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.

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.)

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.”

“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...

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.)

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).

How the Fish Chewed through the Glass

(And she sat at the direct opposite of me, and I watched her eat as she tucked her hair behind her ear; one smooth, simultaneous act that seemed so natural. Then she caught me looking, and said;

“ .”

I nodded, said yes, and looked at the grey wall behind her, which made everything - her and the table and chair - seemed like a flat monochromatic picture.

And then I dreamt of something else).


*********

Tough week.

I don’t think I ever remembered feeling in such a state of lethargy that grew into me, as tough embedded into my routine so that no matter how much I will it, I shall never get enough rest.

I’m thankful that I refused dad’s request that I accompany them as they tackled the highest mountain in all of Selangor (which turned into a 10-hour long hike, both upwards and down, and now the parents still groan whenever they made to sit, stand or walk).

I stayed home as much as I could, and watched the movies I never watched, and gave Roxy the Rotty a bath. And, when it worked, played Left 4 Dead 2.

And before I slept, I read. I’m about halfway through Coraline (a short read, seemingly) and I’ll be starting on Pratchett’s Thud!, before I move to the stuff I bought at the Big Bad Wolf Sale. The Harmony Silk Factory was, for the third time, left abandoned.

(It’s not that the book is a bad book. It’s just that it became one of those rare occurrences where I didn’t care about the characters and, thus, never cared about the story).

Ah, and in case you’ve still never heard about it, the Big Bad Wolf Book Sale is still on in Amcorp Mall and it’ll end by Wednesday. The books there are horrendously cheap; so cheap it felt like you’ve walked into a cheat and never knew about it. I’ve picked up 9 books, all of them from authors I’ve never read before, and all of them have just as about the weirdest cover-arts (Un Lun Dun takes the price). Check it out; it doesn’t have as much big titles as other sales, but the place is littered with gems beneath gold and silver coins.

Right. Time for a quick chapter or two, before I head to bed. Bonne Nuit!

****

I forgot to mention that the entire blogpost has no relation to the title in any way, both directly and indirectly.

I do, however, wonder about it.

Mandamus, says the Brain.

Just wrapped up the last dribble of work for the day. It hasn’t been a fruitful; I was plagued by lack of concentration and, eventually, disrupted by a dinner I didn’t want to go but went anyway out of due respect.

(The dinner, lamentably, was a cramped thing where there were too many people at a single table and the food were cold when I arrived, because I was late fetching a colleague home).

Tomorrow, by golden hooks and or by professional crooks, I must complete my weekend quota.

*****

I hate my dreams lately. Mostly for the fact that they are never real and that, in a way, they annoyingly serve to remind me certain things that make me feel all the more despondent when I woke.

It’s like in some why, my brain has decided on a more direct approach, and issued a writ of mandamus so that I get cracking on stuff. Proving a point by saying that We command. We compel. We decide.

Well, fuck you too. Start by making me work smarter.

(Something throbbed. In the cranium. I’m sorry).

More frustrating is the fact that these dreams felt real. I’d wake up, rub my eyes, and realise the cruelty, and bliss, and the bitter-sweetness that lingered in the mouth along with the tang of morning breath. I’d go to work and write and have lunch and it’d float about at the corner of the mind, like a red kite in the azure sky.

And then the stupidity of everything caves in, and the tunnel is shut, and rationality resumes.

(Somehow I felt like I’ve written this before).

Anyhow, if the dreams remain the same, I suppose it’s a revisit I can’t avoid.

I just hope I can decide if they were good dreams, or bad ones.

(I’ve officially given up on Nanowrimo this year. I don’t think there’re other obvious reasons as to why; I was simply either too busy, too lazy or too uninspired. Eventually, whatever words I crammed felt too forced, and I decided that this is no way to write. Right now, this part of me is staring at me with his hands crossed, muttering and glaring and refusing to speak.



Sorry mate, this year just couldn’t be.)

****

Inure.

I think, yeah, there’re things I’ve inured into. People do. If they can’t, or don’t, they aren’t quite people. It’s just how we work.

It’s just that when people choose to voice the hardships they’re in (those that they, as we do, inured in, but will perpetually find time to complain about), they forget that the whole picture is a painting that they can only see a part of. And if they try to see the whole picture, it is to them a stretch of empty canvas. Then they make things up as they see fit.

I think I read somewhere that we draw our perceptions on what we think. In that sense, people who do so draw their perception on nothingness. Their brains are just as empty.

(And what’s all this midnight wool-gathering? Shouldn‘t I be asleep? Shouldn’t you?)

The skies these days are a beautiful, absolutely gorgeous tint of greyness. I’d drive to work or back or walk to the 7-Eleven under it and would just spend a few moments to stare.

I’d rather think that the skies are what that gives colour to the world.

Blue summer skies with thick, heavenly clouds give the world vibrancy; under it the winds sway the grass and the flowers stood with colours proud and bright and the people are just much more cheerful.

A grey, monochrome sky makes the world sombre. And sombreness is beauty sometimes.

(Like monochrome pictures, or monochrome movies, where darkness and light are easily differentiated and colour, if you’re looking for it, can only be found if you know where to see).

(Another round of midnight nonsensicality. I really should be asleep.)

Today’s hike took me to the top of a hill with red earth and low ferns. East was the stretch of hills and mountains that, for the first time, I found to have disappeared into the low greyness of the cloud. The mist, much lighter in shade, moved downwards and enveloped the hills like a deliberate embrace.

I’m not doing it justice; it was one of the most beautiful things I‘ve ever seen, so haunting in its grandeur.

There was a solitary eagle. An actual eagle. I watched it circle upwards and swooped until it merged with the darkness of the clouds.

It rained later, but I was already under a roof then. I wonder how the mountains looked in the rain. Maybe a sombre, forlorn shape in the distant. Greyness poured upon greyness.

But sombreness, yes, is beauty sometimes.

(Right, enough of this midnight wool-gathering. Time to sleep.)

(Goodnight people).

The New Wood Smell

(What’s this? I find myself some free time and instead of cramming in the words for Nanowrimo - which I’ve neglected for 5 days now - I’m here wanting to blog. And afterwards, play Borderlands).

I gave in to impulse, and bought myself a guitar.

It’s a cheap classical. It’s a guitar that those people of the guitar profession would stare at, crinkle their nose, and shake their heads in disbelief. In fact, it was cheaper than another guitar one particular guitar shop told me it was for the picnics.

It is, however, a nice guitar. I stared at it long enough, played unknown chords on it when no one was looking, and decided that yeah, you’re coming home with me.

It still has that new wood smell. Of the plywood type. It’s a cheap guitar, after all.

I suck in playing it.

Never doubted my innate inability to play any musical instrument. But now that I’ve bought a guitar and understood how hard it was to master it, I think it’ll be truly wasted if I never try making it play music that it was meant to play.

I give myself three years. And 38 days. Maybe I can play nursery rhymes by then. Good progression, I believe.

I think I can hear Bryan groaning in regret that he has agreed to teach me.

*********

My Nanowrimo is in abandon. It’s just a few days away from being a complete disaster.

My problem is finding time to make things up - times for this mostly end up being used in gaming, making up unrelated stories, and learning the guitar (since Saturday, at least). Oh, and a little bit of homework.

I’m so far behind now that the only way to save it is to cram 5000 words a night, or reach 25K by the weekend. My tally now is only 4K-something.

And I seriously don’t know what I’m writing about.

Where are the Gods of Writing?

Having stones for brains, and brains for balloons.

The effects of closing week hasn’t worn out yet. The brain is still a slab of rock that is cold and hollow and does nothing but stay stubbornly hard.

I don’t think I can string proper sentences. Somewhere along the lines would be a few oddities that become binaries. It’s aggravating, especially when 1000101001010100101000 about the 110101110111111 like global warming and polar bears losing ice to stand on.

Aw, 1001 it.

Ah, at any rate, it’s Nanowrimo now.

I’ll be trying once more to waste my time away writing 50,000 words for the month, an average of 1700 minimum daily.

I haven’t plotted, made plans, or actually know what I’ll be writing about. I think I’ll just down cups of Lipton tea and hope whatever they advertise will help give me the words and form that plot (and, for heaven’s sake, turn this rock-brain into a regular, mushy one).

As of now, the novel has no title.

And I think I shouldn’t have gotten Borderlands today. The first hour itself is addictive and engrossing, and I haven’t even ventured into online multiplayer.

And I haven’t taken into account that I’m working right now, and that there’s such a thing called Closing Week and that it will, without fail, turn my brain back to stone and milk my time into bottles to be gulped down by a monster with a void for mouth.

And the insanity of everything hasn’t hit me yet.

(And that, to paraphrase from forgotten source, is the fun of it).


*********

This is a Jeembie.
According to Teh Ais Limei (avid Zombtist and author of The Zombie Journal and The Popcapian Zombies of the East Pacific):

Jeembie is an evolved species of zombies whose diet consists of slimy, white rolls covered in brown liquid, also known as the Chee Cheong Fun among the Chinese community. This discovery have led Zomtists to believe that zombies do not necessarily need their staple food, known as Braaaaiiiinnnnsss, to survive, but merely chose to consume them as they are widely available in all parts of the world. On the other hand, a small group of Zomtists opined that Jeembie is not an evolved species, but an underdeveloped one, unable to differentiate between Braaaiiiinnnsss and Chee Cheong Fun, due to the similarities in texture, appearance and in some cases, substance.

On another note, the Zombies Nation International Association of Repulsive Bodies (ZNIARB) have declared Oct 27 a worldwide holiday to commemorate the birth of Jeembie.

Happy Halloween!

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


I’ll be disappearing mostly for the whole of November. It will most likely be due to Nanowrimo, or a strange trip in the form of a ticket given by a man with a broad brimmed hat and brown suit that’ll be the last I’ve ever heard or seen (if the latter happens, just tell my parents that I’ve moved to a happy place).

If I can update, I will. So if you’re actually keeping posted on the wholesomely profound ramifications from a philosophical genius that is I, you know you’re being duped and that no refunds will be given.

I hold no responsibility.

Just quickly dropping by to post some pictures of the pups, and to prove that I cannot, for the life of me, take good puppy pictures.

To the right, Ziggy. The left, Della. (Both in dad's tender loving hands)

Della's got more of her dad's brown, and Ziggy's all black save for the white angel-wing spread on his chest.

Both of them got their father's brow.

Right-o. Time for bed before the weekend rush. Bonne nuit

It’s closing week now.

I think it’s best if I write a little something here before I barely have any free time for myself. And what better than a little update on life, eh?

The pups of Marley are doing great; they’ve just opened their eyes a few days back and are now very adventurous with their crawling. We’ve just chicken-fenced the cage to stop them from edging out.

I’ve named them. They’re Ziggy and Della Marley. They both have something of their dad in them.

They are, currently, the cutest things in the world.

****

Perhaps not so much of an update on my life itself, which is currently like a flag that stayed still on the pole, with no wind around to billow and flutter it.

And like flags do, I can only sit and wait for that rich Westerly to blow and flap the cloth against the pole. Better still; wrench it out from the bindings, and carry it far and away, maybe into the ocean.

Wait is both a dreadful and wonderful thing, but it’s much like a mysterious drink served at the bar. And good and bad sometimes depends on your taste.

Ho hum.

***********

I dislike the fickleness of myself.

(Or is it really fickleness? Perhaps not. Perhaps simply a not-so-latent, fairly common emotion prevalent since the dawn of time, and that fickleness is either merely a branch of it, or the root in itself. At any rate, it produces the same results).

Feels like I’m a douche. A dick. An asshole.

And it’s very mutual.

I’m confused. But it’s the time of confusion that don’t sink in to cause massive amount of hair tearing. It’s just a leaf on the surface of the water. It disturbs, and ripples, and there’s all there is to it.

Makes me wonder; What the Fuck am I doing?

And whom am I Fucking with?

And What the Fuck do I think I am?

(Right-o. Emo-ness flies, and hovers).

I think I should let slide. It’s gonna be like leaving the stuff you can’t carry when moving house. It’s gotta go but the separation is there. Something’s left.

And you’re gone.

It sucks.

(I don’t even know what I’m confused about now).

(I don’t even know if I have to right to be confused).

(I think I’ll go to sleep now).

(Nites)