In Continuum.

These Five Words Tonight

I traced the pipes lining the walls with my eyes,the red clock flashing by on the screen above,an hour till the end of my duty.I didnt have a watch,and every second on that chair at the back of the vehicle shed felt like eons.The placed smelled like rotten food,with the packet of ration on it's side,with its contents spilled out over the grease-stained floor.Martin slept quietly on the stretcher,within a metre radius of the rotting vegetable,and i wondered how he managed to fall asleep under such extreme conditions.The rainwater kept on dripping from the metal roof,and the splashing of those on the ground were the only sounds i heard that night,aside from Martin's soft breathing,as i desperately tried to keep myself awake by talking to myself and singing a random tune.

Imaginary circles on the ground,the dust swirled under my boots and a cloud of them formed.I kept talking,and i almost forgot about the existence of the others sleeping behind the pillar.I talked anyway,a habit i have not recollection of when it started.It just sort of did i guess,and i remember my friends and I arguing if it is a sign of somebody going crazy.Timothy,i remember,disagreed on that,while the others turned a queer eye at me,wondering about a loose screw and a faulty wire.

I started with the beginning,and talked my way through to the first meeting.I talked about what you wore,and i talked about where i stood when i first saw you.I talked about what i first said,and i talked about your smile.I talked about the fireworks when we talked over the phone,and i talked about the rain.I talked about the Smarties,and i talked about the outline of your hand in my notebook.I talked about what you wore again,and i talked about the poem i wrote.I talked about the song i wrote about you,and i talked about the concert over the telephone.I talked about the overnight conversation you still owe me,and i talked about the impulsive trip to your place.I talked about what you wore as you dashed out of your place,i talked about the warmth of the brownies against my thighs.I talked about the smudged handwriting in the card,and i talked about you reading it three times over on the floor that night.I talked about the brownies becoming your breakfast the next morning,and i talked about how they made your day.I talked about you walking through the rain and telling me about it,and i talked about how i was walking through the rain when you did so.I talked about the playground we sat at and talked for four hours straight,and i talked about you waving goodbye through the cab window.I talked about birthday present Ahmad spotted for me at Wheelock's,and i talked about meeting your brother outside your home.I talked about the cafe we had our lunch at,and i talked about the graffitti i left on the wall.I talked about the drawing you did of me as a baby,and i talked about you calling me a bad dancer.I talked about how the charity workers mistook us for a couple,and i talked about the only purple heart left in their hand.I talked about the million times we tried to take a photograph on the train,and i talked about how dumb i looked in it.I talked about the the special message that i saved in my old phone,and i talked about me losing the phone afterwards.I talked about the shock in the McDonald's,and i talked about your little secret.I talked about the walk we had to your house where i borrowed a toilet,and i talked about the last time you waved goodbye through the cab window.I talked about the silence that preceeded,and i talked about the messaged that followed soon after.I talked about the silence,and i talked about my silence.I talked about my scream that followed after,and i talked somemore about your utter silence.I talked about us not talking,and i talked about me talking to myself.I talked about hating you,and i talked even more about loving you...

I talked and talked,and i was going nowhere.It's not like there was an audience before me to hear my story,or even a cat this time to stare at me with those big watery eyes,all confused and innocent.I was there all alone,and only myself to seek comfort in.I traced my eyes along the pipes along the wall somemore,and they led to nowhere,with my eye-sight eventually losing the pipe at the very end of the darkness on the other side of the shed,and wondered if that was a representation of my present state.

Thursday night,it was a little past 12.30am.I was in my bunk,unable to sleep because of the adrenaline rush from the Taboo game.That was fun,i thought.Kept my mind off things.I messaged a friend of mine,and she replied,depressed.Dreaming and thinking about the same person can be tough,cant it?It's torture,and it grinds you done to the bone,and you bleed so much you dont feel anymore.But you are so numb it hurts,did that even make sense?

I told her,and in a way i told myself,that if there were good memories,then they should be treasured,because after it is these memories that piece us up,make us uniquely us and different from others.They can either make or break us,and when they do make us,we are always so much more beautiful than we were before.That is my opinion,and i think if she didnt kill you physically,she already made you stronger.

Sara once asked if i ever cried over this.I told her that i didnt,and i told her that i didnt know why either.But i know now,i know why.Because she is the reason of who i am today,shaped me and moulded me into who i am,this brave soul,bracing the harshness of life and the likes.

What couldve been worse than NS life?Five days in camp was enough to put me on the edge of my window ledge nineteen storys above the ground floor.Five days in camp was enough to put the edge of a knife to my wrist,and all it took was a couple of more weeks to make it come to life,make that happen.But there was a motivation,a light at the end of the tunnel,a person at the end of the week.We talked every weekend,and i remember looking forward to that every single day of the week.I knew,that it didnt matter how much i was going through,how tough the training was.Because at the very end is the ultimate consolation,the very best of all salvations.

So she roughened me up for the test,and subconsciously i became this stronger person because i've always had that motivation at the end of the week,even if she is not around for me.Not anymore.She,completed the puzzle of who i am today.She completed me.

And today,on a strange misty Saturday afternoon,i am wondering about all the emotions that every directed my fingers on these keyboards,typing out all the different feelings that i have had over this issue.Anger,jealousy,love,regret,despair,repair,envy and so much more.All those emotions came and went over the keys of the keyboard,reflected upon the page of this very blog.But it's not like i meant most of those things,or rather it's not like any of those were long lasting.I dont hold grudges,because it is not in me to do so.I merely think back,and smile and cry at times.At the end of the day there is no hate,there is no anger.There are no tears and there is no jealousy.Only a couple of words,and a heart felt warmth deep inside that i never gotten them out before.I feel,that as a person who changed my life so dramatically and so drastically,i feel like i owe you some kind of apology,or a "Thank You",somehow.

Thank You for Loving Me.Just these five words i give you.As honest as it sounds,i hope you read this.I really do.And i meant it,i really did.

The Hurt

I’m a good man
In a dark room
In a big town
Under a full moon
It’s a friday and I’m almost home

I’m in a good place
Full of head space
Got a brand new pack in my suitcase
But it’s dinner and then it's bed alone

How do you break a mended heart?
I'm bored and want something to do

I wanna fall,
Fall asleep
Asleep in the arms, the arms of a woman
A woman who doesn't, doesn’t deserve my love

I wanna lie, lie to myself
Myself and someone else
Just to feel something, something that hurts me
The hurt makes me feel alive

Gonna make it,
like I need her
Gonna miss her the moment I meet her
And it’s only gonna get worse from there

I’ll be rappin' there in the shower
She’ll be here by the end of the hour
I can do better
But I can’t do better now

How do you break a mended heart?
I'm bored and want something to do

I wanna fall,
Fall asleep
Asleep in the arms, the arms of a woman
A woman who doesn’t, doesn’t deserve my love

I wanna lie, lie to myself
Myself and someone else
Just to feel something, something that hurts me
The hurt makes me feel alive

So long is over
Nice to skip the chance you get to know you
Why did I think this was true?
Because I want to

I wanna fall,
Fall asleep
Asleep in the arms, the arms of a woman
A woman who doesn’t, doesn’t deserve my love

I wanna lie, lie to myself
Myself and someone else
Just to feel something, something that hurts me
The hurt makes me feel alive

I wanna fall
I wanna need
I wanna laugh, cry, say goodbye
Beg, lie, cheat and steal...

Institutionalized

The common problem for every red-blooded male in Singapore is - other than female-related ones - National Service.Aside from the fact that you shave those beautifully dyed and carefully dishevelled on the very first day of the service,perhaps the most petrifying aspect of National Service comes down to a single word in the Oxford Dictionary: Adaptation.

On the very first day,also the very worst day,of National Service,we were treated to a clean shave of our heads to the very foundation of our heads,and treated - for the very first time - like dogs.Most of us probably had a hard time getting used to the coolness at the back of your head when a wind blows,the way your sergeant rained saliva over your faces while you had your palms on the sun-baked ground,in an awkward push-up position and asking yourself what you did in life to deserve this sort of treatment,or the fact that your buttocks are revealed to fellow platoon mates every single night,and once a year during your birthday with camo-cream and snake powder added to spice things up as well.

The point is,that it is all about adaptation to life.It is all about getting used to things,and when you overcome that stage of adaptation,everything would seem like a breeze to you,a piece of cake,peanuts.

Two years is a long time for anybody to adapt to any environment.And if by the end of your 'tour' you are still sucking on your thumb and relying in your mother to look after you 24/7,then i am sorry to say that you have utterly wasted two years of your life learning nothing,gaining nothing,and forsaking everything.However,like a habit or addiction,the life in NS is hard to shake off once you leave the system.The magical and holy ORD date awaits at the end of this long race to the finish line,and everybody rushes towards it like travelers lost in the desert,and before them an oasis brimming with life.

Institutionalized is when you are too used to the life somewhere,and instead of wanting to get out of that place,you start to fear the outside world altogether.And such 'disease' is common amongst the men,who have been too used to the daily routine lives of the military.So this article aims to reveal some of the tell tale signs that might suggest that you are too used to the daily routines of NS:

1)You wake up punctually at 5.30am everyday,weekday or not.
2)You remind your mother to conduct overturning drills whenever she is fetching
you somewhere.
3)You hate the direction Half-Left.
4)You dash into the nearest cover once you charge out of your mother's car.
5)You offered to be a sentry for your vehicle when your mother goes off to buy
groceries.
6)"Blue Stone" is the codeword for friends to visit your place.Any other
codewords would be disapproved,and your friends locked out.
7)You moved into your front lawn and sleep in a hole.
8)You hate the colour green.
9)You shout "contacted!" whenever a balloon bursts.
10)You have the urge to strip your friends on their birthday parties.
11)You suggested to your boss to have a Company Orderly Secretary.
12)You still use a pager.
13)You dont have a camera handphone.
14)You pack canned food and biscuits, whenever you are driving
15)You do AHS to you car while waiting for the lights to change.
16)You start every phone conversation with " send."
17)You have codenames for everyone.
18)You yell "Gas!Gas!Gas!" when somebody farts in the lift.
19)You direct the cab driver to turn left by poking him with a stick.
20)You cannot stop saying some form of vulgarity in every sentence.
21)You have an extra pair of underwear and socks wherever you go.
22)Your favourite brand of sneakers is New Balance.
23)You go NTUC expecting to pay your things with your IC.
24)You walk with your elbows locked everywhere.
25)You have a craving for green bean barley dessert.
26)You ask "How long you need" whenever anyone is late.
27)You boast to your girlfriend,telling her that you can strip a rifle in under
24 seconds,and if you can do it to her within a shorter period of time,she
should give you a Nights Off.
28)You force your family to take Malaria pills on holiday trips.
29)You secretly give your son a condom and asks him not to visit red-light
districts.
30)Your favourite song is the "Left toe,Right toe" book out song.
31)You shout "GOOD DAY!" after work.
32)You run and hide whenever a whistle blows.
33)You sweep every Friday.
34)You call food, "rations".
35)You shout the time whenever you jog pass someone.
36)You need to establish an arc of fire before you piss.
37)You EAT milo.
38)You still wonder who the hell came up with chicken pongtay rice.
39)You do EED whenever it starts to rain.
40)You shout "Victory!" with every mention of the number 40. VICTORY!

Taboo

Taboo is the greatest game in the world.I'm not just saying it because i played it last night,but because it is the cold hard truth.Taboo,is the greatest game in the world,and i am saying that for the second time in three lines.I know,such things only need to be said once,but i guess a part of me is still high over the game yesterday night.

For some reason Reece decided to pick the game up when he went out with Eddie and ShiWei for fifty bucks.I didnt know it costs as much to play it at the Mindcafe(What a bloody rip-off),but i thought it was cool of him to bring the game into camp.

He's a little outline on the rules.You and your friends are divided into two major groups.There will be a stack of cards in front of you,and there will be a word like "Spinning",or "Pizza",or "George Washington" on it.Below that word(s) will be a list of other words you cannot use to describe the word on top.For example,if the word is "Devil",the forbidden words or "Taboos",would be "Satan","Lucifer","Horns","Hell" etc.A person from each group is selected at any one time,and he is supposed to help his teammate guess the word without using the forbidden words below.The most number of words guessed in one minute,wins.

So,after the little farewell party we had for our leaving O.C,the guys went upstairs to Section 1 to play the game.I think the game went out of control after a while,with chinese and hokkien words blurted out as hints for the teammates,though strictly illegal according to the rules.Because there's a time limit,people's minds usually go blank during the description,and at times say the funniest and dumbest thing altogether.Or,there are the vaguest answers possible from the guys,which were really hilarious,even now that i think about it.

[Word: Tuxedo]
Nicholas,"Jackie Chan."
Reece,"Tuxedo!"

[Word: Yoko Ono]
Jonathan,"The four-piece band that was very famous in the 60s?"
Me,"The Beatles!"
Jonathan,"The one who died..."
Me,"George Harrison!"
Jonathan,"No!"
Me,"Ringo Starr!"
Jonathan,"He's not dead!"
Me,"JOHN LENNON!"
Jonathan,"Yes!His wife!"
Me,"WHO??"

[Word: Ouija Board]
Jonathan,"They have this in chinese,to talk to ghosts with fingers..."
Me,"Oh FUCK!What's that,ARGH!!!Oh!!!OUIJA BOARD!!!"

[Word: Dimple]
WeiLun,"What's a Jiu3 Wo1(Dimple in chinese)"

[Word: Cockroach]
Reece,"Xiao Qiang!"
Me,"Cockroach!"

[Word: Armpit Hair]
Jonathan,"QinYou has a lot of this."
Me,"Hair!"
Jonathan,"At what place?"
Me,"Armpit Hair!"

[Word: Pregnant]
Nicolas,"What happens to a woman after she has sex?"
Jonathan,"Tired!"

[Word: Cage]
Somebody,"Where does QinYou live?"

[Word: Potato]
Jonathan,"What is See Hwee?"

[Word: Ostrich]
Ah Change,"SGT. EDDIE!!!"

[Word: Nag]
Jonathan,"Xiao Eddie does this a lot."

[I forgot what the word was here]
ShiWei,"Something you use..."
Us,"WE USE A LOT OF THINGS!"

A Careless Kiss

Like the days before today,like the skies before yesterday's,it refused to rain despite the clouds that hung low like floating mountain ranges.An office lady's skirt was being blown all over the place,as she desperately tried to push it down while balancing her files in her right hand.An Indian met with a friend of hers from across the road,and they embraced under the tree,which was shedding leaves as if autumn was here,and Singapore decided to have four seasons.

I was across the road,four lanes away watching as the world went by before me.Ahmad was late,and i was already halfway through my John Mayer playlist.That's saying a lot,because i have a lot of his bootlegs.Five minutes from Ahmad's mouth,should usually be multiplied by two,or three if you are the morbid sort.Multiplication of two would mean you are normal,or sensible.But anyway,he was late and there i was in full view of the security guard at the entrance of my estate,wondering if i was plotting some bombing scheme while ten cabs drove pasts me asking if i was waiting for one.It was rather embarrassing,but since Sabrina was in the car when i got in,i didnt say too much concerning his speed.After all,i kinda like Sabrina.As a person,that is.

Anyway,a pair of girls came out from my estate then and waited for a cab.They asked if i was waiting for one,and i told them i was waiting for a friend who was tremendously late,instead.One of them was an indian girl,in black t-shirt and shorts,almost too short for her.Her hair was tied back in a knot,and her slippers flopped on the ground as she walked her other friend to the curb.Her other friend was - as we used to term them - a butch.I'm not sure how that term came about,but i guess that's it is now.

A white cab came,and the butch was about to leave.The Indian girl reached over around her waist,and pulled the butch close and gave her a kiss on the lips.It was a short kiss,almost not noticed by all the eyes around them at that time but mine.It most obviously wasnt a "Bye Friend!",kind of kiss.I know the differences.And there they were,with the door to the cab opened and the driver waiting,planted a kiss on each others' lips so carelessly and so fearful,almost afraid that somebody would see them and accuse them of some indecent crime.

But it wasnt a crime,but in essence,beyond the fact that it was a kiss between members of the same sex,it was merely a display of affection.When did that become something wrong,something unspeakable?The butch got into the cab and it drove off,leaving the Indian girl behind.She turned,and looked around her as if to see if anybody saw them,and took small steps back into the estate and into the void deck under her block.I dont think she noticed me,but there i was imagining how it might turn out,if her parents realised that their daughter is a lesbian,how they are going to react.You know how Indian and Malay parents are more sensible to such issues,relating to religious beliefs and stuff.I dont know,i imagine that to be the reason of that little glimmer in her eyes,as if she had a secret she didnt want to tell.Or,a secret finally allowed to see the light of day,away from her parents and in the sight of strangers.

It didnt matter that they were lesbians to me,because like i said before,in the 21st century it is all about "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy".Or so they say of course,but i think there is a general disagreement on such acts,even if the essence of such acts happens everyday,even for those who objects to them.It is the purity of love that matters,isnt it?And not the givers of love,for even the lowest in the society is capable of love,or even a lover that is greater than all.

Four Thirty Seven

"There is something about driving on the road at 4am in the morning,listening to Groove Armada",said my mother once while we were stuck in a sort of traffic jam.Because of my father's odd flight timings at times,she drives to the airport to pick him up during the wee-hours of the morning.And when that happens,she tells me,that it is a great feeling to be driving on the road with no cars whatsoever,and it's just you,the road,and the wind that is blowing against your windscreen.

I dont remember going home so late before.Driving down CTE at 4am this morning was quite an interesting experience,as we sped through the tunnels and the expressway with nothing ahead of us,nor drivers flashing the headlights of their cars asking you to drive faster.It was a liberating experience to say the least,and with John Mayer's Continuum softly playing in the background,Ahmad and I found our way home soon after from Samantha's home all the way in Boon Lay.

The dogs stopped barking,and the cars started to disappearing.The air was heavy around our shoulders,or was it the silence that was weighing us down?In the void deck under Samantha's house our footsteps echoed around the walls,and we half expected some thug to jump out from behind one of those pillars and threaten us for cash at knife-point.It was just quiet in a very creepy way,and i found myself desperately wanting to get into the car at the carpark,for some unknown and strange reason.I've never felt that before,which was rather strange.

When you have just finished a movie marathon with your friends and a long chat with each other,and you are high on Coke and punch,and it is 4am in the morning,the last thing you want is to grow a conscience while driving down the road.The both of us started blabbering things about our lives,and the odd thing is that i cannot remember half the stuff we talked over.It mustve been the time,but i guess in a way the words just flowed so subconsciously we just allowed them to do so,like the time when Ahmad placed his hands behind his head,and let the car go on on it's on down the road.Whatever we talked about though,i remember cursing about it in the lift up to my home,and staying up till 6am in the morning thinking about it over and over.

On the dashboard there was a clock that flashed,and in the darkness of the car at that hour of the morning it was especially prominent.4.37am,i mustve been crazy i thought to myself.The air-conditioning was way too cold,and that mustve been why i couldnt messaging Ahmad's mother and friend properly while he was driving.He was driving buy her campus then,and he just wanted to drop a message to say that he was close to her.You know,all that cheesy ass jazz.

But don't we all love those cheesy-ass-jazz?We are all guilty of it,cheap thrills and guilty pleasures.We dont publically announce our love for those little messages,but deep inside you know that you crave for such things.It's a matter of desire that differentiates you and me,and i can safely say that i am living okay,without random message from friends,at 5am in the morning just to wake you up from your comfortable sleep.

"At least you have somebody to message that kinda shit to",i remember saying."I dont even have those,and even if i do have she's probably going to ignore it,or reply the coldest reply in the world." I mustve sounded like i was sulking,but i guess in a way at 4am when you are high on Coke,anything goes.

"Are you ready to go into a relationship,knowing that she might be in it with you just because she wants to 'test it out'?Are you ready to be in a relationship with her,knowing full well that she is unsure about her feelings,and that the both of you are just subjects in this...test?"

That was what i said,at some point of the journey back home.And i think it made some senseless sense,even if it meant that i was a little out of my wits then.It didnt matter i guess,if they sounded like random blabbering at that time,or even now.It felt like this splinter in my finger that i wanted out,and to throw that splinter at some poor victim close at hand.Sorry Ahmad,but you were in the vicinity.

I opened the car door beneath my block,and i remember stumbling out like a drunkard but not nearly as pathetic.Perhaps i was just tired,i thought."Good evening..." i said,and closed the car door.This time,with the right strength,and recieved a thumbs-up through the window.

I think i know what i was thinking at 4.37 then.I think i know who i was thinking about at that time.But i guess,i didnt want it to get to me,because i know at that kind of hour,even the strongest man is the most vulnerable.So i allowed the insomnia to swallow me in,and there in bed i laid until the sky turned a little blue in the East,and the air-conditioning made a constant buzzing sound.

Ain't No Reason

There ain't no reason things are this way
It's how they've always been and they ain't seem to stay
I can't explain why we live this way
We do it everyday

Preachers on the podium speaking the saints
Prophets on the sidewalk begging for change
Old ladies laugh from the fire escape
Cursing my name

I got a basket full of (something) and they always taste the same
I wonder if the pigeon with the broken wing
You could spend you whole life working for something
Just to have it taken away

People walk around pushing back their desks
Wearing paychecks like necklaces and bracelets
Talking about nothing,not thinking about death
Every little heartbeat every little breath

People walk a tight rope on a razor's edge
Carried in their hurt and hatred and their weapons
It could be a bomb,or a bullet or a pin
Or a thought,or a word,or a sentence

There ain't no reason why things are this way
It's how they've always been and they ain't seem to stay
I dont't know why i say the things i say
But i say them anyway

Love will come set me free
Love will come set me free
I do believe
Love will come set me free
I know it will
Love will come set me free

Prison walls still standing tall
Some things never change at all
Keep on building prisons gonna fill them all
Keep on building bombs gonna drop them all

Working your fingers bare to the bone
Breaking your back make yourself useful
Laugh along, it's filled with cold
Suffocating slow

The wind blows wild and i may move
But politicians lie and i am not fool
You dont need no razor nor a three-piece suit
To argue the truth

The air on my skin, in the world and under my toes
Laborers stitched them to the fabric of my clothes
Chaos and commotion wherever i go
Love i try to follow

Love will come set me free
Love will come set me free
I do believe
Love will come set me free
I know it will
Love will come set me free

There ain't no reason things are this way
It's how they've always been and they ain't seem to stay
I can't explain why we live this way
We do it everyday

Escapism

Had one of those dreams again.A restaurant full of familiar,staring at me as i ducked between shoulders of strangers and friends alike,hiding from them as if i was ashamed.But was i really ashamed,as i felt that presence lurking behind me all the time?I was running away from that person,but i didnt know who it was.It was somebody,existing only as a presence at the back of my head,pushing me on through the crowd as they stared at me utter confusion.

That was when my teeth fell out.Again.It was one of those dreams,the common ones that make you break into cold sweat.I remember plucking them out with my own fingers,and there we blood all over my pants and shirt.But nobody cared for the blood,but only at the person before their eyes,seemingly running away from something,the person involved in a secret escapism of sorts.What was i running from?Who was i hiding from?

Falling teeth would represent,in a person's dream,how mindful one can be of their looks.While the feeling of being chase could be a sense of escapism,running away from daily routines in desire of daydreaming,fantasy or entertainment.I know dreams dont mean anything,but i guess like horoscopes they are just interesting to know sometimes.

What am i running away from?Who am i hiding from?I woke up,finding myself asking those questions before the television.8 Mile was showing on Star Movies,and all the characters - though however screwed up - all had their dreams and goals.Only because,they wanted to get out of that place so much,because the place was eating into their,swallowing their bones.Or were they the eater of themsevles,feasting on their souls as they watched their corrupting bodies,crumbling before their very eyes,and blamed everybody else for the deterioration?

I know it is just a dream.
I know it doesnt mean anything.
But at times it only just seems.
Like it is trying to tell me everything.

The Movie Club

The Movie Club is a gathering of movie-enthusiasts,on a strange weekday night somewhere usually,where we sit down and watch a couple of good movies while munching on snacks.That is what,usually happens of course but there are times when we deviate from our original goals and start talking non-stop into the night.I know that is not true to the spirit of The Movie Club,but then again deep inside the motto of the club,the essence of it really is to get together and have fun,movie or no movie.

So yesterday was such a night,the original members(Ahmad,Valerie and Myself),was joined by Samantha all the way at Boon Lay,merely a five minute walk from Jurong Point.I never knew that she lives THAT close to Jurong Point.If i had known i wouldve forgotten about the shopping mall and head straight to her place every single Nights Off.I mean seriously,despite Belle who barks at 4am in the morning like a bitch,or the not-so comfortable sofas,i wouldnt mind hanging with a couple of old friends in between army times.I mean,it's therapeutic in a way i'm sure?

We packed a bunch of food there,and with those Samantha came out with fruit punch she made(Guava,was it?).It was too sweet,but we didnt care much about it anyway.Jerry Maguire was just too good to be distracted in any way.I'm glad that they enjoyed the movie,a sort of satisfaction only a DVD-owner can feel.Samantha even has a collection LDs.Some of us dont even remember those big-ass discs,like those flying razor blades from Wild Wild West.They really looked like those,and it's not like flipping the discs from one side to another is an easy task i'm tell you.They are HUGE.Those are just some of the antiques aside from the furnitures and stuff(Strange enough,she had a bunch of guitars at home as well,but without strings.What's the deal with that?)

After the second movie(Edward Scissorhands),we ended up talking deep into the night.I mean,it wasnt because none of us wanted to watch The Shawshank Redemption,but i guess we(Or just myself),got a little too carried away with telling army tales.Haha.Of course,we didnt just talk about THAT,but i did most of the talking i must admit,and my throat was threatening to close in on itself,partly because of the talking and also because i was responsible for half the packet of Lays.After the India trip i became a Lays-freak,so forgive me on that guys.

It was a nice little chat till like 4am in the morning when we decided to leave.We talked everything from walking swamps,to snakes in the water,to condom distribution at the airport(Yes,Samantha.Not for you!),old classmates shopping for lingeries,Africa Vs. Middle East,John Mayer and so many more things.That was a great substitution over the movie i guess,and as the bottle of Coke slowly emptied quietly,the clock ticked by towards the eventual sign at the very end that says,"Too Late".

But it was really fun guys,the distance didnt matter at all(Of course,that's because Ahmad did the driving).We got to do this the next time,and we got to change venue again and FINALLY finish The Shawshank Redemption for sure,something Ahmad tried four times and never succeeded.At least at my place,i dont have a crazy dog and a more comfortable sofa!And no 5.1 digital surround sound of jetplanes flying over your head.

PS.Ahmad,i think Sabrina is cute.So damn the boyfriend.

PPS.I love Invis' father.Hahaha.

PPPS.Samick sucks Samantha.Admit it.

PPPPS.Samantha's parents are amazing.Thanks for the food.

PPPPPS.Help me say Hi to Freddy and Patrick.Haha.

Writings

Woke up to a rainy morning today.Rain splattered and the wind blew,the air-conditioning made funny noises,as i crawled up and stared out into the world with utter admiration.I dont remember the last time staring out my room's window and see rain,the way it was this morning.I could hear my mother leaving for the office with my sister outside my door,but at that time of the morning i didnt want my mother to ask why i was awake so early and all those questions.Besides,i dont think the rain is a valid reason to forsake one's sleep,now is it?

It still stirs i guess,and i am like a glass of juice left in the freezer for an amount of time,but not long enough to have the whole cup frozen?There is still water,and by stirring the spoon,the ice cube spins,and it doesnt seem to stop spinning.There i was,frozen in a sort of way,and still stirred by the splattering of the rain on my window panes.But just a little bit i guess,no longer as strong or as mind-bending.Instead of grieving,i laid in bed thinking about Jonathan Champion,the dead pianist.

A minor and E minor,variations of those two and you get "Everyday",a song by a pianist called Carly Comando.I was drowning in the waters of self-destruction yesterday night.Writer's block,or so they call it.But i wasnt even having a writer's block.I mean,a writer's block is when you are halfway through something and then...blocked,right?Yesterday night was when i couldnt even start writing,when i didnt have anything to say about...well,anything.Which was strange,considering the length of my entries.I had ideas going on in my head,my brain like a lava lamp with ideas going around in convectional currents.But i couldnt put them down in words.Words that would string together to look good enough,and i was so frustrated with myself,for trying so hard.Or,almost too hard.

I decided to keep my mind of things by watching a video made by this guy called Noah Kalina.Apparently he took a picture of himself everyday,for the past six years and made it into a video(You can see the video in the link provided).A little creepy i must say,but what captured me the most about the video really was the music in the background,done by Carly Comando,a friend of his.Carly is not a recording artistes whatsoever,she's merely a member of the band called Slingshot Dakota.The depth of that piece of music called "Everyday",was beyond anything that i have ever heard.And i remember the scenes of the story that i had in mind falling into places,with the rise and fall of the notes,through my speakers and resonating off the walls of my room.Beautiful stuff,and do check it out.

I dont know why my stories always revolves around death.I guess it is the fascination and fear of it that spurted me on.Or,perhaps the music was just too enchanting in a very dark and mysterious way,like death.I guess since we can never run away from it,we might as well embrace it any way possible.I dont think a story reflects the personality of oneself.It's not like everybody is Virginia Woolf,killing themselves after writing a potentially suicidal book.I dont think i am going to slice myself anytime soon.I havent got the guts,but i guess it is the fascination of it that,help me write the stuff that i have written.Because happy stuff,in general,are just...too happy.Haha.

I'm proud of what i have written,and i must say that some are better than the others,some are closer to heart than the others.But i guess in a way,ten years down the road,i am going to see myself in every single one of them,one way or another.Isnt anything autobiographical?

Jamie Suicides
29 Anderton Drive
Heartbreak Cafe
El Daba
Talk
Little Miss Duplicity
Thumbelina
Purple Hyacinth
Rain Dance
Needle Girl
Hush Now
Raincoat Boy and the Pink Dress Girl
Puddle World
What He Wrote
What She Saw
Suti
Emily Part I: Contrasts
Emily Part II: Loathe Her, Loathe Love
Emily Part III: Eternity
Emily Part IV: Two to Tango
Blood Red Heels
Precarious Me.Stupendous You.
Covered in Rain
The Boy Who Lived Underground
Dear Diana
Kelly Grew Legs

I'm sure i missed out something.Oh,what the hell.:)

Kelly Grew Legs

Nothing ever happened on the street i lived on when i was a child.The most exciting aspect of it was probably the fact that the street was called "Garfield Street",and every cat in the neighbourhood suddenly had an uncanny similarity with that fat cartoon cat.The truth is,other than the relationship with that famous cartoon character,people who lived in the same estate never cared too much for each other,nor did they bother to bridge the distance between one another.Everybody watched from between curtains or from across rosy fences.We were like any other Jacksonville or Springfield,one of those very common towns you find anywhere on an American map.

My father was a lawyer in the city,and he spends most of the time away from home.I'd be lying if i tell you now that i knew my father.Because truth be told,he was the person in my life who provided the toy truck,the plastic shovel,the set of prehistoric animals,G.I. Joes,the Santa Claus.I remember whenever my father comes home from one of his overseas trip in the late afternoon(It's always in the late afternoon),he'd be hiding something behind his back,and made me guess what he had for me.I usually went for the impossible: Superman's cape, mini-Bat Mobile,or Disneyland tickets.Nonetheless,i got the present anyway,and they never disappointed.So much so,that i'd remain in the front lawn and begin a prehistoric battle between a T-Rex and Raptors,which werent built according to scale,but it's not like it mattered back then.

But there was something special about a particular evening.It wasnt the present,that my father brought home,for i was shovelling sand into a plastic bucket in the mini-sandbox my father had built at the back of the house,along with a rusty swing.I felt a presence then,a sort of curiosity staring at me from all around.It didnt feel hostile,which mustve been why i didnt dash under the kitchen table right away.I remember calling out for a name,and as soon as i did so a rustle of the leaves from across the fences greeted me.I took a peek through the leaves,through a hole between the wooden planks of the fence,and all i saw was the back of a little girl in a yellow summer dress,with small flowers dotted all over,running through the creaking screen door into the house.She had beautiful blonde hair i remember,and though i did not see her face,i remembered that presence,which was full of fascination and almost a childish and innocent desire.

Kelly lived next door with her angry father and step-mother.She had a sister who was fifteen years older than her.She ran away from home when Kelly was born,or at least that's what my parents told me later on in my life.Kelly's mother died from pneumonia,and that caused an uproar in the neighbourhood for about fifteen minutes or so.I remember Mr. Johnson's hoarse voice from the back of the house,always screaming for his wife or for Kelly.He was always looking for somebody,or something.He questioned me once while i was shooting hoops on my driveway with my friend Alex,if i had seen his pack of cigarettes.

'Are the cigarettes afraid of you,Mr. Johnson?' i asked.

'What the hell for?'He replied.

'If they aren't,why are they hiding from you?'

The summer of 1983 was a strange year,because it rained for two weeks straight.My playground was reduced from the lawn to the front porch,and Alex was grounded for breaking his father's windscreen all summer.My father came home last evening with a new box of crayons i recall,and the exercise books from school became my eventual canvas.I drew the rosy fences and my collection of dinosaurs.I drew Mr. Johnson's cigarettes with legs,running away from him around the house.I drew the backview of my father,with tickets to Disneyland one hopeful afternoon,and i drew her.Though it was merely seconds before she vanished behind the screen door,i coloured her as vivid as possible,and i didnt know why exactly.I just...did.

'White,actually' a voice said.

I raised my head,and before me was a girl drenched from the rain.Her blonde hair was all over her face,and she had her left index in her hair,brushing them back to the back of her ears.It was Kelly,i realised,and she repeated what she said to me earlier.

'But i saw yellow.' I replied, confused.

'It mustve been the sun.Here,let me help you.'

I hate to admit this,but what i remember the most of Kelly was her wrist,as she took the white crayon from my box and coloured over the yellow portion i was halfway through then.I didnt know why,and i still dont.But as her wrist made invisible circles above my exercise book,i found my eyes trailing the imaginary lines,as if the pale skin on her wrist left a sort of light as it went by.It was purely innocent,and that was how i fell in love with Kelly Johnson.

She came by to my place almost everyday for that two weeks of rain.She'd come with her same dress drenched in rain,and at the door she would greet my mother with a smile across her face.She leaves before dinner most of the time,and always on time for some reason.She said her father comes home at that time,though sometimes a lot later than that.But she didnt want to take chances,she said.She said so while rubbing her wrists against the side of her dress until they were red,and in her eyes i thought i saw tears,but dismissed them as rainwater.But they werent rainwater,but real tears that welled up and disappeared almost immediately,like the secret she so desperately tried to keep,until the last night of the rainy days.

From the side of the porch,my father built a wooden fence that stretches to the balcony of the second floor.My mother loved gardening,and that was where she grew periwinkles,climbing up the fences all the way to the railings on the second storey.That stormy night the rain came down hard,and i remember the way the wind was blowing against my room's window was keeping me up all night.The long wailing of the wind through the fissures under the panes,sounded like frightful screaming of a dying dog somehow.And as i laid there with my covers drawn up to my nose,there was a shadow that appeared at my room's window.

I uttered a soft scream,but realised only seconds later that it was Kelly.As usual,she was drenched from head to toe,and she climbed into the room without waiting for me to answer.She wasnt in her dress then,but a white t-shirt and only her underwear.I wasnt quite sure what that meant,but as soon as i opened the window for her,she gave me a long cold hug that i still feel till this day.

'Protect me...' she said. 'Protect me...'

'What happened?'

'Remember those cigarettes you drew?'

'Yes?'

'I grew legs too.'

She kept crying and she wouldnt stop,and with her right hand she grasped her stomach while her left,she clinged on to the back of my neck,sinking her nails deep into my skin.I kept asking what happened,but that look in her eyes returned.It wasnt rainwater,but real tears rolling down her cheeks this time.She was rubbing her wrist against her shirt again,but this time it left not only a sore skin,but what looked like scars on the underside of her wrists.

Silently,without my knowing,a trail of blood came down her inner thighs,and though she tried to stop them by putting her legs together,they left a mark on the wooden floor that still remains till this day.She cried softly that night,and the rain kept falling and falling.

Dear Diana,

I am certain that i am going mad again.The head splitting sound in my head is back,and the top of my skull is cracking open.Only,nothing but echos of the past works oozes out of the gaping wounds.I tore out a chunk of hair out yesterday by accident,and the pain i felt then was - sad to say - exhilerating.At least for a moment there,it all made perfect sense,as i penned the notes and the tunes down on paper.It was a clarity that i have been seeking for so long and yet,at that very moment i was sent back to normality once more.How is it,that moments of greatness lasts only for so long?

I am going mad,and there isnt anybody other there to save me from myself,but the salvation that lies between the black and the white keys.They are mocking me,i swear i hear them in the night.When my fingers do not feel their wooden touch,when the strings do not resonate the notes that pleases,i hear their laughter in the night.I hear them,and they are haunting me,like being caught naked in a great hall of strangers.Here i am now,with sheets of paper strewned all over the floor and beneath this very book that i am writing on,and i calling out desperately for a lasting rush of emotions.Even if it means,that i am going to go mad,for certain this time round.

Dear Diana,

Remember the Jazz Lounge we used to go to around the block from my apartment?That same pianist is there again;that Jerome guy.In his gimmicky suit and that trademark smile,the audience was all over him even before he started on the first note.I was in the corner of the bar two hours ago with a glass of wine in my left hand while my right clenched into a tight fist inside of my pocket.My fingernails made depressions into my palm,as he played on into the night.The roaring cheer went on a minute after each song ended,and i crushed the glass in my palms.They sent an ambulance afterwards,and said something about a sliced artery.My shirt was soaked in my own blood,but the rush of pain through my mind,the blankness that followed spurted me on,as i dashed out of the ICU after a rough bandaging by the paramedics.

Because i had an idea,and do forgive me for my rashness.I swear to make it up to you with the most beautifully constructed melancholy.It is,i promise,going to be better than the pieces that Jerome played at the lounge.Oh,that Jerome,that man is an empty shell.Just the same pieces played over and over again,reversed and played once more.How disgusting;how repulsive;how appalling!This madness should be stopped,by another form of madness so beautiful,so stupendous,the audience would feel nothing but awe.

Dear Diana,

Slow dancing in these blood red heels
In a burning room where my heart still feels
This gaping hole only you can fill
Oh, dearest! May death be the way to heal...

Dear Diana,

Steam rose from the calm surface of the water.There i was,submerged in my own failure.I smashed the window today,Mrs. Arthur complained.But i couldnt help it,and i ask for your forgiveness once more.I couldnt help it,because in sight there was a vase and i saw myself in the reflection of it.I threw it out of the window,and along with it my reflection,because i couldnt bear to see myself anymore.I killed my reflection,as it sailed out of the window and into the streets below,and banged my fists against the keys until they were sore.

But my failure lasted only for so long,for i found my light at the end of the tunnel,my final salvation.With this entry is a drop of blood at the very top of the page,for that is the reason i am smiling while i write this entry now.Do not be surprised,because the blood of my own runs through you as well,and it is you in turn who saved me from my eventual destruction too.Oh,why havent i seen this long ago?I couldve done this,but why have i not?A simple visit to the bathroom can do you so much more,than just the echoing voices off the tiles.They say that the bathroom is the second best recording studio.But i say it is more than just there,for that is where the inspirations are: Behind the mirror.

I found the blades i've forgotten about.Oh yes,it mustve slipped my mind to tell you that i havent be shaving for two weeks.It's nasty,but it's not like i couldve done anything about it.But the blades were sharp,and impulse overwhelmed me as i drew lines like the ones of song sheets down my forearm.I couldnt stop,and as the blood trailed i saw the song,my path out of this self-depreciating failure.I was free!And as the blood dripped from the arm onto the plain white tiles and the warm bath water,i wrote the song that translated my pain and my sorrows,and there it was before me the ultimate masterpiece.

I told you,didnt i?That i will fulfill the promise.And with this promise,comes the greatest piece of material that i have done,literally with my sweat and blood.Here's the music dedicated to you,and with it my greatest love of all,for it and for you.

Dear Diana,

With every drop of blood comes the beginning of one's suffering.Tears would not matter anymore,for the end of the suffering comes death.Death,should you desire release from this strangle life takes hold on your throat,seek it with a pistol or a knife,sliced through your veins clean and quick.Or out of the window,as did my own reflections only an entry ago.

I feel that my masterpiece - or so it is called - is incomplete.It needs to have the second and third act.It needs to have an ending,or it would betray the beautiful beginning.Like the overture,something comes afterwards.Something.Anything.

So death is my answer,and i shall complete this bloody piece of masterful music with death.But how should i translate death,unlike the blood that oozed from my wounds?I paced the room and i thought of the possibilities.My hands trembled but i dared not touch it,for it felt too cold and too chilly.I backed off,and that was another failure staring at me in the eye.

Dear Diana,

The black and whites are mocking me again.I havent been sleeping for three days.Help.

Dear Diana,

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
I hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame

I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

The Toronto Star, September 24th, 1928

Death of a Pianist
Special to the Star

Famous pianist Jonathan Champion,29,was found in his apartment at Bronx Street by a witness who only wished to be address as Diana.She was the first person at the scene,claiming that she has been recieving disturbing letters from Mr. Champion.Though none of the letters point to a likely suicide attempt at that point,but the authorities have classified this case rightly so,according to Detective Martin,the chief inspector of this case.

According to Detective Martin,Mr. Champion was found at his piano with drafts of his work all over,and a bullet hole through his right temple proved to be the cause of death.Other injuries suffered by Mr. Champion also included deep wounds in his left forearm,as well as his thighs,apparently from the shaving blades the authorities found in the bathroom,which were sent to the laboratories to further support the investigation.

At scene,Mr. Champion was described to have had a smile on his face even after his death.Though the police have denied all rumors,witnesses at the scene have confirmed this information,stating that it was "A gruesome and horrific death,despite the smile on his face",according to Mr. Champion's neighbour Ms. Fisk.

Mr. Jonathan Champion has been an acclaimed pianist in the early 1920s,but ever since the disasterous record named "Pioneer",his career went downhill ever since.Supported by only his performances at bars on weekends,Mr. Champion claimed bankrupcy shortly after the death of his father in the fall of 1927.He has been below the radar ever since,and it truly is a tragic loss for the world of contemporary music.

Art

This was my pathetic attempt at being artsy-fartsy in India.I remember it was the last couple of days in the middle of the desert,and i was feeling particularly good.It mustve been that night after outfield,when i braced the cold winds and the ice-cold water in the bathrooms to take a bath.I swear,it was so cold i felt it in the bones,and i remember grabbing the water and rubbing it on my body,literally.

Anyway,that afternoon we were there to set up the live firing targets for others to shoot.Which was a good thing,because that also meant that we were out of the exercise.That's brilliant,and there i was in the shadow of a tonner,taking a break.In my ears was my iPod(The one which got stolen),and i grabbed a rock from the sands and started scribbling lyrics of songs on the mud-coated panels beneath the tonner.So here we have it,my pathetic attempt at artsy-fartsy-ness(Now you know sister,why i say im not meant for your school).

Listener Vs. Conversationist

You are having a bad day.Let's picture that for a minute.Last night over the damn phone,your boyfriend told you that he doesnt love you anymore,and he is running with your bestfriend Angela to sunny Miami,first thing tomorrow morning.In fact,they already have a one year old daughter and named their newly bought dog after you.You wake up in the morning with your eyes swollen like two baked tomatos and you get out into the front lawn to collect your morning paper?Somebody wrongly-timed the sprinklers,and there they were,spraying water all over the paper.You walk towards the pavement,and your dog Charlie charges out of the front door and onto the street just as a tow truck speeds by.Down goes Charlie under the wheels of that truck and the truck swerves to a crashing stop in your very own flower bed.You even had to pay the driver for the damage of his front fender.

You are,having a bad day.

Now,living all alone can be a very taxing thing.That is especially so if your dog was ran over by a speeding truck only minutes ago.You are sitting in your livingroom with a bloody soap opera repeating for the millionth time on the television.You are all alone and you just want somebody there to listen to your bitching about the day's events.How you going to call?(Not the Ghostbusters,please.Enough of the theme song)

You have two choices,Mr. X from across the street.He is a conversationist,and he is a good talker.He's not the kind of person who talks rubbish for the sake of talking,but he doesnt just blabber nonstop about his own troubles with the milkman,or the fact that this important mail got lost somewhere in the country.He talks sense into you and at the same time,you dont just feel like you feel better,but at the end of the day you end up having a good cup of coffee with him in the kitchen.And if he is single,that is even better.It's a bonus,sure.

The alternative,is Ms. Y from across the rosy fence.She is a typical listener.Of course,when we are saying listener we are just just talking about somebody who is going to sit there and listen;and do just THAT.We are talking about the listener who's going to give you a great big hug the first thing you open the door to her.She is that somebody who is going to be there,when you just want something more than a piece of wall or sofa to tell your problems to.Besides,she is more interactive than all of the above,even more so than your dog(Don't assume that any human being with a pair of working ears can be a listener.Charlie is better off than Grandma Z from down the street).

So who is it going to be?The ultimate battle of Listener Vs. Conversationist.I was just wondering about that yesterday in the Cofee Bean over at Paragon,on a strange Saturday afternoon when the rain refused to fall and remained stubborn all through the day.

I think the Coffee Bean is a place,with great examples of such battles.It is easy tio point out somebody that is a bad example of a bad listener,and somebody who is a bad example of a bad conversationist.Take the caucasian couple sitting on my right for example.If you think that caucasians are the most interactive race in the world,think again.Of course,i'm sure most of them are more receptive than Asians,but the couple sitting next to me were just staring at each other most of the time,hand in hand.Sure,you might call that a sort of silent love for each other.But on the other hand from another perspective,they might just be one of those dining deads.You know,just quietly minding their own food and so careless of the world.Two listeners can never make a good couple,because you cant listen while the other is...well,listening too.

A bad example of a bad conversationist would be the four girls over on the other side of the cafe.I think they clearly misunderstood that by speaking above the normal tolerate decibels,you are not exactly communicating with each other.In fact,the only people you are communicating with is everybody else in the cafe,with the message "We are loud,obnoxious bitches!".Because,though they were "Conversing",they werent good examples of "Conversationists".How about just "Noises"?

I think it is one of those unanswerable questions,a battle that can never be won by either sides.I think that it greatly depends on the situation,or how somebody decides to release that inner frustration.If he or she decides to be the kind of person,who locks themselves in a room and play angry rock songs all day,then the presence of either Mr. X and Ms. Y would be unnecessary(Grandma Z is of course,out of the question).But if you are the kind who are like a herd of buffalos,who prefer to be in a circle of other lonely souls in this world,then go ahead and have a listener sit by your dining table while he or she provides you with an endless supply of Kleenex.On the other hand if you are the kind who wants different views,perspectives and opinions,look for somebody that is about to talk with you.And i mean,TALK and not just blabber nonsense.

I think the greatest partner in times of depression,is somebody who can place the two sides of the personality together.You know,a person who can combine the two aspects of a great conversation into one,like an alchemist of sorts.That'd be nice,wouldnt it?I'm not sure if i have reached that level of greatness yet.Even if i have,i wonder if it is of any use when there is a permanent lack of intimacy in me.That is the deficiency i have i guess,the fact that intimacy is not part of my genes and thus,there will always be a sort of gap between you and that person,no matter how good a listener,a conversationist,or the combination of both you are.Which is a sad thing,because in your mind you always strive to become the best for somebody - at least for me - and you want to be as good,as satisfying,as great a person as possible.But you wonder if this so-called deficiency is going to cost you that,that closeness people have with others,that bridge across troubled waters.

Listener or not.Conversationist or not.Without intimacy,what good is it?

Marathon

Attention all Movie Club members,this is the president of the club speaking.I,S86*****E,Chin Wei Lien,shall hereby announce the date,time and the venue of the Movie Marathon.Of course,the most important aspect is of course,the chosen movies.

Venue: Samantha's Place
Date: Tuesday, 26th of September
Time: Evening
Movies: The Shawshank Redemption, Edward Scissorhands, Jerry Maguire
Bring: Money for junk food, bathing equipment*, beer*, popcorns*, yourself**

* - Optional
** - Mandatory

Construction Site

The bus came to a stop with a loud hiss in its bracks,and the folding doors opened at the back of it.Out stepped me,with my iPod stuck in my ears as usual,the standard way of myself walking alone on any sort of street nowadays.I dont there is ever going to be another template of myself,other than just a sling bag,an iPod,with a simple shirt and pants,strolling down the street like that.I think accessories are such distractions,arent they?

A good evening for walking,that's what i thought as the folding doors closed behind me.The other passengers who got off scrambled across the busy road,and there i was in the middle of an empty bus stop,admiring the bright sparks coming from the worker at the side of the street.Sparks splattered all across the metal flooring like little asteroids,crashing into each other and vanishing into the evening air.So short-lived,i thought.Such beauty,such an instant death afterwards.I became melancholic for a minute,or was it the music that was playing in my ears?

It's been so long ever since they started work on the MRT station beside my estate.I remember the noticed made to us,about the shrinking of the outdoor carpark at my block,and the change of the main entrance to my estate to the other side of everything.The noise and dust that came along with the machinery,pumping away in it's metallic rhythm,even through my days with the dreadful examinations,throbbing through my head like pulsating headache.My neighbour on the third floor sued the company for the black smoke that poured into his house,as well as the noise pollution that he and his kids suffered throughout the construction process.But that is the way the typical rich Singaporean asshole acts,isnt it?You are rich,and because you are unhappy with something,you file a lawsuit against that person or company,without considering the fact that the building of the MRT station is probably going to boost the sale of your pathetic house sky high once it is done.No,he didnt think of that,and i say that he has shit for brain.

How i adore Saturdays,and the workers sure was having a good time in their container bedrooms,or sleeping quarters,to be more technical.In the shadow of the night,the streetlights casted its light on the corridors of the containers,staked up neatly in the corner of the site,with dirty clothes hanging from strings,tied from railings to railings.They fluttered in the soft wind,which brought along with it to my nostril the coming of rain,and the muddy stench of a construction site.A door opened,and a half naked Indian man walked out with a green cup in his hand,and behind him the radio roared an unknown indian song.He took a deep breath,and stared at the wreckage before his eyes,a storey below his feet.

I followed his gaze,and there i was standing at the entrance to the site,with its metal gates pulled opened and the area cleared of any lifeforms,save for the half indian man standing up there,surveying the grounds.The hole sunk deep into the group before him,reaching deep into the earth.So deep you wonder if it is ever going to end,if it goes on forever.If a rock is going to hit a bottom if you throw it down.And at that moment,something pierced my heart,and it was a sensation so sudden i grasped my chest.

The bulldozer sat there quiet,with the driver's seat darkened.The newspaper stuck to the back window,shading the driver from the afternoon sun.But it stuck to the back useless then,with the moonlight bringing no threat to anybody,whatsoever.It was so useless,so useless...

Metal poles stuck out from the ground here and there,like fingers belonging to dead men,crawling their way out of the dirt.But to no avail,as they stuck out of the grounds like bones,so bare and cold to the dropping temperature of the night.So there i was,almost like an extra pole,sticking out of the ground,feeling all useless and empty.The desolation got to me somehow,as the wind blew with a sudden chill.Did it matter then,that the construction site was how my heart might have looked like then?Did it matter then,that before my eyes was my heart materialized?

No,it didnt matter.Not to the indian man working at the side of the road on a Saturday night.Not the half naked one standing on the second storey of the container bedrooms.Not to the man in the posh BMW that sped past me as i stood there like an idiot.But to me,as i stared on with the sad music playing through my ears,i felt the wind to be colder than usual.Almost too cold.Was it pain that i felt,when a stone was thrown down the endless hole?Or was it the void that was sucking in me like vacuum,pulling me in and threatening eternal darkness?

I didnt know,and it mustve been the damn song.John Mayer takes your heart out and squeezes it like a wet towel sometimes.At times,when you are looking at something,anything.A vase,a whither flower,a rusty shaving blade,a forgotten notebook,old sketches,yellow-ish pictures,familiar scent of perfume,a chocolate bar,shopping carts,playgrounds,you...

When you are looking at a desolated construction site,your heart,your soul.

Comfort Radius

Gay Indian Protestors,"Hey,we are Indians and we are gay!We represent the Gay Indian Community!"
Russell Peters' Dad,"That is disgusting!Indian men cannot be gay!"
Russell Peters,"Well Dad,we are having a population crisis back home.We can use a few gay Indians,if you know what i mean..."

Homosexuals,i am fine with them.Even if we are talking about male homosexuals.I think we are in the century that,because of all the discrimination that we had in the past centuries towards homosexuals(Hitler executing them and stuff),they have rose to this level that,they are no longer the abnormal aspect of our society.In fact,it is more common to hear the phrase,"Queer eye for the straight guy",than the other way round.Because really,homosexuals are as common as seeing non-homosexuals nowadays.I firmly believe that it is a mentality,and never something that is in the nature of somebody to feel that way towards members of the same sex.But despite that,i do have my limits,and this is the story of how that limit should never be crossed.

The above quote is from the stand-up comedy show Russell Peters did for Comedy Central,back in 2000 i believe.He started off the show with that,and that was the first time i fell in love with that man.I believe,aside from the three guys from Whose Line,he is the funniest person i have ever seen.He can make a racist joke and get away with it,fancy that!

Anyway,that joke was kind of what i thought about today at the dinner table.Not the dinner table in my dining room but,out at Paragon with Invis today over dinner at Coffee Club.And at the same time,i was thinking about an incident my father told me about once,when he was having this business meeting with his business associates at some bar,somewhere.

So the meeting went smoothly,and as courtesy you shake hands with your associates at the very end.I'm not sure,or rather he wasnt sure,if it was in any way,deliberate or not.But when he was shaking the hand of one of them,that person tickled my father's palm with his index finger.That was the common sign for affection between two men,and my father was positively terrified,even on his way home afterwards.

So there i was in the restaurant having my pasta and mud cake,and the India wator came along.I'm not sure why he asked me,and me only,but his ignorance of my friend's existence confused and irritated me quite a bit.Anyway,so here's how the conversation went:

Gay Indian,"Do you like Indian people?"
Me,"What,me?"
Gay Indian,"Yes,do you like Indian people?"
Me,"Well,yeah.I do,i guess..."
Gay Indian,"But i dont like chinese people."
Me,"Oh that's...that's sad."
Gay Indian,"Chinese usually like Malays more?"
Me,"I like Indian women.I think they are beautiful."
Gay Indian,"No,i dont like chinese people."
Me,"No,i was in India at the beginning of this year?And i think Indian women are attractive."

That was of course,the first contact.He refilled my glass of water three times,and left with an awkward smile afterwards.Invis kept laughing at me for that,and i thought it was okay.I mean,i was just being polite towards his oddness,and he was just being overly friendly as a waitor.I thought it was just a case of over-reaction from both sides,and that it was no big deal really.But that thought came crashing down from the heights of the Himalayans when he came back to pour me more water.

Gay Indian,"I'm sorry about just now."
Me,"What?"
Gay Indian,"I'm sorry about just now,i was just asking."
Me,"Oh,it's okay.Really."
Gay Indian,"How old are you?"
Me,"Twenty."
Gay Indian,"Oh,you look eighteen."
Me,"Do i?I'll take that as a compliment then."
Gay Indian,"That's because you are the most handsome here."

A bolt of lightning shot through my head then.Invis on the other hand,mustve choked on her gulp of water.I stared at her through the lenses of my glasses,begging her to help me out with the situation.But she was obviously enjoying the flirting of this gay motherfucker.So he went on blabbering...

Me,"You are only saying that because you want a tip,right.In India everybody asks for tips."
Gay Indian,"No,really."
Me,"Or maybe it's because the other other male in this restaurant now is a forty year old,married man."
[Gay Indian smiles]

So the situation was set.He invaded my comfort radius.I have a radius around me,that says,"To all homosexuals: Do not cross this line because if you do,you are going to have a rod stuff up your ass so deep you'd want to turn straight again".That is the comfort zone where i keep my distance,and if you stay outside of this circle you are fine.But if you invade this circle,you are automatically deemed as motherfuckers,and your disgusting actions will not be entertained.

So when i called for the bill,there wasnt anybody around.The chinese dude was serving another customer,while the Malay guy was just ignorant.He was the only one left,and i was desperate to leave the place.I hadnt got a choice,and waved to him for bill.

Gay Indian,"You called me?"
Me,"Yes,i called you."
[More smiles]

I wont say that i am terribly traumatized by this incident.But in fact,i found it rather amusing.I wasnt even embarrassed,which is why i am willing to share it with you guys.I find it a hilarious story to tell,and i guess in a way it is going to stay this way ten years down the road.But despite it being humorous,it doesnt mean that i am going to revisit that same Coffee Club anytime soon.Because really,the next time i am served by that faggot the conversation is going to be like this:

Gay Indian,"You are back!I remember you!"
Me,"Oh,motherfucking son of a bitch you are still here."
Gay Indian,"What?"
Me,"Woah,stay out of the circle man,i brought a chalk."
Gay Indian,"Chalk?What is that for?"
[I proceed to draw two meter circle around the table i am at]
Me,"I want the Malay guy to serve me.I want that Chinese guy to get my bill later.You,stay out of this circle so you wont get hurt."
Gay Indian,"What are you talking about?Dont you remember me?"
Me,"It is exactly because i remember you,that is why i am doing these protective measures,you sick freak."
Gay Indian,"But..."
Me,"No 'BUTS' now,now scram.You are taking up my oxygen."

Ouch,i know.But that is what you get when you cross the chalk-line.Fag.

With Ten Billion Dollars...

I wanted to show you guys a clip from Scrubs i saw a couple of months ago,with Zach Braff's character discussing with his friend,about what he is going to do with ten million dollars in cash.I cant find it on youtube anymore,so bare with me if the following description of the scene is hard to imagine.

Elliot says that he is going to hire scientists to come up with the technology to separate a human head from the body,with both of those still being able to work,independently from the other.So as he was explaining his thoughts,we see a floating head of himself floating towards a patient,and seeing that the patient was about to die,he calls for his body to the rescue.But since the body was without eyes,it bumped into the wall and fainted.The head,desperate to resuscitate the patient,he started banging his own head against the chest.A hilarious scene,and i remember banging on the table laughing my head off.

Why do i mention this out of the blues you ask?Well it's because i was watching the evening news a while ago,and a news from Taiwan had me choking on my dinner.Some guy in Taiwan won the big lottery,and it is a tradition in Taiwan that the winner of the top prize is not revealed to the public,unlike the US.So,apparently he told his wife about it,and his wife told her neighbour.Little did the wife know that their neighbour was having some kind of economical crisis,and borrowing money from the loansharks didnt work out.So the neighbour planned a kidnap of the lottery winner,and threatened for the money.

Of course,those thugs were arrested a couple of days ago,but instead of seeing this incident as a degrading of the security of our society,i found it to be extremely funny.I mean,even your own WIFE betrayed you,who else can you turn to with that sum of money?

Anyway,we all dream about winning the lottery,i guess.Yeah,dont deny it.You secretly wish to win a lottery everytime some jackass decides to drive a Porche pass you on the expressway,or that millionaire next door who decides to buy the gigantic mansion down the street.You secretly wish to win a giant lottery and buy the whole bloody estate,or own your very own car company so you can drive all the Porches you want.

But we can only dream for such things to happen,like the doctor with the floating head.It's probably not going to happen even if you decide to start buying five lottery tickets for the next ten years or so.If it doesnt happen,it doesnt happen.

But i guess there is no harm dreaming,eh?So i came up with a list of all the things im going to do,if i do strike lottery in the years to come.Though that is highly unlikely,considering myself the least possible person to appear at a lottery booth,the chances of me winning is near to zero.The only reason why it's not zero is because i might pick up a lottery ticket at the side of the road that might win me ten million dollars.Who knows?

With Ten Billion Dollars(Any of the following,or the combination of a few)...

1)Buy the whole Kinokuniya.
2)Buy the whole Borders.
3)Buy the whole HMV.
4)Treat my friends to a nine-course dinner for a month.
5)Treat my family to a nine-course dinner for ever.
6)Buy a limousine.
7)Buy a personal jet,with customized renovation.
8)Buy a personal yacht.
9)Hire a chauffeur for all of the above.
10)Buy an island.
11)Build a resort.
12)Bribe Ah Bien to depose.
13)Hire Coldplay and John Mayer to do a collaboration album.
14)Organise a private concert for the above two mentioned.
15)Subsidise Rachael Yamagata's subsequent albums.
16)Hire Bill Gates to wire-up my house.
17)Travel the world.
18)Make trade fair.
19)Build a food collection centre every 15km in third world countries.
20)Hire assassins to kill terrorists.

Up Here

Roll into your town and I’m walking around
Got some extra time think I’ll throw some money down
And you follow me around
And you’re asking for the time
Your asking what I found
Think I’m gonna rob you blind

Maybe it’s the tattoo on my arm
That I drew while I was bored waiting tables in new york
A heart and two flowers intertwined with a vine
I can see your point, I can see your point

And up here I am who I am
And if you don’t like it then fuck you, man
I’m not a thief and a whore
Please don’t follow me around next time I’m shopping in your store

And up here I’m making you aware
That if you don’t like me well I don’t care
I’ll be exactly who I am and if you got a problem with it
Well that’s your problem, man

After I’ve paid count the money that you made
Then you go to the show like to be entertained
And I get up on the stage
Trained monkey in a cage
And it’s just another day just another day

And I can see you from my place on the stage
Third row center aisle
Hot blond with you
All smiles
And you got another woman but that’s in another town
And you can’t wait til this is over
Gonna lay that honey down

And up here I am who I am
And if you don’t like it then fuck you, man
I’m not a thief and a whore
Please don’t follow me around next time I’m shopping in your store

And up here I’m making you aware
That if you don’t like me well I don’t care
I’ll be exactly who I am and if you got a problem with it
Well that’s your problem, man

And your good values taught you how to behave
Who to treat kindly and who to enslave
And like all good men you still fall to the floor
When a great big rack
And a ripe round ass
Walk through that door...

The Marriage Line

I think the men in my company has a love/hate relationship with days with Nights Off.Personally,to be absolutely honest,i dont see what the hype is about.Nights Off lasts usually about three hours,or a little more than that if you are lucky enough.Most of the time we wander along the streets of Western Singapore,in malls and restaurants until they are about to close down for the day.That really is the most tragic aspect of Western Singapore,because there are only so many places you can go to on a night like that,and you find yourself trying to squeeze milk out of the rock,thinking about what to do next before you have to book in once again.

Out of extreme boredom,Jonathan,Kenneth and myself headed down to Popular to flip through some books.I hate Popular,and i think it is the worst bookstore ever.You can argue that they sell only "Popular" stuff,which might explain the lack of variety when it comes to books.But i guess that is not an excuse,when you are trying to promote yourself as the most popular bookstore in Singapore.Let's face it,if you take away the stationaries you are nothing but a vessel with an empty hull.

Anyway,so the three of us were at the Non-Fiction section,flipping through horoscope books,checking out who shares the same birthdays as us(I share birthdays with people i dont even know.Who the hell is Joan Davis?).That got a little boring,and we moved on to a book about palm reading,which was really the last resort at first but turned out to be rather enlightening.

The cover of the book was cheese,with the palm reader's photograph right at the front.He was a thin and lean man,with his long hair tied back in a very 1980-ish style tail at the back,and had this almost cunning and "I'm going to cheat your money on this book" look.I know,we shouldnt judge books by it's covers,but with a cover like that you start to wonder if the man is going to crawl out of the cover in the middle of the night and strangle you with that hair of his.He looked menacing enough smiling,and i wonder how he is going to be like in the dark,choking the life out of you.

We were flipping through the pages,while checking out our palms in the middle of Popular when i chanced upon the "Marriage Line" section of the book.I think i remember WanJun mentioning something about this in class once,when we were waiting for a class to start.If i recall correctly,she mentioned something about how she read up,or heard about palm reading,and to tell your fortune with your facial features,something like that.Which is a really odd thing for a girl like herself,but it sure fascinated the lot of us,as we stared at each other,jealous of the wealth somebody is bound to make or the girlfriends/boyfriends we will get.

She mentioned the marriage line before,and that sort of slipped my mind until that night in between the shelves in Popular.The marriage line is the line above the line that cuts from the left side of your right palm to the right.It's at the edge of your palm,usually curling to the back of your hands,just under your pinky.I think the depth,the clarity,and the length of the line is supposed to tell you your devotion to a marriage,and perhaps the length of your marriage as well(The longer the better for some,the shorter the better for most.Haha).

So flipping my right palm up,i checked out my marriage line.Wow,i thought to myself.This is...great!I dont even HAVE a marriage line.I wonder if that's a blessing or not.You know how bachelors are always desperate to get married by the time they are in their thirties,and by the time they are finally married they are always desperately trying to get out of it.There is a saying that every men have affairs in their marriages,and i guess there is no way to prove whether that claim is true or false.But looking at my palm,with the area below my pinky free of any marriage line,i guess i can safely say that i am probably never going to have affairs of any sort,because i am not going to have a marriage in the first place.

Which to some extent,might just be true in my opinion.Perhaps this is coming from a person who has never been in a true relationship before.But honestly speaking,i find it much easier to imagine myself ruling a house all on my own,dictating the colour scheme of the furnitures,the music that plays in the background of the house,or the show that i choose to watch on the television.It's easier to imagine myself living in a house all on my own,than a wife by my side late in the night,and my son cuddling in between the both of us,telling us about the snoring of the great blue monster beneath his bed.Really,i find it a whole lot easier.

I think after a certain age,you no longer look forward to things like marriages,because it is just such a heavy responsibility,such a heavy burden to bear with you.We'd like to think that we are young,we should have our butts tied together so early on in our lives,wouldnt that rid us of our youthfulness,somehow?

I think i am too selfish and self-centred to have a marriage.Or rather,i am too occupied with myself that i'm not even sure if another person's existence in my life is ever going to work out.I wouldnt mind,but then there is always going to be the worry that you are neglecting your partner,know what i mean?I tell my friends when asked if i am attached or not(for some reason they always think that i am.Truth to be told,having a lot of female friends dont exactly mean you are attached),that i am too self-sufficient and occupied to have that kind of recreational activity.

"Good at friendships,bad at intimacy".That is something about myself that i kind of believe,though impossible to prove until somebody comes along(Or decides to come back).They say that the best kind of relationship is one whereby you and your partner are like friends throughout life.That might be true to a certain aspect,but as i hear more stories concerning friends turning into partners in my social circle,i wonder if that stand is still going to hold a couple of years down the road.I wonder how it is possible to know a person for like,five years and suddenly his or her status changes in your life to become a partner.It's weird,dont you think?

So there i was in between the shelves,looking at the blank space under my pinky.I wasnt sure if i should be glad that it's blank,or tell my mother to organise some sort of lament because the only son of the family is going to live his pathetic life without a wife.But it's all a reference,and it's not like you should trust your life on a skinny looking fortune-teller,with his hair tied back and smiling through the cover of the book,as if you are some muffin or cupcake that is about to be eaten.You shouldnt dictate your life just because somebody somewhere tells you that you have one line short on your palm,and therefore you are never going to have a healthy relationship with anyone.Even if you decide to do so,not by somebody like him,please.

Dont worry Corinna,you are not the only one with commitment problems.

One Whole

With the lights off and the dogs barking in the distance,the bunk where i sleep in sinks into a rather creepy mood,as the lot of us snore softly away into the night.After the lights go off,and the clock on WeiJie's shoe cabinet slowly ticking,that is when everybody truly gets a state of peace in their head.That is when,everybody can breathe the smell of their blankets and pillow cases,and tell themselves,"One day is over,screw tomorrow!"

That is roughly how the bunk might look like at night,if you were to turn down the window panes at the front of the room and take a peek in.One fateful night this week,i was sound asleep in my own bed,minding my own business dreaming about monsters and dragons(literally),and at the front of the room sat Mr. Kenneth Kwan in that red chair of his,with his back to the window,reading his long overdue in the dark,with the light from the corridor shining in through the panes.He's that sort of person,risking his eyeballs for a couple of more pages from the book he is reading.

So there he was,alone in the dark,and as he peeked above the pages of the book he was reading,he surveyed the bunk and breathed a sigh of relief.That sigh,was not for the silence that resonated across the four walls,but rather how complete the picture before his eyes was.The way every bed was filled by somebody,a certain individual that he has gotten to know over the past two years.And with the end of our own individual journeys coming to an end,with the days of our eventual goodbyes ticking off the boxes on a calendar,he acknowledges and realises the fact that nothing is going to be the same again,the way this bunk is at that very moment,with the beds filled with his friends,probably drooling on their pillows or mumbling gibberish in their dreams.

Zen's going to be the first to leave that bunk.September 30th,that lucky bastard.While the rest of us is going to rot slowly in camp,he's going to be out there,tasting the air of freedom and trotting the field of liberty,probably cursing the two years of imprisonment and life wasted.Sure,we all have our own dates to look forward to,the way all our calendars,be it the traditional type or the ones in handphones,have our ORD dates circled or captioned.Personally,i have December the 9th circled in my notebook,and under it in bold," ORD/SALVATION!"

As November comes,another bunch of people are going to leave us again,and this time the scale is going to be a little bigger.And as Kenneth and I reviewed the process where the beds are going to empty one by one,he revealed to me the tint of sadness that was in him,the way everybody is going to leave one by one,just like that.I tried to tell him that it's all part of life,that one stage's end is another's beginning,and that is the way things are going to work,even till the day of your eventual death.But that didnt get into the thick Gemini skull of his apparently,and he went a little hysterical afterwards.

I get what he meant though,the way the bunk is never going to be one whole again.You know,how we are groupl according to classes,CCA groups,or bunks in our school lives or military lives,individual groups that make up small 'wholes',and cumulatively they make up this big family that we grow to get used to over a period of time.He asked me if i ever had that sensation on the last day of school,back in my school days.I dont recall,i told him,that i ever had that sensation.Probably not as strong as his back then as we were discussing it of course.Which is a sad thing,because i've always told people that i am a sentimentalist,that i treasure the past and all that jazz.But in truth,when it comes to the departure of all the people so familiar to me,the people whom i have ground to get used to,i seem to become this hopeless-romantic somehow,and no longer that sentimentalist i've claimed myself to be.

I think our school days officially,and usually,ends with the last paper of a major examination.Be it in Primary School,Secondary School or JC,all three stages of my school life ended with the last paper of a major exam.I remember Secondary School's last paper was Amaths,and when the call was given for us to leave the hall,Guan Ming let out a loud wail of freedom that got him into trouble with the dicipline master,which was a dumbass thing to do,but it sure turned heads and caught stares.

The end of JC was on a totally different note,because the last paper werent something i was very proud of.In fact,the whole A levels,to me,was such a daunting experience that when somebody suggested that maybe i should retake the exams,i turned down the idea immediately.I dont know,i guess it was just too big a wave for me to surf through again,simply because i couldnt take the crash upon my head.

The last day of JC had me walking down the steps of the grand stand with my wind breaker,and my iPod stuck to my ears.It was raining on that day,and i was probably the first out of the hall then.I didnt want to compare answers,and i didnt stay too long for pointless chatters.I left the hall quickly,fearing that the answers i hear are not going to be the same as my own.Worse,to find out,in definite,that my answers were wrong.I hated to be proven wrong,despite the fact that i knew how badly i did for the papers.The last day of JC,to me,was more of a relief than a day of goodbyes and farewells.Besides,there was the prom coming up,which technically marks the end of JC and the life beyond.Of course,at that time i didnt know how horrid the prom was going to turn out to be.

Anyway,so i am answering your question Kenneth: No,i dont think i have ever felt sad or depressed,over the departure of the people in my lives.Of course,we are assuming that 'death' and or any other forms of permanent departures are involved.It is sad to think that i havent been sad on those days,when i should have been feeling that way,when i had the right to feel that way i guess.I dont know,it mightve been the way my JC class turned out that made me feel relieved that i was leaving it.That's because i firmly believe that any kind of society can never be sustained by the majority of either of the sexes.In the case of my class,with 15 girls and 5 guys,it was impossible to have any sort of peace and harmony.Seriously,it turned out to be so chaotic and political,the end of the examinations also marked the end of the released of the caged birds.Cage birds,like myself.

So here we are at the shores of the sea,with the horizon in the distance.The sun is setting,and the sparkles on the ocean surface glittered like diamonds strewned across a deep blue carpet.Am i going to feel any different from the rest of the farewells?I have no idea,to be totally honest.I treasure,and i appreciate the beauty of this whole,this 'complete-ness',if such a word exists.

But this time round,it is rather different from the other years though.You know how in year books and autograph books,friends used to write stuff like,"Oh,we've been through the thickest and the thinnest..." yada yada yada.Well,that is if you consider exams to be the thickest aspect of your life.But in the army it is a totally different story."Thick and Thins" isnt something you place at the end of a farewell speech,just because people do that with farewell speeches,or because it is part of a template.In the army,when somebody say "Thick and Thins",it means more than just obstacles and difficulties,but blood and sweet,tears and joy.Because really,i've went through so much with these guys,that i dont even know if the separation of them with myself is going to tear a hole in my heart...or not.

The truth,shall be revealed at the very end of my own journey,seventy odd days from now.I imagine myself dragging my daffel bag down the staircase and signing the book out book for the last time.My friends on the second storey staring down with a tad bit of jealousy and perhaps,anger too.Right then,as i step out of the gates of the camp,i shall remember the feeling that i get in my heart,then revist this blog to register than emotion.But before then,i guess this is all i have to say,considering the 'whole' that is about to be sliced apart.