One Rotten Orange

2009-08-17T06:34:00.000-07:00

A love song I wrote 10 years ago, when I was amazed at how He was always holding and guiding my hands as I played the piano. I only gave it the title 'Into Your glory' two years later.

With Your hands holding mine,
notes of love through my heart.
songs of joy surge within me,
in your presence I abide.

Knowing You, I'm overwhelmed
by a sweetness uncontained--
Stepping into Your glory,
I see the cross where You were slained...

No pow'r can stand against You,
No beauty can compare
To the splendour of Your holiness,
to the mercy of Your hands.
I bow my knee before You,
In worship I adore
Gentle Saviour, Precious Jesus,
You're my all.

2009-06-01T03:55:00.000-07:00

Remembering Our Source

I like this quote by Ignatius of Antioch, a letter to the church in the early 2nd Century:

"...at best I can only be a pale example of Christ Jesus; let people look away from the reflection and turn to the reality...so pray that I may never fall into the trap of impressing people with clever speech, but instead I may learn to speak with humility, desiring only to impress people with Christ himself."

2009-05-12T06:55:00.000-07:00

The Elusive Mr Bones
This is a period of waiting and searching, and more waiting--- For the perfect job, the perfect house to rightly fit the perfect man/woman and perfect car. But in the midst of the search, Abel and I often found ourselves looking for the perfect job and house to match the dog we're gonna have!

Top 7 dog candidates
1. The Cairn Terrier (from:www.dog.breed.facts.com)

Quite a potential Mr Bones, if we could say! A proper ragmuffin, hunting dog and looks like the norfolk that we like. It's a nice size for an apartment too, though its supposed to be the biggest of the terrier breed.
2. The Maltese X Shitzu

I have many good things to say about this breed. 1. It has a smiling face, 2. it doesn't shed fur despite it looking like a jaunty furball 3. I semi-owned one in perth six years ago, and currently own one in Singapore, and from experience, know how affectionate they are.
The only consideration is that they're too cutsey for a husband if he has to bring it to work.
3. The Corgi (from:www.petandbook.com)

mm. I'm fine with this, only that it looks a little too 'sausage-like' for my taste. Abel likes it quite a lot (I suspect it's only cos the Queen of England has it!)
4. The Beagle(from yaletown yupp at fliker)

We like the idea of having a 'Watson'but this dog sheds quite a lot of hair! Still, it's a good size.
5. The Norfolk Terrier (from www.perrilandia.com)

It's certainly got the look and edge that we are looking for but no one's breeding it here in Perth!
6. The Border Collie (from www.gotpetsonline.com)

We are sad to place it second last but its medium size and tendency to shed hair makes it borderline impossible to have it in our prospective home. Abel is also worried about not being able to match the collie's energy level.
7. The German Shepherd (from: alan browser on fliker)

What a handsome, handsome breed. Abel and I can only admire them from afar because it's obviously unrealistic to bring em up for now.

ps/ thanks to all contributors of photos. We will have some of our own to share in time

2008-12-13T22:00:00.000-08:00

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?”

2008-09-10T22:47:00.000-07:00

Some really stark-poignant-moment photos were taken during the wedding, which i thought, now at our two- month anniversary, is a waste to not show it on the blog and advertise for our fantastic photographers, Hannah and Alwyn.

2008-09-10T22:44:00.000-07:00

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”.

2008-08-09T08:54:00.001-07:00

2008-07-15T08:21:00.000-07:00

2008-05-11T06:22:00.000-07:00

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!"

2008-02-03T21:59:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-12-01T18:50:00.000-08:00

STANDARD CHARTERED race 02/12/2007
Same distance (the 21), same adrenaline, different thoughts

As part of the race pack, the organizers provided an extra tag for the back for you to write some motivational reason for finishing the distance. Apart from the weird ones like

"<---- that idiot forced me" or " becos I paid good money"

One stood out. It was a coloured picture of a little girl stuck in hospital bed, and the neatly typed out accompanying message, " because our daughter can't, and we can."
I guess that despite all that I've said about having a 'kindness quota' or dark humour, it was one of those things that challenge my cynicisms about life.

So what if you don't meet your timing or that you walked 500 metres of the distance? Or that you had to go batam for honeymoon instead of Paris because of a tight budget? Sometimes it's just that tiny twinge of regret in your heart for buying that pair of shoes at full rate instead of waiting for the sale.
The slogan of this year's event was: "run your own race". My own race would be to just be thankful. And I believe that out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks, and you will bear fruit and bless people.

Talking a bit about the race, the last 2-4 km was a killer! This is when you want to run faster because it's the last lap but can't cos your legs feel like lead, and you can't walk because then you'll just walk forever.
I had been cynical about the cheerleaders and band along the way, but I now take back my words. They were incredible!

albeit misleading, Because in my depleted state, I kept thinking I was nearing the finishing line whenever my ears heard cheering.

BIB/DIV: 29116 / F2529
TIME: 1h:53m:21s (gun) / 1h:51m:3s (net)

2007-11-21T07:32:00.000-08:00

RUNninspiration

1. A little discipline in the correct direction creates the sufficient, necessary and intensive stamina to finish the race

2. It's true. the mind and spirit over body- it takes the mature runner to know the difference between an anxious surge of adrenaline, and the time to pick up pace peaceably.

3. When you are tired and have the feeling to stop and turn back, it's then that you become thankful for the heart beat that sustains your every step forward.

4. In a race of time and lengths,
when seeing someone fall, and you ignore, you possibly finish with a faster speed, momentary glory and lingering regret.
Yet the second you spare to stop, you possibly finish with a faster speed, lasting glory and one more friend.

5. Just do (enjoy) it!

6. R & B - It's ok to have Burps, Bumps and broken Breath. You will Recover.

7. There are days that you feel you can leap out of bed for the morning run. And there are more days you can't imagine going the distance. p/s: you are normal.

2007-11-09T22:39:00.000-08:00

Something about swimming (IV)
The quality of my world is blue

There must be a reason for this colour. We vary the shape, add an impressive five-prong fountain and maybe a quaint little bridge to swim under; even go to the extent of giving the tiles a different shade. Nevertheless, the color remains.

I once came across a story of a woman who had suffered a miscarriage and lost her husband both in the same year. It was difficult for her to go through the normal procession of grief and loss and she continued to oscillate between the different stages, never finding a resolution. While cruising about numbly in her car one day, she turned into the driveway of the local swimming pool and recalled how she as a child had enjoyed the blue and coolness. With clean, simple movements, one could cut through water. Or anything for that matter. Thus began the weekly trips, then twice weekly. With each stroke, she found herself feeling again. With each lap completed, another lap is planned and when she reaches her quota of laps, it is as though a part of her had left behind a bit of grief.

Even as I am in the blue today, I find it a bit far-fetched. Swimming, like most other activities, work to distract. But after the shower and maybe five hours of endorphin surge, you are like a low-batteryed energiser bunny still thrashing about in your own sea of problems.
My theory is this: swimming laps enable you to continue being in emotional circles. Back and forth, back and forth.

You bring congruence to your entirety. Because by the time you are done with all hundred and ten laps, you get a good night's sleep.

2007-10-25T16:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes When We Touch - Dan Hill

You ask me if I love you
And I choke on my reply
I'd rather hurt you honestly
Than mislead you with a lie
And who am I to judge you
On what you say or do?
I'm only just beginning to see the real you

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty's too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide
I wanna hold you til I die
Til we both break down and cry
I wanna hold you till the fear in me subsides

Romance and all its strategy
Leaves me battling with my pride
But through the insecurity
Some tenderness survives
I'm just another writer
Still trapped within my truth
A hesitant prize fighter
Still trapped within my youth

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty's too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide
I wanna hold you til I die
Til we both break down and cry
I wanna hold you till the fear in me subsides

At times I'd like to break you
And drive you to your knees
At times I'd like to break through
And hold you endlessly

At times I understand you
And I know how hard you've tried
I've watched while love commands you
And I've watched love pass you by

At times I think we're drifters
Still searching for a friend
A brother or a sister
But then the passion flares again

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty's too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide
I wanna hold you til I die
Til we both break down and cry
I wanna hold you till the fear in me subsides

2007-10-18T09:15:00.000-07:00

THE MARKET FIRE

It was not very late last night,
A time not seldom that I am there,
Mostly trudging, heels hitting in rhythm
In the jungle,
the mighty jungle,
The lion sleeps tonight.

Entertaining thoughts of void,
and scenes of workplace stealing in;
of the wet ground and uneven ground.
when one day I can drive, I may not walk-
but then again I like to walk.
and when again is D Day lesson planned?

I am reaching the market place
Of closing shops and drinking men

The commentary hits me
The market’s on fire
The market’s on fire
Do come look and see
The market’s on fire
Before I stumble into the murmuring crowd

Is when I look up and
See the luminous orange and
Flickering sparks,
Even smoke looks different
From the dark dark sky;
Yet smell no different
From the night-time air.

The people aren’t in their
Holiday best.
Some brought their dogs
that shifted unimpressed.
Remaining rooted to their spot,
humans shouted through their mobiles.
Some brought their kids
For fire safety education
while others stared at others staring.

The trucks lined up "like toys"
And men guard their uniform authority.
chickens came out on stretchers
the owners wept for their lost
livelihood.

I moved through like a ghost-
Even one won’t find an opening
Through this one.
But with one 'click', and one 'clock'
In the jungle
the mighty jungle
the lion sleeps tonight.

2007-09-13T05:58:00.000-07:00

Room 21

“She’s as stubborn as an ox”, he informed me. Shaking his head emphatically, husband folded his arms across the chest. Today, the white polo t-shirt with Burberry's signature collar stretched tightly to accomodate his plumpness, his khakis gripped below the paunch. Wife wore a tailored floral dress that hung on her thin frame. Her indignation seemed to take over her entire being, making her pretty eyes bigger. They flashed with anger at her husband of two months. Her hands flew up, then went to the sides of the chair, and back to her lap.
“ What?! And you? you... you're a silly goose.” This was all she could muster. The passive-aggressives usually become tongue-tied when emotionally charged.

I felt my heart beat faster in the chilly room. It is usually too stuffy or too cold in Room 21. Today the central system was turned up. I looked down surreptitiously at my watch but the effort was not appreciated. The young couple hardly noticed my presence. This session was going no where, not with the intensely deaf head-butting and defensiveness. But just as that thought swept through my mind, a pleasant silence entered.
Finally some signs of exhaustion were beginning to show. They sighed simultaneously, nodded as though affirming to oneself that they had each put in enough evidence against the other, and turned to me.
I arranged my features to look ‘professionally questioning’. Tone: peace-loving and calm; ideas- nil.
“So. I think that it is all very encouraging that you both have taken time off to be here. We hope that this twenty minutes may be of help. Have we agreed on what we want to discuss here and now?”
“I still think that she should listen to me. And…”
“Thank you Robert. We start from here. Prissy, how do you feel about Robert’s thoughts on this?”
Wife beamed as though having gained the approval of the school master to speak.
“I think that not all he says is wrong, about managing household expenses and all that. But I think that he should also respect my opinions too. Afterall…”

This was my last case before the 1pm lunch hour. I locked up room 21, stifled a yawn in front of the waiting queue as I headed back to the office. Feeling grateful as I sunk into the workstation, this “office worker stuck in a routine” glamorized by film-makers and tv producers is making me a quite a star. But my mind goes back to the couple I just saw and a few others. For sure, theirs is not a romantic picture, even if divorce is given high profile in media. People just aren’t trying hard enough to keep it together, or are they? What can little me do in this crazy world? A flood of hopelessness sweeps over me and I hardly taste the tomato. But as quickly as the emotion came, it also trickled away. I quickly finished up the milk, ignored the apple and went to nap.

At 2pm, I walked back to Room 21. There he sat. The third time I see him this month, and each time with a new story of remorse and refreshed expectations of a miracle worker to pick up the pieces left behind by his gambling addiction. These people come with the hope of seeing some cash put squarely in their hands. They leave without getting what they had came for; not even money for a ride home, and a pocketful of nagging. Still, they return. Like this hunched, disheveled fellow here. In the wise words of my supervisor, “they only need for someone to scold them.” At least they know that they aren’t alone.
“Kent.” I addressed him.
He remained slumped, like me as a result of some protein digesting in my stomach.
“ Kent?” I said a bit louder and closer his ear.
Still no answer.
I gave his shoulder a tap and then shook him gently.
His head lolled to the side in an unusual manner. Which was then that I saw.
Red meandered from the nose to join with the white at the mouth, forming a thick pink foamy stream. I felt for pulse.
“Press the side button on the phone.” A voice sounded in my head. This is the button that promises help whenever we feel threat coming from a client. I had felt no threat from this client. Only a pervading coldness. And my own irritating quickened heartbeat. As if pressing the button might take away those feelings. But I did so anyway, and the nursing aides swarmed into the room. In a matter of minutes, they had put Kent onto the stretcher and out of room 21.
Aside from the report I had to write, my duty for this case was over. I was offered a counseling session, that I thought was ironic. Like a person with schizophrenia, the voice of my superior comes again in a haunting manner. “What sets the worker and client apart, is only that one is more fortunate than the other, at that point in time.” The tables have turned on me.

I didn’t think that it'd be the last time that I see Kent. I'm admittedly crazy about tv shows and movies, but I also saw how Kent’s overdose might not have been all that highly toxic and warranted dead by the director. For sure, it may have been an accidental lethal cocktail of what-have-you, but Kent was no substance user. The only drug he possibly knew and could get was panadol ultra. As he told me later on in the medical ward with the pristine counters, freezing air-con and automated sliding doors, popped 70 panadols after perusing a loanshark letter.
“And the nosebleed?” (because one just does not get nosebleed from paracetamols)
“ eh hehe.” His face cracked sheepishly
“Too much wolfberries from the herbal soup. I eat it by the dozen each bite because I love it too much,”

After my visit to him, I returned to room 21 to meet Harriet, a young girl with early onset bi-polar disorder.

2007-08-31T20:21:00.000-07:00

THE NEW OLD AND OLD NEW

I went into a cleaning drive yesterday to give my room a face-lift.

Didn't dig out anything worthy for a garage sale because they are either too "my precious" to be sold off or are in too yellowing a condition to pay anyone to take. But beneath the thick 3 inch layer of dust, I found a few interesting things (don't you just love refinding things?). Something like this poem I had written for my Creative Writing 113 unit. Some of you may have taken or are taking this class.
It can't be more true that if you have a passion for something,

Don't study it.

But yes, given that you do learn new skills and take a new perspective on the subject, you also stress majorly. I was clasping and clawing at the empty air for inspiration. Once I even found myself at King's Park watching the birds (which are not my favourite animals) and eventually churning out a fairytale-like poem which was apparently to be commentary on Oscar Wilde's " The Happy Prince"

It has a swallow in it, you see.

So anyway, in another attempt for at inspiration, I 'borrowed' ideas from another unit i was doing at the same time. Reading the poem below, no prizes for guessing what unit it was.

The Australian Tale

What are we
in the Australian tale,
a colourful people in the still sea of white
or a bushman with ruddy cheeks,
a Man's man, vanquishing female right?
Are the sounds we make
sounds of the didgeridoo and clapstick,
or the clear Irish lilt in crystal Christian tones,
or all in confusing harmony?
The pie we eat and 'footie' we play,
can we fit them all in,
in the Australian tale?
I see the kangaroos and koalas crowding
They want the attention too.
Our barren land and bush
speak of familiarity;
Are they backdrop or an object,
In this ambiguous Australian tale?

As the plot evolves and
Characters emerge into being
It is nice to read that
What it is to you
and what it is to me
may be in synch, or then again not really,
What matters is our consciousness and sense
In this grand Australian Tale. (June 2002)

Memories of stressful times.

2007-08-30T22:42:00.000-07:00

If you're happy and you know it...
------ run a bit!

SAFRA 1/2 army marathon
Date: Aug 26 2007
Distance: 21 km
Start/end: Marina Bay/esplanade
Timing: 1 hour 57 :16 mins
Ranking: 26 out of 545 for womens open category
Feeling: Just thankful I finished the distance.

So did you, captain. RIP.

2007-08-10T05:23:00.000-07:00

TAG= Thanks Ah Germaine.
1.It dawned on me as I noticed myself trying/pretending not to see the tag. Much like the assignments/appointments/training i am meant to do/attend. But once immersed, it's not so bad afterall.

2. I am an irritable creature more of small things than flappable by the big.
Example: a strong wind can come blow off the roof my house and I will be there trying to straighten out the picnic mat beside it.

3. I am afraid of birds, snakes, skinks, barnacles and any animal that looks too complicated in its design.

4i. I am a social worker. I don't clean backsides, sweep floors and work for free. But even if my job scope did include that, i'd be proud of it. In fact, it may even help me explain my role better.

ii. Next year's Singapore Social Workers' Day celebrations will fall on 18th Jan, that which is also my birthday. The real date's the 20th Jan I think.

5. I have a phobia of retching and vomitting so even if I had the most intense stomache upset, i'd rather sit through it than do the above two. I can count with the fingers on one hand the number of times ive actually vomitted in my life.

6. I think the number "7" is overrated, to be honest.

7. I don't like waiting for my food. So if you let me choose between a middle range porridge buffet spread and deluxe french food that requires 2 hours to defrost before cooking into bite- sized things on huge saucers, 'that' being the apetizer before you gotta wait an hour again for them to change your cutlery and bring on the deckcard sized delish pink tasmanian salmon (i thought you said it was french),

I choose the porridge spread thank you very much. And don't scold me for taking the salted egg even though it's the cheapest thing there.

I tag... Abel (my bf), Joshua (kat's bf), grace (tim's gf), Liong Choon Chin (adeline's bf), Hui Hui, Jon Chia and gerard who apparently didn't respond to his previous tag right?

2007-08-08T20:53:00.000-07:00

Durian Duran

A piece of me, a piece for them.
A piece of mind taken away.
Sweetly pining,
Flesh indulgence;
Thorny remove-
Or “Crowns”, whichever you say.

“12-step program”, “CBT”
or the higher power
Take me closer
To the reality
You enforce it to be.
The one that mine is contesting with.

All tried and tested,
Loneliness mounted,
Language exhausted
And Time meter put on display.

When past is forgotten
With “crack:” and opening,
The first wraft that fills your air.
The one that begins your hunger.

Satisfaction is subjective
That which you alone might know.
Personally as I see it,
As I recommend it,
Don’t eat durians alone.

2007-08-01T06:24:00.000-07:00

I am not a Bluebear! I am a human being. I am a man.

Which movie was this quote from?

ps/ if you are wondering what all the fuzz is about bluebear, he's a character in a book. Entertaining but thick. The book, not the bear. If interested, look for Abel to loan.

2007-07-25T08:39:00.000-07:00

I did this test
while waiting patiently to read the book.
This is the next best to actually being at Hogswart being sorted!

Which Hogwarts house will you be sorted into?

2007-07-25T06:38:00.000-07:00

First run in my 25 years summarised

Ran in drizzle, mud and bottleneck
Place: Bedok Reservoir
Distance: 10 km
Time: 52.43 mins
Queued 1 hour and more for goodie bag
left the free singlet in locker room toilet

Feeling? exhilarating.

2007-07-21T07:01:00.000-07:00

Word quota

Piite woke up in a state of panic. His dream of having reached the word quota was terrifying. Forget ‘mystifying’ or ‘queer’, or ‘the lady in a slinky negligee in cold sweat and distress, evoked by vampires’. I will have you believe that Piite’s nightmare about the word quota is very realistic indeed. But though vivid, it is also the kind of dream that you forget right away. For as soon as Piite realized that it was rightly time to get up, did a double leap off bed and started dressing. He’s had the same dream over three days but day one being Friday, was not a worry over the weekend when Piite doesn’t work. Over his fry-up and coffee, the dream still hardly reared its ugly head, not till Piite finished his trot to the train station, that the fear lurged and made his heart do a double beat. This persisted in rhythm with the automated voice system sounding over the train station. “Please do not leave your bags unattended… if you see any suspicious articles…” Piite thought the voice added,

“Word quota reached.”
… for Stateland station”

He got on the train and drew out his apple notebook. Pitte is a first generation registered train writer. There are the food writers and fashion writers, comic book writers and travel bloggers. Train writers are people who develop their craft and gain inspiration onboard “The Thomas”. They clock their hours as they come on and stop earning as soon as they “log off” and alight at a station. Just as in any ordinary workplace where one’s day may be fruitful or not, a train writer’s inspiration may be a dark tunnel-full one or a passing scene of the Yorkshire country-side. These writers usually have the freedom of where they want to end up physically but for the number of hours you clock on the track, your work has to, naturally, show for it. Being “registered” indicates showing up at the Stateland office at the end of the passage no matter where you stay. Conversely, you are not obligated to any office if unregistered. This liberty of submitting your piece to any department in any part of the world may ironically turn the resume out to be a messy piece of work.

Piite lives at Old York place that is a four hour travel to Stateland. This means that Piite is a rather proficient writer if he has to finish an article by the time he reaches the office everyday for five days of the week. To add to his accreditation, it’s the same scenery he passes everyday of the week. Piite has done all kinds of writing. In fact, he recently received the “pulsating award” for the fifth critique he did on Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The office of Stateland has been thinking of promoting him with an apartment on Fourth Avenue, a two- and- a- half hour journey away from the office. But with great power comes great responsibility. Having been “first generation writer” uncomplainingly for fifteen years without taking leave off work, Piite is long overdue for this kind of power.

To therefore attempt to make recall of the nightmare Pitte just had some six hours ago is not at all a pleasant or kind thing to do. Reaching the word quota (by writers, for writers) has been liken to the below three experiences:
i. The ice-cream seller having stacks of wafer cones left but no more ice-cream.
ii. A whole block of five-room apartments having only one occupant in each.
iii. Possessing a thought at the back of your mind but the word not finding way to the tip of your tongue.

In a nutshell, it suggests all the potential in the world but not being able to utilize it due to a missing one, two or half of an element. Piite was worried. He has not to lose this/these/th element or it would be hell for him. A hell he cannot anticipate to be ten minutes or the next ten years. More than losing a passion, it is a livelihood gone, for as soon as Stateland gets wind of this and advertises for a replacement in “Mobile Times”, the number of trained delinquents (pun not intended) would be queuing up for it.

So “What’s in a dream?” we may rightly ask. The same dream over three days may hint of preoccupation, conjure up pictures that remain in the mind’s eye, but not necessarily becoming a reality. Some experts have said that dreaming of something prophesizes the opposite coming true, and yet others have explained it to be the repressed desire of the individual. So Piite secretly desires to be obsolete? What’s Piite to do? While you can sleep on a problem, you can’t possibly sleep on a bad dream. He feels that this fear is not unwarranted, but these fifteen years have been kind to him and isn’t it always better to err on the cautious side?
With a degree of anxiety in his heart, but also being a writer at heart (Piite never uses the same word twice in a sentence), opened a blank word document. At first and very uncertainly; hesitantly, a word appeared on the screen.

“And”

The thing is, a writer never starts a sentence much less a story with an ‘And’. But grant it that Piite was nervous. He continued.

And fear makes us do interesting things. Dear Merry,

I don’t know if it may be impolite to address you by your first name,
though you’ve always asked me to do so.
And I’ve wanted to- for fifteen years it seems.
That was day one of my job when you addressed the new staff

And then the day of my ‘pulsating’ award.

And although we all may call ourselves writers,
What we lack is courage.
Only when fear strikes us
That we dare inscribe what’s on our hearts

My dear Merry now that my word quota may be reached
May my last words be my best
Only you my boss can now approve
When I say I love only you.

Yours truly,
Piite Blight.

“Word Quota reached, for Stateland station.”
Piite got off at his stop to submit his work.
We wish him the best.

2007-07-20T19:32:00.000-07:00

Happy techno-ambivalenc-ing

2007-07-14T05:21:00.000-07:00

Anything you wish, Jellyfish.

The many floral printed blouses are what her contemporaries are wearing in this age. Some vibrant, others more staid, but surely they are the same small blooms on the cooling fabric. As she lifts her umbrella from the stand and bids farewell to us, we happen to peer out of the window to see that the weather is perfect. She is going to the shops today to her sell off her remaining pieces of jade. This same jade that is going to be melted down to more modern pieces for modern housewives. But this jaded housewife takes her time with her motions. The slow abandonment takes the flurry of the morning crowd by surprise and the red sea parts for her.

The outing has been a tad too strenuous for her. She rails at me to put the clothes out to sun; to bring the clothes in lest it rains; to stop the rain from falling- Loose soft skin that hangs in unlikely fashion is far removed from the supple and lithe form of our sun-kissed youth. No massage can bring back its tone. But every touch sends warmth coursing down her veins, that tugs the edges of her mouth, like tugging the sun from behind the clouds. We feel impatient at her helplessness, intensified by our own helplessness.

Her intensity of gaze on me is disconcerting but I know that I’m mere form without features. It's like the television she watches. But that volume she can at least regulate. She calls me loudly to find the direction and distance of my voice, only to pick up the hint of my irritation. This is the same heartbeat that bounces from the walls in echo, “Anything you wish, Jellyfish.”

We miss you, rest in peace. 06/03/2006

2007-07-14T00:43:00.000-07:00

The Muppets painted the ward Manila (III)- “I hear you.”

The Count was admitted today. According to him, he had lost his hearing abilities after a drinking party. He considers that seeing someone resembling his long-demised great- grand uncle a possible trigger.

“Help me please, I don’t hear the numbers in my head anymore.”

“How would you like us to help you?”

“Well, you can start by not shouting at me”

The doctors looked at each other. There was Dr Grouch, a psychiatrist in training, the psychologist and a clinical audiologist.

The Count stared back at them defensively. “You are confused.” but hastened before anyone else could insert a word,
“No! don’t speak or you will deafen me.”

The occupational therapist was called for. He wrote out neat instructions for The Count.

The next two weeks, The Count was set to the task of counting out pills for his fellow patients. Once in the morning and once in the evening. He also received typed out therapy sessions with the psychologist on coping strategies.

He was discharged soon after but with an outpatient appointment.

2007-07-08T06:49:00.000-07:00

Taming of the Shrew

2007-06-30T03:10:00.000-07:00

The Magic Pointer

It was one rainy day (‘not too torrential’ he might say.)
when story- teller walked in
to a bookstore.
there by the counter lain
a shiny (say ‘sparkly’) pen.
but lo and behold it was in fact!
a pen built-in
to the extendable metal pointer.
Surely it’s no power laser nib,
Or reaches 10 feet up to meet your tip
But story-teller likes its independency
A kind of pride- non battery powered.
(‘magic!’, that’s his word.)

For magic it did turn
out,
For the moment he went back home
And closed the door behind him so,
The pointer extended to his wife’s (‘the hag’ he called her)
mid-life stress
and showed the dirty fireplace.
It might as well reveal the thin curtains (rags in fact)
And poor old misty, the pregnant cat.
He shook his head as she approached him
“dear”
“ We’ve run out of baked beans”
“it’s not my fault”
“there’s only bread”
“for us both”
Story-teller gazed (like in a daze)
His magic pointer quivered safely
In his warm gloved hand.

He didn’t stay long, for next moment
he turned
And strode right out of home.

He was smug,
the magic pointer did work.
The magic pointer perhaps could do his work!
Story-telling was his forte,
twenty-seven solid years
That is what bought his bread.
But he quivered now,
from cold.
The pointer pointed to where it went
To the vagabond on the street
And the rich man’s stride ('a dollar sir?')
To each he felt dumb disdain
For his lips, too cool to speak.
His hands, too numb, from cold
Dropped the pointer when he tried
To twirl, to spin a yarn.

As it fell the pointer nib turned to face
The face of him.
An immediate dismay befell,
When he realized what great story
He had to tell.
So as people start to gather round,
The man used his shame to entertain.

As soon as he was done,
Story-teller fell and died.
The magic pointer rolled into
the dispersing crowd,
Picked up by a child of nine-
Later as we are to know,
Stabbed his baby sister in the toe.

2007-06-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

Not meesing in action

2007-06-10T05:27:00.000-07:00

All trail mix and cliché chat

This is probably going to be the second and last time I write in this manner, first time was the introduction to onerottenorange and which turned out, well, to become more a book and play review than anything else. I can’t put a point across without the use of fiction and metaphors, it seems. But hopefully this job transition/ crossroad intersection/midlife crisis gives good reason to talk earnest and make cliché chat.

I’ve just come back from Perth which people know that I always think about and speak with a degree of fondness. The grass IS greener there and softer too. It makes fertile ground for dreams to come true, even if the gulls do S.O.Y. But with this visit, I found that I was happily nonchalant to be emotionally removed from the place. No, it is not a repetition in the former statement. I was happy to be unaffected by my unaffected feelings towards Perth. Not that she no longer attracts or inspires me like my boyfriend still does, but that reliving or trying to relive old experiences is no more a must.

For all you who laugh at me, you pretend that you do not try to relive good O’ times. It is possible that because you don’t succeed in doing that that you return to clichés for comfort.

So as I was saying, I found that the moment I could let go this necessity, I immediately shared more present moments with people- both new and old friends, young and OLD friends. They provided some insights to me which when you pack into a suitcase, looks like a big sack of jolly trail mix.

1. Celebrating small victories. Two years since graduation is not a terribly long time as compared to erm say… 25 years since birth. But it is nonetheless significant enough for many. With our testimonies of struggles undergone and some still present, it has only magnified the need for God in our lives. Some issues remain unresolved. But I know that my God will make us whole in spite of that. Celebrating small victories may then mean returning back to our mustard seed faith that God is good.
2. Not to fear aging. ALL My friends look better with time.
3. Evangelism has got to go on.

Fourth but not very lastly, there is a sense of continuity. It is somewhat like the installment of the Harry Potter book never being the last. Many and I thought coming back to Singapore meant the point of no return (to perth). This may not be so----

If the migration point system does not increase again, thank you very much.

In God we continue to trust.

2007-05-24T00:21:00.000-07:00

The Chairman
What a funny thing it was! He got stuck in a chair! Edging his neck deeper and closer between the crack, it was only fine skill he could master.

“just a bit more and I can show mom?”

Nice chair, good chair! Just a bit more. This plastic slit between the back and seat holds up a little too well.

“ouch! This had better be worth it.”

He twisted and turned; manipulated strands of hair. The lights blinked from the television set but the voices of Alice and the Mad-hatter had become a lump of incomprehensible gabble.

Droplets of sweat formed on his forehead and one or two rolled into his eyes.

With the last heave of breath and push, his neck was given satisfying acceptance.
Now, is there anything he can’t do? He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. With his body firmly hid behind the chair and head sticking out, he looked like the elusive animal too. The hall appeared funny from this angle- there was the same television, the sofa set and carpet; his toys scattered with neglect on the floor but they all seemed to be laughing at him. Suddenly he no longer felt in control.

It’s time to show mum. But he didn’t have to call her, for there she was, standing frozen at the doorway, then rushing over in dismay.

Why the dismay?

“alright darling, tilt your head a little, see if we can get you out”

Yeah, that’s simple. I can do that. Nice chair, good chair! This plastic definitely holds up well.

“ouch. Not good.” he wished that mum wouldn’t look so alarmed. It made him feel like crying. His neck is starting to hurt.

Mom has started to cry. She called dad at the office, told him not to be alarmed. As he sat sadly next to her, the chair like a cone collar on a dog, mom made another phone call. Her directions were crystal clear and calm.

The fire department has arrived! Two brave men guarded the red engine while four stout men ran into the apartment armed with an axe and toolbox.

“This is the first time we’ve encountered this.” One of them remarked observantly as he stroke the stubble on his chin.

The work was tedious and long but slowly and surely, one back broke (pity about the chair) and his neck was freed.

The little boy paced a little, shrugged as though trying out a new neck on the skinny shoulders, and grinned, “Great work guys, you certainly learn something new everyday!”

This is for Abel who grew up a precocious child and is now a man-boy with an old soul. Confused? Yeah so am I. Happy 3rd Anniversary.

2007-05-16T18:14:00.000-07:00

Creature of Habit
(I wonder about kids these days)

They don’t bring the coloured popsicles
And chalk for the rowdy hopscotch.
But from the corner of my eye when
I see
And notice that you once again
wear the red cardigan,
Such consolation it is that
The same polar bear swims
in his unchanged climate of ice and sea.

Your computer needs to be swopped
“For efficiency”, that’s what
they say.
I tell you that my keypad only wants cleaning.
With a finger-sized feather- duster.
When new running shoes replaces another so quickly,
The miles you run are wildly forgotten.

Some people love Miss Change.
She seduces but doesn’t stay long.
You say you’re not constant but
Don’t be prideful if “habit’s not your thing”,
for change may be your habit,
So there you go, Creature of Habit.

Pretty soon it will be different,
When a now becomes tomorrow-
Will you be sad when you remember?
How your yesterday was filled with
Strange longing for a brand new day

The modern day philosopher has no job-
His children brings no coloured popsicles,
Or chalk for the rowdy hopscotch.
He still runs the miles these days
Amidst the noisy traffic on the brand new highway.
Miss Change beckons as he shakes his head,
But gives in when he knows:
Good things though to remember,
Better things still do come.

2007-04-21T01:31:00.000-07:00

A Peaceful settlement.... continued

For a moment so still, it seemed like one at the crossroads considering options. In this case it was two persons, and the event of the scrub brush “to ask or not to ask”. Certainly not so much for Leah as it was for Eve. As the former went away that day to continue on her toilet floors, she wondered about a friendship. In the Rosemary the girls are continually surrounded by people. They smile at the love birds and stare from behind doors at the celebrities. What stories the French or Chinese bring, or the polite nods from Japanese, they embrace interestedly and dream about. But they are selfish with these dreams. Quite unlike other young girls who chirp and twitter long into the night, it’s silent for Eve and Leah. Telling out dreams would simply vaporize them. But while music and morning walks and breakfast cooked encourage dimensional crossings via the mind, the morning walks end, music becomes the cook’s crisp instructions and breakfast is digested.

This night at 9p.m, having prepared rooms 502 and 511 for guests due to arrive the next day and leaving a stalk of primrose on the pillows, Eve paced her own. It was a simply furnished bed-sit with cream-washed walls and no television (because television kills romance). Perhaps the only remarkable items were two framed pieces of painting hung up side by side above the two- seater. One shows the back-view of a young girl tip-toeing looking out of a window but only being able to see some red brick wall. This brick wall continues down into the alleyway where it is home to a family of cats and some dancing brown leaves, which is what the second work of art depicts- that, and the opened window from the upper storey with a small part of a girl’s head in view. Eve liked to imagine from the two paintings. She also liked to rearrange the furniture in the bed-sit. Tonight, she did no such thing. After flipping restlessly through her book, Eve laid it down with a sigh and went to sleep.

There was unrest in The Rosemary the next day. The paperboy had dashed into the motel crying, “Accident! There has been an accident!” It was fatal, it seems. At about spring every year, a pair of siblings makes it to the Rosemary B& B together. In their early 30s, Missy Prindaville is due to be married in August. Adrian is still single. It was a pact between them that for 5 years and without fail, they would take time off from work to spend “family time”. Being orphaned from young, they were affectionate towards each other and like family to the motel staff. Adrian came primarily to ride his horse. Horse was purebred and entered in competitions. But having suffered an ulcer that took 6 months to heal and that later became a keloid in his left buttock, Horse henceforth lost his material worth and the owner let it graze in the orchards. This was until Adrian came along and loved it to its palm-sized flaw. This morning however, Horse did not successfully leap over the trunk in the brook and Adrian went in head- first, breaking his neck instantaneously.

Missy Prindaville wept and mourned at the funeral, said she would be back every spring. But for now she had to return to the city for her wedding. The Rosemary too had to go on as before, for though deeply saddened by the demise of one of their much loved patrons, Adrian was after all only a patron. Eve and Leah were the biggest hit. Eve felt like the little girl in the painting, and death was the red brick wall, certain and hard. This wall obscured all that was beyond and Eve blamed herself for not being able to know more. These feelings had not, however, obscured her observations of the other young girl who had taken to writing music late into the night. Eve hears the humming and scratching sounds of pencil on paper when she crosses the hall to use the toilet. Despite the late nights, the kitchen hand’s work did not suffer. The cooking and eating area was always without grime and now that some cooking jobs were left to her, the fragrance of eggs and bacon seasoned with pepper continued to raft in The Rosemary. But if Leah was once upon a time polite to Eve, she now didn’t see her.

One late January morning, when the autumn leaves had started to gather and part for the fairies’ crossing, the girls once again came to face with each other with a little more than a perfect courtesy. It all happened when Eve stepped past Leah’s room and the latter was not around. The door was ajar and Eve could see that the wind had started to blow the transcripts loose on the table and onto the floor. She quickly ran in to prevent more mischief from being done. Having placed a paperweight on the papers and set the panes firmly down, she turned to leave but jolted when she saw Leah standing at the door frame.
“ Your papers…”
“ yes, thank you. I rushed up here when I realized my carelessness.”
“Alright then. They’re safe.” Eve smiled shyly as she stepped past Leah. Until she realized the tears coming down the girl’s face.
“This is the music playing in my head the days and nights of the wake and funeral. I couldn’t sleep until I got them on paper. But how do you get rid of the sadness?”
“You don’t. But you know, it’s going to be ok. We can go through this together.” And saying that, the taller girl gave the smaller, sobbing one a hug.

2007-04-18T17:38:00.000-07:00

Dear Heavenly Father,

Thank You for Your many promises of blessings. I am thankful that You are my refuge and I can run to You when I am in trouble. I am also grateful that You keep me from the traps of the devil. Lord, I do love You, and I ask that You cleanse my heart from any thing that is not like You. Strengthen me to walk worthy before You and my fellow men. Lord, restore the "fear of the Lord" to Your people today. Lord, forgive us when, in certain areas, we have become too casual about the things of God. Instill in us, Your people, a reverential fear of Your Holy Name and Word. I ask this in Jesus' name. Amen.

Prayer from http://www.bible.com/devotional-detail.php?juli=2454210&dtype=Proverbs on Psalms 109, “The fear of the Lord”

2007-04-05T19:27:00.000-07:00

Something about swimming (III)
-Creatures of habit-

I swam in different waters today. Where usually I’d inhabit the third lane from extreme right, I took the centre lane. This part I tip-toed to with trepidation, for even the waters felt colder. This is the lane which dissects the blue rectangle block in half and which many avoid for obvious reasons.
Firstly, it’s a mother’s warning that centre lane is where you will most possibly experience some form of danger and difficulty; cramps, breathlessness or sudden inability or forgetfulness to swim. For the life-guards to get to you, they will have to cut through four lanes a- side, most inadvertently being hindered by several bobbers along the way, and all these essential minutes, only having ascertained it not a prank. Of course, normal swimmers in the neighbour lanes will not even try to rescue you since they are not the mandated life-savers.

Secondly, the kind of swimmers there are harder to assess. Just today, I was doing the usual can’t-look-in-front front-crawl when suddenly I felt some strange inhibition. A palm was placed atop my head by an old man swimmer from the opposite direction to stop me proceeding and banging into him. Quite akin to a policeman signaling “no going ahead” (pun not intended), this was his own way of avoiding collision. Thirdly, centre lane is attention-grabbing. I have memories of the campus pool, where lanes are numbered according to the efficiency of the swimmer. Lane one is fastest, lane ten for those opting for aqua-aerobics aka water walking. Lane five is judgment lane because obviously, if you were a lane six swimmer you were below average. Centre lane is viewed with intensity and interest.

Could these, then, be the reasons for snorting in more water, battling bigger waves and experiencing more jerky motions and strength-less kicks? Is it more pieces of queer pieces of band-aids, dark thread, hair and leaves I see on the pool floor?

Or could it be that I am just a creature of habit- third lane from extreme right, and that only?

2007-04-02T17:34:00.000-07:00

Something about swimming (II)
-The head-on collision-

So. swimming takes my breath away. It starts from the kick-off, thoughts of life and its ironies; the seventh lap, the ‘what would I be having for dinner’ question… and… with a “BANG!” “ouch!” I cough , sputter and flail my arms. Do I look back to indicate contrition or intense pain or do I swim off? This time I continue on my way hoping the other person won’t recognize my blue swim suit and matching turquoise goggles. Always expected but unexpected; inevitable and yet trained to avoid, is the nature of collision. There is always the question of who’s at fault. And of course most of the time, I won’t think it’s me. It can’t have been. The other person must know that when you do the front-crawl you look down, and then tilt sideways to get air, not up and ahead.

There’s the nicely plump, middle age auntie in her flower power suit who can’t control her breast-stroke direction; the 7-year old kid in his lesson-explaining-pyjamas, and the sleek snobbish swimmer who should’ve known better. But when auntie murmurs “OI!” in a shouting kind of way, the kid looks up at his coach and points to my direction, and the sleek swimmer is triathlete whose timing I’ve apparently ruined, it becomes my responsibility to practice pool safety. No wonder judgment comes from above, when you are not in a position to say who’s wrong. But saying all that, the “sorry” is hard and late. It either comes out in a gurgle or the other has swum away.

When I finally finish the laps and rest at the side, still breathing hard and thinking, I ponder that given the natural nature of collision, the only time you may not bump and knock is when you remain like a frog on a lotus leave. Calm and unruffled; undisturbed because uninvolved. Oh is that so? Because even with me clinging to the wall and my back facing the populous, the arm’s stroke of an in-coming swimmer hits me like electricity.

With that, the lotus leaf overturns and the frog plops back into the water.

2007-03-15T06:57:00.000-07:00

Something about swimming

I’m no professional swimmer. The retirees at the community pool possibly surge past me. They wait each morning outside the gates at a quarter past six. I can also relate of at least one avid swimmer who camped out in the toilet overnight to await dawn, so there’s commitment for you. And the involvement of the police. But as I do my first kick off from the wall and take my gulp of air, something about the feel of water, blurry blue lines on the floor; the lap ahead, makes me feel the life of --life.

As a swimmer friend once told me, walking and running come naturally to us since we are trained the moment we can from birth. We stride, sprint and stroll upright until death or unless pre-maturely incapacitated. But in water, it’s an education of a whole new world! We un-breathe or we die; our equilibrium goes awry; the pressure startles us into floating or sinking, and goggles irritate us more than our eye glasses or contact lenses. We don’t even have an operation like “lasik” to remove the ciliary muscles in our human eyes. In fact, my mom often randomly quotes the Chinese proverb that “water is much more feared than mountain.” This is the nature of water that makes the swim a form of conquer.

Comparable to life, we want to do more than survive. We want to succeed in it. Not just drift along where currents bring us, but be able to swim against the tide, or allow its strength to push us forward. We learn the breast-stroke, butterfly, frontcrawl. And when wanting the best of both worlds, we do the backstroke. This morning, I’m doing more frontcrawl than the other styles. There are moments when I forget I am swimming, and think about the day’s commitments, and all the movements become mechanical. But with a distracting splash from the next swimmer, I lose my momentum and begin thrashing about. It takes some effort to regain the poise and rhythm, and discipline to feel the way my body moves.

Something about swimming that makes the shower more refreshing and the gift from a friend, a raspberry bath, more fragrant. Something about swimming that makes the steps to work a little lighter, and the work clothes softer. Something about swimming that makes the diet coke taste more delicious and no less sinful. Something about swimming that makes the team meeting later—

what meeting?

2007-03-11T01:11:00.000-08:00

3 to eternity

because you

1. have a face i can wake up to each morning
2. respect people by being punctual
3. are good to my family and try in your way to get to know them.
4. can cook and don't think it's only a woman's job
5. would like me to cook for you.
6. do the housework and don't think it's only a woman's job
7. are appreciative of me when I do tasks you normally don't like to do, but dont expect it of me.
8. enjoy reading
9. recommend good books to me
10.crack jokes that make me laugh out loud
11.are not petty
12.are not afraid to cry
13.are objective
14.remember the things i like
15.will not leave me to my own devices or defences
16.are a family boy and who love your parents and brother, and it shows.
17.forgive me
18.remind me to pray
19.remind me to be grateful
20.are creative
21.make the effort in everything you do
22.are tall. and I like tall guys
23.like both chess and soccer because that way your character has been influenced by these two hobbies.
24.like to eat but are not fussy about your food
25.are a good example of being abstemious
26.are intelligent and discrete
27.are generous with your time, thoughts, person and money
28.have direction and continue to trust in the Lord to make your way straight.
29.write very well. And 'words' happen to be one of my love languages.
30.like to buy things for me and appreciate the things I buy for you.
31.are patient with my moods.
32.are appreciative of my appearance and presentation and reassure me, though it may not be the most important thing.
33.appreciate my piano-playing and encourage me in it
34.work on things I am particular about. (like not eating loudly)
35.are good with kids like your brother, and are like a brother to your friends.
36.are a disciplined person.
37.have parents that brought you up the way they did, for the person you have become to be.
38.and I met in Australia, and have precious moments there that I will keep closely to my heart.
39.are interested in Psychology, and I, social work, because it is a great talking point.
40.make contact with me several times a day to say you love me.
41.make effort in your appearance but are not vain.
42.have life priorities that I would want in my life partner
43.are someone whom i can share my problems and talk about my work with.
44.share with me about your work and knowledge
45.calm me down when I am angry
46.help me verbalise my thoughts when they are a lump of mumble jumble
47.and I have room to grow as a couple in Christ.
48.and I both want to keep dogs.
49.have parents happen to be in the fields that I am in. I believe God has well organised this.
50.and I met in Zion. Not an unlikely place and period. But the best, grace-filled place and period.
51.and I are melancholics
52.are a phlegmatic, and I a sanguine, so that with our differences, we are a nice fit.
53.do not mind taking public transport and walking. Although when tired we wished for a car (which we will get in 54.future for sure), this has made us grateful for the cheap, simple things.
55.were brought up in a middle-class family, like mine. For that, some of our life perspectives are the same.
56.are careful with your money knowing that it's the Lord's resources too.
57.have nice facial features like big eyes, sharp nose, good complexion and well-shaped lips.
58.look for the good in adverse situations
59.hate sin but love the sinner.
60.like to hold my hand and accept hugs
61.like to shop when many guys find it pointless.
62.respect my need for quiet and space.
63.take interest in my friends and knows some of their names
64.and i have mutual friends, and this number is growing.
65.have friends that i like and who like me.
66.like fixing up the christmas tree with me
67.are not fixated on physical beauty and encourage me not to as well.
68.and i can just sit and count the number of people wearing shorts, and enjoy such activity together.
69.are sensitive to my compulsions and fears.
70.and I have walked in storms before. both Literally and figuratively.
71.don't nag me too much
72.are alert even when you are tired. that to me is mental strength and discipline.
73.will rest when you are tired. that to me is discipline.
74.will watch a movie with me and don't mind it when I fall asleep in it.
75.offer to send me home.
76.meet me for lunch at my workplace whenever you can.
77.are pedantic but do not impose your expectations on others.
78.like walking through museums, like me.
79.do not enjoy gore and terror movies, like me.
80.try to mean yes when you say "yes", and no, when you say "no".
81.do not take things too seriously, or at least try not to.
82.have an opinion everytime I ask for one.
83.pronounce your words properly and are not a lazy talker except for the occasional "rapsberries" and " warps"
84.are not lazy.
85.sit through shows like "america's next top model" although you have great disdain for them. because you know I 86.watch them.
87.eat baked beans with me, and bread with peanut butter.
88.have sensible fashion sense.
89.rebuke me when you think I have gotten out of line.
90.do not think that considering nice names for his children next time is a scary activity.
91.are romantic not in the way of a dozen red roses, but more a story writer of a dozen roses.
92.consider me in the decisions that you make
93.help me in my decision making.
94.believe in learning something new everyday!
95.are confident in your strengths
96.know that you are not perfect but take comfort in knowing that you are being perfected each day.
97.are a frank person.
98.constantly return to God to please Him.
99.are nice to your female friends.
100.pursued me in exactly the way that I wanted even though it was out of your comfort zone.
101.strive to be a healthy person by "eating slowly"
102.are adept in your english language
103.are patient with my baby steps to improve and do not expect me to take quantum leaps.
104.have good taste in female bags, shoes and clothes and help me choose things.
105.are thorough in your undertakings, from jotting down schedules to planning activities to the littlest details.
106.have varied tastes in books and movies across genres and times periods.
107.you size people up on first meeting, but also gives them the benefit of doubt.
108.don't fall sick frequently, though you have the most wrenching morning cough and back/knee pains. (pregnant?)
109.do jigsaw puzzles
110.are extremely practical. Even though sometimes I am frustrated with that, I know that it's also a virtue to have.
111.help your mom with gardening, and have bought your own vegetable seeds, though I have yet to see the crops of your labour. We will get our own garden soon.
112. are not mushy and cliche.

113.have taught me what it is to be in a relationship with someone.

2007-01-20T06:08:00.000-08:00

Opening 2007's gift

2006-10-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

Why a seamstress does not suffer burnout

I am watching mother at her wheel.
And listening to her; she likes to talk.
An electrical machine, neat and quick
Basic functions- terrific.
Bobbin filler, eleven stitches, sewing light switch!
Flat bed attachment, presser foot;
accessory compartment- let’s have our toys!

Now she’s whistling
The tune of Christmas costumes.
Here’s more sequins for the good three kings,
Let the white adorn our angel!
(more sequins, dear?)
Should Joseph have a vest, or not?
“So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum, When we come.”

Here she mumbles as she measures a piece.
Only one true standard that we will keep-
That it fits you, not you fit it.
Plus-size model, or scrawny boy?
Prosperous bosom; two-scarred legs;
This silk will dress you, you will see.

The only time I see her furrowed brows,
Is when “the stitch isn’t right- come see it here.”
Yet my plain young eyes don't see the fault.
She fiddles here, unpicks the mess.
Plums the fabric and strings the thread.
One more churning and it’s done.

She looks up flushed; tired, but it is done.
She is smiling as she holds it up-
The amazing garment is true to last.
As I finger it and twirl it round,
The seamstress packs up remaining thread.
Folding unused cotton back, and switches
The machine off, it’s time for bed.

2006-10-14T16:49:00.000-07:00

what 8 years soon

2006-10-06T22:43:00.000-07:00

Sty Stallone

I am Sty Stallone and I am a terror/horror junkie. I'm not being pedantic when insisting there's a difference between the two but anyone who has taken a basic "Gothic" class would know that referring to them as the same thing may be seen as negligent or simply dismissive. It is probable that movie makers and writers know this and still they use them 'concurrently'- 'simultaneously', whatever. I don't know the difference. I mean, there's nothing wrong with using terror and horror together. In fact, looking at the technology these days, it would seem a terrible waste not to unite a heart- stopping gory female "pontianak" (Malay folklore's long-haired lady in white frock) with a mind-quickening chase scene. Combined with the sound quality to complement the beating of your own heart, it's all very admirable. About there. People have asked if I've tried writing my own scary story since taking "Gothic 227" and having watched theconsiderable assortment of horror films. But you don't require a film analyst to tell you that the protagonist has had a sad/wicked past to have retribution coming to her in a form of a weeping child in the toilet, or that weird and crazy things happen to people who have some form of obsession. Runners supernaturally losing their ability to run; the fingers of a pianist chopped off or the horror enthusiast experiencing the supernatural for himself. Also, unfortunate things can happen to good people if at the wrong place at the wrong time. Too bad. But well, I do admit that I have no better ideas, being ready to be a scary spoof than a creator of scary things themselves. So perhaps then I should stop whining about the lack of great ideas these days. But here I go again, rambling on and on. I am Sty Stallone, and I am a terror/horror junkie.

What's in the name you ask? I might ask if knowing that would help you know me better. In truth it’s more than a name that identifies you. For now I am a souvenir maker; Sty Stallone, the souvenir maker whose loyalty belongs to no country. I create a product design and South Africa or Disney World goes ahead to add their own logo or form the animal using my mould. Think the bobbing head koala or an oddly shaped kite promising to fly in a different manner. For distinctive items like the boomerang or various Chinese chopsticks, I have no say for obvious reasons. You must be rather shocked, thinking that Mickey Mouse doesn't need a mould? Mickey Mouse just is... Mickey. M. But ah...it's tricky business, these tourist industries. You can't know for sure what percentage of the ten dollars you’ve paid for your brown rice soap eventually pays the provider of palm oil (which is the obvious ingredient of the soap.) You did think it'd be brown rice, didn't you? Yes, a horror technique movie makers used in the past was the cutting up of body parts to form products. The soap then rolls out with swirls of red in it before being wrapped in nice rice paper and labeled Poivre Rose. It was intended to evoke feelings of grotesque and shock. But seeing it these days would be considered gimmicky. Now you see, that's the link between scary movies and souvenir shops. Experience doesn't teach you a thing because each time you walk into the theatre or attractive shop, you still look forward to being captured by a unique, never-experienced-before experience! And like many times before, you still walk out feeling empty or empty handed, not counting your empty bucket of pop corn.

Sometimes I wish I was Frankenstein's Monster. He had purpose in life. To be a real man and to be accepted in society. Oh yes, so did Pinocchio. But Pinocchio's a wooden boy whose stature amounts to a mere shove and HE, not you, falls down. Frankenstein is the epitome of brute strength. So here I am in my workshop, working alone. I hear a creaking sound and think that the character in the movie would think it's a ghost but I won't. You are begging me for a self description because you want to visualize this scene. You may even think that I am not human myself, the narrator/character surprisingly a ghost in a few films until it became not so surprising anymore. Sorry to disappoint you but I am fully human and do not have an inch of deformity or contain the slightest speck of supernatural in my 150 pound body. That's the most I'm going to give you, I promise. Now now... it's all very inquisitive, like before trying to associate my name with something you know. As though associating ME with something you know. When you watch a scary show do you attempt to associate the wispy cold air with something you know? Or perhaps you do know it. My laughing has been described by some to be a disjointed chuckle. Please hold on if you will.

The mosquito dismembered on my fore wrist is identifiable only by the splatter of blood around its slender carcass, blood which we consider not belonging to him/her/it. I feel as though a ceremony is in order. Solemnly I walk to the bathroom, casting downward glances only to hold it in memory; the water and dettol to bring what is left of it down the sink. But not everything can be ceremonial, only when the occasion calls for it. This time, it's only because you are watching. You do like some philosophy behind all tasks and subjects of the world because that's your way of reconciling discrepancies- yes! Even when it's so jarring- that's when you say that disharmony carries its own form of reasoning. But we were talking about me and my associates. How jarring I may appear to society, the same manner is the supernatural to the perceived natural. Let me tell you one last tale before I go back to my work. It is about one day at the cinema when I realized one very perplexing truth. As I sat in the darkness waiting for Poltergeist to make his entrance (of course, the gender is open to debate), the room became more filled until every single seat was taken up. And everyone shifted with the same eagerness; their eyes glazed and reflecting the same image on the screen. I was terribly unnerved and frightened. The supernatural has in fact taken the world by storm, and Sty Stallone- terror/horror junkie, is lost.

-----

2006-10-06T21:13:00.000-07:00

2006-09-05T02:44:00.000-07:00

3 life-giving characteristics of my relationship with God

He knows me inside out. Always interested and involved
His way is always best
This relationship with Him always speaks of hope and truth.

2006-07-30T16:34:00.000-07:00

Prayer in Homeground

Our heavenly Father,

Thank You for this day that You have made. Many times we have forgotten how to rejoice in it. We have forgotten to thank You for each other and the many blessings. But today we proclaim that “One generation shall praise thy works to another, and shall declare thy mighty acts" (Psalm 145:4 KJV).

I pray blessing upon my dad. Thank You for the grace upon his life. It has not been easy for him in the transitions, but we know You were there each and every moment, and You still are. To us, it seemed a pity that He moved away from ministry. We don’t know the whole picture, but You do. I pray for Your mercy upon His life. In a place where He is unbroken, I pray Lord that You will convict His heart in Your own time. I pray that we his children will love him and continue to respect Him. For this is Your command.

Father I lift up my mom to You. We know that You are pleased with for her persevering spirit and a heart for our well-being. She is successful both at home and in her work place. But even then, there are times when she feels unappreciated, sad, bitter and even insufficient. For those times I pray for your gentle touch to still her and let her rest. Let her find meaning in her labor and let her find riches in Your glory. I pray that we will be a blessing and comfort to her, as we continue to seek Your face together.

Thank You also for my sister. I have found friendship in her since the day that I was born. That I know many do not do, and I don’t intend to take this blessing for granted. Lord I thank You for all the wonderful memories we have collected while growing up. But as we “put away childish things” to feed on Your word in new life opportunities, let us support each other anew and edify with words that strengthen and heal; with words and actions that talk of love and righteousness.

Lastly, I thank you, Lord, for my brother, the youngest in the family. As such we always feel the need to protect and guide him. So often they come out like nagging and commands, when all we need to do is pray and direct him to Your word and trust YOU, the author and perfector of His faith. I thank You that Your grace is sufficient for him and that just as he comes to the crossroads of His life, You have blessed him with a new relationship. In all these things may He lift up to You in sacrifice and thanksgiving.

In Your great and powerful name,
Amen.

2006-07-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

Praying for Your vision, Lord.

Lord, will you continually be above me- be Lord of my attitude, morals and ethics. There is no relativity with You, only righteousness and holiness. In this age where media, education and politics pervade our families and community, I know that greater are You in me than he who is in the world. Help us stand guard and firm with Your word, and I pray for Your presence to be real to us each and every day. Be among us. Thank You for Psalm 77:4 that you are also in the holy temple and You examine us and are for us. Finally Lord, I thank You that You go ahead of us and make our paths straight. You know our thoughts, and every word even before I speak them. (Psalm 139) Because of that we have a hope and a future in You. (Jeremiah 29:11)

Amen.

2006-07-11T17:49:00.000-07:00

Prayer At My Workplace

My dearest heavenly Father and Lord,
I thank You for this morning at my work place. Just as it is a wet day outside, I thank You for the outpouring of Your love and mercy, and Your dew that sustains me, always fresh, always anew.

This morning I want to pray for my boss. Lord, I thank You that she is always willing to help me and others deal with difficult cases, as she is struggling with her own workload. Always there to suggest and advice, befriend and encourage, I thank You for the experiences that she herself has gone through. This has enabled her to be the person she is today. As she shares about her family, we know You will protect her husband and children, and bless them abundantly.

I thank You Lord for my colleagues. Lord, by divine appointment You have placed them each at their seat. With individual gifts and life stories to tell. I thank You that they have helped me settle in so quickly. I was new- but now I am acquainted. In this vocation where love is the key- let us not take for granted that the bigger lover himself is You. When we find that we cannot love anymore, let us come back to You. Lord I pray for good communication amongst all of us. In good times and in conflict, both.

Finally Father, I pray that You give me a good attitude, teachable, responsible, patient, kind- Lord, the fruit of the spirit remind me so; not because I have to be, but because You Jesus are living in me. When I find it hard to forgive, Lord help me remember You have died in my place and redeemed me. For that I can stand where I now am. Lord, when I remember You came for the sinners not the righteous, the poor not the rich; the weak and not the strong, it gives new meaning to where I am.

In Your son, Jesus’ precious name,
Amen.

2006-07-03T04:58:00.000-07:00

the perfect ponytail

I was standing in the train,
waiting for my stand to come.
At first, just gazing out into the passing
View- when then a girl came into
and paused the motion; all passing notion.
Just five or six years was she,
And lovely pony tail she spot.
Reminds me of the days of young
And now still captivates, now when old (er).
It takes one length, 9 inch or so-
Width- a- 2 and tapers down
To one small curl right at the end;
And inward faces-no awkward bend.
I notice how its texture keeps,
one full shape that swings with her.

But fin’lly as I tore my eyes
and saw how far to stand I’ve come.
It’s rightly my alighting time,
I pick my lady bags the way I’m found
And leave the childish things behind.

2006-07-01T08:08:00.000-07:00

A Peaceful Settlement

The Rosemary Bed & Breakfast is not a tourist attraction but a people attraction. They come and go in an ordinary manner; quiet, unhurried and rested. A clear sign is how one doesn’t feel compelled to sign the guest book by the reception area. But you’ll be glad if you did because it is there you find that Hugh Jackman prefers poached eggs to scrambled, and how the actress from Cider House Rules “loves waking up to the scent of freshly cut grass.” Her owners are also very ordinary people. If one could only illustrate with the bread basket and converse in terms like rye, linseed, wholemeal and sourdough; multigrain and barley loaf; the spicy fruit and cinnamon stick- we’d find that the owners are the normal crusty white loaf. Not that they aren’t made for anything great, because everyone loves the crusty white with their soup or some crumbly cheese. But compared to the people of the world like Hugh Jackman, or the young chambermaid and kitchen hand, they are a notch less aesthetic.

If “aesthetic” could be used to describe them. They don’t like being known as ‘employees’ of Rosemary only because they already see themselves her hands and feet. But unlike her owners, Eve and Leah have their own voice. Perhaps it’s because they are only seventeen and have yet to seen the world. Even the Rosemary cannot keep the aspirations of the young within her pastel walls or hydrangea hedges. Placed alongside each other with no other companions to jest with or strive (remembering that the owners are more or less very neutral parties), the relationship can either be exciting in the sense of a pillow fight, or less restful, without the pillow. Eve and Leah’s was none of this. Though not less cordial than a nod in the morning, both instinctive knew they weren’t best pals and kept out of each other’s way. It could well be that Eve is the taller brunette and Leah is a petite strawberry blonde; or that one loves running through the sprinklers in the morning, the other finds nothing more challenging than analyzing music scripts. However, as the omniscient narrator, I must tell you that these differences are mere trifles to the very stuff that makes them similar. In fact, they are very much in essence both the nutty rye.

One particular chilly morning, a time when the dew is ripe for the fairies’ collection, the girls finally came to face with each other with a little more than a perfect courtesy. It all happened when Eve stepped in for a glass of water and left the scrub brush on the floor beside the kitchen counter. Of course the story goes that she forgets to retrieve it and when stepping in a half hour later, finds Leah humming and scrubbing the stone floors. Now some of us shudder at having to sweep the floors inside with an outdoors broom, tea towels to wipe tables, or even water flask to contain milk. For Eve, it is beyond all natural order to see the bathroom bristles hit kitchen stones; she glared from the doorway at Leah, willing the scrubbing girl to look up with her gaze. And yet the unaffected girl continued humming to canon in D, dipping the scrub in the hot soapy water, washing a square of stone, dipping, sudding; not a beat amiss. In fact, she maintained so at peace in her haven that Eve, too, became distracted with her own sense of calm.

Some time passed before Leah finally finished the corner and looked up. Seeing Eve, she jolted and blushed from the intrusion.
“Sorry I hadn’t noticed you. Did you want something?
“Me? Oh no. It’s just that… well…”Eve stutters, “Oh it’s nothing.”
“Oh alright then, I was just about to ask if you had left your scrub brush here. I put it away while to wash these floors.” And moving quietly to the sink, Leah drew another brush out from below.

2006-06-27T06:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-06-20T05:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-06-08T04:35:00.000-07:00

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.
-----

2006-06-02T18:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-05-19T04:55:00.000-07:00

The Muppets painted the ward manila

“I say, look here, I’m sorry but there’s no room for further negotiation. Your father will have to be discharged tomorrow. He has exceeded his stay by a week and there’s no way we can allow for more extension.”

“No, but can’t you see Dr Grouch, he still can’t speak! Suppose we bring him home and we can’t manage his care?”

“There’s nothing further I can do about his trauma that’s causing his temporary speech loss. The hair balls in his stomach have been removed, including the surrounding stray ones along the oesophagus.” In a more reassuring tone “You don’t really have to do much anyway. Just make sure that he doesn’t go back to licking himself again. He should be fine after some counselling.”

(The children honk amongst themselves)
“ I guess he is right. We bring him home today.”
“So, today’s the day”
“yeah”

With a sigh, Jim the ventriloquist was hailed back from his holiday in sunny Batam.

2006-05-14T03:39:00.000-07:00

Mysterious Fireworks

The flowery display of sparks shout
Your name before falling
into the eventual envelope of darkness.
Yet the “boom” “boom” “boom” can’t
challenge the silence to follow-
“pardon me” I question your short existence,
that leaves me pining a new adjustment.

No such lights that bring spectrums of colours.
Only the other sun-catcher but it hangs too still;
Too still and on a string it swings and cannot let go
And yet it’s there unlike
The mysterious fireworks.

Finally I try to find you fireworks.
But you work on wonder, wish and wholeness.
Your mystery returns to the chest until
a new year comes around,
Before you spray your splendor again anew.
But grant you this I say, I might
Not forget the memory of the past bold sight.

2006-05-11T23:04:00.000-07:00

The Lucky Draw

When my sister was eleven and I nine, she entered a drawing into a children's magazine and got second prize for it. The judges must have thought her painting of penguins set in snow and watery ice-holes quite captivating. I had thought the prize captivating. It was a hamper of 48-set crayons, 12 tubes Faber Castel paints, pencils and what- have- you all mountained in a square tray. If you remember the crayons and pencils of the old days and maybe even now, they smell terrific; of newness and all-out possibilities. Those smelled of victory. Inspired, I entered a work of my own. The focus point of "Sunrise on the bay" was the rising sun of melded orange yellows and reds; of newness and all-out possibilities. “Sunrise” didn't get displayed in the winner's corner. It got lost in the mail. Possibly. Or more possibly, the contest became obsolete. However, two years later, as soon as my brother could wield a broken crayon, he mailed his work in and won the third prize. I don't remember what he drew.

This July my sister won a Toyome Electric Oven in a lucky draw. It had meant something to a family whose luck was like finding a worm in an apple; a live one. We acknowledge grimly that we have to work for our wares, kitchen or non-kitchen. Still, my sister's no longer eleven and the electric oven is no box of victory crayons. When the initial thrill of the win wore off, we thought that perhaps it would be more wise in future to win something we need. Because there the box sat, destitude, dejected and dusting in the corner. For several days, I would find my sister making calls or on e- bay attracting prospective Toyome Electric oven buyers. At one point in time, she seated the box quietly next to her on the couch as she keyed in its vital statistics. At other moments she jumped at the ringing phone and negotiated quite excitedly. Her efforts were outstanding, but God is fair. She may be one bossy lawyer, but the price previously set at eighty-five dollars and sixty cents continued to drop.

Finally there was a buyer! A cab drew up outside our terrace house one cooling night as my sister hugged Toyome out for the exchange. She didn’t mind that her sleeves were rolled up or had hair falling from her executive bun. It was an important moment for Toyome. It had entered our household boldly against odds. It was now leaving even- thirty dollars and sixty cents less important.

2006-05-07T05:10:00.000-07:00

One Year with Emu Boy
I had a dream that I was wondering
Far and long- It took me
Through cityscapes and seaside towns,
Vineyards drunk and orchard grounds.
I took the train and bus and trained to walk,
Yet this distance amounts to not
One year with emu boy.
“Pardon me!” I said, to a rushing folk,
What might be the rush?
Where are you going, why all the fuss?
“Why to finish the day, and then my life will start,
My hours do not matter now, only the minutes late I trust.”
Why funny, it is I've always known
My moments seem to last
Not one minute or an hour
Or captured in a snap shot grin
But more a linking scene of laughter
In myOne year with Emu Boy
When I woke up tired and flushed,
From all the dreaming all alone,
Emu Boy entered and kissed and smiled and said.
“ Why you look exhausted, what have you been doing so,
Not wandering like you used to, all alone?”
“No in wondering I had you, I had you all along.
PerfectYear it has been, Emu boy, perfect has it not?”
“ one year?” He said astonished-
“Oh you mean in human terms…”
“ How our emu time is measured, ____________________”

2006-04-24T05:48:00.000-07:00

Birthday with Al
This was going to be her first birthday with Al. She smiled and her fingers lifted involuntarily to the potted ferns in front of her. The leaves were immaculate but she had to check them for caterpillars everyday. Just in case. Her stomach was in knots, fearing she had missed anything out in the excitement. For a long time now, her commitment had been to something far more addictive than Al. Less dependable, destructive even. It was something her friends couldn’t understand and she didn’t want them to. Al had come along at a bad time when she was at the peak of her dependency with it. The more she tried to hide it from him, the more it showed itself. But she didn’t have to go through all that trouble, really. Al didn’t want her to hide anything from him.She jumped back in dismay. Many of the leaves of the fern lay crushed at her feet and she quickly picked every fragment up from the balcony to throw away.“Hey, where’s my pretty lady?” Al shouted from downstairs.Going past the balcony door into the interior, she counted, “one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine” as she twisted the lock close behind her.

2006-04-19T04:39:00.000-07:00

The Picture in his wallet
We were sitting in the bus when it happened:
The metal clasp snaps open
And therein beams the sweetest smile
That ever is,
Exists the only thought can ever think.
Where models stain their lips so red,
Hers is all natural pink.
Black is the all- new black,
No more peeking roots and tinted fringes-
Like a-fraying spaghetti strap,
She wears a pure white t-shirt
that calls no whim, no frantic fancy.
But trusts that beauty is her own
Her eyes speak ‘human’ who would know
Says the guy who loves her so.
Before I could draw a longer gaze
He snapped it shut and so no more.
But on the bus as people came
All I saw each had her face.

2006-04-18T04:17:00.000-07:00

BOREDOM
Boredom! Go read yourself a poem.

Why, write you a rhyme, you tell me.

Something about monotony-

Talk about tedium, encourage ennui,

refine the dullness you struggle to denounce.

Boredom!

Go catch yourself a buzzy bee.

When sitting down is such a crime,

the electric chair of languor it must seem.

Your hunched back nests much- a-flittering thoughts

Quiescent, they appear to be.

Boredom!

Go get a manicure.

Your nails are all bitten down.

Even Victorian ladies sit on their hands

As they watch the motions of the clock.

Till tea time drags them by their locks.

Boredom!

Go watch a person sleep in concert.

Nothing like being a voyeur works-

Memorize the features of normality,

Till you recognize what insanity

Fits the restless mind of a dormant body.

Boredom!

“Let me entertain you”The artistes chime in unison-

“There’s no such feeling, no such word,

Only if you let me entertain you”.

Till your resilience snaps.

And you resolve:

“There’s no such feeling, no such word”

Because the restless mind in the dormant body

Still fights for purpose, task and focus

For more than the sound of slight normality.

2006-04-17T01:24:00.000-07:00

Just A Bit More Thought
Yesterday the black rose laughed stark tears,

As dominoes are dealt a turn.

Someone cries, " Fly in soup!"as intricately as beading in a pendant.

One more student stands in class-His teacher is stern.

At three the tsunami is brewing

Like panadol effervescence.

The nearby concert hall fills,but no one claps it right.

But all these is salvaged, by one more thought at night.

But don't you get it wrong!

Those shoes don't really match the eyes and swirls on butterfly wings

watch the news. good things, bad things.

Just a bit more thought and they come alive.

2006-04-15T22:28:00.000-07:00

Menthol Pecans
It was night
Winsome Winnie walked into the kitchen stealthily, careful not to wake the rat sleeping behind the cans of baked beans. As she opened the fridge door and peered in, the kitchen became softly aglow. Her back hunched in secrecy, the sweeping glance of Winsome W told her what she already knew. The food was kept in the fridge and cabinets, but their wispy arms and fingers had like many nights before grown long and extended up the stairs, past the other bedrooms and into hers. There was the half of the pumpkin cake, bag of apples, two blocks of chocolates from her recent trip to Switzerland (for cousin Christine), cans of coke, a container of condiments and some left over dinner. The freezer held more frozen dinners and vanilla chocolate chip ice-cream. As she reached for the tray of cake, she took a long breath of it, daring it to disappear and leave her starving. Her first few bites were ravenous but timid. But as the second hand of the clock moved its round, all reverence for the cake, chocolate, ice-cream and microwave meals melted and she only concentrated on filling her stomach to bursting point.

Winsome Winnie crept back upstairs, past the other bedrooms and into her own where under a blanket she didn’t need, she slept, full of troubling resolves.

It was after lunch
At last lunch hour was over. The workers packed the leftover cake and chocolate into the fridge and yawned back to their seats. Fantastic Fiona said she could clean up a little. She had turned down the pumpkin cake her colleagues were passing around. Also the block of Swiss chocolate Christine had brought. It was an apple for lunch for Fantastic Fiona. She had eyed the cake and chocolate hungrily as she bit into it. Her colleagues asked if she was “on a diet”. “Why! no, of course not! It’s just that I get sleepy if I eat too much. Especially in the heat these days. A cold apple would satisfy.” And so it did.
Peering into the passageway leading back into the office, it was found empty. Would there be footsteps coming up that precise minute? No they were hard at work. As Fantastic Fiona wiped the table and washed the dishes (she needed only to rinse her own with water), it only kept her sufficiently from opening the fridge door to where the pleasing items were. For as soon as she dried her hands on the hand towel, it happened.

Fantastic Fiona ambled back to her seat where she hunched just a little lower, the beads of sweat on her forehead like the condensation on her cold apple before. For the rest of the day, her smile and lighthearted banter masked some heavier thought.

It was stressful time
Able Amber looked at the stack of papers on her table and bit her lips. The stack wasn’t an overflowing mountain as often portrayed in pictures or described in writing. It was a neat file of readings waiting to be read. Able Amber herself had tidied the file up, that’s how she knew. Each reading was categorized and tagged. Yet when it came to the actual reading and the report due strictly at 3p.m. tomorrow, she was stuck. Her physical body showed otherwise. She paced, she ran down to the library to print yet more readings she knew she wouldn’t be able to read. She made trips to the bathroom and sat there apparently awaiting inspiration but the only inspiration that came was a sore bottom. As she looked at the clock now showing 9.15p.m, she felt the familiar sensation of dismay and helplessness. Her heart frantic, she ran to the student pantry and surreptitiously opened cabinet doors. There were the bread and cookies she could help herself to. The fridge held a few frozen pies and a family-sized tub of vanilla chocolate chip ice-cream. It was of inferior brand and cast aside by her hostel mates. But as she dipped into it with a huge metal spoon, she was filled with a sense of wellbeing. It soon happened
Able Amber was back at her desk, her file still as neat, her Microsoft Words white and blank. She would call in ill tomorrow and ask for an extension. But for now she needed to talk to someone. She called her best friend, Winsome Winnie.

----

2006-04-15T05:39:00.000-07:00

Square All-Rounder
In Crimson High it was the “in” thing to be square. But Chester wasn’t a nerd. He was a jock, a rugby captain and a smart dresser. Chester was too cool to be true and he hated it. He desired to be square, to fit in with the rest. But no matter how hard he tried he simply couldn’t match up. One day as he sat in a milk bar looking sad, geeky, but still very handsome in his oversized t-shirt tucked into jeans, and wearing dark-framed spectacles which he didn’t need, he was approached by a talent scout looking for a star in his new movie.Since the movie “Revenge of the Nerds” came out, the hip-to-be-square craze died down to a hush. Everyone was talking about Chester, the now most desirable guy in Crimson High. In the movie, Chester played the jock, a rugby captain and a smart dresser.

2006-04-15T05:28:00.000-07:00

ONE ROTTEN ORANGE
(ode to the goblin market)

Beginning with one small infirmity, others call a dent.
"Should be sweet!" he told us, who sold it to us.
A dollar for an orange, a rotten one.
We didn't see it, its goodness displayed-
Its sadness strategically hid.
Like the influence of comrades is strong,
We had to toss it out.
"Show it to him", who sold it to us-
May he return a - new
An orange which isn't blue

But all the same its fur fazes me!
No such fibre in its peel, nor
vita C or is still there?
as it stills, in solitary despair.
awaiting judgment and exchange,
I'd have tasted before to spew it out.
One such orange, one such exchange
One such chance, one such purchase.

2006-04-15T05:06:00.000-07:00

THE SILENT WORLD
One of my favorite Paul Auster's stories is about a comedy actor in the black and white film era. The story not only paints so much the fascination surrounding this actor- if the actor does exist in the first place. It tells about the beauty of silent observation that concentrates on small, slight features and carefully orchestrated movements. Where the bigger plot is only sideline to the every minute the actor is on the screen.

Or how about the segment in the recent Singapore gaga? The toy pianist sits at her instrument for 4 mins 33 seconds without touching a key to produce sound. And those 4 mins 33 seconds, as proclaimed by her are moments in the environment that cannot be relived. These moments are marked by sounds that are varied and passing.

So as we build up our memories in life, how many of them are preciously snatched moments? How many of them, can we say, are appreciated processes, so that the end results do not matter as much?