I took a stare at the sky.Clouds pregnant with water hovered over us, ceased the day as they ate the sun and its rays. The deep blue sky turned a dark grey and was beaten into individual lumps,each fluffed at the edges. An inverted ocean, blackened to its core and wide to the mile,tarred our gazes above, ready for rainfall.My eyes soon descended to a side of a shoulder, heads were seen bobbing as we plod a steady gait. We,a band of friends clad in loose t-shirts and crumpled pants, were walkig twards a building as we witnessed creaking cracks of dry paint and charcoal smudges of sut w on its aging body.It was an elongated crimson coated apartment block, one of many that rose repetitiously at this Mcallum residential zone.It stood looking unapart from the others, as each comformed to the bored cuboid shaped construction and the sleepy grey concrete surroundings they were planted at. A dear friend's house was located within it,his place of solitude and refuge, now in the process of becoming ours' as well. A silent gloom was flt. The static air was whipped into wispy curls, the cold,damp interior of the clouds was furled on to the ground. The wind caught us and we sensed the descending chill,our skins wet as if we were within them touching the condensing vapour.The heavens were plump and were ready for gravity. Soon luminous branches of light streaked through the clouds, the massive shroud was diced in anger. The sun was mad. Mad at the lost of its dominion and so spitted lightning.A loud roar alike mountains splitting struck replying the affront. A clash was unsuing, and so we ran in. We dashed towards the open lobby and with our lungs puffed, stood gaspingly on its bare cement floor with our hands against the tile plated walls. An instantanious crackling cut through the damp calm, ears were brought to the lobby exits. The drains were awash with deluge,it slithered wildly with its wavy slashes broken only by raindrops.A lift was available,its box quiet and empty, and so it marked suspicious gazes on our faces. It welcomed us with a bare interior which was as still as the narrow Georgetown alleys on a moonless night.A sly predator patiently waiting obliging prey to enter. A trap. I carried a leg in. Its floor plmmetted down sharply, then hopped up violently. Our instincts seemed to be telling.A predator, in wanting of flesh to eat,in waiting of fresh crimson meat, or in the case of our skinny friend Henry, bone marrow. Our blood gushed as loudly as the downpour outside.Veins pounded the skin as did the continuous beads of droplets on puddles in the streets. The body was screaming, shrieking as loud as the storm, saying danger! The nude, coarse dynamics of its springs and ropes and the foul, draught smell made that box a heart stopper. And yet we entered it within a beat.Both fet were brought in and, in spite of the swollen bounce from the ground, Henry punced the button carelessly, without inherit worry or danger. The doors clamped hard chopping the air. A guilotine slicing through phantom heads. Years of public transportation had made us insensitive if not reluctantly accepting of roug, unrefined joults and jerks. Our bas minis were second only to the Russians in simulating zero gravity after the Russians, taking off on speed-bumps, and the third might be this elevator if it snaps.We were jumped to a hurried stop. The doors slid open. A quick dash with our bodies thrown in a hurry resulted in an unstudied leap,done before the monsther clenched its teeth. There we turned left and took the stairs up a level, as that mesh of springs and screws and scares (that lift) only stopped at odd floors. We plod our way up. We took large steps and climbed the stubby steps stiffly. Our hands slid through the broad railings, it took up an entire palm. The staircase was a piece with the wall, connected ceaselessly to it as if the ascending steps were carved out from it. To our left the stench of settled water, salted and rotting, overwhelmed us enough to ask for a stare. The stairs were hanging from the wall,and so allowed us a view from the other side. A large marsh, muddled, rich bron at its driest areas and a murkyne green at its lowest, strangely hosted a row of wooden, zinc roofed houses. Parallel planes of planks plastered together on top a rippling flat surface, made of thin tree barks tied together. Simple and skeletal,a home to a community of poor fisherman, surrounded by the sea and the town under the monsoon pour. It was an exposed ruler, bloated with huts, surrounded by still water. An eyesore with the negleted infrastructure and the uncleared fallen vegetation decomposing, ready to be swallowed by the urban cement and asphalt of 'progress' boasted by a town which had been decaying itself. A porcupine of jumbled pines, unlike a disorganised pile of matches, staked the left end. It had already begun.My eyes twitched, my brows knitted together as I responded to the stench flowing in my nostrils. What added to this fury was a wet pile of garbage, left heedlessly to the flies, which took up ground near a faded signboard, which letters were still readable. It stated "BUANG SAMPAH MERATA-RATA, DENDA RM500". A joke came up in my mind."Georgetwn, in Chinese, is called BinCheng,but the locals prefer it to be ChewCheng". My right foot then landed on the last step and at last,we were there. It was finally time to intrude into a friend's privacy.Without a thought and without a twitch Chang reactively bent his neck, both arms levelled with his jaw, peeked through the dropping parallel window panes. A stretched, ascending sylabble was yelled; "Cccccccciiiaa!". A character popped out, eyes hazy, shoulders slumped betraying the thinness of his neck, replied in a reducing tone with his lips refrained from lengthier gaps. A key was produced and he spirinted nimblely towrds the lock, absent-mindedly twisted it open then rushed back with a mechanical spurt back to his room. We stomped heedlesly in his direction. We walked towards his abode and stopped at the corridor for a glance through. There he was, spine receded, body sloutched, arms anchored to his sides,with his right hand been snaking around with an occasional, incessant pressing of a finger on a mouse. His legs were unhinged below a wooden desk.He sat there as firm as stone upon a chair. His face was equally frozen, as stale as expressions go and as still as nature went (zero Kelvin?), with eyes glared deeply into the screen, that gave him the illusion he attained Buddhahood under the Bodhi three. He was betrayed only by the spotting of fighting murlocks, gollems, anthromorphied bears, boars, bulls and birds as they hacked each other within a virtual three dimensional world displayed through a two-dimensional flat screen.A violent click decapitated a man-boar resulted in a crimson fountain of blood as it splattered the grainy trail. Chang alluded to this and to CK's obsessive, self-depreciating, unhealthy behavior, grabbed up his voice in a assertive tone while he grinned his brows in mock-seriousness,and said"Dota Membunuh. Setiap klik membawa padah!"in an obvious satire of the Health Ministry's latest anti-drug propoganda posters. (Dadah Membunuh. Setiap hisap membawa padah)A slight bolt of life arose across his broad cheeks,it blushed with a slight giggle. He was concious of his friends indictment of his situation."The next time CK goes to a farm, he won't find cows, only Tauren Chieftains!"Was the next stinging rebuke of his passive slide into virtual reality. Rising chests accompanied by bronchritic laughter burst through the silent daft, air particles were pressed upon to form "hahaha" sounds and CK's solid trance was equally brought to its edge.His faltering concentration and undulating smirks, just short of forming full laughs,gave notice to his faltering denial and so we continued on"Hmm...There's stillness in the air. Silence is 1500 gold, zero wood.""He's in a 'Killing Spree" Someone call the cops""Change your name to Mr Dota, so that one day after you did something great you can be knighted and be given the title "Dato Dota". IF you cannot do great things just buy it from pirates for 1500 gold"Our heads then rolled to Tai's, we landed devious marks on him. We stretch our lips, slit crescents formed on our eyes. A low smile broke, followed by a whispering of mischievious "heee heee heee" notes."You're next!""No I'm not""Yes you are"He turned a cheek on us, his head rolled from our sly looks and his eyes up into the ceiling. A quick giggle rustled his words, his disinterested fascade betrayed. Knowing well Tai's aversion from even slight vulgarity, I proceeded:"What Freudian slip did Tom Welling commit when he first met Kirsten Kreuk?""When greeting the hot lass,he introduced himself 'Hi! My name is Dick Swelling"Tai turned the other cheek, ready to receive another blow.Too bad we didnt have another one. An explosion of mouth wadding saliva drenched the room as H20 did outdoors. Amilase, gathered in congealed blobs on the lacquered floor, polished it further to a fine glaze, gave off a dim reflection off Chia's diaproving feutures."There are no flowers here to water please! Close your sprinkles."The hahahaha continued followed by more hahahahas. I'm tired of writing, its 1.43 am so i'm stopping right here. I'm just very sleepy.

The stale, dry, cool mechanical air was masked by strong,intrusive odours. Deep, potent stinks of steamed meat, of damp pungent rice, of stirred hot coco, of overcooked fried rice of soggy noodles of sweetened wet meatballs of red uncooked bloodied flesh of burned churned carbon of a weeks old ripened rotting vegetables and fruits of the fiery stove of the metallic oxidated pots and pans permeate the stale, dry mechanical air. The stench of servings cooked and cooking absorbed into that stale, dry mechanical air was a breath. A breath corrupted, corrupted and adulterated, a breath sucked in hessitantly The permiscuous fowling of something so bland, something so pure, so pure that it is transparent behold the innocence of things inside. Close to the cafes, the eateries are the shops that sold pirated and illegal DVDs, their spread of films,tiled uniformly on movable shelves, sometimes sprouted out of them callously and boastfully on the pedestrian's walk without a worry of eyes and aiming for eyes. The pomp, the regalia of illuminated screens of Samsung television tubes with their audio set to the max are pervasive as they are intrusive, sturbornly bombarding passer-bys with the latest titles chipped of the hollywood block,agitating, rudely aggravating the passive slide of a pedestrian's with a wall of sound and light in hope of turning their necks to the screen followed by their wallets to become customers without a thought of them becoming law-enforcement officials even when some of them are. Irreverent to the law, indifferent to the law, advertising their presence by being indignant to ears and eyes and minds.An ethic followed not just by the pirates but also by the gambling parlours, the arcade centres and the karaoke lounges, as their machines their 'entertainment systems' and the simulated 'life' which comes within in codes in chips in the wiring of things shout, shriek with an absolute madness in unison. Abundant, overlapping, intruding echoes screaming a million voices together. Spectres with an unfinished unending story boxed in alluminium cases. Howling, screaming, intruding the living in loops into loops. A roaring of machines, of ghosts in shells.On the highest floor of the largest mall in this oldest of Malaysian towns under the subtle glow under the humble abode of the simple electric floroscent lighting it was there.It is there, all the way up there on the sixth floor, the second last layer of enclosed open space before the sky. It is fouled to the scent of restaurants, food courts, food stalls, more restaurants and ventilation shaffs. It is beating to the theme of karaoke vendors, game parlours, the cinema, even more game parlours and the people indulging in them. I was walking along when I came to a halt, my legs were no longer moving.But the ground was.The ground was moving. The ground was shaking. All the way up there, a few feet to the clouds and a whole few kilometres from the real ground, it was shaking. The mall was stacked concrete to concrete, stacked up like one of those card castle, with all the weight from the vendors the restaurants the food stalls the game parlours the cinemas the shops the people, people like me being beared by those paper thin pions and it was shaking. I was shaken by that thought. I was getting the goosebumps.I was looking down at the verandah. A few steps ahead lay nothing but a huge empty hole holding only air and nothing more. No wonder I was getting woozy. No wonder I was being a coward. A liltle chicken without a chicken liltle in him or his fears of the sky falling down but being clamoured, paralised with worries of falling down into the skies.Yet I continued looking down. Nauseated. Purple to the cheeks. I kept looking down. Looking down at those ants below. Those ants called 'people' just like you and me walking around browsing, working, selling, sponsoring, buying with personal issues and personal burdens and personal feelings in their sweat,their chests their heart yet, from all the way up here, they were one,seamlessly interacting, moving together in a tango of organised chaos. cThere is no better anthill.There is no better anthill but, under a magnifying glass (as with a magnifying glass under a gleaming sun focusing its rays), there is no better inferno. The closer you get, the lower you go from the sixth floor to the first, the closer they resemble the havoc the stink the shrieks the stench of the sixth floor. It seems the crowds, the shops followed you down, hiding under different robes and costumes teasing you out of your sensibilities. Cheating you out of your eyes and ears.The sun was setting. The sun was setting under the cover of the dim flourescent lighting. I knew that from the digital display of my handphone. And it showed me the digits 18.00 telling me to leave, to leave this anthill, this inferno, this mall,'Prangin Entertainment and Shopping Centre' to be exact, for home.

The zoom of the months flutter by soundlessly, deceptively. My gut widened my weight gained my hair grew and fell and 'cut'ted and grew back and fell back and 'cut'ted back. Lessons done homeworks finished assignments complete semesters done. Holidays came Christmas became New Year's Day New Year's became Chinese'. New friends made new friends away old friends returned playstation played warcraft 'war'red DOTA frayed movies seen old friends went new friends returned Minutes strode into hours while hours ran into days. Days flew into weeks while weeks shot into months within a second's sly All these within a spark. All these without a hunch.Ephemerial, ever mobile and never in a static quantity, it whizzes by as it teases us, suprises us, shocks us,befuddles us. Incomprehensible, undefinable to the degree where change is perceptible yet not perceivable in its full altered state and design, it confuses us with unexpected change, a change not so random yet intangible that is within our humanity to aptly be overcomed by it. That is time.

I have nothing. Blank. Nadda. Nothing's up my mind. Yet, I felt something tingling, something tickling within me. Something isnt comforting. I looked down, amazed, shouted "Something's up my hind!"It swaggers from left to right as my butt cheeks jiggle from side to side. Sugary, thick brown, milk shake and a sweet baker's chocolate cake. It is the sweet excrement for flies to play, which we need to dispose off and so we have Indah Water to pay. It looks solid enough to be stuck in that hole. That hole in between those two meat chunks that when add up we call an arse.Hard, crude, lumpy, formerly food. It stains, sprays on those baby smooth flesh. Especially at the edges, it presses upon the hips, forming splots of coffee like stains. It smells as fish is stale as the garbage is fresh. It floats around the room even though its odour is heavy, heavier than air. It smells, it stains, it sprays everything a sweet baker's chocolate cake.As the piece of shit wants to drop down as it hung there in mid air, aerated by the smell of methane just passed , I want to know, why, I want to know, what, why the what is where it is now. Up in my ass. Hanging, dingling, bungee-jumping.It must be due to me being due. It seems those prunes does its magic over constipation a liltle to soon. I soon plop my way with that piece that's due to the door with the tiles the sink the mirror and, yes, the bowl on its other side. When I reach there, i opened the door and entered, and the rest is my business alone. Although you all might add, that posting is too.
posted by gohli @ 9:50 PM 0 comments

Shards of light shone, slicing through the sky. Their luminous glow skimmed the contours and colours off things to a blank blinding white. Every sense of shape or shade dissipate with the rising humid air.Reality was rubbed clean. All that were was clear bluster proliferating, shining intensely upon every line of sight.It was, in essense, a most brightly blight.The sun's stinging rays torment every eye that came within their range.Korneas shrunk sooner than eyelids blink. It was hard to see. It was harder to live.It was harsh enough for a cry.As it was too parch and dry. Moisture only came in the form of tears. The physical pain mounts on the (optic) nerves, literally, ever more.I strode upon the open road quickly, hoping speedful steps would lessen the scorching. Yet for every foot it took the burn deftly rubbed itself into me. Futility marked my haste. The wind brought no relief, just the warmth of a boiling furnace unto my face. I was tanned a dark red. Only the white glow of nature's grill prevents me from knowing how much.Soon a parked car was notice. A single parked car in this bare gleaming heat. A rustic poem came unto my feet.The afternoon heat bears upon the streets, to glimmer its bonnet in a beat, in faints of flash did the glitter flytwinkling stars under the summer's skymaking the metal casing a much for play, for that of reflective Light to swayIt was my Iswara. It was my four wheels of freedom.(Witholding the gas mileage)
posted by gohli @ 12:14 AM 0 comments

It is with due knowledge that this blog has grown static over the months, causing irreversible pain, panic and paranoia that even a pacifier wont please to my faithful flock of fans. Rather than ramble (once more!) on about the unsightful (yet existant!) gain of infinite laze, it is best to just let loathing be, as a cure for my manic depression and a cause for my fillial followers'.

Nothing currently apace. None more workloads in spades. Just simple thoughts, simple actions and simple ways dominate. So fundamental are the tasks, tinkerings admist, that no long have I reason to procrastinate. To satisfy natural urges and neccesities such as hunger, thirst and tv, how much less can a man manipulate! As i sat, no, lay, no, slept, on this comfortable couch, or as i might sway, cushion of impeccable comfort, I laughed, sniggered, snort, split, teheed, tittered, 'whizgigged' at your struggles to produce. Whilst you tore and tatter sanity for merit's sake I sip and slipped in the succulent, taste of treats. Admittedly, such a serving is still lacking, for there were no magnificient 'mammaried' maidens without menopause to spoonfeed my luscious lust, for food that is.From 'Marcel' to monkey, though the both are quite the same, and as such are similar to me, being Malaysian means Makan, and Makan, though widely believed, is not a subsidiary of McDonald's. Wantan mee, hei mee, nasi lemak, char koay theow or if not fried, just kuey theow. All over my mind! All on my tastebuds! And all in my gut.In justice this author should emunerate over the other basic urges after gluttony, Baywatch is on that idiot box, and he should not be deprived of teats being flaunt