My Shoulder

2011-06-06T19:28:00.000-07:00

Quotes. It doesn’t really matter where they came from. They could have been uttered by famous and influential people, picked up from charming characters in movies, even shows like Family Guy. More often than not, they do make sense. A couple stuck in my head and are very much applicable to my day to day dwellings.

I once had a rather uncomfortable conversation with a friend’s father. He said, “Taufiq, when there are problems or conflicts surfacing within a family or any intimate, if not romantic, relationships, the man is ALWAYS to blame. Never put the blame on the woman… NEVER” How we ended up talking about it, only god knows. However I couldn’t agree more with that wise old man. He had the hands on experience. In the beginning he did not anticipate how much damage his misdemeanour would cause and the eventuality of things blowing out of proportion (shit hitting the fan) as it should. When they did, hell broke loose. He had almost lost all he had. It has gotten better for him since but left an ugly scar in his marriage. While he was lost in the world of infidelity he always had in mind, justification to his deceitful behaviour. There was always someone to blame and point fingers at. However once the real demon unearthed, the fingers were all pointing back at him. It was he who distanced himself. It was he who succumbed to the seduction of that hideous stray bitch and it was he who brought himself to believe that what he was doing wasn’t wrong. Little did he know, his whole family, the people who loved him unconditionally, had been, all that while, suffering. The wife had nobody to turn to, and the kids, longing for a fatherly guidance were lost “seperti kapal kehilangat nakhoda”. Despite the absence of him, the family, with whatever they have left, each other, pulled through. They patiently waited for the man of the house to come to his senses and rejoin a what-used-to-be a perfect family. And, unlike many of the similar instances, fortunately, he repented, and salvaged whatever that was left of his family and more importantly, marriage. It was however, never the same. The trust lost is never regained. Nobody could put humpty dumpty together again. It, he said, is like driving a car that has been fixed from a nasty crash. Not as good as new and far from being better. Never the same.

One fine summer evening during the last days of my student life I was hanging out with my two best friends in the back yard of our rented home in - effortlessly chugging a crate of Stella Artois (each) – when one of them said something quite surprisingly wise. It was more of an open ended question. He asked, “Guys, if there was someone who has, all these while, provided you with everything you ever needed that you feel forever indebted, and one day that very same person murders your mother, would you still be indebted to that person?” I sat there and thought, ‘wow, that is probably the best way to define the love a boy has for his mother’. That is one line that NOBODY, under any circumstances, should ever cross. No external factor, not even divine intervention, can ever disrupt that sacred bond between a son and his mother. The nature made it that way and that’s just the way it is and that how it should be. When I said NOBODY, I literally meant NOBODY without any exceptions. Those who hurt my mother, in any possible way for any possible reason, deliberate or accidental, are pieces of shit and do not and will not ever deserve my respect for what it’s worth regardless all the good things they have given me. Give me all the money in the world and beg for forgiveness, you will still be a piece of shit. And a piece of shit will always be a piece of shit.

-Tau

p/s: don't mess with my mother

CEOs, Sweage and Civilisation

2011-04-07T01:58:00.000-07:00

An integrated sewerage system is one of the most important yardsticks in the history human civilisation. In Paris, France, the idea of an integrated sewerage system was coined, or promoted, by King Philippe Auguste when he ordered drains to be built along roadsides in the city during his reign in the 13th century to channel household wastes into the river. However, the open-drain system was found disastrous as it contributed to the rapid spread of the bubonic plague in 1346 which believed to have wiped out up to 60% of Europe’s population. It took 150 years for the continent’s population to recover. The cleaner and more effective solution was developed by a man called Bruneseau, under the rule of Napoleon Bonaparte, construction of which took seven years from 1805 and 1812. Bruneseau also disinfected and purified the entire network of the subterranean sewer. In 1850, Victor Hugo further improvised the system as he separated the underground passage of sewage and drinking water using techniques made possible following the industrial revolution.
In London, the introduction of flush-toiled backfired as it overwhelmed cesspits, London’s primitive and inefficient sewerage system. This has led to two major black spots on London’s history; the widespread of Cholera disease and the infamous Great Stink. Addressing the gravity of the situation and to avoid the shame these civil blunders could bring to the ‘greatest empire in the world’, the Parliament decided to built a network of enclosed sewer as proposed by a civil engineer, Joseph Bazalgette in 1895.
Many major European countries followed suit and the ingenious technology was later introduced all over the world. The integrated sewerage system provided people with comfort and convenience. It also helped technological advancement. For instance, Elisha Otis’s invention of safety elevators would have been left in vain had occupants still had to travel to the ground to answer nature calls or Londoners still yelling “out the window” to rid their biological discharge.
Quite amazing the sewerage system, really. Developed in 1800s and until today, the basic concept of leveraging on water flow and gravity still works perfectly. The breakthrough, however, is always forgotten. We treat it as if it had always been there; as if nobody had to suffer or even die before it was perfected. It seems, many is taking it for granted and some is going backwards against the flow of civilisation.
Now, to the point I’m to make. In my line of work, i get to visit a number of office buildings to meet clients and most of the time I would meet with the top management of large corporations. Typically, the elite group (those holding higher position) would occupy the higher floor of the building while the working class; lower. As the meetings require high level of focus and professionalism I would hit the loo before the meetings commence. There seems to be a strong correlation between cleanliness of toilets and class of people utilising it. The executive floors are always clean while the working class ones, more often than not, covered in filth. Same apply to airplane lavatories. Business and First class WCs are always cleaner than those of coach.
I began to question. One: Did the likes of CEOs and CFOs become aware of toilet ethics, personal hygiene and common courtesy after they made their way up the corporate ladder? Or two: was it their in-built toilet ethics, personal hygiene and common courtesy that propelled their success? I think it’s the later. What do you think?
You can argue on volume and frequency of cleaning. But it’s not about numbers. It only takes one irresponsible bastard to spoil the comfort of an efficient sewerage system for everyone.

Unconditional love. Say what???

2011-02-03T09:08:00.000-08:00

Woman: Love and emotional support? One at a time mister. Show me the money and body-convulsing orgasm, and then we talk love and emotional support.

Man: Love and emotional support? You have a pretty face? You have an epic pair of bosoms? If the answers are yes to both questions, let’s talk love and emotional support.

Men and women. We are all the same; messed up in the head and incapable unconditional love. We do try, all the time, to prove otherwise, using many different methods. Be it self help books, retarded friends’ advice and even religions. But we’re fooling no one but ourselves. We are very particular, have preferences, and more often than not, will jump at the first glimpse of a better option.

I will be polite here. Ladies first.

Yes, they can provide men with support and love and are vital components in the pursuit of the continuity of mankind. But these services do not come free. Quality of service depends entirely on how much men are willing to spend. I’m not talking love, protection and care of a man; I’m talking dollar and cents (preferably dollar of course and with a lot of zeros excluding decimal points). It does make perfect sense if you look at it. Like buying a car, if a customer walks into a Proton or Perodua showroom, the only questions worth asking for the sales person to the potential - and most probably eventual – customer would be which model, transmission type and color. Because there’s no point promoting the cars for there’s nothing to promote and the only reason the customer walked into either of these showrooms is that they know they can’t afford anything else. Once the car is sold, the sales person would say, not out loud for sure, “it’s your problem now”, with a smile in his face. After sales service? What after sales service? In fact, the soon-to-be dissatisfied customer probably does not even expect any after sales service. He knows, considering the amount he paid, he doesn’t deserve any. Now if we relate to men picking a mates. They know very well that with the little money that he had, could afford to or was willing to spend(t) that’s all he is going to get… Junk. If we look at the other extreme, say you bought a prancing-fucking-horse (that’s Ferrari) the after sales goes on forever. They’ll build you a car that fits every part of you perfectly. They’d measure the length of your thighs and width of your hips and even the diameter of each of your testicles, to the nearest millimeter to promise comfort. You decide what color, which part will come in. Your wish is indeed their command. Try buying your woman a RM20,000 Channel bag. I bet on my mother’s house, with my mother in it, they’ll fulfill your sickest, most disgusting sexual desires right outside the KLCC boutique. You will never ever have to tug your sorry self while she’s busy tugging someone else’s anymore.

Now we move on to the gentlemen.

They are a bunch of cheating, lying, and deceitful sons of bitches. Never trust them. Here’s the conundrum. You can’t trust men with money but you don’t even look at men without. What does that leave you with? Ponder that. You may be the hottest, foxiest, woman he knows now. You probably have the sweetest rack, round, firm arse and vertical lips as tight its neighbor an inch away that he couldn’t tell the difference at times. You think he’s not going to go anywhere… forever. Let me break it down to you missy. The moment a wrinkle appears on your used-to-be pretty face, tits and honka-donk sags, and your verti-lips down under gape perpetually like a dead Indonesian volcano, he’s out the door. First his mind, then his heart, and eventually, sooner rather than later, his physical self. Unless you’re lucky enough that he dies before he could find your replacement.

For women, it’s always money first, sex second and the rest later and for men, its face, boobs, cunt, ass, and the rest, in that order. Strip off all our self-righteousness, men are just a bunch of lonely lowlife, housing long-term prostitutes, masked by the politically correctness of self dictated economic success and women… well, you get what I mean.

There’s no such thing as unconditional, and forever love. Terms and conditions always apply…. Always.

Poor Men and Smelly Calloused Feet

2010-11-18T03:24:00.000-08:00

It happened in the year 2002, as I was going around looking for a decent pair of black lace-up Oxford shoes. Nothing fancy, nothing outlandish, no fashion-statement making pair of shoes. Just a good ol’ pair of comfortable black leather shoes for me to wear on a medical school interview (yup, medical school, but that’s another story for another day).

First, I walked into Penney’s on Henry Street. Well, who was I kidding… So I tried my luck at several department stores and shopping malls, Arnott’s, Roches, Blanchards Town, Illac Centre, Jervis Centre, St Stephen’s and the list goes on. Constrained by tight budget, I went into, among others, Sole Trader, Burton’s, Mark and Spencer’s, and even Dunnes Store. The day of the interview was inching closer and I had yet to find a pair that meets my requirements, which after all, are not at all farfetched.

The shoes must be black, made of leather, lace-up, flat with 1-inch heels and gently tapered tip. There, barely a line of simple prerequisites. But what I found was mostly, well, crap. Bulky looking ones were ruled out at first sight. I don’t have the built or height to pull it off. So were ones with ridiculously thick soles. Some had too many stitching on them, supposedly to distinguish between one and another. They’re missing the point. Men’s shoes aren’t meant to be distinguished. They should look plain, simple and classy while giving the master the deserved comfort and support.

These affordable shoes are made by a bunch of accountants who leverage on ignorance of the masses. They don’t know what they are doing and even if they did, they didn’t know how to. For instance, nobody wears patent leather in daylight, so why make them? Some copied designs worn by models for catwalk events. These shoes were designed such way (extravagant, outlandish, exaggerated) so that viewers and critics can see their design directions. For this purpose (catwalk), the shoes may be extra shiny and extra pointy for instance. But when the products actually reach the shelves, the extravagance, outlandishness and exaggerations had been very much toned down. The designs are so much subtle so the masses can absorb little changes they’ve made. This is the process that these ‘accountants’ missed. Thanks to ignorance, their eye-pokingly ugly products are still bought and people’s awareness in self presentation subdued.

Disappointed by the little choices I had, I walked into Brown Thomas on Grafton, hoping there’ll be some ‘lonely’, slightly scratched, Size-9 black Oxford available on sale. Luck of the leprechaun was not on my side. So I made another round at the malls and the stores. To my surprise, I ran into a pair, decent enough to my liking, affordable enough to my bank account. Plain black leather Oxford lace-ups, 1-inch heels with gently tapered tip. But boy was I disappointed. To keep prices low, the brand opted for thinner, less superior leather and lined the inner soles with synthetic ones. Result? A pair of rigid structured semi-leather shoe that do not mould into the shape of the master’s feet the way a ‘real’ leather shoes would. The moment I stood up, I knew, walking in those will be painful. And as the linings were made of synthetic material, my feet will not be able to breathe. Walking an average of three miles a day in woollen socks and shoes with ‘fake’ linings may and will lead to the feet producing some sort of a stench, thanks to super active sebaceous glands (especially in summer). I gave my gratitude to the shopkeeper and walked out in despair.

So I called up my funder, asking for a budget raise, and explained the gravity of my situation, and got it. I went straight into a small real shoemaker store and got myself a pair of plain black lace-up Oxford with 1-inch heels and gently tapered tip. I was indeed the happiest man that day. A few days later, I went for the medical school interview, walking tall filled with pride and confidence... and didn’t get a place.

As for the shoes, they are so comfortable and durable that it has been eight years and I still am wearing them. But eight years is indeed to long even for a pair of beautifully made yet robust British made Oxford. I realised it is about time I looked for another pair, and I thought, “Fuck”.

My view so f*ck you

2010-07-27T09:03:00.001-07:00

I rewarded myself just a tad too much having completed several tasks at work today after a whole day of ‘plan-your-life motivational seminar’, smack in the middle of KL. So I’m a little on the opposite of the lucid side writing this and should you find ideas that I bring about a little preposterous, incomprehensible or constipating, well, fuck you.

So after the handsome reward that I presented myself with, I experience what some might call (or that’s what it actually was) the ‘out of body’ experience. Scary at first but after a few seconds, the feeling of absence of gravity, I found, rather pleasant. I floated about the ‘Heights’, then decided to go farther up to get a broader view of the surface of the third rock from the sun. It was spectacular. Streetlights guiding motorcars to wherever they were going and neon lights of all sorts, give character to buildings and structures.

I could also hear things. Fuel injectors in cars hissing fuel-air mixture, analogue timers clicking in traffic lights and sound of hair growing on an old man’s head cycling through Sprint heavy traffic.

That was when I begun to wish I was back in my physical body where I was safe form these supernatural ability to see, hear, and know more than I should. I heard people talking; about the traffic, about the food, about their jobs and about others, and I realized why there are so much hatred, bigotry, madness, and war in this world. It is the way we assign connotations to otherwise slightly, only slightly unfavorable situations. I heard them say; “the traffic is torturous”, “the food tastes nasty”, “my job is hell”, “that fellow is such a Hitler”.

These words used to refer to these situations are repeatedly, obliviously and unnecessarily continuously applied, not only in sheer exaggeration but totally out of context.

One, the traffic cannot be torturous because you’re in your air-conditioned car listening to ‘flirty-at-ten-thirty’; a luxury Chinese war prisoners did not have while the Japanese yank out their finger nails one at a time.

Two, if the forty dollar per dish linguine was not cooked el dante and all coated in salty carbonara, is what you call nasty, what do you call leftover half-eaten chicken wings a KFC cashier serves to his kids everyday for dinner in the Philippines?

Three, if your job was hell, try hell.

And four, that fellow you called Hitler, was he going around looking for men with circumcised penises to be gassed to death? No, that fellow you called Hitler, is just your boss, who’s probably cracking his head figuring out what to write on your increment evaluation knowing your work is shit.

We should just stop being too dramatic responding to all slight negativity that gets in our way just because we can. Why can’t we say something comforting like, “wow, the traffic is quite heavy. I’ll just sing along this gleeful song? That ought to kill time”, or “meh, so the pasta is a little soft”, or “that fellow is a son of a bitch”, which is (or rather should be) a compliment to him. And I’ll tell you how.

See, we’re not only using those words I just mentioned in exaggeration and completely out of context, we even taboo words that relate to love, pleasure and intimacy. We use words such as ‘fuck’ or ‘suck’ or ‘blow’ and their variants to express anger; to imply unfavorable outcomes. We say “fuck you” or “fuck off” to express disagreement. We say “that sucks” or “that blows” to express dissatisfaction. We call people names to insult; such as ‘fuck-face’, ‘cum-face’, ‘son of a bitch’, ‘cock sucker’, ‘carpet muncher’, ‘bastard’ and the list goes on.

All these as verbs, are things that we as sexual creatures quite enjoy doing. To fuck simply means ‘to copulate’, or more commonly, ‘to have a sexual intercourse’, during which people do these things like blow, suck, munch, and make the involuntary fuck-face and eventually cum-face. A son of a bitch, a bastard, is a product of love and affection between two persons. How’s that an insult? It should be and it is a compliment. What is so wrong about expressing love; showing affection? What is wrong about it at all?

It’s all a part of expression of love and romance. Love and romance keep us sane; keep us going, lacking of which make us go mad. We’d be lost without them and we’d end up fighting for something else to fill the void. We start to fight for what other similarly deprived people, too, fight for. Fights become intense, bringing up hatred in people and in many cases result in wars; torturous, nasty wars as if Hitler was brought back from hell.

So let’s all take a step back and think. Think about the words we use in our day-to-day lives. Let’s ask ourselves. Are they really appropriate? Are we over exaggerating? I’m sure we can change our perspective on all the little negativity and misfortunes in life. We’ll then begin to take things easy. We’ll be more composed and relaxed as fewer things will bother us. Take a chill pill y’all

Now for you who took time to read this havering, I thank you, and I’d like to say, fuck you, you carpet munching, cock sucking cum-faced son of a bitch.

Banana

2010-07-22T03:27:00.001-07:00

I only eat seedless fruits. I find the idea of putting in something in the mouth and not swallow them disgusting. I don’t chew gums too. There are a few stories behind this but I’m not getting into that right now. I do eat fruits with tiny seeds like grapes and watermelon; the seeds, I’ll just swallow. So, most Malaysian fruits are out. The best seedless fruits of all are non-other than bananas. They are nice, soft, sweet, high in potassium, vitamin C, carbohydrates for energy, glycogen, no fat, no cholesterol, and no sodium and they are available all year round. They don’t stink and in fact they smell quite good.

Bananas are widely available world over. Everybody can recognize a banana. Yellow on the outside, and white in the inside; beautiful. They are quite versatile too. You can eat them raw or be creative and cook them; improvise I might say.

I also like the fact that their global presence, that made them well recognized, turns them to be a very practical choice of fruit. The world knows them. I know them. Wherever I go I somehow tend to look for bananas. Those places may have many exotic fruits to offer and I will give them a try but so far, I haven't and I think I will never find a type of fruit that I love as much as bananas. Bananas are like my gravity. I may once in a while prefer other kinds of fruits but eventually my love for bananas will and always will prevail. They fulfill my needs and I understand them. I know how to eat them. I know when to eat them and when not to. I know how to cut them and where to poke to split them open.

So that’s that. I love bananas. The way they look; yellow smooth skin on the outside and soft and tender in the inside, the way they taste; the riper, the sweeter. I like them cold, I love them hot. I like them in pajamas, even better without.

They give me strength and energy and ease my guts.

Hi, my name is Tau and I'm a smoke-oholic

2010-06-30T23:03:00.001-07:00

Argh, I’m so sleepy and it’s so cold. I’ll just wind down the windows and have a smoke.

This traffic is killing me. Think I’ll have another one. (10 minutes later) I’ve been here for 15 minutes and travelled barely 100 meters?!?!?! Where’s that pack of fags?!

Phew, finally here. Time for coffee downstairs. Nothing like a cup of iced coffee and a smoke at seven in the morning. “Hey, you’re here, come join me for another smoke or two”.

Fuck, she looks staggeringly hot today. Can’t concentrate. Better get some distraction. A fag will do it. Down boy... down boy.

Shit, writer’s block. Need some inspiration. Think I might just step outside for a puff. Hmm, still nothing, another one ought to do it.

Finally it’s lunch time. Cold skin and heat from the sun, Clorets mint to hide hungry man’s bad breath but something’s missing. I should light up.

Where the hell is my food?!?! Guess I’ll have some appetizer first. Give me a damn lighter.

That was filling. You know what’s better than a cup of iced coffee and a smoke at 7 in the morning? A cup of iced lemon tea after a heavy lunch in the middle of a hot afternoon, and a smoke.

Wow that lunch makes me feel like dozing off. Need some nicotine rush. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll have two. And another coffee.

Shit, it’s five and I still have a lot to do and the A/C is off. Weather seems nice. Warm and sunny outside. Such a waste if I didn’t go out and enjoy it with a stick of my beautiful DML.

“Dude, you’re off?” “Nah, need fresh air” “I’m with you.
Fuck this, I’m getting my fix. “Guys, pub, now” Ahh, ice cold drought on a warm rainy evening. Gah! They’re talking about work. Where’s that pack?

I smell of an Irish. Need to get rid if this before the missus finds out. One, two, three… that should do it.

Home finally. One before shower, one during, one after, one before dinner, one after, one while surfing, one while on the phone with the other missus, one before brushing teeth, and one after, one before sleep.

And that’s how I smoke 30 sticks of cigarettes a day. I need help… New lungs I can get, but at RM9.30 a pack, I’ll be broke by mid-month.

Hi, my name is Tau and I’m a smoke-oholic.

Do it right and don't be silly... please.

2010-06-28T17:42:00.000-07:00

There’s been some sort of phenomenon lately and I’m told, it’s just a phase that everybody once in their lives faces at one point or another. It took me quite a while to agree and once I did, it hit hard. The thing is there are two things that people I know and people in general tend to like to do in their past time. They’d either get married or they’d die. It is rather sad really. Death is never good and I’m not going to say more. But these people getting married, as selfish as I am, would mean less people readily available to my company. I have - or rather used to have - different groups of friends to do different things with. Now my resources are depleting and they’re depleting fast. Considering the pace I’m going at, in two years time I’ll be that bitter and cynical guy who sits at the bar, havering to the barman about my dead end job, illegal immigrants and Selangor’s ongoing political turmoil on Friday evenings. But the future aside…

My issue with weddings is, you have to attend it and I hate attending for weddings. It is always amazing how they invited thousands of guests and still manage to recall who came and who didn’t. Missing it is a big no-no in a traditional almost-orthodox Malay community. It’s a social suicide some might say and it is quite true.

It has become a trend to follow the western ways of doing things. People are inclined to have the wedding reception held in a hotel ballroom or some fancy hall, depending on affordability of course. They’d try to make the event as grand as possible. And you will have to dress up in traditional costume and struggle not to spill a drop of curry onto your clothes. There’ll be an 8-piece cutlery set right in front of you and you’ll spend half the time trying to be friendly and civilized to the other nine strangers on the table while at the same time figure out which spoon should first be used and how.

Then there’s a more traditional way of doing it. Some have it at home. My only issue with this is Malaysia is way too hot to go about having lunch underneath an oven-like plastic canopy in a full Baju Melayu suit – and fake a smile while at it. I always pity the newlyweds but they brought the ‘pain’ onto themselves so they shouldn’t complain.

I’ve temporarily given up trying to understand why people get married knowing that I’ll do it myself somewhere along the road. That's another story for another day. The pressing concern here is the wedding reception. Having observed the ways they’ve been doing it I begun to wonder if they even know what they’re doing and why they are done in such ways. So I took a step back and think. Why do I hate wedding receptions so much? What’s so wrong about it that I think it’s pointless?

Wedding receptions, be it held in a five-star hotel or a simple ‘dewan serbaguna rakyat’, tend to get it all wrong. First of all, more often than not, all the decoration and food were prepared by ‘contractors’. Traditionally close friends, neighbors and family members would gather resources to prepare for the wedding reception. Some will bring onions, some rice, some cooking oil and whatnots. It is not about getting others to contribute really, it’s the spirit of togetherness. Having worked hard for two days, both guests and help feast together for a day, celebrating the newlywed’s special day.

Also, traditionally, guests will be given each a boiled egg, wrapped in a piece of colorful cloth. This symbolizes fertility, hoping soon the couple will receive a gift of a child and more to follow. Yes, throughout the years we’ve been becoming more and more creative in the ways we present the boiled egg. Some come in a woven basket, some porcelain boxes yet some still in the form of the good ol' ‘bunga telur’. This is where many got it wrong. The packaging is getting increasingly outlandish but that’s fine so long they contain boiled eggs. Now instead of symbolizing fertility and function as a token of appreciation, they represent nothing. We now get Pandora boxes. Them boxes may contain sweets and candy, or a hand towel, or specially imported chocolate, or a piece of fruitcake. You’ll never know what’s inside until you open it. Just like the marriage you’d just witnessed and celebrated, you’ll never know what to expect of it and what’s going to happen.

Then again, what do you care, you're only there for the free lunch and bitch on how bad the food was and how the decoration was a bit off and how the bride could’ve found someone better looking. And as for the host, if the real reason of having the reception is to announce that the couple is now off the market, instead of spending a hundred grand on it they could’ve just spend two-thirds of that money and make a half-page announcement on three nationally circulated printed media, the way listed companies publish their annual reports. A one-day job and 26-odds million people get to know about it at the comfort of their own homes, plus you have 33-thousand ringgit left to go on a romantic honeymoon on an exotic island or place deposit for a new house or even both.

But if you do it just because everybody else is doing it, or you just want to show off that you have more, well, screw you and god be with you.

The Forbidden Love

2010-05-08T03:19:00.001-07:00

Dear Stella,

It has been a long time since we last met. It’s raining on a warm Saturday afternoon and I’m sitting alone at the balcony thinking of you. I remember the day we first met and how we got along right away. One thing led to another and we had a good night together. We both thought it would be a one night stand but we just could not bear being apart from then on.

I remember you were always there when I can’t sleep at night; when I had to stay up meeting deadlines; when we spent wee hours in airports waiting for my redeye flights; when I was always lost not knowing what to do. You were always there.

Do you remember how I was always there to accompany you, take you out of that cold place? I miss your rich personality. I miss the way you taste. I miss the way you bring warmth to my winter nights.

Now those days are gone. I don’t see you much anymore. Once in a while we rubbed shoulders but never acknowledge each other. Not because I don’t want you anymore and not because you don’t want me anymore. We are in a foreign land now that our relationship is forbidden. We cannot be seen together and for that, as painful as it is, we stay apart.

But I promise you Stella, there will be one day that there’s only you and me, on this very balcony, sitting through a warm, rainy Saturday afternoon, enjoying each other’s company.

Until then Stella, until then.

Yours always,

TauKamal

Edward Scissorhands

2010-05-06T05:51:00.001-07:00

There was a boy,
It is rather difficult he must admit. Quite a several moons ago this proud bloke was adamant it will all be fine. Oh was he wrong. Oh was he severely wrong. Unfortunately for him, bracing for the worst with a mere leaking canteen barely suffice. It however would not do him justice mocking his idiocy for he knew what he had signed up for. Crossing the ever-expanding Sahara with depleting necessity believing a mirage of an oasis does not fade away on approach is not what no man had ever done. It is an act of self destruction, a product of ego-gone-wild and a state of delusion and inner turbulence, feeding on raging testosterone.

Little did he know by provoking, or rather challenging life to get to Him, well, has gotten him a life. Be careful what you wish for, people may say. He who travelled to a foreign land to sarcastically search for poverty had actually earned one. As contradicting as it may appear, we must grant him a compliment for his thoughtless determination. Realizing where he had gone wrong, he began to weep. The realization that began as a whisper of self doubt had actually began creeping up his neck as soon as his journey did. Doubt, soon turned into fear, followed by anger and regret, have now became a prison paralyzing his soul as he lives through what appears to be a metaphorical summary of his ill-fated youth.

It seemed that everything he did, everywhere he went, and everyone he met, tends to be a horrific recurring experience. No matter how hard he tried and how much he cared, all that meant something suffered.

Bloody Awkward

2010-05-05T01:51:00.000-07:00

It is rather natural for almost everyone growing up, to move on from one partner to another. Yes, along the way people get hurt, some more than others, but most get through. It is really a long learning process. And it doesn't stop ever. The process might come to a halt as one gets hitched but not necessarily for good.

As we move on from one, lets call it 'phase' to another, one tends to bump into one's past which is again, quite normal. Naturally both parties, depending on how the previous 'era' was ended, will try to be decent and hide the awkwardness - hi-s and hello-s are exchanged, and maybe a peck on the cheek, acknowledging familiarity.

All is well when both sides are still exploring the possibilities and testing the water. But what happens when you run into a past, whom had moved on and settled down and said, "Hi Tau, what a pleasant surprise, have not seen you in quite while. How long has it been? How have you been?", and just as you opened your mouth to tell your whole story about how you have completed your studies somewhere half-way around the world and now working but barely making ends meet, the person continued, "oh by the way, meet my baby, his name is Daniel (not real name), is he not the most adorable thing, Daniel, say hi to mama's old friend, Tau, oh he looks exactly like his father. You know I'm married right? I did send you an invitation but I guess you were away". By now, you would be thinking,'no, I did not know you have gotten married, no, you did not send an invitation, and no, I was not away then'. This is when that cute little thing looked at you. What is there to say to the innocent kid? Rule of thumb in making a small talk with a stranger is, find something that you have in common to the other person. But in this case,you cannot be saying 'hey boy, how're you? You know, a few years back, I often visited that place in your momma, you have just gotten out of months ago. It was quite nice and warm right? You have ben there, you should know..'.

This is when that high pitched inner voice screamed "AWKWARDDD".

Awkwardness... there is no real way of getting around them.

The smell of the dry kitchen reminds me of you

2010-04-20T05:11:00.000-07:00

Sweet Dark Lover,

I hope you fare well in your new venture as I'm sure you will. Full moons have come and go and memories of you are beginning to fade like a spray-on tattoo on my girl's right shoulder as comes along one lustrous Aphrodite calling me in by name. Merely teasing she may be but who am I to deny the hands of the Goddess of Love?

I know I'm betraying you, I know I'm pushing you farther to the corner of my mind and I know that you don't give a damn. Her silent whisper is all I hear "Come to me, come to me now" and I can't seem to shake it off. I'm sorry you are fading away.

However, for one reason, I can never completely erase you from my thoughts... I'm not sexist, but the smell of the dry kitchen reminds me of you.

Yours always,
TauKamal

Last Night I Dreamt of You

2010-02-15T05:19:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamt of you. A nightmare it was. Roaming about a familiar yet strange land, trying to escape you wrath. Your non-existent wrath in reality. And I... was terrified, petrified, paralysed and imobilised by your ghostly presence. Gorgeous still, you were tall and slender with you pasty flawed skin that adds to perfection. You looked exactly as I remembered. Partly because the dream, the tiring nightmare, was a product of my memories... my imagination. But you looked exactly as I remembered.

Last night, you were a vicious woman, consumed by power bestowed upon you. The power you very well deserved. But never did you use it in reality as I remembered. You were kind. I was always lost in your motherly touch, the warmth of your smile, and your laughter... music to my ear. But last night, last night, you were a vicious woman.

As you terrorize my slumber I prayed. An act I thought I lost my faith in. But as you terrorize my slumber, I prayed. I prayed to the higher power, "Oh the almighty!!!! Be this a mere dream, I beg of you. Be this, a mere satanic deception of her, for she is my only hope... for she, is my only source of warmth... for she is my only reason for being. I beg of you my lord, be this a mere dream".

As I tried to speak to the almighty, you, in the terrible nightmare, kept on bellowing as if you were chasing me and all around me away. As if we... as if I, was just an insignificance. A weightless matter as I was.

If the dream was a sign. If the dream was a sign for me to let you go, of you driving me away, to scare me away... if the dream was a prophecy, a message from the higher power telling me I am not worthy, I beg of you, reappear tonight and allow me to prove my worthiness.

But if the dream was a mere nightmare... if the dream was a mere product of my memories and imaginations, fueled by paranoia, ignited by a worldly potent intoxicating substance, the worldly potent intoxicating substance I shall take, as I would pick a nightmare of you over your absence anytime. Tonight, tomorrow night, every single night, until the night I have you by my side, the worldly potent intoxicating substance I shall take... tonight, tomorrow night, every single night, until the night I have you by my side.

As impossible as it is for the night, that I'd have you by my side, would become true, I still long for your motherly touch, the warmth of your smile, and your laughter... music to my ear. I still long to embrace your gorgeous, slender physique, and touch your pasty flawed skin that adds to perfection. I still long for you... for you are my only hope...for you are my only source of warmth... for you are my only reason for being.

It had been eight full-moons since we last met and last night, I dreamt of you

Marriage, Joke of the Century

2009-09-04T09:01:00.000-07:00

Not very long ago I was in love with an exceptionally beautiful woman. Deeply in love apparently. The trouble is, I didn’t know it, and I didn’t expect to be, until the day she left for good. I could still find her if I want to. And I don’t mean those serendipity crap. I meant I actually know where to find her. Only that a pathetic jerk like me can never find the guts to actually go for it. Well, it wasn’t meant to be anyways. She was married and still is I should think. After all, being in Malaysia, apart from the dramatic political scene with dumb fucks dragging a cow’s head along the roads of a developed city, and some civil servants just conveniently forget they tossed someone out a 14th floor window, or a sweet girl getting caned for drinking a mug of rotten barley juice in public, nothing dramatic really happens. So no, I don’t think anything happened to her marriage in the past several months. But I might be wrong. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please, bear with me for a moment.

First of all, what is marriage? Marriage is a social union or a legal contract between individuals that creates kinship, depending on culture or demographic. Now let’s translate that into Malaysian context. There are a few definitions I can derive from the definition above, taking into account the customs of Malaysian society.

• It’s something people do so the parents will shut up about it already;
• It’s a legal contract Malaysians need to stay faithful to each other;
• It’s what Malaysian (mostly the female species) do to brag to the unmarried; and
• It’s a license to have sex without the “authorities” breathing on your neck (unless you’re sleeping with the authorities… whatever turns you on)

So my question is, why bother? Firstly, we never listen to our parents anymore anyways. Secondly, it’s not about being faithful, it’s about who can remain faithful the longest (that would be the real loser). Thirdly, brag all you want, nobody gives a flying fuck…really. And last but not least, everyone’s sleeping with everyone. If you aren’t a public figure who happens to have broken your promise to some contractors years ago, no one will tip off the authorities about that rendezvous of yours and your secretary because you don’t worth nothing. Now let me ask you again… why bother?

People tend to live this utopian dream wherein once you’re married, you live happily ever after. Unfortunately, the dream lasts until after the wedding day. It’s downhill from then on. For the past few years, many of the people I know (or once knew) had gotten married and to my naïve self’s surprise, they don’t stay married very long. Some spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on a wedding that lasted not longer than my libido after a year without any sexual healing. I also know couples who had been together / married for as long as 25-30 years but broke up because the men had caught the ham-sap disease, a.k.a. penyakit-memantat-bukan-bini, or the deadlier variant of the disease, penyakit-memantat-bini-orang.

What I’m trying to say is, the institution of marriage is now a joke. It is just another multi million dollar almost-organized industry. Many think they do it for love, but how can you call it love when it takes longer to plan the wedding that the marriage does to fail? So people, if you are in love and want to share it with each other, get a dog... or a cat… or a plant. Unless you are committed to that person that he/she appears hotter than Megan Fox (or her male equivalent), don’t bother. Don’t waste your time, your partner’s emotions, and your parent’s money.

All been said, no marriage is strong enough to last anymore. All you can do is to enjoy it while it last, because it will imminently pass…

… and if that woman’s happy marriage does eventually pass, I will be there. Or should I just play with the troubled water and go for it now? Hmm… I don’t know, it’s a pickle.

Maybe I should get something to eat. I’m thinking of spaghetti. Carbonara perhaps. And I know just the place to go. What do you think?

I Need A Nissan Grand Livina

2009-02-06T01:10:00.000-08:00

There’s a point in a young man’s life where he needs to make a choice. A cross road where he would either stop and think deeply on which turn to make and considers all the possible outcomes, or simply choose one instead of another, not knowing let alone caring on the challenges await. Would he go right where most men do; a turn so safe that nothing can possibly be wrong? Or would he turn left where the road ahead is narrow, dark and empty? Or would he deflect and make a U-turn instead and watch the others move on?

It’s a pickle.

Light turns red. The young man stops. Heart is pounding. He breathes faster and starts to pant. Face; pale. Light still red. As he waits his short life passes before him. He remembers the day he got his first bicycle, rode it to school, took it to the piers with fellow friends, and the day school bullies snatched it off him. And the day he stepped into that pretentious boarding school, where he met his first crush, had his first kiss and heart broken, all within a year. Then there was the day he gets into college. The excitement, the anxiety… it was overwhelming. And later, the senior ball, as he walked in through the grand entrance with his ‘true love’; all eyes were on her, mesmerized.

Then came the day the young man had to go out to the real world. He landed a mediocre job like everyone else, lived in a mediocre apartment like everyone else and led a mediocre life just like everyone else. It was then that he met the ‘real-true-love’ of his life and now… here he was, waiting for the light to turn green, deciding which way to turn.

Light turns green, he indicates, he turns right as he looked into the eyes of his ‘real-true-love’. Slowly, nervously, but surely.

As I was driving my carriage of being on a long straight motorway, I saw the sign “Gas - Last chance for god knows how many miles”. I drove past and there it was. The crossroad. Light turns red and I came to a halt. “So this is when I started thinking”, I thought. And think I did. If I turn right the road will be comfortable, well lit, safe, smooth and straight, but, most definitely, boring. It is just a straight dual-carriageway with one exit in the end with no rest stops.

So do I turn left instead? It’s a long winding and endless road, with exceptional view and ever challenging chicanes and sharp turns. The definition of heaven for the young and adventurous. It however lies on the edge of a mountain, and ravines so deep that you could fall asleep before hitting the ground. Vultures fly low, waiting for the next unfortunate weak hearted victims.

Perplexed, I looked ahead and saw a gigantic sign saying “NO ENTRY – FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”. The road was blocked by military personnel, tanks and barbed wire. It seemed to be a busy road indeed with more and more traffic signs I can’t possibly read from this side of the road. From afar I could see well maintained lawns, almost-uniformed buildings with porches, driveways, and garages with hoops above the door. Everything was in order. Everything was certain and most importantly everything was perfect. It is a one-way road. The sign also says “Exit Only”. As I sat and observed there was a few broken cars drove out of it. Some turned into to the motorway and others, hastily drifted towards the winding vulturous road. “Why would anyone……?” and my thoughts stopped there.

I sighed long, and I sighed hard. For the choices I have made, I brought to myself this predicament. I looked ahead and there he was. The guy who turned right. As he drove up his driveway I saw the look in his face. He seemed rather exhausted. Rear doors open and a counple of tiny little ‘hims’ ran out of the car towards a lovely lady on the porch who had been standing there, waiting. I looked back at the guy, and he was no more exhausted. He seemed relaxed. He seemed content. He was no more a nervous hesitant guy. He seemed… happy.

Now I know where the highway leads to. I want to get there. But I want to go straight. The right turn is way too long and way too boring. It requires patience. It tests your endurance. But the end of the road is so… dreamy. Is it worth it though? Why can’t I just go straight and get there right away? What is the big deal? Those guys left. There should be vacant spots for other people. People like me. “BUT WHY CAN’T I?!?!?!?!?! I don’t care. I want to go straight. I want to ditch this person in my passenger seat and just go straight!” I screamed. The-guy-who-turned-right turned to me, shook his head, pointed me towards the highway and gave a hand gesture saying, ‘it’s all going to be ok’.

Maybe I should turn right. Not that I don’t have anyone sitting on the passenger seat. She’s been there throughout these years, in good times and bad. She’s the one, who stayed in the car while I went for a ride in another; the one who held the umbrella as I changed the tire in the rain. But the excitement is gone. The spark had turned into a dying flame fighting the imminent wind. We can’t possible survive the journey. Either I ditch my passenger, turn left for the uncertainties, and never look back, or ditch my passenger, and stomp on the accelerator risk my life to break the barrier ahead, or, keep my passenger turn right and endure the ride, which means I’ll be stuck with her forever.

I looked ahead at the guy-who-turned-right again and this time, him, the little hims and lovely lady, cheerfully pointed the highway and then I know, things are going to be ok.

Perhaps right I shall turn. But turning right means an uninteresting yet enduring ride. Bring it on!! But there’s one more thing I’m going to need. A bigger ride for me, my passenger, and the tiny little me-s that will come along the way. I can’t think of anything more appropriate than, a Nissan Grand Livina.

Light turns green…

MILF Hunter

2009-01-21T05:59:00.000-08:00

I,
I feel sick.
Not 'coming-down-to-something' sick.
Nor am I 'sick-of-this-oppression' sick.
And definitely not 'I-had-one-too-many-tequila' sick.
I'm just sick.
'Disgusted-with-myself' sick.
I am one disgusting filthy sick bastard.

She...
Her back straight, nose up.
Big round eyes, silky hair,
Baby butt skin... so white so soft.
Tall and slender, chest... tender.
Voice, angelic, melodic... orgasmic.

Plain blouse, plain jumper,
plain skirts make me wonder,
She's so precious she's so rare,
She's everywhere... I cannot bare.

She's left she's right,
She's in she's out,
I closed my eyes she's thereabout.

Infatuated by hey beauty,
Amazed by her elegance,
Lost in a dream,
of her heavenly presence.

Here I stand... deluded,
How can I be so sick,
millions of fish in the water,
but to have this one I would rather.

But she's not mine,
Not then, not now, not ever.
God, can I have her for one night?
I beg of you, just one night.
I'd spend eternity in damnation
Just for this one night.

Oh I am sick,
oh I am disgusting,
oh I am obsessed,
oh...

Oh she's fine,
oh she's so damn fine,
Get out of my head get out of my mind.
Make her disappear, for she isn't mine.

How I want her how i need her,
She's my heart she's my soul,
For with her, I would grow old,

She's not mine but another's,
but I would not even have taken a second look
IF...
she wasn't such... a MILF.

I Love Quotes and Don't Mess With My Mother

2008-10-12T11:44:00.000-07:00

I love quotes. Don’t you? It doesn’t really matter where they come from. They could come from the speeches of famous influential people, movies, or even Homer Simpson. More often than not, they all make sense. There are a few that have stuck in my head and time to time I would revise the application and how much they make sense.

I once had a rather uncomfortable conversation with a friend’s father. He said, “Taufiq, when there are problems, issues, and conflicts, arise in a family or any intimate relationships, the man is always to blame. Never put the blame on the women, and never put it on the kids”. How we ended up talking about it, only god knows. However I cannot agree more with that old man. He had the hands on experience. In the beginning he did not anticipate the degree of destruction his misdemeanor would cause and eventually things blew out of proportion as it should. It has gotten better for him since but left an ugly in his marriage. While he was lost in the world of infidelity he always had in mind, ways to justify his deceitful behavior. There was always someone to blame and point fingers at. However once the gravity of the situation was unearthed, it was all pointing back at him. It was he who distanced himself, and it was he who brought himself to believe that what he was doing wasn’t wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t. But deception makes facts irrelevant. In the end, family was severely affected. Fortunately he repented, and saved his family and more importantly, marriage. It was however like driving a car that’s been fixed from a nasty crash. Not as good and far from being better. Never the same.

Alfred Lord Tennyson once said, “It’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all”. I must say, I couldn’t disagree more. You don’t want to be driving your ultimate dream car knowing it will be taken away from you. Don’t believe me? Ask Jeremy Clarkson how hard it was returning the Bugatti Veyron after having driven it across Europe. Your also wouldn’t want to go back to drinking wine from the box once you can afford those properly bottled ones (with real cork, not those fancy modern ‘neo corks’). And you definitely would not want to go back to cheap escort service once you are welcomed into that executive sex group you had been longing to enroll into. What I’m trying to say is that if you knew something good just couldn’t and wouldn’t last there’s no point having it at all. Having things you like, enjoy, and love, taken away from you really sucks. You’ll end up dreaming of cruising in a Veyron at record breaking speed while really you were struggling to engage second gear in your 1992 Vauxhall. Or sipping wine that has come out of a tap attached to a carton box, from a crystal glass. Instead of getting that subtle scent of oakwood, all you get is the smell of a paper factory. Worst, is having sex with a teethless 50 year-old hooker, while trying so hard to picture her as a tight 30 year-old workoholic executive, breaking away from work to fulfill her natural desire, screaming your name out loud, but the truth, you know for a fact, in a weeks time itchy spots will appear on your shaft, you’d rather die than face the embarrassment of telling you physician’s reception what your visit was regarding. So, no, having love and lost is far from better, instead it’s the opposite of better, than never have loved at all. Sorry Alfred, you should’ve gone out more.

One fine summer evening during the last days of my student life I was hanging out with my two best friends, in the back yard of our rented home in Filton - effortlessly chugging a crate of Stella Artois (each) - one of them said something quite wise. It was more of an open ended question. He said, “If there was someone who has all these while, provided you with everything you’d ever need that you feel forever indebted, and one day that very same person kills your mother, would you still respect that person?” I sat there and thought, ‘wow, I’ve never actually thought of that’. I meant I’ve never really put it that way and I realized there’s no better way to put it. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out the logic of course. Naturally the answer would definitely be a big ‘NO’. That is one line that nobody, under any circumstances, should ever cross. No external factor, apart from divine intervention, can ever disrupt that sacred bond between a son and his mother. God made it that way and that’s just the way it is. And when I said nobody, I literally meant nobody without exceptions. Those who hurt my mother, in any possible way for any possible reason, deliberate or not, do not and will not ever deserve my respect even if it worth nothing regardless all the good things they have provided me with. Give me all the money in the world and beg for forgiveness, a piece of shit will always be a piece of shit.

-Tau

p/s: don't mess with my mother

Confused? Solution is Simple

2008-04-17T04:28:00.001-07:00

I haven’t written on this issue for quite awhile now. Had been talking and preaching and writing about it too much that I have gotten to a point, that thinking of it is rather futile and childish even. So what I did was totally ignore it and avoid being involved in any discussion and conversation leading to it. That though, does not mean I have mellowed down or stopped caring let alone being indifferent about it.

Too many people are trying their very best not to accept the way they were born. They have this strong self-created urge to defy the truth, to exile from their own self. ‘This isn’t me’, ‘I’m not it’, ‘oh, I’m different’, and all other cliché they can come up with.

They just have to get away from their race, religion, and the culture that comes with the former the day they were born. It is an unsurprising but disturbing the fact that they wish they were born and brought up differently. Wanting to be someone else and something else. They find it hard to embrace the language they were born into, opting for a ‘cooler’ one, of which they are not familiar with let alone be proficient using is. Many are, too embarrassed to embrace their rather non-MTV cultural practices, from the way they speak to the kinds of things they like. Some even stopped using their unique given names to blend in with their aspired social groups. Worse of all, many try so hard not too look and appear they way their physical appearance do.

It is really simple, whether you are or you just aren’t. It seems too ‘uncool’ to just admit to their own ethnics. Here are some instances.

There was a campaign in the college I attended promoting the use of spoken English while on campus grounds. There was an exhibitor who loved to talk and give unquestioned answers. We asked for her name, and naturally she did with an extensive elaboration. “Oh but people, even my family call me Ally, and although I was born into a Malay family, English is my first language”. “Okay…” I thought, “Thanks, good for you”. Somehow it seemed to her as if I was going to punish her for not being born an uptight-anglo-saxon-snob. I get it you’re not English, and have a name that couldn’t define your background more, that it’s almost impossible to pronounce, but chill woman, it’s ok to be Malay.

Sometime the same year, we were hanging out at a café that we hang out in more than anyone else - even the waitresses – I over herd a young lady, complaining about the way people talk to her. These are not her exact words but it sounded something like this, “I doesn’t understood why these pupil speaking Malay to me. I cannot see what they talking”. It hurt trying not to laugh. The situation was funny the way it is, but the fact behind it still bothers me today.

There is a young man I know quite well. He has the same problem. He knew who and what he was, but keep on derailing himself from the real him. When asked on his ethnicity he would tend to make it seems complicated. “My great grandfather married a Chinese and my mother is from Kelantan and has a distant relative from Burma, so I don’t really know what I am”. Well, dude, you are a pure blood and live with it. It’s not that bad being the same as everyone else. We still love you anyhow.

There was a little man. Really he’s in fact vertically challenged. I know a four years old taller than him. But his inability to go for the Space Adventure ride in Disneyland isn’t the question here. He is rather good in the Queen’s language, I give him that. But he also has the idea that everyone has to be at least half as good. He insists that even khutbah during Friday prayer in Malaysian masjids should be delivered in English. I find it amusing the way he fakes his inability to comprehend Malay language.

Now let us look at more obvious instances, of people who just refuse to embrace their own self. I’m sure many of us have heard of the name Hishamuddin Rais, a well known self-exiled ex-ISA fugitive, and currently a freelance bon-vivant. He is not quite a typical I-hate-my-background case. In contrary he has a better idea of preserving traditional Malaysian culture. But the trouble with him is that he is worried that by embracing his own culture he will be no different from others. So what he did? He writes about culinary cultures of the world as he trots the globe. Well what’s wrong with that? Here is what. It is safe to assume all Malays are Muslims. Whether or not he is, is a totally different story. But as far as Malaysians are concerned, he is. When he writes he would emphasize on how much he loves the food he was writing on and what alcoholic beverage suits the dish best. He once wrote on his experience having Satay at a typical Satay stall, and how much he loved the dish with red wine that he brought his own bottle and plastic cup. Ooh, a Malay who drinks in public. Big deal dude. Go to Hartamas Square you’ll find a handful of Malay guys, just like you but younger, enjoying a plate of Nasi Lemak with a bottle of beer. It’s really up to you how you enjoy your Satay, there’s no need to brag about your obsession for hydro-carbonated drinks.

Not many have read about this other Malaysian Malay exile. Salleh ben Joned. He impregnated an Australian girl and married her many years ago. A responsible lad. He has almost full understanding of his inborn religion, Islam, but proclaims himself as an apostate struggling go get out of apostasy. My personal opinion, he’s not struggling. He just doesn’t want to get out of it because once he does, there’s nothing more to complain about, and that’s what his life has been all about. Finding flaws in things and write about it. He is a double trouble. He also hate – although hate is a strong word but the way he writes, he really does – Malay language. According to him it is an adopted language that the Malays made their own. Words from other languages are adopted into the language altogether. I agree that some foreign word adoptions that we practice are rather absurd but take the holistic approach in examining the issue. The fundamental of the idea of the country, down to the formation of our constitution and legal systems are copycats. Our national anthem happens to be the modified version of an Indonesian song Terang Bulan which happens to be the intro of a Hawaiian song Mamula Moon. Our flag resembles the American flag. To think of it, Malaysia is in fact the new America, found by an explorer, adopted the explorer’s mother tongue and cultures and made it their own, only younger by merely 200 years. Back to Mr Ben Joned, he demonstrates prominent effort in distinguishing himself from others through his poetic writing. Hes writes his English poems so deep and complicated, full of his wide range of vocabulary that I bet even Shakespeare would have had a hard time comprehending. Well, I think he does it so well, that he is different to the extent that he’s almost weird.

Enough instances. These people are too scared of embracing themselves as it would make them normal and unnoticed. Maybe they have no faith in their own cultural and religious backgrounds to guide them through this modern world. Or perhaps there’s a huge lack of understanding and knowledge or too much of it. Perhaps, these people just love this self inflicted confusion as being settled means they then have to move on and actually live and life could be confusing and depressing.

But my hones opinion says, these people have extremely low level of self-esteem, and very insecure of themselves that being normal doesn’t help. If that is the case and I really hope it is, they should stop running away from their own shadows and just get a cock-pump or a boob-job. I bet with my life they would feel better.

All this running away from own self is really disheartening. I can do it too if I wanted to. When asked about my racial backgrounds I can just say, my great grandfather emigrated from Indonesia and my mother was a Singaporean before she obtained her probational Malaysian citizenship. It doesn’t answer the question but it sure does make me feel different.

~Tau Kamal~

Might As Well Do It Right

2008-03-28T11:56:00.000-07:00

Everybody’s Doing It

Might as well do it right.

- TauKamal

From the smallest state in the country in the north, down to the southern tip of the peninsular. From the peaceful country side to the hustle and bustle in our ever growing metropolitan cities. In universities, colleges, high schools, middle schools and in a number of isolated cases, primary schools. Those in their middle age do not want to be left behind too. There is no written civil law let alone the constitution that states the citizen of this independent country is prohibited from doing it. It is natural and fun and satisfying if you know how to make it fun and satisfying, and to do so, well, you will certainly need a fair level of experience. Of course there is this grey area in the norm of any society that the practice might be tabooed. Well, since it is indeed grey, who gives a flying fuck.

Oops, there it is. I said it. In a more civilized manner, sex. Or if that word turns you red, intercourse, or the practice of demonstrating physical attraction. When I said everybody, I really meant everybody. So many of us have done it that the ratio of the number of people who have done it matches the local – Malaysian ratio in London city. They are everywhere. Do not be deceived by their looks, or their age, or religion, or their family backgrounds. They could be the piano girl on Sunday Service. They could be the one lighting up joss sticks for their families. They may even pray five times a day, but what difference do they make? They are still doing it every night and every day, every morning after pray. Young adults who never miss school and obedient to their parents and respectful towards others are doing it. Priests, imams, rabbis, monks, ministers, kings, teachers, doctors, janitors – they all are doing it. The question on when, where, how much and with whom they are doing it is entirely their business. As long as their practices do not severely affect their loved ones emotionally and physically, it is totally fine. But is it?

No, it is not fine. Not the underlying culture of a social group nor it is the restrictions by certain religions that make the subject of sex (or even mentioning the word) a taboo or even illegal. That entirely depends of individuals. What not fine is the ignorance on negative physical impact it brings if it is not done properly. All of us have been taught the basics of sex, protection and family planning back in school. But the trouble is, the subject seemed to be way too embarrassing for the teacher to elaborate and far too awkward for the kids to really pay attention to what the teacher had to say, that it is only taught in one chapter, in one secondary school module for less than half an hour throughout 11 years of compulsory education. And it never came up in any examinations. The results, nobody gives a flying fuck about it, nobody remembers it and the subject was never to be discussed ever again.

The lack of information gets the kids curious. So they start to find external resources, not to learn how to do it – as we humans, at certain age just miraculously happen to know what to do with our penises and vaginas especially when they meet – but to learn to improvise. The visuals are normally so realistic and natural, and exiting and intriguing. It can be done in so many ways at so many places and with so many people!!! Then one thing they would certainly notice. There is no ‘rubber’ present. But the kids do have a vague memory in the darkest corners of their brains that their science teacher one said that to do it right you would need rubber. But those guys on TV never used them. Now the question arises. What are they for? But there is no one there to ask, and if they did ask someone, chances are that someone would not want to talk about it because it’s ‘not nice to talk about it’ or ‘you’re too young to know’. In the end the kids would come up with their own logics. “Hmm, use rubber to play safe. But those actors never use them, and their partners seem to be fine with it… YES!!! Now I get it!!! They fire their blow all over their partners’ bodies instead of inside them so they will not get pregnant. And the reason anyone would use rubber it that, so they will not stain and mess up the velvet couch, now the couch is safe!!! Now that makes perfect sense, use rubber to play safe!!!”

Now is the time to experiment everything they have picked up so far. They would do it the first time and get over the awkward moment, and off they go. Without realizing they have graduated from Karma Sutra University, all these are done unprotected. The results? Teen pregnancy, nasty and deadly Sexually Transmitted Diseases, and the worse of all, illegal abortion of those innocent babies-to-be. These cases can be found daily, and in abundance in any local public hospitals.

Well, our natural knee-jerk reaction would be to start pointing fingers. Parents start to blame their kids, and vise versa, and the government… well, they just don’t give a flying fuck. Or do they? Even if they do, some shallow cum narrow minded ‘concerned’ citizen – parents, NGOs, teachers, politicians included – will go on and on about how we practice eastern culture and it is not in our culture to talk about it. It’s a taboo. Even to talk about it. They make it seem like it was a sin to even mention the word ‘sex’, while other words with similar meaning say… ‘fuck’ are being used the way our ever popular ‘lah’ are used all day everyday. These people will freak out if someone suggested sexual education to be incorporated in school curriculum, believing sex belongs only to those who are married. Well, there is a little truth in that. But that attitude towards sex, gives the idea to the kids that marriage is merely a license to be having sex. Well, it kind of true, that traditionally, in our culture we can only have sex with our legitimate partners. Guess what people, that culture is long gone. All this while you have been busting your bums off to protect something that’s not even there anymore.

Of course introducing sexual education in schools will not be an easy task. But we managed to change the language used in our education system, slowly but surely. In a way, this should be easier as sex, regardless what language it is in, is the same. Same technique and same results. There is only one way to put on a condom. For practical training, we always have abundant supply bananas to learn to put them on. Availability of free condoms birth control pills needs to be made public. Literature on dangers of unprotected sex should be made available for everyone especially teenagers. Well, these resources ARE available and they ARE FREE!!! All we have to do is approach any nearest government health care centre and ask for them. But many, even those who know, could come up with a million excuses not to get them. Some are shy; some don’t know they are free. Even they need to be purchased, a pack of three condoms cost not more than RM10. That is way cheaper that any clinics that offer illegal abortion, cheaper than STD treatments and definitely cheaper than raising a child.

At the same time you will be surprised to find that many matured adults have still no clue on benefits and advantages of having protected sex and family planning. They are 40 year old mothers who get pregnant every single year since they were married. Being pregnant at that age not only dangers the baby, it can even kill the mother. When asked on why they do not use contraceptives, the answers are always painful to hear. “We can’t afford them”, or “They are not comfortable” and the worst yet, “My husband does not believe in using condoms and he wouldn’t let me take pills either.” SERIOUSLY???!!!

The lack of sexual education has led to many severe consequences. Our ignorance has killed many ever year and will continue so long as we don’t open our minds. Unmarried young people will keep on having raunchy sex without any kind of protection because they see porn stars are doing alright without them. Matured adults still commit adultery thinking their legitimate partner will never suffer, both mentally and physically, and we who somehow, so far, managed to luckily get away with it free from any deadly diseases and mental distress just DON’T GIVE A FLYING FUCK.

Skeleton in my Closet

2007-11-17T14:50:00.000-08:00

I've too many skeletons in my closet and some of them wear dress.
Say you have them too. Years past and next thing you know you'd have a collection of facts, those of which, in your opinion, may better be hidden, or concealed from, people in general, a specific group of people, or even a particular person for various reasons such as, to protect them from maybe pain - be it physical or psychological - or maybe, selfishly yourself. The metaphor 'skeleton' is used to reflect the nature of the fact it carries. Dark, dirty, deceitful they maybe but not necessarily. Some things are just not meant to be known, some must wait for the 'right time' to be let out, and some are just plain insignificant. But, either way they must come out. Sooner or later, they must and they will.

The trouble with these skeletons are, keeping it in too long might, or rather will, cause serious consequences. Unlike real bones, they will start to rot. They will start to stink and once they do, others will notice. Imagine you have a beautifully decorated bedroom, clean and tidy but there's a sharp nose piercing odor coming out of the closet and others walked into the room. You figure it out.

Think of it metaphorically. And, think of it from other peoples' point of view. What would they think? What would they feel? Something must be wrong, that's what. And at that point, whether or not they saw your skeletons, and whether or not those skeletons of yours has a dark side, or whether or not they knew the purpose of them being kept for so long, don't matter much more. Your intention of letting them out one day is now left in vain. The facts of which you had been concealing, be it bright or dark, now symbolize dishonesty, and intention to deceit. Whatever plans you have post skeletal disposal is now pointless. Premature discovery of them, turns honest mistakes and dark pasts that were, into lies. Try to deny it, try to save yourself, the ball is just not in your court no more.

You are now seen as a lying bastard, or cheating son of a bitch. The trust is now gone. You are back to square one. "GO TO JAIL!! DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT 200". All you have now are regrets, disappointment, hatred towards yourself, and not a single trace of self esteem. You get depressed, and try to share with those who think they know you well but you know better. With that many skeletons, no one really knows you that well, and as much consolation as they could possibly give, it just won't make you feel any better. You'd just want to bang your head really hard on the wall that you brain would explode. A knife in the heart, sounds very inviting. You just want to tie yourself on the railroad so it all will soon be over. This is when sanity comes into play. Facing it with sanity is like having an open heart surgery performed on you while you're wide awake, without any kind of anesthetics and it's not even an option. It hurts like a bitch, you can see and feel everything that's being done on you and there's nothing you can do about it but try hard to stay still. It will feel like forever. You feel like you're going to die which is ironic because it is exactly the one thing that will keep you alive.

There are only two possible outcomes. One, you'll die. The other, you'll make it through. One thing for sure though, if you did make it through, it will leave an ugly scar so obvious that you will never ever be able to forget and really get over it.

It stays with you forever. You will ever be haunted. Just like me.

-taukamal

Evolved

2007-11-07T11:23:00.000-08:00

You know I'm a dreamer
But my heart's of gold
I had to run away high
So I wouldn't come home low
Just when things went right
Doesn't mean they're always wrong
Just take this song and you'll never feel left all alone
-
(Motley Crew-Home Sweet Home)

I am a dreamer indeed. A man full of hope and desire. A man who believes in the greater good, a man who believes in Disney ending. I am a hopeless romantic. As many have known, I left home five years ago to pursue a dream. I left the place i called by many names - shit hole, junk yard, pantat kawah - just to finally go back to 'her', kneeling, and begging for her to take me back in, with arms wide open, and make me feel, something that I have never felt in a long long time, BELONG.

And four months of hot summer that's exactly how she made me feel. I was home. Not anymore a shit hole, not anymore a pantat kawah. I was finally home.

Home is not quite a glamorous place to be in, not a place you could rent an apartment and fill it with IKEA furniture after two months of working. It is where you sleep on a mattress in a low cost flat. It is not a place where you drive a German car, but you ride in a tin can on wheels instead. Nor home is the place where your 'human rights' are taken care of. It is where you work like a dog and get shitty pay. Home is not a place you could save up enough for annual ski vacation in the Alps. It is where having KFC once a month is a luxurious treat. Home is not about Scotch over lunch and Merlot over dinner. It's ais kosong and teh ais when you can afford one. And home is not about working and studying during week days, longing for another weekend of drunken nights and meaningless sex just to wake up on Monday morning with a hangover and praying so the girl from last night won't miss her period cycle. Home, is about hard work during weekdays and spending quality time with your family over the weekend. Home is where you stay focus in what you do, a place where you set your goals and actually go for it, a place where live your life. Home is sweet, home is home, home-sweet-home.

Four months at home taught me lessons. Lessons, that I had been longing for throughout my exile. Five years of floating and drifting, looking for the answer, and of all the places I could have found it, I found it resting at my very own home. There, a moment of realization. To appreciate home I had to first despise it.

I love the life in a foreign land. I did not have to worry about, well, anything. Everything was made easy. Not once in my life time had I need to face hardship and difficulty. Not once. I had roof over my head wherever I go, never had to starve, and clothes, those that many cant even imagine to have, I have them lined up nicely starched and ironed in the closet. I love the life in a foreign land. I get amused by all the small things. Being all classy, stylish, and looking good in all occasion. While some of my collegues had to decide on which brand of canned tuna would be the cheapest one, I, a pompous pretentious spoilt brat would be all dressed up dining in a gourmet restaurant, enjoying my fresh mussels, with a glass of chardonay in hand. What a life huh?

Back to my four months of summer. It lasted a life time. I was happy, heart broken, revived, resurrected, and heartbroken again, many many times. And guess to whom I fell back to? The warm hands of my parents and, of course, God almighty. Obviously I am by far not the cover boy of Islam, nor am I an obedient kid. But over the months mending my broken self, I did go to 'meet' God with my old man. Soothing. It was like the first time I had ever experienced joy in my life. I also managed to have a few rather pleasant conversations with the sweet lady who carried me in her for nine long dreadful months, some 23 years ago.

Alone I sat in a multi-billion dollar coffee shop franchise in one of the greatest establishments in the country, I thought, "Am i going to leave all these for a bunch of overpriced coats, and some fancy restaurants, and getting hammered off my backside every weekend??? Hell no". Well, there was one reason why I wanted to stay. Not the overpriced coats, nor was it the fancy restaurants, but 'something' else. One thing that I, a pompous, pretentious, spoilt brat, could never have. I wanted 'it', and still very much desire 'it', and undoubtedly, in love with 'it'. But I just can't have 'it'. That explains why I wanted it so bad doesn't it?

Other than 'it', and 80 quids a day pay I could make in this foreign land, I have got nothing much to gain here. But at home in the other hand, I've got the whole country to explore, the whole system to exploit, and most importantly, my entire life to built.

So, bring on the low cost flat and the mattress, bring on the tin-can car, throw my human rights out the window, pay me dirt, shove the KFC down my throat and water it down with ais kosong, spare me the drunkenness, give me sobriety, and sex... it can wait until the day I tie the knot. I just want to get home, I just want to be home. I'm tired of running, living in denial. I'm done dissing my home and giving it names. I am going home, and this time I'm going home, for good.

-taukamal

About me

2007-08-13T10:49:00.000-07:00

I'm a peace loving person. But I hold grudges. Believe in revenge. Even after a sweet revenge I'd normally still won't forgive, let alone forget. When I hate, I really do. If I curse you, I'd do so in my prayers. I'll curse you, your friends, your family, ancestors and descendants, dead or alive, and even the unborn. So, should you see or hear me cursing you with a straight face or tone, you know that I really have sincerely cursed you, that I hate you and to me, you and everyone related to you by blood or any other kind of ties or bonds, are as good as a pile of PIG SHIT. And I'll do anything and everything in my power to make your life, and dead, miserable. Now go cry to your momma.

Internally Produced, Nutritionally Drained, Biological Output

2007-08-08T11:17:00.000-07:00

Yet another one of the epic adventures of my mind, lost in the parallel world. A mirrored image of the mirror image of the real world. Where opposites turned around once again, making fantasy seems so real, hindering the ability of mind to part the world we are living in from the parallel one of which, a partition of our brains wanted to be in.

Lying on the mattress so old that I could feel the coils poking my back like acupuncture therapy. Staring at the purple ceiling, hypnotized by the swaying chandelier, blown by cool winter breeze, I surrender under the warmth of the 20 togs duvet. Sub-zero degree Celsius, it was as if the air nibbling on my brittle 23 year old bones. Radiator was on, to the max. Room stuffed with Dunhill Fine Cut menthol lights fume. “Brain, brain, go away, come again another day” I thought.

It had been a week since I got here, and the only times that I left this spot were only when summoned by Mother Nature or loading carbohydrates for the sake of surviving. Surviving. Isn’t that what we all do? The turbulence in my head is reaching the climax. Identity crisis, priority issues; name it. I have it all. How do I deal with it? Well, the only defense mechanism that worked so far (up until last week at least) would be my sleep. That was when the soul parts with the body, floats to the parallel world that it feels comfortable in. But recently my soul was devastated by how real the parallel world turned out to be. That world of which it used to call a happy place is a happy place no more. The same shit it gets with the body is now the shit it gets without. Hanging in between, the body was left directionless. Purpose of sleeping has been defeated.

I somehow figured a way to save my happy place. I needed enhancement. So I got myself enhancement. After a pack of fine cut cigarettes, a litter of cheap French Chardonnay and steamy unprotected sex, my happy place was back. It somehow fades away as reality bites every dawn as I get up for Subuh submission. I pray to the higher power, day in day out, night in night out, so that one day I could get out of this confusion. Breaking away from sobriety was my temporary solution for all of these, but how long can my renal system take it? Nine years of puffing tar in and out of my lungs is enough to bring judgment day 20 years closer. How much more of my brain cells can I afford to burn and most importantly, how much longer can my bank account sustain?

My questions to god were replied by more and more questions that I had to ask myself. They are all about my confusion. Now I think I might not even be confused at all. Maybe I’m just scared. Scared of the future; the future that I had been anticipated for. It’s near now. Five months to be precise. A lot that I want to do. A lot that I have to do. Youngsters in Kapar need a proper leader who doesn’t do superman on a 70cc bike. The mosque could collapse if my 10 years old sister kicks one of the pillars, and my ego tells me “If you did not do anything about it, no one will.” I want to get my father a Maybach together with 24hr chauffer to take him golfing or hang out at Chinoz with his friends anytime he wishes to. My mother could use a bigger island in the kitchen. I love her cooking and I know she loves it when we enjoy her cooking. Seeing her smile is probably the most beautiful thing in the world. My little sister should get her SLK 55 by the time she starts college. But all these big things with too little time? What am I going to do? How am I going to deal with it? Where do I start? I don’t know. I don’t know.

The khutbah just now was about the new years. NEW FREAKIN YEAR!!! Not only I’m highly bugged by the fact that I’m getting old, they now have to remind me. Thanks. Oh well, it’s Friday. Not the day to worry about anything. It’s the day of congregation. Hallelujah. Friday; the day of pizzas, kegs of pilsner, girls too poor to buy clothes that could cover, and if we are lucky, some sweet sweet green source of Tetra-hydro Cannabiol (some call it 'weed'). Viva Bob Marley!!!! (Though he’s dead).

Saturday dawn breaks. Drunken limbs all over the place. This chick had a used condom up her right ear. My praying matt covered with vomit. Curly fries, fritté de calamari. Shit, now I know what she had for lunch yesterday. Fcuk this shit. I really need to get out of here. I love my faith, I love my friends, but I love myself more. I left home to achieve freedom. But freedom had let me down. I left to search prosperity, but poverty is what i found. My soul is dying, I’m a walking zombie. Directionless,….. Shit...

Mesiniaga,Taipei101,TheChateau,TheKaaba

2007-07-18T12:55:00.000-07:00

I was lingering around a shopping mall the other day doing what most guys walking alone in a mall would do – checking out on girls. So I bumped into a few very interesting ones. Being my self, shy and introverted, I did not talk to any of them. I observed and made my own baseless judgment. It was great fun I must say. Since we did not talk, I did not get any of their names so I shall just give them nicknames, based on my baseless, preposterous and barkingly, madly insane judgments.

The first that caught my eyes was one of the most interesting ones. I’ll call her The Mesiniaga. Appearance wise, she wasn’t very attractive. In fact, she was the opposite of being even remotely attractive. The jeans she wore were embarrassingly ridiculous. Ones that Madonna would wear in one of her videos in the 80’s. She probably got her oversized top from ‘Kedai Pakaian Sin Kiew’ on sale. Her pink Nike sneakers were not of much help. The Mesiniaga was a complete disaster. Her ‘impeccable’ sense of style was not the one that turned my head. She can’t even walk like a lady for nuts. What did was the ‘aura’ that tailed her as she walked pass. The Mesiniaga is the kind that does not really care about her surrounding. She’s rather oblivious. No, more like, ignorant. Not the kind that would think before she does something, let lone considers the consequences. Why would anyone go out with this breed? I’ll tell you why. She thinks feels and acts out of the world, and with her you will, I can assure you, think, feel and act out of the world. Carefree like a wild animal running in the jungle with wind in her hair and sand in her feet.

Next was the Taipei 101. Yes, as in the tower. What interesting was the fact that I had almost overlooked her. Of course she wasn’t as tall, but she carries with her the ambition and elegance of the Taipei 101. Still experimenting her style. She has high hopes. Very determined and focused. She knows what she wants regardless how illogical her wishes would be. Young and naïve. She has a lot of potential but no experience whatsoever. Many would be more than glad to take her out, but she would just reject every single one of them and go for the very one that she wants despite the non-existence of it. She lives in her very own utopian dream. One that nobody in their right minds would share.

As I walk through the wing of designer stores, my eyes were fixed at Chateau de Versailles. She was beautiful, elegant and timeless in every way. She likes the glam and attention of being beautiful. Well groomed from top to bottom. Perfect physique she has. Looking at her, I could tell her life had already been planned since the minute her mother got knocked up. Her entire life is like a day in the Chateau, form the Levee to the Couchee. Perfectly timed. Like the construction of the Chateau, her up-bringing costs a lot on many peoples’ expense. The result however is remarkably brilliant. Flawless. She is the kind that every guy in the world would like to have. The Chateau has the ability to give her guests an orgasmic experience. But not all were cut out for life in a Chateau. After a certain time, most of us would probably get sick of living in such establishment. High maintenance cost, and the Chateau de Versailles, being a top historic spot, provides not privacy at all. She was so ‘inviting’ that I had almost went up to start a small talk.

But I was distracted.

I was distracted by The Kaaba – the gargantuan black cube in the middle of the forbidden land of Mecca. The Kaaba is the direction of which Muslim all over the world submit their prayers to before they (the prayers) were directed to God. The Kaaba is a simple construction of a huge cube built thousands of years ago by the prophet Abraham p.b.u.h. which had since been fought over by almost every single religious movement in the world including the pagans and of course the current custodian, the Sauds. Her style is just like the big black cube. With nothing extravagant, at all, not even a single trace of jewelries, she floats, like an angel, gracefully striding her careful steps in her blue jeans and polo-tee, mesmerizing enough to be worshipped by guys. She is tremendously, totally and utterly HOT. Just like the Kaaba, she had been fought over by many, and destroyed in wars and natural disasters, that she was badly broken and confused. Although fixed, she is now over protected and very aware of her own wellbeing that she allows no one inside. She however still unfairly lets anyone wander around her, and pray to/through her. Sadly, most of the prayers weren’t answered and more often than not the wanderer left in despair, disguised in the form of relief and hope, just to find out soon enough that they were left with nothing but utter disappointment. The Kaaba has the power of keeping guys coming back, literally begging for more, and more, and more, and for much much more and more, and more and much more, and more, and more, and more, and more until one day they’d either give up or just simply eventually … die…………..