Quiet time is
sitting in my toilet
haunches flattened out against
white sticky yellow concrete
on a Friday night, 8 pm
buckets – red buckets with white or grey handles
it doesn’t matter
staring at the still water
deceptively still
soap bubbles lie in wait like
frogs, silent, calm, undisturbed
immeasurably
silent until the fuckin’ pressure intensifies in one swift moment and
explodes.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I remember a story where
a girl pushed away all her friends
to be with the boy she liked.
It was an epic story
of loss of identity, emptiness, subsequent ennui
not for the girl, but for her insecure friends
and at such a sudden loss
sought to destroy
a beautiful thing in this world.
Isn't it senseless
to
pretend to understand someone
through the lenses of others?
This I fear, and very much hope
against so coming true
Don't let silence
fall between us two
Don't let the insecurities of
others
so cleave us through.
We have bedrock.
a girl pushed away all her friends
to be with the boy she liked.
It was an epic story
of loss of identity, emptiness, subsequent ennui
not for the girl, but for her insecure friends
and at such a sudden loss
sought to destroy
a beautiful thing in this world.
Isn't it senseless
to
pretend to understand someone
through the lenses of others?
This I fear, and very much hope
against so coming true
Don't let silence
fall between us two
Don't let the insecurities of
others
so cleave us through.
We have bedrock.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Flagship store for upward mobility
Ah yes, sir. Right away.
Good day, sir. I see you’re
interested in our line of products and of course, services I assure you
will open up a brand new world of exciting possibilities and horizons
for your tired, but recently ascended being. I’m sure you
could already use a break since then and
hence, my very pleasure to assist you in an instructive manner.
Right around here, we’ve got our collection of elegant
consumables, designed and made with the newly-minted cosmopolitan in mind.
As fresh new additions to your current presentation, they
simply portray uniqueness and a certain level of depth
not quite like any other you’ve experienced. I encourage you to
consider, how well this collection will define your style in a long way
given your first foray into your new ascension.
And if you’d follow me now, here are some of our more defining
distinctives, specially crafted with the keen care and attention we offer
to all the splendid things you see here, ceaselessly without any discount
as it is.
In your necessary project to reconfigure your wardrobe, they will
immediately grant you a gravity, stature and sophistication
otherwise found so wanting in nouveau fashion.
I cannot stress enough to you
how these here are imperative to maintaining your disposition.
Ah yes, of course sir. At our store
we take pains to highlight that as our guest you mean nothing
short of exquisite and important, and we ensure you receive
the love and attention as we feel for you. Our surroundings
are designed with you in mind, yourself esteemed as it is.
Finally, we have a private showroom function where we unveil
our most treasured – exclusivities
uncompromisingly perfect, rarefied and absolute
Our guest dignitaries adorned with each
makes them luminous as they are celebrated
As their heels grace the white marble steps
we gape and adore in their distinguished gait
But pardon me sir, I beseech you, keep your fingers off the display set.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
My short stories
Over the years in my stint in university i've written quite a few short stories and two poems. here are some to share, as follows in the posts below.
The titles:
1) Rejection Letter (poem)
2) just a figment of my imagination
3) In the name of
4) Jojo
5) disturbing incoherence
6) Juck-Arse
The titles:
1) Rejection Letter (poem)
2) just a figment of my imagination
3) In the name of
4) Jojo
5) disturbing incoherence
6) Juck-Arse
Juck-Arse
If the world
is made of two spheres of action
with a hole and a drill inbetween
then I and maybe you
are the forces in this world
If you think
that you might even constitute
even half of the action in this mutual whackdown
then I will think that
you are pretty useless
then of course, I and maybe you
are the forces of the world
but ever since
on your part
you decided to
mix powder from instant noodles
to bake our snow-white chocolate martini birthday cake
that sheer insignificant shallowness
nonchalance
You're pretty much done for.
I'm removing you from this world.
My World.
is made of two spheres of action
with a hole and a drill inbetween
then I and maybe you
are the forces in this world
If you think
that you might even constitute
even half of the action in this mutual whackdown
then I will think that
you are pretty useless
then of course, I and maybe you
are the forces of the world
but ever since
on your part
you decided to
mix powder from instant noodles
to bake our snow-white chocolate martini birthday cake
that sheer insignificant shallowness
nonchalance
You're pretty much done for.
I'm removing you from this world.
My World.
disturbing incoherence
Johnny lies along the watchtower, quiet and motionless, piercing eyes, watching as someone lilts off the edge in the distance.
There's something about Johnny this day. He is possibly exploring the possibilities of possibly being anything but coherent. Of course that would mean that she would have to conceive what is coherent in the first place in order to counteract that and be consistently incoherent.
But that would mean that there's is some sense of coherence, for if you are consistently incoherent then it means that this frame of incoherence actually relates to the next frame of incoherence in terms of being incoherent. So in fact you're being coherent in your incoherence.
No reason to get excited, the thief he kindly spoke. There are many here among us, that feel that life is but a joke.
So now when he saw the figure in flowing pink satin and epic lengths of brown tresses engage in a bold display of bodily expression and circular beauty he couldn't help but think of the locks of hair that she would trip over and the stone walls she'd dash her head on. That'd would be more epic than any epic fail.
Businessmen they drink my wine Plow men dig my earth
In breakdancing, there is the high chance that you'd by accident break your spinal cord and sever all the bonds your nerves have with your brain and leave you decapitated. Otherwise, you'd probably just do the less dangerous stunts and call it a day.
Johnny realises that the tangerine plants he grew in the Octopus's Garden weren't really going to leave the comforts of the sea bed. He theorises that these tangerine plants were probably too comfortable sleeping in the sand of the garden floor to even want to go out and kiss the sun. Not that there wasn't light in the Octopus' Garden, hell you've got shade to block the sunlight out, and logically what does that tell you? But he had placed the tangerines in the shadows too, for he was afraid that the sun would melt them and turn them into speakers and disturb the Octopus.
Now he yearned to reach out and push them into the sun, for they were not really growing very well. That's what you get when you spoil and cushion your children don't you.
In the distance the pillar looked like an overwhelming phallus, towering over the sand. The figure was still dancing on top of the platform. Johnny estimated the platform to be around 3 by 10 metres.
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late
I'll not talk falsely now thus. That girl's gonna fall. She hasn't got much space to dance on and still holds that much passion and vigour. You know times like these you sit your arse down on the tarmac.
All along the Watchtower Princes kept the view
Johnny felt an icy sensation on his velvet shoulder. The ceiling began drip absinthe. The wind placed a contraption made out of a funnel and a tube attached to a needle and began to pierce Johnny.
Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl
Two riders were leaving and the wind began to howl
In the distance, the figure stepped closer, and closer, and yet closer, minute by minute, toe by toe, inching tortuously towards the nibbling edge as powders of concrete and pieces of rock eroded. Like stone butterflies they appear to be suspended in the air, dancing freely in the vindictive and biting wind that bite grudgingly at their disintegrating being, until the sunbeams on their surface contrast sharply with the dark chasm below, and they cease to exist in official documents and government databases and social being.
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
There's something about Johnny this day. He is possibly exploring the possibilities of possibly being anything but coherent. Of course that would mean that she would have to conceive what is coherent in the first place in order to counteract that and be consistently incoherent.
But that would mean that there's is some sense of coherence, for if you are consistently incoherent then it means that this frame of incoherence actually relates to the next frame of incoherence in terms of being incoherent. So in fact you're being coherent in your incoherence.
No reason to get excited, the thief he kindly spoke. There are many here among us, that feel that life is but a joke.
So now when he saw the figure in flowing pink satin and epic lengths of brown tresses engage in a bold display of bodily expression and circular beauty he couldn't help but think of the locks of hair that she would trip over and the stone walls she'd dash her head on. That'd would be more epic than any epic fail.
Businessmen they drink my wine Plow men dig my earth
In breakdancing, there is the high chance that you'd by accident break your spinal cord and sever all the bonds your nerves have with your brain and leave you decapitated. Otherwise, you'd probably just do the less dangerous stunts and call it a day.
Johnny realises that the tangerine plants he grew in the Octopus's Garden weren't really going to leave the comforts of the sea bed. He theorises that these tangerine plants were probably too comfortable sleeping in the sand of the garden floor to even want to go out and kiss the sun. Not that there wasn't light in the Octopus' Garden, hell you've got shade to block the sunlight out, and logically what does that tell you? But he had placed the tangerines in the shadows too, for he was afraid that the sun would melt them and turn them into speakers and disturb the Octopus.
Now he yearned to reach out and push them into the sun, for they were not really growing very well. That's what you get when you spoil and cushion your children don't you.
In the distance the pillar looked like an overwhelming phallus, towering over the sand. The figure was still dancing on top of the platform. Johnny estimated the platform to be around 3 by 10 metres.
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late
I'll not talk falsely now thus. That girl's gonna fall. She hasn't got much space to dance on and still holds that much passion and vigour. You know times like these you sit your arse down on the tarmac.
All along the Watchtower Princes kept the view
Johnny felt an icy sensation on his velvet shoulder. The ceiling began drip absinthe. The wind placed a contraption made out of a funnel and a tube attached to a needle and began to pierce Johnny.
Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl
Two riders were leaving and the wind began to howl
In the distance, the figure stepped closer, and closer, and yet closer, minute by minute, toe by toe, inching tortuously towards the nibbling edge as powders of concrete and pieces of rock eroded. Like stone butterflies they appear to be suspended in the air, dancing freely in the vindictive and biting wind that bite grudgingly at their disintegrating being, until the sunbeams on their surface contrast sharply with the dark chasm below, and they cease to exist in official documents and government databases and social being.
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
Jojo
Somehow the day doesn't feel that bad today than it was yesterday. The rain had stopped, the clouds had dispersed and the lazy sun licked the lush surface of the earth.
I saw the vast expanse of the fields and the golden hue of the horizon. Birds flitting from earth to bush to branch to tree. As they made sound the fields reflected their dark noisy altercation and excitement. Then there were butterflies in flowers struggling for a piece of nectar with noisy houseflies and attentive lizards.
There was a bit of wind too, and I felt it softly nudge the feet of the rotting dog laying by a split mango and its tree. Dark Humour; shadowy figures stalked the premises, frequently thrusting their sharp fronts into the flesh. As they moved their heads bobbed, as though nodding to the easily welcoming sunbeams and fresh atmosphere.
The wind, floating, led a scurry of brown leaves past my gaze, as though on an excursion to some undetermined place. Then, like a maestro, he coaxed them into an elaborate, gracefully erratic display of whistling song and dance, first spinning wildly, then slowly transiting into a spiral, in a small circle, then bit by bit with more and more passion, swirling and swirling into wider and wider arc, before finally going out of control and crashing against the glass tinklers of the mouldy windchime hanging on the door of an oak cottage.
They looked up from their preoccupation in response into the distance, as though in fervent anticipation, before reaching down to pull off another morsel of fur and skin.
I saw the glimmering sun cast the tree's shadow on this house. Perhaps this was a trick to hide the intricate boreworm holes in the walls of the countenance, if you painted the house black then you wouldn't see the holes at all. Presently the door frame creaked under the restless pull of the windchime.
The windows were drawn wide in the open direction of the rising sun, who of course threw the mango tree's dark shadow into the house, and on the door lay a faithfully dusted but rotten wooden knocker. Two chairs sat at the front of the house, with the one on the right consistently clean and dusted, while the other grew yellow stains on its pink surface.
I saw a stir and a groan. Followed by a aching creak of a bed frame. Some feeble shuffling of feet and halted movements. In a moment there was the clinking of glass, the clatter of spoons, the rattling of tin pans - unmistakable sounds of breakfast. A long drawn-out and almost-grating painful drag of wood against wood, then all was silent again, for about 10 stanzas, before I felt the quivering lips and chattering plastic teeth.
Time could have passed quietly as the sun began to take a less compromising position in the blue sky. A nudge, a push - and the gentle tinkling of the glass chimes informed the opening of the door. I saw a further shuffling of feet, followed by a prudent step on the porch, as though in half-hesitation, before, shifting the weight a little, slowly brings decisive pressure onto the gnawing porch, followed by movement by the other foot, with the same intricate decision-making process, thereby moves down from the house.
The wind moves the shawl into flowing fluid motion as it unwraps itself from the pale and botched skin of the neck and flies disappear into the distance, while startled hands try claw at the last remnants of red woollen fabric.
I heard the shuffling of painful feet again, rustling the dead leaves by the house. Making its way slowly. But I could feel strong determination. For neither distracted nor divergent progress was made in an authoritative direction. Slowly but surely, I saw progress, and progress it was directed behind the cottage.
By now the sun had reached the height of its ascent, and its glimmer had turned into a strong glare down on the house. I saw a shadow thus formed on the sandy ground - weak in constituent structure and lacking credible support. Slowly in aching movements it began to stretch out horizontally left and right, like wings that do not have much width nor span to speak of flight. Where the shadow stretched furthest, an pebble was dropped at both ends, and they fell, giving up much of their imbued potential into the soft ground of the sand.
For a while there was silence, much withheld from the persistent glare of the sun. A glint, though, as the sand absorbed moisture into its dry crevices. The drops had navigated their way through complex and meandering ridges and rugged contours and parched facial features before dangling at the edge, at the mercy of motion, how slight and feeble.
I heard shuffling of feet again. On the sand, I heard the feet shuffle forth, hesitate, then shuffle back again. Another prolonged wait, followed by another round of shuffling feet. Another prolonged shuffling feet, another round of waiting. I saw a lines being drawn out of the sand thus, one interconnecting the other in an obvious but not very sharp pattern, sometimes the lines were a bit crooked, sometimes they veered off a straight line, most times they were not even straight to start with. I held the blazing sun from moving away from the shuffling of feet so that I could see clearly what was actually being formed; lo and behold, gradually and determined, a rectangle was formed.
In a while there was silence, the sand now left alone and undisturbed, and the house that had been quiet now livened with activity again. The same shuffling, and the dropping of pebbles, on wooden boards, the long wait, and then prolonged shuffling again. Same old same old. All same. No clinking of glasses or metal clatter. Only the annoying tinkling of the windchime at the door.
One of the birds had flown to the back of the house in search of seeds. When it had found one, it cawed out loud, and was soon joined by another. Then another, then another. Soon the back of the house filled with incessant cawing, and pecking on the sand.
A fearful choked cry rang out from the house, and like the urgency and haste of spreading heat, hurried steps and desperate shuffling, in startled fury and anguished passions like the sudden raising of hellfire on the back of the neck and then the pinpricks and needles on the spine, all in mournful anger and aimless despair and desperate rage - chasing away those pitiful birds.
Well the rectangle earlier outlined is indeed in a mess now. Still there should be no reason to scare the poor birds away. I watched as the same process of shuffling, stone-dropping, waiting and even more shuffling and drawing persisted. Somehow I'd wish the wind would just blow everything away.
When the task was finally done, I observed the rectangle in the sand and saw that it was perhaps around the size of a sleeping bed. The kind that furnished certain rooms in most houses. It would be weird though, to think that a bed would be constructed on this very spot behind the house wouldn't it?
~~~~
The sun sets.
Marlene Dumas, Measuring your own grave
I saw the vast expanse of the fields and the golden hue of the horizon. Birds flitting from earth to bush to branch to tree. As they made sound the fields reflected their dark noisy altercation and excitement. Then there were butterflies in flowers struggling for a piece of nectar with noisy houseflies and attentive lizards.
There was a bit of wind too, and I felt it softly nudge the feet of the rotting dog laying by a split mango and its tree. Dark Humour; shadowy figures stalked the premises, frequently thrusting their sharp fronts into the flesh. As they moved their heads bobbed, as though nodding to the easily welcoming sunbeams and fresh atmosphere.
The wind, floating, led a scurry of brown leaves past my gaze, as though on an excursion to some undetermined place. Then, like a maestro, he coaxed them into an elaborate, gracefully erratic display of whistling song and dance, first spinning wildly, then slowly transiting into a spiral, in a small circle, then bit by bit with more and more passion, swirling and swirling into wider and wider arc, before finally going out of control and crashing against the glass tinklers of the mouldy windchime hanging on the door of an oak cottage.
They looked up from their preoccupation in response into the distance, as though in fervent anticipation, before reaching down to pull off another morsel of fur and skin.
I saw the glimmering sun cast the tree's shadow on this house. Perhaps this was a trick to hide the intricate boreworm holes in the walls of the countenance, if you painted the house black then you wouldn't see the holes at all. Presently the door frame creaked under the restless pull of the windchime.
The windows were drawn wide in the open direction of the rising sun, who of course threw the mango tree's dark shadow into the house, and on the door lay a faithfully dusted but rotten wooden knocker. Two chairs sat at the front of the house, with the one on the right consistently clean and dusted, while the other grew yellow stains on its pink surface.
I saw a stir and a groan. Followed by a aching creak of a bed frame. Some feeble shuffling of feet and halted movements. In a moment there was the clinking of glass, the clatter of spoons, the rattling of tin pans - unmistakable sounds of breakfast. A long drawn-out and almost-grating painful drag of wood against wood, then all was silent again, for about 10 stanzas, before I felt the quivering lips and chattering plastic teeth.
Time could have passed quietly as the sun began to take a less compromising position in the blue sky. A nudge, a push - and the gentle tinkling of the glass chimes informed the opening of the door. I saw a further shuffling of feet, followed by a prudent step on the porch, as though in half-hesitation, before, shifting the weight a little, slowly brings decisive pressure onto the gnawing porch, followed by movement by the other foot, with the same intricate decision-making process, thereby moves down from the house.
The wind moves the shawl into flowing fluid motion as it unwraps itself from the pale and botched skin of the neck and flies disappear into the distance, while startled hands try claw at the last remnants of red woollen fabric.
I heard the shuffling of painful feet again, rustling the dead leaves by the house. Making its way slowly. But I could feel strong determination. For neither distracted nor divergent progress was made in an authoritative direction. Slowly but surely, I saw progress, and progress it was directed behind the cottage.
By now the sun had reached the height of its ascent, and its glimmer had turned into a strong glare down on the house. I saw a shadow thus formed on the sandy ground - weak in constituent structure and lacking credible support. Slowly in aching movements it began to stretch out horizontally left and right, like wings that do not have much width nor span to speak of flight. Where the shadow stretched furthest, an pebble was dropped at both ends, and they fell, giving up much of their imbued potential into the soft ground of the sand.
For a while there was silence, much withheld from the persistent glare of the sun. A glint, though, as the sand absorbed moisture into its dry crevices. The drops had navigated their way through complex and meandering ridges and rugged contours and parched facial features before dangling at the edge, at the mercy of motion, how slight and feeble.
I heard shuffling of feet again. On the sand, I heard the feet shuffle forth, hesitate, then shuffle back again. Another prolonged wait, followed by another round of shuffling feet. Another prolonged shuffling feet, another round of waiting. I saw a lines being drawn out of the sand thus, one interconnecting the other in an obvious but not very sharp pattern, sometimes the lines were a bit crooked, sometimes they veered off a straight line, most times they were not even straight to start with. I held the blazing sun from moving away from the shuffling of feet so that I could see clearly what was actually being formed; lo and behold, gradually and determined, a rectangle was formed.
In a while there was silence, the sand now left alone and undisturbed, and the house that had been quiet now livened with activity again. The same shuffling, and the dropping of pebbles, on wooden boards, the long wait, and then prolonged shuffling again. Same old same old. All same. No clinking of glasses or metal clatter. Only the annoying tinkling of the windchime at the door.
One of the birds had flown to the back of the house in search of seeds. When it had found one, it cawed out loud, and was soon joined by another. Then another, then another. Soon the back of the house filled with incessant cawing, and pecking on the sand.
A fearful choked cry rang out from the house, and like the urgency and haste of spreading heat, hurried steps and desperate shuffling, in startled fury and anguished passions like the sudden raising of hellfire on the back of the neck and then the pinpricks and needles on the spine, all in mournful anger and aimless despair and desperate rage - chasing away those pitiful birds.
Well the rectangle earlier outlined is indeed in a mess now. Still there should be no reason to scare the poor birds away. I watched as the same process of shuffling, stone-dropping, waiting and even more shuffling and drawing persisted. Somehow I'd wish the wind would just blow everything away.
When the task was finally done, I observed the rectangle in the sand and saw that it was perhaps around the size of a sleeping bed. The kind that furnished certain rooms in most houses. It would be weird though, to think that a bed would be constructed on this very spot behind the house wouldn't it?
~~~~
The sun sets.
Marlene Dumas, Measuring your own grave
In the name of
Dear Mr Cakes,
In heart and mind, in soul and aura, I pray that I might have the strength to be there for ppl who need someone, and still manage to support my intense endeavours and ambitions. May I find the strength to heave others into balance, the bravery to engage those who others will not, the clear head and mind for me to listen without preconceptions and biases, and a clear heart that grows towards genuinely wishing everyone well.
This is my way of thanking your support and quiet nudges all throughout my life. You know that as much as I am proud I can't walk this world alone. You represent the automatic walking shoes that assure my stability when I am about to fall or the jaw-and-mouth braces that prevent me from saying shit before I think.
You are I as much as I am You. You understand me as much as I understand you. If You are gone I shall be free but clumsy and tripping and damned, having lost half of my identity and self.
Remind me that we can never totally help people. We've tried to make some people happy but they'd just stabbed us in the heart. And I know you always shifted so that you got stabbed. Your analytical mind takes most of the blows that We go through in a single day. For that, I really thank you.
Granted, you're not really a very nice person. I've seen you do malicious things to other ppl because they disturbed us. And your words can stab and maim and kill when you want them to. Your motto is always, Treat yourself the best cos' no one else will. In some sense you're selfish too. I always have a hard time reining in your aggresively sharp and deviant impulses. Once or twice you trick me with common sedatives so that you can run more freely, but I always gain the upper hand. :-D
We are the best friends ever. An insult to you is an insult to me.
written on 2nd February, 1521 hours, in Central Library, while listening to Thee Michelle Gun Elephant
In heart and mind, in soul and aura, I pray that I might have the strength to be there for ppl who need someone, and still manage to support my intense endeavours and ambitions. May I find the strength to heave others into balance, the bravery to engage those who others will not, the clear head and mind for me to listen without preconceptions and biases, and a clear heart that grows towards genuinely wishing everyone well.
This is my way of thanking your support and quiet nudges all throughout my life. You know that as much as I am proud I can't walk this world alone. You represent the automatic walking shoes that assure my stability when I am about to fall or the jaw-and-mouth braces that prevent me from saying shit before I think.
You are I as much as I am You. You understand me as much as I understand you. If You are gone I shall be free but clumsy and tripping and damned, having lost half of my identity and self.
Remind me that we can never totally help people. We've tried to make some people happy but they'd just stabbed us in the heart. And I know you always shifted so that you got stabbed. Your analytical mind takes most of the blows that We go through in a single day. For that, I really thank you.
Granted, you're not really a very nice person. I've seen you do malicious things to other ppl because they disturbed us. And your words can stab and maim and kill when you want them to. Your motto is always, Treat yourself the best cos' no one else will. In some sense you're selfish too. I always have a hard time reining in your aggresively sharp and deviant impulses. Once or twice you trick me with common sedatives so that you can run more freely, but I always gain the upper hand. :-D
We are the best friends ever. An insult to you is an insult to me.
written on 2nd February, 1521 hours, in Central Library, while listening to Thee Michelle Gun Elephant
just a figment of my imagination
Some people are meant to do great things and realise that they are supposed to do so from a great young age. But clearly I'm not. But wanting to at least achieve a decent level of proficiency I thought it was only cool to approach the divine for inspiration and guidance.
I climbed the marshmellow stairs up and passed the cloud barriers and saw the bright of day shining before me. I took a step forward and saw Mr Leach.
"Sir, can you tell me how might I work to achieve good rhythm timing and bounce?"
He glanced up from his sawdust-y table and scratched his gray hair with his powdery fingers. "Seriously, I have not the faintest clue! I'm not really that good with these things... I only listen! But I would imagine you would need at the very least stamina and a good ear... Now I think you can go downstairs and ask Grant how he does it. I think he'd have a better answer!"
And so i walked down the marshmellow staircase, down on to concrete ground, opened the black manhole and walked down some slippery sticky steps into darkness.
Suddenly I heard a spark and a immense sonic boom behind me. The steps roared with yellow-red flames that licked the orange sky that was the ceiling. I was trapped!
The terrain was rugged and scorching. I saw Grant pushing himself up and down against the burning ground with only his thumbs and index + middle fingers.
"Erm excuse me sir, My apologies for disturbing but Mr Leach sent me down here to for advice as to getting rhythm timing and bounce,"
For a while I thought he was going to ignore my existence and leave me stranded for all of eternity. But then he slid into a kneeling position and clasped his hands together. Then he got up and disappeared behind some caves. I followed him and faced his red arms cradling a blackish-red X-series. Without a word, he started to play and the whole of the land reverbed with his rhythm.
After that I thought it was about time to leave. "Eh Sir, thank you for your demonstration today. Could you let me out now?"
He held out his nail-less fingers and dropped a super-small plectrum onto my hands. It felt kinda warm on my skin, though it left no mark whatsoever. I took out a bundle that I previously prepared and unwrapped the cloth napkin.
"This is a token of appreciation from me," I said as I uncovered the box of chocolate muffins and placed them on a rock nearby.
Thereafter I walked up the dry stairs by this time and out of the manhole. After that I found the marshmellow trail and climbed up the stairs.
"So, what have u learnt from Grant downstairs?" Mr Leach put down his drill-saw and dusted his hands on his apron.
I told him that I thought he was a freakin' awesome player but a lousy listener. After all he never realised the muffins I gave him.
"Ah, but that's to be expected! Here, have a seat and give me a minute."
By heavens a minute feels like a passing of eternity. Finally he came out behind the brass door and handed me a hardcase.
"I made this just for you! Seeing that you're mild and much unhumourous person I didn't quite think you'd like one that was too bright. Likewise you have hot stuff in your underbelly, so I thought this suits you best,"
I asked him if he would listen to my playing and help me improve.
"Why of course! That's what you're here for isn't it?"
I climbed the marshmellow stairs up and passed the cloud barriers and saw the bright of day shining before me. I took a step forward and saw Mr Leach.
"Sir, can you tell me how might I work to achieve good rhythm timing and bounce?"
He glanced up from his sawdust-y table and scratched his gray hair with his powdery fingers. "Seriously, I have not the faintest clue! I'm not really that good with these things... I only listen! But I would imagine you would need at the very least stamina and a good ear... Now I think you can go downstairs and ask Grant how he does it. I think he'd have a better answer!"
And so i walked down the marshmellow staircase, down on to concrete ground, opened the black manhole and walked down some slippery sticky steps into darkness.
Suddenly I heard a spark and a immense sonic boom behind me. The steps roared with yellow-red flames that licked the orange sky that was the ceiling. I was trapped!
The terrain was rugged and scorching. I saw Grant pushing himself up and down against the burning ground with only his thumbs and index + middle fingers.
"Erm excuse me sir, My apologies for disturbing but Mr Leach sent me down here to for advice as to getting rhythm timing and bounce,"
For a while I thought he was going to ignore my existence and leave me stranded for all of eternity. But then he slid into a kneeling position and clasped his hands together. Then he got up and disappeared behind some caves. I followed him and faced his red arms cradling a blackish-red X-series. Without a word, he started to play and the whole of the land reverbed with his rhythm.
After that I thought it was about time to leave. "Eh Sir, thank you for your demonstration today. Could you let me out now?"
He held out his nail-less fingers and dropped a super-small plectrum onto my hands. It felt kinda warm on my skin, though it left no mark whatsoever. I took out a bundle that I previously prepared and unwrapped the cloth napkin.
"This is a token of appreciation from me," I said as I uncovered the box of chocolate muffins and placed them on a rock nearby.
Thereafter I walked up the dry stairs by this time and out of the manhole. After that I found the marshmellow trail and climbed up the stairs.
"So, what have u learnt from Grant downstairs?" Mr Leach put down his drill-saw and dusted his hands on his apron.
I told him that I thought he was a freakin' awesome player but a lousy listener. After all he never realised the muffins I gave him.
"Ah, but that's to be expected! Here, have a seat and give me a minute."
By heavens a minute feels like a passing of eternity. Finally he came out behind the brass door and handed me a hardcase.
"I made this just for you! Seeing that you're mild and much unhumourous person I didn't quite think you'd like one that was too bright. Likewise you have hot stuff in your underbelly, so I thought this suits you best,"
I asked him if he would listen to my playing and help me improve.
"Why of course! That's what you're here for isn't it?"
Rejection Letter (a poem)
Hiya.
It's been a while since the last incident
after the long long time since we last spoke
I think you're probably still thinking that
the two of us.... aww nvm.
Isn't it amazing how we've come so far
from the rusty slides and the crummy see-saws
the creaking monkey bars and the abandoned
playground
below our crumbling pale grey flats
where the old mango tree hangs its fruits
We'd throw with concrete from the nearby site
against the ever-growing glass towers
and the numerous smooth pavements that cut
our paths to school where I'll just like die
under my heavy school bags while you'd breeze along
your torn-and-sewn polyester bag where your pride
and your excuse to relieve me lay
all through our velcro strap-ons to white converse sneakers
I've known you've always held a torch
in the nights we walked home after dance
But Saturdays you've always had part-time
And my Sundays are for church and shopping
You could've styled your hair a little nicer too.
I chased the paper harder than you did
And Dad finally moved us into Serangoon Gardens
I never understood why you could never catch up
Only clues are those bruises and heavy sleepy eyes
And an attendance rate of 34 over 95
Vaguely remember that you were cold and lonely
in a world that didn't appreciate your Singlish and Hokkien
But hey I'm busy and I've got problems too you know
like darn chemistry equations and stupid project work
and moolah for the Agnes b. sale coming in two weeks
I can't help it if we are drifting apart.
I'm flying so high now and the last thing I need
is for you to remind me of my rotten past
where the present is bleak and the future a luxury
Let's just say I've moved on; you stayed behind
You could have been the son of a rich man
or even a stylish trendsetter amidst
the swirling colourful neon and pulsing music
But what exactly I'd loathe to share
are the shackles around your feet and wings.
I'm no longer the person you threw stones
or played catching lizards with
There are so many possibilities overseas
more than you can ever imagine
Let's just say it's all my fault, it's not yours
I'm sure you will find a nice girl
to do your chores and take care of the house
I'm sorry but can I ask you not to bother me anymore?
It's been a while since the last incident
after the long long time since we last spoke
I think you're probably still thinking that
the two of us.... aww nvm.
Isn't it amazing how we've come so far
from the rusty slides and the crummy see-saws
the creaking monkey bars and the abandoned
playground
below our crumbling pale grey flats
where the old mango tree hangs its fruits
We'd throw with concrete from the nearby site
against the ever-growing glass towers
and the numerous smooth pavements that cut
our paths to school where I'll just like die
under my heavy school bags while you'd breeze along
your torn-and-sewn polyester bag where your pride
and your excuse to relieve me lay
all through our velcro strap-ons to white converse sneakers
I've known you've always held a torch
in the nights we walked home after dance
But Saturdays you've always had part-time
And my Sundays are for church and shopping
You could've styled your hair a little nicer too.
I chased the paper harder than you did
And Dad finally moved us into Serangoon Gardens
I never understood why you could never catch up
Only clues are those bruises and heavy sleepy eyes
And an attendance rate of 34 over 95
Vaguely remember that you were cold and lonely
in a world that didn't appreciate your Singlish and Hokkien
But hey I'm busy and I've got problems too you know
like darn chemistry equations and stupid project work
and moolah for the Agnes b. sale coming in two weeks
I can't help it if we are drifting apart.
I'm flying so high now and the last thing I need
is for you to remind me of my rotten past
where the present is bleak and the future a luxury
Let's just say I've moved on; you stayed behind
You could have been the son of a rich man
or even a stylish trendsetter amidst
the swirling colourful neon and pulsing music
But what exactly I'd loathe to share
are the shackles around your feet and wings.
I'm no longer the person you threw stones
or played catching lizards with
There are so many possibilities overseas
more than you can ever imagine
Let's just say it's all my fault, it's not yours
I'm sure you will find a nice girl
to do your chores and take care of the house
I'm sorry but can I ask you not to bother me anymore?
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Thesis
This paper seeks to bring forth the commonly held preliminary notions of social interaction before an individual enters a state of association as characterized by dynamics of the triad. I argue that because of the tenacity of circular, unprogressive and at times one-sided judgements on the nature of being, often understated and taken-for-granted simulations of associative behaviours, as well as the pre-associational, albeit socially constructed cognitive expectations of these generalized simulations of behaviour, societal interactions today in contemporary societies are almost all but hanging by vague and thin social strands that are typically produced, arranged, packaged and thereby signified to be "social" by symbolic entrepreneurs with vested interests in the symbolic economy of Capitalism.
Ultimately, I intend to prove that Baudrillard's schema of "death" of the social and meaning was, and still and always will be misguided, for the hyper-reliance of Capitalism symbolic entrepreneurs on pre-postmodern systems of meaning ambiguity in order to maintain systems of symbolic needs structured to force consumers to continue engaging in the satisfaction of these needs. Thus, Baudrillard's suggestion of "Seduction" to bring back systems of ambiguity only serves to maintain the hegemony and relevance of the Symbolic Economy.
This paper will then suggest that the key method to break this patterned hegemony of the symbolic/sign economy is to further engage in another of Baudrillard's suggestions, which is to push for an hyper-overloading of signified reality for all spheres of an ideal-typical social reality of the individual, where personalized structures of discipline, punishment and restraint help in dogmatically preventing the individual from any recognition, understanding or even curiousity towards any alternative interpretation of all social phenomena, reality and intrinsic being. In simple terms, this means the individual must personally institute cultures to stop oneself from actively seeking meaning to understand social reality. This paper will finally end off by "connecting the dots" to show how such a course of action will very quickly break the already-settling equilibrium characterized by the Capitalist Sign/Symbolic Economy, and further dissolve related institutions and structures and dogmatically force progress into fully meaningful forms of societal organization and human behaviour.
Ultimately, I intend to prove that Baudrillard's schema of "death" of the social and meaning was, and still and always will be misguided, for the hyper-reliance of Capitalism symbolic entrepreneurs on pre-postmodern systems of meaning ambiguity in order to maintain systems of symbolic needs structured to force consumers to continue engaging in the satisfaction of these needs. Thus, Baudrillard's suggestion of "Seduction" to bring back systems of ambiguity only serves to maintain the hegemony and relevance of the Symbolic Economy.
This paper will then suggest that the key method to break this patterned hegemony of the symbolic/sign economy is to further engage in another of Baudrillard's suggestions, which is to push for an hyper-overloading of signified reality for all spheres of an ideal-typical social reality of the individual, where personalized structures of discipline, punishment and restraint help in dogmatically preventing the individual from any recognition, understanding or even curiousity towards any alternative interpretation of all social phenomena, reality and intrinsic being. In simple terms, this means the individual must personally institute cultures to stop oneself from actively seeking meaning to understand social reality. This paper will finally end off by "connecting the dots" to show how such a course of action will very quickly break the already-settling equilibrium characterized by the Capitalist Sign/Symbolic Economy, and further dissolve related institutions and structures and dogmatically force progress into fully meaningful forms of societal organization and human behaviour.
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