Saturday, August 1, 2009

Some days, I sit and think about the future and the what-will-be-s and the what-will-come-s.

Some days, I sit and watch the world go by as the what-will-be-s become the what-is.

Most days, I wish we are the what-is and our future is the what-will-be-s.

But I never will have the will to make you be my what-will-be. Because you seem so happy in the now.

With your Someone-New.

Over

and

Over

Again.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Fiction

There was once a young man who loved to write. His name was Bob. He really actually wanted to be a well-known and, more importantly, best-selling author writing from his solid oak table in his house by the beach (the type that had rocks and cliffs and stern winds, mind you, not those sandy pansy pretentious kinds) but he would never tell anyone that. Not because he was a humble man who kept very much to himself. No, he wouldn't because if he never got there, people might look back and laugh at him for saying such things and not achieving them. Plus there wasn't much you could do with a name like Bob. So he wrote a lot and he wrote as frequently as possible, making his stories as available as he could to the general public.


He wrote about unicorns and stars, about little boats and talking moons, about angry winds and wistful trees, about giants and very small bears and one very smart mouse deer. He wrote and he wrote. He made his stories known to everyone and anyone. But he heard nothing from his readers.

No, we can not call them that. People who accidentally read his stories. There much better.

But he heard nothing from the people who accidentally read his stories. Nothing at all. There must be something I'm not doing right, thought Bob.

"Maybe you should write about people, or something real, or something scandalous," suggested Mooby, his talking cow, as he served Bob muffins and exited with his theme song playing softly in the background.

"People..... Real..... Scandalous.... but that's what the newspapers are for, no?"

"Not if you want a reaction from your audience, sir," said Mooby as he popped out from behind the curtains and rushed out the door before the second verse of his theme song could begin.

Very well, thought Bob, the young writer. Scandalous it is. So he wrote about rape and murder, birth and death, sterility and young nurses, passion and old men, famine and cannibalism, paedophilia and Ronald McDonald. And to add a bit of realism to the stories, he set all of them in his current time, his current place and his current fetish for tentacles.

And sure enough, the responses came. The people who accidentally read his stories became readers, and Bob grew immensely popular. Occult weekly journals wrote about him, your second uncle swore he met Bob selling char siu pau and his cousin's mother-in-law saw it, nursery rhymes were sung about him, and mothers shuddered when they heard his name.
For everyone believed his stories so much, they swore he was the main character in each story and he wrote them to tell the public, in a badly masked manner, what was really going on in his life.

Pretty soon, Bob was shunned by society and forced out of civilisation, to live a sorrowful life in a barren desert. Mooby left and took with him the talking dish, the dancing peanut and Pussy, the cat who never did anything extraordinary.

Fiction sucks, thought Bob as he opened the lid of his running washing machine and stuffed his head into the rotating drum.

-END-

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Disarm

“Okay, let's try again.”

She concentrates on concentrating. Think baby, think she says quietly.

A minute passes. The ice melts and clinks against the walls of the square glass that holds her fancy sweet tea. The sort you buy at snobbish coffee houses served by yuppie waiters dreaming of Maseratis.

Nothing. Not a whisper. Not a sigh.

“One last time alright?”

Her palms start sweating. Damp and clammy, they leave stains on the black matte table. So many thoughts, so many memories swim about in her head, like tadpoles in the mossy drain that ran through a house she grew up in. Too many. She searches through them and casts most of them aside.

Imagine a child searching for a forgotten toy in playpen filled with balls. Like the type they used to have in McDonald's before it became hip and cool and McDee's. You can never really empty the playpen, neither could you arrange them in neat piles of checked and unchecked. Every time the child pushes some balls away in one direction, more balls fall in their place from the other direction.

Cast away thoughts and memories resurface here and there, shielding the memories that could answer her questions.

“When?”

“How?”

Who was an easily answered question. It had to be him. It was only him.

“Why?”. That could never be answered. Because she was careless. Because she deserved it. Because it could be a good thing. No. It can not ever be a good thing. Not now. Not like this.

The indicator said positive. There was a plus sign in the middle of the circle on the device. The silly little plastic device. It looked so unreliable. 99% accuracy it said on the box. Perhaps she was in the 1%. But all hope of that possibility vanished after the third test.



Positive.


+

She had expected a large dramatic reaction, a flash of lightning, the ground shaking, or at the very least, for herself to to breakdown and cry. But instead, she found herself calm. Composed. Steady breaths. Staring at the little blue vertical line that appeared over the horizontal one in the circle, slowly and shyly making itself visible like how pictures appear on polaroid film.

Outside the cubicle, girls chattered on about clothes, boys, movie stars. One stamped her foot impatiently.

She disposed the test kit into the blue bin next to the bowl, flushed, and stepped out. Smiled politely at the next person in line. Washed her hands with pink liquid soap from the dispenser that smelled a little like the cheap potpourris sold at a flea market back home. She walked to the coffee house, ordered a fancy sweet tea that came in a square glass that still had bits of a price tag stuck on its underside.

She's still thinking.

“What now?”

Friday, July 27, 2007

Fish Scales or The Boy Who Would Not Poop

There was once a little boy of 5 or so. His name was Earnest Child. He had dark brown hair, a tiny nose and large eyes that widen at the sight of ice cream, teared when Mr Nibbles (his hamster) died from eating french fries, and droop with sleep every night at a minute past eight. He was the normalest little boy in all the land and never in all his five years did he do anything to anger God.

Alas, the poor child's mother was an atheist.

Now, some time along the way, it became apparent that Earnest's mother was appallingly sick and would not last till the end of the week. Normal people came to the house, pouring sympathy on to Earnest till he was dripping with it from every pore. They told him, "Earnest darling, don't be sad. Your mother is going to go to Heaven, and one day, you'll be able to see her again." And they sobbed and they wept and they prayed for the child.

Earnest, having been raised by an atheist and (heavens!!) a single mother, didn't have the slightest clue what the visitors were talking about. "Where is Heaven?" he asked himself. His little forehead made wiggly lines as he tried to recall whatever little he knew about the geography of the world. He pulled out the "Bobby's World Atlas for Kids - Politically Correct at the Time of Printing", a ridiculously large volume that mapped out the globe and at the point of publishing had the correct number of countries and war zones and what-nots.

He couldn't find Heaven.

Frustrated at the ineptitude of the "Bobby's World Atlas for Kids - Politically Correct at the Time of Printing", Earnest climbed onto his mother's bed to complain. Ms Child, hazy and slightly deranged what with her impending death and all, threw up in the bucket by her bed, wiped her mouth and sat up a little to talk to her son.

"I can't find Heaven in the Atlas, Mama. Where is it?", asked Earnest earnestly. His mother, puzzled by her son's sudden interest in mythical places governed by deities, choked on a bit of bloody phlegm. She spat with the grace of a sickly young woman who has been kept in bed for two months and a day with barely enough strength to wipe her nose. "Why in Science's name do you want to know where Heaven is? Do you know what Heaven is, darling? I don't.", she rasped.

"But those people who came and poured sympathy on me in never ending buckets, those people told me that you were going to Heaven and that one day I will see you again. I thought you are going to die, Mama. Are you really actually planning to go on a holiday?"

Ms Child would have sighed only if it didn't hurt her chest so. All she wanted was to raise her darling boy free of strange, confused, misinterpreted ideas of religion and the many many deities out there until he was old enough to read and interpret in his own way any which one of the hundreds of religions out there that he so fancied to make his own. Considering her impending death, that would now be rather impossible unless she threw him into the jungle to be raised by wolves with the help of a bear and a panther and then later on, fight a very large tiger.

"Now, listen Earnest, I am going to die. If you really must believe that I am going someplace else after I die, instead of decomposing peacefully in a coffin buried in the garden, then here's my plan of what I'm going to do after I die. I'm going to be a fish. And I'm going to swim the oceans and meet mermaids and Johnny Depp and after which, I'm going to live at the bottom of the ocean observing the peace and quiet of nothingness. How about that, darling?"

"What sort of fish, Mama?"

"I'll be a sturgeon."

Now, Earnest, being very young, very naive and unaccustomed to sarcasm, took his mother's word for the whole and complete truth. His mother never lied to him. And so, when his mother died, he wept a little. Then he began reading on fish, their anatomy and their habits.

You see, Earnest really really missed his mother and he too wanted to see mermaids. So he thought and thought for a really long while. How could he be a fish too, specifically a sturgeon? He knew he had two options (1) to die like his Mama and then decide to become a fish, or (2) somehow become a fish without dying. Now, Earnest was a bright little boy and a practical one too. He was quite aware that he could not eat any more ice-cream if he died, because if he was dead he could not buy one, and therefore, he chose option 2.

There were two very important parts that made a fish a fish, thought Earnest. The scales and the gills. One of the books he read did mention that "fish scales, like hair, are made from waste materials that are not required by the body, but cleverly processed and repackaged into hard, protective armour for the fish! Oh, what ingenious creatures they are, these fish."* Earnest knew what he had to do to get scales.

He would not poop.

Logic being, that if he would not poop, his waste materials would have no where to go, forcing his body to cleverly process and repackage it into hard, protective armour for him! And so he refused to poop. He grew bloated, and grumpy and his skin turned a strange shade of green. But the scales were taking a long while to appear. Eventually Earnest realised that it is far easier to refrain from pooping when he didn't drink much water and promptly limited his water intake to 2 careful sips a day. His skin grew dark grey, and it became hard and scaly.

Success! thought Earnest. He had finally grown scales! And now, he had to learn how to breathe underwater. "Gilled little boys are made, not born.", mused the scaly Earnest, as he filled the bathtub with water. When the tub was full and the water was warm, Earnest took a large breath of air and dunked his head into the tub. At first, he kept very very still as he watched little bubbles of air that escape his nose float up and disappear, flinching every once in awhile as the water seeped into the cracks in his lips and between his scales. Every metamorphosis he ever read about was always described as painful, which meant he was on the right track, thought the underwater Earnest. Happily, he tried to push the spent air in his lungs out of the sides of his neck. He pushed and he pushed. And he pushed for 3 minutes.

And finally, suddenly, with a startling "pop", his gills sprouted and the air rushed out! And as his body filled with water, as a fish's body does, Earnest felt, no, he knew he was the happiest boy in the whole wide world.

-END-

*excerpt from The Complete Guide to Acceptable Animals for Young Children written by Dr. Spock.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

First Post

This is the obligatory first post of a blog that shall do the following:

1) describe what this weblog is about and how complicated my life is as a young individual,
2) explain why I chose to start a weblog when I really am a busy young individual whose life just happens to be rather extraordinarily lousy,
3) gives excuses for the disposal of previous weblogs and
4) provide a disclaimer on how I am actually really popular and do have friends but this weblog allows me to express myself in ways that I can't really do with my 4959029840958 cool friends.


The answers below are in order of objectives listed above:

1) NA
2) NA
3) NA
4) That's not true. I don't have friends.

-END-