biggerbadder

here we go again!

2005-09-16T23:28:00.000+08:00

for those of you who're still hoping that i'm going to start a new blog someday, fret not - the time has arrived. it's here.

thank you and good night.

2005-01-10T23:21:00.000+08:00

it's funny how i put up a long post and blogger ate it up. it knows.

so here is the condensed version:

i've decided to spend more time publishing offline rather than blogging, and after careful consideration of the options (rare posts or frequent banal stuff) i've decided to stop blogging altogether. i may return one day, but that's not on my mind at all.

to the readers of my blogs, i thank you for your comments. i blog for them and them only.
cheers.

rahul.

alchera #29.

2004-12-16T22:34:00.000+08:00

prose / option one (a)
written in first person, the scene begins in a department store on december 23rd. as stated before you are to write this in first person and the narrator (the "i") is a man in his mid-thirties. he is single. he is christmas shopping. these are the only things you must follow. from there the story is wide open for you.
---

bloody hell.

that was mine. i saw it first. i had my bloody hands on it first. what more do i need to do? plant a flag? sign a treaty? there's no justice in this world. they took that poor blindfolded lady with the scales, shrunk her to the size of my palm and then stuck a douglas fir up her bum. bloody bigots.

oh great. they're all out of wrapping paper as well. guess it's more current affairs for the kids this year. i'll try to lay off the world news this time. i remember the grief i caused the pallenides's last christmas with that article on the christmas eve attacks in israel. little stephen thought the gruesome pictures were cool, which of course, made mr and mrs pallenides lose theirs. local news it is, then, with cheer and spirit and that sort of bollocks.

what sort of mall runs out of wrapping paper?!

oh i see mrs parekh there, looking at dresses for her daugter keila. she's got the loveliest cornflower-blue eyes and she makes sumptious christmas cookies too. santa would have trouble getting back up the chimney if he ever really stopped by their house. there she stands, holding the dress aloft in half-astonishment, as if she'd just sieved out the last gold flake from the periwinkle waters of the nile delta. and now she's gone and put it back on the rack. keila would look beautiful in that.

i've picked up the dress, seeing as how mrs parekh can't afford it anyway. she really shouldn't be walking around in here amongst these ovine bargain-hunters. she'll make herself feel worse. she doesn't belong here and only she and i know that. pity. this was the last piece. it really is a beautiful little dress.

to the check-out counter. i've had enough. i'll be back tomorrow. you haven't gotten me yet, you christmas rabble!
-

it's christmas eve, and as expected, half of yorkshire and the entire population of northern ireland is in here today. it's the same story every year, with last-minute shoppers packing the boutiques searching for exclusive gifts that were already snapped up by eager hands as far back as september.

i've picked up everything i need for yet another lonely christmas. i was standing in the line at counter five and it dawned upon me that i enjoy my last-minute clambering for presents despite the savage hordes i have to contend with. it's a different kind of loneliness here; one i can deal with.
-

there's nothing but snow out tonight. some neighbourhoods are quieter than others. some doors remain unlocked only because bolts are far too expensive for some pockets.
-

christmas morning. the images in my mind have me smiling now. i'd be infinitely happier if i could see their faces. let them think it was saint nick who put those presents in their houses. merry christmas, everyone.
-

commons sense.

2004-12-10T21:55:00.000+08:00

the british government used the parliament act recently to bring the hunting bill into law. (the act allows the house of commons to override the decisions of the house of lords in certain circumstances.)

the complicated back-and-forth process of suggested amendments to the bill ended in a particularly memorable exchange in the commons:

mister speaker: i have to inform the house that a message has been brought from the lords as follows:

"the lords insist on their amendments to the hunting bill, to which the commons have insisted on their disagreement, for which insistence they assign their reasons. they insist on their amendments to which the commons have disagreed, for which insistence they assign their reasons, and they disagree to the amendment proposed by the commons in lieu of the lords amendments, for which disagreement they assign their reasons."

honourable members (shouting): explain.

mister speaker: i read these messages;

i don't understand them.

hubris.

2004-12-08T01:11:00.000+08:00

along the banks we rest our tired limbs, watching idly by,
the deluge of tears that stain the soil below
i am the river from which no ocean draws its ebb and you,
you are the ocean to which no river entrusts its flow.

oh dear me.

2004-12-06T23:50:00.000+08:00

exchange one.
by sms

r : eh.. i think i'm going to apply to stanford. can you send me your stanford essays? thanks.
me : why?
r : so i know how not to write.

exchange two.
by msn

me : speaking of christmas, check this out. http://xmaswatch.blogspot.com
a : what's that?
me : reindeer porn. you'll like it.

exchange three.
conversation

me : you have the attention span of a doorstop.
e : no i don't.
me : yes, you do.
e : no i don't.
me : yes, you do.
e : no i don't.
me : yes, you do.
(pause)
e : i do what?

kitty.

2004-12-05T22:49:00.000+08:00

if you have never heard of the murder of catherine genovese, you must read this article. i've read about the theory (diffusion of responsibility) behind this appalling crowd behaviour and it truly is unfathomable how anyone could let someone suffer like that. 38 people could. would you?

All about the Kitty Genovese murder, by Mark Gado

staring at my own reflection.

2004-12-05T18:12:00.000+08:00

can somebody please explain the ending to sophie's world to me?

brand spankin' new.

2004-12-01T19:11:00.000+08:00

time to share the love, people.

first up is my new blog, christmas-watch. it's my way of keeping track of a beautiful, meaningful time of the year. christmas is only 24 days away, and i'll be posting daily updates on christmas news and information from singapore and around the world. i designed and coded the site myself, with much thanks to the blogger knowledgebase and stock.xchng. amazing thing is, i know diddly-squat about css scripting and dhtml and all that, so i picked up everything from admiring other bloggers' fantastically-well-designed blogs. you don't know who you are, and neither do i, because i've forgotten your names. thanks anyway.

secondly, i've got a new photobook up. it's here. i've only put in one collection, my jalan sultan photos. there'll be more, all in good time.

in the future you can access both sites from the list of links on the right.

cheers.

photos from jalan sultan.

2004-12-01T01:05:00.000+08:00

grey.

2004-12-01T00:04:00.000+08:00

dull.

2004-12-01T00:03:00.000+08:00

shophouses (two).

2004-12-01T00:01:00.000+08:00

shophouses.

3rd sergeant.

2004-11-30T23:58:00.000+08:00

getting my rank sewed at beach road.

stoppage time.

2004-11-29T23:31:00.001+08:00

i wonder how many journalists yesterday at anfield were sitting in the press box in the dying seconds of the match, waxing lyrical on their keyboards about yet another dreary arsenal bore-draw performance and yet another tenacious display from liverpool and their talismanic (to borrow an expression) captain steven gerrard, only to look up in response to a huge roar, at a jubilant neil mellor wheeling away from the penalty box celebrating a stunning last-gasp goal against arsenal. then i wonder what they were going to do with their match reports, which have thus been rendered as nothing more than moot.

i can imagine a few red faces glaring out through those glass windows, simultaneously muttering a single word with the straightest face possible. (a la harold from harold and kumar)

f*ck.

adorable.

2004-11-28T20:35:00.000+08:00

there is no way you can't feel sorry for this rabbit.

a revolutionary new concept.

2004-11-28T13:11:00.000+08:00

since most singaporean men readily assume that the ladies prefer caucasians to them for reasons that they can do nothing about, i've decided to step and do the right thing for this national problem.

by which i mean that i intend to make some money from it.

so here it is, ladies and gentlemen..

the amazing melaninonator!

what this remarkable device does, is that it basically plays around with the amount of melanin (which to the technically-challenged customer would go by the name of 'natural pigmentation') in the skin until you get the desired colour. hence, we can make you incredibly attractive to women, for no particular reason, just like those caucasian men! it's truly incredible!

this is mikey d's story:

"i was so uncool in college. all the girls kept saying i was too shy and too nice and too this and too that - it was infuriating! and to make things worse, every time i went to a club or pub, i'd see attractive, young girls all wrapped in the arms of some old, balding, pervy caucasian man! the nerve!

all the girls i know rave about brad pitt and colin farrell and george clooney, but never about lim yu beng. what's wrong with lim yu beng? it's the white skin! that's what it is!

i was desperate, and then i heard about rahul's miraculous new treatment from a friend's friend's other friend's mate's friend who's got 231 friends on friendster. i had to give it a try. and i'm glad that i did. things have been so different for me. i picked up a modelling contract with several major asian brands, i've got three girlfriends now, who all don't know about one another (laughs), and my boss just promoted me to senior foreign consultant to the board of governors. i just put the first downpayment on my new ferrari yesterday. my life has been turned upside down thanks to the melaninonator! thank you rahul!"

_________before____________________after_______

be one of the first to try this revolutionary new concept and your friends and family will be amazed! why lose weight, gain muscle, work hard, speak intelligently and be charming when you can just be caucasian and solve all your problems at once?

call now! you won't regret it!

aaron and liyen in a tree..

2004-11-27T13:52:00.000+08:00

k-i-s-s-i-n-g. first comes love, then comes marriage,
then comes a bloody big copy of kamasutra for the baby-making bit.

unfortunately, the occasion passed without event. the grand kodak moment never arrived because i was told to wrap up the present by a friend who didn't turn up herself. and this was a church wedding and thus, i did not have what one would like to call the opportune moment to present the gift to the groom and his bride.

instead, i had to stare at the front counter and utter the words, 'is this where i can put the gift?' which will forever remain unrecorded in the annals of mankind.

bollocks.

the speed of death experiment.

2004-11-25T22:29:00.001+08:00

there is a small, colourful (for lack of a better description of the premises) school down the road from my house that teaches children english. that's all fine and dandy, except for the fact that they have a large red sign just by the front gate that reads

DEAD SLOW

as if this is somehow possible.

just the other day, i had the good fortune of bumping into one of the teachers as she was leaving the school late one evening and locking up the gate. "nice sign," i pointed out, assisting her gaze with a pointed finger, in case she missed the point. she looked at me somewhat bewildered, until i spoke again. "exactly how fast are the dead, anyway?"

this was an extremely pertinent question, which she was unable to answer, probably because she had already gotten into her car and locked the doors. so i decided to take it unto myself to find out. i've been reading sophie's world, so i'm tempted to experiment with the natural world these days.

hence i present to you, using all the laboratory knowledge that a junior-college education has bestowed upon me:
the speed of death experiment

aim: to calculate the speed of death
theory : a living thing is considered dead when it can no longer grow or have sex
dead things aren't really known to move a whole lot (rolling over in one's grave does not count)
if placed in a controlled environment, and watched carefully, the speed of death can be measured using this formula commonly found in rocket-science:

speed = distance / time

the specimen :

a dead bee.

observations :
hours / deviation (cm)
0 / 0
1 / 0
2 / 0
3 / 0
4 / 0
5 / 0
6 / 0
7 / 0
8 / 0
9 / 0
10 / 0
11 / 0
12 / 0

conclusion and deductions:
after 12 consecutive hours, the bee did not move at all. it did flinch twice, which was rather creepy, but science always, always favours the brave.

--

i finally met the same teacher again today and related my experiment to her with a kind of joy that only a true scientist can understand. i concluded that the words 'dead' and 'slow' are hence incompatible and suggested that the word 'dead' should be replaced with 'rather' or maybe even 'quite'.

in response, she immediately provided a crude but effective alternative, and i thought it to be very kind of her to entertain and encourage my work. although, i'm not so sure what others might think of a sign that reads

BUGGER OFF.

fallen into

2004-11-20T22:10:00.000+08:00

dis- -repair.

pope bouba diop.

2004-11-19T21:19:00.000+08:00

having flown on air india and silkair in my journey to and back (respectively) from india, i've picked up a ritual once commonly associated with the pope:

back from the subcontinent.

2004-11-17T21:32:00.000+08:00

i got back from india in the early hours of monday morning, washed up at home, changed and took a cab straight to my brother's place for some long-awaited halo 2 goodness. oh and it was good. the good kind of goodness. the best kind of goodness.

i spent the last week in india visiting my relatives "before they all die" (in the words of my mother), but it really was much more fun that she made it out to be. i met my cousin (who recently got engaged, the poor lad) for the first time. he's a forensic scientist (like them csi chaps on the telly) from new york, and fittingly, he knows how every imaginable type of alcohol is made.

the flight there was uneventful, but these days, i guess that's a good thing. had a good laugh at air india's air safety guides, which remind me of the scene in fight club where tyler durden explains the function of oxygen masks. i explained his brilliant concept to my mother who then pointed out that i have, without fail, brought up morbid topics only moments before take-off only the last 2,293,183 times we have been in an airplane together. how touching. she remembers!

if there's any law that india rigidly follows, it's murphy's. right from the off, the immigration counter we were queuing up to was fated to be manned by the official who i knew had drawn the shortest straw that day. he really didn't want to be working at bleedin' two in the morning, that's for sure.

having been to india enough times, nothing there really surprises me anymore. so do not be afraid when you, as a tourist, land on indian soil and are immediately assailed by thousands of orange-turban-wearing indian men who ask you where you are going and offer to carry your luggage for you. no, they are not the courtesy brigade, nor are they street louts. they're porters of sorts and they probably drive taxis as well. they want to take you wherever you want to go, assuming you don't like to use those meter things and like to play number games (remember, the bigger the number, the better). even if you wave them away and take pre-arranged transport to your destination, some of them may still follow you. they may even follow you up to your room and stand outside, pretending not to be interested at all in your luggage. you may even have to resort to inviting them in for some tea and a good feel of your suitcase handle before they'll leave you in peace. they're harmless, but odd nevertheless. do not fear them. they can smell it.

hello to you too.

traffic in india is a wonderful thing to watch. that's precisely what you'll spend 95% of your time doing when you're stuck in it. watching. and waiting. and wondering. why. why the hell nobody is moving at all. then news filters through that the road ahead has been closed because some fancy-pants minister of state has landed so they've barricaded the road to the airport so that he can zoom off straight to the airport and catch the next flight back to the capital to sit down with his deputies and discuss why exactly there're so many complaints of jams in hyderabad when he visits that place every week and has never encountered any such problem.

which brings me to my next observation. upon hearing this news from the autorickshaw drivers up ahead, half of the drivers on the road proceed to cut right across the midsection of the road and head back the way they came. this particular road leads to a roundabout, which has no established direction of travel, so everyone makes a random guess at clockwise or anti-clockwise before hurtling through the junction and veering out at their desired exit. traffic in india is some sort of vehicular jaywalking. everyone has a permanently-issued god-given right-of-way which must be exercised by driving right into oncoming traffic. traffic lights and signboards (often proclaiming 'STOP') are obviously nothing more than suggestions. nobody curses or swears. driving is all done calmly, save for the constant horning that accompanies any sort of travel in india.

indian drivers have a habit of horning for everything. every bloody thing.

if you're behind a truck and you know it, sound your horn.
if you're making a turn and you know it, sound your horn.
if you're on a clear stretch of road and you know it and you really want to show it,
if you're an indian driver and you know it, sound your horn.

i hate to say this, but now i know why people from india speak so loudly.

but to give them credit where it is due, they are excellent drivers. driving an ambassador (imagine a car with the body frame of a zeppelin and the steering capacity of a doorknob) is no mean feat. indian drivers (we had two great chaps working for us for the duration of our stay) are adept at handling sharp corners and avoiding careless motorcyclists with an almost german-like mastery of machine. if you can drive in india, you can drive anywhere in the world. respect.

look up ahead laddies! it's the mystery machine!

my brother arrived a day later with his intimidating professional camera and a pair of sunglasses that would convince even a blind man with a paper bag over his head that we were tourists. so, looking foreign enough, we decided to venture out into the city and do follow our instincts. by which i mean shop. a lot of things in india are affordable to people like us who have the benefit of taking their sacred currency and dividing it by a large number like 25 to get our own dollar's worth. americans, because they started the war on terror and have the support of pakistan, india's perennial foes on the cricket pitch and once-beautiful lands of kashmir, have the benefit of dividing it by an even larger number, like 35, or even 40. i forget.

even indian cottage-industry wholesalers have to get their products made in vietnam and thailand these days. it's a sad thing, this global village.

the technicolour dreamshop.

clubbing in india has made me realise the value of zouk. zouk, i will never take you for granted ever again. you are precious, zouk, and i love you.

as much as a man can love an old warehouse.

my cousin and i found the vilest green sludge imaginable at one of the drainage outlets of a small lake used for recreation. the surface had caked in the heat to form this greenish-brown cracked layer. so we did what any scientific mind would have proposed when presented with such a discovery. i threw a large stone into the sludge and my cousin took a video clip of it. my only regret is that i cannot furnish my discerning audience with pictures of this miraculous substance we hailed as what might well have been the original primordial soup from which all life sprang forth. either that or it's the stuff that gave us the toxic avengers.

my father prohibited us from drinking straight from cans because he read somewhere that rats piss all over these cans in warehouses. which is quite a possibility. i wouldn't be surprised if the warehouse workers pissed all over these cans themselves.

young adults in india are never against a good ol' game of dumb charades. oh, and plenty of alcohol probably had a part to play in that equation. somewhere in there, it's always somewhere in there. anyway, i was the only sober one, so my team won. the usual suspects was a really good one. as was freddy vs jason which was hilarious to watch my brother act out, seeing as how nobody in his team had ever heard of the movie before. he thought they got it in the end and was leaping about in joy, when i asked my other cousin to repeat his guess, and he replied, 'fetty vs jason?' they just couldn't get it. you should've seen my brother's face.

everybody in india has a vespa.

the flight home was uneventful as well, apart from the strange looks i got from other passengers and air stewardesses. probably had something to do with the coffee-table-book-sized edition of the kamasutra i was carrying in a thin plastic bag. i'd picked it up as the airport as a wedding gift for my ex-general-paper teacher. it's on the 27th of this month. i'm going to present it to him unwrapped, in front of his father-in-law, on behalf of his old class. a kodak moment in the making.

stay tuned...

alchera #28 / option one

2004-11-15T01:33:00.000+08:00

"the beginning and the end," but with a slightly different twist: write a story in which the first fifty and the last fifty words are the same.

maresca cavialli.

darkness. an inconceivable silence. the agglomeration of gentle, swirling hues. corroded edges that seem to sublime away, one image to the next. a soft gurgle pouring forth into a gush of crimson. the rhythm of one's fist against the ground. a sudden clarity of mind that seems so strangely familiar.

ward 42, bed 14, san raffaele hospital. 1923. maresco cavialli is born to a public health officer and a piano teacher, moments after the elderly gent in the adjacent bed takes his last breath.

summer of 1942. maresco cavialli sustains head injuries when an artillery shall explodes several feet away from him. he remains unconcious for a week and several days later, against his wishes, he is redeployed as an inspector at an ammunition dump in sicily.

november 12th 1948. maresco cavialli marries the first-cousin of his long-time sweetheart.

1992. paula cavialli perishes in an aeroplane crash. maresca's three daughters never hear him speak again.

1996. five minutes from now, an aneurysm will rupture within maresco cavialli's skull and he will die of severe cerebral hemorrhaging. he is standing by his grandson's cot, admiring the iridescent mobile suspended over it.

a sudden clarity of mind that seems so strangely familiar. the rhythm of one's fist against the ground. a soft gurgle pouring forth into a gush of crimson. corroded edges that seem to sublime away, one image to the next. the agglomeration of gentle, swirling hues. an inconceivable silence. darkness.

uninvited.

2004-11-04T21:13:00.000+08:00

this wasn't a very good television set. it was small - twenty-seven inches, to be exact, and the image was nothing to be particularly proud about. nobody in this house watches television, or at least takes any particular pride in it, he thought. the couch was comfortable, and brought to mind those that served only as a place of rest to the heads of families; men with whom their wives no longer were willing to share a bed. the air in the house smelt of an excess of garden-scented deodorant spray, a sign that there was more than just a stale smell to conceal within these four imperial blue walls with faux gold cornices. metallic ornaments, carefully wiped and polished, gave the room a gleam that deceived those who failed to notice the photograph frames coated with a thin layer of dust. he raised the remote control in his right hand, and switched to the next channel.

fathers will do what they believe is right, because they were made into the men they are. they understand that growth must be tempered by adversity; that nothing is free in this world. fathers will give their children the life they never had, and mothers will give their children one that they have always wanted. children will forever remain caught between those two ideals. the only salvation is adulthood and the understanding it brings. thus we grow. and thus we shed;

skins, sometimes tears.

a car pulled up in the driveway and within moments, the soft gurgling of the engine abruptly stopped. he switched off the television and picking up his faded backpack, made his way upstairs.

the door clicked open and a couple walked in, ending their conversation. the man entered the kitchen, disappearing out of view and proceeded to pour himself a glass of water, while his wife surveyed the living room. having taken her coat off as she closed the door behind her, she folded it over her arm and patted it repeatedly. the sound of glass clinking against metal emanated from the kitchen. the air of affectation was beginning to wear off of her. she watched as her husband left the kitchen and made for the staircase, giving her the barest of smiles on the way past. not yet for him, she realised.

she hung her coat beside the wooden shoe rack and walked over to the wall facing the kitchen entrance window, from which an inky darkness seemed to creep into the room. with the fingertips of one hand resting gently against the pane, she gazed out into the darkness and watched shapes swirling before her. the glass reflected everything about her, but her own silhouette, which appeared as a darkened area through which she could barely discern the foliage outside.

he came back downstairs, with his faded backpack still draped over his shoulder, and walked into the kitchen, carefully watching the figure by the window. he opened the refrigerator door and peered in.

she suddenly spoke.

not like this, she said softly, her breath briefly resting against the cold sheet of glass before evaporating away.

he stood up straight and turned his head towards the kitchen door.

not like this, she repeated, her voice less controlled.

he bent over again, and looked for something to eat.

several moments passed before she spoke.

i don't want this anymore. it wasn't supposed to be like this.

he pulled out a jar of pickles and placed it on the adjacent counter-top before diving back in again. a door slammed shut upstairs.

i want to be happy again, she whispered, loud enough for him to hear. then she fell silent.

he yanked out a large can of sardines and placed it next to the jar. he shut the refrigerator door, and noticed a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread lying on the far side of the counter. he leaned over, picked it up and shoved it into his backpack, along with the sardines and pickles, placed on either side of the soft loaf.

he walked to the edge of the kitchen entrance and peeked out to see if she was still there. she was, though hunched over, and with her head buried in her hands.

he knew that she was wishing for a tear in her husband's eye. for it to fall, to hit the ground, to seep into it and to bring life back into the foundations of this house. he had seen this many times before. these are the lives that one does not learn about from strolling through the groves of academe. these are the secrets known only to one who unknowingly wanders through the intimacy of other people's lives.

he reached into his backpack and groped about, searching for something. he found it and pulled it out, shedding a few petals in the process. he rested it on the coffee table just behind her and backed away, slowly. sufficiently distant, he turned and headed to the reading room, which lead to the laundry room and out through the back door of the house. zipping up his backpack, he trudged around the opposite side of the house and back onto the main road, heading down the path and towards a destination he had, as at every daily departure, not yet decided on.

she turned around and wiping away the tears still welling up in her eyes, spotted the flower on the table. she picked it up, perplexed as to its origin. as neglected as they were, she was sure that she never had any morning glories planted in her garden. she brought it to her nose and took in a deep breath of the flower's scent. it was pleasant and it calmed her.

i think.

2004-11-03T13:19:00.000+08:00

the problem with mortality is that we're on the right bus, but we tend to oversleep.

the postal service.

2004-11-02T17:43:00.000+08:00

he sent letters to himself twice a week. sometimes he'd be too busy to write one and mail it off at the post office. those were the quiet tuesdays and the lonely fridays of the month. he would read his letters carefully, marvel at the insight of its sender and then tuck them away in a small wooden box by his dresser. nobody else knew of this consummate relationship.

police officers, responding to an anonymous tip, broke into his house one warm wednesday afternoon, and found him lying in a crumpled heap beside his dresser. lying by his outstretched right arm was an empty bottle of tylenol - sleeping pills.

his suicide note arrived in the mail two days later.

larger than life itself.

2004-11-01T23:40:00.000+08:00

i was born hemingway, i lived tolkien and i died dylan.

silver-lined.

2004-10-30T16:28:00.000+08:00

as he stood in the rain waiting for the most romantic thing conceivable to happen, it dawned upon him that the greatest purpose of our lives is not change, but accretion.

how to deal.

2004-10-29T01:13:00.000+08:00

listening to : the strokes - reptilia

reading up on : socialist history
watching : good bye lenin!

amused by : saf posters and pamphlets

today's message is brought to you by a tricksy hobbit.

the saf military medicine institute presents :

bounce back after breakup : 5 great ways to conquer crisis

1. it will hurt but not forever

forget what the songs tell you. especially that one where the girlfriend is cheating on the guy and he says he'd rather not know about it. it's a bad song, anyway. what're you doing listening to that kind of music anyway? didn't your mother raise you right?

2. there are others out there!!

but they are not interested in you.

3. don't stand on a 3 legged stool

building your life around one or two aspects will lead to instability when crisis strikes. throw away those boyzone albums. tear away your ronan keating posters. and for the love of all things good in this world, stop watching porn all day.

4. it's not the end of the world

talk to someone who has been through it. when no one is available, call the saf hotline and ask for benjamin ng. he always has the time for you.

5. i'm stronger than that

drinking and smoking are not good ways to cope. neither is driving dangerously. also, do not attempt any of the following : running with scissors, skydiving, kayaking, chatting up another girl or dancing under the influence of alcohol. always be optimistic. we too, at saf mmi believe in you. remember, the most important thing is to get support from your family and friends, if you have any.

love, ally.

2004-10-28T01:13:00.000+08:00

the house was quiet, save for the meandering rhythm of rain outdoors. he shut the door behind him and removed his coat, folding it over the chair by the shoerack. his legs were aching from the climb upstairs. the building was eight floors high and did not have an elevator.

he stepped into the study and saw that the large window by the desk was open. streams of water swirled into the room and formed little droplets on the photo frames and ornaments behind the table. the parquet flooring by the window was wet and some of the rainwater had begun to seep under a small, blue rug, staining one corner of it a darker shade.

he kept his feet on the drier side of the rug, leaned over and shut the window with one, outstretched hand. he took out his handkerchief and briefly smothered his face, before dutifully returning it to his trouser pocket.

a book lay closed on its front cover on the desk, with a small piece of paper untidily tucked between the pages. slipping the piece of paper out of the book and inspecting it, he recognised it as being from the memo pad that was in the kitchen. the paper had been folded in half.

in it was a note from her, written, as always, with a characteristic flourish. it read :

went down to get some fresh air.

didn't use the stairs this time.

love, ally.

alchera twenty-seven option five.

2004-10-23T17:59:00.000+08:00

general/option no. five: for some reason unknown, the powers that be have decided to let you be in charge, and as a result you will be given the world. (not on a silver platter, but don't complain.) you have achieved what thousands have failed to do before you. now what? what would your first day be like? what would you do? who would you appoint as leaders? who would you shove into prison first? be creative and have a fun! after all, the world is yours.

first things first, i’d fill in an appeal form and put it up for consideration. i think my request ‘i wish i had a dog’s life’ got lost in translation somewhere down the line. but since i’m here and i have all this at my disposal, i might as well give it a whirl till it gets approved in several years' time. sounds like fun, anyway, all this responsibility.

alright, just to get myself warmed up, i’ll give mtv a call and pitch to them the greatest reality tv show the world has ever seen. we’ll get a witty title like the ones they have for all those other shows (‘marital blitz’). when the tv crew’s in place and the film’s rolling, my first order of business will be to get on a direct line to donald trump and then tell him, live on international television, that he’s fired.

i’ll go with michael moore on one thing and make oprah the united states’ first female and non-white president. george bush will be made to stand in front of a camera and do nothing and there will be a separate channel on television in every country just for people to watch him stand there, take a pee, scratch his head, have a drink, sleep, (but never leave the camera’s view or change clothes), etc., 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

i will institute the amazing race as an olympic sport. the olympics will be conducted old-school. no clothes. laurel wreaths to the winners. gold medals to me.

i will make daily television appearances, each time sporting a different fake attachment, such as a moustache or really geeky looking spectacles. i will also try on various accents.

i would plan for a concert every fortnight that runs for 24 hours and has every imaginable brilliant artiste live in front of hundreds of thousands of people at various venues around the world. coldplay will perform for me, personally.

speaking of which, i will take it unto myself to give that poor child a future and rechristen the coldplay’s lead singer’s child with a less absurd name. such as jane martin.

pikachu of the pokemon series will be announced as the antichrist of the year 2004. hello kitty is slated for 2005.

the subway diet will be officially recognised as an acceptable way of life.

david beckham will be made to announce to the entire world from a small, damp press conference room that “i am the biggest git in the entire universe.” he well then be made to tattoo the word “git” on his forehead. his wife will be banned from any involvement in any sort of recording medium.

sepp blatter, the head of fifa, will be made chelsea owner roman abramovich’s maidservant for all eternity. he will have to wear assless sequined pants and speak like betty boop.

igor biscan will be cloned and an entire team of him will replace manchester united in the english premier league. supporting manchester united will be outlawed.

we will play a little game. we’ll take several small islands and put several hundred people on each of them, each with homogeneous demographics. we will implement certain forms of governance (ie. communism, autocracy, democracy, dictatorship, military rule, etc) exclusively on each of these islands and after five or ten years we’ll see which one turns out the best in the most important aspects (ie. general well-being of its citizens, political apathy, social structures, population happiness, literacy, etc) and then using a magical formula we will decide which one the whole world should adopt. alternatively, we will write down these types on small pieces of paper, put them in a hat and then draw one out.

paris hilton will be indefinitely jailed.

i’ll write to mom and tell her that i told her so.

sony corporation will make me the most powerful playstation ever. and a 22 player multi-tap. and a 100-inch screen.

i will have a talking parrot that will sit on my shoulder and verbally abuse reporters.

i will hire the ex-minister for information of the now-defuct iraqi baath party government to handle all my public relations. he will also be the united nations ambassador for miseducation.

kofi annan will be replaced by a more hands-on, no-nonsense character. such as mr t.

just to see what happens, eminem will be indefinitely jailed together with survivor winner richard hatch. only one set of clothes will be given to the inmates to share.

arnold schwarzenegger will made the mayor of poughkeepsie.

he will not be back.

peter jackson, under duress, will be forced to make the fourth part of the lord of the rings trilogy. and david blaine will teach me all his tricks and promise never to teach anyone else how to fly.

get fuzzy, dilbert, foxtrot, the far side and sherman’s lagoon will be made required reading in all high schools.

my motto will be ‘this bus goes to merseyside’ except that it’s not pronounced bahs but boos. why? because i can.

you’ll never walk alone will be made the national anthem of a small, unimportant country such as holland.

once my appeal has been approved by the powers that be (whom by then i would have positively identified as elvis) , as my last act before i leave my post as leader of the (free) world, i will send out a private memo to reality-tv-star george.

just to inform him that his pants are on backwards.

haiku!

2004-10-22T13:02:00.000+08:00

from the late willard espy:

i ku; you ku; he,
she, or it ku; we ku; you
ku; they ku. thanku.

we are what we love.

2004-10-21T18:02:00.000+08:00

listening to : third eye blind - good man

reading : philosophy - nigel warburton

watching : adaptation

adaptation is a fantastic movie. i have never had anything bad to say about a movie written by charlie kaufman. that list includes, being john malkovich and eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. spike jonze (who did the beastie boys' excellent music video for their single 'sabotage' and is charlie kaufman's director-of-choice) did an excellent job directing the movie. kaufman, as always, is clever, subtle and convincing.

i've been addicted to launchcast lately. give it a try, it's good stuff. basically, it's an streaming audio radio station where you get to influence what you hear. i say influence because you can't pick what they play next. you can only rate artistes/groups, their songs and their albums (never play again, ok, i like it, i love it, can't get enough) and your customised station will pick songs from your favourite artistes/groups as well as recommendations and relevant genres/popular music. this way, you'll quickly discover new groups and sounds. if you listen through the website, you'll have to endure the occasional advertisement, which takes less than a minute. but if you get yahoo! messenger, you can listen to song after song without any advertisments.

give my station a listen if you're interested - my username is jabrahul. the genres are mainly adult alternative, mainstream rock and modern rock, represented by groups such as dave matthews, third eye blind, coldplay, smashing pumpkins, our lady peace, oasis, the postal service, switchfoot, jars of clay, rage against the machine, keane, incubus, robbie williams, the white stripes, the red hot chilli peppers, franz ferdinand, maroon 5 and audioslave.

i spent the night ripping the audio track from a dvd i rented. the movie's called drumline, and it's about mainly-african-american american football marching bands. it's a terrible movie, but the band music makes up for all of it, so i extracted all the marching band tunes. skipped only one though, because they covered a j lo song.

i managed to get donnie darko, the director's cut too, so i'll finally see this movie tomorrow.

and i'm not getting lazy! i'm still writing. it's just that i'm not posting everything here because it's good stuff and i want to keep it offline to retain first rights to my work. i'm very involved in working on a story right now, so i don't leave myself with much time to write other stuff.

speaking of which, my time's up for tonight.

being cheap.

2004-10-15T18:12:00.000+08:00

listening to : agoraphobia - incubus
reading : financial accounting - reynolds, sanders, hillman et al
(this, my father announced, holding the antiquated book aloft, is the bible of finance. then he added, in all seriousness, make it your wife.)
watching : van wilder

i was running some errands in town today when i stumbled upon a very ghetto-looking internet cafe. seeing as how i already spend an unhealthy amount of time on the internet at home, i decided to venture in and look up my next errand on the internet. oh i am incorrigible. in my defence, it must be pointed out that the sun was bleeding people all over the place, so i had to seek shelter indoors.

the large sign outside promised 4 dollars for an hour of surfing or 8 cents per minute. i went in, signed up for a computer and logged on at 3.47.

at 4.17 sharp i logged off and made my way to the cashier. a caucasian couple were in front of me and they were visibly annoyed with the owner. i used it for 50 minutes and it costs me 4 dollars. i could've just used it for another 10 and it would've come up to the same, the caucasian man told his wife. she shook her head as he pocketed his change. business is business, the cashier announced, as if he just read that gem off a fortune cookie. he was being exceptionally annoying. the couple stepped aside as they fumbled with their belongings and i approached the cashier. he took a sip from his mug of coffee, adjusted his spectacles, took a good look at me and then consulted the numbers on his screen. he stabbed some numbers into his calculator before showing it to me. that's two dollars and forty cents, he pointed out with a smile, in case i was from a country that doesn't use numbers.

i smiled back and laid a two dollar note on the counter. when he realised i wasn't fishing for change, he repeated, forty cents. the caucasian couple were looking on with interest.

the cashier continued. thirty minutes at 8 cents a minute is two-forty. he was getting irritated.

i slid the note closer to him. half an hour at 4 dollars an hour is two dollars. the caucasian man laughed. the cashier turned visibly red, grabbed the note and muttered, go.

ah, i thought, as i left the shop, business is business.

finishing touches.

2004-10-15T13:44:00.000+08:00

bedside photoboard.

2004-10-15T13:42:00.000+08:00

watson's new frame.

2004-10-15T13:41:00.000+08:00

mirrors.

bits and pieces.

2004-10-12T02:28:00.000+08:00

listening to : daylight - coldplay
reading : the life of pi - yann martel
watching : i, robot

i had to cancel my driving test because of my collar bone injury. i'll probably be taking it in january instead. this is bad news. on the bright side, my medical leave got extended by another three weeks. plus, i picked up a membership at a nearby dvd rental shop. go me!

-

bjork is creepy - an eerily haunting kind of creepy. i'm glad she's not related to me. i'd hate to ever have her over for tea.

-

having been severely outclassed in french, much like damien was the other day with some francophone friend of his, i have resolved to learn the language and a healthy dose of insults by the end of college or to pick up the fine art of ass-kicking. whichever works better on them.

-

i love getting fanmail.

-

never ever ever ever ever click on this link.

cent.

2004-10-11T02:09:00.000+08:00

he stands next to his mother, with one hand in his pocket and the other dangling limply from the heavy canopy that is the length of his shoulders. carefully, he rolls two coins around in his pocket without letting them touch one another. every now and then, they clink together ever so gently, sending a chilling current of awareness through his spine. funerals are uninteresting affairs when one is a child. yet, they are an important. children understand the most important aspect of it, that even parents sometimes do not. it is the one time new life is presented with an opportunity to understand the complicities of the time-honoured tradition that is death, and yet see it with a clarity that only the innocence of youth can provide. from the very moment a child asks for his deceased relative and receives a veiled response as to his whereabouts, a process begins. years later, the child will begin to grapple with the concepts of life, death and fairness. for now, however, death is an event - like having to bathe, or attending a prayer gathering. unpleasant, but necessary for reasons he cannot yet fathom.

seventy-three people, several of whom are weeping quietly amidst the sea of monochrome, are gathered around a hole and a wooden box, listening to an elderly gent recite a tale about a kind man who, rather unfortunately, was unable to be in attendance today to hear all these wonderful things about himself. the boy wonders what the man has done to deserve all this praise. he takes his hand out of his pockets and starts to tug at his shirt lapel. he itches all over from the linen suit he had grown out of two summers ago. just then, he notices the shock of bright red roses strewn over the wooden box. they lie there, unclaimed, forgotten, irrelevant. they glow against the lacquered surface, giving off a faint aura that permeates through the air. the boy inhales deeply but smells nothing, save for the sickly scent of his mother's perfume. trying to imagine the scent of a rose, he shuts his eyes tightly, holds his breath and succeeds only in picturing his baby brother in his arms; soft, red and moist like the breaking of dew drops on one's finger. he leans in closer to his brother's napkin-wrapped head, and takes in the olfactoral potpourri of johnson and johnson's baby soap, fab laundry detergent and the natural sweetness of a newborn child. upon opening his eyes, he realises that he is no longer within the congregation, but an entire step out in front of it. he feels alone all of a sudden, and in his sudden awkwardness, he inches backwards until he can see his mother's entire form out of the corner of his eye.

he will cry later on that morning, more out of concern for his mother having broken down all of a sudden than for anything else. in the line that filters past the wooden box, he will realise that his
grandfather is lying inside that box, and that he won't be waking up today nor tomorrow nor the day after that. he cries again because he does not understand something so simple; something that everyone else seems to get. tears stream down his face as he wrestles with the unfairness of this. confusing this for grievance, his grandmother kneels beside him and softly tells him that her husband has gone to stay with the lord. he nods, unsure of what she means and then he looks over her shoulder at his mother. he wipes away tears with the sleeve of his blazer. one day he will understand why people take comfort in flowers. one day he will recognise the scent of funeral bouquets. one day he will understand the true cost of death. but those things will have to wait. for now, as he walks towards the black limousine parked at the gates holding his mother's hand, he lets his other hand slip back into his trouser pocket and with its fingertips, he gently caresses the solitary rose petal that now rests there in place of the coins.

alchera project #27

2004-10-09T15:39:00.000+08:00

poetry/option no. two:
haiku's are short, little 5-7-5 poems that attempt to capture the beauty of a moment. write two poems, one capturing the best moment of your life, and one capturing the worst. remember, it's not the best or worst day, but just the best or worst moment.

1.
like leaves in autumn
softly caressing the breeze
i fall into you

2.
red steel pirouettes
a ballet of entropy
the curtains crash down

revenge of the crackpots!

2004-10-07T21:32:00.000+08:00

the crackpots is back in action! we're looking for regular contributors to the site, in the form of articles, shorts, photographs, drawings or reviews.

we're also looking for fans of various english premier league teams, who are willing to write match reports for us. you'll be suitably (and eventually) rewarded for your efforts. contact me at jabrahul@yahoo.co.uk or leave a comment here if you are interested. if you're completely talentless, at least help us spread the word! also, visit the site! thanks!

tiny plaid ninjas.

2004-10-06T10:36:00.000+08:00

listening to : keane - bedshaped
watching : tiny plaid ninjas!

the best of bigbad.

2004-10-05T21:34:00.000+08:00

listening to : dave matthews - an' another thing
reading : jhumpa lahiri - interpreter of maladies
wondering : why oprah isn't running for president

one
two
three
four
five
six
--
seven
some poems i wrote on psychological disorders
eight
interesting psychology stuff
--
nine
ten
--
eleven
---
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
---
fifteen
bmt tales!
---
sixteen
seventeen
a short story.
eighteen
--
my brief history of singapore!
nineteen
twenty
(as yet unfinished!)
--
twentyone
twentytwo
twentythree
--
twentyfour
another short story!
--
twentyfive
friends' ocs commissioning parade
--
twentysix
--
twentyseven
plagiarism!
--
twentyeight
--
twentynine
old movie reviews
--
thirty
thirtyone
thirtytwo
thirtythree
thirtyfour
thirtyfive
--
thirtysix
a short story
--
thirtyseven
thirtyeight
thirtynine
forty
fortyone
fortytwo
fortythree
fortyfour
fortyfive
fortysix
fortyseven
fortyeight

war.

2004-10-05T17:26:00.000+08:00

okay.

2004-10-05T13:54:00.000+08:00

today's random message from a stranger is :

you are a wallflower.
i beg your pardon?
but of course.
alright gentlemen?
i am a banana!

twenty.

2004-10-04T17:13:00.000+08:00

yum.

alchera project #26

2004-10-01T02:15:00.000+08:00

option 2

put yourself in an unfavorable situation--perhaps you're in the middle of a break-up with someone you love, your job is in jeopardy, or maybe you're even saying your final words at a loved one's funeral. write a poem with interchanging lines of speech and thought. your first line should be what you're saying out loud and the second line should be what you're thinking (this line should either be in a different color or, preferably, in italics). the situation in which you find yourself is up to you, but remember it should generally be an adverse one.

bed 13, ward 42, san raffaele hospital

the lord is my shepherd, i shall not be in want.
forgive me for coming to you only when in need,
he makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters,
when he hears my heart burst open and bleed,
he restores my soul.
when it dies a hollow, black death,
he guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
the name i now whisper under my breath ,
even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
and feel his gaze draw life from within me,
i will fear no evil, for you are with me;
i will fear no evil - if you are with me,
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
the caduceus can do no more than console,
you prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
as i drink my fill from the drip,
you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
into the ocean of forgiveness that begins at your lip,
surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life,
and pain, for what few days remain,
and i will dwell in the house of the lord forever.
where at long last, i find calm once again.

mr r.

2004-09-30T01:11:00.000+08:00

jamie reeves made me laugh out loud today. when they were analysing the line-ups for turkish side fenerbahce's clash with manchester united, he highlighted fener's tall dutch striker pierre van hooijdonk as 'their big-name player, both metaphorically and literally.'

whazzat?

2004-09-28T23:05:00.000+08:00

listening to : starsailor - four to the floor
still reading : jeffrey eugenides - middlesex
watching : gravedigger - dave matthews

today's misheard lyrics:

nelly furtado, "i'm like a bird"

correct lyrics:
for my love is great
for my love is true, oh.
misheard lyrics:
for my love is gay
for my love is coolio.

correct lyrics:
i'm like a bird
misheard lyrics:
hung like a bird

i really can't make out what she's saying.

and in a tribute to the most thought-provoking lyrics ever uttered (sisqo, the thong song - 'she's got dumps like a truck'), rapper pharrel of the group n.e.r.d. says in his song 'she wants to move' that 'her ass is a spaceship - i want to ride'. only on mtv, folks.

remember unriven?

2004-09-27T20:19:00.000+08:00

courtesy of rachel.

oh yeah.

the write ingredients.

2004-09-26T20:44:00.000+08:00

listening to : franz ferdinand - 40'
reading : jeffrey eugenides - middlesex
watching : city of god
wondering : where have all the cowboys gone?

my writing prompt for the day was on a kitchen scene where things go wrong. it isn't terribly funny, but neither is a kitchen. you can read it here.

truss nobody.

2004-09-25T01:49:00.000+08:00

for all you avid fans of lynne truss's best-selling book, eats, shoots & leaves, here's a review by the new yorker that will clear your mind of her ideologies. review of eats, shoots & leaves.

i've resisted capitalising words for very long now, but sad to say, my friend damien has thrown in his lot with that nasty stickler. i still follow what i consider to be the critical rules of punctuation. and so it shall remain. as captain jack sparrow once said, we have reached a very special place... spiritually... ecumenically... grammatically.

stanford prison experiment.

2004-09-24T01:47:00.000+08:00

"i began to feel that i was losing my identity, that the person that i called "clay," the person who put me in this place, the person who volunteered to go into this prison -- because it was a prison to me; it still is a prison to me. i don't regard it as an experiment or a simulation because it was a prison run by psychologists instead of run by the state. i began to feel that that identity, the person that i was that had decided to go to prison was distant from me -- was remote until finally i wasn't that, i was 416. i was really my number."

compare his reaction to that of the following prisoner who wrote to me from an ohio penitentiary after being in solitary confinement for an inhumane length of time:

"i was recently released from solitary confinement after being held therein for thirty-seven months. the silence system was imposed upon me and if i even whispered to the man in the next cell resulted in being beaten by guards, sprayed with chemical mace, black jacked, stomped, and thrown into a strip cell naked to sleep on a concrete floor without bedding, covering, wash basin, or even a toilet....i know that thieves must be punished, and i don't justify stealing even though i am a thief myself. but now i don't think i will be a thief when i am released. no, i am not rehabilitated either. it is just that i no longer think of becoming wealthy or stealing. i now only think of killing -- killing those who have beaten me and treated me as if i were a dog. i hope and pray for the sake of my own soul and future life of freedom that i am able to overcome the bitterness and hatred which eats daily at my soul. but I know to overcome it will not be easy."

from the stanford prison experiment

the mind becomes a prison so easily, trapping us in our thoughts and desires. victims of abuse become perpatrators of abuse, casting shadows upon those with impressionable minds. the power of others and our weaknesses plant seeds of hatred in us that we nurture during the idle moments of our minds. our identities try to circumvent this absence of absolute power by giving us a sense of uniqueness; our authority is in our hairstyles, our accessories, our clothes, our tastes, our friends.

welcome.

2004-09-23T13:24:00.000+08:00

listening to : the who - won't get fooled again
reading : jeffrey eugenides - the virgin suicides
watching : zoolander
wondering : who thought up of slim water

why have i moved? nothing significant, really. i'm not trying to escape from blogstalkers nor am i bored with the old layout. i've moved because i wanted a site that was easy to update, maintain and use to interact with my readers. google and blogger have put together a sound system for doing all of the above (with the exception of a tagboard and a blogroll - for now) so i'm going to use it. now there's no need to use any 3rd party script providers to keep this baby up and running. however, it's always nice to link other sites to this one so i'll start a link-list soon enough.

i've broken my collar bone and it's going to take at least four weeks to heal. my right arm is in a sling now and typing is a bitch. damien says i wouldn't have a problem if i had a larger penis. wow. thanks.

i'm going to persist, though, and continue my blogging and writing. writing with my left hand is difficult because my hand isn't very stable. it's getting more legible though, what with all these "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" lines i've been scribbling. mum came in yesterday and commented that my handwriting is still illegitimate. that bastard handwriting. good one, mum.

i noticed just now how comprehensive the blogger profiles have become. there's even the obligatory randomly-generated question for you to answer, to give you a chance to display your pedigree and timeless wit. the question i got was 'if mud is dirt plus water, what is clay?' you can check my answer here.