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.

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

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!

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.

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.

I don’t know what to say to myself.

I just don’t fucking know.

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.

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.

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.

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.