A POSTHUMOUS LETTER TO SALLEH BEN JONED (reprise)

Magick River

Kuala Kubu Bharu

21 March 2021

My dear Salleh,

You left your body in the wee hours of October 29th, 2020, alone in a hospital bed, with no family or friends in attendance (because of Covid protocols), and you were buried without fuss or proper farewell, no lying-in-state, as befits a literary giant, celebrated and cherished by those who knew and love you, and a few thousand others who only know of your greatness by reputation.

Poetry session with SBJ, July 2018

Nevertheless it must have been a huge relief to finally be free of your mortal shell, to once again soar upon the winds of boundless inspiration, in the spirit realms of pure imagination. 

I know it couldn’t have been much fun to be you, especially in the last decade or so, when you often sat and wondered if there was any point, after all, in expressing thoughts in words, and you began to question the value of the literary life, and even contemplated burning all the books in your library. 

No worse torment than being a gourmet who suddenly loses his taste for food. No wonder you often shut yourself from the world, unable to force yourself to be sociable, or to even leave the house. But it was delightful to see your face light up and break out in a broad grin, whenever we connected via a WhatsApp videocall, arranged by Anna or Adam.

I guess it also didn’t help that the gorgeous, doe-eyed, down-to-earth princess you married (who gave you a fresh start in life as literally the father of Adam and Eve) succumbed to religious fundamentalism in her later years, then to cancer and untimely death, when you most needed companionship and domestic stability. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy ride for dear Halimaton either, being married to a larger-than-life literary swashbuckler, prone to swinging from the chandeliers of biochemical and/or neuropsychic flux.

L-R: Jing, SBJ, Ridzuan Idris, Adam Kabir, Antares, Anna Salleh @
The Fusion Longhouse on 26 February 2019

SBJ by Lat

I especially cherish the memory of your last visit to Magick River on 26 February 2019, accompanied by Anna, Adam, Jing and Ridzuan Idris (resident of KKB and publisher of Rehman Rashid’s Small Town). That’s when you suddenly grimaced, lifted your kain pelikat, squatted on the riverbank, and released a spectacular, spherical turd. The look of utter relief on your face will forever be imprinted in my mind. You had been keeping it in for at least a couple of days, no doubt.

You once told me, when I asked what prompted you to piss on Redza Piyadasa’s surrealist exhibition manifesto (“Towards a Mystical Reality”) that it was only because you were unable to do a Number Two.*

The scatologist in me truly appreciated the scatologist in you, Salleh – and I suspect that we share similar eschatological perspectives too, although we rarely discussed metaphysics. You acknowledged and affirmed the ultimate sacredness of everything - even the apparently profane, because you understood polarity and the value of diversity, and readily accepted divergent views in a pluralistic world (which irked more than a few of your less urbane contemporaries in the local literary milieu). 

Live and let live was your credo, so what if some folks are so pompously ridiculous they deserve to be lampooned and laughed at, get their ego balloons popped by your Swiftian verbal pinpricks. Those who completely lack charm and talent will resort to sedition laws when their attempts at starving you to death do not succeed in shutting you up. Damn good thing, Salleh, the analogue era was much jollier and less politically correct, or you might have found yourself in hot soup (“Just make sure it’s bak kut teh!” I can hear you quip).

SBJ in Dublin, mid-1970s

What year was it that we first met? Late 1974 or early 1975? You got out of the lime-green Renault driven by our sweet friend Brigitte Neubacher (then attached to the Austrian Embassy) and we took an instant liking to each other. Your reputation had preceded you. I had already heard about your outrageous performance at Redza Piyadasa’s exhibition (probably from our mutual buddy Lat) and was absolutely delighted to meet someone of such iconoclastic verve.

I don’t think I had met Piyadasa at that point in time but we subsequently became friends and he used to drop by at my hermit’s abode and shoot his mouth off for hours. To his credit, Redza never held a grudge against you – indeed, I had the feeling he was somewhat in awe of you (he certainly regarded you as a bona fide public intellectual) and was acutely aware, savvy soul that he was, that without your theatrical intervention, his surrealist exhibition might have swiftly faded from public memory.

SBJ & Antares @ No Black Tie, 2016

Our first close encounter was made even more memorable when Brigitte suggested we go to town for lunch and you directed her to a noisy, jam-packed coffeeshop in Chinatown where we had the most exquisite charsiew ever. I was truly impressed that it was you who introduced me to that particular stall. You were never one to be swayed by exaggerated displays of false piety. Notions of halal and haram were differently defined by you: anything dishonest, hypocritical, pretentious, corrupt, obsequious, dictated purely by social convention and rigid tradition, you viewed as haram. 

You understood better than most that the Source of Life, Prime Creator, Allah, Call It What You Will, cannot be defined or confined by doctrine or dogma – that the creative impulse cannot be constrained by social mores and pseudo-morality, tribal totems and taboos be damned. This was what made you a cultural hero for some and for others, a social misfit. No one dared to nominate you for literary awards or ceremonial honorifics, not knowing how you might behave when invited to the palace.

In a world governed by hype and public relations, only the Madman and the Poet can experience true freedom. Kahlil Gibran, for one, and William Blake, for another, would have cheerfully raised a toast to you, Salleh Ben Joned, as an esteemed colleague - and it wouldn’t be with rose syrup, no way. 

You explained to me one day that your name derives from the Arabic  , meaning sacred or holy. That’s why you titled your first poetry collection Sajak-Sajak Saleh: Poems Sacred and Profane. You had an innate knowing that holiness is akin to wholeness, and that wholeness is akin to integrity, wherein one acknowledges and embraces the totality of one’s unlimited being – even, or especially, the parts deemed salacious or sinful by the publicly pious but privately perverted. And that redemption comes from reconciliation and reintegration, never harsh judgment and condemnation, for the unrighteous tend to fear a punitive deity while the righteous invariably put their faith in a merciful God.

On another occasion you hinted at something which took me a while to fully comprehend. Your scholarly research had unearthed the obscure fact that the Koran alludes to the Sacred Feminine as Al Ghaib, meaning The Unseen, The Hidden, the Mystery of Mysteries and Holy of Holies. There is a mystic in every poet, and your excitement at this revelation was matched only by the enthusiasm with which you disclosed to me that Al Ghaib was, in truth, a veiled reference to what in Western esotericism is called the Vesica piscis - the Primordial Vulva, the Black Hole from which issues Life Itself. Then you added with a hearty guffaw that modern Malays appear to have a decidedly distorted perspective – indeed, an entirely profane one – because they call female genitalia kemaluan, which suggests something shameful and scandalous . 

It also explains why you deliberately misspelled the location of Universiti Malaya (where you lectured in English for quite a few years) as “Lembah Pantat” instead of “Lembah Pantai” on your infamous namecard which you gleefully handed out at parties – the one where you declared yourself a proud holder of a BS degree from Buffalo University and which included the tagline: “Why be a man when you can be a suckcess?”

SBJ in December 2017
(photo by Malachi Edwin Vethamani)

Well, Salleh, you were certainly no pusillanimous biophobe (someone living in constant fear of being assigned to eternal perdition for breaking any number of priestly rules). On the contrary, you perfectly qualify as the quintessential biophile: a wholehearted lover of life whose spiritual core was aligned with your passionate human ego and your brilliant artistic temperament. 

Walt Whitman would have bought you a jug of beer just to enjoy a no-holds-barred extended conversation with you (although he might have had trouble getting a word in edgewise). For that matter so would have Chairil Anwar, your Indonesian counterpart, whose writings profoundly inspired you.

I never did get around to asking you to show me your identity card and that bothers me slightly, because you are the only Malay I know who has opted to use the Hebraic form of Ben, rather than the Arabic Ibn or the Malay Bin (meaning “son of”) in conjuction with your father’s name. You admitted to calling yourself Salleh Ben Joned just to annoy Yahudiphobic local sasterawan in particular and jingoistic bigots in general – but how on earth did you manage to convince the bureaucrats it wasn’t an act of subversion?

In any case you did it and shall evermore be fondly remembered (and read) as Salleh Ben Joned. Congratulations! 

In eternal friendship and with all-encompassing love,

Antares Maitreya

Ceremonial Guardian

Magick River

________________

*Speaking of scatology, I am reminded of SBJ’s ebullient and hilarious review of Kisses in the Nederends (a Rabelaisian novel by a Tongan writer named Epeli Hau’ofa), written in November 1992 and provocatively titled, “Kiss My Arse – In the Name of Common Humanity.” It may well have inspired national laureate Shahnon Ahmad to produce his 1999 political satire, SHIT. 

[First published in the June 2021 issue of Men Matters Online Journal. Reposted 22 October 2021 & 1 December 2023]

A poem in Manglish written 23 September 1994 (repost)

Aiyah You Holaif Wankain One!


waffor you worry man aitelyu
no money, got money, still got ploblem
even your farder 'tan slee' yuting can asscape ah?

laif is laif man aitelyu
no wife, got ten wife, holaif still fraskes
even your chewren all pee-hedge-dee you still can be pokai

take my advais lah brudder
doan believe wat peeple tell you
dey all tokkok only
you arsk yourself istru ornot
only den you decide
i doan booshit you man, doan be skad
i learn how to suck eggs from my granmahder
yutingwat, i born yesterday ah?

nonid to consult fawchoon teller, brudder
fewcher all in your own hands
wat yuting, everyting oridi FATED one ah?
bladi nonsen lah, doan be a blinking foo
and believe all dose kok-and-bool story
trust me man i am old enough to be
your ahngcle oridi

wat you need is CONFEEDENS, man
dat is da way to suckcess
worth it to buy nice cloats, got label one
wear good shoes, real ledder lah, not smelly plastic
ting about your IMAGE -
and you nid lawa punya calling card lah
doan go on LRT and den visit your customer's awfis
stinking like stale sotong
better get loan and buy ploton
ting big man!
doan be takut only
you will end up nowhere, man

oso very importen
you must eemploof your ENGLISH
nowdays got so many kolesponden course
no ploblem lah!
at home oso ken learn
yuwan i lekomen you my flen's language school in taman tun -
mebbe get speshul diskaun -
yuwan ornot?

*Linguists, take note: Manglish is a mangled form of hybridized English widely spoken in Malaysia, just as in Singapore, many still communicate in Singlish. The term was coined in 1988 and first appeared in print in my 1989 bestseller, ADOI! First posted 3 March 2007, reposted 7 February 2018.

A PRAYER FOR THE LAND I LOVE (reprise)

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."

Remember: INTEGRITY

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.

Antares

24 October 1998

[First published 26 August 2008. Cartoons courtesy of LAT. Reposted 3 July 2011, 29 October 2015 & 27 August 2020]

Wisdom of the Ridiculous: 3 timeless lectures by Alan Watts (repost)

Alan Wilson Watts (6 January 1915 – 16 November 1973) was a British philosopher, writer, and speaker, best known as an interpreter and populariser of Eastern philosophy for a Western audience.

Born in Chislehurst, he moved to the United States in 1938 and began Zen training in New York. Pursuing a career, he attended Seabury-Western Theological Seminary, where he received a master's degree in theology. Watts became an Episcopal priest but left the ministry in 1950 and moved to California, where he joined the faculty of the American Academy of Asian Studies.

Living on the West Coast, Watts gained a large following in the San Francisco Bay Area while working as a volunteer programmer at KPFA, a Pacifica Radio station in Berkeley. Watts wrote more than 25 books and articles on subjects important to Eastern and Western religion, introducing the then-burgeoning youth culture to The Way of Zen (1957), one of the first bestselling books on Buddhism.

In Psychotherapy East and West (1961), Watts proposed that Buddhism could be thought of as a form of psychotherapy and not just a religion. Like Aldous Huxley before him, he explored human consciousness in the essay, "The New Alchemy" (1958), and in the book, The Joyous Cosmology (1962).

Towards the end of his life, he divided his time between a houseboat in Sausalito and a cabin on Mount Tamalpais. His legacy has been kept alive by his son, Mark Watts, and by many of his recorded talks and lectures that have found new life on the Internet. According to the critic Erik Davis, his "writings and recorded talks still shimmer with a profound and galvanizing lucidity."

NOTE: These brilliant lectures were digitally rescued from analog audio recordings and made available to the present generation by Mark Watts, keeper of his father's wisdom archives. I suggest you bookmark this post and return to it from time to time - whenever you feel prompted to lean back and be reassured by a warm, human voice of crystalline intelligence, mental clarity, infinite compassion, spiritual depth, and supreme eloquence.

Alan Watts & The Skin-Encapsulated Ego

Several decades ago I stumbled upon the writings of a wry English theologian and philosopher named Alan Watts (1915-1973).

I owe Alan Wilson Watts a huge debt of gratitude for having provided me effortless access to the essence of Eastern mysticism as expressed in the Tao Te Ching and the basic tenets of Zen. Ironic, isn't it, that someone like me whose physical body can be categorized as "Asian" has to engage the timeless teachings of Eastern mystics through the medium of an Englishman's mind?

The most endearing - and enduring - quality of Alan Watts's writing is its elegant, poetic lucidity, and the tangible warmth of his exquisitely noble personality. Watts had the uncanny knack of drawing his readers gently into his private thought-streams and lofty musings minus the intellectual haughtiness of so many run-of-the-mill academics.

[Read the rest here.]

[First posted 11 May 2012. Reposted 2 July 2017]

Thanks, Frank! (reprise)

With thanks to Solo Goodspeed who alerted me to the first video. First posted 13 August 2013.

WE WROTE'M ALL! (a poem for Antara)

Sandro Botticelli (1445–1510), The Birth of Venus (detail), c. 1482-83. Tempera on canvas

 every love story ever told

(or untold); every sweet nothing

(& everything) ever murmured;

every lonely balcony sighed from

upon a moonless night;

every saga of love requited

(or otherwise); every conjugating,

consummating, copulating couple

coupling under the twinkling stars;

every game of footsies under the stools

in every dim & smoky bar;

every wounded howl at midnight

from every chained-up hound;

every secret whisper

in a beloved's fragrant ear;

every wanton curling tress

cascading down a brazen breast;

every sensuous wiggle of a big toe,

every contented twitch of a mustache;

every squealing shimmering moment

stolen from a dolphin's delight;

every wonderful feeling

that ever filled a heaving heart;

every trilling note of morning song

from a robin magpie to the clear blue sky;

every single heartbeat,

every thrum & throb,

every riff that's ever been played

on a guitar well inlaid

with mother-of-pearl;

every flamenco dancer's fantasy,

every boy who's ever met his girl;

every tale of love undying,

every dream of formation flying;

each silent wish upon a shooting star;

every first kiss in the back of a car;

each shy penciled note passed from hand to hand,

every grand gesture that's led to instant death;

every mantra of devotion,

every image of divinity,

every prayer to infinity recited under the breath...

 

0 Antara my Soul, my Inmost Self,

my reminder of perfection...

with you I feel at One within:

9D, 7D, 5D, 3D, 1D we ARE free!

My love, my love, I can only say:

Love is never hard work,

Love is play!

(I'm glad we're not married to each other...

And that we aren't "legally" sister & brother...)

I'm so happy that we can simply be

Left to explore the furthermost outposts

Of pure love's possibilities.

 

[I HEREBY GRANT YOU TOTAL ACCESS TO MY FILES!]

18 June 1998

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

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 theater; 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, reposted 23 August 2020]

"How Sexually Confident Are You?" (flashback & repost!)

[Sometime ago, in the early years of the 21st century, a popular women's magazine sent me a questionnaire on sexual confidence. I kept my responses in my personal folder and just stumbled on this fascinating document, which I'm reposting purely for entertainment purposes.]

The Marie Claire Interview: "How Sexually Confident Are You?"

1. On a scale of one to 10, how sexually confident are you?

When I was 15, maybe about 7... between 30-45, possibly 10... after 51, maybe about 7.

2. How would you describe yourself? Your personality etc.

Approachable. Friendly. Honest. Romantic. Affectionate. Abductable?

3. How do you view your body and sex?

No hunk like the muscle-bound species some girls drool over (who often turn out to be gay) - but appealing enough that I'd go out with myself if I were a woman. How do I view sex? Very favorably indeed! Seriously, sex is a very powerful key to holistic consciousness. Which is why it has been deliberately made a taboo subject, so people will be more easily controlled through guilt, fear, and frustration. In a sexually unrepressed community, folks would laugh wannabe dictators out of town.

4. Do you flirt? What's your come-on move like?

All the time. Don't have any (and even if I did, you think I'd tell and spoil it all?)


5. If you're outgoing, would you say you're confident sexually too? If you're shy, would you say that is the same when it comes to bedroom manners too?

I'm generally outgoing. As for sexual confidence: what you really wanna know is how long and strong my schlong is, admit it! (Haven't a clue what else you might mean by "sexual confidence.")

6. What would you do to make yourself more confident?
Overconfidence isn't very sociable and it ruins the economy.

7. Do you dress the way you feel?

Of course. Okay, that's not entirely true. I really don't care too much for clothes, the climate here doesn't support anything beyond sarongs. But I've yet to show up at the theater clad only in a sarong (besides, most auditoriums are way too cold).

8. How do others view you?

With great affection and profound admiration... I hope!


9. Is it important for you to be sexually confident?

Unfortunately, yes. Despite all protestations to the contrary, men generally think with their dicks. I'm perhaps one of the more genteel ones who thinks with his Richard.

10. Your name, age and occupation please!

Antares... I stopped aging at 52 (but am officially retired)... I'm a phase modulator for planetary shifts and galactic alignments. I also maintain an eclectic website at www.magickriver.net and a blog at www.magickriver.org.

[First posted 2 December 2006, reposted 31 July 2018]

Selected Poems of Arlen Riley Wilson (wife of Robert Anton Wilson)

ARLEN RILEY WILSON (16 July 1925 - 22 May 1999)

HOLISTIC REMEDY

This is the world that man made.
These are the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
This is the doctor prescribing the pills
That treated the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
These are the plants and labs and mills
That manufactured all the pills the doctor
Gave to treat the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
This is the banker with tellers and tills
That backed the plants and labs and mills
That manufactured all the pills the doctor
Gave to treat the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
This is the general with trumpets and trills
Who made the war that saved the bank that
Backed the plants that manufactured all the pills
The doctor gave to treat the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
Here is the mother all forlorn
Whose one and only child was born
To die in the war the general made to save
The bank that backed the plants that made
The pills the doctor gave to treat the ills
That plagued the world that man made.
This is the angel that blew his horn
To comfort the mother all forlorn
And fired the general and closed the banks
And shut the mills and scattered the pills,
Retired the doctor and cured the ills
And ended the world that man made.

Our Lady of Outer Space

Reach down for the sun, reach down
for the stars, reach deeper for the secret
places of the body of her the stars adorn.
You are lost and found in her embrace.
There is nowhere else for you to fall and
no escaping from her love for she is
black and pulsating source, her
million twinkling nipples nurse
all life, her jeweled ardent
body twines around you
always and there is
no place to go
but home
to her

SAVE YOUR BREATH

Don't budget deficit me you old men with eyeglasses and no lips
who say we can't afford to house the houseless or to heal the sick.
Don't fiscal responsibility me you devourers of the fat of the land
may it clog your devious up-for-election arteries.
Don't balance of trade me you horny-handed peddlars of shoddy shares
in finger-crossed bonanzas based on non-existent enterprise.
Don't national security me you who make deals behind our backs
under cover of law-proof dark.
Don't family-values me you who force apart man woman and child
in the interest of an ever-grosser national product.
Don't state of the union me you unctuous apologists for quotidian horror
may you choke on your aw-shucks-just-plain-old-me charisma.
Don't pay your speech-writers one more cent on my account
or your column writers or The News Tonighters.
Epoxy in my ears before I hear another word.

HAIKU
1999


This is the end

of the tunnel

and guess what

there is

a little

light


[First posted 10 July 2009, reposted 25 August 2017]

15Malaysia: 'ONE FUTURE' by Tan Chui Mui

This stark film by Tan Chui Mui starring Tian Chua and Ida Nerina is my personal favorite of this week's crop of short features presented by the exciting 15Malaysia project. In exactly 4 minutes and 44 seconds, Tan Chui Mui successfully conjures a hyperrealist nightmare vision of a conformist dystopia.

Tian Chua is absolutely convincing as The Man, while Ida Nerina is provocatively enigmatic as The Agent. Pete Teo's narration is crisp and tight and crucial to the dramatic flow.

Principal Cast
Tian Chua, Ida Nerina, Pete Teo (Narrator)

Supporting Cast
Cynthia Gabriel, Azman Hassan, Low Wai Sun, Oon Lai Keat, Lam Pooi Leng, Charlotte Lim, Diana Fernando, Sumining, Melissa Fernando, Noreen Joseph, Lee Kai Yin, Syed Harun, Muhammad Nazmi, Nikki Tok, Nor Aliya, John Teti, Albert Law, Christine Teti, Scott Issaac, Lee Ming Jun, Lee Yee Ling

Executive Producer: Packet One Networks
Producer: Pete Teo
Director: Tan Chui Mui
DOP: Tan Chui Mui
Editor: Tan Chui Mui
Music: Ng Chor Guan
Post Audio: The Ark Studios
Translation: Copyleft Studio

[First posted 3 September 2009]

YOU MAY QUOTE ME (AGAIN)!

Over the past decades I have learnt to accept occasional bouts of depression and spiritual paralysis as a way of compensating for my arrogant and megalomanic tendencies during periods when I'm functioning at peak. I'm glad to report that in the last 10 years or so I've been able to minimize my downtime to no more than a few minutes - or a few hours under extreme circumstances - whenever that ancient sense of futility rears its world-weary head and threatens to derail me from fulfilling my true destiny and potential – which is to reclaim the throne of my personal Ithaca by drawing the magical bow of Odysseus or the Pendragon’s sword from the stone, thereby restoring the balance and harmony of all worlds.


I define heaven as limitless abundance and infinite possibilities for all beings - which is why I accept all viewpoints and terminologies without feeling the need to intervene or censor.


One-third of humanity constitutes what Drunvalo Melchizedek calls "the moderns" - a mutation of the Adamic human especially in the last 500 years into skin-encapsulated, ego-driven "individuals" with acute cosmological myopia and an insatiable lust for the trappings of material success. These are the anthropocentric apologists and defenders of the status quo, who have internalized Darwinian them-or-us notions of survival, and haven't yet released primordial trauma loops or scarcity conditioning in their genetic encoding. But they'll get "there" - sooner or later. Everyone does, eventually. There are no "losers" in the cosmic dance of eternal transmutation. Each of us is Brahma, Shiva, and Vishnu all rolled into one. And we’re all Buddha and Jesus too.


The Educated Mind is, essentially, a self-exploring alphanumeric symbol processing system - a software program that took on a life of its own, like Pinocchio. How real is it? Real enough, so that a heap of words strung together in sentences, and edited into a book, can shift your entire life around - or at least make you smile, frown, weep, laugh, seethe with rage, whoop with joy, look at everything with new eyes. The Book, indeed, can fuck up an entire species - make people dumber than sheep, mistrust their neighbors, question their own worthiness, discourage them from thinking beyond the confines of dogma, even justify genocide as in pogroms, crusades and jihads.


The REAL action is going on INSIDE of us, on the molecular and genetic levels. The whole story is about bloodlines and how the original divine DNA was literally stolen and mucked around with by a renegade bunch of reptoids with aberrant notions of dominion over other lifeforms. This has led to such a confusion and profusion of genetics coming into the planetary mix, not a single species now has any of its primordial genetics intact.

However, the original Golden Thread Prime Genetic of Immortality is hidden within all the other programs and when you locate it and allow it to reactivate and reinstate itself as sovereign and supreme, as it actually is, since it derives directly from Prime Creator Source, then your multiple selves begin to line up correctly and can be wholly reintegrated on the atomic, molecular, cellular, AND soulular levels - and that's what is meant by the word INTEGRITY.

And only with Molecular Integrity restored can we experience REALITY/ROYALTY beyond the holographic hell loosely called The Matrix. Freedom IS the destination, as Martin Luther King declared, so let freedom ring clear as a bell - but clarity comes from purity of feeling, beyond the distortion of fear and hate programming.


Institutionalized education is definitely among the biggest scams of all - but every state deems it NECESSARY, in fact COMPELS ATTENDANCE by introducing Truancy Acts, thereby coercing all children of a certain age to turn themselves in for social formatting, so they can grow up as Happy Slaves.


A great deal of confusion stems from using the word EGO to define the unique sense of identity we call INDIVIDUALITY. It was fairly inevitable for the Self to experiment with self-fragmentation so that it could explore the myriad possibilities presented by INDIVIDUALIZATION. Up to a certain point, the acute sense of INDIVIDUALITY can pose new problems: alienation, isolation, anomie, which ultimately results in the overly individualistic self becoming carcinogenic (antisocial, vandalistic, competitive, criminal).

However, now that we have nifty new concepts like the Hologram Universe and FRACTALS to play around with, it's possible for us to view self as a perfect microcosm of Self ("My Father and I are One"). This way we can restore the integrity of the EGO's sense of purpose - and its awareness of the Whole, the Original Core Self, so that it consciously and willingly cooperates with Macrocosmic Self as it continues to explore, experiment, and experience the infinite permutations of its Divine Selfhood.

Ego, ergo sum.

May each day be immensely fulfilling for all of us!

[First posted on 20 February 2009; reposted 1 January 2011, 23 August 2016 & 22 August 2023]

Two Leo birthdays I'm celebrating today... (updated)

Best Selfie Ever! 💖

My rainbow crystal child in August 2009 (taken on a miniature Sony)

The first, of course, is my #2 daughter Belle's. She's a proud mother of three gorgeous kids, Max Alexander Lüer (24), Reiya Sunshine Lüer (18) and Ryder Lee Lankhorst (10).

When Belle was 13 she and I went on 3-nation trip together - Thailand, Burma and Nepal - and we became more like buddies than father and daughter.

On that vacation Belle had a great deal more fun than her Daddyums, who spent a lot of time wondering where she had disappeared to and with whom. After all these years that still holds true!

I "pinched" the photo of Belle at right from her facebook album. It was taken after a makeover for an Estée Lauder modeling contest she participated in when she turned 40. Too bad she lost out to a 24-year-old!

Belle has a broad range of innate talents (cartooning, acting, photography, filmmaking, painting, cooking, martial arts and selfie-taking, to name a few) - but she opted to focus on producing and nurturing three astoundingly beautiful and brainy kids. She also has a wacko sense of humor (not to mention a predilection for fart jokes).

With Hot Granny Lily in 2022

Chinese New Year 2020 (with Reiya Sunshine missing)

Fooling around with Reiya Sunshine

Belle & her brood in 2017

The second happens to be Anwar Ibrahim's - my favorite candidate for Malaysia's next prime minister. Anwar has been prime-minister-in-waiting for too long. Why? Simply because he's our best bet and nobody else in Malaysian politics can come close to playing the all-important role of unifier and reformer.

After decades of parasitic misgovernance by a succession of UMNO prime,  I mean, crime ministers, the task ahead of the Pakatan Rakyat cabinet is nothing less than Herculean. Fortunately, from all four parties in the Pakatan Harapan coalition, experienced, courageous and honest administrators can be found in abundance. They simply haven't been given a chance to prove their mettle. But we the people are determined to give them that opportunity as soon as possible. [Well, it finally happened in 2022!]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BELOVED BELLE & ANWAR, MY STEADFAST CHOICE FOR 8TH... OKAY, 10TH MALAYSIAN PRIME MINISTER! HERE'S TO A TRULY AMAZING FUTURE!!!

[First posted 10 August 2011. Reposted 10 August 2018]

BLUES FOR ALLAH ~ The Grateful Dead (revisited)

Blues for Allah is the eighth studio album by The Grateful Dead.
It was recorded between February 27 and May 7, 1975,
and originally released on September 1, 1975.

Published on 11 Oct 2013

Side one "Help on the Way" (Jerry Garcia and Robert Hunter) -- 0:00 / "Slipknot!" (Garcia, Keith Godchaux, Bill Kreutzmann, Phil Lesh, and Bob Weir) "Franklin's Tower" (Garcia, Hunter, and Kreutzmann) -- 7:21 "King Solomon's Marbles" (Lesh)"Stronger Than Dirt or Milkin' the Turkey" (Mickey Hart, Kreutzmann, and Lesh) -- 11:55 "The Music Never Stopped" (John Perry Barlow and Weir) -- 17:11

Side two "Crazy Fingers" (Garcia and Hunter) -- 21:47 "Sage & Spirit" (instrumental) (Weir) -- 28:29 "Blues for Allah" (Garcia and Hunter) -- 31:40 "Sand Castles and Glass Camels" (Garcia, Donna Godchaux, Keith Godchaux,Hart, Kreutzmann, Lesh, and Weir) "Unusual Occurrences in the Desert" (Garcia and Hunter) "Groove #1" (Instrumental Studio Outtake) 44:20 "Groove #2" (Instrumental Studio Outtake) 50:07 "Hollywood Cantana" (Studio Outtake) 57:41

Grateful Dead Jerry Garcia -- guitar, vocals, production Donna Jean Godchaux -- vocals, production Keith Godchaux -- keyboards, vocals, production Mickey Hart -- drums, production Phil Lesh -- bass guitar, production Bill Kreutzmann -- drums, production Bob Weir -- guitar, vocals, production

Additional musicians Steven Schuster -- flute, reeds

[First posted 19 May 2014, reposted 19 June 2016]

Hypocrisy keeps the Status Quo static... (reprise)

A few years ago I received an invitation to what was billed as "a global conference on Enhancing the Role of Philanthropy in Challenging Times." Hmmm.... that's intriguing, I thought. The idea of encouraging corporations to give back more to the community during a financial meltdown is certainly refreshing...


Then I read in the next line that the conference would be officially launched by the Crime Minister of Malaysia.

The third line boasted "a host of international speakers, including the wife of the PM."

Pukimak! That did it. I almost retched on my keyboard!

As if that wasn't sickening enough, the conference was going to be officially closed by the spineless minister of national unity, Koh Tsu Koon!

I immediately shot off a response to the perfectly respectable gentleman who had sent me the invite:

"No collaboration with the Irredeemably Corrupt, Greedy & Murderously Wicked!"

Almost instantly I received a reply: "Thanks for your frank and realistic comments. The challenge is how to manage the wicked to do some good... can we con them too or get caught by them?"

Well, at least my friend didn't attempt to deny or dispute the fact that the conference had invited, for the sake of political correctness and expediency, some notably wicked people to officiate. In any case, I felt it was my moral duty to elaborate on my visceral response to receiving such an invitation to participate in the philantrophic conference (for only RM900), so I wrote the following clarification, which I post here for the public record:

Anyone who publicly or privately endorses the crime ministership of Najib Tun Razak and Rosmah Mansor is tacitly expressing complicity with Umno/BN's abysmal track record on issues of justice, human rights and abuse of power.

Just as lending support to tyrants like Robert Mugabe, Dick Cheney, George W. Bush is tantamount to acquiescing with oppressive laws that allow the state to detain dissidents without due process, inflict torture on those suspected of political or religious heresy, and manipulate the mass media so that the public remains unaware of the colossal crimes committed by those in high office.

Corporations "play footsie" with such degenerate entities because they themselves are degenerate and hypocritical and are almost indistinguishable from their counterparts in politics. That's why there is a revolving door that facilitates a smooth exchange of personnel between big business and government; and that's exactly what keeps the nightmare carousel of human suffering going around and around seemingly without end.

However, the end is undoubtedly nigh for this despicable kind of self-serving "pragmatism" - all for the sake of an extra buck. This kind of cynical self-justification is what characterized the Pharisees and Sadducees in Judea. We seem to have learned nothing and made no spiritual progress after 2,000 years!


Nevertheless, the moment these archcriminals resign from office or publicly demonstrate remorse for their gross transgressions, I am of the opinion that they be should be offered the opportunity to restore their "good standing" in society by returning at least 80% of their ill-gotten gains to the national treasury and accepting that they are henceforth disqualified from wielding political power. No need for lynch mobs and lifelong incarceration.

I absolutely do not agree that you can cooperate with them in any positive or wholesome way - just as it would be suicidal for PAS or Pakatan Rakyat to form a political alliance with the ravenous and morally depraved Umno which deserves to exist henceforth only in cultural museums as an instructive relic of the Kali yuga.

Those of you who profess to be Christians: quit playing the role of Pharisees, Sadducees and Scribes for whom the Bottom Line is all that matters!

Whose side are you on anyway? Yeshua the Reformer... or The Corrupt and Evil Establishment?

How will things ever improve if you keep smiling for the camera and shaking the Sheriff of Nottingham's pudgy hand to clinch a couple of lucrative contracts... while secretly applauding and rooting for Robin Hood?


[First published 19 June 2009, reposted 3 August 2012]

Mythicopolitical surrealism redefined ~ "I, Pet Goat" by Heliofant

I, PET GOAT (2012) 

 ABOUT HELIOFANT: Based in the beautiful Laurentian mountains just north of Montreal, Canada, Heliofant is a nascent independent computer animation studio focused on creating experimental and challenging content. Bringing together artists from the fields of dance, music, computer animation and visual arts, the company is very interested in exploring the common ground that underlies many spiritual and philosophical traditions in a lyrical form.

[First posted 31 July 2012]