in case u haven't noticed i've moved my blog (not again) to http://www.gzackz.typepad.com/

i'll also migrate some pretty, "priceless" stuff like poetry n some other shit i've written

basically i needed categories. which blogger n xanga can't give me

as u can see it's irritating 2 have 3 blogs to do 3 things

when u can have 1 tat has poetry, stories, etc etc

but then... i also want the freedom to customize oh well.. can't get everythin u wan sometimes...

MonkeyDog at 8:58 AM

PLEASE GO HERE INSTEAD IT'S ALL MOVED.

http://radio.weblogs.com/0151324/

MonkeyDog at 6:32 AM

in the midst of writing

"Her story... his story..."
http://herstoryhisstory.blogspot.com/

pls check back soon.

MonkeyDog at 8:01 AM

By some divine inspiration, I've decided to continue "The Philanthropist''. With that short story i've written as its prologue.

I was tiking about how to continue stories and make them as long as those i've read in books.

Thanks to Gabriel Garcia Marquez's autobiography, who help me see the joy of writing for its own sake, and Michel Houellebecq's novel "Atomised", who's contemporary writing seems so much the way i'd wanna write, I've now had many many instances of divine inspiration to make the story above REALLY LONG.

Ironically, both books i bought from the same shelf in Bugis Book Kinokuniya and both were bought with no plan to buy or read them at all at that time.. Spontaneous spending at its best. I won't deny it was the cover of the latter book that made me buy it. But nonetheless, what's contained in them is very inspiring, well, at least to me it is.

I'll need to research on major event on the world like wars, empires, great rulers etc etc tho.

MonkeyDog at 10:11 PM

Short Story : The Philanthropist

Gordon opens his eyes. He hardly could. He didn't need his eyes. His true repertoire of devices have suddenly apparent and available to him. Everything have now become clear to him inspite of folded eye lids.

Sobs can be heard. Without looking yet knowing, the world he have created in his inner and outer circles directly and indirectly have all arrived. The cars are lined up. The corridors are full. Friends and strangers alike.

"Father, this is Gordon." comes a voice of a familiar yet now not so.
"Erh... so i see..." came the reply of a much aged and weak murmur.

The priest surveys what he sees before approaching the bed side. Flabbergasted and dumbfounded, he was wondering what great honour he had of seeing this man off. Or should he say luck as would any other ordinary man would go. He resisted the temptation to let his thoughts drift to such heights of self-glorification through having this opportunity. In the old days of the Vatican they'd have called it, "A chance to buy penance." As any non-naive man should know, priest are still humans. "This", Father Xavier thought, "is not my chance to right my wrongs nor in future provide others with "free penance" becuase of this experience, but to provide a weary soul with a chance for providence and reconciliation. Especially if the one i am going to provide of such to, is one greater than I, and from above. Lord I thank thee."

For before him and only to Father Xavier's eyes lies a creature, humanoid in appearance; weary and skinny its bones; long and blue and old with its still untarnished sheen in its hair; and old strong yet enlightened its face; and last of all, at the torso's sides, great celestial wings of such remarkable grandeur and a light flows from them as would only Heaven would permit.

"You're not Gordon the philathropist, you're Michael."

MonkeyDog at 4:44 PM

(written on sept 1st 2005. this is completely spontaneous. doing guard duty now.)

The Perfect Strangers

The walk in her shakens the loins of the man. Hirsute skin shivers alive as if awakened from the cold breeze. A man's response, limp not his ownness, yet calm they must be to preserve his dignity. But whatever's left of that, is laid bare and he lies naked in spite of the layers. That's what happens when her eyes catches his. Fictional or real, he can't discern, her stare arises frm the crowd. He catches it. Wanting to look away but he's frozen by her beautyless beauty. Plain Jane's magic's neither cosmetically skin deep nor deprived from the curvatures of proportions. Their souls have yearned and now they've been found. Through the skies of the vast oceans, 2 great blues seek each other without flaws. Sweeping plains of sky do not separate a pair heaven-chained condors. High, unreachable earth of land spoils not a lovers' folly. Seas of sandy beaches do not bring the tides on destined starstruck crabs. He sees past the dance floor awashed with beige and tanned derma. Excreted water brings a shine to them drawing many a man but not him. He is transfixed. A step closer comes her. A thud his ears hear. She cuts the crowd lik knife through butter as would, he's to find out, his heart. Their faces so close, her pheromones reaches his nostrils. Her scent all at once intoxicating and mesmerizing. The bodies of pluto and the stars are astronomical and such thus is how the titillating play she's conceived is contriving his mind. Her cheeks touches his, "Slowly my dear," the words booming, echoing forever through his memories and drowning out the discotheque. The facial interplay, drawing passions from the dermis to the surface. They feel each other, taking their time. Lips unlocked as yet. He glides his nose up and down hers, but greed compells him to venture down her cheeks and neck and back. Her response, reciprocal and all too kindly of her. Their mouths ajar, breaths gasping. They feel each other's exhaling, the tension's mounting. They can't control it anymore and yet do not want to stop their little tease. Hormones are calling out for copulation. Her leg slithers between his both, stroking his groin. He has fascinations that she'd be of Argentinian origins. The sensual tango at last, seemingly coming to a fruition. Or is it? Deft suddenness is her move. His jaws ajar. The acuteness of the pain between his legs is of nothing he's ever experienced. It envelopes his senses. Hands close in on his crouch. His own of course. Slouched over and all over the floor. The agony's astounding. His ego's shattered. She looks down with those serpentine eyes. Her mouth bows and arcs, but a smirk she didn't create. An elegant curtsy and a twist, she skirts off.... He stumbled outta the cab. No. he fall outta the cab, and crawling towards his door. Cursing his naivete and soon, regretfully and forgivably, his entire family tree... He recovers his vitality slightly. He dosses his clothes into the washing bin. Spits another creative play of words at his somebody's mother. He heads to the sofa. Turns back suddenly. He dives into the laundry and surfaces with his trousers. His hands searching and finding, a lil note. His eyes widens and a smile distorts his face into a happy baby. He picks the phone and dials the number....

MonkeyDog at 8:14 AM

Long n short of it

In the long term, the galacticos n other stories can be written in logs and greater discretion. In the short term, i'm very tempted, and will most probably give into such, and write down some pretty spontaneous short love stories. Ppl like me no gf so would lik 2 fascinate about such a love life.

Expect them soon.

MonkeyDog at 10:59 PM