The United Altered States of Maryam

Blogger went psycho on me late last night that I had to publish this in the morning instead..

#1 Sophisticated, indeed

One word that would sum him up better than his own name: DUMB but not the kind of dumb that would merit charity, sympathy and political correctness. Nevertheless, he is the kind of dumb that one would think only 5 generations of inbreeding could produce. Although I’m pretty sure his parents aren’t siblings, one could only assume that Nature didn’t have a wide gene pool to choose from when creating the figure in question.

(Of course, he thinks I’m loud and obnoxious and treats me like I’m dumb. It’s not an entirely unfair judgment. Dumb people are capable of making fair judgments once in a very rare while.)

But of course, when you live in a foreign country, you tend to feel obliged to play nice with any of your fellow countrymen living within a 500-mile radius. Perhaps, it’s due to the fact that moving abroad can be rather chaotic and unsettling that one tends to gravitate and cling on to the first familiar sight one sees in the first few weeks following one’s arrival. (Which is not to say that Z and I have done any clinging or gravitating towards this particular person, mind you). Call it a misguided act of patriotic-ism that Z and I ended up hanging out with this particularly challenged and patience-challenging specimen of a Malaysian in our first few weeks of living in the Gold Coast.

There are many, many examples that I could use to illustrate to you how irrevocably dumb this person is but one scene particularly sticks out in my head due to the sheer absurdity of it all: We were having (or trying to have) a pseudo-theological conversation with him on the consumption of alcohol and pork – both a big no-no in Islam. The question was this, “Why do so many Muslim Malaysians drink but continue to observe the rule of not eating swine under the pretext of religion?” (I recall having exactly the same conversation with a friend back home and his answer was simple, “Well, ‘cause pork doesn’t make me high, babe.” I found it rather hilarious, not to mention honest and unpretentious.) With a bottle of Jim Beam in his hand, the dumb kid however, haughtily answered something along the lines of, “It’s like my daddy said, any rural bugger can have a cup of coffee but drinking alcohol is a mark of sophistication.”

A few drinks later, dumb kid was throwing up bile all over himself and the bathroom floor while others gawked, laughed and cleaned up his mess for him.

Very sophisticated indeed.

#2 Pseudo (a)political ramblings, labels, multiculturalism and One Love

To the disappointment and worry of my parents, my principles, be it political or personal are not as much guided by religious tenets as it is guided by well….. err…yeah. I once joked that my principles are so elastic, rubbery and bendable that they might as well be called my ‘flexibles’ which is not to say that I’m corrupt or corruptible (although some friends might beg to differ to which I will tell them to shut the fuck up). And thus, it baffles me as to how I can still be labeled as ‘stubborn’. Perhaps I am inflexible with my being flexible. Or perhaps, I’m not as flexible as I think I am. Whatever it is, I’m not bad at yoga.

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I was once called a republican for supporting the idea of the abolition of monarchy in Malaysia. It’s not that I’m saying that Malaysian royals should be guillotined like their French counterparts were so many years ago. I’m saying that they shouldn’t be given the privilege of being able to cut through traffic jams with their police escorts while the rest of us plebs have to wait in line for hours, of the rest of us not being allowed to wear yellow in their presence, of living off the fat of the land, of sucking in tax-payer’s hard earned money for their upkeep. I was told that the monarchy is a symbol of the Malay people and their culture. Sure, if we want to continue affirming the idea that at the root of it, Malay culture is all about butt-kissing, feudal mentality. Where once, in the days of old, the royals served a necessary administrative purpose for the mass of land we now call Malaysia, these days, their relevance goes as far as the glossy pages of the Malaysian Tatler.

Off with their heads and let me eat cake.

At least the English Royals provide interesting tabloid fodder.

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My mother once called me a feminist radical for not wearing a bra. In Victorian England, perhaps but in this day and age, it’s about as radical as squeezing toothpaste from the center of the tube. The fact that I don’t usually wear a bra has nothing to do with me thinking that it’s some kind of symbol of women’s liberation but everything to do with comfort, and the fact that I can’t find a clean bra to wear since I’m crap at doing laundry.

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I once fell into an argument with a former classmate on Malaysia’s colonial past – he seemed unhappy with not only our status as an independent nation but the relatively peaceful way in which we achieved our independence. “The British…. They shouldn’t have just…..left us,” he whined. Buddy, you expect them to hold our hands until you feel we’re ready to wear big boy pants? Honey, one way or another they already have us by the balls – look at me – I’m typing in English! What does independence mean to you? Have you no confidence that we’re capable of taking care of ourselves? The term here is ‘colonialist’ not fucking nanny. Fucking idiot, are you really trying to say that the concept of ‘White Man’s Burden’ is justified, that we really do need some pasty wanker to educate us into civilization?

For the record, he looks like a cross between a giant sea turtle figurine made out of leftover puff pastry dough that you end up throwing at the ceiling just to see if it’ll stick. And if mom will get mad.

Born nearly three decades after Malaya’s declaration of independence, I have nothing against the Brits really. Although I’m not particularly fond of that Hugh Grant.

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Once, my American housemate S.T said that having George W. Bush as president made her ashamed to be American. My other American housemate, A.M. shared her sentiment. In fact, every American I’ve ever met and talked politics with was of the opinion that Bush, to put it quite simply, is an asshole. (But an asshole who is still president, nonetheless.) Which leads me to the hypothesis that perhaps, only anti-Bush Americans are allowed to leave the country and speak to people from the rest of the world while the rest remain at home…. to vote.

Brain, I think Pinky just took over the world.

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We proudly call our little residence in the Gold Coast the ‘mini United Nations’ – two representatives from the States, two from Malaysia, one representing both France and Martinique, and another from Australia – all living under the same roof and getting along like a barbecue on fire. And in this version of the UN, the U.S. play nice and no, they do not refer to the French housemate as a “Freedom-Girl” (Freedom Fries, remember that whole fiasco?).

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The great thing about living in a touristy place like the Gold Coast is there’s a frequent influx of people from all over the world coming together under the peaceful banner of partying and tanning. The downside about living in a touristy place like the Gold Coast is, the worst pick up lines from all over the world come together while you’re trying to party.

The other day, a guy from Brazil approached me and asked if I’ve ever kissed a Brazilian. No. “Would you like to? You can try it with me.”

I won’t explicitly tell you what my answer was but oh, for the love of God, what was I thinking???

#3 Written Apology

Someone once, and a few other people more than once referred to me as ‘manic’. While I don’t approve of such frivolous use of a serious psychological term, I will concede that late at night, I do suffer from a compulsion to talk excessively to sleeping housemates following a non-linear pattern of discussion, walk rapidly around the living room in circles, think of a 100 grand scenarios that will never happen and claw my eyes out, all which prevents me from going to bed with ease. Blame it on excess energy, the energy I didn’t use up during my unproductive day, all fizzling, crackling and popping inside my head like a sealed can of soda that’s been put on a rollercoaster. And so I write - to channel excess energy out of my system. And so I write - to basically, put myself to sleep but not in hope that it will do the same for you although I wouldn’t blame you if it did.

The fact that I use writing as a form of medication can be put down to an ‘accident of circumstances’. I could very well be carving totem poles instead of blogging if I had been taught the proper way of handling wood-carving equipment but no one ever trusted me around objects sharper than a ball point pen. But I come from a family of writers, or aspiring writers, or people who write and as the youngest of five very vocal siblings, anything I had to say had to either be yelled at the top of my lungs while I roll on the floor, stomping my feet (which is really not an acceptable method for anyone past the age of 5, which is not to say that I don’t still, unfortunately, indulge in it at times, which is not to say that it is even an effective method) or written down.

But yes, anyway, my point is……..

In the words of Mimi in New York, people who write or writers or whatever you see fit to call them and me are essentially cockroaches – “we eat shit of people’s lives and poke fun at it”. So, my friends, family, and random corny strangers- if you feel that I have wrongly stolen parts of your life to embellish my blog, that I have violated you by making you live vicariously and inaccurately through my words – I apologize for the past and in advance and I give you permission to bug spray me into a stupor or hit me with your shoe. And so, my friends, family and random corny strangers – if you feel offended by the fact that I’ve never written about you– don’t be, it’s not a testament to how much or how little I adore or care for you. It’s just well, that you’re really, pretty damn dull.

Alright, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.

The part about me being a cockroach.

Posted by Maryam at 12:30 PM | Permalink |

#1: Don’t mind me, I’m Asian!

“I know! I should get naked!” announced L with all the enthusiasm of a cheerleader in a B-Grade horror movie spoof. You could almost see the lightbulb go ‘ping’ above her head or was it the spotlight of a stage at a strip club? I was working with L and another girl on a performance piece for our Creative Arts Foundation class. We were assigned to work with the theme of “Violation” and I couldn’t help but feel as if dear L was taking the theme too literally. Violation = Nudity, it all seems too obvious an allusion, too derivative to me. And if she was basing it upon the clichéd notion that nudity is art than, well, Paris Hilton’s porn flick would be the freaking Sistine Chapel wouldn’t it?

We ignored her comment for awhile, in search of more novel ideas, fresh methods in which to convey our message. But you would be surprised at how persistent aspiring nudists can be. My every other sentence was interrupted by a “So do I get naked or what? Lets practice it!” and my internal response to her each time was Girlie, I just met you, stop violating my sense of social conduct and propriety by insisting that you get naked at this very moment. Or perhaps, that was what she intended, that she was an artistic genius and already putting the theme of our piece to work before it’s even pieced together and staged. Excuse me while I smirk with cynicism.

L was, still is at this very moment, about a foot shorter than me (give and take some exaggeration) with boobs twice as big (no exaggeration) and light blonde hair that was probably, originally a mousy brown. Her hair was secured with a wide headband with multi-colored stars on it that somehow reminded me of a cartoon character that had been hit on the head with an anvil. She’s 17 years old and fresh out of high school so one can understand to a certain extent, her compulsion to take her clothes off. I left the Malaysian equivalent of high school around 4 years ago and I can clearly remember an urge to run around the streets clothed only by joy and celebration. Except I’m turning 21 this year and that urge has slowly transformed into pajama-wearing couch-hogging kind of sedateness.

“I really think I should get naked!” Why? “Because you know…violation and all,” she drawled, or twanged – I haven’t quite figured out yet if the Australian accent is a drawl or a twang or something else. The pajama-wearing couch-hogging sedated part of me gave in. The other girl did too. L squealed for joy but then, “Oooh, my boyfriend’s going to be sooo pissed,” she drawled or twanged or dranged or twaled. “But it’s not like there are any guys in our class,” she continued.

I pointed out to her that there are in fact, two male students in our tutorial, if it matters.

“Aww, yeah, but it doesn’t really count cause they’re Asian,” she said.

Now what the hell is that suppose to mean? That Asian males aren’t really male? Or that Asians are inanimate and therefore undressing before us would be similar to undressing in front of a table? Does she consider Asians to be furniture? Now I know up to 1967, Australia officially considered Aborigines as flora and fauna. But I didn’t realize that this disgusting notion extended to all people of non-Caucasian descent and that this notion still exists in present-day “multicultural” Oz.

“Like, I mean, they don’t even really understand English,” was L’s explanation.

Honey, I think it’s pretty safe to say that one doesn’t need to understand English to see nudity. But you can’t hold anything against the ignorant. They wouldn’t know you were.

#2: I don’t speak American

I tell them I’m from Malaysia. They tell me I have an American accent. They go, “But oh, you have an American accent! Did you go to American school?” and I say, “No, I just watch a lot of American television.”

They laugh.

I don’t think it’s funny.

It’s kind of sad, really.

#3: Go Home!

I’m walking to the bus stop with Z. We’re minding our own damn business. An Aboriginal guy drives past us in a car with his white friend in the passenger’s seat. He yells to us, “Go back to your country bitches!!! Or I’ll stick my dick up your ass!” An Aboriginal guy telling two Asian girls to go back to their country with his white friend sitting in his car. The hilarity and irony of it.

Mate, in this day and age, no one can lay claim to any country. Too late for that. It shouldn’t be the way, anyhow.

Now go stick your dick up your own ass. Try it, you might like it and kill yourself along the way.

#3a. Bo-ring

I just finished writing my assignment for my attractive lecturer’s class. He’s not going to be impressed. He can stuff it. I don’t need to be any smarter just cause he’s attractive.

#5 That’s Hot

The young attractive lecturer, I will call him Mr. B was talking about something I wasn’t paying attention to because he looked especially attractive at that moment. And then he says (to the class), “I wish we had more time to discuss this topic more penetratively.”

All of a sudden, someone turned off the air-conditioning in the lecture hall. Or it felt like it.

Note to self: Only take classes taught by ugly people from now on. You’ll learn better that way. And the air-conditioning stays on.

#6 Glam Boys

I need to say this: Jonathan Rhys Meyers is … goddamn! His performance as the social climbing, morally-ambiguous Chris Wilton in Woody Allen’s Match Point was absolutely brilliant that you really couldn’t hate him when….. (nevermind, I don’t want to spoil the ending for those that haven’t seen it. Well you should!) Come to think of it, so was Woody Allen’s performance, absolutely brilliant, in that he wasn’t performing but stuck to being behind the camera, writing and directing in a tautly, suspenseful Hitchcock-ian style. (If you’re thinking of picking on me for not being fond of Woody Allen as Woody Allen, go develop a neurosis instead.) And yes, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, goddamn, he’s beautiful. Except, is it odd that I fancy him more in Velvet Goldmine, dressed in tight purple leotards, sprinkled with glitter, draped in feather boas, looking like someone’s tackily fabulous aunt?

#7 The Morning After

She woke up around midday and attempted to head straight to the kitchen, only the living room sofa ran into her and she fell into its soft, cushy lap and stayed there for a very long time, still in last night’s clothes. I asked her how she was and in a barely audible tone, she mumbled, “I hate the smell of dude on me in the morning.”

Not that she wouldn’t do it again or go further the next time with perhaps, a different guy. Not that she regretted the night before. It was fun. “Just the morning after.” Because she couldn’t remember what he looked like. And yet she knew she smelled of him. And not at all like herself. Of course, it’s nothing that a good shower can’t cure. If she could only get herself off the couch……….

#8 Lust in Sheep’s Clothing

Now, believe me or not those of you who have a tendency to misplace your pity, I’m not being bitter-single when I say this but I’m convinced that romance is the most potentially harmful of all false notions and that romance is lust in sheep’s clothing, except the sheep is the threat here. For so long, lust was constructed to be the evil sibling of romance when in fact, it is the most virtuously honest one of the family. I know people who have devoted their lives, or plan to devote their lives to the pursuit of romance in hopes of finding fulfillment and yet, once they have achieved their socially-constructed, culturally-indoctrinated idea of romance, they find themselves, ultimately unfulfilled. Knowing this, still, they remain devoted to the ideology, like Katie Holmes to Tom Cruise and Scientology. I don’t get it (devotion to romance, but also scientology). Romance is a false notion but lust, is among the most basic of all human instincts, the foundation of the Maslow Hierarchy of Needs , for without it humankind would not survive and grow to 6.5 billion. Also one would think then, that lust coupled with tax benefits is a good enough reason to commit wouldn’t it? And also, you know those movies or how some people say that women throw themselves into their work because they are “romantically-deprived”? Well has it ever occurred to these people that maybe, just maybe some people envelop themselves with “romance” to make up for their sucky careers? It’s a thought but go ahead, prove me wrong…

#9 Green Tea-Fuelled Purpose

Lipton’s Green Tea’s tagline goes, “Now that’s refreshing!” So refreshing apparently, that I turned into Pat Morita’s character in Karate Kid, scaled up the top of a treacherous mountain and started telling the world that I could see but couldn’t see me:

“It would seem at times, as if everything in the world has been reduced to the he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not-petal-picking-game. But I suppose, it is the simplest, easiest way to measure one’s life by. That and the amount of money one has. It doesn’t make living life easier per se, just easier to measure, compare and contrast with that of others. It is a method. And judging by those two methods, I fail.”

At that moment a little bird, with snow on the tip of its beak came by and said, “i guess people think that someone wanting you enough to be with you constantly makes you more... of a person? more acceptable? something, i don't know. i think it's naff, i admire people who can go through life not being dependent on someone else for happiness.”

And I responded:

“I admire people who are happy through a way they choose to be, regardless of the method. If being desired by another makes one happy, all is well. The problem arises when one knows that being desired by another won’t bring fulfillment to oneself but one is in the dark of what will. Not knowing what makes one happy is far more shameful than knowing that one is dependent on another for happiness.”

And then I said:

“I think, no, I feel that purpose should not be something one works on but something one feels, at the very core of one’s being. Achievement requires time but purpose is present from the very start of the conception of one’s being.”

The bird then said, “i know what i want to do with my life, but is it my purpose?

To which I pondered, and replied:

“I feel that purpose extends to more than just ambition. It’s also a sense of … belonging. I feel, that purpose is more than just what one does, be it want to or meant to but it is what one is. It is as much a state of being as it is an action-plan.”

And then I went on about something else, vaguely related but not quite:

“There’s no sense of coherence to the way I live or choose or want to live my life. It doesn’t make sense to me especially when I think of the inspired. Some people don’t do anything in action but possess an uncanny aura of inspiration nonetheless. They are innately inspired to know themselves. And it is beautiful. And it is fabulous! And even if they do not know themselves, they know how to strike a convincing pose. They know exactly the pose they want to strike, they know exactly the image of themselves they desire to offer the world, and they strike it, and they project it. And who are we, unsteady, unsure, fickle fools to think less of them??”

And then I said to the little bird

"Perhaps, I do not want to be an intellectual that theorises about things. Perhaps, I want to be that thing that intellectuals theorise about. Those who don't do, those who don't be, theorise. And right now, I'm theorising."

And then I saw a thousand books from my past throw itself into the fiery chasm of err…. fiery things. And a hundred unfinished academic theses go up in smoke. And I stood up on my one bad knee, on top of this mountain, and proclaimed with all my might:

I DON’T WANT TO BE AN ACADEMIC! I WANT TO BE A PANDEMIC!!!!!!!!!

And the bird said, “Awesome, let’s put that on a t-shirt!”

#10 Night Night

It’s 5 am in the morning now and I need to go to sleep. For every hour that I delay sleep to blog gibberish, a centipede grows another pair of legs. No more mutant millipedes. Night night.

Posted by Maryam at 4:59 AM | Permalink |