Thursday, October 11, 2007
Friday, October 05, 2007
You warm the cockles of my heart
And the soles of my feet.
Orange! Vibrant, welcoming orange
You vivacious, wonderful thing
That gives life to neon street signs.
Orange! Tender, juicy orange
You light up the world, you light up my life
You draw attention away from my ugly toes (Because my shoes are orange, duh.)
Orange! My Exciting, gentle, citrussy orange
You are so very bright and orange
Like an orange.
Orange! Pungent, aromatic orange
I bathe my hair in your life-juices
For you are purely orange juice.
Orange! I love you so!
You warm the cockles of my feet
And you give life to neon street signs.
You are tender and gentle, juicy and exciting
You carry the greatness of your kind within your weary peel
Orange! There is only one word that would do your splendor justice
And that word that sums you up is simply...
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Shuffling. Sniffing. Sighing. Squirming. The dull hum of ceiling fans melding in to the dull hum of Jayasinghe’s voice.
Tuesday afternoon blues. Tuesday afternoon ambles on.
“Anyhow, the topic is: Beneficiaries’ rights.”
We’re startled out of our dozy state. My brain is still stagnant. Pens on paper. Click, click, click. Shuffle, shuffle. My hand is moving to the beat of his accent, but I do not comprehend. I look at my notes and all I see is blah, blah, blah.
Get me out of here.
I’m writing a story. I nudge the paper into her face; sleeping, squashed into the table. She ignores me. I hate her. I pick up my pencil and begin again. This story is never ending. This is the story of my life…in Trusts.
Get me out of here.
She shoves a statute into my hands. After staring at it incomprehensibly for a few seconds the tiny molecules of my brain make my hand write my name on the top-left hand corner. Right. Satisfied with my handiwork, I turn to the story.
“As equitable owners…”
Crap. Only seconds too late I realize that Jayasinghe has started the lecture again. Although I start writing only half my brain is there, paying vague attention. After months, no, years of practice the other half that is imagination flits lazily between the note and heavily lined memories.
I finish printing the last line and shove the paper towards Anjalie. Bemused. Wondering. What sort of travesty will she come up with next…?
“Representing their interest to them…”
Jayasinghe drones on, drawing us in. No one quite understands what he’s saying, but he holds us captivated by the rise and fall of the tone of his voice. I myself have given up on the note. I have spent the last ten minutes decorating Mariam’s file.
Fade in, fade out. Blending colours. Emerald green and ripe paddy field green. As green as new leaves, as neon lights. I’ve always loved colouring.
Highlights now. Swirls of black break apart and stretch the length of that T. They stretch for miles and mile before they meet again; unexpectedly as old friends. They intertwine and scatter drops of ink across the horizon.
The horizon – Mariam’s emerald T.
“…can terminate the trust the moment he turns sua juris…”
I am lost in my own kaleidoscopic imagination.
Jayasinghe lectures on.
I hurriedly glance through the story whilst writing the note. Giving up on the lecture is not an option for me. I idly wonder how much studying we’d get done if Jayasinghe morphed into Johnny Depp. Or, better yet, if Anjalie morphed into Wentworth Miller. I imagine I can feel my brain smile rapidly.
Finally! He has stopped. My brain is still stuck in limbo. I can hear Anj and Mariam talking. Blah, blah, blah. Anj is humming. La la la. I don’t think words can penetrate my brain.
Mariam said a bad word.
This is the story of my life in Trusts. Shuffling. Sniffing. Sighing. Squirming. The dull hum of ceiling fans melding in to the dull hum of Jayasinghe’s voice.
Tuesday afternoon blues.
Tuesday afternoon ambles on.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
hey i started this in JULY 2006, and its taken this long for me to get of my ass and type it to u...
The Adventures of Stickman TM in Stickland:
Upon the advent of a Year in LimboPurpose or Literary Intent: TO Delight the life and times of ANjalie Leonora Pieres
Yet another sunny day dawns in Stickland. Stickcrows tweet and warble like they have nothing better to do and poop freely on unsuspecting passers by. Stickorganisms accept this with little rancour because the guiding principle to a happy and content sticklife is to accept that stickshit happens.
Unfortunately, for Stickman, all is not well with him. He plods along the dusty road (plod plod plodplodplod plod ploddle plod.)
Stickmans facical expression is decidedly morose.
Sorrow and a fair degree of despondency waft from the crown of his head in creamy clouds. Stickman coughs because he inhales bits of cloud and this gives his nasal guardians migrane.
Whilts plodding along, Stickman encounters a fair number of Stickants. Luminous blue with orange pinstripes, they are easily spotted. (Except when ones eyes are closed).
The Sitckants march in a highly efficient and rapid manner with a discreet glint of mania in their shiny pink eyes. Stickman pauses for thought, slightly to the Right of the Great Column of Advancing ants.
Stickman thinks with even more gusto than usual (still maintaining a despondent air, if such an attitude is possible.) Circles of So Pink scented smoke begin to emanate from his ears and he has to sit on a conveniently located mound for extra support.
Stickmans thoughts and ruminations are as follows:
" The ants... they live such an orderly life. They march, in unity, together, in a unidirectional formation. Their very tread imposes a tangible rhythm to the comparitively chaotic lives of Stickpeople. Above all, they are Ants with a Mission. They know where they are going, and where their destiny lies."
(Stickmans voice has cracked in 3 places. It has morphed into the voice of God in a 1950s movie-eg. the one where Charlton Heston is Moses)
"Thus the ants march on. Assured certainty in this tremulous world of Stickshadows. They each have a small role to play in the Grand Ant Plan and the fate of each any is inscribed on the earth it treads on.
Enter the voice of Bart Simpson as the Voice of Stickman
" I, on the other hand, am seated on a mound of dust, watching the ants go marching one by one (HooraHH, hooraHH). I have no purpose , no function and I am decidedly deficient of purose and function."
Exeunt B. Simpson
At which point, Stickman is drained of all testosterone. Assuming the God voice has drained him of all of it. Stickman now has a voice that is completely indistinguishable from Stickgirl's.
Stickman continues to perch upon the mound and keeps as quiet as possible and tries to think positively about the situation.
"I am doomed doomed doomed doooooooooooooooooomed!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How can I ever show my face in Sticktown again? My brotherhood will laugh at me and no Stickfemale will have a straight face when Im around, besides my great Aunty Ethel!!!" (Great-Aunty Ethel is as deaf as a coconut.)
At this point, Fate casts a benevolent eye on Stickman and sighs. A gentle warm wind ruffles stickmans ears. Fate then giggle and prods Stickgirl onto the scene.
The column of Stickants, has, incidentally, marched deep into the bowels of Anthill 73B for collective swigs of icey Elephant House Ginger Beer which is what makes their sting...sting.
Stickgirl staunter jauntily onto the scene, Heavy Duty Feather Duster in hand.
" wow. dig the atmosphere of gloom and dispair!" she remarks astutely.
Stickman realises that she is near and tries to look invisible. Stickgirl squeaks as she sees stickman with a rapidly vanishing left foot. Stickmans concentration is interrupted by Stickgirls shrill shrieks which occur at a frequency of one every fifth second. So he scowls at her instead.
"Dont you SCOWL at me Stickman".
Stickman, gathers what little dignity he has left and slings it over his shoulder. He then tries to walk away in a studied manly fashion.
Stickgirl is deeply offended and displays her irritation by picking up a handfull of dust and flinging it at Stickmans head. Stickman has his back to her and is blissfully unaware of the very real danger he faces of being Clobbered from Behind.
As the handfull of dirt makes contact with the base of his skull, Stickman is greeted by his old friend, Ye Olde Orange Crate. It lands squarely on him like a crate of falling oranges. Stickgirl, a hardened madam, turns around and trips off into the sunset.Oh heartless world.
The orange crate begins to hum the "Dont worry, be happy" tune and stickman begins to realise that he has been hit by an orange crate that fell at terminal velocity. Feeling slightly annoyed, politely bids the orange crate to fuck off and die.
The orange crate, being in a relative position of power begins to whistle Good Vibrations (by the Beach Boys).
As stickman lies there, a prone and 2 Dimesnional mess of crushed bone, muscle and nervous tissue, he drifts off to the land of nod.
Stickmans life force begins to seep away from him, into the ground and Stickman is drawn into the black hole that is Death. So you really cant blame him for missing the approaching boom of a flock of airborne Stickchickens breaking the sound barrier.
Drawn by the luminous orange of the oranges in the orange crate and the stickmans glistening body fluids that are oozing from the crate, the Stickchickens swoop and dive towards the splodge that was once Stickman.
It took a couple of minutes for the Sitckchickens to realise what had happened, but when they did, the gathered around Stickman , clucking anxiously. Pale blue tears of sadness trickeld fromt he eyes fo each bird as they realised that the central figure of Chicken-Toe Veneration (Stickman--honourary head of the Chicken-Toe Cult) was almost no more.
Stickbirds on the whole are not famed for their mental acuity, but in times of trouble, a Stickchicken can usually be relied upon to do the right thing. Slowly, the birds formed a circle around their idol. A single deep cluck of sorrow emanated from each feathered gullet and each stickchicken glared with beady eyes at the offending crate.
The crate began to realise that all was not right, and ceased to hum. Frankly, the crate felt threatened. Crates are not intrinsically evil (Bar the Arms Crates) but are not particularly sympathetic to their victims either. However, under the gaze of thirty seven stickchickens, the crate began to quail.(who wouldnt?)
Within 3 minutes of this visual attack from the chickens, the crate had experienced a substantial range of unpleasant physical phenomena. (eg: goosebumps, pins and needles, pruritus (itching), nausea, IBS, hot flushes and a runny nose). The crate felt its slats expanding and contracting and the oranges huddled even closer together because they had a nasty feeling that their number were up.
Some of us in life always display a certain degree of orange-ness...characterised by a 'go with the flow but end up in the shit' Life Pattern.
The crate began to quiver gently in the still air and stickman felt his life forces returning. The crate began to tilt and shiver violently. The oranges were terrified. One small orange began to leak juice. The crate gave an anguished yell and fell to one side.
The oranges all died.
Stickman, however, rose gently from the ground, fully restored (except fro the fact that he was 2 dimensional) and smiled benignly at the stickchickens.
Amazed by their own powers, the stickchickens began to hoot with glee and affectionately pecked at stickmans feet, before flying off into the sunset.
The oranges were still dead. sorry everyone.
Monday, February 26, 2007
“Have a nice day!” I said, plastering a stupid grin on my face.
Tammy was not in the best of moods. “Why the hell do we have to go undercover as McDonald’s employees?” she asked, dusting sesame seeds off her hands.
“ONE, we’re getting paid, TWO, we’re getting paid, and THREE – McDonalds is the forefront of Dr. Alikakka’s evil scheme!”
“Ah. Now tell me why we couldn’t have just snuck into his lair via the sewer?”
I rolled my eyes. This child clearly did not get it.
“ONE, because we’re getting paid, TWO, because we’re getting paid, and THREE – because I just did my hair and I wouldn’t really appreciate it taking on the odor of human fecal matter.”
“Tammy! Anjalie!” called Mr.BossFernando, the manager of the Kollupitiya branch. “Bring up another six boxes of hamburger patties from our holding area in the sewers!”
“Aye aye, Boss!” I said, snapping my heels together and giving the man a quick salute. “Come on, Tammy!” I said, grabbing her wrist. “This is the chance we’ve been waiting for!”
“I thought you wanted to avoid the sewers at any possible cost?” she said sarcastically.
“Aaaapo! If you want to be all high-and-mighty then you’re free to go to Arpico, hari da, missy?”
“What? Anj, I-”
“Sssshhh!!! Follow me!”
With a dramatic flourish of my right arm, I threw Tammy through the back door and bounded in after her. Needless to say, the result was not pretty.
“URGH!” she exclaimed upon landing in a pile of pig muck.
I rolled my eyes. “Can’t you be serious for once? Look where you’re going, will you?”
“Oh, sure!” she sneered. “After all, you always know what you’re doing, right?”
Now you know me, no? Sarcasm rolls off me like water off a duck’s back. I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.
“Huh? Yeah, I usually do.”
“Oh, God. Nevermind.”
I shrugged. Really, sometimes Tammy was just too strange. Like her reaction that day in Form two when she found me eating peanut butter and poll-sambol sandwiches; or when I wore my underwear over my trousers and a nose ring to scare away the evil spirits living in the canteen…and lets not forget the day she made Milo™ with TWO SPOONS OF CHOCOLATE ONLY! (dundundunnnn!!!)
“Anj? Anj? ANJ! I’ve been talking to you for the past ten minutes! I bet you weren’t listening to a word I’ve been saying!”
“I WAS!” I cried indignantly. “You were talking about Merl Aunty’s thyroid condition!”
“No, I was actually wondering how much time we have left before the hamsters are released.”
“Oh. Well, I’m close enough.”
“What were you saying again?”
“I said, I was wondering how much time we have.”
“We have until four hours after the next power cut.”
“Four hours until after the next power cut?”
“Four hours until after the next power cut,” I replied, nodding. A sick sensation was spreading through every fibre of my being like tuberculosis in a washing machine. Something was defenitely wrong here. I could feel it.
“Four hours until after the next power cut…” I repeated, scratching my chin thoughtfully.
“Four hours until after the next power cut!!!” cried Tammy in panic.
Oh no! I thought. Not this again!
Concentrating all my energy into a little plastic teacup, I realised that the only way to get through this was to communicate telepathically with Tammy.
Tammy! I telephathicky-fied.
Anj? Anj, wtf is going on??AAAAIIIIIEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You need to calm down, woman. If you don’t, it means Dr. Phlemulus has already won!
You’re right! She thought, and paused to contemplate the absurdity of the situations we end up in.
Can you explain this strange phenomenon? I asked.
According to my calculations, she thinked, it would appear that the odiferous fumes of this sewer are interrupting the impulses in our liddle neurones, hence we cannot communicate with each other through speech…and all we can say is ‘four hours after the next power cut.’
But why that?
She shrugged. I dunno.
A pause, then;
I have an idea!
What? I asked.
I brought with me these custom-made gas masks from that time we posing as sewage technicians to steal the Jade Buddha back from George Bush and return it to China in return for our bounty of bounty!
I like bounty, I reminicised. It tastes nice, for coconut.
Here! She said, throwing me one. Wear this!
Once we were properly attired, I opened my mouth to speak.
“That was a great idea, Tammy,” I said, patting the lass on the back.
“I know,” she said, grinning (although I couldn’t see this since we were both wearing gas masks).
Suddenly, we heard voices approaching fast around the bend. “Shit!” hissed Tammy as we both ducked behind a pair of large plastic C.M.C garbage bins.
“What men aiiyo come what, no?!” exclaimed one.
“Aney what will you men what come, so?”
“No, meya! Big Boss hari ants in his pants-la itsims.”
“They’re Dr. Alikakka’s evil Henchaiiyas!” whispered Tammy. “Daymn! And they’re speaking in some strange primitive language! What do we do now?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Let me handle this.”
But it was too late. I stepped into the light and view of the three evil henchaiiyas.
The tallest one, the one with a handlebar moustache and a blue sarong raised his head to greet me.
To be continued…
Thursday, January 04, 2007
The cheque lay in my hands like a little neon Pink Made in Taiwan Handwarmer.The Velvet Hippo Accountant (Rupert), usually an amiable fellow, glared at me from amongstthe surrounding (metaphorical) shards of fractured Productive Employee Image that Anj and Ihad so casually destroyed.
He was also very very jealous of the money that i was now thedoting owner of.
''You and I will go far my friend,'' i whispered to the cheque.
Anjs forehead and eyes peered over the windowsill.I frowned. This was not right, our office was on the 7th story above the Galle Road, therewas no WAY anj could have...
''SCALED THE WALLS USING A ROPE MADE OF DENTAl FLOSS!!!!!!!!!!???????????'' i shrieked, ever the one to err on the side of caution.
Anj sniggered at my utter gullibility.
''no, you fool, i came up in the lift and THEN climbed out of the next door window.''
Anj and i had relocated from the window to a store room, one floor below. At this rate wewould never get out of this building.
''At this rate, we'll never get out of this building!''
''Well, at least listen to what i found out when i PRETENDED to be a lil crazy...dont COUGH at me like that!!..''
''Ok, so what DID you find out? By the way, Mr. BossPerera gave me a cheque for $100.''
''ReeeeallY,,we need to cash it SOON!'' Anj explained, eyes widening.''Everythings starting to make sense now...rememeber the Saustifigous Plague Bearing Genetcially Modified Hamsters...''
''Yes, anj, that image remains vividly imprinted on my retinas.''
''Well,'' she enthused, waving aside the sarcasm stemming from not having eaten for the last12 hours. No marmite, remember? '' After I fled the building, i saw the Evil White Catstaunter past, and i followed it...to the Lair of Dr. Phlemulus.''
''HOW??? You were only gone for like 7 mins!!''
''...TIME WARP,random physics phenomena, time flies when youre having fun, tammy, i DONTKNOW! it just happend!''
''ok, ok, so, and THEN????''
Anj paused for thought and breath. She sat down on a convenient box, and solemnly watcheda startled familly of hoonas scuttle out accross the floorboards.
'' Phlemulus has amassed all the hamsters in holding area under Mc Donalds. Theres a swarmof THREE THOUSAND of the vicious sqeeatures, waiting for Phlemulus to unleash them intothe water system. I SAW THEM!!!''
''Sqeaking masses of fur, fleas, leptospirosis and Saustifigous Plague?''I inquired politely.
''Finally, i managed to sneak away unnoticed, although i did see that diabetic white felinetwitch suspiciously. BUt, i DO know when they will be released, 4 hours after the next power cut.''
''And when exactly is that?''
''Four hours after the next power cut.''
''Aha. I see.''
There WAS a flaw in this statement, i was pretty sure, it was just proving difficult to see Where exactly...
''Four hours after the next power cut.'' I muttered to myself.
''Four hours after the next power cut.''Anj repeated after me.
''Four hours after the next power cut.'' I turned and glared at her.
''Four hours after the next power cut?''She stAred back at me, a puzzled look on her face.
''Four hours after the next power cut!!!''I raised my voice in panic.
Eyes wide with fear,we both screamed.''FOUR HOURS AFTER THE NEXT POWER CUT!!!!"
Why do I keep saying that? I thought,as blood rushed to my frightened brain. I tried tospeak that very thought aloud, instead, i yelled.''FOUR HOURS AFTER THE NEXT POWER CUT!!!!''
With a crushing