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Class 3 so far

Thoughts as I am cruising down the TPE:

I am tempted to zip closely pass that van or in between the two nissan sunnys for a "near miss"

At times I treat the accelerator like the "x" button on a ps2 controller: fully depressed or not depressed.

Out of nowhere, hitting the brakes and veering to the left suddenly to go into a drift suddenly seems like a good idea for chalking up imaginary boost points.

If I change lane suddenly to take that exit, I'll down my wanted level.

It's okay if I scrape the side of the divider or ram into someone's car. The spray 'n' pay will take care of the damages in an instant.

There's always the restart race option if I totally screw up and flip the car over.

All those hours of Grand Theft Auto, Burnout and Need For Speed weren't for nothing afterall. I should not be driving in this state of mind, no siree.

Things I enjoyed recently

Movies:

Departure

Gran Torino

Shindler's List

Books:

Walden- Thoreau

The Old Man and the Sea- Hemingway

The Shadow of the Wind- Carlos Luiz Zafon

Music:

U2, 18 Singles

Oscar Peterson, The Paris Concert

The Carpenters, Greatest Hits

Again, highly recommended.

xkcd

highly recommended:

www.xkcd.com

My Foray into Noir Fiction. Epilogue.

Previously

It's been a year. Not much has happened since that day. I saw Timmy's mum for the the first time at his funeral. It was a quiet, simple affair at the church parlour. The turn out was low, two to be specific. His mother and his psychiatrist. Apparently the pastor had had a severe bout of diarrhea on that day.

The psychiatrist had come to collect his bills and left soon after he realised that Timmy had been shit broke all along and died without a penny. During the five minutes I spent at the wake not a word was uttered and Tim's mum just sat there, gazing out onto the streets. Perhaps she had been expecting something like this to happen for a long time now and its happening did not change a thing. 

I was sitting at the corner of my block, passing time. Timmy's death had given me some publicity among the circles and I still took the odd case now and then. 

"You know sonny, you look like a guy set on doing nothing in your life." I did not reply to this voice, preferring to concentrate on fiddling with my newly obtained driver's license. That ought to shut Timmy up, if he was still around, though I was nowhere close to getting a car.

"They used to call me the King in those days, I was on the road, did shows and everything. Then one day I realised things weren't going right. I found myself standing on a high place, looking down, wishing, to be down. But I decided not. I just walked out of my own life."

"So what should I do?"

"Ya know kid, now I walk the plane between life and death. The world says I do not exist, that I am dead and yet here, I breathe and speak! Sometimes I wonder if I can ever die. My advice to you? Go an-"

I decided not to take it and left the stranger to continue his rambling to the air and a few moments later, found myself sitting on the ledge of my apartment window, looking down at the streets below. At the corner of the block sat an old Indian man, still speaking about his conflicting state of existence. 

I took a deep breathe and let go. I lived on the second floor. I spent the next few months with a cast on my leg and walking on crutches, but I lived.

Recommended you read it from the start (Part 4 Part 5)you get the spoiler that Timmy dies. This thus concludes my first novella.

an evening of labour

After much procastination, it was finally DONE! An evening of regurgitation of half-developed ideas from the intangible recesses of the mind, given life through my fingers into numerous 1's and 0's, then pressed onto paper and taking form in the material world.

It was then sealed, stamped and sent to the front lines.

Return with your shield or upon it, I whispered.

Dreamers

The Dreamers 

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,

Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.

In the great hour of destiny they stand,

Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.

Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win 

Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. 

Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin 

They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.

I see them in foul dugouts, gnawed by rats,

And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain. 

Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,

And mocked by hopeless longing to regain

Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, 

And going to the office in the train.

by Siegfred Sassoon

A few years back I made a rip-off of this poem, which I still like alot till this day as I was browsing through my older entries, maybe because what I made mostly wasn't mine.

The Dreamers Revisited

Students are citizens of school's grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
In these great hours of drudgery they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.

Students are sworn to the threadmill; they must score
Some flaming, fatal climax with their test.
Students are dreamers; when the class begins
They think of sunny fields, starry nights, and rest.

I see them in dusty classrooms, gnawed by fatigue,
And outside the headmasters' offices, lashed with the shame.
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
school-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And sleeping in during the rain.

-Me

Fishing

There's a certain mystical and profound joy to be found in fishing. 

Even though no fish may be caught, there's still the feeling that one leaves the pier with more than he had before.   

Sorry, fish.

Hospitality - Part One

For as long as I have walked, I have always come across these walls, rows of hedges that stretched alongside a particular road on which I commuted frequently, by foot of course. Though I have seen greater walls in my travels, this one seemed no less uninviting as any other wall I had seen — or rather 'experienced' would be the word, for walls are to be felt as much as they are to be gazed upon — and I foolishly indulged in my ignorance for months before I dared venture so much as to take an interest in what could possibly lie behind it.

It began on one of my many monday morning strolls, of which I partake in on a weekly basis, for it is such that the society I lived in could only afford to give a man seven days in a week, four weeks in a month and twelve months in a year, going so far as to give death a nudge when we got more years than we should have in a lifetime, though how that works remains a mystery to most men.  

This will be a short (maybe not) collection of Thoreau-inspired chapters (sans the paragraphing style) which I will compile into one when it's done. More soon (or later).

humanity win

Recommended to me a few months ago by Chun Kang, who raved about it as one of the best films he'd ever watched. True. 

Beneath every soldier is just a mere human and soul. 

musings #1

I remember about a year ago when I was still a trainee, (woah. a year already) there used to be this running joke amongst some guys. The platoon IC would always be in front asking the section ICs for the strength (number of people present) and some would just deadpan "very strong" or "okay" or "ninety-two without buffs and gear"

And some of the times, they weren't even trying to be funny. They were just answering the question the way they saw fit to, just to break out of the monotony. I never failed to be amused by that, even when it was my turn to do so. 

The Incident

I've always wondered how the guilty could take their place on the stands and remain expressionless, some even smiling when judgement has been passed on them and their sentence recited. 

An incident the other day sparked some revelations. 

The the facts and evidence were all in place and yet the accused was said to have bore an expression of calmness and nonchalance, almost acting as if he was an observer, rather than a partaker of the crime. It seemed to me almost like an act of defiance and denial towards the situation, a refusal to be guilty.

And then it struck me that it was the exact opposite, for only the truly guilty could afford to do so. For only they would understand that whatever protests and reasonings they could come up with were powerless against the absolute truth in their hearts. For all the wrongdoings done, they were the ultimate witnesses of the crimescenes and to deny any of it would be akin to wrestling with oneself.

And so only the truly guilty can afford to take to the stands, their faces expressionless, some even smiling as their sentences are read out. To accept that what's done has been done, throwing away their paddles and letting the flowing river of justice take its course. 

as of today..

I renounce all past acheivements and glories. I've been resting on my mediocre laurels for some time now and enough is enough. Over the past few months I've been standing at the sides, arms folded and watching my condition as the human being I once was slip away. I spout out excuses reasonable enough for others to accept surely, but still that does not mean I should do likewise. Am I but a mere figure that lives for the appeasement of others but not myself? Enough is enough. 

They say we are only as good as our last race. I beg to differ.

We are only as good as our next one. 

Of course writing this is all very in the spur of the moment kind of thing and I humbly acknowledege that there is every reason to fail trying to do this. Dammit. 

affirmation

Honestly, I do get weary of updating sometimes. Anyone out there, if you still read this blog please, please leave a comment here so that at least I know that my writings do reach somewhere.

Yeah, I know I'm selling out with this one and I know it may end as an awkward tragedy but everyone needs some-

shortie

The road to hell is paved with good intentions

Never really understood this one before but then an incident the other day made it ever so clear to me. It would have been almost funny, if not for the cursing and swearing of the antagonised bunch and the complete obliviousness of the antagonist to the situation.

But I just couldn't help smiling a little as I recited this idiom for the first time to some guy beside me.

afternoons

sucks to realise you've slept away an entire weekend afternoon.

Between the lines

Picture a creature so honest so kind
that one struggles to find any fault
in its word and deeds.
A reliable fellow,
many would trust
without a moment's hesitation.

But look a little closer,
at the edge of its lips (right side)
and you'll see, a lil' twitch
as it gives Timmy a coin, saying
'so go buy yourself a drink.'

Chip off the paint job,
peck at the shell,
heck drill to its core and
one will then find
not rainbows and sunshine,

but a dim-lit library of
lies and deceit,
loan-outs of
dishonesty in a
single receipt.

So you flip the pages,
thinking the words make sense.
It's really all truth
and no pretense.
But you realise the author
wasn't writing to you.

It was just writing
about what it thought
should be.
A lifetime of insincerity.

Edited on 120109. This was supposed to be a short story.