All the flowers that you planted...

Holding onto that thing on the train that everybody holds on to with both hands in front of me, I rest my head on myself, listening to my mp3 player, to the song you had on repeat in your car when you had just broke up. The song that you would drive to, and keep quiet to, and not listen to the things I was rattling on about to. Were you healing your broken heart?

Was this how she made you feel?

Yesterday night, over the phone, you asked me not to break your heart. I'm not the best person you could trust your heart with.

Does the wind in the tunnel rushes by the train, or does the train pushes itself against the wind? I can barely hear the whining of the song if I pay attention to the howling tunnel. Will it ever tire? I take a deep breath. I feel out of breath. I feel like that pretty often nowadays. I sigh.

Shillings in my pocket. I have a box at home that I will put shillings from my pocket into. I know exactly where it is. I can imagine the sound of the coins as they are put inside in the way I will put them inside. And the way the light will flicker when I turn it on the way I will turn it on. I can imagine exactly how the way the light will twitch as the beep of my computer will sound exactly a moment after when I switch my computer on with my toe. I can imagine the smell of my room. It smells like wet laundry on the line on rainy evenings like these. The dusky sky has a corner of pink.

Most of what's left of the day looks grey. Pale, milky, bluish grey. I remember you asking me what's the difference between bluish grey and greyish blue. I explained it to you in terms of adjectives and nouns. Now that I think about it, I don't know if I'm correct about what I thought any more. I'll be sure to feel even more estranged from it if I give it any more thought.

There are others queuing in the line for the bus. I wonder if they were doing their Christmas shopping. She smiles with delight. Her teeth are very straight. That helps make her smile quite perfect. She could be in an advertisement. The girls on my right are restless, they keep looking in the direction of the bus's way. They are young.

I look at my feet. I cannot separate my index and middle toes. On both feet. It frustrates me that I cannot will my toes, but it does not surprise me. If you were here I would amuse you by making up another story on my toes.

The evening breeze makes the ends of the branches of the tree in front of me move a little. It is comforting to watch it. It is hypnotic, probably. I cannot see the green of the tree against the blurry sky. It is made of shadows now, for all I care.

I shall sit by the aisle. A seat that is near the alighting door. I don't want to squeeze pass too many people to get out. Sometimes it is okay. But not today. I take out my book to write. I tried to write about the tree being made of shadows. But it doesn't flow. I can only remember the image of the leaves swaying. Little 3 cm pinnate leaves. Made of shadows. I lose my train of thoughts. Is that my hand-phone vibrating in my bag? Should I check? Can I ignore it? I really don't feel like picking up a phone call from my mother now. Why do I feel like I have a hang over? I didn't drink anything last night...right?

You had called to ask me if I wanted to meet up for dinner. What would life be like if we didn't have cell phones? What would we be like?

I put the heartbreak song on again. I don't know why I want to listen to it. It makes me feel uneasy. There is a 10 seconds pause before the fella starts singing on the track.

Is it raining again? Doesn't look like it. But why are the wipers on? I shouldn't have worn this today. I wouldn't have, I suppose, if I had known it was going to rain.

The fluorescent lights at the bus stop comes on. The advertisement board is such an ugly lantern. But I feel welcomed. I have always liked to step off the bus. Maybe it's the way it's a big step and a little stretch. Maybe it's a little like the way I like to step off a boat that just docked. A delivery lorry speeds by. There are no cars coming my way. I cross the road despite the red man. I realise that I didn't notice the bus leaving. I don't want to go home. I don't know why I am still walking.

Did you know that I wish to die before I turn sixty-five? I don't think my teeth would last me that long.

(sneak)

Sus

(After much deliberation, I told her the truth. It will not be easier on me now. I do not feel lightened of the burden, now. I feel sheltered by the shade of what is impending.)

I was walking around in the plaza today, and I looked at all the young faces wearing the cliched expressions on the young heads of people older by age than me. They walked around, either holding on, sometimes unleashed, to the pinkish pets they farrowed; or, caressing their not-so-newly-pregnant uterus beneath their bellies, beneath their taut lycra tee-shirts, spilling from their ugly creased cotton cream-vomit-coloured beach pants; or, grunting after their wives they treat as siblings in crimes of stolid abberation.

I wondered, scornfully, "why do they look happy?" Or rather, "why do they look so stupidly happy?" Maybe we tend to over-complicate little things too much.

(Maybe, I don't need to know that you belong to me. I just need to belong to you. I always say that the truth is over-rated but who doesn't want to live happily ever after?)

The little girl with her pony tail, in white barbie tee-shirt and pink barbie pants, talking loudly on her proud mother's mobile phone to her father who may be out fucking some other woman at the hour before this, will grow up to be like who? Her mother soon squeals at her to finish up the food.

(Who did I grow up to be like? It's been a long time since I heard anyone mumble "get a life". It is an impossible dream.)

Take your baby dolls and hang them by the umbilical cords you fed them with. It should be easier than trying to smother them with your half-hearted dedication. It should be easier than having to buy them two dozens of spectacles before they turn 21.

You won't look like barbies anymore, child brides. Buy a strip of pork lard but at least deep fry it just before you lap it up, pigs.

Untitled

Yesterday night, when I was sleeping, Ali Baba came to whisper in my ear. He had a very sexy voice, and he told me that there's no need to doubt any further. He had met Mona Lisa himself, and Mona Lisa is a boy. He also said that in his next life, he was going to be an evil samurai who would have plundered many villages and violated many women, if not for his master who had fucked his backside so hard, and so many times that he could not shit properly, and he died of constipation or rectum infection of sorts, in the tragic end.

I said, okay. Him or you? Mona Lisa or you, Ali Baba?

He looked confused. Or rather, he must have looked confused, if I wasn't sleeping, and had my eyes opened, I would have been able to see his confused expression, but I was sleeping with my eyes closed and I couldn't see, so I can only presume that he looked confused, and presume that I am right, because he didn't answer me, now that leaves me with another mystery unsolved.

This teaches me that life is full of ironies. This is like how I like my clothes to be well ironed, but I don't quite know how to iron anything other than a hankercheif. I don't even know how to spell "hankerchief" properly. I can only spell it out and consider if it doesn't look quite right when I put the 'e' in from of the 'i'. Only after I switch it around a little bit then I decide that it looks better with the 'i' in front. So egocentric, isn't it, to put 'i' first? The hankerchief is used out of politeness and consideration for others, sorta, when one sneezes and whatever, no?

Oh well, anyway, after that Ali Baba didn't say anything already, either that, or I fell deeper asleep and didn't hear what he had to say.

Sorry, Ali Baba!

If you talk to me again, when I am sleeping, I can't promise you that I won't fall asleep when you are talking, because when I am sleeping I'm out of conscious control. So if you are listening to my story now, or reading this, from the internet, why don't you come and talk to me next time, when I'm not sleeping, or sleepy at all, for that matter. Then, I can promise you, that if you talk to me when I'm not sleeping or sleepy, that I will try my best to listen to you. I don't anyhow make that promise to anyone, you know. I only promise to try when I really mean it. That's one good thing about me, I suppose.

I'll even comment appropriately and not ask awkward questions about samurai afterlives.

I'll do that for you. So, what say you, eh?

(sneak)

Softly

He was strumming my pain with his fingers...
Like it was his favourite guitar...
What a bloody sadistic fucker.
I can't believe I loved him.

xo angst.

Hello. Here is a confession.

I slept for too many hours today and I have a slight headache now.
I watched Sideways, this morning before lunch, and related with the depressing material too much more than I'd have liked to.

They should ban shows like that. It makes me feel like shit. The only kind of depressing shows they should make should be like those war shows, and the faces of the characters got blown into different kinds of proportions, and the audience goes,

"Woah, it sure sucks to be you."

It gets worse when I sleep for too many hours.
I fell asleep playing a game on my nokia phone. I was managing a "disco" and my aim was to get 300 people to be at my dance club at one time within 30 days.

I don't have a scooter.
And my adventures are not better than yours.

I'm sick of feeling cold. and warm. and the tightness in my neck and shoulders.
But I cannot think of anything to do about anything.

Stardust

She had always been careless about her oral hygiene, and found brushing her teeth a chore. In a bus, on her way to the dentist, she used her tongue to feel the cavity in her last upper tooth on the right, almost as if to make sure it was in place. Going to the dentist was like her adventure of the month. Going to the dentist alone was like a childish proclaimation that she was independent and she did not need anybody else to function. Going to the dentist was fun because she would spit out blood. She never flossed.

She thought if the dentist was to take her tooth out, she would have the tooth made into a pendant to wear around her neck. How sick would that be? She nearly giggled to herself. It would be like how the fallen star in Neil Gaiman's "Stardust" would climb to the tallest tower to be close to her sisters in the sky.

She thought of how she could put the broken tooth pendant into her mouth, like how she would do that with her pendants sometimes...The broken tooth would then be reunited with her other teeth. Although most of the time the broken tooth would be bored and lonely...

And then she suddenly realises that she didn't quite want to have her tooth removed at all. Quite frankly, she'd much rather have it in her gums til she dies. Surprised by her revelation, and how it had never occured to her before, she tongued her broken tooth more tenderly.

"Perhaps," she thought, "perhaps, I should brush my teeth more diligently from now on." She even considered flossing, briefly.

The Dead Seaweed

The dead seaweed which drifted along the coast had a story that is tragic and is known only to little.

It told the story to some drifting sea foam which carried it to the shore to a seashell which told a playful little boy who picked it up. The story goes about how dead seaweed wasn't always dead, it was in love with a scampi, who did not love it back. Then, the seaweed died of love sickness.

The story is true! The little boy had told me about it himself, and like the shell, the sea foam, and the seaweed, he had no reason to lie. Afterall, like them, he was going to die, if not already dead.

"Trois"

His favourite word is "trois". It is French, and means "three", which in turn, they would sometimes say, "is a crowd".

His eyelids are relaxed in the warm breeze that is against the side of his face as he counts the steps of the stairs he is climbing until he forgets or loses count, so that he can start again from one and smile to himself when he repeats "three", remembering that he likes it in French and at how he is repeating his stupid amusement.

He recalls that she had once asked him about what was his favourite word, and if he tells her of how he's silly enough to count the steps of the stairs, she will surely smile the smile he likes of her to smile so much.

Come escape with us this summer!

Do you want to go with me to the cafe? It's designer, and it serves iced coffee in a plastic cup. You can order an extravagant ice blended juice drink, like that of raspberry, or mango. It's exotic...kind of... You will like the taste of crush ice melting, underneath your tongue. I will get myself an iced cafe latte, like I always do on sunny days like these, when I don't know what else to drink. We will sit by the roadside alfresco, and watch the condensation drip and trinkle down from the side of our cups, and the ceaseless traffic scurrying by.

......

You know, I used to come to this cafe with him, and we'd sit at the opposite ends of a table, like this. I would smoke and write and rest my feet on the space on the chair between his thighs. Sometimes, I would read him what I wrote before and he would listen to me half-heartedly as he looked at me and wondered if it's appropriate to reach to me and touch my face and kiss me on my cheek, or to carelessly flip the pages of a thick english foreign affairs magazine that rested on his lap. I would look at him, and wonder if he was bored with my reading, but continue nevertheless...

We didn't use to drink cold drinks, you know. It turned out that he did not like to watch the condensation from on the cups to form rings of lukewarm water on the table. He claimed it would wet his magazines, or render the table useless, and I would not be able to write on it, like how I would sometimes like to...

He would drink expresso. It was quite funny, you know, as he was a rather tall and big man...and the way he would hold on to a tiny cup of expresso... I would nearly always have a grande latte... He would recommend cuppuccino...

......

After we parted ways, I had often asked myself, if I would ever find the summer reward you promised me? You used to say that you like to think of love like summer. It is never clear to me why you drew that comparison, but you would say,

" I promise you, once summer is over, your summer reward..."

Summer came and left and now it is summer again. Where are you right now? I am still right here. Now that we are no longer in love, are the things you said no longer true?

I have never tasted an expresso coffee. I never tasted cuppucino too. Would you recall that I had never ordered myself a cuppucino?

......

"Tell me, what is it? My summer reward..."
"It is a surprise."
"Is it big? Or is it small?"
"I won't tell you."
"Okay... but will you wrap it with a silver ribbon? I would like that. My summer reward with a silver ribbon."

......

Now, I sometimes drink ice latte, again.

11 Jasmine flower buds

On a night, in a field, in a place forgotten by the moonlight, there was a jasmine shrub from which eleven jasmine flower buds have fallen off from their stems.

Indeed, the sky was growing older, and had her heart broken apart when her butterfly was caught. The night sky resembled the wings of the butterfly number 3, which were of dark blue colour and bore bright little white spots that were made to look like the stars that never failed to shine brightly from behind the clouds. It was for reasons not beyond a fairy-tale that the sky thought the butterfly very endearing, and eventually fell in love with the butterfly without realising. Then, when the butterfly was caught to be pinned down as a dead specimen beneath an anonymous plastic glass chest to be humiliatingly spread, the sky had finally realised that she had given away her heart without relentlessness. Now, she cannot do anything else but cry. Laden with sorrow, the rains that fell helplessly were too much for the eleven jasmine flower buds to bear, and they too, fell to the ground, disheveled, and slightly bruised.

They had wanted to whisper to the winds, to take away their hearts, and give them to the sad sky; but they could not muster enough words, for after all, they were only little flower buds. Out of despair and lack of anything else to do, the smallest of these fallen younglings wept and no one was around to smell the sad sweet scent of her tears.

"I am slightly bloomed, I was going to bloom even more tomorrow. If only I was bloomed, surely the wind will listen when I ask for my heart to be taken to the sky," thought one of the older buds to say to the others. However, as she was thinking this thought, the wind blew past, and made the jasmine bush shiver. This startled the slightly bloomed bud, and made her forget what was left unsaid.

One of the buds, who heard the thoughts of the slightly bloomed bud, felt sorry that she herself would never even be slightly bloomed. She had wanted to weep, but the wind blew a fallen leaf over her, and she took comfort from being hidden.

Two other fallen buds had fallen away from the rest of the others, and they felt alone and scared, and sorry for themselves that their lives will end sooner than they expected. One of them thought of the sisters she had never got to know, and cried for them. The other one of them thought of the mistakes that she had never confessed, and was filled with remorse but no room to repent.

One of them wanted to curse the reckless sky, for how could she have given away her heart to the fragile butterfly? However, the bud remembered that she had only just wanted to offer her own heart to the sky, for she was moved by the sorrowful rain, and then she altogether forgot that she wanted to curse the sky for being reckless.

One of the other buds cried hopefully to two others,

"Let us flee to the running waters, the rain has made a stream, and that will carry our songs to the wind and the sky for sure." The three of them agreed together, for they were ignorant of each other's follies, and took too much comfort in each other's company. Above all, the three of them had believed tacitly that the rain never meant to hurt them. Yet they were to find that the water was to bruise them even further, and they too, would become undone.

The tenth bud, which was the one who fell before the last to have fallen, was too careless to understand her new situation. She rested upon the ground, and enjoyed not carrying her weight herself.

Seeing the madness of her sisters, the eleventh bud to have fallen, wept silently to herself.

Perhaps it was because of the strong scent of sweet sadness that caught the wind's attention, or perhaps it was not, but suddenly, the wind whispered to them softly,

"Little jasmine flower buds, weeping on the ground, what word is it that you have for me? If you tell, I will listen."

"Wind, wind, wind, wind," cried the flower buds, "please, take our hearts to give it to the sky, so that it will stop crying."

"The sky is crying for she is sad, her heart was broken, and will not be mended by your hearts given to her. It is not the way things are meant to work. You can understand, for though you have never bloomed, most of your hearts are already broken."

"My heart is not yet broken," cried the tenth flower bud with glee while the other flower buds wept a little harder.

"Indeed it is not," replied the wind, "Will you give me your heart?"

"If I give you my heart, will you promise to break it?" Asked the tenth, and it was with this that the wind understood this flower bud desired other answers.

"If you give me your heart, I will promise to protect it, and keep it safe."

"I can protect it quite well, so you don't have to hold it to protect it," the tenth replied defiantly.

"You can break it too, my dear, I don't have to hold it to break it," the bemused wind replied.

The tenth thought about it for a while, and was completely confused. What was there to lose? What was there to gain? There was nothing to refute. Before she could decide for herself, the wind stole her heart, and carried it away.

"Come back!" She wanted to cry to her heart, but she knew it would be in vain, and so, she fell silent.

The other flower buds, that had enough left in them to feel sorry for their silly little sister, felt sorry.

Under the sky, the eleven jasmine flower buds would be forgotten with the things they left unsaid, having found forlorn. The wind, although she failed to promise, carried the scent of their sorrows and the stolen hearts to comfort the sky's sorrows. The rain would soon stop falling and the sun would rise to bring the morning shortly thereafter. The new day would bring new dreams, and new songs to sing, but broken hearts were never meant to ever fully mend.

Bitterness of things

She picked on the sliced red chillis that were soaked in light soya sauce and carefully removed the chilli seeds with her chopsticks. As she was going to put the red strips into her mouth, they sang to her,

"Don't eat us! For we will be minced, by the cruel teeth of your cruel jaw!"

This made her giggle and wonder about life and death. How is it that these little dead chilli could even struggle for their existence? When most of the time she was drunk and could not bear to consider the meaning of her own life? They ought to think of it as some metamorphosis. Like they will be minced, and swallowed, and gone into the stomach with the rest of the food that she had swallowed, and will eventually be passed out of her as, well, shit.

"Look at it this way," she said to them in her head, "it's like, the closest you would ever be to becoming a butterfly."

This reminded the chillis how bitter it was that they felt towards the disgusting caterpillars that bored into their brothers and sisters, and completely ruin them, before morphing into butterfly-like-moths, hatching like angels into the skies. Although she did not realise that they indeed tasted a little bitter, she whispered telepathically to them,

"If you give me your hearts, I will promise to break them."

They replied, begrudgingly,

"If we don't give you our hearts, who else will we give it to?"

In the night, in the night, there are bats flying around.
Eating flies, eating fruits, singing in ultra high pitched sound.
They were once dirty rats, crawling despicably on the ground,
Long before long before their wings were to be found.

(sneak.)

Untitled

The Green Fairy came to me one day
And asked me where did Shakespeare go to.
Unfazed by her intricate beauty,
I knew, by drawing implications,
That it was a catch-22-kind-of-riddle.

If I had answered her wrongly,
She would deliver a fatal bite,
From which a lethal poison would flow
And go to my heart and make it bleed.
I will eventually die.

If I had answered her honestly,
She would deliver a kiss,
From which a lethal poison would leak
From my lips to my heart and make it stop.
I will immediately die.

So, I kept quiet
And that is how I live to tell the tale.
She sits on the pulse on my wrist
Awaiting my answer.

Untitled

This is a picture of a tiger in an enclosure in the Singapore Night Safari. It was taken on a night of the tiger's life. It could have been a night significant to the picture, though probably not for the tiger. But then, who am I to say? Perhaps that night the tiger had found a new place to pace the figure 8.

She 4

She stroked her cheek quite gently
and thought if she'd want to die
but the slap whispered softly
to her that she was too old to lie.

Boredom Rhapsody

Of the many reasons that are true, it is indeed because of boredom, that I sleep and that I sleep a lot. On one such occasion, whereby I was bored, I fell asleep and I dreamt, that I fell asleep and I dreamt of a green poisonous snake with no name. The green poisonous snake bit me several times on my feet in the dream in the dream. I woke up in my dream and I recalled the dream to a happy green snake, who is a friend. I said,

"I dreamt of a green poisonous snake with no name." The happy green snake friend, who also had no name, and is usually quite harmless, and lived in a strawberry field, said,

"Hee! Hee!"

To this, I was not sure if it was directed to itself, or to me, so I asked, somewhat accusingly,

"What do you mean by that? Was it you who was pretending to be the green poisonous snake in my dream? Was it you who bit me?"

The happy green snake did not reply me. Instead, as somewhat quite predictable of non-sequential dreams, the happy green snake and I just both chose some strawberries to eat. The snake was more particular about the colour, shape, and size of the strawberries it chose to swallowed after two chomps. ("Chomp! Chomp!") On the other hand, I chose and ate some sour strawberries with less deliberateness and tact, though I did enjoy the circumstances very much, anyway.

Soon, the day broke, even though I did not notice that it was night. The happy green snake slithered away; and it will bother nobody and will have nobody to bother it back. I knew that the snake will live and be happy forever until that day when its heart gets broken, and I dread for that day to come, although I understand that it is inevitable.

Waving goodbye, I woke up from the dream too and to my curiousity, there were two new mosquito bites on my feet, in the place of the snake bites in my dream in my dream.

Now, simply because I remember to recall, I must indulge in wonderings if mosquito bites, or what I think are mosquito bites, are really snake bites in dreams of dreams? Or if the happy green snake was really the green poisonous snake which bit me? Or if the mosquito bites are really the manifestations of the sour dream strawberries I had enjoyed eating?

Perhaps it was not the happy green snake I met afterall, it was the green poisonous snake who was pretending to be my happy green snake friend all along? Perhaps, I did not dream that I woke up in my dream... Perhaps, I dreamt that I woke up from my dream when I was still dreaming it.

For the mercy of how every morning sky is both a beautiful and meaningless sight, can life be any bit more interesting? If any of my "perhaps" was true like that? If I am not recalling my dreams, but am just dreaming another dream?

I seriously, seriously doubt. Although, I am pretty sure the mosquito bites will still be itchy, anyhow. With my sureness, I dedicate all my capacity for melodrama to remorse and despair before boredom robs me of it.

I hope I won't have a stomachache

I have a bad cough. Today, I coughed so hard that I threw up. After throwing up a lot of vomit of spit and things I ate, I resumed coughing badly.

Suddenly, my heart and bits of my lungs flew out of my throat.

"Plop!" my heart went on the table, and, "Plop. Plop. Plip," the bits of my lungs went on the table and floor. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before this. Imagine my shock! After getting over being grossed out, I worried about the mess I made.

I noticed that they were gross and dirty, with bits of fats and some tissue things, or whatever that stuck around. So, I plucked my courage up and picked up my heart and lungs bits. I proceeded to wash them. There were some green stains and black spots. I used the kitchen sink sponge to help get rid of the stains. I was rather grossed out because I never liked to deal with raw slabs of meat. Some bits of lungs slipped into the sink and are lost to me forever.

After washing, I thought, if I tried to force swallow my heart back I would gag and die. Yet, I was compelled to put my heart back into my body. So, I decided to cook it after marinating with oyster and dark soya sauce, and finally, I ate it after dicing it up with a fork and butter knife. The butter knife was the closest thing I could find to a knife and was rather blunt and unenjoyable to eat with. Now, my heart is in my stomach as I am writing this, along with bits of my lungs, and soon, I will pass it out of my body, as shit.

I will have no heart, and incomplete lungs. I refuse to eat my shit. Although, I suppose, my heart is nourishing my body, and metaphorically, I will have my heart with me, in spirit...somewhat.

Now, I have to go and clean up the table of the blotches of heart stains my heart made. It's a little bit gross, but if I leave it until tomorrow, the blood stains may become impossible to remove.

If I have a stomachache now, my heart may hurt.

Ain't no sunshine

[Where have you been, where are you going? wait a while and tell me please before you leave... So at least I have some stuff to wonder, where you may be eating for dinner, what you may eat for breakfast... You are so cruel to steal yourself away from me. There is only darkness that awaits me, darkness everyday. Will you leave everyday?]

One day Snow White was ugly. It is a bit difficult to imagine, when all the stories say that she's quite the beautiful thing to look at. What happened on the day she turned ugly was that Snow White felt too free, so free was she, that she decided to go to laugh at a fish.

"Ha! Ha!" Laughed Snow White, as heartily as she could as she pointed at a fish swimming about in a lake, "Ha! You fish! Ha! Ha!"

This fish did not turn out to be a wizard or elf, or a prince, who was feeling too free such that he disguised himself as a fish; instead, this fish was just another fish, who happened to be very vain about its appearances, and happened to understand human's language, as some fish do. Upon hearing the unprovoked Snow White laughing at itself, its insecurities about being a fish drove it to commit suicide by diving on the river bank.

Snow White, upon witnessing this crazy fish, while still feeling too free, decided to take it home to eat.

"Sashimi!" She thought excitedly, and went to buy wasabi from the japanese guy who grew wasabi and taught people how to eat sashimi and generally profitted quite well from that... but anyway, Snow White got her wasabi and fish and went home to prepare the fish.

Briefly she wondered if the fish was poisonous, for it is always strange for fish to kill itself. Perhaps Snow White was feeling guilty about laughing at the fish for no apparent reason, but the guilt did not last anyway, as she soon raise her sumitomo sushi stainless steel knife to slice the over-sensitive fish.

Alas! Snow White had slippery hands, and the fish slipped, and the knife also slipped, and fell, and in the mad panic, the knife sliced off Snow White's nose, and half a cheek, and the fish was chopped into three uneven pieces.

From that day onwards, Snow White was ugly and lived as happily as she could be being ugly ever after. The fish was eventually thrown away.

All the people invent

Trit trot, goes the billy goat gruff across the bridge across the troll who doesn't care to eat the billy goat anymore because he has the black sheep and three bags full of wool stuck between his teeth! There are hazards to swallowing first class black wool, namely, one will have black wool's stools. The dentist will also wonder why the teeth will be strange. Frankly it tastes bad because the black sheep don't bathe or shave in a long time, in a clean way. We the racist black deep sheep hater but no it's not true we just fear the dark the night is dark the eclipse of the sun is dark, the shadows of our skin is dark it is dark and we are afraid of the unknown so don't get personal please it's wasting my time my life, are you sick of bearing the stench of unbearable lightness of being? Albert! Albert! are you hearing me? Where is the camel that will be the ship across the desert sands? Where will you bring me? my moose, my caravan!? Nobody, nowhere, the oasis and the lack of strong winds to reclaim the lost grounds. The existence is elsewhere. Albert! Albert! are you hearing my cries? Goodbye, goddesses, and profound injustice. Are you crazy? do you dare to ask this are you crazy? I am not. I am as sane as a madman! Albert! ALBERT! what are you talking about? I demand that you tell me now! Stop playing around the apple tree. No, the apple is either red nor green, it will be brown when it falls to the ground. In fact, let it be purple. or orange. So that the orange will be confused and feel all sensitive and cry. Why isn't the orange called the sun? I wonder if the sun is orange, or fire is really red or green. Does it matter? Albert doesn't want to tell me the answer, or ignore me completely. I think albert takes a sick fancy to look at me, and not answer me. I think it is annoying but it also drives me to look at the edge of my spectacles to only see the rims, blurred, and what's beyond it, blurred, and what's within it, inconsequential! ah! what a powerful word! INCONSEQUENTIAL! deserved to be bold.

Trit trot, goes the lady in red across the london bridge across the river where great fish live and will never be caught before they die at the hands of nobody! There must be a mermaid who is jealous of the trit trotting lady in red and will plot the murder of the one with legs maybe eating the human legs will let the mermaid grow her own legs so that she can trit trot across the london bridge too. so ghastly the idea. so plausible too! maybe so close to being true and so horrible and so true that nobody dares to write it out or suggest it for fear of being true. so the mermaid must eat the legs raw because cannot cook underwater anyway, maybe like sushi wrap in rice dumpling and sea weed, wet sea weed. the nails at the toes must be quite hard to chew. the bones the mermaid will use to stab herself in her dreaded tail. maybe her scales are pink, or orange like the clown fish, like the fruit, like the sunset. but will be red with the blood then again maybe blue maybe mermaids have blue blood or like a colour we never can imagine only mermaids have for their blood's colour. maybe it's brown. maybe it's brown like the colour of sand. maybe it's sand, they have sand instead of blood, it'll be refreshing, a different idea. but of course it will still hurt when the bones of the lady in red are stabbed into the tail of whatever colour. maybe somebody will cry, or somebody will be jealous. maybe there'll be an explosion, and all the starfish around will die. PLOMB! dead starfish galore. and i think the clown fish should die too. but clown fish are not found everywhere. so maybe the tuna fish. but we're talking about the london bridge no? fresh water is it? I apologise! i did not make sense. no starfish, no clown fish, no tuna i think. Maybe some... goldfish. or guppy. or prawns. i think there are prawns everywhere. an explosion of sand. the stomach of the mermaid will burst forth with new legs. Small at first, and expand later. to legs hopefully of different sizes. but stupid mermaid didn't eat the lungs. so still have gills at the side of the neck. so too bad. walk around naked in the dirty river bed ostracised for life! no eggs to lay, no babies, eventually die and all that drama for nothing! for NOTHING! poor things.

Trit trot.

you must think that i'm a little crazier than you thought, but i'm not. I'm the same. as you. except that i have a cold. and i have time to type and you have time to read!

ALBERT! albert! will you save me one day? PLOMB! INCONSEQUENTIAL NOTHING!

(sneak.)

The figure in the sky of the clouds has wings

想你 14

昨晚 我独自到海边,
坐在我们曾经 一起坐过的石椅上。
石椅有一点湿湿的。。。
微风让从树上的雨水 滴落到我的肩膀。。。

眼前的海好黑暗。。。
海里有鱼儿在游着吗？
我想 ，要不是月光，
我也看不见 海的浪漫。

Father and mother and television

My father comes home and reigns as his television king.

My mother comes home and complains the volume is too loud.

She takes the remote control, turns down the volume, switches channel, and turns up the volume.
Some minutes later,
My father takes the remote control, turns down the volume, switches channel, and turns up the volume.
Some minutes later,
My mother takes the remote control again, turns down the volume, switches channel, and turns up the volume.
Some minutes later...

This will carry on until one of them falls asleep from the fatigue.
The other, usually my father, will reign as the monarch until he/she too falls asleep in front of the tv, reluctant to relinquish his/her kingship.

Converse

Where are you going?
I want coffee.
At this time (8.41pm) you still want to drink coffee?
(silence)
You don't want to sleep tonight?
I need to work.
How about coke? I bought cola?
I want coffee.

Where have you been hiding?

“Where have you been?” He asked her with begetting intent.

“No where in particular,” she replied, embarrassing him with how apparent he was to her. This was hard for her to bear, so she said,

“I’ve been hiding.”

“Hiding? Where have you been hiding?” He asked, this time, with more care.

“Nowhere that you couldn’t have found,” she calmly retorted, “if you had tried to find. What about yourself? Where have you been?”

Coffee and butter cookies

On Sunday, she made him a cup of instant “three-in-one” coffee, which she had bought especially for him since she did not have the habit to drink coffee herself. He personally did not mind cheap coffee like these, except that she tended to add too much water so that it tasted a little like the drain. She knew that he hated that. He had mentioned it to her several times before. Yet, she would do it again and again, on purpose. He would think that maybe she did it to revenge for a reason he was unaware of. She did not know why she wanted to do it on purpose. He guessed she did it just to get on his nerves, perhaps. She knew that she did it on purpose, though.

He brought her a packet of butter cookies that contained twelve pieces of cookies. She never quite did particularly like butter cookies but did not let him know. He was trying to explain to her the concept of eternity. She refuses to imagine how two lines may be converging for eternity yet never ever meet.

She could not understand or accept the concept of the idea. She could not even forgive the absurdity of the idea enough to ignore it, or to simply forget it. Perhaps, to her, the idea was vulgar and it was not that she could not, but rather, she would not allow it to pass and therefore was thoroughly irritated.

He, on the other hand, had always enjoyed speaking to her if not for the fact that she always tried to contain him and his ideas. It was in his preference to enjoy flicking away people’s assumptions about the world that were taken for granted, much like how one would flick away used toothpicks, but she would never allow him to do so with her. This sustained his interests, because it annoyed him tremendously.

“If your hair keeps growing white for all eternity, how can it never ever be completely white? Can you imagine that?” She said, attempting to present a counter-example which she thought would show that the logic is impossible, but only to show how she failed to understand.

He sighed loudly and hung his head by the neck, shaking it from side to side. He was exasperated. He took his thoughts away from the conversation for a moment as he watched a drop of coffee crawl down the side of its mug.

“If my hair grows white, and I’d still have you by my side, I won’t care if for all eternity, I’d have to drink diluted coffee.”

Upon hearing his surrender, she too abandoned her foolish indignation and they finally kissed.

Ooopera

I'm glad I did not dream of you trying to sing some german opera, or else I'd be sure to give you a slap in the morning when I wake up next to you.

Not because you'd have sounded horribly offensive,
but only because it'd be funny as hell.

---
I'm glad we did not eat ice-cream together during lunch today, when it was sunny hot and perfect to eat ice-cream together.

Not because it'd have tasted any less sweeter,
but only because I'd have missed you a little lesser.

Father and Television

Maybe my father is going deaf, and that is why he turns up the volume of the television until it annoys everybody else. But then again, he only turns up the volume when he watches television alone. And then, when he watches tv by himself, for some reason beyond my comprehension, he will like to watch foreign television channels showing singing and dancing or repeated news in foreign languages. As far as I know, my father does not understand Japanese, German, French, Tamil, Bengali, and whatever else it is that they speak in India. He seems to understand Bahasa Malayu, so I can just partition away the annoyance in my head in attribution to that he understands something I don't.

Maybe he is a secret spy. Secret agent man.
Maybe he can fly. Or Whatever.

Maybe he's trying to extend his influence in the house, by extending the reach of the television's audio amplifier, by extending his finger on the remote control. The remote control nests under his large hand. The power may be too tempting for him to behold. The tap, tap, tap of his fingers...

Maybe he's trying to drown out his own voice because if I go and sit next to him when he's watching tv, I'll find him mumbling all these things that I cannot comprehend and cannot, for the life of me, possibly concentrate on, perhaps with what's going on the tv, and so on.

Maybe because when he's watching with anyone else, someone will turn down the volume, or switch channels.

Maybe he's an alien, and I'm really the child of an alien, and he can tune into all the things that he cannot understand and watch them like how tv show aliens watch humans on their UFO's cctv.

Or maybe he's trying to set up an audio force field kinda like, defensive shield, thing to keep us out of his personal space, so that he can privately call his mistress or his real kid, because I'm an imposter who forgot that I'm actually pretending to be his daughter! Maybe I'm the alien! Maybe he's trying to kill me by bursting my eardrums, or make me die of bloodloss from the bleeding of my scalp as I finally tear out my hair in exasperated insanity!

Maybe he's just trying to be funny. Or maybe he's not even trying.

The weather forecast and green poncho

The weather forecast read as "windy" so she went out tonight and stood still in the middle of the field on top of a little hill. She wore a dark green rain poncho she bought especially for the occasion. She also wore a gentle blush on her cheek from the beer she drank to get a little sillier.

She stood still with her arms out-stretched and her heart a little bit cold. Perhaps that was why the wind did not take her away, or even lift her off the ground at all. However, she attributed it to the jeans she wore.

"Jeans must be too heavy or too boring for the wind to take me," she said aloud to herself.

She finally gave up when it began to rain and only reached home when it began to pour.

8 June 2006 Rainbows

14 June 2004 Hokkaido

Abraham, the elephant.

Once upon a time, there lived a blue elephant, Abraham, who aspired to be a circus seal and was proud of how he could balance and walk around with his two front feet and half a face on the ground. He practiced his trick as much as he could manage, much to the ignorant ridicules or genuine concerns of the people who didn't yet understand him.

"Well, that's life as you understand it!" Abraham would shrug and say and hoped he could save enough money one day to buy himself a beach ball to eventually balance on his hind legs that are quite high already but not quite high enough for Abraham, yet.

想你 13

我挺着你借给我的雨伞，
穿着的高跟靴和裤脚都湿透了。
在这春节旁晚的倾盆喜雨下，
我独自漫步。
我一直微笑。

笑着对迎面而来的行人 笑着对愣住在积水前面的我。
笑着因为 对雨无动于衷的茉莉花香 在我这样狼狈的时候来陪我。
笑着因为 我对大雨无奈。

笑着因为 从挺在鼻前的雨伞的杆上 可以嗅到一股可能是属于你的味道。
因为 可能你的手也有这样握过我正在握着的雨伞。
因为 这样好像我在雨中和你一起幼稚。