paint splatters Saturday, September 11, 2004 09:53 p.m.
i am dead. i am dead. i am dead.
Perhaps if I type that many times over I really will die; just as folding a thousand paper cranes supposedly makes a wish come true. I wish I were dead; bleed and drip like a carcass gutted and open. Blowflies will descend like a fountain, feast and gorge upon the thick gruel, roaring in an ecstasy of fury.

paint splatters Wednesday, September 8, 2004 10:03 p.m.
To Mater dear:

"If I were your mother i would cry out everyday to the Lord and ask Him why..."

dear God we cry out to You in our little anguishes.
And now my tears flow in little rivulets, I ask why and I pray, dear God, sweet Jesus, for Thy grace and mercy.
Today is the nativity of the Blessed Virgin, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, we who are spotted and steeped in sin.
O God please hear Your children, our hearts are breaking in anguish and sorrow; each cry of hers rents my heart and the tears start into my ears. I swallow them down in my nakedness and vulnerability but it sticks in my throat, my lips tremble and the salt pours from my eyes. You are the light of the world, the salt of the earth. Remember Man, that dust you are, and into the dust you shall return. I'm sorry for my failings. Creator, claim me from this mortal world please dear Lord please end our misery and heal our hurts. You cannot bring my father back to life again but you can help my mother and brother.
I breathe my prayer softly, Kyrie, kyrie, Eleison.

This Road


All heavy laden acquainted with sorrow
May Christ in our marrow carry us home
From alabaster comes blessings of laughter
A fragrance of passion and joy from the truth


Grant the unbroken tears ever flowing
From hearts of contrition only for You
May sin never hold true that love never broke through
For God's mercy holds us and we are His own


This road that we travel may it be the straight and narrow
God, give us peace and grace from You, all the day
Shelter with fire, our voices we raise still higher
God, give us peace and grace from You, all the way through.
--Jars of Clay

paint splatters Tuesday, September 7, 2004 10:35 p.m.
I sit, guardian angel to an obscene lump of metal and rubber, willing it to beep and talk to me. I have work to do, miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep. But the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. In rabid distraction and distaste I abhor Sloman now, vehemently; he haunts my dreams. I dine with South East Asia on my neck and sit in the toilet with James Joyce on my lap, stealing some time to peek into Dublin, Dublin, Dublin. Misogynist, the maternal body is the source of all corruption; procreation is only destruction and Tower of Ivory suffused into the ivory of that sea-bird-girl-like creature. Jealousy is the green eyed monster, perhaps I am jealous of all you paying homage devoutedly to your papers while I hold the book open and watch the pages riffle in the hot afternoon wind. Even now night has fallen and outside is black black black; the table lamp casts a white pool of light- a halo over the pen on my desk and sheets of paper waiting to be filled. Study to show thyself approved unto God. The Boreans read diligently; I sit hunch-backed on my Ikea chair and torture the mouse cursor running away from my responsibility. Fail, fail, fail, a chorus of disapproval at my wake. We will sing songs and play tambourines at your funeral, dance pagan circles and twirl in drunken revelry.

paint splatters Tuesday, September 7, 2004 09:25 p.m.
Move over, peevish whining; being incredibly fat and possibly bordering into obesity with a tonne of revision yet undone, I have email, and an insane mind. Yippee. Who says I have an image problem?

paint splatters Monday, September 6, 2004 10:56 p.m.



Take me by the hand, kiss me, kiss my cheek.
Make the sign of the cross on my forehead and my lips;
Cross your heart and place your fingers upon my breast;
Strew white flowers and lilies on my casket, in my rest.

paint splatters Monday, September 6, 2004 08:01 p.m.
I know when I am depressed I guess; I write copiously, and it is usually nonsense.

Someone told me: There is no such thing as race.
We are all of one race, the human race.

And yet I wonder, and my heart beats in sympathy. What words can describe a mother's pain, or a sister's grief, a father's anger? When I read the news reports and look at the photographs tears prick at my eyelids; all I see is the same pain and sadness magnified a hundredfold, the pain and sadness of the human race struggling with its capacity to cruelty and capacity to love.

Cruel world, I can never understand you.
Perhaps wish even for Apocalypse and the End of Days that never came. The Messiah, second Adam; we turned him away and hung him on the tree, then wonder when Abraham's promise will be fulfilled.

Salve Regina, Mater Dei, your eyes look softly and patiently at God’s errant children, your hands clasped in prayer, robed in gold and silver. Ora pro nobis, pray for us; nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.

paint splatters Monday, September 6, 2004 02:56 p.m.


I am all alone it seems. I know there are people around me; people I know yet don't really know. You have succeeded perhaps, - now I think I hate you for denying me space, since you told me to stay out of your way. Hate would be too strong a word but dislike sounds so milk and water, far less than what it is; I am angry because I haven't done a thing and yet somehow am made to feel that it is my fault. At least now I know why I hate you for this; it is because you have made my world more insular than ever; I am even more alone than I ever was now. Who I can I blame I wonder. Myself perhaps; it is nobody's fault. And everyone is busy, in the depths pf academia and schoolwork while I sit here in distracted misery and cry my eyes out. (It's really stupid. At least I can still articulate my thoughts I suppose, if that is of any consolation.)

My existence is pestilence, on a far less grander scale of course. Disappear, I will, and nothing change. An unfortunate reality that I choose to confront now. Why?

My tears are salty and they trickle down the plane of my face, curve and slither into the corner of my mouth, jammed half open in its silent agony. Blasé corruption, my soul is damned and its sins stink to high heaven. Where can I find redeeming grace? My prayers are weak utterances and sound empty and hollow, a damning silence in the crock of my brain. O God, O God, I cry out to You in my agony but my throat is stoppered by grief and pain. How my heart hurts and breaks in its heaviness!

paint splatters Sunday, September 5, 2004 05:58 p.m.

How I wish I could stand at the window forever, the open window framing my soul. While the wind whips my shoulders and buffets in my ears, and the trees whisper and rustle, shake and move in intimacy with the wind. How it teases and bullies, trips over the little flower heads and ruffles the curling branches outside my window. Like a coy lover it comes close and titters in my ears and speeds away again; the mynahs and black bullets of bees are quiet while the children scream their joy in reckless agony on the gravelled pathways. It is near dark, prematurely, because the rain is starting to beckon, to send out its fingers of cold and dusky grey, chill yet laden with the moisture in the air, in the wind, in the evening. It is neither biting cold nor intense in its heat; a light wind that is yet oppressive while it gathers speed and jeers at me, free outside my window. I dare not climb over, put my feet on the sill; I stand mutely in the window while the wind savage now mocks and rapes me in its ecstasy.

paint splatters Thursday, September 2, 2004 10:03 p.m.
I feel as if I am crawling slowly to my death. I am eaten up by fear and morose-ness and the heavy unhappiness of mediocrity confounds me. And now what do I turn to for solace? I hide only in my wounded pride perhaps. Cast your pride away for pride is the source of sin and all evil; charity and humility in all your days. But still I crawl slowly, tired and now worn out, into an infinity of nothingness and abysmal silence. Sometimes I get so tired I cry out - whether in fear or pain or grief I do not know. I cannot heap my troubles all on you and say I hate you. It is spat out like an expletive but I know I cannot say I hate you it is self-defeating and gets me nowhere.
Sometimes I wish I were a child again, unschooled in propriety, an adrogynous entity, wild and savage and free. Then you will take my hand and chastise me but at least you would have touched me even if only to hurt me.
Come claim me somehow, do not leave me hanging here, only a full-stop away from death.


Résumé
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

--Dorothy Parker

paint splatters Saturday, August 28, 2004 09:57 p.m.
I should be studying now. But I hate studying. It's boring, and I don't remember anything. I hate studying. I wish the A levels were over. I need to find my soul again. It has flown away somehow and I can't find it.

paint splatters Monday, August 9, 2004 09:48 a.m.

Happy Birthday Singapore.

This year I don't sit at the coffeeshop eating roti prata and sipping kopi - that has been torn down to make way for new buildings; the oily corner of a line of shophouses with the smiling Indian lady and sweaty prawn-noodle uncle is now a nest of rubble. When I walk outside to the main road and look up I see the red and white flying in the wind, a single flag standing sentinel in the recesses of Mindef. Three years ago I had sat, alone with my father, that a rare occasion itself, eating breakfast with him and staring at the flag. The year after I spent it in hospital at his bedside; the next year it was my sister and my mother who were eating roti prata and sipping kopi with me. Things have changed, but the flag still stands tall in the grey morning, tiny against the vastness of the sky.

This year I break hardened bread alone at home, reading the papers awash with expressions of hope, wishes and praises for my country.

A month ago I wore her name on my sleeve and flew to Germany, and now I reflect how strange it is that you need to leave home before patriotic fervour is carried on your lips. Among the giants we stand tall and wave our flags, shouting and screaming with joy, perhaps crying even, that we can bear gifts home. Outside in the cold nip of the evening air we had held the flag and sang Majulah Singapura, paying homage to the nebulous concept of pride of homeland and country.

Back home however I feel trapped again, and struggle to break free somehow. Yet I am tied, not a peasant to his land, but a fledgling to his nest. Where go I from here I wonder. I want to travel the earth and see the world, but will be unlikely to cherish the thought of being a pilgrim wanderer. I want to leave the apronstrings of motherland, yet how far can I go?

Eighteen years of growing up have taught me certain things. The rosy hues of Sunday Morning Singapore, of waking early to sing the national anthem along with the television, of jumping up and down the living room watching the parade and cheering President Wee Kim Wee - those days are over now, and from my yellow-checked kindergarten smock and childish bangs one is forced painfully to grow up into white blouses and starched pinafores, to learn that success is everything and at any cost. My mother used to reproach us for reading and not studying; she threw my drawings away and wondered why I didn't go over my schoolwork more. She was proud I was independent- "I never had to touch her bag, even in primary school" - but caned me for crying over math I could not do. To this day math still strikes a terror in my heart – it is a reminder of those days by the chocolate brown dining table sitting by my mother with a box of "challenging problem sums" flash cards and cloudy incomprehension, her disappointment and my stupidity.

The paper chase, to survive in my country. I remember the stacks of paper torn up and crushed into wastepaper bins, my pencil scrawlings and doodlings. I used to tell stories to myself and illustrate them in rows and columns on a sheet of blank paper; stories about family and displacement, of happy children and smiling parents in a perfect world poised between play and learning. And I remember that last day in hospital when I was six going on seven, and my mother was clearing the bedside of the stack of drawings. The other mothers in the room had exclaimed in horror and taken them from her hands, promising to keep my childish scribblings – "who knows... one day you will be a famous artist, and we will have your work in our hands". Pish, twelve years later I am seventeen going on eighteen, still holding on to the last vestiges of that dream, and none the wiser.

I struggle still, a quiet rebel but only in my head, silence. Oh yes, conform to society; it's the best chance of survival you’ve got.

The first lie I remember was told was to the hospital nurse. While blood had flowered from my hand onto the hospital sheets I told her the IV drip had fallen out. That was a deliberate lie – I had undid the tape and the lint board in a frenzy to release my imprisoned hand, my right hand I use to hold my pencil, where my frustrations flow from. I had torn the needle out and savoured my liberation, flecked with blood. (If I dig out the Rapunzel Lady Bird book maybe the blood, dried by now of course, would still be visible on the cover)

I haven't progressed much perhaps. I keep my mouth firmly taped shut, best as I can. Whither go ye now? I don't know really, the post-its on my wall seem hollow with my dreams, almost impossible and yet perhaps what I most desire – to fly away in a little window of time.

Come back. When I look out of the window at night I see planes flying by, little twinkling lights skimming across the sky. The wheels of the plane always hit the ground with a jolt, grinding rubber along tar and concrete. Come back, to your homeland and country. Amid the heartland, where is your heart?

And yet she will always stay the same. This is where friends and family are, after all. -to be continued, hopefully-

paint splatters Thursday, August 5, 2004 10:35 p.m.

Art and Lies

It's like a dull pain that will not go away, a quiet sort of agony. When I see it, form and colour suspended, frozen and captured in books and pictures; it tugs me towards it. My heart bleeds, red with yearning, to feel the wooden brush nestled in my hand again, to smooth out the bumpy surfaces of drawing paper and heavy canvas cloth, to smell the sweetish odour of wet acrylic oozing colours onto an empty palette. Colour my world.
My soul leans towards it, clutches at the wisps of art and love, intangible but pulling me towards it. I cannot go down that path. What is three, four years of indescribable and intense joy in art and colour measured against a lifetime of material poverty and insecurity? Of reproaches and refusals, denials and then silences? Oh God what vanity it is! But yet I see it everyday. It borders my vision, tints my eyes, paints my tongue and dyes my tears. It is beautiful, a world of paradise, whether green and blue in the natural world or browns and rosewoods flowing from the brush, a most exquisite beauty.

All art is a lie.

The colour red speaks to me, it cannot tell untruths. I feel the flames, orange and yellow, a cascade of Vermillion that punctuates my senses. To reach out, to admire, but only on the surface. I cannot enter within, or immerse myself in the sea of oils and paper pulp. My fingers itch and I claw desperately but go no further forward.

To see the world in a grain of sand. Do you see it? Don't you see it? It calls out, growing fainter by the day, an Ariel trapped in the cloven pine but never doing Prospero's bidding. Do not fall away from me, precious. You are part of my life, inseparable as my flesh and blood are but one in this body. But still I turn away, try to shut my eyes to your calls, close my ears to your taunts as Michelangelo and Botticelli mock me and Picasso tumbles down Salvador Dali. I feel myself disintegrating into a Jackson Pollock, only to regroup again, a Piet Mondrian, stiff and square in ordered lines and a heavy flatness. A breath of air. Why do I see you everywhere? Go away, do not compound my misery; hold no golden apples out of arm's reach, before a dying man.

paint splatters Friday, July 30, 2004 09:58 p.m.
I don't remember anything except in highly jumbled up chunks which isn't good and everyone is getting stressed and behaving oddly. having to think about uni and scholarships and oogling at what seems to be so beautiful - be it campuses or courses and mugging for exams do not mix.

paint splatters Monday, July 26, 2004 11:05 p.m.
I wonder if choir-withdrawal-syndrome is universal to all choristers who leave choir. Even if it is in the hope that this is only temporary. It's odd, but in some way it's like amputating a limb and putting it in the freeze for a while, or getting a cut and then putting a band-aid over the wound. To use tired cliches - i AM tired now, despite my lack of productivity with regards to revision - when we meet again it's nice but yet the sore-ness still stays, sort of like rubbing your fingers over the band-aid.

On a separate note. I should stop using this page to talk nonsense.

paint splatters Wednesday, July 21, 2004 09:20 p.m.
Engulf me in this hole Black abyss of Nothing Only with fears for company Where I feel the hotness pricking my eyelids always Perhaps it is dis-stress or fear or sadness or simply feeling like Nothingness. Nothing. Axed. Not. X. Blotted out, a dark stain. Or like invisible ink children fling at one another, laughing. It fades away slowly, never returns perhaps. But you know it was there, even only for a split second or one brief moment. Or because you watched it fade away, a damp and wet patch drying slowly in the humidity and heat.
Don't mean to whine or gripe or be overly nostalgic, but the emptiness I feel now (coupled with stress and the impossibilty of catching up) has to be one of the worst bouts of "post-production-blues" (post-olympics) ever. In the past, after a theatre production there was always another one to look forward to. But who knows when I'll actually sing in a choir again really. Noone can tell, but somehow one should pick up and move on, not halt and ponder and look back, reminiscing on past glories.

paint splatters Sunday, July 18, 2004 11:12 p.m.
I don't like the flat feeling of Sunday evenings, but I guess it's something I have to live with somehow.I don't understand why I'm always such a wreck on Sundays, but it's still terrible all the same. You feel your heart in your throat, like you're going to throw up or something and just plain dumb blind fear.

Who knows what demons I battle with; what insecurities engulf me. It hurts so much my head and my heart are in such agony. What tears can I cry, O Lord? Please God, have mercy, please, just let me live through this night, to last through the week.

In less than a week's time I bid goodbye, officially, to what has come to be family- not just friends, but people who have, for a moment, at least, i'd like to believe, have shared some sort of magic that people call music. I don't wish to call it denial, though I do admit Bremen and the Olympics do have some part to play in the sadness - a dull, grey sort of pain and loss that's probably just plain irrational - there now, the tears have started to fall again... I wonder why we are such sentimental and emotional beings who find it so hard to let go, who, when well aware of imminent partings and inevitable goodbyes, grow stubborn and cling on tightly (Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks as Plath so eerie-ly put it) though we know we have to leave and let go.

Grief: it is all around - something perhaps I may well be more sensitive to now since I engage in it more times than I would care to remember.

O God, when I desire some comfort, why do I always forsake You?

paint splatters Saturday, July 17, 2004 10:58 a.m.
It's quite hard settling down after the rosiness and joy and the week-and-more break in Europe. Right now I am seized by what can only be called fear - of not being able to catch up, of being unable to complete my math tutorials (math has always been a stumbling block), of being unable to settle down properly. There is no time. Everyday and everywhere there are voices telling me there is no time.

paint splatters Saturday, July 17, 2004 12:17 a.m.

Auf wiedersehen Bremen.

we bid goodbye to Germany after a harrowing 11 hour flight on Lufthansa 778, where midway I toyed with the thought of death and dying amid a plane crash in my mind's eye, while the plane had rocked and shuddered and shaked in the storm while outside the sun had glared and flared uncompromisingly. Kirk had laughed at me - it's only turbulence, not to worry - but all the time I had kept my eyes on his bottle of water on his tray, where it was tossed around in the container.

I'm back now, back from the quiet and slow pace in Germany, back to the harsh realities of school and lessons and arguments and catfights at home.

It's okay. It'll work out somehow, I hope. But meanwhile I'm glad for Germany, for the J2s who went along with the journey, especially for Jiawen and Clement from alumni for the shared experience.

Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts...

paint splatters Saturday, July 17, 2004 12:03 a.m.

Bremen, Germany(Part I)

In a foreign land, everything cries out its unfamiliarity to you. The strange guttural hoarse and nasal speech is bewildering, the road signs read differently; the soil you tread on is not universal. We may live on one earth and be of one race, but I know, you, with your Aryan eye and golden crown, are still vastly different from my almond eyes and straight black hair. You throw us sideway glances and smile, tentatively or broadly, and nod in friendly welcome; you are an ambassador of your country, your state, your neighbourhood. The first few hours I tread upon German soil however, a group of boys cross over from the opposite side of the street, cheeks pink with exhilaration, blowing raspberries and mocking at our Asian-ness. You remind yourself then, that this is the country that somehow submitted to Hitler, who was the enemy yet again in two devastating wars. These are romantic notions, unfair assessments of a country and its inhabitants perhaps, but at first everything is foreign and unfamiliar - we share no language to bridge any gaps, and the first phrase I learnt was "Ich verstehe nicht Deutsche, sprechen sie Englisch?" It's puzzling, because you always thought that English was lingua franca of Europe; highly unsettling too at the thought of being lost or losing belongings, forgetting things as we seemed to keep doing during the first few days we were there.

From our street we squeeze onto the bus while the passengers stare mildly at us, surprisingly patient as we stumble in broken German, asking for directions. We ride the bus to Bremen-Vegesack, and then the train through kulturbahnhof to the Hauptbahnhauf, encountering Obslehausen and Saint-Magnus (pronounced zaynt margnoos, to our delight) as nachster-halt is announced in a deep German boom. Pronouncing these names is like coughing, unnatural and strange. In the train I do nothing but look out of the windows, wondering at the shrubs, greener than at home, and at the wood and metal of the railway tracks, the graffiti found colouring every wall, be it brick or corrugated metal, amid the flowers and trees, and the field of cows. The first time we saw the cows grazing in the fields, dotting the land, we had oohed and aahed, being the camera-wielding tourists we were. In our excitement we forget ourselves and talk louder than usual, only to be shushed and silenced with stern warnings and black looks. Everyone is quiet on the train and I wonder if you resent our temporary invasion of your homeland, bringing with us our ignorance and Chinese-ness and Asian-ness, talking and murmuring, breaking your silence. Maybe your country is beautiful but I cannot appreciate it, because I cannot speak your tongue and the weather is too cold to embrace. My fingers freeze and the skin tightens on my face, pain cracking my lips.

At the Hauptbahnhof it is easy to be swamped by confusion, and the first few days I still tread water warily, unfamiliar and directionless, looking out only the illuminated signs that proclaim Stadthalle with the arrow pointing forward, eyes and ears and mouth and nose open, taking in what I see, what I hear and what I smell. There are people everywhere: this is the central train station after all, and the first time we wind through the crowd I catch whiffs of hostility and unwelcome-ness, despite the large Herzlich Wilkommen plastered over shop fronts in bright lights. Our foreign-ness stands out; black among the browns and blondes, and until we get our tag saying we're PARTICIPANT of the 3rd Choir Olympics held here in Bremen, we're alien invaders, foreign travelers who line up in communist lines and exhibit herd behaviour. You might assert your individuality in one voice, but we, as a group, are still unique in your land.

At the Stadthalle and Olympic centre we gradually appreciate that we're here for the Olympics - people from all over the world have gathered here, brown or black skinned, redhead or blonde, curly-haired, straight haired, cleft chinned or oval faced. We smile timidly, and then emboldened as the days wear on, call out 'hello' and wave at everyone, from the little Korean children to the South African students from the University of Pretoria, who recognize us as Chinese and slap high-fives and say 'ni hao' to us; and we laugh and say hello... we're from Singapore (and proud of it).

On the evening of the opening parade we walk through the cobbled streets from Hauptbahnhof to the Markplatz, and I remember how the first glimpse of the Cathedral sent my heart soaring. How beautiful it is, how beautiful – the clock tower rising into the clear evening, muddy brown brick, the sculptures gracing the walls, the bronze horseman now turned a bright green on his pedestal overlooking the sculptures of die bremer stadtmusikanten and the statue of Roland with her shield and the crest of Bremen, the silver key of freedom, the expressionless face boasting of the "free Hanseatic city of Bremen". The Singapore flag flutters in the German wind, and all around us people in their national dress break out in song. Some sing their national anthem, their hands over their hearts; we opt for the lighter jazz of Burung Kakaktua. Perhaps we mutilated the song a little, but waving our little flags and swaying from side to side, it doesn't really matter. The spirit, in music and in song, burns like an ardent fire.

We practice everyday, most times out in the cold where the wind whips around us mercilessly, we who are unused to such weather. Being outdoors is strange because it seems as if air-conditioners are perpetually at work, freezing our fingers and noses. Discounting all the cigarette smoke, the air is clean and pure and cold; each time we cross the street and begin the walk to the Olympic center I look up and see the clouds, the blue turning into grey sky, feel the wind run its fingers through my hair and scurry around my legs. It is cold, but each time we sing there are always people watching, clapping and cheering us on, or standing around surreptitiously filming us on camcorders and taking photographs. Performers are all exhibitionists, in my opinion, and we do enjoy such little attentions, because it means our singing has some worth in it. Likewise we do the same, listening and watching other choirs as they practise their steps and express their joy and love for humanity through music, whether loud and raw with strumming guitars or through light and angelic soprano-alto voices. Through this we share an experience which cannot be articulated, an exchange that can only take place in that kind of setting. We sing a love song in Spanish, and a Spanish choir comes up to us to give us encouragement; their conductor painstakingly spends minutes teaching us pronunciation and enunciation of those words we've been struggling with and disputing over since what seems to be the beginning of time. We smile and snap photographs, and this continues throughout the days we are there. I remember distinctly how after the disastrous folklore a capella finals an Armenian boy had gestured to me and waved his camera; without the spoken word we had understood each other, posed together and snapped a picture. I wonder what happened after that then, how his choir had done - what contact we have with each other from the other countries is fleeting and only temporary, stopping at the exchange of gifts and souvenirs. At the train station we had chanced upon a group of girls - a friend passed them a booklet from our previous concert and they dug into their bags, till one finally fished out a ring carved with musical notes, and parted with it quite willingly, in friendship. We had to run then; all the countless times of wasted opportunities and prematurely ended conversations could perhaps be attributed to the strict timetable the buses and trains adhered to. A sad waste unfortunately, but you hope always for another opportunity to come by, to smile and say hello again.

The Germans seem terribly quiet people. Even on the trains they are silent, watching, quiet. The neighbourhood echoes with the silence, broken only by bicycle chain rattles the occasional barking of the dogs. On Sunday the bells rang for morning Mass, and they pealed across the wide footpaths and traveled with the wind flurries across the icy air. I opened the window of my room then, and the word "Beautiful" resounded in my ears. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful are the bells ringing for mass on Sonntag, here in Blumenthal.

It rains everyday, it seems, and the weather is always cold, freeze and wind biting and nipping our fingers and nose. We took a walk last evening in the rain, balancing umbrellas amid the tip tap pitter patter of the rain, treading on cobbled footpaths that melt into bicycle paths and suddenly into roads. We almost get knocked down by cars numerous times, because we forget which way we should look out for them. We even joke that when we get back home we shall die on the road, unused as we are to the left-hand drive. Drivers smile and wave us on however, looking at our black hair flapping in the wind as we huddle in our jackets and cardigans.

At half past eleven it is finally dark and eventide. When we went to bed last night the sky was still light, and at five in the morning it was already bright, the grey fingers of morning peeking through the lace day curtains. It is a little disorienting, admittedly, simply because we are unused to such long days and short nights. Soon we shall return home however, where the sun rises much later and sets earlier, but meanwhile it is still light; the sun shines through the rain droplets and cold air, the leaves on the tree outside my window tremble in the wind.

paint splatters Tuesday, July 6, 2004 09:59 a.m.
Packingisadisasterwhenyouhavenoideahowtofiteverythinginandstillmakesureitallcomesbackwithoutburstingthesidesofthebag.

paint splatters Monday, July 5, 2004 09:32 p.m.

Excitement
Bubbly like a fizzy soda
But yet,
mixed with a cold dread
Of little niggling fears
And insecurities
Basically something you
Cannot articulate.

Just like...
Music.
which is, I've been told:
An abstract
A spark that comes
Like the snap of one's fingers

For that tingling sensation

Perfect and beautiful.

paint splatters Saturday, June 26, 2004 12:06 p.m.

Carol's uncle, Uncle John, died yesterday. I had gone to the sanctuary in the evening, not knowing she was just nearby, in the chapel.
------------------

Death is a horror that is always at first denied. It only comes back to haunt you months after, or perhaps even years later. It's only now that you think of the white coffin sliding cruelly into the cremating oven with such uncalled for jerks, sliding away into the fire and you'll never see him again, ever. Not in flesh and blood but only in absences, fading photographs and yellowing clothes. You remember of course, and life goes on; you accept it but cannot ever forget.

How can you forget? It's empty silences and absence of presence; a disappearance no one, but you, understands. Gone, like a puff of smoke, saying goodbye without ever really doing it. If only another hour or day could be spent with the loved one, how much more you'd treasure it! Now there's only the flowers you remember, the wood coffin and a dying Jesus upon the Cross, the velvet banner with "I am the resurrection and the Life...", the plastic chairs and piles of empty peanut shells. What tears were shed then! Tears of anger, sorrow and remorse, tears of unspoken love and a burning shame and fear.

"You must be strong for your mother's sake" But because of that I have never grieved. Robbed of a father and robbed of grief. Did you not know? I locked it up carefully away and avoided all feeling, kneeling dead and numb in the quiet of the church refusing to feel or cry. Not that my heart was made of stone - I died the day he went to hospital, his whole family gathered around the bed, as if sending the corpse into his grave. I had wept then, pressing my back against the coldness of the hospital wall, ashamedly (do you wish him to die? Pull yourself together!'). No one saw me weep, though the tears had leaked through my fingers and pattered onto the ground.

When my sister woke and we were in the kitchen I had broken the news to her, voice steady, but my hands were trembling and the water jug shook. Remember Man, dust indeed you are, and it is to dust you shall return. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Now we wipe away the dust with wet rags and stick flowers into metal holders, staring at the little gold-rimmed oval in solemn formality, while voices bounce off the whitewashed walls and heels and umbrella points tap on the concrete floor.

Can we go now? Tugs on her sleeve, ignored. More urgently now, can we go please? Do you ever understand... the dead never leave us, us who are born with an 'intuition of mortality'.

paint splatters Friday, June 25, 2004 04:23 p.m.

This is what happens when you cross Vietnam nationalism, boredom, a mouse and the internet... Haha I have no idea who visits this page anymore but well I found these funny...

According to Kids
(The jewels found below are said to be written by actual students and are genuine, authentic, and unretouched... Compiled by Richard Lederer. They appear in the 12/31/95 issue of National Review.)

"In the first book of the Bible, Guinessis, God got tired of creating the world, so he took the Sabbath off.

Noah's wife was called Joan of Ark. Noah built an ark, which the animals came on to in pears.

Adam and Eve were created from an apple tree.

Lot's wife was a pillar of salt by day, but a ball of fire by night."

The greatest miracle in the Bible is when Joshua told his son to stand still and he obeyed him.

David was a Hebrew king skilled at playing the liar. He fought with the Finklesteins, a race of people who lived in Biblical times.

Samson was a strongman who let himself be led astray by a Jezebel like Delilah.

"Samson slayed the Philistines with the axe of the Apostles."

"Moses led the Hebrews to the Red Sea, where they made unleavened bread, which is bread without any ingredients. "

"The Egyptians were all drowned in the dessert. Afterwards, Moses went up on Mount Cyanide to get the ten ammendments."

Moses died before he ever reached Canada. Then Joshua led the Hebrews in the battle of Geritol.

"The first commandment was when Eve told Adam to eat the apple. The fifth commandment is to humor thy father and mother. The seventh commandment is thou shalt not admit adultery."

"Solomon, one of David's sons, had 300 wives and 700 porcupines."

"When Mary heard that she was the mother of Jesus, she sang the Magna Carta."

When the three wise guys from the east side arrived, they found Jesus in the manager.

"Jesus enunciated the Golden Rule, which says to do one to others before they do one to you. He also explained, 'a man doth not live by sweat alone.'"

"The people who followed the Lord were called the 12 decibels."

"The epistles were the wives of the apostles."

"One of the opossums was St. Matthew who was also a taximan."

"St. Paul cavorted to Christianity. He preached holy acrimony, which is another name for marriage."

"A Christian should have only one spouse. This is called monotony."

paint splatters Saturday, June 19, 2004 09:50 a.m.
It is Fathers Day tomorrow, being the third Sunday of June. Fresh flowers this visit perhaps; every other time it has always been plastic flowers, always either cream or white, pale chrysenthemums or furry pseudo-rushlike stalks. This year perhaps I can get him blood red roses, petals soft and cool and smooth. Rosebuds just peeking and slowly unfurling.

paint splatters Friday, June 11, 2004 08:55 a.m.

How Beautiful - Twila Paris

How beautiful the hands that served
The wine and the bread and the sons of the earth
How beautiful the feet that walked
The long dusty road and the hill to the cross
How beautiful, how beautiful, how beautiful is the body of Christ

How beautiful the heart that bled

That took all of my sin ande bore it instead
How beautiful the tender eyes
That choose to forgive and never despise
How beautiful, how beautiful, how beautiful is the body of Christ

And as He laid down His life we offer this sacrifice
That we will live just as He died, willing to pay the price
Willing to pay the price

How beautiful the radiant bride
Who waits for her Groom with His light in her eyes
How beautiful when humble hearts give
The fruit of pure love so that others may live
How beautiful, how beautiful, how beautiful is the body of Christ

How beautiful the feet that bring
The sound of good news and the love of the King
How beautiful the hands that serve
The wine and the bread and the sons of the earth
How beautiful, how beautiful, how beautiful is the body of Christ


Hearing this song in clear Soprano with vocal and organ accompaniment last evening in St Ignatius, somehow it was touching in a strange sort of way. Three or four hundred people gathered in the pews of the church hall where soft glows lit up the wooden Cross and the statue of Our Lady, Adrian clad in a red hawaiian shirt waving his baton. Bit surreal, come to think of it.

paint splatters Thursday, June 10, 2004 08:52 a.m.
We used to tease Dad about his vanity, marveling at how many ties he could hang up on hooks, or how many belts could snake and gleam in shiny coils in the murky darkness of his wardrobe. The few times we went shopping he would usually return home with two or three shirts, long sleeves neatly folded, collars held stiff by plastic fishbone affairs, slipping and sliding in their plastic wrappings with foreign brand names we could not pronounce. And I remember how I would iron those shirts, folding the pleats and smoothing out the creases on the cuffs tenderly, the hot iron skating across the board as faint wafts of heat and the scent of detergent and fabric softener mingled with the air and floated away like a soft breeze...

Perhaps what I remember best, now that he is only but memory, an absent soul we try not to talk about, would be the smell of Dad. Papa, as we called him. I cannot describe how his eau de toilette smelt like, only that it lingered in the room and our nostrils. I remember how during the holidays I would sit in his bedroom and watch him get ready to go to work, clad in his long sleeved shirt and black trousers, chin lifted up at the mirror as he straightened his tie, sprinkling little dashes of cologne. We used to wrinkle up our noses and complain about its smell, but looking back now, we never really minded, because that was what defined the ghost of his presence, even after he had left for work. I would stand at the gate and wave goodbye to him – I never kissed him after the age of six – listening for the short staccato of his car unlocking and the wheels driving away, three storeys below in the carpark.

What's left now are the glass bottles of his cologne.

Sometimes I lift them up to my nose to sniff them, if only to remember how he was like, if only because for the simple reason that I miss him.

paint splatters Sunday, May 2, 2004 11:03 p.m.


Woman Dying
Things aren’t that simple always.
I highly doubt the plausibility
of the idea. I will not die
tonight, simply because I

haven’t the courage to.
And then tomorrow it will begin again.
I will awaken and be unhappy
that I have once again

lived through the night.
It’s just a never-ending
cycle that gets worse
on a Sunday evening.

paint splatters Tuesday, April 13, 2004 09:54 p.m.
Don't read. It's a Really Bad account (it's not even proper writing...)

It was Palm Sunday, and we queued outside Father’s house to get our palm frond from the cardboard box, held them up as Father Lawrence blessed them solemnly, and sang Hosanna, walking in the light drizzle waving our palm fronds into the quietness of the church.

The children of Jerusalem, welcomed Christ our Lord… They carried olive branches, singing praises to our God… Hosanna in the highest...

During the psalm her voice was projected thinly over the speakers from the lectern, sad and sorrowful. Voices broke, straining at the last high notes of our response, and the church echoed with silence, punctuated only by the tap-tap of her heels as she strode in front of the altar to bow deeply in front of the Cross, the fans whirring noisily above the wooden pews. From my pew the words still resounded, My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? I thought about father then, his eyes closed and lips pressed together primly in the hardness of death.

We uttered silent prayers; the church moved and heaved with feeling as Lord, hear our prayer was read out loudly from missals. When the sign of peace was offered the tension broke as kisses were exchanged and handshakes and hugs freely dispensed, only to be gathered up again in solemnity as the bread was blessed and broken and the pews creaked as people bent forward and prayed for mercy.

Lord, I am not worthy...I always wondered where father had gone. Whether death was really just absence or simply the passing away of the mortal body and the beginning of the soul’s journey. Had he gone to heaven or hell or even purgatory? It was a terrifying thought sometimes, but most times we avoided it, and even joked lightly about him losing his way up to the gates of St Peter, his mind, addled as it was, with his illness.
```````

On Holy Thursday the church was awash with activity as busloads of people arrived to attend the Mass of the Lord’s Supper and visit the Stations of the Cross, wielding candles that dripped wax into cardboard holders as the night insects flitted and flew into the flames. Thus amid immolation and rivers of sweat hundreds journeyed, pressed back to shoulder, on the dolorous road from praetorium to tomb, feeding their spirits badly in need of comfort and love. I had followed the procession as they sang O Salutaris, Father Lawrence walking under the canopy of heavy silk, his chasuble draped protectively over the Blessed Sacrament. The congregation had risen and followed patiently, crowding into the middle aisles while Father Lawrence descended down the steps reverently, the church wardens sweating in their long sleeved shirts and ties as they held up the canopy. When we reached the chapel Tantum Ergo Sacramentum rang out, and the altar boy with the censor incensed the altar surrounded by flowers and blooms. It was a squeeze as people shouldered their way inwards, and knelt bare-kneed upon the floor. As songs of benediction were sung and the agony in Gethsemane retold tears flowed in sympathy and sorrow, faces blank and squashy from tears. Someone patted my shoulder, asking for reassurance, but we were both engulfed in our own sadness and clutched only at each other in our incomprehension. Busloads of people continued to arrive and loudhailers blared as little children scrambled around peddling glow-in-the-dark light-sticks and tickets for the coming feastday celebrations. We had sat mutely at the side, her arm around my shoulder in a comforting gesture, her breast warm and full upon my arm. I had only thought of father and loneliness, and the tears could not stop. Crowds milled about in myopic confusion, but she was still there, groping in the dark for some understanding.
````````

There was no hymn sung as the altar boys dressed in red and white lace entered the sanctuary on Good Friday, followed by the priests in their vestments, blood red and flapping slightly in the draught from the fans. The crucifix on the wall was shrouded in purple; from my place at the left arm of the cross-shaped sanctuary I could see the bump made by His head under the cloth. In utter silence the men and altar boys had entered, and as they reached the altar all prostrated and fell on their faces. Immediately there was a hush as the few hundred pairs of knees knelt at the pews, and once again the whirring of the fans was heard in the dreadful silence, the silence of contemplation and confused meditation. Somehow it was the reminder of a funeral, where we had knelt as the body in its coffin was heaved onto the wooden slats in the middle of the little chapel. But whose funeral was this? God perhaps, a God now dead to his people, some of whom struggle and fail always to achieve some form of perfection.



A sad and poor attempt at writing. Obviously when one has a headache it is advisable not to write.

paint splatters Monday, March 29, 2004 09:30 p.m.


To Mother, whom I love too dearly

I fell asleep to your anguished cries of loss and pain, threatening suicide and any relief you thought temporary to alleviate what sorrow you were experiencing.

Turned woke and waited in the milky darkness of the room till my eyes adjusted to the little pinpricks of light coming from across the apartment, pinpricks like little SOS messages telling me who was not asleep yet though the moon had already begun to crawl across half the night-sky.

Thought then of Father in his satin lined white varnished coffin eyes closed serenely never to open again, and wondered why he had to be the lucky one to go first when we were impatient and falling over ourselves to leave this world. For a fleeting moment I wondered about the what-might-have-been; what if it had been I lying asleep there under the Cross where my Lord hung bleeding and dying, painted streaks of blood flowing in an unending river from the cast down face that yet managed to look so calm and forgiving. I had got up then and walked to the bathroom in the darkness, feeling my way there and turning the taps on blindly to flush away all corruption that had gathered and left a bitter taste in the mouth.

When I woke up it was to your pain, burnished now through a whole night of sleepless worry tossing and turning and hearing the ticks of the little clocks lying ticking awake and awake and yet awake, never letting you forget that time was passing and you were ageing second by minute by week by month by year. Then the young prince awoke and it was argue argue mouth to head to eye to nose but never to ear, where he said one thing while you yelled another, when he screamed you screamed even louder and shrieked even higher. I sat silent and frowning, afraid of what the neighbours would hear or think or perhaps say. The son, they might say, he breaks his mother's heart.

In stony silence we had clambered into the car and you were still mad with rage and pain and hurt.

You had driven dangerously and I had sat there quietly with my heart in my mouth but inwardly hating you for all the fear and pain you were raining on me, and had a wicked thought. If only you knew how near you would drive me to madness! Then I would march up to you, kiss you and love you, but only for a moment. Because in the next instant I will be on the lift to the highest floor and then would come sailing down not grinning or crying but perhaps screaming my guts out, the ride of the lifetime. But that would be cruel and selfish and I swallowed it.

At the bus stop I had shook myself and decided it would not ruin the whole day, to shrug it off and declare today a happy day.

Then suddenly at seven in the evening I find myself leaning on the toilet sink facing the black and orange tiled wall crying. And I realise, what a day it has been.

paint splatters Friday, March 26, 2004 10:29 p.m.


I heard the birdman's whistle
In the coolness of after-rain
Tree branches swaying to a gentle rhythm
Of whispered faraway chirrups.
Imagined the pulsating pursed lips
Quivering and trembling with each trill and whistle
A line of breath turned into a pure clean note
Cutting deftly into the clear air.


Phoo-ee, phoo-ee, phooee.
The birds answer cautiously,
But it is nearing evening and soon
They grow silent, melting
Into the flat grey fog of mist and night.

paint splatters Wednesday, March 24, 2004 09:32 p.m.

Being afraid

On the bus I had gazed at the thick bull-neck, the line of grime and dirt in the fold of the skin layered with fat and flesh. Straggly stretch marks creep diagonally behind the shoulders and under the armpits, and flesh is lumped and heaped over in an unflattering U, layer upon layer, a slab of meat tossed and hung, pulsing still. Shapeless feet are pushed into ladies slippers, toenails painted garishly maroon, chipped in places, appendages red and hot-blooded from being squashed into pointy shoes. The face was a thing to behold. Male or female? Powdered white and painted Barbie-doll pink from cheek to eyebrow; a face pitted with age and scars and unhappy lines, proud eyes that challenged and were not afraid. I caught sight of the right earlobe, on which dangled two metal dream-catcher earrings, a loop of tarnished metal framing a jangling mass of tingly-jingles; a cursory glance upward saw a chip in the flesh, a wedge driven out from the ear, a missing jigsaw piece that sent shivers scuttling and a cold feeling about the heart. I kept silent then, shuffled my feet and coughed politely.

Raindrops had begun to fall, fat, heavy, plop plop plop; thunderclaps and vast groaning booms creaked across the purple blue-black sky. By the dim orange pool of light from the streetlamps it was white and grey and furry, a dead mouse-creature lying stinking in a huddled heap of wet and fallen leaves, slippery from the rain, nose buried and four little feet hidden under the grey lump. Crossing hurriedly clutching bag to side and straightening the umbrella a huge monstrous black shape leaps forward roaring, square and oblong on the muted concrete pavement. I duck instinctively, cowed and shied away, only to realise it was but the shadow of a bus preceding its speeding path, noise and motors in its wake.

paint splatters Friday, March 19, 2004 12:23 a.m.

Whatever You Say Say Nothing

Crystal, Jireh. Je'taime! That's as much pig French as I know. And the spelling is probably wrong. But thanks so much for keeping me company, on the day that was long awaited. And sitting through Mixed Blessings, which was rather nice, on hindsight. The scripted parts were anyway. And it was great to see Natalie again. She's just amazing, 'Nuff said.

paint splatters Tuesday, March 16, 2004 11:21 p.m.


Saying Goodbye to RuiMin's Flowers

I said goodbye to the yellow chrysanthemums as was customary, a week after they had appeared, given with a smile and a quick hug; bright and yellow, petals cool on my cheek, soft yet firm with the fullness and lushness of life bursting and exploding with wild yellows and tepid green.

A week later now, the fragrance still remains. It smells more like the cups of pale greeny-yellow tea we down at a sitting, refilling the squat and pot-bellied teapot with the streaming spout. I wonder whether it'll taste like the tea or be bitter as rose petals if I eat it. A furry mould has grown up the stem and crawled along the ragged leaves, stalks and flowers imprisoned in their plastic bonnet. Chrysanthemums are sickly sweet when rotting; the smell creeps up the nostrils and clings limpid like to the system. A few petals have fallen, little by little, in quiet solemnity. I reach in and pluck at the petals, yellow and boat-shaped frillies that are now soft and will soon turn to mush. Wilted flowers - a testimony that nature's beauty cannot last forever perhaps. It leads one to wistful thoughts and wonderment.

Tuck and frill, the blooms that each stalk puts out so cautiously my fingers ravish, almost hungrily, to pluck, pull, rip and squeeze, till all that is left are the stubborn little-lings clinging tightly to the near-bald head. Their plastic prison is a cascade of yellow petals. I ball them in my fist, crush them, sniff them, drinking in the deep vapours of yellow chrysanthemum.

It forms a crackly pillow of plastic and petals, like potpourri left to dry, hung up in muslin at the windows and door handles. Cold and soft. But cold and hard as death. Withered petals that start to lose their brilliance almost immediately. They are unable to hold onto life for another greedy second, and yet still sprinkle their scent in powdery handfuls up in the air.

I open the metal chute, to put it gently, like a baby in its coffin before the cremating oven, and lay it to rest. Only the plastic gleams in the soft light from the cloudy sky.

With a clang the lid is put home, and I hear the rattle of plastic colliding and scraping against metal. The flower stalks make no sound on their silent journey earthbound.

paint splatters Tuesday, March 16, 2004 11:17 p.m.


Love,...

I have seen you in the morning, as dawn's grey fingers pull away to let in light, the awakening birds trilling in a soft twitter, a dawn chorus. On your fields walk no one yet I can hear the moisture, wet-on-dew, green fingerlings breathing and growing. Morning glories creep shyly up the face of the slope. I sit silently always, watching.

I cannot call you kind. With ferocity you devour your children, till they, nestled in the cocoon comfort of your womb, are loth to leave the company of their siblings. But come mid-March you will bring up and regurgitate, uproot saplings who have begun to deepen, to hurl them back into the abyss of nothingness, free-floating and still reminiscing about those first few months spent in half-innocence.

Brown and earth red, chocolate dark and grey slate, cream piping now off white with errant footprints and occasional ball-marks. In your classrooms dirty orange coils snake across the floor to meet overheard projectors, creatures that lie dormant now in the quietness of dead afternoons. It is now the holidays, but still you pull me back. I see you more often than my family perhaps.

I have known you, intimately so, for twelve months and a little more. Yet maybe I do not know you. Your strange silences and sullen winters; the occasional bursts of flame and illumination. I pass through no portals of yours but enter and leave by the city gates, the horse-shoe magnet on my back catching me and drawing me in, again, again, and yet again.

Hua Chu. I love you and yet I hate you. Love your warmth but detest your coldness and inhuman rationality. Embrace your people but reject the self-important, leap along with your successes and yet am pulled down by the tragedies and failures that are played out within.

Do I love you? Perhaps I do, despite all imperfections.

Love, I shall perfect for you...

paint splatters Monday, March 15, 2004 08:12 p.m.
Northeast monsoon that comes roaring over the Pacific Ocean gathering breadth and cloud and rain, of steel grey afternoons and dazzling sunrises. Why one morning when you wake up the sky is pink and gold and blue and orange, flecked with ragged clouds and quietly beautiful, rays peeking in through the corner of the thick cream folds pulled back across the wide glass windows. Then come afternoon blue melts to iron grey and the clouds gather in strength and rumble in anger, lightning flashes and sharp cries of fleeing mynahs and flitting sparrows, clutching at hair and clothes, ferocious, vicious, catankerous. Release then, an orgasm of rain and wind, fury upon fury; the heavy slap and plop and missiles falling like the tears of Hera or Pan Gu or Gabriel Raphael Ariel. Flood drown destroy to make new again. To rebuild, renew, revisit, realise the rhythmn of falling rain.

paint splatters Sunday, March 14, 2004 08:08 p.m.


He

He can turn the tides and calm the angry sea
He alone decides who writes a symphony.
He lights ev'ry star that makes our darkness bright
He keeps watch all through each long and lonely night

He still finds the time to hear a child's first pray'r
Saints or sinners call and always find Him there
Though it makes Him sad to see the way we live,
He'll always say, "I forgive."

He will come to us and heal our sinful soul
He alone says your sins I forgive you
He will light your way and make your darkness bright
He keeps watch all through the lonely years ahead

He still finds the time to wipe our tears away.
Saints or sinners still He loves us all the same.
Though it hurts Him much to see the way we live,
He'll always say, "I forgive."

He can grant a wish or make a dream come true
he can take the clouds and turn the grey to blue
He alone knows where to find the rainbow's end
He alone can see what lies beyond the bend

He can touch a tree and turn the leaves to gold
He knows ev'ry lie that you and I have told
Though it makes Him sad to see the way we live
He'll always say: "I forgive."


Perhaps this is what the heart and soul seeks; a place to grieve and yet to forgive. Mass, the third sunday of Lent, in preparation for the day of the crucifixion and thereafter rejoicing at the rising of the Lord. Who has spoken, that leads to such tears and welling up of sorrow.

paint splatters Friday, March 12, 2004 04:20 p.m.
The loud jangling of the telephone and then the stilted tones of "Good afternoon, May I speak to Mr Edward Ng"

A slight pause, then the question, "May I know who's calling?"

"This is Veron here from DBS Bank."

Another pause, longer this time, and then "I'm afraid you can't speak to him; he passed away already..."

"Oh I'm so sorry, but thank you anyway" followed by the hasty click of the phone from that end. bang

I remember the exact same person calling about a month or two ago. That time I had apologised and said she could not speak to him because he was not at home. That was a half-truth. He really was not at home.


"Guil No, no, no... you've got it all wrong... you can't act death. The fact of it is nothing to do with seeing it happen - it's not gasps and blood and falling about - that isn't what makes death. It's just a man failing to reappear, that's all - now you see him, now you don't, that's the only thing that's real: here one minute and gone the next and never coming back - an exit, unobstrusive and unannounced, a disappearance gathering weight as it goes on, until, finally, it is heavy with death."
-- Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

paint splatters Monday, March 8, 2004 09:08 p.m.
i am sleepy. i am sleepy. i am sleepy. i am sleepy. i am sleepy. iamsleepy.iamsleepy.iamsleepy.iamsleepy.iamsleepy. imesleepy.imesleepy.imesleepy.imesleepy. i. am. sleepy. i. am. sleepy.

But guess what, the block tests cannot wait.

Oh god for this week to be over, and quickly too.

paint splatters Sunday, February 29, 2004 07:36 p.m.


When I was little and my mother was going off to work in the evenings, I remember saying goodbye to her in the darkness at the top of the stairs leading to the aluminium gate. She would gather me in her arms with my sister and plant big lipsticked kisses on each cheek, wave bye-bye to us as the gate clanged and crashed behind her back. In the middle of the night then when I couldn't sleep I would tiptoe softly into her bedroom silvery in the moonlight, and bury my face into the puddle of clothes left at the foot of the double bed, breathing in the smell of my mother.

Always comforting and reassuring; I would creep off across the cold floor and crawl back into the fluff and mass of soft toys and woolly blankets that lay open and waiting, now safe and inviting.


it is a very ugly bit of writing but i have lost my sensitivities for the time being, rather sadly.

paint splatters Tuesday, February 24, 2004 12:45 p.m.
By rights I should be studying now, being the free block before math later. But in my moroseness I'm not getting things done and can't concentrate on anything anyway. I detest school. Someone tell me why. Maybe it's because I feel that I don't really fit in anywhere in the scheme of things, or otherwise. Whatever it is, it's still pretty awful dragging the self to and from the same place, going through the same motions with the same forced gaiety. There's not much point in anything really. There's nothing I want to do, except curl up in a corner and wish for death to come claim me.

paint splatters Monday, February 23, 2004 10:09 p.m.

To arrest you at this age
my child
Your voice sweet as an angel
Cherub face peeking
From behind my thigh
Poetry in motion
The pitter-patter of your feet
Music in my ear.