Monday, September 14, 2020

A glimpse of what the new spiral of evolution looks like...

My friend Dervin Frank first alerted me to the 528 Hz phenomenon recently. I was already aware that there's a growing 432 Hz movement to liberate humanity from the 440 Hz trap the Rockefeller family got us into starting from 1926 - but now I find there has been a great deal of independent research into cymatics (the study of waveforms, and sound is all about waveforms). Resensitizing ourselves to sound waves and their effects on our cellular consciousness is a powerful key to freedom from New World Order mind control!

Charles Gilchrist's passion for sacred geometry is infectious. I haven't found a better introduction to this profound subject so far...

Information of this nature was once classified top secret - and was only revealed to high initiates of mystery schools. Today anyone can access it on YouTube - if they either chance upon it (like I did) or are given a heads up (that's why I'm blogging this material!)

It's so simple the mind boggles. The mystery of Creation itself... revealed in how a single point of Consciousness creates energy, motion and spacetime by dividing itself into two polarities, yin and yang... and then becomes multidimensional... by using the universal principles of pi, phi and the Fibonacci Sequence!

For Use with HEADPHONES! (A Theta/Isochronic and binaural entrainment audio program).

This video/audio file was formulated especially for those of you who are having a bad day. Having 10,000 thoughts exploding in your head all at once right now?

No Problem.

Put on a pair of GOOD headphones. Turn out the lights. Click on the Full Screen option and sit back and listen and watch.

I guarantee that after 20 Mins you will FEEL better.

Pictures are REAL GENUINE Unidentified Flying Phenomenon (Photos authenticated by Elvis and Bigfoot).


[First posted 17 September 2011]

Sunday, September 13, 2020

Preface to TANAH TUJUH ~ Close Encounters with the Temuan Mythos (repost)

AT THE OUTSET I wish to declare that I am not an anthropologist.
I am, however, deeply interested in mythology. What fascinates me about the mythic tradition is that it has proven to be an effective way of preserving important archetypal images and ideas for thousands of years, merely through oral transmission down the generations. Like nursery rhymes imbibed in early childhood, a myth once heard is never forgotten, even if a few minor details get added or subtracted along the way.
Nadi Empok & his wife Lumoh in 1994
In this respect I perceive myths as organic time capsules of the tribal superconscious. More precisely they are a semiotic time-travel device: “reality spores” designed to survive aeons of incomprehension or indifference, only to germinate anew as soon as favorable conditions occur. To bring the stories back to life, you only have to add the water of empathy, of emotive resonance.

Of course, it helps greatly if you also have “genetic access” to the stories. For each story, like a life, has its own specific genealogy. But in the end, all stories can be traced to a single source - the Mother Lode of Stories - which I comprehend as the deep memory of the Earth herself.
MYTHOLOGY, folklore, and grandmothers' tales are by definition non-logical story forms, meaningless to the rational mind and subject to no “scientific proof.” Characters tend to appear and disappear without rhyme or reason, and their actions and reactions are generally an unfathomable mystery - until one adds the essential ingredient, subjectivity. The fact that “mystery” and “myth” both contain the key word my is highly instructive. One has to own them, take personal possession of these transpersonal, extra-dimensional truths, before they yield their secret kernel of meaning. More specifically, one has to incorporate the mythic system into one's vision quest, so that the sense of revelation which follows the sudden flash of insight becomes an intensely intimate experience. For whom does the bell toll, if not yourself?
Halus, Titit & Kusak in 1996
In attempting to piece together the few Temuan myth fragments that I chanced upon, I have had to apply a liberal amount of interpretative glue. It is certainly not my intention to present this as some sort of “definitive” Temuan gospel. The shreds of tribal lore that have survived, at least amongst the Temuan I know, are too tattered and incomplete to reconstitute into any meaningful whole - unless one matches them with myth fragments from other native traditions. But essentially I just want to share my own insights and opinions - and the exquisite tingle of quiet excitement that each discovery brought - with whomsoever may be interested.   
The gods and heroes of antiquity are, in truth, fragments of our own mystery, our own unfolding story in space and time. We need only take the initiative to reclaim them from the myopia of our throwaway consumer culture and the self-destructive forgetfulness of our times.

TANAH TUJUH ~ Close Encounters with the Temuan Mythos was published in 2007 by Silverfish Books. It's available in hard copy here!

[First posted 16 November 2017, reposted 26 September 2018]

Tuesday, September 8, 2020

Meltdown at Madame Tussaud’s (reprise)

For generations we have pissed on people with impunity.

Our power was brokered with brute force – it was literally “Off with his head!” whenever anyone dared to openly disagree with or criticize the order of things.

Our authority - more correctly spelt “awe-thority” - issued from our ability to shock and awe the illiterate masses with displays of superior physical and psychic firepower. As Barry Long postulates in his seminal work, The Origins of Man and the Universe (The Myth That Came To Life): the earliest gods consisted of an elite cabal of magicians and sorcerers who activated their third eyes ahead of the pack, learned the use of psychic force by utilizing their brains as holographic projectors, and thus were able to control the collective unconscious of their subjects through mediumistic shamanism and the inculcation of tribal totems and taboos.

We established the first monarchic dynasties and schooled our heirs in the divine right of kings. Our people were implanted with genetically hardwired control mechanisms that took the form of ignorant superstition masquerading as religious faith.

To question the moral behavior of the gods was labeled blasphemy; any word spoken against a king or queen was labeled sedition. Complaints against high-ranking priests, courtiers and ministers were considered defamation.

We outlawed mystical experience and replaced it with solemn ceremony and pompous ritual. Inspired insights and revelations were systematically reduced to dogma and doctrine; turned into an academic priesthood to jealously police the orthodoxy of the status quo.

Over the millennia, we created what young people today recognize as The Matrix – an ingenious machine to harvest the vitality of all living things, generation after generation, to support in grand style the privileges and insatiable appetites of a well-connected white-collar criminal upper class.

But it’s all breaking down now from the sheer weight of its own accumulation of misdeeds and miscreations. The long-enslaved masses have begun to awaken from their cultural trance. They realize that the punitive deity installed in their operating systems to rule them through fear is no more than a scarecrow, a being of straw, literally a stuffed shirt.

All the gods have feet of clay and will never dismount from their pedestals. The institutions created to uphold the edifice of business-as-usual are mostly infested with maggots in human guise – time-serving functionaries of the state, who can see no further than the next paycheck and who dream only of the retirement benefits they have been promised in exchange for loyal, unthinking service.

Long disconnected from their own internal moral compasses, the minions who continue to uphold the hierarchy of conformity and mediocrity may – on rare occasions – experience momentary confusion and doubt.

Does the monotheistic, judgmental, punitive, vengeful god to whom some of us pray actually exist? Or is He just a virulent meme implanted in our tribal memories?

And does He (of course it must be a Heavenly Father, for no order-obeying, rank-saluting stormtrooper would deign to take orders from a mere woman) take offense whenever we think an unwholesome thought, or utter an unsavory word? And will our offspring, if left uncircumcised or unbaptized, be forever barred from paradise?

And if we spend the better part of our time in church or at the mosque gossiping about other people’s sex lives – instead of paying heed to the wisdom of our own inner voices – would that ruin our prospects for a happy afterlife?

We have become compulsive liars and hypocrites to avoid punishment. At some level we know the knack of twisting truth is a survival mechanism that has long outlived its purpose. But do we still remember what it means to be honest and candid - regardless of the consequences, real or imagined?

Can we deny the feeling, buried deep within our subconscious memories and long suppressed, that our entire life has been but a meaningless charade, a colorful and noisy parade that camouflages the endless procession of sorrow and subterfuge our existence has been reduced to?

Behind the glossy façade of our public personas are we proud of and at peace with our true selves? How long can we fool ourselves with our own hype – even if it’s the most expensive grade of hype, paid for by hapless citizens?

Like everybody else with a broadband connection (that actually works) I have been monitoring - with fascination, disgust, horror and far-too-frequent outbursts of outrage - the social and political metamorphosis we are undergoing as a young nation with an ethnically heterogeneous population of 27 million.

The aftershocks of the electoral earthquake and psychological tsunami that occurred on 8 March 2008 continue to be felt on all levels.

Fear grips the cold hearts and poisoned psyches of the power elite - while hope flaps its fragile wings as it attempts its first tentative flight within the souls of all who truly love this land.

We have seen all the evidence we need that the pouting, pink-lipped overaged brat who (in April 2009) seized the post of prime minister is, in fact, more accurately described as a crime minister. The catalog of his misdeeds is legend, as only to be expected of somebody born into a political dynasty with blood on its hands and groomed from young for power.

His second wife, who could well be niece to the murderous witch Mona Fandey, has attracted massive scorn and ridicule - but carefully shields herself from the anger and resentment of the masses by engaging a retinue of professional fawners and sycophants to administer to her overweening vanity.

Constantly plotting intrigue behind their opulent backs is a gigantic can of writhing worms that represents a political party (now parties) created expressly by a megalomaniacal former leader to enrich his family and supporters through colossal infrastructure expenditure and secret contracts. A political party with no tangible philosophy, no remaining ideals, no sense of evolutionary inevitability.

All it can boast is a reptilian kill-or-be-killed survival program that manifests through diverse forms of thuggery, uniformed or plainclothes, disguised as various law enforcement agencies and fake NGOs.

And yet there are courageous individuals in our midst who battle valiantly on for the restoration of justice, freedom and accountability in government. They do so at the costly sacrifice of their own personal careers and at great risk to their own lives. Some are forced to endure neverending litigation; others risk incarceration, exile, and even assassination (though we are fortunately a nation that has never as yet resorted to “termination with extreme prejudice”... or have we?).

Those of us who admire and applaud these magnificent individuals for fighting the good fight on our behalf must bear in mind that we cannot achieve salvation and redemption by proxy (forget what religious orthodoxy says about Jesus dying for your sins, that’s utter crap!) Each of us has to gain entry to the promised land through our own hard-won integrity and impeccability as spiritual warriors and agents of illumination. If you can’t learn to ride a horse vicariously, what makes you think you can qualify for heaven on earth through other people’s virtue?

In effect, we really have no option but to consciously embody all the ideals and values we desire to see prevail in the world around us.

If you object to secrecy in government, then divest your own life of dark and dire secrets and do whatever you do openly, without fear and without apology. If your behavior impinges negatively on others, you will immediately be alerted to their distress. In which case, the mature response is to adjust your behavior so that it no longer poses problems for others. If you feel a stinky fart coming, just walk a few steps downwind of the crowd.

If you cherish freedom of expression and the free flow of information, then allow others to express their own thoughts and feelings without getting offended and retaliating violently. Even if they insult your pet beliefs and laugh at your fashion sense, learn to shrug, grin and walk away without making a major issue of it.

If you wish to be recognized and appreciated for your contributions, begin to freely give those around you generous amounts of positive feedback (when they deserve it, of course, for we do not condone hypocrisy in the New Dawn).

And if you truly value your glorious evolutionary destiny as conscious, volitional, sensing-thinking-and-feeling beings, then take time out from your daily routine to reassess what you’re doing with your life and what are your authentic goals.

When enough of us acquire the necessary self-discipline to regulate our own public behavior, there will no longer be any requirement for an external police force. Perhaps we will only need to maintain a token force – simply because some folks look so sexy in uniform.

[First posted 19 August 2010]

Friday, September 4, 2020

A Doubly Orgasmic Full Moon Equinox (reprise)

Self-produced artifacts are a big turn-on for me. As a kid I enjoyed making my own greeting cards. My most memorable effort was when I doodled a Jesus figure on toilet paper and used it as a negative to print a stack of postcards that read: "Peace on Earth. Goodwill towards Me." Wonder if anyone still has one of those original prints, circa 1970...

On 22 September 2010, I picked up the 2nd Coming CDs from Videoria on Jalan Tiong (near KLPAC). Jess Ho, the feisty manager, can be trusted to do a good job - and she's a lovely woman with a great sense of humor too.

Anyway, now that the CDs are ready to ship, I'd like to express my gratitude to Sharon Chin, who stayed up nights to design the album cover and label, using graphic elements and text I provided. Although I'm still mystified by her decision to change the font on the cover, I'm extremely pleased with the overall feel of her design and layout. I got a stiffy just looking at the gorgeous label she created for the CD, adding color and vibrancy to my personal logo.

I particularly love how Sharon created a mirror image of the exquisite rainbow I photographed from my front garden. Very intuitive and intelligent designer with impeccable taste. I knew she would add a touch of class to the final product and inject just the right amount of feminine essence.

"Priapus, a greek fertility god with a permanent erection." That's how Sharon captioned the above image. It takes a true artist to appreciate mythic resonances - and few artists are truer than Sharon Chin, who manages an art portal called Arteri and writes on the visual arts for Off The Edge. Sharon says: "In addition to being a high-falutin' artist, patriot and woo-er of pale young writers, I also moonlight as a graphic designer for people/projects I love."

Instead of the grim-looking mugshot I gave Sharon, she opted for this antiquated doodle which appeared in the original cassette inlay when the album was released in 1986. What does it represent? Well, the rabble-rouser with a wagging black tongue was used to illustrate "Terminal Hierophantiasis" - so my low opinion of the Amen priesthood remains unchanged.

Sharon Chin embraces the Earth. And the Universe embraces her right back. Read this insightful interview with a young artist who successfully blends intellect with intuition.
2nd Coming is now listenable &/or downloadable (for a small fee)!

[First posted 23 September 2010] 

Friday, August 28, 2020

Drunvalo Melchizedek & The Maya of Eternal Time (14-part web broadcast)

Drunvalo Melchizedek introduces Don Alejandro Cirilo Perez and the Mayan Council of Elders who have a cogent and powerful message for the modern world. This easy-to-follow web broadcast in 14 parts was kindly brought to my attention by my starbrother Heiko Niedermeyer. Bookmark this and view the entire series at your own leisure - but do it soon!

Proceed to Part 2 on YouTube where you may view the rest without interruption.

Thursday, August 27, 2020


Dear God or Whatever You Prefer To Be Called These Days:

I'm not in the habit of publicizing my private thoughts,
But times are such that habits must be broken.
And so I will utter my innermost feelings
In the form of words,
Even though I know
That words are what imprison us
In mindsets of No Escape.

For I remain steadfast in my belief
That words spoken from the heart
Have the power to free us from
The evil clutches of political expediency.

It saddens me to see such beautiful, graceful beings
Caught in the deceit of cosmetic piety,
Enslaved by the ugly dictum - "Money Talks!"
Enfeebled by the lame excuse - "What to do?"
Disempowered by the abject fear of False Authority,
And disenfranchised from their own glorious destinies.

Grant unto us the clarity and wisdom
To understand that we have no grander gift
To bestow on our children than the freedom
To speak their heart's truth
Without fear of punishment.

Grant unto us the courage and the fortitude
To truly embody the lofty ideals we hold so dear;
Let us not falter in our inner struggle
To throw off the mental shackles of Greed and Fear,
For those are the twin towers of Tyranny.

Grant unto us a Vision of the Real.
Let us not be misled by cunning projections
From the debased minds of "economic experts"
Who advise us not to "rock the boat" of Status Quo;
And whose dire warnings are couched in grave tones of
"Security and Stability."

Is the key to the Divine Sanctum of the Self!

And since each Nation is but a collectivity of Selves,
My greatest duty to the land I love
Is to always seek to be true to myself;
And my true self tells me:
Bear not the yoke of feudal despots
A moment longer than you need.
There's room and board enough for everyone,
Once you cast the Vampires of Vitality
From their vacuous palaces erected by the sweaty toil
Of half-wit slaves, who know not half their worth.

This beautiful, gracious land is YOURS -
Not THEIRS! (Well, it COULD be theirs too,
If they'd only see themselves as YOU).
The Reality of Heaven on Earth will soon be here,
And to that we are ALL heirs.

24 October 1998

[First published 26 August 2008. Cartoons courtesy of LAT. Reposted 3 July 2011 & 29 October 2015]

Sunday, August 23, 2020

For Feroz, my free-flowing feral friend who loved felines...

Feroz Faisal Merican @ Feroz Dawson (17 February 1966~12 August 2012)

On August 4th I found out that Feroz Dawson was in hospital. Apparently he had been admitted to University Hospital a couple of weeks earlier, after his mother (my old friend Faridah Merican) found him unconscious at home.

I hadn't seen Feroz for many months, but he took delight in trolling his friends on facebook. More than once, I had been amused by Feroz's habit of saying rude things to people he didn't even know. The young man had a big chip on his shoulder, that's for sure. Pretty much the same chip his old man, Leslie Dawson, had carried around for years.

Leslie Dawson and Faridah Merican were married in the mid-1960s and Feroz was their genetic legacy. When Feroz was 3 his parents split up. Imagine growing up as the offspring of Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Both parents were exceptional actors, utterly passionate about theatre; and both had been radio personalities. 

I got involved with local theater in 1976 and two years later found myself acting alongside Faridah Merican in an epic production titled The Battles of Coxinga (originally a puppet play by Chikamatsu, translated into English by Donald Keene). Early rehearsals were held at Faridah's spacious home in Petaling Jaya - and it was there that I was introduced to the 12-year-old Feroz.

In 1990 I had the great honor and privilege of sharing the stage with Feroz's legendary father, Leslie Dawson, when we did a 3-man one-acter by Israel Horovitz called The Indian Wants The Bronx, directed by Joe Hasham (who married Faridah Merican and inaugurated The Actors' Studio in 1989). Leslie turned in an absolutely unforgettable performance in a role that had hardly any speaking lines. Little did any of us know at the time, it would be Leslie Dawson's theatrical swan song.

Fast-forward to 1993 or thereabouts and meeting Feroz again as an aspiring writer, returned from studying in the U.S. (where he married a young lady from the Midwest whom he greatly adored, even though it turns out they had little in common). Feroz shows me a few of his short stories and I'm impressed by his acerbic, shoot-from-the-hip style. His head is full of ideas for screenplays. However, he finds himself recruited into the advertising world as an apprentice director, and subsequently gets assigned to a production house in Jakarta. 

"I don't like the fact that most Malaysian writers are journalists, lecturers and lawyers. For our literature to be vibrant we need criminals, maladjusted youngsters and psychotic housewives to write fiction. Then we'll raise some eyebrows." ~ Feroz Dawson

In his princely domain with a "French bulldog" (posted a week before his 46th birthday). 
Is there a difference between French and British bulldogs, a friend asked; 
and Feroz's response was: "Yes, the French complain more."
Truth be told, I didn't have much contact with Feroz, although we had lots of mutual friends. Like his father before him, Feroz sought his spiritual highs out of a bottle. There was always a feral, rebellious streak in him that inclined him towards a species of sardonic existentialism. He also relished the shock effect he had on the sensitivities of those easily offended, especially when it came to social taboos and religious dogma. He made an artform out of raising eyebrows and rocking the boat. In short, Feroz was well equipped to be a literary and cinematic enfant terrible.

"Finally the lovers get what they want, a dead husband, life insurance, all the property he owned, assets, bonds and cars, and the two girls escape to Mexico, one step ahead of the law. With no paw prints..." (caption for one of Feroz's famous feline portraits posted on facebook)

Call him maladjusted, a social misfit, a professional delinquent - a larger-than-life personality like Feroz Dawson is rarely appreciated or acknowledged for his talents and unique perspectives until he's no longer among us.

The last time I saw Feroz was on August 7th, in ward 12 of University Hospital, where I found him bound to the bed to stop him ripping out the feeding tube stuck down one nostril. His eyeballs were yellow - a sure sign of jaundice caused by liver malfunction - and he was startlingly bloated. But his life force was vigorous and I figured he stood a fighting chance of recovery. I think he recognized me, because he kept attempting to speak, though his words were barely coherent. I told him he was dearly loved by many, especially his mum, and he instantly calmed down. "It's really up to you," I said to him. "Sure, it will take some time to get back in shape, but it's worth the effort. Do stick around a while longer, please. At least get your collection of stories published first!"

"The husband, lonely and hungry for Whiskas Tuna and Sardine biscuits..." (from Feroz's facebook album)
Well, it looks like his stories will be posthumously published - and the rest of us will be reminded, once again, how easy it is to overlook thwarted genius while it's alive and kicking.

[First posted 12 August 2012]

Friday, August 21, 2020

Return of the Son of the Incurable Dr M? (recycled & updated)

TRICK OR TREAT? Saying "Hallo" To Changes On Halloween

ON OCTOBER 31ST, 2003, I awoke with a big bellyache – something I rarely experience as my guts are pretty resilient. I had to skip breakfast, my favorite meal of the day, and meditate on where the problem might have originated. Was it something I ate? I recall feeling a slight unease in the stomach area as early as yesterday morning but it subsided enough for me to ignore it.

Then I thought about the incurable Dr M. He’s scheduled to “retire” today... isn’t he? Hard to believe he won’t still be calling the shots from behind the curtains, he’s such a power junkie, we’ll have to watch this space.

And I remembered that not so long ago, a large number of us were real mad at him for sending his goon squads out to intimidate, beat up and incarcerate all those clamoring for political change by going out on the streets. Things got so heavy national laureate Shahnon Ahmad felt compelled to publish a novel called SHIT – a sort of post-colonic polemic against stubborn old turds that won’t make way for younger hotshits. I didn’t make it past the first chapter but the book was indeed a provocative artifact documenting the acute constipation of our political process. [Umno backbenchers raised a big stink and Parliament quickly passed a motion to revoke Shahnon Ahmad's national laureateship, which led to his joining PAS.]

Uneasy stomachs are an indication that something’s not quite right. Could it be simple greed? Did we eat too much junk food too fast? Perhaps the buffet wasn’t all that fresh? Did we eat the mussels – they looked so tasty – maybe they were a bit off? Did flies lay eggs on the sambal belacan? Did someone slip some arsenic into the nasi lemak?

The stomach is the seat of the solar plexus, home of the ego. When someone complains of sakit perut, the cause is often ego insecurity. Why should we be egoically insecure, just because our Great Leader has announced his departure from the prime ministership? Isn’t the ship of state in capable hands? Surely, the tragic tale of the Titanic isn’t about US?

Is it possible that a sizeable number of Malaysians support the status quo because we see in Dr M the sort of chest-thumping alpha-male gorilla we secretly want to be? He has been performing all his daredevil feats on the nation’s (or at least his sons’) behalf – frogmarching the economy out of the IMF’s way through the fiscal crises of 1997-98 while singlehandedly beating back the angry mobs marching out of mosque gates and into the streets, scaring shopkeepers, tourists, and Umnopotentiaries.

This sort of acrobatics certainly takes a whole lot of gall and sheer guts to pull off. Indeed, one is reminded of the Baobab in St Exupery’s Le Petit Prince which sucks up all the nutrients from the soil, so nothing can grow in its monstrous shadow except the most unscrupulous weeds.

Perhaps there have been moments when the indomitable Dr M was forced to wear adult diapers so no one would notice his nervous diarrhea: bringing Anwar Ibrahim to trial was indeed a hairy and scary affair. True, Mahathir had 17 years of political incumbency in his favor – plenty of time to create a whole generation of bureaucratic drones. Still, you had to have skin as tough and thick as a rhinoceros to call yourself a judge or attorney-general or the chief of police in Dr M’s regime. Even playing head of medical services required a stiff shot of Chivas three times a day after meals, what more being assigned the unenviable task of editor-in-chief of a national daily?

Never in the nation’s memory since 1969 has the horizon of decency been so totally obscure – and this isn’t something like the annual smog we can pin on the Indons. The moral murk simply won’t blow or wash away, despite disastrous flood-bringing monsoons. It’s something every proud Malaysian has had to accept and live with – if he or she isn’t particularly keen to have PAS rise to power and separate the sexes by hudud and turn the country into another Iran – thereby replacing a secular tyranny with a religious one, O the Irany of it all!

Then along came Dubya and the Neocon White House in 2000 - even as the world sighed in short-lived relief that we had rolled over into Y2K without apparent mishap or a cybernetic apocalypse. In very short order, the astonishing behavior of the world’s remaining superpower, New Rome aka the USA, began to eclipse financial and political improprieties closer to home.

But soon it began to dawn on a sleepy-eyed humanity that carpetbagging and skullduggery are as pivotal to power plays as Rodgers and Hammerstein or Lerner and Loewe to musical plays. With the benefit of hindsight and increased historical insight, we recognized that the inheritance and maintenance of earthly power has been an outrageous scam from the Year Dot, regardless of what costumes the players wear. Politically, the rakyat are still wearing balls and chains in Plato’s Cave, mesmerized by the wayang kulit extravaganza put on by a wily priesthood of black magicians, today known as doctors of spin (because they love making the masses dance to their tune).

Dr M’s pointed tirades against the Bush push for Global Empire were excellent PR. They served to distract local yokels from the stench of unwashed urinals at home and unify them against what was clearly seen as a larger threat – the Return of the Ugly American.

“We must outlaw war on earth,” the Brilliant Statesman declared to the international press on the eve of the barbaric bombing of Baghdad. And a week later he would mollify his discomfited generals with a fresh order of jetfighters or submarines.

“The Jews rule the world by proxy,” he would remark at the OIC conference with stunning political incorrectness, while throwing another rubber bone to the baying Ketuanan Melayu faction, to keep them from burning down the Chinese Assembly Hall (where industrious little yellow Jews are manufactured under licence from the Awakening Dragon).

And once again we have to admire, even if reluctantly, his absolute foxiness and firm grasp of statecraft. What better way to win hearts and consolidate the Islamic world at a time when most of us are speechless with horror at Ariel Sharon’s unimpeded Palestinian holocaust. For the first time in more than two decades, I find myself feeling almost proud that our beloved country has spawned such a feisty uncrowned monarch.

Now if his final act as prime minister is to unconditionally release Anwar Ibrahim from wrongful confinement in a gesture of clemency and reconciliation, even his worst detractors will soon stop calling him Mahafiraun Zalim (the Cruel Pharaoh) and regale his reign as one of monumental achievements amidst tumultuous uncertainties.

The good news is that I sometimes see myself in all these strutting and fretting manifestations of Macbeth – and therefore cannot persevere in my righteous indignation at their perceived misdemeanors. At the end of the day, they are no more inhuman than any of us who has ever been irritated to the point of destroying a particularly troublesome ant colony. For these are colossal, demiurgic egos who view the great unwashed as only good for casting ballots or shooting bullets at official enemies.

Well, here’s more good news: modern incarnations of ancient gods are a dying breed and will soon become extinct – unless they evolve into ethical aesthetes and use their innate charisma for artistic purposes, to produce beauty and truth – instead of more fear and greed and ecocide.

This Halloween, I make my peace with Dr Mahathir [again!]. For all the unsympathetic judgments I have passed on his actions as a prime minister - and for all the unkind thoughts I have held in my heart as regards his well-being - I privately and publicly apologize.* He has only tried, like his precedessors, to be a Father to the Nation; and, as is inevitably the case within every family, there will always be a rebellious son or daughter to contend with, who won’t buy Bapak’s little lies and who can see only his feet of clay.

My own dad used to think fluorescent tubes are a wonderful idea – I vigorously disagree. Some of my best friends are convinced that the 3D Matrix is all there is to existence – I absolutely disagree. Most of the world still believes that Time is Money and that Money is the Bottom Line. As for me, I stubbornly believe (like José Argüelles) that Time is Art and the Bottom Line is Truth – Truth tempered with Love.

There comes a time when every prodigal son or daughter becomes a parent in their own right – and we are suddenly confronted by a thousand grey areas, a million-and-one anxieties, an infinitude of conflicting agendas to balance and juggle against a tidal wave of unforeseen changes. Suddenly, we see the futility of blaming our parents for the way we turned out. We stop hating them for having been overly harsh, heavy-handed, too busy, too ignorant of or totally indifferent to our emotional needs.

Who we are and what we shall become are entirely in our own hands.

But it certainly helps to first reconcile, redeem and heal our past with compassion, understanding and non-judgmental love. Then it would no longer seriously concern us who’s steering the ship, driving the bus or piloting the plane – unless they happen to be power-drunk on duty and their bad performance puts us at risk, in which event it should be a simple matter to get them sacked at the earliest opportunity. Just as you don’t normally want to know the cabbie’s name unless he cheats you or is unacceptably rude, why should we worry whether the prime minister’s name is Anwar, Archibald, Balbir, Chee Cheong Fun, Dorairajah, Delilah, Elijah, or Nurul Izzah?**

Happy Halloween, folks! Don’t be so easily spooked. Remember, politics is just a bunch of rowdy kids in scary costumes out for some tricks or treats.

31 October 2003

* Hard to keep my promise. That Metallic-voiced Megalomaniac is so goddamn irritating, I'll have to deliver one more tight slap before I apologize all over again.

** Notice I deliberately omitted the name Mukhriz. No way this land can survive being ravaged by TWO Mahathirs. And that smug-faced Son of the Monster Magnet doesn't have a single original idea in his head anyway.

[First published 31 October 2008, reposted 17 August 2013]

Monday, August 17, 2020

A Belated Introduction to E.F. Schumacher (one of the few economists I respect)

Ernst Friedrich "Fritz" Schumacher (16 August 1911 – 4 September 1977) was an internationally influential economic thinker, statistician and economist in Britain, serving as Chief Economic Advisor to the UK National Coal Board for two decades.

His ideas became popularized in much of the English-speaking world during the 1970s. He is best known for his critique of Western economies and his proposals for human-scale, decentralized and appropriate technologies. According to The Times Literary Supplement, his 1973 book Small Is Beautiful: a study of economics as if people mattered is among the 100 most influential books published since World War II and was soon translated into many languages, bringing him international fame.

Schumacher's basic development theories have been summed up in the catch-phrases Intermediate Size and Intermediate Technology. In 1977 he published A Guide For The Perplexed as a critique of materialist scientism and as an exploration of the nature and organization of knowledge. Together with long-time friends and associates like Professor Mansur Hoda, Schumacher founded the Intermediate Technology Development Group (now Practical Action) in 1966.

[Source: Wikipedia]

When we begin to suspect that we are not on the right road, then of course we get a lot of radicals, fanatics. And a fanatic is a person who, when he senses that he is doing the wrong thing, redoubles his efforts. We have plenty of those. I call them ‘the people of the forward stampede’. They have a slogan, emblazoned on their banner, ‘A break-through a day keeps the crisis away’. They are stampeding us into greater and greater violence. More and more mad-hat schemes.

But now there is another great groundswell of people whom I call ‘ the homecomers’, who say, ‘The purpose of our existence on this earth cannot be to destroy it. The purpose of our existence can’t be to work ourselves silly and to end up in a lunatic asylum. Let’s reconsider.’

I was on the other side of the iron curtain, where they explained to me at great length that their system was so much better than our system. Finally they said, ‘In any case the Western economies are like an express train hurtling at ever-increasing speed towards an abyss.’ Then there was a short pause, and they said, ‘But we shall overtake you.’ That is the automatism of progress.

[Extracted from "CARING, FOR REAL" ~ E.F. Schumacher's last speech]

[First posted 29 August 2011]

Friday, August 14, 2020


On June 5th, 2009, I attended an 11:11 Activation Ceremony at a local healing center named "Eagle's Nest" in Sungai Penchala Village. It was a difficult spot to locate but scenic enough once I arrived. There were some really sweet folks already gathered there and it promised to be a memorable occasion.

The ceremony proceeded smoothly enough, though the energy was rather low-key throughout. For me the best part was an extended late night supper with three funky women afterwards.

A few days later, to my utmost surprise, both my legs began breaking out in boils. This was something I hadn't experienced in decades. I couldn't figure out what was happening in my body. Where was all this poison coming from?

It so happened that around this time my second daughter paid me one of her rare visits with an empath and energetic healer named Sandra Sweetman in tow. Sandra is extremely sensitive to magnetic fields and in the course of our conversation mentioned that she had recently been to the Eagle's Nest and felt troubled by what she experienced there. She said it was like the scene of a violent murder - the whole place was unsettled and rife with murky frequencies.

I couldn't say for sure that the toxins in my bloodstream erupting as boils on my legs came from the Eagle's Nest. But I had been walking around barefoot part of the time and might have absorbed some of the unwholesome exhalations from the earth. Nevertheless, I was aware that the area was charged with very primitive magic going pretty far back in time. There must have been a large enclave of bomohs (Malay witch-doctors) residing in Sungai Penchala within the last hundred years or so.

It was also clear that ruthless "development" over the last few decades had all but wiped out the original forest, including a thriving Orang Asli community in Bukit Lanjan, leaving tiny patches of green here and there. Perhaps the small hill upon which the Eagle's Nest had been built was the final refuge of all the nature spirits that had been rudely evicted from their forest home by a massive invasion of chainsaws and bulldozers?

A close friend who had been at the June 5th ceremony complained of acute lethargy and went for a medical check-up. It was discovered that she was suffering from severe bacterial infection and required a massive dose of antibiotics. She later had a session with clairvoyant healers who described her condition as a case of vampire attack. Apparently, her body was infested with astral parasites which had to be pulled out like ticks.

The clairvoyants were assisted by a shaman named Ishtar who told my friend he once lived in Sungai Penchala and on one of his walks around the area had noticed a disturbance in the magnetic field. On closer investigation he realized it was a dimensional crack through which many astral and elemental entities were emerging into the physical world. He immediately sealed the portal the best he could - but it appears to have been reopened since.

I tell this anecdote as an example of what happens when humans resort to primitive forms of sorcery to attain petty objectives, e.g., gaining political influence, securing the affections of a desired lover, or attracting heaps of money.

The entire Malay Archipelago is rife with ancient magic and mysterious phenomena. To attain and retain political power in their own countries, many have relied on occult help from professional mystics-for-hire. President Sukarno, for instance, was known to have consulted an old magician who lived in the Elephant Caves of Bali. Even Mahathir, a medical doctor by qualification, was widely rumored to be in possession of a powerful family toyol (gremlin) who did his bidding and protected him from psychic attacks.

By now it's common knowledge that Rosmah Mansor, the crime minister's larger-than-life wife, is particularly fond of magical talismans and charms and that she herself possesses a measure of witchy powers.

On 7 September 2008 I posted a story on my blog with the following commentary:

Oh dear, what is this country coming to? On the eve of the Permatang Pauh by-election, Malaysia Today featured a statutory declaration by one Thangarajoo a/l Thangavelu, former chauffeur of Datuk Kenneth Eswaran, close personal friend of DPM Najib Razak and his wife Rosmah Mansor, attesting that he had "on numerous occasions" driven a Hindu mystic named "Mr Ji" to the residence of Najib and Rosmah for the purpose of conducting Hindu prayer rituals "to ward off evil." Swamiji's magic is clearly potent, which might explain why neither Najib nor Rosmah has been subpoenaed to testify at the Altantuya murder trial, despite glaring evidence linking both to the crime.

As Raja Petra Kamarudin rightly pointed out, if what Mr Thangarajoo stated is true, it would totally invalidate Najib's widely publicized attempt to declare his innocence and non-involvement in the macabre Altantuya murder by swearing on the Koran before a mosque audience that he had "never met that Mongolian woman."

One cannot claim to be a bona fide Muslim and believe in Hindu ritual magic at the same time.

In any case, I must report that ever since the Permatang Pauh by-election which saw Anwar Ibrahim winning massively to become Parliamentary Opposition Leader, the psychic atmosphere in this country has become progressively denser and murkier. The astral gunk became even thicker towards the end of 2008 when Najib's ascension to power came under severe attack on all fronts.

Shortly before Najib took over as prime minister from Abdullah Badawi in April 2009, it was reported in the press that security personnel had stumbled on a mysterious object with Jawi letters written all over it hidden under the PM's chair. What does that mean? As to be expected, there was no follow-up to these reports.

However, I couldn't help but notice that petty squabbles soon began erupting from within the ranks of the Pakatan Rakyat - and every time there was a minor misunderstanding between PKR, DAP or PAS officials, the BN-controlled media would magnify it a hundred times, thereby creating the illusion that the Pakatan Rakyat was on the verge of disintegrating.

In the last few months the situation has further deteriorated with the onset of the annual smog caused by oil palm plantations (mostly owned by Malaysian tycoons and their cronies in Umno/BN). I myself have had to make a conscious effort to maintain my emotional equilibrium against a strong tendency towards general irritability, alternating with bouts of despair as I see the forces of darkness and injustice regain ground within the national psyche.

The fact that ever since the obscene Perak power grab people have mostly given up on the Malay rulers as bastions of justice and wisdom doesn't help either. Look around and you will notice that every public institution has been corrupted beyond redemption: first on the list, of course, would be the Polis Di Raja Malaysia, closely followed by the gestapo-like Malaysian Anti-Corruption Commission, the Judiciary (especially the so-called higher courts), and even the Malaysian Medical Council whose director-general, Ismail Merican, has shamelessly revealed himself as a political pawn of the ruling party, particularly over the controversial Saiful and Kugan cases.

Things came to a head in mid-July with the grotesque death-in-custody of Teoh Beng Hock, a fresh-faced young political secretary with the Democratic Action Party, who was hauled in for "questioning" by the MACC - and never left their premises alive. The inquest is ongoing, albeit at snail's pace.

One can easily conclude that the entire nation is now being mismanaged by black magic, just as Haiti was with the entry of the Duvalier family - or Uganda under Idi Amin and Zimbabwe under Robert Mugabe.

What can we do to neutralize this extreme negativity?

The most effective method would be to pay close attention to our own personal integrity. Rid your hard drive of corrupted and useless files; uninstall programs you never use; and clear your computer system of any spyware that might have embedded itself in your root directory. In short, cleanse yourself of useless fears, prejudices, and antiquated beliefs.

If you fall ill, look upon it as the body's way of cleansing itself of toxins. I allowed the sores on my legs to run their course in order to rid my body of all the bacteria that had infiltrated my defences. I chose to view it as a special service I was performing for the residents of Eagle's Nest, helping them clear the space for healing.

Awaken the shamanic potential in yourself. Each of us is endowed with a certain amount of psychic sensitivity and the ability to heal ourselves. Now more than ever, these natural gifts are urgently needed - if we are to free ourselves and our beloved land of malignant and vicious parasites that have fattened themselves off our vital energy for generations.

[First posted 13 August 2009]