old house, on the same spot that I have been sitting on since all these years, I looked up at the new mosque. The bus slows down, stopping just right in front of the old house. The familiarity of the pace, the trees, the old house, cars and people sometime lost among the life of a city slicker like me. It was a new experience, in a new place with the same old feeling that I just keep forgetting to appreciate.
The journey home
Taken from a work in progress (since 2001). Raw & Unedited. With occasional broken English and spelling error.
London was an exiting metropolitan city. Lovely middle size building not more than couple of floors makes up it vibrant skyline. At night, it seems bigger than what it truly appears during the day. The clouds were dark as it was in Taiping, Frasher Hill, 1996 all over again. A city with diverse race and cultures. The city was the ‘in’ thing. The next Milan and beat New York, easy. Fashion was on the high end and the taste in music here are much more better than those in the US. From house music to indie-rock to trip hop and jungle music. It was alive. They don’t need high buildings and flashy neon lights. It was the colorful people that bring life to the city. It breathes life everywhere, always happening and exciting, even for jaded, rich, ignorant and spoiled KL yuppies. It only took a while for someone to see its true color. Asian family emigrating here in hope for a better life, inherits their family business and others ends up with stereotype Asian odd jobs like taxi driver. Rich Asian entrepreneur starts investing big bucks opening franchises and boutique at every corners and happening places. It was jam-packed as a pack of M&m’s. Am fells like a blue M&m’s, often alone and not correctly colored. Nightlife was the highlight for some of the students here. Just as our back there in KL, only here it was with the approval from the Ministry Of Sound it selves.
Am can’t belive how hot the Malaysia weather can be. He knew it was hot, but forget how hot it actually is. Beads of sweats started to build up everywhere. Some of it making their way downs his cheek and armpits. The row of ship houses offer many delicious delicacies he’d had been craving for so long now. Asam pedas ikan selar and white rice. The restaurant near the traffic light at Parit Jawa is often full at lunchtime. By noon everything was gone. Finished. Asam pedas and telur dadar. Telur goyang. In a simple orange plastic plate, the type where you can find in school canteen around Malaysia. The story was, it was originally a simple fisherman’s dish. Like the restaurant in Parit Jawa, Am remembers the coffee shop at his kampung where the coffee was thicker and blacker than anywhere he ever been to. It leaves brownish stains on the cup and the taste lasts long into the night. Bitterness has never been sweeter than this.
Winter, the second year was hard. He’d missed home more than ever. His lips turn blue every time he thinks about home. Hari raya often came without any hints to him. Only that first year he was there, he wore songket till dusk. Wearing baju melayu in a metropolitan city as far away as this, what’s the point? Even if there are many Malaysian here. Different if your family is here. Just different. Am loves his late mother a lot and whenever the childhood memories of Hari Raya with his
London was an exiting metropolitan city. Lovely middle size building not more than couple of floors makes up it vibrant skyline. At night, it seems bigger than what it truly appears during the day. The clouds were dark as it was in Taiping, Frasher Hill, 1996 all over again. A city with diverse race and cultures. The city was the ‘in’ thing. The next Milan and beat New York, easy. Fashion was on the high end and the taste in music here are much more better than those in the US. From house music to indie-rock to trip hop and jungle music. It was alive. They don’t need high buildings and flashy neon lights. It was the colorful people that bring life to the city. It breathes life everywhere, always happening and exciting, even for jaded, rich, ignorant and spoiled KL yuppies. It only took a while for someone to see its true color. Asian family emigrating here in hope for a better life, inherits their family business and others ends up with stereotype Asian odd jobs like taxi driver. Rich Asian entrepreneur starts investing big bucks opening franchises and boutique at every corners and happening places. It was jam-packed as a pack of M&m’s. Am fells like a blue M&m’s, often alone and not correctly colored. Nightlife was the highlight for some of the students here. Just as our back there in KL, only here it was with the approval from the Ministry Of Sound it selves.
Am can’t belive how hot the Malaysia weather can be. He knew it was hot, but forget how hot it actually is. Beads of sweats started to build up everywhere. Some of it making their way downs his cheek and armpits. The row of ship houses offer many delicious delicacies he’d had been craving for so long now. Asam pedas ikan selar and white rice. The restaurant near the traffic light at Parit Jawa is often full at lunchtime. By noon everything was gone. Finished. Asam pedas and telur dadar. Telur goyang. In a simple orange plastic plate, the type where you can find in school canteen around Malaysia. The story was, it was originally a simple fisherman’s dish. Like the restaurant in Parit Jawa, Am remembers the coffee shop at his kampung where the coffee was thicker and blacker than anywhere he ever been to. It leaves brownish stains on the cup and the taste lasts long into the night. Bitterness has never been sweeter than this.
Winter, the second year was hard. He’d missed home more than ever. His lips turn blue every time he thinks about home. Hari raya often came without any hints to him. Only that first year he was there, he wore songket till dusk. Wearing baju melayu in a metropolitan city as far away as this, what’s the point? Even if there are many Malaysian here. Different if your family is here. Just different. Am loves his late mother a lot and whenever the childhood memories of Hari Raya with his
black cofee
........................red was the new green that year. everything was red, even the roses know to act 'red' eventhough they were actually yello. never overshadowing their cousins, they compliment the red counterparts beautifully, giving life to the house. it was a middle size post colonial, single storey house styled in a typical upper class malay. it has big lawn. the house was positioned at the right side and this gave an ample space for flower plants and fruit trees at the left side to share the sun and space together. a beautiful gazebo at one end of the garden was left intentionally to age and be covered with miss and crawling plants and parasit. marble table and bench in the middle. perfect. a small sen garden, little pebbles in greyish colour was made to surround a small pond that includes tortoise, Japanese koi, goldfish and local freshwater fishes. round, smooth rocks surrounded the pond were quite clean, as it were scrubed occasionally from dirt and were left there for a more soothing effect. bubbles floats accross the pond's surface, a sign that the fishes were happy. the edge was made in such a way that it will be hard for the tortiose to climbed out of the pond.
Whorfian hypotheses; the effect language has on reality and how reality effects language.
Ali, 24 lives in Bintulu with his parent since he was little. Work in government and received his tertiary education at local university. He speaks Malay and listens to Malay songs and films. His brother, Hassan, 26 studied in Australian and since coming home he have been a fan of rugby and listen to English songs, especially Kylie. Both came from the same background but what cause the differences in their personal characters?
Language is important in our life and it not only works as a mean of expression and a tool for communication between one another, it also influences the way we think and perceive the surrounding world. Based on the study of Edward Sapir and Benjamin Lee Whorf, they have came up with two hypotheses, linguistic determinism and linguistic relativity.
Linguistic determinism is the stronger version of the Worfian hypotheses. It suggested that language control the way a person conceptualizes about the world. People from different culture have a different perspective or concept about the world. Some language have different concept about certain things or object, for example snow. For us, in Malay there is only one word to describe snow, that is salji but for Eskimo, they have 52 words to describe snow. For us, a ketupat is a traditional dish that we can easily get here, but for Eskimo, they might not even have a name for ketupat. Here it seems that language have an effects on reality as it control one concept about the world.
The weaker version of the Worfian hypotheses is linguistic relativity. It suggested that language influences the way a person conceptualizes the world and their surrounding. This is easier to accept and can be seen in many cultures. For example, in Malay, there is no word to describe the color turquoise but this does not prevent the speaker to describe the concept of the color. This shows that it is not impossible to understand certain concept even if the language does not have a specific word for it. Here, it shows it is reality that effect language. Through the Whorfian hypotheses, it have shown the relation and effect language have on thought and culture. Language is a very important component in a civilized society. It can be affected by 3 things; the physical environment (lexical items and color terminology), the social environment (kinship) and the value of the society (taboo and euphemisms). For teachers, to teach effectively, these 3 items that can effect language must be understand so they can use it in their approach in teaching their student.
Physical environment is the thing we experience in our daily life. Language can be effected by physical environment in 2 ways, lexicon and color terminology. Lexicon is A stock of terms used in a particular profession, subject, or style. In every culture, there is a certain concept that is more important than others. For example, An Eskimo have 52 different words for snow while in our culture (Malay) we have only one word for snow. This is because snow is an important part of Eskimo culture but not us.
In a study by Berlin and Kay (1969) they have summarized the color terms and general patterns. If the language has two terms, it is equivalent to black and white. This is concept of color to the Jale people of New Guinea. If there is a third term, it is red (example, Tiv of Nigeria), the forth and fifth term will be yellow or green (or vice versa) (for example the Garo of Assam). The sixth and seventh terms are blue and brown (the Burmese) while the rest of it may be gray, pink orange and purple. All together, there are 11 basic color terms. Studies have shown that every culture and society analyze color in a same way. The different is that culture with less technology will have a narrower view on color.
Social environment is the relationship between the people around us. The most important and obvious linguistic effect on society is kinship. According to The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition, kinship is define as Connection by blood, marriage, or adoption; family relationship. Relationship by nature or character; affinity.
In an English society, kinship is made of words like son, mother, father, sister, daughter, grandfather, uncle, aunt, cousins, wife, husband, etc. There are, in all 15 lexical kinship distinction. Other than these 15 words, there are also terms like eldest brother, younger sister, great granddaughter and so on. But in some language, the kinship terms that are used in English society may not be used in the same manner in other culture. They may use these words to describe relationship that is not connected blood, marriage, or adoption; family relationship.
In Malay for example, brother can be someone older than us but without any relation. It can also be a name for a husband, regards of the age. Uncle and aunt can be anyone that is in the same age range of the father and mother.
The value of society can also be affected by language especially in the phenomenon of taboo words and euphemism. Taboo words are word that is vulgar and can offend the other person that hears it. It may have a sexual, religion politic and death connotation. The word is also rude, have a racist or sexist meaning. Taboo words are not permitted in the normal society as it can cause conflict. Euphemism is inoffensive expression that is substituted for one that is considered offensive.
These taboo words have an effect on society. If it is wrongly used, it can cause severe embarrasses to the speaker. Some words are considered taboo and to avoid from using this word, the speaker will replace it with another more subtle word. For example, American prefers to use rooster then cock. This is to avoid the word cock that has a strong sexual connotation.
Just like lexical items, color terminology and kinship, taboo words and euphemism is a part of a culture and cannot be separated. All of this is unique from one culture and another and might have an influence on the language.
Refference
CIK SHARIFAH ZAINAB SYD. ABD RAHMAN, LINGUISTICS AND SECOND LANGUAGE TEACHING, UPM EDU3232, 2004
Hard Rock Cafe dalam memori
Kalau ke Johor Bahru, jangan terkejut kalau kawan-kawan ajak mengeteh di Hard Rock Cafe. Satu tradisi unik, kerana hanya di situ terdapat tomyam mahal dengan seekor udang bersaiz jari manis budak darjah satu. Sup kambing pekat, nasi campur beranika dan tungkeng ayam yang cukup rangup, menu istimewa bulan puasa. Table merah, table kuning, table hijau. Siang dan malam suasana cukup berbeza. Siang sunyi, malam meriah sekali. Tempatnya sendat, bising dan pilihan untuk remaja melepak dengan kos yang cukup murah.Kawasan yang juga memualkan, disebabkan asap kemderaan, bau peluh dan aroma asli sungai segget. Hari ini, semua tinggal sejarah. Pelan perancangan bandar yang terbaru berjaya menyembunyikan Sungai Segget dan lenyaplah Hard Rock kita.
Hard Rock, selamat tinggal brader, 23 Ogos 2003
Kawasan makan terbuka yang sudah bertahap agung legendanya telah mula dinyah operasikan pada akhir minggu lepas. Semua ini bukanlah suatu yang memeranjatkan, kerana notis perpindahan sudah pun dikeluarkan tidak lama dulu. Penjaja dan penjual masih berniaga sehingga ke saat akhir walaupun kerajaan dah taruk tiang-tiang simen dan column besi untuk mereka rasa tak selesa untuk meneruskan operasi. Tapi itu la dia hard rock, lebih hebat dari Bangsar dan Seri Hartamas, ada masa rasa cukup memeningkan tapi ada masanya juga membawa kita ke masa silam. Pasar baru, terminal bas lama, penjual ubat jalanan, zaman sebelum dirinya Plaza Kotaraya dan City square. Di situlah dulu tempat temujanji pertama aku dengan Fadh. Kopi-o kaw dengan baju kemeja hijau, bermotif burung kakak tua. Hard Rock. A place as diverse and unique as the name itself.
Kalau dah sampai hard rock tu, dekat sangat dah dengan plaza seni. Tanya la orang kat mana boleh beli baulu butter. Memang sedap kau, lembut semacam, pakcik tu kata ha, rasa la, tak payah tunggu raya nak makan baulu. Betol la, aku kene itu hari, boleh tahan. Bekas plastik saiz sedang tu dia jual cuma 5 ringgit sahaja.
Antara Johor dan Jakarta
I was going thru old floppy disk and discovered this writing I wrote when I was in Jakarta in early 2002. It was a very memorable trip. I was planning to write a travel jurnal but as you can see, this was all I got
Sunday...10
I was told there is no roti canai here. And the mee bandung is much better in our place then in bandung. People here eats katak ( which they affectionately call kodok, not to me mistaken for cucuq kodoq, jemput-jemput).
Monday 11
ira's mom was very nice and went with us to the train station to buy tickets to bandung. There will be five of us including Bonnie. The road to the train station was congested, as normally does in Jakarta. It took courage and skill to drive here. Things seem to be so calm and relax that people don't mind if others cuts in front of them. Even with no signals. At a roundabout, there were people gathering around, in a protest like manner to collect money for the recent floods victims around Jakarta. Kids and skinny man, holding out magazines and newspapers to hot and sweaty motorist. The sun haven't shine yet, and it was only 12 in the afternoon. We met Tita in Cenere mall around 7 o clock with 3 others of his friends. He lives around Jakarta and was working in a cybercafe in Kalimantan.
Saturday...9
I was very excited that day. The last time I went to Singapore was about 11 years ago and since then, don't have the slightest desire to visit it again. Don't asked me why. Lin have to work that day and from lin's house, we took a taxi straight to the causeway. That jam, the people, the smell. That maybe why I don't wanna be in Singapore, I'm guessing. soo away yet, familiar in a very un nostalgic way. That MRT ride from woodland to keranji was short and gave me some time to view the changes and Singapore development. A silver impreza WRX was lining up in the congested expressway, maybe, with the driver cursing himself for not taking the MRT. From Singapore 5.30 pm flight Garuda 829 take about 1 hour 20 minute to arrive. Was greeted by uncle Rahim or jefry as he is known here after being left out alone at Sukarno Hatta airport for about 20 minute. Ira arrived about 45 minute later and we later went to her place, in the centre of south Jakarta. Ira's mother had prepared for us delicious nasi tomato and daging kurma for diner. her place was very nice, a penthouse with a view to kill for, it was perfect and you can see almost everything from the balcony. Along the river coconut trees lining up just like it was ordered to do. So well behave. The river is like the vein that run from heart to brain. If it dried up, everyone will suffocate. polution will effect everyone and every life along it line.
pupen was BIG then. lagend in their own right. Not only in Bandung. Sad to see Marcel now going mainstream, lame.
Sunday...10
I was told there is no roti canai here. And the mee bandung is much better in our place then in bandung. People here eats katak ( which they affectionately call kodok, not to me mistaken for cucuq kodoq, jemput-jemput).
Monday 11
ira's mom was very nice and went with us to the train station to buy tickets to bandung. There will be five of us including Bonnie. The road to the train station was congested, as normally does in Jakarta. It took courage and skill to drive here. Things seem to be so calm and relax that people don't mind if others cuts in front of them. Even with no signals. At a roundabout, there were people gathering around, in a protest like manner to collect money for the recent floods victims around Jakarta. Kids and skinny man, holding out magazines and newspapers to hot and sweaty motorist. The sun haven't shine yet, and it was only 12 in the afternoon. We met Tita in Cenere mall around 7 o clock with 3 others of his friends. He lives around Jakarta and was working in a cybercafe in Kalimantan.
Saturday...9
I was very excited that day. The last time I went to Singapore was about 11 years ago and since then, don't have the slightest desire to visit it again. Don't asked me why. Lin have to work that day and from lin's house, we took a taxi straight to the causeway. That jam, the people, the smell. That maybe why I don't wanna be in Singapore, I'm guessing. soo away yet, familiar in a very un nostalgic way. That MRT ride from woodland to keranji was short and gave me some time to view the changes and Singapore development. A silver impreza WRX was lining up in the congested expressway, maybe, with the driver cursing himself for not taking the MRT. From Singapore 5.30 pm flight Garuda 829 take about 1 hour 20 minute to arrive. Was greeted by uncle Rahim or jefry as he is known here after being left out alone at Sukarno Hatta airport for about 20 minute. Ira arrived about 45 minute later and we later went to her place, in the centre of south Jakarta. Ira's mother had prepared for us delicious nasi tomato and daging kurma for diner. her place was very nice, a penthouse with a view to kill for, it was perfect and you can see almost everything from the balcony. Along the river coconut trees lining up just like it was ordered to do. So well behave. The river is like the vein that run from heart to brain. If it dried up, everyone will suffocate. polution will effect everyone and every life along it line.
pupen was BIG then. lagend in their own right. Not only in Bandung. Sad to see Marcel now going mainstream, lame.
me and my englsih
see there! i purposely spell english that way. it will be a personal slang for me. an inside or personal joke, only us will understand. either that or maybe my english really suck
i know my english is not on par with you people out there, maybe worse. but who cares right? at least i am writing something. ever since i've start writing, i often wrote in english rather than malay, my mother tounge. malay is a language too beautiful for me. it is hard to sound beutiful if you did not choose the words carefully. but with english it is more simple and straight forward. dont you think so? i do.
okay, to friends that want me to link their site to sireh.org, i think i will add it here instead. it easier. keep the emails comming okay? see ya
i know my english is not on par with you people out there, maybe worse. but who cares right? at least i am writing something. ever since i've start writing, i often wrote in english rather than malay, my mother tounge. malay is a language too beautiful for me. it is hard to sound beutiful if you did not choose the words carefully. but with english it is more simple and straight forward. dont you think so? i do.
okay, to friends that want me to link their site to sireh.org, i think i will add it here instead. it easier. keep the emails comming okay? see ya
Dari Johor Bahru ke Cyberjaya
JÓGA -Bjork
All these accidents that happen
follow the dot
coincidence makes sense
only with you
you don’t have to speak – I feel
Emotional landscapes
they puzzle met
hen the riddle gets solved
and you push me up to this:
State of emergency : how beautiful to be
state of emergency : is where I want to be
All that no-one sees
you see
what’s inside of me
every nerve that hurts you heal
deep inside of me
you don’t have to speak – I feel
Emotional landscapes
they puzzle me
then the riddle gets solved
and you push me up to this:
State of emergency : how beautiful to be
state of emergency : is where I want to be
19 Disember ini genap usia perkahwinan kami yang pertama. Masih banyak yang perlu dibuat memandangkan hidup kami hanyalah suami isteri pada nama tapi hakikatnya masih tinggal 300km terpisah. Imbasan kembali detik-detik pertemuan yang dapat disimpulkan dengan senikata lagu Bjork, yang tertulis serangkap di belakang kat jemputan perkahwinan kami.
(Gambar: Fadh & Din Akar selepas majlis pertunangan)
Cerita yang berikutnya
Semuanya nampak lancar. makin mudah. harga tol sahaja yang memeningkan kepala. Pusing-pusing dengan kereta cari toto di carefour yang terletak berdekatan sahaja sudah makan 2-3 hinggit. belum masuk kos minyak. moralnya, jangan pakai kereta berkapasiti 1300 ke atas kalau tak mampu. kalau mampu, tu lain kes. kita bukan doktor atau kuat bergaya. masa seperti inilah kancil nampak sebagai satu alternatif yang paling bijak.
Nak dijadikan cerita, dalam perjalanan ke KL untuk mendaftar di MINDEF, pangilan dari sebuah kilang di Bukit Jelutung membuka kembali ‘option’ aku dalam memilih kerjaya. antara duit dan sekuriti. Duit? memang perlu. Tapi semua masih terbuka.
Dan nak dijadikkan cerita seram, aku terima satu panggilan dan gadis dihujung talian memberitahu tentang pelung menyambung pelajaran. Ujian, khamis ini. Aku makin ternganga.
Nak dijadikan cerita, dalam perjalanan ke KL untuk mendaftar di MINDEF, pangilan dari sebuah kilang di Bukit Jelutung membuka kembali ‘option’ aku dalam memilih kerjaya. antara duit dan sekuriti. Duit? memang perlu. Tapi semua masih terbuka.
Dan nak dijadikkan cerita seram, aku terima satu panggilan dan gadis dihujung talian memberitahu tentang pelung menyambung pelajaran. Ujian, khamis ini. Aku makin ternganga.
Hemophobia or Hemaphobia or Hematophobia - Fear of blood.
…Finally, their eyes met. Mother became very quite. As the little girl
reached the head of the line…"
I think I am very lucky. I can't handle the sight of blood. Especially
in large quantity. It might be my curse and I have been this way as long as I can remember. I shiver every time I listen to bloody tales of wars or horrifying accidents. Once, when I was watching 'Resident Evil' with my friends, I nearly fainted in the cinema's toilet. As I was watching the movie, I felt cold sweats stating to appears all over my face. It was a scene with solders trapped in a hallway. Lasers slowly scanned through it and diced the poor solders to small pieces.
My lips were bloodless. My head was so light, it can be anywhere but attached to my neck. I know it was a mistake, but it was just a movie. It wasn't even real. I was legless all the way to the toilet and sat on the toilet bowl and stayed there for a while. It was dumb and I'd already missed a quarter of the movie when I came back. Din kambing think I was weird. "Hek eleh, kau ni lembik la." I do, sometime forget about this problem I had and that day I spend the rest of the day watching the movie with my baseball cap covering my eyes, peeking through scenes. It was my worse movie experience ever.
I'd first noticed about this when I was in primary school. It was Saturday and I was on my way for a football practice. I was quite active back then, the top fullback in Zone Tiram. Even made captain of the team. I don't have any special technique or have I ever think I am a good footballer. I think I was made captain because the other stars of the team are not even Malaysian. Majority of our players were Cambodian immigrants. The secret to be a good defender was a brutal, wholesome tackle. Of course back then harsh tackle doesn't mean an
automatic booking or a red card. And don't ever passed the ball back to fellow team mates 5 feet away from you, just sent it into the other's team penalty box. Don't worry about where it going to end-up, just let the striker do the running. It was no small feat and I still think that was the height of my football carrier. I could not bend the ball as beautiful as in 1990, though. Well, I have to take a taxi from Taman Bikut Tiram to school and as I was walking from my house to wait for taxi, a sudden pain made me checked my foot and found a thick piece of broken glass stuck to my right feet. A piece from the green Kikapo bottle. Blood was turning black and my left slipper was soaking wet. I took the glass out and realized that suddenly I wasn't feeling
too well. I laid on the backseat of the taxi and spend another half an hour lying on the wooden bench inside the small office at the taxi stand.
"Kau ni dah kenapa? Nampak macam demam. Dah pergi klinik Govind?"
"Tak tau la bang. Tadi okay je. Tak pasal-pasal macam nak pitam." I
still had my hand on my face. My cheek was so cold, my lips were numb.
"Kaki kau pulak ni apahal? Kau tak boleh tenguk darah kot."
Since then, everything was never the same again. My mother and my wife love to tease me and show even the smallest wound they had to me first before treating it. Just to see my reaction. I'm not afraid of blood. I can look at it but I know in a minute or so I will feel drowsy and
light headed. It is kind of stupid and silly. But I don't know what cause this and how to control this feeling.
But there were also time when the sight of goriness and blood doesn't have the slightest impact on me. My late father had to be hospitalized for nearly a year because of his serious illness. We had been to various kinds of hospitals around town and Melaka and I never had a problem hanging out with other patients even though they had tubes coming out from every hole on their body. I knew this uncle that was involved in an automobile accident. His condition was bad with broken bones and nasty scars. Physically, he was a mess. He was admitted to the hospital with little hopes of fully recovered or ever walked again. Wheelchair-bound, he'd refused to put give up and in a couple of months, he was back on his feet. Hospital, to me a place of many miracles, with good doctors plus some crappy ones that really give the occupation a bad name. And there was this time during hari raya korban that I took pictures of a cow being slaughtered and cut all the way to the last piece. Only after we had finished distribute the meat to everyone that I remembered I never ever seen a cow being slaughtered before. I couldn't not handle it.
There are downsides being this way but there are also many advantages. Media, such as newspapers and television often carry gruesome news about wars from all over the world. Some with horrid details, it just unbearable to watch. The cost of a human life doesn't look that expensive or important at some places, like Iraq and Afghanistan. To live is just a matter survival and perseverance. Luck and fate. Lives are so disposable, nobody even cries for it anymore. The image of children and women, lying hopeless with wound that will never heals.
Love one lost and lives divided by different believes and ideology. It sometime hard to believe in a where everything is possible, it is still impossible to stop wars, that can easily be avoided with
tolerance and understanding.
We can only imagine what it would be like to live in thee time of war. My late grandfather, the great storyteller has many tall and heroic tales about the wars. Brothers and sisters and mothers were parted during this time. He heard and seen friends lost their family member
in the most horrible way. Rice was a luxury. Khaki shorts and dirty boots. Anyone that were found to be defiance to the Japanese will have their head cut-off. Until today, the spirit of the Japanese solders that died during the war roams the wooden Islamic school, in front of
my grandfather's house. I don't know if this is true or not but it did feel scary whoever I looked out the front window in the middle of black, moonless night. I would sat in front of him with mouth wide open. Green and red. The teal and turquoise of that day. Pail looking Japanese men with small eyes and carefully trimmed hair rounding up town on foot or bicycle. No one even dare to stare back through their cold eyes and answer everything with 'hait' and a small and quick bow.
Majority of the time, wars were started by crazy leaders with personal vendettas and greed, rather than anything else. It is wrong, no matter how you look at it.
"Finally, their eyes met. Mother became very quite. As the little girl reached the head of the line, she look at the plate, the food and in a flash broke out of the line and rushed into Mother's arms.
"The need for affection, to be held by the arms of this mysterious woman, had surpassed, for that short moment, her need for survival."
That was lines from Audrey Hepburn's new book by his son Sean Hepburn Ferrer. I think I am very lucky, I may never be a doctor and save lives but I rather see red as the color of the beautiful roses then the color of meaningless bloodbath.
…..is like watching Minor Threat in action in DC or The Ramones in CBGB
Seeing Battle Of Disarm live in Taman University is like watching Minor Threat in action in DC or The Ramones in CBGB. It is that important to some people. No wonder that day, when Battle Of Disarm toured South East Asia, many from as far away as Australia, America and Europe come here to Malaysia or Singapore to watch them perform.
When the first time Fizi said to me that BOD would be coming to Malaysia, I just brushed it off like hungry mosquito on a feeding frenzy. You go camping one day and forget to bring mosquito repellent and by morning time, bite marks are all over you. Anyway, only after the last confirmation from Masaki-san and the official flyers was released, the dream was just something that is waiting to be realized. The Malaysia gig was originally slated to be played in the multi purpose hall at Larkin. Dewan Dato Onn. A legendary venue, no less to the local kids, the situation suddenly changes when national election was announced to be on the same day of the gig. The time then was less than two month and when Fizi thinks everything was running smoothly according to schedule, things like this happens. Fizi had to act fast and finally decided to change the venue from JB to KL.
I personally was very disappointed. Even though BOD will be playing in Singapore the day before they play in Malaysia, I think the JB gig will be no less explosive. The gig took place in 3 countries in 3 days. How punk rock was that! I went to Singapore to meet the guys from Voco Protesta, Power Of idea that will touring with Battle Of Disarm. Oliver from Cluster Bomb Unit tagged along and will be playing with Power Of Idea. They arrive later than expected, nearly two in the morning. For the majority of them, that was their first time coming to Singapore. I think Masaki and Naoki was the only person that had been to Singapore and Malaysia.
It was a busy week for me and I opted not to go to Jakarta along with them. Fadh was all okay about it but being a little mellow and not so keen to travel that far in a short time, not to mention the short time frame. So I just have to make do with the tall tales Fizi being telling me on how they were mobbed in Jakarta and the venue was so packed and chaotic that police have to come in and stop the gig. The crowds were estimated around 3000 people, easy. Maybe more.
The Singapore show was a more relax affair with less-Jakarta like atmosphere. They played in Singapore Expo in which have plenty of hall for every occasion. The hall was air conditioned, really cozy for a punk rock show. Some kids that were hoping to watch Disney On Ice found themselves in a hall full with sweaty kids jumping around like crazy.
This is very silly. I don’t even went to any of the gigs and here I am trying to describe the excitement in full detail. Well, I can’t. I didn’t went to the KL show because have to pick up my mother at the Stulang Feri Terminal. I’d had witness a great storm while we were eating in Larking Bus Terminal. It starts with ordinary drizzle before a thunderous storm ripped apart many trees around larking, leaving two or three cars crashed at the terminal’s parking lot. I do witness that first hand. I’m not making that up.
The KL show was okay but what was really disappointing that someone stole the band’s banner. Darn, what a stupid thing to do..
Note: more in sireh & cengkeh zine #1
When the first time Fizi said to me that BOD would be coming to Malaysia, I just brushed it off like hungry mosquito on a feeding frenzy. You go camping one day and forget to bring mosquito repellent and by morning time, bite marks are all over you. Anyway, only after the last confirmation from Masaki-san and the official flyers was released, the dream was just something that is waiting to be realized. The Malaysia gig was originally slated to be played in the multi purpose hall at Larkin. Dewan Dato Onn. A legendary venue, no less to the local kids, the situation suddenly changes when national election was announced to be on the same day of the gig. The time then was less than two month and when Fizi thinks everything was running smoothly according to schedule, things like this happens. Fizi had to act fast and finally decided to change the venue from JB to KL.I personally was very disappointed. Even though BOD will be playing in Singapore the day before they play in Malaysia, I think the JB gig will be no less explosive. The gig took place in 3 countries in 3 days. How punk rock was that! I went to Singapore to meet the guys from Voco Protesta, Power Of idea that will touring with Battle Of Disarm. Oliver from Cluster Bomb Unit tagged along and will be playing with Power Of Idea. They arrive later than expected, nearly two in the morning. For the majority of them, that was their first time coming to Singapore. I think Masaki and Naoki was the only person that had been to Singapore and Malaysia.
It was a busy week for me and I opted not to go to Jakarta along with them. Fadh was all okay about it but being a little mellow and not so keen to travel that far in a short time, not to mention the short time frame. So I just have to make do with the tall tales Fizi being telling me on how they were mobbed in Jakarta and the venue was so packed and chaotic that police have to come in and stop the gig. The crowds were estimated around 3000 people, easy. Maybe more.
The Singapore show was a more relax affair with less-Jakarta like atmosphere. They played in Singapore Expo in which have plenty of hall for every occasion. The hall was air conditioned, really cozy for a punk rock show. Some kids that were hoping to watch Disney On Ice found themselves in a hall full with sweaty kids jumping around like crazy.
This is very silly. I don’t even went to any of the gigs and here I am trying to describe the excitement in full detail. Well, I can’t. I didn’t went to the KL show because have to pick up my mother at the Stulang Feri Terminal. I’d had witness a great storm while we were eating in Larking Bus Terminal. It starts with ordinary drizzle before a thunderous storm ripped apart many trees around larking, leaving two or three cars crashed at the terminal’s parking lot. I do witness that first hand. I’m not making that up.
The KL show was okay but what was really disappointing that someone stole the band’s banner. Darn, what a stupid thing to do..
Note: more in sireh & cengkeh zine #1
words and words and me and words
Just recently I tried to write in Malay, a words/language that I consider sacred and absolute challenge. I envy Latiff Mohidel and Chairil Anwar. Words form naturally in front of them. Sharp observation, intuitive and often out of the conventional boundaries.
Words form on tips of my world
Often high
Often dry
Moist with everything
Something
Of course I don’t write poems. Not like I used to. Once. When I was naïve and small. Know nothing better to do then scribbling lone, loose sentences that form a group of words that can barely held anything. People nowadays know Chairil Anwar through ‘ada apa dengan cinta’ , his notoriously revolutionary ‘aku’ that jeopardy every rules of conventional poetry at that time. Equally was his legendary hedonistic lifestyle. People knew less and less about poetry. Even me. Ignorance. Poetry and me. To be naive is more important then knowledge, as knowledge, many of it was unused and wasted makes one selves ignorant and self centered. Popular culture gives major literary works the ‘pop’ it sometime deserved. But over exposure will surely stripe the works from it true nature and intention. Exploitation of the highest form. Is imitation is the highest form of flattery? I might be, it might be not.
Other then writing, I also indulged myself in a habit that might spell myopia but the result was very satisfying. Dots and dots. Layers and layers of it. Not all being arranged in any particular order, but were put in order which can change quickly with a stroke of a pen. I like drawing pictures of old people, aged by experience in sharp and hot sunlight. Wrinkles have always be the favorite subject for artist. Pretty in it own way, more beautiful then perfection. I think that what Pablo Picasso sees in his painting, cubism, a norm for him but obscene for others. His drawing was worse; girls with unsymmetrical eyes and rigid looking figures. He sees people differently, which was normal to normal people but sometimes jagged for him.
Words form on tips of my world
Often high
Often dry
Moist with everything
Something
Of course I don’t write poems. Not like I used to. Once. When I was naïve and small. Know nothing better to do then scribbling lone, loose sentences that form a group of words that can barely held anything. People nowadays know Chairil Anwar through ‘ada apa dengan cinta’ , his notoriously revolutionary ‘aku’ that jeopardy every rules of conventional poetry at that time. Equally was his legendary hedonistic lifestyle. People knew less and less about poetry. Even me. Ignorance. Poetry and me. To be naive is more important then knowledge, as knowledge, many of it was unused and wasted makes one selves ignorant and self centered. Popular culture gives major literary works the ‘pop’ it sometime deserved. But over exposure will surely stripe the works from it true nature and intention. Exploitation of the highest form. Is imitation is the highest form of flattery? I might be, it might be not.
Other then writing, I also indulged myself in a habit that might spell myopia but the result was very satisfying. Dots and dots. Layers and layers of it. Not all being arranged in any particular order, but were put in order which can change quickly with a stroke of a pen. I like drawing pictures of old people, aged by experience in sharp and hot sunlight. Wrinkles have always be the favorite subject for artist. Pretty in it own way, more beautiful then perfection. I think that what Pablo Picasso sees in his painting, cubism, a norm for him but obscene for others. His drawing was worse; girls with unsymmetrical eyes and rigid looking figures. He sees people differently, which was normal to normal people but sometimes jagged for him.
two years of sollitude
it is hard to sleep when you think a lot. i just realized that. i'm just angry with myself,being exploited and had bared everything when i know it might be humiliating later on. but i digress thethought. perish. far away. i took the chances. burnt to pulp. but white water washed away theashes. flower petals started to make way for lonely fat honey bee. yeah, thit is me.
i was restless last night, making no less then 5 phones calls to Kl. fadh was annoyed, at some point with me. i'm just guessing. later on, after her eye had already adjusted to the reality in hand, she shared her ears with me. my voice started to sound firm. but unsure. nothing else matter these days.she listen carefully and promised me to asked her mother later on about me. okay, i said. we hung up and i'd promised to call her in the morning.
i had a weird dream. something involving siti nurhaliza, music, happiness and color all around. it wasn't supposed to be this way. i know my subconcious are trying to play down this love thing. i'd dream what i want to dream. between sweet dreams, bad and sad thoughts creeped through and i recited the word of God to kept me calm throught out the night.
later that day, i'd called fadh and her rather cherful voice yell the words of happiness. it might be a joke these days if someone told you that he just broke of with his girlfriend because he didn't answer the 'salam' when her mother picked up the phone. but if it happened to you, it might not sound too funny . isn't it? she said everything was okay. she laught, small and confident. sound of people and other assorted noises confirmed it wasn't a dream. dream do come true.
bad thoughts, perished, to far away places. will it came back, i can't denied it. but this time i was sure everything might turned alright. as sure as i am that was damon albarn's voice singing on the radio just a moment ago. beth gibbon's voice might be the very appropriate sound track right now. sweet as honey. tripping on everything yet not once stumbled on every obsticle in front of her. i'd assured myself that makcik mazidah really is as sweet as the name had suggested. the one i used to know long time ago might not be too much different as this one. how many mazidah did i knew? only two, and both have been here and there in my long and dwinding life. two, is one to many.
she was nice and i was happy. it was the longest week for me . too long that it is really exhausting just to think about it. some people might be blind to see the reality, some are ignorant, some just don't even give a damn. i might be ignorant but i do give a damn where my life is going to be.....() time, numbers and age. faith, fate, timing. everything else just reasons for another to fail.
love lost, found, lost and found.
art and reality, where the thin black line often look visible as it intended to be. i got the will to write again after a long hiatus and so called sabatical leave. i was heartbroken when my computer crashed a couples of months ago. i was trying to install thye CD-r when it happen. nearly all my hard work for years were flushed down the drain. lucky i had a hard copy of my story 'saving graces' but nearlt 30% of the story was lost. for ever. i thought i coudn't write anymore. it feel so hard and to start over again is not as easy as it sound. ironically, my CD-r went kaput 2 days ago. i went ahead that night to write half page worth of my so called social observation and emotional outpore. everything was written in one smooth motion, like nothing had ever happen. no hiccups, and my hands works like a well oiled machine. i have thought of continuing my story that was intendedly to be only a short story. soon, the characters develope it own complications and from here came the sub-plots and new characters. i kept it open and don't want to tied it down with any uncertainties. it was a classic malay dilema, complete with jealousy, glutony, besuty and occasional musical moments. i want it to be old school, dramatic, long shoot, black and white film affair. less physical action and more of internal termoil. everything is slow as i was influenced by gabriel garcia marquez's ine hundred years of solitude when i first started to write. i was hooked by it fluid style and details observation, even if something may sound obscure and downright nonsense. the presetation was important. of course , the novel wasn't called one of the most important novel of the last century for nothing.
i was restless last night, making no less then 5 phones calls to Kl. fadh was annoyed, at some point with me. i'm just guessing. later on, after her eye had already adjusted to the reality in hand, she shared her ears with me. my voice started to sound firm. but unsure. nothing else matter these days.she listen carefully and promised me to asked her mother later on about me. okay, i said. we hung up and i'd promised to call her in the morning.
i had a weird dream. something involving siti nurhaliza, music, happiness and color all around. it wasn't supposed to be this way. i know my subconcious are trying to play down this love thing. i'd dream what i want to dream. between sweet dreams, bad and sad thoughts creeped through and i recited the word of God to kept me calm throught out the night.
later that day, i'd called fadh and her rather cherful voice yell the words of happiness. it might be a joke these days if someone told you that he just broke of with his girlfriend because he didn't answer the 'salam' when her mother picked up the phone. but if it happened to you, it might not sound too funny . isn't it? she said everything was okay. she laught, small and confident. sound of people and other assorted noises confirmed it wasn't a dream. dream do come true.
bad thoughts, perished, to far away places. will it came back, i can't denied it. but this time i was sure everything might turned alright. as sure as i am that was damon albarn's voice singing on the radio just a moment ago. beth gibbon's voice might be the very appropriate sound track right now. sweet as honey. tripping on everything yet not once stumbled on every obsticle in front of her. i'd assured myself that makcik mazidah really is as sweet as the name had suggested. the one i used to know long time ago might not be too much different as this one. how many mazidah did i knew? only two, and both have been here and there in my long and dwinding life. two, is one to many.
she was nice and i was happy. it was the longest week for me . too long that it is really exhausting just to think about it. some people might be blind to see the reality, some are ignorant, some just don't even give a damn. i might be ignorant but i do give a damn where my life is going to be.....() time, numbers and age. faith, fate, timing. everything else just reasons for another to fail.
love lost, found, lost and found.
art and reality, where the thin black line often look visible as it intended to be. i got the will to write again after a long hiatus and so called sabatical leave. i was heartbroken when my computer crashed a couples of months ago. i was trying to install thye CD-r when it happen. nearly all my hard work for years were flushed down the drain. lucky i had a hard copy of my story 'saving graces' but nearlt 30% of the story was lost. for ever. i thought i coudn't write anymore. it feel so hard and to start over again is not as easy as it sound. ironically, my CD-r went kaput 2 days ago. i went ahead that night to write half page worth of my so called social observation and emotional outpore. everything was written in one smooth motion, like nothing had ever happen. no hiccups, and my hands works like a well oiled machine. i have thought of continuing my story that was intendedly to be only a short story. soon, the characters develope it own complications and from here came the sub-plots and new characters. i kept it open and don't want to tied it down with any uncertainties. it was a classic malay dilema, complete with jealousy, glutony, besuty and occasional musical moments. i want it to be old school, dramatic, long shoot, black and white film affair. less physical action and more of internal termoil. everything is slow as i was influenced by gabriel garcia marquez's ine hundred years of solitude when i first started to write. i was hooked by it fluid style and details observation, even if something may sound obscure and downright nonsense. the presetation was important. of course , the novel wasn't called one of the most important novel of the last century for nothing.
footnote : brief history of yesterday
19/8/2003 Isnin, 9.00 malam. Why the date and all? It was significantly important, after emotional start to a very mundane morning, I finally felt free. The weather was wet but sunny. My eyes may still feel puffy and tight. It may not be cleared as it used to. Not today. Today is quite different. Looking at the office door, I swear I could see the sexy girl next door walking to the pantry with big red mug in her hand. It wasn't super power but utter concentration. I was sitting by my desk writing these sentences down in my green notebook and then stared at the wall for the next two or three hours. Loser. Right? It may not seem as bad as it sound. I can smile easier now and I bet by 8.00pm my mother will already start talking about 3 different types of rings and what color should she paint the house. Are there enough plates and glasses and spoons and forks? Should we rent it? We should right? And by midnight Fadh will called and tell me about her trip to Jaya Jusco. Everything will be okay then, I sleep at 12.00 pm and wake up refreshed the next day, hopefully there won't be any ducks in front of my house waiting to take a bite at my tasty butt. Fadh still kept the cards that I gave her last time when we were in love. Not that many but certainly quantity wasn't the issue here. She wrote to me emotional emails with details I don't even remember. The sincerity was touching. Sweet in a way that nearly bring tears to my eyes. My throat felt funny after reading it. I chuckled for a moment to digest the words and memory. No other small things have touched me so dearly as that email has for a very long time.
reality bites
reality just sets on me. what come around do come around. faith is something that you can't ignored, either you want to belive it or not, it does happen and when it does, you may either laught your heart out or cry to death. either way, life can be preety weird and play a cruel game on us.
sometime you know you are right but you know you can't change anything by saying that you are right. people hear things they want to hear and ignore everything else. they does that very often. initially when everything set in, it hurts. like hell. the burning sensation still cut through my skin now and then.
for the longest time i had ignored fadh's phone call and only then did i picked it up and talked to her without mentioning fizi's name and saying the kitchen is on fire in the same sentence. it wasn't a happy phone call this time. for her, at least. time hasn't been much better for fadh and me either, but the curcumstances are just too weird. it was august two years ago that we broke up. using SMS, no less spectacular and sophisticated, a good two years before the goverment banned the idea of divorce thru SMS. it is possible and nothing wrong with it, but BE a man la. faced it. everything come tumbeling down for fadh as her fiancee choosed his skyline then getting married sometime this month. plus many other anoying issues which i find rather pathetic and funny. Zue (negara) have been her unsecure self again, doubting everything about me and decided to choose the nicer part of life then gamble on me. well, i should have guess it long time ago. secured life and fairy tale ending, doesnt that just sound like me? not? brother grimms it may not be but be sure i have a foot in kafka or joyces classic. everything will eventually come in palce. i ponder. and ponder. but when and why the suddend changes? everything so new for me in just two weeks?
i took the less scenic route this time. time is not on my side, so i say. being on the brink of unsecurity i tied to the long pole that was offered by fadh. she knows me long enought not to play with this rather fragile emotion. she wept through her sentences and letting out small laughter at the end of our conversation that night. i slept a little tighter and hope the sun will coem out soon.
am i making the right choice? am i concious enought to think straight and make decision as big as this in this weird week with little naughty little boy dancing and running riot in my head? i think i do and i doubt thing will change much if i had choosed to sleep on it and decide later.
sometime you know you are right but you know you can't change anything by saying that you are right. people hear things they want to hear and ignore everything else. they does that very often. initially when everything set in, it hurts. like hell. the burning sensation still cut through my skin now and then.
for the longest time i had ignored fadh's phone call and only then did i picked it up and talked to her without mentioning fizi's name and saying the kitchen is on fire in the same sentence. it wasn't a happy phone call this time. for her, at least. time hasn't been much better for fadh and me either, but the curcumstances are just too weird. it was august two years ago that we broke up. using SMS, no less spectacular and sophisticated, a good two years before the goverment banned the idea of divorce thru SMS. it is possible and nothing wrong with it, but BE a man la. faced it. everything come tumbeling down for fadh as her fiancee choosed his skyline then getting married sometime this month. plus many other anoying issues which i find rather pathetic and funny. Zue (negara) have been her unsecure self again, doubting everything about me and decided to choose the nicer part of life then gamble on me. well, i should have guess it long time ago. secured life and fairy tale ending, doesnt that just sound like me? not? brother grimms it may not be but be sure i have a foot in kafka or joyces classic. everything will eventually come in palce. i ponder. and ponder. but when and why the suddend changes? everything so new for me in just two weeks?
i took the less scenic route this time. time is not on my side, so i say. being on the brink of unsecurity i tied to the long pole that was offered by fadh. she knows me long enought not to play with this rather fragile emotion. she wept through her sentences and letting out small laughter at the end of our conversation that night. i slept a little tighter and hope the sun will coem out soon.
am i making the right choice? am i concious enought to think straight and make decision as big as this in this weird week with little naughty little boy dancing and running riot in my head? i think i do and i doubt thing will change much if i had choosed to sleep on it and decide later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)