Badass Literary Treatise

Make Poverty History

I picked up this booklet which talks about how, as individuals, we can make  a difference to the state the world is in. I snorted my initial disdain as I considered my position in a tiny red dot of a country where the "nail that sticks out gets hammered".

I want to make poverty history. It confounds me that despite the great ideas and technology  spawned by the collective genius of man in the last two thousand years, Jesus' words to Iscariot still ring true: "The poor you will always have with you."

I yearn for a world where the distribution of resources is far more equitable then it is now. I endorse the cancellation of debt to the poorest countries in the world. Or at least relief from the leechings of compounded interest.

Two weeks ago with the images of the Rider of the Black Horse still fresh in my mind I prayed as I read the booklet.

"Dear God. Poverty WILL be History, along with Strife, Injustice, Godlessness and all manner of things which are hateful in Your eyes when Your Kingdom comes and quickly. But while we are in the here and now, grant us a respite. The hearts of kings are in Your hands. So move them to cancel debt to the poorest of the poor."

Today's Late Times picked up the story from the Washington Post about IMF and the World Bank's decision to cancel the debt of 18 of the world's poorest countries. I can only imagine the kind of relief felt by their citizens - a fresh breath of hope and a measure of dignity to build or more likely rebuild their countries.

When my friend told me about the article. I gave thanks to God who shows His great mercies even as a world steeped in sin stands in judgement.

I don't have a lot of money to give, but God gives compassion that moves the saint to pray by a faith that shall move this mountain of debt more powerfully than an army of Bill Gates.

Now where can I pick up one of these white bands?

The Joy of No Sex

I've been single for more than a year now and not only have I read Joshua Harris' "I Kiss Dating Goodbye" I have now progressed to "The Joy of No Sex" by Will Smith.

Couple my current literature with the alarming announcements about not having any one on the Radar on whom to unleash all my mighty honging power and my shying away from one-on-one dating, one could be forgiven for thinking that I'm going to change my blog name to Single in Singapore.

Below is an extract from the author's suggestions on alternatives to sex - performed au naturel. The other message in his book is that nudism is the most powerful expression of confidence and honesty.

One of the benefits of sex is that it keeps you very supple, especially if you have an adventurous relationship involving lots of positions. I never have. In fact, I can only think of three positions - Missionary, from behind and her on top. Anything else is just showing off. Like extra functions on a mobile phone, it's just not necessary.... But do not fear for I have thought of many substitute activites to keep you toned and flexible.

The Cheer-Leading Thrust

.... At the end I feel like a big tingly piece of elastic. And if the spectators feel sick at the sight of my nuts and bolts slamming alternately against my stomach and buttocks then I've done them a favor.

On a day when the boss who has been looking out for me this past year just got fired and my future with Pearson is uncertain, this is at best a distraction, but a rather welcome one to worrying about tomorrow.

"I don't know about tomorrow, it may bring me poverty. But the one who feeds the sparrow, is the one who'll stand by me"

Hack the Penguin!

Mr Kaif has invited me to contribute to a blogsite called Christ Hacks.

The strange composition of the two words struck me, but perhaps not for the reasons that Mr Kaif intended.

Instead of thinking about what kind of useful tips I may offer to help my brothers and sisters along their walk, the anal writer in me picked up on the word "hack" and concluded that here was an excellent opportunity to plug the latest book I am reading - The Penguin Dictionary to Literary Terms and Literary Theory. (which also happens to be published by my company.)

Together with the other 17 people in all of Singapore who own the book, we know that the word Hack is used to denote

1) a hired horse or hireling
2) a person who churns out written words for a pittance

Used as an adverb it suggests low grade work. Which is probably what mainstream programers (IBM) thought about the stuff produced by pizza eating, garage living, pimply, socially challenged teenage geeks.

Of course the word has since taken on a slight glam given Hollywood's romantification of hackers (Matrix anyone?) and our own disdain for bullying, monopolistic computer corporations (Microsoft anyone?)

Having revealed the original meaning of the word Hack, one can appreciate the amusement I found in "Christ Hacks". Especially when you consider that beyond a few words scratched in some dirt, there is no evidence that Christ wrote anything at all.

Incidentally, I know of only one blogger who uses the word 'Hack' in its original meaning and aptly so.

The Little Prince

Even though I first read the book about three years ago, it still holds a great deal of fascination for me.

From the author's frustration at adults who 'pooh-pooh' his ambitions and opinions, to the wilful Rose with her Tiger Claws and the Fox's comments and companionship to the Little Prince.

But more than just enjoying conversations between a boy who lives on Asteroid B-612 and an ignorant Cartographer and the armies of men who light the lamps at night, my affinity with the Little Prince stems from my relationship with the book's biggest fan - Russian Princess.

When my heroes were still Rock Music Stars and Transformable Japanese Robots, there was a slim pale girl who carried the Little Prince to school every day on a box and dreamt about catching tiny glimpses of this quixotic character in the mundaness of Junior College life.

And now the Rock Stars are judges on American Idol, Japanese robots have become Kawaii and the Russian Princess has all but faded from my life. And yet, for that briefest of moments when we dreamt about Sheeps in Boxes and Fanciful Flights of Geese, I was truly happy.

You have made an extraordinary book even more significant in my life. Thank you.

Love That Dog

September 27

I don't understand
the poem about
the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
and why so much
depends upon
them.

If that is a poem
about the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
then any words
can be a poem.
You've just got to
make
short
lines.

Maybe it is because

• the cover is yellow
• it looks like a doggy tale
• it is written entirely in prose
• the character and plot are teasingly unwrapped through a very uncomplicated vehicle - the poetical diary of a school boy

But I guess it is really because Jack and I are doing the exact same thing.

10 minutes to read it cover to cover and it light up your face and make your heart fuzzy.

Can borrow from me anytime. Dang, ask me nicely and I'll GIVE you a copy.

Harry Satire (Spoiler Warning)

Just to give you an idea of the kind of writing we have to put up with when you start on a Potter book. Published verbatim so that you will not miss any of the tortorous nuances she employs. Names have been changed to complete the satire.

In silence, Errol read 5 installments of the series. Then, halfway through the sixth book, he staggered and fell for-ward. His eyes were still closed, his breathing heavy.

"Errol Errol?" said Rowling, her voice strained. "Can you hear me?"

Errol did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a horrible dream. His grip on the book was slackening. Rowling reached forward and grasped the heavy tome, holding it steady.

“Errol, can you hear me?" she repeated loudly, her voice echoing around the cavern.

Errol panted and then spoke "I don't want. . . Don't make me ..."

Rowling stared into the whitened face

". . . don't like . . . want to stop . . ." moaned Errol.

"You . . . you can't stop, Errol," said Rowling. "You've got to keep reading, remember? Here . . ."

Hating herself, repulsed by what she was doing, Rowling forced the book back toward Errol so that Errol read the remainder of the chapter.

"No ..." he groaned, as Rowling turned another page for him. "I don't want to. ... I don't want to. . . . Let me go. . . ."
"Its all right, Errol," said Rowling, her hand shaking. "Its all right, I'm here —"

"Make it stop, make it stop," moaned Errol.

"Yes.. . yes, this'll make it stop," lied Rowling. She flipped a page and Errol screamed; the noise echoed all around the vast chamber, across the dead black water.

"No, no, no, no, I can't, I can't, don't make me, I don't warn to. . . ."

"It's all right, Errol, it's all right!" said Rowling loudly, her hands shaking so badly she could hardly open the book. "Nothing's happening to you, you're safe, it isn't real, I swear it isn't real — take this, now, take this..." And obediently, Errol read, as though it was an anti-dote Rowling offered him, but upon finishing the paragraph, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.

"Its all my fault, all my fault," he sobbed. "Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I'll never, never again ..."

"This will make it stop, Errol," Rowling said, her voice cracking as she forced yet another chapter on him.

Errol began to cower as though invisible torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost knocked the book from Rowling's trembling hands as he moaned, "Don't hurt them, don't hurt them, please, please, its my fault, hurt me instead ..."

"Here, read this, read this, you'll be all right," said Rowling desperately, and once again Errol obeyed her and now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering his fists upon the ground, while Rowling opened to another chapter.

"Please, please, please, no ... not that, not that, I'll do any-thing ..."

"Just read, Errol, just read . . ."

Errol read insanely, but when he had finished, he yelled again as though his insides were on fire. "No more, please, no more ..."

Rowling turned to the last chapter. "We're nearly there, Errol. Read this, read it. ..."

She supported Errol's shoulders and again, Errol read and began to scream in more anguish than ever, "I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!"

"Read this, Errol. Read this. . . ."
Errol read, and no sooner had he finished than he yelled, "KILL ME!"

"This — this one will!" gasped Rowling. "Just read this .. . It'll be over ... all over!"

Errol stared at the book, read every last word, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face.

Holding him in her lap, she assured the barely breathing form "Don't worry, Errol, you'll be protected from long term damage by your ability to love, heave and forget"

Khalil Gibran

Poet. Philosopher. Uncluttered. Uplifting. Accessible to the unschooled mind (mine).

Khalil Gibran is currently my literary hero.  Below an extract from "The Prophet"

Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."

And he answered:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.