Its message of love rings strong and true, the oboe cries out. Telling the tale of a man's love so deep and strong, it crosses boundaries and generations.
But this is not a solo. It's a duet.
And the oboe plays along with the clarinet, encouraging it forward, tugging at her to pull her closer, into his tale, of love so grand a city is built upon it, of despair so wretched it takes centuries to heal.
On and on, he plays, telling her of how they met, of how they fell, he for her and she for him, together, one another.
A little trembling, a little uncertainty, but she pulls through. Explaining every detail to her, in color and size, she follows along. Led to his lair, the precious metals, the ornamental jewels, and she waits in bated breath for his every next word.
All around them stop, in their tracks, in their speech, their mouths agape. Open at this strange pair, two so different in character, in expressiveness, yet, united together by the power of music.
He, playing with all his soul, with feelings and sweet memories of the one in his heart, seated less than a metre away.
Oh, love so ferociously detailed, in every aspect, every note passionately romanced out, every slur pronounced, every pause for emphasis, for effect.
Yet, it was the only way he knew how; the only way he could express his love. No words could express the way he felt, and neither could deeds. Thus, he did it the way he knew best.
Music.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
I look into the mirror
And see a beast
But is that me?
Its face staring back at me
Dark and vile
Pungent air all around
Lust and greed, contempt and hate
Scores of boils upon its flesh
Fear strikes hearts as its teeth it gnash
Suddenly my flaws I see
Oh Lord, help me change to be what you want me to be
Let me have a heart of compassion
Good traits and deeds done with passion
Not to hate and not to lust
But Sincere honesty is a must
To love and share
To trust, to care
May my good deeds precede me
May my bads be behind me
And rebuked harshly
And never to return
To tempt, or take
To misguide or fake
I've nothing to offer you I realise
Not like he that could offer endless mysteries
countless stories told through music
Or he that offers warmth and care
Concern as a friend and more
I've nothing to offer you
Except love, and that it may renew endlessly
A shoulder for you to rest
and a sleeve, to wipe your tears
and may it never be needed nor used
Perhaps the most or the least
I could offer you
is trust.
Who is the face I see
Staring back at me
When I take a peek
Into the glass
glass of reflection
A mirror.
And see a beast
But is that me?
Its face staring back at me
Dark and vile
Pungent air all around
Lust and greed, contempt and hate
Scores of boils upon its flesh
Fear strikes hearts as its teeth it gnash
Suddenly my flaws I see
Oh Lord, help me change to be what you want me to be
Let me have a heart of compassion
Good traits and deeds done with passion
Not to hate and not to lust
But Sincere honesty is a must
To love and share
To trust, to care
May my good deeds precede me
May my bads be behind me
And rebuked harshly
And never to return
To tempt, or take
To misguide or fake
I've nothing to offer you I realise
Not like he that could offer endless mysteries
countless stories told through music
Or he that offers warmth and care
Concern as a friend and more
I've nothing to offer you
Except love, and that it may renew endlessly
A shoulder for you to rest
and a sleeve, to wipe your tears
and may it never be needed nor used
Perhaps the most or the least
I could offer you
is trust.
Who is the face I see
Staring back at me
When I take a peek
Into the glass
glass of reflection
A mirror.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
why is it..
Why is it those who don't do well, and then gradually do well, get an award while those who constantly do well, don't get a reward?
After all, if you're at the top, you try your utmost best to stay at the top. Wouldn't that be an achievement in itself too?
If one is daring, and has always been daring, how much more daring can he be since he is already daring?
Wouldn't he that is not daring but is becoming daring stand a better chance at winning the prize?
Or perhaps he that is daring should continue being daring, and then, in other fields, that he is weak in, boost it up a little, and reach for the reward in that field?
hmm. What do You think?
After all, if you're at the top, you try your utmost best to stay at the top. Wouldn't that be an achievement in itself too?
If one is daring, and has always been daring, how much more daring can he be since he is already daring?
Wouldn't he that is not daring but is becoming daring stand a better chance at winning the prize?
Or perhaps he that is daring should continue being daring, and then, in other fields, that he is weak in, boost it up a little, and reach for the reward in that field?
hmm. What do You think?
Thursday, May 24, 2007
band
Imagine. The curtain rises, to reveal the stage shrouded in darkness. Then a beam of light shines straight down, and illuminates a lone saxophone. A lone saxist plays, lost in his or her own world, improvising, playing, with no distinct rhythm nor tune.
Then, another spotlight turns on, and focuses on the drum-set player, who is now gently thumping out a distinct rhythm. One that blends well with the sax player and offers security and sets a steady pace.
By now, the sax is bleating out various notes of presumably no connection whatsoever, but closer examination of what one hears detect a certain scale being played.
Suddenly numerous spotlights of various colors are powered up, and we see various instrument players. A trumpeter here, bathed in yellow light, a tubist there, with a soft white halo caused by his tuba's bell. Another saxist joins the jam, enveloped in neon green, and she plays against the first saxist, both creating increasing tension.
More streams of light highlight various players as jagged notes that create friction slowly blend into one another, some become as one, yet from one, there is some.
The clarinets surge against the rising trumpets. The flutes screech in horror and flutter away as the trombones sweep in. With thunder and lightning from the percussion, bombs rain repeatedly from the bass lines while the horns sound their war cry. Amidst all these, the euphoniums wail their mournful tones, as bodies lie all around. The saxophones exchange heavy fire and then, for no reason, no cause, with no warning or signal, the band is quiet. Eerily quiet, and we hear the wind. A low heart-churning breeze that wafts from left to right, from back to front.
We hear a soft melody from the percussion, and then no more.
The lights dim, but the piece isn't over, because the bassoon starts to cry out. A song of agony, of fear, of lives that have been lost, of dreams that were to be but will never be. Passions that went unfulfilled.
A horn joins in, with its own tale of misery. A mother's love so great that she used her own body to shield her children. A father who died while saving his pregnant wife from the ruins of a shelled house.
Their stories intertwining, the audience gets tugged forward by their hearts into the grieve, the tubas solemnly leading the funeral rites. The flutes ruffles the leaves with their soft gentle soothing draft.
Then, the mood changes. From that of sadness and despair, to that of fury, determination, resilient in nature. Morphing with random speeds, like a disease that strikes the players. Emboldened with dreams, and fresh memories of loved ones, the army rages on into the distance, its flag flown high, its many hearts that beat as one. The woodwinds soar forward, with new strength, while the brasses trudge on, armed with heavy machinery and ammunition, the percussion firing far into the horizon, straight into the smoke of the enemy's camp.
Amidst the fanfare, and purpose-driven march, a lone saxophone moans. Of satisfaction, being pleased with itself, with a dark underlying tone that hint of deception, trickery and mystique. Rising above the rest for but a moment, it slowly softens and blends with the rise, though never fully together with the army.
The lights slowly fade, as the army marches on.
Then, another spotlight turns on, and focuses on the drum-set player, who is now gently thumping out a distinct rhythm. One that blends well with the sax player and offers security and sets a steady pace.
By now, the sax is bleating out various notes of presumably no connection whatsoever, but closer examination of what one hears detect a certain scale being played.
Suddenly numerous spotlights of various colors are powered up, and we see various instrument players. A trumpeter here, bathed in yellow light, a tubist there, with a soft white halo caused by his tuba's bell. Another saxist joins the jam, enveloped in neon green, and she plays against the first saxist, both creating increasing tension.
More streams of light highlight various players as jagged notes that create friction slowly blend into one another, some become as one, yet from one, there is some.
The clarinets surge against the rising trumpets. The flutes screech in horror and flutter away as the trombones sweep in. With thunder and lightning from the percussion, bombs rain repeatedly from the bass lines while the horns sound their war cry. Amidst all these, the euphoniums wail their mournful tones, as bodies lie all around. The saxophones exchange heavy fire and then, for no reason, no cause, with no warning or signal, the band is quiet. Eerily quiet, and we hear the wind. A low heart-churning breeze that wafts from left to right, from back to front.
We hear a soft melody from the percussion, and then no more.
The lights dim, but the piece isn't over, because the bassoon starts to cry out. A song of agony, of fear, of lives that have been lost, of dreams that were to be but will never be. Passions that went unfulfilled.
A horn joins in, with its own tale of misery. A mother's love so great that she used her own body to shield her children. A father who died while saving his pregnant wife from the ruins of a shelled house.
Their stories intertwining, the audience gets tugged forward by their hearts into the grieve, the tubas solemnly leading the funeral rites. The flutes ruffles the leaves with their soft gentle soothing draft.
Then, the mood changes. From that of sadness and despair, to that of fury, determination, resilient in nature. Morphing with random speeds, like a disease that strikes the players. Emboldened with dreams, and fresh memories of loved ones, the army rages on into the distance, its flag flown high, its many hearts that beat as one. The woodwinds soar forward, with new strength, while the brasses trudge on, armed with heavy machinery and ammunition, the percussion firing far into the horizon, straight into the smoke of the enemy's camp.
Amidst the fanfare, and purpose-driven march, a lone saxophone moans. Of satisfaction, being pleased with itself, with a dark underlying tone that hint of deception, trickery and mystique. Rising above the rest for but a moment, it slowly softens and blends with the rise, though never fully together with the army.
The lights slowly fade, as the army marches on.
love
Love. It's such a weird feeling, like when a kid gazes at the passing trees buildings from within a train cabin, with such admiration, fascination and intense concentration. of course, it would be a bold assumption to say that what I'm feeling is love. After all, I'm not even Twenty years of age. If I were to tell my elders I'm in love, they would scorn me with much disdain.
See, I met this girl. [Don't all love stories start with those four words 'I met this girl'] We met through a mutual acquaintance. Nah, it wasn't love at first sight or 'they fell in love and lived happily ever after' kinda story. [If you do think of that, you're either very very very young, or you've been watching Shrek a little too many times]
To have the heart kindof skip a beat when one sees a certain someone, it's startling to say the least. [chuckles] But then, who ever can predict how his or her body or heart or mind reacts to seeing a loved one.
Some people hyperventilate. Others faint. Others blush to the color of beetroot. Some are struck dumb. Others become exceptionally chatty when within physical proximity of the person they love. Some become happier, their faces gets more radiant and their eyes glisten with warmth. Others just live.
To think it's been barely over 2 months since we've met, and now we're chatting at least five times a week, and feelings grew. You know, at certain nights, the smell from the jasmine flowers outside wafts into my room, and it creates both a satisfaction, fragrance that blesses the mind, and yet arouses a desire for more of it.
It's not easy to find somebody whom can click well with you, who makes you smile inside, and you hope you've made her smile too.
Yet, it's amazing what love does to friendships. One drifts away while one flows nearer.
Nobody can predict the way winds blow, just as nobody can predict when love will come. I remember reading a sentence or two from a Nicholas Sparks book that said, 'You neither see nor hear the wind, but you feel it and know its existence. You will never see nor hear love but you will feel it and know its existence.'
Ain't It True?
I've Fallen For You.
But I Can't Be Daring Anymore
Cause There's No Higher I Can Go
To Look Into Your Eyes As You Glance In Mine
To Hear The Sweet Sound of Your Laughter. Divine.
But Why Rush A Walk To Remember
Though I Know I Can't Care For Another
Yet The Notion of Being
So Far Yet So Near..
But There's Still Time To Be Spent With Each Other
Can I Wait For You?
Or Should I Concede Defeat
And Gaze From Afar?
Only You Can Tell Me.
Only. You.
See, I met this girl. [Don't all love stories start with those four words 'I met this girl'] We met through a mutual acquaintance. Nah, it wasn't love at first sight or 'they fell in love and lived happily ever after' kinda story. [If you do think of that, you're either very very very young, or you've been watching Shrek a little too many times]
To have the heart kindof skip a beat when one sees a certain someone, it's startling to say the least. [chuckles] But then, who ever can predict how his or her body or heart or mind reacts to seeing a loved one.
Some people hyperventilate. Others faint. Others blush to the color of beetroot. Some are struck dumb. Others become exceptionally chatty when within physical proximity of the person they love. Some become happier, their faces gets more radiant and their eyes glisten with warmth. Others just live.
To think it's been barely over 2 months since we've met, and now we're chatting at least five times a week, and feelings grew. You know, at certain nights, the smell from the jasmine flowers outside wafts into my room, and it creates both a satisfaction, fragrance that blesses the mind, and yet arouses a desire for more of it.
It's not easy to find somebody whom can click well with you, who makes you smile inside, and you hope you've made her smile too.
Yet, it's amazing what love does to friendships. One drifts away while one flows nearer.
Nobody can predict the way winds blow, just as nobody can predict when love will come. I remember reading a sentence or two from a Nicholas Sparks book that said, 'You neither see nor hear the wind, but you feel it and know its existence. You will never see nor hear love but you will feel it and know its existence.'
Ain't It True?
I've Fallen For You.
But I Can't Be Daring Anymore
Cause There's No Higher I Can Go
To Look Into Your Eyes As You Glance In Mine
To Hear The Sweet Sound of Your Laughter. Divine.
But Why Rush A Walk To Remember
Though I Know I Can't Care For Another
Yet The Notion of Being
So Far Yet So Near..
But There's Still Time To Be Spent With Each Other
Can I Wait For You?
Or Should I Concede Defeat
And Gaze From Afar?
Only You Can Tell Me.
Only. You.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Deviance.
Walking home from the bus stop just now, when a guy in front of me suddenly crowed like a cock. Honest! I couldn't believe my ears.. but, there was nobody else around, and no cockerel either.
Which turned my mind to a powerful word - deviance.
The truth is, deviance is a rather hard-to-explain word yet easy-to-apply. I remember how, with great pleasure, me and a close acquaintance taught a fellow socio student from China, the meaning of deviance.
But deviance itself is rather interesting. See, I would regard that guy who crowed as a deviance because he doesn't fit to the norms of society, that is, suddenly making animal noises with no rhyme or reason, but he would regard me as a deviance too, because I'm not conforming to the norms of his society.
It's kinda like war, where both parties think they're the good guys and the enemy is the other side.
Interesting, ain't it. Deviance. A word. A powerful word that can show how complex life can be, especially when both parties think they're in the right.
Sometimes being right means being wrong.
Which turned my mind to a powerful word - deviance.
The truth is, deviance is a rather hard-to-explain word yet easy-to-apply. I remember how, with great pleasure, me and a close acquaintance taught a fellow socio student from China, the meaning of deviance.
But deviance itself is rather interesting. See, I would regard that guy who crowed as a deviance because he doesn't fit to the norms of society, that is, suddenly making animal noises with no rhyme or reason, but he would regard me as a deviance too, because I'm not conforming to the norms of his society.
It's kinda like war, where both parties think they're the good guys and the enemy is the other side.
Interesting, ain't it. Deviance. A word. A powerful word that can show how complex life can be, especially when both parties think they're in the right.
Sometimes being right means being wrong.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Love
Love. It was never meant to lead to neither jealousy nor rage nor anger nor lust nor obsession.
It was meant to be a show of goodwill, a source of peace; of light and hope and salvation. It was meant to make the world a better place; meant to share and to be shared, to overflow on its own accord; to self-exist, and feed on itself as it replicates.
Love isn't meant to be pampered on solely one person. Rather, it's meant to be pampered on everybody one meets in life, whether they be man or woman, child or adult, of a different race or height or character or social status. Love would make that person feel special. and everybody else plain happy.
Love is meant to thrive all year round, not falter in times of jealousy or lust, or fade where distance and time are factors.
Love is meant to be infectious. And life changing.
It was meant to be a show of goodwill, a source of peace; of light and hope and salvation. It was meant to make the world a better place; meant to share and to be shared, to overflow on its own accord; to self-exist, and feed on itself as it replicates.
Love isn't meant to be pampered on solely one person. Rather, it's meant to be pampered on everybody one meets in life, whether they be man or woman, child or adult, of a different race or height or character or social status. Love would make that person feel special. and everybody else plain happy.
Love is meant to thrive all year round, not falter in times of jealousy or lust, or fade where distance and time are factors.
Love is meant to be infectious. And life changing.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Down once more to the dungeon of my black despair!
Down I plunge to the prison of my mind!
Down that path into darkness deep as hell!
Down to the chords of jealousy that bind!
The dragon came, I slayed and won
It flew and was gone
Now it’s back
Healed, recovered, stronger than before
Shall I fight or plead leniency?
Can I practice what I preach?
Can I study what I teach?
<3
Or is the dragon an imaginary one whose feet are made of wind?
Only time will tell
Though I better be cautious
I’ve been too daring I think
Too bold.
Facts without substance is fiction.
Love without feelings is lust.
The wheels of the bus go round and round
And all the way through the town.
The town of love.
The love bus.
<3
I worked for a Bollywood show recently. It was heart-thumping.
Wait, did I say heart-thumping? I meant clubbing. Honest. It was like club music save for the drinks. The dancers were the audience and they were very very enthusiastic, which led me to wonder, since the songs were in Hindi, Tamil and English, chances are those who understand Hindi didn’t understand the Tamil songs and vice versa, yet all danced/jumped/hopped/shook/yelled/screamed/shrieked/bounced enthusiastically throughout.
So, what makes these people dance despite now knowing what they were dancing to? The rhythms? There can only be so many permutations of available rhythms.
Assuming that we’re using the basic four beats in a bar, and a one bar phrase, we would only have 24 permutations, which isn’t really that many. Furthermore, if one would to listen intently to Bollywood music, you would realize their rhythms are neither that unique nor specialized. It all follows basic beats, and most, if not all, are on the on-beats.
So we can conclude that it’s neither the rhythms nor the music that’s infectious and lifts these people to their feet.
Then what is? The energy behind the beats that are steadily pounded out?
Sometimes, I wonder what it would sound like if a concert band were to play a Bollywood piece. The tubists would bounce, the drumset would break.
.
Sometimes I wonder am I the Phantom or Raoul. Would I get so jealous that I physically claim Christine to be mine, or allow her to love me naturally.
But I am neither. Not as bad as Phantom yet not that good like Raoul.
It's hard to find someone whom I can click well with. Perhaps it isn't time yet. In the Notebook, it took 15 years before they came together for life. Life ain't a storybook, though with you, it seems to be a fairytale. Happily Ever After. Or part thereof.
When you've made your choice, then will I make mine. Just.. be happy.
Down I plunge to the prison of my mind!
Down that path into darkness deep as hell!
Down to the chords of jealousy that bind!
The dragon came, I slayed and won
It flew and was gone
Now it’s back
Healed, recovered, stronger than before
Shall I fight or plead leniency?
Can I practice what I preach?
Can I study what I teach?
<3
Or is the dragon an imaginary one whose feet are made of wind?
Only time will tell
Though I better be cautious
I’ve been too daring I think
Too bold.
Facts without substance is fiction.
Love without feelings is lust.
The wheels of the bus go round and round
And all the way through the town.
The town of love.
The love bus.
<3
I worked for a Bollywood show recently. It was heart-thumping.
Wait, did I say heart-thumping? I meant clubbing. Honest. It was like club music save for the drinks. The dancers were the audience and they were very very enthusiastic, which led me to wonder, since the songs were in Hindi, Tamil and English, chances are those who understand Hindi didn’t understand the Tamil songs and vice versa, yet all danced/jumped/hopped/shook/yelled/screamed/shrieked/bounced enthusiastically throughout.
So, what makes these people dance despite now knowing what they were dancing to? The rhythms? There can only be so many permutations of available rhythms.
Assuming that we’re using the basic four beats in a bar, and a one bar phrase, we would only have 24 permutations, which isn’t really that many. Furthermore, if one would to listen intently to Bollywood music, you would realize their rhythms are neither that unique nor specialized. It all follows basic beats, and most, if not all, are on the on-beats.
So we can conclude that it’s neither the rhythms nor the music that’s infectious and lifts these people to their feet.
Then what is? The energy behind the beats that are steadily pounded out?
Sometimes, I wonder what it would sound like if a concert band were to play a Bollywood piece. The tubists would bounce, the drumset would break.
.
Sometimes I wonder am I the Phantom or Raoul. Would I get so jealous that I physically claim Christine to be mine, or allow her to love me naturally.
But I am neither. Not as bad as Phantom yet not that good like Raoul.
It's hard to find someone whom I can click well with. Perhaps it isn't time yet. In the Notebook, it took 15 years before they came together for life. Life ain't a storybook, though with you, it seems to be a fairytale. Happily Ever After. Or part thereof.
When you've made your choice, then will I make mine. Just.. be happy.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
What Not To Say To Get Laid
5 things not to say to get laid.
"I've Got A Condom And I'm Not Afraid To Use It!"
"If You're A Fruit Seller, Can I Sample Your Fruits?"
"Hey Hey. My Friend Recommended You As A Great Teacher In Sex Education Practical!"
"I Heard You're A Great Solution To E.D., Could You Heal Me?"
"Hi. Do You suck?"
"I've Got A Condom And I'm Not Afraid To Use It!"
"If You're A Fruit Seller, Can I Sample Your Fruits?"
"Hey Hey. My Friend Recommended You As A Great Teacher In Sex Education Practical!"
"I Heard You're A Great Solution To E.D., Could You Heal Me?"
"Hi. Do You suck?"
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
you
I saw you on the bus today. I don't think you saw me.
I wanted to message you, to say hi and stuff, but I hesitated.
Perhaps cause skeletons in closets aren't meant to be released.
Or is it cause it's all water under the bridge?
But can happiness be kept under the bridge, locked away, forgotten?
Don't we thrive on happiness, crumble under sadness, and continue living?
You looked stressed, un-radiant, unlike how you looked like ago.
Gosh. Has it been a year?
And to think it started when you laid on the couch.
Time does pass by. Two swallows that once met are now miles apart, each with their own lives; their own rivers that flow of its accord; two wires that trail in un-similar directions.
You were special. But friendships can't survive without time spent together, and a mistake made is a mistake for life.
And that I'll live with.
I wanted to message you, to say hi and stuff, but I hesitated.
Perhaps cause skeletons in closets aren't meant to be released.
Or is it cause it's all water under the bridge?
But can happiness be kept under the bridge, locked away, forgotten?
Don't we thrive on happiness, crumble under sadness, and continue living?
You looked stressed, un-radiant, unlike how you looked like ago.
Gosh. Has it been a year?
And to think it started when you laid on the couch.
Time does pass by. Two swallows that once met are now miles apart, each with their own lives; their own rivers that flow of its accord; two wires that trail in un-similar directions.
You were special. But friendships can't survive without time spent together, and a mistake made is a mistake for life.
And that I'll live with.
lonely
lonely is a man without love.
lonely is a man who has love but it is beyond his grasp.
lonely is a man who has love and not grasped it.
lonely is a man who has love but it is beyond his grasp.
lonely is a man who has love and not grasped it.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
too late
Mentally I urge the driver on
'Faster, faster', I cry out silently
As I watched from the glass window,
The receding line of light.
At least the bus reaches the stop,
I alight from the bus
Excitedly, I hop
Off and walk briskly
Praying it will still be there
What I have yet to see in a long time
One to be my good omen.
But.
It's not there.
My heart sinks.
I am too late.
Perhaps a min or two.
The sun has set.
'Faster, faster', I cry out silently
As I watched from the glass window,
The receding line of light.
At least the bus reaches the stop,
I alight from the bus
Excitedly, I hop
Off and walk briskly
Praying it will still be there
What I have yet to see in a long time
One to be my good omen.
But.
It's not there.
My heart sinks.
I am too late.
Perhaps a min or two.
The sun has set.
wow.
What can I say?
I woke up this morning and I think back and I wonder was it a dream?
Cause I know it isn't yet it seems so.. magical.
Did I really walk with you?
Did we really talk?
The meet of our eyes.
Did I imagine what I saw?
Trust and a mixture of others.
A memory worth remembering
One that will repeat over and over in my mind
In days to come.
Thank You. I enjoyed it. I hope you did.
I woke up this morning and I think back and I wonder was it a dream?
Cause I know it isn't yet it seems so.. magical.
Did I really walk with you?
Did we really talk?
The meet of our eyes.
Did I imagine what I saw?
Trust and a mixture of others.
A memory worth remembering
One that will repeat over and over in my mind
In days to come.
Thank You. I enjoyed it. I hope you did.
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