Take A Poker Stand

Particles of Dust: Your self-serving opinions are merely a pretzel of dog turd

2009-06-21T16:42:00.001+08:00

A uniformity of formless, lifeless minute particles in the air shares the same family tree of groundless, hotly-assumed opinions. And, because these particles are everywhere at anytime, it's pointless to avoid them; it clings onto your hair, face and clothes but you would rather leave them alone and continue with what matters to you than to try and remove them like lint - overall, it is a waste of time.

Not that we are gracious to let them stay - minimally annoying - and if you have a dust roller, it is handy, if not leave them be. For a start, these particles doesn't cause any bodily harm. As long as they stay in their nomadic shelter, we aren't bothered by their existence no matter how much of an epidemic: onto our favourite jacket or pants. Only specks to the eye and no one talks about it unless the weather is no longer in vogue to open the first channel of communication.

Negligible and point like, dust is itself self-explanatory.

You're dust and your visibility is formed when no one's looking; no one talks about you except a rag. That's all. But you, dust, is as forgettable and useless like dog turd.

Opinions are just that, unless it can transcend into something better for you and me.

A Brew You Might Like

2009-06-21T16:41:00.000+08:00

Dearest,

This silly piece is done lovingly, tenderly and jocularly for you and it is only good for today, like Brew of the day. Savour it after an arduous day because only my words can do the things I wish I could do if I were by your side now. This piece is representative of a slipshod attempt of storytelling at its Finest - I do beg your pardon.

This brew is quite a winner in terms of acidity and hints of spicy undertones. Sip it slowly because it is only served in a shot like an espresso - a little more might keep your peepers big and bright for the night and it is not good at all - brevity, baby.

I was quite moved by your demand of The Daily Brew of Madness, and I sincerely wish to deliver the freshest brew everyday regardless of cranky cyberspace postmen, traffic and the like. In this Brew, you will find a footnote which explains the current challenges the author is facing but she is not excusing herself from taking a break JUST BECAUSE. The author takes her Brew very seriously and sincerely produces reading material of the finest quality just for you, her faithful reader.

I believe with every confidence that you would be quite bewildered with today's Brew. It is a little titillating for my taste; however it isn't a lost cause because this special Brew is set circa ‘99 in a beautiful land, quite far from where we both are now. Until we travel to that beautiful land, it's xxx for now. Years like falling hair, we once left ours in Napoleon's lair. That walk on a cold windy night with you, it’s always you.

You have given me something I still can't quite put my finger on what exactly it is; however I know one thing's true: We have been brought together for something great and something of the furthest. I haven't thought much of what lies ahead but I do know how alike we are, and how we always intuit the next crazy ride. It's a one way ticket my love, like Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. You're da bees' knees, and I, the cat’s pajamas - whatever that means - but we sure rock like young lovers do.

Sip this brew like a lover would taste his lover's neck - deep and tender. For you are not alone today while sipping this Otherworldly Brew. It conjures a utopia for you and me. Let the aroma rise like wanderlust up your nose and into your blood stream.

I lost myself in your fabled essence. Not anymore for you are real like moonlight and magnetic like Aurora Borealis.

My favourite piece of art: You.

Love like never before
Classy and bold, you are both
Love you once more and more
New love new day

*This is a concluding piece to Heartbreak Menu written sometime last year this time of year.

Sémillon Sway

2009-06-03T00:00:00.000+08:00

I was tripped onto Oz
Like Merlin's hoax
Swirl on damp, crumbly soil
Mages pervade my veins
Cupping the last earthy sane
Resisting the spell of your gaze

*Sémillon is a terribly naughty wine for you and me.

Just A Little Longer

2009-06-01T02:38:00.003+08:00

She wants to be covered by the same blanket every night till the one night she says no. Don't time her because she can't guarantee a date. They say familiarity breeds contempt but the sneer had not yet found her. It gives her space to roam. She was never the latest experiment or a microscopic wonder.

Let her stay for a little longer. She won't ask for more or less. The gnawing is still very much alive and she might become food for the worms if you ask her to give up now. You said to her "You will miss the boat." She said "Let that happen for I don't intend to step on board. It's sturdy and new but it's vile to my nose and terrible for my eyes to behold."

Loosen your hold but not too much so she may sway safely and still trust in you. She has seen too much, gone hazy with your wine, and very unsteady this time. She will take your hand and let you guide her for the first rite before she let go again and walk on the tightrope designed for her fall. Bones too hard to be broken because it has lost its ears to hear the sickening splat - old bones they call it - to command a fractured mayhem. An excellent replacement for a watery heart and fungal brains.

Her feet will be dragged and she would struggle with wordless passivity. Expect her to dance like a bright sunflower and she will droop like morning glory or unforgiving like poison ivy. Form her with your remembrance and sculpt her from your heart.

She has memories and sweetness trapped under her lids. She may not open them again just so she could hold them until one day she forgets how to open them.

'And when you can't believe, I'm on my hands and knees.' - Junk Of The Hearts, The Cardigans.

A Tribute To Mr Cat

2009-05-30T18:53:00.001+08:00

He is true and wonderful, and never one to lie
If he did, it was behind my back
Not strong enough to turn around as a muscled lie
To choke me with disbelief and despair

He has rubbery ears
Stretched beyond mortal endurance
A snug fit to embrace my fears

No matter how many times I repeat the same offense
Being walloped by disappointments
He continues the generous act of listening
He doesn't care for fancy clothes or the latest hair
But he cares for my affairs where no one else does

Mystery and style puzzle him because
He prefers to sip coffee with me
Let my stories jiggle his sides
And surrender an inverted half-moon on his lips
That's what I like

He has rubbery legs too
Never seem to tire from walking too long a distance
Or a beat faster than me
To get my beloved oatmeal raisin cookie
The corner coffee shop before closing time

I can be a bully sometimes
Yet he can see past my shortcomings
Thinks I'm someone with a fiercer voice
And too many battles of conquering her disloyal hair.

**I wanted to write a tribute for you the other night but you pissed me off. It doesn't really matter now because by the time you read this, I will be forgiven. Meow.

Almost Like Magic

2009-05-30T02:36:00.003+08:00

It pricks like electricity trickling down your skin, and even when you are both a continent apart, it doesn't matter because the spaces in between is the only thing that is tactile; you could almost touch it. Nothing is so important as compared to the words spoken: it gets bigger, fatter and more delicious, you can taste the taste, and smell the spirit behind every word, it's intoxicating and quite bizarre – a stranger passes you a pack of cocaine as you take a walk in the park. An auditory high and it treats you right and kind when you least expect it, and because you least expect it that's why.

The Voice is the purest sound you've ever heard; it will haunt you like a half remembered song. A song you want to lock it but there was never a keyhole to possess it and let in safety, only your memory. It belongs to you; no one else gets to hear it.

Because you have been let in to this privilege, this little magic, this let's fade into the sunset nonsense, that you slowly and tamely accept it. Let it tame you until you no longer want to resist it. Chemistry, like an unborn baby is fluid, pure, innocent, it just happens. To abort it is no sin here, you won't go to hell. You would only end up searching but never finding that something to fill the eternal void. It comes and passes you by like sweet breath; you know you should inhale it and not hold your breath, even if it lasts only for one moment, because that’s all it takes for magic to be born. Or, take another cue: when lightning strikes.

Talking about you, baby.

*You said it has been a while since the word Magic is used, so.

Rebelling Romanticism: Dawn Is Queen But Not To Me

2009-05-23T19:34:00.007+08:00

I feel my eyes gone overweight spontaneously, at a beautiful hour aptly named, Dawn. Dawn has been crowned beauty queen since time immemorial, I have been convicted of turning my back on her, and looking in her eye with brazen arrogance on most days, when she breaks and awakes. I'm her least of favourites because I refuse to worship her beauty, and trade instead for eye bags and lethargy. She has punished me with an unwavering hold, lending her majestic gaze upon me, so I can never sleep in peace.

Her favourites are always there to greet and bow at her misty feet; fresh-faced, and just a little sleepy but awake. To be ignored or defied is unacceptable. Someone subversive like me is deemed fit for her abhorrence. Dawn is fond of contriving her presence on the periphery of the horizon lazily, and gloriously; spreading her endless bosom for everyone to succumb to but I will not yield. I have no reason to except by my permission.

Dawn is cruel in the tradition of beauty queens. She upholds that useless piece of trait and tradition like her personal vendetta account squarely aimed at me.

Dawn, is slowly fading into oblivion like, Daphne, the river nymph who fled from the Sun god, Apollo's ardent pursuit. Dawn is Queen to lovers before they part after the kiss. Dawn is also fleeting because she lives on a diet consisting of nothing, that's why she's weightless and hard to capture except by mirrors. But the moment she looks away from her mirrored image, she's lost until the next daybreak.

I loathe Dawn for her unfaithfulness and disregard for her mourners when she's gone too soon and returns like it never happened.

Bad Fruit

2009-05-20T16:03:00.014+08:00

This sentiment which I bore is one of unease. Being critical of others' works is a very dangerous thing, one of responsibility to yourself as a critic, and it is also an act of faith. A conscientious remark, opinion, thought and impression is often an ideal few of us could achieve. It is always tempting to draw from subjectivity and it's easy too.

The indulgence of tearing apart an original piece of work, especially a creative one, is always ripe for the picking, and suffering when the fruit is gnawed by teeth and lashed by tongues, all in the name of Taste. It has to be this way before a piece of work - the fruit - is deemed good or bad, fresh or unripe, unique or common. Some fruits have a slight requirement like, Time, for it is a nurturing and impartial judge; it has always stay constant and unwavering, so Time is a trustworthy ally. Fruits which require Time before an impression or Taste is acquired are generally helpless; there is nothing to lean on except patience and endurance without rest but a constant effort to stay resilient.

But a trained eye, like that of a Fruit Grower, is able to perceive and analyse the potential of a fruit during harvesting; through the dexterity of the grower's hand and visual astuteness. When a fruit bears a mark of weakness - uncharacteristic colour and softness - which is lame for survival and consumption, elimination without second thought is inevitable. No matter how little is left to be salvaged, is useless. Only a simple truth remains: A bad fruit. The problem is, who is the Fruit Grower, and how can we identify such a person?

I came across a piece of work, and I couldn't shake it off my mind. It was hard not to think it contrived, accompanied with a sense of dread. It left me with a bitter taste like a rotten fruit, and because I chose to taste it due to the fact that I'm no expert to judge a fruit just by appearance alone, so the experimental way it was for me. Like a novice, who is still impaired with experience and proper training, I picked the fruit, despite its sallowness on the outside and limpness to the touch, cut it, took a bite... and I met the Fruit Grower that day.

Palecock

2009-05-20T01:20:00.001+08:00

I say no doubt you are crowned cocker-lula-baboo
And you say I may have been withdrawn and in gloom
To whom but you, you say, my queen noncho-lalu-babloom
Prancing in your (pale)cock feathers you expect me to swoon
To you I see none other than a pompous goon

Gaily I consider handing back your backward pomp with clever songs
Your head gone swelling in funny angles
Perhaps I may lend a hand for the shape gone horribly wrong
Adjusting your thick clumsy brows for I'm kind and gentle
But not too long for you to think I may be your Song.

**Inspired by the pompous goon. I'm not your Song, not now not ever.

You Know I'm in Love with You

2009-05-15T02:31:00.002+08:00

You know I'm in love with you but I can't say it in your face so, I'll say it here, post-pulp style - it will become a classic thing decades from now. You know I'm in love with you, and only you, and only now while it lasts. When the night warms my lonely neck which prompts me to stare at the black ceiling, wishing you could hear the urgent thud-dup-thud-dup-thud-dup behind my ribcage. However, don't just listen but steal my heart like a thief comes in the night, not by ripping apart my ribcage to get it because that's not stealing but beastly thing to perform.

When I hear my favourite song, and it sings about our love story, only it hasn't happen yet but I will make sure it does. For I will dance like Abigail from Salem, Massachusetts in the forest back in the sixteenth century, and I will also dance like an infant without the belly in perfect beat. I no longer want to sleep and I want to forget all my favourite poems and trade it for your every line and laughter. And when you ask me to recite my favourite poem, and instead I say nothing, you know I'm in love with you.

So, I think I'm in love with you, and I'm done for because I haven't got over loving myself yet. Can you wait for me?

An Effectual Attempt to Die

2009-05-12T14:35:00.013+08:00

What would your last song be? Did happiness rob you from the way you should live, and prevent you from feeling the throbbing of earth's proverbial pain? When the unwelcome pause visits, do you take it in like sipping Darjeeling tea or a bitter cup of memories?

Many lines inside us travel in different momentum, and there at the base of the neck stands the gatekeeper, and every gatekeeper is unrelated to the other. They come from a different time, sometimes ancient or even from a time we have not yet known. Each gatekeeper has a favourite author, politician, thus the things they deem permissible into the neuro-highway is vital to the way you absorb pain or pleasure.

Pain, is comparable to the coldest region in the world and its job is to lead an expedition to the Antarctica, and then leave an ugly mark on the less than virginal ice-land before trying to navigate their way out alive, if not they would be honoured in print but be forgotten soon.

Pleasure, is hard to talk about because pleasure could be a life-saving bowl of donated hot soup for the homeless but reduced to diluted flavoured liquid unfit to be eaten for the i-centric generation. Pleasure is listening to your favourite songs, having breakfast by yourself and the quiet sun hanging around like an old friend, and hearing the words 'I miss you today' from the person you are missing. Pleasure is ever changing and demanding. Sometimes, it turns greater than it should be by manipulating your state of gratification, and if the gatekeeper adheres to its hedonistic request, you are probably done for.

Who is your gatekeeper? No one knows for sure but there will always be a diaphanous form teasing you and tricking your reliable senses when you think you know who it is. An effectual way to die today is to try and locate the gatekeeper's neck, twist it and conquer its fortress, your fortress, so you may live again.

*PS. Cobain, (the one who nicknamed me Courtney with no similarities to begin with except for the sake of pop culture) - another induced failure to write something upbeat.

Love, Courtney

An Ineffectual Attempt to Feel Sad

2009-05-06T01:59:00.006+08:00

There is nothing to talk about except sadness. This night, with thoughts hanging like fruits on a branch, from a tree along some road is just like any other night: Common and cool, bland and empty, noiseless and sad. Sadness from the world wearied world, as it turn, things cruel and faceless continue their acrobatic acts without a trap to call it a day, too much alcohol and morphine to sow from one new vein to another's liquid passage. Heavy steps sagged the unmoving cement, and cribs left in a dangerous playground. Women losing their last breath, and men losing their sense.

Sadness has breathed an eternal breath, like ashes cast across a body of water; a pillow of feathered lies flown freely, and audaciously into untrained ears. The lax hold of a lover's hand, and resistance from a mother's embrace. Perils abound, and arrests no one's attention except by time and ignorance.

Women lose their faith over womanhood, and traces for samples of leftovers to emulate, marching to the beat of a counterfeit drummer. Sadness overtakes them, and reverts back in time, to a patriarchal ideal: To surrender self-expression for servitude, to please and seduce, and finally, a dream product of the reductionist. Docile, sweet, gentle, pleasing, and bland like water is neither complementing nor useful to self-expression, reason, courage and self-belief - faux individuality has nothing to do with these qualities.

Digging into the histories of your neighbours and friends is exciting, as long as it isn't yours to be exposed, which usually presents a sadder version. However, it is effectively concealed, like a stretch on a panty hose, which is still potentially attractive to rip apart without much loss except general embarrassment by today’s social standards. Sadness is almost beautiful when it is pellucid like dew drops or a misty-eyed lover.

I lied many times, and sadly ineffectually.

Candy Floss and iPod Knight

2009-04-29T02:46:00.008+08:00

I told a friend on cyberspace last night, that the weather is the cause of breaking down my writing machine. He said I was being difficult, unwilling to compromise with the cooling system. I appreciate that insight, really I do. At one point of our conversation he said, "Hey, you are moving!", which I presumed he was moved by some of the lines I'd written (I did a little analysis on his X predicament). He actually meant I was getting my rhythm back in writing, thus my writing machine. Egotism and folly goes hand in hand. And, which also meant I was being a tad self-absorbed when I made that presumption earlier.

He was recounting an incident to me, my mind yielded to the Middle Ages; I put him in the light of a knight. The nature of his profession required certain chivalrous elements, a heart of empathy and a keen consciousness of serving the less privileged.

The ladies who had worked with him on several projects were enamoured with his chivalrous ways. Being in close contact with him on a daily basis, and tucked away on a little exotic locale or island is less of work and more of romantic inklings. By exotic island I don't mean Sentosa, it is not real, but it takes the crown as drag queen of synthetic islands. Now, I risk the predictable consequences for saying this, but I might have been caught under his spell too, if I were in their shoes. Thus, the phrase Men At Work is actually very sexy.

I've had opportunities of observing men at work on the sly, and the word sexy just overtake their form, without them realising it, and that's the whole point. It is so much more meaningful that way, and close to watching The Making Of Candy Floss. Spun sugar is just another form of sugar, but so much more exciting than a bed of crystallised ones. It is hard to take your eyes off the candy machine, as slowly and surely a larger-than-your-head soft spun sugar becomes pink and fluffy. An eye candy is formed, and the big fluffy pink thing is sent off as a commodity at the circus or fair, for people like me to indulge.

Observing men at work is not a passive activity unlike watching television. So *Seth, may I watch you work while sipping a Pina Colada at whichever exotic locale you would be next? Retrospectively, I don''t blame those ladies.

Note: To make sense out of my title for this note besides the obvious candy floss, *Seth simply takes his iPod very seriously.

*Seth's real name has been changed to protect his identity. The last time when I wrote something along this context, it caused quite a stir among my female friends and some men. Here is the link to the first part of my Dreamboat saga: http://gravely-euphemistic.blogspot.com/2008/10/hello-dreamboat.html

Till the next Dreamboat or Knight.

He thinks Africa is a country and he is fucking wealthy

2009-04-27T02:14:00.006+08:00

I can talk the continents with you tonight if you would only let me speak for a moment. But I don't think it is good time yet because dinner is served and before I reach for my chopsticks, I wish to tell you what your talk is all about: your self-admiring voice which sprints from your pipes and found its way past your unattractive lips too much, too soon. And wipe that bit of saliva off before you start talking again and don't stare past the neck down - you can but keep it to three seconds - because it is rude.

Yours is without doubt a monologue. I prefer a dialogue, not with you - hell no - but just someone who understands the dynamics of a conversation between two person or more. A five-year-old has a better grasp of emotional intelligence than you do.

You masticate your sashimi with your mouth open and in the process pulsating saliva at your opposite diner and finally into his beef sukiyaki. There goes the Wagyu beef slices.

Will you shut the fuck up? I didn't think so because your Narcissus syndrome is almost visible as your precarious posture is perched too near by the pond. If you fall into the pond, I can't save you because I forgot how to swim - backstroke is not going to save you either but that's my only offer.

No, don't shut the fuck up because you are still sore over the 450k (or was it billions?) deal that you lost because you placed your business acumen on the wrong continent? Just be quiet, I'm not quite finish yet even if you repeat your 450k and billions because it makes me go to sleep.

Illustrating your shaky geographical sense with such confidence is truly remarkable when the map tells you Australia is also a continent and so is Africa. Are you surprised? Well, I'm not. Yes, I already know Europe is also a continent and no, Africa is not a country. I say, place your next 450k and billions on a continent called China. Yes, it is a continent because you said so earlier and with much conviction: ''The next continent that's going to be richer than the others. China."

*Observation in a Japanese restaurant.
Was seated next to a table with a man - and another man whom barely spoke - who messed with the continents and bragged about his 450k over and over. I wanted very much to use my spoon and flip some of my chawanmushi at him.

Forever and Never and Ever: Love

2009-04-26T04:01:00.004+08:00

I was broken into two after the talk under the invisible moon. The moment hangs and it starts to move with every intent to bring me to my knees so I may first crumble, disintegrate and then descends to a place where earth's heart resides - it almost feel like home.

I imagine that feeling with a name, Forever, and in its ephemeral beauty, it Ever happen but Never stays. Blood and tears are Never what it feeds on - only a Gothic folly.

Forever will never be revealed simply because nothing can beat it. However, an imagined Forever could be heard first: a groggy cacophony and it rebounds from the heart, splitting through every vein and artery to attract a Mayhem garbed in burgundy, crimson or sickly pink. And you can only see Forever in the eyes of your lover. Not easy to tread but Never have you witness such terrifying beauty graced with unspeakable pain that, only someone like you would want to possess it.

Love simply and you could end up searching for love again and not yield until you see the one with Forever in his or her eyes and Never would you Ever search again. The pain starts and I hear a cry I haven't heard in months; now it wants to belong to you, Forever and Never and Ever.

Watch out, Love is right behind you.

IT has fucken-techken-our-world but we love IT no matter what.

2009-04-24T14:39:00.001+08:00

We live for technology and the meaning of love is slowly slipping away. Technology is our mother, father, friends and sex. It has apportion our lifestyle into a little thumb drive where all our personal data and our idiosyncrasies are stored in a little piece of useful but really, a useless piece of shit. And you and I are both reading this note from this useful piece of shit. The irony.

We bought into the reality of a new unreality and crave for only what is presented before us - like your fancy xxx brand flat screen and the like - without having to move much. Sit down. Let that hardcore piece of hybrid plastic do it for you. Why walk a few more steps when it can do the talking or make up wonderful excuses for you sometimes, so you may feel better and still retain the minty repute of a friend or lover? So much of it has taken over our lives, minds, that we might have quietly step out of our everyday roles to the people we think we care about. But wait, you can always ease your heart by sending a lengthy Short-Message-System and top it up with a Facebook hug, kiss, grope, whatever.

But, it has it's qualities, such as... . No matter, you probably know it better than me.

Irony is The New Love.

An idiot kind of love letter for nobody

2009-04-22T15:23:00.003+08:00

Shall we, darling? No, no, don't label me a romantic just yet just because I used terms of endearment now and then. Hardly. So, shall we, darling, take a walk and have a little talk while we walk and hold hands under the waning moon? Maybe yes. Maybe next time. What do you have in mind? Write a song? Look at the stars like an over aged cherub or just write me idiot love songs and not blush when you sing to me. It's all right because I don't even think you would do any one of those romantic things or just plain lazy to even think - you'd rather sleep while watching some nothingness on the television.

You prefer to be a humanoid with celluloid features; a motion picture, moving but unfeeling. Don't be mad at me now. I didn't think it rude at all because I know you know that you can pretend to be sleepy - or dead sometimes - but you can't pretend to be romantic because it would only make you look like some yuppie who has no taste and too little imagination because they mostly speak in a phony accent.

How about singing me the songs you have written? Don't be difficult darling. No, I am not being difficult either, if not I wouldn't have penned this letter just for you.

Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head

2009-04-22T03:42:00.001+08:00

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. Reach for the hand held 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 mother said your supposed prettiness 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 loathed, 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.

madness my love

2009-04-17T02:51:00.000+08:00

Tell me you love me and I will stop this instant. Madness is lost. Madness is far healthier than normal, healthy. Illustrating madness is to pour OJ in your colleague's - the one you wish would go POOF when you do the snap-snap finger play while you pretend to whistle a tune - mug and drinking from that mug and then do the same thing all over again the next day. You can get away with it because you are the sorry sod who is hating yourself and role-playing yourself everyday, five days a week. Now, that's mad.

It gets hard when you try to stitch your filigree of thoughts into a quilt instead of letting it be - bullet train style, insane auditory rape or art-noise, supersonic speed and a few flying rats and roaches which didn't make it during the technological storm.

So, love me still? Madness has a way of asking you to ask yourself the same inane question without you blushing because your thoughts on love was never there. It is a way of getting attention. Yes, I guess I got mine, finally. Thank you for sharing it with me.

What Sarah Said

2008-11-02T16:15:00.002+08:00

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.

Rainsong's Birthday

2008-10-31T00:39:00.001+08:00

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?

Why _ needs a Jael Bag

2008-10-24T22:02:00.002+08:00

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.

Friendships: The New Commodity

2008-10-22T06:10:00.013+08:00

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.

Watch Out, It's A Dogface!

2008-10-15T16:00:00.014+08:00

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.

Conversation with Shammy: Deadly Neon Yellow Ballies

2008-10-14T03:10:00.010+08:00

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.

Fraternally Yours

2008-10-13T14:16:00.026+08:00

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.

Implode

2008-10-04T16:46:00.004+08:00

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.

Hello, Dreamboat!

2008-10-03T01:37:00.045+08:00

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.

Ignorance Is No Substitute For Stupidity

2008-10-01T03:58:00.006+08:00

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.

A Few Good Men

2008-09-30T13:45:00.007+08:00

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.

Grandmother (Been a year now)

2008-09-29T23:47:00.008+08:00

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.

Snob Appeal: Pinkie

2008-09-27T04:50:00.021+08:00

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.

Food For Thought

2008-09-23T15:19:00.005+08:00

'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.

Sex: A Great Way To Score

2008-09-23T14:35:00.011+08:00

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.

Playing Dead

2008-09-17T23:32:00.025+08:00

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.

Vanity

2008-09-17T23:32:00.024+08:00

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.

Candyman

2008-09-17T05:07:00.005+08:00

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.

It Still Hangs Like A Strange Fruit

2008-09-14T04:30:00.027+08:00

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.

(Almost) Swoon At Her Feet

2008-09-13T16:10:00.025+08:00

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.

Sing Me Read Me For A Hundred

2008-09-13T05:57:00.014+08:00

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.

Othello's Night: Stand Up And Look At The Moon

2008-09-13T00:51:00.045+08:00

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.

The Goldmine

2008-09-12T03:57:00.012+08:00

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.]

Longing

2008-09-11T01:53:00.004+08:00

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?

Heartbreak Menu

2008-09-10T14:50:00.017+08:00

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.

Salt

2008-08-13T14:15:00.043+08:00

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.

My Word! (Part II)

2006-04-16T13:45:00.022+08:00

My ad hoc role continued with mum's hair. Peeking greys with surmountable audacity to call on my eye. A quarterly regime for mum and her azure box of DIY hair colour, framed with the familiar face of an attractive brunette, both waiting expectantly for me.

Calling on my sister - nobody did that - was homicidal backlash, and on my brother, it was as good as the question could get: Could you do mum's hair? ceased continuation. Sometimes, he concluded with a trail of feigned merry singsong and the odd fart to further prove his point.

A few weeks ago, my siblings were all housed in the living room. They orbited mum and I when my hands started to work on her hair; using cheap plastic gloves which chafed my crinkly palms. The appendage, a mini hairbrush which was attached to the bottle of hair colour was as useful as forking melted butter.

The brother snickered and did countless monologues. Incoherent and wilful, in words and actions. His irreverent take on middle-aged woman's coiffure extended to the fungal shape -rotundly convexed - of mushrooms. Mum heard him but she couldn't care less as I worked on a new section of greying patc.

The sister remarked that my colouring skills was exquisitely painful to watch. It burlesqued my dad's dogged grace; to remove his recalcitrant bunion with a dainty clipper. Mum looked on without a word, probably on a prairie bemoaning why she couldn't look as chic as women with salt and pepper hair, like Diane Keaton. Or, our next door neighbour, who didn't look like Diane Keaton, but who had the self-assurance not to do something to her greying crown. Mum had the self-assurance too, but she just needed a little bit more, like hair paint.

My Word! (Part I)

2006-01-09T23:43:00.023+08:00

Dad signed a no-holds barred agreement with Old Nick to contrive a plot on his daughter: Yield to my verbose requests lest you be cut off from my inheritance - coffee beans to last you a lifetime.

Dad has always been a man of words. Limpid, concise and sometimes under unforeseen development, the archaic ones. Dad's insatiable digging of words implicate me. I become his ad hoc tutor.

Dad wants his newly collected words - via the exalted news anchor folks on telly - to be attended, specifically by me, to diagnose and prescribe.

Cruelly, under his fancy request, I have to try my best to translate word for word in my mother tongue. Dad is marginally Anglophilia (linguistically). My manageable mother tongue is unable to yield the optimal result for dad. I always suspect him giving me mistrustful side looks, whenever I failed to deliver his routine wide-eyed requests.

Armed with a pen and an array of Post It sized scraps/bared backs of lottery receipts/old school jotter books (curled on the sides worked to a sallow brown), dad is so aptly supplied.

Tritely, I am the family's mobile-dictionary. Albeit my maladroitness at times, I have to rise to the occasion for the word-guests, conjured through dad's brimming hospitality. Bundled under his eager tongue, the scary word/sentence crowd somersault, mangle and spit their way out.

There is no fire escape from dad and his unforeseeable guests. Wiggling through wit and cunningness, my attempted run-offs are often ferreted by mum's feral instincts. Mum rarely interfered unless she senses my threading on thin ice with dad: Feigned taciturnity. Dad would know, when he has been cold-shouldered - analogous to a driver cutting across your lane laced with the finger. I am that driver in this case.

To be continued......