Monday, July 24, 2006

Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides; above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

The Kraken, by Alfred Tennyson, 1830

Friday, July 21, 2006

Damn...I have a LOT of poetry (looking through my scrapbook here).
Oh Publishing Fairy, I'll be good if you send someone (ie, some publisher) my way! I promise I won't eat the tsuchinoko on MSG III, and I'll become
pescetarian so I don't contribute to killing those poor cows along Davis are you still vegetarian if you still eat certain types of meat (just not "red meat"), including fishes?
Nostalgia and Reminiscence.

Here follows two poems and a song I wrote when I was younger (I even have a tune for the song). I was having nightmares and I felt a lot of frustration as a teenager. It is perhaps the one motivation I had to put my thoughts on paper, and has led me to this path today. Sarah always said I was a tortured soul.

Oh and please forgive any cheesiness. I wrote these when I was 15 or 16. At that age, everything you write seems original and excellent. And I was REALLY REALLY angry, in my own way.

Dreams (I suppose since that is part of the title of my blog, I have to have something, right?)

Dreams enter your mind
Creeping up behind you
All ready for the pounce

Sleep comes so fast
Then your dreams
Hit you

You know what to do?
You don't like what you see
But you can't run, you can't hide
It won't work
You can't escape
Those Dreams

Wake up
Scream in terror
You're drenched in sweat
Shaking with fright all over
Don't sleep
It'll happen again
You might not wake up
From your dreams, ever

Scream and yell
Kick and fight
Struggle to keep away
But sleep lulls
The Sandman beckons
Nothing can help
To escape
Your Dreams


Bird In a Cage

All alone like a bird in a cage
Isolated, sad and lonely
Why is it this way?
Others fly around free
Soaring, happy, joyful
Why them and not me?
Jealousy runs in my mind
Alienated, angry and mad
Wish I could be with them.

How my life was just like theirs
Feel like screaming but I can't
Why are they so happy?
Why am I so lonely?
Trapped like a bird in a cage.

Solitary and chained down
It's cold, oh so cold.
Am I the one to blame?
Others, they don't give a damn about me.
It hurts, it's so painful
To know they just don't care.


Trying Not to Cry

You try to stay together
No matter how hard, no matter how long
You know that friendships last till the end of time.
You bring yourself together
There's no way out, you have to accept
Nothing lasts forever, never that way.

So walking down the road of life
At first you thought you'd never part
But in the end it all stopped short
You'll never get the things you lost
What can I say, what could I do?
It was all up to you.
As you ask yourself why,
You're trying not to cry.

You stand by each other
Through thick and through thin,
Won't matter when
No one knows how long
Your friendships can last
Your final time together
Don't say so long, don't say goodbye
It hurts so much to see you part.

This was my very first song/poem, written when I was 14. Those from home understand that between 14 and 15, there is typically a shuffling/streaming of students into new classes, so that friends you've made the past 2 years are separated. This was, and still is, dedicated to Grace Ho, Elisa Chan, Teo Beng Wee, Elizabeth Chen, and Kimberley Wang. Hey guys, remember I.Y.F (In Your Face)? I am thankful I've found you guys again. Thanks Li-Lin.

All works are the original creation of the author (me)

The Cold Truth

Attention seeking
Leads to jealousy
Leads to hatred
Leads to emotional rage and thought of murder
And blood

Small and large scale
All the same
Human emotions are fragile
Through ages past logic fights emotion
Emotion wins
And many die

When logic wins
Emotion dies
And coldness ensues

Dual natures
They can't live with each other
For without one nature
The other nature ceases to exist

March 31st 2006

All works are the original creation of the author (me)
Not So Different After All

I am older
The word mother holding child
Says no

I have learned
I love people; can't stand them
Leave me alone!

No angst no pain
No anger no rage
No flow of thought
Empty boring slate

Even this is a cliche

Am I happy?
Am I sad?
Not really
Am I content?
Am I free?
I truly will never be

Such if my life

Freedom lies in my mind
Freedom is in my heart
The freedom I seek I will never get
For that freedom could kill those I love
And the lack of freedom
Will consume the spirit that wants
To roam, to explore, to seek, to fly
To have my 5 lifetimes

No more angst that is true. Yearning is what I feel in my soul.
March 26, 2006

© 2006
All works are the original creation of the author (me)

Thursday, July 20, 2006

"Nothing is more difficult to exterminate than religion, no matter how false it may be." - sayeth the Emperor to the rebel Jubad in The Carpet Makers, by Andreas Eschbach

Friday, July 14, 2006

Let me make a political analysis of the current situation in the mid-East, and regarding Israel's bombing of Lebanon.

KIDDING. All I know if what the media tells me. But here's something interesting:

In brief, once upon a time, before independence, when my dad was still a teen, a bomb detonated in Singapore in beloved Orchard Road. Who the culprits are is not important. The fact is, our dear LKY and the newly elected PAP came into power in such tumult and uncertainty. All those cheesy National Day songs about "uncertainty" and "troubles" have a very valid basis on the nation's past. So this National Day, I pledge to remember what our fathers' generation went through. I am glad for the stability of my country, and for LKY's paranoia about dissent.

Thanks for the enlightenment, DO.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Alright I admit I'm not a poet (guess I don't chou yan enough, if you get my drift)...

Thai Fighters

Drenched, cold, slimy arena

Bursting sunshine filtered through
Tap water
Splits in Newtonian fashion

Two contenders meander 'round each other
One with plume of Air Force blue
One with uniform of Communist red
Count the seconds...


Iron muscles lash out like chains
Gnashing teeth tearing tender flesh

The Blue leaks red, zigs and zags
The Red turns and bites again
Blue loses magnificent plume; sinks mournfully
Red readies to blast again, beady eyes ferocious and hungry...

I scoop him up, back into his own glass jar
Before he can kill my Blue, tail-less fighting fish.


*All works are the original creations of the author (me).*

"A Place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, renders it, loves it so radically that he/she remakes it in his/her own image."
- Joan Didion

Weathered books line the shelves in the Room of Self-Reflection, standing beside the fresh and new generation of nolves bought form airport bookstores. There is anarchy: bulky kids' encyclopedias are crammed awkwardly by Nancy Drew; a 1975 edition of Enid Blyton's Circus Days poses magestically with its red musky-smelling cover next to the $2.99 Archie comics. Running along one wall is a double-decker train of imposing Encyclopedia Britannica, each volume bound in charcoal leather covers with sun-kissed embossing. The books seat themselves too comfortably on the gleaming, lacquered shelves: a distinct dip has developed in one shelf like the bowing of a hammock, and the shedding of human skin, along with dust pollution, have settled neatly amongst the volumes as if they had always been one with the pulpwood giants.

Once upon a time, the Internet had not burst forth like a broken dam inundating individuals with infinitisimal details about Mao Zedong's concubines and Sherlock Holmes' cocaine addiction. Once upon a time, I whiled away hour after sweaty hour (I had no air-conditioning) flipping the precious clean pages of the Britannica books to learn about Stonehenge, Stalin, and silicon chips.

This Room of Self-Reflection in my parents' home is where my ruminations, my unsuccessful novellas and short stories, and my angry angst-filled poetry were faithfully spewed out like vomit: crude and indigestible. How I wanted my numerous projects to be as glorious masterpieces, singing to the readers' hearts like the voices of seraphim.

Two white-framed windows overlook the garden, in which my mother stills spends her Sundays wearing a straw hat and weeding desperately, maintaining the impeccable neatness of the lawn: sharp and crisp like the crunchiness of celery. Through the windows, I would gaze in reverent awe at the rising sun inevitably peeking through the horizon of angsana trees like the emerging smile on a mischevious child's face. The sunrise was always heralded by silence, just like the mango-orange rays, shrouded by the rich saturation of the tropical atmosphere. Even the crickets held intermissions as morning trumpeted its muted way into the world.

Once upon a time, I played oldies on my first guitar, a hand-me-down acoustic-electric Fender from my dad. The coffee-stained yellow gleams like the color of pearls, winking at me to play, as I used to, inspired by the crooning sounds from my dad and his band, a group of schoolmates, who gave themselves the endearing name, The Young Once.

For four years the Room of Self-Reflection has done plenty of self-reflecting. The bespectacled girl no longer pounds her head on the table, muttering apocalyptic curses at the high school exams. She no longer induces more myopia by spending her nights squinting at typed words on the creaky computer monitor. The ancient PC device has been usurped by a sleek 2-pound laptop. The pearl-yellow guitar leans casually like a weather-beaten cowboy against a wall in a bar. Yet its rusty strings shout disapproval at being so utterly neglected. And all this time, contemplates the Room of Self-Reflection, Anarchy still retains a foothold in the masses of Cellulose Land.

*All works are the original creation of the author (me).*

Wrote this one time when we went riding:

Sunday April 30, 2006

I never thought I would see a better spring day than this day in sunny Northern California. The hills were covered in a pelt of green fur that was not so much luscious and quenched but slightly parched for the summer-like weather and the recent, sudden absence of rainfall. The grasses were still as yet un-yellowed, un-burnt by the unforgiving sunshine, so they remained greenish-yellow and long, swaying in the gentle breezes that flowed through the hills from the Pacific Ocean and over the Peninsula ridges.

There were cars of all forms: weekend, sports, SUVs, sedans, beat-up trucks and RVs, which sped around the windy one-lane roads of Highways 92 towards Highway 35. There was the occasional big rig, carrying much sought-after refined petroleum to fill the bellies of the gas monsters which we have unintentionally come to depend our lives on. There were also creatures on two wheels zipping about: the Ducatis, Harleys, Kawasakis, Yamahas, Hondas, BMWs, Aprilias...Hundreds of times more powerful than horses, each rider confident and sure-footed upon their steeds, some carrying passengers, some galloping alone.

The springtime weather brings with it colors and new blossoms the likes of which I had not noticed before. I saw patches of lavender violets, pale but so numerous they appeared to form wispy miniature clouds of bluish fog over the grasses. There were many bushes sprouting with flowers of mango-yellow, unnamable, but everywhere, amongst the trees, on the sharp cliffs between the roads, and on the fields between the hills and precipices of Highway 1, where land meets ocean. Occasionally, I saw clusters of bright persimmon-colored tulips, startling in their brilliance that they appeared as lucious fruit. Even along the roads of Foster City Blvd, I saw royal purple sunflow-like blooms on the sidewalk, filling the streets with a color that was not present when I moved there last July.

And within the forests of Highway 35, there were white dandelions, small and quaint like little children, with yellow buds in the center of the petal plumes. Much of the green consisted of ivy - weed-like and pond-like. Some were of the ancient equinas species, the indomitable horse-tail, which tried to outgrow the ivy wherever possible.

The smell of dryness, grass, horses, fuel...they melded together as we zipped through what was left of the natural landscape from the memories of William Randolph Hearst and Robert Louis Stevenson. The land is marred now by giant grey snakes that have laid themselves all over the hills and through the valleys and crevices; these snakes with their great yellow bands along their backs, bright and in stark contrast to the uniform greenness of the forest which remains, and across their backs ride the gas monters and two-wheeled horses of new. Power lines and telephone wires drape lazily across the trees, so that when I stare across the acres of endless green, my line of sight is regrettably interrupted by those sizzling cables.

Yet the advent of technology and industry cannot mar the beauty of the Peninsula ridges. Daily in summer, giant white fingers curl over the ridges as the ocean fog lays down over the land to sleeps, as the world goes to sleep as well. And when the dawn arrives, and the fog lifts itself from the trees, the dark-green crowns of the earth gleam with moisture and vigor, for these deciduous trees - oak, redwood, birch, fir, and pine - never fade with winter, nor do they wither under the summer heat.

I do not want to regret never seeing these sights. I picture myself thus: leather-clad, helmet in ahdn, standing upon the edge of a cliff that overlooks the vast rolling hills. My steed stands silent behind me, quiet, engine hot. My fellow rider(s) beside me. And as we stand together, staring into the setting Californian sun, who keeps her appointment with the residents of the Orient, a sense of peace and joy are mixed with the melancholy I feel at witnessing such silent glory.

All works are the original creations of the author (me), and should not be reproduced without adequate citation of the writer.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Great idea, Danny.

Now what should I post first...?

I am a creative writing-inclined resident of California applying for medical school, but nursing some thoughts about posting my work in the hopes of publishing. I've said it before, my inner critic loves slapping me back into reality and quelling the rebellious dissonance in my heart. But perhaps something good will come out of this, no?