Don't Panic

I was going through the daillies with the boss earlier and we are getting quite annoyed with the way the media is portraying the economic gloom. Especially the local papers.

The way we see it is simple. If you keep posting depressing pictures of traders in despair and declining spending forecast for 2009, you are just asking for it. Readers will get nervous and they will not spend. And that is the last thing we need. A stagnated economy. It's a vicious cycle. Basic economics - demand & supply.

If the media is to be a watchdog/cheerleader (whichever rocks your boat), for the govt and the people, then we should encourage one another to pull ourselves out of this gloom. I know its easy saying, but we need something to jumpstart the morale first and the media is the way to go.

Now please Santa. All I want for Christmas is a big fat advertising budget for 2009.

All I need

I am in love. It was pure, simple and unadulterated. It was love at first sight. There's something about grace, style, character and a touch of vintage that appeals to me every single time. Even though I have a tendency to fall in love every 5 minutes, nailing the one at first glance comes rare and so when Yas recommended that I should go check him out, I did. And I trust Yas, because the dude is more experienced than I can ever wish for and he has good taste.

I present you, my current obsession:







Isn't it gorgeous? I had no idea Leica released a digital series, and the only camera that holds their lens would be the Panasonic. Simple yet classy. Sinfully Leica. I just can't get enough of the feel of this one.

And then of course there were initial mpulsive moments to purchase the following:


Canon being the first option had the Leica not come into the picture. I've been maintaining the Olympus SLR and seriously, the amount of money I've wasted could have been used to get a decent digicam and a dlsr respectively. Stubborn bastard. He's at Adelphi now and I swear that's the last investment. Although I have to admit, Oli is gorgeous with a touch of old school that is so lacking in cameras now.

So yeah. I'm never one to spend on electronics but since I've been travelling quite a bit it'd be great to invest in a good camera. I know I'll be paying twice as much for the red logo, but erm... I'm a woman if that means anything. Aesthetics gotta come first. It is the rolls royce of cameras after all and this girl deserves the best. :)

Now with all the Hari Raya angpows, brother's wedding, trips, birthdays, new wadrobe, christmas shopping I can safely say I am getting broke. I better close some more new deals pretty soon. It was a blessing Radiohead was sold out. Maybe not. I could have been in Tokyo watching them. Today. Arrgh, yucks! How my heart bleeds! Now if only I could. 2008 would have been complete.

Ah well.

Flight of the Conchords

You know, I could never reach the kind of fame the Indianstallion has come to achieve. After years of blogging, he has finally arrived.

Anyway, it was nice when Text100/HBO invited the stallion to the preview of Flight of the Conchords. I was the plus one, and yes the invite wasn’t for the fact that I am a music lover like him. He was rubbing it in. This is the kind of life I could have had if I had not been rejecting his advances for the past six years. Getting invites. (As if my job isn’t full of that.)

What was great about this whole outing was the warm soiree. From the tour of the HBO offices, to the food which was specially catered from a NZ restaurant, to a special round of introductions on the staff and PR people who made everyone feel right at home. Oh yes, they have free flow of coke in the fridge. You can’t go wrong with the Minah on that.

So. Err, yeah I was talking about the TV Series which will be aired by HBO on Sept 3rd. To put it in gist, two Kiwi musicians (Bret and Jermaine on guitars and vocals) trying to survive and make it big in New York. A bit cliché, a bit heard off. What made it refreshing was it the filming style adopted – it’s so inexpensively and simply done. None of the fancy schmancy production shtick that lends a well produced air to it. It gels well with the duo – who are struggling, broke and poor.

Of course, the main thing about Flight of the Conchords is the music. Like the stallion, I thought this was going to be another Tenacious D, but Flight of the Conchords not only spoofed a particular genre, they simply paid homage to music and that is the beauty of it. From Marvin Gaye, to Pet Shop boys and Bowie, every particular episode will get music fans scrambling to catch the pop culture references. Oh and the fact that everyone just takes the piss out of them being Kiwis. From the Aussie-NZ rivalry to the accents. But I can’t say much cos I’ve only seen three episodes.

And.

I am not writing this because HBO has bribed me with the bottles of wonderful NZ wine, or the free CD enclosed in the media pack (thanks guys!) but because I genuinely love the show. I generally don’t watch TV; I know only few off hand that I really appreciate. So far we’ve got Weeds, Southpark and SATC. Come on, every chick digs that shit. Rarely have I seen an episode that made me tear from so much laughing. (yes, episode 3 is waaay better than 2). So if you ask me to describe the show in short, I have two words and that is bo-liao. (or is that one word?!)

Yes, if you are bo-liao, you love bo-liao people and you make the most bo-liaoness of jokes, this is one show you have to catch.

I'm a fan!

EDIT: THIS IS WAY FUNNIER!

Gabriel

On the first night in Bintan, the princess and I decided to bring in that bottle of whiskey and box of ciggarettes into our room. The nightcap turned out to be a full blown drinking and smoking session which ended only at 5 when we realised the bottle was nearly gone. (Spent the whole of next mornig playing with our breakfast and sipping our coffee before crashing by the poolside at another resort nearby)

We dragged the iPod and her speakers in, and alternated between a quietness so somber to deranged hysterics when we heard the likes of Rick Astley, Bananarama and whats his name who sang Smoke Gets In Your Eyes. Talk about losing the plot.

It was in between those magical hours that her iPod shuffled this song, and I think it was the mood and feel of the occassion that I finally appreciated the beauty of it.

You should listen to it at night. You should smoke up. You should have a glass of Mccallan on the rocks. You should get real high before you can fly to this one.

This is my new entry into my late night incendiary music. Lamb meets Live, Buckley, Portishead, Bjork and many more.

Enjoy. :)

Love Reign O'er Me

Heaven, big up da manna.

Now bring me back down slowly.

:)

High and dry

I am on a...err work retreat. We spent days arguing and deciding between the Banyan Tree or this one, and since I'm not a particular fan of nice romantic couply places we decided to head somewhere else.

There's not much difference between Indra Maya or Banyan Tree. Just that the former looks more like a high class chalet with the ticky tacky paintjob and silly paintings of fishes. We've got a private pool, outdoor jacuzzi, hall big enough to engage in a badminton game & frisbee with the boss and a kitchen where we cooked and dined the lovely night away.

But I have other designs. Getting banged on the kitchen counter top, missionary on the living room couch, spread eagled on the dining table, porn star living on the sun deck by the pool, innocently facing the seafront while getting boned from the back. Doggy on the outdoor jacuzzi and skinny dipping in the pool.

And of course pristine clean bedsheets to stain. I'm not a morning person, but if I could wake up to getting spooned every morning while facing the south china sea hey I am not complaining.

All I can ever ever think about is sex sex sex. I wish they can come up with a diet pill equivalent to curb my sexual appetite. Or wait, is there such a thing already?

I am too horny to do pretty much anything else here. Maybe I should go back to my book, but Jane Austen is wrong literature. Just wrong.

Pitter Patter Goes My Heart

One full cycle later. You rang.

Climbing up the walls

I have a million things going on in my head and it feels like bubbling over with froth and mee rebus sauce and I told this to Captain Crunch who told me to put this in writing. Just drivel-ling pages and pages of nothing, minus the speed, cough syrup, weed and obviously the beat-"intelligence".

But I can never get there. Because I do not have the free time to drivel 25 pages before coming up with something remotely benign and porous with loaded semi-groundbreaking hypothesis. I have a job. I have no time for pot. I am the accursed working class. The only things I read are visually assaulting ads from the MRT, to cabs to newspapers. I have limited myself to chick lit because they’re your modern Jane Austen except there IS sex, and the sex is mindblowingly good from what I read and I don’t have to envision disgusting toilets and the torture it must havae taken to rip off Benett’s corsage once the character has gone off stage. But I don’t read it only because its modern Jane Austen. I read it because there’re your quirky off central low brow individuals who exists, and I would like to think of me as just one of them. Opportunists in our own seedy world, chancing a Mr Darcy in every crook and nanny of Boat Quay, Pasir Ris HDB while denouncing courtship and wordly romance in our eloquent hiccuping fashion above the din of raucous bars, clubs and bus stops to girlfriends who have no idea what they’re agreeing to in the first place. And I only write when I feel the need to be cloyingly nauseatingly emo and sad, which is good because it has been two months since I feel any urge to dispense my guttural whinge.

I'm going to stick to bullet points after two paragraphs. I lost my way.

I do not understand why women can’t clean up after themselves in the ladies. You would think only men would have a problem with aiming, and they shouldn’t have reason in the first place Don’t even talk about the pubic hair lying on the seats. Why why why?!

The irony of installing graffiti walls for our artistes to bomb in some unknown corner of town. And you would expect these talented pool to know better than to subject themselves to obeisance and ridicule

I’m falling even more and more in love with my currently empty room. I had Thom Yorke bouncing off the walls

Weird dreams

I cried while on my train ride home. No idea why

My ever increasing dislike for sms

Wearing braces, although I’d still like to maintain my fangs. Rrrr

World of warcraft

Why bullshit gets published. (my blog not included)

People who can never be contented with what they have. They bother me, and I avoid them like the plague

Cebu was ok. Company was great

Can’t wait to spoof the raving eurothrash in Phangan next month

Finding a snap-whore buddy to take pictures with during weekends

I want a holga, fisheye and action sampler lomo for myself

I lost a bit of money this month. Actually it’s quite a bit

But I’ll make it up

Brother’s building me a bigger shoe closet. I had no idea I have that much, until I laid it all down........He’s building me a bigger bookshelf, because the books have taken to hanging out in the toilet, the sofa, dining table, kitchen. And a walk in style closet because I have more hats, bags, dresses, accessories, tops… Who needs a Mr Big when you have a brother, seriously

I should really remove that Sex Pistols, Rage and Sepultura poster behind my door. Really, it’s about time...

My current fascination with Jewish men. Thou shall not fraternise with thy enemy.

Microsoft word has destroyed my spelling skills. I used to write in diaries, and I get frustrated because I have to keep cancelling canceling words. See?

My friends are amazing company with a wacky brain to set me off

I ought to change my guitar strings. And not chip my nails. First, to quit strumming lazily and to quit pretending that a decent chord is actually coming out of it…

I want a Gibson Goddess. Maybe I’ll be a better player...........

I wish people would call. Especially for birthdays, anniversaries, well wishes, condolences etc. So much emphasis has been placed on emails, facebook msgs and sms that we are disassociated with our surroundings. It’s sad

I have started to shove my way out of a crowded train to brace another bout of shoving for the impatient incoming passengers. Gahmen, forget the courtesy campaign. It has to come from within. Something a little parenting technique could do....

I think they should bring back the cane in schools

I insist that capital punishment be abolished. Well, except for paedophiles and rapists

All that list in the previous post about tennis, half marathon et al? It’s been scrapped

I’m excited about that hen trip with the best friend end year

J got into Warwick, and our grades are similar so hmmmm...NYU?

I have been keeping my weekends free

I know this is bad, but I enjoy working late in the office

Maybe a Jew will save my life. And I don’t mean the dude we call Christ

I can’t bring myself to “work things out” with K. It’s always too late

I managed to finish a bottle of wine all to myself. Which is a feat considering what a cheap drunk I am. But that was a cheap bottle of wine anyway, so...

Everyone’s telling me I need to get laid. I don’t need to get laid. But I’ve lost my libido and that is actually very worrying..

The best has to settle for only the best eh? Besides, I am in no hurry.

And I’m perfectly fine being with my cat every weekend, reading Jane Austen, counting my calories and ciggy sticks…

Don’t live yourself vicariously through me. Go out and get it lah

I think the ending to Lolita is one of the best love notes ever written. It’s so eloquently sincere without a thought for the other reality...i is lazy to go on. One of the best books ever read

I went to the flea market yesterday and got:

• 30 comics at 20cents each (conan – so vintage porn! Green lantern, X-Factor, Xmen, Iron Man, Batman, Nam)

• Two tops (blue Bysi boatneck top, green Esprit blouse) at 15 bucks

• A vintage green clutch at 20 bucks

• Five cds – mellencamp, pearl jam, platinum 80s – WOOT!, juryman, tupac - at a dollar each

• Three dresses at 28 bucks

• A skull-printed black and white scarf at three bucks

• A Nike hoodie zip-up jacket at eight dollars

• Two(khaki brown and checked-yarn-printed) page-boy hats at 2.50 each

• Vintage leather brown bow waist belt at 1.50

They’ve all been sanitized by a bottle of Dettol

Afterwards we went for the P Ramlee open door cinema the national museum. We loaded up on wine only to be greeted by the malay muslim legion. There were loads of old Chinese couples – no doubt Malay cinema reigned favorite during their time, bless the pothead actors and crew

Spent the rest of the night elegantly wasted on the deserted plain. There was good music from the pub nearby. There was also the Pixies, Ryan Adams, Damien Rice and Hendrix on my phone. We went through a lot of best-ofs and the legendary gig that brought everyone together. Din din was the ticket seller everyone was flirting with, I was the assistant stage manager who ended up drunk 30 mins into the first set, D was the beer guzzling rock star…nuff said

Before that we went for an absurdist play. I really thought they were monkeys and not microcosms of the Malay-Male-Muslim society...

I am not deep

Why do people use “basically”?

I look forward to work tomorrow

I need to purge purge purge purge purge.

Lover's Spit

All these people drinking lover's spit
They sit around and clean their face with it
And they listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met

You know it's time
that we grow old and do some shit
I like it all that way

All these people drinking lover's spit
Swallowing words while giving head
They listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met

You know it's time
that we grow old and do some shit
I like it all that way

The concert hall acoustics, elongated vocals, haunting melody, well timed arrangement, and acerbic romance in the lyrics just gnawed at me. Out of the sheer beauty of it all, and also because I paid mainly to hear how this song will turn out.

I had no idea my phone made a damn good recording and failed to record it in its entirety. The climax at the end - with the saxaphone and trumpet winging it for all its worth - was worth every single penny. I'd watch them again and again, but only at a concert hall.

Just watching the music video, although it's never as good live, is already making me thirst for a bloody electrified snog.

No more ngiap ngiaps for me.

:(

Wonderwall

Q: I'll live my life vicariously through you...



Now, no more panic attacks.

Hello Tomorrow

The new year. You didn’t hear half of it, nor do you wish to. I completed my degree, I got a great job, I’ve annoyed many people with different renditions of how much I’m loving my life, end Jan I closed a bit of sales and that *warranted* a quick trip just to you know, err, refocus, re-strategise and err, re-energise myself. February has come and gone, and I’m still in limbo not focusing, not here, I’m not sure where I’ve been. And then it’s already March, and I gave myself a good bollocking.

The first quarter is closing shop, I have 9 mths to finish up what’s to be done. No more mucking about. The minah spirit has got to stop…now!

So here goes. My belated resolutions for 2008, year of the something something animal:

1) Stop crying – done

2) Get more sales – aye aye captain!

3) Perfect my Thriller dance moves – work in progress

4) Car license. I’ve procrastinated too long already – March

5) Watch more concerts/plays/films and every other arty farty shows/events so I can be more knowledgeable and cheem and piss my friends off for being a pretentious git *

6) Finish up the current 9 books before getting a new one – getting there. 7 more to go

7) Tennis lessons – mid march/April

8) Plan more trips, but first to get more $$$ in **

9) Pick up a new language – mid year, preferably July

10) Buy more hats – doing well

11) Save and invest more. I can smell the recession – no shit Greenspan. I wouldn't know. Anyway. Mid march

12) Quit daydreaming about being in a band. I ain’t got no soul, and ‘sides being in a band is so passé now – Uhuh, but I can still flirt with the band members

13) Stop lurking around in Borders, Kino discreetly checking out cute single, well read men – can’t help it. Give me till Aug to work on this one

14) Move on to the half marathon now that 10km is like sooo over – Stan Chart in Nov. PLENTY of time lah

15) Quit smoking – by Dec ok?

16) Drink more – the bottle is looking half empty these days

17) Buy more tissue paper from the elderly and the handicapped – nods fervently

18) Date more. If I were to believe my horoscope, this year is the luckiest in terms of romance for me. Apparently I’ll meet (jeng jeng jeng), THE ONE. Which renders all past declarations of love for previous men a faux. – no shit, what a fucking waste of time

Which brings me to my next point:

19) Stop falling in love every five minutes – give me till May. I can wake up when I’m 25.

And last but not least:

20) Find a mate for me cat. Just because I’m not getting some means my cat has to go through the same fate - right on. The cats in the neighborhood are just not good enough for you. Besides, you are from a good Muslim background and I won’t have you screwing an ugly wastrel of an infidel (inserts more insults) banging you senseless on my doorstep. No? You heathen bitch!

That done. Time to make it work. Amen.

Some of you know I'm an anal lister. And I'm just putting this down, because months later I'm gonna re-read this entry. My memory has been sieving of late. Gee.
* To date I have watched and will be watching the following:

• Bjork, The Police, Rage Against the Machine, Silverchair, Arcade Fire

• Broken Social Scene, The Roots, The Pillowman, We Will Rock You, SIFF, more rah rah plays and possibly Incubus although although…I don’t think I’ll be able to appreciate them as I used to
  

** The following trips have been made and are in order:

• Perth
• Pulau Sibu, JOHORE
• Cebu, PHILIPPINES – I’ve sowed too much phonetic confusion during my previous trip. Besides, that planned trip to Krabi is unreasonably and comparatively costly.
• New York - yippie!!
• Somewhere with the babi before she gets married :)

Message in a bottle

So the Stallion and I were starving and we decided to take a walk down Northbridge to scour for some good food. There's also the part when he was trying to make his signature Stallion move in the hopes I'll wantonly come into his arms, so i decided that we need to take some time out from being together too much. It's only the first night after all.

Anyway. Guess what greeted our ears when we stepped out of the hostel?

Roxanne.

The streets were so quiet I can hear them live from the stadium nearby. Yes baby. Sting's in town and we are gonna catch him tonight. I hope he's still the same sexy ol bastard. (not that I've known him a long long time..but yeah) Can't wait!

Big Day Out tomorrow! Not before getting thrown into the pool by the bunch of Kiwis who'll be hosting us for the weekend.

This keeps getting better. :)

Fly

Photo courtesy of Merlin. Post, one week overdue.

The day began with a typical Sunday weather befitting for those doing their champagne brunch thingy with lovely dresses, Jimmy Choos or perhaps if you are in my unpretentious circle, flip flops, tank tops and jeans. Then it started raining. At 1900 hours, the rain still hasn’t receded, the last ray permeating the pregnant clouds and in turn casting an unhealthy yellow sheen around. Bad enough this country is plagued by jaundice and now this.

Oh no. No more I’m a progeny of a mixed parentage and can’t seem to find my footing in what is otherwise classified under political correctness a very benevolent, harmonized society when it is, in actual fact an antithesis of that and please, racial politics died along with Martin Luther King, is still prevalent but who cares when eco-activism along with its celebrity compadres is the new vogue.

Let’s start again.

Got up at 12, read 100 pages of Satanic Verses. Oh joy. Dozed off and rolled around.

No wait.

Got up thinking about the weird dreams I’ve been having. Was bowling and ended up frustrated with every throw because the ball kept spinning into the gutter. There was the threesome with another woman, both of us clad in black lingerie. She told me to strip her so I ripped her panties off only to notice blood on her panty liner and got disgusted. The scene never got to the ménage tois, or you would have a sneak preview on first paragraph. Lots of Freudian analysis that can be deduced here, I know. But I’m a legend when it comes to odd dreams. Maybe have been wanting to have a threesome but the thought of eating pussy is still a primary revulsion. Oh yes, dreamt of headless bodies, and getting to touch Viggo Mortenson’s naked bod, and no, he’s not part of the headless troop. That has somehow got to do with Eastern Promises over the weekend. Or maybe I just need a bleeding therapist.

Had lunch, which left me nauseous. Watched Annie Hall (again) whilst doing work stuff-stuff too mundane to waste precious office hours over but still had to do it. It was an ok Sunday. Got enough time to myself, played with the cat who, until now has to deal with some sort of identity crises with five different names and is finally off her hormonal rage and yeah, where was I? Yes, the kind of normal me time Sunday.

Today is also the one week anniversary. Last week, S’s mum passed away and I got up to a similar Sunday of today’s type only to read the sms and I can just see S crying and texting it out. S’s mum is the kind of mum I’ve always wanted to be. S’s family is the kind of family I wanted my family to be made of. Pious, god fearing, jubah wearing, turban spirals, kohl lined eyes, not forgetting the nicely trimmed 3inch beard but with an open mindset to globalization, OC, premarital sex. Etcetera. S’s dad sat her down when she was 11 and went through the bloody menstruation business with her. At the age of 12, he was openly discussing sex. Imagine a bin laden doing that. No? Ok, let’s move on.

S’s ma was also the one to gently rebuke my mum who was openly criticizing me to everyone who’d listen (and that, is one long list) for taking off the hijab. “It’s not time yet for her. Let her have her fun sister,” she’d say while gently patting my mum on her back. She was the first to visit and console my mum, and you can imagine my rage when mum refused to visit her in hospital because the chemo she had to go through is not good for my mum and that is doctor’s orders. But that woman is dying, I said. And even on her deathbed, she asked for you and sends her regards and she was the first to visit and comfort you when you were sentenced with the same kind of disease. And then I argued with Dad who refused too, and the rage just turned to 40 minutes of awkward silence for my father, who, never used to such blatant display of emotion had to endure heart wrenching sobs from his daughter who was already mourning for her.

S’s mum died with 20 cents-sized cancer lining the perimeter of her lungs leaving behind a family who’s never smoked, is bursting with gaiety, love and filled with a sunny sunny disposition.

Last Sunday, last Sunday, last Sunday. Din din came over and I opened my drawers to reveal my hijab collection for her. We laughed a little, and went into a giggling fit possibly to repress the mounting sadness while I struggled to pin the tudong up for her, I mean after all both of us loved playing the swing outside their place and have S’s mum serving us iced milo and fried fritters after school back then. And it was always her place – our meeting point, our central perk. Her house was the first port of visit when I had my hijab on the first time round. I was clad all in black, in her tudong and she came out of the house, all pearly whites and radiant and happy. “You look so beautiful,” she said.

The house was packed, Din din turned the engine off, we got out of the car, prayer chants in the distance, my sweat plastering the black kurta to my body. Got into the house, went through the kitchen and pushed our way to the front to pay our final respect and a word for God to take this lovely, kind and gentle woman to his paradise. I can’t imagine just a couple of weeks ago she was grimacing and crying, asking for my forgiveness, before rewarding me with a look that owes its credence from all angelic metaphors. She lay on the ground beatific, smiling even. I uttered the Al Fateha and, despite having grandparents I loved with all my heart, dead before this and going to countless funerals owing to a large extended family ever since I was young, I cried for the first time at her funeral. Maybe there is a reason, but I can’t think up of why and I won’t. But I was glad the tears that came as a sudden shock to me came rolling, and it never cease when I knelt down beside her to kiss her on the forehead - all decked out in a black hijab, just for her: final prayer and final goodbye to the mum I’ve looked up to and will try to be.

I’ve had ménage tois, naked bod, religion and death all rolled up in a choppy, almost lackadaisical entry. Sort of stuff I have to ramble-before-getting-to-that-point-because-it’s tough. Real tough. And not worry about editing because that’ll be another tragedy upon itself. A sort of insult to the memory.

So let this be my first attempt at an eulogy, and leave it at that.

You have a good week now folks. I pray for sunny days.

Don't think twice, it's all right

I'm walkin' down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
But goodbye's too good a word, babe
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right

I was at J’s last night – we had a rather intimate gathering, counting down till New Year’s and was it me or was everyone tense at the count of 10? Where did all the wine bottles go? My lips were prune from glass after glass of red red wine, and just once, I prayed for a hangover to tide me over the new day. The chimes woke me up to snuggly weather. The cat peered and yawned mockingly at me, and started thrashing about in heat. I had Buckley’s New Year’s Prayer ringing in my head, read a little thrash, ate some, threw up more, watched Talledega nights on HBO, laughed mirthlessly and sat in front of the laptop wanting to write something insanely smart and honorably witty to 2008’s aplomb but from the looks of things it’s going to be an overwrought juvenile scrawl.

I can go on in this watershed vein and most probably look back on this years, maybe months later and go berating myself from the lack of emotional censorship. And I do this all the time. Entries written back are packaged under the metal section:2001, or indie 2003, only to be unearthed and gagged upon, for similar reasons. Maybe the writing has improved, maybe I use bigger words, but the bad grammar is still there and once emo, always will be.

Someone once brought to my attention to one of Becket’s plays : Krapp’s Last Tape and how the protagonist (I know, I know.. It’s a bleeding monologue!) was an allegory of me.

The play began and centered around Krapp’s sixty-ninth birthday and, as customary, he would record and recapitulate events that has happened the past 12 mths. After doing so, he’d go back to previous tapes made and would woe and betide the (for lack of better word, since I’ve not read it yet) idealistic notions of youth, and the other criticisms in later years of that fallen self in all other recordings. In the end, all he had to call for memories were self flagellations and nothing else.

That struck me. I have been looking back and berating myself over foolhardy choices, (and composing cliché poems that leave a bad aftertaste) while not knowing that I’ve been canvassing a realistic caricature of myself: a fool.

So. Hence the question. Will I just back off and allow myself to just be? Will my philosophical decision on Self be polarized this 2008? Kant or Satre – intention or action?

This is where I come in after smoking a pack of cigarettes and say: fuck it. Back to where we left off: my self martyrdom and how I want the entire voyeuristic world to feel my pain. I’ve been tiring myself out every day –going out, drinking, and then back. Couldn’t sleep, so I read what chick lits I have left, get online, youtube, gawk at amateur porn stars giving nasty blowjobs and getting cum all over their pretty faces (make pretty good late night facial ads– would you take the, pun unintended again, load of that flawless skin?!) and jaunt on other people’s public domain because I was terrified of sleep. And when the lights are off, the sleep won’t come. I kept seeing that white room, with retro porn outfitting, me reading Murakami and turning to see him sleeping peacefully on those pristine white sheets. So peaceful I placed my book down, snuggled next to him and slept, hoping I’ll never wake up. It broke me, because for that infinitesimal of a second, I could bask in that perfect scene and kid myself that it was all real and not some botched attempt at make belief. And then, right back in my room on the other plane without my Sputnik, I’d curl up, gnash my teeth and force the tears so I can cry at the non sense and absurdity of it all and hope that’ll reduce me to a blubbering but tired self finally surrendering to sleep.

It’s not a good start when you just spend the first day of the year just bursting into tears at every point. It wasn’t a good start last year too. If you ask me to get right back up on my feet, I can’t. Strangely enough, miss-very-together can’t get a grip on herself. At this point, it just feels so much better to lie down and cry.

Anyway.

There’s not much else to say – there’s only so many times you can say crap, cry, tears in a single entry without it making look too whiney than it already is. To that someone who introduced me to Krapp, thank you. It’s so much cathartic writing all this down, knowing that in the next few months, I’ll reread this entry and forgive myself for being an emotional, idealistic twat.

Happy New Year. Here’s to better writing, Dylan, Satre and of course, Krapp. Your 69 years did filter sense, and it was not for naught.