It started with a morning call.

But it didn’t happen while I was asleep, which would’ve been the type of situation where one wakes up, bleary and still occupied with the tangling tendrils of pre-wake drowsiness, to answer the phone in a voice that cracked and sounded 30 years older, wondering who it is and whether a beating is impending (and then the good/bad news will come and one would sit up to make sense of all the tumultuous info).


No, this time I was wide awake and was actually discussing with my brother the fundaments and delicacy of the Wing Chun art of Self-Defence (an interesting, rather applicable bit of Chinese Kung-fu, and yes I discuss something like that with my bro. Frequently) when Pauline called and told me that the results for the Industrial Training thing was out.


(She got an A, by the way, which is very good, and particularly more due to the worry she exhumes over. Some moments later, though, she buzzed me online and we both discovered she had contracted some Spyware and suddenly she was back in the pits with the snakes and the closing-in walls, and just now she had just told me her brother saved the computer. Wow, I wonder how many times you can fall in the pits and get back up all in one day.)


So I went online and did whatever a self-respecting student of the University would do in the light of discovering his/her internship results by getting all tensed up and mildly aggravated, and you gotta have to feel that way if you’ve just spent the good of three months getting up in the morning and doing something both unrelated to your studies and personal gain only see that, in the end, everything fucked up.


The webpage displayed an A for me. Holy fuckshit.


You can say that a whole lot of load on the shoulders took flight to the sky in a flurry of feathers and white.


But I guess I’m lucky. Lucky that my work evaluation came high, thanks to the ‘small-company’ status it holds; as Ji Lin might’ve put it very well, they probably need interns badly and would give a good evaluation so long you do fine as a good worker. I was an OK worker. I did my job and tried my best. It was a fish-out-of-water situation but I guess I managed to scrape through. Got rewarded with something good, yet then again, too good; somehow, there is the injustice that would be hard to swallow, especially when knowing that a whole of other slaving students out there who probably didn’t get what they deserved.


I think I just lost my right to complain, that I didn’t get what I wanted, that I didn’t get what I actually need to learn in order to know what journalism has in store for me.


It was back to the old question again, the one I asked myself throughout the months of January to April; was I unlucky, or lucky?


**************************

There were many things that happened this week.


There was the first class of the new semester, and boy was it boring.


There were the other classes as well, some good, some abysmal in the sense that I’m starting to have premonitions as to how I’m going to spend my time in these classes and not contract ennui.


There was the Safety Campaign, which might’ve been disastrous but -- thank goodness -- was rather OK considering the utter impossibility of it.


There was the grandee who walked, talked and balked and didn’t know how far he was threading into the lake in the utter darkness.


There was the moment which I would dub in my life story as The Moment I Received Pan-Mee (Noodles) Enlightenment; courtesy of Bryan (and indirectly, Pauline). Restaurant Kin Kin’s original spicy Pan-Mee is -- oh bloody hell -- like the beacon of power and excellence that shone and drowned all other Pan-Mee in blight; so good and utterly unique it is, other Pan-Mee (be it good, bad or passable) shall fall into the rims of the sideline as merely indifferent.


There was the new camera my father bought, recklessly impulsive he is when it comes to buying unnecessary things.


And there was, last but not least, rain the evenings. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you see the faint outline of a rainbow barely visible under the scanty, post-shower drizzle.

The ants on my table doesn’t know the dangers of marauding into my table-top waste basket; an expedition into perilous grounds, most probably suggested by a delusional worker that believed of the world of discarded candy wrappers found under and between crumpled paper of flustered miswritten words.


Ah, the foolish band. Only a single line, not accompanied by the occasional diligent soldiers that would’ve been something more impressive a sight perhaps. Up they march into the unknown, with the scant promise of sweet, sweet food for their brethren, disregarding danger, waving away the rationale of safety in larger numbers, or safety away from the sitting giant, now watching them with some sort of fascination stemmed from ennui, itself rooted in oh-holy-macaroni the marvels and wonders of a university-night, and heavens help me that it’s only the first week of the semester…


Down comes the wet cloth, like a yellow and coffee-stained tsunami. Micro-fibre qualities of the cloth ensures their entrapment, and subsequent slow suffocation, should they remain in it for long. Into the sink they go, water carrying them down the pipes and into the sewers and into the dark dank world of eternally pungent water.


The giant laughs maniacally and shuffles back to this room.


********


Oh holy macaroni. I’m bored.

My first robbery. And afterwards, the biggest burger I ever had.


I don’t know why, but as far as sketches go, I often get the person who is subject to some form beating. When I was in secondary school, Form 5 to be exact, I had to act alongside a pal for our English oral speaking exams and I was the overzealous boy whose girlfriend got nicked by his best friend; overzealous boy tries to hit the best friend and gets slugged in the face. Yee-haa.


During college, back in TARC, there was another English speaking test and this time I was a middle-aged man in his mid-life crisis with a debt and a failing family, who got a good pounding by a bespectacled loan-shark (“You can’t hit me!… Wait, technically you can, you’re a loan shark. But argh!”). It didn’t help to know that I was acting in front of a group of girls I barely knew, and that the first presentation I had involved me being hurt in a fictitious manner.


Wednesday I was a robber who tried to rob Li Mei (carrying a bag owned by Carmen, which I just got to know better and is a jolly girl) and got arm-locked in the process. Oh, and I got thrown on the ground! In front of a good 100 freshmen, who did some whoops when I was down and groaning. It was a promotional teaser to introduce the upcoming UTAR Safety Campaign, and we did it with a bang by bursting into the auditorium shouting and tugging at the poor bag until Li Mei Jujutsu-ed me and I got thrown. Apparently it worked, and while the initial plan was to have an unexpected drive-by snatch thievery (with me as the snatcher, but the idea got scrapped by the supervisor), I guess we managed to make a good enough impression.


Afterwards we were down at the Pavilion for lunch, and the Kelv-ster suggested the Carl’s Jr. restaurant. The burgers there are the sort that mutated from ideas written on pieces of paper, mixed in a biscuit can and prominently picked by the Creative Executive, who would proceed to place three ideas to a single burger and pitched to the director. You get all sorts of combinations; bacons and beef and mushroom and pickles and whatnot, and they all turn up in abominations held together by sesame seed buns. Wow, talk about the towering monster of doom.


They don’t look as ugly as I may make it sound; to the regular burger-lover, they’re possibly Van Gogh sandwiched in the classy strokes of Da Vinci. And they taste like Shakespeare exploded into lyrical splendours accompanied by Mozart and London Symphony. They taste good. They’re dead big, though, but shared with a friend it’s just about right (even halved, I reckon they’re the size of the average McD’s). Combo the burger with chilli-cheese fries and bottomless drinks, and you get something quite worthwhile once in sometime. I’d remind you to reserve more stomach space, though.


I managed to skip dinner that night. It was a huge, life-changing decision. My parents looked at me as though I just came out of the closet.


***********

Today (Saturday of the 24th of May 2008, 2 days after Indiana Jones went on his latest adventure after 20 years), Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day is Ruminate.

Word of the Day for Saturday, May 24, 2008

ruminate \ROO-muh-nayt\, intransitive verb:
1. To chew the cud; to chew again what has been slightly chewed and swallowed."Cattle free to ruminate." --Wordsworth.
2. To think again and again; to muse; to meditate; to ponder; to reflect.
3. To chew over again.
4. To meditate or ponder over; to muse on.

You can use it this way;

The pot-bellied fathers of the participating children, in complete sync and understanding of each other’s paternal plights, pulled out their pipes and congregated at the corner to ruminate over the joys and ramifications of fatherhood.


And it seems to happen this way, really. I noticed that a group of fathers found themselves at the corner of the MPSJ this morning, their cigarettes out and carefully shielded away from any passing teachers, talking in a mixture of weariness and excitement about their kindergarten children. It’s Sports Day for the Kinderland children, held at the Subang Jaya Sports Complex, and I was there to help out the aunt and uncle.

I was listening for a bit (in a dire means to escape the repeating children songs booming out of the PA system, smack beside of where I sat), and I wondered if this is what fathers do, during parties or dinners or a random ball in some hotel somewhere for the wealthy celebrator. Do they really whip out some smoking device, gathered in a corner and discussed how Michael couldn’t seem to eat his broccoli, or that Lisa needed more discipline than what the experts suggested, or that the wife is suggesting another kid and that little Jason’s kindergarten fees are already sky-rocketing?

And I was there, half-listening and half tying my shoelaces (a little guilty perhaps, to be eavesdropping out of sheer boredom), and I guessed that maybe fatherhood sort of deserves something akin to the Gentlemen’s Club; but instead of talking the latest shipping companies, you talk about your kids.

I don’t really known why I thought like that and why I had decided to actually write about it (as I would put it; I couldn’t help but ruminate on it). Maybe I had wanted to write about how the fathers actually looked when they talked about their children, or that way that they could somehow agree with each other more than any other conversational topic.

Then I remembered that it’s Father’s Day soon.

Maybe dads deserve their own Clubs.

Bathing Rabbits.

Quite honestly a no-go sort of thing, but my father wagered his socks that the sun was warm enough to dry the rabbits before they catch the hypothermia train, so we had them quickly soaked and soaped and un-soaped and then chucked into the garden, where they camped wet and flustered, and made disgruntled attempts to shake the water off their paws.


(Note that bathing your rabbits is inadvisable. Unless dried very, very efficiently, your rabbit is more likely to stay at one corner of its cage for a few minutes, and then keel over into a salutation to the sun. By this time, grab a plastic bag.)


Now the rabbits smelled like anti-flea cat shampoo, and I know they’re not quite happy with it, proven by the couple of times I see Ms. Grey trying to rub it off onto the grass. Beats smelling like overused gloves, missy.


We don’t get a lot of sun these days, and the crappy thing is; we don’t get a lot of rain either. The weather is caught in this sort of uncertain limbo, or probably playing the game of running towards the waves and then leaping backwards when the waves lurch forward; the skies will amass an interesting ensemble of dark clouds (with the orchestral accompaniment of Thunder and Lightning), prompting the neighbours to rush out to their clothes, and then reverting back into a dull canvas of gloomy emptiness. The nights turn the house into baking oven and the mornings lack the sense of hovering chill; all you get is dry whiffs of wind and that’s it.


Isn’t it springtime somewhere?

Le festin est sur mon chemin




Les rêves des amoureux sont comm’(e) le bon vin
Ils donn(ent) de la joie ou bien du chagrin
Affaibli par la faim je suis malheureux
Volant en chemin tout ce que je peux
Car rien n’est gratuit dans la vie

L’espoir est un plat bien trop vite consommé
A sauter les repas je suis habitué
Un voleur solitaire est triste à nourrir
A un jeu si amer je n’peux réussir
Car rien n’est gratuit dans…

La vie… Jamais on ne me dira
Que la course aux étoiles; ça n’est pas pour moi
Laissez moi vous émerveiller et prendre mon en vol
Nous allons en fin nous régaler

La fêt(e) va enfin commencer
Sortez les bouteilles; finis les ennuis
Je dresse la table, de ma nouvell(e) vie
Je suis heureux à l’idée de ce nouveau destin
Une vie à me cacher et puis libre enfin
Le festin est sur mon chemin

Une vie à me cacher et puis libre enfin
Le festin est sur mon chemin

(English Translation)

Dreams are to lovers as wine is to friends
Carried through lifetimes, (and) spilled now and then
I am driven by hunger, so saddened to be
Thieving in darkness; I know you’re not pleased
But nothing worth eating is free

My hope is a banquet impatiently downed
Impossibly full, now I’ll probably drown
Many thieves’ lives are lonely with one mouth to feed
If giving means taking, I’ll never succeed
For nothing worth stealing is…

Free at last; won’t be undersold
Surviving isn’t living; won’t eat what I’m told
Let me free, I’ll astonish you; I’m planning to fly
I won’t let this party just pass me by

The banquet is now underway, so…
Bring out the bottles; a new tale has spun
In clearing this table, my new life’s begun
I am nervous, excited; (oh) just read the marquee!
A lifetime of hiding; I’m suddenly free!
My dinner is waiting for me

A lifetime of hiding; I’m suddenly free!
My dinner is waiting for me


(Thanks to the kind people of stlyrics.com for the lyrics and the delightful translation).

French is rather hard to sing; I thought I’d give it a try but pronouncing malheureux damned near sprained my tongue, so I gave up and wondered if there ever was a chance for me to say Je T’aime to someone, I would simply just mispronounce it into Jet Amy.


French; ze language of love. Paris, ze grande ville of amour. 5 years ago I was one of the three people, namely my mother and father and I, who wondered aloud as to why my brother scoured the bottom of his piggy-bank to purchase an English-French-English dictionary (pocket sized, by Oxford). This was shortly after he bought an English-Japanese-English dictionary, and we thought he was on the verge of becoming a prodigious 17 year-old who will inevitably master command of 7 languages and will be one of those people who can rescue distressed Spanish ladies asking for directions in Kuala Lumpur*.

(*It remains without doubt as one of the coolest things one person can possibly do. Being able to do so will increase your cool level notches higher. This, somehow, does not seem to work with Hakka and Sing-lish. No offence. It’s personal observation and analysis).


Till now, the reason for the French dictionary now sitting on the top of my writing table (mostly seen wedged between the Japanese dictionary and the Federal Constitution when my mother saw fit to tidy it, collecting dust lightly along the top and proudly giving people the assumption that I could speak some French, which I really don’t) still eludes us, and my brother would simply claim “I don't really know” whenever I asked.


I concluded that my brother had, among the many individuals out there immersed by the way Gomez Addams would go nuts when Morticia used French (“Ah cherie! You spoke French!”) and knowing that girls sorta reacts the same way on a vice versa scenario, thought he would benefit from the additional few vocabulary in French.


Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but the dictionary now stands gloomy and very much unused, aside from the occasions in which I saw need to know how something sounded in French (now Babelfish took over, but I still flip the book sometimes).


But French; the language and all of its articulated properties; why is it so captivating, so alluring and enticing, to be deemed as ze language of love? Is it the way it is pronounced? Does saying voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir sound more appealing than saying “You, me, bed, tonight”? Or is it the enigma of it; the mystery both heightened by its often difficult-to-fathom pronunciation and the opposites lesser knowledge upon the language (“Vous gros et paresseux re comme un porc” said Andy under the perfect cerulean skies, and Lisa sighed and said, “yes, I do.”)? Or is it stereotyping to a profoundly huge level, that French, regardless of anything, IS the language of love, brought as the gospel truth by movies and stories?


Alas, I do not know. Perhaps I with some sort of miraculous brilliance I would have studied upon it. But I would tell you that French is, undoubtedly, beautiful, but it is the sort of beauty that lies in every language spoken in the pleasure of passion and purpose. Latin, Italian, Japanese, even Hakka, all have this quality that transcends the need to understand the meaning. Think of it as orchestral music, and the melodious harmony it sprung, like rivers of abstract stories and emotions, when played right and passionately, and you don’t even need to know what makes that sound like clams dropped on one another.


(I would like to state here my believe that the most beautiful way a language could’ve been spoken, in the fashion of utter passion and desire, is the flustered ramblings of an Italian lady discovering the activities her husband did sub rosa.)


* * * * * * *


I think I’ll have to apologise for this, even if you won’t likely have read it. I think I can safely say that I am bored out of my skins.


It’s pretty annoying when in a situation where one is torn between writing for the class blog, as promised to a fellow classmate to which he replied with a Thanks, and feeling like ditching everything to play Chrono Cross. I’m not obliged to write apart from being obliged to write as some sort of practise, this being a responsibility to myself for aspiring to be a writer while not being a good one. But I would try to write and end up something nonsensical, or fiction at the closest best. Fiction which I would not think suitable to post in a class blog once deemed political blog but really a journalistic blog.


And currently the only things journalistic to me are reviews and some feature on some stupid something which significance to the world is close to zero. I feel my abilities being limited here (It’s like Spider-man in space, and webbing is useless there, man.).


Well, nothing worth eating is free.

I’m back now.

And I see no cow-related calamities, nor do I chance upon a random, unidentified body upon my doorstep, which would’ve been the doing of Mr. Moo (at any rate, even if I do find one, I wouldn’t be likely putting it up here, would I?). As far as I know no downright peculiar television broadcast went on the air, though I do know that there was a 45 minute long tech error on Astro Wah Lai Toi (which caused an outbreak unlike which I’ve seen; millions of house-cooped up housewives terrorising their family members because Dicey Business was replaced by a blue screen announcing the technical error, and I tell you, it was pandemonium).

Well, everything’s fine, and my previous post can very well be just forgotten and wiped clean like the Slate in Slater. What do you say?

Betong turned out to be an interesting trip, and possibly the quietest, most placid vacation there ever was. Where was the urgency of rushing through ever landmark before the days are up, or the worry and brain-cringing hours planning the impossible trip to eat every damn thing in town? Nope. Betong only had 3 famous landmark to visit, and food is everywhere within walking distance and we actually wanted as much time in the hotel as possible.

I didn’t really expect it, but it was a relaxation sort of trip. Wow.

I think I'll post the pics and vids up here, instead of letting it rot in my drives.

Well.

Betong, in a nutshell, is a town in the Yala Province of Thailand, smack south and just off our Perak border with the Land of Rice and Smiles. 5 hours drive from Kajang, and just 5 minutes from the Pengkalan Hulu border control booth (308m above sea level). It’s a small town, just as quaint as you might have imagined, with a few notable landmarks and the bustling air that calls Tourist Business. According to Marimari.com, the name is derived from the Malay word for Bamboo (isn’t it Buluh?). The town holds a population of about 48K people, with the majority Buddhists and Muslims.

Possibly because it’s just beyond the borders of Malaysia, pretty much everyone there can converse in Chinese (your standard Mandarin, Cantonese, Hokkein and Hakka). Here’s how the town sort of looks like:

We checked in the hotel shortly before lunch, and then set off for our first meal. Beef noodles and chicken rice (if you’re not familiar with Thai chicken rice, know that the chicken there are lean and stripped of fats). And then on with some shopping. Stuff there are pretty cheap.

Soon after I found the out-of-place clock tower, rightly in the middle of town (a landmark, apparently).

Looks beautiful in the night, too.

Nearby, you find the biggest mail-box in the world. No kidding; the largest one according to Marimari.com

Giant red dildo, with yours truly beside it as comparison.

I thought it was big enough (you don’t have that much mail, do you?), and was busy wondering why it was even built in the first place when I saw this;

Holy Excrement of Heavens; this is f***ing huge!

(yours truly as comparison, now a mere speck).

This box is built in a new community centre sort of building, not yet open to the public. I guess they didn’t want someone else to take the Largest Mail-box trophy anytime soon.

This here is the where my dad calls as the Bob-Marley shop, for its huge collection of reggae stuff. They have flip knives and fedoras, dildo-shaped lighter and a large number of katanas.

Metal-cast BB guns; like the damn real things, man. Straight banned in Malaysia.

Oh, and this is where the Rastafarian Pup came from.

It may not look it, but it's a pet house

Well, after the wandering around and eating, we head back to the hotel for a nap… supposedly, until my dad decided the day is too long to waste and took me and the brother for some Thai massage.

I can describe it simply as F**K-SHIT Motherfuking HURTS.

It hurt. Like mad. And somehow my dad can fall asleep in the process. You’re basically naked on top, wearing these pants that don’t hold and will keep falling down. They lead you to this room, turn down the lighting, and let you listen to some soothing music (I recognised them as simple, orchestral pieces from famous songs, notably Killing me Softly, Raindrops keep fallin on my Head and Song Sung Blue). Then they press whatever pressure points they’re taught to press, and at first it was pretty alright, until suddenly oh damn-shit they’re NOT doing that and you wanted to scream, you really wanted to, but you got your pride to care for, and then they started twisting the limbs in odd directions to stretch and to crick and oh god no, no, DAMN SHIT IT HURTS!

(and they press, sometimes, a little too close to the crotch area to be comfortable).

Well, at the end of it, I was glad it was over. And you might be either like my bro, who swore it off forever and ever and ever, or you could be like me who somehow felt really, really good after it.

It’s fun. But freaking hurts. Sometimes things go two and two.

Then back to the hotel. Then rest. Then dinner (BBQ seafood and authentic tom yam), then sleep.

The next day was properly planned out. First we go eat, and then we go to the hot springs before the weather got too hot to enjoy it.

The place had been built nicely; there’s the main part where the spring is, which they flowed the water into a separate pool to cool it down (too crazy hot on the spring itself). They had some dragon thingies to decorate the place too.

And here’s the centre of the spring, where you can pop eggs in and get them boiled in 7 minutes. Everything there smelled like eggs. It’s something to do with sulphur.

After soaking in for a few minutes, we left the springs and headed for the Piyamit Tunnels, but not before stopping to take a look at these pagodas, built as a resting spot for tourists. They have the statues of the 12 Chinese zodiac animals built in front of them.

There’s the view of the valley the pagodas overlook; beautiful (but ruined by my shots).

And then, to the Piyamit Tunnels!

On the top should be the village the commies built after surviving the bombings. The place is surrounded by properly cared foliage and marble statues. There’s a nice Kuan Yin statue near the entrance.

The plate says for itself.

We’re charged a small entrance fee, and off we hiked to the tunnels. It’s a little way uphill in the jungle. Here’s the hike up. You’ll forgive my family banter and my less than orthodox narration.

And soon enough we’re at the tunnels. There was an uncle who gave a brief explanation of the tunnels, which is the same story they gave at the entrance. I decided that the tunnel is too dark to be photographed in, so I took a video. Once again, forgive my crappy narration and the odd family moments.

The millipede is HUGE.

After the tunnels, we’re whisked into a small museum exhibiting the stuff and events concerning said tunnel. Photography is strictly prohibited inside, but there's virtually nothing inside downright interesting. Educational, yes.

And then, that was it. The end. We’ve went through all the landmarks and it wasn’t even noon yet of Day 2.

We went back to eat, then to rest up in the hotel until dinner, and we camped in the hotel until daybreak (everyone was strangely tired, after the hiking and shopping).

And come 10 a.m. the next day, we were already heading home.

I’ll be going away for a bit.

To Santa Monica, to St. Andrews, Sans Francisco and Honolulu.
For the little sun that goes unseen
Right where the beauties’ been
For the sight of sound, the sound of sin


All rolled up into a humble place called Betong. The one is Southern Thailand, by the way, and has nothing to do with the Pahang place of the same (or possibly just similar) name.
Just for a short trip, with the family (the parents and the bro, and oh, wouldn’t it be smashing…), and Betong’s not short on the sights as well as the fun, apparently. I’ll post about it after I get back on Saturday night.


(I’m pretty sure I’ll be back. I doubt this is a trip to sell able bodies in Thailand as a means to support my family’s clandestine activities -- which mean that I will never possibly know of it, and seeing my bulk would make for a very good sub rosa trade to cannibals of the Wakka Wakka Islands.)


I’m optimistic.


******************


There was once this girl, who found herself in mud.


She realised, soon enough, that mud is a terrible place to be in; it stank, for one, and it is gruellingly sickening to sit knee-high in muck, with the cold pressing onto her, constricting. It was humiliating, it was lonely, and it was painful, at times, when she wondered how it was like before the mud and the muck, when it was green grasses and meadows and the promise of eternal spring. The oaths, given beneath the moonlight, swore under the presence of the stars and the nightly wind.


The worst of all was the feeling of sinking in. Of falling deeper into the ever convulsing mud.
There were hands that came, to pull her out. Ropes and sticks and four-wheel drive wenches at points, which she would grab on, hoping that they would pull her away from the mud, and farther away from the meadows before, into someplace new and fresh; a village, perhaps, where she might start anew, with a flower shop at the beside the clinic, exhibiting fresh flowers daily on porcelain china propped at the front of the shop, under a homely sign promising the freshest and loveliest. And people will stop by buying flowers, praising them as they go, or simply just to bid good morning as they passed. A new start to a new, unknown, but certainly better life.


She would hope and wish, and she would let go and fall back into the mud, because she still wishes for the meadows before it, and in the mud by the roadside was where she could see it best.


And she wallowed. She cried. She sank deeper, lamenting, hoping and not knowing whether she would wait or take what that is given; wait, for the hand to take her back to the meadows, or take the hands that offered to help her to the village.


At one point she was too deep, and she was scared. But she wanted the meadow more than the village.


She wallowed. And I think she is still there, sitting in the mud, crying when the cold and the stagnation and the stench closed her lungs and squeezed her throat, or when the night proved too reminiscent an experience, with the stars and the moon, retelling her the stories about the great green meadow, the promises and oath, so that she remembered and wept. I think she still takes a hand sometimes, letting herself being hauled closer to her feet, closer to dry ground, telling her that the village welcomes her, if she would just come. And she would let go and fall, too afraid to lose sight of the meadow.


A long time ago I saw this girl, and I asked if she would like to go to the village, but her voice told me that I understood too little to empathise, and that the mud wasn’t such a bad place to be, so long the meadow remained a canvas close enough to feel and smell.


And I told her; wouldn’t it sound ridiculous, when I told you, that something living -- even an animal, to say the least -- would know when to get away when being trapped too long in a state of torment?


Isn’t it basic instinct?


And she said I wouldn’t understand. I’ve never seen the meadow.


And I thought; yes, perhaps, until I’ve seen the meadow, and know what’s it like to make an oath and found it shattered one day, to find myself in the mud, I would see to myself if the mud is worth staying in for the meadow. And then, perhaps, if I may know enough to stand up and walk away, I might just return here and tell you about it.


I might just ask if you would need help to get up.


And I walked away.


*******************


In my absence from the net for these 3 days, do take notice on a few things;


1) If a new post were to appear here during this period, and contains something about World Domination and the Salvation of Cow-kind, please know that it is written and published by an enigmatic figure known as The Cow. I don’t know this person or thing, but I know who to blame when something unwanted is posted here during these 3 days.


2) If my MSN goes online and starts spreading messages about World Domination and the Salvation of Cow-kind; What and How to Act According to the Decree of Cow-hood, please know that I have nothing to do with it and they’re probably a spam virus thing, which I will deal with when I get back.


3) If you receive a phone call by a person claiming to be me, and promptly invites you to the Meeting of Bovine Minds, DO NOT AGREE OR ACTUALLY -- IN A CASE OF UTTER AMAZINGNESS -- ATTEND THE THING. If you do, you will be trapped in a cellar for a week and then used as an experiment to better understand the human anatomy. Trust me, I know. I may not be subject to it, but I KNOW.


4) If you dropped by my house and is invited in by a butler, who is very big and fat and walks oddly, as though not used to moving on two legs, and has a coat of white with black spots (patches), who speaks in a Swiss accent and has a tendency to go Moo sometimes, who identifies himself as Mr. Moo, DO NOT ENTER THE HOUSE. Just leave and call me when I get back. I don’t have a butler.


5) There might just be a chance that national TV (like RTM1 and RTM2, TV3 perhaps, but definitely not on Astro) will broadcast a special announcement saying that the world is considerably f***ed up and that humankind is to go bye bye, for the Time of the Cows have Arrived, do not take it seriously and just go to sleep. But if somehow, and just damn somehow, you wake up and see the streets overrun with Cows and Buffaloes and maybe even Goats stamping on people and gutting everyone with a special Gutting gun, please run. As far as you can. I will deal with it when I get back. Don’t call the military or the police or the U.N. Just run.


Well, that’s that about it. Take care ya’ll


Goodnight people!

Heroics.



Score from Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas (the one everyone skimped on, even with Brad Pitt leading the vocal frontline, causing the Hollywood directors to yell, as though the day of reckoning is upon us all; “Traditional animation is doomed, I tell ya! Doomed!”)

*Composed by Harry Gregson-Williams*

I should be asleep, really. But I’m not going to. Instead, I’ll floor this post with movie scores, just because I feel like it.



The theme to Back to the Future, composed by Alan Silvestri.



The Godfather Theme, by Nino Rota.



John William’s Battle of Heroes.

And while we’re on Star Wars;



The real battle was fought with sticks with Shrimp/Peanuts tied to the end of it, by the way.


Goodnight, people.