I dreamt of being infested with my dog's ticks. In my dream, the ticks had evolved, and were no longer single red bulging dots with six legs; they were with three jointed parts, like ants, and had ferocious teeth - ferocious as in it looked like it'd hurt a lot if I were bitten - and looked blood thirsty.
I woke up being a little afraid.
The next day, I kept feeling ticklings on different parts of my body especially on my armpits, my private part, and the part of my back I can't reach enough to scratch properly.
Now, the paranoia has died off, and I don't quite still feel the tickles. I don't rule out the possibility, however, that a couple of ticks are living on me - there're quite a few places to hide - especially if they stay still so that I won't even detect their crawling motion. I mean, like afterall, I don't remember the last time I took a good look at my back.
When I do consider it, the idea of having a couple of ticks on my back is actually surprisingly alright. It's kinda freaky, but really, I should have enough blood going around to afford such "pets".
Maybe if I stay still enough they would breed and breed and one day, there would be ticks all over me. I'd be like I'm covered in red scales - except that they're actually ticks. It's kinda gross, but if I stop thinking that ticks are dirty and disgusting (which they're not inherently), it can be kinda cool. If I were all covered in ticks I'd probably get into guiness books of records in a new catagory and appear on reuters or something.
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Ah Hoi on the Train
Ah Hoi held on to the train handle tightly and stared out of the window. If he concentrated hard enough, he could see the walls of the tunnel and tell the cables apart. He should find it interesting, but it was just difficult... he couldn't help noticing that people were standing too far apart from him like there was a radius - an invisible shield or force-field - that was repelling people from him.
He looked at his own reflection and reminded himself that he did not care.
He did not care that people would not want to be close to a man with tangled long hair and a mangled beard. He was a man whose clothes from Kek Sng Kio bore a smell that could not be removed with repeated washing, and did not fit well enough such that he had to tighten his khaki cargo pants with a raffia-string-belt... His rugged Jansport purple and turqoise backpack that had been with him since his sailing days, that he had carried with him for the past twenty over years from port to port, smelt like rotten fish in the air-conditioning of the train and that other people would avoid rotten fish smelling things... To him, these people were just shallow.
And it was because of their shallowness that they would never know him and they would not get to know the secrets he keeps - secrets about the great sea - stories he picked up during his sailing days.
Once, his ship sailed past a small waterspout that was just beginning to form. He was close enough to stick his arm into it, and to feel the tug of the air that made all of his hair stand up. It was foolish and not to be recommended, so he didn't mention it to anyone. Sometimes, when they were sorting out the trawler catch, Ah Hoi would steal a starfish and put it into his pocket to bring back to his room to tickle the underside and be amused by himself. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would go to the deck by himself to lie down and find the moon so bright it was glaring to look at...
He should feel that his life was everything meaningful and beyond the materialistic pursuits of the average person. One day, he should meet a nice girl who would look pass the appearances and appreciate him for who he is - He is romantic, responsible, and wise. A girl whom he would not have to pay after sleeping with her.
Until then, there, on his way to Cathay Picturehouse to use the free internet point to play "Farmville" on Facebook, Ah Hoi felt lonely.
He looked at his own reflection and reminded himself that he did not care.
He did not care that people would not want to be close to a man with tangled long hair and a mangled beard. He was a man whose clothes from Kek Sng Kio bore a smell that could not be removed with repeated washing, and did not fit well enough such that he had to tighten his khaki cargo pants with a raffia-string-belt... His rugged Jansport purple and turqoise backpack that had been with him since his sailing days, that he had carried with him for the past twenty over years from port to port, smelt like rotten fish in the air-conditioning of the train and that other people would avoid rotten fish smelling things... To him, these people were just shallow.
And it was because of their shallowness that they would never know him and they would not get to know the secrets he keeps - secrets about the great sea - stories he picked up during his sailing days.
Once, his ship sailed past a small waterspout that was just beginning to form. He was close enough to stick his arm into it, and to feel the tug of the air that made all of his hair stand up. It was foolish and not to be recommended, so he didn't mention it to anyone. Sometimes, when they were sorting out the trawler catch, Ah Hoi would steal a starfish and put it into his pocket to bring back to his room to tickle the underside and be amused by himself. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would go to the deck by himself to lie down and find the moon so bright it was glaring to look at...
He should feel that his life was everything meaningful and beyond the materialistic pursuits of the average person. One day, he should meet a nice girl who would look pass the appearances and appreciate him for who he is - He is romantic, responsible, and wise. A girl whom he would not have to pay after sleeping with her.
Until then, there, on his way to Cathay Picturehouse to use the free internet point to play "Farmville" on Facebook, Ah Hoi felt lonely.
Saturday, 5 December 2009
22 Nov 09 - Mostly Cloudy with NW Winds at 14.something kph
When I was young, they would say, that Singapore had only two kinds of weather - it was always either sunny or rainy. "It's boring," they would say, and I would echo, "to only have Spring and Summer." So what if the birds would migrate to Sungei Buloh to hide from the cold? And our equatorial climate supported growth of the spices - precious commodities that the Ang Mors had to come here to trade for. I wished that I lived somewhere that had the four seasons - four seasons like what I saw on the TV, in movies, in books. If you also grew up reading Archie comics, I'm sure you'd empathise with how I felt left out reading about the snow sculpture competitions (Jughead would almost always be making a sculpture of a hamburger and Betty of Archie) and how Lil' Jinx might be making snow angels...
Having two kinds of weather was boring, because it meant that I didn't have the chance to put on more clothing or see the trees change colour or have a childhood with snow angels. If you also grew up reading Archie comics, I'm sure you'd empathise with how left out I felt - to be growing up in Singapore.
In Singapore, it might have been possible to lie down in the sand pit on the playground to make sand angels - but it's not quite tempting. The occasional beer bottle cap poking out of the sand was usually enough to set our imaginations on the defensive mode - that the sand is clean enough to run about barefooted and not to think about what else could be living in the sand. Besides, having grazed my knees on the sand deterred the idea of lying down and rubbing my limbs around on the ground... (Now, snow angels must seem even more remote because playgrounds are tiled with those sissy spongey cushions.)
Another common reason to wish for the four seasons was the imagined entitlement to a wider variety of clothes. Autumn and Winter clothing in fashion magazines always look great. They promise to hide body flaws and make everyone look more pensive and melancholic. With autumn, anyone could have the rights to sensibly own three dozen scarves and a blue coat just like Paddington Bear's. One could have twenty-seven cool sensible hats and seventy-two sensible sweaters in a variety of styles. One would even have a pair of sensible ice-skates...
Yet, today, I'm not sure if you noticed anything... but today, the weather was a little bit strange. It might have started last night, but in the morning, the winds were already blowing hard. It seemed, that the winds were from different directions - sometimes from the East and sometimes from the North or West. The trees, if you had the chance to look at them properly, were swirling. It's really interesting, you know! Swirling trees.
Sure, other countries might have swirling trees too, but would they have swirling bougainvilleas from overhead bridges next to swirling iron tree hedges next to swirling pong pong trees? Would they have trembling orchid plants and jasmine plants outside your neighbour's home in the common corridor?
It was all quite cute to take note.
And I realised that having only two seasons doesn't make any place any more boring than a place with one million seasons.
Then again, perhaps a million seasons are quite hard to beat... but what I mean is, happiness lies in the details, and we all just need to know what works for us so we know where to look.
Honestly, do I wish for Singapore to have autumn and winter? So that I could match a colourful South American woollen poncho with a black turtle neck top and my new Uniqlo jeans? No, and why not? Because I know how expensive it would be to maintain a wardrobe for four seasons and how much more wardrobe space I would need. What a hassle it would be to manage all that?
I'd much rather be spending my afternoons watching the wind.
Having two kinds of weather was boring, because it meant that I didn't have the chance to put on more clothing or see the trees change colour or have a childhood with snow angels. If you also grew up reading Archie comics, I'm sure you'd empathise with how left out I felt - to be growing up in Singapore.
In Singapore, it might have been possible to lie down in the sand pit on the playground to make sand angels - but it's not quite tempting. The occasional beer bottle cap poking out of the sand was usually enough to set our imaginations on the defensive mode - that the sand is clean enough to run about barefooted and not to think about what else could be living in the sand. Besides, having grazed my knees on the sand deterred the idea of lying down and rubbing my limbs around on the ground... (Now, snow angels must seem even more remote because playgrounds are tiled with those sissy spongey cushions.)
Another common reason to wish for the four seasons was the imagined entitlement to a wider variety of clothes. Autumn and Winter clothing in fashion magazines always look great. They promise to hide body flaws and make everyone look more pensive and melancholic. With autumn, anyone could have the rights to sensibly own three dozen scarves and a blue coat just like Paddington Bear's. One could have twenty-seven cool sensible hats and seventy-two sensible sweaters in a variety of styles. One would even have a pair of sensible ice-skates...
Yet, today, I'm not sure if you noticed anything... but today, the weather was a little bit strange. It might have started last night, but in the morning, the winds were already blowing hard. It seemed, that the winds were from different directions - sometimes from the East and sometimes from the North or West. The trees, if you had the chance to look at them properly, were swirling. It's really interesting, you know! Swirling trees.
Sure, other countries might have swirling trees too, but would they have swirling bougainvilleas from overhead bridges next to swirling iron tree hedges next to swirling pong pong trees? Would they have trembling orchid plants and jasmine plants outside your neighbour's home in the common corridor?
It was all quite cute to take note.
And I realised that having only two seasons doesn't make any place any more boring than a place with one million seasons.
Then again, perhaps a million seasons are quite hard to beat... but what I mean is, happiness lies in the details, and we all just need to know what works for us so we know where to look.
Honestly, do I wish for Singapore to have autumn and winter? So that I could match a colourful South American woollen poncho with a black turtle neck top and my new Uniqlo jeans? No, and why not? Because I know how expensive it would be to maintain a wardrobe for four seasons and how much more wardrobe space I would need. What a hassle it would be to manage all that?
I'd much rather be spending my afternoons watching the wind.
Saturday, 28 November 2009
Ernest Beauregard
Ernest Beauregard was always taught not to stick sharp things into one's ears, lest they burst the ear-drums and become deaf. So, when he was twenty-five years old and was posted to Singapore by the auditing firm he worked for, and when his colleagues showed him around a pasar malam where he picked up a packet of three curious little metal scoops (found next to the nail cutters), he wasn't quite prepared to find out that they were ear-picks or ear-diggers used to clean one's ear wax.
Ernest was shocked and asked with concern if his colleagues and their people knew that they were not supposed to stick sharp things into one's ears. He was disappointed to find out that despite having gone through a well-developed health education syllabus that taught them the same textbook-answer of not sticking sharp things into one's ears, many sensible Singaporean adults were rebelliously skilful with the manipulation of the metal/bamboo/plastic ear-diggers. His colleagues tried to explain to him how the education was only purposeful in teaching the kids discretion such that they knew to they had to properly train themselves and master the ear-picks before use.
To Ernest, it was like finding out that half the population regularly hot-wire cars or break into houses for a living.
Ernest bought a packet of the ear-picks and showed it to his family over Skype to highlight how the absurd Asians were jeopardising their sense of hearing. All of the Beauregards, except Ernest's mother, laughed heartily at Ernest's rigid overreaction.
During his stay in Singapore, Ernest later went on to fall in love with a Singaporean girl.
Once, after they made love, the girl found the packet of ear-picks in the condom-drawer and volunteered to help Ernest clean his ears. He rejected the offer immediately, to which the girl coolly stuck the earpicks into her ears and called him a coward. She also taunted him with a emotionally blackmail of "if you trusted me, you won't be so afraid", to which he countered with a "if you loved me you wouldn't jeopardise my sense of hearing". His resistance crumbled when she threatened never to lick his ears again unless he let her pick it.
She made him lay down on his side and rested his head on her lap. She cleaned his left ear first because Ernest was right-handed and felt that the left ear was less important. Despite feeling intimidated that she might deafen him, and by the power she had over him, willing that little metal spade, he found himself aroused by the intimacy of the act. It could be due to some masochistic tendencies or a new found genuine appreciation he had for the cleanliness with every scoop of ear wax. As she insisted that looking at the removed wax was an important process of enjoying ear-digging, everytime she removed something, she would show the ear wax to him, and they would make a fuss about how gross his ears were. Although he did not admit it, he enjoyed the ear-digging immensely. He thought that it was almost cathartic.
After they broke up, Ernest tried to clean his ears himself, but he caused himself to bleed. To test if he was still able to hear with his injured ear, he called himself on his mobile phone and held against his injured ear. Fortunately, he did not damage his hearing, but he never dared to dig his ears ever again.
On the day he was packing up to go home, he saw the little plastic packet containing the two ear-picks that were left. Ernest thought it was a waste to toss them away, and that he should at least try to use the tiny scoops to scoop something else. He stood in front of his toilet mirror and stuck a metal scoop into his nose to scoop out snot. It didn't feel as good as ear cleaning - it was just a little ticklish and fairly ineffective. He concluded that nostrils were generally too big for the scoops to fit comfortably. He also concluded that fingers and fingernails were impressively well-adapted for nose-cleaning as they were well-shaped and better fit to scrape against the walls of the nostrils.
Ernest threw away the soiled ear-pick and picked up the last ear-pick and wondered what he could try to scoop next. He looked at himself in the mirror and thought that the metal pick would taste bad in his mouth so he tried to clean his eye instead. He started with his left eye. He pulled his lower eyelid downwards with his left hand and manuveured the pick to retrieve some eye wax - or so he thought, as it was actually just some whitish flesh that probably connected his eye. When he picked on it, the hurt surprised him, and Ernest panicked and unfortunately slipped and somehow jammed the earpick further into his eye socket. Thus, Ernest Beauregard blinded himself in one eye.
Years later, Ernest wished he tried to use the ear-pick to clean his belly button instead. He wondered if he could find a ear-pick from Chinatown to do just that.
(sneak.)
Ernest was shocked and asked with concern if his colleagues and their people knew that they were not supposed to stick sharp things into one's ears. He was disappointed to find out that despite having gone through a well-developed health education syllabus that taught them the same textbook-answer of not sticking sharp things into one's ears, many sensible Singaporean adults were rebelliously skilful with the manipulation of the metal/bamboo/plastic ear-diggers. His colleagues tried to explain to him how the education was only purposeful in teaching the kids discretion such that they knew to they had to properly train themselves and master the ear-picks before use.
To Ernest, it was like finding out that half the population regularly hot-wire cars or break into houses for a living.
Ernest bought a packet of the ear-picks and showed it to his family over Skype to highlight how the absurd Asians were jeopardising their sense of hearing. All of the Beauregards, except Ernest's mother, laughed heartily at Ernest's rigid overreaction.
During his stay in Singapore, Ernest later went on to fall in love with a Singaporean girl.
Once, after they made love, the girl found the packet of ear-picks in the condom-drawer and volunteered to help Ernest clean his ears. He rejected the offer immediately, to which the girl coolly stuck the earpicks into her ears and called him a coward. She also taunted him with a emotionally blackmail of "if you trusted me, you won't be so afraid", to which he countered with a "if you loved me you wouldn't jeopardise my sense of hearing". His resistance crumbled when she threatened never to lick his ears again unless he let her pick it.
She made him lay down on his side and rested his head on her lap. She cleaned his left ear first because Ernest was right-handed and felt that the left ear was less important. Despite feeling intimidated that she might deafen him, and by the power she had over him, willing that little metal spade, he found himself aroused by the intimacy of the act. It could be due to some masochistic tendencies or a new found genuine appreciation he had for the cleanliness with every scoop of ear wax. As she insisted that looking at the removed wax was an important process of enjoying ear-digging, everytime she removed something, she would show the ear wax to him, and they would make a fuss about how gross his ears were. Although he did not admit it, he enjoyed the ear-digging immensely. He thought that it was almost cathartic.
After they broke up, Ernest tried to clean his ears himself, but he caused himself to bleed. To test if he was still able to hear with his injured ear, he called himself on his mobile phone and held against his injured ear. Fortunately, he did not damage his hearing, but he never dared to dig his ears ever again.
On the day he was packing up to go home, he saw the little plastic packet containing the two ear-picks that were left. Ernest thought it was a waste to toss them away, and that he should at least try to use the tiny scoops to scoop something else. He stood in front of his toilet mirror and stuck a metal scoop into his nose to scoop out snot. It didn't feel as good as ear cleaning - it was just a little ticklish and fairly ineffective. He concluded that nostrils were generally too big for the scoops to fit comfortably. He also concluded that fingers and fingernails were impressively well-adapted for nose-cleaning as they were well-shaped and better fit to scrape against the walls of the nostrils.
Ernest threw away the soiled ear-pick and picked up the last ear-pick and wondered what he could try to scoop next. He looked at himself in the mirror and thought that the metal pick would taste bad in his mouth so he tried to clean his eye instead. He started with his left eye. He pulled his lower eyelid downwards with his left hand and manuveured the pick to retrieve some eye wax - or so he thought, as it was actually just some whitish flesh that probably connected his eye. When he picked on it, the hurt surprised him, and Ernest panicked and unfortunately slipped and somehow jammed the earpick further into his eye socket. Thus, Ernest Beauregard blinded himself in one eye.
Years later, Ernest wished he tried to use the ear-pick to clean his belly button instead. He wondered if he could find a ear-pick from Chinatown to do just that.
(sneak.)
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Untitled
Last Monday night, when I was watching tv as usual, I closed my eyes and almost fell asleep... then your mother came to me. I think we were brought back to the time when we were in the labour room. It was like how I remembered it. It was too cold, and the atmosphere was tense. When I saw her on Monday night, she was in labour again. Giving birth to you. She was halfway screaming from the labour pains when she suddenly stopped, and put on a serious expression and told me to tell you something - a secret. After that she smiled and I jolted awake.
Now, this had been a secret that has been kept from you. And I am not sure if I had indeed truly met your late mother that night, or that it wasn't just a figment of my imagination... but I don't want to disrespect her wishes, you know... She's my dearest sister, and I didn't do much for her when she was alive... So, that's why I called you here today.
Do you want me to tell you a secret about you?
And it might be a secret that you might do better if you did not know about. But you know, who is to know what is going to happen after you find out, right? So, think about it, and let me know...
No, no, you don't have to decide so immediately.
Are you sure?
Very well, then. If you're so sure of yourself, here I go.
First of all, I hope you won't take it personally. Because it was before you were born, that your mother wanted to remove you... as in, abort you... from her womb. I mean, you weren't even a person yet. I think they really didn't plan for your arrival. And abortion was a pretty common solution... for our generation of people who were not used to using birth control...
Well of course, you should already know about your father's habits right? Him and the women from around... That ass hole really got more bold over the years, didn't he? Not even the decency to be discrete...
Anyway, well, here goes... Your mother told me explicitly, that night, to tell you that your father was seeing another woman, while she was pregnant with you.
She found out about it from the girl's parents, who came to tell her about it, as apparently, and they didn't know who to go to.
Your mother didn't tell me all the details. She just came to me and told me what happened - that the woman's parents came to her. That your father didn’t know that she knew. She did mention that the other woman was under-aged, though. And that she felt sorry for the girl. She told me everything rather matter-of-factly... We didn't discuss on how she felt... only what she should do... and she asked me to accompany her to the doctor's to have you removed.
At the doctors, they doctor told her that she was already too big to be operated on. It would have been too dangerous. After some persuasion, she finally decided to give birth to you. And since she didn't want to have your father present in the labour room, she didn't tell him when she was going in labour. Instead, I was with her.
So... now, how do you feel?
Now, this had been a secret that has been kept from you. And I am not sure if I had indeed truly met your late mother that night, or that it wasn't just a figment of my imagination... but I don't want to disrespect her wishes, you know... She's my dearest sister, and I didn't do much for her when she was alive... So, that's why I called you here today.
Do you want me to tell you a secret about you?
And it might be a secret that you might do better if you did not know about. But you know, who is to know what is going to happen after you find out, right? So, think about it, and let me know...
No, no, you don't have to decide so immediately.
Are you sure?
Very well, then. If you're so sure of yourself, here I go.
First of all, I hope you won't take it personally. Because it was before you were born, that your mother wanted to remove you... as in, abort you... from her womb. I mean, you weren't even a person yet. I think they really didn't plan for your arrival. And abortion was a pretty common solution... for our generation of people who were not used to using birth control...
Well of course, you should already know about your father's habits right? Him and the women from around... That ass hole really got more bold over the years, didn't he? Not even the decency to be discrete...
Anyway, well, here goes... Your mother told me explicitly, that night, to tell you that your father was seeing another woman, while she was pregnant with you.
She found out about it from the girl's parents, who came to tell her about it, as apparently, and they didn't know who to go to.
Your mother didn't tell me all the details. She just came to me and told me what happened - that the woman's parents came to her. That your father didn’t know that she knew. She did mention that the other woman was under-aged, though. And that she felt sorry for the girl. She told me everything rather matter-of-factly... We didn't discuss on how she felt... only what she should do... and she asked me to accompany her to the doctor's to have you removed.
At the doctors, they doctor told her that she was already too big to be operated on. It would have been too dangerous. After some persuasion, she finally decided to give birth to you. And since she didn't want to have your father present in the labour room, she didn't tell him when she was going in labour. Instead, I was with her.
So... now, how do you feel?
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Mr Bu
Then one night, he gasped loudly, stood up, spun around and exclaimed "When the moon hits three-quarters for the five hundred and twenty third time, I shall be released!"
All the nurses were a shock, of course; after all, this elderly Mr Bu Min Jie had been in a catatonic state for about 40 years now. Watching Mr Bu dance around the ward, even those nurses who had been caring of Mr Bu felt like celebrating with him.
He was admitted to the hospital after being found unconscious in the middle of the road. When he woke up in the hospital, almost one year later, he was catatonic. They thought it might have been a traffic accident which caused him to suffer from some bad trauma to his head. Brain-specialists took turns to target their enthusiasm at him. It seemed like they scanned his brains almost every time the machine was available, but they discovered nothing.
He didn't have any identification, nor anybody missing him enough to identify him, so, they named him Mr B (after his ward). Over the years, the nurses, with the combination of their own inside jokes, extended his name to Mr Bu Min Jie.
Little did anybody know the truth was that he actually belonged to a world, that existed halfway between the ground to the sky, that could not be seen by the psychically-indisposed. He was cursed by a spell-binder, who cut a magic manhole in the ground of that world, from which Mr Bu was kicked out from, with a left foot, into this world. Mr Bu had tried to rob the spell-binder's wife. His real name was Dan (which meant "egg").
(sneak.)
All the nurses were a shock, of course; after all, this elderly Mr Bu Min Jie had been in a catatonic state for about 40 years now. Watching Mr Bu dance around the ward, even those nurses who had been caring of Mr Bu felt like celebrating with him.
He was admitted to the hospital after being found unconscious in the middle of the road. When he woke up in the hospital, almost one year later, he was catatonic. They thought it might have been a traffic accident which caused him to suffer from some bad trauma to his head. Brain-specialists took turns to target their enthusiasm at him. It seemed like they scanned his brains almost every time the machine was available, but they discovered nothing.
He didn't have any identification, nor anybody missing him enough to identify him, so, they named him Mr B (after his ward). Over the years, the nurses, with the combination of their own inside jokes, extended his name to Mr Bu Min Jie.
Little did anybody know the truth was that he actually belonged to a world, that existed halfway between the ground to the sky, that could not be seen by the psychically-indisposed. He was cursed by a spell-binder, who cut a magic manhole in the ground of that world, from which Mr Bu was kicked out from, with a left foot, into this world. Mr Bu had tried to rob the spell-binder's wife. His real name was Dan (which meant "egg").
(sneak.)
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Lavender Remedy
Atera visited her auntie while having a cold and a blocked nose. Her auntie had heard from a friend of a friend that lavender was a good remedy for stuffy nose and made Atera some lavender tea.
It didn't work that well, but it was quite nice enough to drink for Atera to finish drinking her share - bottom-of-the-cup's up. In the process, Atera was unaware that some lavender seeds got stuck in her nose, and she went to sleep.
Overnight, they would grow into lavender bushes - one from each nostril - and she would wake up, sit up, and find two lavender bushes hanging from her face.
It didn't work that well, but it was quite nice enough to drink for Atera to finish drinking her share - bottom-of-the-cup's up. In the process, Atera was unaware that some lavender seeds got stuck in her nose, and she went to sleep.
Overnight, they would grow into lavender bushes - one from each nostril - and she would wake up, sit up, and find two lavender bushes hanging from her face.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Traffic Allergic to Rain
Recent studies suggests that the Singaporean traffic is allergic to rain.
The spokesperson from the relevant Department of Statistics described the phenomenon, saying, "It's almost like the Singaporean traffic is secretly solar powered, and when it rains, the express-ways will always be traffic-jammed up. Something - traffic accidents or fallen trees (peace be with all involved parties) - will inevitably cause traffic jams."
The public was advised to start their rainy days ahead of their usual times, especially to head out of their homes earlier than on non-rainy days. For people who tend to wake up late on rainy days, well, please refrain from doing that, as it is probably "bad for health". Also, the authorities remind people to wear suitable-rainy-day-clothes and drive steadily. It would be ideal, if the public could also try to keep out of my way, thanks.
The spokesperson from the relevant Department of Statistics described the phenomenon, saying, "It's almost like the Singaporean traffic is secretly solar powered, and when it rains, the express-ways will always be traffic-jammed up. Something - traffic accidents or fallen trees (peace be with all involved parties) - will inevitably cause traffic jams."
The public was advised to start their rainy days ahead of their usual times, especially to head out of their homes earlier than on non-rainy days. For people who tend to wake up late on rainy days, well, please refrain from doing that, as it is probably "bad for health". Also, the authorities remind people to wear suitable-rainy-day-clothes and drive steadily. It would be ideal, if the public could also try to keep out of my way, thanks.
Monday, 2 November 2009
Waterloo Street
Her mind had been filled with replays of conversations she wanted to forget; yet, the harder she tried the louder they got.
She stood, in front of the temple's red gates, and cried, she fell on her knees.
The ground that was made of red bricks was dry and cool in an inexpressible and surprising way that was a relief to her.
She looked to the sky for a star to wish upon, but there was only the moon shining through the clouds.
The moonlight was gentle.
It felt almost sympathetic.
Or it could just be her imagination.
Or it could just be what she's looking for - pity.
Or something like that.
She noticed how the block of flats looked very different from how they did in the day. In the day, they bustled with activities and sold things that people bought for Chinese New Year. In the night, they looked mysterious, dependable, and good to jump off from.
In fact, everything looked different from how they did in the day. Like that old woman in the corner - snoozing by the now-folded-"new-moon-brand"-beach-umbrella that sheltered her flower and incense stall in the day?
Was she keeping watch for the temple?
Or just keeping watch for the stall.
Does she spend the night here?
Every night?
Or it just tonight?
Ah.
The wind.
The soft comforting wind - it consoles everything.
Well, if I have to go, I should at least give my thanks and say goodbye.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands and held her palms together to her forehead. Without knowing why, she also said a prayer for the old woman in the corner.
Then with the next breath, all the other voices in her head quietened. All she heard was a voice that made her realise that there were a lot of people who really had it worse - like the old woman and the other people sleeping around along this street, whose bones and hearts were born just as brittle as anyone else's.
And she was aware of her heartbeat.
She stood, in front of the temple's red gates, and cried, she fell on her knees.
The ground that was made of red bricks was dry and cool in an inexpressible and surprising way that was a relief to her.
She looked to the sky for a star to wish upon, but there was only the moon shining through the clouds.
The moonlight was gentle.
It felt almost sympathetic.
Or it could just be her imagination.
Or it could just be what she's looking for - pity.
Or something like that.
She noticed how the block of flats looked very different from how they did in the day. In the day, they bustled with activities and sold things that people bought for Chinese New Year. In the night, they looked mysterious, dependable, and good to jump off from.
In fact, everything looked different from how they did in the day. Like that old woman in the corner - snoozing by the now-folded-"new-moon-brand"-beach-umbrella that sheltered her flower and incense stall in the day?
Was she keeping watch for the temple?
Or just keeping watch for the stall.
Does she spend the night here?
Every night?
Or it just tonight?
Ah.
The wind.
The soft comforting wind - it consoles everything.
Well, if I have to go, I should at least give my thanks and say goodbye.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands and held her palms together to her forehead. Without knowing why, she also said a prayer for the old woman in the corner.
Then with the next breath, all the other voices in her head quietened. All she heard was a voice that made her realise that there were a lot of people who really had it worse - like the old woman and the other people sleeping around along this street, whose bones and hearts were born just as brittle as anyone else's.
And she was aware of her heartbeat.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Sock puppet
The boy put his hand into his sock that he just took off from his feet that he just took out of his shoes which he just got home from school in. Today, his teacher showed his class an educational video featuring sock puppet hosts，and he was really impressed with them and had been eager to go home to try it out.
His version of the sock puppet didn't look as nice as the ones on the video - it didn't have the fake button eyes and funky features made of felt cloth patches - it was plain and a bit greyish with dirt.
Suddenly, his sock spoke - as in, the voice was not in his head, but as in, a voice really came from his undecorated sock puppet (he knew it was real because the voice was louder when the sock was put closer to his ear and softer when pulled further away). The sock said to to the boy in a low voice,
"Kid, listen to me carefully. I have been waiting for this day for a long time. Look, I've transferred some of my taste buds to your hands. These are taste receptors that would send wireless signals back to me so that I know the taste of what you eat.
"I have been wanting very badly to taste food because the oven mittens told me - when we met in the laundry bin - that food here is great. And the oven mittens are so... hot. I mean...
"Ah, what the heck... to be honest, I have a crush on them. And I want to taste some food so that we would have something to talk about next time we meet. Your feet ain't quite the conversation point, you know.
"Anyway, all you've gotta do is to touch the food with your hands later. As in, use your hands to eat. My taste buds/receptors on your hands and fingers would transmit to me the taste signals of whatever you touch.
"The taste buds will probably make your hands smell slightly, and some suspect they're probably going to make you sick if you eat it... but no matter. Don't worry, we can take that risk together. So, regardless of what your mother says, YOU BETTER don't wash your hands before dinner.
"You also BETTER don't remove me - as in, the sock - until just before dinner time. And until then, in fact, until dinner time, you better don't dig your nose or scratch your backside. You can only go do all those funny things AFTER you wash your hands with dish-washing liquid (preferably mama lemon) AFTER dinner. That would deactivate the receptors.
"If you don't do as I say, I'm going to gnaw at your feet and give you one hundred and thirty blisters! I will torture you! GEDDIT, kid?"
The boy was really intimidated, because the sock puppet was talking, and had an low, creepy, authoritative voice, and was threatening him into do something his (hypochondriac and intimidating-in-her-own-right) mother is surely going to give him a good scolding for. And being really intimidated made him really, really regret choosing to play with the sock before going to pee.
His version of the sock puppet didn't look as nice as the ones on the video - it didn't have the fake button eyes and funky features made of felt cloth patches - it was plain and a bit greyish with dirt.
Suddenly, his sock spoke - as in, the voice was not in his head, but as in, a voice really came from his undecorated sock puppet (he knew it was real because the voice was louder when the sock was put closer to his ear and softer when pulled further away). The sock said to to the boy in a low voice,
"Kid, listen to me carefully. I have been waiting for this day for a long time. Look, I've transferred some of my taste buds to your hands. These are taste receptors that would send wireless signals back to me so that I know the taste of what you eat.
"I have been wanting very badly to taste food because the oven mittens told me - when we met in the laundry bin - that food here is great. And the oven mittens are so... hot. I mean...
"Ah, what the heck... to be honest, I have a crush on them. And I want to taste some food so that we would have something to talk about next time we meet. Your feet ain't quite the conversation point, you know.
"Anyway, all you've gotta do is to touch the food with your hands later. As in, use your hands to eat. My taste buds/receptors on your hands and fingers would transmit to me the taste signals of whatever you touch.
"The taste buds will probably make your hands smell slightly, and some suspect they're probably going to make you sick if you eat it... but no matter. Don't worry, we can take that risk together. So, regardless of what your mother says, YOU BETTER don't wash your hands before dinner.
"You also BETTER don't remove me - as in, the sock - until just before dinner time. And until then, in fact, until dinner time, you better don't dig your nose or scratch your backside. You can only go do all those funny things AFTER you wash your hands with dish-washing liquid (preferably mama lemon) AFTER dinner. That would deactivate the receptors.
"If you don't do as I say, I'm going to gnaw at your feet and give you one hundred and thirty blisters! I will torture you! GEDDIT, kid?"
The boy was really intimidated, because the sock puppet was talking, and had an low, creepy, authoritative voice, and was threatening him into do something his (hypochondriac and intimidating-in-her-own-right) mother is surely going to give him a good scolding for. And being really intimidated made him really, really regret choosing to play with the sock before going to pee.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Monday, 12 October 2009
Milk Thistle for the Liver
Somebody gave somebody a bottle of milk thistle supplements, and that latter somebody, in turn, gave the entire bottle to me and said,
"Apparently, it's good for the liver."
"But my liver is not bad," I said.
"You can't ever have a good enough liver," he said.
"Then why don't you keep it for yourself?" I said, "It's not very nice, you know... it was a gift to you..."
"My liver's too damaged, you know, from all those years of drinking and cigarettes," he said. "This thing won't have any effect on me."
"Well, it could do some damage control," I said.
"It's too late, and I won't eat it, so it's wasted on me," he said.
"Why not? Since 'one can't ever have a good enough liver'."
"Because I think life is boring, and life has no meaning, and I have simply no will to live."
This convinced me to quickly accept his offer and to take the milk thistle supplements dutifully... for fear that my liver gets as damaged as his.
"Apparently, it's good for the liver."
"But my liver is not bad," I said.
"You can't ever have a good enough liver," he said.
"Then why don't you keep it for yourself?" I said, "It's not very nice, you know... it was a gift to you..."
"My liver's too damaged, you know, from all those years of drinking and cigarettes," he said. "This thing won't have any effect on me."
"Well, it could do some damage control," I said.
"It's too late, and I won't eat it, so it's wasted on me," he said.
"Why not? Since 'one can't ever have a good enough liver'."
"Because I think life is boring, and life has no meaning, and I have simply no will to live."
This convinced me to quickly accept his offer and to take the milk thistle supplements dutifully... for fear that my liver gets as damaged as his.
Monday, 5 October 2009
A Story Seldom Told
I wanted to write a story today, but I had no idea.
Suddenly I heard a little voice, that was faint, but pretty clear.
"Then write a story about us, it's a story that's seldom told
About when the humans did not yet have feet included to its mold.
About when I was just a tortoise, minding my own sweet time,"
Said my left foot to me, in the following little rhyme,
"And about when an elephant came along, suddenly on my right.
You know, tortoises don't usually move so fast, so I got quite a fright,
Thinking that it would be the end of me if the elephant were to land
Too much of its weight on me that my shell wouldn't withstand.
But instead, the elephant picked me up, with its strong but gentle trunk,
With which I never really spoke, but for whom somehow I sunk
First into infatuation, and then it grew into love...
A tortoise with an elephant's trunk - it's unspeakably unheard of.
We went here and there and manywhere without the rest of the elephant knowing,
Until we were finally caught one day when we were out making
Excuses for us to go out to make excuses again...
Being caught dating a tortoise by your "parents" - how would you explain?
I suppose we didn't actually put forth a convincing case,
But we simply pledged our love, in front of the elephant's face.
Perhaps it was too surprised by our blatant disrespect
Of the obligatory embarrassment that it could reasonably expect...
Of a tortoise and its own trunk who wanted to be with one another,
Or perhaps it was moved by our sincerity altogether.
By the way, conveniently, the elephant was asked to finish the task
Of designing the humble human form that it would then unmask...
So, the elephant decided on the spot, to make me the left foot
And then it modelled a bit of its trunk to become the right foot..."
At this point I awoke to find my hands resting on the keyboard,
And this story that is on the screen as my only record,
Of how my left foot was a tortoise who was in love with an elephant's trunk,
Which is my right foot... I honestly don't at all recall being or getting drunk...
(sneak.)
Suddenly I heard a little voice, that was faint, but pretty clear.
"Then write a story about us, it's a story that's seldom told
About when the humans did not yet have feet included to its mold.
About when I was just a tortoise, minding my own sweet time,"
Said my left foot to me, in the following little rhyme,
"And about when an elephant came along, suddenly on my right.
You know, tortoises don't usually move so fast, so I got quite a fright,
Thinking that it would be the end of me if the elephant were to land
Too much of its weight on me that my shell wouldn't withstand.
But instead, the elephant picked me up, with its strong but gentle trunk,
With which I never really spoke, but for whom somehow I sunk
First into infatuation, and then it grew into love...
A tortoise with an elephant's trunk - it's unspeakably unheard of.
We went here and there and manywhere without the rest of the elephant knowing,
Until we were finally caught one day when we were out making
Excuses for us to go out to make excuses again...
Being caught dating a tortoise by your "parents" - how would you explain?
I suppose we didn't actually put forth a convincing case,
But we simply pledged our love, in front of the elephant's face.
Perhaps it was too surprised by our blatant disrespect
Of the obligatory embarrassment that it could reasonably expect...
Of a tortoise and its own trunk who wanted to be with one another,
Or perhaps it was moved by our sincerity altogether.
By the way, conveniently, the elephant was asked to finish the task
Of designing the humble human form that it would then unmask...
So, the elephant decided on the spot, to make me the left foot
And then it modelled a bit of its trunk to become the right foot..."
At this point I awoke to find my hands resting on the keyboard,
And this story that is on the screen as my only record,
Of how my left foot was a tortoise who was in love with an elephant's trunk,
Which is my right foot... I honestly don't at all recall being or getting drunk...
(sneak.)
Friday, 2 October 2009
Talcum moonwalk
When my brother and I were children, one of our games involved pouring lots of talcum powder on the floor until it's slippery enough for us to skate around the room.
Our grandmother who took care of us, and who was entrusted with the general responsibility of inculcating common sense in us, would pretend to be upset if she were to catch us wasting talcum powder and another person's efforts to have to clean it up afterwards. So, if we were to have a "skating-fest", we would have to sneak a chance - for example, when she was just starting to prepare a meal in the kitchen, or when she was going out to the market. To create a reason to account for traces of powder on the floor, since we weren't prepared to clean up after ourselves in any circumstances, we might have dashed some powders at our neck, to pretend that we had indeed intended to apply the powder properly, but "oops. How clumsy of us to spill so much powder."
I suppose it was a lame excuse, but at that time, it seemed like she bought it, as long as our excuses were elaborated enough. On hindsight, she might have thought that an elaborate excuse was indicative enough of a common-sensical understanding that pouring powder on the floor was unacceptable.
At times, we might have improvised, for example, to play a challenging game of pepsi-cola on the slippery floor, or compete on who could slide the furthest with one stride. Sometimes, we would have practised the moonwalk.
It was a time when Michael Jackson was cool and we would try to stand on our toes and tip the hats around and look for one glove to wear. We would also try to lean forward as far as possible while standing on a spot and pour talcum powder on the floor to do the moonwalk...
Well, now, Michael Jackson is dead.
I read an article about how he underwent some radical medical treatment to extend his life expectancy to 500 years...
If even Michael Jackson is dead, then I suppose it must be time for us to grow up.
Our grandmother who took care of us, and who was entrusted with the general responsibility of inculcating common sense in us, would pretend to be upset if she were to catch us wasting talcum powder and another person's efforts to have to clean it up afterwards. So, if we were to have a "skating-fest", we would have to sneak a chance - for example, when she was just starting to prepare a meal in the kitchen, or when she was going out to the market. To create a reason to account for traces of powder on the floor, since we weren't prepared to clean up after ourselves in any circumstances, we might have dashed some powders at our neck, to pretend that we had indeed intended to apply the powder properly, but "oops. How clumsy of us to spill so much powder."
I suppose it was a lame excuse, but at that time, it seemed like she bought it, as long as our excuses were elaborated enough. On hindsight, she might have thought that an elaborate excuse was indicative enough of a common-sensical understanding that pouring powder on the floor was unacceptable.
At times, we might have improvised, for example, to play a challenging game of pepsi-cola on the slippery floor, or compete on who could slide the furthest with one stride. Sometimes, we would have practised the moonwalk.
It was a time when Michael Jackson was cool and we would try to stand on our toes and tip the hats around and look for one glove to wear. We would also try to lean forward as far as possible while standing on a spot and pour talcum powder on the floor to do the moonwalk...
Well, now, Michael Jackson is dead.
I read an article about how he underwent some radical medical treatment to extend his life expectancy to 500 years...
If even Michael Jackson is dead, then I suppose it must be time for us to grow up.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
The Bayon
You appeared out of nowhere and with a kind smile, you said,
"Come, follow me, I'll bring you to the most beautiful place in the world."
On my way there, in between thoughts about work and other mundane thoughts, I studied the intensity of your shadow as I put my feet deep in the tracks that you made. At first, I thought I should make full use of the silent trek to contemplate on what to do with my life, or at least, what I would do about all the things to do back in the office... you know, 'constructive' thoughts. My only revelations were, however, to realise that I was lucid dreaming again - from noticing how the shadows looked very serious despite it not being particularly sunny - and that I did not recognise you from anywhere I could remember.
"Excuse me," I asked, "but where is the most beautiful place in the world?"
"You'd know where, when you get there," you said.
I tried to relax myself.
We walked by a dry pond, where a lot of headless dragonflies congregated - almost a swarm - but it was not very beautiful, just miraculous, perhaps, and somewhat creepy, so we didn't stop.
We walked by a ruined temple, about which gathered a group of ladies who had the upper body of humans and the lower body of snakes. They were singing and dancing - or that might have been the way they spoke normally - and they were really quite beautiful... with their graceful poise and dresses, and especially, with the way their snake scales glowed or shimmered... but I didn't think this was where, so we didn't stop.
As we went deeper into the forest, the ground became muddier until it didn't make sense for me to walk in your tracks any further, so I tried to find my own footing... I was engrossed in keeping balance and thoughts on how tedious it would be to clean my shoes until I made up my mind to throw them away when we were through.
When we came upon a clearing where the ground was hard again, I looked up and knew I was there.
I stood before the Bayon, stunned. All my silly thoughts and worries and wastes of mind dissipated into the glorious light that engulfed me - I was quiet. I carefully beheld the sight before me and dared not to breathe too hard lest I were to wake myself up.
From the silence, a whisper in my head secretly told me you had left, and that I was alone, and it asked me what to do next. I did not know. It asked me something else. I did not know. I did not know anything. And I did not care anymore. I could no longer.
I could only be quiet, in awe of the most beautiful place in the world.
"Come, follow me, I'll bring you to the most beautiful place in the world."
On my way there, in between thoughts about work and other mundane thoughts, I studied the intensity of your shadow as I put my feet deep in the tracks that you made. At first, I thought I should make full use of the silent trek to contemplate on what to do with my life, or at least, what I would do about all the things to do back in the office... you know, 'constructive' thoughts. My only revelations were, however, to realise that I was lucid dreaming again - from noticing how the shadows looked very serious despite it not being particularly sunny - and that I did not recognise you from anywhere I could remember.
"Excuse me," I asked, "but where is the most beautiful place in the world?"
"You'd know where, when you get there," you said.
I tried to relax myself.
We walked by a dry pond, where a lot of headless dragonflies congregated - almost a swarm - but it was not very beautiful, just miraculous, perhaps, and somewhat creepy, so we didn't stop.
We walked by a ruined temple, about which gathered a group of ladies who had the upper body of humans and the lower body of snakes. They were singing and dancing - or that might have been the way they spoke normally - and they were really quite beautiful... with their graceful poise and dresses, and especially, with the way their snake scales glowed or shimmered... but I didn't think this was where, so we didn't stop.
As we went deeper into the forest, the ground became muddier until it didn't make sense for me to walk in your tracks any further, so I tried to find my own footing... I was engrossed in keeping balance and thoughts on how tedious it would be to clean my shoes until I made up my mind to throw them away when we were through.
When we came upon a clearing where the ground was hard again, I looked up and knew I was there.
I stood before the Bayon, stunned. All my silly thoughts and worries and wastes of mind dissipated into the glorious light that engulfed me - I was quiet. I carefully beheld the sight before me and dared not to breathe too hard lest I were to wake myself up.
From the silence, a whisper in my head secretly told me you had left, and that I was alone, and it asked me what to do next. I did not know. It asked me something else. I did not know. I did not know anything. And I did not care anymore. I could no longer.
I could only be quiet, in awe of the most beautiful place in the world.
Friday, 25 September 2009
Sunday, 13 September 2009
Ten years
She alternates between wondering where she should go to buy plasters and trying to ignore the pain from the blisters on her feet from her high heeled shoes as she makes her way to the coffee shop to buy her coffee before going up to the office. She can't wait to kick off her shoes and she doesn't care that her office is "open concept" and it's too bad that they don't have cubicles in offices anymore.
As she's lining up, she tries not to think about what her colleague said to her, or what she thinks she should think about what her colleague said, because she should try not to think about work before she goes in to work. Maybe she could think about all the people ahead of her in the queue. She wonders if they enjoyed work.
Did she dream of growing up to work in an office? Being an executive executive?
No, she wanted to be a ballet dancer.
She was closest to becoming a ballet dancer when they were evaluating her options if her grades couldn't get her into any Junior College. She remembers her mother talking to her ballet teacher about the good ballet schools in Australia and how she could be recommended to gain entrance into one. But, she did get good enough grades to get herself into JC and eventually, to the local university where she got a degree in business administration.
She was sixteen then. Ten years after that, at twenty-six, she dreams of how happier she might be if she did worse in her O-levels, ten years ago.
As she's lining up, she tries not to think about what her colleague said to her, or what she thinks she should think about what her colleague said, because she should try not to think about work before she goes in to work. Maybe she could think about all the people ahead of her in the queue. She wonders if they enjoyed work.
Did she dream of growing up to work in an office? Being an executive executive?
No, she wanted to be a ballet dancer.
She was closest to becoming a ballet dancer when they were evaluating her options if her grades couldn't get her into any Junior College. She remembers her mother talking to her ballet teacher about the good ballet schools in Australia and how she could be recommended to gain entrance into one. But, she did get good enough grades to get herself into JC and eventually, to the local university where she got a degree in business administration.
She was sixteen then. Ten years after that, at twenty-six, she dreams of how happier she might be if she did worse in her O-levels, ten years ago.
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
I, its mealy bug
I bought a potted plant recently. It's a humble peperomia acuminata that cost me $2 - plastic pot inclusive. Enthusiastic about the new addition to my routine, I searched online for plant-caring tips.
They said that this plant (or some other plants I got mixed up with) tended to get infested by mealy bugs - which are little white cottony bugs that suck the life out of the plants. And that one's gotta go and scout them out and wipe them off with a cotton bud (the irony) soaked with rubbing alcohol. And that one has to go and repeat this over a few days because they might have laid eggs that would hatch later.
I switched on my book-light and poked around. Indeed, I spotted 2 of them.
For the past few days, I've been wondering if I should remove the bugs - to kill by spraying alcoholic perfume or wipe the plant with an alcoholic wet wipe - but killing's too cruel, so, perhaps I could snip off the leaves they're on (they're not fast bugs) and throw them in a park or on someone else's plants - so that they won't kill off my plant eventually. Yet, I can't reconcile that actually, the mealy bugs are quite just minding their own business, and playing out their part of the food chain, and look, really, it's not that big enough a deal to smite the mealy bugs for.
I mean, to the universe, what's the difference between a mealy bug and I? There're probably more similarities - perhaps, I don't work or eat or live on a leaf, but I work and eat and live in this time and space? Like, the world is my peperomia, and I, its mealy bug.
Well, I guess, I could adopt the bugs as pets.
(sneak.)
They said that this plant (or some other plants I got mixed up with) tended to get infested by mealy bugs - which are little white cottony bugs that suck the life out of the plants. And that one's gotta go and scout them out and wipe them off with a cotton bud (the irony) soaked with rubbing alcohol. And that one has to go and repeat this over a few days because they might have laid eggs that would hatch later.
I switched on my book-light and poked around. Indeed, I spotted 2 of them.
For the past few days, I've been wondering if I should remove the bugs - to kill by spraying alcoholic perfume or wipe the plant with an alcoholic wet wipe - but killing's too cruel, so, perhaps I could snip off the leaves they're on (they're not fast bugs) and throw them in a park or on someone else's plants - so that they won't kill off my plant eventually. Yet, I can't reconcile that actually, the mealy bugs are quite just minding their own business, and playing out their part of the food chain, and look, really, it's not that big enough a deal to smite the mealy bugs for.
I mean, to the universe, what's the difference between a mealy bug and I? There're probably more similarities - perhaps, I don't work or eat or live on a leaf, but I work and eat and live in this time and space? Like, the world is my peperomia, and I, its mealy bug.
Well, I guess, I could adopt the bugs as pets.
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
The "O. H. P."
When I was a child, I was very interested with overhead projectors. They were more commonly referred to as the "O. H. P."s.
Perhaps it was because OHPs cast such clean shadows against the pulled-down screens, or that the technology was so seemingly simple, but impressively versatile. Or how the mirror on top must always be kept so clean and perfect and that it could be lifted open by the neat little lever on the metal cap.
I also intensely liked the transparencies that teachers gave out during group discussions. I liked the sound they made when they were handled, and I liked how they (at least the new ones) were clean and flawless.
The special marker pens for the transparencies that could be erased with a water-wet-tissue were quite cool too. Too bad that the teachers usually handed out only one to each group and that they too easily ran out of ink and that the felt tips were also too easily blunted and soggy from use. I felt that the group with the classmates who whipped out their private set of those markers (all 4 colours - black, blue, green, and red) was lucky to have them.
One of my pastimes was to try to re-create all that at home - all that as in the transparencies, the projections, all that.
First, I would sneak clear plastic bags from my grandmother's kitchen. I had to sneak around, because if I were to be found out, I would be told not to waste good plastic bags that could be better put to proper and practical use, for example, to keep food. Then, I would carefully slice the bags open into plastic sheets (usually with a scissors, or a penknife if I were feeling brave), and I tried my best not to wrinkle them too much.
I would write on these flimsy plastic things with a permanent marker - which were usually much fatter and less elegant than the proper transparency markers. I had to be extra careful not to make any mistakes because I couldn't undo any with a water-wet-tissue.
Next, I held up these sheets in front of a hand-held torchlight shining into the cupboard under my elder brother's fiberboard study table that I emptied beforehand. In this way, I "projected" the materials onto the back of the cupboard. The cupboard was small and had a fake-beechwood kinda finish. The opened cupboard door helped to shield my things from some light and the eyes of potential curious or ridiculing adults.
Actually, the projections kinda sucked. They weren't clear at all. The plastic bags were flimsy and murky and not exactly transparent. The torchlight was not bright enough, or perhaps the room wasn't dark enough. It wasn't really worth the trouble.
I probably read from the plastic ex-bag to pretend that I was reading off the images on the back of the cupboard.
Still, I remember doing this quite often. Perhaps, it was to add fun to studying for spelling tests.
Perhaps it was because OHPs cast such clean shadows against the pulled-down screens, or that the technology was so seemingly simple, but impressively versatile. Or how the mirror on top must always be kept so clean and perfect and that it could be lifted open by the neat little lever on the metal cap.
I also intensely liked the transparencies that teachers gave out during group discussions. I liked the sound they made when they were handled, and I liked how they (at least the new ones) were clean and flawless.
The special marker pens for the transparencies that could be erased with a water-wet-tissue were quite cool too. Too bad that the teachers usually handed out only one to each group and that they too easily ran out of ink and that the felt tips were also too easily blunted and soggy from use. I felt that the group with the classmates who whipped out their private set of those markers (all 4 colours - black, blue, green, and red) was lucky to have them.
One of my pastimes was to try to re-create all that at home - all that as in the transparencies, the projections, all that.
First, I would sneak clear plastic bags from my grandmother's kitchen. I had to sneak around, because if I were to be found out, I would be told not to waste good plastic bags that could be better put to proper and practical use, for example, to keep food. Then, I would carefully slice the bags open into plastic sheets (usually with a scissors, or a penknife if I were feeling brave), and I tried my best not to wrinkle them too much.
I would write on these flimsy plastic things with a permanent marker - which were usually much fatter and less elegant than the proper transparency markers. I had to be extra careful not to make any mistakes because I couldn't undo any with a water-wet-tissue.
Next, I held up these sheets in front of a hand-held torchlight shining into the cupboard under my elder brother's fiberboard study table that I emptied beforehand. In this way, I "projected" the materials onto the back of the cupboard. The cupboard was small and had a fake-beechwood kinda finish. The opened cupboard door helped to shield my things from some light and the eyes of potential curious or ridiculing adults.
Actually, the projections kinda sucked. They weren't clear at all. The plastic bags were flimsy and murky and not exactly transparent. The torchlight was not bright enough, or perhaps the room wasn't dark enough. It wasn't really worth the trouble.
I probably read from the plastic ex-bag to pretend that I was reading off the images on the back of the cupboard.
Still, I remember doing this quite often. Perhaps, it was to add fun to studying for spelling tests.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Hong Kong Movie
They were watching a movie about gangster violence and drug trafficking. She was cringing and wringing in her seat. He noticed it and said,
"Haiyah, this is just a movie. Surely Hong Kong isn't so law-less? And even so, the scriptwriters wouldn't know the stories behind the drug dealers what? Unless these movies written by ex-cons, they must be quite fictional."
"Even if it isn't exactly common," she replied, "These crimes of violence are not entirely fictional - They really happen to real people in whatever corners of the world. And that's just hard unbearable to imagine already."
And he felt maligned.
"Haiyah, this is just a movie. Surely Hong Kong isn't so law-less? And even so, the scriptwriters wouldn't know the stories behind the drug dealers what? Unless these movies written by ex-cons, they must be quite fictional."
"Even if it isn't exactly common," she replied, "These crimes of violence are not entirely fictional - They really happen to real people in whatever corners of the world. And that's just hard unbearable to imagine already."
And he felt maligned.
Monday, 24 August 2009
The Bowler Hat
I imagined that the bowler hat, that I bought a few months ago, and wore even fewer times, spoke to me, and I imagined how surprised I felt, and then I realised that all these were imagined, and then I continued to imagine that the bowler hat said these to me,
"I would like to go to Japan in the Spring time and watch the sakuras bloom and wither for an entire month. It would be ideal, if I could also attend the awa odori and get drunk and join in the parade for a while. And if given the chance, I would also want to spend an entire week watching snow fall in a Shinto temple's garden, sometimes while listening to the tanukis' snore.
"But, seriously, what are the chances for a black bowler hat with lofty aspirations to go on a cultural tour of the Orient. For if I were you," with 'you' meaning me, "and I were to be lucky enough to go for these colourful gay cultural events, I, too, won't feel like bringing me along. I'd remind me too much of dreading work, of the working class, of Sisyphus, of the boring etcetera, etcetera. The colours won't even match, imagine the picture of a black bowler hat against the bright blue skies and delicate pinks and white? How inappropriate is the irony of a black bowler hat to enjoy the jolly drunken celebration of living for the reckless moment? It would jeopardise spoiling the good mood of the party.
"Sigh! Nowadays, it seems that one of the most esteemed qualities of a bowler hat is to be reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin, and to make light of the mundane etcetera, etcetera."
I wondered if the bowler hat would feel better if I tie something silly to its puggaree.
I had bought the bowler hat in celebration of Magritte's paintings.
"I would like to go to Japan in the Spring time and watch the sakuras bloom and wither for an entire month. It would be ideal, if I could also attend the awa odori and get drunk and join in the parade for a while. And if given the chance, I would also want to spend an entire week watching snow fall in a Shinto temple's garden, sometimes while listening to the tanukis' snore.
"But, seriously, what are the chances for a black bowler hat with lofty aspirations to go on a cultural tour of the Orient. For if I were you," with 'you' meaning me, "and I were to be lucky enough to go for these colourful gay cultural events, I, too, won't feel like bringing me along. I'd remind me too much of dreading work, of the working class, of Sisyphus, of the boring etcetera, etcetera. The colours won't even match, imagine the picture of a black bowler hat against the bright blue skies and delicate pinks and white? How inappropriate is the irony of a black bowler hat to enjoy the jolly drunken celebration of living for the reckless moment? It would jeopardise spoiling the good mood of the party.
"Sigh! Nowadays, it seems that one of the most esteemed qualities of a bowler hat is to be reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin, and to make light of the mundane etcetera, etcetera."
I wondered if the bowler hat would feel better if I tie something silly to its puggaree.
I had bought the bowler hat in celebration of Magritte's paintings.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
Jie Qi
I bought a clock today. The winning feature of the clock is that, even though battery operated, the second hand ticks softly, much like an automatic watch's second hand. There isn't the reproachful "tick-tock" cry of time passing reprimanding me on how I might never recover every split consciousness I do not spend on progressing towards my life's goals, and instead, for example, on listening to a clock. In this way, I think this clock seems less Confucian, and somehow, more compassionate.
It's hanging on my wall now, in front of me. It's round, with a silver frame, black hands, and a white face - it looks almost serious - except its carelessly unevenly set black arial numbers let on on how casual it really is.
What nice qualities for a clock to have - compassionate and casual.
To think I bought it for 5 dollars only. The brand is "JIE QI" and it's made in China. It shall also serve to remind that the value of time is not measured by the price of the timepiece telling it.
And if it should malfunction anytime too soon, as is reasonable to suspect of anything costing only a quarter of what similar products cost, I would melt it over an open flame or in a microwave.
(sneak.)
It's hanging on my wall now, in front of me. It's round, with a silver frame, black hands, and a white face - it looks almost serious - except its carelessly unevenly set black arial numbers let on on how casual it really is.
What nice qualities for a clock to have - compassionate and casual.
To think I bought it for 5 dollars only. The brand is "JIE QI" and it's made in China. It shall also serve to remind that the value of time is not measured by the price of the timepiece telling it.
And if it should malfunction anytime too soon, as is reasonable to suspect of anything costing only a quarter of what similar products cost, I would melt it over an open flame or in a microwave.
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
Flippers
One day, she woke up and found her ankles missing. Her feet merely stuck out at the end of her legs, like flippers.
At first she was worried thinking about how would she walk and how would she get to work and if she was going to get fired. Then she persuaded herself to be optimistic.
Sometime later, she eventually ended up as a circus act. She made a living by balancing a ball on her nose and pretending to be a seal.
At first she was worried thinking about how would she walk and how would she get to work and if she was going to get fired. Then she persuaded herself to be optimistic.
Sometime later, she eventually ended up as a circus act. She made a living by balancing a ball on her nose and pretending to be a seal.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
Hm.
Hm. He saw no moon in the sky.
Hm.
After some thought,
he remembered watching the moon wane over the past week.
He wondered if it had diminished
until it's not visible to the naked eye anymore.
Hm.
Red blinking lights - aeroplanes.
Hm. He wondered what it was like to be on a plane
and to be so awfully close to the stars.
Hm.
He couldn't imagine it.
Hm.
The wind herded the clouds South-wards.
Wait. South-wards?
Since when did the Northerly winds started to blow?
Hm.
The breeze persuaded
a little bit of swaying from the tree,
from which the bat flew away from,
and then,
returned.
His wings
fluttered
very softly.
Hm.
The rustling
of the leaves was soothing,
against the insects' songs
sung
night after night
after night.
Hm.
Come to think of it,
where do they hide themselves?
Hm.
Perhaps the songs do not come from insects at all,
but from the night itself.
Hm.
There were also the sounds from the television sets.
And cars, passing by.
Hm.
*
He closed his eyes to concentrate on what he heard,
and on what stirring of air he felt,
and on whether he might be sleepy enough to fall asleep.
Hm.
If he might be sleepy enough,
he would then retire to his kennel.
Hm.
Which was actually a modified iron cage.
Hm.
To wait for tomorrow to come.
Hm.
(sneak.)
Hm.
After some thought,
he remembered watching the moon wane over the past week.
He wondered if it had diminished
until it's not visible to the naked eye anymore.
Hm.
Red blinking lights - aeroplanes.
Hm. He wondered what it was like to be on a plane
and to be so awfully close to the stars.
Hm.
He couldn't imagine it.
Hm.
The wind herded the clouds South-wards.
Wait. South-wards?
Since when did the Northerly winds started to blow?
Hm.
The breeze persuaded
a little bit of swaying from the tree,
from which the bat flew away from,
and then,
returned.
His wings
fluttered
very softly.
Hm.
The rustling
of the leaves was soothing,
against the insects' songs
sung
night after night
after night.
Hm.
Come to think of it,
where do they hide themselves?
Hm.
Perhaps the songs do not come from insects at all,
but from the night itself.
Hm.
There were also the sounds from the television sets.
And cars, passing by.
Hm.
*
He closed his eyes to concentrate on what he heard,
and on what stirring of air he felt,
and on whether he might be sleepy enough to fall asleep.
Hm.
If he might be sleepy enough,
he would then retire to his kennel.
Hm.
Which was actually a modified iron cage.
Hm.
To wait for tomorrow to come.
Hm.
(sneak.)
Saturday, 15 August 2009
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Funnel
I dreamt I was in a forest, with the air chilly and still. It was just past sunset, so the forest was getting ready to sleep. Birds flew home hastily.
Then a sheep appeared from nowhere. He was big and humanoid in the way that he walked on his two hind legs. His wool was unshaven for a long time, and it was filthy. At first sight, he looked like a bear or a wolf or just some menacing figure. At sight, I was startled and fell over.
He walked towards me and reached towards my hand. Recognising that he was a sheep, and thus stereotypically harmless, I thought he was going to help me up. Instead, he grabbed me by my wrist roughly, and easily overpowered me, and tied my wrists together with a rope that was seemingly made from his wool. It was also rough and cut into my skin. Then, he tied my ankles together.
I laid on my back on the forest floor. He squatted next to my head and held it down by pressing on my forehead with one hoof. With another, he held out a funnel, and stuffed the narrow end into my mouth. I was frightened stiff and forgot to gag.
He then took out a book or a dictionary of some magical sort, from which he poured into the funnel and stuffed something into my mouth. When they started overflowing from the overwhelmed funnel, I saw what they were - words - black strings of letters put together - and they were alive - like fat maggots - which was a bad thing to notice because then I started to I feel them squirm and crawl in my mouth, on my tongue, and down my throat.
Then out of nowhere as well, I suddenly realised it could have been worse - he could have poured glass, or knives, or debit notes, or sins into my mouth. I think they would have been ripping my mouth into bits - since words crawled and squirmed. Sure, it could have been better, but chances are, in a nightmare like this, it would have been worse.
With that somewhat-reconciliation, I drifted away from the dream and went back to sleep.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Watch out!
There was a girl who was sitting on the toilet bowl one day and she shitted what she initially thought was shit. Then, before she flushed it away, something caught her eye - something that moved in the water. So she pulled her face closer to look.
Floating near the surface of the water, was a little brown hemisphere of something, and from it, fine ribbons hung - a little bit translucent, a little bit murky brown... it was a little brownish jellyfish...
In her mind, she immediately thought of all the marvellous things, wow, the news, the sensation, the fanfare about how she's the miraculous girl who gave birth to a jellyfish. (Through her anus.) Oh how the scientists would have a field day, it might hold the antidote to some strange illness. She had pretty healthy bowels, maybe the jelly fish kept it healthy, maybe it holds the antidote to cancer! Oh no, now that she's shitted it out would she be unhealthy from now? Nah, it'd be okay, it's for mankind, she'd save the world! Watch out, Illness! and Pre-mature Death-due-to-colon-cancer! (It should at least help cure colon cancer.) Here comes the shit jellyfish!
In her frenzy, her body, however, reacted quite differently. Her pupils dilated, and her heart beat faster, and her mouth opened and uncontrollably let out her voice that screamed, "MY SHIT IS ALIVE!" which triggered her arm to uncontrollably reach towards the flush handle which she flushed.
As she watched the jellyfish spiral in the toilet bowl uzumaki (whirlpool), she felt the flush from her face flushed away with her hopes for fame. She stood. Stunned. For a while. It was only until the water in the water tank stopped trickling and the water surface in the towel bowl stopped vibrating altogether then she came to her senses enough to wonder - hey, did I really just see a shit jellyfish in the toilet bowl, or not? and even if I did, did I really shit it out or not? Unless I should ever shit out another jellyfish, I would never know. And even if I shit out another jellyfish, how would I know that I did shit one before, and it was not due to how my mind was set on shitting out a jellyfish?
Confused, perturbed, and in an uncomfortable daze, she went out of the toilet and forgot to wash her hands.
(sneak.)
Floating near the surface of the water, was a little brown hemisphere of something, and from it, fine ribbons hung - a little bit translucent, a little bit murky brown... it was a little brownish jellyfish...
In her mind, she immediately thought of all the marvellous things, wow, the news, the sensation, the fanfare about how she's the miraculous girl who gave birth to a jellyfish. (Through her anus.) Oh how the scientists would have a field day, it might hold the antidote to some strange illness. She had pretty healthy bowels, maybe the jelly fish kept it healthy, maybe it holds the antidote to cancer! Oh no, now that she's shitted it out would she be unhealthy from now? Nah, it'd be okay, it's for mankind, she'd save the world! Watch out, Illness! and Pre-mature Death-due-to-colon-cancer! (It should at least help cure colon cancer.) Here comes the shit jellyfish!
In her frenzy, her body, however, reacted quite differently. Her pupils dilated, and her heart beat faster, and her mouth opened and uncontrollably let out her voice that screamed, "MY SHIT IS ALIVE!" which triggered her arm to uncontrollably reach towards the flush handle which she flushed.
As she watched the jellyfish spiral in the toilet bowl uzumaki (whirlpool), she felt the flush from her face flushed away with her hopes for fame. She stood. Stunned. For a while. It was only until the water in the water tank stopped trickling and the water surface in the towel bowl stopped vibrating altogether then she came to her senses enough to wonder - hey, did I really just see a shit jellyfish in the toilet bowl, or not? and even if I did, did I really shit it out or not? Unless I should ever shit out another jellyfish, I would never know. And even if I shit out another jellyfish, how would I know that I did shit one before, and it was not due to how my mind was set on shitting out a jellyfish?
Confused, perturbed, and in an uncomfortable daze, she went out of the toilet and forgot to wash her hands.
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
Sometimes, life is like that.
Every now and then, when I come home at night, in the window in my room, I would see an old man. He usually sits on a green chair, in front of a green wooden door, surrounded by beautiful blue hydrangeas. He usually has one leg over the other, with his left arm on his lap, like he was waiting for me, with his right hand raised to say hello and a casual "hello" kind-of expression on his face.
Hello, old man. Good to see you again. I would sometimes say. But he never says anything back. And he fades away.
I didn't know him before he died. Those who did would often sing his praises and say he was funny and describe a couple of his odd habits. I always feel an affinity towards him, although I can't quite put a finger to it, but I suppose that's why he appears at my window anyway.
Perhaps anybody who have heard about him from anybody who knew him would feel an affinity towards him. Perhaps, he's just that kind of personality. I wonder if I'd like to be somebody like that - interesting, funny, clever, probably, and likeable - but I think a lot of these traits are inborn.
I suppose, sometimes, life is like that. What they may sometimes call "unfair"... which by the way, is a concept created by whom? Life is never fair, what. From the moment of birth, one may be funny or not, or a boy or a girl, or Asian or African... to the moment of death... by cancer, by premature birth, by tumbling down the stairs... since when was life ever fair?
If the old man would ever speak, maybe this could be something that I would seek his opinion on.
Until then, I'd just leave it as - sometimes, life is like that.
(sneak.)
Hello, old man. Good to see you again. I would sometimes say. But he never says anything back. And he fades away.
I didn't know him before he died. Those who did would often sing his praises and say he was funny and describe a couple of his odd habits. I always feel an affinity towards him, although I can't quite put a finger to it, but I suppose that's why he appears at my window anyway.
Perhaps anybody who have heard about him from anybody who knew him would feel an affinity towards him. Perhaps, he's just that kind of personality. I wonder if I'd like to be somebody like that - interesting, funny, clever, probably, and likeable - but I think a lot of these traits are inborn.
I suppose, sometimes, life is like that. What they may sometimes call "unfair"... which by the way, is a concept created by whom? Life is never fair, what. From the moment of birth, one may be funny or not, or a boy or a girl, or Asian or African... to the moment of death... by cancer, by premature birth, by tumbling down the stairs... since when was life ever fair?
If the old man would ever speak, maybe this could be something that I would seek his opinion on.
Until then, I'd just leave it as - sometimes, life is like that.
(sneak.)
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Self-awareness
I accidentally trespassed some red ants' territory on Saturday. Now, I have ant bites on my right second littlest toe. I've tried, but I can't count how many distinct bites there are. I also don't know how many distinct ants bit on it, because I must have brushed them off too quickly. It's very itchy. I scrunch my toes on the carpet or rough ground every chance I get just to scratch it every chance I get.
There are certain parts of the body where one could get the most irritating itchy insect bites. They are:
Also, should one ever find oneself in a mosquito infested place, with only a little bit of insect repellent, one might know better where to apply it.
There are certain parts of the body where one could get the most irritating itchy insect bites. They are:
- On a toe,
- On a sole,
- Behind a knee,
- On a private part,
- On any part of the body beneath the elastic band of one's underwear, especially at the pelvis,
- On or around a nipple,
- At an armpit,
- On an elbow,
- On a palm,
- On a finger,
- On or near a knuckle,
- On a ear (front and back),
- On and inside a nose, and
- On an eyelid.
Also, should one ever find oneself in a mosquito infested place, with only a little bit of insect repellent, one might know better where to apply it.
想你19
昨晚，在我回家的路上, 天下起雨来。
我停下脚步, 站在路灯下, 往上望。
被照亮的雨滴，从黑夜空中 莫名其妙 地掉了下来。
我的脸 感到了雨的冷 也感到了世界的奇妙。
你说 你那里 下雪了。
雪 的感觉会很不一样吗？
我停下脚步, 站在路灯下, 往上望。
被照亮的雨滴，从黑夜空中 莫名其妙 地掉了下来。
我的脸 感到了雨的冷 也感到了世界的奇妙。
你说 你那里 下雪了。
雪 的感觉会很不一样吗？
Friday, 24 July 2009
Sunday, 19 July 2009
The Song of the Cradled
There was a people who was poor and lived in drastic and harsh conditions. They lived in the high mountains where food was scarce and not tasty and it was cold. They don't think and invent tools to improve their lives because they don't have enough to eat and don't have enough energy to think. These people quite often gave birth to stillborns since marriages were usually between very close relatives. In fact, their children were weak and they often died before maturity.
After their passing, the dead body would be washed and cleaned and wrapped up in some hide or cloth. The parents, or if not, only the mother, would usually cradle the dead child and sing a song. This was known as "The Song of the Cradled". The song was about being born into this world and the harshness of the land and the beauty of the love that the child has never got to experience, and how fortunate it was to die young and having not to suffer hunger any more, and about how the living had to suffer their ill-fate for not being dead yet. When it should come to be their turn to die, they would not be held by their parents, but only be cradled by the merciless chill of the mountains... and they bade their goodbyes.
After the song was sung, the parents would cut the head off the carcass and de-gut the body. They, and whoever at the ceremony, would then eat the flesh of dead child.
After their passing, the dead body would be washed and cleaned and wrapped up in some hide or cloth. The parents, or if not, only the mother, would usually cradle the dead child and sing a song. This was known as "The Song of the Cradled". The song was about being born into this world and the harshness of the land and the beauty of the love that the child has never got to experience, and how fortunate it was to die young and having not to suffer hunger any more, and about how the living had to suffer their ill-fate for not being dead yet. When it should come to be their turn to die, they would not be held by their parents, but only be cradled by the merciless chill of the mountains... and they bade their goodbyes.
After the song was sung, the parents would cut the head off the carcass and de-gut the body. They, and whoever at the ceremony, would then eat the flesh of dead child.
Thursday, 16 July 2009
I overheard the cats...
I overheard that night, when the cats downstairs and below my window were talking about how there's a kind of crazy cat doctor. I don't know how it works and where these cats came from and why I understood what they were gossiping about I don't know. But they talked and I overheard about how there's a kind of crazy cat doctor from their kind of crazy cat world where they came from. The crazy cat doctor was a kind of cosmetic surgeon who was basically going around trying to multilate other cats. He was cutting off tails and ears and don't know what parts off cats and then transplanting them onto other cats.
What? The other one of the cats exclaimed. no, it was more like, WHAT? (In a way you must imagine a crazy cat would say it in.)
So the first cat went on and on about how those stranger than strange cats that would go and visit this doctor would all be granted these deviant secret wishes, to have 2 tails, to have 4 ears, to have 11 tits and all that. But the real question was, is, was, is? (They weren't particular about grammar and tenses.) Where did all these extra body parts came from?
Some rumours said it was from dead cats who recently died. Some said it was from like orphans that the mothers sold. Some said it was most likely from those cats who didn't speak and were normal and didn't have higher cognitive abilities... that would have been the most humane. like, dummy cats, farmed for this very purpose.
But the truth is, was, is, was, and I know because I know someone who knows someone who went to get an extra leg (apparently so that she could scratch herself better) and saw the doctor for herself, that it was done by some kind of blue magic, or black magic, or the ancient magic of the moon. You could ask for any body parts except for the eyes. There could be no mention of eyes. Because the doctor himself also has no eyes.
You see, the doctor was a subject of mutilation by some powerful magician - probably a human being who owned him as a pet or something - who gouged the eyes out of him and transplanted his testicles into his eye sockets. Makes sense, because only they could be bothered to do something like that. Then apparently, something strange must have snapped and happened such that not only could the doctor still see very well, he had a magical power for things like that.
If you ask me, I would say that the cat doctor probably was a powerful magician to begin with. And he might could might have performed the strange transplantation himself, because of some ancient magic or something, because it's really unlikely that any human being would have known better than his cat. The testicles thing must have only boosted his initial prowess exponentially.
And they went on to talk a little about the degenerate state of their cat-kind before they went away and I couldn't overhear them any more.
(sneak.)
What? The other one of the cats exclaimed. no, it was more like, WHAT? (In a way you must imagine a crazy cat would say it in.)
So the first cat went on and on about how those stranger than strange cats that would go and visit this doctor would all be granted these deviant secret wishes, to have 2 tails, to have 4 ears, to have 11 tits and all that. But the real question was, is, was, is? (They weren't particular about grammar and tenses.) Where did all these extra body parts came from?
Some rumours said it was from dead cats who recently died. Some said it was from like orphans that the mothers sold. Some said it was most likely from those cats who didn't speak and were normal and didn't have higher cognitive abilities... that would have been the most humane. like, dummy cats, farmed for this very purpose.
But the truth is, was, is, was, and I know because I know someone who knows someone who went to get an extra leg (apparently so that she could scratch herself better) and saw the doctor for herself, that it was done by some kind of blue magic, or black magic, or the ancient magic of the moon. You could ask for any body parts except for the eyes. There could be no mention of eyes. Because the doctor himself also has no eyes.
You see, the doctor was a subject of mutilation by some powerful magician - probably a human being who owned him as a pet or something - who gouged the eyes out of him and transplanted his testicles into his eye sockets. Makes sense, because only they could be bothered to do something like that. Then apparently, something strange must have snapped and happened such that not only could the doctor still see very well, he had a magical power for things like that.
If you ask me, I would say that the cat doctor probably was a powerful magician to begin with. And he might could might have performed the strange transplantation himself, because of some ancient magic or something, because it's really unlikely that any human being would have known better than his cat. The testicles thing must have only boosted his initial prowess exponentially.
And they went on to talk a little about the degenerate state of their cat-kind before they went away and I couldn't overhear them any more.
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Relieve
There was once a girl who was at a meeting when she suddenly felt a big piece of snot falling apart from the roof of her nostrils. She found it hard to concentrate on what was discussed because the loose piece of snot flapped with her every out-breath and threatened to drop out of her nose.
It was a big one. It was a potentially gooey one as well - the hybrid kind of snot with the dry end and the gooey wet tail...
She really ought to excuse herself and go to the toilet and get it out before embarrassing herself - but being a junior executive, she was uncomfortable with having to get out of her chair in the middle of senior management's discussion and to possibly disrupt anyone by going across the room and opening and closing the big and heavy door.
Thus, she decided to take a deep breath - and to suck in the snot.
It was a big mistake. She sucked too hard, and it got pulled back too far into her nose and that was so uncomfortable that she wanted to dig it back out, but she still wanted to keep a low profile, so she struggled a bit and kept quiet. In a desperate fit, she thought to take another quick and hard breath to suck it further back in so that she could swallow it.
It was an even bigger mistake. She was right that the snot was sticky at one end, and it was stuck somewhere. She felt like gagging and wanted to cough, but again, she was shy and reluctant to attracting attention to herself, so she held it in and kept quiet, and she was did such a good job until she silently choked and died.
Soon after her death, they noticed her anyway because she relaxed and released her bowels.
(sneak.)
It was a big one. It was a potentially gooey one as well - the hybrid kind of snot with the dry end and the gooey wet tail...
She really ought to excuse herself and go to the toilet and get it out before embarrassing herself - but being a junior executive, she was uncomfortable with having to get out of her chair in the middle of senior management's discussion and to possibly disrupt anyone by going across the room and opening and closing the big and heavy door.
Thus, she decided to take a deep breath - and to suck in the snot.
It was a big mistake. She sucked too hard, and it got pulled back too far into her nose and that was so uncomfortable that she wanted to dig it back out, but she still wanted to keep a low profile, so she struggled a bit and kept quiet. In a desperate fit, she thought to take another quick and hard breath to suck it further back in so that she could swallow it.
It was an even bigger mistake. She was right that the snot was sticky at one end, and it was stuck somewhere. She felt like gagging and wanted to cough, but again, she was shy and reluctant to attracting attention to herself, so she held it in and kept quiet, and she was did such a good job until she silently choked and died.
Soon after her death, they noticed her anyway because she relaxed and released her bowels.
(sneak.)
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Withholder
There was once a girl who was particularly adept at withholding her breath so much so that she fooled everybody into believing that she was dead. They held her wake and funeral and everything. She thought it was funny and marvellous that she should be able to pull off such a feat - until the sombre timbre of the resonance of her self-amusement startled her to realise that she was alone in a coffin buried five and a half feet underground.
So, she decided to crawl her way out of her grave.
After much effort and might, she managed to gasp a breath of fresh cool graveyard air.
After getting over congratulating herself on how capable she was, she thought of what to do next. She imagined that she would go home and scare the living wits out of the people who buried her, and have a good laugh. They might send her for counselling to find out what psychopathic condition might have induced such a funny behaviour before failing to diagnose her with anything specific. Then she'd be sent to school. If she's lucky, the kids at school might find her cool. Otherwise, she'd be ostracised - no big deal - because in a few years, she'd be out to work. Then she'd work - wake up earlier than she did for school - and get home later - she'd wear high heels or sandals and wrinkle-free office clothes. Then, she might start a family with somebody. Then, she might have some children - who might grow up - and start their own families. And by then, she'd realise how old she'd have grown - and then, she'd die of some terminal illness - then, they'd cremate her.
She looked up at the sky and forgot about the blood that was flowing from her nail-less fingers for a moment. Some of the stars shone clearly from behind the scattering of orangey clouds. The moon was new. There was the smell of some random flowers and other things from the offerings to a grave nearby. She thought briefly about looking for something to eat but decided that it would only be too troublesome.
She prayed silently and sincerely for peace to prevail and for all beings to relax and to eventually find salvation from suffering. Then, she anyhow re-buried herself before she suffocated.
So, she decided to crawl her way out of her grave.
After much effort and might, she managed to gasp a breath of fresh cool graveyard air.
After getting over congratulating herself on how capable she was, she thought of what to do next. She imagined that she would go home and scare the living wits out of the people who buried her, and have a good laugh. They might send her for counselling to find out what psychopathic condition might have induced such a funny behaviour before failing to diagnose her with anything specific. Then she'd be sent to school. If she's lucky, the kids at school might find her cool. Otherwise, she'd be ostracised - no big deal - because in a few years, she'd be out to work. Then she'd work - wake up earlier than she did for school - and get home later - she'd wear high heels or sandals and wrinkle-free office clothes. Then, she might start a family with somebody. Then, she might have some children - who might grow up - and start their own families. And by then, she'd realise how old she'd have grown - and then, she'd die of some terminal illness - then, they'd cremate her.
She looked up at the sky and forgot about the blood that was flowing from her nail-less fingers for a moment. Some of the stars shone clearly from behind the scattering of orangey clouds. The moon was new. There was the smell of some random flowers and other things from the offerings to a grave nearby. She thought briefly about looking for something to eat but decided that it would only be too troublesome.
She prayed silently and sincerely for peace to prevail and for all beings to relax and to eventually find salvation from suffering. Then, she anyhow re-buried herself before she suffocated.
Monday, 29 June 2009
Would write
I remember her telling me about how she was feeling depressed and out of hope for life and tomorrow. When I suggested that perhaps writing could help to make her feel better, she said to me, "how can I bring myself to write about anything when all I want to do is to end my life?"
"Don't you have things to do? Things that you want to do and have not yet have the chance to do? Start a family? Go to Europe? Write a play?" I asked.
"Sure, I'll want to do them if I were alive, but if I die, I won't have to do any of them. Don't you get it?"
Even though I pretended not to get it, I did. I saw how her logic worked. I empathised with her and it scared me.
She told everyone that she was going to Europe, but she actually sealed herself into her cupboard, that she sealed inside her room - so that the smell of her rotting flesh wouldn't easily escape. In the cupboard, there were drawers, which was modified by her handiwork to become a planter which contained soil. In the soil, there were seeds of different kinds buried, the most absurd of which was a lotus seed. And she must have sat on top of the soil. She killed herself by blood letting. When they had discovered that she was gone, she was gone, there were traces of blood and other liquids and bits of her bones, but most of it had disintegrated into the earth. There was a little ikea light fixed in the cupboard, perhaps to help the seeds germinate, perhaps to let her write. The ikea lamp was kept on for quite some time because she had made giro arrangements for her utility bill payment and left enough money in the bank for that. Amongst the things she wrote, in a little blue notebook, as she was dying in the cupboard, she wrote this,
She was wearing shorts and tee-shirt, and bra and panties, and her specs. She was 32.
(sneak.)
"Don't you have things to do? Things that you want to do and have not yet have the chance to do? Start a family? Go to Europe? Write a play?" I asked.
"Sure, I'll want to do them if I were alive, but if I die, I won't have to do any of them. Don't you get it?"
Even though I pretended not to get it, I did. I saw how her logic worked. I empathised with her and it scared me.
She told everyone that she was going to Europe, but she actually sealed herself into her cupboard, that she sealed inside her room - so that the smell of her rotting flesh wouldn't easily escape. In the cupboard, there were drawers, which was modified by her handiwork to become a planter which contained soil. In the soil, there were seeds of different kinds buried, the most absurd of which was a lotus seed. And she must have sat on top of the soil. She killed herself by blood letting. When they had discovered that she was gone, she was gone, there were traces of blood and other liquids and bits of her bones, but most of it had disintegrated into the earth. There was a little ikea light fixed in the cupboard, perhaps to help the seeds germinate, perhaps to let her write. The ikea lamp was kept on for quite some time because she had made giro arrangements for her utility bill payment and left enough money in the bank for that. Amongst the things she wrote, in a little blue notebook, as she was dying in the cupboard, she wrote this,
"...my greatest regret is not having brought a watch along. Not because I want to know how many days passed, but only to be even more conscious of how time is passing by slowly. Perhaps, the gold casio watch that somebody gave me - if it were digital and without the ticking - that would drive me crazy - it would be perfect. Or perhaps I could live with - no, die with - the ticking.
She had suggested that I could try writing to make myself feel better.
I remember once I was writing under the blue sky. The sky was so fine and brilliantly blue, that my white paper was blue in colour. The gentle breeze, the sound of the trees swaying... the blue sky was so blue... I remember the yellow curtains I had when I was very young. The curtains were very thin, and the blue sky would come through. On Sunday mornings when I woke myself up to watch cartoons, I would spend some lazy time to watch how the blueness of the sky shone through and complemented the pale yellow curtains so well.
Writing does make me feel better. If nothing else I'm leaving behind finds her, please let at least this find her - that she was right, and I was wrong. Writing does make me feel better.
I can't imagine if I didn't have paper and pen to write with now - how else could I make myself sit still here and wait for myself to die?..."
She was wearing shorts and tee-shirt, and bra and panties, and her specs. She was 32.
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
The Racoon
There was once a raccoon who rode a Harley Davidson bike. He wore chunky Harley Davidson biker boots and black Harley Davidson biker tee-shirts. He liked the way it matched his tail and dark eye circles.
One day, he got in an accident while riding his bike, his almost last thought was, "What the fuck?" Then, he thought, "Well, after all, it's a befitting way to die for a biker to die on the bike... like for a samurai to die in war. What more could I ask for?"
With that he muttered, "ah fuck it" and closed his eyes and let go of his life and passed away in a simple way shortly after.
One day, he got in an accident while riding his bike, his almost last thought was, "What the fuck?" Then, he thought, "Well, after all, it's a befitting way to die for a biker to die on the bike... like for a samurai to die in war. What more could I ask for?"
With that he muttered, "ah fuck it" and closed his eyes and let go of his life and passed away in a simple way shortly after.
The Case against Marble Cakes
"There's one problem with marble cakes.
Okay, two. Two problems.
Firstly, if you have two marble cakes, and you eat some slices of each, then because of the swirls on the cake that don't match, you can't join the remaining slices together and pretend that you have one brand new cake, which would give the impression that the leftovers may not be really leftovers, which is generally a good impression for leftover cakes to give.
Secondly, as in the second problem, marble cakes are just not as popular as chocolate cakes."
Okay, two. Two problems.
Firstly, if you have two marble cakes, and you eat some slices of each, then because of the swirls on the cake that don't match, you can't join the remaining slices together and pretend that you have one brand new cake, which would give the impression that the leftovers may not be really leftovers, which is generally a good impression for leftover cakes to give.
Secondly, as in the second problem, marble cakes are just not as popular as chocolate cakes."
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
The Golden Beetle
My mind smashes around like the golden beetle who is confused by the fluorescent lights whose dashing allure promised and baited it to enter into a room, a house, a building, a world that is cold and foreign and that it just can't seem to get out of - but surely there is a way! a way to defend its dreams its ideal its will to live! It must beat its wings as hard as it can as hard as it can and it tries to go a little crazy i fly towards the outside, but i slam against the window it's closed i don't know it's the window perhaps I should gain more speed, perhaps these walls are like the shadows of a dense tree, if I just zoom into it, it will give way it will give way so i ram myself against the wall but i fall i fall I fall on my back and never mind it's okay I will struggle to flip myself back i will not give up i don't know what it is to give up, i have landed on my back before, when I was young, and I can flip myself around then I will try again and I will take a deep breath and I will fly I will fly and beat my wings so hard and so fast and I will burst through the wall and that sense of triumph will surely make this all worth while I will go i will go i will go and tell this story to my wife my kids or the girl that I love or my father and he'd be proud of me and wish that he was the one who was telling me this story instead and it'll be worth while for that moment of glorious glory to see the look on their faces and so I go I go I go I go! but I fall I fall I fall I fall.
What's that i feel? is it pain? i did not fold my wings properly. did I injure myself? did i injure my wing? did I hurt my head? what's this heaviness I feel coming over me? I am tired it is late I am sleepy the corner here is comfortable and quite familiar I will rest for a while and soon I will forget what was life before because I am after all just a beetle - how much do you expect me to be able to remember? Was I born here? Soon I will believe I was born here. Soon, I will forget what I remember. What do I remember? I was born here. I not know despair.
What's that i feel? is it pain? i did not fold my wings properly. did I injure myself? did i injure my wing? did I hurt my head? what's this heaviness I feel coming over me? I am tired it is late I am sleepy the corner here is comfortable and quite familiar I will rest for a while and soon I will forget what was life before because I am after all just a beetle - how much do you expect me to be able to remember? Was I born here? Soon I will believe I was born here. Soon, I will forget what I remember. What do I remember? I was born here. I not know despair.
Saturday, 23 May 2009
Little dog chasing his own tail
There was a little dog who was chasing his own tail - around and around in circles, he went.
A kind dog came by and saw and shook her head and thought, poor little dog, he is so busy chasing his tail that he has no chance to think about what he was doing. I remember, when I was a puppy, I was like that too.
A merciful dog came by and saw and shook her head and shouted, "Hey little dog, stop for a moment and think about what you're doing and if it is worth your while at all!" This distracted the little dog who stopped to see who was talking to him, he cocked his head to one side and looked like he was thinking, but he actually just wanted to scratch his balls, which he did, before chasing his tail again.
A third dog, who was lazing in a corner, amusing herself watching the little dog amuse himself, snorted a snort and thought, the very reason why the little dog is chasing his tail, is that he cannot think - that he doesn't have the cognitive ability to consider his actions - in the first place.
A kind dog came by and saw and shook her head and thought, poor little dog, he is so busy chasing his tail that he has no chance to think about what he was doing. I remember, when I was a puppy, I was like that too.
A merciful dog came by and saw and shook her head and shouted, "Hey little dog, stop for a moment and think about what you're doing and if it is worth your while at all!" This distracted the little dog who stopped to see who was talking to him, he cocked his head to one side and looked like he was thinking, but he actually just wanted to scratch his balls, which he did, before chasing his tail again.
A third dog, who was lazing in a corner, amusing herself watching the little dog amuse himself, snorted a snort and thought, the very reason why the little dog is chasing his tail, is that he cannot think - that he doesn't have the cognitive ability to consider his actions - in the first place.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
Emotional Blackmail
There was a woman who emotionally blackmailed a man into having sex with her. After a few times, she was impregnated, and she emotionally blackmailed him into letting her keep the baby and to move in with her. When she was a few months from the due-delivery of her baby, she emotionally blackmailed the man into marrying her. Of course, all along the way, she would constantly emotionally blackmail the man to get her way in every little way.
When the baby was born, it turned out that he was a little monster.
He had six limbs and an upside down face - his eyes were nearest to his neck and his mouth nearer the top of his bald head that was made of blueberry cheese cake - as was the rest of his body - and to match, he was covered in blueberry jam and a fine film of water - like condensation from being taken out of refrigeration too long ago - except that the water was probably salty and more like the perspiration of a fat labourer at the end of the day - which was not how he smelled like, though - He smelled like clean rotten durian yogurt mixed in with a little of how babies' shit would smell like. He had claws like that of a parrot's instead of hands and fingers. He had a tail like that of a rat's. And he had a piece of steamed yam for his little stick of a dick.
When he came out of his mother, the delivery nurse screamed and cried and felt so guilty for dropping the baby that she jumped out of the window - they were at the 23rd storey of the building - and died from the fall.
The little monster stretched a little and yawned and danced a sneaky dance to his mother's side - it was a miracle because he could walk and knew his way about - and strangled her with the umbilical cord - still attached to the womb.
(sneak.)
When the baby was born, it turned out that he was a little monster.
He had six limbs and an upside down face - his eyes were nearest to his neck and his mouth nearer the top of his bald head that was made of blueberry cheese cake - as was the rest of his body - and to match, he was covered in blueberry jam and a fine film of water - like condensation from being taken out of refrigeration too long ago - except that the water was probably salty and more like the perspiration of a fat labourer at the end of the day - which was not how he smelled like, though - He smelled like clean rotten durian yogurt mixed in with a little of how babies' shit would smell like. He had claws like that of a parrot's instead of hands and fingers. He had a tail like that of a rat's. And he had a piece of steamed yam for his little stick of a dick.
When he came out of his mother, the delivery nurse screamed and cried and felt so guilty for dropping the baby that she jumped out of the window - they were at the 23rd storey of the building - and died from the fall.
The little monster stretched a little and yawned and danced a sneaky dance to his mother's side - it was a miracle because he could walk and knew his way about - and strangled her with the umbilical cord - still attached to the womb.
(sneak.)
The Overworked Girl
There was a girl who graduated from somewhere on a bad economic year, so she had to take up a job offer which wasn't that great and had long hours, and she had to appreciate it.
So, she worked and worked, and gradually her hand and her legs and her lower back and her shoulders started aching. At first, she didn't think of much, perhaps it was just having to accustom to the long hours of computer usage. Then she wondered if it was carpal tunnel syndrome or something. Then she saw in the news that some other overworking girl died overworking, so on the third day of consecutive late nights at work, after she threw up in the office because of, she concluded, her disrupted circadian rhythm, she decided to quit her job. After all, come to think of it, it wasn't like her family was dependent on her income to sustain the livelihood at all. With the savings she saved up from the past year of over-working, she decided to go to the doctors to fix her ailments.
The doctor tested her blood, and found a large amount of aluminium in her blood, which was unusual, since aluminium wasn't usually found in the blood. From the x-rays in her arm and ailing physical parts, they found blood clots, and decided that it was bad blood circulation.
Until one day, she "accidentally" slit her wrists and was sent to the hospital, they found out that the accumulation at her ailing portions was not due to bad blood circulation but that aluminium was coating her veins a bit, and she was actually transforming into a machine. The transformation was permanent and it was irreversible. The doctors recommended her to this underground workshop, should she require any servicing. From their personal experiences, this particular workshop's servicing was reasonably priced and the repair crew was knowledgeable - as they figured out how the machinery works from their own personal experiences. They used to be biochemists.
So, she worked and worked, and gradually her hand and her legs and her lower back and her shoulders started aching. At first, she didn't think of much, perhaps it was just having to accustom to the long hours of computer usage. Then she wondered if it was carpal tunnel syndrome or something. Then she saw in the news that some other overworking girl died overworking, so on the third day of consecutive late nights at work, after she threw up in the office because of, she concluded, her disrupted circadian rhythm, she decided to quit her job. After all, come to think of it, it wasn't like her family was dependent on her income to sustain the livelihood at all. With the savings she saved up from the past year of over-working, she decided to go to the doctors to fix her ailments.
The doctor tested her blood, and found a large amount of aluminium in her blood, which was unusual, since aluminium wasn't usually found in the blood. From the x-rays in her arm and ailing physical parts, they found blood clots, and decided that it was bad blood circulation.
Until one day, she "accidentally" slit her wrists and was sent to the hospital, they found out that the accumulation at her ailing portions was not due to bad blood circulation but that aluminium was coating her veins a bit, and she was actually transforming into a machine. The transformation was permanent and it was irreversible. The doctors recommended her to this underground workshop, should she require any servicing. From their personal experiences, this particular workshop's servicing was reasonably priced and the repair crew was knowledgeable - as they figured out how the machinery works from their own personal experiences. They used to be biochemists.
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Grandmother (4)
外婆说， 当我们遇到挫折的时候，我们不可以说: "惨了!" 或者 "死了!" 之类不吉利的话.
因为这些话会衰.
如果有需要, 应该说:"发了!" 或者 "恭喜了!" 之类 的吉利话.
因为这些话会衰.
如果有需要, 应该说:"发了!" 或者 "恭喜了!" 之类 的吉利话.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
HR
Once upon a time, a long long time ago, companies used to believed that "HR" stood for Human Relationships. They didn't see their employees as merely a resource that is quantifiable, and measurable, or dispensable, or "anyhow sell them a career proposition and make them work for as long as possible-able".
Then one day, some smart ass HR consultancy firm, in order to make their solutions and business scalable, decided to tell everyone that treating employees as merely as resources and impersonal- is the "in" thing in the market ("everyone's doing it!"). In order to build up their credibility, they named themselves after some quack guy from the USA, who was a friend of a friend who was a PHD, who allowed them to use the name for a price and some fame. And they made their reports rather expensive. And they treated their reports and information with a lot of secrecy and "hush hush" and discouraged further disclosure, even though the information was rather standard, and they just copy and pasted recommendations, and switch inputs to the "to-field" in their emails. And like how the tailor sold the emperor his new clothes, the companies bought it, one by one. In this way, companies started to treat their employees as a resource - Human Resource as opposed to natural or mechanical resource - except for one company.
They renamed their "Human Relationships department" to "HR department", and that was pretty much it. What people from HR did was to sit around with their employees, and replied to their queries, called them to chit chat, arranged gatherings, went drinking with them, entertained them, and went to visit them when they are in hospital, went to pay respects to their parents who just pass away, talked to them, and told them that the organisation valued them, listened to them bitch about their boss, in confidentiality, be their friend, told them that life is never ideal, take it easy, told them to leave the company if they were truly unhappy, remind them the advantages of staying, smsed them gong xi fa cai, and remember their children's birthday, and talked to their bosses if about how they were managed, bring them home when they're drunk from going out drinking together...
All the other companies who switched to Human Resources pointed their fingers at this Human Relationship company and laughed. Haha, they thought, human relationships can never be scalable! And they are so expensive to maintain! Human Resources are so cost efficient! We'll be rich and you can smell my fart!
But the Human Relationship's company never waivered. The management enjoyed having HR to talk to, in times of woe and appreciated their empathy. HR was often one of the reasons for their own retention. Despite not being scalable, everyone in the company was making good money. Being scalable was over-rated.
The companies which adopted the Human Resource approach never doubted their choice. Everyone in the company was making good money. If they had any problems, they talked to their families or friends, if they were unhappy, they either left or suck it and worked harder, nobody went to their parents' wake, and those who did had the look of obligation on their face, but it's okay, they didn't want to see them too, they only liked the "white-gold" (condolence money) they gave. Making friends at work was over-rated, one should keep work and personal relationships distinct.
The bosses of the consultancy firm laughed their way to the bank and back and spent all their money and went bankrupt and haha whatever who cares everyone just left and switched jobs.
...
1000 years later, all the companies collapsed due to the natural course of things. Everyone who ever cared about Human Resources or Human Relationship was dead and turned into dust. The question of which was a better model for your company was asked by nobody.
Then one day, some smart ass HR consultancy firm, in order to make their solutions and business scalable, decided to tell everyone that treating employees as merely as resources and impersonal- is the "in" thing in the market ("everyone's doing it!"). In order to build up their credibility, they named themselves after some quack guy from the USA, who was a friend of a friend who was a PHD, who allowed them to use the name for a price and some fame. And they made their reports rather expensive. And they treated their reports and information with a lot of secrecy and "hush hush" and discouraged further disclosure, even though the information was rather standard, and they just copy and pasted recommendations, and switch inputs to the "to-field" in their emails. And like how the tailor sold the emperor his new clothes, the companies bought it, one by one. In this way, companies started to treat their employees as a resource - Human Resource as opposed to natural or mechanical resource - except for one company.
They renamed their "Human Relationships department" to "HR department", and that was pretty much it. What people from HR did was to sit around with their employees, and replied to their queries, called them to chit chat, arranged gatherings, went drinking with them, entertained them, and went to visit them when they are in hospital, went to pay respects to their parents who just pass away, talked to them, and told them that the organisation valued them, listened to them bitch about their boss, in confidentiality, be their friend, told them that life is never ideal, take it easy, told them to leave the company if they were truly unhappy, remind them the advantages of staying, smsed them gong xi fa cai, and remember their children's birthday, and talked to their bosses if about how they were managed, bring them home when they're drunk from going out drinking together...
All the other companies who switched to Human Resources pointed their fingers at this Human Relationship company and laughed. Haha, they thought, human relationships can never be scalable! And they are so expensive to maintain! Human Resources are so cost efficient! We'll be rich and you can smell my fart!
But the Human Relationship's company never waivered. The management enjoyed having HR to talk to, in times of woe and appreciated their empathy. HR was often one of the reasons for their own retention. Despite not being scalable, everyone in the company was making good money. Being scalable was over-rated.
The companies which adopted the Human Resource approach never doubted their choice. Everyone in the company was making good money. If they had any problems, they talked to their families or friends, if they were unhappy, they either left or suck it and worked harder, nobody went to their parents' wake, and those who did had the look of obligation on their face, but it's okay, they didn't want to see them too, they only liked the "white-gold" (condolence money) they gave. Making friends at work was over-rated, one should keep work and personal relationships distinct.
The bosses of the consultancy firm laughed their way to the bank and back and spent all their money and went bankrupt and haha whatever who cares everyone just left and switched jobs.
...
1000 years later, all the companies collapsed due to the natural course of things. Everyone who ever cared about Human Resources or Human Relationship was dead and turned into dust. The question of which was a better model for your company was asked by nobody.
Friday, 17 April 2009
Grandmother (3)
As I was sitting on the toilet bowl, incubating shit, I recalled my grandma telling me that constipation strained her heart, and it occurred to me that, one day, I, too, might grow so weak that just shitting would excite my heart to beat harder, and perhaps so much harder, that it would be too much harder and kill me.
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Edward
Edward had been working overtime for the sixteenth day straight (over weekends), and he lacked sleep and energy to do anymore "brain work" tonight. He thought to go home, but it was still one hour away, according to the company policy, before he qualifies for the overtime transport allowance, so he thought he might as well wait and then he would go home on a taxi cab. In the meantime, he decided to do some filing and went to shred away his unwanted documents. It's a good time since there was nobody around to annoy with the noise.
Ah, it's quite therapeutic... to just destroy copies of the paper and data reports that he spent nights and weekends preparing for nobody to read... (Kudos to the management for simply asking for a verbal summary at the meeting and made the decision from there...)
Edward zoned out and at how the shredding machine eat up the papers fed to it. Whatever life dealt the shredding machine with, it just shred. Except for staplets. Please remember to remove them. Other than that, perhaps he had a lot to learn from the shredding machine... just suck it up, Edward, just suck it up. But what would be the "staplets" in the analogy here? Edward wondered and watched the shredding... Suddenly, Edward noticed something written in a blue pen that was not his handwriting. Oh no! It was a signatory of his boss's boss's boss! For the approval of some decision that was relevant to some other decision that he was referring to in his report!
Without second thoughts, Edward fought with the shredder to pull out the paper halfway and lost... his fingers!
His immediate response on seeing the bloody stump that used to be his hands was "fuck, now how am I going to use the computer?"
Ah, it's quite therapeutic... to just destroy copies of the paper and data reports that he spent nights and weekends preparing for nobody to read... (Kudos to the management for simply asking for a verbal summary at the meeting and made the decision from there...)
Edward zoned out and at how the shredding machine eat up the papers fed to it. Whatever life dealt the shredding machine with, it just shred. Except for staplets. Please remember to remove them. Other than that, perhaps he had a lot to learn from the shredding machine... just suck it up, Edward, just suck it up. But what would be the "staplets" in the analogy here? Edward wondered and watched the shredding... Suddenly, Edward noticed something written in a blue pen that was not his handwriting. Oh no! It was a signatory of his boss's boss's boss! For the approval of some decision that was relevant to some other decision that he was referring to in his report!
Without second thoughts, Edward fought with the shredder to pull out the paper halfway and lost... his fingers!
His immediate response on seeing the bloody stump that used to be his hands was "fuck, now how am I going to use the computer?"
Monday, 6 April 2009
Xiao Bai and the man
There was once a man who had a friend in his pick up truck which was white in colour and was named "Xiao Bai" meaning little white. The man worked as a fishmonger and drove Xiao Bai everyday from home to the fish market and here and there to collect and deliver goods. The fishmonger worked hard and had an optimistic outlook in life. His dream was to earn and save up enough money to travel by road to the Sea of Japan which he had a picture book he read about when he was little. The picture book was second hand and when it had words, they were in Japanese, which he did not understand, but he learnt much about the fish of the Sea of Japan which was what the book was mostly about. He liked the book a lot not because of any particular reason except for that particular affinity that one sometimes develop for things for no particular reason.
When, the day came when he finally had enough money, the man ran around making exciting arrangements about the route and finding somebody to take over his business during his on year of absence. The preparations geared Xiao Bai up for the excitement of the adventure that it had heard about since the first day the man bought and drove it around.
At the end of the first Lunar month, the man and Xiao Bai took off. They wanted to travel during this period so that they would not experience winter in the middle of their road trip. They drove across different countries, and they saw landscapes that they've never seen before, experienced wilderness they've never had before, and felt loneliness like they had never felt before. When they reached the sea of Japan, they travelled along the coast for a month. They saw the different fish, some kinds of which they imported and sold, and had a good time watching the sun rise many times, and counting the number of fishing boats they could find. Looking at the fish at the fish market, they wondered what kind of life the fish must have lived, and how much more of the Sea of Japan it must know than what the man or Xiao Bai ever will.
When the time was up and the amount of money left was down, they turned around and headed back. On the way home, winter was harsh and it was difficult to drive around on the slippery roads and in the cold. The man couldn't spend the nights in Xiao Bai as he usually did, because he would die of the cold if he did, so he didn't. Xiao Bai was alone in the carparks and the man, in his rented room. The nights were dreadful and sleepless for them who were conscious of how the trip was nearing its end.
Finally, the day came when they reached home. After a heated rush of administering the everyday life to set mundane routines into motion again and mastering them. In between, they reminisced about the road trip.
The man concluded that his favourite part of the trip was seeing the Sea of Japan and seeing the fishing boats unloading the fish he recognised from the picture book he had when he was young. He especially liked to see dark clouds and rain fall out at the sea from the distance. In the distance, the rain looked like a gentle grey shadow of nothing which he enjoyed watching and imagining how it might be like to be out at sea.
Xiao Bai's favourite part of the trip was when they traveled in the mountaineous region, Xiao Bai was not as old as the mountains, but he was made of the mountains because steel and other raw materials that Xiao Bai was made of came from the earth. When they drove up and down mountains, Xiao Bai would like to observe the rain and how close they were to the clouds above and how rain fell at such altitude.
After some time, the fishmonging business was back to usual but the man was less enthusiastic and Xiao Bai aged significantly, and they wondered when should Xiao Bai retire and the man thought about getting married and starting a family and settling down.
One day, while on the way home from fishmonging, it started to rain very heavily. Xiao Bai was tired and it broke down as it thought about how life was more than selling fish knowing that it would always continue to age and would never get any younger tomorrow than today. While comforting Xiao Bai, the man felt alone sitting in the truck by himself in the middle of the way in the middle of pouring rain.
When, the day came when he finally had enough money, the man ran around making exciting arrangements about the route and finding somebody to take over his business during his on year of absence. The preparations geared Xiao Bai up for the excitement of the adventure that it had heard about since the first day the man bought and drove it around.
At the end of the first Lunar month, the man and Xiao Bai took off. They wanted to travel during this period so that they would not experience winter in the middle of their road trip. They drove across different countries, and they saw landscapes that they've never seen before, experienced wilderness they've never had before, and felt loneliness like they had never felt before. When they reached the sea of Japan, they travelled along the coast for a month. They saw the different fish, some kinds of which they imported and sold, and had a good time watching the sun rise many times, and counting the number of fishing boats they could find. Looking at the fish at the fish market, they wondered what kind of life the fish must have lived, and how much more of the Sea of Japan it must know than what the man or Xiao Bai ever will.
When the time was up and the amount of money left was down, they turned around and headed back. On the way home, winter was harsh and it was difficult to drive around on the slippery roads and in the cold. The man couldn't spend the nights in Xiao Bai as he usually did, because he would die of the cold if he did, so he didn't. Xiao Bai was alone in the carparks and the man, in his rented room. The nights were dreadful and sleepless for them who were conscious of how the trip was nearing its end.
Finally, the day came when they reached home. After a heated rush of administering the everyday life to set mundane routines into motion again and mastering them. In between, they reminisced about the road trip.
The man concluded that his favourite part of the trip was seeing the Sea of Japan and seeing the fishing boats unloading the fish he recognised from the picture book he had when he was young. He especially liked to see dark clouds and rain fall out at the sea from the distance. In the distance, the rain looked like a gentle grey shadow of nothing which he enjoyed watching and imagining how it might be like to be out at sea.
Xiao Bai's favourite part of the trip was when they traveled in the mountaineous region, Xiao Bai was not as old as the mountains, but he was made of the mountains because steel and other raw materials that Xiao Bai was made of came from the earth. When they drove up and down mountains, Xiao Bai would like to observe the rain and how close they were to the clouds above and how rain fell at such altitude.
After some time, the fishmonging business was back to usual but the man was less enthusiastic and Xiao Bai aged significantly, and they wondered when should Xiao Bai retire and the man thought about getting married and starting a family and settling down.
One day, while on the way home from fishmonging, it started to rain very heavily. Xiao Bai was tired and it broke down as it thought about how life was more than selling fish knowing that it would always continue to age and would never get any younger tomorrow than today. While comforting Xiao Bai, the man felt alone sitting in the truck by himself in the middle of the way in the middle of pouring rain.
Sunday, 29 March 2009
By the way: There's something about the way
There's something about the way he looked, sitting on the back of the lorry truck.Maybe it's the way he crossed his legs or maybe it was the way his bright orange uniform shone in the afternoon sun.
Or perhaps it was the way he listened to his friend, or not, or the way he leaned against nothing.
Maybe it was the way there's something about the way he looked at me.
Thursday, 19 March 2009
The bee minder
Billy went to see a lot of expensive doctors and specialists only to be diagnosed as a mild schizophrenic for reportedly hearing a bee buzz all the time, except when he's asleep. The truth was that there was a bee living in the fourth dimension in his head, it was alive and well kept and buzzing around in his head. If he was not distracted from it, he could feel the bee knocking against his skull sometimes. He even almost choked a few times when it flew too close to his nose and wind pipe.
He dare not describe his true sensation to anyone for fear that they diagnosed him as a severe schizophrenic, which he was not. He was just a man with a bee in his head that nobody else would ever believe him for, unless someone invented a fourth dimension seeing glass and cut his head open or something.
After running out of faith in medicines, Billy spent his money drinking, because it helped dull his senses, and he could take a break from hearing the bee's buzz when he got the beer buzz buzzing louder.
He dare not describe his true sensation to anyone for fear that they diagnosed him as a severe schizophrenic, which he was not. He was just a man with a bee in his head that nobody else would ever believe him for, unless someone invented a fourth dimension seeing glass and cut his head open or something.
After running out of faith in medicines, Billy spent his money drinking, because it helped dull his senses, and he could take a break from hearing the bee's buzz when he got the beer buzz buzzing louder.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Mary
Mary was the kind of girl who wouldn't strike you as a Mary. In fact, she thought of herself as more like a Marian, or a Marilyn, but she didn't get to choose her own name. (Her late father's uncle thought that Mary was a fashionable sounding name.) To her, "Mary" was just a name which begot the other kids in school to ask her if she had a little lamb. At first, she would think of snide witty remarks to reply with, like "no, I have a goat, though", or "I do love lamb chops" (which was true); but when they started to ask "then, how does your garden grow?", Mary grew to dislike her name, because she realised that these corny mary-jokes would never come to end.
Mary was the kind of girl who would constantly remind herself to watch "Breakfast at Tiffany's" if she would ever have the chance, so she could quote it as her favourite movie, and whose dream was to drive a Mazda 3, and to marry a guy whose income could be combined with to afford them a Nissan Cefiro, and they could ideally eventually live in a condominium.
She was the kind of girl, who would want to name her daughter, "Kimberly", and she and her cefiro-prince would speak only English to "Kimmy", to give her a strong foundation in the language and in giving people the impression that she's more high-classed. "Kimberly" was symbolic of Mary's favourite food, which was kimchi. Her favourite cuisine was Japanese, with the occasional craving for north Indian food, because they made her feel like a sophisticated metropolitan.
Kimchi, in turn, was symbolic of Mary's graduation trip to Korea, which sparked off her professed love or passion that was travelling. In recent years, she had taken to planning her two to three holiday destinations at the start of every financial year aligned to the mission, vision, and values of her life. It was similar to how organisations made annual business plans, which were what she worked on for a living - as an annual business planning executive - for the past seven years with the same company. Like the company she worked at, she too, did not include tangible steps for attaining her life goals in her plans. She just planned her travels, and largely ignored developments in other aspects of her life.
Mary had several relationships that looked promising to everyone, except that she had always known somehow that they wouldn't have worked out; so she managed to somehow let the guys lead the relationships astray. She told herself that she just did not feel that any of them were close to the type of guy she could spend the rest of her life with anyway. It was either because they did not have the cefiro potential income, or that they did not approve of Mary's travelling (expenses) as a "constructive" way of life.
Mary, however, was in denial of the true reason why these relationships didn't work out. It was because of a deep, dark secret that she had, and she did not dare to share it with anyone, even her boyfriends, some with whom she slept, which led to an impenetrable emotional isolation. A person in a relationship with Mary might have an impression that they were very close, but it was really like holding hands with somebody in the dark and not knowing of a grand canyon of a chasm in the space between.
Mary's secret was that she secretly loved the smell of shit.
She loved to smell the smell of shit like how a pimply overweight teenage girl would secretly love to smell the smell of the cologne of the teacher she had a secret crush on, or like how a durian fanatic, who married a petty angmor wife who hated durian, secretly loved the smell of a delicious durian during durian season and thought his wife stupid for hating it even though he vowed to denounce durian at their wedding. She loved the smell of her own shit, and how it differed from the smell of other people's shit, which she also loved to smell. She loved to distinguish how different diets would affect the smell of shit that eventually got shat out.
If only Mary would be honest with herself, she would recognise that smelling shit was the real reason behind why she seemingly loved to travel, to go to different places, and to eat different things. She had just wanted to smell how the change in diet and physical location affected her shit and if the people from different countries shat shit of different smells. She also liked shitting in the airplanes, because she was thrilled by the intensity of the smell mixed with the excitement of the embarrassment when she opens the door to greet the next toilet user.
If only Mary would be honest with herself, she would confess that she loved the smell of Korean shit the most, because of the way shit smell with eating kimchi, and that Japanese shit was her second favourite, although it sometimes smelled a bit too sweet for her liking, especially during winter when shit usually smelled a little like ice-cream. The smell of baby's shit was like japanese shit in winter. On rainy days, shit usually smelled a little muddy, like the smell of wet muddy sneakers from playing in a wet muddy soccer field on a rainy day. Shit was typically the most pungent on sunny days, and it was easily affected by spicy food, which was most spicy on sunny days. It could be due to how chillies grown in the dry season are more spicy than chillies grown in the rainy season.
If only Mary would be honest with herself, she would then realise that it was not so shameful or despicable to love to smell shit, and she would be able to laugh a little about it, or write a little book with all her gathered knowledge, and be unabashed and tell her next boyfriend who may find it a little odd and overall cute and endearing and indulge her a little and love her and marry her and live the Cefiro-Kimberly dream with her, and remember to leave the toilet door open when he shits his shit for her.
(sneak.)
Mary was the kind of girl who would constantly remind herself to watch "Breakfast at Tiffany's" if she would ever have the chance, so she could quote it as her favourite movie, and whose dream was to drive a Mazda 3, and to marry a guy whose income could be combined with to afford them a Nissan Cefiro, and they could ideally eventually live in a condominium.
She was the kind of girl, who would want to name her daughter, "Kimberly", and she and her cefiro-prince would speak only English to "Kimmy", to give her a strong foundation in the language and in giving people the impression that she's more high-classed. "Kimberly" was symbolic of Mary's favourite food, which was kimchi. Her favourite cuisine was Japanese, with the occasional craving for north Indian food, because they made her feel like a sophisticated metropolitan.
Kimchi, in turn, was symbolic of Mary's graduation trip to Korea, which sparked off her professed love or passion that was travelling. In recent years, she had taken to planning her two to three holiday destinations at the start of every financial year aligned to the mission, vision, and values of her life. It was similar to how organisations made annual business plans, which were what she worked on for a living - as an annual business planning executive - for the past seven years with the same company. Like the company she worked at, she too, did not include tangible steps for attaining her life goals in her plans. She just planned her travels, and largely ignored developments in other aspects of her life.
Mary had several relationships that looked promising to everyone, except that she had always known somehow that they wouldn't have worked out; so she managed to somehow let the guys lead the relationships astray. She told herself that she just did not feel that any of them were close to the type of guy she could spend the rest of her life with anyway. It was either because they did not have the cefiro potential income, or that they did not approve of Mary's travelling (expenses) as a "constructive" way of life.
Mary, however, was in denial of the true reason why these relationships didn't work out. It was because of a deep, dark secret that she had, and she did not dare to share it with anyone, even her boyfriends, some with whom she slept, which led to an impenetrable emotional isolation. A person in a relationship with Mary might have an impression that they were very close, but it was really like holding hands with somebody in the dark and not knowing of a grand canyon of a chasm in the space between.
Mary's secret was that she secretly loved the smell of shit.
She loved to smell the smell of shit like how a pimply overweight teenage girl would secretly love to smell the smell of the cologne of the teacher she had a secret crush on, or like how a durian fanatic, who married a petty angmor wife who hated durian, secretly loved the smell of a delicious durian during durian season and thought his wife stupid for hating it even though he vowed to denounce durian at their wedding. She loved the smell of her own shit, and how it differed from the smell of other people's shit, which she also loved to smell. She loved to distinguish how different diets would affect the smell of shit that eventually got shat out.
If only Mary would be honest with herself, she would recognise that smelling shit was the real reason behind why she seemingly loved to travel, to go to different places, and to eat different things. She had just wanted to smell how the change in diet and physical location affected her shit and if the people from different countries shat shit of different smells. She also liked shitting in the airplanes, because she was thrilled by the intensity of the smell mixed with the excitement of the embarrassment when she opens the door to greet the next toilet user.
If only Mary would be honest with herself, she would confess that she loved the smell of Korean shit the most, because of the way shit smell with eating kimchi, and that Japanese shit was her second favourite, although it sometimes smelled a bit too sweet for her liking, especially during winter when shit usually smelled a little like ice-cream. The smell of baby's shit was like japanese shit in winter. On rainy days, shit usually smelled a little muddy, like the smell of wet muddy sneakers from playing in a wet muddy soccer field on a rainy day. Shit was typically the most pungent on sunny days, and it was easily affected by spicy food, which was most spicy on sunny days. It could be due to how chillies grown in the dry season are more spicy than chillies grown in the rainy season.
If only Mary would be honest with herself, she would then realise that it was not so shameful or despicable to love to smell shit, and she would be able to laugh a little about it, or write a little book with all her gathered knowledge, and be unabashed and tell her next boyfriend who may find it a little odd and overall cute and endearing and indulge her a little and love her and marry her and live the Cefiro-Kimberly dream with her, and remember to leave the toilet door open when he shits his shit for her.
(sneak.)
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Fib, the Dung Beetle
In a horse stable somewhere away, there lived a dung beetle named Fib. Fib was born with five legs, and it was how he got his name. The "F" "I" from "five", and the "B" from "beetle".
Usually, beetles with five legs were not born with five legs; instead, they lost one of their legs in battles which was considered gallant. Fib was born with five legs, and was thus, considered a freak.
Fib was made fun of when he was young. His peers did not take to him for posing as someone who lost his leg in a battle, even though Fib had not deliberately cut off his own leg at birth. When he was quite grown up, it was worse, because he finally understood what the women-folk said about his mother sleeping with the horse ("five legs is exactly the average of six legs plus four legs, you know").
Thus, Fib took it upon himself to be crazy about dung collecting, he wanted to provide for his mother, so he worked very hard. He also hoped that by working hard and doing good it would quell the rumours and gossips and whatever bad reputation, so that he could make some friends and live happily. It was hard for a dung beetle with five legs to roll dung, because he was one leg short on one side, and it was harder to make the dung ball round. Yet that was not enough to stop Fib, who worked hard against the odds to roll a lot of dung balls for his family.
Alas! The other beetles just made remarks like "Wow, Fib must really be the horse's son, because the horse dotes on him enough to shit in little pellet balls especially for him. How else could he be able to have so many dung balls? He has only five legs, surely he couldn't have rolled them all by himself. Even if he did, they wouldn't be so round, he is five-legged, you know."
Usually, beetles with five legs were not born with five legs; instead, they lost one of their legs in battles which was considered gallant. Fib was born with five legs, and was thus, considered a freak.
Fib was made fun of when he was young. His peers did not take to him for posing as someone who lost his leg in a battle, even though Fib had not deliberately cut off his own leg at birth. When he was quite grown up, it was worse, because he finally understood what the women-folk said about his mother sleeping with the horse ("five legs is exactly the average of six legs plus four legs, you know").
Thus, Fib took it upon himself to be crazy about dung collecting, he wanted to provide for his mother, so he worked very hard. He also hoped that by working hard and doing good it would quell the rumours and gossips and whatever bad reputation, so that he could make some friends and live happily. It was hard for a dung beetle with five legs to roll dung, because he was one leg short on one side, and it was harder to make the dung ball round. Yet that was not enough to stop Fib, who worked hard against the odds to roll a lot of dung balls for his family.
Alas! The other beetles just made remarks like "Wow, Fib must really be the horse's son, because the horse dotes on him enough to shit in little pellet balls especially for him. How else could he be able to have so many dung balls? He has only five legs, surely he couldn't have rolled them all by himself. Even if he did, they wouldn't be so round, he is five-legged, you know."
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Wednesday and Monday
There was a pair of sisters who were into attempting suicide. Nobody knew why they were like that, or why they were depressed, or if they were depressed at all. Most people blamed their mother for not going through confinement properly, because instead of staying at home and not showering for a month, she when out shopping for Prada and Gucci clothes to fit her little girls. They came from a high-income family, by the way. And the mother not having gone through confinement was hardly a logical enough explanation for the girls' condition. So, nobody knew why they were like that.
The eldest sister's given name was Feng Ling, the younger sister's name was Ling Long. "Feng Ling" meant something like phoenix's agility, and "Ling Long" meant something like resourceful and clever and agile too. They had pretty Chinese names, yet, when they came of age, Feng Ling decided to call herself "Wednesday", after the Addams' family character. Ling Long called herself "Monday", because Monday was blue, and she liked blue.
By respectively, 16 and 14 years old, Wednesday and Monday had tried hanging themselves, drowning themselves in the sea, storm drains, swimming pools, and many kinds of substance abuse (including ingesting doll parts in attempt to choke themselves). They always took turns doing it so that the other person could prevent the attempt from succeeding.
Wednesday's favourite past time was to draw mosiac patterns on her wrists with wrist slits, and then to plaster the cuts (and blood and gore) quickly with glue, and then to sniff it. Monday's favourite past time was similar, except that she preferred to use blue paint instead of glue.
One day, when their mother gave them clothes that were not designer, they were shocked. Their father had been retrenched, and even though they had a lot of money tied up in assets, they had to pretend that they were middle-income. Their father thought that they were going to take it badly and commit suicide for sure. He was sad because he loved the girls, though he previously had no time to spend with them, he never even bought sweets or chocolates for them as little girls. In his fit of regret and remorse, he bought sweets and chocolates and ice-cream for his daughters. He took care to buy blue colour sweets and blueberry icecream for Monday. It turned out that their mother had all along deprived the girls of such things to keep their dress sizes small, so they can be super models someday.
Having tasted sweets and chocolates and all different flavours of ice-cream, Wednesday and Monday had a rush of sugar high that they had never experienced before. They abandoned their previous hobby and all thought of suicides so that they could live and love sugar. They never attempted suicide again and lived happily ever after.
The eldest sister's given name was Feng Ling, the younger sister's name was Ling Long. "Feng Ling" meant something like phoenix's agility, and "Ling Long" meant something like resourceful and clever and agile too. They had pretty Chinese names, yet, when they came of age, Feng Ling decided to call herself "Wednesday", after the Addams' family character. Ling Long called herself "Monday", because Monday was blue, and she liked blue.
By respectively, 16 and 14 years old, Wednesday and Monday had tried hanging themselves, drowning themselves in the sea, storm drains, swimming pools, and many kinds of substance abuse (including ingesting doll parts in attempt to choke themselves). They always took turns doing it so that the other person could prevent the attempt from succeeding.
Wednesday's favourite past time was to draw mosiac patterns on her wrists with wrist slits, and then to plaster the cuts (and blood and gore) quickly with glue, and then to sniff it. Monday's favourite past time was similar, except that she preferred to use blue paint instead of glue.
One day, when their mother gave them clothes that were not designer, they were shocked. Their father had been retrenched, and even though they had a lot of money tied up in assets, they had to pretend that they were middle-income. Their father thought that they were going to take it badly and commit suicide for sure. He was sad because he loved the girls, though he previously had no time to spend with them, he never even bought sweets or chocolates for them as little girls. In his fit of regret and remorse, he bought sweets and chocolates and ice-cream for his daughters. He took care to buy blue colour sweets and blueberry icecream for Monday. It turned out that their mother had all along deprived the girls of such things to keep their dress sizes small, so they can be super models someday.
Having tasted sweets and chocolates and all different flavours of ice-cream, Wednesday and Monday had a rush of sugar high that they had never experienced before. They abandoned their previous hobby and all thought of suicides so that they could live and love sugar. They never attempted suicide again and lived happily ever after.
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