Another year bid its farewell, and yet another new year beckons. And with it, the flurry of events that have always been associated with year's end: holidays, Christmas, New Year countdown, back to school and, of course, Hari Raya Aidil Adha.
Finally (usually on January 3rd), you'd find yourself slumped in the comfort of your office chair again, with a week's workload staring at you in the face. And you're still struggling to reorganize your thoughts; trying to forget that waterfall or that sand dune or that cool mountain breeze or whatever remnants of that holiday.
New Year Days of yesteryears were, to me, more colourful. Maybe it's simply because I was a young kid then. But then again, there were no large scale celebrations. Not even a fireworks show; at least there wasn't any in my little home town called Teluk Anson (now Teluk Intan). With no handphone to SMS with, no internet via which to send e-mails, no 24-hour satellite television and no Playstation 2, there wasn't much for a kid to do. Yet memories of New Year Days still have a lingering impact, at least on me.
What we had in abundance was diaries. Yes, diaries. Calendars as well. It
seemed that whenever you went shopping, every shop would give you either a
diary or a calendar. Real ones; in all sizes, shapes and colours. Not like the ones you'd find in handphones, PDAs, Laptops and PCs nowadays. And not like the weblogs (blogs) that we now keep in some remote homepage or website. And the calendars bore colourful scenery pictures, or even scantily clad ladies promoting electric fans or rice cookers (which somehow didn't quite make sense to me even then). Then there's the one that you have to tear off everyday (in P Ramlee movies used to denote the passing of months), nowadays only found in genuine self-respecting kopitiams .
My father gave me my first diary when I was in Standard Two at St Anthony's Primary School. It was a pocket diary, pale green in colour, probably given to him by some sundry shop, with the last few pages having some photos of semi-nude women (which he did not realize and I later hastily tore off). It wasn't exactly the kind of present I was hoping for, but when I set to write the first few lines, I gradually realized that it gave a whole new meaning to my New Year. I was beginning to be remotely aware of the passing of each day, and its significance vis--vis my own life.
My Dad is a prolific writer, and until now he faithfully writes and keeps his diaries along with his other unpublished literary works (at this point of time he's busy writing about his reminiscences and coping with his life post my Mom's death). Looking back, I realize that to him it was more than a pastime; it's his passion. And beyond that, maybe he's keeping the log for us, for his future generation to appreciate and cherish. Or perhaps it's his way of keeping up with the present, whilst never losing touch with the past.
Nothing beats holding a pen
Of course, now I (and perhaps everybody else, too) maintain a blog to jot
down memoirs and paste photos on. But it's not half as fun as having a real diary. A diary is something you keep close to your heart, which you can feel, open and flip through. And sometimes, hug. A blog is surreal; only there in artificial cyberspace, at best awaiting for you to go online, and is not there at times when you'd most probably need it. And nothing beats holding a pen and watching the words flow as you write. It's like an extension of your heart. Try simulating that using a keyboard and a mouse. Come to think about it, writing an online blog feels just like playing online chess.
I'm not against the modern technology; in fact I consider myself sufficiently IT literate and have been fairly quick to embrace the new technologies. I have been using the computers ever since the times of the Sinclair ZX 81, Sinclair Spectrum and the Commodore; models and brands which have long since become obsolete. And of course I know what's the difference between http and https, and what URL and HTML is all about. And today I basically know that when people talk about Bluetooth and Blackberry, they are not referring to some kind of teeth disorder or fruit tartlet.
But sometimes new technologies can be irritating. I was at Ampang Point the other day, buying a Ten Ringgit `Gender Changer' meant to change the USB Port interface to enable my archaic Palmtop to synchronize with my wife's Laptop. When I wanted to pay for it, the cashier tried to flash the barcode reader, but nothing happened. The cashier had to call his supervisor, who again tried to flash the barcode reader. After several frustrating attempts, it appeared that they have not yet listed the item.
The supervisor then set about trying to list the item, and he announced to the cashier that he needed the product number. The cashier produced a thick file and they both squinted over some lengthy fine printed list, trying to find the particular item's product serial number.
By this time it appeared that both of them have forgotten that they have a
customer in front, so I had to re-announce my presence and politely request them to expedite, lest I'd have to choose a different shop. That prompted them to do a manual process, after which I gladly left.
It seems now, in any store, each and every little item has a serial number. Buy one item without a proper barcode and you'd end up waiting five minutes longer than usual. Which sometimes made me wish that we could all go back to that time when we could simply pick up things we'd like to purchase, pay for it and leave. But of course, technology is here to stay since its virtues far outweigh its occasional glitches. Which I would tend to agree, with no real qualms.
Hence on New Year's Eve, I watched Astro, surfed the internet and replied well wish SMSes like all 21st Century modern dads. I use the computer a lot, and my handphone faithfully reminds me of the daily prayer times. I maintain three blogs, moderate an e-group, am a member of about a dozen others. And I was quite content spending my New Year's eve alternating between all that.
Continue little tradition
Then suddenly one of my kids asked me about my New Year resolution, and
that somehow set my mood for some reminiscing. Like everybody else, I used
to have my own set of New Year resolutions, carefully written down on the
first page of my diary. After a while, it lost its significance, as was the diary itself. Nowadays when I mention resolutions, most probably it would refer to the Company Resolutions (pursuant to the Companies' Act, 1965 and/or its Memorandum and Articles Of Association) or perhaps something to do about my digital camera's megapixels.
That was when I decided to continue this little tradition, insignificant as it might seem. I decided to give my kids a diary. Comparatively, it's a little late for the two of them, and a little early for the other two, but nonetheless I gave all of them a diary each. It's a cheap RM2.50 3 X 6 inches diary, and understandably each of them initially thought it was just another book to sketch in. Then I related the history of my little pocket diary to them (minus the details about the semi naked ladies, of course), and was glad to sense their thrill in commencing such a simple routine.
I don't know until now if my dad actually read any of my diaries, but after a few days, I for one couldn't help but wonder what had become of those diaries that I gave to my kids. So I picked up one and eagerly flipped through the pages. What I saw there made me smile. I called my wife and showed her the contents, and she smiled approvingly as well.
Of course the entries were sometimes funny, sometimes absurd and sometimes
saddening in varying degrees (my kids are in Standard 5, 3 and two of them
in Standard 1), but the fact that all of them faithfully and meticulously wrote all the things that each of them rightfully deem private and important in their own way was, at the very least, inspiring. And I solemnly declared that I would thereafter respect their privacy and not touch any of their diaries again.
Now, as I sat here in front of my Laptop, trying to update my blog, I sensed that something is missing. I missed the passion flowing down from my heart through the pen. I missed the freedom and privacy to write down my innermost heartfelt emotions. A blog is exactly the opposite of the diary; the former you write to let other people read, the latter you write just for yourself. Call it narcissism, call it selfishness; but perhaps the correct word is self-respect. Everybody has his own way of appreciating his own life. Of not taking things for granted.
So the next time you go to San Franscisco's Coffee, Starbucks, Coffee Bean or whatever Bistro offering WAP or GPRS connectivity, oblivious to the usual crowd of `Mat Gadgets' busy with their latest handphones, laptops or whatever latest gadget they have, there might just be somebody writing an entry into his conventional diary.
The Year 2006 is still blooming fresh. Today is only January the 20th. Still not too late to wish everybody well. Still not too late to formulate steely resolutions.
And of course, still not too late to go and get myself a diary
Happy New Year 2006.
This article is dedicated to my wife Norfaizah Md. Jaafar and my kids Daniellia Zainisya (11), Hilmi Firdaus (9), Daniellia Zetrisya (7) and Iqmal Firdaus (7)
