Doubles.

Doubles
The boy placed both thumbs on the middle C and allowed a lingering moment before the other fingers of his hands started moving in succession in opposite directions as he played the chromatic scales. No flats, no sharps. It was smooth, flowing and natural, but somehow it seemed to lack vibrancy. Oh well, music, and specifically the Piano was analogous to Life, but isn’t exactly larger than it.

He felt more contentment reading his book. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. It was probably as dense as Life itself, but again, it wasn’t all encompassing. Funny, he wondered, Literature by itself did not appear to have much importance(subjective) when compared with life-saving Medicine or justice-upholding Law or money-generating Business. But…every tradition and culture, has embraced it. From the pre-historic inscriptions on cave walls by ancient civilisations to the modern day cyberspace media of blogging, Literature has been ever present.

But he has drifted. For once, and for many more occasions to come, he was jubilant because even when he found himself to be living in the heart of darkness(Joseph Conrad) or when things fall apart(Chinua Achebe), at least he was still himself. At least he still had absolute knowledge that he was in the power to correct if not his surroundings, then perhaps himself. The boy was still very much focused on Literature as expression and self-discovery.

There were no negative external influences on him now. He had quit smoking for the past two hours (although not particularly inclined to prolong it) and kept aside the devilish looking bottle of brandy. He was lying stark naked on the floor and reading, with his room door locked and curtains down of course. Hey, he felt it was refreshing though I think it was sheer madness.

Who am I? Oh…Sorry if my abrupt infringement into the narration has caused some confusion.

The boy started getting confused as well, not quite sure if his elation was due to a fleeting moment of idealism or perhaps something which would go on. And on. Like the 45 page long reading on cyborgs and cyberspace politics he had to read last semester. He wasn’t sure if he was happy or not by being happy. Actually, he was left puzzled by his own layered interrogation with regards to a simple emotion of happiness.

Why was he happy? He didn’t know.
How did he become happy? He couldn’t figure it out.
What was he happy about? Probably over nothing.
When did he become happy? He didn’t notice.

He was quite afraid his probe into happiness would stop the emotion altogether. So he decided to register it at the repressed department of his brain for later investigation. It was then that the horror surfaced. What if the investigations at a later time give rise to negative results. Would that mean he would have to bid an eternal farewell to happiness?

He clapped his hands. When you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands. They didn’t teach the song just for the sake of developing a child’s gross motor skills. The music and synchronised actions takes your mind off the evaluation of happiness, just in case…just in case happiness was not to be what it really was supposed to be.

Was it all pretence then? No.

Why was he happy? He had finished two tutorials and his book.
How did he become happy? Gradually…it did not overpower him. The intensity built up slowly, without any hints of reaching a climax nor regressing into negativity. Hmm…and there was nothing sexual about his happiness.
What was he happy about? The book had a pleasant revelation in its concluding pages.
When did he become happy? Specifically, it was the moment when he first pressed the middle C with both his thumbs.

The boy was happy.

Forgive my intrusion again…I think he is mad. Who am I? I am him.

Moment...

The boy was startled by the on-goings of his world. He had thought he would fall asleep after his fall on the drinking. ARE YOU TOO AFRAID OF LOSING YOURSElF? (consider 'too' in any sense you wish to)

The world was silent except for the curtains moving to the mechanical blow of his air-con. And perhaps, the throbbing of his thoughts. But that was enough to wake him from his semi-drunkenness into the reality he lived in. All he thought about, was an escape, an escape which would exclude him from his vanity and perhaps the rest of the world.

The rest of the world? He thought silently. It was but a mello-dramatic impulse on his living senses. Whatever else that prevented him from his writings were the rest of the world. For that moment in time. For that moment in drunkenness. Where he could speak, not as a species of a homo-erectant, not as an averagely shaped homo erectant, not as a floating signifier of virtues and expectations of a university going homo erectant with an economics degree to pursue, but as a homo-erectant. The regression into our barbaric self. Was he merely a double.

It is at moments like this when he wanted the tenderness of his classmate, J. She was deliciously seductive, playing on her dressing and make up as an over-tone of what she really was. The boy had become dubious. Was he even making sense? Was he even speaking in grammatical construct so highly stressed upon by the academics? Drunkenness and Literature were truly perfect complements. Why….why did he have to even introduce an Economics term? The very jargon of materialism and consumerism he had so violently objected to?

Both conflicts were tearing at him. If not for the word processor, his ramblings would be but unstructured, un-liberated and un related pieces of writing he could never find solace in, given his nature of perfection. But from a philosophical point of view, perfection, is in itself a certain climax of imperfection.

Deliciously, he thought about the girl. She was his feast of optical pleasure. Just a simple ‘hi’ at the bus-stop would make him re-chart his original pleasure. Yes, she was beautiful. She possessed a beauty which needed to be share by her male counterparts in different measure. Goodness, the boy thought. It was more than a game of lust. Yet he refused to be specific on the topic of Love.

She was much like a sizzling pan-cake just out from the oven. Sizzling hot, a bit crisp on the sides, but none the less, a good candidate for his gourmet. He was cheap. But not in the monetary sense. He required a certain degree of cheapness to feed his own appetite for beauty. She was not beautiful.

And so, after a three digit drinking bill, he told himself, he would lie to cartograph his way into her pants. Like he would do with any edible girl on the street. He was overcome by his raw, almost primal instincts of reproduction.

But there she stood, oblivious or unappreciative of the attention she is getting. She was not just a genderless name or a passing shadow. She was like that undeniable midnight supper one just had to eat---which had just sold out.

The boy gasped at his own writing and thoughts. Surely, this was unbecoming of his social morality which he had been shouldering and anticipating. But there was no Perato optimal point in the conflicts between lust and love. It was a fluctuation of which he felt most at each time. For now, it equilibrated at Love.

But Love was exactly the last strand he was holding on to. If you knew that you were holding on to the last strand of hopeful straw before your trust-worthy camel finally gave way, would you give it up?

He was thinking in a staccato fashion where his thoughts were religiously broken into the breaks between paragraphs. Although the ‘highness’ of alcohol abuse had left him in a moment of clarity, he still felt he wasn’t making absolute sense. But why make sense when the challenge upon him was making love to the girl he awfully adored? The girl whom would be more gratifying than the lotus roots of a hence-named soup?

Cling on to the moment, before the dehydrating effects of the over-consumption of alcohol hits you…before you start to 寝ます. Oh…if he could forget the burden of the knowledge he had so acquired.

His head is spinning now, and his words appear to him no more clearly than the preceding vehicle on a road during a hazy morning. The emotions of the moment simply could not be captured in a printed media. The obsession of a breakfast before the glutton could not be made more comprehensible with words. It was a personal achievement of sorts, but a failure in part of the education.

The boy drifted off to sleep, seeing the stars of brandy and beer hybridizing before his very own eyes.

A moment. A moment of supreme confusion and yet clarity.

Likes and Dislikes

嫌いです!
A list of my dislikes:
1) Consumerism/ Materialism
2) Post-modern texts i.e. The English Patient
3) Hypocrisy/ Lies
4) Elitist notions
5) Mathematics i.e. Calculus, Logarithms and Indices, Trigonometry, etc
6) Sluts i.e. Paris Hilton, XX, etc
7) Noise i.e. Barking dogs, 155mm Howitzers firing, mischievous children, etc
8) Coercion i.e. Army/Reservist/IPPT, so claimed ‘social etiquette’ and ‘ethics’
9) Callousness
10) Pompousness i.e. think ‘belittle my status’
11) Sweating especially after showering
12) Beggars/ Hookers i.e. most of them are of the same social class unworthy of compassion
13) Confusion i.e. moral, mental, etc
14) Stinginess
15) Conservative Mentality i.e. my father
16) Over-Prudence
17) Cowardice
18) Rigid Teaching Methods
19) Complicity
20) Over-zealous religious faiths
21) Gendered visions
22) False Accusations
23) Corruption/ Double Standards
24) Aggression
25) Manipulation
26) Over-Reachers
27) Complicity
28) Rationalising emotions
29) Cruelty/ Humiliation
30) False sense of Eurocentric/Racial supremacy
31) Unnaturalness i.e. fake accents, wannabes, pornography, etc
32) Things left hanging i.e. MediaCorp drama series, this list


…Somehow I can’t seem to finish compiling the list. There are just too many things I dislike in my world to completely list down in one sitting. Well, and since it seems like I can’t really alter the majority of things in the list, I should just stop whining about how bad this bloody messed up world is. It is bad enough as it is, without having me to specify to myself what really irks me.

I suppose my lists of ‘likes’ would be far simpler to state. Fast cars, faster girls. Sex, power, money and love. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Hmmm…actually, that isn’t really the case although I admit I might have acquired some quite weird tastes….

好きです！
A list of my likes:
1) Passion i.e. what Amos would term ‘feeling’
2) Sweating girls
3) Piano Ballads i.e. Moonlight Sonata, 梁祝 (with violin accompaniment), Memory
4) Sonnets
5) Gothic and Erotic Texts i.e. Dracula, Jane Eyre
6) Oriental stuff i.e. BoA
7) Demure women i.e. Jap teacher
8) Language and Linguistics i.e. writing, grammar, oration, etc
9) Graphs and Charts
10) Exploration/ Adventure
11) Extravagance
12) Grandiose
13) Beauty/ Harmony i.e. surroundings, faces, etc
14) FreedOm
15) Risk taking
16) Open-mindedness
17) Mental Stimulation i.e. challenges, fantasizing, etc
18) Detachment
19) Genderless perspectives i.e. Masculine = human, Feminine also = human
20) Truth/ Straight forwardness
21) Empathy in Justice (one big oxymoron)
22) Devotion to inner strength as faith i.e. Convent girls
23) Optimism
24) Romanticism
25) Responsibility and Discipline
26) Love i.e. as in making it and as in its abstract form
27) Drink and the state of euphoria it brings not amounting to drunkenness i.e. Brandy, Whiskey, Burbon, Rum (any dark coloured liquors)
28) Travelling i.e. to foreign countries or just a bus ride to nowhere
29) Honesty
30) Penmanship
31) Courage i.e. moral, in picking up girls, etc
32) Expansion i.e. my assets, mental faculties, this list.

Apparently, the second list ends on the same note as the first. That is, there is still room for more items. Am I here to conclude prematurely that the world is not as bad as I’ve thought it to be now? Given such distinct likes and dislikes, it only seems appropriate that I avoid my dislikes and pursue my likes. Perhaps then, I’ll have a better critique of the world in general and happiness would become a more integral part of me. Problem is…how often do I have the opportunity to chase my dreams? Sweating girls, demure women and Love…they happen to be part of my ‘likes’ but remain as entities in reality.

Brothers, do we share similar interests and disinterest?

Lunch...

Sitting in the library and trying to bloG after a recess period because the other alternative of studying would yield less returns to scale considering I had a heavy lunch. And I mean 'heavy'.

It started this morning when I realised I didn't have a lunch partner yet. So I picked through my contact list on my phone and started searching for one.

J--- went SMU for exchange programme.
Amos--- told me another day.
Army buddy--- told me he had lab lesson which had 10percent weightage on his overall grade.
JC classmate--- eating with girlfriend, and sounded like he minded if I joined.
Sec school classmate--- had lessons.

So by the time my lecture ended at two, I was still quite without someone to dine with. Next best alternative? Eating in solitude at the cafe while endless streams of people scrambled by as they wonder why I was such a loner eating alone.

I decided to splurge on the meal because this week, my budget constrain (forgive the Economic references) was less tight. So I ordered a Roast Chicken Pasta with Mushroom sauce, a platter of Italian sausages with Salad in Thousand Island dressing and topped it all off with an extra sized Coke. By my standards, it was a gastronomical feast. But nobody eats alone...especially not in one quiet corner of the cafe, trying not to attract too much company with people who shared the same view about eating alone. Say, I'm studying in the biggest faculty in the whole Uni and can't even find a lunch-partner. Introvert? Anti-social? Attitude? Geek? Or a combination of them. (with doubts about the last one of course)

Actually, nobody cares. They might pass comments about my hair, my clothes, my looks, my eating alone. But these are detached comments as much as the receiver of them is indifferent to them. If I couldn't really care less about it, why should they?

So, this is the complete schooling experience there is so much emphasis about. Because the next time someone comments about eating alone, I would be the first to say it is no big deal. I've been there and done that. Hopefully, not too often.

Childish. Vain. Go think about how it fits in.

Meditation

Meditation
So today was a day of physical activity. Did a bit of swimming in the morning followed by tennis in the afternoon with CW bro. In between our quest and training to play at Wimbledon, we had numerous water-breaks. Call it lousy stamina or exhaustion from immense exertion. Anyway, between one of those breaks where I sat there smoking, we had a little conversation about everything. When Taurus boy meets his Sagittarian counterpart, the conversation can only revolve around two things; the first being money making scheme (Taurus pragmatism combined with Jupiter’s good fortune and idealism) and the second being words of mutual help. (We take different stands on sex, love and women)

It seems the focus of our conversation was on the latter, but it turned out to be degenerative.

dOm: You know, you know (emphasis on ‘you know’ for rhetoric effect, typically Sagittarian)…
CW: (the Bull is still patiently smiling)…yar…
dOm: Sometimes I wonder about the meaning of our existence. (Pauses for dramatic effect such that the next orgasmic statement would ensure greater impact)…It is like, we are born to die. The moment a baby is born, he/she is actually awaiting death. He will die some day.
CW: (Still absorbing the intensity of pessimism in the above remark)…aiyoh! Why you so pessimistic?

After tennis:
CW: (Looking at a young but skilful and pretty lass playing tennis) Wah, she is damn good.
dOm: It doesn’t matter how good you are at tennis because one day, you will still die. (As-a-matter-of-factly) It doesn’t matter how much wealth you have accumulated because in the end you will still die. (Repeating the crux of his previous conversation) We are born to die.
CW: Huh? Then you might as well die now? It is exactly because one day we will die that’s why we should give it our best.
dOm: Haha…

It isn’t so often that I am bogged down by such negativity. But perhaps when the dog barks and wakes me from a night of precious sleep when my mind should be put to better use producing alpha-beta frequencies, I start thinking. I think about the meaningless paper chase (referring here to both degrees and monetary assets), I think about the truth behind the words we say, I think about the value of our life. I think about the way I think. Perhaps, that is the beginning of misery.

It would be an ironic over-statement to say that I have become a Nihilist, completely not believing in anything anymore. In so far as having thoughts about Birth as a beginning to the long wait for Death, it should be fair to say that I do believe in this process of Life itself. Not to mention, believing that nothing is worth believing is in itself a belief.

I am still haunted about the truth in saying that everybody was born to die. Perhaps Florence Nightingale was born to improve the appalling state of military hospitals. Perhaps Hitler was born to instil fear and cause a massive war. Perhaps Sir Stanford Raffles was born to develop a series of port colonies for Britain. Perhaps I was born to receive an education in Economics, then get married, then have kids, then lead a routine but happy life thereafter. But the ultimatum here is that nobody can escape the clutches of Death which inevitably transforms our earthly existence back into ashes and dust.

If, for a few moments, I can cast aside the beginnings of Birth and ends of Death, and start to examine the process of Life as a means instead, would that diminish the pessimism? Would that reaffirm my personal doctrine of striving for what I ever wanted?

No doubt, I give my best shot within my own expectations with everything I do. Death haunts not because I fear it. Yet it troubles because it throws every single moment of living off balance. It perpetuates in questions aimed towards finding a meaning for my existence as myself. My strive for an excellence and the things I wanted would cease to hold any purpose, wouldn’t it?

But I am, after all, an Economics student. The fundamentals of utility and satisfaction still grants great importance, which hence explains why I should not and cannot stop going after my current ambitions. Yet it so happens that I chanced upon Philosophy and had exposure to intriguing Literary works of Self-Discovery. I cannot deny nor defy the truth of an empty world as the essence of my existence.

Hmmm…the multi-facets of this dilemma begin to surface when all I’ve tried to do is probe into it with single-mindedness of thought. I try to take myself out of the box and think…I am not a person who lives my Life by a single maxim. It would be too stifling and boring. But the truth which I thought would provide an absolute freedom has actually robbed me of the freedom itself. And the internal struggle continues…

No. No. No. Enough is enough. It would be better to stop thinking and start living. Who cares about the end when I am not even in the middle. Who cares about meaning when there was none to speak of in the first place? Who cares about the beginning when I did not have the authority to choose it? Who cares about questions when there is no necessity for answers? Who cares about Economics, Philosophy or Literature when our Earth teaches us everything we wished to learn? Who cares about Astrology when it cannot explain fully the dynamics of inter-personal relationships?

Perhaps the dog was born to wake me up with it incessant barking. But it will die too, when I find my infamous Bowie knife. And perhaps, the conversation with CW bro was not all that degenerative. At least, now I’m back at doing my tutorial, thinking about my routine but happy life thereafter.

This was my angry expression when I was rudely awakened by the dog at 7 plus yesterday, after the ktv session followed by supper on Friday night which ended at 4am. Now, does that explain why I am so often in a state of the biG D???

Abashed

Paid 20bucks and got into Club Momo for the faculty bash last night, without any bikini girls of course. Went with my friend and his OG but hell, they were late! And given my uninteractive personality, I left them to their own desired small talk and dancing Don't really enjoy dancing so I just found myself a quiet corner, regretably near the sound system but fortunately near the bar counter. Took a couple of drinks and I thought I was going deaf when this middle-age Chinese man, who belonged to the public crowd rather than from school came over and talked to me. The following conversation ensued...

Guy: Are you bored? I'm friendly.

dOm (managing a meek smile): Hi.

So he chatted a bit with the usual conversation starters like where you're from and what are you doing stuff. Then he pressed his hands on my leg and pressed his face against mine:

Guy: Are you going anywhere after this? I can accomodate you...

dOm: (moving away and freeing his hands from my inner thigh) Huh?

Guy: Maybe you wanna go outside and talk where it is more convenient?

dOm: Fuck off.

Guy: Hey, I was being straight-forward. I thought you were...

dOm:(disgustedly) Fuck you! Guy: Oh okay, maybe I'm just not your type?

With that, my friend and his OG came back and the guy left with a less than gay smile. I was left so terribly traumatised that I decided to leave soon after that. My ending thoughts? Why of all things be a homosexual? Look at the girls in the club: tight asses, great boobs, ample cleavage, silky long hair, all complemented by short skirts, tight tops and expert make-up. I don't see any reason to leave the tenderness of a woman's embrace in exchange for something up my ass. Just don't see any reason for this perversion. I don't particularly have anything against gays, but I think they should not disturb me with their disequilibrium in sexuality issues.

Emotionally, I feel quite bashed up and thinking back about the incident just makes those butterflies churn in my stomach. Sick.

Whine, Wine.

The boy looked at the label again. Cabernet Sauvignon, Vin De Pays D’OC, Barton and Guestier, 2000. It wasn’t exactly a fine wine, it wasn’t even chilled…he had found it in his father’s cabinet of wine and liqueur. But that bears no significance for it’s drinker who only wished to abuse it for its alcoholic content. They say a man who abuses his drinks more than savours it is more lustful than loving. How he wished he could tell everyone in the whole wide world that they did not fully understand Depression like how he did not understand the pleasures of wine drinking.

He didn’t particularly like the word Depression. It was too sombre a word to use for his condition. He could still drag his weary body to school, he could still attend lectures, he could still swim as much as he wished with precision of his strokes, he could still live everyday as it was meant to be. But he did not know what it was meant to be. And thus, when this feeling of hopelessness and disparity strikes, he knows that it is a passing bout of what people term as Depression. It was like an asthmatic patient who knew of his condition yet being unable to foresee when the chronic illness would attack at his lungs. By the way, the boy was asthmatic just as well.

Everything was much as it was yesterday. The stillness of the pool combined seamlessly with the rustling of the palm trees, and its overall effect was one of tranquillity and serenity. What is inherently different, is the boy’s emotions. He had brought with him the negativity of yesterday into today. He utterly regretted it, but his greater remorse lies in not being able to put a halt to it. It was like seeing an ominous premonition and yet being unable to delay or prevent its manifestation.

The pizza delivery arrived. His hunger ceased. The dose of Ventolin arrived. His breathlessness ceased. His friend arrived with a bag of smiles and cheerful optimism. His sluggish emotions ceased. But when he heard the melody of ‘Electric Dreams’ on his iPod shuffle, his tears flowed again. This time, it flowed uncontrollably, as if the invisible dam of pride had been broken. Yes, a man cries when he is feeling low. Much less to say, a boy. But again, he couldn’t figure out what he was crying for or why in Jesus’ sacred name was he crying in the first place.

He had learnt that in business cycles, a peak residing at the highest point would eventually deteriorate to the lowest trough. The journey of his own roller-coaster of emotions could be plotted with such a sine graph. His emotions were not wine. Bad, repressed memories would not ferment like a vintage wine. It would slowly rot and decline, feeding on the storage of happier moments until the decay final consumed every inch of obscure incident of bliss. The happiness that he sought now, would only pay the interest for the debts of his previous mis-endeavours. The chart spiralled endlessly downwards…

Yet he refused to bow down to the trivialities which annoyed him. Why should one cheap slut determine the way he should live his life? Why should an inanimate piece of machinery preclude his levels of happiness? Why should a barbaric beast which seems to bark at goodness knows what disturb his quest for the truth in life? He was so close now, what could possibly stop him except himself. The boy calmly repeated to himself that he was stronger than that. Stronger than that. Much stronger than that.

So he watched a music video of a sassy Korean singer. Her more perfect than life mien and groovy dance moves cheered him up instantly. It made him realise that when the prospects of a heavy, hollow future seem too much to endure, perhaps it is time to resume the simple pleasures of the present which he had taken for granted. It was escapism. It was living in renewed hope.

The red wine lost its sourness and acidity. It was light, spicy, with raspberry and red currant aromas and an elegant finish; and probably the best which could go with his Hawaiian Supreme pizza. With his hunger and asthma gone, now all he needed to battle with was his childish insecurities which had made him weep.

But as the boy emptied the remains of the bottle of wine, his depression was already gone. Why should he be in low spirits when every day was practically a day in his eternal summer vacation? The sun was up, the girls were there, the boozing was great, Electric Dreams was playing…it was time for a swim.

Sometimes I just feel like...

Sometimes I just feel like…

Sometimes I just feel like shouting at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I just feel like eating my favourite beef noodles. Sometimes I just feel like smoking in a bath-tub. Sometimes I just feel like delivering a big kiss to Cyndi when I see her on TV. Sometimes I just feel like scribbling and doodling rubbish. Sometimes I just feel like writing senseless poems. Sometimes I just feel like reading an erotic sword fighting novel. Sometimes I just feel like swimming lap after lap. Sometimes I just feel like tanning forever in the sun. Sometimes I just feel like listening to the oldies. Sometimes I just feel like sipping on a White Russian. Sometimes I just feel like going back to the best days of my life. Sometimes I just feel like hugging my bolster and sleep. Sometimes I just feel like having a warm glass of milk. Sometimes I just feel like tapping gently on the keyboard. Sometimes I just feel like pissing in the pool. Sometimes I just feel like not breaking my text into paragraphs. Sometimes I just feel like letting out the excess. Sometimes I just feel like smelling my own armpits. Sometimes I just feel like combing my hair. Sometimes I just feel like blogging about silly things. Sometimes I just feel like stripping an AR15. Sometimes I just feel like sleeping naked with the door unlocked. Sometimes I just feel like studying an unimportant subject. Sometimes I just feel like taking photos of myself on my camera phone. Sometimes I just feel like calling an old acquaintance for fun. Sometimes I just feel like killing a helpless stream of ants. Sometimes I just feel like barking back at the neighbour’s dog. Sometimes I just feel like playing tennis with my brothers. Sometimes I just feel like removing all my wisdom teeth at once. Sometimes I just feel like needing the adrenaline rush of an injection. Sometimes I just feel like vomiting at the mushy stuff people in love say. Sometimes I just feel like saying the four letter word out of the blue. Sometimes I just feel like dreaming about world conquest. Sometimes I just feel like pushing the limits of everyone’s patience. Sometimes I just feel like snapping under the strain of others’ hypocrisy. Sometimes I just feel like tossing an orange without ever eating it. Sometimes I just feel like wearing the same pair of jeans for a week. Sometimes I just feel like farting silently in a crowded lift. Sometimes I just feel like asking some girls if they are still virgins. Sometimes I just feel like licking the fillings of an egg tart. Sometimes I just feel like reciting a psalm from the Bible. Sometimes I just feel like refusing to move to the centre of the train. Sometimes I just feel like being rude to people who think they have it all. Sometimes I just feel like whispering gibberish to someone and see their response. Sometimes I just feel like crying over not being able to cry freely. Sometimes I just feel like picking a leaf and putting it under a load of text books for years. Sometimes I just feel like wondering about the girl I’ll marry. Sometimes I just feel like I’ve exhausted myself before I could have exhausted my supply of Verbs.

Monster!

‘The more I write, the less substance I see in my work. The scales are falling off my eyes. It is tolerably awful. And I face it, I face it but the fright is growing on me. My fortitude is shaken by the view of the monster. It does not move; its eyes are baleful; it is as stale as death itself--- and it will devour me. Its stare has already eaten into my soul deep, deep. I am alone with it in a chasm with perpendicular sides of black basalt. Never were sides so perpendicular and smooth, and high…’
Collected Letters Volume 2, Joseph Conrad.

How correct is Joseph Conrad! The more I try to write, the less quality I feel it has. Perhaps the ‘monster’ he so mentions refers to his writer’s block he experienced when he was in his bout of depression, but the ‘monster’ that I now feel is entirely different, though I thought it seems to fit his description.

The contents and stylistics of my writing is not so much affected by an in-competency in expression, but rather by the whole dynamics which goes on behind the writing process. Sometimes putting 300words to form a composition can take me hours not because I fumble with language, but because I stumble upon this ‘monster’. With entries that I post on the blog, I am forced to rationalise my thoughts, my words and my actions. And in doing so, my posts are effectively cold, and my words are desperately emotionless. Good god, it is as stale as death itself…

The whole process of writing throws my world into turmoil. No doubt, I have a passion for writing; never mind if I alone consist of their sole readership. But what have I got to write?

The accusation of me being argumentative is the partial truth. I have written against my friend’s ideology, against consumerism, against policies, against the people around me, against rigid teaching methods, ad infinitum. They are often a mixture of nominative facts and personal opinions and prejudices. Whether they are constructive or otherwise remains unresolved.

Ironically, the fact that I am arguing (albeit with myself) about why I am argumentative is only a partial truth actually already exposes my argumentative nature.

However, there is clarity of purpose here. To hold an argument stems from having objections to the proposed topic or suggestion. My arguments give voice to why I disagree. Disagreeing is often taken negatively, but to me, it is simply another mode of communication.

Yet it seems to me that being argumentative in a tactless fashion can be dangerous for reasons two-folds. Firstly, despite freedom of expression being highly emphasized in this era of democracy and human rights, there still is oppression such that legal action can be taken against the things we say about institutions of the higher order. The hypocrisy is ‘tolerably awful’.

Secondly, being argumentative is viewed as a character flaw. It is a compromise on a person’s character because it makes him appear to come on too strongly. It gives the impression that the person is too self-opinionated to accept other’s views or has a pressing issue in trying to win.

But why should I live in a world where I cannot even say what I wish to say or convey how I feel? But why should I live in a world where I have to passively submit to disorientated or incorrect ideologies? But why should I live in a world where I have to give in to another person’s views when it is in total conflict with my own?

The first danger of being argumentative requires a certain degree of self-control to keep in check. I am not afraid to speak my thoughts on controversial political figures or government policies or related topics. But to face the ensuing apprehension would risk the last straw of freedom which I cling onto now---that is, at least I am not in jail. It is an unworthy cause and I would choose avoidance.

It is the second danger which is upsetting. Consider, what do I stand to gain from winning an argument, if it could ever be won in the first place? It does not feed my ego to make someone speechless in the face of an argument. Neither does it make me feel superior for defeating someone in a duel with words. As a matter of fact, I have much more to lose. I might lose my temper, I might lose a friend and worst of all, I might lose myself as such when ‘my fortitude is shaken by the view of the monster’.

The ‘monster’ in question here, is my conflict of having an individualised need to be argumentative as a medium of disagreeing versus societal negativity and the back-lash of being argumentative.

All I ever wanted, was to tell them what my mind was thinking, how my heart was feeling and what my soul wanted to communicate. Now, the entrapment is eating at the very substance of my writing because I cannot write very freely.

I am alone with it in a chasm…

Semi-Soliloquy

Semi Soliloquy

Now as I sit by the pool, searching for the right mood to blog, I inevitably begin thinking. If only it was that easy. Give me another beer and it’ll all be smooth as can be. I mean, how difficult can it be to just ask the two girls out to the party at DXO this weekend? All it took was a simple introduction and an even simpler question.

‘Hello ladies, I was just wondering if you’ll be interested in going to a party this sat at DXO, where Embassy used to be. Oh yar, what’s your names? My name is dOminic.’

If they were Japanese, I could do it the text-book style by being polite in asking for their names first. That has already been taught.

‘Shitsurei desu ga, O namae wa?’ Watashi wa dOminiku desu. Dozo yoroshikku.’

If they happened to be some Chinese girls it would be even simpler.

‘嗨！我叫dOminic。不知道小姐们有没有兴趣参加一个Party?’

But the words just won’t come out. Technically, I believe I have lost all confidence to speak to women, let alone pick up two hot bikini clad girls to go for some party. Okay, maybe I just need another beer. But drinking isn’t going to help regain that confidence…it just ruins it by giving me a false sense of courage. That is about the last thing I need.

Let’s just take today’s sectional lecture for example. A decent looking girl (over the top makeup marred her above average features) sitting next to me asked me if I wanted to share her lecture notes since I haven’t printed mine. I was just as shocked as her when I said an indifferent ‘no’.

I asked myself for a justification to why I said ‘no’ after class. Probing a bit into the past, this scenario was way too familiar and I just had to pull the brakes to prevent myself from falling into the pitfall again.

‘You want to share with me not?’ a girl from last semester’s class asked me and it was the beginning of a nightmare. A nightmare that made me really angry.

But dOminic, every girl is unique and you are not exactly giving yourself a fair opportunity in the game of love and with the opposite sex if you confine yourself to those sub-standard ones you used to know. What pitfall can there be in the act of sharing lecture notes with a stranger?

Besides, I didn’t know a single person in that darn Labour Economics class. It wouldn’t hurt to get to know a few more friends and it would definitely be refreshing to find a few classmates to do the term project with. Yeah, I was given the chance today. But I just fucked it up big time. Goodness. I am appalled by how ghastly it’s been.

Okay dOminic, all you need to do is open yourself up and be more receptive of people around you. Smile, it isn’t as hard as you think it is.

Hmmm…but I’m so sick of my own past myself that I don’t even think about it anymore, why would anyone wish to know? Why should anyone wish to know? And it isn’t such a great deal anyway, opening up only means reliving the hideous memories which I’ve confronted long ago.

Smile? Why should I smile when there isn’t anything worth smiling about all the time? Why should I wear a smile to portray a friendlier image which is hardly me? Come on, I’m introvert personified, and I think there is no point being a hypocrite who smiles just for the sake of nothing.

The girls, thick makeup or bikini clad, are gone now. Heck, the former I’ll see in class again next week and the latter will probably be back when the sun shines with unrivalled radiance like today. And next time, I’ll be the one offering to share my notes with her. And next time, I’ll be asking them out for the faculty bash. If my intentions remain sincere, I probably wouldn’t need to be wearing a smile for fear of their rejection!

Or maybe I might just fare a little better with those young darlings from some all girls’ school.

Gibberish!

Gibberish!

Disclaimer: The following conversation is imaginary and any resemblance to characters living or dead in reality is coincidental. Nothing said, done or suggest has happened in real life. If it is against your religion to indulge in promiscuity, vanity and decadence, please do not read on. Although it is against my high moral standards to engage in such; lets face it, we all have fantasies.

The boy was at the poolside with his brother, affectionately known as CBmenG, just lazing around like there was no tomorrow, with a bottle of their favourite cognac and their beloved brand of fags.

dOm: Hey, have you been working out at the gym lately?

menG: Haha...no, but my classmate commented that my shoulders have gotten broader. (And gives his smug little dimpled smile)

dOm: Hmm actually I was about to tell you that you should start an exercise regime and try to tone up.

CBmenG: Ha...

A bit of drinking makes them a little tipsy and they soon start divulging their dirtiest, deepest secrets to each other...

dOm: Eh, so what do you usually fantasize about?

CBmenG: Girls la, then?

dOm: Of course it is about girls la, we dont fantasize about guys right?

CBmenG: Ya...

dOm: (giving away his confession first) Eh seriously right, I think schoolgirls not bad leh. Sometimes I will think about it...and I think it is quite high!

CBmeng: Yar yar, I also think so leh, especially from those all girls school one.

dOm: Anata wa sai tei desu! あなたは　最低　です(You are of the lowest class)

CBmeng: Haha, as if you are not, bitch. Well, but how are we going to pick them up? We are not that young anymore leh.

dOm: Hmmm...I think can just go down KAP one day and get to know some of them first, then can offer to fetch them after school. At their age I think they will be very impressed with guys who will drive them around. (squints his eyes and gives a sinister, scheming expression)

CBmeng: Yup, I think so too. Then maybe can just drive them back home on the pretext of helping them with their homework when parents are not around. Secondary school Elementary Maths should be a piece of cake and we can always throw in a sensual and romantic line or two from some Italian sonnet for their Lit assignment.

dOm: Yeah...actually on the way home can pluck a few flowers for her also. You know girls always like such stuff so can score a few points first. Haha and the irony of it is that they are soon to be deflowered.

CBmeng: Haha how thoughtful and sweet, you big hypocrite! (both start laughing hysterically)

dOm: Hmm I think when we get home right, then should immediately light up a fag cos I think girls when they are 14-16 will be going through a passing phase where they like the bad boy type. (Pictures himself doing it in his mind...)

CBmeng: Yeah yeah...then to get things going maybe can play her a love ballad on the piano and teach her by gently holding her hands and putting her fingers on the right notes. I think Vic Zhou's song is damn ideal man, since they are practically obsessed with that dumb F4 thingy.

CBmeng: (continues) Haha sounds gay but I think that's the kinda thing they like. Well, then after a while when we get tired then can suggest that she rest on the bed, still in her pinafore and uniform.

dOm: And that is the time to move in for the kill by joining her and lying on the bed. At this point in time I think should ruffle my hair back with a quick gesture and look deeply into her eyes for exactly 3.439 seconds. Exactly 3.439 seconds.(Again picturing it in his mind)

CBmeng: Haha, precisely what I thought. 3.439 seconds, no more, no less. Then when she gets the idea then can tell her that the air-con is down and complain that it is too hot, so must take off the shirt.

dOm: ....and then the rest will be history...

(their perverse laughter resonates the entire pool area...)

Hey brothers, school is starting tomorrow and I'm getting a bit cranky so wrote this rubbish. Why would I prey on those young school girls when there are the better dressed and better developed counterparts back in Uni? Ha! Tennis at my place at two tomorrow.

Smoke...

The stream of smoke drifted from the lit cigarette in an almost perfect line before breaking off into a random irregularity of diffusion. The boy took another puff of the bitter sweet toxic and began to wonder how long a person could pursue a dream before losing his focus. Perhaps it might not even outlast a cigarette’s short-lived existence.

And in exactly the same fashion as a cigarette spreads its fumes, he started wondering if there was anything wrong with divergence from a perspective dream if it meant a greater basket of choices for happiness. He had got a dream, but he had yet to have acquired the drive to make it a reality. Not just yet…

He had been sitting on the fence for too long, now it had just gotten narrower and almost uncomfortable. A part of him was the optimist. He believed in a romanticized fairytale love story where the ugly peasant living in abject poverty would one day come to marry the king’s daughter. He would still find purity and truth in love despite his humble and unbalanced past.

Yet his past was perhaps the greatest obstacle standing in his way of attaining the hands of any girl, princess or otherwise. Life has not defeated him in any sense, but it just proved with every experience that fairytales belong to fragments of imagination. As he snubbed out the cigarette, the boy paused to recollect his thoughts…This part of him, was the pessimist.

No doubt there is a sweet future awaiting him if he only started trying. He should turn his back on the bitter past and begin a life where only the brightest stars shine in the skies above and only the greenest meadows lie in the valleys below. He should start pushing all his negative experiences into the repressive part of his mind and rediscover the brilliance and picturesque greenery that the future holds in store for him.

But alas! He was still sitting on the ledge and disregarding the discomfort. Because the unfamiliar future was something he had to carve out all over again, while the past; albeit bitter, was already there for him. An Optimist? Or a Pessimist? He still could not make up his mind. He lit another cigarette, and the influx of mind altering chemicals prolonged his agony.

Stuck in the middle was the appropriate phrase. It was the same with everything else. Clownish jokes versus philosophical utterances. Devilish character versus inner-most innocence. Lavish lifestyle versus simplicity. Confidence versus insecurities. Everything versus Nothing. Charismatic debater of eloquence versus scheming manipulator…

Either way, how could he not understand the impact of words? He could convince people on the most hard-pressed issues with a blend of words and wit. But he lacked the conviction to convince himself on even the most simple issues for the sole reason that he had not even decided between which of life’s most simple binary opposites to choose. He secretly wished that the whole world was mute…perhaps then only actions could speak what the mind really wished to say.

The boy flicked away the ash and took a long drag before tossing the cigarette butt carelessly into the grass. He finally came to a decision that he would remain where he was. (Paradoxical as it may sound) Life is not over until the very end, so why coerce himself into taking sides so soon? And perhaps, sitting on the fence was not such a bad idea considering that from his vantage point, he had a more complete vision of the bigger picture.

After all, he was an Optimist.

What i really need...

I need…

I need a horticulturist,
Who plants orchids that will forever bloom.
I need a guitarist,
Who strums the chords which fills my empty room.
I need a psychotherapist,
Who counsels me from the gloom.
I need an evangelist,
Who will save me from an eternal doom.

I need a hedonist,
Who will share my simple pleasures.
I need a narcissist,
Who regards admiration as treasures.
I need a Marxist,
Who devotes equality in household measures.
I need a nihilist,
Who thinks that having nothing is a leisure.

But I need you above all,
Because you are my menthol lights Pall Mall!

-dOm

Hmmm…enough of silly rhymes. Really couldn’t string together a better ending for such a cheesy poem so decided to make it dumb. (I’m smoking and writing at the same time which explains why) But then again, it really isn’t all that dumb. I thought poetry was supposed to be putting together unfamiliar words patterns in a harmonic fashion. CW bro was asking me what I really needed. My less than nonchalant answer was ‘Sex’. Good sex. Lots of sex. Lots of good sex. Share my simple pleasures. But since that doesn’t come often and aplenty, my next best choice would be tobacco. So it isn’t all that dumb a poem since there is a sense of truth in it.

But joke aside, what do I really need? It sounds too materialistic to say I need a better car than my sisters’. (Honda Integra R would do fine). It sounds too musical to say I need a keyboard. It sounds too mechanical to say I need food, water and air. It sounds too male-chauvinistic to say I need a girlfriend. dOminiC, what exactly do you really need then?

I need unconditional freedOm. And I think that is what everyone needs. The whole wide world would do a lot better with just a little more of it. FreedOm is truly my simple pleasure. Brothers, come share it with me.