just-a-space-filler

feels like i haven't blogged in some time.
cos life has been monotonous, i mean,
unless you wanna hear about the intricate
processes of making rock-looking paper, or
making paper look rocky-
first you feel it on your fingers, the wet gooey warm globs of churned
mache, glistening with starch, and you dab it in gollobs
onto crumpled waxy AIA paper (collected in truckloads from
Singapore's Recycling Plant, very useful place: expanded megaversion of
what RAG is all about ie. A Dump.) and then you wait for the muck to dry
and resemble what is hopefully your pretty, tough, mental image
of rock, and if it doesn't dry fast enough you make a stand and tie
a hairdryer to it such that it becomes a rockdryer (and that must be the ultimate
ambition of every hairdryer that ever lived!) and if the hairdryer creates wind which
causes the AIA paper to flap undesirably, you swap the dryer with an infra-red
lamp which heats up the whole rockcave while you squat inside it trying to
add more papier mache, and feel like you're being roasted in the redlightdistrict.

AH, now you see what a wonderful conversationist rag has made of me!
i'm sure by now all of you are sitting right up in your seats with
eyes wide open and minds intrigued by the amazingly
wondrous feat of making rock out of paper look sufficiently rock-like, yet
also rockingly reveals the papery roots from which it sprang, such that
the rag judges SHALL KNOW that it is WE who have resurrected the potential
of paper and caused paper to be not just paper, but well,
Rock.

---


what a load of rubbish. just 8 days more, felicia. you can survive that. then.. school starts. i couldn't get one of the science modules i wanted from USP, which was rather unfortunate. God, please, show me another i can take.!

anyway i like the Singapore River, even though its arguably not much of one because its so small. but it is proportionate to our nation in terms of square metres, and its size doesn't make it any less of a river. And even if the cobbled path beneath your feet changes over time, and the river is no longer clouded with a myriad of boats eking out a living, and the languages heard along its banks find themselves translated into a hundred different tongues over time, its native language remains. That it remains a confluence and a conduit, that it gathers the waters into one body, just as it gathers groups of people that are prone to scatter Babel like over the face of the land onto its banks, that it, in a strange way, connects, even as it glints quietly, unassumingly, imperceptibly, through the subtle shadows of nightfall.