Suicide is stupid.
post a comment
Suicide is costly.
Suicide is wasteful.
Suicide is two feet shorter than the devil but is just as fully licensed.
Suicide is the horrid little friend that stays behind after all one's friends have finished convincing one how wonderful life is and have gone to live that wonderful life.
Suicide stays behind and shares your last cigarette with you.
Suicide is the rumour of a worse life.
Suicide is a compound comprising mostly of Swiss Juice.
Suicide can be painless.
So can memories be, if one chooses not to remember.
Suicide is a horrible singer and mangles all my favourite songs.
I think I just did something, or am in the process of doing something I shouldn't do.
post a comment
I've done many things I shouldn't have.
I've stolen. I've cheated. I've destroyed lives. I forgot about them. I did them again. And again. I've stood on a pier on a stormy night, challenging lightning to take me down and watched as it just missed me.... and a duck too. Thor could be a worse shot than I give him credit for.... or someone loves the duck very much.
I've done many things I shouldn't have and I've never.
Regretted doing them.
But I think I'm regretting what I've just done.
Though I'm beginning to regret regretting....
But I had to do it.
Because I wanted to.
I would have regretted it even more if I had not done it.
"Oh I am what I am,
I'll do what I want, but I can't hide
And I won't go, I won't sleep,
I can't breathe, until...."
post a comment
Have sort of missed writing.
Was stunned by proclamation of some body exhorting other bodies to read my weblog because I'm a genius.
Was stunned primarily because.... it took so long. Badadumdumdum.
So I thought I should take the time to express my gratitude for the compliment and to show off some of my geniusnessity.
I thought of this phrase sometime back:
"But sometimes, you know not how beautiful you are."
The phrase, on the face of it, seems to bear the mark of the amorous intents of a silver-tongued flatterer (Which I have been accused of being; though I must assure you, the tongue is more forked than silver and the latter bit was a part-time job I held down during the Great Upheaval, basically all I did was to make flat stuff flatter.) but for me, there's more the reasonance of regret and despair, ruined by a moment of hope.
Gordon Bennet. this genius gig is tougher than I thought.
Anyway, LMN, thanks for the compliment, if you want, take up my offer, you might regret it but it may well be a regret you may cherish.
Just found out I could very well be autistic. You know, an idiot savant though I've always known about the bit about being the idiot. Except that I'm not one of them genius type autistics, I'm probably one of those autistics with severely stunted social savvy.
post a comment
Which doesn't change much for me, really.
On one hand, it does bug me that I could very well have been misdiagnosed all these years.
On the other hand, it is a relief that it isn't as bad as I had once thought, really.
On the third hand of the imaginary monster of needless brooding, this turn of events does further reinforce my opinion that people in general are probably crazier than we think but we either don't recognize it or choose not to.
I think it's the latter. Look at what's happening in Lebanon.
Wait, that's stupidity.
I'm just burning up with all the thoughts I can't exorcise.
I want a chocolate cake.
I want a gold star.
But I'll probably, as usual, get what I need instead.
Which isn't a bad thing.
I'm not crazy, folks. You might call me crazy for saying so but I worked really hard at it.
P.S. Stopped writing for a while because:
A) Bored of writing about myself.
B) My mind is going blind.
C) Starting to resent this form of therapy, even if it was self-imposed.
D) Tired of struggling between the comfort of keeping my scrawlings anonymous and the untenable hope of getting my writing appreciated.
E) I really enjoyed writing amusing stuff, in the hope of entertaining someone, anyone.... but the truth is, I usually end up writing funny stuff whenever I hit a really bad slump and I'm trying to look away from the abyss.
And the abyss is getting far too attractive too often of late.
I remember that there was this cacophony of songs at the advent after the event. There were one hundred songs and sixteen songs for one hundred and sixteen souls. They were songs of many languages; many genres and they were all sung… well, not badly but in a strange disjointed way. Can you recall a song in your mind? You can imagine the vocals, the instrumentation; you can remember the nuances, the overtures and the entirety of the song can be replayed in the auditorium of your mind in nary but a second. Yet the song fills up your mind and lasts an eternity which you cannot understand. They were the songs that we could never express to our content when we were alive. The music broke beyond a crescendo and swept through us in a benevolent wave. Most of the songs were love songs, some of them were nursery rhymes but one floated through the sonic fracas. It was the plaintive song of a fifteen month old girl, singing her own name. A song of adoration and devotion, encapsulated in just two syllables of the name and two to three contrasting notes; there was no recognizable tune and the name was repeated over and over. I listened to that tuneless lullaby as I realized that it was the little girl who was then singing the song to comfort her mother.
2 comments | post a comment
So, there we were, all disembodied songs as the fear and the stench of death dissolved away, an intermingling symphony of regrets lost and souls resigned. Many of us were surprised at the songs that were us; perhaps those of us had been expecting more triumphal chorals…. At least, I had been but my song had turned out to be ‘Go West’ by the Pet Shop Boys. This was just as well, seeing that I had been en route to Uzbekistan from Singapore. Alright, so not so much go west but westerly. All the same, I couldn’t complain, I did love the song and I did remember why. I had been fifteen when I had first heard the song and it had made me happy. Not so much that I thought it was the best song that I had ever heard, or that I was the happiest that I could remember at the moment I had heard the song. I had been on a bus, listening to the first portable radio I had bought when the song came on. The wind blew in my face and Neil Tennant was singing about life being ‘peaceful there’, wherever there was. I had thought, “Why there?” Life was good where I was. There and then, that was when I had a moment of harmony and balance in my life. For me, that was nirvana. Nothing in life made sense then but the good thing was, I did not need life to make sense at all because I did not care; yes sir, at that precise moment, listening to that song, going home, sitting on the bus, wind in my face, asphalt underneath, sky above, Earth around the Sun, Milky Way swirling about, embraced by God. Me. At the centre of it and nowhere in the grand scheme of things. Existence without effort.
We floated, en masse, united in our new consciousness. At least, that was the closest physical equivalent of what we did. We were not so much gossamer or ethereal…. Simply, not physical. The five senses were not so much meshed together but in unity, as they had always been in our minds. We looked at ourselves and at each other, we appeared in forms that we knew not but yet recognized. I imagine that some of us wanted to feel surprise or shock if not for the fact that we couldn’t feel anything. No glands, no hormones, no adrenaline, no dopamine. We were thoughts that were the consummation of memory and imagination. Some of us were larger that planets, unbridled as we were by our lack of flesh, some of us shimmered like the stars and others pulsed like the fury of oceans. I was like a sighing breeze, melancholy and comforting. I suppose, that was how I was when I was alive during the times of peace and contentment. At my most pessimistic, I had rather viewed myself as a fart from the bowels of the city, a harmless blight that came and went but unfortunately… always came back. So there I was, the happy fart, with the giants and the constellations of thought and will, all of us coursing forward in the tacit pull of a singular purpose. No valkyries to usher us and no cherubim to guide our way but we knew where we were going. We went to our final destiny, to the ends of eternity, without a penny in our names for Charon.
Somewhere between heaven and hell, I fell back to Earth. Like I said, the blight always returns.
Haunting a plane wreck in a gorge smack in the middle of nowhere in the border between Tajikistan and Uzbekistan was not what I had in mind for an afterlife. Although there was breathtaking scenery… it was not that I had any breath to be taken away, for sure. It was a far flung and lonely place and it got all the more so after the news crews and salvage crews had left. Much of the wreckage was left undisturbed, I expect it was because the crash site was really too inaccessible for any meaningful and extensive salvage operation. All said, I have no idea why I came back to the world of the living. Perhaps I did have unfinished business, or rather, I wanted to have unfinished business. When one is dead, all the business of life is concluded though. After all, life is for the living. I think I might have wanted to know if my family was alright. However, what did it matter if they were subsequently wiped out by a stray meteor or giant kraken that learnt to walk the Earth? I was dead. What could I do? For them to be alright became a very relative concept. So why did I come back? Honestly… I had never been to Uzbekistan in my whole life and I really, really wanted to know… what was Tashkent like anyhow?
When the Soviet Union had collapsed in 1991, the Eastern Bloc was deluged with a new sense of freedom and opportunity. No more state control, everyone could own property, businesses… even people! To say the least, there was a buck to be made, or in Uzbekistan, a Som. Somewhere in Tashkent, a bunch of fellows got together and buzzed about the wonderful life ahead of them. Buoyant and optimistic, they jabbered over the new ways they could make money, there were state enterprises to be seized… how about a pyramid scheme? Capitalism had arrived. Opportunities abounded, they jabbered with uncontained excitement as they ate peanuts and swilled cheap vodka. When we have made our fortune, they exclaimed, no more cheap vodka! Whiskey, wine, champagne! They crammed together in a small stuffy room and celebrated a future success. As they got more and more inebriated, the men began to feel warmer and warmer. We should get a couple of air conditioners, quipped one of the fellows. Just a couple? Roared another, we’ll get a million of them!
That was how I ended up going to Uzbekistan, more or less. To elaborate, what had happened was that a wholesaler in Tashkent had ordered fifteen thousand units of air conditioners from the trading company which I had worked at. We had acquired said units and sent them to Uzbekistan. Somewhere between the arrival of the goods in Uzbekistan and the arrival of our payment, all fifteen thousand of the air conditioners had vanished. Was it stolen, we had asked. No, don’t be silly, was the reply, no one can walk away with fifteen thousand air conditioners; we never got them in the first place. Accusations and counter accusations of skullduggery were followed by cultural exchanges of foreign swearing. Lawyers joined in the fray before too long, phones were screamed into and phone numbers were changed. I could have stayed out of this mess but my reputation for persuasion had been my downfall. Being the only salesman in the company to have sold four hundred cows and fifteen bulls in a moribund dairy industry had inflated my reputation somewhat. So, before long, I was summoned to the office of my boss, who bore a grim expression of one who had every intention of enforcing the threat implied in ‘caveat emptor’. The conversation went something like this:
“Alright, I want you to go to Tashkent and get my money back from those Uzbek bastards. I’ve booked you a flight and a room for you at the Hotel Shodlik Palace. See if you can bring over a baseball bat.”
“Hm. I’ve heard they might have guns over there. Bring the baseball bat anyway.”
So you see, I had been lucky to have gone the way I did. I could have died a violent and slow bullet ridden death at the hands of some air conditioner stealing businessmen in some dark dingy street of Tashkent, instead of perishing in the fiery crash in some forsaken dry gorge where camels died of thirst.
Of course, I cannot say for sure that I would have been shot by some unreasonable Uzbek businessmen. I know little if anything about Uzbekistan or anything Uzbek. I only knew that the man who swindled my boss was called Hamza Alikov. That was just about my entire knowledge of anything Uzbek. I knew not if people in Uzbekistan resolved bizarre business disputes through lawyers or yak fights. I know not what languages they spoke, what kind of food they ate, what kind of yaks they had… I know not one jot.
Thus, thanks to the shenanigans of Hamza and the fifteen thousand phantom air conditioners, I ended up being a phantom of the crash site, horribly curious about Tashkent but unable to satiate this curiosity. I had been bound to haunt this place and occasionally scare the locals. Not that I could do much scaring really, what few people came to the site over the years stopped by only during the day. Contrary to common belief, ghosts can be seen at any time of the day, only at night, people do have an expectation of being able to spot ghosts. In the light of day, however, most people don’t expect to see ghosts. In the absence of fear, the human mind dismisses the visual evidence of spirits and the human eye, hence reproached for having presented the sight of the non-existent to the skeptical mind, would then look beyond the spirits and look at things which the mind would approve of.
At the start of my new career, I had been upset at my inability to frighten anyone who dropped by. I had tried to make noises, which did not work as sounds are the result of vibrations in the air and I had nothing to vibrate with. This was a shame because I was a horrible singer when I was alive and I doubt that dying would have improved that condition much. To cut a long story short, I could do nothing except to brood. There were many things that I could have brooded about but somehow I just could not avoid thinking about the mysteries of Tashkent. What was life there like? Was it a cross between the quaint charms of Eastern Europe and India? Did they have food like hummus, unleavened bread or just plain uneven bread? What kind of music did they listen to, Arabic hits or Soviet rock? Were there any fit birds in Uzbekistan? I just had to know. So, I ended up imagining Tashkent.
I started out with a guesswork of the empirical explanation of Uzbekistan. Whatever did I know what Uzbekistan was like? The landlocked country is big, possibly the size of West Malaysia and Thailand combined. Being a Central Asian country just north of Afghanistan, the people of the land should probably look Asian, with some Caucasian features. Predominantly Muslim population, I presume. Probably a lot of deserts and rocks. With camels. I had a vague recollection that the Soviet push towards a modern worker’s utopia stopped somewhere in the eighties, when the money ran out and the people with the leftover money chased after the money and some people without any money doing their best to keep up. So I imagine that the economy and infrastructure of the country would be stuck in the Eighties. Not too many cities, maybe with a large agrarian interior. The people would probably be dressed like the folks in Afghanistan; turbans, long robes, that kind of thing. Either that or their fashion sense is, like their economy, similarly entrenched in the Eighties and everyone is walking around in heavy makeup, big hair and trashy looking clothes. Hopefully not, for humanity should never be afflicted with the fashion sense of the Eighties ever again. It could be worse, though. The Uzbeks could be stuck in the Seventies and even the toddlers are sporting bell-bottoms, muttonchops and mullets.
To have a focus, I have decided to imagine being a man living in Tashkent. I would be a thirty seven year old man, that age being the simplest point of reference for me, seeing that I had expired at that age. I would be married, with a son, as I had been in my life. No, I think I should have a son and a daughter, everyone should have siblings. I would be living in a middle class setting. I would like to live on Taghmoud Street. Does it even exist? Who cares, I don’t exist either, in a way. I would be staying in a five storey apartment block named the People’s Glorious Tenement. Two paintjobs and a veneer short of glorious perhaps but it would do. My home on the fourth floor would be spacious, yet cozy. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms… Wall to wall marbled flooring… wait. This is the post-Soviet era. Tiles and Formica would probably be more likely. There would be carpets and tasteful tapestries decorating the place. Mostly Islamic designs, I suppose, I would quite likely be a Muslim. I would have a name that is at once, Muslim and Russian sounding, like… Akbar Yakov. Yes, that would do. Call me Akbar. My friends call me Rutu, due to my striking resemblance to the famous Uzbek singer in the Fifties by that name. As Akbar Yakov, I am also an excellent singer.
Like Rutu, I, Akbar, am an incredibly handsome man. I would probably look Chinese with a touch of the Occident in my appearance. Almond shaped eyes, high cheekbones, a sharp and prominent nose framed in a masculine strong-jawed face. My most outstanding feature would be my moustache, large like handlebars that one could hang pots and pans on. I would have a thick shock of hair, with a touch of grey which would give me a fierce and exotic appearance. I would be built like a bull and hung like a … alright, I should not go too far in my fantasy. Akbar Yakov would be a tall muscular man with a tattoo that says, ‘Tashkent Hellraisers Football Club’. That is too long a tattoo. ‘THFC’ should be enough. Same initials as the football club I had supported in my life, Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. Tashkent H FC would be seventh on the Uzbek professional league… no. That should not be the case. First in an imaginary league is not an unreasonable fantasy, after the long years I have suffered as a fan of Tottenham I think I am entitled to a better team now that I am dead. Tashkent H FC would be first in the league, ahead of the chasing pack by seventeen points. That is more like it. Now I can enjoy the tedium of watching my favourite football team romping to take the league title year after year after year. Yes, life as Akbar ‘Rutu’ Yakov is looking up already.
My Uzbek wife is Fatimah Zenoski. A beautiful woman, Fatimah has made me the envy of the men in my neighbourhood. Her deep-set, green eyes make her a vision of exquisite mystery, her lips, full and sensuous; to hear her speak with those lips is bliss and to kiss them is a happy death and rebirth. Her figure is a traffic hazard, I cannot say more, lest I sin in my afterlife and end up where there is moaning, wailing and gnashing of teeth, or probably worse. Fatimah is a generous soul, a safe harbour in any storm, a patient listener, a masterful storyteller and of course, an excellent cook. Why should I settle for anything less, after all, my wife in my life was a study in perfection; I don’t think I should do any worse with Fatimah. Honestly, I would not know what I would have done to have deserved Fatimah but then again I probably did not deserve my real wife either. Lucky bastard, I hear you say. Yes, I know.
Life in my Tashkent is good. I wake each morning, roused by the bright sunshine peeping through the curtains and encouraged by the lovely smell of Fatimah’s cooking. I start with my morning cigarette by my bedroom window. The apartment block is at the apex of a slight incline which gives me a great view of South Tashkent. Taghmoud Street is an ill-planned and resigned arranged marriage by the Soviets and the irregular cobbled stonework bickers with the creeping concrete and asphalt. The street is populated by buildings of unsynchronized growth, some modern, some vintage and some a curious breed of old, new and bizarre and lined with trees, resulting in a not too unpleasant collage. The buildings are, for the most part, brightly coloured; I cannot say why that is so, it has been my observation hat such bright, cheery colours are the norm for quaint, slightly backward civilizations. At any rate, my view of the city from my bedroom is a pleasing mish mash of earthen orange, sunny yellow, rust red interspersed with the crisp green of leaves, blended with pearl whitewash; capped by the brilliant blue of the sky and the mottled ashen greys and browns of the cobbled roads. I let my eyelids droop and filter my vision to a blur and would think that God was an impressionist Creator.
By eight, I would have finished my morning ablutions, prayers and gotten dressed. Breakfast in the Yakov household is a simple affair. There is usually porridge or boiled curds, unleavened bread with fresh preserves and tea, either with sugar, sweetened milk, honey or jam. I have my tea with jam, a Russian taste which I had acquired as a result of a stint working in St. Petersburg. For this random day which I describe now, Fatimah has prepared porridge, with a side of chicken sausages and bread, unleavened bread. I hunker down this savour this hearty meal as I read through the news of the day. News of optimistic development in the city of … let us say … Birumas, an announcement about the opening of a new opera house, more news of general governmental incompetence, violent crimes in the ghettoes, salacious gossip of miscellaneous starlets and a report of a two headed calf being born in the countryside again. Fatimah joins me for breakfast, eschewing the porridge and settling for a sausage and bread with jam. As she eats, Fatimah tells me that our son, Ishak has been pestering her to buy him a mobile phone. Mobile phones, I mutter, they’re bloody expensive… why does a kid need a mobile phone anyway? Fatimah stays the course and answers, everyone is getting a mobile phone these days and they’ll be good to keep track of the kids, she assures. We continue eating in silence before she adds that she too, would like a mobile phone. It is a battle I cannot win. I grunt and mumble something to the effect of taking the family out phone shopping after work. Why not, I mumble, since everyone is getting one. Why not indeed, after all, it turns out that in Tashkent, I just happen to be a wealthy man.
My son, Ishak would be thirteen years old, like my real son would be. In all honesty, the physical appearance of my son and his age are the few meager points of reference that I can use in trying to understand him. Sure, he dressed funny and listened to bad music; that was probably the immutable programming of teenagers. It was disappointing that he did not like Tottenham or even football, for the matter, preferring basketball instead but it was more disappointing that he was embarrassed when I tried to take an interest in basketball to get to understand him. What had happened there? He had come into the world a wailing pink raisin and grew up to be less wrinkled but still wailing. The wailing then stopped but only because he had acquired a larger vocabulary to demand things. For sure, I know I did demand things of him but that was for his own good whereas he demanded things from me that were mostly for his own benefit. In this uneasy negotiation regarding this subtle difference arose a wall that kept us both apart but safe from each other. I admit I could have done better than to have used my work as my ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card and abandoned the responsibility of raising our pride and joy to the wife. Still, why was he so difficult? Did I spoil him so? What did I do to make him so angry at me all those times? Did I not provide him a stable and comfortable home? Was he too smart or was I too dumb? I may never know. Maybe I don’t deserve to know. Things would be different with Ishak though.
Back in the Yakov household, the kids have joined us at the dining table. Ishak wolfs down his porridge and four sausages, leaving consideration for a fifth. He is a large boy for a thirteen year old and has begun to cut an athletic figure. As I would expect, he plays football. Not only does he support Tashkent H, he is also being watched by scouts from the club as his skills are starting to get noticed. Ishak could well be the Maradona of the Caucasus, says one such scout. Such words would give a father immeasurable pride but of course, his mother and I would prefer Ishak to get an all round and extensive education, that he not limit his own future by concentrating only on football. Ishak is mature enough to agree with our wishes and is as diligent in his studies as he is fervent with football practice. He is a handsome, mischievous lad, quick with a joke and prone to get into trouble what with the devilry he is able to dream up but he makes up for that with his genuine warmth and friendliness which comes naturally to him. He probably gets away with more than he should but no more than he actually can. As I love Ishak, I love my daughter, Hana, who, at eleven, is blossoming to become like the beauty that her mother is. Of course, Hana, like her brother, is more than just a pretty face. She is adorable and cheerful; her presence is like a ray of sunshine, having been blessed with a kind heart and gift of story telling like her mother. She could spin a tale off gossamer threads in the ghosts of thoughts and gives a glimpse of a maturity beyond her years. While less of a trouble maker than Ishak, Hana is also well liked and knows it. Fatimah and I try not to spoil the two of them but it is an uphill challenge. It is a good thing that Akbar looks fierce, for the job of discipline is half done merely by my appearance. On these wonderful children, my wife and I balance our hopes of their achievements with our desire to see them live happy and long lives. After breakfast, I send our pride and joy to school.
I drive a Trebenk, proudly designed and made in Uzbekistan. The car is named after a valiant folk hero in Uzbekistan, one of the eight feet tall varieties who fought seven headed wolves and the like; there are invariably heroes of such description in every other culture. In another life, a vehicle manufactured in the Eastern Bloc would quite likely have been designed and made no later than the Sixties and would probably be on its last wheels, as it were; a road going litany of frustration and curses wrapped in the steel death trap of its chassis. In this life, however, the Trebenk is as hardy as the mythological giant it was named after. My ’57 Trebenk, with its chrome hubcaps, stylized fins at the rear and souped up engine is a dream to drive. It glides over the cobbled roads like a manta ray and purrs like a content tiger after a heavy meal.
I drop off Ishak first at his secondary school and then Hana at her elementary school before making my way to work. As I drive, I listen to my favourite radio station, which plays all the classic hits. Songs of an Arabic persuasion, songs by Rutu, of course, the devilishly handsome idol whom I look like, right down to the handlebar moustache. What can I say? Driving along in a picturesque town in a vintage car that handles like a brand new BMW, singing along to ‘Go East’ by Rutu, perfect wife, perfect kids, no worries, no cares and no regrets. My afterlife is turning out very well indeed.
Nonetheless, I am still a working man in Tashkent. I may be a rich man in this life but I have always believed in the rewards of toil for the soul. Hard work builds character, no truer cliché do I believe in. In this life, I stick with being a salaried worker. It is what I do best. A small but important cog in the machinery of relaying the wants of people to people who can provide for those wants. Once again, I am one of the teeming millions who make up the backbone of the world economy, the man with no hope but the noble one of making money to feed his family. The man who is amongst the masses that live in quiet desperation; Thoreau can keep his pity, for it is men like us who provide him with his ink and sell his books.
I get through the working day with the ease of a man important enough to have minions to do the more tedious tasks but not too important to have a position with too many responsibilities that demands one to put in hours that will take one away from his family. I am done with work not too long after the midday prayers and I proceed to join my family for the promised mobile phone shopping spree.
After freshening up and the evening prayers, we get dressed for a night out on the town. We go to the Shah Abdulov Shopping Centre, a squat three storey emporium which provides all the fun and frills of the new capitalist Uzbekistan. Having grown up in the times of State-run Utopia and Poverty, the experience of going someplace where there are actually things to buy and that the things turn out to be bloody expensive is still a bewildering experience for me but the wife and kids seem to take to the cornucopia and spending quite well, especially the spending bit. What had started out as a mobile phone shopping spree quickly evolves into a football gear, cosmetics, storybook and random impulse buying spree. I succumb as well, eventually and I end up getting tie clips and cuff links. I do not have a suit or tie. My traditional Uzbek garments have served me well through work and play. However, those tie clips and cuff links will soon be crying out for a suit in their loneliness and I will succumb again, I fear. Before the end of the wild expedition, I decide to assume control before it is too late and draw the line at getting a mobile phone for Hana as well. At least, not for this week.
On the drive home, Ishak has already made his fifth or fifteenth phone call to his legion of friends, while Fatimah crows about her new purchases to her sister over the phone. I drive and eavesdrop in contentment while listening to Hana grumbling and moaning. She gets over her lack of a mobile phone soon enough and proceeds to make up a story of a two headed cow. The cow and a bull have fallen in love but the cow is uncertain which of the two heads the bull is truly in love with. I listen, I drive and I hear her finish the story as we lug our loot into our home.
As the moon waxes low over Taghmoud Street, I tuck in Hana and Ishak, kiss them both goodnight and prepare to sleep. I sit on the edge of my bed as I gaze out once more into the nightscape of Tashkent, the flickering city lights winking mischievously in mimicry at the night sky. I say another prayer of thanks and turn in, falling into the sweet fragrant embrace of my wife.
I fall asleep and I am haunted by a nightmare in which I had died a searing painful death in a plane crash in a forsaken gorge where camels died of thirst; where the tears of my wife could not put out the flames and where my son stares, away from me.
©Copyright Mercy 2005 (I learnt this in art school, always put the copyright, just in case. Yeah, might as well.)
I had written this for the Goldenpoint writing competition organised by MICA, or whatever the Ministry of Arts for Singapore is. It was a hack and slash job that I did on a novel I had been working on but seriously shortened for the competition. Well, that was last year; I didn't expect to win and I didn't. I'd have liked to think that I don't mind not winning.... but it sort of bugs me that I've never got a chance to find out how good or bad this short story is. So here it is, if anyone is interested, give it a read and please let me know what you think.
Depending on how lucky you're feeling, this might end up being a novel again.
Where the shallow wallow and the deep sleep,
post a comment
Between serendipity to zippitydippity,
Doo Dah, Doo Dah,
It's a wonderful place to be.
Okay.... so I've got Writer's Block.
post a comment
For sure, the imps are to blame. Them little imps manning.... imping .... operating them word cranking machinery in the factory. Probably has something with them getting unionised.... now they all want to have input on the output.
"Write about sex!"
"Write about war!"
"Do the story about the man with the possessed toilet!"
"Write about sex!"
"Finish the story about the writer who races against death to finish his book!'
"Fut the shuck up! The story's finished! The man died!"
"Oh. Okay. Write about sex!"
And for some reason, I really don't want to write about sex.
I'm stuck and I don't know why. Heck, it's not that I can't come out with the words. I just can't seem to like anything I write right now. Which is very strange, considering that for most people who write, they are their own biggest critics, whereas I am my own greatest fan (I mean, I've got to be, I'm the only fan of my writing.).
Maybe I am; hoping against hope and possibly, logic, actually maturing as a writer and I'm starting to get serious about writing good stuff that anyone other than I will enjoy.
Yeah, well, I didn't believe that either.
I'm probably too distracted by my other hobbies. I've really got too many hobbies; I should drop a couple of them. For starters, necromancy. That's gotta go. I'm tired of summoning up tired and moaning old ghouls who refuse to possess the Toto ball juggling machine. Yeah and I've got to stop doing volunteer work at them orphanages, it's only a matter of time before they figure out that I'm actually training them kids to be master pickpockets and professional snipers so I'd better quit while I'm ahead.
Okay, okay. I know the truth. I'm lazier than a bagful of sloths on morphine, only not as happy, probably. I really should finish up all these stories in my head, or else the story about the man who races against death to finish his book might very well end up to be my autobiography.
Which might not be a bad idea, really, I've already got the perfect ending.
"Darkness begins creeping into the periphery of his sight. He strains his eyes and struggles to string together the finishing touches to his labour of love, even as he hears the door open behind him. He does not turn around to look, he knows who has come. An odd whistling fills the air, odd because he knows that the final visitor he'll ever receive.... does not have lips. His fingers fly frantically all over the keyboard, while his visitor, marks his frenetic taps with languid footsteps, a hardhat and bass drum combo for a dance, his very last dance. He fights the urge to turn around, to plead, to beg, as it were, for his dear life, for two more minutAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR
As fun as that it, hopefully someone else would write a better biography about me though.
Immediately after posting up last entry, realised that I've definitely been guilty of being dismissive and inattentive when a someone's been venting to me. Honestly, it's not because I don't care, I'll always be willing to listen. I have only two explanations in defense.
post a comment
1) I'm a guy. According to scientifical reports, guys usually think about sex every seven minutes, so you might note that I might usually stop listening around the seventh minute. And you might also agree, thinking about sex could well be more fun than thinking about your problems, whatever they are.
2) I have a very short attention spa
Boy, I really like this Kanye West song. That cat's cool, I dig his hip jazz.
Seeing that I am using this weblog for self-therapy, I might as well stop being wishy washy about it and just have a good old fashioned meltdown.
2 comments | post a comment
It's been building up for many years now, not helped by the fact that I have very few friends I can trust to confide in. Then it's further compounded by the dismissive and trivialising responses that I get when I'm bursting at the seams with frustration about coping. And I'm pissed off when I'm told I'm longwinded and tiresome when I vent. When other people vent to me, I don't listen because their problems are so interesting or heartbreaking, it doesn't matter what their problems are, when they vent, I try to listen because the very least I could do is listen, so maybe they could sort out their own thoughts. I know we could all very well have the right to be entertained but I think it's downright low to be impatient or dismissive when a mate is depressed and just needs a listening ear.
So my troubles aren't as bad as others, I'm not saying they are. Yes, I know the some of my problems are self-induced but I don't need that fact rubbed into my face all the time. Yes, I know everyone gets depressed from time to time, that doesn't mean I'm going to spit on their sadness by insisting that they should stop boring me with their sob stories.
Okay. I have one major problem. Some days, I wake up with stupid feelings of ennui and despair, I don't want to feel like that but some days, I just do. Then I end up brooding needlessly. Sometimes it takes me days or, if I try hard enough, hours to recover, when I recover, I'm just drained out and I really don't have much to say. The thing is, I am coping much better than I used to, I just have some really bad days and its starting to eat away at me when I know that when I have bad days, I can't really talk about it because most people seem to think that I'm doing it to myself again, that I'm just being tiresome. Fine. They might have their worries too, I don't want to compound them, I don't even want them to worry about me, like I said, I AM coping, I just need to vent once in a while without getting trivialised or dismissed. The truth is that this problem could well mean a whole lifetime of coping and I am really hoping to cope as much as possible without bringing anyone down with me.
Another reason why I'm pissed off is that I get the feeling that people are dismissive of my worries because I'm not a charming, worldly wise kind of person, that I'm a lazy, half blind, clumsy simpleton. That makes me so angry that I really don't know what to say. I don't give a flying monkey's popsicle if a friend is more exciting than a lunchbox full of Errol Flynns or more boring than a continent full of boring moles, if he needs to vent, I try my best to listen and help the mate sort out his thoughts. Also, I don't bloody want to become worldly wise, that all seems to lead down to the cynical philosophy of "Been There, Done That," and for all the cynical dimwits who dismiss everything as being outdated repetitions of the same old same old, I just have this quote for you:
YOU GOT OLD. YOU DIED. NOW SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Well. That's about it. I'm not mad at anyone really, I'm just mad at the situation. And I do feel much better now. I had been hoping to go for a more comprehensive meltdown including ravings and rantings about the RIAA, the Israel/Palestinian issue, the lack of a influential humane Islamic leadership, how women themselves defeat feminism and yet still blame men, likewise for minority races who defeat equality and blame the majority races, how opposition politics in Singapore seem to be more anti-PAP rather than pro-Singapore then finally round it all up with an all CAPS EXPLETIVE LADEN OUTBURST, COMPLETE WITH RANDOM SHOOTINGS IN A KEFFIYAH.
But really, I feel much better now.
And I can't really see out of my left eye. Not that I've really had much vision in my left eye but no one's gotten hurt the whole time, even when I was racing tractors while high on goofballs. Odd that I'm not as worried as I should be. Sometimes I think that if I worried enough, I'd be Emperor of the world by now.
post a comment
Why do I want to be Emperor of the world anyway?
I'll tell you why. It's been my lifelong ambition to be the absolute dictator of the world so that I could lobotomize people I seriously dislike.... which is just about everybody I can't be bothered to keep in touch with these days, it seems.... then I would train the lobotomized masses of slaves to perform intricate arrangements of the constellations. Some of them might even function as hatracks or coatracks though. Maybe even toastracks. When I become dictator of the world, I'd probably demand really big toast. Now, why this fetish for a human constellation? Because I can't see the bloody real stars at night.
Okay, I lie. I do worry. I worry a lot about all the evil I can think up.
Okay, okay. I lie, again. My lifelong ambition is to eat not one but two kilos of M&M's in one sitting. I've managed 800 grams once. I'm pacing myself. Alright, the first 800 grams nearly made my head explode but I'm still working on getting the legendary two kilo mark.
I wish I could sleep.
God be with you,
|Mood:|| IT BURNSSSS!!|
So, my aunts visited me over the past weekend.
2 comments | post a comment
Ah, my aunts.
Aunt #1: "Ah Jin, you know Ah Xiang (My nephew.)? The one doing computers."
Aunt #1: "He's thinking of saving up to further his studies."
Me: "Well, that's good, he can improve his prospects...."
Aunt #1: "What you say is correct, Ah Jin. Study more will improve prospects."
Aunt #2(Just joined the table): "Who are you talking about?"
Me: "Ah Xiang...."
Aunt #1: "You know, Ah Jin is right. Ah Jin is going to study IT and improve his prospects."
Anyway, they had bought us toothpaste from Malaysia. They bought us instant coffee and soap too, amongst other things. Which is very nice, though it also probably means that the coffee, soap and toothpaste we normally buy are wrong.
Still, it was just as well; we had run out of toothpaste, I had really been wondering if Malaysian toothpaste IS different from Singaporean toothpaste and besides, it was about time I brushed my teeth anyway; after all, Cleanliness is next to Godliness, yes?
MADRE DI DENTRIFICIO PASTA!
Bloody toothpaste dang near exorcised my teeth! It burns! It burns my teeth like the heathen dental fixtures they were! It burnsssssss! I didn't think they would take the Godliness and Cleanliness bit that literally! The toothpaste stings more than the gunk I used to put to stimulate facial hair growth! Heck, what if the toothpaste stimulates hairgrowth on my teeth?!
But!.... I like! So long as my teeth remain hairless, of course. Now, with my new improved teeth, I can finally go out into the open! Get to know more people! Win Singapore Idol! Hit on chicks!
Eeehhhh. Nah. Can't be buggered. Toothpaste is great though.
So, I just had to know. I asked me mates if they do ever read my scrawlings. I notice they answered, "Yes, I do," with the same defensiveness as, "Of course I pay my taxes," or "Of course I love the PAP," .... not that that's a bad thing, of course. I am grateful that they do read my stuff and more so that they still chose to remain my friends after the ordeal.
post a comment
Still, I had to push my luck and asked them what they thought of them scrawlings. The general review was that me writings are:
Sigh. I had been hoping for some criticism but still, that is something. So! I should write short, to the point monsterpieces. Well, here goes.
Why My Writings Are Long And Wrong.
Because I am long and strong.
See! It could be worse, it always could. It's extremes for me or nothing. So enjoy this short post, while it lasts.
Yep, it's that time of the year again, once again; when a pyschopath stalks the streets with arrows and a bow, when the shops will take the last of your Christmas money, when valueless fools somehow feel even more devalued than possible, and when the airwaves will be filled with lubsongs galore.
post a comment
Of course, you do know what lubsongs are, don't you?
Anyway, not surprisingly, Valentine's Day came and went for me, as meaningful or as meaningless as any other day. I mean, the highlight of the day for me was.... KFC's cheesy fries. I don't know whether I should laugh or cry.
I think I'll cry then.
Cheesy fries! *sobsob* Life is so beautiful! Is there nothing that can beat cheesy fries? *sobsob*
Seriously, though. I'm saddened by the fact that somewhere, out there, there is a girl who had wasted her Valentine's Day with someone else, when she could have wasted the day with me. And I would have had wasted the day with her, like any other day; I could not love her any more on the Fourteenth of February because I could not love her any less on any other day.
Really. If she was with me, at the very least, she won't be thinking, "I could do worse," seeing that she'd have hit rock bottom already. The good news, of course, is that once you've hit rock bottom.... the only way left is up. Hm. Somehow I don't think that's a convincing enough argument to be with me. But it'll have to do, for now.
Sigh. I wish she had stuck with the cheesy fries instead. Then we could have been lonely, together, with our cheesy fries, thinking, Life is so beautiful!
Okay. Okay. The lub in lubsongs means.... lubricant. Ahem. *Koffkoff*
Anyway. I had honestly intended to write a whole article about how cheese could very well complete every meal but well.... it was Valentine's Day. I felt that I should have been a lot more miserable and devastated than I actually am, just for the sake of form.
BUT! Just so you know.... cheese could very well complete every meal. Trust me. Cheese works with everything. It could be well be because of how savoury cheese is, or how a good pungent aroma bestirs the most fervent feelings in one.... but it's most likely because of the cocaine and human blood sacrifices used to make cheese. Mmmm. Cheese.
Here's to wishing Cupid shoots straight and doesn't hit anyone in any sensitive and painful areas.
Okay, so after finishing up yet another opus of windbaggery, I decided to review my own writing.
post a comment
Boy, I sure write some strange, incoherent stuff.
Sometimes, I lie awake, in bed, for hours on end, wondering why I write such strange incoherent stuff. Then I realise, it's probably because I lie awake, in bed, for hours on end, wondering why I write such strange incoherent stuff.... WHEN I SHOULD BE SLEEPING! Sigh.
I still have no idea why I write, really. I don't know if I write so I can be read, so I can be understood, so I can understand myself better, so I can be liked, so I can be admired, heck, so I can be noticed, so I can become a bestselling author and get rich enough to buy Pulau Ubin. I really don't know. I don't even know if I like Pulau Ubin that much.
For sure, I enjoy fooling around with words, I enjoy fooling around with ladies more but words are all I can work with right now though. Ahem. Anyways, while it's fun to keep honing my skills at this craft.... where am I going with writing, though?
Someone had once commented that my writing reminded him of J.D. Salinger. Don't know if that's a compliment, really, considering that I hated Catcher In The Rye. I do try to imitate the style of O. Henry, my favourite writer but methinks I'm getting ever closer to become the Ed Wood of writing.
Honestly, I don't draft my writings. The first take is always brilliant enough for me, then it's time to move on the the next brilliant piece of masterfully crafted gibberish. As it is in my life, I don't plan ahead when I write. Life and words, they happen.... and they're brilliant.
Egad. To end up like Ed Wood. Maybe it's better to stay the way I am now. Oh, joy. Torn between the tantalising choices of infamous mediocrity and mediocre anonymity.
Still, I don't know why I do certain other things but I do them anyway. I mean, I still check in on the Loch Ness monster spotting website but I've never even cared if Nessie really exists. Besides, much to my shock, aside from gaming, writing has been the most consistent thing I've been doing for the past year; I've not stuck to something for this long since I lost the love for drawing. Well, alright, the most consistent thing I've been doing so far is acting like a jackass and I'm not gonna stop doing that either.
I've got to stay the course. It may well be the anchor for this cork in the ocean. Besides, you should never switch horses at midstream. Erm. Yeah.
Ah, can you smell the sweet sound of home-brewed gibberish?
Most folks get pretty surprised when I keep my word. Don't know why, I usually do keep my promises.... eventually. So, as threatened, a happily incoherent rambling about....
post a comment
POLITICS AND DEATH! DUMDUMDUM!
I'm pretty much a political agnostic, though I guess my political inclinations would be more right-wing than I would care to admit. While I'm just as entertained about political scandal as the next person, I've never really enjoyed reading, talking or thinking about politics. Might be a case of the pot calling the kettle black but I generally consider politics to be an shining example of excellent promise breaking. I'm a Certified Class 'A' Bullshitter and I know bunkum and cockamamie when I sees it(I guess I just gave away what I do to avoid a living.... yep, I hit bulls. I hit lotsa bulls.).
Still. I do have a modicum of knowledge about politics in the land I've grown up in, a land I loathe and abhor.... Ahem. I mean love and adore. Bloody dislikesia.... dyscosia.... @#$% dyslexia(Cheers, Bob.). Also, I know that having a bare minimum of facts has never stopped many people from writing about something they know next to nothing about, so here I go.
Ah, Harrypore. Sunny island, set in the (Surprise!) sea. No, seriously, that has to be emphasized, apparently many Yanks still think that Harrypore is a traffic island in China. Well, Harrypore is small, a two hour straight drive anywhere other than north would end up as tea with Neptune; of course, the good news, guys, is that size doesn't matter, it's the motion of the ocean, you know. And the waters surrounding this.... well, island has done right by Harrypore, yea, brothers and sisters, the great seas and a man named Harry.
It's no exaggeration that Harry, more or less, singlehandedly transformed this heathen swamp-ridden protrusion of seabed into a efficient, sparkling, less bog-ridden metropolis that is the envy of erm.... the envious. Harry had burst upon the scene of this misbegotten land, in a time of tumultous.... erm.... tumult and shaped the nation with little save his wits, vision and convictions. And that of others, probably but mostly his own. Well, I digress. Anyway, you've heard the songs, you know the words, feel free to sing along.... there was a time, baby, when people said that Harrypore couldn't make it but.... we did. So take that, you mofos, who's the big daddy now, eh? Harrypore, that's who!
Harrypore! Proud exporter of refined oil, refined water and refined people! Ahem. *Koffkoff* Harrypore! A wondrous city to live and live well in! Probably because it's too expensive otherwise(Trust me, the old saw exhorting one to live healthy merely because one will feel better doesn't work.)! Harrypore! A clean and happy place! And Harrypore owes her cleanliness and happiness to a man called Harry, who loves Harrypore and is in turn, loved by Harrypore because Harry has taken care of the people, yes he has! Ahem. *Koffkoff* You'll have to excuse me, these exhuberant exclamations of exalting estimations are making me exceedingly excitable.
Let me say, just for the heck of it, that compared to Harry, Fidel is an amateur. Harry has devoted his life to building Harrypore, he's scoped out every nook and cranny, he's covered every fanny, he's made sure Harryporeans mind their P's and Q's, in four languages, mind you, he's made sure that Harryporeans don't become uncivilised barbarians, he's made sure no one in Harrypore will die penniless(Technically, though, most Harryporeans would die penniless, since Harrypore uses dollars and cents; just as technically, brokeass poor is still better than being penniless.... but you get my drift.), he's made safe defense of Harrypore's fragile democracy, he's the father of the nation, heck, he also happens to be the father of the leader of the nation right now, he's poured his whole life and more into this great nation. I mean, what would you say about a man who put so much thought into building a nation that he grew an extra two inches of forehead?
Oh, alright, I know what you'd say, you'd say that's ludicrous, no one's forehead can grow even a extra half inch, much less two. And you're right.... but you know how it is, I digress, I confabulate, I hit bulls and once again, I digress.
Still! What can you say about a man who even promised to rise from the dead and come to the rescue if the nation wasn't doing well? What CAN you say? Call an exorcist? Nay, sirs and madams, you can say, what a great man Harry is, who loves his nation so much that he would even want to beat the restful oblivion of death to continue serving Harrypore. Oh, mercy!
Okay! That's all I'm writing about politics, for now.
And now, onwards, to Death!
I remember this line by Terry Pratchett:
"Everybody knows that they are going to die but nobody believes it."
No human bean's gonna be around forever, we knows it. Whether there be alien abductions, rapture or (Surprise!) death, hummus, ashes and despite the best intentions of mummification, everyone goes, no one stays, not for all the tomorrows in the world.
Most deaths are sad, some are statistics, some bring relief and yet some deaths bring about opportunity or crisis. Curious, that last bit. Now how could someone's death lead to opportunity or crisis? Well, maybe in the case of the deaths of martyrs, an opportunity ro rally in the face of tragedy. Or, perhaps, perhaps.... for example, the death of a patriach of a large greedy family with a mouth-watering legacy. Or.... well, I don't know, the death of a long serving state leader of a tightly controlled nation who may all of a sudden sense a change in the winds of leadership?
Though I wouldn't know if that would mean an opportunity or a crisis, I don't even know why I'm bringing this up, seeing that this point probably won't be relevant to the story of Harrypore, considering that Harry may just beat death and return as the Liche King of the Utopia of Harrypore, forever and ever.
Hip, Hip, Hooray, Harry!
I'll just finish up here by clarifying that no, Harrypore is not the spawnplace of Harry Porter. At any rate, Harrypore does possess another accomplished magician, the Amazing Jerry Mandarin, who is renowned for making things, nay, even places disappear.
Once again, perused Mr. Wang's fine weblog. Don't know why though; each experience is basically a witty and insightful intellectual exercise in Mr. Wang saying, "My dong is bigger than your dong," and ends with me admitting, dejectly, "Yes, it's true." Still, reading Mr. Wang's stuff sparks off a lot of thinking for me, this time, about:
post a comment
1) Marriage and raising kids.
2) Death and politics.
For the sake of clarity, I will write about my thoughts on Death and Politics in another post. For this post, I will write about (1). Here goes.
Mr. Wang's weblog post on marriage focused on the debate about the value or the financial feasibility of marriage and raising kids. It's all very subjective, of course; one person could feel that the ultimate goal in life is to make enough money to cover all bases, forseen or imaginary, yet another could feel that all we do, we have to do for love.
Taken to these extremes, it was still very vague to me. Logically, I think that both ends are justifiable, or at least, acceptable in relevant contexts. I lean towards the latter extreme though. As unfit as I am to be a good husband and father(Unreliable, enjoy smoking and in case you missed it, unreliable.), I think that at the very least, we cannot help but to want to start or take care of a family. It's biologically hotwired in us, as it is to eat. We might have fancy foods, all that foie gras or fondue but we enjoy eating because we have to. And we do enjoy taking care of people. It's a biological impulse that we need to have in order to propagate human life. We're just programmed this way.
Not as dreary or as cold as I might have made it seem though. For the lack of a better word, I believe the biological impulse is love. Okay, it's not scientific; then again, science only explains why we survive or how is it that we do but it does not or probably, cannot explain why we want to, or why all living things naturally fear the cessation of life.
I don't know about you but it's pretty obvious to me that our biology is designed to respond to love, to care and be cared for. Our brains release relaxing stimulants when we are hugged, when we are kissed, when someone smiles at us. Laughter serves no purpose for survival yet we all must laugh.
To elaborate. We go to a restaurant. We get a decent meal. When the waiter serves us with attentiveness and warmth, we get no discount on the price of the meal but we subconciously affix a strong value to that experience. Somehow, maybe, the food tasted nicer than it was. We encourage another friend to patronise that restaurant and he, in turn, is likewise treated to an enjoyable experience. Then somehow, for no real practical reason, we feel vindicated, perhaps, justified, maybe but definitely happy. And we did it for no reason other than that the friend would enjoy the treat. It was all for so trivial a dividend and we did it.
We are compelled by design to love, it is love that makes us enjoy life, look forward to each new day, to want to take care of someone, something, anyone, anything, so that we may enjoy being alive and it is love that makes us want to ensure that life continues.
My thoughts on marriage are simple.
First, let me explain what I think marriage is. By marriage, I mean the term going beyond the legal concerns, which is the spiritual and emotional union of a man and a woman, which would come into fruition with the continuation of human life, the raising of children. Without wanting the children, it's just two really good friends sticking together for sex, laughs and respite from loneliness, honestly. Not that that's a bad thing, I just think it's raising children is the ultimate fulfilment of a human life.
So, the only reason for getting married is that you WANT to take care of your significant other and your progeny for the rest of your life.
THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.
Even after the grand wedding. Even if the money runs out. Even after your children grow up and become financially independant of you. Even after the sex wanes and the two of you look like dried prunes. That's all there is to it. You've just got to want to do it. You've got to only want that and nothing else because if you do, everything you do will be for the happiness of your family and providing for your family. The good news, nay, the best news of all, is that you'll never want for anything else once you've decided that you want to do that because nothing else you accomplish in life will ever give you as much joy and fulfillment.
Indeed, God has blessed us so with love that we may live beyond fearing death, that we love so much that we want life to continue so that the love that God has blessed us with will live on in our children.
Alas, I have to confess, I am one of the cynics who will readily fob off the big issue of marriage with excuses that I'm not financially, spiritually or emotionally capable of taking that big step. The truth is that I am a base, selfish coward. While I can cite excuses such as high divorce rates or my brokeass state, or heck even not having a girlfriend for not wanting to get married, those excuses only expose the fact that I'm probably only working towards failure when I focus on such negatives. I guess I'm still too content about being stuck though I know contentment isn't the same as happiness and joy.... it's just much easier.
Still, I salute the brave who have chosen not to take the easy way out and have chosen to truly love and live. Hopefully, I'll be muster up the courage to do so, sooner rather than later.
P.S. I realise that I've cut down on the funnies of late.... but there's more to me than just being a happy fool. Sometimes, I'm an unhappy fool, you know.
Cos my man Trigger's on the loose again.
2 comments | post a comment
Okay, thought I'd go for a dramatic introduction for Trigger's new weblog:
Respect to Trig, a man who's had more than his fair share of pounding upon the Anvil of Life and still managed to come away with a hearty laugh and a generous soul.
Hoowhee. It's been a heck of a week. At the end of it, a few thoughts.
post a comment
1) DOTA is WOW on crack.
2) My cousin thinks I'm a comedian and can't stop laughing at me.
3) Her brother, also my cousin, apparently enjoys my company.
4) It's been over a year since I started this weblog.
5) I have no idea why I'm drinking on a Wednesdae morning.
Salut, Slainte, Gong Xi Fa Cai and God bless,
Fucking ravens won't leave the skull alone, pecking at the eyes,
post a comment
"Give us an eye, give us an eye,"
They caw, they coo, they cajole, they cozen,
"An eye for wisdom, wisdom for an eye,"
Aye, ain't that the truth, things get done if you just close one eye,
"See what tidings we bring to tide you over,"
"All the facts, a sea of facts,"
All the truth in the world, foaming, roiling, vomiting unto itself,
"See what we can do,"
"All for an eye,"
But the skull has no more eyes to give, one eye for wisdom and the other for courage but the blindness only resulted in madness, no more eyes, no more tears, Hugin and Munin pine not for the wise, their purpose is to serve, not to mourn, so still they perch, pecking away at the skull,
"Give us an eye!"
The skull, in its anguish, wails,
"An eye, for a jaw, that I might bite your miserable feet off!"
But the ravens are no more dealmakers than a man on fire is a sun, so no deals are made yet promises are still broken, as broken as the silence of the night, broken by the screeching,
"Give us an eye!"
|Mood:|| Keep On Reeling!|
.... for the new year, for my nearest and dearest. You know who you are.
post a comment
N and D 1) - Stop drinking so much and stop being such a miserable git.
N and D 2) - Stop drinking so much and stop being such a miserable git.
N and D 3) - Stop drinking so much and stop being such a miserable git.
N and D 4) - Stop drinking so much and stop being such a miserable git.
Huh. I see a trend developing. However,
N and D 5) - Stop being such a miserable git. Drink more instead.
N and D 6) - Get a girlfriend, you ham and cheese.
N and D 7) - Get a girlfriend, you ham and cheese.
N and D 8) - Get a girlfr.... nevermind, just be yourself and let her get you instead.
(Also applies to two of first five N and D's and possibly, myself. Oh. Nevermind.)
N and D 9) - Stay happy!
N and D 10) - Stay happy!
N and D 12) - Stay happy!
N and D 13) - Stay happy!
N and D 14) - Stay happy!
N and D 15) - Stay happy!
N and D 16) - Stay happy!
N and D 17) - Stay happy! Keep chocolates coming, chocolate slave!
Huh. Seems to be a lot or repetition. Everyone's special though, I mean it, love you all the way you all are.
Anyone else, stay happy anyway, the alternative isn't as .... erm. Happy.
Lastly, remember, as G Love said,
"Dreams are like fish,
you gots to keep on reeling!"
God bless, always,