*Flaps hands*

Apparently you can get an award by nagging other people about deadlines and taking long hiatuses in the name of Writer’s Block. I know, because I got one.



Thank you, Shareen Mohd Salleh for passing on the award to me, and congratulations on winning it yourself =) Although we’ve never met before, I’m sure that you, a most sweet and witty soul, totally deserves the award above.

I, on the other hand, accept this honour with a deep bow and a deeper bafflement. I mean, Beautiful Blogger Award?

First of all, I’ve been associated with many things (“weird” and “lame” remain the popular favourites). But “beautiful”? Have you even met me? Okay, so I hear some of you say beauty is also about having a heart of gold and sweet nature etc, which is all great except for one question – have you even met me?

Secondly, the word “Blogger” – have you seen the dates of my sporadic posts? And have you seen the way I insistently whine about deadlines and writer’s block, in the hope that no one will notice that my brain is actually dry? No, I don’t deserve the word “blogger”.

So, “Beautiful Blogger” would have been a double negative in my case, which is a big-no-no according to one of my English lecturers. It confuses people, he cautioned, which is rather far-sighted of him, in light of my current affairs.

The fact that I got the award anyway shows that there really is no justice in the world, just a whole lot of forgiving people - like Shareen Mohd Salleh =D Yes, I’m shamelessly plugging you, because you selflessly plugged me.

And what would an award be without some thank-you speech, right? So, here goes, for the sake of protocol (actually, I’ve been waiting all my life for an opportunity like this, but what would the world be if award-recipients go around telling the truth, eh?).

Thank you, all you readers who have encouraged, pushed, nudged, kicked, dragged and threatened me in the right/write direction. You have been my source of strength and inspiration. You’re the reason I still write. And for that, I owe you my lifelong gratitude.

And before you yell “is there no end to this syok-sendiri post?!”, let me assure you that you’re right – the end isn’t nigh. I have the privilege to pass this award to another 15 bloggers out there!

Sadly, I don’t read blogs that often, so I only know a handful of really good bloggers. Nonetheless, here goes the List of Awesome (in no particular order):

• Twisted Transistor for her ability to add drama and humour into any topic, especially the ones about her dogs.
• The Pragadissio Notebook for his eloquence and wit, and his persistence to blog come-what-closing-week-may has been my constant inspiration.
• Kaki khayal for their quirky, fun and clever concept. Keep it up, girls!
• On the Street for her pictures that always reach deep into my heart and giving it a tickle, or a cosy squeeze. Woi mana update?
• Table 28 for her ass-kicking pics and even better captions – gripping souls since 2005 (when she was still clicking around with a tiny “i”camera ^^)
• mimpiiiii !!for her ability to make me laugh, think, nod and shake my head, sometimes all at once.
  

Okay, I’m out. To the 6 bloggers above, grab your award! And here are the rules for the award (courtesy of Shareen):
1. Thank & link the person that gave you the award.
2. Pass this award onto 15 bloggers you’ve recently discovered and think are fantastic beautiful too
3. Contact said Blogs and let them know they’ve won the award
4. State 7 things about yourself.

Now, I am required to tell 7 random facts about myself, or I may risk being disqualified (DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH MY AWARD!):

1) I am hooked on zombies, especially plant-eating ones (but I’m not really picky, because what would the world be if you go around picking on zombies, eh?). I mean, enough of celebrating monsters that charm young, front-heavy ladies, live forever and ever and most recently, glitter in the sunlight. Too much drama. Zombies never judge their victims, die graciously when their time is up, and are made out of (or covered with) flesh and blood – probably not much different from heroes, if you ask me.

2) I can be very long-winded.

3) I am the founder of the Brainz Assembly – an enlightened organization dedicated to both worship and fight zombies, whichever mood strikes us. In a better world, we would be revered and spoken in hushed whispers. Alas, in this bewildering dimension, people just point at us and laugh. But it’s okay, my trusted aide Pauline and I have a sense of humour. Taking over the world, one silly act at a time, is fine by us too. The goal justifies the mean.

4) I can be very long-winded, and redundant.

5) I write to live, so that one day I can afford to live to write.

6) Satire, Terry Pratchett, TimBurtonandJohnnyDepp make me happy.

7) Strawberry ice cream, hot air balloons and pretty but useless stuff make me happy too.

Gosh, 7 random things about myself is so not easy to write. That’s because I’m held together by sheer randomness (and stubbornness), and listing only 7 is like playing favourites. It’s like asking me which part of the skin on my body that I like most.

Okay winners, get cracking.

No signal

The chronicles of me losing my computer and connection, which I can only upload now:

Day F-ing One

I have a corpse of a computer in my room.

Well, not exactly a corpse yet. A vegetable, more like.

A freshly fried one.

I don’t really know how to deal with fried computers. It’s like this soul-less crate with its innards unabashedly exhibiting itself. My Dad and I removed the CPU covers, unable to accept that my tool of trade for 5 years is now barely smarter than my keyboard. So we yanked off the covers and peered purposefully into it for ten minutes, before realizing that we are not even sure what we were looking for. The torchlight merely illuminated more gibberish.

My baby won’t load. And it’s probably the mobo (hah! I know geek lingo. I just don’t know what a mobo looks like). Oh please God let it be the mobo. If it’s my hard disc that’s just got whacked I’m going to cry. I’ll lose 5 years worth of, well, stuff. Important, definitely. I just can’t really remember what they are. And when I do remember what they are, I AM really going to cry.

But until we get the expert’s verdict (that’d be Bryan doing another round of purposeful probing before he nags me about my dusty CPU interior), I’m stuck with a gaping casing. I can’t even look at it in the bulb. I’m responsible for its vegetative state. I fried its brains because I didn’t turn it off in time when the lightning strike. I killed it, and when its cursor stared at me for the last time, cold and frozen, right after the lightning, the last words I said to it was “Oh shit nonono shit.”

And when my lost has sunk in (right after the hit I actually went and did some filing, which shows you how crazy a shock can make you), I actually felt a little relieved. Like, yay, I’m free to do anything now because I have no more obligations to work. I have no computer, no connection! So I went to finish up with my filing. And when that is done, I watched Gilmore Girls. And when I had enough of Gilmore Girls, I sit down here and blog on my parents’ computer. Or rather, I type on my parents’ computer, because it can’t go on the internet.

And then it really sunk in, like a hammer. How the hell am I going to work tomorrow? I have no computer, no connection! How do I type out my article? How do I Facebook? How do I check my emails? What do I wake up to? Who will make my breakfast?

Oh wait, my mum makes my breakfast. But its funny how losing a machine creates a similar feeling of losing your loved ones. Suddenly, I have this huge computer-shaped hole in my life. I cannot imagine how would I live without it, yet at the same time, I’m curious to know how would I live without it. I feel like the strings that bind me to my computer have been cut loose. Technically, I am free. But really, I am balancing the strings on my wrists and pretending that the noose is real. Because anything else is unimaginable.

If you think I’m being melodramatic, let me fry your computer. Then we can together-gether be melodramatic, because misery loves company.

Gosh, so this is withdrawal symptoms.

Day Two:

Hurgh. It’s amazing how gung-ho I am to blog when I have no internet connection. Must be all the extra free time I have. Sometimes I can’t remember how I used to spend my time back when I had no broadband. Watching televisions and reading books I supposed. But the internet has overwritten my page-flipping abilities and toleration for commercial breaks, replacing it with a kind of stubborn patience for eternal buffering.

Price of modernization, they say.

Okay, I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms. My computer has, as it turned out, just a fried network card. Which means I can actually use my computer like normal, just not for connecting with the outside world. Which means I did not kill it; it’s just having social issues due to some nasty shock (lightning bolts can do that to you). Which means I’m good.

But I’m also greedy. I have been kinda sick of my computer running in snail pace for a while now, and this lightning strike has just been my excuse to finally pump up those specs. So, now my CPU lies forlorn in the backroom while Bryan’s old machine takes up its throne. And so far, so good. Bryan’s computer can run Windows 7 with ease, which means the programs now fade in and out so gracefully and the taskbar is not cramped with my multitasking mess.

Except this isn’t my computer. My computer doesn’t have programs fading in and out gracefully, nor a designer task bar complete with the whole clean, unlived-in look. Heck, my computer doesn’t even have Microsoft 2007, which I am currently using to type on.

My computer drags its programs up at its own pace, and if you click on the buttons too many times it hangs, just to show you who’s boss. My computer has an eyesore of a taskbar, with opened documents strewn all over and a rotting webpage from last week still lying inconspicuously beneath the pile. My computer makes Bryan wanna scratch his eyeballs out, which is fun to watch. My computer still uses Microsoft 2003, which is a darn good version, if I may impose my opinion.

This isn’t my computer. This is Bryan’s computer (you can tell from the LEDs in all colour and coolness glowing from it).

Should I embrace change, or get comfortable with my old skin?

A question that I have been asking myself consistently lately, as my pen hovers over the contract for Au Pair. A question that I have no answer for. Or rather, a question that I have been scared shitless to answer.

I am pacing to and fro in front of the rabbit hole, wearing a path on the ground and growing a beard (metaphorically, for now). I need someone to push me down.

I am really, really afraid of change. Which is kinda weird, because I really, really want it at the same time. I have a life here – a life I have always dreamt of having. Writing for a living, supportive family and friends, fulfilling days etc. Do I forgo this dream for another dream?

A sage told me in bright red fonts that change is inevitable. Things will change no matter I choose to stay or not. And he didn’t sip his Pepsi this time, so it means he’s really serious. We didn’t even mention his loincloth. It’s that solemn.

And the sage is right, again. Change will take place no matter what I choose to do. I’m not afraid of change, I’m afraid to cause the change. I’m afraid that my life will spiral out of control because of me and my actions. Better to blame life than to blame myself.

Except that it’s not better. In fact, it downright sucks. I want it and it’s right in front of me, but I lack the courage to reach out and grab. I am just staring at it, knowing that it will disappear, but afraid to seize it, lest it bursts in my palm – like a delicate bubble in the afternoon sun.

I need a shove. I need to let go. I need this.

The Man Who Can't be Moved

Sometimes, people tell me “I don’t understand how you can love Malaysia. It’s so [insert negative expressions/profanities/frustrated screams here]!”

And I would smile, thinking to myself, “I don’t know either. But if you love something, you don’t need a reason, because no reason is sufficient anyway.”

Yes, I do love Malaysia. And no, I have never stepped out of this country. I have not seen the rounder moons in foreign lands, nor have I rolled on the greener pastures on the other side. I have never witnessed how clean, well-managed, exhilarating, or liberating other country is. Neither have I enjoyed the freedom, the respect, the tranquility, the romance and the opportunities that they promised.

But you don’t have to caress a thousand different lovers to know who you belong with. Sometimes, you just know. Sometimes, you are just happy and you can’t explain it – as the best kind of happiness often is.

That is not to say I am a Malaysian without complaints. In fact, complaining about everything is what makes being a Malaysian fun. It’s our national identity. It’s both our root, and our route. I once tried to imagine what it would be like if suddenly, our government becomes perfectly brilliant, and our country runs without a glitch, and the rakyat all live happily ever after together with equal respect and equal opportunity… and I shuddered at the thought. That’s not Malaysia lah. That’s a Matrix plot.

But today, I had a tiny idea of why I love my country.

Malaysia always has the ability to tug the strings of my heart, play a note, and keep me completely hooked.

I was driving to Roya’s house, a neighbourhood that has joined many others to plant guard houses and gates in the name of security and peace (i.e. the robbers roam free while the righteous lock themselves up – did I mention that I also love Malaysians for our logic?).

As I turned the corner, I was expecting the usual old but enthusiastic Pak Guard, who would painstakingly double-confirm the street and number of the house I’m visiting, only to repeat the wrong house number back at me. And I would always nod with a smile, and wait patiently for him to grin widely while handing me the visitor’s pass, which he always does.

However, reaching the guard house today, the first thing I noticed was the wide open barrier. My Pak Guard was not guarding the peace and upholding the sanctity of the SS18 streets. He was doing something far holier.

My Pak Guard was praying.

Arms held at eye level and palms opened heavenward, Pak Guard’s wizened eyes were transfixed towards the endless sky, while the soothing morning sunlight shone on his face. The glimmer of divinity, reflected on this simple, devoted being wearing a humble khaki uniform and standing in front of a modest, tiny guard house.

Feet on the brakes, I stared. I wanted to cry.

But my Pak Guard, with all the solemnity of a Man of God, interrupted my melancholic moment with a curt wave of the hand, signaling me to pass. His gazes never broke from his Higher Power; his lips never stopped mouthing the inaudible prayer.

I stepped on the accelerator, and mentally kicked myself for not having a camera, or the free hand to snap the picture perfect moment.

But frankly, I wouldn’t have the courage to capture such a sacred episode. I had neither the right, nor the skill to do justice to that magical instant.

The funny thing is, a picture could tell a thousand words, but some stories are best told in much less.

The funnier thing is, while we complain and vent, a security guard found the reason to praise God.

And maybe, I've found my answer.

Warning: Incoherencies ahead

Yesterday, I laid down my pen. Today, I picked it up again, because you can only ignore a deadline for so long.

I went for a talk on the history of Malaysian student’s movement back in the pre and post Merdeka era, which was enlightening and thought-provoking. A veteran student leader from the 60s was also there as special guest, and when he went on the stage – a casually-dressed Malay man, probably in his 50 or 60s, with a mildly amused, occasionally cheeky expression – something in me bowed.

This man has seen history. Heck, he’s made history. The talk showed newspaper pictures of him protesting and giving talks and sitting in the office of the student body with piles of files (yes, back then UM student body has their own building, cafeteria and even their own scholarship. In comparison, we are fighting for our own parking space in the uni).

And he said something I very much needed to hear. Or rather, he said something that induced me to think of something else, which turned out to be what I really needed to think about. Erm. Well, it happens to me all the time. Song lyrics that I misheard turned out to be inspiring (imagine my embarrassment when I realise the singer has meant something entirely different), and quotes that I remembered wrongly motivated me during my down days.

Perhaps my mind knew the answer all along, it just needed something to explode out of my thick skull. I’ll admit, this is a flimsy explanation. But I’m never much good at figuring out myself.

Anyway, I won’t quote the veteran student leader because I don’t remember what he said exactly. But he was telling us how he had wanted to study medicine but could not afford it, and one of his friends (or teacher?) told him that actually, one more doctor in the world wouldn’t make much of a difference. But if you really believe in being a doctor, then you should change the system so that more poor people can afford to study medicine and be doctors. Something like that.

And that, somehow, answered my inferiority as a writer. Yeah, ingenious writers are abundant in this world. I am but one writer, and wouldn’t really make a difference. The world doesn’t need more writer, but it does need more people who believe in Writing. People who will write because it is what is right, and not merely because it is a job, or a venting tool, or…

Okay, this sounded better in my head. I thought I was inspired, but now I’m not so sure. Everything above reads like blabber.

I’m a writer without a pause.

So why am I posting this other than to waste your time? Because I can. It’s my blog, and high time I start believing it.

Dawn

And today, I lay down my pen.