I'm not saying I love you

I won't say I'll be true
There's a crimson bird flying
when I go down on you


Ballad of the Broken Seas




I think he used to like my mother.

Now she is married to the only man she has eyes for and they have children. So does he, but once.

What hard eggs.

Spellbound

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing dear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

Emily Brontë

Now it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table

But you only want the things

you can't get.

If reality is constructed in the mind and life is only as we perceive it, then if given a chance would you want to be put in a sleep forever where your mind can dream whatever it wants to, construct worlds, greece, spain, oceans, even outer space, beyond the milky way, even back in time, kampongs and medieval castles; could you agree and accept that as reality, knowing flesh-and-blood life could never give you that? Could the lover from the dream become REAL like the blood and bones lover standing before you who is, equally, a perception?

What stops ye?

Waking up everyday without reporting to someone, not spending the day in an air-conditioned room, using the day thinking and making things, but most of all

the world of adventures, places, rides, strangers, corners, oceans, fields.

I suppose I'm stubborn and seem mad, but I only feel sane thinking this way.

What does it mean to Make a Living?

I suppose, ironically, one has to work for freedom, towards being more free.

She comes down from Yellow Mountain
On a dark, flat land she rides
On a pony she named Wildfire
With a whirlwind by her side
On a cold Nebraska night

She ran calling Wildfire

ode to no one

my cartwheels are never straight
for the dust inside my bones
pollute my young boy's frame
make my rosy little cheeks
the rouge of an old grand gran;
happy laugh lines are wrinkles
lying against plump pillows
on moonlit nights with crickets
outside the cracking wood windows
lying with soft feet crossed
can't sleep or weep
dreaming of cartwheels
and circus crowds
the marvellous blue-yellow tent
sticky slippery lollies
and steaming caramel corn.
i do cartwheels for you, my sweet
handstands tumbles somersaults
just to get to your dark hole
my love is a cartwheel
strong and free and flying hair
green grass to cirrus skies
to lie with you in a caravan
how grand we'd be
for no one to see
just me and my ruby ring
you and your hohner rust
forever young
forever old.

Do you think to kill me?

There's no flesh and blood within this cloak to kill. There is only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof.

-V for Vendetta

*

A new year, and I've never felt more different. I don't know what it is. Wake up every weekday to do something that does not make me happy, wait for the next fulltime job with hope but a large dose of cynicism, brewing plans in the cauldron of my mind, butterflies in my stomach from possibilities, clinging onto old but always fresh fantasies of greece, spain, japan, and magic, more than ever, understanding more about the world and the un-world and myself and what I am to become, thinking of all my plans, plans, plans of which some may never bubble and some will. And the first meal of the year was The Elvis. It's going to be a good year.

*

I haven't slept well in three weeks, and am hardly allowed access to dreamland. Listening to MR. CHILDREN's 深海 restores some hope in men. One hardly meets them but I do everyday. The fruit uncle downstairs who has no favourite fruit.

Dive into the big blue sea!

Why is it so hard to find a sea around here to dive into?

Why don't we have a deep dark wood?

And John, because I can't ask my Mummy or Papa, why can't we lie down somewhere at night and look at the stars?

Lastly, what is the meaning of breasts and pubic hair?

honey pie, you are driving me frantic

sail across the Atlantic

to where you belong

' ' ' blood oranges ' ' '

' ' ' self-invented 成语 from a fruit uncle, 42 years at the job ' ' '

' ' ' dear papa, i'm on a train ' ' '

' ' ' white capsicums- witches' favourite fruit ' ' '

' ' ' breakfast ' ' '

' ' ' i said i wouldn't buy leather, but for my bunions i did. ' ' '

' ' ' grandmother's worst horror: trusty 5-year old mary-janes, from forest treks to wedding dinners ' ' '

' ' ' the trees in ang mo kio are crying ' ' '

peppermint teardrops

On researching for my job interviews I found Ecole Philippe Gaulier-

“As an actor and a director, I’ve gained so much through learning from him. Philippe is a true master not only because he is capable of seeing the hidden beauty of actors but also his great ability to liberate actors to present these beauties and shine uniquely on stage.” Ecole Philippe Gaulier graduate, Mr Alvin Chiam

* * * * * * * * * * *

Bouffon, an artform which he holds as a sort of inverted Clown, where a balance is struck between grotesqueness and charm.

During these performances, the bouffon's goal was to get away with insulting or disgusting the beautiful people as much as possible. Typically, the bouffon would target their attack on the leaders within the mainstream of society, such as the government or the Roman Catholic Church.

The ideal performance for a bouffon would be one where the audience is wildly entertained, and then go home, realize their lives are meaningless, and commit suicide. This of course is a theoretical ideal instead of an anticipated outcome.

*

Why is it so easy to enrol?

Why not? Everything is so complicated in France.

Why don’t you hold auditions?

Because the role of the teacher is to change the person, not to judge them.

sour raindrops

On the bus on the way to work, passing Ang Mo Kio at 8 plus a.m. when golden sunshine is at its most glorious beauty, moving scenes play out as if it is a mini set I watch from the bus window. A long haired dark skinned man smokes on a little hill facing Caltex, his cigarette smoke illuminated against the golden rays. After Caltex, two Chinese men sit on pavement; one looks ahead with his tattered bag in his lap, one opens the day's papers. Moving on at regular speed, a maid pushes a baby on a little pink toy car. Behind is a scene of tall nice HDB flats. Should I think it's perverse or lovely?

At ALB we play with real memories, real people, real feelings. I am reminded of how the real reaches out from all the unreal we seem to be creating, when my father declines to attend the performance. Poor Engineer Mr. Ng is making me feel very emotional these days without realising it himself. Though eldest precious daughter Ng is also always giving dear Papa a lot of grief.

Looking back at looking back

I'm looking back a lot these days. Can't help it. Is this what they call the transition? If I go anywhere I only want it to be a place where I know how to make my dreams come true. Everything is then and now and how I thought life was ___ but it was ___. It's not such a tragedy because it's still wobbly jelly and not a dark hole but it still is a tragedy because now I know that all adults are people who believed in magic and spoke to themselves and played pretend; everyone had that in them, it's just varying degrees of letting go. When I listen to Lovely Rita it's the 17-year-old me in Sgt. Pepper mode, fancy-free at the garden tables. When I listen to Love Minus Zero/No Limit, it's old hot weekday afternoons that no longer are, it's all feelings I can't describe. Maybe that's why synaesthetics are so blessed. THE ONLY MAGIC POWER LEFT? The sages of today, they see things we don't, where are they?

Black-Beetle Bearded Man and Lovely Pirate Olive Oyl

It was the most beautiful dance I ever saw before my eyes.

Today at swing dance, my nervous friend was getting his bearings and consulting his manual of possible moves so I stood there waiting.

Black-Beetle Bearded Man had come from nowhere, an unfamiliar face (but so was I; maybe he is famous to all, unbeknown to me), a tall strong lanky body with a bearded face that somehow had a moustache that curled royally, and twinkling eyes. And she, the founder of the school, in her fifties I reckon, was in her pirate dress- half of it red striped with a qipao collar, the other half deep sea blue. And her red converse shoes as usual. They danced like pure magic. Hopping and swinging and tapping and polkadotting and his legs were like two jumpy grasshoppers and her wrinkles matched her clothes. It was like having googly glowing jelly move through your blood, watching them.

An old pot-bellied caucasian man in a purple shirt and high socks and sport shoes came too- another new face. He spent 15 minutes giving advice to a girl on how to dance, then rested on a chair. Another new face sat quietly on the floor with his backpack and legs wide open, observing everyone seriously. I left early to do office work due tonight and did not get to dance clumsily with any of them.

Pi in the sky, and a broken heart.

from the cloud appreciation society site

Aren't they beautiful?

I hear crickets in my room. They're asking me to close my eyes, and be calm.

No Worries lemongrass tea

Working hours, but my mind is drifting and I fail to take this seriously. What did people use to do at work when there was no computer to give them access to an entire universe while being physically around their colleagues, around printers, files, the boss? Why, they wrote on paper, with pens! Or clacked away on typewriters! And pushed their cateye glasses up if the un-air-conditioned room was making them sweat.

A photo of death-eaters is on my desktop ready for tomorrow. (23 hours to Harry Potter!!!!!!!! -gnaws madly at handkerchief-)

I went to craigslist to see what it's about, and found-

If you like pinacoladas - m4w - 45 (Singapore)

In search of a lonely married woman longing for spice and adventure.

I am a Singapore male chinese, 45, married and lonely.

Completely discreet and no commitments expected. Just warmth and friendship as and when you are available.

Write to discuss what we can do together in or out of Singapore.

Write to me and escape.


and

Bus 100 - m4w - 28 (Singapore)

I want to talk to you but I don't have the courage yet. I always see you at bus stop 62139. We always ride the same Bus 100, we alight at the same bus stop. It's just that we go on opposite direction. You never failed to mesmirized my day. I hope we can talk.

Rhyming Ode To Swing

i wish i could

oh yes i would

swing everyday

i'd be so gay

in a polkadot skirt

that would happily flirt

with the bowtie of

my charming partner.

And stripey lollipop socks!

(matching clothes are bollocks)

They'd put on some swing

my heart and synapses ring

we would do eight-count:

one two

three and four

five six

seven and eight

sweetheart

catapult

suzie-q

crazy legs

the trouble starts at six

count, i look at our feet

it's like our hearts don't meet

my mary-janes are

half a beat behind

i hope he doesn't mind

i just started learning

my heart is burning

can't square-off right yet

my kick-pumps aren't set

and mama said you must wear a bra

when dancing with men.

i like the orange dim

looking at her and him

twenties charleston flaps

jockey hip-to-hip gaps

grammophone dreams

floral armchair beams

papa said dance-floor love is a deception

a rosy musk-perception

but 2010 doesn't quite matter

-is he the mad hatter?-

on a rainy ol' swing sunday

while waiting for the next song to start.

If ya ever get lonely, just go to the record store and visit your friends.

penny lane, Almost Famous

You know that other girls have never been my style

Suzie-Q

Catapult

Sweetheart

Crazy legs

Falling-off-a-log

Around-the-world

The Swim

And the bright, all-wonderful Charleston!

pineapple calluses

It was the last time I would see him in my life. Going to India meant that. He was my grandfather's elder brother, fourth in line to kong kong's fifth and last. Actually he was the only one remaining of those five, five whom I would like to investigate someday because I see them as some sort of legend in my head, the five brothers, one of whom I've heard was deathly handsome like my grandfather and whose motorcycle-and-mint looks live on in his eldest son, who tries too hard to be charming. The fourth brother would not be thought of as a legend though, the way people imagine legends, because he was soft, and quiet, and kind and simple. I saw him at least once a year, every year of my life, at Chinese New Year (we always had homemade cookies by his daughter-in-law, the kind that is a swirl with a pink dot on top, and yeo's chrysanthemum tea), in his small, neat hdb home that seemed a different world from his younger brother's green marble floors and red carpets. He had a big belly always nestled behind the uncle white cotton singlet. He had calm, sad little eyes, did not want much or need much. He was my father's favourite uncle, and my father once got them a big tv because they couldn't quite splurge on it, and it would make his uncle's days happier at home. My father never told anyone else about it. Sometimes he would come and visit (not at Chinese New Year), sitting around unassumedly, with his oldest nephew (another remarkable man of cigarettes and rough lines) who is incidentally my grandmother's age, and we would all have dinner together. At my grandfather's funeral, my father bought the famous yong tau foo from outside and he slurped up the mucusy gravy before my eyes. This was when the house was still old, and we sat at the sticky outdoor kitchen table, surrounded by fried vegetables in thick translucent gravy and surrounded by the empty smell of funeral incense. The last visit to him was something I'd suggested because I knew it would be the last time. He had some stomach problems or cancer, I don't know anymore, and had a few months left. One Sunday afternoon we trudged there after lunch. When I entered his room, he lay on the bed, emaciated, looking at the ceiling. His big belly was almost no more, his legs were skinny bones and his dark construction skin was yellowish. There was a tube from his nose. The bed was very neat, the sheets smooth, and cotton blankets that had little regular holes in them (my brother had a pink one from childhood that smelt very nice). The room was dark, only light from a window. It was old and dusty but orderly. I started tearing while everyone stood around not knowing what to do. He seemed a bit happy to see us. After they all said something they went out to the living room to sit awkwardly, while my grandmother and I remained. My grandmother asked if he'd eaten and spoke to him very normally. I wondered how she did that. I wondered how he felt lying there everyday, death coming, and if my grandfather came to talk to him. After a while my grandmother went out and I was left alone and he asked me to sit down so I did. I held his hand for my own sake and started crying and he said hoarsely, like he feared the end, 'ah liap, ask her to stop crying or I will cry too....' but my grandmother was outside and couldn't hear him.

Now I'm back it's odd that he is in an urn in the columbarium and his old flesh is no more. Like a mould that melted into space, disintegrating into tiny little sparkly parts, like a scene from a low-effects space movie. It's a weird thought to get around. I'm glad I wasn't around for his funeral; I would have cried embarrassingly too much and maybe more than his own grandchildren. Everyone dies out and Chinese New Year will never be the same again. Sugus and Van Houten are from the swollen heady past, and now the first thing on Chinese New Year morning are the bright yellow chrysanthemums at my grandfather's grave, twin-decorating the photo my grandmother doesn't like (because of the expression of the mouth) but which I think embodies him perfectly.

floating away on a cloud

"So...have you been dating any boys recently?"

"Nope."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Nope."

"You must get a boyfriend!!!"

"Give me some advice lah."

"Hmmmm. First you must get a makeover, like put makeup, cover all your pimples...Then must be like, like, very funny, very smart."

"Okay."

"If you don't have long hair it's okay, because in the shows right, short hair also can. Also got boys like. Just that the most important thing is you must be like very funny, very fun."

"What shows?"
"Like those drama lah."

"But those stupid korean dramas are just silly shows."

"Yah I know, but you can also learn from them."

kong kong kong, kong kong kong kong, kong kong gong gong

If you say the above with hokkien intonation, it means-

"grandfather said, container hit grandfather, grandfather blur-blur/concussion/silly-silly"

It's 7pm- half an hour to end-of-work but my brain is frozen from replying trickling mucus-poop-trails of work emails in friendly tones, researching for shows and dealing with lists. My work pal, who shaved off his mohawk this morning due to an accidental slight of the hand, has gone off for Deepavali. But not before we huddled together when everyone else was out of the room, used the office's navy-blue-and-lime-green brother sticker machine that I've been addicted to and secretly using far too much of, and made french phrase stickers for the girl he is in love with right now. Then he went off to see her, happily. I need to strategically put the sticker machine not on my table or it will seem like I use it all the time, which I want to, hug it and make endless stickers- Coeur qui soupire n'a pas ce qu'il desire. The trees beckon us tomorrow and I simply can't wait. No trees that say wisha-wisha-wisha! but I think they say ho-ho-hum-hum-bloom-bloom-bloom.

To be a hip cat, you gotta practise- plenty.

swing it, spiffy cat!

bob, i've missed you

your breath is sweet your eyes are like two jewels in the sky Cardamom flavoured floss! It's not the thin, cutting translucent sort but made of soft but tough thin cotton and it's super shiok. Cardamom explodes like stars in my mouth so everytime I floss I am reminded of India, the possibilities of being there and the impossibilities of being here. I'm exaggerating but add a semi- in front of possibilities and impossibilities. They're building a kampong here. (http://www.kampungtemasek.org/) * Email from Gavin Pretor-Pinney, Founder-- Dear Mary-Jane Leo Salty Thunder Bindi Galaxy-Ladybird Smithereens (Member No. 22588),

I'm sending this quick email out to members of the Cloud Appreciation Society based in Singapore to tell you about a new 'cloudspotting area' that will be opening there soon, and to ask if you might be interested in speaking to The Straits Times about why you like clouds. .....

The society has just agreed that the new observation deck on the 56th floor above the ION Orchard shopping centre, Orchard Road, which is going to open to the public in January 2011, should be recognized as a Cloud Appreciation Society 'Official Cloudspotting Area'. This is because it is going to be a great location from which to enjoy the cloudscapes over Singapore. The observation deck will be called ION Sky and will include a Cloud Appreciation Society diagram illustrating the 10 main cloud types, to help viewers identify the beautiful skies that they are looking out at. ION Sky will, in fact, be the second official C.A.S. clouspotting area in the world. * This is bewildering. I don't blame them, but if they had done more research by living in Singapore for a bit, those innocent dreamy cloud-lovers may realise that ION is a symbol of the materialistic sickness that kills good things and via the infinite links of the world endangers the loving of clouds. Luce you said you understand, maybe I'm trying not to because it's HALLOWEEN. I get so vehement I scare myself. Today it can be blamed on the chunks of blood falling out of me, but when it's gone there's nothing but to live outside the descending fog with a bunion aid splint. I'm going to have to get used to the frustration and bewilderment in my father's eyes everytime he looks at me. *

Pet Sounds

Every night now I say this: 'The night was quiet and nature was resting and I was at peace.' And then I can sleep. I made it up myself. Isn't that great? Saying it now my eyes feel a little tired.

Big Brian isn't scared of anybody and Little Brian is scared of everybody.

-Brian Wilson

(http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/aug/24/popandrock)

*

Synesthesia- possibly the only scientifically chronicled magical power of today

a sensation produced in one modality when a stimulus is applied toanother modality, as when the hearing of a certain sound inducesthe visualization of a certain color.

In one common form of synesthesia, known as grapheme → color synesthesia or color-graphemic synesthesia, letters or numbers are perceived as inherently colored, while in ordinal linguistic personification, numbers, days of the week and months of the year evoke personalities.

Over 60 types of synesthesia have been reported by people, but only a fraction have been evaluated by scientific research.

Synesthesia runs strongly in families, but the precise mode of inheritance has yet to be ascertained.

Synesthetes often report that they were unaware their experiences were unusual until they realized other people did not have them, while others report feeling as if they had been keeping a secret their entire lives, as has been documented in interviews with synesthetes on how they discovered synesthesia in their childhood.

To the contrary, most report it as a gift—an additional "hidden" sense.

As a child, Pat Duffy told her Dad, "I realized that to make an R all I had to do was first write a P and draw a line down from its loop. And I was so surprised that I could turn a yellow letter into an orange letter just by adding a line."