The day of the hail 24/06

On the day of the hail, I sat in a haze of smoke.
As ice beads showered
Down.
Not to be challenged,
My nicotine hit faster home-
The obvious mess felt cold and shrill;
Like shrapnels at my feet.
While possums cower,
And squirrels hid,
My garden gnomes braved and stared,
Waiting for their paint to brush off.
I watched the billowing trees,
And ground that could no longer bear this assault.
This left me puzzled and strange-
That though longing for the warmth to soothe me
It would almost be
How the hail’s cold would better suit me.

The day of hail suddenly left,
In the same way that it came.
Soon it was a mere trickle of rain;
As though there was one power struggle,
And the rain-maker lost.

Let the weak say I am strong, let the poor say I am rich, let the blind say I can see. It’s what the Lord has done in me.

Micro soft words (I)
My words appear furiously on screen as I have read it on peoples’ lips. Fast and furious as only my hands and fingers can manage it. Hopefully my facial muscles can keep up.And as for my sense of sight, smell, taste, touch, I must say that they have done well by me so far. In the same way that hearing is the blind person’s grab bar to the rest of the world, mine is acute sight. Television and books depict the hands of the mute dancing gracefully in the air. Their fingers are long and slender, pale as though vulnerable and expressing more adequately than verbal speech can ever do so. My fingers are fat and stumpy. Pale, and/but pasty’s more the word. One doesn’t need beautiful fingers to talk, really. Nor to type. Nor to toss.

(II)
Presently I work in the back kitchen of Mac donalds. But as I toss patties and mayonnaise buns, my mind is ringing with ideas. People have difficulties getting through to me and it’s not because of the impairment. The manager’s face is contorted and I read, “IVY! We need more fillets out here! Special requests for NO MAYONAISE! CAN YOU HEAR ME?” I intend to keep the job of course- I like the mechanical tossing and spreading, tossing and spreading. But I can’t help the fantastical script that plays out in my head. I get ideas all the time and everywhere, in the train, along the streets. But wow. You should see how I am when I’m making burgers. Then, I’m a true master. You can almost say that burgers sustain me.


(III)
Oh and by the way, the name is Iris, not IVY. In the event of miscommunication, there is no excuse for miscommunication. How can “I love you” become “You love me”? It’s almost as bad as washing the lettuce when you are supposed to wrap it to store. Read my lips: “Wrap” not “Wash”. Being born with the impairment, I had not been given the chance to experience the frustrations of the loss of it. I guess normality as I see it has also honed my meticulous nature. That if I may fault in anyway, let it not be because of my silent world.

The Muppets painted the ward manila
The 2nd extension-

“There’s another one of those fitbone patients. Isn’t he already tall enough? There should be a cardboard mannequin to indicate height requirements. If you are longer than the surgical table by a toenail, you don’t qualify.”

“Ah… but isn’t he a celebrity too… what’s his name? Many famous people are doing this these days.”

“And even celebrities need an extension??!! His family has asked for 3 more weeks! To get him a longer bed.”

“Has the doctor approved?”

“Here he comes now. You can ask him.”

“So doctor grouch, regarding Big Bird’s extension…”

“Ah nurse Marie, there’s no end to this nonsense, really. We took three hours to make him longer, and they need three weeks for his bed. And look at all these feathers of his… I say no- no more extension. He’ll just have to make do with his old bed.”

Erm doctor, I just received news from Sesame Street on the Chinese channel. It seems like they’ve just received a new import of quality bird’s nest.
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POLYTHENE PERFECTION

“Ok, so you never EVER buy wide- leg pants, you get that?” The stylist ran his hands down the boy’s shirt to smooth it in place. Then, taking a step back, his fingers went instinctively to his five o’clock stubble as he considered the boy’s look. “You don’t yet look like a million dollars, but you’ll do. Go do your stuff.-
Argh! Macie, are you wearing that skimpy number? I don’t suppose you heard what the judges said last week? No… (slowly enunciating his words) looking like Pink is not a good thing. Not in this stage of the competition anyway. Please… here, wear this.” And grabbing a modest DKNY off the rack, he pushed the petite girl back behind the curtains.

At two o’clock a.m, the stylist yawned back to his car.
“This generation just doesn’t learn.” This episode of The Lark ended well. Macie got two thumbs up for her ‘provocative song yet understated beauty’. And James, the boy with the skinny legs, who was said to be weakest, with the greatest potential to get booted out, had the judges see in him heralding of Daniel John.
“They may not see in the mirror what I see, but surely they would have some basic sense that doesn’t require the fountainhead of fashion to dictate.” He was referring to the young wannabes. But as he checked out his own reflection, he saw the glazed, weary eyes under the nicely arched brows. His jaw is now more defined than in his younger days, but also rugged, having suffered a couple of hundreds more nips by the razor.

As he pulled out from the lot, the stylist decided not to put on any music. He is able to ruminate a lot more in silence. That even though three quarters of his physical being tugged to go home, there is still the Survivor after- cast party in Millenia Walk to attend. There were the big bosses of the industry he wanted to meet and impress. They may not see in the mirror what I see, but surely they would have some basic sense that doesn’t require the fountainhead of fashion to dictate. At 43, it was the Singaporean stylist’s dream to go to Hollywood, the United States of America.