Just quickly dropping by to post some pictures of the pups, and to prove that I cannot, for the life of me, take good puppy pictures.

To the right, Ziggy. The left, Della. (Both in dad's tender loving hands)

Della's got more of her dad's brown, and Ziggy's all black save for the white angel-wing spread on his chest.

Both of them got their father's brow.

Right-o. Time for bed before the weekend rush. Bonne nuit

It’s closing week now.

I think it’s best if I write a little something here before I barely have any free time for myself. And what better than a little update on life, eh?

The pups of Marley are doing great; they’ve just opened their eyes a few days back and are now very adventurous with their crawling. We’ve just chicken-fenced the cage to stop them from edging out.

I’ve named them. They’re Ziggy and Della Marley. They both have something of their dad in them.

They are, currently, the cutest things in the world.

****

Perhaps not so much of an update on my life itself, which is currently like a flag that stayed still on the pole, with no wind around to billow and flutter it.

And like flags do, I can only sit and wait for that rich Westerly to blow and flap the cloth against the pole. Better still; wrench it out from the bindings, and carry it far and away, maybe into the ocean.

Wait is both a dreadful and wonderful thing, but it’s much like a mysterious drink served at the bar. And good and bad sometimes depends on your taste.

Ho hum.

***********

I dislike the fickleness of myself.

(Or is it really fickleness? Perhaps not. Perhaps simply a not-so-latent, fairly common emotion prevalent since the dawn of time, and that fickleness is either merely a branch of it, or the root in itself. At any rate, it produces the same results).

Feels like I’m a douche. A dick. An asshole.

And it’s very mutual.

I’m confused. But it’s the time of confusion that don’t sink in to cause massive amount of hair tearing. It’s just a leaf on the surface of the water. It disturbs, and ripples, and there’s all there is to it.

Makes me wonder; What the Fuck am I doing?

And whom am I Fucking with?

And What the Fuck do I think I am?

(Right-o. Emo-ness flies, and hovers).

I think I should let slide. It’s gonna be like leaving the stuff you can’t carry when moving house. It’s gotta go but the separation is there. Something’s left.

And you’re gone.

It sucks.

(I don’t even know what I’m confused about now).

(I don’t even know if I have to right to be confused).

(I think I’ll go to sleep now).

(Nites)

After that event at that clubbing joint at The Loft,

I can’t sleep.

I slept for an hour until 1 a.m before the oddity of dreams woke me up.

Right now I’m kept awake by the stubbornness of thought and ramifications, which only seem to be persistent whenever I’m most keen of not to think, and not to ramify.

Didn’t help that whatever growth I’m having in my brain has spread out like a patch of moss on a jagged rock, where it stays and stunts and eat away.

Truth is my eyes were closing at every 10 second interval. I could really fall asleep if I could let myself.

Why couldn’t I let myself?

I guess I can try. Yeah. I’ll go try.

Good morning, people.

Even if we won't celebrate...



Here comes the cold
Break out the winter clothes
And find a love to call your own
You - enter you
Your cheeks a shade of pink
And the rest of you in powder blue

Who knows what will be
But I'll make you this guarantee

No way November will see our goodbye
When it comes to December it's obvious why
No one wants to be alone at Christmas time

In the dark, on the phone
You tell me the names of your brothers
And your favorite colors
I'm learning you
And when it snows again
We'll take a walk outside
And search the sky
Like children do
I'll say to you

No way November will see our goodbye
When it comes to December it's obvious why
No one wants to be alone at Christmas time
And come January we're frozen inside
Making new resolutions a hundred times
February, won't you be my valentine?

And we'll both be safe 'til St. Patrick's Day

We should take a ride tonight around the town
and look around at all the beautiful houses
something in the way that blue lights on a black night
can make you feel more
everybody, it seems to me, just wants to be
just like you and me

No one wants to be alone at Christmas time
Come January we're frozen inside
Making new resolutions a hundred times
February, won't you be my valentine?

And if our always is all that we gave
And we someday take that away
I'll be alright if it was just 'til St. Patrick's Day

I see the Es and sombreness.

They dance in front of me; a little troupe with maracas and hula hoops over Hawaiian music. Not too hard to descry, though small, and ignorable, and very easily trampled upon.

Eden Eve Eventuality Expectancy Emotions Endeavour Embellishment Exit

Boy, can they dance. And the music.

A wiki wiki mai lohi lohi, Lawe mai i ko papa he'e nalu, Flyin by on the Hawaiian roller coaster ride…


*****

An early awakening. A breakfast at Uncle Wai Tou’s. A drive I don’t remember. Bang, zip and whoosh; and I’m there, suddenly, at the Canon Photomarathon 2009.

I went in with the compact IXUS. The throng of men there had DSLRs and hand-cannon lens. It sure feels small using a tiny equipment *ahem*.

I had fun. I was tired as heck but that was the whole point. Unfortunately the organisers had the foresight of a mole at sea and the crisis-overcoming skills of an octopus in the sky, so the whole event went from great to an exercise of subduing frustration.

In spite of everything, I only took 110 pictures.

Here’re some of them, if you’d excuse the crappiness:





































Yep. Good day. Bad night.

***********

Went off and had a pleasant day today, with Japanese pasta for lunch and someone that I was quickly exasperating to the point insanity (“I’m already used to it,” she said, while simulating a knife through her heart). I guess old habits die hard.

Today felt like a peaceful dream. A calm reverie, under the shade of a tree and the serene melody of the rustling leaves, while the wind sway the fringes of the hair and there is a softness somewhere that embraces and stays.

Don’t think I ever felt so relaxed for a long time.

(Except that I drove home after dropping her back and almost hit a car that cut into my lane suddenly, which made me curse of 5 minutes and it actually stunned the toll-booth girl a bit when I unwound the window in the middle of a Hokkien profanity medley).

At any rate, it’s a great day and I’m grateful for the company.

It’ll be mid-week by tomorrow, which means that it’s time to stop procrastinating and get serious on work.

Cheers, people. Anyong-hi jumuseyo!

Bifurcated

I’ve been feeling like I could write a lot lately. I think it’s a sign that the mind is having a case of the troubles, and that a bout of re-election between brain cells is undergoing (very mildly, as they prefer to backstab or scandalise each other rather than win in a public debate).

(Also, trepanation has failed; the family discovered me in the storeroom with my 3 Steps to a Successful Trepanation Set fully ready to go, and has confiscated it, though I won’t be surprised if they already had it destroyed. What a waste. It has a week full-guarantee return period.)

It’s nights like this that I wish there was a meteor shower.

Streaks of light across the skies, as though we’re watching the migration of a million of stars bidding farewell and high-tailing in a jiffy. And, between all of them, a million wishes, by those that believe in wishing on falling stars.

Just so.

Just for the sake of things. For the mood. For the world to limn things into words that you can whisper out as breaths that disappear into the darkness. The esurient demands that such a night deserves. Your rights. My rights. Maybe.

Fate is never that adjuvant.

I want a lot of things.

I want to stand at the edge of the world and watch as the rising sun incarnadines the skies. I want to take a hand and lead it away from the rain, and under the zinc roof watch as the shower isolates us from staring eyes, like a curtain, a veil. I want to grow ten feet high and sprout wings and take flight and raze the world with fire and terror until a gentle hand beckons my patience, and sooths my pain. I want to wish that things are just as simple as a red thread at the end of your finger that will lead you the right way.

I want a valid reason that I can put into words, say it out, mould it, shape it, tear it, throw it, and let the winds carry it away.

I want a valid reason that I can use to placate this bifurcated mind.

I want a reason I can feel is a reason.

I don’t want reason.

I want to do the easiest thing but the easiest thing here is the hardest to do.
I want freaking balls that power my guts and let me drive through and out and into the unknown void, come what fucking may.

I want no excuses.

I want no doubts.

I want that little sign that tells me that this is the right thing to do.

Yeah, I think I know what I want.

I want


you

A couple of things that were pretty big news but of which I’ve neglected to mention in the previous post, in light of the twins and their Rasta dad;

Aunt 6 (or the 6th Aunt, or Aunty Number 6) has given birth to a healthy baby girl, of which I couldn’t remember the name, but I dropped a visit yesterday and she’s beautiful and she looks a lot like her dad.

Someone I know had an accident where a car ran him over while he was checking on his punctured car tyres, and while it initially seemed like a really unfortunate incident but those laughed over in a few months, I heard that his leg had to be amputated. I was shocked. But it’s the way life turns out, sometimes. You think that the fallen oranges only have dented skins, but peel it open and you might just find it completely messed up inside. Prayers to him, and his father.

I’ve just completed my second issue with the magazine. It’s due out this week, and I hope I hadn’t messed up as much as I did in the previous issue.

And, most importantly, the twins aren’t the only puppies in the house. Shortly before Lanna gave birth, dad brought home a rottweiler pup, which we named Roxy. She’s perpetually hungry and if left on her own devices, would probably devour everything in sight, including the fishes.

Lastly, and something I’m proud to announce; I’ve finally perfected a way to conduct trepanning (or the act of trepanation) safely in the comfort of the home, and with the household drill. Now that I’ve rid off the test subjects and send them on their voyage down Kajang river, I shall be conducting it on myself tomorrow night. That’s right. After tomorrow, I shall have holes on my skull and the knowledge of the world will flow in freely in me, undeterred and unfiltered, and I shall be smarter than any of you.

Cheers.

******

I see no moon and there were considerably less lanterns this time around. And I don’t think I’ve eaten more than three mooncakes, which is peculiar indeed.

I have Bulldog Mansion up, and it’s only now that I realise that they’re closer to Jazz and Funk than anything else, perhaps with a little of pop rock thrown inside. But at heart, they’re funk-jazz. Neat.

Ah, I might not need to remind anyone, but I’ll do anyway; next month is NaNoWriMo month, so if you have really nothing to do and there’s a novel stuck in your head, it’s time to get ahead and pre-plan that plot device and dialogue. And yeah, you don’t have to remind me that it’s crazy stuff and that you’ve got better things to worry about.

I wonder if I can pull it off with work in tow now.

*****************

I’m seeing an unreachable dream.

And I think I’ll try chasing it for a bit. Maybe (of the utmost improbability) I can catch up with it, panting and hypoglycaemic in the process, and ask it if it’s fulfil-able and if I’m not just dreaming a fool’s dream.

Most likely, I’ll die of a burst lung in the first leg.

But I can try, I suppose. And someone gave me a Bracelet of Courage that adds a +1 bonus point to my Bravery stat, so before its effects wane away, I better do something.

Right; armour up. Sword ready. Helmet set. It’s a good day to die.