Xylophone toy

The colours are keys to your dreams

As your mallet hammers, strives, plays on

the notes sing to your tune but which tune?

 

The Child

He is so sweet

so delicious

yet so shy

He can wink

with one eye

and can run really fast

Makes her smile without doing

anything. Makes her day

when he sits next to her

Her voice sings

and laughs. Her

little feet dance

Let's invite them over!

They are not your friends, I said

They will be when the others are not around

I can try but what if they say no?

Ask the friends first. When they say yes, he will come too

the child said, innocence glimmering in her eyes

Weaving her web big

and wide, just to draw

the boy to her

Who does not know she is many things

who shrugs off her worship

whose apathy stings

She is undeterred

She is in no hurry

She is the crouching spider

Alas, the day comes as she beholds him in the web

of conceit, threading his arms and legs

keeps him from scaling the tower of her heart

He, who does not know she is many things

who shrugs off her worship

whose spectral gaze echoes to the beating of her pumping organ

In the proud tower of her heart

 

Random Haiku

BBQ chicken kiosk next to a roundabout

The chicks rotate on the spit.

day and night roundabout

spitting cars. where do they go?

 

Dilemma

If I practice what I preach

why do I get ipad shoulder

and my child gets no ipad time?

 

The German

Chicken rice is her favourite

yet the half Lion City girl imagines

she has blue eyes and blond hair

 

Changing Singapore

Dinner was laksa with bean sprouts

sprouting from the bowl an aroma of the familiar

folding the new into fried bean curd squares

 

Self

The cursor blinks at me

winking away doubts of white blank

twinkling at words of self dares

The lullabies are the ghost

who haunts hopes and dreams

for fear of losing its way

The child utters the words

to the melody of her past

to the future tense of its morrow

Bird sings sunrise colours

squirrels scurrying past

but oblivious to the seculars

 

 

Swimming Pool

Like fishes

limbs of young and old

cutting through water

The sun shines

dim and vivid

translucent and bright

School children arrive

din and muted

clear and subdued

Like life's repetitive rhyme

the music of our

iterating limbs soothes

Carnival

Confettis rain on sun-drenched hair

fur shoes tap to gay vocals

strewn candies snatched up by little hands

Miniature bottles of spirits lift the spirit

red sausages warm cold tummy

it's frolicking time

In numbed feet and hands

was mirth, trailing home

in tiny bits of colours

Among houses

a small bird landed

a man and woman now sleep in kingdom of colours

Of boredom and lack of inspirations

The cursor blinks and blinks. Waiting for words to magically materialize on the blank screen. I hurried off to reread Neil Gaiman's reply to a reader on how to get his thoughts on paper. Other than a smile playing on my lips after reading, the bulb of an idea still did not light up. The A luxury we cannot afford fails me miserably too. Bukowski's wisdom on starving artist is a myth leads me into the kitchen. The leftover curry puff filling in the pot won't leave me alone. I just have to do something about it.

A few minutes of silent dancing in the kitchen (silent so as not to wake the little one), the puffs are now baking in the oven and I am typing away to while away the waiting, amidst hunger pangs. More like greedy pangs really. I realised recently to my horror, a habit of having supper at night has been cultivated. No thanks to watching Chinese films, reading or writing into the wee hours. Resorting to heavy dinner doesn't help these long lonely nights anymore.

I am experiencing a sudden block because I cannot focus because of my growling stomach. Excuse? Yet the curry puffs don't seem to be in a hurry.

They are now ready. Just two of them if you must know. But wait I must because I do not want the steaming-spicy-velvety-potatoes-tender-chicken-skin-and-meat-flaky-puff-pastry to scorch my tongue. I can't stop looking longingly at them like a lover, my mouth waters, my tummy in knots. I wonder which is worse, to keep typing while searching for ideas in your head as if you are running out of time or waiting hungrily for food, or else you will drop off any minute any second? I also wonder if this is the kind of boredom Neil Gaiman is striving for. Standing in the kitchen, not checking in on FB or emails, waiting impatiently for food. While I suspect it may not be the exact same kind of boredom he is referring to, it seems to be serving me rather alright at this very moment. So his concept does work after all.

My tummy is now warm and full having gobbled up the curry puffs. Did inspirations suddenly flash across my mind? No sight of it. Perhaps I wasn't bored enough while eating because I was online watching some clips. A common habit among Singaporeans. We just love munching away our favourite food like pepper crabs while scenes of flying swordmen exchange blows flit across the TV screen. The food-TV-sofa combination makes our day anytime. We are an easily contended lot.

In Germany, whenever we takeaway burgers to be had at home and as I plant my bum on the sofa in front of the goggle box, the man would remark, 'Just like the Americans.' I will not and cannot let that go, of course. Firstly, burger is fast food. What fun is there to savour a burger on a table setting? Our table setting may not be formal but the thought of laying out the table just for the sake of eating burgers and fries with our fingers somehow kills the fun for me. Secondly, either the common Germans are rigid or it's just the man. I mean, it's only burger. Unless there are guests around, we should be flexible on how we want to enjoy our food. It's another matter when we dine together as a family. For the sake of the little princess, our meals with her are always taken on a simple table setting so that she gets to learn her table manners. It's a ritual ever since she's able to sit at the table with us. When she is much older and is allowed to watch TV, she will be more than welcome to join me on the sofa as we devour our burgers, fries and coke with our fingers. And I foresee we will both try our very best to turn a blind eye to the man's frowns.

The lack of inspirations and some boredom have helped to produce some 700 words. I don't care or will I stop you if you want to launch into a quality-vs-quantity debate. I am just going to give myself a pat on the shoulder by watching something online or SHOPPING. Ha Ha Ha...

Of songs and reconnecting

The munchkin has been requesting of late to watch two music videos on YouTube. Of course she wouldn't have learned of them, were it not for me who introduced them to her in the first place. As a pretty obstinate anal mother, I wield a tight control over her media exposure. It literally means the exposure is almost non-existence. One would not fail to notice her fierce concentration on the little screen whenever we are at friends' and the tv is on. Except for short clips of ballet performances, she doesn't get to watch anything else while at home. This is by no means my way of saying how proud I am for sticking to my 'principle'. No, in fact, I am deeply aware that principle must be an unhealthy extension of my control freakness. On the other hand, a time will come, soon enough I am very certain, when she is going to bug me incessantly about watching some programs which her friends in kindergarten or school have seen. By then there will be no turning back. And let's not forget about social media.

Just recently I read that Neil Gaimen took a four-month break from social media. It's a feat considering he is a successful writer and has 2.3 million followers on his twitter. His reason: 'I'm just going off to be bored.' More specifically, '"The biggest problem with Twitter is that I'd be in a taxi and I'd be on Twitter and it would keep me interested. I realised I wasn't getting bored enough and [that I needed to get bored] to start plotting things and coming up with ideas.'

I wonder how he does it. I am just a mere mortal with no followers and yet I am connected all the time. The only saving grace is I am still resisting the idea of getting a data plan for my phone so at least I am off line when I am on the go. BUT to my dismay, I have recently 'progressed' to downloading some clips on my phone for the convenience of watching them while waiting or on the train as opposed to reading. The daily scene of my fellow Singaporeans burying their nose in the screen of their tablet/mobile phone on the train suddenly danced acrossed my mind. What stopped me from downloading more videos is there is no more extra storage space on my phone. Fortunately.

Yes, the two music videos in question are now on my phone, two old Chinese songs. Recently, I have a sudden interest in anything Chinese. From Chinese/HK films and songs, to reading up on Chinese history (in English of course) and trying to understand poems and songs. I find a certain joy and peace in them and a reconnection with what I see, read and listen. I tell myself it must be a phase because I still love my Radioheads, Charles Bukowskis, The Grand Budapest Hotels. Then again, why do I have to justify that it is just a phase? Why can't I just embrace this new-found obsession and accept it as my rebonding with the Chinese language and my culture? I may not be a Chinese from China and Taiwan and may not understand their culture but I did grow up in a Chinese culture albeit a Singaporean one and speaking the Chinese language. By reconnecting, I suspect I am assuaging my homesickness, my being away from my childhood home for so long.

Anyways, I digress. The reason my daughter is allowed to watch the videos is because of the brilliantly-written songs. The first song is about looking at the change of seasons through the eyes of a cicada. The words are poetic, the melody hauntingly beautiful. It lets your mind eye wanders through the fairy tale world of misty forest amidst falling leaves and red maples:

秋蝉

聽我把春水叫寒　看我把綠葉催黃

誰道秋下一心愁　煙波林野意幽幽

花落紅　花落紅　紅了楓　紅了楓

展翅任翔雙羽燕　我這薄衣過得殘冬

總歸是秋天　總歸是秋天

春走了　夏也去　秋意濃

秋去冬來美景不再

莫教好春逝匆匆　莫教好春逝匆匆

The other song is by one of the singers from a popular boy band which has since disbanded because one member had to serve his national service. Many will perhaps dismiss the song as just another pop song by some pop idol who can't sing to save his life. What touches me however, is the sincerity in the words which is penned by the singer himself and the deep friendship they share years after they have gone their separate ways while not forgetting to encourage and support one another during the course of their lives and careers. I find it very commendable because that willingness in putting high value on and effort in maintaining a friendship while separated seems rather rare to me these days, let alone in the glitz and glitter of the entertainment industry：

祝你一路顺风

那一天知道你要走　我們一句話也沒有說

當午夜的鐘聲敲痛離別的心門　卻打不開你深深的沈默

那一天送你送到最後　我們一句話也沒有留

當擁擠的月台擠痛送別的人們　卻擠不掉我深深的離愁

我知道你有千言你有萬語　卻不肯說出口

你知道我好擔心我好難過　卻不敢說出口

當你背上行囊卸下那份榮耀　我只能讓眼淚流在心底

面帶著微微笑用力的揮揮手　祝你一路順風

當你踏上月台從此一個人走　我只能深深地祝福你

深深的祝福你最親愛的朋友　祝你一路順風

Because I am deeply touched and moved by the songs, I was very eager to share that emotion with my daughter. She might not fully understand the sense of the songs but I am more than happy to let her experience their beauty, even though it is through a media device. That she seems to understand.

 

Who has the last laugh?

Everyone has their take on the terrible Charlie Hebdo incident. Some say the journalists had it coming, some are speechless but recovered quickly because the earth continues to revolves around the sun, but most are stunned and outraged by the sheer violence.

A friend even took to Facebook, wondering via hashtag #buyinggunssocheapmeh# while another feels owning guns in this case is not the point anymore.

When one whets a knife back and forth, back and forth on the whetblock, the goal is for the knife to serve our purposes better. In this case, both camps have been sharpening their knives and taking aim. Not surprisingly their aims aren't that dissimilar. They want to hurt and insult.

Everyone wants freedom of speech and satire is without a doubt a valid outlet to lash out at the opposite camp, by giving the public something to laugh about and at the same time offering some food for thought for us to chew on. When, however, the supposedly intelligent and witty satire transgresses into using crudity and vulgar means to express dissent and outrage, its feet are already in its own religion prison, wielding its sword without any air of common sense. As laughter humiliates and the blade of the nib hits the heart, one can't help noticing the shinning light of hatred from the knife from the other camp. This time real blood flows... It certainly does not justify cold-blooded murder of innocent lives. While the camp's unwavering belief of 'death to blasphemers' and 'death to apostates' doesn't hold in this modern time and age, it undeniably provides them with a sense of pride and righteousness when the duty is done because it is their codified shariah law. If it is as they believe, that god had indeed created human beings to be his defending tools for all the injustice he suffers, so has god suddenly become the fearsome satan?

Is Charlie Hebdo having the last laugh now? Can they laugh in the wake of their dead colleagues? Are they now more determined than before to wage a war against the other camp?

It is, sadly, a vicious cycle.

'We have shown that the comic character always errs through obstinacy of mind or of disposition, through absent-mindedness, in short, through automatism. At the root of the comic there is a sort of rigidity which compels its victims to keep strictly to one path, to follow it straight along, to shut their ears and refuse to listen. In Molière’s plays, how many comic scenes can be reduced to this simple type: A character following up his one idea and continually recurring to it in spite of incessant interruptions! The transition seems to take place imperceptibly from the man who will listen to nothing, to the one who will see nothing, and from this latter to the one who sees only what he wants to see.' - Shooting the jesters by Anthony Lane

A Cicada Song

I sing spring water cold

I hurry green leaves yellow

Is fall only sorrows?

Blue wings already taking flight

farewell song to golden colours

till new seeds sown

Red falling blossoms

maple flaming red

will my thin wings breathe white flowers?