I've commissioned now, and yes it does feel a little weird with two little pips of a bar on my shoulder. More responsibility I guess. Everyone tells me I ought to be happy with my posting, HQ 6 Div AMPO. Sounds good, and I'm happy rightly so. Should have time to drive, study French, play nice fun childhood- games. tres bien. just to get this niggly magazine thing over with. if i were on a low self-esteem day i guess i would be reproaching myself on my tremendous irresponsibility but i think that its merely a function of my inability to instill fear in people. because generally i do work. well okay. i don't overly stress myself.
coldplay. that's it.

Its beautiful. It's been raining here for one and a half days. From the rambunctious thunderstorm to the dull irised drizzle, its just been raining. Think of all the places that are flooded. And its making the temperature lower here in camp. Its one of those things I'll miss, the weather here. It's about how we get our dosage of cold. And sooner or later the sun will be up so it's not some perpetual drizzle like London. Good.

Talking about the weather. poof.

I'm finally back. Back from supposedly a gruelling experience in the jungles of Brunei. It was difficult in its own way, yet not in a way I expected. Now I am back and I am asked? Why does my life have no meaning? It's really simple actually. Because faced with survival, i know i could just survive, day to day, just like that. Alone. I don't really want to sound like Holden caulfield and all. Yet I can't help it. It is at night when i am the eternal pessimist. I pay attention to detail but I just cannot help talking about grand feelings and stuff. I am now listening to piano pieces from Amelie. Soothing, and maybe it helps me to sleep.

Well. Let's look forward to some things. if all goes well, tomorrow I shall be baking cookies with clarence and rumin. friends. friends are lovely. I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.

I am a very well balanced individual.
I rarely do anything stupid.
I'm sensibly sensible.
I'll be brought to see your mom.

I am typically curt to myself.
I have forgone all artistic integrity.
I think I have found the truth.
I am guilty for not telling it.

I have started all sentences with I.
I am self-absorbed.
I worry about other people's lives.
Only because they're too much like mine.

Balanced all, brought to mind.
Son of Cain, hermit kind.
I occupy myself with less important things.
That are horribly urgent.

I'm currently in the project room of my OCS Wing. We're having this interesting discussion, sure, we're not too eloquent and verbose, but sort of having a good time gossiping. good for my ennui. which is better for me. it isn't dull. i just have an inverterate, naive, interest in others people's lives which doesn't satisfy me.

wish i had something important for you to hear.

it's ok. maybe it was meant for us to laugh this day off. consign it to the rubbish bin of all other days.

i've no one to address. no pa system. still. as now we are psychoanalysing other's personal problems, i feel strangely worriless and blameless. and other's fates.

i am the walrus.

where are the people we admire. lennon and harrison are in the sky.

inspiration, motivation for the course, quite close we are to reaching the end, and we are ruminizing, a combination of things and words. fodder for forceps. fight for frenchmen. seoc.
OOP. sign off now.

Waltzess poem.

Waltzess of Duchess Hill

The first wasn't much of a dancer
The murmurs hushed down through the hall
young, naive, fun-loving, equipped, with
the freedom to thrill or enthrall.

no frills, no messy after-talk
she'd ask the men for their hand
and turn the timid ones gay
as the music was struck by the band

the second somewhat more subtle
although you couldn't tell from her glance
she'd stand in the corner behind the crowds
simply too terrified to dance.

to the other me of the crowd
she charmed me more than the first
perhaps the looks, and the quiet
deep down my throat, this thirst

for someone i truly loved
yet i never knew what it could be
the first changed me, yet she was nice
but i didn't lose myself completely

what now, some asinine comment?
in a bid to grab her attention
with each piercing look
she loves me, she loves me not, ooh the tension

but i'll leave it all till tomorrow
if only it were just a dance
i attach too much worry too much pain
but darling we're not in france.

the last a one as yet to come
not just fun, nor crazy, nor obligatory
you just have to get off your bum
and dance damnit, dance and make merry.

Evidently, something is wrong. After 3 days of off-in lieu. You need time, and here comes creativity. No one likes you they browse

Waltzess.

This is not exactly a waltzess story. Just could be the prelude. Let's call it cool chick.

There was a dancer I loved, who lived on Duchess lane, where I'm sure there were trees and a lovely apartment, and where I ran past from time to time.

Ever wonder where we came from? It's hard to know where we came from, but it's certainly easier to know where they came from! No I'm not mad, if you'd only listen to me this bit. Give an older man his due.

Boom - pa - pa. Boom - pa - pa. Boom - pa - pa.

1 and 1 and 1 is 3. 3's the magic number, for the past, present, future and waltz. the 3rd relationship. and the 3 men I admire the most.

It snowed torrentially, and the sign of a true madman is whether or not he'd go in this or t

having typed so much it all disappeared. Oh well it was just a draft. Again.

Fury. 1. and 1 and 1 is 3.

"A glass of wine, a loaf of bread and Thou"

But thou art gone now, and I have my wine and bread.

I do not know you
I do not know you
I do not know you.

And the cock crew, wondering why you call me only by a sobriquet you invent or not at all.
Yet He did not wonder. He knew, people are themselves, they have them and their loves to protect.

Remind me again, why I torture myself so.

Do you? You have a laptop at least, and some air conditioning.

Back again at this time of asking, how prodigal.

Can't you be more normal! And not be the guy giving away Pulitzers to yourself in your brain. This blog is yearning for it.

Some semblance of normalcy. The everyday description of the weather, your loves, your anxieties. Not for you to return, to demonstrate your power, to say, I renounce you words, I consign you to the flames in an overreaction to these same words which are your friends, but used by your enemies.

Enemies. I have none.

You claim not to. A spade is a spade. You have the power to kill. And hate. Even for just 5 minutes.

My life cannot be defined in 5 minutes.

Stupid philosophical dialogues attract little interest, romantic ones do. I know, you've been talking to your waltzess. it has kept you sane, away from me.

I'm not romantic.

The problem is you have the wrong heroes. Or you have too many. You to yourself, say oh 'What strength, what beauty', his ability to sacrifice, to live without love and you think you can do it too, when every ounce, every ounce of you demands that you suck dry every bit of love you need, to nourish your self, to placate your choler.

Tant pis.

You like French, the way it looks on the page. Tastes better then the umlauts. You, even words on a page, not spoken, can seduce you. You're too soft.

But I like the strong and the sentimental.

The strong are always sentimental. That's what gives them their strength.

I am beating around the bush. I need to interlocute my hate and frustration.

You can't, you're too soft.

I can't.

No you can't. You love drama. Now. Just count silently. Write me a waltzess chapter. Cover it up. Tolstoy thought he solved it all, and writing the biggest fattest book in European literature didn't make him happy. He had to turn to THE Big Fat Book. And it was right.

Why have you forsaken me?

To love, twenty cents and love. Not with love, but yours sincerely.

No time to play CM4. Heh...well can only do it while writing my Ops orders and stuff. Oh well. Had a little fun this week seeing the zoo@orchard and stuff. Well hope to have a less hectic weekend next week.

Haven't been back for ages...everything on this blog has changed

I wonder if this thing still works. Haven't been back for ages.

It must have been a year now, when the initial flurry of activity has petered down into nothing. Washed away by all the little worries of life, yes even the lilies don't worry yet they are still clothed in all their splendour. Maybe, starting again at this time, it's the season. You just have to look at my previous entries, about losing the enthusiasm I have at the start of the year. Yet honestly, I quite enjoy the adrenaline of my army life. it's just that booking out, I do realise that there's a whole world out there that I may have been neglecting. And perhaps I will have to write again because over numerous guard duties, there are so many times when I have written letters in my head over and over again. I basically have probably un-remembered these things until it's too late to say them and this will priobably do nothing to stem the tide, though it's a small step. It certainly allows me to write differently from the journal I keep in OCS which is more or less focused on military stuff. I would really prefer two way communication through letters but then that really also involves people's time so this would be a substitute. If you have any comments, you could write back to me. Whee. Weekends are all I have to update this little journal with, and I do not know how many significant events I have missed. I look forward to the days when I can enjoy my weekends with good games, videos and quit worrying about next week's training or losing stuff like keys or OOCing. Ah well. Irony, I hope I shall be able to carry this through. ANd yes let loose, and enjoy the little things like getting high on third grade beer at Happy Hour. Here's to the rest of 2003. Cheers.

Hah, the erotic ennui. So many dreams. or pseudo-reality. night, legs, faintly brushing. little bristles, or vestiges of the fur we were one supposed to have.

"Ah, little prince! So it was, gradually that I came to understand your melancholy little life! For a long time your only pleasure had been to watch the gently setting sun."

I haven't exactly been updating everyday, which yes, I feel is unfair for my poor little journal. In fact, yes, before I probably grew up and was mature, there were so many thoughts that I left out. Sometimes, writing can be like a religion. You only turn to it when the chips are down. Lately, anyway, of course I've been worrying about my identity and my shortcomings. A lack of initiative, determination in some respects. I'd like to think things have improved over my years in junior college, and indeed, that have a little. Yet also I realise that I am also not half as spontaneous or fun-loving as I would like to be...probably because the year is drawing to a close and I lose the enthusiasm I always have at the start of the year.

And lately I have been confused. What do I want? I read in the news about this girl who succeeded by writing what she wanted on a piece of paper. Well, I wish I was that clear. There is such a bewildering array of choices out there. Do I wait for an illusory temptress to tempt me out, or someone spontaneous to sweep me away? (why do I sound like a girl. Will I find someone whom I find can understand me well? Or, have I in my vain hope in the future, unfortunately overlook the friends I already have who are all perfect in their own little way. Anyway, today was quite a classic case of Monday Blues. Little short shower at the start of the day, and of course, I asked for an OCP because i felt I couldn't trudge through another day of school. So I met Clarence, and we went off to Tanglin Mall to study. I had McDonalds, which proceeded to make me feel shitty for the rest of the day, because I've heard they try to upset your stomach so you leave quickly. Rumin was there too, always nice to talk to, although I was being very quite anyway. Three is a horrible number to be out in, especially if like me, you aren't good at conversing two people at once. So one is always left out. It's different in a larger group or on a one to one basis.

Incomplete shitty poem, let me get it out of my head first, i'll fill the gaps later

Urban Seasons

So you're born in February
the shortest month of the year
the card where you were incy-wincy
to make fun of you being such a shortie.

with no snow to tell the seasons by
just the haze, humidity, maybe the sun
moving slowly through the sky
to which you'd timidly reply

"i defy you star!", from the plays you've read
or would like to, if not for Social Studies
or other subjects which you dread
yet the meter and rhyme prove

Past March then, of waiting, in another year

the constant anxiety, constant fear
of being labelled unsincere

which makes the poet board the vessel
of his imagination with great caution
and rig his mast with his big sail
and the risk of being caught by label(sued for libel)

An April where some had left
and they drank a lot to send them off
sailors to a distant sea
from an island of prosperity

the luxury pleases me, i'd love the park
we walked through, to catch the bus
months later, to board that bus again
easy memories come through the dark

which turn to head-gnashing and regret
'O have i missed such beauty?'
yet peaceful still, i sit on yet
so many people i haven't met.

A May comes by, or is it Shall?
What ought i do, what ought I not?
I'll wait, patient as I built my wall
while others choke at my lack of gall.

June is here, let's play footie!
no she's not just another name
Bet your money, bust the bookie
want to win big cannot be so hum-ji

July sits there equally pensive
on the wood-panelled class benches
eyes that look yet so evasive
yet perhaps, it's a look that i misgive

August, does it feel like your year has ended?
The rose withered, the eyes now glare
not knowing how to treat those you befriended
where's the power that i needed?

with the rest of the months yet to come
thirty, or thirty-one days? count your knuckles
then crush them on some stupid sum
to take your mind off your sinful

The years don't matter, nor the days or months
We dust them from our dark recesses
Things to tell the passage by
so life then wouldn't feel so dry

This is an imprimatur to your being!

I A child is born.

No longer simply a narrator, but by rules of Australian diction, a na-writer.

i don't think the crush is over, i think it merely starts again when you see each other again.

hello. do you think you're being fair to me? i don't think so. I feel so arrogated and torn. Yes I always speak in generic, hushed tones, but it is to avoid hurting. I hate pointed, sarcastic remarks meant to hurt. they don't accomplish anything. sarcasm always appeals when pointed at third parties, never at the person you're speaking to.

how extreme my thoughts can be in private. you know it does not work. there is no coherence within the entire thing, what is the reason you have given. all, phrases, jumbled against a brick wall, tumble, fall and crack. joyous. crackdown on every facet of national being. yes that is what i have to do to escape the vagaries of life. of course you think of what to say. you're lousy, and for that i blame you. unceromonious. but this is perhaps only a vision for myself, not for others, but you cannot be so visionary, so blind! yes, made and unmade by the same passion, by clever collections of turns of phrase, by sophistication and elegance, by beauty and whim. pimples like buds on white cheeks, a smile, a smirk, a smile, faintly mocking, yet genial, did i sense desperation? a knock on the window, undiscipline, now, but you are my leisure! i have spent so much on work, maybe i ought to just unwind now, with someone who understands myself, myself, although i do not understand myself. regret. why you had not done that, this is the best way because you are lazy to organise, and also, organisation, any form, simply ruins the spontaneity of it, anyway, no one else is reading who seeks to understand, the same colour of the uniform, the overriding thought. on the stairs, eating, opposite, surprise. and beauty again.but him, on another day, with another girl. so you see, perhaps i am special. but i shall not unwrite what i have written, and sift through them for gems. but no, not, everyone else thinks the same, faithful only to ideas, for some time. the novelty wears off, as it did for me, as it will for me, but as it hasn't now.yet still you do not dare, embarassed, are you? by the stars, made of paper, in the sky, and how the saint makes you cry. as it did, for something abstract, for you are to me but a spirit. witty eroticism, charged as we look on, but it's just me again, but it is what gives my days spice. oh. outside is so different from the inside, how they will tremble if they see. in me there is much that scares, and scars. proud. O felix culpa! They always talk of sin in longing tones, original sin, all the songs. and i shall not surrender to sleep yet. alas, i am getting more coherent, which should be no tragedy. and end. maybe start again later. all along i have been scared because i do not wish to be judged, even by myself, but perhaps this is willed by some internal force. at least you will remember,

8th of Jul, 9 at night.
People are chatting everywhere, on phone lines and chat rooms. I could talk. But conversation escapes me, because nowadays I am too fiercely embroiled with my own issues, very much a fault of mine. Not issues of national importance, but simply sitting, and wondering. In a way I have lapsed back into a very elegiac, yet pessimistic mood. Perhaps it would help to talk to myself. Maybe Ariel can be my spirit.

Jesse: Hi
Ariel: Hello
Jesse: So what appears to be the problem now?
Ariel: Same old things, nothing much.
Jesse: Self dialogue is so hard without stimulus.
Ariel: It's called inspiration.
Jesse: You're miserable.
Ariel: You're having quite a lot of problems relating to people now.
Jesse: I know.
Ariel: ...
Jesse: (sigh)