eye of the storm

many centuries, buried treasures hidden from scrutiny come hither every now and then to tantalise our senses. is there really nothing new under the sun? its been good hiding in these books. and at the end of 12 chapters, it makes one feel almost righteous but a tugging string inside keeps you grounded.

all of these reasons, all of our choices, for better days ahead, yet why does it stick like gum on the doors that lead to the land of the living? what makes us tick? what makes us feel good? what strokes our ego in the eye of the storm? what does it serve? how do we love? Or have we forgotten how we loved when we were just tiny tots with all the wonder and delight for what we have?

there's a little zygote that lives opposite from my city that gives me a goodnight kiss every now and then. what with all the slobber of mucus, tears and salivation, i never minded. i leave the mark on my cheeks, let it dry a little and feel the wet peck against the cold bite of this winter frost. he has no idea what he does to me every time. so i sing and hum and write because these are the nursery rhymes that will carry him through each eventful night.

i meant to say that with every performance brings a severity to the soul of the performer. in that there is a dying occurrence, that we die to ourselves when we go into character - whether a ballerina, actor, opera singer or rocker. We become a different person so that in consistency with the entire piece, we transcend and bring the audience to a different place, a place hopefully vivid and real in our imagination. That, is a powerful medium.

So what captures our imagination is important to make or break us. And the idea is that it is not about us. What responsibility this shoulders us who have chosen to make a life out of an artistic virtue. What histories will we write? What Nina Simone's, Miles and Slim Shady's will we make?

What is holding our heads ransom in the chaos and confusion of our times?

Like wine and long kept spirits, these wisdom come with time, breath and heartaches. Which is why some of us stay in a posture of desperate lack, a little longer than usual, to capture the essence of a generation waking up to a world already at war.

gnash

words fail. miserably. to try is proverbially copping out. each breath ignites a small flame snuffed out before it gives light. waves. waves of shouting demons, crumbling and cowering, distasteful memories waking two seconds later. the hours tick away. tick away.

for our struggle is not against flesh and blood, not against those we can touch, feel, smell. not against agendas, loyalty, badges. we're at war. not with machines, systems, institutions. we are at war against our oppressed minds. we are fighting the unseen, invisible, those things that capture our imagination, our passion, our attention. we are at war against distractions that undermine and leverage our value system, our morals, our need for lines, clear distinct channels.

God, have mercy on us all. We need you for more than our daily bread.

pray a song of sixpence

The drugs are still fresh underneath the wounds. common commentary says so many things. get out while you can. we each lead different lives and roads cross and intersect. they make us richer and some poorer for it. does that mean we need to give up, trade in, walk out? we're not a pack of cards on the poker master's table.

i wish it were simple. for you and for me. for the entire race of us. somewhere deep down I know that you know that we are not there yet. that we are misinterpreting the sign of the times. whatever the weather we don't just do what we see fit and righteous in our eyes. we don't eat the fruit because we can. we don't trade in God's name just because we earned the badge.

What will the hand do if the eye is hurting? is it too busy working away, that we all begin to go blind and so suffer the defiance of our times?

i believe we're made for more than this. Made to be a shelter from the storm, refuge from the wind. Made to live, breathe, give, share, connect, strengthen and undergird. who are we listening to today? To the voice of reason, or to the reason of your passion? One life, one shot, it's all we've got. Are we lost in the jungle of our pursuits?

Have mercy on me, on us, on our generation, Oh God. You are the first to lay down, live outside the system, inconvenienced for lives. Teach us to love. Teach us to cry. Teach us to invest in your Kingdom. Lest we squander our heritage. Lest we forget the grace of our fathers. Let we become mere humans, digging wells deep to satisfy our hunger. Lest we martyr the spies who come with good news.

holding my breath

and it's not helping. perhaps it is cold turkey, the pseudo professional in you, says. i'm in the circle and all i see are the boundaries and so can you, even outside of the circumference. my words have failed me miserably lately. i can see how the bad grammar have infused my use and honestly i am not as cool about it as i was.

i had a sunday epiphany when the normal ramble of your usual self stuck itself out like a sore thumb. and i'm a sucker for it, i give it that, that I listen and patiently let you let your air out, without prejudice. i realised some people have trajectories set out for them, ever since their DNA was locked into flesh and blood. some fly, some walk maimed, some blaze into the horizon easily, effortlessly. i sat there hearing the words coming out of a young damsel, filtered through your lens and i thought to myself, what about me?

we are the sum of our history and choices we make.

i am still figuring out a lot of the basics my folks have yet to get to. So this is the legacy they left me with. A pair of hands, a mind refusing to be bought out, a heart on the sleeve, hoping to find the kind of love that will finish this long drawn circle of life. i've been missing the dots and i can see why. the kingdom i am building comes with a lot of missing instructions and resources. mostly with broken tools that will break the fingers. so, this struggle for affection is a borrow on your social grace. but what happens when love is not enough to power up what had been lacking in your good self?

so here i am. turning to this forsaken canvas once again. for my words have been the double edged sword and we're both severely wounded. i'll make the best of my remaining years and hope you don't grow tired of listening to me. there's still so much more and we're not done yet. for these uncertain times, i still my heart. to love but quietly and recede into the dark. i'm an acquired taste so here, me, now, i'm holding my breath, hoping for the best.

this morning vessel

so it's me. i lie here, tired, exhausted for rest. but my mind spins, on overdrive, algorithms that don't make sense. i pray, i babble. coo and coax my being into a lull. the clock ticks away to the beat of the electric current rushing through my surround. i note the time it takes for the automatic door to slide out. i'm always 15 mins too ahead of myself. i should stick my head into the fridge and fry it cold.

so it's the morning, I tell myself this grumpiness is just a cold car engine starting. it's ok, you will warm up. it's taken a beating for years and so have you. my thoughts turn into continuous spurts of conversation about what i have done in the last 24 hours. in the silence against the wind and the rain pelting against your windshield, i push my thoughts away and leave the silence to the space it wants.

the passing scene outside brings me back to last night at the chocolate place. where my surrogate brother from 4 years ago sits and shows and tells me stories from his adventures and the inspiration my heart felt. this wild soul is not done yet. we trade anecdotes, experiences and ideas and find common ground to rub shoulders. there was a shift in my heart as it fell out from my sleeve.

times are a changin. so they say, conventional wisdom, different seasons. vessels like us, where stories travel through. come. walk through me.

how do i begin

the thick volume that reeks like the old encyclopedia. how do i tell the story and point them in a succinct, lucid manner? i have these pieces of virtual post it notes stuck on the walls of my mind, sign posts that I will find useful later when the tapestry is ready to string these together. I feel like the editor sitting in the post production putting together the movie, Memento.

i stretched to flick the music over to Herbie Hancock and hopefully the New York Minute will give me some rhythm to kick this story writing into gear. I only have 10 minutes. How do I make it count?

inspire me.

dust and the damsel

the delight you see in your eyes, is the nemesis like popsicles on sticks. you see, the room gets bigger with each hour of absence. how do i explain this? the dust is collecting on every untouched furniture and soon, the movies won't be playable. it's the same dejavu feeling. like the knife that cuts deep should cut deep now. i can hear the rumble and the ticking of machines keeping this life source chugging like an old overworked train. i feel like shouting because they fall on deaf ears. how can i not let my emotions get the better of me? when you're not around, the emptiness amplifies. will you start this odd year again, with my mouth gagged when the people ask and seek? will my loneliness drive me to this death floor? for i am convinced more than what you are trying to undo, that i am not wanted. that it doesn't matter. that the magic cards you easily parted with, is the way you would flush me down this pipe so we can drown out this inconvenient emotional wreck, so you can sail into the sunset. like i said, different shovel, same shit. will i bite the dust tonight?

the sun is out

even for a little while, to shine upon the gloom of this wet weather program, i saw the dew and the glister like the twinkle in your eye that makes me come alive, feel that everything is all right. some kindred spirit. some kind of love that makes me better for it.

press here

there are a million thoughts swimming right outside these walls, waiting to find their home and seal the deed sign on the dotted line. sigh. i don't know what light this be, that flickers in the night, keeping my heart pounding and restless. i'm hungry and broken. these pictures drive a deeper disappointment with myself. that i am missing the boat again. late to the game, still waiting.

whatever happened to the wild soul inside? the cares of this world and the need to salvage the unploughed landscape has made for the perfect distraction. now we're all old and sepia in tone, waiting for the archive box to arrive. where but where, be my fellow nomads who circle the horizon, surveying and lost as I am?

i'm looking for jesus in all the wrong places, in all the wrong people. where is love and what happened to this year's affection? we've all grown cold in our selfish desires. and we've grown nonchalant with the state we're in. we're blind, deaf, shafted and happy.

so as an afterthought, i tell myself i have to live on, pull all my bases and stay in belief. even when all love and consideration has been used up and drained by the ones closest to your heart and soul.

thing is, i would do anything. anything at all. but maybe the time is not right. will the picture still be that of a widow waiting for the walls to crumble?

Acoustic This Sunday

"It's already 1.40am!" quipped my friend, Sarah, Maroon 5 playing in the background. I am tired and almost exhausted from the marathon of meeting old friends, playing the small gig at OOOM3. Great experience and made some notable mentions in Andie Francoeur who opened the night with her elegance and poetry. I miss piano laden music.

Carol from Class 95FM hooked me up with an acoustic gig at Love The World Soul Rock Bar & Bistro. Try saying that 20 times fast. It's a brand new bar situated at Singapore Flyer, 30 Raffles Avenue. I have to do a bit of trekking the next few days to make sure I find the place ok on Sunday. 8pm it is, with resident band opening. I'm looking forward to playing with the Taylor.

So much I've taken with me this trip so far. One thing i realise, Singapore is a very wordy country. Every signage, poster, public announcement comes in 4 different languages. With very directive instructions found mostly in idiot proof manuals. You get the sense that a lot of thought went into the designing and assembling. But more than that, it is a country full of brands and slogans. Some, a little over creative on the edges, overstating the obvious, as if the obvious was not enough. And i shudder to realise I tend to overstate my point in my writing, songs, poems alike. Shudder, indeed, even if on repeat. Countless repeat. Ok, better be ahead and stop now.

My left arm is aching with alarm bells of possible paralyzing going off. Perhaps the heavy laptop. The lack of blood flow. I shall see if tomorrow brings some recovery or I shall worry.

Or maybe I'm just really exhausted. Gotta rest for Sunday. But not for a few days holidaying in JB. Here I come.

Singapore, Friday, 30th Jan 2009.

It's been more than 48 hours since arriving here in Singapore and the sniffles are still a stubborn stew. I've fallen ill since leaving and i've held off bingeing on all the goodness of oil and gladness in the land flowing with deep fried manna. It's been health decisions so far. With lots of walking, mostly hunting for free WIFI and getting in touch with friends.

Mum's place has no internet connection, you see. Thank God the island has a vested interest in providing free access to it's citizens.

I'm out and about, full from a marathon of catch ups and late night conversations. i found myself almost scripting the same things to 3 different people groups. The wilderness years, the present reality of living life without conventional wisdom and the to do lists. There's so many songs to be written just because each encounter leaves me with that fuzzy warmth, reminding me why I live the life i now live. I'm even surprised there's been no pressure from my folks to do 'get a life'. Perhaps somehow they can see the fire, since, in my eyes.

So I'm rest stopping. At a franchise bad coffee joint. Planning what to do next. In the days past, three degrees of separation has worked so well for me. Friend knows a friend whose partner works at The Esplanade, Singapore's Arts Hub by the bay, and currently looking for acoustic acts to fill the stage for later part of the year. A call back from said partner came within an hour. Then another friend knows a friend who knows the people who run Timbre, a live music venue and will be in touch to make connections.

I dropped by IndoChine, with recommendations from friends regarding playing at their supposed Open Mic nights. Funny thing, I hesitated like a 10 year old, procrastinating, whether i should ask the staff. But I decided I wasn't 10 and what's the worse that could happen? "No we don't have open mics"

And so a browse through GAP and to my seat at this corner with free WIFI and power supply. Back to the drawing board.

For now, my only performance is still at OOOM3. Check out the listings & details of the gig. 4th Feb. Emily Hill. Told a few friends here about the gig and realise there could be an entourage and their friends for support.

Sweet.

Raise The Anthem

how do i begin to describe the trawling under current of what has disturbed me since the afternoon began? it seems nothing has changed. and I feel lied to. I feel stupid for having believed. And now, I feel like ripping up the ticket.

it's all a fairy tale that never really existed. it is a sin punishable by seven deaths in the ancient chinese halls of hell. this piety has made me a black sheep of the flock. is it too much to ask to belong?

that niggling feeling that there is something amiss. that there is always something almost not there. thirty hits and miss. how can i be so naive to believe that someone else's good favor has found their way into the hearts of my folks?

we are the sum of our relationships. what if i don't like how things are adding up? i hate to negate the present so i choose to stay away, out of the picture frame. the missing child from the heirloom of still captures for years to come. why did it have to matter to me to feel like there is something i need to recover? perhaps it was never mine to begin with.

there is the unpopular belief that some of us are just born at the wrong place and the wrong time. much hush hush to the wrong people.

so, they are still the same paranoid people i grew up with. and so, should i keep looking and find myself short changed? it was never meant to be mine, the fine folk at raspberry town, the kind souls at salisbury street, those warm hands that held a good nourishing hug, a home to rest my head and a safe haven to guard my thoughts.

so tonight i should be content i have a machine that keeps me warm. for love is an empty hollow leading to an abyss of chance and desire. what will you have me do? why have you chosen to keep me on this side of the shorter stick? when will my time come?

maybe the little island is mine to give up. the place i hastily still call home is to be relinquished. my last piece of the past i have to leave behind to build a future to change the course of the trajectory.

Raise the anthem and fly the flags. Swiftly come, leave it behind, as we countdown to the knell of a new history and unbridled possibilities.

evolution of the rhetoric

Circles, like cyclical generational curses or blessings - that thin line between our choices, make good for meaning. so this education be an evil that catches up with us in our slumber? modern man the nemesis of our nature? for when we distill all the context and cognitives of our existence we come up with a convincing conclusion, persuasive purely on the basis of how eloquent we can argue it.

It always makes sense. when the pieces arrange in our bidding. so is it enough then?

I am listening to Bill Withers at the moment. A part of me wanting to regress in time. While, having an online conference - one part catch up, one part business and one part professional. It's difficult to have the crossroad grey out the relationships but I found myself wanting a team to build this thing with me. Whatever the cause may be.

So if this year is the last of it as we know it, what difference does it make?

Thing is, i am still clinging on to those I love more than they love me. Thing really is, I don't think there is love at all. The one thing I seem to keep missing. I am not convinced. All the signs and lack of effort on the other party's part. Why do i still sit myself down as the door mat after three years? What good will come of this? There's only so much a human heart can take.

So this new 2000 spanking 9, what is it that we believe in?

I believe all human beings, regardless of race, religion, preference and origin are inherently selfish. That the human race believes that the world, as they know it, revolves around their own hunger and fetish.

I believe humans only do good when there is something in return for them. I believe communities of gatherings are neo-typical answers to belonging and excuses for categories of fear that keep us on the side of comfort.

I believe there is little love for the downtrodden, heartbroken and the browbeaten. I believe there is mostly only deception, motives and greed in the drive you and I call passion or ambition. The need to feel sexy, wanted, glorified.

Yet, I believe we all have more capacity to do more, love more, give more. I believe we have what it takes to be more than just idiots who take and take and take. I believe we have it in us to do more than sacrifice, more than obligation. More than looking the part and ticking off the boxes.

I believe when we hurt, it is the beginning of possibilities. Possibilities of a better world. A better home. A better set of families. A better way to tend, trust and a better circle that cannot be broken.

I believe that hope, though down and out, is hard to kill.