amo tales

God I wish I got a Scanner...

Fri, 16 May 2008 13:20:07 GMT

He keeps telling... he keeps saying, that it will all be O.K. If he could just have the chance to show her, how much and how deeply he loved her and loves her still - and will continue to love her, then surely, maybe - they still had a chance...

But mistakes could not be unmade, despite how hard he tries, and yes, there are wounds and damages that are just... that- irrepairable.

...

After a while, it no longer seemed clear to him...
To whom had he been telling his promises?
To whom had he been whispering - those words of desperate hope?
To whom had he been pleading...all these time?

Life could be so cruel. So unfair.

...Sometimes the one who hurts the most - is the only one who could not shed a tear.

Because he was responsible.

And so it lingers... and so it slides.

He just wanted to love her...
...She just didn't want to be hurt anymore.

He wonders when she'll turn around...
...and she wonders when they'll break...

Time Frame

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 23:18:04 GMT

It is a strange thing, a time frame.

The Engagement Party - markedly a great milestone of my life - was very enjoyable. But lets talk about the milestone itself. It feels as if now, I am no longer drifting. I am now "settled", and if lucky, my life should fall into place just like how I want it to. Gone the impromptu urges and activities of a single life. But perhaps not. Somehow I think there will still be a lot of impromptuness to come.

My colleague almost thought I was going to announce my pregnancy on the Engagement Party - this made me laugh.

I been told that 2 years is a long engagement by many people.

I been thinking that being engaged after 1 year is rather fast.

A few people have agreed on this time frame - mainly the reason that they've experienced broken marriage where time wasn't taken enough before the big step.

This reminds me of the parable of the pony crossing a river. When he came to the river, the ants told him it was too deep to cross - don't risk your life, and the elephant said it didn't even cover its toe. So he hesitated and ran back to his mother, and asked her.

Time frames - are they like that too? A river that for some is too deep, and for others shallow, and for a few, just right.

2 years, what am I saying? It is now almost half a year since that deadline. Time flies.

Connection

Mon, 25 Jun 2007 05:42:28 GMT

“You rang?” he said, as she picked up.

She cried her heart out on the balcony that night. He was there to hear her. She felt not so alone. She felt not so desperately silent. She reached someone, someone picked up the phone.

But now what? They both wondered, on the two ends, at the same time as they talked, and kept talking. It seemed important to stay connected.

“I’ll come to you,” he said. “I will figure it out and come to you.”

She didn’t know what to say. She knew she needed it, but could she, dare she ask for it? She hesitated. Surprisingly, she had a moment of clarity among her emotional turmoil.

She is uncertain, whether it will go anywhere from here…

And she thought, why not…

“I am seeing someone,” he typed.

“Congratulations,” she typed back. I am still by myself, she thought.

He fell silent awhile, waiting. But he doesn’t quite know what he was waiting for, nor does she. Maybe they are both waiting for some sign. They are both waiting, for her.

“Are you happy?” she finally asked.

“Well…” he wasn’t quite certain of what to say.

There were words between them, unspoken, but he is still waiting, still waiting… How long, how long will he wait? She wondered, perhaps forever…

They touched, in the mall, in the supermarket. She almost drew back, but her hand lingered in his, uncertain. Her mind raced back over the last five days, of waiting, and waiting to meet him. They’ve known each other for five years. And yet, there is still much to know.

She thought of her troubled romance back home. Her mind recoiled, didn’t want to know.

His touch felt new, like sunshine upon the mould that was hers, waiting at home, eating away at her. She sighed, softly, helplessly. Yet she understood at the same time, that it was she herself who had plunged herself into this helpless romance, that if she had wished to at any moment, she could step out and end it for them all.

Exhaustion, inertia… uncertainties. Excuses.

Several days ago, at night, he lay down in the grass beside her. She saw their friends nearby, the crowd of people having fun. She looked to the sky, and spoke to the stars. She had wondered then if she should join him. But she didn’t. Instead, she kept speaking to her stars, and he, left behind, got up and rejoined them in conversation.

Somehow it seemed significant at the time.

He drove her, where she needed to be driven. She fell asleep in the car, exhausted. Empty. He cast glances across at her. Now free, injured, a wreck.

She wanted to go away on a holiday. She wanted him to come. He was almost excited by the implications, the intricacies, and the intimacy that trip would bring. He was almost afraid to reach out. She seemed so fragile there in his car.

He was clumsy, despite his experience. He faltered, despite his certainty. He lingered and so did she, despite the discomfort.

It was almost frightening when he touched her again. She held her body from recoiling. She was so not ready. She trembled.

She wasn’t certain what she wanted to do. To run, or to stay. Bewildered, wanted, wanting, hunted, hunting… she lingered a little uncomfortably. She was not ready.

I can’t put up with him, she thought. This is simply too much, too soon…

She didn’t look at his roses.

She didn’t speak to him.

She told him later, that there was no room.

“About before… I just want to know…” he began hesitantly.

She looked up from her keyboard, almost relieved, almost tense. At last, she thought, closure.

“Yes?” she typed back. And what answer could she give him, what answer would she give him? There are a million, and yet there is none.

But at last, he has reached her. They are connected, although it was an uncertain kind of connection. But he is not alone. He was looking for answers, looking for a place, a phrase, a word… These unresolved matters, emotions… finally she saw and responded. Finally, he has seen her words printing clear, on the screen. Yet he hesitated on the verge. This conversation would mean closure; it would end these feelings that he had been unable to let go.

She almost seemed fleeting, like the image of a flame, or an encounter with a butterfly. Mere words remain between them now. He almost didn’t want to speak them for fear of knowing what comes after these were spoken… Fearing that emptiness, and yet he spoke.

“You don’t have to answer me,” he continued, with effort. “But I just want to know…”

Walter De la mare - Reading (Winter)

Wed, 16 May 2007 01:36:29 GMT

Winter

CLOUDED with snow; The cold winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast: Alone sings now.; The rayless sun,; Day's journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread: Unearthly white.; Thick draws the dark,; And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam: Floats the white moon.; Walter De La Mare

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

Need I say more?

I find Walter's poems delightful. Their images are beautiful and endearing, and not overdone. We see the world he sees, and it is a very beautiful world. I have to admit that there hasn't been any of his poems that I did not like, so it was difficult to pick out one to show you. But on the topic of winter...

In the first verse of this poem, I loved the contrast he drew between the robin and its surroundings. The liveliness of the robin, the cheerful actions this bird did when all the rest were snow, and leafless. A bird on a leafless bough, a rare sight itself - and furthermore, the contrast of its colour red against the background of white snow.

It reminded me of beautiful paintings and photos of winter I saw, once or twice, of red plum blossoms in snow. Such a beautiful picture here was drawn- except where the blooms were there is a robin, a greater contrast of life and animation against the lifeless and the inanimate.

-A poem of beauty in winter, a rare find. Most poets would have described this as a season of death, of dread... but Walter saw a different vision. The second verse described a tired sun, and a sunset. Here again the contrast between the beauty of the sunset upon snow, with the weariness of winter - that was personified in the very last passage of the sun... Lazy, beautiful. The beauty of the poem lies, not in his overindulgence in the beauty of winter, but in his appropriate and balanced descriptions of the commonly found beautiful things of winter, as well as the lethargic winter, in a few words captured winter's beauty in its whole. For without the contrast, the beauty is half as noticeable. He described not just the robin that caught our eyes, but also the snow behind it which set it off, and not just the sunset upon snow fields, but also captured the lethargy of this winter sunset.

As the night grew thicker, fires were lit - this conjured images of coziness, the smell of woodfires, and many homely images - again captured in just a few words. Over that sea of frozen foam - a reflection of the snowfield under the sun, now an ocean of frozen foam under the moon. Did he meant the true ocean, or is it the snowfield he still gazed upon, which appeared to him like an ocean? Perhaps when gazing upon one of these, we'd be reminded of the other. Does the snowfields remind you too of - a frozen ocean? Here ends his snapshot, of winter, with a frozen frame.

He is a poet of rare eloquence, that I highly admired. He used words little, but managed to capture so much with so few. Almost magical, his words are written, and worded like words of a spell, unlocking so much more. And I particularly admire him for the images of beauty he had chosen to weave with his words, of simplicity and of a world, seen through eyes of its lover.

Tue, 15 May 2007 04:39:56 GMT

Rhapsody on a Windy Night

(verse one)
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

***********

I like to write of this poem as my favourite by T.S. Eliot, so this review is not written without bias. The very first verse is magical to me.

Alone at midnight, even taking walks at night time, is a very exciting adventurous thing to do. It always brings back memories - sometimes between here and there, between recollection and walking, the worlds blur, and you see scenes of the past right before your eyes as you relive those moments, in the dark.

Sometimes it seemed as if you are squeezing every last drop of flavour - of beauty, of pain, of sorrow, of love, of joy - right from each and every last moment of those memories, over, over and over again. For someone who walked through trauma, this could be a very painful and frustrating thing. Sometimes these memories come unbidden, awakened as if by magic.

Indeed, every street lamp that we passed was significant, each and every blade of grass. Perhaps it was the darkness, in which so much detail was hidden, so much room was there left for imagination, and recollection. Such things allow room for the blurring of reality. At the same time, this very moment this very walk at night itself- is also passing into memory, being stored- every lamp, every blade of grass we pass, the moon. They too will become significant triggers in days to come, that may trigger memories of this very night, and the memory of remembering things of the past as we walk. For one who has many such triggers, such elements in one's surrounding is like magical items, opening up to worlds of opportunities, fantasies, memories...

***********

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

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

This walk took the persona past a door. In the doorway a woman, hesitant, at this late hour... to see someone walking alone. She was nervous, and her eye twitched when the persona turned to take notice of her, briefly, as he passed by.

Much is left to the imagination at the descriptions of such a brief meeting. He did not stay to find out and so we too are left wondering- did her eye twitch as she tried to read him? Was she trying to see whether he was dangerous? Was she trying to find out whether she recognised him? Was she also wondering and trying to figure out him as we are figuring her out from that brief glimpse? Perhaps she was trying to imagine what manner of business he must have to walk so leisurely in such a late hour. Perhaps she was wondering whether he saw anything interesting upon his brief walk. Perhaps she too wondered whether he was upto anything decent, as we too wondered whether she was innocent of mischief herself, being seen at such a late hour in such a doorway...

But we are to not know these answers...

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

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

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

Twisted memories were conjured at this brief encounter. Disjointed images, fragmented. A branch on a beach, polished, smooth, beautiful, sensual to the touch... at the same time dead. The mind focused on certain aspects of certain memories, drawing inspiration from the tiny details it gleaned through the window to these memories that was opened by the encounter with the woman in the doorway...

How complex, how beautiful, how strange. The persona delighted in this encounter as we too delighted in reading about these encounters, these strange, almost dreamlike images, thrown around in the mind of the waking, these things called memories.

These things, articles, tiny details left to memory - seemed so fragile, "ready to snap" - already gone was the moment, already gone was the moment, yet it lingered only in a most unpredictable mind of the living, ready to disappear. It struggled to remain only through such tiny glimpses through the world, stimulating the very last strength from such events, such articles...that were no more, but remained only in memory.

Like the spring - eaten by rust, like the branch, eaten smooth - none of these were what they once were when they still existed, when recalled by memory they are deformed, mutilated by the mind, the trigger, the circumstance in which they have been conjured. Sometimes this deformation made the memory more beautiful and endearing - like the branch that is now polished compared to before; or they could become ugly and weak, like the spring eaten by rust...

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

Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

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

When next he checked the clock, it was half past two. He saw a street cat, which reminded him a child he once passed. This intrigued me, these automatic responses of the cat and the child, reflected the automatic connections that the persona's mind drew between them. Automatically, he was also reminded of childish things people do - peering through shutters and all, secrets and the finding of secrets, and the guarding of secrets. Did the child's eyes appear empty because they really are empty or because he was hiding secrets of his own? Or was he looking for secrets to keep?

Inevitably the persona too was reminded of his own childhood, when he played not with toys, but with a living crab, in a pool, who grabbed his stick - just as automatically it seemed. It was a contrasting childhood, when one can imagine he ran along long empty beaches, playing with crabs instead of along streets, alongside toys... man made.

Like these things, he too grabbed instinctively onto something desirable to him, his mind ever searching for that which he considered to be pleasant, and beautiful - except for the cat it was the butter, for the child it was the toy, for the old crab it was his stick - but for him it was his memory, of a childhood that can no longer be repeated.

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

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.

The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."

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

Deep into the night we journeyed with our friend. He now turned to the moon, perhaps tired out and weary. Unpleasant smells surround him, from the pubs where people too drunk to walk came out and throw up. From hostels, hotels, he sees glimpses of the seedier nightlife, of how adults associated with each other in the dark.

Yet the moon, the only other witness of this who seemed as uninvolved as our wandering persona in all these business - seemed serene. She did not hold a grudge against these things that disturbed and marred the otherwise magical beauty of the night - where she dwells. How could she stand this? He asked. Her beams still shone, her gaze was still cast, silvery and magical - on the grass, in each corner. How could she bear to not turn away?

She must have lost her mind. She must have forgotten, the past, or the present... She either lives in the past where she is secluded and protected from the present unpleasantries, or she lives in the present moment alone, and the last was forgotten. So she cannot remember the smells she has just encountered, or remember the more pleasant nights, when the air was clear.

So our imaginative persona believes.

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

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

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

He returns home, four in the morning. Here holds the key of his memories, his life. This is his. His memories came from this life, where he interacted with people, where he used to run in the sun on empty beaches as a boy, playing with old crabs...

Go to bed, it seems to say to him, go dream about the things you encountered. Tonight is just a refresher, preparing for tomorrow, where you go back - back to what? To work, to friends... Go back and forget what you've seen here. Tonight is nothing but a memory, a fantasy you could have done without.

-The last twist of the knife.

Is this where and how our fantasies are lost, our dreams are kept asleep, and our memories die? Because we focused too much on the tangible things? Is tonight not also a part of his - our lives? Is it not as real? Is life not supposed to be as magical as these magical walks we have in the moonlight? Should our lives be kept dull and unimaginative to keep it real?

He asks.

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

This is a reading of the poem by only me with no references, nothing. And I am not pro. Feel free to disregard, disagree, etc.

Reminiscings of the Past

Fri, 11 May 2007 03:09:33 GMT

Sometimes we spend hours dreaming separate dreams in the same world, it is so rare when one finds the time and the desire to share and connect these dreams. Disjointed, fragmented, these dreams seemed, but a most colourful and unimaginable past seemed to beckon through these distorted images. Dreams of a chase, of darkness, of fear, but also of beauty, of magic.

Long after waking, I gaze into these fragments, peering into a past that seemed so distant now, it felt as if I was still dreaming as I sat and gazed upon moments of a distant past.

There was a route I once took from school, when I was in my first years of Primary. I had disliked the noise and the traffic that always haunted the main roads. This route meanders through the backstreets.

The first time I took it was not without consequence. Five of us decided to take it together after our first day of school. A man came and attacked one of us. We were seven at the time, and most my friends froze in terror. But people soon came and our attacker ran away. I was the first to yell run and hence lead my friends a distance away in the opposite direction to where our attacker went, before we made a quick dash for the main roads again. Also there was a time when a bike almost ran me over, scraping my leg as it passed so close to me upon this path.

I first shared this with you in the car, after being told off by my father about playing too many card games with my brothers.

But other things kept coming back to me even as I worked now.

Some years later, I took this route again. Alone. The path was lined at certain intervals with entire stretches of walls covered in flowering vines and entire stretches of land covered in the growth of trees, ferns... The air smelled better along this path, and the shades were welcoming, especially come summer when all the flowers were in bloom.

Once or twice I travelled with friends, bought myself snacks and stickers at the stalls along this path. Once or twice I travelled with a boy who showed me which flowers I could suck nectar from.

The path changed with seasons. Flowers of different shades of purple, and of red would line the paths come summer. Nearing winter I'd see men working under the sun to make mattresses by hand. Early Autumn I'd pass through the scented paths, by which sometimes I could see the fishballs being made fresh, soaking in water still even as their maker was making more.

I loved taking this tiny escape route from the routines of school and of life in the city, pausing sometimes at the book stalls at the ends of this route to flip through pages of other fantasy worlds.

I look back now at the workers, so absorbed and focused on their work - which brought them so little wealth it now seemed hardly worthwhile... Yet they kept on with their labours, and made do with what little they had. Day in and day out they laboured with their hands under the sun.

What a distant world it now seemed. Yet it is here before my eyes, in flashes - sometimes waking and sometimes dreaming.

So now when you peer into my eyes, when sometimes they seem distant, or when you wonder how my dreams took their shape when I lay asleep, sometimes you'd be able to guess at those things that seem so alien, so disjointed from this world. Yes I travelled, and came from a world that could have been a fantasy world if I were to speak of it here and now...

The past flew past us so fast, yesterday's things became so distant so easily... When we do remember those rare moments, they seemed as if from a world of imagining. Was it real? Was it true? How often do we look down past the surface of the ground on which we built our reality, and see the beams made of our past, see them grow distant like the ground did when we gained our heights as we kept climbing?

I am walking on clouds, so far away is the past, they are the ground which we only speak of as far away things of another world.

A lot of Stuff

Wed, 28 Feb 2007 17:46:38 GMT

So much has happened the past few months, but thankfully not all bad. As sometimes changes go, things could look so much better for them. However, changes take time, finding it slightly difficult balancing out all thats happening.

It felt as if no time at all has passed since grandmother was in hospital, got out, start adjusting, and aunty coming to stay with us from hongkong.

I was lucky to have had Chinese New Year free to take my brothers to some rock pools out of Sydney with Piers. It was loads of fun.

Piers found that he didn't like rice cake as much as some other Chinese stuff he's had. I have similar leanings towards the white variety, as I feel its a little bit too dehydrated.

I would really like to learn how to make daifuku from scratch, and continue on crochet projects plus drawing and writing projects.

Currently also planning to visit coffs harbour for easter with Piers. :)

Be nice to find a more permanent job..

O well

Thu, 07 Dec 2006 14:14:45 GMT

As of Monday the 4th of December, my 12 yr old bro turning 13 this sunday, is taller than me.

:(

Thanks Prime Minister

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 13:14:11 GMT

Today, I was at Town Hall station waiting for a train when a very large man decided to sit next to me and try to make me watch him masturbate.

Upon consulting with a station master I was told theres nothing they could do, because the man was mentally ill. He will have a word with the guy while I run away and find another seat.

Besides feelings of nausea, I just like to say thank you to Mr. John Howard for how well he has underfunded our country's health and asylum systems.

Good Job, for making me puke.

An ordinary day

Thu, 30 Nov 2006 02:04:08 GMT

The weather was yet again, unpredictably hot. It was a relief to stay within the sheltered and air-conditioned work place. So he began his workday with the usual cheerful greetings to his work-mates.

A lady of his ethnicity came to the desk.

She seemed a little out of ideas, as she rushed to the helpdesk with a roll of film. She asked for assistance, was probably stuck with those dinosaurous microfilm reading devices they had.

Nothing much to do anyway, he - the ever present public servant - decided to take on the challenge. Tried the machine she had trouble with initially, screws and knobs and all. Didn't work. Moved to another. More luck. For some reason, both he and the girl felt that he was being extremely patient, and helpful. Perhaps it was because the machine was extra-complicated, squeaky, and stubborn today.

At the end, he thought to add a mention about having to pay for printouts.

After much fiddling, she appeared to have ran away without paying. Though, she did thoughtfully return the roll of film in its correct place. He tried not to think too much about it.

Not too long after, an elderly gentleman arrived with her, and a group of others. The gentleman explained to him that they as community workers did not need to pay such fees. Agreed on by his supervisor, he finally relaxed with much understanding.

The lady came again afterwards, to ask for help in looking up some books on their research.
Politely, he took her on the tour, and picked the books out for her himself, before leaving her to research with her co-workers.

Life is never simple, even for a librarian.

Incidentally, on the ever helpful internet, one finds that a certain lucky individual has caught a quite impressive rainbow trout in Tekapo region, New Zealand South Island. For some reason, this photo made me smile. Maybe its cos I ate really nice rainbow trout tonight.

Cutesie Frank

Mon, 13 Nov 2006 12:49:25 GMT

He wondered where they were going, so anxiously. His owner was anxious and nervous about how he was to be given away.

It started out rather hot and humid, decided to rain halfway. It is good that the weather finally made up its mind about what kind of moodswing it was going to have. It is no good throwing a half-tantrum at nobody and making everybody depressed.

He smiled at this, as his owner quickened his steps. Faster and faster they went. He peeked out of the bag at the grey sky and inhaled the wet, fresh air.

"Hi Amo, I need to get to airport by 1pm, as I am leaving at 2 today," he heard his owner speak.

He is guessing, that this is the one he was brought all the way across the bumpy sky for. It had been quite an adventure, riding the clouds away from England all the way to the other end of earth. Well for someone his size and born in hundreds at the hands of a certain David Eni (signed his name on this lil creature's bottom), most of his brood probably won't even walk out of town, let alone Europe.

After a few phone calls the owner finally met Amo. They shared photos and coffee and tea and spoke a lot. His owner reached a few times to get him. He finally did, followed by a muffled uncertain apology about whether he as a gift would suit. He settled into his stiff friendly posture, and smiled the smile he was created with.

Amo's eyes sparkled, as Cameron spoke about the other elephant he was going to get her before. She was in love with the gargoyle already.

Gargoyle smiled knowingly. It had found its home.

In the mood for love - Wong Ka Wai

Thu, 09 Nov 2006 11:42:35 GMT

He waited in his office, as the time passed. Between work and waiting, he’d cast an occasional glance at the clock.

Is it time?

Time?

Time for what?

Her day off work. A little dreary, the weather.

She’d prepare herself for the evening, take an early shower. Change. Perhaps change again.

There were chores to do, and other things she’d promised to do beforehand – on this day that she had not needed to work.

Between her chores, promises, and trying to relax, she checked the clock. Is it too early? To call?

Her fingers hesitated on the keys.

“Hello…”

…Across the candle flame, that face they’ve longed to see – for so long - flickered on and off. Shadows hid the emotions that lurked in the depths of their gentle and weary eyes.

They reached for the candle together; then smiled at those gentle hands, frozen on the table, caught in a complicated tango moment. She commented on the gentleness of the evening, the flowing music – seemed so far removed from the harsh pains they’ve both encountered, in each other.

Perhaps he will forget, and perhaps she too, in time.

But what lingered between them was this tender moment, fragile like their flickering faces across that single flame.

She embraced, while he simply waited, for it to be over.

“I’ve heard about this movie.” He said in the shadows. “It is a very sad movie.”

She stared at the blue box in her hands.

“Why is it so sad?” she asked.

“It was very slow…” he hesitated.

“Yes?”

He looked away, continued. “It was about two neighbours who found out that their partners were cheating with each other…”

“Oh…”

“…And it was sad because they fell in love, with each other, but they never did anything about it… it was very sad.”

She stared at the beautiful images on the cover, man and woman, caught in a pose that reminded her keenly of the movie ‘Titanic’. “I see.”

…Later she watched, the writhing dance of actors on screen.

She smiled at their movements, their every faltering step to convey - the complexity, the humour, and folly – of love.

Encounter With The Winged Beast

Thu, 09 Nov 2006 05:02:39 GMT

The beast buzzed leisurely against the magic see-through wall. On one side, green grass, sunshine, on the other - a realm of shadowy furnatures and supplies of the beast's food. The only other wingless inhabitants stared with glassy eyes, terrorised by the beast's superior biological make up-

Multi Eyed, gazing in all directions at once
Winged and nimble body
Extraordinary size - Even for its kind.
Loud, scary droning sound of its wings.

A woman, young warrioress of the shadows - regarded her ugly nemesis with caution. Using the shadows and the light from the sun to shield her, she passed swiftly through the beast's watchful eyes.
A light coloured slipper, on appearance soft and harmless, appeared in her hand. Unbeknownest to the beast, it had passed through many moons of testing and survived many feats of nature. The beast leered at her weak seeming weapon, one last time...
A large smack was heard as the magic wall shuddered. The beast stayed silent, unmoving at last. Caught even as it tried to counter attack - it now lay limp upon the magic wall. At last, it slipped, and left a trail of its own blood in its wake.

Triumph! To the purple slipper!

Later, over tea and cakes, our young warrioress related to her relieved hosts of her many other encounters - such as the battle with the Giant Cockroach - where much screaming (on the part of our heroine) was involved, and a blade was asked for, and drawn-, also the surprised attack of the Locust was told, amongst other tales.
Aftter much drinking and laughing, this matter was forgotten and recorded, as the Encounter with the Winged Beast. (aka Giant Fly.)

Vintage

Thu, 26 Oct 2006 13:56:10 GMT

This is a 1/4 Century story.

That youthful appearance, yes it is a quarter century old. Vintage cellar stuff. As of today its price goes up one more level.
Do you ever wonder whether it would taste musky after being so old? Whether it would taste rotten or earthy or...just incredibly more aged.
More precaution is now put into its handling. No more risky poses with such an aged thing. No shaking, no touching. Just an occasional turn on its rack while you admire its aged label. Perhaps once in a while you would even dare to wipe a little dust away.

Yes.
This baby you are looking at
Is of Vintage Age.

One Day Away from 25 - An Aphid's tale

Wed, 25 Oct 2006 02:16:13 GMT

A run of bad luck never hurts anyone. Certainly not this little bug going along his business.
Tomorrow she will be 25 days old. The oldest member of her family is 82 days old.

She decides to spend the day doing whatever she does every other day. Finding a nice spot under some green leave. Maybe inch her way closer to the apex of feed- the shoot. But it looked as far away today to her as it did yesterday.

The smell of storm is in the air. In a more fantasized version of this story, she might have the name Thumbellina and gets to travel on the back of a cat. But she is not a flea and so will probably not even see the other side of the garden wall. But once in a while she eavesdrops on the conversation of birds who has been all around the world and pretends that she's seen it all.

She might even grow wings, as some of her species do. But not by the way her luck is going...

Some predator has been picking off her friends...suppose in a way that is good luck for her. But she didn't feel the least bit fortunate, and not the least bit closer to the shoot that she was shooting for, please excuse the pun.

News of horrible things happening in neighbouring plants come by once in a while, passed on in urgent little whispers between leave to leave - by others of her kind of course. Some colony was massacred by the big blind predator that squishes. The same one who has picked her friends off. She wrung her hands in helpless despair. That is probably all that she could do against such an obviously overpowering predator- apart from jumping onto it and try to suck nectar that it doesn't have before getting squished herself of course.

One day away from 25... She sighed.

Fri, 20 Oct 2006 15:09:19 GMT

A little insect friend said hi to me on Thursday after apologising for crashing into my neck.
After much reassurances, she sat upon my leg and enjoyed the shade with me.

In the cool breeze, we shared the view of the park.
Briefly I marvelled at her most exquisite and delicate wings and her green lustrous body.
Quite flattered and carefully, she lets me touch her naked wings.
She sat quite still. Stunned by the size and power of my touch.

We had such a lovely time.
She didn't interrupt as I picked up my pen and wrote it all down.
Wasn't she lovely?

The first glimpses of stars.

Wed, 18 Oct 2006 13:36:26 GMT

Passed through nondescriptive sceneries.
Rushing Cars, Loud Tyres.
Saw you through a doorway,
Trying to explain for me. Something to your mother.

Spoke to you on the net.
Explaining to me about cameras.
Finally know how we were mislead by ignorance.
Wide Lens. Wide Eyes.

Last words warms me.
"Take care of yourself out there"
In a tongue closer to home.
Such warmth. We were only strangers.

"Would you like a cold drink?"
Such trusting words.
Stars that make my day
You are.

Oh, and that nice occasional "Hello"
"How are you?"
And that mysterious smile from the heart.
Strangers, Friends. Beauty.

Post 1 of current project.

Writing projects

Wed, 18 Oct 2006 13:24:52 GMT

Having read about other people's innovative writing projects, I been tempted to think of one more suited for myself.

Think I might do some fictitious writing once a day, without having to ever carry on with them. Much like snippets of something I imagined about what perhaps something or someone I saw on the day.

The aim is to improve my writing.

Are australians a moody bunch?

Wed, 18 Oct 2006 12:36:26 GMT

Having walked thru some suburbs today, I observed that a lot of people have a tendency to react certain ways depending on their mood.

I wonder if its just the suburbs I visited, or maybe it is normal.

Moon Cake Festival

Thu, 05 Oct 2006 16:07:03 GMT

YAY!

That Place

Fri, 29 Sep 2006 09:26:27 GMT

This is a poem I wrote for my host up at Nowra.

That Place
.
You showed me skipping stones
By that restless shore,
Scented plants ablooming,
On the corpse of a volcano
Where we stood overlooking
That alien familiar plain.
.
Blue sky, evening stars.
Chinese lady said something nice.
Somewhere we passed
Creek, river.
We spoke:
Blue sky, evening stars.
.
Roads, long and winding
a breeze
Asked me for a chance to begin-
A new chase, a new dance.
After much thought,
I decline.
.
Not dressed for the occasion
all a lie.
I am dancing on that distant shore somewhere,
seeing that familiar face, familiar place.
Still smelling - another man, another scent.
I am here, but also some place else...
.
You showed me skipping stones
By that restless shore,
Scented plants ablooming,
On the corpse of a volcano
Where we stood overlooking
That alien familiar plain.
.
And so we stood still,
So still we stood,
Gazing on the same.
But my heart is dancing, on another plain,
And yours free to wander,
Wondering where I am.

most interesting link i found today

Fri, 08 Sep 2006 11:28:04 GMT

http://www.guardian.co.uk/australia/story/0,,1865124,00.html

Back in Syd

Thu, 07 Sep 2006 10:08:02 GMT

Yes. Home Sweet Home.

Pirates of the Carribean 2

Wed, 26 Jul 2006 09:03:48 GMT

Awesome movie.

Again, don't forget the last scene after credits.

Johnny vs big octopus :O how cool is that?

Dreams

Thu, 20 Jul 2006 06:04:19 GMT

I've started writing again. Dreams are wonderful things that carry us on with life.

Thank you to all my friends who have helped me find my dreams again.