Sunday, August 26, 2007
Liar Game and ETC
Heh. It's been so long. HI! Just wanna show you all some pics from the uber-cool new drama Liar Game.
Hehe. I'm getting so lazy nowadays, blogging in pictures. Cal-ifornia told me that kennysia pays like RM500 to host his own domain! I should be glad to have my own space to blog at all. LAWL. Don't we all take things for granted.
"Requiem for the Otherwise Unacknowledged"
Cradling it between finger and thumb
I feel at home. It calls to me
to trace out people and places
beyond my wildest dreams. I feel
the silken wash as I guide it down
a pristine white landscape. Layering beauty
onto beauty and breathing life into
a void.
Perhaps a hare, and a nifty dandelion. Perhaps
a castle floating in the sky and
yet
still they are but shallow reflections
of a profound pond. Beauty is but fleeting
and shapes will still crumble with time, yellow
and dog-eared with love. But still
they are mine, and it will always be there
lying patiently in wait, when next
the whimsical muse summons.
Green thumb have I not, but have I need
for one at all? For it is an extension
of myself, not borne from the womb. If ever
I lay it down to rest then so shall I, in the smug knowledge
that another of its brethren would live on, and another
and another in the joint creation
of worlds upon worlds.
Ever constant, ever changing, it is yours, mine and
ours.
Ahhh. Now that I've gotten THAT one out of my system, how about... a random short story? :D
_ START _
Jamie. Yeah, that's my name. It's been mine for over sixteen years now. But it's very androgynous, isn't it? I've always been teased over it, and I don't seem to mind, but who knows? Maybe I do. I've never made it a sore spot though, and I've never really thought about it, until the day I met him. He's a Jamie, too, but a very different one. Sometimes I think it's a wonderful thing, that all us Jamies are so different and yet so alike. But what intrigued me about this particular Jamie was his eyes, which were grey, but sometimes is spattered with flecks of gold. The gold only happens when he's excited about something, which isn't very often I must say.
He didn't make much of an impression on me at first. During the introductions, he just sat back on his heels, his lips pursed in a thin line and his gaze somewhat unfocused. I thought this was because he was on coke or something, but it turns out that's just who he is. Like I said, he didn't seem like someone worth my attention, and I was busy sweeping eraser dust off my desk anyway. That's what happens when your desk partner is left-handed, especially if your desk partner's name is Melanie. All the Melanies I've ever known seem to have an obsessive-compulsive about something. The first Melanie I got to know, years back, always had a wad of tissue stuck to her nose, and bawled for her mother most of the time. The next one I knew had to check her front door approximately ten times before she could safely say she locked it, but we got into a spat about a particular shade of lipstick she liked and I've never spoken to her since.
Melanie Version 3, also known as Melanie Fraser, hated to find eraser dust on her desk.
"Don't you hate it? When all these grey things just sit on the table. They're like stagnant dust mites, ewwwww." She swept more greyish bits over onto my already-cluttered tabletop and gave an eloquent shudder.
I removed the piece of gum that I had studiously been chewing over Geometry and most of History, and stuck it into its wrapping. There wasn't much point in replying to most of her comments, but I felt generous that day since I discovered I passed that surprise Geometry test.
"Not really. And if you don't like it, why not use a pen?" I've told her that millions of times, and always, I get the same reply. Sometimes I'm not even sure why I bother, but I guess it's already become a habit. Being around Melanie, most everything becomes a habit.
"Pens don't make that same scratching sound. Don't you see?" I shut out the rest of her long oration about the benefits of the pencil and dug around in my pockets for another spare piece of gum. But of course there wasn't any. I only ever plan far enough to get me through the hour, maybe two hours, if I'm feeling far-sighted. I leave the rest to luck and my uncanny ability to get out of the tightest of spots. It might sound like I'm bragging, but I've honestly never found myself between a rock and a hard place.
What I managed to frisk out from my pockets was, well, more eraser dust. If I had a choice, I'd never have chosen Melanie for a partner, but I suppose that Fate has to have its laughs, if not where would the rest of humanity be? Down a stinkhole, probably.
A smattering of half-hearted applause ripples through the class, which makes me sit up. Now comes the time where the new guy has to find a suitable place to sit. Having been through that initiation process countless of times, I sit back and ponder about how he'd go about doing it. Picking seats, after all, is a tricky business. Where did politicians first get a taste of politics? In the classroom, of course. First, you had to make sure you didn't sit too far up front, with the nerds in their thick-rimmed glasses and sweaty palms. But you couldn't sit too far back either, else you'd be frowned upon by by the teachers. You wouldn't want to incur the wrath of those who gave out the 'A's and the 'D's. That left the seats in the middle, which wasn't much of an option since most of us who were savvy enough had already taken them up.
That left... I surruptitiously swept a glance at the vacant desks still remaining. The one at the corner had a shaky leg, and didn't look as if it could carry a sponge, much less a Biology textbook. The only option open was the desk just behind Brent Harkner. Nobody, I assure you, absolutely nobody, would want to sit behind Brent the Brute. You might think it weird, us calling names behind each others' backs at sixteen, but there are a few perfectly good exceptions. Brent happened to be one of those "elite" few.
Not many sixteen-year-olds are convicted of drug-trafficking, and Brent had earned that bad-boy status a few months before. But it wasn't as if he needed that criminal affirmation in the first place. All of us knew what he was capable of, and although most of the activities in his repertoire was mostly innnocent bullying, you never knew with Brent. He had his cronies, and he had his own corner of the canteen. He even had his own "protection" agency going awhile ago, until the headmaster threatened expulsion. What better way to spark an egotistical coward's interest than the new guy on the block?
I winced inwardly as the other Jamie sauntered over to that ill-fated desk. It seemed as though the class had collectively held their breaths, and only let it out when he made it to his seat and sat down. Rather heavily, I might add. He had an air of already being tired of the world. My dad calls it the "world-worn" look, and says he always sees it in those elderly people on the park benches in the mornings, with their leathery faces and knowing smiles. An image of a sack of flour came to mind, and I nodded to myself. What happens if you put a sack of flour behind a raging bull? Does the bull not bat an eyelid? Or does it find in the sack a new punching bag?
Undoubtedly, all would be revealed. But right then, Miss Ermine had snapped open her copy of The Merchant of Venice and I busied myself with the rubble on my desk. Time enough to wonder about the future, and I didn't want to be the next donkey Miss Ermine pinned the tail to. It was always unpleasant reading Shakespeare aloud with her staring down her disapproving nose, and if you stuttered, well, that was basically the end for you.
_ TO BE CONTINUED _
That is, if I feel like it. I rather like Jamie. She just popped up in my mind's eye and I decided I just HAD to tell everyone her story. Hmmm...
...is what I said. Savvy?
9:22 pm
friends
June 2006
