Baronhawk's Nest

     












"Left upon Andaman shores, foot prints made in heaven, 
for even angels marked for toil, deserve  one night in Eden." 

~ Baronhawk aka Hazlan Zakaria

It is no accident that when people speak of heart touching moments that they would allude to the phrase 'heartstrings'. For truly and indeed, the heart is an instrument.

It's music is emotions and the tones it creates are the very essence of life and human interactions.

The beatings of the heart are the melodies that links each and every moment, the surround sound that permeates and bound us all to the seasons of our lives.

Our duty is to provide the lyrics and sing out what our heart is already playing. Sounding out the symphony of intentions.

But therein lies the disconnect, what our heart sings and what we can actually accomplish.

You might wake up everyday to the heavenly music of the heart, but making it heard, and playing it note for note is another matter...

Sometimes there is just too much noise that you yourself cannot hear your heart's song, let alone convey it to your intended.

At times, the void of distance is too great that all you hear are echoes, and all that the world can perceive are muffled instances.

The heart is an instrument, but its strings oft plays only silence. But then again, we can't all be Mozarts, that would take away its significance.

Sometimes being tone deaf, or the passable pretense of it, is the best way forward.

There is music out there, in the stars, in the mystery of the twilight, but perhaps we are not all meant to see its conclusion.

What do you do when you find something great
do you reach out and take it or do you wait?

But reaching out risks losing out
if and when the venture doesn't work out.

While waiting's just too much
to have your heart wrenched
on a regular basis.

Eff Eff Effing it!

Lucky you can always run to your Penang Hermit cave and hide out.

I sat before this four square screen, trying to find the words to mention. Something which had found within, my ebony heart its residence. Beating a clear tattoo, throughout the irony of my veins. It rides the breathing living lust, which toils the lull within my liens.

I pondered the name by which, this inane itch is called. Hoping perhaps, for its exuberance to be culled. I poised dancing upon the cusps, the identity of this blight. What magicked intransigent spell, into my soul's grimoire inscribed? What language is this persistence, which to mind remains in-unraveled?

I found the answer near to dreams, sidetracked to a place time forgot. A sideshow I closed down and sought to frame with logic thoughts. Tis love it seems, that one time thing I choose regret. What succour it might bring,laid heavy with suffering's debt.

On this day where this emotion is awed, I look down the path beyond time's borrowed flaws. To find myself longing still, the pathways to it brightly lit and opened grille. It is ye I yearn, thou who sits beyond those gates. Calling me to hurry on, and supplicate before thy feet.

"But wouldst thou take the hand, of this jest of so many defeats. A man who seeks to learn what happiness left there is to give. Who is afraid to yearn lest he falls once more upon his feet. Who is afraid to call and ask of ye to wait."

I know I have vowed never again to let it happen... but there it is again.

I have been sidetracked of late, by noble causes and less than noble intentions.

Consumed by a battle that is not even mine, and embroiled in a war of which I was not even belligerent in.

Distracted as if by somber beauties from across the crowded dance floor, and derailed by their lilting tell tales of a thousand sleepless nights.

Aye, those are truly sweet nectar, that adrenaline rush of fighting for a cause, that indelible rut of a man enamoured.

But herein lies the causality of much pain, the Briar Patch of life.

Something which is better left untouched unless it is something that a person really wants and is willing to go the distance. Maybe I am all the above, considering the circumstance, but still I digress, for the lessons of previous pains beseech me and courage be damned, I dare not yet step into the lion's den and leave my much favoured sanctuary.

Sensuous, sinewy and sexy lionesses be damned, triply damned and thrice censured.

I must return to the core, to the very center of what and who I am. I must return to what I was. Status quo, without the quo vadis. For I have long ago discovered that the best condition for me is not to have any direction, but to float and hover in that blurry space just outside of mainstream life, yet still close enough to watch it.

For I am above all an observer of things. One who watches and compiles his analysis.

That being said, while I often abandon battlefield engagements before the war's conclusion, such as I am afraid now must be, there are some things that I just cannot leave undone. That I shall oversee until such a time as it is mine to sneak back into the sunset.

Not that it would matter, but principles must count for something, even for one who is detached from life such as me.

But in the end the only thing that matter is that "I am a Fortress, Strong and Impregnable."

I must be... I have no other choice.

I am handling a crisis remotely from home. A work related crisis. One that requires me to access our service provider's support system. A usual enough experience I suppose for someone whose work involves interacting on the world wide web.

But in my case it also triggered a case of preudo-nostalgia, especially after I realized that the support system I am accessing to handle the issue and its resulting support tickets is SupportSuite by Kayako.

In my previous career incarnation, I was attached to local software house, AzrulStudio (Azrul.com), a unit of Slashes & Dots Sdn. Bhd. One of the things I do there was to handle incoming customers support tickets on our very own customized Kayako support system.

I mainly handled the business development, copy writing, manuals and business correspondence side of things but we all contribute to handling support tickets. It helps us understand our customers more and develop a rapport with them. Something useful where ever you are (software development or business development) as it helps you to be able to deliver what the customers want.

It is strange, being on the customer side of the Kayako-curtain. My mind's eye painting the familiar scene of personnel on the other side frantically answering one tickets as several more 'dings' in on the ticket counter.

My imagination tracing its route as my ticket waits the ticks of the clock for its turn. Trying to understand their busy schedule and hectic situation.

But in the end, I guess being a paying customer on this side of the Kayako, I can't really care less what their issues are. Time is money, especially so if you are operating a business on the net.

Something that was drummed into me by my customers last time, especially the difficult ones from overseas, where the customer is always right, even when they are wrong.

But I do appreciate the care when ever a customer service representative took the extra effort to be proper, correct and pleasant especially since I do know how hectic it can be for them.

My particular tale dealt with the transfer of our hosting and some domain nameserver issues. I had to deal with Glowhost and local firm SKSA Technology. I am happy to say that both companies responded in a timely and pleasant fashion.

There is something to be said about professionalism after all.

I guess being once on the other side of the Kayako, I expect the same level of service that I used to dispense when I am on the customer side of the Kayako interface.

Anyway, attempting to assuage my restless boredom, I turned on the television and found myself looking at the opening credits to 'Becoming Jane', a scrumptious movie based upon the events surrounding the life and times of the great English novelist, Jane Austen.

Truthfully, I have always wanted to watch 'Becoming Jane', ever since I saw its preview on the television. However, given the fact that even my fascination with 'Pride & Prejudice' as well as its author, is something that would normally require the strength of a thousand wild horses to pry from the well of my deepest secretive desires, I never actually took it upon myself to watch it, especially not in the presence of others.

It is not as if I don't openly availed of myself to female authors and their literary offerings. Enid Blyton and Rosemary Sutcliffe, for example, being often prominently amongst those whose books are or were my constant companion.

I grew up to Enid Blyton's tales of life's tales and adventures from The Faraway Tree to the Crabapple Farm, with the Secret Seven to the Famous Five and exploring the familiar hallways of The Malory Towers to the mysteries at the ends of the earth with the Wishing Chair stories. Indeed it would not surprise me if I has read all of her books.

As for Rosemary Sutcliffe, her works regaled a young little me (okay, maybe not so little) with tales of Roman Britain, culminating with the Eagle of The Ninth which evoked in me a love for classical history and an ardent interest in Rome and her legions.

There are also other female authors, amongst the many whose books I have read and liked, ranging from the likes of the madam of mystery Agatha Christie to Dragonlance dame Margerat Weis and Deverry's architect, Katherine Kerr.

But of Pride & Prejudice and Jane Austen, I often dared not confess to my fascination with a certain Ms. Elizabent Bennet and indeed would have not usually tell a soul of my roving mind, which often paints myself into the shoes of the aloof and reserved Mr. Darcy, whose qualities I find admirable and imagined to possess in common.

Most probably because of the connotations one often link with a Jane Austen novel. It being refered to by many as a 'chick-lit' and its attendant 'chick-flick'. One has to preserve one's image, no matter how ephemeral it really is, I suppose.

Though in that inky comfort and cozy cover of the dark camouflage of night, I decided to indulge my fancies and gingerly perused the movie to its ending. Truth be told, I am glad that I did.

Like many have concluded in their review, 'Becoming Jane' puts many things in perspective, about Jane Austen, her live, loves, accomplishments and loss. Opening a window, so to speak, into the tale of this wonderful woman, beyond the footnotes of her works.

I guess it is true that the best, most effective and easiest way to write, is to write what you know. A lesson that many literary venerables has tried to impress upon me in the workshops that I have attended and the times I was fortunate to engage in a conversation with them.

As the story in the movie shows us, Jane Austen's writing mainly draws upon her own life, her own time and her own experience. That is probably why her tales are so vivid. Because she writes what she knows.

The places, the characters and the situations she described most eloquently are written with the quill of her own life and inked with her own experiences. Which is why they become so alive, so real, so honest and so believable.

While the names were changed, characters and descriptions were juxtaposed and scrambled, all of her stories without doubt is her watercolour of her own life. Unable to pursue her own happiness, she lived her life in the only place possible, within the tales told by her books. Filling in the blanks of what ifs and what could be with her fertile imagination. Following perhaps the advice of another novelist, Mrs. Radcliffe that Jane met in the story and who told Jane, "for everything else, that is what your imagination is for."

In many ways, Jane Austen can be likened to Ian Fleming, another more contemporary author whose life is the wellspring from which sprang his tales and stories. As any who read his life's story would know, many of the things James Bond did, Ian Fleming more or less did too, or at least he knew someone who did.

Another point of origin that links them is the fact that both suffered from the loss of love or a loved one. Jane losing her Mr. Lefroy because of circumstance and Fleming, if the movie about his days in British Intelligence is correct, lost a love to a bomb meant for him, planted by Germany's agents.

Based on this convergence of their story, maybe the other so called truth about writing is correct as well. Other then writing what you know, the oft mentioned tale is that in order to truly write, a writer but first be hurt before he or she can lift the pen.

In a way, this is similar to the sayings about how you must first feel the blues to play the blues.

The ways to better prose, write what you know and you must first feel hurt. I find myself agreeing with the former, though I am not that aligned with the latter. But in retrospect, maybe what it implies by 'hurt' is that we must fist experience life before we can write of it.

But beyond the pointers on how to become, like Jane, a good writer, the story also leaves a lesson or two swimming in my noggin. A lessons and tale of the frail and faulty links between affection, love and circumstance.

Affection is all too common, it can stem from many things. From common ground, to common tastes, to a commonality of various likes and purposes. Or just the opposite, it can stem from a difference that clash and draw sparks or an incandescence when two opposites reach out. Like jigsaw pieces fitting in and lining up.

As its myriad origins, so too can affection grow to become many things. From flirtation to friendship, to understanding and care. Or all the way to love and its subtle dare. Or perhaps to naught at all, like two occasioned strangers who shared a moment from across the room and then disappear into the sea of faces. Leaving only faded memories as to that shared affectionate moment.

Though for those that do attain the very paragon, when affection transcends into love, it is not the and all, be all of things. For love dooms as often as it blesses. Sometimes, practicality overrides all and the necessities of life dictates that love is for naught. Sometimes there are other concerns that requires loves sacrifice. Like Lefroy with his impoverished family in Limerick whose livelihood depends upon him sharing his stipend from his uncle. Which in turn disallowed him from marrying his lady love.

Other times, one may find oneself learning of love, not through affection but familiarity, for life deals us cards that we have to live with rather than what we want to live as. As Henry Austen's example who must concede to marry the countess for her money. While they have no affection, their love stems from understanding and acceptance, a no less authentic love but one that many of us may have to accept. Circumstance often overrides emotions.

At times, love can itself be the root of unhappiness, loliness and suffering, as we know all to well of Jane's sadness. Her unrequited and unfulfilled love.

At times, love can even lead to bitterness. As evidenced by a spurned secret suitor of Jane's who sent the letter to Lefroy's uncle and discredited Jane from any marriage to Lefroy.

But maybe above all these tales, love is the key. To life and to writing. For it is love and passion for knowledge and writing that started Jane's journey and love for live and its adventures that kept her going.

I guess the end of becoming Jane, the person or author, shows that one must live ones' life and be immersed in the nitty gritty of it. For only when one has lived and loved, regardless if it is consummated or unrequited, can one be in a position to write of it.

I am Irked, I am Miffed and I am Pissed! This little I.M.P. that has so landed upon my shoulders! A tiny splinter that is a pain and is causing contorted movements of my middle finger.

I have been brought face to face with what I personally consider to be an affront to justice recently and I am barely able to contain myself from exploding from this suffusion of rage and indignation that is engulfing my entire being.

It is a matter of copyright and trademark or what is a generic term and generally accepted nomenclature for a genre in a certain artistic field. A most benign mind share of an event that was made by its founders to be universal but is 'monopolized' by one of its so called 'practitioners' in a certain part of the world via copyright and trademark of that very same general term.

A genre that was supposed to democratize a means of expression, a genre that was supposed to belong to each individual community that practices it, a genre that is supposed to extend the audience of that artistic field.

But herein lies my painfully articulated tale, that of a genre of an artistic field that has been curtailed from general expression and limited to being conducted by they few, they happy few.

But after some thought and the kind advice of kind friends, I have resolved that this indignation does serve a purpose. It has kindled in me this fire, this passion, this unconditional allure for something that was once only a pastime, albeit one that I fancy greatly.

It has indeed opened a door to other possibilities, other means of expression and other ways of achieving the ends that I and my friends envisioned. There is indeed more than one way to skin a cat. No matter how many lives it has.

I decided instead take this indignation as a good thing, to use, re-use and recycle this anger and aggressive energy to pursue other goals and other things. To perhaps supplant the very 'practitioners' that so have denied us our means of free expression or at least proceed in another direction in spite of them. There is more than one way to skin a cat.

As one kind friend was quick to point out, Billy the Bard did say "What's in a name...".

A (tut) (tut) by any other name will still be a (tut) (tut) in practice if not the same.

An empowering thought, and an empowering motivation to give direction to this angrily and wildly charging elephant.

But that being said, I do feel this itch to at least do something to right what I believe is a terrible wrong. Something to ponder perhaps. Something to ponder indeed.

I am probably just being a carrier of the contrarian viewpoint or devil's advocate if you may, though I am far from actually denouncing such a noble attempt such as this.

But I do question the practical logic behind Earth Hour's Vote Earth feat.

Despite the nobility of this endeavour, it does smacks of a celebrity fueled public relations stunt. A once-off menagerie of raised pinkies saluting a noble cause, yet not actually doing anything but undulating one's gyrating blank verse support for it.

It reminds me of the tale of NBC's flirtations with six sigma after it was acquired by GE. According to a story told by an ex-GE officer seconded to NBC, the entirety of NBC's implementation of six sigma was a grand celebratory hoo haa and party with nothing much to show for it afterwards. Except for the big announcement that NBC is now six sigma.

The quid pro quo paid to the six sigma initiative was indeed nothing more than a public relations homage. After which the oganization returned to status quo.

In a way its like a person who attends a "We Are The World" Concert and then considers that he or she has done something to help the starving children of Africa.

In this case, one who turns out his or her light at the stipulated time of night, is deemed to be one in solidarity with the world, as one amongst millions voting to the governments of the world to take the necessary steps to save the earth, as is the wont of their constituencies, the civil society of each nation.

But I fail to see any active ingredient to this feat. Is that all? Turn off your lights and that's it?

Be that as it may, one cannot underestimate the power of positive public support and public relations. Turning the spotlight on the importance of taking care of our environment is in itself a major coup.

What I am questioning is the practicality of turning off one's lights in the middle of the night, with that being the only action. Some people work nights, others travel and yet still more need to see in the dark. Is it not more practical to swap out normal electric lights for LED lights at the moment for example? Which instead of causing only darkness, would perhaps be a real step towards a better relationship with our environment.

Of course I am sure there will be candles and torchlights a plenty that night. Not to mention criminals waiting to pounce and use this one hour of darkness to their benefit.

While I wish the initiative well, I do hope that something significant will come out of this effort, and it does not become just another celebratory footnote in the jaded and highly commercialized history of the world. To paraphrase Shakespeare, I do hope it does not become an event that is full of sound and fury, yet signifying nothing.

I think I am a sadist.

An observation culled during my recent re-flirting with my evening and morning walks.

I found out, that while I do enjoy the process of brisk walking once again and the challenge of pitting myself against the distance, time and endurance, what I miss more is not the process of walking but the pain.

I don't know how to explain it but what I like most about my walks is the time where I have to push my body to overcome my physical threshold and force myself to endure beyond the break point limits of my endurance.

It used to take me only a while to feel that biting feeling within my muscles, and that sweetness of the pain. But now as I return more and more into my routine, I am forced to either extend my distance or increase my pace in order to feel the pain.

I once asked a friend of mine whose passion is engaging in marathons and he said that that state of pain-ecstasy is actually the last stage of exhaustion as our stressed muscles, starved for oxygen and tired from exertion starts to excrete a toxic substance.

It is that substance that give birth to the pain and it is that substance that can be as addictive as some active souls find adrenaline to be.

I guess this is my high, my sin and my way of working off the extra aggression from work and sundry.

Anyway I am off to sleep off the pain.

It is my official policy and stance, that poetry is a form of expression. As such, it can be whatever you want it to be. As there are multitudes of ways, means and meanings to expression, so can there be multitudes of styles, shapes, points, languages and types of poetry.

To some, it is an art form, that requires strict tenets and crafting. A thing of beauty that must be shaped and molded with linguistic lilt and artistic preening. To them it is a matter of literary devices and cradling meanings within lingual parameters. It is poetry from the ivory towers.

Others see it as a popular means of communicating issues and concerns. Something with which to reach the masses. Devoid of complicated styling and shaded meanings, they see it as a language of and for the common people. Their motto, keep it simple and keep it real. Poetry for the streets.

Yet more see it as a portal for self expression, divulging personal angst and vocalizing life's unfathomable seasons. Tied not to any higher purpose or calling but just to his or her own mind and feelings. Abandoning both rules and meaning, often these works are at times as abstract and decipherable as the light of stars is to men. You guessed it, we are 'emo.'

Others still, see of it a holier purpose, the poetic discipline as a means of straining the essences of faith in order to search for truth, for reason... for God. Quite literally trying to decipher the philosophy of life. The pathway to enlightenment. A kind of poetic Sufism and evangelistic sermon.

But to me personally poetry is most of all a gift. A gift from the feel to the heart and from the thought to the brain, to the mind to the pen. From the pen to the ink, from the ink to the paper, or in our IT age from the mind to the fingers to the keyboard to the screen.

When spoken it is from the heart to the lungs to the larynx, to the voice to the air, to the ear to the brain, to the mind and back to the heart.

In the end, it is all about thoughts and feelings. Where poetry both begins and ends.

Poetry is ultimately the very manifestation of the poet's thoughts and emotions, and it in turn shall evoke thoughts and emotions in others. Though what was put into a poem may not be the same as what others take out of it.

That is the constant battle between a poet and the audience. That eternal tug of war between rhyme and reason, spiced up with the differences that arise from personal choices and preference.

But while poetry may mean something to audience, it may not have to. Because sometimes, poetry is a greater gift to the poet itself than for any audience. Who knows, maybe poetry is his or her escape from personal demons, a safety valve for self expression or indeed it could just be something to help with thought processes, or maybe even to cure indigestion.

But maybe that is the crux of it. Most of all poetry has to mean something to the poet first. The rest and everything else are just mechanics. People's expectations and perceptions notwithstanding. Regardless of what people say and what they expect.

Some might say this is selfish, but only when poetry means something to a poet can it be of any meaning to the audience at large. Only then can it be of consequence, only then can it be worthy as a gift. Else it will be nothing but an empty soulless husk of arranged words that is being strewn along and bandied about.

On a personal note, I am tired of being told of how my poetry should sound or be like, and then they turn around and say I should stay true to my own voice.

But there's the rub, this is my voice, believe it or not, those who know me personally will vouch that I do use those words and wax lyrical on a regular basis.

I can no further tune myself into another voice then to rip out the soul from within my own body.

Often I am vague and unfixed in my mentions, just as often as sometimes I am so precise so as to celebrate only one grain of sand on a mountain of others.

Indeed some of my poetry is only for a select few and sometimes only one person, my gift to them. At times it encompasses to hug the entire world in its wordy embrace.

I use cliches and flashy language to flesh out my poetry just as much as I use base words and life's banalities.

It is not a science, maybe even not an art. It is a craft that fits the mold that we individually build for it. Just because you are doesn't mean the I have to. Just because I am, you don't necessarily have to be.

And so there we have it. As long as I wear my own face, I shall practice my brand of poetry, the way I see fit. And as long as you wear yours, I shall let you stick to things as you like it. Else we should be bringing sharp knives and start to carve away each other's faces. A kind of pseudo poetical nip and tuck.

My friend, Sheena asked me to share my favourite painting after I commented on her post about her favourite painting. I just thought I'd reciprocate.

I am not an art connoisseur per say, though I do have a modicum of appreciation for it. My fancy for art is seasonal and passing. Mostly I prefer landscapes and cityscapes.

However if there is a painting that would come to mind readily as a favourite, it would be René Magritte's 'Son of Man', featured prominently in the 1999 movie The Thomas Crowne Affair. A remake of the 1968 film of the same name.

Painted in 1964 by the Belgian Surrealist painter, it is a self portrait of himself standing in front of a wall by the seaside. A green apple incongruously hiding his face.

I can try to explain what attracted me to this piece, but perhaps this is a tale best told by the words of its creator himself. As quoted by Wikipedia from a radio interview in 1965, René Magritte has this to say about 'The Son of Man':

At least it hides the face partly. Well, so you have the apparent face, the apple, hiding the visible but hidden, the face of the person. It's something that happens constantly. Everything we see hides another thing, we always want to see what is hidden by what we see. There is an interest in that which is hidden and which the visible does not show us. This interest can take the form of a quite intense feeling, a sort of conflict, one might say, between the visible that is hidden and the visible that is present.

Enough said, I am always fascinated with what is hidden... the mystery that surrounds us, just out of the edge of the visible and beyond the cusps of the known. This painting is the epitome of my personal obsession with the mystery and the dream.

Water cannon to the right of them,
Tear gas to the left of them,
FRU in front of them
Spray’d and gass’d;
Storm’d at with truncheon shields,
Boldly they marched and well,
To palatial gates,
Voicing their discontent
Marched the Perak thousands.

An adaptation of Tennyson’s
‘Charge of the Light Brigade’
By the pen and mind of the
Poetically licensed author
Of this here piece.

ONE cannot confess to know, the motivation and the goals, BN’s orchestrated turncoats, the takeover of Perak State. But all things considered, BN is tempting the fates, and is quite rather verily, climbing disaster’s chimney.

It may not be by intention, driven perhaps by exuberance, and the glee to consolidate, this once prodigal state. But the sum total of BN’s, impetuous and callous actions, is in effect a tête-à-tête, to putting democracy under siege.

Especially to the eyes, of the awakened electorates, that no longer partakes, regular tales and rhetoric. BN politician speaks; ears closed shut teeth, hypocrisy waxes, truth justice sleeps.

To the discontented masses, the only just recourse, demonstrations in the streets, for democracy is under siege. The hallmark of our time; the reformasi roar and chant, eclipses the BN sun, a tsunami of the rakyat kind.

I am not here to defend, Datuk Seri Nizar nor his supporters actions, which did to my beliefs, contributed to the crisis. But I am here to highlight, BN’s all too contrite, questionable methods, and means ill-considered.

Though I do commit the sin, of absentee judging, that of knowing the man, through reports and second hand. I know enough the gist, to form my disbelief; Nizar’s reactive when provoked, but BN is downright low down rude.

What else is achieved, not given room to breathe, Pushed to the limits, his back against concrete. It’s just only natural, that a cornered individual; shall turn around to face, and stand his ground in place.

Thrown out and locked from office; asked to return car keys; sans dignity and adab, that PR to BN once did give. It is one of Sun Tzu’s law; leave room for the enemy to withdraw, In Datuk Seri Nizar’s case, he was not given that grace.

Revolutions may occur, many places and reason for, but its likelihood increase, when two things co-exist. Alas I have to say, both things we see today, co-mingling in Perak State, fermenting in Malaysia’s rakyat.

The first is empty stomachs, empty wallets uncertain paychecks, economic pressure or nature’s famine; the end result is just the same. Restless tummies idle hands, unsettling hearts heating heads, a quagmire of ill-tempers, a populace on the precipice.

The second is malingering presence, of a valid and festering grievance, the rakyat’s hijacked trust; BN’s calculated callousness. A wound that slowly sickens, therakyat’s short on patience; grounds fertile to unrest, which PR may just yet seize.

We stand on dangerous grounds, war and havoc may yet sound; a terrible toll that may encompass, in the end therakyat loses. I call for BN’s prudence, and PR to rein their judgments, the fate of our nation, by their actions shall be determined.

Give to PR its due time, a breather to test its claim, the courtesy courts and grace, the dignity to vacate in peace. And if proven in due course, let PR acquiesce their loss; then BN can come in, serve the people mind you not do more sin.

But if PR’s suit does stands, then toll the electoral bell, for the State Assembly is hung, both sides stands rung to rung. What is there to lose, but to gain in moral suit, by giving the rakyat that gift, of the true democratic process?

To the Sultan I do plead, upon hands and knees bended, please listen to the rakyat, whose authority is in Your Highness invested. The government is held accountable; by Your Grace are they held in check, but you My Royal Highness, are accountable to us and GOD.

We did not fight MacMicheal, see the Malayan Union repealed, gave up life blood from veins, to reinstate the colonial reign. The rakyat are hereby challenged, not by foreign hands, but brash federal dictates, and shady incongruous deeds.

I stand before the One, standing in front of all, the self appointed mouthpiece, of this time this generation and place. Calling out for sense, the infusion of reason and wit, before it all goes to hell; everything fell out of place.

Whither dear dear BN, if you are serious about serving, do it with our consent, our ballots in your name. Do not give us a reason, another to scorn your name, respect and right to rule, is earned and never stolen.

Wherefore mighty PR, dancing that king kong dance, its not always the case, that a victory by conflict be bound. Please recall the violence, hold your supporters in check, it is after all their interest, to stay safe and unchained.

Most of all His Highness, the Duli Yang Mulia Sultan, our liege and sacred keeper, for Law Unity and Islam. The law is meant to protect, the rights of the rakyat, not as a means to hijack, nor usurp their sovereign right.

Democracy is still not dead, thankfully it’s still alive, for we the rakyat still speak, so listen to this song we sing. Democracy is under siege, curtailed from its true becoming, lift it while we yet still speak, wait not until we start to react.

I begin to count backwards to ten, holding my breath all the time. And yet after that was over, I am still as nervous as hell and jittery down to a tee. I have thought myself beyond these childish fancies. These unsolicited raw emotive moments. But I am still its victim, just as I was those days in kindergarten. This is not the way I hoped to be reminded of how it was like to be young!

I tried to shift my vision, tried hard. But my eyes continue to tail that visage, consciously in life, unconsciously in dreams, subconsciously in mind and surreptitiously upon these pages of facebook. Trapped in this merry-go-round of constant peekings, clickings, surfings and involuntary thinking. Sighing and pining away what is good to go primo and productive time line, into fast footed and flighty fancies of the mind.

I am 32, soon to be 33 this year, yet I am already jaded way beyond my time. Cynical to the core, a frustrated and in-congruent man. Encased within the encapsulated morose memories and bitter reminders of life's many frailties. Enough to burn away though the cheerfulness of a thousand lifetimes. And yet this pixie somehow got though, in too near and is dancing and running her way all through my mind. Leaving tasty footprints and wistful smiles upon these lips of mine.

I refuse to believe in hope. This is just one of those tease. The under influence moments that will lead you astray only to leave you high and dry, come the sobering moments that always dawns upon reality's morning. Begone foul spirit, take thee along thy beautiful body, keen intellect, attractive visage and hauntingly 3D surround sound. Thy voice which seeks to drown me in the memory of thine eyes. Thy titillatingly tingly proposal of a life without worldly wiles, a life of only you and I... away with thee! Away with thee... away with thee?

Let me be, let me be, alone and bereft, to atone. Let me be, let me drown in the sins that yesteryear has borne. Let me be, let me be, the one, the mountain and the stone. Let me be, let me be, a fortress impregnable and strong.

Let me be ...or maybe should I hunt,track down and kill this annoying pixie?

I am supposed to be writing my article for work now, or at least I am trying to, through the drug-induced haze of time-stealing drowsiness. But I was distracted by a friend's note that was imported into Facebook from her blog.

It is a quite-not-so-blatant promotional campaign by none other then Ms. Sheena Baharuddin whose performance of poetry gig is coming up tomorrow. 14th January 8.30 m at the Annexe central market, the ubiquitous Wayang Kat VII.

She will be joining the likes of local talent Priya K, Rafique Rashid and Nell Omar to accompany Steve Camden a.k.a. Polarbear unto the annexe stage. From what I know of and about her, the others and Steve/Polarbear, it promises to be a splash of funky good time for everyone.

I will do my darndest to show up in support, if I can get past my flu and/or effecting meds.

Anyway, I am still working from home after finding out first hand that when the little red label on the med packs says "may cause drowsiness. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery if affected", it means it without prejudice and with all the intensity its red letters can provide.

That and when the little red label is pasted on more than one of your many med packs, you probably are going to get drowsy from one of them.

Luckily there were no visible scratches on my means of conveyance that was not already there and my injured finger from the woozy door slamming incident is all the injury I have to show for it. That and my dented pride and ego. Apparently I am not indestructible, incapable of sleep-driving nor as drug resistant as I thought I was.

Oh well, I am still alive and if I want to stay so I need to get back to my articles lest my senior editor and managing editor tear my heart out. Bon chance to everyone!

It is electrifying, scary and confusing all at once. Like getting hit with a particularly difficult exam question, being splashed with cold water and seeing Freddy Kruger appear from your bathroom mirror in the same moment.

Opportunities, possibilities and unlooked for paths begging to be traveled. Waiting to be discovered and explored. Uncertainties waiting to be quantified and permutations asking to be calculated.

The minimap is getting too crowded. I need to calm down and chart my course carefully. Don't get too excited. It is all just symbols anyway. Most of them nothing but derelicts. Life is often full of that emptiness anyway.

The compass heading is not the true north. Sometimes it is a few degrees off. Time to recharge and recalibrate the GPS. Maybe update the maps too.

Its all in the stars. Need to find Deneb and Sirius.