Come hither, shadows from the yonder

The last gasoline lamp is dimmed for the night. A shadow is dancing in the kitchen, given life by the flickering candle. Wayne walked coolly towards the swing door, past some cigarette stubs and blotches of dried ale and spilled beer. Dull thuds are heard from the kitchen, washed mugs placed atop some wooden surface.

He sat below the swing door just behind a worn rocking chair. He scribbled on the dust covered wooden panel. Still quiet like he has always been, save for some occasional utterance. The moonlight showers him and casts a long shadow behind him. The air is still and dry, typical of the West. It's only going to get colder as the night progresses.

Sometimes he'd just lay there and fell asleep. On other nights, he'd stare intently into the distance - a dark void in the dead of the night. He has better vision than most inhabitants of the small town. Sometimes, he moonlights as an astronomer under the moonlight but he couldn't make out the shapes in the dark expanse above.

Many hours ago, the place was alive with gleeful chatters from the customers and occasional roars from boisterous miners. He'd find comfort amidst the hubbub. When the last light is snuffed out, then loneliness creeps in. It's almost a routine.

Yet, faithful Wayne continues waiting. Expecting. Hoping. Patiently. No one asks why. No one bothers to. Some sensitive souls would stop, observe and tried to make out his mind. Then they'd go on with their business. Tonight, like any other nights, Wayne sat there. Scanning around and observing the wood grains on the swing door and then shifts his attention towards the dark horizon in front. Soon, it'll explode into a vivid orange fireball but for now he'd just relish his quiet moments alone.

Around his neck is a pendant inscribed with: John. And beneath it: the observer. He licks his paws and swings his tail. And he waits.

Of the Palm Court and the Bell Tower

September 24, 2008
...hey bro... u must come down to kl for my wedding yeah

April 20, 2009

Hellos!

How are you doing!

You are invited to join our wedding countdown and celebrate this awesome moment with us as we get closer to our wedding day! Things are getting more and more exciting as we are getting closer and closer to start a new season of life together!

Now, I'm not sure about others but it's always nice to reminisce. There bound to be something to trigger that; to be sucked back to the sepia-hued days complete with an echo to every conversations and laughter.

Kevin came by the other day to USM for a meal and some catching up with Chris and myself. We're talking about the now and the then and how time really, oh well, flies. I guess we're a bunch of losers to relive our days in school over and over again but guess again, perhaps it's the one thing that'd never bore.

Back to the wedding, it's between Yee Lin (I'm used to this than the ang-moh name) and Jon (her fiance, and I addressed him like I've known him for a long time). I have photographs of my schooldays and flipping over, everyone was so young. Some with mischevious grins. Some with glistening eyes, knowing where they're headed next. Some are, well, clueless and blur. The corridor at the Palm Court along which we sit. Then we're in and out of varsity. Then we hear from the grapevine of so-and-so, of this and of that. Myself being treated to a pleasant surprise: the first message in the opening line of this post.

Their blog sure is a unique thing; to invite people to be part of their journey to the grand day. If the Catholics have the 12 Stations of the Cross, I have my stations of sort; one where I relive each point in life and how "old" everyone has become.

So, to the betrothed, I wish you a most enjoyable journey as you guys put the pieces together and lay that foundation towards a very sweet and blessed life together. I'm sure everyone like me are excited about the when the clapper strikes the resonating surface of the bell.

Mr Minty Breath

To a friend, a fruit: Litchi chinensis

Air drawn and exhaled
Formed odd shapes in the dead of night
A stake raised, a scream, a push with all his might
Poor guy lay motionless, impaled

'Twas during the afternoon
In the mall amidst the colourful festoon
That the attentive eye caught the rascal
Bottle in one hand, crept menacingly towards a girl

A sinister smile formed across his face
An equally evil grin carved a distance away
The unfolding drama, the observer, doesn't seem to faze
Continued chewing, waiting as the day gives way

He stumbled along the glistening pavement
He strode quietly, still chewing, preparing judgment
A tap on the shoulder and a blow to the cheek
Bundled into the trunk and driven to a creek

As he lay atop gravels and grass
He regretted his words so crass
Bloody thigh impaled, he won't meet Death
But tonight, he met Terror with a minty breath

What's in a name?

What's in a name? What's to a position? What's fancy with titles? I believe the net and the papers are abuzz with news of Amanda Holden, oh no, I mean Susan Boyle since her performance on the 11th this month. She now has her Wikipedia page (so has Amanda Holden). Ok, let's not digress shall we?

I guess the time has come for Miss Boyle to be in the spotlight after years of sneers, jeers and cruel teasings; even up until the moment before her it-gave-me-goosebumps performance - a rendition of I Dreamed a Dream. With a whopping 19 million views and increasing on Youtube, I'm sure many saw the cynical faces on some audience when she said she wants to be as famous as Elaine Paige.

"What? A professional singer? Did she say Elaine Paige? ", uttered Cynic #1 to her friend.
"I think so. She needs an examination up there I think", came the reply from unseen Mocker #2

Many hoped to see another William Hung. To get a good laugh over some dorky performance like we're so used to seeing them in many talent shows. We (the audience in the hall and on Youtube) hoped to fall down on the floor laughing but the opposite happened. I'm not sure of the adjective to use I think it was stunning, almost ethereal, the moment she sang the first line: I dreamed a dream in time gone by...

Wow! What else could I say? The cliched "don't judge a book by it's cover"? Or "don't be an ass and think you're so dang good"? So yeah, what's in a name or a title? Is it arrogance or meekness? The former I've seen almost everyday. Come May, I'd be seeing more when viva voce goes full swing.

So, let us dream and keep dreaming. To live that dream and to hope. Not to idle away but to be encouraged that as we function in our own niche, we'd be safe from the vultures. Oh, I'm not making sense anymore. Her performance is playing right now and I'm just mesmerized by it, and Amanda too. Ah, a lovely Friday evening.

Deceiving Yet Unstoppable

Its hands stopped moving
That very moment I knew it's got to get going
Running, floating, rowing, I don't know, perhaps it does nothing?
I could never fathom, imagination diminishing.

It stopped and I stooped
Viscid mire swallowed my boot
I sat down and pulled over my hood
I could never fathom, how could I, in despairing mood?

It stopped moving and I walked stooping
I thought it's gone and I lay incapacitated, begrudging
Then I felt the unseen, all along, moving
I could never fathom, how stupid, that it's actually not waiting

How many could understand the unseen?
Or to experience and to witness the "always have been"?
Even as we began to realize and grasp clumsily at its hem
I could now fathom; that it means being left in its wake

Time, it's been said, waits for no man. The author tried to understand the unseen time and how it moves. How everything is relative to it. Like the waves and billows, it gets messy and complicated when one tries to imagine and understand the beginning of time. Time moves forward but I would find comfort in that time leaves its mark; a message sounding "I was here". Time begets memory. The latter being a stationary form of a dynamic time and I'm not making any sense anymore.

I have with me a dead watch yet life goes on. Like that watch, my life is full of "dead watches" too but I couldn't spend too much time holding on to it. I'd just put them up for display on my desk and wall.

Time: Unstoppable yet deceiving. Deceiving because its swiftness created an illusion of a still dimension. Having said that, I hope that with time I'd make more sense when I speak or write.

Duh Police

The Police. We'll leave no stones unturned. Nothing swept under the carpet. No skirts not lifted.

Classic responses when the people's anger boils over. Instead of having to give excuses and extraordinary explanations, why don't the police just outlaw the use of force on suspects? Whatever happened to the IPCMC? How can the police threaten to give the vote to the Opposition if the IPCMC were to be formed? Brutality, corruption, and inefficiency. These aren't perception, mister. These are facts and everyone is tired of listening to them. Rebranding, renaming, or re-motto-ing; such exercises whilst using money will never change anything if excellence, morality, and uprightness isn't hammered into them. It boils the blood when we see deaths in custody followed by bizarre excuses with a smirk. After that, when it comes to turning the stones, magically, everything falls into place - nicely, I may add.

Not that I wish for someone to take the rap (I do actually)), but there must be someone to answer for the death (or deaths, over the years). Real answers and not denials masked by lousy excuses. Biasa-lah, let it simmer for a while and people will forget all about it soon, eh?

Life in Motion: Daddy and the Sharks

"Bienvenue en Marseille", the captain's voice rang out from the speakers
"Welcome to Marseille", came the English translation.
I took out the note from my shirt pocket and had another look at the places I'd like to see and things I'd love to do, if time permits. Notre-Dame de la Garde. Vieux Port. L'Estaque. The Mediterranean Cruise.

"Bienvenue en Marseille", the lady in uniform smiled when she returned my stamped passport. A golden eagle with the letters D and F below it looks really cool.
"Merci beaucoup", I replied before turning and heading towards the exit of the Marseille-Marignane, the fifth busiest airport in France.

"Would you like a taxi, Monsieur?", a balding man asked in a heavily accented English.
"Yes please", I replied and handed over the address of the hotel we're supposed to be heading to.
"Ah, the Vieux Port hotel. Let's go."

I was feeling all tired and groggy when awoken by the taxi driver. Not sure how long it took but I had a good forty winks. I handed 20 Euros to him and alighted. Checked in at the front desk and I'm already on the streets of Marseille.

I wanted to see for myself this place. After all, I've only seen rich men's boats on the marina of Monaco in the Monaco F1 GP on TV. So this is my chance to see for myself life in the port. The air was dry and cool. The sky is cloudless and breezy. Just right for some sightseeing.

In no time, I was sitting by the marina overlooking the sea; next to a few fishermen having a lively chat in a language so foreign to me. Marseille, today, has become a commercial port of sort. No longer like any other ports in the 18th century where we'd have labourers unloading the catch of the day. Now, big ships come in. By big, I meant huge - tuna ships. Just about three years ago, tuna ships blocked the Greenpeace flagship Rainbow Warrior from docking here at the port. From where I was, I could see the Notre-Dame de la Garde.

I looked out once more into the open sea. I could see ships and some birds hovering above them. Must be seagulls, I thought to myself. Do they have sharks around here? Not now, but back then perhaps? I began to daydream.

Not long ago when sharks are aplenty; when pirates practiced "walking the plank", there was a boy by the name... err... Jules. Befitting for a French. With his dad, Pietro, a French of Spanish descent, they began loading their mid-sized boat. The boy was excited, not knowing what the day would bring. He was hoping to feed the gulls when he return later. He was running to and fro, getting baits, lunchbox, a hat, a poncho, and a compass. His dad, puffing away on the boat could only look on.

They set sail and passerby could still hear the boy's glee and squeals as the boat moves away from the Old Port. Some women smiled and shook their heads. In the middle of the sea, Pietro was cautious. He have had some ugly encounters with the sharks and he'd better be careful. Alas, fate dealt mercilessly with them. The sharks began circling the boat and the boy was terrified. Squeals became a frightened whimper. Pietro tried to calm Jules and assured him that everything will be just fine. Knowing how sharks were, Pietro began emptying the lunchboxes and the baits hoping to satiate the sharks. Somehow, these creatures weren't the least interested.

That thought ended abruptly. The fishermen next to me pointed to my shoulder. To my horror, there was a freshly laid bird excrement. I got up and hastily searched for a public toilet. A great day! As I was wiping my sleeve, my mind drifted to little Jules and Pietro. How Pietro, in order to save himself, decided to throw Jules overboard. A heartless thing to do to his own flesh and blood but when one is cornered, the selfish fight-flight impulse kicks and a child is fed to the sharks.

I brought that story with me on to the Mediterranean Cruise. I was at the stern of the ship and I looked at the white trail made by the engine. Would I throw my child overboard? Will I make him or her walk the plank into the dark mouths of the sharks?

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur." A beautiful blonde attendant dressed up all in white greeted me with a tray of champagne-filled glasses on it. I declined politely. Beautiful. A mix of Norwegian, Swedish and the like I believe.
"Attends-moi, mademoiselle", I called out in broken French.