The Distance.

The Distance.

And they decided to go the distance,
Across the seas of two separate hearts.
Another pair of strangers of occurrence,
All lost in courtship art.

The happy days they had,
Would shame Venus in envy.
And when the days were bad,
Words exchanged laced in poison ivy.

But they loved each other, no?

When they lay in sweet embrace,
He would think her body --- a dream.
And when they did the deed in grace,
In his very arms she would scream.

But it wasn’t too soon,
Before they quarrelled in the car.
Their hearts were the distance from Mercury to the Moon,
Because just an armrest away…they seemed so far.

And they loved each other. So?

So there are two more lonely people,
Whom directions now go perpendicular.
But if the world is round and their love is ample,
They will go the distance to meet and relinquish their love spectacular.

A Conversation V.

A Conversation V.

ROTW: And so we meet once again, after an absence of eleven months. Hell, that’s a long time. In your absence, however, the world has left you behind…or caught up with you. Do you own a black berry? Or happen to know what the latest version of messenger is? Or that the maverick you used to idolise has a bit more reason to celebrate Father’s Day now that he has procreated? Then again, have thoughts of marriage crept up from behind and overpowered you? Have the noble notions of making economic contributions to the society empowered you to strife for loftier aspirations apart from those silly ideas you harbour about being a poet?

Boy: Hey, I’m not here to answer your questions. You expect me to know the answers but more often than not, I’m none the wiser.

ROTW: So finally you concede defeat…I’m glad you realised that you’ll probably never have the answers, find the truth or stop the questions coming from me. What took you so long? If you bow down to me now, there’s still time to…

Boy: Fuck you! I’ve never claimed to have the answers. I’ve never believed that the truth would grow out right before my nose like a moustache. But I’ve never for one moment stopped thinking about both the answers and the truth. Except your questions so happen to be inconsequential. Look, the only berry I think of is a cherry, and how to pop it. Not that devilish gadget borne out from her overtly fertile Mother---Technology. Next time we meet, she’d have probably churned out something that lets us stay on the moon. Come on…who cares?

ROTW: Oh yes you care! Or why would you be so uptight? But now that you’ve mentioned it, living on the moon sounds like the solution for overpopulation. And if we could develop the land there to ease our current supply constrains, it’ll cool the property speculation here without having to worry about dealing with the piping hot demand by means of abolishing deferred payments or increasing taxes from property gains. Yeah…why didn’t I think of it? We could build our schools, hospitals, and secondary institutions up on the moon. Imagine going to school by rocket. How cool is that! And then we could…

Boy: Wait. I’m not about to discuss the property market here or on the moon with you. I’ve had enough questions about macroeconomic policies and figures from my recent interviews. Which reminds me, I’ve got one coming up real soon (yes, an interview, not a question about policies) and I’ll rather go prepare for it than banter with you.

ROTW: You just don’t seem to get it…you can never escape from me.

(Laughter, fade out…)

Why Saggy is an Astrological sign of Duality.

My Dearest Blog,

I think you are such a whore. Never mind the reasons I’m about to cite don’t justify the use of such a vulgar noun. Never mind that I’ve seen plenty of women who seem more deserving of belonging to your alleged profession. Never mind that this really is rather distasteful.

Think about it, I come to you only in times of need. Either I’m lonely, bored, sleepless, depressed, angry, drunk…or any combination of these less than positive moods.

The thing is, I seek you as an outlet to vent frustrations more often than to promote any degree of love. Love really is reserved for my real life. I’m a married man, whom, with my first breadth, got engaged to a physical reality. The physical world is my designated love, my wife.

On the other hand, Blog, you are bounded by the red light district of cyberspace. I come to you when my wife doesn’t satisfy me. And really, not many Man can be satisfied with notions of monogamy and faithfulness. We are all lustful…which to me, translates to some kind of greediness. Yes, you are quite a prostitute.

My puns, my metaphors, my personifications, my warped logic, my perversity….my words…………these are your payment for our transaction.

With lust,
dOminiC

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In this instance, I was just plain bored.
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My Dearest Blog,

I think you are the most loyal friend ever. Never mind that our friendship began only a short time ago. Never mind that plenty of other friends I’ve known for much longer are much less loyal. Never mind that this is getting rather emotional and cheesy.

Think about this: a friend in need is a friend indeed. Even when I’m lonely, bored, sleepless, depressed, angry, drunk….. I know you will be there.

The thing is, I seek you as a listening ear more often than the other way round. Really, you seem to have no complains whatsoever, even when I neglect you. I’m a single man now, and seem quite stuck in this unfortunate reality for as long as fate will have it. Yet, you are still here for me, my Blog.

On the other hand, while you are always hanging around somewhere in cyberspace, I am bounded by commitments to my physical world. Although I cannot always interact with you, I am truly satisfied with our bonding based on notions of my monologue and your faithfulness. Yes, you are a friend indeed.

My puns, my metaphors, my personifications, my logic, my perseverance ….my words…perhaps sometimes you are the only on who understands them.

With love,
dOminiC.

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Damn it, I’m still just plain bored.
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A Conversation IV

A Conversation IV

Boy: Where we left off the last time, we were talking about virgin and whores. I’m sorry, but that kind of conversation entails certain details which I am not ready to share…yet. Okay, maybe virgins and whores do exist, but I am disdainful of theories; especially those which are mere generalisations and depth-lacking, broad categorisations. It really leaves me feeling hollow every time I broach the topic of women because, albeit indirectly, I get glimpses of how imperfect our male species really are. Please, spare me.

ROTW: Ha! It surprises me that anyone should think that the male specimen isn’t refined to the greatest perfection. Suit yourself then, we shall leave virgins and whores aside. Patriarchy is quite misunderstood nowadays, and probably even becoming obsolete. The last of our dominance has been eroded away and the layered ways of our hegemony has exfoliated. All men…and women are now born equal…

Boy: I almost thought I heard you sigh. Hey, has it ever occurred to you why the human spirit seems so aggressive, competitive and perpetually looking for ways to impose control over others?

ROTW: Power my son, Power. As long as two objects are different, then one must be better than the other…simple as that. Each individual, each gender, each company, each firm, each community, each nation, each race struggles to be the better one, and in hence doing so, subdue the other. Power is the intangible treasure and incentive which motivates us. From Genghis Khan of the Mongolian steppes who conquered a third of the world to the guy in the turbo-charged WRX who recklessly overtook you this morning, Power is their driving force. Power is the wonderful gourmet that feeds their egos. And the ego can only be satisfied with the condemnation and destruction of another’s ego. That is why our world revolves around an imaginary axis of Power. Mark my words, you would be very much happier with just a little more Power. Does that answer you question?

Boy: Well…no, that does not really answer my question. Nothing unusual though, it has been a long time since I actually turned to you for the right answers. Besides, I was not looking for answers. I was merely seeking an opinion which would provide deeper insights. But now that you’ve mentioned it, ego sounds like a bad word, vulgar and crude. If I could substitute it with an equivalent word, I think insecurity would be appropriate. Insecurity bites at those who think that the power, as you call it, to control anything else except their own wretched minds is the ultimate law of the universe. Genghis Khan could well swing his halberd right in my face and I would not flinch an inch. The WRX driver can accelerate for all the horsepower his ride gives him and I would not swerve aside. What are they trying to prove? What can they prove? Nothing…besides how their decomposing souls are being consumed by their false pride. There is an unquenchable thirst for power because it is the drug which gives them temporary relief from their stinging insecurity. Watch their addiction grow! And watch how their desperate need for power slowly enslaves and dominates them spiritually. This very power which was supposed to give them a (false) sense of control in the first place! And finally, watch how an imminent overdose of power gets the better of them! Yes, this is insecurity. And I cannot emphasise enough how ridiculous it all seems to me.


ROTW: It’s been some time since you said anything with such gusto…I thought you have lost your dexterity in oration? But speaking of addictions, you are a slave to many as well, nicotine and caffeine amongst them. Fancy having such a passionate outburst when you are pretty much entrapped within your own addictions. And how many times do I have to remind you that smoking creates negative externalities, which as a result increases my expenditure in health care services and environmental maintenance? I have always assumed that you, a youth with more than a decade and a half of education, ought to know that you are too tough to puff. In order to optimise the benefits to be reaped from your education……and your contribution back to the society, you need to prolong your life. The cigarettes must go. What is wrong with you? Your need to suck on a stick of fag habitually hints at your depraved and unbalanced psyche--- exactly what Freud proposes to be an underdeveloped and hence dysfunctional oral stage.

La vie en rose!

Never underestimate what a bouquet of roses can do to rekindle a relationship on the rocks.

Frankly speaking, I’ve never thought very highly of roses in any shades of any colour… especially after hearing the Taoist priest chanting something about ‘fresh flowers withering’ (Cantonese) at my grandmother’s funeral. Ironically, my mom used to be in the floral industry…

But these little ironies aside, I have finally seen the magical wonders of a well-wrapped dozen of roses tonight. It all began when I had a tiff with her last night, one of those minor arguments which arise not due to a lack of love but rather, due to differences in the definitions of love. I think of love as something more spiritual, although that runs the risk of sounding too idealistic. She thinks otherwise and prefers a love more physically expressive. And here, I don’t mean simply in the romantic sense. It’s hard to explain what the differences really are…and somehow I think I am digressing…

Anyway, in a bid to reconcile such differences, or at least work out a compromise, I dropped by the florist before fetching her from work. He recommended a mixture of baby pink and crimson roses and mumbled something about my girlfriend (purely his conjecture since I never told him anything about who would be receiving the flowers) being elated. I must have cast him a rather disbelieving look when I paid him, for he reassured me that lovely ladies and lovely flowers were stuff that went well together.

His words must have provoked my thoughts a bit, because I couldn’t help thinking about it while driving down to her work place. I mean, what is the link between a lady and a flower?

A woman in the splendour of her beauty is like a blossoming rose in the summer breeze. The rose’s bright vermillion shade of colour signifies a woman’s vibrant passion for life. Its layered petals stemming from a single stalk represent the essence of womanhood as a woman’s many complexities unfold in unified brilliance. Its soft velvet texture of petals is remarkably similar to the smooth and delightful tenderness of a woman’s touch. Its mildly intoxicating scent is akin to the natural fragrance a woman possesses.

A woman full of passion, character, touch and mesmerising aura is indeed beautiful.

Yes, a woman is a rose.

Having arrived at the porch of Hotel A where she was waiting for me, I stopped day-dreaming, picked up the bouquet and hastily fumbled for the letter I wrote for her. (yes, I write her letters) I was half expecting her to bicker with me but I noticed she was smiling from ear to ear when she saw the roses…and me, of course. What was totally incredulous to me was that upon seeing the bouquet, she seemed to have forgotten all about our quarrel the previous night! Suddenly, as if the roses had cast a magical spell on her, she was all sweet and nice! So my dear brothers, here’s my two cents worth: don’t forget the roses!

Chronicles of a Dreamscape Reality II

What a lot of things he had to holler out to the world!

But when our dearest anti-hero, more affectionately known as the boy, finally takes time off from his idle, vain and most probably worthless day-dreaming to begin penning down the thoughts he had so enthusiastically wished to tell the world, they (his thoughts) crumbled upon his pen like little specks of dust which disintegrated into the blankness of the paper.

Oh what a long sentence that was! His English teachers would have been totally displeased. What did they always preach about sentence structure? Keep it simple. And precise. Like this…

But a simple sentence probably doesn’t have the capacity to contain what he wanted to express. Well, if what I see before me is correct, then I began this post with an exclamation of the humongous amount of bantering the boy had to say. But wait…that’s him, not me. Why then, should I reflect his state of mind in my own manner of writing?

Now, this is becoming absurd. The boy never did enjoy waiting for Gordon. As a matter of fact, he was never really fond of waiting. Reason being, he was perfectly aware that he had spent the better part of his life waiting for a good many thing to happen…and most did not. Yes yes yes, we must all work towards our dreams because good heavens above isn’t going to bestow to us everything we ever wanted without a certain degree of effort on our part.

But he wasn’t very sure about his dreams. Some nights his subconscious would take him wandering, lonely as a cloud, reciting poem after poem to himself. On other nights, he would dream of that girl he saw on TV, and awake with a weird sensation as the excesses of lust spill out from his hardened truncheon. On some other nights, he would, in his dreamscape, see familiar faces of multiple expressions, or familiar places with distorted variations. And on most nights, he would fail to remember any vague remnant of any dream.

Ah…Dreams….It was making him sleepy. World Conquest….here he comes! Feel his jubilation. He is happy as can be.

The boulevard of broken dreams...

I walk along the streets of sorrow,
The boulevard of broken dreams.
Where gigolo and gigolette,
Can take a kiss without regret,
So they forget their broken dreams.

You laugh tonight and cry tomorrow,
When you behold your shattered schemes.
And gigolo and gigolette,
Wake up to find their eyes are wet,
With tears that tell of broken dreams.

Here is where you’ll always find me,
Always walking up and down.
But I left my soul behind me,
In an old cathedral town…

The joy that you find here you borrow,
You cannot keep it long it seems.
But gigolo and gigolette,
Still sing a song and dance along,

The boulevard of broken dreams!

Leslie Cheung (1956-2003)


One of my favourite song by the now deceased singer. He is the epitome of perfection, never mind his sexual orientation. Seems to me that the fame people pursue with zest during their lifetime fades away after they die. But for a true idol like him, his legacy and his works remain for all of us to remember him by. Never mind he is dead, his spirit and song lives on...now, this is fame. It isn't about making it to the cover of fhm or forbes. Hell no, it isn't so transient.