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LEAVING
CORNFLAKES
ON
THE
SOFA
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[Sunday, 07/12/09] |
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2009: my most talkative summer yet. I've been spending so much time sitting outdoors, breathing in muggy Singapore smells - carbon monoxide, cooking oil, drying paint. My smoke, mixing with yours, clinging to us. I water my throat with caramel tea, acrid lime juice - and ask question after question, wanting nothing more than to know, pausing to chew on my straw. The past days have been a whirlwind of going out early, staying out late, boarding crowded and empty buses; everyone's eyes and voices.
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[Tuesday, 07/07/09] |
To celebrate being twenty-one, we went to a porn cinema. It felt like a necessary rite of passage, like teenage boys peer-pressured into visiting blase prostitutes. Afterwards, we even experienced a similar ache of disillusionment. For practical reasons - it being the only film in English - and because it possessed the most promising title, we chose Body Chemistry 4, praying it wasn't the worst of the series. Our tickets read Body Cheristry 4.
We were slightly unnerved, if not surprised, when old men began pouring out of an earlier screening. They mostly wore shorts and loose t-shirts, validating every generalisation made about porn cinema frequenters. One was pulling up his trousers. There was no talking, just nose-picking. I wondered if they were embarrassed by our presence. From the back, the cinema smelled like a toilet sprayed with excessive amounts of disinfectant to mask its years of grime.
Did I enjoy the movie? It could've been more plotless. Whenever I sensed tension between the female leads, I mentally urged them to consummate their mutual hatred, but the couplings were predictable at best; lawyer with his wife, lawyer and femme fatale. I've also developed an aversion towards soft-core pornography. It's perfectly acceptable when subtly inserted in serious films, but should never be a genre on its own. The same way you can't make a career out of stripping if you insist on keeping your trousers on.
A sidenote: I liked the opening music though. Nothing like an ambient saxophone, combined with thunder and lightning, to herald a low-budget erotic thriller.
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[Monday, 06/15/09] |
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I want my own apartment; it'll be small but immaculately designed, with moody lighting and a superior sound system. And I'll invite lots of people over to watch movies or listen to music with me, till late, on my settee; we'll lean on each other beside a paper lampshade. Once in a while we'll turn everything off and talk in the dark. I'll keep a convenient supply of wine, fruit juice, and spare pillows. Because, essentially, this is what I need most: a space filled with friends to be quiet with.
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[Monday, 06/01/09] |
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Guess who's back in town?
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[Friday, 05/29/09] |
( Locked-In Syndrome, 2206 words )
Wrote this last week. It's certainly not my best, but I'm satisfied with it. At this point I feel like my writing is getting too repetitive, so the next I manage to complete should be quite different.
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[Saturday, 05/16/09] |
Today I may have witnessed the worst fashion faux pas of the century, beating even harem pants. I saw a plump blonde girl wearing a short top - with no sight of a suitable bottom. But that happens every day!, you protest. Well, she wasn't wearing leggings, but sheer grey stockings.
They were ripped at the crotch.
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[Tuesday, 05/12/09] |
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Today I thought, very briefly, about apocalyptic cults, and how I empathise with them. I empathise with everyone who believes in an end. We're all going to hell. We're all going to heaven. The scientists say it'll be a meteor, trembling as it approaches its destination. People need a climactic resolution, but I don't believe in one. As I see it, the world will peter out painstakingly; for the longest time, there won't be a dramatic extinguishment, a beautiful nothing, but a teetering, flickering, dying something.
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[Thursday, 04/16/09] |
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I interrupt the long-drawn silence just to say: support the Optimum Population Trust, people. Stop breeding unnecessarily! That aside, a proper update soon.
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| Ezra Pound |
[Sunday, 03/08/09] |
The Garret
Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
Come, my friend, and remember
that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.
Dawn enters with little feet
like a guilded Pavlova,
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of coolness,
the hour of waking together.
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[Wednesday, 02/04/09] |
Scrawled in black marker, on a shop window down the street:
The guy who works here is a fukin BABE!!!! Call me (insert number of hysterical female)
I've always wanted to do that. Not give my number to a stranger who'll label me a raging erotomaniac and promptly switch occupation, but to wantonly, uninhibitedly inform someone of their exquisite beauty. Even better if they have a lowly job.
Anyway, I bought myself a chicken, sundried tomato, pesto and rocket sandwich for lunch at 1 pm, and wondered whether I ought to refrigerate it. Then I remembered the weather.
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