Where the hell am I going? Somebody please point the way.

The eye...made with sign pens.

Kenneth, also on one of his good days.

Florian, on one of his good days...

Church




An old man playing the violin

An old man with a big club.



Flo, me and Janina.

FUBAR group minus 1. Kenneth, Me, Mikkel, Sofyan, Florian, Lisa, Leann and Ricardo (squatting).



At the bus stop with Eddie the Tank!!



With the buds...

Apparently, the pictures of the North Sea I've been uploading are not of the North Sea but are in fact of the Oreson Sea. Oh well.



The Sea of Oreson

The way to Copenhagen, 26 kms away.



Bus 121 Koge at Hundige. To Karlslunde.

Something I wrote for someone some years back when I was still in college. I was supposed to give her a gift together with the letter but someway, somehow I never got to doing it.

I know it looks cheap and I know it is cheap. In fact, it is free...but everything that can be bought is cheap, even a Ferrari or a Rolls Royce. What is expensive then? What is priceless? Those that are expensive are things that can neither be seen, nor touched, nor heard, nor tasted, nor smelled. What is expensive is that which can be contained in a needlepoint yet at the same time encompass the universe. What is priceless can never be touched, nor smelled, nor tasted, nor seen, nor heard. They cannot be bought, put in the pocket, thrown in the trash and, in fact, can hardly be said at all. However, what is priceless can be felt by the heart. Things like joy, sorrow, excitement and despair are what I mean. These are priceless. So, what have you felt today?

my beloved bestfriend (middle), because of her incessant requests....

with the royal guard in bangkok



beer bottles after a party



more beer bottles

New Haven or Nyhavn...famous for colorful houses and the utter lack of sobriety



on a boat in the middle of nowhere

pimpin' (daw)



once chubby new years'



me on the singapore river

hongkong city lights



my high school id



can you spot the jollibee in hongkong?

a time when i had short hair

How the food sometimes looked and tasted...



united colors



with a hateful classmate and a hateful haircut!!



queen's court, i think...

biggest mouth in danish history



so pretty

Changed the picture on the sidebar. It's still the North Sea but I took this picture.

the streets of cph



when there are stupid classmates around



classmate who looks like david schwimmer

November 16

Dear Angel,

Please do not cry. Words do not suffice how deeply I have been touched by your kindness and sincerity. Not even all the words in all the languages in this world in all their simple and complex permutations are enough for me to express how much I value you. In a hundred years I would not be able to even begin giving back what I have taken from you. If only we both could live so long then maybe I would be able to touch your heart as well.

Angel, please do not cry. I leave you now wanting but knowing that we will see each other again. And, when we are together again, I will have eternity on my side.

Please do not cry, Angel, because I am not worth your tears. I have not the right nor the reason to let you shed even one. Yes deep inside I am weeping and always searching for you because you are my angel and I am about to leave you.

Yesterday night, for someone

My hands are not perfect but
If only they were warm enough to touch you and soft
enough to hold you
I would take your hand and you would know that the
way your hand fits mine is just about perfect

The words I speak are not perfect but
If only they were sweet enough to melt you and
brave enough to impress you
I would tell you so you would know that what little words
that do come out in their honesty are just
about perfect

I am not perfect but
If only the things I do were great enough and
the plans I make smart enough
I would ask you to be with me so you would know
that I want the time I have with you to be
just about perfect

But life isn't perfect
No matter how much I try
No matter what I do
My hands will neither be as warm nor as soft
My words not as sweet or as brave
Nor will I ever be as great or as smart to be just
about perfect

But you, for me, will be just about perfect
Because your hands are warm and soft enough,
the words you speak sweet and brave enough
and the things you do great and smart enough
to be just about perfect.

Cute nephew and niece.



Cute niece. <<--ahem, nephew pala. :p

Cuteness seems to run in the family. :p

Things to beat up or otherwise kill a stupid classmate with.



How exciting parties can get.

Sigh. She's pissed at me again. Told me not to text or call her again. Don't really know what to say, do or even think. It's really hateful how I seem to mess things up and do stupid things when I really like someone.

Mwahahahaha...I can attach pics!!



Copenhagen



Queen's Garden



Central Station

Pics! Pics! Pics!

Muhahahahaha

Finally....

Just learned how to upload pics. That there picture on the right is the north sea at sunset taken right off the coast of Denmark in Karlslunde.

(a few months ago)

The Paradox Machine - first of several, unedited (this one though has a lot of ommissions) and unplugged, stupid but enjoyable, rough and still unfinished

1 - The Sponge

My mind is a sponge - not as spongy as before but still more absorbent than your average. It is responsible for this machine I call my body. It is the root cause, the main protagonist of a series of cause and effect relationships in a domino process that produces the clicking sounds that emanate from the keys on a board deliberately and accurately punched by my fingers that results in an electronic representation of letters on a 14-inch colored vacuum tube-powered monitor I have at my face. (Whew!) It is the god of my loins, though popular belief or certain radical feminists would assume otherwise. It is the power that coordinates hundreds of muscles from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes to effect a thrusting and pulling action that is required to liberate these loins, so to speak, and many other prerequisites for a healthy and exciting life.

And as with any other sponge, it absorbs. It absorbs things, ideas, opinions, colors, sizes, shapes, temperatures, pressures, volumes, densities and so on and so forth in any units of measurement and in any of the languages I'm familiar with. It is the grandfather of all sponges if ever there was one. It's like one of those blue super-absorbent "as-seen-on-TV" mops enthusiastically promoted by that guy so popular for his tacky knit sweaters. Infomercials as we call them. It is a dripping sponge. It drips endlessly. Out come thoughts and opinions of my own. Created, devised, and molded from anything and everything that it has absorbed. It is hardly original.

2 - The Original Sin

The very first mistake I was ever a part of began approximately 270 days before I first saw light. It most probably took place at night, lasting but a few minutes amid moans and growls and black silence. A mistake that resulted in a dream date of sorts between a long-tailed and very ecstatic sperm cell and a particularly picky egg cell. One that would soon split and then split some more until it reaches such a stage when it would weigh as much as seven pounds and begin to have the urge to breathe the air, see the sun and, possibly, make mistakes of its own.

Just now

Because in the words we speak there is infinity
And in the air we breathe there is forever

But in our tangible little lives there is only a second stretched to its limits
And our existence is just a ripple in history

And our shallow footprints last so much longer than we could ever imagine
But the impressions of our lives echo for a mere moments time

Jeep (Sometime last year)

It was already 8 pm that interesting Thursday evening. I was on my way home waiting eagerly to catch the next jeep to pass. I stood there almost like a monument to all those who travel by public transport. Luckily, barely five minutes had passed when a jeep came roaring along the thickly asphalted road. It almost missed me, as I had been slow at waving my hand up high for the driver to see. I sat myself near the entrance where I could disembark quickly and easily. Within moments the vehicle was already packed to the hilt reminding me of the oft-quoted sardines in a can. I immediately began to swelter as the temperature began to rise. The heat of the man beside me made it even worse and my thick pants were not much help either.

Three men courageously clambered onto the rear end of the jeep. One of them hung perilously by only three fingers and seemed to be trying really hard to hold on as if his life depended on it, and in fact it did. The thought of this reminded me of the time a watermelon fell off a truck on its way to the wet market. No doubt his head would shatter in much the same way if he fell.

Amidst all these, there sat a woman, snug and comfortable, right in front of me. She stared blankly into space as her right hand slowly picked peanuts out of a greasy little brown paper bag she held in her left. The movement of her right hand as it moved up and down across her face and chest robotic and awfully eerie. In her left hand too were a bunch of flowers, orchids if memory serves, tied tightly into two bouquets. This made her look peaceful. Even more peaceful than a man I saw sleeping with his arms crossed on the MRT. She looked fazed, dazed or jaded even. Maybe even stoned. But she wasn’t because after finishing the bag of peanuts, she gracefully whisked away all the salt and crumbs that had been strewn all over her shirt and the bag on her lap.

I remember that I was once stoned but not on a substance that can be sniffed, puffed, injected or otherwise. Not on any substance that permeates the walls of the veins. Not on any substance that a dog at the airport could detect. I was stoned, or more precisely, addicted to the substance of a woman who I knew so little about. It was in a time of my life when I could still spare the exuberance of youth in exchange for a few highs.

What made her so addictive was the fact that I was never really able to fully absorb but only to taste her soft, sweet, almost naïve being once in a while. The withdrawal symptoms were massively painful, depressing even, yet the slightest hint of her bubbly aroma sent me back high into my illusion. However, as soon as she had left, I’d plunge straight back into the abyss from which I had just been plucked. It was almost torture except only to the mind. I remember how her long jet-black hair shimmered in the sunlight and how it seemed to flow like water out of her scalp and how so many men turned their heads to stare as she walked by.

But my addiction too had an end, the same way that my journey on the jeep had an end. I too had to disembark from that addiction and move on. I knew she was not for me and I was not for her. So I said to her goodbye in much the same way that I told the driver to stop, took one last long look before finally stepping off and on to pavement of the real world.

September 3 2003

It is our enemy.
It sets us apart, keeps us apart.
It is a place, the place where neither you nor I can ever be.
It diminishes when I touch you and seemingly disappears when I hold you.
It grows when I leave you and swells when I make you cry.
It is infinitesimal when you are out of reach and sight.
It is not an evil thing.
It is not there to hurt us.
It is there to remind us, for us to see the distance.
To traverse it is a profound and enormous journey, to reach its end a triumph.
But the end is and will never be in sight.
Because there is no end, only two beginnings that come together in between.
It is an infinity between two points.
The air we breathe floats through it. The sounds we make pierce it.
It is intangible but it is there.

7 July 2002

I like it better when we walk,
Or when we sit to talk that
Way I’ll never have to let go,
Than when I drive and my hands
Are full but not of
Your flesh but of the wheel
And the stick in all their
Plasticity and artificial smoothness.

I like the touch and feel of your
Skin better, in all its natural
Roughness, how the edges of your
Body fit perfectly into the folds
Of my hand and the curves mold into
The corners of mine.

I like it better when we just talk and
We are face to face and your eyes
Meet mine and the smell of your gentle
Perfume waft slowly into my
Lungs, than when we watch
A movie and we have to face
A single direction and we both
Have to twist our bodies to
Kiss, but I like that too because
In the stagnant chill of the
Cinema you ask me to warm
Your hands, and I gladly do so
And it pleases the both of us.

I like it better when you say sorry,
Even if you hadn’t done anything
And I have to say it’s okay.
And you sweeten your voice
And speak my name to melt
My heart into submission,
And you melt my heart.

I like it when you listen to me read, intently,
And you nod your head in affirmation and
You bite your lips waiting
For the next words to trickle
Out of my mouth.

I like it too when you read to me
In your soft whisper of a voice,
And it stirs the air that hovers
Just above my skin and lifts
The hairs on my body, and I close my
Eyes to savor the sweet melody
And it almost breaks my heart
When you pause to breathe
And collect your thoughts but I am
Whole again when you continue.

I like it when you call me or come
Looking for me because I am always
Looking for you, and each ring
Sends me scampering, all the
While hoping that it is you, and
I am in shambles when it’s not you.

I like it better when we’re together,
When we don’t have to look
For each other, when we don’t
Have to call and scamper with
Every ring and we don’t have
To hope or long because we already
Know and we have what we need.

I like it when you kiss me, when you rest
Your arms on my shoulders and pull
Us closer, and touch your lips
On my cheek, leaving a wet impression.

I like it better when you embrace me,
When you press yourself heavily
On my chest, and your hands
Dig into my back and you rest
Your chin on my shoulders, and
We whisper into each other’s ears.

I like it most when you like the things
I do, and the things I do for you,
And you do the things I like
Because you know I’d like you to,
And for that I love you.

Since this is my first time to create a blog and for lack of anything better to say, I will post something that I wrote about two and a half years back.

It’s raining. Pretty hard actually. I can almost sense the puddles forming outside, in the cracks and potholes and depressions of our street, I can hear the rain pummeling the roof and the water streaming, like little waterfalls, down the edges or pouring down the drainpipe where leaves have laid undisturbed for months. I can hear the water hitting the ground and splattering all over. I can almost feel all those little droplets, forming and coalescing into little rivers where they will eventually meet the gutter and fall deep into sewers. Or collecting into puddles, where they will stay the rest of the cool night only to be taken by the heat of the following morning. It reminds me of playing, singing, dancing and laughing in the rain. It reminds me of slipping, jumping in the puddles, tripping and running for cover. And the rain reminds me of her. Even in the youth of our friendship, it reminded me of her. Even in the maturity of our love, it reminded of her. It reminds me of her keen affinity for water, how she loved to play around with water, take long baths and even wash clothes. It reminded me of her long black hair, especially when she runs across the street to meet me or when she strides along the hallways and corridors oblivious that I am watching. It reminds me of her eyes and the tears that flow from them, how each teardrop marks its way down her cheeks and plunges off the edge of her chin. It reminds me of her lips, how they trembled when she was sad and how they lit up when she smiled. And the dampness they left on my cheeks whenever she kissed me. Sadly, it also reminds me of how she went away; taken by the same thing she loved most. Taken from the one that loved her most.
The rain has stopped.