The Chant of the Devil

The day had come to pass again.

There was an expectant hum rumbling in the shed of mortar and bricks, even the harsh fluorescent bulbs dangling above dimmed and flared in crackling anticipation. Unbidden, the odor of stale food and drinks, abandoned in the room as if to feed wandering sprites and pixies, that rode the old musty carpet wafted up, setting the gathered masses’ noses a-crinkling.   

Beyond the enclosure, the sun scorched the land with an intensity that could only be experienced in the height of noon.

The Shaman lifted his arms, a simple gesture, but one that rippled with authority and demanded reverence from those seated before him. He was clad in somber black; the inky color ran the length of his body uninterrupted, though the solemnity was betrayed by the expression on his face, which reflected a significantly different mood. Perhaps it was his belief in the powers of the ritual, or perhaps it was a manifestation of the many years of performing the sacrament, but his being seemed to exude an air of mad exultation.

“Today we shall give our thanks through the glorious hymn of the Kaldumisi! Is there anyone who wishes to step forward and offer their servitude to the Great Lords of Du and Mol?”

Shadows of fear flickered across the pale faces of the people seated behind blue and green planks of wood that served as pews, each of them struggling to keep their eyes averted from the Shaman’s by staring intently at the shafts of paper containing the notated passages of the rite, with every individual’s own interpretation on the pronunciation of the lines scribbled messily across the pages. Desperation rose like bile at the back of the throats.

He clicked his tongue impatiently – a dangerous sound; the Shaman must not be tried. A wobbly hand pierced the clouds of bowed heads. The first sacrificial lamb.

A sense of finality settled over everyone. Of course, it was not to be deluded that this was the end; it was merely the beginning.

“Ah good! Come come!” he tapped gleefully against the Altar: a rickety but massive slab of wood, its sides painted in the shade of the night, as if licked by the tongues of flames till charred, though it had a glossy sheen to it.

The girl ambled to the front of the House of Aural and sat gingerly on the stool placed before the sacred Instrument of the Dark. She stroked the crude rectangular pieces of carefully varnished hollowed wood that would strike and ring forth the voice to accompany the ceremony.

Slowly, creeping, the dark rite of Kaldumisi began. It is a rite that asks not for Blood, but only for Time and Patience. It demands not for Hands and Feet, but for Ears and Mouth. Singing is the sole medium of commune, and a show of devotion that yet seemed to be devoid of amongst the herd.

The melody that came from the girl was haunting, a tuneless tune that ignited a sense of forbidding. It sang of unyielding frustration, of a fruitless harvest, of pointless suffering, and of a rigged game in which only the bystander could win. Soon, the Shaman’s voice joined the girl’s, imbuing the disturbing song with dark intentions. From the depths of the unwilling worshippers’ minds, a beast took form; a creature shaped by the mold of panic and dread was conjured till it was almost a physical, tangible writhing mass.  

The silence that followed the last note was eerie and deafening. In the lull, the Marks on the girl’s slate shifted and swirled, and at the Shaman’s nod and touch of his fingertips, a pattern formed and stayed. There was a stir among the ranks, like a huge animal shivering; the Curse of the Marks, the Judgment of one’s devotion.

The Shaman’s expression did not betray the girl’s fate; it never did. She would receive her Marked slate later, so would those who had performed the ceremony, but for now, more would be called upon to sing their loveless love to the Goddess of Aural.

The second volunteer came forward a little more hesitant than the first; hating to submit his fate to the nonsensical chanting, and yet hating more to risk the wrath of the Shaman.

It is a painstaking ritual that gnaws at a person’s Time and reserves of Patience, at times even biting off chunks of them if he is not careful. Thank the Chords that the voodoo garbling needs only to be executed once in a fortnight, maybe longer.  And it ought to be noted that completing the sacrament is by far a wiser and, surprisingly, less painful choice than the alternative, which would be denying the Shaman a sacrificial subject and setting fire to a tantrum that had the ability to burn for days. No, better to ride out the storm as best you can and pray that your ship does not capsize than try to steer and flee in the opposite direction.

For the dark rite of Kaldumisi, there is no fight or flight, there is simply endure.

The return of the doodle

“Read me to sleep.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, draped low by the heavy curtains of drowsiness. Yet the strength behind it was commendable; it was not a question, though not quite a demand.

He chuckled. That was his girl.

“Yes, ma’am. What story do you happen to fancy tonight?”

She knitted her eyebrows in mock annoyance and pursed her lips, which currently resembled a closed rose in the early hours of the day, before the golden beams of sunlight pried the pale-pink petals open.

A slim arm lifted and waved about shakily. “Whatever. Something I can relate to. Sleeping Beauty.”

“Oh?”

“I took forever to wake up too.”

“Your coma is not her beauty sleep.”

Her pause was negligible. “Well, I’m awake now –“

“ – barely.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sorry, I’m just –“

The words were swept away by the brush of the lips and in a faint whiff of mango, apple cider and the underlying cloying scent of medicinal products. He wondered vaguely if her lips had always tasted this sweet, or their cold absence had made them so. Those long, gray weeks of waiting, praying for the first flush of color in her skin…

The impatient tug on his hair pulled him back from his brooding, and he felt himself arched a brow at the ferocity; it seems like Aurora was not the only who can be revived with a kiss.

“Sometimes I still dream about it. I would wake up from the nightmare of not being able to wake up – screaming, sweating – then squeezing my arms or legs so tightly till it the nails cut into the skin and it bled and the pain would assure me I’m alive…” Her breaths were shallow, and she sounded hollow, dispassionate, like someone being forced to recite lines in an audition she did not want to be in. “…but there are times where I actually welcome the endless sleep, never needing to wake and deal with all the shit life throws at me, free of the pain, so peaceful…”

“Baby, please don’t.”

But already his mind was flipping through the slow days in the whitewashed hospital room, doing everything he could to keep insanity and hopelessness at bay. He had read to her the stories she loved, sang to her the songs of their own soundtrack, recounted to her the moments they had together made now and forever. Then she had stirred; a twitch of the finger after three months and twelve days of dead stillness.

Now, to be able to feel of her heart beating against his chest and the warmth of her cheeks in the cup of his hands is his definition of blessing.

His lips found hers again, but this time with a sense of urgency spurred by the sad memories. Then, slowly, they drew apart. He grabbed the book from the shelves facing the foot of the bed, huddled close beside her and began to read.

The melody of his voice floated around them, and as she drifted off, it softened to a murmur, just like how the music of a musical box fades when being left unwound for a time. Her personal musical box. Every song I sing is for you. He leaned in and kissed her twice; one on her forehead, one on the jagged scar that marred a side of her face. As long as I get to keep your smile.

The room darkened still as the bedside lamp was flicked off; the stream of moonlight impatiently directing him out the door.  

And he left, knowing that she would wake up in the morning.

*******************************************************************************

I wonder why I'm not dissuaded by the amount of crap I write.

Reading is like falling in love. Perhaps it is different for everyone, but I feel that sometimes reading means being vulnerable, because you are opening your heart to love people that can never reciprocate the feeling, and because once you do, watching them suffer or die is not all that hard to break you.

And maybe this is why I write; so that I can shelter my characters; so that if it gets too painful, I can always breathe life into the dead with a line or two. So that I will never be broken. 

Let's waste time chasing cars

If you ask me what I want to change about my past and I said nothing, I would be lying. But I realize that my fear of having a different now will always stop me from wishing for a different then.

On my way

I love waking up in the morning and only asking myself one question, what will make me happy today?

And for the first week of semester break, I have been smiling a lot, mostly internally, and feeling lighter than I have for a long time. Granted, my requests always revolve around the same things: books, writing, baking new recipes I found through StumbleUpon, scrapbooking, and dancing alone to my favourite songs (only my Sluts will get to see this). But they say so much. In some way or another, they tell me who I am; they tell me about me.

We always ask ourselves, what we truly love doing, and are passionate about. And by doing what I do the moment I wake up, you might find yourself getting more answers than you look for consciously, and at times, desperately. Do not ask what you want to do, because that may somehow unconsciously gravitate your mind towards your to-do list and what you NEED to do, rather than WANT. No, ask yourself, what will make me happy now?

And in some weird way, you will feel more productive at the end of the day than if you force yourself to do something the end product of which you deem productive. Should you feel you had indeed wasted time (what a workaholic dweeb you are!), remember the wise words of John Lennon: Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted.

Give it a go. Be happy. Who says life should be bleak and depressing anyway? Neither should it be fill with anger and vengeance but THAT is another story, which depends on the status and mental stability of the idiot who provoked you.

Baking and scrapbooking for me tomorrow (:

Inevitable

Some things just don't change, do they?
Fifteen years on and I still treat playing the piano the way I did when I was six; a bloody chore.
All the frustration and hate for my incompetence simply because I was afraid of being laughed at if I chose writing as a Degree course.
How deflating.
Counting down the months....

Turn my mic up louder, I got to say somethin'

The haze of controversy shrouding the demand of banning Harry Potter books smells foul. Surely burning an entire forest of children fantasy on religious basis is downright outrageous and health hazardous?

I find Rob Boston’s stand in stamping the Harry Potter series as dangerous as they teach children occult, Wicca witchcraft, dark arts, Satanism and so forth, shaky, and my opposition team’s argument that the books invoke rebellion, vengeance, ‘dark’ traits and inappropriate behaviors, is somewhat shallow as both only explore the literal and surface context.

So it is written that the books expose children to a fantasy world that does not exist, inhabited by people doing things that defy the laws of nature and inhabited by creatures that only live in one’s imagination, thus the readers will be influenced into believing everything on the pages and will soon not be able to differentiate between virtual and reality. But, if we were to be theoretical about it, Lawrence Kohlberg’s moral development modal proves that the reader will absorb the deeper lessons of ethics and proper social conduct rather than the superficial ‘hocus pocus’.

He pointed out that the story is relatable to children as the situations that the fictional characters find themselves in, and the dilemmas they face, are similar to the issues children will encounter in the ‘real’ world. And the teachings behind every solution to the problems, despite the ‘magical setting’, can be applied to daily woes, such as the scene where Harry and Ron fought off the troll in the toilet and rescued Hermoine. The troll in this situation serves as a magnified and hyperbolized version of a bully, a more enthralling way to send the message that bullies are not to be tolerated and that there is nothing wrong in fending and protecting your friend from harm.

Kohlberg drew up three levels of moral development, with two stages in each level.  The first is Punishment and Obedience in the primary level of Preconventional. It observes the social background of children regarding their capability to obey rules and to what extend their obedience stretches to avoid punishment. For example, some children are more concerned when Ron breaks a house rule and gets a scolding from his mother, while others may react more to Harry’s punishment from his Muggle uncle of being locked up or physically abused. Depending on the way a child is punished for wrongdoing at home, he or she will react differently to various punishment scenes in the books, and thus learn how the characters deal with the punishment and method of avoiding future occurrence, which they can apply it to their own lives.  

In the second stage Instrumental Exchange, children will behave and act a certain manner that they assume is acceptable so as to obtain a desired result. This is a stage whereby a child will treat his new friends with fairness to sustain a friendship with them, just as Harry does on his first train ride to Hogwarts, when he shares the candies he buys with Ron, a less well-to-do boy. Children will be encouraged to imitate Harry’s generous trait after they experienced the joy and excitement of the two new friends as they tried different sweets, hence instill a sense of togetherness that can spur a child to be big hearted with his friends.   

      

Up a notch, the Conventional level’s Interpersonal Conformity sees children’s understanding of the depth of an action, which affects their motivation of attaining praises, while Social System and Conscience Maintenance discuses the ability to abide by rules to keep social order.  Both stages are effectively depicted by Hermoine in the first book Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Although she is a strict follower of rules and regulations by nature, Hermoine does so in the first half of the book mainly to earn the professors’ approval and points for her House. As she becomes fast friends with Harry and Ron, her rules-abiding tendency shifts to encompass the well-being of the student body, like how she refuses to enter the room with the three-headed dogs to explore the trapdoor because it is forbidden for good reason.

Moving on, the Post Conventional level consists of Prior Rights and Social Contract. The achievement of this stage is attained by most adults and some adolescents, and it observes the acceptability of breaking of rules should the action serves a higher purpose. One of the striking examples is when Harry, Ron and Hermoine decide to save a Hippogriff from its death sentence. They understand that by doing so, they are risking expulsion and the wrath of the Ministry of Magic, but they also know that if they do not break the rule, an innocent creature will be executed for retaliating an attack by Draco Malfoy.

The last stage Universal Ethical Principles is rare and no one has ever reached this state save perhaps the noblest of people, such as Jesus, Mother Teresa, Gandhi and Martin Luther King.

However, I believe the greatest mental stimulation the author can provide her young readers is the call for inquisitions and debates insinuated within the usage of cognitive moral conflict. The series contains seven books, and by reading them in sequence, children are growing, mentally, emotionally and spiritually, with Harry Potter and his friends at Hogwarts. Even though a 13-year old child may read all the books within a year, by the time he reaches the seventh book, he has already attained the moral development, and perhaps a portion of maturity, of a 17-year old, the age Harry is in that book. Also, through arguments participated by the characters, the reader can learn of others’ reactions, opinions, insights and methods of solving an issue. And it is good to note that the series is written by a matured adult, from whom young readers can absorb wisdom and teachings from one of higher moral development level than them.

Subsequently, the art of role playing ignited by entrancing story of Harry Potter helps children to adopt good moral qualities, ethics, personalities and characters. Rather than Rob Boston’s belief of readers’ mimicking and cultivating practices of occult by role playing Harry, Ron or Hermoine, Lana A. Whited and M. Katherine Grimes argue that the young minds are absorbing the traits and bringing out the best of their favorite fictional characters instead. Should I scrap Harry Potter out of the picture and replace him with Cinderella instead, do you pretend you are a damsel in distress and act out the love story in your role play, or do you catch mice to try to converse with them and attempt to squeeze into a pumpkin?  

Books and words shape us more than we ever care to admit and the idea of children consuming negative influence from them strings the parents tauter than any other fears. And matching the speed of fire catching dry hay, a tiny spark will set the fear ablaze across hundreds of minds, in which case religious belief is the lighter. But this is not a reason to ban a book, partially because doing so means you doubt the strength of your faith against the influence of books, and partially because there is no solid scientific prove that the books have damaging effects on children. And also, it only provokes a child to challenge the forbidden, as you are denying him a world.

Besides, if a child is not to read the Harry Potter series, along with Wizard of Oz, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby and so on, what exactly is he to read? Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Then tell me what is the difference between swishing wands and a chocolate factory owner who eats children after they turned into pieces of chocolate upon falling into the chocolate pools?