Every time I drive, I see Peck Ann at the gym. What is different today is I no longer want to know him, I no longer want to pick him up and ask, "Do you need a lift?" That's because I already met you.
Someone once told me that I read people very well; within a few hours of meeting a person, I know him or her inside out. That is how I know you. You long for a simple, settled life but you're not a simpleton. On the contrary, your emotions are complex, not complicated, and you haven't yet learnt how to unravel them, perhaps you never will. Living in the modern Hollywood world has made you confuse: you want a simple life and like nature but you also want glamour, money, looks and perhaps even power. And as a result, you're hot and you're cold, you're yes and you're no, you're in and you're out, you're up and you're down. You are a countryside and a city.
And you don't like me - yet. I mean, a part of you likes me, I'm after all very likable. But the other part of you--the Hollywood part--tells you that I'm too fat and you cannot show me off or your cold cold heart is apathetic and cannot love, cannot trust anymore. Perhaps you even think I only want you for sex.
- Music:Lady Gaga - Bad Romance
I put my palm over my eyes,
my thumb and middle finger pressed
against temples and premonition as the plane
landed smoothly, shown on the screen.
You were calling him every morning
while I was sleeping on our holiday
and you think I wouldn't know and
you dared not tell or perhaps didn't know
how to tell even if you were already very telling
and you forgot I am an untold god.
I didn't make a sound but had to
sweep the tears away, I rubbed my eyes
to pretend they itched.
But damn the tears, they wouldn't stop
falling even when I said over and over
again and again, "Don't think about
it. There is no pain now."
You asked what was wrong,
I hid and lied, "The air was dry."
But I knew as the wheels lined
the runway, you would run away,
you're no longer mine.
I didn't intend to return
to this same point of origin,
a circle, dot but Luke
my friend wanted to socialize
on a Monday night. No one
drinks on a Monday night except
where they can sing or
where they can cry or
where hearts can be broken.
This is how we ended up here.
The bosses who are lovers still
don't know about our split and
asked where you were. Your
picture is still
on their wall, karaoke champion.
You won because
of me, remember? I walked
and walked to find the video
of the song that you sang
better than the original singer.
(You wanted to sing something
else but I vetoed it, insisting
you sing my song
and I was so determined
to find it.)
The second time you joined
the same contest with a song
without consulting me, you
didn't even make it to semis.
And although my singing
makes you cry and laugh
on several occasions
with different emotions,
this is how I know I know you
better than you know
yourself but you don't know this.
And perhaps this too:
You were my every
love song.
But the love songs were sad tonight
on Monday night, even the corn
and cheese of videos
of ugly models parading, emoting on
beaches fail to cheer
the melody. Luke that friend
took a bus to his spouse
and I took a train
and on my train, I read
but even the pages
were sad. They sang:
"Return the photo
you secretly took
of the wind in my hair
and, in the rain, my bright eyes.
I promise to be brave."
- Music:郭静 - 下一个天亮
"Do you remember,"
you asked, "where to meet me
when the E.Ts attack like
in Mars Attack or War
of the Worlds or Independence Day
or when the zombies kill
and the vampires too?"
(There was no haven safe for us
so you randomly picked your uncle's place,
where I walked the highway
because you allowed
a stranger to join our
mahjong game on Chinese New Year's
Eve at the pet shop
and I was girl, interrupted
with misanthropy and when you realized
that I was gone, you gave chase, stopped
in the middle of the highway,
broke all rules and begged
me to get in.)
I never let you choose
the movies because I like
art films, you like
blockbusters and those days,
you gave in to me.
These days, you have become
a ghost and although I save
you a seat, you will never again show.
I replied, "Don't be silly,
haven't you learnt
from the movies?
They'd only attack U. S. of A."
But you urged doggedly,
"I'll wait for you there--
I'll wait for you till you show,
I'll wait for you forever."
Now that you have become a ghost,
how can you ever remember this?
Even your uncle has moved.
was a Mediterranean blue sky
cloudless as far as the eye can see
a town south of France
a merest flick to the East and West
a gay al fresco cafe in a square,
a flirty waiter who praised my French,
a tongue I fail to conquer
and a thousand miles apart.
It was no use
reading The Unconsoled or
The Remains of the Day
under the determined sun so
I picked up my pen and,
behind a receipt for dear coffee,
wrote for you.
It has no metaphors, no seas, no skies,
no frog princes and cinderellas,
no figures, no rhyme, no rhythm,
no symbols, no art, all heart.
Only a refrain of three little words,
repeated three times.
You said it is the best poem
you have read and asked me
to submit it somewhere.
Where is the poem now?
Hung up to dry and lost:
a message in a bottle shattered against a hull
a star burns out in cyberspace.
But the sky has not changed
my untamed tongue and so
the poem remains the same except
for you.
The first poem I wrote
when we were apart became
the last poem I wrote
before we part.
*Needs editing and rewriting.
The monkey had chosen me,
remember? I did not choose
the Monkey
in a chanced animal show
on an illicit weekday beach--
you took sick leave, I played truant
we did much too often to get to
our secret seaside getaway, our haunting hideout
our poor substitute for a holiday--
It climbed on my shoulder
in the snapshot. I was in
my green-tea-green tee shirt
with a red dog and its tail
twisted like a star.
You were in black trucks and beach whale
belly. But you are not a bear.
You are a tiger, king
of the forest, second to the monkey
who outwitted you and leashed you
on a string.
But you are also the bull
loyal, patient and loving and I,
the redblooded hot-tempered ram,
the Confucius who should have read
the confused signs with blood
written all over their bodies,
bodies track-marking all over
the Thomas Hardy pages I hadn't read:
the wit infects the tiger,
turns around and eats the monkey;
the red ram of Mars, a failed matador,
tossed into air, shredded, disfigured,
leaving the Dog Star to witness
our dead white cat, a bleeding
ear, clumps of fallen grey hair,
a polar in a zoo's
fishtank, a prisoner
-- with no longing.
This is where I called you twenty times and more
because it was my idea of fun to pretend
that I was angry at you,
because you were to fly me home
and when I arrived here, I arrived
with expectation of a songbird waiting
to burst for Spring for you but you,
you did not answer my calls
and after an hour and more
I got tired of singing ringing clinging
for my pumpkin ride my four blind mice.
I could be a prince charming too
and took my expectation on a
silver stallion with red bridle, the MRT,
and then you called and called and called.
You did not know how relieved I was
to hear you fine
I did not tell you
I dared not tell you
I kept my petulant pretense
but your mechanical nightingale
persuaded me to return
to our destination. You could charm
a bird off the tree and when I arrived
you said you did not answer
because you did not hear my songs
I did not say I did not answer
because I heard your songs.
You began to fear me, my dear, my anger,
perhaps you began to fail me
and I feared your fear would fail
the songs we sang in your car
but I did not know how to tell
you this.
But this, all these are no longer ours.
The scene belongs to the toad
princes I saw today,
one heading for his silver stallion
the other begging, "Let's go home first!
Let us go home!" Even the place
has forgotten us and changed
its name to "Velocity,"
a land without songs and rhyme.
The crass toad princes can have this memory,
no longer musical, magical,
already tinted, tainted, vanished, vanquished,
but at least they can go home. We?
We didn't manage to fly home, my dear,
I was left behind in the trap you sprang,
the trap you sprang from
and you begin to sing of another spring
from another spring.
Because the Snake and the Rabbit fell in love, the Snake went to the mountains to study under the White Witch for 700 years to be a vegetarian so that she wouldn't hurt the Rabbit in any way.
When the Snake returned, the Rabbit had changed.
The Snake asked, "Do you still want to work things out?"
The Rabbit sobbed, "Sorry, I'm so sorry. I've affections for you but they are not love. I don't know how to tell you."
The Snake asked, "You don't have to tell me. I've known you for 700 years, I know you so well. When you go out and buy breakfast for me every morning while I am still sleeping, are you meeting someone else?"
"Yes."
The Snake said, "I see things very clearly now. There is no one at fault here. It is just our circumstances. You're a very good creature. Your love is so selfless and generous. No one has loved me the way you do, you love my every pore, every stretch mark and even when I don't shave or have morning breath or am ill, sweaty, dirty. You love me for me, even when I am mean and bad. You love me so much you can give yourself up for me. It is your love that makes me want to be kind, to be a better animal. Your love makes me whole so that now I have the strength to stand and face the future alone. Thank you, thank you for the years you've loved me. I don't think anyone could have been happier than the both of us. I'll remember forever the time you surprised me when I woke up to find cut fruits and a post-it saying "Surprize!" on the fridge door. I still have the post-it, do you know? I'll remember every drive we took in your cart to deliver your carrots. I'll remember how when we were so poor we had to survive on $2 a day, so poor but so happy. But I haven't seen you smile for a while, smile so big that your gums show like in the photo with me hugging you from behind. I hope she can make you laugh and you must make sure she is worthy of your love."
"I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
"A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling."
The mad poet or rather the maddest poet of all, Sylvia Plath, wrote that. She fed her children cookies and milk, tucked them into bed, placed a wet towel covering the gap between the floor and their bedroom door and then went to the kitchen and stuck her head into the gas oven. A kind of system in chaos. "And... and! ... AND" is how madness begins, no "either/or," no "neither/nor."
What do a bar of soap and a gold band and a tooth cavity have in common? Nothing except linked by the madwoman. There is a logic in this madness but it is a logic known only to the mad person and so you must be mad in order to understand her/him/me/us/them/you.
How do you know if you are mad? You do. You will find yourself afraid that a tiger may saunter into the room because twenty years ago, when you were seven, your grandmother told you a lion escaped from the zoo and lay in the ditch, waiting to pounce on young tender flesh, to get you to come home immediately after school. No gallivanting, she said. That was the exact word she used: "gallivant." I've never bothered to check its meaning because I knew instinctively what it means and I know I said a lion in the room and a tiger in the ditch or is it the other way round?
When you wake in the middle of the night out of a nightmare, your catatonia is partly because of the daze and confusion of not knowing whether you are still incarcerated in compulsory conscription, or whether you are still in your university with no responsibilities, no bills to pay and no children to rear, or whether you're already on your deathbed, waiting, wasting away, and partly because you have the feeling that someone is watching you and if you move, they will know you're awake. There will be dire consequences.
When you sit in a train, you believe that the row of passengers facing you is your audience and critics, watching you putting on a show. They already know your play, your story, your pretense and your failure. You try not to cry but you mourn for the pulchritude of benzoic acid.
The difference between madness and sanity is you know it isn't a tiger even if you see it walk into the room, you know Norman Bates isn't at the window when you wake even if you see a shadow, you know that the only commonality the plebeian passengers have with the critics is their cruelty, and you know beauty exists with or without you. But sometimes, you or perhaps not you or perhaps I, I want to snap, want to give it all up, lose it all, imagine a lion where there is none. Or ghosts, aliens, gods, whatever your fancy is. The consciousness of waking and dreaming will become an uninterrupted flow. What is the point of struggling? What's the point of fighting a losing battle? Better to stick your head in the oven. End this meaningless existence early. Spare ourselves the long suffering. That's what I mean when I say I'm hanging on a thread of sanity.
But who are you? Or rather who am I? I am a man and a woman and a hermaphrodite. I'm white, yellow, brown, black and sometimes green. I'm heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, transsexual, asexual, polysexual. I'm the imperialist and the colonized, the communist and the liberal and the conservative. I am a hundred years of solitude. I would like to say I cannot resist anything except temptations although I am already Dorian Gray. I'm Wordsworth's Lucy and her moon (luna, lunaris, lucēre, lunar, lunacy). I'm Browning's last duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were quite alive and at the same his Porphyria and her lover. I am Keats' truth and beauty for beauty is truth but not his nightingale for I'm already Yeats' mechanical bird, forged out of fire and gold, singing of what is past, passing and to come, three tones in a melody. I go when the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized, because old men ought to be explorers and women too.
What I am saying is I'm a repository of stories of times and languages and if I don't speak, I'll go mad or madder. There is no fairy tale in this story of madness. It is fragmentary and desultory like a Tsai Ming-liang's movie where nothing happens. Anne Sexton's therapist encouraged her to write to prevent her ascension to madness and when she dreamed of the My Lai soldier with his red penis raining on her, I look at my hands and it is green with intestines. Deleuze and Guattari argue that the schizo is the sanest person and so if you think what I say is insane, then you're the one who is truly insane and if you think I'm sane, then you must be insane. We're already poisoned by the text we read. We're three (wo)men in the same boat and one of us has the ridiculous name of Jerome K. Jerome. Don't rock the boat, The Waves are already doing a good job. Mrs. Dalloway said she would row the boat herself. Row row row your boat, gently down the stream.
It is midnight. Rain is beating against the window. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
Good night and good mornin', good mornin', we've talked the whole night thru'. Singin' in the rain and all that jazz.
My grandaunt, my grandmother's sister, was mad. They locked her in the house, allowed her to linger within the compound in a sleeveless girly thin white dress down to her ankles. One day she escaped and jumped headlong into a well in our garden. She was nearly 18. I have a photograph of my seven year old self leaning against the sealed well.
We had a well once. We were rich once, textile merchants, and owned a stretch of shops along Chinatown. Although we were shrewd and intelligent, we were not ambitious and adaptable and when the Chinese no longer made their own clothes but bought pret-a-porter from departmental stores, we ran out of business.
You would have thought the madness ended with my grandaunt's death. I would have like it to. But the first strains appeared in Aunt Shirley, the second child of seven of my grandmother, second to my mother. When her then-boyfriend, visiting our tiny flat, commented on the size of her thighs as she was mopping the floor on her knees in her shorts, she flew into a stupendous rage and ditched him on the spot. But in recent years, she has mellowed while my own mother's madness manifests. My favorite anecdote is the one when she locked my father out of the house because her soup was charred. Or perhaps the one she ran out at 3 am to contemplate suicide while sitting in our car. There are too many stories of her madness to tell.
I should have suspected she is mad from the magical stories about her past she conjured and told us in the late of the nights when we were children. She is the one who told us about our mad grandaunt and embellished the story with a doomed love affair. After the stories, my brother and sister slept soundly but I was a light sleeper even then. When my siblings slept, my mother would rock herself with her hands clasping the sides of her head, unable to sleep because of the terrible pain she was in.
I should have suspected I have inherited the madness when I am the only one who inherited the splitting monthly migraines since I was seven. I store my mother's stories in my mind. I almost lost my sanity on a night in my university hostel years ago. If you have felt a muscle cramp before, madness feels like a constant cramp in the brain, with the skull clamping in. The thoughts linked to one another without reprieve, I thought and thought and thought and could not stop, I tossed and turned and burned in bed until the madness felt like a bicep curl being held too long and the brain was about to implode. I only hung on a thin thread because I remembered in the morning M. would visit me with breakfast. In those days, M. was my life line and thinking of him, the morning eventually came.
Come, listen to the stories I tell. I am a mad man, am I. I only tell true lies. Listen, come.
I asked, "What do you mean?"
"I mean, every time I give you a piece of advice, you don't seem to value it; you do something else."
"Of course I listen to you!" I said. "But I can't do things your way because your way isn't my way and if I do it like you, I'll not be me anymore."
"Aiya, you better stick to M. Only he can stand your nonsense."
"Oy, please, you and my other friends can stand me too ok?"
What I should have said is: "Please, if you can stand Henley, and he's worse than me, then most people should be able to tolerate me." :p
That being said, I've to admit I'm stubborn but not blindly stubborn. I reason but if my reasoning is not your reasoning, then let's agree to disagree (unless that matter is concerned with my well-being).
A said to me today, "Do you know you flirt with everyone, men, women, straight, gay, trannies, everyone?"
I said, "Yes, of course. Even to animals too. You should see how my pets love me. they love me so much they follow me around the house."
"Don't you think you should stop flirting?"
"Why?"
"Because you'll hurt people. They may think that you're interested in them, fall for you, and get hurt."
"But that's not my intention. I never flirt with people I like; in fact, I always avoid them because I'm so awkward around them. I can only flirt with people I have no possibility of romance with."
"I know it's not your intention to hurt--you're a nice guy--but strangers don't know that. They are hurt by you."
Awkward silence.
A. said: "Can't you change?"
"I don't know how you expect me to answer that question. Have you heard of the Aesop fable? A scorpion asks a frog to ferry it across the lake and -"
A. continued, "While crossing the lake, the scorpion stings the frog and they both sink with the scorpion saying, 'Sorry, it's my nature.'"
"Yes."
"But you're not a scorpion. You're a rabbit."
I laughed. "Im not a rabbit! I'm a dolphin."
"Rabbit, dolphin, whatever."
"The truth is I find flirting so fun and funny I cannot stop but really, I mean no harm."
"I'm only telling you because you're my close friend."
And I said, "Yes, I know. Just like it's only because you're my close friend that I blog about you to let you know how I feel."
The Snake Writes to Mr. Coal
The Butterfly's Advice to to the Snake
Long before deforestation had forced the Snake to travel far and separate from the Rabbit, the White Witch was protecting the forest. She was so wise and powerful that she kept the forest from being discovered by the humans. In their early courtship, ostracized by other animals, the Snake and the Rabbit sought the advice of the Witch.
The Rabbit asked, "How can we overcome so many obstacles when others have failed?"
The White Witch said, "You're asking the wrong question. You already have the strongest magic. But your love is born from the throes of passion. And you must maintain this passion. You must keep trying."
Soon, the Witch passed away, the humans came, and the Snake had to leave. When the Snake returned, she often thought of the Witch's advice, which the Rabbit had forgotten. The Snake cried to herself, "The Rabbit has forgotten how to be patient, understanding, and caring. She has forgotten how to love. She has stopped trying."
And the Snake slept for a thousand years.
The Snake Writes to Mr. Coal
Seeing the Snake's misery, the Butterfly told his story:
Long time ago, when I was a caterpillar, I fell in love with a rose. It was the most perfect rose in the world, red as blood. The Rose said to me, "Please don't eat my leaves. I'll remain beautiful only for you." Day and night, I guarded it from other caterpillars and aphids. Although I saw the shadows of butterflies, I believed naively in our true love. One day, the Rose shed a petal and was less perfect than before but that didn't matter to me. Autumn, however, was merciless and the withering Rose said, "Wait for me, perhaps one day we'll meet again."
Next summer, I, already a Butterfly, returned to the same spot and found that the Rose had blossomed. Something was amiss for from the top, I saw a caterpillar zealously guarding the Rose, while the Rose flirted with me and other butterflies. The moment the sweet nectar flowed from my proboscis to my heart, I realized my heart was broken into a million pieces, I realized my heart had turned to stone. There is no love in the world, my dear friend, there is no love. It has all been said before; it has all been done before. The world has become so old. Hope no longer; cry no more. Everything is transcient; nothing remains the same. Once you let your guard down, it is when you hurt the most.
After telling his story, the Butterfly flew away. Deep in the Snake's heart, she knew that the Butterfly was still seeking for his one perfect rose, a rose that would accept the moth in him. The Snake grieved all the more for the both of them.
The Pigeon took pity on the heartbroken Snake after seeing her cry for days and nights, wasting away, and offered to carry a message to the Rabbit. The Snake thought for a while, and spoke in a hoarse voice, "I've said everything I want to say to Rabby, but perhaps, if you may be so kind, you may carry a letter to Rabby's friend, the Black Rabbit at the coal mines."
And the Snake wrote:
Dear Mr. Coal,
What would you do if you were in my position? That you find your partner of six years change after knowing a new friend? That she is no longer as loving, as caring, as selfless as before, even though you know very well they are merely friends? Would you stay and salvage the situation, knowing that it will get a little worse everyday, knowing that you're always less and less important everyday? Or would you cut and run?
And how would you feel if you were in my position? That your partner and you have conquered poverty, unemployment, hardship, long distances, only to find out that she has changed due to a new friend, when, if she could have waited for a while longer, you two could have it all? Would you cry all day in your room? Or would you write a letter to the friend to gain a peace of mind, to confess and move on?
I write this without any agenda except for my equanimity. I hope this will not affect your friendship with Rabby because it's a beautiful one, and, putting myself in your shoes, I would never allow my friend's partner to come in between us. I write this without the intention to blame you or Rabby. I see very clearly that no one is at fault. After all, you mean no harm and don't know what you did and are still doing. We're merely put in a very difficult circumstance. The tragedy of a modern life. Things change fast, and hearts, faster. What hurts me the most is how Rabby makes such a fool out of the life I believe in, a foolish life that believes in love to conquer all. That she, under your influence, has made my life a complete lie.
The Snake folded the letter gingerly without signing her name. She placed it in the mouth, hesitated, and thought of swallowing it. With an inward sigh, she relinquished it to the Pigeon.
When the Pigeon flew over the coal mines, the black smog made it chock, causing the letter in its mouth to fall. The Pigeon dove after the letter but as the Pigeon landed, a net was thrown over it. The coal workers made pigeon pie that day.
The letter drifted away, and was soon buried under the coal dust.
Once upon a time, there was a young Rabbit grazing in a field. Suddenly, she felt a bite on her hind leg, and sensing danger, she hopped quickly into the nearest burrow in a state of paresis. But the Snake followed into the burrow. Face to face, the Rabbit noted the Snake was young. She pleaded, "Please don't eat me. I'll love you forever."
The Snake coiled round the Rabbit and kept her warm for the mild venom to fade. From then on, the Rabbit loved the Snake faithfully. She would always say, "I love you more than you love me," and knowing that it was true, the Snake was silent.
The rest of the animals said they would never last. The Scorpion said, "The Snake will eat the Rabbit. It is the Snake's nature." The Lion said, "Different species, same sex - how immoral."
But for the first time in the Snake's life, she was truly happy. The Rabbit had given the greatest happiness to the Snake even if they were censured by the world. The Snake would help the Rabbit plant her crops when everyone didn't help. In winter, when they were so poor they could only share a bowl of congee, they were still immensely happy. The Snake neglected her study for the Rabbit to work on the crops, but she felt it was worth it. They shared a song together, and if one of them was to sing it, it would remind them of their everlasting love and not to argue anymore. If there was a disaster, they had planned a meeting point, at the Rabbit's uncle's burrow. To them, they could fight the world.
But deforestation was tearing them apart. It was easy for the Rabbit to feed but the Snake had to travel further and further in search for food. In order to achieve an attainment, to be valued, to make money, to turn into vegetarian, the Snake had no choice but to travel a very, very long distance to study with a god. She wanted to be good because the Rabbit was good. She wanted to be good enough for the Rabbit.
When the Snake was away, all she could pray for was for the Rabbit not to die, not to die, to take care of herself so that they could spend the rest of their lives together. Even 50 years together were too short for the Snake. The Snake wanted them to live forever so that they could be together forever.
While the Snake was away, nearby rabbits from the coal-mines became friends with the Rabbit, and slowly, the Rabbit was no longer lonely for the Snake.
In this way, five years passed and the Snake returned. The first few weeks went on smoothly, but slowly, the Snake noticed that the Rabbit had changed. She was less truthful, less caring, less thoughtful, more selfish. And her beautiful white fur was tinted by the other coal-mine rabbits. The Snake realized that the Rabbit no longer loved her; she was no more than a friend to her.
The Snake consulted the wise Owl, and the Owl said, "You have to decide for yourself."
The Snake said, "I cannot live with someone for the rest of my life without that being loving me in return."
The Owl said, "Ah, I always know you're a romantic at heart."
The Snake decided to confront the Rabbit. She said, "Do you still love me?"
The Rabbit said, "You've been away for so long. Things change."
The Snake said, "So you don't love me anymore?"
"Can't we at least still give it a try?"
"But tell me the truth. Are you less caring? Less loving? Or am I imagining things?"
"Yes, my priorities have changed. I want more and more now. Stop crying, I'm worried for you."
The Snake said, "Then I don't want to try anymore. I want a perfect, complete, pure love. I don't want to live a life of hate and regrets. I don't want to wait till a day when our love fades so much that we start to detest each other. I don't want to be trapped in a loveless relationship. You'll never mention a break-up because you hold on too much to the past even when we don't have a future. Why don't we break up now? When we are still happy? Thank you for giving me the happiest six years of my life." The Snake leaned against the Rabbit and cried bitterly and the Rabbit only shut her eyes to sleep. Who would have foretold at the start of their story that it was the Snake's heart that was breaking?
They attended the Swans' wedding together, for the last time as a couple, to have a perfect date to end their journey. The male Swan was so happy, reminding the Snake of her former self. She said to the Swans, "Please, please be the happiest couple as can be" because, the Snake didn't say, because we didn't manage to be. We tried so hard, we almost conquered the world but we cannot conquer ourselves. The start of one's life is the end for another. "If," the Snake said in the end, "I have 8 million dollars, I'll give half to you." But from then on, they're nothing to each other. They would try to be friends, but it would be impossible since one is a rabbit and the other, a snake. Ah, what a sad affair this is, two beings in love, no third party, nobody's fault, only trapped in difficult circumstances. Time and distance still trump love in the end. Honesty will eventually be corrupted. There is no beauty in the world.
是我没有陪在你身边当你寂寞时候
我怀念得是绝对炽热
At the waiting lounge, before boarding the plane to New York, while watching Olympics on TV, a familiar figure approached him and said, "Good lor, some people so high class, don't even want to go out with me in Singapore. But now, you still cannot escape me." Yes, that demoness was
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nicky_bitchywho was returning for his new semester at Mosque College at Feardelaphi to seduce his fellow acolytes. Demoness in monk's (mink?) robe, disrobing other monks' robes, turning them into proselytes of his cult. Vixen who had reached such a high attainment he could transform into human. A look into his eyes and you'll turn to stone. Beware, beware. (
nicky_bitchywas traveling with his very adorable mother who knew so many people. Fellow plane-passengers just went up to her to chat, as if they had fixed an appointment in a cafe, instead of coincidentally meeting on the plane. He told nicky_bitchyhis mom should join facebook.)After 18 hours of cruising on air, with no one interesting enough to recruit him into the Mile High Club, when he finally reached the JFK airport, he saw at the arrival hall someone carrying a placard with
nicky_bitchy's last name. "Lucky nicky_bitchy," he thought, "traveling in style with a chauffeur to drive him." However, envy and self-pity never do anyone any good and so he perked up and took the subway, dirty as ever, in the best of moods.And even before he could greet Miu Miu, his landlady who shared the same name as Prada's subsidiary, she cried, "You've gained weight!" and puffed her plump cheeks to demonstrate how much weight he had gained.
He resolved to gym the next day to the song:
"I didn't eat yesterday
And I'm not going to eat today
And I'm not going to eat tomorrow,
Coz I wanna be a supermodel."
- Mood:
good - Music:jill sobule - I wanna be a supermodel
Entrants of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest are invited "to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels" — that is, deliberately bad. A prize of US$250 is awarded.
The contest was initiated in 1982 by Professor Scott Rice and is named "in honor" of English novelist and playwright Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, author of the much-quoted first line "It was a dark and stormy night."
The 2006 overall winner was Jim Guigli, a retired mechanical designer for the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, from Carmichael, California. "My motivation for entering the contest," he joked, "was to find a constructive outlet for my dementia." His entry was:
- "Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean."
I bet I can top that:
The camel died a few days ago and it would be his turn soon as he trudged in an aimless manner, compass-less, with the hot desert sun scorching his back but he--he had to rub his eyes to make sure it wasn't a mirage--came suddenly upon a well and, beside it, a tall, shapely young blond whose spangled undergarments were only thinly veiled (as of the fashion of the country) stretched out her hands to offer him a wooden spherical bowl of cool water, smiling coyly and shyly.
Hey! Don't snigger, ok? It takes talent to write so badly. Bad talent is also talent.
This is how Charlotte Bronte wrote: she wrote a word and her curate-husband looked over her shoulders and said, "But, darling, aren't you recycling your old materials? Shouldn't we visit the poor and the sick now?" She wrote another word and he said, "Darling, I want my tea NOW." She wrote the third and he said, "Darling, you should not work on sabbath." At the fourth word, he said, "I want a baby" and she died at childbirth before she could write the fifth. HE NEVER READ A WORD SHE WROTE AND WAS SO DAMN PROUD OF IT AND WENT ON TO BURN ALL HER LETTERS.
This is how Margaret Oliphant wrote: her left hand sewed; her right hand held a pen; her left ear watched her five boys play lest they should fall into the brook; her right ear was full of her servant's demand for another raise and all the while she kept an eye on the workers mending her roof so that she could keep it over their heads and make ends meet because her sickly husband died and left her with three boys, one barely a month's old, in a foreign land, Italy, where they went to recover his health and then two other boys came from her dead drunkard brother. They made plenty of noise around the house but still she did not scream at her five children, her husband, her brother, servant and roofers: "STOP THE FUCK UP. I WANT TO WRITE." All she wanted was to bring the boys up as gentlemen on the loyalties of her hundred novels. They went to Oxford and Cambridge but couldn't find one decent job between them, couldn't support themselves and died before her. Her boys had failed her, her writing had failed her. If she didn't have the boys, she could have writen better or if she didn't have to write to survive, she might have saved those wretched boys. So she rewrote her 100 narratives of triumph into 100 narratives of failure. AND PEOPLE ASKED HER: "IF GEORGE ELIOT COULD WRITE THIS, WHY CAN'T YOU?" GEORGE FUCKING ELIOT LIVED IN AN IQ GREENHOUSE THAT GREW MONEY, THAT'S WHY.
And you, poor little boy with all your psychic problems and prozac, refuse to even try anymore. You think the world doesn't understand you, you have no faith, you blame your parents, you can't fall in love. Sometimes I think you conjure your problems just to imitate the life of a tragic hero but screw your puerile imagination. Not all heroes are psychos and not all psychos are heroes. You pretend to be a psycho among many other things but you are definitely not a hero. You're shallow and pretentious, just like all your friends. Birds of a feather. You and your friends - a generation of Cinderellas and no Prince Charming.
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