Have decided to move this blog and start afresh. Esp since I don't seem to be able to renew my LJ account. Will be transferring content to new blog too.

New blog site, now tentatively called [16 retratos]

Thinking of you pa

Read, cycled, listened, tarot, spoke, ate, read, painted. Good weekend.

Cat pee-ed everywhere. Malaysia suffers another loss. Sad weekend.

Tomorrow: must finish writing. must finish writing. must finish writing.

Strings of words have come into my head
that are almost like psalms about you.
If you knew, you'd probably laugh.
It's funny isn't it?
If the people who made decrees were wise,
you would be canonised -
Saint Toni;
In my dyslexia, i wrote Satin Toni -
maybe you would have preferred that more.

I keep bumping into moments when I wished you were around
There are so many questions still;
So many moments when I am shaky, and lazy,
and I knew that if only I could have 5 minutes
with your voice on the telephone
pressed close to my ears,
or a quick chat next to the photocopy machine,
or the time that it takes for rings from sweaty glass mugs
to stain the table
as you weave your stories into parables;
Everything will make sense again,
the fire will have new light, my small feet
ready for fight, for flight,
It might even be called hope.

There are so many things that you
would have been proud of;
So many changes that maybe,
you wouldn't be surprised at,
since you always knew the might of seeds.
I keep bumping into moments when I wished you were around.

Today there is a meeting that you would have gone for,
where I would go, with two-thirds of the reason
being just to catch up with you, have a huge hug with you.
But I will still be there. And so will you.
In so many ways.
Every single person you have spent time with,
have you in them.
Like magic. Or witchcraft.
Or common sense.
It's been a year, and I still keep bumping into you.
It makes me smile.
And it makes me sad.
It makes me write weird psalms about you in my head.
It makes me breakdance with hope and ache.

Miss you Toni. Miss you a lot.

There are a lot of things that puzzle me that I simply have no time to unravel. The automatic choice of the word "unravel" puzzles me. As though puzzles were a series of interlocking question marks that have been kicked about, gnawed and crocheted by a barrel of unhappy cats.

Black, Perak and Ghandi. To be frank.. I am tired of it all. I'm pretty sure I'm meant to be excited. To feel some kind of fire bubbling over inside me. The compelling force of outrage and quest for justice in the shape of democracy. It is exciting. Everyday, twitter is like a cliff-hanger, waiting to see what happens next. Who's going to bring who to which imagined higher body over which clause and sentence under which law. It is extremely exciting to wait and see when the queer theory idea of the ludicrous will bring the house down. It's almost funny. Hysterical. But I guess it can only be funny when you are a spectator and not one of the actors. By force or choice or by simple accident. 

I lost my train of thought. And started thinking about mirrors. About two sides of a dirty 10 sen coin. Palmed from person to person. It can get so black that only McDonald's chilli sauce is able to stain it clean.

Ran out of words again for today.

It's been awhile since I wrote. It's been awhile since I heard the sound of my own voice. I'm sure it has been speaking. I'm sure it has been commenting on the insensibility and ludicrousness of the world. I'm sure it has been writing epic poetry to match the dirty yellow thunderstorms that meet the daily aching sun of late.

But I have been struggling to hear its words. They are inarticulate, like middle of the night speech bubbles. The only shapes they have are of emotive intonations. Sometimes a stream of question marks, sometimes abrupt strings of full stops, sometimes rising into exclamation marks, sometimes merely commas unending...

I've been listening to Cohen a lot recently. It makes me think of old comic books, like The Preacher and Sandman. Struggles with the mythology and morals of an angry, suffering, beautifully arrogant and mysterious God.

I recently said my only religion is feminism. It doesn't make sense actually. I used to believe in God. I used to believe in mercy and kindness and retribution. Sin and light. I used to pray so much I would fall asleep curved, with my forehead touching my knees. I don't think I muttered my sleep then. My nights were quiet conversations worthy of chapters in a holy book. Flaming swords, exorcism, words that shine with the fire of its own soul. I don't have those kinds of dreams anymore.

It's raining right now. The whole world has a grey, rusty watery skin, and the uneven tarred roads are pocked with millions of angry silver craters. Their footsteps are almost drowning out the sentences that are swarming all around me. I saw a spike of lightning on my way here, white and ultraviolet, slicing the indeterminate sky with its sudden clarity. For a moment, I wondered if it touched anything. A singular tree in an open field invades my mind. I live in a world of cinematic cliches.

And so quickly, the storm is losing its fervour. The thunder is beginning to sound like grumbles rather than apocalyptic statements. The wind has changed direction and my laptop is getting wet. Time to go.

i can't remember the first time i met you. it seems as though you have always been present, with a huge breathtaking hug and a smile that just knocks all doubts away. how can the world begin to spell the loss of you? i just saw a video in tribute to you. and you are there, speaking, your voice sounding just like how it always is, strong, questioning, challenging, always with a hint of a laugh underneath. i cannot remember the sound of your laughter, and that really hurts me.

do you know just how much you are loved? do you know how beautiful you are, in your presence, in your life, in everything that you do and touch and see? you are like the heart of a ripple, imperceptible and humble in your constant agitation of complacency. and we have not yet seen the end of those ripples you have caused. change upon change. awakening upon awakening. you inspire.

everytime i have the chance of having a conversation with you, i leave a fuller person. did you know you do that to people? you make me feel with earth under my feet, you make me think with the tireless spinning of webs inside my head, forming question marks that are sparked by fire, pushing me to act, however small my hands and feet, they can move and make and break and create. after each conversation, you make me believe that.

when i was drowning myself in a sea full of guilt and inadequacy, for not doing more, for not giving more, you were always so light and honest in your appreciation, all scales fall away and dissolve into resolve. it doesn't matter. what matters is everything that is, and everything that could possibly be. humility. you teach me humility.

and you have opened me to a kind of love i did not realise is possible. without lines, without trade, without spaces. you are so wise. you are so sharp. you dance in the waves of cheeky laughter. you are truly, someone the world was not prepared to deserve. and is not prepared to lose.

there is an absence that a century of grieving could not shadow the form of exactly how deep, how much we have lost. all i know is i miss you so much. an insensible craving that cannot begin to grasp the fact that you are gone. with love toni. you are a magical blessing.

tahlil for toni kasim tonight (wed) at 7pm, at mosque near subang old airport. mosque has no name but apparently you jjst do a 3 o'clock at the roundabout and you'll see it. should last from maghrib to isya'. it's not exactly a multi-faith ceremony but friends of all faiths are welcome to be in the mosque compound to remember her in everyone's unique way. do pass the message on.

the internet has turned me into a one-click activist. all i need is connectivity, a kind of name, an email address. i don't have to leave my room, i don't even have to get up from my chair, i don't have to experience or touch or smell. all i need to do is see through an interface, read and have a split second think. then insert my name and click.

today, i received an email that called for a petition to boycott an artist - Guillermo Vargas "Habacuc"- from representing his country at the Bienal Centroamericana Honduras 2008. I'm not sure what the event is, apart from being some kind of art exhibition.

he definitely caught a stray dog from the streets, leashed it with a rope inside a gallery in nicaragua last year as his art piece for an exhibition entitled 'Eres Lo Que Lees' - 'You Are What You Read'. The title is written on the wall with dog biscuits while the stray dog walks nearby, just out of reach, tied with a rope around his neck.

it caused outrage, understandably, and pictures were released and sent over the internet that showed the dog gradually starving to death. the gallery owner insists that the dog escaped and it was only tied for 3 hours during the exhibition, before which the artist fed the dog with food he brought himself. other petition sites pulled quotes from him here and there and concluded that he admitted to starve the dog to death.

whichever way the truth, there are currently more than 2 million signatures in support of the move to boycott this "animal-hating" artist.

on the flipside, the “One Million Signatures" campaign organised by Iranian women's rights activists since 2006, demanding for changes in laws that discriminate against women has to date only managed to get slightly more than 7 thousand signatures.

so let's see. artist drags stray dog to be exhibited as art, disputed intentions and conclusion of actual death, 2 million supporters. whole populations of women and men in a country facing clearly documented discrimination, violence and suppression, 7 thousand odd supporters.

so the one-click activist is not only lazy in terms of activism, but also lazy in terms of analysis.

give me some pictures, clear visuals of a starving dog, easy to understand terms, and i'll give you my name.

give me an actual complex reality of shit happening in the world, where i have to actually do some search because even information is clamped down, campaign sites filtered and blocked, people struggling to get some small measure of truth out in the open, i just can't be bothered.

too difficult. time is passing on too fast. hyperlinks are waiting, and only those dished out ready to be served with cute buttons and easy navigation.

give me a story, full of drama, heart-rending pictures, moral outrage and digestible ethics. i'll give you my name.

*click*

Every Malaysian is racist. Race is not a dirty language. Most Malaysians puzzle over the use of words like "ethnicity" or "origin" instead of the much richer and loaded language of race. Before any other form of self-identity, race comes first. then gender, or class, or sexuality, or brand affiliation, or anything else that needs to be named. Race as a marker is stitched so firmly into our psyche, our souls, our knowledge of the the self and our place in the universe, it's instinctive.

I learnt that I was one out of three chinese in my class when i was seven. Before that, I learnt that pig is dirty, just like Indians, except in a different way. I knew that there are differences in our way of life and theirs - theirs being a category that can always be interchanged as the familiar other. Racist jokes about politicians, nasi lemak, roti canai and chee cheong fun abound; lazy malays, money-faced chinese, stupid indians. And amidst the punch lines that carve our alienation from each other is the shadow of violence burning through the numbers, "May 13th 1969". Like the holy trinity, Malaysians are neatly cut up into a magical three that makes up the corners of a pyramid. With every other identity - Serani, Bengali, Orang Asli, Kadazan, Ang Mo, Indon and more - thrown into the darkness of corners, intermittently visible with a rare shift of light.

This morning, I chanced upon an abandoned Berita Harian at the next table during breakfast. Skimming through the headlines of Najib supporting Pak Lah and Hishamuddin abdicating his Pemuda UMNO leadership position, an advertisement caught my eye. Placed neatly across the bottom part of the front page, it enticed readers with a 70% discount on something. It took me awhile to figure out what the advert was about. Splashed in bold letters under the name of the company are the words, "100% dimiliki oleh bumiputera". Initially, I thought it was a property development project. The meta keywords "milik" and "bumiputera" immediately linked to make a cohesive picture of "satu lagi project bermutu oleh NEP".  Reading more closely, I realised that it was actually a sale of fabrics and cloth by a shop in Jalan Masjid India.

So why was it necessary to speak so directly to its potential market that their money will solely profit only bumiputeras? Berita Harian is a Malay-language newspaper. Their readership consists mainly of 20s to 40s, middle income Malays: 93% in 2007. We are freaking out silently at the moment. The recent elections results have thrown our pyramid into slight disarray. We're a little unsure what the masses want - as informed to us through a select and concentrated number of individuals easily identified through icons and colours.

Tony Pua, my crisp and newly elected Member of Parliament, scoffed at MCA when they tried to assure voters post their recent elections "defeat" that they will continue to protect Chinese rights. He said, "They just don't get it". DAP is all about "Malaysians first", the pyramid scheme just doesn't hold political resonance anymore. But then a few days later he sputtered at Pak Lah's statement about Chinese interests being in jeopardy if inadequate (race-based, read Chinese = MCA) representation is made in the Parliamentary Cabinet. So who is not getting what?

I think Malaysians are truly quite fed-up of being told that we can only have particular rights if we have particular kinds of race. The magic May 13th number is a little too far in time to properly evoke palpable terror. The terror of not being told the truth, of being somehow cheated of chances, of having narrow corridors to carefully sail speech bubbles - they are a lot more real somehow.

And it's also thanks to the development discourse that have been regurgitated to visceral levels to justify all kinds of wayang. Somehow, earning a living has become our primary inalienable equal right. Getting information and communicating it, scaffolded by our accidental and ignorant bliss of an unfettered internet access - also fueled by the language of economics - have become our collective seeds of desire. Race has become an irritating fence that we just want to dismantle.

We have all been struggling against our automatic racism. But we can't seem to let it go. Because it simply matters. It is the history and the land upon which we are now building our dreams of hope, freedom, justice, equality, etc. etc. etc. Before articulating any form of change, before cartographing our future, the raw materials we have for transformation is the bone black of our racist, nationalised beings.

So what should we do? What can someone like Tony Pua do? When he is also left with the Chinese-interest legacy of DAP. Now together with PAS and PKR attempting to shed their skins and slither anew from the ashes as Pakatan Rakyat, attempting to assuage real fears and tensions of racist Malaysians to similarly let go of this lucrative pyramid and form something new. Whichever angle you take, it still looks like a triangle albeit with a different constitution. Perhaps Hindraf will get fed up that cries of "Makkal Sakthi!" being drowned by cries of "Reformasi!" or "Allah huakhbar!" and form a separate party. Then we could have a trapezoid. Or perhaps in time, PSM will finally get registered and we could have a pentagon.

I want a multi-headed hydra or a border-ignorant paramecium. The sad fact is, we are constructed by identity-politics. We are raced, we are gendered, we are genitalised, we are monetised, we are limbed, limed and slimed with categories and cardboard boxes. We're just at this moment in time, trapped in the room of race, prying the door handle into the room of class or perhaps gender. Obfuscating our racism by substituting Indian/Malay/Chinese-rights with rights of poor people, rights of women, rights of people living in rural areas, in the rain forest, in the office, in cyberspace.

But some rooms are more fluid than others. It is so much harder to get rid of your skin than say, changing your home address, credit limit, religion or genitals. And maybe one day, when there are so many rooms that doors take up a lot more space than walls, they will cease to matter as much. We just need to be brave and lift our one foot firmly cemented in the race room and try something a little different. Exploration has to start somewhere, so it might as well start with a careless jump.