Ramblings

Saccharine

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 06:27:00 +0000

The babbling brooks and the gaggling geese

flounce around while the sun bathes in glory.

Children squeal, their excitement infectious

as the adoring parents burst with pride and overflow with joy.

The baby's dimples and the colours of summer,

declarations of love floating on gentle breezes.

Entwined fingers, kites streaking across the skies,

ice cream dripping, littering sidewalks with happiness.

Sugary sweetness permeates, slowly steadily. Filling

the corners, soldering cynical cracks shut.

I need some coffee to give my senses respite.

Bitter, brewed, addictive realities.

I need the darkness and the aftertaste,

the empty paper cup to discard without care.

I need to be ignored at the coffee shop, I need reason to resent.

I need to pay in small change and watch

as the kid behind the counter grumbles.

Columbian dark roast. No pleasantries, no flirtatious smiles.

"Would you like some syrup in that?" the barista asks.

I chuckle as I walk out.

Discovery

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 16:54:00 +0000

Along the edges, with arms outstretched,
we're concentrating.
Traversing the concentric walkways of
perfectly peeled rinds,
we're descending into the depths
of his fruity fragrance.
It intoxicates; it controls.
Like blind men on a rope,
we follow him who leads.
And he leads us to the heart
of these tangerine dreams.

We discover this new world,
through orange, tinted glasses.
Everything has layers, and
texture and truth. We reach out
to touch. To feel. To know.
The exploration is punctuated
by moments of cognisance.
Moments when the solid haze we're in
is pierced by a stray word.
But these moments pass, and
the tangerine dream regains control.

We're awoken from this reverie by
the acerbic edge of reality.
The citric acid cuts through it all.
Clean strokes, no mistakes.
We were at the nadir, swimming
in sweetness spiced with tangy passion,
but now, we return. We take careless steps
in the hopes of falling off the edge,
to be immersed in the tangerine dreams
once more.

This one definitely needs a rewrite, but it works as is for the time being. A momentary return to the colour phase...

Second Helpings

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 22:07:00 +0000

In honor of Valentines day, a love story sans the mush. And the love...

She had it all planned.

First, she'd slip him a note in his morning newspaper.

'A surprise awaits you tonight, my darling. Hurry home. Love, A.'

He'd be excited by the prospect of an elaborately planned surprise, and he'd do exactly as the note said. During the day, she'd make herself all pretty- just for him. She'd spend hours in front of the mirror, fixing everything so that it was just the way he liked it. Her hair would be perfect, every strand in place, and it would smell like oranges in winter. He liked oranges.

She'd wear the inky blue dress she'd borrowed from Anna, positioning the slinky straps so that they'd slip off easily when the time came. And then she'd make him the perfect meal. They say oysters are an aphrodisiac...

She'd pack up the food and a bottle of 'Riesling from Alsace' in a dainty wicker basket and make her way over to his place. She'd even take a cab, lest the chilly February winds ruined her perfectly arranged auburn hair. She'd carefully step out of the cab, and then sneak in past the doorman. It didn't take much to distract him.

The elevator would ding, signalling her arrival to anyone who cared enough to listen. She would make her way over to his apartment, letting her heels sink into the plush green carpet. There was the small matter of getting into his apartment, but she'd figure something out in time. There was never a dearth of bobby-pins in her handbag, and they made it look rather easy in all the movies she'd watched with him.

Once she entered the apartment, she'd disconnect the phone. She'd then use her phone to call Anna's office; she knew exactly where she'd find his address book. She knew everything about both him and that Anna...

She'd then proceed to hide all the photographs of Anna and him, pushing them behind the oven and under the couch. She'd put up a picture, of him with her in his arms, on the wall right opposite the front door. She'd set up the dining table and then wait by the window, watching the cars whiz by on the street below.

He'd come home and be utterly shocked. He'd see all that she'd done for him and realise the error of his ways. He'd hate himself for the two years he'd lost out on. And then, he'd find her, waiting for him, and all would be well again.

Yes, he'd come back to her. She had it all planned.

When the Old Lady Bakes...Again

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 21:32:00 +0000

Revisiting the old lady who seemed to have a fondness for baking young men. Out of context, that sounds incredibly inappropriate; this is just a rewrite of a poem I put up a while ago. The focus has shifted a little and ambiguity has taken up residence in most of the stanzas. Yay.

This Sunday is as good a day
as any,
to whip up a miracle or two.
That's just what she'll do.
Yes, she'll give shape to that wonder-
and then, perhaps, knit a scarf.

Flipping through recipe cards,
cross-referenced and alphabetized,
she chooses her newest InstaCompanion® .
The granite counter-top glistens
in anticipation, while the wooden spoon
gets set for all the action.

A few aseptic techniques
and a pre-heated oven look on,
as the glorious intention is birthed.
In a special bowl,
of appropriate dimensions,
she nurtures the new-born idea.

Pinches of this and dashes of that.
Combat the blandness with a little intelligence.
Fondling the electric beater, she
lets the aroma of new life hang in the air.
Meanwhile, the wit, arrogance, and ideal jaw-line
are marinated in a tangy, hypnotic sauce.

Though she frowns upon superficiality,
appearances do matter.
Add some protein to the batter.
One and a half teaspoons of sincerity.
Then sieve in the charm
and a couple of splashes of inherited wealth.

Eugenics is all the craze these days...

To finish off, mix in an unwavering devotion
to the hand that created him.
And of course, before she forgets,
add good humour- to taste.
She would have garnished him
with her secret ingredient...

But only amateurs can afford to miss
the beginning of Jeopardy.

Happy Piggies

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 20:08:00 +0000

She named them Binky and Bubbles. It seemed cute at first, but those guinea pigs weren't impressed. I'd done nothing to lessen their embarrassment, so they were out to ruin me, one sleepless night at a time. During the day, when I worked, they were absolute darlings. Uncharacteristically quiet, one wouldn't suspect them of anything. And just when I'd consider taking a nap, they'd recommence the squeaking and the scratching.

I hated them.

My daughter, however, adored them. They were a present from her vengefully sadistic father, and she claimed they were happiest in her room. Normally I'd argue, but not this time. After the divorce, I figured she deserved some leniency, and if that meant I had to let those damn pigs ruin everything, then so be it.

The unhappy mommy was the least of anyone's worries. It was all about the happy child, and ultimately, the happy piggies.

(The title was a complete rip-off of Chittz's GTalk status message. but in my defense, she was being my...muse? :P More microfiction, by the way. This time, I'm down to 149 words. Oh. Yeah.)

Resale

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 04:46:00 +0000

The cool, bare floor failed to hold its own against the sunlight that streamed in through the open window. She paused momentarily to wipe her forehead before embracing the coarse material.

Her needle went in and out of the fabric, the frequency of its motion in phase with the leaky faucet. Her bare skin was chafed wherever it came in contact with the fabric, but she continued to sew. Her task was not trivial; these two edges were destined to be together. Her stitches had to be resilient, capable of withstanding anything.

She was making the merchant a new home. Every stitch mattered, if only to the grain merchant who lay dead beside her. He sold death in his sacks of produce, and now, she was returning the favour at prices nobody could beat.

She smiled, satisfied, as she knotted the end of the twine she'd been using to sew.

(This piece is exactly 150 words long; I wrote it with the intention of writing 'microfiction'. I realise I've come back to writing about mindless, meaningless murder all over again, but I can't help myself...)

Brothers in Arms

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 06:05:00 +0000

The title was lifted from the Nicholas Cage starrer 'Lord of War'. I wanted to use the Ukrainian phrase they use in the movie, but not only would that lend additional political implications to the piece, it would also seem fairly out of place in a poem written entirely in English. Anyway, here goes.

Forward we’ll march, and together, wage war.
Brandishing edges that reflect the menacing glow
of pending doom, we’ll avenge every loss. A few more
for good measure, and then
we’ll trudge on further through the sanguine mud;
leached with liquid souvenirs of life,
it births the bloodied memories
of every traitor and every martyr.

Decked in glory and armed with honour, we shall rise-
emerging victorious- imparting wisdom to those
who have been blindfolded by false promises of eternity.
Rescuing ignorant minds that see not the superiority
that coats our ways. Could our intentions be any nobler?
Fear not, oh brothers, for we have Faith. We have Justice.
We have Power on our side.

The Voice guides me as I guide you. Follow
and I will lead you to that battleground.
We are the means, mine brethren,
the ink that shall stain memories-
the colour of every word, thought and reality.
Do not question the Voice; trust is of the essence.
Believe, as I have, in altruism, in the purity of our ideals.
We must kill together, conquer side by side, and whisper
our truths so that they resound, echoing
with force. Enough to shatter the dying lights
those fools follow ignorantly.

Envoys of the true Faith. Purveyors of real justice.
Descendents of the Voice and its Power.
But first, and foremost,
we are brothers in arms. In the name of all
that we know to be right,
forward we shall march,
and together wage war.

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 21:01:00 +0000

Please vote :)

Planet Beautiful
Brickfish

When the Old Lady Bakes...

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 06:55:00 +0000

An extremely random urge to write about food morphed into this. It makes me laugh...

This Sunday is as good a day
as any,
to whip up a miracle or two.
That's just what she'll do.
Yes, she'll give shape to that miracle-
and then, perhaps, knit a scarf.

A few aseptic techniques
and a pre-heated oven join her,
as the glorious intention is birthed.
In a special bowl,
of appropriate dimensions,
she commences to nurture the new-born idea.
A dash of wit.
A pinch of arrogance-
and then she folds in the charm.

Eugenics is all the craze these days...

Though she frowns upon superficiality,
appearances do matter.
Add some protein to the batter.
One and a half teaspoons of sincerity.
Then sieve in the intelligence
and a couple of perks.

All it needs now is
an unwavering devotion to the hand
that created him.

And of course, before she forgets,
add good humour- to taste.

Retribution

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Sat, 22 Nov 2008 06:00:00 +0000

I don't like this one too much, but while I'm able to keep up the writing, I thought I might as well update the blog. A poem that was the result of a little bit of anger and a whole lot of inspiration from multiple movies...

I've got a bullet in my pocket.
I've got a story to tell.
I've got my scars to sing me war songs,
I've got spirit you won't quell.

I've been walking past their tomb stones.
I've been wading in their blood.
I've been counting pleas and echoes -
Of sceptres buried in the mud.

I choose to touch, to heal the wounded.
I choose to cry with them all.
I choose to shoulder their last worries,
I choose to hold them as they fall.

I've seen the sorrow and the glory.
I've heard the parting day's knell
I've felt the burning need for vengeance.
I've still got that bullet, and my story
To tell...

Interlude

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 05:47:00 +0000

One day, when I can be bothered, I intend to fix this one. Like major redecoration type fix-age.

Inky puddles coalesce.
Fusing, weaving, charging.
Hypnotic swirls rush forth.
Taking aim, they fire-
Piercing the precipitate.
Poking holes in the clouds,
Beams of light draw blood.
A faint pinkish glow leaks through
And stains everything it touches.

The White attempts to rebel-
Puffing and reaching for the corners of the earth.
Smudging, erasing.
Overpowering Colour.
Resisting the onset of Darkness,
It fights.
But brave soldiers must fall.
The minions of darkness will be rewarded.

Colours in one life, they rot away now.
Sacrificing themselves to the Lord.
To nobility.
To the night in dull armor.

Lights

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 20:13:00 +0000

I've sort of been keeping an eye on IAW over the past few weeks. Admittedly, I haven't made any effort to make my presence felt, but I have kept in touch with those weekly themes that usually force me out of my literary-hibernations. Here's another one of 'those' pieces. The topic was 'Lights'.

It's kind of dark, but nowhere near as dark as I'd like for it to be. The vagues shapes and fuzzy outlines try and tell me all about the world that surrounds us. I don't need to be told though. We're here to learn, to explore with the bristling hairs on our skin. To dance a dance of discovery. Together, in the confines of this room.

Right now, every gesture is illuminated. You don't need vast pools of blinding light to cast accusatory shadows, you know; this resilient little orb of light does the job just as well as anything else would. It forces you to envision things you may not even want to imagine. It creeps into all the empty spaces, and watches you. Judges you. That's just how it is, my love.
We don't need to see each other. Have whispered words lost their charm? What about the goosebumps I get when you approach me, when you touch me? Tripping carelessly, intentionally, in the hopes of being caught? And the wispy strands of your laughter?
Yes, I could just close my eyes and stop complaining. But I want to see nothing. I actually want to see the emptiness, to gently walk through opaque clouds of darkness- with you.

Follow the sound of my breath, my darling. Guide your feet across the soft carpet, and let the curtains dance with you in the cool evening breeze as you make your way over. We'll discover new truths, we'll write stories on the walls. We'll absorb these moments and lock them away so we can look at them together someday. We'll paint landscapes behind our eyelids, and we'll trace pinnacles with our palms.

There's so much to do tonight, my sweet. Let's just start by turning out those lights...

It's All So Hazy...

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 23:32:00 +0000

It's almost like this is some sort of elaborate game, but I'm the only one who knows that the game is being played. I'm the only one who knows that there are rules; the only one who is conscious of this preplanned reality. The only frikkin' player, while the rest of...well everything is like the obstacle that needs to be conquered to get to the next level. If you 'pass an exam' you get to roll the dice again. But wait, now you've gone and done something stupid, haven't you? Well guess what, you lose a turn and you've got to grow up now. You pushed someone off a building - well we're never going to run out of penalties. This time, you get to accept adult responsibilities and...and file your tax returns. Yes, you have to pay taxes, you moron. You're not a child anymore. That last penalty was supposed to fix your 'misconception', remember?! Last chance. Roll the dice. You know you want to know how the game ends. If it ends, that is. You won't know till you've rolled the goddamn dice. Oh no. A six. The snake pulls you back down to the beginning. You've got to do it all over again, only this time it'll be even harder. No, this is not a do-over. What are you, delusional?! This is how the creators of the game like to teach you the lessons of 'life'. Yeah, life. How the hell should I know what life is? I'm the narrator, I'm your conscience. I'm you. I only know what you know. That omniscient being, the one who's supposed to be guiding you - he doesn't really exist. Or does he? Who knows...You know what? Focus on the bloody game. Keep playing that game, fat boy. Respect the rules of the game. You say you don't know the rules. Who do you think you're fooling? You knew the lies would stop working one day. Perhaps the day has come...perhaps you are destined to relive everything, only this time you don't get to be ignorant. This isn't one of those asinine learning experiences; you don't get to be innocent. Basically, this is the biggest lie ever. The sad part is, this is the only truth you know. The only...well the only piece of information available to you. It's not anyone's responsibility to make it any easier for you. You're expected to tough it out. You're afraid of 'real life'. Fine. Convince yourself you can avoid it. Cling to every last chance, every little thing that gives you the opportunity to deny the existence of that thing we like to call the 'future'. Where's Godot when you need him? Damn you, Samuel Beckett. You and your lies. Estragon could be eating cake right now. But no!

Study, young one. Study. Study till you've got nothing left to live for, and you haven't got the guts to die. Wait, that's the case now, isn't it? Shit. The human mind is full of it. Would things be this aggravating if I was a rock? I can still be a rock if I want to be, can't I? A reclusive rock; no words, no sounds, no acknowledgment of...well...anything. Calvin really is light-years ahead of us all, eh? Where's the damn transmogrification machine when you really, really need it, eh? Nothing is really going to fix this. Fix what, you may ask? And who the hell gave you the permission to say anything, let alone question me? I am me, you are me, I am you. Yup, it's that screwed up.

Welcome to my world! The one where I talk to myself, and annoy the hell out of myself. Amusing, isn't it? Yeah, I bet a couple of sadists might get a laugh out of something like this. Indecision. I hate it. I hate it all! With every fibre of my being. The question that questions the existence of 'my being' still floats around this room. It dances with the dust, and begins to settle, only to be blown away by some lanky guy with a shitty immune system, who just had to sneeze. And then he leaves, taking every last shred of sanity with him. Yup. Nothing ever really made sense, did it? Guess what : it wasn't really supposed to.

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 23:09:00 +0000

A Silly, Far-Fetched, Rhyming Rant

Out of the frying pan,
And into the fire.
The consequence of a half-baked plan,
Of unrealistic desire.

Making all sorts of claims,
“My tears can heal!”
Now I’ll have to change my name.
I’ll have to change it for real.

They want proof of my powers,
Of my healing tears,
We’ve been waiting for hours
Not a droplet appears.

Damn these womenfolk,
I can’t cry in front of them.
I’ll be the butt of every joke.
Wait. What about phlegm?

I’ll say, “You heard me wrong,
I’m a dude; a phoenix with pride,
I don’t cry, or break into song.”
And then I’ll take them ladies aside.

“It’s actually the phlegm that fixes all,
Every itchy, scratchy wound.
It even stops the worms, mid-crawl,
Especially handy when marooned.”

“The other guys are jealous
‘Cause tears are all they’ve got.”
And then the ladies’ll be all zealous.
I’ll ruffle my feathers, on the spot.

A casual ruffle, mind you,
Nothing unnecessarily fancy.
And I’ll throw in a burning-day demo too-
Just for that redhead, Nancy.

Maybe I’ll wink instead
But aren’t they passé, those winks?
How I wish I were dead!
Wait, I can’t die. Man this stinks!

I’m sure they’ll ask for proof.
And when I can’t cough it up
I’ll become “That good for nothing goof.”
I’ll be worse off than Bob, and he’s a schlup!

Eh! Screw the phlegm, and all the drama.
Screw the glorious undivided attention.
Screw the ladies (I wish!), I’ll be the avian Dalai Lama,
Once I’m done blaming it all on fluid retention…

So, no stupid frying pans.
And definitely no fires today.
No half-baked, bird-brained plans.
I’ll be a good little phoenix. Yay?

1. The topic said 'nonsense poetry'. I took that VERY seriously. Obviously.
2. I have nothing against phoenixes or any such magical creature. I was trying to write something that would work for both competitions...
3. I have nothing against "Bob"s either. Perhaps I was craving a palindromic name...subconsciously, of course.
4. Urban Dictionary.com tells me 'schlup' is actually a word, and not just a rare surname. I've used it to mean 'a lazy burden on society'.

Reservation For Two

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 01:28:00 +0000

He guided her into the apartment, all the while making sure that the scarf covered her eyes properly. He wanted everything to be absolutely perfect, and he had been looking forward to surprising her all week. As he steered her towards the dining room, she felt around with her hands, smiling inwardly every time she recognised a corner, remembering a moment the two of them had spent together in that particular part of the apartment. This was the night she had been waiting for the past two years.
He carefully untied the scarf, and as she took a moment to readjust her vision, innumerable candles were lit, one by one. She looked around the room slowly, eventually settling her gaze on his face. It was calm. He looked content.
“I’ll go grab us a couple of glasses and then we can get the evening started,” he said, as he walked towards the kitchen.
“A little drinking, a little conversation and then we’ve got reservations at that French place you love,” he continued.
The sound of cupboard doors being opened and closed was punctuated only by the clinking of expensive crockery. She was still staring off into the distance, with a smile fixed on her face. The vibrating buzz of his phone woke her out of her reverie. She decided to check if it was important, and absent-mindedly picked the instrument up. One look at the screen brought it all back.
He returned from the kitchen, with two wine glasses balanced delicately between his fingers. He started to make a joke when he noticed how white her face had suddenly become.
“You lied to me.”
“What are you talking about Marissa?”
He carefully kept the glasses on the table.
“I trusted you when you told me you’d stopped seeing her, and you decided that meant it was okay to lie to me. How could you David? I trusted you…”
“It’s not how it looks. I’ve told you a thousand times, she’s a patient. I can’t ignore her because you think we had some sort of fling. Now don’t let this ruin our evening. Please.”
He sounded exasperated, as if this conversation were something he’d had to deal with every single day of his life.
“So you think I’m overreacting. You think I’m making this entire thing up? Obviously she wouldn’t overreact right? It’s always been her. What was this evening, David? You giving me one good night before you left me for her?”
She was crying hysterically now, her voice becoming more hoarse with every word she screamed at him.
“Don’t do this sweetheart. You know I love you. You have to trust me when I say there is absolutely nothing going on between me and Anne. She’s just a patient. Come on now. Calm down. Please,” he said, “just calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! Don’t ever tell me to calm down. You and I both know that she was the first woman in your life. I was the rebound girl, wasn’t I? And now you’ve realised she’s the one for you…”
She didn’t know what to do with her hands; she started alternating between running them through her short brown hair and tracing the curves of the crystal vase that sat on the table closest to her.
“Marissa, honey, you know I love you more than anything else in the world. Why are you doing this?”
“Shut up, David. Just shut the hell up.” She threw the vase at him as she screamed this. He managed to duck in time, and the vase crashed against the wall.
She looked around for a moment before chucking more expensive crystal-ware at him. He avoided her ever improving aim deftly.
“Why can’t you just be honest with me?”
“What do you want me to say, Marissa? Do you want me to admit I’ve been sleeping with her? I’ll admit it if that’s what you want. I slept with her. Are you happy now?”
He leaned against the window, rubbing his eyes methodically.
She walked up to him, slowly, steadily. Her approach had purpose, and she had regained her composure.
“You lied to me.” Her voice was monotonous. Her face betrayed no emotion any longer.
“I can’t trust you ever again.”
That half hour ended with a final crash. And then all was silent.

* * *

She started wiping down every exposed surface she could spot. While vacuuming the dining room, she started thinking about what she’d do next. Cleaning always helped her sort out her thoughts. Once she was satisfied with the way everything looked, she walked into the bedroom and got dressed. That lovely red dress David bought her for her last birthday would finally be worn today. She even had the pearls to match.
She walked out of the apartment building, smiling at the doorman. Philip had always been a helpful old man, and even today, he offered to hail a cab for her.
A few minutes later, she stepped out of the vehicle and found herself staring at the French restaurant David had brought her to for their first date. She’d always loved this restaurant.
While she waited at the bar to be seated, she started thinking about how she’d deal with Anne. A stern warning perhaps. No. That wouldn’t be necessary; not anymore. Just as she was trying to recall where David kept his patient files, the hostess called out for her.
“Maxwell. Reservation for two?”
She got up and walked towards the dining area with the perfect smile on her face. As she walked past the hostess, she quietly muttered, “I’ll be dining alone this evening.”

Best Laid Plans

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Tue, 20 May 2008 17:53:00 +0000

Written for the weekly theme contest on IAW. This week's theme was 'Architecture'.

The last stretch of my journey began at the carved archway. An archway that boasted of exquisite craftsmanship, of trained artists, of glistening marble, and of ornate myths I was told to believe in. It was the last opportunity for me to reconsider my decision. It was the last physical landmark that separated my imprisonment from my freedom.

I walked on the cobblestone pathway that took me through that carved archway, through elaborately designed landscapes with grassy hosts waiting at exact intervals. I walked on the muddy trail that led me through towering greenhouses flaunting exotic flora, through pre-planned forests where everything dutifully did as it was told. I walked on gravel roads that guided me as I crossed perfectly quaint bridges, as I parted chlorinated pond water so pure one could drink it. I walked slowly, but steadily towards the beautiful mansion that would soon be my new home.

The mansion itself was, perhaps, the most magnificent sight of them all. Extending beyond anything the naked eye could mark as an edge or boundary, it had forced everything around it to bow down in submission. Every stone exuded a sense of control. Every gilded window invited you to peer in, but if you were brave enough to take up the offer, it seemed as if the window itself was judging you for falling prey to its enticements. These uncountable windows served to highlight the fact that there was only one door. One door that opened into the house, and then closed with a resounding finality, thereby making you the mansion’s next adornment.

I remember the days when I took sunlight, and fresh air for granted. I remember the days when I wished I had a roof over my head, and three meals a day. I remember the day I chose to serve this Lord over the one I truly believed in. I remember the day I chose luxury over freedom- the day I succumbed to the allure of this man-made hell.

Order

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Fri, 16 May 2008 01:07:00 +0000

Another piece I was unable to submit, due to blasted time zones, and laziness. Oh well, this is why we have blogs. I haven't done any research, or reading, so this character and his habits are completely fictitious. I'm experimenting with sentence fragments, so if you do comment, mention if they work. Thanks.

No. Stop. Halt. We must restart. We must begin from the beginning. We must recommence. First we blink six times, three times for each eye.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Blinking is important. We must blink if we want to do this properly. We must walk to the washroom in nine steps. Not eight, not ten. Nine steps. Note to self, we must sterilize the washroom. In fact, we must do it now. And then we must restart. And then we must begin from the beginning again. And then we must recommence.
The washroom is clean. It is sparkling. And clean. No germs. None whatsoever. We are pleased. We must return to the bedroom quickly. Now, back to what we were doing. Back to what we were doing, in that exact, ritualistic and ordered manner. Exact, ritualistic and ordered manner - exactly 33 characters including the comma. We are pleased yet again. 33 is a good number. 3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24, 27, 30, 33, 36, 39, 42, and 45 are also all good numbers. There are other good numbers, but these are the first 15. 15 is a good number. We would list more, but then it will no longer be 9:15 pm, and we will have to wait till it is 9:18 pm to restart. To begin from the beginning. To recommence.
First we blink six times, three times for each eye.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
We can see everything. We must walk to the washroom in nine steps. We must walk to the clean washroom in nine steps. We must walk to the sterile bathroom in nine steps. We must remove the toothbrush from the shelf. We must remove the toothbrush swiftly. We must take care not to infect the toothbrush. We must then proceed to disinfect the toothbrush. Disinfect. 9 letters. 9 is a good number.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Side-to-side. Side-to-side. Side-to-side. 3 minutes on the left. 3 minutes on the right. 3 minutes on the molars in the upper jaw. 3 minutes on the molars in the lower jaw. 9:27 pm.
We must replace the toothbrush. The toothbrush must be positioned on the shelf. The toothbrush must be in its place. Everything in its place, just the way it should be. Order is good. Everything in its own place.
Nine steps to the bedroom. Those same nine steps. Left foot forward. Right foot forward. It's like a mesmerizing pattern. Mesmerizing pattern. 18 letters. 18 is a good number. The bed calls to me. No creases. No wrinkles. No crinkles. No wreases? No. We cannot just make up words. We cannot invent them. We must use words that exist. What if everyone started to invent and make up things? No. We cannot have that.
The yellow sheets. No creases. No wrinkles. Perfectly yellow. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly perfect. 3 steps to the bed. It is almost time. 9:29 pm. We must wait a minute. We must not rush things, or else we may have to restart. Everything has to be done in an exact, ritualistic and ordered manner. Yes, we agree. We must be patient. 9:30 pm.
We must climb onto the bed, carefully. No creases. No wrinkles. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly perfect. We must tuck the blanket underneath us. No corners poking out. A perfect cocoon. We must find the light switch now. Ah. There it is. Right where we left it. Right where we told it to be. Right where it is supposed to be. The light switch must come to us. Click. Now darkness. Click. Now light. Click. Now darkness. Click. Now light. One more darkness, and one more light. Then an extended period of darkness. Then sleep. Then tomorrow, and all the opportunities for perfection that tomorrow brings. Extended period of darkness. 24 letters. 24 is a good number. Perfect.
We must time this well. Both eyelids must collapse simultaneously, in synch. Synchronization. 15 letters. Left eye- ready. Right eye- ready. May the collapsing commence. Countdown. 30. 27. 24. 21. 18. 15. 12. 9. 6. 3. Now. Wonderful. Synchronization achieved. We are pleased. We are very pleased. We must now say goodnight to everyone. To the people who visit us everyday. To the people who don't visit us everyday. To the tables that keep us company. To the perfect yellow sheets. We must say goodnight to everyone. Goodnight everyone. We will meet you in the light. In the light of the morning. In the light that shoos away the darkness. Shoos. 5 letters. 5 isn't a good number. In the light that drives away the darkness. Drives. 6 letters. 6 is a good number. Perfect.
Before we forget, we must wish each other goodnight. Where's the civility when we don't wish each other goodnight. We're all we have.
Goodnight, Shadow.
Goodnight, Sir.

Promise

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Wed, 07 May 2008 12:09:00 +0000

A promise that promises to be mine forever more
A promise that promises to remain unfulfilled...

The secrecy, the silence, the soothing symphony
Embraces of compliance, a humble soliloquy
In the folds of curtains, placating promises will dwell
Acutely uncertain of the assurances you sell
From the depths of the still air, your false odes still resounding
As you whispered that you cared, sincerity astounding
In my pillow's feathers, I search for your consolations
Against my will I'm tethered, I hide from these sensations
Kindling my blind faith in you, I cling to all that you were
Unaware of what you'll do- every promise now a blur.
I falter, I trip, I stumble; finding answers unknown,
Meaning hidden in mumbles. I know nothing's set in stone,
Yet I take comfort in your promises. Though lies they may be,
To me they mean that you bother trying; they mean you're with me.

Silhouetted, She Stands

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Tue, 06 May 2008 20:35:00 +0000

Based on my interpretation of the Ezra Pound poem I have posted on here before.

In a crowded metro station, during the evening rush hour, the flickering tubelights illuminate all that is wrong with the public transportation system. Waves of passengers make their way around me. Women in suits and scarves, walk by briskly, avoiding my gaze. The men wear hats that leave the exact contours of their faces to the imagination of the beholder. That is all it is now, a crowded metro station.

I stand there, unable to move. Eventually, crowds become individuals, I hear footsteps that stand out from the collective clacking of expensive high heeled footwear. Faces are no longer incomplete sketches; the artist has finally managed to fill in the details and paint in the colours. He's probably all out of black paint. It feels like the world has passed me by in that moment. And yet, I stand there, unable to move.

My eyes wander aimlessly. An efficient and trained voice informs me of my train's arrival. The masses freeze; they're prepared to make a run for it. She is a sudden apparition of gold in the endless sea of black, in those faces, in those footsteps. A golden yellow glow, offset by her auburn hair. As I stare at her, the individuals coalesce again, into one crowd. She stands silhouetted against the dark masses. I blink and she's gone. The metro station is empty now, with no signs of the moments that have passed. My wait is extended. My eyes continue to wander aimlessly, searching for that apparition, for that silhouette.

Moonlight Sonata

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 06:02:00 +0000

(I have been listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata for the past half hour, and I don't think I've ever felt this serene. Anyways, I was expressing what I thought the music meant to Petra on MSN...and then that kind of morphed into this. It's so far from perfect that perfect isn't even a dot in the distance, but it is definitely heartfelt. For those of you who haven't yet heard the beauty that is this song...here's a youtube link...)

The air is cold and dry, devoid of the comforting whispers one usually associates with it. Not even the ocean dares to disturb the song of silence. The crashing waves are muted; their invitations to the sand remain unheard. The moonbeams filter through our defenses, an innocuous spotlight. But the clouds object to this act, and promptly protect our solitude from the unwanted illumination. We are truly alone now, just you and me. No audience, no company. Just the refreshing loneliness.
We walk on the dark and desolate beach, and contemplate the meaning of life, reliving all the memories we cherish, remembering every smile, hug, kiss and love...
And we sigh because of how beautiful these thoughts are, and how they complete us in more ways than one. We wonder where the years have gone. We wonder how we let it all slip away from us. We wonder why the last farewell wasn't good enough. And then we remember the faces, we remember the touch. We walk slower, dragging our feet through the sand. We tighten our grip on each other and make quiet promises. And then the horizon seems to come closer. It is no longer unattainable. The end has neared, and departure is imminent. We come to a standstill. Eyelashes protest as real sights are exchanged for images of the mind. A solitary note is heard, piercing the emptiness momentarily. That one brave tear escapes the confines that bind my emotions. And I feel it all leave me. We turn to face each other. And we have nothing to say.
We leave the beach with wet feet, wishing the walk could have lasted a while longer...

Untitled...as of now

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 05:51:00 +0000

A sea of black. We all sit together- to remember, to cherish, to comfort and to mourn. The specious totality of the cathedral is intimidating. Yet we sit, unaffected. The silent melodies float through the dry winter air, punctuated by the occasional scuffling of feet. A tear or two is shed for show, a comforting glance is exchanged. The service comes to an end.
Slowly the crowds pour out through the double doors. Then emptiness. The cathedral watches as silence and emptiness waltz down the aisle, eventually settling into the corners. The doors reopen; shoes click-clack their way in. Rhythmically they approach the altar. Halt. The polished coffin still rests, undisturbed, unloved. She gazes. She searches. She wonders. She cries. From the folds of her dress, she pulls out a rose. A rose as red as the memories that haunt her.
Emptiness reigns again. The dust has settled, and the coffin has been removed. All that remains is the aftermath- the delicate petals crushed mercilessly, the bare stem- stripped of its thorns. Its mangled remains adorn the cold floor, the only memory of that coffin, of that final encounter.

The Exchange

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 02:50:00 +0000

amyj: So, do you accept defeat? You realise there's no point in arguing right?
thomas26: You wish Amy. You wish...I never accept defeat- because I never lose. Mwahaha. So yeah. You owe me something...;)
amyj: The deal was that the loser would give the WINNER whatever the WINNER asked for. We both know you couldn't possibly be the winner...which leaves me. So I think it is you who owe me something.
thomas26: Don't make me hurt you! Not in front of the boss. Give it to me! NOW!!!
amyj: But you lost the bet. :P
thomas26: What if I told you I had something to offer you? Kind of like a compromise...
amyj: I'm listening. Type oh sore loser! I give thee permission.
thomas26: Hey! I am being nice here. So no mean-ness.
amyj: Yeah, whatever. Now spill. What is this offer? *acts intrigued*:P
thomas26: I'll give you half of mine in exchange for half of yours. Sound fair?
amyj: I'm going to have to get back to you on that one. Right after I cleverly trick that idiot Jenkins into thinking that I really am working on the report. Gimme a minute.

amyj appears to be offline.

thomas26: This is not fair. You can't just leave me like this. I thought we'd be slackers together- and you kill all my hopes and dreams by pretending to work! *tear*
thomas26: Amy! Come on. My offer was practically irresistible...you know you want it ;)
thomas26: Amy?!
thomas26: :(

amyj has just signed in.

amyj: You're desperate Tommy boy. DESPERATE. Remember, we're in this together. We promised ourselves that yesterday's stash would be our last purchase of the week.
thomas26: I know...but it's only Thursday! :(
amyj: We can do this Thomas. I am pretty sure we can go three days without buying any more of the 'cursed' stuff :P And I'm covered. I mean you're giving me your's too, because of how I won and all.:P
thomas26: Hey! Did you not read the bit about my super-intelligent compromise type plan?
amyj: What plan? Are you trying to get out of giving me what is rightfully mine? You crook!
thomas26: Shut up. And listen/read. I propose we conduct an exchange. I give you half of mine, you give me half of yours. Fair?
amyj: well...I suppose this could be tolerable. But I don't like the green ones. What if my half has only the green ones?
thomas26: Fine. You can pick your half! So do we have a deal?
amyj: I know I am going to regret this Tommy, but....deal! Let me remind you- this is only because I'm stuck being your friend for as long as I can avoid getting fired from this place. And you are forever indebted to me, obviously. Are we clear?
thomas26: Yeah. Whatever. Now get your butt over here. I need my share before you decide to change your mind.
amyj: On second thought, I think I am going to change my mind....;)
thomas26: NO! I'm coming over there. Don't you dare leave me all the horrid blue ones.
amyj: *evil grin*
thomas26: Don't even think about it....

thomas26 appears to be offline

thomas 26 has just signed in

thomas26: You know who we need to pray to? The guys who created Smarties. I mean, seriously. The chocolatey goodness! And the fun of picking out all the pretty colours.
amyj: You know you scare me sometimes. But other times, I am inclined to agree with you. The guy who created gummy bears needs a monument too.
amyj: Hey! I thought we said I wouldn't get any of the green ones. You lied to me!
thomas26: *evil grin* It's all part of the plan Amy. I mean if we want to stick to this 'we-will-only-buy-candy/chocolate-once-a-week' regime, you're going to have to learn to live without the goodness of gummy bears...and that would be the equivalent of sticking a bag of green gummy bears under your nose :D
amyj: I don't think I like you anymore. *tear* It's so green.
thomas26: You lied to me too!!!! There's a blue smarty in here. A blue one! It's so luridly blue....eurgh! How could you?
amyj: This is what is called a fair exchange Tommy boy. And I think I like you again. ;)

In Colour

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 04:27:00 +0000

A remnant of the 'colour' phase that I went through recently. This time, however, I've tried to use the colours to tell a story, rather then tell a story about the colour...
This is unedited as of now because I can't be bothered...I will get down to rereading it in due time. Till then, here goes...

Green is the colour of the pine needles littering the dull beige carpet. Green is the sound of the Christmas carols playing on the radio in the kitchen. Green is the sheen of the torn scraps of wrapping paper, reflecting the fluorescent lights in the room. Green is the curtain adorning the ornate windows- thick, soft and impenetrable. Green are the eyes that gaze into the distance, searching for answers. Green is the smooth silky dress, covering the dead woman who lies spread eagled on the floor.
Red are the scars across her flawless skin. Red is the blood that trickles down the left side of her face, in a tiny rivulet that travels a well worn path. Red is the hair that hangs awkwardly limp, unused to being disturbed. Red is the lipstick smeared across her face, dragged ruthlessly by an untrained hand. Red is the nail varnish on her toes, that isn't yet dry. Red is the ache in his heart, as he watches her die a slow death.
Golden are the shattered ornaments that tell the tale of a struggle. Golden are the expensive jewels that have fallen off the thread that held them together. Golden are the specks in her eyes that no longer twinkle. Golden is the helpless puppy that whines to no avail. Golden is the single strand of hair that escaped the hair-stylist's trained eye, the one that is now covered in the blood that flows from her skull. Golden is the watch that she clutches in a hand that is now experiencing rigor mortis.
Purple are the bruises, well concealed by make up. Purple is the sky that signals the arrival of dusk. Purple is the shirt that is stained with her blood. Purple is the bottle of perfume, sitting on the table, untouched and innocent. Purple is the tablecloth now draped over her body. Purple are the flowers growing in the back garden...
Silver is the shovel that digs a hole. Silver is the knife that lies casually on the beige carpet, unabashedly flaunting the remnants of her blood. Silver is the moon that brings light to the burial site. Silver is the mist in the cold night air. Silver is the sound of a man scared out of his mind.
Black is the colour of her new home. Black is the garbage bag that contains the crime scene. Black are the embers of the now dead fire. Black is the sound of an empty house, the sound of silence. Black is the pain she can no longer be plagued by. Black is the death that nobody will ever know about. Black is the hope that she no longer has. Black is the betrayal he tried to punish. Black is the jealousy that invades his mind. Black is the guilt he hasn't yet had the pleasure of meeting. Black is the ultimate test of faith. Black is the end. Black is one of many beginnings...

I finally have a favourite poem...

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 01:16:00 +0000

So I'm in a regular first year English course, and we do what any other first year English student would- we analyse poetry. Two days ago, I came across a poem that honestly had me spellbound. I mean, it makes so much sense while at the same time being so abstract. Thought I'd post it on here.

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet black bough.

-Ezra Pound

And now I am going to try and cite this properly :P
Pound, Ezra. "In a Station of the Metro." The Broadview Anthology of Poetry. Ed. Herbert Rosengarten and Amanda Goldrick-Jones. Ontario: Broadview Press Ltd., 1993.

Through the keyhole

noreply@blogger.com (:)) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 22:30:00 +0000

He looks agitated. He's pacing. He doesn't know what else to do. His fists are clenched. He occasionally runs his fingers through his unkempt hair. He comes to a standstill. He slowly turns to face her. His hands are now at his waist. He lets out a sigh.
She doesn't realise he's looking at her. She continues to sob quietly. Her face is buried in her palms. Her back is almost arched as she sits on the edge of the bed. She looks up at the photograph on the wall. She runs out of tears. She turns to face him.
Nothing is said. They stare in silence, their gazes unable to bridge the distances between them. The decision has been made. Through this minuscule keyhole shaped window, I watch. I watch as my mother pushes back the stray strands of hair decisively. I watch as my father methodically wipes his spectacles. I watch as they give each other one last look. I watch my life change, a mute spectator on this side of the keyhole.