Oh gods I’ve been horrendously bad at my writing/blogging schedule for the new year haven’t I? Apologies for that. Bunch of habit-changing rituals have gotten in the way ya’ see? For one thing, I’ve just made the full switch to me MacBook recently, so I’ve been adjusting to this whole new experience with important existential questions such as: OMG how come no backspace buuttoon? Why my shortcut keys no work? Programme why you no full close? etc.

Also, I’ve just started school. So yippee, I’ve been busy doing life drawings of cubes, spheres and cylinders. So much to draw, so little time.

And then of course, this year’s CNY decided to pop up in January. So, the water dragon’s been keeping me busy with chatting up relatives from a distant universe. I hate familial legacy. Seriously. It’s just. Awkward. Catching up. With people. People; you’re supposed to know but you don’t really know cause we’re not really a family (and even “being family” isn’t a straight link to “why, I outta know everything and anything about you”) but we’re still “a family” so we go round exchanging limp handshakes and congratulating ourselves that we didn’t fucking die for another year and HOORAY FOR EVERYONE.
At least there’s bak kwa.
And pineapple tarts.
To ease the ORDEAL OF FOREVER PAIN AND SOCIAL ANGUISH ARGHHHH.

Anyway. We should be slowing easing our ways to updating The Society now that there’s some sound structural foundation back in our lives. School term gets into full swing in a week’s time, we’ve identified most of the Novel’s main characters, and our body’s mostly recovered from the Europe trip (I’ve been nursing a terrible shoulder tear for the past few months). Life’s on track to finally being “productive” again. Whatever that means. Oh look, a pineapple tart! God I love pineapple tarts…om nom nom nom…

In terms of genres, it’ll be a Singapore/an-based fantasy thing, with bits of Gaiman and Pratchett and Adrian Tan interwoven in it. There’ll be stuff about hidden places and forgotten streets and old deities. There’ll be other stuff about constructed mythologies and historical legacies. It’ll be funny, violent and melancholic. It’ll be about love, lost and found. Probably.

In terms of timelines, I’m hoping to get most of the outline out by February, before writing the main parts by the end of the year. Hopefully, I’ll be done with a first draft in a year’s time, and fine tune it from thereafter. There might be illustrations.

I’ll probably self publish once it’s done, but we’ll see how it goes.

So yes.

Here we go, trudging tall mountains and crossing mighty river streams again. Once more, into the storm, we charge. Cha cha cha.

When the first travelers came on their giant ship,
they brought with them their weapons and their faith.
They had no provisions, however,
nor shelter from the coming winter.
So we fed and cared for them,
and they were
thankful.

The alien men soon tried teaching their ways to us,
and we obliged and reciprocated,
both in fear and in curiosity.
We learnt their language,
and they spoke ours.
They were pilgrams from far away,
who had came across a storm from the heavens.
Over food and wine, they sang songs from home,
and cried bitterly over their unintended
banishment.

Soon they announced that other ships would arrive,
to which we waited in dread.
For now we realized that they had also brought their diseases,
and their corruption upon our lands.
We knew not how to turn them
away.

We died in our thousands,
in the years ahead,
as they came and landed on our shores,
and took from us all we had.
Our skins boiled under the sun,
our children massacred,
our women raped,
our gods
forsaken.

Violence for the masses,
death to the rest.
In this grandiose casino royale,
of mutilated cards and bloodshot poker chips,
the House always
loses.

–

“We only have to look at ourselves to see how intelligent life might develop into something we wouldn’t want to meet. I imagine they might exist in massive ships, having used up all the resources from their home planet. Such advanced aliens would perhaps become nomads, looking to conquer and colonize whatever planets they can reach.

If aliens ever visit us, I think the outcome would be much as when Christopher Columbus first landed in America, which didn’t turn out very well for the American Indians.”
- Stephen Hawking

Everyone is silent. Then, a soft applause cascades across the seated audience. It seemed to all, that it was a good tale to bring the curtains down on. The Last Story bows, and exits the stage, left.

(Interval)

In the wings, the First Story of the Year begins fidgeting his buttons. “You’re going to be alright, son,” says the Matron quietly, as she dusts invisible spiders off his suit. “Just say your lines like we rehearsed. You’ll do splendidly.” In the pits, the violinists begin tuning their instruments, a starting signal for all to assume their seats once more. Here and there, whisperings, murmurings. “I heard he’s a pipsqueak little fellow.” “Size doesn’t matter Henry, it’s all in the telling.” “From what I heard, boy was brought up in…” “Goes to show it takes all types these days.” “Doesn’t know a thing about idioms, quite peculiar…” “We’ll know soon enough Abigail, we’ll know soon enough.”

(Spotlight)

A small, scrawny thing walks up to join the lonely microphone stand, on stage, centre. A spattering of claps. A cough is heard from the back. The man-boy looks terrified in the spotlight, as though in front of a firing squad. In the wings, he makes out the blurred eager face of the Matron, urging him to go on. He begins fidgeting his buttons. And then he sees her in the audience. Left aisle, middle section, fourth row. She notices, smiles and nods. It makes things all better, suddenly, like morning sunrays on crumpled bed sheets, like falling raindrops across reflective windows, like gentle waves along undulating vast oceans. The First Story of the Year clears his throat. And then, he speaks.

(Act I)

He was born premature, and like all things borne before their scheduled prime, remained a smallish and insignificant figure, slipping in and out of the corners of the world at large. It mattered little, that his mother and sisters loved him so, and treated him with great kindness and gentleness, for his father had taken him to the front porch one mid autumn’s night, when the harvest moon was bright and the evening was still warm, and spoke the truth to him. “You were adopted. Someone had placed you on this porch, and we took you in the best we could. I’m sorry son, but it seems your life will be one presented with unfulfilled wantings and erstwhile futilities. For this, you must be steadfast, Patience. All good things come to those who await their turn.” With that, his father shook his hair, leaving it in a tangled mess.

So Patience waited. He waited at bus stops, and at train stations. He waited in lines and queues. And he waited for things to come his way, for people to stop by, to say hello, and to follow through.

One summer’s afternoon, as hot showers pitter-pattered away on the tiled roofs and manicured grass, young Patience, who was quietly waiting in the kitchen, noticed someone across the backyard in the northern overgrowth waving to him. It was a young redheaded girl in a purple raincoat and bright yellow Wellingtons. Pat waved back in response and in return, the girl beckoned for Pat to come out. Young Patience considered this with a pause, before shaking his head vigorously and going backwards, indoors.

(Act II)

For years onwards, Patience would think about the girl in the forest, of what could have or could not have been, if he had followed her through the woods. He could not say what exactly had kept him from stepping out that afternoon, only that upfront hesitation and obtuse cautiousness would forever seem as immediate and comfortable enough answers to his life’s manifold questions as anything else. Still, the redhead girl would always remain at the back of his mind, as Patience grew up and moved on.

By now, Patience was alone. His mother had fell sick one winter’s night, and he had taken care of her until her last days. His father’s funeral soon followed; the candlelight of his life extinguished and gone. Patience watched in silence as they scattered brown earth and dark soil onto the lowered coffin. He took over guardianship of his sisters, who eventually met boys who became lovers, and then husbands, and whose life paths would take them far away from their only brother. Sometimes, Patience felt the loneliness of being too small.

It was on a Sunday morning that Patience saw the girl again. This time, the rain clouds had passed, their last remnants hung tethered to the sky, casting trivial shadows across the weed-ridden yard. Patience was in the area, gathering old memories and picking up lost mail, when he had decided to wander to his family’s old house once more, and to look out the kitchen window, across the backyard. She was all grown up now, but had kept to her yellow Wellingtons. And she was still waving excitedly when she caught his eye. This time, he walked out.

(Act III)

The girl said nothing at first, but smiled a nice smile, a warm one; one that invited Patience to follow her through the green wood paths and azure river streams beyond. The cold air smelled of freshly fallen rain. Onwards she led him, until they had come to a clearing of old rock-stumps, worn-out and smooth from weather and age. Twelve rocks arranged in a circle. She had noticed his quizzical look, and spoke words of calmness to him. “You are safe here, Patience.” Her voice, a reverberating song of clarity. And from the other paths, the other creatures emerged.

A centaur. A griffin. A wyvern. A hippogriff. A minotaur. A peacock. A centipede. A basilisk. A raven. A unicorn.

“He’s bigger than I expected,” observed the centaur in his low, husk voice. “And less hairy too,” noted the raven, as she inspected Patience incredulously. Patience stared back. “Where am I?” he asked the girl, who had now taken her place on the circle stones with the others. “Ah, introductions, the most beautiful part. My name is Ériu, of the elves. And these friends,” indicating the row of seated creatures, “are delighted to meet you, Patience…of the dwarves.”

(Act IV)

Patience sat very still, as he waited and listened. “We tell stories,” begun Ériu. “Each, taking our turn.” Quietly, like the waning sunlight, her gentle voice faded into a soft murmur…
Some stories have Hope (Griffin scratched its wings); others have Despair (Basilisk rattled its tail). In the end, they are all human stories. Each, a unique tale unto itself, embodying all the cosmic qualities bestowed upon the human-folk. “Bloodlust,” cried Minotaur; “Peace,” sang Peacock. The tales we tell echo throughout history, and are repeated each second, every hour, every day, every…moment. Do you understand this?

Patience considered this with a pause, and he nodded.

(Act V)

With twilight shining through the silhouetted trees, the storytellers gathered themselves. Wyvern started the fire in the middle of the circled stones, and Centaur blew the Horn of Ramiel. Unicorn neighed a tale of Joy, and Raven cawed a parable of Caution. And then Centipede shook his many legs, and indicated that it was time for a story from the elvenfolk, to which Ériu bowed humbly and begun a rhyme of Reason and Reflection.

She hymned about an abandoned prince who was lost in the rain but was found in the sun, and who grew up in waiting and in wanting. He, who took his time with everything, appreciating the passing of life and hopes and dreams; he, who had dedicated a portion of his soul and spirit to the care of his adopted family; and he, who remained, throughout it all…immovably, patient.

Soon it was all over, and everything was quiet. For awhile, the air of expectation drifted amongst the crackling firewood and smoking darkness. Patience stood up on his rock, and cleared his throat. And then, he told a story of passing Transience.

(End)

The First Story of the Year stares blankly for a moment, into the abyss of still faces. Someone starts to clap. Then, they all stand in unison. The hall is filled with thunderous applause. “Bravo!” Someone cries. “Bloody good,” says the Matron to a stagehand. The First Story takes a step back, and bows. In the audience, a redheaded woman in yellow Wellington boots blows a kiss at him. And he smiles back. Left aisle, middle section, fourth row.

A cigarette is struck; a smoke is taken. A deep, quiet thunder rolls in the distance. Around, there is nothing but soft darkness, and the fading afterglow of the dwindling stick of slow death being sucked in, and out. It is all night-quiet. And then a soft sigh.
“This is no heaven,” says a voice, low and husk.
“Yes, I could tell,” responds another. “I figured from the row of severed heads on spikes along the gate.”
“A delightful decoration choice, from last October’s makeover resolutions,” comments the first voice.
“Stupefying dreadful, to say the least.”
“You’ll be one for observing tastes and tenures, Jack. After what you did to Belphegor at the sails.” The low voice is now accompanied by an encumbered movement. Something large rises, casting heavy shadow upon open shade. And then, lightning flashes.

“Looking good there ‘bub,” says Jack, finishing off the cigarette in hand and immediately pulling out a stick of gum. A force of habit.
The Lord Beelzebub eyes the gum chewing man in front of him with feigned interest, stretching his elongated bat wings above and beyond. “There is no business for you here, immortal. State your purpose, or leave this realm of ruin.”
At this, a gold coin is produced and tossed in the air. For a moment, it hangs suspended, before being snatched hungrily by the large monstrous hand of the demon prince.
“Recognise the sigil? Pretty rare stuff, if I do say so myself. And I’m saying it, quite directly…to you.”
Beelzebub inspects the tiny element between his talons. “It is a pretty thing indeed. A remnant of forgone human destruction and despair. Curiosity thus beckons. Tell me immortal what barter do you seek, for this nugget of lavish currency?”
“The prodigal treasures of Atlantis were a bitch to find. Still, I’ve noticed your insectoid buddies along the way. You know what I’m after ‘bub. Tell me what I need to know, before I split your fuck face in half.” Jack blows a gum bubble. It pops.
The Lord of Flies laughs, a rambling crackle of undertones which shakes the ground. “True! True! That is what they say of the nefariously nimble and quick witted Jack, who seeks entry to the Lady Desire’s heart of hearts – you are one for the keeping immortal, and one day, we shall claim your old, old soul. Still, this compact is agreed upon, for now. So listen carefully: the key to Desire’s heart lies along Lucifer’s path of limbo, inside his Demented Tree of Beautiful Agony. There, twelve demon dogs and the twin siblings of Chaos and Order guard the artefact in question. My minions tell me you have already lost precious time in Oz Land. And so an offering is proffered…” A blackish stub is produced to Jack, who eyes it in silence.

“You may reach the outer walls by Babylonian candle. All I humbly ask for in return, is a favour owed. Immortal, are we in accord? If so, then if you will…
Jack be nimble
Jack be quick
Jack jump over
the candle stick.”

It is inconsequential whether the reckless behaviours of tomorrow will result in your indefinite incarceration at the Self-Imploding Asylum of Youth, but we just thought you should know: No one really tells you about what to expect when you turn 27. I’m here to rectify that.

Welcome to your late twenties. By now, you would’ve gotten your degree/diploma, experienced the capitalist workplace in its crude entirety, had your heart broken and kissed your virginity away. Be prepared. Soon, your friends would start getting married, declaring their HDB ballots, and saving up for their first child. Technology will no longer seem so familiar, fashion trends no longer make much sense, and you don’t know the lyrics of the Top 40 charts. Your body gets tired easily, and you’re sleeping in more. You’ll start getting sick more often than expected.

Still. Congratulations for staying alive this far. By now you would’ve attended the funeral of a contemporary, felt poignant at a relative’s wake, and watched them cremate someone close with questionable indifference. Your parents no longer hold Infinite Power over you; instead going out with them pretty much feels like you’re herding a crowd of waddling ducks. If you have siblings, you’ll start losing contact with them, as you get progressive busy building your own “life”.

Your life is probably the most organized its ever been. You know where your shit is, you know that you need more exercise/sleep/sex, you know how many books you read this year. You scrutinize the news more often than before, and the weather suddenly seems like the best topic to go to when you meet new people (which is surprising, since you come from Singa-bloody-pore). You’ll have an intricate knowledge of what you like, and what you dislike. You’ll know which alcohol to order, what McDonald’s food item you’re craving for, and who you don’t really want to hang out with. You’ll know exactly where you want to go for that next trip overseas (to escape from it all), and what you need for your diminishing wardrobe.

Still. I’m fairly certain you’ll be mildly satisfied with what you’ve accomplished thus far. You’ll look ahead and think: there’s still so much more to do. There is.

But you’re feeling sleepy, so maybe that can wait awhile. And before you know it, you’re in your thirties already. Oh. shit.

The woman in the brown hijab finishes processing my travel insurance claim by stapling the stack of papers before us with a casual compression of her robotic fingers. “Thank you for your time. Sir, would there be any other transactions for today?” She stares directly pass my head and asks me in the monotone droid voice she’s been using for the past ten minutes. I pause to contemplate:

Why yes, as a matter of fact. If you don’t mind me saying, you seem quite dead today (as if you were say, a melancholic mindless zombie, ahahaha.) Truth be told, you look like you might need a break. Hey, I know! You wanna hear a disgusting short story I’d just come up with? Come on, I’m sure you’d love it:

It’s a story about mankind’s first terraforming mission to Mars and its lone astronaut explorer who has an excessive masturbation habit. After several months of cultivating the planet, the astronaut begins to be haunted by an unknown force. It’s finally revealed that he’s being attacked by an amalgamated analog of his forays into the wank shed – a giant thick, creamy, blob of mutated sperm reaching out to its creator, only to smoulder him with its own vacuous nature. Eventually, the slippery filthy thing sets a course for earth, intent on consuming everyone with its terrorizing tentacles of lost semen.

Oh come now: It’s not Asimov but at least I satisfied myself whilst waiting for my number. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

By the time you read this, I would’ve killed a
nother man already and left his decaying corpse in the at
tick tocking away together with the rest of
the sinners who inhabit this lonely street
of fragile decomposing death and dread.

-

The Bishop prays to Heaven for hope
lessness; on behalf of the hopefull. He does not hold
on to the dissent of the laymen; but instead
clings steadfast to the institutionalized dispersion
of desires and dreams.
The truth is most disappointing; in the end,
all is lost.

-

“Trip of a lifetime, delights from beyond”
but buyer beware of empty promises from
the Sisters of House 27 who will tempt
you with their platitudes and prospectus of
pleasures yet untold. Do not be fooled.
They panegyrize with purpose.
The Pimp Warlord XXX harbours a most particular
collection of lost penises kept in black cigar cases.
Their foreskins wither away as he exhales with gusto
the sonorous gratification of once hopeful customers,
now: “transaction cancelled due to unforeseen technical
circumstances”.

I started writing a story about a Russian mime artist placating a group of invading hyper-intelligent lizards from the future, but I gave up after a hard hour of trying to emotionalize it. Sometimes some stories don’t work. Specifically, ones that involve glorified descriptions of tragic mime scenes.

Anyhoot. It’s been raining a fair bit here in sunny Singapore, which begs the response: Heng I not working for PUB siah! It is November after all, the time of O and A levels, of melancholic nostalgia and the ever traditional “WTH how come so fast got Christmas tree liao?” exclamations along Orchard Road.

A year back I was more or less resolved to get my frazzled and fatigued butt out of work, and a year later, here I am, well rested, completely relaxed and feeling darn Zen about life. A colleague of mine had remarked “You know, you’ll only get bored 5 weeks into it. You’ll wanna find work afterwards”. Well, now. I’m happy to report that it’s been 5 months into my unemployment, and I’m still excited that I don’t have to wake up at 7 in the morning in terrible panic of the day’s work ahead; and I’m still bloody thankful to be not sleeping at fucking 2 in the morning rushing PowerPoint slides. Today’s big announcement on that drop in civil service bonus this year? Icing on the cake lah brother. Heng I not working for gahmen anymore siah!

Now then, back to more writing about imaginary space beings, robot monsters and disco agogo occultists. You know, the important stuff. Let’s go Rescue Rangers!