Watching...

...the little sparrow as it flits and flutters along the street. I sit, watching the little sparrow, hopping, skipping, jumping from bread crumb to bread crumb along the sidewalk. What can you do but admire the beautiful creature, striving to live in the face of adversity? And yet is it not expected of all creatures save certain men to continue one's existence in this world? All save certain men.

But this sparrow is a special one. Mingling in the crowds of people. Socially active. In and out trying to find it's niche in the rush of everyday hustle and bustle. Along the street it dances, weaving in and out, avoiding the stamping feet, the black leather shoes and high-heels, sneakers and slippers. Dancing. Once in a while it chirps its little call, almost shyly, raising its head, opening its beak in small song. It has often walked down this street before. Yet the song it sings everyday is a new one and the dance of life is strong. It dances for joy, it sings with faith that today it will find bread. Or rice for that matter.

And suddenly this sparrow has an identity, a face, a body, a gender. She flutters around, sometimes half-heartedly but always with a distinct purpose, with determination. Perhaps she has been in courtships uncounted for such is the way of life. Yet these things cease to matter when I look upon her so joyful and free. Always free.

Today the weather is good, her feathers remain unruffled, preened and prissy. Though tomorrow might be wet and gloomy, always she lives through and through. By and by her luck will change and the sun will shine again. The sparrow has been through harder times and never was she broken and defeated beyond revival. Yet always the little figure evokes a sense of want. The want to show special care and attention, to cater for her every need, her every feeling, her every desire. But who am I to know a sparrow's heart's desire or to boast of it if I did. Who am I to put words in her beak. Nought but a simple boy.

My eye is on her. The sparrow. And I watch as she comes closer to me, coming to receive the bread I give with love and care. She comes so close, away from the crowds in which she mingled, to take the little comfort I offer. The temptation is to keep her, to feed her till she stays, for I would give her security in this harsh world. Yet how can one chain this little creature, so joyful, so amiable, adorable with any bonds of metal, string or worse. Bonds of love. But the sparrow chirps its delightful song again and my heart is filled with joy. Had I my flute I'd play Mozart with definite pinkness in my music.

But again I sit and I watch and I think. I wonder if she'll fly away, to mingle again and never return. For how could one cage this beautiful thing when so joyful it is, so free. Always free. Always free.

Ponderings...

...while sitting in a carpark. You know, once in a while you start to wonder, "Why DO people drink alcohol?" Then you realise, that wasn't the important question anyway. What was really important was why you were sitting in a carpark and thinking about such things in the first place. Then you get to the circular arguments that MS Excel hates so much and I hate Excel for hating. Why do hamsters eat goats cheese anyway??
I mean, it's not like there's no lactose in it for the lactose intolerant. Like pancakes... who has ever seen a pancake eat goats cheese? Those insane, raise your hand. *raises hand... to get the shotgun off the shelf* Ah well, that's not so important either. What's really important is...
...
...
"World peace".
Yes we have a Miss Whatever/Wherever/Whoever invading our public discussion. And goldfish swim around in circles and say the grass is greener on the other side of the fishbowl. And forget they said it 3 seconds later. Stately. Like a ceiling fan juggling chainsaws.
Actually, what's the point of juggling chainsaws when juggling glass shards is even more impressive? Especially if you're dressed in chainmail from the tip of your nose to the ends of your fingers. Like a knight in shining armour. From a long time ago...

Ride to Camelot Sir Knight and partake in the tournament of entrance. The Round Table really was gigantic wasn't it? Almost as big as some people's brain cavity. Note: Cavity... not actual brain. Measurements susceptible to paralax error while titrating mushy mango puree from a coconut sieve.

May you find happiness this Christmas.

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.