the inner brat...

In the times one feels the weight of discrimination and disapproval, it only serves to shrink the already small individual to a lilliputian dwarf. Any smaller and it could eventually be taken into comparison with an atom. The onus of such condemning fault is and can be no one's but for oneself to bear.

The evil twin would and could often rebutt that one is and should be only accountable to oneself, the goody two shoes would undeniably counter that argument with one's must and must nots, should and should nots, do and do nots, and all that is associated with social responsibility. Perpetual heavy taxation from such tedious duty oft turns into bitter affliction.

If there were to be a choice, frankly think that no one would want to be enceinte with such a concern given the life time commitment it entails. Unfortunately, this existing world's modus operandi has its head and foot cemented in network.

In view of that, there really is no other alternative but to keep mum. Years of stern lecturing and fastidious tutelage has ingrained that mannerism into my system without a doubt, so much it seems that am no different from the imprisoned nightingale that lost its voice.

Nonetheless, the inner brat is adamant about getting that one way, and repudiating against being tamed. Out of tune and context as it may sound, it is my entry and i'll cry if i want to, cry if i want to, cry if i want to. You would cry too, if it happened to you; however, note that there is the absence of a tear in the eye for the saltwater dam has dried up eons ago. So, in the midst of the obscene vociferation...

perspective...

perspective is all of science and arts depending on how one takes it, but intertwined they are, if one only but looks beyond and is more conscientious in circumspect. linear perspective is a mathematical system for creating the illusion of space and distance on a flat surface, of which is applied even in leonard da vinci's work through the use of a horizon line, vanishing point and orthogonal lines. awfully provocative and ingenius if you ask me.

be that as it may, there is no science or mathematics that could factually rationalize the way one regards a situation or topic, nor any arts to express one's mental viewpoint or the delicate state of one's ideas comprehensively.

perspective can be likened to two sides of the same coin, so near, yet so far. differences in such instances could only be said to be devastating.

in retrospect, that reminds me of a girlfriend's adamant pet phrase when she was incensed about being misunderstood, "misinterpretation is the motherfucker of all fuck ups". pardon the language there. much as it is a little crude around the edges, and screwed up as it sounds, do really have to give her the credit for having a point there.

having said that, no thanks to this infamous odious hellraiser, have watched it wreck a friend's fairy tale romance of five years that could have had the blissful, an inch away from inconceivable rarity in this day and age, ending of "happy ever after". hell, had a pretty rough time myself, all thanks to this deceitful abhorrent troublemaker.


life really is quite the comedy of errors. in spite of all the persistent attempts at perfection, there can be no existence of an untainted and defectless utopia. should one choose to peruse through every single minuscule detail, one could jolly well miss the big picture. on the other hand, should one decide to look at things through the supposedly omniscient bird's eye view, one would plausibly miss out on all the little elements that make up the whole canvas. to put it in a nutshell, it is pretty much damned if you do and damned if you don't, of which does illustrate my personal theory that life is nothing but a joke.

sad to say, the obnoxious presence of misinterpretation will be around to stay till kingdom come, and ludicrous as the thought of it is, one has no choice but to take things in perspective. the irony of it all, it is pertinently much ado about nothing.

in all technicality, it has been conjectured that am one in this world, but not of this world. therefore, the dodo viewpoint can only be said to be quite out of this world, and be postulated as "the alien perspective" that would always be somewhat dubious.

the life of the ill fated servant...

the past few days have been spent reliving the life of the ill fated servant, quite literally. cooking, washing, cleaning, you name it, this poor unfortunate, forced to be subservient, coolie has done it, with physical evidence of painful blisters and fugly bruises as proof of this verbose rant.

in actuality, am not at all adverse to a day's of hard work, be it paid or pro bono, even though it is taken into account, without shame at that, monetary or any other sort of benefit would be a welcomed bonus.

cooking up a storm and making a mess of the kitchen is, without a doubt, therapeutic, not. the aftermath of a filthy and sticky mess is detestably abdominable, not to mention the final product could well end up as an anticlimatic chomp that leaves much to be desired in terms of taste and appearance and ought to be irrefutably condemned to the bone yard.

in return, all the thanks that ever comes back is a big fat whack in the gut about my ineptitude. talk about all that work, effort and time down the drain. Incontestably, the bare naked truth is that really am no crackerjack at handling a saucepan and spatula.

in truth, am more intrinsically adept at being the bull in the china shop, so "why bother?" one might ask. trust me, that disturbing question incommodiously afflicts me to no end too. my girlfriend would attribute it to one thing without question, karma.

come the day my fanaticism at trying to perfect the inexecutable act of serving up a three star michelin standard, minimum for the record, bonne bouche drives me up and over the wall into absolute delirium, a new madhatter of dodoland will be born...

and fritter away frivolously all day long... having a tea party with me, myself and i...

in the dark...

there is nothing scary about death, yet there is fear of it, much as no one likes it one bit. it could creep up to one in the still of the night, or run one down in the blink of an eye, or slowly drain the life out of one away without another knowing...

disintegrated fragments and a sea of lacryma it leaves behind, oft with regret lingering in the shadows. tales of sadness, of fallen trees, of desperation in the air. a cloud of serenity in serendipity.

death comes to us all, one day... some day... inevitable, play the game all must; and do what must be done, or be enslaved and a prisoner to oneself. there can be no breaking free, no man in motion, and neither is it a rational quotient.

hear the silence in the winds, and take on the cold solitude. a thin sheath of pain, or a thick wall to barricade. a surreal facade of unpredictability.

in the dark, a quiescent susurration beckons, and calls... Love me... Don't go...

round and round the roundabout...

it has been nothing but a whole roundabout today, and the physical laws of circular motion has certainly sent me spinning off axis, leaving me with a whopping migraine to fix. was the usual nightly handyman and personal assistant to someone close who had to have a miniature interior makeover due to an overwhelming need for a change of fengshui due to the lack of "feel". not exactly my personal favourite project to embark on, but it was not half bad by the end; like five in the morning. nevertheless, it is not something that would be attempted again for the sake of self preservation and one's sanity.

serves me right for playing the good hearted samaritan, as it landed me a huge cab bill at the end due to having to make a roundabout trip come daylight when a text came in for me to head down for a casting at some godforsaken, transoceanic, possibly rinky dink place. did what had to be done and scurried back by the pocket burning cab to get a bath, change of clothes and bagatelle. with the minutes slipping by and seconds ticking away, the ineluctable option was ordained, and blitz away in a cab it had to be. big fat shot in the foot it was when it was found that this outlying no good sequestered place was just walking distance away from the remote outskirts of god knows where. the worse part was how the annoying cab driver had made an elephantine detour to get there. in short, Hobson's choice is a real pain in the neck.

what goes around comes around, that much is true. someone close recently blogged about it, and it jogged my memory of long ago of this child's tale about passing on that bit of kindness. in spite of cabs being the root of my misery for the day, it was also the charitable gesture of an altruistic cabbie, amongst many other phenomenons, that lifted the disconsolate spirit. for the record, it was a she. she had given me a lift to the main road though she was not able to take on the job after incidently having flagged her cab down; saving me from walking under the scorching sun, in which she inadvertently also saved me from the probability of passing out from the baking heat. despite the fact that am somewhat a vampire, am not an overly poor daywalker, and certainly no pansy cream puff that needs to be mothered as such. nonetheless, the beau geste is very much appreciated. to sum it up in a word, nice.

my cabbie for the trip to the casting was another bag of beans altogether. his mannerism and driving reminded me of cabbies zipping in the big apple. on that note, undoubtedly would not mind taking a ride in a vintage yellow cab. the feel of old is just modernistically far out and smacks of bohemian rad. on the other hand, one cannot run away from time and age, for it will, in one way or another, catch up with you, at some point. no matter how well the maintenance, the vintage yellow cab would eventually end up as scrap metal when it is done with its final few miles on the road, sad as it is.

as this entry is being typed and recorded in the modern archives of the world wide web, someone close is travelling the long distance to pay the imminent final respects to a loved one who has walked to the end of her road, a hundred and two years of it, and drawn her last breath just early this morning. having lived that long, it is with hope that she has lived a full life and has gone on contented, and peacefully, to embark on a new journey in another world; a world where pain no longer exists, happiness is all about, and where she could walk on sunshine perhaps?

my heartfelt and deepest of condolences to the family, moreso to the lonely traveller who is conceivably bone weary from the neverending country mile and heavy heart. even though it is not quite possible for me to go with you in person, and am not catholic by birth or faith, will leave a light on for you, for you to remember she who has passed on...

just as it has been, going round, and round the roundabout, such is the isochronal chain of life... and such as it will be as it goes on... unbreakable... in cycles... and it hits home... as somehow or other... it reminds me of my own...

the little things in life...

many a time as one journeys on in life, the natural inclination is to look above and beyond the horizons, to see the world and more... little do we know that in such instances, oft times, the little things are left out... not to mention, recurrently forgotten. what is worse, the total annihilation of its existence, or being obliterated on being out of sight???

noted duly that the little things may not count for much a lot of the time, nevertheless, it is without question that a little does unequivocally accumulate to a lot by and by. the principle of it all may look transpicuous, but dealing with it ain't. If the smell of an insinuation about procrastination is wafting around, your nose ain't playing a fool with you.

how is it then, that the little things are repeatedly blotted out in one's mind's eye??? for one, the little things in life certainly do not carry a deceptive aura. two, they are not perpetually microscopic in size to the point they are interminably imperceptible. therefore, it does boil down to the question if such disregard is due to the exiguity of importance or an affluence of bearing.

as for me, my disposition is such that am one that has a penchant for majoring on the minor, and more often than not, irritatingly enough and exasperating as it is, at the wrong time. what to do, woe is me.

notwithstanding my personal predicament and bone of contention with the paramountcy of the little things, there is a speck of truth in the statement that "things in life that matter most... are the little things"; or else life would not be a bitter pill to swallow, or a sour lemon to suck on, or that saccharine sweet to chew on...

under the sea...

The usual hangout has been nothing but a flurry of activity of late. If the imagination were to work overtime, it would not be totally impossible to be think of it as a cookie cutout of the underwater scene from Disney's "The Little Mermaid". In retrospect, it really does look to be quite a musical of its own "under the sea" though there ain't no newt on the flute or carp playing the harp.

That being said, although there ain't no plaice on the bass either, we do have someone of conceivable sea breeding who can actually play the bass, very well one might add, should you decide to go by the opinion by this pair of deaf tone ears. It is none other than our very own Clem, pun intended.

Well, the hive has been stirred into action, with and no thanks to the singing bigmouth in the house. Little wonder why Clem feels the need to put on a pair of headphones, it is honestly hard to fault him considering that would do just the same if were to be in his position to shut out the caterwauling. In honesty, it is either that, or slaughter the crab. Now that, unfortunately to his dismay, is his only lament since cacophony is not a plausible criminal charge.

The human broken down radio has been pretty crabby with the Mount Everest of a stress load from what all the excitement has been about. Honestly reckon it would only be a matter of time before he would be squished into a crab cake and served up on a platter.

So, what does the singing crab do when he is bored out of his wits? If he has any to begin with that is.

Evidently, he gets his crabby claws to work, innocuously creeping up on unsuspecting victims before the commiserable sitting duck can even put up a paltry fight for survival, let alone do anything... Incontestably, there can only be one apocalyptic outcome...

ending up looking like one very constipated clam...

silence all these years...

hanging out with musical talents has a tendancy to make one belittle oneself in the capacity of music. no doubt, it ain't exactly a forte of mine with lacking the finesse to pull off any possibility of a tug of heartstrings with a soulful rendition of a piano concerto in a concert hall, or jamming and rocking the crowd with heartpounding drum beats, or calming that inner spirit with the soft plucks of a violin. such calibre certainly is just beyond me.

despite its nonexistence, that certainly does not mean that am totally devoid of any sort of music sense. well, at least that is what would be a gratifying thought to comfort me in my dreams...??? think am able to safely say that am able to hum a tune, albeit out of key at times, bang on the keyboard; all in all, make some noise.

things are certainly a whole lot easier in this world of black and white. it is all about feel, being at one with one's emotions, and most importantly, about expression. in this world, it just is, and nothing else to it. no if, no maybe. the simplicity of it all is so elementary, it is literally child's play. yet at the same time, it can be so profound, and so despicably hard to fathom it drives one to the brink of madness. love it or hate it, sublime paradox ain't it???

not being gifted with the innate ability to be capable of any impressive musicality, guess one tries to compensate for the lack by learning how to appreciate a good melody. after all, this world is supposedly all about balance, whether it being a scientifically backed up principle, or some voodoo woodoo fengshui belief.

so what happens now??? well, as those tinkly little beansprout like notes reverberate in my head and my feet respond by tapping to that obscure rhythm that is conjured up at the back of my mind, am suddenly reminiscent of those days where the freedom of expression was done my way. however, that walk down memory lane is another tale, for another time. right now, it is pretty much done along a highway. meanwhile, while am stuck in a moment where i can't get out off, will just apprize the nuances of all that is black and white, and that bit of grey in between; and leave the little spectrum of color for those who can appreciate it in all its plethoric symmetry.

friendly amusement...

From the days of the middle ages, men has lived to amuse themselves through whimsical frivolity. It certainly has, somewhat, come a long way from the more indigenous entertainment of that in the dark ages.

Despite having come a long way from the old primitive days, homo sapiens have yet to undergo an evolution that shows a change in this congenital trait of having the need to tickle the funny bone.

With that, it is with pleasure to present the beguiling specimen of the day, as fondly known and captivating to many - Uncle Albert.

Uncle Albert can be said to be the resident court jester in the royal playpen the whole bunch of us hang out at often. Without a doubt, he fits the bill of a domestic fool to a tee with the bright colored clothing, though it lacks the motley pattern, and the incessant laughter.

One cannot argue with the fact of reality that patriarchy is of the old hat and that, undeniably, it is pretty much the females wearing the pants these days. Not much of a skirt fan myself since pants can be equally, if not more, alluring in actuality.

In all honesty, there really is nothing wrong with having males being in a subservient, and females in a domineering position for once.

The new "bossdom" certainly does agree with the fetching female, affectionately known to her court in waiting as Xiaoshuo jie. Ahh, isn't that the life?

Evidently, it is imperative for Uncle Albert to keep Xiaoshuo jie and her court well entertained. If he does a poor job and incurs her wrath, he would risk being clamped up, stripped of his bauble and stuffed with it - the three week old rocklike baguette; since beheadment is not an option. One word - yucks. Talk about being put in modern day torture, quite literally.

So in his best interest, Uncle Albert has no choice but to... run!!!

just waxing away...

Despite knowing what could only be described as foolhardy absurd, well, either that, or the gods must be crazy?!?... not to mention against personal better judgement, here it is - the premiere of the solecism of the chubby dodo.

What could come out of it? It remains to be in question with the agonizing struggle if one should go along with being a pseudo conundrum of randomity or a quasi imbecilic hobo that waxes lyrical all day long...

To put it in a nutshell, it would seem that it could be quite aptly expressed in the renowned soliloquy of Shakespeare's Hamlet, "to be or not to be... that is the question"...

Therefore, till something more definitive happens, "friends... romans... countrymen... lend me your ears"...

Meanwhile, yes, share and share alike, the wax will be doled out, so watch out for it... and no, ear candling services are not provided.