Reasons?
My English sucks, sorry Vesance, it's the truth. I can't do proofreading for you or anyone else to save my skin.
I have no job yet.
Bye bye.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Room: Memories of Temburong
Outside, the rain poured torrentially down from the heavens , I nudged the plain wooden door with it ageing dull green paint peeling off, and entered the private dwelling of the barber. The room was dark and had a gloomy atmosphere but strangely, at the same time, gives me a feeling of the simple contentment that its occupants have of towards life. Standing there, pausing for the moment; breathing in the heavy musty air lingering in the room, the first object which grabbed my attention was the large rectangular wooden bed that occupies a large part of the room. It reminded me of the old traditional bed utilised by the callous-skinned coolies of days long gone within the small confines of hazardous shop houses in Singapore's old Chinatown. Of course, except, without the ubiquitous opium smoking set.
What was striking was that the bed seems to be the platform, the focal point, for the conducting of daily rituals: blankets neatly folded atop a couple of pillows in the far end edge against the wall. At the other extreme was the electric kettle with its black cord dangling among the darkened wall and shadows. Stacked around the stained rice cooker was some crockery that had seen better days. A pile of clothes lined up alongside the wall opposite the bed, forming a nice little alley within the room.
Thunderous growls of the giants roared outside and one easily hears the wails of the fickle winds as it grew in strength with the ferocity of angry gods.
Hanging on the wall-hooks among the sets of Sunday best, was a simple aluminium-framed badminton racket. Oh, how it brought back visions of the simple childhood for me. Of days when the joy of being able to successfully return the wicked serves given by older siblings made me the champion of the world. The ability to experience undulated joy of seeing those feathered shuttlecocks flying through the air, I hoped, was not lost on me yet.
Slowly as I walked, I could feel cold drafts of air flowing in like a little mountain stream through all the unseen gaps and crevices, creeping up onto my back. As I passed by the piece of metal contraption with its taps and brass pipes winding and extending underneath, I spied the little confinement of space, of which was my goal and object of relief.
As I stepped into the tiny cubicle, a spicy sulphurous scent waltzed its way into my nasal passages; glancing around, I noticed a box of pink onions lying surreptitiously on the floor half-camouflaged by the shadows thrown up by a weak fluorescent light somewhere. I proceed to carry out my business.
After I was done relieving my stressed bladder, I crept back along the way I came in, not daring to disturb the ghost of the memory I left behind. Opening the door again, the sight of a smiling barber greeted me. Smiling back, I admired the new haircut he had given me earlier in the mirror lining the shop, then, I stepped out into the cold wet air.
What was striking was that the bed seems to be the platform, the focal point, for the conducting of daily rituals: blankets neatly folded atop a couple of pillows in the far end edge against the wall. At the other extreme was the electric kettle with its black cord dangling among the darkened wall and shadows. Stacked around the stained rice cooker was some crockery that had seen better days. A pile of clothes lined up alongside the wall opposite the bed, forming a nice little alley within the room.
Thunderous growls of the giants roared outside and one easily hears the wails of the fickle winds as it grew in strength with the ferocity of angry gods.
Hanging on the wall-hooks among the sets of Sunday best, was a simple aluminium-framed badminton racket. Oh, how it brought back visions of the simple childhood for me. Of days when the joy of being able to successfully return the wicked serves given by older siblings made me the champion of the world. The ability to experience undulated joy of seeing those feathered shuttlecocks flying through the air, I hoped, was not lost on me yet.
Slowly as I walked, I could feel cold drafts of air flowing in like a little mountain stream through all the unseen gaps and crevices, creeping up onto my back. As I passed by the piece of metal contraption with its taps and brass pipes winding and extending underneath, I spied the little confinement of space, of which was my goal and object of relief.
As I stepped into the tiny cubicle, a spicy sulphurous scent waltzed its way into my nasal passages; glancing around, I noticed a box of pink onions lying surreptitiously on the floor half-camouflaged by the shadows thrown up by a weak fluorescent light somewhere. I proceed to carry out my business.
After I was done relieving my stressed bladder, I crept back along the way I came in, not daring to disturb the ghost of the memory I left behind. Opening the door again, the sight of a smiling barber greeted me. Smiling back, I admired the new haircut he had given me earlier in the mirror lining the shop, then, I stepped out into the cold wet air.
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