What Sarah Said by Death Cab For Cutie is one sneaky song that is slowly creeping into my heart after it was introduced to me about a year ago.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Rainsong's Birthday
Rainsong is dreading the fruit basket I have promised him for his birthday from our conversation about a week ago. Very rarely do I yield to a birthday boy or girl's polite request: Really, there is no need to get me a gift... . But for Rainsong, I shall make an exception.
And because Rainsong knows I'm no cheapskate, so my repute - as a pretty decent giver of gifts - isn't compromised. However, one might ask: Jael is strangely obliging, and why's that? Simply because:
1) Rainsong would feel bad if I 'trouble' myself to get him a gift.
2) Rainsong means what he says, and if he receives a gift from Jael, he'd probably do a research on the source of purchase; get the refund (highly doubtful) and return it to her.
3) Rainsong might not enjoy his birthday cake very much because he feels bad and in that, Jael would feel bad for the cake-giver.
4) Rainsong might see Jael as a liar from then on.
So, it is an arbitrary risk and probably not wise to wager her minty friend-status in exchange for something else; like, an unreliable person. But I tell myself, it is after all just a bloody fruit basket, probably very old fashioned but it is still a gift. Maybe I should remove the papayas since Rainsong might be allergic - for aesthetic reasons - to those heavy looking fruits, and throw in more peaches since he seems to like them; a matter of good taste on his part.
But, who would send a fruit basket as a birthday gift? I wanted to send a card, with my signature doodles but I'm not inspired to pick up the pen. However, this piece was inspired by Rainsong's 25th which is today. Don't be surprised, because you did inspire me to write this line that day on this thing called love: It's gonna be hot and you won't be given gloves for it.
Finally, to Rainsong, Happy Birthday. I kept my word, no gift, but how is this one?
And because Rainsong knows I'm no cheapskate, so my repute - as a pretty decent giver of gifts - isn't compromised. However, one might ask: Jael is strangely obliging, and why's that? Simply because:
1) Rainsong would feel bad if I 'trouble' myself to get him a gift.
2) Rainsong means what he says, and if he receives a gift from Jael, he'd probably do a research on the source of purchase; get the refund (highly doubtful) and return it to her.
3) Rainsong might not enjoy his birthday cake very much because he feels bad and in that, Jael would feel bad for the cake-giver.
4) Rainsong might see Jael as a liar from then on.
So, it is an arbitrary risk and probably not wise to wager her minty friend-status in exchange for something else; like, an unreliable person. But I tell myself, it is after all just a bloody fruit basket, probably very old fashioned but it is still a gift. Maybe I should remove the papayas since Rainsong might be allergic - for aesthetic reasons - to those heavy looking fruits, and throw in more peaches since he seems to like them; a matter of good taste on his part.
But, who would send a fruit basket as a birthday gift? I wanted to send a card, with my signature doodles but I'm not inspired to pick up the pen. However, this piece was inspired by Rainsong's 25th which is today. Don't be surprised, because you did inspire me to write this line that day on this thing called love: It's gonna be hot and you won't be given gloves for it.
Finally, to Rainsong, Happy Birthday. I kept my word, no gift, but how is this one?
Friday, October 24, 2008
Why _ needs a Jael Bag
The Jael bag tames loose notes into a back sewn pocket. The bag is resilient come rain or shine. Even an unexpected spill of cranberry juice, can be easily salvaged with simply soap and water and adequate airing time – no manhandling and it will be as good as new. It has several zipper compartments: Long ones and short ones, so that organizing of contents, both light and heavy are neatly stored. The fabric is moisture-wicking, environmental friendly and durable. So durable, it can withstand heavy load without giving way at its handles or bottom – the strength lies in its even stitching. The look and feel of a Jael bag is not easily duplicated thus creating a sense of scarcity. Resilience, authenticity and its hard to pigeonhole characteristics makes the Jael a valuable investment only the trained eye can see.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Friendships: The New Commodity
Rainsong* said to me that gullibility is the number one factor of innocence. So, hypothetically speaking, it is intrinsic to be duped, lied to, cheated on by people closest and dearest to you, for example, your friends.
Friends come and go - a timeless phrase and a cautious one. Some friends hang on a little longer while others pop by only when it is blue skies and sunny outside your porch - the fair weather friends. The porch has to be clean and dry before they decide to pop by with a thermos and look you up. If its a stormy day, or a humid one, they probably won't be seen hanging at your porch. They always check the weather report before deciding if they should pop by. So it is no surprise when you realised, your so called friends decided to single you out even on a fair weather day.
Perhaps the group is ballooning with new faces, and that particular car isn't able to accommodate more than five bottoms or your social status is close to zero - that kind of reasons. On their slick faces, everything is fine and dandy, light and gay, sweet and soothing. Singing praises to each another like little sparrows but really pooing on your heads when you aren't noticing.
These are often some of the most eloquent folks - highly articulate but empty hearted. It is mostly a feel-good session when they gather. Wordplay turns into merry singsong, and glides on to aphorisms dish out in spades and you don't really need them. They do it all the time, those. Singing praises for no reason.
How did they do it? Selfishness and self-gratification seems likely. Selfishness, for more room in a car. Self-gratification, for basking longer in the limelight, or simply the 'Look at me!' sort of thing. It is vital that he or she gets to trumpet a new catchphrase, so if you are more of an original sort of person, they might not like you very much. They picked leftovers from others and reinvented it to make it 'The New Cool'.
It is nauseating when fawning is overdone on a new friend - who is socially and financially enviable - because the poor sod is merely another ticket to the Rich and Famous Club for the rich and famous wannabes. Admirable goal. The newly initiated sod of a friend will be showered with love and attention - it is servitude on their part really. A quote from a book by Ambrose Bierce to go along nicely:
'If servitude is a high honour," the Gentleman said, "it would be indecent for me to seek it; and if obtained by my own exertion it would be no honour.'
A friend's alternate take on servitude: 'They sa ka (carry balls) all the time.'
Either takes, servitude or sa ka, isn't much of an honourable activity. However, it is a make or break situation for the sa ka folks. I say, grab the bull by the balls, be the master not the slave.
*S, a friend who is still in denial of his guitar chops.
Friends come and go - a timeless phrase and a cautious one. Some friends hang on a little longer while others pop by only when it is blue skies and sunny outside your porch - the fair weather friends. The porch has to be clean and dry before they decide to pop by with a thermos and look you up. If its a stormy day, or a humid one, they probably won't be seen hanging at your porch. They always check the weather report before deciding if they should pop by. So it is no surprise when you realised, your so called friends decided to single you out even on a fair weather day.
Perhaps the group is ballooning with new faces, and that particular car isn't able to accommodate more than five bottoms or your social status is close to zero - that kind of reasons. On their slick faces, everything is fine and dandy, light and gay, sweet and soothing. Singing praises to each another like little sparrows but really pooing on your heads when you aren't noticing.
These are often some of the most eloquent folks - highly articulate but empty hearted. It is mostly a feel-good session when they gather. Wordplay turns into merry singsong, and glides on to aphorisms dish out in spades and you don't really need them. They do it all the time, those. Singing praises for no reason.
How did they do it? Selfishness and self-gratification seems likely. Selfishness, for more room in a car. Self-gratification, for basking longer in the limelight, or simply the 'Look at me!' sort of thing. It is vital that he or she gets to trumpet a new catchphrase, so if you are more of an original sort of person, they might not like you very much. They picked leftovers from others and reinvented it to make it 'The New Cool'.
It is nauseating when fawning is overdone on a new friend - who is socially and financially enviable - because the poor sod is merely another ticket to the Rich and Famous Club for the rich and famous wannabes. Admirable goal. The newly initiated sod of a friend will be showered with love and attention - it is servitude on their part really. A quote from a book by Ambrose Bierce to go along nicely:
'If servitude is a high honour," the Gentleman said, "it would be indecent for me to seek it; and if obtained by my own exertion it would be no honour.'
A friend's alternate take on servitude: 'They sa ka (carry balls) all the time.'
Either takes, servitude or sa ka, isn't much of an honourable activity. However, it is a make or break situation for the sa ka folks. I say, grab the bull by the balls, be the master not the slave.
*S, a friend who is still in denial of his guitar chops.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Watch Out, It's A Dogface!
This one's dedicated to a good friend, affectionately known as my queen. I know she hates the royal status but it is how she will always be to me, queenly. And before the intended subject, I wish to make a proposal to the queen. Walk up to the office-Judas' cubicle or doghouse and say to her: Suck it up bitch. With a smile please; assertive but dignified. Before I continue, the queen will be read as a 'dogcatcher', purposeful and practical. She has a mission: To capture the bitch, literally, from her doghouse.
Words of comfort are useless at this point because when you have to get back at someone, you just have to - no qualm about it. The bitch in question - a half wit and probably four-legged - fed insidious misinformation to the boss on the dogcatcher. She probably crawled on fours to get to the boss before lunch (fast and cowardly, and its canine-height is quite tricky to notice because everyone in the office was too busy with work to care less about the dogface) before the dogcatcher could nail her down.
Watch for the bitch or dog face colleague among you. Who knows when you might be thrown to the dogs - or are you one yourself, dogface?
PS I'd love to smite that bitch down for ya - with gloves and thongs.
Words of comfort are useless at this point because when you have to get back at someone, you just have to - no qualm about it. The bitch in question - a half wit and probably four-legged - fed insidious misinformation to the boss on the dogcatcher. She probably crawled on fours to get to the boss before lunch (fast and cowardly, and its canine-height is quite tricky to notice because everyone in the office was too busy with work to care less about the dogface) before the dogcatcher could nail her down.
Watch for the bitch or dog face colleague among you. Who knows when you might be thrown to the dogs - or are you one yourself, dogface?
PS I'd love to smite that bitch down for ya - with gloves and thongs.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Conversation with Shammy: Deadly Neon Yellow Ballies
Coach was tall, very tanned - a chocolate man really - and he played a mean game of tennis. Coach was a man in his dignified fifties, gliding through his twilight years. He was also the officiated Terror of the school that I had attended during my blossoming years - bras and boys. But, like all classic tragedies, even a dignified disciplinarian like him had fallen at least once in their lifetime. A 'ballbusting' incident took centrestage on a certain court many years ago.
The old skool incident was reignited through a conversation with Shammy.
Shammy: ... how to prevent tennis elbow..
Me: hmmm.......
Me: erm, i don't remember... was on the team in sec days, but i dont remember now.. avid player?
Shammy: not really... baby bounces are my favourite... dun go vitch-smacking me on the ball ...else i'll cower..
Me: WAHAHAHAHHAHAA
Me: i hit on my coach's balls during practice once.. he squealed
Shammy: ouch! just like a bitch huh? lol
Me: and that incident became a sec-urban legend, spread like fire
Me: it was an accident
Me: we were practising our serves. and coach was on the other side of the court tossing the neon yellow ballies to us
Shammy: you must have hated him :-)
Me: i was too eager i guess
Me: nooooooo i don't hate him... or maybe a little bit
Shammy: you must have been really cute... lol
Me: but who knows? it was bingo just like that. easy does it.hahahahahaa
Shammy: little jael smashing her coach's balls...
Me: i stood where i stood after he got hit. i didn't know what to do LOL
Me: Everyone was aghast
Me: i thought i might had gotten detention. he was the discipline master. but it was smart of him not to because it would have given me more reasons to spread the news that he couldn't take the 'accident' like a man and abused his authority on a 14 year old...hahaha
Me: still, the legend circulated by assembly time.
Shammy: haha... damn it must have been cool..
Me: erm no... i didn't feel that way... but i was made secretary of the tennis club shortly after that incident. how strange hahahahahhaa
Shammy: i guess balls and balls turns him on...
Me: *covers eyes and laughs****
It was an accident that was more than a decade ago, however, the kodak moment of Coach succumbing to his knees was a painful one to indulge in. His hand went over the vulnerable spot protectively and he couldn't moved for a while. His prized Prince racket was abandoned by his side amidst the languorous neon yellow ballies and one of which was responsible for scoring a home run on Coach's 'diamond', so to speak. I should have picked up that nasty neon yellow ballie and kept it as a sort of memento.
The old skool incident was reignited through a conversation with Shammy.
Shammy: ... how to prevent tennis elbow..
Me: hmmm.......
Me: erm, i don't remember... was on the team in sec days, but i dont remember now.. avid player?
Shammy: not really... baby bounces are my favourite... dun go vitch-smacking me on the ball ...else i'll cower..
Me: WAHAHAHAHHAHAA
Me: i hit on my coach's balls during practice once.. he squealed
Shammy: ouch! just like a bitch huh? lol
Me: and that incident became a sec-urban legend, spread like fire
Me: it was an accident
Me: we were practising our serves. and coach was on the other side of the court tossing the neon yellow ballies to us
Shammy: you must have hated him :-)
Me: i was too eager i guess
Me: nooooooo i don't hate him... or maybe a little bit
Shammy: you must have been really cute... lol
Me: but who knows? it was bingo just like that. easy does it.hahahahahaa
Shammy: little jael smashing her coach's balls...
Me: i stood where i stood after he got hit. i didn't know what to do LOL
Me: Everyone was aghast
Me: i thought i might had gotten detention. he was the discipline master. but it was smart of him not to because it would have given me more reasons to spread the news that he couldn't take the 'accident' like a man and abused his authority on a 14 year old...hahaha
Me: still, the legend circulated by assembly time.
Shammy: haha... damn it must have been cool..
Me: erm no... i didn't feel that way... but i was made secretary of the tennis club shortly after that incident. how strange hahahahahhaa
Shammy: i guess balls and balls turns him on...
Me: *covers eyes and laughs****
It was an accident that was more than a decade ago, however, the kodak moment of Coach succumbing to his knees was a painful one to indulge in. His hand went over the vulnerable spot protectively and he couldn't moved for a while. His prized Prince racket was abandoned by his side amidst the languorous neon yellow ballies and one of which was responsible for scoring a home run on Coach's 'diamond', so to speak. I should have picked up that nasty neon yellow ballie and kept it as a sort of memento.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Fraternally Yours
The brother. He prefers to exploit technology - MSN Instant Messenger - than to come round and talk with me face-to-face in my room; which separates but shares the same wall. He watches 'The Family Guy' like the stock market, religiously. He philosophies Peter Griffin's inane lines like Plato's dramatic dialogues, which is admirable because he remembers them by heart and recites them with conviction.
A few days ago, I did a little test on him, ever since I purchased a deck of tarot cards with Paris*, who insisted that only the ones with the best art work was worth putting your money on it. I took his advice. Occupational hazard I call it; he works in the design industry.
Apart from the Griffin school of thought, the brother almost considered tarot reading for a deeper insight when I cajoled him to take up my offer.
The brother's complaint via instant messenger to his sister on a typical work day. He began with a 'i'm-seriously-bored-outta-my-f***-wits' at work complaint:
Brother: im seriously bored outta my f*** wits at work
(There you have it)
Brother: i don't know why im just waiting for the clock to hit 6. i hardly get this feeling
(Don't everybody get that all the time? Imagining the clock plotting against us humans, by not moving? Oh, come on)
Me: hmm... maybe its time to move on. or seek for more challenges at work. talk to your supervisor
(The sort of dull advice from an older sister to her brother. I personally find it disgusting. I would probably say 'Just get the f*** out of there' sort of advice to friends. Maybe not too)
Me: i could do a tarot reading for you sometime
(Nice maneuver I say)
Brother: ..
Me: im serious
Me: its not magick or psychic shit. it just taps into your subconsciousness to give you a reflection on a current situation
(This much is true)
Me: the other side of the mirror where its not visible to the naked eye.
(This is to kick in the effect)
Brother: hmmm
Me: ive a personal deck. i'll be home tmrw
(Brimming with excitement under a cool typing facade)
Brother: ..
Brother: so i pay?
Me: no
Me: it is out of goodwill
Brother: hahahahahahahahahahaah
(Damn)
Very quickly, I browsed from memory and remembered this line from some random tarot websites.
Me: first, don't doubt. if not, the energies coming from you would affect the outcome of the cards
(Nice)
Brother: (Y)
(Can anyone tell me what this is exactly?)
Me: you need to concentrate on your question
(This line has always been 'traditional-tarot-speak')
Brother: hmm...
Me: of course, tarot reading cannot tell you a definite 'yes' or 'no' answer. it gives you an overall sense of a situation and what might occur or what could be affecting it. and some suggestions to achieve your goal
(Give me a break Jael, I heard some groaned. How phony did I just sound?)
Me: it gives you an outlook and its also up to your own interpretation. you want good answers then you'd better ask good questions. questions that you genuinely seek for an answer. it definitely can't tell you who the love of your life is la
(You sound like a champ, Jael. To lure the fish with my fat-tarot-worm, I desperately need a guinea pig to practice my reading)
Me: these are usually symbolic more than anything else.
(I am losing ground already)
Brother: ./.
(What the hell is this thing again?)
Me: ok
Brother: (Y)(Y)(Y) out of (Y)(Y)(Y)(Y)(Y)
(And this ...?)
Me: ...
Me: anyways, the deck will come home with me
And so I used the hard sell strategy, which was the highway to failure...
Me: 'The Next Door Tarot Reader'
Brother: ..
Me: or 'The adjacent room tarot reader'
Brother: ..
Brother: stop
Me: 'the just-enter-the-room tarot reader'
(The archetypal of a Sore loser)
Brother: stop
Until...
Brother: you psycho
Me: that hurts
(It did)
Brother: hahahahahahahahaahahaaa
Brother: sai-kuo
(It got cruel)
Me: see, the root of comedy: ridicule+sadness
(Trying to rationalise his mean streak; a balm to my open wound)
Brother: no. not true
Me: some truth
Brother: wee bit
Me: it is a golden deck, so to speak. the edges are trimmed in gold, so the entire deck look like a goldbar from most angles.
(I tried to channel my 'wound' onto my beautiful deck of cards and that's pathetic)
Me: i'll bring the goldbar back tmrw
Brother: ok.
(Hope floated)
Brother: superficial
(Hope sank)
Me: i think its gold leaf. definitely superficial.
Brother: very
Brother: who WOULD buy a deck of tarot @ 42 dollars?
(He insulted you too, Paris)
Me: it has to be superficial. a pretty sorta superficiality. the sort i could flash around doing readings for friends and not worry about its safety.
Brother: ...
Me: btw, it is also called The Golden Tarot. theres nothing subtle about this deck.
(Indignant still, by his faultfinding)
Brother: ok
Brother: arghhh!!!! wtf the clock isnt moving!!!
(Bad karma. It should teach you not to be impertinent to your sister)
I went home with the Golden Deck and he did not patronise my 'stall' - my sister did. Peter Griffin for him then. Tarot reading anyone?
Paris* A, a decade old dear friend, who is always gracious to my many requests and a patient listener.
I just found out that this --> (Y) and this --> ./. means 'ass' and 'balls', courtesy of my brother's eloquent way of cussing his sister on cyberspace. I was given 9 asses and a pair of nuts, just so you know. The readers were probably laughing at Jael's slow-wittedness to notice the math.
A few days ago, I did a little test on him, ever since I purchased a deck of tarot cards with Paris*, who insisted that only the ones with the best art work was worth putting your money on it. I took his advice. Occupational hazard I call it; he works in the design industry.
Apart from the Griffin school of thought, the brother almost considered tarot reading for a deeper insight when I cajoled him to take up my offer.
The brother's complaint via instant messenger to his sister on a typical work day. He began with a 'i'm-seriously-bored-outta-my-f***-wits' at work complaint:
Brother: im seriously bored outta my f*** wits at work
(There you have it)
Brother: i don't know why im just waiting for the clock to hit 6. i hardly get this feeling
(Don't everybody get that all the time? Imagining the clock plotting against us humans, by not moving? Oh, come on)
Me: hmm... maybe its time to move on. or seek for more challenges at work. talk to your supervisor
(The sort of dull advice from an older sister to her brother. I personally find it disgusting. I would probably say 'Just get the f*** out of there' sort of advice to friends. Maybe not too)
Me: i could do a tarot reading for you sometime
(Nice maneuver I say)
Brother: ..
Me: im serious
Me: its not magick or psychic shit. it just taps into your subconsciousness to give you a reflection on a current situation
(This much is true)
Me: the other side of the mirror where its not visible to the naked eye.
(This is to kick in the effect)
Brother: hmmm
Me: ive a personal deck. i'll be home tmrw
(Brimming with excitement under a cool typing facade)
Brother: ..
Brother: so i pay?
Me: no
Me: it is out of goodwill
Brother: hahahahahahahahahahaah
(Damn)
Very quickly, I browsed from memory and remembered this line from some random tarot websites.
Me: first, don't doubt. if not, the energies coming from you would affect the outcome of the cards
(Nice)
Brother: (Y)
(Can anyone tell me what this is exactly?)
Me: you need to concentrate on your question
(This line has always been 'traditional-tarot-speak')
Brother: hmm...
Me: of course, tarot reading cannot tell you a definite 'yes' or 'no' answer. it gives you an overall sense of a situation and what might occur or what could be affecting it. and some suggestions to achieve your goal
(Give me a break Jael, I heard some groaned. How phony did I just sound?)
Me: it gives you an outlook and its also up to your own interpretation. you want good answers then you'd better ask good questions. questions that you genuinely seek for an answer. it definitely can't tell you who the love of your life is la
(You sound like a champ, Jael. To lure the fish with my fat-tarot-worm, I desperately need a guinea pig to practice my reading)
Me: these are usually symbolic more than anything else.
(I am losing ground already)
Brother: ./.
(What the hell is this thing again?)
Me: ok
Brother: (Y)(Y)(Y) out of (Y)(Y)(Y)(Y)(Y)
(And this ...?)
Me: ...
Me: anyways, the deck will come home with me
And so I used the hard sell strategy, which was the highway to failure...
Me: 'The Next Door Tarot Reader'
Brother: ..
Me: or 'The adjacent room tarot reader'
Brother: ..
Brother: stop
Me: 'the just-enter-the-room tarot reader'
(The archetypal of a Sore loser)
Brother: stop
Until...
Brother: you psycho
Me: that hurts
(It did)
Brother: hahahahahahahahaahahaaa
Brother: sai-kuo
(It got cruel)
Me: see, the root of comedy: ridicule+sadness
(Trying to rationalise his mean streak; a balm to my open wound)
Brother: no. not true
Me: some truth
Brother: wee bit
Me: it is a golden deck, so to speak. the edges are trimmed in gold, so the entire deck look like a goldbar from most angles.
(I tried to channel my 'wound' onto my beautiful deck of cards and that's pathetic)
Me: i'll bring the goldbar back tmrw
Brother: ok.
(Hope floated)
Brother: superficial
(Hope sank)
Me: i think its gold leaf. definitely superficial.
Brother: very
Brother: who WOULD buy a deck of tarot @ 42 dollars?
(He insulted you too, Paris)
Me: it has to be superficial. a pretty sorta superficiality. the sort i could flash around doing readings for friends and not worry about its safety.
Brother: ...
Me: btw, it is also called The Golden Tarot. theres nothing subtle about this deck.
(Indignant still, by his faultfinding)
Brother: ok
Brother: arghhh!!!! wtf the clock isnt moving!!!
(Bad karma. It should teach you not to be impertinent to your sister)
I went home with the Golden Deck and he did not patronise my 'stall' - my sister did. Peter Griffin for him then. Tarot reading anyone?
Paris* A, a decade old dear friend, who is always gracious to my many requests and a patient listener.
I just found out that this --> (Y) and this --> ./. means 'ass' and 'balls', courtesy of my brother's eloquent way of cussing his sister on cyberspace. I was given 9 asses and a pair of nuts, just so you know. The readers were probably laughing at Jael's slow-wittedness to notice the math.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Implode
Jael might implode. The left side of her temple is gnawing and tugging the inner head-works. She decides not to move from her table. She thinks, one more time of _, she might well have imploded and her new form would be like, red wet bits of snow falling down and staining the floor. And there will be nothing more to feel. Perfect.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Hello, Dreamboat!
I had dinner with a dreamboat last night; he was late again. I didn't give him a hard time for his multiple tardiness. I suspect he was growing quite fond of doing it - intentionally or not, jams of a traffic nature or dog poo to clear. No matter, I'll grant the dreamboat that.
His arrival at C elicited varied female (muted) responses. The blatant once-over to, the good/bad girl combo: Brushing away an invisible strand of hair whilst drinking in the view. And what a view. Right, Tony? Did I just say his name? Sorry Tony, I didn't mean to.
At this point, the reader might be asking: Why did Jael hook up with a dreamboat for dinner and not her beloved? Her beloved was still at work so, Jael thought the best way to spend time on a lonely evening was to dine with a dreamboat, dim lights and the like.
Maybe not. Dreamboat needed to pass an item to me, that was all.
He wasn't perturbed by the attention yet. The predominantly glacial gait, he stood and moved like an Ice-god. Glistening jet black hair (I don't know how he can always keep it that way) and characteristically dishevelled. Let's not even start with the skin.
Dreamboat apologized.
Dreamboat: 'Sorry, I'm late... you always have to wait for me... ' (Smiled a tad self-consciously)
It was a mere 5 minutes, don't sweat it. I believe he blushed.
A wait person handed a menu to us. Dreamboat passed the menu to me, and proceeded to work his charms - to get a second menu - from the table next to ours. A table of girls, they were not very good at their espionage network: An expectant hush.
Dreamboat turned to the girl seated nearest to him.
Dreamboat: 'Excuse me, may I borrow the menu?' (Gestured at neglected menu near Girl's elbow)
Girl reacted a second slow, for obvious reason. She somehow regained composure.
Girl: '... ...' (Mouth slightly agape, wide-eyed, indicating unexpectedness of dreamboat's approach)
Her composure didn't hold out long enough.
Dreamboat: 'The menu? May I borrow it?'
Girl: 'Huh, I'm sorry... ?'
The bloody menu girl, the menu. I empathised with the Girl.
Dreamboat: 'Er, the menu... ?' (Mild incredulity swept his facial expression)
The Girl continued, one last time (huh?), her futility to comprehend dreamboat's request. I couldn't bear to watch one second longer.
Dreamboat: 'The M E N U?' (Very patiently. Bravo to that)
Girl: 'Oh, the menu!'
Hallelujah. I thought I heard the birds sang.
Me: 'You must have electrified her.'
Dreamboat smiled. The smile that said what-just-happened?
More Girls eyed dreamboat before their gazes stopped by to give me the Dirty look.
Me: 'Did you also notice the girls on theee other side of our table, checking you out?'
Sacrilegious.
Dreamboat: 'Yea... I noticed.' (Awkward smile)
I highlighted to him, how I must be seen as, an annoying linchpin of the Girls' dreamboat in the dim lit room.
Dreamboat: 'So... should I buy you a drink now?' (Clearly, he was amused by my highlight and immuned to my 'predicament')
And more spiteful stares? I really did not think so, Tony. His idea to make me feel better, or to feel less intimidated by the Girls, I wasn't sure.
So, I declined, because that unintended overture would had been wasted on me just to ward off catty stares.
It didn't help that dreamboat also picked fries off my plate. The Girls were on their best behaviour amidst the now-you-see-it-now-you-don't catty stares, aimed at the girl with the dreamboat.
PS You-know-I-already-know you are so gonna kill me.
His arrival at C elicited varied female (muted) responses. The blatant once-over to, the good/bad girl combo: Brushing away an invisible strand of hair whilst drinking in the view. And what a view. Right, Tony? Did I just say his name? Sorry Tony, I didn't mean to.
At this point, the reader might be asking: Why did Jael hook up with a dreamboat for dinner and not her beloved? Her beloved was still at work so, Jael thought the best way to spend time on a lonely evening was to dine with a dreamboat, dim lights and the like.
Maybe not. Dreamboat needed to pass an item to me, that was all.
He wasn't perturbed by the attention yet. The predominantly glacial gait, he stood and moved like an Ice-god. Glistening jet black hair (I don't know how he can always keep it that way) and characteristically dishevelled. Let's not even start with the skin.
Dreamboat apologized.
Dreamboat: 'Sorry, I'm late... you always have to wait for me... ' (Smiled a tad self-consciously)
It was a mere 5 minutes, don't sweat it. I believe he blushed.
A wait person handed a menu to us. Dreamboat passed the menu to me, and proceeded to work his charms - to get a second menu - from the table next to ours. A table of girls, they were not very good at their espionage network: An expectant hush.
Dreamboat turned to the girl seated nearest to him.
Dreamboat: 'Excuse me, may I borrow the menu?' (Gestured at neglected menu near Girl's elbow)
Girl reacted a second slow, for obvious reason. She somehow regained composure.
Girl: '... ...' (Mouth slightly agape, wide-eyed, indicating unexpectedness of dreamboat's approach)
Her composure didn't hold out long enough.
Dreamboat: 'The menu? May I borrow it?'
Girl: 'Huh, I'm sorry... ?'
The bloody menu girl, the menu. I empathised with the Girl.
Dreamboat: 'Er, the menu... ?' (Mild incredulity swept his facial expression)
The Girl continued, one last time (huh?), her futility to comprehend dreamboat's request. I couldn't bear to watch one second longer.
Dreamboat: 'The M E N U?' (Very patiently. Bravo to that)
Girl: 'Oh, the menu!'
Hallelujah. I thought I heard the birds sang.
Me: 'You must have electrified her.'
Dreamboat smiled. The smile that said what-just-happened?
More Girls eyed dreamboat before their gazes stopped by to give me the Dirty look.
Me: 'Did you also notice the girls on theee other side of our table, checking you out?'
Sacrilegious.
Dreamboat: 'Yea... I noticed.' (Awkward smile)
I highlighted to him, how I must be seen as, an annoying linchpin of the Girls' dreamboat in the dim lit room.
Dreamboat: 'So... should I buy you a drink now?' (Clearly, he was amused by my highlight and immuned to my 'predicament')
And more spiteful stares? I really did not think so, Tony. His idea to make me feel better, or to feel less intimidated by the Girls, I wasn't sure.
So, I declined, because that unintended overture would had been wasted on me just to ward off catty stares.
It didn't help that dreamboat also picked fries off my plate. The Girls were on their best behaviour amidst the now-you-see-it-now-you-don't catty stares, aimed at the girl with the dreamboat.
PS You-know-I-already-know you are so gonna kill me.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Ignorance Is No Substitute For Stupidity
A little line excerpted from BBC News Online on our revered paper:
The Straits Times website described Mr Jeyaretnam as "pugnacious", an "old warhorse" and "irrelevant".
Irreverent more like it, The Straits Times.
The Straits Times website described Mr Jeyaretnam as "pugnacious", an "old warhorse" and "irrelevant".
Irreverent more like it, The Straits Times.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
A Few Good Men
Former MP JB Jeyaretnam dies at 82.
Another shred of hope slipped away, again. He died without realizing his cause after a long and hard battle although stupid to some or the uninitiated ones. Tangible actions or results may not yet be seen from his labour, but Jeyaretnam illustrated his point by his steadfastness, unwavering strength and belief in the human race without a trace of cynicism.
Another shred of hope slipped away, again. He died without realizing his cause after a long and hard battle although stupid to some or the uninitiated ones. Tangible actions or results may not yet be seen from his labour, but Jeyaretnam illustrated his point by his steadfastness, unwavering strength and belief in the human race without a trace of cynicism.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Grandmother (Been a year now)
I thought I couldn't stand my grandmother for many years, until she tiptoed away on a Sunday afternoon. I rushed home upon hearing the news, that she had slipped and fell in her room, and was being sent to the hospital. She was gone after 4 hours. No one had a chance to say their last words to her, and neither did she.
My thoughts were serene and I was composed. My mum didn't say much, as we made our way to the hospital. I said to myself: This is it. Without a hint of sadness or pain. I also said to myself, that it was best to remain composed and not show anything else. I did. I thought it was that simple.
The last time I saw my grandmother was the day before her fall. She was smiling at my 2-month old nephew - he will be turning one next week - in my parents' room. That was the last time I saw her before she was lain cold and still in the morgue the next evening. It was hard to believe that she looked so shrivelled and small on the cold metal table. My cousins were red-eyed. I left the morgue and returned shortly after. It was just the two of us. I wanted her to come back and I'd help her out of the cold table and bring her out to everyone and she'd grin her trademark toothy grin, again.
Grandmother had lain very still. She looked like she was in a deep sleep, thats all. I brushed her hand and held it, however, she would had shook it off and murmured irritably to me during her waking days. I just looked at her for a long time, and hadn't known what to say. I whispered to her that I missed her already. I still do, everyday.
My thoughts were serene and I was composed. My mum didn't say much, as we made our way to the hospital. I said to myself: This is it. Without a hint of sadness or pain. I also said to myself, that it was best to remain composed and not show anything else. I did. I thought it was that simple.
The last time I saw my grandmother was the day before her fall. She was smiling at my 2-month old nephew - he will be turning one next week - in my parents' room. That was the last time I saw her before she was lain cold and still in the morgue the next evening. It was hard to believe that she looked so shrivelled and small on the cold metal table. My cousins were red-eyed. I left the morgue and returned shortly after. It was just the two of us. I wanted her to come back and I'd help her out of the cold table and bring her out to everyone and she'd grin her trademark toothy grin, again.
Grandmother had lain very still. She looked like she was in a deep sleep, thats all. I brushed her hand and held it, however, she would had shook it off and murmured irritably to me during her waking days. I just looked at her for a long time, and hadn't known what to say. I whispered to her that I missed her already. I still do, everyday.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Snob Appeal: Pinkie
N literally rolled her eyes for me, not at me, when I scurried into the grim classroom. She rolled her eyes at the general direction: Everybody else. It was a little after half past seven but, I was given the glamour-puss treatment. N was never the said type but, tonight seemed exceptional. Maybe she had a date. Then, several stragglers arrived, and N rolled her eyes indiscriminately - definitely had a date.
My gut did not react very well to the mostly filled seats, as I don't come off as a social creature in school. To be seated less than two palms away from one another wasn’t exactly my style. I took the second last row. Typical, I know. N resumed our last lecture (by M) on Aphra Behn: The scorned female writer in the 1600s due to her natural ability to wield her pen and raked in considerable wealth and influence.
Tonight, we had someone with a phony accent. Let's call her Pinkie, for convenience's sake and, because she did actually wore a pink sweater.
I couldn't recall why she said the word ‘attitude’ to N but, Pinkie pronounced it 'ahh-dee-toot'. It was only the beginning of Pinkie's litany of posh intonations. Everyone in the class, except Pinkie got rilly, oops, I meant, really uncomfortable; frustrated sighs, deep frowns, eyes bored into Pinkie from all directions as she took over N's stage.
You would not often get it right - an affected tone - when you try to make a conscious effort at it.
Pinkie made her point, when N did not ask for any to be made.
Take One: Pinkie’s random interjection aka 'posh accent'.
Pinkie: 'I thin (think) Helena hhass (has) an ad-vann-taage (advantage) over Angelica.' (Her voice rose up and down, like The Fat Lady's bad singing in the Harry Potter series)
N frowned irritably.
N: 'I get your point (Pinkie), but you must know that, Angelica's position in the play as a powerful figure cannot be compromised. She is a prostitute and Helena is a *‘woman of quality’. It is the structure of the play.'
It was an electrifying moment because I felt the air in the room prickled...
Take Two: Undeterred, Pinkie continued.
Pinkie: 'But Helena of-furred (offered) herself to Wilmore, and she paid him after sex. That is the ad-vann-taage (advantage) she had over Angelica. No?’
Random sighs heard. N looked at Pinkie. It was a look loosely resembling Uma Thurman’s character (The Bride) in Kill Bill, during her pre-vengeance speech: ‘And when I arrive at my destination, I’m gonna kill… Bill.’ In this case, N presumably wanted to kill… Pinkie.
Take Three: The spotlight was still manhandled by Pinkie.
Pinkie: ‘It rilly (really) depends howwl (how) you look at it… I mean, Helena is an i’ony (she dropped the ‘r’ in irony). She is a ‘woman of qwaah-lit-teee (quality)’, compared to the prostitute Angelica, yet …’
Everyone had the good grace not to chop her into little pink pieces. For her motley assortment of accents: Continental, American, British, the end-product sounded nothing like the said accents but her own - back to you, Pinkie. Or, next time, stick to one accent, at least you passed off as a real fake.
*A chaste woman.
My gut did not react very well to the mostly filled seats, as I don't come off as a social creature in school. To be seated less than two palms away from one another wasn’t exactly my style. I took the second last row. Typical, I know. N resumed our last lecture (by M) on Aphra Behn: The scorned female writer in the 1600s due to her natural ability to wield her pen and raked in considerable wealth and influence.
Tonight, we had someone with a phony accent. Let's call her Pinkie, for convenience's sake and, because she did actually wore a pink sweater.
I couldn't recall why she said the word ‘attitude’ to N but, Pinkie pronounced it 'ahh-dee-toot'. It was only the beginning of Pinkie's litany of posh intonations. Everyone in the class, except Pinkie got rilly, oops, I meant, really uncomfortable; frustrated sighs, deep frowns, eyes bored into Pinkie from all directions as she took over N's stage.
You would not often get it right - an affected tone - when you try to make a conscious effort at it.
Pinkie made her point, when N did not ask for any to be made.
Take One: Pinkie’s random interjection aka 'posh accent'.
Pinkie: 'I thin (think) Helena hhass (has) an ad-vann-taage (advantage) over Angelica.' (Her voice rose up and down, like The Fat Lady's bad singing in the Harry Potter series)
N frowned irritably.
N: 'I get your point (Pinkie), but you must know that, Angelica's position in the play as a powerful figure cannot be compromised. She is a prostitute and Helena is a *‘woman of quality’. It is the structure of the play.'
It was an electrifying moment because I felt the air in the room prickled...
Take Two: Undeterred, Pinkie continued.
Pinkie: 'But Helena of-furred (offered) herself to Wilmore, and she paid him after sex. That is the ad-vann-taage (advantage) she had over Angelica. No?’
Random sighs heard. N looked at Pinkie. It was a look loosely resembling Uma Thurman’s character (The Bride) in Kill Bill, during her pre-vengeance speech: ‘And when I arrive at my destination, I’m gonna kill… Bill.’ In this case, N presumably wanted to kill… Pinkie.
Take Three: The spotlight was still manhandled by Pinkie.
Pinkie: ‘It rilly (really) depends howwl (how) you look at it… I mean, Helena is an i’ony (she dropped the ‘r’ in irony). She is a ‘woman of qwaah-lit-teee (quality)’, compared to the prostitute Angelica, yet …’
Everyone had the good grace not to chop her into little pink pieces. For her motley assortment of accents: Continental, American, British, the end-product sounded nothing like the said accents but her own - back to you, Pinkie. Or, next time, stick to one accent, at least you passed off as a real fake.
*A chaste woman.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Food For Thought
'We've reached a point in our civilization where counterculture has mutated into a self-obsessed
aesthetic vacuum. So while hipsterdom is the end product of all prior countercultures, it's been
stripped of its subversion and originality, and is leaving a generation pointlessly obsessing over
fashion, faux individuality, cultural capital and the commodities of style.'
Excerpt from 'The Dead End of Western Civilization' by Douglas Haddow.
aesthetic vacuum. So while hipsterdom is the end product of all prior countercultures, it's been
stripped of its subversion and originality, and is leaving a generation pointlessly obsessing over
fashion, faux individuality, cultural capital and the commodities of style.'
Excerpt from 'The Dead End of Western Civilization' by Douglas Haddow.
Sex: A Great Way To Score
On the first female English author to earn her living by her pen, Aphra Behn, who hauled the shit back to her jealous male counterparts in the literary circle, back in the 1670s and 1680s, was the hot subject during last Friday's lecture. The lecturer who revived her was M. This time round, her hair wasn't kinky like N's curls (read previous entry on Othello's Night). It was no-nonsense: Pulled taut from her soft, plump face, into a mysterious chignon-like style, or no style, to which the french women might disapprove of.
Behn served as a double agent in Antwerp for Charles II, was imprisoned for debts and was often criticised for the sexually explicit themes that often appeared in her works. Most notably, The Rover. Why? Is the female body shameful, or is a female shameless just for articulating her internal organs on paper, besides the obvious C word? Vulva, Clitoris, Vagina or Labia. Cunt is passe, along with that classic Hokkien expletive.
Most people are usually more inarticulate than usual when it comes to describing the female sexual organ. You know there is more to it.
M might had made Behn smiled that day.
M: "I've marked so many exam papers, and nobody talks about sex. For an Aphra Behn's question I mean."
Many with a deer-caught-in-headlights expression.
M: "And I'm puzzled. I often ask myself, Where is the sex part? Yes, they talked about Behn's feminist perspective and how she tried to enlighten the old fogeys, etc, etc, but sex is always found in Behn's works. It's a tip by the way."
Oohs and yippees abounded the room.
M: "The point is guys, you need to acknowledge the sex part, whether you like it or not."
M paused then continued ...
M: "Okay, let's do this together. Say SEX. Together please. And I know some of you are saying it for the first time."
Roaring laughter that seemed to echo: How absurd!/That's me .../So what if it's my first time saying it!
M, in sing-song fashion, eyes widened, mouth opened before hissing for emphasis ...
M: "Okay, now, (melodiously) SEX!"
Everybody said Sex.
M looked pleased and suddenly, everybody relaxed a bit. Friendlier faces.
Sex, a great noun, an ice-breaker in the classroom, and a great way to score for the paper. The word did it, not an orgy.
Apt add: Eve Ensler's 'The Vagina Monologues' will be staged at the Drama Centre Theatre from 1 to 12 October. Visit www.sistic.com.sg for details.
Behn served as a double agent in Antwerp for Charles II, was imprisoned for debts and was often criticised for the sexually explicit themes that often appeared in her works. Most notably, The Rover. Why? Is the female body shameful, or is a female shameless just for articulating her internal organs on paper, besides the obvious C word? Vulva, Clitoris, Vagina or Labia. Cunt is passe, along with that classic Hokkien expletive.
Most people are usually more inarticulate than usual when it comes to describing the female sexual organ. You know there is more to it.
M might had made Behn smiled that day.
M: "I've marked so many exam papers, and nobody talks about sex. For an Aphra Behn's question I mean."
Many with a deer-caught-in-headlights expression.
M: "And I'm puzzled. I often ask myself, Where is the sex part? Yes, they talked about Behn's feminist perspective and how she tried to enlighten the old fogeys, etc, etc, but sex is always found in Behn's works. It's a tip by the way."
Oohs and yippees abounded the room.
M: "The point is guys, you need to acknowledge the sex part, whether you like it or not."
M paused then continued ...
M: "Okay, let's do this together. Say SEX. Together please. And I know some of you are saying it for the first time."
Roaring laughter that seemed to echo: How absurd!/That's me .../So what if it's my first time saying it!
M, in sing-song fashion, eyes widened, mouth opened before hissing for emphasis ...
M: "Okay, now, (melodiously) SEX!"
Everybody said Sex.
M looked pleased and suddenly, everybody relaxed a bit. Friendlier faces.
Sex, a great noun, an ice-breaker in the classroom, and a great way to score for the paper. The word did it, not an orgy.
Apt add: Eve Ensler's 'The Vagina Monologues' will be staged at the Drama Centre Theatre from 1 to 12 October. Visit www.sistic.com.sg for details.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Playing Dead
Slice. Rip. Stab. Slit. Blindfold yourself and hold a knife with a rhinestone handle. Air stabs. Gently scrape the skin - black, white, brown, camel, yellow, orange - on your neck. Use the tip of the blade and exert a gentle force into wherever you want it to be. Feel the thrill of drawing blood.
To murder with characteristic frankness, move yourself to the record player and put on an old scratchy Billie Holiday circling to Strange Fruit.
You glide to the cream couch reeked in dried blood. Slowly and deliberately, you succumb to the flesh appeal and stretch yourself long on the couch.
You reach for the rhinestone handled knife and squint on the watercolored reflection speckled with hard brown spots. The reflection moves. You feel the hairs on your neck stand. You lick your lips and close your eyes as you wait for your partner in crime to move in for the kill as the game begins.
Playing Dead was inspired by Margaret Atwood's Murder In The Dark.
To murder with characteristic frankness, move yourself to the record player and put on an old scratchy Billie Holiday circling to Strange Fruit.
You glide to the cream couch reeked in dried blood. Slowly and deliberately, you succumb to the flesh appeal and stretch yourself long on the couch.
You reach for the rhinestone handled knife and squint on the watercolored reflection speckled with hard brown spots. The reflection moves. You feel the hairs on your neck stand. You lick your lips and close your eyes as you wait for your partner in crime to move in for the kill as the game begins.
Playing Dead was inspired by Margaret Atwood's Murder In The Dark.
Vanity
Pick out a piece of your mother's blouse, pants or dress. Try it on. If the size disapproves of yours, wrap the piece of garment on your feet and stamp on it. Walk towards her vanity and observe the objects. Touch the handheld mirror, hold it a finger away from your face and acknowledge the sad reminder. You know you have beautiful eyes. A bunch of make-up pencils are held snugly by a rubber band. A rainbow of colour pots are nestled in a dainty china plate.
There is nothing you couldn't do to make yourself prettier, although you keep on listening, when your mother said your supposed preetiness was abducted; when you slipped out of the womb a minute too soon - a preemie.
Mother always purses her lips pale when she looks at you.
Her best silk scarf - a vivid purplish red with black trimmings - you wrap yourself with it. You consider the aftermath. However, you lack the fear of mother these days.
The unsparing disregard for mother stands apparent, when you ripped her satin skirt off the hanger and, invented your virgin smirk. In the opaque shoe wardrobe which you loathe, is preened with rows of shoes, proud and elegant. Countless of mother's inklings with her slight tone always urges you to putsch her little religion - Vanity.
You hear mother calling you. You coax your smirk back and thread to the hallway where mother stands with her regular nine bags of vanities, this time round, for you. You decide how lucky you are as a seven-year-old.
There is nothing you couldn't do to make yourself prettier, although you keep on listening, when your mother said your supposed preetiness was abducted; when you slipped out of the womb a minute too soon - a preemie.
Mother always purses her lips pale when she looks at you.
Her best silk scarf - a vivid purplish red with black trimmings - you wrap yourself with it. You consider the aftermath. However, you lack the fear of mother these days.
The unsparing disregard for mother stands apparent, when you ripped her satin skirt off the hanger and, invented your virgin smirk. In the opaque shoe wardrobe which you loathe, is preened with rows of shoes, proud and elegant. Countless of mother's inklings with her slight tone always urges you to putsch her little religion - Vanity.
You hear mother calling you. You coax your smirk back and thread to the hallway where mother stands with her regular nine bags of vanities, this time round, for you. You decide how lucky you are as a seven-year-old.
Candyman
On S J Perelman, former writer/humorist, most notably for The New Yorker magazine in the 50s.
I was quite bowled over by the late Mr Perelman's writings, until a certain piece, which didn't speak very well of the kind of man he was. It was a travel piece he wrote, after a visit to Penang circa the 30s. Maybe he was an emotional man because he recounted a particular incident in one of his article and penned the hotel's employees' 'a bunch of good-for-nothing natives'. The management didn't reply to a complaint he had made on the ant-infested drawer in the room he'd stayed. For good reason. Apparently, Mr Perelman's delirium for gumdrops bore the ad hoc ant colony. Who could blame the hotel folks who didn't give a rat's ass to reply Mr P. Now could we, in all decency?
PS I still heart S J Perelman's works.
I was quite bowled over by the late Mr Perelman's writings, until a certain piece, which didn't speak very well of the kind of man he was. It was a travel piece he wrote, after a visit to Penang circa the 30s. Maybe he was an emotional man because he recounted a particular incident in one of his article and penned the hotel's employees' 'a bunch of good-for-nothing natives'. The management didn't reply to a complaint he had made on the ant-infested drawer in the room he'd stayed. For good reason. Apparently, Mr Perelman's delirium for gumdrops bore the ad hoc ant colony. Who could blame the hotel folks who didn't give a rat's ass to reply Mr P. Now could we, in all decency?
PS I still heart S J Perelman's works.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
It Still Hangs Like A Strange Fruit
Mr ___ used to listen to Lisa Lisa and The Cult Jam’s ‘Lost in Emotion’ a lot. The song was always gagged on repeat for hours. It played incessantly and Mr ___'s expression resembled the quintessential look - nonchalance - of Jeeves, the ingenious butler from P.D Wodehouse’s novels.
Mr ___ was not ingenious like Jeeves but very emotional. Sometimes, an extra copy of the evening papers, unwittingly bought home by Mrs___, could make him a very unhappy man for the rest of the evening - Lisa Lisa and The Cult Jam or not.
Mr ___ and ___ seemed to be lost in a sort of emotion called involuntary hatred or just a misunderstanding left unattended for too long and roots started to grow.
___ used to be Mr ___ ‘s favourite. His favoured and fawned upon _. It was apparent from his fondness to tease ___’s chubby cheeks - Mr ___ christened them ‘hamburger’ which was as old-fashioned as it could get in those days, or when he saved the chicken drumstick for ___.
So, came years gone by and many, many moons later, Mr___’s favourite _ grew taller, sans chubby cheeks but all hard bones and a more daring mouth. __'s part maturity and part rebelliousness didn't amuse him, just so you know. Instead, he used tape to tape it up. New rolls of tape were always by Mr ___'s side, accompanied by his pack of twelve sticks and cans of beer, sometimes the bottle-necked ones.
Mr ___ yanked it off when the tape lost its stickiness and turned slick, so, he reached for something else. The gulf widened between Mr ___ and ___.
Mr ___'s emotions got the better of him. Psyche coerced him in a way he never asked for. He would indulged in that state, freewheeling and try as he might, the crazy ride never took a rest. ___ should have hitched a ride on a different day. Perhaps no one could avert that fateful day which didn’t turn out fateful in the morbid sense. It took a turn for the longest time in a state of panic and rest. Breaths came in long-drawn or short and exasperated. All hot air but never the kind you could chase away without exorcising it.
The exorcism is non-ritual like at all. It was simply using the heart to draw in the kind of strength; only someone with the right mix could endure or to make sense out of the necessary evil at the end of it.
Words from Mr___ gushed out like liquor over a flesh wound. It rained, not over a land of drought but a room full of dried food stuff.
Mr ___'s scathing words were injurious to the spirit but that seemed the only way to keep his sanity intact.
This piece might read like an incoherently pieced puzzle because the writer is still struggling to 'straighten out' the (lost) emotions and put it across as accurately as possible.
Mr ___ was not ingenious like Jeeves but very emotional. Sometimes, an extra copy of the evening papers, unwittingly bought home by Mrs___, could make him a very unhappy man for the rest of the evening - Lisa Lisa and The Cult Jam or not.
Mr ___ and ___ seemed to be lost in a sort of emotion called involuntary hatred or just a misunderstanding left unattended for too long and roots started to grow.
___ used to be Mr ___ ‘s favourite. His favoured and fawned upon _. It was apparent from his fondness to tease ___’s chubby cheeks - Mr ___ christened them ‘hamburger’ which was as old-fashioned as it could get in those days, or when he saved the chicken drumstick for ___.
So, came years gone by and many, many moons later, Mr___’s favourite _ grew taller, sans chubby cheeks but all hard bones and a more daring mouth. __'s part maturity and part rebelliousness didn't amuse him, just so you know. Instead, he used tape to tape it up. New rolls of tape were always by Mr ___'s side, accompanied by his pack of twelve sticks and cans of beer, sometimes the bottle-necked ones.
Mr ___ yanked it off when the tape lost its stickiness and turned slick, so, he reached for something else. The gulf widened between Mr ___ and ___.
Mr ___'s emotions got the better of him. Psyche coerced him in a way he never asked for. He would indulged in that state, freewheeling and try as he might, the crazy ride never took a rest. ___ should have hitched a ride on a different day. Perhaps no one could avert that fateful day which didn’t turn out fateful in the morbid sense. It took a turn for the longest time in a state of panic and rest. Breaths came in long-drawn or short and exasperated. All hot air but never the kind you could chase away without exorcising it.
The exorcism is non-ritual like at all. It was simply using the heart to draw in the kind of strength; only someone with the right mix could endure or to make sense out of the necessary evil at the end of it.
Words from Mr___ gushed out like liquor over a flesh wound. It rained, not over a land of drought but a room full of dried food stuff.
Mr ___'s scathing words were injurious to the spirit but that seemed the only way to keep his sanity intact.
This piece might read like an incoherently pieced puzzle because the writer is still struggling to 'straighten out' the (lost) emotions and put it across as accurately as possible.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
(Almost) Swoon At Her Feet
It was always smelly. The climate inside her mouth was, I assumed, arid, dank, and passed off as a foreign odour, which was objectionable to the nasal passages. And, she was all mouth: Boastful, mindless chatter and the like.
It is no sin to have bad breath 24/7, but to sow it airborne is just nasty.
Her distinct breath - she knew it very well - was treated callously. No one in her employ was spared, including her sister. I protected myself well whenever she popped by my cubicle.
SHE: 'Jael...' (She exhaled) How is the article coming along?' (Her breath hovered)
ME: 'Crafting it. It should be ready by 5.' (I held my breath)
SHE: 'Okay.' (She inhaled then exhaled slowly) 'So what about the one on X?' (Her breath hovered thickly)
ME: (I cursed: F***, just get-off-the-can) 'Yupitsunderway' (Swift utterance).
SHE: (Looked annoyed and took me around by-my-chair) 'Do you know who took my can of green tea, it was still in the fridge before lunch, or did you take it?'
ME: (A face-off with SHE WHO SHOULD NOT SPEAK) 'Noidea' (Swift and painful utterance).
She took only Pokka Green Tea, not water. Water may had been too bland for her taste but she sure took her breath seriously and almost had everyone swooned at her feet.
It is no sin to have bad breath 24/7, but to sow it airborne is just nasty.
Her distinct breath - she knew it very well - was treated callously. No one in her employ was spared, including her sister. I protected myself well whenever she popped by my cubicle.
SHE: 'Jael...' (She exhaled) How is the article coming along?' (Her breath hovered)
ME: 'Crafting it. It should be ready by 5.' (I held my breath)
SHE: 'Okay.' (She inhaled then exhaled slowly) 'So what about the one on X?' (Her breath hovered thickly)
ME: (I cursed: F***, just get-off-the-can) 'Yupitsunderway' (Swift utterance).
SHE: (Looked annoyed and took me around by-my-chair) 'Do you know who took my can of green tea, it was still in the fridge before lunch, or did you take it?'
ME: (A face-off with SHE WHO SHOULD NOT SPEAK) 'Noidea' (Swift and painful utterance).
She took only Pokka Green Tea, not water. Water may had been too bland for her taste but she sure took her breath seriously and almost had everyone swooned at her feet.
Sing Me Read Me For A Hundred
I'll pay you a hundred dollars if you can make me sleep like a babe in a hammock. No pills, thank you very much. Seeing the first light is scarier than when night falls.
Sing me The Smiths' 'I Know It's Over' over and over, or read an Enid Blyton's story till my eyelids head south.
Lyrics excerpted from I Know It's Over:
Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
And as I climb into an empty bed
Oh well
Enough said
I know it's over - still I cling
I don't know where else I can go
Oh ...
Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
See, the sea wants to take me
The knife wants to slit me
Do you think you can help me ?
Stories that may help:
Any of Enid Blyton's
Matilda by Roald Dahl
The Dark Angel by Meredith Ann Pierce (It's a trilogy)
The Goose Girl by ... (KIV)
The Pearl Neckalace by ... (KIV)
Any of RL Stine's
*Please, no Sidney Sheldon; it's vulgar.
These are some of my favourite child-teen hood reads. Maybe I did miss my childhood without knowing until now.
Time check: 6:30am
I'll try to sleep now. Let me know if you can help. I'd better start looking for that hundred dollar note before you call me. Goodnight.
Sing me The Smiths' 'I Know It's Over' over and over, or read an Enid Blyton's story till my eyelids head south.
Lyrics excerpted from I Know It's Over:
Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
And as I climb into an empty bed
Oh well
Enough said
I know it's over - still I cling
I don't know where else I can go
Oh ...
Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
See, the sea wants to take me
The knife wants to slit me
Do you think you can help me ?
Stories that may help:
Any of Enid Blyton's
Matilda by Roald Dahl
The Dark Angel by Meredith Ann Pierce (It's a trilogy)
The Goose Girl by ... (KIV)
The Pearl Neckalace by ... (KIV)
Any of RL Stine's
*Please, no Sidney Sheldon; it's vulgar.
These are some of my favourite child-teen hood reads. Maybe I did miss my childhood without knowing until now.
Time check: 6:30am
I'll try to sleep now. Let me know if you can help. I'd better start looking for that hundred dollar note before you call me. Goodnight.
Othello's Night: Stand Up And Look At The Moon
Tonight's lecture put Othello in a spot. The culprit was my lecturer, N. She wore a shock of funny corkscrew curls in an indiscernible dark shade of brown with aplomb. A habitual poker-face, N's unexcitable persona and customary drawl on the Shakespearean tragedy, Othello, read more like a weather report. But the unpredictable side of N began to manifest in Act 2 of the play:
N began to read from her crumpled copy of Othello.
'Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Pour out the light, and then put out the light.'
N: "The first light is the candle Othello is holding and the second light is to take the life of Desdemona."
N paused.
N: "See, it is not easy to kill someone you love."
Mystery snicker: "Ah ha".
N: "Are you snickering from experience?"
Slience. N read again.
'He kisses her (first kiss)
O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword! One more, one more. (second kiss)
Be thus when thou art dead and I will kill thee,
And love thee after. One more, and this the last.' (third kiss)
N: "See, he cannot tahan, must kiss a few times before he kills her."
Raucous laughter. N's poker expression remained. Firm as concrete. She waited for the laughter to die down and continued ...
'That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose/
Girl sitting at the back: "Why is it always a rose? Why not some other flower?"
N: "Why?"
N looked exasperated.
N: "Roses are beautiful right? It represents beauty. You give it to the one you love, you give it on V day. No?"
She waved Othello (the book) weakly and sighed, then apologized.
N: "Sorry, I'm just being cynical."
She finished the last 3 lines.
'So sweet was ne ' er so fatal. I must weep.
But they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly -
It strikes where it doth loves. She wakes.'
N: "In the last line, Othello is simply saying 'I love her but I gotta kill her'."
Concise interpretation. She advised everyone to read the entire play. Everyone started to pack.
N: "Are you guys going for some mid-autumn festival?"
Murmuring.
N: "So what do you actually do? Stand up and look at the moon?"
Raucous laughter. N raised her eyebrows and shrugged.
Quite a character. Stand up and look at the moon? Maybe tomorrow.
N began to read from her crumpled copy of Othello.
'Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Pour out the light, and then put out the light.'
N: "The first light is the candle Othello is holding and the second light is to take the life of Desdemona."
N paused.
N: "See, it is not easy to kill someone you love."
Mystery snicker: "Ah ha".
N: "Are you snickering from experience?"
Slience. N read again.
'He kisses her (first kiss)
O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword! One more, one more. (second kiss)
Be thus when thou art dead and I will kill thee,
And love thee after. One more, and this the last.' (third kiss)
N: "See, he cannot tahan, must kiss a few times before he kills her."
Raucous laughter. N's poker expression remained. Firm as concrete. She waited for the laughter to die down and continued ...
'That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose/
Girl sitting at the back: "Why is it always a rose? Why not some other flower?"
N: "Why?"
N looked exasperated.
N: "Roses are beautiful right? It represents beauty. You give it to the one you love, you give it on V day. No?"
She waved Othello (the book) weakly and sighed, then apologized.
N: "Sorry, I'm just being cynical."
She finished the last 3 lines.
'So sweet was ne ' er so fatal. I must weep.
But they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly -
It strikes where it doth loves. She wakes.'
N: "In the last line, Othello is simply saying 'I love her but I gotta kill her'."
Concise interpretation. She advised everyone to read the entire play. Everyone started to pack.
N: "Are you guys going for some mid-autumn festival?"
Murmuring.
N: "So what do you actually do? Stand up and look at the moon?"
Raucous laughter. N raised her eyebrows and shrugged.
Quite a character. Stand up and look at the moon? Maybe tomorrow.
Friday, September 12, 2008
The Goldmine
H was a literary goldmine for an emboldened individual - J, the lowly regarded editor -who used to work at PPLPP in '05.
GOLD BAR NO. 1
Provoked by impertinent lasses who crossed the cardinal line of hygiene.
AND A GOOD RIDDANCE!
Begone that half bowl waste,
Begone that amber flow left in haste!
Lest a decree to make waste and water in public place,
Hush now, flush now, cease hogging now!
*This piece was pasted behind the door of the only female cubicle. The ladies' upkeep of the dignity only lasted for a week.
GOLD BAR No. 2
PLOCK, PLOCK
The deplorable quake caused by
indecorous women in heels
+especially women of size
presents an insolence that tallies a coarse diner
masticating an entire steak
open-mouthed.
*This piece was pasted high on the wall next to me. The plock-plocks never stopped.
+No pun intended. Implied only for factual purposes.
Footnote [Observations from a daily dose of crassness at H. A word-punch demonstration for J's amusement at a bland workplace.]
GOLD BAR NO. 1
Provoked by impertinent lasses who crossed the cardinal line of hygiene.
AND A GOOD RIDDANCE!
Begone that half bowl waste,
Begone that amber flow left in haste!
Lest a decree to make waste and water in public place,
Hush now, flush now, cease hogging now!
*This piece was pasted behind the door of the only female cubicle. The ladies' upkeep of the dignity only lasted for a week.
GOLD BAR No. 2
PLOCK, PLOCK
The deplorable quake caused by
indecorous women in heels
+especially women of size
presents an insolence that tallies a coarse diner
masticating an entire steak
open-mouthed.
*This piece was pasted high on the wall next to me. The plock-plocks never stopped.
+No pun intended. Implied only for factual purposes.
Footnote [Observations from a daily dose of crassness at H. A word-punch demonstration for J's amusement at a bland workplace.]
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Longing
Darling,
Tell me, why is it that when your heart leaps where the eye leads, it is always about holding back and watching, feigning, spying, hoping, praying, murmuring, sweating, contemplating, longing, craving, weighing, trembling, and not uttering a word?
Tell me, why is it that when your heart leaps where the eye leads, it is always about holding back and watching, feigning, spying, hoping, praying, murmuring, sweating, contemplating, longing, craving, weighing, trembling, and not uttering a word?
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Heartbreak Menu
Dearest,
Today's heartbreak menu consists of bang bang bang zang zang clang clang and a little word of malice. It is vile. The tears lashed out like a tempest and raged for two minutes; to encourage more just defiles the ephemeral beauty of it all. You know, dearest, that Strength is sometimes good to stow away than to be disrobed and let the sun shine on it. It disgusts the shit out of anyone who is going through their own heartbreak menu. It is nothing like Brew of the day on the chalkboard menu, believe me.
Strength, in all its chicanery, is often overlooked as a shortcoming and proverbially clouded with glory and goodness. Strength is no family to being distraught or battered down by a useless past. Strength hurries one to run before one can walk. It is petty and proud. It is also very pretty. A sight that brings pleasure to the senses, and speaks with every word of truth. Every word of truth that only lasts long enough before age starts to show.
Today's heartbreak menu consists of bang bang bang zang zang clang clang and a little word of malice. It is vile. The tears lashed out like a tempest and raged for two minutes; to encourage more just defiles the ephemeral beauty of it all. You know, dearest, that Strength is sometimes good to stow away than to be disrobed and let the sun shine on it. It disgusts the shit out of anyone who is going through their own heartbreak menu. It is nothing like Brew of the day on the chalkboard menu, believe me.
Strength, in all its chicanery, is often overlooked as a shortcoming and proverbially clouded with glory and goodness. Strength is no family to being distraught or battered down by a useless past. Strength hurries one to run before one can walk. It is petty and proud. It is also very pretty. A sight that brings pleasure to the senses, and speaks with every word of truth. Every word of truth that only lasts long enough before age starts to show.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Salt
Dear You,
I'm trying to write as a writer who is worth her salt should. I hug across my chest and grasp my arms gently, to remind myself not to get carried away whenever, my wildly imagined thoughts say 'We..e..e..e'. Immemorial to my volition. I didn't think so. See, I AM ALREADY CARRIED AWAY. Would you still care to stick with me as I write this letter? No, I haven't touch on any specific subject and it is quite arduous to join the dots to my flailing thoughts right now and let the show begin. What show, you ask.
A new paragraph. Now, the cohesion is forming. I see it. It finally makes sense to focus on the subject 'Why She is Actually Worth Her Salt (As A Writer)'. Very bold. You say, surely she isn't measuring herself up against an entire salt shaker. Fortunately, not. Half a salt shaker worth of salt is all I give to myself. It is fair to give yourself half that much of something which you actually think you are skilled at. The lies we tell ourselves sometimes, you say. Lying does have its inconspicuous qualities if you give it a chance once in a while. It really does. Does it all seem light and airy to you? Oh dear, we are both carried away-up till now.
So, would you still want to stick with me as I write this letter? Promise I will not falter. We have come to this latest paragraph as I write and still, we have yet to discuss the subject. What is the subject? You do remember, I trust you do.
I'm trying to write as a writer who is worth her salt should. I hug across my chest and grasp my arms gently, to remind myself not to get carried away whenever, my wildly imagined thoughts say 'We..e..e..e'. Immemorial to my volition. I didn't think so. See, I AM ALREADY CARRIED AWAY. Would you still care to stick with me as I write this letter? No, I haven't touch on any specific subject and it is quite arduous to join the dots to my flailing thoughts right now and let the show begin. What show, you ask.
A new paragraph. Now, the cohesion is forming. I see it. It finally makes sense to focus on the subject 'Why She is Actually Worth Her Salt (As A Writer)'. Very bold. You say, surely she isn't measuring herself up against an entire salt shaker. Fortunately, not. Half a salt shaker worth of salt is all I give to myself. It is fair to give yourself half that much of something which you actually think you are skilled at. The lies we tell ourselves sometimes, you say. Lying does have its inconspicuous qualities if you give it a chance once in a while. It really does. Does it all seem light and airy to you? Oh dear, we are both carried away-up till now.
So, would you still want to stick with me as I write this letter? Promise I will not falter. We have come to this latest paragraph as I write and still, we have yet to discuss the subject. What is the subject? You do remember, I trust you do.
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