miit, hiit, endure and run!

Gonna start with a disclaimer right at the outset of this truly long overdue post with the caveat that this is by no means an attempt at a sordid motivational story. It isn't intended to nudge, push, persuade or force anyone into making any major life decisions. Please don't. 

Oh, I tend to be quite liberal with the use of inverted commas, for obvious reasons (to those who know this NBC – Natural Born Cynic).

This post is merely an attempt by a self-proclaimed, introverted and occasional narcissist at putting her jumbled thoughts into some kind of narrative. As usual these written ramblings are often a “note to self” or something I need to get off my chest, commit to “paper”, breathe and then move on to thinking about something else. 

Right, here goes. 

I like to consider myself an active person, having indulged in all kinds of sports. But with a plethora of shoddy excuses over the years - from an insanely jealous individual who forced me to hang my skates up (once upon another life I used to play inline hockey) to having no time - a dread sense of realisation that something had to give began creeping into the periphery of my consciousness. So about 20-ish months ago, I embarked on a journey down a road, one I never really thought would lead me to where I am today. And, it is a trek I'm quite happy to continue plodding on. 

The seed of that need-for-change prick of a thought had already burrowed itself deep in my psyche particularly after visits to a “lifestyle” physician at the behest of a family friend. At that time nothing really happened despite having to endure listening to the “doctor” and “nurses” drone on about “BMI”, “borderline obese”, “height to weight ratio”, “aerobic and anaerobic” blah, blah, blah.. At that time, I actually perfected the art of going into safe mode, i.e., “I really am paying attention and looking concerned, but actually somewhere in my head, I’m strapping my snowboard on and staring down the line through the trees of that gorgeous powder-deep snow covered mountain, preferably somewhere deep in Viking-land.”

And so, nothing happened. 

The Nordic eye-opener 

Can you really blame me for taking that extra few minutes at the top of the run to marvel at this. Norway 2015 

That was until I was actually on my snowboard marvelling at the gorgeousness of the Nordic landscape of central Norway some 20 odd months ago. Now, I have been on many snowboarding adventures over the last few years and it is my one and only true love.

Chairlift respite

But, after trekking 2+ km from the house in wintry conditions on slippery, icy roads wearing snowboard boots with no-grip (seriously, try it!!) lugging a snowboard in tow and climbing up the little hill to the gondola station, I was literally huffing and puffing and glad for that 3.5-minute respite on the chairlift. 

I had never really noticed it before, but it would always take me a fair bit longer to get my ass off the frozen ground after strapping in my right foot and start riding. Once I got going though, everything else becomes a pleasant blur. And what contributed to my ignorance was the fact that I typically got used to it after the first 48 hours of any snowboarding sojourn. But my last Norwegian escapade really became an eye opener. I didn’t endure any particular slanderous body-shaming or “you are so not fit” experience per se, but for one very strange thing that happened one unsuspecting day. 

In winter, the sun never rises any higher. I was up really super early and first on the mountain to catch this. It's these kinds of vistas that make me want to pack up everything and just live here forever. Happily this was not the day of that awfully embarrassing episode. 

That "Oh Sh*t" moment(s)

It was a normal snowboarding day, in fact a truly spectacular winter day, the ones where the sun barely rises but gives you just about enough light to make it down the mountain. It was the kind of vista that literally begs you to drool in awe at the beauty of this amazing blue planet of ours. 

The offending binding!!

I digress. Anyway, after spending a good couple of hours in the morning up and down the chairlift, I decided to take a little break. I came to a stop at the bottom of the run ready to extract myself out of my bindings… 

Holy %*@$#^!!! I’m stuck!!! The binding strap on my right boot simply refused to release itself from the catch. Trying very hard not to look like a complete idiot, I eased out of the view of the chairlift operator whom I had come to know and took a deep breath and tried again. I failed. 

After sitting there for what felt like an eternity, I realised that I needed a little help despite my sorry-ass attempt to look like a cool cat. I should tell you that I ride regular which means that my left leg is the lead, and far more coordinated than my lazy right. 

But, for some bizarre reason I decided against strapping the left foot back on, and started to skate on my right to the café where I might try extracting myself again. Naturally, I fell several times making little Norwegian children laugh so hard at my comedic theatrics. After clowning about I finally reached the café and thankfully my barista friend was there and I managed to get her to help me call a ski patrol. The complete and utter SHAME!! 

My saviour! Jas is an amazing soul. 💞 

To cut a very embarrassing episode short, I realised at that point how badly out of shape I really was. To be fair, I was both physically and emotionally destroyed, so much so that I gave up the rest of that gorgeously un-groomed and rare powder day. 

All the way back to the house, I reflected on what had happened in the midst of praying that I would not bump into Mr. Ski Patrol tomorrow on the slopes or what disguise I would opt on for the remainder of my stay. Alas I did see him again, and will have this rather stupidly amusing story between us, and probably one to add to his list of the most stupidest rescues. 

Another oh-sh*t moment happened on the return journey home. 

I met up with an old work colleague somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere and during our very long dinner date, she threw me a curveball. She asked what had happened to the feisty super fit tiny kenit (Malay slang for 'small') she met an aeon ago. I was like, “What? Who?” She asked why I had let myself go so much and from the inference, she was referring to my girth. As my genetics means I have the enviable gift of having a much lower centre of gravity, i.e., I’m short, in essence I had literally let myself morph into a fairly wide human ball. 


Thor's delayed thunderbolt

How round was I! This kid is one of my 
inspirations.Kiwi racecar driver, Faine Kahia

Sometimes I believe that some people (i.e., me) stumble upon certain decisions as a consequence of a series of many little incidents, gentle suggestions and/or episodes or in my case, absolute calamity. 

Therefore, upon my return to these tropical shores, this trek to turn things around actually happened more like an unconscious and quite possibly, happy accident - the consequence of a series of different forces. So, there was no being struck by a bolt of lightning on a clear day but the ball began rolling after I plucked up the courage one day. 

I had been eyeing this mma/Muay Thai gym in my locale (sadly it went out of business) and decided on a visit one random day. After a quick scan at the rates, I politely proffered my apologies and exited with as much grace a human ball could muster. That would have been it but for the man who ran after me when I left the joint, someone who would come to change my life. Turns out he was just helping out and was there to train some of the trainers at that gym. After shaking off pleasantries, he was very blunt and asked me what my motives really were. 

Muhammad Ali. My biggest inspiration and why I
went to that blasted gym in the first place. 

To be honest, I had no idea what I wanted, or for that matter what I really needed or why I was even there. I gave the stock response of wanting to “get fit” and thought boxing was really cool. He gave a derisive snort and asked again and added, “why?” Wow, this guy is really obstinate. Instead of being repulsed, I actually decided to humour him. 

Before I knew it, he had had made me think of the “what”, “why”, “who”, “when” and “how” behind my very random visit. After a good half hour of listening to me mumble something, he somehow concluded that he was to become my coach and I, his pro bono little project. The nerve of this stranger (on his self appointment, not the I-don’t-have-to-pay bit)! 

I was a little stunned; this scary looking dude wants to coach me?? Why? After breaking down my usually iron-clad resolve of avoiding discussions on fitness, weight etcetera in any shape or permutation, he came clean in the most straight forward way I have ever encountered. In essence, he was surprised that I was brave enough to come to this dodgy looking place and that I didn’t run when he came after me. 

In the weeks that he had been in Malaysia (he’s not from around here) he had come to see people (women, particularly) sneak a peek at all the gyms he had been visiting and beat a hasty retreat (probably after looking at Mr. Scarface). By chance, the one that actually decided to walk in and ask the price was the one he decided to talk to and literally adopt. 

I on the other hand, swallowed my pride (despite the deafening protest at this point) and shock, and decided to just go for it. Amazeballs. I’m glad and lucky that I didn’t roll away (not run…  NEVER run) or listen to my damned pride. To this day, I'm glad for he never asks for anything but my time. Sometimes I find it hard to wrap my head around the fact that he chose to help me. 


Miss Procrastination, meet Mr. Scarface

Aches and pains.. Groan.. I'm getting really
good at this kinesiology taping business

If I am honest, the journey didn’t start especially well. With my pride in overdrive, there were a lot of moments of self-doubt, the insecurity of this fit ex-illegal street-fighter (amateur boxer, he says) judging me. We spent a huge part of the initial months breaking me out of that insecurity and allowing me to trust him. Though I hated (still do) those moments, I did, trust him that is. 

He also wanted to school me on the many myths about fitness. Amongst the first thing we threw out was the idea of the gym, this despite him smuggling me into the gym where we met at low tide (i.e., it's empty). While my case of not having the funds to spare for these exorbitant membership fees was different to most cases, he used to say, the most common myth he discovered during his stay was the misguided concept that getting fit involved spending money on and time in a gym (sorry all you gym buffs, it's not my intention to belittle the idea, and totally respect that you may have different goals). Phew!

More injuries.. haha!!

Amongst the other first things we trashed out was also the idea of emulating. Once in a random conversation, he was so cross when I inferred at aiming to be like a particular athlete I admire. "Don't ever idolise, or set your goals to be like him or her! We are here to get you to be a fitter version of YOURSELF, not him or her, but YOU!" 

The initial months were crucial, I realise on hindsight. With him guiding, I began to develop a whole different understanding of my idea of fitness, actually doing it and more importantly, keeping at it. 

Truthfully, it isn’t a science with some weird mad calculations but is more about common sense. It isn’t about slogging out the hours per se, but more about accommodating activities into your daily life. He made me first re-adjust the way I thought about getting fit before attempting to change my day to include it. Every day was different but the same, if that makes any sense. It’s not that complicated but an approach that if I ever decided to commit to paper, would confuse people.

Although training during Ramadhan is
scaled back, it's still torture. 

Suffice to say, the initial months of experimentation have led me to where I am now. 20 months on (wow!) and I can say that I am grateful. With his guidance, we developed a very personalised, medium to high intensity training regiment, tailored to what I want to achieve and can maintain. From someone who absolutely detested and still HATES running, I now shadowbox, run on average 5+ kilometres daily and do interval training every single day. The cool thing is when he shared his training regiment with his other charges, every single one was different, unique to our individual needs.

My relationship with Mr. Scarface is also a unique one that is slightly easing off with him having so much on his plate. He has come to the conclusion that I now have enough discipline and motivation to train without him in the (FaceTime) picture all the time. Yes, we FaceTime or send video messages to each other because Mr. Scarface went back to his home country. So, living in different time zones means our training was and has always been via electronic means. 

More than that, we also have an unusual relationship where he became and remains my life coach. Whenever my motivation wavers, or I am frustrated and angry or lazy or complacent for whatever reason, he always makes me look at things differently and forces me to channel that energy. It doesn’t always work but he gets me off my high horse or from my slump and works my ass off.  


Coach said I could, and I did, damned straight!

Mount Yotei in the distance, and I shall climb and ride you one day

The training paired with his off-the-wall coaching style is where the brilliance of it all is. Whilst elements of experimentation, trickery, a healthy dose of coercion, pushing, forcing, yelling and screaming were aplenty, there is method in the madness. Though we decided against major data analysis (since I really cannot be bothered to weigh/measure myself) other than what we interpret through my tracker - heart, VO2, rest and sleep patterns including my monthly moon cycles (YES!!), ours was a strategy that produced results and more importantly, one I can feel. It is hard to explain how we train, but I think the biggest litmus test was going back on snow. 

On my recent snowboarding sojourn to the land of the rising sun, I noticed that I had more endurance, didn’t huff and puff as much, and I would’ve ridden all day were it not for the stupid hourly passes someone on a teeny weeny budget like me can afford. That or the fact that I have to catch the last bus back. 

When I met MMA fighter Colby Covington, 
we talked about my coach, and Colby 
agreed with my Mr. Scarface.. wow.. 

I’m also a creature that doesn’t really feed off people’s opinions, being the over-opinionated narcissist that I proudly am. But, when people started commenting, lamenting and even begging me to help them, I am reminded of the essence of what Mr. Scarface said to me early on in our relationship. 

“I need you to remember that fitness begins first in the mind.” Profound. There’s often the (misguided) idea that fitness involves slogging it out for hours and hours. Inaccurate. People also often mistake that getting fit involves some weird science and requires someone with the weight of academic paperwork behind them. Do you? You might not really need it. 

What you might really need is someone to guide you through the fundamentals on top of the prodding and pushing (gently or forcefully). Strip it down to the bare essentials; wrap it around your overly full (or otherwise) life and the rest we build on and learn together. 

We are all unique, so your fitness regiment should also be unique to you. He used to say in the beginning, "it's working out at your pace, in consideration of what you can do, what your day is like, where your mind is at, for you." 

In essence - working out at YOUR pace, YOUR ability, your time, with what works for YOU, not anyone else. 

I have also learned that what you really need is someone you can trust to unearth your own internal drive to chase your own inner demons away and tell you that you can and you will. Thank you Mr. Scarface. I’ve been lucky and maybe it is time for me to help someone else.  

OK, it’s time to glove up and begin my torture training. 

This lesson is brought to you by the letter E... eureka!

Once again, I've neglected this space for a wee bit, partly because I've been so darn busy looking busy and partly because I've been a tad lazy. Then one day, while waiting to break my fast, my fingers felt the itch and once I started, it all came back to me. 

It began when the boxing Coach* came back to his round of #ringphilosophy thanks to his (really) psychotic GF drama… 

Then came conversations over chocolate waffles about epiphanies.. It led me to realise how dangerously close I was to falling through the gates of frustration, disappointment and that overwhelming sense that every avenue, lane, alleyway and path I’ve tried seems to have led to absolute naught, every time.

Over the past year, I've continued orbiting in an industry that has been my passion for more than half my life with organisations and individuals that I've felt deserved my attention. 

Ruled by passion and emotion over logic, I have of late been thrown accusations that I am wasting my time, effort, energy and emotions on folks who either don’t notice, deserve care or even bother. 

Training in Ramadhan is hard. Was inspired by Hakeem Olajuwon who
played for the Houston Rockets in the 90s, he still played all his NBA
games while observing Ramadhan. Respect.

“Why? Why do you bother when he / she / they clearly don’t / doesn’t care??!” At times, in the dead of night when insomnia takes over, that small voice in the cavity where a heart used to be would yell out, “for heaven’s sake, stop caring about them already. Walk away.” 

All I know is that I’m sitting on an obscure edge right now. Truth be told, I can feel the anger surge within me, in spite of my pathetic attempts to suppress it. It’s a nasty feeling that is being compounded by the roundabout insults hurled at me by the very folks I have agreed to help.

Interestingly enough, I find these out in the most unlikely situations, conversation openers that begin with, "he / they said to not say anything to Farah," or "whatever you do, don't let Farah find out.." or even one that wins the Olivier Award for ultimate ridiculousness, "I refuse to discuss anything about this with Farah, what does she know.. nothing!" Seriously? OK.

So, do I, should I, ought I stop caring? Some have said that those I try to help don’t deserve all the energy or effort I put in. See that’s just it. I’ve never proclaimed to be an expert at anything. In fact, I think I’m really good at just winging it and on the odd occasion I actually pull it off, surprising myself even. Lately, I’ve felt that that strategy has failed me. I’ve even let myself stumble over something so mundanely stupid and so out of character that it would seem that I’ve been stumped by some invisible kryptonitic force. WTH?? 


Why do I effing bother? Because I care? Because I want to achieve something that I never thought was possible? Because I feel some strange magnetic pull from a deep dark place somewhere in a black hole hidden away in the universe? Because I feel the urge for an impossible challenge? Hell if I know. 

Then I’m reminded of something Morgan Freeman said in Million Dollar Baby -- and yes, live with the fact that all my friggin analogies will gravitate around BOXING.. not kickboxing, muay thai, mma.. BOXING -- “the magic of risking everything for the dream no one else sees but you.” 

And, yes, it seems Tim the Coach senses these things (I reckon he’s super freaking observant.. I really must rethink this relationship...) and out of the blue, Mr. Coach sends me a flurry of cryptic messages, like: “you’re feeling like you’ve been KO’d with still half the bout left to fight. GET UP!” 

This is often followed up with, “you’re tripping up shuffling on two left feet, try one foot over the other, SLOWLY, then pick up the pace. Still stumbling? Stop.. start again."

As something that is becoming rather frighteningly too regular when in conversation between jabs and hooks or footwork over the past few months, I’m befuddled. I'm begging him to stop throwing me these cryptograms and of course, he gives his weird smile over his nasty scar under his crooked nose and says, "it applies, you want to quit, give up and stop bothering.. but that's just it, deep down you care too much.. You BELIEVE. Take a step back, breathe, look, then move forward and take one step at a time.. observe, learn and then decide." 

He then adds, “but don’t do it for them.. do it for YOU, damned it! Get the satisfaction of doing something for yourself and if it helps them, great, a bonus for them.” 



Honestly, training during Ramadhan has been especially mind-numbingly hard.. 2am wake up calls, intense timed sessions and I always end the session crying in pain. 

Strangely though, in between the ridiculously excruciating footwork and boxing, my mind lapses into a truly bizarre and very surreal state of calm for a brief moment and I’m at ease - yes, panting and sweating profusely with my heart about ready to burst out of my rib cage. Why do I work so damned hard? 

The first epiphany at 3.45a.m is this: though it seems I’ve been enraged at having wasted my time on this, that or those ungrateful sod(s), it seems I’ve overlooked the fact that I’ve learnt something new or picked up a new skill or established a new connection or reestablished an old one. 

The RBF queen - Vivien Leigh as Cleopatra in the 
1945 film Caesar and Cleopatra

I am only human after all and a scorpion to boot who’s lightning quick reaction to bullshit is more instinctual than intellectual and very much predicated on a built-in primal force. Thus, the failure to look past the fire. 

As the stunningly gorgeous Vivien Leigh with the perfectly executed RBF (Resting Bitch Face) so eloquently put it, “My birth sign is Scorpio and they eat themselves up and burn themselves out. I swing between happiness and misery. I am part prude and part nonconformist. I say what I think and I don’t pretend, and I am prepared to accept the consequences of my actions.” 

But most of all, what came out loud and clear ringing through the rigorous pain I subject my body to is as the great Muhammad Ali put it, "it isn't the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it's the pebble in your shoe.." 

It is my choice. I am the one that can slow it down or speed it up, if I want or care to. I can choose what I need to discard and the moves I need to change.

So with Ali's words: "Inside of a ring or out, ain't nothing wrong with going down. It's staying down that's wrong," whispered by Mr. Coach in my ear, the second painful epiphany at 4am is this: 

Yes, I'm down but I'm getting up. I know what I need to do. 

Gloves on... 

And as usual, Mr. Coach has to have the last word and says, "look on the underside of your gloves. What does it say?" I want to say that I think if I had a spirit animal, it'd be an Amur leopard, but what the heck.

* and in case you haven't already figured it out, since I was last on, I only managed one snowboarding return trip to Norway and had to postpone the one planned for March. So, I picked up boxing to fill up the need to be active. I miss snowboarding terribly and stare longingly at my board every night. 

a clamorous cacophony of epiphanies .. tiptoeing on the art side..

Oh no, another random post! Random in that it fits neither the outward personality nor the seemingly incredulous nature of this author. And judging from that visceral opener, my apologies as I attempt to take on a subject I am not a master of, being neither schooled in nor partial to an iota of talent for it. 

It all began with my very random decision to visit the National Art Gallery on Jalan Tun Razak and the Islamic Arts Museum (IAAM) near the National Mosque. Yes, imagine me at an art gallery or art-related museum!? A frightening thought I dare say so myself. Despite your thinking that I've taken leave of my senses, the trek was actually for a good reason -  I was gift hunting (which proved an excellent course of action as it gave me a plethora of gift ideas as I sought to diverge from the convention of gifting kitchen items or even vouchers), whilst at the same time endowing oneself with the preconception of being "schooled" in art.. 

The compound around Paris' Louvre at night.. and yes, I did in fact almost
go all Robert Langdon on that Pyramid..

Though I have had the privilege of visiting the giants like the Guggenheim, Smithsonian, MoMA and the Louvre in a past life, I cannot with absolute certainty say that I was able to gain any valuable insight into the very ethereal subject of "art". 

But there was an overwhelming sense of desperation as I stepped into the National Art Gallery, not because of what was being exhibited (which was the Art of Mapping at the time of my visit and the fact the gift shop was closed forever). What struck me was the the glaring lack of a vibrant feel that I did thankfully feel in the air at the IAAM, even if at the time of my mid-afternoon weekday visit, both venues were not exactly filled with people. That experience was enough to make me want to launch into a discussion into why that was, but that is not the purpose of this particular narrative. I digress... (what's new?!!)

Looking, seeing, a personal take

The thing is, the experience made me want to look at the idea of "art" from a very unacademic manner, particularly here where my feet is currently rooted. But I ought to start this with a disclaimer that my understanding of "art" barely skims the surface for I would not want to get into an argument or even a dialectic discussion with any "art" expert or exponent or practitioner, for I will be shamed and banished to an uninhabited rock in the middle of some distant ocean, not that I would be complaining, so long as it comes with a mountain and abundant snow for half the year. 

I had a headache and neck pain staring at these.. How Baroque..

and that drew me to imagine the music of Bach, Handel and 

Vivaldi playing in rooms such as these back in the day

Suffice to say, if I had to explain my knowledge of "art", it would be in the "little to none" category. That is confounded by the fact that I am neither inclined towards the mystery that is "art" having had little interest in it or inclination for it from a young age. A shame really, as I could never truly embrace the talent nor master the patience to nurture it. 

Having said that, I genuinely have a healthy respect for those more capable than I when it comes to the visual "arts". Whilst I may not have the eye for it, (staring at an art piece demands too many neurons in the right half of my brain, enough for a slight throbbing headache), I am in awe of the intricacies in the "art" that is often pointed out to me by those better trained. 

Whatever little genetic predisposition is probably dormant in my being as I do come from a family blessed with the talent for the "arts" courtesy of my late grand uncle, an aunt and countless cousins. Above them all being a younger sibling, who in her student years, used to share her passion by enlightening me with the masters that she studied like Matisse and Kandinsky.. oh, please don't ask me to list them for I'll definitely draw a blank. I'm still clueless.. 

But, see there in lies a dilemma. What exactly is "art"? If you look it up, there will be multiple definitions. One such definition includes - "the conscious use of the imagination in the production of objects intended to be contemplated and/or appreciated as beautiful as in the arrangements of form, sounds or words". I suppose, one could go down the academic path and tear that definition apart and declare it as flawed. But I won't, but will say that in addition to many many definitions, there are also long drawn-out narratives (!!) about how truly difficult it is to define and classify it. This is why I've put the word "art" in inverted commas. At the end of the day, as much as it is something that is very publicly appreciated, it is also (admittedly) quite personal, often referred to as being somewhat of an acquired taste. 

What I have been able to discern from the multitude of definitions is that the words "creative" and "imagination" are prevalent across the board, be it in the manner of its translation into the visual (sculpture, picture, painting or photograph), the vibratory (sounds, music) or in the vernacular (words). 

Whilst through the years, I have grown none the wiser for it, in whatever form it manifests itself in, I dare say that with age comes a measure of respect for it as well as the "art" of faking it or winging it. #lol



The Back story 

Age also allows for a bit of refinement, particularly in my demonstrating the patience and perseverance of going through a gallery filled with art. I might not see deeper than what's visually demonstrated at face value, I can spend the time required to browse through a collection. 

I'll admire the use of colours, the juxtaposing of the subjects depicted and to some extent the choice of materials, but rest assured I will be drawn more toward the back story, the period from which the piece was created and even the tragic and/or dramatic story that may have prompted the artist in the first place. For me, the intrigue of the arts comes more in the history of the piece itself and/or the artist him/herself. It's much the same in the way I appreciate music, I am far more attracted to the underlying elements behind a piece. 

For instance, I recently reacquainted myself with my obsession with Beethoven's 9th Symphony in D minor aka The Choral (I bet you'd know it if I hummed it to you, pray that I don't) - arguably his most daring, magnificently monumental and mammoth creation. The thing is, being note-blind (thanks to an awfully evil organ teacher to obliterate whatever talent I might have had as a kid), I cannot appreciate the intricacies and inflections of the musical passages nor marvel at how its played in all its magnificent parts from the string, wind, percussion right through to the choral parts in the fourth movement. That said, the beauty of the piece still reduces me to a sobbing wreck after the entire length of its glorious 74 minutes*. 

What attracted me the most was that Ludwig was almost if not already, categorically and completely deaf, if not intolerably of an unsound mind by the time he finally premiered the 9th at the Theatre am Kärntnertor in Vienna, 192 years ago. Giuseppe Verdi (the man who penned amongst the world's most famous operas like La Traviata and Rigoletto - you know that tune La Donna è Mobile) who was amongst the audience was however amongst the symphony's detractors particular on the vocal arrangement in the fourth and final movement. 

The thing is, my imagination runs riot whenever I come to the inevitable conclusion of the 9th, seeing in my mind's eye how Ludwig, with his back to the audience, was unable to hear the thundering, rapturous and colossal response from the crowd. It took one of the musicians (the lady who sang the contralto part it was said) to turn him around to see the waving hats and hankies in appreciation - thanks to Gary Oldman who plays Beethoven in the film Immortal Beloved, that image has forever been burned onto my psyche. Bottom line, when a piece like that has such a rich historical tapestry attached to it, I am inexplicably drawn to it, even if I cannot read a single musical note from it. 

Leonardo Da Vinci's Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris

Similarly, it is perhaps the pseudo-wannabe-historian in me that is awakened whenever I brush past an artwork. I once caught myself ogling at the written description just underneath Leonardo Da Vinci's Mona Lisa at the world-famous Louvre. Valued at over US$700million, it is arguably the world's most expensive painting, most viewed, endlessly discussed and most imitated piece of work. 

Whilst many stood staring admiring his brush work, absorbed in Leo's attention to detail and choice of colours (and taking selfies), I was far more intrigued with the many speculative conjectures behind the woman at the centre of the painting. If you'd asked me if it was painted in watercolour or oil, I would have no idea (OK! OK! I know it's in oil, painted in the high renaissance period of the 1500s). What is intriguing is the fact that so many differing hypothesis have sprung out of signor Da Vinci's work, which to me is far too interesting to ignore. 

Homer, the ancient bard, credited with the
infamous works of The Iliad & Odyssey

In part, being a lover of ancient histories, I accord that same innate attraction to a backstory and willingly admit that my choice of "Athena" as my name during my long-forgotten inline-hockey days was deliberate. Looking back, it was so lame!! 

To my own defense, I was then (and still) attracted to her attributes - strength, femininity and wisdom as described in ancient Greek mythology. And when I ambled into the Louvre's collection of Greek art, I went numb marvelling at the sculptures of Athena, Artemis and Ares and even that of the most famous of ancient bards of them all, Homer - the Greek poet who lived somewhere around 800BCE.

That drew my mind back to a time when I devoured Homer's Iliad and Odyssey with utter fascination as I imagined what it must have been like to witness how the power-crazed Mycenae King Agamemnon used the poor excuse of the kidnapping of his brother Menelaus' wife Helen to embark on a decade long seige on Troy. To me, it is incredible that such a work continues to thrive and capture the imagination of so many generations, inspiring painters, poets, sculptures, writers and even Warner Bros. Pictures (pfft)! Oh dang it Paris, did you have to shoot your blasted arrow that mortally wounded the mighty Achilles??! (and please I beg you to NOT THINK OF BRAD PITT either)!  

Were it not for the artists who laboriously sculptured that piece of stone or bronze, people like me would not be able to visualise beyond our limited imagination what ancient historical figures like the famed Myrmidon hero or the King of Ithaca might have looked like.  

what a gift.. to be able to sculpt these from an unassuming rock.. the Greek deities / heroes as represented in the eye of the artists... TL: Artemis, BL: Hermes, TR: Diomedes, BR: Ares and in the centre: Athena

Respect, don't teach to discriminate

My late grandfather loved his books and he had an extraordinarily 
marverlous collection of leather-bound books including Alexander 
Pope's translation of Homer's Iliad. It's mine now!! 

Anyway back to the intent of this boring, aimless narrative. In a past life, I was given a healthy dose of exposure to the visual arts (and music) being in very close proximity to those whose vocations in life is dedicated to the preservation and promotion of it as well as to those of a higher proclivity to appreciate it. I was also most fortunate to have had the pleasure of a boss whose passion for the arts had a spillover effect on someone as art-stupid as I am. 

Anyway, that exposure opened my eyes to how difficult and challenging life as an artist can be. For instance, as one art advocate once said to me, "for every one artist that sells a major artpiece for a huge chunk of money, you can be assured of an entire army of other artists struggling to put food in their mouth, let alone attempt to feed a family with that talent." 

A humbling thought and one I can relate to as a struggling pseudo-wannabe-writer (or stringer of random words). As if to add insult to injury, some, if not most, do not get even an iota of recognition in their lifetime. At best, whatever ambiguous attention they may have received in their day was at the cruel end of the stick of contemptuous ridicule. I dare say, perhaps obscurity is a lonely dance that artists all share..

One art antagonist once argued with me about how art is absolutely useless and that life ought to be focused on the more practical things in life. Good thing I was gasping with air lest I throttle him with my bare hands. I only had enough energy to ask him if he enjoyed staring at the bare walls of his home when there's a thunderstorm that's wiped out the cable service or if he enjoyed the enveloping silence sat in that hour drive home in the traffic jam. Oh wait, you watch TV no? And didn't you profess your undying love for Daenerys Targaryen as evidenced in the marathon reruns of Game of Thrones? And didn't I see you ferrying Tolkien's Lord of the Rings about the other day?? Was that to show off and make you look more learned in the eyes of your fellows? Whatever dude, why discriminate a form of art whilst favouring another? Just because you don't or can't appreciate art in all its forms, doesn't mean you have to be a complete and utter **** about it either. A**h*le. 

Anyway, as this point was made blindingly clear to me that perhaps more than irritation, I actually felt sorry for him, sorry that he is so ignorant, sorry that he fails to realise that art is all around him, from the music he hums to at the gym, or the book he reads (and picked out based on the pretty cover), or the movie he spent RM14 to go see or the pretty pictures of the sunsets while on vacation to post on his Facebook and Instagram. The point is perhaps, some people just don't, can't or won't see it. And that perhaps comes down to a number of reasons to which I shall in no way attempt to delve into, for I am neither an anthropologist or a master of the human sciences nor do I dare say I'm expert enough to attempt a futile attempt to convincingly sway any detractors. 

Cool, Calm, Creative

I will say this, ignorance is dangerous. And blind, blissful ignorance is malevolent. I believe we humans are naturally attracted to pretty things, and that some are blessed with the enviable gift of being able to capture that beauty in a multitude of ways. 

In some people they hear the chirping of the birds in the morning as the beginnings of a symphonic arrangement; the haphazardness of mindless traffic along Jalan Sultan Ismail the seed to what might become a visual masterpiece of metallic art. Some might see the ritualism of everydayness in ones life a source of inspiration that gives birth to a wonderfully crafted rhythmic prose. There are those amongst us who have the gift of transforming tragedy and utter hopelessness into a profound piece of writing or photograph, whilst some are better able to articulate and emote through movement in dance. 

Whatever form art takes on, I dedicate this humble, haphazard collection of random words and congratulate those of you who have chosen this thankless vocation of the arts. May that well of inspiration never run dry, even if I will never have the art of making enough money to buy your remarkable piece, watch every performance you do or go to every exhibition you're in. 

this is my niece's artwork done when she was 8 years-old. 

I do also hope that there are more of us to keep you at your art, and that parents don't teach ignorance to your young ones, so that they would be able to see and appreciate the beauty that surrounds us everyday. Perhaps there is a seed of that talent waiting to bloom into the next Mozart, Rembrandt or Tolkien? Perhaps with your encouragement, that talent does not need to be needlessly quashed but rather moulded to become something truly wonderful.

I also respect that art is very personal and subject to taste - aye!! beauty is in the eye of the beholder (gagging at being forced to pull that cliché out!!), but I am firm believer that as rational beings, surely it is not difficult to at the very least acknowledge that our experiences are shaped by that which surrounds us, even artists and their work. So even if you cannot understand the motive behind a person's art in whatever form it manifests itself, surely you can respect that person's choice and appreciate that he/she is expressing him/herself in ways only they can. 

Don't we all want to be heard in some way? So on that premise alone why not respect that artists might prefer or can only articulate what they wish to communicate in the form of a painting, sketch or sculpture, a piece of music, a dance choreography or poetic prose, etc..? This regardless of how dreamy, dazzling, delectable, delicious, dreary, dark, disturbing, dubious, dangerous or even delirious our interpretation of that telling may be. 

I also do not honestly know what inspired me to scribble this particular seemingly nonsensical rambling down, other than to hope that perhaps the coming generation can be encouraged to learn to, at the very least, understand, appreciate and respect rather than discriminate. After all, the optimist in me likes to believe that tolerance is one of many things that defines humanity, especially for rational beings that exist in such a social human paradigm that is in itself diverse in creed, class and colour, as well as craft. 

Thanks.... that's off my chest.

this was my one and only sorry-a** excuse of a 

selfie at the Louvre, with Athena, no less

and Bach serenading me in my ear, I think..

Near-the-end-note: There are so many many many recordings of Beethoven's 9th and I couldn't find Furtwängler's 1942 version, which was said to have been the most apocalyptic and frightening and majestic.. oh well.

* FYI - the Compact Disc (CD) was (allegedly) deliberately invented to have a 74-minute play time in order to accommodate Beethoven's majestic 9th Symphony.