The Pragadissio Notebook

2012-02-09T02:25:00.000+08:00

Hello.

You will have to forgive me.

At this moment,

I’m having a little trouble with Perspective.

You see,

The problem in believing that you can write almost everything, and then

finding yourself not having written for the past good several months

can do many things to the Writing.

I think it’s the way the brain works, sometimes. If it’s a muscle, constant use of it is constant exercise. Though, I believe,

that if writing is one way to set the mind free,

then what I’ve really been doing is keeping the brain locked up, while it defecates stagnant ideas and wallows in it, always looking outwards believing that

Words and Stories and Ideas and Songs

are out there, and that one day it’ll reach it and be amongst it, where it belongs.

So.

My long-unused brain right now has no Perspective.

It’s not to say like it is not functioning. It just doesn’t – couldn’t – see things in that angle that makes it feel like it’s seeing something wonderful. Or different. Or fascinating. Or in the way that makes it wonder if there’s more to it, and seeing that Something More, and asking the What Else’s and What If’s and What Would Happen’s and Why Not’s.

It would only see things rigidly. Like right now, it could only

See things like it’s on the Right.

Or things like it’s on the ~~Wrong~~ Left.

Most times it sees things Straight; boringly Centred and stiff and predictable.

Sometimes it wouldn’t see things properly at all, preferring, instead, to be

and not at all comprehensible or helpful.

So I’m writing now, or at least, I think I am. What with the brain being like this,

the most that I could manage is total gibber`#%&@*@ish, or at least

something of a poor attempt

at trying to make a visual representation of how my

isn’t being very writerly.

It’s not going to be easy, because it’ll take much more than writing once to

set things better. It’ll take more words, and more sentences, and more posts and

ideas, even if I have to force it out, to keep the brain at work and writing.

And it doesn’t matter if I’m not writing right or writing well.

I just need to keep writing.

And if it’s about letting my brain get exercised and used, then it’s the sort of mental gym routine it needs.

If it’s about letting the mind go free, well;

It needs to relearn everything about Words and Stories and Ideas and Songs.

And because all I have, and perhaps ever will, are Words and Stories and Ideas and Songs (and Love), then

I better start letting it Believe again.

Dreaming may be one thing, but

In the end.

You’ll need the words to make it Real.

****

Let’s try this again:

Hello.

(Alright, much better).

I owe you an apology. One is for the above, which is pointless and unnecessary, though it might just be that walk through Stupidtown that I needed. To remind me that you can be so low to find more reasons to get back up.

Two is for not writing the things I was supposed to write, which are far too many and way too old. I think I had talked about things like the United States, and that was only one out of the 6 million things that I had wanted to write about but never had the time, nor the patience, nor the discipline and the drive.

I had worried that I had lost it all, the writing, and right now it may as well been gone. Only that I’m rather stubborn at having it around, tattered or broken as it is (not like it was wholesome or worthwhile at the first place, anyway), because – like it or not – it’s still that part of me that meant something. So here’s another shot, out of a hundred other shots, that I’d probably making until I hit something.

Anyway, life’s so far been like this:

It’s great. It’s wonderful. It’s filled with joy and a little sadness. It can be boring and it can be exciting. I did things as much as I did nothing. Had some of the new, kept a lot of the old, and had generally been moving along with life at the slowest pace as I could manage, to enjoy the little things, because things had rather picked up in pace.

I’m happy now, as happy as I could be. I’m contented, and not scarily so, because there are new challenges and new prospects that make me feel lazy and afraid and excited. All in all, life’s good, and I’m glad of it.

My name card now reads Deputy Editor, though I tell people that it only meant that I’m doing a little extra outside of writing the usual stuff. I’m busier now, which is a good thing sometimes; other times, it made me feel like putting on a helmet and riding down a highway ramp on a shopping mall trolley.

I’ve also been on a few adventures. Like going up to Cameron Highlands for the first time, and seeing this:

Which made me feel like I could move to Newcastle, or New Zealand

Or going to Thaipusam for the first time, in the midst of this.

Not depicted: someone's foot on mine, and another photographer's elbow trying squash my pancreas

And seeing this and this.

Yeap; those are fruits hooked to his back

And that's a guy hooked to his back

Or even small adventures to places like Tanjung Sepat.

Which has a Lover's Bridge that isn't very loverly

And a crummy amusement park in i-City Shah Alam, for a walk in a giant refrigerator.

Which has been storing things with a tackiness level of 1991, like this Santa Claus (the Girl, however, is a visitor frozen in shock)

Things that deserve its own post, because it’s 1.30 a.m. now and I ought to be asleep for tomorrow’s event.

What I can truly say is that, if you’re wondering how I’m doing and what I’ve been doing, I can tell you that I’m doing great, and I’ve been doing nice, wonderful little things.

To bed now, and telling myself that I’ll be writing about these things in the days to come. Or else, um, no video games for the month. Yeah.

Goodnight, people.

2011-10-13T23:27:00.002+08:00

I’m a guy standing at the edge of a puddle.

I’m afraid to step in.

The puddle is, by puddle standards, relatively shallow. Large, wide, maybe a little murky, with strands of oily colours coiling by the sides. But shallow.

There is an urge to leap right in, for that satisfying splash. To kick the water and show ‘em who’s boss. To say, “Who’s in deep water now, huh?”

But I don’t want to dirty the shoes. I don’t like the idea of jumping into untested waters. I’m afraid of wetting the hem of my trousers, knowing that the soaked fabric would cling to my leg, reminding me of the dirtiness of the water, constantly stinging me with cold, haunting me with discomfort…

I take a step back, where I know it’s dry. Boringly so. Safely so.

I need to walk ahead.

I can easily sidestep the puddle. Make one great leap and pray I clear the water. Find a piece of something somewhere, and use it as a makeshift bridge. Or I can wait for the puddle to dry. I’m in no hurry, and the day is warm.

But you know what they say about puddles. Actually, you don’t. Because there’s nothing about puddles there is to be said. They’re just that; shallow waters to step into, or step over. They can be fun, they can be uncomfortable. They’re both things.

They are many things. But, in the end, they’re puddles, and you decide if you’ll walk in or not.

I need to walk ahead.

I think I’ll just walk. Puddle or not. Wet, dry, fun or discomfort… well, they’re just one of those things.

And well, there’re many more puddles ahead.

****

Make sense of what you might. I couldn’t. I was simply writing up an excuse from drafting this bit of website copywriting, which isn’t happening. It could be the heat. Or simply a brain on atrophy.

Whatever it is, I think I’m glad I wrote this. Because, well, it meant that I’m writing. Sorta.

Heh.

****

The truth is, I’m walking ahead because I remember;

Some time ago someone went off to fulfil her dream.

She walked on a foreign land, learned new things and saw great wonders.

She faced the world, braced the winds, and smiled and cried and stayed walking.

One flower against the world.

One flower who held my hand. Taught me to walk onwards, and giving me the strength to.

And now it's Two.

2011-10-03T23:48:00.000+08:00

Cold tables do not invite neighbours.

You don’t want them to come.

Dug up some old written works, in a folder marked Written Works in the external HDD. One of the stories I’ve written, which belongs to the group of stories I’ve written without meaning, without plot, without much semblance of anything else – usually started from a random phrase or word from the dictionary, and left to flow and form and become – as they all become – total crackpot of stories, started out with this.

Think I miss writing stories like those. I’d be tempted to try sometimes, but the words don’t flow and form anymore. It’s like the river has met the lake, and everything about rapids and torrents and salmons are forgotten.

Anyway, I want it back. I want it back very much. So much that I think I’ll just start blogging on a whim because the feeling is here. Maybe I could listen to these whims more often.

The problem with whims are, however, is that they can end rapidly. As it’s doing now.

I suppose I’ll head to bed now. And figure out this interview for tomorrow morning.

Before that:

Goodnight, people.

2011-09-02T22:28:00.000+08:00

As it turns out, it can be a Thursday night when someone can wake up and find himself on a piece of paper the size of the World.

It was - as papers tend to be sometimes - completely empty.

There are many common, clichéd things a person can do when they find themselves on paper; walking and jumping around would be one, and yelling and hollering for answers would be another. The common, clichéd thing to happen next is the introduction of a Wise Old Man as a convention to further the plot and answer pivotal questions. Which is, incidentally, exactly what we’re going to do.

Naturally, the person would yell and holler at the Wise Old Man for answers. Unnaturally, the Wise Old Man would start doodling on the paper and drool after a few lines of “Pop Goes the Weasel”. This may seem like the Wise Old Man is, indeed, not Wise at all, but Old and Man all the same.

“You’re not going to further things by answering the question, won’t you?” the person would ask.

“There is no need to. You see, you’re merely a metaphorical representation of a writer meaning to metaphorically represent you in what that could easily be the metaphorical representation of what he may term as ‘A New Chapter’ in life. Ergo, you’re sitting on paper, which is the World – his World,” said the Wise Old Man. “A penny for a spool of thread…”

“So why is it all empty? Why is it blank?”

“Why, it’s so you can fill it out yourself. Write out the chapter. Make your own World.” The Maybe-Not-Quite-Wise-but-definitely-Old-and-Man Wise Old Man would then walk away, and as common and clichéd as it goes, simply vanished.

And so, our person stands still on a vast, empty piece of paper the size of the world, knowing very well that he would have to fill it out, and feeling very silly that he has to be written this way by someone not really sure on how to start a long neglected blogpost.

And so, I suppose, we move on to the rest of things.

***

This is what really happened after my previous post (unfortunately, it does not involve me on a plane crash stranding me on open seas where I inexplicably discover the mythical entrance to Rapture, which is some sort of adult theme park minus the fun):

1) 1) I got on a plane. And then another.

2) 2) I reached the United States of America (America! Eff Yeah!)

3) 3) I had the best 2 weeks of my life (of Dreams, and Warmth, and Fireworks, and Hands-Held, and Burgers and Books and Kites and Green Grass and Childhood Memories)

4) 4) I came back to the midst of hectic magazine-wrapping, which took 2 weeks.

5) 5) I’m living the sort of life I could only dream of. The sort of life I don’t intend to keep on living, because I want it to be better. I want it to be more than a dream.

And that’s about it.

There may be too much of the States to write out in a single entry, so I intend to start off further posts with a little of the States and the rest of everything else. If I do.

I hope I do.

It would be better if you make me.

I’m leaving the last bit of this post with two things. One of them is this:

And in case you’d be interested in joining or passing it along with more information, you can find out more here.

The other thing is this:

And well, also this:

Because they’re going nowhere and I ought to get back to taking pictures a little more seriously.

(I also notice the futility of trying to share things here, because, frankly, no one reads this, except maybe my blog spider, which I’m not sure if it’s still around.)

Goodnight, people.

2011-07-28T01:05:00.001+08:00

In 9 hours or so, give or take, I’ll be flying off to the most important trip of my life.

It is, perhaps, nowhere as important as most other Important Trips can be. But I’d look at it at in different ways, try out different angles, and it would still be the most important. There’s probably no other way to it.

People make important trips to find themselves, discover parts of them in other parts of the world. Some go on important trips because they were forced to; they’d be there, not knowing how significant things are until it Becomes. Some, they make important trips all the time, because the destination is always a goal.

Me, I make this trip for a Dream. And this is the sort of Dream you drift into, because you happen to have had the fortune of it finding you.

I’ll be meeting my Dream there, with the sense that I’m finding it again, in a different way. And I will live the Dream until I return with it. And go on living it until the next path reveals itself, and it doesn’t matter what, because this is that Dream worth living.

I will return to home in 2 weeks, and life would be normal, and the Important Trip might’ve just been a simple holiday, of sights and sounds and experience. But in the way that I can’t explain, or perhaps in the way that only I know; the moment I set my foot past immigration tomorrow is the moment the page flips, and I’m in the next chapter. And I wouldn’t know what the chapter would be about; I only know what I wanted it to be (only that, being pages, it will never turn out the way you want it). It’s a huge thing, important thing, because – since a long, long time – this would be the first page flip. And for the past 7 months, what I’ve done was to be ready for it.

I will return home in a new life, living a Dream, and heading towards both old and new ones. It’s not a promise.

It just is.

I’ll sleep now, to dream of Dreams. And tomorrow, to America.

To my Love.

2011-05-10T00:13:00.002+08:00

I’m trying to make sense of the heat right now. I don’t want to stand out from the crowd and yell “Global Warming! Curse you and your kin, heathen!” without having a sense of something, like an answer. Basically, I know too little about Global Warming to start blaming it, but since I’m running out of answers (especially the more logical ones, like God forgetting to turn off the heater), I’m starting to give it the stink eye.

Whatever it is to blame, though; the weather now is baking. I say baking because if you place cake mixture in my living room right now and return next morning, you get a very lopsided cake baked close to edible. And pixies or gnomes have nothing to do with it.

It’s hot enough for me to wish for a genie so that I can wish for snow.

(Hot as it is, however, I sometimes get very blue skies. You can’t find it everywhere in KL now, because the haze has settled on most parts of the city, but Plaza Damas is lucky enough to have azure skies and cotton-white clouds. I suspect the residents there actually paid for it).

Baking hot weather is not all bad. For one, traffic seems to be smoother. Without rain to addle our minds and sending us into frantic confusion as to why water is falling from the sky, I haven’t been hitting heavy traffic for some time now. It’s good in that I get home with half the time and frustration. It’s not so good when I find myself having less time to think. Or daydream.

For two, the dogs dry up nice and quickly, after I bathe them.

For three, it feels like summer. And summer is what I really want happening right now.

I want summer.

You don’t ask for summer in Malaysia because you don’t get them (we’re tropical, which is like a mutated climate), but I want summer to happen, because it’ll be summer Somewhere.

Summer is nice, yes?

2011-05-03T23:33:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, I went up to the rooftop balcony, pulled the bench to the middle, and laid down on it. I let my hands become the pillow, and looked up at the sky.

It was a sky that was – as poets may put it – cerulean like the depths of sapphire. And as poets might’ve done, I stared at the passing clouds, to think and limn and ramify, as much as passing clouds would allow for thoughts and limning and ramifications. Like the clouds, they stayed only as solid as the winds would allow.

You fall into skies like that. You let it take you places, riding on the clouds and the winds. You trust it tell you something.

So I let go, and fell.

I was cheated 5 minutes later.

Because, in the end, the hard bench still hurt my back and the hands can only last as long as makeshift pillows over splintery wood. Discomfort can be a real anchor to reality, and sore arms are a reminder of that.

I was still thinking, though. The skies and the clouds made sure of that. And the winds that day, they were beautiful. They sang and they caressed.

You can try and think back, then. Reminisce bygone times, reconsider decisions, ask the What Ifs or the How It Would’ve Beens. You can try to recount the years and the months and the days and the seconds or retrace every footstep left on the Sands of Time. You can try all that, and you would’ve ended up back staring up at the azure sky and wonder how things had gotten there. And you may know, or tell yourself that you do, but once the clouds shift and the thoughts went with it, you’ll be back wondering.

Sometimes, we wonder enough to decide that the wondering itself is really the answer.

“Why are we here, mate?” “I wonder, buddy. I Wonder.”

I wonder.

But I’m really here, under the bluest skies this side of the world. I’m here and it’s a beautiful sky.

And all is good, even if the bench hurts. But it let me look up to the skies, like I was part of it.

It’s not perfect. But it’s good. Yeah.

And then the stairs-climbing dogs found me, and they do the only thing they’d do if they find a master lazing out on a garden bench placed on top of a rooftop balcony under the cerulean sky; they lick him until he had drool gelling up his hair. I had to feed them to appease them.

And that was that.

It’s not perfect, but the sky is. Always will be.

2011-03-29T02:08:00.000+08:00

Ten, Eleven

Colours, and Tools

Three things, to realise worlds in different ways.

Or make new ones.

An Invitation

To the clouds? I'll take it

2011-03-15T00:02:00.001+08:00

Ninth

Signs & Silver Linings

I'm starting to think, these days;

That if you look up, you find Answers.

Or maybe it just really takes Looking.

2011-03-10T00:01:00.000+08:00

The Thoughts You End Up Driving Into

I think a lot in cars lately.

It helps that most of the time I’m in the car, it’ll be moving at a pace of 5 meters per quarter hour. That would be the time my car will join other cars and we turn into a single, collective mass. We would be known as The Gorram Jam, or other variations like Effing Jam or WTF Jam(!). As a collective mass, we are also collectively noisy.

The thought parts, I think, are individual.

And while I think most when I was part of The Gorram Jam, I inevitably also end up thinking a lot when driving normally. It’s quite unhealthy, because I run the risk of careening off flyovers before I can say “Oh Hell No”, but it’s as easy to fall into as daydreams in the day.

I’d think of many things – things I forget, things that aren’t important, and the same things all over again.

There was that day when I had to drive to Sepang for an event. The way there was aided efficiently by well-placed signboards, but the roads to it went on and on and on, all the while changing gracefully from highways to streets to winding roads that only grow narrower. It was like driving into different realms, and I found that I couldn’t spare the time to think when I had to constantly wonder (aloud, and sometimes rather panicky) if I’m still on the right track.

Driving back from it, though, and already knowing the way, it felt like driving into roads of Thought that went all the way to my front porch.

The skies that day were a brilliant blue, decked with serene clouds that were either magnificently huge, or humbly scattered and introverted. They had shapes that represented nothing; for all I know, they were Shapes.

Like my thoughts, they were clear, certain and blue, and filled with shaped things that remain mysteries.

It doesn’t make sense, as usual.

But I thought a lot. And I thought until the roads ran out.

I thought more than I ever did.

****

Tonight, Thinking as I drive, I came to a Decision.

It was as simple as just Thinking it. And deciding as it materialised. And while I gave it more Thought to make sure I was certain, it seemed set and unmoving. It seemed determined.

When decisions happen like this, I guess I’ll have to go through with it.

And I think I will.

2011-03-07T01:04:00.002+08:00

The Eighth

Trajectory

“Would you believe that I can swing my way up to Heaven?”

“It takes a lot of swinging.”

“Only until it’s high enough.”

(It also takes an act called "Letting Go". That's when you reach the zenith of the swing, free yourself from the shackles of holding something, believe you're Superman and watch as the trajectory carries you into a graceful somersault before landing you on your neck. I hope you've got the Divine Insurance covered).

****

There was that other story, which went like this:

The girl was an unhappy girl. Her parents had little time to love her, and even if they made sure she was fed and bathed and occupied with things like Piano and Art and Stories, they paid no more attention to her other than her grades, or sometimes to cane her for disobedience, even when she wasn’t, but had seemed so.

In school she had little friends, who only cared for as long as she would play with them or share her things, and after school it was either Piano or Art or Stories or home alone, with the emptiness of the house. When so, she would finish her homework and sat by her window to wait for something to happen. Sometimes she would sneak outside and walk to the playground near her house. There, she would content herself by sitting on the swing, and singing made-up songs to nobody (for the playground, old and rusty and uncared, was always deserted).

When she decided that she would run away from home, like the brave boys and girls in the Stories, she was sure that the world has much more to offer than an empty life. And knowing about the dangers of strangers, and stray dogs, and traffic, and the monsters that live in the street cracks and the shadowy alleys; and also knowing that she could, perhaps, be found by the police eventually, and be taken home to her parents that would cane her, yell at her, take things away from her – she believed that nothing could be had when her heart is a constant void. Believing in that, and the world, she packed her schoolbags with clothes and food and a little book for her Art and Stories, and walked out of the house with her little yellow hat. She remembered to lock the door and hide the key in the post box.

But before she would run away and into the world, she had decided that she would visit the playground. She would sit in that swing, for one last time.

As usual, the playground was empty. She put her bag on the ground and sat herself on the swing. The rusty chains creaked against the rusty frame. She kicked and they creaked even more, but after awhile, as though it remembered how it was like before time made it old and decrepit and forgotten, when it was played with by children who came by in every time of day - it stopped creaking.

She kicked, and swung, and urged the swing to go higher. And each time the wind swept past her ear in a whoosh, her heart whooshed along with a laugh. She smiled and swung and sang her made-up songs, which would always end as Tra-la-la-la and start with Fa-la-la-la. She swung and the world blurred. She swung until everything became the whiteness of the skies above, pure and wholesome in its emptiness.

She realised she wasn’t swinging anymore, but sitting in the whiteness of the sky. Her heart is still whooshing, and she was still smiling. Her songs rang in her head.

“Hello,” said someone, who is a boy a little older than her.

“Hullo. Where am I?” she asked.

“You’re in Heaven. You swung your way up here.”

“You can do that?”

“Not everyone,” said the boy, and he looked a little embarrassed. “You have to be swinging so high and fast and happily to end up here.”

“Did you swing your way up here?”

“No. But I’ve seen people do that.”

“So what happens now? What do I do?” asked the girl. She tried to remember the things in her Art and Stories that were about Heaven.

“Whatever you want to do,” said the boy. He smiled. “It is Heaven. I can show you.”

“Okay,” said the girl. And she smiled, too.

She took his hand and they ran into the whiteness, past the sky and into Heaven.

The news reports would say that the girl was first discovered missing when her parents came home to find a locked and empty house. The police found her bag in an old abandoned playground, but they found no other trace of her. Her face soon appeared in the newspapers, and eventually on the streets and on every wall along with phone numbers and honest pleading to bring her home. They blamed a lot of things. They blamed the parents, blamed kidnappers, blamed mentally dangerous people, blamed the education system and Television and the state of the world. But they never would know, and believe, that the little girl would have swung her way up to Heaven.

When the playground was demolished to make way for shop houses, the swing went along with it. And, along with the news and the posters, everything was forgotten.

****

You can tell that I’m incredibly bored right now.

I’m also feeling melancholic. Perhaps not so immensely; more like the feeling of sitting under grey, shapeless skies. More like emptiness.

I don’t know why it’s so. I just know that I’ll be filled and fulfilled in time, though there’s a part of me wishing that it wouldn’t happen so quickly.

Angels need their sleep, too.

And I wish and pray for that. I also made sure to bribe the Sandman to sprinkle a little more than usual, and maybe sabotage the alarm clock.

Because I own the night these days, through making the right friends and investing in the right areas, I have the most of it.

My dreams can happen later. For now, I wish the angel her sleep.

I have my Words, after all. In all of its ugly shapes and deficiencies.

****

For the first time in two years, I found myself at the playground right down the road.

I was there to take pictures, but pictures can be hard to take when everyone is wary of you doing that, and they looked like they were ready to rally with pitchforks and rakes. I took very little and very cautiously. I’ve also lost my lens cap there. It’s just the kind of thing I’d do.

They’re here, the ones that looked like they mean something. They’ll be on Flickr, too, but Flickr hates it when I try to upload too many at one go. Or maybe it’s just my feisty Internet connection.

Anyway:

Because being barefooted is just more fun

You have to make a name somewhere, even an abbreviated one.

Seeing Joy

Giving Joy

Having Joy

No Joy

A piece of trash, literally. The Recyclists are probably hounding down on me now.

This is an accident, but it turned out to be one of those that I feel happy about. In a sense; Accidental Happiness.

Moving Forward. The best direction, imho.

And that's that.

Goodnight, people.

2011-03-04T00:05:00.001+08:00

I’ve been 24 years old for the better part of 23 hours now. It is a pleasant feeling. In other times, and perhaps much more amazingly frequently than possible, it is a wonderful feeling

When I was 12 years old, I couldn’t imagine myself being 24. It mostly had to do with a stunted imagination, at that time more solely occupied to imagining snakes eating classmates or talking to girls from other classrooms. Maybe I had imagined, sometimes, when I’ve accidentally ingested Brand’s Chicken Stock; because I remember imagining being a comic-book artist, even if the imagination had been short and deformed and unrealised.

When I was 18, I imagined being 24 and working as a journalist – the type who finds stories and tells them nicely, if not persistently – and then finding a Girl. When I was 23, I imagined being 24 as like being 23 – unchanged, unmoving, uninspired.

Being 24 now and not imagining it, I’m mostly surprised that I’m not dead.

I’m also surprised that I’ve managed to keep a job.

I’m also also surprised that I’m still having friends, my family has not denounced my existence, I’ve not turned into a psychopathic, schizophrenic killer (haven’t quite reached the killer bit) and I’ve not consigned myself into a church of the Great Old Ones, feeding fishes to baby octopi in a bit to raise the True Cthulhu.

I’m also surprised that I’m happy. Yeah. These days, I’m happy. And glad. And content. And fulfilled. And satiated. And filled. And Loved.

And, perhaps the biggest surprise that I would find myself in; I’m surprised that I now have Dreams.

And I’ve had dreams. Just not Dreams. Dreams, of the ones that I want to fulfil. The ones that I know I’ll get to once I start moving. Once I start walking. Once I learned how to run and leap hurdles and swim and jump and fly. And, as having Dreams would entail, you know you can do all that. You’ll also know you won’t fail, because there’s a hand catching you, and that hand is warm and gentle and firm. It is a reason. A great, wonderful reason.

I guess I’m really surprised that I would Want. And Hope. And Take.

Being here, 24 years old and not imagining it, I started imagining the future. There’s a Dream there that I want to reach, and I’m heading there. I’m walking now, occasionally stumbling and slipping, but I know there’s a hand there for me to hold and feel comforted. And I know I’ll get there, because Someone believes in me. That’s all I need.

I’ll just Keep Going.

****

Birthdays will get better than this; that’s indubitable, and it’s because I know I can hope for a beautiful kind of future. But as of now, this Birthday is simply awesome.

It started with a phone call. I became the Happiest Bloke Alive.

Then the early wishes came, and they had kept coming, and I like that I’m able to thank all of them personally, even if I can’t thank them enough. Here’s an additional Thank You, All!, if any of you happen to be here, reading.

And then I dreamed. Of nice things.

I woke up to a memory of a brother coming into my room to retrieve his mouse, and saying Happy Birthday on the way out. I slept again, because I was given permission to. I woke up to see that my father had SMSed a wish. It was very unlike him. I had thought I was dreaming.

I went to work to find a present on my keyboard, and it was a copy of Terry Pratchett’s Monstrous Regiments, given to me by the Best Editor in the World, who had wrapped it with calendar paper and printed a self-made card to go along. And the Best Magazine Sales-Guy gave me a Nerf Gun: Stealth Edition. They both treated me lunch. They are the Best Colleagues Ever.

My mom then finally worked out the complexity of handphone texting, and SMSed me a wish. I’m impressed and very grateful.

Work was really just me, the Best Editor and the Best Sales Guy playing the XBOX 360 on the review monitor.

I came home and went for dinner with the family. The food was good, the company better and I’m glad that I could sit at a table with family who can laugh and joke and talk to one another. They made me belong.

And I’m here now, Jiaogulan Tea on the table, the gentle quietness of the night outside, and I’m writing this at the computer with the speakers silent. Sometimes the best music is in your head.

But the best thing of all was the thing that came through the hands of many a people, placed into mine by my father, and it came with Pictures, and Balloons, and Dreams, and the Words. The Words that said more and fulfilled me more than anything. The Words that told me to Keep Going. The Words that signed it. And Something that would linger in my heart, forever and ever.

It is, truly is, the best birthday present one could ever receive.

I end this now, with a thank you. To all of you, who stuck by this hopeless guy and gave him everything he could ask for, or could even imagine asking.

So thank you, everyone.

And, lastly, Thank You. =)

Goodnight, People.

2011-03-01T01:33:00.000+08:00

The Seventh

Two Kinds of Light

I wish I knew what it meant. I had taken it knowing that it means something, but I’ve really just been sitting here and thinking and realising that I don’t know.

It’s still there, somewhere. Maybe if I looked at it long enough, I’d know.

Or maybe I really do, and have merely forgotten.

Or maybe it just means what it meant. Two Kinds of Light.

Mine, and Someone Else’s

****

Well, that was a cheat.

The lawyer part of me, birthed through mutations caused by radiation emitted from a lawyer brother, put on his glasses, straightened his tie and will now proceed to present my defence:

“My client here had just concluded the final moments of his monthly period of pretentious assiduousness, which he had constantly referred to as his Closing Period. He had, through intensive amount of mental regurgitation, exhausted most of his limited Words. And since he had been a victim of Utter Stupidity since the moment of his birth, his current mental state would mean that he is now Utterly Idiotic, and would normally not be of the state to write in, if not for the fact that he had signed a personal contract with Himself to ensure the consistent updating of his Project 52; failure to comply would mean that he would eat boogers for lunch. I believe, your Honours, that he should therefore be forgiven for this half-assed attempt at a Project 52 post - only that he shouldn’t, because it’s not even worth an image for Project 52 in the first place, and he had really just desperately went out of the office in the night to take something that he hoped he could remotely turn into something half-assedly interesting. This man is a cheat, and should therefore eat the boogers. Thank you.”

That went well.

At any rate, I would have to apologise, and this is more in particular to my partner in plight, who had updated within the week nonetheless, in spite of her crazy week at work. No excuses from me, aside from what my lawyer self had stated.

I wonder how boogers taste like.

****

It was a Moment. A split-second in Forever.

I was in the darkness, sitting down. The chair was hard and uncomfortable. A reminder of reality, that I was sitting in a metaphorical darkness, that the enclosing shadows were mentally projected and functioned as a representation of something, while the growing numbness of the buttocks is the prompt that I should be sitting straighter up.

I was questioned, and I answered truthfully.

The Moment went and gone. I sat up straight, to liberate my buttocks. The darkness dissipated.

Then I realised I hadn’t cared. For a single thing.

Or maybe I did. Because, in the depths of everything, I was really angry.

That, too, dissipated. Because I couldn’t care enough to be angry.

My care was really someplace else. And till now, it’s there. Devoted, entirely. There.

And I guess I can be worried.

2011-02-18T00:31:00.001+08:00

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.

2011-02-17T00:18:00.001+08:00

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)

2011-02-14T00:10:00.001+08:00

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.

2011-02-10T03:00:00.003+08:00

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).

2011-02-07T01:39:00.003+08:00

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.

2011-02-06T01:29:00.000+08:00

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.

2011-02-05T00:28:00.002+08:00

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.

2011-01-31T00:48:00.002+08:00

My Mind Now In Paris

On the streets, as I would imagine it. I would be walking, and getting lost while trying to take everything in. Paris would sing to me, all sounds and whispers - and as Paris would be at her soul, it would be Jazz.

Yeah, that would be nice.

But I couldn’t be there. Not without many, many years of working. And saving. Not without a little foresight and a goal. I suppose Paris now would have to be the postcards, and the pictures, and the movies. It could be a dream, too. Maybe.

That could be just that, though; woolgathering on a rainy Saturday, while Paris sings to me in a different way, through the headphones, and composed by Michael Giacchino.

I can't blame myself. After all, all hearts, in all manner of love, find their way to Paris.

My Heart, though, is really Somewhere Else.

2011-01-29T04:03:00.000+08:00

A Little Caffeinated, and Waiting.

It was supposedly something to kill my Friday, stated as such with the disclaimer that it would, as certain as the sender may think of it, murder my Friday in all literal sense. The sender also told me that it was a Wall of Text. At 77 pages, it could be.

But a guy like me, who does little reading, or perhaps just much less than he should, can tell you that this particular Wall of Text is very climbable. And once I had set my rappels right and made sure I had that courage to do the Wall the justice it deserves, I began reading.

That was 77 pages ago (ok, I cheated; I didn’t go through the Works Cited section, because I wanted to get to the ending and referential formats confuse me still). And I have not done it justice, because my horrendously low sense of academics meant I have difficulty in understanding parts of it (of which is entirely my fault) and that I have no capability of producing any form of coherent and intelligent comment to this work. In fact, my simple brain can only say this, in the way that I have always said it, to the sender and to everyone that would care to listen:

She is Amazing.

It normally only takes a sight, and a little Get-to-knowing her to come to this conclusion. But reading this, the apparent became certainty.

I am Amazed.

She would call me biased. She would rap my head if she could, and then tell me that it was much less to do with her than it has to do with fortune or luck or guidance. But I would’ve rapped her head back, and told her that it takes someone Amazing to turn that fortune and luck and guidance into this amazing piece of study.

“So what?” she might say, and I imagine that a soft frown would decorate her face, and she might divert her eyes to think or to muse. “Other passionate people, with hard work, could’ve done it.”

But other passionate people might not have the Love you have for your work.

If her work was indeed a Wall of Text, in the figurative sense, then it would’ve been a crafted wall. It has its patterns, surely; all Wall of Texts do. But it also has a Life. There are not many walls in the world, figurative or literal, that has a Life. A wall may only have a Life if it’s given one. Usually, it’s when Love is poured into it, as part of the concrete and the bricks.

I touched the Wall, and it touched back. And when it did, I knew I owe it to myself to finish it. For the first time in a long time, I made coffee and sat down to read. Coffee not because reading it is boring or sleep inducing, but because I wanted to rid of the day’s inkling of tiredness that followed me home from work.

And I read, and made sure I understood as best as I could. I read and found myself learning. Best of all, and this I wasn’t even surprised to discover; I read and I am intrigued.

It was a study. And if I could’ve given her the marks, I would’ve marked it as Perfect.

She would’ve rapped my head again and told me it has flaws. Maybe her lecturer would, too (not the rapping. But I imagine a similar form of pain induction, perhaps in a glare or a Tsk, because I would’ve been a Know-It-All and probably deserved it). But I would point out that it’s perfect because you can feel the Love in every word written.

Love in the subject. Love in the discovery. Love in the learning and the teaching and the devotion to it.

It was, above all, a work of Love. Those are always the best works, and flawed as they may seem to be, they’re Perfect in that sense.

But where’s my constructive argument? Where are my intellectual comments, my justifications and my dissection of the study laid upon an autopsy table section by section so that I may prove to you that it is Perfect? I can’t, because I’m not academic. I can’t because I’m not worthy of it. I can’t because my thought process has already regressed back to its primitive state, and soon I would be back on my hands and knees, trying to figure out the mechanics of peeling bananas.

You have nothing but my words. And I can only tell you that it’s true.

In my hard drive now sat a study I made; the only one I’ve ever done. It was, at one point, something like a Wall with promises. On the billboard, it promised a lot. When it came to constructing it, however, I used cheap materials and cut corners and botched it. It’s now not a wall, but a piece of wood. With words on it, and arrows, that point out to people that this is a Wall.

Thankfully, people aren’t fooled. Though they gave me marks for the effort. I guess it was the arrows.

The funny thing is that part of this wood was actually Love. It had nails jutting out of it, but they were the bits I hammered it. It was ugly, but you can touch it, and it’ll touch back. Though it’ll give you tetanus.

One day I might make use of it. Burn it, as firewood, or send it out to sea, as part of a ship. Or maybe hang it up, as a memento, of how to start something with Love and forsaking it for the sake of ease.

Now, though, I leant it against her Wall and stepped back for the bigger picture.

Amazing how one can feel so small, and so wishing to be big at the same time.

2011-01-27T22:26:00.002+08:00

The 3^rd

Cold Shower

In the hardest of rainfalls;

It was dark.

It was cold.

It was harsh, and loud, and blinding.

It was, above all, lonely.

It was everything that was ever bad about the hardest of rainfalls, except that I remembered you. And how it is that thunder calms you.

And I felt like I could weather through, somehow. I felt like I could feel your hands in mine.

And I could.

******

Well, that was a crazy week.

It largely had to do with the fact that Chinese New Year couldn’t be happening anytime sooner, and to make sure we get the magazine out in time, magazine-closing happened earlier. Way earlier. And if you ever see me out on the streets, mumbling and glaring and generally being bitter about Chinese New Year – all that red and pomp and those insanely, painfully saccharine songs - you’ll know that this would be one of the reasons.

I don’t think Chinese New Year hate ever hung so low and dark over the office, or at anywhere for that matter, even if nobody said a word or complained. We’d walk and bustled, and the hate would brush our hair and tickle our ear and muddle our minds with thoughts of massacre and suicide with Dettol.

For that week, every evening, it rained. And the rains then were heavy and harsh.

It would’ve been forlorn. Or depressing. Or lonely, because there had been days like these in the previous year, and they had all been lonely days.

But it wasn’t this time. Because of the Words and Songs and Being There.

Because, in one way, there was an Angel. And I was bestowed with the above.

It kept me going, even after I’ve gone through.

And I go a little further still.

2011-01-20T01:04:00.002+08:00

The Second

Hello There

There's no story here.

The girl wasn't a lost girl. That man wasn't a man who found her. It wasn't an airport or a terminal or a place where people meet and people separate. It wasn't a place of departures and arrivals. It wasn't a place of Lost and Found. It wasn't a Start of A Special Relationship.

It was a shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon, and the girl and the man were complete strangers. They shared a look. I took a picture.

And I made up stories with it.

And it was about a lost girl and the man who found her, in a place where everything and everyone goes and leave, and people get lost and found. There would be a Start of A Special Relationship.

And, maybe then, there would be a story.

2011-01-15T00:39:00.000+08:00

This is a special kind of night. It’s the way things fell into place, but we’re not talking about contrived coincidence or, as one may put it, fortune or luck or fate. It’s just that, being here, headphones on to Jack Johnson, and waiting for a dream to come; it’s a kind of serene pleasure I’ve probably never had. And it feels great, in a quiet kind of way. Therefore, it’s special, as special goes.

It had rained. Heavily. I drove away from work and into malignant clouds, which proceeded to throw chaos and ensured the roads were jammed. And maybe because of the room’s comfort, made cosy by the aftermath of the weather’s toil, I fell asleep right after dinner. It was wholly unintentional, and I sank into sleep the few minutes I sat on the bed while waiting for the computer to boot. My dreams were bright and unreal and formless.

I woke up with a panic, but it was only 11.30.

Part of me wanted to work, but the most of me knew how pointless that would be. The dregs of sleep cantered and frolicked, and scattered my flock of thoughts.

There’s no way this post would be anywhere meaningful or worth anything, but Rule 1 was to get the words down no matter what. And as Sam Vimes put it; if you give yourself any reason to not do it, sooner or later you won’t.

(Or something in that effect. Terry Pratchett is too much of a genius for me to quote, and my flock of thoughts are scattered).

And I shall end this here, as this. Not much of a thing to mark a night I deem special, but I think I knew it in myself that the nights for the past month had been special ones themselves.

Nay. It’s really the days. Or rather, the Time.

Life, right now, is special.

2011-01-13T22:47:00.002+08:00

The First of Fifty Two

White Out

It was a street I’ve never been on. Perhaps once upon a time, by chance, I had, but not in recent memory. Yet the unevenness of the pavement felt familiar, and the time I made frozen in a frame reminded me of walks and strides and runs I’ve never made, on a street miles and miles away from home.

One may say that there are two streets that’ll look the same, but truthfully;

Do they end up in the same place?

*****

We’re essentially two crazy people onto something crazy again (but we’re of two different kinds of crazy – Teh Ais Limei's is an Awesome kind, the kind that people cock eyebrows at but will inevitable cheer as she creates the next great masterpiece. Mine is the kind which people run over with cars, calling the asylum at the same time, while the cops participate in sinking slugs into my thigh). And what we’re on is (a) Project 52, where we’ll be posting a new picture per week, for a year, and write a little something about it. Her entry is already up, which you can see here .

It’s crazy because we’re also essentially people with Lives going on. It’s also very much like you do, too, but if you have the time to even be here reading this (quite possibly, however, I’m simply writing this into empty digital space), heading out to take a picture that means something to you and then putting it up could be something nice. And something new, or fresh, or inspiring. And maybe even something magnificent.

So here’s a formal invitation to join us, should you feel like being crazy for a bit in life, and we could all do with some insanity to see life in its full. You might even discover something.

And if you’re saying Yes to this craziness, just tell us who you are and where we can see your pictures. We’re doing this as a commitment towards fun and stories, and there’s definitely much more fun and stories if more of you tag along.

So let us know if you’re in, and we’ll be there, to gawk, talk, drool and worship your picture.

Cheerios!

2011-01-09T22:57:00.003+08:00

(You write a little something every day. That is Rule 1. It doesn’t matter if you’re too brain-dead to pen something remotely comprehensible, or if lethargy is eating at your consciousness. You get some words down, even a little bit. Even a single word. And you do your best to make it count.)

***********************************************************************************

It started with a man named Odd Gleditsh.

(There’s nothing odd with Odd; it would really mean The Tip of the Blade, and it’s a nice name by Norwegian standards. This little snippet of information is taken from Neil Gaiman’s Odd and the Frost Giants, of which Odd Gleditsh is in no way related to.)

Odd Gleditsh was born into whaling. He whaled. And he whaled well enough to rise several ranks and made himself business supplier to a few whaling fleets. It was impressive, and he became successful enough. It was around 1920.

And somehow, being a man quite unlike most men, he saw something in Paint.

He started selling paint. And when the paint sold well enough, he started making them. He took over a bankrupt factory and resurrected it under the name Jotun Kemiske Fabrik. Odd died in 1990, but Jotun would live on to be one of the world’s most renowned paint manufacturers.

20 years after Odd’s death (in his pictures, he was a happy man. And there was a joy in his smile, which looked like he smiled from the heart, or perhaps from the brimming depths of his bank account), a man named Tan Heng Kai walked into a Jotun shop, opened – like the many thousands of Jotun shops across the world – in a Malaysian town named Kajang. There, he bought a Jotun paint. It was wood paint.

A month later, the tin of paint was opened and placed on top of several pieces of newspaper, and every quick successive moment, a brush would dip into it. And that brush would smear the paint over a wooden fence. Sometimes, if handled clumsily, some of the paint will fall on a hand. That hand would be mine.

And I would wipe it off with thinner, mostly unbothered, and continued with the painting while Fred Astaire’s Cheek to Cheek came out of my mouth in the most terrifyingly tuneless ways.

Somehow, to that man named Odd Gleditsh, who made the company that made the paint that I had applied, with as much care as leisurely painting would give, to a fence that sat on a balcony that perhaps isn’t quite a balcony, I couldn’t decide if should hate him or be thankful for him.

But even so – and I realised this after I shut the tin of paint and replaced it back into the storeroom –, and if Odd had continued whaling and never sold paint, my dad would’ve still gotten something from Nippon. That, then, would’ve been another story.

And I'm not even sure why this is here.

***

I confess:

I had meant to continue writing the novel I had put off for a month. Only that I had really missed out the bit in the Rulebook of Writing (if there ever is one, and not written by someone) that one should, perhaps, really really refrain from putting off a novel for too long. That’s because one would simply forget the plot.

So I was really reading back what I (and my amazing partner) had written, and then erasing one small bit where I had written blindly into, and now I’m trying to plot something that wouldn’t come.

I’m a failure.

The good thing is that I have my drive to work tomorrow to plot, if I’m not too busy having my mind really in the clouds and deep into dreams of skies and stars.

So right now, I’m merely writing for the sake of writing something.

***

I am also waiting.

And I might not have to wait much longer anymore. In 10 minutes time, I’ll be delving into a kind of drug that isn’t administered through needles or by sucking powder or by inhaling smoke. All it takes are words, a voice and a face.

It’s a potent drug. And I am addicted.

Severely, addicted.

And it puts me higher than this.

Much, much higher

2011-01-06T00:12:00.002+08:00

I bought the ticket, sat in the cinema, and was immediately surrounded by couples.

It didn’t occur to me that I could’ve gotten the corner seats, or somewhere front enough to put off other people, but my movie-going sensibilities were healthy and less bothered by the concept of being in the cinema alone, so it made me choose the seat smack in the middle.

I was the lone guy, still in work attire, hands crossed and waiting to watch an animated feature, a ‘Bah, Lovebugs’ already at the tip of my tongue and ready to jump off.

Everyone was couples there, except for that one guy behind me. He was the lamp post. And he was talking very little as to not appear so.

But I wasn’t quite alone, not really. I was watching it with someone in mind.

And I placed that thought on the spare seat beside me, and fed it popcorns.

***

Entangled

That's one hairy girl, Flynn Rider. You don't mess with them.

(Here’s a disclaimer, which I’ll put in very large letters, so that people don’t come and throw scissors at me later:

SPOILERS HERE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

And it’s for the movie Tangled, titled Rapunzel in Asia, because Disney Asia either 1) Felt that Asians would not be familiar enough with the Grimm fairy tale or 2) They lack the marketing skills of Disney America, otherwise Lords Disney, or 3) They know Tangled is really a marketing sort of title, but kept Rapunzel anyway because they’re Disney and people will still pay them money for everything. Westerners. What idiots.)

I guess, in most ways, that me considering Tangled as the best animated feature of 2010 is perhaps utter bollocks. But it is the year’s best, to this writer’s honest opinion. Yeap. You’re probably staring at me now, mouth agape. The scissors in your hand is very throwable, and you’ve practised before, especially on unfortunate cockroaches. You know I’m really just being daft. 2010 was, after all, the year of How To Train Your Dragon, and Despicable Me, and Toy Story 3 (“Especially Toy Story 3,” you said, twirling the scissors. It catches the light and gleams). What Disney concoction, no matter how nice or cool, could ever trump this?

Well, it’s because (and in this writer’s honest opinion): It’s Friggin’ Disney. Wow, good throw. Got my ear there. Very clean.

But well, this Disney we’re talking about here isn’t the Disney that closed down their traditional animated studios and made Chicken Little. This is the Disney that has that spark for characters, storytelling, wonderful visuals and the good old Believing In Themselves. Like The Princess and the Frog, Tangled is very much a traditional Disney movie. Disney of Walt’s time. Disney of the Animation Renaissance, which they had started. Disney who knew what they were doing. Disney with that childlike wonder in their hearts, and the adult-like dedication to bring them out as imaginatively as possible.

Oh, missed me there. But it’s Okay; I dodged. Just wanted you to know that. Don’t feel so bad about yourself.

Alright, Tangled isn’t without its flaws. It didn’t start off too well, and I can’t exactly tell you why. But once the plot got along, taking these established characters into the wilderness and giving them alcohol, it became a life of its own. I got lost in it. I stopped feeling like I was watching a movie. I was caring about the characters, I was laughing and I was sad, and it didn’t matter if I had actually seen most of everything coming – I was already so deeply lost in it that it surprised me anyway. It only took the reality of the End Credits to being me back, and also only because cinema cleaners here have no respect for End Credit watchers.

It was like watching Disney in their prime again, getting swept along in that carpet ride, getting to know Hakuna Matata, wanting to be Out There or Part of Your World, and knowing that Love conquers all.

Sure, I may be wrong. I may be biased, and there’s perhaps one or two of you out there who know that I am. But if you’re ever a Disney fan, you do yourself a favour to watch Tangled, before it faded into the unattainable (until the DVD release). Because, well, It’s Friggin’ Disney.

Hoho, close one there, that one clipped my heel that Ah Ok, there goes the eye, you got the eye, haha, and yeap; oomph; the pancreas. Always the pancreas…

***

That was the technical reason, the movie critic in me. Here is the real reason, and also where the SPOILERS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD disclaimer come to play.

Our heroes were on a boat, and they said something. Something I had been waiting for them to say. And after that, the lanterns came.

And the Song came. They sang about meeting their dreams, or chasing after pointless ones. They sang about seeing each other. They sang about having new dreams. And we know, then, as the lanterns descent and lit the water and their eyes; that they dream of each other.

It took a Song, and the mass of floating lanterns, so beautiful and close and real, to make me know that I’m really dreaming, too. And I have a new dream.

You’re my new dream.

2011-01-03T23:51:00.001+08:00

The Dreams Forgotten Today

This is one of those ruminative posts that are best left unread, but here's a ruminative picture anyway

Evening today, I took the DSLR up to the roof. It was up there with me, of course, for taking pictures, but what I had really wanted to do was to spend a few moments not thinking.

But nothing can outrun thought; that was the bit of wisdom you pick from Norse mythology, and I was soon standing by the fence to stare blankly into the sunset. The camera went to auto-sleep.

You don’t outrun Thought. You sit down and face it. It’s best to even serve crackers and tea.

There is a girl, and she is now across the ocean, pursuing a dream. For the months she was there, I had always considered her as amazing and courageous. And there really is no one I knew who is as brave as her, and in a time where most people dream only to fantasise, she dreamt to fulfil it.

Today she gave me her portfolio website. It was for an article she wrote on Twilight, and it was to follow up on our conversation on it.

I read the article. And then I read all of her articles. And then I turned off the computer and took the camera up to the roof, hoping not to think.

Why? Because I was suddenly struck with something. It was a curious feeling; parts of it were fear, mingled with memories and a cold stab of realisation. Inevitably in life, you get epiphanies. But epiphanies aren’t all warm, bursting realisations of feelings and the sudden will to decide – they are, in parts, the plunge into cold arctic waters, where the pain stabs you like needles, stopping your heart, freezing your mind.

A plunge into reality.

Have you ever dreamt?

You have to. Nobody can live a life without dreaming of something. The difference is whether the dream is realised or otherwise. Dreams become reality too. And dreams are hard to achieve.

I dreamt a lot, but I dreamt to fantasise. That is the fact.

When I was in middle school I dreamt to the point where dreams didn’t matter, because that was it; dreams that you make to smile to, to escape the conundrums of life as it rolls onwards into greyer and greyer territories. I had never given thought on dreams. It was a life where I was ready to live on without knowing where to go. I never studied. I never found a passion. I played and lazed and day-dreamt, sure that in spite of everything, there’s always a part of the world that I can find a place to stand in. And that was all I needed. Just a place to stand. I didn’t need to move.

I didn’t know what to do. Or rather, I never wanted to do anything.

Writing was a curious thing then. I loved writing. It helped with the fact that I day-dreamt and these dreams were mostly worlds as large as imagination could make. In my memory, I had never chosen a single exam essay that would need me to write a factual piece. It was always the stories.

One day a teacher said to me; “You write well.”

It was the greatest day of my teenage life.

“Have you ever considered a writing career?”

Truth be told, I hadn’t. It wasn’t until then that I had even dared to imagine that somehow, I could write into my adult life, and maybe even earn a living out of it.

But I was young, and naïve, and ignorant, and I had only dreamt to fantasise, so I said “No.”

“Have you ever considered Journalism?”

Journalism, then, was a new world in itself. I do not fancy myself as a good reader, and somehow it never occurred to me that journalists write. It was always as though they had simply walked out to get a story, walked back in, and read into the microphone. That would become the day’s headlines.

“You could try for it,” said the teacher.

And then, I felt, I really could.

That day onwards, I had a Dream. If stories were the only thing that I could make, and then, somehow, tell it out, with words or voices, then I would become a storyteller. It was a Dreamlike prospect. A modern day storyteller, a man with a book in one hand, a pencil in the other, and he would write stories that would stay and entertain and inspire. And Journalism, whatever it was, would be a way to start going.

When my father gave me the Talk, I told him I wanted to pursue Journalism. It was a joke to him. Here was a guy who had never read the newspaper, never seen the news, never written anything more than fiction and nonsense and he had the audacity to suggest a future in Journalism. But I was young and naïve and ignorant, and I had a dream to fulfil, so I insisted.

To my surprise, he allowed me so. In the coming months, he found the quickest way for me to do it, and with my mother in tow, we had a course to head towards. All I needed was 5 credits for my SPM. And that was all I took.

Before I applied for good, my father threw a newspaper page into my lap. It was an application form for The Star’s BRATs program. It was a program to encourage young and aspiring journalists, and that was what I was. That week, I sat up in the nights to fill it.

There was that bit that required me to write about myself, and why I would want to join. It was a difficult bit, because I could easily make something up for it, and knowing that I really couldn’t. It had to be true. And I still didn’t know why I wanted to do journalism, except that it would allow me to write.

It took many nights, but at the last night before I had to submit, I took the pen and wrote;

I want to be a journalist because I like telling stories. I want to be a storyteller, and what better stories can there be told but real ones?

(It was longer then, and much more glorified, but I’d be hard pressed to remember what I actually wrote).

I didn’t know if it was true then, what I wrote. But of all the things I would make up, that one would sound the truest. I put the form into an envelope and mailed it. A few weeks later, the acceptance letter came, and I found myself flying alone to Kelantan for the program.

For the days there, in the program, what I had written slowly became truer and truer.

I found that there were stories everywhere if you knew where to look. Sometimes it takes a single question. Sometimes it takes a sight. Sometimes, they’re the stories you tell just by the thought of it. They were both true stories, and made up stories. And I realised that I like it. I could do this. I could be a journalist, and write about true stories. And I would write them not as news, but as tales, as Stories, and people would read them and feel something.

I came back, and enrolled into TARC and straight into my Diploma in Journalism. For those two years, what I had written on the form stayed at the back of my head. I may not have been a good student, but I made sure I got through. And then I progressed to my Degree, which took me to UTAR.

Two years later, and those words faded. Those dreams, they became the ones I made to fantasise. They were bygone, and stupid. I wouldn’t say reality put me in check. It was more like complacency. And the slow realisation that I wasn’t cut out for Journalism.

The reason was simple, and it was because I am lazy. The other reasons were that I lacked every pretty much every skill you would need to be a journalist. I have the curiosity of a pebble. I cannot, for the life of me, ask questions, or make new ones as I go. I am bad with people, and till today the thought of meeting people terrifies me. What I had was just the passable skill to write, maybe articulate well enough to work slightly above average. That was all. I had the pen, but nothing else.

Soon, I was simply floating along. I did just enough to graduate. I held a degree for a job I can’t do.

And somehow, I found a job, and in Journalism. Today, I write for a living. When people asked, I would still tell them my passion is to write.

Only to write. I had forgotten what it was to be a storyteller.

This girl, now across the ocean, possibly asleep, and ready to wake up soon to face her challenges and fulfil her dream, has done more to me than just enlighten me on the subject of a contemporary hit of a vampire novel. What she had done is the equivalent of pushing me off the Titanic and letting me hit the icy waters, before pulling me out with a grappling hook.

It is this girl that, at the age of 18, had written for a newspaper, and what she had written were fantastic pieces. She has written them for five years, before flying off for her dreams. She has been writing the things I had wanted to write, but had never done so.

What have I done over the past 5 years? I had dreamt, and I let it fade. I studied for passion first, which slowly became a duty, and later just an obligation. And now, I write for a technology magazine, which is absolutely the best magazine one would ever hope to be hired into, but what had I truly written? The months were just me regurgitating tech facts and press releases. Try as I might to breathe life over my stagnating writing, and all I could manage were pathetic opening lines that just as easily would divulge back into boring, uninspired writing. I have not been asking questions at events, and while I justify it with the fact that there was really never any need to, the truth is that I never had a question. And every day I live with the fact that sooner or later people would find out that I’m barely anywhere knowledgeable in the tech and IT industry. I have only been getting by with sheer luck and the patience of others.

Where am I now?

What the fuck have I been doing?

And I’m here, really, to know that I’ve just been back to dreams that fantasise.

I have nothing to fulfil anymore.

You do not outrun Thought. You sit down and confront it. At best, you talk to it. It’ll talk back.

So here I am, confronting it, and talking to it for the first time in my life.

And here is me telling myself that I have a dream to fulfil.

I don’t know if it’ll work, or if I’ll just as easily regressed back to complacency, ready to accept life as the spot in which I can only stand in. I have no faith in myself. But these days – these past 14 days, where I am really living a dream that is wonderful, surreal, fantastic, and something that I couldn’t dare believe in, maybe it’s time that I start believing in myself to pull it through.

I think, for once, and truthfully, I want to dream to fulfil.

Somewhere at the back of my head is still the image of the storyteller, with his pencil and paper. Somewhere along with it is the other image of the guy who believed that he can, somehow, tell true stories.

I think it’s time I go and say hi to them again.

2011-01-02T23:38:00.004+08:00

Day the First

("Product Placement.")

(And yes, it has nothing to do with the following post)

That night, when the year’s bridge met each other and my past and future self shook hands and went their own ways, I was on the roof of the house.

(You may be wondering why or how I got up there, and it certainly had nothing to do with an ability to leap tall bounds, or to teleport, or even anything involving a rickety ladder. It does, however, involve a lopsided spiral staircase and my father’s fantastic sense to design the top of our recently renovated house into a flat balcony, if it should be called a balcony.)

I had just gotten a Call, and I had flubbed it. But it had plastered me with this idiotic smile and light-heartedness that it left me dreamlike as I leant on the rooftop fence, the Shandy in my hand barely drunk, while I dreamt into the wind.

The fireworks came. The ones people secretly bought from friends who had friends who are dealers that dealt with dealers of these sorts of fireworks, and they lit lower rung of the skies with unsynchronised brevity. The bangs were thumps, deep and bass-y. I watched them bloomed and died, bloomed and died, bloomed and died…

It was beautiful, in its own unremarkable way.

I imagined a hand in mine, and I held that. And then I wished I was flying in the clouds, crossing oceans, passing mountains and planes and cities.

I finished the Shandy. Then a Text came.

And oh, did I wish.

***

You don’t normally spend your New Year’s Day painting gates, but that was what my parents got up to do, and I got slotted under the morning sun before I knew it, mentally noting that you do not, under any circumstances, wear a black t-shirt if you were painting under Malaysian sun.

Our first meal of the year was at Uncle Tony’s, and it was every of his claypot specialities. The New Year’s part was that we ended up being temporary workers to help clear the tables, them being extremely shorthanded. I had found it to be amusing and strangely fun, overlooking the fact that every other customer looked like they expected us to clean their tables too. Then they saw us sitting down to eat. Then they started clearing their own tables, as best as they could.

The day rolled into a pleasant afternoon, a pleasant evening, and a pleasant night barbecuing at an uncle’s house. Then I got home to a wonderful night.

And somewhere, in a voice that's very much me on High, said "This has to be the best New Year's Day."

"Ever."

2010-12-31T23:06:00.002+08:00

The Part Where We Stroll Into the New Year

The way I see it, the last few minutes of New Year’s Eve is like two ends of a bridge that are about to join together. In one side is the young, naïve, sprightly guy ready to run into the unknown future - while the other side is the dishevelled, unshaved, lethargic guy who walked as though the world weighted upon him. When the bridge connects, they’d shake hands, bid each other farewell and go on with their ways.

This happens every year. The naïve guy would always run ahead, taking the falls and the obstacles whichever they came first. The tired man would walk and sigh and wonder how it was that he never took time to look around. They’d reach the same end of the bridge every year. How they do so is like those time-paradoxical things that are best left unexplained.

There is a lesson here somewhere, but I’m too confused trying to figure out how this continuum thing works.

***

I should probably try writing about things in retrospect, and I think I’ve been trying to do it for every year to no avail. If the New Year’s is like the connecting bridge, then my guys would be sitting around chatting about Marshmallows while playing cards, and when the bridge split again they’d look at each other with shocked expressions. One might even try to jump. He never makes it.

So the year that was is, once again, a blur. Maybe pre-New Year brains are just that mushy. Maybe I’m simply too lazy to try and reminisce a year where things barely happened. Truthfully, nothing happened. I had gone through another year by staring dead into space and drooling. Time simply rolled on, carefully avoiding tipping me over. And when they did, I just drooled into the ground.

There, it was dark and comfortable and I dreamt of Nice Things.

***

Alright, maybe I can try and remember the past year.

(And I’ll be doing so by going through my 2010 blog entries, just to help my mushed up brain).

I remember doing a lot of flying. Much more than one could ever dream of, even if flying weren’t their cup of tea. But I had flown. I had gone to Bali, and Bangkok, and Jakarta, and a few times to Singapore. And then, of course, there was Japan. I have a lot to love about my job, and the constant flying was one of them.

I remember my great grandma’ passing. I remember the funeral, and my last look upon her face. I remember not crying. I still hadn’t.

I remember the day it dawned upon me that I had been in my job for a full year. It was an exciting thought, and there was this pathetic bloom of pride. Somehow, I hadn’t managed to get myself fired. Somehow, that meant a lot to me.

I remember little of everything else. There was a farewell I couldn’t make, a promise I couldn’t keep. Watching as the world played out like a theatre. It’s a story about me, but I’m just the audience. And I had fallen asleep on the fast-forward button.

The lights are on now, and the people are moving about discarding popcorn boxes.

***

There is something that I don’t need to try and remember, however. That’s because it’s happening right now.

And it’s a dream. There’s no other way to put it. I’ve tried pinching myself a few hundred times, and at one point put my foot out on a passing trolley at the supermarket, but I’m still here. Still in this dream. This surreality. This believing that it’s all real, however unreal. This wonderful feeling.

This feeling in the stars, in the clouds. There is no air, but only Life that you breathe.

And I’m still here, in spite of everything. I’m Still Here.

And I like it here.

A lot.

***

Resolutions? Just one.

The good thing about this resolution is that, if I kept at it, and I will, it opens up to a hundred more resolutions to fulfil. So I’ve got my sleeves rolled, and knuckles cracked. I’ve even put on my running shoes.

It starts next year.

***

Here’s the bit where I wish everyone a Happy New Year.

And I wish that you find Happiness. That’s just about it. Happiness, I figure, is direly underrated. You don’t pay the bills with Happiness, but Happiness pays you Love, and Laughter, and Joy, and that thing that keeps the road ahead lit even when it’s dark.

It would really then be a Happy New Year, right? Right?

Right? Guys? Guys??

2010-12-07T01:11:00.003+08:00

First, a picture that I may use for bragging rights:

But it doesn’t belong to me, not alone at least. It belongs mostly to the greatest writing partner that I could wish for, and she gave me the plots and the words and that mental image in the form of an army of zombies waving banners that say “Just a little more!” and “Stay Lurching!” and “Brainz Up Ahead!”. She and the Zomb-army carried us past the finish line, and all I did was make sure I hit the nightly word count by continuously typing Ape, Ape, Ape, Ape, Ape (and, for the rest of the night, Bananas x 1000).

Suddenly, it was back to those nights where the parchment would open and I’d fall into it, and the words would just come (Apes and Bananas). And I’d be somewhere else, and nothing else would’ve mattered. Not even the coffee-requesting parent. Not even the mosquitoes. Not even sleep, at least until it got overly demanding. Only that this time, there was someone else with me, and she pitched while I batted.

Suddenly I was plotting, padding, making characters speak in my head, tying up loose ends and throwing things randomly on the wall with the hope that it sticks. And then, in the end, making sure that I’d come home and write it.

50,000 words weren’t even enough. But here’s the second promise; finishing the novel. Complete with the edits, changes, omissions, ironing, waxing, wrestling-with-the-characters-ing, and footnotes.

The road is long, and I’m having a great time walking down it.

So here I raise, this imaginary glass of sparkling champagne, to my writing partner, her Zomb-army, and the words.

Time to fire the Large Plotron Collider!

****

Right, there was also that bit where I went to Japan for a few days, and it’s my third self-promise to blog about it (with pictures. From a perfectly fine camera duly wasted upon me). But at least until I finish the coverage on it.

There is, of course, self-promise One and Two. There’s also a Four, but knowing myself, self-promises tend to vaporise. So maybe three for now. I’ll work in the extras later.

And yes, this bit of the post is to remind me to do it. Do ignore, and go let that spider chase your mouse pointer.

Oíche Mhaith

2010-12-03T01:01:00.003+08:00

Carni

Right now, there’s an inflatable castle in my head, and I’m in it and bouncing off the halls and turrets. This, I figure, was placed there by the alcohol. It was only half a pint, drunk with friends and laughter, but to my credit it’s already double the amount I would’ve dared to drink. So yeah; I’m still an alcohol wuss, and right now I’m bouncy.

(At any rate, a bouncing castle wouldn’t bode well with that NaNoWriMo novel we’re trying to finish, but I wanted to write something. At least until the bouncy castle deflates).

November was the craziest month.

There was the fact that I tried, and had to, close the magazine a week early. And there was NaNoWriMo. And the Japan trip came along and threw everything into disorder. I’ve technically worked for three weeks without a single day off, if you count Japan being work, which it is in parts.

But I've enjoyed NaNoWriMo. Japan was an eye opener, and the job was the same adrenaline rush that only midnights and deadlines could give. So it was all crazy, but crazy good. Crazy tiring.

November was like a carnival. It had lights, and noises, and music. It had rides that thrilled; roller-coaster carts and Ferris wheels and haunted houses, and it had shows and acts that told of secrets and shadows and the darkest pits of desire. And like all carnivals, you know the dark, seedy going-ons it has in its corners, and yet you’re attracted to the lights, thrilled by the thrills, enticed by the secrets in the tents...

You get swept into the ride, and you’ll hate it, but pervasively, unabashedly, finding every moment enjoyable.

All I found myself doing was falling. Into the spinning lights. While they played and danced and made me hate and like.

Right now I’m walking out of the carnival, cotton candy in one hand, beer bottle in the other. And there’s a ravine ahead.

And I know I’m just gonna fall.

2010-11-22T21:04:00.002+08:00

I'm in the airport now, and the Internet access here is patchy at best, so I'm just gonna run this quick:

1) I'll be flying off to Japan in 2 hours time

2) I have butterflies the size of Mothra

3) I'm having food coma

4) This will be the furthest I've ever been from home

It's still like walking into a dream. The type that makes you climb stairs in a desert, leaving you parched and dying. But surreal all the same.

Which me luck against Godzilla.

2010-11-17T01:10:00.001+08:00

So, one part of me is saying; “Why the fuck aren’t you asleep?”, while another part is saying that “If you’re not fucking sleeping, why aren’t you clocking word count for NaNoWriMo?”. But I had tried; I sat staring at the previous words I’ve written and waited for more words to come ... and nothing came. But the words, oddly enough, came for this, so I figured that skipping one night would do me some favours. In one shoddy way, I am writing still. And it keeps a stagnant blog slightly less decadent. So shut it, Conscience B.

(Another reason for not being asleep is that, right now, my hair is still wet, and I have mud on my face. It’s most likely mud mixed with random herbs that is packed and marketed as a Neem Face Pack, which was shoved into my hands by the people who bought it, telling me that it’ll do me good and make me a better looking man if I kept at it – and I’m just thinking that hey, if it’s free, and if it ensures that I won’t have to consider plastic surgery over the next few years, why not? So here I am, in the middle of the night, typing on a blog entry I shouldn’t be making with mud smeared on my face, making me feel increasingly metrosexual. That would be the mud bit.)

But nights like this are worth being up, just for a little while. And I have jazz and numbers by Ol’ Blue Eyes right here, and he’s doing a great job telling how life should be.

And maybe it’s the jazz, and the night feeling so placid and empty, that I feel like I could do with a shot of Bourbon. The kind you take over at the bar, with the bartender named Joe, while the jukebox plays something like what Ol’ Blue Eyes would sing, about making one for the road. And I could say, I could tell you a lot, but it’s not... in a gentleman’s code. And then drink. And then say, “Hit me with another one, Joe. For old times’ sake.”

But reality is a sour bitch. I don’t drink, and I don’t know what Bourbon is. The nearest bar is in town and it’ll be playing seedy KTV music. And I might feel like I could do with a drink, but the drink would probably do as much as a favour to me as playing a round on an arcade machine. A quick, forgetful thrill. And I’d personally choose the latter.

There’s probably some coherence, or maybe some sense, in what I’ve just written. And damn if I’m gonna bother checking for one or giving it something.

You can shut up now, Conscience B. And A.

(But Joe, maybe... you know: Make it just one more, for my baby. And one more for the road).

2010-10-31T22:41:00.001+08:00

Room With No Walls

There was this old forgotten story, which sort of went like:

There was a boy who lived in a room with no walls, built on top of a pillar that rose above a sea of clouds. In the morning, the boy will tend to his garden crop. In the afternoon he would rappel down the side of his pillar, where he was building stairs that spiral down into the clouds. He was doing so because, one night, he saw a pulse of light from beneath the clouds. No ship had been able to sail below the clouds and return, but the boy was compelled in his certainty that the stairs will take him down. And he built and built, and...

And the rest never happened, because I’ve never written past that.

The story is still lodged somewhere at the back of my head, and maybe one day I’ll finish it. Knowing me, however, that day might never come. But it’s there, and sometimes it tells itself to me as I sleep. I just need to tell myself to write it.

Anyway, my room now has no wall.

If I am to sleep in it, people passing every morning will me my leg stuck at an odd angle and my pillow soaked in drool. I’d also be covered in dust and debris, which – aside from being a tad uncomfortable as a state to live in – is also very unhealthy. I’ve now relocated to the brother’s room, and every night is a revisited battle; I’ve spent a better part of my life sleeping with him that it’s back to the old nightly endeavour of fending off his blanket-stealing attempts, and his dangerous swinging legs.

I’m glad October went past. The days where he sat on the chair, the weather had been chaotic. And people went ballistic and started having events every damn day, which was hectic to attend. And somewhere I managed to demolish an old cabinet by trying to use it as a height boost, hurting my hand in the process. And yesterday I did every single Don’ts in a guide to break a fight between two dogs, and got my hand bitten for my troubles (nothing antiseptics couldn’t help, though). And I owe DiGi a lot of cash I didn’t spend. And I’m at the eve of NaNoWriMo with no plot, no story, no characters, no nothing...

(But I’m cheating this year. Sort of. There’s nothing on the FAQ that said I can’t collaborate with someone and actually just write the half of it...)

(I think I’ll burn in NaNoWriMo hell).

The bright side of things, however, is that it’s November, and when she takes the chair I normally get a very good 30 days. She has been kind to me.

50 more minutes now, and October will leave.

It’ll be time to write.

2010-10-19T00:24:00.003+08:00

A more rational me would’ve gone to sleep, but this other part wanted to relish in past photographs, so I sit here uploading old photos into Flickr, and taking time to go through products of a more enthusiastic period of youth.

(This reinvigoration of an interest is stemmed by the Bra-man, who already has a Flickr account of his own, accessed here, which is in turn sparked off by his acquisition of a DLSR. Resurrecting my Flickr page is both in his request and my interest to pick up a DSLR myself. I’ve also starting to feel rather competitive. Not that I’m ever in the league, but I can’t help it.)

Anyway, my Flickr page is here, and if it stays active I’ll probably pin it to the link bar for good.

I like photography. I don’t love it. I used to, but time has a good way to dash enthusiasm and confidence into shards, and whatever’s left is only enough to keep me snapping during vacations or memorable trips. Otherwise, I barely utilise the compact cameras. They’re here, in the drawer. I haven’t turned them on for a long time.

I don’t take good pictures, but there’s a sense of achievement in trying to get one. For me the fun is in the process, and the photograph is the trophy. It didn’t have to look nice, but a nice trophy is fantastic anyways, and it keeps me going for that. Going through these old pictures, I realised that I miss it a lot.

This Nikon D3100 I’m getting, might just put me back in the love. As for now, I’m having a crush all over again.

I must confess; I like photography.

I really do.

2010-10-17T23:35:00.000+08:00

I figured I was smart. I figured; there’s no better way to force yourself into writing unless it’s a life threatening situation. So here I am, strapped to a chair, which is being slowly lowered into a pool of genetically mutated Piranhasharks and will keep doing so unless I continuously type down something. It sucks that I sort of have writers’ block, so I’m pretty close to the waters now, and there’s this itch on my toe that I have just have to get and oh god it waters just touched my ankles I have to type gotta keep typing one word two word three word four word oh crap oh crap oh crap oh

Oh, now I have some leeway. Right. I just need to type myself to safety. Just keep typing, typing…

*****

So, I had this week staked out. I studied the calendar, I noted down the important stuff and I had myself a schedule, complete with red-marker circlets. Then I cracked my fingers and got on with it. By Tuesday I’ve forgotten my days and I thought I was in the year 1901.

In my defence, I kept my end of the bargain until everything simply collapsed into craziness. When that happens, the best one could do is simply fall along and hope that there’s coffee at the end of it. So don’t blame me for thinking time went back to 1901 and I stood watching Annie Taylor going down the Niagara Falls in a barrel and freaking survived.

Anyway, I wonder why every person out there thinks October is a good time to have media events. By the damn throngs of it.

Things happened, one after another. And I couldn’t remember most of it already, or rather I’m too lazy to. One had me going on a flying fox, though. It was real. It was a long day.

And it’s not dying down. The storm’s still going on. We’re barely through.

Though, now I’ve got a poncho and an umbrella. And yellow boots.

2010-10-11T00:00:00.000+08:00

Interesting what a barber can say to you and leave you troubled for the day. But you’re only troubled by it because it’s true, and that you’re already troubled by it anyway, only that it takes someone to word it out, even unintentionally, for it to latch on and spread out like blight. At the end of the day, it’s a disease.

A mental structure is like a bricolage, built with salvaged scraps and scattered bits of separate thoughts, and it unless these thoughts are of strong material, it doesn’t take much for it to crumble. A breeze, a prod can bring it down. Sometimes, the words of a barber.

The rest is kind of what you do with it. Face the truth, and walk away with a briefcase and ready to make a move, or pick up the pieces and start rebuilding the next whimsical structure?

But you know, the road ahead is tough. Sometimes it’s easier to rebuild, and stay holed again.

2010-10-07T23:44:00.000+08:00

Oddly empty highways, lighted amber and dark, can be a joy to drive through. Windows down, head abuzz with 10 sips of wine, Yoko Kanno’s Space Lion playing on the radio makes it melancholic, and it was like I was driving towards someplace unreachable. In some ways, it was like dreaming. The kind of dreams that were wishful, unattainable things.

And the magic ended at the toll, when barred gates and money put a stop to dreaming. I paid, drove by, and it was just that; a drive home.

The radio played That’s Life, and Frank Sinatra sung me to the next traffic light.

****

It might be too early to count these eggs, but it seems like I’ll be going to Japan next month.

For work, of course. But the free time in between meant that I’ll be making the most out of Tokyo, to appease this semi-otaku tendencies.

(And, if my itinerary is to be believed, I get a chance to visit the Ghibli Museum. That’s one tick on my Bucket List).

It’s gonna be expensive, even if food and accommodation will be taken care of. So starting today, I’ll be tying up my stomach and only drink milk for 6 weeks.

*********

This very possible trip to Japan also meant that it’s time I get my DSLR. I’m pretty much set to purchase the Nikon D3100, but I still can’t decide if I want to pay it through instalments or save up more for a smoother transaction. But a new camera and Japan’s sights would be awesometastic.

I think I’ll leave these thoughts in the air as I retreat to bed.

2010-10-05T23:20:00.002+08:00

Lucifugous

"Come back later?"

I like staying in the dark these days. The shadows are cool and comforting, and the darkness can blanket the mind with blissful ignorance, which is always welcoming.

You still need the sun, though. Warmth, light and Vitamin D is needed to keep going. And it’s always better to travel in light; you don’t have to worry about stumbling into potholes and chasms.

These days, I travel under the stars, convincing myself that moonlight would suffice. So far, I had walked into poles and construction digs, and maybe a monsoon drain or two. Once, I stepped into a minefield and sparked off a chain reaction that lit up in spectacular fountains of dirt and limbs.

You’d think that I’d learnt soon enough.

But I’m just stubborn that way.

*******

Three weeks can give a lot of things that just happened to be ponderous subjects, and by ponderous it meant I get less sleep as they mull and debated and insulted each other’s mothers in my head. Most of them are the important things, and they’re there because they just happened. Some of them are those things you just had to stupidly think about, even if they had nothing to do with you at all. It’s like volunteering for more work and without pay. It kinda makes you a sucker.

(I mean, I think it does. Doesn’t it?)

But well, like someone said to me once; “It’s better to think than not to.”

No, no, that doesn’t make sense. But I’m not in the mood to make it otherwise.

Anyway, three weeks of lesser sleep and brain atrophy has contributed to writing skills that has marvellously regressed. And in a job that prints ‘Writer’ on my name card, that’s not good. Not good at all.

Let’s… let’s start working out.

**************

I used to do this, a long time ago, as a means to etch words into my abysmal vocabulary. It doesn’t work, mostly because my goldfish memory couldn’t ensure that it’s stays etched; it fades out in three days at most, but it does work itself as some sort of writing exercise.

It goes like this; you take a word, which in my case is Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day, and you write something about it. Today’s word was Lucifugous, but since I've already used that as an irrelevant title, let’s use another day’s.

That’ll be Nympholepsy. Which means:

A frenzy of emotion, as for something unattainable.

An ecstasy supposed by the ancients to be inspired by nymphs.

Which also means: a tumultuous mass of feelings caused by very attractive women. So yeah; think Epilepsy, but the psychological type, and caused by hot chicks. And yes; it’s a pandemic.

The next step is to simply write something with the word in it. Like:

The roasted ribs gleamed at him, dripping oil catching the light, steam wafting gently and coiling into imageries of taste, rising up into some kind of mounting nympholepsy. His mind snapped, and the glass panel did little to hold him back. The ribs were already between his teeth, and he gnashed and tasted… plastic? No. No. No no no no...

Yeah… well, I guess I needed more workouts.

Let’s see if I can keep this up tomorrow.

2010-09-17T23:36:00.001+08:00

Being cold and miserable just doesn’t cut it anymore. Where’s the despair? Where’s the sense of hopelessness that you wish the rain can fill? Where’s the infallible grief and growing anger and prolonged destitution? Or that emptiness that pierce into the skin, filling the bones, replacing the soul? Snap out of it, mister. You’re just caught in the rain. You haven’t seen the end of the world.

That would’ve been a sight.

*****

This morning it rained. Heavily. Normally I would roll over and sleep, tortilla-wrapping myself with the blanket and dreaming of Scarlett Johansen lettuce dressings. But today, by virtue of the dad being away from home, morning chores were doubly mine.

It rained like the heavens upended the northern Atlantic ocean, so that it was heavy, unending and piercingly cold. Just enough to plant the seed of misery.

I went to work so late I probably shouldn’t have gone to work at all. But there was urgent work to be done.

And the rain came and go in drizzles. Dreary clouds just stapled itself to the sky, unmoving and stubborn.

Office Internet killed itself. I had to sit through an hour of troubleshooting before the people at TM unwillingly filed a report, promised a technician and cut my call.

My work crawled at snail’s pace, then morphed and shaped itself into coiling streaks of colours, and danced away to the Limbo.

I had my forehead on the table. I spotted a coin on the floor. Left it there.

The carpet turned to mush and I sank like an anvil in quicksand. Everything was grey.

A man wearing a sombrero hat over his diving suit floated my way. “You too?” he said. “Lots of people here today. Must’ve been the weather.” He paddled away, trailing bubbles that stayed in place.

I decided that it was probably best if I headed for home.

It still managed to rain. It’s raining now, in lapses. All the better.

Because I can now tortilla-wrap myself, and maybe dream of Milla Jovovich lettuce dressings.

Sweet dreams.

2010-09-17T00:09:00.002+08:00

Sitting On A Rock, watching a lonesome dark cloud roll across the horizon, and catching a little wind with a Snickers Mini in hand. If there’s such a thing as a Random-Stroke-of-Zen Moment, that would’ve been it.

As always, the rock and the wind would give birth to a lot of ideas. Paper planes and kites. Paragliding. Or bagfuls of dandelions, opened to the breeze. That would’ve been sight.

How long was it since I hiked up Broga Hill?

A couple of things have changed. For one, the oil palm plantation below now has an enclosure, and there are people there charging climbers two ringgit to park their cars . An opportunistic vendor now parks his coconut stall at the foot of the hill, enticing weary climbers with thoughts of ice cold coconut drinks (in truth, almost lukewarm). Some authoritative figure of some sort enacted a few signboards along the way, and - wherever needed - aiding ropes were now available to speed up the ascent.

Other than that, and the fact that it’s now a tourist attraction, and the overlong cattails, everything’s still the same.

Stamina now shot to dust, but I still made it up at least. And I headed for the rock without a thought, ready to push off anyone with the gall to sit on it.

(Which begs the question; Can one buy a rock? If one would invest an insignificantly significant amount of money, can a gigantic piece of rock be bought and fitted around with electric barb wires and a moat filled with piranhas just so only one may sit on it?)

In place of dandelions, I shot a stalk of Lalang into the air, the way that the father thought me. The stalk danced momentarily in the wind, deciding whether or not to follow the flight and, knowing the scientific hopelessness of it, simply danced to the ground.

I felt like it reflected a bit of something, but it’s a fogged mirror, which I drew a face on and forgot.

2010-09-13T00:22:00.000+08:00

A conversation. And then, as it happened, a reminiscence. Of old coke vending machines, and some talk over flowers. And days of sharing headphones. Train rides pondering the questions. Planning and watching everything fall.

One cold night, shivering for no reason, and about to do something really stupid.

I used to think that the past should serve as a means to walk forwards. These days it felt like it was tethering me back. I’m grounded at the balls of my feet, and the roots are only growing daily. Can’t lift my feet. Not going anywhere.

It was a long time ago. I keep feeling like it happened yesterday. But it wasn’t a case of not letting go. I’ve unclenched my fingers and watched it fall, but it’s that mess in the hall I’m too lazy to sweep.

I’m not making sense. But it’s midnight, and I can afford that type of leeway.

2010-09-06T22:00:00.000+08:00

Bright Lights and Hospitals

It started sort of like déjà vu. Then it went down a different road, one that led to a roller coaster ride that can only careen into unforeseen tragedy. At any rate, I spent that morning staring up a lot. Between wincing, groaning and swearing off all sorts of vices just to make the pain go, I stared up. And up that morning consisted of ceilings, a glimpse of the dawning sky, and lights.

Really bright lights. That burn an afterimage of gargantuan French Fries into the retina.

The mental projection of that Eskimo wearing Oakley goggles and standing on a patch of ice resurfaced. Soft snow floated down, but I knew I couldn’t taste them. The Eskimo naturally said; “Fucked up again, huh? You never really did learn.”

“Good job reminding me.”

He lit his cigar. “Well, it’s not entirely your fault. You’ll find out. But lets start with exercising in the mornings now, can’t we?”

“Set my alarm then.”

He blew out the smoke, jabbed the cigar at me and walked away.

The doctor looked like he had been watching too many soap operas. He listened to symptoms like cherishing Bach, and talked methodically.

“Could be a stone in the urinary tract,” he said, nodding as though concurring with himself. “Anyway, we’ll find out after the test.” He left, him and his Einstein moustache. I twiddled my thumbs under the covers, wondering where the pain went without any medication administrated.

They then carted me off for a CAT scan, but not before parking me by a random wall. They said there was a line going for the scans. I sure didn’t see any, but maybe they meant the procedural type. So I twiddled my thumbs some more, and nodded at the parents if they looked this way. I’ve already ruined their weekend morning, so reassurance was the next best thing to do.

At the wall was a painting framed by plastic made to look as expensive, engraved wood. I couldn’t tell what it was about - it was one of those abstract pictures, but considering the hospital setting I’d say it must’ve been medical related. It had coagulated colours and crude boils. I was putting my money on the titles like Jimmy’s Acne, or The Cancer Dirge.

The CAT scan was horrifying. Every hum of machinery meant a few hundred bucks gone. I was also getting radiation into the body. They probably mutated something.

They then wheeled me into a room, and told me that the CAT Scan didn’t do the trick well enough, and they had to ultrasound me. I already had a few pregnancy jokes made up but the doctor looked like he needed coffee and candy, so I kept my tongue.

Ultrasound gel feels cold. It dawned that I had a really large gut. Like, huge.

The nurses (attendants?) started talking over me as they wheeled me out of the room. “Could use with some automatic doors,” Dude said. “High-end stuff.” “Yeah, yeah, the expensive ones,” said Dudette. “Like in America.” “Shut up, Shut up,” I said, but only in my head.

The bright lights ran along with the ceiling, burning lines and lines of large French Fries.

The last doctor I had to see looked excitable, and he took time to explain where the problem was with a helpful but distracting graph. He then signed the medication and asked me to come see him in a week’s time. The sound of the door closing also sounding like the cash register going Ka-Ching.

And it did. But at least I get to pay back.

And with that, Saturday afternoon started.

******

That happened last month. I wanted to write about it but I got distracted by having to review StarCraft 2.

It wasn’t serious, but before I was driven to the hospital it felt like it was. If having to wake up to puke water all over the toilet, followed by numbing pain to the gut and creeping tendrils of unconsciousness didn’t do enough to scare me into a hospital trip, I don’t know what else would.

I think it’s time I really wake up for a morning jog. The dogs could do with the exercise too.

*****************

Like that painful morning, the month came and gone. I practically walked out of the hospital and into closing week (there was about seven other days in between, but that flew by too). And because I was so distracted by so many things, I handed up work much slower than usual. Time to buck up this month.

I’ve also been playing a lot of StarCraft II. I’m no good in it; RTSes are never in my gaming forte, but it was undoubtedly a lot of fun, even when losing. Ok, maybe losing every Custom Game match wasn’t so fun, but it kept me playing still.

Right then. Wish me luck.

2010-08-31T23:55:00.001+08:00

At this time (night)

My thoughts are where (the clouds)

I could see (and imagine listening)

(To) (You)

2010-08-10T23:36:00.000+08:00

“And you expect a good answer out of a bad question?”

I do, actually. Bad questions, after all, are meant for good answers.

Though sometimes it wouldn’t work and both parties have to stare at their feet and shuffle shiftily. Then they’d have to wait for someone to clear their throats and say “move along,” to break the awkwardness.

As expected, I made a fool of myself. The people at Blizzard called too early, before I was mentally prepared to ask questions and before I could figure out how to record the conversation. I ended typing furiously as I asked, and there’re lapses in silence where I tried to juggle between interpreting an answer and trying to word the next question.

It was short; only 15 minutes. They were nice people, and Brian Kindregan (lead writer for StarCraft II) is both great to speak to and very helpful.

I found it most interesting that he worked on the Iron Giant. Gamers out there should know that he also wrote for Jade Empire and Mass Effect 2.

Writing for video games now seem very fascinating. And very much underappreciated.

***

Love is like a feast. Take enough of it, and you’re full, warm and contented. Take too much, you puke. Take too little, you hunger. Take nothing, and all you can do is watch and scent, and imagine the taste.

2010-08-09T23:48:00.001+08:00

“When we woke and forgot the dream, it was probably meant to be forgotten.”

A tall clock tower, taller than the clouds. As tall as the obsidian pillars that rose around it.

A flying fish, in fact a flying machine shaped like a fish. A dandelion aircraft; the sort that rely on the kindness of winds and the unthinking, unpredictable hand of fate and fortune to carry it around. In it, two children lost in the erratic nature of a white canvas and the whimsicality of a pen, pondering the reality of dreams and likening it to the clouds that roll along them.

“That they are of shape, but indiscernible. Like you had the idea of what it is, what it’s trying to say, but it’s a hopeless grasp.”

“That it is what you make of it. It is what your imagination can create. The clues are there. Just think, and guess.”

The winds will take them under the clouds, where it is twilight that slowly become darkness as they descend. From the darkness rose mechanical hands that grasp a globe of Earth - millions of millions of them. Each Earth with green grass and growing trees, and rocks that flowers grow on.

They will land on one, and watch as the winds carry their craft into the plunging darkness below. They lay on the grass, side by side, and watched as the clouds gather and slowly sink towards them.

And then, the sound of thunder.

*****

In the morning, I’ll be having a phone interview with the lead writer of StarCraft II. I’m naturally but irrationally nervous.

I have a thing about asking questions. Mostly because I have nothing to ask, most of the time. Mostly because I tend to answer these questions myself. They will never be true, but it’s a force of habit that prevails the way id works over the psyche.

(The honest-to-goodness reason, however, is simply because I lack the mental capacity to think up of questions to ask in any given situation.)

This is why journalism is an art in which I’m dead in, but I’m trying to work around the kinks. I can probably start by asking more questions. The problem is knowing what sort of question to ask, and what sort of question to not. And because I know myself so well, I’ll probably be doing a lot of the latter.

Tomorrow I shall make a fool of myself.

*********

On the subject of dreams:

Inception is an awesome movie. It’s not the greatest movie this year, but Nolan certainly worked his magic. Or rather, he must’ve just simply cracked his head open with a nutcracker and the resulting image is the movie.

I won’t call it groundbreaking in idea, but I’ll call it groundbreaking in execution. And everyone loves an ambiguous ending. The type that puts the whole entire movie out of logical perspective.

And the theories start rolling. Interpretations of symbology and visual metaphors start pouring in. College Humour predictably does a parody video. People started telling each other how intellectually suited they are to watch the movie, and shot down everyone who found the hype overblown by saying that they are intellectually unsuited. All is well. The world is alive and thinking.

Hollywood needs movies like this. Not that they don’t, and not that they should churn out more; if Inception was a testament in anything, it’s that it was simply the smartest movie to come out since shows like Primer, Momento and Perfect Blue flew under everyone’s radar. People found the braininess compelling. Too much brain and people started complaining how one copies the other.

Every movie henceforth that requires you to think as it progresses (or literally gives you a mindfuck) will be claimed as an Inception rip-off.

I can’t predict trends so well, but I’d like to see if I’ll be right.

Now, to find my copy of Paprika.

*****************

I’ll have to look for Zimmer’s eargasmical composition for Inception, but right now I get my eargasm from Tchaikovsky.

It took me long enough, but hey; it’s not everyday you found out that your aunt has a 10-disc collection of classical music from the likes of Vivaldi, Bach and Strauss Jr.

Capriccio Italien Op. 45.

Du du duuu duuu

***************************

Speaking of Capriccio Italien, in a way inspired by the Carnivale in Rome, I found someone who named himself Carnival.

As in Carnival *Chinese surname*. It’s true. And he’s a balding middle-aged man who told me how I should frame my event photo op. He caught me staring at his name tag, mouth agape, and told me that yes, his camera is not too shabby.

Just so you know.

2010-08-03T00:06:00.002+08:00

Of All Things Boring and Uneventful

If there’s such a thing as a two-week blogging/Facebook sabbatical, I just took it. Mostly because I knew I would’ve been too busy to afford distractions (but such idiocy! I should’ve known that there are at least 999,999,998 other types of distractions out there, in the Internet or otherwise), but also because I needed to sort things out. The kind of sorting not unlike egg shells in scrambled eggs; in this case, my brain are the shells and the eggs are the convoluted mess of everything else.

It’s about setting things aside so I won’t end up eating myself. That would’ve been problematic.

Now it’s simply back to that self-promise of writing something every day; big or small or pointless or nonsensical. And also how I long I could stick to it before another 2-week sabbatical.

I might’ve been abusing that word.

I would’ve liked to say that I have something to great to report, but things were as uneventful as life’s monotony would allow, though we did get to go on a yacht for an event. It was a nice yacht, but it was too hot to stay on deck and it wasn’t technically on sail. The Port Klang waters could barely hold a breeze and there weren’t any pirates. But I doubt any pirates would have interest in a yacht with a huge OKI sail hung limp on the mast (they probably wouldn’t want to offend the Japanese. I mean, where would they get Sushi?).

Oh, and there was a Bloggers and Social Media Conference. It would’ve been more interesting if they hadn’t made it feel like it was made for people wanting to make money with blogs and social media, though in the few instances where they didn’t, the talks were highly interesting. And our 4th Prime Minister was there. He didn’t spare much mercy making jabs at everything. Mostly it was political. But I was very distracted whenever he said the word Nasty. He used it a lot.

It was 2 days worth of conferencing, stuck in a chair with no desk (the media section, in all its exclusiveness, were not given a table), trying hard to stay awake at every business-oriented talk (and Kenny Sia’s juvenile presentation), and drawing shamelessly on the 2008 notebook calendar. I looked like a kid stuck in a boring classroom.

I probably was.

****

Give a listen to this;

If it’s somehow stuck in your head, or if you actually replayed the song just to keep listening over and over again, then I can decide that I haven't gone completely bonkers.

Oh no no, I’ve not be completely bonkers, like, ever. Just partially insane. Two different things altogether.

(On the other hand, Spectacular Spider-Man has to be the best animated Spider-Man since the '94 series. I might not have watched or read a lot of Spidey, but this series is made of win).

2010-07-09T01:42:00.000+08:00

"Part 1 - 1.5: An apocalyptic log, and a really tough soliloquy"

(This is kind of nice; I have the urge to blog at 1.17 in the morning, and on my MSN conversation is a girl I’ve never met in real life, and we just told each other to go to sleep without actually committing to the act. This is also bad; because I’m not working on what I should be).

A few years ago, I thought I could write anything. Present day doesn’t seem to present this sort of naive confidence, though sometimes I could really do with that excess of unrelenting assurance. In fact, right now really calls for it.

These days, it’s hard to fall through the hole in the parchment.

Long-distance driving turned out to be not as daunting as I thought, but it did present its own set of tiredness.

I’m not entirely used to great-grandma’s passing; my first thought when I arrived in Penang was to pay her a visit. And then the slight revelation hit. It felt like a new pothole that on the road, that’s easy to forget and driven into.

Got on the ferry, the first time in years. The sea still smelt the same, and I’m glad that you can still spot the odd jellyfish or two. What’s different is the ferry’s divider. It was shorter.

(The girl has relented and gone to bed. My media player is playing a Cantonese song I didn’t remember having).

(I suppose I should head to bed now).

Hey, I did something I used to do. Write about nothing.

Maybe tomorrow I could feel like I could write anything again. Maybe it’ll help me get my work done.

Maybe tomorrow.

2010-07-01T23:13:00.000+08:00

(I should probably stop with this habit of only updating before a trip to someplace. I’ll be doing the chauffeur thing tomorrow and driving two of the most important women in my life - my mom and my grandma - down to Penang, to follow-up on some procedural things related to great-grandma’s funeral).

“Prologue, or those days I spend more time daydreaming dangerously”

It was that sort of crazy stretch in a month where everything seemingly led to one another, like the Bold and the Beautiful, and you kind of just sat through it until one day it announces that this is the finale, and you watch it and finish it and get on with your lives (or, somehow, start with CSI: Miami). Of course, by now, your muscles have already atrophied, along with any semblance of a brain.

(Apologies for any soap opera campers out there, but there’s no other way to describe unending lethargy).

And that was sort of how it felt when having to come back from Jakarta straight into closing week, which ended three days back, and things have not entirely slowed down for some recuperation.

(And then, of course, there’s tomorrow and the drive to Penang).

It’ll be an early sleep tonight, so I figure that I’ll keep this one short.

Besides, my atrophied brain needs time to warm itself up.

****

Jakarta was interesting.

Not the place though. But I wasn’t brought to Jakarta Central, or at least that’s how I remembered the local overclocker told me; they held it at East Jakarta, which had Jakarta’s biggest IT mall and the second worst traffic that side of the world.

A fact about Indonesian traffic; the rules don’t apply. The go as far as to avoid cars going the wrong way, but traffic lights and double lines and no-entries only appear as a warning sticker that said ‘Pretty Please’. In Indonesian traffic, might is right.

But you also have to have some puzzle-solving skills as an Indonesian driver. For instance, when you have a good ten or so automobiles converging in the middle of the T-junction (of course, the traffic light was only there as a light source), it takes considerable brain power to untangle each beeping and horning car so that they are free to drive off to their respective junction, while the another batch forms the next puzzle.

Another fact; the pedestrians are all traffic authorities. So don’t be surprised when the elderly lady selling steamed corn at the road side suddenly puts on a scary face and started ushering cars to the right junction.

Needless to say, it was a perpetual state of pandemonium.

Indonesian IT malls are fascinating. Though, only fascinating as much as I could explore, which encompassed eight stores of the mall’s centre court, and three from the first floor when I dashed up to take pictures.

At the centre of the mall was the Overclocking Championship. I’ll write about some other time. For now, let’s just say that it was Not What I Thought It’d Be.

After the championship, the organisers shipped us to an island (Ayer Island, with the eponymous Ayer Island Beach Resort) to let us have fun. They put us in a paintball competition (I got shot in the face, and might’ve shot a few people on the thigh, but it was hard to tell), and those teamwork games that were stupid to do but fun to play.

Then they lodged us on a chalet built on top of the water. If you wake to pee in the morning, you can hear the waves hitting the board under your feet. And the waves get scarily high when the weather picked up; I was on the chalet veranda thinking I could write under the stars and above the waves when sea water started hitting my face. The waves were incredibly high then, and they squirmed and coiled and crashed in the dark.

There were a lot of stars, as island skies do. But from my chalet the trees blocked a lot of the sky.

I shared my chalet room with a Vietnamese man who couldn’t get my name right, and instead resorted to smiling and nodding at me whenever he needed my attention. He was an amazing sleeper; he slept the minute we entered the chalet (sand still sticking on his legs and all) and he slept with the lights on and the world cup showing on the incredibly blur TV, all the way past breakfast (he skipped it).

The organiser shipped us back when they got our flight schedules sorted out, and I found myself on a bus back to the airport.

Another Indonesian road fact here; you can bribe, or in a better sense, tip the pedestrian road authorities with cash for them to stop traffic for you so that the large bus can make an impossible U-Turn.

I flew home with the Malaysian Overclocker, and one of the Malaysian sales rep. It was all good fun.

The rest, they say, were the dreams you can’t remember when you sleep after a long weekend.

*****

Closing was, well, closing week. Thankfully, I chose not to pick up any game reviews, because I couldn’t remember having to have so much to write.

Saturday gave me a few hours off so that I could go attend Li Mei’s farewell lunch. I gave her a Magic 8 Ball. Because, well, we needed magic sometimes to make decisions.

I’m also owing her something else, which is now at the stage which requires me to daydream dangerously. Like when driving home in the heavy rain. Thankfully, Malaysian traffic is nowhere near Indonesia‘s. Constant vigilance is required but not compulsory.

I expect to be in Part 1 when I get back from Penang. Hopefully.

Right then. Goodnight folks.

2010-06-18T00:44:00.001+08:00

A quick one before I head to bed;

Tomorrow I’ll be flying to Jakarta for the regional finals of the Gigabyte Open Overclocking Championship 2010.

The first time I heard about it, it sounded like something a bunch of scientists with lab coats and clipboards would do in a room full of motherboards, but after checking out the reports of previous championship finals on the net, I’m now rather excited.

I guess, in a way, it’s sorta like building the faster race car, or creating that battle robot to put in an arena and watch as they duke it out for the prize. In a geeky way, it looks incredibly fun.

I’m not sure I’ll be getting Internet there, but I hope there is. There’s also a day where Gigabyte will take us out on a post-championship Ayer Island chill-out, where the GOOC handbook states that we shall ‘Enjoy the sun and beach on a private island’. Whatever that is, I highly doubt they have Internet.

But yeah, so I’ll be pretty much missing for the better part of the weekend. Drop a message when the Third Reich of the Goats decided to invade in their milk bottle spacecrafts.

Goodnight people

2010-06-17T00:29:00.000+08:00

It might be a case of ADD, or perhaps I simply left any form of Concentration a couple of years back, tangled somewhere with that last bit of rationality and functional brain cells.

At any rate, I think it’s highly problematic. Not being able to concentrate on one single thing for a period of over two minutes is worrisome. To phrase it into analogical effect, it’s the difference of an orderly line compared to a chaotic mess of anarchic commuters to a public transportation service. That’s bad. And it causes delays.

Maybe it can be cured medicinally. Maybe there’s a sort of pill that can let me concentrate for an hour and tap on the full potential of every single second of it, letting me reap the benefits of the time-space continuum and the very fabric of dimensions.

Something that can let me read up on computer overclocking without having to jump off and visit TVTropes every two minutes. Where the heck are our alchemists?

As per my usual conformity to the fine art of procrastination, I now find myself revising about overclocking a fair too late for comfort. In the days of college it’ll mean that I have to pull out an all-nighter. For now, I decided that I could get the final stretch of cramming done masterfully within the confines of tomorrow. That’ll probably mean at midnight.

Or during the flight to Jakarta.

Or the night at the hotel itself.

Shoot.

That’s it; by tomorrow evening, I’ll technically become the most knowledgeable person at the office when it comes to overclocking. It’s not arrogance talking. It’s what I have to become, or I’ll find myself in the bug pits of Skull Island.

Okay. To bed, so that I can wake in time for the event tomorrow.

2010-06-15T22:53:00.001+08:00

Watching A City Fall Asleep

It works as long as you can keep awake, by which point, if you kept at it for an hour or so, you’d be wondering why you were doing it in the first place.

(And proceeded to either the TV, bed, or another hour on the Internet).

It’s a little like abstract art; that subtlety in pointlessness that only has a point if you make it to be. It’s actually quite beautiful.

(And, undoubtedly, very pointless, especially after that first hour).

I got to do that thanks to the great folks at Nokia, who made sure that I’m on the 9th floor at the very least, which has a generous view of the (Singaporean) Fountain of Wealth and the streets that encircled it. They also made sure that I’m well fed, well entertained and well exhausted, with an Amazing Race type game to keep us occupied for the evening. It was fun, and tiring, but mostly fun.

Back home now, and doing my bit to fulfil that self promise, though frankly not to the extent of what I would’ve liked.

But I’m dreadfully tired.

And I’m just short of falling asleep writing (typing) this. Maybe a little more tomorrow.

And then, of course, there’s another promise I have to fulfil. I shall get to that. Tomorrow.

Goodnight folks.

2010-06-13T00:26:00.001+08:00

Hiatus

Unh. I guess I’m having it bad.

Perhaps I should make it imperative that I actually try and write something daily. Doesn’t matter anything. A hundred words, two hundred words. Just to make sure I don’t fall into the same slump, where it’s mucky and deep, but not uncomfortable.

This is that moment where I ask someone to give me one tight, piercing slap (preferably strong enough to send me to the heavens) so that I fall asleep and go back to the clouds.

Too long in the mud makes my socks soggy.

*****

So we came back from the funeral (weeks ago, go figure), which went well. I tried my best and read the prayers - a difficult task, considering that there’re parts where you would have to do it like you’re singing, and parts which read so fast that it’s also probably impossible to do with English. They last as long as two to three hours, and we did it for two nights.

Then we followed the hearse to the crematorium, and paid our last respects, and washed our hands and face with a bowl of chrysanthemum-soaked water, and left the place wearing red (tradition, apparently, for funerals for people aged a hundred and over).

Uncle Fook shot a video of it, which he put up. I still haven’t watched it. Mainly because I know I won’t take it so well.

(and if you’re actually curious, interested or just plain bored, you can watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ggzk-bgZ-gE)

The rest, as they say, is that drive home where life goes back to normal.

*******

Tomorrow will be another flight to Singapore. Two days after coming back, they’re sending me to Jakarta, where I’ll be reporting a motherboard overclocking championship. I’m surprised that such a thing actually existed.

But I’m looking forward to it more than most. Surprisingly, it’s not about Jakarta, but the actual championship.

I wonder how it’ll be like. I wonder if commentators would be present, and if they’d go; “The GD7 looking great today; he’s all in to gun for that top spot, after that overheating fall-out last year. And he’s revving it up and ho, look at him go!”

Naturally, it means that I’ll be doing a fair bit of reading about overclocking. I could hear the brain cells groaning.

To bed now, else I’ll oversleep for breakfast tomorrow.

Good night, peops.

2010-06-01T01:05:00.001+08:00

When I thought about - and I do, in sporadic periods, throughout the day - it felt like I was merely giving excuses to myself. Like in the way people try to justify a lie by simply weighing out between the bad or the better points, and sticking to what that make them feel good, regardless. When I thought like that, and when I thought about thinking that way, I felt like I’ve probably lost a heart somewhere.

Sunday morning I woke up to pass my mom a phone call. Shortly afterwards she told me my great grandmother passed away.

The first thing that came to my mind was; this is probably the right time to cry.

But I didn’t.

I left my mom to dress and lay down on the couch. When she came out of the room I went to put my arm around her shoulder, listened to her talk and weep, not really talking back. Because I think we both know what we were going to say, and what we both really thought, so I didn‘t say a word.

Whatever I did then felt fake. Like an obligatory action. It felt like I just did it because it was right.

I felt like I was indifferent. I didn’t know if it was age, or because I knew personally that this day would come. When I was younger, when those ramifications in the night led me to question the questionings of death, I would think of my great grandmother and, reminded of her age, of her growing fragility, I would quietly weep in my dreams. Maybe I’ve wept so much in the solitude of nights and nightmares that I couldn’t weep today.

I loved my great grandmother. I might not have been closest to her, and she to I, but I loved her nonetheless.

Later I fetched the mother out for breakfast with the grandmother, to talk about the news and the immediate plans. On the way back we talked about it, and said the things we meant to say. My mother then mentioned about ‘Hei Chung’, which sounded different from what we normally call the funeral procession.

“What’s the difference?” I asked.

“It’s a celebratory procession. Where it’s considered a happy thing for one to live more than a hundred years old and passed. It’s a happy thing.”

I knew then, as I’ve always knew it, somehow, that it is true. My great grandmother was a hundred and four years old. She was witness to the coming of the millennium, and lived into its first decade. She has children that gave birth to children that gave birth to children; generations of a family that has gone to have their own. And I certainly hoped that she had lived a wonderful life, and seen all there is in the world that she needed to see.

Whether or not it’s a good life is not for me to say. But I hope for it. Living for 100 years, one is bound to have at least seen one part of a good life, no?

And I hoped, but in my heart, I already knew. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t cry.

********

I always felt that, as a writer, as a means of a parting gift there should always be a written eulogy. And I’m set to write it, only that it dawned to me eventually that I knew very little about my great grandmother.

All this time, I figure that all I knew about her is that she was old, that she was Teo Chew, thatshe was kind and caring, and that she had the greatest memory. Other than that, I knew nothing.

I just found out her name yesterday. It was Lee Hou. It was a pleasant name; in a way, it sounded like “You’re Fine.” Or “Everything’s Good.” Lee Hou. “You’re Fine.”

My earliest memory of my great grandmother were those days where I could find her in my grandmother’s house. Back then I was in primary school, and both the parents would be at work by the time school finishes. For that period, instead of taking the bus home I took a smaller bus to my grandmother’s house, where there’d be warm food to eat and aunts to terrorize. For one time, I can’t remember how long, my great grandmother moved in to live with my grandmother.

Back then great-grandma (or Ah Pak, as we call her) could still walk; she had a cane where the top handle was the painted head of an eagle, with an eye that stared out with determined ferocity. I used to think it was the eagle that helped her to walk, like she was resting her hand on a flapping eagle that took her to wherever she needed to go, its wings like a personification of a strong spirit.

If you’d had talked to her, my great-grandma, when she was in her room in Penang where we’d go visit her, she would tell you the way I used to act whenever I arrived from the school bus at my grandmother’s house. And she would do so with exact detail; something which I’ve never ceased to be amazed of. She would tell you how I liked to lie down on the floor and pedal myself about (like mopping the floor with my back, she’d say), or how I used to spend a long time during baths to play with water. Or how once she asked me something and, not knowing a single word of her dialect, I thought she called me stupid. And it wasn’t till years later when they told me she actually meant something else.

What I remember most fondly were the afternoons that we spent together. I would watch, for the thousandth time, those Disney cartoons that were kept in my grandmother’s house, and my great-grandma would exclaim, sometimes excitedly, during the climaxes, though I never knew what or how to tell her. Sometimes we’d play cards, and it was always either Blackjack or The Fishing Game, which were the only two I remember she could play.

She would move back to Penang eventually, and I’d still come home to my grandmother’s for the rest of the year until we had a maid. After that, the only time I got to see my great-grandma was in every trip down Penang with my family. It was something we did without fail. And every time she would recognise who I am, and recited the days in my grandmother’s house.

The last time I held her hand and kissed her cheek and said goodbye was December last year. That felt like a long time ago. And today, it felt like I couldn’t have ever done it enough. But that’s the way death would make you feel.

My family and relatives would tell me that my great grandmother was a strong woman, a kind woman, a caring and kindred soul. I would remember her as the one person that could always make me feel soothed, somehow, whenever I see her. Even when she was so old that she couldn’t walk, and that her hands could always seem so frail, so brittle, I would somehow feel fine. Like the eagle of the walking stick, holding her hand made me feel like I’d get somewhere. And I’d be fine.

That was her name, after all. You’re Fine.

Everything is Good.

*******

On Sunday morning, the clouds hung low and dark and heavy, and I thought that it was prophetic in the way we always make the weather to be. But in the afternoon the clouds lifted and vanished, and the sun turned the tarmac impossible to walk upon, especially on worn orange slippers, and there was this quietness in the town and in the neighbourhood that felt like how Sunday himself would spend the day.

And I went out to get the house telephone fixed, along with a haircut at a barber who was suddenly extremely meticulous . The brother cooked Pasta ala Carbonara for a friend, and I got to eat some (it tasted like Carbonara, only that it dried up a little too quickly to enjoy). I squeezed some Final Fantasy in between chores. And I did something that involved gloves and a drainage pipe, which I would hope to forget soon enough.

Come dinner, and a trip to the Pasar Malam for it, it felt completely like any given Sunday.

In some ways I thought I could hate myself for it, but I didn’t. There was one thing that we all understood that day.

Tomorrow we’ll be heading down for the funeral. We’ll get to see her for the last time, and walk with the last with her. Life, after that, goes on.

And it keeps going.

2010-05-10T23:45:00.002+08:00

There’s a spider in this blog. If you left your mouse pointer over at the white area, he’ll approach it to investigate.

Unfortunately, I can’t feed him. But the koi and turtles from the same site could be.

I’m not particularly too awake to properly blog, but if I don’t do this tonight I doubt I ever would for the rest of the month. In one way, I guess I’m forcing this bit of writing. But if I don’t get the fire stoked, in ways or the other, the furnace is just going to put itself out.

A full month is an incredibly long time to not update. I had thought the week after Singapore would give me a night or two, but things picked up faster than I expected, and when the dust from closing week finally settled, I caught the brother’s fever and that lasted a week. A fitful of coughing later and it is already May, towards the mid of it. It’s like the time-monks simply forgot to redirect time to that particular, um, time.

(Dear lords; one month and I can’t make any sense. At all).

Anyway, a few things to note here, if it matters in any way:

The Beautiful Blogger Award stint managed to invigorate The Intricate Swirls of Miss Vic. Well, I figure it’s closer to a three pulls with the defibrillator; the rest is all surgeons and natural recovery. At any rate, swing by to throw in your support!

And once you’ve done with that, Teh Ais Limei wrote this fantastic piece about Amir Muhammad’s book on Yasmin Ahmad. Probably pretty late to feature here, but if it’s one way to get the word out, I suppose it isn’t so late. Check the comments too!

And The Twistedtrainsistor just plugged in the third part of Marjorie's Margarine in her blog (took her long enough). Don’t worry, she has kindly left part 1 and 2 linked up. Swing by for (immensely) rare fiction from her.

Aaaand that’s about it. Nothing this sleep sodden mind could remember or perpend any more.

Maybe I’ll fare better tomorrow.

2010-04-11T00:21:00.000+08:00

The Price of Bacon

There was this air of foreboding when the plane touched down yesterday. If I would illustrate it, it felt like sailing towards dark, damning clouds that roll out from the distance, with the darkness and cold that was quick to envelope, extracting a quick and desolate “Oh Crap”.

(It later turned out to be indigestion, most likely caused by the large amount of bacon I ingested at the hotel breakfast spread. Rolling clouds of discomfort indeed.)

No bit of foreboding got me to this, however; shortly after settling down to unpacking the bag, the dad told me that the car repair bills - as car repair bills tend to be - might have just escalated beyond budget and expectation. I felt like my soul got ripped off, and it’s now still tangled to the ceiling fan, and I’m not yet in the mood to retrieve it.

I’ll leave it there till Monday.

2010-04-07T00:04:00.002+08:00

Tomorrow’s Singapore trip turned out to be very real, and very confirmed. So I’ll be boarding a flight at 2p.m tomorrow to fly down south, to get to tour a recycling plant of all things. It still sounds incredibly exciting in my head.

I’m struck with the sudden revelation that if tomorrow’s itinerary ended up being inexistent, meaning that I can actually craft up my own, I won’t be able to figure out what to actually do.

The scenario is suddenly terrifying. I arrive at a (partially) foreign land with a little money and given time to my expense. Deciding to stay in my room for the remainder of 10 hours seem like a self-suicide condemnation. Wandering out aimlessly will get me nowhere or, very possibly, lost. And things happen to people who get lost in a foreign lands. Helicopters and mooks with paper bags get involved. Sometimes the government.

A possible alternative is to now browse through the Internet for touristy things to do. Otherwise, I can go with the spirit of adventure and stay in my room for the remainder of 10 hours, exploring the vastness of Singaporean TV.

Time in my hands always go to waste.

But I can be hopeful; maybe there is an itinerary after all, and they’ll tell us tomorrow that we’ll have to be whisked around like lambs in a shopping mall where they’ll tell us not to look if a meat shop comes to view. It’s a comforting thought.

I suppose it’s for tomorrow to decide.

*****

How to Train Your Dragon is just about the best Dreamworks movie since Kung Fu Panda. Considering the rate of movies they release yearly (two or three this year; it’s almost a monopoly) and their bar of standards, this is actually a fantastic accomplishment.

I’d say Dreamworks is starting to grow mature. They might’ve been already if I hadn’t found the trailers to Shrek 4Ever After and Megamind (released a little too close to Despicable Me, don’t you think?).

At any rate, great year for animation. On foresight, at least. But I dare it to best last year’s offerings.

But before the year gets populated by all manner of other animated features, go and catch How to Train Your Dragon. In 3D if you must. Take your kids if you have em; little kids, big kids, old kids. They’ll all have a good time. It’s just that good.

And, if you’re the type to check out movie soundtracks, John Powell’s composition for the movie is a refreshing mix of action, adventure and Celtic.

It shall lull me to bed now.

Oidhche mhath

2010-04-04T23:21:00.004+08:00

Lost in Backlog

This is what you get for not updating when the supposed post was fresh in mind. Now I’ve completely forgotten what I had intended to write.

I think it had something to do about the Law of Averages, as read at Mr Jam’s Curious Diary. Or maybe about how the world had decidedly went into a laundry dryer and came out tumbled and tangled, though the comfortable warmth afterwards is something oddly soothing.

Or maybe because there was this one time where I wished the escalators wouldn’t pitch me back onto the floor when it went up to the end, but start eating me from the shoe up while I scream helplessly as blood sprayed around like a broken fire hydrant.

Nope. I can’t remember nuts. I suppose I’ll just keep going with whatever I’ve got.

Wrapped about a week ago, but because the car isn’t back yet, resulting in me mooching off at the mother’s car at any given opportunity, I haven’t had the mood to do anything else but play God of War 3 (which I’ve finished this evening, and came away satisfied but a little sad). Project March is in development hell and the graphics card just died again after three days of use since it came back from the repairs.

Gee, it felt like a whole week of bollocks.

Will most likely be in Singapore this Wednesday, which is something about recycling. It sounds much more exciting in my head.

Right, because I have several stuff backlogged, it’s high time I start clearing them;

*******

There must be some sort of mistake, because this shouldn’t happen to me.

I guess the whole system sort of messed it up, and delivered the wrong award to me, which should rightfully be something like;

There’re other awards, that I’m aware of, but it’s definitely either this or the Award of Blogging Excellence, First-Class Honours in the Conveying of the Amazingly Insightful and Utterly Inspirational Content Through the Medium of Blogging and Pigeon Carriers Sponsored by the Venerable Blogger.com (or ABE: CAIUCTMBPCSVB Award for short).

But the mistake has already been made, so I shall dutifully perform the tasks as stated by the Rule, which are:

1. Thank & link the person that gave you the award.

2. Pass this award onto 15 bloggers you’ve recently discovered and think are ~~fantastic beautiful dastardly~~

Beautiful and Dastardly too.

3.Contact said Blogs and let them know they’ve won the award (I’m too lazy for this).

4. State 7 things about yourself.

Therefore:

1) Both Teh Ais Limei and the Twistedtrainsistor gave me this award

2) a. The Winners of the Beautiful Blogger award:

- Teh Ais Limei and the Twistedtrainsistor, but since they’ve already won twice, I’ll give them both Incredibly Honorary Mention Which By Default Means They’re Winners and Are Awesome At the Same Time.

- The Intricate Swirls of Ms. Vic, which is in a bit of a slump now; this award will hopefully reinvigorate it.

- Creme Et Noir. Her constant, consistent updates have been inspirational, and her excellent writings just keeps getting better.

- Thissucksmonkeyass (or True Story of What Was). Read and you’ll know (and who says you can’t award a family member?)

- Where Rachel is Idle and Mom is Exasperated, and also where she writes entertaining pieces and show that delightful weirdness which is her beauty.

-Heck, pretty much everything in my link-list.

2) b. The Winners of the Dastardly Blogger Award:

- The Curious Diary of Mr Jam, for the fact that it’s NSFW. Why? Because in the world of office jobs and the 9-to-5s, Mr Jam’s blog (or column, whichever you prefer) is the secret paragon of glimmering hope that keeps this depressingly gray world not so gray. It is the blog that office superiors, those that wield the chain-whip and the Taser of Obedience, can smell in the air as the computer monitor radiates out, which will prompt them to say, “What’s this? What’s this in your monitor? Mr Jam? You DARE VIEW MR JAM IN THE PRESENCE OF THE LORD REGIONAL MANAGER? TRAITOR! HEATHEN! Guards! Seize this man!”. In the world of office jobs and the 9-to-5s, Mr Jam is like Confucius’ Scriptures in the Qin Dynasty, the Books of Nazi Germany and Fahrenheit 451, the Propaganda of the People or the One Ring of Middle Earth. It is the Hope in Pandora’s Box, sealed in the swirling, convoluted forms of Evil, Fear and Corporate Cruelty. Mr Jam is the Saviour, and he’s getting us killed in the office. We don’t care though, but our magazine articles do.

- Neil Gaiman's Journal, which is home to his Oracular Magic Crystal thing, and also where his genius shine even when not penning the next amazing novel. It’s dastardly because he’s dastardly himself, but in a very good way.

- Boltcity, which belongs to Kazu Kibuishi. Once you get started with his web comic and marvel at his amazing art, you’ll end up hopping into every artist in his link list too. When that happens, your only means of salvation is to hop into TVTropes, but a similar fate awaits you there.

3) I’ll skip this one here.

4) 7 things eh?

- I’m fat.

- I live in Kajang (with my parents)

- I have 5 dogs.

- I live with my brother too. He hurts me.

- I have a brain infected with some sort of fungus, which is now growing and taking on all sorts of mutations, and the doctor says that one day it’ll grow out of my nose and attach itself on my left arm, slowly turning me into a Fishman - the servants of Cthulhu. He has given me pamphlets on the Fishman Help Institutions and Training Centres and has directed me to a few GOO churches (I’m considering St. Lovecraft’s) where I can start getting counselling and prepare myself when I inevitably become a Fishman. After that I move to Innsmouth and into the Fishman hostel and start serving the GOO, which the doctor says isn’t a bad thing, because I should be honoured to be able to serve the GOO, though I still can’t understand why my parents cry whenever they see the green stalk growing out of my nose.

There! I’m done. I’d have an acceptance speech but I can’t think of one. So I’ll just say Thank You, and it’s directed to everyone I’ve mentioned above.

********

Phew. That felt like the storm after laxative. I guess I needed that.

I’ve kinda concluded that life isn’t quite so bad - even if it is, and it happens - if you simply create an Optimistic bin and dump everything inside. Then you get the good, worthwhile parts filtered out. For example; the day I wished the escalators would eat me in a painfully gory manner was the same day I went to work and bustled along happily knowing that what comes after is a great thing (even if I screwed it up. I think).

Not that it really helps in this big, great life that stands at point of the rock, tipping everywhere the wind blows and crashing down when it gets too hard.

Cest la vie.

Bonne Nuit!

2010-03-22T00:07:00.003+08:00

Strings from up Above

"Who flies these things?"

Tomorrow is very well the start of Closing Week, so I figure I should update before I’m too paralysed to do it (or start giving the excuse that I’m too paralysed to do it, the same day I slam dunk from the three point line). (I can’t slam dunk from the three point line but I can do it in NBA Street. That counts.)

The car is now at the repair shop, which is going to cost me a good 2 thousand bucks, thanks to the dad, because he figured I couldn’t live with a fraying door panel and some minute windscreen problem, forgetting that I really couldn’t live being 2 thousand bucks in debt.

But well, I’ll take it as redecorating the car. It was going to happen eventually anyway.

(When I’m the King of Sheba, and I have golden maidens to sell for millions).

And I appreciate the dad in finding the people to fix it all the same.

Everything makes my buying the PS3 all the more regretful. I’ve had a (horror!) thought of selling it off while it’s still new, but there’s this part of me who knew I would die of depression if I did it.

No games for next month. Well, maybe FF13.

(Or God of War 3. Each or either.)

****

Not much for me to remind anyone, but Script Frenzy starts in 11 days.

Don’t know what it is? Here: www.scriptfrenzy.org

I know, I know. NaNoWriMo was hard enough. But hey; writing projects never hurt, no?

Speaking of projects, I owe a story to Li Mei. I’ve named it Project March but it doesn’t seem like I’ll be finishing it by March after all.

Here’s to hoping that it’ll get me back to writing, uh, more pointless stuff.

************

“We’re all puppets to Gods. They’re up there with their strings on us, making us move and dance and get tangled up with everything else.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“That they can walk you off a cliff if they want to? Sure thing.”

“Doesn’t this sort of make the fact that you can actually blame something else when bad things happen?”

“…yeah.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

****

Goodnight, people.

2010-03-17T23:24:00.003+08:00

Noir

Wish everything I draw would stop talking back

Black paper(s) and blue lead courtesy of Pauline, whom I could trust to get me a mechanical pencil with something extra thrown along. Cheers, chum!

Couldn’t have asked for a better birthday celebration; great food, great company, a gaming session somewhere, some great news given and amazing, utterly amazing gifts only these fantastic friends could’ve gotten me.

Pauline already gave me Noir paper with a pencil. The guys rounded up and got me Shaun Tan’s The Arrival.

"Oh my God... you're a... goat?"

Which is this downright beautiful, phantasmagorical, delicious and wondrous graphic novel with no words and the most amazing art ever. I’ve been drooling over it the first time I ever saw it on Borders. Now I drool over it in the room with a bucket and a mop to clean up after.

Thank you, guys.

And I couldn’t do it enough times, so I’ll do it once here and do it again and again silently, in case you guys started calling the mental asylum, which you guys probably already have on speed dial, being friends with me.

But seriously; thanks guys =).

An update on life so far, both good and bad:

1) I bought the PS3. Along with it I got Uncharted 2 and Killzone 2. It has now gotten me addicted to HD.

2) The same night I hooked up the PS3, the modem and router fried. It cost me Final Fantasy 13 to get a new set.

3) I have a hole in my car now. Something stupidly parking beside a truck gave. The back door’s jammed and rust has worrisomely settled now. This would cost me God of War 3, Assassin’s Creed 2 and just about 10 other games to get fixed.

4) Reading Un Lun Dun by China Miéville, which is interestingly bizarre and, from where I am now, an example of how to subvert common story tropes as you go.

5) I haven’t counted the fact that I still have a new set of rims to buy. I think I might just have to sell the PS3

5) Because it went down to as low as 30 bucks, I bought Mirrormask: The Illustrated Film Script of the Motion Picture, so I can ogle at Dave McKean’s storyboard and read Neil Gaiman’s scripting. (Right when you needed the cash? Shame on you. Shame on you.)

Everything else is fine. And today I get to see my dad holding up to his principles and become a badass, not that he’s already one anyway.

*****

Strange that when I laid it all down on a list, it felt so distant and dull and insignificant. A week ago it seemed like every night lasted long and unfulfilling having to figure out how to make things right.

I suppose that - now that it has come to this point in time - it’s oddly therapeutic.

Maybe it’s the way the mind works. When it stopped getting confused, when everything is laid down in order and the appropriate plan of action allocated accordingly, it can go to ease.

Sounds like it could be worked into a book. A List of Problems; The Single Best Way to Cope with Stress, Worry and Depression.

Gnite folks.

2010-03-17T00:30:00.001+08:00

I don’t know what to say to myself.

I just don’t fucking know.

2010-03-16T03:25:00.001+08:00

Ah jeez

12 hours ago I was awake and staring helplessly at the computer screen, the red brick wall of writer’s block grinning as stoically as mentally projected walls would, failing over and over again to properly process the simplest of news into rewritten news. 12 hours later I’m sitting here half asleep wondering why I couldn’t stop thinking of words that never stayed still and why I let them jeopardise my sleep. It’s like half my mind isn’t quite my own. Maybe it’s an organ on loan.

At any rate, 3 a.m. does not allow me to make any sense.

I’m doing what any respectable 3 a.m. insomniac would; try to tire himself to sleep. Basically my methods require me to get rid of the words that gnaw and terrorize my brain in unholy conjugation, but they don’t normally stay still long enough to make them out. So I figure I’ll just tempt them out. By writing. See if it works.

So far it’s working just as well as jumping over the Cape of Good Hope knowing that it’ll cure cancer. Forever.

Argh. This isn’t good. There’s an event at Cyberjaya tomorrow and I would need the better functionalities of this insipid brain to clear off my news before getting started with the piling features and reviews. From the way things are going, I’ll be attending the event tomorrow stoned to a tacit, irresponsive state and spending the other part of the day shaking my fist at that damned writer’s block wall.

If I’m lucky, I won’t turn crazy and start yelling quotes from The Planet of the Apes at the speech-makers. It wouldn’t be nice for the Energizer CEO to hear “You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!” right after concluding his speech about how marvellous their battery worked powering the lights of insane people trying to run a marathon at night.

Right. I think I’m done here. I think I’ll go try and sleep again.

Damn words better stop bugging me.

2010-03-03T22:57:00.000+08:00

March the Third.

I can’t properly start the post without wishing Pauline a HAPPY BIRTHDAY. It has to be all caps. It’s just the way it is.

So today became today, and I got through it with a cake from the brother and half a bottle of Kampai (Kanpai?) Beer (which 5.0% alcohol is already taking effect; man my tolerance is horrible). It just makes the day all the more worthwhile.

And thanks to everyone that wished, be it through SMSes or phone calls or Facebook. Made my day more than the day could already do.

There’s nothing else I could post now. And now that I’m probably red all over from the beer I think I should stop, before I start writing weird things. And subsequently posting it.

Well at least I end the day drunk. From half a bottle of wussy beer. Cheers!

Gnites peops.

2010-03-01T23:10:00.000+08:00

Excuse me Mr. Goldfish; you appeared to have run out of Air.

Wrapped the magazine for March, and just in time for the Editor to fly off to Japan. I’m suddenly faced with the prospect of an Editor-less week, which sounds the scary part completely more so than what people assume would be fun part.

This is what that have been keeping me sane in that very hectic week succeeding Bangkok:

Charlie Brown: What can you do when you don't fit in? What can you do when life seems to be passing you by?

Lucy: Follow me. I want to show you something. (They get to the top of a hill.) See the horizon over there? See how big this world is? See how much room there is for everybody? Have you ever seen any other worlds?

Charlie Brown: No.

Lucy: As far as you know, this is the only world there is, right?

Charlie Brown: Right.

Lucy: There are no other worlds for you to live in, right?

Charlie Brown: Right.

Lucy: You were born to live in this world, right?

Charlie Brown: Right.

Lucy: WELL LIVE IN IT THEN! Five cents please.

- The remarkably weird yet appropriately genius Charles M. Schulz -

Just because we needed a little more Peanuts in our lives. Then, for an equally big enough part, Calvin and Hobbes (and the Transmorgrifier. Someone should patent that).

I think I should be treating myself for the month (this disregarding anything else I’ve been ‘treating myself’ with. It works this way), and just go all out and buy that Sony Playstation 3.

I’ve seen Final Fantasy 13. I’ve seen God of War 3 (GOD FUCKING WAR OF 3, GOD DAMMIT). I’ve seen/read/heard/spoken enough about Uncharted 2. And now that I’m more or less addicted to HD, the PS3 is just the way to go.

This week; scout for the price. Next week; purchase. The years after, both regret and rejoice in prolonged cycles that I’ve splurged on something tremendously expensive for the betterment of nothing but to fulfil my HD quota.

After this, it’s all about working for the savings. You read this, me-reading-this-back-because-I-was-bored-and-couldn’t-find-anything-else-better-to-do? It’ll be all about working for the SAVINGS. S-A-V-I-

****

My speakers seem have broken down. That or it has caught some sort of disease, sputtering static and agonising thumps like some sort of a diarrheic… never mind.

Which leaves me with the Alienware headphones, which works surprisingly good for music despite a fellow tech writer telling me it doesn’t. I’ve had it to Chrono Cross’ OST the whole night. Best night of the week (so far).

Suddenly felt like I’m having the easy life. Never mind the late work nights; I happen to enjoy those. I have enough to cover for myself and I get to keep writing. And the world of tech is steadily opening up to be a fascinating archipelago of both wonders and a lot of Huh?.

This is the type of complacency that I think should be avoided. At least, in this point of life.

There is this vision. I’m in a room dressed in a suit and I’m looking at a lady with spectacles and her hair tied to a bun. She holds her pen like she holds a cigarette and she does so like Cruella De Vil. She places a clipboard in front of me and asks me to fill it up.

This questions go: Are you satisfied with this? Do you want more? Should you want more? Are there anymore? Shouldn’t you really have more? DO YA DO YA DO YA?

And the pen sits there, still and beckoning. And the lady stares and smirks and crosses her legs, waiting. I haven’t got all day. More applications to submit. Then dinner.

And I think I’m kind of afraid to answer. Because right now I think my answer will go both ways, and if I tick one I’ll never get it right.

There’s no right answer, even if there isn’t a wrong one.

I leave the room. She looks at me and says, we’ll be talking about this some other day. I can only close the door.

Yeah… well, we’ll talk about it some other day. Right now, to bed!

Gnite folks.

2010-02-22T00:06:00.001+08:00

Pre-trip Postage

In retrospect, not the best of weeks. But I haven’t tried to summon an Eldritch abomination to raze the world into ashes yet, so perhaps things hadn’t be bad enough. At any rate, I forgot the chant words (ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn?).

Friday found myself with a tyre that burst (literally; the whole thing resembled melted rubber when I finally managed to snail-manoeuvre it into the emergency lane), and when I had managed to remove it, the old spare tyre wouldn’t fit, thanks to the new brakes. I had to then deal with a road-mechanic trying to cheat me out of 60 bucks by doing practically nothing (all he did was remove and replace the same tyre) and the ungodly heat while waiting for the dad to fetch a new tyre.

The day after I took the car to service and the entire cost of repair ate up every cent of my ang pows. I nearly wept.

Those were the worst. Though when I thought it, there were nothing else remotely horrific. So I guess everything’s dandy. Except that the PS3 is now a dream and that I have to save up for a new set of rims.

Tomorrow I fly to Bangkok for the Nokia Showcase. It’s having me in nerves. Don’t ask why; I can’t tell you. I can’t even tell myself.

Now lets hope I don’t get embroiled with the political brew over there. Though, considering my luck these days, I might just will. You guys knew me well. Or didn’t. At any rate, someone come look for my body please.

****

It took me 13 years (or so), but I finally found the name of that cartoon. It was The Animals of Farthing Wood. And damned if you think it was a comedy. It wasn’t. This is why;

Remember those cartoons that air in TV1 and TV2 every evening, the ones that weren’t really popular because the awesome ones were usually reserved for the weekend mornings (Duck Tales and Rescue Rangers, for instance). No one watches them. Or, at least, some do. I did. In periodic days, when I was bored out of my wits waiting for the parents to pick me up from grandma’s place (that was before they started stashing Disney movies by the dozens. I never remembered whose movies were they).

I remembered a few, but damned that I couldn’t remember that one cartoon where I’ve only managed to catch a few episodes, just as few as one or two. But these one or two, boy, do I remember them. I’ve never know the title of that show, but by chance (and TVTropes.org, god bless ye), it was really The Animals of Farthing Wood.

I remember it because the very first episode I watched, two characters got killed off. For good. They were hedgehogs and they were killed by cars on the freeway. Damn.

And the next few episodes I caught, it was watching how those rats were terrified of that snake that seemed like it could very easily just broken the oath between them that is preventing her from feeding. And then there’s that leader Fox, and the Badger.

I wouldn’t do much justice trying to remember what the plot actually was about, but you could do yourself well by reading the wiki article here, if you’re interested. You can even find a few episodes on Youtube. But be warned though; like the animated adaptation of Watership Down, this isn’t your typical cartoon.

So here’s the opening. See if it brings back any memories.

Gnites peops.

2010-02-19T00:06:00.000+08:00

Hypnagogia

Is, according to Louis Ferdinand Alfred Maury, The Transitional State between Wakefulness and Sleep.

Which, therefore, would make the term Hypnagogic applicable to describe something sleep inducing or pertaining to drowsiness.

I just realised I could’ve used this when describing certain lectures back in University. I could walk up to the lecturer (dear goodness, those that lull you into frothing boredom) and say, it’s Hypnagogic, miss/sir; splendidly so.

And if they thanked me I’ll be a really big jerk. Success!

Ah, but well, the real point to make here is that I discovered today that being alone can be very hypnagogic.

It’s not quite ‘sleep inducing’, but more The Transitional State between Wakefulness and Sleep. Only that the transition took either too long, or stuck in transitional limbo.

I thought that I had turned into a zombie.

Office was never this quiet.

But it’s that silence that permeates and hangs like a shoulder sore; uncomfortable and heavy. I could have the music up, blasting shamelessly, but it’s still there. This gnaws to the head. This trepanation.

I predict that I’ll succumb to cabin fever very easily. Spam “All work and no Play makes Jack a dull Boy” by day three, and go “It’s JOHNNY!” by day five. Did the door just open to a wave of blood crushing down the hallway?

I was actually incredibly glad when the Sales Manager turned up for lunch. I was almost thinking of grabbing the car keys and drive down Jalan Duta in crazy speeds.

I’ll make sure I get a digital cat tomorrow. Just in case.

****
(You’d probably notice that I’ve been writing nothing but crap for the past few posts. This is the direct symptoms of the mental withdrawal caused by the in-repair GPU, which won’t be fixed for another 3 weeks, by heaven’s grace. Nevertheless, it has given me plenty of reason to write, even if whatever written is crap. I probably need to put a safety disclaimer somewhere, but I think I already did it once a long time ago. No need to repeat myself.)

(Crap of the day achieved. Now I shall return to Battle Studies.)

2010-02-17T23:39:00.001+08:00

And it finally rained, even if I hadn’t noticed it, being stuck voluntarily at the office while the writer’s block stood inexorably like a wall that asks riddles. Headed home in a daze of sugar rush (M&Ms; a recurring addiction), and under the darkened skies of impending but unthreatening clouds, it felt like a picture fortune telling. An old man would say, look ahead but not too far. Endure, and vivify. In the end you’ll find your pineapple tart. It’ll be sweet and it melts in your mouth.

I was just that high.

Got through the first two days of Chinese New Year with, thankfully, as little incidents as possible. We just cleaned as hard as we could, visited as much as our proximity allowed and cooked to the extent of our own health. In the end, it wasn’t as bad as it was. Or might’ve been. In fact, it was somewhat enjoyable.

And yesterday I counted off the ang pows and stashed it away at the bank. It will go to the PS3, coming by March, if all goes well.

****

“So I have this Idea. Not just any idea, but an Idea – the real deal here, ladies and gentlemen – and now I’m wondering if I can just pull it off.”

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s the problem with Ideas. Because so much emphasis is placed on that Idea, successfully topping it at the pinnacle of ideas that stack in your head, the chances are that you’ll be too afraid for it to fail to actually pull it off.”

“So-“

“You won’t pull it off. You won’t do anything. You’ll just keep telling yourself that you have this great Idea, the motherlode you hit that’ll raise you from utter failure to a runaway success, and you’ll smile and sneer and cry and carry on with your life knowing that you have it but not daring to do anything about it.”

“Ah...”

“You're welcome.”

“Fuck you, man.”

2010-02-10T00:45:00.000+08:00

“Cat”

I came back thinking I have something to write about, but when I wrote this sentence I had completely forgotten what I actually had in mind. The train of thought that stopped, the passengers disembarked, the engines left to rust and the railroad discontinued, swallowed by foliage. All I have is the empty station, suggestive and nostalgic, but deserted.

But I came back and turned on this Vaio (the computer is still put out of commission, and I hadn’t sent the GPU back for repairs), and the first thing I wrote was Cat.

And then I wrote nothing else. For a full hour. I went and locked the doors, let the poodle into the room, listened to Battle Studies and chatted with Teh Ais, and when I returned to the word document, Cat sat at the top of it, with nothing else below.

So I wrote this, knowing that it’ll come back to me if I did.

It didn’t, so now I know I wasn’t knowing.

Now I figure it isn’t going anywhere. And I suppose that I should stop.

But Cat. Cat’s still there.

Cat sits in a picture where the overexposed light from the window ate away a corner of the world, and the underexposed shadows clung to her face and body and chair, leaving only a silhouette.

Cat probably didn’t know that her picture was taken. But now that it is, she took it, and kept it.

We don’t know who the photographer is. Or whether the effect was intentional or otherwise. At the very least, probably unbeknownst to him/her, that picture was the truest picture ever taken.

Maybe that’s why Cat kept it. Because it was a true picture of her. That the light of the world will only darken her shadow, so that we can only make her out in shapes, but never really her.

Cat had probably relished in this. Or maybe she grieved. Or maybe it was such a perfect reflection that she kept it as a reminder, of things good and bad.

Or that is what I think of Cat. Cat obviously does not think of any of this. Cat will most likely think the proper way of thinking; that it is a picture of her, and that she likes it.

It just so happen that this picture of Cat was on my mind, for no apparent reason aside from the fact that I was reminded of it as I took overexposed pictures of a minister, in a feast I have no reason to be a part of, only forced to, by an act of filial piety.

And it just got me in a pointless, completely incoherent train of thought that stopped and emptied out and faded away along with the railroads when the people forgot about it...

Ah, it came back.

Now, to write it down...

2010-02-08T22:29:00.001+08:00

Ah Bummer

(This is the part where I tell you that I’m really supposed to be posting up about Bali, along with its pictures and very uninteresting musings, but the Nvidia 9800GT card just fell into a comatose state, running but not functioning, so all that I’m left is the Vaio I took from work and a 60 day trial of Microsoft Word).

I don’t believe in feng shui. I don’t believe that fortune, luck, prosperity, love and everything abstract is governed by a natural flow of things as dictated by symbolism of levels both interesting and preposterous. I don’t think having a fish pond in the front of my house will redirect this natural flow - as man-made drainage do to creeks - into bringing all the good things into the living room, deluging us in its abstract glory. I do, however, think that the fish pond is the greatest hindrance to any weekend bliss, should I be forced to clean it under the sun.

I do, actually, believe in Lady Luck, and that she can be a bitch sometimes, working things in spiting everything unlucky enough to incur her wrath, but most of the time she’s just like a one-woman corporate department show; too many crap, one measly personnel. The next time you start blaming on the good lady, remember that she’s doing it alone. And that she can get tired and lonely on a Friday night. Offer her a drink.

Which is why, right now, I would like to place myself in this optimisitic ante-theatre (as a desperate attempt at self-gratification, because it’s easier to blame fantasy than accept reality), which is a 360 projection that tells me that I just happen to be out of the Good Lady’s service rotation, meaning I’m in that phase of flopping helpnessness until the Good Lady’s returns to my file.

Putting that into perspective, I suppose I’m just part of the natural order of things, in the service of otherworldly forces that govern my life as though I’ve signed up for a lifetime of services, and that things right now are pretty tied up, and they’ll just have to put me in the waiting list, and that they’ll get back to me next week and they’ll be having everything right back to working order, yes sir, thank you for your patience.

Or I could really rant and throw a tantrum and start kicking at flowerpots. Then have security throw me out. And then I get suspended, possibly refused of any further services with a refund. And then then live a life with no living, whatever the prospects make it seem.

Truth is, I’m ranting right now. Or at least I think I am.

****
Truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing.

Suddenly the idea of having so much time without the computer for me to waste it on seems so... I don’t know. Liberated? Not quite. Empty might be the better expression, if a bit poignant. Did I just write poignant? I meant that I seriously need a life.

The final truth is; I don’t know what to do.

Should I watch TV? Should I finally start on Chronicles of Narnia? Should I take out the old, slowly fraying art pads and start sketching mindlessly? Do I walk outside into the garden and the warm, still air, and look at the stars that are – thanks to the broken streetlights – surely visible under the stretch of devouring darkness?

What do I do? What do I do? Omg omg omg omg omg omg.

This is a revelation. This is the epiphany in one of its many true forms; the loss and the realisation. Of reliance. Of utter devotion. Of obsession. Of what’s lost in between.
Yes. Yes, I see it now. It’s all as clear as crystal.

I seriously need to get the computer fixed.

****

(12 hours without the computer. I’m starting to hallucinate. I see the things beyond the things you see; for instance, the fake plant on the dining table is not in fact a fake plant, but a network of microscopic watermelons lined up to form the data of a single bit, in fact part of a larger collection of bits that form bytes and kilobytes and megabytes, amalgamated into a single entity that is the world, in fact the bowling ball of Cthulhu. It’s really trippy).

2010-01-30T22:49:00.005+08:00

Argh...

I suppose I should be writing about Bali; that was the initial plan, when I thought of it this morning. A few hours and a bowl of curry noodles later, the dad called us home urgently to find the house broken in and ransacked.

Ironically, nothing was stolen. We do, however, have the ceiling and door repairs to consider.

This was what we deducted, based on the trail of household damage:

The thief, or perhaps two of them, noted that the bro and I have left the building, and that Lanna was still chained (I should’ve let her go; we normally do, but I didn’t know why I didn’t). They vaulted the gate from the side, damaging dad’s herbal tree in the process, and went for the back door.

Point of Entry

He broke the plastic door, easily done, and went into the wet kitchen. He chipped a part of the low ceiling first, wondering if it interconnects to the main house, which it wasn’t, so he broke a window plate and unlocked the wooden door. The first alarm must’ve hit, but the lack of interest from anyone kept him there. He then bent the metal door at the bottom (with a crowbar, or something similar) and squeezed in. We suppose he must be really small.

Must've learnt this from Half-life

He ransacked the drawers at the altar table first, found old light bulbs and rusty locks, then went for my room and the brother’s. He closed the lid of the laptop, probably planning to return to it later. Missy must be in a barking fit now, in her small cage. Good thing he left her alone.

Then he entered the living room, and hit the infrared sensor, but no one came to check on the alarm again. He folded dad’s laptop and moved it to the couch for the getaway, then ransacked the parent’s room, piling clothes and finding some jewellery.

That was when the father came back. He went to talk to the neighbour first, which was thankful, or he’d unlock the door into a man, probably armed, and it could’ve been disastrous.

The thief must’ve panicked then, because he left the jewellery by the window where he saw dad, then broke the ceiling tiles in the room wondering if he could escape into the roof, but it hit a narrow spot. He probably notice the dad planning to talk longer, snuck out the back door and vaulted the fence again.

This is the real heartbreak

We’re speculating a lot of things; that this was a planned heist(?), that they’ve scouted out the house and our habits well. He/they could’ve been the one who poisoned Marley, since we always had kept Marley out. It could, in certain ways, even be an inside job; the minute maid had particularly asked several questions this morning in regards to whether anyone would’ve been home or not.

That’s to the extent of it. I suppose we can count ourselves lucky that no one was hurt, and nothing was stolen. It’s just that we’ll have to fork money out for the repairs. The PS3 will have to wait.

Watch yourselves, folks. I used to think our house was safer than the average one, but after today, I suppose nothing can stop a determined thief.

God damn mother fucker.

2010-01-18T00:11:00.002+08:00

Taking Off: A Title of Apposition, I Swear to Goodness

"Hold it! Something smells fishy here..."

"Bug off with the excuses. You're getting your haircut. Now. TODAY"

"But. Wait. I mean, the stench! There's certainly a STENCH!"

I’ll be flying off to Bali in approximately 10 hours time, where I’ll be staying until Thursday. Normally, whenever I go away, I tell people that they should keep an eye out for the goats and their evil-scheming tendencies to take over the world, but these days they’ve been embroiled over the Yak scandal that started last week, so I suppose they’ll be full-handed to actually plan and execute the next downfall of humanity.

(Keep an eye out, still. They’ve been opportunistic at times.)

I guess I should be excited, but I’m not. Strangely, I haven’t exactly looked forward to it. Somehow carting off in the middle of the month, rather impulsively, into an (un)exotic island for 4 days and taking random tours to places I wouldn’t know sounds like a distant thing that other people would do, that I’d read/write about. When I take the plane in 10 hours time, it would seem like someone else was doing it. I’ll be at home and at the computer, reading about Inigo Montoya.

But what the heck. It’s Bali, it’s a vacation, and I suppose I’ll just think about it when it’s right in my face.

Ah, and there’s a beach involved. I could do with some sand.

And sights.

Ahem.

Ah:

Not that it matters, but trying to contact me within the next four days, or expecting some sort of reply to a message or e-mail, would be pointless. Just needed to make that clear. Because, you know. I’m like. Away? Ok? Got it? Because I trust you people to be capable of thought well enough to -. Right. Ok, good. Now that you’ve understood…

Goodnight people.

2010-01-12T23:22:00.003+08:00

Empty Imaginarium

“You know… why is it when we’re so high up, we never look higher, but keep looking down?”

“There’re just more interesting things down there.”

“And when we’re down, we just look up?”

“You mean you do that all the time?”

“I just think that there’re nicer things up here. And more, further up. If we looked”

“Well, I’m more worried about other things than what’s up or what’s down.”

“Like what?”

“Clouds dissipate over time, you know.”

Flew on my first overseas trip as a writer. One second I was awake, bleary and grumpy from the ungodly morning, and the next I was lining up at the customs booth trying to figure which thing in my pockets was triggering the metal detectors. And then I was staring at the Singapore Airlines LCD screen, very tempted to pull those airplane pranks you read about (like groaning when the pilot introduces himself, and saying “Oh my God, not him!?”). The next moment, the taxi was telling us that we were late, and drove us down to the city which I could barely take time to sightsee.

But the media briefing itself was interesting, so much that I actually secretly turned on the compact camera and recorded the thing on video (they didn’t forbid so, but I worry it’ll distract the presenter). And there’s something about looking out of the Google office window, all 38 floors up, and watch as the rain envelope and hide the city like the gentlest apocalypse.

Another moment, and I’m back in Malaysia, cursing the complicated way KLIA transit made itself to be. And, when I’m home, puzzling about the Church attacks.

Saturday I stayed home and watched movies. Sunday I went out with the gang to shoot zombies, and watched The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus, which I liked. A lot. The only problem of watching it is that it’s hard not to actually try to narrate it as a written story.

That night, had a conversation (conference?) with the gang over the Church attacks. It was - when I thought about it - the first ever serious conversation I’ve had in a long, long time.

And I talked about it till late at night. I tried to talk about it with the brother before he dismissed me for sleep. I’d talk to dad but he sleeps so early these days.

I know myself as ignorant. Oblivious even. But somehow, these days, I fire up the news websites daily (the alternative ones mostly; the mainstream ones only to see if they’ve reported similarly), and I read through opinions and blogs and comments. Dad’ll probably be shocked.

I don’t know why. Maybe the whole thing’s finally got me, and ignorance is not a game to play now. And if you’re jumping in on another game, you gotta know the rules.

And you gotta know more than that. Much, much more.

Somewhere I feel like I should do something. As usual, I don’t know what to do.

But I want to do something. Maybe, or sometimes, that counts for something.

**********

It’s both troubling, when I think of it. It’s also very stupid. But most problems in the world are stupid to begin with; they started with stupidity and stupid people thought it’ll be great to spread stupidity along.

But no. It’s only a partial truth. Another way to see it is that it’s a smart move. A chess move nobody read and anticipated. Now the chessboard is in chaos and the player smiles behind the mess he orchestrated.

Think of it that way, the world seems just so much more fucked up.

Of course, this is a nascent suspicion. I said nascent, because inevitably it’ll be a conspiracy theory. Truth, by then, will blur into the wisps of the nightly clouds.

I’m not qualified to think too much of it. But it seems that there’s a hand behind the curtain that pokes the event its current state. It’s a domino effect. The pieces have fallen and now the picture is shaped.

I wouldn’t know. But I think people should see the most worrisome aspect of this. The implications will far arch and brand itself into the back of society’s hands. Depending on how this is resolved, our future will be a very different one.

My ramblings don’t make sense, but I need to get it out.

And then, afterwards, get out myself.

2010-01-07T23:15:00.002+08:00

A Quotidian Thing

Almost. At least, time's been excessively slow for the week.

But time’s a subjective matter, and an extremely temperamental entity. Mostly, when I ticked it off, it speeds up so much that days flashes by in a blur. On the long run, it’s depressing, and foreboding.

And it can get rather free at work, particularly breaching into the evening, where I’d resort to TVTropes to pass the time. Even so, it moves in such a deliberate crawl I can feel it as it screeches like an amplified show of dragging a chalk across blackboard.

But la la la la la. Boring times do not deserve much blog space.

Will be heading to Singapore tomorrow for the first overseas press event (briefing, in this case) which, for god forsaken reasons, is making me nervous.

There’s this looming feeling that I’d take the wrong train down to KLIA, and find myself in Perlis mistaken as a foreigner assaulting a woman while insistently asking for directions. My parents would have to come and bail me out of prison.

Maybe I should go play Left 4 Dead 2 now.

*********

Joe Hill’s 20th Century Ghosts is quite the interesting read.

It’s a short story anthology of horror, though so far two of the three I’ve read aren’t more than poignant stories of bizarre twists. This would be Pop Art and, well, 20th Century Ghost. Best New Horror had me saying shit and, admittedly, somewhat scared.

Short story affairs were more comfortable to stomach lately; I often have such a long gap between novel reads that I pretty much forgot some of the plot and characters. In a relationship, that means you’d either have to start over, or give it up in exasperation. The one night stands with Joe Hill meant I can finish something before the night is over.

I’ll stop now. I blame Stephen King for the sexual implications (he started it. Neil Gaiman enforced it).

Anyhow, it’s very much worth mentioning that Pop Art is a story of friendship between a friend and an inflatable boy.

Other short affairs I’ve been embroiled into (I’ll stop now, I swear); Gaiman’s Odd and the Frost Giants (really only a Giant), King’s Here There be Tygers (featured in The Darkside, chosen by Susan Price, which I read over the water boiling), and whatever TVTrope article I might’ve bumped into.

My relationship with TVTrope can be accurately illustrated in this TVTrope trope about itself.

Right then. Time to head to bed. If I really end up being tackled by the police at Perlis tomorrow, I’d better be sober enough to take it.

Goodnight all.

2010-01-04T23:59:00.000+08:00

Reading Backwards

(An amiable hobby. You should try it someday, and see if it nauseates).

Had my first ever company meeting today, in which I sat through saying little and, when prompted, gave the most pointless suggestions. Mostly I took down notes, and tried not be imagine that every eye cast in my direction is wondering why I was even hired.

The magazine industry, it turns out, is quite like putting on The Greatest Show on Earth. You set up the throw lights and let the fireworks fly, and make sure the actors acted and the singers sang. You enchant the audience, wrap them in so much spectacle that all they could see was the stage, and light, and magic; and questioned little else. What happened backstage, they’d never know.

There’ll be those pesky individuals who purposefully wander in, trying to take a peak. That’s where the bouncers work.

And no matter how bad things go, the Show Must Go On. As ringleaders and clowns, the horn must be honked, and the trapeze must swing. Only when the last audience leave do the tents close.

Admittedly, I’m trying very hard to make sure I keep hitting the apple on top of Ms Assistant’s head with the knife. Eventually, either I’ll miss or the audience will get bored.

Maybe I’ll move to the elephants.

*****

I let the fingers do the roving today, and it found itself clicking the archives of the blog all the way back to 2006.

That was when the previous blog got unwittingly deleted, and this one started itself. It had a different name then, and I think I changed it another time. Now it’s a name of a notebook that I had written on, and ultimately lost.

(I fear that the name of the notebook is actually The Paradiso Notebook; Paradiso meaning Paradise, or that place where Dante ascended into enlightenment and immortality. Pragadissio, I’m sure, meant Crabs.)

In 2006 I wrote a lot about days that were eventful in its small ways, and I also wrote about nonsensical things, sometimes about Love, and sometimes those really fun to write but rather cringe-worthy rants.

These days I don’t write about the days. I still write nonsensical things. I might’ve written about Love but the subject seemed so distant right now it’s a voice locked within cubes locked within boxes. I don’t think I’ve written a rant in a very, very long time (or maybe I did, but the fun of ranting seemed to have died a gutter-death when I realised I was annoying myself).

I think, when I started this, it was a journal. Now it was something I made excuses of not updating frequently, and sometimes a place I refuse to write in because I’m afraid what I can write might not be written piece I’d like.

I think I forgot it’s a journal. Back then I used to tell myself I don’t care if anyone read something; I’d just write in it. Now that practically no-one does (you mean you are? What the.), I barely wrote anything.

First resolution of the year:_________________________

(I’ll fill it out eventually.)

2010-01-01T22:43:00.000+08:00

Next Year, Baby.

I don’t I need to make an eulogy of the past year, or the past decade for that matter, as it can be easily summed up as ‘pointless’ and ‘non-progressive’. Thankfully, it is nowhere decadent.

(If life is like a continuous stretch of dead, monotonous wood, then the mushrooms that sprout are the tasteful points in life. Some of them are tasty, and yet, some of them are poisonous.)

I still, however, felt like I’ve never grown up. Interestingly, I still feel as short.

I know I’m very late with this, but Merry Belated Christmas. Also, Happy New Year.

I’d wish you something, but aside from the typical Pink Healths, Great Fortunes, Wonderful Life Ahead-s, the only other thing worth wishing is that I hope you have a monster under your bed. That way, life is much more realistic, and it opens the way to believing in things like True Love and Destiny is Just a Sidewalk Away.

(Hello, Pessimism)

Also, I wish the best of the decades ahead, and if they finally learn how to preserve your head over a mechanical spider, I wish the best of the rest of the century.

I know I complained a lot, but when I looked back, and thought properly, 2009 was a year of change. Changes to both personal life and the world.

Let’s just see if it’s brought forward.

********

Resolutions? I think I’ll just leave a self-explanatory song.

Next Year,

Things are gonna change,

Gonna drink less beer

And start all over again

But get up at a decent hour

Gonna read more books

Gonna keep up with the news

Gonna learn how to cook

And spend less money on shoes

Pay my bills on time

File my mail away, everyday

Only drink the finest wine

And call my Gran every Sunday

Resolutions;

Well Baby they come and go

Will I do any of these things?

The answers probably no

But if there's one thing, I must do,

Despite my greatest fears

I'm gonna say to you

How I've felt all of these years

Next Year, Next Year, Next Year

I gonna tell you, how I feel

Well, resolutions

Baby they come and go

Will I do any of these things?

The answers probably no

But if there's one thing, I must do,

Despite my greatest fears

I'm gonna say to you

How I've felt all of these years

Next Year, Next Year, Next Year

Goodnight people.

2009-12-17T23:09:00.001+08:00

Phlegm Paroxysm

So much so that I thought I’ve evolved a technique to hack green boogers at people 10 feet away, blinding them and, possibly, yuck them to a comatose state.

There’s a damn reserve down there, in the throat. I can store up a considerable load.

(Early signs of mutation? Possibly. At any rate, prospects of being mutant isn’t quite as devastating. I could be an X-Man. With a name like Plegmer. Radical.)

Wanted to write something before I get hooked back into Left 4 Dead 2 (which has taken my nightlife. Dawn belongs to sleep, afternoons belong to work, evening belongs to the dogs, and that short bit before video game simplification; my dad’s coffee).

The addiction has thankfully waned (I don’t pine for it, for example, or shiver uncontrollably when the urge to play grew too strong and I was still in the toilet), but I still play nightly. And I’m not getting any better in VS, haha.

It felt quick, but closing week is about next week, officially starting on Monday, though I’m already forsaking tomorrow’s Awal Muharram break to finish off the reviews. And, possibly, the weekend.

And if we send in before Christmas, I’m taking a 5-day break. Do I deserve it? Nope. But I’ll be a bitch and just try for it.

After that, aim for a freelancing gig. With permission, of course.

(This post has derailed completely, and I’m too distracted by various trailers to make a coherent post. Therefore, I shall stop here, and leave it in a cliff-hanging state).

(Jeng. Jeng. Jengggg.)

2009-12-12T21:59:00.004+08:00

Nothing some xkcd couldn’t fix.

I went to Penang (the part that wasn’t the island, and the part people never took account of), seen the simplest wedding, and visited the great-grandmother, who’ve been doing fine, albeit that she can’t walk now, and considerably much thinner, yet could still remember the time when I’d come home from school and spend minutes lying on my back and pushing around the house.

Work is still slow, as with the start of the month, though I figure I should get ahead of the reviews and news before the Christmas rush kicks up.

Then I fell sick, sort of, by going to the Nokia party even when a budding flu kicked in, and by taking wine when I shouldn’t, and ended up home with a throbbing head (with just ONE glass. That’s it. I’m never drinking again).

Had a sleep where hundreds of different thoughts, incorrigible and fleeting, bounced around like atoms in the darkness, and I couldn’t get hold of a single one.

(One of them, though, looked familiar. The hair, and eyes, and smile, which stayed the longest, which hovered for a while invitingly, teasingly, then bounded off someplace when I reached out, never to be seen again).

Probably try to sleep early tonight. That is, if I can stay away from Left 4 Dead 2 with the clan.

**********

It started somewhere with a top ten list of the best sci-fi movies of the decade, which then led to the discovery of xkcd

I’ve been hooked since. Between work, I snuck in a few pages. Sometimes I chuckle audibly, which led to a lot of weird, questioning stares from the designer.

It has several brilliantly random stuff, like this:

To romantic stuff:

And some interestingly beautiful artwork:

Some of them are filled with maths, which I don’t quite get mostly.

They’ve been medicinal. Laughter always is.

(If you do read it, make sure you mouse-over the images for additional notes, which sometimes complete the joke).