My Writing Is Getting More Meaningless...

...as the days go by. But anyway, in an unplanned, unexpected, unintentional tribute to the late Luciano Pavarotti...

Opera

Perhaps it was her tone. Yes, that was what fired his rocket, blew his top, wrung the neck of his patience and all that jazz. Every so often something bursts your bubble, pushes you over the brink, makes you red-faced… clichés like that. But he’d done it this time. Way over the top, rationality thrown somewhere over the rainbow. Poor little Dorothy has to put up with a lost rationale. Lucky her. He had to deal with a guilty conscience. A very guilty conscience. Guilty in more ways than one.

It all started with a cliché. Much like that one. He never did like opera. The high-pitched, high frequency vibratos would very quickly grate the cheese of his nerves into miniscule flecks perfectly sized for pizza topping. So much for the prissy Prima Donna strutting around the stage. Just another modern, real life Carlotta. Then again, the resonating basses of rotund, bearded masculinity never did much for his ‘calm demeanor’ either. ‘Twas all a façade, the passive face he wore whenever he was dragged inevitably to opera after opera. Like the similarly inevitable “I really enjoyed that!” nonsense he spouted after each one.

His thoughts were going off at a tangent with an angle ‘panic’ to the normal. Illogical trigonometry was the least of his worries right now. What mattered was how to cover up the crime, create a believable alibi, do all those things that the criminal did in Film Noir detective movies. It was either that or grab his imaginary ‘Tommy gun’ and make a last stand. His heart was pounding in his chest, like in those bad novels you read when you wanted to remind yourself of all the badness of novel clichés. Oxymoronic. He was in deep figurative mud.

Her voice was still playing in his head. The tone that stoked the flames of anger ever present, surreptitious in the back of his mind. It was distracting. Very distracting. Just thinking about it made the hairs on his neck rise. Well they would have if he was particularly hairy around the area. But he wasn’t.

He decided to give up thinking and make that last stand. He began laying his case. He would plead temporary insanity. Everyone snapped eventually. Some more violently than others. But he was prepared to face the music. Fervently hoping it wouldn’t be opera, he gathered the remains in his hands and steeled himself for the inescapable consequences. Oh, he was in deep water. Deep boiling water. No. Boiling mud to stick to the previous analogy. All because he lost his head and stifled the voice of that infernally singing pest. With a hammer. Smashed her along with the CD player. Who wouldn’t after having to listen to the same recording of Madame Butterfly for the third time that day. Here comes the opera-loving wife…

After An Extreme Hiatus...

...that I'm not particularly proud of, and a very long wait (I'm sorry Becky) I'm finally posting the spontaneous poem co-written by Rebecca Wong aka Becky (established poet) and yours truly. The amazing power of MSN right there. We've got two endings and an illustration (to come). Vote for the ending you prefer and send in ideas for the illustration.
Enjoy. And remember....

Curiosity Kills The...
Chickin,
Stuck its head too far,
Down came the cleaver,
A headless chickin ran into a bar.

After downing a beer,
Down the road it ran,
Running hard, directionless…
It ran into a man.

And with one outrageous cry,
In a yellow polka-dotted tie,
He reached down, fingers wide,
And ripped clean off a feathered chickin thigh.

Now what happened next,
Lil’ chickin did not expect,
In fact, headless,
Dear chickin did not suspect,
That the crazy lunatic gobbled up the rest!
But sadly, his yellow polka-dotted tie,
In the end was bloody and messed.

And so lil’ chickin did not survive,
To peck on corn or do the jive,
And the thigh that was ripped…
In sauce it was dipped…
And if you pass KFC,
You might see,
Lil’ chickins destiny.

Bex N TX (1.9.2007 <--- Long time hor...)

Voting is closed and the ending is where it is.
But since I like the other one more...

Indeed most thought it was a tragedy.
And of the thigh that was ripped...
In thick sauce it was dipped,
To be served to his whole jolly family.

*grins evilly*

L O L

Looking On Leaving
Life's Orange Light
Licking One's Lollipop
Like Other Loons.

Live Our Lives
Listed Or Listless
Layers Of Lime
Looking Out Lucidly.

Lest One Lose
Love Of Life
Little Orange Lamps
Lead One's Legs.

Links Of Lunacy
Lurk On Lines
Leading Ourselves Left
Like Oblivious Lemmings.

Live Or Leave
Living Or Lifeless
Lied Or Lying
Lamenting One's Loneliness.

Lawak Orang Lucu
Laughing Out Loud
Life's Opaque Luminescence
Limps On Lamely.

Neither Fiction Nor Non-fiction Be, Strictly Speaking.

Um hi. Haven't posted for a while but here's another bit of writing that is too long to be a proper post. Read at your own leisure.

The Man

I'll try to post shorter stuff next time.

An Essay...

A little something for those who wish to read. Written last year, some people have read it before:

My Interior Monologue.

Enjoy. Maybe? Just a bit? Please?

It's a bit too long to post as a post.

A Girl's Point On View...

In the cold wind-blustered streets of the metropolis, a matchbox girl approaches you slowly, shyly with small steps shuffling in your direction. Being kind hearted (as you are, aren't you?) you slow to stop, comfort the matchbox girl with a smile and reach for your moneybag. As the girl reaches you, you see her little face, world-weary yet with the still blossoming softness of youth. You begin to ask, "How much for a box, my dear?" getting only as far as "How..." before she snaps a match along her matchbox, lighting it, its small warm glow reflecting the heart of its bearer, both puny against the winter chill.

It strikes you as odd that the girl, whose comfort depends on wasting not that precious commodity, might strike up a match for a complete stranger but her next question draws your thoughts away.

"Sir, what colour do you see?"

You see the orange of flame and the blue of complete combustion. You see the blackness of the soot rising against the paleness of the white buildings that surround you. You see the oily brown of the matchstick. You tell her so, quite bemused by the raggedly adorable child staring at you with questioning eyes. And the child speaks again.

"Sir, are the colours you see the same as those that I see?"

That is the girl's point on view. Is the blue you see the same colour as she sees? Perhaps she sees what you would call red but by convention calls it "blue". Perhaps her orange is your purple and your brown her green. In that case only by convention are they the same colour.
Perplexed and embarassed to be so troubled by that innocent question, you forcefully reach for you coins and drag out twice the cost of 5 boxes of matches. Staring her in the eye, you open your hands into hers and close her tiny fingers over the coins. A mass larger than her cupped palms can comfortably hold.

"Get yourself something warm, girl," you say, "I have no answer for you this day."

She looks on at you in wonder and gratitude. Perhaps fearful you might change your mind, she laughs happily and runs as only a child can run. For now, in her mind the world is all right.

And yet yours is all topsy-turvy.

You stroke the new bristle at your chin and wonder. Do we all see the same colours? When I look in the mirror, do I see what others see when they look upon me? Might I maybe look like a rock and yet be recognisably me to the other people around me?

Is the world I see the same world that you see? Perception and interpretation tie together in a dead knot of reason. What we see is what we interpret. What we interpret is what we see. Would that you could all see the world as I do that we might understand each other better.

Is the world I see the same world that you see?

Giving Her His Head...

'Twas a love,
Destined to be.
'Twas her love,
That was the difficulty.

He sought her so,
His heartache physical pain.
Where she was he didn't know,
Only his purpose kept him sane.

Tragic love stories abound,
Nature is a cruel mistress.
Never was there a love so profound.
Never was there a lover so against digress.

No, he searched for her.
High and low he searched for her.
And then by chance contact was made.
A silhouette beautiful,
Against the sunlight beginning to fade.

But she did not love him yet.
Try as he might, his heart so set,
She wholly refused any such union,
For without a dowry
How could there be a junction.

But then the male lover,
Spied a dragon fly by a flower.
And so crept the young brave,
And so struck he, hard and true
And in the name of his love, the dragon he slew.

With stubborn purpose he carried the carcass,
Presenting it before his maiden.
With such a suitable dowry for a lass,
How could any refuse their union.

And so they were joined,
The boy now a man.
And by now raging was the fire in his loins,
And he fell upon his bride as only a hero can.
At least, that was the plan.

But alas this tale is another tragedy,
An almost Romeo and Juliet story,
For Romeo the praying mantis,
Fell afoul of his maiden Juliet's kiss.

And so he passed on his gene,
But as they kissed she bit him clean,
And left him bereft, left him dead,
Left him his body,
Without his head.