And The Moon Was Not Mine to Capture

I was on the roof-balcony tonight, with the determination and naïve romanticism that I could capture the moon.

So I climbed the spiral stairs and unlocked the little gate, which creaked a whisper, and then waited for the moon to stroll out from the clouds. There wasn’t any wind, though occasionally you get a tease of one; the leaves would seem to rustle, and you’d wait, expectantly, but nothing ever comes.

Of course, you don’t capture the moon without the equipment for it, so I set up the tripod and the camera and the silver chain I bought from the Amcorp Mall flea market, which the seller told me (she was an old lady, who looked like she was from a foreign land, a mysterious land, and she wore a monocle and a hat of dead flowers) was made from the silver lining of clouds, to rope the moon in place.

And when the moon came out, I cast the silver chain, and then took the pictures. About 13 of them. But none of them caught the moon. They’d catch a glimmer of light in the night sky, but it’s never the moon. Never the shape. And the moon soon flitted back to the clouds, which devoured it. And I was left standing there, wondering if I hadn’t had the skills for it, or maybe hadn’t the right equipment. Or maybe the silver chain was a dud, and come to think of it, I think I saw the same lady selling bubble blowers at Petaling Street, only that she wasn’t wearing a monocle, and that she really looked like she was from Pudu.

And I thought I could try some night-time photography, but my inability to use the tripod properly caused me to over-screw a knob and it fell out and into oblivion, perhaps down the cracks of Neverwhere. So yeah; my first night with the tripod, and I’ve already broken something.

And because I have an impeccable sense of timing, the last batch of the Chinese New Year fireworks was released the moment I locked the little gate. One of them was really close, too. With the bunch of stuff in my hand, the most I could do is say Argh. And Damn It.

Turns out that I could’ve actually read a guide on capturing the moon. None of them said I needed a silver chain made out of the silver lining of clouds.

So here are the pictures of the Non-Moon, which I decided to mess around with using Lightroom’s presets. They turn into weird things.

This one, without presets

This one, with the Bram Stoker vibe

This one, which became some sort of cheap imitation of a NASA photograph of their desktop wallpaper.

And my mistake with the camera timer took this shot, which I tinkered around with, with Lightroom. I kind of like how it looks.

Because it kind of looks like a shot from Night of the Living Dead. 

I would try to capture the moon again tomorrow, because determination and naïve romanticism require a little more than a night’s disappointment to kill.  

The 6^th

For That Light

There is darkness in everything,

And this is all that I can say:

These are the Darkness you endure

For that beautiful Light

***

In which we also talk a little about Valentine's Day, and Zombie Strippers.

(Right now, I’m feeling like I could wrap myself in sleep and rot there until morning, when obligations do its voodoo and I stumble to work, moaning and giving everybody the stink-eye. I’m brain-dead in the way that I wanted to be brain-dead, because there’s simply no reason to be brain-alive, when it’s mostly this emptiness to face. So yeah; in all technicality, I had just committed brain-suicide).

It was Valentine’s Day. I don’t quite remember how it came to be, but Valentine’s Day is the day you celebrate Love.

But everyone would tell you that Love is celebrated everywhere, and all the time. Valentine’s Day would be that capitalist, manipulative, consumerist occasion created to celebrate something pointlessly celebrated throughout so that the florist industry doesn’t die, excess of chocolates don’t get turned into construction material (it’s the truth, people) and Hallmark can still finance their TV channel. So what’s the point?

To tell people to celebrate Love.

Because – believe it or not – people have a tendency to forget about celebrating things. We already have a hard time remembering birthdays and anniversaries. And I may try to elaborate more, but when was the last time you celebrate things without being reminded of it?

Do you celebrate Life every day; live life to the brimming fullest, knowing birth and death and the middle of it, until your birthday? Do you celebrate your mother’s love, your father’s dedication, until Parent’s Day came about? And what of senior citizens, of war veterans, of our cats and dogs and famous people who did something we don’t remember but we’re grateful anyway?

What of Love?

Truthfully, we all celebrate daily, too. So long we live, we celebrate. We just don’t celebrate everything all the time, because there are simply too many things to celebrate. And because we all do more than just celebrate (we mourn, we worry, we procrastinate, we eat, we daydream, we reminisce, etc), there’s simply no time. That’s why we needed days like Valentine’s Day, to tell us that Buddy, You Best Appreciate Your Girl. Because She’s The Best Girl Ever.

You might do something for someone every day, or you might not. And when a day tells you to do it, you do it, and it means something. And even if you’ve done it every day, doing it that day makes it even better.

Capitalist, manipulative, consumerist… yeap, it’s there. But it’s really there anyway, because capitalism feeds – in one large segment – on the industry of Celebrating Things.

So you might have your Valentine’s humbuggery, or you might scoff at the pointlessness of it, or the day might’ve hurt you with memories. But, maybe, if you’ve find one way to go out and celebrate Love, in all of its many forms and sizes, then maybe it would’ve have been more than Just Another Day.

I know I had.

But of course; I could’ve gotten the meaning of Valentine’s Day wrong. And if so, let’s just ignore everything and then, well, move along.

****

I read on Twitter, which led me to read some of the news, that the government of this country in which I reside in (and that’s Malaysia, though I know my profile says I live Somewhere) has banned Muslims to celebrate Valentine’s Day.

Their reason was that they were worried what while the people are reminded to celebrate love, they would also be reminded of having sex. Especially before marriage.

And that’s morally wrong, of course, depending on the way you look at it. So I can understand. Maybe. No. I don’t, actually. Because I think people are reminded about having sex so long as they feel like it. But no. Wait. I should stop. Because I lack the mental capacity and comprehension to make a coherent, worthwhile comment or argument. But yeah.

I just think it’s sad.

For everyone.

Especially the florists.

****

I also found out that they’ve arrested people who celebrated it anyway.

Some misconstrued writer could’ve reported it by saying; “People arrested for celebrating love.”

Of course, the writer was misconstrued. He might’ve also gotten the idea of Valentine’s Day wrong.

****

I spent the day after Valentine’s Day watching Zombie Strippers.

Wrong kinda eating you might be thinking there.

I did it because I needed it to fill a void. The title and the premise of the movie might suggest to you of what sort of void I needed filling, and I would leave you to these suggestions. So suggest away. 

Anyway, if you like B-movies, watch it.

If you don’t like B-movies, but will appreciate parodies and homages of it, watch it.

If you don’t like B-movies, don’t really care for parodies but want some mindless fun and a lot of tits, watch it.

If you don’t like B-movies, or movies in general, don’t watch it.

I won’t guarantee that you’ll like it, but like everything else that titles itself boldly, with all honesty of what it’s trying to show (it’s a movie about Strippers, who are somehow Zombies), you might find that there’s a lot to love, or a lot to hate.

I love it. Mainly because it was what it is, and the makers knew exactly what they wanted to make and made it pretty damn well. It’s silly, it’s serious one part and then subverts it in another, it’s deliberately stupid, it has loads of gore, it has sexploitative amount of women bodice shown and it’s also a thinly veiled socio-political commentary. And it has Zombies. And Robert Englund. And strippers, who stripped. You don’t need another reason.

(And a little trivia: the movie’s title is, apparently, Zombie Strippers because they found out that it’s the most marketable B-movie title, taking into account of the most marketable aspects of B-movies. And I know you want to watch it, just by the sound of it).

(Don't deny it) 

This Blogpost is a Final Bid for Something

Because, really, if I don’t write at least something tonight, I would’ve done absolutely nothing. Not that it’ll actually make this Sunday any way more productive, because I can’t. Because it’s as squandered off as the family fortune down a fake wishing well; but Something is better than Nothing, however small or pointless.

(At any rate, it’s Rule #1, and if I don’t comply, I’ll be meeting the manifestation of all my guilt and sins. He looks like Bill Murray’s zombie.

“You’re screwed, ______,” he’ll say.

“Why won’t you say my name?”

“It’s because you’re so screwed now, you don’t even exist.”

“_____ damn it.”

“Where you’re going, He doesn’t exist, too.”)

So yeah.

***

Today, there was that moment when it dawned upon my father that the rooftop lighting (part of his Grand Scheme of Things) would not be completed in time for the impending storm. And the storm was ominously impending enough, steadily throwing the rumbles of thunder our way while making sure the wind bit our skins and howled in our ears. He said Oh Shit, and I picked up the pace, one part hoping that we’d ditch the job midway, the other hoping we’d get it done before the rain so that I don’t have to worry about it tomorrow. I ran and I dashed and I dropped screws in my anxiety.

Turned out the impending storm wasn’t impending at all, because it shifted elsewhere and impended other places, and my dad was left in the house cursing at the weather.

I came in, read a few things, smiled at them, wished the lighting thing didn’t happen, then took a shower and watched the storm roll away.

And then, in the way you’d remember something just because the moment makes you so, I remembered a song.

I don’t remember the words to it now, but I remember what it was for and what it meant. Thing is, I thought I’d be singing this song again today, as I had always secretly sung it inside whenever I remembered it.

Today, I tore the song. Inside my head, the song went away.

There was something else though, and it went;

I might still be in disbelieve, but really;

The days remind me constantly

That dreams can last as I dream it

And they turn truer the more I live it.

It may be something hard, but truly;

You’d believe it too, as I do, fully

That dreams can last as we dream it

And they come true the longer we wish it.

So if there’s a storm, look and see

And you’ll know that rainbows follow after.

So if the night is lonely, close your eyes and cut free

And you’ll know that my words will follow after.

Baby, they follow after.

And maybe there’s more, or maybe that’s it.

Either way, I sing it now.

And I'll sing it after.

The 5^th

Whimsicality

Life, in a sense, could be like bubbles;

It could be short.

It could be unpredictable.

It could directionless.

It could be free.

It could be colourful; reflective of the world in its surface.

And, lastly, it could really bring joy to people.

(However short, unpredictable, directionless, free and colourful).

Sometimes, I think we take whimsicality for granted.

****

I was reading the Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett Q&A thing that was held on EosConIV (that was in 2001, when I didn’t know Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett existed, and when I hadn’t discovered that I love to write), all the while waiting for the pictures from Monday’s walk with Bryan and Carmen (T.C.W) to upload itself into Flickr, and for the Starbucks caffeine to really kick in.

(Honestly, I’ve lost hope with the caffeine. It could be because caffe latte doesn’t have much of it in the first place).

Those three things, all in all, are making this a satisfactory sort of night.

The photography thing seems to be running along fine. I’m not capable of taking great pictures yet, and the camera still gives me new things to discover each time, but I’m having lots of fun. And it’s mostly fun that keeps things running. It’s probably the best fuel there ever is to everything.

I’ve put up a Flickr badge here, by the side. Hopefully it works.

And when I strike gold, I’ll get myself a Blackbird, Fly lomography camera and be contented for one part of my life.

The red, festive, sometimes annoying air of Chinese New Year is pretty much gone; right now it hangs somewhere at the corner of the eye as a stubborn reminder, and it’s distractive in its own unproductive way. I can be at work and wanting to get things done, but the red ensures that I keep wishing the holidays are on.

(Granted, it’s really an unfair to my work. The urgency isn’t here yet and there’s generally very little to do, so being at work doesn’t account for much except for that the fact that I’m in the office. I guess it’s really just me wanting more days to hibernate in.)

This is probably the best time of CNY. No rush, no worries, no dealing with an angry dad facing the pressure of having to serve a tonne of relatives. The only foreseeable problems are random, uninvited guests, and possible time-space warping that causes the week to repeat itself, becoming Groundhog Week (a sequel).

The days now are pleasant. And if they aren’t, they’re wonderful.

*****

You always start somewhere.

A book. A story. A project. Something. Anything.

Beginning, middle, end, it could start anywhere, any place, any time.

The most important thing, of course, is going through it. To walk. To write. To finish.

- Messrs. Gaiman and Pratchett.

(Not said as such, directly. But I’m sure that’s what they were saying. And I’m sure that’s what I learned).

Are you my Star?

“That’s quite a silly question to ask. I belong to no one. I am no one’s star.”

But you’re there, directly above me. I may be the only person to recognise you, and find you whenever and wherever. I may be the only person to acknowledge your existence.

“The fact that I exist is an existence enough. And that doesn’t make me, in any way, your Star.”

I can name you. Make you mine that way.

“I have no need for names. I know myself simply as myself.”

So what can I do to make you mine?

“I am yours when you are mine.”

But I can’t. I want you so that I may give you to someone else. I already belong to that person.

“Pity, then. But if so; if you belong to that someone, then you already have a Star.”

I do?

“She would be your Star.”

But how…?

“She is your Star, if she;

“Is the only thing you see when you look at the Sky;

“Fills you with Light and Radiance in closeness;

“Is your glimmer in the darkness in the distance;

“Is your Glow, your Music, your Wish, your Dream, your Heart’s Desire, your Everything;

“If she is so, then she is your Star.”

Oh.

“And is she?”

She is.

“Then you have no need for me.”

I want to give her a Star.

“You give yourself to her. You become her Star.”

Can I?

“That is for you to do, and for you to discover.”

*****

The stars in the night sky don’t provide good conversation, but they do reply if you ask them something. Most times, the answers were never straight or comprehensible. Sometimes, however, they’re revelations in their own ways.

You’ll also be crazy if you do so. Doubly worse if you actually believe the stars talk back. And if you write them down, you belong in a straight jacket. And if you write them down knowing full well that you’re really insane and in need of sleep, then you belong in a straight jacket chained to a metal ball and dropped into the South China Seas.

But I’m not sleepy, not very willing to sleep, and not disciplined enough to tell myself that I should. So, for now, I dabble in craziness and writing pointless starts to short stories until sleepiness comes and tells me that it’s time.

What? It’s time now? Oh bummer.

The Wonders of Hibernation

I woke up at 2.30 p.m., to ponder about the possibilities of having slept into the day.

I blinked.

There was a part of me who knew that if I wanted it, I could’ve simply rolled over and slept. I would’ve been able to sleep past the day, and maybe into the next one. It didn’t have anything to do with weariness. It was mostly because I could.

But I didn’t. I wanted the day to mean a little more than sleep, so I woke up and brushed my teeth and stayed in the room until I was hungry. And after I ate, I stayed in the room some more. I stayed until I decided that the dad would not allow me to skip feeding the dogs, and walked out of the room and stretched.

I went for dinner at the grandmothers (she cooked Lap Chap Choi, which is something I couldn’t translate, but I can best describe it as sour-spicy soup with vegetables and mushrooms. It is amazing, and my stomach yearns for it still), and when we came back I stayed in the room to re-watch Zombieland. I’ve only left the room to check if my father was asleep, but he isn’t; Manchester United plays at 1.30a.m tonight.

So here I am now, not sleepy at all, and truthfully very tempted to drive out to McDonald’s, go through the Drive Thru’ and get myself some nuggets. Truthfully truthfully, I wanted to call for a McDelivery and have the nuggets delivered here instead. I’ll even tip the delivery guy.

And then I’ll dream a Dream, and wake up at 2.30p.m tomorrow, to ponder about the possibilities of sleeping through the week.

That, I would think, would be the best thing ever.

The Fourth

The Skies We Drive Away From

To the Skies We Drive Away From:

We may look back into the mirror and

(try to)

Make sense of it.

But we’d know that despite the unfamiliar clouds and the ever-changing stars, you’d

(perhaps)

Stay the same sky we pass under.

****

I’ve tried writing something. Somewhere, at the back of my head, was the words, but they refused to move or write themselves, and I’ve basically cajoled and begged and flailed my arms at them to no avail.

It’s pretty much hopeless now, but if it’s worth something, anything, I wanted to write a little something at least. To close the night, while I wait for a dream to come.

Some of the words took pity, I suppose, because they gave me this, which is much more than what a tired mind could wish for:

*****

One time tonight, and it had been a crazy day that led into a semi-crazy night, I was on the roof-balcony of the house and looking at the stars.

There were no clouds in the night sky, so where the streetlight’s lights couldn’t taint the infinite darkness above, you could see the stars.

You could’ve seen a lot of them. For a light-polluted suburban night sky, this amount of stars is a blessing.

And I stood and stared and fell into the sky, which was wondrously endless and dreamlike.

My mind now wouldn’t give let me describe it any better, but I wouldn’t have had a better way to describe it anyway.

I guess I’ll just call it beautiful.

*****

I’m falling in it, still. This infinite sky of stars, till I reach the moon. Or when she reaches me.