Once upon a time, there lived a poor little boy and his poor mother. They lived in harsh times where most of the people were poor and were usually hungry.
The mother recognised the importance of education and tried to teach her son as many things as she could. One day, she was cleaning a pair of candle holders. She showed her son to teach him, that to clean candle holders, one could pour hot water into the candle holders to melt the residue wax which would then be easy to remove.
Another one day, he was playing in the field when he found a little puppy who was sick with ears infected with pus that was hard to remove. Out of his compassion to save the puppy, on his own accord, he poured hot water into the ear of the puppy so to melt what he thought was "ear wax". But the puppy was scalded, of course, and died soon after.
The boy cried for a while and apologised to the dead puppy.
When he was done crying, he took a deep breath and realised that the part of the cooked puppy smelled good enough to eat. It had been a while since he and his mother had proper food to eat, let alone any meat, and to bury the puppy would be to feed the corpse to the insects and worms living in the ground anyway.
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 31 December 2008
Monday, 29 December 2008
So No
Logically, illogical is illogical.
So, is illogical logical for being illogical, as logical is logical?
No, because "illogical is illogical" is logical, but "illogical" is "illogical".
So, illogically, illogical is logical, and logical is illogical?
No, because "illogical is logical, and logical is illogical" is a somewhat logical derivation.
So, illogically, illogical is illogical?
No, illogically, illogical is perhaps like an apple that drives a truck full of dinosaur balloons, that are made of bones and that will become ballet shoe ghosts and roosters with bows, directly into a sea of granite to join a a splat fag ding dash flip-flop fish swimming in stone doing U-turns every two seconds. But now that I've said it, I don't think so.
So? Illogical is sensible?
No, I don't think so.
So, illogical is nonsensible?
No, I don't think so.
So? You think illogical is...?
No, I think, perhaps, thinking is logical, and thinking about the illogical, including thinking this, is like waving shining spotlights at a shadow to find it in the dark. So no, again, I don't think so.
So, is illogical logical for being illogical, as logical is logical?
No, because "illogical is illogical" is logical, but "illogical" is "illogical".
So, illogically, illogical is logical, and logical is illogical?
No, because "illogical is logical, and logical is illogical" is a somewhat logical derivation.
So, illogically, illogical is illogical?
No, illogically, illogical is perhaps like an apple that drives a truck full of dinosaur balloons, that are made of bones and that will become ballet shoe ghosts and roosters with bows, directly into a sea of granite to join a a splat fag ding dash flip-flop fish swimming in stone doing U-turns every two seconds. But now that I've said it, I don't think so.
So? Illogical is sensible?
No, I don't think so.
So, illogical is nonsensible?
No, I don't think so.
So? You think illogical is...?
No, I think, perhaps, thinking is logical, and thinking about the illogical, including thinking this, is like waving shining spotlights at a shadow to find it in the dark. So no, again, I don't think so.
Saturday, 27 December 2008
The Gardener's Garden
In my dream, I found myself in a beautiful garden. It had all kinds of flowers and plants arranged in the most exquisite way. I walked about in awe. In a corner of the garden, I met an old man in a pavilion, and I asked him for permission to join him. He was agreeable. Then, before I could be conscious of myself, I remarked "This is such a beautiful garden!" like a sigh of exaltation.
The old man looked troubled, and then he thanked me. He introduced himself as the head gardener and owner of this garden.
"You must be very proud," I said and congratulated him.
"Thank you. And if you don't mind me asking, who are you?"
"I am... nobody in particular, I think. I am a dreamer, who have the good fortune to find myself here. Hope you don't mind my intrusion."
"No, no, it's my pleasure. If you don't mind me asking for your opinion about something that has been troubling me. Since you come from the reality, perhaps you may lend me some insight."
I was sceptical of what I could help with, but I agreed to try anyway.
"You see, a garden critic came to my garden some time ago. He was a renowned professor from a famous school and very well-known for his meticulousness. So, I was very proud when he praised my garden and especially commended me on how there were very little bugs and insects. He had noticed that the leaves of the plants were very perfect, with the lack of insect bite marks."
"It must be splendid to have your efforts validated by an expert from the field."
"Yes, indeed. I was very happy. He said he was going to list my garden as one of the exemplary gardens of our time... and he did. Soon, visitors flocked from faraway places to visit my garden."
"That's great! Why are you troubled then?"
"Last week, a famous poet came by to visit my garden. He was renowned for writing beautiful poems in praise of gardens. I admire his work, and I had hoped that he could write me a couplet so that I could put it up at the entrance of my garden.
"After taking a walk around my garden, the poet said that this garden is so perfect that it was like a garden in heaven. I was ecstatic, and I thought if he would write me a poem on that, my garden would surely be immortalised in more than one way! But, he went on to say that if this was how a garden was like in heaven, he would much rather stay on earth.
"I did not quite understand him, I thought he may mean that there was no need to go to heaven now that he has seen my garden. But then again, he said it with a tone of regret and was shaking his head, so it must have been a negative remark.
"I asked him what he meant. He explained that the garden was perfect, but there were no butterflies dancing around and no birds' song that could be heard. He imagines that in heaven, that was what he would expect of a garden, since no mere butterfly or bird could fly in through the gates of heaven.
"The poet, however, said that in gardens, he personally preferred to watch the lively fluttering of the ordinary butterflies instead of the most exquisite bloom of flower. So, he would rather remain on earth."
Indeed, even though the weather was pleasant and there was a gentle breeze, the beautiful garden suddenly seemed very still because of the lack of birds and flying things. The gardener had taken so much care of the garden, in removing all garden pests, that no caterpillar was allowed to hatch, and without the caterpillars, there were no butterflies to be there to pollinate the flowers to bear fruits for the birds. Then again, there were also no dragonflies, no bees, no ants, and no stray grain of sand.
"My flowers bloom for a longer time than in other gardens, because there are no insects to pollinate it, they do not wilt to become fruits. I do have some earthworms, because they are good at mixing the earth, but I removed all other insect traces, to keep this garden perfect. And because of that, the garden is now imperfect.
"I will one day come to pass, and so would the perfection of the garden. I could take a few million photographs, but nothing besides poetry could ever truly capture the beauty of the garden. Now I am troubled because the garden would never be immortalised through a poem."
At first, I thought that to comfort the gardener, I could have told him about how perfection is imperfect, because it leaves no room for improvement and imagination. Since he had now discovered the imperfection of the garden, he should be glad that he found a new way to improve and breakthrough. Then again, there was the dilemma that if he succeeds in introducing the butterflies, he would lose the original appeal of the garden and its perfection. Or worse, even if he succeeds to resolve that dilemma somehow, the garden might become truly perfect, and then, by the definition, be truly imperfect. I decided that it was too muddling to discourse through this argument.
Then, I thought that I could remind him to enjoy the garden for himself, and measure the success by his own yardstick. But such a beautiful garden couldn't have come about from a man who did not understand the importance of balancing self-fulfilment and others' validation. This was not an issue about his confidence or showing off.
I thought that I could remind him about the critic's appraisal, but I already knew that the critic's endorsement would not immortalise the garden's beauty.
"Haven't other poets visited your garden before? Haven't they written anything?" I asked.
"They might have, but they were not famous."
"Is it that important?"
"A famous garden has to bear the quotes of a famous poet, and that is only befitting. Otherwise, it would be like a lady wearing the most exquisite dress with a pair of cheap-looking shoes."
Initially, I thought that I could have told him that the other poets' poems were just as good as the famous poet's. They may become famous one day, or at least, there are probably more of them and there was only one of the famous poet. Then, what about quality versus quantity?
I thought that I could have told him that I could come back to reality and write him a story, then I realised that I'm not a famous anybody either, and that wouldn't be very comforting to him.
Is fame important? I have not been famous before, but he was a gardener who has gardened a very famous garden. I was in no shoes to discuss the futility of fame.
At this point, the garden didn't look very beautiful any more. It looked dull and everywhere I looked, I saw dead caterpillars and poisoned insects' corpses. I realised that I was in no position to help the gardener at all.
Dismayed, I took my leave and told him that I'd return if I thought of anything that might be helpful.
The old man looked troubled, and then he thanked me. He introduced himself as the head gardener and owner of this garden.
"You must be very proud," I said and congratulated him.
"Thank you. And if you don't mind me asking, who are you?"
"I am... nobody in particular, I think. I am a dreamer, who have the good fortune to find myself here. Hope you don't mind my intrusion."
"No, no, it's my pleasure. If you don't mind me asking for your opinion about something that has been troubling me. Since you come from the reality, perhaps you may lend me some insight."
I was sceptical of what I could help with, but I agreed to try anyway.
"You see, a garden critic came to my garden some time ago. He was a renowned professor from a famous school and very well-known for his meticulousness. So, I was very proud when he praised my garden and especially commended me on how there were very little bugs and insects. He had noticed that the leaves of the plants were very perfect, with the lack of insect bite marks."
"It must be splendid to have your efforts validated by an expert from the field."
"Yes, indeed. I was very happy. He said he was going to list my garden as one of the exemplary gardens of our time... and he did. Soon, visitors flocked from faraway places to visit my garden."
"That's great! Why are you troubled then?"
"Last week, a famous poet came by to visit my garden. He was renowned for writing beautiful poems in praise of gardens. I admire his work, and I had hoped that he could write me a couplet so that I could put it up at the entrance of my garden.
"After taking a walk around my garden, the poet said that this garden is so perfect that it was like a garden in heaven. I was ecstatic, and I thought if he would write me a poem on that, my garden would surely be immortalised in more than one way! But, he went on to say that if this was how a garden was like in heaven, he would much rather stay on earth.
"I did not quite understand him, I thought he may mean that there was no need to go to heaven now that he has seen my garden. But then again, he said it with a tone of regret and was shaking his head, so it must have been a negative remark.
"I asked him what he meant. He explained that the garden was perfect, but there were no butterflies dancing around and no birds' song that could be heard. He imagines that in heaven, that was what he would expect of a garden, since no mere butterfly or bird could fly in through the gates of heaven.
"The poet, however, said that in gardens, he personally preferred to watch the lively fluttering of the ordinary butterflies instead of the most exquisite bloom of flower. So, he would rather remain on earth."
Indeed, even though the weather was pleasant and there was a gentle breeze, the beautiful garden suddenly seemed very still because of the lack of birds and flying things. The gardener had taken so much care of the garden, in removing all garden pests, that no caterpillar was allowed to hatch, and without the caterpillars, there were no butterflies to be there to pollinate the flowers to bear fruits for the birds. Then again, there were also no dragonflies, no bees, no ants, and no stray grain of sand.
"My flowers bloom for a longer time than in other gardens, because there are no insects to pollinate it, they do not wilt to become fruits. I do have some earthworms, because they are good at mixing the earth, but I removed all other insect traces, to keep this garden perfect. And because of that, the garden is now imperfect.
"I will one day come to pass, and so would the perfection of the garden. I could take a few million photographs, but nothing besides poetry could ever truly capture the beauty of the garden. Now I am troubled because the garden would never be immortalised through a poem."
At first, I thought that to comfort the gardener, I could have told him about how perfection is imperfect, because it leaves no room for improvement and imagination. Since he had now discovered the imperfection of the garden, he should be glad that he found a new way to improve and breakthrough. Then again, there was the dilemma that if he succeeds in introducing the butterflies, he would lose the original appeal of the garden and its perfection. Or worse, even if he succeeds to resolve that dilemma somehow, the garden might become truly perfect, and then, by the definition, be truly imperfect. I decided that it was too muddling to discourse through this argument.
Then, I thought that I could remind him to enjoy the garden for himself, and measure the success by his own yardstick. But such a beautiful garden couldn't have come about from a man who did not understand the importance of balancing self-fulfilment and others' validation. This was not an issue about his confidence or showing off.
I thought that I could remind him about the critic's appraisal, but I already knew that the critic's endorsement would not immortalise the garden's beauty.
"Haven't other poets visited your garden before? Haven't they written anything?" I asked.
"They might have, but they were not famous."
"Is it that important?"
"A famous garden has to bear the quotes of a famous poet, and that is only befitting. Otherwise, it would be like a lady wearing the most exquisite dress with a pair of cheap-looking shoes."
Initially, I thought that I could have told him that the other poets' poems were just as good as the famous poet's. They may become famous one day, or at least, there are probably more of them and there was only one of the famous poet. Then, what about quality versus quantity?
I thought that I could have told him that I could come back to reality and write him a story, then I realised that I'm not a famous anybody either, and that wouldn't be very comforting to him.
Is fame important? I have not been famous before, but he was a gardener who has gardened a very famous garden. I was in no shoes to discuss the futility of fame.
At this point, the garden didn't look very beautiful any more. It looked dull and everywhere I looked, I saw dead caterpillars and poisoned insects' corpses. I realised that I was in no position to help the gardener at all.
Dismayed, I took my leave and told him that I'd return if I thought of anything that might be helpful.
Wednesday, 24 December 2008
Untitled
Her mother told her that the bumps on her fingers were probably some allergic reaction to something she touched, but she was pretty sure she didn't touch anything exciting that day she first discovered them. Since then, she washed her hands profusely, and deliberately drank more water so that she could use the toilet extra times, without generating any suspicion for using too much of the toilet, in case anyone was watching her.
In the privacy of the toilets, which was the only place that she thought was truly private, she stared at the bumps until some time after she was convinced that aliens must have had implanted something strange in her finger. It was on her ring finger. Perhaps the aliens married her!
Perhaps the little lumps were actually alien eggs laid in her fingers, because perhaps that was how aliens reproduced!
Finally, she decided that she had to cut off her hand because the alien worms or whatever organism would try to overtake her by her nervous system. By the time she realised this, they must have overtaken her entire hand. No. She should cut off her entire arm just to play it safe.
In the privacy of the toilets, which was the only place that she thought was truly private, she stared at the bumps until some time after she was convinced that aliens must have had implanted something strange in her finger. It was on her ring finger. Perhaps the aliens married her!
Perhaps the little lumps were actually alien eggs laid in her fingers, because perhaps that was how aliens reproduced!
Finally, she decided that she had to cut off her hand because the alien worms or whatever organism would try to overtake her by her nervous system. By the time she realised this, they must have overtaken her entire hand. No. She should cut off her entire arm just to play it safe.
Monday, 22 December 2008
She Laughed Feebly
"Wow, what are you doing here? How long as it been since?"
"Hm... Was it when I bumped into you sometime ago at Lane Crawford...?"
"Oh man, I haven't heard anyone say 'Lane Crawford' in a while. But yah, that was a long time ago! I was still dating Sarah then, right? You were with... your sister, right?"
"I can't quite remember already. So how have you been?"
"Great! I'm doing great! Tony, my eldest, is going to Primary School next year, so Sarah and I have been busy volunteering at the school... you know... to secure the place. No joke one I tell you. Then Joni just recovered from flu. So poor thing to see the little girl sick. Just breaks your heart. How about you? How many have you got?"
"Oh no, none for me please. I'm still single. See, no ring!"
"Oh no... why are you still single? Don't tell me you're still hung up over me?"
"No no, I have been seeing people, you know. Very, very eligible men, trust me. They're definitely much more eligible than you... Oh, don't get me wrong. I don't know why I said that."
"Relax relax. I was just joking. If they're so eligible, then what's wrong with you? Still so hard to please? Must be so picky meh?"
"No lar... I don't know. Maybe they're just not very interesting, or as my friends say, I'm just can't be bothered lor. Maybe I am just so happy being single, after all."
"If they can't even interest you, then they can't be that eligible, right?"
"Well, erm... well, maybe you're right lar."
"Well, I gotta go. Meeting Sarah at the Forum. Gotta control her spending on the kids' clothes. Those stuff not cheap you know! Like a simple tee-shirt can cost a hundred bucks. Crazy right? Branded stuff lar, granted, but still don't need to sell so ex right?"
"Right, right. You go ahead. I'm headed this way. Take care."
"You take care too. Faster go look for somebody ah! Don't waste time liao leh! Women old will lose value, and have babies also dangerous lor. Your number no change right? Okay, okay, I'll call you sometime, and let's catch up properly. Maybe can give you some advice. Okay, I really gotta rush. Bye!"
That night she lost sleep, because she deeply regretted not telling him off.
In the next week, she hunted him down over facebook. After much consideration, she sent him a message saying, "Married with kids, so what? BIG FUCK lah? You have no right to make me feel like SHIT lor, right? We've broken up for so long liao and I don't understand why you must still torture me like that? FUCK YOU, okay?" with the caps and all.
Two months later, she messaged him again, "Thanks for last night. ;) "
"Hm... Was it when I bumped into you sometime ago at Lane Crawford...?"
"Oh man, I haven't heard anyone say 'Lane Crawford' in a while. But yah, that was a long time ago! I was still dating Sarah then, right? You were with... your sister, right?"
"I can't quite remember already. So how have you been?"
"Great! I'm doing great! Tony, my eldest, is going to Primary School next year, so Sarah and I have been busy volunteering at the school... you know... to secure the place. No joke one I tell you. Then Joni just recovered from flu. So poor thing to see the little girl sick. Just breaks your heart. How about you? How many have you got?"
"Oh no, none for me please. I'm still single. See, no ring!"
"Oh no... why are you still single? Don't tell me you're still hung up over me?"
"No no, I have been seeing people, you know. Very, very eligible men, trust me. They're definitely much more eligible than you... Oh, don't get me wrong. I don't know why I said that."
"Relax relax. I was just joking. If they're so eligible, then what's wrong with you? Still so hard to please? Must be so picky meh?"
"No lar... I don't know. Maybe they're just not very interesting, or as my friends say, I'm just can't be bothered lor. Maybe I am just so happy being single, after all."
"If they can't even interest you, then they can't be that eligible, right?"
"Well, erm... well, maybe you're right lar."
"Well, I gotta go. Meeting Sarah at the Forum. Gotta control her spending on the kids' clothes. Those stuff not cheap you know! Like a simple tee-shirt can cost a hundred bucks. Crazy right? Branded stuff lar, granted, but still don't need to sell so ex right?"
"Right, right. You go ahead. I'm headed this way. Take care."
"You take care too. Faster go look for somebody ah! Don't waste time liao leh! Women old will lose value, and have babies also dangerous lor. Your number no change right? Okay, okay, I'll call you sometime, and let's catch up properly. Maybe can give you some advice. Okay, I really gotta rush. Bye!"
*
That night she lost sleep, because she deeply regretted not telling him off.
In the next week, she hunted him down over facebook. After much consideration, she sent him a message saying, "Married with kids, so what? BIG FUCK lah? You have no right to make me feel like SHIT lor, right? We've broken up for so long liao and I don't understand why you must still torture me like that? FUCK YOU, okay?" with the caps and all.
*
Two months later, she messaged him again, "Thanks for last night. ;) "
Sunday, 21 December 2008
Sunday, 14 December 2008
Spaces
While he spoke and I listened, the cool morning breeze came to send a shiver up and down my spine and to keep a part of my mind quite awake while I watched from inside how a dull glaze overtook my eyes, and the houses that were outside the window that was behind him suddenly became two mountains. Two mountains, that were dark green and faraway - like a scene from a morning in a China featuring two faraway mountains - appeared behind him and everything faded away. His face became younger. He lost age.
I did not sleep, but I must have been dreaming. I dreamt that he was no longer himself, but my teacher from once upon a time, when I was a farmer or a peasant, of sorts, I think, and he was talking slowly, and I was listening slowly - much slower than the pace at which I had to listen to him now. But I was confused.
I listened to the voice of the teacher for a while. If he was my teacher, and I, his student, why didn't I study harder? I was aware that back in the olden days, I had no internet, no fast paced life, no sms, no errands to run in town later in the day. Why was I confused? I blamed myself for being unable to appreciate life when it was slow.
Then I dreamt that the teacher hit me with his stick, and I felt a sharp pain on my head, so I woke up.
I blamed myself for being too tired, but it was the pace of living the pace of being nowadays. Who isn't too tired nowadays, really? Woe is everybody for having to suffer the living now instead of living then. Woe. Even though they had to plough the fields and had no electricity, their needs were simple, and it was easier to be happy. They lived amongst mountains and woke up to good air, good poems, good sky.
Come on man, I had to wake up this morning to check my emails and my bank account on the internet. And everybody knows how the weather has gone haywire. It was just so hot yesterday, and cold winds blow today. It should only get colder in December... Oh if only I was at home in bed, under the warm covers sleeping. This weather is perfect to sleep in.
But no. Too bad. I can't sleep in tomorrow, I have to go to work. And too bad, I can't sleep in next weekend because I have to go to some baby shower and another somebody is getting married. And too soon, will come warmer weather and goodbye cold winds and hello cold winds...
While he spoke and I didn't listen, I realised this with fear and trepidation - the pace of living the pace of being will only get faster and faster.
(sneak.)
I did not sleep, but I must have been dreaming. I dreamt that he was no longer himself, but my teacher from once upon a time, when I was a farmer or a peasant, of sorts, I think, and he was talking slowly, and I was listening slowly - much slower than the pace at which I had to listen to him now. But I was confused.
I listened to the voice of the teacher for a while. If he was my teacher, and I, his student, why didn't I study harder? I was aware that back in the olden days, I had no internet, no fast paced life, no sms, no errands to run in town later in the day. Why was I confused? I blamed myself for being unable to appreciate life when it was slow.
Then I dreamt that the teacher hit me with his stick, and I felt a sharp pain on my head, so I woke up.
I blamed myself for being too tired, but it was the pace of living the pace of being nowadays. Who isn't too tired nowadays, really? Woe is everybody for having to suffer the living now instead of living then. Woe. Even though they had to plough the fields and had no electricity, their needs were simple, and it was easier to be happy. They lived amongst mountains and woke up to good air, good poems, good sky.
Come on man, I had to wake up this morning to check my emails and my bank account on the internet. And everybody knows how the weather has gone haywire. It was just so hot yesterday, and cold winds blow today. It should only get colder in December... Oh if only I was at home in bed, under the warm covers sleeping. This weather is perfect to sleep in.
But no. Too bad. I can't sleep in tomorrow, I have to go to work. And too bad, I can't sleep in next weekend because I have to go to some baby shower and another somebody is getting married. And too soon, will come warmer weather and goodbye cold winds and hello cold winds...
While he spoke and I didn't listen, I realised this with fear and trepidation - the pace of living the pace of being will only get faster and faster.
(sneak.)
Friday, 12 December 2008
By the way: A Mercedes
小时候 常常听见 大人们说 Mercedes 也可以 用福建话叫 “免修理” (mian2 xiu1 li4) - 不必修理的意思。
每当有人说出 这个不好笑的笑话 都会有人跟着笑。
长大了 才了解 应该叫它做 “不免修理” (mm3 mian2 xiu1 li4) 会比较适合。
可是 说出来了 很有可能 大家会觉得 这更不好笑。
每当有人说出 这个不好笑的笑话 都会有人跟着笑。
长大了 才了解 应该叫它做 “不免修理” (mm3 mian2 xiu1 li4) 会比较适合。
可是 说出来了 很有可能 大家会觉得 这更不好笑。
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
Yakult lover
She would set aside a task of the day that she did not feel like doing, and promise herself a bottle of Yakult for accomplishing the task. As a child, she did not like taking a shower, so her mother would give her a bottle Yakult to drink, as a reward for going to the shower without putting up a fight.
"Yakult is so nice to drink. The happy little bottles make a kid feel happy about being a kid because it fits so nicely in the palms of a kid. Adults look stupid drinking yakults, but it's so hard to resist. It's so nice to drink! Then the adult would feel happy like a happy little kid." She would tell her friends sometimes when she presented them with yakults for their birthdays or christmas gifts. On one such occasion, her friend tsked and remarked,
"Yakult should really pay you to do the copy-writing. Or for your marketing at least."
She applied for a job in Yakult as a taster.
And she got it.
And she tasted Yakult all day everyday (though she only drank up to the daily recommended serving) and had high job satisfaction and lived happily ever after.
"Yakult is so nice to drink. The happy little bottles make a kid feel happy about being a kid because it fits so nicely in the palms of a kid. Adults look stupid drinking yakults, but it's so hard to resist. It's so nice to drink! Then the adult would feel happy like a happy little kid." She would tell her friends sometimes when she presented them with yakults for their birthdays or christmas gifts. On one such occasion, her friend tsked and remarked,
"Yakult should really pay you to do the copy-writing. Or for your marketing at least."
She applied for a job in Yakult as a taster.
And she got it.
And she tasted Yakult all day everyday (though she only drank up to the daily recommended serving) and had high job satisfaction and lived happily ever after.
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
There is no if
When we were at the crossroads two traffic junctions away from your house, I thought of how there must be a million quotes on crossroads, but that I couldn't think of any that touched me. Then when you said that you loved me, I heard from somewhere, or nowhere, the Cure's "There is no if", like it was playing loudly on a stereo in a car driving by.
I thought hard about that - what was the matter with me, and if I still believed in love - I worried myself for a while.
But I thought of her.
She leapt in from the open window in the middle of that sleepless night. Perhaps, she had descended from the moon. The moon was not yet full. Perhaps she was why the moon was not yet full. She looked like she was made of ivory. She looked like she was made of ivory so much that it was impossible that she was made of ivory. I watched her slowly dance around my bed - it was some ballet - it looked like ballet - and she twirled around my bed. It was difficult to see someone so rigid and impossible dance like a ribbon. I was worried if she fell, she would break herself, or crack, or disappear.
When dawn came, she became sunlight.
How could I have told you? Would you believe me if I told you that I'm in love with a girl that I must have been delusional to have met? I suppose I am in love with her.
Then I still believe in love - that is how I will comfort myself.
But what will I tell you?
I thought hard about that - what was the matter with me, and if I still believed in love - I worried myself for a while.
But I thought of her.
She leapt in from the open window in the middle of that sleepless night. Perhaps, she had descended from the moon. The moon was not yet full. Perhaps she was why the moon was not yet full. She looked like she was made of ivory. She looked like she was made of ivory so much that it was impossible that she was made of ivory. I watched her slowly dance around my bed - it was some ballet - it looked like ballet - and she twirled around my bed. It was difficult to see someone so rigid and impossible dance like a ribbon. I was worried if she fell, she would break herself, or crack, or disappear.
When dawn came, she became sunlight.
*
How could I have told you? Would you believe me if I told you that I'm in love with a girl that I must have been delusional to have met? I suppose I am in love with her.
Then I still believe in love - that is how I will comfort myself.
But what will I tell you?
Friday, 5 December 2008
想你17
可能我想你的心情 就好像
公海马 在生小海马的时候 想着母海马的心情。
我可以承担着 自己生活在茫茫大海中的孤独。
我愿意怀着 与一般母动物生育不一样的寂寞。
但就算是有了 多么非凡的成就
我仍然还是想着你。
公海马 在生小海马的时候 想着母海马的心情。
我可以承担着 自己生活在茫茫大海中的孤独。
我愿意怀着 与一般母动物生育不一样的寂寞。
但就算是有了 多么非凡的成就
我仍然还是想着你。
Sunday, 30 November 2008
The hands of a watch
There was a minute hand of a watch who was in love with the hour hand. It was a one sided love affair because the hour hand never could see the minute hand.
The minute hand chased the hour hand. It was happy for a minute of every hour, when they were together, and the minute hand would imagine leaning forward against the hour hand leaning backwards against the minute hand. Then, that minute would pass, and the minute hand would be forlorn again.
One day, the time on the watch might stop. When it does, would love be requited? Or having had the mere experience of any kind of love would be enough?
They were just hands of a watch.
The minute hand chased the hour hand. It was happy for a minute of every hour, when they were together, and the minute hand would imagine leaning forward against the hour hand leaning backwards against the minute hand. Then, that minute would pass, and the minute hand would be forlorn again.
One day, the time on the watch might stop. When it does, would love be requited? Or having had the mere experience of any kind of love would be enough?
They were just hands of a watch.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Highlights from Parliament
The boy watched the highlights from parliament because his father made him, since it was important to start training him for scholarship interviews from young. At the end of the first week, the father asked,
"What have you learnt from watching the parliament debate all week?"
"That it is very important to be friends with the people you work with."
"That is insightful, my clever boy! That is primal in politics. Come, tell father, how did my boy come to realise that?"
"It is important because you will need a friend to wake you up if you're sleeping on t.v. and to tell you that your hair is very messy before you make a speech in front of everybody."
"What have you learnt from watching the parliament debate all week?"
"That it is very important to be friends with the people you work with."
"That is insightful, my clever boy! That is primal in politics. Come, tell father, how did my boy come to realise that?"
"It is important because you will need a friend to wake you up if you're sleeping on t.v. and to tell you that your hair is very messy before you make a speech in front of everybody."
His Mediocrity
He was an unfortunate man whose life was like a piece of wood balancing on an inverted nail that was a tumour in his stomach. The tumour was benign, but it was alive and grows, and he tried his best to let it grow, because it could predict how well his company was doing - the bigger the tumour the better the financial status - when the tumour growth was in control, the company growth was stagnant - when the tumour showed signs of shrinkage, the company would be in deficit. He was the CFO. He was very well paid.
When there was a job offer, he decided to change jobs. Then he tried to fix his tumour. Then the new company got into trouble. Then he let it grow again.
Finally, the doctor told him, "If you still don't want to fix it, it would burst your stomach, and you will die."
"What are the odds, doctor?"
"You will definitely die."
"Everybody dies, doctor. If I don't fix it, how long would I have to live?"
"Negative three months. I hope your creditor is kind."
Then he got it removed, because he knew that no creditors were kind and the interest rates must be exorbitant in some way for it to be profitable. The company he was helping to run, folded, and he was sorry, but not remorseful.
The shape of his tumour would remind one of a brain, as it has crevices and folds that looks like the surface of the brain, except that it was dumpling-shaped into that of a stomach. He got some people to study the tumour to explore possible chances of transplanting to some animal, but all they found, in its heart, was a greasy coin, that he recognised as the coin that he stole from his mother's purse when he was young and ate to prevent from being found out.
He was later suspected of fraud and had his wealth confiscated.
He thought about stealing something from his mother's grave to swallow, but he did not know where his mother was buried, so he resorted to just making an honest living working and tried to resign to his mediocrity.
When there was a job offer, he decided to change jobs. Then he tried to fix his tumour. Then the new company got into trouble. Then he let it grow again.
Finally, the doctor told him, "If you still don't want to fix it, it would burst your stomach, and you will die."
"What are the odds, doctor?"
"You will definitely die."
"Everybody dies, doctor. If I don't fix it, how long would I have to live?"
"Negative three months. I hope your creditor is kind."
Then he got it removed, because he knew that no creditors were kind and the interest rates must be exorbitant in some way for it to be profitable. The company he was helping to run, folded, and he was sorry, but not remorseful.
The shape of his tumour would remind one of a brain, as it has crevices and folds that looks like the surface of the brain, except that it was dumpling-shaped into that of a stomach. He got some people to study the tumour to explore possible chances of transplanting to some animal, but all they found, in its heart, was a greasy coin, that he recognised as the coin that he stole from his mother's purse when he was young and ate to prevent from being found out.
He was later suspected of fraud and had his wealth confiscated.
He thought about stealing something from his mother's grave to swallow, but he did not know where his mother was buried, so he resorted to just making an honest living working and tried to resign to his mediocrity.
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
The Snake Renter
Once upon a time, there was a snake who lived in a cave, in the middle of a desert. One night, a cockroach came to the snake and said,
"Dear sir, I am on my way to somewhere and passing by your cave. It is cold tonight, and I am tired and weary. May I come to please rent a bed from you?"
"Sir, I am sympathetic, but I am sorry to refuse you, for I only have one humble bed."
"Kind sir, that is fine with me, if you do not mind, for me to share the bed with you. I am nothing but small and will only take up one small corner of the bed and surely I would not disturb your sleep."
Reluctantly, the snake consented, and that night when he slept, he did not sleep well. It bothered him that he was sharing the bed with a filthy cockroach, who although did not physically impose on the snake at all, as the snake could sleep in his normal position, had a profound psychological impact on him. As he laid, he imagined the tickling of the cockroach's feelers on his skin, and he thought about how the cockroach's dead and squishy body would feel should he accidentally crush the cockroach.
He slept so badly that he only fell into deeper sleep when it was nearing dawn because he was so fatigued by his paranoia. The next morning the snake was late to rise, and the cockroach left his rent on a corner of the bed and left.
A few days later, on another night, a beautiful woman came to the snake and said,
"Dear sir, I am on my way to somewhere and passing by your cave. It is cold tonight, and I am tired and weary. May I come to please rent a bed from you?"
"Madam, I am sympathetic, but I only have one humble bed, if you do not mind to share the bed with me, you are the most welcome."
"Kind sir, that is fine with me, if you do not mind, for me to share the bed with you. I fear, however, that I may disturb your sleep."
The snake repeatedly reassured the woman that he was fine with it, and that he would curl up and sleep in a coil and that he could even be a headrest for the woman. The snake was happy that he could share the same bed with a beautiful woman and he slept well, and had a sweet dream, inspired by the sweet scent of the woman.
He slept so well that he overslept. The next morning the snake was late to rise, and the woman went out of the cave and found a big rock to crush the snake with, and then, she cooked him for breakfast.
(sneak.)
"Dear sir, I am on my way to somewhere and passing by your cave. It is cold tonight, and I am tired and weary. May I come to please rent a bed from you?"
"Sir, I am sympathetic, but I am sorry to refuse you, for I only have one humble bed."
"Kind sir, that is fine with me, if you do not mind, for me to share the bed with you. I am nothing but small and will only take up one small corner of the bed and surely I would not disturb your sleep."
Reluctantly, the snake consented, and that night when he slept, he did not sleep well. It bothered him that he was sharing the bed with a filthy cockroach, who although did not physically impose on the snake at all, as the snake could sleep in his normal position, had a profound psychological impact on him. As he laid, he imagined the tickling of the cockroach's feelers on his skin, and he thought about how the cockroach's dead and squishy body would feel should he accidentally crush the cockroach.
He slept so badly that he only fell into deeper sleep when it was nearing dawn because he was so fatigued by his paranoia. The next morning the snake was late to rise, and the cockroach left his rent on a corner of the bed and left.
*
A few days later, on another night, a beautiful woman came to the snake and said,
"Dear sir, I am on my way to somewhere and passing by your cave. It is cold tonight, and I am tired and weary. May I come to please rent a bed from you?"
"Madam, I am sympathetic, but I only have one humble bed, if you do not mind to share the bed with me, you are the most welcome."
"Kind sir, that is fine with me, if you do not mind, for me to share the bed with you. I fear, however, that I may disturb your sleep."
The snake repeatedly reassured the woman that he was fine with it, and that he would curl up and sleep in a coil and that he could even be a headrest for the woman. The snake was happy that he could share the same bed with a beautiful woman and he slept well, and had a sweet dream, inspired by the sweet scent of the woman.
He slept so well that he overslept. The next morning the snake was late to rise, and the woman went out of the cave and found a big rock to crush the snake with, and then, she cooked him for breakfast.
(sneak.)
Friday, 21 November 2008
Theodore and Beater
Once upon a time, in a village, there were two woodcutters who were good friends.
One of them was known by his nickname, Theodore, which did not refer to Roosevelt, who was not yet born, but was short form for "Three Doors Down", which was his nickname in full. People, who did not know better, would think that that it referred to how Theodore could cut his axe through three wooden doors at one go, and since once upon that time, wooden doors were very thick and strong things, and to be able to cut through three wooden doors, they thought that he was a very strong man.
The truth was, however, that Theodore loved drinking very much. And once, he had a bit too much to drink, and he threw up. His vomit splashed across three doors of three houses.
This would not normally be remarkable, by Theodore's personal records (which was 6 doors down), however, it happened in the middle of the day, and he took down the three doors in a unbroken single gush of puke. Imagine, his mouth as a nozzle and esophagus, like a hose, and together, sprayed vomit in a continuous stream over three doors of three house, in the middle of the day.
Friends and passerbys who saw the remarkable feat happened, thus dubbed that the "Three Doors Down incident" and gave him the nickname which eventually became better known as Theodore.
One of the friends there, was the other woodcutter, whose nickname was "Beater", which the same people, who did not know better, thought that he was such a mucho woodcutter, such that he defeats the woods, thus, "beating them". The truth was, however, more... candid.
Unfortunately for him, he was not quite drunk enough that day, and he instinctively feigned a well-rehearsed apologetic expression, which invited assumptions that he was going to be responsible for everything. Since there was no point in questioning the passed out puker or the other friends who had laughed heartily, and passed out on the ground, or pretended to, the housewives who were the only people at home at the time, came out of the houses, and all gravitated towards Beater, and one of them asked him,
"So, how much are you going to pay us for the doors?"
"Wah, you are so direct and frank!" replied Beater, "Whatever happened to the art of conversation? We are in once upon a time you know. We shouldn't be so forthcoming when we speak. Come, let's beat around the bush a bit."
And with that, he delivered a spectacular demonstration of "beating around the bush" until it was dinner time when all the housewives had to go home to prepare for dinner, and he got out of the mess. Thus, they gave him the nickname "Beater Around the Bush" which eventually became better known as Beater.
As word spread, and the people who did not know better perpetuated their misunderstandings about where their nicknames came from, Theodore's and Beater's businesses thrived, and they could afford to retire rich and retire young, and they drank all the time in the day and the night and tried to always remember to run away after vomitting on people's doors, if not, to pass out together.
They also generously and unreservedly treated their good friend, who wrote this story, to many, many drinks and happy things, and everybody lived happily ever after.
(For Yisheng and Terence.)
One of them was known by his nickname, Theodore, which did not refer to Roosevelt, who was not yet born, but was short form for "Three Doors Down", which was his nickname in full. People, who did not know better, would think that that it referred to how Theodore could cut his axe through three wooden doors at one go, and since once upon that time, wooden doors were very thick and strong things, and to be able to cut through three wooden doors, they thought that he was a very strong man.
The truth was, however, that Theodore loved drinking very much. And once, he had a bit too much to drink, and he threw up. His vomit splashed across three doors of three houses.
This would not normally be remarkable, by Theodore's personal records (which was 6 doors down), however, it happened in the middle of the day, and he took down the three doors in a unbroken single gush of puke. Imagine, his mouth as a nozzle and esophagus, like a hose, and together, sprayed vomit in a continuous stream over three doors of three house, in the middle of the day.
Friends and passerbys who saw the remarkable feat happened, thus dubbed that the "Three Doors Down incident" and gave him the nickname which eventually became better known as Theodore.
One of the friends there, was the other woodcutter, whose nickname was "Beater", which the same people, who did not know better, thought that he was such a mucho woodcutter, such that he defeats the woods, thus, "beating them". The truth was, however, more... candid.
Unfortunately for him, he was not quite drunk enough that day, and he instinctively feigned a well-rehearsed apologetic expression, which invited assumptions that he was going to be responsible for everything. Since there was no point in questioning the passed out puker or the other friends who had laughed heartily, and passed out on the ground, or pretended to, the housewives who were the only people at home at the time, came out of the houses, and all gravitated towards Beater, and one of them asked him,
"So, how much are you going to pay us for the doors?"
"Wah, you are so direct and frank!" replied Beater, "Whatever happened to the art of conversation? We are in once upon a time you know. We shouldn't be so forthcoming when we speak. Come, let's beat around the bush a bit."
And with that, he delivered a spectacular demonstration of "beating around the bush" until it was dinner time when all the housewives had to go home to prepare for dinner, and he got out of the mess. Thus, they gave him the nickname "Beater Around the Bush" which eventually became better known as Beater.
As word spread, and the people who did not know better perpetuated their misunderstandings about where their nicknames came from, Theodore's and Beater's businesses thrived, and they could afford to retire rich and retire young, and they drank all the time in the day and the night and tried to always remember to run away after vomitting on people's doors, if not, to pass out together.
They also generously and unreservedly treated their good friend, who wrote this story, to many, many drinks and happy things, and everybody lived happily ever after.
(For Yisheng and Terence.)
Uncle Hog
Hog normally sat at the corner table at the kopitiam. He would arrive in the afternoon, around 3 to 4 pm, and ordered continuous rounds of tiger beer until around 10 in the night.
At 5 pm, two of his students would arrive, and he would tutor them in literature and philosophies on life. They have to pay him five dollars on the spot, and he welcomes them to bring friends, so long as they pay too. Then he'll use the money to get more beer.
And cigarettes. Let's not forget about his cigarettes.
Hog smoked four cigarettes every hour, or one cigarette every fifteen minutes. It is hard to hold the cigarettes with his trotters, so he leaves them dangling in between his lips until from start to finish. He never coughs. When his students did, he gave them permission to leave the table until he finishes his cigarette. He told the rest that those who left the table would never be able to understand a good deal of literature, which came from people who smoke.
"Apparently," he said, "nicotine does something for the schizophrenics, and many writers are schizophrenics, you know. There's a certain sense of empathy."
"Uncle Hog, is that why you smoke even when you know smoking is bad for health?" said a student once, from the 8 pm class. He held two sessions daily, sometimes the students show up, sometimes not. He forbade his students from addressing him as teacher. When he was a kid, a long time ago, his mother told him to address people as "uncle" as a sign of respect. He liked that and asked to be called "Uncle" - a figure of authority without moral responsibility.
"50 years ago, they said smoking is good for health. Fifty years later, they say it kills you. Maybe 50 years later they'll say it's good for me again. Remember: Facts become obsolete. Fiction remains relevant. Even Shakespeare's old pansy rhymes are more relevant than the 'facts' of his time."
"Do you really believe that smoking is good for your health?"
"No. Smoking is bad for you, don't pick up smoking," said Hog sternly, "If you have to pick up something, pick up a pen instead. If that fails you, then pick up drinking. If that fails you too, then you can consider smoking."
"Then why do you smoke?"
"Smoking is bad for health, but it hasn't failed me."
When Hog died of lung cancer, his students buried him and put this on his epitaph, "His only hate sprung from his only love (other than drinking and the written word)." He didn't ask for it, but they thought he would find it funny.
At 5 pm, two of his students would arrive, and he would tutor them in literature and philosophies on life. They have to pay him five dollars on the spot, and he welcomes them to bring friends, so long as they pay too. Then he'll use the money to get more beer.
And cigarettes. Let's not forget about his cigarettes.
Hog smoked four cigarettes every hour, or one cigarette every fifteen minutes. It is hard to hold the cigarettes with his trotters, so he leaves them dangling in between his lips until from start to finish. He never coughs. When his students did, he gave them permission to leave the table until he finishes his cigarette. He told the rest that those who left the table would never be able to understand a good deal of literature, which came from people who smoke.
"Apparently," he said, "nicotine does something for the schizophrenics, and many writers are schizophrenics, you know. There's a certain sense of empathy."
"Uncle Hog, is that why you smoke even when you know smoking is bad for health?" said a student once, from the 8 pm class. He held two sessions daily, sometimes the students show up, sometimes not. He forbade his students from addressing him as teacher. When he was a kid, a long time ago, his mother told him to address people as "uncle" as a sign of respect. He liked that and asked to be called "Uncle" - a figure of authority without moral responsibility.
"50 years ago, they said smoking is good for health. Fifty years later, they say it kills you. Maybe 50 years later they'll say it's good for me again. Remember: Facts become obsolete. Fiction remains relevant. Even Shakespeare's old pansy rhymes are more relevant than the 'facts' of his time."
"Do you really believe that smoking is good for your health?"
"No. Smoking is bad for you, don't pick up smoking," said Hog sternly, "If you have to pick up something, pick up a pen instead. If that fails you, then pick up drinking. If that fails you too, then you can consider smoking."
"Then why do you smoke?"
"Smoking is bad for health, but it hasn't failed me."
When Hog died of lung cancer, his students buried him and put this on his epitaph, "His only hate sprung from his only love (other than drinking and the written word)." He didn't ask for it, but they thought he would find it funny.
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Zhou the Walrus
Zhou was a walrus that lived in a zoo. He had strayed too far away from his homeland, and was captured by a whaler and sold to the zoo because the captain thought he was too majestic to be eaten. He was the only walrus in the zoo.
Everybody liked Zhou, especially the primates and the tortoises. He had nice stories to tell about his adventures and jokes about how he was "blubbly". Whenever any of the animals get depressed about life in the zoo, their good friends or family would bring them to talk to Zhou at night, and they would usually feel better about themselves.
There were times, however, when Zhou was unapproachable. Usually that was when he's in heat, or have a toothache. He usually had a toothache when he's 'heaty' - as in, in the traditional chinese medicine way. For example, when he had a toothache, or more specifically, a tuskache, one would hear him lamenting to the skies, wailing, "Whhhhy does the heavens give me such big teeth? My face is small, unlike the elephants, and I don't even a trunk, let alone hands, to clean them and take care of them. Ohhh... I am so miserable.
"Whhhhy does the heavens give me such big teeth? When it has willed for me to be enclosed in this dreaded zoo. There are no ladies here for me to impress with my teeth. Ohhh... I am so miserable."
Usually, when everybody heard the walrus wailing, they would stay away, as they were afraid of being scolded or chided by the heaty and angry walrus. They have experienced being in heat or toothaches before, and they know how irrational that makes them, so they kept away or kept their children away.
The next door couple of seals, however, had a little pup. One day, when the seals were out performing, the walrus was complaining, the pup did not know better and asked, "Uncle Zhou, my mother said everybody comes to you with their troubles, but why are you complaining about your teeth like how everyone complains about life?"
Looking at the cute and impressionable seal pup, Zhou thought it was important to explain, so he spoke to the pup softly,
"Little pup. I am only a walrus, and like everybody else, I am a subject of the heavens and fate and time. When I feel a toothache, I will feel like being complaining, so I complain. To complain is part of the joy of having a toothache.
"Little pup, it is important, however, when one is complaining, to know what one is complaining for. Complaining is for the better enjoyment of the experience. It is like, part of enjoying summer is to sit around to complain about the heat; and part of enjoying in winter is to huddle around and complain about the cold."
"My mother always tells me to appreciate the heat of the summer by remembering how cold it was in winter, and to appreciate the cool of winter by remembering how hot it was in summer," said the pup.
"Yes, it is very important to be appreciative of the present moment in your heart. That is basically how one is able to enjoy the present moment. When you complain without basic appreciation, then you will be miserable. If you are miserable without basic appreciation, then it is a waste of perfectly good misery.
"It is like, to complain about being in a zoo, is part of the joy of being in a zoo, only if one appreciates that he can sit around complaining about the zoo, instead of say, fleeing from predators or hunting for prey. Without appreciation, there will not be enjoyment, if there is no enjoyment, one is merely wasting the space he takes up."
The pup cocked his head to a side and did not understand everything fully, and said, "Well, anyway, Uncle Zhou, if it would make you feel better, I am impressed with your big teeth. I think it makes you look cool. When I grow up, I want to have teeth like yours too, but my mother said seals won't have big teeth... I'm thinking, I can help you clean your teeth, since you said you have problems cleaning it with your flippers, and maybe if I am close to your teeth often enough, it will help me get big teeth too."
"Gee. Now, I will have to find something else to complain about," said the walrus.
Everybody liked Zhou, especially the primates and the tortoises. He had nice stories to tell about his adventures and jokes about how he was "blubbly". Whenever any of the animals get depressed about life in the zoo, their good friends or family would bring them to talk to Zhou at night, and they would usually feel better about themselves.
There were times, however, when Zhou was unapproachable. Usually that was when he's in heat, or have a toothache. He usually had a toothache when he's 'heaty' - as in, in the traditional chinese medicine way. For example, when he had a toothache, or more specifically, a tuskache, one would hear him lamenting to the skies, wailing, "Whhhhy does the heavens give me such big teeth? My face is small, unlike the elephants, and I don't even a trunk, let alone hands, to clean them and take care of them. Ohhh... I am so miserable.
"Whhhhy does the heavens give me such big teeth? When it has willed for me to be enclosed in this dreaded zoo. There are no ladies here for me to impress with my teeth. Ohhh... I am so miserable."
Usually, when everybody heard the walrus wailing, they would stay away, as they were afraid of being scolded or chided by the heaty and angry walrus. They have experienced being in heat or toothaches before, and they know how irrational that makes them, so they kept away or kept their children away.
The next door couple of seals, however, had a little pup. One day, when the seals were out performing, the walrus was complaining, the pup did not know better and asked, "Uncle Zhou, my mother said everybody comes to you with their troubles, but why are you complaining about your teeth like how everyone complains about life?"
Looking at the cute and impressionable seal pup, Zhou thought it was important to explain, so he spoke to the pup softly,
"Little pup. I am only a walrus, and like everybody else, I am a subject of the heavens and fate and time. When I feel a toothache, I will feel like being complaining, so I complain. To complain is part of the joy of having a toothache.
"Little pup, it is important, however, when one is complaining, to know what one is complaining for. Complaining is for the better enjoyment of the experience. It is like, part of enjoying summer is to sit around to complain about the heat; and part of enjoying in winter is to huddle around and complain about the cold."
"My mother always tells me to appreciate the heat of the summer by remembering how cold it was in winter, and to appreciate the cool of winter by remembering how hot it was in summer," said the pup.
"Yes, it is very important to be appreciative of the present moment in your heart. That is basically how one is able to enjoy the present moment. When you complain without basic appreciation, then you will be miserable. If you are miserable without basic appreciation, then it is a waste of perfectly good misery.
"It is like, to complain about being in a zoo, is part of the joy of being in a zoo, only if one appreciates that he can sit around complaining about the zoo, instead of say, fleeing from predators or hunting for prey. Without appreciation, there will not be enjoyment, if there is no enjoyment, one is merely wasting the space he takes up."
The pup cocked his head to a side and did not understand everything fully, and said, "Well, anyway, Uncle Zhou, if it would make you feel better, I am impressed with your big teeth. I think it makes you look cool. When I grow up, I want to have teeth like yours too, but my mother said seals won't have big teeth... I'm thinking, I can help you clean your teeth, since you said you have problems cleaning it with your flippers, and maybe if I am close to your teeth often enough, it will help me get big teeth too."
"Gee. Now, I will have to find something else to complain about," said the walrus.
Monday, 17 November 2008
The butterfly
Three sisters were playing in a room of when a butterfly flew into the room.
"Close the door quick!" the youngest sister said, "Or the butterfly may escape!"
"No, leave the door open!" the middle sister said, "So that the butterfly may fly out."
"No, close the door quick!" the eldest sister said, "So that no more butterflies may fly in."
"Close the door quick!" the youngest sister said, "Or the butterfly may escape!"
"No, leave the door open!" the middle sister said, "So that the butterfly may fly out."
"No, close the door quick!" the eldest sister said, "So that no more butterflies may fly in."
Sunday, 16 November 2008
The Man and the Woman
A man and a woman went to a market where many different foods of the world were gathered and sold. The market was crowded with people looking for interesting and delicious things to eat. The man was hungry and eager to eat something, but the woman was determined that they should sample something different.
"I think I will have a cup of corn," said the man, as he saw buttered and salted steamed sweet corn kernels sold in cups. They are always delicious, he thought.
"Oh come on! That is sold everywhere, we can always eat it at the food stall near our home. It is rare that we should come to this market. We should try something different!" with that, the woman pulled the man away by the hand and led him to go further into the market.
Along the way they remarked at many strange looking food and commented on many other familiar looking ones. Until they came upon a Turkish food stall that displayed two grand looking spits of doner kebabs.
"How about that?" asked the man.
"Oh, but you can eat that at the Turkish restaurant that we always eat at," said the woman.
"Which restaurant?"
"Never mind, I know where we could get to eat that. Let's look for something more exotic." Then she led him away again as he looked at the kebabs with puzzlement.
"Let's eat that," the man said, pointing at some African food stall, where they too, had roast meat on a vertical spit.
"Okay," the woman agreed at last. Alas! There was nobody tending at the stall, and a sign says that the African cooks were on a break. The man was disappointed, but the woman led him away again. He took a deep breath at a popcorn stand, and the woman said, "Don't tell me you want to eat popcorn!" And she briefly wondered why he wanted to eat corn so much.
By the time they walked past some pubs that were showcasing afternoon beers, they were tired and disoriented by the bustling crowd. She sneaked a look at the available bar stools and thought of how nice it would be to sit down now, she was feeling a little dizzy from all this. Then the man said,
"Let's just get out of here and go to some Macdonald's and have fries."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I have a sudden craving for fries."
She too, realised the vanity of the pursuit and abandoned it.
"I think I will have a cup of corn," said the man, as he saw buttered and salted steamed sweet corn kernels sold in cups. They are always delicious, he thought.
"Oh come on! That is sold everywhere, we can always eat it at the food stall near our home. It is rare that we should come to this market. We should try something different!" with that, the woman pulled the man away by the hand and led him to go further into the market.
Along the way they remarked at many strange looking food and commented on many other familiar looking ones. Until they came upon a Turkish food stall that displayed two grand looking spits of doner kebabs.
"How about that?" asked the man.
"Oh, but you can eat that at the Turkish restaurant that we always eat at," said the woman.
"Which restaurant?"
"Never mind, I know where we could get to eat that. Let's look for something more exotic." Then she led him away again as he looked at the kebabs with puzzlement.
"Let's eat that," the man said, pointing at some African food stall, where they too, had roast meat on a vertical spit.
"Okay," the woman agreed at last. Alas! There was nobody tending at the stall, and a sign says that the African cooks were on a break. The man was disappointed, but the woman led him away again. He took a deep breath at a popcorn stand, and the woman said, "Don't tell me you want to eat popcorn!" And she briefly wondered why he wanted to eat corn so much.
By the time they walked past some pubs that were showcasing afternoon beers, they were tired and disoriented by the bustling crowd. She sneaked a look at the available bar stools and thought of how nice it would be to sit down now, she was feeling a little dizzy from all this. Then the man said,
"Let's just get out of here and go to some Macdonald's and have fries."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I have a sudden craving for fries."
She too, realised the vanity of the pursuit and abandoned it.
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
The Man
Once upon a time, there was a man who woke up one day and found himself in the wilderness. He knew he was no longer in his country, because the plants that were growing about were not from his childhood. He was no longer at home and no longer with the people he knew. He did not know where he was and what was he supposed to do there. So he set out to find out.
He sat down in a corner to think of how he would find out what he was supposed to do. He decided that he needs to take care of his daily needs, and see to how he could maintain his life, so that he could comfortably establish what he was supposed to do there.
He decided that he had to first find food and water, and to build himself shelter. He built a makeshift hut and realised that it wouldn't last, so he built a sturdier hut that could weather the storms should the storms come. After that, he thought he should make himself some new clothes because he would need to go and meet people and interview them and establish his location. Surely he must appear presentable. If he were to wear the same clothes everyday he would look like a beggar. This made him think of how winter might be coming, and he did not have enough warm clothes. In this fashion, he took some time and he went about preparing for his livelihood, so that he could comfortable establish what he was supposed to do there.
He had not met anybody so far, and sat down and thought that he should travel to go and meet people who could tell him where he was and what he was supposed to do.
He thought about how he was going to approach the people, recalling what he remembered of the town he lived in, he realised that everybody would seem to have a purpose. The bun seller was a bun seller, and the innkeeper was an innkeeper. He had nothing to offer, and surely, in the foreign town he was headed towards, people would not be obliged to talk to him. So, he decided to establish himself as something first, and started to train himself in carpentry. By the time he was pleased with his craft, he built a stock of stools that he could carried to town to sell. He thought he could use the money to repay people as well. He was unable to carry with him his entire wardrobe, so he left most of his clothes in the hut that he built. That should be alright, he thought, because it seemed that the land did not have the four seasons, and there was no winter.
Finally, he met people, but it turned out that the people were primitive and barbaric. They grunted and ate raw meat and did not live in huts and did not sit on stools. He could not talk to them, much less establish where he was. Scared that he would be killed for his fancy clothings and foreign manner, he took off his clothes and abandoned his wares and joined the yahoos, thinking that he would try to understand them so that he could eventually communicate with them. Soon, with his day-to-day association with the people, he lost himself and his agenda.
One night, a snake came to the man in his dream, and reproached him for wasting his life and efforts. That was the first time in a long time that he had any conversation in a language. He felt bad for being reproached and defended that he did not ask to be put in this strange land, and he did not know what he was supposed to do. When he woke up, he felt very angry, and took a stick and went out to hunt for snakes, intending to beat them. But before he found any snakes, he was distracted by the crowd gathering about a fire, that somebody had apparently discovered. The man forgot about beating snakes and what he was supposed to do again.
He sat down in a corner to think of how he would find out what he was supposed to do. He decided that he needs to take care of his daily needs, and see to how he could maintain his life, so that he could comfortably establish what he was supposed to do there.
He decided that he had to first find food and water, and to build himself shelter. He built a makeshift hut and realised that it wouldn't last, so he built a sturdier hut that could weather the storms should the storms come. After that, he thought he should make himself some new clothes because he would need to go and meet people and interview them and establish his location. Surely he must appear presentable. If he were to wear the same clothes everyday he would look like a beggar. This made him think of how winter might be coming, and he did not have enough warm clothes. In this fashion, he took some time and he went about preparing for his livelihood, so that he could comfortable establish what he was supposed to do there.
He had not met anybody so far, and sat down and thought that he should travel to go and meet people who could tell him where he was and what he was supposed to do.
He thought about how he was going to approach the people, recalling what he remembered of the town he lived in, he realised that everybody would seem to have a purpose. The bun seller was a bun seller, and the innkeeper was an innkeeper. He had nothing to offer, and surely, in the foreign town he was headed towards, people would not be obliged to talk to him. So, he decided to establish himself as something first, and started to train himself in carpentry. By the time he was pleased with his craft, he built a stock of stools that he could carried to town to sell. He thought he could use the money to repay people as well. He was unable to carry with him his entire wardrobe, so he left most of his clothes in the hut that he built. That should be alright, he thought, because it seemed that the land did not have the four seasons, and there was no winter.
Finally, he met people, but it turned out that the people were primitive and barbaric. They grunted and ate raw meat and did not live in huts and did not sit on stools. He could not talk to them, much less establish where he was. Scared that he would be killed for his fancy clothings and foreign manner, he took off his clothes and abandoned his wares and joined the yahoos, thinking that he would try to understand them so that he could eventually communicate with them. Soon, with his day-to-day association with the people, he lost himself and his agenda.
One night, a snake came to the man in his dream, and reproached him for wasting his life and efforts. That was the first time in a long time that he had any conversation in a language. He felt bad for being reproached and defended that he did not ask to be put in this strange land, and he did not know what he was supposed to do. When he woke up, he felt very angry, and took a stick and went out to hunt for snakes, intending to beat them. But before he found any snakes, he was distracted by the crowd gathering about a fire, that somebody had apparently discovered. The man forgot about beating snakes and what he was supposed to do again.
Thursday, 6 November 2008
USED III: Mr Creosote
Mr Creosote was the Minister of Deference. He used to be in the military and commanded a battalion of cleaning bots. He sustained some injuries (carpal tunnel syndrome) and presented his case effectively enough to be generously compensated. He argued his case so well, that he was immediately offered the position of Minister of Deference after he retired from the military, since he had quite the way with words.
Mr Creosote was in his fifties. He was a thin man. He had six sets of formal attire, one which he'd only wear to weddings and special events. He jogged and read in his spare time. He liked to drink wine and thought of himself as a connoisseur. He never gets drunk. He dislikes drunk people. He also dislike smokers or gamblers. He thought of them as decadent and pitiful. He did not like his job. He believes jobs are not meant to be liked. He liked himself. He liked his wife most of the time.
His wife recently joined the community centre because she had nothing better to do. She was kicked out of the singing class because she was too bossy. The people there recommended her to join the first wives' club where members met to exchange pointers on how to manage their husbands better. It suited her well, even though she would feel that the other members were pitiful for having husbands who had affairs. Mr Creosote did not have any other women. She was fairly sure of that.
The latest thing the club had been raving about was how to manipulate the diets of the husbands. "The way through to a man's heart is through his stomach." That was the theme until ideas for things relevant to it to do ran out. The latest thing was eating light and right, which was why Mr Creosote had to bring a sandwich to lunch.
Mr Creosote liked bringing sandwiches to lunch. He was rather pleased with himself for having a wife who prepared it for him and cared for his health. Anyway, it was economical and efficient. It would validate why he would not go out for lunch. Every lunch time, he would feel uncomfortable of the possibility of somebody asking him to go for lunch. He did not like to eat lunch with the people from his office, because they were his subordinates and would obligate him to pay for lunch if they were to eat together. He was resigned to how it was lonely to be at the top. He was used to it, because in the cleaning battalion he had to eat by himself too.
At lunch time, he took out his wine magazine and sandwich. He flipped to the page that he had previously bookmarked with a post-it note so he could read it for lunch. It featured an article on beef and wines. He was having a mashed cow tumour sandwich, so it was apt. He held the magazine in his left hand and the sandwich in his right. Then he felt that there was something tickling his nose, so he held the sandwich with his mouth by not biting through it, to free his right hand. Then he dug his nose and a piece of snot fell straight down from his nose and landed on his sandwich. He was aware of it, but he ate it anyway, with the bite after next. He ate his own snot without much thought.
(sneak.)
Mr Creosote was in his fifties. He was a thin man. He had six sets of formal attire, one which he'd only wear to weddings and special events. He jogged and read in his spare time. He liked to drink wine and thought of himself as a connoisseur. He never gets drunk. He dislikes drunk people. He also dislike smokers or gamblers. He thought of them as decadent and pitiful. He did not like his job. He believes jobs are not meant to be liked. He liked himself. He liked his wife most of the time.
His wife recently joined the community centre because she had nothing better to do. She was kicked out of the singing class because she was too bossy. The people there recommended her to join the first wives' club where members met to exchange pointers on how to manage their husbands better. It suited her well, even though she would feel that the other members were pitiful for having husbands who had affairs. Mr Creosote did not have any other women. She was fairly sure of that.
The latest thing the club had been raving about was how to manipulate the diets of the husbands. "The way through to a man's heart is through his stomach." That was the theme until ideas for things relevant to it to do ran out. The latest thing was eating light and right, which was why Mr Creosote had to bring a sandwich to lunch.
Mr Creosote liked bringing sandwiches to lunch. He was rather pleased with himself for having a wife who prepared it for him and cared for his health. Anyway, it was economical and efficient. It would validate why he would not go out for lunch. Every lunch time, he would feel uncomfortable of the possibility of somebody asking him to go for lunch. He did not like to eat lunch with the people from his office, because they were his subordinates and would obligate him to pay for lunch if they were to eat together. He was resigned to how it was lonely to be at the top. He was used to it, because in the cleaning battalion he had to eat by himself too.
At lunch time, he took out his wine magazine and sandwich. He flipped to the page that he had previously bookmarked with a post-it note so he could read it for lunch. It featured an article on beef and wines. He was having a mashed cow tumour sandwich, so it was apt. He held the magazine in his left hand and the sandwich in his right. Then he felt that there was something tickling his nose, so he held the sandwich with his mouth by not biting through it, to free his right hand. Then he dug his nose and a piece of snot fell straight down from his nose and landed on his sandwich. He was aware of it, but he ate it anyway, with the bite after next. He ate his own snot without much thought.
(sneak.)
Monday, 3 November 2008
Secret Report: The Earthworms
As requested, this is an interim report to update on research on the earthworms that may live inside our heads. Apparently, they are not exactly the same kinds of earthworms that are physically found in the garden soil or the leaf litters, but they are what scientists would (if they had known any better) call in layman terms, "distant relatives". These earthworms that may live in our heads, actually live in brains and slither around the little ridges and the crevices and in between the spaces in the brain's lobes. Like most other worms, they are generally disgusting, and slimy, and blind.
The worms have never been previously identified by anyone in the world. This is because, upon the death of the hosts, the worms will immediately transform into blood and hide in somewhere nobody can imagine to look.
Nobody knows how, or when, or why, but these earthworms need to reproduce in the buried dead, where they will mate with worms from neighbouring corpses. It is supposed they will morph into blood and sort of crystallise or take up form again when the time is right. They will die upon mating, and their offspring will be carried forward to the afterlife to be born with new or reincarnating souls. It is beyond modern understanding of metaphysics. Breeding the worms is not deemed viable.
The worms used to live in everybody. With each person, or rather, each brain, there will live within it, one worm. Due to evolution and other stuffy reasons, however, less people are buried and it was harder for these earthworms to reproduce and get reincarnated into new people. When dead bodies are cremated, as they usually are nowadays, the earthworms in them will too be burnt to crisp, and there will be no earthworms in the brain of the person of the reincarnated soul whose previous body was torched to ashes.
Thus, presently, not everybody has a earthworm in their head. This is to the despair of the good of the world.
These earthworms feed on the causes of meningitis. Causes of meningitis may include cancer, drugs, and various types of bacteria, viruses and fungus. It can be concluded that the worms are good for health, and should a person be a host to one of these worms, he is more likely to live a longer life. In fact, it is speculated that it makes one smarter, think better, and act wiser.
One day, these worms will be extinct. Meningitis will become ever rampant. People will become more and more stupid.
(sneak.)
The worms have never been previously identified by anyone in the world. This is because, upon the death of the hosts, the worms will immediately transform into blood and hide in somewhere nobody can imagine to look.
Nobody knows how, or when, or why, but these earthworms need to reproduce in the buried dead, where they will mate with worms from neighbouring corpses. It is supposed they will morph into blood and sort of crystallise or take up form again when the time is right. They will die upon mating, and their offspring will be carried forward to the afterlife to be born with new or reincarnating souls. It is beyond modern understanding of metaphysics. Breeding the worms is not deemed viable.
The worms used to live in everybody. With each person, or rather, each brain, there will live within it, one worm. Due to evolution and other stuffy reasons, however, less people are buried and it was harder for these earthworms to reproduce and get reincarnated into new people. When dead bodies are cremated, as they usually are nowadays, the earthworms in them will too be burnt to crisp, and there will be no earthworms in the brain of the person of the reincarnated soul whose previous body was torched to ashes.
Thus, presently, not everybody has a earthworm in their head. This is to the despair of the good of the world.
These earthworms feed on the causes of meningitis. Causes of meningitis may include cancer, drugs, and various types of bacteria, viruses and fungus. It can be concluded that the worms are good for health, and should a person be a host to one of these worms, he is more likely to live a longer life. In fact, it is speculated that it makes one smarter, think better, and act wiser.
One day, these worms will be extinct. Meningitis will become ever rampant. People will become more and more stupid.
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
He who drives a Dustbin Car
During a particularly boring maths lesson about how to differentiate x to the power of minus 21 over y, Billy scribbled this at the corner of a page of his textbook, "if I knew music, I would write a song about he who drives the dustbin car".
He hated maths and barely passed his exams at the end of the year and went to Junior College to study maths and then drop maths. Billy's mother gave away his textbooks to her neighbour, who wanted to give it to a friend, whose son was going to sit for the "O" levels three years later, and by the time he reached Sec three, they changed the syllabus and textbooks altogether. So, Billy's textbook was thrown here and there and lost and forgotten until thirty years later a wise guy son of a karung guni started a museum of old school textbooks featuring authentic scribblings and included Billy's maths textbook.
As part of some publicity event, they held a song-writing contest. The theme was on Billy's maths textbook's "if I knew music, I would write a song about he who drives the dustbin car".
Mark Lee was one of the people who submitted an entry. He felt that he drove a dustbin car because he heard about the contest on the day his car broke down. And that since his name was Mark Lee, which he deemed sufficiently chimed with Billy, it might be fate that he should enter the song-writing contest and that it might lead him to something that would lead to something else. He did not know any musical instruments except for his discman, which has a faulty battery that does not take charge any more, and nobody made replacement parts for it so he listens to it when it's directly connected to power. His song went like this:
I drive a dustbin car
And it ran out of batt.
I was on my way to work
And the batt was flat.
Now my dustbin car
Is in the office car park.
I pushed it there myself.
I didn't call the tow truck.
I hope that my dustbin car
Is unlike my disc-man,
For which nobody sells
The battery already man.
Mark didn't have a proper tune in mind when he submitted his entry, but he figured by the time someone called to ask for it he'd have gotten something ready, if it were all meant to be.
Beatrice was one of the people who submitted an entry. The little girl had spent all day looking for her pet rabbit, Jack, full named Jack-the-rabbit-and-part-time-invisible-man because he went missing so often that Beatrice thought that Jack was a wererabbit (like a werewolf, but a rabbit) who was invisible since nobody saw him before. The little girl was tired of resorting to look even the unlikeliest places, like underneath rocks, so she sulked on the sofa and saw the newspaper ad about the song-writing contest and thought that Jack drove the dustbin car and ran away. And since her name was Beatrice which started with B as like in Billy, she thought it was meant to be, and she should write a song for Jack so that he'd hear it and come back. Her song went like this:
Hi, my name is Beatrice,
And my rabbit is named Jack.
He will change into an invisible
Wererabbit behind my back.
Then nobody can see him
Because he becomes the invisible man.
But when he has enough fun,
Then I will find him, I will can.
But I think this time maybe
Jack has ran away too far.
He became the invisible man
Then he stole the dustbin car.
Jack! Jack! If you hear this,
As you drive the dustbin car,
You better come back before I throw away
Your carrots and your favourite honey star.
When somebody called to ask about the tune and if she were prepared to play it live, she replied, "Nowadays, jack is gone, I got nobody to play with. Sometimes I play with jack's toys but mommy will scold and tell me to stop playing with jack's shit."
Billy was around 50 years old by the time he was contacted about his textbook and the song-writing contest. It turned out that he did write a song about the dustbin car when he was older and formed a group with some of his friends - an acapella group. They never performed anywhere but carolled a bit at some friends' gathering. Billy agreed to judge the contest provided that he and his group were given the chance to sing his own rendition of the man who drives the dustbin car. His song went like this:
Everybody knows the man who drives the dustbin car
You can always smell him coming from afar
He was known to people as Mr Bang-ga-lar
Nobody care about him like how nobody care about William Farquhar.
The man who drives the dustbin car will sometimes feel so sad,
Not just because his job sucks or that he always smell so bad,
But because he touched a broken glass or a soiled sanitary pad,
Or an open-faced baby diaper in which the baby shat.
So please lar, when you throw something down the rubbish chute,
Pretend you are Santa Claus and wrap your present like you should.
When you see Mr Bang-ga-lar driving in your neighbourhood,
Don't just kaopei that it's smelly if in your heart you really salute.
We must take it easy on the man who drives the dustbin car
Maybe next time he may not be Mr Bang-ga-lar,
Or Mr any foreign worker who had travelled from afar,
If he could have helped it, he'll tell you to do it for him lar.
Just like if we could play music then we won't sing acapellar,
(someone else sings) I would play the keyboard, (Billy sings) I would play guitar.
Maybe we would even join project superstar,
and we would sing a proper song for he who drives the dustbin car.
Billy and his group sang mostly out of tune to a crowd who did not empathised with the song, but it was okay because they had grown up by then and knew better not to be righteous. The most important thing was that they finally properly performed and had much fun even if they didn't know music.
He hated maths and barely passed his exams at the end of the year and went to Junior College to study maths and then drop maths. Billy's mother gave away his textbooks to her neighbour, who wanted to give it to a friend, whose son was going to sit for the "O" levels three years later, and by the time he reached Sec three, they changed the syllabus and textbooks altogether. So, Billy's textbook was thrown here and there and lost and forgotten until thirty years later a wise guy son of a karung guni started a museum of old school textbooks featuring authentic scribblings and included Billy's maths textbook.
As part of some publicity event, they held a song-writing contest. The theme was on Billy's maths textbook's "if I knew music, I would write a song about he who drives the dustbin car".
*
Mark Lee was one of the people who submitted an entry. He felt that he drove a dustbin car because he heard about the contest on the day his car broke down. And that since his name was Mark Lee, which he deemed sufficiently chimed with Billy, it might be fate that he should enter the song-writing contest and that it might lead him to something that would lead to something else. He did not know any musical instruments except for his discman, which has a faulty battery that does not take charge any more, and nobody made replacement parts for it so he listens to it when it's directly connected to power. His song went like this:
I drive a dustbin car
And it ran out of batt.
I was on my way to work
And the batt was flat.
Now my dustbin car
Is in the office car park.
I pushed it there myself.
I didn't call the tow truck.
I hope that my dustbin car
Is unlike my disc-man,
For which nobody sells
The battery already man.
Mark didn't have a proper tune in mind when he submitted his entry, but he figured by the time someone called to ask for it he'd have gotten something ready, if it were all meant to be.
*
Beatrice was one of the people who submitted an entry. The little girl had spent all day looking for her pet rabbit, Jack, full named Jack-the-rabbit-and-part-time-invisible-man because he went missing so often that Beatrice thought that Jack was a wererabbit (like a werewolf, but a rabbit) who was invisible since nobody saw him before. The little girl was tired of resorting to look even the unlikeliest places, like underneath rocks, so she sulked on the sofa and saw the newspaper ad about the song-writing contest and thought that Jack drove the dustbin car and ran away. And since her name was Beatrice which started with B as like in Billy, she thought it was meant to be, and she should write a song for Jack so that he'd hear it and come back. Her song went like this:
Hi, my name is Beatrice,
And my rabbit is named Jack.
He will change into an invisible
Wererabbit behind my back.
Then nobody can see him
Because he becomes the invisible man.
But when he has enough fun,
Then I will find him, I will can.
But I think this time maybe
Jack has ran away too far.
He became the invisible man
Then he stole the dustbin car.
Jack! Jack! If you hear this,
As you drive the dustbin car,
You better come back before I throw away
Your carrots and your favourite honey star.
When somebody called to ask about the tune and if she were prepared to play it live, she replied, "Nowadays, jack is gone, I got nobody to play with. Sometimes I play with jack's toys but mommy will scold and tell me to stop playing with jack's shit."
*
Billy was around 50 years old by the time he was contacted about his textbook and the song-writing contest. It turned out that he did write a song about the dustbin car when he was older and formed a group with some of his friends - an acapella group. They never performed anywhere but carolled a bit at some friends' gathering. Billy agreed to judge the contest provided that he and his group were given the chance to sing his own rendition of the man who drives the dustbin car. His song went like this:
Everybody knows the man who drives the dustbin car
You can always smell him coming from afar
He was known to people as Mr Bang-ga-lar
Nobody care about him like how nobody care about William Farquhar.
The man who drives the dustbin car will sometimes feel so sad,
Not just because his job sucks or that he always smell so bad,
But because he touched a broken glass or a soiled sanitary pad,
Or an open-faced baby diaper in which the baby shat.
So please lar, when you throw something down the rubbish chute,
Pretend you are Santa Claus and wrap your present like you should.
When you see Mr Bang-ga-lar driving in your neighbourhood,
Don't just kaopei that it's smelly if in your heart you really salute.
We must take it easy on the man who drives the dustbin car
Maybe next time he may not be Mr Bang-ga-lar,
Or Mr any foreign worker who had travelled from afar,
If he could have helped it, he'll tell you to do it for him lar.
Just like if we could play music then we won't sing acapellar,
(someone else sings) I would play the keyboard, (Billy sings) I would play guitar.
Maybe we would even join project superstar,
and we would sing a proper song for he who drives the dustbin car.
Billy and his group sang mostly out of tune to a crowd who did not empathised with the song, but it was okay because they had grown up by then and knew better not to be righteous. The most important thing was that they finally properly performed and had much fun even if they didn't know music.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Clumsy, the cat
There was once a siamese cat who had four left feet. They said it was a result of severe in-breeding by the cat breeder, who gave the cat away in disdain to a little girl from the other side of the town. The little girl did not know the cat for its pedigree descent, and decided to call her new pet, "Clumsy" because the kitten looked damn clumsy.
The little girl's brother was a dog-kind of person, and being a brother, irritated and scared his sister for sport. The brother would call Clumsy, "Drunk", and often threatened to use his toy drill to drill little holes through the little kitten's skull and let the blood out to make into blood pudding for the girl to eat. The little girl cried for a few days, until she realised that her brother was just joking, and then she coaxed the kitten to agree with her. The brother soon grew bored of his routine. Everybody got along with the cat and grew up.
Clumsy developed a coat of blue fur that matched his bright blue eyes, but he did not grow much bigger, perhaps due to some hormonal defect that stunted his growth. He looked set to live on for a long time. He was also no longer clumsy, and was smarter and easily trained and could understand instructions pretty well.
In fact, Clumsy was so trainable, that when the girl married, Clumsy was tasked to carry the rings on a ribbon around his neck down the ceremonial aisle. Clumsy easily stole the show with how the sparking rings contrasted against his pretty blue fur. A photograph of him was taken and submitted to a wedding magazine, in which Clumsy was eventually featured in an article on pets and enjoyed a two page photo spread to himself.
The pictures was even more sensational when cat breeders, who in their spare time also liked to get married and read the wedding magazine, saw the picture and went berserk about the blue cat. Some people even insisted that the cat was dyed blue, and it created a big woohah. The local news channel had no other local news to report on so went to interview Clumsy and his owner. It was stupid to watch, but it generated even more interest in the four left-footed bright blue cat. Commercials and products endorsements came Clumsy's way. There were even talks about flying her over to feature her in an episode of "Sabrina the teenage witch" which they were re-filming into another television series again, as one of Salem's visiting friends, but that did not come through.
Clumsy went on to live for another 50 years. He past away before his owner did, but the details of his death were intimate to the family, and we shall do them a favour by leaving it out of our imaginations. Before he died, he also did a lot of other things. We can imagine about those things instead.
The little girl's brother was a dog-kind of person, and being a brother, irritated and scared his sister for sport. The brother would call Clumsy, "Drunk", and often threatened to use his toy drill to drill little holes through the little kitten's skull and let the blood out to make into blood pudding for the girl to eat. The little girl cried for a few days, until she realised that her brother was just joking, and then she coaxed the kitten to agree with her. The brother soon grew bored of his routine. Everybody got along with the cat and grew up.
Clumsy developed a coat of blue fur that matched his bright blue eyes, but he did not grow much bigger, perhaps due to some hormonal defect that stunted his growth. He looked set to live on for a long time. He was also no longer clumsy, and was smarter and easily trained and could understand instructions pretty well.
In fact, Clumsy was so trainable, that when the girl married, Clumsy was tasked to carry the rings on a ribbon around his neck down the ceremonial aisle. Clumsy easily stole the show with how the sparking rings contrasted against his pretty blue fur. A photograph of him was taken and submitted to a wedding magazine, in which Clumsy was eventually featured in an article on pets and enjoyed a two page photo spread to himself.
The pictures was even more sensational when cat breeders, who in their spare time also liked to get married and read the wedding magazine, saw the picture and went berserk about the blue cat. Some people even insisted that the cat was dyed blue, and it created a big woohah. The local news channel had no other local news to report on so went to interview Clumsy and his owner. It was stupid to watch, but it generated even more interest in the four left-footed bright blue cat. Commercials and products endorsements came Clumsy's way. There were even talks about flying her over to feature her in an episode of "Sabrina the teenage witch" which they were re-filming into another television series again, as one of Salem's visiting friends, but that did not come through.
*
Clumsy went on to live for another 50 years. He past away before his owner did, but the details of his death were intimate to the family, and we shall do them a favour by leaving it out of our imaginations. Before he died, he also did a lot of other things. We can imagine about those things instead.
Untitled
There was once a girl who loved Chinese dancing and took part in the Chinese dance society in her school as an extra-activity. She liked to dance in her second hand dancing shoes. She liked to dance with feathery fans and red silken napkins. Most of all, she liked to dance with her pink silken ribbon that was tied to a stick that she would wave around and make pretty patterns like how they do it on tv when the Olympic gymnastics was on.
One day during the Olympic season, the gym teacher was feeling inspired and wanted to recruit more people onto the gymnastics team. The teacher saw the girl practising for her ribbon dance, and recognised the potential in her. Behind her back, the teacher went to arrange with the teacher in charge of dancing to have the girl put under the gym programme instead. Recognising that the nation placed a stronger emphasis and higher recognition on schools' achievements in sports than in the arts, the teachers quickly agreed to have the girl transferred without asking for her volition.
The girl did not like gym as much as she liked dancing. She only liked the little bit with the ribbon twirling, but she hated the other parts of rolling around and swinging herself about the uneven bars. They made her nervous. She hated the balance beam the most because she felt like she would fall down. She hated how they were practised without music, and that she would always practise alone. In Chinese dancing, there were always other girls on stage. But she had no say in the matter.
When she was given another ribbon for the gymnastic routine, she resigned to her new past time, and she twirled up the one she used for the dancing and wrapped it up with the napkin and put them away with her dancing shoes and feathery fan. She put them into a nice box that she kept underneath her bed. She would sleep and dream and unconsciously, her love for dancing and her resentment for gymnastics grew. These emotions seeped through the pillow and bed and dripped onto her dancing things and brought them to life.
After some discussion, the dancing accessories decided that the ribbon should take up the responsibility to set things right, since it had always been the girl's favourite. In the middle of the night, the ribbon danced its way into the bag of girl, and the next day, went back to school with the girl. When nobody was looking, it hid itself in a corner of the school gym.
When everybody went home that day, and the gym teacher was locking up the gym, the dancing ribbon came alive. In a dash, it slashed at the teacher's face until the fake eyelashes fell off with some real eyelashes. The dancing ribbon then smashed the teacher's eyelashes into a fine ash. It did not want to smash other parts of the face or body into bits because it was a dancing ribbon after all, and it was important to be rhythmic and beautiful and not cruel. The ribbon then flew past the teacher, out of the doorway, and into the night sky and made its way home, using all the might of its magic powers to fly.
Traumatised, the gym teacher quit her job, and after she served out her one-month's notice, the gym team was disbanded. The girl went back to the Chinese dance society and was happy to dance with her dancing things on a fairly regular basis.
One day during the Olympic season, the gym teacher was feeling inspired and wanted to recruit more people onto the gymnastics team. The teacher saw the girl practising for her ribbon dance, and recognised the potential in her. Behind her back, the teacher went to arrange with the teacher in charge of dancing to have the girl put under the gym programme instead. Recognising that the nation placed a stronger emphasis and higher recognition on schools' achievements in sports than in the arts, the teachers quickly agreed to have the girl transferred without asking for her volition.
The girl did not like gym as much as she liked dancing. She only liked the little bit with the ribbon twirling, but she hated the other parts of rolling around and swinging herself about the uneven bars. They made her nervous. She hated the balance beam the most because she felt like she would fall down. She hated how they were practised without music, and that she would always practise alone. In Chinese dancing, there were always other girls on stage. But she had no say in the matter.
When she was given another ribbon for the gymnastic routine, she resigned to her new past time, and she twirled up the one she used for the dancing and wrapped it up with the napkin and put them away with her dancing shoes and feathery fan. She put them into a nice box that she kept underneath her bed. She would sleep and dream and unconsciously, her love for dancing and her resentment for gymnastics grew. These emotions seeped through the pillow and bed and dripped onto her dancing things and brought them to life.
After some discussion, the dancing accessories decided that the ribbon should take up the responsibility to set things right, since it had always been the girl's favourite. In the middle of the night, the ribbon danced its way into the bag of girl, and the next day, went back to school with the girl. When nobody was looking, it hid itself in a corner of the school gym.
When everybody went home that day, and the gym teacher was locking up the gym, the dancing ribbon came alive. In a dash, it slashed at the teacher's face until the fake eyelashes fell off with some real eyelashes. The dancing ribbon then smashed the teacher's eyelashes into a fine ash. It did not want to smash other parts of the face or body into bits because it was a dancing ribbon after all, and it was important to be rhythmic and beautiful and not cruel. The ribbon then flew past the teacher, out of the doorway, and into the night sky and made its way home, using all the might of its magic powers to fly.
Traumatised, the gym teacher quit her job, and after she served out her one-month's notice, the gym team was disbanded. The girl went back to the Chinese dance society and was happy to dance with her dancing things on a fairly regular basis.
Friday, 24 October 2008
Light bulb
Contrary to what the Sony ad would have us believe,
there's no music playing in the round-lamp-shades-bubble-glass-helmets.
The panasonic light bulb liked music and singing and was optimistic at first,
and betrayed his friends to climb up the lamp
and was stuck there to be lonesome every night.
It would be bored to death if not for being made miserable by the insensitive leaflets of the hedge who would play amongst themselves and cruelly mocked the light bulb for having been stupid to believe in advertisements.
It had dreamt of entering American Idol if not for this.
It wanted to sing to the hedge, but alas! they could not hear it. So it thought nobody could hear it and sang to nobody. But the moth and ants with wings could hear it, so sometimes they'll be so drawn to its singing that they smashed themselves onto the lamp-casing and die. Some lived to fly into the lamp shade, and they would be driven berserk by the intoxicating rendition of whitney housten's "I will always love you", and they will flutter around like crazy until they died of severe dehydration. The light bulb didn't understand them, and just thought that they were just annoying to make a mess.
there's no music playing in the round-lamp-shades-bubble-glass-helmets.
The panasonic light bulb liked music and singing and was optimistic at first,
and betrayed his friends to climb up the lamp
and was stuck there to be lonesome every night.
It would be bored to death if not for being made miserable by the insensitive leaflets of the hedge who would play amongst themselves and cruelly mocked the light bulb for having been stupid to believe in advertisements.
It had dreamt of entering American Idol if not for this.
It wanted to sing to the hedge, but alas! they could not hear it. So it thought nobody could hear it and sang to nobody. But the moth and ants with wings could hear it, so sometimes they'll be so drawn to its singing that they smashed themselves onto the lamp-casing and die. Some lived to fly into the lamp shade, and they would be driven berserk by the intoxicating rendition of whitney housten's "I will always love you", and they will flutter around like crazy until they died of severe dehydration. The light bulb didn't understand them, and just thought that they were just annoying to make a mess.
Monday, 20 October 2008
Kusudama Fairy
She was on her way to work on her birthday when an old man, who reminded her of a character she came across in a book, asked her for directions, which she gave. At work, she ate potato chips in celebration of her birthday. She was allergic to potato chips, and would develop sore throat overnight whenever she ate them, so she did not eat them often. The potato chips were unimportant, as was the old man, as was the book she read. They were just the things about her birthday that she thought were out of the ordinary. After work, she met up with her friends to celebrate, but she met her friends often and often ate what they ordered that night.
She summarised the past year in her head on the way home and fell asleep in the taxi cab. In her sleep, she dreamt of being a fairy from somewhere in Japan and who was in love with a samurai, who wore a mask, and she could not see how he looked like. She was wearing an elaborate kimono, which she felt was surprising light. She checked the sleeves and found that she was carrying a kusudama. This kusudama, which is something like a ball of origami flowers, was similar to the ones that she often made while she was awake. This recognition made her aware of her lucid dreaming, which excited her so much that she woke up before she remembered if the love was requited and what the kusudama was for.
She went back to her apartment feeling a little groggy from the drinks she had and the dream she half dreamt. She should have tried to fly. She had read somewhere that one can fly in lucid dreams. Unthinkingly, she went into her room and reached for a plum blossom kusudama that she completed last night and meant it for a gift to a friend. It was blue and green and yellow. The one in the dream was white in colour.
Then lightning struck, and it startled her, and she accidentally dropped the kusudama, and it exploded silently into one thousand little flowers. She did not notice the loud thunder that followed and didn't know what to do, or if she was dreaming, or if she was awake. She was suddenly unsure if she was just holding the kusudama at all, or she came home with a handful of little flowers and thrown it on the ground.
She squatted down and felt the flowers and verified that they were real. She felt a little ditsy and went to get the broom. If anyone was to wake up to see this, she'd say she came home and dropped the flowers which were a birthday gift. She wondered if she should try to throw another kusudama on the ground to see if it happens again. If so, she should do it first and sweep the floor after. But it would also be good to clean up the floor first, go take a shower to sober up, then, try to smash another kusudama to properly observe what happens.
As she swept, she felt that the flowers were hardly moving. Then she noticed that the broom was growing shorter. The flowers were cutting away the broom. They were not glass, but they could cut at the brooms. They did not cut her, but she needed to make new plans. So she sat down on the bed to think.
Then, she remembered what the kusudamas in the dream was for, it was for self protection, and it was a lucky charm that she made for the samarai - a gift of origami love. He was to use them by throwing them at his enemies to elegantly cut them into pieces. She could not remember if the love was requited. But the flowers were to remind him of her in the battle field, and that he must survive to return to her.
She wondered if the kusudamas not meant as gifts would work. And if it was the first time she dropped a kusudama or why this had never happened if she dropped it the last time. She wondered if it happened only because it was her birthday, and if not, she should warn her friends who had previously received such a gift from her. No, the flowers would not hurt them. The kusudamas were meant for them, and they would be protected. Would it hurt their loved ones?
She wondered about how to clean up the flowers on the ground besides having to pick them up by hand. She wondered if she should try dropping another kusudama or just vow never to make anymore and forget that this entire episode ever happened. She could just go to sleep and see what happens when she wakes up tomorrow. Or when she thinks she wakes up tomorrow. She remembers the potato chips because she felt her throat slowly growing sore. If she had not known it, she could not have thought that she was ever a kusudama fairy before.
(For Lay Suan and her happy birthday. )
(sneak.)
She summarised the past year in her head on the way home and fell asleep in the taxi cab. In her sleep, she dreamt of being a fairy from somewhere in Japan and who was in love with a samurai, who wore a mask, and she could not see how he looked like. She was wearing an elaborate kimono, which she felt was surprising light. She checked the sleeves and found that she was carrying a kusudama. This kusudama, which is something like a ball of origami flowers, was similar to the ones that she often made while she was awake. This recognition made her aware of her lucid dreaming, which excited her so much that she woke up before she remembered if the love was requited and what the kusudama was for.
She went back to her apartment feeling a little groggy from the drinks she had and the dream she half dreamt. She should have tried to fly. She had read somewhere that one can fly in lucid dreams. Unthinkingly, she went into her room and reached for a plum blossom kusudama that she completed last night and meant it for a gift to a friend. It was blue and green and yellow. The one in the dream was white in colour.
Then lightning struck, and it startled her, and she accidentally dropped the kusudama, and it exploded silently into one thousand little flowers. She did not notice the loud thunder that followed and didn't know what to do, or if she was dreaming, or if she was awake. She was suddenly unsure if she was just holding the kusudama at all, or she came home with a handful of little flowers and thrown it on the ground.
She squatted down and felt the flowers and verified that they were real. She felt a little ditsy and went to get the broom. If anyone was to wake up to see this, she'd say she came home and dropped the flowers which were a birthday gift. She wondered if she should try to throw another kusudama on the ground to see if it happens again. If so, she should do it first and sweep the floor after. But it would also be good to clean up the floor first, go take a shower to sober up, then, try to smash another kusudama to properly observe what happens.
As she swept, she felt that the flowers were hardly moving. Then she noticed that the broom was growing shorter. The flowers were cutting away the broom. They were not glass, but they could cut at the brooms. They did not cut her, but she needed to make new plans. So she sat down on the bed to think.
Then, she remembered what the kusudamas in the dream was for, it was for self protection, and it was a lucky charm that she made for the samarai - a gift of origami love. He was to use them by throwing them at his enemies to elegantly cut them into pieces. She could not remember if the love was requited. But the flowers were to remind him of her in the battle field, and that he must survive to return to her.
She wondered if the kusudamas not meant as gifts would work. And if it was the first time she dropped a kusudama or why this had never happened if she dropped it the last time. She wondered if it happened only because it was her birthday, and if not, she should warn her friends who had previously received such a gift from her. No, the flowers would not hurt them. The kusudamas were meant for them, and they would be protected. Would it hurt their loved ones?
She wondered about how to clean up the flowers on the ground besides having to pick them up by hand. She wondered if she should try dropping another kusudama or just vow never to make anymore and forget that this entire episode ever happened. She could just go to sleep and see what happens when she wakes up tomorrow. Or when she thinks she wakes up tomorrow. She remembers the potato chips because she felt her throat slowly growing sore. If she had not known it, she could not have thought that she was ever a kusudama fairy before.
(For Lay Suan and her happy birthday. )
(sneak.)
Saturday, 18 October 2008
Freddy and Francesca
Once upon a time, there was a world of frogs and praying mantises, and they were at odds with each other.
Although they were small and did not wear clothes, they were not quite like the frogs and praying mantises that we know, because they sometimes walked upright and had sharp teeth and retractable claws. Their teeth were as sharp as the teeth of the venus fly trap, and were as tough as our nails. When they had nothing to do, they'll pick fights with each other.
Frogs will go and eat the young praying mantises, and the praying mantises will go and eat young frogs. Both of them usually eat other things, but they had nothing to do, so they go and eat each other to pick fights.
They did not fight with guns and nuclear bombs for they were too busy fighting with each other to invent new ways to fight. There were no police, no law, nobody to decide who was right and who was wrong, so that's how they lived everyday.
Freddy was a praying mantis in this world. He had killed off two females whom he mated with because they tried to eat him after have sex. He wanted to be a lover, not a hater, but what else was there to do? It was a matter of life and death. So, he'd pick on the frogs. Before he killed the younglings of frogs he caught, he'll rape them. The anatomy of how it worked is interesting, but beyond me to describe.
He did not want to kill the froglings at first, but he thought that if the frogling spilled about the incident, shit would hit the fan and coat it like chocolate coating a strawberry in a chocolate fondue. He thought about starting a "love, not war" campaign, but he was not charismatic or passionate about the idea enough.
One day, he caught this frog, whose name was Francesca, who was a bright and wanton, for a little girl. So, before Freddy did what he was about to do, she figured out what was going to happen. Instead of being raped and not enjoying herself, she thought that she'd act like a willing party. She proposed the idea, and asked "what is your name, mantis?"
Freddy is not as bright. He couldn't think of the consequences before he replied, "My name is Freddy, and you are a very beautiful frog."
"Freddy is a very froggish name. Did you know that?"
"No."
"In fact, I had two lovers and a brother who have the same name as you. Why do you love frogs?"
"I don't love frogs."
"Then why are you threatening to do this? Sex is an act of lOvE~." She tried to act sultry to seduce him.
"Is that what you think? For praying mantises, sex is generally regarded as an act of violence."
"That is so sad..." Francesca was in the age to like to say generic emphatic things. She took a while to wonder about how sex could be violent. "Are you going to kill me after this?"
"Yes. And then I will eat you."
"I wonder if there are any frogs named Freddy who are doing the same thing to your sister."
"What is your name?"
"Francesca."
"I have no sisters named Francesca." With that, Freddy concluded the conversation and completed the intercourse, and ate her up.
After Francesca, he did not hunt frogs ever again. He was afraid that he would be unable to help himself from asking for the next frog's name, and that Francesca could be a common name for frogs, and that he would find another Francesca who would make him realise that he loved the Francesca he ate, and that he was really a hater, not a lover. Then he would hate himself for being a farce and be utterly miserable.
He decided that if he needed to ever kill himself, he'd go mate with a beautiful but vicious praying mantis and offer his everything to her. It would be his final act of prostration to savage his self-image and the ultimate thing he could do to redeem himself.
Although they were small and did not wear clothes, they were not quite like the frogs and praying mantises that we know, because they sometimes walked upright and had sharp teeth and retractable claws. Their teeth were as sharp as the teeth of the venus fly trap, and were as tough as our nails. When they had nothing to do, they'll pick fights with each other.
Frogs will go and eat the young praying mantises, and the praying mantises will go and eat young frogs. Both of them usually eat other things, but they had nothing to do, so they go and eat each other to pick fights.
They did not fight with guns and nuclear bombs for they were too busy fighting with each other to invent new ways to fight. There were no police, no law, nobody to decide who was right and who was wrong, so that's how they lived everyday.
Freddy was a praying mantis in this world. He had killed off two females whom he mated with because they tried to eat him after have sex. He wanted to be a lover, not a hater, but what else was there to do? It was a matter of life and death. So, he'd pick on the frogs. Before he killed the younglings of frogs he caught, he'll rape them. The anatomy of how it worked is interesting, but beyond me to describe.
He did not want to kill the froglings at first, but he thought that if the frogling spilled about the incident, shit would hit the fan and coat it like chocolate coating a strawberry in a chocolate fondue. He thought about starting a "love, not war" campaign, but he was not charismatic or passionate about the idea enough.
One day, he caught this frog, whose name was Francesca, who was a bright and wanton, for a little girl. So, before Freddy did what he was about to do, she figured out what was going to happen. Instead of being raped and not enjoying herself, she thought that she'd act like a willing party. She proposed the idea, and asked "what is your name, mantis?"
Freddy is not as bright. He couldn't think of the consequences before he replied, "My name is Freddy, and you are a very beautiful frog."
"Freddy is a very froggish name. Did you know that?"
"No."
"In fact, I had two lovers and a brother who have the same name as you. Why do you love frogs?"
"I don't love frogs."
"Then why are you threatening to do this? Sex is an act of lOvE~." She tried to act sultry to seduce him.
"Is that what you think? For praying mantises, sex is generally regarded as an act of violence."
"That is so sad..." Francesca was in the age to like to say generic emphatic things. She took a while to wonder about how sex could be violent. "Are you going to kill me after this?"
"Yes. And then I will eat you."
"I wonder if there are any frogs named Freddy who are doing the same thing to your sister."
"What is your name?"
"Francesca."
"I have no sisters named Francesca." With that, Freddy concluded the conversation and completed the intercourse, and ate her up.
After Francesca, he did not hunt frogs ever again. He was afraid that he would be unable to help himself from asking for the next frog's name, and that Francesca could be a common name for frogs, and that he would find another Francesca who would make him realise that he loved the Francesca he ate, and that he was really a hater, not a lover. Then he would hate himself for being a farce and be utterly miserable.
He decided that if he needed to ever kill himself, he'd go mate with a beautiful but vicious praying mantis and offer his everything to her. It would be his final act of prostration to savage his self-image and the ultimate thing he could do to redeem himself.
Saturday, 4 October 2008
Fido and the tarsiers
Fido was an engineer by day and a tarsier farmer by night. Tarsiers were the world's smallest natural primate that used to be found in remote southeast asia. They were thought to be naturally endangered for as long as anyone could remember because of their elusive, minute, shy, and nocturnal behaviour. They have eyes that are almost half the length of their faces and that were almost half the length of their height.
Some time ago, some person caught enough of them to begin illegally farming them. Apparently, the meat of the tarsiers began to be touted as tasty as it was rare and expensive. It was lucrative enough for more illegal farms to be set up. Then it was lucrative enough to bribe government officials and all that jazz ensued and tarsier farming grew into an industry.
Fido farmed tarsiers for a different reason. He conducted experiments on the tarsiers and wanted to reverse engineer their remarkable eyes in pursuit of unlocking secrets to more efficient lunar powered energy and some other scientific things.
Actually, he didn't believe that he'd make any breakthrough, and wasn't really interested in the science of tarsiers. Fido had wanted to adopt research as an excuse to cut up the animals because he resented his first-ex-girlfriend even though he openly denied it.
When he was young, he used to like to eat tarsier meat, it was one of his favourite things to eat. When he went out with the first-ex-girlfriend, she convinced him that they were too cute and that he shouldn't eat them. So, he adopted a tarsier free-diet in profession of his love for her.
After dating for too long, she left him and the city of USED. She failed to qualify as an engineer and didn't want to live the second-class lifestyle of a Dependent in USED. Fidelius, which was Fido's proper name before he was more known as Fido, wanted to leave with the girl but she was reluctant, and she told him that he should remain to fulfil his destiny as an engineer which was what she loved him for.
Some months after leaving him, she wrote on her blog to confess that actually she had left him because sometime ago, about 3 years ago, she had met a tarsier farmer who convinced her to try to taste tarsier meat when he overheard her denouncing the consumption to her friends in a restaurant. She had never tasted it before and he did the old “don't knock it till you've tried it” routine, that never went out of style, and she tried it in spite and liked it enough to have tarsier a few more times. She would have eaten it more frequently if she didn't feel so guilty, but she felt like she betrayed Fidelius and the compunction soured the relationship. They already had the whole "we love tarsiers" thing so hyped up that they were supposed to name a kid or two after the animal.
When she left she broke up with him, because she didn't like him enough to want him to overlook the entire episode. She tried to defend herself or to lubricate the situation by reminding Fidelius that things could have been worse, in that she could have slept with the tarsier farmer and was in fact running off to marry him, but she wasn't.
Some time ago, some person caught enough of them to begin illegally farming them. Apparently, the meat of the tarsiers began to be touted as tasty as it was rare and expensive. It was lucrative enough for more illegal farms to be set up. Then it was lucrative enough to bribe government officials and all that jazz ensued and tarsier farming grew into an industry.
Fido farmed tarsiers for a different reason. He conducted experiments on the tarsiers and wanted to reverse engineer their remarkable eyes in pursuit of unlocking secrets to more efficient lunar powered energy and some other scientific things.
Actually, he didn't believe that he'd make any breakthrough, and wasn't really interested in the science of tarsiers. Fido had wanted to adopt research as an excuse to cut up the animals because he resented his first-ex-girlfriend even though he openly denied it.
When he was young, he used to like to eat tarsier meat, it was one of his favourite things to eat. When he went out with the first-ex-girlfriend, she convinced him that they were too cute and that he shouldn't eat them. So, he adopted a tarsier free-diet in profession of his love for her.
After dating for too long, she left him and the city of USED. She failed to qualify as an engineer and didn't want to live the second-class lifestyle of a Dependent in USED. Fidelius, which was Fido's proper name before he was more known as Fido, wanted to leave with the girl but she was reluctant, and she told him that he should remain to fulfil his destiny as an engineer which was what she loved him for.
Some months after leaving him, she wrote on her blog to confess that actually she had left him because sometime ago, about 3 years ago, she had met a tarsier farmer who convinced her to try to taste tarsier meat when he overheard her denouncing the consumption to her friends in a restaurant. She had never tasted it before and he did the old “don't knock it till you've tried it” routine, that never went out of style, and she tried it in spite and liked it enough to have tarsier a few more times. She would have eaten it more frequently if she didn't feel so guilty, but she felt like she betrayed Fidelius and the compunction soured the relationship. They already had the whole "we love tarsiers" thing so hyped up that they were supposed to name a kid or two after the animal.
When she left she broke up with him, because she didn't like him enough to want him to overlook the entire episode. She tried to defend herself or to lubricate the situation by reminding Fidelius that things could have been worse, in that she could have slept with the tarsier farmer and was in fact running off to marry him, but she wasn't.
Monday, 29 September 2008
Fido got home drunk
Fido got home drunk one night, and because he was too honest with his latest girlfriend about the size of his dick, he proclaimed it to be too big for her, she broke up with him immediately.
He was thrown out of her apartment and woke up a few hours later amidst his litter of clothes shrewd across the stairway and in a puke-stained tee-shirt. He didn't remember puking nor what he must have said, but he roughly pieced together that they must have broken up.
That was when he realised that he didn't want to be with her any more anyway because she needed too much work and that made him feel bad about himself. He reminded himself that he had only been interested in her big boobs from the start. In recent years, that's all that interested him in women, anyway. Big boobs.
He had always liked the sound of “big boobs” – the words – because they sounded like what they represented.
Never mind if she had a fuck ugly face, if she had big boobs, he'd want her. Actually, it's better if she had a fuck ugly face, because then, she won't demand so much work. This one was too pretty. That's the problem. Then again, at least with her, he didn't have to imagine that he was fucking someone with a pillow for a head. It was not bad. But ah well, the drama of getting back together was not worth the make up sex. He'd just have to work even harder.
He changed his shirt with the one he liked the most and congratulated himself for being able to just leave the rest of them there. Over the years, he'd gained the foresight to always just bring only some things along with him. Things he could bear to part with. To ask for them back if they should break up would be cheap.
There were a few tee-shirts and shorts and mostly underwear that were either too tight and uncomfortable and new – that she bought from the departmental store without being asked to – that he hated, and a few that were too old and un-fittingly too loose because of frequent re-washing and might have little negligible holes.
Luckily, it was a Saturday, and he didn't have go to work. Luckily, he was sensible enough to always only drink so much on nights he didn't have to work the next day.
As he was walking home, he remembered and regretted having brought a new game console over to this one, but by the time he reached home he decided that he'd buy a new one and let her have it as a consolation prize. She was a pretty girl, after all.
His parents were surprised to see him but they didn't really care. They were on their way out to the community centre for their karaoke class. He didn't explain anything before he plopped on the well-made bed and slept.
When he woke up again, it was in the evening, he ate something and went to check on his tarsiers.
He was thrown out of her apartment and woke up a few hours later amidst his litter of clothes shrewd across the stairway and in a puke-stained tee-shirt. He didn't remember puking nor what he must have said, but he roughly pieced together that they must have broken up.
That was when he realised that he didn't want to be with her any more anyway because she needed too much work and that made him feel bad about himself. He reminded himself that he had only been interested in her big boobs from the start. In recent years, that's all that interested him in women, anyway. Big boobs.
He had always liked the sound of “big boobs” – the words – because they sounded like what they represented.
Never mind if she had a fuck ugly face, if she had big boobs, he'd want her. Actually, it's better if she had a fuck ugly face, because then, she won't demand so much work. This one was too pretty. That's the problem. Then again, at least with her, he didn't have to imagine that he was fucking someone with a pillow for a head. It was not bad. But ah well, the drama of getting back together was not worth the make up sex. He'd just have to work even harder.
He changed his shirt with the one he liked the most and congratulated himself for being able to just leave the rest of them there. Over the years, he'd gained the foresight to always just bring only some things along with him. Things he could bear to part with. To ask for them back if they should break up would be cheap.
There were a few tee-shirts and shorts and mostly underwear that were either too tight and uncomfortable and new – that she bought from the departmental store without being asked to – that he hated, and a few that were too old and un-fittingly too loose because of frequent re-washing and might have little negligible holes.
Luckily, it was a Saturday, and he didn't have go to work. Luckily, he was sensible enough to always only drink so much on nights he didn't have to work the next day.
As he was walking home, he remembered and regretted having brought a new game console over to this one, but by the time he reached home he decided that he'd buy a new one and let her have it as a consolation prize. She was a pretty girl, after all.
His parents were surprised to see him but they didn't really care. They were on their way out to the community centre for their karaoke class. He didn't explain anything before he plopped on the well-made bed and slept.
When he woke up again, it was in the evening, he ate something and went to check on his tarsiers.
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
USED II: MINDER - An introduction
The governance of the hologramic postcards and several less important things relied with the ill-reputed Ministry of Deference (MINDER) which was so poorly regarded that it did not have a central office at all. MINDER was set up to govern matters of diplomacy and foreign affairs when it was highly problematic for the country.
Earlier, USED's economy built itself on mostly the high export sales arising from the weaponry and biomedical industries. According to the economical demands, formal education system supported the engineering fields and placed their emphases on technical training. Specialist trainings in most of other fields, such as in the arts, economics, and business administration, were widely attained as secondary or supplementary qualifications. As a result, USED people are very good in many, many things, but they neglected the general field of literature, which was not popular for studies and treated with disdain. There was little need for robustness in language as most communications were done with precision and brevity. Equations were deemed the best form of communications. Words were disliked, except in the established field of linguistic application to artificial intelligence. No credit was given to the flairs and nuances of language. Tact in communication was never practiced nor considered by the people of USED. USED people would seldom take to heart when hearing harsh words, as they themselves would thoughtlessly deliver them if needed be as well.
People of other countries, on the other hand, were not emphatic to the way of USED, and were obligated by their pledged loyalty to take offences at USED's tactless public statements and matters of foreign relations. Moreover, other countries were exasperated with their debt owing to USED and being intimidated with USED's firearm and flying combatant robots, which, by MINDETEA policy, were not yet available for export sales. In their frustration, the other countries' government would pick verbal fights with USED to win the favours of their own people. MINDER was set up to handle these situations and to manage international relations.
The people at MINDER, however, were not good at doing what they needed to do. Matters of deference required tact and finesse and half truths. MINDER was a ministry that is required by its primary nature to employ only native citizens to avoid conflicts of interests. Being products of the USED culture, they generally sucked at saying the right things at the right time. Albeit impressing the foreign diplomats with wonderous-laser-show-virtual-11D-presentations, the most accurate and specific words language were applied, and thus, blunt interpretations of the intentions were seldom avoided. MINDER often worsened situations.
Overtime, as USED's weaponry advantage grows bigger, it was clear that no actual fighting would actually take place against USED. This gradually reduced MINDER to a superficial outfit representing attempts at improving other countries' impressions of USED.
As the mission of MINDER was not valued by the people of USED, the organisation was sleepy and not motivated. It received low priority in receiving direction and hardly any budget to do hardly anything. As mentioned, MINDER did not have a central office, and it was not clear how big the organisation really was.
Earlier, USED's economy built itself on mostly the high export sales arising from the weaponry and biomedical industries. According to the economical demands, formal education system supported the engineering fields and placed their emphases on technical training. Specialist trainings in most of other fields, such as in the arts, economics, and business administration, were widely attained as secondary or supplementary qualifications. As a result, USED people are very good in many, many things, but they neglected the general field of literature, which was not popular for studies and treated with disdain. There was little need for robustness in language as most communications were done with precision and brevity. Equations were deemed the best form of communications. Words were disliked, except in the established field of linguistic application to artificial intelligence. No credit was given to the flairs and nuances of language. Tact in communication was never practiced nor considered by the people of USED. USED people would seldom take to heart when hearing harsh words, as they themselves would thoughtlessly deliver them if needed be as well.
People of other countries, on the other hand, were not emphatic to the way of USED, and were obligated by their pledged loyalty to take offences at USED's tactless public statements and matters of foreign relations. Moreover, other countries were exasperated with their debt owing to USED and being intimidated with USED's firearm and flying combatant robots, which, by MINDETEA policy, were not yet available for export sales. In their frustration, the other countries' government would pick verbal fights with USED to win the favours of their own people. MINDER was set up to handle these situations and to manage international relations.
The people at MINDER, however, were not good at doing what they needed to do. Matters of deference required tact and finesse and half truths. MINDER was a ministry that is required by its primary nature to employ only native citizens to avoid conflicts of interests. Being products of the USED culture, they generally sucked at saying the right things at the right time. Albeit impressing the foreign diplomats with wonderous-laser-show-virtual-11D-presentations, the most accurate and specific words language were applied, and thus, blunt interpretations of the intentions were seldom avoided. MINDER often worsened situations.
Overtime, as USED's weaponry advantage grows bigger, it was clear that no actual fighting would actually take place against USED. This gradually reduced MINDER to a superficial outfit representing attempts at improving other countries' impressions of USED.
As the mission of MINDER was not valued by the people of USED, the organisation was sleepy and not motivated. It received low priority in receiving direction and hardly any budget to do hardly anything. As mentioned, MINDER did not have a central office, and it was not clear how big the organisation really was.
Monday, 22 September 2008
The 3 USED skyscrapers
It was at a time when there was a small country of engineers in where it was known and forgotten as East Asia. This small country was the Uniformed State of Engineers and Dependents (USED) and was only one city, with the same name.
All USED citizens were either engineers by training or worked in a supporting role to the engineering industry. Citizenships of the children of citizens were automatically conferred when they attain certified competencies in engineering. Many accomplished engineers from other countries were eager to apply for the citizenship which was not difficult to earn – it required the applicant to have made a significant contribution to the engineering field. Children who did not have the requisite flair for engineering would be offered a contractual citizenship that was renewable so long as they continued to work in supporting roles in engineering-related industries. They were known as the Dependents. Most of them would leave the country as they felt socially ostracised.
In the small country city of USED, the building of magnificent mega-structures flourished. The people were very proud of their country, particularly of several famous technological achievements, amongst which, there were three noteworthy skyscrapers which housed three noteworthy ministries. Most of the talented young engineers aspired to work in one of these ministries.
One skyscraper, that balanced on a one metre long toothpick, and that was able to lean up to thirty degrees in every possible direction in the horizontal axis, just because it was possible, housed the Ministry of Possible Technological Advances(MINPOTEA). This ministry governed the theories and hypotheses, both the proven and disproved, that might give rise to new technological breakthroughs.
The other skyscraper, that actually scraped bits of the sky, housed the Ministry of Achieved Technological Advances(MINATEA). This ministry governed the tangible products of engineering. The bits of the sky were usually transferred to MINPOTEA for distribution for research and development purposes.
The third skyscraper, that did not look particularly impressive outwardly, and that was built on a mountain with mazes of secret chambers and labs in the mountain itself, housed the Ministry of Defensive Technological Advances (MINDETEA). This skyscraper, together with the adjoining secret chambers and labs, could transform into a combatant robot. It was rumoured that the skyscraper transformed into more than one combatant robot, but it was not true. There was only one. It could fly. Its primary purpose was to defend important findings and engineers and to transport them to safety in times of strife.
These skyscrapers were featured prominently in tourist memorabilia, for example, their pictures were found on hologramic postcards, of which that of MINDETEA was easily the most popular as its transformation was featured in at least 8D animation. The country was eager to show off prowess in technological weaponry to deter others from picking fights with USED.
All USED citizens were either engineers by training or worked in a supporting role to the engineering industry. Citizenships of the children of citizens were automatically conferred when they attain certified competencies in engineering. Many accomplished engineers from other countries were eager to apply for the citizenship which was not difficult to earn – it required the applicant to have made a significant contribution to the engineering field. Children who did not have the requisite flair for engineering would be offered a contractual citizenship that was renewable so long as they continued to work in supporting roles in engineering-related industries. They were known as the Dependents. Most of them would leave the country as they felt socially ostracised.
In the small country city of USED, the building of magnificent mega-structures flourished. The people were very proud of their country, particularly of several famous technological achievements, amongst which, there were three noteworthy skyscrapers which housed three noteworthy ministries. Most of the talented young engineers aspired to work in one of these ministries.
One skyscraper, that balanced on a one metre long toothpick, and that was able to lean up to thirty degrees in every possible direction in the horizontal axis, just because it was possible, housed the Ministry of Possible Technological Advances(MINPOTEA). This ministry governed the theories and hypotheses, both the proven and disproved, that might give rise to new technological breakthroughs.
The other skyscraper, that actually scraped bits of the sky, housed the Ministry of Achieved Technological Advances(MINATEA). This ministry governed the tangible products of engineering. The bits of the sky were usually transferred to MINPOTEA for distribution for research and development purposes.
The third skyscraper, that did not look particularly impressive outwardly, and that was built on a mountain with mazes of secret chambers and labs in the mountain itself, housed the Ministry of Defensive Technological Advances (MINDETEA). This skyscraper, together with the adjoining secret chambers and labs, could transform into a combatant robot. It was rumoured that the skyscraper transformed into more than one combatant robot, but it was not true. There was only one. It could fly. Its primary purpose was to defend important findings and engineers and to transport them to safety in times of strife.
These skyscrapers were featured prominently in tourist memorabilia, for example, their pictures were found on hologramic postcards, of which that of MINDETEA was easily the most popular as its transformation was featured in at least 8D animation. The country was eager to show off prowess in technological weaponry to deter others from picking fights with USED.
Monday, 8 September 2008
Environmentalism
They are the sounds of destruction – the sounds that arise from the construction of infrastructure that bring about industrialisation or modernisation. Construction entail destruction. They are the sounds of destruction.
They are not pleasant – the screeching of diamond blades cutting through stones, the rumblings of the excavators that dig up the stones from the mountains, the stacking and welding of I-beams one on top of another... They are in reaction or opposition to the changing of things that are not meant to be changed in an instant. The rocks are used to being weathered over time and not cut into precise dimensions in an instant. Iron ores are used to being embedded intricately into earth and not intricately piled upon each other above or into earth. That is why they scream and cry. They are sounds of the minerals and matters that are forced upon each other. The coarse cough of the engines powering the bulldozers is the sound of resistance against compelled destruction.
Technology is a natural progression and part of the environment. There are debates about modernisation and technology being the enemy of the great natural environment. They are futile. The roads, the deforestation, the overgrazed fields, the air pollution and the magnificent internet are all extensions of what was meant to be. Over population, income disparity, morals, and the moral drought are all the continuation of natural progression. Modernisation will never cease as it never had. Everything is part of the natural world.
The sounds of events that are not yet imagined need not be invented by the natural environment. They are only waiting to be discovered. They will be more pleasant or unpleasant than when the minerals and matters scream and cry. There is no right or wrong. They will be accustomed to. It is like how the sounds of wolves' howls, of the hacking of flesh, and of babies' cries were accustomed to.
They are not pleasant – the screeching of diamond blades cutting through stones, the rumblings of the excavators that dig up the stones from the mountains, the stacking and welding of I-beams one on top of another... They are in reaction or opposition to the changing of things that are not meant to be changed in an instant. The rocks are used to being weathered over time and not cut into precise dimensions in an instant. Iron ores are used to being embedded intricately into earth and not intricately piled upon each other above or into earth. That is why they scream and cry. They are sounds of the minerals and matters that are forced upon each other. The coarse cough of the engines powering the bulldozers is the sound of resistance against compelled destruction.
*
Technology is a natural progression and part of the environment. There are debates about modernisation and technology being the enemy of the great natural environment. They are futile. The roads, the deforestation, the overgrazed fields, the air pollution and the magnificent internet are all extensions of what was meant to be. Over population, income disparity, morals, and the moral drought are all the continuation of natural progression. Modernisation will never cease as it never had. Everything is part of the natural world.
The sounds of events that are not yet imagined need not be invented by the natural environment. They are only waiting to be discovered. They will be more pleasant or unpleasant than when the minerals and matters scream and cry. There is no right or wrong. They will be accustomed to. It is like how the sounds of wolves' howls, of the hacking of flesh, and of babies' cries were accustomed to.
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
The Dragonflyboy
Sometime ago, there was a dragonfly who turned into a boy because he was so curious about human beings. It didn't, of course, take just simple basic, primitive curiosity to turn any dragonfly into a human being. It took sophisticated, exciting, intoxicating curiosity. It was the type of curiosity that would cost, even if one didn't realise the connection at first, loose bowels and lost sleep. Yes, it was the type of curiosity that would infuse with the atom of life and that would turn a dragonfly into a little boy.
Upon waking up one day to realise that he had turned into a boy and after being shocked and feeling all the stereotypical responses that one could reasonably expect of a dragonfly who turned into a boy to feel, the boy hid in some secluded place of a park to familiarise himself with human ways.
He was naked and looked terribly different from the human beings he observed from afar. They wore clothes and were colourful like flowers and butterflies, which incidentally, he had been unable to catch as his fingers and hands were now too large and slow.
At night, he would rummage through the garbage bins to eat leftovers of what he saw people threw away. He liked the taste of most of what he ate. He liked using his tongue.
Naturally, the garbage food was sometimes contaminated with things that should not be consumed by little boys, and he would suffer from the occasional food poisoning that brought about bouts of diarrhoea. Actually, even on good days, there was a lot shit.
Of all things human, he was most disgusted at how he had now required to defecate and by how disgusting did the human beings shit! So much of it came out of his behind. As a dragonfly and until now, he had never noticed how humans shat as they did it in the hypocritical privacy of the toilet.
“I have so much shit, I'm like a dog.”
He wondered if he was a human or a human-dog hybrid.
The little boy not sure when would it be appropriate for him to go into the open to befriend other human beings. They spoke, but he couldn't. They wore clothes, but he didn't. He shat in parks, but they never seem to shit at all. He was ashamed of his bowel habits, and that inhibited him the most. The little boy had a hard life living in the park. Soon, his hesitations wore his cognitive abilities away, and he forgot what he had wanted out of life.
He was discovered by a nature lover who was hiking around the secluded areas. The police was called upon, and there was an organised search that captured the boy. It was featured in the newspaper as people were always curious when wild boys appear, and they would want to know if they swung on ficus roots, much to the thanks of Kipling. Since he did not, they concluded that he was abandoned by some pregnant teen or something common-sensical, never mind that there were no ficus trees in the park.
He was sent to the orphanage and the administration decided with a stroke of innovation that the day of his discovery was to be registered as his birthday. The year of birth was unknown. So they arbitrarily decided that he was five years old. They also arbitrarily decided to call him Albert. There was no other persons or pets called Albert in the orphanage at that point in time and it prevented unnecessary confusion.
Upon being better fed and nursed back to his natural strengths, the boy regained his original curiosity and learnt everything with eagerness and zest. He was bright and fast and did pretty well in school, and even came to read a comic book version of the story of Tarzan, as recommended by his teacher. (“My, my, Albert, are you saying you are like Tarzan? Ho ho ho!”) After which he decided not to tell anybody about how he came about as it would only hinder his development.
He grew up, worked part time, had pimples, and crushes, and friends that came and went. He worked hard and got into the humdrum of everyday life and celebrated Christmas and the Chinese New Year. Soon, he almost forgot that he was ever a dragonfly and his purpose, until he went to a park and saw a middle aged man walking a dog which passed shit onto the ground, and with little hesitation, the man picked up the shit with an inverted plastic bag.
Right, thought the boy, man is unwilling to shit in public, and has all that funky jazz about toilets and flushing after use, but is more than willing to pick up dog shit with much self-righteous pride.
As he watched the man toss the packet of dog shit into the garbage, he thought of the time, when he was a little boy living off garbage scraps, in a way that he had not thought in a long time. If there was another little boy living in the park right now, he would be so poor thing to find dog shit to eat. Then again, when he was primitive, he wouldn't think that eating shit was such a bad thing. Why did he find it so repulsive now?
His curiosity was rekindled, and he decided to go study a degree in psychology, hoping that the promised realms of pseudo-science and controlled experiments would shed some light on all the “myshitery”.
Upon the completion of his freshman year, he made a vacation trip to the seaside. He had never seen the sea before and he rewarded himself with a much deserved a break for earning the money and his place in the university. He wanted to do his honours thesis on the social psychology of shit.
As he was swimming, he thought of how the fish and all marine creatures shat into the sea and the irony that he was swimming in the biggest shit dump of all. Then, an ancient giant fish louse caught him and ate him up, and thus, ending the life of the boy who was obsessed with shit and who was once a very curious dragonfly.
Weeks later, the same newspaper picked up on his disappearance and featured a heart warming report on how the boy who had quite mysteriously appeared had mysteriously disappeared.
Upon waking up one day to realise that he had turned into a boy and after being shocked and feeling all the stereotypical responses that one could reasonably expect of a dragonfly who turned into a boy to feel, the boy hid in some secluded place of a park to familiarise himself with human ways.
He was naked and looked terribly different from the human beings he observed from afar. They wore clothes and were colourful like flowers and butterflies, which incidentally, he had been unable to catch as his fingers and hands were now too large and slow.
At night, he would rummage through the garbage bins to eat leftovers of what he saw people threw away. He liked the taste of most of what he ate. He liked using his tongue.
Naturally, the garbage food was sometimes contaminated with things that should not be consumed by little boys, and he would suffer from the occasional food poisoning that brought about bouts of diarrhoea. Actually, even on good days, there was a lot shit.
Of all things human, he was most disgusted at how he had now required to defecate and by how disgusting did the human beings shit! So much of it came out of his behind. As a dragonfly and until now, he had never noticed how humans shat as they did it in the hypocritical privacy of the toilet.
“I have so much shit, I'm like a dog.”
He wondered if he was a human or a human-dog hybrid.
The little boy not sure when would it be appropriate for him to go into the open to befriend other human beings. They spoke, but he couldn't. They wore clothes, but he didn't. He shat in parks, but they never seem to shit at all. He was ashamed of his bowel habits, and that inhibited him the most. The little boy had a hard life living in the park. Soon, his hesitations wore his cognitive abilities away, and he forgot what he had wanted out of life.
*
He was discovered by a nature lover who was hiking around the secluded areas. The police was called upon, and there was an organised search that captured the boy. It was featured in the newspaper as people were always curious when wild boys appear, and they would want to know if they swung on ficus roots, much to the thanks of Kipling. Since he did not, they concluded that he was abandoned by some pregnant teen or something common-sensical, never mind that there were no ficus trees in the park.
He was sent to the orphanage and the administration decided with a stroke of innovation that the day of his discovery was to be registered as his birthday. The year of birth was unknown. So they arbitrarily decided that he was five years old. They also arbitrarily decided to call him Albert. There was no other persons or pets called Albert in the orphanage at that point in time and it prevented unnecessary confusion.
Upon being better fed and nursed back to his natural strengths, the boy regained his original curiosity and learnt everything with eagerness and zest. He was bright and fast and did pretty well in school, and even came to read a comic book version of the story of Tarzan, as recommended by his teacher. (“My, my, Albert, are you saying you are like Tarzan? Ho ho ho!”) After which he decided not to tell anybody about how he came about as it would only hinder his development.
He grew up, worked part time, had pimples, and crushes, and friends that came and went. He worked hard and got into the humdrum of everyday life and celebrated Christmas and the Chinese New Year. Soon, he almost forgot that he was ever a dragonfly and his purpose, until he went to a park and saw a middle aged man walking a dog which passed shit onto the ground, and with little hesitation, the man picked up the shit with an inverted plastic bag.
Right, thought the boy, man is unwilling to shit in public, and has all that funky jazz about toilets and flushing after use, but is more than willing to pick up dog shit with much self-righteous pride.
As he watched the man toss the packet of dog shit into the garbage, he thought of the time, when he was a little boy living off garbage scraps, in a way that he had not thought in a long time. If there was another little boy living in the park right now, he would be so poor thing to find dog shit to eat. Then again, when he was primitive, he wouldn't think that eating shit was such a bad thing. Why did he find it so repulsive now?
His curiosity was rekindled, and he decided to go study a degree in psychology, hoping that the promised realms of pseudo-science and controlled experiments would shed some light on all the “myshitery”.
Upon the completion of his freshman year, he made a vacation trip to the seaside. He had never seen the sea before and he rewarded himself with a much deserved a break for earning the money and his place in the university. He wanted to do his honours thesis on the social psychology of shit.
As he was swimming, he thought of how the fish and all marine creatures shat into the sea and the irony that he was swimming in the biggest shit dump of all. Then, an ancient giant fish louse caught him and ate him up, and thus, ending the life of the boy who was obsessed with shit and who was once a very curious dragonfly.
Weeks later, the same newspaper picked up on his disappearance and featured a heart warming report on how the boy who had quite mysteriously appeared had mysteriously disappeared.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
The windows crackle
The windows crackle as the morning heats them up. If it were nearly possible, I would imagine that it is a childhood playmate throwing little pebbles at my window and making that sound to get me to go out to play. But it is not possible. It doesn't happen here. It only happens in movies.
Monday, 25 August 2008
Sunday, 24 August 2008
29/08/03
On a bus, again,
Traveling silently.
Familiar scent
Ambles tauntingly.
There was a time before this,
When I was heading this way,
He put my hand in his
And pretended to fall asleep.
Traveling silently.
Familiar scent
Ambles tauntingly.
There was a time before this,
When I was heading this way,
He put my hand in his
And pretended to fall asleep.
Monday, 11 August 2008
Him
It's been like what, about three weeks? I've been dreaming about him almost every day, if not, every other.
Sometimes I dream that I wake up from my sleep and I will think that I'm not dreaming and he is not in my dreams. It freaked me out for a while. Once, I dreamt of people I don't like and I was comforted to know that he was near. Another time, I saw him as an elephant, that was one of my favourite dreams of him from all that I can remember. Last night, as most nights, I saw him as himself, and he spoke to me about something important, but I only remember him saying, “This is awkward, ain't it...” It was so distinct that I woke up a little.
My dreams are probably a function of my imagination and desperation for something exciting and novel to happen. Dreaming of somebody for consecutive three weeks is quite novel to me. It is almost as if I can control, dictate what or whom I want to dream about. But the thing is, I didn't control or dictate dreaming of him. I didn't even want to dream of him. I don't know where he came from, seriously. I was quite troubled at first. Now I'm used to it. Somewhat.
Of course it had crossed my mind if it's a matter of the paranormal. It could be. He may be somebody who want me to do something for him, that's why he's come to my dreams.
Or it could simply be because he likes my company. You know, like how I like his company. I kinda like his company. Meeting him in my sleep... man of my dreams?
That is so corny.
I don't think I will meet his equivalent in real life. What are the chances of a man being an elephant? Or an elephant being a man? My hopes will be dashed.
I wonder how complicated would it be? If I were to like him? As in, in a romantic way. He is pretty likable. Not particularly dashing in looks, but there's something just clicks between us. If I were to love him? If there is the possibility that I will dream of him almost everyday, or every other, for the rest of my life, then I... you know. As awkward as it will be... of course, not that the relationship needs to last forever, but I suppose I require that possibility?
Of course, I'm just letting my imagination go crazy here. Anyway, it's not that I can really dictate what happens in my dreams, maybe he'll be scared off by what I'm thinking about here, and never appear in my dreams again. Maybe he's already engaged. I'd never know, really. Or that such things cannot ever happen. I should just concentrate my hopes on dreaming of him again tonight, if not tomorrow.
I need to change my life drastically. If this doesn't work out.
Sometimes I dream that I wake up from my sleep and I will think that I'm not dreaming and he is not in my dreams. It freaked me out for a while. Once, I dreamt of people I don't like and I was comforted to know that he was near. Another time, I saw him as an elephant, that was one of my favourite dreams of him from all that I can remember. Last night, as most nights, I saw him as himself, and he spoke to me about something important, but I only remember him saying, “This is awkward, ain't it...” It was so distinct that I woke up a little.
My dreams are probably a function of my imagination and desperation for something exciting and novel to happen. Dreaming of somebody for consecutive three weeks is quite novel to me. It is almost as if I can control, dictate what or whom I want to dream about. But the thing is, I didn't control or dictate dreaming of him. I didn't even want to dream of him. I don't know where he came from, seriously. I was quite troubled at first. Now I'm used to it. Somewhat.
Of course it had crossed my mind if it's a matter of the paranormal. It could be. He may be somebody who want me to do something for him, that's why he's come to my dreams.
Or it could simply be because he likes my company. You know, like how I like his company. I kinda like his company. Meeting him in my sleep... man of my dreams?
That is so corny.
I don't think I will meet his equivalent in real life. What are the chances of a man being an elephant? Or an elephant being a man? My hopes will be dashed.
I wonder how complicated would it be? If I were to like him? As in, in a romantic way. He is pretty likable. Not particularly dashing in looks, but there's something just clicks between us. If I were to love him? If there is the possibility that I will dream of him almost everyday, or every other, for the rest of my life, then I... you know. As awkward as it will be... of course, not that the relationship needs to last forever, but I suppose I require that possibility?
Of course, I'm just letting my imagination go crazy here. Anyway, it's not that I can really dictate what happens in my dreams, maybe he'll be scared off by what I'm thinking about here, and never appear in my dreams again. Maybe he's already engaged. I'd never know, really. Or that such things cannot ever happen. I should just concentrate my hopes on dreaming of him again tonight, if not tomorrow.
I need to change my life drastically. If this doesn't work out.
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