Words really do fly with severe emotion. I lamented not writing more in a previous post unless I’m at the extremes of anger or sorrow, but I accept that reality now — if I don’t write much, that’s a sign that I’m happy and I don’t need an outlet to vent, and that’s a real good thing.

But right now?

I’m fucking angry, and I can’t ignore it. It builds, it solidifies, it becomes an entity that I have to grab by the collar and stare down. No. I can’t leave it alone, and I won’t be told:

“Oh you have anger management issues. Oh it’s simply that you don’t have forgiveness. You’re damaging yourself, stop.”

Fuck that bullshit. I get angry and that’s just the way it is. I face it straight on. I don’t push it aside and pretend it doesn’t exist. Neither do I postpone it and let it build in my subconscious, only to create a destructive monster that explodes at the worst possible moments. I won’t let it sit and fester and allow it to slowly eat away at my sanity. No. I let it consume me in my solitude until it burns out. All in a single seating.

And I write about it, because it takes a good deal longer to burn out if I don’t. Words help me understand the monster. Somehow, someplace in the recesses of my mind, it works. Tell me that I’m wrong, that I shouldn’t try to use reason to understand my emotions. No. I’m angry for a reason, and I dig deep.

Yes, one can use anger to do great things, but that doesn’t mean it feels good.     If anything,

It. fucking. hurts. because it is born from pain.

I don’t hate anger itself — I’ve learned some the greatest lessons in my life from having to deal with it. But pain I hate, especially when its poisonous needles render me helpless. That helplessness catapults me into damage-control mode, and that pain immediately ignites and flares from the crushed innards like infrared rays emanating from a hydrogen bomb. ANGER. BOOM. My soul immolates with the radiance of a thousand suns, washing through every fragment of my existence. A pure, unadulterated white-hot shock wave follows. WOOSH.

And I am left cold and exhausted. The air is knocked out of me; I feel like I’ve run across a continent; my body feels like it has aged 10 years. The flames die when the fuel runs out.

And the flailing ashes turn into cold reason. The icy reality sets in. I swallow it whole; I allow myself to freeze. And I realize the inevitable has happened — the bridge is no more.

A new structure will have to wait. A story for another day, if there’s one to tell.

I move on.

But all that I’ve said might have been futile. Truly, it may not be pain itself, but the pain from the loss of love that was, and is, the fuel for the fire.

Love, huh, is the fuel for the fire of anger…

I seldom write nowadays. Take away Facebook-Mansbane, e-mails, jobs, assignments, and rushed mid-dinner-date jottings of mind-tickling quotes, or when the Shakespeare in me waxes lyrical at 15 minutes past bar time.

I seldom write anything else for myself. And I wonder why.

My love for the written word started 10 years ago. I was 11, it was 2001, and I stood in the dining room of my seaside home in Malacca — lil’ Matt-the-schoolboy in a white shirt, long blue pants, white shoes, and thick glasses. The salty afternoon air seeping through the shuttered windows. I began to wonder if mum and dad had their noses glued to my grade school graduating exam certificate.

“Straight As? Well done, ah-boy,” mum said, handing the UPSR slip back to me and de-boning her slice of steamed fish with renewed vigor. “So Mami promised to give you what you want … last time a microscope for PTS, what is it this time, a telescope?”

Dad shot her a furtive glance before failing badly at trying to leave the table inconspicuously — he knew she’d leave it to him to pay for my whims.

(I didn’t get my microscope the last time despite my elaborate 9-year-old attempts at convincing them it would really help me become a better and more successful scientist when I grow up … though they’re probably tired of my ranting about astronomy, galaxies, constellations, stars, and the solar system at this point.)

“I want … a good camera with zoom and all that,” lil’ Matt said, unable to fathom why all the other kids wanted Game Boys and designer soccer balls. “Oh, and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.”

I used to devour books more than I do alcohol now since I learned the ABCs at 10-months-old, but I have J. K. Rowling to thank for all else after that, among many other authors.

A good part of my middle and high school life was subsequently spent writing convoluted thrillers, and I would be found sitting at my desk, staring out of the window (literally), tapping the wood, and occasionally scratching the next word in poems about nature, dreams, life, God, and whatever whimsical fantasies my adolescent mind would conjure. I never lacked praise and encouragement from teachers, friends and family for what they perceived as talent, and mum was proud.

I published my work year after year in the annual school magazine, wrote choral speaking scripts, worked my way up to the state-level public speaking competition, reached the Scrabble nationals (though I was never too good at it — 60% of the words, like, aren’t even English!), achieved distinctions in international English language exams, made it to the finals for a national newspaper-creating competition, received a scholarship for being the best “English student” of my senior year … you get the idea.

And you’d think it natural when I finally decided to become a journalist in college that I’d be equally, if not more, prolific at the craft. No, I started exploring other career options, and I stopped writing for myself. I wonder why.

I actually still do, but only about some things, and only in moments of extreme emotion, or as I am right now, in the pensive dead of the night — when the world grows still and I can hear my own heart beat.

I wonder if you do that too.

I was waiting at the bus stop across Gesu Church on Wisconsin Avenue. Just got off a full day of work. Relatively warm Monday. Slanting shadows from the setting spring sun. Healthy breeze. Droves of blonde and brunette girls in short pants across the street - probably back on campus after Easter.

A tall young man in loose printed T-shirt and bright blue pants stands to my right, hands in pockets. Dark blue baseball cap, bright blue earphones. Name’s Mr. Bright. On my left is Mr. Sharp. Middle-aged, donning a worker cap and a weather-worn coat. He walks to me, peering through his thick glasses. Half-points at me with his walking stick.

“Yuh got a phone?”

“Yeah. What do you wanna do with it?”

“Take it out, dial # # # - # # # #. Tell mah wife ahm comin’ home.”

“Sure. So it’s # # #…what is it again?”

“Yuh hear me right? It’s # - # - #, # - # - # - #! And tell mah wife her husband’s comin’ home!”

Silence as I wait for wifey to pick up my call. Mr. Sharp stares at me. Too-too in my ear. No answer.

“She’s not answering.”

“She not answering? Yuh sure yuh got da number right?”

“Yup.”

I put my phone back in my left pocket. My black slacks. Mr. Sharp leans heavily on his stick.

“Call again.”

I look at him.

“If yuh sure yuh got da number right, then fucking. Call. Again.”

I keep staring, one eyebrow half-arched. He’s my height. Maybe slightly shorter. Both my hands remain in pockets. I breathe.

“If you want me to call again, the least you could do is ask nicely and say PLEASE.”

I’m being a jerk. You gotta be a jerk to deal with assholes or they’ll happily doormat you. 

His eyes bulge. Takes a few steps forward and half-swings his stick.

“Oh. Yuh wanna FUCK with me? Huh?”

I turn my back on Mr. Sharp. I start walking away. Mr. Sharp starts yelling.

“Ya FUCKING immigrants! GO BACK TO JAPAN!”

I saw it coming. Chuckled. I’m used to this. I turn my head.

“WRONG COUNTRY!”

I walk away again - he starts yelling something about Vietnam. I squint at the sun. Can’t tell. I am in ignore mode. He keeps yelling, swinging his stick as he closes in. I keep walking. I am pissed. With my back towards Mr. Sharp, I put my right hand in the air. People stop to watch.

And behold, my glorious FLIP. All heads on the 12th street turn to savor the public beauty of my erect middle finger. A mast whistling in the breeze. Outlined in gold by the evening sun.

I breathe.

More yelling from Mr. Sharp. He takes a few more steps - probably beyond furious by now.

Mr. Bright suddenly moves. Puts a long black arm between Mr. Sharp and me.

“HEY!” he thunders at Mr. Sharp. “Leave him alone!”

“He COOL yo! Leave him alone!”

Mr. Sharp backs down. Mutters under his breath. Mr. Bright squares up to him, and said:

“Yer BLACK yo! Yuh wanna pick on someone, yuh pick on yer OWN kind!”

The air froze. Every soul silent and unmoving. My breath caught in my lungs. I turned around. What? What was that supposed to mean?

Mr. Sharp’s bus arrived. He climbed in, turned around and looked at me. Death written in his eyes. Have a good day, I said.

“Yuh aright?”

I turned and looked up at Mr. Bright. I wanted to thank him, but my tongue was tied. Funny. I had no problem wishing Mr. Sharp good health. I shook my head. Disbelief.

“Shame,” I said. I said no more. I didn’t wanna say no more, I couldn’t say no more. I am surprised at my choice of word. Or my lack of it. Shame. English, my native language. Shame was all I had to say.

Bus no. 30 stopped. I got on, glanced around at the score of black faces that swung up to meet mine, and sat down. My thoughts sat on what Mr. Bright said to Mr. Sharp like smelly, dark, over-fried lard.

The hardest thing to come by in life? No. Not fame. Not fortune. Not something you can create with your two human hands. Not something you can buy.

How many people have written about this? Millions.

How many people have gotten what they wanted? God knows.

Fragile are its crystal tips,

Fleeting is the descent.

Frail against the flame it breathes,

The flame of life’s incense.

Pix: Snowflake on my bike seat. So fragile, fleeting and frail. But still perfect.

They fall and fade like the flickering radiance of phoenix feathers - turning to ash, awaiting rebirth.

Thus the cycle of life comes full circle. All things go to sleep, torn between the dread of winter’s fell breath, and a hope to start anew.

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It’s profound. Like tasting a mix of salt and sugar for the first time.

Is it just me, or has fall always invoked awe and sorrow in people - past and present?

Beautiful, and sad all at once.

Or maybe it’s just our limiting and disquieting existence that enables us to experience these dual, primal emotions in equal tenacity.

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Oh well, time to bring out my Bible. Scripture makes good pressed leaves, ya know. Be kind - give ‘em falling leaves a chance for salvation and peace in the promise of eternal life too. =)

Pix: Mysterious leaf-like [burn?] imprint on the pavement between Gesu and Johnston Hall.

Please don’t kill me or destroy Milwaukee’s sole skyscraper after reading this.

Perhaps I shouldn’t care. Kuala Lumpur is better.

Anyway.

A friend of mine posted this on Facebook:

“God may have created men first..but that was just a test run because women then became His greatest invention.”

And as you would have guessed, this was written by a woman. My point is, which guy in his right mind would make such a claim? Well, I would. Just for the sake of it.

And of course, no one’s eyebrows were raised when it sparked a blizzard of comebacks and ejaculatory retorts from many vaginally-challenged members of our race. Which includes me. I mean, I couldn’t resist the temptation of commenting too.

No, I’m not sexist. I just had to craft this incredibly believable alternative story about the origin of Eve, set in our age. And yes, all in a Facebook comment dialogue box.

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In the beginning, Man was God’s new and ingenious application on his new interface, Earth. God realized after a few troubleshooting cycles, that something in man’s system needed more of his perfecting attention. He took a few bytes out, tried to reorganize the bits and put them back in. The seemingly perfect attachment, however, wouldn’t stay still and mutated into a lethal virus that causes extreme emotional instability in Man.

The virus further developed into a self-replicating .exe file that infected Man’s output sector, causing heat and strange expulsion of rogue bytes when the system is on standby. These bytes would then combine with the original .exe file to make more copies of the virus.

Man consulted God and God inspected Man with His heuristic anti-virus system, Jesus. Jesus diagnosed Man as having a system breakdown from spyware produced by “Original Sin”, a rogue program created by the virus. He named the various spyware “Laast”, “Sacks”, “Paurn” and “MusterBayShern”. These overloaded Man’s RAM (Really Aching Manhood), causing his system to crash. He was subsequently unable to boot because his ROM (Really Opulent Machismo) also went through the roof.

God decreed that Man was no longer holy-stic and found the virus guilty as charged. Jesus removed it, but did not condemn it to quarantine because He had mercy. Although the virus was not God’s creation, He nevertheless felt Love for it as it seemed to have application-like characteristics.

He consulted Jesus as well as His technician, the Holy Spirit, and decided to invent a new tool that would reformat the virus in order to give it life in the system because the virus cannot survive out of Man. He called the new reformatting tool “Salvation from Eternal Death”.

He then presented the redeemed virus to Man, called it Woman, and defragmented the interface. He said to Man, “Because she was part of you, and has corrupted your programming, cursed is the interface because of that, and through painful toil you have to endure her the rest of your runtime.”

For this reason Man will be detached from his parent programs and be joined to Woman, and they will become one system startup unit called Family.

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So you see, Original Sin didn’t come into existence because Man ate the Apple. Or whatever fruit you wanna call it. It may well be Nuts, for all you know.

Okay. I hope I’m still making it to Heaven.

And oh I found these really hilarious. Have a good day.

Pix from BokehPhotographer, CartoonStock & Wikimedia

Some Recommended Pages on Facebook really make me go =.=” and -.-lll

Like this sexy MILF one.

Oh wow, rocket science!

Swt. Sweat. ROFLMFAOL LAME HELLOKITTYPOKEMON WTH Facebook?

…

Speaking of pointing out the obvious, why don’t they have this instead?

Yes. NOW it makes sense.

Pressed for time? You may skip the following excerpt (my source of inspiration) and dive into my rant.

Excerpt taken from MalaysiaToday (please follow link & read full article):

“Thou shalt not steal, says the Good Book, all the Good Books. But Malaysians of Hindu, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, etc., persuasion, steal like crazy. They steal the elections. They steal the government. They are robbing Malaysians of their right to a legitimately elected government.

This Friday, look at those Muslims marching to the mosques. This Sunday, look at those Christians going to church. Study their faces. Look into their eyes. Then ask yourself: how many of these people pretending to do piety are actually robbers who steal from us —- steal our right to a fair election and a legitimately elected government?

They may look pious. They may appear like they are going to the church, mosque or temple to worship God. But these are not God’s people. These are people who break God’s Commandment: thou shalt not steal.

God has given these people a name. These people are called munafiqs or hypocrites. You find these munafiqsin the Election Commission. You find them in the Royal Malaysian Police. You find them in Barisan Nasional. These are people who bribe, lie, cheat and steal to win the elections. And these are people condemned by God. And these are people whom we must also condemn because God has condemned them.

And if you know of any church that has received a bribe during the election then boycott that church. That is not a House of God. That is a House of Sin. That church is built on dirty money. Stay home this Sunday and do not defile your religion by going to a church that was built on corrupt money.

If you know of a mosque or temple that also received bribes during the election then boycott those mosques and temples as well. Those are not Houses of God. These buildings were built on dirty money. So these are dirty buildings. You will not find God in these places. The devil has made its home in these places.

Woe to Malaysians when mosques, churches and temples can be bribed. Woe to Malaysians when the so-called Houses of God are built on corrupt money. And those trustees, imams, priests and others who condone corruption are not men of God. They only pretend to be men of God. They are actually disciples of the devil. You must not follow these people because these people will lead you to hell.”

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I assume we are all familiar with “religious” scandals. Child molestation. Multiple partners. Swindling of church funds. You name it.

Such people DISGUST me. I have man-struation today, I’m cranky, I wanna rant, and here’s what I have to say to these sad people.

I DON’T CARE whether that’s what it takes to save your ass when the government or some other organization enforces its agenda (political etc.) on you. Or whether you are trying to seek an outlet for something you are deeply in denial of. It’s DISGUSTING.

I DON’T CARE if you tell me that people are broken and that we need to forgive and let you go without punishment as a means of justifying your actions. It’s still DISGUSTING.

I DON’T CARE if you have to act a certain way in certain circumstances because you say that’s the reality of life and that everyone has a public and private image that they have to juggle. That power and responsibility come at a price you have to pay. You’re living a lie, and you are nevertheless, DISGUSTING.

I DON’T CARE if you tell me humans should never give up trying to ingrain into others your standards and beliefs because you think you’re right. But when you fail to not fit your own criteria, you make excuses and say that’s because you’re just human and perfection is impossible to attain when in fact, you expect perfection in others. You SUCK and hypocrisy is DISGUSTING.

I DON’T CARE if you reprimand my negativity - that I am bitching and complaining because I have no life and I should instead focus on the more beautiful aspects of yadayadayada. You’re telling me to be as ignorant as you are and you’re severely missing the point. It’s like picking at the missing comma in a sentence instead of trying to understand what the author has to convey. You’re basically STUPID, and that too, is DISGUSTING.

I DON’T CARE whether or not you label me idealistic. The very FACT that you preach ideals and teach people how to live up to those ideals you set for them when these ideals are not binding upon yourself, is EXTREMELY DISGUSTING.

And I DON’T CARE about the million other excuses that you could possibly conjure.

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But what I DO CARE is, you are an opinion leader and a spiritual leader. Many people look up to you and model their lives after yours. You lead people right into the jaws of the DEVIL while proclaiming to light the way to heaven. LIAR! When you lie to those who love and trust you, you are lower than the lowest scum of the earth.

Know that if you are an ignorant hypocrite who would even CONSIDER saying any of the BS I listed above, you have my DISDAIN, DISGUST, DISTRUST and every other derogatory term the English language can muster. You are a POSER, FAKER, PRETENDER and the world can do without the likes of you. And make no mistake, don’t even expect a single penny from me - I don’t buy shit.

Maybe you’re intellectually immature. Maybe you enjoy committing intellectual suicide. Maybe if you realize that and if you’re willing to learn, you might earn my friendship. That’s immaterial, really, but if you’re not even listening, at least know that people are not stupid - you do not fool me, and I am certainly not alone.

And whoops, if you’re mentally shaking your head for [fill in the blank with some limited and broken logic that fails all reasonable tests] and are feeling constricted around the heart from reading this, I feel sorry for you and I hereby officially christen you as an ITUPERLIGIHITE (Intolerant Unperceiving Religious Hypocrite). And oh it’s pronounced eye-too-pear-lee-jee-height, by the way.

But those of you who “get it” and understand my point, hurray, we’re buddies.

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Okay enough ranting. You’ll love this:

Pix from Wordpress & MotivatedPhotos.

That’s true, don’tcha think?

Right-o, glad you agree. I don’t usually write about understood-no-need-to-be-said things like this though, because goodwill in friendships is something that should not need to be spelled out, but to be put into action.

Thing is, I observe people around me pretty intently enough, and the way some homo sapiens treat their “friends” really bothers the HELL outta me - especially when others in the herd play along as though it’s the “in” thing to do.

I like to believe I’m a pretty straightforward guy when it comes to relationships. No tricky Cretan labyrinths, no subterranean Parisian catacombs. (My exes, if you disagree, your problem - you missed out on a great guy and I ain’t coming back! Haha =P)

EVIDENCE: I suck bad at being a politician (well maybe not that BAD, but I certainly won’t be happy being one) and seriously, I’m terrible at lying - I get found out half the time if I’m playing the role of a Mafia/murderer in a Mafia vs Civilians group game!

So overall I’m a good friend, but I’ve had my fair share of massive, invasive JERKBITCHES and this is what I do to them:

NYAHAHAHA! Parisian catacombs are sweet, aren’t they?

Anyway. Let’s get started.

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I am no enlightened philosopher or wise poet. Neither do I claim to be a guru nor a religious teacher of any sort. I learn, however, by looking at myself and by painting a glass window with a myriad of colorful Matt/QS-facets I see reflected in the eyes of others (in simple words, how people perceive me).

And among many other things, I learn these TEN LESSONS of friendship:

1. Good friends recognize their own insecurities and do not project them on each other or exploit their knowledge of others’ fears for their own gain and satisfaction or simply out of insensitivity.

2. Birds who think they belong together (whether they really do or not) flock together and more often than not shape each others’ attitudes in a single direction. That’s fine, but developing a collective high-and-mighty attitude is not.

3. Good people are those who recognize the flaws in others and yet seek to understand motivations and actions out of empathy instead of exploring avenues for manipulation.

4. People who have good friendships first and foremost want to be what they desire in others. Friends don’t go about intentionally trying to impress one another to boost their own selfish egotism and then expect others to act up to such hypocritical and narrow standards.

5. We sometimes fail to recognize how much we may mean to people who are really genuine and place our attention on those who do not deserve it, only to realize so later. And on occasion, too late.

6. Good friends are not in a hurry to label others and do not keep trying to see the faults in other people as if afraid of being the target of all poison arrows. This defense mechanism almost never helps - porcupines like that end-up suicide bombing their relationships.

7. Good, meaningful conversations are rarely those that deride and evoke sarcastic or satiric sneers. It’s like laughing at something not funny for want of something funnier.

8. Like any good relationship, a commitment to be a positive force and inspiration for one another is a given thing in a good friendship. Many lifelong friendships are ruined because of fear of such a commitment - inevitably leading to a communication breakdown.

9. Good friends do not sulk unreasonably or throw personal tantrums in public and never say “I told you” unless it is intended as a pun.

10. And above all, forgiveness is key.

May the Force be with you, bladders and blisters. =)

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Note: You may ignore this post edit ramble below on the “true friendship/friends forever” ideal if you have a short attention span. Be warned, it’s a ramble. =)

We are all familiar with the “perfect friend” ideal. Or the “ideal friendship” that could possibly develop into a romantic relationship.

Hardcore proponents and opponents of these ideals, though, irk me infinitely - these two polar groups of hypocrites always seem to want to outdo each other in their flawed, fundamental and polarized comprehension of relationships:

Proponents - “We must always be positive and believe in the true friendship concept just as true love is true. Non-believers are wayward and erroneous, letting their cynicism and negativity cloud their vision. They’ll never make it far in their lives and relationships with such blinding limitations.”

Opponents - “How naive and gullible. These believers of ideals have not seen the cold, hard reality of life, being stuck in their gleaming and polished ivory towers. What do they know? They will never progress far or transcend the common plane of wisdom because they refuse and deny reality itself.”

Such individuals may perceive, but not realize that the biggest crack in fundamentalism is its inability to see anything past itself.

POINT: No matter what people say and regardless of how seasoned your wounds are with sodium chloride, the fact remains that we’re all always on the outlook for people we can connect with.

So be kind and put a pin on your lecturer’s or boss’s chair tomorrow. >:)

Pix from Google Images. Lazy wanna attribute every single pix.

During our discussion of Hurston in literature class, our professor wrote this on the board in prompt response to a student who subtly suggested (to my horror) that the above may be justified in the name of love.

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Matt: What is it about the previous passage that speaks so strongly to you?

QS: 1 Corinthians 13:4

Matt: That’s cliched. Answer me.

QS: Give yourself a better answer for your rhetorical question.

Matt: Right. Move on, dude, that was so 2009.

QS: Uh-huh, you’re one to talk about this now, tough guy. But we have, haven’t we.

Matt: Yup, somewhat. Looking back, don’t you think it’s like driving down a familiar highway or strolling on your favorite stretch of beach? You remember the place well, but you remember better the thoughts you had and the emotions you felt.

QS: You talking about “爱”? ‘Cause I ain’t gonna taint that word, do a Woods and a Pitt, and make headlines in the media.

Matt: No, random shithead, I’m not Eros. I’m talking about the the damp footprints on the sand we left when we stepped out of the waves.

QS: Good. ‘Cause our narrative will never fully qualify, and I’ll laugh at the sight of Puritan America chasing your ass if you start. But yes. Our fair share of lessons - wet lies, hurts, self-crushing sacrifices and salt-laden memories. But we’re able to stare these in the face now, no?

Matt: Uh-huh. But don’t ya think we’re getting a lil’ bit too abstract here for our readers? Boy what a sobby-candy-fluffy conversation.

QS: Ah well, we’re not alone, partner. But we’ll let Hurston explain - she’s better than both of us and our genius combined.

Matt: Agreed.

“Ah know all dem sitters-and-talkers gointuh worry they guts into fiddle strings till dey find out whut we been talkin’ ‘bout. Dat’s all right, Pheoby, tell ‘em. Dey gointuh make ‘miration ‘cause mah love didn’t work lak they love, if dey ever had any. Then you must tell ‘em dat love ain’t somethin’ lak uh grindstone dat’s de same thing everywhere and do de same thing tuh everything it touch. Love is lak de sea. It’s uh movin’ thing, but still and all, it takes its shape from de shore it meets, and it’s different with every shore.”

- Zora Neale Hurston in Their Eyes Were Watching God

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Pix from LostTreasure.com.au