The Day The Saucers Came
by Neil Gaiman.

That Day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and
stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed, to find out what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn’t notice because

That day, the day the saucers came, by some some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because

On the saucer day, which was zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-men’s nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold,
and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because

On the saucer-zombie-battling-gods
day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true
brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across
the land and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because

That day, the saucer day, the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day,
the day the great winds came
And snows and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling
us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of
the Time Machine day,
You didn’t notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call.

today, 8th of may
the weather was lovely
i'm so tired
a cinema
on your eyelids
playing
light
vacated
where
vanishing
only
the crack of light
soul
moth with no memory


low budget slow motion
soundtrack song for
the leaving scene


gather ye rosebuds
while ye may


'a certain slant of light'
by emily dickinson

There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.

None may teach it anything,
'Tis the seal, despair,-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 't is like the distance
On the look of death.

'Death of a Clown'
By Jon Gresham
Quarterly Literary Review Singapore (QLRS) Vol. 11 Apr 2012

My father believed laughter was the factor that drove civilisation forward. He believed it was the promise of laughter that lured people from dank, dark caves into brighter, communal places. For him there was no greater purpose in life than to cheer people up and make them laugh. With laughter people can rise above any challenge. This is what he told my mother anyway before he left us.

When I was little he sat at nighttime on the end of my bed, told jokes and explained elaborate pie-throwing routines. He had a large forehead and magnificent eyebrows. The last prayer before sleep was a request for more grace and giggling in performance. On the morning of my first day of school, he bent down and spoke close to my nose, "In my genes is the ability to be funny. I pass these genes to you. It's your turn now. Go son. Deliver laughter to the world."

I had no idea what he was talking about. My mother hugged me. As I walked to school I heard cackles recede behind me.

He was Clown No. 1 at Tai Than Kew Circus. He made people laugh; really, really laugh. He cracked them up. They didn't just chuckle. They shook all over, bent double, unable to speak. They were overwhelmed; saliva dripped from the chin, guts twisted up. They laughed with every sinew and cell. They found in him an effortless release from all their worries. He gave them joy. And they laughed like they were falling in love and running, hand in hand, over a cliff without a care in the world.

Finally, one day he left home to lead them. I remember standing at the bedroom door watching him drag a suitcase from under the bed and toss in wigs, packets of noodles, large men's trousers, fur handcuffs, shiny red noses, a variety of squirting plastic flowers and Tabasco sauce. He told my mother it was only for the summer while the show toured Sandakan, Ceylon and Hawaii. We stood at the door as he waved goodbye. He kept rubbing his eyes. But he wasn't crying. He had tiny specks of white face powder left in his eyelashes long after the previous evening's entertainment ended. He didn't make eye contact with mother. He was smiling too much and looked ever so happy.

That warm, elegant lady, my mother had no choice but to let him go. She knew he wasn't coming back. Her health deteriorated. She died of a torn up, trodden on heart. I survived by forgetting his clowns and everything about him.

After he finished the circus tour he performed in a Teochew troupe, wrote the South-east Asian edition of Clowning for Dummies and established a Bouffon-inspired Clown School in Outram Park. He created a movement … a hilarious new form of spirituality. His followers were everywhere. He was their funny little man, their showman extraordinaire, mime artiste, guffawing guru and genius clown - their Papa. Pity he wasn't mine. He was a right bastard. I may have his genes but I never ever had a father. What little time we spent together I'd rather forget. And if I could not forget I'd kill him.

when i think of folklore, i think of a period in my life, probably 8-13
i read anything i could get my hands on
from agatha christie to two of a kind, to weird bounty hunter series
i think it was called 'janet evanovich'
felt like i was stuck in a bad softcore porn hilly billy trailer park tv series
except she was rich and successful, and gorgeous. apparently
it was horrible. i read the whole series, twice.

my best book series experience was probably
lemony snicket's 'the series of unfortunate event'
although not exactly folklore
the stories had elements and themes of myths and legends
and probably superstition
it was almost a luxury to read.
find it amusing that it is listed as
'gothic/absurdist fiction' and 'steampunk'

another exceptional writer in this genre is yeats
of course.
remember reading 'the celtic twilight' & 'irish fairy & folk tales'
of kings and warriors, and cats, and land and water faeries, and evil spirits

neil gaiman's 'american gods' is also fantastic
'it's a god-eat-god-world!', said sir terry pratchett

"it's what people do. they believe, and then they do not take responsibility for their beliefs; they
conjure things, and do not trust the conjuration. people populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods,
with electrons, with tales. people imagine, and people believe; and it is that rock solid belief, that
makes things happen."

bought eastern heathens last friday and finished it today
i especially liked 'Fox Wedding' and 'A Girl and a Guy in a Kijang in Kemang'
enjoyed reading the description of the folktale at the end of each short story.

folktale #2
the fox fairy has been mention in numerous cultures,
featuring prominently in Japanese and Vietnamese mythology, as well
as Pu Songling's Strong Stories from a Chinese Studio. a story on
the fox fairy typically revolves around a man catching a fox woman,
seductive and beautiful; he imprisons her to either make her his wife,
or obtain good luck and fortune for himself. sometimes the man's
plan backfires, forcing him to escape from the fox's spell instead;
sometimes the fox fairy's real form is revealed, causing the fairy
to flee, and the man to miss the woman he loves.

folktale #7
the sad tale of Sangkuriang chronicles how the son of a woman
flees his village and returns, many years later, falling in love with his
mother and demanding her hand in marriage. the full scope of its
sorrow is summarised in the story as told by the son in A Girl and a
Guy in a Kijang in Kemang.


would recommend this to those who're sick to death reading american folklore.
would not recommend some stories to be read after 11pm.

went on a boat yesterday and made a video.

Othello act I, scene I