phantasmagoria.

what a splendiferous word.

Phantasmagoria.
1. A shifting series or succession of things seen or imagined, as in a dream.
2. Any constantly changing scene.



ib, for one, feels a bit too surreal.

yeah i expected things to be different, just not to such an extent.
it's hard to explain, it's just the general feel and mood of it all.
there's a distance between you and everything else.

people drift in and out, new faces are seen in each class.
and then you go on to the next.
and the next.

you never eat with the same people during recess.
you all somehow apparently end school at different times.

you only see your form class for but a few periods (contact time, chinese, tok?)
then again not all of them.


it's almost like you get to know everyone,
yet no one, really.


at least for now.

i think a key reason is because of the huge shift from last year's culture.
which was all that i've listed up there's, presence of.
the class was with each other all the time,
each lesson
each recess,
each end of the day.
and our class chemistry was amazing, so it pretty much adds a punch of an effect to whatever's happening now.

i wonder if i'll ever find a class with better chemistry.
miss the days of 3.15-4.15



so, so, surreal indeed.

lo

i jumped- and grabbed the fabric of the sky.
i pull- clouds, heavens from all corners fly,
and lo, in great gusto
behold

the universe.

who's to say.

they can come at really random, out-of-place times.

like today, whilst i was reading the chinese passage on H1N1.
not even sure how it linked, i think H1N1 linked to hospital in my mind, and that linked to dad.

so yeah, strong emotional waves can hit at even the most out of place times like those.
and likewise, in the most 'relevant' times, like going to the columbarium, it is possible to not feel much.

i like this poem, i read on a friend's blog.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am in a thousand winds that blow,

I am the softly falling snow.

I am the gentle showers of rain,

I am the fields of ripening grain.

I am in the morning hush,

I am in the graceful rush

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,

I am the starshine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,

I am in a quiet room.

I am in the birds that sing,

I am in each lovely thing.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there. I do not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

beautiful.
i'm not belittling the idea of weeping at a grave.
however i cannot deny that i like the perspective Mary Elizabeth Frye presents.
i like it, i feel i can relate to it, in a way.
thanks, friend.





in a thousand winds that blow.

before the memories fade.

i should pen down all the memories i have of my dad, before they grow dim.


as i ate supper today, i sat at the table alone.
and i was hit by this ancient memory, a lil' something which happened somewhere in primary 4 or so.

my round, marble-top dining table.
my dad, sat, roughly opposite me, a bit to the right.
and i probably had a sulk on my face.

it was lunchtime, i had just returned from school, and i was eating merrily (expressed in speed) when my dad sat down next to me, and scrutinised my less-than-appealing manners.
and then he told me how gentlemen should eat, and i was not eating like a gentleman, and it was bad manners, and i told him, dad i'm eating at home, it doesn't matter. and the likes.

but anyway he made me slow down, and raised his voice everytime the rate of my food-in-mouth replacing went too fast, or the speed of my spoon was too hasty (seriously). and i got so frustrated, cos the way i enjoyed my food was to stuff myself, so it was a pain to eat slowly.

well, he succeeded in that session, and many more onwards.
whenever he saw me eat a tad too fast again, at any meal time, his standard line would be, "Slowly, ryannn..."



I appreciatively chewed on my food as I savoured this memory tonight.
and smiled inwardly, seeing how my dad had succeeded.



thanks dad. (:





feels like a descending sort-of sorrow.

fragariaphobia.

So i'm having dessert - korean strawberries.

And well ok the first thing i realise is, they're pretty sweet for strawberries. This is nice.

But then the SECOND thing i observe is how demented-looking they are.

They're elongated, and unlike your nicely shaped squat strawberries which are more or less balanced and generally symmetrical from every angle, they're kinda like, well, oddly-shaped.
after that, i felt a lil' scared biting one, cos of it's like, imposing, ominous, kinda aura.

so that gets me curious y'know, like if they can be so scary looking i bet some people are scared of them, and so i google "phobia of strawberries."

it's called "fragariaphobia." cool huh.

i just might have oh-so-slight fragariaphobia when it comes to korean strawberries.




gongxifacai, my valentine.

wow, i haven't posted in decades.

worlds.

How many worlds

how many worlds--?
as a boy walks home
listens to music,
unraveling emotions, colours in the mind.
the wind waving whispers in his hair.
the world is all to him.

a man lounges on a void deck bench,
cigarette companion comfortably in hand.
his world is of indifference and addiction.

run children run.
of aimless adrenaline and fearless fun.
their world is of what is and is not to know.

the driver in the car driving across
is a mystery man masked equally by his sun-screened car window.
his/her world of destination, but detached.

woman entering the lift.
with swollen stomach sentry to new life.
her world split and conjoined to another world, yet to be framed.

a boy walks home,
listens to music,
unraveling emotions, colours in the mind.
the wind waving whispers in his hair.
how many worlds--?
the world is all to him.

so beautiful.

i have a grandaunt, we call her "ji gou".
and we visit her every chinese new year.

not so long ago, sometime in the middle of this year-
on a sunday, our dad asked us not to make plans after church youth service, as ji gou had fallen ill, and was hospitalised.
he wanted us to go visit her as a family.

at the hospital, ji gou had seemed so different.
her hair seemed grey-er, and it was cut short, compared to the relatively vibrant curls we used to see every once a year.
even something about her face had changed-it was paler, and had lost that familiar spark.
her eyes that once squinted with happiness were now open, and sad.

my dad, knowing her the best, talked to her in dialect, asked her questions.
i watched, and flashed an occasional smile, touched her thin elderly hand.
i watched, and saw how my dad was just sitting there, beside her, continously exchanging words of dialect, continuously smiling at her with his bright face.
at one time, my dad intended to ask a nurse if visitors were allowed to bring in food and feed her, and would've done so if my mum hadn't pointed out that she was only allowed to take specific forms of food.
when it was time to go, we said our wishes and byes, my dad comforted her for a while more, and we left.

*************
a few months later-

as i sit on a chair near the casket, an elderly woman enters through the doors.
i only notice her, and recognise her as ji gou, when she arrives at the foot of the casket.
her hair was still cut short, just like in the hospital, and she looked more or less the same.

and as she reached the very side of the casket, she shifts her hands, to support her weight, and, with the support of others, shakily stands up.

her sad, open eyes looked down.


and in the few, brief, seconds she had to see my father's face...she did.


almost collapsing, she sat back into the wheelchair.
and was escorted away.







who would've guessed.