heartifice

i have a secret

2009-05-25T20:06:00.012+08:00

heart's been pounding crazily today and i'm super anxious over dreamweaver (re: here) and so i'm going to pack the room to see if that helps because state of bedroom = state of mind, but bar that, life post-assessments has been peachyy like pinched apple cheeks.

edit: this is what a cursory sweep turned up - the floor is coated in silashair.

2009-05-06T02:25:00.000+08:00

The pensive have the most treacherous minds.

into thin air

2009-04-17T06:09:00.001+08:00

away till 24th April 2009.

Silas Strange

2009-03-26T17:01:00.008+08:00

Do you have a treacherous mind?
Is it restless and petulant like the tempestuous sea, whispering to you of your myriad fallings?
Does it imagine, unleashing hypothetical fates upon strangers like a malcontent dictator, stories burnished strange and wondrous in the light of your inadequacies;
Do you wonder, by your lonesome, about the people with things to do and places to go and lovers to hold?
Silas does.

2009-03-21T20:47:00.007+08:00

productivity killer #23561 = the need to fill up blank postcards.

hello it is grammar nazi moment

2009-03-20T02:22:00.011+08:00

unless in jest or at knifepoint.

argh, argh, argh.

2009-03-18T02:33:00.006+08:00

today i am immensely defeated and never want to wish my sketchbook upon anyone.
going to bully silas now to reclaim vague feelings of control.

could he be dreaming?

2009-03-16T04:28:00.015+08:00

source

The disgraced usurer Yankel D took the baby girl home that evening. (...)
He made a bed of crumpled newspaper in a deep baking pan and gently tucked it in the oven, so that she wouldn't be disturbed by the noise of the small falls outside. He left the oven door open, and would sit for hours and watch her, as one might watch a loaf of bread rise. He watched her chest rise and fall in rapid succession as her fingers made fists and released, and her eyes squinted for no apparent reason. Could she be dreaming? he wondered. And if so, what would a baby dream of? She must be dreaming of the before-life, just as I dream of the afterlife. When he pulled her out to feed or just hold her, her body was tattooed with the newsprint. TIME OF DYED HANDS IS FINALLY OVER! MOUSE WILL HANG! Or, SOFIOWKA ACCUSED OF RAPE, PLEADS POSSESSED BY PENIS PERSUASION, BECAME "OUT OF HAND." Or, AVRUM R KILLED IN FLOUR MILL MISHAP, LEAVES BEHIND A LOST SIAMESE CAR OF FORTY-EIGHT YEARS, TAWNY, CHUBBY, BUT NOT FAT, PERSONABLE, MAYBE A LITTLE FAT, ANSWERS TO "METHUSELAH." OK, FAT AS SHIT. IF FOUND, FREE TO KEEP. Sometimes he would rock her to sleep in his arms, and read her left to right, and know everything he needed to know about the world. If it wasn't written on her, it wasn't important to him.
- Jonathan Safran Foer "Everything is Illuminated

i seem to be unable to regard this lonely-old-man-with-singular-preoccupations archetype with the same derisive, anti-sentimentalist glance as i do much many other parts of fiction, having been absolutely weepy for eddie maintanence, silas marner (my cat's namesake, naturally. what, why'd i have named him after that ridiculously handsome albino from the da vinci code or a cool street brand?), santiago, poor stasi wiesler, the grandfather whose clock stopped, short, never to go again when the old man died (my virgin literary bawl which was done behind a songsheet and really alarmed the nursery teacher) and now yankel d. seriously, how is one to not emphatise with geriatric hermits? answers like generally when one happens to a fully functional young adult don't apply.
p.s.: JSF wrote this book at 25 - to friends, please forgive any consequent bouts of melancholic existentialia.

succulent

2009-03-15T05:25:00.004+08:00

doesn't this pillow look like the most ticklish thing ever? i wouldn't EVER dare let it touch my neck; just staring at it makes me feel all giggly. =)

hello welcome again to favourite word propaganda

2009-02-18T02:27:00.002+08:00

potamophilous = river loving

110209 - moonlit dawn

2009-02-11T04:52:00.002+08:00

featuring an astonished caterpillar, grouchy rabbits and bacterial studies dredged from the musty abbeys of miss jo's classes tm. aren't they well done for seven year olds? i am perenially expecting complaints from boboli (the Office Manager) because i tell the kids so much nonsense - that artworks will be sent to beasts for judging, beasts who can recognise their smells from the art paper; that not washing your hands is actually healthier; that caterpillars have lime green blood; that all real rabbits turn pink under special weather conditions and that i am eighteen.
one of the above statements is true, naturally.

january randoms

2009-02-09T13:44:00.005+08:00

week01.

have a wonderful 2009.

week02.
when this cheapskate peruser is reading
("You working for our man then?" asked the bearded man. He was not sober, although he was not yet drunk. "It looks that way," said Shadow. "What do you do?" The bearded man lit his cigarette. "I'm a leprechaun," he said, with a grin.)
and re-reading
(Sister Mary's error might have been noticed by the other nun had not she herself been severely rattled by the Secret Service men in Mrs. Dowling's room, who kept looking at her with growing unease. This was because they had been trained to react in a certain way to people in long flowing robes and long flowing headdresses, and were currently suffering from a conflict of signals.)
neil gaiman is a dream and has charmed his way into my stubborn list of favourites (which more or less features a singular terry pratchett) ; very selfishly i fret about running out of gaiman titles to read and wish he'd live (and thus write) forever.

week03.

this mural played out to be the most languid and breezy project - done in my own space, time, grimy singlet and cotton shorts. suspicious as i am of contentment, this activity gets me as gratified as my gangster cat, watching on, curled against mugs of expired coffee.

week04.

finds me engaged in the profitable annual enterprise of finding out just where the mother hid the mini-popiahs. the patriach, in a rare display of ingenious proactivity, has taken to hanging the bee cheng hiang parcel off his bedpost, bells attached. happy chinese new year y'all and i hope barbequed pork featured more prominently in your festivities!

week05.
school is putting on the pressure. if my resolution of creating two sketchbook pages daily is anything to go by, today is 04 January 2009. =( here is to consequent abstinence till the semester ends.

2008-12-12T00:54:00.017+08:00

i don't get myself sometimes either.
i can, for long stretches of days, feel small and quiet and afraid.
not cool.

what is the secret to this? is it just make believe?

2008-11-21T07:56:00.008+08:00

i've been absolutely hooked on flashing lights the past half year and this remix (does one call this a remix? it says so on its youtube title.) is so pretty. =)

this wednesday is chilly

2008-11-19T05:51:00.010+08:00

nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
green glass, goblin. why do you stare at them?
give them me.
no.
give them me. give them me.
no.
then i will howl all night in the reeds. lie in the mud and howl for them.
goblin, why do you love them so?
they are better than stars or water,
better than voices of winds that sing,
better than any man's fair daughter,
your green glass beads on silver ring.

hush, i stole them out of the moon.

poem: overheard on a salt marsh, harold monro (excerpt) // pictures: englishrussia

2008-10-30T18:27:00.005+08:00

it's about time.

triplekill

2008-10-28T07:17:00.010+08:00

is it still me that makes you sweat?
am i who you think about in bed?
when the lights are dim and your hands are shaking as you're sliding off your shirt?
then think of what you did
and how i hope to God she was worth it.
when the lights are dim and your heart is racing as your fingers touch her skin.
i've got more wit, a better kiss, a hotter touch, a better fuck
than any girl you'll ever meet, honey you had me
boy i was it, look past the sweat, a better love deserving of
exchanging body heat in the passenger seat?
no, no, no, you know it will always just be me

let's get these teen hearts beating. faster, faster
so testosterone boys and harlequin girls,
will you dance to this beat, and hold a lover close?
so testosterone boys and harlequin girls,
will you dance to this beat, and hold a lover close

oh now i do recall, we were just getting to the part
where the shock sets in, and the stomach acid finds a new way to make you get sick.
i hope you didn't expect that you'd get all of the attention.
now let's not get selfish
did you really think i’d let you kill this chorus?

let's get these teen hearts beating. faster, faster
so testosterone boys and harlequin girls,
will you dance to this beat, and hold a lover close?
so testosterone boys and harlequin girls,
will you dance to this beat, and hold a lover close?

dance to this beat
dance to this beat
dance to this beat

i've got more win, a better kiss, a hotter touch, a better fuck
than any girl you'll ever meet, sweetie you had me
boy i was it, look past the sweat, a better love deserving of
exchanging body heat in the passenger seat?
no, no, no, you know it will always just be me.

- panic at the disco

2008-10-14T03:36:00.004+08:00

why do you listen
to poison?
this whole affair is ridiculous.
over and owttt.

linger

2008-10-03T17:07:00.021+08:00

how does this go, you ask.

i will say i have lost all ability to reason. i have lost the fortitude to rationalise, picking points of contention and compromise to debate. i have lost foresight and the memory of scars, cognition inundated by grief. (i can't breathe.)

i remember you. i always imagine you a bit more elfin in my head, a touch more tip upon your chin than your actual defiant set, a certain impression of watchful languidity. in your nascent paradoxes i watched you, delightfully new to me and strangely captivating. barely twenty and a soldier, and yet you had a penchant to pout like a spoilt child, limby swagger and petulant lips which soften when you are asleep, seemingly smiling and curled in pillows. one point eight and still you could drape, finding centre of gravity between your right arm and legs (on the table), balanced upon your skeletal swivel chair. i found my own centre of gravity in the drone of your voice, in the pit of your palm, right in the middle of a stubborn little boy and a proud young man and i embraced them both. on the edge of your stoic wisdom and fairytale demands i rested and i was good. i was well. i was peaceful and i adored you more than you could ever imagine. i poeticised everything you did, every moment we were, and thought them beautiful and perfect, like a sunday morning awake in bed. would you call this love?

in the aftermath of pain i remember. my memory lingers over your focal points - the bunion on your third finger, your adam's apple (hah), the pitch at which your voice breaks in laughter. how, when lying, my arm stretched perfectly to touch your hipbone with my wrist. your proportions are particularly pleasing, and particularly familiar. i remember it bent over your white bike, with newly tanned skin and the smell of spotless spring. the perfect spectacle. a modern prince. (i remember it in front of me. do you know riding pillon is the most intimate thing in the world? it says i am here. this is me, placing my life in your hands. these are my arms around you, this is my head looking over your right shoulder, and we are watching the universe leap past.)

you hated the boy-watching but i watched you most of all, curling tendrils of my obssession around your being and following you home.

what do you get when you put a defiant scout and a sulky girl together? one quietly trustworthy, the other playful and insistent. you taught me to be in loyalty, in faithfulness, that it was really all about one special boy and building trust, and i was quietly learning. through my lessons i adored you the only way i knew how, holding you close, tighter than you could bear.

defiant scout and a sulky girl indeed ; my gripping hands tugged at your taste for freedom and we raged like a tempest, two proud individuals struggling to survive. facing the heat of your words i hurled breakups in raw emotion, fighting to find balance, pushing to be heard though tossing ultimatums in the air. call it a defense mechanism; i shielded myself crying break, break! to protect myself from the force of your anger till you could be at peace, to listen as i fell piece by piece back against your chest, not knowing the recoil of my defense beat you, never intending that my defense should attack. spoilt girlfriend i who has never been served an ultimatum, was to be served a greater lesson yet and so in my ignorance i rubbed your sides raw, chipped at your pride and stretched you thin, never realising each time scarred you and wore your passion away. (what should i say? how should i pray?) how does one come back from the point of no return?

i pray.
to thank God for this necessary lesson.
that you may understand that i was too careless to comprehend the depth of the hurt i was causing, that you may accept that this depth was never intentional, and that you may believe that i loved you in my silly little ways, wrong ways perhaps, but deeply and truly.
for forgiveness, His, yours and my own, and that i may be renewed and humbled, ready and worthy for the love He decides to send my way again.

2008-09-29T02:47:00.002+08:00

How many different ways can one emotion fail you?
- ivyblossom

2008-09-25T02:18:00.005+08:00

"How can this be?" said Lord Downey. "Don't we pay our Taxes?"
"Ah, I thought we might come to that," said Lord Vetinari. He raised his hand and, on cue again, his clerk placed a piece of paper in it.
"Let me see now...ah yes. Guild of Assassins...Gross earnings in the last year: AM$13,207,048. Taxes paid in the last year: forty-seven dollars, twenty-two pence and what on examination turned out to be a Hershebian half-dong, worth one-eighth of a penny."
"That's all perfectly legal! The Guild of Accountants-"
"Ah yes. Guild of Accountants: gross earnings AM$7,999,011. Taxes paid: nil. But, ah, yes, I see they applied for a rebate of AM$200,000."
"And what we received, I may say, included a Hershebian half-dong," said Mr Frostrip of the Guild of Accountants.
"What goes around comes around," said Vetinari calmly.

- Jingo, Terry Pratchett

2008-09-16T00:43:00.009+08:00

for jinesh
for the people who've cared
for the pain, the tears, the fucking anguish
for the fear of the waiting that never ends
for the loneliness that never ever fucking leaves
for all the lost things (or were they ever there?)
i cannot love you anymore.
sorry.

2008-08-25T04:24:00.006+08:00

nautical stripes because we are staring out into the ocean beyond this little town which comes to life only at night. =) the andaman sea, adamantly azure despite the drizzle.

2008-08-24T19:57:00.003+08:00

four months of spring

2008-08-02T05:43:00.000+08:00

woe is me, for t9 is dead. till s$699 finds its way into my wallet, expect shots of similar/lesser quality.

august begins with visiting lasalle upon a rumour and demanding my records be checked, which was duly executed, which verdict, to my chagrin, is "you start school four days from now." four days from now! in the ensuing chaos i contemplate the dreadful prospect of a hazelnut-less semester while adam frets over me running off with some aspiring emo bearing skinnier legs and shaggier hair and who is thus, somehow, more suited for me than himself. worse than solitude and projected infidelity? in deference to the original plan which disallows my presence in school before january next year, i will be in phuket "four days from now".
huzzah, lasalle administration, i want to give you profane love.
on a more pressing note, my class is CD5F. are you pleasant and pretty plus want to be friend? shall we form an attendance-marking plan?

2008-08-01T09:24:00.000+08:00

2008-07-11T05:54:00.001+08:00

spotlessspring + you + me.

2008-07-03T02:34:00.006+08:00

hello july.

2008-06-16T08:20:00.004+08:00

now every gambler knows that the secret to surviving
is knowing what to throw away and knowing what to keep.

you got to know when to hold'em, know when to fold'em,
know when to walk away and know when to run.
you never count your money when you're sitting at the table.
there'll be time enough for counting when the dealing's done.

monday morning hesitate: can't get out of bed

2008-06-06T00:15:00.001+08:00

2008-05-30T21:13:00.001+08:00

purple, purple like the eggplant in the garden

2008-05-20T01:01:00.009+08:00

make a face. it's unpleasantly spicy chillipepperness.
one. if i do not consider you my friend, where are you does not in any way constitute an appropriate greeting over the phone. you are a rude fool of a social imbecile and i shall thus dislike you and perhaps hope you die.
two. do not smirk if you have nothing to smirk about, not least a pretty face to smirk with.
three. pancakes generally have more bone structure; it is unsightly to give yourself airs when pastry features greatly in your ancestry. get a life (hint: it involves more than paperclip logistics) and cream in your buns.
four. your face is rancid. i hope i never need to see you under the sun ever. again.
five. i would never have chosen you, sweetheart.

you are so cute and youmakemehappy.

it only hurts when i laugh

2008-05-07T10:03:00.011+08:00

jorraine is
going through the outdated mp3 library, recalling two years of memories so vivid, so pertinently visceral, they are almost tactile. i can feel them as if they have textures, textures pressing right against my rough-edged fingertips. pervasive like lucid dreams. entering lasalle and making friends with agri. tim - rain, white sheets and riding horses. starbucks liat. painting the school at night with hazel and sheryl and getting busted the day after. joe and excesses. sheena and mister tea afternoons. holding on to jinesh as he goes through the throes of legal academia. i can never remember the nights, or school.
life hasn't had a soundtrack lately, which is just as well. it wouldn't do much for progress to remember that within this terrible stasis i am experiencing the time of my life. i need an exorcism; i need to purge this saccharine contentment.
much empty love.

2008-04-10T07:00:00.002+08:00

take me to
the edge of the world

2008-04-08T03:45:00.002+08:00

what soft hands you have
for a man
at twenty-six

QUATABAR

2008-04-02T04:17:00.004+08:00

i think i have to come to terms with the fact that life... is not supposed to be a bed of roses. it is not about frappas in the afternoons, playing with silas and the occasional twenty-text harangue to jinesh lalwani. somehow, somewhere underneath the lazy-hazy, life requires simple cerebral innovation to progress. creativity begets development and change brings growth. i have been stagnant for a very long time, and, as with like messes, it boiling down to being my own doggone fault remains unmitigated by anglo-trickery. i need to, very ironically, create like a routine.
sheena brought bobo over last evening whom, by nature of being newly shorn, is only as tall as silas is wide. had my work cut out (pun intended) trying to hold the damn cat back. in lieu of this acquired canine-size-superiority complex, i am looking forward to fluffy shocking silas into a major existential crisis; should be funny.

2008-03-17T02:20:00.003+08:00

"Tell me how you could say such a thing," Naoko said, staring at the ground beneath her feet. "You're not telling me anything I don't know already. 'Relax your body, and the rest of you will lighten up.' What's the point of saying that to me? If I relaxed my body now, I'd fall apart. I've always lived like this, and it's the only way I know how to go on living. If I relaxed for a second, I'd never find my way back. I'd go to pieces, and the pieces would be blown away. Why can't you see that? How can you talk about watching over me if you can't see that?"
-Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami

journalpeek

2008-03-06T23:32:00.005+08:00

first week away from school and i have been... unproductive, drinking too much, taking too much time to recuperate and dawdling over the spaces betwixt, talking to adam who tells me too much fun will kill me. "if this is fun for you, you need to stop having so much of it", sniffs jinesh from his hypothetical lawfty perch as we drove down to spend a holland village sunday, throwing our favourite words into the afternoon air. he sniffs again abstrusely at my "unadventurous" tastebuds in the marmalade pantry, bestowing equal amounts of epicurean scorn and dismissiveness from beyond a sticky red date toffee pudding, rolling his eyes as he partakes religiously in the bread breaking. this glorification on account of baking genius? seriously, anything with enough nutella will taste good, i thought, and tried to ignore the fact that, for all the pomp and circumstance, i was sitting on a plastic ikea chair.
sunday afternoon sullenness.
moderation and self-discipline. what are they? how can one achieve these qualities/elevated states of being/enlightened modes of thinking?

2008-03-04T06:20:00.005+08:00

guess who was head prefect of her primary school in 1997.

HAHAHAHA that sorry bit of my brain still somewhat capable of reason cannot believe it - it misses vaguely plausible by several dimensions. i love you forever zellylicious. this is not goodbye.

missing you loads.

2008-02-28T18:37:00.001+08:00

i need a restraining order.

2008-02-21T23:35:00.005+08:00

theory aside, ("parodying the marketing power of a huge budget and its claims on product quality, as manifested in LOTR publicity"), this had Hazel and I all giggly during an otherwise dry lecture.

2008-02-19T01:13:00.002+08:00

i am on the most religious school-abstinence campaign, from the bar to deliciously inane freelance projects.

2008-02-13T20:34:00.002+08:00

drugstruck says:
i LUbbCheWWZzz
sheryo says:
LuBcheWz tOoOoo dEar dEaRXZxc mUaXZ

2008-02-12T03:18:00.000+08:00

time passes strangely for me. my phone, which adam and i cumulatively set twenty-eight minutes fast now shows the same time as the temporally precise computer, while the clock in the living room, normally slow, is now five minutes faster than either device. i am chewing my lips to a pulp trying to comprehend this oddity because this verily means it will be next Friday tomorrow, and i haven't started on last month's homework, i need to catch up on yesterday's sleep and i have today's youth to burn on ladies' night.

2008-02-08T18:57:00.000+08:00

today's academic progress: i took out my empty sketchbook, and looked at it.

Ten Things that Happened in December (part two) - did i fall or was i pushed

2008-02-06T06:01:00.000+08:00

six.

my sneaky companion, number one gruesome twosome relic of the triple-trouble girls, turns a year older. i am infinitely glad of your presence in my life, just as i am glad that you too are aware that, no matter how frustrating, how draining or demanding school becomes, we. cannot. stop. the. party.

If you were Thumbelina
Just think of all you'd see ....
The rainbow in a dew-drop,
The soft fur on a bee.
The sparkle of a spiders web
Hung with beads of rain.
The warm smile of a buttercup
When the sun comes out again.

seven.

worked on a mural for east spring primary school schizophrenically themed spring and the performing arts. amounting two hundred and forty five wooden pieces in the end, it turned out to be yet another comforting lesson about underestimating one's workload. that happens so often doesn't it? the company "puts up with me" for the displaced pride i manifest in the work but seriously, i do it for the money. who doesn't do it for the money. i can exchange money for frappaccinos and if you were to reduce my existential philosophy to an empirical equation that would be i can exchange money for frappaccinos.
nah i'm kidding.

eight.
fell ill, an arduous process compensated in part by the subsequent weight loss. for the first time, i was assigned to wait tables at the same secluded obar section with sheena, who was similarly afflicted, and we surmised that it was a sly managerial tactic for quarantining the virus. thirty days and it is proving to be the most persistent and inconsiderate bug ; at the onset of school, i have predictably landed myself into another bronchial situation - an inflamed throat atop the lingering month-old cough.
nine.

worked on the hellish project that was, together with a cultivated taste for slumber, going to usurp first term at school. =( the sole salvaging factor? having sheryl and eeshaun doing it with me.
ten.
TARTAN. i'm out.

2008-02-04T13:58:00.000+08:00

(saturday afternoon, all bed-head and smelling like dental mint)
jin: oooooooooooooohh.
me: aren't you supposed to be like working on your memo?
jin: fuckyou.
me: wait is your computer still taking pictures of us.
me: heeey sex.

2008-02-04T05:42:00.000+08:00

*scarlet profanity* i've got wednesday class this week.

lovely bones

2008-01-29T04:46:00.000+08:00

notched in all the right places.

Ten Things that Happened in December (part one) - bright eyes

2008-01-23T17:07:00.000+08:00

one.
assessments ended two days overtime for hazel and i, owing to the tried and tested theory that it doesn't take much to convince the clinic of death-bordering exhaustion/nascent high fever after several nights of non-sleep. being in design school is practically a condition in itself anyway, if only for the way it dehydrates muh crowning glory. the travesty! hazel actually got a ONE WEEK MC owing to a cornea ulcered history and a tricky red eye. hit the club where jinesh, post-lawfinals, wore his sweater on his legs in a half hour of mad lib/heightened sartorial consciousness.

two.
my assessments felt kinda like fine arts projects; in lieu of all images having to be owned, i ended up, very ironically, spending most of my time painting everything. results came back to reveal that i made it through the semester, understandably, just by the skin of my teeth. i just... DO NOT KNOW what to do about this school thing.

three.
happy birthday tartan! it is time for your mizuage. lawyers, media, designers (that means ME if you don't realise) and toyboys congregated in mutual jinesh-biglove.

four.
lived out quite possibly the worst sixteen hours of my existence painting this fiasco at the heerens for the noise singapore festival. it is, as with most of my artistic endeavours, incomplete.

five.
joined obar in time for christmas. =)

2008-01-22T16:05:00.000+08:00

hello world, today is nice because my camera came back to life.

nice like sunday mornings, feeding pigeons in the park.

2008-01-19T07:21:00.000+08:00

will be back soon!

2007-12-23T15:26:00.000+08:00

in the skewed visual tradition of my obsessions du jour, meet kakihara/tadanobu asano. =)

2007-12-12T23:01:00.000+08:00

(scathingly) i don't even think you know what that is.

pick me apart

2007-12-11T02:42:00.000+08:00

thankfully home from a particularly trying meeting, not least because of a nasty infection which has rendered my right peeper swollen and red as a beetroot - i rock a permanent one-eyed smolder. ocular malfunction aside, today documents the maiden time i was led to feel that my opinion counted for less than it takes... to be registered at all. trying to pivot the cause between a mysterious bias on the client's part and my expecting to be mollycoddled at every turn because i desperately need to believe that this feeling marginalised has as little as possible to do with a lack of actual ability. note: if fate lands you in proximity to my pustulant cornea, some semblance of concern would be very much appreciated. =(

2007-12-10T04:40:00.000+08:00

feels like i have essentially failed in life.

life began on friday.

2007-11-26T04:41:00.000+08:00

friday afternoon to be precise, when lunch took five hours to accommodate beer and a lovely long talk with hazel. :). this verily means I AM BACK FROM HELL; neathandal directives, paper rage and unheralded creative enterprise in linguistic execution - it can only be design school.

halloween and the sweethearts

2007-11-06T12:45:00.000+08:00

the following pictures have been pimped to bits but.. it's any excuse to not touch the burgeoning pile of schoolwork now. here's major mismatch night!

working through the night confers enormous existential insight; it was upon a routine execution of such an activity that this mind came across a startling revelation: my weight vacillates proportionately to the amount of milo available at home. my weight. vacillates. proportionately. to the amount of milo. available at home. the two central compulsions in my life (1. stay skinny 2. obtain milo) are at odds.

2007-11-05T01:55:00.000+08:00

i fell in love with a bad bad man
every since i met him
i've been sad sad sad
i'm a jailbird to your music
a criminal in your prayer
i watch you when you sleep
even when you're not there

rainbows wept color all over the streets
when you went away maybe one day we'll meet

i watch you in your sleep even when you're not there

2007-11-04T14:10:00.000+08:00

another fiddley-hand-gratifying experiment. *big grin

2007-11-03T01:19:00.000+08:00

nascent treason

2007-11-02T04:04:00.000+08:00

such glee! and then this bitch left me for torts and moots, nebulous-like terms which draw to mind, somehow, the wind and the willows. (i used to set my heart to the fixtures of your hairdo - rattail behind left ear, check. inch-long tuft, anti-directional, near crown, check. general state of slum, check. now it seems your head goes through entire cycles of trichological revolutions in between the moments i get to catch you, said moments being as dispersed as my school attendance. i feel diasporic, like i've lost a centre of gravity.) misses you every minute.

the last of the mohicans

2007-11-01T00:34:00.000+08:00

it feels awesome to finally be sure about something, brushes in hand and blank wall in sight, after the recent academic tirade - running empty on sleep, i have been issued edicts to re-do three out of four projects. this is infinitely merrier notwithstanding the conspicuous lack of spray paints but, as students don't afford things like spectrums of montanas at seven dollars a can, not least because we need the money for starbucks, we still is reverts to finishing the last of my drying acrylics that are, in their thrift corner, of several dubious ownerships.

how silly we must've looked, brushing with a furiously primitive vengeance when the boys on the other side of the wall took a brisk hour and were gone in the dissipating haze of cigarette smoke and aerosol fumes. was crazy fun though. i long to be out of that awful place where my every instinct is continually called into question and i am staunchly disinclined towards self-doubt. pictures above courtesy of thekillergerbil.

2007-10-24T03:27:00.000+08:00

upper thomson loving back in the days when we were happier. time hurries past so quickly nowadays i hardly move and hark, it is sunday again and i haven't done my homework.

in more greeneyed boy news,
me: you know the boy in the youtube clip on my blog is he cute or cute or cute.
sheryl: the girl's better. SORRY HUNNY

a boy like this

2007-10-22T04:41:00.000+08:00

oh yess.

2007-10-15T19:33:00.000+08:00

i want so badly to be good.

2007-10-07T00:34:00.001+08:00

i'm afraid.

2007-10-02T23:26:00.000+08:00

recycled drawing for noisesingapore submissions.
the past week's critic review was tough. hidayah opened her spiel publically pronouncing me a waste of time, ginette suspected a school assignment i worked this careless heart out for was a reused mural from work and i realised i've followed an eighty-page-worth wrong track for the creative process journal. heaven smite these abstract nouns! in the sacred name of sensible design, wouldn't it be a better bid to name them as they are, i.e.: photography (imaging and communication), computerclass (screen-based communication), critical review (critic review, for clarity-by-grammar's sake) and off-studio journal (creative fucking process journal).
agri, to my msn nickname which read i am the only 4am girl., "i am an 4am girl too!" which brought me back to the complete fiascos of the last year's reflective journal submission. we, that's hazel, agri and i, bought our sketchbooks together at the same time - weekend before the deadline, seriously, would you expect anything less of us - and on monday hazel and agri appeared in school with FOUR AND SIX FILLED SKETCHBOOKS RESPECTIVELY. tuve UNO. over that weekend we went further than anyone else in the art of cut-pasting and discerning the fine limits of lecturer tolerance towards magazine extracts en masse (and superceding them by unprecedented margins anyway).
conservative estimates insist upon 168 CPJ pages for the exhibition tomorrow. ive got 22 which means a page every half hour to even remotely hit 50; i have to become God. ouut.

grouchy, much?

2007-09-29T02:55:00.001+08:00

being of the feline persuasion which claims attention as a sovereign right, silas sprawls defiantly over anything that gets more human proximity than himself. the languid onomatopoeia is befitting ; that belly is so flabby and soft silas can be described in terms of viscosity. here he goes at the study table. (the main premise of this paragraph states that i have been workin' on it like never before.)

get sugar

2007-09-21T06:28:00.000+08:00

slapped on greyvibes instalment two over the holidays and it'd have been so more fun if my pet ostrich sheryl'd been around! subtracting the time distracted by mister dimples, i estimate this affair took ten hours painting, the same amount i blew on an IKEA scamp spanning not more than eleven inches square. you know, something doesn't quite figure. rawr.
so the parents aren't in, it is hardly dawn and jeremy's left for school on his own accord. even my brother, my brother, stresses me right out. *shakes self with Ferocity of Thousand Armies*

2007-09-21T02:43:00.000+08:00

(whimper) i can't do this.

2007-09-20T01:04:00.000+08:00

no seriously this made glancing downwards quite the shocker. the parentals are going away again tomorrow and i am seriously contemplating cutting advertising tutorial. in the ideological tradition of homemade fraps, i suspect this monetary deficit could be eradicated three lifetimes earlier if i just get the heal-all-save-all concoction for chocolate heaven.

hush.

2007-09-17T00:29:00.000+08:00

love turned a year older! if sprinting across the city on saturnight's to be any indication though it hardly makes a difference in the maturity department. you are my falling off chairs, running along the beach and trekking home through druggie-inhabited ghettos in the morning. take your joy and freedom baby, and the courage to be the best you can be. heart you deep deep!

2007-09-11T03:31:00.000+08:00

only cool people get mycoplasma pneumonia.

bestie reads mind reluctantly

2007-09-05T03:15:00.000+08:00

me: this week's submissions and i spent the last twenty-four hours on youtube!
jinesh: some japanese serial?
me: not even there.
jinesh: no it can't be that chinese one with the four guys.

yeah well it was that chinese one with the four guys, seriously. i tracked the twentysevenepisoder from sunday evening to the next and now my head undulates like it's made of cotton candy and these legs feel like jelly which is probably half right anyway. i love it. (and this makes it alright).

2007-08-22T05:15:00.000+08:00

five in the morning wrapping this sorry brain around the tome of a how to cheat in photoshop - by making a layer duplicate we can apply only the adjustments we want and discard the rest by changing layer modes. multiply add darkness of layer to beneath while screen does opposite. overlay lies between multiply and screen and is more subtle. soft light increases contrasts of extreme shades and is a weaker version of hard light. hard light is a stronger version of overlay. hard light increases saturation and reveals textures in underlying layer. hard light like the midday sun upon the jetty, heatwaves rolling off the tarmac and our bodies. you counted beads of perspiration off my nose and i had your lap because the seat scorched my thighs.

2007-08-21T05:22:00.000+08:00

this time a year back ; eight pounds lost of tears.

2007-08-20T04:20:00.001+08:00

can you help me remember how to smile
make it somehow all seem worthwhile

i want to speak. into your mouth.

2007-08-20T04:13:00.000+08:00

auntie may stopped to mingle on the last lovely nightout at newts. check out those elderly sinews as she strains to pull joe closer by the scruff of his neck and in that corner, i've never known anyone to look so irrepressibly adorable while seemingly on the verge of tears. it is probably the only reason i didn't throw this cheap heart over to dirk who was valiantly hammin' it up for auntie may's benefit and inevitably seducing everyone within a twenty feet radius.
dirk+jinesh met sheena+i for dins after their mandarin class, after the nea copped a cool two hundred from baby and i EACH for narcotic dumping. joe visited post-dinner so i saved on dessert. sheena brought a stillborn chick for mass scrutiny, vestige of her incongruous science teacher sideline. jinesh had ginger tea which was a surprising bouquet of tartness. i remember laughter, catching kisses at the corners of our eyes, action under the table and sambal kangkong in the infinitesimal space of time before the last bus leaves. joy is such a touch-and-go affair isn't it? that was three worlds apart from today; as with the staunchly foolish, the foolishly hopeful, i wasn't made to comprehend bereavement. there persists a nagging feeling somewhere in my chest, somewhere off centre, slightly to the left.

2007-08-20T02:11:00.000+08:00

sheena and sheryl, for courage and clarity.

2007-08-17T03:00:00.000+08:00

i want to go to bali.

2007-08-07T05:43:00.000+08:00

(mid-scowl, lips petulant) i am allergic to your belt.

early juner

2007-08-05T03:15:00.000+08:00

2007-07-30T04:51:00.000+08:00

flight is the flavour of the week.

new happy time

2007-07-25T02:41:00.000+08:00

scrabble and coffee. it is delightfully sedentary, forgiving on the conversation and i've got a set the perfect size to slip around. not endorsing its intellectual benefits though; one month in joe still trashes me by alarming margins and this is jinesh persuading dirk, four months fresh outta germany, that yqistkti is really a kind of modified fedora made from yak wool. pretty english grades doth not a good scrabbler make, no?

2007-07-11T09:01:00.000+08:00

come back and haunt me, follow me home
give me a motive, swallow me whole
today is ours, condemned to be free
free to keep breathing, free to believe
i look to find You, down on my knees
oh, God, i believe, please help me believe.
- switchfoot

2007-07-08T05:11:00.000+08:00

post-work beer and i attempted to say something funny. sam (of motzaratzah cheese and forensic octopussy notoriety), "we nominate you as this bar's representative for emeraldhillgroup's boxing day tell-a-joke competition." lo, sarcasm is emancipated of its literati monopoly!

2007-07-06T12:46:00.001+08:00

2007-07-04T05:13:00.000+08:00

salving my academic conscience via the mandatory design book speed-flipping.

2007-06-29T07:03:00.001+08:00

enough.

write myself a letter, make myself feel better.

2007-06-29T04:56:00.000+08:00

apologies for the slipshod collaging. i bear an awry heart and a weary mind. over supper today i have been annointed by mutual consent the dubious distinction of Beggar Sect Leader.

2007-06-29T04:18:00.000+08:00

lindsay and alex!

2007-06-26T02:55:00.000+08:00

rummaged for colours. quadra-hue dresses. i laid out bottles and tubes of paints in ascending spectrums, grouped prisma pencils into chromatic families and mused the gaudy impressionist renaissance - matisse, monet, sisley, vangogh, gauguin, seurat. then i opened my windows and leaned into the wind, trying to catch the rain with its rainbow prisms of refracted light. it is of no use; a particulary pervasive cast of tan fills my consciousness most adamantly, a beat between sienna and verge d'or. it is the colour of your skin.

It's all about the ending with you, isn't it.
All about waning, things dying, finished, days sputtering into messy dusks.
I don't think you can even look at winter without feeling melancholy with its inevitable end in melting fire, destruction and roses.
You even hover around me where I end; the tips of my fingers,
The corners of my mouth, where my hip bone juts out.
You are a perpetual mourner, looking always at beginnings ended,
Fading sunlight, moans drifting into soft sighs. When you let me go
I'm never certain you will ever drape your arms around me this way again.
You breathe me in as if that air, that piece of me you take inside you,
Has such a limited life.
You smell me as if I am new, as if i am bounded, complete, an island.
You weave goodbye with every breath.

On the way here you were laughing with me, I prattled on
I told you stories, felt your fingers between mine.
Do you know
you have the most beautiful laugh I've ever heard,
the most beautiful mumur against my ear, a voice like lust, like trust, like love.
You stroked my palm with your thumb and I felt the heat of you rise into my face.
But somehow between there and here I lost you.
Long ago I gave up trying to pinpoint the phrase, word, topic, expression, name, idea, belief;
I gave up trying to find the exact semi-tone pitch my voice reaches that makes you turn away from me.
- in dialogia ; ivy blossom and libertine

2007-06-24T04:15:00.000+08:00

my stream of consciousness: it is always summer here, jettysweat, maine coon catteries, drama in the life of a rojakvender, danny ocean, sundaymorning is for languid lie-ins (as is every other morning), the world will roll in ecstasy at your feet - kafka, black coffee, convenient holes, milk on the sunburn, you still smell like flowers, my bed smells like flowers, if i told you a secret you won't tell a soul would you hold it and keep it alive, i love you baby, you are my piquant sweetheart.
it's been a roller weekend.

thyme

2007-06-20T06:00:00.000+08:00

ida bought ice cream for having by the draft machine, at the bar where it seems my main responsibility is feeding the milo vending machine at the back. every evening i anticipate the text which means joe's coming down for dinnerbreak - usually a quick round around the raffles city marketplace and subsequently a metropolitan picnic upon the stone ledges outside starbucks amidst a forest of skyscrapers. at night, the usual suspects drop by if i am lucky; the leprechauns, sheryl and jinesh bearing his exuberant bundles of flouncy locks. my new favourite words: motzaratzah cheese.
and then in a fit of proprietary anxiety i gave the paintbrushes guerilla headbands, my tireless soldiers. mural's due on the thirtieth and i'm barely a sixth complete!

2007-06-17T05:20:00.000+08:00

"how do i stay so crazy you ask."

2007-06-14T08:35:00.000+08:00

(musing the eagle-eye cherry alias, contemplating a flushed visage - above cheeks that blush and contour with all the cherubic tenacity of a petulant blossom, the mostest cunning irises dappled by morning. my breath catching - did you just swallow the world to keep its secrets? it is how you look back from a day in the sun. like an eagle-eyed cherry.)

the daily grind

2007-06-12T12:33:00.000+08:00

my day job. by some misappropriation in scale and overestimation of self-abillity this mural's ended up eighteen metres long and thrice my height. the children've finished their score of painting sessions last week and it's up to me to make it look as unoffensive as it should originally be. sometimes i wonder why the workshop, or me for that matter, even bother about making any pretence of involving the children when we know i'm going to paint the entire blasted affair over again anyway.

night job. playing with the idea of copping out; it puts such a dampener on the evenings.

what the deuce

2007-06-11T05:08:00.001+08:00

2007-06-05T03:54:00.000+08:00