A Page From My Blog
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Hello my friends,
Welcome to A Page From My Blog. This will be the place for my fellow bloggers to share some of their posts with the rest of you. Please feel free to post here. So what is this place about?
FAQ
Q: Do I have to post any photographs or pictures along with my articles?
A: It is entirely up to you.
Q: Do I have to comment on the articles posted here?
A: It is entirely up to you.
Q: HmmÂ… Do I have to provide a link to my blog?
A: It is entirely up to you.
Q: Okay, what about the articles? Must them be poetry related?
A: Well, it is entirely up to you.
Q: Anything also can ah? So do I have to post my latest articles or can I selected those letÂ’s say from 2002?
A: Ahem, it is entirely up to you.
Q: Important question, can I post nude photos or dirty articles?
A: It is entirely up to you BUT the moderators will come in and delete them if they decided that your articles are inappropriate.
Q: Why everything entirely up to me? Okay do you think I am pretty?
A: Honestly, it is still entirely up to you.
Q: But if I am pretty then why am I not happy?
A: You know the answer my friend.
Any more questions?
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Feared Drowned
Suddenly nobody knows where you are,
your suit black as seaweed, your bearded
head slick as a sealÂ’s.
Somebody watches the kids. I walk down the
edge of the water, clutching the towel
like a widowÂ’s shawl around me.
None of the swimmers is just right.
Too short, too heavy, clean-shaven,
they rise out of the surf, the water
rushing down their shoulders.
Rocks stick out near shore like heads.
Kelp snakes in like a shed black suit
and I cannot find you.
My stomach begins to contract as if to
vomit salt water
when up the sand toward me comes
a man who looks very much like you,
his beard matted like beach grass, his suit
dark as a wet shell against his body.
Coming closer, he turns out
to be you – or nearly.
Once you lose someone it is never exactly
the same person who comes back.
By Sharon Olds taken from Satan Says
Afterthought I
I had a very weird dream yesterday.
I dreamt that I was in a classroom. I think it was my Primary School but I am not too sure. It was raining heavily and after a short while the water level reached the schoolÂ’s third floor. I was standing near the window and saw a boy from the next class climbing out of the window. He started to run to-and-fro along the windowÂ’s extension, ignoring the dangers of falling into the water.
Anyway I yelled at him to get back to his classroom but he refused. Just then his teacher, a lady in her early twenties, threatened to call the boyÂ’s parents if he doen't get his ass back into the classroom immediately. In an act of defiance the boy jumped into the water. Immediately his teacher also jumped in to rescue him. Surprisingly the boy was quite a good swimmer and swarm to safety. On the other hand his teacher seemed to have problems stay afloat.
After a while she stopped struggling and the water carried her motionless body away. Suddenly out of nowhere a waterfall appeared and in an instant she was out of my sight. All this while I just stood there, looking but not offering any help. Indirectly I had killed her. I should have done something but I didnÂ’t. I just stood there, watching.
Then I realized the rain had stop and the water subsided. Soon the police came. I rushed down to look for the officer in-charge in order to offer my help as I witnessed the whole incident. That is the least I can do now.
The officer told me the cause of death was not by drowning but due to the fall. I felt sick. Someone was crying behind me. I turned around and saw a young man in tears. The officer told me he was the boy’s elder brother. “Where is the boy?” I asked. “He has gone missing too after witnessing his teacher’s death,” replied the officer.
End of dream.
It was really a weird dream. Maybe I was that little boy, or maybe the teacher, I don't know.
(Window's extension: I am not sure if it is the right name but it is the extra areas just outside the window.)
Afterthought II
“Once you lose someone it is never exactly
the same person who comes back.”
The person you are today is not exactly the person you were yesterday or who you will be tomorrow. If this is the case, who is the real ‘me’?
Posted in Age of Insanity on Sunday, April 09, 2006 -
An Empty Purse
Though bitter, juniper berries are food
For immortals, and cirrus flushed with morning
Light. But people are common things,
These tangles of trouble my only life:
A frozen well each morning and no stove,
Cold nights without quilts Â… In fear
Of shame an empty purse brings, I hold
In mine this one coin I keep, peering in.
(Taken from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu,
Translated by David Hinton)
Afterthought
I am going to be unemployed soon.
The first time I was unemployed, it was for a period of 6 months. After completing my National Service and with no working experience it was extremely tough to get a job. I felt so useless, a good-for-nothing.
The second time was for a period of 3 months. Although by then I had a couple of years of working experience, I still found it hard to get a job. To be frank although the second time was shorter than the first time, but for some reasons I felt deeply depressed, even suicidal at times.
The third time was for a period of 7 months. I resigned after my operation in May. Although it was a minor operation I took about two months to recover. It was an unforgettable experience. 5 months later, I tendered my resignation. Luckily for me, I was too busy preparing for my examination (October), new house (November) and wedding (May). No time to be depressed.
But this time I have only my blogs and my poetry forum to keep me occupied. I am going to be unemployed again soon.
(Updated on 5 April 2006)
Posted in Age of Insanity on Sunday, January 15, 2006 -
Comments are most welcome and I am looking forward to read your articles.
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When I was depressed and stupid and whimsical.
Sigh.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Dear Diary,
Why can't school teach us happpiness? Then I'd enrol in the Diploma in Happiness(DIH), and I'd go on to do my degree in Happiness, then do my Masters, then do my PHd, and then I'd be a Professor in Happiness, and I would teach other people how to be happy.
Oh diary, diary, if only you could talk back to me, and scold me, about how silly I am to even wish that happiness could be taught.
I realise, that after everything, I just want to be happy, and eating Jap food only makes me happy momentarily. To be happy, what must I do?
Must I get someone who will make me happy? Must I quit poly? Must I kill myself? Must I go and backpack to see the less fortunate in Ethiopia, to be happy?
I only ask to be happy. Is that so much to ask? To be happy, I'd willingly go to church if it'd make me happy. If it'd make me happy, I'd do anything, anything. I realised that life is so dreary, and I am just walking through it like a zombie, and everyone thinks I am this happy and cheerful girl. When will everyone realise that this is just a mask? A facade I put on, to cover the unhappiness?
I feel different. Is it because I drink milk from the carton instead of pouring the milk into the glass? Is it because I hurl vulgarities at everyone? Is it because I'm so stupid? Is it because I am not fit to be human? Is is because I cry even when a friend scolds me? Is it because I'm such a crybaby? Is it because I have too many expectations? Is it because I am such a bitch? Is it because of the way I dress? Is it because I am too sensitive?
Oh diary, so many questions, nary an answer in sight.
Oh diary, diary. Why am I so stupid? Is it because my IQ is too low? It is a mere 131 points, uncomparable. Is it because I am too lazy? Is it because I sleep too much? Is it because I was bor to be a idiot? Is it because I am fated to have no brains, looks, and figure?
Oh diary, diary. Why do I have no motivation? Why? Is it because I miss secondary school too much? Is it because I no longer have a direction in life? Is it because nobody loves me anymore? Is it because I am possibly going insane? Are you going insane too? Perhaps I am making you nutty with my inane questions. I know I am useless, diary. I know I am.
I know I am so useless I cannot even hope to pass a test. I know I am so useless I cannot even contribute enough to my school projects. I am useless.
Diary, diary. Sometimes I feel like killing myself. I feel so useless, unloved, unwanted, and that my place on this Earth would be better off utilised somewhere else.
I hate myself.
Diary, diary, I am sorry to bother you, with my mundane teenager ramblings.
I will bother you soon.
Byebye. -
Thanks for sharing missqi.
I am really not good at this but donÂ’t give up. Remember you are unique; there is only one you on this planet.
I believe we are all here for a reason just that most of us havenÂ’t really figured out what is it yet including me.
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That's true. I believe in this as well.Originally posted by DeadPoet:I believe we are all here for a reason just that most of us havenÂ’t really figured out what is it yet including me.
Happiness is so precious because it comes so rarely.
If you feel happy everyday, then you won't appreciate the joy as much when it comes and hits you
But happiness is also a state of mind. If you take some time everyday to just appreciate what you have, you will soon find that what you don't have will not matter as much anymore. Life's a balancing game. -
Frankly I think nobody can "make" you happy... only you can "make" youself happy....
For one... quit looking at the flaws or what is "not enough". Look at the things that you already have, the lessons you've learned and the experiences you've had... and count every small blessing you have. Then you'll realise how blessed you are and you'll be happier.
It's human nature to keep demanding more and more... being happy is learning how to be contented with what you already have. -
hi missqi,
thanks for sharing a page from your blog.
i think u not stupid, not with an IQ of 131! -
I wonder what is my IQ Level? Must be below 100.Originally posted by dsnake1:hi missqi,
thanks for sharing a page from your blog.
i think u not stupid, not with an IQ of 131! -
Huggie huggie Missqi!!!!!! I do feel depressed sometimes. So... just to tell you, you're NOT ALONE!!!!!
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We all do.Originally posted by blue_blue_bedsheet:Huggie huggie Missqi!!!!!! I do feel depressed sometimes. So... just to tell you, you're NOT ALONE!!!!! -
No. 12 Bus
When the bus arrives at Bedok,
i boarded
from a night wet with rain,
belly screaming for food.
In the half-lit womb of the bus
droning with white noise,
chugging home at 8.30.
the air-con hisssing
...... stuttered drafts
the air heavy with
infusions
of
after-work perspiration
..... fading perfume
and the people cocooned
in this metal shell,
sit,
stand
in mocked nonchalance
some sleeping, or pretending
some thinking of home
.......... of dinners
eyes staring blankly
out of dark windows
..... bored indifference
averting glances
protecting their little square
of
seating space
the glare of street lights
sculpting
..... noirish faces
deep in semi darkness.
When the bus swings into Tampines
I alight
to a night wet with shadows
hunting for food.
Apr. 2006
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This is something I wrote a while back
A mountain, a molehill
Expectation
Dear sirs, are you not satisfied wtih your pound of flesh?
It is weighty, it glistens still with a slick of wet.
My confessions are collected, like mother-of-pearl
warming insides in layers of spit. There are many.
My typewriter sits on a cherry mantle, abandoned
and orphaned without its master, while silence
cuts the air, a well-honed razor tendered and oiled.
How would you describe empty? A hollow, a hole carved
from soap, imploding dreams that dissipate into water,
an escapade skiding across thin ice on rusty blades,
Every morning, I wake up to birdsong flooding the light,
and I reach for a cigarette to douse dying hopes.
Sometimes, I strip the ribbon like a fugitive wife
ripping imaginary intestines from the man she loved,
stuffing promises down stockinged skin strung up to dry.
To the faceless doctors that visit every weekend,
I say I am your ideal subject, for I have made
my vocation to shred my soul and grow in confidence
so you could write your theses and grow in fame.
A fair exchange, most assuredly. Yet they rape the mind
for shrapnel that splinter the spirit, for angles that augment
parallax universes, pierce unknown constellations of hurt.
-- March 2006, revised.
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This post could very well be construed as an anachronism -- a droll diatribe on plagiary that no longer bears relevance to contemporary times, oft characterised as an age drawn together in a deftly spun web void of annonymity, personal or otherwise.
But here is a mouthpiece sterling, and I must use it well, if only to trumpet a cornucopia of thoughts so nebulous, so strange, so excruciatingly impatient, that they must assent, or choke.
I don't know where to begin.
Perhaps, then, the definition of plagiary -- a practice of dishonesty claiming original authorship of material of which one has not actually created (Wikipedia). Its Latin roots denote it as "kidnapper". I suspect I need not delve into its ramifications -- it rings loud and clear.
I've been plagiarised before. As I recall, that incident -- just some months ago -- was quite a fiasco, and I'd documented it as objectively as I could. Even still, the sheen of anger and disappointment was a flavour that lingers long after the fact.
As a writer, words are frustrating, exhilarating, intriguing entities -- alone, they gleam with a myriad possibilities. Strung together, they bear your unique stamp. They crystallise your history, your character, your voice in a world where perspective too often does not matter in the court of popular opinion.
And as a writer, you take great pains to craft, whittle each superfluous filament away to create an entity that had the potential to endure. Each ensuing work therefore is a representation of the invisible thought process that makes us human, however fallible.
It doesn't matter if a piece of work is formally published, or merely bulletinised on the cyberhighway. Theft is theft.
So when someone misappropriates a piece of writing, and falsfully claims it as her own.... it's hard not to get personal. It's hard even to dismiss it as a case of citational amnesia -- pinches of salt notwithstanding. I could be making a mountain out of a molehill, but could you fault me, when this hurt is still.... so very visceral?
Worse yet is the implication of plagiary: that the pursuit of knowledge and meaning has ground to a halt, and relegated to a tool for show.
### END ### -
dsnake, peebrain, clap clap!!!!! nice nice. So impressive. I'm awed.
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thanks, blue_blue_bedsheet!
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Dsnake,
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Entry for August 24, 2006
Ever watched a single leaf fall off a branch of a tree? Usually prodded by a gentle breeze, the dry brown wrinkled leaf come spirialling downwards. Down to the ground it lands gently, joining the rest. Ever walked into a pile of dried leaves? The light crushing sounds breaks the silence as the dry woody scent explodes all senses. Just a simple stolen moment -
You make me wish I have more time to just sit under trees and watch falling leaves! Nice description!Originally posted by blue_blue_bedsheet:Entry for August 24, 2006
Ever watched a single leaf fall off a branch of a tree? Usually prodded by a gentle breeze, the dry brown wrinkled leaf come spirialling downwards. Down to the ground it lands gently, joining the rest. Ever walked into a pile of dried leaves? The light crushing sounds breaks the silence as the dry woody scent explodes all senses. Just a simple stolen moment -
yes, a quiet moment observing the cycles of nature.Originally posted by blue_blue_bedsheet:Entry for August 24, 2006
Ever watched a single leaf fall off a branch of a tree? Usually prodded by a gentle breeze, the dry brown wrinkled leaf come spirialling downwards. Down to the ground it lands gently, joining the rest. Ever walked into a pile of dried leaves? The light crushing sounds breaks the silence as the dry woody scent explodes all senses. Just a simple stolen moment
so you have a blog too. can share the link with us? -
Entry for September 22, 2006
Ever looked at the sky at dawn? Misty hues of lilacs, greys and blues, tinged with yellowish orange light of the upcoming sun. A lovely palette of colours. Close your eyes and listen. The prevailing silence broken by shop shutters being lifted up, motor vehicles invading the empty streets, clock alarms rescuing you from dreaded nightmares.... -
Entry for October 07, 2006
Yet another quiet night. Could hardly see anything much. Terrible air....in my airconditioned room, I spare my lungs from those choking fumes. Had more than enough of it the whole day in school today! The murky sky now paints a surreal picture. Have to remind myself that it is not FOG! DON'T be tempted to open the window to take a breath! Would not be greeted by the usual crisp cool air! Don't your eyes deceive you at times???? -
Love your landscape descriptions. U can be the Thomas Hardy of Singapore..hehe
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I Thought My Father Was God edited & introduced by Paul Auster is a collection of 180 personal, true-life accounts from people of all ages, backgrounds, and walks of life. Some are funny, some are mysterious, and some are highly emotional, etc.
One particular story caught my attention, mainly because its title is quite similar to a poem IÂ’ve written a few months ago. But most importantly, I have always against the idea of paying your children to help out in the house chores. In my opinion, you are not teaching them the right values.
A Plate of Peas
My grandmother died when I was a small boy, and my grandmother started staying wih us for about six months every year. She lived in a room that doubled as my father’s office, which we referred to as “the back room.” She carried with her a powerful aroma. I don’t know what kind of perfume she used, but it was the double-barrel, ninety-proof, knockdown, render-the-victim-unconscious, moose-killing variety. She kept it in a huge atomizer and applied it frequently and liberally. It was almost impossible to go into her room and remain breathing for any length of time. When she would leave the house to go spend six months with my Aunt Lillian, my mother and sisters would throw open all the windows, strip the bed, and take out the curtain and rugs. Then they would spend several days washing and airing things out, trying frantically to make the pungent odor go away.
This, then, was my grandmother at that time of the infamous pea incident.
It took place at the Biltmore Hotel, which, to my eight-year-old mind, was just about the fanciest place to eat in all of Providence. My grandmother, my mother and I were having lunch after a morning spent shopping. I grandly ordered a Salisbury steak, confident in the knowledge that beneath that fancy name was a good old hamburger with gravy. When brought to the table, it was accompanied by a plate of peas.
I do not like peas now. I did not like peas then. I have always hated peas. It is a complete mystery to me why anyone would voluntarily eat peas. I did not eat them at home. I did not eat them at restaurants. And I certainly was not about to eat them now.
“Eat your peas,” my grandmother said.
“Mother,” said my mother in her warning voice. “He doesn’t like peas. Leave him alone.”
My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eyes and a grim set to her jaw that signaled she was not going to be thwarted. She leaned in my direction, looked me in the eyes, and uttered the fateful words that changed my life:
“I’ll pay you five dollars if you eat those peas.”
I had absolutely no idea of the impending doom that was heading my way like a giant wrecking ball. I only knew that five dollars was an enormous, nearly unimaginable amount of money, and as awful as peas were, only one plate of them stood between me and the possession of that five dollars. I began to force the wretched things down my throat.
My mother was lived. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of someone who had been thrown down an unbeatable trump card. “I can do what I want, Ellen, and you can’t stop me.” My mother glared at her mother. She glared at me. No one can glare like my mother. If there were a glaring Olympics, she would undoubtedly win the gold medal.
I of course, kept shoving peas down my throat. The glares made me nervous, and every single pea made me want to throw up, but the magical image of that five dollars floated before me, and I finally gagged down every last one of them. My grandmother handed me the five dollars with a flourish. My mother continued to glare in silence. And the episode ended. Or so I thought.
My grandmother left for Aunt LillianÂ’s a few weeks later. That night, at dinner, my mother served two of my all-time favorite foods, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Along with them came a big, steaming bowl of peas. She offered me some peas, and I, in the very last moments of my innocent youth, declined. My mother fixed me with a cold eye as she heaped a huge pile of peas onto my plate. Then came the words that were to haunt me for years.
“You ate them for money. You can eat them for love.”
What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none. Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded words one more time:
“You ate them for money,” she says. “You can eat them for love."
By Rick Beyer
Well ...
I like peas, cute chubby little fellows sitting perfectly still on the plate ready to be eaten. WhatÂ’s wrong with peas?
Simply irresistible!
I love playing with them when I was a kid, pretending they were little green Martians coming to invade Earth, and I would squash them with a fork. Yummy. But nowadays I seldom have the opportunities to do that. My wife doesnÂ’t like it. She says she is from Venues and gently reminds me I am from Mars. Sigh.
Posted in Rest In Peace on Thursday, 25 August 2005 -
Our Son And The Water Shortage
When the water shortage comes along
heÂ’s been waiting all his life for it,
all nine years for something to need him as the
water needs him now. He becomes
its protector – he stops washing, till dirt
shines on the bones behind his ears
over his brain, and his hands blaze like
dark badges of love. He will not
flush the toilet, putting the life of the
water first, until the bowl
crusts with gold like the heartÂ’s riches and his
room stinks, and when I sneak in and
flush he almost weeps, holds his
hands a foot apart in the air and
says do I know there is only about
this much water left! He befriends it, he
sits by its bedside as if it is a dying
friend, a small figure of water
gleaming on the sheets. He keeps a tiny
jar to brush his teeth in, till green
bugs bathe in its scum, but talk about
germs and heÂ’s willing to sacrifice his health
to put the life of the water first, its
helplessness breaks his heart, the way it
waits at all the faucets in the city for the
cocks to be turned, and then it cannot
help itself, it has to spill
to the last drop. Weeks go by and
our son is glazed with grime, and every
cell of dirt upon his body is a
molecule of water saved and he
loves those tiny molecules
translucent as his own flesh in the spring, this
thin vivid liquid boy who has
given his heart to water, element
so much like a nine-year-old – you can
cut it, channel it, see through it and
watch it, then, a fifty-foot
tidal wave, approaching your house
and picking up speed as it comes.
By Sharon Olds
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Afterthought
I knew it.
They are coming back to haunt me – the souls of those ants and grasshoppers I had tortured and killed when I was a kid. I am not going into details regarding my heinous crimes. This is after all a poetry blog.
Unlike my friends for example Cheong and Gilbert, I find it extremely difficult to write about my childhood. IÂ’ve tried several times and they all ended up either too prosy or too sentimental. I seriously suspect I am trying to suppress certain episodes of my childhoodÂ’s memories. What could they be? Hmm.
Was it that time when I “accidentally” saw some village girls bathing along the river? Maybe it was that time when I “accidentally” played my uncle’s video tape assuming all tapes labelled Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs must be, ahem, about the fairly tale?
Gosh, childhood is indeed a dangerous time where “accidents” happenes so frequently. It is also a dangerous time for ants and grasshoppers. May their souls rest in peace.
Like the boy in the above poem, I do have certain obsessions when I was a kid. One particular obsession stood out from the rest, i.e. I was obsessed with comma. Yup, I was obsessed with this --> (,). I love to spend my free time counting commas in story books. Not only that, I organized competitions for my story books and declared the book with the most commas wins. Weird right?
Come to think about it now maybe I wasn't weird, maybe I was bored. So who wants to count the number of commas in this post?
(Updated on 28 December 2005)
Posted in Age of Insanity on Friday, December 23, 2005