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Subtlety is not my forte

When I was younger, I loathed British comedies and shows because I didn't understand what was said. The plumy accents, the phraseology, the affectations ... okay, I admit. It was because my English sucked out loud that I watch American shows because they had subtitles, all right? They don't seem to do so for the English ones except for It Ain't Half Hot, Mum (and even those subtitles missed a great deal of the subtle humour) and Sapphire and Steel (which I adored for Joanna Lumley's dresses and shoes. I was six. Shut up).

This video brought to mind the auld whodunnit British series with Basil Rathbones and his ilk stalking across the screen, examining the clues and wraps the show up with some dramatic pronouncement of the real villain. Watch it till the end and tell me what you think.

Do you smell the rotten egg?

OMG OMG OMG.

I usually don't blog about political stuff; there are so many out there who does it (well and terribly) anyway, so I don't bother. Besides, it's too depressing.

A couple of days back, my alumni newsletter exploded in a one-sided flame war based on a video of "policemen" beating up a sex offender on Malaysia Today. RPK got on his high horse, declaiming on and on about evil Malaysian policemen. This prompted Tan Sri Musa Hassan, the IGP, to respond to RPK, saying that the video was false and it wasn't policemen that were on the video etc. The video has since been taken down.

First of all, I take anything or anyone quoting Malaysia Today with a grain of salt. I am not saying that all media are truly free and unbiased (Rupert Murdoch, anyone?) but to take on the words of people who blog with little to no back up to their allegations? With hear-say deep throat-like "my Government insider informant"? C'mon. You know that's lame.

And then I came across this. I mean, talk about egg on RPK's face and all the people who read him and believes every word without any question.

Seriously, kudos.

The many sources of aurgasm

A number of my friends have fallen victim to my blathering on and on and on about music; usually over artists / music genre that they never heard before or care about. *grin* You could recognise them after the fact of my bending their unwilling ears by the glazed look in their eyes and the discreet drool slowly dripping off their chin.

Tonight, I was introduced to a new source of aurgasms: qasidah. It is a form of poetry that is paired with melody and beat, recited in honour of some special personage. In Malaysia, it is commonly sung as tribute to the Prophet Muhammad, PBUH, at weddings, cukur jambul and other ceremonies with a strong religious overtones (which is many for Malays).

The group Al-Kawakib presented three qasidah tonight at the 51st Al-Quran Recitation Assembly at the Putra World Trade Centre. I saw parts of it on live telecast, courtesy of TV1, with one part interrupted by a remote control battle with my niece. I'm proud to say that tonight? I won. The qasidah was part of the performance during the break before the rest of the qari and qariah presented their recital in the second half.

There were roughly 12 men in the group, with three in the last row with hand drums to keep the beat. Their ages range from early twenties to late fifties. There were four lead singers lauding praise to the Prophet Muhammad, PBUH, with the rest either keeping beat or backup harmonies. Each singer had a red-bound song book placed on rehal (an instrument to support the Al-Quran when reading on the floor, commonly made of wood) placed before them; they appeared to be handwritten. The beautiful melding of tenor and baritone brought tears to my eyes, their voices resonating with love and devotion.

For a song to capture me, it need not even be in a language I understand. It is all about the melody and the emotions expressed in the voice that moves you. I have cried listening to flamenco songs; for all I know, they were singing about losing their goats in the Pyrenees. But the mournfulness of the song was unmistakable, tugging at the beating organ behind my sternum. Sigh. I am such a sap.

The power of emotion relayed through voice cannot be underplayed. To many ears, the recital by the qariah from Kazakhstan was rather flat and monotonous; she had no flourishes or rills common to most qaris. To me however, her recital was heartfelt; I thought that her approach suited the surah she was reading wonderfully. She recited Al-Hadid from verse 20 onwards and if you read the meaning, you'll understand what I mean. The clear, bell-like tones of her voice was simply wonderful to my ears. Her purity of note brought to mind the silky flutes of 60s instrumental songs that always made me think of a really good acid trip. Okay, perhaps the comparison was not apt, but I think you know what I mean.

Perhaps I can win the remote control war again tomorrow night. I need my daily dose of aurgam.

*grin*

Going kaboom and kablooey!

I had an awesome time with my cousin last night watching GI Joe. Movie preview, whoo! And the movie was everything a summer popcorn flick should be.

1. Violence? Check.
2. Buff, good looking characters? Check.
3. Lots of things being blown up? Check.
4. Insane storyline about world domination? Check.
5. Villain with evil, raspy voices? Check.
6. Side plot of love interest? Check.
7. Awesome special EFX that make you go, "Oooh!" Check.
8. Explosive climax with sequel potential? Check.

Just disengage the logical part of your brain while you watch.

ETA: Thank you, Sophie!

Belasungkawa: Yasmin Ahmad

Yasmin Ahmad was an extraordinary story teller. She became famous for her exquisite, subtle and sensitive holiday advertisement for the GLC giant Petronas. Her trademark quirky tales of ordinary citizens in everyday situation became a benchmark for advertisments and films. Bet that there will be a course on Yasmin Ahmad's film in cinema-making courses soon, if not already. The clip below was the last interview she made with StarOnline, detailing her thoughts and hopes for the country and her raison d'etre.



There was an uproar that Yasmin Ahmad did not start life as Yasmin. I don't think that is relevant at all unless you are prone to small-mindedness and titillating, self-righteous gossip. Dr Mohd Asri Zainul Abidin responded to this issue eloquently in his blog, giving us hope that not all religious scholars have a mindset stuck in mediaeval times (ILU Dr Asri!).

I think people forget that her legacy went beyond such pettiness. She left behind films and writings that made people think and look at the world differently. She lifted the veil that obscured us from seeing what made us the same and helped obliterate the differences between us as Malaysians, what ethnic group you may be. And that is a legacy that will continue to touch lives of people even years from now.

Goodbye, Yasmin. We will miss you and pray that God keep you always by His Side.

Women from Venus ... definitely

The most common perception is that men are raving sex animals while women are just cold fishes (unless they are the alluring Jezebels out there to ruin good men for their nefarious purposes). But if both men and women are willing to be honest about it, the truth is a lot more complex. If you are in the habit of reading advice columns, the Sexual Agony Aunts will make you believe that a woman can get fulfillment simply by reaching out for what she wants and that she is no different to men in terms of sex drive.

To a certain degree, this is true. But why is it with sexual liberation, women are cheated into moving further away from their hearts? Because as cliche as it is, women wants the emotional connectivity before they surrender into intimacy.

And this is something new. Right.

Weavers and hunters

People's reaction to spiders are commonly primal: scream and run or scream and kill. Thankfully, I have never encountered (and God please may I never) spiders of such an awesome specimen as this (read the comments, it is worth your time). I would probably just stare at it and just ... stare. However, if I were this guy, I may adopt a different approach.

Perhaps along the lines buying an airline ticket and getting the hell out of Dodge. Or Japan as it seems.

*shudder*

Better the hail in your backyard

Seriously, it is stories like this that made me really grateful that I live in Malaysia.

*shudder*

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes ...

Life and death is a cycle. One day we will all be dust, fertilising the soil with the shell that used to house our personality and returning our chemical elements to the carbon and nitrogen cycle.

I am fascinated by funerary rites. Every culture and religion has their own way of dealing with the dead. Some are elaborate, verging on hedonistic (check out the Sulawesi Tana Toraja funeral). These would take months in preparation as the family of the dead would accumulate funds to finance the best and most amazing send off for their loved one. The more fantastical funeral is reserved for the family elders while the younger ones have a less elaborate funeral. For them, death is a celebration of the long and wonderful life of the deceased.It is an expensive endeavour, hence the large gap between the time of death till the laying to rest.

Nearly all would have a funeral procession of some note. For the Malay Muslim, it is a sombre one with those attending reciting prayers for the dead under their breath or in a low voice. The Hindus and Taoists have an elaborate procession, with music and attendants on foot and in cars. The Christians are quite varied, depending on geographical location, with most having a solemn procession. In New Orleans, however, the black community celebrate the funeral procession with rousing music (the famous Jazz funeral) and dancing attendants.

Malay Muslim funeral rites are quite inclusive of the family members. They are encouraged to pray and to recite passages of the Quran to be "gifted" to the deceased. I was privileged to be allowed to help wash my grandmother during her funeral; her frail, stiff body cradled by her daughters and granddaughters. We gently washed her pale, cold flesh with scented water, pat her dry with care before she was wrapped in white, clean funeral shroud.

Commonly, there is a "director" of the event, usually called tukang mandi mayat, who will help obtain the supplies needed and to give the directions for the preparation of the deceased. Such individuals are highly respected and are usually given a token of appreciation by the family of the dearly departed at the end of the funeral. They are usually volunteers trained by the religious authorities. Although many uses the professional services provided by bodies like Lembaga Tabung Haji and the khairat kematian people of the mosque in the neighbourhood, but many still use the volunteer tukang mandi mayat.

The family members are expected to report the death and make arrangements for the burial. Usually, the nearest cemetary is used but for those who passed away far from home, they may be transported back to be buried. The closest male relatives are often the ones to shoulder the dead to the cemetary and help to lower the body into the grave. The imam will lead the prayer before leaving for the cemetary and to give the funeral rites.

For Malay Muslims, lamenting of the dead is forbidden. It is said that breast-beating and excessive displays of sorrow will hurt the deceases soul. I think the same goes for Christians, no matter the denomination (I have only ever been to a Catholic funeral mass and an Anglican wake). But for many cultures, demonstrations of grief is a must. The Taoists funeral rite even involve people who cry for the deceased, wailing and lamenting loudly how the dead will be missed. I had a first-hand taste of this at the funeral of a dear teacher of mine, the late Mrs SS Tan, who taught me English and Literature. She was also my form mistress (class teacher) in Form One. I went just before they prepared to leave for the memorial park to give my last respects.

When I arrived and saw her photograph, tears welled and fell unbidden. It had been so long since I had seen her and she did not remember me when I greeted her on Sports Day a few years after I had left her class. In the picture, she looked just as a I remembered: the kind eyes, her fine fair skin with a dusting of blush, the rose of her lipstick and the luxuriant wavy hair framing her face. It only struck me then that she really is no more. A strange thought since I was never a favourite student or anything of that sort. But the remembrance of her kind and firm ways, how she taught to me the difference between 'despite' and 'in spite of' and her enthusiasm in showing us how to analyse the literary works assigned to us opened the floodgates and I cried. It was terrible since I did not anticipate tears and had no tissue paper or handkerchief on me. There I was trying to cry in a discreet manner and wiping my tears surreptitiously in one corner as the Tao priest conducted the funeral rites, and came a member of the family, handing me a packet of ang pow.

"A gift from the family," he said.

I was bewildered and tried to give it back. For the Malays, it is customary to give a small token to the bereaved family, not the other way round. He had quickly walked away and left me clutching the little red packet. It was later that my friend told me that I was given the ang pow because I had cried at the funeral and that it was an honouring to the deceased.

No matter how a funeral is conducted, lavish or no, I realise that the funeral is for the living. The dead doesn't care what happens to the shell that once housed their souls, but the ones left behind do. Honouring the deceased and participating in the rites help to garner a kind of closure for the family and friends. Then comes the reminiscence and telling of happy stories about the deceased, past misdeeds erased like they never were. Don't believe me? Look at how Michael Jackson was lauded after he passed away. I think it is better to concentrate on the good times rather than the bad when one thinks about a deceased; after all, the dead cannot defend him/herself and digging up past resentments and anger surely cannot be a healthy endeavour. Which is why I admire the idea of an Irish wake, where the grieving family and friends sit and drink and eat while exchanging reminiscence of the deceased.

My father often reminded us that it is more important to attend a funeral than it is to attend a wedding. He said that showing support and to help when a person is in bereavement is more crucial because that is the time when you are needed the most.

I can fully get behind this philosophy cheekily; you don't need to bother about a date when attending a funeral.