There’s nothing to rave about here.

I read with agony that many great Malaysian films tend to get accepted in various popular film festivals around the world. Pusan. Rotterdam. Berlin. Tokyo. Toronto. They call it an international film festival and that’s not about the standard of the films, but rather the sharing and understanding of this multicultural, multi-linguistic world. Maybe people don’t understand or don’t value the ideas of such film festivals (or life, for that matter), which probably makes it less worthwhile to produce films here. It makes the Malaysian New Wave (literally meaning a new wave of indie directors) sound like an underground movement, when they should be lauded for making quality films. I noticed the number of recognitions that Mukhsin had attached to its poster, it was like it traveled around the world before coming back to be released here, backed by auditions abroad to stamp a more marketable feature of the film.

I still cannot believe the stance on censorship. Every Malaysian would want to have an internet connection, and TMNet knows this, offering desktops with their streamyx packages, and lowering rates to attract new customers (even if it means disgruntled existing customers). Well, why not? It’s uncensored. For now, at least. Everything you wanted to know in a movie, but was cut for whatever dubious reasons, you can find it out on the net. You can find out The Departed had used the work “fuck” a massive 237 times but probably none were heard at cinemas. It’s not that it’s a great deal, or the word “fuck” was fundamental to the plot, but the notion of the cover-up, of something so blatantly obvious and so that it makes us, the population, seem like weak-minded fools who needs other people to decide if anything is too much for us. Let’s not kid ourselves anymore. This is why we look up to people who have travelled extensively, where visual and verbal expressiveness are far more advanced than those of ours. If you want to censor violence, censor the news. Maybe replace the news entirely with “Football Focus with John Dykes”. There’s certainly no violence there, plus, our very own Shebby Singh is there vehemently bombarding us with his cracking wit.

Where’s our own film festival if we’re so broad-minded, and so willing to embrace globalisation and think globally? This is such a pampered and protected country that is still too highly appreciative of ourselves. We’re hardly a place too good to be true. We’re still developing. Yes, developing more smart people, developing more people who can grow money, developing people who will work more for less, developing people who can achieve anything and developing people with other broad elements as mentioned to spur the development of this country. In other words, spawning people who would create both value and wealth, striving for excellence and looking forward to spend a good amount of their wealth on foreign luxuries and luxuries in foreign countries. It almost sounds like we’re a programmable robot, trained to be as dynamic and useful as can be, though there’s still a band of people whom robots will find hard to replace. No, they’re not called the government. They’re most likely the people who feels life is more than just money, love and sex. Well, more often than not.

Back to the film festival rant; i’m still appalled by this country’s lack of recognition of our indie filmmakers, and much of indie filmakers in general. I mean, i’m not praying for them to be accepted as mainstream, but why do our films enjoy greater measure of publicity in foreign countries, while after all that touring, it comes back to open at box offices in Malaysia? It’s probably not good enough and too good at the same time for us. Not good enough when compared to Spiderman, yet too good for us to understand and appreciate. Our own sadistic Malaysian Film Festival (please find that the word International is NOT attached, which again, is by no means indicating the standard of the films but rather the sharing and understanding of this multicultural, multi-linguistic world) which is the product of goofy industry people, had 30 awards to give out to 25 films in 2005. 2006 had 2 less films, the same number of awards. “Filem Malaysia Era Globalisasi” konon. (loosely translating to “Malaysian films in the globalisation era” my ass.)

 Quoting fervently from kakiseni:

Amir Muhammad
Director of Tokyo Magic Hour (IFF Rotterdam, Singapore IFF, Hong Kong IFF, San Francisco IFF, Los Angeles Asian Pacific FF, CINEFAN FF, and Melbourne IFF)

What are your thoughts on the awards?

It places importance on not offending anybody, giving awards to everybody.

Fantastic.

Singapore’s Intertional Film Festival is already reaching its 20th year, yet another feather in their cap and argument for them being light years ahead of us. There’s even a Yasmin Ahmad retrospective on the 19th Tokyo International Film Festival, probably the most acclaimed Asian Film Festival, where Sepet was honored as Best Asian Film. Here is another retrospective in honour of our Yasmin Ahmad, who’s not shy to court controversy in recent memory.

UNIVERSITY OF HAWAII WILL HONOR ACCLAIMED MALAYSIAN FILM DIRECTOR WITH FIRST U.S. RETROSPECTIVE

What: Retrospective on Director Yasmin Ahmad and Contemporary Malaysian Cinema, Director in Person
When: April 13 to April 15, 2007
Where: Doris Duke Theatre, Honolulu Academy of Arts
900 South Beretania Street, Honolulu, HI
1 808 532 8768

Study so hard for what, when we cannot appreciate things and efforts like this. I don’t think we’re that flipping special that they should labour to learn about us and our cinema, since we don’t learn anyone else’s. A handful do. But again, no, it’s not at the inception of our government. They’d wish for people to accomplish anything, and then hail the great people of Malaysia, fuelling the fact that “Malaysia (masih) Boleh!”. They would provide something like a free education (which means, cheap textbooks and a real building to study in, but offset by placing 50 people in a class, lousy facilities and unmotivated teachers) til 17 and some tax concessions. Like i said, study, make money and hopefully be somebody. In no particular order. That’s life here.

Homemade candies

As you can see clearly, there’s a new page!

More to follow in that page…

What’s possibly more frightening than a water shortage and global warming? AN OILCRASH!

When did USA’s oil production peak? How did the Reagan administration administer a dose to lubricate the disintegration of the old Soviet Union and end the Cold War? Has global oil production peaked? What are possible sources that may replace oil? How is that change going to take place? Are our financial sector growth dependent on the lie of everlasting oil? What is our consumption amounting to? How does our consumption pattern compare with the world production pattern? Is the war on Iraq suppose to secure oil for the US? What impact does China and India play in regards to hastening our oil’s demise? Are there new deposits that have been found? How long does it take to retro-fit current refineries to create alternative sources of energy? How will markets then react to the realisation that energy consumption cannot be fulfilled? How does the free market further amplifies attempts at conservation that threatens to increase societal output? What is going to happen to us? What are the big energy firms doing? How will oil, or the lack of it, threaten to destroy the economy? Why has the world not reacted?

I can’t answer all that, but someone else can. You can find the answers here. Scare yourself to death with this documentary. Or at least visit the website. You do realise that these questions were asked because the answers provide a very real threat to this world.

Is this a lie? I certainly hope it is. But frankly, it probably isnt. Watch this.

Such a shame

… that no one clicked on the links to the History of Chelsea on a post down there.

Will they add something to the history books this season?

Dutch Film Festival screening times at GSC Midvalley

The times for each show can be found here.

I’m really looking forward to watch Paradise Now.

Anyone interested?

Virginia Tech revisited – The angry teen who lashed out at an unfair world?

I have refused to be drawn on the much publicised Virginia Tech shooting, rather prefering to mourn sensibly at such a horrendous act and the ease with which guns can be acquired. What was he crying out loud for? Why did he do it?

Ultimately, he was the product of our society, maybe more appropriately, of American culture. Did we spawn a creature like him? His mental state may have been disorderly, but was his oppression part of a greater fault of our race (as humans, not as national colour)? The consensus among the media and most commentators are that his own ways capitulated in his own tortured soul, and that he plays the blame-game, blaming the world for what an unruly life he has had.

A matter of law is that, we are innocent until proven guilty, and in concluding that this killer, this angry, tortured soul, with his mental anomalies shall not be taken seriously, are we possibly missing out on a plot, on reasons why this mass-murder has occurred not once, but twice in a public education vicinity? I am not sympathetic towards him, but how far fetched are his accusations? Has our society created monsters like him?

His assertions are rather immature, and blames the world for various atrocities; hedonism and whatnot. Our own judging society blames him for his own demise. Surely his actions cannot be right, but several keywords of his, most notably; rich, debauchery and hedonism refers to a decay in our society, for which ongoing debates exist regarding the ways of this world. Are we, fellow commoners, turning a blind eye towards the things that we cannot control, and exercising respect for a societal system which fails to connect with humans who cannot follow suit and follow the majority?

The shooting must be condemned, and perhaps be less publicised for fear of more martyrs to rise and massacre the public.  Any inquiry as to the reasons he did what he did may not be able to fully explain the motives behind it all. But our failure to grasp or grapple with an individual like this may cost us dear. Or do we already know the roots of oppression, but find it easier to blame a dead person?

*** This is a call for moderation and contentment of our lives. I think berating someone is generally violence. So too is using dollars to endorse a lowly act. That might even be murder.

The Complete History of Chelsea F.C

Here it is.

Bad jokes and other deleted nonsense about Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris

Your name starts with a C. It also contains eight consonants and 3 vowels. 

There are no disabled people. Only people who have met Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris’ tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.

When Chuck Norris has sex with a man, it is not because he is gay, but because he has run out of women.

Macgyver can build an airplane out of gum and paper clips, but Chuck Norris can kill him and take it.

Chuck Norris once roundhouse kicked someone so hard that his foot broke the speed of light, went back in time, and killed Amelia Earhart while she was flying over the Pacific Ocean.

Chuck Norris doesn’t read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.

If you ask Chuck Norris what time it is, he always says, “Two seconds till.” After you ask, “Two seconds to what?” he roundhouse kicks you in the face.

Rather than being birthed like a normal child, Chuck Norris instead decided to punch his way out of his mother’s womb. Shortly thereafter he grew a beard.

Chuck Norris appeared in the “Street Fighter II” video game, but was removed by Beta Testers because every button caused him to do a roundhouse kick. When asked bout this “glitch,” Norris replied, “That’s no glitch.”

Chuck Norris lost his virginity before his dad did.

Since 1940, the year Chuck Norris was born, roundhouse kick related deaths have increased 13,000 percent.

Chuck Norris can unscramble an egg.

Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn’t stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

Filming on location for Walker: Texas Ranger, Chuck Norris brought a stillborn baby lamb back to life by giving it a prolonged beard rub. Shortly after the farm animal sprang back to life and a crowd had gathered, Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked the animal, breaking its neck, to remind the crew once more that Chuck giveth, and the good Chuck, he taketh away.

Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.

Chuck Norris built a time machine and went back in time to stop the JFK assassination. As Oswald shot, Chuck met all three bullets with his beard, deflecting them. JFK’s head exploded out of sheer amazement.

Chuck Norris is not hung like a horse… horses are hung like Chuck Norris.

To prove it isn’t that big of a deal to beat cancer. Chuck Norris smoked 15 cartons of cigarettes a day for 2 years and aquired 7 different kinds of cancer only to rid them from his body by flexing for 30 minutes. Beat that, Lance Armstrong.

Chuck Norris does not have AIDS but he gives it to people anyway.

There is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard. There is only another fist.

The original theme song to the Transformers was actually “Chuck Norris–more than meets the eye, Chuck Norris–robot in disguise,” and starred Chuck Norris as a Texas Ranger who defended the earth from drug-dealing Decepticons and could turn into a pick-up. This was far too much awesome for a single show, however, so it was divided.

The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.

Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.

When Chuck Norris plays Oregon Trail his family does not die from cholera or dysentery, but rather roundhouse kicks to the face. He also requires no wagon, since he carries the oxen, axels, and buffalo meat on his back. He always makes it to Oregon before you.

It was once believed that Chuck Norris actually lost a fight to a pirate, but that is a lie, created by Chuck Norris himself to lure more pirates to him. Pirates never were very smart.

Chuck Norris recently had the idea to sell his urine as a canned beverage. We know this beverage as Red Bull.

Chuck Norris used live ammunition during all shoot-outs. When a director once said he couldn’t, he replied, “Of course I can, I’m Chuck Norris,” and roundhouse kicked him in the face.

If paper beats rock, rock beats scissors, and scissors beats paper, what beats all 3 at the same time? Answer: Chuck Norris.

If you can see Chuck Norris, he can see you. If you can’t see Chuck Norris, you may be only seconds away from death.

Full list here.

The Velvet Underground and Nico playing Femme Fatale (live), 1972.

Edie Sedgwick

Edie Sedgwick, with Maureen Tucker from the Velvet Underground singing "After hours" from its self-titled album. Fascination with Andy Warhol's Factory and Explosive Plastic Inevitable led me here. A dark, solemn, natural beauty that was doomed from the start?

Yes, model, actress and socialite who lived a life less ordinary than most of us, and died at age 28.  

The Impertinence of Another Hovering Gaze

There is an extremely bitter irony about being someone other than yourself. A devotee and advocate of an innate beauty of our minds, the intangible over those that which were tangible, i have been no more concerned than before about my poise, the delicate surface of my cheeks and forehead, ruthlessly abstaining from the wild sunlight, and my discreet eyes, like distant innards of a dark and mystical cave, one which so many men have tried to gaze into but grew too uncomfortable to let them persist for any longer than a split second. I may be guilty of a blatant fool’s simple-mindedness, helpless means of acquiring chattels and walked the path of sloth. Failing to apprehend the uniqueness and advantages of this body is not a crime on my part, but to put it quite simply, any gothic wishes or spells you wish to put yourself in is better off staying in an unmanifested sub-personality in the recesses of everyone’s unfathomable world. Restlessly clawing my way around floor after floor of mind-numbing, spirit-crunching people, filled with an omnidepressive aura that i begin to make sense of the atrocities of being an upstairs.

I have been previously guilty too, of being unaware of the importance of my existence to the people around. I had found out the injustice that befell upon the people around me through a tragedy occurring before my eyes, the eyes of which is not mine, making contact and focusing on a little girl whom i could no longer claim as my own. She was rushing, almost racing to the arms that comforted her all this while, clinging relentlessly to someone who almost treats the little girl as a stranger and nothing more. I looked into the eyes of the man i used to be, his derailed mind descending upon his ample, round, dumbfounded face. There was the initial feeling that i was losing much more than she was; she had already built up a cockiness that will take charity beyond belief to undo all the rage snowballed across the department. She had presumbly no friends, no one who would cast a genuine care of her life. Surrounding the walls of her life are only those who would take pleasure in her sufferings (like me).

There was just a fleeting thought, that maybe a there’s a man in her life that she would submit to. A far, more horrible and dominant person who would sedate her with scary, phony and the occasional thoughtless words that would keep her waiting for him while they both try to topple their superiors, one with a dash of beauty and supreme confidence, the other with logical, rational thoughtlessness and an irrevocable self-belief. That man did not exist.  That men did not exist in her life was no utter shock, since guys these days don’t tend to work too hard for their women, recalling the days of the cries of gender equality, men and women are one of the same, that should place no responsibility on who makes the first move during courtship. Who would’ve thought the constant old barrages of women accusing men to be nonchalant and not working hard enough to earn necessary amounts to make everyone happy still exist? Free enterprise has a problem here.

My life, on the other hand, has never peaked. But the joys of the laymen were all to see. I’m well-liked by my peers and i’m father to a delightful little girl who means the world to me. It occurred to me, she was full of respect and never doubted her father, a strange bond that i was to notice only looking at someone else take on the responsibility of being her father. She remained ever as jolly when he is around, although his hair drastically changed, his ways and mannerism were infinitely faggot-like, and the most violent change of all; being determined and hardworking. Mind you, i have never taken pride in being lazy; i just do not know how to take what i have to the next level.

All of our hardwork should have culminated in a blast as we surpassed all the expectations at the job fair. Intricate planning was ruined at the last minute, with one heart attack almost leading to another. We embarked on a scandalous pursuit for replacements, and we found them to be more than deputising for our lost personnel. The disaster that befell upon what was supposed to be a crowning moment for me, was only made less sinister by the same action which had started these chain of events.

In all seriousness, recounting these days is taking its toll. I wake to find i’m somebody else everyday. Although after the job fair episode, i had begun playing an active role of parenting again. It wasn’t like i could do much else. It was manic. The everyday highs and lows and the exasperating notion of wanting it all to change. The windows. The doors. The fridge. The cabinets. The glass mirror. The cosmetics. The couch. The TV. The vase. The sink. The coffee cup. They have all been abused, in my misery. No one would believe our fabled, delusional fantasies. Searching cluelessly for an answer, i looked up books on the arcane and on philosophy.

The human mind is a strange matter. Without our natural bodies, our minds lack the defining characteristics. We were born with superficial wisdom; the ability to distinguish wrong from right. The inheritance of such discernment meant we, at all times, could identify with the good and the bad. There are possibly 3 ways of looking at it; two extremes and somewhere in the middle. How could we exist with just a beautiful mind? It is not the tangible object we could look at and judge. Judge. That is the consequences of the ability to tell right from wrong, good from bad, beautiful from ugly.

The isolation was killing us. This was no way to live, and i will rather die than grow old like this. When i was myself, i never felt alone. But now, it is unbearable. I have thought of killing him. Maybe that would bring me back myself, and my sanity. But he’s the only person whom i can empathize with, the one who would understand my predicaments. Self-pity was a trait that i loathe in people, but i find myself loathing my own circumstances, endlessly wishing for the day this transcendental madness would end.

Appearances manifests itself in the minds of people. What appears to be, is, until contrary evidence can uncover that what appears to be, actually, is not. It is just like my burly figure is not a reflection of the size of self-worth i used to place on myself. The accident remains a surreal tragedy to me. I clearly remember the despair of hovering in the car, in my dodgy estimation of about 60 – 70 feet off the ground, but never hitting the ground. I battered my mind to recall the accident. Perhaps the only way we both could force a way to pick the pieces of the accident, was to deliberately do it again.

I was hesitant, at first, but surely i could not do without trying. My determination was met with the resistance of the little girl; should both of us not survive the crash, there is little justification in our actions. My affections for her grew as i dived deeper and deeper into the role of a parent, one responsibility that I still find hard to understand. I could never understand if the way i am, was through my own microscopic view of this fledgling world, or the nurturing of great parenting. She does show steely grit at a tender age, and i see much of myself in her. But I am not fit, perhaps not ready nor wise enough to be a parent. That was the only for argument that would allow me to coax him into forcing the accident one more time.

Like many grand schemes of mankind, two (or possibly more) heads were combined. We had rifles; openly shooting non-sensical notions of the psyche, figuring there must always be a relation between cause and effect; creation and destruction, birth and death, in and out, and surely there would be a way out for both of us. One such occasion, we rubbished the anomalies of spirits and souls, and envisaged the use of some hypnotic technique, or engage in some form of meditation or another, or offer ourselves as research subjects to transfer our bodies somehow. That would have been groundbreaking. The truth is, we were every bit outraged that something like this could ever happened, and yet soothing each other in our own careless ways. Careless because at this point, we could hardly care less about who we are. Replicating what happened one year ago was at all easy; there was planning to do and a plethora of uncontrollable, variating circumstances and situations. Speed, timing, pedestrians, other cars, and finally, the colossal impact that nearly killed us both.

We finally set the stage at exactly one year after the accident. It suited us since it was a Saturday, the roads were less generous with the cars and quite possibly, our experimentation would only hurt ourselves. How badly i wanted this to end was a tragic feeling. I felt a certain rage, a rage similar to the initial despair i suffered in the hospital, lying on the bed. That rage was peculiar. The nervous anticipation surrounded my head, looking at an unfamiliar ceiling, an unfamiliar scent, and an even more unfamiliar sight standing on my left. The disdainful look on their faces, faces that i could not recognise, sharply fixated on my wellbeing. I was bewildered. Barring my condition, i would have seeked an immediate explanation for all the unfamiliarities my eyes were witnessing. Simple bits were already unfolding amidst the silence of the room, but these obtused looking bunch of sporadic faces were supressing my search for an answer. I gave up, already feeling weary from all this penned up animosity with people i don’t know, but were already abusing my mind. This injection of unprecedented uneasiness allowed me valid reasons to take another deep nap to recover from this shock.

Our initial conjecture had us starting out from the office parking lot. This proved to be a problem as the office has since folded, and is now taken over to be part of a burly multinational. Part of me was subjugated by the fact that this could go horribly wrong, kill one or both of us, or wreck other people’s lives, and destroy the lives of the people around us. The guilt was regressing into a potent factor, one that was threatening this plan. I mulled over the idiosyncrasies of the gaps between us, something which i have wondered since the beginning of this debacle, was that putting the interests of others first gets us nowhere. This has to be done.

And it was. It will remain a mystery, how the divine must have felt for us, and heart our hearts yell. It looked a perfect day. After agonising over where the chase would begin, we departed. All contingencies thought out beforehand had been in place. We had seem so thorough that we felt that we would pull this off, like a magician who never fails to pull the dove out from his hat. Sweats of concentration trickled down in the noon heat. Mixed emotions began to set in. There seemed to be something attached to the accelerator, for the more i stepped on it, needles were flying and every part of my body seemed to be bleeding. My mind was screaming, but i continued.  

We hit the long stretch, quick and easy. The roads were safe, save for a few strollers who we left behind to bake in the sun. We cringed at each bend; the signs were not there but it signalled our intensed minds we were surely not getting any further from our rendezvous. By this time, if it meant that i will be crippled within the next minute, it was too late. There was no going back. The bend approached. The mirrors emptied the roads.

An ire of crunching brakes. An eruption of screeching tires. The first car halted its dynamic left swerve as it scraped the railings of the overhead bridge with the front making contact with the concrete railing first, the second car frantically followed suit, smashing into the rails with less impact than it did into the tail end of the first car, sending it in a frenzied spin, with the second car crashing onto the passenger side of the first car at reduced speed, partially from the blazing contact with the railing. The cars stopped. Both started breathing again. Blood flow struggled to match the intensed emotions rushing through their bodies. Pictures, words, voices, actions from the past, present and the future were emanating from various sources, transmitting themselves before them right now. Tears welled up. It was the one thing they could not imagine that saved them from plunging. Death.

The Gift

Running around in bangles isn’t exactly the stuff Velvet Underground fans are famed to do; it’s more likely to be a loner’s pleasure, with its industriously taboo lyrics and vague sounds and extremely experimental, especially with its first two albums. Such creativity and coupled with a lack of fame and attention, would see them change course in search of different musical confrontations. Lou Reed is a great songwriter. And this short story, written in his college days, is just one such display of an epiphany of how music can be done, rather than how it should be done, convocating in airs of retreat by the mainstream joyriders, while those who espoused the initial ordeal, consecrated an unknown band during its life, and an immortal upon its death.

The Gift

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now mid-August which meant that he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show were three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she’d returned to Wisconsin and he to Locust, Pennsylvania she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful. But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his printed quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes, As he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothings of some Neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear. Visions of Marsha’s faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn’t understand who she really was. He, Waldo, alone, understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile, and she needed him, and he wasn’t there. (Awww.) The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers Parade was scheduled to appear. He had just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar-fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing more than a circular form the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awning needs. At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him: he didn’t have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box, just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, a selection of midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o’clock. He’d marked the package “FRAGILE” and as he sat curled up inside, resting in the foam rubber cushioning he’d thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marsha’s face as she opened the door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he’d only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and then he was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he’d said that he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature and even though no, he didn’t love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo — but that seemed many years ago. Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend walked in through the porch screen door into the kitchen. “Oh God, it’s absolutely maudlin outside.” “Ugh, I know what you mean, I feel all icky.” Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. “I’m supposed to be taking these salt pills, but,” she wrinkled her nose, “they make me feel like throwing up.” Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she’d seen on television. “God, don’t even talk about that.” She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. “Want one? Supposed to be better than steak.” And attempted to touch her knees. “I don’t think I’ll ever touch a daiquiri again.” She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. “Maybe Bill’ll call,” she said to Sheila’s glance.  Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. “After last night, I thought maybe you’d be through with him.” “I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place.” She gestured, raising her arms upward in defense. “The thing is after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all he didn’t really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him, you know what I mean.” She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. “I’ll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while,” she bent forward in a whisper, “I wanted to,” and now she was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the door bell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen-cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mothers small beige pocket book in the den. “What do you think it is?” Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. “I don’t know.”

Inside the package Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. “Why don’t you look at the return address and see who it is from?” Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. “Ugh, God, it’s from Waldo!”  “That schmuck,” said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. “Well, you might as well open it,” said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the stapled flap.

“Ahh, shit,” said Marsha groaning. “He must have nailed it shut.” They tugged at the flap again. “My God, you need a power drill to get this thing opened.” They pulled again. “You can’t get a grip!” They both stood still, breathing heavily. “Why don’t you get the scissors,” said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs and when she came back, she had a large sheet-metal cutter in her hand. “This is the best I could find.” She was very out of breath. “Here, you do it. I’m gonna die.” She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard, but the blade was too big and there wasn’t enough room. “Godamn this thing!” she said feeling very exasperated. Then,smiling, “I got an idea.”

“What?” said Marsha.
“Just watch,” said Sheila touching her finger to her head.

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the middle of the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and right through the center of Waldo Jeffers’ head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.

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…- from White Light/White Heat -… buy the boxset here

Dutch film festival at GSC Midvalley!

Yup, here it is the Holland Film Festival 2007 exclusive at GSC Midvalley from April 26 to May 2! I just love to champion film festivals for it can be an amazing showcase of differring cultures stretching beyond borders.

From the 8 shows that will be shown as part of this film festival, Paradise Now probably stands out between the picks by far.

An intensed description from GSC reads:

“Dutch-German-French co-production is a political feature film about the topical issue of suicide missions in Israel. The Arabic-spoken film shows the final twenty-four hours of Khaled (Ali Suliman) and Said (Kais Nashef), two young Palestinian friends who are ‘chosen’ to commit a suicide attack in Tel Aviv. On the eve of their secret mission, the film follows particularly Said, who bids farewell to his mother and family, who are ignorant of his plan. He also visits a girl he has recently met. In the morning, the twosome leaves for the border crossing, bombs under their smart suits. But the scheme does not work out as planned, as the two lose sight of each other. This forces them to think again about their destination and they are torn by doubt.“

It’s great to see Tourism Malaysia promoting the arts too, but will the censorship board get their hands on these indie screenings? Can’t wait. Anyone else who finds this interesting?