From : sliph as sliph finally <TheFates@partlycloudy.com>
Sent : Tuesday, September 21, 1999 11:12 AM
To : chagrinned@hotmail.com
CC : ong156@mbox2.singnet.com.sg, spirit_aura@xoommail.com, iewoug@hotmail.com, nightwar@earthling.net, thomazzz@netscape.net, stagecall@hotmail.com, sfdy11@ihavepms.com, yithan@hotmail.com, corsair@letterbox.com
Subject : Our Man In America
Hi friends, I have been quite addicted to reading works by P.G.
Wodehouse recently. Discovered his books by chance in the library, saw the whole
set there so I just picked one, and it turned out to be rather witty and
funny; I havent been smiling or laughing out loud while reading a book for a
long time..so I am rather glad I found out about him because he is such an
entertaining author. Below are some extracts of "Our Man In America" found in the book "Plum
Pie", I find it funny and thought I would just type it out and share it
with you guys.
牋牋牋牋牋?*******************************
A rather interesting story comes from Toledo, Ohio, where Cyril Murphy (
aged 8) was up before the Juvenile Court, accused of having tried to
purloin a tin of fruit juice from a parked delivery truck.
He admitted the charge, but pleaded in extenuation that he had been
egged on the crime by the Devil. The Devil, he said, got into conversation
with him and hearing that he was thirsty, for the day was warm , suggested
that what he needed to correct this thirst was a good swig of fruit juice ,
which, he went on to point out, could be obtained from that delivery
truck over there. Juvenile Court Referee Wade Mcbride advised him next time to
contact with an angel. Cyril described the Devil as covered with hair, big balls of fire in his
eyes, three horns, a long tail and four hooved feet, and the theory in
New York theatrical circles is that what he met must have been a dramatic
critic.
牋牋牋 *************************************
The news that WayBurn Mace, aged six , has been given a flashlight will
probably have escaped the notice of the general public, but it is going
to mean a lot to Mr Mace senior and the residents of Long Beach, California
, for life for them should from now on become much more tranquil. It seems
that Junior, suspecting under his bed the presence of Red Indians, went
after them with a lighted candle, and the subsequent activities of the
local fire brigade blocked traffic on all roads leading to the Mace home
for several hours. ?It is generally felt that no blame attaches to the little fellow.
Nothing is more annoying than to have Red Indians under your bed, and the
verdict is that he did the right and spirited thing in taking a firm line with
them.
牋牋?************************************
Ps. Dont come scolding me if you don't like these material, afterall,
different people are engaged by different things.
Just like many people find chain letters and "making a wish" thingies
interesting, I find them rather dumb.
So to be fair, you can try finding the things I send dumb too, I have
absolutely no comments about that. :>
wake from your dreams
the drying of your tears
today we escape
we escape
breathe keep breathing
don't loose your nerve
breathe keep breathing
i can't do this alone
牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋牋?EXIT TO A FILM
From : California Dreamin <sliph@hotmail.com>
Sent : Monday, September 27, 1999 8:35 AM
To : chagrinned@hotmail.com
Subject : direct your mails to
Dear Miel,
Pls direct your mails to TheFates@partlycloudy.com in future. I choose to give you this email add because I dont receive junk from you, so please direct future mails there because sliph@hotmail.com is mostly for junk.
Thanks a lot, do send sentiments to me because I like to read them.
Wishing you well.
Sincerely, Zhihui
From : Dies Irae <TheFates@partlycloudy.com>
Sent : Sunday, October 10, 1999 8:48 AM
To : ong156@mbox2.singnet.com.sg, stagecall@hotmail.com
CC : chagrinned@hotmail.com, iewoug@hotmail.com, corsair@letterbox.com, thomazzz@netscape.net
Subject : poems written
Hi people, rain and Chopin makes the best inspirations for poems..so
somehow I churned poems out again.
I have found a way of consoling myself for bad poetry though, Oscar
Wilde
said " All bad poetry springs from genuine feelings"
(untitled)
The eventful day feels empty,
It's clear I have not found the key.
The key to secrets which live and die,
Them who are hidden from my naked eye.
Pandora's box my mind is like,
A greyish wave of uncertain tide.
(untitled)
I feel a sense of tranquility,
As Chopin plays his best for me.
I know not why there are so many
Nocturnes, but I know how each varies.
They sound different---a sense of identity
Which one may have but most don't see.
I used to want so much
For everyone to see every part of me,
mould myself
and live differently.
Experience tells there is no need,
For it comes to nothing and nothing.
No one understands
Well, they can think as they deem fit.
For now I know that what is you
May not necessarily be me.
AFTER RAIN
After rain the leaves glisten with tears
Do they now realise that they will die
And at the wind's prompt, quiver with fears?
The greyish sky illuminates
Truth that they will not last,
Life is prosaic and their greenery fake.
This dampening spirit has their hopes killed.
Hopes that were self deceiving
As desires unfulfilled.
P.s Just felt like sharing some of my recent poems with you guys, del it
after reading.
Always we have believed
We can change overnight,
Put a different look on the face,
Old passions out of sight:
And find new days relieved
Of all that we regretted
But something always stays
And will not be outwitted.
From : Dies Irae <TheFates@partlycloudy.com>
Sent : Tuesday, October 12, 1999 3:47 PM
To : ong156@mbox2.singnet.com.sg
CC : corsair@letterbox.com, iewoug@hotmail.com, chagrinned@hotmail.com, sfdy11@ihavepms.com, thomazzz@netscape.net, spirit_aura@xoommail.com
Subject : Poetry is life distilled
Hi ppl, dumping you guys 3 poems I just wrote. Apparently when I start
writing poems, I am not supposed to feel very fine, so pls do not start
asking me whether something is wrong with me because it is so obvious my
life is pretty fucked up nowadays, so do not start to be so utterly daft
by asking the unnecessary. BLock me or delete me if you find that you
cannot take my shit anymore, it's perfectly fine of course.
sincerely~ sliph
OUR WORLDS
The sun shines brightly everyday
People laugh, there is no grey
In their world where summer stays
All year long,life is gay.
The sun shines brightly everyday
I laugh at myself, my own dismay
In my world a frustrating maze
The eyes of my soul, a saddening gaze.
THE ALTRUISTIC HUMAN BEING
1) There was a boy who loved his fish
牋 He feeds them so that they will grow
牋 and make him happy.
牋 " How nice I am by being so caring"
牋 and his kind deed is repaid
牋 when they die of excess feeding.
2) There was a mother who loved her child
牋 She takes care of her so that she will grow
牋 to be as beautiful as she.
牋 " I want her to be like me"
牋 she beams, but does not understand
牋 why her daughter eventually leaves.
3) The care and concern that you give
牋 Does not strike me as being altruistic.
牋 I realise more than ever
牋 You are an egoistic creep.
牋 Your curiosity is satisfied
牋 When you ask me things I do not need
牋 To tell you but is forced to
牋 Your Ego is boosted
牋 When you think yourself noble
牋 And tell me what I should do.
牋 Perhaps I should start feeling grateful
牋 And think of how fortunate I am?
牋 " A friend in need is a friend indeed."
牋 Thanks, but this kind of concern I do not need.
WHEN I CRY
And my tears fall,
Does anyone know why?
The puddle dries afterall,
But when it does
Sadness does not pass.
I am not ashamed to cry
To let known my feelings
Which do not run dry,
But when the message is sent,
No one ever understands.
I give up seeking empathy
>From those around me.
Crying gives me solace,
Something which I need and cling on to,
I cry myself to sleep.
Always we have believed
We can change overnight,
Put a different look on the face,
Old passions out of sight:
And find new days relieved
Of all that we regretted
But something always stays
And will not be outwitted.
From : Dies Irae <TheFates@partlycloudy.com>
Sent : Thursday, October 14, 1999 7:28 AM
To : corsair@letterbox.com
CC : ong156@mbox2.singnet.com.sg, spirit_aura@xoommail.com, iewoug@hotmail.com, thomazzz@netscape.net, chagrinned@hotmail.com, sfdy11@ihavepms.com
Subject : Something I read
Read this bit of extract from Franz Kafka, he is really strange and
well, I
kinda like his stuff.
Hope you ppl can identify with this piece. I am trying to keep my words
to
a minimum so that my underlying emotions do not explode.
>From MEDITATION by FRANZ KAFKA
RESOLUTIONS
To raise oneself out of the depths of misery must be easy, even with a
studied display of energy. I will wrench myself out of my chair, trot
around the table, loosen up my head and neck, inject a gleam into my
eyes,
tauten the muscles surrounding them, Defy all my natural feelings, give
A.
an enthusiastic welcome if he comes, tolerate B. amicably in my room,
swallow down everything that is said at C's place in long draughts,
despite the labour and pain it costs me.
Yet even if I can manage all that, each false step--and they're bound to
occur--will make the whole enterprise, easy or difficult, falter; and I
shall have to turn back to the point where I began.
So in the end it remains advisable to accept whatever comes, to behave
like an inert mass even if one feels oneself being swept away, not to be
lured into a single unnecessary step, to regard others with the gaze of an
animal, to feel no remorse, in short to crush with one's own hand any
ghost of life that subsists, that is, to intensify the final quiet of the
grave still further and let nothing beyond that endure.
From : Dies Irae <TheFates@partlycloudy.com>
Sent : Friday, October 15, 1999 5:27 AM
To : chagrinned@hotmail.com
Subject : Glad you do
Dear Miel,
牋牋牋牋?I received your mail and I am really glad you have been
reading on such issues. Firstly, reading has always given me pleasure, and I see
things and myself when I read, reading gives sensitivity to a person,
and I can't say how glad I am for you that you derive perhaps the same kind of
pleasure I do from reading. Mental illness has always been related to
several poets and authors of the century and upon pondering, it is
rather inevitable that one starts to think of how to distinguish between the
sane and the insane. What is the definition of madness? And how sane are the
people who consider themselves sane? One of my favourite authors Sylvia
Plath blew her head in the oven despite having a seemingly happy
family..she first wrote a novel " The Bell Jar" which talked about a
girl suffering from immense depression and later being admitted into a mental
institution to receive electro treatment..Another poet Elizabeth
Jennings herself was admitted into an asylum and in there, she wrote some of her
most meaningful and touching poems..I have always wanted to go to the
mental institution in Spore to look at the people in there, see how
different or how similar I am with them..but unfortunately, it is not
open to ppl who do not have any business there, that is to say you cannot
just go in like that and walk around.
Some of my friends are not glad when I write poems because they know
fairly well when I churn poems out, I do so in depression, which is true to a
great extent. My poems are all negative in tone, at most ambivalent. I
find consolation in writing, I learnt to appreciate it, like one poet forgot
who said " write when you feel you need to" and I am really glad I started
on it. Many things have fucked me up this year, they still do. It took me so
long to try to stand up against the current, I am still unable to do it
properly. I am usually alone now, whereever I am, maintaining
superficial relations with whoever, to be cordial. Maybe I am forced to be alone,
but I gradually found solace in solitude.
Reagarding your webpage, I would be happy to be able to contribute, at
least there is someone who appreciates my work ( though the original
intention is not for exhibiting)
You are free to use any of my stuff, to share it with the ppl who may be
able to empathise or identify with those fucking problems I face. You
probably noticed that when I send mails with my poems, the mailing list
is small and always to the same people. THat is because I send to selective
people , I must say it's not arrogance here, it is merely a wish of mine
that my work falls into the hands of people who may be able to
understand what is it I am trying to say, instead of people whom I feel may never
ever know what I feel. ( Some are simply too happy to realise any sadnes,
some do not like poetry). Therefore, if you are serious about the webpage, you can first start by
making me a list of which pieces of mine that you already have, so that
I know which others to send you ( which I havent previously sent to you),
believe that would make things easier and prevent duplication.
Lastly, thanks for the appreciation you show and the effort you are
willingto put into helping people find themselves and the world of feelings.
Yours sincerely, Hui. ~ sliph
From : Clockwork Orange <TheFates@partlycloudy.com>
Sent : Wednesday, October 20, 1999 6:53 AM
To : corsair@letterbox.com
CC : ong156@mbox2.singnet.com.sg, iewoug@hotmail.com, nightwar@earthling.net, chagrinned@hotmail.com, thomazzz@netscape.net, spirit_aura@xoommail.com
Subject : poem
First time I did a poem straight from the computer cause I dont norm use
something so devoid of human feelings to do something about feel. But I
guess this an exception cause it's the sch library afterall and there is
nothing else to use. I quite like the idea of the poem this time round,
managed to say what I wish to convey ( the past few days I have been
having mental block)
Hour Glass of Life
Time seeps swiftly
While relationships remain
Amidst the underlying changes
The heap of sand contains.
Cordial and formal they become
An empty dialogue starts its hum.
It will come when time is due
You want so much to start anew;
Instinct says you never will
For you know best
The overturn kills.
Fate slewed him, but he did not drop;
She felled--he did not fall--
Impaled him on her fiercest stakes--
He neutralized them all.
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