Tuesday, April 22, 2025

Ode To An Imaginary She-Elf


Enemies of Love! Derailers of True Feeling! Saboteurs of Heaven on Earth! 

BEGONE FORTHWITH, VULGAR VERMIN! 

LEAVE THE VORLD VIDE VEB ALONE!!

Hmmm.... on second thought, the snag could be at the local telco end (they're total nincompoops!) But I choose to believe it's Bloody Cupid playing his cherubic pranks with us. Knowing full well that absinthe maketh the hut grow fondues, he was keeping our posties in his feathery pouch and sitting on them to hatch a bigger romantic plot... and he seems to have succeeded. Unless we put our foot down and stamp out silly romance 

IMMEDIATELY!

OH NO... WE COULDN'T DO THAT.... 

Let Love Flourish Then, What the Puck!

Well, I was up extra early (8.08 a.m.) to check if Elfmail was in the inbox.... and HA HA... what a delicious sensation... Intoxication!

Don't we ever bloody learn??????? O my genuinely adorable Elfbeing, my fantasy She-Elf, and everyone you have ever been and might consider being, I must shut this machine down and post ONE kissile missile to sun-dance (how do you keep track of so many email addresses? before abluting myself (oh She-Elf squeezes her way into every bit of me!) and riding off into the System....

Of course you're probably fast asleep at this very moment but the kissle will land ever so gently on your delicate and quivering eyelids. Both of them.

She-Elf #6 by MonNoka @ DeviantArt
AT MIDNIGHT MY TIME (5 PM YOUR TIME?) I'll POP INTO THE  CHATROOM TO SEE IF THERE ARE TINY FOOTPRINTS IN THE TALC DUST I SPRINKLED ALL OVER THE FLOOR...

(If we don't like how the room feels we'll explore the ethers for another... the Sai Baba Room won't let me in, probably because I'm always teasing him about his hairdo).

Antares

[From an email exchange dating back 26 years to 1999 or thereabouts]




Atomic Consciousness & my unpretentious friend Raj


He messaged me via Facebook, saying he would appreciate a few words from me to include in the catalog for his upcoming solo exhibition, Atomic Consciousness.

“Raj,” I said, “I haven’t been involved in the arts scene for a very long time, I’m totally out of touch.”

He was insistent, saying it was precisely why he wanted me - not someone with an academic background - to write about his work as a visionary artist. In fact, Raj showed up at my doorstep a few weeks later, clutching his portfolio. I had other guests at the time and everyone gasped when they saw the mindboggling detail and psychedelic quality of his artwork.

I looked through his exquisite pieces, marveling at the man’s sheer patience and stamina, not to mention his technical skill. But what could I say about his vision that wasn’t already being said – and far more eloquently so - by his own outstanding handiwork, every piece a collectible? Can words enhance their impact on the beholder? Do his glorious visual expressions require verbal elaboration?


Before leaving, Raj handed me a printed flyer from an earlier exhibition titled The Pulse of Creation in which he had given voice to what inspires and motivates him to create art. I doubt I can do better than to quote and paraphrase the artist here:

Thangarajoo Kanniah in April 2017
The line that divides also unites. Lines portray both division and unity in the universe. Physical lines divide space into form and structure. Imaginary lines connect ideas and thought. My work is the subconscious manifestation of the mystery of the creative force. In essence it reflects and harmonizes the tangible and the intangible. The paintings are in reality a spiritual journey within the conscious and unconscious realm of form and space.

There you have it - the artist has perfectly articulated the conceptual basis of his own life’s work. All that remains for me to do is to embellish his statement a little with a few anecdotes and flashbacks; and perhaps some personal commentary on Thangarajoo’s unique situation in the context of the Malaysian sociocultural milieu.

I don’t remember exactly when I first met the young Thangarajoo Kanniah. It would have been in the mid-1970s when a friend introduced me to the legendary Latiff Mohidin at Anak Alam – a pioneer artists’ collective located in what is now known as Taman Budaya. Raj, as he prefers to be called, would have been a mere teenager then, happy to be part of a cultural ferment he could already sense would someday be spoken of in reverent – and most certainly nostalgic – terms.

As the token Indian of the group, Raj made it a point to immerse himself fully in whatever activities were happening at Anak Alam – and there were poetry readings, intimate stagings of experimental plays, junk sculpture projects, even community cookouts. Many of the artists and performers associated with Anak Alam later went on to carve distinguished careers for themselves – and Latiff Mohidin himself deservedly achieved iconic status as a painter of international renown, as well as a poet and a translator into Malay of classic works like the Tao Te Ching.


To my mind there is absolutely no reason why Thangarajoo Kanniah should not have attained equal stature with many of the other Anak Alam luminaries – nationally as well as internationally – judging by the quality and prolixity of his artistic output. However, in the art world (as in almost every field of endeavor) a competitive, pushy ego seems to be a prerequisite for substantive commercial success – and Raj is one whose temperament is averse to aggressive self-promotion.

Another massive obstacle would have been the unwholesome trend in the 1970s towards an institutionalized ethnocentric nationalism (in recent years worsened by divisive faux religiosity) which would have effectively made someone like Raj a permanent outsider in the arts patronage stakes.

Instead of simply giving up and doing something more lucrative, Raj just kept soldiering on. In 1984, Raj had a transcendental near-death experience when he slipped and fell down a waterfall in Templer’s Park and found himself trapped underwater for what seemed like an eternity. According to Raj, his soul involuntarily left his physical form and he became a conscious part of the entire reality spectrum. Somehow he found himself back in his body - he can’t recall whether the water pushed him out or if somebody pulled him to safety – but he was never again the same person. From that point on, the bulk of his artistic output became a conscious exploration of the interface between the physical and metaphysical dimensions, between mind and spirit.


Encountering his work in the digital age where fractal motifs proliferate, some may be tempted to compare Raj’s numinous imagery with the hallucinatory work of Alex Grey - who famously taught himself anatomical drawing while preparing cadavers for dissection in the anatomy department at Harvard Medical School (please note that Alex Grey bears no relation to the popular TV series, Grey’s Anatomy). When I asked if he had seen some of Alex Grey’s entheogenic visions, Raj was quick to point out that his externalized innervisions are not the product of consciousness-changing drugs, but they emanate spontaneously from the core of his own cellular (and soulular) being.


Well, here he is, some four decades down the line from those heady Anak Alam days, still the token Indian consumed with a mystical passion to reveal the sacred in all things through his consummate art.

Antares Maitreya
Magick River
Kuala Kubu Bharu

13 May 2017


Catch Atomic Consciousness when it opens at
BALAI SENI LUKIS MELAKA,
Bangunan Muzium Belia
on 21 September 2017!
The exhibition will be on for two months.

[First posted 14 September 2017]


Saturday, April 12, 2025

Prayer of Cleansing Under the Full Moon


I stand under the silver glow of the Wesak Moon

In the cool luminosity of the soul's darkest night:

All one and alone, heart heavy yet light,

Half out of the human cocoon,

Open, beseeching.

Angels and devas and faeries and elves,

Gnomes and goblins and pixies and nymphs,

Dragons and witches and sorcerers and saints,

Mages and sages, paradise birds in cages,

Jugglers and lyrists and fiddlers and pipers,

Drummers and bummers and hummers and humans,

Princesses and debutantes and celebrity queens,

Unicorns and tadpoles and wombats and moles,

Mushrooms and toadstools by mossy banked pools,

Ladies and gentlemen, philosophers and fools!


May the soft splendor of the Wesak Full Moon

Bless us with understanding and insight

And remembrance of this sacred night:

When butterfly and baboon,

When joy and sorrow,

When the magic and the tragic

United to birth a brand-new tomorrow.


May all those happy with the world and those hurt in love,

May those with children and those who are children themselves,

May masters and mistresses meet in the Mystery of Mysteries,

And make merry around the campfire of herstory and history.


May the music take wing and uplift our souls,

May the fountain of youth and the horn of plenty

And the grail of truth lead us home to Amenti.


Behold! The Moon's silver now turns to gold!

Welcome, all ye lunatics with biographies untold!

Come forth, shy maidens, come sing songs of old;

Let's kiss, pretty miss, oh let our passion be bold!

Give us a big hug, Pheona, Ellie, Marina and Troll!


Hey, Brian and Woy and Adi and Pati and Bets!

Have you seen Kate D and Diny and Sophie and Bernadette?

Where's Grant and Patricia and Ananda (how can we forget)?

Oh, there's Elf in the pool, no wonder she's wet!

Who's that sari-clad beauty out of a Bollywood set?

How did she get here? Hand her an epithet!

Her name is Manjula and she's a real dragon cat -

But that doesn't rhyme with the other lines, oh drat!


Hello, Dr Peebles! Nice to see you here too!

Ha! There's Terence McKenna and his magic kazoo!

Bob Wilson, Tim Leary, Lord Greystoke, and Fu Manchu,

Long time no see, Inanna and Enki, how do you do?

Enough patter already, have some of this brew...


When you feel your head spin

Let the moon madness begin:

Form a circle, feel your body sway,

Dance, beloved, as the Photon Band plays!


~The Lizard Wizard Himself~

19 May 2000








Friday, April 11, 2025

A Brief Intro to MAYAN-PLEIADIAN COSMOLOGY & THE GALACTIC CALENDAR


The subject of Mayan or Incan Cosmology in relation to the Pleiades is V-A-S-T. When I said this was an INTRODUCTION to the subject, I more or less meant EXACTLY that: sort of like... “People, meet the Tzolkin. Tzolkin, these lovely people would like to get to know you a little better. Here are a few names & addresses & websites. Good luck!”

Indeed, research on Galactic Timefields has accelerated so fast since 1987 that I find myself at the bottom of the class in Mayan-Pleiadian Cosmology. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to impart the modest insight that I do possess to as many people as I can - simply because I believe that even the most casual understanding of this system of thinking is a crucial key to surfing the tidal wave of radical changes that's about to smash our familiar worldviews to pieces.

WHAT IS THE TZOLKIN? For the best answer we must turn to visionary artist and cultural historian José Argüelles, who spent 33 years contemplating the mystery of the Maya, and finally published his mind-boggling conclusions in one of the most significant books ever written. In The Mayan Factor: Path Beyond Technology, Argüelles explains it this way (more or less):

The Tzolkin is a Harmonic Module. A Super-Macro-Chip in the Galactic Computer - in fact it's the Mother Logic Board, for those of you with a bit of computer savvy - that constitutes the Operating System of the entire Milky Way Galaxy. And yet it's a very simple device consisting of 13 tones (think of them as musical tones if you like) interacting with 20 frequency zones (each frequency zone representing a specific range of experiential probabilities or mental-emotional qualities). The 13 tones are signified by numbers - although the Mayans, like the Egyptians, the Hebrews & the Tibetans, regarded numbers as qualities as well as quantities - if you can bear that in mind at all times.

In other words, two isn't just a pair of eyes or ears or whatever, two represents bi-polarity, maleness & femaleness, yin & yang. Three represents evolutionary movement - one + one = two & when you add one more, you don't just get three, you get the possibility of evolution symbolized by the triangle or the trinity. Four, the basis of squareness, represents stability (when taken as the basic geometric structure underlying all structures, viz. the tetrahedron) & also measure, for only when a structure is stabilized can it be measured; perhaps that's why the most common measure in music is 4/4. Well, I don't want to get too involved with details. This is a subject that deserves months, years of personal research & study - if you find it interesting & I hope you will by the time my time runs out!

Anyway... 13 tones interacting with 20 frequency zones (which the Maya called the 20 Sacred Suns or starglyphs) produces a 260-day probability-wave-field. Another area I won't delve into too much is Mayan mathematics. For one thing, my head gets rather woolly when trying to deal with numbers & for another this is a subject that would take an entire 9-day or 9-year course to even begin to understand its implications. Let's just say that the Maya worked with fractal geometries & therefore all their numbers are fractal values: which means, the Maya work with hologram realities, where each part essentially contains the whole.

[“A fractal is a proportion that remains constant: e.g., a 36-degree segment of a circle will always be 36 degrees no matter how large or small the circle. Also, in this segment of the circle sufficient information is contained to allow one to construct the whole circle. The fractal principle underlies the holographic nature of things; from one fraction of a particular whole, the entire whole can be constructed." - José Argüelles, The Mayan Factor.]

13 X 20 = 260 which is a fractal of 26,000 - the approximate number of years required for the Earth's orbit around the Sun to complete a grand tour of the Zodiac. Note, too, that the 20 Sacred Suns are represented by our 10 fingers & 10 toes, which means 5 is a central figure in their calculations. The pentatonic musical scale is derived from this ancient system of reckoning. The Chinese have their 5 elements, we speak of our 5 senses, and so on. Well, 260 divided by 5 = 52... & there are 52 weeks to the year. 52 is also a fractal value of 5,200 - which is the number of tuns or Mayan years it takes for us to travel from the Beginning to the End of History - and that's just one Great Cycle in the Galactic Scheme of Events.

Let me try & explain what all this means. Please bear with me while I spew a few more numbers. Now the Mayan calendar is an intricate cosmic gear mechanism which integrates many micro & macro movements first there's the k'in or day; then there's the tun or solar year of 360 k'in; then the katun of 20 tuns, the baktun of 20 katuns (approximately 394 solar years); the pictun of 20 baktuns (approx.imately7,900 years); the calabtun of 20 pictuns (approximately 157,600 years) - and this can go on infinitely till the numbers get so huge we can't even speak them. For practical purposes, the Maya decided to work with only 9 orders, culminating with the alautun (approximately 63,040,000 years).

Now, it's obvious the Maya are NOT your proverbial frog under the coconut shell. The Maya are, in fact, pretty cosmic thinkers & navigators. With the Maya we are, in fact, dealing with a highly evolved galactic intelligence which has been gently guiding the course of human evolution for hundreds of thousands of years.

WHERE DO THE MAYA ORIGINATE? If you look at the simple map of the Pleiades among your notes, you'll notice that the second star after Alcyone is called MAYA. I don't mean to be obtuse, but THAT's where the Maya originate. You see, one of the most astounding facts I've stumbled upon in the last 5 years is that our Sun - yes, good old Sol - is an integral member of the Pleiadian Star Alliance. Don't bother asking an astronomer or your local planetarium whether this is true. They don't have a clue about this. When I first read about this in a book by Barbara Hand Clow (one of her Mind Chronicles trilogy) I instantly felt a shiver of recognition. For years, the word “Pleiades” had given me a strange feeling of familiarity. I just didn't know why. I simply liked the sound of the word “Pleiades” – it felt like ‘home’ to me! Now, I have very good friends from Arcturus, Sirius, Aldebaran, Andromeda, Orion, even Betelgeuse (or Beetlejuice as the Americans call it) - but my Pleiadian friends are the least “alien” of all - WHY? - because in Malaysia we call them Orang Asli!

Yes... the indigenous tribes of Earth are almost entirely of Pleiadian origin, although a few odd specimens here & there may originate rom a whole spectrum of different lineages. As for myself, I consider myself an Earth native (& therefore Pleiadian) -but I now accept that I may have DNA strands from all over the galaxy – perhaps even other galaxies! This way I get to feel much more of a mystery to myself - which is a rather entertaining state of mind, you never get bored with yourself this way!


THE LOOM OF MAYA
. The heart of the Tzolkin is the most mysterious part of the entire Harmonic Module. It consists of 64 units - corresponding with the 64 hexagrams of the Chinese Oracle I Ching and the 64 codons of the Genetic Code. The number 8 evokes the Chinese paat-quah or 8-sided mandala, representing the 8 points of a double tetrahedron, an extremely important configuration in sacred geometry). 8 also represents the Octave. So, 8 X 8 = 64 produces the central core: a Crossover Polarity Zone where male transforms into female, electricity into magnetism, negative into positive, and so on. Which is why Argüelles calls it the “Loom of Maya” - for this is where Spirit is spun into Matter and vice versa. This is the engine of Energy-Consciousness-Matter Conversion. By means of the Loom of Maya, what is imagined by the Galactic Mind becomes real. And what is real to us converts back into the Cosmic Dreamtime.

Now, please bear in mind that the Tzolkin as a Harmonic Module is entirely holographic. Meaning: each atom, each cell within us – in fact, our entire physical-mental-emotional infrastructure (which defines the motifs and patterns of our lives) - is itself a Galactic Calendar, a Tzolkin, a blueprint and a ledger of our days. We are fractals of the Mother Logic Board of Intelligent Evolution, the Spiral of Life itself.

The Galaxy as a whole and ourselves are One: 13 tones written as a recurring sequence of numbers; 20 symbols that represent different colors, different feelings and moods - working interactively, radially, multidimensionally off one another in 4 horizontal directions in external reality; and 7 attentional vectors in internal reality (we look forward, backward, left, right, up, down, and within).


Thus, we have our 260-day Tzolkin: the Super-Macro-Chip that informs the operation of this galaxy, in holographic harmony and resonance with all other galaxies in the Intergalactic Confederation. With this basic understanding, we as humans poised on the brink of a new millennium are ready to take a quantum leap - not of blind faith, but with fully conscious anticipation and joy — into the greater universe beyond the ‘coconut shell" of provincial, national, and even planetary barriers!

Om’ta ku oyasin! (We are all interrelated and I salute Thee!)

Antares
Magick River
Malaysia

10 June 2000




[Draft of a talk that was, thank Hunab Ku, never delivered]

 

 

Monday, April 7, 2025

ProGnosis (a timely reprise)


We started out with a discussion on "Evil" - its definition and possible origins. Now it seems we are attempting to summarize EVERYTHING we think we know about EXISTENCE and post it via email to Edward Kemp, investigative anthropologist residing in Quebec, who will then pass it around a few others on his mailing list - who, no doubt, will have lots more to add to this virtual conference, which in theory could go on indefinitely like a verbal marathon, till one by one the participants drop away through boredom, fatigue, or irritation.

WHY are we doing this? WHY am I writing what I'm writing now? Knowing full well I really don't have to - even if I did promise Ed I'd sum up the situation the best I can, if only to clear the cobwebs in my brain. Clearly, there is pleasure in hearing the sound of our own voices, especially if we believe someone is actually listening. Sweet nights under the starry desert sky, passing a hookah around while waiting for the coffee to brew, in the company of savant mystics, each with 1001 anecdotes to relate, and a dozen theories to propound. That's the image I get out of this exercise.

At this moment my mind is a blank slate. Many, many moments ago I was omniscient, knew just about everything, or thought I did. But it now feels as if I have passed through an etheric membrane, like bursting through an amniotic sac, and I am like a newborn babe in a world completely unfamiliar and incomprehensible. Yet I do have a genetic archive where memories are haphazardly filed away (some day I'll get around to sorting out the mess, some day!)

Arcane knowledge, esoterica, the occult, Mystery Schools, the Gnosis... ahhh, the long road we have traveled around and around the zodiac. All this juxtaposed with massacres, blood sacrifice, witch-hunts, secret police, bioweapons, reptilian-Anunnaki Illuminati cabals, MK-ULTRA, ACIO, Men In Black, Zeta-Drako agents in cahoots with the military top brass, mind control, ELF, The Frequency Fence, Priory of Sion...

Where's the Cartoon Universe? Lemme outa here!

The Mystery is My Story. It's as simple as That. And my story is told in spiralling fractals of prismatic LIGHT, moving as information through neurons and synapses in billions, trillions, gazillions of Other Aspects, occasionally recognizable as fragments of my Original Core Self. From the Unnameable issues all names, from the One comes the Many, from Nothing Everything emerges. From My Story is born All Stories - and stories are all we have to go by. Some stories make you cry, some make you laugh, some make you go Aha! And some just put you to sleep.

The ones that put you to sleep are told by Dark Sorcerers who steal power from you by putting you under their hypnotic spell. The Eater of Souls is one whose stories are deadly dull and cluttered with meaningless facts and figures - try reading an Environmental Impact Assessment report for a World Bank funded dam project!

EVIL is LIVE in reverse, just as EROS is SORE!

Is EVIL really VILE or just a VEIL for the Sacred Bride? A ROSE for My Lady! I arose for my lady but she was still sore at me so Eros has to wait. Words, wordplay, in the beginning was the Word. The Logos. Is Logic our friend? Do I sound Antisemantic?

In 1976 Julian Jaynes wrote The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind, in which he postulated that auditory commands registered in the right hemisphere of the brain are rendered into language by the left and interpreted as Orders from Above. The book almost put me to sleep so it's obvious where he's coming from! Are my thoughts influenced by Archetypal imprints transmitted via photons? Are the Ascended Masters and the Archangels and Pleiadian Councils guiding the way I evolve as a hybrid humanoid with an unknown number of lineages seeded over countless aeons by legions of ultra-, meta- and extraterrestrials? Are the Sun and the planets and myriads of stars talking to Me? I am a Descended Master - and a family man - and you have my email address!

God Immanent and Transcendent: Within and Without! As an occasional Solipsist, I revert to being God in the privacy of my own Mind - but in public my divinity is externalized and God becomes my cosmic Father/Mother. The Undotted I from Whom i originated. Great Spirit! Does God know humility? Why so many Names? Mind Games...

If Linear Time is an illusion, what does that make "history"? His story, her story, Whose Story? Who Else? Virtual Reality hologram movies made by Whom? ME? Did I invent the Suns of the One and the Paradise Sons? Did the shadows they cast as they acquired density become the Sons of Belial? My Shadow Selves are legion. Do shadows have Free Will? A life of their own? The Pinocchio Effect: does it apply to shadows, who take on a life of their own as our Evil Twins, our Doppelgängers, our Ids? Pleasure to meet you, Mr Hyde, would you like some tea?

If I didn't do all this.... WHO did? Greg? Ed Kemp? Mr Baggy? Queen Kate? Maisoon? John Kaminski? Pancho Villa? The Man of La Mancha? Onaxis? Atmanu Ram Anu? Prime Creator Source? Are Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld really part of me? Retch. Puke. Vomit. Poison in the bloodstream. Stupid White Men in their Dark Suits and Blood-Red Ties. Their insane arrogance and incurable halitosis. Do I HATE them? Sometimes, yes!

I hate bits of myself sometimes. My receding chin, puffy eye bags (legacy of my mother's dragon bloodline, degenerate nobility, mercenary magicians). Reptilian DNA. Reptilian implants. (Some good news here: the Great-Great-Granddaddy of them Rebel Reptiles that invaded and colonized the Earth 225 million years ago has recently been vaporized by Prime Creator Source and the hypothalamic reptile brain is rapidly losing its deadly stranglehold on the angelic humans!) But I have no bone to pick with the Great Reptile Families. Only a handful are mean-minded and totally mad. They think they can hijack Creation and make it their very own Miscreation.

What about all those scary entities you hear about? Choronzon, Ialdabaoth, Samael, Nosferatu, Kahotep, Aleister Crowley, Lafayette Ron Hubbard, Anton La Vey, Idi Amin, Robert Mugabe, Jeffrey Dahmer, Armin Meweis, George Herbert Walker Bush, Philip of Macedonia... Tales from the Crypt! The Undead. Shudder... Enochian magicians are such Woeful Wankers!

Which parts of me are they? Denizens of my Unconscious, terrorizing the Collective Psyche into sheeplike submission through their dominance of the Airwaves and the Microwaves and the Ultrawaves, killing off Cetaceans so we will be bereft of our Memories of the Deep from Antediluvian Days. 

Who are all these Zeta-Drako-Human clones in the Office of Naval Research and who now occupy the penthouse floors of the Pentagon? Who do THEY worship? What Secret Chiefs? Marduk? Lucifer? What Nameless Ones do they sacrifice young children to? In the robes of Aztec priests or Dark Druids, with their hideous addiction to solemn ritual, they are the inner core of a Kosmik Ku Klux Klan. Always looking for Niggers to lynch, are they the Great White Brotherhood?

The Sirius Lodge and the Orion Light Council... Galactic Federation... Ashtar Command... Pleiadian Agenda... Guardian Alliance... Melchizedek Cloisters... United Intruder Resistance... Stargate Keepers... Multidimensional Vortex Merkabas. Seems I'm getting so complicated I'll never understand Myself completely! Jesus H. Christ may be a curse on some people's lips - but he's a good friend of mine. Long live Christos Power!

The Wars of Gods and Men are giving me a monster bellyache! 'Scuse me, folks.... gotta go make a Leviathan Poop! Maybe I'll start an organic fertilizer business. See you in a bit! 😎

Antares
10 December 2003


[First posted 3 December 2006, reposted 17 April 2020 & 14 May 2023]

MAY ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE (repost)



I rarely have meaningful dreams supercharged with symbolism – or perhaps I occasionally do but just don’t remember. So when I read about people achieving their dreams, the idea doesn’t actually carry that much excitement or veracity for me.

What dreams? Like the one I had earlier today where I found myself in a room full of accumulated memories discussing with Rafique Rashid how to dispose of his brother Rehman’s earthly possessions? Or the one I had a couple of days ago where I was just sitting in a coffeeshop, paying for my tea and I counted out 80 cents in coins – which made me realize when I woke up shortly afterwards that I had traveled back in time to the late 1980s when a cup of tea or coffee cost less than a dollar.

The Frank Zappa dream that came to me a couple of weeks ago was interesting. I was hosted to dinner by Mr and Mrs Zappa and all through the meal I kept thinking that Frank somehow didn’t look the way he’s supposed to look. He had boring hair, wore a middle-class suit, and his nose wasn’t quite right. This wasn’t by any means the first Zappa dream I’ve had. After my first and only close encounter with Mr Zappa at the Fillmore East in New York in the summer of 1968 - where I also exchanged small talk with saxophonist Ian Underwood (husband of percussionist Ruth Underwood) and shook hands with Jimmy Carl Black (the Indian of the group) – I had a series of vivid dreams involving Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention.

In the first Zappa dream I was a kid back in my hometown Batu Pahat sitting on the  front steps when I heard a squadron of aircraft overhead. I looked up and realized they weren’t actually airplanes but Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention flying in arrowhead formation. As they got closer I felt a compulsion to join them the way some kids suddenly decide to run away and join a circus. Then there was the dream where I was walking around a gypsy caravan and had to step over thick electrical cables coiled like black snakes all over the floor... then I realized I was on a movie set and noticed Frank behind a glass window in the control room tweaking some knobs.

Well, okay. The Zappa dreams do contain a whole load of symbolism if you care to delve into them, just like the vivid dream I had about a grizzly bear a few years ago. But the only dream I would like to see fulfilled is the lucid waking dream I have held close to my heart since the age of 19.

What is that dream? It’s not easy to articulate, but certainly worth an attempt if only to see how it sounds when verbalized...


I dreamt I had accomplished the greatest feat possible for any living creature on earth – to remember its own mysterious origins and to free itself from the illusion of limitation and separation! In my dream this spontaneous awakening to and realization of the absolute sacredness and miraculousness of life rippled out in all directions and dimensions, from the subatomic to the supergalactic and beyond, creating a domino effect of illumination and jubilant celebration.

Source reconnecting with Source, as the accumulated experience and memories of every expression of consciousness, encompassing the unconscious, in infinite feedback loops of awareness. All of it flowing through Me and all other aspects of my boundless cosmic Self, eternally and effortlessly, in ecstatic multidimensional mandalas of timeless beauty and self-regenerating, self-reintegrating truth.


The word “ecstasy” became a living reality and I perfectly understood what mystics, dervishes and yogis have spoken about for generations when they describe transcendent states of consciousness – using terms like samadhi, satori, beatitude, baraka, bliss. Remember, this was long before ecstasy became nothing more than a designer drug for techno-trancing urban kids. Let me tell you: once you have experienced pure cognitive ecstasy, sustained over days, even weeks, you will never settle for humdrum human notions of “success.”

Well, it’s true that at various times of my life I have entertained, albeit briefly, aspirations towards enormous worldly success – after all, would any young person spurn fame and fortune if they were within reach? And so at the age of 24 I embarked on setting up a company with two childhood friends. It was to start off as a creative consultancy catering to the advertising and public relations industry and after a few years, when we had sufficient capital, we would diversify into production of books, music, films, perhaps even launch an airline... nothing was impossible for a creative powerhouse named I.N.R.I. (for Igni Natura Renovatur Integra, an alchemical code signifying that the fire of passion completely renews or revitalizes the natural world).

This venture lasted all of three years and the main reason I eventually gave up was because I couldn’t get Telekom Malaysia to provide me with a phone line – despite residing in a diplomatic enclave in Kuala Lumpur. I even wrote a long, impassioned letter to the Minister of Posts and Telecommunications (no reply ever came, of course). But after I capitulated and accepted temporary corporate employment, the phone finally arrived.

Anyway, it was simply impractical for me to remain in a permanent state of carefree euphoria – not when I was already a father to two beautiful princesses whose mother, fortunately, earned a regular income as a dedicated schoolteacher. So I learned how to be immersed and involved in the world, but in a detached manner, lest I became trapped in its deceptive glamor.

My inner and outer lives were not always in alignment. Even though I was enjoying an active public life as a stage actor, musician and party animal, I went through patches of intense existential angst verging on despair. My Achilles’ heel was a tendency to succumb to an overwhelming sense of futility arising from a distressing mismatch between my dream of heaven on earth and what was apparently going on in the outside world. It was hard to find someone with whom I could discuss my self-doubts and the nagging sense that there might be something fundamentally wrong with me. So I took to recording these states of mind as poems and doodles (which I eventually compiled into a collection titled Moth Balls, published in a limited edition in November 1994 and now accessible online).

From time to time I would have a peak experience – whether spontaneously or with the help of psilocybin mushrooms (growing wild on grassy fields where cows grazed). Very rarely a kind friend would send me some good acid on a blotter via airmail. At these times my preferred default state of divine madness would be reinstated and my vision of paradise would snap back into crystal clear focus.

Nearly half a century has elapsed since my first glimpse of our true potential as sentient self-reinventing creatures on this bounteous planet. I used to feel a little isolated – the only other humans, a mere handful, who shared my vision were either living on the other side of the earth or long dead. But their thoughts recorded in words reassured me I wasn’t completely mad.

When the internet came along I discovered a growing network of human beings who share my dream of heaven on earth – and each one is a fractal of the whole, with unique experiences of universal truths, each one a significant piece of a colossal and magnificent cosmic jigsaw puzzle.

What we had in common was simply this: we had achieved vertical alignment with our own limitless potential, our Oversouls (I think Paramatman is the technical term for this in Sanskrit). I realized that the problem was how to persuade more humans to make a conscious 90-degree shift from being trapped in the horizontal plane where predator-prey games of eat-or-be-eaten prevail. On the horizontal plane, people subscribe to spurious notions of profit-and-loss, win-lose, and Us-versus-Them. Because resources are finite and limited on this plane, aggressive competition becomes the norm, each fighting for more food, more space, more influence, more power over others. The result can only be hell on earth!


Any individual who achieves that all-important 90-degree shift to the vertical also gains access to Source Energy – call it the morphogenetic field, the planetary mind or cosmic consciousness – and no longer buys into the illusions of limitation, separation or scarcity. Once liberated from scarcity conditioning (fang and claw, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth programming) cooperation becomes spontaneous and this allows for the power of dynamic synergy to take effect, and we suddenly become clear and coherent fields, attuned to all other fields and interacting in effortless harmony. The overall effect is that we no longer feel burdened by gravity as it only takes a bit of levity to neutralize the sense of heaviness. And once we can laugh at ourselves and everyone else, everything transmutes from being merely laughable to being genuinely lovable.

The world as we know it also transforms into something altogether different. We no longer need to be convinced that laws and lawyers, courthouses and judges, and law enforcement agencies are utterly unnecessary - the moment we become self-governing and accept full responsibility for our own thoughts, words and deeds.

Our ancestors found themselves entangled in webs of deceit and falsehood which made them turn to external authority for instructions as to what to do or don’t – whether that authority presented itself as an invisible all-knowing, all-powerful deity; an all-too-visible priesthood; an occasionally visible monarchy, or the monarch’s appointed agents (that’s right the income tax department)!

Photo by Lesly Leon Lee
Generations before us have lived and died ignorant, disconnected from their own divinity and innate nobility. Their souls often get trapped in the astral and many of them attempt to seek redemption and some misguided notion of salvation through their living descendants – namely us. Once we become aware of this, what we can do is to become enlightened ourselves; and in liberating ourselves from our own benighted condition, we also liberate our bloodlines from the curse of abysmal unknowing.

How is this possible? We are bearers of genetic codes and, as anyone who works with codes knows, once an error is rectified in the present, the correction sets the entire program aright in the illusory past as well as the illusory future.

So that’s my dream, folks. I just wish to see all wrongs set right, all cages and prisons dismantled, all locks and keys discarded, all doors and windows left open to the gentle breezes of conscious, eternally rejuvenating, growth-facilitating, ecstatic change. In a community of fully conscious humans, criminal or destructive behavior will be swiftly outgrown and become obsolete - because no one will suffer lack or the indifference of others. With the illusion of scarcity dispersed, a new age of abundance for all will dawn.

10 November 2017

[Reposted 18 November 2018, 14 December 2021 & 26 August 2024]

Friday, April 4, 2025

THE SALIERI SYNDROME (revisited)

F. Murray Abraham as Antonio Salieri
I saw Miloš Forman’s film of Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus five times at the same cinema. And I’ve watched the VCD at home at least three times. What impressed me most was F. Murray Abraham’s oscar-winning portrayal of Antonio Salieri, court composer to the Hapsburg emperor Joseph II.

Today everybody agrees that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was a divinely inspired genius. A few of us know he died a pauper at 35 and was buried in a mass grave – and that his monumental musical legacy lay largely forgotten for more than 70 years - until Ludwig von Köchel published a descriptive catalogue of the 626 works Mozart composed in his short but intense career.

Portrait of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
In Shaffer’s fictionalization of Mozart’s story, Salieri’s professional envy of the gifted upstart becomes the central motif of the drama. Salieri is one of a small handful of academic musicians with sufficient savvy to appreciate the full extent of the man’s extraordinary talent; but he chooses to thwart Mozart’s destiny in every way possible. Nevertheless, Mozart succeeds in seizing a brief burst of popularity with his vibrant operas.

The pious Salieri eventually loses his faith in God, and murders Mozart by posing as an anonymous Count and commissioning a Requiem, with an impossible deadline and a monetary reward Mozart couldn’t possibly refuse (being in heavy debt, owing to his hedonistic habits). Salieri thereby pushes the already frail genius beyond the edge of exhaustion to an untimely demise.

For his efforts, Salieri ends his days in an insane asylum, where he pontificates about the rectitude of mediocrity and blesses his fellow inmates for their lacklustre and wasted lives. Two centuries down the line, nobody remembers a single melody written by Antonio Salieri; while Amadeus triggered a worldwide Mozart revival which would have made Wolfie posthumously richer than Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber, Sir Paul McCartney, and Sir Elton John combined.

"God bless the mediocre!"
The theme of genius unrecognized and unrewarded, I must confess, has obsessed me for the greater part of my early life. In my schooldays only three teachers noticed I was a precocious kid – and one of them happened to be a Peace Corps Volunteer from Baltimore. This may have encouraged me to spend a year in the U.S. as an exchange student, and it was then that I finally received the ego nourishment my soul craved. Ironic that the glitzy culture that spawned Coca-Cola, McDonald’s, and “pre-emptive” war has also provided me with the greatest amount of positive feedback. Perhaps the land of superlatives got that way by giving its kids the hearty encouragement all kids require, to grow up brimming over with initiative and innovative chutzpah. My own initiation into adulthood in Malaysia taught me not to bother applying for a government grant unless I snip off my foreskin.

Which brings us to the Malaysian Dilemma: here we are, a feudal society abruptly thrust into the Digital Age by “market forces” that emphasize competition over cooperation. No matter how often we yell “Malaysia Boleh!” - and no matter how much official sponsorship is invested in some guy who sails solo around the world to claim his Datukship, or that well-heeled lady who solo-trekked across the Antarctic, only to have her victory inundated by the most spectacular tsunami within memory – we’ve shot ourselves in the foot so many times, one could remark that our national ego has clay pigeon feet. At least we can brag about our fantastic marksmanship: it’s no mean feat, you know, to shoot your own foot when you have to crane your neck just to see where your feet are. Well... burp... there are no starving hordes in evidence in Potbellyland – and that’s something we can be proud of without even trying!

So... are we really doomed to remain a mediocracy forever? Is there no cure for the Salieri Syndrome? Indeed there is. You only have to take a stiff swig of this ancient Chinese prescription: “One does not grow taller by chopping off other people’s heads.” That’s right, folks. Ego insecurity breeds jealousy. Which is the root of all evil.

For that matter, one does not grow taller by wearing platform shoes either. But that’s an entirely different disease called TLFC – The Lord Farquaard Complex – which can be easily treated with a little bit of dragon magic.

[Originally published in the April 2005 issue of VIDA! First posted 8 January 2007 & reposted 9 July 2014 & 6 April 2017


Sunday, March 30, 2025

The Fatal Curse of Tempurungism (reprise)


They say an idle mind is the devil’s workshop and this is especially evident in the case of Malaysian bureaucracy in general and the Jabatan Hal Ehwal Orang Asli in particular.

I have resided in and around Kampung Pertak since 1992. During this period I have witnessed how the Orang Asli Affairs Department favors diabolical initiatives that strengthen their psychological and political control over the Orang Asli - while creating opportunities for stuffing their own pockets.

Whether it be logging concessions, dam projects, turning ancestral lands into leasehold lots, or tarring roads that lead nowhere (except to environmental degradation), the JHEOA invariably finds a sneaky way to corrupt, oppress, intimidate, exploit and ultimately devour the Orang Asli.

Sagong Tasi of the Temuan tribe wins a landmark lawsuit (courtesy of Suaram)

The JHEOA ought to have been dismantled and abolished 20 years ago, following the surrender of the Malayan Communist Party in 1989. Instead, it became a tool to assimilate the Orang Asli into mainstream Malay culture - by pressuring them to embrace Islam and systematically pillaging their ancestral lands under the guise of kemajuan or “progress.”

Recently there has been talk of the JHEOA being “corporatized” into the Perbadanan Orang Asli (Orang Asli Corporation) using the Federal Land Development Authority (FELDA) as a model. Blurring the boundary between business and politics facilitates hanky-panky on a massive scale. As we have seen in the case of FELDA, feudal-style top-down management by aristocrat-politicians results in the ignorant peasantry being robbed totally blind without their knowledge. In most cases the public only finds out when it’s already too late because the thefts occur in remote rural areas.

Photo: Colin Nicholas/COAC

This, of course, has been UMNO’s modus operandi since the era of Mahathir and Daim. Leveraging on an atavistic appeal to bangsa and ugama to promote the fascistic notion of Ketuanan Melayu, UMNO warlords have siphoned off a great deal more than 30% of the nation’s wealth since the nefarious NEP was launched in 1970.

The JHEOA – like so many government agencies – has long served the UMNO agenda instead of the Orang Asli’s genuine interests. That’s nothing new. What has become alarmingly obvious is that they no longer bother concealing their narrow self-interests and their deeply ingrained racism.

Photo: Antares

During the Ulu Selangor by-election that ran from April 17-25, 2010, the JHEOA openly stage-managed the Barisan Nasional campaign in Orang Asli communities throughout the region. In one or two villages the Orang Asli batin (headman) called the police to prevent Pakatan Rakyat campaigners from entering their settlements.

In Kg Pertak the JHEOA facilitated the entry and encampment of dozens of UMNO campaign workers recruited from various ethno-fascist groups like Pekida and Perkasa. They were annoyed to find Pakatan Rakyat insignia proudly displayed in a couple of houses. What irked them even more was that a bunch of pro-Rakyat bloggers were comfortably embedded in Kg Pertak’s “diplomatic enclave.”

The JHEOA/UMNO faction reportedly handed RM7,000 in cash to one of the village security officers with instructions to distribute it amongst 70 registered voters as incentives to vote BN. I later heard complaints that the money never left the security officer’s pockets. This is how UMNO corrupts the Orang Asli via the JHEOA – by dragging them into the politics of greed, betrayal, and xenophobia.

Photo: Max Koh

On the eve of the by-election, the UMNO contingent instructed a few young Orang Asli to set up a roadblock at the entrance to the village. Later a skirmish broke out and one of the pro-Rakyat bloggers was assaulted by a Pekida thug. When the police arrived on the scene 30 minutes later, the UMNO thugs were nowhere to be seen. This small outbreak of violence was reported in Malaysiakini the next morning. In terms of negative publicity, JHEOA/UMNO came out with a black eye and began plotting revenge.

Xenophobia can also be called tempurungism – a regressive psychomental condition akin to acute jingoitis that commonly afflicts those who have never left the provincial and parochial confines of a monolingual, monocultural matrix. Those suffering from xenophobia have great difficulty accepting people with different linguistic and cultural imprints as close friends or family. They tend to label others as pendatang (immigrants), orang asing (outsiders), or Mat Salleh (Caucasians).

Working through a couple of Orang Asli agents, the JHEOA reactivated its xenophobic agenda by pressuring Asli families who had rented out their houses to “outsiders” to evict their tenants. The Asli were given to understand that the houses they were living in was government property – when in truth it was the dam developer that built the houses.

What the JHEOA had done in 2004 was to cheat the Orang Asli of their ancestral hunting grounds by issuing them 99-year leases instead of formally gazetting the whole area as a permanent Orang Asli Reserve (as promised in 1965). The Orang Asli have never seen a land grant in their life – nor have their ancestors. They don’t understand what a 99-year lease means – but they do know they have very little power over their own destinies as long as the JHEOA exists as an extension of UMNO.

[First posted 2 August 2010]

Tuesday, March 25, 2025

I'M THE SLIME (repost)

I'M THE SLIME (music & lyrics by Frank Zappa)

I am gross and perverted
I'm obsessed 'n deranged
I have existed for years
But very little has changed
I'm the tool of the Government
And industry too
For I am destined to rule
And regulate you

I may be vile and pernicious
But you can't look away
I make you think I'm delicious
With the stuff that I say
I'm the best you can get
Have you guessed me yet?
I'm the slime oozin' out
From your TV set

You will obey me while I lead you
And eat the garbage that I feed you
Until the day that we don't need you
Don't go for help ... no one will heed you
Your mind is totally controlled
It has been stuffed into my mold
And you will do as you are told
Until the rights to you are sold

That's right, folks ...
Don't touch that dial

Well, I am the slime from your video
Oozin' along on your livin' room floor

I am the slime from your video
Can't stop the slime, people, lookit me go

I am the slime from your video
Oozin' along on your livin' room floor

I am the slime from your video
Can't stop the slime, people, lookit me go

I'M THE SLIME BY FRANK ZAPPA

Meet the late great Frank Zappa, arguably the Most Intelligent Human That Ever Lived, rated the World's 4th Best Guitarist by New Musical Express readers in 1975!

BONUS FEATURE: Stinkfoot - live!

STINKFOOT (1974)

If you enjoyed that, how about the Ultimate Drum Solo? Here's a brief clip of Zappa's infamous The Black Page performed by the one and only Terry Bozzio!


THE BLACK PAGE (DRUM SOLO BY TERRY BOZZIO)

[First posted 29 March 2008]

Sunday, March 23, 2025

Sweet Memories of My Dear Mama (revisited)

I found this comforting image on Google (no, I never did photograph my mom in the nude, and I don't think my dad ever did either, though he spared no effort documenting the vital statistics of other femmes).

My mother had big, beautiful brown nipples. They used to fascinate me long after I was weaned off her breast. I believe she was in too great a hurry to go back to work (she taught in a Chinese school). Babies ought to be given as much time as they need to wean themselves - or else they tend to grow up orally fixated like me.

Come to think of it, I don't really know that much about my mother. She was the second of three beautiful daughters born to Dai Chui Lian and Siew Sum Chee. The eldest, Moong Yang, was born 18 October 1916; my mother, Moon Loy, was born 23 March 1918 in Sitiawan; and I have no idea when my aunt Moon Wai was born, but she certainly outlived both her sisters. (The three sisters originally carried the middle name "Moong" but my mum hated the spelling and sensibly dropped the 'G' as soon as she could. Her younger sister quickly followed suit. M.Y. tried out the "Moon" for a while but finally reverted to the original spelling.)

My aunt Moong Yang (or M.Y., as my mum called her) was better known by her married name, Grace Lee. Of all the sisters, Grace was perhaps the most outgoing and sociable. She loved literature and recorded many stories from her childhood, which I helped edit for publication in 1994, in a collection called In Those Days. It was from my aunt Grace, the family storyteller, that I learnt everything I know about my mother's early days.

My mother in 1958
Apparently, my mom was regarded as a traditional beauty, a veritable porcelain princess with a melon-seed face, and received plenty of attention from young men in her adolescent years, which she haughtily ignored. Her elder sister responded quite differently to male admiration - she reveled in it.

My grandmother Siew died at age 38, trying to conceive a male offspring for her husband. My mother, only 15, took the bereavement very badly and went into acute depression. Her elder sister Moong Yang had successfully applied for a teaching post in Johore Baru and was scheduled to begin work in a matter of weeks. Seeing how distraught her younger sister was, she suggested that Moon Loy take her place instead. Perhaps a change of scene would help her recover from the shock of losing their beloved mama.

And so my mother relocated to Johore Baru and began her career as a teacher. It was there she met her future husband, Lee Hong Wah. I often wondered if my aunt Grace would have been a better match for my dad. They were extremely fond of each other and had a great deal in common. After they were both widowed, I tried to persuade Grace to move in with my dad, and she seemed receptive to the idea, but neither took the initiative, and so it never happened.

When I think about the adults that featured in my early childhood - many of them were my parents' lifelong friends - one thing they had in common was that they were all good-looking couples. They all loved ballroom dancing and took the trouble to learn how to foxtrot, tango and waltz properly. I suppose there must have been a fair amount of good-natured bottom-pinching on the side, but people seemed to have really enjoyed life in those halcyon post-war days.

My parents were on the guestlist of the ANZAC officers stationed in Batu Pahat and I recall they were in the habit of dressing up for gala dances at the Bandar Penggaram Recreation Club at least once a month. One Kiwi officer named Sam Gilhoolie had the hots for my mom. He often visited her in the afternoons and never forgot to bribe me with little gifts - including a teddybear that became the patriarch of my teddybear family and which I cherished till it became too grungy and mangy to keep.

I looked forward to Sam's afternoon tête-à-têtes with my mom, mainly because he always arrived in an army jeep with his Fijian driver, a friendly black dude named Lala, who allowed me to sit at the wheel and pretend I was driving his funky vehicle.

Mom called Sam "Bullethead" on account of his short-cropped hair - and I suppose he was the archetypal "bullet-headed Saxon mother's son" referred to in John Lennon's famous song, "The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill."

Decades later my mom continued to receive Christmas cards from Sam Gilhoolie, who must have passed on by now. I have no idea if Sam's passion for my mother was ever requited - but it was certainly an enduring friendship.


The above isn't a picture of my mom - but this could have been how she appeared to others (especially men) before she gave birth to me at age 32. It's hard for children to view their own parents as individual humans - with their own secret fantasies and unfulfilled dreams. Now that my parents are both gone, I find it much easier to view them as others might have seen them - two sexy adults who enjoyed life to the hilt and suffered their share of sorrows and disappointments.

My dad at 75 and my mom at 73, posing with a prospective Syrian-German daughter-in-law named Yasmin Wakil. They approved but Yasmin's mom apparently didn't. She recalled her daughter in November 1991 and I haven't seen Yasmin since, though she occasionally sends me a sweet analog letter (with no return address because her boyfriend might get jealous).
 
If I ever harbored Oedipal feelings towards my mother, they were probably minimal and receded shortly after I reached puberty. My bedroom was connected to my parents' by a door they usually kept bolted. But one morning they forgot to bolt it and, for some reason, I opened the door and saw my dad making love to my mom. I don't think they noticed me but I had the good sense to quietly close the door and leave them to it.

The effect this had on me was liberating. From that moment I regarded sex as something people do simply because it's pleasurable - no right or wrong attached to the act, and no shame or guilt either. How can one possibly be ashamed of an act by which one was conceived?

I must have been 11 at the time and just beginning to appreciate my morning erections, though I don't recall having any wet dreams except, perhaps, once or twice. However, I became aware of my parents' sex lives because I often heard them quarreling about questions of fidelity. It was a small, provincial-minded town full of brainless gossipers and word of my dad's erotic derring-do occasionally would reach my mother's ears.

My mom tried to recruit my services as a spy. She would send me to my dad's office, a 10-minute walk from home, to check whether he was at his desk. Initially, feeling self-righteous as hell, I did her bidding.

However, I resigned from that task after I returned unexpectedly one afternoon and found the front door mysteriously locked. I had gone to the cinema to catch a matinee screening but discovered there had been a change of program, so I turned around and went home. Entering the house by the back door, I padded over to my parents' bedroom and found the door also locked. So I peeped through the keyhole and saw a guy in his underpants clutching his clothes and scurrying out through the bathroom, which opened out to the garden.

I was shocked and furious but managed to keep my cool. It was that dirty datuk, another of my mom's not-so-secret admirers, and now he was coming around from the back garden, smiling at me sheepishly and saying, "Hello! You're home early!" I gave him the dirtiest look I could muster and ignored him. My mother didn't bother to explain and I didn't bother to question her. After pondering what I had witnessed, I concluded that grown-ups were just a bunch of hypocrites. If my dad could scatter his wild oats freely, why couldn't my mom have a bit of fun on the side too?

A few years down the line, when I was old enough to drive and take girlfriends to quiet areas where we could "talk in private," I discovered my dad and I thought alike. It was actually hilarious when we both ended up in the same "make-out" spot one afternoon. My dad grinned bashfully at me as he reversed his car to make way for me - and I managed a loud chuckle as I waved conspiratorially at him and tried to identify the young woman beside him. At the time I felt smug that I had slightly better taste in women than he did.

Anyway, my parents managed to remain "happily married" for nearly 60 years till my mom's death on 14 July 1995. During the distressing years of her declining health - she suffered from heart palpitations, high blood pressure, diabetes, and renal failure (which required her to undergo dialysis thrice a week) - my dad nursed her with a loving dedication that revealed the incredible depths of his love.


Indeed, he would dutifully drive her to the hospital three times a week and sit outside reading the papers and dozing off for 4-5 hours while her blood was mechanically filtered and cleansed. This routine went on for at least four years - and if my mom had lived another six months, I believe dad would have succumbed to exhaustion and checked out before her.

Mom loved traveling but not my dad. On a rare vacation together to the US, 
with a Hawaiian stopover, in 1983.

Three years after my mom's death, I visited my dad with a beautiful Japanese girl in tow - and he became instantly besotted with her. Indeed, the only time dad ever visited my jungle abode was in 1998, when Keiko agreed to accompany him and me on the train from Johore Baru. Dad was 82 then and Keiko only half his age - but that didn't deter him from behaving like a lovestruck puppy.

He repeatedly told me Keiko reminded him so much of my mom when she was in her prime. It was perhaps the last major passion of his life, although he did succumb a year or two later to the undisputed charms of my sister's Filipina housekeeper - a red-blooded 28-year-old named Lourdes I would have happily dated myself.

Looking back at my parents' lives and my own, I just have to laugh at how alike we actually are - when all pretense and outward appearances are stripped away.


Does she look like my mom just before I was conceived?
More like my grandma, I guess, but melon-seed faced nonetheless...


My beloved mom would have celebrated her 107th solar orbit in 2025. She probably would be totally embarrassed and annoyed by the stories I have told about her and my dad. But, then, she wasn't very happy either when she read the family history recorded by her sister Grace.

"You know how M.Y. loves telling stories," was mom's only response.

Yes, but at the end of the day, what do we have except our stories - our experiences, our memories, the beautiful mystery of our very existence? And if we distort the truth and deny the facts of our lives, do we not become less than pure fiction, do we not become non-existent entities?

At the end of time - which isn't very far from now, going by most prophetic accounts - all we are left with is the innocent truth of our being as humans. If we continue to spin and lie and conceal, rather than reveal, we end up in a limbo of our own making. And I want to see you in paradise - not as my mother, but as the compassionate, forgiving, angelic soul you have always been

This is my birthday present to you, dearest mom, I am resurrecting you in my memory as a beautiful and desirable young woman - with secret admirers and romantic fantasies and adolescent dreams. And a wonderful, passionate, fun-loving husband who loved you till the very end, though his genes were perhaps a lot more adventurous than you would have preferred...


Behold, mom, your 4 surviving children - plus 9 gorgeous grandchildren and 17 great-grandchildren - who absolutely adore you and celebrate your goddesshood!

[First posted 23 March 2011, reposted 23 March 2014, 23 March 2016,  
22 March 2019, 23 March 2022 & 23 March 2025]