Come on man, think - think!

This writer’s block has been going on for way too long..

Since I’m back from something that kept me occupied for over 7 months, my head’s gushing with ideas I can’t even keep up. Although this fever I’m nursing kind of helps to control the traffic that’s been jamming up in my gray matter right now..ha ha

Things I need to work on:

1) Expanding the story for “aokigahara no yokai”  A protagonist on the brink of suicide and finds himself in the heart of the haunted forest maybe..

2) Chapter II of “the island man”  Well it all started with this story didn’t it..I’m trying my best not to make it sound like robinson crusoe or something..

3) Refurnish my room!! It’s a friggin pigsty!

More to come! Until this fever goes away, I won’t start anything yet.

Well at least the worst of it is over..Life is looking good right now!

There was once a man.

A man who truly lived for the things he lived for.

He would go everywhere, to the ends of the earth and back, to live for the things he lived for.

Through rocky roads, up tallest mountains, under deepest caves, he would go.

By foot, cars, buses, trains, planes, bicycles, horseback, he would go.

All in search of the things he lived for.

And this man, he lived for Christmas.

A lifetime of travel had left him jaded, certainly. His body is tired, his spirit dampened. The fire in him is starving - rendering him colder and colder with each passing day. His hunger has drained his strength, and his lively pace has been crippled to a slow, ambling gait, having trudged across millions of miles from home. But there is no home, for he has forgotten what his home was, or how it looked like, or where it is. But he keeps on going, for there is still hope yet.

Father christmas, where are you?

The season approaches, the yuletide joy engulfs the land and seas. The smell of roast and herb wafts across all borders. People are happy and contented, eating and drinking, sharing good times and good cheer. Families, friends and lovers are kept warm by the fires in their houses.

Father christmas, where are you?

He is looking out across the horizon, on the highest cliff, looking for a sign of where he should continue his journey. He remembers not where he started, nor knows where he will end. Dark, grey overcast clouds fill the painting pictured in his eyes, against the backdrop of crimson and deep blue shades. He drops to his knees. With the last breath he can muster, he asks -

Father christmas, where are you?

I saw him, standing there.
Rifle in hand, clad in a uniform of blue and gold, with a rank on his shoulders. Amidst the chaos of the situation unfolding in front of my eyes, I could definitely recognize the man standing across the street. The beret he was wearing did little to obscure his one facial feature I have ingrained in my mind through years of looking at it - his blinded left eye. He was standing with his fellow soldiers, in their disciplined military positions - ready for action, ready to fire at the slightest hostile move we make.
In the real-time background of my thoughts, the tension between two groups started to escalate, further exacerbating an already extremely white-knuckled situation.
I tried to get his attention, tried to catch his gaze, even if just for a second.
I wanted him to remember who I was. I wanted him to realize that he was fighting for all the wrong reasons, fighting under false pretenses, under the influence of our evil government propaganda. I wanted him to know that we could be the ones to stop all this senseless violence, to carry out the leading roles in diminishing this tension between our warring sides by peaceful negotiation.

And of all things, I wanted him to remember who he used to be.

The war cries of my men - my army, echoed through the empty streets - littered with debris from the previous days of rioting. There were shards of shattered glass and and torn, half-burnt posters of evil man Abhisit laid out in a mess on the road. The blood of the men who fell throughout this campaign lined the street, forming a subtle - but significant - border that seperated our army from theirs. Both of us were exhausted, tired of fighting, and prayed fervently that this would be over soon. But the conviction that filled both our men’s hearts - that we were fighting for a greater good, for the future of our countrymen - pushed us further, even when we were all dangerously close to our breaking points.
Warriors, even to our last dying breaths.

I turned around and scanned the faces of our soldiers. They were all shouting, chanting and holding up banners calling for the oust of our government - the corrupt, money-hungry swines led by the scum Abhisit. There were a couple of our men carrying black cargo bags - containing our home made weapons - or whatever was left of it after the events across the past few days - discreetly under cover in strategic spots in our ranks.
After countless hours waiting for our demonstration to come to a conclusion or at least, for the military men on the other side to understand what we were fighting for, our patience wore thin.
Our cries started to crescendo, an orchestraic unison of voices - of which each and every one was filled with pure, raw anger and disappointment. We could almost hear the ground shaking with every sound our collective bodies made, as if the ghosts of our ancestors buried under these streets had risen from their slumber to join our fight. As much as they were a part of our country’s past, they definitely deserved to play a part in the shape of our future - and we welcomed them, arms wide open, with that notion.
Our battle cries grew,
 louder,
           louder,
                      Louder, until finally - the chanting stopped.
A deafening silence filled the aural void as fear - that we thought had been replaced with camaraderie - quickly crawled back to our hearts. The long silence reminded me of how I used to spend the twilight hours watching the sun set in my old kampong thlom village with my brother - a brother who promised to protect me from everything that could hurt a village kid, even if he was one(albeit a little older) himself.
From bullies who stole my home-packed rice and fried fish lunch - to much older teenage gangsters who preyed on us for money everytime we rode into the neighboring town on our father’s old moped, he would be my hero.
Forcing me to stand at safe corners where we could make a quick exit if the situation got messy, I quickly got used to being the getaway driver(or technically, moped rider) when we had such confrontations with such people. Many a time he came back to me with blood on his shirt, or a black eye, and he would always disappear for the night when that happened - I would always tell my father that he went to the village market to help out with his friend’s fish store - and I’d wake up to find him looking significantly better the next morning. Until after one day, when our parents caught him near the riverbank with in his bloodied, post-fistfight state. They brought him home and an argument broke out between my brother and my father - I was too young to realize they were fighting because of the troubles I got myself into.
Their failing father-son relationship was made worse with that conflict and regret has haunted me throughout the years after that night when my brother ran away from the village after the fight with our father. I never saw him again since then.

Now he was right there, in front of me. The lionhearted hero who used to save me from the evils of a village kid’s world was now a soldier. A lionhearted hero still, but only this time, defending the interests of a politically empowered brainwasher, a government which seeked to destroy the livelihood of us, the village folk.
I looked straight into his eyes. I had wanted to just drop my machete and cross the debris-filled street, and kneel down in front of the man across to ask for his forgiveness. On behalf of my father, on behalf of my mother, we were all filled with regret knowing that we made him become the person I was looking at today.

I started to lower my weapon. Hesitation wasn’t an option, with the notion that both of us could die in the gunfire that may ensue sooner or later. I didn’t take my eyes off his. Suddenly he stared into mine. I was taken aback and lowered my gaze for a split second. I looked up again, only to find that he had actually - recognized his younger brother. The brother who had been searching for him all this while since the night he disappeared.

I dropped my machete. As the blade hit the ground, the sound of gunfire accompanied the clink of the metal on the asphalt. Like slow motion, the crowds on both sides braced up for the final clash. The soldiers raised their guns and took aim at us. There was no turning back after this moment, and we had to fight it out till the death.

The riot had started, and there was no way I could save us now.

I’ve seen her around, that old lady.

In fact, I’ve seen her so much that I know her daily routine by heart - of course, from years of watching her through my window every day when I get ready for work.

On Mondays through Fridays she gets up at 6 in the morning, which is pretty much the same time as I do. When I look out my window to breathe in some fresh morning air, I see her already at her balcony, watering and talking to her plants - paying special attention to her awfully humongous cactus, or carnegia gigantea or summat like that - as my really-but-not-really ‘Intelligentsia’ mate Morris put it when he came over one morning before work to get his, um, I’ll put it in a way that’s simple enough to understand - pants. He left them at my place after one of my annual house parties - how he forgot all about his nether regions and made his way back home (completely smashed out of his mind of course) could only probably be coherently explained after a pint or two, maybe a spliff as well if the alcohol wasn’t enough to help digest the whole stupidity of the story.

Anyway,

What I do after that - I wash up, put on my favourite Elvis Costello record (Shamelessly, I wear a pair of glasses just like him even without an optician’s prescription) and get dressed. I always have this strange feeling that while I’m blasting and singing to “welcome to the working week” every Monday morning, she’s listening in to my music in her small apartment across from mine, jiving lively in spite of her ancient frame to one of the (in my honest opinion) best songs to defeat the start-of-week blues.

At around 6.45 - that’s when I start to make some toast and a cuppa, my usual weekday breakfast - I look out the kitchen window and see her walking, no, teetering towards her mail box and looking through her dailies with the state of concentrated attention only reserved for those kind of letters you get from long-lost loves, or maybe a child who moved out in search of greater accomplishments.

One - Maybe not this one..

Two - Nah, try the next..

Three - Close, but no cigar, pal

Four - Wha? Oh wait, its just my pensioner fund statement from the government bigwigs..

(While i simultaneously look through the window and sit down gobbling my breakfast, I can only imagine what goes through her head when she goes through her mail. Every single day)

At around 7.30 when I finally leave my house for work, I see her again, talking to old man Fitz, her next-door neighbour. Plugged in to my discman, I try to invent the sentences in the conversation they hold.

“Good morning Mr Fitz, how’s the arthritis doing?” (Y’know, since they’re old and no strangers to age related bodily problems)

“Oh, it’s doing fine, thanks for asking (Points to his leg). I think it got a little better from last night’s events at the pub! (Does a drinking action) G’morning to you too, how’s the hangover hun? (Finally points to his head)”

“It feels better, thank you. I had a Prairie Oyster with a bacon sandwich this morning when I woke up and I’m so ready to face a wonderful day! It was a wonderful night at the pub wasn’t it? (she probably winks at him at this point)”

Of course, that wouldn’t happen in this world. Well, probably. At least I hope it does.

So that’s her daily morning routine, except for Saturdays, where I assume she goes out to visit someone - a relative perhaps - in another town. By the time I get up to the sound of ‘Good day sunshine’ on my fancy CD-player-alarm (another great morning song, reserved only for weekends), it’s already 10. I light a fag and look out the window - I’d expect her house to be empty, and true enough, it is (She apparently isn’t a fan of sleeping in on weekends). I carry on with my day, visiting the old bookstore in town, just browsing through the millions of books they have for sale, maybe buying one. After that, down to the local cafe to enjoy a cuppa and have a chat with a couple of close friends from work. Morris - he sometimes drops by to see Kathleen - they’re kind of dating, probably. But knowing Morris, he probably wouldn’t be interested in her after he finds out she’s a single mother with a 3-year-old daughter (yeah, the stuff that comes out when we get drunk at company parties).

On Sundays, ah, Sundays. That’s when I get really close to her, since both of us attend the same church a few blocks down. I usually arrive for the morning service by 7.15, and she always comes in when it’s just about to start. Unlike me, who changes seats every week (to experiment on the acoustics mostly, thank you lord for good hearing), she has her own personal seat in the church. Second pew from the altar, 4 seats away from Mrs. Doherty (that wicked, music-hating woman, she).

After the service ends - now this is the weird part - I always see her picking up grains of rice at the bottom of the stairwell leading up the the church bell. Now I’m no voyeur, but while I’m standing at my personal corner in the church, taking long drags on a cigarette (Forgive me lord, but you did  ‘make herb for the service of man’) its hard to ignore a sight like that. I’ve always wondered why she’d do something like that - or in the first place, why were there even grains on the stairwell.

Fuck, now how do i finish this… .

Dear _,

I know you don’t deserve this from me.

You want me to run away with you, to run from everything, so we can be together with nobody trying to part our fates.
You had always wanted to travel around the world, and wanted me to be the one companion you will always have.
You want me to take you,
Chasing sunsets on the back of my Datsun, your arms outstretched, with hopes of flying us across the horizon, into the unknown.
Spending our nights together, closing our eyes and just enjoying the sound of our voices while we lay, talking, under the light of the moon.
Running hand-in-hand through endless flower fields, looking up to find clear blue skies and sunshine that could illuminate even our deepest, darkest fears.
The fears that disappear, magically, when I look into your eyes.

But before you come to any rash conclusions, I want to say one thing, and one thing only - If i could, I would.

Remember when I took you to the hill behind old man Mackenzie’s farm to catch the sunrise just because we couldn’t sleep?
Holding hands with you, across old rickety bridges, jumping over ravines and carrying you on piggyback the rest of the way when you said you were tired.
As we sat down at the peak of the hill at the break of dawn, you said it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
At that moment, with the soft morning sun lighting you up like a flower in bloom - I said, you were.
Funny how I’ll be trekking through forests again - this time not to catch the sunrise, but to fight a war with a group of men who like me, were forced to fight unwillingly.
2 years in a world of gunfire, death and destruction - kept safe from your sights.
They fight for nothing, like pawns in a game played by the gods of this country.
But unlike them, I know I have a reason to do so.
You know i’d walk through a thousand forests just to have you in my arms again.

So please,
Don’t forget me when you’re off traversing mountains and walking through old towns because I promise, wherever you are in the world, I will always find my way back to you.
Always.

Love, _

Hi, I’m Yardley Kensington. But you can call me Yardey, at least, that’s what my friends call me.

I work at a record store called ‘The Monster’s LPs’ in Downtown Manhattan, at the corner of Fulton and Dutch Street. It’s been five years since I’ve moved to New York to attend my three-year sociology degree course at the Columbia University, which by the way, sucked major ass.

Jocks blasting loud club music from their muscle car stereos, hipster girls with psuedo-fashionable Ready-To-Wears from American Apparel, and the daily feeling of condescending stares wherever I walked on campus in my band t-shirts and weathered-as-hell jeans made those three years feel like a concentrated form of high school evil rose from the dead just to haunt me again as an adult.

The truth is, I never actually wanted to go to a fancy college, get a degree, and by default, join the ranks of the corporate undead, shackled to their office cubicles day in and day out, masking their daily drudgery by indulging in the material comforts of the world today. These zombies, they work hard and long hours, killing their own souls just to fulfill their material wish list. The latest 42” LCD television, Funky designer furnishings from Peter Opsvik, a new Ferrari. Anything to impress their zombie peers when they hold their weekly “Theme parties” - undoubtedly fueled by expensive, exquisite liquors and Top 40 music on current radio.

A consumerism orgy ritual used by the capitalist money gods of today to keep their corporate minions in line. THIS is the real-life personification of Aldous Huxley’s soma in 21st century America.

And that’s how I ended up at Monster’s. Not the best career move for a Sociology grad but hey, I’m keeping it real. Music has always been my first love, ever since I could remember.

I can never forget the first time mom put on a Beatles record while she cuddled and sang me to sleep. It took me a while, but after a few days rummaging through her old records and playing them through while she was away at work, I finally found the song that was to become the greatest memory of her love and her presence. It was “In my life” from the Rubber Soul record. The angelic harmony of Lennon’s and McCartney’s voices against the soft guitar in the background, coupled with the almost-magical baroque piano solo in the bridge never fails to remind me of how she looked me in the eye while rocking me to sleep, softly humming along to the tune playing from our old record player.

Throughout my life, that song became a physical manifestation of who she was, how hard she worked to put me through a proper education and how she taught me to become a human being with love and compassion for others. On a brighter note, I have her to thank for my love for music. I still keep her old record collection in a box by the kitchen table in my apartment.

Where is mom now? She died of her cancer, 9 years ago, when I was still in my senior high school year and a pure rebel. Dad - he wasn’t there at the funeral. No surprises there, he was never there for anything anyway.

Now, whenever I play that song at work (I keep the Rubber Soul record at work), I’d use the store’s old gramophone rather than the digital remaster of the album on our state-of-the-art stereo system (actually a secondhand system bought from my boss’s DJ friend who had no use for them anymore). There’s just something about the crackle and pop of old vinyl that gets to me. It also gets to my ancient 54-year-old Music Maestro boss Nigel - or Lebowski, as his friends and customers call him. In fact, it gets to him so much that every time i play that record when he’s around, I’d expect a loud “Oi Yardey! Turn that frickin’ thing down!!”. You’d half expect a guy as old as him to appreciate the sound of old vinyl, but apparently he’s as modern as they come in the digital age today. But he’s really cool about it though, because he knows what it’s like to lose a loved one at a young age too.

But there was a day when a song that evoked a poignant reminder of a loved one’s passing turned into one that reminded me of a girl that single-handedly started a new chapter in the story of my life.

As I was putting the record on while at work on a rainy Monday (Nigel wasn’t around, he was down with really bad Monday blues - as he put it), I looked over across the street through the glass window beside the counter. My eyes hovering over the crowd forming at the traffic crossing, there was a really quirky girl that caught my eye. I tried to make out what she wore - A grey sweater worn over a yellow, polka dot blouse. Washed denim, worn weathered just like how I wore mine, and a pair of brown boots - although they seemed like mini galoshes to my eyes through the heavy rain. She was holding a black polka dotted umbrella (I assumed she was obviously a fan of polka dots) in one hand, and a beverage cup from carl’s jr in the other.

Apparently I hadn’t noticed I was staring at her for so long, she was looking straight back at me. Quickly averting my eyes from her gaze, I fumbled with the gramophone needle and started the record. Once the sound of the guitar intro of ‘What goes on’ filled the shop, I went back into the storeroom to get some CD stocks that arrived yesterday to put on display on the shelves. While I was sorting out the CD boxes behind, I could hear someone entering the shop. I quickly found the box with the things i needed to display according to Nigel’s post-it on the storeroom door and went back outside.

Opening up the taped box with a penknife while simultaneously greeting the customer, I didn’t bother about how he/she looked like, as long as they bought something and left so i could enjoy my favourite song alone, which was coming up next on the record.

As I was unpacking and separating the CDs and merch, I could hear someone calling out for assistance at the counter. I stood up - and realized, almost dying from the shock - it was the very girl i was staring at through the window just now.

I stared blankly at her for a few seconds, until she asked again “Excuse me, do you guys have the latest Kings of Convenience album? I can’t seem to find it”. I snapped back to reality and gave an awkward nod while directing her to the folk/acoustic music section of the store. She thanked me but I could only give her a smile and nod, my throat was dry and I didn’t want to risk sounding like a douche. I noticed she had tattoos on both her arms, one of an Egyptian ankh on the left, and a word (which i didn’t dare stare at for fear of her thinking I was a creep) in old English font on the right.

I walked back to the counter and continued what I was doing before, sorting out the t-shirts, live DVDs and audio CDs in the box.  As I was looking through the tracklist on the new John Mayer CD, I could see her from the corner of my eye, coming up to the counter to make her purchase. At that moment, ‘In my life’ started playing on the gramophone.

She suddenly looked at me, smiled and said “That’s my favourite song! Lennon/McCartney, Rubber soul ‘65 side two!”. I then replied her (I thankfully got my voice back) “Yeah, hey you do know your stuff!”. She saw the gramophone behind me and exclaimed “And it’s playing on vinyl now! Double win!”. In one fluid motion as she pointed to the gramophone, the cup she was holding all the while dropped to the floor and the iced tea that was inside, onto her jeans and mini galoshes. She shouted an expletive,took a step back and apologized (a very weird series of successive actions, i know). I quickly said “Don’t worry, I’ll get a mop..and a towel for your clothes”. I couldn’t get angry at her for messing up the counter area, she was being just too apologetic about it.

After passing her the towel, I started to mop around the counter. As I bent down to pick up the cup that she dropped, I could feel her hands touch mine. I looked up and I realized at that moment she was trying to pick it up too. We both stared at each other for a few seconds, both of us suddenly overcome by a wave of silence. She finally broke the awkward moment - “Hey, I’m Wilona. Wilona Sanders. Nice to meet you” with a smile that could melt any guy’s heart faster than an M&M melts in your mouth. I took a deep breath, smiled nervously and said:

“Hi, I’m Yardley Kensington. But you can call me Yardey, at least, that’s what my friends call me.”

And that is how I met her, the girl who reminds me of polka dots in the rain.

Major Jacob Winterson

6th June, 1944, 7.46 PM

Today, we landed for the first time on Normandy.

After what happened this morning, I sit here now, wishing I had never been sent here. The very sight of my comrades being shot, bombed, and stabbed by those Nazi bastards is enough to make me want to kill myself. At least that way I’d be sent home to a proper burial and not left here to rot in this wretched slice of hell, together with those fucking krauts.

The germans really got us this time, I didn’t expect them to be this well-prepared for our attack. The sounds of German artillery firing at the first landing crafts that went up on the beach still ring in my ears. The screams of the men that died today, calling out for their mothers, their wives and their children, still echo in my mind. There is still blood on my hands I have not washed off, blood of my comrades as I helped them up to shelter, away from the MG fire of the German soldiers. I was determined not to let them face the man above with a death that was less than graceful. After spending months training my men for this day, I’ve grown to like those guys. They definitely deserve better.

It’s eerily quiet right now, nobody’s firing at each other because it’s too dark to see. Someone’s playing Glenn Miller on the radio, I think it’s the Colonel in his tent. He probably needs to relax after the hell he - and everyone else - went through today.

Funny, the music reminded me of you, Brenda, and that time we had our last dance at the carnival by the Coney Pier before i got drafted. I still remember waltzing for what seemed like forever with you, looking in your eyes and smelling the sweet ‘Evening in Paris’ (the one I bought for you for your birthday) on your neck and hair, while the jazzy sax from the local swing band played on in the background. I’m hoping you liked the stuffed teddy I won for you at the strongman’s hammer game - you never really told me if you did or not -  Come to think of it, I never really was sure whether you actually liked me or not either.

Now, a year after, I can’t help but wonder if you’re still thinking about me while I’m out here..

Oberst Björn Siegfried

6th June 1944, 8.22 PM

This morning, the Werhmacht managed to effectively hold back the invading allied soldiers that landed on the beach head. Those allied scheisses should be completely demotivated by now. I give the efforts of our German troops a standing ovation for their exceptional performance today in fighting off the invading forces trying to crush the goals of world purification of our great Führer. However, it is him who shall be praised the most, for without his guidance and wisdom that unites us, we would be nothing like the courageous, iron-willed force we are on this day.

We will start firing our artillery again tomorrow at daybreak, when the allied forces least expect us to attack. The ammo carts have just arrived from Caen, which will be substantial for our troops’ operations tomorrow, and as a reward for their great performance today, I have requested for General Friedrich to send over a few boxes of pilsener for them to indulge in. Only just a little, I would not want them drunk for the fight next morning.

I hope tomorrow’s attack will follow through successfully, any chance of failure in tomorrow’s operation may strongly increase the allied forces’ chances of taking over Normandy, which will lead to further disastrous consequences if the allied forces prove stronger than us.

I do not want to die so soon. I still want to see my cottage home in Ramsau, having my wife Katja’s Sauerbraten for dinner, and then playing with my daughter Anna until its her bedtime.

However high our spirits have been lifted by today’s victory, I cannot help but still have a bad feeling about the outcome of tomorrow, its as if something in my instinct is telling me to pull back before all goes to hell. Let us just pray that the gods will bless our Führer and his army with great strength and unyielding victory for tomorrow’s battle.

Sieg Heil!

They called it the perfect place to die.

Deep in the heart of these desolate woods,
The treetops hover like rundown roofs, rendering this place morose, cold, abandoned.
A thick fog drifts, obscuring your consciousness, mercilessly, even in this near darkness.
Like a lamb brought to slaughter, you are nothing but feed, in this place.
Yet,

The dead have secrets in this forest they want you to find out.

Ghosts of past suicides linger - reapers, sucking out the very remainders, fragments of your soul.
They hunger for it, for a chance at taking back what they had thrown away.
They hunger for a chance at another life - in it’s purest form, emotions, experiences, love, family, friends, self.
Like vultures, savages, they feed on your memories, leaving behind nothing but the skeletons, the essential strands of life itself.
Leaving you empty, leaving you for dead.
Selfish, you might say. But the dead will tell no lies.

They tell no lies, in regret.

There is no life in this place.
Nobody will be there for anyone else.
Condemned to live in solitude for the rest of the (after)life,
Condemned to regret.

They called it the perfect place to die.