Woohoo!!

Whee!!

The swine return! No pool of water or legion of demons can hold us back from proclaiming the good news that Mr. Yap Wei Xiong has quoted a certain Mr. Khoo Teng Xiang on his xanga page. Intriguing no? Check it out: www.xanga.com/ahxiong (not ahxiang har... don't go and spell wrong).

Well, if you don't check out what the quote is you will never know what the tribal council has spoken. Yes I am a council in myself. Aren't I just the greatest?

Apparently, what I said sums up the whole First Year Vet community. Perhaps perhaps. I was quite honest about it when I said it. Bleah.

So anyway, exams are coming and we're all freaked out by anatomy! Joy... You know... this is possibly the first "normal" blog post I've ever posted... that's amazingly... sad. But anyway, where was I? Toothpicks, that's right. Dog's made out of skinny purple toothpicks appeared on Flinders Street just after a man was electrocuted from train surfing. Or was it surf training? I don't right know... I don't rightly appear to be in my right mind...

Pika infiltration!! Eek. Eek. Eek. Eek. Eel. Eek. Eek. Bet you missed the slippery blighter in there! Then again maybe you didn't. Watch out for his bite. The sun don't shine where the eels bite fishing line. Or so the saying goes.

Stay away from my coffee!! How else am I going to do my exam paper? Eat it?

Which reminds me ... 2 weeks till exams!! Awesome!

All the best to everyone! May the hogs be with you...

Another Boar??

Not really... more like a totally different journey.

Check it out and say what you think.

http://toddlewithgod.blogspot.com

Oh and yes I have accepted the Lord in my life.

Swine will not be affected by this! No Legion shall drown my herd of pigs!! GRAARRGGHH

Back In Action

It's been a while since I picked up my pace and set myself back to the keyboard for some blogging. But now the keyboard is back:

The keyboard returns...

And I'm back if my life doesn't spiral out of control:

Tightly, neatly bound...

And if my notes are in order and all the studying doesn't wind me up so tight I snap. Unlikely... since the pen is mine and not the other way around:

The Xiang is mightier than the pen...

Let me tell you about vet school.
There is this guy.I guess he's average:
Good-looks: average
Intelligence: average
Compassion: average
Faith: average (but he believes)
Everything else: average
Humility: average (?)

That guy is me. It's been a long slog from the 3rd of March till the 25 of April (today) but there is nothing else I'd rather be doing. And no matter the circumstance I will be loving animals and loving working with them till the end of days:

Then end might come and might look like this but the veterinary profession will stand in me...

But let me sketch a day in my life...

Apart from those days of being dragged around by horses, seating sheep and straddling pigs, it's been theory, theory, theory. And more to come. How I relish those days out at the clinic just having my hands on the furry/wooly buggers, my hands in the mouths of "awd bovines a'slaverin."

The phrase 'information overload' is an understatement in some senses but the odd case study always serves to wake you up in a jiffy. Content-wise the material is understandable and interesting though cramped and tinned like sardines. The years are packed, they say. Believe it.

On any normal day we bumble into the VRI and sit in the lecture theatre for another four-hour series of lectures. Lecturers shuffle in, deliver and leave. We're stuck, pigs in the mud, thrown into the deep end right from the start. Aorta, pulmonary artery, erythropoiesis, the enteric nervous system, Angus cattle, Herefords, Holstein-Friesians, a bay, a roan and Thoroughbreds abound. Sometimes it feels like a noose, the knot ever ready to drop:

Care to stick your head in there?

But it's not so bad really. Friends are around to lend a hand, lecturers are nice and the coffee is free. Get on top and get ahead. The kinks smoothen out then... otherwise it's rough and tough like a bad beef cow.

Keep the work up and the sailing is smooth...

So we sit there frying our brains, evaporating the useless, digesting the 'nutritious' and on flows the morning. Do I keep writing though I'll miss most of the speed-lecturer's information? Do I draw this? Do I not? Do I need to know this? The questions pile up on the patient in the consulting room. The going is slow but steady and lunch is round the corner.

And then it's here. The hour of relief. Our kiosk opens and instant noodles flood out of the cupboard. Our source of stomach-fill. Like grass to a cow. Cheap, unhealthy goodness. Alternatively there's the food you bring for yourself, more expensive and out-sourced:

Prawn rolls anyone?

And many do just that. Microwaves and toasters run like food production factories, churning out lunches, pre-packed, to the masses. But suddenly the hour is over and all that is left are the remnants of meals and relief:

Is it over already? I haven't finished my chilli...

A four hour lecture chain means a practical class in the afternoon. A dissection, a nerve preparation, a muscle stimulation or an afternoon staring into microscopes getting dizzy. The last of these is often the most tedious though eventually any of the practical classes begins to get on your tired nerves. And the nerves of the dog being dissected:

One wrong cut and this dog's a nervous wreck...

Don't get me wrong, the practical classes are most definitely exciting and beneficial. Often enjoyable. But after a whole day of class, I begin to feel my brain lagging behind my eyes. At about 4.30, patience can wear thin but we all bear with it and go on. For the betterment of ourselves and the animals we'll one day treat. But before leaving the dissecting theatre one more thing must be done. Wash your hands and dry them because:

And you better believe it...

Finally the day is done. Lab coats are ripped off and sighs of relief accompany the cacophony of moaning and groaning. Bags are zipped up conclusively and determinedly. Time to go.

All packed and ready...

One final step. Out to the tram stop to wait. The day draws to a close. The sun sets as I wait for the tram thinking of the day. Wondering what tomorrow will bring. Because I can't remember my ever-changing timetable.

The end...

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*