Monthly Archives: November 2007

in my mind

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I got my hands on a vintage penguin book. It was sitting on di’s white table and I stole it when she abandoned me for assam laksa, bingo and the high seas. She has since returned and is very much in love with Phuket.

I have come to realise that silence (at home) bounces off the walls like tennis balls when nobody is around. But they don’t come in bright colours (like yellow and wilson!) and they sneak in whenever no one is watching. With that, I am extremely grateful for company in the likes of a dopod(0), david desrosiers, dslrs and dvds that are now long overdue. I have a habit of over-procrastinating like that.

It has also been raining crazy over here. Crazy falls, rushes down like manic little parachute peoples and floods underground tunnels only to kill my birks. Which also means I have to slip and slide home and carry my white plastic umbrella with tiny holes in them (rat-bitten holes, maybe). So let it slip and slide while I sleep. slip slide slope Please. Sometimes the things I hear around me are so funny that I laugh out loud. Lol. (That acronym irks me!) Let’s play games.

In the midst of talks about christmas dinners (kl!), family bbqs and nursery rhymes, I sorted through old footage that have been piling up in my dslr, went through interview pictures, ran in the rain, processed more old photos and played with a bass guitar in my mind.

More here.

Musicians with perfect (hey dad, look at me) harmonies and ivories and old-fashioned top hats make my feel fourteen again.

Hello Eddie! Simple Plan says hi + thank you for jamming to their songs.

Saturday Splendours

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Had pasta at a nice italian place yesterday and we were left slightly disappointed. What I liked about the place though: the warm-and-wet (hot)air blowing from the window panes that sit at the back of my ears, my neck to be exact. And conversations in fake plastic glasses. The windows were all painted white and a row of friends were celebrating and singing a birthday song when our bruschetta came with soggy tomatoes but we ate them anyway. It felt happy somehow because the tomatoes (which were unusually sweet) came from a strange place that I knew nothing of and it made me strange and special. Then I watched reruns with my hands behind my back.

Spent the day climbing hills with the tourist, drinking green tea chai and taking down phone numbers scribbled on the wall. Then club-street-ann-siang shops and stores reminded me of my weekends of painted fun and poloroids and pseudo art things. The last successful art trip I made (in my head) was to Andy Warhol’s exhibition. I couldn’t go – so I made up for it by being sick and drinking vile black powder while contorting my face.

Oh but I did go to see The Pillowman with the always-brilliant Adrain Pang and Shawn playing detectives both of whom I’ve met. The last time I saw Shawn he was dressed in an ugly Rock costume – Fantastic Four – but he’s the nicest man and I have already forgiven him for attending the party as a Stone. The play was good and wonderful, with British accents and live shootings and sad and dark pictures of a boy from Hamlin and razor blades that were hidden in apples until a man in the audience wrecked everything.

sososo if you are the home/play wrecker, run before I hurl profanities and throw my ticket at you.

I don’t know how many people are ever concerned about our disappearing spaces but I went to the Orchard library yesterday to pick up books for my favourite person and still feel grieved that it’ll be closing next week. Apparently they are going to throw a big party to mark the event. I have gathered that my state likes throwing parties and holding ceremonies for buildings that are going to go down with the bulldozer anyway. As if giving out balloons and goodie bags will make everything less distinctly inhuman. I think I need to read more books.

Read more books to save our libraries.

enchanted

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I am sometimes wary/weary of putting reviews of films on this space because I already have to do so at work. And since I’d rather not repeat myself (or spoil films for people beforehand), I’d go home and rave to Di, tell her which shows she shouldn’t miss, and leave it as that.

Today, Di called me in the middle of the afternoon sounding flustered and slightly bothered. She had just seen the Disneyflick I had told her about – and while I asked if she liked it (I did!), I could hear Raph singing along like Snow White and chirping behind in the background. Di was furious – not because her boyfriend was chirping like a bird – but because she felt I had a moral duty and obligation to tell the world how good Enchanted really is.

And that I had failed to do so.

So here it goes.

World,

Enchanted is really, really good.

In fact, it’s bloody fantastic.

There.