Saturday, 26 February 2011

Tales from the Down Under: #1 Arriving

After some punishing, barely-endurable hours of flights I'm finally arriving the destination. The outset of the journal should more typically start with something like, "When I landed in Auckland what greeted my view was..." just like getting a greedy whiff of the detergent straightly after buying it. Squandering the first serial to splutter about the discomfort of my plane journey should never come to the fore if the journey was guaranteed to be smooth and silky. Unfortunately, most of the auspicious trips I've taken were, by reflection, blighted by the insuppresible panic due to the horrid flight.

Some measures have been taken over the years, since flying becomes the only priority to obtain my abroad education, I must think of something to alleviate my phobia. While taking off and landing prove to be the most hands-wringing moments, glossy magazines or any books with flatteringly colorful pictures are the most effective to distract attentions. En route of the journey, my playlists are embarrasingly crammed with music I seldom listen to: excessive pop songs, R&B's or even some Hip-Hops with cloying female vocals. It is vital to burn my ears with music everytime a turbulence ensue, with the vain hope that it will immediately dust away with the music.

Something noteworthy: whenever I board a plane I will become inexplicably religious. I cross my fingers perpetually, I pray and talk to God perpetually. Some people I've held a long-standing grudge will suddenly become endearing, and those whom I've already loved, a strong desire to snuggle them to bits.

So everything reverted to its order when I landed in Auckland safe and sound. The sceneary was still sparse in a melancholy scale; the people were still overly optimistic, like the sunshine is pouring through your windows instead of sifting through; their accents, still terribly unintelligible. Another six weeks until an anticipated night drive to the airport which looks impossibly welcoming in the wee hours.

I gorged myself with hearty food before dipping my head on the pillow, dreaming of the stars that never fall too low.

Monday, 14 February 2011

David Axelrod, "The Poison Tree"

Some man died not out of accients, and interrogated God in apparent anxiety,

"For why am I died a nobody?"

God holds an admirable equanimity. Apparently those questions are hackneyed and are already registered in his Book.

"Because you were born to be one." God's self-possession is unperturbed.

"But I'd been trying all my might to become a not nobody." The man is readily demanding a satisfactory answer.

"Oh, then maybe you didn't try that hard." God's prevarication is slightly frail, for in his Life he has never met someone who is that persistent.

"But I did go the whole hog for everything that will make me become a somebody. I'd done numerous sacrifices just to achieve something I'd longed for." The man perseveres.

"Then blame the Destiny, blame the Fate. It was their faults that you were ending up as a nobody." God is running out of his wits, and his good-humouredness crucially tested.

"Perhaps you're the one I should blame then. I prayed to you every night, prayed to let my efforts be put into fruitful effect. Praying that no snags would be cast on my way to success. And to become a somebody eventually! Oh dear God how I even made dealings with you! I beseeched you to take away my everything just to make me a somebody before I close my eyes for the final time. How I kept myself taut and trimmed and well-behaved just to become something I'd always dreamed of." The man splutters out before he has time to wince at what he has just said, and the irregularly fast pace results in his spasmodic seizures.

God is visibly baffled. FOr one, he has never, in his Life, met such a dogged headcase. The other is simply his inability to concoct a convincing answer to the man's streams of impregnable retorts.

In reflection, he did get implored of such requests before. This one is just one among a myriad. M,ultitudes of men have asked of becoming a somebody. Most have given up when they realize they are hopeless to get answered, some persist nonetheless.

But not one, in God's Life, still demands the same when he is no longer Flesh! And to challenge his authority! God notably resents how some, who are not his stalwart followers, always unscrupulously underestimate his presence.

God decides to pull on a stern face and fume at the figure before him,

"For where did you get the audacity of speaking to me thus? It was initially my sole wish to create all men alike. All your 'nobodys.' However, some reckless ones can never be contented with what they have, so they resort to some foolish acts like noting down their memories, noting down of what they said. Some evern go overboard by spinning unfeasible yarns of the 'somebodys,' who never should have existed at all, and this eventually leads up to some devious phenomenom with 'nobodys' dreaming of dreams of the 'somebodys.' Who is that major culprit? THe Dickens! How he fabricated tales of nobodys living up to become somebodys, but where is he now? What is he doing now?"

God is cut short by his sudden glitch of forgetting which Dickens he should be referring to, for there are thousands of Dickenses on his Book.

Nevertheless, the man is already fazed by such a powerful speech addressed by his dear God, not to mention how his growing compunction is now gnawing his whole body. Sensing this, God dispatches someone to take away the weeping man who curls his body into a wrinkled dough. Resuming his admirable equanimity, God calls in the next man.


"The people who have the worst cooks are always telling you they're poisoned when they dine out."- Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence

Wednesday, 9 February 2011

Frank Sinatra, "When the Wind Was Green"

The art of traveling,
is to live your days at the most idealized stage;
is to absolve your qualms of doing something which you normally do on the sly.

For me it was to renounce my daily duties, mortal responsibilities.
And my daily courses were almost the same:
reading without worrying about the protraction of my writer's block;
writing without fussing over the precision of words, the consistency of logics;
dreaming without dreading its boundary.
So time squandered away greedily.

One day I went to an old traditional garden in a slightly unopportune time,
for the supposedly wholesome atmosphere has retreated to dogged hibernation-
desolation seeped in.
Everything could be in a most unwelcoming dilapidation,
but their enticement swept over you as if tickling by fuzz.
For a second it even seemed favorable to be dead than alive.

It all happened to me as a tourist,
who exerted my liberty of being someone I illusioned.
Wearing bluffing disguise in this guileless world,
yet a masked-face can hardly smile wider before a drop of rain was sensed.

Every auspicious journey belied numerous dealings with god.
Just like sublimating your excuses for eating sweets.
Multitudes of candy you wolved down unawaringly,
and you promised to deserve your punish afterward.

Great blows of stomache ensued expectedly.
Because the end of a journey consolidated your constant role of an anchorless tourist.
The world itself is a crystal ball which lures you to give touches,
and once your fingerprints mar its beauty,
you will be condemned for your involuntary blunder.

So they gather not a whiff of impetus to push you over.
As every place you go there is a magnifying-glass that forces you to reality.
Broadcasters are provided too if such matter did not reach you accurately.

After an ambitious journey of swaggering my elephantine self,
I went back to my nest again to dream to be a fearless little girl,
in this apparently bumbling world striving to be incorrigible.


"How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?"- Thomas Hardy, "Hap"