Travelling; in a nutshell

To tell you the truth, I hate travelling.

It really takes a toll on you: the endless walking to and fro, the constant sliding of your debit card , the tiredness at the end of the day, not being able to sleep in your own bed, the time taken up that could've been used to hibernate and sleep all day, the crowds of people that stress you out, the sudden need for souvenirs and crap you will probably never use again or even needed in the first place, the losing of basic toiletries after  moving from place to place, the pain of having your arse sucked into itself after sitting down in the bus for long periods of time, the packing and unpacking and packing again, and worst of all, the feeling after returning from vacation when you realize all of that will only be for memories that, unlike all other things, exist only in your mind and can't be used or felt or enjoyed every day.

But then again,

With travelling, you gain so much else. You make new friends from all around the world, sometimes with the locals or sometimes with other tourists - who suddenly have a mutual understanding with you even though oceans and mountains separate where you come from on the map. You learn that the world isn't that small, and that people are friendly, and are more like you than you could probably imagine. You understand new cultures, and become more cultured yourself; you will never see the world around you in the same light again, as your mind has widened. You come to terms with the fact that smiles don't only come in the color that you see in the mirror, but in many colors, and shapes, and sizes. You stop taking little things for granted, and may even find joys in completely new things like architecture, art, and music. And even your taste buds, they may change too; suddenly you want more chili in your soup, crave a curry or two now and then, buy more types of fish and cheese than that sold in the supermarket, and search high and low for that fruit you found halfway across the world. Most importantly, you realize that memories, even though they exist only in your head, are much more important and valuable than any other material object that you could've bought with the money spent.

And after coming back home, you can't wait to set out and discover the world again.

The City of Charm

Where do I even start?

I'm in love with Baltimore. There's no other way to put it. The sights, sounds, and people light me up in a way that I have never felt before. I have never felt at home in the States all the time I've been here, and I've been to quite a few places, but I feel at home in Baltimore. The corner ice-cream shop, the dusty music store with the foreign owner, the underground bookstore with the best latte in town, the old man with the golden smile that you befriend after randomly walking into his store, and many the little places you wished you lived - all of these things and more will make you fall in love with Baltimore. And at the same time Baltimore will convince you that it loves you too.

Sorry for the lack of nice pictures - I didn't have the best lens for the job, and half of the way I got tired of taking pictures and just wanted to enjoy the surroundings without having to take our Mr. Canon every few seconds. But you should know that pictures only speak so much; to experience Baltimore, you must visit Baltimore itself. And make sure to have the crab cakes while you're at it.

Tomorrow I'll be heading out to Washington D.C and I hope mother nature will continue being really nice to me with the gorgeous weather.

Flamenco

A Dialogue example for class.

The sound of the flamenco echoed off the cobbled streets. The guitarist stood tall, his eyes directed away from the sunlight as to not distract him, his feet tapping softly to the rhythm of his music. He was lost in his own world.

               Play me a song.

The guitarist looked up. Beautiful blue eyes looked back.

               This is a song, he said.

               No it isn’t, I’ve never heard it.

               Just because you’ve never heard of it doesn’t make it not a song.

The blue eyes rolled, and the wind blew a wisp of silky brown hair over them. She’s beautiful, thought the guitarist.

               Well play me song I do know, she said.

               Why should I?

               Can’t you?

Her eyes were locked on his. She knew that question agitated him. The male ego can’t handle a challenge, she thought to herself. But the guitarist didn’t stop, and the sound of the flamenco still rang loud in between the shop houses.

               He asked, You don’t like flamenco?

               What?

               Flamenco.

               What’s that?

               Music, from Spain. You know Spain?

She paused. Spain? Of course she knows Spain. I’m not an idiot, she wanted to say. I don’t know flamenco, but I know Spain dammit. Do look like an idiot to you? But she didn’t, and the sound of the flamenco still rang loud underneath the warm sky.

               She asked, Are you from spain?

               Si, tengo. And you?

               I’m from around here.

So this senorita is local, thought the guitarist. He didn’t know any locals.

               So how long have you been around here, she asked.

               Two days.

               Only two?

               Si.

               That’s funny.

               What is?

               You are. You’ve been here for only two days and already you’re busking on the streets?

The guitarist smiled.

               It’s what I do. I travel the world and the sound of the flamenco travels with me.

               That’s all you do? Sounds like a waste of life to me.

Well it’s my calling. I love what I do. People tell me, Sergio, you are a smart man, you should get a job, get a life, get some money. But I don’t live for money. In Spain we have a saying, No solo de pan vive el hombre. We people cannot live on bread alone. Sometimes, we must chase our passion. For me, it is my music. My future, well I don’t think of it much. Carpe Diem, eh?

She smiled at the phrase. Seize the day. She was in envy of the guitarist. She didn’t know what she wanted in life. Sure, she was a college student with a scholarship and a promise of a successful career, but she didn’t want all that. Somehow, it didn’t make her feel that she belonged. It wasn’t her calling.

               Senorita, I didn’t catch your name.

               It’s Madeline.

               Ah, Madeline. Such a beautiful name. I’m Sergio.

And suddenly, underneath the warm sky and in between the shop houses, by the cobbled streets that were colored by the morning sun, the sound of the flamenco stopped ringing, as the guitarist reached out a hand, and hoped that the beautiful blue-eyed girl that he was just beginning to get to know would reach her hand out too. 

Mat

A Character sketch:

They called him Mat. No one knows his real name, but nobody has ever asked. Why would they? They all come from a place where no one goes to make friends. A place where no-one wants to be, where the law puts you to repent for your sins, or just leave you to die. It’s their fault for breaking the law. Useless scum, father used to call them, murderers, pillagers, rapists, thieves, the lot. You break the law and you’ll just end up like them, he would also say, looking at me right in the eyes. Mother said they are people who are just a waste of breath and life, who are nothing but a burden and shame on the rest of us normal folk. A bit unfair, I think. Not all of them were bad at heart.  

Mat was one of the good ones. Quiet guy, never really said much, or start a conversation. But when he did talk, he’d treat you like an old friend, with sincerity that was reflected on his face. Not everyone could do that, make you feel welcome with just a look, but I guess he had just the right eyes for the job. Like sparkling marbles they were, resting in his wrinkled eye sockets like someone crudely stuffed them in there. Whenever you spoke to him, all you would look at are his eyes, and thank god for that too, as the rest of his face wasn’t really a pretty sight. He had the bulbous nose of a Dutch monkey and the lips of a donkey, with wrinkles that traveled around his face like mountain ridges. And as if that wasn’t enough, his cheeks sagged like old dough. But he didn’t give a rat’s arse how he looked. Mat was happy in his books. He loved them more than his life.

Mat worked in the library. Not the public library, of course, but the useless scum wanted to read too, so they made a library just for them. And Mat called it home. He spent his days, his evenings, and his nights in the library, reading every book, savoring every word. Dickens, Dante, Lovecraft, Hemingway; Mat would read them all. Heck, he would even read them twilight books if there was nothing else to read. And when not burying his face in books, he’d find enjoyment in arranging the books by letter, or sometimes by author, or sometimes by year. He’d switch the system around now and then, out of boredom most probably, but Mat had always been a perfectionist. Even though his clothes were drab just like the rest of inmates, he always made sure to keep them clean. Mat liked it that way.

Friends? Mat didn’t need them, but I guess he had a few. There was Yusof and Talib, who shared his interest in books. Those three would talk until the cows went home in the library. But they talked strictly literature, nothing else. There was Kassim, a young fellow, who treated Mat like a granddad of sorts – asking for advice, that kind of thing. Heard that the advice did Kassim quite a bit of good too, if the tales are true he now owns a shop down Ampang street, which he bought with the money he worked for after being made a free man. Nice to hear that, a former scum turning things around for himself after being released; wish I could say that about Mat.

What happened to Mat, you say? Well due to good behavior the law let him out early. Mat never asked for it, mind you, he was probably let out to make room for more inmates. Poor guy, the library was all he ever cared for; he had nothing left for him on the outside. But the law didn’t care, and Mat was set free, and given a job at the grocers. An old man like that, working 9 to 5? Of course Mat couldn’t handle it; drove the poor man crazy. And then one day, just like that, Mat took his own life. Sad really, but no one expected different from a guy whose entire life was based within those walls. They shouldn’t have ever let him out, he didn’t belong with us normal folk, especially because he didn’t have his books with him. But I guess that’s just fate, and Mat died by his own hands. I wish I could say that there is moral to this story, but there really isn’t. Maybe I could say that, even though we normal folk think otherwise, life and happiness can be found in the weirdest of places, even in a place filled with useless scum. 

Untitled

The Keris

For class I had to write a short story (well, not really a full story with the proper structure) about a strange object. Sticking with my style of implementing Malaysian culture in my writing, I decided to do a short story about the Keris.

It laid there, still, and silent. On the wall, where it has always had been. Father never moved it, even though most of the furniture in the house had been moved many, many times by my mother, but she too never wanted to move it. Don’t ever touch it, father used to say, not realizing that was telling a six-year-old not to do something is like telling the monkeys not to touch the rambutans on the rambutan tree in the yard, which used to really piss mother off as she loved her rambutans. I guess that’s why she married father, an orchard owner, who owned the biggest orchard in the kampong. But father never really did anything; the orchard was passed down to him from his father, who probably got it from his father, who then probably got it from his father. Instead, father took interest in collecting. He really loved the macabre, and the walls and corners of the house were littered with the stuff: preserved toyol corpses, witches’ tools, bones from the alleged local Sasquatch, and anything odd he could find.

But the most peculiar piece was the thing on the wall. I used to spend my evenings staring at the thing on the wall, frantically deducing with my six-year-old mind what in the world that thing was. I would have said that it was some kind of sword, but it was curved, like a snake, not like the swords the cartoon characters wielded on television. It was wooden on the outside, but I could tell that it was a case, a shell for something hidden beneath. I tried to ask father many times about the thing on the wall but all he would say is I got it a long time ago, from a trader, at the foothills of Kinabalu. Short old man, with a long white beard that swept the floor, like your mother does with a broom, my father would add. Father would never tell me more than that. Wait till you’re older, son, and I’ll tell you.

I had to take a closer look. When I was eight and little bit taller, I decided to make a move. I waited for father to leave for the orchard. Mother was still at home, but she was busy in the yard, chasing monkeys away. Standing on a chair I grabbed from the kitchen, I reached for the thing on the wall. I grabbed the snake-like end firmly. It was cold, but shouldn’t have been as the room was warm and humid. It’s much also much heavier than expected, I thought to myself as I unhooked the thing from the wall. Finally after all the years of painful anticipation, I had the thing in my hands. The wooden case had dragons that slithered along the sides, in between intricate flowers that looked like the ones on mother’s dresses. I stroked every caveat, admired every detail; my mind lost in fantasy as I pondered the thing in my hands with a cat’s curiosity – even holding it up to my nose to smell the teak wood. Satisfied with my conquest of the unknown, I slowly hooked the thing back up on the wall. I was careful, but not careful enough, as I suddenly heard mother shout from behind me. What are you doing with that Keris? Her shrill cry sent me of balance, and with a sudden jerk, the thing went hurtling towards the ground.

Mother went faint. Her hands covered her gaping mouth that dropped down to her feet. I tried to say sorry, but my quivering voice did nothing to break the silence that spilled into every corner of the room. I heard Father’s motorcycle come through the gates. I saw him come into the room to the sight of the thing on the floor. I saw the blood run from his face. Mother cried. Father picked me up and held me. But there was no anger. Only fear. I could hear him mutter under his breath, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah. And it was the only thing I heard. Astaghfirullah. 

Curving Away

Calculus Hell

Look how empty my January tab is.

Just a reflection on how boring my life has been recently. A life burdened by calculus. And this is not a blog that anyone really reads anyway, so I'm no way pressured to post anything.

I just bought a new Canon t4i recently, so I hope to start making films soon. The closest project so far is Malaysian night 2013, but I really want to make a short film. Something that is both pretty to behold and moving at the same time. Once I get back to Malaysia I'll probably work on that. Just need to get an idea going and a script done.

The awesome T4i

I should really use my talent for words towards something productive. I've written a few scripts before, so it shouldn't be too hard (I hope).

Whatever it is, I have to make it through this semester. Sigh.

Hear.

With all the commotion about the 'listen' video lately, I find it hard to be proud of (most) my fellow Malaysians and the mentality they have when it comes to handling issues. I know it's fun to tease, but there's a limit and we've gone way past that. I don't want to blog about my opinions, as I created this blog for fun and I wish it to remain controversy-free. But I will say this:

Bavani is not a hero.

And free opinion is overrated and overused.

Asides that I have two new poems on my poem website! They are: Listen and Dinner with Friends. Access the website through the link in the tab or the projects page.

One last thing: Even though world issues are important, we all have to remember to enjoy the little things in life as well.

Ta!

Blank.

For the past week, I've been literally like this for every waking hour.

I'm tired, frustrated with some people I know, and sick of my introvert-ness.

Seriously, I can't stand crowds of people. Whenever I'm in a group, I get a headache.

But on the positive side, I did some poems for creative writing and I was really happy with how they turned out. I posted some on this blog but as I didn't want them to be lost in the stream, I created a new blog for my poems! Check it out by clicking the face above, the link on the projects page, the tab link, or just in case you're just that damn lazy, here.

Merdeka

Look at that old empty stadium,

where they once gathered and

watched with excitement,

as a tired warrior raised his right

hand into the air, and shouted

merdeka! Which spread across

an entire nation like a

thunderstorm during monsoon

but felt like silk to those

who waited for so long, sick

of laboring for the white man’s cause.

Who could blame them for wanting

what was rightfully theirs?

446 years we’ve waited,

they would yell in the streets,

with tears of glory rushing down their face.

They’ve been through hell, but

their persistence in adversity

inspired heroes, who marched

to the throne to tell the white man

enough is enough. They have

gone now, to make way for you,

the proud man, who sits cross-legged

and declares out loud:

“We’re brilliant! We achieved it

all without bloodshed!” Yet you’re

a fool to think merdeka would

last forever, and not someday

be a lose rock on a cliff

you’re so desperately clinging on to.

By then they’ll be scolding you

for being so proud of something

you did nothing to achieve.

But for now enjoy merdeka while it

lasts, as you’ve been free for

55 years now, which is 5 more than

you teach your children to count to

before shipping them off to school,

where you expect them to

become brilliant by learning

to fill in the blanks with the

nonsense you stuff in their heads.  

But you have no time for caring, do you?

You’re too busy fighting

yourself in frantic courtrooms

and busy streets, and

Lining the tar roads with yellow shirts,

expecting that to make a change.

But change is drumming

over the horizon and lest

you hold on tight, you will fall

down to the earth,

and the whole world

will watch the proud man, clawing

at his ancestor’s grave, begging

for merdeka again

while the fire burns him away.

by Arsyad Azrai

Inspired by "Postcards to Columbus" by Sherman Alexis

The Sweetness

We search for the sweetness in between the

thorns of romance,

Where hope grows like moss, and with the

rhythm we dance

to a beat we do not know, a song we

do not recognize,

Till our hearts stop beating, and tears

fall from our eyes.

We search for the sweetness in the dark

without a light,

Yet still expect it to appear, as clear,

and as bright

as the many days we waste away, staring

at the skies,

Hoping for the clouds to fall and wash

away the lies.

But we never search for the sweetness where

it waits untouched,

A place that exists and thrives, deep

In our hearts

where we only dream of fairy tales, and

wish for love,

But not notice the little hole wherein
sweetness curls                                                                                                                                                

For sweetness does not only exist in the

Kiss of lover,

It waits in acts of kindness, in friendships

That last forever

even when the seas are rough, and life

isn’t kind,

when you only have a line of thread, but a

mountain to climb. 

If only I could capture this sweetness in a bottle,

And not let go,

Then pour it into my writing, sit back, and watch

it unfold

Into a painting, a picture far too beautiful

to behold

of a place with silver moonlight and

rivers of gold.

But until I find a way I will continue to write

and explore

The rivers and valleys that I have gone

through before

as a small child with eyes that could only

see smiles,

Whenever his poems and stories went on

change lives.

One day I will find the sweetness, by fate

or by chance,

and sing it to the world, but ‘till then

I’ll dance

to a beat I do not know, a song I

do not recognize,

Till my heart stops beating, and tears

fall from my eyes.

by Arsyad Azrai

Inspired by ZeFrank's The Sweetness