Citation

"Être écrivain, c'est être seul." [To be a writer is to be alone.]

Jean d'Ormesson, romancier, journaliste, Immortel (1925-)

A bit of everything

 

Quote (don't give it to me, it's been quite a while)

"The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives."


Albert Schweitzer, philosopher, physician and musician (1875-1965)

Hi guys, here's a newer version of the chronology, with added sites and updated links. Yet again, if you can chip in, amend, update, fell free to comment and/or yell your discontent. Chronology of the Oldest Sites, Ruins, Temples, Structures Etc. in the World

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night

Hi guys,

Today, I'm starting a whole new series. I'll be adding up as I go along and meet gems. So I guess that the quantity that I will add depends on the progression rate of humankind. By 'progression' I really meant 'regression', and if you ask me, a good few people would agree with me. Let's cross out 'good', right?

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night

I have always been dumbfounded by the very short-term memory of men who dry their hands after making pee-pee – that is, they have completely forgotten to wash their hands in the first place, as if toilets were the cleanest places in our modern world.

We really fail to recognise the gen(i)us of the homo automobilis who not only swerves onto the same lane of an incoming pedestrian, but accelerates.

Surpassing him in stupidity might undeniably be the pre-pubescent brat or the pre-adolescent pimple-ish jejune fille who is wearing outrageous make-up that would deter even the most ruttish mandrill baboon and who unashamedly allows her phone to play that latest Lady Gaga ringtone full blast in a cinema and then picks up the phone to resume the savvy narration of the latest piece of gossip her friend could lay her hand on.

Another palatable delicacy is served by the mosquito who basely awaits the cover of night to lash out at any patch of skin we might have foolishly left uncovered. Which triggers the question: “What could be more nerve-racking than a mosquito hovering an inch above your ear?” To which I would answer: “It would be knowing that there is a mosquito hovering an inch above your ear but no longer hearing it buzz” – which means either landing on the said patch of skin (I defy anyone to deny having then slapped his or her face with forceful rage) or the desertion because of the absence of said patch of skin. The incommoding itchiness and rash one commonly experiences a few minutes later sadly points out to the former.

People who light a cigarette right under a “No Smoking” sign make me go bananas. They cannot only read, they also cannot feign casualness convincingly. The rogues smirk. I could shove the aforementioned cigarette up their nostril.

If someone could come up with a simple, one-step guide on how to walk in a crowd, I would do whatever is in my power to have him or her canonised. People usually roam the malls just like they visit a museum: mildly interested as they are by the exhibits, they might approach the caption in a genuine effort to know what's going on inside that frame but lo! they suddenly step back, abruptly change direction or stop and stare in every direction like a chicken that has just found a knife, clearly disorientated by the amount of reading the naive curator expects them to do. Needless to say that they usually disrupt the flow of the perambulation, i.e. bump into you and give you the same look as a rabbit caught in the headlights' glare. They usually reassure themselves by rushing off to the nearest highlight available, i.e. the grand opening sale at the new Gap outlet.

People who pass in front of everyone in a queue because they are “busy” should be kindly reminded that apes and chimpanzees – as have many species, but I picked apes and chimps as they will prove my point in a more efficacious way as they are deemed “stupid” and “irrelevant” by those same people – have a millennial sense of order and an innate discipline.

So-called uptown girls carrying a handbag the size of a two-week-holiday suitcase would only look ridiculous were it not for their high, infuriating propensity at giggling, gloating and making loud borborygmi while sipping the last dregs of a Mocha Frappuccino with their straw at a Starbucks terrace.

Poodles have been used as gun-dogs for hundreds of years – may I ask where did man go wrong, as nowadays most poodles seem to have lost both their survival instinct entirely, along with their self-esteem? Could it be because their loins are clipped bare and clad in briefs, that their paws are shod with genuine leather shoes? Where are now the barking packs of poodles roaming the Wild?

Men picking their nose whilst they think no one is looking is another feature that would have me climb up the curtains. They would indeed be excused, thinking they were going about their business unnoticed, only if the said business were taking less than five minutes, if they weren't so carefully and conscientiously inspecting their findings, i.e. the sticky content of their nasal cavities and if they did not try to discard the said sticky content in some conspicuous location near us. Rarely are those three conditions unfulfilled.

The pigeons, usually the club-footed, the one-legged, the bandy-legged, the one-eyed and the just-been-hit-by-a-bus specimens, which flock at strategic locations to wilfully – I maintain it and I'm ready to prove my point to anyone in situ – shell whatever is under them may receive the palm of the species bearing the closest resemblance to some human beings, minus the survival instinct, much alike that of the aforementioned poodle. I. Hate. Pigeons.

Distortion from Jacobo Serra on Vimeo.

Hidden

Hidden is the meaning behind the words.

Inscriptions chiseLled in the wind-beaten rocks,

Núra I erumessë yassë ilya coivië ná fantaina quildenen.

Some hidden God is bidding its time.

?&#g&*#c& w/‹‹ b& h/s, ߆†#. Pu#/∫&d sh*‹‹ b& th& cr/m&.

Soon means notHing shorter Than an Aeon when one is eterNal.

HiDDen Away in the parchments is the Revelation.

It was decrypted from clay tablets by a great mind,

ˎhturt eht edrehpic dna rorrim a htiw etorw ohW

بحيث لا شيء ولكن الباحث المثابرة تكشف عن ذلك.

... --- -- . -.-. .- .-.. .-.. .. - .-.. .. --. .... - --..-- --- - .... . .-. ... -.-. .- .-.. .-.. .. - - .-. ..- - .... .-.-.-

16-15-61-118-1744-2113-21-219/20-201-1722-31-1010-?-212-?-1140/41-(1168x2)-179-310-2342/41-128-?-111-109-?-11-1015-?-712-126-513-115-?-2041-141

SecretS lying in the Alpha or in images of Ra

Gátur og leyndardóma sem hylja fyrir okkur.

MEssages are thought to riddle the nights –

Patterns draWn by the hand of Fate Itself –

Shapes withiN shapes like Déjà-vu or déjà-su

Superimpositions Of the details none notices

But those Who stare at the Space between The pictures.

oN tHE OThER SIDE OF THE ELeMENTS

Lie the mute constellations orienting to the TRUTH.

Nota bene: Treasures are worth both the efforts put in their concealment and the magnitude of the codes that seal them. Human hearts obey the same laws.

Somebody, Somewhere.

Somebody, somewhere, is banging her toe against the foot of a table, laughing and crying at the same time.

Somebody, somewhere, is forcing himself to eat spinach because his grandma is watching him lovingly.

Somebody, somewhere, is cheating on her husband for the first, and last, time.

Somebody, somewhere, is going back home from work.

Somebody, somewhere, is starving to death.

Somebody, somewhere, is getting married.

Somebody, somewhere, is having sex because he feels lonely.

Somebody, somewhere, is vomiting because of an over-consumption of alcohol, yet again.

Somebody, somewhere, is embarking on a two-year tour around the globe.

Somebody, somewhere, is winning the lottery.

Somebody, somewhere, is losing his job.

Somebody, somewhere, is giving birth.

Somebody, somewhere, is doing the dishes, sobbing and trying to forget her black eye.

Somebody, somewhere, is being raped. She will be murdered too.

Somebody, somewhere, is baking a birthday cake for his seven-year-old daughter.

Somebody, somewhere, has been playing a video game for the past twenty-four hours.

Somebody, somewhere, is sniffing cocaine.

Somebody, somewhere, is actually speaking with the girl he has been infatuated in for the past three years.

Somebody, somewhere, is discovering his passion for the piano

Somebody, somewhere, is dreaming she is dreaming.

Somebody, somewhere, is watching a DVD with her boyfriend on a sofa, wrapped in a comforter like a burrito.

Somebody, somewhere, is going back home after twenty years of absence.

Somebody, somewhere, is making a life-changing decision.

Somebody, somewhere, is raping a woman. He will kill her too.

Somebody, somewhere, is reading the newspaper, comfortably seating on a swing, tutting.

Somebody, somewhere, is writing a poem to his dead lover.

Somebody, somewhere, is swimming with a Galapagos turtle.

Somebody, somewhere, is losing a friend because he did not apologise.

Somebody, somewhere, has just found a lost letter on the ground. That letter will never be sent.

Somebody, somewhere, is entering the Highlands of Scotland, stunned by their beauty.

Somebody, somewhere, is learning Magyar because of Sàndor Màrai.

Somebody, somewhere, is taking a blood test for HIV.

Somebody, somewhere, is taking a picture of Machu Picchu.

Somebody, somewhere, is presiding over a family dinner. They are thirteen, all holding hands.

Somebody, somewhere, is feeling the Southeasterly wind on his face, steering his ship on the Pacific ocean. He is smiling.

Somebody, somewhere, is sentenced to life imprisonment for acts of barbary.

Somebody, somewhere, is discovering a piano genius.

Somebody, somewhere, is bribing her way up the ladder.

Somebody, somewhere, is hoping to find the answer to the origin of the Universe.

Somebody, somewhere, is considering suicide as a way out.

Somebody, somewhere, is having a sane, right-on-the-dot bowel movement.

Somebody, somewhere, is hiding from Interpol.

Somebody, somewhere, is pulling a net full of glistening fish onto his outrigger canoe.

Somebody, somewhere, has just mis-sent an SMS to the wrong person.

Somebody, somewhere, is witnessing his dreams being shattered right before his eyes. He cannot do anything to prevent it.

Somebody, somewhere, is calling his oncologist with his heart pounding in his chest.

Somebody, somewhere, is eating her apple-a-day.

Somebody, somewhere, is falling in love.

Somebody, somewhere, is writing a complaint letter to KFC.

Somebody, somewhere, is lying on his bed, masturbating, thinking of his Maths teacher.

Somebody, somewhere, begins to believe in a God.

Somebody, somewhere, is ostensibly picking his nose on the bus.

Somebody, somewhere, is becoming somebody, somewhere.

Somebody, somewhere, is telling a story to her grandchildren, by the fireside.

Somebody, somewhere, is listening to Beethoven's String Quartet #14 in C sharp minor, opus 131, first movement “Adagio, ma non troppo e molto espressivo” and having goosebumps.

Somebody, somewhere, is eating spaghettis, standing alone by the kitchen sink.

Somebody, somewhere, is stealing secret information for the benefit of a nation.

Somebody, somewhere, is copiously insulting his car which has just broken down. He thinks he is going to miss his plane, but he will not, due to an unusual delay at the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.

Somebody, somewhere, is contriving an explosive device.

Somebody, somewhere, is stepping into the Sistine Chapel.

Somebody, somewhere, is caring for someone.

Somebody, somewhere, is weeding her garden, rain or shine.

Somebody, somewhere, is downloading music illegally.

Somebody, somewhere, is unearthing the femur of a dinosaur.

Somebody, somewhere, is at the centre of a pentagram, calling out the demon Sephiroth.

Somebody, somewhere, is cheating at an examination. She will fail nonetheless.

Somebody, somewhere, is becoming a slave because his mother is a slave.

Somebody, somewhere, falls prey to the end-of-the-season sales in GAP.

Somebody, somewhere, is bleeding to death on the pavement, run over by a hit-and-run driver on a pedestrian crossing. The green light for cars has just turned red.

Somebody, somewhere, is crossing his fingers and eyes, entrusting his fate to hope.

Somebody, somewhere, at the exact same instant you read this line.

One day, I'll quote myself

"Clear thinking requires courage rather than intelligence."


Thomas Szasz (born 1920), author, professor of psychiatry

Today 709

What is it that you want from us, Officer?

Do you want us to remove our shirts?

Is the yellow colour offending you?

We could have chosen white, you know,

As we wanted people to see how clean life can and should be.

But yellow means something more to us Malaysians, isn't it?

Do you not remember, Officer?

You who was born in the same country as us?

The same blood runs in our veins,

No matter the colour of our shirts or of our skins.

The dark of our pupils remains the same.

We tread the same earth.

We may not speak the same language, that is true,

But that is because we were confused.

This can be mended, quite easily.

 

So Officer, brandishing his truncheon at us,

What is it that you really want from us?

Do you want to confiscate our Identity Card?

Do you want to snatch our home, our wife and children?

Do you want to take our job, our salary?

Or do you eye our nasi lemak?

We'll gladly share our plate with you, Officer,

But we cannot give you what makes us who we are.

Perhaps we are mistaken: it is our life that you want.

So many of our brothers have been silenced,

Imprisoned, exiled, beaten to an inch of death –

And beyond, sometimes.

Warmongering dwells in the hearts of those who lead us.

Vanity poisons their thoughts.

Those are transient feelings though, they will pass.

 

Those who lead us, Officer, those who command you,

Are guilty only of letting the fear of tomorrow take hold of them.

Taking away our eggs before they're hatched,

Fining us whilst we have done nothing,

Sheltering us on the bare ground with just corrugated iron

Above our head while our leaders need splendid homes of stone,

All this needs no retaliation. We understand it was done out of fear.

Yet fear has never saved anyone from harm.

Fear must stop ruling their heart. Hope must emerge.

 

Officer, beating your bludgeon on your shield won't scare us off.

No. We will march nonetheless, so what do you want?

What are those orders you were given?

Our Identity Card gives us rights:

The right to speak, the right to vote, the right of assembly,

Among others.

We strive to exercise those rights, yet our leaders want something else.

They want us to bear the yoke in silence.

They want us to see what and how they see.

They want to have us believe theirs is the only way out,

The only way to defeat tomorrow and its lures,

Its pitfalls, its graves.

They want the bumi to think they are the chosen people,

They have them believe they can eat out of their neighbour's plate.

And who wouldn't take a little extra, the leaders permitting, enticing even?

But bumi are not the chosen people.

Malaysians are. And Malaysians only.

For if Malaysia was not chosen,

It would only be another Sudan.

Yet Malaysia is different. None could tell otherwise without lying.

 

Now, Officer, has come for us the time to fight.

But you were mistaken, for our fight will be fought in peace.

We have no need to clench our fists, our tongues only shall we use.

 

We told you our rights, Officer, now we will tell you our duties.

We, like you, have the duty to seek and maintain peace.

We, like you, must help and guide anyone in need.

We all have the duty to decide on our own future and to balance

It with the future of the Nation we are constituting.

Both must stand in equipoise and our duty is to exercise

Our best judgement to keep the scales level.

 

Now take a good look at us, Officer.

We may not be the poorest people here in Malaysia.

But sometimes the poorest forget they still have something to lose,

Despite having lost their home, their dignity, their purpose.

Yet we are no different. It could be us.

It could be us burning on that motorbike at the dead of night.

It could be us on the way to the gallows.

It could be us mourning a murdered relative.

It could be us fighting to put bread on the table every day.

It could be us quarrying stones to buy our child's copybook.

It could be us starving and begging and sleeping in the streets.

It could be us losing our sense of direction.

Yet we are all, in one way or another, striving to make ends meet.

God willing, we have different fates,

God willing, we can alter our course.

 

So Officer, what do you expect from us?

Do you want us to go quietly back to our homes,

Forgetting our own fate, our neighbour's fate, even your own fate?

Do you want us to accept this state of things?

Do you want us to turn a blind eye to the future of our children?

We cannot, and we are sorry.

Today is the day we start opening people's eyes.

For you may have cracked down upon us

For these past two weeks already, Officer,

Yet you are only showing Malaysians,

And also the peoples of the world,

That something that should be white is darker than the night.

Some things should not have happened, yet they did, yet they do.

Finding a culprit is not our intent, pointing fingers is futile:

We just want to tread the path we should have taken long ago.

We just want people to stand an equal chance.

The judgement of a few should stop deciding the future of many.

 

Yet these are orders you follow, Officer.

It seems that you have no other choice.

We do not know what thoughts race through your mind

When you embrace your wife and children, back at home.

We do not know if you fear punishment or shame,

Or if you feel like betraying the country you love and serve

When you are ordered to quell our 'rebellion'.

Yet we too love and serve our country,

Or we wouldn't be here, on that side of the fence.

And rest assured this is no rebellion at all, Officer.

For you can see our hands open in the gesture of friendship.

 

We know that some seek war, anger festering in their heart.

They cannot see how things can be changed,
They cannot see other means to fight than fire, stone and blood.

They have lost faith in words and ideas.

They must be guided back to the road we are all taking now,

For they taint our message. This method cannot work.

 

So Officer, handcuffing us roughly with our head on the pavement,

What do you expect from today?

What do you expect from tomorrow?

Malaysians are waking up, can you not see?

Will you arrest them all?

We hear the sirens booming in the streets

And the helicopter hovering in the sky,

Yet they draw the attention of more and more people.

 

And you, men and women leading us?

What do you want from Malaysians?

Will you have them all flee their own country?

Will you have them grunt and sweat under a weary life?

Will you have them starve? Will you hang them all?

Will you ban the yellow colour from our memory?

You cannot, for it glows bright on our flag.

Will you see only gold in the blackness of your heart?

 

If you could just open your eyes,

You would see the blazing sun and the pale crescent of the moon,

You would see the swinging palm trees and the opened coconuts,

You would see the quiet sand and the quiet turtles,

You would see the grain of rice sticking on your fingertip.

You would see the rain clinging on the frond of the banana leaf.

You would see Malaysia as many have dreamt it.

You would see Malaysians marching hand in hand, today,

In peace, trying to reach harmony and mutual consent.

You would see the readiness to discuss and not to accuse,

You would see the willingness to move on.

You would hear, at the end of this day,

That Malaysia has a voice of promise,

That Malaysia has a choice to make, today,

Between what has been and what may be.

Yesterday was painful, we know it more than anyone,

Yet we will remember it as a lesson.

From today – and do not fear today – things will forever be different,

Because tomorrow needs not fear a new dawn

Because tomorrow we will all be Malaysians, again.

Today, noon, July 9th 2011, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia