Black Jack and Pinoko, sitting in the tree *scalpelled!*

State of mind: ...pink.
Current soundtrack: Dance Dance Mweeblution - EVERYBODY NEEDS MUSIC (HOME MADE Kazoku)

Blast you Black Jack, for you are two-dimensional , scarred, dark smex appeal on legs. *huffs* Particularly after 'Pinoko's Birth' which aired over Animax yesterday. I find it quite appealing that he only seems to become marginally more squishy around her. Ii na~

Classes were good today. I think I'll leave it at that.

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The tree in front of my house is dying.

I've lived at my current address pretty much since I was born, and the wild cinnamon tree planted outside my house (illegally *cough*) has been there too, its canopy visible through the upstairs window. Its leaves shifted from pink to red to green to brown before the still, sharply veined forms dropped into the garden over the hedge, the dark green glossy hedge with the small tough leaves that bred the big white butterflies I never could catch. Our garbage can was attached to its trunk.

It was a good tree. Butterflies pupated in it. Birds nested in it and perched in it, and I learnt their names from a birdwatching friend in school. The words were like a new kind of poetry: mynah, magpie robin, koel, yellow-vented bulbul. Those were the days I turned over bricks in the garden to find slugs and millipedes, and caught the little purple butterflies off the little purple flowers that turned to miniature dandelions and would continue to do so even when plucked, rootless, and arranged in vases of tapwater.

It was even better when it stormed. The wind would moan ominously through the branches, and when the tempest started, the branches would wave in the howling wind, the canopy tossed here and there. It was strangely exciting to watch, wondering if something would happen but somehow safe in the universal truth that The Tree Would Not Fall.

Last year, my father trimmed the tree for some reason. Denuded it would be a better word. All that's left is a Y-shaped dark hunk of trunk and a sparse scraggly wisp of dead leaves on top. The only green is the langsuir fern in the low fork of the branches. Nothing perches or nests or pupates in it any more, and the tightly-woven hedge was uprooted and replaced with a bunch of standalone bushes, the light green of their leaves almost juvenile.

Now I'm sure my tree is dying, just as I had felt I was some moons ago. The rains make me fear for my tree, and the days where I turned bricks over in the garden are long gone.



(ETA 17/12/07 - Rest in peace, tree. We had to have it cut down because red ants were infesting it. :( )