Friday, 27 May 2011


Objects focused: fruits poised in a red bowl placing against a black screen. Music sashays in: free jazz, notes drop in an abrupt curve at every bar. Figures silhouette on the screen because night falls. And the rare lights, traveling from the moon, sift through the somewhat worn curtains.

Lights slant on the fruits; their silhouettes thrown onto the screen- they imprint each other. The apple crookedly distorted into half, one in dark and the other in light. Angles and depth thus testified. Funny no questions are posed for the apple’s substance, for it is truthfully flat, as flat as red smears. With the aids of light the flat apple simply conforms to the tradition of concreteness- one side in dark and the other in light, a shape is virtually born.

The fact confounds everybody, of how the flatness extends and predominates. A hulking something shrinks into a blob then some turbid water cocooned tentatively in hands. A blotch the thing might eventually land in. That banana, a perfect yellow arch, who belongs to a clan of symbols and marks. A downy arm laid bare the banana is analogous to. All you music notes now bow and cave in the pit of that curve. Oh how I marvel at it I swirl. Blind and lost I lick the sonority to find my way back.

The music now bears a mellow tone. The story wheel spins. One of the ancestors of that apple once palmed off to the fairest hand. She stroked my stooped back, comforted me with honey words. A war was soon declared, in a golden city with gildings too sharp to dilate an eye. A validation for this beautiful disaster, the apple rolled, and into the mud it sunk. The trouble that ancestor stirred up was hardly any worse to another, whose skin left a hesitated bite. The woman was told to take a bite. She followed the instruction submissively, lips quivered with fear.

A long time ago a banana almost slithered itself into a 6. Wicked number it is, vile omen. That man who won a windfall on three 6s, where is he now? Dissolved into thin air I was heard. Another banana who made it an extremity by twisting itself into a spiral staircase. A beautiful formation it could be, but something dreadful always set in. Some murder was taken place? There was a vestige of goodness, nonetheless. Why, a mute girl was galvanized to talk again.

The slant light cracks smiles on each’s wrinkled skin. Those smiles can still go hideously for hours, not until the night retreats to its slumber. The fruits grimace at this photomontage world. Everything scatters about desultorily. Wine bottles and glasses tricked out from this higgledy-piggledy. Night dips in intoxication. Air forges into puffs of unconscious odor. However, if not because of the moonlight, everything is still flat. Flat but photomontage, how do pieces coalesce? Music swerves into an apotheosis of jabs, or shrills, or snickers. The fruits keep smiling. Light slants on them; their silhouettes imprint on the black screen; night seems static like the fruits.

A volley of footsteps marches near. Within seconds, something drums, and then something splashes in. Both the apple and the banana smile to their fullest.

Thursday, 26 May 2011

Tales From the Down Under: #25- The End

Sometimes when a story is so powerfully fabricated, it horrifies you. This eventually leaves an imprint in your memory that galvanizes you whenever some evocations appear. The fact well-applies to a story I just finished reading, and a subsequent reference is drawn between the deserts in the story and the world I’m situated in. I hate to dredge up world-weariness when there are actually so many other things I can relate to. It is such a self-centered awareness to impose every story onto oneself.

So I will only make it brief by concluding that my conception of the world is like a desert where one is encompassed by hazards, and it is impossible for him to escape far since supplies must be begged first. But nobody will be that benevolent to lend you anything when every entity is on the fringe of demise in this dreadful desert. I tend to stay in one spot and shut up my mouth so I won’t be overcame by thirst too soon.

Most of the things I’ve read are abound with people. Vile bodies, goodie-two-shoes, repugnant braggadocios, irritable aficionados. A false belief I’ve held that those abject characters were only made alive in books. I was then disabused when they jumped out of the page and roamed around my everyday lives. The fictional characters can never be too repulsive after hindsight since you’ve already taken for granted the fact that they only live within words. Those in the reality perplex you, for they can be downright virile then peerlessly perfect in the blink of an eye. They make you want to kiss them before flaying them alive- the classic machinery of those notorious criminals.

I used to go to sleep at night wishing I was a worm the other day, and wishing I could return to my normal self the day after, and so on. Once weary of such cycle, I assumed a daily course choked with people was the main factor that induced my bewilderment. It is impossible to be too oblivious as a universalist. Everything I encountered I shoehorned into my little body. I became fervently volatile. The effect resulted on my writing, which is muddied with personal affairs and sentimentality.

This might be a curtain-off, but the trumpet bellows subsequently for another curtain-up. It is with much mulling-over that I will axe my Tales From the Down Under section, due to the fact that those later batch of entries were gradually bleeding into sheer poppycock. For my next entry I idealize of tending on a more thematic direction, which focuses on everything but me. The articles followed by should aptly be fit into a certain framework, instead of sprawling about desultorily. To give depth to a piece of writing, one should really wriggle his soul out of the body of a human flesh, and hopefully the entries I’m entering in the future can attest to the illusion that stranding on a desert does not mean life can be measured by your palmful of fleeting sand. We’re always surviving, no matter how much struggle and pain it can do us. But what scares us the most is how the desert is utterly ignorant of our existence. At night you stare into the infinite and a sheer nothingness sweeps over you, it neither beckons nor quivers.

But at the bottom of your heart you are certain that the desert speaks, although you find faults with identifying the voice and the words.

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

Tales From the Down Under: #24- First Post After a Long While is Usually Not Very Impressive

One night I was waken by the noise of a couple bawling to each other outside on the corridor. Being galvanized up at such untimely moment, I resolved in switching the channels desultorily while the bawl heated on. Motions and images flipped through the screen like batches of vignettes. The ebb and flow of the noise outside kept with the fleet of the channel, thus a comical consequence was induced. It is funny how people are implicitly inclined to match their lives onto the screen, and into the screen however they result in. Some concierge, I presumed, settle the argument briskly and everything restored to its order like every yesterday.

People can be categorized into three: one with those who are always brimming with confidence and wielding their dominance wherever they go- they are the victors. Most people in general should be in the second one, who surface and sink just like every other but refusing to sail close to the wind, they secure themselves a perfect spot where they can witness every event flipping through their eyes just like channel switching. The terminology is irrefutably drab, too, I’ll call them the commoners. The rest should be lumped together in the victims, who are constantly creating follies in their lives and constantly being jeered at by the victors or the commoners.

What an unjust classification I sketched out! The purpose of the aforesaid is chiefly to demonstrate how those three groups of people all like to dramatize their lives, victors, commoners or victims notwithstanding. It is usually at the dinner table with your relatives when those three categories surface, and as the conversation drags on, every story that reels gradually blows out of its proportion. Silence is a poise to hold but painful as well when it excludes you from any of those categories.

“Why studying Literature.” Those three words screamed on the page and it was only prophetic they could appear on my coursebook. I slinked from providing a convincing answer when being badgered by such question. But now I know that the main reason lies in nothing but self-indulgence. I love reading, that is for certain, and stories as well. Stories, like stones, can be plucked from everywhere on every road. They are, however in reality, too painful for even words to document, hence my retreat to read stories that are fictional. The ugliest tend to be endearing when you know you share no ties with that story you read.

Not long after the noise ceased I fell asleep and dreamed. I dreamed I actually wrote me in Twin Peaks. Not an impressive character rather, which fits me perfectly because long ago I dreamed of becoming a better person but in vain. Not until that moment did I realize that mystery should be the period of every story.

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

Tales From the Down Under: #23- The Fog

As I drew out the curtain I saw almost nothing before me but clouds of white smoke predominating the scenery. It was one of those few days when fogs descend the city. I have an inexplicable penchant for fogs, which are impressively neutral, positioning between the drab clearness and the radical inclemency. I saw the fogs cleared before me, gradually, in dribs and drabs. Without any assistance from the sun the fogs petered out until dim traces of buildings or every-day-matters crept their way back in their forts.

I’ve been aspiring to do music and working diligently for years to hone my ability and knowledge just to make me eligible for the career. Owing it to my volatile taste in too many genres I have yet pinpointed of what direction I should tend to. The problem surfaced as well on my writing, which are frankly a batch of desultory rots that offer no fruits for your grey matter. It is a topic or a concept that I’m constantly stressing upon and groping for, or else things just litter around, scattering about. A lasso quivers itself to hint at its importance.

I once read a most honest account of traveling into darkness and out of it. The ship plunges into the dark without a premonition and while the sailors are desperate to crawl their way out, the overcast darkness just fizzles out as suavely as when it sets in. No further description or embellishments are given to detail the unnerved situation the sailors are in, or any explanation of how they eventually escape from such hot water. The story just fleshes out itself due to its lack of information, and a most palpable horror it casts upon readers.

I’m always feeling myself trying to scramble out of an encompassing fog and have been pulled back incessantly. With this disheartening situation one can only be hopeful that one will eventually come out blob however an auspicious end often comes without any notice. It is not like I’ve never even got a glimpse of light!

The fog didn’t wear off itself as swiftly as it appeared to be. Drops of tears left on the windows, the only testimony of a writhing metamorphosis.

Monday, 2 May 2011

Tales From the Down Under: #22- White & Grey

I felt forlorn watching the calamity of Japan on the telly since months ago I just spent my most brilliant time traveling around its capital. It was one of those chill but not bleak days when I strolled about the streets of Tokyo. I had an image of colours instantly, of a swaying white and grey. For me it was the cleanest and most impressive combination of colours, and the one that exuded the most contented serenity.

The titillated image of white and grey rarely popped up in my life. Besides the aforementioned the closest one I can conjure up is when scouring around the vicinity of my house after a washover rain. I deem the white-and-grey incidents my happiest moments in life. When such moment occurs the colours are wrought in a most cliché romantic veil where they will dance and swirl around me like bubbles. And like bubbles they pop and vanish within a blink of an eye.

Everybody has his own definition of what a suffering will be. It would be indubitably ungrateful for me to acknowledge my constant predicament, since seeing in a humanistic scope mine is hardly a scrape. But the feeling of weeds on my head is incessantly palpable which resembles to that of a young bird whose wings and feathers have already crowded the nest yet is still reminded that she is no more than a callow bird.

Being a dire optimist and having a downright positive thinking save me. I am always the one who sees the light sift through the curtain and feels hopeful of the unfold of a new day. My optimistic mind might contribute somewhat to my role of a persistent dreamer. Several past incidents have cast several whips on that dreamer, lessons are better learnt than taken for granted. The dreamer proclaimed that whoever asks her perspective of her future she will remain modest and only reveal that she is not a careerist, and she is never the one who gets out of the hardship of the young adolescent years unscathed.

Talking about optimism, there arises a group of aspiring singers/bands who flatter themselves on making cheerful music. Cheerful but not the Beach-Boy-esque sunshine pop, they actually allege their music of being unconventionally whimsical, creating sounds that are certainly the drills to your ears. People have been too preoccupied making music that differs from the others to hunker down to the basic question of whether the music you endeavour to make actually makes any grain of sense.

There is also this group of intelligentsias whose songs are packed full of any artistic or literary references. Listening to their music makes me a cultural handicap even when holding an English Literature major. The question has been harbouring in my head for a long time but I have yet found an answer to whether music is more important than lyrics, or lyrics music, or equally important, or important but in a synchronized way. Listening to Tyrannosaurus Rex though, put all those doubts and questions in a temporary respite. The music is simple, raw but unarguably sensible. The whims of the music are ingeniously enlightened by the idiosyncrasy of Marc Bolan’s emotive voice. The lyrics, on the other hand, seems to be the highlight of the songs, the cherry on a chocolate tart, by which one can see implicitly of their literary references, be it Blake, Wordsworth or Borges, but instead of assiduously gleaning over influences like some run-of-the-mill singers, Bolan’s influences are obviously the accumulative ones. Such accumulative influences are mingled with Bolan’s dexterity on words, which tackle obsolete subject matters but never in an esoteric way.

Another thing I admire Marc Bolan the most is how his music never gives glimpses of world-weariness. Ladies and gentlemen he’s singing with his head above heaven!