Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Wombat’s Packing- list for Down- South
It is Wombat’s favourite kind of weather tonight though not the best for lazing out in the yard or cleaning the swimming pool. Dark, heavy clouds and lightning always gives this marsupial the feeling of hot chocolate and happy tunes; it was therefore not a radical idea when Wombat decided he wanted to make a short road-trip --- not next week or tomorrow, but on this very rainy day! Nine o’clock in the night makes it feasible to reach the south slopes for some wine-tasting and early supper.
And so, whistling a sound in symphony with the percussion of the pitter-patter raindrops, Wombat sat down to plan for the down- south trip. He got out his maps and happily took out a note pad to do a packing list. It is also his favorite part of the trip.“Am I going to stay two nights or three? Umbrella… pepper spray, one set of pyjamas and overalls” The outing planned on this fateful evening is not Wombat’s first time down south and most definitely the only place he goes on short holidays. Wombat does not go on long trips. What might be remarkable to some of us is that he also stops at the same gasoline station to replenish his snack pack—tussocky “snow grass”, visits the same winery and sleeps at “The Burrow” bed and breakfast. If Wombat had saved his first packing list from all the four years of trips down- South, he would have conserved a lot of planning. But like the many of us who don't keep our packing lists the moment we load our overnight bags into the car boot, he is sore about left- over memories lying about on the kitchen table when he returns from a vacation. It helps, too, that Wombat likes to make lists.
But quite suddenly in a matter of these few minutes, Wombat was interrupted by three timid taps on the timber door. This has never happened before in his years of list-making. He looked up with furrowed brows and reluctantly got up from his stool to get the door. “Yes?” Irritation stretched across his handsome furry face.
“Why… I was wondering if there are vacancies in your motel at this time of the year.” A fellow wombat in a wet yellow raincoat stood in the doorway. “I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come up here from the western plateaus.
Wombat snorted, ‘That’s a coincidence; not the best in terms of timing.” He hesitated, ‘Come in, and we’ll see if we can work something out.’
Wombat let Yellow Raincoat Wombat into the living space. The latter took in the warm fireplace and table where the packing list laid complete.
‘I can house- sit for you while you are gone.’
‘Why, it’s very nice of you to offer, it’s not my normal practice to host someone without being here. That's if new occupants arrive…’
‘Now, now, with your permission, I have a place to stay, and you wouldn’t have to worry about intruders. It’s a perfect arrangement.’
Wombat adjusted his tortoise-shell spectacles absent-mindedly, ‘How long do you plan to be here?’ He perused his list, peered into his suitcase, and back to his list to double-check.
‘For as long as is needed.’
So it was agreed between the two. Wombat set off into the night, his red haversack swung onto his back, the packing list tucked, forgotten, in one of the compartments.
In three and a half hours, Wombat had arrived at the gasoline station; consumed only partially the “snow grass” by the time he reached the winery, which was two hours earlier than expected, and decided to do a check- in first at the ‘Bed and Breakfast’.
“Hello, Juno?” Wombat jangled the bells at the front counter. “Is anyone back there? The reception area felt quiet and still. In spite of the warm fire and familiar smell of onion and root soup, there was not a soul and animalistic movement in sight. He circled the counter, went into the waiting room and surveyed the dining area: no cook at the stove, no southern hairy-nosed wombat who usually did the cleaning. The place was spotless. And vacated. Wombat searched the counter cupboards for his room key; he banged the doors close and jangled the other keys in the hope of rousing someone. When no one came, he dropped his haversack off in room 299 (the room he always sleeps in). It was only two in the morning and Wombat was beginning to feel the strains of the travel. He can visit the winery tomorrow when Juno, the cook, the southern hairy-nosed wombat, and whoever is supposed to be here, turns up. And whoever who is not --- like that wombat in his splendid yellow raincoat, remains in his rightful place. Just like I am meant to be here. With that thought hazy in mind, Wombat fell into a deep sleep.
After what it seemed to be a one- and- a- half dreamscapes later, Wombat was woken up by the same jangle of the counter bell he had attempted earlier on. How many hours ago was that? He leapt off the bed and scampered to the reception. A rabbit couple stood waiting.
‘We would like to check in, please.”
‘Oh. I’m not…’
‘Please, we’re really tired.’ And they did look tired. With their wind-blown furs, anyone could have mistaken them for wild country hares.
‘Alright. Mm. Do write your names and address in here--- he drew out the guest book that he’d often seen Juno use before. ‘And erm, mode of payment?’
‘Credit.’
His next performance of administration was a beauty to watch. In no time at all, he’d found room keys, helped with luggage and sat the grateful rabbits down to a warm meal of carrot soup. After they’d retired to their rooms, and he’d scarcely a moment to sit down, he was yet greeted by another group of guests.
Since the employees of “The Burrow” continued their no-show for the next day, the day after, and then a week, Wombat never got to the winery. He stepped out only to do the garden and clean the outdoor thai-style iacuzzi. Juno, the cook and the southern hairy-nosed wombat did not return to his mind because Wombat managed everything himself, like second nature. He never got round to cleaning his own room until he had finished the house-keeping for the rest of the rooms. By this time, the holiday season in the south had finally finished its five-week period. Room 229 had managed to look rather lived-in and different from the other hotel rooms. It had the distinct smell of Wombat even if he is a relatively clean marsupial. To his room, he brought no food to eat, maybe only a glass of water and some videos to pass the early mornings. Today, he detected a mild, mould-like smell from a part of his room. It came from a red haversack that looked familiar. But of course it was familiar--- it was his. But he had forgotten about it and the left-over ‘snow grass’ that had by this time become ‘tussocky algae’. ‘And what’s this?’ Wombat drew out a folded piece of paper. ‘wombat’s packing- list for down-south… how long have I been planning for this and never got the chance for it!’ It was a complete list after-all, and the red haversack was packed as detailed.
1. umbrella
2. pepper spray
3. overalls
4. two t-shirts
5. pyjamas
6. torch-light
And so, Wombat packed and locked up room 229, left the key at the counter, and left “The Burrow”, the first time in two months. Also, two months since he left the lodge with the timber doors.
He reached “Hason Hedge” in good time, and was happy to see that it owned a winery and ‘snow grass factory’. It was also raining--- Wombat’s favourite kind of weather. He unfolded his umbrella from the haversack as he waited at the outdoor reception where another wombat in a yellow raincoat was being attended to.
‘So, how long do you plan to stay?’ he heard Hason the hare ask the wombat.
‘Oh. Not long. I’ll just be here a day or two before heading up to my own lodge. I own a holiday place too, you know, just like yours. It’s just that, I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come down here.’ He turned around to Wombat with a grin, droplets of water from his yellow hood meandering down his furry face ‘it’s a fantastic place here, isn’t it?’
Wombat concurred. It was going to be a great holiday. Before he got back to “The Burrows”.
It is Wombat’s favourite kind of weather tonight though not the best for lazing out in the yard or cleaning the swimming pool. Dark, heavy clouds and lightning always gives this marsupial the feeling of hot chocolate and happy tunes; it was therefore not a radical idea when Wombat decided he wanted to make a short road-trip --- not next week or tomorrow, but on this very rainy day! Nine o’clock in the night makes it feasible to reach the south slopes for some wine-tasting and early supper.
And so, whistling a sound in symphony with the percussion of the pitter-patter raindrops, Wombat sat down to plan for the down- south trip. He got out his maps and happily took out a note pad to do a packing list. It is also his favorite part of the trip.“Am I going to stay two nights or three? Umbrella… pepper spray, one set of pyjamas and overalls” The outing planned on this fateful evening is not Wombat’s first time down south and most definitely the only place he goes on short holidays. Wombat does not go on long trips. What might be remarkable to some of us is that he also stops at the same gasoline station to replenish his snack pack—tussocky “snow grass”, visits the same winery and sleeps at “The Burrow” bed and breakfast. If Wombat had saved his first packing list from all the four years of trips down- South, he would have conserved a lot of planning. But like the many of us who don't keep our packing lists the moment we load our overnight bags into the car boot, he is sore about left- over memories lying about on the kitchen table when he returns from a vacation. It helps, too, that Wombat likes to make lists.
But quite suddenly in a matter of these few minutes, Wombat was interrupted by three timid taps on the timber door. This has never happened before in his years of list-making. He looked up with furrowed brows and reluctantly got up from his stool to get the door. “Yes?” Irritation stretched across his handsome furry face.
“Why… I was wondering if there are vacancies in your motel at this time of the year.” A fellow wombat in a wet yellow raincoat stood in the doorway. “I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come up here from the western plateaus.
Wombat snorted, ‘That’s a coincidence; not the best in terms of timing.” He hesitated, ‘Come in, and we’ll see if we can work something out.’
Wombat let Yellow Raincoat Wombat into the living space. The latter took in the warm fireplace and table where the packing list laid complete.
‘I can house- sit for you while you are gone.’
‘Why, it’s very nice of you to offer, it’s not my normal practice to host someone without being here. That's if new occupants arrive…’
‘Now, now, with your permission, I have a place to stay, and you wouldn’t have to worry about intruders. It’s a perfect arrangement.’
Wombat adjusted his tortoise-shell spectacles absent-mindedly, ‘How long do you plan to be here?’ He perused his list, peered into his suitcase, and back to his list to double-check.
‘For as long as is needed.’
So it was agreed between the two. Wombat set off into the night, his red haversack swung onto his back, the packing list tucked, forgotten, in one of the compartments.
In three and a half hours, Wombat had arrived at the gasoline station; consumed only partially the “snow grass” by the time he reached the winery, which was two hours earlier than expected, and decided to do a check- in first at the ‘Bed and Breakfast’.
“Hello, Juno?” Wombat jangled the bells at the front counter. “Is anyone back there? The reception area felt quiet and still. In spite of the warm fire and familiar smell of onion and root soup, there was not a soul and animalistic movement in sight. He circled the counter, went into the waiting room and surveyed the dining area: no cook at the stove, no southern hairy-nosed wombat who usually did the cleaning. The place was spotless. And vacated. Wombat searched the counter cupboards for his room key; he banged the doors close and jangled the other keys in the hope of rousing someone. When no one came, he dropped his haversack off in room 299 (the room he always sleeps in). It was only two in the morning and Wombat was beginning to feel the strains of the travel. He can visit the winery tomorrow when Juno, the cook, the southern hairy-nosed wombat, and whoever is supposed to be here, turns up. And whoever who is not --- like that wombat in his splendid yellow raincoat, remains in his rightful place. Just like I am meant to be here. With that thought hazy in mind, Wombat fell into a deep sleep.
After what it seemed to be a one- and- a- half dreamscapes later, Wombat was woken up by the same jangle of the counter bell he had attempted earlier on. How many hours ago was that? He leapt off the bed and scampered to the reception. A rabbit couple stood waiting.
‘We would like to check in, please.”
‘Oh. I’m not…’
‘Please, we’re really tired.’ And they did look tired. With their wind-blown furs, anyone could have mistaken them for wild country hares.
‘Alright. Mm. Do write your names and address in here--- he drew out the guest book that he’d often seen Juno use before. ‘And erm, mode of payment?’
‘Credit.’
His next performance of administration was a beauty to watch. In no time at all, he’d found room keys, helped with luggage and sat the grateful rabbits down to a warm meal of carrot soup. After they’d retired to their rooms, and he’d scarcely a moment to sit down, he was yet greeted by another group of guests.
Since the employees of “The Burrow” continued their no-show for the next day, the day after, and then a week, Wombat never got to the winery. He stepped out only to do the garden and clean the outdoor thai-style iacuzzi. Juno, the cook and the southern hairy-nosed wombat did not return to his mind because Wombat managed everything himself, like second nature. He never got round to cleaning his own room until he had finished the house-keeping for the rest of the rooms. By this time, the holiday season in the south had finally finished its five-week period. Room 229 had managed to look rather lived-in and different from the other hotel rooms. It had the distinct smell of Wombat even if he is a relatively clean marsupial. To his room, he brought no food to eat, maybe only a glass of water and some videos to pass the early mornings. Today, he detected a mild, mould-like smell from a part of his room. It came from a red haversack that looked familiar. But of course it was familiar--- it was his. But he had forgotten about it and the left-over ‘snow grass’ that had by this time become ‘tussocky algae’. ‘And what’s this?’ Wombat drew out a folded piece of paper. ‘wombat’s packing- list for down-south… how long have I been planning for this and never got the chance for it!’ It was a complete list after-all, and the red haversack was packed as detailed.
1. umbrella
2. pepper spray
3. overalls
4. two t-shirts
5. pyjamas
6. torch-light
And so, Wombat packed and locked up room 229, left the key at the counter, and left “The Burrow”, the first time in two months. Also, two months since he left the lodge with the timber doors.
He reached “Hason Hedge” in good time, and was happy to see that it owned a winery and ‘snow grass factory’. It was also raining--- Wombat’s favourite kind of weather. He unfolded his umbrella from the haversack as he waited at the outdoor reception where another wombat in a yellow raincoat was being attended to.
‘So, how long do you plan to stay?’ he heard Hason the hare ask the wombat.
‘Oh. Not long. I’ll just be here a day or two before heading up to my own lodge. I own a holiday place too, you know, just like yours. It’s just that, I have heard marvelous things about your place and thought to come down here.’ He turned around to Wombat with a grin, droplets of water from his yellow hood meandering down his furry face ‘it’s a fantastic place here, isn’t it?’
Wombat concurred. It was going to be a great holiday. Before he got back to “The Burrows”.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
The Punching Bag
I once peeped into a teenage boy's room.
Age does matters. He was fourteen.
I, a cool thirty-five.
Where he was awkward to enter,
I felt free to wander.
Shelves lined with carefully painted toy soldiers
and tanks that "took up space"<---- said his mom.
Glossy posters held the walls ransom
and camourflaged his living space.
If you didn't look carefully where his encyclopedias hid,
the jotter books found shelter under them.
But.
With a pause to all this tangential talk,
preamble and chit- chat,
All I want to tell is about the punching bag.
It hangs black, still, in the middle of the room.
From the projecting metal from the sky,
It cries out, " throw me one- show me what you've got"
"If I'm not moved, you have not giv'n me the lot.
Doesn't matter that his lamp illuminates softly all around
Or that his bedsheets boasts of "SHREK and Donkey"
In fairytale green.
The dark knight in his PVC armour
is seen, still, from every corner.
He titillates and he mocks-
Doesn't matter if you are boy or girl, grown woman or man.
The punching bag beckons when it can.
I enter the teenager's room.
My fists are clenched, my body leans.
I am surprisingly angry at the punching bag!
for all my thirty-five of grief and angst.
" Where have you been all these years,
When I have had only got the wall?"
I raise my fist in readiness and relief.
Instead, see my scars and blue black veins that still remain.
And then I start to pour those salty tears
that never came when I hit the wall.
I look at the punching bag which I can no longer hit,
when suddenly my fists feel both pain and paralysis.
I walk to SHREK and Donkey, crying like a child.
And lain balled up on this teenage boy's bed.
And then i heard footsteps, the boy showed up.
With a jolt and quickly reorganized face,
he stumbled and mumbled across his words.
"mom says pudding's ready. Dessert's ready. Pudding for dessert"
And quickly backed and bounded off down where he came.
I could almost hear his whisper as I quickly wiped my tears
"My teacher's crying on my bed!"
I once peeped into a teenage boy's room.
Age does matters. He was fourteen.
I, a cool thirty-five.
Where he was awkward to enter,
I felt free to wander.
Shelves lined with carefully painted toy soldiers
and tanks that "took up space"<---- said his mom.
Glossy posters held the walls ransom
and camourflaged his living space.
If you didn't look carefully where his encyclopedias hid,
the jotter books found shelter under them.
But.
With a pause to all this tangential talk,
preamble and chit- chat,
All I want to tell is about the punching bag.
It hangs black, still, in the middle of the room.
From the projecting metal from the sky,
It cries out, " throw me one- show me what you've got"
"If I'm not moved, you have not giv'n me the lot.
Doesn't matter that his lamp illuminates softly all around
Or that his bedsheets boasts of "SHREK and Donkey"
In fairytale green.
The dark knight in his PVC armour
is seen, still, from every corner.
He titillates and he mocks-
Doesn't matter if you are boy or girl, grown woman or man.
The punching bag beckons when it can.
I enter the teenager's room.
My fists are clenched, my body leans.
I am surprisingly angry at the punching bag!
for all my thirty-five of grief and angst.
" Where have you been all these years,
When I have had only got the wall?"
I raise my fist in readiness and relief.
Instead, see my scars and blue black veins that still remain.
And then I start to pour those salty tears
that never came when I hit the wall.
I look at the punching bag which I can no longer hit,
when suddenly my fists feel both pain and paralysis.
I walk to SHREK and Donkey, crying like a child.
And lain balled up on this teenage boy's bed.
And then i heard footsteps, the boy showed up.
With a jolt and quickly reorganized face,
he stumbled and mumbled across his words.
"mom says pudding's ready. Dessert's ready. Pudding for dessert"
And quickly backed and bounded off down where he came.
I could almost hear his whisper as I quickly wiped my tears
"My teacher's crying on my bed!"
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road
I lift my face to receive the wind’s kisses-
Possibly recycled in this climate’s habit of weather and pressure,
Like the world’s clichés and empty phrases,
Renewing the senses when we try to make sense of it,
and when you welcome its tangibility.
The sweet red blooms set the sky on fire,
Yet can’t contaminate just how blue it is
Unlike the sun’s new dawn and tired dusk.
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road.
The joggers’ sweaty grin (or grimace)
and the lady on the stairs.
The swirls from her cigarette rise up before
settling down to almost nothing where I stand and chat.
Cause all misty-eyed and rosy cheeked
Or a nicotine- fixed blank stare
The steel gate keeps the lonely heart in
to TV programs and microwave dinners
Till sometime it opens to a lover there.
Armed with one bunch of hydrangea
And groceries for two
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road.
I have no Polaroid to keep
And no videocam to direct the scene
But in my dreams both night and day,
They bring me back to Barker Road.
I lift my face to receive the wind’s kisses-
Possibly recycled in this climate’s habit of weather and pressure,
Like the world’s clichés and empty phrases,
Renewing the senses when we try to make sense of it,
and when you welcome its tangibility.
The sweet red blooms set the sky on fire,
Yet can’t contaminate just how blue it is
Unlike the sun’s new dawn and tired dusk.
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road.
The joggers’ sweaty grin (or grimace)
and the lady on the stairs.
The swirls from her cigarette rise up before
settling down to almost nothing where I stand and chat.
Cause all misty-eyed and rosy cheeked
Or a nicotine- fixed blank stare
The steel gate keeps the lonely heart in
to TV programs and microwave dinners
Till sometime it opens to a lover there.
Armed with one bunch of hydrangea
And groceries for two
Both, they bring me back to Barker Road.
I have no Polaroid to keep
And no videocam to direct the scene
But in my dreams both night and day,
They bring me back to Barker Road.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
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)
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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.
Friday, November 09, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
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
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
Thursday, October 18, 2007
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.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
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.
“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.
Friday, August 31, 2007
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.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
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?
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 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.
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