Firdauz takes 5

“I look very weird in this picture.” I told, “almost, not like myself. What’s wrong with my new camera?”

“Nothing,” told Michelle, “just that your camera can’t detect your dark skin and the dark background.”

I’ve trained a terrorist. Fat people are just mean.

I gave Karen a drunk kiss on her cheek, on the night where i danced clumsily with glasses of spirits, coke and free beer. Funny lights the color of disco, and music the sound of reckless tempo, continued to play-and-pause, constantly played-and-paused like a ghostly dream sandwiched between another ghostly dreams. It didn’t stop to scare me even when I was already in someone else’s car. There were 4 of us. For what seemed a mortifying moment, i rested my heavy head, quietly on Karen’s lap.

For what seemed a mortifying moment, this was a kamikaze.

For what seemed a mortifying moment, isn’t it dangerous to write like this?

But i, live a spontaneous life. I stumbled upon it. I was of course, — before life –, just a motile sperm — happy maybe — with a limited life span, supposed to have died within hours. But what did i do?

I just had to swim and flirt with an odd-female-looking egg, — and love at the first sight they say –, she and i became Firdauz, just seconds after.

Love at the first experience, i say, i have a lifetime’s mission.

Thousands of you panic-looking girls, my mission is to kiss and run.

For life, tastes so much better when i do the wrong things.

For life, tastes so much sweeter.

“Have you been to Jarrod & Rawlins?” asked a friend.

“Jarrod what?”

“Jarrod & Rawlins.”

“Who is he?”

“It’s a dining place.”

“Oh yeah, i have. CapSquare there right?”

“Yeah, the sausage is so nice right.”

“Yeah, because it’s not halal.” I told.

He looked around, “Oh, luckily Raff is not here. Else, it would have been offensive to him. Nothing halal is nice la.”

“That’s not offensive at all.” Told another friend. “Well, at least to me it’s not. Nothing halal is ever good.”

Well, polygamy is halal. And stoning your wives to death too. And maybe, it’s even fun.

Just kidding.

You’re fat! And I don’t like you!

MomomoMOmomomMomomMomMomomomo…

and the fact that i was born in Texas, Mexico; or Kedah, Darul Takzim; — can’t really remember where –, but i was told by the elders in the kampung where i was born that being arrogant, marks the beginning of the scared journey to being a Toruk Makto.

It’s either that, or you losers don’t have Lumix LX3 like i do. Hah!

P/s: I’m just kidding a bit la. I actually lost my camera in Miri, Sarawak. So, after much thought, it was either buying a Canon S90 — which is a very good compact camera and a tad cheaper, or, the outdated Lumix LX3 and a tad pricier.

“See Raine,” i told and pointed to Michelle and Karen who wanted to leave me in the parking lot, “fat people are mean.”

In the months where my days started with a cup of hot coffee and ended with a cold writing, — clumsy even –, i began to befriend a girl who liked Hello Kitty and disliked ice-blended drinks, and the hot weather. She had a secret boyfriend who everyone knew about, and a pink keyboard. She made me lose a bet once. With a group of similar friends, i put one ringgit betting that she had slept with her boyfriend. But when the time came for her to finally admit about the relationship, she just didn’t throw us a simple lie, she went overboard by claiming to have been holier than the mother of Jesus, the Virgin Mary. She told us a fairy tale; “When in bed, my boyfriend and me will just think of each other. Never had sex in my life.”

Funnily enough, there were people who bet on the fairy tale, and won my one ringgit. But they all would, i prayed, be sent to hell. Amen.

“Hey,” came Carol to my desk one evening, “look at the sky outside, did you bring your camera Firdy?”

“Yeah.”

“Can i borrow it?”

Sunset by Carol.

even before i was drunk, i told a dear friend, “Your blog is the most boring blog, there isn’t honesty at all. You only write what is safe for others to read”.

Her face instantly became the universal language of hostility — she wanted to kill me, perhaps so badly –, and yet, she fixed her eyes on the smoky floor, and moved them up, slowly and quietly, for what seemed a moment of displeasure or worse and longer, it became very clear that i shouldn’t have said what i had. For she deserved a happier night than what i had turned it into.

For a moment, i waited for her to demonstrate and launch some raw emotional rockets to destroy my ego. I waited for her to scream at me so it could be used to validate that she was an honest soul, a mortal person like who i and everyone was. But alas, she hid herself behind a see-through curtain, and it was not difficult for anyone to tell what colour of her occasional smiles that night were. Mostly black, darkened not with secrets, but annoyance, pure hate towards what i told. One could easily tell she didn’t like it.

“Jestina,” i spoke, “you know what i want for Christmas?”

“What?”

“Forgiveness. Would you forgive me?”

while talking to Vernice, i caught her eyes staring at my zipper. Feeling a little puzzled of her action, to have been brave enough like a warrior to stare long enough at my crotch in broad daylight, i had asked “why are you staring at my zipper? I know it’s a little damp, i just got out from the washroom.”

“No la!,” she shouted, angrily “I’m looking at your watch!”

Girls. When are they going to admit they love staring at our crotch.

anak-anak raksasa makcik, perlukan makanan yang seimbang untuk membesar sebagai juara.

Makcik bukan apa. Makcik nak tengok anak-anak raksasa makcik — ikhlas ya ni makcik cakap — menjadi pandai, bijak, bersopan-santun, handsome, cantik, pendek kata, makcik tak suka tengok anak-anak raksasa makcik nanti jadi macam Karen dan Michelle. Gemuk sangat mereka tu!

Makcik ke pekan pagi tadi. Jadi membelilah makcik segala yang perlu.

Ada sayur, daging, tomato, ayam, arak, semuanya maksik beli ikhlas untuk anak-anak makcik.

Untuk kami, anak beranak raksasa, Makcik suka masak yang ala kadar sahaja.

Macam guacamole dan salsa tomato. Simple-simple stuff.

I like it when it tells stories of others. I like stories about Abang, Abah, Umie, the Uncle and the Aunty who own the convenience store i visit daily, close friends, or even the people i’ve never met, like Sara Aziz. Oh, she’s a wonderful person.

Truth is, i hate writing. I honestly do. When i first started this online journal i call Firdauz takes 5, i promised me to never write a single word of anything at all. I knew that i wasn’t that good with words. Not much. A photo & video blog it would be, just to abase myself with silly things, it should. I managed to follow the plan for the first 3 posts, but after the 3rd, it didn’t turn out to what i originally wanted it to.

I started writing, amateurishly, about who i am. It became a series of autobiography. I liked it. Then i openly asked people for lunch date. Making new friends, experience life as it should, learn new things and listen to what they tell, write the experience, share with the world. I liked it too. So much. I liked everything before i openly told the whole world, that i do not believe in God.

That was the emotional mistake, i started to hate my writing ever since.

Truth is, i love religious people who truly believe in what they do. I admire them. I admire anyone who openly declares his faith, or even the lack of it, but not me. I don’t like much about myself when it comes to religion. I emotionally tend to not care if i hurt anyone with saying who i think, doesn’t exist. Often, i even hurt those who are close to me. Including myself.

But the nicest people of my life, the ones who are dear to me, they always forgive my lunacy. Including me. I forgive myself all the time.

Sometimes, when i read my own old entries, it reminds me of who i was and what i had. Who i was, was kind of mysterious, and what i had were, clumsy moments of my silly life.

I stumbled upon life. I do not know much about it, so i wrote some of the stories that i liked, and some of them that i liked less. Amateurishly.

I stumbled upon life. Clumsy moments of my silly life.

Saya, Firdauz, baru sahaja selesai diragut. Syukur, peragut itu tidak berjaya meragut bag saya yang mengandungi (1)sebuah laptop, (2)pensil tekan-tekan, (3)semua dokumen penting, (4)kerjaya, (5)cita-cita, (6) berus gigi dan (7)senaskah buku dan majalah, kerana saya pantas menarik bag tersebut. Saya cuba kejar, dan lari sekuat hati, tetapi peragut itu (mereka berdua, lelaki memandu, perempuan membonceng) bawak motor lari laju-laju! Oh, celaka. Maafkan saya kerana berkata kasar. Tetapi mereka, lelaki dan perempuan itu penjahat rempit! Maafkan saya lagi.

(more…)

that π (pi) is an irrational number? And that they built the Great Pyramid of Giza more than 4,500 years ago using this irrational number?

Ridiculous it may sound, you cannot represent pi with any rational number. But the decimal expansion of the value of pi, never changes, never ends, never repeats. If one has to tell a friend, the value of this irrational number is, well, if he’s a good friend of yours, and he’s someone who appreciates honesty, you tell him the whole truth.

“Pi is, 3.14159 26535 89793 23846 26433 83279 50288 41971 69399 37510 58209 74944 59230 78164 06286 20899 86280 34825 and more. More than what you and i know. It builds pyramids and flies us to Jupiter if you want.”

But if you have a friend who only appreciates rationality, who prefers to accept heaven and hell, death and life, hip-hop and rnb, and black and white and dislikes the idea of accepting things as they are, even when they are beautiful and ironic and irrational just like pi is, you might want to lie to him. Just a little lie.

“Rationally, pi is 22/7. It is what you need to find the circumference of a circle. It doesn’t do more than drawing a circle. What a waste of time to learn about pi.”

Pi is not 22/7, and of course, is more than drawing a circle and finding the circumference of it, well, if you care and curious enough to know, to understand, or even to formulate mathematical expressions of the laws of physics that govern this world. But pi is not even algebraic to even begin with. 22/7 is just the diophantine approximation of the real value of pi. It’s even bigger than what it is. It’s mathematically exaggerated. It’s a calculated lie and you can use this lie as many times as you want to satisfy the people who in your opinion, need it.

Like how i told Karen and Michelle, they’re not fat.

Perhaps, like pi, i’m alone, and lonely, and irrational.

I might not make much sense, but my name is Firdauz, and i like pie. (I’m fat too)

“Gah! Gah!” I shouted, “I do not want to work on weekend!”. Furious and frustrated with what i had become, i kicked the laptop and set big flames and nearly burnt the whole world.

As i hopped happily the to the magic door, — to exit life, end all misery and quite possibly to become a bowl of carrot soup (that is my ambition!) — it became clear to me that i had forgotten to brush my sparkling white superlimercy teeth. But i didn’t care, not that much that weekend.

“Whooooooooooooooo are you. What is the meaning of superlimercy?”

A mysterious voice trembled the burning house. I was scared, a little frightened, but what Papa told me about the circumcision he had when he was my age, and nearly turned him a lunatic, I toughened up.

“Hello there. My name is Firdy. I like happy girls in short skirts and.. i’m not so sure if i should tell you this, but..” i whispered, softer than breathing in thin air, “i think, i don’t like Anwar Ibrahim.”

“Who is she?” asked the mysterious voice.

“I have no idea. Anyway, who are you? Why can i hear your voice but not see you?”

“Come to the door and open it with your childish curiosity.”

I opened the magic door and there he was, a big monster, with teeth less superlimercious than mine. He wasn’t a friendly monster like how Marxist, my monstrous pet was, but he did advise me that i should be working hard, even during the weekends.

His name was Corporation Farizo.

I asked Papa to draw me a set of pictures. “Ohito, konichiwa hello kitty, mai mai ka?”

“Nindek.”

This is my story. My name is Firdy and i am a cat. I live in a big house with my pet. His name is Marxist.

Marxist likes to sleep. I like to run. I can run faster than Marxist can. Marxist is my real dad, or so i was told by Papa before he adopted me.

Papa takes a good care of Marxist and me. Before i had Marxist as a pet, Papa had told me that he found me in a pop-up book. He would tell, in a language that only he and i know, “Kamera! Kamera! Miri hilang kamera lukis suka-suka orang gila!”

“Hait, hait.” I would tell him.

This is Hantu Tetek. He’s my uncle. When i grow an inch taller, i wanna be like him. Hantu Tetek likes strawberry ice-cream and hates democracy.

“Ichiban nandek! Ichiban nandek! Nak tetek, nak tetek!”

We live happily ever after, in a big house in a communist land. There are big trees, and water, and a window for us to view the future.

I’ve seen monsters and dinosaurs. I like them. They’re so funny. Oh so funny!

But i haven’t seen God. I think, He’s funny too. Papa drew Him blank.