Wishing You Eid Mubarak, Ironically

I'm sorry you guys. I'm going on a mini vacation to nowhere. Be back before you know it.

Idea fishes are swimming and rapidly mating in this little tank i call a head and that's superb news. Since such gang-bangs don't occur on the regular, i'm all set to work it. The time is just right.

For Salina's sake, i'll update just a little. On Eid. This year, i learnt (the hard way) that harbouring hopes for a better and happier Eid is a complete waste of time. I find the idea of wishing for such unlikely ideals, moronic. So i resent Eid. I'll let you know if i do miraculously change my mind. Promise.

I'd rather fast all year than celebrate a day of Eid. Am i alone?

Figured it's best to fuck it and fuck them. If i had a dick, those bastards would come lined up on their knees to suck it dry. And that's for hurting my folks, you swines. How can you compare us to any of you? You breed offsprings who find nothing interesting about the future except to get engaged, married, married and married. Oh and their family gossips about those classified as odd. What is tradition, what is family, and just what in the jungle of pubic hair is considered 'polished' by your standards? God damn it, like i give a flying fuck anyway. I left the salon with another coat of blonde and all that weight i've put on and i do what i do best: make them all feel like losers, by doing nothing. So they pile on the attacks in the hopes of your eventual transformation to become one of them. But too bad, while they're busy comparing their fussily planned weddings for whoever, i formulate my little plan to do shit they wouldn't dream of. So my suggestion is that they park their cars and the debts that come with, drop dead and get buried with all that dikir barat moves, soon. You have no respect, no sense of togetherness, no cultural ethics, nothing. So what was it again that you take pride in? Hmmm. Maybe all that gold you wear on your wrist. Why embrace a tradition when the people who claim to uphold it, are all jackasses from the word go?

You don't.

young artist

No less vividly, i remembered the incessant nursings of my dancing self just a little more than a year ago, pursuing the hopes of emerging an artist. The sore body, the bruised ego, adhering to a strict diet, the extinguished strength, depleting confidence, the fragile mind, the broken heart, the scattered soul. I, just like many others, took the plunge and decided- this is what i need, this is what i want to do, this is all i want to be, this is me and i am not in my skin if not here.

Art is a one way ticket, it's not even like going to war, you climb into the magic school bus and you're not coming back. Getting there or otherwise, will never matter. There is no turning back, you're never coming home to the pre-decided you. Go on and run but hiding is tomfoolishness at its best. Much of your life will either suffer or rejoice from this altered routine. You leave it and it comes searching for you, almost haunting, carrying all the impact of a restless spirit. With what little i know of art, i know this much well enough.

Infusing the maelstrom of events that followed since welcoming a new head of department and that unfortunate accident equating to a busted knee of close to an eternity, this fat cow of a kid upped and left. One Tammy Wong randomly charged forward, bulldozed her zeal and badly shakened up, 18 year-old Maria walked away. WITHOUT A FUCKING FIGHT. Supposedly meek but sadly, an apparent coward. And eversince, nothing but lies.

The aftermath was made of endless attempts to digest the idea of a shattered dream and the end of school life, followed by jugs full of tears, fits of irrational behaviour, unstoppable rants and cursings of oneself. I was the reigning drama queen for some months. Somewhere in the process of healing, i hatched a little plan to kick my own ass and move on. I took up another diploma which bears no relevance to art in any major degree. I lied i would like it, maybe to get by, i was never serious but i never regretted anyway. Funny how the grades came back quite promising when i hated pretty much all things media. Life goes on anyway but lies wouldn't, ain't it? And i scurry on to a place, not wholly a home but very close. We forget the acrimonies of past and proceed on to tomorrow. I hate sulking and brooding over spilled tits milk. In a matter of months, I'm moving on to do art all over again, not in college but in university this time. It's hard to kick this drug and the high it brings.

In the spirit of preparing myself for another shot at fate, i've been reading, contemplating, discussing old art theory notes and other materials. And back in school, i remembered our dampened spirits as soon as we arrive at a plateau in our learning, trying to comprehend our stagnated abilities. While the more advanced dancers struggle to find an identity for themselves because copying the identical of a teacher combats the idea of individuality, which is, promoted in dance or art anyway. Everyone toughens up against the pressure, everyone hungers for inspiration.

There comes our idols, icons and masters of the field, readily standing in like a commited teacher past midnight. Recharges you with wisdom, ideas, propellors to throw you back into the arena like a brand new person. During that difficult time, Yoko Ono had my back (and now, she is becoming a statement and trend, FYI). Who's got yours?

Which brings me to share some good kicks in the ass:

Book: Letters To A Young Artist

You'd have to read this yourself, it works like a booster pocketbook and inspirational bible.

Video: Alan Moore, to a young artist.

You'd probably need earphones.