Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Monday, October 05, 2009
Huck Finn Steamboat
Yes, yes, it's been too long. We had a steamboat dinner at a friend's place. It was also mid autumn festival. There was too much food to be had and too much laughs to digest.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
A GARDEN FULL OF MALINOIS
Been out playing with the doggies, we have 3 Belgian Shepherds. Hana, BJ and Zoba. The 2 boys bite. Zoba is Hana's son (she's an angel with a rabid obsession for frisbees and balls). He has this annoying habit of looking upwards and snapping at thin air... until you have your back turned, then he'll snap at you! He thinks it's playing or some attention grabbing ploy, in all our years of dog rearing, this is the first.
I attempted to call him Dobby when he was younger, as you can see, he's got bigass ears and he really does look like a house elf. But then my father proceeded to call him Zoba. I call him Zobe-Zobe or Idiot for short.
BJ, Hana & Zoba
I attempted to call him Dobby when he was younger, as you can see, he's got bigass ears and he really does look like a house elf. But then my father proceeded to call him Zoba. I call him Zobe-Zobe or Idiot for short.
BJ, Hana & Zoba
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Ballsy Water
Had time on my hands, my eyes and brains are watery from all the gaming I can ever muster. Even then, my mind won't stop buzzing. Well at least I didn't take these shots in the middle of the night (yes I used to when the mind decided that sleep wasn't important). Oh my poor eyes!
So here's some proof of my mind's preoccupied handlings.
Drop
Not so big drop
Water
Fatality
Addiction (I like this the best)
So here's some proof of my mind's preoccupied handlings.
Drop
Not so big drop
Water
Fatality
Addiction (I like this the best)
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Wash-Wash (Repost)
The girls had their baths today, here are Britney's pictures.
I've added Chica's pictures in as well. Also been meaning to mention, when my mother was bathing them, she conveniently and unassumingly picks up my father's bar of soap and washes their face with it. "Eeeeeee! How can you use daddy's soap on the dog?" "Why cannot? They're clean wat." Well yes they are, but isn't that like another version of taking someone's toothbrush and circling the toilet bowl with it? My mother seems to leave me gobsmacked ever so often these days...
Eughhhhh, I'm melting ...
... (why won't you help me!) ...
Ya happy now?
... (whimper...whimper...whimper) ...
Aaaaaaahhhhhh!
I've added Chica's pictures in as well. Also been meaning to mention, when my mother was bathing them, she conveniently and unassumingly picks up my father's bar of soap and washes their face with it. "Eeeeeee! How can you use daddy's soap on the dog?" "Why cannot? They're clean wat." Well yes they are, but isn't that like another version of taking someone's toothbrush and circling the toilet bowl with it? My mother seems to leave me gobsmacked ever so often these days...
Eughhhhh, I'm melting ...
... (why won't you help me!) ...
Ya happy now?
... (whimper...whimper...whimper) ...
Aaaaaaahhhhhh!
Monday, May 18, 2009
Standing in the corner
I was digging through my junk to look for some fountain pen ink cartridges and I came across some of my old writings, letters, poems, mostly nonsense. I found 2 pieces I wrote in 2001 which I never archived. I remember writing them but I guess I didn't retype it into my computer.
This one was unfinished, I realised this as I was typing it just now. So I finished it in 2009. Yes moan and groan about the long years in between! I would appreciate very much if any feedback were given. I rarely write nowadays. I blame global warming!
Standing in the corner, four more hours to go,
The sky is getting dark, nightfall descends.
How many hours more does she have to be idle?
Four more hours.
Unmoving like a statue, she breathes the cold air,
Her veins are still warm, cheeks flushed in pink,
The porthole to her soul vacant, staring blankly upon the outside world.
Living, heart beating, the figure observes.
People passing by her, as the day folds to an end,
They ignore her, paying no attention to an apparition,
As when one chooses to ignore a sinister presence.
A ghost standing at the corner, waiting for the final hour.
Arms crossed, holding her sides, fingers tightly clenching the fabric of her coat.
It is cold tonight.
The statue moves,
Loosening her grip, a chill brushes across her face,
She shudders to the little warmth from her body,
Oh how she yearns to be warm!
The hour is near, night will fall soon.
Palms now forcefully rubbing against her sides,
Her exposed hands trying to keep the heat,
She stands there waiting,
As if appointed by fate, instructed to stay,
To obediently wait – the final hour will come soon.
A glimmering penny rolls to her feet,
The statue reaches down to pick it up.
She rolls the coin between her fingers,
Looking at it, feeling the copper, its shape, its colour and value.
Someone must have dropped it,
Kicked and trampled to find its way to where the statue is placed.
One penny, even it has value.
Unlike the statue, slowly turning cold as the stone beneath her.
She tucks the penny into her pocket,
A penny to her name, she is one penny more.
How many pennies will find her as she continues to stand here.
She waits – the final hour will come soon.
The statue tires, hunching her back, fighting the ache.
How unbecoming of it, wavering and bending to the bitter wind,
The frost scalds her skin – she is all flesh!
And she is nearly all bones too.
With every gust of wind that blows,
The statue sways with fatigued ease,
How much longer does she need to endure this?
Faltering, the statue slumps against the wall with defeat,
Hands tucked deeply in her pockets.
Slowly, she slides to the ground, she sits now.
Knees drawn up against her heavy chest,
She waits – the final hour will come soon.
Morning has come, the hour has passed.
The streets are beginning to stir.
The statue sighs longingly with a breath of cold air.
Imagining as it was the last that will be expelled from her depleted being,
Still, she sits as she did before the final hour came.
She feels the effervescence of the cold, will it not cease?
As long as there is still warm liquid running through her veins,
Her heart beats its weakened rhythm, it will not cease.
People were emerging with hasten steps warming up to the cold.
They had places to be at, they had their daily lives to run to.
The statue sits there, she has no where to go.
She had arrived four hours before the appointed hour.
She waits – the final hour had passed.
A glimmering penny rolls to her feet,
Among the shuffling of feet and the swishing of coats,
The penny has found the statue, she does not dare think,
Another? After the final hour? Two pennies to my name.
She closes her eyes and drops the penny into her pocket,
More people are about now, but people pay no attention to apparitions.
With her head bowed down, she slowly opened her eyes.
A pair of black shinny boots stood close to her.
The boots belonged to a gentle sir clad all in black and a tall hat,
“Miss, I believe you have my penny?”
She gripped the coins in her pocket and replied,
“Sir, I believe you have my time? Four hours to the appointed hour.”
She waits no more – the final hour has at long last come.
“You are late Sir.”
“Apologies Miss, I seemed to have misplaced my scythe.”
“And now you are carrying a cane.”
“Yes Miss.”
This one was unfinished, I realised this as I was typing it just now. So I finished it in 2009. Yes moan and groan about the long years in between! I would appreciate very much if any feedback were given. I rarely write nowadays. I blame global warming!
Standing in the corner, four more hours to go,
The sky is getting dark, nightfall descends.
How many hours more does she have to be idle?
Four more hours.
Unmoving like a statue, she breathes the cold air,
Her veins are still warm, cheeks flushed in pink,
The porthole to her soul vacant, staring blankly upon the outside world.
Living, heart beating, the figure observes.
People passing by her, as the day folds to an end,
They ignore her, paying no attention to an apparition,
As when one chooses to ignore a sinister presence.
A ghost standing at the corner, waiting for the final hour.
Arms crossed, holding her sides, fingers tightly clenching the fabric of her coat.
It is cold tonight.
The statue moves,
Loosening her grip, a chill brushes across her face,
She shudders to the little warmth from her body,
Oh how she yearns to be warm!
The hour is near, night will fall soon.
Palms now forcefully rubbing against her sides,
Her exposed hands trying to keep the heat,
She stands there waiting,
As if appointed by fate, instructed to stay,
To obediently wait – the final hour will come soon.
A glimmering penny rolls to her feet,
The statue reaches down to pick it up.
She rolls the coin between her fingers,
Looking at it, feeling the copper, its shape, its colour and value.
Someone must have dropped it,
Kicked and trampled to find its way to where the statue is placed.
One penny, even it has value.
Unlike the statue, slowly turning cold as the stone beneath her.
She tucks the penny into her pocket,
A penny to her name, she is one penny more.
How many pennies will find her as she continues to stand here.
She waits – the final hour will come soon.
The statue tires, hunching her back, fighting the ache.
How unbecoming of it, wavering and bending to the bitter wind,
The frost scalds her skin – she is all flesh!
And she is nearly all bones too.
With every gust of wind that blows,
The statue sways with fatigued ease,
How much longer does she need to endure this?
Faltering, the statue slumps against the wall with defeat,
Hands tucked deeply in her pockets.
Slowly, she slides to the ground, she sits now.
Knees drawn up against her heavy chest,
She waits – the final hour will come soon.
Morning has come, the hour has passed.
The streets are beginning to stir.
The statue sighs longingly with a breath of cold air.
Imagining as it was the last that will be expelled from her depleted being,
Still, she sits as she did before the final hour came.
She feels the effervescence of the cold, will it not cease?
As long as there is still warm liquid running through her veins,
Her heart beats its weakened rhythm, it will not cease.
People were emerging with hasten steps warming up to the cold.
They had places to be at, they had their daily lives to run to.
The statue sits there, she has no where to go.
She had arrived four hours before the appointed hour.
She waits – the final hour had passed.
A glimmering penny rolls to her feet,
Among the shuffling of feet and the swishing of coats,
The penny has found the statue, she does not dare think,
Another? After the final hour? Two pennies to my name.
She closes her eyes and drops the penny into her pocket,
More people are about now, but people pay no attention to apparitions.
With her head bowed down, she slowly opened her eyes.
A pair of black shinny boots stood close to her.
The boots belonged to a gentle sir clad all in black and a tall hat,
“Miss, I believe you have my penny?”
She gripped the coins in her pocket and replied,
“Sir, I believe you have my time? Four hours to the appointed hour.”
She waits no more – the final hour has at long last come.
“You are late Sir.”
“Apologies Miss, I seemed to have misplaced my scythe.”
“And now you are carrying a cane.”
“Yes Miss.”
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