mahn, Leslie you are extremely anti-climatic. 8th post, behold.

 

 

The heat’s been the bane of my existence. Either that or i’m just a selfish bitch who doesn’t even try to save the earth. Okay, I just want to crap so that I can finish this and make this longer. XXZZXXXZXXZXZXXZXZXXXXXXZZZZ (increasing word count). Okay,  I really should finish this because there’s a high probability that i’ll leave this hanging halfway till tuesday morning. I have that little knack of leaving things halfway done and since i have my BIG FOX staring right at me, it’s really good to finish this up and not end up like the unlucky version of red riding hood.

 

School’s coming to an end. Came to an end. Ended. Something like that. It’s a good thing because I can work. But i think i’ll miss the preview theatre. Today’s  walk left me straddling between two paths. Made a random gut decision, ended up at the right place but the security guard said that the place was closed. So much for making the right gut decision. But it did led me to MR FOX. which i shall name foxxytrotttytottlytoyxxxz. For now.

 

The other day, I had durian – right from the refrigerator. I had no idea durian’s tastes so scandalicious. And right now, nearing pre-dawn moments, I’m craving for cold freezing durian. I’m also craving for Jordan’s Mix Trail and fresh low-fat milk which is (actually just) 100 meters away from me right now, hidden somewhere in between left-over stir fried vegetables and half-bitten chocolate in a rectangular standing grey metallic box somewhere in a place where there’s big stoves, big black kettles which gives a shrieking scream (like half-matured-pms-raging-hormones werewolves) every time the water’s boiled and lots of empty water bottles clamped together in the upper cabinet. Urgh, this is too obvious. But it’s working. Descriptive writing makes 1) people really observant 2) people sound observant 3)lengthen a post. Though all 3 options seems correct, we all know which option I’ve been striving to achieve for the last 10 minutes or so.

 

 

It’s almost 3am. I think I’m done here. Or I THINK I’m done here. I should go do things that I should be doing right now. PanicAtTheDisco tomm! Sigur Ros should come. And so should every icelandic people. ciaoxz!

 

grrr, mr fox is hungry. like larris and phua.

Alas, rejoice. Last post for this blog, unless of course part of my brain cocked up and i feel like writing here on impulse. And talking about the end of this blog, it’s the end of the semester. Okay, wait half a semester. School’s been fun. Class is fun. The people in class is fun. I didn’t know FSV could be this fun. Anyhow, that day I was at Starbucks Borders (damn good place to people watch) I was intending to watch people but instead I saw this hot guy I’ve been seeing every now and then and he was there. Technically he wasn’t there. His friend was there and i knew he was going to be there and indeed.. an hour later tralalalala along came him and his other friends who were gayly hot. But let’s crap out the gay part.It’s saddening to know that gay or soft boys are hot. And so, I was there, right opposite him. I visually memorised what he wore. He crosses his left leg over the right one. That’s about it. When I stood up, he cutely rushed to my seat and idly chuck his macbook onto my seat. Ah damn, he was eyeing my seat for quite some time. How gay can that get? But I was too tired and ignorant to actually look at him. Maybe because i know who he was and most probably he knows me because I know people who know him and he knows people who know me. I love connections. How each of us is sort of connected to the other person and the other person. It’s like how disease spread. A spiderweb effect. I came to ngee ann with the idea of not having much friend or having difficulty making friends. Just that womanly uncanny instinct. But.. everyone knew everyone and it’s simply so pleasing to know that people actually know each other. It’s nice knowing random people who happened to be connected in your social clique. Ciao

 

 

I used to get annoyed with my brother’s constant habit of perpetually blasting a certain song on his laptop all day or all week or even if i’m unlucky all month. I never get this fascination. This obsession. until of course, I did the same thing.The same exact thing. Blasting the same song over and over again in my headphone, deluding myself of what is there. It really is exciting. We’ve all done it. And then I remembered this conversation I had way back with a friend through msn. He, an avid Blink 182 fan went on and on, intermittently and blantantly professing his love  he felt from almost all of Blink’s songs and lyrics. Most of the lyrics of their songs revolve around shitty life, growing up. It’s kind of similar to Simple Plan’s lyrics but with that little bit more of punk rocker personality. I listened, out of courtesy but realise it sucks to the core. It didn’t feel right to me, didn’t even make much sense. Typical teenage dilema, I thought. Their songs didn’t scream anything but “ah gee, this is a waste of time” I guess it all depends on the position you are in, your emotions, your outview and how it connects to the one and only song you happened to be listening to. Music won’t mean a thing to me if I don’t feel any sense of connection or the want to be connected to the song i mean. But as I was just listening to one of those songs I shamelessly listen to hundreds a night, I realise there’s no point listening if you don’t feel connected to the songs, the lyrics, the experience behind it. To share an experience is one thing, to make the other random stranger feel experienced by it is just beautiful. It will never make any sense to you if you don’t feel it somewhere inside. If it doesn’t trigger your emotions or feelings or perception or a simple memory lost in the crowded scenes of everydays. 

Some people like hip hop songs. I never like it, well maybe for the exception of Low by FLO Rida. Others enjoy blue jazz, I do too- but not obsessively. And it’s actually quite intriguing to listen to what other people listen. I love opening iTunes randomly, click my shared button and browse through what others have on their itunes. Sometimes you can even get excited seeing your favourite song on someone elses’ iTunes. Like I did in one fine photography lesson, where I pester Phua if it was his iTunes cause nobody’s iTunes seems on at that time. But sadly, this person who have a couple of album’s I’ve been looking for, was nowhere in the room I was in. The type of music you listen to also says a little about your personality. You know generically. I’m not a personality analyst, and so I won’t try to make sense here. Music and burgers are similar. The type of burgers you buy, the way you eat a burger says quite a bit about yourself. I don’t really care if theoretically this doesn’t make sense but seeing different people eat burgers is alarmingly exciting and interesting. My dad eats burger like it’s that’s the only thing that matters in the world. My brothers who loves McSpicy has short tempers. The other brother  and a couple of other people who eats McChicken are pretty altruistic. And the Fillet O Fish? – Understanding people. That’s my mom, my dad a couple of strangers I randomly observe in MacDonalds. But oh well, I don’t know if it is theoretically or scientifically accurate or logical, but it’s more like a personified observation yea? Speaking of which, I finally ate Mac Donalds after months of not going there. SuperSizeMe makes me indulge in super-sin lunches and late night dinners. Quite to the contrary, reverse psychology works like wonders sometimes.

 

 

10 years ago, the sands, the mini toy cars, the short broken crayons and those hyper maniacs flow of naïve impossible ideas and abundance supply of time were our best friend. I remember breaking crayons and eyeing the new one with eager eyes at the local bookstore. I even remember twisting the Barbie’s doll’s head and hiding it in different places around my play area. Barbie doll’s elicit a derangement in me, it freaks the hell out of me and the only one I had was the one my mom’s friend bought for me. Thank GOD. It was rubbery I think, purple hair and pink shirt. It feels like silicon (like fake boobs. ) And I guess the best thing about being a young kid is the innocence and care freeness that comes along with it. We feign curiosity sometimes, even fear or happiness. There was once my little brother took the role of an abandoned cat in space during one of our “let’s-play-acting-time and we were the space rangers( ALA-ALA POWER RANGER) and the plan was that we were to pick him (the “cat”) up from space. Somewhat it was supposed to be raining. I don’t know who came up with the “raining in space” idea but it seriously was ludicrous. My little brother got into the whole “abandoned cat idea” that he actually cried. When I asked him, he dramatically answered “sad mah, abandoned cat eh.”  Then there were those little activities in kindergarden where your teacher will pass around pieces of papers, broken crayons and unsharpened pencil colors. And we all draw caricatures of the unforeseen futures, full of ignorance and bliss, drawing firstly a head, the body then the limbs, the fingers, the pudgy uneven toes and of course the either long flow-y hair or spiky hair.  There’ll be lots of beautiful and whimsical usage of colors, a comeback of POP ARTS.  When the little artistes are done at work, some will jump from one table to another, looking at what other children just drew. Others continue drawing, smitten by this intimate process of artisans and often I happen to be one of them.  No, actually I’m the more selfish little artiste.  ( I won’t show it to anybody or I’ll eye other’s art piece with intense scrutiny) At the end of the class, the teacher ( I remember mine was a tall Indian lady) will be asking us to finish up the words. Some will struggle and annoy the teacher with intermittent question on how do you spell “firemen”, “police” “doctor” “space ranger”. I can’t remember what I wanted to be when I was in kindergarden but during my naïve primary school era, I knew I wanted to be a policewoman. 

 

 Oh well, I wish it’s easy now. I used to want to be a scriptwriter, having been totally obsessed with this fictional character in a malay film  who lives day to day writing scripts according to his mood. He was weird as a matter of fact. But deeply weird. You know all those ironies. How it works. Then the rest of my day for that period of time was spent mesmerizing at his altruistic charm, the weird habits he spots and god knows what else. I don’t ridicule myself with MANY ambitions, it’s hard for me to decide what I want to do but at one point of time (pivotal raging hormones period)  all I wanted to do was to make films. Surprisingly my future-want-to-be transits really fast this time. ( My policewoman ambition lasted for 5years, scriptwriter 4 years, film-maker only 1.5 years only)

If really given that one bloody chance, I’ll be a fashion editor. Or probably something fashion/media/graphics related. It’s confusing right now. On orientation day, I got assigned to another class and the advisor asked in a very dramatic way “what do you want to be” everybody said “director” It’s funny, I used to want so badly be a film director. Now all I want is to sew clothes,  get invitation to fashion shows, travel around the world looking writing stories and freelancing doing anything and everything.

I’m absolutely sure we all have those little funny ambitions when we were young. I wanted to be a policewoman and save the world. My little brother wants to be a game animator. Someone would have wanted to be a superhero. What do you used to want to be? An ice-cream man? Rupert Grint (Ron in Harry Potter) wanted to  be an ice cream boy if not an actor. A rocket scientist? OH! OH! A boxer?? How about a……. singer? Speaking of which, I just remembered something. I wanted to be a singer once. I was super obsessed with this boyband. You know the pole your mother use to hang clothes? I used that as my mike. Then when I watched 24 compulsively, I thought I could be a government agent or maybe a secret service agent or something (like Michelle Dessler or Nadia Yasser). After all I am a (lazy)  determined workaholic.

 

If anyone of you could be someone, regardless of qualification or whatever or money. Just one job for a day or for a week (I prefer the latter),what would it be? And why?

 

 

I’m a magazine junkie. I spend dollars just on magazines, but my favorite issue would be (apart from the NYLON issue in which Mary Kate Olsen appeared which also happened to be the period where i was broke like hell) would be I-D magazine, the happiness  issue.( I bought it in KL for kicks) I have this knack of buying magazines which I’ve no clue what is about. It was the first ever issue I bought from this magazine and the last. what an irony, maybe i should get out now, hop down the train and hit the nearest kinokuniya for i-D’s latest issue which happened to be available in 6 different covers, all beautifully modeled by Agyness Deyn , which i feel is a little over-rated. And today, I experienced a witty moment of self-indulgence. Mental laughters. 

It was this working guy, he looks like Tyler Durden’s sidekick, the good guy. The boring guy who buys IKEA stuff and apparently finds buying furniture very therapeutic indeed. So, this working person was frustratingly scrutinizing this old married couple (around 40plus) both clad in sports attire and matching black tourist hats, holding hats. They walked past him and then past me and since this working guy was standing right in front of me, I couldn’t help but follow the motions of his scrutiny. He smirked in a very envious way (the way you look at your crush who’s walking with another guy), held his tie rather tightly as if he is choking and somehow I thought he was jealous of them. Maybe for the fact that they are a happy old couple and he’s just a miserable working guy who doesn’t even know how to tie his tie. So what really make someone happy, even for a short moment? I-D magazine Happiness Issue has a lot of random excerpts that classifies happiness as something so candid and stark, it’s beautiful. Happiness is eating pizza. Happiness is what I call fashion! Happiness is two kinds of ice cream. knowing a secret. climbing a tree. Happiness is…”Freedom. Friendship. Disco parties. Sometimes tupperware” Happiness is finding a pencil. pizza with sausage. telling the time. Happiness is coming home again. Happiness is being alone every now and then.

If the last sentence of the previous paragraph is verifiable, I would be one happy person. What makes someone happy? Even for one freaking second, or a quarter of a second. Subconscious Happiness? It wouldn’t be impossible to be happy and not be aware of this. Overpowering emotional level. Too much happiness you don’t even notice or so much as pay attention to it. My mother once said ” I think this is the best birthday present you could give to a mother” on my grandmother’s birthday. The present was something so simple. The unification of siblings, getting together to celebrate your 70 year old mother’s birthday. And I thought for a moment, is love what makes people happy? Even for a stark moment of period? I’ve seen happy people in love. I’ve also seen sad dramatic people in love. And queer people in love who talks gibberish half the time. So really LOVE = HAPPINESS? Happiness is obviously a state where we experience a ecstasy-like emotion characterized by positive activities or feelings. It doesn’t take a genius to understand Happiness. Thinking about it, I don’t really know what makes me happy. Maybe that 10seconds flood of positive emotions, yes. I’ve felt that alot. But happiness on a deeper level. I could be happy watching Coco Rocha’s video on youtube. I was  happy recounting my night meeting Mum. I remember getting happy when my brother sewed the initials of my favorite band on a t-shirt. But, I guess at the end of it, I know what makes me happy. But what makes other people happy? What makes you happy? If finding an old note my bestfriend used to slid into my pencilcase, sheer happiness, to you – is it happiness too? Will you be happy simply by seeing me happy? That working guy I saw earlier today definitely wasn’t happy seeing an old happy couple. 

 

What makes you happy?

It was an empty 154 bus, my favourite. Crowded places are insanely annoying. like life sometimes. So as I made my way to the rear of the bus, I spotted a mak cik(She wasn’t that hard to spot. There was little people on the bus.) who was having a heavy conversation with this old man sitting across her, two seats behind.  I sat behind her. She had her right arm precariously placed on the handle bar behind her (which is right infront of me) Her body was slightly tilted to the man who was probably in his 60s or 70s. She was clad in a simple white scarf and a heavy floral baju kurung. A clash of pink, neon, lime, yellow and god knows what else. You know all these baju kurungs. If they could, they’ll probably put rainbows in there too.

 

The man(ah pek) was Chinese because he was speaking in that malay-chinese accent. You know how it sounds when ah peks speak malay. He wore stripes of dark green and browns (new age century yo), those big rimmed black spectacles with thick lenses. But come to think of it, his spectacles rims are more like leopardy prints rather than just black. He spots a tummy, quite visible under his neatly tucked in shirt. His slippers were typical of that of old chinese uncles.

 

So this old mak cik and this ah pek had a rather loud conversation. And it’s nothing got to do with the empty bus. They both understood malay but instead of conversing in that thick malay slang, she had the same slang as the ah pek. It was pretty obvious, she was matching him. I couldn’t remember what exactly they talked about but there were old estates, run down buildings, old roads, new replacements and many more. At one point of time, the mak cik points to her left, pointing to an old kampong or something and the ah pek continued the conversation by rambling on and on about factual and historical stuff. I swear, he could be a good boring tour guide. They were two separate people, I think. Probably they just met at the bustop, made conversation and happened to board the same bus. Or maybe they are long lost friends who happened to chanced upon each other’s path and decided to have this loud conversation on the bus. I remember at one point of time, she mentione “Ey, you put on weight ah now, very fat already orh” Okay, so this mak cik knew the ah pek. So they can’t be two separate random strangers anymore. My bet. What she just said momentarily woke me up. Now Now makcik, that’s not something polite to say to an old pal. The conversation continued with a terrible 10 second silence and then he broke the silence and cheekily added, “where got? Got meh? Maybe a little ah. A little fat.”  I thought it was going to end there, what a terrible line to say oh makcik, but it didn’t. They continued talking. About bustops,  bus 52, destinations, chickens and the typical “where are you going” question.

Ah pek: I’m going to tekka. A little more down the road, then I alight.

Mak cik:  Abang (malay for brother) go tekka what for? Eat toseh? Or walk walk around?

Ah pek: No la, I have a business there.

 

He didn’t elaborate on his business and I thought that was queer. He talks a lot and has a knack of elaborating his own personal experience whenever the makcik brings up a very generic subject. The talked alot, sometimes while they are talking about something relevant I drift and maybe that’s why I couldn’t recall any other particular subject they talked about. Around 7 minutes later, the ahpek had to get off and as he taps his ez-link and waits for the bus to completely come to a halt, the makcik added her last line “ya laa, you put on a bit of weight. Fat u know”  “haha. Really ah? Maybe a little ah” he alighted and she checked her scarf, looked out a couple of times to the bustop as if waiting for him to look at her direction. He did at last and they had a very awkward wave.

 

You know all these time, while eavesdropping on their conversation the mak cik was always the one who asks him questions, the one who prompts him and his answers seems to beg more questions (for her, i guess).

 

Sometimes, I feel that she’s trying to flirt with him or something, though that seems highly plausible, you never know. She has that same exact tone and confidence that my single grandmother spots every time she’s talking to an older male. Maybe she’s just trying to be polite, to show concern but I kept thinking and feeling that she seems to have a thing for her. It’s just intriguing and refreshing to know that such old people still have that little hint of youth daringness and flirts in them. It’s like giving that little bit of yourself to an old friend because he know’s who you are and he won’t say how inappropriate you are at your age now because he knows what you used to be like. Grandchildren and children don’t know who you are, who you used to be. Sometimes, the best way to see someone in their most extreme light is to watch them around their friends.

 

 

 

                    

I think it was hormonal changes because this week was a really drained week. I had to climb hills, carry laptop,climb hills,climb hills and more climbing of hills. And to say it’s only what? 3 weeks? Anyway, cutting paper is very therapeutic. And so is reading under dim lights. My little quirks.

 

 And this kept me smiling.

 

Kahlil Gibran once said, “Life is about discovering beauty. All else is a form of waiting.” What’s your beauty in life? I think it’s love. Life is love.We are all either madly in love, slightly in love, recovering from love, reflecting on it, wondering where it is, if it’s coing back, hoping for it, thinking about what it is and what it isn’t. I read this from a mini article amidst the random photos of naked artistes in a magazine. Michael Buble said that. I find a lot of truth in it.

 

It’s nice to suddenly remember certain stuff you used to remember. Stuff. Anything. Movies, songs,pictures, little random notes or anything that practically revolves around “life”. And it’s funny how we can merely forget or “let go” stuff that we used to be obsessed or inspired by. Earlier today, I managed to get my hands on this album AaRON (Artificial Animals Riding On Neverland). There’s this particular song, the only song that I could listen to for aeons and still get the same exact fluttery feeling somewhere in between my chest and stomach every single time i listened to it. It’s called U-Turn (Lili) based on this french movie I used to memorize it’s title, then after a while I forgot how to spell it, forgot the title, forgot what the story was about and listening to the song once again reminded me of how I was once smitten with the film. It’s nice to be inspired, I realize. It’s a wonderful feeling. A rush of different random stuff to your brain, to your eyes, to your toes and to me, it kind of make me feel good. Really good.

 

It’s nice to be inspired, even for a flick of a second. Or to be precipitated into an emotional attachment that seems so foreign; it feels right. I think being inspired by people is something extraordinaire. It leaves me with a feeling of subtle phantasmagoria of mysterious allure and self-discovery. We’ve all been inspired and we produce and discover great things with the whole inspired/inspiration idea. I’m inspired by sudden rushes of emotions. It takes me over and impulsively I want to do something right away, right this instance. Hedi Slimane makes cigarettes and trashy people in dingy clubs such an inspiration. Scouting for photos of people who smoke the nights away with beers and ciggers and crazy night stints has been my daily quirks. For a while back then, the song Running Away by Midnight Hours made the world go round for me. Before that, the rhythm of shits inspired me. Then it was the awesomely talented Icelandic people Múm who made the Mosaic Music Fest the best ever music festival ever. Right now, I must say it’s got to be the quirky smile of Coco Rocha and porcelain plates scribbled with wishful thinking, cheesy quotes and anything randomly interesting to read. 

 

 What Inspires you? What Inspires you? 

 

 i find that this was beautifully crafted, honest and sincere.tara (the director) told me this “i think that is what will stand out the most about the film, the honesty.. its been a challenge to find the way to tell the story in about 2 hours with the honesty it needs”
it’s like che guevara’s motorcycle diaries ey? 

 

 

 

 

i was just reading filmart under dim lights, trying to get into the mood of nighttime. night always sets a certain type of surreal sensuality to me. especially cold chilly nights. almost reminds me of new york streets like those i see in “Cold Case”. those blue hues. well of course, i don’t see blues everywhere at night in singapore. singapore’s pretty bright at night. and sometimes on these nights, you know…… i’ll just begin to trail from the rhythm of shits around me and begin to wonder what other people on the other side of the world are doing. what would people of my age be doing now? and then they’ll be this sudden maelstrom of emotions. like sex + guilt + frustration + idleness. i feel guilt for those sweet children from third world countries suffering, starving, living day by day (which sucks totally, trust me). i feel pleasure knowing that i’m doing better than other people across the universe. i feel that little hint of jealousy and frustration knowing that people of the same age have actually accomplished greater things that I could actually accomplished in my entire life. like skinny people the likes of coco rocha and mary kate.

 a teacher once said “if life is unfair, you are saying god is unfair” i mentally laughed at what she said and instantly shrugged it off. that phrase seems redundant because sometimes i really couldn’t care less about life being fair or not for  and to me. do we have to judge life? like we judge people? li was saying how we cannot stop ourselves from judging. and it’s true. judging is like breathing air; sometimes it is done subconsciously, unconsciously. at others, we just do it on purpose because really, it’s automatic. so really, wouldn’t it be great if we know that somewhere out there, someone is like us (gee, this is as cheesy as HEROES) and that someone is sharing the same exact sentiment as i am now. and my queerness and their queerness will instantly converge into a mesh of random intellect conversations, forming that exclusive relationship we didn’t even realise had existed? it’s funny somehow. i think life is funny. life is eccentric. and we are all eccentric in one way or another. my little brother once lay down on the bathroom floor with water cascading down from the shower onto his face. he sniggered something along the lines of “i wanted to sleep” maybe, if he fell asleep beneath the rush of cold water, it’ll take away all his insecurities, raging hormones, pains and anger. i remember when i was in primary school, i thought i could be cool by saying that i talk to myself when im alone. but instead i got glares and snide sniggers as response. but don’t we all have intrapersonal conversation with ourself? in our hearts, in our minds, on the phone when we are so freaking bored of walking home alone and decide to talk to ourself on our cells? life is funny. and we are all funny. we all have that little bit of charlie chaplin and andy warhol in ourselves. sometimes i feel that we all want to be someone else. we want to escape and just be a radicalist in our own lives.i watch hollywood movies and imagine to be in their positions. perfectperfectperfect life. but then the cinema lights will bring it’s magic and bring me back to “hello reality”. we all do that, im sure. we all have hopes that one day we’ll be someone completely different. it’s funny how we try so hard to not be ourselves sometimes. a really good friend said this to me a couple of nights ago “what we do in escapism, we do exceedingly well” and don’t we all do very well in escaping?  

and we want to be someone else so much, it’s so demeaningly superficial. we all want to be superficial,to be fake and plastic. like hollywood. don’t you? i do, andy warhol had great appreciation for hollywood glamour ““I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They’re so beautiful. Everything’s plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic.” I hate Andy Warhol. I don’t know why. I just hate him. But, at the same time, I cant help falling in love with his art, with his films and of course, his superficiality. Can we truly love and hate something or someone at the same moment? Maybe I hate what he became or what he became of other people. AH! escapism and superficiality and wishful thinkings and underlying hopes. what a night.