innovations.

3 f-ing tiring days, a whole shitload of dust, and all we have to show for it is a brand new floor (laminate), a labyrinth of store racks, white walls instead of blue walls and new lights for the office area. Oh and from the depths of the store, we managed to unearth the exhaust pipe of a motorcycle, brand new some more.

so confess now, yee tenants new and old of 0405, who killed the bloody motorcyclist?

actually, come to think about it, it's quite alot of shit done up.

the work is not yet done. f-! have to now drag self to office to play aunt and clean the floor. i know there was something fishy about undertaking a renovation of the office, and thinkin we could be supermen and clear it in 3 days max, even with the taxing av/lg schedule going on at the same thing.

f-. why did i agree to this?

oh yeah, i remember now. moola.

as a fledgling av co. (3-4 yrs is babyhood in the av industry) we got to stay lean, keep cost down and innovate as much as we can. even at the expense of our own bodies. sometimes. so i guess it's late nights for the next few f-ing days. at least the office looks so damn pretty now i am tempted to buy low tables and have everyone work on the floor.

oh, as a reward, we officially christened the floor with samy's remarkable masala chicken, eaten malay style. highlight of yesterday.

earlier yesterday, while in the cab, as a laugh and to keep me spirits up, i wrote a little piece for princess, whom i think is fuming at me for lying to her about joining her company. haha, deal with it, princess. :)

***

This One's for You

Tap, tap.
That's me knocking at your door.
Of course, it isn't mine.
I don't have the keys to it anymore.
(Letterbox, check the letterbox)
Otherwise, I would have let myself in,
past the whitewashed walls (new) into
the difference between yours and mine.
Letters, their lids still sealed by my tongue; mine.
Roses, wilting and refusing to dry; yours.
A bear, squeezed into a cup so hard, he had to smile;
you can keep that.
Heart pump, crutches, knives of every precision;
yours, mine, his his his.

***
ok, stop here. finish it later or i'll fool with it some more later. i got to vamoosh, or i'll never finish.

Listening to: burning down the spark - nancy sinatra. how noir.

reading: ultramarine - raymond carver. simply beautiful. here is (was) a poet who could transverse 2 mediums effortlessly, read his short stories, they read like poems. read his poems, they tell his stories. the thing about carver, he is confessional, but never pathetic.

cy would tell u, i am not a real large fan of confessionals, but i'll add this, i love reading the good ones.

i think too many locals write confessions to the point of exhausting literary truths. i read so many that exist solely on the sympathy of the readers. thats sad, as readers we are not obliged to offer our sympathies unless u give strong reasons.

like this local poet wannabe once said (never met the fellow, but from his writings, i've already decided i dun like him, but on this one point, i must agree with him) the thing about literary truths is that they are immensely boring.

carver is never boring. he might overextend himself, but thats the fun of carver, he pushes the line between sentimental and pathetic and somehow, manages to get away with it.

brilliant.

too bad he dead now. sigh.