Category Archives: Writings

Writings

Is Silence Better Than Contentment Content?

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Cloyingly sweet is the sound of silence amidst a world drowned out by the cacophony of the swarms of mall goers and masses of steaming vehicles all stacked up like a procession of tanks about the breach the battlefield.

As the dust settles on another day, I take solace in the abject absence of any noise, apart from the gentle sigh of the pale mouth on the wall and the occasional thump of my cat climbing through the rafters.

Despite the apparent sedate and sultry pace of life that most attest to here in Penang, it seems many are kept busy dealing with the demands of existing in a modern society, like paying premiums and bills, repairing vehicles, home appliances and teeth. The hours are rarely sufficient for most to be content, everyone vying to out-busy the other.

Do we stay busy to keep up appearances, to fit in with our fellow man?

Do we truly need to toil and stay productive every working minute of every working day?

Gradually I have assimilated myself into the life of a typical working adult, dedicating over a third of each weekday to the pursuit of an impassioned career, although the emotions tend to not be shown over here. I try to lead a simple routine life, which involves sleeping late and waking early, and sitting in front of a glowing, blowing device for hours on end, listening to customers I only vaguely know and care about to get a few morsels of moolah so the others sitting around me in the office can continue to hold jobs.

Wouldn’t it be simpler to just not bother trying to create something different and unique, something entertaining and uplifting? Instead to go with the flow and feed the system with the same old baby formula of clock in clock out go home? No need to get creative on the job, and tap into the latest AI tool to make ends meet?

Most of our work now is built upon some great virtual machine, this indomitable gargantuan whale known as the internet, the great information repository with sights and sounds that constantly have us tapped into a glowing outlet device. Even our cars and critters are joined into this global consciousness of social media, feeding the voracious data-hungry beast in the cloud every second of every day.

How many of us are still willing to work the earth, to excavate and cultivate precious things like our ancestors? Even the trades aren’t seeing a lot of action, despite the robots having yet to wrestle control of such mundane tasks from our grasp. Cleaning and construction are still largely human endeavours, and yet there is a shortage of electricians and plumbers and mechanics.

Is labour prohibitively expensive in Penang? Can we start a car wash business? How viable are the good old trades like carpentry and seal clubbing? Will the entertainment industry be the same now that everyone is staying at home playing mobile games?

Leave a legacy, they say – where am I going to find the land to plant a tree? I certainly don’t intend to spawn more ravenous mini monster beings into this world. I could write a book, but what would be the point? Most Malaysians don’t read, at least nothing beyond their Facebook feed.

On a year-on-year (YoY) basis, the literacy rate in Malaysia decreased by 0.4% in 2021 from a high of 94.6% as surmised by the UNESCO’s Institute of Statistics. According to data from an interim study by the National Library of Malaysia (PNM), as of May 2023 Malaysians read an average of 20 books annually, compared to 15 in 2014.

Now 1.6 books a month seems like a decent statistic, until you realise that the demographic for this survey is from users of the library, and our local libraries are primarily frequented by students. Thus one could come to the conclusion that these 20 books a year are not all voluntary, and probably belong to a few specific genres, namely those related to school and exam topics.

Let’s be honest – who still goes to the library to read books these days? Sure, people still go the library, but it is to socialise and gather, to study and frolic on devices in public air-conditioned spaces. Our Penang libraries, especially the fancy digital ones, have hardly any books in sight! The halls and walls are now occupied by periodicals and kitschy signs filled with QR codes to download the latest e-book app developed by the library board with taxpayer money.

With all this information at our fingertips, and an assortment of products at the touch of a button, we could have it all, as long as we can ask the right questions and plug in the correct query. Isn’t it wonderful? Should we not be adrift in utopia, having achieved this magical singularity in an oasis of knowledge and comfort?

Then why do we still work so hard and sleep so little and complain so much? Why are we constantly searching for happiness in that distant future instead of simply enjoying the moment and being grateful in the present?

Maybe we should learn to be more like the jovial space travellers in Wall-E, blissfully ignorant blubbercopters cruising in circles on our hover-recliners being fed through tubes and tablets mounted right in our faces. They were certainly perfectly happy until those darn dirty robots came along and ruined a perfectly pleasant space ride.

The more we have, the less we appreciate. Will our future generations fare better, or has our human nature hardwired us to continue our suffering as we succumb to our inadequate addictive proclivities, have us constantly searching for more or the next best thing?

Shall we keep swiping? Or return to the sound of silence, the sensational severance of stimuli in a world so hellbent on stuffing us full of content.

Can content alone keep us content? I imagine the content ones are usually silent on social media, rarely feeling the need to generate additional unnecessary content for the masses. Or will others create their content for them?

Writings

How to Overcome the Boredom of Life

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To start, probably by not reading this blog entry. Video or computer games tend to be the solutions of choice.

What makes a person qualified to speak on the matter of ennui? We have all experienced the listlessness of life at some juncture, the uneventful nothingness that nibbles away at the hours, the quiet lull in the middle of the mundane.

For some people, ennui comes a lot easier than others. Modern society tends to look down upon those who suffer from chronic boredom and shelve them away as unproductive members that will never amount to much. If you identify as one such person, all is not lost! Shun the guilt and justify it in your own mind – that should help to curb some of the boredom, at the least.

But of course boredom plays a role in our lives!

It’s a form of rest, a calming of the mind, especially since we’re a lot poorer at detecting mental fatigue in ourselves compared to the other forms of fatigue.

And if you suffer from chronic boredom, then perhaps you can start exploring and trying things, as I’m sure many have already not-so-politely suggested to you, calling you a useless leech of society, a pathetic loser of epic proportions and such generic slurs.

Things to Curb the Boredom

  1. Get out of bed
  2. Drink some water
  3. Make a list of things you might not hate doing
  4. Go back to bed
  5. Success!

This is by no means a definitive list, or a particularly proper one for that matter. However, one thing you might take away from this is to not take life so seriously.

Another thing you might take away from this is I have found that sometimes if it is tricky picking a specific thing then it helps to try the opposite method of elimination. Determine the things that you most certainly do NOT want to do, and gravitate outwards from there.

Recently it seems that much of humanity is pondering the endless void that surrounds our humble little planet, thanks in large part to the James Webb Space Telescope (JWST) that showed us just how many things are out there that we will never be able to reach or see with our own eyes, which is great for the morale I am sure.

They say knowledge is power, but in truth it is also a curse. Cursed with this knowledge, we are trapped like rats at the bottom of a rancid rubbish bin, like frantic fish in a barrel at the bottom of a blue hole; we know so much of what is out there, and unfortunately also that we will likely never reach it in many generations to come, if ever.

So why do we continue to ponder the great expanse of blackness beyond our reach? Because it curbs our boredom down here in this drama-filled, information-overloaded cesspool of a club?

Let’s colour in these funky looking pearly puddles of galaxies to pass the time!

Much of human progress stems from our drive to survive, our drive to overcome our adversities and adversaries, our drive to conquer the chaos and quell the tremors of entropy beneath our feet, so we can laze around without having to walk on our own two feet.

Our species has spent millennia refining and evolving into the awkward bipedal blights that we are today, honing our genes and clades to best take advantage of our harsh environment, learning the best things to do in order to stay alive and thrive and grow the hive. All so we can vegetate on our plush sofas all day getting high and blasting our eardrums with endless tunes at any hour of the day or night? So we can complain about how bored we are?

What a terrible, horrible existence we are in today! Is that what our ancestors slaved and fought for, this doldrums lot in life?

Freedom – they fought for freedom! Freedom to do absolutely nothing!

How did our ancestors avoid suffering the boredom of life? Probably too busy trying to not die to think much about boredom.

At what point does it become ennui? Rest and recuperation is important, but prolonged relaxation treads the thin line of hedonism and boring nothingness. And thus our quest to combat boredom commences!

Perhaps the next question is should be: do we need to combat boredom?

Presumably boredom is largely the limbo state in between the things that we occupy our time with, the gap between working and creating and doing meaningless things, like moving chopsticks back and forth between mansions on each continent.

Boredom is the buffer that bears us between worlds and realms and phases of our lives. It indicates that we are done or tired of our current condition and require new stimuli or impetus, to come up with new ways of not being unalive.

With that in mind, the assumption is that boredom will naturally go away? We just shift focus to some other thing for a while, until the boredom returns and we slouch back into the warm, pleasant entropy of existing.

How do you stave off the blackening breaches of boredom?

Do I have some sort of magical solution to this problem?

Of course not – magic is but an illusion, my friend. Just like choice. Life is one big illusion, a fugue dream that our mind convinces us is more real than those wacky cartoons we see when we go to sleep.

But if you would like to fill the illusion with non-blanks, then might I suggest trying something that you do not find absolutely abhorrent for a brief moment?

I have determined that I don’t hate writing in English, so that is what I have done.

Have I wasted your time, or have I curbed your boredom?

You’re welcome.

Writings

Is Procrastination Good For Me? It Must Be

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Meh, I’ll get to writing it tomorrow, is what I always tell myself. And thus the cycle of procrastination commences.

The writing in question is largely tacky and self-involved anyway. I mean, who uses italics to highlight thoughts or things anymore?

What is that? Procrastination justification? Self-fulfilling prophecy fallacy? The syndromes keep pilling on and the guilt never ends.

Why exactly do we feel guilty when we procrastinate? Are we feeling sorry for our future selves who will eventually be forced to slave away at the inevitable undesirable duty? Do we feel guilt for being unproductive in the moment, for not fulfilling our god-given potential and maximising our precious time?

Maybe if you’re procrastinating it’s a sign you didn’t really want to do the thing or didn’t enjoy it at all. Or you enjoy the thing, but are reluctant that you are compelled to do it.

What if I enjoy doing the thing? I just…don’t want to do it now?

I imagine people procrastinate for a rambunctious range of reasons – perhaps we’re waiting for the right time and mood to strike us, or there are other more pressing matters at hand, or there is a smelly little goblin lurking near the thing and we need to summon the sneering tortoiseshell to chase it into the salad. Snickety-snack!

If not now, then when? What if I forget the notion, or lack the will to give voice to my thoughts? What if I lose my way with words, and my memories scatter like waves upon the rigid rocks?

I want to get back to the thing that gives me an immediate hit of dopamine, that great sense of pride and accomplishment, that perfect little game world where everything is predictable and I can become king of the world, master of my environment. Where everything readily falls in place and I can be at peace upon the bubbling depths of a simulated ocean, a form of virtual meditation, so easy and enchanting.

I know I am merely playing into someone else’s fantasy, adrift in a picturesque manicured paradise with pleasant music and challenges that I know can be handily overcome. It’s kind of like what psychologists claim pornography is doing for men, giving us control over the characters in these smut fantasies, power over these hapless vixens acted out over and over and over in our heads.

And yet in this modern world, this is the form of escapism that is so readily available and so easy to give in to, something socially acceptable and aesthetically pleasing, an addiction stronger than drugs and drama combined. In this fantasy world, we can be the masters of our fate, and the story always plays in our favour. We are the protagonist, and we have plot armor, and we grow and develop with our little simulated character, and nothing can stop us, not even the whining hunger or bleary, dry eyes.

No, we are the hero and we must persist. We must grind our way to the top, to all the achievements, to success!

How simple it is for us to become embroiled in this magical wonderful world, because it is so easy for us to become disillusioned with reality, this hard knock life with its endless turmoil and spontaneous chaos, golf balls and bird shit flying through your window, piss and barbequed black death splattering your new shoes as you try to avoid parking fines and unwanted spam calls and if you just threw money at it the problem would go away but you realise you’re all out of cash and the ATM is shut for the day. What sort of pointless ATM has scheduled down time when there’s still cash inside it?

Humans all need a form of escape from reality at some point, whether it be in the flashing images on a screen, or a recreational drug or scrumptious food item, or tossing chips and dice across a furry green table (have you ever wondered why they’re always mossy green?). Perhaps that is the purpose of our dreams as we slumber, the purpose of closing our eyes for a few short hours to escape from it all.

So I would say I don’t procrastinate, I simply choose to spend my time elsewhere, doing things other than trying to create something different or special. Because what is the point anyway? To leave a legacy or some silly dimple in the human space time continuum? Why not just “live life to the fullest” and maximise the hedonism? Eat drink and be merry?

Is there meaning in achieving things for the sake of achievement? Will I be fulfilled when some old fart hands me a trophy and a cheque to cover my train ticket in a decade’s time? Will the accolades of a few online fans feed me and my fur family? Will I sleep better at night knowing I made some kid chuckle because I told some dirty jokes into a microphone in front of him and his mum?

What self-respecting mother brings her teenage son to a comedy show and sits in the front row not expecting to get railed on by all the desperate comics? Yes, it’s their fault, not mine; what am I going to do, change my entire set on the fly? To be fair, the kid was the only one who got my obscure Avatar kung fu references, so that was kind of a highlight. Maybe I could have toned down on the anal rape jokes.

Anyway, I’ll leave that story for another time. Procrastination strikes again!

Generic, Writings

Do You Feel The Life Dysmorphia Seeping In?

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Are we all spoiled?

Are you familiar with the term life dysmorphia? Dysmorphia is generally associated with body or gender, and is essentially an euphemism for a chronic mental condition indicated by a deep dissatisfaction with a certain aspect of life.

Well, for life dysmorphia the dissatisfaction is with life itself. Life dysmorphia is used to describe a pervasive sense of dissatisfaction with one’s life circumstances, leading to negative thoughts and feelings about one’s career, relationships, achievements, possessions, and overall life path. And it seems this is a growing condition in much of the modern world.

I don’t deny that I’ve had inklings of this type of dysmorphia, as I’m sure many have. Surely not all of life is perfectly satisfactory, and many aspects of this existence tend to leave you wanting. There’s probably a fine line between dissatisfaction and full blown dysmorphia, so I imagine the line is how long one spends dwelling on these shortcomings and beating oneself up about one’s lot in life.

A conversation with a friend sparked this notion when they were comparing a relative’s living conditions with their own and musing that this relative was indeed spoiled. That made me question myself: am I spoiled?

I mean not like a rotten egg. Maybe I smell a little, but I mean like a spoiled brat who throws tantrums at the slightest perceived injustice or decision that does not go his way.

While I would not consider myself a spoiled brat, it’s all relative isn’t it? Much of us in this modern machinated world would be seen as spoiled to one of our ancestors living a century ago in stifled squalor, with little access to food and clean water, let alone air-conditioning and hot coffee every day.

In this day and age, we have the luxury to step back and take stock and complain and rant about our meaningless existence and aimless wanderings. Our ancestors likely didn’t have the time or energy to sit around pondering the great endless void and how shitty their lives were compared to all the lifestyle influencers on the Gram.

It dawned on me weeks ago as I was tuning in to an uplifting song on my bone conduction headphones during my run that I was privileged to be able to listen to finely-crafted music any time I wanted. Back in the day, they had to hire an orchestra or sit by the beach to hear a steady calming rhythm, to harken to the sounds of the earth and vibrations of the universe.

How amazingly lucky we are to have such conveniences that we take for granted! To have a marching band playing along next to our ears while we go on our scheduled runs or rides was something people only used to have at big events and special occasions. Does this make us jaded and coddled, make us devalue such lofty pleasures and become entitled assholes? Turn us all into soft, spoiled brats?

Now we lounge in air-conditioned cafes sipping our mug of joe in front of our tablet device blasting the latest remixed lofi tunes, bitching on some Discord forum about the state of the world and how listless life has become, ranting about how we can’t decide which masters course to cruise down to carry us into the right career as we casually mow down some virtual shellfish on Steam.

And we complain we suffer from life dysmorphia, so take pity on us!

The gall.

Well, experiences and emotions are all subjective, aren’t they? Comparison is the thief of joy, as they say, so is it fair to compare our current cynical conditions to those of our ancestors? Are we not allowed to feel dissatisfaction with our lot in life, not allowed to be unhappy with our fast-paced, faceless, cog-in-the-machine existence?

So what if we’re spoiled silly by our modern conveniences? No need to walk everywhere, or sweat or get our hands dirty in the hot sun, or sit down and have a meeting together? Have we earned these privileges, and even if we haven’t earned them are we not allowed to take full advantage of them, like standing upon the shoulders of our forefathers (and mothers)?

Is it alright then to lack the gratitude and appreciation of all the good things we have in our lives, to act like spoiled jaded juveniles and pout and sulk when the sweat hits our brow and we feel the pressure pile on from all those overwhelming tasks that life throws at us? Wait, I have to pay bills now? Life insurance premium payments, what horrible beast is that? Why can I not slay it with a sword?

Our modern economic system is built upon preying upon the unwary and uninitiated, with subscription fees to staying alive, and endless inflation and convenience fees and forms to fill. At some point we become powerless to have our voice heard or feel like we have any impact or sway in our own lives, and all we can do is feel a deep sense of unrest and dissatisfaction, shackled as we have become by subscribing to society’s needs and wants and social etiquette and not kicking up a fuss when the officer is giving you a ticket for trivial things like taking your socks off in public.

Modern problems require modern solutions. What can we do about our modern life dysmorphia? How do we become less spoiled, if that is even possible, sluggish and slovenly as we are upon our pillows of comfort and support?

Unlike the industrious insects that crawl beneath us, it would appear that us mammals are given to lazing around and it’s in our nature to recline in shade and siesta as the sun scorches down upon our boiling ball of fetid matter. Is that so delicately abhorrent? My cat lazes around all day and I still adore her for it.

To say my cat is spoiled would be an understatement, but no matter how many times I tell it to her face, she appears unfazed. I strongly doubt my cat suffers from life dysmorphia, dashing back and form and doing her own thing as she pleases.

Have we done something so right that we can spend our days sitting around complaining about the weather and feelings and temperature of our coffee? Or are we undergoing something so poignantly wrong that some inevitable course correction is coming for our civilisation? Some crazy collapse and crunch under the weight of a black hole for all of our sins?

Writings

Pretty Privilege For The Win?

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What does beauty mean to you? Is it a concept unique to humans, or is it an evolutionary imperative aimed at enhancing survival?

We appreciate beauty in our surroundings, in sights, smells, taste and touch; soothing sounds indicate solace while shrill noises prime us for peril and cold-hearted combat. Presumably our primitive forms needed a way to hardwire environmental cues into our core, so when we see food of a certain colour we are either attracted or repulsed by it, like the putrid stench of faecal matter that tells us we definitely do not want to consume that. Dogs clearly have a high threshold or perhaps they’ve evolved to be able to utilise the nutrients from another dog’s stinking hot mess.

That brings me to pretty privilege, the ubiquitous phenomenon where the good-looking creatures and people receive a disproportionate amount of attention and goodwill and all manner of societal rewards and accolades. Why should we worship people simply because they are handsome or smoking hot? Does being physically attractive correlate with mental or social intelligence?

I’m not knocking the pretty people out there – I am simply saying is it right for us to assume that just because someone is good-looking that they are competent and refined in nature? Why do we have a tendency to trust and believe the babes and chiseled jawliners?

Certainly there is evolutionary appeal in selecting a mate with supple unblemished skin and symmetrical features, indicators of health and fertility and all that. But where do we draw the line? Should we toss out our merit system in favour of pretty people? At what point should we start to question the pertinence of pretty privilege?

Pretty privilege is at best a precarious matter for parley, an innate advantage that everyone silently acknowledges but some love to hate. You could argue that like any talent should it not be put to its best use?

Marilyn Monroe had a role in which she remarked:

“Don’t you know that a man being rich is like a girl being pretty?”

Do you feel being pretty is a talent? Is not a man’s ability to make money a talent?

If we concede that a man or woman’s earnings come from their ability to work, and their proficiency at their job is a talent, then isn’t it the same as a pretty person who can earn a living off their good looks and fine features?

On a significant level, our genetics define our ability to work just as they do our physical appearance. Some are more able-bodied than others, more agile or adept at carrying out complex equations. Why is your intelligence attributed to your hard work, when it is largely tied to your intrinsic mental acuity? And why is your flawless features only attributed to your genetics, when you could make the case that through nutrition and rigourous skincare regiments you have transformed your once lacklustre and pimple-plastered face into a pristine snowy tundra?

So is it wrong to exercise your pretty privilege, to accept the favours and effusive outpourings that come your way even though you never once asked for any of it? Should we condemn those who dare to flex their magical charm and muscle to get ahead in life? Or like race should we all become blind to beauty and pretend everyone we meet is a crash-test dummy?

They look like they’re having fun!

So in conclusion if a women is rich she should be respected because she toiled many a long weekend to earn it, but if a man is bone-hurtingly hot he’s clearly gay?

No respect for the cute, ditzy girl or the handsome corporate leader because they clearly just coasted by on their good looks and did nothing to deserve their fortune?

I wonder how our animal friends appreciate beauty, what they perceive as mighty fine or smoking hot? Clearly in humans there is some advantage to being a giraffe to reach those high value fruit and vegetables, but none to being really skilled at mining or bending over in the field tending to the earth.

Pick the tall ones, ladies – unfortunately your children will still be average height thanks to your genetics.

That sounds a little sour. Hey ladies, we know that you know that size matters – the size of our wallets. And skin moles.

Better get that shiny black one looked at.

Writings

Do I Believe The Universe Revolves Around Me?

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I was once asked what I believe. It was 1:30am and my eyes were burning.

By some strange straggle of insanity I spewed that I believe that time and the fates are endless commas of yin and yang spiralling through this meaningless abyss so we should gather whatever meaning we can like a squirrel gathers acorns and shove them into our little mouths and savour them for as long as we can.

I believe I have some idea of what caused me to conjure up such a bizarre image of a space squirrel with a mouthful of nuts, perched on a big watery nut spinning around a smoking hot nut in the vast darkness of nuthingness.

Pondering the apparent meaninglessness of our ephemeral existence and ingesting one too many Tiktok videos on the horrific vastness of outer space and inner human hatred and humility, along with my waning breath and aging carcass of a body, the universe conspired that I should be cursed with imagery and unspeakable thoughts that no sentient creature would fail to shudder at, much like how these errant bloodsuckers fail to shudder at the mighty electrical wattage of Zeus because cheap Chinese devices have deeply lackluster battery lives. #BatteryLivesMatter

What sets me or most other humans apart from the rest? Are any of us truly unique and special, all some perplexing permutation of pedigree and probability? Are my experiences and memories all that special, or are millions of others going through the same suffering as I, with the same talents and skills and belief that the world is our oyster? Is my thumbprint or my face really one of a kind? Or just something we deceive ourselves and our children into believing to help us sleep better at night? To give us some faux purpose and meaning among millions and billions?

Collectively are we not just a writhing mass of bony worms crawling our way amongst the moss of this warm clammy hard nut? Feeding off the flesh of this flaming molten pit, being gradually microwaved by the sun? In the grand scheme of things, what good is our happiness and emotions and progress?

So we blast off to another watery whetstone to carve out more flesh and minerals and money, so we can keep exploring and mining and building and creating and blasting off again and again and again and again. Eventually we’ll run out of little neutrinos to hop around on and the electrons will lose their energy and it will just be a bleak blackness devoid of this improbable spontaneous wacky thing called life.

Will our waves of meaning and emotion and energy ripple across the emptiness of space? Will the sounds of our times resonate endlessly to some day create memories and feelings in distant galaxies that can make sense of any of this?

I believe the squirrel is struggling with all these nutgets of wisdom being slowly digested by the amylase in its moist maw, coming to terms with its mortality and changing world. Its eyes gaze at the good and bad and meh things, arbitrary labels applied to meaningless things that have value in the eyes of a bunch of mammalian weeds that have sprung up lately, soon to be plucked and cast into the fire of the nearest planetary furnace.

What does the squirrel believe? Surely many thoughts must be firing through that twitchy nut in its high hut, that bean in its bonnet, that screw in its skull. But does it truly believe? Or is it simply reacting to stimuli, thinking thoughts conditioned into its genetic makeup from generations of inbreeding?

I believe the nutty squirrel analogy no longer makes much sense anymore and I should be adrift in the endless blackness betwixt the stars and the sun, as dawn and my demise inch ever closer.

Do I believe the world and universe revolves around me? Most certainly not! And I would not wish it so either.

But in my dreams and wacky imagination, I used to create worlds where I was joyous and life was simple, where music rang in the background and the pulse of the universe coursed through my veins. Where I had meaning and purpose and was happy in my pursuit of whatever fanciful butterfly fluttered my way.

On second thought, I would not wish for a simple life, a simple world. There is much amazement in the chaos and clamouring of the waves upon the shore, weaving between the grains of sands of time. We spend our lives chasing some fictitious dream that we oft forget to bask in the magical wonder that is our existence, the presence of the impossible beauty and power that surrounds us.

Would I sing a song or draw a mural to commemorate this twinkling moment in time? Would that make me fucking special? Why the hell do we bother? It sure isn’t going to send us to heaven.

And now I sit in the late hours of the night, pondering while I should be adrift in the endless blackness betwixt the stars and the sun, as dawn and my demise inch ever closer.

Good night, mad world – stay classy and chaotic now! #StayCool

Putting hashtags in written bodies of words, that’s what the cool kids do these days, right? Also writing sentences backwards, like Yoda they do?

Writings

Is There A Gender Difference in Relationship Expectations?

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It’s probably comes as no surprise to you that I identify as a mild-mannered heterosexual male, or as most people colloquially term a “guy”.

As a guy, I feel that there is a disparity between the genders (at least for the traditional male and female) when it comes to expectations and realities of relationship investment. That is not to say that I do not believe all genders have a want for closeness and intimacy in a relationship, simply that there are differences that both parties tend not to talk about.

As a guy, I am in a short term state of mind when it comes to investment in other things and people. To clarify, that does not mean I am not into exclusivity or loyalty or the typical expectations in a committed relationship. Simply that I would rather expend short bursts of time and energy trying or becoming better at something or getting to know someone, akin to our feline friends.

This is Aipoo, a strange breed with asymmetrical limb fur patterns and the usual disdain for other living creatures.

If you’ve ever owned or interacted with a cat before, you will notice a pattern in their daily behaviour.

  1. Each day Aipoo wakes up before dawn and proceeds to make an ungodly noise with his mouth outside my door, something cat owners refer to as “meowing” or “this-is-like-having-a-human-baby-why-do-I-still-keep-a-cat syndrome”?
  2. I will perfunctorily present some form of meaty sustenance to Aipoo, which Aipoo will sniff and nibble and ultimately abandon.
  3. Aipoo will viciously attack one of my limbs as I walk away.
  4. Aipoo will go batshit and hunt for his preferred food of choice, usually composing of articles of clothing, cardboard or nearby body parts. This is commonly referred to as the “zoomies” or “why-is-this-devil-still-around condition”?
  5. Aipoo will go for a good 15 minutes chasing his tail and toying with anything in the vicinity that looks at him funny. By toying, I mean mauling repeatedly until it is dead, or deader than it was before.
  6. Satisfied that something is dead, Aipoo will crawl into his basket is catnap for however long he likes.
  7. Aipoo awakes a short while later and lurks around waiting for a door to open so he may charge through it.
  8. Aipoo successfully escapes into the garden to bask in the sun.
  9. After 10 minutes, Aipoo has had enough of the heat and attempts to rush back in.
  10. Back to sleep curled up on some other item of furniture or document that I need.
  11. Repeat steps 7 to 10.
  12. As the sun begins to set, Aipoo calls for his dinner, after which repeat steps 3 to 6.

Now this is probably the pattern of many mammals, especially the crepuscular ones – those creatures that are most active during dusk and dawn. And it seems to be the way I am when it comes to daily activities and being with other people.

I enjoy socialising as little as the next introvert, which doesn’t sound like much but I feel I get out there at least once a day. Over the years, I’ve realised my energy levels and attention span are limited to a certain number of activities or people per day.

That makes me sound super unproductive or unsociable, which is likely true. However, like Aipoo, I’ve realised my tolerance for spending prolonged amounts of time with people or doing the same task has waned or is a tenuous fuse snaking its way to the stick of dynamite that is my sanity.

Maybe I have ADHD or some other short term issue, but I prefer to call it a “short term state of mind”. I can focus on a given task, like writing a document or practising a musical instrument or listening to some juicy gossip, but like all good things I feel it must come to an end.

Every song has to conclude, every meeting unceremoniously end, so how do two people stay in the same space for a prolonged period of time without wringing each other’s necks?

As much as I enjoy spending time with people I click with, at some point I need a nap or me time or a change of scenery. Why is the expectation that as relationships progress it equates to extended periods of being cooped up together?

I think it’s fine to keep doing the dates and get back to doing our own thing after. Aipoo sure as hell believes that; at best he tolerates my intrusions into his daily cleaning routine.

I believe a lot of guys are like that as well – everyone has places to meet and people to be and all that. Wait, you want me to spend an entire day with you? Doing what now?

As a guy, I still yearn for some level of openness or closeness, of human connection and understanding, of support and care and provision. I imagine that is the whole purpose of a relationship in the first place. I’m not saying I’m incapable of or do not wish to provide those things, I’m just saying can I do it in controlled bursts or specific periods of time?

See, this translates into a strange dynamic of wanting intimacy, but in short bursts, which the ladies tend to interpret as the hackneyed “guys only want sex” trope in relationship complaints. I feel a lot of guys want intimacy beyond just sex, but coitus is the quickest path to some form of intimacy and satisfaction (at least for the guy), so it can be made fairly transactional in a nicely packaged period of time.

The expectation of spending quality time creates this idea of doing multiple activities together over the span of a day or multiple days, where either party may become fatigued or irritated or uncomfortable, leading to both parties becoming unhappy.

Perhaps the goal is to become perfectly content to be in each other’s presence in between activities, or a compromise of doing one’s own thing with proximity to the other person, much like Aipoo tolerates others in his space while he languidly licks his paws.

I just feel like there is something to be said about the ability to be alone, and relishing one’s own company. Perhaps that’s the loner in me talking, the pensive dreamer deep within my troubled psyche, incapable of accepting others, unwilling to share and afraid of invasions of the personal space and time.

I admit I am a dreamer, given to flights of fancy and wistful thoughts. And much like us, it appears AI has a preference for beautiful people.

I wonder how pervasive pretty privilege is in our universe? Do other animals experience it too?

Jerry Seinfeld said in a speech that we should not be shy or afraid to use our privileges to our advantage. Is that not part of what makes us special?

We all want that perfect partner or specimen, that work of art that motivates and inspires and completes us. Perhaps it is part of our yearning for innovation and progress.

Perhaps we are all dreamers in our quest for that holy grail, that spiritual relationship to transcend all others. Or perhaps we just want someone who kind of gets us and is easy on the eyes, and we’re simply presented with too many options in this modern day and age, too many colourful brands and packets of chips and detergent on the shelves in our modern supermarkets.

Writings

Has AI Taken Our Purpose?

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Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble!
If Team Rocket were witches,
Cackling this in their britches:

Fillet of a fenny Arbok,
In the cauldron roll and rock;
Eye of Wooper, toe of Treecko
Pokemon hell-broth combo!

Close enough, AI.

I used to feel like being able to conjure and create an image, a drawing from virtually nothing, from my strange and wonderful imagination, was some sort of a superpower.

I could create anything I wanted! Anything I could draw on paper, on screen, anything I could see in my mind’s eye, I could turn into reality!

And now that I can type in a prompt into a rectangle and have multiple instant flawless pieces of art, I feel a little less special. I feel a little less like drawing.

Sure, perhaps I’ve been busier lately, I’ve been caught up in other pursuits and passions; I’ve strayed from the path of the producer of silly scribbles and inane comics.

Or perhaps the fire inside has dwindled out, talent yielding to fleeting whim like sand scattered upon the wind, falling straight down to the ocean. Assuming there was talent to begin with.

Or perhaps I’ve lost my purpose.

Purpose is a heavy word – all the meaning of life held in a simple word, a white light on the end of a wick, slowly snuffing itself out.

People are always asking about purpose, about the meaning and direction of one’s life, like it somehow has import upon their own livelihoods. Will your purpose sway me to your cause? Will we band together to overcome this great obstacle, this fearsome foe?

Our ancestors probably didn’t have the luxury of questioning their purpose, since most of their sole purpose was to survive. I imagine there were some slow days where the farmer would sit and gaze out upon the land, feeling the afternoon breeze, searching for distant rains, and wonder what was the meaning of his or her daily toil, working the fields and watching it grow?

To harvest and eat and be merry, and store up to survive the winter, only to repeat the cycle anew? Perfect, let’s do it again, and hope for more rain and a better harvest. And then what? Build a larger barn and belch out a bigger family?

Sounds idyllic, to be content and experience the elation that comes with a full belly and more workers to expand the land, little ruddy energetic hands and feet.

Our ancestors may not have had such lofty purposes as we, but their simple joys spawned us into being, so there was some progress, some underlying purpose to enlarging their tent and multiplying; contributing to the great human dream, to the growing hive of intellect and body of work that would catapult us into the dark reaches of space, the cold kitchen floor surrounding our little morsel of bread.

So do our individual purposes matter all that much? Or should we be content to be part of the great machine, a cog in the wheel of the endless engine of humanity and time and space?

We have been brought up believing our lives and talents and opinions matter to those around us and to the greater span of organisms on the cusp of our awareness. This blog is a testament to that, writing to an unknown audience in the wormhole of information. But really, most of us are not that special, not that unique or powerful or noteworthy.

Like ants, we each have our own little mission, and we try and stick with it and go off track every so often, but apart from a few mutants and queens, we’re more or less the same shade of beige and bronze, and we will work until we are crushed or curl up and die of natural causes. I suppose being smitten by a more powerful organic being is kind of natural as well, albeit somewhat untimely.

We will keep spinning around in circles, around a big hot circle, having fun in the sun and recording our moments of happiness and melancholy until our little circle smashes into another circle, or more likely than not the light goes out and we crawl back into our cold crumb of bread.

This earth that we are on is not the nurturing mother we believe her to be; she is a harsh mother that casts us out to fend for ourselves, having to rely on our symbiotic relationship with our fellow organisms and favourable surroundings to carve out tall shiny buildings and maintain daily bowel movements.

How many times has the earth been recycled, the content rinsed and repeated over and over? The air we breathe and the water we wash our faces with bathed the butts of emperors, extraterrestrials and dinosaurs.

And yet we persist, we rise each day and pretend we are refreshed and renewed, that our lives still hold purpose, have meaning.

How important is purpose anyway?

Is it essential for life? Essential for growth and development?

Do the trees and tortoises and trumpetfish need a purpose to go about their lives, to be content in their pocket of existence? Does having a purpose enhance their lives in any way?

I wonder if a deer in the forest is constantly worrying about its next meal, or what it needs to survive, and if it ponders its purpose on this planet beyond its next feast. Does it feel more or less happy if it made progress in its trek through the forest, explored more around the nest? Maybe each deer plays a role in its community, having its own special mission and purpose. Or maybe it just reacts to stimuli and follows its base instincts to eat and sleep and copulate.

At the end of the day, our overarching purpose is pretty much the same: to survive. Our work and machinations, our daily tasks and toils are simply to be able to survive in the short and long run. We help each other and receive food stamps and trinkets in return, stashing them away for a rainy day or passing them on to our offspring, so that they may learn how to earn food stamps and trinkets and maybe be happy every now and then.

So I suppose it comes down to how well one survives in this soggy little breadcrumb, how much of the cracked crust one can encroach upon, and how satisfied one can feel throughout this brief existence, devoid of a deity to bestow meaning and hope of a magical reward in the afterlife.

Would it be more meaningful and fulfilling to be in a religion? To be part of this greater purpose again, in a community of conmen and prophets, speaking languages they understand not in the hope that people will keep coming back and giving them money? I suppose I cannot fault them, for they are also surviving in their own way, on the backs and bank accounts of others.

I feel purpose is fleeting – it will come and go like the farmer’s breeze, caressing the sugar canes and carbuncles on their faces. We can believe that we are strong and capable and self-sufficient, but in a fell swoop of the scythe our world could be undone, turned upside down at the drop of a dime, like a hill of ants caving under fat droplets of heavy rain, washed asunder into the ocean.

Purpose is a nice thing to have, a luxury to be able to ponder, to give us something to do and drive towards. Something like a destination, a goal, a target, that ultimately will end, like all things. The next step is what we do when our purpose is gone or shifted – can we adapt and transition to another reality, to another way of life? Or is it better to be without purpose, living simply from day to day, from meal to meal?

Will AI someday take our purpose away as well? If we are no longer required to do the things that got us to this point, then what is our purpose?

If AI can create the same or better than I could ever imagine, then what is my next move? Should I evolve according to a newfound purpose beyond the reach of AI? Or plunge into the pillowy arms of technology and abandon all drive and desire, becoming the slovenly passengers of the starship in Wall-E or human batteries in the Matrix?

Writings

The Single Shoulder Sling

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Have you ever wondered why people look cooler when they only utilise one shoulder strap of their backpack? You know what I’m talking about – the single shoulder sling!

Is it wrong to wear a backpack on both sides in a balanced manner? Does doing so convey the image that the backpack is a true burden to the wielder and is no longer a casual fashion statement? Or is there aesthetic beauty in the asymmetrical stance created by the single shoulder sling?

Behold Exhibit A: the epitome of coolness and nonchalance, a travelling gentleman in a comfortable jacket, jeans and posture.

Is it good for his back? Who cares.

Now behold Exhibit B: the king of the dorks, returning from a successful hunt and slaughter of indomitable foliage. Would probably be cooler shoving the vegetables in the basket that comes with that cute bike, no?

And flaunting a branded bag? What a capitalist sellout!

So why even invent a two-strap backpack? Is it better than a sling bag?

Based on our physiology, two straps is symmetrical and sensible but you experience restricted movement. Perhaps from an evolution standpoint (which is basically saying in caveman times) being tied down by both straps may make it harder to defend yourself, and easier for someone to maneuver you by grabbing your bag from behind.

Or perhaps it is the image of a conformist, of someone who plays by the rules and wastes unnecessary time doing unnecessary things like putting both arms through both straps, when one would suffice if the individual was strong enough?

Kids, and boys especially, want to be seen as strong, so carrying a bag in a balanced way evenly distributing weight over both shoulders is seen as a weakness. Strong dudes sling their backpacks casually over one side, because no burden is too much for long term spinal damage, or too heavy to heave off and abandon in a split second.

That’s the lives of male Homo sapiens in a nutshell – shrugging off responsibility and spine trauma since 2000 BC.

Perhaps the size of the bag matters?

I remember happily slinging this A4 sized bread loaf of a backpack over both shoulders as I sauntered through school, and being repeatedly called “nerd” by random students that weren’t even in my year. Just some good-natured character building and jeering. Wonderful core memory.

I often wonder if I had been carrying my backpack in the single shoulder sling – would I still have received the multiple “hey nerd!” catcalls? Maybe they were just trying to reach out and invite me to their friend group? Wait, is it still a catcall if it’s not directed at the feline variety?

Did you know there was a colloquial phrase for utilising both straps of your backpack?

It was jovially called “double dorking”.

Hah, so those idiots were calling me the wrong derogatory slur! I was a dork, you nincompoops!

Now we could go back and forth and debate the practicality and appearance of using one or both straps, but the non-conformist coolness factor is undeniable. And now I wonder: does it extend to other things in life?

Is there an object that is used in unintended ways that makes it seem cooler or trendier?

What else suffers from the single shoulder sling?

Reading a book with one hand instead of grasping it with two?

Wait, you still read books?

Nerd.

You know, maybe it’s because I haven’t been in school for so many years, but I feel like I almost never see or hear this insult anymore in this day and age.

Is it because everyone is now essentially a technological nerd, staring at their little handheld device through their multifocal UV blue-light-blocking lenses? Because nerds have conquered the modern capitalist world through their clever systems and machinations?

Is this the natural evolutionary next step in our species? The brainy outclass and outmatch the brawny? The classic Batman beating Superman? Does Ironman finally triumph over Captain America?

Well, you certainly don’t see those guys double dorking.

Writings

The Dangers of Being Special

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Now I don’t mean “special” special. I mean specialisation.

Growing up I was taught that specialisation was the way of the modern world. My dad would repeatedly say: “it doesn’t matter what you do, you’ve got to be the best at what you do.”

In a way, it sounds nice, sounds like something a kind, supportive parent should say, giving the child permission to do and choose whatever they please, to follow their dreams. So the moral of the story is that if I got really, really good at what I was doing, whatever that thing was, riches and bitches, fame and fortune would follow. Happily ever after, the end!

Is there anything wrong with that message? It’s super motivational and not at all linked to the Malaysian Dream of chasing fast cars and cash, right?

But isn’t everything in life about the Malaysian Dream of cash, cars, credit cards and cunts? What’s a less harsh C word for pussay? Crotch? Clunge? Cooze? Is that short for jacuzzi? This is wild.

We have grown up in a materialistic world that preaches financial freedom and success and retirement and all sorts of myths. One of those myths is that is being perpetrated is the power of specialisation, of being the most outstanding in your field, of being the best there ever was. Is it all it’s cut out to be?

Do we need to be the best?

It’s all about competition, right?

Competition starts from a ripe young age. Even before you are born, you’re in a virtual competition with those other unborn brethren.

Your parents will compare you with their friend’s kids. Aww, she’s already so big! Much bigger than my baby was at the 3.6 month stage.

Aww, your little one started crawling at 1 year? Well, mine was reciting the alphabet in her head at 11 months!

And then you start going to school.

The underlying themes of school and our entire education system in a nutshell: to succeed you need to be a competitive little robot, honing your specialty, your discipline, your profitable potential, and you need to beat or sabotage all the other little shits.

You think you’re making friends, but in the end, it was all about coming out on top, gaining scholarships and going to greater schools and cream-of-the-crop colleges.

But to succeed in our careers and at life, do we really need to be the very best, like no one ever was?

Or do we just need to surround ourselves with the best? Learn and develop together?

What, of course not! We compete with our colleagues and undermine them so our boss sees our achievements and promotes us first, obviously.

So what if you received first-class honours and graduated summa cum laude in the best university in the universe?

You’ll be scouted by the biggest, bestest firms that will get you working 60-hour weeks being glorified paper pushers and project managers. You’ll get paid a nice, healthy sum for your time and energy and attention on all the Zoom calls.

You’ll be the best little paper pusher there ever was!

Do we need to be the best at everything?

And this spirit of excellence has a spillover effect, where in our brainwashed minds we believe that we should be the best at every single endeavour, or not bother with it at all.

Social media perpetrates this even more, with people showing off their weird and wild talents, spending endless days and weeks practising trick shots and passing it off like it was a fluke. It’s no longer a competition of the same event in the same category, it is now a competition of popularity, of likes and follows, of who can do the most insane thing in the shortest amount of screen time.

Perhaps some things in life were just not meant to be competitive.

I admit that sometimes I die a little inside when I swipe into a video of someone doing something insane on an instrument or piece of canvas, doing something I enjoy doing but a million times better and faster and stronger. They’re sexier and smoother and have a million more followers than I could ever imagine. And it crushes me. And it disturbs me that I feel this way.

I don’t want to feel this way, but I do. Is that normal or natural?

I know it was probably not the intention of the content creator; they were likely doing something they genuinely enjoyed, and just got really, really good at it. Or at least appeared to, or used some fancy editing tool to make it seem so. Either way, they went viral and became famous, and the algorithms all love them.

All the same, I know I shouldn’t bother comparing myself to them, especially if it’s something inconsequential like playing the melodica or doing a cool dance or eating watermelon in half a breath. These are done for fun and entertainment, and yet it is a mental competition.

I imagine there are some others behind the screens who have thrown their instruments out or stormed off like Eric Clapton, vowing never to play or perform again, because someone else was just that much better, making them feel they could never achieve that level of mastery and adeptness. And thus they gave up.

And I would be lying if I denied not having those feelings or succumbing to such thoughts. I’ve been put off things simply because somewhere in my lizard brain I’ve witness someone absolutely destroying and doing ridiculous things with a sandcastle and juggling balls, and my lizard brain has decided it wanted no part in such pointless pursuits and stopped trying.

There is always going to be someone better than you, in some way, somewhere out there in the world, at some point in time.

Can you be the best in this moment? Perhaps. For a long time? People come and go. Who determines that you’re the best? Guinness World Book of Records?

And most importantly, why does it matter?

So you can cash out and get paid a million bucks like those top celebrities?

Being the best and being perceived as the best are two different things.

I’m not advocating pretending to be good at something you’re not, but I think a lot of people become obsessed with specialising and becoming the best that they lose sight of why they enjoyed the activity in the first place.

According to our modern world view, you have to choose the most optimal thing that will earn you the most money, and then become really, really good at it for the longest time, then retire early and do whatever makes you happy.

And those optimal things are that list you’re given back in school of all the potential professional courses and career paths that will carry you through to the golden gates of success and not needing to move a single muscle or give a single fuck anymore from that point forward.

Choose the safe, stable path, our parents and teachers and career advisors would whisper in our ear. Choose the career most highly in demand.

Narrow down your options, eliminate the things that you’re not good at, specialise and become an efficient, obedient robot, so that our society may thrive on you at the expense of your health and happiness.

The vampires at the top of the hill gaze down at us underlings, chortling as we are sorted into our specialties and study streams, shuffling down the queue to the abattoir, to be quartered and drawn, milked and slaughtered.

Surely we can’t all be the best, right?

Maybe for some of us, we can simply do our best, and be happy with the effort.

And so we strive like the good little worker ants, towing the line, doing the best we can. Is that good enough for society? For the powers that be?

Are we fulfilling our god-given potential? Not trying to be the best, just doing our best with what we have, specialising as best we can to our allotted roles in life.

Is that so bad?

Maybe this all stems from our parents telling us we were special.

We’re all already special without trying, oh my!

I wonder if the blacksmith of the village ever thought that he or she was the best. If another kuih maker came along and decided to outdo the original kampung kuih caterer, what would they have done? Would the village elder chastise them for trying to outshine the best? Were they even the best in the village? Or did they end up doing it because no one else wanted to?

Is our value tied to things that we are good at? Is that what society attributes to success? Does it only apply to essential life skills?

What are you specialised in?