Posted in dug up stuff, Malaysia: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love th on March 19, 2008 by chamome

get up at 8, shower, go out into Chinatown, have Chinese porridge [in Chinatown?!?!?!?!?!] for breakfast [in the morning?!?!?!?!?!?!], ‘zhi chok’- fish porridge , is the best meal I’ve ever had in the morning time! drink black tea with it, costs RM1 [ur pathetic]

check out hotel

catch bus to Cameron Highlands to Tanah Rata where Misha used to live

realise I’m jetlagged about halfway into this 5hr journey when I can’t keep my eyes open despite the windy roads.

Get to Tanah Rata, call Dr Liao who we’re staying with, he’s at work so we go have lunch in Restoran Kumar, roti and dhal and a lamb curry with black tea. Misha’s memories’re flooding back, is so bizarre to think he used to live here!

After lunch, walk up to where his flat was. By his home is a v v v v tall water tower which we climb and can see right across the jungle to the mountains we’re going to climb on Thursday. Come back down verrrrrrrrry slowly and meet Dr Liao at a different Indian restaurant, get in the car to his house where I discover he’s learning Japanese so try to remember everything I learnt but can only come up with nihongo tsu go i ne which is almost complete gibberish,

chat like forever about everything (will catch up later, we’re off to a market then Mish’s old school)

HELLO! so after chatting forever we go to dinner in nearby Brinchang where we go to Chinese restaurant for a steamboat which is a giant pot of boiling water which you cook thangs in like bokchoi, prawns, watercress, chicken, bla… apparently I was using my chopsticks like a ‘spastic’ and Dr Liau has now taught me how to eat with them [never ‘spas’ again Doc] like theydo in ‘proper Chinese culture’ and am getting quite good now! oh yeh to drink we had, get this [nudge nudge], fresh carrot juice mixed with milk—— not as rank as you might think but undoubtedly not as good a drink as ‘te tarik’ which is tea made frothy with condensed milk. it is I think the most delicious hot drink ever. [alcoholic] Actually. MMM!! [fag]

then we go back to Doc’s house and go to bed pretty much straight away- he goes to his ‘Japanese teacher’s house’ to ‘pick somthing up’ ….HMMM. Mish’a da thinks he’s Geh but all we’ve found as evidence is a men’s fitness from 1995 with Matt LeBlanc on the front nect to the words “A Single Guy’s Guide to Thanksgiving” 😦 lol.

“Excitement. Amazement. Tranquility. Fascination. Malaysia.” Japanese Ad



Posted in dug up stuff, Malaysia: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love th on March 18, 2008 by chamome

we arrive into KL in the dark so all I can see are the lights and there aren’t as many as I’d thought there would be. And how will I be feeling when I’m flyinf away from those lights, coming home to you! [oh, I know how you’ll be feeling you lovejunked puppy…]

Get on this air train to get to baggage reclaim, v space age hahahahaha! get bag, entry visa, get on KLIA express train to KL central, all the adverts are in English, people chatting in English and only using Bahasa Malaysia for slang…

Misha meets me at the train station and we get into taxi and drive to Chinatown where our hotle is, so many things to see in KL but we’re coming back later. McDonald’s, Nando’s, and Dunkin’ Donuts… Mish has to go into a McD’s to get change for a 50 cos everything’s so cheap (more on that later)

Check into hotel, I notice all the pink decor, phones, bedspreads, liftdoors… Jalan Petaling is the street name.

Go out into Chinatown and buy rambutan, totally hairyspikysofthard shell with like lychee inside- buy like 50 for RM2 (33p),,, go along towards the Night Market and eat nasi rice goreng fried and drink FROTHY sweet tea, mmm condensed milk haha!! [NONE FOR YOU.]

Then we go to Jalan Street Shah/Khan King [like Shah Jahan,,,] where they’re settin gup for a parade and stand by the talles flagpole I ever saw and look at the skyline, the Petronas Towers, the KL Tower, even Maybank’s building is impressive.

go to bed. after shower.


Posted in dug up stuff, Malaysia: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love th on March 18, 2008 by chamome

I did the emo one tear cry, well like a couple of tears right after I glimpsed you wave goodbye- it sort of upset me that I thought you hadn’t seen me see you… anyway, it wasn’t full-blown sobbing, just leaking eyes but I felt like doing so much more, X this lady gave me a grin and a thumbs up which was cool. [wtf]

I don’t think I spent very much time after security really, apart from getting to the Gate. On the gate there was this man who looked a lot like Noel Edwards/Edmunds/Houseparty and in the seating area were like MILLIONS like of like women in hijabs [generic ignant term, :s] – which is v bizarre cos the whole point is that you Don’t stare at them but I kept locking eyes with these random, kohl-smeared women because that’s the only part of them you can see, see? -also was this Canadian girl who was so v whiny on the phone

flight’s cool, am sat in a two seat bit next to this guy who looks a bit like Mr T with that beard and everything and he laughs Real loud when he spills orange juice all over himself… food good, Emirates good!

We don’t actually take off till half eleven (hr late) and so arrive in Dubai, where it’s morning and dusty and baking, late which means all the passengers to KL get corralled into this little herd and marched to the gate, and we get on a much more budget plane where I have a seat next to this African guy who just reeks and has no idea about personal space but we have a cool chat before he, like, passes out midsentence or something.

how VOX got me through college

Posted in dug up stuff, vox absurd on March 2, 2008 by chamome

no vox archive is complete without this:

your words reach my ears through all time (2006)

Posted in dug up stuff, scribbles on March 2, 2008 by chamome

Memonholod-thi fand t’inkrh-u bit ágana.

kix do kix-u la-u,

Heb thi mendrh hoummemonholod la;

Vim la-u shot e thi shod xop.

Hellenikrh shl main: arh-mendrh to shodrh la.

Hod-u-éth shot-u e tel-u ta zha kafdinala,

Em ta-thi, arh-u.

Cha tel-u mavalyariyadanot e dot,

To vamolidgaa-u arh-mendrh aat kebekeb kebmemon

Kix gratkilkanma e aat eth ta ágana.

Vam rhotullitkefdo-í-Zheth kebmemon-mendrh.

Eth zha fanditvi… thi an, arh-u?

Revision (2005-)

Posted in dug up stuff, story on March 2, 2008 by chamome

From darkness sprung,

And devils plucked

From lines of ‘no’

And bugs below

The belt which bite.

Yes, I was saved

By Beauty and

A youth worker

And also by:

The angel of

The Clinic of

Things that say: ‘I

Fucked up my Life

In the night-time.’

And she spoke so:

‘You are still young,

Not yet a man-

Yet not a boy.

My little man,

How has it been

Living like you?

Twice tested clear

Yet can you smile.

But badly of

Yourself think you?

So seemly bright

In smile and mind.

So seemly charged

Behind closed door.

Your beauty falls

Far short of mine,

As angel I;

Still can I see

With ease how you,

Like spilt sweet zone,

Attract the bees,

The bitter wasps,

The mindless ants.

They flock to you,

Through dirt they creep,

To taste, and bring

Your sweetness home

In words of lust,

To others droned-

A testament

To their great power:

They sniffed you out

And smelt your youth,

Destructive power.

They planned it out

And learned by heart

Just how to make

Good sense depart

Your clothes depart,

(Though some with less

Did find their fill.)

My little man,

Can not you see

How dull your blade

Shines out in depths

So low that no

Star can there reach?


But tell me child,

Do badly of

Yourself think you?’

So spoke she and,

Content in self

And quite relaxed,

She waited for

The right reply

That swiftly came

Though through closed eyes:

‘I thought I sought

What they would give.

I thought, then sought

What they did give.

And all the time,

I wondered how,

Despite my plans,

They had me so.

Dear angel mine,

Thank you for this.

I can now tell

How low I am.’

My angel smiled

And took her phial,

Her needle too,

And took my blood.

And as she took

This did she chat:

‘So say you that

You read the Arts?

My daughter too

Does study them.

You seem alike,

Strange thing, to me.’

In quiet mind

I did reply:

‘Let’s hope it ends,

The likeness, there.

What mother would

Say of her child:

“She seems alike

To you dear boy

With needled arm

With fears of death

Or puss or lack

Of any child.”

Bad blood, for what?

“Oh yes, my own

Is much like you.”

What mother such

Would stain her child?’

A thoughtful hum

Was my reply.

As I thought back

Some seven months,

The white room died

Like faded shine,


Quite gone in time.

But in a beat

To me it seemed

And walking through

A sleepy town,

I found myself,

From work to school

But not my own.

The day was hot,

Men beaten down

By sunshine beams

Renewed in Spring-

Heatwave in March,

The twenty-third.

I remember

Two spoons taken

From humble home

And ice cream bought,

To my new friend

I sped my walk.

First thing was to


About our clothes.

My bloodied jeans

Just fake blood from

Anna attack.

His what-he-wore

‘My clothes are packed

Ready for home.’

‘And where is that?’


You know we are

Illegal there.’

And off we set

The heavy sun

Did make more strong


With light and smell-

His scent which could

Full knock me down

With sick desire.

And as we walked

Our dialogue

From mums, to sun,

To plays, to sex

Did swiftly flow.

Cookies n’ cream

Our favourite

Food and toy soon

Became and all

Because likeness

Was established

With it and all

The other small


Tastes and foibles

That make a match.

Most of that time

We were alone

And mixing our

Minds ever more

And ever more

Till it would be

So fucking hard

To say goodbye.

“How could you lie

So easily

To me, your own?”

“That you with ease

So deftly put

To hear them all

And gorged yourself

On syllables

Struck on my chords

Not thinking of

The words they made.”

The white room lived

As memory

Caught up with life.

Each word became

A needle thread

Through my bled heart

And on each thread

Red drops did slide

To fill my heart

Back up again.

But shame! The shame.

This heart had holes

Through which his words

Fell fast and stained

My childish soul.

I cannot bear

To patch anew

What depths my mind

Resorted to.

With present passed

I can assume

Subconscious fault.

My god, his eyes…

I don’t want to


painting with my words (2005)

Posted in dug up stuff, story on March 2, 2008 by chamome

khanaïah uhn noeti mor

zhinaïab ahni nakhbarsehn i

ehka! sammu zíkhemme ahna

khanaïah uhn noeti mor


goh iya ih nemakhan soha

ihmme kalan tomik jariehn i

libmeh tomik iyen jariki

tamah ihlak tamah, karas ko


goh iya ih nemakhan soha

ihmme kalan jari tomikehn i

libmeh jari iyen tomikki

tamah ihlak tamah, karas ko


nehm si namab karas koehn i

pezhi sammu ah ya ehn i ya

ya i ehn ya ah sammu pezhi

i koehn karas namab si nehm


tamah zakas ohi nemahna

ihmme ehn soha kalanehn i

goy iya ih nemakhan soha

tamah ihlak tamah, karas ko


ehka! sammu zíkhemme ahna

khanaïah uhn noeti mor

libmeh tomik iyen jariki

libmeh jarik iyen tomikki


karas ko, tomik jariehn i

jari tomikehn i, karas ko