The chilli sauce and ketchup met on Table 29 in Jack's place.
Standing side-by-side,
day-in-and-out,
in the dimly-lit restaurant,
with slightly too-cold air-conditioning...
It was hard for them to not to fall in love
Against the checked
green-and-white plastic table cloth,
they made an attractive
couple.
They longed for the next time
to be poured on or beside each other
on the same corner of a plate
or a dedicated saucer,
so that
they could swirl
into
one
another
and
make
hot
sweet
love.
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Friday, 22 October 2010
On Art and Writing
(My Studies)
I have been a rather serious student about art in the recent few years. My “serious” efforts include putting myself through related courses and undertaking other forms of research.
My interest in the arts started with my chance discovery of the Surrealists. I was surprised to find how they articulated what I was intuitively doing with my stories then. For example, Rene Magritte was explaining his concept of mystery: “The mind loves the unknown. It loves images whose meaning is unknown, since the meaning of the mind itself is unknown.” I could relate to this with my story about a bear with a biscuit face (close to Magritte's painting of men with apples blocking their features from the viewer). A bear with a biscuit face was also a curious juxtaposition of elements, which is a surrealist theme. I was already practising automatic writing, a technique which I later came to learn was Surrealist as well.
Learning what they were consciously doing helped me realise better what I was unconsciously doing with my writing. For example, I was interested with how in different readers’ mind, the phrase “bear with a biscuit face” conjured up in some the image of an oreo biscuit, or chocolate biscuit, as opposed to my image of a “ritz bitz” biscuit. The minimalist writers were writing with sparse descriptions so that the audience's imagination would fill in the gap (e.g. they would articulate these things in an article or interview). The critiques of the Surrealist movement would also point out limitations of the way I was writing in (e.g. it was likely to be obscure and taken as random arbitrariness). In this way, I was able to quickly develop and evaluate my approach or concepts.
Wanting to know more about other art theories, I attended Dr Sian Jay's appreciating western art course (at NUS extension) thinking it would be a crash course to “download” the knowledge into my head – as opposed to reading 300 books myself. Through this course, I gained confidence in my way of interpreting art and art theories, and learnt how to think about art more systematically and effectively – in other words, I learnt how to learn better.
(On Art and Writing)
As writing becomes more important to me, and developing my writing gains higher priority, I try to learn more about art and explore new concepts.
Prior to this attempt, I have never tried to explain how art influences my writing in words – not even my private journals, not even in my conscious thought. It had been a very organic process, which I hope it would still largely remain to be.
I take in what I learn, I absorb what I can, and it becomes a part of my brain. It's like how I eat a plate of char kway teow and it becomes a part of my body (as in the nutrients and fats would fuse with my cells and become a part of my body forever after). In the same way all the char kway teow I’ve ever eaten in my life will come to affect the way my heart beats – my art education (or any other experience) will fuse into my thoughts and state of mind, affecting the way I produce anything and what I produce.
Honestly, I'm not sure if putting this process into words would ruin it. If the words are ill-chosen, the idea would be “set” in the wrong way. If ideas were gems, then words that articulate these ideas would be the gold or silver that encases and frames ideas to highlight their brilliance. Passages and poems are crafted jewelleries, then. My role as the writer is akin to the jeweller – we’re both craftsmen, and we both have to search for materials – ideas and words or gems and metal – that we can be inspired by and will (here, i want to use "will" like "wield" because I think it's a better verb to mean "wield").
Rather ironically, the above two analogies in my “disclaimer” already hint at how art affects my writing. When I study the arts (like the art of char kway teow or the art of jewellery making), I study the philosophies or states of mind of the artists (who are also like the cooks and jewellers) that may distinguish them and affect their paintings or sculptures (like their char kway teow or jewelleries).
When I look at a painting from an artist, I try to imagine what he's thinking, appreciate his sense of aesthetics, and decide where I agree or disagree with him. From these processes, I develop ideas and my aesthetic sense. In addition, having “consumed” the painting, it will affect my thoughts and state of mind, which will in turn affect what I produce.
(On Ideas, Reality, Images and Words)
Another concept that I have is in part influenced by Michel Foucault’s This is not a pipe where he discussed some theories on the relationships between reality, images, and words, with reference to Magritte’s paintings; that is, words (being just words) and images (being just images) only refer to the idea of what that is real; the idea is also distinct from that which is real. The word “pipe” refer to the idea of a pipe which refers to a real tangible pipe.
It brings us to the question then, what is it that a painting is trying to conjure? And how that compares to what is it that a written story is trying to conjure?
In my haste, I could over-simplify and say a painting and a written story are similar in both trying to conjure ideas in the audiences’ mind. The idea in the audiences’ mind – becomes new and different altogether – being neither the reality, the image, nor the written story, nor my idea in the first place. And this process is another very important factor of a story – not that which is described explicitly with words – but the ideas it intends and manages to conjure in the audience’s mind.
(On state of Mind, Soul, Heart)
And how effectively the art work (story or picture) conjures up an idea in the audience’s mind and heart can also be affected by the quality of the art work’s soul or heart – which is in turn, affected by the state of mind, soul, or heart of the artist.
I know I’m being confusing, suddenly introducing more elusive things like “heart” and “soul” here. But “state of mind” seems to only refer to the intellect and reason, which is somewhat lacking. I am really referring to the heart and soul, which besides the mind, are faculties capable of creating ideas, albeit of a different nature, property, and cultivation.
This is where the char kway teow analogy is effective. Have you tasted the char kway teow of a master who fry his kway teow with heart, with concentration and sincerity? Compare his kway teow to another that’s fried by his son while chatting to his friend about going to the casino? The difference in the taste between both plates of noodles is just the stuff of how state of mind and heart of the artist affects the soul of his work.
(On Chinese Art)
In a way, tasting char kway teow cooked with heart (referring to how we say in Chinese, to use one’s heart to do something, and not how Westerners say “I heart New York”), would help to cultivate my sensibilities and discernment. In a similar way, studying the arts and contemplating how artists paint with their heart, helps the cultivation of my heart. I hope you know what I mean, these matters are very difficult to explain.
In the process of cultivating myself, I also turn to Japanese, Chinese and Southeast Asian art. To me, the artist’s heart is especially prominent in Chinese ink paintings, perhaps due to how they’re created. Usually a painting would begin with spontaneity and completed in a single sitting. Because of the properties of the paper, every stroke or dash is irreversible. When things are created spontaneously, implying that it comes instinctively, there is less room for planning ahead, and the heart takes over. Because there is no room to retract any move, the heart must be skilful, not to make mistakes and will (wield) the ink skilfully.
Moreover, my Chinese lifestyle and environment predisposes my ideas, aesthetic sense, and my general state of mind, to be similar to those of Chinese artists. Despite using English as my writing and reading language and consuming a lot of American and European culture and education, I realised that there was a large part of me who can’t empathise with Western culture. I really have an Asian soul, you know. If I die and become a ghost, I will be a Chinese ghost (who can speak in English), but I will have the properties of a Chinese ghost (which seem to differ quite a bit in properties of being from that of an Ang mor ghost). Of course, there is still much to learn from the Surrealists and the other Angmors, but say Chinese ink painting really relates to the part of me that has been fed by the soya sauce that I’ve eaten all my life (and really, there’s soya sauce in everything in our diet, including char kway teow). Surrealism is really like French food, or mayonnaise, which, frankly, I still don’t quite understand because my grandma doesn't know how to use it in her cooking. It’s interesting, but cannot take the place of soya sauce in my life.
Being in caught in the mundane East-West conundrum of modern Asia, I need to amalgamate East-West ideas. But what that is more important than how East-West are conflicting and complementary, is that after I’ve consumed them, they’re a part of me, and they’re no longer just East or West – they’re my left or right brain, right or left lung, and I only have one heart.
(In summary)
So, I write, then I learn things, I change, and then I write about different things differently. Being aware of how this process works helps me grasp the concepts and learn and change faster. For example, being aware of how art affects my writing enables me to use art better. For another example, thinking about how ideas, reality, and images differ helps me understand how ideas, reality, and words differ. My stories conjure ideas in the readers’ mind which are different from my idea. How effectively my stories (or essays) conjure these ideas in my readers’ minds also depend on the cultivation of my state of mind, heart, and soul. (This summary, for example, does not conjure the same ideas as what was explained above with analogies and details.) Studying Eastern and Western art cultivates my perspective and my heart from which I write.
I have been a rather serious student about art in the recent few years. My “serious” efforts include putting myself through related courses and undertaking other forms of research.
My interest in the arts started with my chance discovery of the Surrealists. I was surprised to find how they articulated what I was intuitively doing with my stories then. For example, Rene Magritte was explaining his concept of mystery: “The mind loves the unknown. It loves images whose meaning is unknown, since the meaning of the mind itself is unknown.” I could relate to this with my story about a bear with a biscuit face (close to Magritte's painting of men with apples blocking their features from the viewer). A bear with a biscuit face was also a curious juxtaposition of elements, which is a surrealist theme. I was already practising automatic writing, a technique which I later came to learn was Surrealist as well.
Learning what they were consciously doing helped me realise better what I was unconsciously doing with my writing. For example, I was interested with how in different readers’ mind, the phrase “bear with a biscuit face” conjured up in some the image of an oreo biscuit, or chocolate biscuit, as opposed to my image of a “ritz bitz” biscuit. The minimalist writers were writing with sparse descriptions so that the audience's imagination would fill in the gap (e.g. they would articulate these things in an article or interview). The critiques of the Surrealist movement would also point out limitations of the way I was writing in (e.g. it was likely to be obscure and taken as random arbitrariness). In this way, I was able to quickly develop and evaluate my approach or concepts.
Wanting to know more about other art theories, I attended Dr Sian Jay's appreciating western art course (at NUS extension) thinking it would be a crash course to “download” the knowledge into my head – as opposed to reading 300 books myself. Through this course, I gained confidence in my way of interpreting art and art theories, and learnt how to think about art more systematically and effectively – in other words, I learnt how to learn better.
(On Art and Writing)
As writing becomes more important to me, and developing my writing gains higher priority, I try to learn more about art and explore new concepts.
Prior to this attempt, I have never tried to explain how art influences my writing in words – not even my private journals, not even in my conscious thought. It had been a very organic process, which I hope it would still largely remain to be.
I take in what I learn, I absorb what I can, and it becomes a part of my brain. It's like how I eat a plate of char kway teow and it becomes a part of my body (as in the nutrients and fats would fuse with my cells and become a part of my body forever after). In the same way all the char kway teow I’ve ever eaten in my life will come to affect the way my heart beats – my art education (or any other experience) will fuse into my thoughts and state of mind, affecting the way I produce anything and what I produce.
Honestly, I'm not sure if putting this process into words would ruin it. If the words are ill-chosen, the idea would be “set” in the wrong way. If ideas were gems, then words that articulate these ideas would be the gold or silver that encases and frames ideas to highlight their brilliance. Passages and poems are crafted jewelleries, then. My role as the writer is akin to the jeweller – we’re both craftsmen, and we both have to search for materials – ideas and words or gems and metal – that we can be inspired by and will (here, i want to use "will" like "wield" because I think it's a better verb to mean "wield").
Rather ironically, the above two analogies in my “disclaimer” already hint at how art affects my writing. When I study the arts (like the art of char kway teow or the art of jewellery making), I study the philosophies or states of mind of the artists (who are also like the cooks and jewellers) that may distinguish them and affect their paintings or sculptures (like their char kway teow or jewelleries).
When I look at a painting from an artist, I try to imagine what he's thinking, appreciate his sense of aesthetics, and decide where I agree or disagree with him. From these processes, I develop ideas and my aesthetic sense. In addition, having “consumed” the painting, it will affect my thoughts and state of mind, which will in turn affect what I produce.
(On Ideas, Reality, Images and Words)
Another concept that I have is in part influenced by Michel Foucault’s This is not a pipe where he discussed some theories on the relationships between reality, images, and words, with reference to Magritte’s paintings; that is, words (being just words) and images (being just images) only refer to the idea of what that is real; the idea is also distinct from that which is real. The word “pipe” refer to the idea of a pipe which refers to a real tangible pipe.
It brings us to the question then, what is it that a painting is trying to conjure? And how that compares to what is it that a written story is trying to conjure?
In my haste, I could over-simplify and say a painting and a written story are similar in both trying to conjure ideas in the audiences’ mind. The idea in the audiences’ mind – becomes new and different altogether – being neither the reality, the image, nor the written story, nor my idea in the first place. And this process is another very important factor of a story – not that which is described explicitly with words – but the ideas it intends and manages to conjure in the audience’s mind.
(On state of Mind, Soul, Heart)
And how effectively the art work (story or picture) conjures up an idea in the audience’s mind and heart can also be affected by the quality of the art work’s soul or heart – which is in turn, affected by the state of mind, soul, or heart of the artist.
I know I’m being confusing, suddenly introducing more elusive things like “heart” and “soul” here. But “state of mind” seems to only refer to the intellect and reason, which is somewhat lacking. I am really referring to the heart and soul, which besides the mind, are faculties capable of creating ideas, albeit of a different nature, property, and cultivation.
This is where the char kway teow analogy is effective. Have you tasted the char kway teow of a master who fry his kway teow with heart, with concentration and sincerity? Compare his kway teow to another that’s fried by his son while chatting to his friend about going to the casino? The difference in the taste between both plates of noodles is just the stuff of how state of mind and heart of the artist affects the soul of his work.
(On Chinese Art)
In a way, tasting char kway teow cooked with heart (referring to how we say in Chinese, to use one’s heart to do something, and not how Westerners say “I heart New York”), would help to cultivate my sensibilities and discernment. In a similar way, studying the arts and contemplating how artists paint with their heart, helps the cultivation of my heart. I hope you know what I mean, these matters are very difficult to explain.
In the process of cultivating myself, I also turn to Japanese, Chinese and Southeast Asian art. To me, the artist’s heart is especially prominent in Chinese ink paintings, perhaps due to how they’re created. Usually a painting would begin with spontaneity and completed in a single sitting. Because of the properties of the paper, every stroke or dash is irreversible. When things are created spontaneously, implying that it comes instinctively, there is less room for planning ahead, and the heart takes over. Because there is no room to retract any move, the heart must be skilful, not to make mistakes and will (wield) the ink skilfully.
Moreover, my Chinese lifestyle and environment predisposes my ideas, aesthetic sense, and my general state of mind, to be similar to those of Chinese artists. Despite using English as my writing and reading language and consuming a lot of American and European culture and education, I realised that there was a large part of me who can’t empathise with Western culture. I really have an Asian soul, you know. If I die and become a ghost, I will be a Chinese ghost (who can speak in English), but I will have the properties of a Chinese ghost (which seem to differ quite a bit in properties of being from that of an Ang mor ghost). Of course, there is still much to learn from the Surrealists and the other Angmors, but say Chinese ink painting really relates to the part of me that has been fed by the soya sauce that I’ve eaten all my life (and really, there’s soya sauce in everything in our diet, including char kway teow). Surrealism is really like French food, or mayonnaise, which, frankly, I still don’t quite understand because my grandma doesn't know how to use it in her cooking. It’s interesting, but cannot take the place of soya sauce in my life.
Being in caught in the mundane East-West conundrum of modern Asia, I need to amalgamate East-West ideas. But what that is more important than how East-West are conflicting and complementary, is that after I’ve consumed them, they’re a part of me, and they’re no longer just East or West – they’re my left or right brain, right or left lung, and I only have one heart.
(In summary)
So, I write, then I learn things, I change, and then I write about different things differently. Being aware of how this process works helps me grasp the concepts and learn and change faster. For example, being aware of how art affects my writing enables me to use art better. For another example, thinking about how ideas, reality, and images differ helps me understand how ideas, reality, and words differ. My stories conjure ideas in the readers’ mind which are different from my idea. How effectively my stories (or essays) conjure these ideas in my readers’ minds also depend on the cultivation of my state of mind, heart, and soul. (This summary, for example, does not conjure the same ideas as what was explained above with analogies and details.) Studying Eastern and Western art cultivates my perspective and my heart from which I write.
Sunday, 3 October 2010
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Buffalos at the Botanic Gardens
Lately, I've been reminded of weird things I did when I was a child. I find it weird now because I can no longer imagine where the time came from, especially if I compare to how children nowadays have to scurry around and don't do the things I had to do.
For instance, I spent considerable time with a bunch of stone buffalo sculptures at the Singapore Botanic Gardens. My father had some sort of official business with some committee at the Gardens, and he would bring my mother, brother, and myself along, to "wait a little while". I suspect the business was not so official, in that he wanted to go and say hi to friends and with fellow orchid hobbyists. In any case, we didn't question how else our time could be spent more constructively, and like good Confucian kids, dutifully entertained ourselves with whatever there was to do.
The meeting place was held at some corner of the Gardens, where there was a bungalow of sorts. In front of the bungalow, there was a field, which was often very muddy, much to the dismay of my mother as it caused damage to my pink patent mary-janes and sometimes the lacy white socks, which was fine because I really disliked those lacy white socks anyway because they were ticklish and uncool.
On the field, there were some great stone sculptures of water buffalos. Maybe like eight statues, or five? Some depicted buffalos standing, grazing, some lazing, some depicted mother-and-calf being together. They were black. And idyllic. And maybe not as big as real buffalos, but big enough for me to climb and sit on their backs.
I must have been three to four years old? Or it was at least before I began kindergarten, or it was at least before I learnt to complain that we would rather be watching TV at home or shopping or something.
There were no other kids there. It was tucked away. My mother would sit at the bungalow patio to watch us. My brother would show off how he's big enough to climb on one that was difficult to climb up on and that I could only climb on the safe "squatting" or "lying down" buffalos. Maybe at my pleads, he would then show me where to step and what to hold on to so to get myself up on something. But honestly, I can't quite recall what made it even fun for the first few visits.
But it was boring afterwards.
We would spend stretches of hours there. From the after lunch time to dinner time. A few times, we played until we couldn't anymore because it was late and we couldn't see. Maybe I exaggerate, because I didn't know how to tell the time anyway. I remember I couldn't tell the time because my family left it to the teachers from school to teach me that. And when school started, we didn't have weekend time to squander like that anymore, there was homework and tuition and blah blah constructive ways of spending time.
It must have been the repetition or the routine or the dread that etched the scene in my mind. It must be quite something, it has since been twenty years, after all! So I remember, like from a dream, the expanse of the field - or so it seems to a child at the age - and the stone buffalos.
And that was just one of the ways we squandered time, following my parents around where they wanted to go. My father also had a friend who sold dried goods (ikan bilis and other fishy smelling things) and we would go and visit the store so that he could chat with him for hours and hours...
Now, I see my friends, parents themselves, following their children around for their classes and so on. And I wonder if it was because I didn't have those classes to attend, or it was because... I don't know.
It's a weird memory - those water buffalos - quite out of place or time. But it is a precious and interesting memory. Thinking back, those water buffalos, and the boredom, probably meaningfully influenced my imagination and interest in the arts. Yet, my parents certainly didn't deliberately intend for it to become a part of my education.
For instance, I spent considerable time with a bunch of stone buffalo sculptures at the Singapore Botanic Gardens. My father had some sort of official business with some committee at the Gardens, and he would bring my mother, brother, and myself along, to "wait a little while". I suspect the business was not so official, in that he wanted to go and say hi to friends and with fellow orchid hobbyists. In any case, we didn't question how else our time could be spent more constructively, and like good Confucian kids, dutifully entertained ourselves with whatever there was to do.
The meeting place was held at some corner of the Gardens, where there was a bungalow of sorts. In front of the bungalow, there was a field, which was often very muddy, much to the dismay of my mother as it caused damage to my pink patent mary-janes and sometimes the lacy white socks, which was fine because I really disliked those lacy white socks anyway because they were ticklish and uncool.
On the field, there were some great stone sculptures of water buffalos. Maybe like eight statues, or five? Some depicted buffalos standing, grazing, some lazing, some depicted mother-and-calf being together. They were black. And idyllic. And maybe not as big as real buffalos, but big enough for me to climb and sit on their backs.
I must have been three to four years old? Or it was at least before I began kindergarten, or it was at least before I learnt to complain that we would rather be watching TV at home or shopping or something.
There were no other kids there. It was tucked away. My mother would sit at the bungalow patio to watch us. My brother would show off how he's big enough to climb on one that was difficult to climb up on and that I could only climb on the safe "squatting" or "lying down" buffalos. Maybe at my pleads, he would then show me where to step and what to hold on to so to get myself up on something. But honestly, I can't quite recall what made it even fun for the first few visits.
But it was boring afterwards.
We would spend stretches of hours there. From the after lunch time to dinner time. A few times, we played until we couldn't anymore because it was late and we couldn't see. Maybe I exaggerate, because I didn't know how to tell the time anyway. I remember I couldn't tell the time because my family left it to the teachers from school to teach me that. And when school started, we didn't have weekend time to squander like that anymore, there was homework and tuition and blah blah constructive ways of spending time.
It must have been the repetition or the routine or the dread that etched the scene in my mind. It must be quite something, it has since been twenty years, after all! So I remember, like from a dream, the expanse of the field - or so it seems to a child at the age - and the stone buffalos.
And that was just one of the ways we squandered time, following my parents around where they wanted to go. My father also had a friend who sold dried goods (ikan bilis and other fishy smelling things) and we would go and visit the store so that he could chat with him for hours and hours...
Now, I see my friends, parents themselves, following their children around for their classes and so on. And I wonder if it was because I didn't have those classes to attend, or it was because... I don't know.
It's a weird memory - those water buffalos - quite out of place or time. But it is a precious and interesting memory. Thinking back, those water buffalos, and the boredom, probably meaningfully influenced my imagination and interest in the arts. Yet, my parents certainly didn't deliberately intend for it to become a part of my education.
Monday, 6 September 2010
Liger
You might have seen this creature before, perhaps having been on a package tour to Korea, like I have, and even having captured a better picture than this one.If you haven't seen it, surely you must have had heard of it before.
It's a liger - an offspring from a parent who is a lion and another, a tiger.
I make it sound so trivial - when I discuss it like that.
But really, take a good look at it, and tune out the cheap voices and act-smart perspectives that ring in the shallower parts of our minds... and realise that the world is a beautiful place for ligers to exist.
Maybe out there are fish made of sea-cucumbers, or parrots shaped like donkeys...
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Gravekerbs
In the past, they used to bury the dead in either churches' yards or cemeteries located in outskirts of town.
Nowadays, the dead are usually cremated, and even if we want to bury them, we don't have enough space for everyone in our graveyards or cemeteries. This is not yet catering for the population boom and the aging population etc. etc. factors pointing to an impending demand increase.
Do you think they will ever consider putting up the dead in those patches of grass by the roads, as in, those little plots bounded by road kerbs, lying between the pavements and the roads?
This idea came to me when I contemplated how the frangipani plants are grown on road traffic islands and the above mentioned little plots of kerb-grass. You know, frangipanis used to be associated with graveyards, where they, well, grew. This led to me thinking about how graves are constantly being exhumed to give way to development, and then, why not let their existence integrate with ours and move them into our living spaces too?
In a way, this will help our community to integrate better. Oh you live in Jurong East St X, Block YYY? Wow. Cool! My grandpa's grandpa lives there too, near Block YYZ, by the road!
Being surrounded by the dead would also help remind us on the fragility of life and appreciate our limited time left.
It'd be interesting how the graves would be marked. I think headstones are necessary, out of respect, and so people know not to let their dogs poop over the remains of other people's grandpa's grandpa. Then some of the less fortunate may choose to rent out the back of those stones as advertising space.
Somehow, when my time comes, I think I'd rather be buried than cremated. There's something more comforting about decaying messily and returning to nature, than getting torched, powdered, and encased in a marble, or ceramic, jar to be kept on a shelf. Even if it means I'd get dog pooping on my remains every now and then, or that the back of my headstone would feature an ad, which I hope to be for Tiger Beer or something nice but not bras or slimming centres. Bra ads are kinda strange to look at, in my opinion.
Nowadays, the dead are usually cremated, and even if we want to bury them, we don't have enough space for everyone in our graveyards or cemeteries. This is not yet catering for the population boom and the aging population etc. etc. factors pointing to an impending demand increase.
Do you think they will ever consider putting up the dead in those patches of grass by the roads, as in, those little plots bounded by road kerbs, lying between the pavements and the roads?
This idea came to me when I contemplated how the frangipani plants are grown on road traffic islands and the above mentioned little plots of kerb-grass. You know, frangipanis used to be associated with graveyards, where they, well, grew. This led to me thinking about how graves are constantly being exhumed to give way to development, and then, why not let their existence integrate with ours and move them into our living spaces too?
In a way, this will help our community to integrate better. Oh you live in Jurong East St X, Block YYY? Wow. Cool! My grandpa's grandpa lives there too, near Block YYZ, by the road!
Being surrounded by the dead would also help remind us on the fragility of life and appreciate our limited time left.
It'd be interesting how the graves would be marked. I think headstones are necessary, out of respect, and so people know not to let their dogs poop over the remains of other people's grandpa's grandpa. Then some of the less fortunate may choose to rent out the back of those stones as advertising space.
Somehow, when my time comes, I think I'd rather be buried than cremated. There's something more comforting about decaying messily and returning to nature, than getting torched, powdered, and encased in a marble, or ceramic, jar to be kept on a shelf. Even if it means I'd get dog pooping on my remains every now and then, or that the back of my headstone would feature an ad, which I hope to be for Tiger Beer or something nice but not bras or slimming centres. Bra ads are kinda strange to look at, in my opinion.
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Little Red Riding Hood went to visit the witch
"Go eat a little piece of shit," said the witch to Little Red Riding Hood, who asked back,
"But why?" in her act-innocent manner.
"You said you wanted to bewitch the wolf, right? Since you are in love with him?"
"Well, I wouldn't say I'm in love with him, but yes... I want him to fall for me."
"Then go and eat a little piece of shit. I mean his shit. It's actually a fairly economic spell, you know."
"That's disgusting! I asked you for a love potion!"
"Gee," said the witch as she lit up another cigarette and thought about how it didn't pay to be kind, "As if you'd know more than me. You must have been reading too much stupid teenage novels or what. Anyway, if you really want it in potion form, then pay me about a thousand bucks or so, and I'd give it to you in potion form. Liquid, right? In your little world, all potions have to be in liquid form, right?"
"They tend to be... It's something for me to put in his food, right?" Little Red wanted to start devising a plan.
"No, you'd have to take it yourself. Why would you think the problem is with him? For not being in love with you? Of course you are the one who needs the potion, to make you better, so that he'd fall for you."
"Tsk," The Little Red pulled up her riding hood over her head. She did not like the idea that she was not good enough for the wolf. She was also disappointed at how straight forward the affair would be, and she wouldn't have to devise of any schemes to show off her deviousness. Yet she couldn't forget how the wolf snubbed her. Who was he to give her the cold shoulder, right? What the fuck? She must make him love her.
"So?" the witch exhaled her smoke into Little Red's face, "Will it be the potion for you, or not? It usually cost a thousand and six hundred and sixty-six. But since you're so cute as to wanna do it with a wolf, I'd let you have it for a discount."
"How much?"
"Maybe ten percent? You'd have to pay sixty percent as deposit first though. If you're okay with it, then just fill out this form, and sign here. You gotta give me his correct name and address so I don't get the wrong wolf, yeah? And any descriptors or whatever. You wouldn't want the wrong wolf falling for you."
"Don't worry I'd show you his photo. How much would it cost for having two wolves fall for me then?"
"Woah! Woah!" The witch widened her eyes, "You're kind of a sick little girl eh. You really didn't look like it."
"Tsk. Just answer the question."
"As separate potions or combined into one? You want them to fall for you at the same time, or..."
"At the same time."
The witch inhaled deeply and looked towards the ceiling, "It'd cost twice as more."
"No discount?"
"Same. Ten percent."
"Lend me your calculator," Little Red asked. She thought it would be nice to let the wolf have some competition and experience some jealously. She had roll-out a clever scheme somehow. The total came up to be 4,500 after discount, but instead she proposed: "How about three wolves for 4,000?"
"Woah. Little Red... Three? At the same time? Now, now, don't be hasty..."
"Tsk. I'm not being hasty. How about it?"
"Okay. Okay. I'm not one to judge," the witch took over the calculator and pretended to do some maths. "Nope, it'd have to be at least 4,500. It's complicated now that it's 3 wolves. And at the same time! I might get found out. 4,500 is already the discounted price."
"Fine, whatever then," Little Red started to fill out the form, "I have no specific preference which 2 other wolves it should be, but just make sure they are handsome, eligible, and preferably sought after. Can I trust you to do that for me?"
"Do you like them old or young? Big or small sized?"
"As long as they're handsome, then it's fine. At least, they should be as good looking as the first one. Here's his picture," Little Red showed the picture of the wolf on her phone to the witch, who agreed that he was quite a handsome wolf.
As she was making her payment, Little Red was plotting a cheesy, Korean-drama-style, love story between the three wolves and her. Little did she know that the witch's potion would make them want to have sex with her so much that they would eventually rape her, because that was just what all love potions were meant for - to let the other party want to make love to the potion consumer. In her case, the other parties would come after her. Lesser did she know that the potion was really going to be made of three little pieces of shit from the three wolves.
And perhaps some chocolate syrup. The witch thought. And some Ribena. To musk the taste. And tequila. To musk the smell. And to give it the 'kick'. Little Red would probably think that potions should have a kick...
Going around to collect and melt the three pieces of shit would be horrid, but 4,500 is good money. The witch briefly wondered if Little Red, being so open-minded, would make a good apprentice (she was thinking of hiring one), but nah, Little Red was probably too romantic to get anything done properly. The witch made a mental note to save any extra ingredients, since Little Red seemed like the type to come back for seconds.
"But why?" in her act-innocent manner.
"You said you wanted to bewitch the wolf, right? Since you are in love with him?"
"Well, I wouldn't say I'm in love with him, but yes... I want him to fall for me."
"Then go and eat a little piece of shit. I mean his shit. It's actually a fairly economic spell, you know."
"That's disgusting! I asked you for a love potion!"
"Gee," said the witch as she lit up another cigarette and thought about how it didn't pay to be kind, "As if you'd know more than me. You must have been reading too much stupid teenage novels or what. Anyway, if you really want it in potion form, then pay me about a thousand bucks or so, and I'd give it to you in potion form. Liquid, right? In your little world, all potions have to be in liquid form, right?"
"They tend to be... It's something for me to put in his food, right?" Little Red wanted to start devising a plan.
"No, you'd have to take it yourself. Why would you think the problem is with him? For not being in love with you? Of course you are the one who needs the potion, to make you better, so that he'd fall for you."
"Tsk," The Little Red pulled up her riding hood over her head. She did not like the idea that she was not good enough for the wolf. She was also disappointed at how straight forward the affair would be, and she wouldn't have to devise of any schemes to show off her deviousness. Yet she couldn't forget how the wolf snubbed her. Who was he to give her the cold shoulder, right? What the fuck? She must make him love her.
"So?" the witch exhaled her smoke into Little Red's face, "Will it be the potion for you, or not? It usually cost a thousand and six hundred and sixty-six. But since you're so cute as to wanna do it with a wolf, I'd let you have it for a discount."
"How much?"
"Maybe ten percent? You'd have to pay sixty percent as deposit first though. If you're okay with it, then just fill out this form, and sign here. You gotta give me his correct name and address so I don't get the wrong wolf, yeah? And any descriptors or whatever. You wouldn't want the wrong wolf falling for you."
"Don't worry I'd show you his photo. How much would it cost for having two wolves fall for me then?"
"Woah! Woah!" The witch widened her eyes, "You're kind of a sick little girl eh. You really didn't look like it."
"Tsk. Just answer the question."
"As separate potions or combined into one? You want them to fall for you at the same time, or..."
"At the same time."
The witch inhaled deeply and looked towards the ceiling, "It'd cost twice as more."
"No discount?"
"Same. Ten percent."
"Lend me your calculator," Little Red asked. She thought it would be nice to let the wolf have some competition and experience some jealously. She had roll-out a clever scheme somehow. The total came up to be 4,500 after discount, but instead she proposed: "How about three wolves for 4,000?"
"Woah. Little Red... Three? At the same time? Now, now, don't be hasty..."
"Tsk. I'm not being hasty. How about it?"
"Okay. Okay. I'm not one to judge," the witch took over the calculator and pretended to do some maths. "Nope, it'd have to be at least 4,500. It's complicated now that it's 3 wolves. And at the same time! I might get found out. 4,500 is already the discounted price."
"Fine, whatever then," Little Red started to fill out the form, "I have no specific preference which 2 other wolves it should be, but just make sure they are handsome, eligible, and preferably sought after. Can I trust you to do that for me?"
"Do you like them old or young? Big or small sized?"
"As long as they're handsome, then it's fine. At least, they should be as good looking as the first one. Here's his picture," Little Red showed the picture of the wolf on her phone to the witch, who agreed that he was quite a handsome wolf.
As she was making her payment, Little Red was plotting a cheesy, Korean-drama-style, love story between the three wolves and her. Little did she know that the witch's potion would make them want to have sex with her so much that they would eventually rape her, because that was just what all love potions were meant for - to let the other party want to make love to the potion consumer. In her case, the other parties would come after her. Lesser did she know that the potion was really going to be made of three little pieces of shit from the three wolves.
And perhaps some chocolate syrup. The witch thought. And some Ribena. To musk the taste. And tequila. To musk the smell. And to give it the 'kick'. Little Red would probably think that potions should have a kick...
Going around to collect and melt the three pieces of shit would be horrid, but 4,500 is good money. The witch briefly wondered if Little Red, being so open-minded, would make a good apprentice (she was thinking of hiring one), but nah, Little Red was probably too romantic to get anything done properly. The witch made a mental note to save any extra ingredients, since Little Red seemed like the type to come back for seconds.
Saturday, 31 July 2010
You've called?
You've called?
I was away
From my phone,
By the time I reached it,
You had hung up.
I did not return your call.
Since it's about time anyway,
That I should pretend that
It's about time
To have had deleted your number away.
So for the record,
I don't know
You've called that day.
Actually on that day,
I was in quite a disarray -
My boss spoke to me in a bad way,
I was not feeling well
And hearing from you...
Hearing you say... anything...
Might have made me give away
How I would have needed a while
to get over that you have finally called,
Especially since
It's been a while since
I've gone.
I was away
From my phone,
By the time I reached it,
You had hung up.
I did not return your call.
Since it's about time anyway,
That I should pretend that
It's about time
To have had deleted your number away.
So for the record,
I don't know
You've called that day.
Actually on that day,
I was in quite a disarray -
My boss spoke to me in a bad way,
I was not feeling well
And hearing from you...
Hearing you say... anything...
Might have made me give away
How I would have needed a while
to get over that you have finally called,
Especially since
It's been a while since
I've gone.
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Wood-blocked
Simon would drag his feet along the corridor, trying to peep through her window, with secret hopes of seeing her changing, or the silouhette of her changing; he usually only saw at her desk, reading, or, at best, drying her long curly hair with a towel.
It has been over half a year since he noticed her. Mum said they were there all along, having moved in over 10 years ago; it embarrassed him that he hadn't notice her earlier, but perhaps, it was because she caught his eyes now that she didn't wear school uniforms and was more attractive. More likely though, it was because he had recently reached puberty.
He wanted to know her and thought that the age gap could be a barrier to their potential relationship. Thus, he had to present his maturity to her.
He decided to pursue an interest of hers and impress her with his in-depth knowledge of the subject. He noticed that she mostly read on fluid mechanics, programming, and once, she was with a book on japanese wood-block prints. He decided that the craft of wood-block printing would be most easy to pick-up compared to the other two subjects. He didn't even know where to start with the mechanics and programmes but he knew that his school's bookshop sold materials required for wood-block printing - so at least he had a headstart in that direction.
He then studied very hard on wood-block prints: watching instructive videos on youtube and whatever, reading books and websites on the great masters, studying the wood-block art of bijinga (or portraits of beautiful women) especially those by Kunichika, and studying contemporary art of pornography.
When he thought he was ready, he set out to make a portrait of her, designing it from his imagination and his intimate knowledge of her that he gathered through his voyeuring. She and her portrait were by then, the stuff of his prayers and dreams. He would, of course, masturbate thinking about her, as well as the composition of her portrait, as he wanted to capture the spirit of his lust and admiration. He imagined her in ways that he had to vowed not to ever confess, even to her, even if they got married and had twelve grandchildren, and become bored out of their souls watching sakura wither when they are having their 50th honeymoon in Japan at seventy-ish years old - they say women's sexual peak came later.
When he was just about to start carving the wood, he realised that her relationship status on facebook went from "single" to "being in a relationship" with this bulky, new-urban-male, canoeist who looked stupid as a stump.
Simon was heart-broken especially when he realised she didn't always come home every night after getting into a relationship - she was staying over at her boyfriend's hostel - that idiot even plastered photos of their hugging and kissing on a blog of bad English. The idiot was training to be an engineer too, apparently.
Simon was so frustrated and sad that he put off his art for a long while, until he decided that taking a lover would only better prepare her body for himself. He carved her name onto his thigh and collected his bits of flesh and blood with a bottle - he suddenly thought that it would be the perfect colour of her lips for the portrait, and if diluted adequately with his cum, the perfect colour for her nipples. Then he started to collect his other bodily excreta... He would bring the portrait to her when it's completed, no doubt she would be touched by the sincerity expressed in it and agree to be with him forever. Yes, the portrait must be perfect.
The portrait must be perfect, even if it took years to complete and do-overs were necessary. It had to be absolutely perfect. Even if she moved away from his corridor, he shouldn't rush it. Anyway, he never lost sight of her - and it'd be great to pretend to be finally reunited with her - he would bump into her or something and bring her to movies and dinners, before confessing the admiration he had since he was thirteen years old. She would be touched, it would be a hollywood-romance moment - maybe Jack Neo would want to make their love story into a movie - and no it wouldn't matter that Jack Neo was involved in the sex scandals - "Simon and Lilian" would be too perfect together to let any scandal taint them, their love would be so bright that all shadows would be illuminated from everything else. No, it would be called "Lilian and Simon". Her name should come first.
Yes, "Lilian and Simon" would be perfect.
It has been over half a year since he noticed her. Mum said they were there all along, having moved in over 10 years ago; it embarrassed him that he hadn't notice her earlier, but perhaps, it was because she caught his eyes now that she didn't wear school uniforms and was more attractive. More likely though, it was because he had recently reached puberty.
He wanted to know her and thought that the age gap could be a barrier to their potential relationship. Thus, he had to present his maturity to her.
He decided to pursue an interest of hers and impress her with his in-depth knowledge of the subject. He noticed that she mostly read on fluid mechanics, programming, and once, she was with a book on japanese wood-block prints. He decided that the craft of wood-block printing would be most easy to pick-up compared to the other two subjects. He didn't even know where to start with the mechanics and programmes but he knew that his school's bookshop sold materials required for wood-block printing - so at least he had a headstart in that direction.
He then studied very hard on wood-block prints: watching instructive videos on youtube and whatever, reading books and websites on the great masters, studying the wood-block art of bijinga (or portraits of beautiful women) especially those by Kunichika, and studying contemporary art of pornography.
When he thought he was ready, he set out to make a portrait of her, designing it from his imagination and his intimate knowledge of her that he gathered through his voyeuring. She and her portrait were by then, the stuff of his prayers and dreams. He would, of course, masturbate thinking about her, as well as the composition of her portrait, as he wanted to capture the spirit of his lust and admiration. He imagined her in ways that he had to vowed not to ever confess, even to her, even if they got married and had twelve grandchildren, and become bored out of their souls watching sakura wither when they are having their 50th honeymoon in Japan at seventy-ish years old - they say women's sexual peak came later.
When he was just about to start carving the wood, he realised that her relationship status on facebook went from "single" to "being in a relationship" with this bulky, new-urban-male, canoeist who looked stupid as a stump.
Simon was heart-broken especially when he realised she didn't always come home every night after getting into a relationship - she was staying over at her boyfriend's hostel - that idiot even plastered photos of their hugging and kissing on a blog of bad English. The idiot was training to be an engineer too, apparently.
Simon was so frustrated and sad that he put off his art for a long while, until he decided that taking a lover would only better prepare her body for himself. He carved her name onto his thigh and collected his bits of flesh and blood with a bottle - he suddenly thought that it would be the perfect colour of her lips for the portrait, and if diluted adequately with his cum, the perfect colour for her nipples. Then he started to collect his other bodily excreta... He would bring the portrait to her when it's completed, no doubt she would be touched by the sincerity expressed in it and agree to be with him forever. Yes, the portrait must be perfect.
The portrait must be perfect, even if it took years to complete and do-overs were necessary. It had to be absolutely perfect. Even if she moved away from his corridor, he shouldn't rush it. Anyway, he never lost sight of her - and it'd be great to pretend to be finally reunited with her - he would bump into her or something and bring her to movies and dinners, before confessing the admiration he had since he was thirteen years old. She would be touched, it would be a hollywood-romance moment - maybe Jack Neo would want to make their love story into a movie - and no it wouldn't matter that Jack Neo was involved in the sex scandals - "Simon and Lilian" would be too perfect together to let any scandal taint them, their love would be so bright that all shadows would be illuminated from everything else. No, it would be called "Lilian and Simon". Her name should come first.
Yes, "Lilian and Simon" would be perfect.
Saturday, 5 June 2010
The Tragedy of the Siberian Tiger
There was a Siberian tiger who developed an unfortunate case of odor of the feet. It was not known how he came to contract odor of the feet, but the doctor said he should keep his feet dry, which was to his tough luck having to live in, well, snowy Siberia and to be slogging around in at least ankle-deep snow pretty much most of the time.
It grew so bad that it threatened his very livelihood. Potential prey would smell him approaching and run far away before he even got close enough to think of approaching them. He only knew that they got away when he came across the taunts they wrote in the snow (e.g. "To S. T.: your feet fucking stinks") with their pee, which also stank, but not as much as his feet did.
They were deers, mostly.
He tried to turn vegetarian and discovered an allergy to soy protein, resulting in a case of severe rash he’d rather not talk about.
He would have died of starvation, if not having first killed himself, from the stress and depression, by banging his head repeatedly against a tree until the skull broke and cut his brain, resulting in intracranial haemorrhage, which actually wouldn't have killed him if he had received prompt medical attention, which of course, he didn't receive.
It grew so bad that it threatened his very livelihood. Potential prey would smell him approaching and run far away before he even got close enough to think of approaching them. He only knew that they got away when he came across the taunts they wrote in the snow (e.g. "To S. T.: your feet fucking stinks") with their pee, which also stank, but not as much as his feet did.
They were deers, mostly.
He tried to turn vegetarian and discovered an allergy to soy protein, resulting in a case of severe rash he’d rather not talk about.
He would have died of starvation, if not having first killed himself, from the stress and depression, by banging his head repeatedly against a tree until the skull broke and cut his brain, resulting in intracranial haemorrhage, which actually wouldn't have killed him if he had received prompt medical attention, which of course, he didn't receive.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Of a Lion and a Siren (Part II)
This went on for some time and the air was filled with sentiments of love and sadness that permeated the animal kingdom. After being taken aback by their beloved son's weird fetish for a fish, and getting over it, the royal lion family tried to source for solutions to bring the lovers together. Through some recommendations, they got to know a powerful witch, also known as Ponyo from the cliff, who came from the land of the rising sun.
Ponyo was touched by the love story between the Simba the lion prince and Ariel the giant arapaima fish, and it reminded her of when she was young and foolish in love. She asked the couple to choose whether she should turn Simba into an arapaima - an offer to which Ariel and the royal family strongly objected, or to turn Ariel into a lioness - an offer to which Simba strongly objected and Ariel quietly objected. They loved each other in their present forms, and while their love and beauty was beyond skin deep, it was also hard to deny how their appearances were an integral part of who they were and loved.
Ponyo teasingly offered to give Simba a tail and Arial, feet. The couple rejected this idea arguing that this would only unite them with both being freaks of nature as they would still be unable to consummate their love, which was really the crux of the issue.
Eventually, Ponyo, the benevolent, allowed them to have the magic to be lions one day and arapaimas the next, whatever was their choices. She warned them, however, that they should never make experimental love when one was a lion and the other a fish, no matter how kinky they might feel, and made them promise her with their favourite swear words. They shrugged and agreed quickly; at that point, they were not yet able to imagine why they would ever want to do that, since they were precisely begging for the ability to transform themselves to become a matching couple.
Thus, they lived happily ever after... until they gave birth to a son, who was a merlion, and who also had bad problems with his bowel movements and motion sickness and had to swim around but would vomit for hours on end when he came to land.
Simba and Ariel tried to approach Ponyo for help, instead they were reprimanded by Ponyo sternly, "I warned you! And you promised that you would not have done that! No, I shall not reverse it, you both should know better to love him for who he is." Simba tried to turn on his charm, but Ponyo slammed the door in his aged majestic face, almost trapping his drooping whiskers.
It was ironic that while the baby was still in his mother's womb, his parents had already announced that he was to be named him "Sireneo" - a combination of the word "Leo" that represented his paternal heritage and "Siren" that represented his mother. They felt doubly guilty that their son's name was mawkishly apt.
Sireneo was sensible and didn't blame his parents for his freakish looks, poor health, and complicated name that he had to almost always repeat twice whenever he was asked for it. He was okay with being a merlion really. He had a few good friends from school and work (he was the second son and not in line to inherit the throne) and generally lived meaningfully - going about his businesses and doing the things he wanted to do despite his poor health condition.
A few arapaimas and lionesses had crushes on him, but he expressed that he would rather be alone. His parents would secretly hope that he would one day fall in love so true that the love would too, move Ponyo to grant him the magic of transformation, but he never fell in love. When asked by them, he would shrug and reply, "some beings are like that" or "not everyone is like you two, always going on about love, blah, blah". Truthfully, he did not see the big deal about relationships, and was sick of being told of his parents' love stories; he usually thought to remain as a bachelor except for the rare occasions when he wondered if he just hadn't met the right person yet.
(sneak.)
Ponyo was touched by the love story between the Simba the lion prince and Ariel the giant arapaima fish, and it reminded her of when she was young and foolish in love. She asked the couple to choose whether she should turn Simba into an arapaima - an offer to which Ariel and the royal family strongly objected, or to turn Ariel into a lioness - an offer to which Simba strongly objected and Ariel quietly objected. They loved each other in their present forms, and while their love and beauty was beyond skin deep, it was also hard to deny how their appearances were an integral part of who they were and loved.
Ponyo teasingly offered to give Simba a tail and Arial, feet. The couple rejected this idea arguing that this would only unite them with both being freaks of nature as they would still be unable to consummate their love, which was really the crux of the issue.
Eventually, Ponyo, the benevolent, allowed them to have the magic to be lions one day and arapaimas the next, whatever was their choices. She warned them, however, that they should never make experimental love when one was a lion and the other a fish, no matter how kinky they might feel, and made them promise her with their favourite swear words. They shrugged and agreed quickly; at that point, they were not yet able to imagine why they would ever want to do that, since they were precisely begging for the ability to transform themselves to become a matching couple.
Thus, they lived happily ever after... until they gave birth to a son, who was a merlion, and who also had bad problems with his bowel movements and motion sickness and had to swim around but would vomit for hours on end when he came to land.
Simba and Ariel tried to approach Ponyo for help, instead they were reprimanded by Ponyo sternly, "I warned you! And you promised that you would not have done that! No, I shall not reverse it, you both should know better to love him for who he is." Simba tried to turn on his charm, but Ponyo slammed the door in his aged majestic face, almost trapping his drooping whiskers.
It was ironic that while the baby was still in his mother's womb, his parents had already announced that he was to be named him "Sireneo" - a combination of the word "Leo" that represented his paternal heritage and "Siren" that represented his mother. They felt doubly guilty that their son's name was mawkishly apt.
Sireneo was sensible and didn't blame his parents for his freakish looks, poor health, and complicated name that he had to almost always repeat twice whenever he was asked for it. He was okay with being a merlion really. He had a few good friends from school and work (he was the second son and not in line to inherit the throne) and generally lived meaningfully - going about his businesses and doing the things he wanted to do despite his poor health condition.
A few arapaimas and lionesses had crushes on him, but he expressed that he would rather be alone. His parents would secretly hope that he would one day fall in love so true that the love would too, move Ponyo to grant him the magic of transformation, but he never fell in love. When asked by them, he would shrug and reply, "some beings are like that" or "not everyone is like you two, always going on about love, blah, blah". Truthfully, he did not see the big deal about relationships, and was sick of being told of his parents' love stories; he usually thought to remain as a bachelor except for the rare occasions when he wondered if he just hadn't met the right person yet.
(sneak.)
Saturday, 22 May 2010
Of a Lion and a Siren (Part I)
Once a upon a time, in a land ruled by lions and lionesses, there was a prince. His parents wanted to give him a simple name, as they believed that a common name would help make their child easier to raise - like a commoner's child, so he was named Simba.
Simba had a spoilt childhood, with mothers who spoilt him, and a chauvinistic father, who believed in giving him a Confucian upbringing. He was rather stout and cumbersome as a cub, but grew up with a strong manly chest (did a lot of push ups in his teen) and a proud brownish-golden mane. Simba was so handsome that the flies, that typically hung around lion's snouts to feed on the leftovers from their mouths not wiped clean after every meal, did not dare to go near his unclean snout, for fear of being poisoned by his majestic, royal beauty.
One warm evening, Simba decided to take a stroll by a river he seldom visited. It was then when he heard an attractive song of a low seductive growling that he had never before heard of. Like that of a siren, the song drew Simba to followed it to the source - at a river bend, there was a group of giant arapaima fish - all almost as long as himself or longer still - surrounding a female arapaima, who glowed with a pearly, green-and-reddish gleam in the moonlight, who was singing the seductive song. The group of arapaimas were so enchanted with the performance that they did not notice Simba's approach.
Simba had heard of other lions speaking of the giant arapaimas living in the river, but had seldom seen them for himself, let alone to witness such a large gathering of these giant fishes. Seeing the way, their gigantic bodies float near the surface with the ebbing water calmed Simba, and the scene accompanied the soothing song of the female arapaima well. The more he listened to the song, the more he was convinced that it was the most beautiful music in his father's kingdom.
Simba crouched down and remained silent, not wanting to disrupt the performance; only when the song was complete, he let out a gentle roar of appreciation for the mystical arapaima's song.
Startled, the gathered arapaimas submerged and scattered quickly, except for the singer, however, who was scared stiff and simply remained where she was.
Simba got up and apologise for disrupting the party; at the same time, when his eyes met o those of the singing arapaima, he realised he was glad to have the time alone.
"Lord Simba," the arapaima said humbly, paying her respects.
"Good evening, fish. I was intending to introduce myself, but I suppose you already know who I am," said Simba with a smile, turning on his charm.
"That is but of course, you are our Lord. Your parents' picture hangs in our classrooms and school hall where we recite the national pledge in school every Monday," said the arapaima in a flurry before stopping with embarrassment by her seeming incoherence. "I mean... and you look like your father."
"Relax. Don't worry. I'm not uptight like him. Please introduce yourself?" urged Simba. He approached the water.
"I am Ariel, Daughter of Arapaima III of the Eastern River," she said as she swam backwards away from him.
"Show me your face, come closer to the bank."
"Are you intending to eat me, Sire?" Ariel said, apprehensively.
Simba laughed at her innocence before reassuring her that he was not, and he did not like to eat bony fish.
Ariel hesitated and realised that she should not defy the will of the prince. She propelled herself towards him, and swam at a shallower part of the river, where her shimmering scales caught more of the moonlight, and revealed a tiny lunar rainbow on almost every scale.
This was the moment when Simba fell in love with Ariel.
"I like your song, Ariel. Would you sing for me every night?" Not wishing to be rejected, he added, "I command it?"
"If you so wish, my lord, it would be my pleasure. But wouldn't you be bored with the same song? I would be bored singing it every night. How about I teach the song to your royal performers and perhaps they could sing it to you in the comforts of your palace."
"Excuse me," blushed Simba, "I meant, I like your singing, Ariel. You could sing any song you wish."
This made Ariel blushed too.
Simba returned to the river bend every night to the river to listen to Ariel sing. Sometimes she sang lively songs that were typically sang to araipaman children to teach them some lessons about being araipama; sometimes she sang slow songs, telling the stories to the ancestors. Simba listened with relish as the songs taught Simba much about Ariel's life.
He learned the different colours on her scales that changed with the phase of the moon. By looking at the scales, he learnt to tell which day of the month it was. Sometimes, he was so enchanted by Ariel that he would approach the river, and stand in the river, so much as being knee deep in the water. Whenever he wet his mane, he would rather regret it as he would have to comb his hair back, and that would worry him about looking like an ah-beng.
Over time, Ariel too began to take a liking to Simba and saw past his attempts to act cool and was moved by his pathetic and sincere attempts to impress her by bringing her rare game meat - like lamb chops and hot dogs. She was more practical, knowing that they would never be able to be together. Slowly, she began to sing love songs about star-crossed lovers or unrequited relationships. Simba, delighted to know that his love was finally being reciprocated by Ariel, yet at the same time, he was sad that she would keep reminding him of how they would not be together.
Simba had a spoilt childhood, with mothers who spoilt him, and a chauvinistic father, who believed in giving him a Confucian upbringing. He was rather stout and cumbersome as a cub, but grew up with a strong manly chest (did a lot of push ups in his teen) and a proud brownish-golden mane. Simba was so handsome that the flies, that typically hung around lion's snouts to feed on the leftovers from their mouths not wiped clean after every meal, did not dare to go near his unclean snout, for fear of being poisoned by his majestic, royal beauty.
One warm evening, Simba decided to take a stroll by a river he seldom visited. It was then when he heard an attractive song of a low seductive growling that he had never before heard of. Like that of a siren, the song drew Simba to followed it to the source - at a river bend, there was a group of giant arapaima fish - all almost as long as himself or longer still - surrounding a female arapaima, who glowed with a pearly, green-and-reddish gleam in the moonlight, who was singing the seductive song. The group of arapaimas were so enchanted with the performance that they did not notice Simba's approach.
Simba had heard of other lions speaking of the giant arapaimas living in the river, but had seldom seen them for himself, let alone to witness such a large gathering of these giant fishes. Seeing the way, their gigantic bodies float near the surface with the ebbing water calmed Simba, and the scene accompanied the soothing song of the female arapaima well. The more he listened to the song, the more he was convinced that it was the most beautiful music in his father's kingdom.
Simba crouched down and remained silent, not wanting to disrupt the performance; only when the song was complete, he let out a gentle roar of appreciation for the mystical arapaima's song.
Startled, the gathered arapaimas submerged and scattered quickly, except for the singer, however, who was scared stiff and simply remained where she was.
Simba got up and apologise for disrupting the party; at the same time, when his eyes met o those of the singing arapaima, he realised he was glad to have the time alone.
"Lord Simba," the arapaima said humbly, paying her respects.
"Good evening, fish. I was intending to introduce myself, but I suppose you already know who I am," said Simba with a smile, turning on his charm.
"That is but of course, you are our Lord. Your parents' picture hangs in our classrooms and school hall where we recite the national pledge in school every Monday," said the arapaima in a flurry before stopping with embarrassment by her seeming incoherence. "I mean... and you look like your father."
"Relax. Don't worry. I'm not uptight like him. Please introduce yourself?" urged Simba. He approached the water.
"I am Ariel, Daughter of Arapaima III of the Eastern River," she said as she swam backwards away from him.
"Show me your face, come closer to the bank."
"Are you intending to eat me, Sire?" Ariel said, apprehensively.
Simba laughed at her innocence before reassuring her that he was not, and he did not like to eat bony fish.
Ariel hesitated and realised that she should not defy the will of the prince. She propelled herself towards him, and swam at a shallower part of the river, where her shimmering scales caught more of the moonlight, and revealed a tiny lunar rainbow on almost every scale.
This was the moment when Simba fell in love with Ariel.
"I like your song, Ariel. Would you sing for me every night?" Not wishing to be rejected, he added, "I command it?"
"If you so wish, my lord, it would be my pleasure. But wouldn't you be bored with the same song? I would be bored singing it every night. How about I teach the song to your royal performers and perhaps they could sing it to you in the comforts of your palace."
"Excuse me," blushed Simba, "I meant, I like your singing, Ariel. You could sing any song you wish."
This made Ariel blushed too.
Simba returned to the river bend every night to the river to listen to Ariel sing. Sometimes she sang lively songs that were typically sang to araipaman children to teach them some lessons about being araipama; sometimes she sang slow songs, telling the stories to the ancestors. Simba listened with relish as the songs taught Simba much about Ariel's life.
He learned the different colours on her scales that changed with the phase of the moon. By looking at the scales, he learnt to tell which day of the month it was. Sometimes, he was so enchanted by Ariel that he would approach the river, and stand in the river, so much as being knee deep in the water. Whenever he wet his mane, he would rather regret it as he would have to comb his hair back, and that would worry him about looking like an ah-beng.
Over time, Ariel too began to take a liking to Simba and saw past his attempts to act cool and was moved by his pathetic and sincere attempts to impress her by bringing her rare game meat - like lamb chops and hot dogs. She was more practical, knowing that they would never be able to be together. Slowly, she began to sing love songs about star-crossed lovers or unrequited relationships. Simba, delighted to know that his love was finally being reciprocated by Ariel, yet at the same time, he was sad that she would keep reminding him of how they would not be together.
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Pigeon
There was a pigeon who preferred walking over flying. It was not that he was a bad flyer. He merely preferred walking.
"Ah, you guys go ahead, I'll meet you there," the pigeon would say back and began to walk in the said direction, as his friends flew off towards wherever.
That was what happened one day, when the pigeon was crossing the road, to catch up with his friends... Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot... when a car drove by and ran him over.
"Eh, there's food over there!" His friends would say and point to a kopitiam across the road where food was possibly shrewn on the ground.
"Ah, you guys go ahead, I'll meet you there," the pigeon would say back and began to walk in the said direction, as his friends flew off towards wherever.
That was what happened one day, when the pigeon was crossing the road, to catch up with his friends... Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot... when a car drove by and ran him over.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Untitled
Sometimes, when I drink too much coffee, I can listen to my thoughts as they start bickering with themselves and my to-do lists in my head, to be specific they are around the pre-frontal cortex area... I can find a nice place about two-thought-steps (if thoughts could take steps) back from behind my eye-brows and nestle between two gyri (i.e. between a fold of the brain), as if to sit on a bean-bag, and start wondering why my thoughts bother to replay themselves with things I can't really be bothered with; until, I start wondering about the name of the part of my brain I would be sitting at, and realise I cannot recall the brain's anatomy I pretended to study at school, then the space between the imagined distinct consciousnesses will gradually fade, and it will be noisy all over my head, and I will get lost again.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
The Auntie who sold fish cakes and other-fish-related-processed-food-products
There was a woman, in her early forties, who sold fish cakes and other-fish-related-processed-foodstuff at a snack store that she owned. She was gradually turning into a fish. Well, sort of.
It was not as if she grew scales or fins or gills, but her lower lip became larger and protruded, as did her eye balls. Her jawline and cheeks sagged, and her nose grew flatter and the distancebetween the nose and mouth, grew wider. In the emoticon sense, her expression grew to be more like this -
8 (
- which, if one would stretch his imagination in the right direction, is an expression that would really make any woman look more like a fish, let alone a woman who was sort of gradually turning into one.
The last time she had sex, which was the first time after a long time since the previous time, with her husband, with whom she married for a reason she could no longer remember and who was 15 years older than her, something even more strange happened - her belly began to swelled up over the next few weeks days. A few months later, before she could concluded that she was pregnant, she gave birth, on the toilet bowl, to about four-dozen fish balls. After getting over the shock, she collected the fishballs, and rinsed it clean, and deep fried them, and put them on satay sticks, three-by-threes, and took stock, and deep fried them again just to be sure they were thoroughly cooked, and brought them to the store for sale - as the special item of the day.
Since the incident, she did not want to have sex anymore, and her sexual frustration made her sulk even more, which in turn, made her look like a fish lagi even more than ever.
It was not as if she grew scales or fins or gills, but her lower lip became larger and protruded, as did her eye balls. Her jawline and cheeks sagged, and her nose grew flatter and the distancebetween the nose and mouth, grew wider. In the emoticon sense, her expression grew to be more like this -
8 (
- which, if one would stretch his imagination in the right direction, is an expression that would really make any woman look more like a fish, let alone a woman who was sort of gradually turning into one.
The last time she had sex, which was the first time after a long time since the previous time, with her husband, with whom she married for a reason she could no longer remember and who was 15 years older than her, something even more strange happened - her belly began to swelled up over the next few weeks days. A few months later, before she could concluded that she was pregnant, she gave birth, on the toilet bowl, to about four-dozen fish balls. After getting over the shock, she collected the fishballs, and rinsed it clean, and deep fried them, and put them on satay sticks, three-by-threes, and took stock, and deep fried them again just to be sure they were thoroughly cooked, and brought them to the store for sale - as the special item of the day.
Since the incident, she did not want to have sex anymore, and her sexual frustration made her sulk even more, which in turn, made her look like a fish lagi even more than ever.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Seven tau-gay legs
There was a spider, that had seven legs, that were not proper spider legs - black and hairy. Instead, they were made of tau-gay, or green bean sprouts. She had lost her eighth leg in a fight.
Despite her handicap, the spider was with a lively spirit who enjoyed the occasional practical joke. Once, she was in a store, that was somewhat like Singapore's version of the Metropolitan Museum of Art store, pretending to be brooch. When she was caught, she laughed mischievously in such an infectious way that nobody could then fault her for trying.
She would have danced a little if she could have, but she could not, for her legs were soft and flimsy. She had accidentally stepped into somebody's warm bath water, and her tau-gay legs got scalded and became somewhat flimsy ever after. This was to her greatest regret, as she had loved dancing.
If she felt bad for herself, she would think of her friend, a spider who has cabbage leaves for his legs. Imagine, all eight legs! Cabbage leaves! All too big to fit on a little spider! And all slightly curved! He never walked a single step from birth. If he needed to get anywhere, he would roll his way there. Like a tumbleweed! Except he bruised more easily! Let alone dance!
Tau-gay legs are really not too bad! Or so the spider with tau-gay legs would remind herself comfortingly. She would sing or hum her favourite song to herself. It was ABBA's Dancing Queen. If she let anyone hear her, they could feel sorry for her and go on and on about how dancing was not a big deal. This would then make everything more difficult to bear.
Despite her handicap, the spider was with a lively spirit who enjoyed the occasional practical joke. Once, she was in a store, that was somewhat like Singapore's version of the Metropolitan Museum of Art store, pretending to be brooch. When she was caught, she laughed mischievously in such an infectious way that nobody could then fault her for trying.
She would have danced a little if she could have, but she could not, for her legs were soft and flimsy. She had accidentally stepped into somebody's warm bath water, and her tau-gay legs got scalded and became somewhat flimsy ever after. This was to her greatest regret, as she had loved dancing.
If she felt bad for herself, she would think of her friend, a spider who has cabbage leaves for his legs. Imagine, all eight legs! Cabbage leaves! All too big to fit on a little spider! And all slightly curved! He never walked a single step from birth. If he needed to get anywhere, he would roll his way there. Like a tumbleweed! Except he bruised more easily! Let alone dance!
Tau-gay legs are really not too bad! Or so the spider with tau-gay legs would remind herself comfortingly. She would sing or hum her favourite song to herself. It was ABBA's Dancing Queen. If she let anyone hear her, they could feel sorry for her and go on and on about how dancing was not a big deal. This would then make everything more difficult to bear.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Jazz and Recorders
I am writing this from Starbucks at Liang Court. They are playing jazz on the speakers.
I always thought that hard-core jazz was difficult to understand. By "hard-core jazz", I mean the music created with a piano, drums or bass perhaps, and a saxaphone or trumpet or both; I mean the jazz without Ella Fitzgerald or the boys from Ipanema or anybody singing in general; I mean the music without songs.
I vaguely wish that instead of making me learn how to play "three blind mice" on the bloody plastic recorder, my music teachers from school taught me how to appreciate jazz, or baroque, for that matter. Then again, it is only because they did, that I can take it for granted that I once knew, and have since forgotten, how to play the recorder.
I must remember this the next time I hear the neighbours' kid practising the recorder - that dreaded-elongated-whistle-of-a-thing. And I should be glad that there will always be some neighbours' kid practising the recorder. (Hey, I was "that kid" before.) And that maybe they are just trying very hard to teach me how to appreciate jazz.
I always thought that hard-core jazz was difficult to understand. By "hard-core jazz", I mean the music created with a piano, drums or bass perhaps, and a saxaphone or trumpet or both; I mean the jazz without Ella Fitzgerald or the boys from Ipanema or anybody singing in general; I mean the music without songs.
I vaguely wish that instead of making me learn how to play "three blind mice" on the bloody plastic recorder, my music teachers from school taught me how to appreciate jazz, or baroque, for that matter. Then again, it is only because they did, that I can take it for granted that I once knew, and have since forgotten, how to play the recorder.
I must remember this the next time I hear the neighbours' kid practising the recorder - that dreaded-elongated-whistle-of-a-thing. And I should be glad that there will always be some neighbours' kid practising the recorder. (Hey, I was "that kid" before.) And that maybe they are just trying very hard to teach me how to appreciate jazz.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Farting Freely - A big plus point of Teleworking
I've read many articles about the pros and cons of teleworking. Mostly, these articles discuss how working from home saves commuting time, but threatens the family life. I think they leave out the most important point that makes working from home worthwhile - teleworking allows one to fart freely.
When one is at the office, one cannot fart freely, for fear of being laughed at, discriminated against, or nicknamed the 'fart boy/girl'. Although this causes not so much distress (as it's been a bane since young - when we had to go to school - except that we do not seem to have so much gas when we were younger), it is still a luxury for one to be able to fart freely, as loud as whatever, when one works from home. It is especially great, when you let out a loud fart, and then you realise it's a smelly one, and that it's one of those farts that make your stomach feel instantaneously lighter. Every time I fart one of those farts, I think to myself, wow, this is what makes teleworking worthwhile.
I tend to think that this mostly affects people who work in air-conditioned-high-rise-offices more than any other type of work. This is because we have the tendency to pretend that we're very serious and clean and picture perfect, and therefore, feel the most fart-conscious at work. As we have to be in the office for most part of our waking hours, farting freely is a luxury. Maybe if we all change our attitude on farts, it would make us less uptight.
The doctors and nurses have to be serious and clean and perfect, but they're educated in the biological working of the bodies, and so, are obliged to accept that farting is natural and not a big deal. I also suspect that it would be difficult to disapprove every fart as their patients won't really care and would fart anyhow, and disapproving every fart would make them unnecessarily busier. Thus, farting freely is not a big deal.
It's gotta do with the air-conditioning, I think, as not all hospitals are air-conditioned. Also, I suspect people working in the service-line at air-conditioned departmental stores will also feel the pressure to fart carefully, but they can't really work from home anyway, so well, let's not rub in it.
To digress a bit, I suspect rice-farmers, of all professions, will be the most cool about farting, because they're always bending down, and it is quite impossible to stifle or muffle farts in that butt-sticking-in-the-air position.
I wonder if people are motivated to climb the corporate ladder so that they can get their private rooms (and not share offices with others at work) so that they can fart whenever. And that explains why those "high up" are not so keen on teleworking, because being in their private rooms, they would no longer deem the freedom to fart as luxurious. Maybe when I find my way there and get a room to myself, and I get to fart big farts freely, I would think to myself, wow, this is what makes being a "Director" worthwhile.
In the meantime, I shall be satisfied with maintaining that farting freely is a big plus point of teleworking, or shall I say, it's a big Pro(ooT!) of teleworking.
If your family is also disapproving on your loud farts, then this 'pro of working from home' doesn't apply for you. Sorry then, that it sucks to be you.
The above arguments should also apply to the freedom to dig one's nose.
When one is at the office, one cannot fart freely, for fear of being laughed at, discriminated against, or nicknamed the 'fart boy/girl'. Although this causes not so much distress (as it's been a bane since young - when we had to go to school - except that we do not seem to have so much gas when we were younger), it is still a luxury for one to be able to fart freely, as loud as whatever, when one works from home. It is especially great, when you let out a loud fart, and then you realise it's a smelly one, and that it's one of those farts that make your stomach feel instantaneously lighter. Every time I fart one of those farts, I think to myself, wow, this is what makes teleworking worthwhile.
I tend to think that this mostly affects people who work in air-conditioned-high-rise-offices more than any other type of work. This is because we have the tendency to pretend that we're very serious and clean and picture perfect, and therefore, feel the most fart-conscious at work. As we have to be in the office for most part of our waking hours, farting freely is a luxury. Maybe if we all change our attitude on farts, it would make us less uptight.
The doctors and nurses have to be serious and clean and perfect, but they're educated in the biological working of the bodies, and so, are obliged to accept that farting is natural and not a big deal. I also suspect that it would be difficult to disapprove every fart as their patients won't really care and would fart anyhow, and disapproving every fart would make them unnecessarily busier. Thus, farting freely is not a big deal.
It's gotta do with the air-conditioning, I think, as not all hospitals are air-conditioned. Also, I suspect people working in the service-line at air-conditioned departmental stores will also feel the pressure to fart carefully, but they can't really work from home anyway, so well, let's not rub in it.
To digress a bit, I suspect rice-farmers, of all professions, will be the most cool about farting, because they're always bending down, and it is quite impossible to stifle or muffle farts in that butt-sticking-in-the-air position.
I wonder if people are motivated to climb the corporate ladder so that they can get their private rooms (and not share offices with others at work) so that they can fart whenever. And that explains why those "high up" are not so keen on teleworking, because being in their private rooms, they would no longer deem the freedom to fart as luxurious. Maybe when I find my way there and get a room to myself, and I get to fart big farts freely, I would think to myself, wow, this is what makes being a "Director" worthwhile.
In the meantime, I shall be satisfied with maintaining that farting freely is a big plus point of teleworking, or shall I say, it's a big Pro(ooT!) of teleworking.
If your family is also disapproving on your loud farts, then this 'pro of working from home' doesn't apply for you. Sorry then, that it sucks to be you.
The above arguments should also apply to the freedom to dig one's nose.
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Days of Thunder
A couple of days ago, I bought a copy of Days of Thunder on VCD for only 1 dollar. Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman starred in that movie. I watched it a few times when I was a kid - from tv-re-runs.
When I first saw the VCD and the screaming yellow gaudy price label, I thought to myself, wow, as lowly as VCDs are regarded nowadays with the threat of high-def DVDs and blue-ray DVDs that they say are not really DVDs... 1 dollar is really too cheap to sell such a classic movie's VCD, right? Surely it was worth a little bit more. Maybe 2 or 3 dollars more perhaps?
After all, the one bad thing about VCDs are just that one has to get up in the middle of a movie to change from Disk 1 to Disk 2. Sure, sure, they say that the DVD visual and audio quality is way better, but really, how much quality does one need? Like how many languages are you going to read the subtitles in? Anyway, I'd rather save some dollars from this expenditure and spend it on increasing the thread-count of my pillow case.
I decided to buy the vcd. I thought that it might be nice to re-run it on my laptop on a casual evening and fall asleep watching the pretty faces fall in love. I remember reading from a magazine article about how when Tom Cruise first met Nicole Kidman on the set of Days of Thunder, he was so smitten that he got his people to call up her people, and they dated, and fell in love, and got married, and attended many Hollywood gala-events together. It's a really great fairytale on-screen-couple becomes off-screen-couple kinda story.
Nevermind that her hair was all frizzy and he's actually shorter than her. Nevermind that they're both broken up, leaving us with that weird-but-not-weird-in-an-interesting-way-movie, Eyes Wide Shut, and are probably off sleeping with other people now. I figured that I could allow them to remain, in my impression, as in my childhood, and as in "Far and Away" (another movie starring them as a couple), in love and happily married to each other. It takes a little bit of denial, but it doesn't really hurt anybody and nobody cares, so I just indulged me.
When my computer couldn't read the VCD initially, I was understandably a little disappointed, even though it was just a dollar investment's - I had hyped myself up.
Yet (after re-starting my computer and successfully played the VCD), it was not as disappointing, as when I was watching the show mid-way into the Disk 2 when the disk suddenly jumped - from just when they were flirting to the part they were lying in bed together. My immediate thoughts were:
ALAMAK. No wonder (this VCDs) were sold for 1 dollar only. Nowadays still got censor out the sex scene one meh?
There weren't even the rolling around in bed. It just fast forwarded to the after-sex talk.
Precisely in realising that the censor standards were more stringent then than now, this incident then really drove home the point that the time now is different from before. The time has changed and so have I, for I am not just contented with romantic fairy-tales, and I am not accepting of abrupt censorship anymore. I am now an adult, and I want to watch unrealistically-beautiful people, whom I would never meet in real life, having hot passionate sex.
And I suppose this is part of growing up.
When I first saw the VCD and the screaming yellow gaudy price label, I thought to myself, wow, as lowly as VCDs are regarded nowadays with the threat of high-def DVDs and blue-ray DVDs that they say are not really DVDs... 1 dollar is really too cheap to sell such a classic movie's VCD, right? Surely it was worth a little bit more. Maybe 2 or 3 dollars more perhaps?
After all, the one bad thing about VCDs are just that one has to get up in the middle of a movie to change from Disk 1 to Disk 2. Sure, sure, they say that the DVD visual and audio quality is way better, but really, how much quality does one need? Like how many languages are you going to read the subtitles in? Anyway, I'd rather save some dollars from this expenditure and spend it on increasing the thread-count of my pillow case.
I decided to buy the vcd. I thought that it might be nice to re-run it on my laptop on a casual evening and fall asleep watching the pretty faces fall in love. I remember reading from a magazine article about how when Tom Cruise first met Nicole Kidman on the set of Days of Thunder, he was so smitten that he got his people to call up her people, and they dated, and fell in love, and got married, and attended many Hollywood gala-events together. It's a really great fairytale on-screen-couple becomes off-screen-couple kinda story.
Nevermind that her hair was all frizzy and he's actually shorter than her. Nevermind that they're both broken up, leaving us with that weird-but-not-weird-in-an-
When my computer couldn't read the VCD initially, I was understandably a little disappointed, even though it was just a dollar investment's - I had hyped myself up.
Yet
ALAMAK. No wonder (this VCDs) were sold for 1 dollar only. Nowadays still got censor out the sex scene one meh?
There weren't even the rolling around in bed. It just fast forwarded to the after-sex talk.
Precisely in realising that the censor standards were more stringent then than now, this incident then really drove home the point that the time now is different from before. The time has changed and so have I, for I am not just contented with romantic fairy-tales, and I am not accepting of abrupt censorship anymore. I am now an adult, and I want to watch unrealistically-beautiful people, whom I would never meet in real life, having hot passionate sex.
And I suppose this is part of growing up.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
White hair and Pulp fiction
Today, I changed my hair-parting a bit and discovered that I had new strands of white hair. I knew that they were growing on my head from around that spot, and I would like to believe that they were the ones I had plucked out, say maybe last month, but they're probably new, for mainly two reasons.
One, the ones that I had plucked out were about the same length as the ones I spotted today. I don't think my hair can grow so fast.
And two, I plucked out two strands of hair last month, now there seems to be more than two. I don't exactly know how many more there are, but there seems to be more than two. This, to my dismay, means that if we let the number of strands of white hair on my head presently be "X", then altogether, the strands white hair on my head = "X"+2.
I just rolled my eyes at myself. I know you couldn't see it, so I thought I would tell you I just rolled my eyes. You would think that one would need a mirror to roll one's eyes at oneself, but since the rolling of eyes doesn't require the receiving party to witness the eye-rolling, I didn't need to see myself to roll my eyes at myself.
Well, anyway, at a time when I was feeling less sensible, I formulated a theory that since it must be caused by something that my head was constantly being overexposed to (whoever heard of white armpit hairs?), and that I spend most of my time in the office or generally indoors... Fluorescent lighting might just be the cause of these things.
My parents, on the other hand, will recall with pride that when they were about my age - which is under 30 years old, they didn't have problems with white hair growing. And then, with concern, and instead of subscribing to my theory, they would say that white hair grows because life is generally more stressful now than before, and that I'm ageing, faster.
Come to think about it, that sounds rather strange too, actually. How could I possibly be ageing faster? It suggests that not only I can travel faster than they travelled, I can grow to a biological age in a shorter time than what they took to grow to the same biological age.
I haven't read Einstein's theory of time or relativity or magic enough to even know if it's remotely related to the topic at all or not, but... the idea that people are ageing faster than they were before, sounds like a spark of a plot for a futuristic movie starring Christopher Lloyd.
Christopher Lloyd, incidentally, also has a head full of white hair and thus, he would be perfect for the movie. Perhaps, it would feature how, into the distant future, babies might be born one minute and then pass away of old age in the next hour.
Maybe it would not be so much of a Physics-fiction movie but a Bio-fi type. (I'm also thinking they should start being more specific than just calling all of them "sci-fi" movies.) Perhaps, we could have one scientist, who's into stem-cell research or whatever else there is to research on, postulate that the fluorescent lights caused the super-ageing process; and there'd be another scientist, maybe a pretty psychiatrist, who would try to attribute it to stress. Then Christopher Lloyd's character could be yapping around and pretend to explain some scientific thing. Then, just to throw in some moral to the story, Master Pai Mei would come by and say that white hair is due to having too much pride. In the olden times, only old people would have white hair because it's a sign of being too filled with their own ideas, and that now even youngsters have white hair, and that's really too bad.
I know I could have saved us a lot of bullshit if I had just changed my parting again to hide all the white hair on my head, and honestly treasure my life better and spend it more wisely, before the time comes for me to be unable to hide white hairs by changing partings. It's just like how I know I could change my take on any experience and make it moralistic and learn from it and be wiser and develop myself better; say for example, in this case, I could learn to be less proud and self-obsessed about the white hair. But really, even if I saved up on the bullshit, I would spend it on other bullshit anyway. And then eventually, I'd just grow old and die. (White hair is an obvious symbol for the transience of life.)
Maybe Samuel L Jackson could cameo in the movie, sporting a black suit and a crown of brown hair in tight curls, reprising his role as Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction and kill everybody.
Himself included. Just for a dash of dramatic irony.
It sounds like a good B-rate movie already.
One, the ones that I had plucked out were about the same length as the ones I spotted today. I don't think my hair can grow so fast.
And two, I plucked out two strands of hair last month, now there seems to be more than two. I don't exactly know how many more there are, but there seems to be more than two. This, to my dismay, means that if we let the number of strands of white hair on my head presently be "X", then altogether, the strands white hair on my head = "X"+2.
I just rolled my eyes at myself. I know you couldn't see it, so I thought I would tell you I just rolled my eyes. You would think that one would need a mirror to roll one's eyes at oneself, but since the rolling of eyes doesn't require the receiving party to witness the eye-rolling, I didn't need to see myself to roll my eyes at myself.
Well, anyway, at a time when I was feeling less sensible, I formulated a theory that since it must be caused by something that my head was constantly being overexposed to (whoever heard of white armpit hairs?), and that I spend most of my time in the office or generally indoors... Fluorescent lighting might just be the cause of these things.
My parents, on the other hand, will recall with pride that when they were about my age - which is under 30 years old, they didn't have problems with white hair growing. And then, with concern, and instead of subscribing to my theory, they would say that white hair grows because life is generally more stressful now than before, and that I'm ageing, faster.
Come to think about it, that sounds rather strange too, actually. How could I possibly be ageing faster? It suggests that not only I can travel faster than they travelled, I can grow to a biological age in a shorter time than what they took to grow to the same biological age.
I haven't read Einstein's theory of time or relativity or magic enough to even know if it's remotely related to the topic at all or not, but... the idea that people are ageing faster than they were before, sounds like a spark of a plot for a futuristic movie starring Christopher Lloyd.
Christopher Lloyd, incidentally, also has a head full of white hair and thus, he would be perfect for the movie. Perhaps, it would feature how, into the distant future, babies might be born one minute and then pass away of old age in the next hour.
Maybe it would not be so much of a Physics-fiction movie but a Bio-fi type. (I'm also thinking they should start being more specific than just calling all of them "sci-fi" movies.) Perhaps, we could have one scientist, who's into stem-cell research or whatever else there is to research on, postulate that the fluorescent lights caused the super-ageing process; and there'd be another scientist, maybe a pretty psychiatrist, who would try to attribute it to stress. Then Christopher Lloyd's character could be yapping around and pretend to explain some scientific thing. Then, just to throw in some moral to the story, Master Pai Mei would come by and say that white hair is due to having too much pride. In the olden times, only old people would have white hair because it's a sign of being too filled with their own ideas, and that now even youngsters have white hair, and that's really too bad.
I know I could have saved us a lot of bullshit if I had just changed my parting again to hide all the white hair on my head, and honestly treasure my life better and spend it more wisely, before the time comes for me to be unable to hide white hairs by changing partings. It's just like how I know I could change my take on any experience and make it moralistic and learn from it and be wiser and develop myself better; say for example, in this case, I could learn to be less proud and self-obsessed about the white hair. But really, even if I saved up on the bullshit, I would spend it on other bullshit anyway. And then eventually, I'd just grow old and die. (White hair is an obvious symbol for the transience of life.)
Maybe Samuel L Jackson could cameo in the movie, sporting a black suit and a crown of brown hair in tight curls, reprising his role as Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction and kill everybody.
Himself included. Just for a dash of dramatic irony.
It sounds like a good B-rate movie already.
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Hedonistic Sunday (for Mr Akutagawa) Part 3 of 3 - "Gentle Ghosts"
In Spinning Gears, Mr A drank whisky, and was on medication for insomnia (from which an overdose killed Akutagawa). I do not understand why though, he didn’t seem to drink some more. He didn’t seem to abuse alcohol. I’m saying this from my impression of him from the stories, and I have not yet researched on how he lived his life. While not advocating that alcohol use is for everyone, I think he could have given it a go before killing himself, even as a short-term solution of sorts.
For me usually just two pints of Kilkenny would do to silence the voices in my head. Voices? Alright. It’s not that I hallucinate hearing people talking, or anything serious like Mr A’s condition, but I do think too much about this and that, and I have my ghosts. Ghosts, for example, that help me think in my sleep about my mother after the alarm interruptions and decide for me to get up to change clothes. Ghosts that make me run around in my dreams and that don’t allow me rest enough to appreciate a good night’s rest. Ghosts, I would say that are gentle, and can be quietened with a bit of Killies or drinks drunk in the proper way.
I wonder if anybody had introduced Mr Akutagawa to the proper way of drinking.
Now, I am not an expert at drinking, really, really; but, even I note that there are roughly two ways to drink.
One way to drink is the “drowning-one’s-sorrow-way”. This is not the proper way. But, anyway... before drinking, one prepares by marinating one’s temperament with sense of self-righteousness and self-pity. Then, before drinking each drink, one must visualise that the drink is infused with the validation of self-righteousness. One may choose to season the drinks with a dash of spite or self-destructiveness. This may help to increase the sense of self-pity. Since drinking this way, would lead to more depressive and lonely feelings, letting one become a worse sourpuss and more dislikeable, it is recommended to only drink like this with people whose friendships one wants to put to the test.
The second way to drink is the “proper way”. This is the way I would want to recommend to Mr Akutagawa. One begins with planting a magic seed of the desire to escape from the real world in one’s heart before drinking; after which, one must allow the alcohol to nurture this little seed. When it begins to germinate, one may notice how things surrounding the little seedling become warped, illogical, and trivially amusing. That is the power of the magic seed. Shower the seedling with delight, smiles, and some more drinks. When it grows big enough for one to climb onto a branch and swing around when the wind blows, one should slow down on the drinks, but still drink enough to sustain the tree so that it doesn’t wither and die.
After drinking the proper way, one would likely find oneself drifting off to sleep, having been rocked like a baby on a tree top. Well, at least until the branch breaks, all is well. Maybe, Mr Akutagawa would have liked that for a while, and be less hard on himself.
I didn’t write the above for Mr Akutagawa to read, because I know that he is dead, and I’m not delusional like that. I do dedicate this to Mr Akutagawa, even though I’m not sure why, perhaps it is out of my respect for him, or perhaps, it’s some sort of thank you or hello. I may wonder if what I wrote is good enough to be dedicated to him, but I must stop myself from pursuing the matter, for it is inconsequential.
What is more consequential, is that I wrote the above for you to read, in case you have not been properly introduced to anything I had just elaborated upon, and you needed to be introduced. As usual, I hope that it was enjoyable to you to read.
What is most consequential, may be that I wrote it mainly for myself, in case I forget myself, for a lot of things can happen in seven years.
For me usually just two pints of Kilkenny would do to silence the voices in my head. Voices? Alright. It’s not that I hallucinate hearing people talking, or anything serious like Mr A’s condition, but I do think too much about this and that, and I have my ghosts. Ghosts, for example, that help me think in my sleep about my mother after the alarm interruptions and decide for me to get up to change clothes. Ghosts that make me run around in my dreams and that don’t allow me rest enough to appreciate a good night’s rest. Ghosts, I would say that are gentle, and can be quietened with a bit of Killies or drinks drunk in the proper way.
I wonder if anybody had introduced Mr Akutagawa to the proper way of drinking.
Now, I am not an expert at drinking, really, really; but, even I note that there are roughly two ways to drink.
One way to drink is the “drowning-one’s-sorrow-way”. This is not the proper way. But, anyway... before drinking, one prepares by marinating one’s temperament with sense of self-righteousness and self-pity. Then, before drinking each drink, one must visualise that the drink is infused with the validation of self-righteousness. One may choose to season the drinks with a dash of spite or self-destructiveness. This may help to increase the sense of self-pity. Since drinking this way, would lead to more depressive and lonely feelings, letting one become a worse sourpuss and more dislikeable, it is recommended to only drink like this with people whose friendships one wants to put to the test.
The second way to drink is the “proper way”. This is the way I would want to recommend to Mr Akutagawa. One begins with planting a magic seed of the desire to escape from the real world in one’s heart before drinking; after which, one must allow the alcohol to nurture this little seed. When it begins to germinate, one may notice how things surrounding the little seedling become warped, illogical, and trivially amusing. That is the power of the magic seed. Shower the seedling with delight, smiles, and some more drinks. When it grows big enough for one to climb onto a branch and swing around when the wind blows, one should slow down on the drinks, but still drink enough to sustain the tree so that it doesn’t wither and die.
After drinking the proper way, one would likely find oneself drifting off to sleep, having been rocked like a baby on a tree top. Well, at least until the branch breaks, all is well. Maybe, Mr Akutagawa would have liked that for a while, and be less hard on himself.
I didn’t write the above for Mr Akutagawa to read, because I know that he is dead, and I’m not delusional like that. I do dedicate this to Mr Akutagawa, even though I’m not sure why, perhaps it is out of my respect for him, or perhaps, it’s some sort of thank you or hello. I may wonder if what I wrote is good enough to be dedicated to him, but I must stop myself from pursuing the matter, for it is inconsequential.
What is more consequential, is that I wrote the above for you to read, in case you have not been properly introduced to anything I had just elaborated upon, and you needed to be introduced. As usual, I hope that it was enjoyable to you to read.
What is most consequential, may be that I wrote it mainly for myself, in case I forget myself, for a lot of things can happen in seven years.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Hedonistic Sunday (for Mr Akutagawa) Part 2 of 3 - "Mr Akutagawa"
I picked up a collection of Akutagawa’s stories. This is the first serious fiction book that I was finishing since a long time. I was down to the last story, which I read this morning, as my too-hot cup of coffee was cooling to the just-right temperature for me to drink big mouthfuls. I like very much to drink coffee like that.
The last story, Spinning Gears, apparently was an autobiographical account on Akutagawa’s neurosis and growing madness. This reminds me to confess that I used to spell neurosis as “neutrosis”. I think I was dyslexic, but many of my friends disagreed with this, which made me think that I had put in a commendable effort to pretend that I was not. No matter. This, too, I suppose, is inconsequential. I must remind myself that nobody is going to cut me any slack because I am a recovering dyslexic, or confused with being an ex-extrovert or whatever.
In the story, Mr A described the nature of his neurosis and paranoia. He described seeing translucent spinning gears, hence, the title of the piece. In real life, Akutagawa killed himself at the age of 35. That’s seven years away from how old I am now. When I first heard of Akutagawa and that he was a prodigious author who killed himself at the age of 35, I thought he was another one of those indulgent authors who had no responsibility towards their families and exhausted themselves with velvety chocolate melancholia, and who could not empathise with the rest of us, proletariats, who have to work for a living.
When I am through with the second story of the collection, though, I knew that I was wrong, and his melancholia had to be more sophisticated than I thought. He wrote about some endearing characters, among those who are horrifying. This shows that he must have recognised some very endearing aspects of life, just that it was not enough to sustain him. A man who could write with such precise and delicate sensitivity shouldn’t have been easily misled nor disillusioned by the mere superficial hypocrisy of his time. He must have tried very hard to find a philosophical way out of his hell.
The last story, Spinning Gears, apparently was an autobiographical account on Akutagawa’s neurosis and growing madness. This reminds me to confess that I used to spell neurosis as “neutrosis”. I think I was dyslexic, but many of my friends disagreed with this, which made me think that I had put in a commendable effort to pretend that I was not. No matter. This, too, I suppose, is inconsequential. I must remind myself that nobody is going to cut me any slack because I am a recovering dyslexic, or confused with being an ex-extrovert or whatever.
In the story, Mr A described the nature of his neurosis and paranoia. He described seeing translucent spinning gears, hence, the title of the piece. In real life, Akutagawa killed himself at the age of 35. That’s seven years away from how old I am now. When I first heard of Akutagawa and that he was a prodigious author who killed himself at the age of 35, I thought he was another one of those indulgent authors who had no responsibility towards their families and exhausted themselves with velvety chocolate melancholia, and who could not empathise with the rest of us, proletariats, who have to work for a living.
When I am through with the second story of the collection, though, I knew that I was wrong, and his melancholia had to be more sophisticated than I thought. He wrote about some endearing characters, among those who are horrifying. This shows that he must have recognised some very endearing aspects of life, just that it was not enough to sustain him. A man who could write with such precise and delicate sensitivity shouldn’t have been easily misled nor disillusioned by the mere superficial hypocrisy of his time. He must have tried very hard to find a philosophical way out of his hell.
Saturday, 30 January 2010
Hedonistic Sunday (for Mr Akutagawa) Part 1 of 3 - "Sunday"
Last night, I drank about two pints of Kilkenny (or Killies) at an over-priced pub. I knew that the Killies were overpriced, they were not the extremely tastiest beer I could have gotten, and I should probably have saved that money to give to my god-mother for the Chinese New Year. (My family’s tradition has it that children should give parents money for necessary preparation of CNY.) But, after the first pint, being mid-way of a contemplative discussion and nowhere in sight of reaching a conclusive-enough-revelation to advance my world-view, I wanted to drink more to nurture my growing drunken stupor. So, I got my friend to agree to order one more pint to share, following which, at my implicit insistence, we ordered one more pint.
I said I drank about two pints of Killies, but I probably drank closer to three. That was because my friend did not like them as much as I did. I suspect it was not because he disliked its taste, but just a sign of protest against how I theorise that drinking ales is less fattening than drinking lagers (his first pint was a Heineken). It would, however, be more convenient for the both of us, if we just attribute his abstentions to his social responsibility for having to drive us home afterwards, thus, I did not, and shall not, pursue the matter.
When I reached home, I fumbled for my keys as quietly as possible. I did not want to wake up the dog, which would surely then rush excitedly towards me for a pat on its head, which would in turn encourage it to jump up, and possibly scratch me with its nails. I wanted to avoid it since that might then remind me of the errands I had to run in the real world, such as having to bring the dog for a pedicure or something like that.
Luckily, I was quick and quiet enough, and made it to my bedroom without alarming anyone.
I did not bother to switch on the lights nor change out of my uncomfortable going-out-clothes. I simply laid on my bed, on my left side, and fell asleep.
I did not dream, or perhaps, I did and do not recall my dreams. Either way, it was a pleasant night’s rest. I never understand why I always feel the need to clarify how I might have merely forgotten my dreams, when I just want to say I did not dream.
The radio alarm clock sounded from about 6 am until it gave up trying to wake me up at about 7 am. Just as I was about to lift my hand to hit the “snooze” button, I distinctly heard it going out by itself. At this point, having built up too much potential energy, I turned to lie on my other side. I was satisfied that my childish-lethargy won over the adult-intention to start work early. (I had brought some work home to do over the weekend, maybe I will do them later today.)
About one hour later, I got up to change into my home-clothes. I had been thinking in my sleep, since the alarm episode, about changing. I thought about how my mother would occasionally, usually on Sunday mornings, come to nag at me for sleeping in or about some other mundane thing. I decided not to let her to find me still wearing yesterday’s going-out-clothes, for she might think that I had gotten so drunk that I couldn’t change myself. She wouldn’t have understood, even if I had tried to explain, that it wasn’t so much that I couldn’t, but rather, it was because I didn’t want to change at all. Falling asleep in going-out clothes can be very comfortable sometimes. It may be as comfortable as going back to sleep after breakfast, or falling asleep in one’s school uniform after coming back from school, or sleeping-in despite the alarm-clock’s blah-blah.
After changing to my home-clothes, I slept again, until about 10.30 am, when I had enough sleep and got up properly. I could tell from the quietness in the house that my parents have gone out. I asked R (our domestic helper) to make me a cup of coffee.
When I wake up, I like to drink coffee immediately, and before I brush my teeth. When I wake up, I also don’t like to talk to people before my senses have warmed up. Then again, maybe I just don’t like to talk to people, regardless of my senses. Lately, I have been wondering if I was truly introverted, though I’ve thought of myself as being a typical extrovert. It is inconsequential, I suppose. As I am writing this on a Sunday morning, I can’t think of anybody who would care if I’m extroverted or introverted, myself included.
I said I drank about two pints of Killies, but I probably drank closer to three. That was because my friend did not like them as much as I did. I suspect it was not because he disliked its taste, but just a sign of protest against how I theorise that drinking ales is less fattening than drinking lagers (his first pint was a Heineken). It would, however, be more convenient for the both of us, if we just attribute his abstentions to his social responsibility for having to drive us home afterwards, thus, I did not, and shall not, pursue the matter.
When I reached home, I fumbled for my keys as quietly as possible. I did not want to wake up the dog, which would surely then rush excitedly towards me for a pat on its head, which would in turn encourage it to jump up, and possibly scratch me with its nails. I wanted to avoid it since that might then remind me of the errands I had to run in the real world, such as having to bring the dog for a pedicure or something like that.
Luckily, I was quick and quiet enough, and made it to my bedroom without alarming anyone.
I did not bother to switch on the lights nor change out of my uncomfortable going-out-clothes. I simply laid on my bed, on my left side, and fell asleep.
I did not dream, or perhaps, I did and do not recall my dreams. Either way, it was a pleasant night’s rest. I never understand why I always feel the need to clarify how I might have merely forgotten my dreams, when I just want to say I did not dream.
The radio alarm clock sounded from about 6 am until it gave up trying to wake me up at about 7 am. Just as I was about to lift my hand to hit the “snooze” button, I distinctly heard it going out by itself. At this point, having built up too much potential energy, I turned to lie on my other side. I was satisfied that my childish-lethargy won over the adult-intention to start work early. (I had brought some work home to do over the weekend, maybe I will do them later today.)
About one hour later, I got up to change into my home-clothes. I had been thinking in my sleep, since the alarm episode, about changing. I thought about how my mother would occasionally, usually on Sunday mornings, come to nag at me for sleeping in or about some other mundane thing. I decided not to let her to find me still wearing yesterday’s going-out-clothes, for she might think that I had gotten so drunk that I couldn’t change myself. She wouldn’t have understood, even if I had tried to explain, that it wasn’t so much that I couldn’t, but rather, it was because I didn’t want to change at all. Falling asleep in going-out clothes can be very comfortable sometimes. It may be as comfortable as going back to sleep after breakfast, or falling asleep in one’s school uniform after coming back from school, or sleeping-in despite the alarm-clock’s blah-blah.
After changing to my home-clothes, I slept again, until about 10.30 am, when I had enough sleep and got up properly. I could tell from the quietness in the house that my parents have gone out. I asked R (our domestic helper) to make me a cup of coffee.
When I wake up, I like to drink coffee immediately, and before I brush my teeth. When I wake up, I also don’t like to talk to people before my senses have warmed up. Then again, maybe I just don’t like to talk to people, regardless of my senses. Lately, I have been wondering if I was truly introverted, though I’ve thought of myself as being a typical extrovert. It is inconsequential, I suppose. As I am writing this on a Sunday morning, I can’t think of anybody who would care if I’m extroverted or introverted, myself included.
Saturday, 23 January 2010
Observations (Jan 10)
- The bigger the leaves a particular species of bamboo has, the louder and slightly more bassy the rustling sound the bamboo makes when the wind passes by.
- When one first hears the trees sway in a strong gust of wind, it will take a moment, or two, for one to feel the wind in one's hair. The time between, as I have decided, is the definitive span of how long "a moment's time", or two, should be.
- The cicadas' songs sound like tinnituses - which are ringing or buzzing sounds in the ears that are not caused by external stimuli, such as the ringing sound one hears in bed after spending a night too long and near loud music speakers at a disco - except that they are more pleasant to listen to.
- On a pleasant enough day, the smell of dog shit may be bearable, as is the smell of one's own smelly feet. The smell of smelly feet has a salty quality, similar to that of the smell of salted fish. The smell of dog shit has a musky quality.
- The smell of one's own farts is usually bearable; when it is particularly smelly - then it may be even amusing. On the other hand, the smell of other people's farts is never ever bearable; and when it is particularly smelly, it may be amusing or annoying depending on whether one is in a good mood or if one enjoys the farter's company.
- A person with big nostrils may have developed them from the habit of digging one's nose with the index fingers. I have once seen a man with one nostril twice the size of the other and wondered if he had dug the smaller nostril by putting his finger through the bigger one, reaching in the smaller one from behind (through the pass where naughty little boys sometimes try to stick a piece of spaghetti across).
- They say people with "hooked-noses", or "parrot-noses" as the Chinese call them, tend to be devious and untrustworthy. I have, however, never once heard any one of them denying this. In this way, at least, they must be honest, if they are indeed devious and untrustworthy.
- When it is breezy, birds tend not to fly straight. They may fly in horizontal or vertical zig-zags, or in spirals or circles, almost as if their paths have become loopy because of the wind. Perhaps, they are playing. This does not seem to apply to larger birds. Incidentally, larger birds give me the impression that they are more serious and less inclined towards playing anyway.
Saturday, 16 January 2010
Purple Land of Golden Oats
Once upon a time, there lived a group of elephants in a land of purple grasses and golden oats. These elephants loved to eat golden oats all day. They ate so much golden oats until they shat shits of golden oats, and their hides turned a little golden at some parts.
In the purple land, these elephants had no natural predators, except time and age. Occasionally, they would get into quarrels amongst themselves but they would never fight. They did not know how to fight, for there was no violence in the purple land.
At least, that was until one day, when a human boy, who loved to eat brinjals, ate so much brinjal for dinner that, at night, he entered the purple land in his dreams. He was so overwhelmed by the magnificence of the gold that stood out shining brightly from the purple in the land. The brilliance of the gold and purple land nourished the seeds of corruption that laid hidden in his human heart with greed... They germinated. The boy wanted some of the gold for himself.
The boy schemed to capture an elephant to bring back home so that he could harvest the elephant's shit. This was because, after drawing some irresponsible conclusions, he had decided that the oats were golden because they were nourished by the elephants' golden shit. He could sell the shit, or grow some golden oats for sale, and he would become rich and eat all the brinjal he wanted.
The boy laid a trap to capture a little elephant. It was an elaborate trap, but an ineffective one, as he was soon found out. The elephants asked him why he was trying to capture an elephant, and if he had any difficulty that they could help he with. This moved the distraught boy (imagine being confronted by a herd of talking elephants in a foreign purple land), and he told them his true intentions.
His honesty, however, only repaid their kindness with implanting notions of greed, envy, and violence into the elephant's culture.
The boy was sent back with an elephants' kick in the behind.
Sometime later, when the boy became an old man, he returned to the purple land. It seemed that things changed.
Golden oats were farmed in plots of land and did not shine as brilliantly as before. Perhaps, as purple grasses were hardly to be seen, there was no contrast for the gold to stand out from the land.
There was a bustling industrial area, where metal works and machineries were constructed and sold. Elephants were haggling with each other over lower prices and other matters of business concerns. There were also cages to contain huge and obese elephants held in captivity, apparently for the harvesting of their waste-matter for the farms.
When the old man witnessed the scene, he felt so displaced that he forgot to keep out of sight. He was caught by the elephant police for trespassing.
Upon establishing his identity, the old man who was once the boy caused another sensation amongst the elephants. Some of the elephants wanted to celebrate his return, as he was the benefactor and founder of the modern purple land society (as was taught in the elephant schools). Some of the elder elephants, particularly those who were children of the civil war, wanted to hang him for corrupting the elephant culture and the purple land of peace as they remembered it.
Finally, a rich elephant merchant bought him and kept him as part of a private collection of humans. During this time, he was fed with brinjals for his meals. These were the sweetest brinjals that the old man had ever tasted. When he later found out that these brinjals grew from the coarse purple grass of the land, which were basically the weeds in the oat-farms owned by the merchant, the old man fell into depression until his eventual death, upon which he was flushed down the elephant's toilet bowl.
In the purple land, these elephants had no natural predators, except time and age. Occasionally, they would get into quarrels amongst themselves but they would never fight. They did not know how to fight, for there was no violence in the purple land.
At least, that was until one day, when a human boy, who loved to eat brinjals, ate so much brinjal for dinner that, at night, he entered the purple land in his dreams. He was so overwhelmed by the magnificence of the gold that stood out shining brightly from the purple in the land. The brilliance of the gold and purple land nourished the seeds of corruption that laid hidden in his human heart with greed... They germinated. The boy wanted some of the gold for himself.
The boy schemed to capture an elephant to bring back home so that he could harvest the elephant's shit. This was because, after drawing some irresponsible conclusions, he had decided that the oats were golden because they were nourished by the elephants' golden shit. He could sell the shit, or grow some golden oats for sale, and he would become rich and eat all the brinjal he wanted.
The boy laid a trap to capture a little elephant. It was an elaborate trap, but an ineffective one, as he was soon found out. The elephants asked him why he was trying to capture an elephant, and if he had any difficulty that they could help he with. This moved the distraught boy (imagine being confronted by a herd of talking elephants in a foreign purple land), and he told them his true intentions.
His honesty, however, only repaid their kindness with implanting notions of greed, envy, and violence into the elephant's culture.
The boy was sent back with an elephants' kick in the behind.
***
Sometime later, when the boy became an old man, he returned to the purple land. It seemed that things changed.
Golden oats were farmed in plots of land and did not shine as brilliantly as before. Perhaps, as purple grasses were hardly to be seen, there was no contrast for the gold to stand out from the land.
There was a bustling industrial area, where metal works and machineries were constructed and sold. Elephants were haggling with each other over lower prices and other matters of business concerns. There were also cages to contain huge and obese elephants held in captivity, apparently for the harvesting of their waste-matter for the farms.
When the old man witnessed the scene, he felt so displaced that he forgot to keep out of sight. He was caught by the elephant police for trespassing.
Upon establishing his identity, the old man who was once the boy caused another sensation amongst the elephants. Some of the elephants wanted to celebrate his return, as he was the benefactor and founder of the modern purple land society (as was taught in the elephant schools). Some of the elder elephants, particularly those who were children of the civil war, wanted to hang him for corrupting the elephant culture and the purple land of peace as they remembered it.
Finally, a rich elephant merchant bought him and kept him as part of a private collection of humans. During this time, he was fed with brinjals for his meals. These were the sweetest brinjals that the old man had ever tasted. When he later found out that these brinjals grew from the coarse purple grass of the land, which were basically the weeds in the oat-farms owned by the merchant, the old man fell into depression until his eventual death, upon which he was flushed down the elephant's toilet bowl.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Lenny's Video
He set up the video-camera on the tripod, positioned his chair to the suitable distance and height, watched the play-back of his test-shot, and adjusted the white balance.
Lenny was wearing his company polo-tee shirt. He was proud of getting into the company that they did not think he could have gotten a job in. He liked to wear the polo-tee shirt, thinking it makes a good impression; and, it was blue - his favourite colour - and it matched his jeans and favourite sneakers.
He had his hair styled especially for the occasion. He gave away his usual side-parting when he went to the hair-stylist yesterday and asked for a fashionable haircut. It was fashionable indeed. Possibly worth the sixty dollars more than what he would have paid if he went to his usual barber.
He liked it. It looked like one of the hairstyles David Beckham wore. That was a good thing. Girls liked David Beckham, right? The new haircut made him feel younger and more confident.
"Hi, I'm Lenny Lim. I'm 29 years old. I graduated from the school of engineering from Nanyang Technological University - a.k.a. N-T-U. I am currently a systems engineer, with this company," he held up the logo embossed on his polo-tee and grinned sheepishly.
"I have been working there for 4 years now. In terms of career prospects, I am ahead of my peers. This is proven by how I was promoted last year to an engineer's position. Those who joined the company around my time are still junior engineers."
He lifted the hand-drill into the camera's view. It was a new heavy duty Bosch in
green and black. He depressed the trigger a bit. It gave the loud and intimidating whirl that a professional hand-drill should make. This seemed to assure Lenny. He had practiced using the drill on something else to familiarise himself with how it worked, and he had since cleaned it.
Lenny looked at the rotating drill bit now coated with a fresh film of oil which caught the light coming through the curtains.
As if having forgotten and then suddenly recalling the camera, he nervously re-composed himself,
"Today, I would like to say sorry to... I mean, apologise... sincerely, to the two most important women in my life.
"Firstly, to my dearest mother, whose death I caused by coming to the world, for my failure to make her proud... Mother, please forgive me," he recited, "Then, to my most beloved Jenny, for... my bad behavior... against your wishes. I am sorry for hurting you, and taken advantage of the kindness you showed me. If you should ever find it in your heart, please forgive me...because I really love you dearly."
He tilted his head to the left and put the hand-drill to his right temple, which he had decided was the softest part of his skull, drilled a hole in his head, and killed himself.
(sneak.)
Lenny was wearing his company polo-tee shirt. He was proud of getting into the company that they did not think he could have gotten a job in. He liked to wear the polo-tee shirt, thinking it makes a good impression; and, it was blue - his favourite colour - and it matched his jeans and favourite sneakers.
He had his hair styled especially for the occasion. He gave away his usual side-parting when he went to the hair-stylist yesterday and asked for a fashionable haircut. It was fashionable indeed. Possibly worth the sixty dollars more than what he would have paid if he went to his usual barber.
He liked it. It looked like one of the hairstyles David Beckham wore. That was a good thing. Girls liked David Beckham, right? The new haircut made him feel younger and more confident.
"Hi, I'm Lenny Lim. I'm 29 years old. I graduated from the school of engineering from Nanyang Technological University - a.k.a. N-T-U. I am currently a systems engineer, with this company," he held up the logo embossed on his polo-tee and grinned sheepishly.
"I have been working there for 4 years now. In terms of career prospects, I am ahead of my peers. This is proven by how I was promoted last year to an engineer's position. Those who joined the company around my time are still junior engineers."
He lifted the hand-drill into the camera's view. It was a new heavy duty Bosch in
green and black. He depressed the trigger a bit. It gave the loud and intimidating whirl that a professional hand-drill should make. This seemed to assure Lenny. He had practiced using the drill on something else to familiarise himself with how it worked, and he had since cleaned it.
Lenny looked at the rotating drill bit now coated with a fresh film of oil which caught the light coming through the curtains.
As if having forgotten and then suddenly recalling the camera, he nervously re-composed himself,
"Today, I would like to say sorry to... I mean, apologise... sincerely, to the two most important women in my life.
"Firstly, to my dearest mother, whose death I caused by coming to the world, for my failure to make her proud... Mother, please forgive me," he recited, "Then, to my most beloved Jenny, for... my bad behavior... against your wishes. I am sorry for hurting you, and taken advantage of the kindness you showed me. If you should ever find it in your heart, please forgive me...because I really love you dearly."
He tilted his head to the left and put the hand-drill to his right temple, which he had decided was the softest part of his skull, drilled a hole in his head, and killed himself.
(sneak.)
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