Yesterday night, when I was sleeping, Ali Baba came to whisper in my ear. He had a very sexy voice, and he told me that there's no need to doubt any further. He had met Mona Lisa himself, and Mona Lisa is a boy. He also said that in his next life, he was going to be an evil samurai who would have plundered many villages and violated many women, if not for his master who had fucked his backside so hard, and so many times that he could not shit properly, and he died of constipation or rectum infection of sorts, in the tragic end.
I said, okay. Him or you? Mona Lisa or you, Ali Baba?
He looked confused. Or rather, he must have looked confused, if I wasn't sleeping, and had my eyes opened, I would have been able to see his confused expression, but I was sleeping with my eyes closed and I couldn't see, so I can only presume that he looked confused, and presume that I am right, because he didn't answer me, now that leaves me with another mystery unsolved.
This teaches me that life is full of ironies. This is like how I like my clothes to be well ironed, but I don't quite know how to iron anything other than a hankercheif. I don't even know how to spell "hankerchief" properly. I can only spell it out and consider if it doesn't look quite right when I put the 'e' in from of the 'i'. Only after I switch it around a little bit then I decide that it looks better with the 'i' in front. So egocentric, isn't it, to put 'i' first? The hankerchief is used out of politeness and consideration for others, sorta, when one sneezes and whatever, no?
Oh well, anyway, after that Ali Baba didn't say anything already, either that, or I fell deeper asleep and didn't hear what he had to say.
Sorry, Ali Baba!
If you talk to me again, when I am sleeping, I can't promise you that I won't fall asleep when you are talking, because when I am sleeping I'm out of conscious control. So if you are listening to my story now, or reading this, from the internet, why don't you come and talk to me next time, when I'm not sleeping, or sleepy at all, for that matter. Then, I can promise you, that if you talk to me when I'm not sleeping or sleepy, that I will try my best to listen to you. I don't anyhow make that promise to anyone, you know. I only promise to try when I really mean it. That's one good thing about me, I suppose.
I'll even comment appropriately and not ask awkward questions about samurai afterlives.
I'll do that for you. So, what say you, eh?
(sneak)
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Softly
He was strumming my pain with his fingers...
Like it was his favourite guitar...
What a bloody sadistic fucker.
I can't believe I loved him.
Like it was his favourite guitar...
What a bloody sadistic fucker.
I can't believe I loved him.
Friday, 9 November 2007
xo angst.
Hello. Here is a confession.
I slept for too many hours today and I have a slight headache now.
I watched Sideways, this morning before lunch, and related with the depressing material too much more than I'd have liked to.
They should ban shows like that. It makes me feel like shit. The only kind of depressing shows they should make should be like those war shows, and the faces of the characters got blown into different kinds of proportions, and the audience goes,
"Woah, it sure sucks to be you."
It gets worse when I sleep for too many hours.
I fell asleep playing a game on my nokia phone. I was managing a "disco" and my aim was to get 300 people to be at my dance club at one time within 30 days.
I don't have a scooter.
And my adventures are not better than yours.
I'm sick of feeling cold. and warm. and the tightness in my neck and shoulders.
But I cannot think of anything to do about anything.
I slept for too many hours today and I have a slight headache now.
I watched Sideways, this morning before lunch, and related with the depressing material too much more than I'd have liked to.
They should ban shows like that. It makes me feel like shit. The only kind of depressing shows they should make should be like those war shows, and the faces of the characters got blown into different kinds of proportions, and the audience goes,
"Woah, it sure sucks to be you."
It gets worse when I sleep for too many hours.
I fell asleep playing a game on my nokia phone. I was managing a "disco" and my aim was to get 300 people to be at my dance club at one time within 30 days.
I don't have a scooter.
And my adventures are not better than yours.
I'm sick of feeling cold. and warm. and the tightness in my neck and shoulders.
But I cannot think of anything to do about anything.
Sunday, 28 October 2007
Stardust
She had always been careless about her oral hygiene, and found brushing her teeth a chore. In a bus, on her way to the dentist, she used her tongue to feel the cavity in her last upper tooth on the right, almost as if to make sure it was in place. Going to the dentist was like her adventure of the month. Going to the dentist alone was like a childish proclaimation that she was independent and she did not need anybody else to function. Going to the dentist was fun because she would spit out blood. She never flossed.
She thought if the dentist was to take her tooth out, she would have the tooth made into a pendant to wear around her neck. How sick would that be? She nearly giggled to herself. It would be like how the fallen star in Neil Gaiman's "Stardust" would climb to the tallest tower to be close to her sisters in the sky.
She thought of how she could put the broken tooth pendant into her mouth, like how she would do that with her pendants sometimes...The broken tooth would then be reunited with her other teeth. Although most of the time the broken tooth would be bored and lonely...
And then she suddenly realises that she didn't quite want to have her tooth removed at all. Quite frankly, she'd much rather have it in her gums til she dies. Surprised by her revelation, and how it had never occured to her before, she tongued her broken tooth more tenderly.
"Perhaps," she thought, "perhaps, I should brush my teeth more diligently from now on." She even considered flossing, briefly.
She thought if the dentist was to take her tooth out, she would have the tooth made into a pendant to wear around her neck. How sick would that be? She nearly giggled to herself. It would be like how the fallen star in Neil Gaiman's "Stardust" would climb to the tallest tower to be close to her sisters in the sky.
She thought of how she could put the broken tooth pendant into her mouth, like how she would do that with her pendants sometimes...The broken tooth would then be reunited with her other teeth. Although most of the time the broken tooth would be bored and lonely...
And then she suddenly realises that she didn't quite want to have her tooth removed at all. Quite frankly, she'd much rather have it in her gums til she dies. Surprised by her revelation, and how it had never occured to her before, she tongued her broken tooth more tenderly.
"Perhaps," she thought, "perhaps, I should brush my teeth more diligently from now on." She even considered flossing, briefly.
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
The Dead Seaweed
The dead seaweed which drifted along the coast had a story that is tragic and is known only to little.
It told the story to some drifting sea foam which carried it to the shore to a seashell which told a playful little boy who picked it up. The story goes about how dead seaweed wasn't always dead, it was in love with a scampi, who did not love it back. Then, the seaweed died of love sickness.
The story is true! The little boy had told me about it himself, and like the shell, the sea foam, and the seaweed, he had no reason to lie. Afterall, like them, he was going to die, if not already dead.
It told the story to some drifting sea foam which carried it to the shore to a seashell which told a playful little boy who picked it up. The story goes about how dead seaweed wasn't always dead, it was in love with a scampi, who did not love it back. Then, the seaweed died of love sickness.
The story is true! The little boy had told me about it himself, and like the shell, the sea foam, and the seaweed, he had no reason to lie. Afterall, like them, he was going to die, if not already dead.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
"Trois"
His favourite word is "trois". It is French, and means "three", which in turn, they would sometimes say, "is a crowd".
His eyelids are relaxed in the warm breeze that is against the side of his face as he counts the steps of the stairs he is climbing until he forgets or loses count, so that he can start again from one and smile to himself when he repeats "three", remembering that he likes it in French and at how he is repeating his stupid amusement.
He recalls that she had once asked him about what was his favourite word, and if he tells her of how he's silly enough to count the steps of the stairs, she will surely smile the smile he likes of her to smile so much.
His eyelids are relaxed in the warm breeze that is against the side of his face as he counts the steps of the stairs he is climbing until he forgets or loses count, so that he can start again from one and smile to himself when he repeats "three", remembering that he likes it in French and at how he is repeating his stupid amusement.
He recalls that she had once asked him about what was his favourite word, and if he tells her of how he's silly enough to count the steps of the stairs, she will surely smile the smile he likes of her to smile so much.
Come escape with us this summer!
Do you want to go with me to the cafe? It's designer, and it serves iced coffee in a plastic cup. You can order an extravagant ice blended juice drink, like that of raspberry, or mango. It's exotic...kind of... You will like the taste of crush ice melting, underneath your tongue. I will get myself an iced cafe latte, like I always do on sunny days like these, when I don't know what else to drink. We will sit by the roadside alfresco, and watch the condensation drip and trinkle down from the side of our cups, and the ceaseless traffic scurrying by.
......
You know, I used to come to this cafe with him, and we'd sit at the opposite ends of a table, like this. I would smoke and write and rest my feet on the space on the chair between his thighs. Sometimes, I would read him what I wrote before and he would listen to me half-heartedly as he looked at me and wondered if it's appropriate to reach to me and touch my face and kiss me on my cheek, or to carelessly flip the pages of a thick english foreign affairs magazine that rested on his lap. I would look at him, and wonder if he was bored with my reading, but continue nevertheless...
We didn't use to drink cold drinks, you know. It turned out that he did not like to watch the condensation from on the cups to form rings of lukewarm water on the table. He claimed it would wet his magazines, or render the table useless, and I would not be able to write on it, like how I would sometimes like to...
He would drink expresso. It was quite funny, you know, as he was a rather tall and big man...and the way he would hold on to a tiny cup of expresso... I would nearly always have a grande latte... He would recommend cuppuccino...
......
After we parted ways, I had often asked myself, if I would ever find the summer reward you promised me? You used to say that you like to think of love like summer. It is never clear to me why you drew that comparison, but you would say,
" I promise you, once summer is over, your summer reward..."
Summer came and left and now it is summer again. Where are you right now? I am still right here. Now that we are no longer in love, are the things you said no longer true?
I have never tasted an expresso coffee. I never tasted cuppucino too. Would you recall that I had never ordered myself a cuppucino?
......
"Tell me, what is it? My summer reward..."
"It is a surprise."
"Is it big? Or is it small?"
"I won't tell you."
"Okay... but will you wrap it with a silver ribbon? I would like that. My summer reward with a silver ribbon."
......
Now, I sometimes drink ice latte, again.
......
You know, I used to come to this cafe with him, and we'd sit at the opposite ends of a table, like this. I would smoke and write and rest my feet on the space on the chair between his thighs. Sometimes, I would read him what I wrote before and he would listen to me half-heartedly as he looked at me and wondered if it's appropriate to reach to me and touch my face and kiss me on my cheek, or to carelessly flip the pages of a thick english foreign affairs magazine that rested on his lap. I would look at him, and wonder if he was bored with my reading, but continue nevertheless...
We didn't use to drink cold drinks, you know. It turned out that he did not like to watch the condensation from on the cups to form rings of lukewarm water on the table. He claimed it would wet his magazines, or render the table useless, and I would not be able to write on it, like how I would sometimes like to...
He would drink expresso. It was quite funny, you know, as he was a rather tall and big man...and the way he would hold on to a tiny cup of expresso... I would nearly always have a grande latte... He would recommend cuppuccino...
......
After we parted ways, I had often asked myself, if I would ever find the summer reward you promised me? You used to say that you like to think of love like summer. It is never clear to me why you drew that comparison, but you would say,
" I promise you, once summer is over, your summer reward..."
Summer came and left and now it is summer again. Where are you right now? I am still right here. Now that we are no longer in love, are the things you said no longer true?
I have never tasted an expresso coffee. I never tasted cuppucino too. Would you recall that I had never ordered myself a cuppucino?
......
"Tell me, what is it? My summer reward..."
"It is a surprise."
"Is it big? Or is it small?"
"I won't tell you."
"Okay... but will you wrap it with a silver ribbon? I would like that. My summer reward with a silver ribbon."
......
Now, I sometimes drink ice latte, again.
Sunday, 12 August 2007
11 Jasmine flower buds
On a night, in a field, in a place forgotten by the moonlight, there was a jasmine shrub from which eleven jasmine flower buds have fallen off from their stems.
Indeed, the sky was growing older, and had her heart broken apart when her butterfly was caught. The night sky resembled the wings of the butterfly number 3, which were of dark blue colour and bore bright little white spots that were made to look like the stars that never failed to shine brightly from behind the clouds. It was for reasons not beyond a fairy-tale that the sky thought the butterfly very endearing, and eventually fell in love with the butterfly without realising. Then, when the butterfly was caught to be pinned down as a dead specimen beneath an anonymous plastic glass chest to be humiliatingly spread, the sky had finally realised that she had given away her heart without relentlessness. Now, she cannot do anything else but cry. Laden with sorrow, the rains that fell helplessly were too much for the eleven jasmine flower buds to bear, and they too, fell to the ground, disheveled, and slightly bruised.
They had wanted to whisper to the winds, to take away their hearts, and give them to the sad sky; but they could not muster enough words, for after all, they were only little flower buds. Out of despair and lack of anything else to do, the smallest of these fallen younglings wept and no one was around to smell the sad sweet scent of her tears.
"I am slightly bloomed, I was going to bloom even more tomorrow. If only I was bloomed, surely the wind will listen when I ask for my heart to be taken to the sky," thought one of the older buds to say to the others. However, as she was thinking this thought, the wind blew past, and made the jasmine bush shiver. This startled the slightly bloomed bud, and made her forget what was left unsaid.
One of the buds, who heard the thoughts of the slightly bloomed bud, felt sorry that she herself would never even be slightly bloomed. She had wanted to weep, but the wind blew a fallen leaf over her, and she took comfort from being hidden.
Two other fallen buds had fallen away from the rest of the others, and they felt alone and scared, and sorry for themselves that their lives will end sooner than they expected. One of them thought of the sisters she had never got to know, and cried for them. The other one of them thought of the mistakes that she had never confessed, and was filled with remorse but no room to repent.
One of them wanted to curse the reckless sky, for how could she have given away her heart to the fragile butterfly? However, the bud remembered that she had only just wanted to offer her own heart to the sky, for she was moved by the sorrowful rain, and then she altogether forgot that she wanted to curse the sky for being reckless.
One of the other buds cried hopefully to two others,
"Let us flee to the running waters, the rain has made a stream, and that will carry our songs to the wind and the sky for sure." The three of them agreed together, for they were ignorant of each other's follies, and took too much comfort in each other's company. Above all, the three of them had believed tacitly that the rain never meant to hurt them. Yet they were to find that the water was to bruise them even further, and they too, would become undone.
The tenth bud, which was the one who fell before the last to have fallen, was too careless to understand her new situation. She rested upon the ground, and enjoyed not carrying her weight herself.
Seeing the madness of her sisters, the eleventh bud to have fallen, wept silently to herself.
Perhaps it was because of the strong scent of sweet sadness that caught the wind's attention, or perhaps it was not, but suddenly, the wind whispered to them softly,
"Little jasmine flower buds, weeping on the ground, what word is it that you have for me? If you tell, I will listen."
"Wind, wind, wind, wind," cried the flower buds, "please, take our hearts to give it to the sky, so that it will stop crying."
"The sky is crying for she is sad, her heart was broken, and will not be mended by your hearts given to her. It is not the way things are meant to work. You can understand, for though you have never bloomed, most of your hearts are already broken."
"My heart is not yet broken," cried the tenth flower bud with glee while the other flower buds wept a little harder.
"Indeed it is not," replied the wind, "Will you give me your heart?"
"If I give you my heart, will you promise to break it?" Asked the tenth, and it was with this that the wind understood this flower bud desired other answers.
"If you give me your heart, I will promise to protect it, and keep it safe."
"I can protect it quite well, so you don't have to hold it to protect it," the tenth replied defiantly.
"You can break it too, my dear, I don't have to hold it to break it," the bemused wind replied.
The tenth thought about it for a while, and was completely confused. What was there to lose? What was there to gain? There was nothing to refute. Before she could decide for herself, the wind stole her heart, and carried it away.
"Come back!" She wanted to cry to her heart, but she knew it would be in vain, and so, she fell silent.
The other flower buds, that had enough left in them to feel sorry for their silly little sister, felt sorry.
Under the sky, the eleven jasmine flower buds would be forgotten with the things they left unsaid, having found forlorn. The wind, although she failed to promise, carried the scent of their sorrows and the stolen hearts to comfort the sky's sorrows. The rain would soon stop falling and the sun would rise to bring the morning shortly thereafter. The new day would bring new dreams, and new songs to sing, but broken hearts were never meant to ever fully mend.
Indeed, the sky was growing older, and had her heart broken apart when her butterfly was caught. The night sky resembled the wings of the butterfly number 3, which were of dark blue colour and bore bright little white spots that were made to look like the stars that never failed to shine brightly from behind the clouds. It was for reasons not beyond a fairy-tale that the sky thought the butterfly very endearing, and eventually fell in love with the butterfly without realising. Then, when the butterfly was caught to be pinned down as a dead specimen beneath an anonymous plastic glass chest to be humiliatingly spread, the sky had finally realised that she had given away her heart without relentlessness. Now, she cannot do anything else but cry. Laden with sorrow, the rains that fell helplessly were too much for the eleven jasmine flower buds to bear, and they too, fell to the ground, disheveled, and slightly bruised.
They had wanted to whisper to the winds, to take away their hearts, and give them to the sad sky; but they could not muster enough words, for after all, they were only little flower buds. Out of despair and lack of anything else to do, the smallest of these fallen younglings wept and no one was around to smell the sad sweet scent of her tears.
"I am slightly bloomed, I was going to bloom even more tomorrow. If only I was bloomed, surely the wind will listen when I ask for my heart to be taken to the sky," thought one of the older buds to say to the others. However, as she was thinking this thought, the wind blew past, and made the jasmine bush shiver. This startled the slightly bloomed bud, and made her forget what was left unsaid.
One of the buds, who heard the thoughts of the slightly bloomed bud, felt sorry that she herself would never even be slightly bloomed. She had wanted to weep, but the wind blew a fallen leaf over her, and she took comfort from being hidden.
Two other fallen buds had fallen away from the rest of the others, and they felt alone and scared, and sorry for themselves that their lives will end sooner than they expected. One of them thought of the sisters she had never got to know, and cried for them. The other one of them thought of the mistakes that she had never confessed, and was filled with remorse but no room to repent.
One of them wanted to curse the reckless sky, for how could she have given away her heart to the fragile butterfly? However, the bud remembered that she had only just wanted to offer her own heart to the sky, for she was moved by the sorrowful rain, and then she altogether forgot that she wanted to curse the sky for being reckless.
One of the other buds cried hopefully to two others,
"Let us flee to the running waters, the rain has made a stream, and that will carry our songs to the wind and the sky for sure." The three of them agreed together, for they were ignorant of each other's follies, and took too much comfort in each other's company. Above all, the three of them had believed tacitly that the rain never meant to hurt them. Yet they were to find that the water was to bruise them even further, and they too, would become undone.
The tenth bud, which was the one who fell before the last to have fallen, was too careless to understand her new situation. She rested upon the ground, and enjoyed not carrying her weight herself.
Seeing the madness of her sisters, the eleventh bud to have fallen, wept silently to herself.
Perhaps it was because of the strong scent of sweet sadness that caught the wind's attention, or perhaps it was not, but suddenly, the wind whispered to them softly,
"Little jasmine flower buds, weeping on the ground, what word is it that you have for me? If you tell, I will listen."
"Wind, wind, wind, wind," cried the flower buds, "please, take our hearts to give it to the sky, so that it will stop crying."
"The sky is crying for she is sad, her heart was broken, and will not be mended by your hearts given to her. It is not the way things are meant to work. You can understand, for though you have never bloomed, most of your hearts are already broken."
"My heart is not yet broken," cried the tenth flower bud with glee while the other flower buds wept a little harder.
"Indeed it is not," replied the wind, "Will you give me your heart?"
"If I give you my heart, will you promise to break it?" Asked the tenth, and it was with this that the wind understood this flower bud desired other answers.
"If you give me your heart, I will promise to protect it, and keep it safe."
"I can protect it quite well, so you don't have to hold it to protect it," the tenth replied defiantly.
"You can break it too, my dear, I don't have to hold it to break it," the bemused wind replied.
The tenth thought about it for a while, and was completely confused. What was there to lose? What was there to gain? There was nothing to refute. Before she could decide for herself, the wind stole her heart, and carried it away.
"Come back!" She wanted to cry to her heart, but she knew it would be in vain, and so, she fell silent.
The other flower buds, that had enough left in them to feel sorry for their silly little sister, felt sorry.
Under the sky, the eleven jasmine flower buds would be forgotten with the things they left unsaid, having found forlorn. The wind, although she failed to promise, carried the scent of their sorrows and the stolen hearts to comfort the sky's sorrows. The rain would soon stop falling and the sun would rise to bring the morning shortly thereafter. The new day would bring new dreams, and new songs to sing, but broken hearts were never meant to ever fully mend.
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Bitterness of things
She picked on the sliced red chillis that were soaked in light soya sauce and carefully removed the chilli seeds with her chopsticks. As she was going to put the red strips into her mouth, they sang to her,
"Don't eat us! For we will be minced, by the cruel teeth of your cruel jaw!"
This made her giggle and wonder about life and death. How is it that these little dead chilli could even struggle for their existence? When most of the time she was drunk and could not bear to consider the meaning of her own life? They ought to think of it as some metamorphosis. Like they will be minced, and swallowed, and gone into the stomach with the rest of the food that she had swallowed, and will eventually be passed out of her as, well, shit.
"Look at it this way," she said to them in her head, "it's like, the closest you would ever be to becoming a butterfly."
This reminded the chillis how bitter it was that they felt towards the disgusting caterpillars that bored into their brothers and sisters, and completely ruin them, before morphing into butterfly-like-moths, hatching like angels into the skies. Although she did not realise that they indeed tasted a little bitter, she whispered telepathically to them,
"If you give me your hearts, I will promise to break them."
They replied, begrudgingly,
"If we don't give you our hearts, who else will we give it to?"
Thursday, 19 July 2007
In the night, in the night, there are bats flying around.
Eating flies, eating fruits, singing in ultra high pitched sound.
They were once dirty rats, crawling despicably on the ground,
Long before long before their wings were to be found.
(sneak.)
Eating flies, eating fruits, singing in ultra high pitched sound.
They were once dirty rats, crawling despicably on the ground,
Long before long before their wings were to be found.
(sneak.)
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