Just finished Martin Amis' Money today. Another paragraph I want to share:

When I watch the ads on the television I feel nausea, right in my soft core. TV being here, TV being the religion, the mystical part of ordinary minds, I don't want to be working in this sensitive area, I don't want to be selling it things. If we all downed tools and joined hands for ten minutes and stopped believing in money, then money would no longer exist. We never will, of course. Maybe money is the great conspiracy, the great fiction. The great addiction too: we're all addicted and we can't break the habit now. There's not even anything very twentieth century about it, except the disposition. You just can't kick it, that junk, even if you want to. You can't get the money monkey off your back.

It is interesting too, because BT and I just talked about the evilness of his job - he makes commercials - in relation to capitalism, and here you get to see him disparaging his job.

Whenever I ask my mom if she wants to have her meal, she likes to say, "If I eat, then I eat; if I don't eat, then I don't eat."

I hate people who are the beneficiaries of a university education. I hate people with degrees, O-Levels, eleven-pluses, Iowa Tests, shorthand diplomas … And you hate me, don’t you. Yes you do. Because I’m the new kind, the kind who has money but can never use it for anything but ugliness. To which I say: You never let us in, not really. You might have thought you let us in, but you never did. You just gave us some money.

– Martin Amis, Money

Strangely,

December suddenly sees

Stories swelling the page

Monotone

I feel restless. It makes me feel uneasy, because I wish to do work but can't. I am unable to concentrate and therefore will not get any work done. Whenever this happens, I try to distract myself with TV, the Internet. I try to find someone whom I can chat with. To while away the time. So that when I look at the clock, it is time for bed. Then I won't have to worry about not having done the work. I can go to sleep.

But today, I can find no distractions. I go online, log onto my chat accounts, but find no one. I check my email, and find nothing I can respond to. I send out a text message, but get no response. I am near to my death with boredom. I wish there was something I can do to make the time go by faster. I wish this will all end.

How does an atheist live with a Christian? Can they live together? I start to think of random things, things which I cannot find a solution to. Will an atheist marry a Christian? Will a Christian marry an atheist? A Christian may choose to marry an atheist because of the possibility that the atheist may one day because a Christian. An atheist who marries a Christian, will the atheist think about the possibility of the Christian giving up the faith and become an atheist? What if the atheist converts into a Christian while the Christian decides to abandon the religion. Does that mean the two of them are back to square one? No, there is a distinct change in this situation.

I sit in darkness typing out all these. All these. I have all but given up writing stories. I do not know the purpose of doing that anymore. I am turning towards poems. I am experimenting with poems, with the play of words, with wit. With humour, with irony. With the human. I wish I can stop writing, but I cannot not write. I have to write. It sustains me, makes me feel a-live. It is what keeps me here. I need to write. It is no good. There are just so many things so many distractions. I am no good. There are so many things swimming around demanding my attention. I don't know where to start. Sometimes, I feel my mind moving in this abstract random way, from left to right to left to right. It does not have a destination, it just keeps moving, and there is no focus. I just let it move. It moves, expands, contracts. It does not ask me for permission, for directions. I take a deep breath. I am still alive.

I shift from point to point. What is it that I am looking for? I try to think purposefully. There is nothing I wish to do, specifically, there is nothing there I want. I try to want something. I know there is nothing I want. I wish I can come up with something to write, something that will make me feel like this writing is worthwhile. But there is nothing. There is nothing. I don't know what else I can do. I have tried everything. Everything. There is nothing. There is nothing I can do. I can do nothing. What is the purpose of all this? What am I hoping that I will find?

I look out the window and I see light. The light is coming from the corridor. I cannot turn the light off. It turns itself off in the morning. Before the sunlight comes up. It turns off before we get out of the house to work, to school. It is always switched on at night. I wish I can turn the light off. I look out the window, and I can see darkness afar. Everything is eaten up by darkness, there are shadows everywhere. The air is still, very still. I take a deep breath. The air does not have a smell. It is hard to pay attention to the details in the air because of my restlessness. I wish there is something I can do to make myself less uncomfortable. I am breathing in a short, shallow way. I want to take deep breaths, but my breathing is very shallow. I can feel myself getting tired, my brain getting slower. I wish I can stay clear. There is no focus, except this piece of writing that I am doing. What is good is that I can pay attention to what I am doing, even though I may not like it. I can pay attention, and that is all I need to know.

There is no need to pretend. Just let it out. I am feeling restless. There is nothing I can do. I wish I can do something to make it better. I wish I can feel better, but I cannot. I can only focus and think about something else. I distract myself to feel better, but the distraction makes me uncomfortable. I wish I was someone else.

These ducks are not mine

Some humour for midweek. ;>

The sunflower was not expecting to be plucked when it got plucked. A hand swooped down and dispossessed it from its former spot, where it was previously, in all manner of associations a very prim and proper sunflower, with the exact hue, height and posture that flaunted the noble sap that ran through its veins. It shed a few florets to show its displeasure, but its new human bearer hardly noticed.

The girl in question - on appearance frivolous and blithe - traipsed along with a slight trot every other step, waving the sunflower in one hand like a windmill and humming a tuneless tune. She swatted a bee, sending it spiraling to certain doom, and took out a tribe of ants on her 155th and 156th step without as much as batting a lash.

Right across the street, a family of ducks sat watching.

The girl reached the junction and paused, dangling the sunflower dangerously close to the dusty road. The sunflower was, at this point, too bruised and winded to care if it would bite the dust. At the heart of its receptacle it bore a deep wish to die from the dizzying humiliation. In the nearest bush, it could hear the violets scoffing.

She crossed the road, casting her blue eyes left but neglecting to look right, nearly causing a collision. The girl brushed her frock and continued on.

The ducks still sat watching.

The girl passed the family of ducks, in her unhurried and looping manner, golden locks glinting and bouncing on her brown shoulders. She turned a corner and walked towards a candy shop, tossing the exhausted sunflower on the wayside.

Stopping before the glass display, she gazed longingly at a chocolate pony decked out in sugar and caramel. Then turned to walk into the shop.

“Sorry miss, but pets are not allowed,” said the smiling lady.
“Pets?” said the girl.
“Pets.” said the smiling lady.

She turned her pretty blonde head to the ground near her feet, and saw eight sets of gleaming eyes staring back.

“But, these ducks are not mine,” she said, and took a few steps forward. The ducks trooped along behind her, as if on cue.

“Well, they certainly look like they are,” said the smiling lady.
“They’re not!” said the girl, curling her fists in a petulant display of rage. The smile lost a few watts.

“You’re not coming in, not with your ducks following,” said the lady.
“THESE DUCKS ARE NOT MINE,” shrieked the little banshee.

On the grass patch outside the shop, the dying sunflower smiled as it saw a world where little flower-plucking girls were eaten by sunflowers, and where violets were fawning slaves with no leaves or petals.

Outside the candy shop, the mini tempest in golden locks screamed and stomped, warranting a weather alert of an abrupt change in climate. But no matter how she huffed, and puffed, the lady – now scowling – just wouldn’t let her in.

The ducks stood, watching.

Now a nice shade of beet, the girl had lost all desire for the candied pony and decided to walk on. In the opposite direction, an equally haughty spawn of humankind came traipsing with a mini French poodle.

“Ooooh,” said the spawn,
“Ooooh,” said the girl.

“I see you have managed to beg your mother for some pets of your own,” snickered the spawn.
“What bollocks!” said the girl.

“These ducks,” drawled the snickering spawn.
“These DUCKS are NOT MINE,” the girl punctuated.

“Says you,” continued the spawn.
“Says true,” continued the girl.

“I’m going to tell the whole class,” sneered the spawn, and traipsed onward, dragging her whimpering French poodle in tow.

The ducks stood, watching. Four decided to follow the spawn, while four stood behind the girl, now sporting a shade darker than beet.

She spun around on them.

“What’s wrong with you,” shrieked the girl, “why are you following me and, and pretending to be my pets and, and making me lose my candy, and, and…” she stopped, to see a crowd gathering.

Talking to ducks, she must be out of her mind, said someone.
What an ugly face she has, said another.
I ashamed to say I actually know her mother, said a woman.

The ducks sat, and continued watching.

The girl flounced on the grass and bawled. And as each tear fell, she realized with awful displeasure that the crowd had increased in number and the talk had grown to chatter. The stares were all disapproving and she wasn’t going to get anywhere with her tantrum.

Finally, glad with their handiwork the ducks got up and made their way back to their usual spot.

They looked across the street at the sunflowers waving their heads in the sun. They nestled themselves in the grass and breathed in the sweet scent as bees pollinated violets.

In the distance they saw the rest of their family waddling back. They couldn’t wait to hear their story.

voice

There's an overwhelming darkness in the room.

The door was painted black, the walls were black, there was no light source, nothing capable of reflection. Even when the single table lamp with the white bulb was switched on, there were shadows everywhere, so one could hardly see. The unkempt bedsheets on the queen size bed looked unwashed and unhygienic. A stale cigarette stench hanged in the air. Bottles and cups of unfinished liquids of an un-ascertainable quality strewn on the floor. Syringes stuck upside down. And there there were the ashed stained floors, where cigarettes were snuffed out, as if this was an ash tray, or a public street (the writer here hopes the reader recognises that snuffing out a cigarette on a public street may be illegal (and yet common) while doing it to your own floor is entire legal (and yet incomprehensible)). C sat up and thought, what the hell was he still doing here. His sinuses were inflamed. His body was aching. And beyond the horrible air, his inflamed sinuses, he could smell himself and he smelled terrible.

Disgusted. he sat up and coughed, and caught his spit with his hands, instinctively afraid it would soil his T-shirt. Then he flung the phlegm on the floor. Fuck. Somewhere outside, he heard a horn and jumped. He could make out traffic noise so it must be day outside. He needed to get out of there, he thought. Where the hell were the police?

Sixteen months ago, and he knew the precise date because it was new year's eve, he acquired the services of a Vietnamese prostitute, whose name C forgotten, for sexual pleasure. The reader would recognise, and C himself does not use the word 'sex' because sex is somewhat a narrow definition of what services C sought when engaging a prostitute.

At the end of the session (and the reader should note the use of the euphemism), C tipped heavily, and they left the room together. She, the prostitute, crossed the road, and C saw her passed 50 dollars to another girl - who C then presumed was another prostitute, and he learnt later was named, Michelle. Michelle. The question for C now was, if he knew what was going to happen to him, would C still have approached her? Was her beauty worth it?

Michelle was what C would simply describe as gorgeous. Thick long black flowing hair beyond her shoulders. Amazing complexion - light beige skin - and you can't tell whether she was Chinese, Vietnamese, or Eurasian. C guessed, optimistically, Chinese, and was wrong. She was tall (about 175cm) and her long black skirt concealed her undoubtedly long legs. And although she was slim, C could tell from her relatively wide shoulders and those curved hips, that she epitomises the golden ratio. She was also pretty - a long face, with a small chin. Her forehead was about one third of the length of her face, her eyebrows were plucked thin and symmetrical, her round eyes shone with energy and her perfect little nose in its proper place about two thirds from the middle of her hair line. C could remember exactly how she looked like from across the street. She was smiling, her smile framed by full lips, showing only a perfect row of upper teeth.

[to be continued (as usual - probably not going to happen)]

visit to a bookshop

Today, I visited a bookshop "Du Yi Bookshop" because my girlfriend needed to buy some highlighters. It has been a long time since my last visit to a bookshop, and i realised that the bookshop is dying.

Bookshops, to a reader, invoke a special kind of emotion. A fellow worshipper of books would understand - a bookshop was like a church. You know, sacred grounds. You expected something of it. It had to feel right, honest. It must celebrate the right books. It must not stray away too much from its core purpose - not too much stationary and not too much music cds - otherwise it becomes a stationary shop, a music cd shop. And it should attract the right people. Well, the people who deep down truly love to read - let's just call them "readers".

When I was a kid, i made it clear to my parents I preferred to sit in a bookshop to read than to accompany them shopping. So after noticing that i was serious, whatever mall it was that we visited that weekend, the bookshop became the babysitter. My parents would deposit me at the bookshop, told me they be back at a particular time and then i sat down to read waiting to be collected. So you see, I was born a reader. And then I started having those headaches which kept me at home. So, what else could I do, I started reading almost all the time till the headaches were gone (surgery, long story). That was when i read my favourite book. Its called The Count of Mount Cristo. Like re-watching my favourite movies, I still re-read it once a while. So it was to my sheer delight that in one of my favourite movies, V for Vendetta, the character V mentioned that the movie adaptation of the Count of Mount Cristo was his favourite film. This may come across rather nerdy, but that realisation made me very happy. So, you can see I did read religiously, seriously and without much regard as to taste.

Anyway, I do digress. I was just sharing my story as a reader growing up.

As I grew up, I learnt that there were differences between bookshops. There was Popular - a mass market bookshop whose focus appeared to be textbooks and children books. Up one rank was Borders - which by allowing the reader to read in the bookshop - suggested to me that Borders believed reading was more important than profits (which of course made me buy more books) - and hence superior. Then there are the greats - two of which i had the fortune to visit - City Light Books in San Francisco and Shakespeare & Company in Paris. They were meeting points for great writers and were physical spaces where important (literary and otherwise) events happened. They were places where, if a bookshop was a church, they were the cathedrals.

But the end is near and today, as I stood outside "Du Yi Bookshop" (which replaced Popular), I no longer see a bookshop. I also realised that it is happening everywhere. The signs are obvious. Borders closed. People reading kindle on the trains. Most of the space at bookshops cater to textbooks or stationary. The signs are for all to see - the bookshop is dying. At the rational level, I recognise that because the book is digitised (and hence, pirated), book sales must have plummeted and this was inevitable. It would be too expensive to distribute and market books that not enough people read. Successful bookshops today must sell stationary, textbooks, best sellers and magazines to survive. But yet, I can't help a feel a sense of loss - perhaps its nostalgia i feel.