It all began with a stomachache
It was our fifth month anniversary and technically, we each had a stomachache. Abel said he had to burp and I told him I needed to fart. So we boarded a bus in order that the needful, merciful thing could be done while we got to our destination. Remaining quiet as we concentrated our energies on expelling the evil pockets of gas gained from our greed of Thai food, we were entertained by yet another indulgence of our country- the TV Mobile. A health documentary was on. A wholesome- looking presenter with a dreamy voice, presented the topic of the day: (I kid you not) “Your Bodily Processes: Burps and Farts.”
“Burping
We breathe in gases such as nitrogen and oxygen. Sometimes we swallow these gases when we eat, and our body needs to get rid of it. Hence, burping or belching occurs when air is forced from the stomach, up through the oesophagus and throat and out our mouths.
On the other hand, farting is
A "high-amplitude propogating contraction" that commonly occurs after meals. This is a very strong tightening that begins at the top of the large intestine and ends just above the rectum, sweeping the contents ahead of it as it goes. You will often feel a strong urge to have a bowel movement as a result of this contraction. Even if you don't, the contraction will cause any pockets of gas within the intestine to emerge as flatulence. This would explain the gas you have immediately after a meal. On average, each person produces 500-1000ml of flatulence every day.
If we are wondering about the bad smell of farts, this is caused by the variety of gases produced when the bacteria in our intestines feed and digest the carbohydrates in our foods. Flatulence is made up in bulk of methane, hydrogen and hydrogen sulphide. It is the third that causes those bad smells.
On that note, I wish you good health, wellness and smells during this Christmas season. This is Christine Appleton saying goodnight.”
The health documentary ended and a rerun of “America’s funniest Home Videos” came on just as we turned into the bus depot.
“Did you manage to burp?” I turned to Abel.
“Yeah, I did. The dogs leaping over their owners were funny. Are you feeling better too?
“Yup. The documentary was queerly timely---all that talk about contractions and bacteria causing those gases and smells…”
“What documentary?” Abel mumbled distractedly as we entered the mall, “You in the mood for dessert?”
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Wombat’s Packing- list for Down- South
It is Wombat’s favourite kind of weather tonight though not the best for lazing out in the yard or cleaning the swimming pool. Dark, heavy clouds and lightning always gives this marsupial the feeling of hot chocolate and happy tunes; it was therefore not a radical idea when Wombat decided he wanted to make a short road-trip --- not next week or tomorrow, but on this very rainy day! Nine o’clock in the night makes it feasible to reach the south slopes for some wine-tasting and early supper.
And so, whistling a sound in symphony with the percussion of the pitter-patter raindrops, Wombat sat down to plan for the down- south trip. He got out his maps and happily took out a note pad to do a packing list. It is also his favorite part of the trip.“Am I going to stay two nights or three? Umbrella… pepper spray, one set of pyjamas and overalls” The outing planned on this fateful evening is not Wombat’s first time down south and most definitely the only place he goes on short holidays. Wombat does not go on long trips. What might be remarkable to some of us is that he also stops at the same gasoline station to replenish his snack pack—tussocky “snow grass”, visits the same winery and sleeps at “The Burrow” bed and breakfast. If Wombat had saved his first packing list from all the four years of trips down- South, he would have conserved a lot of planning. But like the many of us who don't keep our packing lists the moment we load our overnight bags into the car boot, he is sore about left- over memories lying about on the kitchen table when he returns from a vacation. It helps, too, that Wombat likes to make lists.
But quite suddenly in a matter of these few minutes, Wombat was interrupted by three timid taps on the timber door. This has never happened before in his years of list-making. He looked up with furrowed brows and reluctantly got up from his stool to get the door. “Yes?” Irritation stretched across his handsome furry face.
“Why… I was wondering if there are vacancies in your motel at this time of the year.” A fellow wombat in a wet yellow raincoat stood in the doorway. “I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come up here from the western plateaus.
Wombat snorted, ‘That’s a coincidence; not the best in terms of timing.” He hesitated, ‘Come in, and we’ll see if we can work something out.’
Wombat let Yellow Raincoat Wombat into the living space. The latter took in the warm fireplace and table where the packing list laid complete.
‘I can house- sit for you while you are gone.’
‘Why, it’s very nice of you to offer, it’s not my normal practice to host someone without being here. That's if new occupants arrive…’
‘Now, now, with your permission, I have a place to stay, and you wouldn’t have to worry about intruders. It’s a perfect arrangement.’
Wombat adjusted his tortoise-shell spectacles absent-mindedly, ‘How long do you plan to be here?’ He perused his list, peered into his suitcase, and back to his list to double-check.
‘For as long as is needed.’
So it was agreed between the two. Wombat set off into the night, his red haversack swung onto his back, the packing list tucked, forgotten, in one of the compartments.
In three and a half hours, Wombat had arrived at the gasoline station; consumed only partially the “snow grass” by the time he reached the winery, which was two hours earlier than expected, and decided to do a check- in first at the ‘Bed and Breakfast’.
“Hello, Juno?” Wombat jangled the bells at the front counter. “Is anyone back there? The reception area felt quiet and still. In spite of the warm fire and familiar smell of onion and root soup, there was not a soul and animalistic movement in sight. He circled the counter, went into the waiting room and surveyed the dining area: no cook at the stove, no southern hairy-nosed wombat who usually did the cleaning. The place was spotless. And vacated. Wombat searched the counter cupboards for his room key; he banged the doors close and jangled the other keys in the hope of rousing someone. When no one came, he dropped his haversack off in room 299 (the room he always sleeps in). It was only two in the morning and Wombat was beginning to feel the strains of the travel. He can visit the winery tomorrow when Juno, the cook, the southern hairy-nosed wombat, and whoever is supposed to be here, turns up. And whoever who is not --- like that wombat in his splendid yellow raincoat, remains in his rightful place. Just like I am meant to be here. With that thought hazy in mind, Wombat fell into a deep sleep.
After what it seemed to be a one- and- a- half dreamscapes later, Wombat was woken up by the same jangle of the counter bell he had attempted earlier on. How many hours ago was that? He leapt off the bed and scampered to the reception. A rabbit couple stood waiting.
‘We would like to check in, please.”
‘Oh. I’m not…’
‘Please, we’re really tired.’ And they did look tired. With their wind-blown furs, anyone could have mistaken them for wild country hares.
‘Alright. Mm. Do write your names and address in here--- he drew out the guest book that he’d often seen Juno use before. ‘And erm, mode of payment?’
‘Credit.’
His next performance of administration was a beauty to watch. In no time at all, he’d found room keys, helped with luggage and sat the grateful rabbits down to a warm meal of carrot soup. After they’d retired to their rooms, and he’d scarcely a moment to sit down, he was yet greeted by another group of guests.
Since the employees of “The Burrow” continued their no-show for the next day, the day after, and then a week, Wombat never got to the winery. He stepped out only to do the garden and clean the outdoor thai-style iacuzzi. Juno, the cook and the southern hairy-nosed wombat did not return to his mind because Wombat managed everything himself, like second nature. He never got round to cleaning his own room until he had finished the house-keeping for the rest of the rooms. By this time, the holiday season in the south had finally finished its five-week period. Room 229 had managed to look rather lived-in and different from the other hotel rooms. It had the distinct smell of Wombat even if he is a relatively clean marsupial. To his room, he brought no food to eat, maybe only a glass of water and some videos to pass the early mornings. Today, he detected a mild, mould-like smell from a part of his room. It came from a red haversack that looked familiar. But of course it was familiar--- it was his. But he had forgotten about it and the left-over ‘snow grass’ that had by this time become ‘tussocky algae’. ‘And what’s this?’ Wombat drew out a folded piece of paper. ‘wombat’s packing- list for down-south… how long have I been planning for this and never got the chance for it!’ It was a complete list after-all, and the red haversack was packed as detailed.
1. umbrella
2. pepper spray
3. overalls
4. two t-shirts
5. pyjamas
6. torch-light
And so, Wombat packed and locked up room 229, left the key at the counter, and left “The Burrow”, the first time in two months. Also, two months since he left the lodge with the timber doors.
He reached “Hason Hedge” in good time, and was happy to see that it owned a winery and ‘snow grass factory’. It was also raining--- Wombat’s favourite kind of weather. He unfolded his umbrella from the haversack as he waited at the outdoor reception where another wombat in a yellow raincoat was being attended to.
‘So, how long do you plan to stay?’ he heard Hason the hare ask the wombat.
‘Oh. Not long. I’ll just be here a day or two before heading up to my own lodge. I own a holiday place too, you know, just like yours. It’s just that, I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come down here.’ He turned around to Wombat with a grin, droplets of water from his yellow hood meandering down his furry face ‘it’s a fantastic place here, isn’t it?’
Wombat concurred. It was going to be a great holiday. Before he got back to “The Burrows”.
It is Wombat’s favourite kind of weather tonight though not the best for lazing out in the yard or cleaning the swimming pool. Dark, heavy clouds and lightning always gives this marsupial the feeling of hot chocolate and happy tunes; it was therefore not a radical idea when Wombat decided he wanted to make a short road-trip --- not next week or tomorrow, but on this very rainy day! Nine o’clock in the night makes it feasible to reach the south slopes for some wine-tasting and early supper.
And so, whistling a sound in symphony with the percussion of the pitter-patter raindrops, Wombat sat down to plan for the down- south trip. He got out his maps and happily took out a note pad to do a packing list. It is also his favorite part of the trip.“Am I going to stay two nights or three? Umbrella… pepper spray, one set of pyjamas and overalls” The outing planned on this fateful evening is not Wombat’s first time down south and most definitely the only place he goes on short holidays. Wombat does not go on long trips. What might be remarkable to some of us is that he also stops at the same gasoline station to replenish his snack pack—tussocky “snow grass”, visits the same winery and sleeps at “The Burrow” bed and breakfast. If Wombat had saved his first packing list from all the four years of trips down- South, he would have conserved a lot of planning. But like the many of us who don't keep our packing lists the moment we load our overnight bags into the car boot, he is sore about left- over memories lying about on the kitchen table when he returns from a vacation. It helps, too, that Wombat likes to make lists.
But quite suddenly in a matter of these few minutes, Wombat was interrupted by three timid taps on the timber door. This has never happened before in his years of list-making. He looked up with furrowed brows and reluctantly got up from his stool to get the door. “Yes?” Irritation stretched across his handsome furry face.
“Why… I was wondering if there are vacancies in your motel at this time of the year.” A fellow wombat in a wet yellow raincoat stood in the doorway. “I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come up here from the western plateaus.
Wombat snorted, ‘That’s a coincidence; not the best in terms of timing.” He hesitated, ‘Come in, and we’ll see if we can work something out.’
Wombat let Yellow Raincoat Wombat into the living space. The latter took in the warm fireplace and table where the packing list laid complete.
‘I can house- sit for you while you are gone.’
‘Why, it’s very nice of you to offer, it’s not my normal practice to host someone without being here. That's if new occupants arrive…’
‘Now, now, with your permission, I have a place to stay, and you wouldn’t have to worry about intruders. It’s a perfect arrangement.’
Wombat adjusted his tortoise-shell spectacles absent-mindedly, ‘How long do you plan to be here?’ He perused his list, peered into his suitcase, and back to his list to double-check.
‘For as long as is needed.’
So it was agreed between the two. Wombat set off into the night, his red haversack swung onto his back, the packing list tucked, forgotten, in one of the compartments.
In three and a half hours, Wombat had arrived at the gasoline station; consumed only partially the “snow grass” by the time he reached the winery, which was two hours earlier than expected, and decided to do a check- in first at the ‘Bed and Breakfast’.
“Hello, Juno?” Wombat jangled the bells at the front counter. “Is anyone back there? The reception area felt quiet and still. In spite of the warm fire and familiar smell of onion and root soup, there was not a soul and animalistic movement in sight. He circled the counter, went into the waiting room and surveyed the dining area: no cook at the stove, no southern hairy-nosed wombat who usually did the cleaning. The place was spotless. And vacated. Wombat searched the counter cupboards for his room key; he banged the doors close and jangled the other keys in the hope of rousing someone. When no one came, he dropped his haversack off in room 299 (the room he always sleeps in). It was only two in the morning and Wombat was beginning to feel the strains of the travel. He can visit the winery tomorrow when Juno, the cook, the southern hairy-nosed wombat, and whoever is supposed to be here, turns up. And whoever who is not --- like that wombat in his splendid yellow raincoat, remains in his rightful place. Just like I am meant to be here. With that thought hazy in mind, Wombat fell into a deep sleep.
After what it seemed to be a one- and- a- half dreamscapes later, Wombat was woken up by the same jangle of the counter bell he had attempted earlier on. How many hours ago was that? He leapt off the bed and scampered to the reception. A rabbit couple stood waiting.
‘We would like to check in, please.”
‘Oh. I’m not…’
‘Please, we’re really tired.’ And they did look tired. With their wind-blown furs, anyone could have mistaken them for wild country hares.
‘Alright. Mm. Do write your names and address in here--- he drew out the guest book that he’d often seen Juno use before. ‘And erm, mode of payment?’
‘Credit.’
His next performance of administration was a beauty to watch. In no time at all, he’d found room keys, helped with luggage and sat the grateful rabbits down to a warm meal of carrot soup. After they’d retired to their rooms, and he’d scarcely a moment to sit down, he was yet greeted by another group of guests.
Since the employees of “The Burrow” continued their no-show for the next day, the day after, and then a week, Wombat never got to the winery. He stepped out only to do the garden and clean the outdoor thai-style iacuzzi. Juno, the cook and the southern hairy-nosed wombat did not return to his mind because Wombat managed everything himself, like second nature. He never got round to cleaning his own room until he had finished the house-keeping for the rest of the rooms. By this time, the holiday season in the south had finally finished its five-week period. Room 229 had managed to look rather lived-in and different from the other hotel rooms. It had the distinct smell of Wombat even if he is a relatively clean marsupial. To his room, he brought no food to eat, maybe only a glass of water and some videos to pass the early mornings. Today, he detected a mild, mould-like smell from a part of his room. It came from a red haversack that looked familiar. But of course it was familiar--- it was his. But he had forgotten about it and the left-over ‘snow grass’ that had by this time become ‘tussocky algae’. ‘And what’s this?’ Wombat drew out a folded piece of paper. ‘wombat’s packing- list for down-south… how long have I been planning for this and never got the chance for it!’ It was a complete list after-all, and the red haversack was packed as detailed.
1. umbrella
2. pepper spray
3. overalls
4. two t-shirts
5. pyjamas
6. torch-light
And so, Wombat packed and locked up room 229, left the key at the counter, and left “The Burrow”, the first time in two months. Also, two months since he left the lodge with the timber doors.
He reached “Hason Hedge” in good time, and was happy to see that it owned a winery and ‘snow grass factory’. It was also raining--- Wombat’s favourite kind of weather. He unfolded his umbrella from the haversack as he waited at the outdoor reception where another wombat in a yellow raincoat was being attended to.
‘So, how long do you plan to stay?’ he heard Hason the hare ask the wombat.
‘Oh. Not long. I’ll just be here a day or two before heading up to my own lodge. I own a holiday place too, you know, just like yours. It’s just that, I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come down here.’ He turned around to Wombat with a grin, droplets of water from his yellow hood meandering down his furry face ‘it’s a fantastic place here, isn’t it?’
Wombat concurred. It was going to be a great holiday. Before he got back to “The Burrows”.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
The Punching Bag
I once peeped into a teenage boy's room.
Age does matters. He was fourteen.
I, a cool thirty-five.
Where he was awkward to enter,
I felt free to wander.
Shelves lined with carefully painted toy soldiers
and tanks that "took up space"<---- said his mom.
Glossy posters held the walls ransom
and camourflaged his living space.
If you didn't look carefully where his encyclopedias hid,
the jotter books found shelter under them.
But.
With a pause to all this tangential talk,
preamble and chit- chat,
All I want to tell is about the punching bag.
It hangs black, still, in the middle of the room.
From the projecting metal from the sky,
It cries out, " throw me one- show me what you've got"
"If I'm not moved, you have not giv'n me the lot.
Doesn't matter that his lamp illuminates softly all around
Or that his bedsheets boasts of "SHREK and Donkey"
In fairytale green.
The dark knight in his PVC armour
is seen, still, from every corner.
He titillates and he mocks-
Doesn't matter if you are boy or girl, grown woman or man.
The punching bag beckons when it can.
I enter the teenager's room.
My fists are clenched, my body leans.
I am surprisingly angry at the punching bag!
for all my thirty-five of grief and angst.
" Where have you been all these years,
When I have had only got the wall?"
I raise my fist in readiness and relief.
Instead, see my scars and blue black veins that still remain.
And then I start to pour those salty tears
that never came when I hit the wall.
I look at the punching bag which I can no longer hit,
when suddenly my fists feel both pain and paralysis.
I walk to SHREK and Donkey, crying like a child.
And lain balled up on this teenage boy's bed.
And then i heard footsteps, the boy showed up.
With a jolt and quickly reorganized face,
he stumbled and mumbled across his words.
"mom says pudding's ready. Dessert's ready. Pudding for dessert"
And quickly backed and bounded off down where he came.
I could almost hear his whisper as I quickly wiped my tears
"My teacher's crying on my bed!"
I once peeped into a teenage boy's room.
Age does matters. He was fourteen.
I, a cool thirty-five.
Where he was awkward to enter,
I felt free to wander.
Shelves lined with carefully painted toy soldiers
and tanks that "took up space"<---- said his mom.
Glossy posters held the walls ransom
and camourflaged his living space.
If you didn't look carefully where his encyclopedias hid,
the jotter books found shelter under them.
But.
With a pause to all this tangential talk,
preamble and chit- chat,
All I want to tell is about the punching bag.
It hangs black, still, in the middle of the room.
From the projecting metal from the sky,
It cries out, " throw me one- show me what you've got"
"If I'm not moved, you have not giv'n me the lot.
Doesn't matter that his lamp illuminates softly all around
Or that his bedsheets boasts of "SHREK and Donkey"
In fairytale green.
The dark knight in his PVC armour
is seen, still, from every corner.
He titillates and he mocks-
Doesn't matter if you are boy or girl, grown woman or man.
The punching bag beckons when it can.
I enter the teenager's room.
My fists are clenched, my body leans.
I am surprisingly angry at the punching bag!
for all my thirty-five of grief and angst.
" Where have you been all these years,
When I have had only got the wall?"
I raise my fist in readiness and relief.
Instead, see my scars and blue black veins that still remain.
And then I start to pour those salty tears
that never came when I hit the wall.
I look at the punching bag which I can no longer hit,
when suddenly my fists feel both pain and paralysis.
I walk to SHREK and Donkey, crying like a child.
And lain balled up on this teenage boy's bed.
And then i heard footsteps, the boy showed up.
With a jolt and quickly reorganized face,
he stumbled and mumbled across his words.
"mom says pudding's ready. Dessert's ready. Pudding for dessert"
And quickly backed and bounded off down where he came.
I could almost hear his whisper as I quickly wiped my tears
"My teacher's crying on my bed!"
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road
I lift my face to receive the wind’s kisses-
Possibly recycled in this climate’s habit of weather and pressure,
Like the world’s clichés and empty phrases,
Renewing the senses when we try to make sense of it,
and when you welcome its tangibility.
The sweet red blooms set the sky on fire,
Yet can’t contaminate just how blue it is
Unlike the sun’s new dawn and tired dusk.
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road.
The joggers’ sweaty grin (or grimace)
and the lady on the stairs.
The swirls from her cigarette rise up before
settling down to almost nothing where I stand and chat.
Cause all misty-eyed and rosy cheeked
Or a nicotine- fixed blank stare
The steel gate keeps the lonely heart in
to TV programs and microwave dinners
Till sometime it opens to a lover there.
Armed with one bunch of hydrangea
And groceries for two
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road.
I have no Polaroid to keep
And no videocam to direct the scene
But in my dreams both night and day,
They bring me back to Barker Road.
I lift my face to receive the wind’s kisses-
Possibly recycled in this climate’s habit of weather and pressure,
Like the world’s clichés and empty phrases,
Renewing the senses when we try to make sense of it,
and when you welcome its tangibility.
The sweet red blooms set the sky on fire,
Yet can’t contaminate just how blue it is
Unlike the sun’s new dawn and tired dusk.
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road.
The joggers’ sweaty grin (or grimace)
and the lady on the stairs.
The swirls from her cigarette rise up before
settling down to almost nothing where I stand and chat.
Cause all misty-eyed and rosy cheeked
Or a nicotine- fixed blank stare
The steel gate keeps the lonely heart in
to TV programs and microwave dinners
Till sometime it opens to a lover there.
Armed with one bunch of hydrangea
And groceries for two
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road.
I have no Polaroid to keep
And no videocam to direct the scene
But in my dreams both night and day,
They bring me back to Barker Road.
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