Too Much Information

Saturday, 30 June 2007

MidniteLily's decision to (maybe) attend the latest round of Readings spiced up what was becoming a monthly routine - depending on the circumstances. There were certainly a few new faces among the attendees, but she was nowhere to be seen.

It was still a memorable affair, though. For reasons good and bad.

Good, because of two celebrity writers: David Byck, and Andre Vltchek. There seems to be at least one luminary among the readers for each session, which contributes a great deal to the main goal of Readings: encouraging writing talent.

Byck stood out because of how my attention was drawn to his book a few weeks back at MPH MidValley for some reason I could not fathom. It's A Long Way to The Floor brings to mind the recollections of a CEO who has gone back to his roots, not a story of someone's path to discovering yoga. Yogis, as far as I can tell, stay real close to the ground.

Good, because Sharon, the emcee and a major driving force behind the organisation of the event, took her turn at the mike and did not disappoint. It is, in addition, a great boost to her credentials as a teacher of creative writing.

So, why the bad? Well, "bad" wasn't exactly the word I wanted to use...

"...the nose, that organ located halfway between your eyes and mouth... that very useful organ, good for smelling and most of all, digging..."

What - the - hell?

"...yes, nose digging is such a relaxing activity, does not harm the environment or endangered species, a great way to pass the time, unsurpassed by anything else, except maybe..."

The revelation that followed drew mixed reactions from the crowd. I knew at that point I shouldn't be in the room. But it only got weirder from there. The mental overload that started with the recitation on the benefits of nose-digging kept me rooted to the spot like a stroke - without the debilitating side effects. It didn't help that my own nose was itching towards the end.

I wanted to sink into the floor. Get struck by lightning. Be attended to by Dr Kervorkian. Meld into one of the abstract paintings on the walls. Anything. Just get me out of here!

It was later revealed that the author had written all that himself (in Malay) and passed it off as the fevered mumblings of a man dying of some obscure cancer. I'm still conflicted over whether it was "bad", extremely funny, or both.

Milestones

I've settled my first car loan. All the documents need now is the stamp from the Road Transport Department.

Just last month, I lowered my credit card balance to more manageable levels (meaning, can be cleared with just one payment).

When one thinks about it, the passing of time is more tangible when money's involved.

They Wanted Blood For This?

Everyone should be familiar with the food warning label, "May contain traces of nuts". When you're Hannibal Lecter, that takes on a whole new meaning.

Salman Rushdie got knighted.

The author of novels like Midnight's Children and Shalimar the Clown is, unfortunately, more known for that book with the inflammatory title, The Satanic Verses. Entire nations wanted him dead because of the perceived insults to Islam the book represents.

That clarion call has been repeated when word spread that Rushdie would soon join the ranks of other luminaries like Cliff Richard and Elton John. A price was put on his head (again). British ambassadors were called up (like children sent to the principal's) to "explain". There were brief episodes of effigy-burning and rage-filled calls for blood.

One of these firebrands is the Pakistani Religious Affairs Minister, who attacked the decision, adding that acts like these justified suicide bombings (a slip of the tongue he later retracted). What caught my attention, however, was what Iran's First Deputy Speaker had to say.

"The British monarch lives under this illusion that Britain is still a 19th Century superpower and that bestowing titles is something still deemed important."

It's mind-boggling that such wisdom can't pre-empt the anger over what he says is an illusion.

And the Muslim world's reaction gives Rushdie's knighthood the significance (and enormity) it does not deserve.

When Museums Make You Stupid

I rarely go to museums, generally because they are just so inaccessible, even during weekends. But when I do, I expect an education. So it's funny (at first) to have museums dedicated to wilful stupidity.

John Scalzi, the sci-fi writer who has a reputation for "taunting the tauntable", has been mercilessly egged on by his readers and colleagues to visit and write about the shrine to the Darwin-bashing ideology that emerged from the soul-searching that came about when Americans realised that not everybody loves them.

Among the revelations put forth by the institution are the fact that the earth is actually 6,000 years old, as opposed to the 4.5 billion I read about when I was a kid; there were no such things as "predators"; and that all animals were vegetarians until Adam and Eve were chased out of Eden.

And the fearsome tyrannosaurus rex once ate coconuts.

I'm staring to pity the once-fabled king of dinosaurs. First were the theories that it wasn't the super predator of the Cretaceous, but a plodding, over-sized reptilian vulture. Then they discovered that its descendant might be the lowly chicken. Now this. Talk about libelling the dead.

While I did have a good laugh over the Photoshopping done by Scalzi's readers, amusement soon gave way to rage. It's one thing to lobotomise yourself and replace that grey matter with the Scriptures. When you try to do that to other people (ostensibly, to "save" them from eternal damnation), it's another matter entirely.

Like it or hate it, the US has contributed a lot to our understanding of science and the world around us. When a community rejected the inclusion of Creationism in their schools (to Pat Robertson's chagrin), I cheered. Loudly. So it's quite a wrench for me to watch these self-righteous tripe-peddling loons take advantage of the freedom of speech to tell the world just how weird they are, and that their weirdness is truth.

Religion and politics is a dangerous mix, as we can see in the news. Religion and knowledge is only slightly less so. A line must be drawn in the sand between the two, and right now.

Don't Ever Count On Tomorrow

Tomorrow.

An oft-used invocation that would hopefully stay the hands of time and fate, and ensure that everything for the said appointment or deadline will be there the next day - or the day after - when you could be bothered to attend to it.

But as I realised, tomorrow is often unreliable, especially when you want it to be.

"You read my blog?!" ChiQ gasped. That was June 2005, after I had asked about the "rough patch" I'd read about in her BlogSpot blog. She looked shocked, even - happy, to learn that a reader, a total stranger, had cared enough to ask. Her round, cheerful face betrayed nothing.

That was the first and last time we met.

Because she walked out on Tomorrow - and on all of us.

Hey, guys. Take care, will you? Don't do anything stupid. I'd rather lose all of you to old age.

When Wordsmiths Gather

The latest Readings session was well-attended, and had the atmosphere of a gathering of martial arts experts. Both the founding mothers of Readings, Sharon Bakar and Bernice Chauly were present, and even a crouching tiger and hidden dragon had come out to play.

---

"Hello, I'm Kenny."

I rummaged through my memory. "Kenny Mah," I blurted out in recognition.

The poor fellow nearly jumped out of his skin. Apparently this happens to him a lot.

He should have expected it, though.

Virtually everyone at the gathering shared a connection with Sharon. They were either commentors on Bibliobibuli, or in some way involved in the local literature/poetry scene. So it wasn't too hard to deduce that this fellow "A" is actually "A" of "B" from the "C" blog, and so on. This was a closely-knit group that would give a Freemasons' lodge a run for its money.

---

Never judge a person by how he opens a wine bottle.

When I first met him Nicholas Wong was not doing very good job. My opinion of him was fairly neutral, but he didn't impress me. So when Sharon rattled off his achievements as an introduction to his turn at the microphone I was stunned. There were awards, prizes, and published works and interviews. The boy was as decorated as a knight of the Round Table.

And if that wasn't enough, Sharon told us that the veteran poet Wong Phui Nam, whom she had trouble inviting to Readings, agreed to come only if Nicholas was coming to read.

Me? I fared a lot worse. I had nearly ruined a bottle of wine. His cork extraction skills, however, has since improved.

Don't Count On Tomorrow

The cheery atmosphere of an Internet chat was shaken by news of a murder. It brought home the realisation that such tragedies don't just "happen to other people".

Gloomy thoughts on mortality dragged me out of my shell and into the real world, which laughed, shook its head and sometimes cheered my attempts in seizing those swiftly-moving days. Even before the latest round of bad news, the passing of several personalities had already given "Project Get-A-Life" an added sense of urgency.

I hated the fact that one day, I won't be able to see, hear, smell or taste all the things that I've come - and will come - to love and enjoy so much: blue skies, turquoise oceans, colourful works of art and pretty faces; flowers, spices, and the scent from the nape of my partner's neck; new and old favourite songs and familiar voices.

There are other new things that I'm sure I'll miss someday.

Yvonne waving at me with a smile on her face after picking me out of a crowd (with only one good eye).

Irene's throaty laugh when she hears a good joke, or when the joke's on me.

FunnyBunny getting all animated as she recounts her latest (mis)adventures.

Wildguy's sardonic observations of things around him and the wild, wild ideas that sprout like weeds from his criminal mind.

Mom's cooking and Dad's dry curry.

All of that, and more, will come to an end. And I'm taking in as much as I can before my time comes. We don't need to wait till we're down with a terminal illness, or when someone's put a contract out on us.

If you see me a little too often at a particular event, a food joint or venue, or find me gatecrashing one party too many, hold your snide remarks about me being some fixture or unwelcome guest. I'm there for the experience, and for you guys as well. Because our lifetimes are much shorter - and more precious - than we think they are.

Yet some people still hang on to the past, flog dead horses or obsess over race or religion. Do they think they'll live forever? Or have they merely lost their way?