Little Bangkok

We have a new squattter -- Scruffy, a gypsy with an appetite for affection as large as her appetite for food. It didn't take us long to befriend her and break her in once she accepted our invitation to lunch. Since then, we had been gathering twice a day -- once for lunch and once for supper. But she is dirty; she wanders about all day and haunts our corridors regularly with her disarming call. We had considered suggesting some form of bathing or personal hygene for Scruffy, but we were sure that she wasn't going to accept. Well, if she obliged, then she'd be allowed to curl up on the bed with the other furrballs. But then we'd never be able to make sure she stays clean beyond the day we physically see to it.

I guess we could have extended the hospitality to Grumpy as well, but Scrufy doesn't like him. She openly displays her disapproval whenever he enters the room. I guess his characteristic rake-on-gravel greeting doesn't do much for improving his reputation either. We had our eyebrows raised when we noticed Grumpy trailing her down the corridors on some days. Despite a lack of better suitors, Scruffy has insisted on placing her dignity before his advances. Beyond, mere evolutionary incompatibility, we suspected that Grumpy was probably one of those guys with some kind of social inaptness, like bad breath, body odour or just a plain unappealing voice. The poor girl.

We're nevertheless thankful for this new addition to "the illegals" family in our neighbourhood. A new muse to help smooth the rough edges and bridge the short fuses. There's already plenty of that we have had to handle over the last few weeks -- the last thing we'd need would be to have little Grumffies and Scrumpies running around.

---------------------------------

I met Scruffy earlier this morning for breakfast. Well, it was more of an invitatino from Scruffy -- she came calling at the door at about 6.45 am. I almost ran into her when I was heading out to collect the laundry; somehow that little gypsy just knows when I'm awake.

Food had always been a rather quick and purposeful affair for Scruffy and me. I'd lay out the dishes and she'd tuck in, a grateful nod to sign her thanks. This morning was no exception, though I noticed a look of sleep still wrapped around her face. There's just something very personal about being able to yawn together with someone. Ha... Scruffy.

It's a real pity we couldn't share breakfast with Her. She didn't wake with me and nag me out of my lazy sleep. I didn't have the subtle pleasures of coaxing her awake soundless, with a very personal alarm clock. It was just Scruffy and I this morning, and I was packing. She was packed; packed and ready to fly.

On my way down to the airport, I scavanged for a space on the morning train; swooping down to the first target, still warm from the kill. Tucking my burdens under me and heaving my sleepy limbs against the seat supports, I breathed a half-sigh and drifted to the electronic lullaby of the train mechanics.

A holiday, finally, for us. She's going to Bangkok and I'm headed for KL, our parting separated by two nights. Given the pace of our vacation programs thus far, I'd say that it's about time we had this well-deserved break. For days now I had been contemplating my impending fate without her. The days would pass easy. It is the nights that will prove tricky. I know for certain that I am no longer the same naive sentimental fool I used to be, but I certainly have come to appreciate the little things between us more than before.

The impression she leaves on and with me are always subtle. It's the little things, she once said to me. I wonder if she considered the nights "little things" too. Certainly the darkness holds much for us, but now that Bangkok sparkles with her scent I tingle with a wariness of the familiarity of darkfall. I'm sure the days will drug me sufficiently for sleep to come easily, but it would be purposeful.

Well, I think that it would be snowing by the time I return. In my heart at least, but I'm sure she'll notice the subtle look in my eye. For now, I hope she has a safe trip to Bangkok. There are now two beats in that heart she carries -- hers and ours. Please, be safe and have fun.


JKLM

Tribute

My music director is a teacher. He is a teacher because he taught me more about myself than about the music he helped me to make. He taught me to open my eyes, free my heart and dance to the music in my soul. He taught me that I could still learn when I thought that I had already known all that I needed to know. He requested me to leave my ego at the doorstep and showed me that he still respected me when I was disarmed. He showed me that he had a temper, but he was also fair, and funny too.

Through him, I have learnt to let Him and Her be. It's their choices, not mine. My previous entry was proven to have gone through as little considerate thought as it took me to fire the slew of digital accusations. My opinions don't matter for now because they are merely observations from my position.

------------------------------

At 1 a.m., that familiar warmth curled up beside me, it felt like home. Not the physical domain, instead, it's the final port my ship comes to call. My shield from the storm, the winds and the rain -- my home away from home. For the tingle of her comfort at the end of the day, I'd slave for a day and risk much more away from her.

At 8 a.m., her opulent gems are a sight to behold. As they fight back fingers of sleepy restraint, her eyelids betray their struggle -- bright and glittering orbs of child-like passion. The eyes can't be the windows to the soul, because if they are so, her soul should be darker than night and more consuming than the depths. But they are warm and comforting, offering a seclusion that I can retreat to in respite to find peace -- peace in her hands.

Whenever I hide, I close my eyes. I close my eyes to concentrate on feeling and touching. Every night, before we drift away, there is a dance her hands perform in an almost ritualistic manner. A stacato tapdance, they dance upon the surface on which they rest, seemingly welcoming our impending journey. I close my eyes and wait for that performance nightly now, and it has become my adopted ritual. Without them, sleep is but purposeful and short, nothing like the way we drift to wake and find one another again.


JKLM

Hollow Victories

Sometimes victories can be hollow. In spite of hopes that certain thoughts would not materialise, and that certain people's habits won't show, they still do. It's a hollow victory simply because nobody benefits from that correct guess. It's also hollow because it empties me out when I have to mask my annoyance and PR my way through the day's efforts.

Alright, to be fair, it has been a tough day for everyone. And while I had not expected them to be extremely enthusiastic and productive still by the time they had reached their second job site, I certianly had hoped that they wouldn't just sit around and be passive about things.

A few thoughts crossed my mind even before their return. Firstly, there was not informing anyone of the other committment they had on during the earlier part of the day. I guessed as much that their assumption was that someone would inform the others about it. Fine. My next thought was one on fairness / equity: where is your priority? Given that you guys were pretty stubborn about having the dates fixed in their current arrangement, I guess that it was just an unfortunate accident that these two events had to clash. Fine. Perhaps there was an emergency of some sort. Perhaps it was on short notice. Whatever.

Secondly, while I had blamed myself for being overly judgemental when my unoccupied mind drifted through the above thoughts before their arrival, I had a sneeking suspicion that it was going to come true. I didn't really want it to come true, though I knew that there was nothing I could do to prevent it or avoid it in the opposite case. Still, I had expected it to be different, given their earlier stance and sentiments.

So I was right. She was disappointing as usual -- more talk than action, more passive action than active interest. I don't want to judge or blame her because I don't think I have the right to. Thus, the hollow victory.

I just don't fully understand why he is spending time on her. Until the time I feel that my feelings are no longer biased and I am able to approach this topic rationally once again, I shall reserve my opinions. But frankly, it doesn't take too much to impress me.

So there.


JKLM

A Scent From Her For Him

She reminds me of you.

The way she sat waiting patiently outside the door, calling for me. From the inside, it sounded like a whisper, weaving its way past the loud music and rough noise to my ear.

Can I come in?

I opened the door and she came running in, a playful bounce in her steps.

Hello.

I was on the phone then, and could only afford her a glance. But it was alright, she knew I was different, had a job to do and couldn't multi-task. She could take care of herself.

As if trying to recall her purpose for entering the room, she looked aroudn inquisitively, seeming to suggest that while she had been out I had rearranged th furniture again. I could only afford a silent protest spoken through my eyes as a slipped my hand around her waist. and carried her up.

Hanging up the phone, I noticed that she had finally remembered her purpose -- me. She wanted a cuddle, and wasn't going to leave without getting one. She could not have come at a better time, cos after a busy afternoon, I wasn't going to let her leave without one either. The purr of her breathing soothed both our souls.

Just as gently as she came, she twisted in my arms and stepped out my embrace. I didn't resist, because this was the way she had always been; this was the way we had always been. We lingered at the door for a little longer, both occupying opposite ends of the narrow entrance frame. I looked at her with my casual warmth and she acknowledged with her classy perch.

Off she went, her style raised to my trailing bidding. She gave me a cuddle, and left me with an impression, a lingering scent.

Meet Coco, the resident cuddles of Climb Asia.

She reminds me of you -- snuggler.


JKLM

Revisited

Another late night, 4 a.m. this time.

Was just down at the shop and saw something that reminded me of how we were, our little white cartoned greetings. Smiles came in 1 litre cartons, I never knew.

And now, as I plough these paper fields in efforts to upturn desperate enlightenment, you toss and turn. Your sigh and rustle whispers to me through the chopping of the fan, playing chorus to a techno beat. I only wish that my progress was proceeding at digital whiplash pace; there is still much to be done. At times like these, it seems like I'm running with the darkness, away from the sun, forever towing the horizon, that threshold between light and dark, knowing and oblivion. Always running, but never reaching. We're almost there.

Your notes and little surprises still catch me like they used to -- in pleasant suprise. I don't try to smile, because that's all I can do when I receive them. You should know how these things are. Because just as warmth fills the heart through eyes with the rising of the sun, from your fountain pours forth an essence, a flow and a comfort.

It's my turn to surprise you today. Another carton, just like old times.

Oh, and frankly, I miss your nagging even though it has been all of one day. Believe me, I don't know why either.


JKLM

Of Old

Ah an old habit...

One of juvenille fervour and irrational excitement. No wonder they die hard.

Of all the fantasies and bewilderment that takes place before sleep and upon the dreamy moments of waking, a common theme runs through -- the sensation of a peaceful transition into and out of slumber.

I guess I still have that habit.

I guess I still don't like to be disturbed in my sleep, though the spark that used to flare and the brows that used to fold no longer pounce forth like they used to. Look like this old cat has still got some fight in its claws.

Well, it's the exams now anyway, all that stress must be driving us mad.

Thank you for being patient with me so far. Bear with me, it's not your fault. I'd sooner do with less sleep than do without your voice. I mean it.


JKLM

Twilinght Song

No Me Ames.

Liquid frustration fall upon silken covers, hidden like icy pins to prck the unwary skin laid down to rest. Muffled protests and grunts of surrender form an unwanted ochestra for the chorus of emotions that rage behind still perfect black pearls. A storm rages over a body huddled, waiting...

=======================

Wind and rain. Winds may rage, but nothing comes close to the flood that rain brings.

The storm has passed, but the flood waters still linger on. No hymn, no rhyme... just the pregnant silence that follows a thunderclap.

The sun still shines, somewhere behind those dark clouds. I know... because I know that it's day and I should rise up again. Now, if only the clouds would part...

=======================

Beneath the crown. Behind the gems. Beyond the opulence.

I might have found someone with another back-riding demon. Just like me.

Swords drawn, eyes narrowed, guards raised.

Oh, for a panecea to rid these ills or a spell to melt these defences, my kingdom I would give. These chains have not been obtained from mistakes made, rather they have been cast unto your soul. How unfair for those who have never seen angels to describe and sculpt their appearances. How unfair it is for those who have felt angels to oblige them through their accounts.

I have.



JKLM

Surf's Lullaby

I wasted most of Sunday between my table and my bed. The only productive work that I got done was marking a philo paper, which I incidentally got quite a number of questions wrong, and fuzzing up my hair from all that intermitent sleeping.

I wasn't fatigued, just bedshaped. You know, one of those states where the really hot and humid sunday afternoon weather just makes every little thing so difficult. Yup, that's it. That's why too.

Well, not all is lost, anyway. I've composed a simple piece for my SOM project. Rather surprised at the outcome -- when the pieces fell into place, the music was just smooth. I'd call it 'Surf's Lullaby" if I didn't have to name it after my matriculation number, as stipulated.

And I dedicate it to you, wilful surfer. With your drowned crown hung against a glorious backgroud of molten gold. While cowboys would sooner ride away into the sunset, you walk away, surfboard in hand, trailing a ridge of sand behind you. Your wet locks trickle the day's takings -- only the sea shares your passion for the wet and the dangerous. But she is not your enemy, neither are her waves your allys. You glance back, from behind dripping curtains, and sniff a salute to her -- your medium. You'll be back, and she'll be waiting with that characteristic frothy impatience. "What took you so long," her chatter pesters you each day. "What do you hold for me today," you answer her riddle, with one of your own. One last breath, before you head home. One last breath, that would still smell different from the first you took this morning upon the beach. Away you walk, away from the sunset... Into the night. "Tomorrow is another big day," you think, "maybe tomorrow, maybe..."

Things That Happen With The Coming Of Night

Profile of A Woman

I miss autumn. Just as a refined woman leaves her lingering scent as she passes, you hazel crown still tingles my senses through our shared digital dreams. Those days must have left some sort of unremovable imprint on my soul -- even my eyes have turned brown, enduring the punishment of all other seasons, longing for your return.

Yet autumn has passed, her warmth gone swiftly, none as subtly as she came. It seems that while the sun rose one morning to announce the start of a day, it was really hinting me of her parting. Subtly she came, swiftly she left. As night fell, I craved for a familiar warmth and that dusty smell. But I was granted none; the seasons had changed, and into night I was cast.

A woman never uses more words than necessary to deliver her point. In fact, more is said through her eyes and posture than ever from the movement of her lips. Don't you notice that it is always the men who open up and pour their words in such vivid attempts at describing 'a woman'?

You never needed much. At your own time, you sketch such reminiscence in casual words and vivid style -- simple, yet gives as little away as these innocent black markings. If I should draw the picture of a woman, it's little wonder that it's you that should come flowing from my pen.

Noir.

Autumn was yours - your warmth and slow cascading flame left me so little room to hide. Now you ally yourself with the night. Every waking moment I am blessed to behold your opulent treasures, and every night I am assimilated in the darkness as your dark flame spills over my breast. We rule the twilights, you and I as queen and knight.

=====================

A Rediscovered Youth; Rediscovered Joy.

When was the last time you drove with the windows down?

When was the last time you drove with the windows down and the music up?

When was the last time you did all that, and sang your heart out to the accompanyment of highway wind?

Now, when was the last time you cycled till your butt ached?

When was the last time you did all that and cycled till your butt ached?

Mine was on Thursday, after years of missed time. Grinding up each hill, zipping down each slope; feeling the wind in my face, and the anxiety in my heart as cars and trucks pass us by -- I felt reborn again. Those 4 hours seemed shorter than I had ever recalled, and the world suddenly seemed smaller too.

For that night, we could have been heroes riding upon our mystical steeds, charging hills and galloping through the urban jungle. The roads were our playgrounds while their inhabitants were the lazy lumbering giants. Upon and across these fields we darted, ducking between giants and zipping across their empty trails, ignoring their grunts and protests. If you ask me, I'd say that they were probably jealous of our freedom. Ah what price, to trade in the youth of your tiny limbs for gasoline mechanical advantage, only to find that you were better off with less in the first place.

And for those 4 hours, we were mythical riders: rugged, strong and careless. Adventure was our staple and the adrenalin was our wine. Your flushed cheeks were testament to our intoxicating chase. The streelamps were our crowd, cheering their tungsten chorus as we zipped past, our youthful energy burning bright in our eyes. And just at a particular moment, through a sideward glace, I caught sight of a scene.

Wind-tossed fringe, glistening skin, bright opulent pupils, burning with tungsten fervour... And lips curled with a joy bubbling deep within. We were the jungle children for the night, and nothing could stop us. We were happy and we were alive again.


JKLM

R. B. G.

Red.
Black.
Gold.

Dreams in technicolour,
Live in no other;
But a mimic of reality
Do my eyes fool me?

For how far can you see
Into depths so free
You fall into the comfort of black
Where time and light loose their track.

Shall it be wry to wake
To a stray of burning red,
To see a sunrise frozen
Halo above gems opulent.

A new muse
A trumpd duce
I conceed my defeat
To your blazing treat.


JKLM

Open-Ended

Darkness...

We all have some amounts of it in us; some more than others, and of course some more obviously so. Does the darkness make you uncomfortable?

Anna doesn't think so. Neither do I; not now, I don't anymore.

Ever since about a week ago, three isolated incidents have showed me more about myself and that presumed darkness within me. I had the opportunity to counsel with the black phantom several times over the past days over firstly, an essay and secondly, over digital chatter.

While blog posts come easily for me, essays don't. Don't look surprised, I think if you considered this a little more, you would find it rather logical that the two forms of writing are quite different, and are taking place under rather different circumstances. I get stuck on essays a lot more easily than blog posts. In fact, I can always put a post off, but I can't put essays off for that long. Plus, there's always the issue of grades. I'm sure I can write a decent paper, but they seldome turn out that way -- not the way I conduct them, at least. You see, I'm one of those deadline-pushers. Yes... one of those people.

Still, I couldn't help but chance upon a fitting description for this situation I am in. While embraced by warmth, it suddenly dawned on me that my imagination could be likened to water, or something fluid. Basically, it flows; not all the time, but especially when the conditions are right. It sometimes run dry, gets frozen, bubbles over, or even sublimes.

Now that's not new -- I've heard that description before. Definitely, and quite aptlly so. Now the trick in my situation was that my thoughts and faculties were all flowing, and like the random nature of molecules, pushing in all sorts of different directions. It's no wonder I find comfort in philosophising the random and generally about life -- it's the easy way out. How so? It dawned on me that it's precisely the fact that I don't have to take responsibility for or be judged on my lyrical graffitti that makes it so easy to spill forth.

Just for confirmation, I noticed the same effect when I overshot a deadline and had to work on an late essay, knowing that I would be marked down for missing the deadline. The confirmation came when I knew that it was beyond me now to alter my fate, given the series of events that put me on this losing end; the essay flowed much better than the previous one, where I cranked letters and phrases out up to 10 minutes before the submission deadline.

And so, I went on to breeze through the rest of the already-late essay. Well, that was until the second instance -- the digital chatter, all the way from England.

I had a friend (not mincing my words here), Nicole. She was a pint-sized tom cat. She fought long and hard for the dreams she had, even though she knew the odds were against her. She fought hard to understand the law so that she could make a case for her father's ailing health, allegedly caused by occupational hazards -- all this while knowing full well that her father has shown her little more TLC than one would to a despised child. She worked interns and part-time jobs between her withdrawing from NUS until she could save up enough money to buy her ticket to UK and afford a formal education -- knowing well that the road was long and hard, not to mention that she could have at any time settled for second best. She bore the responsibility of taking care of her mom and sister after suffering the passing of her father earlier this year.

The most surprising thing for me was the fact that she still remembered me after such a long time. In fact, she was the one who initiated contact with me again. Given the circumstances of our parting, I wouldn't even blame her, should she choose otherwise. Nevertheless, she sounds and seems wiser than before, perhaps somewhat hardened. But, unfortunately, she is still as fiery in both speech and mannerism. Which IS a good thing, really.

Did I mention that Nicole is only 20? Well, she seems pretty wise and bright for a 20 year old. She's got game, and she won't hesitate to prove that she's still got what it takes. Her digital chatter makes delightful company at 2 am local time, some 8 hours ahead -- sorta like mental gymnastics, except not so tiring (probably only the stretching part).

Anyway, she speaks of wisdom, helping others, fulfilling her destiny and being a human rights lawyer. Sure, at 20 years, what does she know? Wait til she enters the work force for good and gets jaded. Thing is, she already IS in the workforce, and she already IS jaded. She could get worse. I hardly think so, and I'm pretty sure of it. You see, it's simply because it's a matter of choice for her -- she chose to be so.

She told me that I could choose it too. I remembered that I once felt that way too. But then...

Things changed for her, but she still chose to push on, roll with the punches. Things changed for me, but I only grew more frustrated and disappointed by what potential people saw in me and the discrepancies in the results I was producing.

"But Kiat, we know you're not that kind of smart." Comforting words, but stinging reality.

I need to rethink my assumptions. Seems like all this time while I thought I was meditating and thinking things through, and that I had made up my mind, I was merely closing my eyes and my heart.

You came and opened my heart, and that made me feel immensely comforted. Now, for us, I shall open my eyes. Because we deserve, You deserve more than a potential.


JKLM

With Cheese, Pencils and Eggs

A twisted odyssey
Of an innocent story
On paper and cheese
I shall amuse thee

God made fly
And He forgot why.
“Oh well,” He sighed
And reached for insecticide

With one swift squeeze
From His divine hand
He would send fly
Back to the motherland

Eyes wide with fear
Fly searched for a plan.
Buzzing to God’s ear
Fly yelled, “Wait, man!”

“Your Holiness,” fly began
A story about his family
“You see now, in the end”
“Thousands depend on me!”

God was touched
By don’t-know-what
And finally said:
“Perhaps another date.”

But God was not pleased
For no clue he still had
Why fly came to exist
And was driving him mad

So on to cow, deer and lioness
Wife, fish and kangaroo,
God traveled without rest
No time for food or loo
(This makes heaven sound like a freakin' zoo...)

He asked them all
The same in turn
Of great and small
“Why fly?” He burned

Until finally around a bend
They came upon Old Nick
Of all the sins, that fiend
Left a pile of trash – no, a heap!

God was mad
Fly was scared
And with one strike
Did Old Nick spite

After the thunder
After that bash
God still wondered
What to do with all that trash

“I’ll take care of it,” said fly
As he buzzed up front
And God finally knew why
And settled it with a grunt

So God made fly
And finally knew why
And all was peaceful
Again in heaven blissful

Afterthought

"... 'cos I don't want to be caught in between. You know what I mean, don't you?"

Indeed, I do.

Life has an interesting way of teaching you some lessons.

Lessons like:
You don't always have to be first to win.
You don't always need to possess to behold.
The makings of a gentleman is one who confronts his enemies, but avoids them when he can. A gentleman may walk, but never shall he run.
Truely loving someone simply means saying choosing you over me, at times; us over I, at other times.

Just an afterthought that thunders a little louder than the memories of STOMP in my head now.


JKLM

Quote

Can't seem to get down to writing this essay of mine. No excuses -- I'm distracted. Distrubed, rather. By the knowledge that trust is a fragile thing, frequently interpreted and enforced circumstantially. Don't be naive, even double standards exist in seemingly trustworthy people -- in fact, how could a charge be enforced without the proper evidence to sustain it?

What disturbed me was the fact that frequently, the educated are viewed with such skepticism and cynicism by the educators that little more needs to be said about the methods by which education now takes place; I guess you wouldn't be too far off if you imagined a case where people were guilty until proven innocent.

Such mistrust, such jaded reactions... Past experiences? Past lessons? Guily conscience?

Let me just ask this then: is the educator not entitled to be educated as well? Do those past mistakes imply that he/she was wrong to trust? Or does it simply mean that he/she had trusted too easily? I guess this should lead to the conclusion that it's better to be safe than sorry...

Unfortunately, this is the way many people have chosen to react -- convenient, clinical and clear.

I think that is possibly the saddest thing you can do for yourself. Better to have trusted and be misguided than not to have trusted at all; be careful, not vengeful.

I must apologise for making this matter somewhat public, but it hits a little closer to home than many people realise. I stand for a number of things rather stubbornly -- one of them is justice.

---------------------------

Here's a little something from Anna and Mister God that blessed my eyes on my bus ride home. Amidst a mischievous child and his siblings sounding the air-raid sirens to phantom infantry battalions, an obliging mother that disciplines through humour and a hypnotic murmurr of the tube, these words found me like headlights down a dark alley. They enveloped me in their musical warmth and whispered to me of lyrical abandon.

Just close your eyes and imagine with me on this one. You'll like it, trust me.

If you do, imagine cradling an entire book -- all 377 pages worth -- of its magic. These words are simple but their magic are a lyrical gypsy tale: spun in light, chaperoned in clouds, lost to the winds, eternal to the minds that behold them.

Enjoy.

------------------------------

[From Page 149]

It was a chilly April night when we first met Old Woody. Old Woody commanded great respect from the 'night people', obviously well-educated, well-mannered and utterly content with his life. Old Woody was tall adn as straight as a pole. Hawk-nosed, bearded, adn with eyes that focused somewhere near infinity. His voice was like roasted chestnuts, warm and brown. When Old Woody smiled, it just touched the corners of his mouth. But it wasn't there that you looked for his smile, it was in his his eyes. those eyes just sort of wrapped you up, those eyes were full up on with good things, and when he smiled, whe, they just poured out all over you.

......

His eyes passed from my face to Anna's and there they stuck. With a smile, he held out his hand to Anna and she went across to him and held it. For a long, long moment, they stared at each other, showering each other with good things, and smiling fit to burst. They were two of a kind, and didn't need to use language. The exchange was immediate and complete. Standing Anna in front of him, he looked her over once more.

'You're a bit young for this, aren't you, little one?'
Anna held her silence, testing and probing Old Woody. He didn't demand an answer, he wan't anxious, he was prepared to wait.
He passed the test, so he got his answer, 'I'm old enough to live, mister,' said Anna quietly.

........

'Do you like poetry?' he asked.
Anna nodded. Old Woody settled the glowing tobacco in his pipe with his thumb.
'Do you,' he said, sucking away, 'so you know what poetry is?'
'Yes,' replied Anna. 'It's sort of like sewing.'
'I see,' Old Woody nodded, 'and what do you mean by sewing?'
Anna juggled the words around in her mind. 'Well, it's making something from different bits that is different from all the bits.'
'Um,' said Old Woody, 'I think that is rather a good definition of poetry.'

........

(asked to rephrase her initial question of 'why don't you like in a house')
Anna thought for a moment, then said, 'Mister, why do you like living in the dark?'
'Living in the dark?' smiled Old Woody. 'I can answer that very easily, but can you understand my answer, I wonder?'
'If it's answer, I can,' responded Anna.
'Yes, of course. If it is an answer, you can. That's true, only if it's an answer.' He paused, and then 'Do you like the darkness?'
Anna nodded. 'It stretches you out big. It makes the box big.'
He gave a little chickle.'Indeed, indeed,' he said. 'My reason for preferring th darkness is tha tin the dark, you have to describe yourself. In the daylight other people describe you. Do you understand that?'

Anna smiled, and Old Woody reached out a gnarled hand and gently closed Anna's eyes, held both her hands and settled some inner aspect of himself. This particular little spot in London Town looked by daylight a shambles; at this moment, in the light of the fire, it was pure magic.

Old Woody's firm and strong voice spoke to his God, to Anna, and to all mankind:

'In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise.'

............

'Thus doth she, when from individual states

She doth abstract the universal kinds,

Which then reclothed in divers names and fates,

Steal across thro' our senses to our minds.'

--------------------

I could go on all night about this book... But I simply can't.

Life beckons. But poetry beholds. As do you.

JKLM

Anna and Mister God

I've found Anna again.

Her familiar scent warmed my nose and teased my senses.

Her woven jacket was familiar to the touch; as I cradled her pint-sized body in my hands, I remember the days when I opened myself up to the stories that she brought me. And the smiles, the inappropriate giggles, and my enlivened imagination.

Anna brought a part of me to life.

Anna reminded me of something precious. Something very close to me.

Anna reminded me of what it was to be swept away, to be inspired.

Anna showed me what it was to hold my attention and to warm a heart, more than just warm a hand or a seat.

It had been weeks since I last saw Anna. And now, I know what I was missing.

Because Anna reminded me so much, so much of you.


JKLM

F

"... but we all know, kiat, that you're not that kind of smart."

damned right, you are.


JKLM

Legend of A Frying Pan

When was the last time you had breakfast in bed?

Erm... Never.

: ) Mornin'


JKLM

Cuppacino

Imagine a tall white porcelain vessel; crafted with love, moulded by time and strengthened through flame.

WIthin it's pure exterior lies dark sensual contents; a vessel and its precious cargo, docked at a harbour -- safe from the winds, but held fast by its anchor. While the seas are calm and the winds were quiet, the harbour air still hinted a storm -- a cyclone of hot, woody and rich aroma, circling within the vessel. Ah, mysterious black gold -- coffee.

From where I sit, my eyes anticipate your taste. Framed in white, dressed in bronze and blessed with spots of cocoa on the top: cuppacino. From where you stir, my mind feels your richness, modestly vieled in white and trails of mahagony.

Soon, I too could feel the signs; something was boiling beneath the ocean of brown silk. Yet, true to its nature, the fabric holds fast to these challenges, hiding all that attempt to disturb it in its graceful undulating waves. Beyond the surface, all remains hidden and unmoved -- neither the aroma, nor appearance seems altered. Perhaps the only way to truely know is through the intimate knowledge of taste.

-----------------------------

I smile and take a deep breath. It's been a while since my mind has last captured a moment like this, I thought, accented with a sigh. I let the picturisque moment stir on my mind for a while longer, longing for its aftertaste.

It's been a little difficult for me to pen these moment down lately. I'm not sure why -- could it have been the other preoccupations and academic demands that have dumbed the artist? Or could my edginess have been the simple price I paid for peace? Oh, what a price to pay. The words don't flow as easily these days. And strangely, I feel the urge in me to embrace pain again -- if only for a while so that I can stuggle and feel alive again.

Perhaps the reverse is true -- that I have indeed found a resting place, and my state of suspension is simply because I'm not used to it. Indeed, a placid silence has at times replaced the thunderous rhythm of my soul. I have found a peace, or rather, a peace has finally found me -- thank you. But I know now, that I am not one to rest on laurels. It is seems appropriate for me to be inspired once again and evolve, to something different, something new.

Oh, I search eternally for inspiration. Though that search leads me frequently back to several magical sources, I wish never to settle on just one -- for inspiration itself grows, lives and dies with changes; to abduct one source as my own would surely squander its beauty at the price of affirming my foolishness. There is no guarantee, it seems that what inspired me yesterday will continue to inspire me today and tomorrow, but all I can do is try to be inspired; keep searching and discovering, though never may I settle on what I find.

For now, I will keep on searching. In moderation, but still searching.



JKLM

Never Argue with Your Mom (and Dad)

Here's how Sunday night dinner went.

In a hushed tone, over doing the dishes, my mom told me:

"Kiat ah, you know I have a pair of girls that I teach, right? Since secondary school until JC. They also have a brother; I've been teaching him since nursery level."
Uh-huh...
"And, you know, one day I hear from the maid that his parents are very rich. They are so affectionate with their kids that everytime they come back, always 'kiss kiss' one."
......
"Then they are so concerned with making money that their son can do what he likes. The maid caught him watching that type of films, especially when his parents are away on working trips. And he play himself one. Must be something wrong."
................. Ok, erm... why would that be something wrong? It's part of growing up what? (mistake >_<)
"Aiyo, where got normal? People who do this all got something wrong one. Loose control and get addicted then in trouble."
Erm... It's part of growing up, isn't it?
"Ah Kiat, you tell me honestly... Have you ever...?"
If it's in control, does it still matter?
"What doesn't matter? It's wrong to loose control.... Ah Kiat you haven't answer my question."
It doesn't matter.
"What doesn't matter? That means you have, is it? Aiyo, ah Kiat..."
It doesn't matter, whether I did or not, right? I'm in control.
"See lah, you always like that one. You have or not?"
It doesn't matter. It's sometimes hard to discuss these things with you, especially when there's no room for any discussion.
"Where got no discussion?"
How can there be, if we never agree on anything?
"Cannot agree doesn't mean cannot discuss what. There is always a right and wrong."
*thinks* Now how the hell can that be? Would that still be a discussion? Who determines a right and wrong, for that matter?
Like that then no point discussing what -- how can we discuss if there is already a right and wrong? Where is the logic in that?
"Where got don't have? These things are wrong what."
*sigh*

Here's to my wonderful parents. They love me so much that they always think the worst of me.

And here's to Mr. Health Tips 101. Free weekly seminars.

JKLM

Fire

Finally got round "boiler week": 2 CAs and a paper, all spaced out approximately 1 day apart among 5, sloshed around in a disabling bout of flu. No fun. No fun at all struggling with these demons inside. Phantoms from a not-so-distant past, these echos still haunt the hallways of my consciousness with their familiar aftertaste.

While battling my way through, I had the blessing of receiving a hand on my shoulder, a heart to warm up to, a pair of eyes to confide in, and most importantly, a sincerity that nags.

To all the snugglers: know that you are appreciated very much. I know, cos I've got one too : )

------------------------------

Got this from TCC over the weekend with some old friends. Thought it was interesting, how we often read so much into so little.

"The Coffee Connoisseur

TOP Coffee Connoisseur

Tantalising Caffine Concoctions

Trusty Choice Companion

Tie Coat Casual

Total Complete Contentment

Trademark Classic Coffee

The Cuppas Cuppa"

All these on a paper napkin...

---------------------------

A Monologue At Dawn

It was dark, and I was cradled in a warm mix of perfumed hair and ruffled sheets. A mechanical heartbeat filled the room while a patter of thoughts reverbed through my mind. My monologue at dawn gently hums a harmony to quiet breaths. A betrayed dream amidst tangled limbs, ripple these thoughts within. Eyes shut then open to images of a familiarity that I somehow couldn't recognise; at times, I even wonder if my eyes were even open, or if I were awake at all. Surely, I would have objected to such confusion. All but this warmth forsake my ramblings at this hour. The threat of lonliness and melancholy loomed large ahead once again.

Not this time, not here.

So this is all I've been left with. A shoulder...

No, a flame.

Where is the familiarity? Where is the smile?

Are you blind? Don't you recognise it?

No... I'm just unsure. Of myself, that is.

How can that be so? Don't you feel that warmth and that heartbeat?

Indeed I do. I fear not the physical -- these doubts that haunt me care nothing of them.

Then what is it that haunts you? So familiar you seem with it, yet still so uncomfortable it makes you.

That is true, because I know that someone in my position should not feel so. It is, well, not right. I am familiar with this state only because I have allowed myself to return to its haunting so often in the past.

What is this thing that you feel not right?

Doubt. My disastrous flirt with questions only seem to feed these flames the fuel them need to scorch my soul.

You have doubted many things, it seems.

Many... Of them all, I fear this the most.

Why?

Simply because I find it hard to express my doubt to the person in concern.

Because it concerns her directly?

Naturally. All it took was a remark, a shared expression of joy that hit a nerve still raw from my own insecurities.
Please do explain... I feel you are avoiding the main point of own concern.

I feel like such a fool each time I recount these feelings, and yet I frequently experience an evangalistic courage swell each time I try to resolve it. You see, I think that I fear to loose this familiarity that I have come to possess. This flame has given me a warmth and brilliance that I have never known, yet at the same time, it has raised a fear in me -- not of the darkness, but one of the loss of light. You see, I am starting to feel selfish, and want to keep this light all for myself.

Surely, you understand the folly of such emotions.

I do, and I desperately want to resolve it. Won't you tell me why I feel so?

You sound like you're more unsure of yourself than of this flame that you behold. Know this: the flame will burn, and brightly it shall continue to glow. While this flame burns, it shall illuminate all the night, regardless. Together with its rays will come its warmth. Similarly, to all other souls of the night who have been blessed, they too will receive these gifts of that flame. Do you understand what I mean?

I do, and I know too, that I will never be able to keep that light or warmth from spreading, lest I choke the flame with my own folly, or get burnt trying so.

Exactly. But there is something else, child.

What could that be? This flame, its brilliance and warmth is all I feel each time I enter the night.

Ah yes, the flame is lovely. What do you think it burns for? For that matter, how do you think it burns?

I can't be sure of the flame's existence, that is, I may not want to know either. Blossomed from mystery, this flame seized me in a moment of confusion, carried on a wave of inspiration and lit my darkened face.

That is beautiful, no doubt. For what do you think this flame burns?

For the night... For the souls... For life, I suppose. Surely, not for me.

But it does, doesn't it -- are you not part of all the above?

I guess I am. How silly I have been.

Now how do you think this flame burns, or sustains itself?

Through life?

Specifically?

With air, fuel and cold, perhaps? You see, I'm not too good with these questions.

Ah, but you are! Are you not part of all the above, once again?

I can' say that I understand what you mean....

This flame, doesn't it burn for you, as it does for life?

I think it does... Though I never dare remind myself of it, lest I take its brilliance for granted.

Touching, but let us stay on topic here. You spoke of wanting to keep the flame to yourself - how would you do it?

Perhaps by being the air and fuel that it burns with? The cold I wish not to be, and I know that it would be impossible to stop the light and warmth.

Surely you know that you are being a little demanding on yourself? How could you be everything and yet maintain that you want to be nothing at the same time?

I see your point... Do you suggest that this pursuit is useless?

Not entire, I'm not. I understand your insecurities, though. Know that among these feelings that you have, not all are unjustifed, yet not all are reasonable; at that same time, this situation that you find yourself in: it is not entire your responsibility.

Won't you enlighten me on your reason? I feel a strange excitement in the way we are about to arrive a conclusion.

This much I am sure: while this flame burns for life, it burns for you you most certainly. In many ways, you are not the purpose of being for the flame; you are the fuel and air, instead. You help sustain the flame and contribute to its brightness and warmth.

You flatter me with your overestimation -- this is no time for jokes!

I kid you not. Don't you see the signs? Allow me this question: did you search for this flame or did it find you?

Well... I can't be sure, we sort of found each other.

And surely something has changed since then.

Indeed, I feel that I am warmed.

And the flame?

Brighter, more brilliant and warmer. In fact, sometimes when it sputters at night, I feel its playful laughter tickle my skin. Yet there are times when the chill wind blows and I shield it the best I can.

Therein lies your answer, doesn't it?

How true. How was I blind to it all this while?

You weren't... You were simply looking in the wrong direction -- at the shadows, not the flame and body that cast them. I merely helped you turn around. The eyes and hands that recognised the flame are still yours.

Thank you.

Thank the flame. For it is still your motivation that encourages you to have this conversation with me.

And I closed my eyes, finally... To the tune of a mechanical twitch and the pleasure of an exhaled sigh. A monologue at dawn, a look into a flame -- a recognition of shadows.

Thank you for holding out for me again... This darkness that follows me around -- I'm afraid that I can never get rid of it. With each successful attempt I embrace it, know that it becomes something beautiful, just like how the darkness metamorphasises to art as shadows -- all made possible only by a flame. Your flame.

JKLM