You see naught but flesh
in the wrought schemes that stitch every dance,
in patterns of rising- the ritual of our days,
our lives bedecked with precious import
as if we stand unbolstered before tables feast-heavy,
and tapestries burdened with simple deeds are all that call us and all that we call upon,
as would flesh blood-swollen by something other than need.
But my vision is not so privileged and what I see
are the bones in ghostly motion,
the bones who are the slaves
and they weave the solid world underfoot
with every stride you take.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
You see naught but flesh
Thursday, March 29, 2007
"Having an intellectual conversation, a philosophical debate or just a serious discussion with someone else can be just as gratifying as sex, a brain fuck if you will.", an acquaintance once commented to me. An interesting term, curious in all it's conflicting imagery (We never link the brain, the seat of logic, and a mass of grey, seriously unsexy stuff with sex and the more visually stimulating members which encourage it), yet ironically apt.
True enough the gratification we get from indulging in such discourses or appreciating the beauty of artfully crafted prose is different from the spontaneous physical pleasure derived from sex but they still boil down to the same thing really. That sense of satisfaction and the warm fuzzy feeling we often attribute to happiness or just having a little too much to drink. I must confess I was slightly startled when I first heard the term, as first the word 'Fuck' conveys a certain degree of forcefulness and second, let's face it, apart from being a serious turn off, a brain is hardly fuckable. A mental image of a virile Adonis pounding away furiously at a mass of battered grey goo did little to help.
But after some brief reflection, one is able to appreciate the quirky logic behind the phrase. Being afflicted with the kind of useless inquisitiveness that drives me mad over wholly irrelevant stuff like this while not caring two hoots about why a contract is void, I stopped to ponder over how discourses could be brain fucks.
Does the conversation itself entail a multiple series of brain fucks? With each comment made and returned reply a different brainfuck made by the parties in the conversation? With the person currently speaking at that moment, metaphorically fucking? A mutual fuckfest. It seemed plausible, for a while.
But then again, it didn't ring entirely true. Do we derive that sense of gratification from every reply to the comments we make during the course of the conversation? Hardly so. I cannot imagine how a person can be remotely gratified by a negative reply to a query as to whether his counterpart had read Yeats before. Just as one would not liken the individual instances of foreplay, the prelude to consummation, to intercourse itself, one should metaphorise the entire conversation as A brain fuck in itself, with the intermittent spurts of satisfaction we feel during the course of the conversation simply a buildup towards the grand finale. For it is normally when the conversation is ending or has finally ended, that this gratification and satisfaction is most keenly felt, is it not? As is the case for sex.
Which brings us to the interesting question of what is there to stop us from adopting other organs in place of the brain to describe different sensory experiences? (I.E. eye fuck (Visual stimuli), ear fuck (aural stimuli)) Logically speaking, none. However the thought of something smashing against one's eardrums or eyeballs sounds horribly gruesome and painful. Ironically, it might better fit the terms of ear and eye sores respectively.
So it is highly unlikely we'll hear such terms anytime soon. (Though you will note, I left out the mouth, men just have this burning desire to stick their manhood into any orifice which looks remotely big enough to accommodate it.) The total lack of need for safe sex while indulging in a brain fuck is another boon. No one ever contacted STDs or died from discussing metaphysics. The same can hardly be said for the trash that is called music today.
I make no apologies for this 'positively' pornographic entry. Once again, if you're offended, you really shouldn't be online, let alone reading this. Gibbering and hooting across a lush green canopy somewhere in Kalimantan should suit you primates fine.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
We argue about the most ridiculous things, petty little things like where to go for dinner, watching TV the whole day when Mr X said he had a lot of garbage/work to clear up the night before, unfathomable reluctance to see a doctor when ill, etc. Then we end up laughing about the stupidity of it all and making veiled 'threats' of punishments to be meted out. There is something about Instant Messaging over MSN, some element of callousness coupled with the very nature of its instantaneous exchange that allows one to fire off messages that can both annoy or frustrate. Even the lack of a perceived timely response to one's query can awaken those first twangs of annoyance, (ie: "Oi, it's been 5 mins since I asked you XXX and you still haven't responded, surfing porn ah?" "No lah, checking email." "......").
Last night was no exception, after sending me two screenshots of the bus and hotel booking dates/time for confirmation, stuff I thought we'd confirmed a week before (but it's alright you know, cause better to confirm since Sean doesn't trust his memory), I thought we could simply start chit chatting. Then he sent me a third screenshot.
Me: What's this for?
Him : Seating plan for the bus.
Me: Aiyo, can't you decide for that? You don't have to ask me for this kind of stuff. (* a trifle annoyed*)
Him: Well they're all three seats in a row. Hurry up and look at it, there's a time limit.
Me: It's two seats, aisle and a single seat. Not three seats in a row. I don't need to decide on everything do I?
Him: I've never sat on this bus before. Where do you want to seat?
Me: Fine, sit right at the back.
Him: Don't want.
Me: That's where I sat the last two times for both trips.
Him: Oh, ok do you want to seat there then?
Me: No. Take the two seats two rows from the back. Make it three.
Him: What seat numbers?? Why don't you just look at it???
Me : 7B 7C
Him: You sure 7? Not 8?
Me: No. (@#@$#%$@^$^$#^#$!)
Me: 7 means 7.
Him: But that's four rows from the back.
Me: Look you asked me to choose the seats right? 7B and 7C. Not 8. 7.
So by this time I was more than a trifle annoyed and I logged off to tinker with msconfig for no apparent reason. 10 mins later I logged back on, that familial aftermath setting in.
Him: Where did you go?
Me: Went off to do something. (ie: really nothing at all)
Him: Ok I booked it.
Me: Any more screenshots of stuff you want to confirm you'd like to send?
Me: Arg. It's so frustrating sometimes, I wish I could just reach across and slap you. Then hug you.
Him: Right, I want to throttle you and make love to you.
Me: Ha ha, we feel the same way again I see. You'll be seeing me tomorrow.
Him: Yah, can't wait.
It's true, they say the little things play an understated but important role in a relationship and shouldn't be neglected. But don't let it detract your focus on what really matters, the two of you. Besides a little zest spices things up, just a little mind you. And in the end, what is life if you cannot love?
N/B: The only reason why I wrote about this is cuz the Boyfriend was very insistent.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Alright before my lesbian friends kill me, let me say that this tongue-in-cheek comic strip shouldn't be viewed as painting lesbians as being superficial or money-grabbers, etc. Not at all. Rather it's a cheeky look at an aspect of human nature that afflicts everyone regardless of sexual orientation: the willingness and ability to sacrifice certain 'Treasured' principles/'ideals' in exchange for some perceived pragmatic benefit, of which money is undoubtedly a major factor.
That said, the comic artist chose 'lesbians' as the subject of his/her strip though I'd really consider them to be opportunistic Bi-sexual girls. This chameleonic ability to change or rather sleep with members of either sex the unique purview of bisexuals (the ability not that they all do). I can't imagine sleeping with a rich, gorgeous (in the typical hetero sense) sugar mummy for the life of me, unless sleeping literally means just sleeping. Whatever.
I took this strip from my younger cousin's blog. She's a precocious, wild one albeit turning out to be a lively, cute girl who keeps asking me for phone numbers of cute male schoolmates during the annual Chinese New Year lunch. But she could be Bi for all I know, I won't be surprised. And it seems like not too long ago that my cousin and I were chasing her round that old, dirty circular fountain in front of Toa Payoh Library. Time flies.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Everytime I go with the Family to one of those Chinese restaurants for dinner, I inevitably end up having to finish most of what's left on the table. This is in large part due to the Sister's penchant for variety, which means as many dishes as she thinks is nice, with the emphasis on variety and 'reasonably priced specialities' (which is really a non sequitur), all portions 'small please.' But as we know a lot of 'smalls' add up to a copious amount of food when the volume is combined. That coupled with their total inability to eat decent amounts of said dishes (a few mouthfuls is NOT considered eating your share IMO-my dad tries but he's getting old) means I end up with food piled on my plate, at times unceremoniously dumped by the Sister who goes ,"Nah, It's very nice, finish it. I'm too full." Much like how I used to feed my grandma's dog, Beckie, years ago, tossing bits of chicken under the table till she screamed. Only I never want whatever it is the Sister dumps on my plate or looked at her like how Beckie used to stare at me, imploringly.
A la carte Chinese buffets are the worst and dinners I absolutely dread, because the dishes all come at one shot fast and furious. By the second round, because the mad woman usually orders halfway during the first round, everyone is absolutely stuffed and the sight of yet another plate of kungbo prawns or whatever special handmade stuffed tofu dish is enough to induce violent growls of protest from a churning gut. Buffets are terrible affairs when not dining with like-minded partners with a similar capacity for food.
Anyway, thankfully tonight wasn't a 'buffet' dinner, just your usual a la carte, which isn't a whole lot better. I've come to this sad realisation that we always order a lot more than what your average four person family is expected to order. From not so subtle hints like "Oh, still want XXX dish too?" and that faint expression of shock before rapidly smoothed over impassiveness takes over to downright blatant ones like "Wow, I wouldn't have thought that you could finish all that." Yeah, might as well give us signboards with the word Glutton emblazoned in bold font.
So this waitress at Sichuan Dou Hua restaurant was certainly one of the more discreet and well-trained ones, freezing just a tad as if to wrap up the orders and repeat them back at the eighth dish but recovering admirably when the Sister rattled on, only stopping at the eleventh. Excess / leftover after a few mouthfuls food as usual ended up on my plate. Thankfully, the food was good and the portions manageable. Plus they didn't come all in one shot which would have resulted in the inevitable minor gastronomical discomfort. It's just that I missed my Saturday night run for the second week in a row and I always feel fat after coming back from a Chinese dinner, all that oil... Just means I'll have to jog longer tomorrow, after I'm done with that infernal 800 word Regulating the Corporation piece of shit report.
I finished X/1999 last night or rather early this morning around 4 am. I know, I told myself just one more episode before I go read one article and head off to bed. Ended up watching all remaining eight episodes out of this 25 part series. You know how it is the last few episodes get so damn exciting, especially when people start dropping left,right,center like flies. Last couple of peeps who died were really sad, I cried when S***** died. I'll just put it down to the late night staying up late bit. But really, even though I saw it coming 15 episodes ago, they still had to go kill the funniest, most likeable and arguably the cutest guy in the series. Screaming, weeping girls don't cut it like the demise of a cute and likeable chap. Still the series is really good, not least for the fighting of which there is plenty, angst and sacrifice that is balanced somewhat with comedy and drama. Go watch it. If you want it, you can always go bug CS. I'll be transferring it to him next Wed along with Tokyo Babylon, the side story about the Sumeragi family.
Currently grabbing D Gray-man off one of the direct download hosts on Aarin Fantasy, promises to be a great series. That, along with Bleach and a couple of other unwatched series, Yami no Matsuei and Gravitation promise to be more than enough to fill up the May holidays void, I hope. Did I mention how much I love the tag team combo of Direct Download Hosts and Internet Download Manager? 15 simultaneous connections at speeds of 200kb/s and above make for happy days and a 5 hour complete download of the 24 currently subbed episodes of D Gray-man. Let's not even start about the yaoi/ manga bit. Lol.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Alright, this is going to be another why-are-older-sisters-so-bloody-annoying-drop-dead-now bitch fest. Well, mostly. So if you happen to be an older sister, I hope to dear god(*insert favourite deity's name*) that you're a nice sister to your younger sibling(s), ie: don't be a nag, hypocrite, ratter or just find any possible means of getting on their nerves. Don't be some unholy terror lest they be cursing the daylights out of you somewhere on the wonderful world of cyberspace like yours truly is about to do. No offence is intended though if you happen to be an elder sister AND a real bitch to your younger sibling(s), all offence intended.
On a side note, I discovered the Older Sister's Blog sometime ago (she's really LOUSY at covering her tracks), so absolutely saccharine sweet, peppered with liberal doses of 'Hallelujah!", "Praise Jesus Christ.", "In him I'm a stronger woman and stuff like that." and other PC(politically correct) garbage like NO swearing on this blog, only good clean fun. Just short of "This is a holy sanctuary in cyberspace where good things and praises abound." Which really bored me after a couple of superficial, candy flossed entries. Don't get me wrong, Jesus Christ is a good man, just not my thing and having to listen to hellfire and brimstone sermons every sunday is more than enough without the need to subject myself to it in cyberspace. Not to mention this very spiritual woman can be a veritable demon at times. How demonic? Take her thongs.
And yes I mean Thongs, g-strings and other lacy bits that really look no sturdier than a curtain sash with translucency that leaves nothing at all to the imagination. You must be thinking what a sick young bro I am rummaging through his sister's Lingerie drawer. Sister complex? Far from it, her thongs are the LAST thing I ever want to see. But it's really hard to not see or avoid it when she washes them and leaves them hanging on the shower rail in a wet, drippy line of lace and chiffon and god knows what else goes into lacy thongs and translucent(really transparent) flowery bras. Which means I have to push them back every time I want to take a shower and risk the inevitable splatter of droplets from the washed (?) thongs cum lingerie.
And let's not even talk about the odour from stale, not properly aired (let alone sunned) lingerie. Because as most of you know, toilets are really bad places for drying stuff. Shower areas tend to be wet and unlike hotels which come (relatively) nicely ventilated, toilets usually consist of a small window and a very small amount of sunlight. So you can picture the sight and smell I have to face every other day. Dripping thongs and other apparel all strung out in a line with the lingering faint but discernable miasma of salted fish. Which really stinks in case you have no idea how salted fish smells like -- think smelly sneakers. A scene fresh out of a Calcutta slum. To make matters worse, her royal stinkness usually flies into a rage when she discovers her 'neatly positioned' smelly load of wet thongs is out of alignment or 'too closely bunched together' as she calls it after I come out from the shower.
"When you bathe, go put them back properly and space it out, otherwise it can't dry!"
"I do, but you should hang it downstairs and not in the bathroom where it can dry properly."
"I wash my clothes in the toilet! Just hang it back properly!"
With a logic as unswervingly idiotic and one tracked as that, how can the Light of Reason ever hope to prevail in that Fog of Stupidity? Really but the last straw is as usual her double standardness. So I wear thongs sometimes too, not because I enjoy it but cuz sometimes it helps put one in the mood, and it makes the Boyfriend really happy. Naturally, thongs have to be washed so I dump mine in my laundry basket. And the Older Sister spots it sometimes and launches into an automatic sermon replete with disapproving frown.
"You actually wear something like this ?" *Accusing finger and crinkled nose.*
"... Ya why."
"That's so GAY!!! Only HOMOS would wear something like that." Contempt in her voice, face twisting in disgust like a dog just went on her lap. Which I fervently hope happens to her one day. If a dog will ever bear to be picked up by her in the first place that is.
"..." So I AM gay. Of course I can't tell the family that, they and that crazy church will try to exorcise me till I see the 'error of my ways'. I'm so used to their bigotry now it doesn't matter, and boy you'll be surprised at some of the wacko ideas they hold. But at least, woman. I wash my thongs in a WASHING MACHINE and hang them out to dry DOWNSTAIRS and not in some stinky drippy line in the TOILET where I have to SHOWER.
But of course the rationality of that statement eludes one like her. And I wonder why she wears them in the first place, to feel sexy? For whom? She doesn't even have a boyfriend. I wish to all the gods that she had, so she'd spend less time at home = less stinky thongs and less nagging. Get married to some poor sod! Even better though like my cousin Jon agreed, ya hard to see a guy wanting someone like her. Stupid woman.
Speaking about thongs, we all know they tend to be a little uncomfortable, unless you really like having something wedged between your ass. And such people I guess are few and far between. Contrary to popular belief, gays do not all wear thongs or wear it on a regular basis for that matter. Liking the feeling of having a dick up your ass is very different from enduring a mini wedgie between your ass cheeks. And not to mention that having a dick up your ass is not something you'll like for hours on stretch. Plus if you have the misfortune of having the thong/ g-string twist into some variation due to normal movement/ going to the loo, etc it usually means sizable pain and discomfort that requires an ASAP movement to the nearest loo/restroom to rectify the errant thong.
So naturally taking it off, be it by your lover or yourself (preferably the former of course), comes as a pleasurable relief. So much so that I usually, when over at his place, prefer to borrow one of his briefs and return in that instead of the thong. Granted, the thong might not be very wearable by the end of it but then again even if it is I prefer not to. And erm a bad habit of mine is that I usually tend to shove it in my pocket, especially if I'm not carrying a bag. Which ladies and Gentlemen is a big mistake. Never put your thongs in places which are easily forgotten and have the potential to embarrass.
So it was last Saturday, that I drove out with dad for lunch at the AMK ave 4 market, the Mother staying at home to mark her 'never ending pile' of books and the Sister doing god knows what. I just put on my berms that I had worn to the Boyfriend's place on Friday as my dad was objecting to how my fire-red NJC PE shorts looked so short as to be obscene. Berms that I had shoved a thong into and clean forgotten about. I thought the bulge in the side pocket was a packet of tissue.
So when the drinks lady came with our Teh Si Peng Sui Dai (iced tea with evaporated milk and no sugar) and his standard drug Kopi, I dug into the pocket I had shoved the change from the ten bucks I'd gotten from ordering mixed rice to pay the lady. And a camo printed netted G-string fell out and landed right plop at the lady's feet. She noticed straight away cause her eyes widened in surprise and she frowned really hard and for a moment I was mortified, staring at that grey-black-white patched G-string lying beside the Auntie's slippers before I promptly recovered snatching it up and hastily shoving it back into the other pocket, my ears burning. And I hastily paid her while she looked knowingly at me and walked off.
Thankfully, my blind-bat dad didn't notice a thing. Except that something fell. Just not a Thong.
"Eh, what did you drop? Your tissue again is it?"
"Always tell you not to keep your dirty tissue in your pockets. You never listen."
And he continued eating his wanton mee. Thankfully, neither of the Twin Terrors were present, with their eagle eyes and bigoted acid tongues, I'd never hear the end of it.
So Boys and Girls, if you must wear thongs, remember don't be an idiot like me and shove your thongs into places where they'll be most likely to pop up and embarass you at a time you least expect it. And I pray you never ever have to face the ignominy of enduring stinky, drippy thongs in your bathroom by idiotic family members. If you are such a family member, I hope the rot sets in you-know-where. Retribution for all that odorous pain and damp you inflict on the hapless innocent.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Edward Parks, junior reporter of X magazine sat in a corner of a nondescript cafe along Toltsky lane just 2 blocks away from the famous Red Square. Sipping from a steaming cup of coffee, Edward shot a quick glance at his watch and resisted the urge to fiddle with the tape recorder, positioned discreetly beside the serviette. After months of corresponding through different email accounts and countless calls on public payphones, he, Edward, was finally going to meet Greta Sharpovich,estranged wife of powerful oligarch and crime kingpin, Nicolas Raczeky. Greta had incriminating evidence about Nicolas's connections and just how many politicians and government officials were under his payroll. News which would shake the entire Russian establishment to its core and be one helluva scoop that would guarantee his promotion should he pull it off.
"Mr Parks?" Edward was startled out of his reverie by a gentle tap on his shoulder and a parka clad woman donning a pair of Gucci sunglasses, her burnette hair partially hidden under a cream coloured shawl, Prada bag tucked under arm. "I'm Greta", the woman replied before Edward could answer; sliding into the opposite seat and motioning to the waiter for coffee. Greta removed her glasses, revealing a pair of hazel eyes, cold and piercing, which she used to examine the reporter briskly before bursting out in mirthless laughter.
"You're disappointed. I'm not dressed like a woman with a devastating secret, not like one of your femme fatales in your spy thrillers. You expected me to be in black, collar upturned, with a felt fedora hat and leather gloves complete with sunglasses? I'm afraid you've to be satisfied with these." She declared, waving in the direction of the sunglasses.
Her english was impeccable, the enunciation perfect save for a slight spanish accent. Edward coughed apologetically, feeling foolish for his initial reaction and even more so that the interviewee had read him so well. A reversal of roles did not bode well. "I was intrigued," she went on. "To see the kind of man who would want an interview with me. It takes a very brave man to make enemies with Nicolas Raczeky. Or a stupid one." Another clinical smile. "But you are supposed to be interviewing me, please start."
Greta wrapped her hands around the steaming cup."So why didn't you go to the police or the main magazines or newspapers?" Sighing, she replied "Nicolas is a very powerful man, nearly half the police force is under him, the rest can simply be bought off with money, the same goes for the newspapers and magazines, he has people in them. So you were the perfect choice. Of course I had to make sure you weren't one of his lackeys."
"Your husband suspects you?" "He doesn't suspect, he knows but he doesn't know how."
Flicking open her handbag, Greta fished out a cigarette which she lit deftly before drawing on it long and hard.
"So how did you get that evidence?" "I can't go into that yet.. Let's just say he got careless and I have my resources too." She exhaled into Edward's face who resisted the urge to reach over and stub out the offending irritant. "But surely he'll try to stop you?" he queried. "You mean kill me? He would have, a long time ago if I had not warned him that the evidence would be released simultaneously to contacts worldwide if I was uncontactable for 24 hours." "But you haven't such a plan in place right?"
Greta exhaled and stared hard at Edward. "Alright you're shrewder than I gave you credit for. Yes I have no such plan in place. Otherwise I wouldn't be here, would I?" " So why bet your life on the hope that Nicolas believes it?" "I do Not hope!" she snarled, distaste evident on her face. "It is a calculated risk. I started betting my life a long time ago, marrying Nicolas was a bet, exciting and fun but dangerous." She took a sip, flicking the ashes into a grimy ashtray.
"But recently he has become desperate and impatient. He sent his toyboy Boris to kill me last friday."
"Er, what happened?"
"I killed him."
"Your bodyguards killed him?"
Greta gave an exasperated wave of her hand. "I understand English. I killed him. I have no bodyguards." "But how?" " With a gun. Boris came after dinner, he was so painfully obvious. I may be 40 but I have not lost all my beauty or charms. And Boris was only too happy to fulfil a dying woman's request, to have a tete a tete in the bedroom and die happy. Nicolas had good taste. I was almost sorry. Almost."
Pausing to fish another cigarette from her bag, which was promptly lit, Greta continued, "Then as he was ejaculating, I shot him. It was what you westerners would call a mind blowing climax, yes? I'm sure he died happy."
Edward could scarely believe his ears, this woman in front of him was talking about how she killed a hit man as nonchalantly as if she was discussing her latest manicure. And it didn't help that she was a pretty woman, with a high fashion face as New Yorkers would say, high cheek bones, nicely arched nose and eyebrows, manicured nails, she would have fit right in at West End with ease.
Sensing his discomfort, she held him with that piercing stare and said firmly. "In Russia, to show any weakness is to invite certain death." "So your husband is a homosexual?" Edward fumbled, eager to break away from that unflinching gaze. "No, he's bisexual. He has a mistress, Marianne, a Ukrainean whore, but he enjoys his bonding sessions with Boris. Boris is straight but in Russia money buys anything, especially if your boss is the one paying."
"Did you have any children with Nicolas?" For a moment, the mask slipped and Edward saw her hand tremble, the pain in her eyes before they hardened once again, the mask back in place. "I had a son, Joshka, the light of my life, he was everything his father wasn't: shy, quiet, contemplative with a deep seated sense of right and wrong. Nicolas hated him, he called him a wimp, a bastard, a useless oaf. We fought so hard over him." Pause. A slight tremor entering her voice, Greta continued. "Then when he was 13, Joshka committed suicide because he could not live, knowing he had a murderer and thug as a father, his suicide note said. Nicolas refused to acknowledge his own son and didn't want to bury him. I had to bury him secretly in a church courtyard in St Petersburg. And on that very day I resolved to bring Nicolas down. Nicolas the bastard."
Greta uttered the last sentence with such venom and contempt, Edward half expected her to spit in disgust. Which she didn't of course, Greta was much too cultured for that. Edward couldn't help noticing the way she sat, gracefully poised yet possessing a sense of expectancy, her hand slightly curved, the cigarette wedged between two slender fingers, her immaculate carmine nails gleaming dangerously. Her sultry voice only served to reinforce the image. All in all, a feline creature ready to strike, confident of her sensuality and deliciously dangerous, like some exotic predator.
Greta caught him looking and smiled, "Do my nails fascinate you?" "No it's just that I can't help but picture you as some exotic wild cat, beautiful but deadly, killing the men who fall under your spell with those graceful claws." Edward shook his head. "I'm sorry, let's get back to the interview." Edward regretted the words as soon as he had uttered them. What was wrong with him? He had just managed to commit all the faux pas of journalism in the first fifteen minutes of the interview.
Greta threw her head back and laughed out loud. It was rich and throaty, altogether not unpleasant. When she looked at him again, Edward could see a twinkle in her previously impassive eyes and knew that she was genuinely amused. "You are a funny man, Mr Parks. I had thought you would be a dry old stick like the other journalists I had met before. But no you're not. I, Greta, clawing men to death with my nails?" she chuckled.
"It was just an analogy," Edward replied a little sullenly. God. Stop behaving like this!, he thought furiously. "Ah yes an An-a-lo-gy." Greta rolled the word around in her mouth as if it was an exquisite delicacy. Leaning over and patting his hand gently like a doting aunt comforting a miffed toddler, she continued. "In Russia, guns are a woman's best friends. Behind money of course. They are de rigueur, I never leave home without them." "So you have one on you now? Wait, how many do you have?" "Two, and yes I carry them both. The .7 Beretta in my bag and the .45 Colt on me." She didn't offer to show them and he made no move to ask to see them but Edward was absolutely certain that she wasn't lying.
They carried on with the conversation which soon moved on to the evidence Greta had obtained, evidence which when released would have repercussions throughout the entire world. Edward's eyes grew larger as Greta went on, reciting a litany of the different politburo members under Nicolas Raczeky's payroll, ticking her fingers as she did so. Nicolas's reach was pervasive and he had many influential people under his control. Generals, police officers, secret service officials, politicians, businessmen, criminal gangs, there was practically no aspect of russian society not under his influence. But fissures had started appearing in his criminal empire, one which had corrupted itself such that one filibuster was all that was needed to send it and Nicolas, the man behind it crashing.
Greta stopped in midsentence and frowned. "There's something wrong." "What? What is?" "That car in front of the cafe has been there for forty-five mins and the driver looks familiar." Edward craned forward to catch a glimpse of a black Fiat, the windows opaque except for the driver seat's window which was rolled down to reveal a man and his passenger nibbling on some pastry."
"How could you tell? Your back is facing them." Without a word, Greta pointed to the two blue tinted glasses of ice water on the table. "Perhaps they're just waiting for a friend?" Edward hazarded, wincing at how feeble it sounded."You do NOT wait forty five mins for a friend outside a cafe on a Monday afternoon," Greta snapped. "Continue talking." She commanded as she whipped out her powder compact and pretended to powder her nose.
Before Edward could continue, Greta stiffened visibly and cursed softly in spanish. Escoria despreciable! "That dog has sent his minions, I recognise them. We must leave Now. We must exit through the back. There is a demonstration going on now, we'll lose them there." Seized by the fierce urgency in Greta's voice, Edward grabbed his tape recorder, leaving a fifty rouble note on the table before hurrying after Greta. He fancied hearing the screech of tyres as the screen door slammed behind them.
Almost instantly, they were caught up in a crowd chanting slogans and waving banners which appeared to Edward given his rudimentary command of Russian to be some protest against the recent steep rises in prices of oil. "Whatever you do, don't look back!" Greta hissed as they ploughed through the crowd. "You must leave Russia immediately. Your life is in peril now that they have spotted you with me. I'm sorry but you knew what you were getting yourself into. Do you have your passport and airticket with you?"
"Yes, but my suitcase..." Edward's head spun, this was like some sort of surreal nightmare, a situation one always read about in Jeffrey Archer or Tom Clancy thrillers. Never did he expect to find himself in one.
"Forget it! They probably know where you're staying and will be waiting for you there. Just ahead is the tram stop, the tram should be here in 3 mins and it'll take you straight to the airport." Edward felt a piece of paper being stuffed into his hand. "When you reach America, call the number on that paper and ask for Sevrige. If you do not get me, fly to Zurich immediately. Go to the Swiss Nationale Banque and dial the last four digits of that number and ask for Anna Sevrige. Hamilton will give you the safe deposit box with the instructions on locating the evidence inside. This is important, can you remember?"
Edward nodded. "Oh your tram is coming, you must hurry. I'm sorry our meeting had to end this way my funny American reporter. I do hope we'll meet again, Mr Parks." Pulling her shawl up over her head, Greta paused momentarily. "Oh and welcome to Moscow. Take care." Greta leaned forward, lips gently caressing his cheek before she melded back into the crowd, her cream shawl soon consumed by the teeming mass of humanity, leaving behind only a lingering fragrance of Chanel N*5.
Edward sat staring out of the window, occasionally touching the spot on his cheek wistfully. She was a likeable woman but eight million dollars was a lot of money. More than he would probably ever earn in his entire life. Hands trembling, Edward dialled the number given together with the mobile phone.
"Raczeky." The gruff voice hit him like a searing brand. Edward yelped and flung the phone so violently out of the window, it hit the ground with an audible crack as it split into two, startling a group of pigeons into flight and the plump old woman beside him who mumbled under her breath and clutched her groceries more tightly.
He would not sell his soul to the devil. Not even for eight million bucks and the least he could do was to help her expose Nicolas, for tough cookie as she was, Greta was vulnerable and time was running out for her. It was as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Yes. He nodded, strengthened by his newfound conviction, possible headlines already being entertained and rejected, as the tram trundled on steadily towards its final destination.
NB: Written a little over 2 years ago on the now defunct diary-x on one of those boring nights. I rediscovered this again recently on the old desktop. It remains one of my personal favourites.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Three months ago, an Interest was jump started again. Just in time to replace the waning, destructive hold that WoW had so absolutely commanded for 1 1/2 years. Now, 8+ GB of Yaoi scanlations: an estimated 160+ titles including some excellent series like Kusatta and Haru wo Daiteita but excluding the 36 hardcopy books I actually bought, 40+ GB of anime(both Yaoi and non) and 28 translated chapters later, the obsession has firmly set in.
Scanlators, forums and yaoi-sharing communities feed this obsession and literally gives more than you can consume. ^^ I haven't read at least half of my scanlations and probably an equal proportion of books. But everytime I see a nice one out I can't help but download/buy it- the former much more than the latter naturally. Somehow I have a feeling this Interest will last for a long long while, the reading / watching part at least. Certainly not as consuming and demanding as WoW. Whether it'll last for 10-20+ years though, remains to be seen. The mental image of a middle-aged man reading yaoi is a little disconcerting. Ha ha but that's probably just the bigoted I-can't-imagine-myself-doing-this-at-45 ageist side of me speaking.
Though come to think of it, most of the gay/aj friends that I know don't read Yaoi or dislike it. What's weird I guess, is that I like it despite the fact that the Yaoi or Boy Love world is often very and extremely different from real male-male relationships. In RL, there are no happily ever afters, no bishies(bishonen) dropping out of the blue like flies, Love isn't some self-sustaining, overcoming all obstacles magical solution but rather something precious yet fragile that requires constant effort and committment to nuture and develop. Forced sexual encounters hardly ever result in love, you cannot do 'IT' 4 or 5 times a day, not if you want to walk and angst is NOT sweet sorrow, angst sucks; the list goes on. But Yaoi does remain a very pleasurable fantasy nonetheless inspite of its many fictions.
There are a few gems of truth though: certain reactions remain universal, love is beautiful and guys are horny. Yaoi remains a favourite vice. So for now, gimme my smut, smex, bishies, hot Semes and boyish Ukes replete with outrageous sex and comical dialogues. Gimme my Yaoi!
A new Era is in full swing.
Friday, March 16, 2007
I’m in such a holiday mood now and I have no idea why. I mean everyday’s like a holiday, has been since like what 2004? I’ve finished 3 very poorly done assignments and as anticipated with each passing assignment, I run out of drive/motivation to do a decent job for the next. Such that the 1500 word insurance assignment was really a 6 hour haphazardly cobbled together collection of words with various cases mentioned liberally to create that illusion of having done some research which of course I haven’t. Ah well, enough rambling.
I’ve joined the staff of another scanlation group, BLiss, full time. That doesn’t mean I’ll be abandoning Obsession however, I’ll continue translating projects for them. So what this does mean is that I’ll be translating as a full time staff for two scanlation groups which means more yaoi to translate and slightly less time to read it/watch anime/ do work. Yeah I know, most of you already think I’m off my rockers and two is I admit it a little crazy. Sean certainly thinks I'm nuts. But hey I get to brush up on my Chinese even more, with a little help from the trusty dictionary and some impromptu help from CS, Aileen and Sean online lol. That and the greater variety of projects/ yaoi you get access to and are able to choose. But those reasons are quite secondary really.
The main reason why I joined BLiss is due to the fact that they really give credit to their staff in an ostensible manner ie: staff page with profiles, main page credits, even happy birthday notices ^^ . Heh heh recognition is about the only kick one gets off doing such ‘community’ services, it’s always easier to be a ‘leecher’ ie: Just download yaoi and read em, so this is one of the very few things that keeps scanlators and their staff going. Not that obsession doesn’t give credit, they do, just not as explicit ^^. Other factors that influenced my decision to join was the high standard of their released works, a DEDICATED server for downloads (I cannot tell you how fast it works with IDM—hohoho) and they happen to have a great affinity for Fujiyama Hyouta of Dear Green fame. Yaay!
Finished Mirage of Blaze anime today, damn 13 episodes never last me more than 2 days. It was by far one of the best I’ve watched, living up to the review given in boysonboysonfilm.com of being a ‘classic’ Indeed. While the fight scenes aren’t as spectacular/gory as those in X/1999, involving a lot of mantras and incantations and not as angst/emotionally laden as Zetsuai/Bronze (which left me really depressed for one day), the story and character portrayal is excellent. Especially the unspoken emotions, angst and tension between Naoe and Takaya. Good grief, how the hell does one survive 400 years of unrequited love and not go mad? I’m surprised Naoe is even sane. That master-servant relationship coloured with love and Takaya/ Kagetora’s inability to express his love for Naoe, always holding him at arms length and taunting him.
But at the very last scene we see Naoe placing his coat around Kagetora/Takaya and confessing his love for Kagetora again. Then walking off to the car and driving off. And Kagetora turning around, the conflict/anguish and loneliness plain on his face as he stares at Naoe’s retreating back. “Naoe…” he begins but his voice trails off and he turns back to the lake as a flock of birds take to flight. Kind of makes you wonder how different it would be if he hadn’t faltered, if he had chased after Naoe and held him back. Very different I bet. But there you have it, the two extremes of the BL (boy love) universe: Either the sappy, incredibly idealistic: love conquers all we live together happily ever after without any problems or the angst ridden/ emotionally charged separation of two star crossed lovers unable to express themselves or be together for some varied reason. Where angst is literally such sweet sorrow.
An interesting concept which I had some inkling of in the past but never really knew its extent was the extent and prevalence of society sanctioned and approved love + sexual relationships between males in Japan. A concept known as Shudo which was prevalent from the 12th century to the late 19th century. Something to do with being able to appreciate the beauty of the male body and instilling all the necessary samurai ideals and way of thinking. And it was really prevalent at all levels of society especially at the aristocratic level, examples include the documented love oath between Daimyo of Kai, Takeda Shingen and his beloved retainer Kosaka Masanobu at the ‘tender?’ age of 22 and 16 respectively. Though I can only imagine how any samurai training can be imparted during a passionate tryst between two sweaty guys on a tatami mat.
“This is how you should hold your sword.”
“Never let it slip.”
“ah..ahh (Various Sound effects)”
“You will be my only sheath. Ever. *heavy panting*”
Alright alright corny, and an inevitable collateral from reading & translating too much yaoi as well. But you get my drift. Anyhow those samurai really knew how to enjoy life. Pleasure and work takes on a whole new meaning. ^^
Ah well, Rebels of the River Edge, here I come.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
It's strange, the past two hair cuts I went for at QB, which mind you can actually cut decently for 10 bucks (ie layered is really layered and not some haphazard high slope), both hairstylists seemed a little too obsessed with my hair and made the exact same remark at the end of the hair cut.
The first, a funky auntie with a spiky hair-do swept her hands through my hair a couple of times and commented your hair texture is really good you know that? Nice and soft. "Oh is it? Thanks." I mean what else do you say to that. The second a plump guy ruffled my hair and commented," Hmm your hair's really good, nice and soft. What do you do?"
"Er.. I condition it everyday?" I ventured, vaguely disturbed.
"Everyday? It's rare to find guys who condition their hair daily or who even condition at all."
"Er.. Is it? Guess so.."
Not that it really matters, they cut well, which is a lot more than I can say for some $10 quick cut saloons. A little bit of hair fetish and ruffling is nothing. Though I don't like my hair that much, much too thick and I can't ever keep it beyond neck length with long sides and fringe like those nice jap haircut looks. All hell breaks loose when I attempt to do so, hairstyling akin to taming an unruly beast and my hair a veritable unholy mess after a nap.
Besides, the only one I'd want ruffling my hair at anytime is that overworked grumpy man who has been giving one liner frustrated sighs and curses about the numerous compatability problems various programs are having with Windows Vista on his new laptop over the phone the past few nights.
"What's wrong now dear?" [me]
20 second Silence.
"Wait..#@ I'm trying to install this thing..."[Him]
"Can still talk to me while doing it what. Like I'm talking to a wall." [me]
Another 20 second silence.
"Hmmm what's going on now?" [me]
"When I play my files on XXX all I get is a white screen..."
So hopefully, we'll get most of his problems worked out later. After the important stuff of course. And if you want "Soft, nice, well textured hair" and the possibility of having your hair ruffled through by the QB hair stylists at Sengkang Festival Point, try conditioning your hair with Organics conditioner everyday. ^^
Posted by Aelgtoer >> 6:13 PM
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Under the cold Moonlight, do you see me? I am waiting, waiting for you.
Love is selfish, time is precious, what the heart yearns for. Demands for.
There is space only for you, though obligations, those slender moon rays hold you down. Pinned down, luminous shackles that glow wanly in the dark night.
Is it too selfish, too unbecoming to let the heart rule in this quiet night?
My head says what the Heart doesn't feel. I understand but I am reluctant.
Pride in the man you are scant comfort from the sallow sorrow.
You feel the same but we are shackled by circumstances not of our making, reactions constrained by the cruel dictates of Logic.
Nothing matters more than you but to mire you in the bog further is something I cannot do.
The Heart yearns, the Head lies and I will continue waiting under this pale moonlight.
Waiting for you.
Tsuki no Curse
By Reika Okina/Yuki Kajiura
|Tsuki no KAASU|
Tsumetai yume no naka de...
Kotoba no nai sekai de bokura wa ai wo kataru
Itsuka kimi ni todoku made
Kizu darake no kainade daki yoseta kuchibiru no
Haritsumeta negai tokashitakute
Nee, aishiatta kako no
Ashita motto kirei na yoru e yukeru kara
Tsuki no KAASU
Tsumetai yume no naka kara
Kimi wo tooku tsuresaritakute
Doko made yukeru
Ai wo shinjite ii basho made
Itami wo mada shiranai kodomo dake no yarikata de
Kimi wa kimi wo tozashiteru
Mimimoto de sasayaita hajimete no ai no kotoba
Massugu na hitomi madowasetai
Nee, kimi wo dakishimete
Donna batsu mo tsumi mo ima wa kowakunai
Tsuki no KAASU
Tsumetai yume kara samete
Kimi to tadayoi tsunagiatte
Ai no shijima wo te ni suru made
Nee, aishiatta kako no
Ashita motto kirei na yoru e yukeru kara
Tsuki no KAASU
Tsumetai yume no naka kara
Kimi wo tooku tsuresaritakute
Ai wo shinjite ii basho made
Ai wo shinjite ii basho made
Yoru no mukou
Hutari dake de
Curse of the moon
From within a cold dream
In a world without words we speak of love
Until that someday when I can reach you.
Embraced within these wound-covered arms, our lips
Strain with the desire to melt into each other.
See, if we should abandon the beauty
Of that love we once shared,
Tomorrow we will walk towards an even more beautiful night.
Curse of the moon
From within a cold dream
I want to take you
Somewhere far away
Until that place where we can believe in love.
Like a child who does not yet know pain,
You shut yourself away.
I want to whisper close to your ear those first words of love
That will lead your direct gaze astray.
See, I will hold you tight
If I can warm you
I shall fear neither punishment nor sin.
Curse of the moon
Awakening from a cold dream
Bonded to you
Let us drift away
Until that place where we can attain the silence of love
See, if we should abandon the beauty
Of that love we once shared,
Tomorrow we will walk towards an even more beautiful night.
Curse of the moon
From within a cold dream
I want to take you
Somewhere far away
Until that place where we can believe in love.
Somewhere far away
Until that place where we can believe in love.
Beyond the night
Only the two of us.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
After two hours, I'm really pleased with the current revamp. (Again.) The old layout was starting to look too plain and tacky, plus it's amazing how much HTML code one is forced to tweak around with just to get things appearing correctly and not in some ghastly mess or worse still, not at all. The addition, lack of a ; all that's needed to screw things up and i still find it mysterious how the common english language seems so arcane in such a setting.
But I'm learning more and getting slightly better. Boredom works wonders for picking up new things, anything except work-- which often strikes at the eleventh hour whipping one up into a frenzied rush. So I revamped this blog from top to toe, header, background, footer (Kusatta love!), everything except the text font colour and the width of the blog entry space which was sufficiently tweaked a week ago. And the gorgeous art is taken from Maiden Rose done by Fusanosuke Inariya that has just been licensed by Drama Queen which means I'll be able to get my grubby hands on it... eventually ^^.
I hate prez mate products. Right, sue me if you will but come on, a made in singapore portable 250 GB hard disk that doesn't work the very FIRST time it's used? Like come on man have some fucking standard. And tinkering around with it wasted the greater part of yesterday, then just when I was about to give up, viola, the hard disk was suddenly recognised by the laptop. And after disconnecting it, it never did again which drove me mad as I spent the other half of the day trying to figure out just what was wrong. No, it isn't the laptop's problem, the desktop doesn't recognise it either.
So I'll have to skip Law and Soci and bring it down to Sim Lim tomorrow and wait at least a week for a replacement. Great. Though I do need to go down and get Norton Internet Security and Norton systemworks for Sean too because guess what, the Kapersky Anti virus stuff that sleazy salesman loudly advocated to him can't be installed with Vista. Lol. So much for 'si beh hoh' ah, uncle. CB.
At least I have a nicely revamped blog to tinker around with and he has his laptop to play around with.
Friday, March 9, 2007
First let me say that I am very happy. Finally finished my (long-overdue) readings for the 800 word weekly ordeal which means Insurance should be begin in earnest sometime tomorrow. Much more important though, is finally getting Vol 4 of Yellow by Makoto Tateno that completes this wonderful series after waiting for 2 months. Which means I can start enjoying the series and the Mirage of Blaze anime after handing in Insurance next week.
Second, I know. Leaving your windows open late at night and the fact that one's room is the only one with lights still on at 3am in the morning is an open invitation to an assortment of bugs to fly in. Not that I'm terribly thrilled about it but it can't really be helped. Back in the days when Oscar was still around, unwanted visitors usually found themselves deposited in the tank and greeted enthusiastically by a very thrilled Oscar. They don't call them "pig fishes" for nothing. These days, I don't trust the goldfish to be able to perform the job with the same efficacy, given the size of some of the bugs. So it's usually a quick trip to the loo for them, if I manage to catch them.
These days however, for three consecutive nights in a row. The Bugs have been suicidal, as in of their own volition. I have a ceiling fan, those nice whirly overhead things that provide enough air circulation and coverage when compared to their lesser wall mounted or standing brethren though Sean seems to hate it. "Stirs up all the dust" he says, sniffling for greater effect.
"Rubbish, it's cooler. I just need to vacumn my room more." But like I was saying the Bugs have turned suicidal. Preferring for some reason to conduct kamikaze flights straight through those whirling blades of death which must be the insectile equivalent of Russian Roulette, dancing with mega turbine blades if you will.
And they inevitably end up getting hit. If not the first time then at the second or third. Cause the stupid things don't know when to stop, going at it repeatedly like it were some mega rollercoaster joy ride. Sometimes they get hit but miraculously survive and land dazed, perhaps bruised and go back for more, if they can still fly that is. If not, it's Say-hello-to-bathroom-slipper. This goes on continually until they finally get chopped into two, pronounced by a very loud metallic "THUNK!", the sound of hard impact and... silence. L' Walk's Insect Ride of Death. Which is all very fine and dandy if I can find the remains of the cleanly severed parts (like they've been dissected) AND the bug didn't land/die/disintegrate over my bed. If not..... a lot of cussing would be in order. But seriously bugs are fucking stupid.
Third, there's nothing wrong with being fat or helplessly obese. Some people can't help it, most can but don't bother to, it doesn't matter. It's their choice. Just dress in a manner that does your body justice eh. Which means no tight mini skirts or tiny belly baring blouses which show off and draw attention to all those rolls of fat and really just makes you look horrible and cringe-worthy. People feel embarassed for you.
So there was this really clueless girl today on the escalator in front of me as I was going up from Dhoby Ghaut MRT to Paradiz, dressed in a tight blouse and a mini mini frilly skirt that made her look like some shrink wrapped Kong Bah with Extra Jumbo drumsticks. She wasn't horrendously obese just XXL but the clothes really emphasised the... ampleness of layered lard. Plus a mini mini frilly skirt that exposes legs which look like monster sized drumsticks is plain disgusting. And to top it off that "Chick" (and I use it here in the loosest sense of the word) started patting her bum in broad day light on the escalator.
She might have been scratching her ass though it looked like she was patting it, so she could have been concealing it so let's give her the benefit of the doubt. The guy in front of me positively grimaced. Yeah, I was seriously grossed out too. Even my Zhi Ma Hu at the Dessert Hut wasn't as enjoyable later. So girls and guys if you Are fat (not think you look fat - check the weighing machine/BMI) please do everyone a favour and not wear such figure hugging attire in public. And don't pat your bum if you decide to look like a shrink wrapped bundle of lard, especially not in front of me when I haven't had my bloody lunch. Thank you.
I hate unscheduled meetings, it's not his fault for sure, but my laptop battery is almost dead.... ARGH.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Cause I'm bored and you know you want to...
Quite comprehensive, this was one of the more enjoyable tests. Can't say the results are very surprising though. Lol.
The Everything TestThere are many different types of tests on the internet today. Personality tests, purity tests, stereotype tests, political tests. But now, there is one test to rule them all.
Traditionally, online tests would ask certain questions about your musical tastes or clothing for a stereotype, your experiences for a purity test, or deep questions for a personality test.We're turning that upside down - all the questions affect all the results, and we've got some innovative results too! Enjoy :-)
Your political views would best be described as Liberal, whom you agree with around 61% of the time.
Your attitude toward life best associates you with Upper Class. You make more than 0% of those who have taken this test, and 18% more than the U.S. average.
|If your life was a movie, it would be rated PG-13.|
By the way, your hottness rank is 74%, hotter than 97% of other test takers.
TAKE THE TEST
brought to you by thatsurveysite
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Today was a mixed day, with a lot more ups than downs though.
Mizu Nurumu (Complete)! Downloads are at this Obsession forum page. Need to be registered though.
I also rediscovered a very old, 'private' blog last night/early this morning that I started on a whim 1.5 years ago and gave up promptly cause I found it difficult to customize the template then. Decided to re tweak it on a whim again and ended up spending 5 hours revamping that blog and widening the blog entry space for this one, which was a major headache in terms of tweaking pixels, uploading new gif files and font sizes. Little Black Book was originally conceived as a 'private' blog, not so much as the black notebook where the misdeeds and actions of offending fools are judiciously recorded but more as a private sanctuary where personal opinions and things of personal interest could be expressed freely without the need for censure.
Things and my perception have changed since then. A blog should be a place where one may express ones opinions freely without the need to conform to expected social norms. Gah that last bit sounded like the socio crap but you get my drift. Hence that 'private' element doesn't hold weight anymore. Little Black Book's layout is more serious (relatively) than this blog but I'm not going to categorise the two blogs as being for 'serious' and 'normal-other' entries respectively. Doing so means having to constrain myself to entering entries to the blogs based on pre-set categories which really defeats the whole purpose of having a blog in the first place. I'll upload what I want, where I want to.
That said, I'm a lazy person and Aelgtoer will continue to remain as the main blog( the one I update regularly). Most of you, if not all, who read this blog should already know who I am, having followed over from the shitty previous blog, so Little Black Book shouldn't be a surprise. Again if you for any reason are offended by the subject matter, I couldn't care less, don't like it don't read it. But we all know curiosity is a cruel master.
And to end the day, ONE more IPT session with the actual IPPT test this Thursday and I'll be free from the spectre of IPPT and RT till November. Plus the unexpected but pleasant opportunity to meet Sean on Thursday when I thought I'd have to do a week without him. No more Mr Hand and his five sons. Ah bliss.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Circles turn, shadows burn.
Shades enslaved to a destiny of ruin, moving wordlessly to a tune only the damned hear.
The battle lines are drawn, the whetstone ground.
Blades upon a field of wheat. A fatal sustenance, the feast table groaning under the harvest of blood and shredded flesh.
The World turns and shadows churn
When doubts reign free and the specter of kinship recedes
Empty gestures, hollow words flung like chaff to the wind
Uselessly they grasp at memories of a by-gone era.
The World turns and light burns
But oblivious they remain, shielded from the glare by the shadows they weave.
The cool comforting embrace of dark delusion, protective nebula for milky white orbs, sensitive yet sightless .
In the Dragon’s Eye,
A maelstrom of despair and desires
The multitudinous hands reaching out, grasping, flailing as they entwine
Bloodstreaked tentacles ensnaring the blind to partake in mutual misery.
Skeletal figures traipsing to Hecate’s tune, morbid conjurations in the gathering gloom.
As the shades march on, the clanging manacles ringing in rhythm to Hades’s clarion call
Friday, March 2, 2007
Hickeys. Yes, well we all know what they are. Long, deep, hard kisses that involve prolonged suction on the skin which leave 'ugly'(subjective- you usually find it highly sexy on your significant other) red marks aka bruises. Giving and receiving hickeys are marks of posession and love that also serve to function as excellent foreplay. Nothing like roaming about your lover's entire body with your mouth, planting deep kisses which declare: "You're mine!".
Though naturally, one should be considerate even in the heat of the moment and avoid planting hickeys in highly visible places that would draw unwanted attention. Unless you enjoy conversations like: "Eh, what's this? A hickey?" "Er no la, the shampoo bottle fell and hit my neck while bathing." Right... That means no neck and arms. Though from a practical perspective leaving a hickey on the arms is really hard, ie: Just doesn't stay on.