This is my political piece

Been getting a lot of flak for my political stance lately, especially among the older set. Which I don't really understand, seeing as I'm supporting a "don't care, don't wanna know" stance anyway. Apparently, not enough young people are voting.

Huh, big surprise there.

I mean, have you seen the choices we're presented with? Blue, a lighter blue, green, red, white and blue. They sound the same; religion, blah blah, race, less corruption, more corruption, blah blah. BN or PAS or PKR or whatever.

I even went to a rally, just to see what it's like. And yeah . . . not hearing anything interesting here, only more attacks against whatever other party is competing against the organisers.

Where are the hard issues? When are they going to come up with a working manifesto that actually addresses what's wrong, instead of . . . fluff. (So God help me, have you seen Pas's manifesto? Abolish taxes? Free tolls? Are we going back to the '60's? Or will this create a religious utopia unlike any we've ever seen? And yes, this is sarcasm.)

I want a cleanup of the judiciary, a split from the body politic and the body government. I want a better education system, taught in English, like what we're promised. I want a clear split between religion and Government. I want a political system and Parliament for the people, by the people.

Instead, I get the same bloody thing every election year; nonsense manifesto's, parties competing for change, without a plan of what to change.

And you older people wonder why we're not voting. Sorry, we grew up with CNN and BBC, Al Jazeera and the Internet. We're far more politically informed and far better read. We actually know better than you what we want. So we'll wait, until your generation has run this country to the ground.

And then we'll build it up again. And hopefully avoid all the mistakes you've made.

An update.

It has been a while, hasn't it? In the time I have been away, I travelled to Cambodia (which I promise I will write about someday), and to London (which, again, I promise to write about), worked, played, wrote much illiterate nonsense, even more extremely boring non-literary commisions, and generally, did this whole living thing that people are so hung up about.

To those people who are still waiting for the next installment of Shadows, well, I suggest you go to http://www.jim-butcher.com/ . This is what I was going for, and my artistic vanity suffered no end when I saw that someone else has done what I had thought of doing, and did it better than I ever could.

No worries, as soon as the sting of utter humiliation has left me, I'll continue writing it (or rewriting it, as the case may be).

In other news, I started writing romances, and I have no idea why. Bachelorhood makes for good muses is my guess. Expect a snippet or so within the next few days.

Other than that, well, time will tell.

p.s. Damn you Rhino, and thank you very much for the video that made me laugh for hours!

on relationships and being a sexual deviant

I have a feeling that I'm not really all there, right now.Inside my head, I mean. Because I just got home from a lovely night out with a lovely lady of my acquaintance, whom I wined and dined, and took out for coffee afterwards, and I know that I won't call her again. Ever.

She was too nice.

Gah. Its sad, and weird, and I feel like a sexual deviate, but nice doesn't work for me.

I don't want a healthy relationship, I mean, look at Thonk. Flabby, happy, and content! He's with his dream girl, and she's beautiful, and nice, and everything is perfect. He has every reason to be flabby, happy, and content.

Gawd, I never want to be content. I want a girl who bickers, and moans, and complains. I want fights in the middle of the night, shouting matches in public, ankle-kicking, ear-biting arguments. Fire. I don't want a girl made of hearts and flowers, I want one with hobnail boots and army pants. I want trouble.

What I need, however, is another story. I need a girl who'll push me, and shove me, and kick me, to be someone I have only seen glimpses of. He's not exactly better than who I am right now, but he's certainly more grown up, and slightly more level-headed. Calmer, maybe. Not quite so angry, possibly. More, productive, definitely.

And maybe thats all I need, what everyone needs, really. Some girl who'll kick-start our systems, and give us a reason to go through another day. And go about making us breakfast, while she's at it.

And that is a small truth.

on love, and all that nonsense

"To love "very much" is to love poorly: one loves - that is all - it cannot be modified or completed without being nullified. It is a short word, but it contains all: it means the body, the soul, the life, the entire being. We feel it as we feel the warmth of the blood, we breathe it as we breathe the air, we carry it in ourselves as we carry our thoughts. Nothing more exists for us.

It is not a word: it is an inexpressible state indicated by four letters . . .."

Guy DeMaupassant


I want romance; nonsensical musings in the middle of the night, talking over coffee for hours over the state of the world and how it all went to hell, waking up to weird emotions, denial and all its connotations, feelings and all that unpleasantness, the paradox of indifference and passion.

I want peace of mind when I see her walking down the street, I want to feel my pulse quicken when our eyes meet, promises given and fulfilled, a language without words.

I want a girl I can give flowers to, and give candy to, and shout out my love for her from the rooftops, and I know that it's corny, and stupid, and true.

It's a freaking summer epidemic, the deadly kind. You know what it's like; emotional baggage hard-wired into the human brain, which causes you to do stupid, unspeakable things. Like flirt, and dress up, and socialize.

Thank God that feeling passes easily enough.

Its not easy being single in a city filled with lovers, let me tell you. Especially in this City, where you can fall in love (or a close approximation of it) just crossing the street.

Gah. . .

I know what brought this on, damned middle of the night SMS'es from people I'd rather never hear from again.

I am not a hopeless romantic, I'm just hopeless.

And that is a small truth.

Emotional baggage

Let me tell you a story about a little girl I know. Come closer, this is intimate, and private. But this is the truth, and the truth always hurts.

This girl, you see, is rough, and she appears uncaring, and callous, and she will hurt you, if she thinks she can. But these are small faults, for she is good, and kind, when it matters.She was, is still, will always be, beautiful, but she will never admit to it. She thinks she's ugly, and scarred, and broken, and unclean, and it wasnt, it still isnt, her fault. But nobody ever bothered to tell her that, not in the way that matters.

She is haunted by her past, she is tortured by it; you can see it sometimes, behind her eyes, hidden deep, but still there.

She hides it by being vivacious, being happy, being just another girl in the crowd, but it's obvious, if you know where to look, and what to look for.

Her baggage is chained around her neck, and she doesn't know how to excorsize the demons, so she ignores them, living her life the only way she knows how; fully, with passion, and grace, and a certain kind of manic energy which is her trademark.

But the past is still there, her scars still haunt her, her demons still unsent. And there are times when she clutches her scars, embraces her demons; she picks at her wounds in order to validate the life she lives.

What she doesn't realise is that none of these things matter; one incident is not her whole life, and the demons she claims to be holding her back are nothing but smoke and mirrors, reflecting herself.

What she doesn't realise is that the past doesnt matter; the future isn't promised to you, there's only this moment that we live in, and you make of it what you will.

And that is a small truth.

on writing

I write for personal whim, not for blood, guts, or glory.

I write because I can, and it is something that I seem to be good at, as opposed to something I'm merely mediocre in.
I write so that I feel like I'm doing something worthwhile, and not just procrastinating, which is something that I am good at.

I write in order to understand, in order to make some sense of the world around me.
I write in order to understand, myself, my motivations, my reasons why.

I write as proof that I am alive, instead of just existing, a walking dead man, an animated hulk of flesh.
I write so that the world can hear what I say, and I don't particuarly care if nobody is listening.

I write to clear my head, 'cos I think that by clearing my head, I empty my soul.
I write to excorsize my demons, the bad, dark parts of my brain where mad things sleep.

I write, not because I have passion for it, but because, despite everything I have, this is all I've got.

And that is a small truth.

On the nature of loss, and moving on

Night falls outside as I try to put my words on paper, but the wounds are raw, and fresh. My memories are still disjointed and hazy, and some things that I remember, others may not. I can only plead exhaustion and emotional detachment. I am sorry.

The ride down was as painful as the news itself. The landscape was still dark when we left my place, black making way to light blue in the pre-dawn. Nyamuk's hand had a deathgrip on the steering wheel, the droning of our voices just sounds to make the time go by. We didn't really know what to say to each other, but silence was unbearable; we were brushing the coat-tails of death this morning, and our thoughts were dark. I was in a somber mood when we got there.

Grim news, ill tidings. Not a good start to any day.

The world itself felt brittle, spun glass and solid smoke, fragile.

"How is he?" // "Is he okay?" // war with "What the FUCK do I say?" // "How am I supposed to help?" // "What the FUCK do I do now?".

Silence and words, some shouting, some desperation, bad news mingling with worst news, but he's okay, he's alive. And THAT counts for something. It's not much, but it's something.

It is in these moments that you can FEEL God looking down upon you, feel His breath on your neck, looking to see how His servants respond to His handiwork, and I feel lacking in His eyes, small and insignificant.

It hit me then; I was useless in situations like this. I don't know the right words to say, the right things to do. I stumble over sentences, I feel lost.

And the world just kept turning, when it was supposed to have stopped.

<Edited>

I heard, much later, that he's doing okay now; that time, and distance, and perspective, gives people tools to deal with things like this. But I'm too scared to face him, and be reminded of my own mortality. I am ashamed of it, it eats at me at night, but I don't think I have the right tools to deal with death. I don't think I ever will.

I was shaken, am still shaken, by the thought that I may not live forever, that I am not immortal. The thought that one day, I will disappear, frightens me.

Sigh, I need sleep. Or a smoke. Or another chance at life. But you work with what you have, I suppose. And you make do. And you go on with your life. Because guilt is the province of the living.

But you never forget, and you know this, because your life has changed irrevocably, all within the span of a day.

And that is a small truth.

Where did all the magic go?

What did I want?

I wanted a Roc's egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get up feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, then pick a likely wench for my droit de seigneur -- I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilting of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles.

I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, "The game's afoot!" I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and the Lost Dauphin.

I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be what they promised me it was going to be -- instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.

Robert A. Heinlein, Glory Road


And that sums up my thoughts on everything that is going wrong with the world.

I am tired and disenchanted, and there seems NO POINT to anything. We run 'round and 'round, hamsters on a wheel, moving without going anywhere. And I don't think I can stand living like that.

I want miracles. I want dragons soaring overhead, wild magic filling the air with sparks, and fire, and ice. I want swords with names, and great heroes to wield them. I want ogres, and werewolves, and dark things that scream in the night. I want the threat of immediate death hanging in the air. I want a moonlit landscape, with lightning in the background, and its just me, my horse, and my wits against the Dark.

Instead, I get this fucked up little corner of the world, where small things happen to even smaller people. Where things don't matter, YOU don't matter, not in the grand scheme of things. You're a fucking pawn, the smallest cog in the machine.

The world has become staid, and plain. The magic that humanity held, and coveted, and fought for, and bled for, died and killed for, is gone. We've forgotten how to dream.

And that is a small truth.

I open thee (The ides of March)

"I even gave up for a while, stopping by the window of the room to look out at the lights and deep, illuminated streets. Thats a form of dying, that losing contact with the city like that"

Philip K. Dick " We can Build You"

Bit late in the day for any real coherent thought, it being nearly dusk, and me feeling like my brain is slowly pooling out my ears. It's one of those days, where you don't think enough, or you think too much, or the mixture of nicotine and really bad coffee is making itself heard through my bowels, straight to my lizard brain. A thousand thoughts and none running through my head.

The smell of rain through my window distracts me for a bit, and I feel a bit disconnected, a bit unreal. I feel like plastic, maybe because its been nearly a week since I've walked down a street in my City.

Because walking through my City grounds me, makes me feel at home. I can breath there, with its exhaust fumes and its citizens of dubious character. The smell of rotting garbage mixed with the apple I eat (it costs 70sen, and it's the cheapest breakfast I can find at 7 in the bloody morning) while walking down Petaling Street wakes me up. Coffee in hand while walking past Sogo, staring at that cute girl in that too tight dress, swerving a bit to avoid the crowds during lunch hour. Again, walking down the crowded streets of Bangsar, staring (a bit jealously, 'tho I know its petty) at couples walking in and out of clubs, as I look for a place to eat my dinner and watch people go by. Late nights at a Shah Alam mamak stall, nursing a teh tarik while watching everything wind down and fall silent, 'tho never completely, not in this City.

This was where I was born and weaned, and though I left it for parts unknown, it all comes back to me. This City is in my blood, its smell on my clothes, its garish colors under my eyes when I go to sleep, its sounds my heartbeat, and I love it and hate it in equal measure.

And so, this is where it all began, and I hope to God this is where it's going to end.