leaky bahloons

found a new character
i love him

plans.plans.plans.

this is a final resolution. i shall and will and must finish the thesis draft by mid next week. after which i will and must send out my resume. i will patiently wait for my supervisors to get back to me and let time, life take its own course. in the meantime, i will start on my many projects and collaborations. those i've been archiving in my mind for the past year and a half. will. must. shall.

i will not become the legless toad. never.

6.52pm

love at the end of life

heard something mildly hilarious today. and yet, wildly intriguing. the person who, for the whole of his/her life, has hated, loathed you, will, towards the end of his/her life, love you the most. meaning. if i suddenly find my worst enemies being utterly nice and lovely to me, it means that they're going to die. soon. it’s akin to getting revenge. but without having to do anything.

but why? well, it’s just a superstition. an old wives’ tale. nothing to it. perhaps. but even these usually deemed ‘illogical’ systems of thought possess a form of rationalization. nothing is unexplained. almost nothing.

maybe it’s because, it’s fate’s way of allowing that person, who has wronged you your whole life, a final chance to make up for all the bad, and do good onto you. a chance to repent. for all the misdeeds. hmm. or maybe it’s just a way of knowing if you are the person who has been most mistreated by that particular person. as in, if that person suddenly dies, and he/she never did suddenly love and fawn over you, then you’ll know that you were never the person he/she hated the most. and won’t that be a good thing? perhaps.

so maybe, we shouldn’t really worry about having enemies. they’ll love us. soon. because, well. everyone dies. perhaps, just make sure they go first.

evolution

layers. on & off

layered on. and off.

i often wonder, if an art piece is ever finished.

artist | Alexandre Farto (Vhils) | site

by the window

from the 'black & TEA' series

the sit & stare routine

the sit & stare routine
newly developed
it involves the act of sitting at any random space that is permitted in both public and private spheres. although. in private, you can sit anywhere you want. worst case scenario: you'd be compromising your own comfort
and staring at anything as long as it does not stir chaos or uneasiness of any sort to the person or object being stared at
and although I have been in a state of utter ugh
this new sit & stare routine has become effective for me
let me explain
because I have been trained to never waste time
a trait I believe most, if not all of us, have been taught to instill in our everyday
seize the day!
it is because of this very socialized trait, idea, thought
that the sit & stare routine is successful
as I sit & stare, I subconsciously realize that to merely sit and stare is a time waster
and yet I sit & stare
why?
because
I can
I must
but after a while
I snap out of it
because I actually realize how much time I’m wasting
engaging in this very act
and so
guilt crawls in
and I snap back into work
I become a more productive worker
in doing what I know I must do
making up for lost time
having sat
and stared

the sit & stare routine
do not disturb

dear diary

it is getting harder to write in a diary. to a certain extent, people are more willing to share personal thoughts, emotions, with strangers. with friends. twitter. facebook. blogs. postsecrets. it takes an extra effort to discern between that is really, really a secret or a 'truest' feeling, 'authentic' enough to be written into a diary. more layers to the self. most of which are lost and owned by the world wide web. are we really getting more open? or just less layered?

Time. like a twitch.

Time is a constant shift when there is an ‘old folk’ in the house. flanked against the fast paced rush of the working adult, Time is not only different in its form as ‘matter’, but also in its spatial estrangement: each from the other. it exists as two separate entities for both individuals. one nestles within the lull of each minute, each moment. in thought. in wonder. amidst questions. of whys and what ifs. awaiting the intervals of meals. breakfast. lunch. tea. dinner. supper. the intervals of medication. before each meal. after each meal. white tablets. blue. plastic coated colors. to-be-quickly-swallowed ‘raw’ pills that cling to dry throats. is it painful to swallow so many, all the time? or has it become just another part of a routine. like plucking eyebrows. shaving. bikini wax. Time is also spent, un-spent. sleep becomes a needy companion. the bed. a comfy overture to the grave. why so morbid? well, isn’t it? the working adult, battles with Time. against it. alongside it. deadlines. dead-lines. they appear on the face, skin. termed ‘wrinkles’. there are creams for them. a multi-million industry. Time boxes up activities and days. lunchtime. weekends. planners. dates. pay day. a slave to time. watches. alarms. sleep is shortened to accommodate more time, more work. more. the light bulb. an invention created to conspire with Time, to extend it. faux daylight. more day. more time. less time.

and then there is the liminal being. suspended in the space where she is expected to conform to the rush of the adult Time. and yet, she wanders with the free-floating Time of the old. lulling. each moment. in thought. in wonder. what an anomaly. she needs an alarm clock. wake her up to reality. yes. but perhaps, at another time.

playful parts

she flies

tomorrow is the day she abandons all hopelessness as she attempts to make that flight back up to the world of dreamers

hook in the eye

her world was an ocean. a vast spread of a universe that contained within, pockets of life. habitats enriched with vibrant beings that bump into each other, like frenzied atoms. touch. leave. touch. leave. there were also spaces of void. empty in its echoes. like a swallow of air. a residue of nothing. she swam amidst this ocean like a bulb. darting from place to place. on and off. but one day, appeared from above, a shiny blur that sparkled. calling. enticing. come forth. it said. and she did. a hook in the eye.

she escapes her world of the ocean.

in darkness dwells our truest form

the cynic killed the cheerleader

the fallen storyteller

it is good to recognize ones strengths and weaknesses. it levels you. it makes life more realistic, amidst this crazed world of illusions. I know now, for sure, that I do not make a good storyteller, not an oral storyteller anyhow. I can’t really tell stories. the presence of a physical audience inhibits. me. the one who has never really been good with people. a social butterfly with clipped wings. the method of the oral storytelling inhibits my thought process, that which is usually left loose during the moment of its construction. all is jumbled up and there is no Goffman’s ‘back’ stage for me to run to, for all becomes part of the theatrical performance. i then leave it up to my medium to provide for its own 'front' stage.

a story requires a multi-dimensional layered perspective, one that does not give up its inner secrets instantly. the moral of the story should only be revealed in the end. elements of climax or the crescendo to a plot are narrative tools to be properly crafted by the narrator to deliver a story that sustains the interest of the audience- an audience who has been spoilt by the bombardment of the visual enterprise. and so, the revelation: I am not a good oral storyteller. I am however, better with the written and visual media. this is because they are secondary media that exists, in itself, as a coded form. a picture is a story already told, as it has been captured out of the series of happenings that we call life, events. and so, it is already packaged. it only has to be delivered, viewed, to fulfill its purpose as narrative. the form of the written word mirrors the latter. the clever and painstaking choice of words, each after the other denotes the process inherent within- masked. and so, like the photograph, it estranges the storyteller from its audience, to a certain extent. I am not dismissing oral storytelling as being a one-dimensional narrative form that requires no coding process, for it certainly does. I’m just saying that I suck at it, or to put it nicely, i am not well-versed with its method.

I started with the form of the written word, and then onto the visual and perhaps, that is where I should keep myself parked in, for now.

Chronique d'un été

staggering. it still staggers.

bred into water

manufacturing a reverse osmosis mechanism back into nature

Big Fish

momentary me

photo by seuty | edited by me

need to start the photography. again.

writing in air

there lies a huge disjuncture between the person she would like to be, to that of the person that she is. a self of the past, to one awaiting the turn into a future. the ever vigilant to change and the world around, to the myopic individual who casts merely side glances to those around her. hair in the wind. the fan blows. it is constant. each strand suspended in the air in accordance to an exact timing. methodical shifts of the blades. how fast per second? how much wind artificially created per rotation? maths. method. there is no uneven rhythm. waves have begun taking up a pattern. too much certainty. the old man could predict the next wave in its exact moment. where is spontaneity? no more messages in a bottle. he reaches in but falls behind. the landing is uneven. like the bumps on his skin. do two unevens make it even? she toasted the tip of her bottle to the sunset sky. plastic against the now virtual sky cut up by the rectangular window. the disjuncture is forgotten, forgotten for a while. sirens on the road. someone is dying. they sit in the dark. the people are coming.

Free Aung San Suu Kyi

Free Aung San Suu Kyi from nuruL H. on Vimeo.

a peace vigil for the freedom of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi

Speaker's Corner, Singapore
31st May 2009
organized by MARUAH