Follow-up to the last post:

Ah, much better now.

Pachelbel Rant

Today's Muse: Cities of Paper

Am slowly, but surely, putting the base into order.

It started Christmas morning, when I awoke with post-its stuck randomly all over the walls where they hadn't been before and fuzzy skin-thing gloves on. Later that crazy, children-and-bouncy-castle-filled day I remembered what transpired the night before, and what the hell I meant by "Irish Blue Beer".

Tell Thalia it's all very well and good to have them fabled bursts of creativity at god knows in the morn, but no use if you conk out immediately afterward at desk. Plus it huuurts.

So, days later, I type this from the floor, with about two dollars to my name. I have just learnt I cannot move any furniture to where I want to until February. I am heartily sick of tip-toeing about Feng Shui sensibilities, and I want soup.

I wrote earlier about being able to "finally keel over and die". HAH. More work has come in. Fine and dandy, I like work.

Which is why in addition to school and the workload planned for next year I have decided to do up the base. And possibly the rest of the house. Get rid of that filthy maternity-ward green her husband picked out. Well, he hasn't set foot in this place, has he, eh? And it doesn't look like he will, hm? And the rest of us have to tip-toe around your moods and live with you so you can fulfill your "all family under one roof" fantasy, eh? EH? WHILE YOU TREAT THE REST OF US LIKE TENANTS, YOU BITTER BITTER PERSON-THING.

And so concludes the annual post-holiday tirade. Thank you and see you next year.

Today's Muse: Rorschach: Fridge Ninja. Y'think he found any of Kyle Rayner's ex's in there?

I love the inter-slice.

And I get my smarts from trying to keep up with 52!

Today's Muse: It's Dry Inside, innit?

It's raining hard, and it doesn't look like it'll stop for the next couple of days. Good weather for tottering about indoors in oversized shirts and soft socks, reading smelly old books and occasionally bursting into melodramatic poetry. On days like this, even Baby will permit us hu-mans to share The Chair with him.

All very well, but I have to leave the house. If I don't purchase my bits and bobs today, I'll never get it done by this week. I'm already dressed for inclement weather, anyway.

But the rain is really heavy, and The Chair looks awfully warm.

I think I'll experiment with that fuzzy yarn today. Until, y'know, the rain lets up.

Today's Muse: Wheezy

Done and done. All my commitments for the year have been seen to. Now, two weeks to work on the the essays for school, the monologue, Hungry props and whatnot, and gifties.

Gifties are sly, nasty little beasts. They contrive to make you feel guilty and inadequate, but when you finally get a hold of one they look like the prettiest things in the moment. Well, not this year. This year I have a plan to secure these vicious things. No last minute dashing about. Nooooo.

I shall require a multitude of feathers, miles of velvety ribbon, nickle buttons and about a gallon of glue.

Prepare to be gifted, hu-mans. EEEEEEEEE.



Of course I have a wishlist. But you know what? Pool the money, and get a couple of trees planted. For US$45, you can get 450 trees planted in a loved one's name. Get a set for every member of the family! You don't want to make anyone feel left out now, do you?


EDIT: Arghgnashfwoosh I forgot about the rehearsals for Megah's pet project. Lordy, will it ever end?

Interestingly enough, this little project is related muchly to the comics-theatre thing that's been bouncing around my skull lately. Still, WILL IT NEVER END?



EDIT THE SECOND:

Well, if you won't get me a couple of trees and help pander to hippy sensibilities at the same time, I suppose the NEXTWAVE: AGENTS OF H.A.T.E. trade will have to do.
Or a copy of Watchmen for my very own.
Or maybe a cookbook.
I'm also looking for an accordion.
Goggles and WWII-era aviator caps are on the list, definitely.
Any TRANSMETROPOLITAN trade besides Vol. 1 and 5 would be good.
A bag, perhaps, not that I need it.
And I certainly don't need that knitted scarf with the candy-coloured pompoms at the end from the same place as the bag, of which I can find no picture.
Another bag, cooeee.
A hat very much like this or this would be lovely, but barring that a couple of skeins of yarn would not be unwelcome, as well as a new 3.5 mm crochet hook.
A sturdy pair of walking shoes like these or these would be very useful. Socks, too. Hobo gloves, mmm.
Clothes for tumbling about, yes. And playing Kremlin.
Funds for transforming the homebase.
And that oversized striped woolly shirt-creature from M&S would fill that gaping hole left by the trees.
(well, that got a little out of control.)

But, yeah, the trees would be better.

Today's Muse: Just Dandy

*Oh, lookit, lookit: The lovely Natalie has opened up a test shop online, where you can find her handmade wire flowers. Go! Spend!


*The closing party for GBM was brillant. In that speshul way that makes small children explode.


*There are small children at the camp I'm conducting drama whatsits at, but they do not explode. They come very close to it, though.

Seriously, the kids - the youngest is five, and the oldest is twelve, I believe - are a riot. At first I was worried I wouldn't be able to keep up with them or keep them interested. I shouldn't have. I'm pretty - dare I say it - good at this large-kid-herds-handling stuff. I've probably jinxed it now. Woo.

It's funny, because the oft-repeated "you've got to take up teaching sooner or later to get by in the industry" is, well, repeated. It's a joke, almost.

But not everyone is suited for teaching.


*Something in Warren Ellis' BAD SIGNAL helped crystallize the ideas and lines I had floating around about comics and theatre. Maybe I'll put it up when I'm done outlining.

Today's Muse: Head. Pillow. Boom.

Got my semester one results in the mail. Honours all round. Whee.

I've steered clear of Friendster, MySpace and what-not. But I have, I'm glad to say, jumped onto the ComicSpace bandwagon. And like Chris of Ghouly Boys writes, I just want to add everyone to the friend horde - they're there because they like comics, just as I do.

At any rate, I'm here. Nothing fancy up yet, though.

GBM ends its run tomorrow night, then it's bump-out immediately, because another show has it's bump-in Monday morning at 6am. Closing party Monday night. Eeeeexcellent.

Then it's a week of scuttling between Yio Chu Kang to help out with Iris' children's camp and school for Hungry rehearsals, as well as finishing up homework.

Then, after all that, I can finally keel over and die.

Today's Muse: Waaay Too Much Pink Than Is Healthy

I found a photo of my old drama class floating around on the internet. Brilliant! I recognize all the faces. They look a lot smaller, younger than I remember them.

God. Good times.

I wonder where they are now.

The Pivo.

I could pretend I was a space pod pilot. Now all it needs is to somehow be able to integrate itself into a mothership. Space-trailer ahoy!

Today's Muse: Bowel Disruptor - Jr Pack

My new Transmetropolitan TPB has real paper pages in it. No gloss, nuffink.

That's pretty awesome.

Today's Muse: Nibble Nibble - The High Point Of Work-a-Day

The more interesting things get, the less I have to say.

Here, that is. If I run into you on the street, I'd talk your ear off. There are just some stories best told in person.

But I want to tell you. I want to share everything that's been going on - the rude jokes I've heard, the people I've met, the accidents I keep getting into. I want to hear you laugh at some of these stories, because I know you'll love them. I want to see you roll your eyes when you hear about how I manage to get hit in the eye with fucking confetti. I want to show you the script I've got here for school; talk to you about the ideas we've got for transitions, and if we're in the dance studio how we're completely screwed. I want to show you the books I found in the bargain bin.

I'm seeing a pattern with the last couple of posts; are you?



I'm working on The Little Company's The Gingerbread Man, for free. I like to think of it as experience gathering. Ma calls it exploitation.

It's ridiculously fun, whether it's watching the cast work, or repairing props, or listening to the tech team chatter over cans while waiting for the house to fill. The past week had me falling into bed still dressed in stage blacks, but now the show has more or less fallen into some sort of rhythm. Some of the people involved - both cast and crew - are already moving on to other projects while GBM is still playing, with people dashing off after the performances to attend readings or auditions or what-not.

It's been a hoot. They're a vivacious, open lot. Even though I'm not getting paid or extra credit for this, I'm definately getting more out of this than I did from the Mediacorp thing. It helps that I actually know why I'm here, what I can do, and what I can't do I can learn. It's... fwoosh bish-bosh-whee!

There is no wing space at the DBS Arts Centre. Throw in the set with the high platform, the poky mousehole and whatnot - ppfft. You practically have to press yourself against the walls, and hope you don't trip any cables or buttons.

They throw a lot of stuff offstage. Eee-hee.

And the kids! They're pretty much part of the show. Oh, some of the answers they yell back. Today's audience was especially sweet - shushing Cuckoo during his song because the other characters were napping.

And there's no subsitute for that moment in the wings, in the dark, the house holding its collective breath, just before lights go up and tick-tick-tick starts the show...


Hungry rehearsals go slowly. The more we delve into the play the more complex things seem to get. Are we in over our heads? Sometimes it feels like that. Are we going about preparing for this show in the right way?

Are the stakes high enough?

Sometimes it feels like a solid "No."


This house ought to have more cake. That would make everything loads better.

Today's Muse: Can you slap a copyright on an internet meme?

My God. It's nice being busy.

It does seem like I've more to do now that school's out. Just today: Hungry rehearsals in school in the morning, looking for a gift for Laura (the loveliest I've known) whilst navigating the shopping district in the rain, then a bus ride up to Tampines for dinner at Fazri's, an insane bus-train-bus trip back to town for GBM rehearsals (where Joyce nearly got crushed by the MRT doors), then some weird shit at Clark Quay into the wee hours.

Now home to read and write essay-like things. And look at Hungry designs. Just look.

It's fantastic having so much going on. So much to do, to say, to see.

There's something to be said for running screaming after a bus with like-minded people. For painting silly titchy flowers on a purple teapot while they sing and dance in the next room. For pulling off one's sweater in the middle of the store in the name of finding a present. For sneaking around looking for empty studios to practice in. For walking out of a library with eight books and that silly, materalistic vibe one gets with an armful of books. For Freudian slips. For pretending to beat the shit out of each other and getting graded for it. For putting your name down first on a brand-new sign-up sheet for performance practice. For cinema antics. For Doctor Who discussions. For making lists that couldn't possibly convey how wonderful and stressful and gnaw-worthy the past couple of months have been.

D'aww, I'm all sappy noooow.

My eye! There is pus! Like brain is seeping out through socket!

It'd be kinda cool if it didn't hurt so much.

Today's Muse: Process Recess

Well, that went by quickly.

It's almost ridiculous, everything that's seen and done since school began. And it's been only, what, sixteen weeks? Sixteen weeks.

Sixteen weeks.

New names. New ideals. New frustrations.

New me?

I missed you today.

I was up at 3am working, and all of a sudden I realised it was November. I'm delightfully occupied, I know where I'm going, and I've found people to be fond of. And I don't miss you.

And I miss that.

Today's Muse: Eisenstein - missing from the books

So, an evening spent at a music showcase, with much of it being 'experimental', self-serving, high-pitched squealing, in the company of... gahwhydoIeventry. Sat through two hours of that just to hear five minutes of the headliner, which admittedly was okay. (last time I keep an open mind.)(my writing, she stinks.)

So, painful walk home because I landed wrong during practice. Back to a house fast asleep, fumble in the dark, and oh I think my belly's about to 'splode.

So, I walk in and am greeted by an upset cat, demanding his night snack, fresh(er) water, and nothing less than my undivided attention.


It's nice being wanted.

I'm not quite sure what to feel.

I watch you try, desperately, to be one of the boys. I watch you try to be funny, be rude, be bold. I see you frightened and nervous and trying so hard to hide it and I want to do something, something to help.

But do you want help?

Sometimes I want to smack you so hard for being so stupid about things. You're so insecure about yourself it makes me want to scream. Whenever someone pays you a compliment, you don't know what to do - you try to brush it off as though you think, who'd be dumb enough to like me?

You don't listen. You behave as though you're expecting people to insult you, so you do it first. But making rude, brash comments doesn't endear you to people; you don't appear witty or smart. Just boorish.

It pains me, seeing you force your laughs.

I'm very fond of you, but you can be very hard to like, sometimes.

Today's Muse: Boil

I was up most of last night reading Brecht's journals, and when I woke up later it felt like my brain had attempted to crawl out my nose. "Nooo! Why do you do this to meeee!"

I like Brecht. I just need to justify slipping the time spent reading up on him under "ac. writ. research".

I was going to write something lovely and long about MEEE, but the Matrix is on tv.


Oh God I think my cat just broke something.


EDIT: I cut my hair, by the way.

EDIT2, a bit later: I never got that. Posts that go "I got my hair cut" and just that. No pictures, no interesting anecdotes about how the hairdresser nearly took your ear off or how you walked out smelling curiously of mutton. It fills me with the same fustration as reading "15% longer!" on a box of sanitary pads, beacause your next immediate thought is exactly how long is 15% longer supposed to be and how is that a selling point and if 15% is that long then how does one wear this extra-long pad without it sticking out of your pants, somehow?

So, anyhoo, I cut my hair and now it is quite short.

Today's Muse: Distraction.

Hungry cast. Group issues look sorted. Blocking begins tomorrow.

Exceeeellent.


It'd be perfect if I wasn't so distracted. I don't think I've ever wanted to kill someone so badly before. Gnash.

Today's Muse: Bill's "Dark Lady"

I came across an amusing article while preparing for Tuesday's quiz (Psychoanalysis - Go me for finishing them Penguin Freud anthologies back when I shoulda been studying A.Math!).

Apparently, infatuation is "an attraction to a person who combines the worst traits of our parents/primary childhood caretakers, the negative traits we ourselves possess but refuse to acknowledge, traits we find attractive but are repressed due to our upbringing, and 'infatuating traits that society denies our gender' (Whatever that means.)"

Can you tell me why I found this funny enough to snort milk across the screen? Eh? Eh? Ppfft I dunno either.



Ooh, I feeel just lurverly, and it's not because of the cough syrup. Tomorrow is the first reading/meeting o' departments for this SHOW I've been lucky enough to attach meself to. There goes my holiday, but I never liked the slimy thing. Yay dark theatres and blinding lights and funky-smelling props!

Also, my essay is definitely on track. I've finally settled on a title, and the essay is slowly taking shape. I plan to hole myself up in M working on it between lessons. The IBM may be wonky, but at least it's light.

Next three weeks are going to be bluppt. Gamelan exam, Dance, Stage Combat, the SHOW, the other SHOW...

Tally ho!

Today's Muse: "Oh Mother help me I'm looking for..."

We've been divided into groups, to put up a short play of our choosing. Understandable friction. No fear. Passion for script settled on overrides everything.

Local theatre does tend to be very symbolic. So, despite reservations voiced after our initial reading, I still believe this will work. The dialogue is meandering; the short scenes, like MTV clips, often hinge on a single, arresting image or idea. Which reflects the setting of the play; all the characters are trapped in limbo, and seek only food to fill non-existent bellies.

I admit, I am more excited about the look of the play than actually performing. We have full control over direction, design and so on, and we've plunged into it with the glee of Tubby leaping into a tub o' ghee. Much of this, I think, will hinge on visual cues - the dead god's startled, jerky movements; the skeleton puppet-person (if all goes well); the planned lighting...

I'm very vague, no? For some reason I'm hesitant to put up the actual title of the play. I'm afraid of, of what? Of judgement? Of losing my enthusiasm?

Very drowsy. Damnable cough syrup. Better way. Must be a better way.


I don't know if you can tell, but I'm really quite happy.

Flying

Amy, silly pet, snuggled somewhere in my heart and probably gnawing at one of the important arteries.

Today I bore witness to a shameful display of ego and unprofessionalism.

Leaves a foul taste in the mouth and a twitchy feeling in the fist, you know?



In other news, I'm still not sure what to say, but, hey, neither does the other. And that makes me happy, in a vague, blurry sort of way.

In an empty, comforting sort of way.

Today's Muse: This ache just behind my eyeball

Okay, flu bug. Either fry my brain with a fever or fuck orrrf. None of this namby-pamby runny nose shit, where I have to sit in lectures sneezing and feeling like a right nob. Gimme the headache! The dizzy! Make it impossible for me to string together a coherent sentence! Make it so I can't possibly attend school!

None of this halfway crap. A runny nose and a cough that sounds like my throat's dislodged, but otherwise the rest o' me works just fine? C'mon, bug! Render me helpless or sumfink!

Well, balls to you too.

I don't know what to say.

I don't like this.

EDIT:

"What words ensnare?-captivate-enchant-rape-suggest-amuse-interest-stun...

(To her) Lovely day!"

Steven Berkoff

Lunch

Today's Muse: Ham. Cured Ham.

A few years back Ma proposed making temple visits a regular affair, like them church-going folks. It was discussed, plans were made for the following Sundays. It never really took off, though.


So, today we went.

We parked on the slope, walked past all the boarded-up shophouses to the gate. A little man with rotting fingernails came up with his palms pressed to each other and asked for two dollars, just two dollars so he could go see the doctor. The money was given. Amituo Fo, Amituo Fo.

Whenever we go to the temple, my parents take every opportunity to point out whatever and offer a brief history or cultural lesson. "There, that's a carving of Buddha when he was just born. See, his fingers? One pointing to Heaven, one to Earth." "Do you know who these people are? The Aluohan, The Arhats."

And Kim and I nod and say, yes, we know. We know. We've devoured the books, the scriptures, the children's introductory comics. We know the Arhats, the thirteenth Master. And we're unfailingly polite here, for some reason. But once we get back in the car it's free for all.

As we walked along the granite carvings depicting stories (Sun Wukong, Monkey King, battling Princess Iron Fan) various animals, mythical and real, always in pairs for some reason, I think about sharing this world. With someone else, you know? Bringing an outsider in and pointing and saying "There, the Buddha when he was just born. He walked twelve steps, and every step in the dirt he made, sprung a lotus."

But I feel like an outsider, myself. In the hall with the statues and offerings of flowers and fruits, I'm either too young or too old. There are less people now, kneeling with their prayer beads or just sitting and talking with each other. They're mostly elderly people. When I walk into the kitchen there are children, young, young children, in Pokemon t-shirts and flip-flops.

I can't read the books in the library. I can't carry a conversation - I can't speak Chinese, or dialect.

I love this world, but I can't paticipate, other than light a joss stick and bow three times.


That may soon change, though.

Earlier this year the entire family went to the large, sprawling temple up. There, a Buddhist Youth group were handing out flyers, friendship bands. Something I was familiar with, what with attending a Christian school most of my stay in Singapore. But it made me slightly uncomfortable; I didn't see youth camps and meetings with Buddhism.

Is this where Buddhism is going? Away from the open-air kitchens and bald lightbulbs and the red halls and tables groaning with fruit and candles and the gold-painted statues and the chanting and the tapes and the

I don't know how I feel about it.

Apathy, maybe.

Buddhism, religion.

I don't pray, really.

To watch:

Michel Gondry's The Science of Sleep

Terry Gilliam's Tideland

Zhang Yuan's Little Red Flowers

My head hurts something terrible.


I reeeally don't know what's going on, but I'm no fun to play with, oh no.

Today's Muse: Wit, Or Lack Of It

My desktop luvvie died. For good. Last night, while I tried to finish up the outline for Wednesday's presentation. So, today during the bloody 4-hour break we have between Movement/Dance and Performing Analysis, I fried my ovaries with Laura's Mac. Of course I had it on my lap. It was Laura's.

I've set up me Da's old IBM ThinkPad; you know, the sort that still has the slow-scroll-load thingie that kills the eyes? It chugs along at a decent speed, and I've downloaded the bare essentials. Good enough for essaying. [I just realised my essay for Ac. Writ. wasn't backed up. Ppfft.]

Speaking of essaying: Two weeks into the new resolution and already I'm lagging. I'll get something up; been reading Steven Berkoff, and God the things he sends me brain into.

So, for now, random links:

Girls do fucking like geeks, you matyrs! - Alex A. reflects, complete with momentary burst of rage.

Doomsday: 21st December, 2012? - According to certain interpretations of the Mayan calender.

Banksy L.A. Exhibition - Stencils, Booze, Elephants (Why am I not there?)

And Lord Hair introduces his son and heir, Prince Hair - Because I NEVER get tired of the intergalatic dictator.


PS: Damnit, when is The Science of Sleep gonna open here?

Today's Muse: Blessed hum and whir and trudge

After a scary couple of days the laptop appears to be working again. Nearly peed meself in terror at the prospect of all the documents and videos gone.

Bloody cat, knocking it into its end.



Yesterday, during Scene Prep we tried something very different from what we usually do in class. Just discussed what we thought goes into a good and riveting scene.

Irksome: argument for the sake of it. Nnngh.

Was divided into smaller groups. Had to come up with a scene, keeping in mind what happened before it and what was to happen after (motivation).

Whenever tasked with something like this, I tend to start gibbering. But that's good; spewing nonsensical phrases which the group might take and bounce off from there. Stuff like: Monkeys. Before the white flag. No gravity. Talking to superheroes in your head. Subway mob. Kittypillars. Ka-boosh.

Then, as a group, we just start improvising. We jump straight into the scene, and see what happens. And it's both great fun and incredibly liberating - usually we come up with loads of ideas and peel back to get the final product (Which, isn't really final until after we've performed it).

Once, when the group was stuck, I wandered around and pulled a school desk over, and jumped on it like a monkey. Almost at once another member threw himself in front of the desk, and mined death throes. And the others joined in, and we were off.

Improv. Sitting down and talking about it - no. I'm very fond of saying, "Lets just try it and see what happens.", as one lovely pointed out.

With Scene Prep, we started out with a girl simply talking to two imagined people, weirding a bystander out. And with each improv, the story evolved - the imagined people became the personifications of the girl's more extreme personality traits; the bystander became a writer looking for an interesting case; the girl had just come from a humiliating experience...

But even as we performed it, it was still evolving. The writer became an awkward fellow. I played him, and it seemed, at that point, so very natural to keep my hands in my pockets and fiddle with my collar. I didn't have to think about stumbling over my words; it came easily. The oversized shirt I used as a jacket suddenly became a way to hide myself - but as the conversation with the girl progressed, it was allowed to fall open.

I'm not quite sure what it was. As I think about it now, I'm not quite sure if I was simply showing the character or being him. Or just being myself.

Matt, the teach, asked us why we cross-gendered. We hadn't really thought about it, to tell the truth. The one guy in the group, played the frightened, child-like personification at first. As part of the improv process he switched roles and played the writer for a bit, before concluding that, hey, his reactions to the girl seemed more along the lines of the child. So, he went back. I'm being terribly vague.

I guess, we cross-gendered because it felt like it would work well like that.

Matt said it worked for him, and I think the class concurred. That was nice, feeling like you've really done good in that class, after the first couple of presentations you did being so... not good.



Today, Marium and I raided the SGST FLEE! Market. I found lovelies galore, going for so very little. Glee.

The highlight of that little escapade, I think, was finding the suede clutch going for just three dollars. Blood red, and superb lining.

I'm easy pleased, I am.

Today's Muse: Cataglottis. Diaspora. Subaltern. Oh, I do like big words.

It's the game, the chase.

It's the fact that the ploy worked, and that, hey, never had that string o' numbers in the first place.

And we both know it, and we're both know that the other knows it, and we're both pretending that we don't know it because that's the whole point.

I missed this game.

I just looked at my calender and realised I have about six weeks to finish that essay, and I haven't done a whit of solid research. Gnash.

Where on earth did I put that The Beckett Project flyer?

EDIT: Oh. It's stuck to my wall.

Glands

It is snowing.

I have a coat. This is important. A long, yellow coat, with smart cuffs, deep pockets. I reach into a pocket and finger something sticky - I don't know what it is, but it comforts me.

I am standing on the edge of a palm tree plantation, the one one sees when one takes that long, long drive to Peneng from Singapore. But the trees no longer look small and stumpy and sad; they tower over me, miles away. The way their leaves weave with each other to block out the sky is both menacing and comforting. I walk this way and that, leaving my prints in the snow.

My feet feel sticky in my shoes, and this comforts me.

The palms, despite being so tall, have trunks about as thick as street lamps. I walk along a row, six steps forward, tap a palm, another six steps forward, another palm. There is a light up ahead. I continue on in this manner, six steps, tap, six steps, tap.

As I draw closer, I see a girl sitting in the snow, her knees to her sides and feet behind her. She's long - not tall - her neck, her arms, her fingers. She's hunched over, looking like a poor stretched doll, as though someone had grabbed her head and feet and pulled her out of shape. She's balding.

The source of light is from a candle, hung upside-down, the cord tied to its base vanishing into the canopy. The flame still burns as it would if the candle was the right way up, though, and I want to throw up.

The girl tells me her story.

She was a child taken by the fair folk, to raise as their own. She was happy. One day she stumbled, and fell out of that world, and back into this one. And her body, previously content to remain as it was, began to swell and grow.

And one day, her insides felt like they'd been battered to mush, and it must have been so, because she began to bleed.

I tilt my chin forward, and I see the red snow she's sitting in. It smells foul.

Here I become confused.

On the first path, I help her stand, and I walk her away from the congealing blood, away from the horrible candle, and I walk her all the way home. I sit her on the toilet. I teach her that they call pads "feminine napkins", and that they should be put in a separate bag when we're out for groceries. She grows up, and the bin occasionally plays host to neat little bundles wrapped discreetly in plastic and bagged just to be sure.

And I marry her, and we live happily ever after ever.

On the other path, I stand there in the snow, with the palms glowering over me, and watch as the blood seeps through the snow and around my shoes. I watch her shivering in the cold, and I feel my shoulders swell to fill the yellow coat. I can't get it off, and I know she needs it, but it won't come off.

And I turn on my heel and I walk away. My feet are sticky, and it comforts me, just a little. I reach into my pocket and finger something sticky in my pocket, and I pull it out.

It's a red sweet wrapper, and this comforts me.

00

I'm starting last year's resolution now. Every week I'll write a short piece, and put it up here. So if I miss a week, would you lot please publicly shame me?
I'm a rubbish writer, no matter how you slice it. This is an attempt to get better at it. Here goes.

I would really appreciate any constructive criticism. Tell me I'm rubbish, tell me about the tenses mistake in para 3, talk to meee.

Today's Muse: Giblets

Oorgh. My insides are a right mess. Pain!


Oof. During the day I think of all sort of subjects I'd like to touch on here, but when I actually sit down here I can't recall anything interesting, other than the state of my giblets.

We celebrate the mundane:

I've been following DC's 52, an ongoing series that's supposed to fill in the missing year between Infinite Crises and One Year Later.

For you lazy knob hyper-linkin' haters, the recap:

In Infinite Crises, Superboy-Prime punched the timestream. Oh, he killed Superboy too. You know, the one with the bad haircut back in the nineties? Plus, Joker killed the Luthor with hair. Oooh yeah.

In One Year Later, it's wiggy.

But I like 52, or at I like what I can get off the internet. They killed Booster Gold, sure, but Skeets is still around! And of Week 19, what with the "It's all his fault!" and Skeets trapping Booster's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather in a time loop AND Skeets talking in a HUMAN speech bubble and not the electronic one and saying "HE KNOWS"...

Cue RANDOM SPECULATION!


I am now eating cake. It is chocolate cake with pink icing. It is very good, but I know I will be in even more pain afterwards.

I desire more cake.

Today's Muse: Victorious

In your face, phone company! You may have suceeded in keeping me from the inter-slice for nearly a week now, but I have SUCEEDED and I have connection! Again!

UP YOURS, TOOTHY!


Also: Are yooou in looooove?

Because I like bosoms.

Today's Muse: Golden The Pony Boy

I'm a handsome muthafuka, and y'all know it


BABY'S COMING HOME.


Oh yeah, Kim's moving back in, too.

Today's Muse: I Am A Stinky Piggy

vicki's everyday shoes

2004 - 2006

Faithful and True Until The Deluge

Today's Muse: Soggy Tennis Balls

Thank you, Jo, for not drawing attention to me tearing. I'm sorry I imagined bashing your head in with the drumming stick-things. To be fair, I imagined throwing the various bits of the Bonang Barung at everyone else, because I am petty.

Thank you, Spenc, for the silly shit you were pulling during class.

Thank you, Aaron, for reminding me it's only Gamelan and getting yourself hit with a tennis ball.



You know, at this rate I might as well take up crack, what with the highs and the crashing.

Gah! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS FRIDAY IS?

Today's Muse: My Ancient Creaky Joints, For I Am Ancient That Way.

Watched The Beckett Project on Sunday, which was brill. The sheer stamina and control the actors displayed was enough to get me all fired up again; most welcomed after the shit I did on Friday for Scene Prep.

The Beckett Projectwas comprised of four short plays by Samual Beckett. The first one, Mouth, immediately had me sitting up. A single, intense spot was focused on the actress' mouth - which was all you could see of her - as she spoke at bullet-train-derailed-and-out-of-control speed. Every single word was crisp and clear as day. The result was squinty-pain, but in a gooood way. I understood every word and every image that jabbering, rapid-quick mouth was enuciating, but before my brain fully processed the information and filed it away properly the mouth was spewing more, more, too fast, too fast!

Absurd Wheeeee!

Perhaps it was the simplicity of the set, or the intimacy of the Theatre Studio, but I was more interested in the lighting design then I usually am. The quickfire spot movements for Play; the whimsical window motif employed in the final play Rockaby...

I want to do it all.

Tech, Acting, Creation... But fees. And time. And specialisation.
Bah, I'll find a way.

Ran into an old DramaplusArts member. I used to beat him up. Hm. Perhaps I should apologise.

Today: Crazee Monday. For some strange reason I offered to treat anyone who wanted one to an ice lolly. The entire table put up their hands.

D'aww.


Need to find cash for Bouncers!

Today's Muse: Puff the Magic Dragon!

There's a foundation student the music boys call Jesus. I expected something satirical, a savant-esque joke of sorts.

But, nooo. They call him that because when he lets down his hair he's apparently the splitting image of the one true saviour.

There's another chap who deals with the "Luke Skywalker!" and "I am your faaather" jokes with blank looks.

Sometimes, between classes, if you hang out at the Performing building, you can watch the Fine Art and Design students appear in the small field armed with bubble-blowers.

We watched Royston Tan's 15 and a couple of funny commercials yesterday, as part of the semiotics lecture. Woo, test next week.

Today, Michael gave us a crayon each and told us to design a costume for the play we're studying on the spot.

I stepped over the Bonang Barung by accident during Gamelan. The instruments haven't been blessed, but you never know. Gah.

The PEOPLE.

Have I mentioned the pure AWESOME that is LASALLE?

Today's Muse: Eau de Babeh

" Students will arrive with many techniques for avoiding the pain of failure. John Holt's How Children Fail gives examples of children learning to get around problems. If you screw your face up and bite on your pencil to show you're 'trying', the teacher may write out the answer for you. (In my school, if you sat relaxed and thought, you were likely to get swiped on the back of the head.)

[snip]

For example, many students will begin an improvisation, or a scene, in a rather feeble way. It's as if they're ill, and lacking in vitality. They've learned to play for sympathy. However easy the problem, they'll use the same old trick of looking inadequate... makes everyone fed up with them.

[snip]

No one has sympathy with an adult who takes such an attitude, but when they were children it probably worked. As adults they're still doing it. "

Impro, Keith Johnstone

It's a remarkably easy read, Impro. Johnstone writes like he's actually explaining his ideas and methods to you in person, as opposed to simply documenting them. And he's very charming.

To Do:
1. Notebook. [Tech, P. Analysis, Gamelan]
2. Voice Journal Comics. [L.1 layout done. L.2, L.3 - plan lay by Friday, L.4 tmr]
3. Gingerbreadman Set painting. [+ costuming]
4. Scrub locker.
5. Insult list.
6. Buy 10mm crochet hook. [Spotlight 50% thing going down]
7. Ask Jo about Gamelan prac room
8. Add status game overlay to Scene Prep presentation
9. Learn to tell time

Put it up so you lovely can nag me and thus get work done. Like, something smart-like, no.

Gah, it's 1am and I have Voice later. Bbluppt.

Today's Muse: Something something something

Boom.

EDIT: I know I've been tagged to do various things, but I have no idea who tagged me and what I'm to do. So ppfft.

This is what I've been spending weekends doing:

Tickets are $15 each

You know how to find me.

If you don't, leave a comment and this obstacle will magically dissolve into - gasp! - thin air!

PS: I love you all. Especially you.

Yes, I know, I used a picture like this last year. But hey, I took enough (with him in various poses) to last several National Days.

That's me being Singaporean.

Today's Muse: Awake

Holy guacamolee I am loving this. I've finished my essay for now, I'll probably be editing it until the last minute. Open-ended questions, feh.

Quick, someone give me more dodgy homework!


EDIT: Realised I do have more homework, for voice later this morning. Colouring in the spine and ribs. And me without a single colour pencil in the house.

I wonder if crayons will do?

Today's Muse: Nnngh My Eyelid Won't Stop Twitching

We're already smack centre, chups.

Look at it this way: Although it's only been two weeks, assesment is in five weeks. That's five lectures or rehearsals for each component.


I have an essay due Monday. "What is Art?"

Fucksicle on a stick!

EDIT:

"Everyone working in theatre has a streak of idealism, a yearning for perfection, and a tendency towards single-minded pursuit of their personal specialty.

Everyone, in the nicest possible way, is in it for grabs."

Francis Reid

The Staging Handbook

What he said.

School so far is filled with pure AWESOME. So great is this AWESOME that to even begin to describe it reduces one to a gibbering mess; causing one to lose control of one's bowels periodically.

I hope no one notices the smell anytime soon.

Today's Muse: Still along the lines of RAPP RAPP RAPP

I wandered into the comic section and felt so disillusioned.
Curious.

Why am I not at comic-con? No, don't answer that, just let me wobble a bit. Wobble.

Not even those amusing rating communities cheered me. Read Jung. Still in a funk. Ought to write out proper sentences. Oh dear. Why am I not in San Diego, getting into trouble with the rest of 'em? Itchy. Should go and do laundry. Argh I just fucked up my shoulder. Argh.

Let's try this again.

You ever have one of those days when you wake up and everything, and I do mean everything suddenly takes on new meaning - double meanings - triple meanings? You're walking down the street and you can't stop seeing the poetry in every bloody little thing. The careless way the guard holds his rifle at the pearly gate. The light glinting off the cars whizzing past. How a tree branch seems to frame the sky. How you slip and nearly land in the mud. And you can't turn it off! You just keep waxing lyrical about fuck-all.

And your brain seems to be floating at least a mile up above your skull, and you bump into lamps and small children and you can't stop smiling and generally giving off creepy vibes. And small children pee in their fright at your creepiness. PEE.

But! You wander into the comic section and your brain comes crashing back to earth. SPLAT. SPOOSH. PWISHOOM.

And you come home and try to put it all into words and you read what you've written and realised it's a load of crap but publish it anyway and go off to do the laundry like you should have.

Today's Muse: RAPP RAPP RAPP

Crazeee week.

Car died. Too expensive to fix. Scrapped. Ma fell, hurt her knee. She's zen about it. Niece Tara was hospitalized. Nothing serious, just for observation. She had a ball of a time. Baby niece, bad constipation. Feverish. Da on edge. Kim stinky feet. Me trying to figure the difference between the System and the Method. Car car car fight fight rargh.

Oh yeah, orientation.

"We expect you to want to change the world."

What you said, babeh!

Classes start proper next week. Twenty-four theatre students in Foundation. Hmm.
So much for an introspective post.

Today's Muse: Pan Left, zoom in on the steeple of the church

You know, I can put MSI or the Seventh on at full blast (in my futile bid to strike back at the dude downstairs with EVERY FUCKING radio compilation ever spewed) and for the niece to dance to, and no one bats an eyelid.

Then I put on the RENT soundtrack and people come down to my floor asking me to turn it down.

But - Nnngh, I can't get enough of that thing. So, suffer, family!


Hm.

Okay: At the end of last week LASALLE calls and asks if I'd like to take part in a last-minute workshop conducted by a foreign lecturer who was in town to take part in the women's theatre - can't remember the name - festival. Naturally I jumped at it.

It's a bit surreal; watching Christina speak in Italian gesturing violently, then turning to Bruna for the translation. They're part of a theatre company with rather unconventional methods: None of their plays are scripted or plotted. Instead, a series of improv exercises are used and are built upon each other until they... until they have enough for a performance.

Emphasis is put on using only the body. No interacting with the wall, the floor, other people, imagined and mimed objects. Convey the story using just expressions and movements. It's a lot more difficult than it sounds... How does one show the need for attention without pandering to an audience of some sort? How does one laugh at something if there's nothing to be laughed at?

Conventional movements and expressions are frowned upon. Don't show you're happy just by smiling. Swing your arms! Roll around on the ground! Gurgle like a baby!

And the story, the story... What was it that Christina said? "It does not matter if the audience does not understand. What is important is the movement, the things you do matter to you. To the actor. It must signify something important to you."

She likened it to Pablo Picasso's deconstruction of the human face. I don't know exactly how to put it into words. But at that moment, with Christina's face like a rubber band and thin, wiry arms waving around, constantly resting in her grey mane - "Like a lion!" thought I - you get it. You don't understand, but you get it. Do you understand that?

Ach. I'm still not sure where this is going. It's both unsettling and exciting. Who knows what'll happen in the next two days?

There's a great exercise we do before we dive into the improv bits. Working on reaction. Conditioning the body to react instinctively, instead of stopping to think about it. BOOM! Jump! BOOM! Get down! BOOM! Fucking ace, man.

Man, that was vague.


Ten theatre foundation students so far, ranging in age from 17 to 26. One has a driver's license and a huge vehicle. Sweet.

Three days to orientation. Woo bweee. Two weeks to the recital. Woo fuckery.

Today's Muse: La Vie Boheme!

"Be careful what you wish for."

AHH HAHAHA HAHA HAAA HA. I spit on you.

School did start a week early! Whee!

Ah fuck I'll do something later.



Two Days Later

I told you I'd do something.

Holeee shit.

The Amazing Screw-On Head is a cartoon?

It looks so good.

Oh man, I haven't seen Rogue look this awesome in ages. Bow chicka-chika wow.

Today's Muse: HAIL ME!

I did something stupid today.

Eeeeheeeheehee.


EDIT:

Well, that's the ivelostcountactually time some one's told me that LASALLE-SIA is tosh.

Although my intial reaction is to yell "BALLS!" and tackle them in a fit of rage one can only learn from comic books ("I love you!" "RAAAAARRR!" *fling!* ") , I supress it. I pause, and think: Am I really justified in attacking the other person? Okay, I don't really look all that dignified thinking that - my eyes tend to gloss over the same way they do when I break my brain.

I haven't even begun classes at LASALLE (And I'll keep the caps, thank you). I haven't a clue what it'll be like. The opinions on why it's tosh range from "Oh. It sucks" to "After attending their performing arts showcase, I feel that it is infinitely inferior to the stature of So-and-so school's drama club". Even if I were to defend LASALLE, I can't really think of anything to retort with other than "Nuh-uh, it doesn't" which makes me wonder why I bother to read so much.

I could have gone to a Junior College of my choice, kept drama as a CCA or even offered it as an subject. But I chose LASALLE. Not NAFA, not a JC. Why?

Because I didn't want to.

It's as simple as that.

Between going through rote learning for another two years to ultimately sit for yet another major exam and taking a giant leap into pursuing something I am so passionate about full-time and not as a sideline to be pushed aside for more "important" activities like "studying" - The choice is easy, no?

And in LASALLE what I love best is the studying.

I could have gone through JC, gotten my 'A' Level certification and THEN enrolled in LASALLE, with the cert as a "fallback". I was encouraged to choose this route; also to use the time to consider going into the arts. This was an option I took pretty seriously. Was I really sure about pursuing acting - and all to do with it - as a career?

Impatience won out. I loved the stage, on it and off, and if I could get started quicker on that road, why the fuck not?

And after LASALLE, where to?

Who can tell? I have a bunch of information books from schools in Australia, with way too many post-its in 'em. I keep smelly old articles on various art programmes in universities. I devour blogs by students at some of these schools, and blogs by people who are living the stage, in one way or another.

I read loads of comic books, too.

I don't know what LASALLE will be like. Some nights I stay up worrying about it - with so that much talent in one room, will I stand out? Will I get along with people there?

Will I be happy?

But hey, the future's the future, and I'm not regretting my choice.


Occasionally I do feel something close to it, though, when I hear or read about what some of my ex-school mates are up to in their new places. Some of them have done so much, and I'm just here. Waiting.

Ahhh, feck it. This year I have:

1. being a back-up singer with the rest of Vox for Rock Opera - and that was awesome in so many ways: seeing the huge soundstage backstage of the Esplanade; singing my heart out at the finale with everyone else; the mints! Who can forget the CHEWER? And on the Vox note the weekly rehearsals. Woo. Balls.

2. attempted to build a robot, and learnt loads of useless miscelly in the process

3. discovered all sorts of music aside from the stuff you hear on the car radio

4. finally got round to demolishing the reading list - why is Don Quixote is always checked out?

5. pierced my ears. Annnnnd still no end in sight.

6. seen Mediacorp from the dirty, boring, grimy inside

7. finally seen Tiananmen Square

8. stayed in a boutique hotel in the heart of Hong Kong - Go connections!

9. read an eloquent poem of protest graffiti'd on the pavement

10. immersed myself into the comic world - it's gotten so bad I can't write a decent story unless I picture it in comic form.

11. etc.

I don't think it's being such a waste of a year. I've picked up a couple of skills, corresponded with a bunch of cool people, thought a lot.

And while we're counting, this is the againlostcount time I'm online past 1am. Damnit. So much for New Year Resolutions.

Today's Muse: Woo Fooking Hell 'n All That Tosh. Tits.

Ahhahahahahaha. Ha. Hahaha.

So, I managed to keep away from the teasers for the first two Spiderman movies, and yes, I thoroughly enjoyed them.

So, I clicked on the link to the teaser for the third installment, because I figured: Hey, the first two weren't bad, so what's the harm?

So, even though I know that a lot of work has gone into it, and the people behind it love the comic mythos as much as I do (Though I reserve my comments on the clone saga) and so on and so forth...

The Black Spidey outfit looks shot to shit.

It's just that, that teeny, weeny little detail that rankles me. Otherwise everything looks fantastic (Even forgiving the very un-Eddie-Brock-like Topher Grace, who might have made a snark-tas-tic Spidey, if you think about it).


And while I'm geeking out here, I'm not too fond of where the Chamber story is going. There's a pic floating around showing him as a younger version of... uh, ol' blue lips. I'm really sorry if I spoilt it for you. Unless you have no idea who blue lips is, anyway. In which case you are stupid and I hate you.

What is up with the Chamber's char designs anyway? Every appearance he has he seems to get more and more ripped. Okay, so I subscribe to the "his body is dead and being used as fuel by the psionic bikinetic whole long list of made-up sciency words thing in him. But it makes sense, dinnit? If he doesn't eat, there is no raw material with which to build up body mass. Unless the psionic energy sun contained within him was converting the by-psonic-energy that he was absorbing from other people. Which, is possible, if we go with the converting his dead body into fuel. Who's to say it isn't a two-way reaction?

But if we are to see Chamber's psionic sun reacting as fire would... Both give off heat and light energy - and the heat energy can be translated into kinetic energy (when he 'splodes). Both need fuel (Fire - wood, oil, babies. Psionic sun - Jono's dead body mass). Fire consumes oxygen, psionic sun consumes inhearent psionic energy from other living organisms.

In conclusion, Jono cannot put on body mass, and is more likely to have it steadily declining. His hair will not grow. His nails will fall off. His body will decay.

He is a mutant zombie - with mind intact.

Which brings us to another interesting point: Many believe that Jono will eventually shed his body - the "chamber" which encases the psionic sun - or at least have his body consumed entirely by the psionic sun. What then, of his consciousness? Will it escape along with the energy? How does it even function now, with his body and thus his brain clearing decaying? Is it even confined to his brain?

If the existence of "psionic" energy is to be believed in Jono's universe, then it is simple: His consciousness, like everyone else, is simply psionic energy. But how does it keep separate from the rest of the psionic energy in the convoluted mess that is his mutation? Why does it not dissipate?

Naturally Jono has telepathic potential. Is that why? Why am I talking about this? What am I doing? I'm supposed to be doing something useful. Oh, there goes the yelling. Have I been on that long?

Oh comic science, you.


I just read JJJ's reaction to Spidey's unmasking in Civil War. What, no aneurysm?

Today's Muse: German playing over and over and over and gaaah

You ever have one of those moments when you finish reading the internet cover to cover and then you go to your own little borrowed slice of the the inter-web and suddenly have the urge to type at the online world, "You're stupid"?

Well. Yeah.


On Monday I had to make a trip to LASALLE to drop off a couple of things and get my student card done. I have change buses at the convulated Bugis Street to get there, plus I'm still not quite sure when to get off. Once I got off too early, mistaking the Association for the Deaf for it.

But! I needn't have worried. Once the buzzer went off all these fashionably dressed youths stood up, with their totes and their psychedelic necklaces and skull-printed shoes and ties and converse sneakers and army caps... Nnngh.

I supposed they were all freshmen, like myself (in a modest shirt devoid of any embellishments). I met Natalie there, and we were talking about it - Is LASALLE really divided like that? Those whom dress the part, and those who don't?

I have a headache. Later

Kind of sums up Beijing for me.

Think I'll open a Flickr account or something, don't fancy writing loads here. Yet.

Today's Muse: Something Gassy

So, this isn't exactly after rehearsal. But the performance is over and done with, and I'm writing this from the airport. I've had three hours of sleep, I think.

So, I'll see you lot in about a week.

The airport has really greasy keyboards.

Today's Muse: Because Yelling Isn't Always A Valid Option

Those bastards. Those utter bastards.

More after rehearsal tonight.

I just spent the last two hours looking at baby stuff.

I don't know if this can be blamed on hormones. But, damn! That's a really cool stroller. It looks like a pink space-thing.

Does any one have a photoshop cd they're willing to share?


EDIT: The world should have more fat floating BABIES around.

Today's Muse: More Physic Fat

Well, that was painfully obvious.

In fact, the whole Results show was painful. The hosts unsure of where to go, Gurmit seemingly unused to reading live feed, the producers sorry attempts at prolonging the show...

Teething pains, I hope. With practise, with practise. I saw first-hand how difficult it is to read the moving text AND have someone yelling in your ear while the cameras are rolling. And the people I watched were newscasters with reams of experiance.

I am so very glad I didn't stay on to watch them do Idol, so very glad.


What am I doing? I'm supposed to be a counter-culture clone! Arrrghfwoomp. Whoo. Guitars.

I believe I am going out tomorrow. Two hunned appeared magically in my bank statement, and I shall use it to get walking shoes. And comics.

Do any of you have any idea how difficult it is to get a meat-grinder in Singapore?


Post Script: Oh my. The rabid fan-feeding frenzy begins. Twohill, you are a braver soul than I.

Today's Muse: Physic Fat

You know when I first saw Paul "Quit Messing With Your Fucking Fringe" Twohill, I thought he was a joke. Yes, I was grumpy and my anger was more toward the rubbery canteen food at Mediacorp, and having a herd of Idol wannabes descend on an otherwise quiet lunch will do nothing for your nerves.

The boy annoys me, yet I can't help but root for him. The lesser evil of several otherwise bland "Thankyouthankyoujudges", er, evils. Sounds like yet another bad translation out of French.

Even though he's made the strongest impression so far, I have the tiniest notion the whole eyeliner-and-THE HAIR might work against his favour. Think about it. How many of you took one look at the boy and immediately yelled "OMFG POSEUR!!!" ? [Argh, netspeak. I feel so dirty.][Diiirty.]

So, I'm going to predict, Paul Twohill and Jonathon Leong get through.

Now I've contributed yet another pointless post devoted to the Singapore Idol Schtick, it's time for me to go back to living under a rock. Next post: The condition of my sock drawer. Same bat-time, same bat-channel!

ZIFF POW!

Today's Muse: Ma Head Feels Light As Air

Finally went to see Miz Grace, Hair-person Extraordinaire

Just out of bed, still a bit crusty

I like my new hair. She applied something to it to make it more pliable, and now it's awful soft and doesn't get as tangled. No idea what the magic stuff was, but it smelt like mutton.

My head doesn't hurt anymore. Glee and pie.

I know everyone and their mother knows...


But my head really hurts.

Today's Muse: I can feel my juices sloshing around in my skull

This is how an apple pie made with hate looks like.


It was good.

Today's Muse: Out In Space!

I seem to be coming down with something, what with my spewing my insides out onto the floor and then lapping them back up to restore the cosmic balance. Which is most cosmic-like-y.

So, before I retreat to bed with vanilla & choc-chip ice cream and another picturootiful cook book, have a picture of my youngest niece with slightly less hair.

SPACE-MAN BLEW UP THEM BUSES! NOB!

Today's Muse: MEAT

I was going to spend my pay on those uber-expensive comics and old movie DVDs, and maybe a pair of new shoes to replace my "Hole-in-da-Sole!" babies, but now it seems I must spend it on a shiny Meat-Grinder!

Fuck you, Cats for Dummies. "They thrive on meat-flavoured cereal! Really! Ask our vets!"

Enough is enough. I should have ignored Da's worrying when we talked about what to feed Baby back when he was a kit. Never mind Mother's protests, it's raw, dripping, bloody meat 'n guts from this here on. Yee-haw!



I had the most unusual craving for raw meat the other day during work. By the way.

Today's Muse: When I smile, I can feel the scab peel.

On Monday I wrote down three insults, cobbled together from other phrasings, on the back of an old shooting schedule.

On Tuesday I wrote down all the secret things I will never tell the various people whom have touched my lives, for better or for worse.

On Wednesday I smashed my face into the mounted speaker in the sound mix room, and wrote "I want to hold a baby." with a titchy bit of pencil lead.

On Thursday I learnt about the various functions of and how to work the sound mixer.

It's not important at all, is it.



PS: You know how it's very adult to put the past behind you, forgive and forget, we were all young and angry, hey I'm going to pretend that you never made me feel so badly about myself and that I was so eager for your validation of my humanity that I grovelled for forgiveness for something I didn't understand to you that day the Band came home without the Gold outside the toilet. It's not your fault, I know. I let you affect me; so insecure about myself that I took your sneers so badly. I mean, hey, you didn't like me, end of story! There was no need for me to be so pathatic. I'm ashamed of myself, I really am.

And so today I say, it's over. Sure, second year was hell for me, because I made it hell for me. No one's fault but my own. And I'm sure you had your own problems. Your friends always rallied around you. I wasn't really likable, was I? Always answering the teachers' questions, making the rest of you look bad (I have to admit, I took some vindictive pleasure in that).

All that was, what, three years ago? Geez, and here I am talking about it. When I'm asked about it I say "I was to blame." because, it's true. Think through it logically.

I mean, you're not a bad girl. You're funny and witty and kind. An obvious pillar of support. You were fourteen and fustrated.



I say all that. But all I can think is

Dear Liz, (Do they still call you that?)
I hope you die in a puddle of pee. Jerk.

love,
me.


I've known several Elizabeths. One I loved. One I dreaded. Another calls me Auntie 'toria.

I lost my wrist-warmers, my Voodoo Babies and the paint for the wall - plus I have a split lip.

Boo hoo hoo.


That's it. I refuse to come back until I have something of actual importance to write about.

Today's Muse: Chickeny

I don't have to be at work 'cause I'm a threat to securi-teee la lala la laa

Today's Muse: Knotty Sort of Day



I don't have to get in until 6pm tomorrow. Glee. On Saturday the station won't be done until about 4 in the morning, thanks to Polling Night and the press conferences later. I like the people in Station 1. Glad I got to move over from 4 & 6.

I'm still useless, but what can you do?

I spend a lot of time sorting out what I'm going to do once the attachment is up during "work". I've refined it to a level whereby each and every single action is accounted for, and no unnecessary (but otherwise entertaining) routes are taken. Like most Square Enix games. Or the military in the movies. Or something. I'm a lot smarter than I read. Really. Okay. Not really. The only reason I'm blogging is to put up that picture. It was on my floor.

God I love cheese. I hate those Fuji apples. Taste like cardboard. I'll try roasting them with cheese tomorrow.

I'll eat anything with cheese.

PS: I totally got owned by some game called "EmoGame". I got killed by Gene Simmons. Geez.

Today's Muse: Carrots

I remember the day Mamah died.

I was twelve. Mother and Da had picked me up from school, and as a treat brought me to the new library at Takashimaya. We were sitting at one of the annoyingly flimsy tables that belonged to the in-house cafe, when Ma's phone went off.

When she relayed the news, Da simply looked down at his cup. Ma's eyes were slightly pink, and in her typical fashion said at least Mamah had gone peacefully.

And that was it.

The next day I went up to the teacher to ask if I might be allowed out early. Why, she asked. Oh, my Grandmother died. We've got a funeral.

Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?

I felt vaguely guilty that I was okay. It was unsettling; shouldn't one be more sad when someone dies? I was more affected by the death of the school rabbits than Mamah.

Da showed no outward signs of grief for his mother, not like the other member from his side of the family who came by thumping their chests and wailing. They only came to visit once every couple of Chinese New Years while Mamah stayed with us - and were complete dicks, but that's another story - and when Mamah was placed in a nursing home as she slipped further into dementia and her body began to fail her, only Da visited her.

I wonder what it was like, watching his mother die, and nothing he could do about it. He sacrifaced the most to take care of her, when none of her other children wanted her. Did he cry, while Kim and I were asleep in bed? Did he curse his lot silently? Or did he just push it all aside, ignoring it?


Ten years from now, I'll be twenty-seven, in the prime of my life. Ten years from now, Da will be seventy, the same age Mamah was when she became bedridden and stopped recognizing her children.

Part of the reason why the trip to Comic-Con in San Diego was scrapped was Da's health. These past couple of days have underlined the fact Da isn't exactly in the pink, especially.

I used to cry myself to sleep when I was a wee chit of a Missy, about Mother and Da dying and then what would I do? Now? I still tear, but not out of fear. I have a new goal; to do something big, something huge and breaking, to make my parents proud before they stop recognizing me. It's a fact; they won't be around forever, and neither will I.

So I'm off to get cracking.

Today: Then what on earth was I getting those damned A's for, then?

Comic-con travel plans have been scrapped.

Don'treallywanttotalkaboutit.

Today's Muse: This $50 bill on my keyboard.

Life has a funny way of biting your arse and ripping off meaty chunks when you're not looking. Just when you've finally decided to be throughly miserable about things and give up trying to find the bright side, things suddenly take a turn for the better.

I bet it does that just to spite you.

Damn. I was all set to be unhappy for the rest of this shitbag attachment, too. Don't get me wrong, it's still shit. But Life has been aiming one happy thing after the other smack at my head, and it's getting difficult to be all raaargh and poopy and fweeffffuck.

I'm still going to find the nice Headman and request I move on. And if that doesn't work I'll blow up the toilet and then maybe they'll fire me. They might also press charges, and drag the thing into a long tedious case, and then maybe I'll be in the papers with the headline "WHAT MADE HER DO IT: ALL THE SORDID DETAILS". And I'll sell some sob-story about my traumatic years in the Singapore school system ("I think they did a bang-up job, really, but me mum says it ruined my confidence") and get a couple of letters in the forum and then quietly fade into obscurity when someone writes in about coffee-shop cleanliness or people talking in cinemas or sumfink and sparks a raging debate (again).

I've always wanted to see the word "SORDID" in the papers.

Anyway, things are looking up, partly because I've decided to stop fighting, and just wallow in the shit a while. I can always clean up after I finally leave. You get used to the stink after a while, if you let yourself accept the situation. Just live with it until you can effect the change.

Right now I'm basking in the artificial glow of this huge wide-screen laptop. Da switched laptops while I was at work, saying since he didn't use this darling I might as well have it. So, goodbye horrible, splunky, slow, and screen colour-bleeding com, hellooo nurse!

It's twice as fast and has the processing power of a desktop. Which means I can finally break out my quietly decaying game collection, which has been in stasis since the main desktop was moved up to Sengkang for Kim to use. Of course, I hardly have time to game anymore, but it's the possibilty that counts. God, I want City of Heroes so bad...

Um. Anyhoo, Kim's here and we're just reading our comics and watching NINJA! Pizza's on the way (Those fuckers don't do stuffed crust any more?) and the rest of the family's out.

Ah, there's the doorbell. Goodbye, $50 bill. Nice looking at you for inspiration.


PS: For all of you who've been pestering: I get paid $4oo. Which works out to like, a dollar an hour. There. Quit asking.

Here's the deal, for all you pestering beasts. Pester.

For the past three weeks, I have been working craaaazy hours and will continue to do so for the next three weeks. I am thus unavailable for phone-speaky. Please stop calling me. Sms messages, on the other hand, are most welcome.

I have learnt I still hate working in the television industry, and that my primary school Mother Tongue teachers apparently screwed me over for life. One of them told me to kill myself once, since I was too stupid to learn Mandarin and that I had no business being Chinese and unable to speak the language.

You know what's funny? Whatever language it is, it's the same. My Malay teacher used to ask if I was retarded. I was so happy when she said, "Victoria might be stupid, but at least she's polite!".


I can't believe I let myself be talked into signing away my soul for three months. "It'll be a great experiance! Learn all!"

Learn fuck-all. I am learning absolutly nothing I can use. I am completely useless there, and people keep asking me what I'm doing there and I have no idea how to answer. You need at least TWO FUCKING YEARS of training before you can help.

You know, this was suppose to read: "It's all so interesting, I'm learning so much" to corrobate with what I've been making up to people whom asked. Sod that. I'm sick of making things up just to keep them happy.

They were only trying to help, after all. And if I quit I make loads of people unhappy and insulted. And I come out the worst of it - couldn't take the load, wasting my time

God, I wish I could make you see this the way I do. There is no "load" of work I cannot take. Give me work or give me death, say I.


Note to self: When you know something is going to be a waste of your time, Missy, stick to your goddamn guns and say NO. Screw how much work your sister put into getting this for you. Taking it isn't going to solve her problem fucktard husband. If you know it won't be worth it, don't let your mum convince you otherwise. Look good on my CV my yellow arse.


Damnit. Now I sound whiny and childish.

Ah, phooey. Life sucks, I'm knackered, boo-hoo-hoo, and, er, on and on in that vein. Never say I don't follow the trends!


Visited Kinokuniya again today, with nephew in tow (Who's claiming he has a telepathic connection with his bestest buddy and constantly seeks advice from yours truly). They released the House of M tpbs, and had 'em all up on the display rack in a neat 'lil row. I am a little sick at seeing a certain Canadian-mysterious-past-"I don't take orders from no one"-short-hairy-mutant-with-adamantium-claws-or-bone-who-can-remember, oh I don't know, EVERYWHERE.


I like him as much as the next reader, but, c'mon.

Ah, phooey.

Today's Muse: This Frog in My Throat

"How can you be so happy?"

"What?"

"Every time I see you, you're always so... upbeat, y'know? You're always joking, and even when you're being mean I can tell you're having a ball."

"Being mean?"

"You know, like sarcastic, or something. No, you suck at sarcasm, but you know what I mean. Mean. But my point is, how can you be so happy all the time? When I'm around."



"To spite you."



I want.

PS: Work is worky. I don't know how to tell you about work; it's work. Y'know, work.

Today's Muse: Tchaikosky's 1812 Overture

I have, on my floor, a newly-printed copy of Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night. My seven-year-old nephew's teacher asked his class to print out a painting each by the man, and he chose this one.

It's a little surreal, but that could just be the soft biscuits talking. I still don't know why I ate those. I don't taste things properly any more. Could be because I've taken to drinking copious amounts of scalding tea during work to keep warm. Tongue becomes numb after the sixth cup or so.



One day I'll write something intelligent about the huge amount of information available to us and something about artistic works generally becoming valueless and how that might be a bad thing and a good thing. One day.

Today I write something meaningless and babbly about comics.

What is up with Marvel these days? No, seriously, I have no idea. I stop following comics for a while and suddenly we got Chamber (What happened to the whole Weapon X infiltration shit?) amongst others... I remember flipping through something about Archangel, but it didn't register - was that even related to Decimation?

I just saw a picture of a depowered Blob. I thought his power was the whole gravity shift, er, thing. So, his fat was his mutation? That's not right... unless his flab was a result of his mutation... Then shouldn't Chamber have his face and chest restored? But then again it wouldn't make sense that way either.

How did Pietro get hold of the Terrigan Mists? What happened to the Inhumans? Skin's dead? THEY MISSPELLED HIS NAME ON HIS TOMBSTONE? I know nothing, I was born in '89

Oh, wait... My head suddenly feels a lot lighter. Oh. Ouch. Ow. Geez.


Thank God for epic, long mercies like Bone.

Today's Muse: No context.

Chamber is the fucking sexiest zombie-mutant alive.

Just needed to get that clear.

Today's Muse: Burnt Cake

Damn. Every time I walk into Kinokuniya I'm overwhelmed - So many books I want, and not enough money to get any of them. I spend hours walking around with a couple of books tucked under my arm, comparing prices and trying to choose one to take home. And when I finally step up to the counter to pay I feel physically sick - Maybe I should choose the other one? Will I have enough money for the rest of the month? Twenty dollars - Just eat at home...

I bought a manga title today, first in a long while. Not worth it. I've been collecting the series for years, and what with the ridiculous waits between volumes I've lost interest. The one I got today was especially lackluster, to me. So... long... drawn... out...

I hope to sell some of my older comics, for the cash and to make space for newer books. I have tpbs spilling over, and sitting on the floor next to my bed. Any of you interested? I'll put in a proper list link, later.

I was at Serene Centre this evening. Some chap sat on the verenda with an ice-cream and a new comic. He didn't look up once.

I rented Donnie Darko, swooned a bit over demented-knife-stabby-Gyllenhaal, wondered dully about sitting down to write, then came here instead.

I am eating burnt week-old cake.

Today's Muse: Popping Basketballs

I sit here, staring at this screen, drinking something that burns each time it travels down my throat, and does painful things to my stomach. I really ought to get some water instead.

I destroyed the third draft of An Exercise in Obsession an hour ago.

As I look over my notes for the gazillionth time, crossing out points and reworking others with a scratchy red pen (I really ought to get a new pen.), I wonder dully, why am I putting myself through this? It's been months since I embarked on this project. And still nothing.

There's a five-dollar note in my wallet.

I ought to sleep more.

Today's Muse: Where's my other sock, damnit!


"So, you're baking how many cakes? From scatch?"

"Don't worry, piece of cake." (Mein Gott, I actually said that.)

"Well, aren't you going to use the machine? To, er, mix the stuff?"

"No! I'll beat it by hand."

"With a wooden spoon."

"Yeah. No problem."

"That batter looks really sticky."

"No problem."

Two hours and a couple of cakes later



"Your hand is all purple."

"..."

"Fuck off."


I'm so sick of cake it's not even funny.
Party tomorrow. Woo. I haven't got anything weird to wear. Shit and knockers. Where the hell did I put my glasses? I liked today, apart from turning my hand into mince meat. We went to Toys-R-Us, but there weren't any screaming children to trip and I tried one of those expensive ball machines and it spewed a Japanese interpretation of a Punk Minnie Mouse, with boots and everything. And I saw Natra and a lovely art exhibition. And I had beef noodles later. It was very good, but now I am in pain.

Thanks to everyone who sent me birthday wishes today (and those who didn't but wished it in their hearts or dark and musty regions). Love you lot, except for those of you I don't love. You know who you are. Or I know who you are. Whichever, if ever. Orgh... the pain!

Today's Muse: Stupid subtext!

Today is the last day of my sixteenth year. Aw. Too bad. I liked being sixteen. Around half-past six tomorrow it'll all be gone.

What will being a year older bring? I don't know, and I really don't care. I'm sitting here trying to figure out how I can bake a gazallion items in one morning. I have two ovens, with extra shelving... a toaster oven...

Man, I'm spending way too much time at scans_daily. Here's one of the reasons. And another. And one more.

The Goddamn Batman, indeed.

Today's Muse: Ninja!

This video makes me happy. When I was seven or eight we used to jump off the low balcony at Tiong Bahru and land on the grass. Wei Loong used to be able to jump onto the ground from the top of the three-metre high "Rocket" jungle gym, too.

We also used to roll down the steep grassy slope curled up into balls, but that was just dumb.

Today's Muse: Noise.

I didn't sleep very well. Most of today was spent writing down and analyzing some crack dream I had, instead of working on more pressing matters.

I hate it when that happens.


PS: Found thirty-five bucks in a pair of old shorts. Looks like I can afford to throw a party now. Man, I'm whaaaacky like that. Wanting to throw a party. Fuck it. No apologies.

I promise to write something more substantial next time.

Today's Muse: Bah. Humbug. Bahug.

I put off getting tickets for Jason Mraz's concert, and now they're sold out. So much for b'day treat. Hmph. It doesn't matter. Just a, y'know. Just a little show; a chance to hear the music live and see what exactly is so attractive about the Mraz live show. Yup. Never mind. Rest of the Mosaic Festival to hop about.

I missed the Franz Ferdinand show earlier, too. Didn't kill me.



Excuse me while I go sob in a corner like a little effeminate boy.

Pooks and Ta! Come July, Sicki's gonna be blazing at Lasalle! Fuck yeah!

The school called just as I was getting off the train at the ridiculously noisy Orchard Station. I heard like, three words - "Lasalle", "Next", and "Congrats".

Kids: Don't attempt to dance a jig whilst in a crowded train station.

PS: I gots me new fwee sockings. The Japanese have tiny feet, don't they?


PS2: The new Gorillaz video makes me happy. In a, twisting blade sort of way.

Today's Muse: I got wrist burn from this laptop.

Woo... Trivia night was bitchin'.

I'm getting transferred, since they apparently don't need that many people on set. Maybe desk duty, or get stuck inhaling paint fumes at production. Who knows? Mmm... fumes.

But, it looks like my birthday day will be free. Goddamn I think I killed my elbow.

On Saturday I saw Marium at the library at Victoria Street. We wandered upstairs, meaning to go to the reference levels, when some dude with a fistful of tickets gave us two free passes to Army Daze, playing at the theatre upstairs. We ran and got in just as they were closing the doors. Pretty good seats, too.

Yup. March is shaping up to be a good birthday.

Now... Food.