Beans, dreams and stuff

I am having a bad case of the shits. Could be the enchilada, could be the beans or it could even be the donuts i downed on my way back from Kuantan. One heck of a way to celebrate.

Won my case in Kuantan, partially. Until final bills are paid all wins are incomplete. Got to think of a trophy wall of sorts.

I am attempting minimalistic writing. Discovered that time travel is possible just now when was drafting/compiling documents for cause paper for Industrial Court. Tired, like a worn out tire. Ready to be recycled into sandals. One scene came to mind, some years ago was asked during interview: dream job or work life balance? Answered work life balance. Didn't get the job. Boring desk job anyway. Probably wont give stuff to write about.

Got together with mentors from old pupillage firm. About four days ago. De Jure Master and De Facto included. Talked shop. Exchanged professional complaints. Asked for free legal advice. Kept talking in low voice and looking over to me when talking politics, as if i am of questonable loyalties. Told them am a card carrying member of PSM. Shut them up good. Let them make out the meaning of it if they will. Not sure if PSM has membership cards. Not going to join PSM. Not sure will join. Not until that Khalid guy leave for Iran or get himself shot in the balls.

Political affiliation difficult to explain. Wish could pull a one liner like H. Bogart in Casablanca. Nationality? I'm a drunkard. Not a drinker. But, something like that. Too ill disciplined to toe party lines. Too lazy to entertain neo feudal lords.

Got tons to do tomorrow but still not sleeping. Too stressed to sleep. Probably need sleeping pills, or something. Hope wont spawn a Tyler in my head. Life is weird as it is. Already planning to blow up banks and corporation (metaphorically).

Probably should sleep now. Correction. Must sleep now. Hell can come collect tomorrow morning. If boy didnt wake me up first.

Danegeld

Sorry Chong Wei. We all are. No gold for you. No gold for us. Your honourary Bumiputra status is now revoked. We can all go back to calling each other cina babi, melayu bangsat and keling mabuk.

Better luck next time Malaysia.

China Babi!

Do you carry the fire?

Thought shot faster than my fingers are able to type them. Thoughts, multiple strands of them, often unrelated to one another found themselves intertwined with one another and again faster than my poor fingers can ever keep up with. The price to pay for living in this day and age. I wonder how it will be for the Son later on. Micro milli parsecs, faster than thought flight. Will our physiology be able to keep up? Will our muscles, our limbs then athrophy for want of use? Might we be then just mere head in a jar with shriveled body? Homo Craniumus? My God, the possibilities are never ending. Then there are also the possibility of a planet-wide catastrophy, global pandemic, nuclear holocaust, accidental black hole at CERN, or whatever. Mankind have excellent record of shooting itself in the foot.

Forgive me. Forgive me.

The arrival of the Son some two months ago amped up the paranoia in me. The slightest negative progression of events be it local or world in scope warrants a nervous reaction in me. Brexit, Daesh, Donald fuckin Trump or whatever. All i see the need to be prepared for the worse. The primeval instinct in me now switched on and it said this: Protect the tribe. The female and the offspring must survive. I now truly know the meaning of the heart skipping a beat. I worry. I worry far too much. Over too many things.

Happy, of course i am happy. God willing i have a boy who i hope will grow up to be a better person than in i am now or ever will be. Someone to carry on the blood and legacy of my ancestors and someone i pray, to be the one who would keep my grave perpetually lit when all else is dark.

God knows the things i want to teach him, all that i know, to show, to discover together. All the hopes of the world, all the optimism and all that is good and well in the world lies inside a farting/perpetually pooping little guy. There was this scene that Cormac Mccarthy wrote in The Road. When the Man had died on the beach and the Son asked the man who had been following them, do you carry the fire? I wish that for the Son, for my son. To carry the fire, to be the light in an increasingly dark world, to know compassion when none are shown, to know the meaning of honour and to strive to live with it always.

Carry the fire my son.

So much hope in so small a package. May you be a better Man than i am or ever will be.

Sleep now my son. Tomorrow is another day, another nappy change, another bath, another feeding, another bout of hiccups. Loads and loads of things for you, and me to learn fromand adventures to be had.

Sleep well, my son.

Kill The Bird.

Years from now, i will look back at this post and wonder what the hell i was thinking. What the hell made me do it.  What the hell made me delete my twitter account?

It is a rhetorical question. The answer lies in the question itself. What the hell was i doing on twitter in the first place? A question for an answer, there you go. It was but a phase. A game. We all play it.  140 words to kill. Go. Fit a joke or bitch about your luxuriously boring life or come up with a witty line over a  local issue or football or whatever. Time starts now.  Used to be i waited for days just to come up with a pithy or witty line to share with my almost none-existent followers. And this is in the day where information flows faster than thought. 

I got bored of the game. It bored me because i became dependent on it. I stopped writing long rambling stuff as i slowly became addicted to the speed of the replies the likes and what-have you. I was addicted to it, like nicotine, like sugar, like whatever the hell floats your boat in a shitty day.

One can only maintain a number of addictions at any given time and so ruthlessly i nipped the addiction in the bud, long before it becomes cancerous. I knew that to be published, to be remembered i had to write at least 10,000 words a day and 10,000 attempts at a tweet does not count as writing. Twitter is cancerous to my writing muscle, at least it was for me.

Do i miss it now? i certainly did, like i will miss nicotine when i finally gave up my pipe or like i will miss sugary stuff when i finally go on a diet. Relapse? God help me, i hope not.

Sometimes a line a word which i think to be brilliant my first reaction would be to say to myself; that is tweet-worthy or , i should tweet that. But then i would catch myself midstream and to remind myself that my twitter account is dead and give the silly blue bird the finger.

I would then type it instead in my battered old Samsung S3 whose S Notes notes have the tendency to go missing even after i saved it a few time after which i would go berserk and after a few minutes, resign to the fact that brilliant line or word is now lost eternally to the Void .

Now, after the death of the bluebird, i find my days to be longer and more meaningful. Conversations, i mean good old fashioned conversations became an enjoyment for me albeit my introverted disposition. The lines? the witty and pithy lines? Now, i reserve them  for good old fashioned conversations with friends.

Death of the bluebird is a relief for me. Its like taking a long satisfying dump after holding it in for hours. Go on. Try it now. Kill your Twitter. It will liberate you.