Seal - Kiss from a Rose Interpretation

Here is my interpretation of this song, an intriguing and dark song with many underlying meanings and messages it is trying to convey to the unaware listener.

“Kiss From A Rose”

There used to be a graying tower alone on the sea.
You became the light on the dark side of me.

There is a lonely lighthouse in the middle of the sea (him), and she “became” the light of his lighthouse that is on the dark side of him (implying he is the dark shadow of the lighthouse itself).

Him = Lighthouse
Her = Light on the Lighthouse

Love remained a drug that’s the high and not the pill.

He is deeply obsessed with the “light” which he admits it is his “love” and brings him a “high”.

But did you know,
That when it snows,
My eyes become large and
The light that you shine can be seen.

When it snows, the light (her) on the lighthouse allows the lighthouse (him) to be seen.

Baby,
I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the gray.

This is a very contrasting statement “rose on the gray”.

Rose = Bright red and vibrant
Grey = Dull and boring

“Rose on Grey”

= She is the brightness of his dull grey boring life.
= She is a red blossoming flower that lights up his world of grey
Ooh,
The more I get of you,
The stranger it feels, yeah.

Somehow, this has signs of something obsessively wrong or strange/unacceptable. It might be a forbidden love, akin to taboo love like necrophilia or incest, or racial differences in this context. The contrast of “grey” (him) and “rose” (her) is the taboo here. How can a grey lighthouse end up with a rose?

And now that your rose is in bloom.
A light hits the gloom on the gray.

She is a blossoming rose, and he is a gray gloomy (old/boring) man, and she lights up his life with her presence and prospect of procreation.

…But is it possible for them to have a happy ever after when they are two worlds apart?

There is so much a man can tell you,
So much he can say.
You remain,
My power, my pleasure, my pain, baby

MY POWER, MY PLEASURE, MY PAIN! These are the three strongest words in his whole song that he is literally shouting it out loud for the world to hear. This is the whole meaning of this song, the main central theme. She is the center of his life, his “light on the dark side of me”, his power, his pleasure and his pain. It is a love that is forbidden yet obsessive, twisted with pleasure and pain, power and helplessness. There is so much contrast in his love for her, that he is becoming addicted (in the next verse).

To me you’re like a growing addiction that I can’t deny.
Won’t you tell me is that healthy, baby

He finally admits it - he is addicted to this forbidden yet obsessive love spell this rose has cast on him.

The Secret of the Magic Pies

In a cafe down in Hawthorn
That serves magic pies
A taste, and it will become an addiction
It was famous far and wide
Everyone wanted a bit of the magic pie.

I asked the owner one day
“What is the secret to the magic pies?”
He replied,
“The secret is in the kitchen.”
And smiled a wide grin.

One night, in the dead of the night
I picked the kitchen lock to discover
the secret of the pies

To my astonishment, there was an old woman
With a big metal ball chained to her ankle
Her hands feverishly rolling the dough on the table
There was a thousand pies stacked up to the ceiling!

She looked at me with her red sinister eyes
Her skin as pale as white flour
And gave a ghostly shriek
That sent me running away.

I Kissed Philip Thiel

I kissed Philip Theil, and was part of his quest to kiss a different person each day for 365 days. We met at the Emerging Writer’s Festival opening night and went to his place for dinner. We had a friendly kiss at the door and had a delicious french cooked meal by his partner.

Apparently, there is a safe in their apartment that was sealed when they moved in. We came up with lots of theories on what could be behind the door, including gold bars or yucky corpses. I am in the process of constructing a poem based on “The Safe” and it will be uploaded soon! 

A Class of 40

In a class of 40 students
There was a boy who did not remember his name
He did not remember his parents or home
He did not remember to bring his pencil box either.

He asked his classmate
A boy of his age sitting beside him
If he could borrow a pencil

His classmate refused
Although he had a box full of pencils.
He never shared anything he had.

- - -
In a class of 40 students
A teacher noticed a boy who did not bring his homework
“Stand at the back of the class!” she shouted at the boy.
The poor boy became the laughing stock of the class.

- - -
In a class of 40 students
There was a boy who suffered from forgetfulness
No one knew and no one noticed.
He never came back to class the next day
He is still no where to be found

——

The Little Black Book

Death Cost Twice as Much As Sex

Today I went to a book fair
There was two books for sale
One was a book on DEATH
And the other, a book on SEX

“The DEATH book costs $10 and the SEX book, $5”
A guy with blue eyes at the counter said.

“And why does DEATH cost twice as much as SEX?”
I asked curiously.

“It takes twice the courage to die than to have sex.”
He answered.

“How about, we do some love making before I kill you.”
I seduced him with my fingers and lured him away to a dark place.

– - -

“Mummy, where is daddy?”
A child with blue eyes asked.

“He disappeared right after you were created.”

I smiled and looked at the bare patch of the garden.

——

The Little Black Book

My Little Black Book

I have acquired a little black book from the Emerging Writer’s Fair 2010 for $2 and decided to set a task to doing it justice for such a pretty looking thing. From now on, I will update a post every other day on my new poetry works (written in the book while travelling on the train/writing in cafes around Melbourne). After completion of the poetry series, I will compile them and put them up for sale (muahaha!)

While they are free, my loyal readers should be the first to read them anyway. A word of warning although - they are morbid (morbid = double espresso of darkness).

The first work will be updated tomorrow, its time to bookmark my blog on your RSS feeds

Avicularia

Michael loves tarantulas, and this pet he has is named after me.

I just love those water glaring eyes of hers… she looks so pretty as a grown up now!

Melbourne IS the place for Writers

After traveling around the world in the beginning of the year - from Singapore - Japan - New York - Washington - Los Angeles - New Zealand - Australia, visiting overly industrialized cities that looked like they are out of a science fiction movie, I decided Melbourne is the best place for writers to be. Here are the top 10 reasons why I love this city:

1. Melbourne is a City of Literature

2. The coffee in ANY cafe BEATS Starbucks in America, anytime. (In New York, I was deprived of my usual cup of latte in an European cafe. The only places for coffee is no other than Starbucks, located in every block. There are probably a few hundred of them in Manhattan alone. And they suck.

3. Cafe Culture + Good Coffee = Better Writers
(Notice that Edinburgh (another city of literature, also the home ground of J.K Rowling) also boosts a vibrant cafe culture)

4. Friendly, nice people with social encounters everyday.
(see my previous entries with the cafe owner)

5. Relaxed pace of life, and “no worries” mentality

6. Cafes tie up with local poets and offer them free coffee to be their in house cafe poet.

7. Road kill, kangaroo and emu meat fuels a writer’s diet. (ok I was not serious)

8. Multiculturalism, unlike the Americans, a typical Australian would know that Singapore is NOT part of China, but is located in South East Asia.

9. General acceptance of individualism (and being different from the rest), an encouraging community that support the literature scene with writer’s groups, writer’s networking sessions, writer’s courses, newsletters… too many to name a few!

10. Freedom to Write whatever without being sued, repressed or told what to do.
(I am officially SICK of having a limited freedom of expression in my own repressive homeland and our basic human right is the freedom of expression.)

And also, for personal reasons, to escape from the traditional backward Asian mentality that is overly conformist, suppressive, limiting, and the myopic mindset of being in a tiny island. An overemphasis on material possessions and superficial beauty. It is precisely the nemesis of everything I am not.

Not to forget, my very supportive and encouraging partner who tells me to write more “I eat men for breakfast” vampy stories.

These are the reasons on why I have not been writing in my blog as often as before because most of my writings are done in cafes in notebooks. This gives me an excuse to stay off my computer screen and go out of my home. I might or might not choose to display my writings. They have took on a wild raging force that stems out of my pen out of truth and honesty.

Summer in Autumn

Melbourne has a funny way of expressing herself. Her mood is unpredictable, be it hail in the middle of summer or 30 degrees in winter, I would say, to live with her, you got to prepare for her “swings”.

During the last two weeks, it was an average of 16 degrees as the season approaches the winter months. Daylight savings resumed as days become shorter and nights become longer. All of a sudden, Melbourne decides to go into her freakish mood swings again and its now 27 degrees like the old days of summer. And yes, it is supposedly a week towards winter!

Picking up a university newspaper in caulfield monash, I examined our future geologists explanation to his unnatural weather phenomenon. They say, nature is leashing its fury back at us, and we got our grandparents, parents, and probably - industrial revolution to blame for causing weather calamities by polluting the environment, making it inhospitable and unsustainable for us, our children and grandchildren - so on.

I remembered my previous landlady paranoia that one day Australia will dry up of water (as it is the driest continent on earth) and that they would have to revert back to the olden days of retrieving water from wells. “I will migrate to Canada when that happens” I eavesdropped while she was talking over the phone. “Canada has lots of snow, so there will be no water shortage!” She laughed, as I looked at the pigmentation on her dimples caused by the sunny tropical malaysian climate she used to come from. “Don’t use too much water!” she hissed as I was washing the dishes. I jumped in shock and nodded my head. Reminding myself to take a 4 minute shower with a timer to cool her paranoia.

Back to my current apartment, I folded my winter clothes back into my cupboard and took out my summer dresses (again). In glee, I consoled myself that I looked better in tiny dresses anyway. And reminded myself not to buy anymore dresses when back in Singapore, for it would be too bloody cold to wear them till November.

As usual, I went to the local cafe. Andy (the cafe owner) saw me walking towards him and he greeted me warmly.

“Here for coffee?”

“No, I can’t. I have sleep disturbances. I have to stay off caffeine for a while.”

“We could arrange for a decaffeinated coffee for you. Not to worry.”

“Really? That’s great. Its quite sunny today isn’t it?”

“Its strange, it might be the weather you know, and your body is not attuned to the weather changes and thus mixing your body rhythm up. I do not think it is the caffeine.”

“Interesting. That might be true.”

I pondered over his theory over a cup of large decaffeinated latte, as my mind became messed at the taste of latte without the usual caffeine hit, confusing my “body signals” further. Feeling messed from decaffeinated coffee, lethargic from waking up 1pm, and being burnt by summer rays in autumn, I returned home to write this senseless article.

I don’t write about butterflies.

After a heavy lunch, I crawled lazily into an Italian cafe to order a usual cup of latte. It took me quite a while to start writing, and my pen spilled 10 pages magically. I gave a sigh of relief as I had found an ideal place to do my writings without paying $6 per day to travel on the train.

The cafe owner was rather friendly, and noticing my feverish attempt to scrawl pages on my notebook, he curiously asked,

“Are you writing a book?”

“Yes I am, I have been falling asleep every time I do so at home.”

“What kind of novel are you writing?”

“Dark. Horror fiction.”

I saw his expression change a little as he probably expected a little girl to write about butterflies.

“Read this. It is by my favourite author,” he placed a book on my table. The title was One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

“Thank you!” to be honest, I was surprised that the Melburnians courtesy extended this far, I guess I must have made quite an impression.

“Keep me updated with your progress,” He winked.

I might be in some sort of writer’s heaven or something. Never did it come across my mind that I could be in a place so supportive and encouraging. Upon further inspection into the writing community, almost every university or tafe offers creative writing courses. There is Victorian Writers Center, Australian Poetry Center, numerous writing groups… and a literary culture with the highest density of writers and bookstores in Australia.

There is a program on becoming an in-house “cafe poet”. The poet alliances the cafe and does his poetry writing there in exchange for free coffee. The poet offers his services by writing about the cafe, writing for patrons in the cafe and so on. I was rather tempted to take up such an offer but I realised I have not been actively writing poetry.