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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

Pigeon

There was a pigeon who preferred walking over flying. It was not that he was a bad flyer. He merely preferred walking.

"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.