SMR 3

I darted through the neighbourhood of Moonriver Lane and was greatly relieved when the road sign was far behind me. The mystic aura of the gigantic mansion, however, still lingered on like the endless summer rain. I stopped, composed myself for a second and turned around. Now a silhouette shrouded in a greying mist of dampness, its once looming presence seemed to be overtaken by an unspeakable air of melancholic calmess . Suddenly I heard someone calling out my name. The voice, distant and surreal, unmistakingly whispered a dreamy spell. 'Never answer the devil's call. They eat your heart away.' Grandma's story rushed to my head. As if seized by madness, I frantically pushed down the peddle and never ever looked back.


Chapter 2
The howling wind rudely shook the windows, their serpentine tongues slurping away at man's vulnerability, hissing at every possible hole, or a careless crevice.

'S - I - R - E ...'

The man slotted in the last letter and turned his head towards the sound.

It was just the wind.

He scowled, his stern face now a worrying look of age. He became very sensitive recently. Even the slightest sound, a bird's flapping wings, or a disturbed ripple in the pond, struck his nerves and threatened to echo in the haunted house of dead memories. A sudden chill escaped from the North wall. He tightened his collar and remembered her warm breath around his neck, tickling and damp.

There was no letter for him today.

He glanced at the amber coloured wooden mailbox, the only unnumbered one among a mirage of fanciful collections. He reserved it for himself. The golden warm colour reminded him of certain things, things he once loved. There was the copper-lidded squarish case with Roman number 'VIII' on it, and another funny-shaped box handmade with vine. Who did it belong to? Was it the old man with the trademark slanted mouth? He always had a pipe dangling between his yellowing teeth, which made his face all the more dispicably annoying.

He didn't know their names, just faces he could tag with a number, the mailbox number.

'Bonsoir, Mr. King. How's your day?' No. 17 came last night to retrieve a thick stack of letters which had accumulated for a month and as a result, almost went stale from the damp weather. They greeted politely and exchanged very few words. For them, he was Mr. King, no more a real person than a name spelt out in monotone. K, I, N, G. And them, imaginary numbers with faces he couldn't tell the real from the fake.

He almost forgot when or why he started this strange business. None of them asked and the reason soon hid itself in the coffin, together with other forgotten secrets. With hands stuck in the pocket, he strolled towards the door. The routine mail sorting was over. It was time to leave.

There he hesitated, moved four steps forward, only to retrieve ten steps back which brought him right in front of number 6. It had been months since the owner last cleared out the letters. Mr. King stared at the pile of papers which threatened to burst out of their confinement. Soon he'd have to move it to a bigger mailbox but what was the use? Mr. no. 6 never came. Yet another letter arrived this morning.

Mr. King kept it his golden rule never to invade his customers' privacy. It was clearly stated in the agreement never to open others' letters unless granted with special permission.

Still, this letter intrigued him.

Through the palm-sized translucent envelop, it didn't take too much effort to make out a tiny strip of paper. So it wasn't a written letter but a strip of paper? Probably a telegram or pure mischief. Or what could it be?


ps. I was depending on you for the title. You sure you want 'strange mail room'? It sounds funny to me though.

pps. Just now I went back to your continuation and checked again if the flow was natural, and there was paragraph two! Wasn't there this morning when I looked. Good one though. the postoffice boy of course played an important role. Now I think about it, just scrap that first paragraph I wrote since it clashed. Hope the parallel happenings at King's side wasn't too abrupt. I didn't bring out the dark nature in him though coz I'm not sure how to. There was a bit of shading on his past about a woman. I'll leave it to you to decide her possible role. Add in something if you will, coz the sudden lightening of tone sort of went a bit offtrack with the foreshadowing about his mysterious look and dark clothing.

not to be removed

no no no nothing, NOTHING, is ever gonna be removed, hear me? lol this isn't a published book, not even one to be published. this is a log that faithfully holds every little bits of conversations, however inconsequential they might seem..i'm now trying, again, to record thoughts, as many and frequently as possible, in the spirit of that Woolfian axiom--'nothing happened until you write it down.' oh yes. incidentally i'm reading Woolf now, not one of her fiction works--a volume of collected essays instead, and now i start to understand why she was upheld as a great great (possibly the greatest ever..this is by me though :P) literary critic by some of her brilliant contemporary men of letters, even greater than herself as a writer. (can't recall who and who said it, but they were big names..) read 'The Common Reader' I and II if you will..pure brilliance.

intermission I

morning rambling

wow it turned into a suspense!
It's surprising unexpected. prob coz of the tail i left 'how could there be 67 kings...'
doesn't it sound like a setting where a gigantic dark castle-styled mansion filled with 70 something inhabitants, each with their own secrets to tell.
i'll carry on with the story althou i suck at suspense.
-----------

after lunch thoughts

lol. I didn't mean to remove it though. I should probably type 'to be improved'. YES nothing's to be removed. Shamey shamey I didn't finish any of Woolf's great works, not even a single novel.

There I digressed. Intermission I. Want I.

After lunch I continued on the cliffhanger you left me, and in courteous return, didn't quite forget to leave you another hanger to tackle with. So I hope you enjoy it!

The merits of a marathon style blog novel is becoming clear. Unexpected plot developments could be v mind broadening. What I had in mind initially was a weird story in modern setting, where the mysterious man who owned 77 mail boxes (or 78 if including his own) was waiting to forget, or to remember. Whatever reason it is. A cold-hearted city story even.

But now it seems more interesting stuff is coming up. I'm all eager to know what's in store. Don't press yourself to write. Move your fingers and type only when thoughts come to you. I'm v v free at the moment and after the nap, I woke up with a few immature ideas which I thought would maybe tail nicely to your last entry. But sometimes I plainly didn't know what more to write.

So like said, no discussion. Just have fun!

ps. i take back my last sentence.
Let's discuss while we have fun!

This's going suspense, not some free verse. Have to discuss or else the characters will be split beyond recognition

the strange mail room, continuée par Jady

Amazing. And why does it sound like it's gonna be a half thriller half fantasy flick again? LoL. Ok, no discussion, I'll just continue.

So I was there in the grey, troubled downpour, fingering the stack and unsure what to do next when a deep voice suddenly boomed in my ear, 'boy, I believe those are for me, thank you very much.' I jumped and almost dropped the loosened bundle, and turned, shamefaced, only to be confronted by a stern, expressionless face. It was humid, warm day, and the moment I saw him I couldn't help cold goose bumps bobbing on my back—the man was well-built, and well-dressed in a black three-piece suit, which struck me as too thick for the weather and too formal anyway, his face, even and handsome, didn't betray the smallest hint at his age, but what made my nerves frantic with discomfort, was something I couldn't quite name. It was perhaps all the small yet very noticeable oddities about the man. His unblemished skin, for one, was pale and translucent like milky glass veined with faint lilac lines; his seagreen feline eyes, streaked with dark golden rays, held me steadfast and gave me an uncanny feeling that he could read my mind and was reading it there and then; but his gloved hands, though quick and polite when he reached over for the letters, were somewhat neurotically shaky. I held his gaze for only that couple of seconds, and he withdrew into himself like the setting sun calling back all the rays, suddenly inaccessibly distant, and quicky disappeared beyond the heavy oak doors of the old mansion. I don't know for how long I stood there, staring fixed at the crimson, immaculately maintained mansion, until one moment I suddenly shook awake, as if just escaped a nightmare, and rode my bike away as fast as my leaden limbs could manage.

Back to the post office. I put down the empty canvas bag and collapsed at one corner of the mail sorting room, drenched and still breathless from the strange encounter. Fortunately it was quite deserted in the late afternoon, I heard the postmaster answering a phone call in the next room, and no one else was around to witness my pale-faced aftershock. But I wasn't someone that scares easy and shrinks away in defeat from a mystery. My old man believed all along that I'd become a scientist or something, because I have an unusually strong, innate inquisitiveness in me that never let anything pass by unanswered or unexplained for, that I easily stood out from the simple, unquestioning townsfolk. And there I was on the cobblestone floor, calming down and devising plans to revisit the place and find out more, when a familiar voice halted my thoughts—'how ye doing my boy, you don't look too well. Must be the storm? Helluva heavy one eh, haven't had one like this in years..' 'yeah indeed. I think I'd better take off early and change into some dry clothes, sir, before I catch a cold or something.' I hurriedly cut the old postmaster short, before he lapsed into long reminiscence again. The old man worked here since as far as I could trace my memories back, and probably could be traced to years before I was even born. He's like the grandpa for every kid in town, a wise old man with a memory like an elephant's; almost a walking depository of the whole town's stories. He beamed at me and nodded permission. As I passed him, his wrinkles seemed a bit more gathered than his usual, relaxed self, and I wondered what could possibly be on his mind, troubling him. 'Take good care, son!' his last kind words reverberated in the dense downpour, almost like an admonishment; I waved him goodbye and broke into the pummeling rain.

the strange mail room

A tentative start after 'the bird'. I forgot which object/event made me jump at the idea. Oh yeah, well, anyway. It's about my forever changing address. My winter/fall academic report was mailed back home. I was kinda pissed for a while. I thought they'd mail it to my summer residence but instead they used my home address and as a result, my parents were the first to look at it. Whatever happens to my privacy!!! Then I thought there's so much inconvenience and 'sorrow' for someone forever on the move. It would be nice to have a safe address where you can always go back to retrieve your mails, no worries about the safety or its permanence.

The skeleton
There was a mysterious person who went with the name 'Raymond King' (change the name if you want, I suck at naming). Age? Not sure. Nobody knows. He looked like in his late 20s or early 30s. He lived in a big mansion in which there was the strange mail room. There were 77 pigeon holes each clearly numbered. The incoming letters were all addressed to him, with the same address '1 moonriver lane, queen's circle'. Each morning, Mr. Raymond King would rountinely go to the mailroom, spent a couple of minutes there making sure the letters were correctly sorted out to their right pigeon hole. And every morning he would sit there on the wooden stage, lost in thought, as if waiting for someone. He thinks he's the dream keeper, guarding the mails as if they're tender dreams that would one day escape.

And some day, not sure when because you never know when, some strangers would come and open the pigeon hole with their key, retrieve their mails and go away. Most would smile and say 'hi' if they bump into Mr. King. They exchange v few words.

It was a small business. People who for various reasons were in need of a permanent and secretive mailing address, could request a mailbox through Mr. King. The key was mailed to them so they could come and check their mails anytime they want.

That's the main storyline which doesn't even sound like a story for now. I'm sure you can do sth about it hahaha!


Here're figments of ideas. Let's flesh out the story. Hmm, is first person narration alrite? If not, change it anyway you want.



The Strange Mail Room (title pending...)

It was a rainy Saturday morning.

I quickly brushed off the raindrops on my watch and stared hard. It was too dark. I leaned a bit forward to retrieve some natural light, only to discover half my body was now out of the shed and the raging rain threatened to throw me off my bike.

The watch was fogging up from inside, making the rhythmic movement of the second hand a blurry ghost on patrol. The clockwork would soon rust. I stroked hard at the glass panel, cursing bitterly under my breath why my only luck ran out on the first day of this new job.

'Get the mails and finish the delivery by noon.' The officer said and there I went off in a flash of second, my heart welling up with the excitement of a nine year old boy embarking on his first adventure. Well, there I lied. I would soon be twenty by summer's end. But I was excited nonetheless, until someone poured two buckets of ink into the sky and the storm ensued. It must have been five buckets of ink, or his rage. The rain drops felt hot on the cheek. Maybe it was summer?

About five more minutes to Moonriver Lane, my next destination. I did a head calculation and tapped my foot impatiently at the pavement. Snatching up a handful of letters, I studied the address as I prayed for the rain to cease. It bothered me. Honestly speaking the minute I retrieved those letters from the big deposit box, I had an eccentric feeling hanging at the back of my mind.

To Mr. Raymond King
1 Moonriver Lane
Queen's Circle
154266

Mesmerizd, I flipped to another letter below. It had already been sorted out. I did a quick count with my fingers and there lay 10 letters, with exactly the same address. Wait! I was almost fooled! There below 'King' was carefully subscripted a numerical, almost too small to be discerned. Something screamed at me 'this's no simple case'! I could hardly control my boiling excitement at the new discovery that my hands shook a little. Three letters subscripted '9', and the rest with different numericals ranging from 3 to 67. It couldn't be there were 67 Raymond Kings!

TO BE C'TD (BY JADY)
off judy went...

this pill, this melodrama

an ambiguous title which in simple terms, yells 'love psychedelico', YEAH!!

How funny. I can't see the blog but luckily I can still post. Ah, you know Gang got addicted to love psychedelico coz of 'standing bird'! One day she came to my room and asked whether I had any nice song to recommend. Then I randomly picked one and there it was 'standing bird'. Only a few words make sense to me but most often even those familiar sounds escape me. 'Ai ja sobani nai somewhat of a 'ride & role'. ' - This's the only complete line I know. If anyone would to ask 'what is love psychedelico'? It would be a headache question to answer. A blend of rock and metal which exude a laid-back attitude, almost a faded rhythm that reminds me vaguely of the 60s. Mixture of Japanese & English aside, Kumi's voice is just right for the flavour! I used to complain about Naoki's instrumental arrangement.(that guitarist, bass, keyboard and what not. so let's simply say he's the vocaless part) Lots of raging beats that lack sophistication and technique. But graudually even those became part of love psychedelico's essense. The first song that got me empty my wallet for the 1st LP album was 'everybody needs someone'. The effect of enclosed sound from the headphone prob enhanced the rhythmic shock. Kumi's voice is clean, not too sharp, not too mellow. And the detachment in the rage, I'm really glad I get to know them. Oh, 'standing bird' is prob the most representative song of LS.

Bonus: i love all their album/single cover designs.

LP Official Website

Profile [from the official web]



Formed in 1997 when they met in the college music club so called “circle” at Aoyama Gakuin University. Made their debut with “Lady Madonna / Yuutsu Naru Spider” on April 21st 2000. In the meantime, they created the original sound world, bringing a great fusion of 60’s/ 70’s rock taste and modern digital sound.With unforgettable guitar riff, their characteristic Japanese-English naturally blended lyrics and Kumi’s unconventional vocal style, they gave Japanese music scene a tremendous impact every time they brought their new works.The first album “THE GREATEST HITS”, second album “LOVE PSYCHEDELIC ORCHESTRA” and third album “LOVE PSYCHEDELICO III” have still been making a remarkable record as a long term hit seller.In November 2004, they went on their first time Asian solo tour.

KUMI【Vocal & Guitars】
Date of Birth＞1976.4.11　　　　　 Blood Type＞O
Born at＞Tokyo-prefecture　　　　Hobby＞Trip

NAOKI【Guitars, Bass Guitars & Keyboards】
Date of Birth＞1973.7.21　　　　　 Blood Type＞O
Born at＞Shizuoka-prefecture　　Hobby＞Painting

Single Covers





Album Covers










My fav LP song is 'days of days over you' ^^

Standing Bird

Jude, arhhhh, I'm inexplicably addicted to Love Psychedelico, or to be precise, to Standing Bird, the very first song you played to me! Now I get up in the morning and put it on repeat mode and let the rhythm and her defiant voice roll on, though I hardly understand half of the lyrics! Is it the existential angst (lol. This is a disease, my disease) in there that appeals to me? Some kind of cold rage..against something unnamable? Sighs, this is gonna be the Standing Bird Week for me…

Standing Bird
Romaji by: cori

Kaze no keeper mune ni yadoru light
Kienai sa  asu e tada take a run
Kanaderu rage oto mo nashi ni fade
Akumei de ii sa  you go along

stone in silence  kanashimi o terase

Yamanu flavor wa meguru fate
you lean on, you go on
oh, nothing's done
Mou tada yureru sora to downcast sight
as ever, stand hard, shed the lights

stone in silence karenu me o sarase
stand forever  itami aru moto e

Kimi wa ima tada omoi shiru Standing Bird

* wake up your sorrow, from the "deep narrow"
oh, sainamu wa pleasure kiri no mukou Eden
Ai.ja soba ni inai somewhat of "ride and roll"

Owaranai sa reach another star
green light, untied, high tide, breaking the wind
Owaranai keep believing star
stand hard, shed the lights, hang by, a way behind

stand forever hikari aru moto e

refrain-ing voices are  touhou mo naku killing the time

Toki wa ima tada omoishiru Standing Bird

* repeat

** wake up your sorrow, from the "deep narrow"
oh, saihate no heart zensen no ue no "ride and roll"
Ai.ja soba ni inai somewhat of "ride and roll"

Cheers!

21 Aug 05
Jade & me finished house-moving. Wanted to celebrate with champaign & pizza. But sorry I had long beans cooked with green pepper, and a cup of plain water to wash away the greasy feel in my mouth. And Jade headed for her money grossing business (aka private tuition).

The furniture was so dusty we couldn't even remember its owner. Jade looked at the photo in which a black chimp died mysteriously. Alongside its bloody corpse lay three arrows. The hints missed her and Jade looked again, baffled. Oh I took the photo last year. Isn't it classic?

'Write something if you're in the mood.'

So here I am giving the brush a deliberate stroke. Whether in or out of the mood, there it was, a new trail of paint on the wall. I would be glad to mark the first stroke which I know, would soon be lost in a sea of coloured graffiti. Or at least I hope.

Here comes Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk...
- These're just a couple of my cravings

Cigarettes and chocolate milk
These are just a couple of my cravings
Everything it seems I like's a little bit stronger
A little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me

If I should buy jellybeans
Have to eat them all in just one sitting
Everything it seems I like's a little bit sweeter
A little bit fatter, a little bit harmful for me

And then there's those other things
Which for several reasons we won't mention
Everything about 'em is a little bit stranger, a little bit harder
A little bit deadly

It's not very smart
Tends to make one part
So brokenhearted

Sitting here remembering me
Always been a shoe made for the city
Go ahead accuse me of just singing about places
With scrappy boys faces have general run of the town

Playing with prodigal sons
Take a lot of sentimental valiums
Can't expect the world to be your raggedy andy
While running on empty you little old doll with a frown

You got to keep in the game
Retaining mystique while facing forward
I suggest a reading of lesson in tightropes
Or surfing your high hopes or adios kansas

It’s not very smart
Tends to make one part
So brokenhearted

Still there’s not a show on my back
Holes or a friendly intervention
I’m just a little bit heiress, a little bit irish
A little bit tower of pisa
Whenever I see ya
So please be kind if I’m a mess

Cigarettes and chocolate milk
Cigarettes and chocolate milk

Progress report

Okay, after so long, finally set to work on this little corner of ours and fixed the few problems. The comment function beats me though----can't figure out how to create a comments page, even after pouring over all the html codes I altered before. Anyway, guess we should be more anxious about writing more than editing the template, else we can work together in a web-design company by the time we graduate. Which ain't too bad, hohoho. Now, feedback, s'il te plait! Guess we'll have to make do with the tagboard first..or a new post!