New Phrase:
Shit, the sea is cool. (Attributed to a visiting friend who enjoys roaming the watery kingdom of Queensbay, Penang)
This week on A Stray World, we explore culture.
It is a feeling of great anxiety. As if the mind is being ravaged by tonnes of pop-idols and Hollywood remakes. Great goblins of trash espousing the benefits of fame and fortune, arrogance and vanity like a cup of oily, overpriced Columbian coffee served in a Starbucks kiosk.
Yet this is the nature of society as we know it. The Muslims of this country are partially correct about the detrimental influence of the Western nations. The effects have been immediate and far-reaching. An entire generation scarred by the repetitiveness of reality singing contests and pretentious fairytale courtships.
However, one need not blame the West for every deterioration of our national consciousness. We can start by blaming ourselves.
Malaysia is a country rich in heritage and blah, blah, blah. A string of clichés and connectors repeated so often it has attained the same level of effectiveness in expression as the winner of the second Malaysian Idol.
How much do we actually know about our country anyway? First, we should ask ourselves, do we really love our country?
I do love my country. I love the land, I love the people. But I detest the law and its enforcers.
In this regard, I point to the first settlers of this country, the Orang Asli. Specifically, of Peninsular Malaysia.
How many of them can you name? This group of individuals lassoed into the “others” category in the National Registration Department form.
Negrito, Penan, Jahai, Batek are among the strange and wonderful names that have persisted through the ravages of time. As much as I enjoy learning about these people, it always saddens me when I realise there will always be something missing. Like a misplaced earplug when Paris Hilton is playing on the radio.
These people with their own unique language, music, food and culture are being slowly and steadily assimilated into mainstream society. Where women are victimised and children are raped with the frequency of Hollywood making a sub-par sequel to a blockbuster cult classic.
To quote an example of this blatant disregard for our own cultural heritage, just remember the Kelantan government has an active “loyalty points” programme where a Muslim who marries an aboriginal (and the subsequent conversion to Islam) gets RM10,000.
Another example is the rather vacuous excuse of religious purity, invoked for the immediate and future dispersal of any showroom piece of the ghosts and ghouls and otherworldly legends pervading this land of many peoples and faces.
To paraphrase, what sick bastards wouldn't want to see a ghost trapped in a bottle?
It is with great pain that I realise most of my acquaintances flatly refuse to learn anything and experience anything that they are unfamiliar with. Though I can be accused of being prejudiced in this manner, I can flatly state that my prejudices come from direct experience. I have come to detest modern Hollywood movies because of their emphasis on special-effects and explosions, with little regard to the story at hand.
This is a conviction arising from the rebellion of the mind after the umpteenth outing to the cinema to accompany my buddies to watch yet another hyped up million-dollar budget film. I don't mind wasting my time and money for my friends, I just don't like to repeat the process.
It is not the desire to be different that I say what I say and do what I do. It is a desire to learn about humanity. In a sense, to study myself. Though admittedly, it is also a rebellion against sex-induced rap/pop songs awashing the landscape like a plague of Manchester United fans after winning the Premiership.
Variety is a gift to the mundane. And I do welcome the fact that my acquaintances have varied tastes. However, what I never welcome is to close ones mind and heart. Though I try not to judge anyone else but myself, it is terribly hard to do so. Particularly when I know what the flaw is.
Empathy is something we can all learn to pick up. And for the average Malaysian out there who is content to listen to only one side of the story, to make judgements preceding the evidence, I can only hope the damage they will inflict will be limited to themselves. Unfortunately, that is not the case, due to the relative scale of this syphilis-like affliction.
“Read less, watch more TV,” House.
So I see the sharp jagged, serrated mountains of the Andes; and scale the vast deserts of Morocco; and I found myself flying into the oceans and inhaled the blue-blood of the Earth. I find that all entrancing. Wonderful. Achieving an euphoric state incomparable to anything else I have ever experienced. I could do this in person, but TV is cheaper.
After something like this, how can anyone even consider cuddling up in an air-conditioned room devoid of anything but the mechanical precision of modern man pervading every facet of the white bland walls.
On Sunday, I was witness to an event which I regretted paying for. A thousand Chinese orchestra students simultaneously playing to an audience of ordinary folks.
The event was to begin at 2000 hours. It began at 2010, when the VIPs turned up.
When the night was suppose to be about the music of Chinese culture became a brazen political landfill of campaign speeches by our VIPs. At last, the instruments began to hum to the beat of the conductor more than an hour after the designated time.
The lack of harmony was obvious to anyone with an ear for music. The beats were erratic and some sections of the medleys became entire mudflats of dirt and debris. When the organisers awarded themselves the Malaysian Book of Records for the most number of musicians in a performing band, I had to exit to the toilets before the mediocrity and absurdity of the entire event liquefied my mind and damned my soul.
Is this what our culture has become? A series of Crazy Frog ringtones? Where insane acts of blatant disregard for culture and decency have become our culture? Where we choose to selectively blame the West for our forsaking of our culture, yet ignore the fact that Western culture actually encourages their people to discover and learn about others.
Rap didn't just come about. Its roots can be traced back to Ghanaian music. It was a profound form of poetry and art that has since evolved into the superficial land of music videos filled with guns, girls and gyrations. Yet this is American culture. More sex. More booze. More fun.
What about us? What about our culture? What of our music? What of our people?
It's a wonder that it is the work of foreigners who seek to protect our culture. While we busily scramble to remove every trace of it.
Alternative profanity for the week:
Try the more feminine "cow dung" instead of "bull shit".
Shit, the sea is cool. (Attributed to a visiting friend who enjoys roaming the watery kingdom of Queensbay, Penang)
This week on A Stray World, we explore culture.
It is a feeling of great anxiety. As if the mind is being ravaged by tonnes of pop-idols and Hollywood remakes. Great goblins of trash espousing the benefits of fame and fortune, arrogance and vanity like a cup of oily, overpriced Columbian coffee served in a Starbucks kiosk.
Yet this is the nature of society as we know it. The Muslims of this country are partially correct about the detrimental influence of the Western nations. The effects have been immediate and far-reaching. An entire generation scarred by the repetitiveness of reality singing contests and pretentious fairytale courtships.
However, one need not blame the West for every deterioration of our national consciousness. We can start by blaming ourselves.
Malaysia is a country rich in heritage and blah, blah, blah. A string of clichés and connectors repeated so often it has attained the same level of effectiveness in expression as the winner of the second Malaysian Idol.
How much do we actually know about our country anyway? First, we should ask ourselves, do we really love our country?
I do love my country. I love the land, I love the people. But I detest the law and its enforcers.
In this regard, I point to the first settlers of this country, the Orang Asli. Specifically, of Peninsular Malaysia.
How many of them can you name? This group of individuals lassoed into the “others” category in the National Registration Department form.
Negrito, Penan, Jahai, Batek are among the strange and wonderful names that have persisted through the ravages of time. As much as I enjoy learning about these people, it always saddens me when I realise there will always be something missing. Like a misplaced earplug when Paris Hilton is playing on the radio.
These people with their own unique language, music, food and culture are being slowly and steadily assimilated into mainstream society. Where women are victimised and children are raped with the frequency of Hollywood making a sub-par sequel to a blockbuster cult classic.
To quote an example of this blatant disregard for our own cultural heritage, just remember the Kelantan government has an active “loyalty points” programme where a Muslim who marries an aboriginal (and the subsequent conversion to Islam) gets RM10,000.
Another example is the rather vacuous excuse of religious purity, invoked for the immediate and future dispersal of any showroom piece of the ghosts and ghouls and otherworldly legends pervading this land of many peoples and faces.
To paraphrase, what sick bastards wouldn't want to see a ghost trapped in a bottle?
It is with great pain that I realise most of my acquaintances flatly refuse to learn anything and experience anything that they are unfamiliar with. Though I can be accused of being prejudiced in this manner, I can flatly state that my prejudices come from direct experience. I have come to detest modern Hollywood movies because of their emphasis on special-effects and explosions, with little regard to the story at hand.
This is a conviction arising from the rebellion of the mind after the umpteenth outing to the cinema to accompany my buddies to watch yet another hyped up million-dollar budget film. I don't mind wasting my time and money for my friends, I just don't like to repeat the process.
It is not the desire to be different that I say what I say and do what I do. It is a desire to learn about humanity. In a sense, to study myself. Though admittedly, it is also a rebellion against sex-induced rap/pop songs awashing the landscape like a plague of Manchester United fans after winning the Premiership.
Variety is a gift to the mundane. And I do welcome the fact that my acquaintances have varied tastes. However, what I never welcome is to close ones mind and heart. Though I try not to judge anyone else but myself, it is terribly hard to do so. Particularly when I know what the flaw is.
Empathy is something we can all learn to pick up. And for the average Malaysian out there who is content to listen to only one side of the story, to make judgements preceding the evidence, I can only hope the damage they will inflict will be limited to themselves. Unfortunately, that is not the case, due to the relative scale of this syphilis-like affliction.
“Read less, watch more TV,” House.
So I see the sharp jagged, serrated mountains of the Andes; and scale the vast deserts of Morocco; and I found myself flying into the oceans and inhaled the blue-blood of the Earth. I find that all entrancing. Wonderful. Achieving an euphoric state incomparable to anything else I have ever experienced. I could do this in person, but TV is cheaper.
After something like this, how can anyone even consider cuddling up in an air-conditioned room devoid of anything but the mechanical precision of modern man pervading every facet of the white bland walls.
On Sunday, I was witness to an event which I regretted paying for. A thousand Chinese orchestra students simultaneously playing to an audience of ordinary folks.
The event was to begin at 2000 hours. It began at 2010, when the VIPs turned up.
When the night was suppose to be about the music of Chinese culture became a brazen political landfill of campaign speeches by our VIPs. At last, the instruments began to hum to the beat of the conductor more than an hour after the designated time.
The lack of harmony was obvious to anyone with an ear for music. The beats were erratic and some sections of the medleys became entire mudflats of dirt and debris. When the organisers awarded themselves the Malaysian Book of Records for the most number of musicians in a performing band, I had to exit to the toilets before the mediocrity and absurdity of the entire event liquefied my mind and damned my soul.
Is this what our culture has become? A series of Crazy Frog ringtones? Where insane acts of blatant disregard for culture and decency have become our culture? Where we choose to selectively blame the West for our forsaking of our culture, yet ignore the fact that Western culture actually encourages their people to discover and learn about others.
Rap didn't just come about. Its roots can be traced back to Ghanaian music. It was a profound form of poetry and art that has since evolved into the superficial land of music videos filled with guns, girls and gyrations. Yet this is American culture. More sex. More booze. More fun.
What about us? What about our culture? What of our music? What of our people?
It's a wonder that it is the work of foreigners who seek to protect our culture. While we busily scramble to remove every trace of it.
Alternative profanity for the week:
Try the more feminine "cow dung" instead of "bull shit".
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