And so this is what you're searching for.

Reunion

2011-07-17T20:51:00.004+08:00

On your return the clouds are greyer
The wispy beard of tired sky
Watch naked cocoons cling distantly
To the hope of returning butterflies
Just imagine how long has gone
How home became the place that used to be
It's only your footprints in the dirt
That stay the same every time

It is

2011-06-23T21:08:00.003+08:00

When the bright lights get darker

There is a voice that whispers

From the hollow of your skull

Into the crevasse of your chest

There is a knot that murmurs

It is the nightmare in your head

It is the thought you can't forget

It is the fall that never ends

As the shot that pierced your heart

Watches you scream in ecstasy

After Dark

2011-06-01T18:27:00.002+08:00

After dark we gather
In spaces too small to hold
Prop against walls that cling beside
Like lustful ghosts

These whitewashed panels can't comprehend

The feel of tiny hand in hand

Just stand sentinel in silence

Know that some spectacle must be here

As precious touches melt into crevices

And warm fingers connect

Reminders

2011-04-19T07:04:00.006+08:00

Reminders

Where am I?

Just to check that I haven’t lost my mind completely I force myself to ask the question Who am I? and surprisingly (or not) I am able to answer that perfectly; I’m the same person I’ve always been. I’m twenty-four this March, and I’ve just finished my last few years of school. After a short vacation at my uncle’s house in the city (which I’ve never been to, strangely) I’ll be applying for jobs, taking my final step into the world of adulthood.

In fact I’m hardly the kind of person that would be asking that sort of questions. Generally I keep within my own familiar spaces and to a small circle of friends, so nothing foreign ever really occurs to me. Truth be told my rather routine life is something I enjoy very much – sudden surprises or changes from my regular lifestyle don’t sit well with me at all.

Right now, however, I’m lying in a bed that’s not my own, in a room that I have never seen before. The room is fairly well-lit, although there are no windows of any kind. In fact when I glance around the room I can’t even seem to find an electrical light source, which is strange.

What is stranger, however, are how the walls and door and pieces of furniture are all dotted with yellow squares – at first I thought they were part of the wallpaper but upon closer inspection I see Post-It squares, littering the entire room.

My first thought is I’ve been kidnapped.

My second thought is But how?

All my senses are alert now; as I scramble out of the bed I try to remember how I could have ended up here. At the same time I lift up my shirt and scan my body for any bruises or gashes. On both counts I find nothing.

In fact I’m wearing perfectly ordinary clothes, my own t-shirt and jeans. I jam my hands into my jean pockets, wondering if my phone is inside either of them. Nothing.

And that’s when I see it.

There’s a massive blotch of blood on my jeans, just below the left knee. After I instinctively bend low to sniff it, and then scratch at the area with my nail, I conclude that it’s been there a long time. Then I roll up my jean leg and inspect the area of my calf underneath, but there are no wounds there either.

Nervous now, I stumble over to the door of the room and jerk the knob – it’s locked. A flurry of kicks fails to create any give in the door either.

Where am I?

I slump to the floor, my back sliding against the door as I do so. Just as I reach the ground one of the Post-Its from the door comes unstuck and flutters to the ground in front of me.

I pick it up, and read, in large handwritten block letters, the single word PANIC.

“Shit.”

The word escapes my lips and is followed by a string of more nervy, more explicit curses, directed to no one in particular.

So I’ve been kidnapped by some sort of perverse maniac.

I force myself to look back at the locked door and there’s a second Post-It there, right around where the first one came from. I rise and see, written like the first, the word DON’T in big block letters.

The first realization comes quickly and easily – the words stuck on the door were meant to be read together.

The second realization creeps up on me slowly like a venomous snakebite and is much more difficult for me to comprehend.

I don’t think I’m kidnapped.

The third realization takes nearly a full minute of peeling and pasting both notes on the wood of the door over and over again to fully process, and when it does it hits me hard and fast like a fist in the face – despite the fact that both words were written completely in capital letters I slowly recognize them as my own writing.

I’m sitting back on the ground again and for the umpteenth time I stick my hands into my jean pockets, hoping to find my phone. As I pull my hands out futilely a scrap of folded paper which I’ve somehow missed falls out.

I unfold it; the words are in my own handwriting as well.

DON’T PANIC

If you haven’t recognized the handwriting by now, I’ll have to tell you that it’s me, Past Me, writing to you, Future Me. The reason why this is necessary is because in recent days I (or you, or we) have had such severe short-term amnesia that by now I (or rather, you) should be unable to recall anything that has happened since I began staying at my uncle’s house.

Yes, this is my uncle’s house. And you’re not really kidnapped or locked in – the key to the door is in this room for you to unlock it once you get acquainted with several… pieces of information I have left for you. That’s what the Post-Its are for – I’ve locked myself in until I can resolve my memory problems.

I know this sounds ridiculous, but good luck with our condition, Future Me. May you have more success in overcoming it than I did.

ME.

I reread the note over and over again but still none of it makes any sense. Around this time I stuff the note back into my pocket and try the door again (still locked) and realise that looped loosely around the doorknob is a thin thread, at the end of which is strung a small key.

I swear, mostly out of relief. Then when I unhook the key and it fails to fit into the keyhole of the door, I swear again.

“Damn this shit!”

Just as I’m about to toss the key out of the window (which doesn’t exist) I see on the dresser beside the door another Post-It with the words UNLOCK ME.

This must be the most depraved incarnation of Alice in Wonderland ever.

The dresser drawer unlocks with the key, and there’s another message inside. This time it’s not on a piece of paper, but written into the very wood of the base of the shelf.

The first thing you need to know is that this probably isn’t the first time this has happened. In fact it’s very likely that you’ve had several relapses since the amnesia began.

(at the side of the sentence are two scratches in the wood; after some thought I make another scratch in the wood with the dresser key)

It is absolutely critical that you, the Future Me, follow the following instructions precisely – this would probably be the only way for you to break out of this cycle of relapses and not-remembering. So I need you to trust me completely and believe that these messages were written in a period of lucidity, before the amnesia began.

The actual name for the condition is Dissociative Fugue – somehow as I began staying in my uncle’s house there began to be periods where I would be in a state I can describe only as “there but not there”, with no recollection whatsoever of the events that transpired. These periods occurred almost at random; I might be perfectly fine and all of a sudden I would awaken hours, or even days later, with no idea what happened in between.

I can only guess that something terrible, really awful must have happened during those periods that forced my mind to remove the scenes from my memory.

Soon, my condition worsened, and I began to lose my memory of the lucid periods as well, and was only able to recall them from the notes I left for myself around the house, and even so for much of the time I wandered around being unable to make any sense of what was going on.

The worst part was that somehow in the midst of everything my uncle disappeared, which was impossible because

(here the steady writing ends, and there is a large block of space before the final two words, which are scrawled in what I have to believe is my own writing as well)

oh no

Fairly uneasy, I push the drawer shut and hear a small click; it’s self-locking. I sit on the bed for a moment, and think about my situation. If I’ve relapsed before, there must have been a way I’ve been surviving in this room for so long. And with no windows, how am I breathing?

How am I breathing?

After scanning the walls and ceiling and finding nothing I get on my hands and knees and look around the floor for an air vent or any sort of mechanism that fresh air could be coming from.

And then I find it. There’s an air vent tucked behind the bed, between the legs. As I crawl near it the air around me grows just a little chillier and before I spot it another Post-It square flutters towards me, getting stuck on my nose. The words on it are written in a scrawl as well, in contrast to the previous notes.

NO wAY OUt heRE

“Shit.”

I shut my eyes for a moment, force myself to breathe slowly, force myself to try to remember something, anything about what could have brought me into this room.

And then I actually do remember a flash of something. In my mind’s eye I see myself in the exact same position, crouching by the bed in front of the air vent. Only that the Post-It note is still stuck on the air vent, and, and –

In my memory the room is almost exactly the same, only darker.

It is about this time that I remember being unable to find any sort of source of natural or electrical light in the room, which my mind tells me is impossible. Firstly, because I can see everything perfectly well, and secondly, because

Because I am casting a shadow.

I look up at the ceiling again and realise that there’s a ceiling light right there – how could I not have noticed that before? Then I scan the walls for a light switch and find one just above the dresser, helpfully marked with a Post-It saying LIGHT SWITCH.

When I flick the switch off the entire room goes black and my eyes take a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness. Then after a few moments I realise that the room isn’t completely dark – the wall closest to the bed is swarming with a whole cloud of fireflies. Then when I walk closer I realise that it isn’t fireflies but rather a scattered block of writing, sentences written in a sort of glow-in-the-dark ink that must have been invisible in the light.

There’s no more neat writing here; every single word is written in a painful scrawl that is agonizingly difficult to decipher.

If you manage to read this, it means that there still is some hope left. I’m writing this as a sort of last resort and I hope against all hope that you’ll happen to come across it before you open the door and let yourself out.

I’m writing this while the door is still locked – I haven’t unlocked it yet, although I’ve found the key. Because what you must know, and what you MUST pay attention to, is this: I’m not the same person that wrote all the other notes. Even now I cannot remember writing those words at all, although the handwriting is unmistakeably my own.

The thing I’m afraid of, and the thing I think the Past Me was trying to explain, was that somehow unlocking the door and venturing out of the room causes some sort of relapse and triggers the distortion of my memories.

So this is what I’m going to do – I’m going to unlock the door and venture out with my eyes tightly shut and try to get out of the house as fast as I can. Hopefully that will help me to get out of here safely.

But if you’re reading any of this at all, it also means that I’ve failed. The very fact that you’re looking at these words means that we’re stuck back inside the room again because somehow in the midst of leaving the room something happened that triggered the amnesia all over again.

So this is what I need you to do. Once you unlock the door, SHUT YOUR EYES AND MAKE A RUN FOR IT. No matter what happens, don’t look back until you’re sure you’re safely out.

IF YOU FAIL WE START ALL OVER. Do you understand? The future of everyone, including Past You and Future You and (most importantly) Present You is in your hands.

(the final words are written in much fainter ink)

I’ve painted the door key with the remains of the glow-in-the-dark ink. So even if I’ve forgotten everything, you should still be able to find it somewhere in the room.

The key is nestled near the bottom of what I can only presume is a sort of cupboard or small wardrobe. I make my way back to the light switch and when the light comes back on I walk over to the cupboard to pick up the key and on the cupboard door there’s a Post-It note with the words EATS.

By now this feels like the best thing that’s happened all day.

When I open the cupboard I realise that it isn’t a small wardrobe but a rather large refrigerator, which to my dismay is nearly empty. There’s just the one bagel left inside, which I pick up and place on the bed for later.

Back at the door the key slides in perfectly into the keyhole and I nearly wet my pants with the tension. After unlocking the door I am just about to push it open when I have a brief thought and remove the key, leaving it on the bed beside the bagel.

I can barely turn the knob; my hands are shaking too furiously.

I open the door and walk out. I’m finally out of the room.

I’m finally

finally

I can barely turn the knob; my hands are shaking too furiously.

But even when I steady myself and grasp the knob with both hands, it refuses to turn – the door is locked. I’m locked inside the room.

I’m trapped inside a locked room.

But how? And where?

For a brief moment I’m distracted from my predicament by a strong, unpleasant odour; it’s almost as if something is rotting and decaying right inside the room. Looking for the source of the smell I find a bagel on the unmade bed in the centre of the room – it must have been left there for ages. But beside it I do find a key, which looks like it might fit into the door.

So much for being trapped.

It’s around this point where I realise that I have no idea how I got locked inside the room. I try my hardest to recall the events that could have led up to my being trapped but come up with nothing.

Perhaps unlocking the door would provide me with the answers.

Just as I’m about to put the key into the door and let myself out, I see a yellow square of paper on the ground. At first glance it’s completely blank but when I bend down to touch it my finger gets stuck on the adhesive and I realise that it’s a Post-It note.

I flip it over and there’s writing on the other side. It’s an untidy scrawl but I eventually make out the words NO wAY OUt heRE.

I wonder where that came from.

In any case it hardly matters as I stick the key into the keyhole and unlock the door, pushing it open and now

now

now I wonder who that man is, lying just outside the door. His face is almost completely eaten by flies.

Porridge Man

2011-03-28T23:13:00.002+08:00

Porridge Man

This

is the house that Jack rents -

Where the dirt on the windows

and the floor of muck

Congeal into the thick mealy oatmeal-cereal in his cup;

Here Jack the porridge-man stirs each day

Looking at (his) spittle on the floor

bubble on sultry days

This

is the rent for Jack's house,

Which is stared at day and night as

Jack

Waits for the monthly delivery

Of the packet that will pay his bills and maybe,

maybe

He would like to visit the doctor for the pain in his feet.

This is the Jack that rents house,

Who, seated, stirs and wonders what manner of madness

Has transformed his once-job and once-children

Into the glass-eyed shiny-teeth man on television

Who says you are what you eat.

Cut

2011-03-03T10:36:00.006+08:00

Cut

The worst thing about the queue outside a barbershop is the bad hairstyles you see. It’s like normally out in the street everyone’s hair seems normal but once you get to the salon, wham! Out pops Mohawk Guy. Afro Guy. Comb-over guy.

I’ve been sitting outside for twenty minutes, on one of four bar stools probably stolen from the pub down the street. On the left of Comb-over.

It’s funny how no one ever talks to anyone else while they’re waiting to cut their hair. You’d think the bar stools and bad lighting would make the place close enough to a pub to provoke at least some conversation. All that’s missing are the beer bottles.

On the other hand, maybe no one ever talks to anyone around here because there aren’t any women to pick up here. Otherwise the barbershop would be just as noisy and popular on Friday nights as any other nightspot.

A man walks into a barbershop and says –

Comb-over lights a cigarette, the embers glowing in the muskiness of the evening. Maybe talking to him would make the time pass quicker, at least a little. I clear my throat.

“There’s a bar in barber. Have you ever thought of that?”

Comb-over stares.

“And there’s beer in barber too. Bar-beer. Isn’t that funny?”

Now Afro Guy is staring at me too.

“It’s a joke. You know what, forget it.”

I turn and look back into the store – the sight of the barber cutting hair suddenly becomes immensely interesting. Out of the corner of my eye I see Comb-over resume smoking.

“Next!”

I rise and open the door, and the string of bells hanging on the door jingles as it swings. What do you call those things, anyway? Door bells? Door ornaments?

“You’re not the next in the line; I didn’t see you in the queue. That guy came before you. That guy with the bad hair.”

Which guy? They all have bad hair.

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes, man. I was the next in line – I was sitting on the last chair.”

“Can’t help you, sorry. The other guy came first. The guy with the comb-over. Get back into the line.”

The barber motions to Comb-over, who rises and comes in. Maybe that is his real name. I motion towards the barber.

“Hey man, tell him that I came before you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, dude. I came first and I guess you’ll just have to get back into the line.”

Wind chimes. That’s what you call them, wind chimes. I just got confused when they were hung on the door. Or do you call them something else when they aren’t allowed to hang freely and swing in the wind? Door chimes, maybe.

“Well, this sucks.”

I walk out of the shop and into the evening. Perhaps my exit would have been more dramatic if there was a way I could slam the door, but instead all I hear is the tinkle of bells.

It’s already seven-thirty; the barber closes at eight and knowing my luck if I had gone back in line the place would have closed before it was my turn to get my hair cut. I guess Afro and Comb-over probably needed it more than I did anyway.

Instead of resuming my seat, I turn and walk in the direction of the pub, where I’ll be able to get a real bar beer.

About three seconds into the walk my phone rings. I pull it out and where the number should be displayed it says Unknown. I flip it open.

“Hello?”

The voice is female, but husky and in a low register.

“Hello. Who are you?”

“You called me, who is this?”

“I’m Unknown.”

“That’s funny. Seriously, who is this?”

“No, I mean, I’m unknown to you. You don’t know me.”

“Fair enough. Why are you calling me, anyway?”

“I’m going for a cut.”

“That makes one of us, then. Stupid barber won’t cut my hair after I waited for twenty bloody minutes.”

“No, I mean, I’m going to cut myself. I’m at home.”

“I guess that works too. I just don’t have the right scissors at home.”

“I’m going to cut myself, do you understand? I’m going to slit my wrists. I’m going to kill myself.”

“Wow, chill! You’re seriously going to do that?”

“Try me.”

“I’ve heard that it’s really messy and the blood stains all your floor tiles. Seriously, you really want to do this? Don’t kill yourself.”

Around this point I’ve reached the pub and half-squat, half-sit on the pavement outside.

“Actually, I forgot to ask the most important question. Why are you calling me, anyway? Who are you? Don’t you have friends, family to talk to instead of a complete stranger?”

“I’m Unknown.”

“Seriously, now. Can’t you tell at least tell me who you are?”

“I’m serious. This isn’t a private number; I actually am listed as Unknown on your phone. Take a look at your phone – it doesn’t mask the phone number, which is what would happen if I was using a private number.”

I look at the screen on my phone – it does display the phone number under the contact’s name. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Curiouser and curiouser!”

“What?”

‘Alice in Wonderland. “Curiouser and curiouser!” cried Alice, she was so much surprised –’

“You’re on the phone with a dying girl, and all you can think of is a children’s story? You must be such great fun at parties.”

“Wait – you’re dying already? You’ve cut your wrists?”

“Well, the knife is basically in my hand.”

“Ah. How did your number get in my phone anyway? You said I don’t know you.”

“I know you, that’s what matters.”

“Prove it. What’s my name?”

“Well, I know that you’re squatting on the pavement outside a pub. On your right is a blue convertible with two passengers, a couple.”

I jump. On my right the convertible roars past me, and then disappears into the night.

“The license plate of the car is –”

“All right, this isn’t funny anymore. Where are you? How can you see me? Are you in the blue car?”

“You don’t listen at all, do you? I’ve already told you, I’m at home.”

“There aren’t any apartments around here, how could you possibly be at home and staring at me at the same time?”

“Not important.”

“Okay, where the hell are you? And pardon me for asking again, but who the hell are you?”

“Did you see a guy with bad hair on your way from the barber? Really bad hair, sort of like an afro. But really bad.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should talk to him. He looks like the sort of guy who knows what’s what. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

“What will he know? Who you are? How to stop you from killing yourself?”

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll hang up right now, and get a drink while you kill yourself.”

I shut the clamshell phone with a sharp clack, dusting my pants off as I rise. Then I look at the phone again.

New message from Unknown.

I open the phone, and the message says Seriously. He knows what’s what.

Shutting the phone again (which was the real reason why I bought a clamshell phone – it’s fun just to open and shut it) I walk into the pub, scanning the place for an empty seat.

Just as I’m about to sit down, something strange in my stomach makes me stand and make for the door.

Oh, come on!

The wind chimes hanging on the door of the pub jingle (seriously, are they everywhere?) as I walk out to look for a man with an afro at eight in the evening.

Ten minutes later

At the barbershop, I look all over for Afro Guy but he’s nowhere to be found. I’m just about to ask the barber when a shaven man walks towards me.

“You need something?”

“Yes, have you seen a guy with – wait, it’s you!”

“What?”

“You just got your hair cut! All of it. It’s you!”

Afro Guy (or maybe I’ll call him No Afro Guy now) stares at me strangely for the second time tonight.

“What do you want?”

“Look, I know this is probably going to weird you out, but –”

“Trust me, talking to you, with your bar and beer jokes? I’ve come pre-weirded already. What’s up?”

“Listen – I’ve just got a phone call from a girl I don’t know. She says she’s about to kill herself.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And she said you could help. She said you’d know what to do and what the hell was going on. Man, I don’t know the half of it myself; I’ve no idea who she is, even!”

“This girl, she told you to look for me?”

“Well, not exactly. She said to look for the guy with an afro. That was pretty much it.”

“God!”

No Afro Guy and I look at each other, both wondering who has had a stranger evening.

“Listen, man, I really need you to help me out here. Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“Well, this girl.”

“Yeah.”

“She called you; you’ve still got her number?”

“I guess.”

“You tried calling back?”

“Of course I’ve tried. No connection. Phone’s off.”

“Let me see the number.”

I pass my phone over to Noafro, who notes the number and punches it into his own phone.

“Ah.”

“Great! You know who she is?”

Noafro shows me the screen of his phone, lit up with the digits he has just entered and the single word Jamie.

“Jamie! Is this a friend of yours?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I don’t know any Jamies.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. How could that be possible if you’ve got her number and name stored in your phone?”

“God, I don’t know, all right? How could it be possible that a girl you’ve never met calls you to tell you that she’s going to kill herself and asks you to look for me, a guy you’ve never met? God!”

My shoes scratch on the gravel on the ground as I grind my foot back and forth. I check my watch: eight-thirty. Now it’s so dark outside that the light from the barber’s pole makes my white sneakers seem to glow a grisly red.

Noafro coughs.

“Well, do you have any plans?”

“Not really, I’m kind of exhausted. You?”

“Do you like ice cream?”

At the pub

As it turns out, I do enjoy the ice cream more than the beer I would have bought instead. Or perhaps I should have had a combination of the two. Who would have thought that they would sell such tasty ice cream here? Or is that what they originally meant by the phrase ice cream bar?

The rivulets of melting ice cream trickle down my bowl, streams of pink and white and brown amalgamating and swirling in pools. Amidst the noisy chatter and music I hear Noafro’s spoon clink against his glass bowl, now empty.

“I’ve been thinking – it’s impossible for this Jamie’s name to have been in my phone without me knowing. It’s a rather new phone too – I just got it last week and if I had met a Jamie within the week, well, I’d know.”

“Seriously? You, too?”

“What?”

“My phone. I got it last week, too. It’s basically brand new.”

“Well, aren’t we in a right mess!”

There is silence for a few moments as I resume eating my ice cream. Noafro takes a pack out from his back pocket and lights up, the clouds blowing over his empty bowl. When he speaks again, it’s with the cigarette clenched at the left of his mouth, between his teeth.

“But the ice-cream is good, right?”

“Yeah, it’s great. Listen, I think I’m done with this stuff, after I’m done with my ice cream I’ll just grab a beer and head home, maybe fix some supper.”

“I guess.”

Just then my phone beeps, revolving in circles atop our table as it vibrates in tandem with the beeping.

New message from Unknown.

“Guess who?” My voice comes out shakier than I intend.

“God!”

“Should I read it?”

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

Instead of reading the message, I flip the phone open and hit redial just before it reaches my ear. No dialing tone.

“The bloody phone’s turned off again! It’s almost as if she turned it on just to send the stupid message, and –”

“Well, aren’t you going to read the message?”

It’s a voice message. The same husky, female voice comes on and says After this I shut my phone. Just the six words, softly. Then nothing.

I groan.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Noafro pulls the remains of the cigarette out of his mouth, and dunks it into his bowl.

“Relax, man! You’re all tensed up.”

“Fine. Do you have any ideas?”

“She completed your sentence.”

“What?”

“You were saying. She turned it on just to send the message… and after this I shut my phone.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Think about it. She completed a sentence just after you spoke. She knew you were waiting in line at the barber’s for a haircut. She knew I was having a haircut, goddamn it! She told you to look for a guy with an afro. Me.”

By now the remains of my ice cream have congealed into sticky, semi-solid lumps. Noafro continues speaking.

“She knew when a single car was passing. She… well, can’t you put the pieces together?”

I drop my phone, and it clatters on the bar’s hardwood floors.

The bells on the door jingle again as I hurry out of the pub, half-pulling, half-dragging Noafro behind me.

“If she isn’t down here, there’s only one other place we could possibly find her. There’s a sort of apartment upstairs, I’ve been there before. It’s where the pub owners store their drink crates and spare furniture.”

We run up a flight of external stairs in the near-darkness of the night. Somewhere beneath me I hear a customer complaining that the bar’s Happy Hour has just ended.

“The door’s right here!”

I twist the doorknob with my hand and swing the door open.

“Seriously, bells here too?”

The body’s already slumped face-down on the floor in a massive pool of blood. The knife, covered in red, sits on a nearby crate.

Noafro bends low and reaches out gingerly, touching her bare arm. Almost immediately his arm snaps back, like he’s been scalded.

“Good god. She’s cold as ice!”

He gently flips the body over, rummaging through her jean pockets. Pulls out a wallet and a phone. Thumbs through the wallet, finds her identity card.

I slowly crouch on the floor beside the body, reaching for the other arm. It’s frigid and completely stiff; she’s been dead for hours.

Behind me the bells on the door keep jingling, the only sounds in the otherwise vaporous silence.

2012

2011-03-01T15:46:00.004+08:00

This morning Iran voiced its objections towards the logo for the 2012 Olympics, arguing that it was racist because of its resemblance to the word Zion (which, surprisingly, doesn't refer to the happy city Neo and friends live in in The Matrix).

A case of national/religious trolling? Possibly, considering the fact that it has been four years since the logo was launched and Iran has never had anything to say about it.

But who cares about the 2012 Olympics anyway when we'll all probably be dead before then? In that case possibly it's London that's trolling the world instead, knowing that there's hardly any need at all to make preparations for the event.

Here's the final, incredible secret: if you look at the 2012 logo with one eye closed and squint a bit it spells "LOLZ".

Zynga

2011-02-21T08:59:00.006+08:00

In January 2011 Mark Pincus, the founder of Zynga, was named founder of the year at the annual Crunchies Awards for little more than creating a series of poorly-designed games such as Farmville and Mafia Wars.

His secret? Hiring a behavioural psychologist to channel as much addictive behaviour as possible into a game of questionable graphical or mechanical quality.

If you've had any access to the internet at all in the past three years you'd probably have experienced how aggressively Zynga has managed to promote its various games, from using players as virtual billboards for the game for their Facebook contacts to creating the illusion that the game is free (which, despite the fact that most real-money items in the game are purchased via microtransactions, is not true at all).

When we add this to the fact that the game uses real-time notifications as a soft-sell technique to pressure gamers to return again and again we see an effect not unlike other, more well-documented forms of addiction where victims find that they cannot extricate themselves from, some even taking their obsessions to extreme levels.

And all this for a graphically and mechanically unsatisfying game. If you find yourself agonizing about whether you should replace your barn with one in a different style, it's probably time to either recognize how much money Zynga is earning off its customers by looking up palette swapping on Google, or start a farm for real.

ged

2010-11-27T23:39:00.001+08:00

Snow Patrol - How To Be Dead

Please don't go crazy, if I tell you the truth

No you don't know what happened

And you never will if

You don't listen to me while I talk to the wall

This blanket is freezing, it's been out in the hall

Where you've had me for hours

Till I'm sure what I want

But darling I want the same thing that I wanted before

So sweetheart tell me what's up I won't stop no way

Please keep your hands down

And stop raising your voice

It's hardly what I'd be doing if you gave me a choice

It's a simple suggestion can you give me sometime

So just say yes or no

Why can't you shoulder the blame

Coz both my shoulders are heavy

From the weight of us both

You're a big boy now so let's not talk about growth

You've not heard a single word I have said...

Oh, my God

Please take it easy it can't all be my fault

I haven't made half the mistakes

That you've listed so far

Oh baby let me explain something

It's all down to drugs

At least I remember taking the and not a lot else

It seems I've stepped over lines

You've drawn again and again

But if the ecstacy's in the wit is definitely out

Dr. Jekyll is wrestling Hyde for my pride

Cleaner

2010-10-28T23:25:00.004+08:00

Cleaner

The MediaCorp Subaru Impreza WRX challenge is back with a vengeance (in fact, it always has been for the past eight years since 2002), offering contestants the opportunity to pit their endurance and stamina against competitors from all over the world and win the grand prize of not only a Subaru Impreza WRX sedan, but also bragging rights, personal glory, bragging rights, a place in the Singaporean book of records, and bragging rights.

The actual competition process is simple enough – all participants have to do is place their right hands on the car of their choice and leave them there while praying like mad to God that their grip doesn’t falter. The slightest lifting of a finger, if viewed by one of the scores of patrolling marshals, can be grounds for disqualification.

The contestant that can keep his or her hands plastered on the surface of their chosen cars for the longest wins the coveted sedan (and, of course, bragging rights!) – the catch is that the competition goes on for hours and hours with only a five minute break every six hours for participants to get something to eat, relieve themselves or just stretch their tired hands and legs.

Of course, a sufficiently agile (or creative) individual could somehow manage to attend to all these needs at the same time. The question is, of course, how agile (or creative) one can remain after fifty, sixty, seventy hours of mind-numbing competition.

Thomas and Aaron, both fit and energetic testosterone-charged individuals and close friends since childhood, are two out of the hundreds of contestants taking part in the 2010 edition of this competition that has shown over the years as a wrecker of the will, a destroyer of relationships, and (in almost every case) a show of the tantalizing power of material greed.

As both friends stand beside each other hour after hour in a grotesque imitation of Rodin’s Thinker, we can only imagine what goes on through their minds.

One hour.

“Aaron.”

Aaron turns to hear Thomas speak.

“You know how we have to hold our right hands on the cars?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I dreamt about my right hand last night.”

Aaron laughs.

“Sounds kinky."

“No, I’m serious. I dreamt that I had some sort of special powers, like whatever I touched with my right hand would disappear and appear in my left hand.”

“Like the car you’re touching right now, it would move to your left hand?”

“Exactly.”

“So what happened? That doesn’t sound like a very exciting superpower.”

“Anyway, I was on the run from the military that had found out about my abilities. I found myself running to an apartment block and going to the top floor. Then I knew that the only choice I had was to jump.”

“So, like in every television drama, you jumped.”

“Yeah. I jumped out off the roof. But just as I was about to hit the ground, I found myself stretching out my right arm, so that my right hand would touch the ground first.”

“Whoa. And the ground disappeared and appeared at your left hand? That’s some twisted dream, man.”

“No. That’s when I woke up.”

Six hours.

In the first few hours of the competition each participant has created for himself or herself a list of tasks to do during the first five-minute break, ordering according to urgency and priority. So when the signal is finally given the hundreds of contestants disperse in different directions, choosing to eat, drink, get a smoke, or (for the few that sadly have no clue as to how little time they have) to text-message.

Thomas finds Aaron again in a queue outside one of a dozen outdoor toilets.

“Shit, Aaron. You would have thought that with the number of participants they had, they would at least bother to set up a few more toilets.”

“I’m just thinking about how gross these cubicles would be by the time the sixth or seventh break comes around.

“All clogged up with shit and piss and pimple-pus.”

“And sanitary pads.”

Thomas laughs.

“Now that’s just sick.”

“I think the toilets will be full of them even now. I just hope they clean them between breaks.”

“There’s this public toilet in the coffee-shop near where I live that’s home to a crazy janitor.”

“Crazy janitor?”

“Yeah. Every time I’ve been there he’s stuck in the toilet the whole time, cleaning it like mad and not letting anyone walk in to spoil his work.”

“That’s not crazy.”

“No, it is. He’s literally in there every minute of every hour that the coffee-shop is open, cleaning it over and over again and not letting anyone go in to take a piss. Even the people that work there tell me that the only way they can relieve themselves is to wait until he comes out of the toilet for his lunch or to get a drink. And even then they have to be all stealthy and secretive about it. He’s insane.”

“Sick! I won’t be able to live with that if I were you.”

Fourteen hours.

“Aaron. Tell me a story, man. I’m really bored.”

“I can’t think of anything – I think I’m going to fall asleep. It must be three or four in the morning already.”

“Just tell me something interesting. Something that will keep the both of us awake.”

“I’m serious. I can’t think when I’m sleepy.”

“Mmmph. Forget it.”

“Okay. Did I tell you that my mum had four miscarriages between giving birth to me and giving birth to my sister?”

“Shit?”

“It’s true. That’s why –”

“Wait. I think I’m going to throw up.”

Twenty-three hours.

Thomas fiddles with his phone four minutes into his five-minute break, the packet of food beside him untouched.

“That’s interesting.”

Aaron turns.

“What?”

“Look, the calendar application in my phone has this function where you can put in your birthday and see how old you’ll be ten, twenty years from now by scrolling to whatever year you want to look at. See? In 2034 I'll be fifty-five.”

“Gosh, Thomas. And I thought you were coping well with the competition. You’re going all nonsensical.”

“And look what happens when I scroll to a date really far back in the past – say, 1970. Look! My birthday doesn’t appear.”

“You’re going crazy.”

Twenty-eight hours.

Aaron.

“Honestly I don’t know why I’m still doing this shit. It’s been, what, thirty hours already? Thirty hours without a proper meal and a proper time to piss and whatever.”

Thomas.

“Well I sure know why I’m doing this.”

“Why.”

“I need a bloody car. Last week when I was sleeping on the train on the way home from work, some bitch woke me up and asked me why I didn’t give up my seat to the elderly couple standing nearby. I mean – I was sleeping, damn it! I need a bloody car, if only to get away from these people.”

“Uh-huh.”

"Come on, I need to win this!"

"Go you."

Even later.

“I’m tired, Aaron. I’m so, so tired.”

“How about your dream of owning a car?”

“Screw my dream.”

Thomas drops out after thirty-four hours, and Aaron after thirty-seven.

The competition is finally won by a relatively unknown Chinese man in a little less than eighty hours.

Monopolistic competition

2010-10-27T16:59:00.010+08:00

I thought of something on the way home today.

Let's look at the market structure of one of the largest industries in the world - one that earns $3,000 every second and was so crucial to the US economy that a $5 million bailout was granted from the government for its recovery.

Far less startling, but also notable, is the claim that 12% of the internet is porn.

What's interesting about the pornography industry is its market structure: despite the preeminence of various well-known firms in the market, there is little tendency towards monopoly or a (collusive) oligopoly; instead we see a market where monopolistic competition is enacted, an uncommon sight given the development of the global economy over the past decades.

There are several main conditions for monopolistic competition to exist.

1. Many firms in the market

2. Freedom of entry and exit (no barriers to entry)

3. Each firm produces a differentiated product

And I believe that each of these three conditions are fulfilled here. (1) is obviously fulfilled upon inspection of the industry, but what is more interesting is how conditions (2) and (3) are fulfilled as well.

2. Freedom of entry and exit (no barriers to entry)

Joseph Stigler defined an entry barrier as "A cost of producing (at some or every rate of output) which must be borne by a firm which seeks to enter an industry but is not borne by firms already in the industry" and in practice this usually comes about as a result of the economies of scale enjoyed by other firms in the market due to their large size.

Interestingly, however, as compared to other major industries in the modern economy, "production" in the pornography industry is startlingly labor intensive, with comparatively little use of capital machinery (filming equipment, props, etc.). Thus there are scarce economies of scale available in terms of the procurement of more efficient capital equipment, and thus relatively low barriers to entry in the industry.

These barriers to entry have been lowered even further with the advent of the Internet, which has created the opportunity for any enterprising firm/individual to "enter" the industry and promote their product to consumers at literally no cost.

3. Each firm produces a differentiated product

Even more remarkable is how monopolistic competition is enacted in the industry with the choice of competition over product, instead of over price. Although there is some degree of substitution of one product for another (and thus even in the short run demand is more elastic than in a monopoly), we see in this case product differentiation to such a high degree that consumers demand not the basic good (porn) but pay for specialized products.

A case in point is San Francisco's 12-year-old Kink.com, which reportedly focuses on specialized videos, a selling point which has worked to insulate it from the 2008 recession while other firms saw their demand fall drastically as consumers turned to zero-cost alternatives from pirate sites.

It is thus the constant need for specialization in order to survive that cements the monopolistic competition present in this industry - in order for firms to earn a profit, constant differentiation is required to reduce substitutability and make demand more inelastic (graph 1), a process that has to be continually repeated to prevent profits from being eroded as one's products are imitated (graph 2).

ds

2010-09-05T17:32:00.001+08:00

I found this ridiculously funny.

I always knew I was a geek. Damn.

sdsd

2010-07-25T21:47:00.001+08:00

When you pit mediocre PC gamers against the best console gamers in the same game, guess what happens?

PC wins. (No surprise)

sd

2010-05-22T00:18:00.003+08:00

(You) Steal fleetingly in

With soundless steps

The walls scream silently

At madly swift.

Here one is the same as ten.

In a world of thieves

Even the robbed want company;

In the day of night

I can hear you.

sd

2010-05-22T00:17:00.001+08:00

I just realised the last post was my 200th.

How anticlimatic.

df

2010-04-18T20:04:00.001+08:00

Coldplay - Fix You

When you try your best but you don't succeed

When you get what you want but not what you need

When you feel so tired but you can't sleep

Stuck in reverse.

And the tears come streaming down your face

When you lose something you can't replace

When you love someone but it goes to waste

Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

And high up above earth or down below

When you're too in love to let it go

But if you never try you'll never know

Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

Tears stream, down your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Tears stream down your face and I...

Tears stream, down your face

I promise you I will learn from my mistakes

Tears stream down your face and I...

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you.

dfd

2010-02-21T18:38:00.001+08:00

Die la. No wonder they do so well, even BBC Sport is biased!

fdf

2010-02-18T20:27:00.003+08:00

I just read a review here, about a book that included something I wrote more than six months ago.

It was kind of a demoralizing experience, to be honest. Here's a quote:

"Following from this is a seeming tradition of describing the Merlion as monstrous at worst, and fragmented at best, which reaches an apotheosis in Alfian Sa'at's characteristically forceful image of it as a "post-Chernobyl nightmare". Other descriptions include "an absurd combination of parts" and "misfit offspring" (Liang Yue, trans. Yeo Wei Wei), a "poor exposed thing" (Paul Tan), a "mute mongrel" (Toh Hsien Min), a "mutant myth" (Grace Chua), a "lovechild of a strange coupling" (Marc Daniel Nair), a "mutant, mid-metamorphosis" (Geoffrey Lim), a "monstrous/ mating of scales and teeth" (Nicholas Chiang), and a "bastard statue" (Leon Yuchin Lau).

With such an unlovable façade, no wonder the two poems that most successfully employ the Merlion in writing about a Singaporean identity suggest one filled with either self-doubt or self-delusion."

Which kind of begs the question as to why a book solely on the Merlion was published in the first place. This sentiment is restated shortly after with:

"Furthermore, while several of the poems are fine, lyrical works individually, put together in an anthology, one can't help but notice the marked repetition of themes, images, and poetic devices used in response to the Merlion."

But isn't it logical that any collection of works on a certain theme, say lions or spoons, would have repeated images and concepts? Isn't it true that the reason why you publish collections is to collect and collate these perspectives in the first place?

And the most humorous (and demoralising) part was this:

"A poem may have merits when read on its own, but pale in comparison with a similar work by a more established poet. For example, Nicholas Chiang's "Merlion" flows with conversational ease, yet his final statement that the Merlion:

…is ours, somehow a homely

Reminder of things past and future, lit

With knowledge that we too are crazy

Amalgams of cultures, fitting nowhere,

Wear our misfit minds like this fish its hair.

although lyrical, comes across as a watered-down version of that found in Alfian's poem of almost the same name."

Well, maybe that was because I titled my poem "Merlion poem", stupidly forgetting that it was important to have a title in the first place.

But anyway, an interesting find while Googling my name in a spell of boredom! Hahaha!

df

2010-02-13T09:26:00.000+08:00

Guess what? This blog is still alive!

I promise!

dc

2009-12-07T11:02:00.002+08:00

Mania

Is a family of Hitler's Lego soldiers,

Resplendent in colour-coordinated uniforms,

Gleaming in the light

That reflects off painted-on swastikas

Made with the point of a thin-tipped pen.

In a crevice

A group of naked men and women seat,

Bodies hastily assembled from bits and scraps and pieces

Like playthings -

A puzzle needing a Solution.

sd

2009-11-26T15:07:00.003+08:00

In gambling, it's basic logic that no casino, sports betting agency or lottery allows for individuals to profit in the long run.

Unprofitable systems are achieved by making it such that if you have x amount of money and want to earn enough to get y amount of money, the greatest possible odds that you can get to win that by chance is x/y.

Let’s simplify that.

Taking an example from here, let's assume that there's a gambling house named Butterfly Tortoise Massage and Many Money House where there's a gambling system so simple that all you have to do is:

1. Bet an amount of money

2. Flip a coin

2a. If heads, you lose what you bet.

2b. If tails, you receive double of what you bet.

Looking back up at the words highlighted in red, this system is not profitable as the amount that you bet (x) and the amount that you potentially receive (y = 2x) conform to the ratio 1:2, meaning that overall you should break even.

Now consider this:

"The strategy had the gambler double his bet after every loss, so that the first win would recover all previous losses plus win a profit equal to the original stake."

The Martingale betting system works in that for every loss you make, you double the amount that you bet for your next bet, as shown in the following examples:

SCENARIO 1

1. You bet $1000. You win, giving you an overall profit of $1000.

SCENARIO 2

1. You bet $1000. You lose.

2. You now bet $2000. You lose.

3. You now bet $4000. You win the bet (winning $4000), giving you an overall profit of $1000, having lost $3000 and won $4000.

Although every single scenario will conclude in your winning $1000 (making it possible to win $1000 over and over again, ad infinitum), in reality this system is still governed by the rules of non-profitability: (quoting above) if you have x amount of money and want to earn enough to get y amount of money, the greatest possible odds that you can get to win that by chance is x/y.

This is due to one major constraint on your betting: the amount of money you have before you go broke. Assuming it takes you 10 losing bets to finally make a profit of $1000 on your 11th bid, you would have to be able to absorb a loss of $512000 in the first place.

(another minor constraint, of course, is finding a place that would allow you to place a single bet of $512000 in the first place. Fortunately Butterfly Tortoise Massage and Many Money House doesn't suffer from that problem.)

Consider the following:

SCENARIO

You have $3000. You want to earn another $1000 to get to a total of $4000.

The chance of you winning your first bet (and instantly reaching your target of $4000) is 50% - you have to flip tails on your first go.

The chance of you winning your second bet (and reaching your target of $4000) is 25% - you have to flip heads on your first go, then tails on your second.

The chance of you losing all your money (and preventing you from continuing) is 25% - you have to flip heads for both your first and second tries.

So the chance of you getting $4000 (y) from $3000 (x) is equal to 3000/4000, or x/y.

The most important thing to note is this: while Butterfly Tortoise Massage and Many Money House does not go below the ratio of x/y in terms of payouts, practically every other game of chance in the world does so, giving the house a guaranteed profit.

Let's consider the example of Caterpillar Turtle Massage and Less (but still much!) Money House, that charges a tax of $10 for every $1000 that you bet (which is not an unreasonable amount of money)

SCENARIO

1. You bet $1000, paying $10 tax. You lose.

2. You bet $2000, paying $20 tax. You lose.

3. You bet $4000, paying $40 tax. You lose.

...

4. Having lost many bets in a row, you keep doubling your bets until you bet $64000, paying $640 tax. You win the bet (winning $64000), giving you an overall profit of $1000, having lost $63000 and won $64000. The problem is, you've paid a total of $1270 in tax, meaning that overall despite your winning $1000, you've still made a loss of $270.

I'm not sure what the moral of the story is.

sd

2009-11-26T11:29:00.001+08:00

I'm not dead!

Relient K - Forgiven

Oh yes, I know this tension that you speak of
We're in the palm of a hand making a fist
It'd be best for one of us to speak up
But we prefer to pretend it does not exist

And you can't see past the blood on my hands
To see that you've been aptly damned
To fail and fail again

Cause we're all guilty of the same things
We think the thoughts whether or not we see them through
And I know that I have been forgiven
And I just hope you can forgive me too

So don't you dare blame me for
Prying open the door
That's unleashed the bitterness
That's here in the midst of this
Sometimes we live for no one but ourselves

And what we've been striving for
Has turned into nothing more
Than bodies limp on the floor
Victims of falling short
We kiss goodbye the cheek of our true love

sd

2009-10-18T23:02:00.002+08:00

Ne-Yo - Mad

She's starin' at me

I'm sittin' wonderin' what she's thinkin'

Nobody's talkin' 'cause talkin' just turns into screamin'

And now it's I'm yellin' over her, she yellin' over me

All that that means is neither of us is listening

And what's even worse?

That we don't even remember why we're fighting

So both of us are mad for

Nothing, fighting for

Nothin', crying for

Nothing, whoa

But we won't let it go for

Nothing, no not for

Nothing, this should be

Nothing to a love like what we got

Oh baby, I know sometimes it gonna rain

But baby, can we make up now?

'Cause I can't sleep through the pain

Can't sleep through the pain

Girl, I don't wanna go to bed mad at you

And I don't want you to go to bed mad at me

No, I don't wanna go to bed mad at you

And I don't want you to go to bed mad at me

Oh no no no

And it gets me upset

Girl when you're constantly accusing

Askin' questions like you already know

We're fighting this war

Baby when both of us are losing

This ain't the way that love is supposed to go

Whoa, what happened to workin' it out?

We've fall into this place

Where you ain't backin' down and I ain't backin' down

So what the hell do we do now?

It's all for

Nothing, fighting for

Nothing, crying for

Nothing, whoa

But we won't let it go for

Nothing, no not for

Nothing, this should be

Nothing to a love like what we got

Oh baby, I know sometimes it's gonna rain

But baby, can we make up now?

'Cause I can't sleep through the pain

Can't sleep through the pain

Girl, I don't wanna go to bed mad at you

And I don't want you to go to bed mad at me

No, I don't wanna go to bed mad at you

And I don't want you to go to bed mad at me

Oh no no no

Oh, baby this love ain't gonna be perfect

Perfect, perfect, oh oh

And just how good it's gonna be

We can fuss and we can fight

Long as everything's all right between us

Before we go to sleep

Baby, we're gonna be happy, oh

Baby, I know sometimes it's gonna rain

But baby, can we make up now?

'Cause I can't sleep through the pain

Can't sleep through the pain

Girl, I don't wanna go to bed mad at you

And I don't want you to go to bed mad at me

No, I don't wanna go to bed mad at you

And I don't want you to go to bed mad at me

Oh no no no

dsssssssssss

2009-10-11T22:52:00.015+08:00

HELLO GOD/readers/myself (maybe I'm the only one ever reading this blog), THIS IS A BLOG POST. (btw why were promos so hard?)

For the rest of us, here's something I wrote some time ago. I hope it's interesting.

Ghost

It’s interesting, even surreal how every time you walk alone past the closed doors of a large wooden cupboard it is almost as if it takes advantage of the silence and your solitude to speak, quietly whispering to itself or asking you question after question after question, soft sounds wafting from the monstrous mouths carved on its Chinese handles.

Perhaps one question would be how do we know how to count to a hundred, a thousand, to ten thousand?

(quietly, slowly, the cupboard itself provides its own helpful answers) Most probably we’ve all learnt to count by understanding how each number follows another, allowing us to count up indefinitely to arbitrarily large numbers, beginning and ending at any point.

Or maybe another answer would go we are just recalling our past experiences when we count – perhaps we’ve actually experienced counting up one by one the numbers starting from one, and only just forgotten.

On another day the cupboard goes why are children especially afraid of night and the dark?

(eventually, the answers come) Most probably it’s merely a childhood fear having the same origins as the fear of tigers, or doctors; although here the fear is decidedly more irrational seeing that a tiger can injure you rather severely, but the dark cannot.

Or perhaps there is something very much to fear about the dark, and you’ve only just forgotten.

Sunday

“Daddy?”

I turn around slowly in the vague direction of the voice – it’s eight in the morning and my eyes are still full of sleep. In fact my entire face is invaded by sleepiness and it’s all I can do to try to drive it out of my head. Slowly I make out the form of my daughter standing by the kitchen door.

“Yes Sarah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“What does funny mean?”

I pause a moment, hearing the thump sound of the daily newspaper being delivered to and collapsing on my doorstep.

“Funny, dear? Is it a word you heard at school?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, I guess something funny is something that makes you laugh. I’m actually surprised you didn’t know that word already.”

Sarah scrunches her face into something very much like a four-year-old frown. Four years going on five, actually. It’s her birthday in a month.

“Really?”

“Well, why don’t you tell me what you think the word means?”

Sarah reaches her arm into her nearby bag, pulls out a book, thumbs.

“Here. Look, it’s on this page.”

I look down at the book, pressing my face close to the page in an attempt to see without glasses. I can just distinguish the words Feeling funny, Tom clutched his stomach and ran to the bathroom.

“Oh. Funny. Here, funny means that there is something not normal. It could be strange, even scary.”

Sarah beams.

“Well, I saw a funny man yesterday night, Daddy.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, Daddy. When I was sleeping in my room I heard him open the cupboard door and climb out, so I said hello.”

I smile.

“That’s nice, Sarah. I hope you played nicely with him and shared your dolls and My Little Ponies.”

“Not really, Dad.”

“No?”

“When I said hello to him he didn’t say anything. And it was all dark, I could hardly see him. He just stood there, and then he climbed back into the cupboard and closed the door. I wanted to open it again and look for him but I couldn’t, it’s too high.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. Maybe you’ll see him again tonight, though. Then you can play with him before he goes back into the cupboard.”

Sarah nods.

“For now, though, we’re going to be late for church if we don’t hurry. There, here’re your cornflakes. Let’s get moving!”

Monday

“Daddy?”

“What’s up, dear?”

The caffeine in my morning coffee enters my bloodstream, slowly and methodically waking me up.

Looking down the corridor Sarah looks unnaturally small, a pink blotchy spot against the white walls. It’s especially unnerving when I realize that a combination of her speech and my own actions have made me think of her as more invincible, more invulnerable than she really is.

Or maybe it’s because I had thought for years that the only danger to her life (and mine) was her crazy mother of hers that I had thankfully managed to finally leave behind when she was three.

“I’m not scared.”

“Sure you’re not, dear. But what happened?”

“It’s Monday, see?”

“Uh huh.”

“And yesterday was Sunday. When I told you about the funny man and asked you what funny means.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I’m not scared, not today or yesterday.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re not.”

“So last night when I went to sleep I was keeping a watch out on my cupboard, seeing if the funny man with no face would come back or not.”

I am fully awake now.

“With no face? You didn’t tell me about that.”

“I didn’t see his face until last night, when he got out of the cupboard and walked nearer to me.”

“And he had no face?”

Sarah’s voice trails, becoming softer and softer.

“He had a face, but it had no ears and noses and things.”

“And what happened after that?”

“Nothing, Daddy.”

“Nothing?”

“He just got back into the cupboard and shut the door. That’s all that I saw.”

“Well, if it happens again, tell me, okay?”

“I’m not scared.”

“It’s okay; just tell me if anything happens tonight, all right?”

“I’m okay.”

Sarah turns and walks into the bathroom, and as she walks I can just see the slightest of shivers.

In fact the kitchen grows terribly cold all of a sudden.

Tuesday

There’s something to be said about how unproductive it is to work from home. Even after sending Sarah to school and making myself breakfast and having breakfast and washing up and drinking three cups of coffee I still cannot bring myself to start on my next assignment.

As I scroll through email after email after email, work is the last thing on my mind.

There’s a funny man in Sarah’s cupboard, isn’t there?

I laugh silently to myself.

Better go check it out.

Somehow as I make the (barely five-foot) journey from my room to hers the curtains seem to flutter and the floorboards creak beneath my feet. Or perhaps it’s just the three cups of coffee messing with my head.

Once inside, I gently flip open the cupboard doors – and unsurprisingly I see nothing inside but Sarah’s school uniforms and just the hint of a cockroach scurrying for better shelter. That’s one of the problems with living on the third floor of an apartment block – sometimes the things just creep out of the garbage chutes.

The sight has a sort of reassuring, chiding feel to it, like a mother scolding a son when he’s being silly.

Feeling silly myself, I shut the cupboard doors and finally manage to get on with my work.

Wednesday

“Daddy.”

A small face peeps through the half-open bathroom door as I brush my teeth, leading me to wonder how much toothpaste would drip from my mouth if I chose to speak. I reply anyway.

“Sarah?”

“I’m scared.”

Walking into the bathroom with tiny steps, Sarah grasps my arm till the white of her knuckles matches the red of my arm, looking at the floor and chanting all the while like a Gregorian monk.

“I’m scared. I’m scared.”

“Sarah?”

“I’m scared. I’m scared of the funny man with no face.”

She clutches my arm, swaying forwards and backwards in tandem with the plopplopplop sound of the droplets from her soaked pajamas splashing onto the ground.

Night

Sarah’s tiny bed creaks with the weight of an unexpected, surplus occupant. Still, this probably is the only way I can get her to fall asleep.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Good night.”

“Good night, dear. Now try to get some sleep, all right?”

“Okay.”

“If you get any nightmares again, just nudge me. I’m right here beside you.”

“Okay.”

“Now, good night.”

“Good night, Daddy.”

I curl my body so my legs don’t stick out of the bed, and try to get a good night myself.

Day

I wake up to an unfamiliar (but definitely not unexplainable) cramp in my left thigh and sun in my eyes.

“Sarah, where are my glasses?”

“Sarah?”

“Sarah?”

Sarah emerges from underneath the sheets, squinting.

“Uh?”

“Do you know where my glasses are, dear?”

“I think they’re in the cupboard.”

“In the cupboard?”

“That one. The one with the funny –”

I shoot Sarah a glance as I reach over to the cupboard, open the door and retrieve my glasses which are tucked into a corner for some reason.

“Sarah, you know that there isn’t any man living in there, funny or not. The cupboard is empty except for your clothes, isn’t it? Look.”

Sarah stares at the sheets, speaking doubt with every unsaid word.

“But the man was there last night.”

“Last night? But you didn’t tell me a thing. I told you to nudge me if you were scared, or if you saw anything.”

“I didn’t see him.”

“Then that’s settled then.”

“I didn’t see him, but I heard him. I closed my eyes and hid under the covers once I heard the cupboard door opening, I didn’t want to see a thing.”

“Maybe it was just your imagination, dear. I know –”

“And then I wanted to wake you up but then there was nothing there when I nudged you – you were already out of the bed and I could hear you walking towards the cupboard.”

“Look, Sarah. It’s Thursday today, I’ll make an appointment for us to see Doctor Richard tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be able to help us out.”

“Daddy!”

“Don’t worry, Sarah. There’s nothing in the cupboard. I promise.”

“Please, Daddy.”

Her face is wet and red.

“Just don’t play with my glasses next time, Sarah. I don’t want this to happen every time I sleep in your room.”

“Daddy, I didn’t hide your glasses. The cupboard door, it’s too high.”

Night

Amidst clouds of darkness I hear a scream so soft that it’s either coming from very far away, or very very deep within the earth.

I pretend it’s the former, and try to go back to sleep. The screams are slowly replaced by rolling hills and clouds, and then –

Strangely, I hear the same scream.

Half awake now, I stumble through near pitch-darkness to Sarah’s room, nearly falling over in the process. Inside I see my daughter quivering in the doorway, staring ghostly into the room.

“…Daddy?”

“I’m here, Sarah.”

“Help.”

She grabs onto my hand, trembling so hard I begin to shake myself.

“Don’t worry, Sarah, I’m here.”

Walking into the room, I gauge in the darkness the approximate position of the accursed cupboard and throw open the door with my free hand.

The door opens –

And instantly my neck twists to the left, searching for the source of the sudden, sharp pain in my left hand, and I see my fingers wedged between the teeth of a face so white it’s nearly clear.

sds

2009-10-02T12:00:00.000+08:00

I'm looking for Ulysses by James Joyce. I read bits and pieces of it here and it's seriously awesome. Whoever thinks my writing is avant-garde/experimental/modernist should seriously take a look at his writing.

James Joyce is officially my writing father in spirit now.

(insert bad joke about "study leave" here)

sd

2009-09-23T22:14:00.004+08:00

Westlife - Against All Odds

How can I just let you walk away
Just let you leave without a trace
When I stand here taking
Every breath with you ohh
You're the only one
Who really knew me at all

How can you just walk away from me
When all I can do is watch you leave
'Cause we've shared the laughter and the pain
And even shared the tears
You're the only one
Who really knew me at all

So take a look at me now
'Cause there's just an empty space
There's nothing left here to remind me
Just the memory of your face
So take a look at me now
'Cause there's just an empty space
And you coming back to me, is against the odds
And that's what I've got to face

I wish I could just make you turn around
Turn around and see me cry
There's so much I need to say to you
So many reasons why
You're the only one
Who really knew me at all

So take a look at me now
'Cause there's just an empty space
There's nothing left here to remind me
Just the memory of your face
So Take a look at me now
Cause there's just an empty space
But to wait for you is
All I can do
And that's what I've got to face.
Take a good look at me now
'Cause l'll still be standing (standing here)
And you coming back to me is against all odds
That's the chance I've got to take

zxzx

2009-09-18T21:24:00.000+08:00

Here

Is the place
Where the only one that laughs is myself
Where the only face is the man in the mirror
Where the only way I can smile
Is to push more nicotine into the already drugged mind.

dfdf

2009-09-10T23:00:00.002+08:00

I loved this quote from the first season of House. It just manages to describe the entirety of life, really.

"I know that limp. I know the empty ring finger. And that obsessive nature of yours, that’s a big secret. You don’t risk jail and your career just to save somebody who doesn’t want to be saved unless you got something, anything, one thing. The reason normal people got wives and kids and hobbies, whatever. That’s because they don’t got that one thing that hits them that hard and that true. I got music, you got this. The thing you think about all the time, the thing that keeps you south of normal. Yeah, makes us great, makes us the best. All we miss out on is everything else. No woman waiting at home after work with the drink and the kiss, that ain’t gonna happen for us."

ewe

2009-09-09T17:44:00.000+08:00

I was in a cubicle in a toilet at West Mall today when I heard a methodical snipping noise come from the cubicle beside me.

It made me think of an anecdote:

Me:

"Desmond, do you shave your pubes?"

Desmond:

*pause*
*pause*
*pause*

"Err... No."

df

2009-09-08T11:52:00.018+08:00

I know that this is pretty slow of me, but the news in late August about the sale of The Pirate Bay (which is illegal to reference, apparently) to Swedish firm Global Gaming Factory X has been really interesting thus far in examining the battle against online piracy.

As most of you probably know by now, a 21.3 GB torrent file containing around 800,000 torrent files (out of a total of around 2 million torrents being tracked) from the TPB index (which most probably would be illegal to reference here as well) was uploaded on TPB itself, with the file having 699 seeders the last time I checked. Which was 2 seconds ago.

The consequences of this? It's now literally impossible to clamp down on the illegal filesharing of TPB in any way, seeing that there are literally going to be 700 copies of much of the entire site lying around on the Internet.

I found a Danish news article here, which translates quite well into English. For now, at least, it seems impossible to curb the legacy of TPB on a software scale, but how about on a hardware scale, and taking its servers offline? That seems much more feasible, considering that more than 50% of P2P traffic goes through TPB's servers, but unfortunately I think that's going to be an even longer shot considering that Global Gaming Factory X is not going to shut down an enterprise it purchased for 7.8 million USD any time soon.

So it seems that these facets of online piracy are here to stay, at least for now. Interestingly, the Pirate Party in Sweden received 7.13% of the total Swedish votes in the 2009 European Parliament elections, giving them one seat in the European parliament. With their liberal views such as the decriminalizing of filesharing, perhaps a relooking of our present perspectives towards piracy is in order.

sdd

2009-09-06T19:40:00.000+08:00

During service yesterday, I think I really felt God's presence with us especially through the music - I know we might have messed up a bit during the slow song but especially during the prayer time I could feel God guiding me to play, especially for every one of the songs that I played I didn't know any of the chords at all and had no idea what I was going to play after each song, yet everything was seamless and really beautiful.

It's almost as if I could hear voices singing in the air when I was playing - which is all the more amazing since I was playing songs I wasn't even familiar with and didn't know the words of.

sd

2009-09-06T19:38:00.000+08:00

Just want to say thanks to Mark for coming down to our exhibition today, and Nigel, Sandra and Amadea for the work put in! I feel really proud of everyone in the group and I'm just grateful for all of you. (:

df

2009-09-04T21:51:00.001+08:00

At 12pm on the 6th of September (Sunday), Beyonce, the Black Eyed Peas, ZZ Top and other entertainers will be having an autograph session at 385 Beach Road (S) 199581 as a warm-up for the 2009 Formula 1 Singapore Grand Prix. Don't miss this one-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Call your friends! Bring your cameras!

sd

2009-08-30T13:40:00.001+08:00

For some strange reason blogger isn't working properly at all. Unlike Emily Bronte who can, by using metaphors of nature, appeal to the instinctive, basal senses of readers by juxtaposing hard and soft, I can only type in plain text.

sds

2009-08-18T17:06:00.002+08:00

A fragment of a (never finished) story

Kay says that the foremost Gospel Truth in the world is that when you’re ten and you are just starting to think a girl is really nice, having someone else find out about it and tell it to all your friends and laugh at you for it is the best way to destroy you.

We were sitting at the bench right outside my apartment as we do everyday and just talking – it’s one of the most appropriate things to do considering that our respective ages are twelve, sixteen and forty-five.

Pat replies that there’s a second statement just as true as the first: the next Gospel Truth must be that every single action movie in the world has the good-guy-turned-bad, the bad-guy-turned-good, the running-from-explosion scene, the old-guy-sacrificing-his-life-for-younger-better-looking-guy scene and another running-from-explosion scene.

Almost expectantly they look at me for the next bit. The sensation of being three times their age comes to my mind but as I am used to doing every day I ignore it and offer them Gospel Truth Three:

I tell them that even after you’ve spent two months in heaven, it would sure as hell be nice to find out who killed you and flung you up here.

vb

2009-08-06T22:28:00.001+08:00

Jesse McCartney - Beautiful Soul

I don't want another pretty face
I don't want just anyone to hold
I don't want my love to go to waste
I want you and your beautiful soul

I know that you are something special
To you I'd be always faithful
I want to be what you always needed
Then I hope you'll see the heart in me

[Chorus:]
I don't want another pretty face
I don't want just anyone to hold
I don't want my love to go to waste
I want you and your beautiful soul
You're the one I wanna chase
You're the one I wanna hold
I wont let another minute go to waste
I want you and your beautiful soul

Yeah

You might need time to think it over
But I'm just fine moving forward
I'll ease your mind
If you give me the chance
I will never make you cry c`mon let's try

[Chorus]

Am I crazy for wanting you?
Maybe do you think you could want me too?
I don't wanna waste your time
Do you see things the way I do?
I just wanna know that you feel it too
There is nothing left to hide

[Chorus]

I don't want another pretty face
I don't want just anyone to hold
I don't want my love to go to waste
I want you and your beautiful soul
You're the one I wanna chase
You're the one I wanna hold
I won't let another minute go to waste

I want you and your soul
I don't want another pretty face
I don't want just anyone to hold
I don't want my love to go to waste
I want you and your beautiful soul
Beautiful Soul, yeah
Oooooo, yeah
Your beautiful soul
Yeah

dfdf

2009-08-05T19:29:00.006+08:00

Reverse Cowgirl

Date: Now HAHAHAHAHA

Dear diary

Hello hello hello hello hello hello hell

Date: 12345678910

Dear diary

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyzABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

Date:

Dear diary

The only reason why I’m using this book and writing in it is because I’m terrified that if I stop, I’ll forget how to spell completely.

Date:

Dear diary what the hell does dear diary mean dear diary dear dairy milk

I wish I had something to write about seriously I am serious do you get me what are you waiting for you moron

Date:

Dear diary

(Scrawled) Wow I wrote this all with my left hand soon I will take over the world

Date:

Dear diary

One two three four five once I caught a fish alive six sex sex sex sex SEX

Date:

Dear diary

I’m going to take it all seriously now, I swear. I’m in control, for god’s sake. I’m sorry, all right? I’m going to start all over.

Date:

Dear diary

BOO.

(gotcha)

Date:

Dear diary

The redhead gives it real good but she seriously has to learn to be more spontaneous in bed.

Date:

Dear diary, I’m actually sober.

Hope is too strong a word, it makes me actually feel and believe.

Date:

Dear diary

I don’t remember putting raw meat out on the table. Now there are ants all over. And why am I so hungry, all the time?

Date: not yesterday, at any rate

Dear diary

There’s this person called Jack who has written all over my book. Somehow the name sounds so familiar, like a friend I lost touch with a long time ago, or something like that. I’ve no idea why he chose to write his own thoughts in my book though. Unless this book is his, and I’ve accidentally taken it? I’ve no idea. That’s probably not true anyway, since there’s no reason why his diary should be here with me. Oh well. Since it’s here already, I might as well use it for myself.

(at the bottom of the page, added in near-indecipherable writing) Sometimes I do wish for something interesting to write about. I’ve been racking my head for ideas all day and the only conclusion I’ve come to is that although Jack is a really weird person (and I still have no clue how he got to write all over my book) his writing is a lot more interesting than the trash inside my head.

Date: 15 September

Dear diary

Am I supposed to fight my thoughts or not entertain them? It’s becoming a huge battle every morning just to remember who I am and where I am and how I have to keep myself together to prevent myself from exploding.

Date: 13 September

Dear diary

What’s going on in here? Nothing much makes sense in my head and it’s a struggle just to find words to pen down. I’m terrified that soon I’ll be just like any other mad savant (albeit with no abilities whatsoever) and have the huge mounds of noise inside my head take over completely. Even now I find that just to make myself move to the bathroom or to the sofa I have to shout at the top of my voice so that it’ll penetrate through my ears and into my brain. None of my thinking makes sense now.

Date: 13 September

Dear diary

Honestly I do hope I’m not losing my mind. Last week I thought I couldn’t get any worse and looking back now last week feels like heaven.

Date: 10 September

Dear diary

Why did the chicken cross the road? What did Batman say to Robin when they left the Batmobile? Two men walk into a bar – what does one say to the other? Why is six afraid of seven?

Are my responses to these riddles supposed to be exactly the same? Because they are now.

Jack

Date: 28 August

Dear diary

It’s difficult not to obsess madly about sex when you’re all alone. It’s true that with massive effort I can force my thoughts away from the subject when I am awake but in my dreams I keep seeing this red-haired woman wearing a tight-fitting t-shirt saying “World Cups” and I can’t take it.

Jack

Date: 17 August

Dear diary

How does a man know if he’s insane? It’s a barrier that you’ll never know you passed once you’ve crossed it. Unless there’s some sort of intermediate world in between where you are partially (or wholly?) aware of the inevitable. I wish there was some way I could test myself, though. It seems terrifying when you think about it and yet… and yet… I still hope I haven’t destroyed myself yet. I really do hope this isn’t a road I’m walking through, because it’s disgusting and horrible. I don’t want it.

Jack

Date: 8^th August

Dear diary

Practically every day now I’m waiting for some divine voice to snap his fingers so that the reality I’ve been hoping for (not this reality) will turn out to be the real reality and I’ll be able to think back on this reality, the old reality, and laugh out loud.

Honestly just being able to laugh would make me really happy. In any reality.

Jack

Date: 26^th July

Dear diary

I do wish I had something more significant to write about. It’s true that out in the public the basic dilemma is that writers manage to write only what people want to read – you can’t write a book about Todd the scrawny geek that gets picked on at school every single day ad infinitum and expect people to read it unless through some deux ex machina he gets inflated biceps and wins over the buxom woman of his dreams. But everyone knows that that doesn’t happen in real life.

Weirdly, though, escaping the prison of consumerism and the outside world has just trapped me further in my own boredom and apathy. I can’t write a meaningful word.

Jack

Date: 23^rd July 2006

Dear diary

Sometimes I wish I was still an alcoholic, or had any urge at all to drink. Now it seems that after doing the “healthy” thing to break my drinking habit, all I’m left with is a sense of confusion and frustration when I do want to find a method to instantly turn off my emotions and cannot. What is a man supposed to do when he’s faced with a sickening day and finds himself so ridiculously dry? I have no idea.

Jack

Date: 18^th July 2006

Dear diary

I wanted to write this very lengthy piece about my life thus far beginning with “I was born in…” but then I realized that I would be the only one unfortunate enough to look at this book (it’s a diary, anyway), and telling myself my own life story would be ridiculous.

Jack

Date: 14^th July 2006

Dear diary

It’s a bit sad having to live on my own all over again after Sarah is gone but I guess I’ll have to do it the best I can. I’ve never kept a journal before so I hope this will work for me to put down my thoughts on paper. It’s amazing how my world after leaving work has shrunk again and again to the extent that I’m the only one left now – well, there used to be Sarah, but, oh, well. I just hope this book will work to make my life simpler and more structured (then again, I hoped that Sarah would stay with me forever. Look what came out of that).

Life is simple, now, anyway. I do have enough food and money to last me quite some time, so that’s not a problem. I doubt I will even leave the house unless I have to. This is the standard bachelor life: just live each day until something happens.

(At the bottom of the page, in slightly smaller writing) I just realised that I started by writing my first note at the back of the book. I thought there was a limit to how dumb I could get, but I guess I was wrong – I’m too lazy to get a new book anyway so I think I’ll just write my entries starting from the back. I’ll date everything though.

And what did I mean when I said I had enough food to last quite some time? There isn’t anything at home other than a piece of stale chicken so it must have been my primitive hunter-gatherer instincts kicking in. I’m going shopping.

Jack

fdf

2009-08-03T21:08:00.000+08:00

Liverpool, you disappoint me.

df

2009-07-21T16:07:00.002+08:00

asas

2009-07-20T10:34:00.002+08:00

Seeing how poorly Liverpool is playing in the pre-season friendlies (drawing 0-0 with St Gallen and losing 1-0 to Rapid Vienna), we might actually beat them here in Singapore.

I mean, who in the world is Rapid Vienna?

Wikipedia says this: The Sportklub Rapid Wien (English: Rapid Vienna) is an Austrian football club playing in the country's capital city of Vienna. It is one of the two best known sides in Vienna, the other being Rapid's eternal rival, FK Austria Wien.

Best known? What?

Anyway, if you're a html whiz and can help me with the blogskin, please let me know.

dfdf

2009-07-14T19:32:00.000+08:00

Through some unfortunate accident, my entire blogskin died on me. This new one will have to suffice for the time being.

dfd

2009-06-24T21:35:00.002+08:00

Westlife - Us Against the World

Us against the world

Against the world

Us against the world

Against the world

You and I, we’ve been at it so long

I still got the strongest fire

You and I, we still know how to talk

Know how to walk that wire

Sometimes I feel like The world is against me

The sound of your voice, baby

That’s what saves me

When we’re together I feel so invincible

Cause it’s

Us against the world

You and me against them all

If you listen to these words

Know that we are standing tall

I don’t ever see the day that

I won’t catch you when you fall

Cause it’s us against the world tonight

Us against the world

Against the world

There’ll be days

We’ll be on different sides but

That doesn’t last too long

We find ways to get it on track

And know how to turn back on

Sometimes I feel

I can’t keep it together

Then you hold me close

And you make it better

When I’m with you

I can feel so unbreakable

Cause it’s

Us against the world

You and me against them all

If you listen to these words

Know that we are standing tall

I don’t ever see the day that

I won’t catch you when you fall

Cause it’s us against the world tonight

We’re not gonna break

Cause we both still believe

We know what we’ve got

And we’ve got what we need alright

We’re doing something right…

Cause it’s

Us against the world

You and me against them all

If you listen to these words

Know that we are standing tall

I don’t ever see the day that

I won’t catch you when you fall

Cause it’s us against the world tonight

Us against the world

You and me against them all

If you listen to these words

Know that we are standing tall

I don’t ever see the day that

I won’t catch you when you fall

Us against the world

Yeah it’s Us against the world, baby

Us against the world

Tonight

Us against the world

Against the world

Us against the world

dfdfdf

2009-06-20T21:30:00.001+08:00

The basic dilemma that a writer faces is that if you want people to read what you write you have to write what people want to read – you can’t write a book about Todd the scrawny geek that gets picked on at school every single day ad infinitum and expect people to read it unless through some deux ex machina he gets inflated biceps and wins over the buxom woman of his dreams. But everyone knows that that doesn’t happen in real life.

dfd

2009-06-18T22:45:00.000+08:00

I actually found an amusing joke online, here.

Three guys go to see a witch doctor about their problems.

One has a smoking problem, one is an alcoholic and one is gay but wants to change.

The doctor puts a curse on them that if any of them indulge their habits again they will die.

Two days later the alcoholic dies because he gave in and had to drink.

The next day the gay guy and the smoker are walking down the street together. The smoker sees a cigarette lying and the ground and stops to stare at ir.

The gay guy looked at him and said "if you bend over and pick that up we are both f**ked"

fdf

2009-06-08T20:49:00.002+08:00

I never knew organizing a camp for 8-12 year olds could be so exhausting. Even now it's only 4 days to doomsday and I still have so much to do.

Actually, with such short posts, I might as well convert to twitter.

fg

2009-05-25T22:31:00.004+08:00

I'm supposed to write something about the Merlion in 300 words. So of course I was lazy and did it in 100.

No breath falls from this grey-maned face; only

This curious sensation of a monstrous

Mating of scales and teeth to a furious

Image – Manneken spitting into sea.

There is this feeling: mixed pride and pity

A conundrum as to whether to love

The creature we pledged to, better or worse –

This lifetime commitment. Yet it is we

That are meant (made?) to claim, with feel and wit

That this is ours, somehow a homely

Reminder of things past and future, lit

With the knowledge that we too are crazy

Amalgams of cultures, fitting nowhere,

Wear our misfit minds like this fish its hair.

dd

2009-05-12T15:21:00.003+08:00

So much for empty promises.

Anyway I have come to the conclusion that I do not have time to blog now so I'll just use this as a reminder for stuff I want to write in the future.

I do have a couple of stories I want to write but don't have enough time to.

1. A suicidal man cannot find a good enough way to kill himself so repeatedly jumps off from the second floor

2. Buying a notebook, you open it to see it's full of your own writing.

3. A chronic sex addict and his struggles with paraplegia

I guess they're all pretty surreal.

Mmhmdfdf

2009-05-10T22:56:00.002+08:00

I have come to the realisation that my blog needs updating.

Check this space in the next 48 hours for some ~~high-quality, high-definition and entertaining porn~~ interesting posts.

sd

2009-03-15T19:03:00.000+08:00

Jack and Jill went up the hill

To fetch a pail of water

God knows what they did up there

They came down with a daughter

Come closer, look at my face.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen

How do you feel

How have you been

I’ll take the wheel.

Come closer now.

Nothing to be afraid of

We’ll just go up, up up.

Nothing can stop us once we’ve begun

Can’t break us, can’t bring us

apart. What’s this?

Don’t turn away –

You’ve come back and there’s no going

Back.

You’re tired from lying

Well we can come lying

Just here

Look into my eyes

Forget

Just forget

Come fly among the stars

Don’t look down

So little left

And we’ve just begun

You don’t need to tell no one

That you’ve come

To see

To me.

You can think about paying me later.

gf

2009-03-10T22:11:00.000+08:00

SELLING: Facebook fan clubs.

fds

2009-03-02T22:09:00.003+08:00

Yesterday I was at the library with a girl who insisted on typing out an entire chapter of a book on Malayan nationalism, WORD FOR WORD.

So much for the advances in technology bringing us photocopying machines.

This is also a failure blog post because I have no inspiration at all.

dahneetzah says:

I GIVE YOU INSPIRATION

BEAT ME MASTeR

why everyone like to dao me ah

am i so nice to dao?

okay

second part.

nikki.

NIKKKIIII

happiness is in babi pongteh

a video which will soon be on facebook

Okay lets write a poem.

Beat me master -

I give you inspiration.

Beat me, master!

Don't dao me,

Beat me - am I so nice to dao?

It's time for the second part;

Happiness.

It's in babi pongteh

But beat me, master.

It's happiness.

Beat me, master:

The video will soon be on facebook.

ds

2009-02-11T20:56:00.000+08:00

Nicholas is listed as in an open relationship with Goh Yu Xuan. 8:53pm - Comment - Like

Nicholas is listed as single. 8:52pm - Comment - Like

Nicholas is listed as married to Wilford Ng. 10:07pm - Comment - Like

Nicholas is listed as in a relationship with Wilford Ng. 9:33pm - Comment - Like

Nicholas is listed as in a relationship. 8:19pm - Comment - Like

Nicholas is listed as single. 8:19pm - Comment - Like

Nicholas is listed as in a relationship with Julian Tee. 10:11pm - Comment - Like

Feb 8

Nicholas is listed as in a relationship with Ning Yu. 8:39pm - Comment - Like

Nicholas is listed as single. 12:02pm - Comment - Like

Nicholas is listed as in a relationship with Noel Ong Zheng Hao. 10:44pm - Comment - Like

whoohoo!

gvfc

2009-02-06T20:56:00.003+08:00

Let's be philosophical.

I'll quote something from here first just to start out:

"even today i find it crazy people are going straight for portfolios and really have this REALLY obvious lack of life enjoyment, like they haven't done anything that makes people around them happy for the past 4 years"

What is enjoyment / happiness?

The idea in this quote is that happiness does not come from building up a portfolio of success in order to achieve higher peaks in success in studies / work. In other words, you can't be happy when you live according to parameters created by others. This makes sense because no two people are identical. What makes one person happy might not do the same for another.

So what is happiness, then?

Is it knowing what you love and spending your life trying to derive all the enjoyment you can out of it?

But in that case, you're working towards a specific goal. So achieving your happiness / enjoyment becomes like work, reducing the pleasure you get from doing what you love.

Eventually, you hate what you love, because it becomes a chore, not unlike building up a portfolio of success in order to get even more successful, deriving little or no happiness in the entire process.

So does that mean that happiness = meandering around randomly in life and getting all the bits and pieces of enjoyment that you can?

But then you're spending a lot of time not being happy, and you'll more often than not end up less happy than when you began.

Perhaps Buddhism has the answers.

This is from the Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta (SN 56.11):

"Monks, these two extremes ought not to be practiced by one who has gone forth from the household life. (What are the two?) There is addiction to indulgence of sense-pleasures, which is low, coarse, the way of ordinary people, unworthy, and unprofitable; and there is addiction to self-mortification, which is painful, unworthy, and unprofitable.

"Avoiding both these extremes, the Tathagata (the Perfect One) has realized the Middle Path; it gives vision, gives knowledge, and leads to calm, to insight, to enlightenment and to Nibbana. And what is that Middle Path realized by the Tathagata...? It is the Noble Eightfold path, and nothing else, namely: right understanding, right thought, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness and right concentration."

This says that if one lives a perfectly balanced life between the extremes of indulgence and self-mortification, you (as the Perfect One) would not feel the need for pleasure / enjoyment.

So, this essentially means that perfect happiness = the lack of a need for happiness.

That's not very satisfying.

Let's recap.

It's hard to believe that happiness comes from following the parameters of others, due to the diversity of people in the world.

It's also hard to believe that happiness can be achieved by having one's own parameters for the pursuit of happiness, as the pursuit itself negates the happiness received.

It's also hard to believe that happiness in any great amount can be obtained through random luck in life, simply because luck is, well, random and unreliable.

It's also hard to imagine how happiness comes from the rejection of happiness itself.

I could go on all day, but none of this is the point here.

Because true philosophy = philosophy about philosophy (and philosophy about philosophy about philosophy, ad infinitum)

The idea here is to show how philosophy doesn't really achieve anything, through the use of Yomi Layers.

Let's use Yomi Layers in this example.

Layer one (Basic level): Knowing how important happiness is and wanting to achieve it.

Layer two: Understanding that happiness cannot be achieved or worked towards once one consciously tries to do so, thus labelling the pursuit of happiness or even happiness itself as ineffective and pointless.

Layer three: Realising that happiness (or its attainment) is an integral part of life and attempting to gain more happiness without consciously working for it.

Layer four: Finding that the happiness gained is marginal and thus consciously wanting to achieve it, REVERTING BACK TO LAYER ONE.

Layer five: Same as layer two.

Layer six: Same as layer three.

Etc.

Conclusion: Thinking about thinking (about thinking?) is not very effective because there are always a finite number of Yomi layers in that they eventually revert back to the most basic Yomi layers that even the common man can achieve.

So you could think a lot, but go nowhere.

Such is the nature of philosophy. And meta-philosophy. Whatever.

dfd

2009-01-23T13:26:00.011+08:00

So, this is the supposed 15k word post. Which is only 9k words. And isn't even a blog post.

Dogs Die

There was a dog, on the hill.

Most days, no one even noticed the hills. In fact, very few people would, if asked, be able to make any knowledgeable comments regarding the little group of hills behind the shopping mall.

All of a sudden it seemed like there was a whole group of celebrities on the hill, from the way people were pointing and gesturing excitedly both to the hill and their friends.

The hill was very steep, mostly grassy but bare in certain patches, with the bare areas coming together to form sort of a ring around the hill itself, surrounded with other patches of grassless soil.

Something about the movement of the dog was reminiscent of a hamster wheel or a treadmill – on all fours, it was sufficiently high up the hill that it was walking on a plane nearly vertical to the ground, forcing it to walk so gingerly and slowly that its constant slipping almost negated its forward progress.

It was definitely more than two-thirds up the hill now. The dog had been on the hill for what seemed like all day to the passing shoppers who had gathered in a group to watch.

Someone said that it had first gone up to catch a bird that had flown out of its reach.

It was a rather grim prospect to consider the possibility of the dog falling off the hill. Being up, what, twenty, thirty metres above the ground, it was also painful to acknowledge that there was no safe way it could make it down the hill either.

The only way was up.

Reaching the ring of bare soil, there was sort of a temporary respite for both the dog and the crowd of onlookers, both pondering what to do next.

Up.

One foot at a time, the blessed safety of the ground was abandoned for the eventual goal and the continuation of ascent. There was still plenty of hope that the dog would make it to the top of the hill, and the surrounding group of houses, before nightfall.

The dog continued in its exhausting, wrenching trek towards safety, its fight against the treadmill of the hill.

It barely moved ten steps from the ring itself.

For four glorious seconds, the audience saw before their eyes an exquisite portrayal of the phrase scrabbling for one’s life, a grab for safety with pure instinct and no finesse.

Then the dog tumbled, rolling on the grass, colliding with branches, rocks and drink cans in a silence that was punctuated with no screams but a raspy, exhausted, defeated yowl.

When it hit the ground, there was no need for any sort of confirmation that it was dead.

There’s this classic scene of a man standing in a garden, leaning against a fence, talking to his neighbour on the other side.

Man: Hi.

Neighbour: Wha..? What?

I just said hi.

Where are you?

Here. On the other side of the fence. Here. Me.

Oh… I didn’t notice you.

Well, I just moved here yesterday. And I like learning languages, so, well.

That explains how you can understand what I say, I guess.

So… Hi.

Hey.

I’m Marcus.

You can call me Chip, I guess.

How long have you been living around here?

Couple of months. It’s a nice place.

That’s nice. I’m looking forward to living here as well.

Lots of nice guys around here. I like the place quite a lot myself.

Isn’t it hot, leaning on that metal bench over there?

Guess so.

Anything. I’ve got to go, anyway. Meeting a friend for lunch later. Then I’ll have to unpack.

Same here. Meeting some of the guys. They want to build something down the road, and they asked me for some advice.

See you, then.

See you.

There’s this classic scene of a man standing in a garden, leaning against a fence, talking to his neighbour on the other side.

Except, in the standard versions of the scene, it doesn’t involve men talking to sparrows perched on their neighbour’s benches.

And it most certainly does not involve men that have, from the day of their birth, been able to talk to animals.

Devesh Phanindra.

As in, as part of the sign above his tent saying COME AND SEE THE MAGICAL POWERS OF DEVESH PHANINDRA HE CAN READ YOUR MIND FOR ONLY TEN DOLLARS!!!

Devesh Phanindra.

When he was young, used to run around laughing and saying my name means god of gods, king of gods.

Now, earns a living as a mind-reader, earning ten dollars for each visitor he manages to coax inside his tent. Of which approximately five dollars goes to paying the rent for his tent.

Earns nothing on Mondays and Wednesdays, when the amusement park he works in is closed.

Considers himself lucky that he didn’t have to work as a snake charmer, a profession that currently stifles two of his brothers and another of his cousins.

COME AND SEE THE MAGICAL POWERS OF DEVESH PHANINDRA HE CAN READ YOUR MIND FOR ONLY TEN DOLLARS!!!

Despite not possessing any sort of magical powers whatsoever, Devesh can sense people speaking outside his tent.

I don’t want you to go in, I’m serious. It’s a bloody waste of your money. You know it too.

Pleeeease? Just once, I promise! It’ll be really fun, and we can tell everyone back home that we actually saw a mind-reader.

Or, rather, someone that earns ten bucks each time he cheats a visitor.

Come on, just once. Please?

Fine.

The tent flap lifts; a man and a woman bend slightly and come in.

Sir, Madam, welcome. I am Devesh Phanindra and I can read your minds.

The man takes out ten dollars, presses it on the table, speaks crisply.

She would like you to read her mind, if you please. Just start any time you want.

Yes, sir. Madam, may I have your age please?

The girl grins.

Twenty-four.

Yes. And may I look at your palm?

She places her upturned hand on the table, just touching the ten-dollar note. He places his fingers on her palm, tracing. Speaks, after a long pause. Slowly.

Madam… I can see you have come a long way. You live far from here, across oceans.

You come from a… well-to-do family and are highly intelligent, having had a very good opportunity to further your studies back at home.

You also love animals, especially cats.

The girl grins again, wider this time. The man frowns.

What? That wasn’t even worth a dollar.

Sir, would you like me to read your mind? Your hand, please.

I’m not going to spend another ten bucks on this, if that’s what you’re thinking.

No. No extra charge.

Whatever.

Of course, sir. Could you please think of a number from one to ten? Keep it in your head.

Fine.

Another pause, then triumph.

Your number is twelve, sir. And please stick to the range I give to you next time.

Shock, and then another frown.

Well, if you don’t mind, I think we’re done here. And I can’t imagine why I’ll come again.

Dear, was he right?

Let’s go. We’re done here.

But was he right?

Let’s go. Please.

I shall see you, sir. Madam. It was a pleasure.

He lifts the tent flap, takes her out with him. Mutters under his breath once he thinks he’s out of his hearing range.

I can’t believe we just got conned by that idiot.

Inside, Devesh Phanindra the man with no knowledge of magic or ability to read palms sits quietly at his table and pockets the ten dollar note.

Wonders if he would have been more convincing if he had perhaps mentioned that he knew the girl was from Philadelphia. Or maybe if he had casually dropped the name of her previous schools, none of which he had heard of ten minutes before.

Perhaps he should have mentioned that he also knew that the man wore Spongebob Squarepants boxers and was allergic to caffeine.

Dismisses the idea. They would probably think that he was a stalker if he said so much.

For some reason which even he cannot fathom, he has been able to, with almost unlimited success, read almost all aspects of the minds of the people whose skin he touches with his fingers, converting their thoughts into thoughts of his own. Anyone, everyone.

It terrifies him, but at the same time earns him a living. Occasionally he oscillates between thinking he has been blessed by gods and possessed by devils.

Devesh Phanindra.

God of gods, king of gods.

Mind-reader.

Somewhere, in a different city, in a house several miles from town, a girl practices a speech for her first day at school in front of her mirror.

Hi, everyone. My name is Judith Star.

I will be ten this November.

I just moved to this neighbourhood recently, and this is my first day in school, so I hope to get to know all of you soon.

I like light blue and white. I don’t really like fast foods. I prefer pasta. I like dogs too.

My dad is a businessman. My mom likes cooking at home.

When I’m alone, I like to look for dead plants or leaves in the grass near my home. That is because when I touch the dead plants, sometimes they become green and alive again.

My name is Judith Star, and I am a person.

Thank you.

Devesh walks along roads he knows well, seeking to find something he does not know as well, is not sickened or bored to death by the sight of. Which can be bloody difficult, considering he has been living in Sydney for the past sixteen years.

So he wears what he calls his “inspiration suit”, a long sleeved jacket with a turned up collar and gloves.

Fingerless gloves.

In fact, specially made not to be aesthetically pleasing in any way but rather to allow for as much room for his fingers to manoeuvre as possible.

In his jacket, Devesh looks less like a ridiculous circus mind-reader but more like the rather attractive man he is.

It matters nothing to him, anyway.

On and on Devesh walks, looking for targets, seeking dutifully for that little patch of exposed skin that he so hungrily craves. And then, when he finds that white patch of uncovered heaven, he strikes like a snake, disguising each purposeful point of contact as an innocent bump.

Like a snake, he strikes, and like a snake, he moves on.

After much practice, the short touch is all that he needs to access the deepest secrets of those around him, looking into the deepest recesses of their minds – for most of his targets, though, the results are bland, revealing only little nuggets of information that Devesh deems useless to himself at the present, or even the future.

Nonetheless, Devesh is occasionally able to find hidden treasures so deep and dark that the process of extricating these from the minds of their owners becomes an intense, almost pleasurable experience.

He thinks that it probably feels better than sex, which he only had once and was over in what seemed like seconds.

But that is still not why his life is driven by these journeys with his suit.

No – what he really hopes for is to find somebody really special, able to supply the answer to all his questions with just the touch of a finger.

An angel, a demon, someone that would be more than the people around him.

Life would be easy then – there would be no more need to force himself to exist with the torture of ignorance.

Better still, if God even existed, he could actually encounter God one day. Then with just the slightest touch on his arm, he could find out what the hell he thought he was doing with this stupid world.

This is Devesh.

A man with nothing more compared to his non mind-reading brothers.

Marcus Carulli has spent his entire life craving for the one word that the rest of the world is used to hearing.

He has no idea how it all started, how the whole mess of his life began.

All he knows is that school was supposed to be a place where everyone had a fair chance at making friends, at attempting to impress.

What he doesn’t know is how he was left behind when everyone else made their own friends, had their own social communities for games and play, was invited to birthday parties that strangely excluded him each time.

After thinking every night about the possible reasons that could have led to his present situation and eliminating them in light of the fact that he wasn’t less athletic, attractive, intelligent or charismatic compared to his peers, he eventually gave up trying.

After he graduated, work was supposed to let him start again on a clean slate, instead was more of the same.

Everyone was friendly enough to him in the workplace, would chat with him if they had the time, but somehow he could not get his mind around the numerous gatherings that he had heard his colleagues speak about but had never been to.

Marcus has been described, at various times in his life, with numerous markers: socially inept, overly shy, too quiet, too stiff, too timid, too introverted, unwilling to open up to those around him, unwilling to commit to a relationship, emotionally scarred by an unpleasant childhood.

All of which Marcus hates, but has come to accept as part of his life.

Marcus Carulli has spent his entire life craving for the one word that the rest of the world is used to hearing.

Yes.

Satu-Satunya Club, translated loosely from Indonesian to English, becomes “The Only Survivor”.

It also happens to be the name of an Indonesian reality television show that dreams of one day becoming more well-known than its critically acclaimed American counterpart.

At present, the former possesses approximately one-tenth of the audience of the latter, a rather remarkable figure noting that it is also produced on one-hundredth of its budget.

Satu-Satunya Club also happens to be one of the few reality television series without its own website, without a dedicated advertising strategy and without its own article on Wikipedia.

The television advertisement for Satu-Satunya Club, shown only on Indonesian television screens on Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays at 8pm, would, if translated into English, go something like this:

The wild is full of darkness. Will you be the one to find the light? Will you have the courage to fight through the forest and emerge as the sole survivor?

Satu-Satunya Club – Outwit, Outplay, Outlast (translated into terms that have their own rhythm and alliteration). Every Saturday at 9pm.

This is the third season of Satu-Satunya Club, a franchise with a small but consistent fan base that is gradually completing its assimilation into the repository of cult classics.

Interestingly, though, the producers of the television show have a much harder time on their hands, having to face the problems brought about by a slowly but surely declining viewership that threatens to go below the psychological wall of one million. To combat the problem, they consistently search for more exotic locations within the country to host the competition that allows twenty intrepid competitors to compete for the grand prize of one hundred million rupiah, or approximately eight thousand seven hundred US dollars. This season has been scheduled to take place in the jungles of South Sulawesi.

The contestants in the show are selected somewhat arbitrarily – any interested in applying to take part in the show may do so by leaving their names and ID via a phone call to the producers within a timeframe of approximately three weeks, allowing them ample time to collate and sort out the data. Then, a random selection of names is performed, with the twenty lucky applicants being informed, again by a phone call, of their good fortune.

Incidentally, Marcus Carulli, a name that has been ignored by every other agent of good fortune, takes the first coveted spot on the list.

In the past, Judith Star actually used to be Judith and Summer Star, except that it became just Judith Star when she was six.

No one talks about that disease anymore. Even her father forbids her from saying the “C” word in their house.

So now it’s Judith, Judith Star or you look so much like your mother, Judith, Star.

Judith actually likes being compared to her mother. Not that she enjoys having the same face, the same hair, the same eyes, the same nose, but that it takes away the situation where she is compared to someone else.

When Judith was a twin, everyone treated her not as an individual, but as part of a single unit that just happened to have two separate components.

Now that she’s not a twin anymore, all that Judith is left with are stares and whispers that somehow remind her that she is nothing more than half a person.

Which was why she moved.

Judith walks quietly, thoughtfully to her new classroom, slowly taking in the new sights around her as she does.

Eventually, inevitably, unavoidably, she reaches the door and turns the knob, pulling and walking in.

A too cheerful, too matronly face beams at her.

Good morning, Judith! It’s great to have you here today.

Shyly.

Good morning, Miss.

I hope you will enjoy yourself here, as the rest of us do, Judith. Now, why don’t you tell all of us a little about yourself?

The lines, written and kept in pocket but fresh in mind, tumble out from her mouth like a cascading stream of clear water.

Hi, everyone. My name is Judith Star.

I will be ten this November.

I just moved to this neighbourhood recently, and this is my first day in school, so I hope to get to know all of you soon.

I like white and blue. I don’t like fast foods. I prefer pasta. I like dogs.

My dad is a businessman. My mom likes cooking at home.

When I’m alone, I like to look for dead plants or leaves in the grass near my home.

Thank you.

Judith smiles to polite clapping.

There is no cheering, no congratulations, no laughing, no brand new car, nothing.

The overly matronly woman looks on and beams with her plastic lips and teeth. The students clap unenthusiastically, wondering when they can stop listening to this new girl and have a normal school day again.

Judith never stops smiling, aches inside and wonders when she can stop smiling and find a place to pretend that coming to a new school has given her a new shot at life.

Everyone waits for someone else to give the cue to move on, nobody gives it.

The awkwardness doesn’t stop.

The clapping does eventually.

Sydney

Devesh lies on his bed, thoughts rolling over in his mind.

Somehow, he cannot get over the fact that he has seen for the first time in years something that has actually made him think harder than he usually does.

The foetal position seems to be made for situations like this, for people to curl into themselves and somehow pretend that they can artificially obtain comfort and a warm fuzzy feeling by giving warmth and receiving it at the same time.

Devesh curls tighter and tighter, craving to receive.

Nothing.

Fitting, because that was exactly what he had done in the morning. Nothing.

Twelve hours earlier

Hi!

Devesh turns, looks at the man on his left, sizes him up, comes to a conclusion. An insurance agent, probably someone anyone else in their right mind would just ignore and walk past.

Hello.

Hi again! I’m George Dylan, and I happen to be a representative of United Assurance.

He stretches his arm, Devesh cringes inside. Shakes his hand, because that’s probably the only civilised thing to do. The feeling is electric.

Bloody hell, this is the seventeenth guy today. And it’s only eleven. Guy looks so sad he probably won’t buy anything anyway. Reject me, man. Like reject me. Please.

Devesh looks back up, back into the face other people would simply call “one of those bloody insurance guys”. It is interesting how in every hundred or so people one finds an individual that rejects the even the minor colloquialism of “guys” altogether in favour of being a speaker of perfect English. Devesh happens to be one of those people that, whether to look more respectable or simply to appeal to speakers of all cultures simply appends “agent” behind the profession instead of the supposedly more uncouth syllable.

The “reject me” guy or man, as Devesh has come to think of him, looks back at him, waiting for some sort of signal from voice or body posture to tell him to continue or move on.

I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.

It’s fine, sir. Have a good day.

The hint of a smile passes through the lips of not one but both of them.

Devesh moves on, moves to the road that will take him to the bus stop that will take him to the circus that will take him to his tent that will take him through eight or nine hours of brain-numbing, soul-sucking, reputation-destroying work that will find him on the road going to the bus to the road five minutes from his home.

Coincidentally, that’s exactly where he is at this precise moment.

It’s a bloody, bloody stupid shit of a life this is. Even Jack built only one house, putting all his shit in it. I, however, build a house every day, only to tear it down and start again.

Devesh kicks a can in frustration, the yellowish liquid in it trickling out and wetting his shoes.

Maybe I should just go public with the whole dumb thing. They’ll put me on television, for sure.

I could make a bloody million dollars in a month, becoming the next big thing, or whatever. At the very least, I could have my own talk show. Read their stupid minds.

Why the hell am I still in this stupid life?

What the hell am I doing here?

Sir, you dropped something.

What the hell is it?

Sir?

I’m sorry. What is it?

The woman before him picks up a little ring of beads, stringed together in a bracelet. Devesh grimaces at the sight of one of the other things he had to buy to keep up his joke profession in the circus.

This.

Please.

He looks at her with a dangerously brittle expression on his face, daring her to disobey. She puts the bracelet in his hand gingerly, then withdrawing it with as little contact with him as possible.

Thank you.

You –

Suddenly Devesh hears nothing, and then realises that the woman is staring past him in shock. He turns, and it is a moment before he is able to search back in his memory to realise that a gun has just been fired.

There is silence for two or three seconds.

Then, the woman screams shrilly, wrenching from Devesh what little control he has left over himself.

Before him, the man that he has just rejected clutches himself in red, and falls to the ground in red.

Someone else screams and points. The assassin, his face an unreadable frenzy, turns and runs in the direction of Devesh, towards him.

Devesh looks towards the hands of the assailant, cannot find the gun. Wonders if it is safe to try to stop the man. Makes a thousand guesses in his mind, from where the gun is to whether the insurance agent will live to what he should do if he managed to catch the man.

The assassin, his face an unreadable frenzy, runs past Devesh, further and further from him.

A moment later, Devesh has no idea where he has gone.

Another moment later, someone screams for help and says that the insurance agent is dead.

Many moments later, Devesh looks back at the body on the ground and realises that he has not moved since the woman retrieved his bracelet a lifetime ago.

A conversation between two people in Senayan, South Jakarta, at a television broadcasting station.

My name is Marcus Carulli. I think you called me yesterday and said that I had won a place in Satu-Satunya Club.

Wait, let me check my files. What’s your name again?

Carulli. Marcus Carulli.

Ca...rulli. Yeah. M. Carulli. I have you.

So, can I ask what I will be supposed to do?

Season three… yeah, season three. It’s starting in two weeks. You’re one of the contestants, no need to pay any extra fee.

So where do I go when it starts?

Here. Come here on Tuesday. Next, next Tuesday. We’ll get transport for you from here to the shooting location.

What time?

Eight.

Okay. Here, Tuesday, at eight. Okay. Thanks.

Welcome.

Marcus Carulli walks out, feeling a strange sensation that spreads from his gut to his face and finally to his toes. He cannot understand what this is until he thinks hard about it when he reaches home.

It is the realization of a dream.

Kingdom Souls Online is the brainchild of Kevin “Cloud” Star, a Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game with approximately 10 years of history behind it, high-definition 3-D graphics generated from an extensively modified Quake engine, full PvE (player versus environment) and PvP (player versus player) combat support, and a nearly limitless donation system that features both monthly subscriptions to allow access to all content and also voluntary donations in return for novelty items available during holidays like Christmas and Halloween.

As with practically every other game released after 1997, Kingdom Souls Online (also referred to by its player base as KSO) considers among its predecessors games such as Ultima Online, which it claims only to be an inspiration in its creation.

Kevin Star, having worked on his creation for the better part of his post-graduate life, considers it as his duty to ensure the longevity of his creation, is completely committed to seeing his game through even if it may mean seeing thousands of long-time players leave the game and delete their hard-earned characters and avatars.

It’s something of a mantra that Kevin goes by – there’re always other characters to replace the ones that are gone, even if they may be gone forever.

KSO is not the only game that Kevin plays, if you count tireless playtesting to remove bugs and writing content for bimonthly updates in any way playing a game. Kevin also happens to play and is wildly successful at other MMORPGS such as World of Warcraft, Everquest and even Forumwarz, the last of which secretly happens to be his favourite game apart from his own.

There happens to be a game that Kevin has not been successful at, however.

Like games with “hardcore” servers, it happens to be one of those in which characters killed in either PvP or PvE situations get deleted immediately from the database, forcing one to start all over again with no checkpoints or save points to fall back on.

The first time he lost a character in-game, which was a little more than three years ago, Kevin swore never to let that happen to him again, to build the toughest, meanest, deadliest soldier out of his one remaining character, to see the rest of the community fall to pieces and beg for mercy under his feet.

The only thing different about this game and the other games that Kevin plays is that he happens to be in charge of a nine-year old girl that likes dogs and pines for her dead twin sister.

It’s something of a mantra that Kevin goes by – there’re always other characters to replace the ones that are gone, even if they may be gone forever.

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down!
Hickory Dickory Dock.

The hands of the clock go round and round its face, forming a sort of increasingly twisted smile that looks back at the face of the man who prides himself at never being a minute late for work in his entire life, never calling in sick, hardly ever taking a day off.

He sits up in his bed, eyes open.

Wonders why he even told his boss that he was sick today and needed to stay at home to rest if being at home seems even more torturous than going for work anyway. Can’t think without expletives ringing at his head, addressed to himself, from himself.

Were there more people like him, perhaps someone else could read Devesh’s thoughts.

Perhaps someone could understand why he recoils in disgust at the memory of the scene, now two days ago but still fresh in his mind. Perhaps someone could understand why his disgust is directed not at the bloodshed, or the shooter, or even the victim, but himself.

Bastard. Bloody bastards. Why the hell did this even have to happen?

There are two voices, one is Devesh and the other seems to be the weird side of him that can’t function properly, that has to call in sick on a perfectly good day.

Devesh speaks.

This sort of thing happens every bloody day. Every day.

No.

I couldn’t do anything.

No.

There was nothing I could have done. He had a gun, I had nothing.

No.

There was nothing I could do. Why do I even care? This doesn’t even bloody affect me in any way.

No.

I can’t be some sort of bloody saviour to the world just because I happen to be able to read minds. I don’t even know if I can read minds, or if it’s all just a bloody gimmick.

No.

What the hell is this about?

The voice that replies is Devesh but not Devesh, clear but not real.

You.

Exhausted, Devesh crumples back against his bed, listens to his voice, listens to himself, hears himself speaking nonsense he is too tired to understand.

There are two voices. Only one speaks.

Devesh stares warily at his reflection in the bedside mirror, silent.

Judith sits at the lunch table, on the left of a fat girl slightly older than herself and the right of a boy in her class that she finds perpetually smelly. There is talk all around her and Judith tries to fit in.

Fat girl: Yeah, so I told her, if you can’t come for the sleepover at my house, maybe another time. I mean, there’s so much time to do that through the year.

Smelly boy: I don’t even know how people can have parents that don’t allow them to sleep over at a friend’s house anyway.

Fat girl: Yeah, it’s just ridiculous. You’ll have to ask Brittany about that yourself.

Smelly boy: Hey Brittany! What happened on Saturday?

Brittany: I know, I just don’t want to talk about it, okay?

Smelly boy: Fine, fine.

Brittany: My stupid mother never allows me to do anything like this. It’s just so unfair. Like my older brother, he gets to do whatever he wants. Like anything at all. She doesn’t care what he does. It’s so unfair.

Fat girl: Yeah, I have a brother too, I know what it’s like. Hey Judith, you don’t happen to have a brother, do you? Older brothers are seriously a pain in the ass.

Judith: No, no. Never had one, so I don’t know.

Smelly boy: Well, sisters are worse. Like I always say guys may be dumb, but girls…

Brittany: Shut up, Larry.

Larry: So Judith. You don’t happen to have a sister, do you?

Judith: Not really.

Larry: You’re lucky you never had a sister. I have three, and you can’t imagine what life at home is like.

Judith: No, not that.

Larry: So you have a sister?

Judith: No.

Larry: Then why didn’t you agree when I said you never had a sister?

Judith: No.

Larry: Do you have a sister or not? That’s like, a simple question.

Judith: I don’t know.

Larry: It’s a yes or no question. Seriously. Yes or no.

Judith: I don’t know.

Brittany: Stop it, Larry. Can’t you see she’s crying?

Fat girl: Shut up, Larry.

Larry: Is she dumb or something? It’s a simple question. A three-year-old could answer that. Did your sister die or something? Was that what happened?

Fat girl: SHUT UP, LARRY. THAT’S ENOUGH.

Larry: Fine. I was just asking. If you don’t want to answer a stupid question, fine.

Marcus is packing his bags.

Unsurprisingly, he has no idea what to bring for a weeks-long stay in the jungle. He hardly even knows how long he’ll stay in the game before being eliminated and made to go home.

I can talk to animals.

The recognition of the fact is pure, simple. Not one of shock or sudden realisation.

I can talk to animals.

Marcus looks out his window, looks through the glass and looks back at himself.

I can talk to animals. Maybe I can win this.

It’s such a cheering fact that Marcus breaks out into a massive grin, and then a laugh. His laughter is unrestrained and infectious.

Hey.

Marcus looks out of his window and sees no one. Opening the window, he stretches his head out and sees a familiar beak and pair of eyes.

Chip.

I was around, and heard you laughing. Had to come to see what it was all about.

Nothing much. I’m entering Satu-Satunya Club in a few days and need to pack my stuff to bring for the time I’ll spend there.

Satu what?

It’s a competition. We stay in the jungle for a few weeks and compete to see who can survive the best without most of our usual comforts.

Sounds like my life.

For humans, that’s a challenge.

More like humans like doing things they suck at.

Anything you say.

So, can you win this thing?

I can talk to animals. I don’t think anyone else can.

How’s that supposed to help?

I’m not sure yet. Maybe I could ask some of you guys for food or something.

And why would they help you? Seriously, did you ever think on those lines?

I’ll work on it.

Good luck.

And what will you be doing?

Just found a lady I like that happens to like me, so, well.

That’s good too.

Take care of yourself.

You too.

Marcus shuts the window down to a crack, then resumes his packing. The former grin is gone, replaced by a faint smile. There is still faith, there is still belief.

I can talk to animals. Maybe I can win this.

You have to tell me what happened.

Kevin Star stands in front of his daughter, both their faces red with strain and frustration.

You have to tell me what happened to you. Judith, you have to tell me what happened.

No, Daddy.

Please tell me what happened.

Nothing happened.

You haven’t eaten anything since you got home, and you can hardly concentrate on your work. I want to help you, Judith, so please tell me what happened to you at school today.

No.

Please, Judith.

Nothing happened, Daddy. Please go away. Please.

I love you, Judith, that’s why I want to help you make it better.

Please.

I’ll make it better. I promise.

It’s just…

Yes?

The boys… they just kept asking…

What were they asking about?

They just kept asking…

What was it?

Asking… about Summer.

Summer?

And they asked and asked and just wouldn’t stop and they asked if I had a sister and why she was dead and they asked and they asked and they just wouldn’t stop and –

It’s okay, Judith.

And it was just –

It’s okay, Judith. I’ll make it better. I promise.

I just can’t. I just don’t want to think about her.

Don’t worry, Judith. I’ll make it better. Don’t worry. I promise.

Daddy.

I promise.

Kevin gently picks up his daughter, gently wipes away her tears and walks her to her room and her bed, gently lies her down and covers her, turns off the lights and quietly sits by her until she falls asleep, walking out quietly and taking care not to make any noise to wake her up, gently closing the door.

That done, he smashes the side of his arm against the bedroom wall and swears to himself to settle the score with those heartless brutes, those heartless retards, grinding his teeth and himself into a fury. Eyes narrow, teeth are bared.

Kevin “Cloud” Star swears to kill the bloody bastards that hurt his daughter.

There’s this widely circulated saying that goes that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different response.

Devesh Phanindra, the man that can read your mind for only ten dollars, has spent the last seven hours doing the same thing over and over again.

Crowded shopping mall? Check.

Sleeveless shirt? Check.

Jostling against every other shopper in the building just to entertain himself with their thoughts? Check.

Well, not entertainment.

The religious, sentimental side of Devesh prefers to think of it as a pilgrimage, as a way to achieve ultimate enlightenment and wisdom by having a sort of absolute knowledge about everything in the world.

The logical, rational side of Devesh knows that he’s being an idiot.

Bump.

Shit, did I leave the stove on when I left?

Bump.

Stupid shopkeeper won’t give me a bloody discount for buying sixteen packages? Well, we’ll see.

Bump.

Mummy?

Bump.

Qui êtes-vous? Ne me frappez pas.

Bump.

So he thinks he can hit me just because I’m Chinese?

Bump.

God, those are big ones. Like… I dunno. But big.

Bump.

That Indian man nearly knocked my purse out of my hands.

Bump. Bump.

Bump.

Seven hours, eight hours, nine.

If the car makes a man, Kevin Star would be a fantastic, beautiful man, impressively muscled, powerful, a purposeful, determined father driving to his daughter’s school to set things right with her classmates.

As it happens, that’s not too far from what he is, either, with his being one of very few game designers that actually bother to work out at a gym three days a week.

Even his music tastes echo his fetish for raw power and muscle – sugar-sweet pop or wannabe R&B sounds barely make his playlist of rock, rock and rock.

Kevin chuckles to himself as he thinks of the music playing in his car.

There’s nothing weak about rock. Who was that woman who said I listened to so much rock I must have become a rock myself? Dumb joke.

Well, that’d be cool anyway. What’s there not to like about a rock? It’s what I’d like to be. A rock, hard, strong.

Hard.

Kevin chuckles again.

Hard.

Todd Ake is running late for the third time in a single day.

When you work for a fast food restaurant, you don’t run late for deliveries. Be late once and you may be able to make your boss let it slide, forget about it.

But three times in a single day? Despicable.

The delivery van is so clumsy and lumbering that Todd can barely keep it moving at a reasonable speed, let alone overtake the cars in front of him.

Move, move, move, please!

Finally reaching a stretch of uncongested heaven, Todd’s mind goes into autopilot as he floors the accelerator, hoping to reach his destination as quickly as possible so as to avoid the seemingly inescapable demotion or retrenchment that would happen if he was found out to have made late deliveries three times in a single day.

Todd is barely conscious of the red Ferrari coming in from his left, in an equally adrenaline-induced hurry.

Excepting, of course, the fact that the delivery van, even travelling at its highest speeds, can barely outrun a bicycle. So when you think it’s passed you, it hasn’t.

A delivery van also happens to be a lot heavier and sturdier than a bicycle, even when hit in the side by a speeding Ferrari.

When they do collide, and after they collide, it is hardly possible to describe what remains of the Ferrari as hard in any meaningful way.

Marcus? I just wanted to talk to you before you left.

Marcus.

Marcus.

Are you ill?

Marcus!

Marcus Carulli awakes to sun in his eyes and feathers touching his face.

Marcus. Wake up.

What is it?

Are you all right?

I’m fine. What is it? Why are you here?

It’s Tuesday.

I don’t understand.

It’s Tuesday, Marcus.

Huh?

It’s Tuesday today! Your television show!

Shit! What time is it?

Eleven.

Shit.

What time did you have to get there by? Can you still make it?

Shit.

Are you late already? What time did you have to wake up?

This is bullshit.

Marcus.

This just has to happen, doesn’t it? Just when I thought –

It’s okay, Marcus. It’s just one thing.

No. It’s not just one thing.

Marcus.

This is bullshit!

Marcus. Listen to me.

SHUT UP!

A minute, two minutes pass.

I’m sorry, Chip. Could you come back here, please?

Another few seconds pass.

Chip, I’m really sorry. Please come back.

The feathers at the window flutter as the sparrow makes its way back into the room. There is a strange, unidentifiable glint in Marcus’s eye as he begins to grin slightly.

Come back, Chip. Come back.

Where’s Daddy? Where can we find him?

Don’t worry, Judith. Daddy will be just fine.

Please tell me where Daddy is.

Daddy is fine, Judith. We just can’t see him yet. The doctors will –

I need to see Daddy NOW!

Judith drags her mother through the corridors of the hospital, pulling, praying. Looks desperately left and right, clinging on to the tiny shred of hope that her father may emerge from the back of a pillar, unhurt and laughing. Finding nothing, she turns to the nearest person for assistance.

Doctor! I need to know where my Daddy is.

Hey, sport! I need to know the name of your –

It’s fine, sir. I’m so sorry. It’s just that my husband got hurt, and my daughter, well she –

Please, tell me where my Daddy is.

The tears trickle down slowly, disobeying the girl who is putting all her powers to keeping them in.

Please.

I need to know his name, dear.

The mother speaks this time.

Kevin. Kevin Star.

Oh.

What? How bad is my husband? Did you see him?

He’s still fighting. It’s very bad.

How much –

I don’t know. It’s very bad.

Can I see my Daddy please?

Don’t worry, dear. Your Daddy will be just fine. We’re going to make him better.

I need to see my Daddy. Please.

You heard the doctor, Judith. Daddy is going to be fine, the doctors will make him better.

I can make him better.

It’s all right, Judith. The doctors will take care of him.

I can make him better. You don’t understand. I can make him better.

It’s all right, Judith.

It’s not all right.

Well, Ma’am, I’ll have to get back now. I’m sorry.

It’s fine, Doctor. Thank you.

I just want to see my Daddy.

That’s enough, Judith. We’re going to sit down and wait for the doctor to tell us when Daddy is better.

I just want to see my Daddy. I’ll make him better. I promise.

Judith!

Why won’t you let me see him? Please?

The tears, they fall.

Devesh wakes up beside a vending machine, still exhausted.

Man, are you all right? I’ve been watching you for, like, the whole night and you haven’t moved. Is something wrong?

Devesh turns and sees a man in uniform looking back at him.

I’m fine. Thanks.

Here. Take my hand. Get up.

Devesh gets on his feet. It is five, ten seconds before he realises what just happened.

Wait.

What?

Your hand. Could you come back for a moment?

Whatever.

That’s strange.

What is it?

I don’t understand. I used to be able to read people’s thoughts when I touched their hands. Now I can’t.

That’s cool, man. Like, you can tell me what I’m thinking of right now? That’s awesome. Hey, I could think of a number right now and you could tell me what it is! So, what’s my number?

No. I used to be able to read thoughts. Now I can’t.

Damn! That sucks, I guess that means you’re just normal like the rest of us. And you made me so excited.

No. It’s not normal. This is not normal.

You don’t understand.

You don’t understand.

One week later

Judith sits in front of her father’s casket, prim and proper in her starchy white dress. A card by her reads Kevin Star, beloved father, wonderful husband.

Rows and rows of people, presumably players in the video game industry, take their turns to pay their respects to a leader in the field.

Hey, Judith.

Judith turns around to see a familiar face.

Hey, Brittany.

I heard about everything from the teachers in school.

Yeah.

Are you okay?

Yeah.

Well if you need any help, just look for me.

Okay.

I’ll be around.

Yeah.

Brittany says something about getting a drink and wanders off, leaving Judith to herself.

I can make dead plants alive again. When I touch them, the dead plants become all right again.

But I couldn’t make Daddy alive again. Or Summer. I didn’t make them alive again.

I couldn’t help them. I couldn’t help Daddy, I couldn’t help Summer.

Judith looks back at the casket, reconsiders and checks herself.

I couldn’t help myself, either.

Elsewhere

Devesh looks down at his hands, disbelieving.

So, this is how it all ends.

A letter from the amusement park’s managers sits on his bed, politely telling him that there is no reason why the park should hire as a mind-reader someone who can no longer read minds or even pretend to read minds effectively. They thought it was a shame, too. He was doing so well in the weeks leading up to this and had the potential to become a major attraction.

This is how it ends, isn’t it? The one thing that fed me, clothed me, and made me who I am. And now it’s gone.

His bag, just packed, lies beside the letter, ready to be picked up for whatever journey lies ahead.

What am I going to do? Where am I going to go?

Devesh grips his own hands, vicelike. Nothing.

Frustrated, Devesh picks up his bag and heads out the door. He has no idea where he is going to go or what he is going to do once he gets there, but knows that it’s going to be horrifying compared to his previous life that has effectively ceased to exist.

This is how it ends, isn’t it?

He slams the door shut, walking away.

Elsewhere

Marcus lies on his bed, the days-old rotting carcass of a dead sparrow covered by a piece of cloth by his feet.

He hasn’t left his bed for four hours, hasn’t left his room for a day, hasn’t left his house for a week.

Marcus remains on his bed, staring at the ceiling and then staring back at the dead sparrow. Both his hands hold on tightly to the two possessions he considers most precious to himself at the moment – his left hand grasps a small blade and his right clutches a bottle of pills, every one of his knuckles white with the pressure.

Memories of the past weeks flood his mind, replaying one after the other regardless of whether they are happy or not. The same memories come on again and again in his mind, all precious.

Marcus looks towards his hands and then back to the ceiling. He knows what he has to do and knows that it will be today, knows it in his heart.

dvfd

2009-01-21T21:40:00.000+08:00

A filler until I finish my epic 15k word blog post. Or whatever.

dfd

2009-01-03T11:56:00.003+08:00

Post count ++.

As in, for me.

hnbgvf

2008-12-26T13:06:00.003+08:00

Just wanted to say thanks to everyone for all the christmas presents (and attempt to revive my blog), so thanks for the cards, chocolates, giant pack of M&Ms, candy canes, wallet, pencil case, arm rest, t-shirts and all.

Oh, and also the psp, iphone, ps3, wii, and the brand new car!

fgfg

2008-11-25T09:31:00.001+08:00

My blog is degenerating into nothing.

df

2008-11-09T23:04:00.003+08:00

1800 words, for a start. Please be nice and say something about it.

There’s this classic scene of a man standing in a garden, leaning against a fence, talking to his neighbor on the other side.

Man: Hi.

Neighbour: Wha..? What?

I just said hi.

Where are you?

Here. On the other side of the fence. Here. Me.

Oh… I didn’t notice you. I didn’t even know you spoke the same language as me. I thought you spoke only English.

Well, I just moved here yesterday. And I like learning languages, so, well.

Cool.

So… Hi.

Hey.

I’m Marcus.

You can call me Chip, I guess.

How long have you been living around here?

Couple of months. It’s a nice place.

That’s nice. I’m looking forward to living here as well.

Lots of nice guys around here. I like the place quite a lot myself.

Isn’t it hot, leaning on that metal bench over there?

Guess so.

Anything. I’ve got to go, anyway. Meeting a friend for lunch later. Then I’ll have to unpack.

Same here. Meeting some of the guys. Apparently they want to build something down the road, and they asked me for some advice.

See you, then.

See you.

There’s this classic scene of a man standing in a garden, leaning against a fence, talking to his neighbor on the other side.

Except, in the standard versions of the scene, it doesn’t involve men talking to sparrows perched on their neighbor’s benches.

And it most certainly does not involve men that have, from the day of their birth, been able to talk to animals.

Devesh Phanindra.

As in, as part of the sign above his tent saying COME AND SEE THE MAGICAL POWERS OF DEVESH PHANINDRA HE CAN READ YOUR MIND FOR ONLY TEN DOLLARS!!!

Devesh Phanindra.

When he was small, used to run around laughing and saying my name means god of gods, king of gods.

Now, earns a living as a mind-reader, earning ten dollars for each visitor he manages to coax inside his tent. Of which approximately five dollars goes to paying the rent for his tent.

Earns nothing on Mondays and Wednesdays, when the amusement park he works in is closed.

Considers himself lucky that he didn’t have to work as a snake charmer, a profession that currently stifles two of his brothers and another of his cousins.

COME AND SEE THE MAGICAL POWERS OF DEVESH PHANINDRA HE CAN READ YOUR MIND FOR ONLY TEN DOLLARS!!!

Despite not possessing any sort of magical powers whatsoever, Devesh can sense people speaking outside his tent.

I don’t want you to go in, I’m serious. It’s a bloody waste of your money. You know it too.

Pleeeease? Just once, I promise! It’ll be really fun, and we can tell everyone back home that we actually saw a mind-reader.

Or, rather, someone that earns ten bucks each time he cheats a visitor.

Come on, just once. Please?

Fine.

The tent flap lifts; a man and a woman bend slightly and come in.

Sir, Madam, welcome. I am Devesh Phanindra and I can read your minds.

The man takes out ten dollars, presses it on the table, speaks crisply.

She would like you to read her mind, if you please. Just start any time you want.

Yes, sir. Madam, may I have your age please?

The girl grins.

Twenty-four.

Yes. And may I look at your palm?

She places her upturned hand on the table, just touching the ten-dollar note. He places his fingers on her palm, tracing. Speaks, after a long pause. Slowly.

Madam… I can see you have come a long way. You live far from here, across oceans.

You come from a… well-to-do family and are highly intelligent, having had a very good opportunity to further your studies back at home.

You also love animals, especially cats.

The girl grins again, wider this time. The man frowns.

What? That wasn’t even worth a dollar.

Sir, would you like me to read your mind? Your hand, please.

I’m not going to spend another ten bucks on this, if that’s what you’re thinking.

No. No extra charge.

Whatever.

Of course, sir. Could you please think of a number from one to ten? Keep it in your head.

Fine.

Another pause, then triumph.

Your number is twelve, sir. And please stick to the range I give to you next time.

Shock, and then another frown.

Well, if you don’t mind, I think we’re done here. And I can’t imagine why I’ll come again.

Dear, was he right?

Let’s go. We’re done here.

But was he right?

Let’s go. Please.

I shall see you, sir. Madam. It was a pleasure.

He lifts the tent flap, takes her out with him. Mutters under his breath once he thinks he’s out of his hearing range.

I can’t believe we just got conned by that idiot.

Inside, Devesh Phanindra the man with no knowledge of magic or ability to read palms sits quietly at his table and pockets the ten dollar note.

Wonders if he would have been more convincing if he had perhaps mentioned that he knew the girl was from Philadelphia. Or maybe if he had casually dropped the name of her previous schools, none of which he had heard of ten minutes before.

Perhaps he should have mentioned that he also knew that the man wore Spongebob Squarepants boxers and was allergic to caffeine.

Dismisses the idea. They would probably think that he was a stalker if he said so much.

For some reason which even he cannot fathom, he has been able to, with almost unlimited success, read almost all aspects of the minds of the people whose skin he touches with his fingers, converting their thoughts into thoughts of his own. Anyone, everyone.

It terrifies him, but at the same time earns him a living. Occasionally he oscillates between thinking he has been blessed by gods and possessed by devils.

Devesh Phanindra.

God of gods, king of gods.

Mind-reader.

Somewhere, in a different city, in a house several miles from town, a girl practices a speech for her first day at school in front of her mirror.

Hi, everyone. My name is Judith Star.

I will be ten this November.

I just moved to this neighborhood recently, and this is my first day in school, so I hope to get to know all of you soon.

I like light blue and white. I don’t really like fast foods. I prefer pasta. I like dogs too.

My dad used to work as a doctor at the clinic near our old home. Now he’s a surgeon in the hospital down the street.

When I’m alone, I like to look for dead plants or leaves in the grass near my home. That is because when I touch the dead plants, sometimes they become green and alive again.

My name is Judith Star, and I am a person.

Thank you.

Devesh walks along roads he knows well, seeking to find something he does not know as well, is not sickened or bored to death by the sight of.

Which can be bloody difficult, considering he has been living in Sydney for the past sixteen years.

So he wears what he calls his “inspiration suit”, a long sleeved jacket with a turned up collar and gloves.

Fingerless gloves.

In fact, specially made not to be aesthetically pleasing in any way but rather to allow for as much room for his fingers to maneuver as possible.

In his jacket, Devesh looks less like a ridiculous circus mind-reader but more like the rather attractive man he is.

It matters nothing to him, anyway.

On and on Devesh walks, looking for targets, seeking dutifully for that little patch of exposed skin that he so hungrily craves.

And then, when he finds that white patch of uncovered heaven, he strikes like a snake, disguising each purposeful point of contact as an innocent bump.

Like a snake, he strikes, and like a snake, he moves on.

After much practice, the short touch is all that he needs to access the deepest secrets of those around him, looking into the deepest recesses of their minds.

For most of his targets, the results are bland, revealing only little nuggets of information that Devesh deems useless to himself at the present, or even the future.

For others, though, Devesh is occasionally able to find hidden treasures so deep and dark that extricating these from their minds becomes an intense, almost pleasurable experience.

He thinks that it probably feels better than sex, which he only had once and was over in what seemed like seconds.

But that is still not why his life is driven by these journeys with his suit.

No – what he really hopes for is to find somebody really special, able to supply the answer to all his questions with just the touch of a finger.

An angel, a demon, someone that would be more than the people around him.

Life would be easy then – there would be no more need to force himself to exist with the torture of ignorance.

Better still, if God even existed, he could actually encounter God one day. Then with just the slightest touch on his arm, he could find out what the hell he thought he was doing with this stupid world.

This is Devesh.

A man with nothing more compared to his non mind-reading brothers.

Marcus Carulli has spent his entire life craving for the one word that the rest of the world is used to hearing.

He has no idea how it all started, how the whole mess of his life began.

All he knows is that school was supposed to be a place where everyone had a fair chance at making friends, at attempting to impress.

What he doesn’t know is how he was left behind when everyone else made their own friends, had their own social communities for games and play, was invited to birthday parties that strangely excluded him each time.

After thinking every night about the possible reasons that could have led to his present situation and eliminating them in light of the fact that he wasn’t less athletic, attractive, intelligent or charismatic compared to his peers, he eventually gave up trying.

After he graduated, work was supposed to let him start again on a clean slate, instead was more of the same.

Everyone was friendly enough to him in the workplace, would chat with him if they had the time, but somehow he could not get his mind around the numerous gatherings that he had heard his colleagues speak about but had never been to.

Marcus has been described, at various times in his life, with numerous markers: socially inept, overly shy, too quiet, too stiff, too timid, too introverted, unwilling to open up to those around him, unwilling to commit to a relationship, emotionally scarred by an unpleasant childhood.

All of which Marcus hates, but has come to accept as part of his life.

Marcus Carulli has spent his entire life craving for the one word that the rest of the world is used to hearing.

Yes.

gfd

2008-10-31T19:10:00.001+08:00

At the time of writing this post, I know that so far at least one person has solved the puzzle thing in the previous post. Oh well.

Anyway, I have a new resolution for the holidays: Practice piano for one hour each day, out of which at least 45 mins must be playing something I never played before.

Which means, learning a new song or playing some nonsense.

Go me!