I couldn’t be arsed to write a serious post all of a sudden. Reading Gunasegaram’s 22 questions to Dr. Mahathir feels like a turning point, the point at which the pliant press, having been given ground to maneuver, suddenly find themselves in cahoots with the incumbent out to scalp a legitimate target. Funny, isn’t it? The same media asking these questions will, the next day, turn around and root for the incumbent. It’s all business, of course, and good business at that.
Enough depression for one day, anyway. I had the signal honour of conversing with a well-known client, this evening. About half-way through our conversation, I realized she was trying to screw me over - not literally, of course, but you get what I mean. Such a pity, since she has such potential. You know how you’d make vague promises to fend off committing to something? Ya, that’s how the rest of my telephone conversation went. Again, such a pity because she’s ravishing, or so I’ve heard. Pah, women.
The end of the financial year’s in sight, which usually means sleepless nights at the desk, or drunk and passed out on the floor. This year’s been different, with so many prominent leave-takings, so it’s been relatively quiet, but with the usual buzz of activity. My interest in the World Cup, over the past few days, have waned, and none to soon: work has started to catch up with the sort of urgency a mild catastrophe instills in hapless executive-types.
It’s going to be almost a year now since I renewed my wild experiment in blogging, and it is at this stage of the story when I look back, in the wee hours of the night (or morning, if you prefer) and think deep thoughts. I don’t think I’ll say much about what I think about blogging, mind, because I wouldn’t want to engage in too much navel gazing. It’s been fun, and interesting for many reasons - even more fun (for me) now that I’ve forced myself to stop using pictures. (Weird, hmm?)
What started as an outlet from typing about a thousand words of objective, serious shit each day has become a vehicle for my interests, most particularly in local politics. I find, however, that too much interest in the local scene tends to generate the worst sort of despair. I figure it’s the curse of youth (not that I’m young, mind): you see ‘problems’, and then profer solutions (sometimes), and then expect the world to change over night. Frankly, I thought I’d left my idealism behind some years back; it appears our predispositions, like spots on a leopard, never really go away. (Ugh, metaphors).
From where I’m standing, in any case, it appears some things hold true in the current political landscape, one of which being that empires don’t last forever, and a dynasty survives as long as its last most vigorous member. In that fact I take some comfort. I expect I’ll be able to write a little more in the coming days, but soon, studies will take priority. That, and partnering up with an old, old friend to read law, somewhere - maybe here; in this case, I know we’ll be doing it because we want to, unlike what I’m currently doing. Much joy will ensue, I assure myself.
Maybe, maybe.