The Great Chef

No day is a normal day for me, who labors daily over my forge. My materials taking many forms, my apparatus and tools giving birth to the aroma of food. I work for enjoyment, of self and consumer alike. There is no greater satisfaction and gratification greater than seeing one's creations appreciated and honored.

Look there across the street, that man with his stove, making pancakes for the people. A noble profession indeed, to provide. But one may delve deeper into the culinary craft, and see that he may further improve his pancakes by adding maple syrup, corn, honey, the sort. And yet, he has not done so; this be a hindrance to the progress of humanity towards mastery of the culinary world.

The pieces of meat, vegetables, dough, I rend are not my enemies, they are my friends. I slice them, I fry, bake, steam, broil, boil, braise, and perform many other procedures, so that they may go forth from my transforming forge and do service and pleasure to the world.

Why do I harm them?

Is it not the friend who assails you with bitter truth and tells you to change, to go forth, that you value the most in the end? Or is it the friend who lies to you and lets you rot in your raw state?!


I do not understand the street vendors who do not put their soul into their cooking.

I do not understand the hawkers, too many overzealous with seasoning and salt.

I do not understand the home bakers, who abuse sugar.

I despise those who look down upon my art; who claim to understand my science and yet do not really know.

I am a chef, all I do is create; the sight, the smell, the taste.

20th February 2011

Seasons - Winter

A forest of barren trees in winter, shed their leaves,

Abandoned them for the sake of not letting itself suffer.

Memories, we forget and leave behind, suppressed,

In order to keep looking towards the horizon of the unknown sanctuary we all long for.

As the flow of life resumes, the leaves on the ground,

They wither and die, return to the earth.

To prepare the trees for spring,

When everything begins again.

As we all leave behind traces,

Shadows of ourselves and others,

They dance between the trees;

Gone but never really forgotten.

There was once a person standing there,

Where these eternal footprints lead;

Beyond the veil of branches,

Always singing her song.

As I stare out into the distance,

I glance upon the shadow,

Of your hair, your hand, your smile.

And I chase after you.

The things I leave behind,

Nothing but my tracks in the snow.

Time shall pass and erase them,

But forever my imprints will remain,

In the plants which sprout from my footsteps.

Signed,

The evening at eight,

The day of Saturn

The 15th of January in the 2011th year.

Wish

If you asked me when I stopped believing in fairy tales, I would say, a very very long time ago, when I was still a kid. No, perhaps I never believed in them. Mischievous pixies, petite wish-granting fairies, evil goblins, man-eating trolls and princesses with a heart of gold; it was all too unbelievable, a dead giveaway from the very beginning! FAKE! UNREAL!

But if you asked me when I stopped believing in supernatural things; time travel, supernatural powers, creatures of the night, telepathy, myths...I would have to admit: I never did. Perhaps I thought life was boring without these things in it, but one could also say that everyday phenomena is already quite magical, miraculous even. Yes, I am just a little kid wishing for the impossible, yet my common sense tells me that these things are not real and that I shouldn't hope for their existence, and yet I do.

So, sometimes I come across the question, what is the point of fantasy? Common answers: happiness, satisfaction, longing for a different world, curiosity.

Bullshit.

Why do we know that it is improbable that a random person will just pop out of nowhere and say: "Hi, I'm from the future.", but yet we sometimes wish it were true? Isn't that quite naive; bordering on idiotic even? That makes us quite dumb a race does it not? Or perhaps it is only the children who dream so? The notion makes sense at first, but, neh; why aren't the ones who are (or at least claim to be) grown-up happy either?

Me? I just want a more interesting life, and for people to appreciate the things they have more, which is why I constantly wish for a world where humanity has to unite against an unknown evil threatening our lives. Childish, naive, decadent, stupid; I know.

Sometimes I wish for myself to be able to sleep for ages; decades, centuries, millennia, aeons; time passing by me, hoping to see how the world changes, to steer the world in the direction of change. But then I also know that I'll find traces of memories strewn across the world of the world past, and I'd long for the past, and feel melancholic, and lonely...

Spiraling Melody Of Light

Not much time really passes when you're lying awake at night, the ceiling fan's blades, slightly rusted at the edges, rotate seemingly in slow motion. You can't really help but think "whoong, whoong, whoong" as the blades turn, and turn, and turn.

Laying there thinking, about the troubles you're facing, thing you worry about, someone you care for, what the future holds, who you are, are you just another speck in this vast world? It makes no sense sometimes. They told us life was supposed to be great, but yet here we are doing things that mean nothing, things that mean nothing that people have placed too much emphasis and too much faith into; and yet here we are, not even sure of what we're fighting for.

I wonder sometimes, maybe we cling on to our devices, phones, mp3 players, iPods and the sorts, because we want to know we're not alone. Maybe it's a subconscious reaffirmation, just talking to or texting that somebody over the phone, forgetting everything in drowning rock music or listening to that melancholy invoking instrumental; we are not alone.

We all wish for more to this life we're having, who really wants to spend the rest of their life labouring and worrying away. The wishful thinking is sometimes dealt with, suppressed, and yet again it will rise inevitably to the surface of our minds like cork in water. The future, what does it hold, will I be alone, what will I be doing, where will everyone else I know be in the future, who will remain my friends through storm and calm; is it all fated? I don't know, but someone once told me that life is not worth worrying away.

People like security, but that's just a nice way of saying people are boring. Badminton club, basketball club, football club; what happened to archery, fencing, dodgeball and whatnot? Language clubs, nature society, noble endeavours indeed, but really, if you're going to be like everyone else, why live? Such are the thoughts that leave one a little depressed, but it can't be helped....

Right?

Go to sleep, hug your pillow and make it warm; dream of a possible future, another reality. See the spiraling light that enters your mind and shelters your soul; hear the silver melody that rings clearly yet softly, and pray that it is eternal.

Live.

Creation

It is in 17th century Germany on a nameless street, just another day begins as the rising sun paints the entire street like a sepia photograph. Inside one of the houses with identical facades, a man in his late 20's performs his craft. Holed up in his workshop upstairs labouring away at his creation, the golden sun rays shine through the windows of his workshop; there is little sign on the man's face to indicate that he had been up all night at his work. On his immaculate countenance an elegant smile is etched, a mirror of the enjoyment, fulfillment and pride he takes in his work. Perhaps he does not call it work at all.

The dollmaker pours over his intricate equipment, and yet he seems perfectly poised and at home with his surroundings, his nimble fingers efficient and never hesitating. It is hard not to be inspired by wonder watching a craftsman at work, even more so for the nameless dollmaker; it is clear that money is not his motive. What makes him tinker over all that material and turn scraps into something beautiful?

Perhaps there is a love of his who inspires him, perhaps a child; perhaps something lost to him, perhaps a longing? There he stays in his little bubble of timelessness immersed in the passion for his work. So noble and passionate his work that time itself could not bear to take him away in her tide. And all that is of him is stowed away in a tiny fragment of reality, floating around in the space of existence. Forever immortalized.

The dolls born of his hands that lay scattered around his workshop seem almost lifelike. With eyes glowing with emotion and faces lit with compassion that it takes conscious thought to remind oneself that they are just dolls; and yet it just seems that they would just suddenly get up and smile at you. Such love put into his handicraft, like a great desire for a child he never could have.

And as the creator walks past a doll of a girl child, it reaches out to him haphazardly, and whispers:

'Fa...ther...'

The scene fades and diminishes into the fog of thought, as if just a dream.

Inspired by Mitsumune Shinkichi's "Creation", Rozen Maiden: Träumend. 

Sleep

What is it like to sleep? They say sleep is when the body rests itself, when the mind processes the day's thoughts and sights. They say dreaming is believing, nightmares shadows of darker things. What is sleep really?

Now and then I find one Sleepless, I am there where there is no sleep. Why do they not embrace the gift of sleep they are endowed with? They know not what it is like to be unable to rest in peace, to awaken the next day and see the dawn. Me? I can only rest once dead. I see not the dawn for I too see not the night.

They say they sleep not for they are troubled; in their hearts I see the worry and sorrow, and yet I do not understand. I return to my realm of cold under eternal twilight to ponder, and no light be shed upon me.

Do you know what it is like to be unable to remember? My memory is ever obscured by the barrier that separates sleep and wake. Such a thin barrier, which yet cannot be overcome. The memory of my son was cast to the abyss of sleep, and he speaks none to me.

Then I remember, once in a while, that I am always sleeping. How oft the memory returns I know not, for to me time is not.

My love I have never seen her, nor I ever will. She comes and goes, she has duties to perform; when one's time is up she wakes, and one's soul she takes. And when dawn arrives once again, she comes to sleep in our timeless twilight, with me in her cold embrace.

I am darkness,
I am night;
I am not.
Forever, good night.

-Probably partially inspired by Neil Gaiman.

Moonlit Nights

On that moonless night we celebrated the Mid-autumn Festival. In darkness we gathered with candles held in hand, as if to mourn the passing of summer. The square of the school was crowded with alumni from over the years of the school’s legacy; and yet I felt as if I walked the school grounds alone.

How ironic it was to hear the sonorous cry of celebration of the Mooncake Festival on a night with no moon. My old friends and I sat on the long corridor of the side entrance to the school where many memories lay. In semi-silence we gathered, with only occasional speak of current events and musings of the past.

Though always receptive to my surroundings at the time, I was at the same time immersed in thought. Perhaps there is no moon tonight, but in my heart always lives a moon of my own. Is she only a memory of what she used to be? When I felt her light dimmed, why did my inspiration too ebb away?

That night, I saw the warmth that thoughts of love bring; I saw the sorrow that love invokes; I saw the void that love can create. The legend of Chung E came to mind then, and in my mind the mist weaved a story for each pair of lovers under the moonless sky. There would be endings to them all, but with the endings would come memories, which I have not.

In my head to this day plays a soundtrack in the background; always there but not always audible even to myself. The song always changes, in tune, melody and words; but the feelings stay the same. I don’t think I can believe any longer, so I shall pretend.

Perhaps you are still the one I remember from spring; perhaps you are just a memory, but still I ask of you nothing but your heart.

“Fly me to the moon,
And let me play among the stars.
Won’t you let me see what spring is like on Jupiter & Mars?
In other words, hold my hand.
In other words: darling, kiss me.

Fill my heart with song,
And let me sing forever more.
For you are all I long for,
All I worship and adore.
In other words, please be true.
In other words: I love you.”