Syllable stress

Robert Frost said writers in English have a choice between two meters: strong iambic and weak iambic.

I guess readers in English only have those two choices, as well.

Syllable stress.

Conversation with a mat

It's a single-deck bus, so the seats fill up pretty quickly. An ITE mat takes the space beside me and bobs his head. "Sorry ah."

"It's okay." I say, bobbing in kind,  and readjust my earphones. 

He says something, and I remove them again. "Sorry?"

"Poly?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Temasek." 

"Oh."

I plug the phones back in. A minute later, he says something again, and I have to remove them. 

"What's your name?"

I tell him. 

"Oooh.. style ah. You Chinese?"

"Half. Eurasian Chinese."

"Oh... good what... Eurasian... like special ah. Like, different from everybody else lah... how does it feel to be Eurasian?"

"Um... yeah." I'm at a loss for words. "Um...." I smile brightly at him and fiddle with my earphones. I'd been looking forward to reading my notes during the long ride, or taking a nap, and I agonized in silent yearning. 

"How old are you?" He asks.

"Nineteen. You?"

"One year younger."

I nod awkwardly and try to look approving. "I see."

He lowers his voice. "So you single or attached?"

"Attached."

He pauses. "Your boyfriend in your poly?"

"No, he's working."

"How long already both of you?"

"About.. eight months." I smile again, and look down at my lap. An uncomfortable silence ensues.

"Sorry ah, just asking ah, 'cos I bored ah... sit next to someone, if can chat then chat ah... unless they like fucker act seh like that ah."

"Erm." I say, and chew on my lower lip. "Yeah." I try to look sympathetic. 

"If like those kind of people then I don't talk ah... don't wanna talk also ah... I don't like ah, people give me attitude like they very big ah. I always go out with my brothers ah, just cil cil (chill chill) only ah, then some people not happy ah, then got fight ah."

"I see."

"So what your hobby?"

"I read," I say, and think sadly about my assignments and deadlines. "And go out with friends."

"Club?"

"Yeah."

"This Saturday I going Dbl O with my brothers ah. You want to go?"

"I don't think so... I'm very, very busy these days, got a lot of assignments."

"Okay." He bobs his head. "Now every time I go club sure piang one." He sees the confusion on my face and explains. "Piang ah. You know what's that? Means fight ah." 

"Oh. How come?"

"'Cos I play shirt one ah, then other shirt and mine like, always piang one ah. Like I play 369 ah, so other like 08, 303, 21, 18, 24, Omega, if we see each other, we just langa ah. In club is always like me and my brothers just cil cil ah, slack, then some Chinese fucker push my ginna ah. First few times I say never mind ah, just cil ah. But they want to find trouble you know! So we say go outside settle ah. Then they always lose ah, cos we always bring weapon what." 

"Oh... wow. Okay." 

"Ya ah. Where got go clubbing don't bring weapon one right? Siao ah."

I can't believe I'm having this conversation. "Yeah," I say, somewhat emphatically. Going clubbing without weapons? What a laughable notion. Of course we need weapons in clubs. In fact, clubs should probably supply them at the door. 

"Actually shouldn't play shirt ah. I regret ah..."

I've given up fiddling with the earphones; they're hanging limply around my neck now, and I can hear strains of Trentemøller, and am torn between getting off the bus to escape him, or continung the conversation. I opt for the latter.

"Then why don't you quit?" 

"Okay lah... because you want to leave, got a few ways lah... open table, drop money, or let all your brothers - more than 100 - whack you ah."

"What do you mean, open table?"

"Means you invite all your boss to sit down and talk ah... then they order alcohol... a lot ah... and food... whatever they want ah. Then you must pay all ah. Very expensive. Then another way is just pay money ah, like $3690, or $369, or something ah... must be like, 369 ah."

"Oh."

"Ya... anyway... play shirt, better don't be so frenetic ah. Not good ah. But that's me lah. I play shirt since Sec 1 already. Last time always kena push by like Chinese ah, until one day I fight back ah.. then after that I never stop already. Now if piang, someone give me a few punches ah, I don't give them punches back ah. I make sure they go hospital."

Oh shit, I think. "Wow."

"Ya... always when piang with other shirt ah. Always when I just go out with my brothers and cil, slack ah. Then another shirts will come ah, and give us that look ah, like bastard sial, then surely one of them will ask ah, "You where one?" Then the other person will say, "You doneed to know I where one." Then will ask again ah, "You where one?" Then if the other person stupid enough to say, like, "I 24 Ang Kun one", then I 369, so can langa ah." 

"So what about girls?"

"Girls also I whack ah."

My eyes widen. "But.. you do?"

"Ya lah. As long as someone touch you first, you can touch them back what. I cil cil only then they wanna come and give me a fucker face, then touch me, I just touch back ah! No matter is girl, boy, gay or lesbian. As long as they touch first."

"Oh. So what kind of weapons do you use?"

"Got a few ah. Parang, chopper, brass knuckle..." 

"Have you ever had a police case?"

"Ya. I go boy's home before also. I slash one fucker ah then I go in. Two years plus." He gives me a careless grin.

"So far got all the case ah. Except murder. Soon ah." He chuckles. My expression at this point is totally "o_o".

"Anyway I going now. Eh, you take care ah!" He leaves as suddenly as he'd arrived. 

I spend the rest of the ride thinking about him and his future. One day he's going to end up in prison, or murdered, or both, and it won't matter who his brothers are, or the weapons he used to carry, or the tales of his glory. He'll just be dead, and someone else will take his place, and it will be just like he never existed, except for the lives he'd caused irreparable damage to. 

Fast cars, broken hearts

"You're like a Lamborghini," he says, with a self-mocking smile. "Beautiful, sexy... and high-maintenance."

And I love him hard at that moment. I love him with everything I have. And I leave.

Confucius and panties

Some time ago in the office, while rocking in my chair and failing magnificently at stifling the guffaws bubbling in my throat, I emailed the source of my amusement to Paul: a link to a list of Confucius jokes.

The following is an excerpt of the subsequent chat he had with his colleague.

11:46 Paul Confucius say: panties not best thing on earth, but next to it.

11:46 Kim wtf are you talking about?

11:57 Paul I would have thought that was blindingly obvious.

11:58 Kim 'fraid not

12:00 Paul should I put it all in caps for you?

12:01 Kim i don't really see how that will help

12:01 Kim maybe you can try paraphrasing

12:03 Paul Panties are not the best thing on earth...I think that's pretty clear.

12:03 Paul They're next to it.

12:04 Paul Um. What are panties next to?

12:04 Kim what exactly are 'panties', in this context?

12:04 Paul Well, if I had to guess, I'd say Confucious was talking about pussy.

12:04 Paul http://www.chambersharrap.co.uk/chambers/features/chref/chref.py/main?query=panties&title=21st

12:05 Kim children, eh?

12:05 Paul oh ffs

Such an endearing man, Kim.

Another note to self

You must remember this:

The first rule of every relationship is to keep in mind that we are all too human, and therefore all too fallible, no matter how in love you are, no matter how perfect the other seems, no matter how confident or insecure you are. We all succumb and we all lie, lust, hate and envy as deeply as we love, as brightly and honestly as we smile and sigh.

Be happy in your love, but don’t be complacent, and don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re so special, you can stop someone’s world. Because the truth is that you can wreck someone’s life for a while, but people move on and leave nasty memories behind. You are not the One. There is no One. You could be a little tuft of that shaggy candyfloss cloud of idealistic bliss, but you are not the epitome of perfection, so don’t be surprised by human fallibility when it confronts you and fails to manifest itself in the form of a vulnerable wretch at your ankles, pleading for some attention. 

Do not enter a romantic relationship expecting to be cheated on or treated like piss, but do not assume that henceforth your company will be the most appealing, your face and physique the most desirable, or your happiness the most valuable prospect. It doesn’t work that way. Get over it. Be happy in your own company. Delight in others, but love yourself best.

Unmasked

In a surprising turn of events, the plagiarizer has revealed himself to be someone I've known for years,  albeit not well. He's on my MSN list, and I even have his mobile number in my phone, but our relationship has always been based on the desultory cordial nod from one blogger to another. 

A few years ago, when I first started this blog, he was one of my regular readers and often expressed his admiration for good writing, and a keen interest in "writing an interesting blog" - sometimes he would ask where I get my ideas from, etc. So in hindsight, it isn't quite so surprising that it turned out to be him - I guess I just thought him above plain stealing. 

He apologised yesterday. His explanation damns more than excuses him, but it's all the closure I'm probably going to get. He's asked for me not to publicize his apology, but I think it's only fair to the other bloggers he's plagiarized - but I won't reveal his identity. So for what it's worth:

Hi,

  

From this email, you may have known that I am the very same person who plagiarised your blog. For this, I am truly sorry. I once had a blog at blogspot before. I daresay, it was quite well-received. However I got plagiarised by a few blogs who did not acknowledge me. Subsequently I closed down that blog and moved over to wordpress. Being a newbie at that time, I did not know what to do. Legal action did not even occur to me. All I did was to hurl abuse at them at their tag boxes.

So... I thought if they can plagiarise, why do I then bother to sarcrifice my brain juice penning entries? The Internet is a powerful tool. Even a 5 yr old kid can use, if taught to do so.
 
I hope you understand and forgive me for this and not publicise this. I will not lift any contents from your blog and reproduce it in any medium.

Regards,

G 

Visuals, language, thought, self-expression

Are people who are less proficient in language less self-aware? I think so - at least, it must be that way for those who think in words instead of visuals - being unable to express oneself accurately in thought must rapidly lead to a deterioration of thought, or a frustrated, inconclusive brawl. 

I wonder if they then learn to think in visuals instead, and if people who are visually-oriented less able to identify their emotions? After all, the infinitesimal fractions of every emotional twinge are most accurately described and identified using specific words - just like describing a sound using timbre, pitch, volume, etc. Could visual analogies work as effectively as language? It would be fascinating to find out - and of course it implies that different languages have different impacts on eloquence.

I think I picked up a book once at Kinokuniya on language and the brain... probably by Steven Pinker. I must remember to look it up again. 

Oh FFS

They say imitation is the best form of flattery. 

So when I was informed today by the good Mykel that several of my previous entries have been plagiarized by some anonymous cunt, I was astonished first, and then upon finding out that I wasn't the only victim - The Lakeside Girl, Tan Kok Seng, Mykel himself and several other lovely writers had their entries copied wholesale as well - I was amused and flattered. I'd probably have had more of a reaction if his blog was still up by the time I went to visit it, but he'd deleted it and fled. 

I wonder why he did it - an audience to impress? To delude himself into thinking he could write as well? More likely though, I guess he simply meant to create a kind of anthology of his favourite entries; it doesn't make the plagiarism any less contemptible, but it does make him look less pathetic.

Then thanks again to Mykel, I discover this. FFS. Entries I can understand (see mine here), but the same profile? Moootheeerfucker. 

Gripe

For fuck's sakes. Your backpack is not an excuse for you to fucking bludgeon your way ass-first through a crowded carriage at rush hour. And also all CMM juniors (except you, Kellyn darling) with your "Hey how are you, by the way can you send me a copy of your assignment from X module?" - I am not your friend. The only times you acknowledge my existence are when you want textbooks, notes, tips, a copy of my previous assignments, etc. Do us all a favour and fuck right off - there's no way I'm going to provide any help, even if I can. Assholes.