that name i could not remember

this name i hear you mention, as if i’ve heard it before,
sworn to speak it in ill light, and thenceforth nevermore;
although i think now i recall with passing memories fond,
a sweetened smell, like oranges, with mildew wiped upon.

surfaced now through thickened thoughts like ether made of tar,
beyond my loathsome recesses or mayhap from afar;
i see it now, but then it’s gone, this visage of a face,
that haunting smile with playful grin, like hallowed death’s embrace.

say it now, but one more time, that i remember yet,
was it a child? was it a friend? someone that i had met?
upon a family dinner or in a vivid dream maybe?
or was it underneath the stars, over a cup of tea?

ah, yes, i see, i recall now, the times were not but one,
they spanned from moonlit, humid nights, to days under the sun;
that time we spent our lazy hours, skipping stones by the pool,
all the while just waiting on ourselves to be made fools;
while turning fronds and browning leaves that from the treetops hung,
where colourful, wild flowers hid and careless mushrooms sprung;
and in my hand - that name it sighs - a wreath of soft, blonde hair,
its silken gleam of angels’ tears for sight, my soul should bear.
then came the foretold drizzled drops, to cleanse our tired eyes,
lay giggling like mad children waiting for this earth’s demise;
and when my breath would catch upon a glaring, spiteful breeze,
i’d clench that lei of hopeful strands, and leave my heart at ease -
let chirping swallows, buzzing bees, to lead these eyes astray,
like leaves whisked on a gentle wind,
away,
away,
away…

remains yet but an image, poor, beyond my feeble mind,
a sorrowed tune, so sickly sweet, a memory i can’t find;
how would i to describe this feel, a sordid jamais vu,
that tells of past and future tales before they have come true.

a glaring blanche to pierce my eyes, that squinting sightless blind,
bedazzled states, and wild-run legs to lead a clueless mind;
as i recall, a daisy ‘pon a sun hat that she donned,
a jewelled glow for silken skin, that prances with light shone;
it seems so faint, but all too real, that brief ephemeral touch,
that meant nigh all to one, but to the other, nothing much?
yet paled the light in contrast to what grainy sea-swept floes,
that makes it hide and slinks with tide between less nimble toes;
oh, of the sea! i recall now! through which we ran at pace!
and when we stopped to catch our breaths, it reflected her face -
a perfect smile, and nonchalant, i hear her laugh so coy,
my heart fills with the same she had;
that mirth,
that gay,
that joy.

as if it were to prey upon the unwitting and slow,
the sun had set, the tides had gone, the grass had ceased to grow;
but in their stead, fall ochre leaves, and rustling winds like mad,
if change is all that we can hope, it must be good (and bad).

those sanguine leaves that creeped upon a bridge, a stump, a wall,
had she been sly? had she been quick? had she been short, or tall?
it must have seemed a little dense, how with the undergrowth,
what lies beneath her perfect smile, was just a bit of both;
’twas not too dinned, that starry eve, just like her person true,
but misconstructed shallow gifts, would make the day i rue:
for this, you see, is how her name, now tarnished, to forget,
i weeped a against the shallow tune of crickets at sunset;
how could it be that twilight came, sent shivers down my spine,
to recollect her name instead, when she’d forgotten mine;
i see it now, etched in the clouds that whisper through the night,
i’d lull upon her fingertips,
i wish,
i may,
i might.

but warmth evades this very thought,grows tenebrous and cold,
it haunts me even in my sleep, as sure as i grow old;
but seasons turn, as minds do fade, just as her thoughts of mine,
but who’s to say that in mine stead, is something less sublime?

for in that final hour or with its fast encroaching fare,
my hopes for one last stroke of luck, i beg of this you spare;
as holy as i clenched upon that golden lock of hair -
but how could i to cherish what was smeared beyond repair?
you see, what once was temperate to the touch, is now so icy cold,
as if her sun-touched mere embrace is now bereft of soul;
and with it borne a frigid stare, what piercing blue-green eyes,
such that all that had been our truth is now but paltry lies,
yet who could blame such detached glance, that skewed and sent away?
for all that would to speak my name had perished with the day.

but how would it be described now, this decrepit, white shame? was it a truth? a mere facade? a folly of a game?
if you permit, that it should have no bearing all the same - ’twas love, you see, that’s what she was; indeed, that was her name.

where heaven is a state of mind

when i was younger, i never really understood why heaven was described the way it was, or why people would want to strive to be in it. judaism paints a picture of lush, green expanses, with flowing waters and streams of honey and ambrosia. those familiar with renaissance paintings will have a good idea of what the descriptions are like. similarly, the christians have a timely portrayal of clouds and angels, harps and cherubs, and your obligatory God the Father, alongside Jesus, shepherding the people into a life of ease and prosperity. The muslims, have a similar depiction, though, that of grand and expansive castles, made of gold and jewels, which coincidentally house not only the persons themselves, but also their families and friends (?), who also have palaces of their own, in which prayers are held and merriment is had. oh, and let's not forget to toss into all the abrahamic interpretations a handful of beautiful (virgin) maidens (though i want to assume for the female counterparts, there will be lustful and glistening men of bronze, ivory or whatever it is flavour that catches your eye); perhaps more riches like mountains of gold and foods that will make connoisseur seem lacking and tasteless. (this is my favourite ice cream. recognise).

of course, the more practical or etymological amongst us will be quick to argue that these depictions are catered for the times and people they are preached to - and this makes a lot of sense to me. but for religions that should transcend time and place, age and bearings, i find it hard to fathom that a heaven or any semblance thereof can be so limited to those descriptions.

i believe that, the essence of heaven is that of an idyllic or utopian place. people. things and ideas. a perfect everything. and this is something that boggles me the most - is this a unified utopia, for each and all, to be made such that everyone can lounge and languish in the perfection that is God's ultimate reward (and arguably, test, as well). or is it catered to the individual? can there be a heaven of gourmet foods and tasteful wines, of extreme relaxation and pampered devotion, which accommodates for the hedonistic amongst us; but at the same time a heaven of culture and knowledge and exploration for the inquisitive? can there be one of merriment and company and inclusiveness for the socially apt, just as there would be one of solitude and peace for the introverted? do these have to be mutually exclusive?

the expanse of considerations are limitless, but the gist is that 'how defined is heaven, at least for the human mind?', and furthermore, 'how well does the translation and representation of heaven become for humanity?'. i cannot think that, if God, in his all encompassing powers, is able to create an infinity of idealisms (or ideals), he is not capable of creating them all at once and in the same existence. surely there must be a(n unfathomed yet) heaven that accommodates and speaks to all. and if not, just how well can there be cross compatibility between the different visions (or hopes) of heaven?

i do not think that religions (and we have not even discussed the alternatives outside abrahamic ones!) have yet portrayed sufficiently what haven is (to be). and i hope that there is such a thing, only that it is ill defined in holy scriptures with purpose of being enticing to the reader, but not exclusive to those with... different (deviant?) wants.

perhaps, if i hope for a heaven where all is not idyllic, i can be granted such? maybe, au contraire, i can hope for something like an easymode videogame, or a leisurely but intriguing book, or perhaps a mind blowing movie. the cruces of which are that they are all amazing, but different. or perhaps, i should just hope that there will be pegacorns and ninja zombies alongside death rays and time travel. i definitely would like that (as opposed to attending mass or jumaah or sermons, which are apparently all part of the utopian heavens). or perhaps God will have made me love for those things where i do not as yet.

oh, that's right, i didn't consider that i'd probably never set foot in any such heaven in the first place, huh? time to go pray or something.

things i’ve learned from microbiology (of life, loss and love)

retrospect imparts insight in the most interesting and unexpected ways. when i was younger, i had thought that individuals grow with a linear and expectant outlook - that with maturity, we would only learn from the current, and use it to predict, anticipate, and prepare for the future. of course, what is to be gained from the past is not so easily deciphered, and what we garner from our experiences is not so easily interpreted. in fact, it was only in my late teens that i came to realise that even a single experience can teach us many times, as we can easily find different interpretations, meanings, and importances, weighted differently as we age. however, this preface has little to do with my subject beyond that something i learned early on in an academic setting would prove to have an extended educational value in everyday life. it is, however, something i wish to say, nonetheless, because the revisiting of prior experiences has brought me to many new outlooks on life, and is something that implore upon the reader (if there is any one), though i would stop myself short of sounding preachy or derogatory; the rest is up to the reader.

in any case, i have learned a great deal from and about microbiology and infectious diseases. this particular lesson, i had forgotten since my introduction to basic pathology in my first year, and would only encounter it again in my final year of my masters course (and again during a recent conference, which is what prompted this post). i believe, though, that simple as the message is, it is an indispensable and generalisable truth whose importance cannot be further underrated and whose use should be made more practical. when you or i become infected with an infectious disease, we are quick to jump to the thought that “clearly there must be something causing the disease, and to get better, i should rid myself of it”. there is no flaw to this logic, and indeed, many, if not most, clinical treatments do centre around this mode of action. however, at least of academic value, are two other contributors to the development and progression of disease, which are the host itself, as well as the environment.

1. life

as we’ve established, the most obvious, and perhaps the most influential contributor to disease is the infective agent itself; one does not miraculously contract malaria without contracting the plasmodium parasite (note that plasmodium sp. is a protozoa, which may be unfamiliar to the reader, but this is besides the point, except for being an interesting observation), just as much as one does not come down with a fever without contracting a disease of any, non-specific sort (the more informed reader will now be quick to point out that not all infections cause pyrexia, just as not all pyrexiae are caused by infections. this is true, but again, not the point being made). the point that is that a foreign being is cause to the disease / symptoms, and the correlation between the two is a direct one. i’m sure i don’t need to point out to the reader more than she already knows that life is indeed a culmination of external factors causing influence upon herself - or more accurately, living life is the experiencing of these external factors. there is the argument that we are merely products of our experiences - a construct begotten from a series of domino-like events set in motion upon our birth into the world, and is little more than an automaton that is refractory or reflective. i do agree that this is part of the experiencing of life, but this cannot be the whole of it. quite recently, i have questioned my ‘success’ in life more than i usually do; i used to believe heavily in effort-reward, and that there is little more that determines our progress in life. but there must be something to be said about fate, or destiny, or qadha and qadar. though i cannot say that it is something so metaphysical that influences our outcomes in life, but perhaps there is merit in being humble enough to think that the vast majority of our successes aren’t ours to claim at all - my entry to a prestigious university or being awarded a competitive scholarship are perhaps a statement more about the stringencies (or lack thereof) from the awarding entities than they are about me. and perhaps the saving grace of such belief is that the antagonistic countenance of success also obeys the law. our failures are not purely our own, either.

2. loss

my grandfather passed away earlier this year. in the parallel i make, this is where i would say that the ‘environment’ plays a role in that, and is severely underestimated for doing so. in the infection analogy, putting an infective agent with a(n in)competent host does not cause disease progression in 100% of the cases. doctors, for example, who are in constant contact with patients with tuberculosis, do not all go on to have tb themselves. is it because the doctors are immunologically healthy, or that the mycobacterium is sufficiently weak to only infect a specific cohort (of the elderly, young, or already sick)? yes, to all and more of these. but often overlooked is that the environment may be conducive, or insufficiently so, for the doctors to contract the disease. was the aeration in the ward negatively pressured such that the infective agent could not find a suitable host? was air conditioning set too low for the establishment of an initial colony? were antibiotics used, reducing the chances of bacterial spreading disease (or too lavishly so, such that they developed a nasty immunity to common antibiotics, causing infection to be more severe)? the environmental potential is limitless, but because of that, perhaps, is why we overlook them, and do not try to treat from this angle even once considered.

but, regarding old grandpa, i do not know to what extent the environment can be blamed for his passing. i was not even here for the event, the funeral, or the subsequent mourning (which i, quite unfortunately, did not proceed to partake in during my absence for unknown reasons). would i to blame him for his death? perhaps not. were i to blame those who cared for him during the time leading up to it? definitely not, as i observed my own family take care of him better than i could hope to have myself taken care of in my twilight. but to blame circumstance, or conditions, or unassignable variables - perhaps the beauty or solace in such lies in the indispensable comfort of ambiguity. that knowing that the ‘environment’ was all-encompassing and ready enough to embrace fault (for it is a conglomerate of factors, enough to distribute the blame thinly as to not bear enough conscience upon a singular being), or that it is so diffuse as to become inanimate and impersonal. who knows? and i do not pretend to want to, definitely not beyond the ignorance that loss, and gain; beauty and bewitchingness; poignance and insanity; can all be explained in terms of self, and others. and that which cannot be reconciled? well, for that, there is the environment.

3. love

i am fond of the expression that ‘we all makes decisions, but as importantly, our decisions make us (who we are)’ (or something to that extent). to a large extent, we are not only products of how the environment has shaped us, how others have influenced us, but also how we have acted and reacted against everything external - and this is the counterweight, the balance, the yin and/or yang to the fatalist; and is not something for the lighthearted or the careless to succumb to. and perhaps, it is hardest to acknowledge that we are, though not masters of our fate, captains of our own vessels, generals of our own armies, and most importantly masterminds of our own demises. the same way that a large cohort of persons who come down with a disease are not because the disease is so virulent, but because they are more susceptible to disease (in general) than your average, healthy person; the immunocompromised, those with genetic predispositions, co-infected hosts, etc. and this is what i’ve learned of love:

sometimes, you could do all the right things, like wait for her in drenching rain,
and other times you’ll comfort her through times of unrelenting pain;
get her chocolates for her birthday, even when you’re out of cash,
let her scream (it’s not your fault) when she just needs a time to lash.
and when it comes time for romance, you’ll dance with her upon the beach,
at her wedding you might even stand, deliver a whole-hearted speech;
but most important isn’t the things you’ll do, i think you know of this by now,
it’s all the things you refrained from, especially when you don’t know how.

the apex of all you could give, perhaps is what she’ll never know,
that when it came for time to love, you reluctantly let her go.

so perhaps, as with all young men who think they know all there is to know about love, and just as well, think they could offer all that other men could not, it can be said that, yes, we are not only responsible for the things we do right, but also that which we do wrongly. though it is easy to blame another for our own shortcomings (and it is all too easy to justify that we’ve taken the righteous road, the best of decisions, the most amiable of assumptions), maybe what love taught me is that it’s not another’s fault if you cannot love they way you idealised (and, you are free to substitute the word ‘love’ for any other). it is not only expected upon you to own up to your mistakes, but more pertinently, to let the fault be your own, and move on, instead of trying to fix that which cannot be fixed, not only in the eyes of others, but inherently to yourself. such things are easier to say when one believes that there is an objective thing, such as love, waiting as an eventuality, but i cannot say that this is the lesson that i’ve come to appreciate thus far.

thank you

i shalt not want for other things,
that were not destined for mine own;
like love and lost, of queens and kings,
and hope for sitting 'pon thine throne.

or perhaps to loft on spread wings,
with strength of sinew, blood and bone;
i could not want for other things,
how fair to reap what i've not sown?

things i wish i had been taught

i am now young as i am old,

so many things i should've been told;

that weren't taught by books on a shelf,

like how to laugh at one's own self.

with all the riches in the world,

of gold, and diamond, and of pearl;

that could not buy one lesson true,

that money won't live life for you.

through all the persons that i've met,

i wish i'd learned one thing as yet;

to see in others what is best.

and life will take care of the rest.

still, oh, so weary, do i grow,

for more pure things, i wish to know;

that is another - the crave - the yearn,

to always hope, and wish to learn.

but, most of all, i should've known, before i am from grace to fall,

"be happy with what we already have, that happiness may bless us all".

every damn book

perhaps, the one thing that i am proud of when people stereotype me of is that i read. i may not read the most books in a year compared to those who are deservedly called bookworms, and i definitely do not write enough to pretend to call myself an author of books, myself; but, i do read every so often, and of varied enough material that i can happily call myself a reader, and perhaps even a somewhat-learned person.

i cannot say the same for many other things that warrant stereotyping - that of race or religion, of gender or predisposition, of political inclination or awareness (neither of which i have even the slightest inkling), and a hundred thousand other things. but definitely, mostly regarding the first couple of things that i’ve listed. in fact, i am ashamed to say that with regards to race and religion, i have found myself so far lacking that i am impeded and sometimes distraught because of them (and, of course, their stereotypes).

in any case, i read. for those who share a similar interest, or are sometimes forced to do so, i hope you can empathise with empathy. that when i read any book, it often times does not matter what themes and questions are raised by the author. instead, i find myself honing in, or at least accentuating themes that are pertinent or relevant to my current (ongoing) situation(s) in life. in fact, i can even emboss and embellish the themes beyond the writing of the book, which mayhap is the reason that i find solace and escape in living vicariously through works of fiction. and when i can relate, even in the slightest, to a character - well, this is where ink and paper become the lifeblood of not just those persons, but perhaps even myself.

of course, this all is very fanciful in writing, and has an alluring mystique fit for rogues and despondent lovers. but what tangible is come from all of it, and more importantly what can i relay to you, the reader here, regarding such superfluous endeavours?

i read 'the brothers karamazov' not too long ago. alyosha, or alexei is a protagonist that captures my empathy to no end, of which i choose not to elaborate, if only so that a loose coalescence of ideas may be formed of the abstract i wish to convey, by reading through the next few example characters i wish to mention. which brings me to another alexei, with whom i share the reticence and stoic-ness of love (where i have given it away, but to no reprecussion), yet cannot swear to have even a portion of whose nobility and honour - that who is so misunderstood (and beautifully so portrayed) in anna karenina.

of course, i have listed before a few others, such as the loveless for fermina daza, and the fulfilled of elizabeth bennet. but for today, a nearly-unnamed and perhaps unsung hero:

the chaplain from catch-22. now, i would implore that, if the reader is to read only one book for the entirety of this year, it should be catch-22. and if there should be one character that does not attract attention, but should be given more than is warranted, it should be the chaplain. for he, as i should want to see so much in myself, is guilty of all charges made against him, because the crimes are his. i feel, that if it is inappropriate to say, then at least i have said it in privacy, that this is particularly so of the uncharged faults that the chaplain is also guilty of pertaining to all his relationships - barring perhaps the one irony that does not serve my situation at all, his relationship with his wife. however, if anything can be learned from the chaplain's torment future of being guilty of all accusations not yet made against him, i should relinquish all responsibility, authority, and (un)fortunately all joy that can be made from such future things before they can come to pass - absolving me from all that could be made against me (and with this, wishfully, all that is worse than nail clippings in a box, though i can imagine no greater sin).

before the detritus that already is this paragraph unhinges into something slightly more than mindless dribble and aloof proclamations of love and lust, let us all take a moment to remember that all of this future sin could be avoided easily by remembering ones place. my place. because in any decent outfit, no chaplain can be a major, much less a colonel or general. and even those who aren't chaplains, they may (quickly rise to the ranks and) become someone, but never become more than; especially if the appearance of that person is so easily pigeonholed: of grotesque physique, or infidelity in faith, or laughable accent in speech, or a slouch of gait and posture. but, especially so, if the name is any indication or leader. a name of great import, of high esteem but low amiability, that of major major.

if only i had known

'do not grow up, it's but a trap!' i wish i had been told,
when i was young, while growing up, before i'd become old;
they'll laden you with chores and jobs, and dinners, stale and cold,
with adult responsibilities, and bills of the untold!

a hundred thousand and two score more of duties to be done,
then add about fifty-two more for each accomplished one;
while toiled away with worries including all under the sun,
and trying to convince yourself 'at least i'm having fun'.

'don't get a job, it's just a farce!' i wish they'd told me so,
while i was young, like bamboo shoots, while i had yet to grow;
what is it for? just money's sake? i've heard worse, i suppose,
a vital evil for a house, a car, and to propose.

and on that note, i wish they'd warned me, 'never fall in love!'
for what the heart has deigned for is from hell and high above;
that best you can do for the one is stop short of enough,
much like a fleeting, despondent, and skulking caged white dove.

but most of all, i wish that they'd told me just this one thing -
i wish they'd told me that we're all but mere and mortal beings;
'do not grow old, for with it comes all ailments, sickness, death,
and torments filled with dread regrets you'll hold with your last breath'.

not all is lost, however dreary made but all these naughts, there's hope yet still for all your children, brazen by the bunch:
'if all with growing is but fright, and sign of your demise, know that you're still an adult and can have ice cream for lunch'.