This is good shit.

" Midori and I wandered around for a while. She said she wanted to climb a tree, but unfortunately there were no climbable trees in Shinjuku, and the Shinjuku Imperial Gardens were closing.

'Too bad', said Midori. 'I love climbing trees.'"

more good shit.

"I can't just walk ip to anyone and say, 'When you wank tonight, will you please think of me for a second? It's because I think of you as a friend that I'm asking'. "

(Midori & Watanabe have just finished a porn movie)

"That was fun," said Midori. "Let's try it again sometime."
"They just keep doing the same things," I said.
"Well what else can they do? We all just keep doing the same things."
She had a point there.

Outside again, Midori said she wanted to climb a tree.
"There aren't any trees around here," I said. "And even if there were, you're too wobbly to be trying anything."
"You're always too damned sensible. You ruin everything! I'm drunk cause I wanna be drunk. What's wrong with that? And even if I am drunk, I still wanna climb a tree. Shit, I'm gonna climb to the top of a great, big, tall tree and I'm gonna pee over everyone!"
"You wouldn't happen to need the toilet would you?"
"Yup."

Maintenant je sais

Now you can post comments. I guess I got sick of the old plain look. It was nice, it has served me well, but it has to make way for progress.

It was National Day yesterday, and I guess it was the climax of all the hard work for a lot of people. Of course, looking at it from the general public's point of view, we've come to expect a few things, such as a pull-out supplement from The Straits Times & the basic programme of the parade, and live telecasts, and Singapore Idol. Oh wait. That's new.

It was moving, to see the wonderful reception accorded to our outgoing PM and of course the tributes flow in. He's not horribly charismatic, it's like, ok, i'm going. Bye.

I mean parades. Geez. But the day it goes away, I guess it'll be missed. As with most taken for granted traditions, there'll be a certain bit of nostalgia if it every goes away. Personally, after all the build up, I wasn't feeling especially enthusiastic or patriotic yesterday, compared to earlier rehearsals.

It may not be horribly exciting to be a Singaporean, especially when no issues really divide or polarise us. We're still a stratified society, but basically we're all stuck on this island, so there's less divisiveness especially since we're taught to be united in order to be nimble and agile.

Contrast this to what is increasingly a more divided America. Fahrenheit 9/11, by Mr Michael Moore, is a 2 hour long campaign ad. It looks unlikely that any of the candidates are going to have the same sort of cross-party reach that Mr Reagan and Mr Clinton possessed. Both were exceedingly charming (easier to get things done, we're suckers for charm), and Mr Kerry is not. Mr Bush is slightly more endearing, but doesn't come across as very intelligent.

Mr Reagan proved what was right about the Republicans. Simple world view, achieving stated national security aims. I disagree however, that the end of the Cold War can be attributed to him. It was also a remarkable act of foresight by Mr Gorbachev to start liberalising the U.S.S.R so maybe Mr Reagan got too much credit for simply spending more money on arms than Soviet Russia. Okay. He cut taxes and liberalised the economy. Sound economic policy, but bad for the current account. Mr Clinton got that right. America in good shape.

Much is made about the CIA supplying Osama in the first place and how America tries to meddle with everyone. I thought, okay, war in Iraq is stupid, but maybe there is reason to believe Bush and Blair did it with a sincere heart. It's in the motive. If the Republicans are just a bunch of corrupt cronies, and say stupid things, I hate them. If they sincerely believed in getting rid of Saddam, and they do it in the best way possible, fine. But some of the things they do in the name of the 'war on terror' are just lame.

I believe in the political right. Although they have stupid thoughts on religion and stuff (imho), yet they ensure liberalism doesn't lean too much to the left, producing a nice centrist feel to the government. A bit of national security, a bit of welfare, and a bit of laissez faire. Moderation is good. Very W. Somerset Maugham

I like to believe I see things in shades. Pretty, not so pretty, average. Look beyond the veneer. Look at both sides. That's who I would like to be. I like pretty shiny things, but I like old things, symbolism. That bit of hope I guess is that you could love anything as long as it was unique. The trick is to find that bit of uniqueness, which for some people you can dig out pretty quickly, but for others it takes a lifetime of living.

I'd like to believe that I can choose not to apply standards to friends, which probably indicates a lack of standards on my part. Is that true? I guess I'm not much of a sticker for rules, but the fact is that I follow a lot of them. Wear my seat belt, don't piss people off, be generally nice and not grab things that don't belong to you. But really. Maybe I believe too much in personal rights. So it's okay if you're into ketamine or sleeping with women, I love you anyway.

National Day Special

Post more!

The last few months have went by in a flash, working late nights, settling stuff and added workload thanks to the National Day Parade. The cliched picture is of course a night cityscape or the interior of a club with the slow-sync turned on and long exposure. Little yellow fireflies.

All the things I do. Learn French. Want to do. Go to Bali, or some wide open expanse of land like Siberia. Learn other languages, communicate with other cultures so I can understand why they're so pathetically poor why we make so much money. Maybe like the damn dutch sailors who discovered Bali, it was like fuck spice, lets stay here forever and never go back.

I'm growing into adulthood. Driving cars, listening to Cai Qin in the middle of the night. Being my dad, because probably, my dad's memories are part mine. My memory of dad is dad 30ish, 40ish. It's still a little early to be using whatever he has taught me in deeds and action.

Spread roots, and be grateful to the soil. Follow a philosophy of life which I think is right but is of course imperfect, but perfecting it would kill me. Be honest and free.

It would be a gratification if you had a chick who could wank you off instead. Like oh, needs, and let's get it over with, it's just you wanting to cum.

And being that loner guy, saves you the trouble of dealing with envy and stuff. Oh wait, kill envy. That's why.

I'm tired. Tomorrow: Politics and Nationalism. Redemption for stuff which didn't really make much sense but just needed to go through the motions of writing weird undecipherable stuff on blog. I'm glad you wasted your time.

"Two drifters, off to see the world
There's such a lot of world to see.
We're after the same rainbow's end
Waiting round the bend
My Huckleberry friend
Moon river and me"

Moon river, off Breakfast at Tiffany's. Before how gorgeous and elegant Audrey Hepburn appears steals the topic of conversation, we must divert unfailingly back to the point.

Two can be such a lonely number. It's not just about two couples in love. But knowing someone, who knows some certain aspect of you, can be an overwhelmingly lonely thing. If no one ever knew you for who you are, you could attribute it perhaps to the general unfairness of the world, or a certain tragedy we all must face. But knowing someone who knows you, at one moment, that moment can be rather lonely one when you realise 6 billion other people fade into oblivion, and that the world isn't that unfair after all, yet one other is all you have. But that's just romanticising it. Was just thinking about it when me and my boss were frustrated at the National Stadium on Saturday, and thinking that only we could feel each others pain. That's rubbish of course.

"There are place I'll remember all my life
Though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone, and some remain.

All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I can still recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I'll love you more."

McCartney was the more sensible beatle. Life soon settles into its regular dose of familiarity. Quotidian rituals exercise their rightful role, to remind us that we have to work, play, achieve certain set goals and objectives. Coffee symbolises a lack of time. Put aside all these ragged thought-to-death thoughts, so one can truly function in hope and in want.

Nostalgia rushes in like a void when one is empty. Life wants to be filled, with purpose, with addresses, with lovers, with breakfast, lunch and dinner, with work and fax machines and Apple computers.

Are we hip and cool? Are we 90's chic? Are we the children of the revolution? What is our generation looking for? Do we go pack-hunting for purpose in life, or are we all too damn selfish anyway that we'll get our fix anyway we can?

Across the universe from here, there's some neighbourly divine being way too far out of reach. The problem is, my home's a little too comfortable. Ages 19 & 20 are important ages in maturity. I'm a late bloomer. Best not to ruin myself. We all live in a yellow submarine. I'm hopefully still the same.

"Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you Julia"

Just helped to clear out my mom's place today. One last look at #03-16, and 11 years of eye-treatment. It goes in cycles of 11 years, 82-93 at Orchard Plaza, and 93-04 at Lucky Plaza. There goes dusty lenses, cardboard boxes of saline, a ladder and other concomitant rubbish.

Won't have excuses to eat River Valley Nasi Lemak and probably I'll only ever visit Lucky Plaza again rarely for pool at Mambo or something. Okay.

Motor Cars, Handle Bars
Bicycles for Two
Broken Hearted Jubilee
Parachutes, Army Boots
Sleeping Bags for Two
Sentimental Jamboree

Buy Buy
Says the Sign in the Shop Window
Why Why
Says the Junk the Yard

Candlesticks, Building Bricks
Something Old and New
Memories for You and Me

Buy Buy
Says the Sign in the Shop Window
Why Why
Says the Junk in the Yard

That's Junk, by the Beatles. Before I come to that.

My cousin is in love. It's the only thing that could have gotten me to damn write on this blog again. It's not the most shocking, nor the most significant thing that could have happened in all this time. But it created a certain mood, a 'sentimental jamboree' if you would.

I guess it was an effusive sort of ebullience, wrought by the sheer happiness of someone else. Usually when other people are too happy, it sort of scares you, or even makes you feel sick and jealous, but I guess this was someone I knew, and there was a sense of sincerity of emotion associated with all of it.

Joy, tempered by tinges of anxiety and fear. When it happens to someone else, I guess unabashedly it's so much easier to comment about it, no guilt about self-indulgence or self-pity and it was just so uplifting to hear the words of someone who well believes in what they say.

About how she was so sure yet unsure about the whole thing. The quiet self assurance, knowing that yes, it was probably her he liked more of the two, but even then, would you take the risk? The meeting. The anxieties about the future yet foretold. And yes the anxieties about being continents apart, about being of a different social class, about not being good enough, and about how lucky god made her feel.

In the context of me having a stiff neck and a bad past couple of days, in the context of my previously loudmouthed in private yet really pretty quiet in public cousin, and the serendipity and unexpectedness of the whoel situation.

So much food for thought. Do people actually do worry about being from the same social class? Hmm yes of course, this world and generation is still quite conservative, especially for Indonesian Chinese. Of course, its a different world, and one could really break free of conventions and everything for love but a great deal many people actually factor in their parents thoughts and considerations in everything and watching them juggle all these potentially stressful thoughts in the midst of what must be happiness, its just like watching something you could believe in. The worst fears haven't happened, and do pray that they won't.

It's like watching what could be my future. Stop, look around, and think again. Why then, Junk?

it just made me feel so optimistic and rosy about the hazy thing called love again. I'm no emotional wreck, or sentimental fob, I guess, no matter how much sad songs and films try to convince me otherwise. Deep down, I am perhaps a legitimate, clear thinker, with a tendency to cling to childish habits to think that I somehow am sublimate from this world from time to time with certain special traits in this ethereal one. Yet I know, with much certainty, that many people feel much more than I do or reason better than I do.

With this tricky thing called mortality, and the vagueness of an afterlife(in these days at least), we're all compelled to make the best we can of this life, improve ourselves, for our sakes, for our loves ones, as we grow up, start to be repsonsible, earn enough money, make little gestures of kindness. If we didn't already do these things in childhood on a consistent enough basis, the rigour of adult, mature thinking will ensure you do.

That's my future. I guess I want to be a dependable guy and everything. I also want to be the quasi-enigmatic silent rebel who smokes marijuana and cigarettes from time to time, doesn't drink, and doesn't really enjoy loud social pursuits and maybe can write a book or two. Be moderately successful and vote Socialist. And practise these little beliefs in real life.

And it's Junk. I'm enamoured with little histories, simply because they present themselves in nice completed versions for you to tell stories with. Photos, stories, letters of commemoration. Even doing little commemorative efforts for things like NDP and school. It doesn't damn matter sometimes, who reads this shit, and all the photos are the same when you look at them too many times. But it's the first time you read. That's when you get bashed over the head, like the SARS coffee table book (what irony, we can drink coffee now) which is really a good commemorative efforts. At least save it from floating away into the ocean and being caught in a fishing rod of a boy on the other side of the world.

It's Junk. It's reality. It's not knowing whether the girl I love will ever know why Elia Kazan fell out with Arthur Miller over Marilyn Monroe, not knowing if my attempts at understanding will ever penetrate the myths, songs and stories she heard as a child, in some foreign family. It's the happiness of obscurity and the acceptance of insecurity, which as an individual, one can never tolerate. It is the individual which expects perfection of itself.

It's packaging. Not slick hair or nice clothes packaging. Bubble wrap or cardboard? I like bubble wrap because I love hearing the sound being popped and if I give that much joy to people, it's good. It's slightly bad for the environment and it hurts to be popped.

Buy, buy. I could turn this into a relentless tirade against capitalism but I know it's sensible.
Why why, why try ask the Junk? You never have to do anything or buy anything again. You could fashion a life out of all the junk you have here. But it'll never be enough for you. Or at least, I want to have more junk when i'm 85.

Frustration is one of the hardest qualities to put onto paper. For melancholy, you have a palette of greys and blues, rainy skies, jealousy's green, passion red, purity white, happiness a mix of oranges and yellows.

Frustration is the paper with your tiny handwriting crumpled and thrown into the paper bin.

Nothing much to contribute today. Just a nice afterword by Camus, on his own work, "L'Etranger". Listen to the argument and see if you agree.

A long time ago, I summed up L'Etranger in a sentence which I realize is extremely paradoxical: 'In our society, any man who doesn't cry at his mother's funeral is liable to be condemned to death.' I simply meant that the hero of this book is condemned because he doesn't play the game. In this sense, he is an outsider to the society in which he lives, wandering on the fringe, on the outskirts of life, solitary and sensual. And for that reason, some readers have been tempted to regard him as a reject. But to get a more accurate picture of his character, or rather one which conforms more closely to the author's intentions, you must ask yourself in what way Meursault doesn't play the game. The answer is simple: he refuses to lie. Lying is not only saying what isn't true. It is also, in fact especially, saying more than is true and, in the case of the human heart, saying more than one feels. We all do it, every day, to make life simpler. But, contrary to appearances, Meursault doesn't want to make life simpler. He says what he is, he refuses to hide his feelings and society immediately feels threatened. For example, he is asked to say that he regrest his crime, in time-honoured fashion. He replies that he feels more annoyance about it than true regret. And it is this nuance that condemns him.
So for me Meursault is not a reject, but a poor and naked man, in love with a sun that leaves no shadows. Far from lacking in all sensibility, he is driven by a tenacious and therefore profound possion, the passion for an absolute and for truth. This truth is as yet a negative one, a truth born of living and feeling, but without which no triumph over the self or over the world will ever be possible.
So one wouldn't be far wrong in seeing L'Etranger as the story of a man, without any heroic pretensions, agrees to die for the truth. I also once said, and again paradoxically, that I tried to make my character represent the only Christ we deserve. It will be understood, after these explanations, that I said it without any intention of blasphemy but simply with the somewhat ironic affection that an artist has a right to feel towards the characters he created."

Spoken like a true goalkeeper. Yes. Veritas. What is truth?

"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.

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.

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.

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.

living is easy with eyes closed

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?

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.

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.

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 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.

Much inertia... thoughts disorganised... need time for order... let me settle this for you... hope you like it...

"If there's a gun in Act 1, it should always go off by Act 2 Scene 3"

-Anton Chekhov or smth, not verbatim

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.