That Figment - The Dream, the Cobwebs, the Submarine with Anthrax Torpedoes.

I had the most wonderful dream ever. Then, 10 minutes later, my father called me and told me that Michael Jackson has passed away.

Just like Christopher Reeve, like Steve Austin, like Bernie Mack and Heath Ledger, my first response was, “serious shit?”. Afterwards, it was pretty much facing the facts and letting the truth sink in, and then realising that they weren’t anyone important to me.

They were, however, important people to the world.

I paid my tributes. I did a small R.I.P in the featured YouTube videos with the words, “Forever the Thriller.” Along with the several millions that came after it, it got swallowed and vanished, leaving a ghost of a tribute that may or may not matter.

And then, at a whim, I modded my Left 4 Dead main menu so that - instead of the lighthouse and the wonderfully eerie music playing - it would feature a part of the Thriller MTV.

It looks something like this:



I had a smile every time I turned on the game today.

Rest in Peace, venerable King of Pop.

*****

I don’t remember the last time I dreamt something that made me groan when I woke up.

It’s just as much as disappointing in finding out that it’s both a dream and that it ended - like most good dreams - too damn soon.

It bugged me for the rest of the day. Like words, told to you, that stayed in your head for hours on end telling you about things that are and aren’t and may be, and you know yourself that you can’t do jack about it.

I think I’m letting it bother myself too much.

Reading this? Being bothered by a wonderful dream? Irony?

It made me sing to my dogs as I bathed them. It made me stare outside the car windows at non-existent stars. It made me access my Facebook account for the first time in half a year.

Dear god, it made me look for Korean jazz. (Jin Bora, however, is one fantastic pianist. And she’s just about my age.)

What’s in a dream?

True desire, or a fragment of fantasy?

(Are submarines equipped with Anthrax torpedoes?)

Goodnight people.

Boredom births stuff like this.

So it wasn’t the best of days. I went to sleep with a nascent flu and woke up with it gone, but substituted with a parched throat that threatened to sore and a steady rise in temperature. Then I washed the car with the dad and went out to buy dinner, in a night that was devilishly trying to replicate the Kansas tornado.

I took two pills and went to sleep, assured that the label stating that the drowsiness that follow would probably carry me off into next morning, hopefully better.

I was awakened by a dysfunctional family, arguing on my bedpost (“The wedding, dear; we simply must have Brussels.” “I think she meant mussels.”). And, when I tried to sleep again, they hung around and decided to up the ante (“They hated the idea. They hated it. They made seem as clear as the god-damned people who built Times Square.” “Now, dear, it doesn’t really matter, does it?” “For hell it does.”).

And when I did fell asleep, I was at lunch with a high school friend I hadn’t seen for 5 years.

I wanted to ask him how’s he doing, but it seemed that it was a consciousness I could only be aware of but not tap into.

We were eating roti canai, in a cafeteria that looks sort of like something you’d find in a prison; plastic tables that and chairs that stuck to the ground, coloured grey and black. A lot of people were eating, but they appeared blur and they all wore school uniforms.

My friend said, YouKnowTheTimeWePlayedWithTheBoysFromYuHua?

(Oh, counter-strike. Ok.)

Yeah, I said. Yeah.

ManTheyWereCheating. FellaHadSv_CHeatsOnAndWeDidn’tKnow

(Oh, we lost. Ok.)

Yeah, I said. I remember.

He said, OK.

And the dream moved on to class in university (didn’t I graduate? What?), and a DVD shop where they didn’t have Indiana Jones, and the usual twisted amalgamation of colours and sounds and voices I can’t remember.

I was awakened by a dysfunctional family talking on my bedpost (“Jamie, would you please turn off that computer and come down here for dinner?”). The biggest bummer was that it was only 1 hour and a half since I fell asleep, and I was soon left fresh awake and coughing and really wishing I can just find a cafeteria someplace and order lemon tea.

I had to watch Madagascar 2 to fall asleep. Yeah, I didn’t like it very much.

And I’m really, really bored.

****

Good thing, though; by this morning the throat turned from parched into a well-watered savannah and the fever pretty much ebbed away by the afternoon.

I bathed the puppy and cleaned the brother’s car and watched Night at the Museum 2 while trying my best to refrain from eating the peanuts (just as I thought; if I didn’t enjoy the first one, I can’t enjoy the second one. Good thing it had Amy Adams).

Did some trailer digging and I found this one;



As expected, it pretty much appalled Bryan. But I must say; it’s looking a little better than I expected.

(That’s because I secretly enjoy M. Night Shyamalan. Even the sucky movies. I found Lady in the Water to be refreshingly inspirational and The Happening a comedy in the disguise of an apocalyptic horror film).

Ah, and Disney is bringing Ponyo to the US with an English dub.



Which means a proper DVD might arrive soon. That’s good news.

Lastly, the best short story I’ve read all this week by An Author You’ll Never Know:

http://eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/BaggStor721.shtml

Goodnight people.

Feeding the Gods of Degradation.

Perhaps not something someone would’ve done very constantly, but I found myself going through the older posts here (those 3 years ago, when I was considerably much similar to myself now than anything). It took a lot of wincing; reading older things you wrote might or might not do that to you. I won’t say I’ve improved. I do, however, regret that 3 years ago, I could write anything.

3 years ago I don’t think I’ve ever given much thought over anything I’ve written and posted. The aftermaths of which was never really concerned about until it swings onto my face, the force of a wrecking ball.

These days, I think I think too much while writing. It saves me from some humiliation, if whatever I wrote ever did it, but damn - I mean, just writing whatever and whatever else, it’s the sort of free-flight sensation that seems like something a lifetime ago. I guess I missed it.

I guess I’m envious.

Have I made a step forward? Maybe, maybe. But it feels like leaving the great green meadow to find that blue cubicle with a grey desktop and grey keyboard and orange mug of cold tea.

****

I used to like doing this, just for the heck of it;

The word of the day today is Ebullient.

\ih-BUL-yuhnt\

1. Overflowing with enthusiasm or excitement; high-spirited.
2. Boiling up or over.

Supposedly, it helped with my vocabulary, which never improved anyhow. But at least I learnt Genuflect and Nonagenarian and Nimiety.

An example in using Ebullient:

The glasses he wore for astigmatism gave him a deceptively clerkish appearance, for he had an ebullient, gregarious personality, a hot temper, and an outsized imagination.
-- Jon Lee Anderson, Che Guevara: A Revolutionary Life

These are taken from Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day e-mails, which never failed to arrive nightly, though I’ve taken a long backseat in actually reading them.
Well, I guess there’s no harm trying pick it up again.

Learnt something new today…

*******

I feed my soul to the Gods of Degradation.

(Bottled. And. Suckled. And. Over. Dinner.)

They complain that it’s not wholesome enough. Something about imbalanced meals.

Django Reinhardt sings to me with his guitar, his two fingers are four and six and eight and a hundred and eighty five. Stéphane Grappelli joins him and so was the Quintette du Hot Club de France.

Jeepers Creepers, they play. Nothing scary here. It’s only jazz.

Ba. Da. Dadadadadadada.

I sit here all day. I sit here and I watch something. Then I read something. Then I play something nice. Then I go and tinkle and come back and sit. And these hands here they stick tubes in me that link to pipes that link to valves that open to a big gigantic thingy that processes the stuff and put them in bottles and the big boss drinks it, labels it, sends it to his friends.

I need to get out. I need to go park myself at the nearest avenue and leer at the world like they owe me 60 bucks.

But these pipes. They never leave.

And Jeepers Creepers.

Ba. Da. Dadadadadada.