FUNNYACCENT

Memory Can Be Tricky

You know how heavenly mesmerized is as you carefully unwraped the banana leaf, the scent of nasi lemak (rice cooked with coconut milk, sliced ginger, shallots, cinnamon stick, star anise seeds and screwpine leaf) slowly fills up your senses?

You couldn't wait to savor the creamy rice in your mouth. You could feel your taste buds unfold themselves one by one. You pick the sliced cucumber, take a bite, and you hear the crunch between your teeth.

I experienced this sensational feeling the other day when I was in a subway.  15 minutes later when I switched to Orange Line inbound train I listed down all the items I needed to buy for Nasi Lemak in my head. Later in the evening I stopped at Super88Market to get:

*Frozen banana leaves

*cucumber

*grated coconut for kerisek (roasted

grated coconut).

I made beef rendaang a day before, so it tasted better the next day. The banana leaves were wilted after defrosted. It wasn't crispy as it was supposed to be when I wrapped the fresh cooked rice. I used my tea cup to scoop the rice. The scooped rice came out solid. I inhaled a scent of heaven as I unwrapped the banana leaf .

Nasty Habits Die Hard

Death by Nature, Death by Men's Hands

Sad news greets  me this morning when I turn on the tv. A powerful  earthquake  flattened houses and left thousands in Yogyakarta, Indonesian homeless. An estimataion of 2,500 was reportedly killed.

While in Iraq, the dead body counts, orphans  and invisible children  continue to  climb up.

And in Darfur Sudan, and this.

Marvin Gaye was ahead of his time when recorded What's Going On in 1971.

Mother, mother
There's too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There's far too many of you dying
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today - Ya

Father, father
We don't need to escalate
You see, war is not the answer
For only love can conquer hate
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today

Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me, so you can see
Oh, what's going on
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Ah, what's going on

In the mean time
Right on, baby
Right on
Right on

Father, father, everybody thinks we're wrong
Oh, but who are they to judge us
Simply because our hair is long
Oh, you know we've got to find a way
To bring some understanding here today
Oh

Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me
So you can see
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Tell me what's going on
I'll tell you what's going on - Uh
Right on baby
Right on baby

Illo Friday-Cake

This is my second time in this month I have a fluffy panCake. I haven't gotten tired of it yet.  Last night when I opened my Illustration Friday I thought I wanted to use fishCake for this week (Cake) theme, but another reader got ahead of me. 

Well........why not panCake? I already had one last week, but I wouldn't mind another pancake this weekend. Besides, I love doing it. Besides it takes me  less than 30 minutes to get it done. So, this is my submission for this week. I'd just had it with a cup of  Chocolate Rasberry coffee. I added cherry concoction I prepared last week.

I know I might get tired of it one day, but for now I love having every bite of fluffy pancake.

Behind the Shadows, Between the Lines

I noticed these shadows while  I was standing on the subway platform at Andrew Square stop.

I would've missed the shadows from the artworks object displays on the ground level if I never took a drawing classes a few years back. It was in this class I learned about shadows, negative space and lines.

In the third class, our instructor, David Andrus surprised us by bringing into the class a nude model. With a Starbucks coffee in his hand he told us with a straight-faced he met the woman at Starbucks across the street. He asked her if she was interested to be a model in his class. We knew he was kidding because we saw the model in advance classes before.

"Is he out of his mind?  He'd just taught us about negative space last week." whispered Lois, a stunning Peruvian mid 50's grandmother. I nodded my head but I was more fascinated at my charcoal sketched chair that transformed from the negative space within and with out it.

Our skeptical mind at our own abilities soon turned into something like a field trip for eight years old children. The next 20 minutes we captured the model in our own ways by focusing on the negative space. We marveled at our works. Three weeks ago none of us ever held a charcoal in our hands.

For the next five Saturday mornings, I left the Cambridge Center for Adult Education with new appreciative eyes at shadows, contour and lines. Two hours a week for eight weeks was not enough if I wanted to take up drawing seriously, but it was a life time experience for me, something I wished I was given an opportunity to learn in my first six years in primary school.

I don't know what is art classes like in primary schools in Malaysia now, but when the children is allowed to explore their creativity in many ways not only inside the class rooms, the results will be phenomenal.

What Does Iqraq (Read) Mean to Muslims?

PakIdrus  is very kind to forward me an article by Marina Mahathir and a link to Zainah Anwar's article  regarding the state of mind of  some (most?) of us. Thank you PakIdrus.

MUSINGS
By MARINA MAHATHIR
A FRIEND was relating how after her daughter had read the Da Vinci Code,
she had wanted to read the Bible. Which is not in itself a bad thing
except that she was concerned that an impressionable young mind would not be
able to differentiate fact from fiction. Also it seemed that perhaps what was
needed is a Da Vinci Code-type book for Muslims to spark off the same
level of interest in young people in their own religion.

Except that if anyone tried to write a similar thriller based around
Islam,   they'd be hounded and pilloried and threatened with death, thousands
would  riot in protest and people who would never have been able to read the
book  either because they are illiterate or can't afford it would have died.

Such is the difference between our religions. While there are many
Christians who are upset about the book and movie, they are countering it
with seminars and other educational events to balance what is being said
in  the book, even if the book is only fiction. There have not been Da Vinci
Code-related riots or deaths thus far. Which speaks volumes for theadherents of the faith.

It would be nice if everyone could brush off similar challenges and say
"we  are strong enough to withstand any attack". Even if a book or a movie
becomes a runaway hit, compared to the total number of any faith's
followers, the numbers sold can never match it. Books are by nature, in a
world where illiteracy is still common, a luxury item. As are American
movies, no matter what arguments people make about cultural imperialism.

I remember when there were riots over Salman Rushdie's book The Satanic
Verses, President Benazir Bhutto commented wryly that the people who were
dying over the book were those who would never have read it, or possibly
even heard of it if someone hadn't whipped them into a frenzy. A similar
situation arose with the cartoons. As insensitive as they were, they were
still not worth dying over.

The point is that people's impressions of a religion are often related to
the behaviour of its adherents. Some religions are thought of as simply
kooky because its followers behave strangely. Some are viewed as benign
and  peaceful because its followers resolutely will not harm a fly.

But when people, supposedly in the name of religion, riot, burn and kill,
it can't help but give the impression of a religion that advocates this,
no  matter how much we point out that nowhere in religious texts itself does
it say you should do this. And unfortunately we get the whole spectrum, from
men who publicly insult women on a daily basis without censure to the
real crazies.

Recently in New York I had to suffer the embarrassment of having to
listen to a Muslim man say to a non-Muslim woman at a forum, "Don't mess with
Muslims, we have nuclear weapons!" There I was trying to dispel
stereotypes about violence-prone Muslims and in one fell swoop, this nutcase
confirmed every stereotype there was.

I think the only people who can dispel stereotypes about Muslims are
women. While there are certainly some conservative women, even when these speak
out they will naturally change perceptions because in a world where
Muslim women are perceived to be perpetually hidden behind curtains, their sheer
presence and articulateness will be noticed. What more if they are able
to argue rationally in a calm manner.

Thus far there have been very few Muslim men in the international media
who give a good impression. We might argue that the Western media selects who
they interview in order to perpetuate stereotypes, which is true and that
is a problem for all of us. A man or woman who looks like the archetypal
wild-eyed conservative is far more telegenic than someone who looks like
everyone else. Channel surfers are far more likely to stop at the sight
of someone they think of as alien to their culture than if they see someone
too similar to them. To stop this means having to make a concerted effort
to come together as one community and decide on a sophisticated media
strategy. But sadly coming together as one united community is a
challenge in itself.

If we do manage as a global community to change other people's
perceptions of us, the benefits would be many. Our own people might think more kindly
of each other so peace would reign within. And because within ourselves,
we respect diversity, we can do the same with others. Then peace would truly
have a chance.

Something On the Ground

On the ground between the fruit and vegetables stands at HayMarket.

Got To Love Fish

A man who loved fish too much.

I'm a Woman, Hear Me Write

Given the right time under certain circumstances people have a high level of trust to open up themselves  and share their personal life her/history to strangers. You might want to say:

"Not everybody is ready to open up to strangers. I'm a very private person."

"Hear me out, let me tell you this.........."

On Saturday morning, I woke up with the sound of wind smacking the bedroom window. It was kind of the day when you wished you had a manual underneath a stack of other manuals in a drawer where you could look up the chapter, say: Chapter Four: HOW TO MAKE A DECISION ON A RAINY SATURDAY MORNING WHEN THE OTHER YOU TELLS YOU STAY HOME IN YOUR JAMMIES AND YOU TELL YOU, GO TO THE MEMOIR WRITING WORKSHOP THAT YOU'VE BEEN LOOKING FORWARD TO.

What a long title for a chapter, but you get my drift.

Anyho, after a mug of chocolate raspberry coffee and my famous fluffy pancake (I heard somebody's snort out there), I braved myself out in a pouring rain in my raggedy yellow rain jacket and black rubber boots.

One thing I hate wearing rubber boots even though they keep my feet dry and warm, is the noise they make when I walk. Pfflooofff, pffloooff, pffloooff. Perhaps I should've put on a fleece socks next time. That might eliminate the pffloooff, pffloooff noise.

When I got off the train at Central Square, I walked up the stairs to the ground level,.By this time I knew I had to take a cab to get to the site. The wind thought she was funny, she blew in all directions. The rain must've had a headache trying to catch up with the winds. I'm telling you rain, you got to stand up to the wind. I gave the cabdriver the address.

"It's only around the corner, meez."

"I know, but I don't feel like walking in this weather."

When people tell you , it's only around the corner or it's only a block or two, don't expect you would get to your final destination after you get to that corner or after you walk a block or two. Most of the time you have to pass two, three or even four corners before you get to your corner. Unless you are a walker or you are not running late for an appointment, that would be another story.

The cabdriver dropped me in front of the Women Center, a gray and white double story house. I climbed up four flights of stairs and pushed the door opened.A woman in a small office greeted me and pointed to the sign on my left. I pushed another door that opened up into a living room, and there was Julia Thacker , our writing instructor for the workshop.

She sat on the faded moss colored sofa facing the door.  Two stacks of papers piled neatly on a low table in front of her. I greeted her and we introduced ourselves. She introduced me to two women sat on the straight back chairs near the fire place. We shook hands and exchanged stiffed smiles. By 11.00 am,  all 12 seats were taken.

Ms. Thacker asked us to introduced ourselves and what we hope to get out of this five hours workshop.

Some of us took less than 40 seconds to spit out about ourselves, but a few of the women wore the expressions, I can't wait to get this shit out of my system, and shared their heartbreaks and disappointments of getting rejection letters.

One of the women lives in the house Sylvia Plath used to live on Beacon Hill. A woman in early 70's has rejection letters all over her wall. I read somewhere about a writer who decorated the rejection letters on her bedroom walls before her books got published. Now, that was motivation.

If the instructor didn't interfere in the most polite way, "Okay, lets get started now," some of us would probably have spilled out more than they intended to.

Or perhaps people are more comfortable to share something they usually don't share it with people they know. By the end of the day everybody in the room would go on separate ways.

Mother's Day

Ibu.........Ibu..........

Engkaulah Ratu hatiku.......