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

I'm A Faerie

You scored as Faerie. Faerie: Aren't you a cute little flying person? Faeries are earth spirits. They live among each element completely hidden. They have cousins called Pixies. Pixies however, are very mischevious. They enjoy tormenting other creatures for fun. Little pranksters.. I hope you never meet one. Pixies have a bad reputation for finding a creature and clinging to them until death. Faeries can be somewhat close to a Pixie, but mostly they are loving, playful, and carry with them a child-like enthusiasm for life. Hide among the pedals of a Daisy, you are a Faerie. Faerie 75% Angel 67% Mermaid 58% WereWolf 33% Dragon 25% Demon 25% What Mythological Creature are you? (Cool Pics!) created with QuizFarm.com

These Things Happen

The cutest sound that I had the priviledge of waking up to was a hiccup.

Here's how it went:

"Mornin'..."
"M... *hic*... oh no..."

That made my morning.



JKLM

Cold + Philosophy = Cranky Furrball

Madness #1

what stirs your fancy tonight, nymph?
of light, night and all that's in between
what stirs thy blood?
what stirs thy imagination?
a thought or perhaps an art
a spark of sudden fascination

Madness #2

a sniffle, a cough
a sigh and a scoff
a furrball sniffle
a runny dribble
blocked silly nose
coupled with aching bones

Madness #3

a flu, a bug -- oh how i think this sucks
a sneeze, a cough... omg... yucks
could you pass the tissue, dear?
my nose has fled, i fear
away from me, but never reaching
with its watery companion -- leaking
gosh, i hate this flu
it makes me feel blue
but warms my heart so
to feel your hug
even though i cough like
a sam-sui ah-soh....

Madness #4

sam-sui chick
she carry bricks
check those arms
she's far from weak
may be strong
may kick-ass
don't cross her wrong
she'll s**** your ass
sam-sui chick
i think i'm sick
cos your brick
just smashed my d***

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

My essay is due soon.

Stupid cold / flu isn't running away. Only my nose obliges them. Sheesh...


JKLM

A Mesmerising Elephunkyshoppaholophotopeanutslut

While trying to sort myself out in the field of philosophy, I decided to try my hands at interpreting a song. I guess I'm in a poopy mood again. Ah... sweet melancholy.

I've got more questions... More things to write about, but insufficient time and insufficient rhyme.

Step by step, I'll put them down. Selfishly immortalising every bronze, gold and silver in mind; carelessly spilling them over this digital canvas. Perhaps one day, I would finally be able to catch them all.

No, I couldn't possibly. No, I don't think I should. While this poetry of life won't ever rhyme itself out... I'm always gonna worry about the things that could choke my senses, numb my mind and rob me of these vivid memories.

You, you are my inspiration. You keep me moving on to find the next moment of brilliance. My motivation is a storming cocktail of fear, ideals and passion. Yes, I'm scared -- to loose this spark, to loose you and to loose it all. At the same time, I'm scared of that there may be no room for all these things things that I greedily and willingly devour. Gentle yet firm... this is when your eyes steady me. "Slowly; there's still time." Yes, there's still time; as long as there's you, I'm sure there'll still be time.

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

Storms at Sunrise

there once was a time
when all i knew was this place inside
this place where i could hide
safe in the familiar darkness, away in the night

where have these hands led me
when will this love save me
storms at sunrise have drowned my eyes
and filled my skies

how subtly the white melts within
but will I ever see
the light of you that shines on me
how calmly the black fades between
will we ever learn to fall
through it all
I'm always gonna worry about the things that could make us cold

just like I remember
the winds on my skin still feel as tender
can you feel the chatter of raindrops on your face?
a storming sweetness, a memory to taste - to heal

how brightly your white still flows
could you dance again
and bring back to these skies a flame
how quickly the black will thenretreat
and then I will see
here with me
I never needed to worry about the things that could break us

and I shall give in -- give it all
just so
these clouds could part -- for once
cause through the wind I smell the warmth
of a rain that will come
that could bring us home

you know that where we roam
only these storms at your sunrise will bring us home

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

JKLM

Linearised

I hate to have my brain linearised. After packing up on the scientific knowledge for a total of about 4 good hours, that's what my brain feels like -- linearlised. And I hate it.

All of a sudden, the rhymes just escape my fatigue mind; I still see and smile to the occasional nuggets of details that my eyes catch, but I find that I loose them easily, like sand from a broken hourglass. All of a sudden, the fleeting nature of these ideas seem to scare me more than before. While I still had the strength and energy to chase them down one by one in the past days, these hours have dampened me of late.

I feel... Weighed down and piled in.

I can't be myself with this knowledge. Seems like someone forgot to put the "save" and "shut down" operations in my OS. Dammit.

Even this entry is... well... trashy. Sigh...


JKLM

Swensons -- A Cocktail of Ice-Cream, Laughter and Lemon Peel

My mother the art critic -- everything from the layout of a dish, to the presentation, to the smell and finally the taste, nothing escapes her. Her quick tongue is always ready to question the tasteful, bribe the unwilling, dilute the conscious and, of course, praise the unnoticed. Introducing my mother the art critic.

My mother the engineer. With each conscious bite, she digests the formula for each dish. From the sauce to the filling, nothing is spared from her analytical tongue. Way before the aftertaste of each cullinary load fades, my mother is already hard at work at creating a counter-recipie. Within minutes, her cullinary laboratory delivers a quick and satisfying conclusion: "We could have had this at home." With engineered conviction, her stare would have convinced us that this were true, had it not been for the lack of time due to our busy schedules. Surely, we wouldn't dare question the competence of our resident specialist.

My mother the actor. She likes ice-cream, and we know it. She used to make mooncakes, and she knows it. But she claims not to like ice-cream mooncakes. Perhaps it's the theory that a cook should never taste the things he creates. Perhaps its her guilty conscience warning her of that well-hidden tummy. Her convicted refusal of the fourth piece of mooncake makes it really hard to tell...

My father the soldier. His rehearsed routined and precise timing is hard to replicate. His convicted, purposeful steps are hard to follow. His firm tenderness with my mom is hard to ignore. His eyes have a gentle smile that is hard to notice. His words of congratulations and thanks are polished and issued with militaristic assurance. My father, the soldier; walk on.

My father the scholar. His glasses hang from his nose-bridge like an inquisitor's tool as he scans the papers for information. You can almost hear his thoughts buzz through his skull as his eyes dart across the pages, ignoring the noise, the waiter and the music of the restaurant. His dedication to devouring information is boundless, I'm sure, because he studies the menu with an unequalled intensity. My father -- always focused, always purposeful.

My father the teacher. They say that a teacher teaches by example, and students tend to take after their teachers. I took a look at him and thought about myself, it seems like we both took turns at teaching each other things. My only lesson being conditional love: "I love you, dad, that's why it hurts to much when I can't even talk to you on something like this." His lessons ranged a great many things, too many to state here, but all bearing a common theme: how to be a man and all precious.

Each time my family gets together, it's like a high-society gathering -- we speak our own exclusive colourful language and communicate through our elite culture. My mother, the multi-talented bohemian plays the pipe and fills our dining table with her melodies while my father occasionally exhibits his throaty bass. My brother, the rebel, usually plays the saxophone though he does swtich between instruments rather quickly and toots a different tune according to the background. Me? I'm the flutist: tittering away in my corner with my chirping laughter and my high-pitched smile. I guess my parents brought me up well, because I have found their elitist views of many issues fitting and unparalleled. Great job, team.

Two birthdays were sounded off at Swensens while we were dining, cued by the pre-programed birthday tracks playing on the intercom. Horray... our little outing stradles both our parents' birthdays. Anyway, it's meaningless, this musical amusement. What could compare to the brilliance of our exclusive intercourse? Artistic and ambiguous though it might be at times, but still priceless.

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

I missed Autumn today
As I stared into this black canvas
And contemplated the ways
That I could paint your essence
And somehow make you stay.

The storkes would need to be
Gentle and mellow in colour
Yet smooth to dance free
To the warmth of Fall's flavour

And no-one would ever know
The mysteries of your ways
The gentle seeds you sow
And the nights you turn into days
I missed Autumn today.

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

I got a song in my mail today. It was unexpected. I feel like replying it with my interpretation. A rhyme, perhaps. But will it flow?

I received an sms today. It too, was unexpected. Especially one of such nature, that described me as a puzzling phenomenon, somewhat between a mist, a psychological case study, a puzzle and an engima. Frankly, I don't even know what that makes me. Confused, yeah, pretty much.

Whatever makes you happy, I guess. I'm just me, as far as I'm concerned. And that probably means that I'm more than words can describe. All because I chose to be.

How can you fix the mist? What home does the wind have? It has but a destination.

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

My brother is like lemon peel. No not his skin, silly. Well, but he does have rather endearing freckles though.

He is bittersweet. And he's ben going round in circles lately. Actually, he seems to have been coiled up like a lemon peel for some time now... Always going round and round in circles around the same axis. That seems to be the way things are going for him these days -- it's usually a reactive core he hides behind those reactor walls. And good technicians can be so hard to come by these days. To make matters worse, each usually brings with her a different style of managing this plant.

Who could read these meters? Who could control this core? Who could stop a fallout? Who could preserve its energetic nature? Who could understand the physics of his atomic core?

He knows. I'm sure of it. But the contract with the technicains are always the trickiest to handle...

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

I don't think there is a recipie for this cocktail. Not when the bartender keeps modifying the ones he has. Perhaps you could say that they all taste somewhat the same... But there are always the subtle differences. I'm sure you'll notice.

Speaking of cocktails. Just when I thought I had tasted it all... A new one finds its way onto the menu. Ah, the heady indulgence of passion.


JKLM

A Profile of Rain

Wind; a breath, a sigh, a whisper.

It's been a while since the words had rhymed for me. The sights around me still hold the same vivid enchantment, but I simply haven't found the time to capture all the angels and devils that prance across my dreamscape. On some days, I'm almost desperate to rhyme, fearing that each moment of pause will foretell the coming end of this poetry. On other days, I drown in the torrent of thoughts that flow forth from a spring, somewhere deep inside.

As I steady my hands to complete this work, I can't help but wonder... have i got the colours wrong? If a picture is supposed to say a thousand words, I'm sure I don't have much to say with this abomination my hands have created; seems like it will take more than inspiration to guide these hands of mine. Time to start over on this one... I just can't seem to get it right tonight.

Rain; a storm, a forgiveness, a redeemer.

And so it came to pass, finally, on a hot Saturday afternoon. Closure; a rite of passage through tears, words, music and poetry. This must have been the longest week he has come to experience. This must also have been the longest week she has come to experience. Together through it all, any storm will pass. And the sun shall shine again -- even (care)bears need a little sunshine sometime.

Remember how you described the rain that follows each storm? Washing away all the destruction and covering up all that is ugly? Well, it's raining now -- a gentle, subtle dampness that soothes. And indeed while we drove down the highway this afternoon, through the stubborn dark clouds broke a smile. It's been a while since a smile had warmed that face and that heart.

We understand that loss of such a nature will never be easy to deal with. Your state throughout these days had not only shown us a different side to the gem of you, but it has also reinforced our respect for you. Inspite of it all, you have done what was needed and what was right. We all hope that you can finally find some closure and rest.


Your simple request, my twilight fascination...

"My music, my soul
Our mysteries untold
From white to gold
Let these dreams unfold"

Perhaps a simple resolution will find you in time. Till then, keep the music alive.


I've run out of words tonight... I'll continue this some time soon.

JKLM

Of Angels, Devils and Monochromatic Vision

10th September 2005 was a tough day. For everyone, and to everyone.

This is a crazy world we live in. Real mad.

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

I nearly popped by left shoulder yesterday. I should count myself lucky for escaping with little more than a severe strain on the rotator cuff group of shoulder muscles; my left shoulder is now weak, and my arm's movement range a mocking copy of what it used to be. I count myself lucky, because I haven't lost the use of my left arm completely -- the injury just makes it difficult to perform some tasks, but I can still sleep, eat and type.

Pain. So real, so raw... so funny.

The moment I strained my shoulder was something to remember. A committing dynamic reach for the final tile did the job for my left shoulder. It was a rather reachy move tot he right from the second last tile, not to mention the fact that the route was already pretty-much left-arm biased, as it demanded a leftward traverse before forcing a short-but-savage ascent to the end.

Just in case you're wondering... I was the route-setter -- I was the creator of my own ends in this. How apt.

The movies are right in their showcase of injuries of such nature -- no fancy positions, stunts or blood-curdling sounds. I felt my left shoulder strain to keep my body's balance to the wall as I swung out reach for the last tile, overwhelmed by the confidence that victory was mine this time. Then, just as I reached my destination, my shoulder gave way to a series of clicks, sounding much like what you would expect when a machine of gears comes grinding to a halt. There was no pain as my joint ground and crackled, just an untimely weakness that spread from the shoulder down to my fingertips. Next thing I knew, I was falling, with fingers of my right hand still latched onto the final tile, slipping under my own weight with each passing second.

On the mattress, I was curled up like a fetus, seeking comfort and relief from a dull aching pain and an unfamiliar fear. I couldn't feel my entire left arm. I was sure that I had torn, broken or dislocated something. Struggling to make sense of the injury and recover my grip on reality, I desperately willed my arm to move.

Move, dammit. Move!

Nothing. I was sure, by now, that something must have been dislocated. There was no pain, just a numbing ache that was a fast spreading through my entire body. The closer the ache got to my heart, the more fearful I had become. The very sport that helped me to find myself was now going to teach me a lesson I would not forget. I didn't want to learn that lesson; not now, not when there are still so many other things I have to do!

I felt an overwhelming urge to laugh. As if taking my final stand against this chaos and pain now tearing into my mind, I laughed. It was probably one of those psychotic chuckles that would have had been aprropriate in movies like SAW. As I ridiculed my own mess, I tried once again to force my arm back into movement. And it moved this time.

Pain. I was, by then reduced to a storm cloud of sweat, laughter and rumbling grunts.

I have never felt such pain. How ever did You survive your dislocation? You fascinate me to no end... I have never felt so alive, and so relieved that my fight for control had yielded some measure of success. My arm was responding again, though any movement was paid for in a large bill of pain.

Still weak and numb in the fingers, I staggered to my brother and said:" Bro, I think I popped my left shoulder. Ha... Should've seen it coming. You got anything for it?"

Ah, my brother. I do love your support. "Wait ah," came his reply. "Hmmm...," followed his warm strong hands as he surveyed my shoulders for any signs of abnormalities.

"Nope, don't think you popped it. Go clean the shoulder up first, I'll get you something." No fancy words, no reassuring phrases -- my brother really knows how to cut through any fog with his searchlight of calm and humour. Thanks, bro.

And for the rest of the day, pain was a child; its inquisitive hands kneading my mind slowly, searching for signs of inconsistency and pockets where the dull ache had not already spread to. My soul was fast becoming a worn-out tooth brush, raw nerves all splayed out.

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

With one and a half-arms, I stepped out of the house, bag slung on my good shoulder. With angels and Devils playing on the discman. How apt. Outside, the clouds were gathering, seemingly in some sort of grey symphathy.

In me, a storm cloud was gathering. They wanted to go drinking in school Such a waste of the precious sands of our weekends -- to be drunk in school and easy with our emotions. I can just hear the rumour mills turning.

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

Black or grey?
Black, definitely.

White or grey?
White.

Well then, black, white or grey?
I'm not too much of a grey person...

What element of weather can you identify with the most?
Hmm... I would say that it is rain. Because...

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

They say that a picture says a thousand words. Maybe that's why I ask you so many questions. Maybe that's why I'm always playing with words. Maybe that's why I miss our conversations. Maybe that's why the weekends always feel so empty.

Half-full or half-empty? And why?

My answer: half-full. Because I hope to always be able to seach and find; to be the colourful variant in a monochromatic world.

I used to hope that I could dance again when I needed to. I used to hope that you would teach me. I now know, because I feel that you inspire me, and that I am only beginning to understand. If ever you feel that this is unsettling, just remember: I try to dance to your tune, as you do to mine. Perfection then becomes well-coordinated series of actions, and mistakes are but a coincidence of events. I have no doubt that we had our times of perfection, and may have many more of unpolished stones, gems and precious metals.

Until then, let us just dance. =)


JKLM

A Tale Of Random Thoughts

My kingdom fell to the sweeping unassuming grace of autumn. Unapologetic but yet still dsubtle, autumn winds of mellow drifted gently through once empty courtyards, changing all they touch. Each marbled inch of the courtyard statues feels the warm breath of change; flagstone by flagstone autumn's whisper fills their gaps, as her golden-brown gown crackle playfully over their helpless frozen features.

Leaves crumble from ashened branches; trunks bent, dry with resignation. Once a green crown, now a patchwork of ash and brown beauty. Subtle were the changes, bold were the signs -- all these from the whisper of an inevitable autumn, for the reign of a summer king must give way to his mellow queen. Frozen setting rays of brilliant orange blend comfortablly with familiar cousins of burgandy, like fingers entwined -- the once blinding glory of holy light, now a humble ashened glow.

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

My summer is giving in fast to an autumn, a mellowing of sorts. A ball of ash-green ash found its way into my hands, a whisper of autumn into my eye and a tremble of warmth eased itself into my soul.

I used to love watching sunsets. Did someone once say that the things you love would eventually rub off on you?

A sunrise before a sunset. An opening act before a closing act. An audience gathered and dispersed. A tree blooming before sheding. A flower smiling before passing.

Autumn has finally found me. Summer might have been different, but they're all seasons, passing in turn. Autumn is beautiful as well. Perhaps winter might hold more magic when the snow falls and the mercury falls.

The night is here. The candles are lit -- angels of tungsten, bring light to a familiar darkness. With eyes opened, but heart closed, each laboured breath in the dark grinds like sand on stone.

A yearning. A longing. Another long night. In autumn, all nights are long -- it's neither the length, nor the darkness that would pose tricky -- it's the music, the siren song that plays on the night wind, if it blows.


JKLM