tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58944509358751654252024-03-06T06:08:44.791+08:00Dream PedlarDreams for one, Dreams for all, Some dreams to last all day, Some others for when the night falls ...Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-49874006942974949352014-01-04T22:38:00.002+08:002014-01-04T22:39:30.826+08:00Come visit me at The Dream Pedlar's<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dream Pedlar has found a new home!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Come visit me at <a href="http://thedreampedlars.com/" target="_blank">The Dream Pedlar's</a> where we continue to create new worlds of fantasy and imagination!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-20428518238660549422013-12-28T12:00:00.000+08:002013-12-28T12:24:16.966+08:00The Cyclists on East Coast Park ~ Part III<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Cyclists on East Coast Park ~ Part III</span></td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>(Continued from <a href="http://thedreampedlar.blogspot.sg/2013/12/the-cyclists-on-east-coast-park.html" target="_blank">Part I</a> and <a href="http://thedreampedlar.blogspot.sg/2013/12/the-cyclists-on-east-coast-park-part-ii.html" target="_blank">Part II</a>)</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our visits to East Coast had been very infrequent in the past several years, save for the occasional barbecues and evening drinks by the beach with friends. So it was with a little trepidation and curiosity that we mounted our more than forty year old selves on our bikes early that morning. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Much of East Coast Park was exactly as we remembered. Morning joggers, bikers, skaters, walkers, amblers, dog owners with their pets, young and aged couples, families, children playing in the sand, the smell of the sea, the ships in the distance, all of it as though the place was frozen in time. We rode past bike rental shops, food joints that would wake up to business closer to noon, little tents of overnight campers, even the cable ski park was beginning to buzz with activity. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>As always, the whirring gears of their race bikes was what announced their arrival, and in less than an instant a whirlwind of cyclists had bolted towards, past and away from us and disappeared from sight. It took a long time for the dust to settle. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>The world, as we knew it, unobtrusively slipped away behind us to give way to mostly deserted grasslands and sea almonds and white beaches, which soon segued into dense foliage and twittering critters and fragrant air. The colours were more brilliant than we had ever seen. The waters sparkled like polished stones of lazurite, the leaves glowed in the light of the sun as if it were their own, the clouds dazzled like snow. Enthralled, we ploughed on until we heard them again. Annie and I sensibly hopped off the path this time to give way to the returning heroes to whiz by. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Were they the same riders from all those years ago, it was impossible to tell. Were there five or seven or nine, how could we know? All we could see, back then and even now, was a blur, a haze of colours going past like a streak, cyclists in fast motion. Nothing more was known about them, nothing more needed to be known. As with art, these are experiences to be dazzled by. A fleeting glimpse was all it took for us to be overwhelmed with wonder and marvel. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>It is perhaps fitting that Annie and I should have met our ends in a biking accident. What is ironic though was the way the incident panned out. We were at our usual spot opposite the airfield, watching the giant birds launch into their journeys in the skies. When it was time to go home, Annie and I got on to the main road from the pavement and mounted our bikes. We had only begun to pedal when the driver of an Audi car, headed in our direction on the opposite lane, chose that very moment to lose control and let his car careen wildly and come crashing into us. Life must have been knocked out off me instantly, I do not remember feeling any pain. Annie didn’t linger too. The driver of the Audi was not as fortunate, he writhed in pain for a long time before he was carried away in an ambulance. I suspect he survived, I haven’t seen him since. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>My first memory of death is that of a group of cyclists swiftly descending upon Annie and me to help us get on to our feet. We were curious to see our human remains but the cyclists cautioned us against doing so. “It will be harder to move on,” one among them said.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>There were six of them, I could now see. Four guys, two lasses. The girls appeared to be in their early twenties, dressed in front-buttoned shirtwaists and a turnover collar. Two of the guys were in their mid-forties; one seemed to have leapt straight out of an Ernest Hemingway novel, the other was a modern day family man dressed in a floral-printed shirt and shorts as if he had last been on his way to a family picnic on a Sunday. I later learnt he was only a recent addition to the group. The other two guys were merely lads, not more than sixteen or seventeen years old, I should say. I didn’t want to know how they had died so young. I didn’t want to ask. Their faces looked serene and content, they did not warrant any unpleasant probing into their lives and deaths.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>But even in death we create memories. I remember being thrilled at the epiphany I had when I laid eyes on the cyclists. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“That is some incredible biking you all do out there,” the words tumbled out of my mouth. “Breakneck speeds!”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“It cannot kill us,” one of the young lads jested. “Not anymore.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I am adept at doing wheelies now, Annie excels at stoppies. She can twist and turn and pirouette on the front wheel of her bike more gracefully than a ballerina. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Speed is not a constraint when concerns of bodily harm no longer exist. What we enjoy the most are the meteoric rides on our bikes. We whiz past, biker and bike moving together in one fluid motion. We see the adventurers on our trail. Not all of them can see us though. But I think our girls are beginning to. They turned eighteen this year.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>We still haunt our favourite spot opposite the airfield. Annie and I have introduced the others to our preferred activity of leisure, and we have invented our own games. On a good day like today, we race with the aircrafts, tearing alongside the runway, catapulting ourselves into the skies, doing somersaults in the air, and landing on the ground lighter than a feather does. For me, this will always be the place where reality ends and magic begins.</span></span></div>
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Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-67543270826575576162013-12-21T15:09:00.000+08:002013-12-21T15:09:41.835+08:00The Cyclists on East Coast Park ~ Part II<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Cyclists on East Coast Park ~ Part II</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><a href="http://thedreampedlar.blogspot.sg/2013/12/the-cyclists-on-east-coast-park.html" target="_blank">(Continued from Part I)</a></i></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This has been my favourite bike trail for as long as I can remember. It is about thirty-five kilometres, the entire route, and it takes me about two hours to cover on a good day. I am a slow cyclist, but in my endurance lies my strength.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>As kids, we’d be panting by the time we reached the area with the grasslands and the beach. In our teens, we’d usually make it past the jungle but would return after a little picnic at the pier. It was only on my seventeenth birthday that we made it as far as the airfield, and since then I have never taken a shorter route. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>But it was only as an adult that I first noticed the cyclists. The incredibly fast ones. Well actually, Annie pointed them out to me the first few times. We used to think there were five in all, we could not be precise though. They’d zap past us like a swarm of irate bees; it was impossible to tell how many they were. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>We’d see them twice. The first time was always at the start of the grassland where they’d race past from behind us, leaving a vortex of buff-coloured air in their wake. Our second encounter with them was always somewhere in the thick of the jungle. They’d come hurtling towards us like a tornado. We would hear the whirring gears of their race bikes from afar. It was hardly sufficient warning. We would barely have time enough to dismount and step away from the path for safety, and they would have whizzed past us, leaving everything shuddering behind them.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“Amazing!” exclaimed a breathless Annie one day. “They are incredibly fast.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Her observation was accurate. The gang covered the entire route of thirty-five kilometres in the time it took us to cover two kilometres, which was about seven minutes on average. Which was more than twice the world record. You could always argue there was no certainty they went the entire way to and fro, and that we may simply have been beguiled into believing they were the swiftest. Back then I had no doubt in my mind; the cyclists hurtled at such breakneck speeds, it was impossible for them to stop or slow down before they had reached the very end.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Our hearts and minds, free of the nagging doubts that age brings, we cycled in the East Coast Park as often as we could. As we grew older, we were not always able to go as far as the airfield, but we always crossed the grassland into the forest and waited for our winged cyclists to race past. They never disappointed us.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I married Annie when I was twenty-four and she, twenty-six. We had twin daughters a year later. Little darlings they were, they took to cycles like moths to a flame, much to the delight of Annie and me. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>We moved away from the East Coast when the girls were two. We moved up north, real estate was arguably more affordable there. So it was a good fifteen years before Annie and I decided to move back to the East Coast. By then, the girls had flown the nest. I was forty and disillusioned with life. So was Annie. And because wisdom and good sense tend to dawn upon us only after we have indulged in a bit of foolishness and labelled it as mid-life crisis, Annie and I decided to plunge our life savings into setting up a bicycle shop in the East Coast. <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Business got off to a rocky start. Things had changed in the past decade and a half. We soon discovered that too few people took to cycles anymore. But the ones that did loved bikes with an ardent passion. This was the lot we catered to. A handful of avid bikers. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They were a delightful lot. They regaled us with tales of their rides, many having scooted past the airfield (we were euphoric to learn that the bike trail there had survived the onslaught of urban development) to discover many more bike trails, all paths leading them to regions of surreal beauty. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>We wondered if the supersonic bikers still stormed the East Coast Park but none of our clients seemed to have a clue. But that was not altogether surprising; not everyone’s paths led them through grasslands and forests and bridges. But even so, none of our customers had bikes that could propel them to inhuman speeds. So when business affairs had settled to a comfortable routine, having grown mostly by word of mouth - the delightfully old-fashioned way - Annie and I decided to set forth on our Kona Entourages to rediscover our path.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>(To be continued ...)</i></span></span></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-67390915372369659192013-12-20T15:05:00.001+08:002013-12-22T09:50:00.995+08:00Sandrine's Case by Thomas H. Cook<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16129297-sandrine-s-case" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8t7BJQPOZnZgqdecAy6QWue4m5v1EZecLRGKeO3rBSMl1X-VNNKmDoXq0HBBLptdj7_aeDygHm7U-M2X4VlX8QW7sAsQUEm1i1dDhfusmwBKcimXvzvUrrWYkcwRv29PzfQ0noWFgo8o/s400/Sandrine's+Case+by+Thomas+H+Cook.jpg" width="263" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sandrines-Case-Thomas-H-Cook/dp/0802126081" target="_blank">Sandrine’s Case by Thomas H. Cook</a></span></span></td></tr>
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book but after reading the first few pages – a courtroom scene and an
unexplained death – I was hooked. Professor Sam Madison, the narrator, is being
tried for the death of his wife Sandrine, whose death is initially ruled by the
coroner to be a suicide but the police suspect foul play and Sam is accused of
murdering his wife.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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courtroom scenes and Sam’s memories of his wife and the events leading up to
her death, seamlessly interwoven in a neat narration technique.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">Halfway through the book, the plot takes an
interesting twist and Sam starts to suspect his late wife may have deliberately
planned her suicide so as to make Sam appear guilty of killing her. When I
reached this bit, it was an A-ha moment for me, as it was something I had
started to suspect by the time. (Trust me, this is not a spoiler at all!)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">Having reached thus far, I read the rest of the
book in barely two sittings, curious to know what was to come next only to
found the conclusion and resolution a tad disappointing.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">In retrospect, looking at it from a different perspective,
I think the book did end on a very poignant and perhaps even noble, even if
somewhat bizarre, note, but it was not a very satisfying one for me. There were
no loose ends though; it was all neatly tied up, which I always yearn for in a
mystery or thriller. Any unexplained remnants and I curse the author for
letting me hang loose, obviously not the place I am happy to be in.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">Cook however delves into the sensitive facets of
relationships and human character. There are some beautiful passages in the book
that made the reading of it worthwhile.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">Here is Sam describing how the little town of
Coburn County altered for him during his trial –</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Coburn County was the problem, it seemed to me, a
college town only seventy miles south of Atlanta, a quiet place whose privacy
had been violated by the media coverage of Sandrine’s death, the subsequent
investigation, and, still later, my arrest. Every step I the process had
further served to turn the town against me, so that … I’d genuinely feared that
no matter what the evidence – or lack of it – its stalwart citizens might well
find me guilty at the end of my trial. Sandrine had once said that when she
thought of hell, it was an eternal walk through a shadowy alley. By the time of
my trial, I’d come to imagine it as a never-ending fall through a gallows
floor.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">And he talks of how his being a professor might
have already rendered him guilty in the eyes of the jury.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I faced the jury silently as Morty continued,
faced these twelve women and men who, I felt certain, were quite prepared to
kill me. It was obvious to me they despised me, and I knew precisely the cause
of their hostility. For wasn’t it just such windy professors as myself who’d
poisoned their children with atheism or socialism or worse, who’d infused their
previously unsullied minds with dreamy fantasies of changing the world or
writing a great novel, while at the same time teaching them not one skill by
which they might later find employment and thus avoid returning to their
parents’ homes to sit sullenly in front of the television, boiling with
unrealizable hopes?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">This is the first of Cook’s works that I have
tried, and I think I’d like to read some more.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-53934822029062456602013-12-14T15:44:00.001+08:002013-12-21T15:10:34.444+08:00The Cyclists on East Coast Park ~ Part I<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ratMljTASG0qaORZSUdUy-LXu2xZGUwl741FWOJ-OVQFhHBGO9DX07jhX3JtQ7ld9nOTf_yJEfOKrw5e_MTJgBUcyK2CRsbvKU8C6MgJsHWc4mFD9a0EAPVcyFrFPQFU4B2ZUXxpqTA/s1600/63.+The+Cyclists+on+East+Coast+Park.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ratMljTASG0qaORZSUdUy-LXu2xZGUwl741FWOJ-OVQFhHBGO9DX07jhX3JtQ7ld9nOTf_yJEfOKrw5e_MTJgBUcyK2CRsbvKU8C6MgJsHWc4mFD9a0EAPVcyFrFPQFU4B2ZUXxpqTA/s400/63.+The+Cyclists+on+East+Coast+Park.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Cyclists on East Coast Park</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do you know that stretch of East Coast Park where, once you’ve entered it, the rest of the world seems to slip away behind you in an instant and you find yourself in a place that is at once wondrous and surreal? </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Large tracts of lush green grass flank the bike path. Sea almonds with buttress roots stand in majestic elegance, their large leaves playing with shafts of warm sunlight. To the right, the grassland gives way to a narrow beach of soft, white sand, that spills into the sea, which on a good day like today bears a milky green hue mirroring the skies in a dulcet turquoise garb. Even the ships that are usually docked so as to block out the horizon seem to maintain a deferential distance from the shores here.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The bike path unfolds in gentle curves, its route defined by the trees. But a few minutes into the ride, the path usually veers to the left, trailing away from the beach. On a bad day, when the skies don the grey colour of a mourning widow, and tumultuous seawaves, foaming with fury, hurl themselves on the beach as if in grief of bereavement, the path quickly curves away and leads you to the safety of your home. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But on a good day like today, the trail meanders gently like a lullaby and the landscape around you transforms itself as if you were slipping into a dream. The tame grassland gives way to a thick forest. The bike trail shrinks as tall trees demand to close in on you from both sides. Leaves on the low-hanging branches kiss your cheeks; it is their way of capturing your scent and leaving their mark on you, that is how they remember you on your next visit. The crisp, salty breeze of the seaside is replaced with cool, sweet-scented air, freshly churned out by the wilderness. You hear the gentle rise and fall of waves on the shore, but it is a distant music drowned by the urgent calls of wild birds and the persistent trills of crickets and katydids.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When the path has had its fill of the forest, it plunges down into a shallow pool of muddy water. As you splash through the puddle, you emerge on to the end of a pier overlooking waters bluer and greener than you have ever known. You skid to a halt, pausing for breath, overwhelmed by the infinite expanse of water and skies. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When you resume, the path leads you along the pier, away from the waters, and onto a narrow bridge of concrete slabs that go all clickety-clack when you cycle over them, with the soothing rhythm of train wheels running over the joints of rail tracks.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the other side of the bridge, you exit on to reality. First, you hit a pavement cruising along a mostly deserted road that converges with a larger road a little ahead. You pause at the traffic light. Trucks and cars race past, drenching you in a cloud of dust. The light turns red, and you cross over to the other side. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">More bridges, more roads, and soon you are cycling on the edges of the city. Straight asphalt roads, straighter than a crow can fly, no twists, no turns, no surprises here. When the time is right, you get off the road and push your bike over to the pavement. And then you wait, looking intently across the road. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The aircrafts are lined up, each patiently biding its time. The one at the head of the line drifts noiselessly into position. The pilot revs up the engines. Then like a bull at the gate, the aircraft charges straight ahead with a mighty roar. Before you know it, it leaps into the skies, flying farther and faster until it disappears from your view. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 35.45pt 70.85pt 106.3pt 5.0cm 177.15pt 212.6pt 248.05pt 283.45pt 318.9pt 354.35pt 389.75pt 425.2pt 460.65pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You return home the way you came, only it’s faster this time. Every time. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><a href="http://thedreampedlar.blogspot.sg/2013/12/the-cyclists-on-east-coast-park-part-ii.html" target="_blank">(Peek-a-boo, here is Part II)</a></i></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-89820820604018549632013-12-07T15:43:00.002+08:002013-12-07T15:44:20.239+08:00Birds of a Feather Flock Together<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJpmwt9WQ4ecdJ6q5yffHp-ocLN3SYNwf8EA63IHk9BVwgtG9rk2Wt6geHIdX8l3I_z8KDspMOKwEpilH4lYk9zOiMsVu6nj5wzxZPnnal7tlU6TfWceU7R5cQgpRzChVfBMz8YRAbU_U/s1600/62.+Birds+of+a+feather+flock+together.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJpmwt9WQ4ecdJ6q5yffHp-ocLN3SYNwf8EA63IHk9BVwgtG9rk2Wt6geHIdX8l3I_z8KDspMOKwEpilH4lYk9zOiMsVu6nj5wzxZPnnal7tlU6TfWceU7R5cQgpRzChVfBMz8YRAbU_U/s400/62.+Birds+of+a+feather+flock+together.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Birds of a Feather Flock Together - Image courtesy of <a href="http://www.opiomgallery.com/en/artistes/oeuvresphotographe/17/jeeyoung-lee" target="_blank">JeeYoung Lee</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Folklore has it that, long long ago, all living beings spoke the same language. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(Of course, this was all long before mankind and animals and birds went their separate ways and conjured up their own secret tongues so as to keep from each other what they really thought about the other and what they planned to inflict upon each other.) </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But back when everyone understood each other, and the world was in peace and harmony, it was the ravens that were mankind’s trusted messengers. Not the pigeons. The use of pigeons to ferry messages across mountains and seas was a romantic notion that took root much later. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The bearer of messages has a very important role to play. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">His is a task that requires much wit, deep awareness, the ability to make complex decisions in the face of danger, bravery so as to not allow any private messages to be intercepted, and enough empathy so as to be able to express joy when the message is a happy one and dignified solemnity when the news to be conveyed in tragic. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">These were the qualities in ravens that made them aptly suitable for the job.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Above all, what set the ravens apart from other living beings was the speed and efficiency they exhibited in transmitting messages, thanks to their knowledge of the shortest routes and paths, which enabled them to travel as the crow flies. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of course it helped that the ravens were found in abundance - in the jungles, on the streets, on treetops, in people’s backyards, in their gardens, on their windowsills eating breadcrumbs, and sometimes inside their kitchens if no one was looking.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our big, black birds found it offensive to have rolls of paper tethered to their claws. They preferred, instead, to have the addressor <i>tell</i> them the message, which they were then happy to repeat to the recipient. As I said, this was back in the times when all living beings spoke the same tongue. So this did not pose any problem at first, and the message creators and receivers were only too happy with this arrangement, as were the ravens who were politely treated to goodies every time they received or imparted a message. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">All the trouble started when the ravens started to contort the messages. At first it was harmless distortion, and some of the misrepresentations were in fact very funny to begin with, created out of boredom and the overall monotonous nature of their work and lives. But then the ravens took to telling tales and lies, and in no time untruths and falsifications were being transmitted back and forth until eventually mankind declared war on the animals over a simple misunderstanding and the world was engulfed in several decades of violence and mayhem.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Did you know? </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the collective nouns for a group of ravens is a <i>storytelling</i> of ravens.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At another period of time, when pigeons began to rise to the fore as messengers of love, the ravens took to stealing the pigeons’ eggs out of spite. They, the ravens, reckoned that if they could stymie the growth in pigeon population, the ravens would regain what they considered their rightful place as trustworthy and reliable messengers of the living world. It did not take long for the rest of the world to figure out what the ravens were up to, which only made pigeons more popular than before.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Did you know?</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the collective nouns for a group of ravens is an <i>unkindness</i> of ravens. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before long, mankind learned not to trust anybody but his own clan and started to deliver messages by hand. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Did you know?</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the collective nouns for a group of ravens is a <i>nevermore</i> of ravens. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Enraged by the ‘disrespect’ they perceived, the ravens took to ambushing human messengers whenever the latter had to travel through thick jungles and forests. Clad in shockingly black feathers, the ravens were indiscernible from the thick blackness of the night; so no one could ever tell who was responsible for the attacks.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Did you know?</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the collective nouns for a group of ravens is a <i>conspiracy</i> of ravens. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So as to not lose any more of his brothers and sisters, mankind developed advanced technologies that would obey his command and do no more or no less than instructed to. This involved the erection of transmission poles and wires to dispatch messages in the form of invisible little pieces of information strung together by invisible threads of … well, invisible stuff.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The ravens, helpless when confronted with things they had little clue about, then took to sitting on telephone wires yelling blue murder, crowing and cawing about the unfairness of it all, but with little action to back up their claims. Everyone ignores them, and now no one understands anymore what the ravens cry about perched above the world and dumping turd on unsuspecting passersby.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Did you know?</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the collective nouns for a group of ravens is a <i>parliament</i> of ravens.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-62926644959065471172013-11-30T23:20:00.002+08:002013-11-30T23:37:51.331+08:00Flowers for When He is Gone<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7afmB31IaRWxQv3DEh_JM-D_9PzqW7k1PUKWPa1clye6L5y8zgnuuXX7y8Y9hxyyERKhUG5nmBDjaStayBcoBVd9VLesdjtDx48BjKufAy5h51glGpbRS9vCxqo6XaOs-b8rsfIXnZ-s/s1600/61.+Flowers+for+when+he+is+gone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7afmB31IaRWxQv3DEh_JM-D_9PzqW7k1PUKWPa1clye6L5y8zgnuuXX7y8Y9hxyyERKhUG5nmBDjaStayBcoBVd9VLesdjtDx48BjKufAy5h51glGpbRS9vCxqo6XaOs-b8rsfIXnZ-s/s400/61.+Flowers+for+when+he+is+gone.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Flowers for When He is Gone - Image courtesy of <a href="http://wandaywang.deviantart.com/art/valentine-flowers-48902480" target="_blank">Wanda Wang</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The flowers arrive unexpectedly. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They weren't suppose to arrive until Valentine’s. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But here they are now, all these months ahead of time. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Which means I will not see him until after then. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A little knot of fear rises from the pit of my stomach, lodges itself firmly in my head, and causes my heart to flap. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I run a finger over the petals. They shiver under my touch.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I look for a note in the bouquet. There is none. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I place the flowers in water, and let them be.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It’s been a week now. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The roses are still in full bloom, the petals soft and tender.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now it’s been a month and I have seen the roses turn different shades of red. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sometimes they are the vermillion streaks of sunset, at other times they take on the colour of blood. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When the mood strikes, they dazzle brilliantly like rubies.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sometimes the phone rings and he tells me he is headed to distant lands, at other times I can say he’s been hurt even if he doesn’t always confide.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There are times when he finds the answers he is seeking, and I wish he’d finally make his way home. But then I can also tell he is dreaming of other adventures to pursue, mysteries to unravel.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It has taken me a while to decipher the code but the flowers are my constant companions now. I can discern the slightest shift in colour, the faintest alteration in tint, all in just a momentary glance. And I’d know if he is safe or happy or in danger or sad even if he doesn’t always tell. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He hasn’t called in a while now. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The roses have mostly been a dazzling crimson these past few days, so alive, so bright I think there is mescaline coursing through my veins. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A glint here, a sparkle there. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Like a candle sputtering and shimmering right before the end.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And now they have burst into flames. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And before I can do anything, a little ball of fire collapses into itself and vanishes from sight.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I stand looking, staring at vacant space, not quite knowing what to make of it all, when the doorbell rings.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-91562921228458226262013-11-23T22:00:00.000+08:002013-11-23T22:07:39.901+08:00Reindeer on Strike!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_BVh3EXnNVIycZB9OxoAdIEs0LgiVhVcWjgh-ZBtnn20gTM1MEtHI4To3xhXfLl5aYRFoZHI0ycNJt6m7lyn1eJVva6t0GbiVaP2BaYuVlGDLlGxBIIoryUvwdNaxIaEGtGjiq1QgpQ/s1600/60.+Reindeer+on+Strike.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_BVh3EXnNVIycZB9OxoAdIEs0LgiVhVcWjgh-ZBtnn20gTM1MEtHI4To3xhXfLl5aYRFoZHI0ycNJt6m7lyn1eJVva6t0GbiVaP2BaYuVlGDLlGxBIIoryUvwdNaxIaEGtGjiq1QgpQ/s400/60.+Reindeer+on+Strike.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Reindeer on Strike</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">All the reindeer had gone on strike. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so Santa had resorted to travelling in a time and space capsule.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Modern times! Need to keep up with technology, eh,” he retorted when we asked him about the missing reindeer.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The reindeer, he said, are protesting long working hours and demanding higher wages. And since nothing could be done about their complaints, they had decided to freeze in time, Santa said. The "stubborn creatures" (his words, not ours) had become useless when it came to drawing sleighs.</span></span><br />
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Lazy creatures with their brains caught in their antlers,” he snorted as he heaved himself down our chimney. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A sack of presents came tumbling down after him. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He brushed the soot off his garments, his chirpily red coat and trousers laced with sparkling white cuffs, not a speck of dust or soot from the chimney on them nor on his snowy white hair and beard.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“The capsule is not all that bad,” he continued, as he proceeded to stack our presents under the Christmas tree. “It’s incredibly fast. I can go anywhere in the blink of an eye,” he said, stressing he needs the speed in order to cater to six billion gift-seekers in a single night.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“What about tradition?” we asked. “The stories don’t talk about time capsules, the carols we sing are about reindeer and sleighs,” we insisted.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“That was then, this is now,” he brushed us off. He then emerged from under the tree, warned us to be good children and not go peeking into the gifts before morning, and wished us all a merry Christmas, before scampering up the chimney and out of sight.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The next morning we opened our presents to find nine little reindeer figurines, one with a bright red nose. There was also a note from Santa, asking us to look after the nine reindeer. “Keep them by the fireside, and they will unfreeze with time,” he instructed us.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It’s been a year now. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Last month, we moved the reindeer closer to the fireside.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Last week, they started to stir.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One went missing this morning.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We think the rest should be back in action before time. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-5883022050270786222013-11-20T14:04:00.000+08:002013-11-20T14:05:11.781+08:00A Birthday Wish<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0g0MBhgrKLzo37Yw8Puj86J5c_w_orMZUZqNZDinCvBHpyvjIV-Ifl-CegdAS_JJzEpzaepk_iDr0_mVLW993Yq9E413gB7RnkBqYnu2HO-Nbp2jhiYgAo2IBOGj-YpPRAuudrwrzBig/s1600/A+Birthday+Wish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0g0MBhgrKLzo37Yw8Puj86J5c_w_orMZUZqNZDinCvBHpyvjIV-Ifl-CegdAS_JJzEpzaepk_iDr0_mVLW993Yq9E413gB7RnkBqYnu2HO-Nbp2jhiYgAo2IBOGj-YpPRAuudrwrzBig/s400/A+Birthday+Wish.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A Birthday Wish</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Happy birthday to me!!</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Exactly two years ago, when the date was 20/11/2011, Dream Pedlar was conceived in imagination.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wrote a piece titled ‘<a href="http://thedreampedlar.blogspot.sg/2011/11/hello-dreamers.html"><span class="s2">Hello, Dreamer …</span></a>’, a sort of a ‘Hello, here I am, hear me out’ piece, which was perhaps the first time I came really close to finding my writing voice. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the time, I only had a vague notion in my head of what I wanted Dream Pedlar to be like. Although actual work on it began only earlier this year, and it’s nowhere close to the concept that formed in my head during that winter of 2011, I am still proud of how far we have come. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Although today is not a Dream Pedlar anniversary - well, it partly is, it partly isn’t - I am excited it’s my birthday (even after all the birthdays I’ve had, I love celebrating my existence!) and I am thrilled that I still love Dream Pedlar, the site, the stories, the art, the creation. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So thank you for being with me all this while, for reading me on good days and bad, through happy tales and sad.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As we light the candles, I take in a huge gulp of air, puff out my cheeks, make a wish, and blow out. And all my hopes and yearnings mingle with the flames of the candles and the air and the wind and I grow more and more certain of this - I am one with the world, and the world is one with me.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>A Birthday Wish</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I want to be</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the crest of the wave that crashes on the shore and sweeps away all the seashells on its way out.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the poetry that rides on the flutter of the breeze until the muse traps it on paper.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the music that emanates from a hollow, broken piece of wood held together by strings.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the melody that yields a new hidden note each time you replay it on the tape.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the quiver in the singer’s voice as she lets a note linger a tad longer than you can hold your breath.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the story you want to read over and over again until you have committed each exquisite word, each beautiful turn of phrase to memory.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the colours that bleed from the artist’s brush on to the canvas, rich and resplendent at first, but fading away with the passage of time.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the drop of water that glides down a wet lock of hair and hangs like a teardrop at the end.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the memory that has lodged itself so deep into the recesses of your mind you know it exists but the more you try to retrieve it, the farther out of reach it slips.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the heartbreak that sits at the base of your throat like a lump that won’t go away, no matter how many tears you shed.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the hollow in your gut that your sorrow carves out, inch by hurting inch, as you realise your loss is irreconcilable.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the slow, steady movement of the second hand that stretches your wait to eternity.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… the faint flicker of hope that tries to warm your lonely heart on a cold, winter day.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… your thoughts, your memories, your hopes, your fears, your desires, your dreams.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">… everything that makes your heart beat, that makes the blood course through your veins faster and furiouser.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I want to be everything that makes you come alive.</span></span></div>
<br />Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-84438738622890541792013-11-16T22:37:00.001+08:002013-11-16T22:37:38.936+08:00Well-Intentioned Advice for Children Unattended To<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWFVJVt8waNhn5kq7gPqGCoBZ8Jw03DT5nDVX9TE-1IcMdECGcIj_hmmhW-dwPpifVbfl3N5Sq-8hXOE7QOTecTAriDmYE7nPO6DMPFszmtzb4F6f3lXd_M1byQl7V9dlEh9b9TqskGk/s1600/59.+Well-Intentioned+Advice+for+Unattended+Children.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWFVJVt8waNhn5kq7gPqGCoBZ8Jw03DT5nDVX9TE-1IcMdECGcIj_hmmhW-dwPpifVbfl3N5Sq-8hXOE7QOTecTAriDmYE7nPO6DMPFszmtzb4F6f3lXd_M1byQl7V9dlEh9b9TqskGk/s400/59.+Well-Intentioned+Advice+for+Unattended+Children.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well-Intentioned Advice for Children </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Unattended To</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Children unattended to will be given espresso and a free kitten.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As you sip your coffee and help yourself to some cookies, your child can choose from among pixie-bobs, ragamuffins, ragdolls, ocicats, persian kittens, munchkins, minskins, Australian Mists, and Abyssinian cats. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whichever your little one chooses, the kitten will wrap itself around your child’s legs and cast a benign, binding spell.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The kitten will then lead your little girl or boy to the park across the road. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(Oh, don’t bother to look. The garden is not visible to adults. Only little children and kittens can see it.)</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The garden has a jungle gym to climb on to, rabbit holes to fall into, stars to count all night, and invisible friends to talk to. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When your child has had his fill of the park, the kitten will lead the little one through the hedgerows to the other side where treasure-hunters are digging a hole through the earth to China. We hear the hunters have very nearly completed the hole, so your child could be the lucky first to disappear through it and reappear in China, halfway across the world on the other side.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(Oh, don’t you worry, dear parents. The children will be completely safe with the kittens by their side. And if you insist, they can always come back from China in a jiffy simply by sailing over the rainbow.)</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If the hole has not been completely dug, the kitten will lead your child beyond to meet The Famous Five. The five - (and Timothy the dog will be there too!) - are a jolly bunch and they will welcome your child to join them on their summertime camping adventures.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When the summer holidays are over and the Five have to return home, the kitten will lead your child to the wise man’s hut, where he has a stash of fairy tales to regale them with. He will read stories to your child until the little one falls asleep, and the kitten will then bring your young one back to you. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You must then take your child home, tuck him in, kiss him goodnight, and leave him to dream of fairylands and magic and adventures.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The only trouble is, when your child wakes up the next morning, he will go looking for the adventures he dreamt about. Nothing you say or do will dissuade him. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, dear parents, if you don’t want your children to go seeking adventures you think do not exist, please do not leave them unattended to.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-72861237898260197762013-11-09T22:35:00.000+08:002013-11-10T11:43:21.531+08:00The Street of The Dead<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmvriDMo-GeDw-vAbRkdfYE2W-dGxcDza7n6q7QUCO5pNukzDzYY-h4fLAjCGG9ijN_Xq9OoTdv4q2IYJNJ9_X2NO1yC2RuHFoGNqPXczb7q2hM0vlyr7Cd-mfF39m-t8J1w8CEZfSpE/s1600/58.+The+Street+of+The+Dead.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmvriDMo-GeDw-vAbRkdfYE2W-dGxcDza7n6q7QUCO5pNukzDzYY-h4fLAjCGG9ijN_Xq9OoTdv4q2IYJNJ9_X2NO1yC2RuHFoGNqPXczb7q2hM0vlyr7Cd-mfF39m-t8J1w8CEZfSpE/s400/58.+The+Street+of+The+Dead.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Street of The Dead</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The street is thronged with dead beings. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Zombies, vampires, ghouls, they rule this place. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1">Like monsters running amok on Halloween, the place is littered with all kinds of dead beings - the half-deads, the ones barely alive, some who died barely a moment ago and are only getting used to the sudden turn of events in their </span><span class="s2"><strike>lives</strike></span><span class="s1"> deaths, and then those who died several deaths every day, and then some more.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every evening they emerge on to the street, dressed in their finest, from the edges of existence. They wriggle out from the cracks in tombstones. They bleed into existence from the horizon. They surface from the walls that partition homes.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The vampires sashay in their overrated capes, hissing and flashing their fangs at innocent bystanders. Some of the dead are reduced to bare-bones, their dead, decaying skin clinging to their skeletal frames. Some others, freshly lowered into their graves, appear rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There are no leaders, no followers. There are only those who have walked the street a countless times, and those who are new to the ways of this world. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every evening they stomp down the street in revelry, sharing stories of their past lives, and their hopes and dreams for future ones.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some look forward to their new lives, other are unhappy to have lost their old ones. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sooner or later, however, they make their peace and step off the street, back into the world of the living. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Truth be told, even on the street they are more alive than dead.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-79365095048749675992013-11-02T23:30:00.000+08:002013-11-02T23:37:41.201+08:00Painting The Pots<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVV2DP8O_TIxkq3alorSz9CUQ_6zjZgxFol6Km55vfj6EY0tS3QMaMoDnLVL7npvFjdhiEKRCjppXBWxC62pX63sIugTiBovDv4uJLOQOVOz03sZOkx7QGsMNMtMiv3FqXyxIbq9AS2w/s1600/57.+Painting+The+Pots.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVV2DP8O_TIxkq3alorSz9CUQ_6zjZgxFol6Km55vfj6EY0tS3QMaMoDnLVL7npvFjdhiEKRCjppXBWxC62pX63sIugTiBovDv4uJLOQOVOz03sZOkx7QGsMNMtMiv3FqXyxIbq9AS2w/s400/57.+Painting+The+Pots.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Painting The Pots</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The pots and vases stand bare and nude, having just emerged from the potter’s wheel. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Each one is different from the other. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Each is unique. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But you can choose only one each year. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If you choose a pot that doesn’t like you, you will have to give it up and wait an entire year before you can choose another.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Curved and moulded and shaped by the potter’s hands, they stand tall and firm, and wait to be coloured and painted upon.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some are painted in the colour of sunsets, the reds and yellows and oranges merging and fusing in a jovial dance.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some are painted in the colour of peacock feathers, blues and purples and greens twirl and converge and diverge in little rivulets of colours.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A few are painted in monochrome, several others in motifs and designs painstakingly repeated with near-precision all over the surface.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some are painted into invisibility. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Several others are painted into life, and they have minds of their own. They walk into houses they like and out of places they don’t.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every year people flock to the potter’s to select their pots. Some opt for the large ones, others are content with smaller pieces that are just as exquisite. Some are drawn to the bright coloured ones, some others rub the rims of the pots to see if any have magical wish-granting traits.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But no one thinks to look inside. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">None of the pots are painted on the inside. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Each bears a gift within. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some carry the gift of happiness, some carry the gift of life. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A few </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">(I can’t quite remember exactly how many)</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">bear youth, and only one holds immortality. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But you can pick only one pot each year. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They say immortality resides in the prettiest abodes, but I can’t quite be certain of that. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-75200657128233178402013-10-26T20:33:00.001+08:002013-10-26T20:33:42.974+08:00The Letter Box<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmhyphenhyphenhqdqWrhV0d-16cbGzKXgHNWPkZUdtCAJyszTVcv6pJBkJv4UKH0a8e0yDj_R42Kh3VXQh1_MvnM7IxLMHYybS4a8-evcVT2ux4wmp1CrRKLNv90LZ0U20mACQWkA1DzgEfWG64bs/s1600/56.+The+Letter+Box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmhyphenhyphenhqdqWrhV0d-16cbGzKXgHNWPkZUdtCAJyszTVcv6pJBkJv4UKH0a8e0yDj_R42Kh3VXQh1_MvnM7IxLMHYybS4a8-evcVT2ux4wmp1CrRKLNv90LZ0U20mACQWkA1DzgEfWG64bs/s400/56.+The+Letter+Box.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Letter Box - Image courtesy of <a href="http://bridalmusings.com/2011/10/cool-quirky-yellow-grey-diy-backyard-wedding/" target="_blank">Bridal Musings</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is our secret hiding place, where we leave things and stuff for each other.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At first we looked for a hollow in a tree, but most were already in use, crammed with other peoples’ secrets.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So we decided to exchange our secrets in plain sight, in a letter box. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mostly we leave letters for each other, sometimes written in code or using symbols, just to build an air of mystery for prying eyes, but usually stating nothing more than our love for each other.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When we are unable to write, we leave snippets of conversations. Words mingled with lilting voices and whispers.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Occasionally we leave songs, or poetry, or an oft repeated refrain, or other plays of words and music and melodies.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sometimes we leave each other our thoughts, and that is how we find we can read each others’ minds. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sometimes he leaves me a rose, and I am enveloped in its fragrance all day. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I leave him a feather and his imagination takes flight. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That’s how it works each time. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One from him, one from me.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Once he left me a life, and I used it to cheat Death. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have yet to figure out what to give him in turn.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-46870585437837834872013-10-19T19:34:00.002+08:002013-10-19T19:52:51.381+08:00The Seeing Eyes<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirUhq8Z4F8G2fnb_jaK77jTkny8WF6OKpyRlyY-CphcmcQU5qnidBnP3e3D__QPIpAYxSCpnBR-AqVHbd9zf1QbZCP8oDFM-vghR6l7vCgHQYoNn3KD2KD_wNcOMlhYgj9XV7v-R8Krcg/s1600/55.+The+Seeing+Eyes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirUhq8Z4F8G2fnb_jaK77jTkny8WF6OKpyRlyY-CphcmcQU5qnidBnP3e3D__QPIpAYxSCpnBR-AqVHbd9zf1QbZCP8oDFM-vghR6l7vCgHQYoNn3KD2KD_wNcOMlhYgj9XV7v-R8Krcg/s400/55.+The+Seeing+Eyes.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Seeing Eye</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The eyes, they glow in the dark.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They watch, even if only in turns.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One keeps an eye (pun unintended) on your past to prevent it from slowing you down.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Another keeps watch on your future, ensuring it remains unknown and unpredictable enough to make life and its living interesting for you. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(No one watches your present, that responsibility is solely yours.)</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The third monitors your friends, and the fourth, your enemies. Too many of one and too few of the other throws life out of balance.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The fifth eye keeps track of your luck, making sure you have enough when you need it the most, and others get their fare share too. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The sixth eye watches behind a closed lid. Every move, every breath, every thought and every hope, every heartbreak, every moment crushed under the weight of despair, every laughter that filled you with an indescribable lightness of being, the sixth eye records and remembers. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It flicks open only at the fag end to help you remember an entire lifetime in a matter of moments. One last time, a final memory, before your past and future, your friends and enemies, your good luck and bad, all cease to exist.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-46551496859581886372013-10-12T21:52:00.000+08:002013-10-12T21:52:20.726+08:00When Dragons Forget They Can Fly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRBCivJje3-66nCMnvVKgCL4P6TSnyQ6Jy2UmoMcj40o7Yx31wge_HtAGtuhskcN57RYNXwDPr_cHk6seKNlfFvr1gefUftYNY7Re0vG8KnSB8rdT5fE3bzVj6nvbBz1n4LATFOkx-Co/s1600/54.+When+Dragons+Forget+They+Can+Fly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRBCivJje3-66nCMnvVKgCL4P6TSnyQ6Jy2UmoMcj40o7Yx31wge_HtAGtuhskcN57RYNXwDPr_cHk6seKNlfFvr1gefUftYNY7Re0vG8KnSB8rdT5fE3bzVj6nvbBz1n4LATFOkx-Co/s400/54.+When+Dragons+Forget+They+Can+Fly.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When Dragons Forget They Can Fly</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We asked the dragon what she was doing behind the fence.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She was waiting, she said. Waiting to be transported to her next destination.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Couldn’t she simply fly, we asked.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No, she didn’t think so. Well, she hadn’t flown in a very long time, so she couldn’t quite remember how to go about it anymore, she said.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No one can forget how to fly, we insisted. Just as people didn’t forget to walk or swim or ride a bike, even if they hadn’t done it for decades.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That’s not how it goes with flying, the dragon reasoned. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We couldn’t argue for none of us had ever flown before nor did we know anyone who could fly. (Except the birds, but they have long stopped sharing their secrets with humans, so there was no way we could verify the dragon’s claims.) </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We urged the dragon to try and fly.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Nah, she dismissed. It probably involved too much effort, so she couldn’t bothered to try, she said, and anyway she was scheduled to be transported to her next destination, the events crew should be here anytime now.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She said they’d dismantle her into small blocks, box them up, and piece her together again when they’d arrive at the next destination.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Didn’t it hurt, we wondered. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It does, she admitted, but at least this way she knew she’d soon be whole and in one piece again. As long as she avoided the hazards of flying.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-32305411915346011632013-10-05T16:28:00.004+08:002013-10-05T16:29:40.166+08:00In Search of Winter<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmsCOgOs1MpVnljdDBJE_jfZ6SXIE2Gq79bVbPBPUkLGxm55kYx1424C4j-vM5gcvIKQEix19jmYcSzzawovbvyUH4T7Zen-SqQNtMbihykC9bkrCTPfndPpKuCDMzpmdgHSuisWdXsAg/s1600/53.+In+Search+of+Winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmsCOgOs1MpVnljdDBJE_jfZ6SXIE2Gq79bVbPBPUkLGxm55kYx1424C4j-vM5gcvIKQEix19jmYcSzzawovbvyUH4T7Zen-SqQNtMbihykC9bkrCTPfndPpKuCDMzpmdgHSuisWdXsAg/s400/53.+In+Search+of+Winter.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Image courtesy of <a href="http://erikjohanssonphoto.com/work/expecting-winter/" target="_blank">Erik Johansson</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When summer overstayed his welcome and winter showed no sign of making an appearance (and oh! autumn had all but disappeared from the face of this part of the earth), the locals blamed it on global warming and other newfangled terms that the Old Folk insisted were never in existence in the good old days.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Granny was one of the Old Folk and although I don’t believe everything they say, I do believe everything <i>she</i> says. So when she said yes, climate and weather were rarely capricious back in those times, I believed her. And when she also said that we could still use some age-old wisdom to tame the elements to do our bidding, if only temporarily, I believed that too. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She sent me back in time to search for the good winters. I was to look for the good old days and nights cloaked in thick blankets of snow, cut them from the fabric of time, and weave them into the realm of the present day. A swift snip here, a neat nick there, then stitch together the snippets of time to form a patchwork of cold, wintry days. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I must have done a good job for Granny was pleased when I came back home, winter at my heels. Winter, when she came, was like a dream come true. The nip in the air cleared our heads and invigorated our souls. Under the heavy cover of snow, the world was once again pristine and new, as if gifted with a new beginning.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But that was back then. It’s been twelve years now and not much has changed. The snow refuses to melt and the sun only emits a flimsy, ghostly glow. Spring is a forgotten antiquity. As is autumn. The locals yearn for the warmth of sunshine but no one quite remembers what summer used to be like.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Granny says she can send me back in time to return the winters and look for good summers. But I resist. I will have to let winter linger a wee bit longer. For I can’t quite remember where in time each of the snowy patches ought to be sent back to.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-66209765358207166802013-09-28T15:18:00.001+08:002013-09-28T15:26:31.271+08:00Keep Calm and Carry On<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoFPt7yDCwQtAtecQQ0mDyhUNc7TZVLQA9xoHvqTCDclgYNwN5vF1nqy64wI4MODlav5U_4MohgSd1zDc0raVPCLAGi0Sk2H0O_BAhIOfcoO6UwGIULqwl2XjN_LqlKLUjACLKRi3CvAI/s1600/52.+Keep+Calm+and+Carry+On.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoFPt7yDCwQtAtecQQ0mDyhUNc7TZVLQA9xoHvqTCDclgYNwN5vF1nqy64wI4MODlav5U_4MohgSd1zDc0raVPCLAGi0Sk2H0O_BAhIOfcoO6UwGIULqwl2XjN_LqlKLUjACLKRi3CvAI/s400/52.+Keep+Calm+and+Carry+On.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Keep Calm and Carry On</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Keep calm and carry on</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When the world around you crumbles </span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wrap your cloak around you a little tighter</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And stride across the shambles</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For the world has many a way of</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sorting itself out and once again standing tall</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So you do your bit as you march on ahead</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Through every step and fall</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You think they will need you</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But no one is truly indispensable</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So let them clear the rubble, you go on</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Make way for something new</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Little good will come of it</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Should you stay behind and hope they’ll heed your call</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So keep calm and carry on</span></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Through the irony of it all </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-5056065136128445582013-09-21T18:32:00.001+08:002013-09-21T18:34:02.743+08:00Tricks From My Hat: The Light by The Window<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxvU6vwqWZyJZ04DOfkqxLyCGoF8OGuZr2DiYEUD-tguZSe8ptjZ_93yAcIGfY_4_2J5fjym4PsrR9I4ezqExYPOGtgj2ENa8K1wTPbLfpatVCumbbq4bMeFUKxGNO8XFSwG0mzTl0_E/s1600/51.+The+Light+by+The+Window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxvU6vwqWZyJZ04DOfkqxLyCGoF8OGuZr2DiYEUD-tguZSe8ptjZ_93yAcIGfY_4_2J5fjym4PsrR9I4ezqExYPOGtgj2ENa8K1wTPbLfpatVCumbbq4bMeFUKxGNO8XFSwG0mzTl0_E/s400/51.+The+Light+by+The+Window.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Light by The Window - Image courtesy of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=544401882299931&set=a.145481988858591.36288.145479798858810&type=1&theater" target="_blank">Rumi Quotes on Facebook</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The house must have been over a hundred years old, fraying at the edges, corners crumbling quietly when no one was looking. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every time we walked past, the sorry sight of the dilapidated home would grab us by the throat and our eyes would scan the ramshackle building for the vestiges of the happy home that had disintegrated into debris. At the same time something equally terrifying would make us quickly look away.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Nobody ever stepped into the grounds of overgrown weeds that circumscribed the house, but if we happened to walk past it at night-time, we could sometimes see a little warm globule of light shining warmly in the opaque blackness of the night. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">People in the village mostly thought it was a little orb of a long-forgotten spirit. Better avoided than confronted, they said. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was useful, that light, even if the sight of it meant we had to walk away from it, and not towards it. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I sometimes like to think it served as a beacon for lost souls.</span></span><br />
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">---------------</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>About <a href="http://thedreampedlar.blogspot.sg/2013/02/in-which-you-seek-i-explain-and-we-both.html" target="_blank">tricks from my hat</a>.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Text by <a href="http://thedreampedlar.blogspot.sg/" target="_blank">The Dream Pedlar</a>.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-78626660083080124462013-09-14T07:00:00.000+08:002013-09-14T07:00:00.759+08:00The Man who fell in love with The Moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EWev5ISULpUJZ37YY4lrd-ct7bjRyafuDOXaqAuYYvb1HBlx9akk3xElVgyvQaPiTXnA2GO2-ado2SpA84vFlb55kUPwH08_7s8J_13KeDD8oc2G0MazrtnzbF7zXY_EWiptAlQehrg/s1600/50.+The+Man+who+fell+in+love+with+The+Moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EWev5ISULpUJZ37YY4lrd-ct7bjRyafuDOXaqAuYYvb1HBlx9akk3xElVgyvQaPiTXnA2GO2-ado2SpA84vFlb55kUPwH08_7s8J_13KeDD8oc2G0MazrtnzbF7zXY_EWiptAlQehrg/s400/50.+The+Man+who+fell+in+love+with+The+Moon.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Man who fell in love with The Moon - Image courtesy of <a href="http://www.pixheaven.net/photo_us.php?nom=110913_5912" target="_blank">Laurent Laveder</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Legend has it that the man was banished to the moon for a
crime he did not commit,” Grandpa began, in that deep mysterious voice of his
that made fidgety children sit still and listen to the story with rapt
attention, even if they have heard the tale countless times before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Why Grumpa?” curious little Pippin piped up as always. “Why
was he sent to the moon?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Because,” Grandpa said slowly, “people are afraid of
unknown, unfamiliar things. No one had been to the moon. Back in those days,
she was still a strange, distant, unfamiliar land. People saw her only at
night-time, and no one knew where she disappeared during the day. So they
thought it was a lonely, terrifying place where unspeakable things could happen
to you even during the day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Grandpa wrapped his shawl a little tighter around him and
huddled closer to the fireplace. A little shiver ran down our collective spines
as we momentarily wondered about the unspeakable things that happened on the
moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“But good things happen to good people,” Grandpa assured us.
“So when the man went to the moon, imagine his wonder when he found that the
moon was in fact a lovely, little lady. A misunderstood lady, as she liked to refer
to herself,” he chuckled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Why Grumpa?” curious little Pippin piped up again. “Why
misunderstood?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The other children shushed him but Grandpa waved a hand to
quieten them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Well, people have always believed it is the moon that
drives people mad. They have always accused her of causing werewolves to emerge
from hiding. The oceans turn restless at the sight of the moon, they say. They
also claim she steals the light of the sun and calls it her own. And to this
day many people continue to accuse the moon of all these wrongdoings,” Grandpa
huffed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then, as if some faraway memory had suddenly returned to
him, his face creased into a million wrinkly smiles and he said, “But of
course, it doesn’t matter what people think. Because the man who went to the
moon saw her for what she really was and fell in love with her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Did they marry, Grampa?” it wasn’t curious little Pippin
this time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Of course they did,” Grandpa beamed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Did they live happily ever after, Grompa?” another not-Pippin
chirped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Of course they do,” Grandpa said. “But that is not where
the story ends. Because you see, the man was banished to the moon for only two
decades. When his sentence was over, he was summoned back to the earth. He
pleaded with her to come with him to the earth, but her abode was in the skies
and she begged him to not leave.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“But she is still up there in the skies,” another little
voice piped up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“On most days, yes,” Grandpa said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Does that mean he
left her behind?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes and no,” came Grandpa’s reply. “It is true the moon
couldn’t leave the skies and the man had to make his way back to the earth. But
when the man returned to earth, he brought back with him a small part of her.
And he promised to visit her every night, which he did, and each morning when
he returned he brought back a little part of her with him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“With each passing night, the moon waned in the sky, a part
of her having made its way to the man’s abode on earth. So when it was new moon
and the moon disappeared from the sky and the world barely gave a second
thought as to where she had disappeared to, no one knew that the moon was
playing in her lover’s backyard unknown to the rest of the world.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And this is how Grandpa always ended his story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sometimes one of the kids would ask him how he knew all
this. And if it were a new moon night, Grandpa would take us all into the backyard
where the lovely moon would play with us until bed-time. And in the cover of
daylight, she would return to the skies, bit by bit, sliver by sliver over the
course of a fortnight until she was a little globe of dreamy white again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But what the little kids do not know is that Grandpa also
leaves behind a part of him on the billowing moon after each visit. There isn’t
much of him left on earth anymore. One day he will be gone for good. And it
will be up to me then to tell the children to look for him not among the stars
but to seek out the man in the moon. I know the little ones will believe me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-38119064781746945842013-09-10T08:28:00.002+08:002013-09-10T08:33:06.775+08:00The Day a God was Reborn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here is our little altar of worship, </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Where the Gods reside </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When they feel the need to step out from our hearts </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And wander about a bit. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFx7Ugt617qcdAKaCfT8EV30e4tvJN5LAHVwDqNRHd9ubZVoyKRAV_R5ri8HcM37I8i8K3v6LiW3BgPb4bSVdBuEZkKy-8bhRo0Oxdiv76bnYTOA3VEojV56fgOSk0sW-equR18zdaEC4/s1600/1.+Gods.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFx7Ugt617qcdAKaCfT8EV30e4tvJN5LAHVwDqNRHd9ubZVoyKRAV_R5ri8HcM37I8i8K3v6LiW3BgPb4bSVdBuEZkKy-8bhRo0Oxdiv76bnYTOA3VEojV56fgOSk0sW-equR18zdaEC4/s400/1.+Gods.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finding their way in the dark </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By the light of a flickering lamp,</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYtMkJDbLijP7-mSRL0QRI2YdYbykaNnN9KLjDaokdmvd0ha3WIlxVQlfxPmsIeOvYdikHkF8e8MGLKsVRAl16YSakUY6pbEHVDshxiWI_wnBPWBv5ILHBMPB8faEIyQGFsRc8YIKCnI/s1600/2.+Lamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYtMkJDbLijP7-mSRL0QRI2YdYbykaNnN9KLjDaokdmvd0ha3WIlxVQlfxPmsIeOvYdikHkF8e8MGLKsVRAl16YSakUY6pbEHVDshxiWI_wnBPWBv5ILHBMPB8faEIyQGFsRc8YIKCnI/s400/2.+Lamp.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And their journey is made a little brighter </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By these happy, yellow flowers strewn all over their path,</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPemiLZ9sQGZx03U__9OXMrrwEI04gbCw8KnEQ2INDuIi6tMtzAIxfjZ7Kg5nSFT-0P5R-TxEhQm3LjVNKrZ2_sWeX8CBlpTl2W1pqMEdckaV7TyWpObDw97vuE9gT4JBruGwEvfpb8g4/s1600/4.+Flowers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPemiLZ9sQGZx03U__9OXMrrwEI04gbCw8KnEQ2INDuIi6tMtzAIxfjZ7Kg5nSFT-0P5R-TxEhQm3LjVNKrZ2_sWeX8CBlpTl2W1pqMEdckaV7TyWpObDw97vuE9gT4JBruGwEvfpb8g4/s400/4.+Flowers.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And in the soft glow of fire and light </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They make mischief with the shadows and the night.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimB9O_Yf8s2I6wvXNYY0vIunt9I3mdsQONHh2Z0HqnAPzVubYC-9yyJlQPiNVa-BKhDNqQJifm6mbXzCUxWgArWlLBqfn0BZekXN7b9y1jKonFJDZKpk4TYOpbMexhhXF627xDLsIwNvI/s1600/3.+Flickering+Light.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimB9O_Yf8s2I6wvXNYY0vIunt9I3mdsQONHh2Z0HqnAPzVubYC-9yyJlQPiNVa-BKhDNqQJifm6mbXzCUxWgArWlLBqfn0BZekXN7b9y1jKonFJDZKpk4TYOpbMexhhXF627xDLsIwNvI/s400/3.+Flickering+Light.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-62167298281771293552013-09-07T10:38:00.001+08:002013-09-07T10:40:57.642+08:00The Whimsical Dance of Snowballs in Transit<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXZBp2bO1zMKFT3UoKiOoRO3u5Kp8mvhjFomCNKKvSwfE_eQHi-Izneqj6aQiLogEI5FCQ4CsG4mIvoyWcVUcu5t_DessB9yvnI0iAfWpFc_CkjedCw7yPYxcHOtSU4TyPbaNkgxTz-s/s1600/49.+The+Whimsical+Dance+of+Snowballs+in+Transit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXZBp2bO1zMKFT3UoKiOoRO3u5Kp8mvhjFomCNKKvSwfE_eQHi-Izneqj6aQiLogEI5FCQ4CsG4mIvoyWcVUcu5t_DessB9yvnI0iAfWpFc_CkjedCw7yPYxcHOtSU4TyPbaNkgxTz-s/s400/49.+The+Whimsical+Dance+of+Snowballs+in+Transit.jpg" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Whimsical Dance of Snowballs in Transit - Image courtesy of <a href="http://www.cokonrads.de/situ/moment.html" target="_blank">Cornelia Konrads</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The snowballs flutter above the piles on the ground. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To a casual onlooker, it would appear as if they were rising from the ground, defying gravity, flying towards the skies. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Another would think the snowballs were falling gently, returning home, coming to rest on the piles below.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The little boy says the snowballs arch into a portal to another land.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">His sister, the younger one, says she has seen fairies living inside the snowballs. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The elder sister says it is something like a mistletoe. You have to kiss your partner when you walk underneath the white archway, so you better be careful whom you choose to accompany you on a beautiful night.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Their mother says all her children are blessed with very active imaginations. Truth be told, she says, it is simply a creative’s imagination, an artist’s creation. If you look closely enough you can see the blue-black threads of steel on which the snowballs are suspended. (But of course I won’t go looking for them threads. You knew that, didn’t you?)</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The wise man asked me what I made of it all. To me, I said, it appears like a moment frozen in time, caught between breaths, the snapshot of a dancer in motion. Difficult to say whether they are still or in motion. If in motion, whether they are rising or falling. Perhaps if we watched long enough, I imagine we would see the little globes of white floating up and down in little, gentle motions like the rise and fall of breath under the skin of our chests.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The wise man cackled with laughter and said that the snowballs kept up their whimsical dance to keep us trapped in our imaginary illusions, so we remain sufficiently distracted from the mischief that goes on beneath the harmless looking piles of snow, right under our noses.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-28402588392522609232013-08-31T11:13:00.001+08:002013-08-31T11:13:09.105+08:00Reflections<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46acxVdnTvaKx-Nl5_nwyNWK4bJ3ry2OhwjicupjHcVWnSnPcZov2lljnGzqZBOr_vr8B-J56rNfh6AQbwg32P472Cwm7e9ZLi2h-dvxk_dVwHXaXC5PHLTiUH7c6Txl_u1MaK-AlzsI/s1600/48.+Reflections_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46acxVdnTvaKx-Nl5_nwyNWK4bJ3ry2OhwjicupjHcVWnSnPcZov2lljnGzqZBOr_vr8B-J56rNfh6AQbwg32P472Cwm7e9ZLi2h-dvxk_dVwHXaXC5PHLTiUH7c6Txl_u1MaK-AlzsI/s400/48.+Reflections_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Reflections</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The little boy skipped through the forest as surefooted as someone who has been on the trail a thousand times blindfolded. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I had to run to keep up with him.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He was leading me to the waters, so I paused for breath and drained the remaining drops of water from my canteen, but not without a second thought.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Hurry up,” he whooped from somewhere far ahead of me. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I stumbled after him, praying once again (to any God that cared to listen) I wasn’t being misled.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In my mind, I was convinced we were heading in the wrong direction.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The cave from where the waters had gushed forth relentlessly, we had long ago lost somewhere in the wilderness behind us. The boy had said the best water would be found downstream, and although he was merely a child, he lent a certain conviction to his words and I had found myself incapable of doubting him.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But that was then. Now I realised that with each step forward, the roar of the waterfall had subsided imperceptibly. At first it had reduced to the gentle gurgling of a little stream, and then there had been the occasional swish of water lapping over pebbles. And even that had died away when I wasn’t paying attention. When I asked the boy about it, he said we had to leave all the noise behind and that the growing silence meant we were on the right path. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now and then I hear the sound of a drop of water falling but we are so far away from the waters now I am convinced it’s just the voices in my head playing tricks with my mind. We have come so far ahead now that even if I were to retrace my steps, I wouldn’t be able to make it back alive. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lost in these morbid thoughts I continued to plough ahead, head drooping so low in misery I didn’t notice the little boy jumping up and down excitedly ahead of me nor did I hear him whisper out my name. He grabbed my hand when I reached him and pushed through a lump of overgrown weeds. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the other side was water, clear as day and quieter than silence. It lay in a narrow pool that stretched endlessly up and down the forest. The water was so still it felt sacrosanct to disturb it, I thought for a fleeting instant, before putting my lips to its cool, shiny surface and hungrily swallowing it in huge mouthfuls.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Only when I was satiated did I lift my head and the waters returned to a stillness that did not seem incongruous to its nature. It carried in it the reflections of the clear skies and snow-capped mountains, as if a whole other universe existed peacefully in its confines, mirroring the one above, so you couldn’t tell which one was real and which was merely an echo.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I asked the little boy about it. And he said one was the other and vice versa too, so it didn’t really matter which was which. Because, he explained, if you left the noise behind and stared long enough at your reflection, it would reveal your true soul.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
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Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-988274695307034692013-08-24T07:08:00.000+08:002013-08-24T07:08:22.991+08:00Monsters, of all kinds, are to be trusted under no account.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu6RyURYNQkaPid3qesIFFqVGu_sgbdkyG6bMiNYiou6v9CDe2DsQCyCXmNf81764S-ixilDmVNspFHSbsyK-7EICooScevmsFySXln_va58_WsTXqqHCzAiwLuj1dThr4BXC2zjp9x5k/s1600/47.+Monsters,+of+all+kinds,+are+to+be+trusted+under+no+account.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu6RyURYNQkaPid3qesIFFqVGu_sgbdkyG6bMiNYiou6v9CDe2DsQCyCXmNf81764S-ixilDmVNspFHSbsyK-7EICooScevmsFySXln_va58_WsTXqqHCzAiwLuj1dThr4BXC2zjp9x5k/s400/47.+Monsters,+of+all+kinds,+are+to+be+trusted+under+no+account.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Monsters, of all kinds, are to be trusted under no account - Image courtesy of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/prettyhowtown/8143155680/sizes/c/in/photostream/" target="_blank">PrettyHowTown</a></span></td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The little monster was dressed as a clown. In loud, bold colours and with a red bulbous nose to top it all. He insisted the nose was real and when I tried to yank it off, he howled, so I let go. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Granny said monsters, of all kinds, were to be trusted under absolutely no account. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But the clown and his pumpkin looked so tiny and pathetically harmless, I dismissed her warnings and asked him what brought him to our neighbourhood. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He said he has come to offer his services. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What kind of services?, I asked.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He must have known somehow that I had little patience with children of any gender or size or age, for he offered to stand guard at our doorstep on Halloween and attend to the little imps that will make their customary call at our house that night yelling trick-or-treat.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was only too happy to not have to repeatedly answer the door to the summons of pesky kids. But I also had good sense enough to ask him what kind of payment he sought for his proposed service. He coughed and cleared his throat and said that the only payment he sought was in kind; chocolates to feed his little pumpkin, he said, patting the orange fruit on its head. I agreed. The pumpkin’s toothy smile widened and it bounced up and down in a hideous display of happiness.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Silly as it may sound, I made the necessary arrangements to ensure a steady supply of confectioneries for the pumpkin, and left the clown and his fruit pet to their own devices. I did not see them again until Halloween when they reappeared at our doorstep. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The instant she saw them, Granny huffed and said monsters, of all kinds, were to be trusted under absolutely no account. I told her that this year we will not be troubled by demanding little imps knocking at our doors in the dead of the night. Even that did not assuage her. She only shook her head and said monsters, of all ... I tuned her out and returned to my chair by the window where I sat knitting.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When the first of the children came to our house, the clown caught their attention before they could reach for the door. He spoke in animated gestures but I could not hear what was being said. Perhaps in response to what the clown said, the children then stuck their tiny hands into the pumpkin’s mouth - presumably to grab their treats - when the pumpkin opened its mouth wide, as swiftly as ink blotting on paper, and in one sudden gulp swallowed the kids. The little children, there now, gone forever.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The following morning, I found the pumpkin had ensconced itself in our backyard. Whole and ripe, ready to be cut and cooked. No toothless grin. No hollow eyes. Just a harmless fruit. The clown was nowhere to be seen. Granny said monsters, of all kinds, were to be trusted under absolutely no account, and bade me destroy the fruit. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I tried hacking it to pieces, kicking it out, and even setting fire to my backyard. When nothing worked, the clown’s voice piped up out of nowhere, offering me his services. Granny’s words rang in my ears - monsters, of all kinds, are to be trusted under absolutely no account. But this time, I truly have no choice.</span></span></div>
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Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.84410649999999987 103.174389 1.8600595 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-30990802629205315402013-08-17T04:23:00.002+08:002013-09-07T10:39:55.317+08:00Through The Looking Glass<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkgTc1EPt9MRFSrsQ21n8gjjTmloq93QMg17HmVeG9RcTUOz24aTO_P24BW-HkibSGLfq6V6BnjYciX4jSR9sxxBNPB4OMf0iiC8VFe2d1sHSbmFDqrPFsGooJ5rfeMQ2BXTFOduEO28/s1600/46.+Through+The+Looking+Glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkgTc1EPt9MRFSrsQ21n8gjjTmloq93QMg17HmVeG9RcTUOz24aTO_P24BW-HkibSGLfq6V6BnjYciX4jSR9sxxBNPB4OMf0iiC8VFe2d1sHSbmFDqrPFsGooJ5rfeMQ2BXTFOduEO28/s400/46.+Through+The+Looking+Glass.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Through The Looking Glass - Image courtesy of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/prettyhowtown/8224817769/sizes/c/in/photostream/" target="_blank">PrettyHowTown</a></span></td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They say if your bed faces a mirror, a part of your soul slips away from you and floats into the mirror when you are asleep at night. When I brought this up with the landlady, all she had to say was <i>Balderdash!</i> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She pointed out that <i>they</i> also say that were a black cat to cross your path, you were in for a lifetime of bad luck. And Tabby, her black cat, has been a lifetime companion to her and so far as she could tell, she had done pretty well for herself in life, she said with a sweeping motion of her arms to indicate the sprawling farm and the three-storeyed house with thirteen rooms that she owned. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She insisted all these were simply old wives’ tales and also politely said she had no other rooms to let and nowhere else to put the mirror. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I told myself that all the things <i>they</i> say are not necessarily true and paid the landlady a week’s rent in advance.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The following morning, a piece of blue sky appeared in the mirror, although the skies outside were a heavy grey and raindrops haltingly trickled down the window behind the mirror. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The second morning, white clouds swam across my personal blue sky in the mirror. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the third, a fiery little sun made its appearance in the glass and winked at me as I came out of the shower. I threw my towel over the mirror to keep out prying eyes. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By the end of the week, in the mirror had appeared tiny stars, a little angel, one grey cloud, and several colourful curlicues not unlike the twisted tangles of my hair.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I showed my landlady the mirror and told her these were all bits and pieces of my soul locked away in the looking glass. At first she said she will never again dismiss everything <i>they</i> say. She offered to let me take the mirror with me, in a gesture of redress, an offer I promptly took her upon as I didn’t want to part with any piece of my soul.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She reckoned I must have a good soul, going by all the lovely little forms and shapes that have cropped up. But, she added thoughtfully, that the true test of my goodness perhaps lay in what the characters in the mirror get up to when no one is looking.</span></span></div>
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Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Queenstown, New Zealand-45.0311622 168.66264350000006-45.120947199999996 168.50128200000006 -44.9413772 168.82400500000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894450935875165425.post-71025742803557464572013-08-10T09:00:00.000+08:002013-09-07T10:39:27.639+08:00Trees On A Mission<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlogFtLa1c0O52VTcvp89344cpLuyOOcFgcDWiMCBLo0_t0c-HCQFxcV2BrA2cX0xDxj9umldHx9uLPcSKEwjLVPzwbvJfc5uoF8YbN9Bege43pBPBDWNaaQNc56qtYI3ZO87DL5-LzYw/s1600/45.+On+A+Mission.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlogFtLa1c0O52VTcvp89344cpLuyOOcFgcDWiMCBLo0_t0c-HCQFxcV2BrA2cX0xDxj9umldHx9uLPcSKEwjLVPzwbvJfc5uoF8YbN9Bege43pBPBDWNaaQNc56qtYI3ZO87DL5-LzYw/s400/45.+On+A+Mission.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Trees On A Mission</span></td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The trees are in a hurry. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You can tell they have come a great distance from the way their trunks seem to have disappeared from under them, as if eroded from all the walking. Or gliding. Or dragging. Or whatever it is that trees do to get themselves from one place to another. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They know we are watching them, so they momentarily freeze in place. Innocuously, as if they have stood their ground all along. As if the visible absence of their trunks were some sort of nature’s well-intended aberrations. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We ask them where they are headed but they maintain a stony silence.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The instant we look away, they shuffle forward. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Shuffling - that’s the word! Shuffling is what trees do to get themselves from one place to another. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(Like determined old women tottering through memories to find the right one. Or like maidens in Elizabethan gowns skipping over moorlands in small steps, their feet searching for safe ground to step on amid the cascading folds of their skirts.) </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We have been following them for days now.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We keep ourselves well out of sight, as otherwise the trees would halt and make no further progress. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Theirs is a noisy group. There is constant chatter amongst them and with other trees.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So far we have only caught a few words from their conversations - <i>war, the Dark One, danger, annihilation</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We have also figured out that the trees can keep going only as long as they have enough leaves to keep up the momentum. When they fall short of leaves, they seek help from other trees en route, but they keep going. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They worry winter is fast approaching and soon there may not be enough leaves to go around. But if it comes to that, we think we can help by carrying them on our backs until spring arrives.</span></span></div>
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Dream Pedlarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03344487025912277241noreply@blogger.com0Auckland, New Zealand-36.8484597 174.76333150000005-37.2549887 174.11788450000006 -36.4419307 175.40877850000004