Where I'm From

As part of our training, we had to write a poem modelled after one by George Ella Lyon. I banged this out at 7:30 in the morning. Here goes nothing.


I am from babi pongteh
from ayam buah keluak and ayam penyet
I am from the rempah lovingly made by pestle and mortar
(Rich, red
it tastes like velvet)
I am from the mango tree,
the pandan leaves
my father used to make us pee on
to make them flourish and flower

I am from Milo and animal biscuits
    from Tintin and Enid Blyton
I'm from the hand-me-downs
   and the forget-me-nots,
from the sit down and shut up.
I'm from the Hail Marys
   with the parting of the Red Sea

and the separation of sexes.

That's about it! I should write the last stanza to wrap it up.

I miss my father.

For Rainy Days & Sundays

April Rain Song -- Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

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So that I can remember this poem and its gravity in its simplicity.

Sigmund Fraud

She revels in her madness. 

Sometimes, she wears it like a suit of armour. Not just any suit but the strongest chainmail made by the most skilled goblins. Other times, she wears it like gossamer cloak, light and iridescent, the finest webs spun by spiders. 

Her thoughts consume her. 

When she opens her mouth, madness tries to escape. She clasps her hands to her mouth, an action that is as futile as a child trying to catch butterflies with a net to trap them in a jam jar. These words flutter by and they pierce unsuspecting fools and they fall to the ground with a thud.

More often than not, she is quiet, allowing the madness to fester in the labyrinth in her head. She walks through the maze, silent and alone. When she is quiet, she is quite beautiful, ethereal even. 

She lives each day as if it were her last. 

The days become night and the nights become her refuge. It's just something about the dark that awakens the madness, stokes the still warm cinders of the day till the flames dance sensuously, intertwining one another. 

A ditty for a Kitty

To the kitten who is gone too soon:

Little one, sleep tight
No more fear or fright
In the quiet of the night
Spread your wings and take flight

Eeeee...

The Toe at some condo security guard post...

Toe: Hello! Going for tuition. Tower 3.

Security Guard: Uncle so old still can tui-shen or not?

Eeeee... 

I also cannot bring myself to say "tui-shen". 

The Toe at some condo security guard post...

Toe: Hello! Going for tuition.

Security Guard: Hah? Going for radiation?

Sigh.

Bowled Over

We ditched climbing to go bowling.

It was an eye-opening event for the Monkey Girls.

It was so wrong yet so right.

Here is a list of our wrongs:

1. We wore the wrong clothes to bowl. I think standard bowling attire is a polo t-shirt and khakis/trousers and socks for hygiene purposes. We were in our climbing clothes and had no socks. Horror of horrors. The bacteria we must have picked up from the rental bowling shoes...

2. We had a variety of (wrong) moves. Monkey Ears, being the gentle soul that she is, would demurely roll the ball down the lane and would end off with a curtsy. Monkey Paws (the Frou/Terminator) would throw the ball in the middle of the lane and it would hurtle at breakneck speed and crush all the pins. Think Highland Games when the Scottish giant tosses the log. Monkey Bum (that's me) would free-style and moonwalk at the same time.

3. We had wrong scores. Dismal. The Frou set out to beat us. Being the tyrant that she is, she declared that she was going to CRUSH us. And she did. However, when we looked at the scores of the people around us, we realised that they crushed us all.  

For our next bowling event, the Frou is determined to get the Iron Hand (we are not sure what it is really called) to strengthen her Highland throw, and a customised bowling ball in pink. So wrong yet so right. 

Catspeak

When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction. - Mark Twain

'Nuff said.