Please do not let me go

Gee, how original. Sunset shot for 2008's reflection.

Hey,

Sweetie. I didn't forget you. Remember I told you I think of you for the most banal everyday things? It's the same still. Like Tin Tin in this French restaurant I went to. Ephesus and Asterix. Team America. Coffee of the Day. The Economist. :) You are in my life, no matter how short our romance was or attached I am. So like it or not, swee'heart. Suck it.

Remember my journal entries that I told you about? I went through that. It's too long winded. And emotional bordering on hysterics. I'm not gonna let you go through aaaaal that torture. You know some of it. I'll expand some of it later. But here's the brief:

If somebody were to ask me what’s THE moment in 2008, I have no answer to that.

The only word that sums up my first part of the year was hedonism. And as the rule of economics points out, what goes up must eventually come down. I am not bitter over any of it – the sub prime mortgage crisis, the cancellation of advertising plans, the heartbreak. In fact it was a welcome because I was wondering when any of this fun will come to an end. When I need to review my actions and wonder what a brat I’ve become. Champagne brunches have been relegated to home-made stuff. Concerts are carefully reviewed and selected. Family needs before self interest. That kind of thing. So keeping in tradition my control organized freak style, I’ve bulleted this entry.

Money

I learnt my lesson well. Save more. No more short holidays here and there. I guess it's easy to forget yourself when you start earning more than you've ever earned. Like I'm supposed to save for my education.

Entertainment

Broken social scene was a winner. I’ve not heard much about them but owing to no (1) above, it was another one of my impulse splurge on the ticket. I’ve blogged about it. Lover’s spit was a tear jerker.

Of course Bjork and Bachelorette in Perth. “The sky is so prrrety,” she said. It was a beautiful sunset. Russet and purple streaks across the blue sky. Her marching band, her outlandish costume and her heartbreaking vocals.

Nightlife

Birthday club hop with Q and D. Three geeks out on a geek night. We were channeling MJ on the retro dance floor. You should have seen us.

Suprise

Super belated 2007 Xmas gift from Gilbert. Almost Famous DVD which took ages to come from Amazon. I appreciated the trouble he took to get this, when they don’t sell any copies here. And the fact that he knew that I will love it. So thank you my Mr G. :)

Literature

Lolita. 100 years of Solitude. Rumi’s poetry. I was on my way to his tomb in Konya when I first heard it. The valleys, the sky – everything about the setting was perfect. It was a perfect homage to his words. There was so much love and tolerance. I was humbled.

Music

Portishead and Radiohead’s latest album. The head heads.

Love/Dating

Most were forgettable. I’ve amassed national flags but it was meaningless. The memorable one being B. We had an hour long kiss at Wine Company. Nobody around. The staff left tea lights around us. It was quiet. He carried me around the square and sat me gently on the table before kissing me again. There was the night picnic he cooked dishes from his homeland and picked me up from work. My lips were swollen from all the kissing. He was full of surprises, incredibly funny and treated me well the time we were together. I laughed, and I cried because I know there’ll come a day when I’ll say, it was good while it lasted. And I was right.

Friendship

I am blessed with like minded individuals. What more can I ask for?

Regret(s)

Not being able to catch Radiohead. Not sending my parents off on a holiday but going on 6 holidays in a year. I am such a selfish girl..

Not being able to extend my flight when I was in Istanbul therefore missing an extra week of its beauty. Missing snow by 6 hours in Istanbul.

Yes Miss Tropical Sunshine has never experienced snow and I was so excited about it. :(

Holiday

Koh Phangan with Jo. Our Harold and Kumar rendition. Watching the full moon casting its reflection on the black sea from our verandah. My holiday romance. You have to understand that I was empty from all the dating and courtship. He was different. But it’ll never work and we know that. I was reduced to tears all the way from the pick up, to the ferry, airplane. So much so I had to take urgent leave the next day to continue crying my heart out. A bit silly now when I think about it. Heh. .

Turkey

There are some places that calls out to you without having been there. So much beauty, history, sorrow and passion. It was unbelievable. You've been there, I'm not sure if you feel the same. Maybe its the azan. But we'll go through that later.

Coming from a clinical white (pardon the pun) washed background, with complete disregard and shame to our forefather’s roots, I was losing more respect than I could for my birth country. I was ashamed when Singaporeans cited the reasons for visiting:

“It’s cheaper than Europe.”

“It’s more value for money.”

We are talking about the country who has seen the rise and fall of distinct civilizations – the Hellenites, the Byzantines and the Ottomans who, at the height of its power spanned three continents. I can rant on and on about their military might, architecture, tolerance. (yes, etc etc).

I was at Domalbahce palace and saw a 150 year old piano with no significance comparatively whatsoever to its surrounding. Can’t help but remark, gee this dusty piano at the corner of the room is older than my country. Well, we were not taught to be from Temasek in schools now. Everything begins from good old Stamford Raffles. But we know better. We were older than that. You know, its OK to have a humble, maybe less glamorized past. You can teach history, but you can’t force pride down our throats. I mean, look at Malaysia. Look at Thailand. Look at how divided and united they can be. Where is the passion? Everything here is soulless. Sex, Art appreciation, politics - where is it?

And I've ranted unconsciously again. I rest my case, but those who know me will know how fucking pissed off I can get with these sort of statements. How can you say its value for money? I feel so ashamed of my countrymen.

Anyway.

I fell in love with this country and I’m glad I chose this destination instead. I’ve learnt so much here than the rest of the year totaled. And I was glad the best friend was there with me. For understanding when I cried for no reason whatsoever during our trip, and for sharing the tears and laughter with me. Melodramatic as this may sound, I ushered in 2009 without my heart. I left it behind.

:(

There's more to go on but I'll spare you the agony. For now. :P

So what is your 2008's story? I want to hear all about it.

xxxxxxxxx

me

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.

Play Dead

Nothing from them yet. I should call. What time is it in London?

5pm.

They're probably at the pub.

Yeah.

Wankers.

Power Out

I shall not talk about work anymore. If it’s good, which is always the case, I will zip it. I’m beginning to annoy my friends who have to deal with office politics and bitchy colleagues.

If I’m having a bad day, I shall stop whining at the risk of sounding like the rest of the 20-somethings who are so preoccupied with trying to make it in life and not having a life at the end of it and so decide to talk about work 24/7 to let people know they’ve been intently focusing on their career instead of focusing on relationships and friendships, which of course would have repercussions later on, and oh if only they’d take a step back and look at their shriveled up, hungover, desperate and lonely bosses.

At the end of the day, I’m glad I lost some money instead. Set backs are a great time for reflection. I have great friends. I have an amazing job. I have a healthy social life. And I won’t allow one (or other) bad days to affect me. At the rate I’m going, I could do a good job as a self help consultant so I better shut the hell up.

Time for that bottle of Veuve Cliquot to chill. I’m going to pop a Woody Allen DVD in and just lay back.

Alone. Finally.

Big Day Out

Come February, I will be striking out three of the top 10 acts I just have to watch. Have to have to have to!

It’s cheese now. But I grew up on them. I covet Zach De La Rocha. His political angst was just so sexy. I mean, the whole set up on Wall Street with the brokers jumping around was totally cool, like.

Do I need to go on?

A recent acquisition. Really amazing live (on youtube that is). It’s a love hate relationship between this band and the listeners. For example: Me – love. Stallion – hate. But the Stallion’s taste in music has always been…questionable. I mean, who listens to a band who needs some lamb to be sacrificed in order to get the concert going? We hump underage girls on stage now, not sheep.


So.

If you are reading this and would like to join the Stallion and me, please go to bigdayout.com (click on Perth!) and hopefully they’re still balloting the tickets. But I can understand if you need to save up for your degree next year, or if your dad lost his job and you can’t spare that couple of grand for Perth. I mean, I have a heart. I totally understand. But spare a thought while you’re busy saving and think about the even less fortunate. The Stallion doesn’t wish to break his 3 year celibacy, but being the desirable person that I am, I’m not sure I could hold him back anymore than I could. If you can’t get the hint of how much duress I’m going through, then I’m absolutely wasting my time. But I hope this cry for help message will reach one of you. Just one.

Oh and to Natasha if you're reading this, thanks for supplying us your Aus address!

###


Wake up – Feat David Bowie



My Body is Cage – BBC Session




Tunnels – Glastonbury 2007

:)

Crown of Love

Baby. Honey. Sweetie.

How she hated when he called her that, but she was unfailingly at his beck and call.

How did it happen? That she ended up nestled in a romantic cocoon of hyper-reality.

He was her first. The naivety, semen clotting the hymen of hyperspace. Floodgates of sex, desire and loneliness. Was that why there were there? In a hyperspace of lonely individuals, sex starved perverts and predatory wants. What wax lyrical. What bullshit. What an absolute charmer.

King Kong, was it? They sat in the dark, hidden underneath her shawl giggling at the insipid couple beside them, the man’s odour wafting unwanted, uninvited.

What was it? His blue eyes? That daredevil reckless roguish Hans Solo grin? The fact he had watched King Kong 1993, 1976 and now she had finally entered, although only as company, on his film rolodex of King Kong 2005? Was it the argument on Stanley Kubrick, or the fact he could reduce her to a mumbling mess every time he tried to argue his point? No, he’s not one to trumpet defeat. He goes on, amassing victory after victory – national flags and anthems galore.

No wait. The first date was dinner. Italian. She had left her cardigan, and no it was not accidental, in his bag. He had left, but not before they walked down the length of town with his hands delicately positioned near her ass.

What was it about him? The fact that he needed his cup of coffee of the day, topped up with two shots of expresso and a sachet of brown sugar before he could properly function? That baristas would take one look at his to go mug and know the order immediately? That he’d take the time to read out to her in French from a page out of Asterix and how he ended up cringing at her abysmal, horrendous oration, as she ambitiously and shamelessly ploughed through pages of Dumas’s Monte Cristo?

There was a night, them sharing a fag with the ashtray on his stomach, blowing circles in the dark, the pillow damp beneath them. The pack of Dunhill reds lay ready at the side table, beside his current reading thrash, one cigarette flipped on the other end, waiting to be smoked last. Jamiroquai was in the background and she was thinking how surreal everything is. Or that time he was heavy into Shakira shaking his hips, doing his pitch perfect Cartmen and Ali G imitation just to hear her loud boisterous laugh.

And then she left and he left pursuing digits and flags, remnants of their memoirs in film scripts and memorable one liners. She was left nursing a rotting scab but as with everything else topped with a wise adage not to be refuted goes, “time heals all wounds”. They’d meet up every now and then, that company and insider jokes never to be comprehended by anyone else.

It was fun, hurtful, hopeful but what’s all that to him? No, no definitely not bitter. At this moment, she’s just sedately calm and just…glad that things happen the way it did. His rejection of her beliefs, tradition, religion and ultimately her made her realise never to settle, not for anything.

Ah.

Well.

I found this written a year back. Completely nutcase, delusional and emo. But in light of new events that just happened, seems apt that I should complete the last paragraph and just post it up.

This entry goes out to you my dear. You’ve placed Montreal on brimming prominence in my lovers map. I hope you’ll do justice to the dames in Ireland.

Your #30 – something ;)

Dilate

The morning view from my room.. :)

In this virtual absence, I have finally graduated, been confirmed at work and struggling to eschew the banal entrée of every day life. I varied daily outings, I dedicated certain nights to working late, I attempted to be (erhem) "the embodiment of carpe diem" but some nagging thought keeps coming back – that all my eclecticism is just a routine. A tiresome one.

There was Womad – the world music of arts and dance. I had to attend. I’ve been their annual denizen for years. How campy. I womadised myself to the point I was embarrassingly enervated from all that dancing and Heinekens. I remembered the grass stains and at a point, was skimming the ground with my bare feet. Very boho, but not to the point of looking absolutely wasted like a Woodstock wash out.

Subsequently, in between those fits of hedonism, I made a good friend cry.

Afterwards another good friend made me cry.

It was quite a month.

It’s also Ramadhan now. Never fails to bring you a fresh wave of bourgeoning optimism – the idea of losing drastic weight and looking like a supermodel at the end of it. Hah.

____________________________________________________________________

I’m just about done with the dishes and deciding whether to clear the undrunk cup of coffee dad left behind. There was his mobile phone blinking furiously, with the pet kitten staring at me from the screen and me rushing to the lift only to catch that distant whiff of Egyptian oil and I ended up watching from the window, amused as hell, him heading away from me towards the spiritual twilight of his years, resolutely walking towards the direction of the mosque with his white jubar billowing forcefully behind him. My old man is getting pretty absent minded.

Earlier on in the day, emaciated from the lack of food and too much sleep, I dreamt. I dreamt I prayed, halting in between my Qur’anic verses. I woke up and tried to recite a once familiar comfort phrase, and I stopped. If it’s true, that spirits of the departed visit the beloved abode of their loved ones in this holy month, I would have six feet worth of disappointment from my grandparents.

If you ask me now, in between all this halting non-sequitors, what I’m feeling, I would have to say “I don’t know”. Maybe spiritually, every year this month, I feel more “Muslim” than most. Then again, what is being Muslim (other than murdering our own women), or Protestant (hey, I love horses) or Jew...(no.more.diatribe.stop!)

Anyway, took a trip down to JB for dinner with friends yesterday. We broke our fast by the side of the road, slurping lychee from the box, popping Hello Pandas and after the causeway jam had a feast consisting of black pepper tepanyakki, lemon chicken, tom yam, buttered squid, kalian, sambal kang kong, sweet and sour sea bass, banana split and good old ice kacang. Can’t remember much, but I know we headed down to City Square, tried to get the counter lady to recommend us a good old horror film and eventually we ended up speeding back to good old Golden Village in Choa Chu Kang to scare ourselves. But as all Japanese horror flick goes, everyone got spooked but lost the plot completely.

Two and a half more weeks to the end of Ramadhan. Of all months, I have to do more schmoozing and attend more free flow alcohol events. The trials and tribulations of a not quite Muslim girl. I’m craving for a pint of beer and a cigarette. Will I lose 10 pounds? No. Will I quit drinking? Doubt it. Cigarette? Hmm…

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to munch. Damn the cold turkey.