Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Archive for March 2009

The Girl in the Window

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David Raho (the writer of the poignant short story: Lucy the Girl in the Window) just found out his work had been plagiarised into a short film — with product placement for Schweppes!

Patrick Hughes has a lot to explain.

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I love Schweppes’ Ginger Beer -_-

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Written by cthulhu

March 31, 2009 at 3:11 am

No Warm July (Earth), No Libra Sun

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Hafiz - Sun and Earth

Even after all this time the sun never says to the earth, "You owe me." Look what happens with a love like that, it lights the whole sky. -- Hafiz, a persian poet of the 1300 century.

Written by cthulhu

March 28, 2009 at 10:08 am

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes

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It was 1998. During my second reading of Watchmen, I finally concurred that the most defining moment in Watchmen graphic novel is at Chapter VI – The Abyss Gazes Also.

The Rorschach test.

What can you see?

As Dr. Maclom asked Walter Joseph Kovacs a.k.a Rorschach.

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Stood in street. Watched it burn.

Imagined limbless felt torsos inside; breasts blackening; bellies smoldering; bursting into flame one by one.

Watched for an hour.

Nobody got out.

Stood in firelight, sweltering. Blood stain on chest like map of violent new continent.

Felt cleansed. Felt dark planet turn under my feet and knew what cats know that makes them scream like babies in night.

Looked at sky through smokeheavy with human fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever, and we are alone.

Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later.

Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves ; go into oblivion.

There is nothing else.

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long.

This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs.

It’s us.

Only us.

Street stanks of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them.

Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world.

Was Rorschach.

Does that answer your questions, doctor?

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[Dinner didn’t go very well.]

Randy: So, Mal, how are things going with this famous masked maniac of yours?

Diana: Oh, yes, tell us. Has he told you anything weird or kinky yet?

Dr. Malcom: Yes. Yes, he has. Today he told me about a girl who got kidnapped.

Diana: Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea right now…

Randy: Oh, boy! Was she tied up and gagged and helpless?

Gloria: RAN-DEE!

Dr. Malcom: No. She was six. Her abductor killed her, butchered her and fed her to his German Shepherds.

[Silence]

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We are alone.

There is nothing else.

Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster,
and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche (1844–1900), German philosopher and poet.

Rorschach, Shat

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Among the topics that cropped up during the thirty or so minutes I spent on the phone was about my recent bitter writings. That wasn’t the main purpose of the call, but it took up most of the half-hour conversation. A barrage of wh- questions, a rough analysis, and a promise to dissect things further at a later time after we have said goodbye.

I got home, and began thinking of what we had talked about earlier in the day. I wonder how many people know me? I know that I can be in your face, that I toss cuss words around a lot, that I can be overtly sensitive when I shouldn’t be, that I can be loud at unnecessary times, et cetera et cetera.

But does that make me who I am?

Do you judge me, categorize me, consciously or unconsciously treat me based on the noise I make? Do you think that this is all I am?

Because I don’t choose to be quiet or as reserved with certain people I feel comfortable with, and I tell them a lot of things about what goes on in my life, I wonder if these people think that there is nothing left to me on another level. Sure, I can be more public about certain things that I go through or happen to me than you are willing to divulge, but I hope you do know that that’s not everything I’m made of. All those things barely cover the surface of what I feel and am. I understand that the persona I project might lead you to think that once I spill my guts about a certain something to you, you probably think that I have no secrets left, that my life has been ironed out and spread thinly out in front of you.

Well, of course you’re wrong to believe that.

I hoard secrets like it’s nobody’s damn business. I fucking well won’t let my life be pored over and studied by another person, hell no. Admittedly when I get sad and all weepy, or highly charged up with anger and frustration and what I’d like to think of as passion, I spit out those feelings like bullets from a gun.

The whole world, or almost the whole world, is able to know that I’m not a good place at that particular moment. I don’t hide a couple or more things well, but I am good at keeping hush on most things that happen in my life. Because of my ramblings about this and that and whatever that’s in between, I hate how certain people compartmentalize me along with the people who truly tell all to everyone. I’m nowhere near that, but alas, it’s in this manner which I’m viewed as many a time.

Perhaps you think that I run to the boyfriend or the close friends or to you, even, when I need to burst out and ‘feel better’. To a certain extent, I do tell these people about my personal going-on, but the amount that I tell them is far from a lot. Because no other human being knows the actual depth of the emotions I feel and each and every incident that has ever happened to me, I loathe the people who claim that they ‘know me’, when they don’t know a thing.

Don’t stereotype noisy people as public people.

A thought came to me earlier; it just might be that God gave me a cold demeanour and this aloof expression (as I have been told countless times by countless people) because only He knows how many things I keep under the surface of my skin, apart from myself. With friends, I can be and most likely am, the coarse one of the bunch.

My tongue can give a lashing too, but if you get used to me you would know that I find sharp words and sarcasm to be comedic. My humble opinion, you don’t have to bash me for it, but you are welcomed to disagree.

Anyway, my brief conversation yielded a name, and I have to honestly say that I was aghast at this person who jumped the gun and has taken it that I was upset with her in the past few days. She then, has taken in unto herself to quickly assemble a comeback, and she has made it public to boot.

My advice: don’t come to a hasty conclusion until you’re certain that a jab is aimed at you.

I was disappointed more than angry when I found out what she had to say about me, and what hurts me more is that she said all those condescending things only because she thought my rage-fuelled post or posts was/were about her. I was, and still am, terribly sad that we’ve come to such a pathetic point. We both stand in this invisible negative circle, and it righteously sucks. I really am saddened that she is thinking what she is thinking, and me being me, I have a little feisty anger inside me too. But I won’t entertain it this time, because I think, what’s the point? I could be a wee bit too soft and therefore be crazily wounded by what she had to say in regards to me, but I keep telling myself that this could be a foul-tasting coincidence too. She just might be referring to someone else, couldn’t she? Because the both of us didn’t drop names and all that shit. but I’m saying this only to soothe myself, and I’m more than pretty sure that I got my facts straight already.

Life is full of oopses, so it’s not entirely impossible for this to be another one of those hiccups. I trust her to strike up a conversation with me on a later date, or vice versa, and to talk about this. If she really thought that my bitter rants were about her, she should know then, that they weren’t. I would ask her too if she was referring to me in a negative light, and find out the truth. If we truly are friends and not just forgettable acquaintances, we would come forth about this matter and be civil about it. It’s not impossible that we just happen to be in the same room at this point in time, and that we won’t be in the same room at a later date as life goes on. (Edit: rooms, as in, metaphorical rooms, people. Please understand that here, literal is out the window. Thank you.)

But why harbour unnecessary bad moments, or hope that they’ll just pass us by? I find nothing wrong with bringing them to the table if need be, and talking about them over coffee. If this was a blah chapter and I foresee no serious impact from it, then I would brush it off. But it’s not. Read: it’s not.
The girl on the phone told me that my relationship with the person in question is comical in a way and exasperating in the rest, and I agree. When you do care about someone, you’re less afraid to hate them, because somewhere in you, you have the faith that when morning comes, everything will come whole again by unspoken natural means or spoken man-made ones.

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Entry from Elly’s “I got a call this afternoon”, reformatted into subsection and without the E. E. Cummings’ lower case form. She writes in freestyle, without convention of ground rule, and that’s how her idea flows effortlessly.

I just discovered the freestyle method during my last writing seminar the past few days (even though the core course is technical writing). Yet, to lump it all into one textual paragraph isn’t that visually pleasing to the eyes – and its white font on black background is perceptibly traumatic. That colour scheme alone is enough to make anyone to balk from the blog, hence the format amendment.

Elly’s didn’t mean the diatribe for her friend, while I did vent it all out on the last post to a ‘friend’. While I did point out the most ridiculous statement out of context as sarcasm that comes with a little warning, that would make any sane myopic to get focused only to the selected idea.

The zeitgeist of the acerbic rancour is there only to express my bitterness, not to judge ‘her’. She should know better about my past, since she’s been a confidante for such a long time. The response to the selective idea is supposed to be ironic, but taken as being demonic.

I overlook her biological factor that might be the reason as the burning ember of animosity toward me. That cycle of crimson tempest evaded my thought at that time. For that I apologise.

Here’s for another admission of guilt after unanswered sms, e-mail and phone call – I’m sorry for going berserk over petty confusion. Although I must insist that mass-sms couldn’t induced massive hysteria especially when it only mention perishable goods, and the recipients is only among 3-4 person to even considered as a mass spam.

Check your house post-box in a week or two.

It’s not an apology gift. I already bought it a month ago.

Remember the 6 month hiatus from the terra-firma last year till January 2009? I won’t be spared from that ill-fated job (although handsomely paid with 5 figures cheque) this year too.

It’s for the 6th May anniversary – yeah, it’s the last one.

I won’t be there during your engagement. I’m not even there for you the last 6 month offshore and the last 6 month before I’m offshore.

We already drifted too far apart.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls…
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.

Kahlil Gibran (1883–1931), Lebanese-born U.S. mystic, painter, and poet. The Prophet.

Written by cthulhu

March 6, 2009 at 1:01 am

don’t call me selfish

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when you yourself can’t even take a portion of your afternoon to be there for me. don’t call me selfish when you have to resort to picking up pieces from the past just to make your case. don’t call me selfish when a nap is more important to you than being there for me at a time when i could find nobody else. it is you, my not so dear, who are being selfish. thank you for wrapping up my day with this taste on my tongue.

The post was deleted from Elly’s blog — was it out of regret?

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Yeah, I got it from the cache. Thanks, for the Love Stories #1.

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And, yes. Having to wait at Seremban’s commuter train station during weekend is pain in the ass. At one time, her bro boarding the commuter train to KL and back at noon; and I’m still sitting there on that excruciating bench!

Written by cthulhu

March 2, 2009 at 4:53 am

Everclear, Never Clear

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Some people can conjure mean things when they don’t get what they want. They start to do shit like your friend did, or starting to say something along the line ‘you owe me a lot’ and blabla RM blabla.

That’s quite rich from someone who takes most of selective statement from me as mere rhetorical expression.

First, she got pretty adamant with the value of her reply is binding with valid form of citation. Which I didn’t stated it electronically (in the oh-so-public Facebook with selected circle of friends, micro-blogging of Twitter or Tumblr, or even wordpress), but I did in written form in my moleskine — which also was questioned by her the need to keep a written journal on Moleskine.

Second, the whole fiasco about a simple thing as receiving one “mass sms” and being resolute with my other text afterward as being exact copy to others. Do I have to elaborate things like: “I’m boarding my plane to the plane of echolalia.” Or do I have to make a creative writing on the passing of loved one, just to be unique per messages?

Third, what part of sarcasm she doesn’t realized when I mention about monetary depreciation in tandem with this statement:

It’s easier to make the argument worse by divulging financial losses. That’s when alimony issues arise.

It’s a non-sequitur irony to the power of null. Equal to ONE simple comprehension. And yes, I do keep track of my expenses on my Excel Spreadsheet since last 5 years. Like my dad said (who did financial auditing and accounting before he retired):

Buat kira-kira, tapi jangan berkira.

Count the penny, don’t be pinchpenny.

I don’t think it’s Ebenezer Scrooge paranoia when my last relationship I got £1700 cheque somewhere in her bank account — for working visa to UK. That’s quite a lot in RM, you know. I’m not an offspring of Sarawakian Timber Towkey.

When someone request an amount of cash as a loan. It didn’t suppose to mean ex gratia even if it’s given with bona fide. What am I, a pro bono dunce?

An increase in monetary gain can always put us in a different kind of perspective. A new sight of people can always put us to see things in different way. We become more stingy [stingier?] even if we earn much more than what we used to. We become vain when we don’t look like we used to. We become proud when we are not in the level that we used to. We become heartless even we used to be humble.

If I can get away with my bank with these “empathetic angst” everytime they ask me to pay my credit card. I’m scot-free.

Am I always this angry? Only on the internet. As angry as An Irritable Panda.

By the way, in that successful publicised notes on facebook amongst her closest friends and saints, the Everclear’s I Will Buy You A New Life lyrics is the epitome of irony when she “conjure mean things when she don’t get (understood) what the reality wanted”

Here is the money that I owe you 

So you can pay the bills

I will give you more when I get paid again

I hate those people who love to tell you

Money is the root of all that kills

To malign me as Ebenezer Scrooge is one thing, being demonised as Shylock, The Merchant of Venice is the demon of all miser.

I can stand Charles Dickens, but William Shakespeare? Not cool. Let’s play “empathetic angst” game, me as the Shylock — the heartless creditor.

SHYLOCK: Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions, fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

— William Shakespeare (1564–1616), English poet and playwright. The Merchant of Venice, Act 3, Scene 1.

Oh, please. Don’t spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. Yes, I notice the irony of this too.

LORENZO: How every fool can play upon the word!

William Shakespeare (1564–1616), English poet and playwright. The Merchant of Venice, Act 3, Scene 5.

Did I ever ask for a pound of flesh? Yes, in a perverted way — Bar Refaeli!

I’m a faux Jew, and I love the Israeli model; Bar Refaeli (בר רפאלי). I had been looking for the 2009 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition at the Borders and MPH without avail. Oh, how I heart thee, international Zionist celebrity. I wish I could savour her as I sipped my equally Zionist Starbucks’ Caramel Macchiato at the Borders — whom the barrista at the The Gardens keep pronouncing the name with phlegmy pseudo-american accent. WHeip? WHeup? Oh, Whip Cream. Laila? Pardon my mate(s), for he/she hardly assent to your barista pretentiousness.

I wish I didn’t have to resort being this divulging. Yet Moleskine written journal is indistinct inside the black cahier bind.

Oh, f*ck, now my FB friends know this wordpress link (or maybe not).

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Caveat: The gravity of this entry can be taken selectively e.g. I’m a pro-Semitic capitalist or I’m an irritable panda in real life. Be free to reconcile with mutual kiss-and-forget or retaliation with nondescript monologue.

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Look ma, I can do “mass note(s)” too.