For Mrs Ammar

When I sit to think and write, I sometimes think of it as a conversation with a friend over a coffee. Mrs Ammar is one of those friends whose comforting sense of presence, and whose chipped mosaic coffee table and wonky IKEA stools in its setting afore a wall of books is one of my favourite memories to evoke, and then the words simply flow.

There were times in the past couple of years when there was nobody else to turn to but she, a silent witness. Her endurance and her determination to be all that she can be is always an inspiration. I am glad that she had enjoyed this blog, and had even given my 'Machinist' moniker, as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for that, Bibi, a gift of a name is a special thing.

Mrs Ammar, my friend, is enduring another personal loss now. I felt it as a keen twisting in the guts when she had sent the news, because although it's a loss I cannot imagine or even pretend to know, I do know how it is to lose a dream.

If I could ever put it in words, Rilke had done it better. Bibi, this is for Umaira, who I wish we could have had the pleasure to know. Please accept, with sympathies:

She who did not come, wasn't she determined
nonetheless to organize and decorate my heart?
If we had to exist to become the one we love,
what would the heart have to create?

Lovely joy left blank, perhaps you are
the center of all my labors and my loves.
If I've wept for you so much, it's because
I preferred you among so many outlined joys.

-
Blank Joy
Rainer Maria Rilke

Al-Fatihah.

Last post this year. Good night, all.

Love,
Reza

50-Book Challenge

I read about the 50-book challenge tonight and decided to do a quick count — fiction, non-fiction, textbooks, e-books included, comics and graphic novels disregarded... and anything past two-thirds counted, because boring books deserve to be read too. Got 54! Hey hey hey... that means I can put on a badge too... but I'm too lazy to put a list together.

I don't think I can do the same next year. This year, it was thanks to a month in hospital, four months of unemployment, a month cooped up in a hotel room in Melbourne alone... did I mention that it's been a lousy year?

So I did put the downtime to good use after all. That's something to celebrate, at least.

First two books for next year: The System of the World by Neal Stephenson (finally) and iPod, Therefore I Am by Dylan Jones (birthday prezzie from Ellisya & Ja'a. Thanks guys, love it! It's the third book I have now about Apple... so here's a tip to anyone who wants to give me a present: anything Apple related — a G5 with a 30-inch cinema screen and surround sound perhaps? — will be insanely great!)

On second thought, I'm going to time Mary Shelley's Frankenstein to finish on the January 1st... sorry, head start, but I've been celebrating 2006 for ages. Living in a fantasy world has its perks you know...

Blocked

Somehow over the past couple of weeks I think I got myself blocked. Not creatively — my imagination is working overtime blocking reality — just having trouble expressing it. With Xmas, The 26th, and the upcoming New Year as well as trying to get settled in the new job and all, it's been quite a strain I think. I feel overstretched suddenly, and nothing is working.

Thank you all, for all the well-wishes over the past few days. Nobody dedicated Lord Byron's Prometheus to me, so I did that for myself; I never expected anybody to read my mind. A long time ago when wishes still came true, in the land of leprechauns, someone had done so, because I had idly mentioned that I identified with Prometheus and she had known Me.

Around this time, three years ago, she became the biggest brick on the Promethean Wall, laying a curse of melancholy that visits every year-end ever since. I masked it over the last two years by partying with abandon but this year, I'm tired of trying to escape so I sat alone with my coffee and asked myself, why can't I make the crossing and reach out across my own Wall? __Sex & Music___helped me break free, and that was hard enough, but I'm walking around chained to a chthonic brick with the name Belle d'Sonomvrai written on it, with The Vulture still pecking at my liver, because in this version Hercules never came to shoot down that son of a bitch.

Walls work both ways: they keep things out, they keep things in. Or rather, they keep things from getting out, and they keep things from getting in. They protect the people within, and also protect the people without. When you're actually chained to it, then you are the Wall. An adjunct, an appendage, but an indivisible part of it nonetheless... and that's the problem isn't it? For a wall, everything is always outside. Logical?

So there it is: the very question that Anisism asked (happy birthday -ism, you are my Polyhymnia, that's who you are) that I posed to myself, on my 23rd birthday, has many answers but this one this year is as good as any: I am my Promethean Wall.

So love me in spite of my Wall, because it's all there is.

... I did say I was blocked.

Anyway, I told you who I am. So... who are you?

Juliana

If I had had Ali G and Shaggy's My Julie playing on my iPod as I reached Bukit Aman, things may have turned out differently. As it turned out, U2 has been the flavour of the morning, of the week really, and as I approached the visitors' registration counter, I had just click-wheeled down the playlist to The Sweetest Thing to cool down in preparation for the impending conversation with the boys in blue; I was afraid I'd shout out "Hello! Hello!" and expect a resounding "Hõla!" in return if I had still kept Vertigo on repeat.

I was greeted with a dazzling smile by a lady officer with sparkling eyes and the clearest complexion. Oh, my. If Meg Ryan had short black hair, black eyes, gained a few kilos, still looks 20 and took a role playing a policewoman with a desk job as a receptionist she would be her. Oh yeah, the first line of defence to the national police headquarters is also the PDRM's darling pin-up girl. She would melt the heart of any hardened criminal, especially if he has been listening to Bono proclaiming One Life One Love all week.

"Blue-eyed boy meets a brown-eyed girl
Oh, the sweetest thing
You can sew it up but you'll still see the tear
Oh, the sweetest thing"

Bono has the voice of Cupid that can drive a man to madness, and he had me nodding my head and agreeing, "yeah, I'm crawling, I'm straw. Cuff me shugah, I'm guilty and..."

— Pause! Pause! What are you doing? You don't want to get into an *ehem* international incident do you?

— Well... I was thinking we could keep it hush-hush, ya know... ISA, like. OK, paused.

"Cik, saya nak jumpa Tuan Haji Head Honcho, Cawangan Trafik. Nak bayar saman," I declared, stressing the Head Honcho part a little bit, with a knowing smile. I hoped it was suitably impressive.

"Oh, kalau nak bayar saman encik boleh pergi kaunter sana je," she informed me, pointing to a kiosk with a large sign proclaiming KAUNTER BAYARAN SAMAN in white on blue 250pt bold Arial (HUGE) a short hop, twist and turn away. Great, first walking up yammering then getting the equivalent of a tap on the nose with a baton. I can see her amusement as I patted my pockets and emptying them of their contents on the counter — loose bills, a pack of Dunhill Lights, three lighters, receipts, keys, a half-eaten Picnic bar — looking for the piece of paper which had my instructions to see the Head Honcho and how to get this price off my head.

"Erm," I cleared my throat, whipping out the printout of the summons and showing her the name written on the back. "Saya kena pergi jumpa Tuan Head Honcho ni..." I pointed to the bit saying that there's a warrant out for my arrest and to the note written on the back instructing me to see Head Honcho as I pressed the paper to the glass window that made me think, incongrously, of an aquarium. Maybe she has a thing for bad boys, I thought, daring her to come out of her post, guns a-blazing and eyes a-firing, to wrestle me to the ground and read me my Miranda Rights.

She leaned forward to see, and I caught her name from her name tag: Juliana. I wondered if she had seen Hannibal; she could be the Julianne Moore to my Hopkins. Here I am Clarice, and how the world has turned. Here I am, the monster free in the world and you? How does it feel to be on the other side of a glass wall?

"Oh, the sweetest thing"... crossfades to Elevation.

Bloody Bono. Got... to... keep... my feet on the ground, and he won't let me.

Juliana asked for my I.C., handed over and visitor's pass and I walked in. That's it: no body search, no metal detectors, no forms to fill.

Now, in my mind's eye, I had a vision of Bukit Aman to be a slightly less fantastic version of The Men in Black's headquarters — no aliens, men and women in blue instead of black, contactless smart cards instead of retina scans, cameras and unseen observers everywhere like Bentham's Panopticon. The place was surprisingly just like any other government campus. What a let down.

The Saint later remarked to me as I recounted the experience of walking around the building, looking into empty rooms with doors wide open, passing by numerous people who didn't even give a second glance — I felt invisible — that I shouldn't be fooled. There are pinhole cameras everywhere, he said, and what fool would be up to no good in a place crawling with people with guns? He had a point there. It felt weird though, to stand in a room full of people hunched over their desks, obviously out of place, obviously lost, and to be ignored for a full 10 minutes. Why, I was standing right in front of a doorframe and an officer walked past like I wasn't even there.

I have this knack of being invisible, I think, like The Invisible Boy in Mystery Men; that invisible boy who is only invisible when nobody is looking. Nobody at all asked what business I had to be there and that's what was so disconcerting about the whole experience: policemen are supposed to be curious! Even the security guards at Palm Springs seem to be the Spanish Inquisition in comparison. I guess they are already so used to see members of the general public wandering about in their compound.

I was mulling over that as I walked back to retrieve my escrowed I.C., A Beautiful Day being the tune of choice as I had concluded my business with the minimum of fuss. Juliana was still there at her post — where else would she be? — beaming away and laughing when I somehow managed to get my headphones and the neck cord for the visitor's pass all tangled up and half-choked myself when trying to hand the visitor's pass over.

"I'm free man now, are you?" I said, showing her a thumbs-up. I figured that I'd least venture an interest.

"'I'm not,' she said, flashing her wedding ring and giving me a wink. You find surprises at every turn. I shrugged and walked away. Nothing can bring down a man with U2 in his head and romance in his soul." — that would have made an interesting ending.

Instead, she just gave me a blank stare. The story of my life: can't charm a dame to save my life. It's sad how just brazenly telling someone how much you want to jump her bones would always work though, but is always a disaster in the end. I shrugged and walked away. Nothing can bring down a man with U2 in his head and romance in his soul.

As I said, if I had My Julie on, things may have turned out differently.

That was all fiction to liven up an otherwise dull morning. The real highlight of the day was that I finally had a Christmas to cherish, albeit two days early. Whatever happens tomorrow, I don't care no mo. I couldn't find all the words to decribe that. All I could say was "Thank you." Even that wouldn't be enough.

Have a happy Christmas, all. It's Christmas Eve, bring on the 14 days of Christmas!

King Kong

King Kong ...

—

ulp

—

words fail me lately.

Off To Bukit Aman

It was ever going to happen, and finally the day is come. Reza will step foot into Bukit Aman Police HQ, and he's not innocent. There's been a warrant out for my arrest since last year apparently, and I only found out a couple of days ago when I went to renew my driving licence. I had obviously forgotten about the whole thing.

Yeap, I did feel like Dr. Richard Kimble for a while as I hot-footed it out of the Ampang Station before they realised that a wanted exhaust-modifier had unwittingly placed himself within reach of the long arm of the law when he came to get a printout of his outstanding summons.

I was actually surprised that there was only one, dated April 2004, and I remember the night that I was stopped at the roadblock perfectly. Was stopped because my Satria sounded like a tank running on aviation fuel. Pfft! I also remember throwing away the pink slip they gave me as I launched away in a huff, burning rubber, squealing tires and all. I can't help it if youse philistines can't appreciate a war anthem when you hear one. Perasan gengster Kampung Dusun. Anyway, I'm going to get this sorted; there is only one thing worse than not having a driving licence this festive season: public transport.

Currently Reading:

Malaysian Master Tax Guide, by CCH Tax Editors, because I have to do the tax estimates for next year. I have Pink Floyd's Welcome To The Machine on repeat and am thinking about heading to Starbucks at Great Eastern Mall, bend myself into a pretzel on the sofa and succumb to this slow death with the style usually associated with Situationists.

TGIF!

I reported for duty today. Yeah, back in the saddle.

Tuesday didn't count because I didn't stay at the office and the boss wasn't around. I missed second and third day of work because I caught the flu, so that was a false start. So finally, today became the official first full day at work after, what, eight months? After all that time, actually being able to sit behind a desk and work felt damn good. I felt relevant.

So, it was a moral victory of sorts. It's the weekend and of course I'd like to celebrate by going out, have an Irish Coffee perhaps, a merry single working man chilling on a Friday night. I can finally hold my chin up again, you know what I mean? TGIF! You know how it is... it may only be the first day at work, but I'm milking it for all its worth...

My car broke down 10 meters from home as I was going out. I've got a bad battery it seems — jump-starting doesn't work — and I can't be arsed to deal with breakdown services right now. So now I'm stuck at home.

Tsk, the irony! This is when guys from these parts go "Fuck, spider!"

Death Wish

I thought it was supposed to be today (Monday) that I was supposed to start my new job. I feel like I'm selling out, but that's a story for another day. It turned out that by divine decree the Sultan of Selangor's birthday was today and therefore it was a holiday. So this morning I was caught in a curiously familiar situation: all dressed up and nowhere to go. Curious because it was 7.30 in the morning.

I had already spent Sunday re-centering and enjoying (what I thought was) my last day of self-enforced unemployment by driving around aimlessly, and then by drinking ridiculous amounts of coffee while devouring latest book purchases.

One of the new acquisitions is Bruno Bettelheim's The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (Balqis recommended this book some time ago. * wrong book... my bad * Interestingly, she called today, out of the blue, to say hello. Hm, synchronicity.) ; I must've a serious death wish buying this book... last Raya, on a particularly quiet night, a casual Freudian analysis of favourite fairy tales left me feeling quite screwed up and suicidal. Curse this wandering mind!

"Don't even go there!" my sister, the media student, exclaimed when I thought to share with her my discoveries, covering her ears and singing "lalalalalala" discordantly. On hindsight, that's very sensible of her. "Innocence lost, that's all. Comes with the territory," replied a friend when I turned to SMS her with my laments. She, of course, has already charted this blighted ground and probably rules it too. Hmmmmph! I love you too. :-p

So here's a question for everyone: what's your favourite fairy tale, and why? (Glee! Glee! No, I won't psychoanalyse you... do I look like I have a white jacket on?) Mine is Rapunzel by the way, make of it what you will.

Oh... 'hair fetish' is too obvious.

Penguin Appreciation

( Hmmm... he reminds me of someone... )

The Graduate Shopaho-, er, Architect — Wahey! WTG! Party! Strippers! Boogie! Feeeeeeewwwiiiitt! Meeewwwwyyy Chwisssssmashhhhed! — seems to find less time to blog nowadays, but thankfully there's a penguin to poke at when you've got nothing else to go on by. I wouldn't want to poke this monster though!

Lunacy

Yes Ellisya, thank you for the compliment, you are most astute.

I think I can appreciate being compared to the moon: I have always felt an affinity to the moon, that's why I have a moon-phase tracker on my desktop. Like the moon, I only shine by the light of others, and am often hidden in the shadows; always lonely, always waiting for the Sun to grace me with its light.

When Night befalls us, the moon is our sun-in-darkness, and of course, full moons do sometimes inspire lunacy... ;-)

But I don't think that anyone looks at the moon and thinks that it looks happy... does it? — It longs to be among the stars, yet it is but a lifeless rock; its light, a borrowed shine.

When it does shine, it is the face of melancholy obscured.

You people, on the other hand, are all stars to me. Delight me, dance away...

On The Banks Of The River Arrow

This is where Arwen carried a sickly Frodo across the Ford of Bruinen towards Rivendell on that desperate flight from the Black Riders hot on her heels (The Fellowship of The Ring, "Flight To The Ford"). Now the ankle-deep waters are calm in daylight: Elrond's Rivendell is tranquil. When danger threatens, Elven Magic causes this river swell and flood and sweep away the invaders.

I imagine that this is what one has to recite to make it happen (in Elven, of course):

The Sea said “Come” to the Brook,
The Brook said “Let me grow!”
The Sea said “Then you will be a Sea—
I want a brook, Come now!”

Emily Dickinson (1830-86) in
V: CXIV, Complete Poems (1924)

In every brook is the promise of the sea. This, in the real world, is the nature of things: not magic.

"Come, brother."

Black Metal Mayhem

Black Metal hits the news again, and calls for fans to repent and return the righteous path are heard.

Kebanyakan pengikut berpakaian serba hitam, berbaju-T putih dan berseluar gelap yang memaparkan corak dan gambar ganas, menakutkan serta memakai aksesori seperti rantai salib terbalik dan pentagram, selain berunsur ganas dan menyimpang daripada ajaran Islam termasuk berhasrat memijak al-Quran.

Oh really? Are you sure you're not confusing all fans as satanists? And a lot of people wear black, and present a rough countenance.

How did it get such stigma? I feel that Metal is rebellion to law and order, in the raw and in the extreme. Its expression mirrors of the state of society, rejects the zeitgeist and defiantly spits in the face of common norms. It is the ultimate expression of the need to be free to raise an angry hand and scream against oppression and conformity.

Everybody wants to express their individuality, and to do that, they need to break free and express an opposition. For some: it is a violent break, calculated to shock, disgust and appall, the more extreme the better. If it really is as bad as that, then we have to look into this Stygian mirror and see how it is from the other side.

Come on guys, keep it real. Remember punk. Punk is dead, no? Metal's tragedy is that it needs to die, but there's no reason to beg to be murdered.

I'll wear a flowered shirt and bop to The Doors today.

Want more? Read the philosophy of heavy metal.

"I'm Home"

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Indeed, what an adventure it has been! Alas, after building an impressive resumé doing some very Hobbity things like climbing trees, floating down rivers, wandering in mountains, and braving some very fearsome Orcs - okay, so they were merely Maoris - I was finally told quite clearly that I am too tall to be a Hobbit, even if they were hiring.

While it's satisfying, that for the first time ever in my life, to be told that I am too tall to do something, I reasoned that the life of a post-LOTR-shoot Hobbit in tourist-infested Hobbiton would have been a lonely one seeing that the Shire is now fit to be repurposed to be the perfect site for Planet of the Sheep, complete with a broken oak tree for that climactic scene: "YOU MANIACS. YOU CUT IT UP. DAMN YOU. GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL." ; I shuddered at the thought of being the subject of any wayward sheepherder jokes, so I came home. Sheesh, too tall...

Planet of the Sheep, eh, Hobbiton... what's left of it anyway.

I'm going to sleep for the longest time. Then, I'll show you some pictures. Hopefully, that would keep everyone's minds off the thought of doing ear squats (ketuk ketampi?) in the nude for a while. What was going on there?!

So that's what I get from reading the papers. I'll go back to my fantasy world now, thank you very much...