How the Fish Chewed through the Glass

(And she sat at the direct opposite of me, and I watched her eat as she tucked her hair behind her ear; one smooth, simultaneous act that seemed so natural. Then she caught me looking, and said;

“ .”

I nodded, said yes, and looked at the grey wall behind her, which made everything - her and the table and chair - seemed like a flat monochromatic picture.

And then I dreamt of something else).


*********

Tough week.

I don’t think I ever remembered feeling in such a state of lethargy that grew into me, as tough embedded into my routine so that no matter how much I will it, I shall never get enough rest.

I’m thankful that I refused dad’s request that I accompany them as they tackled the highest mountain in all of Selangor (which turned into a 10-hour long hike, both upwards and down, and now the parents still groan whenever they made to sit, stand or walk).

I stayed home as much as I could, and watched the movies I never watched, and gave Roxy the Rotty a bath. And, when it worked, played Left 4 Dead 2.

And before I slept, I read. I’m about halfway through Coraline (a short read, seemingly) and I’ll be starting on Pratchett’s Thud!, before I move to the stuff I bought at the Big Bad Wolf Sale. The Harmony Silk Factory was, for the third time, left abandoned.

(It’s not that the book is a bad book. It’s just that it became one of those rare occurrences where I didn’t care about the characters and, thus, never cared about the story).

Ah, and in case you’ve still never heard about it, the Big Bad Wolf Book Sale is still on in Amcorp Mall and it’ll end by Wednesday. The books there are horrendously cheap; so cheap it felt like you’ve walked into a cheat and never knew about it. I’ve picked up 9 books, all of them from authors I’ve never read before, and all of them have just as about the weirdest cover-arts (Un Lun Dun takes the price). Check it out; it doesn’t have as much big titles as other sales, but the place is littered with gems beneath gold and silver coins.

Right. Time for a quick chapter or two, before I head to bed. Bonne Nuit!

****

I forgot to mention that the entire blogpost has no relation to the title in any way, both directly and indirectly.

I do, however, wonder about it.

Mandamus, says the Brain.

Just wrapped up the last dribble of work for the day. It hasn’t been a fruitful; I was plagued by lack of concentration and, eventually, disrupted by a dinner I didn’t want to go but went anyway out of due respect.

(The dinner, lamentably, was a cramped thing where there were too many people at a single table and the food were cold when I arrived, because I was late fetching a colleague home).

Tomorrow, by golden hooks and or by professional crooks, I must complete my weekend quota.

*****

I hate my dreams lately. Mostly for the fact that they are never real and that, in a way, they annoyingly serve to remind me certain things that make me feel all the more despondent when I woke.

It’s like in some why, my brain has decided on a more direct approach, and issued a writ of mandamus so that I get cracking on stuff. Proving a point by saying that We command. We compel. We decide.

Well, fuck you too. Start by making me work smarter.

(Something throbbed. In the cranium. I’m sorry).

More frustrating is the fact that these dreams felt real. I’d wake up, rub my eyes, and realise the cruelty, and bliss, and the bitter-sweetness that lingered in the mouth along with the tang of morning breath. I’d go to work and write and have lunch and it’d float about at the corner of the mind, like a red kite in the azure sky.

And then the stupidity of everything caves in, and the tunnel is shut, and rationality resumes.

(Somehow I felt like I’ve written this before).

Anyhow, if the dreams remain the same, I suppose it’s a revisit I can’t avoid.

I just hope I can decide if they were good dreams, or bad ones.

(I’ve officially given up on Nanowrimo this year. I don’t think there’re other obvious reasons as to why; I was simply either too busy, too lazy or too uninspired. Eventually, whatever words I crammed felt too forced, and I decided that this is no way to write. Right now, this part of me is staring at me with his hands crossed, muttering and glaring and refusing to speak.



Sorry mate, this year just couldn’t be.)

****

Inure.

I think, yeah, there’re things I’ve inured into. People do. If they can’t, or don’t, they aren’t quite people. It’s just how we work.

It’s just that when people choose to voice the hardships they’re in (those that they, as we do, inured in, but will perpetually find time to complain about), they forget that the whole picture is a painting that they can only see a part of. And if they try to see the whole picture, it is to them a stretch of empty canvas. Then they make things up as they see fit.

I think I read somewhere that we draw our perceptions on what we think. In that sense, people who do so draw their perception on nothingness. Their brains are just as empty.

(And what’s all this midnight wool-gathering? Shouldn‘t I be asleep? Shouldn’t you?)

The skies these days are a beautiful, absolutely gorgeous tint of greyness. I’d drive to work or back or walk to the 7-Eleven under it and would just spend a few moments to stare.

I’d rather think that the skies are what that gives colour to the world.

Blue summer skies with thick, heavenly clouds give the world vibrancy; under it the winds sway the grass and the flowers stood with colours proud and bright and the people are just much more cheerful.

A grey, monochrome sky makes the world sombre. And sombreness is beauty sometimes.

(Like monochrome pictures, or monochrome movies, where darkness and light are easily differentiated and colour, if you’re looking for it, can only be found if you know where to see).

(Another round of midnight nonsensicality. I really should be asleep.)

Today’s hike took me to the top of a hill with red earth and low ferns. East was the stretch of hills and mountains that, for the first time, I found to have disappeared into the low greyness of the cloud. The mist, much lighter in shade, moved downwards and enveloped the hills like a deliberate embrace.

I’m not doing it justice; it was one of the most beautiful things I‘ve ever seen, so haunting in its grandeur.

There was a solitary eagle. An actual eagle. I watched it circle upwards and swooped until it merged with the darkness of the clouds.

It rained later, but I was already under a roof then. I wonder how the mountains looked in the rain. Maybe a sombre, forlorn shape in the distant. Greyness poured upon greyness.

But sombreness, yes, is beauty sometimes.

(Right, enough of this midnight wool-gathering. Time to sleep.)

(Goodnight people).

The New Wood Smell

(What’s this? I find myself some free time and instead of cramming in the words for Nanowrimo - which I’ve neglected for 5 days now - I’m here wanting to blog. And afterwards, play Borderlands).

I gave in to impulse, and bought myself a guitar.

It’s a cheap classical. It’s a guitar that those people of the guitar profession would stare at, crinkle their nose, and shake their heads in disbelief. In fact, it was cheaper than another guitar one particular guitar shop told me it was for the picnics.

It is, however, a nice guitar. I stared at it long enough, played unknown chords on it when no one was looking, and decided that yeah, you’re coming home with me.

It still has that new wood smell. Of the plywood type. It’s a cheap guitar, after all.

I suck in playing it.

Never doubted my innate inability to play any musical instrument. But now that I’ve bought a guitar and understood how hard it was to master it, I think it’ll be truly wasted if I never try making it play music that it was meant to play.

I give myself three years. And 38 days. Maybe I can play nursery rhymes by then. Good progression, I believe.

I think I can hear Bryan groaning in regret that he has agreed to teach me.

*********

My Nanowrimo is in abandon. It’s just a few days away from being a complete disaster.

My problem is finding time to make things up - times for this mostly end up being used in gaming, making up unrelated stories, and learning the guitar (since Saturday, at least). Oh, and a little bit of homework.

I’m so far behind now that the only way to save it is to cram 5000 words a night, or reach 25K by the weekend. My tally now is only 4K-something.

And I seriously don’t know what I’m writing about.

Where are the Gods of Writing?

Having stones for brains, and brains for balloons.

The effects of closing week hasn’t worn out yet. The brain is still a slab of rock that is cold and hollow and does nothing but stay stubbornly hard.

I don’t think I can string proper sentences. Somewhere along the lines would be a few oddities that become binaries. It’s aggravating, especially when 1000101001010100101000 about the 110101110111111 like global warming and polar bears losing ice to stand on.

Aw, 1001 it.

Ah, at any rate, it’s Nanowrimo now.

I’ll be trying once more to waste my time away writing 50,000 words for the month, an average of 1700 minimum daily.

I haven’t plotted, made plans, or actually know what I’ll be writing about. I think I’ll just down cups of Lipton tea and hope whatever they advertise will help give me the words and form that plot (and, for heaven’s sake, turn this rock-brain into a regular, mushy one).

As of now, the novel has no title.

And I think I shouldn’t have gotten Borderlands today. The first hour itself is addictive and engrossing, and I haven’t even ventured into online multiplayer.

And I haven’t taken into account that I’m working right now, and that there’s such a thing called Closing Week and that it will, without fail, turn my brain back to stone and milk my time into bottles to be gulped down by a monster with a void for mouth.

And the insanity of everything hasn’t hit me yet.

(And that, to paraphrase from forgotten source, is the fun of it).


*********

This is a Jeembie.
According to Teh Ais Limei (avid Zombtist and author of The Zombie Journal and The Popcapian Zombies of the East Pacific):

Jeembie is an evolved species of zombies whose diet consists of slimy, white rolls covered in brown liquid, also known as the Chee Cheong Fun among the Chinese community. This discovery have led Zomtists to believe that zombies do not necessarily need their staple food, known as Braaaaiiiinnnnsss, to survive, but merely chose to consume them as they are widely available in all parts of the world. On the other hand, a small group of Zomtists opined that Jeembie is not an evolved species, but an underdeveloped one, unable to differentiate between Braaaiiiinnnsss and Chee Cheong Fun, due to the similarities in texture, appearance and in some cases, substance.

On another note, the Zombies Nation International Association of Repulsive Bodies (ZNIARB) have declared Oct 27 a worldwide holiday to commemorate the birth of Jeembie.

Happy Halloween!

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


I’ll be disappearing mostly for the whole of November. It will most likely be due to Nanowrimo, or a strange trip in the form of a ticket given by a man with a broad brimmed hat and brown suit that’ll be the last I’ve ever heard or seen (if the latter happens, just tell my parents that I’ve moved to a happy place).

If I can update, I will. So if you’re actually keeping posted on the wholesomely profound ramifications from a philosophical genius that is I, you know you’re being duped and that no refunds will be given.

I hold no responsibility.