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.
Saturday, 30 January 2010
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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