"High on diesel and gasoline,
psycho for drum machine
shaking their bits to the hits,
Drag acts, drug acts, suicides,
in your dad's suits you hide
staining his name again,
Cracked up, stacked up, 22,
psycho for sex and glue
lost it to Bostik, yeah,
Shaved heads, rave heads, on the pill,
got too much time to kill
get into bands and gangs,
Oh, here they come, the beautiful ones, the beautiful ones"
- Suede
lalalalala. what if i don't like you because you're so excessively happy & deliriously mad! we should all be completely rational and sit down and talk about it like grown men do, only then will you know all the love i have for you.
break my heart baby like the little glass cherry from the ornamental shelf in the monumental room.
and while you're at it baby just scream at everybody and drift your brain away to some blue lagoon.
7/02/2004
6/29/2004
Camel
Related: Vertebrates, or animals that actually have a backbone.
hoofed ruminant (mmm chew chew) of the family Camelidae. The family consists of three genera, the true camels of Asia (genus Camelus ); the wild guanaco and the domesticated alpaca and llama (who spits) , all of South America (genus Lama ); and the vicu�a , also of South America (genus Vicugna ), otherwise known as the evil fake camels. The two species of true camel are the single-humped Arabian camel, or dromedary, Camelus dromedarius, a domesticated animal used in Arabia and North Africa, and the two-humped Bactrian camel ( C. bactrianus ) of central Asia. Some wild Bactrian camels exist in Turkistan and Mongolia. The humps are storage places for fat. Camels range in color from dirty white to dark brown and have long necks, small ears, tough-skinned lips, and powerful teeth, some of which are sharply pointed. The camel uses the mouth in fighting, so don't piss it off. Adaptations to desert life include broad, flat, thick-soled cloven hoofs that do not sink into the sand; the ability to go without drinking for several days!!!�or longer if juicy plants are available, yum!; and valvular nostrils lined with hairs for protection against flying sand. Horny pads help to protect the chest, knees, and thigh joints against injury from the hard surfaces on which the camel sleeps. Strong camels usually carry from 500 to 600 lb (230 to 270 kg) and cover about 30 mi (48 km) a day. Some Bactrian camels can transport 1,000 lb (450 kg). A light, fleet breed of dromedary is used for riding and not for bearing heavy loads. The name dromedary was formerly applied to any swift riding camel. Geologic findings indicate that the camel originated in North America, that one group migrated to Asia and the other to South America, and that both became extinct in North America probably after the glacial period. Camels are classified in the phylum Chordata , subphylum Vertebrata, class Mammalia, order Artiodactyla, family Camelidae.
Related: Vertebrates, or animals that actually have a backbone.
hoofed ruminant (mmm chew chew) of the family Camelidae. The family consists of three genera, the true camels of Asia (genus Camelus ); the wild guanaco and the domesticated alpaca and llama (who spits) , all of South America (genus Lama ); and the vicu�a , also of South America (genus Vicugna ), otherwise known as the evil fake camels. The two species of true camel are the single-humped Arabian camel, or dromedary, Camelus dromedarius, a domesticated animal used in Arabia and North Africa, and the two-humped Bactrian camel ( C. bactrianus ) of central Asia. Some wild Bactrian camels exist in Turkistan and Mongolia. The humps are storage places for fat. Camels range in color from dirty white to dark brown and have long necks, small ears, tough-skinned lips, and powerful teeth, some of which are sharply pointed. The camel uses the mouth in fighting, so don't piss it off. Adaptations to desert life include broad, flat, thick-soled cloven hoofs that do not sink into the sand; the ability to go without drinking for several days!!!�or longer if juicy plants are available, yum!; and valvular nostrils lined with hairs for protection against flying sand. Horny pads help to protect the chest, knees, and thigh joints against injury from the hard surfaces on which the camel sleeps. Strong camels usually carry from 500 to 600 lb (230 to 270 kg) and cover about 30 mi (48 km) a day. Some Bactrian camels can transport 1,000 lb (450 kg). A light, fleet breed of dromedary is used for riding and not for bearing heavy loads. The name dromedary was formerly applied to any swift riding camel. Geologic findings indicate that the camel originated in North America, that one group migrated to Asia and the other to South America, and that both became extinct in North America probably after the glacial period. Camels are classified in the phylum Chordata , subphylum Vertebrata, class Mammalia, order Artiodactyla, family Camelidae.
6/28/2004
I am so tempted, on a night like this, to say something controversial like "Sometimes, I just don't understand love."
It's a quote which may have come from some famous 1940 movie, that people are still talking about even today, because they so disagree with it, because they are so charmed by it, because those with the stone hearts are vindicated by it and those with the hearts of velvet are so offended by it, that they consign the said hero involved to the dustbin of their pity.
Could I be less subtle? No. If I were to romanticise it I would be born in the shadows, blind even, like the cobra. And whatever plans the charmer has for me, or how my every movement is cued, is a secret which vanishes in the cavernous minds of ancient Indian ascetics as they are slaughtered one by one by the heavy hand of death. And soon they will have no sons to pass it too, for they have long forgotten the joys of parenthood, and will weep for lack of descendants to pass their ancient skill to.
I'm tempted not to care, knowing you could survive without it. In fact, you'd probably survive in spite of it. Ooooh magic & secrets, magic & secrets. I will draw your hand for you.
Hate, annoyance, spite. Do I have the ability to make you close this page right now. Be irritatingly fascinated by it, because you detest me? My paranoia has 4 walls, and they are closing in on me. There is a hidden lever in the side of the room, which, if you pull, will offer you an escape hatch that will plunge you out of this room and into the next level. The easier way, of course, would be to rearrange the bricks with your head.
You know of course, that all this is possible, that its mental tricks that will stop you from the evil one who would love to make you all insane. That said, it's not really that different from the sanitorium.
Like Fiona Apple reminds me of Delirium. Maybe she isn't. Maybe someone would smoke herself to death and happy herself to death and jump jump jump away to her death. I am a rubbishy person. My parents always taught me to study hard or I would be a rubbish collector. Rubbish collectors are icky people doing a noble job which no one else does. It's like when I have chewing gum on my hand. eww. but when I'm in the jungle I don't mind mud on me. Just that I'm in my house now and I'm nice and clean and I don't want to have chewing gum on my hand. Ban chewing gum. I like chewing gum.
It's a quote which may have come from some famous 1940 movie, that people are still talking about even today, because they so disagree with it, because they are so charmed by it, because those with the stone hearts are vindicated by it and those with the hearts of velvet are so offended by it, that they consign the said hero involved to the dustbin of their pity.
Could I be less subtle? No. If I were to romanticise it I would be born in the shadows, blind even, like the cobra. And whatever plans the charmer has for me, or how my every movement is cued, is a secret which vanishes in the cavernous minds of ancient Indian ascetics as they are slaughtered one by one by the heavy hand of death. And soon they will have no sons to pass it too, for they have long forgotten the joys of parenthood, and will weep for lack of descendants to pass their ancient skill to.
I'm tempted not to care, knowing you could survive without it. In fact, you'd probably survive in spite of it. Ooooh magic & secrets, magic & secrets. I will draw your hand for you.
Hate, annoyance, spite. Do I have the ability to make you close this page right now. Be irritatingly fascinated by it, because you detest me? My paranoia has 4 walls, and they are closing in on me. There is a hidden lever in the side of the room, which, if you pull, will offer you an escape hatch that will plunge you out of this room and into the next level. The easier way, of course, would be to rearrange the bricks with your head.
You know of course, that all this is possible, that its mental tricks that will stop you from the evil one who would love to make you all insane. That said, it's not really that different from the sanitorium.
Like Fiona Apple reminds me of Delirium. Maybe she isn't. Maybe someone would smoke herself to death and happy herself to death and jump jump jump away to her death. I am a rubbishy person. My parents always taught me to study hard or I would be a rubbish collector. Rubbish collectors are icky people doing a noble job which no one else does. It's like when I have chewing gum on my hand. eww. but when I'm in the jungle I don't mind mud on me. Just that I'm in my house now and I'm nice and clean and I don't want to have chewing gum on my hand. Ban chewing gum. I like chewing gum.
The beautiful game
I'm sitting here, on a Monday afternoon, feeling that I should be doing more important things. After a week in which I felt there was little time to spare, I finally have some breathing space, and I suddenly have no idea what to make of it!
Boys and their fascination with little games. To be frank, I love soccer not because it's the best game in the world, or has the most emotion, or anything, but because I play it, and generally when you're involved in something even watching it satisfies you somehow, or gives you the urge to lace up your boots and play. Unfortunately, on Monday afternoons, most other guys are probably working.
The point anyway, is to write about soccer today. Because my memories are not about just who loved me, who I loved, or big important issues of life and death. I am sure the games of my youth have an equal significance or some chance bearing on the rest of my life. Something like "Rosebud". And because EURO 2004 has been in earnest for the past month, and faced with a sudden void of matches for the next 3 days, I do something irrational like this.
You'll never walk alone
There never used to be live telecasts of matches every week, if my memory doesn't fail me, and perhaps my earliest memories of watching soccer was "the history of the fa cup", where we would see the great feats of teams such as liverpool and everton. Live telecasts were probably of the FA Cup too, and my dad and my grandpa would go "jip" when someone scored.
Liverpool in the 90's was a declining force but they had the support of people like ym dad who saw them through the all-conquering days of the 90's. There was no S-League then, but all the same, our national team was wearing red and it was fashionable then to support teams wearing red "Arsenal, Man Utd, Liverpool, and our Lions." Apart from memories of the Malaysia Cup and Sea Games, perhaps liking Liverpool was more an adverse reaction to people who supported Man Utd, plus Robbie Fowler was probably the best damn striker there was. It was an age where I still loved the underdogs, where I would even hope for Utah Jazz or the Phoenix Suns to beat the Bulls.
My first major tournament was WC 94, when we loved Brazil. I was still in badminton then, and I remember training and there was this TV outside the hall and I would be distracted by Emmanuel Ammunike scoring against Bulgaria. (i think). Eventually, it led to me not playing badminton and joining soccer, where I started out as a left back because I hadn't much pedigree yet.
I soon progressed to left midfield, or sometimes the left central holding role, not because I was naturally left footed, but at least I could use both feet. It was frustrating however because I didn't feel I was contributing much in terms of creativity because I'm not used to surging runs or dribbles.
After some time though, I was lucky to be able to advance to a forward's position because I started shooting a lot during matches and somehow they went in. I liked that more because it was easier for me to play without the ball, to make runs, to shoot, and generally have a few neat touches, and let the playmakers have a field day.
I enjoyed these youth tournaments a lot, even the street soccer ones, and they'll stay with me.
Football is leisure now for me and sometimes watching soccer's lost some of its appeal, especially when you've watched it for over 10 years and sometimes few things surprise you. And yes I do bet, so I'm not all for the "purity" of the game, but I guess its just another addition to my interest, trying, foolishly sometimes to analyse how games go, because sometimes a game just doesn't kick it for me anymore. Then, now and again we're treated to something like Holland vs Czech Republic or England vs Portugal. Of course, the games that would stay in your memory are those that really mattered to you, whether it was Liverpool's FA Cup comeback against Arsenal, Singapore's triumph over Pahang, or even that match where you lost a hundred bucks on Italy. Or, to end off on the winning note, recouping your losses on the final. Heh. Good luck brothers.
I'm sitting here, on a Monday afternoon, feeling that I should be doing more important things. After a week in which I felt there was little time to spare, I finally have some breathing space, and I suddenly have no idea what to make of it!
Boys and their fascination with little games. To be frank, I love soccer not because it's the best game in the world, or has the most emotion, or anything, but because I play it, and generally when you're involved in something even watching it satisfies you somehow, or gives you the urge to lace up your boots and play. Unfortunately, on Monday afternoons, most other guys are probably working.
The point anyway, is to write about soccer today. Because my memories are not about just who loved me, who I loved, or big important issues of life and death. I am sure the games of my youth have an equal significance or some chance bearing on the rest of my life. Something like "Rosebud". And because EURO 2004 has been in earnest for the past month, and faced with a sudden void of matches for the next 3 days, I do something irrational like this.
You'll never walk alone
There never used to be live telecasts of matches every week, if my memory doesn't fail me, and perhaps my earliest memories of watching soccer was "the history of the fa cup", where we would see the great feats of teams such as liverpool and everton. Live telecasts were probably of the FA Cup too, and my dad and my grandpa would go "jip" when someone scored.
Liverpool in the 90's was a declining force but they had the support of people like ym dad who saw them through the all-conquering days of the 90's. There was no S-League then, but all the same, our national team was wearing red and it was fashionable then to support teams wearing red "Arsenal, Man Utd, Liverpool, and our Lions." Apart from memories of the Malaysia Cup and Sea Games, perhaps liking Liverpool was more an adverse reaction to people who supported Man Utd, plus Robbie Fowler was probably the best damn striker there was. It was an age where I still loved the underdogs, where I would even hope for Utah Jazz or the Phoenix Suns to beat the Bulls.
My first major tournament was WC 94, when we loved Brazil. I was still in badminton then, and I remember training and there was this TV outside the hall and I would be distracted by Emmanuel Ammunike scoring against Bulgaria. (i think). Eventually, it led to me not playing badminton and joining soccer, where I started out as a left back because I hadn't much pedigree yet.
I soon progressed to left midfield, or sometimes the left central holding role, not because I was naturally left footed, but at least I could use both feet. It was frustrating however because I didn't feel I was contributing much in terms of creativity because I'm not used to surging runs or dribbles.
After some time though, I was lucky to be able to advance to a forward's position because I started shooting a lot during matches and somehow they went in. I liked that more because it was easier for me to play without the ball, to make runs, to shoot, and generally have a few neat touches, and let the playmakers have a field day.
I enjoyed these youth tournaments a lot, even the street soccer ones, and they'll stay with me.
Football is leisure now for me and sometimes watching soccer's lost some of its appeal, especially when you've watched it for over 10 years and sometimes few things surprise you. And yes I do bet, so I'm not all for the "purity" of the game, but I guess its just another addition to my interest, trying, foolishly sometimes to analyse how games go, because sometimes a game just doesn't kick it for me anymore. Then, now and again we're treated to something like Holland vs Czech Republic or England vs Portugal. Of course, the games that would stay in your memory are those that really mattered to you, whether it was Liverpool's FA Cup comeback against Arsenal, Singapore's triumph over Pahang, or even that match where you lost a hundred bucks on Italy. Or, to end off on the winning note, recouping your losses on the final. Heh. Good luck brothers.
6/18/2004
Haven't been updating. Maybe it's EURO 2004. Compare this to the rest of what I wrote this year. It's absolutely horrendous. It's me taking 3 steps back.
When you called me, I was thinking one thing. "Maybe this is what guys are meant to do."
Well , of course, maybe I knew that all along, just that my personal philosophy differs.
Anyway. There you go. You took the trouble to call me up, I'll respect what you have to say. Perhaps you don't know my personality or anything and you never have to know, all i can hope for is that its reciprocated.
It's sometimes sad to think that there are so many lives. Inevitably, few matter, and the rest recedes into noise and static.
Strong words and firm action save the day. I'm very pleased with it. Then you will learn that personal suffering counts for little. History counts for little, and everything else has to count for little, for something to count more.
And A telling me about the person on acid who thought he was an orange. He took the kitchen knife and started peeling his flesh. Are we always so 'a-peeling'. cut things up to put them elsewhere. cut and paste.
Your all is partial, Prospero
My will is all my own
Your need to love shall never know
Me: I am I, Antonio,
By choice myself alone.
But my humour is not my own! I try to share it with all of you!
One note is jarring, Prospero,
My humour is my own
Tense Trinculo will never know
The paradox, Antonio
Laughs at, in woods alone.
Alone, alone, alone. Nothing better to say is it?
When you called me, I was thinking one thing. "Maybe this is what guys are meant to do."
Well , of course, maybe I knew that all along, just that my personal philosophy differs.
Anyway. There you go. You took the trouble to call me up, I'll respect what you have to say. Perhaps you don't know my personality or anything and you never have to know, all i can hope for is that its reciprocated.
It's sometimes sad to think that there are so many lives. Inevitably, few matter, and the rest recedes into noise and static.
Strong words and firm action save the day. I'm very pleased with it. Then you will learn that personal suffering counts for little. History counts for little, and everything else has to count for little, for something to count more.
And A telling me about the person on acid who thought he was an orange. He took the kitchen knife and started peeling his flesh. Are we always so 'a-peeling'. cut things up to put them elsewhere. cut and paste.
Your all is partial, Prospero
My will is all my own
Your need to love shall never know
Me: I am I, Antonio,
By choice myself alone.
But my humour is not my own! I try to share it with all of you!
One note is jarring, Prospero,
My humour is my own
Tense Trinculo will never know
The paradox, Antonio
Laughs at, in woods alone.
Alone, alone, alone. Nothing better to say is it?
6/10/2004
Mailman, bring me no more blues
I would have just gone to sleep today because I've just finished my last driving lesson (yes yes!) but I got an interesting mix of mail today.
Okay hrmm study in UK stuff from the British Council. GEPAA letter, and an interesting cardboard backed envelope that looked like most of the sponsorship ads i've been dealing with the past few weeks, cept that this was addressed to me.
Okay cool man. Whoever did this thing was guilty of a lot of effort. It's like wow, I wish I had this little knack of doing little things like this to make me happy. Really love it.
So of course, this is more or less a thank you but being the person I am, I always doubt a lot. Haha. Who the hell sent this to me. Suspects range from my sister to others... anyway... haha also felt a certain obligation to reply in some sort, as well as express the fact that yay!, but I'm still misconstrued, oh but maybe you know me more than I do myself, but just goes to show that what you like about yourself isn't what others like about you.
It's half hilarious and half spooky how the faces are blacked out and stuff... i don't know maybe because it's cause i always see these things in b grade hollywood thrillers... not to disparage the work, but anyway, enough already.
that's all i had to say, i had nothing further really.
I would have just gone to sleep today because I've just finished my last driving lesson (yes yes!) but I got an interesting mix of mail today.
Okay hrmm study in UK stuff from the British Council. GEPAA letter, and an interesting cardboard backed envelope that looked like most of the sponsorship ads i've been dealing with the past few weeks, cept that this was addressed to me.
Okay cool man. Whoever did this thing was guilty of a lot of effort. It's like wow, I wish I had this little knack of doing little things like this to make me happy. Really love it.
So of course, this is more or less a thank you but being the person I am, I always doubt a lot. Haha. Who the hell sent this to me. Suspects range from my sister to others... anyway... haha also felt a certain obligation to reply in some sort, as well as express the fact that yay!, but I'm still misconstrued, oh but maybe you know me more than I do myself, but just goes to show that what you like about yourself isn't what others like about you.
It's half hilarious and half spooky how the faces are blacked out and stuff... i don't know maybe because it's cause i always see these things in b grade hollywood thrillers... not to disparage the work, but anyway, enough already.
that's all i had to say, i had nothing further really.
6/06/2004
D-Day
I'm very moved by this whole spectacle of D-Day. You see, I'm sure all the dead people on Normandy's beaches, if you gave them a choice, would like to live rather than have this little spectacular celebrating the worst day of their lives. But glory is often thrust upon those who shun it.
You see, for many reasons, this event really could have had no significance to me. The war could have been won anyway. Maybe what would have affected my life more would be some landing on Japan which liberated my ancestors. But who knows. Maybe the factor that lost Normandy was that Rommel decided to return for his wife's birthday and Germany lost one of their most talented generals when they needed him the most.
Maybe it's the scale of it all, that it's probably one of the greatest beach-head landings and we'll never see millions shedding blood to invade people like that ever again, not in our time, nor would we want it. So it's a great sacrifice we all commemorate, the great stories. It calls back heroism on a large scale from a pretty much bygone era. It's a combering realisation that life is not all MTV and fun and games, and we should be grateful if it is.
And when the vestiges of the free world decide to send the finest of their generation to try and try again till they get their beach-head, still life must go on. Through all the darkness of war, Rommel still has a wife who has a birthday.
I'm always very delighted when people can describe the little things that make them happy. It makes me feel that they've all grown up, they can see past the immediate feelings and emotions that they have or realise that they have all this different emotions and feelings. That people are happy.
Back to WW2, I never took history past sec 2. I'm glad, that though i disagree with my father about many things, that he has still at least imbibed me with some sense of history. Maybe he left books about Stalin, Hitler and Churchill's own memoirs of the war lying around for that very purpose. More likely than not, he himself had an avid interest in history. Think about how much the English Language opened up for him, and for me.
I mean, just imagine the terror of facing a German heavy-machine gun. If you even get to see it at all when you've stepped out of a landing craft. It's something no amount of training's ever gonna achieve. But it's still important, to hone awareness about terrain, drills, and drills are what you fall back to when you're terrified.
And this ceremony probably helps Bush a lot. Reminds people that when you've made a mess, your job is to go out there and clean it. Did the US go to Iraq for oil?
Think about it. Bush may be horrible with economics, the environment, and general diplomacy. He lacks a lot in finesse and the media hates him, and probably a lot of other people because he's brash, rude and shouldn't be the U.S President cause there's probably someone smarter.
But in retrospect, I must say that going to Iraq was right. Yes on the record. There is nothing more fucked up than going to war and being betrayed by people at home. Ask the French at Dien Bien Phu, who got dud grenades with "vote Communist" on them.
You see, doubt the motives for going into Iraq. Oil, or just more tiresome U.S meddling in others affairs. Or what, Bush is just some daddy's boy who's playing around with other people's lives for his own glory and prestige.
Wait. what glory and prestige. Isn't the whole damn world against him? Think about it. He's the President of the United States. Sometimes that job involves having to sacrifice innocent lives.
Now I believe he's really in Iraq because he really means a difference. The reason why everyone hates him is why Iraq? It's like going to Vietnam to do community service on a 10-day overseas trip but doing nothing at home. But his thought together with the neo-cons...
Still won't vote him if I'd the chance because anyway, someone else could handle post-war Iraq better.
I'm very moved by this whole spectacle of D-Day. You see, I'm sure all the dead people on Normandy's beaches, if you gave them a choice, would like to live rather than have this little spectacular celebrating the worst day of their lives. But glory is often thrust upon those who shun it.
You see, for many reasons, this event really could have had no significance to me. The war could have been won anyway. Maybe what would have affected my life more would be some landing on Japan which liberated my ancestors. But who knows. Maybe the factor that lost Normandy was that Rommel decided to return for his wife's birthday and Germany lost one of their most talented generals when they needed him the most.
Maybe it's the scale of it all, that it's probably one of the greatest beach-head landings and we'll never see millions shedding blood to invade people like that ever again, not in our time, nor would we want it. So it's a great sacrifice we all commemorate, the great stories. It calls back heroism on a large scale from a pretty much bygone era. It's a combering realisation that life is not all MTV and fun and games, and we should be grateful if it is.
And when the vestiges of the free world decide to send the finest of their generation to try and try again till they get their beach-head, still life must go on. Through all the darkness of war, Rommel still has a wife who has a birthday.
I'm always very delighted when people can describe the little things that make them happy. It makes me feel that they've all grown up, they can see past the immediate feelings and emotions that they have or realise that they have all this different emotions and feelings. That people are happy.
Back to WW2, I never took history past sec 2. I'm glad, that though i disagree with my father about many things, that he has still at least imbibed me with some sense of history. Maybe he left books about Stalin, Hitler and Churchill's own memoirs of the war lying around for that very purpose. More likely than not, he himself had an avid interest in history. Think about how much the English Language opened up for him, and for me.
I mean, just imagine the terror of facing a German heavy-machine gun. If you even get to see it at all when you've stepped out of a landing craft. It's something no amount of training's ever gonna achieve. But it's still important, to hone awareness about terrain, drills, and drills are what you fall back to when you're terrified.
And this ceremony probably helps Bush a lot. Reminds people that when you've made a mess, your job is to go out there and clean it. Did the US go to Iraq for oil?
Think about it. Bush may be horrible with economics, the environment, and general diplomacy. He lacks a lot in finesse and the media hates him, and probably a lot of other people because he's brash, rude and shouldn't be the U.S President cause there's probably someone smarter.
But in retrospect, I must say that going to Iraq was right. Yes on the record. There is nothing more fucked up than going to war and being betrayed by people at home. Ask the French at Dien Bien Phu, who got dud grenades with "vote Communist" on them.
You see, doubt the motives for going into Iraq. Oil, or just more tiresome U.S meddling in others affairs. Or what, Bush is just some daddy's boy who's playing around with other people's lives for his own glory and prestige.
Wait. what glory and prestige. Isn't the whole damn world against him? Think about it. He's the President of the United States. Sometimes that job involves having to sacrifice innocent lives.
Now I believe he's really in Iraq because he really means a difference. The reason why everyone hates him is why Iraq? It's like going to Vietnam to do community service on a 10-day overseas trip but doing nothing at home. But his thought together with the neo-cons...
Still won't vote him if I'd the chance because anyway, someone else could handle post-war Iraq better.
This sounds very strange, but recently its as if I've lost the ability to be dissatisfied.
I can be pissed at some thing, but generally speaking I'm rarely dissapointed. Like, no matter how hard I try, its pretty hard for me to be depressed about something. Probably because I keep having things to do aah well so its no loss.
I don't know. I wrote in February how indelibly happy I was and I don't know it seems the same now. I'm just trying to figure out why I'm just generally happier than i was in general over the past years though it doesn't really seem that a lot has changed. Still no chick, no fame, no success, no glory. Hmm.
It's weird to be even talking about this because of cause there's the "commentators curse" Gosh. But maybe I'm trying to prevent irrational exuberance.
I can be pissed at some thing, but generally speaking I'm rarely dissapointed. Like, no matter how hard I try, its pretty hard for me to be depressed about something. Probably because I keep having things to do aah well so its no loss.
I don't know. I wrote in February how indelibly happy I was and I don't know it seems the same now. I'm just trying to figure out why I'm just generally happier than i was in general over the past years though it doesn't really seem that a lot has changed. Still no chick, no fame, no success, no glory. Hmm.
It's weird to be even talking about this because of cause there's the "commentators curse" Gosh. But maybe I'm trying to prevent irrational exuberance.
6/04/2004
I felt remarkably insane as I tried to sleep. I was unbelievably happy and brimming with optimism at 2345 hrs after reading some criticism or something. I think it's been developing since Thursday when some things my sister said about our society got me pretty depressed and unhappy. When I saw those wunder-kid soloists with their parents having their portfolios they didn't seem little bundles of innocence anymore.
But anyway! Mull mull mull. Then I realised, as I lay down, on a personal level, what could change. Many of us are disenfranchised or disenchanted with the system, want freedom, and its all brimming. Its either us or the next half generation that's gonna have the revolution. That's right, look out ladies, the times are a changing.
So life is shitty now. (Not really, just could be better). Never mind. I guess we're "it". As Philip Larkin put it, "sex began in 1963". We're the generation that's gonna be hippy, cool, or at least we're gonna let our children do it. The dropout generation. Paris in Summer 1960. Walk out of the ecoles. Jai Guru Deva Om. World Peace. Life began after the Beatles.
I don't know. Woohoo. I was crying. Gee whish. Why not me. Why can't I be in Singapore that has hallucinogenic drugs and legalised cannabis. I could be so much more than I am.
Haha. So nmind. Let my children do it. Give em enough money to spend. And when their hippie ways are over, they'll switch over seamlessly to yuppie lifestyles which their creative childhoods have prepared them for.
"You say you want a revolution yeah eh..."
Lennon
"So I'll start a revolution from my bed"
Oasis
I'm crying. gee. Sort of. Who the hell will see what I see. They have their own fantastic visions. I goddamn love em all. "All you need is love!"
Work on it. Phish. Who wanna make my babies? Ladies please watch out.
But anyway! Mull mull mull. Then I realised, as I lay down, on a personal level, what could change. Many of us are disenfranchised or disenchanted with the system, want freedom, and its all brimming. Its either us or the next half generation that's gonna have the revolution. That's right, look out ladies, the times are a changing.
So life is shitty now. (Not really, just could be better). Never mind. I guess we're "it". As Philip Larkin put it, "sex began in 1963". We're the generation that's gonna be hippy, cool, or at least we're gonna let our children do it. The dropout generation. Paris in Summer 1960. Walk out of the ecoles. Jai Guru Deva Om. World Peace. Life began after the Beatles.
I don't know. Woohoo. I was crying. Gee whish. Why not me. Why can't I be in Singapore that has hallucinogenic drugs and legalised cannabis. I could be so much more than I am.
Haha. So nmind. Let my children do it. Give em enough money to spend. And when their hippie ways are over, they'll switch over seamlessly to yuppie lifestyles which their creative childhoods have prepared them for.
"You say you want a revolution yeah eh..."
Lennon
"So I'll start a revolution from my bed"
Oasis
I'm crying. gee. Sort of. Who the hell will see what I see. They have their own fantastic visions. I goddamn love em all. "All you need is love!"
Work on it. Phish. Who wanna make my babies? Ladies please watch out.
6/02/2004
Une Saison en Enfer?
My belief in hell is a shaky one, given that it's so scary that it's hardly ever possible to imagine anyone remotely compassionate having to dream one up.
Unlike Rimbaud, I wasn't sodomized in the ass. I don't suffer from the same wounds he does, nor is my life governed by different poles of delirium or despair. I'd like to believe though, or at least that some things are the same. Like the terror of dying is the same whether or not you dream it or not. And the eighteenth level of hell was never scary because it was so fake.
I say this because at some point in time (JC) or so, I began losing this notion of individuality that I held to for most of my secondary school life, which seemed then like a method of survival. I was horribly inferior to most other classmates in different ways, so I just had to feel that well, I guess I felt more than them and was just horribly distracted and would eventually come good.
As I grew, I realised people are driven by very much the same needs and desires. To a certain extent, people feel the same way. Sort of realised this when I realised succesful people were more or less equally distracted by the same things and display the same vulnerabilities such as anger or rage or anything its just that they have this annoying way of timing them so that everything comes good.
That's not to say everyone's the same. I now believe other people, in fact, seem to be capable of feeling so much more (uh-huh), and I'm a cold rational person by the side of them, who happens to have some artistic sensitivity.
I Miss
Past is Prologue -Shakespeare?
In the beginning there was the Word.
The Word was made Flesh.
And Flesh brought desire.
Desire.
One of my strongest feelings... but why is it always associated with the present, and wanting things now? Desire can wait, and it can snake its way to the past and present itself to your subconcious in the most insidious of ways.
Life of 852 and of Tierney's Gourmet, where the very route spoke of the past. Past RI, Past Mt Alvernia's, past Serene Center when my friend asked me if I knew that I could get the best Portuguese canned sardines and Tierney's for 2 dollars a pop. Medicated oil, feng you smell.
I miss the little transactions of friendship. Cycling to Adam Road Hospital to interview a psychiatrist. Pretending to look at cans on a shelf. Waiting for someone at Macs.
Transactions nowadays are more complicated. Because things are worth more, they cost more. And you know, I really could do without the frills. Like fucking someone from the rear, or something like that. I don't need that. (sure you don't.) No, I'm a sexual creature, the same, but its traumatic, when the cost of that is to preen and act like you've the biggest dick around, mainly because it's the size of your head, be alternately sweet and yet be able to mark out your territory by peeing around it in a circle. Like I know, it's essential for evolution, that's why it sounds horrible in words, but I guess in reality actions are the evidence of impulses. cause and effect. and that's how you know.
i'd be fine with happiness, but who knows, I might bring in a squad of hitmen to kill you all because it would be good for you. Gosh why was Uma Thurman just rolling about on the floor crying "Thank you, thank you." It was to thank Bill for being the biggest bastard he could have been. It's what she deserves.
I'm no less eccentric or emotional. I don't really commit many social faux pas. I don't know what best friend means, cause I couldn't rank it if I tried. Maybe my best friend is someone who's a bastard for the best part of my life but who comes for me when it really counts. Can you count like that?
In sepia, pan to the sea.
Fishing, and the sea, and why it attracts old men.
I'm amazed by the wonder of nothingness. That so much nothing can exist. Granted, when you fish, you see the concomitant distractions, sailors and sailoresses from VJC, gigantic oil tankers. There's the sea, and my lousy fishing skills. I'm in charge of catching small ones for bait to catch big ones.
It's fantasy. The sunlight, "ai mai ai mai", want to shine don't want to shine. Cannot have a tan. You can indulge in your own fantasy. The thing in front of you could be a scene from your trip to Siberia next year, smoking into the nothingness in the biting cold.
Plenty of time to think and dwell, but your mind can only fix upon one thing at a time. Maybe I should buy flowers. Oh what the fuck. Just wait till I go to London and I can start afresh. Now and then, now and then is just a time to enjoy myself. All the little things, the minutiae, which are of little comport.
I could blame thousands of people. I could conduct the silent criticism I always reserve in my heart, only to rebuke it later. Fuck off from here if you don't like it, why bitch to me. Why don't you change things. Whatever. I'm staying here. I like the roads here, and all they remind me off. The roads elsewhere are empty. Blame the older generation for being so scary. I was really scared of them. Maybe they changed my destiny.
with the aged and empty streets too dead for dreaming...
hey mr tambourine man play a song for me
i'm not sleepy, and there is no place i'm going to.
Good luck to you. I hope some of my cynicism has brushed off on you. It's all that I could give you. I hope some day you'll thank me for it, but it's too much to ask.
My belief in hell is a shaky one, given that it's so scary that it's hardly ever possible to imagine anyone remotely compassionate having to dream one up.
Unlike Rimbaud, I wasn't sodomized in the ass. I don't suffer from the same wounds he does, nor is my life governed by different poles of delirium or despair. I'd like to believe though, or at least that some things are the same. Like the terror of dying is the same whether or not you dream it or not. And the eighteenth level of hell was never scary because it was so fake.
I say this because at some point in time (JC) or so, I began losing this notion of individuality that I held to for most of my secondary school life, which seemed then like a method of survival. I was horribly inferior to most other classmates in different ways, so I just had to feel that well, I guess I felt more than them and was just horribly distracted and would eventually come good.
As I grew, I realised people are driven by very much the same needs and desires. To a certain extent, people feel the same way. Sort of realised this when I realised succesful people were more or less equally distracted by the same things and display the same vulnerabilities such as anger or rage or anything its just that they have this annoying way of timing them so that everything comes good.
That's not to say everyone's the same. I now believe other people, in fact, seem to be capable of feeling so much more (uh-huh), and I'm a cold rational person by the side of them, who happens to have some artistic sensitivity.
I Miss
Past is Prologue -Shakespeare?
In the beginning there was the Word.
The Word was made Flesh.
And Flesh brought desire.
Desire.
One of my strongest feelings... but why is it always associated with the present, and wanting things now? Desire can wait, and it can snake its way to the past and present itself to your subconcious in the most insidious of ways.
Life of 852 and of Tierney's Gourmet, where the very route spoke of the past. Past RI, Past Mt Alvernia's, past Serene Center when my friend asked me if I knew that I could get the best Portuguese canned sardines and Tierney's for 2 dollars a pop. Medicated oil, feng you smell.
I miss the little transactions of friendship. Cycling to Adam Road Hospital to interview a psychiatrist. Pretending to look at cans on a shelf. Waiting for someone at Macs.
Transactions nowadays are more complicated. Because things are worth more, they cost more. And you know, I really could do without the frills. Like fucking someone from the rear, or something like that. I don't need that. (sure you don't.) No, I'm a sexual creature, the same, but its traumatic, when the cost of that is to preen and act like you've the biggest dick around, mainly because it's the size of your head, be alternately sweet and yet be able to mark out your territory by peeing around it in a circle. Like I know, it's essential for evolution, that's why it sounds horrible in words, but I guess in reality actions are the evidence of impulses. cause and effect. and that's how you know.
i'd be fine with happiness, but who knows, I might bring in a squad of hitmen to kill you all because it would be good for you. Gosh why was Uma Thurman just rolling about on the floor crying "Thank you, thank you." It was to thank Bill for being the biggest bastard he could have been. It's what she deserves.
I'm no less eccentric or emotional. I don't really commit many social faux pas. I don't know what best friend means, cause I couldn't rank it if I tried. Maybe my best friend is someone who's a bastard for the best part of my life but who comes for me when it really counts. Can you count like that?
In sepia, pan to the sea.
Fishing, and the sea, and why it attracts old men.
I'm amazed by the wonder of nothingness. That so much nothing can exist. Granted, when you fish, you see the concomitant distractions, sailors and sailoresses from VJC, gigantic oil tankers. There's the sea, and my lousy fishing skills. I'm in charge of catching small ones for bait to catch big ones.
It's fantasy. The sunlight, "ai mai ai mai", want to shine don't want to shine. Cannot have a tan. You can indulge in your own fantasy. The thing in front of you could be a scene from your trip to Siberia next year, smoking into the nothingness in the biting cold.
Plenty of time to think and dwell, but your mind can only fix upon one thing at a time. Maybe I should buy flowers. Oh what the fuck. Just wait till I go to London and I can start afresh. Now and then, now and then is just a time to enjoy myself. All the little things, the minutiae, which are of little comport.
I could blame thousands of people. I could conduct the silent criticism I always reserve in my heart, only to rebuke it later. Fuck off from here if you don't like it, why bitch to me. Why don't you change things. Whatever. I'm staying here. I like the roads here, and all they remind me off. The roads elsewhere are empty. Blame the older generation for being so scary. I was really scared of them. Maybe they changed my destiny.
with the aged and empty streets too dead for dreaming...
hey mr tambourine man play a song for me
i'm not sleepy, and there is no place i'm going to.
Good luck to you. I hope some of my cynicism has brushed off on you. It's all that I could give you. I hope some day you'll thank me for it, but it's too much to ask.
5/16/2004
Fast Car
you got a fast car
and I want a ticket to anywhere
maybe we make a deal
maybe together we can get somewhere
any place is better
starting from zero got nothing to lose
maybe we'll make something
but me myself I got nothing to prove
you got a fast car
and I got a plan to get us outta here
I been working at the convenience store
managed to save a little bit of money
we wont have to drive too far
just 'cross the border and into the city
you and I can both get jobs
and finally see what it means to be living
you see my old man's got a problem
he lives with the bottle that's the way it is
he says his body's to old for working
his body's young to look like his
my mama went off and left him
she wanted more to life than he could give
I said somebody's got to take care of him
so I quit school and that's what I did
you got a fast car
but is it fast enough so we can fly away we gotta make a decision
we leave tonight or live and die this way
I remember we were driving driving in your car
the speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
city lights lay out before us
and your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder
and I had a feeling that I belonged
and I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
you got a fast car
and we go cruising to entertain ourselves
you still ain't got a job
and I work in a market as a check out girl
I know things will get better
you'll find work and I'll get promoted
we'll move out of the shelter
buy a big house and live in the suburbs
you got a fast car
and I got a job that pays all our bills
you stay out drinking late at the bar
see more of your friends than you do of your kids
I'd always hoped for better
thought maybe together you and me would find it
I got no plans I ain't going nowhere
so take your fast car and keep on driving
you got a fast car
but is it fast enough so you could fly away
you gotta make a decision
you leave tonight or live and die this way
Tracy Chapman. Dreams can be so simple.
you got a fast car
and I want a ticket to anywhere
maybe we make a deal
maybe together we can get somewhere
any place is better
starting from zero got nothing to lose
maybe we'll make something
but me myself I got nothing to prove
you got a fast car
and I got a plan to get us outta here
I been working at the convenience store
managed to save a little bit of money
we wont have to drive too far
just 'cross the border and into the city
you and I can both get jobs
and finally see what it means to be living
you see my old man's got a problem
he lives with the bottle that's the way it is
he says his body's to old for working
his body's young to look like his
my mama went off and left him
she wanted more to life than he could give
I said somebody's got to take care of him
so I quit school and that's what I did
you got a fast car
but is it fast enough so we can fly away we gotta make a decision
we leave tonight or live and die this way
I remember we were driving driving in your car
the speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
city lights lay out before us
and your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder
and I had a feeling that I belonged
and I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
you got a fast car
and we go cruising to entertain ourselves
you still ain't got a job
and I work in a market as a check out girl
I know things will get better
you'll find work and I'll get promoted
we'll move out of the shelter
buy a big house and live in the suburbs
you got a fast car
and I got a job that pays all our bills
you stay out drinking late at the bar
see more of your friends than you do of your kids
I'd always hoped for better
thought maybe together you and me would find it
I got no plans I ain't going nowhere
so take your fast car and keep on driving
you got a fast car
but is it fast enough so you could fly away
you gotta make a decision
you leave tonight or live and die this way
Tracy Chapman. Dreams can be so simple.
5/14/2004
I remember Little Hanna, in "Emporte Moi", sitting in the cinema watching an old black and white reel of "Vivre Sa Vie", and being enchanted with Anna Karina, and her smoking her cigarette through the filter, and how the grayish smoke would play on the lovely bromide tinted lens.
Any shot of her from this movie would be of her smoking, and pensive. Her face would speak of glamour, and even her black hair would suggest something about how fiendishly dumb blondes are.
Is it possible to "vivre sa vie?" Let's hear her argument: "I think we are always responsible for our actions. We're free. I raise my hand, I'm responsible. I turn my head, I'm responsible. I am unhappy, I'm responsible. I smoke, I'm responsible. I shut my eyes, I'm responsible. There are times I forget I'm responsible, but even then I am."
And so she goes down the road of tragedy, a road that a lot of us eventually seem to end up in, mainly because we cast ourselves as victims in the gargantuan, solipsistic life we choose. And then we ask ourselves why, why , why, when I guess, we are responsible.
Everything means something. The smoke gives a feeling of peace, of languour, of defiance of time, of the minutes it takes off our lives? To smoke to spend quiet, lonely minutes so that we have less quiet, lonely minutes at the end of it.
How can you think that way? It's rather immature, or childish, or only looking at the surface, or lacking any deeper meaning, or downright cynical. But, to someone who wants to "vivre sa vie", I guess this would sometimes mean living by one's beliefs, no matter how misguided you think they are. Because you yourself are "vivre sa vie"ing and you have your own values, which may or may not be misguided. People live because( at least I do) they care about what their friends think of them, or maybe what their spouse thinks of them, or the worst of all what they think of themselves. And the only way not to think about it all is not to think, which is basically not to give a fuck, which i guess would be a belief system in itself. it's hard not to give a fuck though, so often there's an impression given that we don't give a fuck.
mirrors and mirrors and mirrors and mirrors. The infinite image seen in the 4 sided silver mirrored elevator is really just you.
"nothing's gonna change my world. nothing's gonna change my world. jai guru deva om."
Any shot of her from this movie would be of her smoking, and pensive. Her face would speak of glamour, and even her black hair would suggest something about how fiendishly dumb blondes are.
Is it possible to "vivre sa vie?" Let's hear her argument: "I think we are always responsible for our actions. We're free. I raise my hand, I'm responsible. I turn my head, I'm responsible. I am unhappy, I'm responsible. I smoke, I'm responsible. I shut my eyes, I'm responsible. There are times I forget I'm responsible, but even then I am."
And so she goes down the road of tragedy, a road that a lot of us eventually seem to end up in, mainly because we cast ourselves as victims in the gargantuan, solipsistic life we choose. And then we ask ourselves why, why , why, when I guess, we are responsible.
Everything means something. The smoke gives a feeling of peace, of languour, of defiance of time, of the minutes it takes off our lives? To smoke to spend quiet, lonely minutes so that we have less quiet, lonely minutes at the end of it.
How can you think that way? It's rather immature, or childish, or only looking at the surface, or lacking any deeper meaning, or downright cynical. But, to someone who wants to "vivre sa vie", I guess this would sometimes mean living by one's beliefs, no matter how misguided you think they are. Because you yourself are "vivre sa vie"ing and you have your own values, which may or may not be misguided. People live because( at least I do) they care about what their friends think of them, or maybe what their spouse thinks of them, or the worst of all what they think of themselves. And the only way not to think about it all is not to think, which is basically not to give a fuck, which i guess would be a belief system in itself. it's hard not to give a fuck though, so often there's an impression given that we don't give a fuck.
mirrors and mirrors and mirrors and mirrors. The infinite image seen in the 4 sided silver mirrored elevator is really just you.
"nothing's gonna change my world. nothing's gonna change my world. jai guru deva om."
5/11/2004
For the slim girl of 20 in the long-sleeved white pullover of incomplete opacity, with hints of black.
He, being typically strong and bold; flanked her italicised flair
with himself, dark and handsome; while she, wearing white for purity
told him,sotto voce; that her beauty wasn't everything, that her bleached whites concealed hints of black.
His small angular face;was, when smiled to
intermediately attractive.
as attractive as legs riding up pillion on a little vespa.
together they said, "we are in love because we are in dreams."
"i never played enough fighting games";"nor did I play much Barbie"
and they clicked in their common androgyny,
until, blended in one identity,
they could do no more, but ... wait.
for him to grow into his charms;and her silently sinuous
both hating easy crossword puzzles
and loving to look for wally.
(kepttogether by circumstance)
/
separated by
. punctuated pauses in conversation .
but never too far from joy!
He, being typically strong and bold; flanked her italicised flair
with himself, dark and handsome; while she, wearing white for purity
told him,sotto voce; that her beauty wasn't everything, that her bleached whites concealed hints of black.
His small angular face;was, when smiled to
intermediately attractive.
as attractive as legs riding up pillion on a little vespa.
together they said, "we are in love because we are in dreams."
"i never played enough fighting games";"nor did I play much Barbie"
and they clicked in their common androgyny,
until, blended in one identity,
they could do no more, but ... wait.
for him to grow into his charms;and her silently sinuous
both hating easy crossword puzzles
and loving to look for wally.
(kepttogether by circumstance)
/
separated by
. punctuated pauses in conversation .
but never too far from joy!
5/10/2004
i sometimes wish i was writing to someone. pour quelq'un. that the songs we listen to will cause us to stop and weep.
i don't get drunk often because i don't drink. when i do, i inevitable do become all out of kelter. i don't say rubbish. i think i think and feel rubbish, and it's an orange haze and just feeling out of sorts.
so you see, i went to law bash on saturday. saturday nights are event nights, or something, because nowadays everyone's only really free on weekends. it isn't really chilling out. going to a night, i realise, can be a really well choreographed routine.
i must confess i was bored. smoke in the room. in the middle of the dancefloor, and suddenly you can think about what would happen if the room blew up, or exploded into flame, like maybe some Israeli youths in a club in Tel Aviv. The bouncer would die. I would die. The happy people would die. The guy at the side laughing at the others would die. My friends would die, my strangers would die, the bar people will die, the DJ will die, the flirty one dies, the shy one dies.
3 am. Cab back, no supper. No time to write. Just sleep.
And the long languid Sunday. of which half disappeared because i chose to sleep till noon. and the prospect of the routine of another week. going to work, going for French, writing this blog.
And my contact with people feels diminished. How so? I am still going with my friends. I go with my colleagues at work. And there are these words. There is fishing and the sea, the big big sea. I have the stories and the well-meaning advice people tell me.
And not to think about it. To think that everyone is suffering equally.
Pause. Repeat. Think. Think of only the mistakes you have made. Regret and nostalgia in equal amounts. Convincing yourself that work, and getting things done is the way to redeem yourself, because you'd hate to be nothing more than a lazy self-indulgent slob who just happens to be smart, and so being humble and working hard can redeem all that.
And that happiness can be bought with sacrifice. Which will buy you an angel or two, at today's rates, enough to answer your prayers. i have my angel and my patron saint. you see, i would desire it all too. just not as much as you do. but the heart wants, it doesn't need, but it wants, wants, wants. desire. wants touch or joy or peace or love or whatever. quelquechose. quelq'un. and i sleep because i am tired, or i should, now.
i don't get drunk often because i don't drink. when i do, i inevitable do become all out of kelter. i don't say rubbish. i think i think and feel rubbish, and it's an orange haze and just feeling out of sorts.
so you see, i went to law bash on saturday. saturday nights are event nights, or something, because nowadays everyone's only really free on weekends. it isn't really chilling out. going to a night, i realise, can be a really well choreographed routine.
i must confess i was bored. smoke in the room. in the middle of the dancefloor, and suddenly you can think about what would happen if the room blew up, or exploded into flame, like maybe some Israeli youths in a club in Tel Aviv. The bouncer would die. I would die. The happy people would die. The guy at the side laughing at the others would die. My friends would die, my strangers would die, the bar people will die, the DJ will die, the flirty one dies, the shy one dies.
3 am. Cab back, no supper. No time to write. Just sleep.
And the long languid Sunday. of which half disappeared because i chose to sleep till noon. and the prospect of the routine of another week. going to work, going for French, writing this blog.
And my contact with people feels diminished. How so? I am still going with my friends. I go with my colleagues at work. And there are these words. There is fishing and the sea, the big big sea. I have the stories and the well-meaning advice people tell me.
And not to think about it. To think that everyone is suffering equally.
Pause. Repeat. Think. Think of only the mistakes you have made. Regret and nostalgia in equal amounts. Convincing yourself that work, and getting things done is the way to redeem yourself, because you'd hate to be nothing more than a lazy self-indulgent slob who just happens to be smart, and so being humble and working hard can redeem all that.
And that happiness can be bought with sacrifice. Which will buy you an angel or two, at today's rates, enough to answer your prayers. i have my angel and my patron saint. you see, i would desire it all too. just not as much as you do. but the heart wants, it doesn't need, but it wants, wants, wants. desire. wants touch or joy or peace or love or whatever. quelquechose. quelq'un. and i sleep because i am tired, or i should, now.
5/09/2004
Happy mother's day
Before we stop to think how commercial this whole Mother's Day issue is, let us say a big thank you to all the Mothers out there. And I'm not going to think how Mother's Day is commercial because although we should love our mother's every other day, we're only human and we tend to remember things only when they're in bright neon letters out big signs in front of us, and even then we do forget.
My grandmother's turning 80 soon too. It takes a lot of luck to live till you're 80. As I've so often thought, at this point, how do you look to tomorrow? It's more like restraining the dark before it comes over you. And even then, there's the inevitable wavering of the faith, or if hell is a much larger space than you used to think it would be.
At 80, do you ponder over regret as much as you do over 18? At 18, you wished you were a lot of things, popular, well versed in languages, sporty, atheltic and sexy, or the best damn software programmer there was. At 80, do you regret these things? Oh damn I shouldn't have run that bakery for 55 years. I should have run away with that Dutch guy when I had the chance. Or do you think, "does it really matter, I'm going to die anyway."
I've been rather fortunate. I haven't seen much death in front of my eyes. What I have seen of it disquieting enough for my own purposes, which is why I never could envisage myself being a doctor, dealing with death every day. It seems to me like dying in old age is losing the shell you've built for your body over the years and retiring into the blabbering mass you were when you were spit out of the womb. Incontinence, incoherence, and the dissipating of memories except for the most unimportant or important bits. The lost loves you try so hard to invoke. You're desperately trying to read the Chinese newspaper for him so he has something to listen to, to read, to fill his mind other than the dwelling thoughts of death or the anachronistic mumblings of a bygone era. But the damn news doesn't matter to him any more! And as he dies, he has to fulfill the responsibilities of a dying man. Contrition, exulting the grandchildren to study hard and become good people, having a last birthday devoid of meaning but the fact of a little joy brought to the rest of the family. And as a person, having to sit through it all, witness a farce that is not the making of society, or any of the family, or anything, just this farce of having to die, having to give up everything that's incomplete, to return to a better place, or a worse one, and who knows?
that's maybe feeling. it isn't enough to make you cry at funerals(because you're weeping for loss), but it's enough to make you scared and stiff shitless. feeling young, wanting to be young and telling yourself that it won't be the same mistakes you make and that you will die with joy or at least dignity.
it never really was your fault. i'd like to think you turned into a butterfly or some moth after you died or even the aggregation of good words at your eulogy. you couldn't have been the wrinkled person, weakened, preserved with a bible tucked into your arm. that, i couldn't love.
Before we stop to think how commercial this whole Mother's Day issue is, let us say a big thank you to all the Mothers out there. And I'm not going to think how Mother's Day is commercial because although we should love our mother's every other day, we're only human and we tend to remember things only when they're in bright neon letters out big signs in front of us, and even then we do forget.
My grandmother's turning 80 soon too. It takes a lot of luck to live till you're 80. As I've so often thought, at this point, how do you look to tomorrow? It's more like restraining the dark before it comes over you. And even then, there's the inevitable wavering of the faith, or if hell is a much larger space than you used to think it would be.
At 80, do you ponder over regret as much as you do over 18? At 18, you wished you were a lot of things, popular, well versed in languages, sporty, atheltic and sexy, or the best damn software programmer there was. At 80, do you regret these things? Oh damn I shouldn't have run that bakery for 55 years. I should have run away with that Dutch guy when I had the chance. Or do you think, "does it really matter, I'm going to die anyway."
I've been rather fortunate. I haven't seen much death in front of my eyes. What I have seen of it disquieting enough for my own purposes, which is why I never could envisage myself being a doctor, dealing with death every day. It seems to me like dying in old age is losing the shell you've built for your body over the years and retiring into the blabbering mass you were when you were spit out of the womb. Incontinence, incoherence, and the dissipating of memories except for the most unimportant or important bits. The lost loves you try so hard to invoke. You're desperately trying to read the Chinese newspaper for him so he has something to listen to, to read, to fill his mind other than the dwelling thoughts of death or the anachronistic mumblings of a bygone era. But the damn news doesn't matter to him any more! And as he dies, he has to fulfill the responsibilities of a dying man. Contrition, exulting the grandchildren to study hard and become good people, having a last birthday devoid of meaning but the fact of a little joy brought to the rest of the family. And as a person, having to sit through it all, witness a farce that is not the making of society, or any of the family, or anything, just this farce of having to die, having to give up everything that's incomplete, to return to a better place, or a worse one, and who knows?
that's maybe feeling. it isn't enough to make you cry at funerals(because you're weeping for loss), but it's enough to make you scared and stiff shitless. feeling young, wanting to be young and telling yourself that it won't be the same mistakes you make and that you will die with joy or at least dignity.
it never really was your fault. i'd like to think you turned into a butterfly or some moth after you died or even the aggregation of good words at your eulogy. you couldn't have been the wrinkled person, weakened, preserved with a bible tucked into your arm. that, i couldn't love.
5/07/2004
In lousy times like this, one can only turn to better people.
"Darling I would have died for you, but I never had the luck."
According to the legend of the White Snake, Bai Suzben (the white snake which turned into an immortal woman) bought a green snake which she turned into a young girl. She named her Xiao Qing, and she remained her companion even after her marriage. When an evil monk trapped Bai Suzben in a pagoda, it was Xiao Qing who, after years of martial arts training, was the one to free her. Together they fought the monk, and after winning they went back to her family home and lived happily ever after.
I appeared in the story only because you
wanted me to. It was your pale hands
that lifted me, a whip of emerald
from the marketplace baskets, and it was your words
that writhed out a soul from my shine-crusted body.
So there I was, to the world something between
your friend and a maid. He tended
towards the former; he was nice, that husband
of yours. I remember the rain when we
first saw him-it lanced silver across your cheek
while I cried out in spite of myself, isn�t he the one?
You just smiled, holding his hand as you
stepped lightly onto the boat.
That I tell people, is how it began-
love at first sight, silver flashing down your face
while I (everyone laughs here) vomited into
the spangles on the water.
It was never explained to him why I moved
into his new home�I was just the giveaway
that had to be accepted with the amazing deal.
We got along well in the end, and there was always
three of us at important events-
your child�s birth, the shop�s opening
and the inconvenient business you try not to remember.
But there was only me through the years
of perfecting my dance of death for you.
It was a rain of silver blades that I lived ten years in,
that quivered your pagoda-prison
into a thousand glittering shards. We won, of course. Now
it�s difficult at New Year visits; I ignore
your rhapsodies on family life
and the bachelors you invite to dinner. Now
your child thinks I�m his aunt; he pesters me
for stories of your life, but only my eyes
(when the tears melt him into your image)
tell him what you have forgotten:
Your face darted among the swords
like a river�s shifting light and we danced
in a rain of silver for the last time
together. Darling, I would have died for you
but I never had the luck.
Teng Qian Xi
Found this in Fact to Fiction haha.
"Darling I would have died for you, but I never had the luck."
According to the legend of the White Snake, Bai Suzben (the white snake which turned into an immortal woman) bought a green snake which she turned into a young girl. She named her Xiao Qing, and she remained her companion even after her marriage. When an evil monk trapped Bai Suzben in a pagoda, it was Xiao Qing who, after years of martial arts training, was the one to free her. Together they fought the monk, and after winning they went back to her family home and lived happily ever after.
I appeared in the story only because you
wanted me to. It was your pale hands
that lifted me, a whip of emerald
from the marketplace baskets, and it was your words
that writhed out a soul from my shine-crusted body.
So there I was, to the world something between
your friend and a maid. He tended
towards the former; he was nice, that husband
of yours. I remember the rain when we
first saw him-it lanced silver across your cheek
while I cried out in spite of myself, isn�t he the one?
You just smiled, holding his hand as you
stepped lightly onto the boat.
That I tell people, is how it began-
love at first sight, silver flashing down your face
while I (everyone laughs here) vomited into
the spangles on the water.
It was never explained to him why I moved
into his new home�I was just the giveaway
that had to be accepted with the amazing deal.
We got along well in the end, and there was always
three of us at important events-
your child�s birth, the shop�s opening
and the inconvenient business you try not to remember.
But there was only me through the years
of perfecting my dance of death for you.
It was a rain of silver blades that I lived ten years in,
that quivered your pagoda-prison
into a thousand glittering shards. We won, of course. Now
it�s difficult at New Year visits; I ignore
your rhapsodies on family life
and the bachelors you invite to dinner. Now
your child thinks I�m his aunt; he pesters me
for stories of your life, but only my eyes
(when the tears melt him into your image)
tell him what you have forgotten:
Your face darted among the swords
like a river�s shifting light and we danced
in a rain of silver for the last time
together. Darling, I would have died for you
but I never had the luck.
Teng Qian Xi
Found this in Fact to Fiction haha.
5/01/2004
Looking back, I feel that I have really, very little record of the unhappy things that happy. Its as if there are no unhappy events for me, only unhappy emotions.
It's a bit like travelling in overdrive, and you suddenly see a hairpin turn, or your instructor tells you to do a u-turn or something. You brake, slow down, change lane, change down gears, look far, turn the steering wheel with all your might and that moment when you turn the corner your hands are full, your eyes alert and your mind focuses on some spot in the distance (because looking at the edge of the cliff is sure to bring you down that cliff, just like focusing your eyes on a pedestrian to avoid him is going to give him a better chance of being run over.) It's instinct and stuff.
And then you realise you're down to gear 2 and have to work your way up. Accelerate. You forget the corner. It's the next one now. By the way, I love driving. Love the sound of the gears, the shifting of eyes from place to place. It hasn't become routine yet. I usually hate speed, like roller coasters and stuff, but this is different
Tend also to feel bad about a lot of stupid things. When i buy food back for my family, I think of all the times when I didn't. do so. You wish you knew these things sooner, how to care, how to manifest love into tangible take-homes. How to say all you have to say.
Had a discussion with one of the new recruits just yesterday, sort of like an interview. He was pretty smart, and he's a dreamer, so the conversation rather naturally turned to bigger things, the army, the society, the world. And he asked if I thought people in Singapore would be ready to change. I felt that people would change when they're forced to do so.
I like L'Arena by Enrico Morricone, off the Kill Bill 2 soundtrack. When she decides she just wants to bust out of that coffin. It's a 60's song, I believe, and probably used for some war movie because you can hear the simulation of machine gun fire over 2 ridges echoing at each other, and the sound of shells and links dropping on the floor. I'd like to think it's the Spanish Civil War because of the guitar and the snare drum and the triumphant trumpet but I realise it could very well also be Italian guns in WW2, although the image one has of Italian fighters in WW2 is certainly not heroic, as compared to the song. I'd like to believe it was the Civil War, and that reminds me of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' by Hemingway, and reminds me then also of a very good period I had in JC where I felt especially lucid in the mornings,
The whole Kill Bill series was quite inspiring. Some people found it stupid. I was engaged to it because of its elegance, in swordfighting, and even when Bill stood up, buttoned his shirt and walked away to die. Macam old western.
It's a bit like travelling in overdrive, and you suddenly see a hairpin turn, or your instructor tells you to do a u-turn or something. You brake, slow down, change lane, change down gears, look far, turn the steering wheel with all your might and that moment when you turn the corner your hands are full, your eyes alert and your mind focuses on some spot in the distance (because looking at the edge of the cliff is sure to bring you down that cliff, just like focusing your eyes on a pedestrian to avoid him is going to give him a better chance of being run over.) It's instinct and stuff.
And then you realise you're down to gear 2 and have to work your way up. Accelerate. You forget the corner. It's the next one now. By the way, I love driving. Love the sound of the gears, the shifting of eyes from place to place. It hasn't become routine yet. I usually hate speed, like roller coasters and stuff, but this is different
Tend also to feel bad about a lot of stupid things. When i buy food back for my family, I think of all the times when I didn't. do so. You wish you knew these things sooner, how to care, how to manifest love into tangible take-homes. How to say all you have to say.
Had a discussion with one of the new recruits just yesterday, sort of like an interview. He was pretty smart, and he's a dreamer, so the conversation rather naturally turned to bigger things, the army, the society, the world. And he asked if I thought people in Singapore would be ready to change. I felt that people would change when they're forced to do so.
I like L'Arena by Enrico Morricone, off the Kill Bill 2 soundtrack. When she decides she just wants to bust out of that coffin. It's a 60's song, I believe, and probably used for some war movie because you can hear the simulation of machine gun fire over 2 ridges echoing at each other, and the sound of shells and links dropping on the floor. I'd like to think it's the Spanish Civil War because of the guitar and the snare drum and the triumphant trumpet but I realise it could very well also be Italian guns in WW2, although the image one has of Italian fighters in WW2 is certainly not heroic, as compared to the song. I'd like to believe it was the Civil War, and that reminds me of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' by Hemingway, and reminds me then also of a very good period I had in JC where I felt especially lucid in the mornings,
The whole Kill Bill series was quite inspiring. Some people found it stupid. I was engaged to it because of its elegance, in swordfighting, and even when Bill stood up, buttoned his shirt and walked away to die. Macam old western.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
