i'm not angry.

i'm everything but.

transience

here it is, as promised. pardon the lengthiness. i felt it was better not to break this short story into bite-sized parts for the sake of coherence and flow. i assure you, it is a short read and should take no longer than ten minutes, even for the slowest of readers amongst us. comments, as always, are welcome:

“emotions, we can thus conclude, are transient in nature. they tend to suddenly overwhelm us when we are vulnerable and then quietly slip away, to be gradually replaced by other emotions. joy, fear, anger, melancholy, loneliness, jealousy; none of these are exempt from the profound effect that time and its passing has on all of us.” he reached back over his desk lamp and produced a thin stack of papers, no doubt fresh from the photocopier. someone by the window sighed. “this,” he added, while handing out question papers, “is your last writing assignment for the semester. i expect all of you to take this assignment seriously, because grades earned for this paper will count towards your final score in this course. this paper must be handed in by next monday. any questions?”

a hand shot up in the back.

“yes? emilio? qué?”

“yeah, i was just wondering, prof – if i don’t hand this essay in on time, you’ll be angry with me; but emotions are transient, so you won’t hold it against me for long. it’s okay if i do that, right?”

emilio smiled, and chuckles from his classmates produced a grin.

“yes, emilio, by all means,” the professor shot back, “but on monday i’ll make it a point to write down somewhere that you got an ‘f’ for this assignment, just in case my memories are transient too.”

emilio’s grin disappeared, and a loud groan from a classmate produced a frown.

“the class is dismissed. i’ll see the lot of you again on monday,” the professor announced, raising his voice to be heard above the murmuring of the departing students and the shifting of chairs and tables. “with your completed assignments, i hope,” he added, at the crescendo.

everyone had left by then. “wishful thinking,” he thought aloud and then turned towards his desk.

-----------------------------------------------

the man came to, and slowly opened his eyes. he knew he was in a bed, by the way it felt against his back. everything else was a blank. “i’ve just woken up from a nap,” he thought to himself. “what time is it?” his eyes flicked from side-to-side and they settled on the lone window in the darkened room, across which large, heavy curtains had been drawn. they were grey and textured, and blocked out most of the bright light. from the way they glowed against the window, he could tell it was morning.

footsteps echoed through the hallway as he propped himself up. someone? who? a slender silhouette appeared at the doorway and he could barely make out a tray. a lady. do i know her? she moved to his side and sat down. “coffee?” she asked. the man watched her intently, studying her features. her dark brown hair meandered down to her shoulders, with her fringes partly covering her eyes. it was neat before, but had been messed up recently from housework, most likely. she had misty blue eyes. they were losing their lustre though, and judging by the kind wrinkles forming above her brow, probably with age. a small, sharp nose guided his eyes to her mouth; full, soft lips that were parted as if she were about to say something.

“you look like you slept well.”

He leaned back a little. “i did. i feel very refreshed. i feel... like a new person.”

i can’t remember anything.

the sudden whirr of the dishwasher kicking back into action in the next room drowned out her words.

“sorry?”

“oh, nothing. i just asked if you wanted the coffee.”

she’s lying.

“oh yes, i’d forgotten. thank you.” he received the cup from the lady and smiled at her. she seemed familiar, like a cashier one sees at the local supermarket’s check-out counter for years, but only notices when that cashier stops them on the way to their car one day to return the fifteen dollars the register had accidentally overcharged them. and when that happens, one thinks, “what a nice young lady. she seems familiar though, like i know her from somewhere before.” it never comes to mind that this same face has greeted them and their groceries every other week for the last few years. we often forget the people who provide us with what we need and remember those who provide us with what we want.

“i’ll be in the kitchen. just call me if you need anything. my name’s elaine. it’s not an easy name to remember.”

elaine. seems simple enough.

“thank you, elaine.”

i want to ask her so many things that i don’t know where to start.

elaine left the room, walked straight down the corridor and turned into the last room on the right. she removed a tomato-shaped magnet from the refrigerator door, took the hand-written note beneath and replaced the magnet on a yellowed recipe for caramel custard that had been torn out of an old copy of cleo. she placed the note on the kitchen counter and stood over it, reading down the list scrawled on it.

onions, 1 pound.
olive oil, 1 bottle 500ml
butter, 250g
sealant, one tube
eggs, 1 tray

she stopped. the rest was illegible. gasping, she reached for a cloth to smother the note with, but it was too late. the rest of the note had been smudged beyond recognition. she put the note aside and buried her face in her hands. the tears flowed freely now, and she wept quietly. the dishwasher too, fell silent.

----------------------------------------------------

the lens waited and watched, perched upon a pile of dry leaves; waiting to cast into immortality a moment. a portion of foliage lies in its focus, quietly unaware of its involvement in the greater scheme of things. a hunched form sits nearby, glancing towards the foliage in between bites of a warm tuna sandwich.

a bite.

she arrives just then. the butterfly gracefully sets itself down in plain view of the camera and for a moment flaunts its wings, thickly stroked with crimson red and cerulean blue. it pauses for a moment before gathering its wares and flitting away, never to be seen again.

a glance. no luck again.

the figure turns back to its sandwich.

----------------------------------------------------

“jamie, you’re a dream.”

“i’m a what?”

“you are. you’re such a lovely dream.”

she smiles, unsure. “i’m taking that as a compliment.”

“please do. honestly, you’re a bitch on mondays, but every other day, you’re a dream.”

she laughs. “yes, yes, i’m a bitch on mondays. on rainy days too, but only when i don’t get to sleep in.”

“well, we’ve all got our weaknesses, haven’t we?”

“what’re yours?”

“mine? i like to steal glances at other hot women when i’m out with girls,” he says, looking off into the distance.

she turns around, following his gaze and then bursts out into laughter.

“oh my dearest darling tommy boy, you don’t say.”

“say what?” he replies, still watching the tanned lady in the short skirt.

“she looks lost. why don’t you go ask her what she’s looking for?”

“no way. what if she’s looking for her boyfriend? what if her boyfriend looks like tyson beckford? what if tyson beckford finds me chatting up his girlfriend? i appreciate my limbs more when they’re still attached to my body.”

“what you need is courage, my dear man,” she says, removing the bottle of wine from the bucket of ice and pouring him another glass.

“what i need is a ferrari and an obscene amount of money,” he counters, as she pours herself a glass and takes a sip.

“brut imperial moet and chandon champagne,” she reads from the bottle. she looks up at thomas. “this bottle doesn’t have a year on it. that’s no fun. what good is a bottle of champagne if you can’t tell how old it is?”

thomas picks up his glass, sniffs the lip while gently circling it and then takes a small sip. he rolls the wine around his tongue, furrows his eyebrows and then looks upwards as if he’s referring to a book floating above jamie’s head. “it’s a vintage nineteen-eighty-nine from epernay, in the champagne ardennes region of france,” he declares.

jamie looks at him incredulously, waiting for him to break into a smile and to say that he made that all up.

he doesn’t.

“you’re kidding me right?”

“no, really, it is.” he was still checking out the hot amazon.

“okay, that’s mind-boggling. how can you tell?”

he turns to her briefly and flashes a smile before returning to his prey.

“it says so on the back label.”

----------------------------------------------------

a red light falls upon the bodies that lie scattered across the battlefield. a man stands amongst them, leaning on his sword and breathing heavily. he removes his ornate helmet with one hand and flings it away. he tears off his bloodied breastplate and drops it to the ground beside him. his inner clothing is a patchwork of red stains and sweat.

he falls to his knees and a resounding thud breaks the silence. none stir beside him. they are all no more, save for him.

“victory!” he cries, gaze and arms both raised to the heavens. his face contorts as the tears begin to flow. he covers his face with his hands and weeps for the fallen. “one more such victory,” he whispers to the emptiness around him, “and we are lost.”

the lighting fades to darkness as the curtains fall.

----------------------------------------------------

“elaine?”

she entered the living room, carrying a wet plate. “yes?”

“see? it wasn’t that hard to remember.”

elaine smiled.

“could you sit here with me, elaine? if you don’t mind, i mean. i’m just feeling a bit lonely.”

she left the room and returned without the plate. “here,” he says, gesturing towards the space next to him on the couch. he picks up the remote control and lowers the volume on the television. the conversation going on is reduced to barely-discernible murmuring.

“could i ask you a few questions, elaine? i’m confused, really, and i think you can help me.”

“sure.”

“who am i?”

something in her eyes disappeared just then. he noticed.

“your name is henry. you live here.”

it was hope, wasn’t it? why?

“why can’t i remember that?”

“does it matter?”

“what do you mean? of course it does.”

“not anymore; not to someone who can only remember to forget.”

“i don’t understand, elaine.”

“neither do i,” she replied, before getting up and leaving. he was not going to see her again that day.

----------------------------------------------------

“what if i told you right here and right now that i love you?”

she laughs. “then i’d tell you to go to hell.”

“yeah, i know. i know i’m not supposed to, but what if i did? what if i suddenly just fell in love with you, jane?”

“that would be wrong; so, so wrong.”

“would it? guess you’re right.”

“what’s with the sudden change of weather?”

he took a sip. “nothing, really. i just felt like it.”

the amazon, having found senór beckford, had left a few minutes before.

“you don’t say. i’ll give you five minutes.”

“for what? to apologise?”

“no, tommy boy; to let it pass.”

----------------------------------------------------

she sat by the gasoline pump, playing with the tattered ends of her jeans. she wound a loose thread around her fingers until it was tight and then kept tugging to make it come off. once it had been removed, she would move on to the next thread she could find while running her fingers along the denim fabric. the smell of gasoline had permeated through the air. it made one feel poisoned and pleasured at the same time - a dangerous kind of high. a large sign dangled over her that read, 'no smoking' and sure enough, the attendant who stood over her was drawing in on a cigarette.

she kept one eye closed and squinted at him and used her left hand to block out some sunlight. it had been shining the whole day, and the little girl wondered if the sun ever ran out of gas. it doesn't need to stop over at stations like this. not like we do, she thought.

the man held the gas outlet in one hand and continued to puff on his cigarette with the other. he noticed that she was watching him and flashed a grin at her.

i think he needs a dentist, she thought, unaware that even the entire national dental association couldn't possibly ever help this man. his skin was all wrinkled, and it reminded her of the dog she used to have a few years ago; lots and lots of wrinkly skin, but that was adorable - this man looked like a raisin; not even a tasty one, at that.

when she realised that she had been playing with her jeans, she stopped and got up. peering over the store window from where she was, she could barely make out her parents. they were discussing directions with the storekeeper; she could tell from the way they kept pointing everywhere. how long more?

she sat down again and looked at the attendant. he smiled at her once more, thinking she had missed it the first time. then he took the cigarette from his lips and snuffed it out against the side of his workboots. she watched as the stub fell to the ground and lay there, spent.

the attendant pulled the outlet from the tank and restored it to the pump, spilling a bit of gasoline as he did. it formed a small puddle by the rear wheel of the station-wagon. the little girl was fascinated by it, having never seen an gasoline slick before. she usually sat inside the car at gas station stops and waited patiently, but on a hot day like that, the station-wagon, without its air-conditioning turned on, doubled as a deadly kitchen appliance.

she marvelled at the streaked rainbows she saw. they would move as she leaned from one side to the other and would disappear if she raised her head up high enough. she wondered how rainbows could form without any rain. she wondered if she could catch this one, but she didn't dare touch the strange liquid. ma told her not to touch things she didn't know anything about. it was tempting. she wanted to touch the rainbows.

her parents left the store and walked over. the little girl's father tipped his sunhat at the attendant, while her mother picked her up and put her into the back seat. she quickly knelt on the seat and peeked downwards through the glass at the rainbows. they had disappeared. she watched intently as the car moved further and further away from the station until it disappeared over the horizon. she turned around and plonked herself back into her seat.

“what're you looking for, sweetie?” her mother asked, looking through the rear-view mirror.

“rainbows, mommy.”

----------------------------------------------------

as he lay in bed, he watched the shadows slide across the room and then reset themselves. he’d lost track of time, but it was certainly late. the cars continued to pass by outside his window, and the moving shadows distracted him to no end.

he turned to his side, away from the door and shut his eyes tight. he tried to remember. he felt his mind trying to squeeze the memories out from somewhere within but he just could not do it. they passed him by, distracted him, and repeatedly, he lost his focus.

just like those cars.

he felt a hand on his side, but he did not move. he let it slide up his arm and cup his shoulder. then he felt his body lean back as she got into bed with him. she brought her nose up to the back of his neck, touched it gently and whispered into his ear, ”i'm sorry.” and all was suddenly forgiven.

he said nothing. strangers do not do these things; not to one's heart, at least.

she brought her arm over him and around his front, drawing him closer to her. she held him and he felt warm and comfortable.

but the shadows still disturbed him.

“elaine. i want to remember,” he said, finally.

“i know, henry. i know.”

the doctors said that sleep made him forget. it was as simple as that. he'd forget everything that he wanted to remember and would remember everything he needed to; enough to get by, never enough to live again. each day, he remembers and forgets and that is the curse she lives with.

slowly; gently he drifted, losing consciousness as the shadows began to blur into darkness. he wanted to turn over and face her, but he could no longer will himself to move.

“elaine,” he murmured, “i know who you are.”

she hugged him tighter.

“you're... you're...”

tighter still.

“you're my...” he mumbled.

“yes,” she whispered back, but he was already asleep.

the shadows lay still.

“good night, dear.”

----------------------------------------------------

“to see a world in a grain of sand,
and a heaven in a wild flower,
hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and eternity in an hour - who knows where that's from?”

william blake's auguries of innocence, came the reply.

“excellent. any one who hasn't got their assignment ready today will feel the agony of a lifetime in a moment. i can guarantee that much. emilio?”

“yes, sir!” he acknowledged, waving a thin stack of papers about. “i've got it right here.” several others chuckled.

“good. you can pass them to the front now,” he announced, addressing the class again.

the professor collected the bundles of assignments and set them on his desk.

“i trust that they are all here and are worthy of being read and graded.” he paused to adjust his spectacles.

“it was my wish that this assignment serve a two-fold purpose to you as students of english in this college and as students of life, outside it. in the process of writing these essays, i hope that you have realised how many transient things there are in the world we live in. this is not some fairytale world we are considering, where the realities run at a tangent to ours. these are moments that pass us by - every single one of us.”

he cleared his throat.

“at this age, one thing i've learnt - and learnt very well - is that the only way we can prevent moments from passing us by is to never stop moving long enough to let them do that. will we get tired? i say no. i'm not talking about physically moving all the time, the way emilio constantly fidgets during my classes.” smiles appear and then disappear as the professor continues.

“spiritually. emotionally. mentally. always moving, always changing, always seeking higher ground. if we are to be eagles, let change be the wind beneath our wings. we will pursue time to the very ends of her. then; cedo maiori - i yield to a greater person.”

i believe in a thing called art

a few months ago, this quaint (or so i'd like to think) little underpass near my place became the haunt of a few dedicated midnight graffiti artists. i never saw them at work, of course, but that is the clandestine nature of their work. they worked through the early hours of the morning emptying their cans of spray paint on the tiled walls. by sunrise, the underpass would be a technicolour louvre for the common man, showcasing urban art at its finest. stylistically written words shouted out at you. abstract faces looked back at you. grand backgrounds threatened to engulf you. words written in marker pens carried slogans and cries for artistic freedom.

two days later, and the slates were wiped clean. men from the ministry of serious came with breathing masks, bottles of chemicals and buckets. they spent a whole afternoon in the underpass, wiping away the graffiti, much to my dismay. another two days later, and the grafitti reappeared. not as stylishly-created as before, but still loud enough to please the eye. they'd gone too far this time, though. neighbouring semi-detached houses were vandalised and graffiti signatures had been left on doors, windows, walls and fences. it was disappointment to see that. these artists had a case and then they threw it away.

i believe that graffiti on underpass walls, so long as it is not offensive in any way, is entirely acceptable. it serves to beautify an otherwise plain, uninteresting piece of public property. it is a form of art that has no home in museums or shops. part of its beauty lies in the fact that public property is the artist's canvass. it is the estranged younger sibling of art, related but rarely ever publicly acknowledged to be so. if only its proponents showed more restraint, it would rightfully take its place in our public domain.

music to shiver by.

jonny lives! cracking through the headphones.. i'm ready i'm ready, get steady get steady and the heavy electric guitar riff in the background is burning a cd in my head that's going to play for the next week or two. neh-neh na-neh-neh na-neh-neh na-neh-neh-nuh-nuh-neh-neh. pop-up window says that my cd has been burnt successfully.

winter got up from his armchair one night and all the world took notice. it snowed harder than it had for fifteen years that night. gently the flakes fell, and they all piled up overnight. this continued well into the next day. eventually the snow shovels went back into the store rooms and their owners retired to their warm dens and listless inactivity. january is a miserable month. it's the month-long monday of a new year. it's the month you realise that all your new year's resolutions were the product of december's excesses, and with the tools presently at your disposal, they cannot be kept. january is father time coming to collect his dues.

i'm justa curbside prophet with my hand in my pocket and i'm waitin' for my rocket to come yawl jason mraz with the trippy tongue and the background wow-wows. wukka wukka wow wow.

we all grow older at different speeds. some reach fifty well before their thirtieth birthday, and some remain twenty all their lives. some of us never grow up and some of us were born adults. some of us die young, and a lucky few live forever. in all honesty, there are few sights worse than watching a simple man's spirit break. there are few greater, as well, than watching the human spirit triumph over adversity. sad fact it is, though, that winter's cold is often conquered not with limitless spirit, but with limitless spirits.

three dog night. one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do; two can be as bad as one, it's the loneliest number since the number one skip track. a capella. thank you, georgetown phantoms, i'm sure it's a really nice university. zip zip waaaaaaah. this is what you get. this is what you get when you meeeeeeeess with us. kaaaarma pooooolice. i've given all i can, it's not enough.

that winter night kept us in our dens, breathing the warmth of freshly-lit fires. emptiness filled our house and our hearts. we sat in our plush armchairs and looked out into the endless white darkness through the frost-covered window. we waited and watched, but there was nothing to be seen. snow remained snow and the endless remained endless. we watched the flames leap and lick, crackling like a biscuit being bit on. we yawned till tears welled up in our eyes.

pete yorn talks to me now. weaving his tale with a class iv laser. now and then, i get like this. and it isn't hard to see. the old man in the kitchen. i think he's part of me. don't say nothing bout the old house, cuz i burned it to the ground. and when the darkness comes i'll lie awake, playing lost and found.

at midnight we decided to go out. bereft of ideas, we lay in the snow. we could feel ourselves sinking in and the snow closing in around us. it felt as if gaia was welcoming us into her realm. the sky seemed so far away from where we were. it was frigid. we weren't going to be outside for long with temperatures that low. there was no need to return with another four layers of clothing either. unless, of course, someone volunteered to do the rolling.

waiting for my i need a sign to let me know you're here, all of these lines are being crossed over the atmosphere; i need to know if things are going to look up because i feel us drowning in a sea spilt from a cup train.

we lay in bed later that night, thinking. snowflakes, we agreed, were just like people. each one is unique, but put us all together and we cover the earth as far as the eye can see. we each have our times, we all end up in different places. some snowflakes end up in snowmen, some end up in the halo of a snow angel; some end up caught in the treads of an eighteen-wheeler. but we all share the same fate: we fade away when our times come to an end. all snowflakes would want to go back to the skies they descended from. that's what we are.

reluctant snowflakes.

done.

finally completed my first draft of transience. i just sent it out to be edited and commented on. the sooner it comes back, the sooner yawl get to read it, so hang in there. i might not put it all up at once, though. trying to play with some ideas on the structure and form of the piece. intriguing stuff, really.


in other news:
welcome back, 6. i missed you.

excuse me, miss? where can i find love with no strings attached?

oh, about 5 miles northeast of here, as the pig flies.

crackerjacked

i'm on exercise now. not the weight-loss, get-fit kind.

the military, pain-in-the-ass kind.

i won't be hacking my way through foliage nor will i be firing on figments of my (and my division commander's) imagination. i'll be sitting in front of a computer all day looking at maps and drawing plans and updating monitoring charts and setting up things for presentations.

wow, you must be saying. that's so not impressive. i'm supposed to tell you that i'm still contributing to the defence of singapore because while i'm not fighting myself, i'm helping soldiers see the bigger picture. but that's not impressive either.

that's why i'm spending all the free moments i have during breaks and stoppages to write and read about writing. just finished up a very nice guide, the elements of style, by eb white (of charlotte's web fame) and william strunk (his college professor).

i also found some time to start on a short story (seeing as how all the computers there have word 2000 conveniently loaded in and a network that lets me save and then work from any other terminal), that will find its way onto this blog once i've finished it and tightened all the proverbial screws. it's tentatively titled transience, so that gives you an idea of what it's roughly about.

exercise ends this friday, and next week we move back to camp where more unfinished and overdue work awaits us.

papercuts are nasty, but i assure you, paperwork is worse.

apples.

i wonder if the way you eat an apple says something about you. i start out with generous bites down the middle, spinning my apple around as i go along. then i gnaw away at the top and bottom portions left behind in the same way, except i hold my apple vertically instead of horizontally. then i just nibble everywhere to finish up. i always stop before i reach the core. i never end up taking that bite where i realise that i've run out of apple. i don't love apples. but i can always rely on them when i need something to munch on. i like red apples, not green ones. those big, fat, peachy-coloured fuji apples are the best.

watermelons still rock, though.

watermelons in summer.

oh yeah.

what makes a person popular?

so far i've got four common traits that i've noticed in some combination amongst my more popular friends:

1) they 'say it as it is' (frank, honest, forward)
2) they've faced great adversity before in their personal lives
3) they're visually appealing (you know, pretty / handsome / enigmatic / charming)
4) they stick around (good times, bad times, whatever times)

what do you guys think?

what is my definition of passion?

passion is the emotion that overcomes us when civility cannot express our desires. it can be controlled and can be understood. it is neither a weakness nor a strength. passion is borne of the undiminishable desire of one to give something selflessly and receive self-satisfaction in return. passion can be of service, of pursuit, and of love/lust. despite its instinctive nature, passion makes us human. passion goes hand-in-hand with free will.

grey

in my mind, i see two small children. they have no names. they have no age. they are quiet, and speak only when spoken to. they are complete in their existence. they are fed, they are sheltered, they are clothed and they are loved. they understand the ways of this world and the ways of the other world. they understand the difference between the two and they understand why there exists a difference. they are wise and they are intelligent. they are beautiful. grey irises, gentle features, graceful figures. these children are perfect.

but how lonely they are.

for serene, for a friend

a pleasant calm descends
on moments peace transcends
wafting on a gentle breeze
forgetful. thankful. gently, please.

english (pronounced 'behd-lee')

i got into the cab outside zouk last night, gave the usual directions to my house to the driver and sat back to reflect on my night out. it wasn't long before he piped up:

"so how was it tonight?"

"alright. it's always crowded on a wednesday (wed-nes-day)"

he paused and looked at me through the rear-view mirror. it's eerie when they do that.

"why do you say wednesday like that? it's pronounced wednesday. (wens-day)"

"oh right... it is. it's a habit, i guess. i used to say 'paining' alot too, even though there's no such word. it's supposed to be 'painful' right?"

"yes, it is. the dictionary says medicine is pronounced medicine (mehd-sin) and not medicine (mehdee-sin). alot of youngsters say the wrong thing. what's your educational level?"

"uhm.. a levels?"

"oh.. what did you get for your gp (general paper)?"

"uh.. i got an a1."

"wah. don't they teach you how to pronounce words correctly?"

"not really. (humouring him) but it's a good thing they don't test pronounciation then. otherwise i don't think i would've gotten an a1."

then he looked at me through the rear-view mirror again, dead-serious.

"it's pro-nun-see-yeh-shun."


oops.

alcohol is a vile substance. i've tried it many times before, but i'll never touch it again. my opinion may be biased, but i think it makes people too human for their own good. it makes them raw, raw like the thought of eating uncooked flesh.

i'm not complaining about its uses. i think it's a great way to relax and let loose or to just make yourself forget; something; anything. i just don't subscribe to it and i have my own reasons not to.

even houdini would have smiled...

there's a measure of regret in his voice
that rises above this now vacant noise;
you need him to need you even more
but he still wants you only as much as before.

--

when you don't know where you are now, the best way to remember where you need to go next is to just stop and think about where you've already been.

the next best way is to fall in love.