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.