Posted on February 14, 2013
Gallantly they are,
Morph into their pride;
The leap keep them spinning,
In their own dilated pupils;
Walking through their own endless stairs,
Along their own walls they have build;
To see themselves,
The Mirror of God.
The face to face the face,
The forms to form the forms,
Expanded and warped and distorted;
Within those reflections they see not,
Where they desire to see the others,
As they wish to see the world of fools.
But a little they think not,
And a little they realise not;
They see to see what they wish to see,
Through the pupils of the fools.
Posted on February 12, 2013
For over good 15 years, this land of my father was a mere nothing but a well-mixed of Asian fruit farm. Durian, banana, jackfruit, chempedak, tapioca, always an abundance especially during the seasons of the fruits. Additionally, mango, mangosteen, guava, rambutan, sweet potatoes and some tiny plots of turmeric, ginger, lemongrass scattered around here and there. Life was like a huge fruit-garden, 6-acres of very rough uneven slopes which made me unable to identify, which are the little hills and which are not. Well I was a little kampong (village) kid then. Trimming lalangs, weeds and wild bushes since I was 8, wrestling with mosquitoes, crashing into the nests of Malaysian red ants, trampling over mimosas, and having red lines of lalang-cuts all over my hands and legs, were my little struggles trying to maneuver through this land whenever I followed my father around. Playing with sickles, changkuls, spades and guni sacks since such age, do help me a lot in serving the army in the later age.
Sometime in 2005, my father decided to demolish the whole farm, overhauled the whole land and sell some portions of it. Part of it was to fund my sister’s education, part of it to give some rights to his brother, and a very little part of it for us to keep as a family’s retreat home with a tiny fruit farm for our family’s recreation. But major part of it, was too big to be managed single-handedly by my father alone. Yes, I was young and I could help all I can. But I will grow up and my time will be filled with certain pursuits.
In 2006, we build a tiny farm house for our small retreat activities. In mid 2008, our retreat home was ready. I helped to plan the spaces, and my father designed the house. So over the time, we build and plant around, cleaning and rearranging things, solved certain problems and turning it into a cosy family retreat home. There were wild pigs, a few good disciplined farm dogs guarding the area, birds and bats, squirrels, and of all, cats. Naughty cats, bad cats, good cats, lovely pretty cats, hungry cats and nonsensical cats. Read More
Posted on February 7, 2013
Pity them for what they want,
Pity them for what they know not,
Pity earth for all they want.
The bleeding heat is tearing the sun apart,
While the moon slowly dissolves in the wrinkles of the clouds;
And the earth has been deeply coated with their toxicated desires,
Oh then nature still give grace.
Hidden in their calamities of intelligence,
But yet they think not,
But yet they knew not,
And they crawl quicker than the hurricane.
I see them still racing in the rain.
Posted on February 4, 2013
Proud of the wrong identity.
Judging with the wrong wisdom.
Fighting with the wrong enemy.
And growing at the wrong age.
Posted on January 29, 2013
There, the wise man said,
“I have everything. Yet I have nothing.”
And there, his wise friend said,
“I have nothing. Only duties. To finish.”
Posted on January 29, 2013
How many times have you came across when those were the only times where you can say: I feel good? Oh yes, too many notions of good. Triumph, victory, success, bliss, love, joy, and also… desires, greed, revenge, lust… and many more in between the scale of righteousness and to the edge diabolical. But not for this moment I’m writing about. I mean typing.
It’s rather unusual to find myself typing this entry, when usually it’s writing. Pen and paper it is. Oh well either writing or typing, I’m still writing in my mind. And if I’m publishing my own book one day (which I really wish so, and working towards it!), it will still be in a world of types. Hand types, to digital types, and printed types.
So, what is this good feeling that I’m talking about. Now, neither any of those notions above falls into this good feeling. Neither it is about an achievement that wins, nor about to successfully understand an achievement that fails. The perspective that I’m putting here is simply about nothingness. Yes. The good feeling of nothingness. Have you ever came across that? I believe there are.
Posted on January 22, 2013
What do I write here? Ok: this is my first blogging post. Blog.
So what is a blog? This is new to me yet not new. Well I found out that the term “blog” is a linguistic blend of two words. Another sophisticated term for this is also known as a portmanteau word. Whereby two or more words are combined by their meanings and sounds to define a new word. So “blog” is a simplified form of weblog which originally is web log. Therefore web log, or web logging is an action of creating entries of information into a computer, which is link to the internet web. Probably began as something functional, or more of a defined purpose, this activity probably starts to evolve and take in some forms of personification. It is known as online diary.
There are many reasons why this digital culture evolves, but a notable point for me is, there are people who wish to express themselves, with whatever things that they have in them, be it ideas, thoughts and feelings, and many things else. However, they may have difficulties or inabilities to express it through their human nature. For some reasons, their natural human characters probably does not allow themselves to behave appropriately or to express in an appropriate tone or language. It’s like a baby saying to its mother: “Maa-maa… Poo-poo..” which means: “Mother, I need the toilet please…” So this blogging thing, becomes an avenue or channel for people to express themselves. It maybe silent in the real world, but not in the virtual world. Virtually, it is the speech of their minds and the voices of their soul. Represented in clean digital texts. And that is another notable point. This clean digital texting activity becomes a kind of therapy: You read and revised your own blog, you share using the correct words, you read how the others blog. You try to express yourself if not in your most natural behaviour of your subconscious language, it will be in whatever way you deem most effective to express your notions and emotions. It’s all clean and clear to read. Over and over again, and its nice. Happy. You manage to get rid of a plot of weeds off your mind. Yes, nice and clean. So this is the point where people shift from writing to typing. Reading back a diary entry of an angry account that you have it written may not be a pleasing moment. To some extent, you may feel disgusted or horrified about what your handwriting looks like, and what does it says. And it becomes something that you may regret conveying and you may wish not keeping. It’s a different generation today. While the past generation may be able to compose an angry account in the most composed manner and language, but today, the angry behaviour of people has fallen into a different time warp and speed warp. Patience has become a displacement for instant results to fulfill a desire. So, if you discover some handicaps as you type your own blog that displeases you, simple. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.