Translated lyrics after the cut. Read the rest of this post »
Like everyone, I don’t feel all that patriotic this Merdeka eve. Maybe it’s the son-in-law’s fault. The politicians. The blatant corruption, the subsequent denials when said corruption is uncovered, the attitude that if you say something loud enough and long enough it’ll be true. 2 + 2 = 5! True story.
This isn’t going to be the typical (as expected of someone at my age) bitter, cynical, world-weary message you’ve come to groan and cherish, though. While signs point to a Thailand-sque situation where the unenlightened working-class masses are in full support and the middle-class minority dissent since they know the full picture, I’d like to think we’re better off. Or not.
I don’t watch TV anymore, but I caught the most eye-rolling inducing advertisement today. It’s the one where that Chinese boy in primary school professes his love for his Malay girl friend to the camera with a little prompting off-screen. I personally find the “interracial-marriage cures all racism and evils!” propaganda disgusting, and I thought our dear Yasmin Ahmad could do with a little less self-insertion. Yes, we know you have a Chinese boyfriend. Get over yourself already.
And ending on that note, we all could do with a little less rose-tinted glasses right now. Who really cares about that kid sampling our national anthem (notice, boys and girls, that splicing it to fit into a song is not the same as mocking it)? We’ve got more important things to take note of. Good thing we’re all sitting up and paying attention.
Happy Birthday, Malaysia. I’ve never felt so indifferent about a birthday before — would usually just forget about it or remember it — but you’re getting along in age. It’s time we stepped in and cured your Parkinsons before it gets worse. Happy 50th.
Young Writers Camp 2007 was an unexpected groundswell of growing up. A newly-discovered pocket of maturity. Somewhere along the lines of always being the follower, I was none too abruptly grafted into the role of leader, complete with a little screaming and kicking along the way from the inside. It’s a weird feeling, surely, a far cry from being the small kid the older ones would dote over and indulge in their little ways; from being the one laughing at the jokes to the one cracking them.
But I’m sure I’m the last of the old crowd. Almost everyone’s left, as people do when they grow up. Some have university to attend. Others — well, alright, most — aren’t even in the country to begin with. Then there’s that multi-headed Hydra, that tenuous beast called Work. A terrible fate indeed.
Friday night — an exhilarating session of Quake 4 and Counterstrike, in salutary farewell for Kin Yan, who goes back today. Take care, will ya? I realise that as I age I tend to sleep less and less the night before the camp. Given my procrastinating nature and how I haven’t really gotten my things in order at the time of writing this (close to 5AM), I guess I’ll skip sleep just this once.
Lack of sleep is a magical thing. You generally grow more articulate (something about sleep deprivation being equal to a certain amount of blood alcohol) and chatty, less reserved. Time seems to take longer and longer. Short-term memory goes. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah.
I don’t know why I go to the Young Writer’s Camps anymore. Maybe it’s a force of habit. I’ve learned all I’ve needed to know these past few years: 4, 5, maybe 6 camps that I’ve been to. Faces have came and went. There’s probably something along the lines of nostalgia, a sentimental maudlin mood that usually accompanies our meeting and parting. There’s the comfort in being around people who pick up puns and wordplay faster than the norm. Or maybe not.
This will probably be my last time attending the YWC as a participant. Was supposed to help out but exams stood in the way, although I’m not too bothered about it myself. With Ethan and Alicia attending this time round, and what with the inevitable group leader mantle I expect
and dread to shoulder later on, I guess it’s a good “last camp” as any. Here’s to hoping I don’t run out of lip balm while I’m up there.
Categories: E/N, Significance
Catharsis at a table: there were four. Then there were three. And then now there were four again. Immediately after Hon Chien pointed out to me how in saying grace, my choice of words, “separated”, seemed fairly odd, but seeing how it was ages since the four of us had sat down at a table together, I thought that barely did justice to it at all. What’s life without a little dramatisation? Not a really colourful one, surely.
It was a guys night out at Sakura Crystal. The much awaited private celebration of Lukas’ 21st. For all its hype and anticipation, at least on my end, what transpired over the table exceeded my expectations. Almost-gossip. Truth. Revelations. Hilarity. Scandal. Precious conversation forever etched in memory. Things said that, as Jon paused to explain in his deadpan manner, would remain within the
four walls country. Or planet. Or solar system, even. Is it a good thing that I’ve laughed more in the span of four hours than I have for half a year? I don’t suppose there’s the need to compare.
Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Anyway. The reason for this blog being half-dead is all due to how I’ve been immersing myself in other stuff. Those who actually bother to talk to me ever so often and have asked about the lack of updates should know about it (in other words, those that matter know, those that don’t, don’t).
on a random note, if you can grasp 100% of both references (and by both I mean not just one character) in this picture, consider yourself blessed. those that don’t, well, sux2bu.
Oh, and studies. Begins tomorrow, ends a month later at 14th June. See you then. I hope.