Baronhawk's Nest

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!

"Nothing breeds that amber darkness
more than misbegotten hate
the rift that feeds into the fastness
of a twisted melancholy fate."

It was a hastily arrived at decision, one made over a particularly bad weekend. One that followed a rather particularly stress filled week. But looking back at the events of the last month or so, I somehow feel that this was one of those things that was probably meant to be.

Well... it has to be.

For I am now seated at the back of a bus with about a dozen or so others, as the dilapidated vehicle makes its way to the MERCY Malaysia aid station on the Egyptian border with Palestine.

I had quit my job with the fledgling online current affairs portal and liquidated all my assets, the few that there were, settled the debts that I can, made my peace with my family, bade farewell to the few friends that I still have and put in my application to volunteer with several aid organizations with operations in and around terror stricken Palestine.

As it turned out MERCY Malaysia and several other allied aid organization were in need of someone to man their IT operations on site. They needed somebody to maintain a website for their operations near the Palestine border as well as clock in regular updates and reports. Quite my bailiwick of course.

On the flip side I am also to assist in their logistical operations as I need to help out with their scheduling, shipment and actually help to move supplies in and out of their main depot. Another area my checkered employment background has provided me with the necessary skills and experience with.

Or maybe they were short of volunteers. Regardless I got into their volunteer rolls and here I am.

With every bullet
from every gun
and every bomb
from every plane

As the minions
of Israel come
I raise my head
to stake this claim

With every drop
of pristine blood
and every body
the Palestine buries

I place the keffiyeh
over my head
a stolid agal
to hold in place

donning the cloth
taking the cause
a unified voice
that spans the globe

I pen this now
out clear and loud
the killing must stop
the violence resolved

for the bloodied red
o'er black and white
for Palestine's plight
the keffiyah's symbol

take up your pens
raise up your voices
pledge your dinars
shoulder your rifles.

Screeching cannons
screaming guns
filling skies
o'er Palestine.

whistling bullets
whizzing bombs
that tears flesh
of humankind

jutting fingers
jaded eyes
o'er triggers
death's pale stare

women children
men old young
the feed and fodder
of arrogant war.