Getting on with life

I am wondering if I should post pictures of my renovation in this blog.

Gosh~

Scandi, industrial, minimalistic, contemporary....

drive

The shadows criss-crossed, growing longer, shorter, disappearing and reappearing on the dashboard. It was rhythmic, as long as his speed stayed constant and he doesn't meander out of lane. The drone from his engines was almost drowned out by the stereo whose volume was turned up loud enough to only neuter the whir. Occasionally, he could hear syncopated voices and music from the speakers. Arrhythmic. Yet at times, momentarily; almost serendipitously, in sync with the passing shadows cast on the dashboard.
If he wound down the windows, he could feel the howling wind which he can only imagine. But he likes it this way. For now.

Valentine 2 : Carol Ann Duffy revisited

I posted about this once before.

Valentine

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

Carol Ann Duffy 1993

It's too good to stay covered.

Carol Ann Duffy is the freshly minted poet laureate.
First Scot to be chosen.
First woman to be chosen.
First openly gay to be chosen. (There might have been closeted ones)
First poet to be chosen in the 21st Century.

I think "moon" in the poem has taken a darker hue in terms of meaning for me. It is not what is promised. But how she intends to orbit around you, discrete in "brown paper", as you go about your daily musings......

The first 2 minutes of Underneath The Stars

I can imagine listening to this in an imaginary basement venue.

It's the air. It hangs heavy with the humidity. The smell of stale beer mixed with cigarettes.
The ceiling is low and you can trace the patterns on the mineral boards. Darker spots where it was waterlogged.

The headlining band had just finished and people were milling in and out of the tiny space. A crowd gathered at the bar, quenching their thirst with an assortment of alcoholic beverages.

The next band had strange make up. Seems like the lead vocalist had eyeliner and bad hair. They start playing.

As the strums of guitar rings through the cracked up speakers, you thought to yourself that they sounded promising. You were glad that you stayed.

Then the drumming starts and another guitar joins in. You nodded your head to the beat.

Zoe couldn't hang on

Was at HortPark for a baby's 1st birthday. How wonderful! A garden setting for a baby's birthday. I don't think any of us can remember our first birthday. Photographs, or videos for the luckier ones, of the event are what we have to let us have a glimpse of what happened. .

As we grow older in life, we plan and plan the actions we take. Hoping to shape our lives by the decisions we make.

The paths we have taken led us down different outcomes. Although the path untaken does keep coming to mind but we continue in the hopes for a brighter future. Living a life predetermined is just unimaginable. Surely some of our choices make a difference.

But some don't.

touché

"The most expensive clothes in the world are those that are too cheap in construction—or too cheap in taste—to permit long-continued use."

- Brooks Brothers

Moving along

The mixture of smells from ghee slowly being heated and pungent wafts of mutton curry that drifted in and out of the waiting area was wondrous.

A Hindi pop number was blaring from the mini-compo hidden partially away from sight behind the prata counter. The high-pitched female voice was audible above the cacophonous symphony provided by the clanging spatula on wok as the mustachioed portly Indian man stir-fried his mee goreng and the low drone of passing traffic outside the shop.

The eatery was unassuming. No "air-con", no cushioned seats. The layers of peeling paint above the counter revealed the many change of ownership. The previous owner preferred duck egg blue over straw yellow. The present owner must have hoped that his choice of cream white will give the eatery a new breath of life.

The young man packing my "2 egg, 1 kosong" was mouthing the words of the song on the radio. "Mutton or fish?".
"Mutton."

"Tiga enam!" He shouted as I moved towards the cashier.

Random Poem #1

The Song Of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.


W. B. Yeats

Untitled:

The intermittent silences in conversations suggested a cause for concern. But they thought it was just a case of them settling. Perhaps it was only him.
Not shared by her.

By and by, these awkward silences did settle. It was no longer disquieting. They seemed better off. An inadvertent end. That was her.
Though she assumed the same for him.

They let things slip into routine. A comfortable routine with the absence of the other. They no longer remember the cause(s). They don't want the effect(s) to ruin their lives.
They carry on.

Sweetness follows

No. She never quite liked coffee.

The dark liquid did little to hide its vile taste.

Even with milk. The colour was odd.

"The sweetness follows." She hears her friends say. But only after they had drop copious spoonfuls of sugar into the tiny receptacle. A quick stir and an absentminded gulp. The taste barely registered. Swilling in their mouths just long enough to savour the sugary sweetness at the tip of the tongue.

Never allowing the contents to reach too far back. Not warranted. The coffee barely made its way through the mouth and will only tickle the tonsil, if at all, before going down the gullet.

To her, coffee did serve a purpose - keeping her awake on days where she felt particularly lethargic. One doesn't really actually need to like coffee in order to feel the effects.

No. She never likhed coffee. Much preferred tea.

But she drinks it anyway.

Lighthouse

She stands tall and erect on a rocky outcrop.
The regulated light she shows is to guide. Away not towards. Like a warning sign.
Keep off.
She lets the waves have their way with her. Cresting her spectacularly as they break.
But if you're not malleable she will crush you with equal spectacle.

The ebbing of tide reveals the scars.
Metal masts and wooden hulls surround the edge. Coming to rest at where they have made their closest approach.
Like a mess of broken hearts and love debris. Haphazardly displaced yet seemingly arching towards her.

She faces the storms and seas alone.
She witnesses the wax and wane of the moon. The winds buffet and the waves pound as she withstood silently. She looks forlorn, awaiting.
But that's just you. For she is emotionless and devoid of life.

Childhood

I like meepok dry.

When I was younger, whenever I stayed over at my granny's place, the next morning, after accompanying her to the wet market, I will have breakfast with her. She usually ordered something like kweh tio mee. It was meepok tah for me. I think that was the main reason why I like staying over at her place; the morning wet market visit followed by breakfast. Sometimes I will be rewarded with a bowl of soybean curd if I was particularly helpful. Like helping granny carry her blue basket with the stainless steel handles. The handles left indentations on the fleshy forearm of my granny. Sometimes granny will randomly slip in some marketing tips. Like choosing fish - eyes must look alert, fins not broken and no fishy smell.

I don't like the smell of the wet market.

Chickens were killed on the spot if you wanted freshness. The seller will slit the throat and dump the chicken into a blue drum. Without fanfare or ceremony. You half expected a prayer or even some wincing by the seller. But hardly any emotion escaped from the faces of both the seller and the buyer. There wasn't much sound. Probably drowned out by the incessant yaks of the aunties. You could get fresh duck instead of chicken. Same treatment just different price. There is also a musky scent that lingered whenever granny led me to the area where they sold fresh pork. Mixed with the smell of fish and prawns. Salt-tinged. They were usually located adjacent to each other.

I don't like the smell but I remember it fondly.

The dried goods store had a distinct smell too. Of yellow pages. And newspaper. Because that was usually what was used to wrap the dried shrimps, ikan bilis and many other shriveled up animals. Sometimes a random store will pop up in between the store with a sari-clad indian lady selling conical heaps of reddish, ochre-ish, orangey spice powder and the store with a plump chinese auntie, a hanky tucked into the armholes of her sleeveless blouse selling canned food and preserved vegetables. Often with a coconut squeezing machine that pressed out coconut milk. You can have the fibrous remnants in a separate package. The random store could be one selling nightgowns and panties. Or an aquarium. And I will look wistfully at the terrapins. Or hope that a hamster escapes. I will then plan on how to spirit the escaped hamster away. I will feel my pockets to make sure that they were empty. Make room for the imagined brave hamster that escaped.

I like meepok dry because of my childhood. The wet market. The sleepovers at granny's.

Succinct

Don't overstate a point.

another year ends. not quite but it's coming.

i sit here frustrated by the intention to start this but have nothing to muse.

i sit here frustrated.

i'm warming up to autumn. just hoping that the leave i'm trying to reach doesn't turn yellow and fall.

Isn't it great to find empathy while being annonymous? Do people have more compassion for people they don't know?