Should he eat the dog - The poor little boy

The poor little boy was inspired by learning how to clean candle holders. If I weren't shown, then I wouldn't have known that can just pour hot water to melt the candle wax.

Did the poor little boy eat the dog? What do you think?

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That is the question posed by the story is should the poor little boy bring the dead dog home to his mother to eat?

Yes, because the dog is dead and now there is no more dog, and there is only meat.
Yes, because his mother is hungry and the boy is filial.
No, because a filial son should not bring home the moral dilemma to test his mother.

No, because what if they become addicted to the taste of sweet meat and then will go dog hunting one day?
No, because the boy killed the dog, and one should not eat anything whose killing was done by one's own hands - like a tiger in the zoo should not be fed live prey - it'd awaken the animal instinct.

Yes, because if the boy was resilient, the animal instinct wouldn't be easily awakened or at least, it won't be perpetuated.

Yes, because the killing was unintentional, and now a dead dog is just a dead dog.

No, because the dead dog was meant for insects to eat, and everything has its own place in the world. Dead dog feeds maggots. and humans don't eat dogs?

Yes, because humans used to eat dogs prevalently. and the story was set in once upon a time.

No, because nowadays, it's inhumane to eat dogs.
Yes, because it's a dog, it's not a human. It's inhumane to eat pigs and cows too. And grasshoppers and cockroaches.

No, because a dog is closer to humans than to the animals reared for food.

Yes, because that's by today's standards? Ethics evolve across time.

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The above is my dilemma as writer of the story. I quite often write and think of the consistency of the characters in this manner, but in the case of the poor boy, I couldn't resolve it for myself, and think it is better to invite the reader to decide... so I left the ending open.

By the way - By the way series

By the way series of photographs are taken by the way - I was travelling on a road, and I take the pictures. Many of which are from philippines.

My photos are usually unedited because I'm too lazy to edit. So the cropping may be strange. And the colour of the photo may be a little off depending on how clean the car windows were.

Thought long about the title of the collection, until "by the way" occurred to me. I like it, because of the double/triple meanings. Cheap thrills keeps the boring day going.

This part is true - Spaces

Spaces... loosely based on falling asleep in class.

Debated about the title: Spaces or paces, which is an anagram for space. but decided on spaces because of the spaces in time, spaces in between paces, spaces in between consciousness, and spacing out in class...

This part of the story is true:

I had to wake up this morning to check my emails and my bank account on the internet.

Because I don't have to travel to work nowadays, I just wake up every morning and pop on the computer immediately.

I remember someone asking before, where does all the time go to? The time we save from not needing to mail things and using word processors and travel to the bank. The time saved from modern conveniences.

So I printed a book - All the people imagine

So I printed a book. You can find out about the book here. It's a slip-shot website that I created about the book and its collection details.

I haven't directly addressed my book production in both meekfreak/sneakspeak. Perhaps I don't know how to begin. I don't quite yet know why I'm addressing now. Perhaps I think I should address it because it's just this huge personal episode for me, but this has happened in such a rapid cascade of events that I don't quite have the time to think what should be said properly, or what are the answers that people want to hear. What do you want to know? Ask me. Or else I don't know what should be said.

Today I spent about half an hour, waiting underneath a tree. I was listening to some Thai pop rock and thought about how lucky I am. When I was home, I found a green caterpillar on my arm. I hope that there aren't any caterpillars in my hair. I flicked it away and then picked it up with a piece of toilet paper, and then I carefully threw the toilet paper out of my bedroom window. I knocked my head against the back of my window, because I was standing on the table so to reach as far out as possible. Poor caterpillar. Displaced. I hope it doesn't feel too lonely. I hope it is not even aware of how lonely it must be.

And I was scrolling around the internet, looking for something to read but I didn't find any. Then I thought that meekfreak/sneakspeak are also huge personal episodes for me, so I'd just try to write something, in case anyone wants to read.

I left my job about 5 months ago. I printed a book and am running out of money. Today's newspapers' headlines were about how the jobmarket is going to suck for the next few months. My mother had asked me if I regret leaving my job. If I were still at it, I would have been there for 2 years come 12th Dec. I remember such things. But I don't remember the birthday of my best friends. I've concluded that I'm a workaholic. But I do love my friends. I don't even remember the birthday of my grandmother. But I do love her. This is a picture of my grandmother.


It was taken a few years ago, when she was healthy enough to make dumplings for the occasion. Those were the best dumplings I've ever tasted, and I suspect, they will be the best that I'll ever taste. I don't know how to make dumplings. But I recently heard about why Mr Qu Yuan killed himself. Apparently, if I remember correctly, he did it to protect his ideals. He believed in the country he worked for (he was a statesman/advisor to the king), but because he knew the country was going to fall, and if he was to watch his country fall, his ideals would smash against the rocks like waves on the shore. So he smashed his head instead, against the rocks of the river bed. Now we all have dumplings to eat. I'm taking for granted that everybody knows dumplings were what the people made to feed the fishes so that they won't feed on Qu Yuan's dead body.

My ah ma is very proud of me that I have printed my book. She doesn't understand English but she would sometime surprise me by knowing some alphabets and understanding snippets of English conversations.

I told her, that now that I've printed the book, I feel that it's no big deal. I have no reason to act humble in front of my grandma, but I really feel that it's a matter of going to the printer with some essays and paying them to print. Sometimes, I have this strange tendency to trivialise my accomplishments. But then again, at the same time, I also know that it's been an arduous undertaking and it's arduous in a way that it cannot be fully articulated, and therefore, perhaps, the effort deserves no further validation. Are you confused? I beg your pardon. I am confused too.

How do I feel? I feel about one hundred levels of emotions that I cannot accurately discern apart.

Some friends reminded me that they are happy to see that the book is finally out. I have been talking about it since forever. (I have records that I wanted to have finished a book more than 5 years ago.) I am embarrassed that it is done so late. But I am comforted that I have friends who are with me for more than 5 years, and who are simply happy for me to see that I've fulfilled my "dream" of producing a book. and to remind me, that simply to have produce them is success already, even if I just stuff them underneath my bed, and then underneath my corpse in my coffin when I finally die.

Indeed. Perhaps now I can say, with this little bit more credibility, if there's anything you want to do, just do it. (I may add that after you do it, you may feel that it was nothing much too, but then again, you may be different from me - you may feel great, or you may feel shittier. Even I may feel different about it tomorrow.) But just go and do it lor. It's not hard to start taking the little steps towards it. It's like stepping stones across a torrent river. Looking at the river - it's fucking scary. But just concentrate on the next stone and worry about the next next stone later. If anyone asks me for any advice, I think that's the best one that I can offer up now.

Some very patient friends, I cannot thank them enough, had to suffer my repetitive questions, that were simply begetting reassurance under the pretence of being rhetorical. How wonderful is life to have people like that around.

And the excitement now lies in what people think about the stories, how they can stand up for themselves. Can they stand up for themselves? When you read them, don't just read into how it has been a fierce undertaking for me, read them for themselves. I hope they stand up for themselves. They are my children. Now that they've been put to print, I can only hope that they'll be independent and make a living for themselves. That's me - I'm a mother like that. Of course I hope that they'll be accomplished in their field. But if they're not, I can't help it either, right? I will be disappointed, but I will not be ashamed. Is that how mothers feel like? I bet some mothers feel ashamed. I hope I won't feel ashamed.

On occasions, I likened my anxieties and the entire experience as a crab (crab eat rotten meat) that sits on my heart and tear off and nibble at the throbbing muscle that's probably sickened by the paranoia and the panic that ran amok. I don't quite know how the analogy works. But I don't want to explain too much.

These are just some examples of how I feel.

My sentiments about putting the book together, accompanied by my instinctive rambling style, could be compiled into a fucking telephone directory - and it may be just as boring to read. The way ahead is curious, exciting, and as scary as... the first day in primary one, except that I'm not in primary one, and there's nobody in my class, and I'm 26 and I am aware of how crazy I feel.

I take comfort that my loved ones and, those who love me, are standing outside the classroom, peering through the window, wishing me well.

The strange thing in my case, is that I am also standing outside a classroom, looking at my children - the stories - perform their first piano recital, or oral examination, or taking their first baby steps - performing for their audiences - who may or may not be my friends who are watching me outside the window of my classroom. It's like living in a M.C. Escher world.

I wish them well, too, and even though they may be like the caterpillar who doesn't know to be afraid at all, I sure am nervous like hell. I did write them, afterall.

I take a deep breath.

Come on, wish me good luck. Luck - one could always do with more good luck.