My handsome Bedah... It was a tad ironic, really. I was planning to take my bike to the bikeshop today to have one of its broken paddle replaced. Darn you BIKE THIEF!!! A 45 passenger bus from the other direction will struck your attention when it rear its headlights from a steep hill and forced you to go askew, only then you'll realize that the right paddle is broken.... May you die in vain... I will laugh heartily to your attempt and sip my morning coffee after reading the day's news headline:
So now I have to walk everywhere! Which will take 20 minutes from my room to my studio whereas a bike ride will only take 3 minutes. And with a budget that will not allow anymore extravagant expenditures, I will be force to do my commuting via feet. Feet!
Unless some of my readers are generous enough to invest a few hundred to buy a new Bedah. Wait, wait, I will even post an ad on the basket for your company for eternity. Deal?
I've come to the point that love is so overrated that I began to assimilate it with Presence, Patience and Perseverence. The three cordial Process of the beckoning of Love. And when love beckons, rainbows and golden cloud will come pouring in like chocolate fondue. As mythtical as that may sound, I'm still hanging to that narrative to describe Love. No matter how I age, or how numb and blunt I've become, raibows and golden clouds will always be my setting of an happy ending.
I've become more lonesome that usual. More irrelevant of attachments. I neither sleep early nor late. I'll only sleep when I feel tired. When the world is fluttery. And when my eyes are heavy. The absence of hope. Gone were the days where I'll pat my pillow three times and excitedly proclaim my ambitions and how it will slowly materialize after a day's hardwork.
Oh hope and love, where art thou?
I am beginning to hate random people who greet me with an Assalaumulaikum because they would do so only when our paths almost collide. It seems to me like a test. To look at me up close to find out whether or not I'm a muslim and then to test me with a greeting. It's annoying as it is haunting, to only realize someone had greet me a second ago and now he's a few metres away from my back. Get my drift? One fine day, I will muster enough bluntness to approach those people and teach them the proper way to greet.
Simple. Singaporeans are Kiasu, they tambak-tambak soil on their Island and increased the water level of the Selat between Singapore and Johor.
Monsoon season. Tengtedeng.... River water pun overflow and lama-lama banjir.
But mind you, flood has always been the fondest event in my life. I just love it when there's flood. I like it so much. Muah.
Like roti canai banjir.. Yeah baby, flood it, flood it. You spicy thang.
I got to stop, I'm being stupid. Afiq love you long time...
So that's that. I'm planning to catch a movie tomorrow with Azim. And nak naik that kick-ass ferris wheel!!
Britney Spears. A victim of the US consumerism capitalism. Promiscous and emotionally confused, she is the highest ranking sex symbol in the US. A sex sybol. Or rather, a woman who dressed innapopriately to get attention from men all over the world as well as being the ideal figure for teenage girls. In other word, she is a stripper and an Idol. A primadona. A media prostitute.
And we have our shares of Britneys in Malaysia too. I may be blunt or even biased but really, wake up! The word sexual have been replaced by elegance. Lecherous replaced by delicate. It is a large scale manipulation of perception.
Right. Sex is never a taboo, I mean seriously. Sex is beautiful. Sexy is beautiful. But when sex and sexy are to be feasted upon million of eyes, it could (or might) (or maybe) hint perverse. I could? You must be kidding. It is dirty, if not menacing.
Beauty had been corrupted by large scale capitalism. It is now only enjoyed by the rich and famous. By the corrupted and corruptee. And praised by the lower class community. Like Gods. Coolies would die to kiss a Bollywood star bossom. Die in vain, in lust.
The true beauty of music had begun its perishing. Music now represents obscurity and booty calls. It shakes, slides and slurps. Like a dancing snake. Poetry beats and scower over grey skies. Rythm travels through curves of an ebony. Art is shakened to its core and spewed out like rotten bananas, to be licked by the public.
Its Muharram. Or the beginning of Muharram. To start anew is what I'm intending to do. That just now rhymes. Coolness.
Lamenting on my feelings is not new in this blog. I've done it before and I intend to do it again. Heck, this blog had had its highest rating when I bitch about my problems. I have no idea why.
For starters, I'm planning to write and publish a newsletter for IIUM students. I'll call it Weekly Madness by madba. It will be self-sponsored and will revolves around IIUM's lingering quandaries.
I was recently accused of being a money leech. Definition: a person who only makes an effort to make merry only when money is involved. To anyone who thinks I am that sort of person, madba has something to say to you:
1. Afiq is Afiq. The Afiq you know and loved. Afiq do not watch soap operas to fully understand the implication of being subjected into recreational slurs. Afiq has no idea how the very idea of Afiq being a money leech was embargoed.
2. Afiq is trying his best to not be as emotional and impulsive as he was. He is, if not all, trivial about handling personal issues as he thinks that true Love is unperishable. Love is something no one can take away. Love is a feeling of attachement that will remain in deepest pit of the human heart (whether it beats or not)
3. Afiq is not answering any calls because Afiq is afraid to. Afiq is not afraid of being hurt but he is very afraid that the person on the other end of the converstation will. He hates it when his most Beloved cries. Afiq is clueless. He really doesn't know what to do or how to handle such an emotion. Afiq have been crying a few nights in a week, pretending to talk to his most Beloved. Pretending to have a pure, undisturbed connection with his most Beloved.
4. Afiq is in a sense, unready to face the music. He had always been a sensitive person and for that reason alone, people have been taking advantage of him, emotionally and psychologically. He had hardened himself with lies and friends. With food and movies. With work. Because everytime he's hurt by the person he's trying to protect, a lump of love gulped down his throat and disintergrate.
5. Afiq's only wish is his most Beloved will just stop listening to people's voices and start listening to her own heart. Her own feelings. Afiq is awfully afraid to do anymore damage and his fear toppled his courage even more when his most Beloved accuse him of something he had never been in his life.
6. Afiq is becoming more and more confused and afraid. Afiq is becoming more vulnerable. Afiq could possibly blow up any moment now. It must be comforting to know that Afiq will never do drugs or take ectasy pills. He won't even lay a finger on cigarettes! But as his fear grew and his pride dimmed, he had thinked about it. I, madba, his conscience, is worried about his well being and wish that the person Afiq love so much could just let go of his faults and embrace his love as Afiq would dyingly do.
7. Because no matter what happened, Afiq still (and will always) love you the most.
Tentalized by her beauty? Mesmerized by her never-ending legs? Her slim figure? I've been taught in a agama school a decade before that if we have the opportunity to see women's aurah accidentally, it will be considered as Rezeki but if we decided to look twice, consequently, it will be considered as Dosa. In this case, ironically, we men do no need such limitation to set eyes on this beauty.
Prefferably dressed up as a full-fledged model, the woman you look upon is no uneducated drag. She has a degree in Human Science in a respectable university and had ventured across the world to promote her beauty. Her efforts were paid generously, having won numerous pageant competitions in Malaysia and Thailand. She is, in many ways, setting up a wave of challenge to everybody else with comparable beauty and talents.
Whether she is dressed up as a slutty geisha or a water-thirsty traveller, she had set up a pretty unreachable status as a showgirl with brains and looks. As mentioned, we men do not have a limitation when we feast our eyes on her. Mainly because she is not a woman. She's (I mean he's) a Man!
This is Che Fi. Che Fi is a name he adopted when he consorted the tranvestite culture and later on developed herself into a replica of unrivalled beauty. A lot of hormone pills I assume. He recently graduated from the International Islamic University in Human Sciences.
I was also told that a few newspapers and numerous F-Grade magazines had probed interest in reporting his winnings. Others were more than willing to bash and humiliate his choice of profession. But none of them succeeded because the IIUM administration had blocked their efforts and had tried to have his special talents kept under their wings of secrecy. It was also told that Che Fi was even banned from attending the annual convocation even though he had all the rights to attend the one in a life time acknowledgement event.
Is covering up the best option to treat this sort of evil? Oh yes.. In this university, it is a taboo to touch on gay and tranvestite issues. And cases like this are often unoficially stamped -EVIL- and simply ignored. Sure, human right plays a role in this education organization and Che Fi has all the right to do whatever he wants within or outside the parameter of the university.
Human rights? Does that mean I can wear shorts and keep a tochang? Can I smoke too? Like other universities, IIUM have rules and regulation and it was clearly stated that students are required to respect and oblidge rules governed by the university at ALL TIMES. At all times.
Even though this problem may not be fancy enough to gather scholars to solve it humanely, the enigma of transvestism may be accepted my many curious young adults in the future and by then, a dogma will be cultivated. A dogma of cross-dressing male students, strutting their muscular bottoms and toned arms. A dogma that may attract other male students as well as beckoning as the subject of envy by enforced tudung-wearers.
---I'm not allowed to show you videos and pictures during the election. Shame. If I do, "nanti ada orang ketuk pintu bilik".---
I see a re-enactment of today's politics. I see unrefined young men with Kampong mentality winning the public's vote by displaying distasteful vulgarity. I see men who do not tolerate the diversity of races. I see men with no respect towards women. I see a dark lonesome future, peppered by more racial fights and misunderstandings.
It's a scary thought, having known that in the future, we have to put up with this kind of nonsense again. Again.
Seriously, I don't think such people exist. A human being is born clean and carefree, pure and dignified and it is the parents and the surrounding that shaped it to replicate a portion of evil. Evil takes place under notions and influences. Under one-dimensioned perspective illusioned and produced by others who have perspectives of their own; perspectives that could captivate power through people to obtain ?something? to satisfy another one-dimensioned perspective.
So are men really evil. No! Satans are. If for say you'll shook your head and sighed "here we go again, another spiritual crap." I can only tell you this, ever heard of the Pandora Box. A box of hope that produced evil. Hope, the strongest emotion in mankind too, can be manisfested by satans. And being a box, an object, lifeless and still, wrongdoings are imperatively allowable. It's just a box. And when the killing starts, there'll be no indication of it.
Like a calamity that resides in a box. In the Pandora Box.
We (my roommates and I) locked the door and switched off the light when we heard a gang of tabligh was in the area. Tabligh, a group of smelly people who wears white robes who preach about Islam. A bunch of hypocrites if you ask me. Again, symbolism play its role here. White smelly ungroomed bunch of people = Islam. Give. Me. A. Break.
I remembered once when Umno complained that an education organization was luring and brainwashing kids into Pas by enforcing a dress code. Green! Umno lashed Abim's uniform decision and bluntly (almost fuc*king stupidly) decided that red should be the proper colour.
Okay people I'm enlightened! I'm enlightened. Pass me no staff for I am no priest. Wield me no sword for I am no knight. Gimme the acar for I am officially a Bollywood fan.
What can I say. They make better movies. Way better. The new lots of them of course. If you're a homemaker whose life revolves around the idiot box, the sequents of Kuch Kuch Something Hey may still be your comfort pill. But for the rest of Malaysians, be a sport and tengoklah cerita Bollywhood. Read the reviews before watching them. And make sure AR Rahman is the musician for the movie.
Having a blue-blooded Indian roommate has its advantages. Every Sunday, he'll buy me full set of Pure Nasi Kandar from Masjid India. And for the past year, he had been giving me countless movie reviews and so I started watching Tamil/Hindi movies lah, only to be(insert indian accent) capticated.
It's worth the eyeballings of Indian folks chanting something I think means "Maybe he's lost." I didn't have to use the term 'chant'.I'll count to ten for all of you to stop looking at me:
I'm still angry at myself for not being able to dismiss untrue insults (we muslims call'em fitnah) thrown to me by people I'd trusted my whole life with. Because I'm being nice. Because women don't listen. They only do when they get things done their way in the end. So now I'm a manipulative liar who's nice in public but plots murders when I'm alone. So now I'm jahat. So now I'm a penipu. I do believe thay some people had taken Bawang putih Bawang merah too seriously. Seriously.
I'm still angry at myself for not able to pray five times a day. I've been missing Subuh for weeks. But it's a good start this year. I've only started praying regularly since I entered this university.
I'm still angry at myself for having people thinking that I put faults on everybody else for my mistakes even though I dread myself everytime I see the effect of my mistakes taking shape. Why do they even think that? Do I show people that I blame other people when I make a mistake? ntahlah..
I'm still angry at myself for the fact that I am emotionally incapable of forgiving people. I hate this attribute of mine. I have to start forgiving people who had hurt me because you and I know that a lot of people had forgived me for my share of faults.
It's a staggering fact, majority muslims are illiterate, unable to read or write. Majority muslims are poor. And yet, they still find a reason to fight each other. Iqra. The first word of the Quran presented by God. It means READ.
Created a man from Alaq (a clot).
Read: And thy Lord is the Most Generous,
Who taught by the pen,
Taught man that he knew not
She won Gold for the 200m sprint in the Asian Game, Doha.
"Wearing traditional Muslim dress has encouraged me. It's not an obstacle - quite the opposite,"
To new readers of this blog, I am a male that owns an external genitelia and a set of reproduction duct.
They bombarded us Americans from Hollywood, instead of from fighter jets or with our own American-made tanks. They would like to bomb you in this way too, after they've finished bombing the infrastructure of your countries. I do not want this to happen to you. You will feel degraded, just like we do. You can avoid this kind of bombing if you will kindly listen to those of us who have already suffered serious casualties from their evil influence. Because everything you see coming out of Hollywood is a pack of lies, a distortion of reality, smoke and mirrors. They present casual sex as harmless recreation because they aim to destroy the moral fabric of the societies into which they beam their poisonous programming. I beg you not to drink their poison. There is no antidote for it once you have consumed it. You may recover partially, but you will never be the same. Better to avoid the poison altogether than to try to heal from the damage it causes.
I see you as precious gems, pure gold, or the "pearl of great value" spoken of in the Bible (Matthew 13: 45). All women are pearls of great value, but some of us have been deceived into doubting the value of our purity. Jesus said: "Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you" (Matthew 7: 6). Our pearls are priceless, but they convince us that they're cheap. But trust me; there is no substitute for being able to look in the mirror and seeing purity, innocence and self-respect staring back at you. The fashions coming out of the Western sewer are designed to make you believe that your most valuable asset is your sexuality. But your beautiful dresses and veils are actually sexier than any Western fashion, because they cloak you in mystery and show self-respect and confidence. A woman's sexuality should be guarded from unworthy eyes, since it should be your gift to the man who loves and respects you enough to marry you. And since your men are still manly warriors, they deserve no less than your best. Our men don't even want purity anymore. They don't recognize the pearl of great value, opting for the flashy rhinestone instead. Only to leave her too!
I'll let you in on a little secret, just in case you're curious: pre-marital sex is not even that great. We gave our bodies to the men we were in love with, believing that that was the way to make them love us and want to marry us, just as we had seen on television growing up. But without the security of marriage and the sure knowledge that he will always stay with us, it's not even enjoyable! That's the irony. It was just a waste. It leaves you in tears. Speaking as one woman to another, I believe that you understand that already. Because only a woman can truly understand what's in another woman's heart. We really are all alike. Our race, religion or nationalities do not matter. A woman's heart is the same everywhere. We love. That's what we do best. We nurture our families and give comfort and strength to the men we love. But we American women have been fooled into believing that we are happiest having careers, our own homes in which to live alone, and freedom to give our love away to whomever we choose. That is not freedom. And that is not love. Only in the safe haven of marriage can a woman's body and heart be safe to love. Don't settle for anything less. It's not worth it. You won't even like it and you'll like yourself even less afterwards. Then he'll leave you.
Sin never pays. It always cheats you. Even though I have reclaimed my honor, there's still no substitute for having never been dishonored in the first place. We Western women have been brainwashed into thinking that you Muslim women are oppressed. But truly, we are the ones who are oppressed; slaves to fashions that degrade us, obsessed with our weight, begging for love from men who do not want to grow up. Deep down inside, we know that we have been cheated. We secretly admire and envy you, although some of us will not admit it. Please do not look down on us or think that we like things the way they are. It's not our fault. Most of us did not have fathers to protect us when we were young because our families have been destroyed. You know who is behind this plot. Don't be fooled, my sisters. Don't let them get you too. Stay innocent and pure. We Christian women need to see what life is really supposed to be like for women. We need you to set the example for us, because we are lost. Hold onto your purity. Remember: you can't put the toothpaste back in the tube. So guard your "toothpaste" carefully!
Denial is not a river in Egypt. It's the whole ocean.
Today is a second day of a two day confinement session in my room, to reflect, to ponder, or in other word, to fuss over little things that I should've never cared to bother. It is a period of time where I talk to myself in a strange documentary-like accent. Standard english. My english. A language I used only when talking to girls. I'll laugh a different laugh and even sneeze a different sneeze but walk the same old walk. There is nothing different in the way I walk, or talk. Just the way I think. And today is where my thoughts are free to linger outside my head.
It is call re-sobering. To be awakened from the drunkness of mundane-nity, schedule-lity and other E.T.s that surfaced earth soon after I start living on my own. To be resurfaced from the drowning reality of my pre-defined lifestyle. So I read books. And watch meaningful documentaries and finished a whole season of Grey Anatomy, ER and Scrubs. The sighting of blood is reality and the music of creations are fantasy, intertwined in a cosmic circle of balance.
Sad. My passion for architecture is growing dimmer, distant from the crackling fire of enthusiasm these few months. Passion is love. Love is the moisture that grows life. Heat from anger and stress dry the moisture. And it stays dry until love resurface from the roots, from underneath. So when was my first love and how did I experienced it?
So this is my list of Gama-gama! Similar to ooga-ooga or nookie-pookie. Or chooka-looka. (I'm still under the influence of 're-sobering')
1. Leave this in case of no1s reshifting
2. Boycott McDonald's
3. Get a grip of McLife
4. and McWeight
5. lastly to McASmallDifference