Sunday, August 30, 2009

Babatunde

Time to dump my handphone's Notes folder here.

'Matteo de longis' - artist whose stuff is ossome. Noted down the name when jc and I were at Bishan Library, so I wouldn't forget.

'Slimming cream is dangerous. This is strike two.' - sometime in... July(?), I accidentally dropped a can of slimming cream that was on top of a tall cupboard in my pursuit of a new tube o' toofpaste. The can cracked, and some of the orange cream landed on my forearm.
An hour or so later, in the mrt, I noticed that my forearm really hurt. Apparently a blueblack had formed without me noticing. The pain got worse. Foul substance!
Why strike two? Well. Somebody I know applied the stuff direcrtly on their stomach once, didn't understand how it worked. Didn't know it would sting so very, very badly.
Foul substance.

'Is 'generating phlegm like sneezing in your mouth?' - Random qn-in-head. Whilst walking across the parking lot on the way to the overhead bridge.

'Metal chair with extremely sharp spikes for legs. Every time you sat on it it would sink further into the floor/ground/earth, becoming one with that spot 'forever'.' - While walking up the hill late at night.

'Sensors to measure the weariness of people. Judged on weight of articles carried, age, muscle mass, etc. For usage in mrt cars as indicator of seat priorities.' - Outram mrt. I suspect this is the result of my brain being whiny about my everheavy bag.

'Jobscentral.com.sg/careerfair' - For memory.

'Get hit. Let go.' - No remember why. Maybe this was after parent-teacher meeting. Or something.

'An expert is someone who was once pert.' - Yesterday, on the way to the bank. Wordplay is win!

In exactly a month, I will have 2 stages left before I complete Level 2.

Back to paper?
Back to paper?
Back to paper?


-Zan

Friday, August 14, 2009

Initiative.

The judo master made his way home. It had been a long, depressing day at the dojo. The new batch of students seldom fell without whining, and he never fared well with this.
He made his way to the train station. In a moment, the next train arrived.
The master stepped in. Sat. The train moved on to the next stop.
A drunk old man stumbled in, shouting and cursing at the ceiling, the floor and all things inbetween.

The master stared.

The drunk staggered over to the young woman, whose face was buried within her novel. He slapped it from her hands and stepped on its crisp, white pages.

The master stared still. 'If he did that to me, I'd make a mess out of him.' he thought.

The drunk, quite finished with the poor woman, set his sights on the elderly man beside her. He shoved, cursed at and even slapped the man, who in frightened stupor immediately left the train at the next stop.

'If he even thinks about laying a finger on me, he's a dead man.' muttered the master as he watched from the opposite bench. He clutched his bag tight with rage at the drunk's dearth of respect.

The drunkard swaggered over to the boy beside the master. A torrent of obscenities, certainly unfit for the ears of such a youth, poured from the drunkard's purple, enraged face. The boy burst into tears, and he ran off as well.

The master couldn't wait for his turn with the drunkard. He'd finally get back at him for the havoc and disrespect he had dealt to those around him. The master's eyes glared in furious anticipation. Only he was left.

The drunk man turned his head to the master. They exchanged stares. The drunkard gave a grunt and as he moved his foot forward, the master's hands freed themselves of his baggage. 'Go ahead. Do something.' he thought. 'I'm ready.'



The drunkard walked out of the train.

The master, dumbfounded, looked around him.



-Zan

Sunday, August 02, 2009

Join Me In The Spiral

The Gods of Nostalgia beam their smiles down on me this morning. Their power is great and overbearing, and despite all things the hidden presence makes it all better.
Despite the plugged ears. Despite the nocturnal mosquitoes. Despite the dry eyes and wet night shirts. Despite this past week's sickness and the medicine, the early nights and my tinkly phone alarm. Despite the CLB file. Despite having Vic hear me swear on video and give me miniature hell for it. Despite my double fast-food nights. Despite the drawing blocks. Despite stepping on this clotheshanger. Despite the sore throat, the phegmy yellow blobs and my public hoaaaaaarrgghggghking. Despite the smses. Despite mrt people. Despite the bad punctuation of this post, even. Despite it all...



I feels fantarstick!

Moreso than you, maybe.

Hidden nostalgic frequencies are a force sublime.




-Zan