i Am BoRed...

Bala oh Bala,

kenaper engko camtu

camner aku tak camtu

aku ditimpa bala

bala oh bala

kenaper engko timper Bala

camner aku tak timpa Bala

Bala carik aku

Bala oh Bala

kenaper ko carik bala

bukan aku yang carik bala

bala yang ikut aku

bala oh bala

kenaper plak engko ikut Bala

camner aku tak ikut Bala

Bala suker panggil aku

Bala oh Bala

mengaper engko sker panggil bala

bukan aku sker panggil bala

orang panggil aku Bala

Orang oh orang

kenaper ko sker panggil Bala

camner kiter tak panggil Bala

itu dah memang namer dier

memang namer dier

memang namer dier...

Talking

As I am talking to the man. So I am talking also to the man he was, the man he wants to be, and the man he is. Most often they are in unison, in thought and deed.
But when they are asleep. Then emerges the man they cannot help but be. The man they try so much to hide. The man they cannot explain.
And sometimes I talk to him too. He is the most honest of them all.
He and me are not so different from you and I.
I told him I wished I could be more honest with myself.
He just smiled.

Georgia on My Mind

Funny thing these fonts. They are annoyingly personal and sometimes imposingly so. It’s fun to run through the preview list of the fonts on Word (especially after you’ve just loaded up one CD full of it) to see the diversity of styles in which a word can be reproduced. And they do strange things. Like I used to like Arial because my office uses it. It looked neat, clean shaven and dependable. But what Arial didn't know was that I had a secret affair going on with Palatino Linotype. I would use that for submissions that I did alone so nobody knew of my betrayal. It felt more mature, more considered, more worldly, not what Arial had become for me, clinically well rounded. Such a bore. And so in my despair at my situation I would have casual affairs with Times New Roman, Garamond, Century Schoolbook and even flirted briefly with Sylfaen, Book Antiqua and even Baskerville Old Face which some probably even overlook in their scroll. God, I was such a whore! But to be honest, I couldn't stay loyal to any of them. They lost their charms too quickly, like an inexperienced stripper who whipped off her clothes before the music even started. Times New Roman, I suppose was my longest lover but it was mostly because she was there and willing. She was the bloody default for god’s sake. But I did not totally dislike it – I liked her style and wanted something similar but different. You know how when you use a font you don’t like, each letter is heavy and reluctant, each word and paragraph resists you. You do not just fight for creative impulse but your fonts too. Whatever you write (or type rather) doesn’t look right. It just doesn’t taste right.

Out of sheer frustration one day ('come on man, find that font that says ‘this is me, this is who I am') I scrolled through the list of fonts, one by one and trying out those I thought may find resonance with me. Am not sure whether it is love just yet or merely still in lust, but whatever it is, of this I am certain: I'm at love's doorstep. Georgia. Georgia, is her name. Just that bit firmer than Palatino Linotype, resembles Times New Roman, and even had hinted at an antique typewriter font. And I tried out a few passages with that. Stuttering, floundering at first until, like a flower that chose when to reveal itself did just that, I was mesmerized. This font doesn’t just express my letters, it inspires them. It tempts and teases them to leave me. It cajoles and caresses them away from me. I look at the screen and see these words that I’ve typed reproduced in such beautiful style that even if whatever I’ve written is crap, by god, at least it looks good. Georgia makes me want to see more. The end of each sentence is like just that inch higher on her skirt on an endless pair of shapely legs. If this be the task asked of Sisyphus to go to and fro on those legs, let me bear that punishment with him! I've got Georgia on my mind. (P.S. That is not a partial shot of a Georgia font)

The Ferris Wheel

I love you.

Do you know that before we even meet my heart beats quicker in anticipation, sometimes even missing a beat? It’s true. Right after my heart does the whole super tempo thing, the saliva swallowing starts. Serious. I know you may think it’s strange but I actually find the act of swallowing has a strangely distracting though calming effect. I don’t know why I do it. But it’s not too bad in a way because it helps block out the incessant thumping from my chest. Serious. Why are you looking at me like that? Think I’m kidding, ah? Oh. Haha. You are surprised? I guess, I guess. Well, put it this way. When is there ever the right time? I mean I’ve thought it through so many times. Hell, I’ve even planned it meticulously a few times in my mind. Definitely not anywhere near our friends or family. Definitely not when you’re at work. And then sometimes you’re so busy, or too tired, or you’ve got this or that coming up, sometimes we’re hanging out and having such a good time, I didn’t want to sort of like, you know, fuck it up with this. So that’s why I didn’t let it show. And I told myself, let’s just keep it simple. Next time, she’s alone, just tell her man. Just tell her. Stop living in the land of what-ifs. Stop living in this agony of anguish. But even then, you know, it’s not easy. How am I going to bring it up? Do I beat around the bush playing a slow game of fishing, teasing out your signals of whether perhaps you could just like me more than just as a friend? Or do I get straight to the point? Grab you by the arm, look into your eyes and tell you how I feel. I think I’ve exhausted all the ways of how I would broach the topic. Combed all the movies, books and lyrics to see what the best way to do this is. But the problem is everybody is saying different things. So I figure the lesson out of all this is that I just gotta find my own way. So here we are. I know, it’s a bit cheesy, but the hell with it. I figure, we’ll just have a nice quiet ride with a view when we get to the top. Everybody gets to stop for a while at the top. So, even if things don’t work out, at least we both go home with a nice view. And when we got down, if you said you wanted to go home, it meant you didn’t feel the same. But if we stayed at here at the funfair, it’d mean you love me too. What? Why are you looking at me like that?

That’s what he told me last month.

We stayed at the funfair that evening. But we’re not together anymore. I caught him last night fucking my best friend in the backseat of my Wira.