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”.
Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
The Punching Bag
I once peeped into a teenage boy's room.
Age does matters. He was fourteen.
I, a cool thirty-five.
Where he was awkward to enter,
I felt free to wander.
Shelves lined with carefully painted toy soldiers
and tanks that "took up space"<---- said his mom.
Glossy posters held the walls ransom
and camourflaged his living space.
If you didn't look carefully where his encyclopedias hid,
the jotter books found shelter under them.
But.
With a pause to all this tangential talk,
preamble and chit- chat,
All I want to tell is about the punching bag.
It hangs black, still, in the middle of the room.
From the projecting metal from the sky,
It cries out, " throw me one- show me what you've got"
"If I'm not moved, you have not giv'n me the lot.
Doesn't matter that his lamp illuminates softly all around
Or that his bedsheets boasts of "SHREK and Donkey"
In fairytale green.
The dark knight in his PVC armour
is seen, still, from every corner.
He titillates and he mocks-
Doesn't matter if you are boy or girl, grown woman or man.
The punching bag beckons when it can.
I enter the teenager's room.
My fists are clenched, my body leans.
I am surprisingly angry at the punching bag!
for all my thirty-five of grief and angst.
" Where have you been all these years,
When I have had only got the wall?"
I raise my fist in readiness and relief.
Instead, see my scars and blue black veins that still remain.
And then I start to pour those salty tears
that never came when I hit the wall.
I look at the punching bag which I can no longer hit,
when suddenly my fists feel both pain and paralysis.
I walk to SHREK and Donkey, crying like a child.
And lain balled up on this teenage boy's bed.
And then i heard footsteps, the boy showed up.
With a jolt and quickly reorganized face,
he stumbled and mumbled across his words.
"mom says pudding's ready. Dessert's ready. Pudding for dessert"
And quickly backed and bounded off down where he came.
I could almost hear his whisper as I quickly wiped my tears
"My teacher's crying on my bed!"
I once peeped into a teenage boy's room.
Age does matters. He was fourteen.
I, a cool thirty-five.
Where he was awkward to enter,
I felt free to wander.
Shelves lined with carefully painted toy soldiers
and tanks that "took up space"<---- said his mom.
Glossy posters held the walls ransom
and camourflaged his living space.
If you didn't look carefully where his encyclopedias hid,
the jotter books found shelter under them.
But.
With a pause to all this tangential talk,
preamble and chit- chat,
All I want to tell is about the punching bag.
It hangs black, still, in the middle of the room.
From the projecting metal from the sky,
It cries out, " throw me one- show me what you've got"
"If I'm not moved, you have not giv'n me the lot.
Doesn't matter that his lamp illuminates softly all around
Or that his bedsheets boasts of "SHREK and Donkey"
In fairytale green.
The dark knight in his PVC armour
is seen, still, from every corner.
He titillates and he mocks-
Doesn't matter if you are boy or girl, grown woman or man.
The punching bag beckons when it can.
I enter the teenager's room.
My fists are clenched, my body leans.
I am surprisingly angry at the punching bag!
for all my thirty-five of grief and angst.
" Where have you been all these years,
When I have had only got the wall?"
I raise my fist in readiness and relief.
Instead, see my scars and blue black veins that still remain.
And then I start to pour those salty tears
that never came when I hit the wall.
I look at the punching bag which I can no longer hit,
when suddenly my fists feel both pain and paralysis.
I walk to SHREK and Donkey, crying like a child.
And lain balled up on this teenage boy's bed.
And then i heard footsteps, the boy showed up.
With a jolt and quickly reorganized face,
he stumbled and mumbled across his words.
"mom says pudding's ready. Dessert's ready. Pudding for dessert"
And quickly backed and bounded off down where he came.
I could almost hear his whisper as I quickly wiped my tears
"My teacher's crying on my bed!"
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Saturday, July 21, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 06, 2006
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.
-----
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.
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Tuesday, June 20, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Friday, June 02, 2006
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.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
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.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
BOREDOM
Boredom! Go read yourself a poem.
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.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Square All-RounderIn 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.
(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.
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