the magician

i met someone interesting tonight at a PR firm's crhistmas party. i have yet to discover who he ireally is though. there i was sipping my g&t when we started talking. after the usual exchange of namecards i asked him what he did as it wasn't very explicit on his business card, "so what do you do?" i asked

"i'm a magician"

my jaw dropped. my first real magician.

"wow that's so cool, you're a magician!!!!!"

"No - i manage Singapore's top 3 magicians...."

"you manage magicians?" i echoed. or at least i thought i did.

he gave me a blank look.

i decided not to ask him again cos i was embarrassed that i wasn't able to hear anything but the word magician coming out from his mouth.

so i changed the topic and asked about the digital SLR he was carrying.

mr x from the tv station comes over to join us.

they do the usual handshakes and card exchange

i stand in the middle.

mr x asks.

"so what do you do" as he searched for a title on the unhelpful name card.

"i..................magician."

there he goes again. talking magician.

i look at mr x. mr x looks at me.

just then some pr person interrupts and takes the magician away.

mr x asked

so what does he do again?

i shrug

"i give up...i only hear the word magician."

waking up

a text message woke her up today. it was half past six or even earlier. her ceiling lamp still radiated a visible light and stung her eyes when she peeped out. she tightend the blanket cocoon. and hugged her pillow so hard to her body and face without a single care for the waiting world beyond the room. he usually does that too. she had noticed before. but never told him. as with the other silent observations of soulful familiarity in words and actions. she remembers that one moment of pure sameness. when two messages streamed through networks, time and space in the same 60 seconds. he was seated at a bar. she was seated at work. "no, it can't be..." she no longer inhabits that space. she has renounced it, physically. still she scrambled out from under her blanket, and freed herself. the opened book that rested still on her chest all night toppled over and fell to the ground losing the page she was last at. it was page 53. she wouldn't have known. she would only read a couple of pages later to discover that she's either too far ahead or back. she crawled through the bed full of white pillows to get to the sofa in search of the phone. she retrieved the message. and was disppointed in an instant to see it was someone else.

painting blues

i have a bout of painting blues.

of late, i've been hit by the need to create. something. anything. to put my hands to good use. to channel. to project. to funnel this energy i feel inside. so i decided to pick up the paint brush. hoping some form of artistic genius would rear its head as i allow myself to be an instrument of this nagging buzz. so i went off ---- undeterred. i bought way to much stuff for a beginner in painting. i got the works at this shop called art friend. my favorite colors got shoved into my basket...pallette,brushes, and thinner all followed suit. even a portable easel. the urgency of it all was fed by the seamless variety of creative options at the shop.

i got home and started painting. all i ended up with was this bluey concoction acrylic paints on canvass. i'm a terrible artist. i can't draw faces or landscapes. abstract with all its lack of form and structure best suits me.

the blues look at me. i'm looking at the blues.

my hands are dirty as hell. and my painting is rubbish. i'll leave bluey alone for now. this will be the first draft. i'll go back to it maybe tomo. i'll sit at my chair with robbie in my ears as i wait for that buzz to fill me again.

turkeys flying everywhere

on thanksgiving...i'm having my fair share of turkey on my plate. here's a couple of slices of turkey encounters, old and new. in random order.

1) a friend of mine used to have this moroccon flatmate. his brother back home had a couple of hair-raising "dates" with a turkey. too disgusting to spell it out here.

2) a recent conversation about the many uses of a turkey baster has warped my thoughts on fertility and enjoying a turkey meal.

3) holmes...in chicago had a run-in with a turkey baaaaastard.

4) i'm struggling with a cold turkey.

5) today... there's a story on the wires on a 100-pound "the black widow" taking a turkey down in 12 mins during an eating competition.



100-Pound Woman Wins Turkey-Eating Contest Thu Nov 24, 1:48 PM ET

It's a question just begging to be asked: How much turkey can a person shove into their mouth in 12 minutes?

A group of competitive American eaters assembled at Artie's Deli in New York on Wednesday to gobble down 10-pound roast turkeys and find out.

Eric "Badlands" Booker started quickly, ripping through two turkey breasts and establishing an eight-ounce lead after three minutes. As time ticked down and the competitors faced moister meat in the drumsticks and shoulders, Sonya "The Black Widow" Thomas, Chip Simpson and Tim Janus gained speed.

After 12 minutes, nearly all had stripped their bird to the bone.

After examining the scales, the judges announced a verdict: the 100-pound Thomas, of Alexandria, Va., had taken first prize, worth $2,500. Booker dropped to sixth place.

How much turkey did Thomas eat? A total of 4 pounds, 3.1 ounces.

Thomas says she took the "Black Widow" nickname because she likes to "eliminate the males" in eating contests. Her other records include eating 65 hard-boiled eggs in 6 minutes and 40 seconds.

Her idol? Japanese competitive eating champion Takeru Kobayashi.

got boxes

got boxes. no excuses not to start packing now.
i have to get moving.

krissa c & jessie t wait for rosie c

it ain't easy being me

"it ain't easy being me"

the line leapt out of the jerry springer the opera T shirt. it was the only decorative element on the plain colored shirts at the shop. a couple of them lined a display at the theater on West End. as my eyes scanned the row from left to right, an echo of "it ain't easy being me" bellowed in my ears. with robotic intonations pulling back and forth in a mirror house of sounds.

i was tickled. cos i loved the self indulgence emanating from the line. it made me feel human. and included. the line on the shirt was attributed to God.

I liked the shirt and the line. but it was way too costly... which costs i think about 30 sterling pounds a pop. the same price of three plates of my favourite roasted duck rice. i placed the shirt back.

the opera aka musical won several awards and high praises from friends but lost me. it had so many powerful themes that stood well on their own... but put together they drowned and lost their intensity and power. anyways this isn't a play review. it's a line review. it's about my sudden recollection of the instant i fell in love with the "it ain't easy being me" line.

it was nolstagia of that one evening in london almost a year ago that came crashing down on me when i flipped through the pages of a paper just minutes ago.

a couple of quotable quotes from the paper...

"I don't smoke drink or take drugs anymore. but knowing my luck, a bird will crap on me and i'll get bird flu on the way home."
-- Singer Ozzy Osbourne on his fears

"I'd rather be No.1 on the worst dressed list than be No. 2 on the best."
-- Actress Nicollette Sheridan

meanwhile Garfield is contemplating in a cartoon box.

"Question: Is everything better with melted cheese on it?" the lazy bastard ponders.

a friend calls and says we have a situation. he can't help me with tv shopping tomorrow cos he's been called for military reservist. so we'll have to go get it later.

and i'm now contemplating if i should by a 21 inch or 29 inch tv.

he suggests 29.

i'm thinking 21.

do 8 inches make a diff? haha.

all right. i'll think about this for the next five mins.

i need a handyman now & a de-clutterer

i'm having problems with my printer. i have all these pics i wanna scan. but it ain't working. something to do with a software installation error. with the printer/scanner down - i begin to look for another project in my room. i was left with the option to continue what i started a couple of days back. a heavy sigh escapes me. i'm still springcleaning my room. when you begin on any endeavor called decluttering it always starts with a heigtened clutter. in clutterdom, it's called the clutter before the declutter.(what rubbish hahah*wink*)

i just love keeping things that remind me ofmy experiences. the other day josie t says i don't need to buy another book shelf. i just need to throw out all my old clothes and make room in my drawers for some of my older books. her guiding principle? "whatever you've not worn in a year- throw it out. and whenever you buy a new piece of item you need to get rid of an old one. for eg. new bra in old bra out. capice? everybody does that, i do that. steven does that.and lisa does that too !!!"

i was lost. i'm not the type who carries inventory lists of bras,panties t shirts dresses... i wouldn't even know if something'sbeen stolen from my panty drawer. unless it's the purple one with.... (heheheh) i began to worry i might not be able to downsize and declutter.

i tried the out with the old exercise on sunday after church. (which btw had such a good sermon...something about how you can't choose whoyou love... ok maybe this deserves a blog space of its own) anyways so after church, i was home with my second sister rosie c. i brought down three big bags of clothes i wanted to chuck out.

"i need your help...we need to sift through this and see if i should really throw them out." ok..."white express cotton t shirt bought in the us...chuck out?"

rosie c nods.

"but i wore this on one of my dates with art. we were in this bar with dan and the AC was down and i remember perspiring in this shirt when art asked if i was too warm and if we should go to a cooler place next door....it was also the night when dan took me aside and said famous last words...now don't play with art and break his heart."

the t shirt fell into the "maybe" pile

okaaaayyy moving on (no pun intended) "what about this.......shirt"

with both hands outstretched i aired a brown foral top. it must be about 10 years old.

"awwww our favorite blouse!!!" we both cried out.

i remember wearing that at least once a week when i was in year 2 incollege and it went with me to my 40 day backpacking trip to europe a decade ago. (yikes that made me sound old!) i still have pic of me in that blouse in in front of planet hollywood in paris.( i'll post that here once i get my printer/scanner working.)

needless to say that blouse was a keeper.

(fades out into black)

30 mins later....

i have one small "chuckout" bag of clothes.
another bag of "maybes"
a bag of "keepers"

and i created another bag called vintagecollection.stuff i'vekept for a decade or more or retro looking items... for my daughters if i have any, or my nieces... hahahah. excuses!!

i think i'll leave my uncluttered dreams for tomo. maybe i'll have more resolve. tomorrow.

bonoism

In an article i read today,
U2 lead singer Bono was quoted as saying in tv program 60 minutes
that his music will still be around in 100 years, explaining that his songs occupy "an emotional terrain that didn't exist before our group did." hmmm. why 100?
i'm just wondering how he derived at that formula for the subdivides in the universality and timelessness of human truths and emotions.
i relate just as much to hamlet & ophelia as i do to harperlee's scout as i do to maxine hong kingston as i do to radiohead. coldplay. my mother. father, sister. brothers. and sisters. i might be missing a beat. who knows ... who cares?

return me

Can you hear
the scattered breaths
it is me
suffocating
at my own theft
these spells
far from my helm
besiege me
as a fiegned ally
assumes my life
breathes my thoughts
past
likes
dislikes
words
and mind alike
no release
no valve in sight
you breed
despite my plight
i was misled
to open up
to share
my heart
mind
& soul
if will be by my side
i'd wish you
out of sight
return me

tickle me line

i shared with my brother a line
that tickled me a while ago
"you won't know something until you do"
i got tickled all over again
we both laughed
and snorted
with joy at the simple line

Name Calling

A name is called
"it is mine"
with a nod, i say
i feel collected
by a word
given at birth
it pulls me together
that name
that's mine

kai of siem reap

i'm spring cleaning today. from my travel journals. dated august 5, 2003.

In siem reap, there are no roads. at least not the kinds the modern world is used to.
On the beaten tracks, sand swirls in all directions as bicycles, cars, tuks tuks and motors converge, going somewhere and coming from somewhere.

The angkor wat - the main highlight of the city about 320 km away from Phnom Penh is majestic. standing on the same ground since the 11th century. it tells the story of Cambodia's rich past. but really, the real story of cambodia is in its poor people. for outside the site of the ancient ruins, the streets are lined with kids who will sell you postcards, souvineirs and shirts. they look as dusty as the sandy ground they walk on. but the smiles are unmistakeable when they try to speak the little english tourists have left them with, together with their petty cash. the kids come in a big group. and plead you to part with a dollar in exchange for a set of 10 rattan bangles...if not then a box of postcards.

a little boy cried, and cried when i said no. his tears converted my no to a yes in an instant. the tourists too get tired of the little kids. the lonely planet calls it beggar fatigue. maybe so. but the kids have a worse case of it than 100 tourists put together.

Kai is 13 years old. but he looks 8 or 9. he's way too thin and tiny. on my second day in siem reap, he tries to sell me postcards i already have. i said no thank you or teaw kohn as the locals would say. but since it was my birthday, i decided to have a little party and decided to buy him and his business companion- a 14 year old girl - breakfast. i took them to a tourist cafe. it's about 7 am. i tell them to order anything they wished on the menu. for breakfast, kai ordered chicken fried rice with a cold can of coke. kai tells me he's been in the business for a couple of years now. we exchanged some words, but mostly smiles and coupleof awkward nervous laughs. we had nothing in common but a moment.

kai tells me he'd like to grow up to be just like beckham. you know, he says, david beckham. but he has no football. sneaky little devil/ he then points his tanned little index finger at a boy outside the cafe. he is holding a football that was given by a tourist, kai tells me. he tells me the boy charges kids just to touch or play with the soccer ball.

so it was decided by kai that i give him a football. but i decided not to tell just yet. as i left, while getting into my car, kai reminds me that it's a soccer ball and not a basketball that he wants. over lunch that day, the driver took me back to angkor wat, where kai was waiting at the same spot. i gave him his gift - together with a pen, pencil and a khmer/english dictionary. i hope this would lead him somewhere, where the roads aren't as dusty.

The Reader

She read with horror the words sprawled across the pages of the beaten, crumpled book. They were vulgar and pure. Coffee stains, ink spilled over scribblings etched out on the margins and torn earmarked corners of favourite pages over the dacades had colored the patchy yellowish brown paper now loosely bound at the edge. With each turn of a page, a collage of ground wooden bark, grated lint and vintage pulp scented the swoosh of air that lightly touched her cheeks and teased her fallen loose strands. Her back hunched over as her eyes crept into the book. She could smell the years lived by the book freshly picked out from the secondhand store. She felt violated, yet comforted that another being from another time and place could give voice and shape to what she had secretly harbored. She released a deep fold at the top right corner of the first page and discovered two words in red ballpoint ink. “how true!” she gasped at the echoing of thoughts. Her world was silenced. And the room faded out. She read on as if in the company of those who held the book before her. despite herself,a little drop teared and found its spot on the red print that mushroomed into a blot. then she turned the page.

krissa

why cliches are beautiful

birds of a feather...

i was randomly ploughing through a blog search when i found myself on a stranger's site.
it was my voice, i, me six years ago when i was stillworking with the paper. it was something i said at the time and was picked up by a likeminded soul whose blog had a tagline that was was ironically relevant to me. and reminded me of who i am. the blog (titled theinformalist- click on title above for link) runs a thomas merton quote:


THE INFORMALIST
"Are monks and hippies and poets relevant? No, we are deliberately irrelevant. We live with an ingrained irrelevance which is proper to every human being." --- Thomas Merton

Thursday, June 23, 2005
A Piece Of Her Mind
"My four years with the NUS History Department was an adventure for me. Through history, I have experienced the dreams of historic heroes and villains; the defeats and victories of conquerors, emperors, army generals and also the man on the street. A degree in history is not just a certificate. It is an opportunity to discover for yourself, the past, present, and what you want in your future. Contrary to common perception, a history graduate's destiny is not limited to the teaching profession, it opens doors to any vocation that requires both strong analytical and research skills, and most of all, imagination."
--- Jessica Tan, a journalist with The Straits Times, quoted in the NUS History Department homepage.
posted by The Informalist

untitled

"untitled" oil on canvas
malaysian artist chong siew ying

when i first stood in front of this painting at an art fair 2 years ago i was mysteriously drawn to it. i couldn't afford to pay for it then and i'm kicking myself now for missing out on this. i'd pay double for this now. i'm so tempted to hunt it down. i'm haunted by the image and the spirit it evokes. there's soul in these strokes. to me, it conveys a conflicting mix of angst, understanding, transcendence, joy, wonderment, wisdom, sadness, layers, truth, divinity, honesty and providence. it was a spiritual experience taking in this sight. it was humbling and healing. soothing. it canvasses the human existence. whoever who owns it now is very blessed to have such a beauty grace a private and personal space. the painter wields an exquisite talent to be able to externalize the inner life in all its mystery, magic and beauty. i'm in total awe.

adventures of josie k & jessie t: the prequel

photo byline: josie k
text byline: jessie t




jessie t decided to run away. she picked london. flew to the city via dubai. got on a train to meet josie k at coventry. they had thai that evening. they talked about home. about childhood. they talked about life. & its adventures. wonder-filled trip. made of dim sum. xmas fair @ lincoln. an english sunday brunch. busker at covent garden who made her cry. jerry springer opera. ann summers. young chengs over & over again. bond street. oxford street. warm coffee in her hands. walk to the tate. beautiful millenium bridge. the tate twice over. celebrity's apartment. mussels&belgian beer. pasties. roasted duck. lobster noodles. polysexual club. guy with minty chap stick. bottle in my back pocket. so many firsts. james taylor lyrics. conspiritorial. brighton rock folks. cherie&steve. bayswater. english castles. hobbitt like homes. homeless. fish&chips. exquisite music at the tube. dubai customs. home.



It all began the day I found..

That from my window I could only see

A piece of sky.

I stepped outside and looked around.

I never dreamed it was so wide

Or even half as high.

The time had come

-- "A Piece Of Of Sky" --Yentl

your sweet ophelia

Sunday Morning
I lie in my foamy white duvet
At 450 counts
I'm floating in clouds
My eyes half shut
My mind half wandering
I remember Ophelia
And my body snaps
Disengages
I'm weightless
Life in downstream flashes
In a flight without end
Then you call my name
Dredge me from my side
And kiss me.

the kiss

he touched her freckled cheeks
and whispered words she
she could only feel
a faint
dizzy spell
fading out
he
she
the world
timed out
his lips
hers
in minutes
spun
a life
time

excerpts from an urban life: bus stop lady

My lone walk is accompanied by so many strangers. Many of whom will become familiar faces. The Starbucks guy with Fuschia red hair with blond roots peeking out. The homeless guy who’s always at the main entrance of Market Place. The other homeless guy who’s always asking for a quarter. Only a quarter.

Fannie the waitress at diner Granny’s. Big hair. Big chest. Big personality. The Chinese restaurant across the street whose towkay insists to have set up Chicago’s first Chinese restaurant. Big claims.

The bus driver dude who swings by the Market Place bus stop at about 730 each morning. I’ve never seen him smile. His half nod each day marks the extent of intimacy in our driver-commuter relationship.

There’s also this old lady who I see once in while at the bus stop. She doesn’t know it. But every time she says something to me. It hits me like a philosopher’s stone. Our first encounter was special. I walked up to the bus curb and asked her the number of the bus that just took off. She doesn’t answer obediently, but asks why? I said then I’d know if it might take another 20 minutes before the next one comes along. She shoots me look and says what has that got to do with anything. She is making obvious her annoyance over my simplistic understanding of the bus system in Chicago. Talking without looking. “Just when you think you’ve figured it all out, something’s gonna come and show that you know nuthin’.” Whoa. are we still about buses? I begin to think to myself, wondering if I should like or hate this wrinkled old lady wrapped in an orange woolen sweater. Thirty seconds later. A bus pulls up. And proved her right. I’m suddenly thinking. and thinking about Rethinking. My worldview about buses has just collided into the brickwall of old-lady-at-the-bus-stop wisdom. I couldn’t help wonder if she was trying to tell me something more than the unreliability of public transportation. I mull over this for a while. It fills my head with scene of a movie I’ve yet to make. I tuck that thought away.