Sleepwalker’s soapbox
da Vinci Code diary Pt.2
350-odd pages into it now and a lot of the holy grail stuff has come out. I dunno about this. All this time, I’ve taken Indiana Jones’ last crusade as the truth and this is just too hard to fathom. I would be interested to find out just how much evidence there is out there for Dan Brown’s version. The lack of a bibliography (at least in the copy I’m reading) is a bit suspect.
This far into the book and I’m still enjoying it. I feel baited by the short chapters, telling me that ‘the next chapter is only a few pages so don’t stop now!’ but that’s fine with me.
There are big gripes that I have though.
One, it reads like a PC adventure game. Find the clues, talk to people, get to the next clue.
Use Priory key on keyhole.
Use Langdon on Sophie.
OK, so it’s not Leisure Suit Larry.
Two, character development so far is pretty much at zero. You’d think 600 pages worth can fit in more characterisation.
Three, I don’t see why two people wanted by the police would waste so much time telling each other about the history of Western civilisation.
That’s all. I’ll happily read on.
__________
TV diary
Granted that it’s not really The Practice anymore. It’s more like the Alan Shore Show. But The Practice may actually be better this season than ever before. Gone, at least, is the annoying Bobby Donnell. He and Lindsay had gotten away with far too much (basically two murders) for the old version of the show to continue. Gone also is the excruciatingly skinny Lara Flynn Boyle. As pretty as she may be, she needs to eat more! In a hurry! The only bad loss from the show is the cute (but ultimately not much use) Lucy Hatcher (Marla Sokoloff).
In their place, James Spader is eating up his Alan Shore character – possibly the best-written, most fascinating character on TV). I’ve always had trouble swallowing the ‘misunderstood bad guy’ characters but Alan Shore I find totally likeable in all his corruptness. Much like my other favourite bad guy, the John Malkovich character in Dangerous Liaisons, you probably wouldn’t want to know him in person but he’s endlessly fascinating to watch.
All the usual David E Kelley madness is still there. I’m lapping this up. And I can’t wait for the Alan Shore spin-off coming after this season’s over.
__________
Georgia diary
I’m going back to basics. Learning the most basic songs that I never really got a full grasp on, the 12-bar blues and so on. I realise now that playing 4 comfortable chords in a few songs over and over will probably get me nowhere.
And I have decided to not buy a new guitar for a while. For all her shortcomings, Georgia has treated me pretty well so far.
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Monday, September 27, 2004
Sand and stars
It used to be we’d go every week to Coogee to play pool. He always looked the better player doing his spins and crap. Always planning three shots in advance. He even had his own bloody cue.
I just like to hit the damn ball.
But somehow I managed to keep up every time. Sneak in wins. Or close defeats. Somehow, I could dog my way to end up being about even.
And then afterwards we would yak about the important stuff. We were a couple of dreamers aiming for a place among the brightest stars in the night sky. A couple of wankers talking about things we knew little about in the manner of a couple of sages. He was the artist. I was the writer. He was more heart. I was more noggin. In the back our minds, we knew that if we ever worked together at something, we could be special. But more often than not we were competitors. With pool. With our own brand of pseudo-philisophy. Perhaps even with women. Silent competition, a knowing nod here and there, and the knowledge that we were always only ever one step ahead or behind the other.
Eventually he left for Stockholm to design a chair or something. And we lost touch. Even when I came to Stockholm, I missed him by two days. Over time, he stayed a dreamer. I became a cynical old man. And then even when he did eventually come home, we’d lost it somehow.
Now, three years down the track, we’re back at Coogee. Five games. Three to two To him.
Bastard.
The dreamer had his dreams shattered. A cynical old man no longer has dreams. Only wishes. But both feeling strangely fine. That’s the way it goes sometimes.
But as we sat by the beach, trying to ignore the aftermath of a drunken brawl and a strange woman drawing strange lines in the sand, we started talking about things we knew little about in the manner of sages.
Some things never change.
‘Maybe it’s time to call it a night.’
At least now we know when to stop.
Maybe we’ve gotten a little wiser. Or maybe just a little bit older.
Or as Winnie the Pooh might say, ‘Same thing.’
It used to be we’d go every week to Coogee to play pool. He always looked the better player doing his spins and crap. Always planning three shots in advance. He even had his own bloody cue.
I just like to hit the damn ball.
But somehow I managed to keep up every time. Sneak in wins. Or close defeats. Somehow, I could dog my way to end up being about even.
And then afterwards we would yak about the important stuff. We were a couple of dreamers aiming for a place among the brightest stars in the night sky. A couple of wankers talking about things we knew little about in the manner of a couple of sages. He was the artist. I was the writer. He was more heart. I was more noggin. In the back our minds, we knew that if we ever worked together at something, we could be special. But more often than not we were competitors. With pool. With our own brand of pseudo-philisophy. Perhaps even with women. Silent competition, a knowing nod here and there, and the knowledge that we were always only ever one step ahead or behind the other.
Eventually he left for Stockholm to design a chair or something. And we lost touch. Even when I came to Stockholm, I missed him by two days. Over time, he stayed a dreamer. I became a cynical old man. And then even when he did eventually come home, we’d lost it somehow.
Now, three years down the track, we’re back at Coogee. Five games. Three to two To him.
Bastard.
The dreamer had his dreams shattered. A cynical old man no longer has dreams. Only wishes. But both feeling strangely fine. That’s the way it goes sometimes.
But as we sat by the beach, trying to ignore the aftermath of a drunken brawl and a strange woman drawing strange lines in the sand, we started talking about things we knew little about in the manner of sages.
Some things never change.
‘Maybe it’s time to call it a night.’
At least now we know when to stop.
Maybe we’ve gotten a little wiser. Or maybe just a little bit older.
Or as Winnie the Pooh might say, ‘Same thing.’
Friday, September 24, 2004
Sleepwalker gets trippy
Patience. Calm. Passivity.
I used to dismiss these as simply excuses for laziness and indecisiveness - things I have in abundance.
But now I can see the other side of the picture.
They are also dignity, self-pride, enlightenment.
So I'm going to sit here and watch the clouds roll by for a while.
Not because I await good things to come.
But just because I can.
Patience. Calm. Passivity.
I used to dismiss these as simply excuses for laziness and indecisiveness - things I have in abundance.
But now I can see the other side of the picture.
They are also dignity, self-pride, enlightenment.
So I'm going to sit here and watch the clouds roll by for a while.
Not because I await good things to come.
But just because I can.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Two beautiful people eating dead animals
You cooked me a nice meal tonight and I appreciated it. You know, I can be a real dick in the kitchen cos I think I know everything. But I appreciated it. In between the raw bits of the veal and the carrots that refused to cook, it was all very nice.
And then afterwards when we chatted about everything and everyone, that was really nice too. Sorry about my preoccupation with your vibrating stick thing. You know how I get fidgety and end up playing with battery-operated toys.
I just wanna say that I appreciate you. And I just wanna say that here cos if I said it to your face, you’d probably look at me funny.
__________
Sleepwalker's da Vinci Code diary Pt 1
I've jumped on the bandwagon and I'm now reading this damn book. I'm about 100 pages into it so I will either have to buy my own copy or rely on her to shower me with the kindness of an extended loan. This shell which I occupy can only read so fast. And that's not fast at all.
The first thing that pops to mind about Leonardo da Vinci is what my indexing teacher told me at editing school.
You should never put his name under D or V because 'da Vinci' isn't his name at all. He wasn't Mr da Vinci. His name was Leonardo. From Vinci.
Knowing that has not helped me so far. And so far it's been pretty good. Too bad I'm always reading it when this shell is really tired. But it's intriguing and easy to read. Although I sometimes find myself finishing a chapter thinking 'That hardly told me anything at all. Couldn't he have compressed that into three lines? And the whole book into 200 pages maybe?'
I think there's a lot of padding here going on. But then again, I'm just not used to reading such books. It will take some time to adjust methinks.
Let me read some more.
You cooked me a nice meal tonight and I appreciated it. You know, I can be a real dick in the kitchen cos I think I know everything. But I appreciated it. In between the raw bits of the veal and the carrots that refused to cook, it was all very nice.
And then afterwards when we chatted about everything and everyone, that was really nice too. Sorry about my preoccupation with your vibrating stick thing. You know how I get fidgety and end up playing with battery-operated toys.
I just wanna say that I appreciate you. And I just wanna say that here cos if I said it to your face, you’d probably look at me funny.
__________
Sleepwalker's da Vinci Code diary Pt 1
I've jumped on the bandwagon and I'm now reading this damn book. I'm about 100 pages into it so I will either have to buy my own copy or rely on her to shower me with the kindness of an extended loan. This shell which I occupy can only read so fast. And that's not fast at all.
The first thing that pops to mind about Leonardo da Vinci is what my indexing teacher told me at editing school.
You should never put his name under D or V because 'da Vinci' isn't his name at all. He wasn't Mr da Vinci. His name was Leonardo. From Vinci.
Knowing that has not helped me so far. And so far it's been pretty good. Too bad I'm always reading it when this shell is really tired. But it's intriguing and easy to read. Although I sometimes find myself finishing a chapter thinking 'That hardly told me anything at all. Couldn't he have compressed that into three lines? And the whole book into 200 pages maybe?'
I think there's a lot of padding here going on. But then again, I'm just not used to reading such books. It will take some time to adjust methinks.
Let me read some more.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
xtn's How-to-Vote card
Australia is a country of morons.
In a span of two short weeks, Australian voters have culled the two most attractive Idol contestants out of the competition. It might be OK if they were really untalented singers but they’re not even the worst singers of the bunch. I put it down to two factors.
1. People think the good looking ones are ‘safe’. They have other voters to keep them in the competition so ‘I don’t need to vote for them.’
2. Guilt. Week in, week out, the audience is told to base their votes on talent. Voters who may otherwise have voted for the good looking ones are now feeling guilty for their votes.
Let’s be honest here. Australian Idol isn’t trying to find the most talented singer. It’s trying to find whoever will sell the most records. Voters should be told this every week.
Don’t vote for most talented. Vote for whoever is most likely to release CDs that you would want to buy.
Why do you think Shannon Noll is outselling Guy Sebastian when Guy reportedly won by a landslide in the final episode?
Have you ever heard Avril Lavigne sing live? She’s absolutely horrendous, yet she’s selling in the millions.
Musical acts aren’t just good singers. They’re entertainment packages. It annoys me that so many people out there are naïve or self-righteous enough to believe that image doesn’t matter.
I’m not saying that Paul Walker lookalike Dan O’Connor and Idol Lolita Amali Ward should be the final two but they should have lasted longer than this. They’re better than this.
Here’s my take on the final 9 as they’ve been performing so far.
Frontrunners
Ricki-Lee: Fun, sexy, utterly engaging. Has been getting the best crowd reactions thus far.
Anthony: Prototypical boy band look and has a fantastic voice when he’s not trying too hard. His drawbacks are his height and a tendency to perform like it’s a local karaoke comp.
Second-tier
Courtney: Great voice, but let’s be honest. How many overweight popstars who sing over-the-hill songs do you know of? I can’t think of any. And for every one you can think of, I’ll name you ten non-overweight ones. Courtney will probably go far but his viability as a recording artist is questionable at best.
Chanel: Not a conventional popstar but she’s foxy and has a unique voice.
Daniel: Best voice in the competition for me but he needs to lighten up, shed a bit of weight and probably should stick to auditioning for musical theatre.
Baseline
Casey: Same deal as Courtney but probably worse. Overweight Caucasian female teen popstars don’t exist as far as I know. Flynn could probably outsell her at the moment.
Emelia: Probably the worst of who’s left, performance-wise. But she is improving every week and her constant crying and single-mum woes wins votes. She’s likable but not realistic.
Bottom feeders
Haley: Has somehow survived the last two weeks. Surely she has to be out next week. She’s, at best, lining up to be the next Amity Dry. You know, the one from the Block.
Marty: It pains me to say this but Marty will last a maximum of two more episodes unless he lifts his game. He’s probably my favourite singer left in the competition but he’s been all dud so far in the final 12. Talent-wise and image-wise, he could be a frontrunner. His rendition of Somewhere only we know had me thinking he could be the next Shannon Noll. But he’s got to pick more suitable songs and tone down his quirks.
Did anyone even bother reading this far?
Australia is a country of morons.
In a span of two short weeks, Australian voters have culled the two most attractive Idol contestants out of the competition. It might be OK if they were really untalented singers but they’re not even the worst singers of the bunch. I put it down to two factors.
1. People think the good looking ones are ‘safe’. They have other voters to keep them in the competition so ‘I don’t need to vote for them.’
2. Guilt. Week in, week out, the audience is told to base their votes on talent. Voters who may otherwise have voted for the good looking ones are now feeling guilty for their votes.
Let’s be honest here. Australian Idol isn’t trying to find the most talented singer. It’s trying to find whoever will sell the most records. Voters should be told this every week.
Don’t vote for most talented. Vote for whoever is most likely to release CDs that you would want to buy.
Why do you think Shannon Noll is outselling Guy Sebastian when Guy reportedly won by a landslide in the final episode?
Have you ever heard Avril Lavigne sing live? She’s absolutely horrendous, yet she’s selling in the millions.
Musical acts aren’t just good singers. They’re entertainment packages. It annoys me that so many people out there are naïve or self-righteous enough to believe that image doesn’t matter.
I’m not saying that Paul Walker lookalike Dan O’Connor and Idol Lolita Amali Ward should be the final two but they should have lasted longer than this. They’re better than this.
Here’s my take on the final 9 as they’ve been performing so far.
Frontrunners
Ricki-Lee: Fun, sexy, utterly engaging. Has been getting the best crowd reactions thus far.
Anthony: Prototypical boy band look and has a fantastic voice when he’s not trying too hard. His drawbacks are his height and a tendency to perform like it’s a local karaoke comp.
Second-tier
Courtney: Great voice, but let’s be honest. How many overweight popstars who sing over-the-hill songs do you know of? I can’t think of any. And for every one you can think of, I’ll name you ten non-overweight ones. Courtney will probably go far but his viability as a recording artist is questionable at best.
Chanel: Not a conventional popstar but she’s foxy and has a unique voice.
Daniel: Best voice in the competition for me but he needs to lighten up, shed a bit of weight and probably should stick to auditioning for musical theatre.
Baseline
Casey: Same deal as Courtney but probably worse. Overweight Caucasian female teen popstars don’t exist as far as I know. Flynn could probably outsell her at the moment.
Emelia: Probably the worst of who’s left, performance-wise. But she is improving every week and her constant crying and single-mum woes wins votes. She’s likable but not realistic.
Bottom feeders
Haley: Has somehow survived the last two weeks. Surely she has to be out next week. She’s, at best, lining up to be the next Amity Dry. You know, the one from the Block.
Marty: It pains me to say this but Marty will last a maximum of two more episodes unless he lifts his game. He’s probably my favourite singer left in the competition but he’s been all dud so far in the final 12. Talent-wise and image-wise, he could be a frontrunner. His rendition of Somewhere only we know had me thinking he could be the next Shannon Noll. But he’s got to pick more suitable songs and tone down his quirks.
Did anyone even bother reading this far?
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Flushing out the demons
All this weekend, I've been speaking to no one but the depressed or the depressing. So now by default I have to count myself as one of them. At least right now. Depression rubs off. I can't help it. The balance between contentment and depression seems so fragile these days. A whole lot of my friends are unhappy. With a whole lot of reasons. Most will probably name love/relationships as one of them though. And even the ones who don't seem depressed, all it takes sometimes is someone who is depressed talking among us and the floodgates start to open wide. There's a lot of anxiety among us.
I feel like rolling up into a ball and sleeping into next week.
One good thing is I got a good CD. Jesse Malin's Heat. It's good. Try it. Try Mona Lisa and Swinging man. Did I mention it's good?
Also, I heard that bits of this blog has now been read over the phone. I have no idea what to make of that.
Also also, I may have reason for some bitterness soon.
Of course I could get over this by tomorrow. I'm hoping this catharsis will help with that.
Screw this. I'm gonna go and read a book.
All this weekend, I've been speaking to no one but the depressed or the depressing. So now by default I have to count myself as one of them. At least right now. Depression rubs off. I can't help it. The balance between contentment and depression seems so fragile these days. A whole lot of my friends are unhappy. With a whole lot of reasons. Most will probably name love/relationships as one of them though. And even the ones who don't seem depressed, all it takes sometimes is someone who is depressed talking among us and the floodgates start to open wide. There's a lot of anxiety among us.
I feel like rolling up into a ball and sleeping into next week.
One good thing is I got a good CD. Jesse Malin's Heat. It's good. Try it. Try Mona Lisa and Swinging man. Did I mention it's good?
Also, I heard that bits of this blog has now been read over the phone. I have no idea what to make of that.
Also also, I may have reason for some bitterness soon.
Of course I could get over this by tomorrow. I'm hoping this catharsis will help with that.
Screw this. I'm gonna go and read a book.
Friday, September 17, 2004
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Predictions that came true
My friend showed me this and I was amazed at the accuracy of this guy’s predictions. I just feel for the poor saps who will be falling for this (i.e. my mother and brother). However, I don’t think that my own powers of clairvoyance should be overshadowed at this particular time. Judge for yourself.
Here are some of the AMAZING predictions that I have made over the past few years.
I predicted…
- the winner and runner-up of Miss Teen USA 2003
- the winner and runner-up of Miss Teen USA 2004
- the winner and runner-up of Australian Idol 2003
- the winner and runner-up of Popstars Live 2004
- the winner of American Idol 2004
- that Oprah would not be able to sustain her slimmed-down figure (i.e. get fat again) after her first miraculous diet.
- that the Olsen twins would still look like wishing trolls after puberty
- that McDonald’s 30c soft serve cones will eventually not be able to be called 30c soft serve cones.
Speaking of McDonald’s, they’ve finally taken this whole ‘health’ thing way too far. Have you had the new nuggets? It’s made of REAL breast pieces. Which means it’s DRY! And it’s cooked in canola oil so it tastes kinda funny.
This is TOO MUCH! This is an OUTRAGE!
Give me bits of skin, neck, feet, intestines, whatever! Cook it in pure animal-produced McD brand shortening! In Indonesia, KFC used to sell deep-fried chicken skin. Gimme some of that!
Or at least give us a choice. Regular nuggets. Or diet nuggets. We want choice!
Finally, yy, I have your book. I got paid today so I was just about to buy both books and be generous enough to give them both away. But then I found a book that I wanted to buy myself: Under the net by Iris Murdoch. Anyone read it? Well anyway, it’s supposed to be good. And anyone wanting to read Slaughterhouse V or Solitaire Mystery can just borrow my copy. I am overflowing with generosity at the moment.
My friend showed me this and I was amazed at the accuracy of this guy’s predictions. I just feel for the poor saps who will be falling for this (i.e. my mother and brother). However, I don’t think that my own powers of clairvoyance should be overshadowed at this particular time. Judge for yourself.
Here are some of the AMAZING predictions that I have made over the past few years.
I predicted…
- the winner and runner-up of Miss Teen USA 2003
- the winner and runner-up of Miss Teen USA 2004
- the winner and runner-up of Australian Idol 2003
- the winner and runner-up of Popstars Live 2004
- the winner of American Idol 2004
- that Oprah would not be able to sustain her slimmed-down figure (i.e. get fat again) after her first miraculous diet.
- that the Olsen twins would still look like wishing trolls after puberty
- that McDonald’s 30c soft serve cones will eventually not be able to be called 30c soft serve cones.
Speaking of McDonald’s, they’ve finally taken this whole ‘health’ thing way too far. Have you had the new nuggets? It’s made of REAL breast pieces. Which means it’s DRY! And it’s cooked in canola oil so it tastes kinda funny.
This is TOO MUCH! This is an OUTRAGE!
Give me bits of skin, neck, feet, intestines, whatever! Cook it in pure animal-produced McD brand shortening! In Indonesia, KFC used to sell deep-fried chicken skin. Gimme some of that!
Or at least give us a choice. Regular nuggets. Or diet nuggets. We want choice!
Finally, yy, I have your book. I got paid today so I was just about to buy both books and be generous enough to give them both away. But then I found a book that I wanted to buy myself: Under the net by Iris Murdoch. Anyone read it? Well anyway, it’s supposed to be good. And anyone wanting to read Slaughterhouse V or Solitaire Mystery can just borrow my copy. I am overflowing with generosity at the moment.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Patch of green
I see our time as a patch of green. I see you as an apple falling from a tree onto my head and into my lap, during that one enchanted evening. I see myself then under a spell. A bottle of tequila. A worm cut in two. But the real magic is that which lasts long after the spell has worn off. The real magic is an early morning cup of fruit-tinged brew. Absent laughter and other precious things. Notes sent back and forth. La la la la la. Whatever. I was happy. These I will never forget.
But the patch of green has since become a patch of rusty brown.
And you, the apple, are gone.
All I am left with is a copy. An ornament.
A distant memory. Heavier. Duller.
No taste. No Smell. No magic. Just heavy stuff to weigh me down.
This is what I’ve been carrying with me.
But this is me now standing up and leaving the patch of rusty brown.
And this is me leaving behind the ornament.
Not the apple.
It’s not like it’s a choice. It’s not like I ever had any choices.
It’s waking up. It’s living life. It’s walking on.
And where I’m going, I can’t afford the extra weight.
__________
At lunchtime today, I went to the book sale table and saw two of my all-time favourite books for $5.95 each. They were:
Slaughterhouse V by Kurt Vonnegut
The Solitaire Mystery by Jostein Gaarder
I've always wanted to share my favourite books with other people who may be interested but have just never come across them. These two are stellar books. So here's the deal: if you genuinely wish to read one of them on my recommendation, and be willing to discuss it with me at some point in the future, tell me and I'll buy you a copy. First come first serve. That's it.
I see our time as a patch of green. I see you as an apple falling from a tree onto my head and into my lap, during that one enchanted evening. I see myself then under a spell. A bottle of tequila. A worm cut in two. But the real magic is that which lasts long after the spell has worn off. The real magic is an early morning cup of fruit-tinged brew. Absent laughter and other precious things. Notes sent back and forth. La la la la la. Whatever. I was happy. These I will never forget.
But the patch of green has since become a patch of rusty brown.
And you, the apple, are gone.
All I am left with is a copy. An ornament.
A distant memory. Heavier. Duller.
No taste. No Smell. No magic. Just heavy stuff to weigh me down.
This is what I’ve been carrying with me.
But this is me now standing up and leaving the patch of rusty brown.
And this is me leaving behind the ornament.
Not the apple.
It’s not like it’s a choice. It’s not like I ever had any choices.
It’s waking up. It’s living life. It’s walking on.
And where I’m going, I can’t afford the extra weight.
__________
At lunchtime today, I went to the book sale table and saw two of my all-time favourite books for $5.95 each. They were:
Slaughterhouse V by Kurt Vonnegut
The Solitaire Mystery by Jostein Gaarder
I've always wanted to share my favourite books with other people who may be interested but have just never come across them. These two are stellar books. So here's the deal: if you genuinely wish to read one of them on my recommendation, and be willing to discuss it with me at some point in the future, tell me and I'll buy you a copy. First come first serve. That's it.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Just some stuff
Tonight I reconnected with my love for raw cabbage. As I was chopping up cabbage to make my noodles for lunch tomorrow, I started munching on it raw. And as I write this entry, I’m thinking ‘does anyone really want to hear about my love for raw cabbage?’
I decided to make the most of the noodles that my sister bought, which were the wrong ones. (Tip: never buy noodles with no Asian writing on the packaging) and make fried noodles for lunch. It’s turned out OK, actually.
I got home Friday night and was not drunk for once. But I had to drive and I was coughing every five seconds so I didn’t wanna stay out. At 2am Saturday morning, I started to write a song for her and finished up around 3am. Now I just have to find a time and place to sing it for her. Admittedly, it sounded a lot worse when I woke up and played it again than when I was playing it at 3am. But still… it’s doable. Dorky. But doable. Kinda. Maybe I should drink before I play it.
I wrote a few haiku last week and was gonna post them but then pulled them off. There’s something very eerie about haiku. It feels incomplete in its completeness. I think of them as the David Lynch of poetry. I’m very rarely disturbed by my own writing. But I was with these. I’ve written them before but these ones felt like they were written by someone mentally unstable.
A lot of my friends now seem very negative. They’re all disillusioned with life. With love. etc. I’m trying to feed them with positivity. But I think I seem to be depressing them even further. Must be in the delivery. It’s sad to see one of my friends lose faith in there being ‘the one’ for her. She says she no longer believes in it. It must be very jarring to have to let go of something like that and have a paradigm shift. Personally, I’ve never placed so much faith in anything that specific (God is for another discussion). I have a general ‘it’s all gonna work out for the best’ kinda stuff. But I don’t think I ever believed that there is the one person for me in this world. I think mysticism only works when you’re blind to it. It’s like a surprise. You can’t be surprised if you’re looking for it. Personally I’d like to place more power into my own hands. In case that whole fate thing doesn’t take care of me. And if my efforts are futile, I’ll still always be none the wiser.
I once wrote a play that has yet to be produced. In some ways, I feel like I pre-empted a lot of the issues that my friends and I are going though now. Not that we didn’t go through them then (I wrote it about 3 years ago). But it makes more sense even to myself now. That’s strange.
Amali, you put bad, inappropriate thoughts into my head... *shakes head*
Tonight I reconnected with my love for raw cabbage. As I was chopping up cabbage to make my noodles for lunch tomorrow, I started munching on it raw. And as I write this entry, I’m thinking ‘does anyone really want to hear about my love for raw cabbage?’
I decided to make the most of the noodles that my sister bought, which were the wrong ones. (Tip: never buy noodles with no Asian writing on the packaging) and make fried noodles for lunch. It’s turned out OK, actually.
I got home Friday night and was not drunk for once. But I had to drive and I was coughing every five seconds so I didn’t wanna stay out. At 2am Saturday morning, I started to write a song for her and finished up around 3am. Now I just have to find a time and place to sing it for her. Admittedly, it sounded a lot worse when I woke up and played it again than when I was playing it at 3am. But still… it’s doable. Dorky. But doable. Kinda. Maybe I should drink before I play it.
I wrote a few haiku last week and was gonna post them but then pulled them off. There’s something very eerie about haiku. It feels incomplete in its completeness. I think of them as the David Lynch of poetry. I’m very rarely disturbed by my own writing. But I was with these. I’ve written them before but these ones felt like they were written by someone mentally unstable.
A lot of my friends now seem very negative. They’re all disillusioned with life. With love. etc. I’m trying to feed them with positivity. But I think I seem to be depressing them even further. Must be in the delivery. It’s sad to see one of my friends lose faith in there being ‘the one’ for her. She says she no longer believes in it. It must be very jarring to have to let go of something like that and have a paradigm shift. Personally, I’ve never placed so much faith in anything that specific (God is for another discussion). I have a general ‘it’s all gonna work out for the best’ kinda stuff. But I don’t think I ever believed that there is the one person for me in this world. I think mysticism only works when you’re blind to it. It’s like a surprise. You can’t be surprised if you’re looking for it. Personally I’d like to place more power into my own hands. In case that whole fate thing doesn’t take care of me. And if my efforts are futile, I’ll still always be none the wiser.
I once wrote a play that has yet to be produced. In some ways, I feel like I pre-empted a lot of the issues that my friends and I are going though now. Not that we didn’t go through them then (I wrote it about 3 years ago). But it makes more sense even to myself now. That’s strange.
Amali, you put bad, inappropriate thoughts into my head... *shakes head*
Friday, September 10, 2004
I, Moron
Have you ever woken up feeling like a moron and then prove yourself correct by actually doing moronic things for the rest of the morning?
Cut yourself shaving multiple times when you've been doing this for roughly the last 12, 13 years?
Started ironing with a still-cold iron, thus spilling water, that hadn't turned into steam yet, over all your clothes?
And then waiting for the iron to heat up by pressing down on your clothes long enough for the iron's built-in alarm to go off?
Oh and realising you're so late for work that the train is no longer an option, so you drive out to work, knowing full well that you plan to be out drinking tonight?
No?
Maybe it's just me.
Fitting end to a week where I've felt like I've been two steps behind the rest of the world, asking everybody 'What happened?'
Sleepwalker slaps me on the back of my head and says 'You just missed it, you moron.'
Have you ever woken up feeling like a moron and then prove yourself correct by actually doing moronic things for the rest of the morning?
Cut yourself shaving multiple times when you've been doing this for roughly the last 12, 13 years?
Started ironing with a still-cold iron, thus spilling water, that hadn't turned into steam yet, over all your clothes?
And then waiting for the iron to heat up by pressing down on your clothes long enough for the iron's built-in alarm to go off?
Oh and realising you're so late for work that the train is no longer an option, so you drive out to work, knowing full well that you plan to be out drinking tonight?
No?
Maybe it's just me.
Fitting end to a week where I've felt like I've been two steps behind the rest of the world, asking everybody 'What happened?'
Sleepwalker slaps me on the back of my head and says 'You just missed it, you moron.'
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Blogburnout
I often sit in front of the computer trying to write a new blog entry and I just sit there and nothing comes out. It used to be I had to stop myself from writing. And when I read my old entries, I like them. I like them much better than these current ones. Try reading some of them yourself. They're good! The difference is, I think, now I write to say something. Whether to tell of how I’m feeling or what I did or whatever. It used to be that I would often write simply for writing’s sake. I think I used to value and enjoy playing around with words a lot more. I took more pride in my writing. The entries didn’t always work but at least I tried different things. I’ve since tried to start new blogs. To try to recapture that feeling. To get my old love back. But I think I’m burnt out. Something like that. Maybe I’m not as much of a try-hard as I used to be and that's, in a way, a good thing. But I miss that old try-hard me. He may have reeked of effort. But I thought he weren’t half bad.
I often sit in front of the computer trying to write a new blog entry and I just sit there and nothing comes out. It used to be I had to stop myself from writing. And when I read my old entries, I like them. I like them much better than these current ones. Try reading some of them yourself. They're good! The difference is, I think, now I write to say something. Whether to tell of how I’m feeling or what I did or whatever. It used to be that I would often write simply for writing’s sake. I think I used to value and enjoy playing around with words a lot more. I took more pride in my writing. The entries didn’t always work but at least I tried different things. I’ve since tried to start new blogs. To try to recapture that feeling. To get my old love back. But I think I’m burnt out. Something like that. Maybe I’m not as much of a try-hard as I used to be and that's, in a way, a good thing. But I miss that old try-hard me. He may have reeked of effort. But I thought he weren’t half bad.
Passing time
When you’re monitoring some progress on a daily basis, sometimes you lose touch of the bigger picture. Every little peak or trough is blown up to astronomical proportions, when over time they can look insignificant and inconsequential. Other times, starts of trends can totally be missed because they looked insignificant and inconsequential at the time. The obvious conclusion would be that I just don’t have a clue what’s going on. The obvious course of action would be to stop monitoring.
So what am I doing? Yup. You guessed it…
But it’s not like I can ever help myself.
And it’s not like I have anything better to do these days anyway.
When you’re monitoring some progress on a daily basis, sometimes you lose touch of the bigger picture. Every little peak or trough is blown up to astronomical proportions, when over time they can look insignificant and inconsequential. Other times, starts of trends can totally be missed because they looked insignificant and inconsequential at the time. The obvious conclusion would be that I just don’t have a clue what’s going on. The obvious course of action would be to stop monitoring.
So what am I doing? Yup. You guessed it…
But it’s not like I can ever help myself.
And it’s not like I have anything better to do these days anyway.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
Rose-coloured glasses (Post no. 150!!!!!!! Yay!)
In the unforgettable final scene of Frank Capra’s masterpiece It’s a Wonderful Life, Jimmy Stewart’s character – a broke and disheartened philanthropist – stood underneath his Christmas tree in the company of his family and good friends.
And he felt like the richest man in the world.
Corny, I know. But it’s an old movie. Give it a break!
There was no guardian angel earning his wings last night, but at times I felt I was in one of those moments.
OK, so I was drunk. But no matter.
It’s the culmination of a couple of weeks of a new lease on life. A mixture of my past and present colliding.
Nothing much has changed. Same job. I’m still broke. I’m still not a rock star. Six of seven days, I’m still a cynical unappreciative old bastard.
But at a time when I could be wallowing about all the crappy stupid people in my life, I will instead say this:
I have a good family.
I have good friends.
I walk in the company of many wonderful people.
I am honoured.
I am thankful.
And I am humbled.
I know this is transitory. And in time I may well forget. By tomorrow, everything can turn to crap. But I want to remember myself this morning. 3am. Sitting up in bed, still awake, still feeding off a drunken buzz, playing my guitar as badly as any guitarist in history and forgetting that I had blown another $80 in one night. For alone in my room, ruminating about my past few weeks to a badly tuned and badly played (and probably badly built) musical instrument, I was a rich man.
Through these rose-coloured glasses, even those gloomy robots can be made to look a perhaps unmanly, yet somewhat happier shade of pink…
In the unforgettable final scene of Frank Capra’s masterpiece It’s a Wonderful Life, Jimmy Stewart’s character – a broke and disheartened philanthropist – stood underneath his Christmas tree in the company of his family and good friends.
And he felt like the richest man in the world.
Corny, I know. But it’s an old movie. Give it a break!
There was no guardian angel earning his wings last night, but at times I felt I was in one of those moments.
OK, so I was drunk. But no matter.
It’s the culmination of a couple of weeks of a new lease on life. A mixture of my past and present colliding.
Nothing much has changed. Same job. I’m still broke. I’m still not a rock star. Six of seven days, I’m still a cynical unappreciative old bastard.
But at a time when I could be wallowing about all the crappy stupid people in my life, I will instead say this:
I have a good family.
I have good friends.
I walk in the company of many wonderful people.
I am honoured.
I am thankful.
And I am humbled.
I know this is transitory. And in time I may well forget. By tomorrow, everything can turn to crap. But I want to remember myself this morning. 3am. Sitting up in bed, still awake, still feeding off a drunken buzz, playing my guitar as badly as any guitarist in history and forgetting that I had blown another $80 in one night. For alone in my room, ruminating about my past few weeks to a badly tuned and badly played (and probably badly built) musical instrument, I was a rich man.
Through these rose-coloured glasses, even those gloomy robots can be made to look a perhaps unmanly, yet somewhat happier shade of pink…
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
The World of Tomorrow
I couldn't wait for a few more posts to celebrate my 150th with a new renovation of this site. But it's pretty much there.
If you can't guess, the banner is a corner of my bedroom. Although normally it's not so gloomy and there aren't any evil-looking robots walking around. I swiped them from a movie I can't wait to see. However, the magazines, comics, books and plastic bags are all real.
As usual, comments are appreciated.
I've removed and replaced a few links and blogs if I no longer look at them or if they are no longer updated on a regular basis.
Cheers
xtn...
I couldn't wait for a few more posts to celebrate my 150th with a new renovation of this site. But it's pretty much there.
If you can't guess, the banner is a corner of my bedroom. Although normally it's not so gloomy and there aren't any evil-looking robots walking around. I swiped them from a movie I can't wait to see. However, the magazines, comics, books and plastic bags are all real.
As usual, comments are appreciated.
I've removed and replaced a few links and blogs if I no longer look at them or if they are no longer updated on a regular basis.
Cheers
xtn...
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