Saturday, October 27, 2007

before during and after sunrise.

The speckled stuffy blue against patches of pink-purple, the somersault of white mocks the tranquility of silver.

It's the absence of heartache from what was being said, and the presence of the forbidden despite debts owed, or paid. That I feel no conflict, only its enemy, and that I should think of it as thus, is rather telling.

Breathless for the wrong reason, they taunted, tattooed beneath, that I am - for that moment- , no longer the keeper of keys.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

stealing a breath

For I have barely caught any in the past few days. There are too many things to do, too many books to read, too many films to watch, too much music to listen to, the list is inexhaustible. Have I mentioned the deadlines and upcoming exams?

Just to say that I'm not complaining - somehow, I do relish the breakneck speed, it's all about the breathlessness, impulsive gestures, and the slight flush of pink on cheeks. But I will be so much happier if I could exchange Educational Psychology and Math for Theatre and Film Studies.

By the way (Dominic, I'm thinking M.F. here!) - who has my 'Love in a Fallen City' by Eileen Chang? I can't remember. I'm dying to have it back, 'Lust, Caution' is one of the chapters in the book. Text me if you do.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Tod und Verklärung.

More of the Fool, really, because there are no beginnings nor endings that can, or ought, to be defined. As such, I really don't know what's going to happen. I usually delight in the myriad possibilities that life is able to offer, so I shall continue in that vein. That they are good ones, I shall hope.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

and the silence which rang, where no one took a breath

Okay, music geek post - I went down with the Techno Trio and Star Violinist to Aik Keong's recital yesterday, and can I just say it was simply amazing! Repertoire - Schumann's Canonic Variations, the Mozart Two Piano in D major, and Schubert's Fantasy in F minor. The Schumann was sublime, and I was nearly in tears at the penultimate return of the theme in the Schubert.

You see, music is about the movement between the notes, and not the notes itself. And I daresay that the most beautiful moments come about when anticipation lingers in the air, as you wait for the next anguished note to sound, full of pathos, as Junie likes to put it. Delicious, and such exquisite tension.

Aik Keong, you have just inspired me to practise piano again. Yibin, won't you play the Schubert with me? Pretty please?

Sunday, October 21, 2007

the sharing of gifts witnessed by drained green.

Together, we sat on the terracotta, in companionable silence, poised between the earth and sky, looking through the hanging alabaster curve, as if we could see what was lying behind, and therefore, ahead. The wine-stain of melancholy was upon my tongue, as was yours, but there was far more that lingered, far more that was recognized, far more that was unspoken.

That a scene from before would evoke rare feelings of rapturous harmony (like Mahler), that no words were required in expressing (for a subtle gesture would be far more eloquent and heartfelt) that - we will always be there for each other.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

despite the time stretch of wintry months

The truth surprises occasionally.

Not because of its sheer impotence, nor due to the acceptance of deception's children. It is the miraculous birth of forbidden expectations, that of the unjustified faith in the emasculated promise of enlightened progress, or change.

Such is the audacity, and the arrogance, of hope.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

the second wave.

Had I known, I would have done so many things differently.

I cannot forget, because I had never wanted to. But it doesn't mean that I wish I could.

It just means that I wish I had never caused ruin, that I had never been the harbringer of misfortune, and that I had never brought about the end of something that is/was so heartwrenchingly beautiful and precious.

My hands, sheathed in ebony kid gloves, are forever stained a dark crimson.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

before i sleep, public note to self

That I should stop buying books, and start buying CDs DVDs and scores again. Somehow, in the past two months, I've bought 50 over books, only read 20 of them, and I'm still buying more. And I've also picked up the irritating habit of book hopping for some reason. (For now, it's Jung's Flying Saucers. It was Philip Roth yesterday, and Janny Wurts the day before.) It annoys the hell out of me, because I don't really know why I'm in such a restless state of mind when I have so many things to do.

It seems as if I need to be constantly addicted or obsessed about something(s), and it's a bit tricky when you take into consideration my inability, or refusal, to distinguish between what's good for me, and what isn't. But putting these issues aside, it's not a problem for now, or so I say - for I've only said this about 1803 times (wrt some pertinent vices), and look at where it got me. At least, this particular hobby of mine will only render me a pauper for the time being. And the most crucial thing is - I get to explore a new world everyday.

at last!

I can practise piano again! Properly!

In synthesis, in harmony. Balance. Awakening. Happy happy.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

messages and reminders from the world that leave ghosts of footsteps at my door

I remember - but only for today.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

where home is.

I don't think I'll ever forget. Or stop missing.

PG said it's been ten years, he had come to terms with it, and that, I will too. I don't think I want to, though. The inevitability of corrosive time terrifies the heart. At least, let me have a choice, you know?

But I know I yearn for something that is utterly ficticious, non-existent - for I no longer have a place there. I no longer belong.

How does one stop missing? And I can answer that - 'without any reason at all'. Not that I know how to carry that out.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

testament betrayed, close to tears.

A year ago, I thought I lost my favourite pair of sunglasses. I moped for an entire week. I did manage to find it later, deliriously happy, and I've never been apart from it ever since.

It broke into three pieces today. I tried putting them back together, but it refused, it wouldn't.

How long will I mourn its demise, I don't know. But it's been with me to so many places - London, Stratford-upon-Avon, Singapore, Hongkong, and many other important destinations, a mute witness to the pivotal events that happened.

Somehow, despite it all, the steady onslaught of loss is still able to take me by surprise.

Sunday, October 07, 2007

and not so clinically

That one fundamental truth is exposed, and the other maintained beneath a false semblance. That years speed past in only a second, while each second bears the weight of years. That sound and sight long past, blaze triumphant against all odds. That nothing has changed, and because of that, irrevocably - everything has.

a clinical rhetoric.

I could be wrong, but I somehow can't help feeling that I've been played like an instrument, no, honed as a weapon, embroiled in external machinations that are not of my making, and have nothing to do with me. Done unconsciously, perhaps, but is that any excuse, really.

Fool that I am, I give in to intoxicated suggestions, the trappings of the familiar, for I am also well aware that the night will come to an end. Once the alcohol has been purged, and the afternoon sun has chased away sleep shadow and nostalgia alike, the status quo will be reinstated with equanimity, leaving behind the fine residue of estrangement. Does that make it okay, I wonder.

I once cared about so many things which meant the whole world to me. But other priorities have come along, and I no longer do. That makes me feel as if I have somewhat lost a part of myself, which is paradoxical, because that also means I have become someone else by virtue of that, and gained something in return.

Bear witness to the trajectory, of yet another learning plateau, and I say it without the slightest trace of bitterness, but with laden irony at the events which have come to pass, and for the (supposed) adult that I have become.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

it could be but didn't; a lament.

Tan Dun's First Emperor shone with erratic moments of pure brilliant inspiration. Ethereal orchestral colours were evoked from the pairing of the gu zheng and the harp. Apart from that, not even the stellar cast of Domingo and company, and the amazing production at the Met, could redeem it. Not when the natural prosody of the libretto text is ignored, so artificially stylized that it sounds like a terrible mistake, which impinges a fair bit on the musico-dramatic aspect of the opera. Vastly disappointing, is the unanimous verdict tonight, I daresay.

Re-tuning my ears now - I'm listening to good ol' Bach. It's been the first half of St John's Passion for the past two hours, as my second CD is missing, and the score's in college. There is something quite comforting about sacred music, especially sung chorales. Probably stems from my third year - during that period of time, I listened to nothing else but Bach cantatas for two entire months.

For want of the deliciously cold days, hurtling down the familiar Strand, cheeks frozen pink from the wind, and the beginnings of white frost weighing down on my lashes.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

hide and seek.

Quite a bit has happened. There's nothing on the surface to show for it, but intangibles do count for something, yes? Even if they can't really be measured or quantified by conventional means.

I was really mad on Monday over an incident that took place in college. Like, raging mad, furious, infuriated, spitting nails and what not. I won't go into details, just to say that I hate it when people are obviously bootlicking or trying to make socio-political-aesthetic connections out of something that has no substance. (At least, Adorno was half-justified in doing so.) I don't suffer fools gladly, and I'm not sorry for being intolerant on this issue.

Music has recuperative and restorative powers, but one man's meat is another man's poison. Or in this instance, my habit of imposing retrospective readings on the present, has sullied everything that I listen to. Some pieces, I can never bear to listen to again. Not for the time being, at least.

I was travelling down the ECP today with D, it's a route I've not been on for quite some time, and I'm glad. Not so much of old memories giving way to the new, but an accumulation, putting them side-by-side in my mental photo album. And the next time I fly down that expressway, amidst all the cold pretty citylights and lonely towering scaffolds and ghost voices and raw tender fingertips, I will also have a treasure trove of brillant moments to draw upon - that of the pleasure of shared camaraderie, and the warmness of heart within.

Monday, October 01, 2007

chilli is one of them.

Somehow, while eating wonton noodles today, I managed to flick some chilli sauce into my right eye. A little stunned (and very much stung), then indignant, for I never eat chilli, and the first time in a long while that I do, this happens. Clawed my lens out and promptly lost it somewhere around the toilet sink, and it's only a day old.

12 hours and counting, my vision is still slightly impeded by sporadic tears. Thankfully not viscous nor coloured, but they are still a hindrance, you know? Not to mention my eye is a mere silt in my face, all puffed up, slight double-vision, and I feel dreadfully lopsided.

I can see and yet not see, and I think that pretty much sums up my life right now.

blueprint

I will like to spend my days, as though they are my own, which I mostly end up doing in halves, for duty beckons, and I am answering its clarion call. Soon enough! I am also a veteran procrastinator.

fresh monodies

Old wounds hurt most, I learned this today, becaus...
She speaks, repeating the old litanies, of worn ac...
time skips
and it all comes together!
beethoven's symphony no.7 2nd mvt
again,
towards that something
In the alley of shadows and death
Masking Tape
another end of the world

previous rants

August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
November 2010
January 2011
February 2011
August 2011
October 2011
May 2013

treatises on life

arty jen
betty boop
carmentica
charming-linn
chasing snowy cars
cheeky lynn
cheryliciously glam
clean and cute
cyclist-mad bass
darling dominic
feisty jing
fellow ditz-sista/porkSTAR
hail mary!
hell's kitchen
hero on the beach
h-Euge heart
hunky lenny
lipgloss queen
little cheryl
live n learn, baby
lolita lou
loony loon
mr popular
musically dan
m y s t j
phringe
princess tania
roger smurf
runaway pigeon
sabotage king jeremiah
sibling angst1
sibling angst2
spector dan
spunky tian
steffy bunny
sun-sunzzz
teeny wee-nee
weeeee, leonard!
yangtze yang'en

frivolous pursuits

for shallow ppl
for very geeky ppl
for the truly bored
spun prose
binary thoughts
past imprints
some stamps
montage of images
other memories

mulling over

And there were phlegmatic souls.