I must, quite frankly, apologise for my previous post. I shall throw in my very best squeezy-eyed emoticon, to show my sincerity.

>.<

Because that was no way anywhere near a proper description of a great visit to a paintings exhibition (which, admittedly, had been a fantastic but befuddling show… on my part, at least), and I’ve been in a rather ridiculous mood of wariness when it comes to writing, hence the forced and ultimately pathetic post.

I figure that this might look rather faltering in terms of necessity, but I very truly felt that I’ve ruined it.

I’m sorry. >.<

*ahem*

I’ll move on to today, shall I?

Today had been, quite possibly, a genuinely sort of mix-up in flavour. Like a cotton candy doused with Paddle-Pop ice-cream, lime, chicken rice chilli, belacan and buttons.

Or perhaps I shall say that if I intend to describe today with taste, this is the monstrosity that comes;

First there was a taste of driedtongueandphlegmsaliva, the regular early-morning tang that never failed to greet me every cursed morning, and which requires a little more than Colgate to throw off.

Secondly came the taste of Idiocy, when I boarded a bus without looking and ended up at Genting Kelang instead of college (I shall justify myself by saying that I was horrendously groggy at the moment, and it was 7 in the morning and I had awakened at 5. I’ll leave it for you to judge). I walked all the way back to college, and thankfully the air was cool and dewy as certain mornings are, so that the walk couldn’t get anywhere worse than thick smog and recurring pangs of shame.

Thirdly was the taste of Nothingness, which was the taste of the nasi lemak I ate at a stall (at TBR) before heading for lecture. Well, except for the egg. Which tasted like egg. Fried.

Fourth was the taste of IMMENSE & UTTER BOREDOM, but it was to be expected from a Miss Neoh lecture. What would my parents say, though, if they discover that I spent the lecture drawing comics (strips and all) on my notepad?

Fifth was the blissful taste of Relieve (which incorporates the mix of sweetness, cocoa and Prozac), which came when I saw that I’ve passed my examinations.

Sixth was the fetid lingering aftertaste of Bitter, when the guys discovered their respective results.

Seventh, the taste of Nostalgia, having managed a few moments of Unreal Tournament before heading for class (M-M-M-Monster Kill!!).

Back in class with Miss Neoh was a recurrence in Taste No.4, but at the meantime I had what that was the Eighth taste; Candy, which I bought at the store beforehand.

The Ninth taste was Best-Sweet-Sour-Pork-Ever. At the usual mixed rice spot at Wangsa Maju, where it was sold at a house.

The Tenth taste was the taste of Intimidation. I spent the train ride home reading up the short story drafts of my classmates, and I have to say that I am more than impressed. I am stunned and amazed. I inevitably made comparisons to mine, and had felt, very honestly, jealous and pressured. I guess the competition is tough, if there is any at the first place. Every draft had been a good read… save one, which I shall not reveal here (it is a story that reminded me of something I wrote back in my primary school, and the teacher had commented, in a most polite, gentle and truthful way, that my story was mountains over-the-top).

I haven’t made to check whose story that I hadn’t read yet, though I’m most eager to get my hands on whatever Michelle wrote =P

The Eleventh taste was the taste of Disappointment, because God of War 2 isn’t out yet (on pirate DVD) when I went to check at the stores in town, risking a very probable ticket for parking without paying.

After that I had a taste of Just-Tea (Green Tea with Grape), and I shouldn’t have had it, because I’ve already consumed half the stock we have. Add Guilt to Taste Twelfth.

Now I’m currently tasting Taste Thirteenth, and that’s Regret, because I’m here typing this instead of reading 6 chapters of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, to be discussed at class tomorrow, so I’m pretty much going sit and mouth wordlessly as everyone throw in their best perceptions of the novel. And then I’ll be wondering about lunch, or whether I shall try checking the stores for God of War again, or whether Isaac understands everything that he will inevitably say.

And then I will wonder why I didn’t read the damn book in the first place.

Oh yeah, I was blogging. And the book bores the crap out of me.

Goodnight people.

The painting hung over the ebony piano, which was – to my small dismay – surrounded by velvet ropes that meant my presence there was only welcomed at 3 feet away. On the contrary, however, watching the painting reflecting itself on the dark surface of the piano gave it a vibrant air of classy grandeur, and I thought, perhaps, that the painting comes together with the piano as a complete picture, and were meant to be viewed together.

But the painting was the one I was most interested it, so I got myself as close to it as possible, and I looked at it like I’ve looked at every painting before it.

The title of the painting was “Dita-Summer”.

The ground was red and barren; crimson from the relentless sun. Above, the clouds bore the golden glory of the sunlight the reflected on its misty form, solidifying it into a golden mould of light. Streams of the golden paint flowed gently down the canvas, as though the clouds were raining down on the land…

The clouds were pitying the land…I mused, and I didn’t know why I did. A smile coursed over my face.

It was quiet at the gallery. Like a gallery should be.

Fresh from the 300 movie, Amanda, Teh and I made an unusual drop-in at a KLCC gallery that I never knew existed before. Amanda said it once housed a photography exhibition, which she visited sometime before. Now it was a painting and poem exhibition; works by a man I only remembered as Latiff (from his signature that occupied the bottom of his paintings).

The admission was free. They only needed one signature.

We went in. I didn’t read the title of the first paintings we encountered, and we didn’t exactly spend a long time trying to understand it. The paintings were ones that doesn’t seem to take any certain objects or pictures, and at first glance one can decipher it as merely random swirls and patches of paint. The three of could only guess what it was. Amanda said something about a sheep. Teh said it looked like sailing boats in a dark night. I thought it looked like nonsense.

It wasn’t until I started lagging behind while replying a SMS, and being further apart from Amanda and Teh, when I started spending more time on each picture, and realising that I could only make out the colours that created it (that’s indigo! I know indigo. And yellow. Like bananas. And lemons).

Away from the guys the gallery turned into a corridor of resonating silence. Footfalls echoed and died like coming breezes of wind.

I stood at a painting, gazing at while wondering how the heck one could admire paintings such as this. Subliminal meaning?

What am I looking at? I’m looking at shades of red and magenta, a coursing of green and minuscule droplets of purple and blue, a blending of 3 colours into a certain shape… a man? An old man, hunched and weary, his hands grasping something, a stick perhaps, to support his weigh. His face was long, his nose large and crooked. He was weary. The sun was tormenting him, engulfing him in the crimson fury of its rage. The colours of his face formed streams that swivel down, like sweating, and above his hunch bore the weight that seemed, somehow, cursed upon him…

Huh.

I never knew why, but somehow, it felt like it was the right way to look at the paintings like this. It’s no more different than trying to determine the obscured theme to a story, or deciphering a photograph in whole. Losing oneself in it, and limning the things that we see, regardless of right or wrong… for there never seemed to be one. The painting only provides the colours and the shapes. You make the picture.

And then everything seemed to be fun to look at.

I was soon seeing caves with gorges of swirling water, forests of burning fire that swayed to the winds, waves beneath the surface of the ocean, streams that ran alongside watchful storks, a tower at a distant land that basks in illuminating rays of sunlight and a solemn face of a woman (most of them with little or nothing to do at all with its title).

At the end of the gallery was a book, filled with signatures and comments of visitors. I pondered for a moment, took up the pen and scribbled (as nicely as I could): “fascinating”, and put a J-E underneath it. Teh wrote that he didn’t understand anything of it but he thought it was nice. We left to get our bags.

Alright, I’m going to begin today’s post with a huge

THANK YOU!

To:

1) Michelle and Diane, for getting me the Good Omens novel!

2) Farah and Pei Ling for getting me that cake (tasted great, though it got mashed up on my way home).

3) Ju Ee for –despite the immense amount of pushing and shoving and disagreeing and protesting and exasperated “woi!”s– still allowing me to pay for her meal.

4) Everyone else at the lunch today, which includes Amanda, Wai Yee and Geetz, for wishing me a belated birthday.

And if you’ve noticed, I’ve just been out to lunch with 8 fantastic ladies and having my birthday celebrated. Mmhmm, on different circumstances, I would’ve been the luckiest 20-year old in the world. Currently, I’m only the happiest 20-year old of Today.

I didn’t expect my birthday to be celebrated as well; for all I knew, I was merely tagging along a luncheon trip to commemorate Ju Ee’s birthday (which, rather incidentally, falls a day after mine). Having no personal gift for her, I figured I would buy her lunch, only to get my share of the celebration nicely set for me.

Thanks girls. I appreciate it, very, very immensely.

My birthdays for me never do seem like a big deal, but nonetheless a day I look forward to exceptionally since the beginning of the year. It’s a day in which I find myself in a contradictory situation; on one hand, I’m very clearly excited about it, and like most people (I figure) wants it to be the best day of the year, and having gifts and a grand dinner and a cake, with the appropriate candles. On the other, I can’t discard the feeling that I don’t actually deserve gifts, or cakes, or a particularly expensive dinner, mainly because I’ve never done much for anyone else’s birthdays, or maybe because I feel that it’s a day where the thought counts most and getting wishes is more than enough.

So I keep telling my parents not to buy any gifts (well, maybe a few exceptions), or waste on cakes, or eat something that’s too extravagant. I never, unless prompted or happened to mention, deliberately tell my friends or remind relatives of my birthday. And honestly, a wish is always enough for me to feel appreciated and remembered.

Thus I never do expect much from my birthdays, and sometimes in birthdays I never expect any more. Like today J.

I’m going to be truthful here; I did find it kind of fishy that Michelle and Diane never showed up after our visit to the bookshop, and when they said they were at the toilet I was pretty stumped out because I never saw them leave, and I’ve been keeping watch at the entrance for several times in case I was too engrossed with browsing. When I called Michelle and asked if she’s alright, there was a strange sort of forcefulness in her voice that made me go O.o for a bit. But then I never suspected that they went to get me Good Omens. Thanks so much =P

Here’s another large

THANK YOU

before I end this post.

Sweet dreams all.

And goodnight people.

Oh noes!

Say it isn’t so!

Dad has once more sought the need to increase the amount of animals at home, and this time it’s…

2 of them! (I can’t get the 2^nd one to sit tight while I take its pic). (The second one is similar in look by the way. Only less greyish).

It’s as though dad never got the hint that I’ve been plagued enough with animal predicaments, which technically fill most of my time and responsibilities. Perhaps I shouldn’t hint, you know… maybe I ought to shout it in the house with a bottle of vodka and my BB gun in my arms… just to prove a point…

But I can’t deny that they’re cute and cuddly… damn.

Dad hurriedly named them Happy and Lucky. Brother wanted to name them Thumper and Humper (-_-). I personally preferred Yarn and Thorn, but then again, they don’t sound anywhere near pleasant anyway.

I’ll call them that when no one’s around…