SMR6 - Quiet before the storm

Monday afternoon. The sun was high in the clear sky for the second day running and the townsfolk knew then summer was officially upon them. A jubilant mood seemed to infect the small town, even the postmaster got out of the somewhat grim office he liked to squat in day to day, and was seen basking in the warm breeze, smoking a pipe and beaming at passers-by. The only unfittingly grim person, however, seemed to be me.

Three days had passed since I delivered the mail to the Mansion, and though there was no mail coming over the weekend, I had been finding myself excuses and pretenses to be around the mansion. I kept back letter No.25 and dropped No.31 and No.6 (now made 16 by me) in the mansion mailbox on Friday morning, the house dead silent in the morning shower, and in the afternoon when the storm stilled a bit, returned to deliver the left out letter. I was almost going to drop it in the mailbox as usual, having taken a good look at the solitary house in its desolate neighborhood, but something in me nudged and nagged: This is a perfect opportunity to find out…if No.6 mattered, if anything mattered at all…and I was both shaken and emboldened. I had hardly put down my hand from pressing the bell when the heavy oak door swung open again, and this time the Mr. King standing before me was even a stranger person.

It was startling to reflect that it had been only a few days since I last and first saw him, and his already translucent skin seemed to have gone transparent, revealing small, purple veins crawling underneath his skin, the neurotic hand holding the door had its index finger freshly bandaged, and there were subtle water stains on the front of his otherwise spotless trench coat ( in this weather?) All these I took in within a fraction of a second, his crumpling frailness and extraordinary fatigue...but his nonetheless severe gaze on me was crushing my self-assurance by the second, and it was almost within one breath that I stammered out a thin story of the discovery of one mis-sorted letter stuck to the bottom of the bag and…'Yes, boy, that will do. Thank you.' He almost tore the letter out of my clammy hand and shut the door promptly. In that fleeting moment I was sure he for once lifted his gaze from my face and looked out beyond the gate. It was as if he was expecting someone…or not. Uncomfortable to linger on for another moment, I shot home straight, and only later did I realize the reason of my discomfort: the dreadful man himself was dreading something.

The next day, I went to ask my neighbor and good buddy Bluecat for a favor.

***

Bluecat was the son of the plumber of the town, Bobilong, and barely two years older than me, he was already making a name for himself as a better plumber than his drunkard of a dad. Though he's a humble and loyal friend, the best kind you can have in a closely knit town, he's not someone to confide in—he talks to his imaginary pet—a 'blue cat'—all the time! He had it since he got lost in the wild prairie some time when he was four or five, and after he magically made it home, wide eyed and feverish and mumbling—everyone then had thought he was a gone case and already preparing memorial services—he had talked down to the ground since, sometimes seen stroking and tickling air, addressing it as 'kitty kee' or more fancifully, 'master K'. When asked about who he was talking to, the reply would invariably be 'can't you see this magnificent diamond blue cat?' People thought him a little nutty from the incident, but who could ask more from a soul supposedly lost forever to them? So they gave him the nickname and joked and laughed about it, so much so his given name gradually dropped out of people's memory. Bluecat would pause anytime in the middle of his work, in a conversation, snap out of a nap even, to talk to the cat. Most things he said usually made little sense to anyone at all, but through the years Bluecat had also blurted out some things that alerted and puzzled the older folks in the town—they said a young lad like him wouldn't have known those things even if he were literate and cared for books, for they were really old history and some people would rather see them remain buried. Bluecat just shrugged; my poor friend never knew why or how anyway. A wizened gypsy woman who wandered into town every 2 years or so even wanted him to apprentice under her, and if not for Bluecat's mom insisting that he stayed and took care of his young sisters and brothers, he'd have gladly gone to see the world with his feline friend.

***

So I went to Bluecat, asking him to go to the mansion and see the man. I didn't tell him the real reason—god forbid if he should tell that to the cat in the middle of town square!—instead I told him I thought the mansion was in bad shape and might be suffering from termite problems, and it was good for business if he cared to offer to inspect it. I also told him that although the man might seem severe and disagreeable, he was really a kind-hearted soul. Bluecat didn't even think about it twice, said he'd go there after he got a job done in an uptown household, no problem at all, and set off with his satchel.

***

The rest of the day I sat on the front porch, peeling onions and waiting for Bluecat to return. The rain was reduced to a dribble by dusk, and almost stopped completely when it got dark, but no sign of Bluecat even then. Mom called out to me for dinner for the third time, threatening to lose her temper, so I reluctantly shuffled inside, disquietude starting to nibble at my mind—what happened to Bluecat? Is he in trouble? Did that Mr. King see through the tricks and realize the true intention behind? Could he have attacked Bluecat? The last thought almost catapulted me out of my seat, earning a solid warning glance from mom, so I collected myself and finished dinner in record speed.

No, Bluecat can't be attacked, I thought as I sneaked out of the backdoor, thinking how thin but how strong and agile he was, never beaten in a street fight. Maybe he was running other errands after seeing the mansion? …but this was too late. I climbed over the fence and landed into the soggy vegetable bed at the back of their house, and seeing that Bluecat's attic window was still unlit, I pulled down the secret rope ladder and climbed up into his room.

A bunch of us used to play more often in the attic when we were younger, and long time had passed since I last landed there through the window. The room hadn't changed much though, the childhood toys and models in abundant disarray across shelves and sketches of house plans and also of Master K plastered the walls. The bowl of fish cookies for the cat was still by the foot of the bed, some of them even appeared broken and corners nibbled off by sharp teeth—maybe rodents? I picked up a loose paper and quickly drew a few symbols, put it in the bowl and weighed it down by cookies. Now all I could do was go home and wait.

***

…the sycamore outside my window shook and sighed loudly, I looked into its shadow and saw a cat, a diamond blue cat, scratching at the trunk of the big tree. I shooed at it and it turned up its eyes, and I shuddered uncontrollably—its eyes had the most woeful yet most resentful look, and its face was almost transparent, with blue veins crawling under the fur, it was almost like…

TAP! TAP!

I suddenly opened my eyes and realized I had dozed off and this tapping sound must be Bluecat! I hopped to the window and there he was in the garden, picking up small stones and aiming for my window. When he saw me he waved and gestured a few words—'I'm OK, talk to you tomorrow!' and I gestured back through the quiet night and was so relieved.

lyrics contest

sighs zhu, i realize there are technical problems in having more than one shoutbox on one page, so this newly constructed shoutbox only made a fleeting guest appearance on uku before been taken down and transferred here...with my fully knowledge that there's a resident (but much disused) shoutbox here too. Never mind that first, I don't see a great flurry of posts gushing into ss anytime soon, so let's just ping pong lyrics here.

uku uku

整个下午窝在瘸腿椅子里做ukulele beta版，站起来去买晚饭时腿居然麻了。一天下来什么正事也不想做，不想做事的时候大概就只能做模版..什么逻辑。

以为很难转换的beta template(其实应该说blogspot 2吧，人家都从beta毕业好久了)，仔细看了一下code，发现其实很简单，就是在CSS里面裹来裹去，换几个名字，加上一点新的，删掉很多无用的，差不多就是个可以见公婆的小媳妇儿了。uku是初试，所以花了不少功夫还是个不折不扣的丑媳妇，缺胳膊少腿，歪歪斜斜的眼眉就是整不端正，活活急死人。最后做完了发现其实变化也有限，好像保护文物一样，整旧如故，大概也只有做过的人知道有什么名堂罢。

习惯性的几乎每天看uku的webmeter stats，哪怕更新一点都不勤。不知道还有没有人像我，好像有强迫症一般，吼吼。除了世界地图比较好玩之外，referring url page也是很有趣的地方。你大概不知道uku人气最高/最常被搜的帖子是哪一篇吧？呵呵，是你那篇 Gedo Senki Kashu和Aoi Teshima的super review，不少人都是搜Teshima的歌词才点进uku的。有人前几天才留了言request歌词，不知你看到没。还有其他一些很好笑的或者很莫明其妙的search word combination，总之都end up在uku了，笑...

偶在想忙完了这一阵，要好好地，regular地给uku浇水施肥之类的。不过写review好严肃啊，一个月有一两篇可以啦 （或者两个月有一篇...哈哈...不过某人欠的norah还是要写的哈），还是轻松的推介比较好玩。希望不是五分钟热情...

Gay icons

This is too hilarious and fun, have to keep a copy.

Ten Gay Icons as chosen by Rufus Wainwright

Sunday November 12, 2006
The Observer

1. Judy Garland

Judy is not a gay icon at all. She is somewhere far beyond that. She is a gay beacon. A gay saint. She has led the way through the darkness for some 50 years. Whether it's the Wizard of Oz or the Judy at Carnegie Hall LP - these are brilliant touchstones for the gay experience. A kind of communion takes place between a gay listener and Judy. And of course there is the drink and drugs counter-story, which is very gay for one reason or another.

In the postwar years in Western culture, it has become somehow socially acceptable to be drunk and stoned. There is such a gay fascination to that story. Gay people understand a party, that's for sure!

There is no level on which Judy Garland doesn't connect with gay men. She married one, for chrissakes!

2. Stevie Nicks

Certain intellectual gay men obsess over Stevie. She is a dinner party conversation in herself, served up as a kind of hors d'oeuvre before a conversation about the Pre-Raphaelites, or something. She separates interesting homosexuals from uninteresting ones.

3. Dusty Springfield

Blessed with great artistry, she never let her lesbianism get in the way of it. Because she wasn't open about it, she gave herself the right to enjoy being a lesbian in private. It didn't diminish her. In the end, cancer claimed her; there's an iconic price for an iconic life.

4. Madonna

There's a dark force at work here - she subverts everything for her own gain. I went to see her London show and it was all so dour and humourless. She surpasses even Joan Crawford in terms of megalomania. Which makes her a kind of dark gay icon in itself.

5. Kylie Minogue

I love Kylie, she's the anti-Madonna. Self-knowledge is a truly beautiful thing and Kylie knows herself inside out. She is what she is and there is no attempt to make quasi-intellectual statements to substantiate it. She is the gay shorthand for joy.

6. Morrissey

Whether he's gay or not, he is the gay Elvis. He is among the greatest entertainers of our time. The banter, the dancing, the stage-craft, it all conspires and you know exactly what Morrissey is. He is heroic. He is a total package, like Dean Martin or Prince.

7. Barbra Streisand

Ugh, Barbra! You've got to hand it to her. She got everything she ever damn wanted and she does manage to maintain her insanity on such a highclass level. I respect her deeply. She's not as sinister as Madonna and she gives us some hope.

8. Pink

She's slightly left-of-centre in this deeply conservative pop world. She's not it, but you'd have more of a chance of finding it by using her as a conduit than you would if you used Britney Spears. You know, Pink is what I would call a 'gateway drug'.

9. Prince

It feels weird talking about Prince as a gay icon now but you have to applaud a black man in the American record industry who could be so playful with androgyny. Justin Timberlake wouldn't do that. He is a marine dressed as a pop star.

10. Kate Bush

She is the older sister that every gay man wants. She connects so well with a gay audience because she is so removed from the real world. She is one of the only artists who makes it appear better to be on the outside than on the inside.

飛べない翼

Once again.

I can’t help it; I watched Lily ChouChou again and yet again (within one week). When Salyu sang her 'Wings that can't fly' and Shiori pulled the strings and beamed watching the eagle-like kites, heart wrenchingly innocent and delicate, and so happy, I wept. Could only weep, and then more weeping. I can’t describe it. just breaks me.

Towards the end I got so tense. Because I could not remember the ending. It's been...eighteen months now, and my memory appears a moth-bitten carpet. I remember...crouching in the dark watching it for the first time with you in the home sty, I remember muffled gasps and tears (was it just me..) and going to bed with heavy heart and my face somewhat swollen and neither of us saying much besides a confused, broken discussion. (think Lily Chou-Chou is in many ways always associated with those hot summer days in Suzhou and the smell of the bamboo mat in your air-conditioned room). I couldn’t remember...what happened to Hasumi after Hoshino died. When he played a few notes on the piano at home and the camera cut to his torso quite still in midair my heart clutched itself and shuddered in fear, fearing that he might have hanged himself and that I have forgotten. (But how could I, if he did such a thing, or anything at all??) The ending came to this scene, billowing sunlight and Debussy, and the resemblance of this to the Love Letter scene struck me only now. My infinite respect and gratitude for Shunji Iwai, for giving closure (like how Ondaatje said a storyteller should do), and calm, pulsing hope.

And I just got more moRE mORE nostalgic for Kokyu and Salyu-as-Lily Chou-Chou. Saw this fictional discography of Lily Chou-Chou on the wiki page, beautiful, Lily-styled names, why can't they produce all of them?!

• 1stアルバム『ジュエル』　

1. みずうみ
2. 三つの扉
3. 踊る魚
4. 愛の実験
5. 犬の眼
6. オルゴオル

• 2ndアルバム『エロティック』

1. 共鳴
2. 孤独の瞬間
3. ビデオテープ
4. 化粧をしない生活
5. 家
6. エロティック
7. 約束の日
8. 指先
9. 悲しい瞳
10. 沈黙の木

• 3rdアルバム『呼吸』

1. アラベスク
2. グライド
3. 友達
4. 土曜日の郵便
5. 飛べない翼
6. セーター
7. 飛行船
8. 花の瞳
9. 九月の雨の心臓
10. 回復する傷

Michael Ondaatje Quotes

On writing and reading

- A writer uses a pen instead of a scalpel or blow torch..
- As a writer, one is busy with archaeology.
- I don't have a plan for a story when I sit down to write. I would get quite bored carrying it out.
- I don't see novels ending with any real sense of closure.
- I read fiction, a little nonfiction, a little poetry - as various as possible.
- I see the poem or the novel ending with an open door.
- I tend not to know what the plot is or the story is or even the theme. Those things come later, for me.
- It doubles your perception, to write from the point of view of someone you're not.
- It's a discovery of a story when I write a book, a case of inching ahead on each page and discovering what's beyond in the darkness, beyond where you're writing.
- It's a responsibility of the writer to get the reader out of the story somehow.
- It's why you create characters: so you can argue with yourself.
- Once I've discovered the story, I might restructure it, maybe move things around, set up a clue that something is going to happen later, but that happens much later in an editorial capacity.
- Prose is much more public; I would like it to be as private, intimate, casual, not structured as poetry, not having an agenda.
- Research can be a big clunker. It's difficult to know how you can make the historical light.
- Right now, I have no idea what I will write or if I will write again.
- To write about someone like myself would be very limiting.
- Truth, at the wrong time, can be dangerous.
- When I was writing Billy the Kid, all I had was the question, How do I write this book? That's always the question.
- When you're writing, it's as if you're within a kind of closed world.
- You don't want to write your own opinion, you don't want to just represent yourself, but represent yourself through someone else.
- You want to suggest something new, but at the same time, resolve the drama of the action in the novel.
- You're getting everyone's point of view at the same time, which, for me, is the perfect state for a novel: a cubist state, the cubist novel.
- The last three books are much more a case of a moment of history, what happened almost by accident or coincidence, like being in the same elevator or lifeboat.

On Anil's Ghost

- Anil's Ghost is a pretty serious book, but you do want to have a break.
- Anil's Ghost may be a familiar style to earlier books I've written, but it feels new to me.
- I did not expect Anil's Ghost to go off into a twenty or thirty page section in the Grove of Ascetics when I began, but that seemed to be the way the book should go.
- One of the metaphors was the burial and stealing of Buddhist statues, how they get stolen and buried, unearthed and resold. Like human life, a metaphor for human life.
- That's Anil's path. She grows up in Sri Lanka, goes and gets educated abroad, and through fate or chance gets brought back by the Human Rights Commission to investigate war crimes.

On The English Patient

- I do know that film is much more visceral, in terms of its effect on the reader.
- In the book the relationship with Katharine and Almasy is sort of only in the patient's mind.

On being a Sri Lankan born Canadian writer

- I grew up in a country that was very different - the germs of racism were there then, I just wasn't aware of it.
- I'm a Canadian citizen. But I always want to feel at home in Sri Lanka. I'm a member of both countries.
- It's an odd state to be in, blowing the whistle on your home country.

---------taken from here.

views, reviews, and stevie nicks

Confession--I didn't manage to study after all today--obsessedly browsed and read all music-related stuff, and did some extensive update on ukulele. The recent posts (and the lack of them) made me ponder if we had got it right after all the zest and labor: if the initial rush was too strong and tired out the drive to follow up, if too many people were invited, if the implicitly set tones and themes were too formal and contricting when all we ever wanted was personal views and random thoughts and (if it should happen) freely indulging in artists/genres we share common interest in. I should hope it's just the mad busy end-of-April period. I should also hope it's just my occasional streak of intolerance/impatience stretching its limbs. Hmph.

Rants and grunts aside, I am bursting to ask you this--do you know that Stevie Nicks (that gender-neutral voice that sang Touched by an Angel on Sweet November OST) is female?!! and an attractive, young woman at that?!! BLEW MY MIND AWAY! I was reading Dixie Chicks biography and it cited that the band had covered some classic item of Stevie Nicks--one click away and I was looking at a blonde girl/woman, and my first and only thought was: wrong spelling, name of that voice should be Steve Nicks. So, some more browsing..and arrrrhhhhh, it's her, it's her! Gosh. How this will change the listening experience of Touched! Incroyable..

Rufus craze

The Rufus craze has set in and seems wouldn't be going for quite a while..i really really really should cut my hands off for this, but I just watched a whole lot other Rufus videos. And one interesting (and to me, moving) thing I noticed is that, the way he carried himself changed a lot after he re-emerged from rehab, not just body gestures, but a lot in the way he talks and what he talks about. I'll come back to this later. (I just realized how horribly difficult the past biostats papers are..speechless..) but for now, I'll leave this space with this—

SMR 5

(c'td from the last 'diary entry')

One, two, three... I wasn't sure whether I was counting the no. of drawers caught in that brief glimpse or just counting in order to calm my boiling excitement. On reaching 10, I made up the biggest decision in my life.


Back in the mansion, Raymond King untied the knot to the bundle of mail but was suddenly reminded of the opened telegram. Not for the first time, but certainly one of those rarest moments, Mr. King found himself in a rather amusing gesture - his body bending over the oak table, hands still holding on to the ends of the untied thread and his eyes dead fixed on the red telegram lying cosily beside his sleeve - his whole body was locked in time and space as a pearl of throughts streamed through his busy mind. If I put the telegram back and return the envelop, will Mr. no 6 suspect that I've opened it without his consent? I could well explain the little accident to him in person to clear up any misunderstandings but how do I explain the initial curiosity that prompted me to take his mail in the first place? On top of that, no. 6 hasn't been here for almost a month. If he doesn't check in next week, I'm entitled to dispose all his mails as rightfully stated on the agreement. The logical conclusion could well end the mental struggle, until the printings on the telegram inadvertantly caught him. The letters were fading from the dampness but the word 'cypress' held his gaze in a vise. It was the maiden name of this ancient mansion but was no longer in use ever since he became heir. The current addressees, of course, only knew this place as '1 Moonriver Lane', and never Cypress! God forbids! Sensing an ominous sign coming, Mr. King snatched up the little piece of paper and squinted his eyes, which were now glimming with anxiety. "get out cypress on recieving next mail M. coming, Jade.' Raymond King dropped back in his vine chair, deep in thoughts. He dissembled the short message and chewed them over: 1. Jade, the sender, is relaying an important if not life-and-death signal to no.6 and the source of threat is the mysterious M. 2. There's a new mail coming in and upon recieving it, no. 6 is supposed to 'get out of cypress' as told. The biggest cipher,however, was 'get out cypress'. If 'cypress' was indeed referring to this mansion, could 'get out' literally mean to escape this place and move elsewhere? It wasn't uncommon for strangers to knock on his door and inquire about Miss and Mr. so and so although Mr. King emphasised to his customers that '1 moonriver lane' should be a mailing address and never be mistaken as their actual residence. Suppose Jade the sender, by mistake, assumed Cypress was where no.6 lived, the message would then suggest 'get out of your house.' If not, it could imply 'terminate your deal with the master of cypress.' And who is M? The urgent undertone seemed to tag M with a dangerous nature, a nameless face with a deadly pursuit. In all circumstances, no.6 was an alarming case. If only 'cypress' was a harmless coincidence! If not... Mr. King frowned and his heart tightend. Suddenly he remembered 'the next mail' and sprang from the chair. The newly arrived bundle was soon a mess as he frantically sieved through the letters looking for the small number tag. Six, six, six... to his great disappointment, there was none. As if to distract himself from a million palpitating possibilities that flooded in and broke the dam to his serene life, Mr. King closed his eyes and dived deep in a sea of fading memories. He thought of Catherine, in an extravagantly framed portrait, looking golden and regal. She kissed the child gently in her arm, whispered a lullaby and too quickly disappeared without a trace, leaving the baby alone. The Cypress. Raymond King snapped back to reality, frowned bitterly and knocked his knuckles against the table. He MUST get the next mail.



Chapter 4 No. 6
'There ye go, boy!' my old man tossed me a heavy package of letters. It hit me on the shoulders and I winced. 'Wassup with ye? Ye alrite? Kinda stupid and slow today huh?' he smiled a fatherly smile and gave a bearly pat on the same shoulder which was hit less than five seconds ago. I secretly grimaced but said nothing, in fear he would mock me further on my words which strangely, all sounded like laughing stock to him. If only I could be in a perpetual jolly mood like my old man! In fact, I had been a nervous wreck ever since I made my first move. I dare not tell it to anybody, certainly not THIS man smiling across at me. I'd lose my job instantly for sure.

Yesterday I got my usual share of letters. Instead of dutifully setting out on my bike and delivering them to the right household, I picked out those addressed to Raymond King and carefully examined them. Dear readers, if you still remember that stroke of moment where I made up a very important decision, and here it is! The curtains have just unfolded. I'm like a prankish boy throwing pebbles into an once tranquil pond. I watched the ripples spread far into a mass of dead foliage, disturbed them until now there was a small clearing. What was I looking for? I had no idea, but I was sure there WAS something, in the same way I always knew hamsters hid their nuts in secret alcoves nobody else knew of except me. There I held the letters up to eye level and shuffled them back to back. The numbers were there as expected, 25, 6 and 31. If this was what they would call a turn of fate, I did it with a single stroke. I took out a black ink pen, and with my clammy hands, etched a vertical line beside 6. What a difference would 10 make? If only I knew then!

SMR 4

HOHOHO Strange Mail Room 4! Actually, I am just bored..and feel like writing too, so I take this chance to pick it up. Continue as and when you like to, or if not, I’ll add a few more paragraphs later if I could. =D thoughts?

###

For the rest of the afternoon, Raymond King sat musing at the French window. No one came. The autumn rains are nearing their end, and the first northern winds had duly announced the impending arrival of another winter. Down the length of the garden, the rose beds were a shameful scene of neglect. Wild daffodils had grown in abandon through the past summer, and now they danced that occasional, sad little shivering repertoire in the whimpering wind, sighing their resignation at another summer gone by. The only lively and in fact the single noticeable thing in the garden, was a small patch of chrysanthemums, angrily flaming near the French window. Raymond had been gazing at the ephemeral white and yellow mass for very long now, his thoughts drifting to a woman, Catherine…Catherine K., the single most lovely woman in this world, whose short appearances in his life seemed to both intensify and drown out all things in his life since…it’s been very long now…now…

Just as he was about to direct his thoughts out of the immense complex that was Catherine, the door bell suddenly buzzed in the dead silence. Caught all too surprised, Raymond rushed to his feet, not realizing he was still holding the small letter in his left hand—it had been caught in a crack in the oak armrest, and upon the abrupt pull it was ripped open—a red form fell out—so it was a telegram then, and an urgent one at that! But there was the door to answer first—the bell buzzed a second time, hesitantly, as if the ringer was not sure of the address. Raymond righted his bow tie and brushed a hand over his already impeccable hair, and opened the door—only to find the new post office boy shuffling his feet on the door mat, a little red in the face and whizzed a bit. When did he come through the main gate? “—sir, I pressed the bell at the gate but ain’t no one was answering me, so I’d thought I’d better come in drop the mail at your door, I was wondering—“ “Yes, yes, I am sorry I did not hear the bell ring, I’ll take them here, thank you very much.” Raymond didn’t let the boy have another chance slipping curious peeks past his broad build; he took the moderate bundle of mail and politely but firmly shut the door.

Chapter 3

Diary, 11 November

“I went to the strange mansion again! I was supposed to take the Lake district mail today, but I swore to boss that I had to pick up an important parcel down at Queen’s and hopped on my bike, heart pounding and heading straight to Mansion. I hopped off the bike far from reaching—don’t want to alert the mystery man if I can help it!—and walked up to the house with the mail bundle. I’d be damned—when I arrived at the gate, it was slightly ajar! Someone must have been careless and forgot to lock it. My finger hovered over the bell button for a few seconds, and then, from the corner of my eyes, I saw a broad figure leaning over one of the bigger windows, seems to be lost in those strange yellow flowers. He’s not facing my direction now…if I’d just try this…I dunno how I reasoned with myself, but fifteen seconds later I’ve crossed the desolate garden path and now standing at the front porch, no one seemed to be any wiser..

Now, I could do two things: knock on the door and deliver the mail, before anyone comes back, OR, have a look around first. Since I've got this far…But I was disappointed. The front porch is a spacious structure, still has the suggestions of the grandeur of decoration and lush vines it used to boast, but now it’s just a barren, dusty porch, rundown from disuse and lack of care. The white marble floor has grown an ungracious grey, and the rich crimson carpet has worn a bit threadbare...wait, door mat. There would always be something under a door mat—a key, a letter, a note, anything. Excited by the idea, I swallowed hard to contain my nervousness, and lifted a corner of the carpet, quickly and quietly as I could manage. Nothing, just the same plain marble, a tad whiter than the uncovered part. I lifted the opposite corner—nothing. The third corner and I laid down the heavy fabric laughing at my simplemindedness. The last corner didn’t give up any note either, and I yanked my arm out of frustration. And there and then, I saw a faint corner of an engraving, covered under the center of the big carpet. Damn! I carefully rolled the carpet to one side, not caring if anyone would suddenly open the door on me now. There it was, in classical style, an elegant engraving that read,

The Cypress.

Property of King and Kerr.

1712.

I was totally blown away. I knew this was an old house, but I didn’t expect it to be this old. And King? Isn’t the mystery man also a Mr. King? But he seems more like a caretaker than the owner of the house! Of course Kings abound just like Smiths and Jacksons, but this remains an interesting point to investigate…hmmm…but I couldn’t squat there feeling up the old engravings forever. I gave it a deep last look and rolled back the carpet, shuffling my feet on it to make it even again—and clumsy me, I tripped! Falling forward, my right arm inadvertently pressed on the bell, making a rather shrill sound in the stillness. I hurriedly picked up the mail bundle from the floor and kept smoothing the carpet under my feet. Odd that no one answered the door sooner. I couldn’t hear a thing moving beyond the thick oak door, so I pressed a second time, not sure if I was discovered, but did not wish to run away and look guilty either.

The door opened on me as abruptly as his last appearance; I almost jumped. Stammering a bit I said the words I just made up ten seconds ago, and before I even managed to probe if he knew a Mr Kerr in the neighborhood, he cut me short, obviously perturbed by my less-than-discreet peeks past him, and definitely also something else. Promptly thanked me and without another word, I found myself empty-handed and facing a shut door again.

But the few seconds I got to steal a look was…amazing! Despite the decrepit looks on the outside, I am sure the inside of mansion is as immaculate as it was three centuries ago. Old, oaken furniture, a huge library spanning the walls, old paintings and portraits, oriental carpets—it was something I’d only seen in period dramas—except one thing: the old-world harmony of the place is also disrupted by the cramming of a lot of idiosyncratic, out-of-place boxes. I saw a set of quaint Chinese medicine cabinet-like chest of drawers at the far end of the hall, and right beside it was a bronze set, and then a wooden one and a stainless steel one, each with one to a few drawers or slots, and all with locks. Unless I am very much mistaken, they must be used for mailboxes—you just can’t name another use for them weird little chests of drawers! And they very well explain the tiny numbers on those mail..well, not quite explain it, but now I have an inkling of what they are for…they are indexes.

novel marathon

I do miss novel marathon, even if it makes no sense, even if it's just une phrase per day. Maybe we should resurrect the good old fun slapstick tradition.

So here goes,
We're sitting face to face, you telling me your name is Riko and I telling you I don't care if it's Liso or Wibo coz I don't pronounce R and K for god knows why. We've only met for two minutes and your burning eyes are boring into my nose bridge as if me not pronoucing your name right will be armageddon of my own little world. You must be Psycho for goodness sake and I'm an idiot to have the patience to carry on our stupid conversation for more than the time the mosquito journeys from my sleeve to your eyebrow.

Jude 16:37 (GMT +0800) 13th March 2006

***
“My name is Riko.” I tell the girl sitting across the wooden picnic table. I stare at her, hard, my eyes cruising her freckled face, vigilant for any tiny twist of a muscle or two, any barely tangible sign of recognition. Apart from a puzzled, nervous frown, she looked blank, positively blasé.

“Riko. It’s Ri-ko. What’s yours?”

“Alright, RI-KO, I don’t care if it's Liso or Wibo, coz I don't pronounce R and K for god knows why!” she snaps, now alarmed and seems most anxious to leave the conversation at that and leave her alone. Maybe someone is coming to pick her up soon, or else why is she not leaving this table for home or something? The beach is almost deserted at this hour now—it’s late summer still, but the expansive sands and the low-hanging palm trees already acquired a desolate winter feeling. In the northern stretch of the sky gluey rain clouds are gathering fast; a thunderstorm is coming. Still keeping an eye on her, I glanced down the other tables: even the few hippies hanging out in the distance are packing up. Now she takes out a chic cell phone, checks it, frowns deeply and heaves a light sigh. Pocketing it again she immediately diverts her eyes to the humming, restless sea—avoiding my querying eyes. Whoever she is waiting for, why didn’t she just call? I should probably leave and get hold of something to eat now—haven’t been eating in two days—but I’ve got to stay, I’ve got to hang on to this silent, guarded girl, this conversation, for this is a matter of life or virtual death.

Haha this is hilarious, good old amusement, and I am having fun. Go on go on, I’ve no idea what’s going on next and can’t wait to see. And maybe we could pick up the mailroom flick too from where we left off, if we've still extra brainpower and time~(unlikedly yeah, but say I try une phrase par jour on that, lol) =D

Jady 17:45 13th March 2006

***

She's dissecting me, like a threatening microscope. It's eccentric, isn't it? For a complete stranger to be staring at you so inquisitively, to count every freckle and every mole. What made me think she's counting my freckles? Not that I'm overly conscious but the way her translucent grey eyes scan up and down suggests an almost ridiculous possibility. Oh, God, my stomach is cringing. I wish it would disappear but it hangs on like a devilish malignancy. A storm is coming. Where is he? The dark clouds are rolling in. It should be the right place, the right time. Did I accidentally confuse myself? Half the sky is already eaten up alive. Damn, where is he? I started wrestling my thumb with my forefinger, a perpetual habit whenever I felt an omen. There she is again, RI-KO, examining my reddened fingers with a tickling smile in her eyes. I was suddenly enraged and slapped my palm on the wooden table. She was startled, but in no time resumed her usual amused look. Thoroughly defeated, I took out my cell phone and checked the record: private number.

I was about to throw in some plot development, like why she's so anxious and a possible hint of who she could be waiting for. But, it's more fun leaving it to you Jady hahaha.

Jude 16:34 14th March 2006

***

Now, a private number isn't something Alice usually gets. As an introverted, private girl, she shies away from strangers and just keeps to a handful of close friends and, and her phone book has just them. At this moment she is nonplussed, and even more puzzled when she realized: the missed call was only five minutes ago. ‘How could that be?' The question hovers in her head. 'I could not have possibly missed to hear the ring, even if the pocket muffles the sound a little.' The mid-aged woman still sits where she was, intently gazing, an eyebrow flinched ever so slightly when she saw Alice lost in thoughts over the phone screen. What she wants to know, we can't know for the moment now, for the heavy clouds finally and all too suddenly broke into a great downpour, and with little ceremony and perhaps to much relief of Alice, they hurriedly parted. Alice took special attention to the direction the older woman was heading, who now seemed even more eager to flee the pounding rain than her previous interest in observing her. Pushing that thought aside, she darted in quite the opposite direction, running for the one nearest shelter she knew.
**
Diary, 23 August
The existence of this diary is dangerous now. I see the clues piecing together, little by little they start to fall into place, but the strings are tightening too..and I fear. I fear that once they know which strings to pull and which trail to go down, all would crumble, and that which I dread would finally happen. I long for Campbell. Campbell, where could you possibly be? I keep having dreams about you, good ones and nightmares. I am lost in this land, all but deserted, disconnected, hopeless except for one lead..but for now, she is lost too. When I realized I forgot to put the waterproof sheath on me this morning and had to hurry away in the terrible afternoon rain, I looked back once and saw her running down the beach, towards the log house perhaps. I hope she's okay, and I hope I could still find her tomorrow where I believe she would be. But for now, I need to worry for food, and shower...the lesions are getting worse still, in just two days...but I do not want to die, not yet, not perishing in this old, deserted water factory, among all the rusting pipes and no one has any inkling. I think I need to get some more fish and salt now.
18:52 (signed) Elisa.

Laughs—here's my new many strange ends and developments for your entertainment..I know some of them probably makes little sense, but hey, the marathon thing is about being coherent and then have as much fun setting road-blocks and quantum tunnels and whatever for the other mind, so choose what you choose, leave aside whatever you want to leave, and we'll see. ^^

Jady 02:57 24th March 2006

***

event log

Purely for housekeeping:

1 mai
- got rid of the original olive bg and changed to the current cappucino tinge. widened the mainblog box. added permalink etc standard ones.

avril
- applied caz's coffee time template. added blogger search bar.

26 mars
- changed bg color to crimson. how do you find it?
- added technorati yesterday and firefox icon today.
- added permalink to the dateheader, and comments now come in pop-up form.

24 mars
- changed intro

as of 13th mars 2006 we
- removed the blogger bar at the top, finally..
- added pull-down menu for archive and recent posts
- rearranged the very incomplete links

yet/proposed to do:
- change the light yellow grey background to another color/pattern? - no.
- and more poring over html tutorials for me..now I want to do a 'map' code on everything..the onset of mania, tata~

hohoho no updates for very long! here's something interesting relating to rufus wainwright.. and in case you are wondering who wrote it, it's the wife of the philo prof of the philo course i took 1.5 yrs ago. she's a literature prof who writes and teaches greek at NUS, if my info is correct. kinda fun. ^^

Unfinished letter

I dug through the paper mess on my desk and found this—an undated note, scribbled in haste and addressed to you—which must have been early this August, as I was sitting in the plane waiting for the take-off to Singapore. I wonder what I had in mind to say to you and didn't go on to say. In all probability just restlessness.

Dear Jude,

The plane has yet to take off. I suddenly have this strong urge to write to you. A young lad is standing down there from my window, blond hair ruffled, face pink and lovely with the sunlight on it. I wonder what he's doing in here, working as an airport staff, here in Hong Kong, somewhere he doesn't belong. On this bright morning (too bright, and too many leaden clouds in the sky). I am unprepared to be moved by youth--shadowless youth that one can do anything in/with. I take out my crimson pashmina and wind it round my shoulders, feeling ancient and ageless, as if this warm, dark wool piece is the perfect shield to the piercing, luring beam of that pink robustness. Youth, whatever happened to mine? "When was that innocence-lost experience?" M asked, months ago. "I don’t know. Probably the time when the chickens I reared were ruthlessly beheaded to make the New Year feast. I was three or four."

(some spaces later..) 云朵的影子映在山丘上, 似水波般流动. 揉烂的天空棉花, 我正向你飞去..

donuts

nonsensical topic. since you said you were dropping by, i'll offer some donuts - gesture of hospitality.

i haven't been on MSN for some time. no urge to talk, exactly. just want to sort out my own mess. picked up a copy of Virginia Woolf's ' The Waves' yesterday. In fact I haven't read a single novel since summer but yesterday after class, i had this urge to touch them again. The 13th floor dedicated to good old novels isn't very popular for the general sicence orientated readers and when i was there, few people lingered around. It's almost impossible to navigate without the reference code ready at hand but anyway my trip was without purpose. Maybe i just missed the particular stale smell of ancient paper backs. To be embraced in calm serenity once more while outside late autumn rain trickled endlessly. It was soothing.

i bumped into virginia woolf and thought about what you said. There was a huge collection of her diaries. Now i think of it, I have no idea why I didn't borrow them. Maybe there're simply too many to choose from.

quotes of the day, from the introduction to 'the waves', written by Gilian Beer

While she was writing Mrs Dalloway Woolf copied a passage from Book VII of Wordsworth's The Prelude and added a comment:

The matter that detains us now may seem,
To many, neither dignified enough
Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by them,
Who, looking inward, have observed the ties
That bind the perishable hours of life
Each to the other, & the curious props
By which the world of memory and thought
Exists & is sustained.

Good quotation for one of my books. - Virginia

Not like I understand it. Maybe I will one day.

Dropping by

Blogging industry is at a standstill, my own, I mean. And so is communication. Now and then saw you and a couple other friends online that I talked to often, and never seemed to have that urge to talk out these days. Busy life is so smothering. Clicked around and saw your revamped redro and attic rambles, whoa, loved those; that background picture of redro..and the perfect choices of pictures with words in rambles..beautiful.

Looking at the dates I realized there is almost a full month's lapse between your last entry and today. It's shocking, it's shocking, time zooms by so!!! The shock almost shook my sleepiness away...

Letter to Jude from Jady

Dear Jude,

Addicted to Jewel again, indeed. In little times like this, when doubts about self worth, truth and deception quietly awake and nibble away at the heart, I go to Jewel, Jewel the sensual yet innocent one, wise yet wild, still long before one day turning up posing sluttish on a neon colored album. (No, I still can't quite get over that.) if I sound as if I have been pensive and absorbed in thoughts for days, I wasn't—I had to axe away that pile of work little by little, everyday for a long while now, before it becomes a monster and squashes me. I threw myself out there to be consumed by those notes and texts, with a blank mind, little enthusiasm and a nasty sense of urgency. Not reading the eclectic way any more (just slowly reading a wonderfully written French novel, Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan..hope you are going on to take francais!) not writing, not meeting up with friends and acquaintances (I missed to meet tree, and feel most regretful…most inexcusable.) shutting myself off but again not so thoroughly—every night when I sign on online my sight would linger over a certain name for a while too long, wishing, not even subconsciously and knowing too well the improbability, that a message would pop up and clarify some things. I didn't know I'd care this much, about tucked-away truths, of a possibly purely impulsive phrase and an ultimately commonplace and trivial incident, and even if the moment has long expired; but then again, I can't say I don't know myself through and through—it was only that certain self-knowledge is harder to confront, so I did know I'd be caring this much. And the boy is blameless, for, what would anyone say or do after all that happened? (There's no need to contradict this because there are still stretches of the story omitted and untold...and probably should remain so.) And I keep my reticence. Long silences suck things far and away, like vacuum, intangible, boundless, and dreadful; that dread is excruciating in just that—for fear of saying the wrong things, one says nothing, and for fear of turning a small disaster into a crisis by trying to mend it, one ties oneself down and does nothing, and let silences fill out the endless stretch of hours; it's more like thin shelled snails than happily feathered and warm blooded chickens; and I don't know what to think about snails. Or about hiding, or being frail and guardless. (now strangely, Esther's face surfaces and sneers that Esther sneer, says, yeah, go wallow in self-pity!) (I say to her, but I don't pity myself, and she scorns in return.) (Bravo Es, hardly anyone I know of could take up that pitiless cynical insolent devil role as you could. So stay in my fantasy a while…) anyway, I was at Luo's place for a while today. What took place in that very room almost three weeks ago seemed at once dreamlike and immediately erase-and-rewindable. I imagined the boy walking into the room any moment, saying a nonchalant hi, and everything would be back on track. But that's too dramatic to be true, of course, and the real me would probably be a real bastard again, picking up my bag and running off in nameless rage and self-inflicted sadness again. And those aren't even important any more—as soon as the rush of emotions was past each would realize that there are too much at stake—independence, freedom, peace of mind, deep secrets, and happiness itself—to exchange for some uncertain, short-lived thing that vaguely resembles love. Was it out of loneliness? Was it out of boredom? And by just how much need I reduce human emotions to categories and abstractions and reason before I could finally deal with them? That question is going to stay with me for a while...I'll rest my fatigued fingers and mind here..and post this on ss, an arbitrary something that might as well be imagined, impersonal, fictional..

Jady.

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.