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 on Tuesday, April 25, 2006 at 12:30 PM | Permalink