Sincerely, thank you

 

 

 

 

 

  

You look like Jesus

[On B’s newest hairdo]

KK

You know who B looks like now? Jesus Christ.

EVERYONE

Wah! It’s true! Wahaha~

B comes back

EVERYONE

HEY, JESUS!

B

FUCK YOU! proceeds to give the middle-finger to EVERYONE

EVERYONE

*speechless*

ME

…Brilliant answer, son of god.

 

It’s history

Dear Arts Rag 2006,

You were a beautiful, transient, thing. What struck me most, was how you made me feel the effortless essence of human beings in so little a time, and how I may never divorce myself completely from the goodness of close friend[ship/s]; that our sails will always be lashed together by mere memories and time and fate.

Raggers. Float on, sail on.

 

We are cotton candy people

We are cotton candy people,

specifically – apple green tasting yummy full of sugar saccharine goodness!

 

In view

I’d decided for my love of writing when I was 14. Somewhere deep inside myself, I’d wanted to do stories. To make them, to grow them, to tell them. Every time I read a good story, one which marveled its reader into a spellbound trance of gravity defying, imagination warping dance of fiction and words, I had a desire to write it. The way language could be imbued with that invisible (and sometimes, stifling) flash of narration, fascinated me.

My first attempts at writing were typical boy stories. Space aliens, wars and invasions, Italian gangsters and Chinese gunfights; basically, just a heck of alotta violence and blood. My first real story, that contained a glimpse of the mother lode of the beautifully synchronicity of carefully arranged words, was written in 2001.

“In the Natural Course of Inquisition”, tells the metaphysical tale of a middle-age psychotherapist who is visited by Cupid. The latter, we learn, has arrived for an appointment because of an accident ‘at work’. As the therapy session continues, a second tale unfolds just outside the psychotherapist’s office, which finally cumulates and interplays with the main narrative in the final scene. In the end, we see that Cupid, though cured of his crepuscular predicament, is a victim of humanity in a much more ironic fashion.

That same year also heralded my first blog entry. Indeed, the sheer vastness of cyberspace has allowed for a calcifying sustenance in my writing. Over the years, this gradual expanse and accumulation of words on words, has served to eke out and affirm my love of transforming mere words and sentences into the shafting magical phenomena of working prose.

I blog stories. I make them, I grow them, and I tell them.

Occasionally.

I live them as well.

 

In the Natural Course of Inquisition

It was in the natural course of Inquisition that Jack found the Sublimation of Life so excruciatingly morbid. It wasn’t the fact that the patients he saw waltzing in and doing the mamba in front of his embarrassing furniture that made it seem worst, although the coffee made by Mrs. Jelly did strain that visage of reality a tad bit more than it could have been. Jack didn’t mind the observation that his patients had problems of their own to deal with, but he always held up the fact that there wasn’t a single line of argument that the trusty colt he had thrust under the shelves couldn’t handle, whenever the need occurred in the brink of insanity, or reality. Nor was it the point of contention that Jack himself was beginning to feel the ill effects of a middle age crisis happening before any international agreement was sought for, and the democratic ruling party of Jack’s brain was too busy fighting itself to notice the graying folding hairline and the already bulging waistlines that stretched Jack’s new rubber coated pants to the Edge of Reasoning.

 

Yes. Jack decided. It was how life occasionally made a surprise guest appearance on his make-shift stage of humanity and left soon after the applause had died that made Jack cringe and smack his dry lips and wish he had bought a trusty rocket launcher instead, all in the same instance.

 

Therapy for Jack was a destiny. He sought for it, distributed it evenly, and adamantly adhered to it like a Religion. It had stumbled on Jack more than once, and Jack didn’t really mind the pitfalls that went with the job. They came and went with the press of a clock and a timer that said Your Time Is Up, Please Book another Appointment. He’d been in the business for the whole of his life for Christ’s sake. He knew the insides and outsides of the human comprehension and perception of existing objectively in wide open spaces, and he knew more about the way a person thought and really thought enough to understand what it took to be a great psychiatrist. Not a good psychiatrist. A great one. And Jack Was Great. He’d grossed over a billion dollars last year from his million-dollar-per-hour clients and his own company netted takings equivalent to the national product figures of even some small countries. Small but heavily Rich in mineral resources and stable enough conditions for Economic Growth countries. Because Jack clearly saw the simple fact that as humans became more complex, the more they would seek the primordial need to Speak Their Mind.

 

Of course, there were other outlets for personal digressions to occur, Jack concurred. Anything from Politics to Hollywood. The routes offered by these offices effectively curbed the individual from streaking around naked for the rest of his life and yelling about Armageddon. But psychiatry was different, according to Jack. He’d saw that it was available to the masses. More importantly, the rich-enough masses. And as long as the market was viable, Jack knew that the only logical step to be taken after that thought, was to break into a run. And he’d opened his office as soon as he was qualified for the job, gathered enough dollars catering to his niche of mentally ill hypochondriacs of the rich and stupid, seen his share of fame and fortune, and now wondered what else was left.

 

But today, Jack was facing a Road Block.

 

He’d sensed it in the morning air as he woke up. But didn’t know what it was until he heard the name. The name of his new patient, due in twenty minutes according to Mrs. Jelly. Jack had said thank you Mrs. Jelly, and gathered his coffee cup, and now awaited his client. The name itself scared Jack nimbly, but what perturbed him more so was the fact that Jack’s Expectation and Weariness were on a rampage ever since that name was mentioned, and they didn’t seem to take any notice of the rest of the department. By the time Mrs. Jelly announced the name again, Chaos had joined the company and it looked as though there might be A Temporary Shutdown for a while. It’d barged in and so conveniently propped itself on the sidelines as Jack came In.

 

“Doctor Jack, may I introduce you to Cupid.”

 

Jack stood up and slowly approached the blinded child, complete with a set of feathered wings and wooden bow and a quaver of…

 

“Ballistic missiles?” Jack quizzed.

 

Cupid shrugged. “It comes with the times. Have to keep up with technology you know. These babies score nearly ten fold the amount I did in the past. These cluster bombs come in handy as well.” Cupid indicated a strap of cone-shaped bombs around his tiny waist. By now he’d found his sightless way to the leather couch and had placed the missiles and bow next to the flimsy coat hangers, upping himself next to the metaphoric Chaos, which really didn’t mind the company, unlike some people.

 

Jack raised an eyebrow, shook his head and sat down on his kilter recliner.

 

“You realize my rates?”

 

Cupid paused for a moment, snapped his fingers and produced an American Express Card(Gold) from the air, waved it blindly, towards the doctor and nodded. “Never leave Olympus without it.”

 

“Just checking,” Jack wiped his forehead which had gathered sweat from the heated karma the Roman god had produced ever since entering the cubic office.

 

“Ah yes, payment is especially important, I understand,” Cupid placed the card beside him and proceeded to look up earnestly at Jack.

 

Jack shifted uncomfortably.

 

Of course, spending half your life in the consultation of all things human does provide a certain amount of allowance when it came to seeing a share of the weird and strange. For instance, Jack had worked with the Monks from Tibet just a month ago, and the three sessions they warranted saw most of the discussion prancing from an Enlightened State of Divinity to Everything to simply Baseness at the End. The monks came away satisfied the way most people felt satisfied when you’ve flushed down nearly seven million dollars into Jack’s pockets. All that money had to at least Mean something – was their unanimous decision and proudly journeyed back to their desolate country pretty well screwed up. Then there was the time when Jack met with Santa and got him to settle with Mrs. Claus over several character differences, including the ever ready problem of weight and gravity in connection to Mr. Claus’ waistband and constant need to change his uniform every two years each time it expanded and refused to retreat. “It’s those fat-free cookies and hi-calcium milk they leave nowadays. The problem is they All leave those and I can’t help myself.” In the end, Santa agreed to pop in for a couple of scheduled liposuction clinics after every Christmas, and work out every once in a while with the elves.

 

“Coffee, Tea and Biscuits,” Mrs. Jelly’s hospitable nature only went as far as her proclamation that whatever it was that were in the cup and plates were Suppose to be Coffee, Tea and Biscuits. Jack’s imagination always ran amok with the idea of What They Really Were, but over the Years of anguish and turmoil, and with plenty of practice and hard on experience, Jack’s ability to Shut It Up and Just Swallow was getting to be quite good under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Jelly. Cupid of course, had no problems with the biscuits (which Really looked like huge piles of elephant doo doo) and tea (which Really looked like streams of elephant pee wee), because of the effective yet subtle presence of his blinding blindfold. ‘Nice,’ was the complement which came of Cupid’s grubby mouth, which also effectively became the first time in All Of History that Anyone complemented of Mrs. Jelly’s Exquisite and Unique Servings.

 

“You see Doctor J, I’ve a problem,” begun Cupid as he laid back and stretched out his sandals.

 

“Oh yes?” People often did. It didn’t came as a surprise that foreign and anthropomorphic figures soon got the hang of it as well.

 

“…Which is quite embarrassing, erm…” Jack found the love god beginning to blush in the morning sun, and was filled with a distinct taste of curiosity and pondering. Cupid was known for being brave under those blindfolds. Who else would dare to walk around in diapers with little petty wings and a bow of love?

 

“Go on.”

 

“See, I think I might have shot mysel- Erm, f-fired myself, in the foot yesterday, and erm…”

 

Oh gods, thought Jack. “You’re in love?”

 

Cupid bolted upright in hysteria, “It’s not the first time it’s happened! But yesterday I was trying the new stock of Love-Bazookas, and…and the firing mechanism got weary.’ Cupid signed. ‘It’s much more longer lasting than the missiles and arrows.”

 

“And exactly who are you suppose to be love with?” Quizzed Jack.

 

“Erm. That’s the hard part. Erm. You see, I’m in love with un-Love.”

 

There are instances in the Entire Universe that seem trivial but all at once they proclaim to be really daft perplexing deadlocks as well. Such is the nature of dilemmas. These balancing points keep Everything in check and often on schedule. For example, for the Presence of Light, there must be an equally reactive process of the Absence of Darkness, for every Waking Moment, there must be a Retardation of Sleep and so on. All these works out very well and doesn’t concur much glitches in the Grand Scheme of It All. However, in the face of humanity, it seems that there has, over the past centuries, occurred to many that the equation might have the slightest hint of failing when it gets to Human Emotions, because humans have developed the unique and rather special ability to stand on Neutrality, which is a bothersome place to be when the universe is often trying to pour and subtract just the right amounts of atoms and particles and humans simply Cannot be Affected. So in such cases, dilemmas soon evolve into a higher state of Confusion. Thus for Anger, there is Guilt and Shame, for Happiness, there is Melancholy and Distraught and for Love, a sense of un-Love. Cupid had shot himself from one end of the spectrum straight through to the next field.

 

Mrs. Jelly came in with a second round of her Deliciously Flavored Foodstuff, topping up the finished cup of supposed tea of Cupid’s, and grimaced slightly at the half eaten biscuit of Jack. There would be trouble later, but for now, she’ll act Appropriately In Front of Clients. Jack accepted the refill of his coffee with as much Grace and Composure a cow could muster when presented with a plate of frozen yogurt, and Cupid continued nibbling on another supposed custard (which Really resembled a nice ring of dog poop).

 

Jack considered the Road Block of Cupid, and decided to take a detour.

 

“Just how long are the effects suppose to last?”

 

“The projected estimates run on the experimented trials by the Official Olympus Love Confederation is about 3 years,” Cupid said. “Just in time for marriage and the production of offspring.”

 

“So couldn’t you just bear with it?”

 

It was Cupid’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Or maybe the blindfold was just getting itchy in the vicinity of the office. “Of course not. Those bazookas were meant to be Long Range Firing Ballistics, not for my feet! The close proximity alone extends the intensity of My Emotions.” Cupid cringed, “How can the God of Love be in Love with un-Love for 3 years?!!”

 

Jack felt the impact of the punctuation marks head on, the final exclamation point still doing judo-chops with the hurling effects of the swirling question mark, and really didn’t wish to pursue anything further. The God of Love was pissed, and it didn’t take long for Jack to realize that he’d a suicidal maniac (“Blindfolded mind you,” added his subconscious, now woken from its slumbering masses from the commotion) sitting just opposite him, armed with a full arsenal of Love weaponry and tinkling very closely to the edge of utter self-destruction.

 

“Cool down. We’ll try our best to solve the problem,” mustered the sweating doctor. “More tea?”

 

The thermostat in the office of Doctor J and Associates was either jostling for attention with the rest of the hardware in the office, or its readings were plainly wrong. Mrs. Jelly had sworn that she’d turned up the power on the air conditioners a minute just, but the interconnecting rooms were surely rising in temperatures ever since that Cupid lad came half an hour ago. Mrs. Jelly herself was sweating continuous droplets of water (which Really resembled a torrent of waterfalls flowing instantaneously from a really high place ) as she arranged the notes of the company. The slumbering device read ten degrees, but it felt like two hundred from where she was standing – right beneath the air conditioners. Something’s not right about this, thought Mrs. Jelly as she opened the nearest window and a gust of wind wilted and trailed onto the carpets.

 

No, there wouldn’t be an antidote, else he would have taken it, thought Jack as he analyzed the fidgeting Cupid.

 

“Let’s take a standpoint on this. Obviously you need more than just therapy to cure this mishap…”

 

“But I don’t have anyone else to turn to,” whispered the restless god, “Psyche’s on her little Trip Around the World, the Confederation would bar me from service for At Least a year if they even get a whiff on this.” Cupid gazed at Jack intently through the blindfold. “I can’t be suspended Doctor J, I’ll get …Bored.”

 

Something about the way he capitalized the word suggested to Jack that when Cupid got Bored, he would inevitably do Strange and Weird Things with his Wonderful Weapons.

 

“And your parents won’t help?”

 

“They believe in an Independent Education,” Cupid whimpered.

 

“Ah, strong advocators are they?”

 

Cupid sighed. ‘You wouldn’t know the half of it.”

 

“I see,’ said Jack as he stood up from his seat. “Then I must proceed to suggest an immediate course of action,” suggested Jack as he proceeded along.

 

The wind gathered momentum and ushered itself along the tainted corridors, and as it neared the office of Doctor Jack IS IN, it decided better and turned a swift corner.

 

“What exactly is this Hip-No-Sense?”

 

“It’s a way of making you think in a different manner about things.”

 

“What?!” The prospect horrified Cupid.

 

“It’s an extreme state of consciousness and heightened responsiveness to suggestion of the individual induced by a recommended dosage of medication and psychiatric treatment over a period of consulted time.”

 

“Oh. That’s okay then.”

 

Jack nodded. Some people, gods in particular, didn’t mind the specifics, in fact, they pretty much preferred the details being defined and explained than told in simplistic terms. Such was the way of omnipotent beings.

 

The blue white pigeons outside the ecclesiastical window sills fluttered off in an expanding radius, as Mrs. Jelly showed the building’s electrician to the air conditioning vents. He’d spent the past twenty minutes in trying to find the source of the unbearable heat, and his current disposition was that something was very wrong with the office, apart from the tea and biscuits which Mrs. Jelly had Helpfully offered a moment ago and suspiciously looked like Other Things. The last screws from the wire meshing came loose. As he placed the material aside, he raised his head into the vent, and said “Oof.”

 

“Oof,” said Cupid as he stared surprised at the large baseball bat in Jack’s hand.

 

“Sorry.” Jack placed the bat back into the confines of the shelf.

 

“Ah,” and Cupid plopped down on the couch, semi-conscious.

 

Cupid was a god, and Jack wasn’t willing to take his chances in the Traditional Way of Doing Things. Because who would know how a god would react to conventional drugs and induced dizziness? So Jack had promptly grabbed the bat and plonked the blinded entity with as light a force as he could muster, which was actually a lot on Jack’s part.

 

Psychiatrists didn’t go out often.

 

Cupid looked Dazed and Confused, which was where he should be.

 

“Now, picture in your head an ink etching with paints from the Renaissance era say somewhere in 1421…” And Jack begun, as specifically as he could…

 

Mrs. Jelly heard the whining noise come start from the distance and echoing throughout, she was sure, the building. It was, technically speaking, that of a hushing of silence when one stepped into a classroom packed full of little brats and who have just been told that the Teacher was Absent and they had in their little committees decided to perform Raids in the classroom stationery cupboard. It was the sense of awkward and shifting of nervous feet when one approached the hand in the cookie jar when the words Don’t Touch The Last Cookie were said prior to the appearance of that hand. It was the calm After the storm, the passing of Silence and all together, it sounded dreadful to Mrs. Jelly as she strained to see if the electrician wanted more of her Nice Gingerbread.

 

Picture in your head if you will, a portrait of Cupid, with his woven wings, bow and ballistic missiles. He is flying off into the realm of the Real World, when he becomes infatuated with the idea of No Love, the process of un-Love. He realizes that he is in Deep Trouble and goes to see a Psychiatrist, who applies Hypnosis on the god of Love. When the therapy is over, Cupid finds himself confused and dazed from it. In fact, he is unable to recall his own purpose in the world, and he soon learns that Love has met with The End. Recall that for every existing human emotion, is still in basic essence, only Human, and that it is mortal and can be manipulated, trampled on and personified in the images of gods and goddesses. The process of hypnosis persuades the individual to Think Outside Himself, and when a god does that, he is literally Disassembled because he himself is a thought in existence, a sooth of creation made up by the minds of men. And when the wandering mind of Cupid finally comprehended this notion, he found Jack removing his blindfold and gazing into his eyes intently.

 

“fff….” The electrician fell down, bundled in flames as the vent exploded with the veracity of undying Love searing past, echoing and slicing the air into a million shards of nothingness. Mrs. Jelly could do nothing but watch as the burning package collapsed onto the red corroded carpets, setting aflame the surrounding potted plants. “Oh dear.”

 

Jack watched as Cupid sparkled, fragmented and unraveled himself into space and time, back into reincarnation on Olympus. And vanished. It would take at least a day for the proper rites to be performed before Cupid could be conceived again, but for now, the world would have to do without a day of Love. Jack wiped his forehead again, and gathered up the American Express Card(Gold), took up his credit card machine, and charged his Usual Rate on Cupid’s account.

 

Mrs. Jelly announced her entrance with the barren blasts of the extinguisher. “Really doctor, that’s the second time this month. You should warn me,” said Mrs. Jelly as she radiated an air of grievance. “When will they stop coming in?”

 

“In due time, Mrs. Jelly, in due time.”

 

Jack’s last name was Reaper. He’d thought that was apparent enough and didn’t bother himself with putting it up on the signs. And whenever there need be a changeover of sorts, a regeneration of the immortals, a replacement in the ranks of the Entire Universe, his role as a trapeze artist determined the End and Start of it all. Therapy needed that kind of forceful avocation. For immortals, it was more so. He didn’t have to find them, they willingly and unknowingly Came To Him whenever they needed the vacation time.

 

Jack sighed and removed the Road Block from its symbolic representation from the troughs of his head.

 

“Hypnosis again?” questioned Mrs. Jelly.

 

“It’s the only way to get them out of their heads. Immortals think too much about themselves.”

 

“You know, the electrician will have to be accounted for.”

 

“Like everything else Mrs. Jelly. He would no doubt be compensated upon.” Jack swung around.

 

“But in the meantime,” Jack murmured. “Who’s next Mrs. Jelly?” Jack looked up, as he folded the tattered blindfold into the recesses of his coat and gathered the missiles into a valise box.

 

He would give them back on The Next Appointment.

 

“Ah, that would be…A Mister Dignity, followed by Miss Pride and then…”

 

A rumble of a groan echoed through the doorways of Doctor J and Associates.

 

“Busy week doctor. I felt it in the air this morning.”

 

Jack nodded his head. I’m getting too old for this.