I had an eventful day.I could have chosen to type my thoughts out about how a Malay taxi driver and myself commented about how mosques nowadays look like churches from the back,and community centers from the side,views.It was a conversation driven out of my conversational context as my taxi made its way into the parking lot of Asyafaah mosque.
Or perhaps,I can type my ramblings,about the current economic situation facing the Malay Muslim community,as discussed between myself and a community serving official.About how Malay Muslims are in general…
1.Love being spoon fed
3.Lacking initiative to be proactive
10010.Loser’s Limb Mentality
Or I can type about how a realization on how Mendaki funds may be suggested to perhaps deduct say $3 bucks monthly from a working group of people.There are 600,000 Malay Muslims in Singapore.Let’s pessimistically put it that only 200,000 are active workers.Let’s pessimistically put it that only 100,000 out of this 200,000 contribute monthly to the fund.That’ll be $300,000 a month from collections.Multiply it by 12 months.That’ll be $3.6 million a year.Multiply it by a modest 10 years worth of collection,that’ll be $36 million.Then again it’s just my bias unproven theory that such amount of money even exists.Going by the amount of money we need every year,am sure I’m way off my calculations.Maybe Yayasan Mendaki has lesser funds.
Or I can perhaps write about why I feel uplifted,angry,purposeful,inspired,revengeful and just plain emotional when I am listening in to One Republic’s,”Apologize”,like how I’m doing now.There is something haunting about the song.Something about the song that just throws me back into that wormhole of being an asshole.Something that cries out,”I could and have should done better.”
I choose to write about how I killed Ultraman tonight.
There is a reason.
You know when you were just a kid.When you used to be able to squeal your parents into submission by the sheer power of persistence.When you bawled the last liters of your tears just to get your hands on that last edition of Starcom spacecraft models.When the Visionaries illuminated the imagination that there was indeed a mythical creature trapped within your kitchen’s silver spoon.Or what about believing that the best paper plane,was the one that had a beak liked tip like the one manned by the Silverhawks.When you can no longer understand the theories of flight,you escaped into that region that Man and machine can indeed be one,as a Centurion.Or when you named your pet cat Leo,in the hope that it’ll rip your sofas as how the Thundercats tore through your screens.
I was the perennial superhero.In my mind at least.
I was once an air jet fighter pilot who’ll tear through the skies,shooting off laser beams at monstrous creatures that just emerge from the sea,hell bent on wrecking havoc on the helpless cities of Tokyo.There’ll be time when my plane will crash,and I will be ejected off,scrambling for safety.And in that instantaneous moment of magic,I will be transformed into that silver and red leathered superhero,called Ultraman.I’ll beat the hell out of the monster in bouts,and I’ll be tired.How do I know this?It’s because the circular orb like attachment,in the middle of my suit will be blinking furiously.Basically it meant that I had to fly away for a while and let myself be recharged by the sun’s rays.By the time I’m fully charged like a Nokia battery,I’ll just fly back down to Earth and finish off my job.And that is to execute a crescent like blue laser at the monster,destroying amidst the rapturous cheers of my colleagues who did nothing but watch the spectacle.
That was me.
Fearless and heroic.With that dose of silliness of course.Do you know or actually realize that Ultraman has black dots as pupils on his yellow eyes.And the position of the pupils indicate that Ultraman is cock eyed.
I love Ultraman.Because he symbolized my childhood.The age of possibilities,where no matter what happens,Ultraman will always win.He was the symbol of that old age truth that good will always triumph over evil,even if good is represented by a cock eyed,red and silver suit wearing fin headed hero called Ultraman.Or for that matter also,having a family that consisted of brothers called Ultra Seven,Ultra Leo,a King Ultra,Ultra Father,Ultra Mother,a sister called Ultra Lia and Ultra Ace and the whole clan of Ultra Ultras.That’s how huge Ultraman’s family tree was.I’m sure they’ll have an UltraMat soon.
Point is,I miss my childhood.
I miss my Ultraman moments.That heroic days of saving the world from disaster in that small corner of my life,called imagination.When I jumped from swing to swing on playgrounds,avoiding the sand monsters.When I threw paper made stars called “shuriken” at oblivious monster called “adults”.When recharging meant that I grabbed my bolster and had a short nap.
As I grew older,the magic and appeal of Ultra moments dwindled.I was lost in that seductive world of women and money,career and status and all things unimportant.Sigh.
Somehow,the “adult”monster had slain the Ultraman in me.I killed my Ultra-Man personality.That heck care,bash and whack,win with style kinda attitude.Ultraman was all that.He defined a pop culture of heroic personality where one should have the faith and belief that all things will turn out right if you battled on.The best part of all this,is the privilege of being able to keep the identity a secret.It makes the experience thrilling to say the least.
Ultraman’s monstrous adversaries came with a whole host of scary agenda.In fact they were huge and fearsome.Just like life’s events at times.Yet,Mr Ultraman always saves the bloody day.An agenda that is still being kept to this day.
My chest is blinking.I need to recharge…