dear God; supreme being, divinity of the universe, To Whom It May Concern in the Celestial Realm, Asgard, Paradise, Nirvana, Eden, Mag Mell, etc, etc. Please, grant me my wish. Chicago and a scholarship. And though it’s not as important as the above (in tandem, please, but I’ll take it as a No if they don’t come together) a room with Mr Wu would go down a treat. I pray.

Why I love Ultimate Frisbee

(the dear reader will notice why so much of my incessant chatter about ultimate – frisbee, though we don’t even use the discs from them at all – seems in a way an attempt to promote the sport. Well, after all, there aren’t a lot of players, especially in Singapore, and it always helps to have a lot of people play the sport – look at how many football games there are! Why, to be able to play Pro Evolution Ultimate or Ultimate Manager … er, moving on. and, besides, if you love something, you simply want to exalt it to the world.)

I enjoy ultimate frisbee. To anybody who even spends a small amount  of time with me it will become readily apparent. I never seem too far from a match and indeed, sound like I spend most of my waking hours thinking about it (which I do, but that will be in the next post, Why Ultimate Frisbee Is Taking Over and Ruining My Life).

To me it is not simply the game itself that warrants loving, but first things first, I shall begin with a basic examination of the game itself.

The Game Itself.

In order to discuss the game you must, unfortunately, bear the weight of knowledge of a few facts of a game. Without throwing the rulebook at you, here are some things you need to know

• it is played with a frisbee, and
• it is a team sport. generally seven-on-seven is the competition standards, although four-on-four is enough for a kickabout and three-on-three doable (with some slight modification of game mechanics).
• oh, and no running with the frisbee (which would make the game a lot easier and too severely unbalanced.)

And some things you might want to know.

• you pass it by throwing it to a team-mate, who catches it. You can throw it to opponents, although then you lose possession.
• three important things; you need to be able to throw and catch at least over a short distance in order not to let your team-mates hate you, you need to keep possession if you don’t want your enemies to steam-roller you, and your team must have at least one old fart with ridiculous throwing skills if you want to win.
• the culture of the sport is something to be dealt with later, but briefly; the game promotes itself by means of pick-ups; games whereby complete strangers turn up and play the game with each other. they are not only welcome, but encouraged to join – if coaching is required, the more responsible ones will gladly do so. This promotes the game by making it easy for beginners to get in and get hooked, while satisfying the older ones by ensuring a common pool of players (random aficionados and new kids) to play with and show off to.

The game rests crudely on the triangle of sport; that is, athleticism (or physicality), skill, and strategy/experience. You cannot win a game merely by bruising and beating the other team out of contention, nor will superb disc-handling skills bring you anywhere. Strategy and experience are just as important; know where to arrange your players, how to defend against the opponents, and how best to apply each player’s individual skills to maximum effect. It is distilled sport; and the scoring system dictates attacking, so there will not be any worries of dull, drab defensive plays and bore draws.

END OF PART 1.

next part; ‘esprit du jeu – I’m the Referee here – Pick-ups – Frisbee Players as a Consequence – Final words.

next edition; Why Ultimate Frisbee Is Taking Over and Ruining My Life : obsession, addiction and destruction.

footlights

The spotlight’s on you, you dance
Everyone’s watching, here’s your chance
To impress and amaze
With a wink and a gaze
Your fame and repute to enhance

I am but a footlight at your feet
Just one of many men you’ll meet
My light is on you
Whatever you do
But your gaze, is beyond, to the seats

The stage is your life is your play
Your love and your night and your day
Orate to the stalls
Of packed hushèd halls
Hanging on the next words you would say

There are few things I would not do for you
Yet the converse is highly untrue
Drop the curtains and lights
I exit, stage right
I fade, for you and your debut

I don’t like the last line. suggestions, anybody?

the goddess of victory; frisbee edition

“Oh god, they overheard me.”

“Just chill, man, they don’t know anything. If you don’t say anything and I don’t say anything-”

“I just told you how tall she was. I just told you how fast she was. Hell, how many girls play like she does? There’s a reason I call her the goddess of victory!”

Zyx stops to give him a good, long look. “Come on, they won’t see her-”

“They will tomorrow.” He grabs Zyx by the sleeves. “My good man, dearest friend, beloved brother to me beyond all other men; do not tell them who she is, do not point her out to them, do not even hint or mislead them.” He lets go, and paces off, alternating between tugging his hair and fumbling with nothing in midair. “Augh, why!?”

“This is the perfect time for blackmail!”

The answering look was one of abject horror and impending destruction. The abyss stared out of it. Zyx would’ve sworn he heart a low wail of despair.

“I think it’s time I announce my retirement. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll quit Disc. No more, none of it. I’ll never play again. Yes. If they find out I’ll be questioned and laughed at to death. I’ll quit, and kill myself when the pain gets too bad.”

Zyx frowned. “Oh, come off it. I’ll deny everything. And we can start getting metaphysical with them. ‘What is Victory, to you? Is the mortal embodiment-avatar of a goddess necessarily a lady? And what of ‘Of’?”

= = =

The Goddess of Victory.

I see her; she who glides atop the grass on bare feet, treading air, racing the wind

I see her; she who flies into the air, with a nimble leap and bound, light as a feather, rising grand and powerfully, like the sun.

I see her; she who reaches behind her with a hand, and who catches the disc at an impossible angle.

I see her, the Goddess of Victory. I see her beauty, her grace, her lithe form – everywhere.

She whose hair flies in the wind of her passing. She whose jump – not the highest – brings her closest. She whose throws are like passing meteors, accurate with speed and power to rival Zeus’ thunderbolts. She whose run, dodging and weaving past mortal fools who deign to think they could catch her, is a masterpiece of grace and elegance.

The Goddess of Victory; long hair flying, limbs paint-strokes on a beautiful form, a shadow silhouette against the golden rays of the setting sun.

I hate to eat alone

Do you have dinner? I hate to eat alone.’

the boy smiles at him. ‘Where do you want to eat, then?’

[ lonely people : uprooted ii ]

home is where the heart is. only, for him, it is here.

it is not his native country. yet, he feels so much more at home here than anywhere else in the world.

the boy doesn’t get it. he doesn’t blame the boy. he’s just a young lad, barely out of his teens, really still just a child. he’s never lived anywhere but here, never had anything but safe streets, green trees and a simple life.

he rubs his face, trying to explain to the kid. about where he came from. he can almost read the thoughts swirling around those simple black eyes. ‘But it’s France. Paris! The capital of love, the pinnacle of cuisine, the music! the sights! the sounds and the people. Everybody wants to go to France! Why wouldn’t you like to live there?’

because it’s France. yes, everybody wants to go there. not everybody, not anybody, I should think – wants to live there. it’s overcrowded with people. everything is ridiculously expensive. food is exorbitant.  there are taxes on everything. and it’s not safe, it’s not safe at all. people are afraid to go out at night.

but he sees that explaining this to the kid will take more. it is difficult to describe the residual background fear and negativity he feels as he passes people on the streets. here, everybody complains of stress, of boredom, of the lack of work-life balance and the rising costs of living. 7% GST, you know! very high!

the goods and services tax in France is 20%, has been 20% since ages ago. in France there is no work-life balance; there simply isn’t work. they would complain of stress, when in France there are workers on strike so often, too often, because of terrible working conditions. stress! let them try no public transport for a week. that will be stress. let them try to get to work, on the other side of a huge, congested city, from its outskirts – where the only affordable housing is.

and boredom. he wouldn’t want the excitement Paris at night can provide.

here is good. here is not a bad place to live and work. here, he could live forever. raise his kids.

nowhere else in the world can he simply walk into a park and spend the afternoon playing frisbee with strangers, secure enough that nobody will steal their possessions or rob them as they play.

nowhere else in the world can he go for dinner afterwards and just sit down anywhere, in any coffee-shop and have a good meal that doesn’t cost a bomb and is actually affordable.

nowhere else in the world will parents let their kids wander off with a tall French stranger for dinner – practically little boys and little girls – without even considering the possibility that they could be beaten up by street gangs or kidnapped or mugged or raped or murdered. nowhere else would the women wear so little and walk the streets, secure at night.

nowhere else in the world, he tells the kid. nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

---

for gabriel.

lonely people

in the city, of bright lights and dark nights, there are many people

it’s hard to find a seat in a restaurant, an empty park bench to rest your feet, a shop without a queue. it’s hard to walk straight, even; there are crowds of people everywhere, literally streams of people flowing about, washing you helplessly in their wake.

and yet, so many of them are lonely.

[ lonely people: the boy ]

the boy shuts himself up at home, with his computer. “it’s not that I’ve no friends,” he laughs, telling his parents not to worry. “they’re all not free at the moment. it’s nice to loaf at home along sometimes. and the last time I went out so much you complained I was treating the house like a hotel, after all.”

the parents leave him be. he still his has sense of humour, after all, right? he can’t be that off if he’s still funny like that. even though he’s clearly unhappy…

he is very unhappy. he is lonely. and the glowing screen of his monitor represents his only escape…

[ lonely people: the lover ]

how can people in love be lonely?

but let me tell you, it is the people who are in love that are often the most lonely.

think about it. when you are with your other half all’s right with the world.

but when she’s not in heaven, it rapidly begins to look like hell. where once you were whole, you have half, taken from you.

and it’s even worse when she doesn’t know about your feelings.

especially when you’re in love, you see couples everywhere when you’re in love.

unrequited love is the loneliest of all, thinks the lover, as he ambles along on his solitary path, half the man he used to be…

[ lonely people : the uprooted flower ]

home is where the heart is. which is why, after returning from somewhere so far for so long, she should be especially happy, right?

right?

after all, this is her beloved country, after all, and here is her beloved home, where mom is being fussy and naggy and dad is nonchalant, almost as if she never left, and here are her brothers, who are too concerned with themselves anyway, and the dog…

and here are the friends from home. she must be anxious to see them and spend time with them, right? after all, they are her much-treasured friends from before she left, and she used to spend so much time with them, online and offline, and how even now they can’t seem to stop talking to each other over email and blog pages and online messaging…

and this is home, right, where everything is so familiar and she can remember bus routes and street names and directions and places without really remembering everything and where routines have become so instinctive she managed to find her way home despite all the buildings and landmarks and trees being lost…

this is home, right, where the heart is?

so why is it that she doesn’t think about anything but going back?

and finally, I see;
you mean a lot to me.

with you; coffee and cake

and climbing up to the middle of nowhere

in a sea of lights, immersed in the darkness

we sat, you took off your shoes, and we talked

i never really thought about you this way

but i like you,

and finally, I see;

you mean a lot to me.

About;

I have lived on this Earth 18 years, barely was around for two, remember important events from the last five (and humiliating events from the last 10) and really ever only enjoyed a few weeks.

I cannot play the guitar. Technically I can, but technically I can fly too. I can play the G, C, A-minor, E, all of Hey There Delilah, most of chasing cars (the chorus is tetchy), the solo of When September Ends, most chords but F in the first two verses of Qing Fei De Yi, and the three simple reasons I learnt the guitar were, in order of importance at the time; to one day play God Knows, to impress girls, and to reconcile my endless lyric-writing with musical composition. The fact that I know zero musical theory has yet to hit me and render the third reason pointless.

I have four pairs of shoes, and three of them share ten holes between them. I don’t know why, I’m quite sure I haven’t played football in the last one. I want to buy two pairs of new shoes, one for running, and one for football or sports or general vanity.

I am incredibly self-conscious, and worry all the time. It probably doesn’t help that I have late nights (thus, eyebags) and erratic living/eating patterns (read: army, and thus, acne), nor that I have no idea how to style my hair.

Sometime in the future, I promise myself, I will finish that heroic/fantasy storyline I have, actually write it and show it to some people, serenade somebody with the guitar, write a song, fall madly in love, have a fling (still undecided on pre-marital sex, but leaning heavily towards no), score a goal in football, celebrate wildly, and crack a spontaneous joke about something other than sex.

I am Ink, Black.

sleep

well, no, there is nothing quite like sleep

nothing as pleasant or unpleasant,

nothing as quiescent.

“I’ll swop you”

Donna and Daniel sat in a tree. No, they weren’t kissing, although if you knew a bit about them you might expect them to. They met each other young, and grew up together through puberty, that trying, difficult time. They bonded together over adversity and cliques eager to outcast them. Neither could remember exactly what sparked the first contact between the two, but they hit it off and never looked back.

If you knew a bit more about them you would understand why they were not kissing. Compatible and complimentary as they were, they really weren’t suited for romance.

Daniel dangled his long skinny legs out of the tree, lanky limbs draped around branches like half a spider. It was rare that he went out in the sun, for he wanted to avoid tanning his beautiful pale skin, and so today he wore a cap. Donna had spent the walk from their homes yanking his ponytail through the hole in the back.

Donna looked down at him from a higher branch. It was, he reflected, a pity. Such a pretty girl, she could be so beautiful, and yet she dressed like a boy, moved like one, spoke like one, and was too often mistaken for one. He had to concede, though, that she knew what to do with her hair. Her face, framed by curls or long hair, would be a quiet statement of beauty; with her short, close-cropped fringe, it became a question of androgyny. She had a good figure, hidden under her baggy, boyish clothes – it made her look like a short, underfed boy, which was a sin against her beauty. He frowned at her. She could be so beautiful, and yet…

.

Donna looked down at Daniel, artfully stretched out over the branches. He was tall, and though not particularly strong and fast, pretty good with sports. He was never really interested, preferring to paint or draw or play his piano, and yet he could pick up a racket and go toe-to-toe with the best of them. His height and incredible jumping ability made him a target of the basketball, track, football and volleyball team, but he ignored them all, saying he had ‘better things to do’.

He could’ve been a star, she thought. Could’ve done anything. He had been skinny since seven, but she suspected if he trained for it he could’ve had six-packs and bulging pectorals by seventeen. It didn’t hurt that he was blessed with an exceptionally good-looking face, didn’t hurt that he was as beautiful as a girl (and delighted in it). He could’ve had everything.

“You’re so awesome,” and too late, she realised she had vocalised her thoughts. The beak of the cap came up as he raised an eyebrow at her.

“Thank you. I’m not sure I deserve it, but thank you. You’re beautiful.”

“Don’t call me that. I don’t want to be beautiful. I’d much rather be awesome.”

Daniel laughed. “Well, I can’t help you there – I’m definitely not awesome. But you are beautiful, definitely.”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, I know,” started Daniel brightly. “I’ll swop you.”

“What?”

“Here, I’ll swop you. Then you can be awesome and I’ll be beautiful.”

“Don’t be stupid. What the hell are you going on about?”

“I’ll swop you. You don’t want to be beautiful, right? And I’m not sure why you think I’m awesome, but I’d rather be beautiful than awesome. So let’s swop, and then we can both be happy.”

“You’re an idiot.” She threw a leaf at him, and turned away.

“Come on, don’t you want to swop?” Daniel caught her hesitation. “Ah-hah! You do! So what’s stopping you?”

“The fact that it can’t be done?”

“You don’t know it can’t be done.”

“Alright, I want to swop. How do we do it?”

“I don’t know.” Danielle laughed brightly and leaned back into the crook of branches. Donavan snorted and threw another leaf down at her.

“Hey!”

“All that talk, and you don’t know how to swop after all.” Donavan spread his arms and leaned back. Danielle watched as he hug off the branch by his knees, dangling his body above her. “Boo.”

“All that muscle, and you don’t know how to use it. Gymnastics! Really manly sport there.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “I could’ve done gymnastics.”

“No you couldn’t, your boobs are too big.”

“Shut up!” Danielle crossed her arms over her ample chest and blushed. Donavan grinned at her.

“You’re really beautiful, you know?”

“I try my best.” She did. In fact, she did everything possible to preserve and maintain her beauty. She loved the beach, loved the sun and the wash of the sea, but she could never go as often as she liked; it would burn her fair skin. “You don’t look too shabby yourself – if only you let me dress you. Stop wearing all those baggy clothes, you’re wasting those muscles.”

“It’s a drag. Everybody expects me to be perfect. Everybody wants me to win everything. I can’t ever relax and mess around.” From hanging like a question-mark off the branch, Donavan easily returns to a sitting position. She can’t help but admire his athletic ability. “I’m tired of living with expectations.”

“You think your life is tough? Try mine. Try being perfect and beautiful, all the time.”

“I train every day! I’m not even supposed to be hanging around here, I’m supposed to be in the gym, doing weights.”

Danielle snorted and waved her hand. Then, looking up brightly with a smile, she started.

“Hey, I’ll swop you.”