Sunday, November 28, 2010


Imagine a fine evening, at a high and spacious veranda of a villa where there is an open beach in front of you, divided by a stretch of beautifully-lit and posh swimming pool and long padded walks at its sides heading towards the beach. The veranda you are in is made from high-grade timber, and the smell of fresh amber and varnish hits your nose like vanilla does - full of masculinity and strength, making you feel rather in control. The weather looks perfect as you stand by the handrail, looking towards the horizon at the end of the ocean, where the sun is already sinking into, creating a sensually-affecting sunset sky covered in velvet, purple and gold. Coconut trees and the perfectly-trimmed bushes and shrubs growing in the garden surrounding the villa intensify the sensational handsomeness of the landscape. The intensely beautiful evening is as well amplified with the slow-blowing salty breeze from the sea, caressing your face just like silk does, and you close your eyes and inhale slowly to feel just how wonderful the evening is as your hands grip on the wooden handrail in such an expressive gesture. Romantic jazz plays through an entertainment system at the corner of the veranda.

As you turn around, you see there are two beautifully-crafted and carved mahogany chair with elaborated armrests facing each other at the center of the shiny wooden floor, where in between of both there is a heavy four-corners dinner table for two, covered in cream-colored linen and silk with maroon skirting towards the lower part of it. The open ceiling of the veranda allows you to see the large wooden beams that support the roof, and in between those beams are lights that shower the room with dim yellow radiance giving strong senses of romanticism and love as the rich glow goes through the thin, wide maroon fabrics that are hanging from the center of the roof and down to each of the veranda's corner. On the table there are a large plate of grilled whole chicken, a bowl of pasta alla carbonara and mixed citrus and melon cuts in another bowl, half-dipped in ice. The tall wine glasses were filled with chilled clear apple cider; luxurious liquid of apple extracts mixed with cinnamon, nutmeg, orange-peel and cloves, as well as other spices, with the remaining still contained in a lucrative bottle at the side of the table. Right in front of each chair is a plate of which there still is remaining food on the each of it, half untouched, and in between them a freshly-picked blood red rose, standing lifelessly in a tall, clear vase.

And on the chair to your left, as you lean against one of the large wooden pillar and you knock one finger on it, a lady in a luxurious and elegant evening gown made from dashing red silk with elaborate extension to the ground, covering a large portion of the floor. She is a goddess in your liking; a tall lady with well-defined curves and fair glowing skin, her long, dark cocoa hair is finely-tied into a bun, showing her long, sensual neck apart from the gold-and-pearl choker she is wearing. Her lips are covered in red while her high cheek bones radiate from the glow. She sits with one of her legs crossing on the other, her hands resting on it and her eyes looking at the floor, her head remains unmoved. You gently undo your wrist buttons detaching them from the holding cufflinks and then untighten your silk necktie, throwing them on the floor. You put a hand on your temple and comb your long hair with your fingers to the back. 

And then it begins.

You march towards the table and you pick your glass up and drink from it. And then you hold the glass in your hand and admire the setting sun once again before your head turns and you look at the lady in front of you, sitting very still and very quiet in her chair with that sad look in the face. In a sudden you throw the glass at one of the wall, piercing sound hits your ears. You pick the plates up and throw them on the floor and they break into a thousand pieces. You lift up the chair and throw it to the corner and it bangs as it hits the audio speaker and the player, crushing them all. You pick up the end of the table and lift it sideway, throwing every other things that were on it as the table turns. And then you bend over and pick the apple cider bottle and knock its end on the edge of the table, breaking the bottom leaving sharp edges around it. You are breathing heavily and you feel heavy traces of disappointments, resentments, hatred, disgusts and for all that matters, anger. Your face reddens so much that it resembles a smoldering amber and charcoal at some point. 

You grip the bottle head you are holding so forcefully that the it breaks in your hand, piercing shrapnels of glasses into your palm hitting the bones. But you do not shriek nor make any other noticeable sound, for what you feel inside is more painful than what you feel from your bleeding hand. You feel cheated. You feel crossed-with. You feel played, that you have been made into a fool. A fool who trusts endlessly, wholeheartedly, unconditionally. Your eyes shed tears from these mixed feelings in your heart. Before your eyes there plays a visual of those great moments both of you share together, adding more insult to the injury. Now that your trusts were breached without you seeing it coming, you can never feel anymore betrayed.

The jeweleries. The house and the cars. The endless cash supplies. And this is how she paid you with. Well what do you do? 

Your lady was going out with men behind your back, well what do you do? 

Your lady was drinking and smoking and dancing for men behind your back, well what do you do? 

Your lady becomes a sexual innuendo and the lollipop for other men, well what do you do?

Your lady was having good times with your cash while you were working hard for it each god damn day, well what do you do?

Do you hit her with your bleeding hand?

Do you kick her in the eyes like you did to those chaps while defending her from them sometime ago?

Do you deliver a punch straight on her throat like you did to that boy who called her everyday before?

Do you step on her stomach like you did to that mailman who sneaked on her the other day?

Do you slam her face on and through the table like you did to the guy who tried to rob her months back?

Do you break her spine like you did to the man who constantly sent her texts at night a year back?

Or do you do nothing at all and just stand there in disappointment? Your bruised, no, your stabbed-for-multiple-times ego and your broken heart bleed by the minute as you look at her in total disbelief. Could it be the end of it? Could this be the finale for the dreams you both build together? The whole thing? Well do you want it to be? You partially do, but the battle is no ongoing in between this and the rest of you. Her face looks up at you begging for mercy with none of a word said, tears endlessly running down her cheeks smearing her makeup. Her hands shiver in fear from what was unleashed from you. The blood from your hand falls onto her dress, blending in with its color. But you just look at her from those cold, cold eyes that get colder as your thoughts linger. You don't move. You don't know what to do. You still don't know what to do.

Well what do you do? What do you do?

It's post #700.

As this post is written, it is raining heavily outside my window. The wind blow slowly into this small space guarded by four col, sky-protruding walls I call a room, my room. The lights are all off, giving some sort of melancholic atmosphere to the surrounding. Not a sound is heard but those of the drops of rain hitting everything they are falling onto, at this very particular moment. Stands in front of me a cup of steamy hot coffee, black and sugared to perfection. Next to it is a box of cigarettes, filtered, filled with diced fine Virginian tobacco mixed with some other things that somewhat give the cigarette a very strong taste with major hint of Turkish blend. This taste I like very much, hence the reason why one of the cigarettes is smoldering slowly, hanging steadily in between my lips.

The rain observed from the pantry's window.

By nature, the weather this particular evening gives this very peculiar feeling; a subtle mix of calmness, stillness and peacefulness. The sorts of feelings that soothe one down, and put him at ease. How spectacular, this feeling is. And this smell, the sweet smell that lingers around my nose, refreshingly original and royal. The smell of wet rocks and freshly-trimmed green grasses and the smell of fresh water hang in the air, blanketing me with this strange but joyful and memorable sensation of being perfectly alive. 

Speaking of being alive, I have met recently some of the most suicidal people I have ever known this entire 25 years (and counting, God bless me) of my life. Some of them are better, some of them are worst and the rest of them are still at stake to fall into any of the previously-mentioned states. There were various reasons for their suicidal state, but mostly in my eyes were just being too confused and lost, not knowing exactly what to do, to which disappointment and giving up follow. They were just tired of life and just how things were going, so they decided to end it.

Human, being the only living thing that could contemplate on suicide and carry it out, live on very complex lives everyday. It is easy to spot on the similarities in between two people, for example me and you - we eat, we sleep, we drink and we shit - but lives are not defined as easily as that. People do not see the oftentimes hidden detailed in each specific person's life that make him or her different to another. Per se, there could not be a person who lives perfectly similar like you do, every little day. Therefore, despite the advance understanding in human psychology, there are still spots that experts still do not fully understand, especially in the context of suicide. 

I was once in this state, sometime back.

I was depressed, the exact word to define my state then, on all over too many things. But mostly it wasn't the depression that drove me into being suicidal. Nihilism did. According to the Wikipedia; 

"Nihilism is the philosophical doctrine suggesting the negation of one or more meaningful aspects of life. Most commonly, nihilism is presented in the form of existential nihilism which argues that life is without objective meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value. Moral nihilists assert that morality does not inherently exist, and that any established moral values are abstractly contrived. Nihilism can also take epistemological, metaphysical or ontological forms, meaning respectively that, in some aspect, knowledge is not possible or that contrary to our belief, some aspect of reality does not exist as such."

In short, I found out that this life has no particular purpose, which later I learned that is a common traits in those who "knew too much" relative to everybody else of specific common grounds. I didn't know too much back then nor I knew too much now, but relatively I could say that as compared to those my age surrounding me I could be knowing just way too much. This is of course not way too much of a bragging, nor it could be any tips of self-acclaiming wonder. This is a fact and perhaps I could explain about it a little bit from hereon.

I read a lot of philosophical books written by many philosophers dating back to the age of the Romans, and they stated life differently in their publications, sometimes crossing each other in the matter. Apart from the usual science-related readings, I then got myself involved in philosophical science and arguments and discussions with my closely-related mates who have the exact same way of how I think followed. The works of Hemingway and Boltzmann and fellow suicidal others contributed to the effects of me to rethink about life and how things were going. 

At this point, don't preach to me about religion(s), and don't you ever say to me that none of you who are reading this never in the past contemplated on ending your life pretty quickly over some delusional matters. 

People come and go telling just how beautiful this life is, and alas, how surprising it is to see just how they break down one day and blaming it all on life. This is nothing purely uncommon; I'm pretty sure you have seen all these all the times. All around you people are popping sleeping pills, tying rope knots on the house beams and driving off the cliffs. These are not the people whom we know are perfectly disturbed since they first started breathing using their lungs in this world. They are just common people like everybody else, like me and you. But nihilism brings them to an end of no return, and perhaps as we speak there are at least some people who are doing the aforementioned, and succeeded.

Life is a terrible thing that ever going to happen to a person. Life is no hanky-panky, yakety-yak kind of funfair where all are fun and entertaining. Life is as murderous as it is torturous. People ask you to go around and seek the beauty that life can ever offer: fall in love, go nature, play in the rain, whatsoever. And you did. And when you failed in love, you saw how nature was broken down, you slipped in the rain and your head knocked on the concrete drain, whatsoever, and then you started to realize that, damn it, life isn't as beautiful. You get a couple of these things every now and then building up in you, and soon you will see yourself looking at the road to nowhere. 

I broke the chains that placed me in life-breaking moments sometime after that, most probably a year or so until I finally see something that could make myself put aside the thoughts of being a nihilist. I saw that at the end of the day, everyone has to be alive to keep the world running, regardless their level of unhappiness, since to me everyone is unhappy. So we just gotta do what we gotta do and die when the time comes, and someone else will either continue or recreate what appears to us as our own history. 

So until that day come, we might just as well sit down and shut up.

* * *

Circa 2006;

I was in the middle of this conversation in between two of the greatest minds I ever knew. Let's call them Frank and Paulie for confidential purposes. They just met for the first time. Paulie was a senior manager while Frank was a project manager with a big mouth, both foreigners.

Paulie: So Frank, tell me about your work.
Frank: Well I'm an engineer, working at a firm with big projects coming up, and I get paid like ten grand a month. 
Paulie: You married?
Frank: I am, to such a wonderful and beautiful wife the world can ever imagine (his wife was a model) and I have a pair of kids I will never be able to buy with my worldly possessions. 
Paulie: So tell me where you live, and what car you drive.
Frank: By the bay, good man Paulie, I live by the bay. In a beach-side villa that my wife and I bought together, overlooking the open sea where we can see beautiful sunsets everyday while we hang out at the lawn with the kids playing in our sights. And I drive a Mercedes, a posh C-class.

At this point, Paulie rubbed both his hands and clamped them together on the table, smiling while looking at it. The discussion was in pause for a while, until Paulie opened his mouth again.

"So tell me, Frank," he said while nodding his head, his lips still smiling. "Are you happy?"

Frank's face changed and he never said a single word after that, his eyes looked far beyond the horizon of time as if he was thinking deeply. He committed suicide in 2007.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Let's look at it this way.

Here I am, around 15 miles away from Ipoh, the largest and most happening town available closest to me in a 50-mile range. The second to that would be Lumut, a nautical town somewhere on the opposite direction of Ipoh from where I currently am - 2 km off Tronoh, an old and old mining town that has lost its fame in the maps of the riches tin deposits in the world, located just in between of the main road one must take to go to Ipoh and Lumut. It's Friday night, and I need to go to some places with hangouts and dine-ins for the sake of living the white collar dreams. 

The question now is, where to?

Let's do a check on Ipoh. There are some fine-dining outlets in Ipoh, I guess, and the most familiar place I have been would be the Moven Peak. There are some good western and oriental food offered and a list of good coffees, but being there every now and then kills the mood. Some fast-food and franchise outlets opened business early this year, where now Ipoh has a Burger King, an Ayam Penyet shop, and some other that I could hardly, just to add to the usual McDonald's and Pizza Hut and KFC and Johnny's. Next in the list will be Nasi Vanggey - a description given to the food that until today I have not been able to fully understand of its meaning. And then the posh Nasi Padang place next to Casuarina and Kalai Curry House follow on.

In terms of entertainment, well there are some clubs that I swear I'll never be in any of them, except Rum Jungle. I don't know what Rum Jungle is. Looking back at my history of being there, it could be anything in between a dance club of house and a bit of techno music or a lounge that plays live Havana music to the dance floor. Very confusing, really. Next in entertainment will be hanging out at some hangout spots around the town, mostly those that get boring right after midnight. And there are only two big cinemas - The TGV in a 2-and-a-half story Jusco and another one in Ipoh Parade.

And that's about it.

In Lumut, the only well-established places for dine-in are McDonald's, Pizza Hut and KFC, scattered around the town and its surrounding, in between the mostly overpriced local seafood outlets and of course some mamak's, for the night outers could possibly die without them. And that's about it. Unless if I want to eat on sand and drink on seawater, there's pretty much nothing the place can offer. And there's like endless supply of seawater from the open Straits of Malacca. Good sights sometimes, bad sceneries most of the time, especially at night. At one time you can see the lights of passing ships from over the horizon, and at one time you can see a Mat Rempit humping on a Bohsia on their two ringgit bike.

There are no TGI Fridays. No Dunkin Doughnuts, only the super sugary J Co. No Subway sandwiches. No Tony Roma's. No Bora Ombak and Bora Asmara. No Domino's, no star walk, no uptown. There's a night market that sells some fake items at the center of the town. And other than Padini and Esprit and Fossil and, my God I can barely recall, there's nothing else I assume. On coffee, there are only these places: A Starbucks, a Black Canyon, a Coffee Bean, and duh, Oldtown White Coffee. For Oldtown, I only prefer the outlet next to Ipoh Padang, where there are less people generally and teens especially, who go there with their ladies (girls) with barely boobs, making scenes here and there at times. According to my drinking friends, booze and boobs go together. According to me, coffee and boobs don't. Even more disappointing, the Clearwater Golf Club closes early at 11.00pm and the place is more or less dead after that.

And that's pretty much it. 


I guess I'm going nowhere this Friday night.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Seriously it has really been a while now since I last wrote in this blog. There were some people who pressed me much into writing again but, despite being a reluctant man I am, I have to refuse due to some issues that can directly be related to what appears to be my thesis writing. I am now bored and tired of writing my thesis - a long, complicated, way too detailed, way too time consuming and way too boring set of writing, comprising of engineering calculations, drawings, figures and tables - and therefore here I am writing again in this blog just to shut some people up for nagging on me endlessly for it.

I was with Timmy G. this evening, having some manly conversation (or at least what we thought it was) on some particular types of women that generally have destroyed some of known associates; good men they were before they met these types of ladies, and began to go downhill soon after that.

Now that Timmy G. has left, after taking a cup of (my) coffee and had some sticks of (my) cigarettes, might as well I share about what we talked about with you. Provided that I have met, somehow, various kinds of females and, somewhat, ended up with some of them and, somewhere, along the line destroyed some parts of me, I think I have quite a decent knowledge on these ladies. Quite on the egoistical part of me that constantly protested, I still think it could be quite a good topic - Vicious Venus - to be discussed this particular evening, where there were heavy rains outside my window, a cup of hot coffee on my table and a stick of freshly-lit cigarette in between my lips.

I am not going to talk about the whole bunch of women that are out there and constantly causing troubles to their men, and also I am not saying that all women destroyed their men, only some of them do and did. So save your ammo, women, and sit back and relax now. 

Let's start with this one. This type of women generally affects men with what I proposed to Timmy G. as The Cheerleader Effect. To point out this kind of women is simple: they are mostly good looking, loud, do not know exactly how to do house chores (they thought they did but believe me people they didn't), overly pampered, take nagging (annoy or irritate a person with persistent faultfinding or continuous urging) as a hobby and they are so lazy when it comes to things other than beauty, gossips, physically hot males, killing a rival and nagging - the sort of laziness that makes them into couch potatoes whole day long that you'd swear that if they were donkeys you would have deliver a kick straight into their stomachs just to get them going. These women commonly are not bright; the furthest they can go with math is grade 6 arithmetics. When it comes to practical productivity, these women are practically useless. But they stand out perfectly in the crowd - the real reason why they usually be the target of males, sex offenders and porn directors, because in their eyes these men they usually mean one thing: ...well I don't really need to say it do I now? I call this type of women as bitches. 

What? Hey don't give me that look. Even you all call them bitches, you hypocrite double-faced panties!

Now these women (bitches) usually are so proud of themselves from their extensive beauty. They commonly have good heights, nearly-perfect body curves, silky long hairs, well taken care of nails and skins, and facial frame of goddesses, but with a brain of a goat in each of their heads. They commonly appear on fashion shows and magazines (again, not all of them, so calm the milk down already) as models, not knowing that they are being manipulated for the fashion industry and, in a hidden point, for men entertainment industry. Why men entertainment industry? Well if they really want to sell just the clothes, they just might as well show the clothes on the floor, hanging on some cloth hangers or just put them on mannequins, no? Let's take a look at these two following pictures:

Plain White T, no model

Plain White T, with a model

See how these pictures somehow changed the presentation of the same thing - a plain white tee basic? That was exactly what I talked about. But of course, upon way too much interference with the fashion business, the economy will soon collapse due to what appear to be consumerism factor - people buy stuffs they saw on other people's body because they thought they will look good in them, just like the other people are, which is most of the time dead wrong. Enough with the fashion industry, let's roll back into our bitches.

Due to their sex appeals, they often fall into the hands of men with bad (to some people it's good) intentions. This makes them feel as if they are the center of gravity for men, hence increase their sense of being bitchy. This will start into a collective ego that developed around them, and knowing that they can have as many men as they want (as long as those skins are still tight) they start trashing men whom they think do not provide just enough. Provision of money, jewelries and stuffs to these women by men are more or less to keep them around and shut them up, and most men don't mind doing it providing that they have the moolah, just so that the women stay and shut the hell up. And these unknowing ladies thought their men loved them, but for what specifically was never really dug into. They don't even make the best wife to begin with, anyway. 

They're just for fun, actually. 

But these men don't often realize that they are spending just way too much for women that by hook or by crook will leave at the end of the day. And when they realize, it is often way too late, and there they are, upset, disappointed and devastated while looking at what appears to be broken dreams. And by then, the women would already have been with somebody else. Talking about just how the world goes nowadays, eh?

With more and more entertainment that constantly trash men, the respect for men slowly fades. Songs and more songs on how to trash men are now can be listened to in open broadcasts. Younger generations hum to these types of songs and hence the troubles in linking men-to-women these days. Relationship fails before time and marriages get blown up every second now and then, due to this wrongly-understood women power thing. See it for yourselves, sit down and think about it. Why, why it happens?

Just tell me why. 

p/s: I hope by writing this won't get myself banned in females' mags. I want to send in my celebration greetings to them just like they did in Utusan too you know!