Intermission XVI: Death, Doubt, and Divinity.

Have finally finished off all seven volumes of happy rotter, and I must say, I enjoyed them more than i initially thought I would (here I sense the jester doing a peevesiesque whoop of glee).

So many deaths occur in there, with enough anguish and sense of loss written into the pages for it to hit me how fragile life is, both in and out of fiction. And then it struck me hard, all these thoughts of the brushes that my family's had with death and survived.

My earliest memory of such an incident was as a child of four, five, when I contracted a severe case of dengue. Those who know about it will remember that there isn't any surefire treatment for it. I remember my gran and my mum desperately making herbal (eeeuch) concoctions, forcing it down my throat daily. But that didn't help, if the doctor's gloomy warning to my dad was any indication. 

I have been told, and I believe, that I survived solely by the grace of God's mercy. And I have often wondered, what made Him grant my father, then a non-believer's plea? Perhaps how my father put his faith in Him, despite not truly knowing Him? Acknowledging His might and will, in saying 'I beg you, give her back to me, but if it's Your will to take her, take her?'. In any case, after prayers were said over me, I passed the night of reckoning unscathed, the virus having disappeared from my blood completely by the next morning.

And so my survival became the pivotal point of change in my parents' attitude towards Christianity. 

Thinking about all the times my mum's had brushes with death, it makes me shudder. Just recently, she's had a brush with another snake, only this time the idiot creature was hiding in the house. It doesn't come as any relief that it wasn't poisonous this time round; the last one she encountered was mildly venomous. And the time a top heavy branch crashed down onto the road right after her car passed, barely missing her boot? 

Sometimes, thinking about my dad going on trips overseas, my mum being on her own at home with only Doong as companion... it shakes me up, thinking of what could possibly go wrong. And then I mutter a quick prayer to God to watch over them, remembering that He's kept us all safe all this while. I betcha my parents do the same thing, except perhaps my mum's prayers will be much longer. 

But then the next time I hear news about a trip, the worry creeps back again, and I say another prayer, which calms my fears down for the meantime. Does that make me a person of little faith? Feeling fear and worry despite having known His protection and care all these years? Should I not worry, since I know He'll protect us anyway (that smacks of taking things for granted though)? Or is it only human frailness that makes us worry and doubt, despite everything He's done?

But I guess that's the very reason we run to Him. And hence, the very essence of our faith: leaning on Him because we are, essentially, very frail beings, and knowing His strength can and will support us all. 

Chapter Thirty-seven: Knocking You Off Your Pedestals.

Caught the end of a whiplash tongue

From one whose praises I might have sung

Why does it feel like stigma by association

Or is it merely just me imagination

I caught myself from sassing you back
And not just because I abide by tact
Or disdain to hit you with knowledge you lack
Now I'm just disgusted by your collective act

The words one gave, yesterday and today
Did all but give your sentiments away
Looks like you've indeed found your own kind
In my eyes tis fitting that like does like find

I poured enough of the bitterness that some did beget
The rash words I uttered in anger I do regret
Remain in there, as mere faces met
Or perhaps as lessons I'll never forget.

Chapter Thirty-six: A Fire to Warm Your Bones.

Once upon a curious world four wanderers lived, each in their own corner of the land.

Now then, in each of their own corners, these four had lived twenty moons or more, and indeed had felt joy, sorrow, and created their own share of havoc in their own day. And as the young are wont to do, they set out to travel down the twisty forest of living. And so they slung their weighty burdens over their shoulders and off they went away,  trying to find their paths while steering free of the brambles that grew over and around the way. 

Meandering and blundering through the tangles of the forest, two of these four came together, and in gladness they joined hands and walked forward together, yet going around in circles and losing their way. 

And yet another one, chasing a rainbow that appeared bright in the sky, found himself tripping on vines that lay across his path. Still did the rainbow tantalize him, for it appeared before him in all its glory, only to disappear when he stretched his hands to grab hold of it.

And the fourth wanderer, who was carefully exploring his way, found a wounded fox that he took with him as he journeyed, gently nursing it back to health. But alas, as stronger it grew by the day, the fox did leave the wanderer, and ran away. And so he was left alone, in the darkness of the forest's gloom. 

Tired of the shadows in the forest, the bramble-weary wanderers, while seeking shelter from the cold winds that blew their hearts cold, finally, wearily stumbled into a clearing.

And so sat they down to rest awhile, when they began to stoke a fire to warm themselves. Gently did the fire flicker, and grew stronger as the foursome fed it, till it became a warm glow that held them close.

And here this wanderer prays that they can keep the fire glowing, a fire not only of humans' making, that gives a warmth that will see them through the deepest chill. 

May the Father grant this prayer. Amen. 

Intermission XV: A Rueful Admission.

It's sobering, when you take a good look at yourself through another's eyes, and find that you're not as good as you thought you were (or would like to be).

I have a tendency to ruminate, and repeat things all over and over again, which i am trying to not do. ick. jCe once told me that the way i view things can be too extreme, too black and white. Which kinda makes sense, i suppose, since i either veer sharply towards thinking highly of myself, or simply thinking i'm the most appalling creature on earth. 

Where does the line cut in between good and bad? At this moment, i'm finding it very difficult to think of myself as a 'good' person, because i recognize that i've done something(s) bad. Sometimes i wonder if i'm simply some yucky creature hiding behind the shields of 'goodness', and that if i don't keep ahold of meself, that insistent fellow's going to pop out and rear its ugly head. and i fear that i'll one day lose control over it, and people're going to see me as the  yucky creature i am and despise me for it.

And in thinking that, i begin to depise myself. in the process of depising myself, i trap myself in a circle where i simply end up repeating that behaviour, which causes me to despise myself even more. In the end, i simply get pessimistic, and all hung up about the idea of people disliking me, without having done anything about the whole issue in the first place.

Yet, yucky or not, there're those who would walk with me, and help me work on it. those who believe i can do something about it, and that i shouldn't simply ruminate and wallow in self-pity over it. those who give me the courage to do something about it. 

And i'm grateful to you (all). More than i know how to express.

Thank you. It's way too short a phrase for all i'm wanting to say, but know that i mean it in all sincerity. *hugs*

Intermission XIV: Because That's What 'Love' Truly Means to Me.

When i hear people talk about love, as that wonderful fantastic all encompassing answer-to-all never-ending entity, i wonder what love really means to them, what they really see it as, anyway. All those symbols for love, roses, hearts, cupids, chocolates and the like. Does that all really, and i mean really, adequately symbolize love?

I've always been more of a realist than a romantic. If someone asked me how it'd like being in love.... i think... i wouldn't know what to tell them, because... to me, love's so much more than just a bunch of pretty symbols and words, or some trumped up hollywood/kdrama cliche.

I like sternberg's triangle theory of love best. intimcy, passion, commitment. all important for a consummate, fulfilling relationship. but again, that's just one part. that's about... romantic love.

To me, love isnt just 'love', per se. Love isn't some mysterious, inexplicable entity that stands completely alone by itself, untouched and separate from all other feelings or emotions. I see it as a combination of many many things, the parts of which manifests themselves in different ways in relation to different people.

My father loves me, just as he loves my mother. But he loves us both in different ways. I love the jester, but in a different way from bosom friends, and even more differently from my parents. All forms have the elements of trust, emotional intimacy, friendship, commitment and care, but each form differs from the other. Love for my parents and friends doesn't include passion, and love for my friends and the jester doesn't include filial piety.

Love is my parents not giving up on me, even when everyone else thought me hopeless and couldn't care less.

Love is my mum staying up at night to bake me muffins, so that my dad can bring them to me the next day.

Love is the friendship between the jester and i, and his doing all sorts of little things for me, his having faith in us both.

Love is those friends of mine who would come to my aid should i ever need it, and who know that i'd do the same for them.

And last, but never least, love is God having given me all, despite me being imperfect.

Looking at it in such a way, how can i say that love is just one, single entity? 

Intermission XIII: Howling for the Moon.

Sometimes, i wonder what it truly means to be talented.

People throw the word talented around so lightly. They tell me i have a talent for writing, a talent for drawing or whatever, and sometimes, i really don't think i deserve the word. if i truly had talent, why am i only able to churn out half-baked stories, or repetitive, depressing poetry? 

Ugh. Hardy-esque. And here i'm doing much the same as he is, with nary a slice of hope peeking through my verses. 

Remembering what dr M (not that damn maverick; one a helluva lot more deserving of respect) said about competencies, i think i know myself well enough to accept that i have a competency for language and writing; the question is, how far does it go before it's really talent?

Nothing makes one feel more helpless than having hit rock bottom, and being trapped in a stretch of quicksilver. or worse, a bog. And once you've climbed out of it, you never want to go back there, even if it means you're gonna have to die trying to keep yourself away from there.

So many ways i could've gone wrong. Any one would've left the trail of broken hearts and hope behind, but why one that nearly broke my spirit? Why one that took so much from me only to have me struggle so hard to find it?

Perhaps... as i told the guys... perhaps one doesn't truly know who they are until they've broken themselves (over and over again) and tried to put the pieces back. and continue to look for others to cement the gaps. 

Perhaps i'm just one idiot dog out there howling for the moon, all by its lonesome self.

Intermission XII: I'd Grind Your Bones to Make My Bread and Use Your Brains for Jam.

For a long time, i haven't quite felt as furious as i did today, so much that my hands were shaking, and i had to draw deep breaths to calm myself down.

Whoever you are, you foolish clodhead(s) with mush for brains, your pure idiocy and selfishness cost the entire class our three final quizzes and any possible chance for everyone to redeem those lost marks. 

Personally, if i ever catch who you are, i'd like to give you a sound thrashing, and a kick down the stairs, to boot.

I wouldnt at all be surprised if the rest of the class were devising all manners of horrific, vile tortures for you in their minds. Especially since miss W warned us multiple times that if you didnt give back her answer sheets, she'd punish everyone. And since you were blockheaded enough to not heed her warning, our wrath's well earned.

And oh, to another bloody hole in the buttocks, i hope you go to hell for the things you put him through. I've been told to pray for you, that you'll open your heart and not be the way you are, but for years, you've only gotten from bad to worse. And i wonder if our prayers seem like they're unanswered because even God doesn't want to bother with someone like you. 

Chapter Thirty-five: Peas in a Pod.

Once upon a time, there lived a single little pea in a pod. 

Now then, this little pea grew up snuggled comfortably against mama-pod and papa-plant, who fed it and nourished it till round and full it grew. For many years, the little pod stayed close to mama-pod and papa-plant, and did not dare to venture out into the great wide world, for fear of being eaten.

Now then, the time came for the little pea to roll out of mama-pod's embrace and find it's own way in the world. And so tearfully mama-pod and papa-plant sent the little one on its way.

And so the little pea happily rolled along.

Along the way, the little pea met a pin lying across the path. Now then, the little pea took a fancy to the pin, and told it so. But alas, the pin liked not how the pea looked, and hopped up to prick it hard, causing the pea to bleed and shrink into a wrinkled little ball. Crying in dismay, the little pea stumbled away as best as it could, while the snail, centipede and spider watching nearby laughed at it.

And so it rolled on.

Now then, this time it rolled into a fresh garden patch, in which there were many other peas growing. Pleased to see a fellow pea, the others welcomed it cheerfully into their midst. Here the little pea was happy, for it'd made new friends, and life felt good. Fond it was of another pea, who took charge of it, and showed it around, taking it to visit the other pods and plants. And thus they grew to be close friends, for are not such friends as close as peas in a pod?

Intermission XI: Phonological Loop.

For some strange reason, today i find myself repeatedly thinking about (psychspeak: ruminating) the conversation i had with Dr.A that day, when i went to return her hair slide to her.

Frankly speaking, i had no idea i'd end up having that conversation with her, considering i'd just meant to drop the slide off and pop off, but her asking about my birthday sort of opened the gates to conversation, and well, one thing led to another.

So i just sorta kind told her a little of what i (we) did, and mentioned that its no big deal, after all, seriously, what's the big deal about birthdays? especially since the 'special' ones're over and done with. and she said: don't la be so negative about birthdays.

Now that kinda knocked me off kilter, since i'd never thought about me being negative, but simply indifferent. But Dr.A being Dr.A, perhaps she picked up on something else that even i'm not aware of.

Cant say as how i havent have had good birthdays. the year before, they pulled a whopper on me (and me being the blurqueen, i didn't realise a surprise was being sprung on me till it slapped me in the face). last year, i had a simple celebration with mum and dad, then the jester and R, courtesy of the jester.

And then this year's the most wonderful of all. ethics, 306 midterms (oral somemore!) and counselling. COUNSELLING. on my birthday. Dr.A said i should've told her it was my birthday, but i laughed it off. and then she said i should've told my counsellor no sessions on my birthday. oh well.

An eventful birthday not withstanding, i think one of the most valuable things i gained that week was attending the talk J invited me to, and listening to Dr.N talk about those other religions, and our own. That gave me insight into things, and generated all manners of thoughts, some of which led me into a theological -sorta- argument/discussion with SR all the way to Ming Tian.

I lose, SR. I am simply not well equipped enough to debate and argue properly, much less convince anyone. lol. Lemme go arm myself, then i'll give it another go, kay? XD

I'm glad for you guys, who cheered me on while i was trying to swallow that burning hunk of sausage meat. I'm glad for A's getting us together with a bunch of his fellows, and for being thoughtful enough to plan in a way that allows people to be able to bond. 

I thank God for having friends with whom i can sit down trade banter over cookies with ice cream(SR, bake more cookies and the jester and I'll bring the ice cream) , and who can talk from nineteen to the dozen and back again. (oh, and get pyromaniacal with matches, a cup and a sacrificial fly. gads, i can still remember the evil look of glee on you two's faces. seriously.) i'm grateful for friends who can tell awesomely disgusting jokes (its the joker that counts, not the joke. XD) and who can tell me, don't worry, just join for the fun. Most of all, i'm grateful for the jester, who's there to tell me when i'm wrong, when i'm doing what i shouldn't be, and who's there to lecture me when i need it. 

And when my thoughts hit this spot, then i think, i no longer feel the need to write just to exorcise lingering shadows of the past. For perhaps, as someone told me, perhaps, it shouldn't be anger and betrayal i'm feeling, but resignation. And with it, more than just a wee bit of pity, for you'll not be someone i'll keep in my phonological loop.

Chapter Thirty-four: Vermillion Wash.

My heart bled the colour of a painted sky
Fresh reds and golds of a marigold's eye
Work, my lips and tongue, to speak in flames
The gush of wild words that my mind tames

There on the hearth did the creature lie
Burnt, purified, dying with one final cry
Once, twice, thrice more did it haunt me
Have the shackles finally finally broken free

Brilliant vermillion, crimson in its heat
The colour draws me, hard does my heart beat
Red, the colour of life, the colour of blood
May you my life, my soul with vitality flood.

Intermission X: Post Tenebras, Lux.

Today, You called me home.

i cried out in my despair, Kyrie, Kyrie eleison. Lord, dona nobis pacem.

You said to me

Come home, o sinner. ye who are weary, come home. I will wait with arms wide open

Your words came to me in the voice of an angel

You opened my ears to words that i've heard, but not listened to

You gave me tears to wash away the darkness and anger in my heart

You lifted a lost child on wings of an eagle

And now she lies, safe and at peace, in the palm of Your hand.

Thank You, Lord.

Chapter Thirty-three: The Malaysian 'Kitchen God'.

Demme, but ‘tis the kitchen god who speaks! says he.

Speak he will to the numerous ones, on whose goodwill the fate of my regard runs.

Faith, I must sweeten him with honey, his wagging tongue tame, that he will speak kindly and cast no slur upon my illustrious name.

O god of the hearth most kind, take this gift and sing sweet praises of me and mine. Here is toffee to glue your lips, and smoke most fragrant, your eyes to eclipse.

And finally, most esteemed teller of tales, who reports for all, accept this; ‘tis but colourful scraps, that you may throw around, what your heart desires, ‘twill cost naught at all!

O wonderful deity, o benevolent one, remember to paint me in rays of the sun.

Speak well of me, and you I shall keep, well-fed in spirit, and your pockets full-deep.

For mine is the power, to tear down your shrine, with a whispered word here, and through influence of mine.

Chapter Thirty-two: Says the Reed to the Shell, and likewise.

Said the reed to the shell
You look nothing like me

Get away for a spell

Till you’ve changed completely

Said the shell to the reed

What do you know of substance

When you won’t look inside

At my brains for instance

Said the reed to the duck

Why have you an appetite

For mollusks of the sort

It doesn’t look right

Said the duck to the reed

That you wouldn’t know

Cause you’re you anyway

With your opinions so low

Said the shell to the reed

Here I opened myself wide

But what did you do

You threw sand inside

Said the duck to the shell

It will be alright

Give it some time

And then together we’ll fight

Said the shell to the duck

Don’t know if I can

My shell is fragile

How much can it stand

Said the duck to the shell

You must try anyway

I’ll broaden my wings

And you sandpaper away

Said the shell to the duck

I’ll try for your sake

Let’s hope we won’t lose

Everything that’s at stake.

Intermission IX: Says the Reed to the (Conch) Shell Through the Duck.

you there, born like a reed. 

have you ever imagined how it would be like to be someone other than yourself? (or maybe you do, but not the way i'm thinking).  

tell me, do you know what it's like to have a shell like mine?  

you don't.   i hoped that it'd be like what i've witnessed so often, and secretly dreamed to have. (but i forget, those people were reeds too. not conch shells).  

you found it so easy to judge my shell as unworthy, when you haven't even sampled the contents.  

so easily did you take to it a sledgehammer, not even thinking of what damage you may cause not to just the shell, but what the shell is part of (but you'd like that to happen, wouldn't you).  

How do you think it'd feel like, if i were you, and you me? would you feel as you've made me feel?  

but then, you know don't know the meaning of empathy, i don't doubt. (i simply wonder why it took you so long to blow your whistle. after all, you've seen me at least a dozen times, knowing what i am. but you let me believe it would be alright?) 
 

i suppose i must say a bitter thank you for helping me to finalize a self-fulfilling prophesy, although i doubt i did anything to contribute to it's culmination, apart from growing my shell. 
 

it pays to be a cynic, you know. because if you'd turned out another way, i would be an optimist for a while, and tell myself 'see, what were you worried for? things turned out all right' and maybe get shot at sometime in the future. 

it hurts more when one isn't prepared to be pot-shot at.

so think about cynicism as a shield of sorts.  

and  now, when things turn out like this, being a pessimist, i can congratulate myself on being right all along, and tell myself, i told me so.  

a cynic at 22, i feel faith in good things slipping out of my fingers, like flour through a sieve (everytime you shake it, a little more falls out). 
 

because deep down inside, even as i prayed for it to be alright, somewhere inside, a little doubting Thomas whispered not to get hopes up, 'just in case'.  

(and now i'm paying the price for that folly).

eli, eli, lama sabathani?  

Father almighty, the ever-living God... is this a warning to the little thomas living inside me? (but Lord, you appeared to the other Thomas to dispel his doubts...) 
 

Happy those do not see and yet believe. i guess this means i'm one of the 'unhappy'.    

P.S to the other famous and wealthy reeds out there, if you complain another word about you having an extra millimetre somewhere on those cheese-pared stalks of yours, i'm going to pot-shoot your photos (that have been sandpapered anyway).  
 

because you don't have the right to talk about your oh-so-imperfect reed stalks, or talk about how its all about inner-beauty (when people go crazy over your reed stalk and cares a whit about your inner-beauty... wait, i hear an echo somewhere... oops, reeds are hollow, right?), not when you don't know what it's like to be a conch shell. 

P.S.S Once upon a time, a reed looked into a mirror and saw carrots for legs, a turnip for a belly, and wailed and moaned to the shell. Methinks that one ought to see Dr H, for such is a symptom of horrid self-image distortion.

Intermission VIII: Another Week, Another Friend Gone. To Q, and the Memories of 2007.

When I wrote the tribute to a schoolmate who'd passed away last week, I'd never in my wildest nightmare imagined that I'd be doing the same for you today, someone I'd been thinking of only last night. Life, how could you?

Some of my fondest memories from Form 6 were because of you, you know that? Like hearing you joke with Kulow, giggling over, well, you know who we caught in the room with her boyfriend, and you pole dancing on a dare. Or of you chasing the little kambing around threatening to bbq him. How can I hear the words 小羊 without thinking of you?

I didn't tell you how grateful I was to have your company during the convention, did I? Or that you'd covered me with your own blanket in the middle of the night?

I'll never forget how cheerfully you dismissed what would have sent other girls wailing, and simply said that you were grateful to even be how you were. Did you know I was thinking about you just last night, not knowing you were struggling for your life? and now I'll never get to see you again. 

Rest in peace, Q. And know that we'll be missing you.

Intermission VII: To KS, Whom No One Thought Would Have Left So Soon.

How many people that i personally know have passed from this world? People who attended school with me, people so young and vibrant in life that you'd never imagine they'd be gone so much earlier before myself.


'Out, out, brief candle.'


If someone'd told us, back when we were 13 and believed ourselves invincible, that you'd be be gone before you were even 30... do you suppose we'd have believed? No! We would have laughed it off as a terribly funny joke. Young, and full of promise; who'd ever have thought about death and dying?


Why oh why do we believe ourselves invincible? Infallible? Untouchable?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sun threaded through the lacy fronds of life, that slowly, slowly it's weaving.


Slowly it crept; sometimes it slept, backwards in time receding.


Often time stops, one's burden does drop, and there a soul goes leaving.


But for those who stay, weep as we may, soon, yea, we'll follow your leading.


Rest in peace. I only hope you enjoyed your short life in every way you could.

Intermission VI: 26.07.10. This is my Talent, I Will Wield It Like a Weapon.

Fear is a cage

That traps me within

A new book, new chapter

I daren't turn the page.

CBT, come to me, purge my mind with thoughts of thee.

Time to sweep fear under the dirty carpet. (where it should belong). 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There. Two done.

I realize as an editor, my name will never appear as a byline, and that some other person will take credit for my editing (at least that's how it is in the country of ones). 

BUt then i guess... the satisfaction from making something *ahem* better is fulfillment enough for me.

Intermission V: Pausing the Poetry for Prose.

i need to start writing in prose again. and heaven forbid, not in assignment format.

 it does get rather irritating when i'm needing to do assignments, but only have paired words and rhymes floating in my head.  i wonder if this's what dr M means by spontaneity? higher level cognitive processing? he may think it a competency (mind you, i do consider it a gift), but i dont suppose dr G'd find it amusing if i tried writing my finals essay in rhyme. not that i could *snort*.

sigh. i really dont know how to describe the tangled rush of emotions while hearing dr M lecture... fear, shock, interest, fascination, confusion? and the sense that time's running out, that i'm moving backwards even as i try to make my way up.

seriously, who after seeing pranaf's insane inventions can not feel woefully intimidated or like an intellectual ant? i do look forward to having one of those contraptions around my neck (since it practically makes any other contraption redundant), but well... i guess this's the first time i've ever seen that sort of mind in action. simply... mad.

aigoo (sorry, have been watching Personal Preference: sang jun/young seon's favourite exclamation)... tell me how to study for I/O, someone? bad enough its dr G, i have completely no idea how to incorporate dr M's stuff into the I/O mindset... and thanks to S, i've been watching Personal Preference, and thus, havent studied a bit. and now, character le jin ho keeps floating in my mind. =.=. sorry, jester. looking at it from the angle of a romance reader. characters're hard to resist, especially when packaged into such a nice parcel, but you know that already. (so dont you dare imply i'm a fangirl again or i'll conk your head. =.=)

am bloody tempted to watch another series, but i think i shall resist. will now return to crafting a timeline for the training, oops, talent management program. =.=

Chapter Thirty-one: Muddling in the Middling Crowd.

I disdain to do usual
Desire to break the mould
And yet the damndest thing is
Can't do without being told

 I've been taught to settle
Also yet to reflect
But methinks I dissemble
In displaying true intellect

Here I hear about sprinting ahead
But how does one apply?
Another talks about brilliance instead
But what does that signify?

I'll not call myself stupid
No need to go that far
BUt it eats at me like acid
'How much do you think you are...?'

 O tell me why we talk so much
Of the best pick of the cream?
Why when they're so out of touch
High up on the extreme?

Where will the crop be
Those of the middling crowd
Who're neither brilliant nor silly
But not like the cream endowed?

Chapter Thirty: Untangling.

Blinks an eye
Sitting on the horizon
By nothing but newness freshened
And at the panorama, widened


Listens the ear
A powerful tune resonate
From another's head donate
Breathlessly more await


Thinks the mind
Twisted pathways burning fire
Tangled thoughts aspire
Stoking up the need to rewire


Feels the heart
The strands of love inside
The fear that grips as time I bide
Courage, do you yet still hide?

Chapter Twenty-nine: Whited Sepulchre, Cast Not Your Stones.

You preach with your front and judge with your back
For others' reputations, you cut them no slack
You condemn such actions, reacting posthaste
And yet to these others, you give the same taste

Oh Hypocrite should be thy name indeed
In intention, in mind and also in deed
Such airs you put on, all holier-than-thou
And nary a slip for others' conduct you allow

How different are you, from those you denounce?
For like them, on such hurtful things do you pounce
Such accurate labels, such delicious dirt
And such snide judgements of people do you assert

'Tis ashamed I am, of people like you
Who talk of God, while doing what you do
Walk the talk, if you're going to preach
Else can the moral lessons; you ain't fit to teach.

Chapter Twenty-eight: Prayer.

Oh Lord, lead my feet 
For i know not where to go
Where the ends will meet
Where rich green pastures grow

Oh Lord, fill my heart
For i am as yet weak
When i am torn apart
Your strength do i seek

Oh Lord, walk with me
For i am always afraid
Tremblings of a nature
That i for myself made

Lord, give me succour
When i cannot go on
In Your arms will i be secure
Fear and anxiety begone

Lord, hear me pray
As i now write this verse
My fears, will You allay
As with You i converse

Almighty Lord, be my light
As in the dark i grope
Through the dangers of the night
Towards Your immaculate ray of hope.

Chapter Twenty-seven: Do Tell.

Tell me, is it truly over,
The ordeals of the day?
Tell me, is the night here
In harmony to stay?

Tell me why my heart beats
Fast and thus in pain
When a loss is no loss
And from that loss comes a gain

Tell me why I'm reluctant
To do what I feel I must
To give the cut direct
To lesions fouled with pus?

Tell me how I was swayed
After decisions were made
Why I think it might get better
When such a price is to be paid?

Tell me why I want to hold on
When I simply want to let go
Tell me about the contradiction
Tell me, why don't I know?

Chapter Twenty-six: A Cage of Conventions.

Twine these together,
Weave a cloth of fallacies
That I needs must use a blade
To pick apart such intricacies

Curse the rope of propriety
Binding this appendage
Plain brass gilded by conventions
Trapping such violent rage

They say there must needs be fire
Wherein be the stench of smoke
But of these allegations I tire
Be they not heart-felt

Does such a paradox
In thine eyes appear
When sight is laid
Upon this soul here?

Give me leave
To live in the best of both
To straddle sane and mad
Without such misgivings as I loathe.

Chapter Twenty-five: Pledge.

Here crash the waves
The undercurrent dark
Washes the rock at your feet
Carving its mark

Here the grim thoughts
That permeate your mind
Deep the web I fought
For you, solace I would find

Here are the tears
That seal our bonds
Crystalline dew
On eyelash fronds

Here is the time
That my mind met yours
In a dance, that swayed
Like a ballet of wars

And here is my cup
That I drink to thee
My pledge, my covenant
Far, yes, far, as far as we can see.

Chapter Twenty-four: On The Dearth of Judgment, Fortitude, and Fortune-a-leaky.

Tens of times doth my battle-call low
With each call came sharp pricks
Tens of times doth my fortitude grow
And beat them back with sticks.

Where shall I reach in the cavern of time
To seek sound judgment back?
Where the sugar to drown the lime
That's eating at my tact?

I see I was mistaken
For methinks I saw a wonderland
But here float shadows misshapen
Lord, help me understand.

Found myself looking through the wall
Strangely, I saw beyond
It works not then as a dead end should
But to my fascination, doth respond.

Squat I among the relics
The cracked pot turned to dust
And now a figurine, moulding
Yea, that be a must.

Contemplations 2: Ancient City of Ayutthaya. Thursday, 17.01.2010.

Weather: still mild.

Visited the ruins of Ayutthaya. I find it hard to reconcile the splendid city i saw in Sri Suriyothai with the poor, tumble-down houses now scattered in the formerly great city. Even sadder to know that Hongsa won the war in the end.

All i could think of, while wandering amidst broken towers of bricks, was 'Good, Lord, how on earth did they build these things?' and what sort of a war it must've been, for such a huge area to be torn down. here and there in the city you see a sudden bit of crumbling old wall labeled 'City Wall' and you know, once upon a time, these walls were the ones that kept the city's inhabitants safe within.

If modern man is great with all that he has, how much greater the man of old who made so much out of so little?

Tell me, how significant can a modern human being feel, standing next to these gargantuan edifices build by sweat and blood?

Some food for thought: the tour guide mentioned that monks (they're required to serve as monks for a certain period of time, all their men) enjoy watching sports, but arent allowed to watch ladies' gymnasticcs. too sexy. but if a monk's entire aim is to achieve the state where no earthly desires can bother him, what does it matter how sexy a woman is? why worry about temptation is you are beyond it?

On to the entertainments of the night.

Remember watching the dances of the previous night (of course you dont)?

On stage, all we see is a well prepared tale, narrated beautifully in a cultured voice, with all necessary characters and settings in place, rehearsed to run on time like a well wound clock.

This night, however, i watched not the dances, but was drawn into them; feeling the gentle rocking of a traditional barge, dancers twirling their fingers in the midst of the guests, simply adds on to the heady feeling that i'd felt as though i'd stepped a little bit back into time when royals enjoyed such entertainments. was it a little rush of excitement at watching hanuman chase after sita? while on stage, i felt a sort of detachment, as an audience watching a play, but to have hanuman prance before me, waving his, pardon me, ugly head about...

I watched those dancers slip into their costumes in a corner of the barge, simply because the barge was small and there was nowhere else for them to do so. an ordinary man and woman quickly throw on and tie different lengths of cloth, pin on trinkets, put on a mask. and behold, no longer mortal they be, but mythical princess and mighty deva.

How easy it is to switch personas. you simply step out of one into another, discarding each layer so easily. Such is the way of the stage.

But we do that in our lives, all the time, don't we?

Small wonder that we cry and laugh over what we see on stages and screens... do we recognize ourselves in art, even as it imitates life?

Or is it instead as Wilde would have it, the idea of life imitating art?