The heat. The thirst. The fatigue. The tension & the silent, seething rage. Words best left unsaid for fear of rendering the sacrifices made null & void. The pleas for mercy & grace from the unseen Force whose presence is all too real. And finally, I can break the silence; not with clenched fists, grinding teeth or body bent out of shape in fits of catharsis ... but with a simple greeting of "Peace".
Ooh sparklers sparkling sparkly!
Eid mubarak. Eid feliz. Lykkelig Eid. Eid heureux. Selamat hari raya. In whichever language you say it.
Last week on Friday 13th July 2012, I played a gig. It was alright. I had fun but some people in the audience thought it wasn't so funny. I have no idea why.
If you won't come to the temple, the temple will come to you.
During the show, I used a number of stompboxes to get the effects necessary to facilitate and convey particular passages in the short set we did.
But one pedal I will never ever use again, is this one:
Turns awesome distortion power into whiny bitch. But no more!
A few weeks ago after a particularly gruelling "dance-off" in the afternoon, I gallivanted in the Eastern part of Singapore looking for something to eat. To make a short story even shorter I ended up in some offbeat-looking Muslim coffeeshop where they serve a very palatable version of a dish called "kacang phool".
For the uninitiated, it's a South-east asian bastardization of an Egyptian staple - "ful medammes". Whereas the Egyptian version consists of cooked and mashed fava beans served with olive oil, chopped parsley, onion,garlic, and lemon juice, the local version adds minced beef, curry powder, chillies & the triumvirate of onion, garlic & ginger to the fava bean base ingredient. All in all, a rather distinct but not much different dish from the Masry original. Distinto, pero no mucho diferente, as they say around here. Or maybe not.
Ful - The Egyptian's breakfast of champions!
Kacang phool - A Singaporean mutation!
Swimming Pool - A psycho-surrealistic Francois Ozon movie!
Uh…yeah.
Served with lightly toasted french loaf & the add-ons of a sunny side up egg, coarsely-chopped raw onions & green chillies (optional, since we live in a "democratic" society), a lime slice & salt, you can only imagine the interesting contrast of flavors - you add as much salt & lime juice to the dish or you mix the two together as a dipping sauce before attacking the warm, gruel-like slob of delicious spiced hell that sits in the shallow bowl; it watches you & patiently waits for the time when first contact is made with the tastebuds - from then on, you will not be the consumer - it consumes YOU….like a mutant quicksand pool from stereotype-laden old movies about doomed African jungle explorations.
A slow & painful death will occur in your gastrointestinal tract while its exit will be gloriously fiery & more dramatic than a pregnant Malay divorcee with 2 kids & a bad ketamine addiction (you mean there's a good ketamine addiction?). But like all things that are not really good for you, it tastes GREAT. The dish, that is....... not the pregnant addict divorcee…..but hey, whatever rocks your boat.
But this post is not about the dish or the meal.
It's about what happened AFTER the meal. Not in the scatological sense though.
You see, a bunch of huge red bikes came roaring into the picture. Big, fancy Italian machines that purred & roared (not necessarily in that order) as their owners revved the engines, making sure that all & sundry were privy to the fact that the cavalry has arrived.
This motorcycle group; numbering around 20, trophy female pillion riders and all, then proceeded to sit at the reserved tables near where I was. Ah! An afternoon soiree! Apparently, as my ears pricked to hear the conversations that they were having, these guys & girls were celebrating a birthday for someone in their motor-minded clique. Why, how nice!
But then among them was this short, sad-looking, dark & quite overweight member of the group. This guy (who had the kind of look like he got eternally friend-zoned) was wearing an oversized black t-shirt, possibly in a half-assed attempt to hide his rubenesque figure, baggy pants (bulge-hiding attempt #2) and black-rimmed hipster nerd glasses (probably a sad statement to say "Hey I'm kinda interesting too!"). All in all, a stark and damning contrast to the aesthetically-pleasing specimens around him whose physical conditions literally scream their superiority & priority for breeding. While the rest sat around in small cliques making even smaller talk or had a fashionably-aloof smoke away from the eating establishment, this dude was walking around with an expensive DSLR camera around his neck taking pictures of everyone.
Everyone…….but himself.
As I stealthily watched (like a trained Mossad shylock spy, if I may add), no one offered to take a picture of him in the group shots. Nobody even bothered to talk much to him. I squirmed in my seat and squinted in pain as I imagined myself in his shoes, the luxury of wearing shades in the afternoon heat hiding my eyes from being spotted by the group as I watched each excruciating second tick by while our little friend kept getting increasingly isolated.
Pretty soon I felt that I've had enough & left the place before it became unbearable. Last I saw, he was taking pictures of the very overweight cat that has made himself the resident feline of the coffeeshop. The cat must have felt pretty smug that day; someone way fatter than the cat was going "Aww it's so cute" while no one was giving a fuck, much less a tummy rub to the human blob which was taking its picture & giving it attention & warmth.
Born to be wild forever alone.
So what has the Halo Effect got to do with this post? It can be summarized as the resultant findings of a psychological experiment carried out initially by American psychologist Edward Thorndike & further carried on in later years by other students of the human mind. One particular study by Dion & Berscheid et al (1972) concludes that “not only are physically attractive persons assumed to possess more socially desirable personalities than those of lesser attractiveness, but it is presumed that their lives will be happier and more successful" - therefore the "Halo effect".
Really? How then does it apply to what I've just seen or is it even applicable at all?
Hmm….
I was a casual observer adding my own bias-tinged back-stories & subtitles, nuances & "je ne sais quoi" to whatever it is that I saw. Is this fair to the protagonists & supporting cast of this all-too-human drama that unfolded? Who's to say that my deductions & observations were not spot-on? Maybe, maybe not. What it did was provide heuristic reinforcement to my already skewed bias that now, more than ever; "what is beautiful is good" holds much more sway than the necessary work needed to scratch the surface & see the good beneath. Which kinda sucks.
Maybe the dude had/has a good heart. We'll never know.
Last week, a high-speed car crash in Singapore involving a Ferrari, a Hyundai Sonata taxicab & (reportedly) a Honda Super 4 motorbike resulted in 3 deaths - a Chinese national who drove the Ferrari, the Chinese Singaporean taxi driver & his passenger, a Japanese woman.
Also injured in the horrific accident was the passenger in the Ferrari; a female Chinese national (who's quite badly wounded) & a Malay male/naughty brown boy type who rode the Super 4 (suspected spinal injury but in a stable condition, alive & kicking).
Well then, let's take a look at the statistics : Chinaman in Italian car - dead. Chinese dude in Korean car - dead. Japanese woman in Korean car - dead. Chinawoman in Italian car - seriously injured. Malay dude on Japanese motorbike - still rocking out.
An Italian-made USD$1.4 million supercar; a death-trap in Chinese hands!
SGD$3.20 starting fare proved fatal for Chinese driver & Jap woman passenger!
The video below is that of 80s Malaysian pop-singer Raja Ema. She has a penchant for acting a little bit too cute for her age & her own good. She embodies everything that was kitschy & OTT about that particular era. Think Cyndi Lauper meets Hannah Montana meets Nicki Minaj. Yes, my brains bled too, from all that thinking.
So what has that got to do with the title of today's post?
Well, I don't know if I want to give her some candy or punch her in the face.
The Casiotone intro is the kind of stuff today's hipsters should be jizzing in their skinny khaki pants to. And if you watch the video until its blood-soaked, christ-impaling, virgin guts-ripping fiery finale, the pose at the end is also a classic. It's even more awesome than Quorthon of Bathory's infamous firebreathing picture.
Awesome.
Not as awesome.
Now, this is what blew my mind & I'm pretty sure will blow yours too.
Raja Ema = 80s. Bathory = 80s. Therefore Raja Ema = Bathory.
Lest the PC police (or better still the REAL police, not the "Every Breath You Take" Police) get on my case; I am pro-Islam, I am just anti-Muslim. A message to rudie: Get your filthy hands off my religion.
There was a particular point in my life when I had an almost morbid fascination with the Straits cuisine item known affectionately around the Malay Archipelago as "assam pedas".
"Assam who?" you may ask quizzically with one eyebrow raised high, WAAAY higher than the other to a level that you look more like The Retard than The Rock. For the benefit of my global readers who may not be in the region here's a definition of what "assam pedas" is. Actually I know only 3 people read this blog but anyway:
Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire was about assam pedas. Really.
From Wikipedia: "Asam Pedas (Indonesian: Asam Pedas, Malay: Asam Pedas, Minangkabau: Asam Padeh, English: Sour and Spicy) is a Minangkabau and Malay sour and spicy stew dish popular in Indonesia and Malaysia. The main ingredients (usually seafood or freshwater fish) are cooked in asam (tamarind) fruit juice with chilli and many other spices. The cooking process involves soaking the pulp of the tamarind fruit until it is soft and then squeezing out the juice for cooking the fish. Asam paste may be substituted for convenience. Various vegetables such as terong or brinjals (Indian eggplants), okra and tomatoes are added. Fish and seafood (such as mackerel, red snapper, tuna, gourami, pangasius or cuttlefish) either whole or only heads are added to make a spicy and tart fish stew. It is important that the fish remain intact for serving so generally the fish is added last."
I noticed a supernatural alchemy about the way the flavours complimented and contrasted each other in the raging maelstrom of the fiercely-coloured gravy- the supple flesh of fresh seafood caressed lovingly by lashes of fragrant lemongrass, drowning blissfully in a raging red sea of tamarind, chillies, shallots and what-nots.
What more if hot fluffy basmati rice is drenched in the lascivious liquid and flanked by an omelette or (better still) deep fried poultry and what you get is truly a privilege & luxury that should only be bestowed upon those willing or desperate enough to give an arm & a leg (or dismember someone else's arm/leg) to have fleeting glimpse of what The Promised Garden might feel like.
Or not. I'm pretty sure there're better things than assam pedas to fuck around with in heaven.
But I had an Epiphany of (almost) Divine-like proportion:
Food that tastes good when it's hot is normal; business as usual. But if it still tastes good when it's cold, IT'S MAGIC.
I leave you to come up with your own post-Freudian and Jungian theories and assumptions with regards to that last statement.
Anyway, this period lasted for nearly 3 months when I had it EVERYDAY without fail. Unnatural? Perhaps. Unhealthy? Maybe. But every single time I tasted it on my tongue there was a smile on my face.
It helped that I could have it at work for lunch and/or dinner; now that's 5 days a week. The rest of the time I would actually travel fairly long distances to consume it. If I couldn't find it then I would actually cook some.
Maybe he should have taken some inspiration from this old ad I found.
Wives: The problem to all your answers?
Just kidding dude. Actually my friend's wife is a pretty good cook and to my knowledge an all-round awesome wife. Someday I too wish for the same kind of happiness. Or not. But back to the story. A girl friend of mine asked me recently how I could "tolerate having the same god-damned thing everyday and not get sick of it".
My reply came without thinking, "The same way you tolerate your god-damned boyfriend."
Sheila Majid is a pop singer from Malaysia who is well-known for delivering some awesome live vocal performances & for injecting a fair bit of fusion & jazz in her works. Keep in mind this was during the late 80s to 90s where melodramatic pop & sentimental rock ruled the airwaves of the Malay archipelago (it still does *shock*horror*).
The song I'm highlighting today is "Hitam Putih Kehidupan" which literally translates to "Life's Blacks & Whites"; a downtempo tune beseeching the listener to take each day as it comes, to appreciate the small mercies we are blessed with & to live life with humility & faith. So positive *flutters eyelids*
Biohazard: Brooklyn's answer to Sheila Majid?
If I remember correctly, hardcore band Biohazard shares the same sentiment in one of their well-known anthems:
Life is just too short I realize that now
I'm gonna get my shit together and try to make it some how
Cause one thing that I have learned is that you only live once
So now I'll take life by the balls and squeeze until they crunch
- Biohazard "Urban Discipline" 1992
Painful isn't it? Okay it's not exactly the same but close enough.
But that's not the point here. The point here is about audience perception.
When the phrase "Hitam Putih Kehidupan" is mentioned, most people think of this:
Sheila Majid: Malaysia's answer to Biohazard?
When I hear that phrase, I think of this:
Taoist mediums: putting corpsepaint-wearing black metallers to shame since forever.
Thank you God for blessing me with a different (albeit warped) point of view.
Behemoth - Despotic glutton or helpless addict?
Answers on a postcard in less than 25 words.
The addict tells himself "One more. Just one more hit, man. One more high then I'll go straight. Swear to God, man…I'm gonna get myself clean after this one."
I tell myself the same thing each time.
The stark truth that I live with on a daily basis, the repugnant scar that threatens what last remaining shreds of self-respect & dignity that I have; the painful, cringe-inducing reminder when I look in the mirror each morning & as these eyes chance upon the image on random reflective surfaces through the day - that I too, am an addict.
The first step to solving a problem is to acknowledge that there is a problem to begin with. That part is easy-peasy lemon squeezy.
The next step & this is where it gets rather complicated, is to do something to ADDRESS the problem.
I can't afford to check myself into a rehabilitation facility. I just can't.
Last Saturday night I made the decision to stop this addiction once & for all. And like the model addict that I've always been, I wanted to mark that monumental decision with one last bender, one final throw of the dice, one glorious free-for-all that if it didn't make me want to stop for good, would kill me.
Now that I think about it, I'd rather that it would render me dead because to act on something that you've depended on for so long is akin to dismembering a vital part of your anatomy. In my time of need, it has always been there for me; when I'm happy, when I'm depressed, when things go right, when things go tragically wrong (especially). I turn to this addiction for comfort & tellingly so, end up feeling dirty, hating myself & promising time and again - THIS IS THE LAST TIME.
All this while, very much like an Ingmar Bergman classic movie - God remains silent.
So just like Antonius Block tempts Death repeatedly with the proverbial game of chess while yearning for the voice of his Creator to tell him something; anything, if this was all worth it…I tempted fate by pushing it a little further each time. The high gets higher, I wanted desperately for the high to go on a little bit longer but the reality is when you get that high & keep on getting higher, the distance to where the ground is gets bigger and with that so too does the impact of the crash.
I seek neither sympathy nor understanding, neither tolerance nor acceptance. True to character as the hardened addict I've grown to become, the staring eyes of those around me mean nothing as I indulge, publicly. No shame, no remorse; just am empty gaze from lifeless eyes as I scratch the proverbial itch even as the flesh turns red and then raw, blood-letting a foregone conclusion by then.
Getting back to where I mentioned about last Saturday night: It finally happened. The camel's back broke. It had to end before it spelt my end. And this was what the last hurrah looked like:
The Last Hurrah - minus the cockles & prawns (obviously).
Compared to the artery-blocking, gut-busting smorgasbord of swine-like proportions one would normally associate with "the final meal", this simple bowl of laksa is akin to ending with a whimper. Well, a whimper it might have been but most importantly, it was the end.
The end of a 4-year binge that threatened to destroy the vessel before the spirit within could come into full bloom.
What is consumed, becomes.
Drink from poisoned chalices and spew forth venom.
Slake your thirst with all that is good and worthy
And never will your throat be parched for another waking hour.
Think about what I have not said.
- Zachariah Elias, August 2007
The long hard road to recovery has begun for The True Zachariah Elias.
On Buddha's deathday, wrinkled tough old hands pray - the prayer beads' sound
- Matsuo Basho
I had intended to start off this current literary undertaking with the following line:
*cue Shaw Brothers Films' trumpet fanfare*
"Some years ago I had an online journal ....."
And that is where I stopped myself before I committed the second greatest criminal act that one could pull on oneself: to reminisce fondly upon past "glories", to never escape from the constrictive comfort zone built on past "successes", to LI(V)EIN THE PAST.
"Some years ago" has gone. So what now?
If anything, this blog is only a small part of a multi-faceted, many-pronged approach & attempt at a massive exorcism ritual; an intricate, drawn-out ceremonial proceeding full of symbolism & meaning, all designed to banish the ghosts which have long threatened to hold back my progress as a "human becoming" (because I am not content to just "be", improvement & evolution is integral to survival & growth).
You see, if immersing yourself & getting lost in that rose-tinted haze of past glory is the second greatest injustice that you could do to yourself, then the greatest injustice ever is to let the FAILURES of the past prevent you from achieving all the SUCCESS that was always meant to be yours.
Yesterday I said tomorrow; it has come & gone.
This serves as a snapshot in time; a documentation of a healing process, a record of growth & if all else fails; a randomly put-together literary collage of stories, rants & sweet-nothings whispered softly into the ears of an unwilling audience whose hands & legs are fastidiously tied with duct tape; a rusty pen-knife wielded with such delicate poise & lovingly held with sublime pressure against taut, dry, nervous throats.
Sweet.
My name is The True Zachariah Elias & I am a very, very naughty brown boy.
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