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.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
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?
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?
Saturday, September 23, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Sunday, September 03, 2006
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.
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I'm a handsome muthafuka, and y'all know itBABY'S COMING HOME.
Oh yeah, Kim's moving back in, too.