with a unicorn
while still alive
with a unicorn
while still alive
you don’t want to die
you just don’t want to live like this
you don’t want to exit
you just don’t want this stage
let me throw you
she does nothing
nothing at all
is the only reason
an angel’s trust
to win again?
a deafening thud
blow once dealt
cannot be rescinded
such horror this?
are made of folly
dear sweet angel
i have failed
This was lunch. A late lunch. At one of my favourite cafes. The whole work of art came as photographed. Not my design, but that of its creator. In the midst of making contact with this delicious looking and fragrantly enticing installation, as if by yet another cosmic libretto of tragi-comedic farce, came spears and arrows from the deep, dark, unspeakable Abyss. In real time, the Bunny’s mindscape became a multi-dimensional stage – enter the surreal hyper-real oxymoronic characters and what have you. Wagner and Artaud, do your very best yet again! (And no, sadly, I did not manage to finish my lunch.) Continue reading
Noshment. Food. Eats. Chronicles in multi sensorial paintings reflecting the intrepid travels of the Bunny.
Fried vermicelli. Soya sauce. Grease. A few sprinkles of spring onion and crispy garlic. Nothing more. Probably the worst dinner I’ve ever had at the Singapore Changi Airport. Necessity prodded the weary of body, with painful and inflamed metatarsals, hobbling like a stubbed-web penguin across the buzzing landscape of the airport. Terminal 1 is the oldest terminal, and I could see there were ongoing upgrading works everywhere. In true Singapore-glitzy manner, even the boards blocking off the renovations were painted over with murals and slogans in a somewhat supercilious-yet-clumsy way. Welcome to Singapore. Or goodbye, safe travels! In my case, Bunny needed to make this all-important working trip back to Sydney, come rain, hail, shine or arthritic inflammation. Continue reading
Grace notes occurring in the midst of forceful fury.
Overwhelmed inside churning, heaving and seething vortex of existential and corporeal torment – unrelenting in its pursuit of dignity’s destruction, unrepentant in its indecent mockery – the arhythmic pounding of crass insistence overtakes consciousness.
There, the little grace notes appear. Silent fluttering wings of delicate rectitude, without force, without rude encroachment.
Listen to the soft, gentle and sometimes whimsical intonations of clemency, and the sighs of gratitude amidst shimmering spasms of tender affliction. Continue reading
Fragmenting. Imploding fissures. Tiny… tiny… very tiny… bits of gravel… rubbing against one another… producing contrapuntal friction that even nakedness cannot hear. Yet, it is felt. Like a thunderous tsunami. The soul shudders, staring at engulfing waves in wide-eyed petrification, rooted, transfixed by the shining brilliance of terror.
Thugs rule the world. Perhaps they always have? Perhaps we just live in an age where the camouflage of pretty adornment doesn’t anymore matter? Continue reading
Stubborn, indignant high fever. Relentless, adamant multi-headaches. Pounding ulcers. Throat on fire. Dancing monkeys and rampaging elephants. Vertigo. Nausea. Debilitation. Screaming all-over muscular pain. Total system crash.
Hobbled to and from doctor’s clinic, shuffling stiffly… They thought it was dengue, due to the pain and fever, but tests results were in the clear. Phew! You’re just very sick. You must’ve picked up a super bug somewhere (well, yes, Mr Stinky was down with an infection, spreading the amplified horror willy nilly, and I spent my final evening in Stinkyland washing that already sickeningly reeking toilet out with bleach because it was soiled with excrement). With your weakened condition and hypersensitivity, your experience is very much more intense. Duh. OK. I know. I know… Continue reading
Sentient Towels. My friend Brad coined the term. I think it is brilliant.
These insidiously malodorous entities have a life of their own. Each one energised by a buzzing, bustling eco-system of bacteria chowing down on decaying micro-flakes of human skin, sweat and whatnot embedded in its thick fibrous tapestry. The entire bathroom reeks from the cacophony of activity, a raucous macabre Dies Irae in elaborate counterpoint. And yes, the merry village and inhabitants, remain there for weeks – sights, sounds, smells and lively jiving – unless I take them to the laundry room myself. Rightful owner of these beings either cannot be bothered (simply to lazy) or, perhaps, actually likes his little critters that way?
My own thought processes have short-circuited, contemplating the various possibilities behind this frightening phenomenon.
Someday, I shall write about the serious repercussions of Inclement Space upon the mental and physical wellbeing. For now, these little babbly ramblings are all I can muster.
Dinner tonight – two panadols and half a glass of warm water. This foodie has stopped fooding. A neighbour remarked to me, “How can you even live in there, let alone actually eat in that kind of condition?” What can I say? I merely smiled, shrugged, and shuddered alongside her.
The Sentient Towels are roaring in their stolid, stubborn silence.
Another delayed post. Written awhile ago. The roaring olfactory oppression helped to propel me into action – I have left this hell. Never to return.
Sensory dissonance is a buzzing, humming, incessant scratching. Sometimes heavy scraping, other times tickling. Uncomfortable wriggling, dodging, avoiding. Continue reading