The day of the hail 24/06

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

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

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

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

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


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

The Muppets painted the ward manila
The 2nd extension-

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

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

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

“Has the doctor approved?”

“Here he comes now. You can ask him.”

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, ____________________”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

----

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.

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.

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?