Madally Wurlpiz

Dia

2010-03-14T00:12:00.010+08:00

Dia senyum.
Tersimpul hasrat rangkaian rapi.

Dia tenung.
Jalinan mesra ditahta mimpi.

Dia lafaz.
Gurindam kata nan puitis.

Dia balas.
Mengikis paras yang meringis.

Dia canda.
Suara halus menepis resah.

Dia rapat.
Dakapan tubuh narwastu indah.

Dia ujar.
Kalimah hati bernazam riang.

Dia diam.
Menyulut ghairah disuluh bintang.

Dia belai.
Tiada dengki mencengkam niat.

Dia sahut.
Sentuhan kasih mencabar adat.

Dia ragu.
Menilai cinta tiada hingga.

Dia sedih.
Berteman sayu berona jingga.

Dia marah.
Meniti hari disudut kamar.

Dia fikir.
Terbukti nyata prasangka samar.

Dia reda.
Secebis citra sang perindu.

Dia tegar.
Melangkah pasrah berbekal sendu.

What the heck! Can you give me a holler when this trance is over? I think I'll take cover. Over there.

The Guesswork

2010-03-07T23:24:00.071+08:00

Times are bad (overused words but hey, it’s apt), but even when things are going slightly off balance, there is still a moment to give recognition to the people who have worked hard in their respective areas. Case in point: ME. This I say without an air of arrogance. This time round I am thankful for the people responsible for promoting me a level higher, at a time when my heart feels like putting my best foot forward and leave this place. Yet I believe a change has to come sooner than I expected. Just to inform the few who are hanging around here, I might be on a year hiatus to pursuit the dream of obtaining another qualification, though I am pretty sure it might just be a passport for me to aggrandize my remuneration and get into better places with real people possessing real creative senses.

There must also be a moment to honour the best players in the film industry; an industry which I’m hoping to venture into someday soon. Predicting winners of tomorrow’s 82nd Academy Awards proved tough as the nominees are amongst the best we might have seen thus far, and not to mention the additional 5 films in the Best Picture category, which seems redundant at first look but are actually sensible for the fact that there are indeed a number of incredibly good works to be recognized and not merely looked upon as possible candidates. The inclusion of mainstream and independent flicks is a smart move on the Committee’s part to increase viewership and gain the interests across all types of viewers. Yet I do believe that it’s effortless to predict the top 5 films judging by the 5 directors who are given nods for their excellent craftsmanship. These are the heavyweights of the show: Avatar (9 noms), The Hurt Locker (9 noms), Inglourious Basterds (8 noms), Precious (6 noms) and Up in The Air (6 noms).

Last year’s 17/24 outcome was the best I’d done in predicting the winners. This year’s guess according to my gut feeling goes like this:

Best Picture: “Avatar”
Best Director: Kathryn Bigelow, “The Hurt Locker”
Best Actor: Jeff Bridges, “Crazy Heart”
Best Actress: Sandra Bullock, “The Blind Side”
Best Supporting Actor: Christoph Waltz, “Inglourious Basterds”
Best Supporting Actress: Mo'Nique, “Precious”
Best Adapted Screenplay: “Up In The Air”
Best Original Screenplay: “Inglourious Basterds”
Best Art Direction: “Avatar”
Best Cinematography: “The Hurt Locker”
Best Costume Design: “Nine”
Best Film Editing: “District 9”
Best Makeup: “Star Trek”
Best Music (Original Score): “Up”
Best Music (Original Song): “The Weary Kind” ~ “Crazy Heart”
Best Sound Editing: “Up”
Best Sound Mixing: “Avatar”
Best Visual Effects: “Avatar”
Best Animated Feature Film: “Up”
Best Foreign Language Film: “The White Ribbon” ~ Germany
Best Documentary Feature: “The Cove”
Best Documentary Short: “China's Unnatural Disaster: The Tears of Sichuan Province”
Best Short Film (Animated): “French Roast”
Best Short Film (Live Action): “Miracle Fish"

Let’s talk music. I, for once, will jump with joy if Hans Zimmer won for Original Score. Don’t ask me for reasons, but I just dig the awesomeness that soundtrack exudes. The whole album is a fucking variation on a theme of Holmes or Watson or whoever and whatever. It's a bloody “Danny Elfmanish-sort-of-way” brilliant. On the other side, Giacchino’s Up looks promising, simply because it’s a typical Oscar-winning score sound-alike. James Horner’s "Pandora Soundscapes" was forgettable and Desplat’s Fox was too whimsy for my liking. While the score for The Hurt Locker had the intention to provoke various moods of urgency with it's narrative structures, it somehow turned out ordinary for my ears. Those aside, I find it incredibly difficult to predict on all major categories, with two exceptions: Supporting Actor and Lead Actress, which are sure to be (just by the amount of awards they won) Christoph Waltz and Sandra Bullock respectively. My guess is as good as yours, but I’ve been wrong on many occasions. I would probably act with weird looks on my face if Streep took the stage – yes, she’s pretty much good in everything, but I'd rather watch a whole lot of Bullock speech.

///

The Winners (Live Update):

Best Picture: "The Hurt Locker"
Best Director: Kathryn Bigelow, “The Hurt Locker”
Best Actor: Jeff Bridges, “Crazy Heart”
Best Actress: Sandra Bullock, “The Blind Side”
Best Supporting Actor: Christoph Waltz, “Inglourious Basterds”
Best Supporting Actress: Mo'Nique, “Precious”
Best Adapted Screenplay: "Precious"
Best Original Screenplay: “The Hurt Locker”
Best Art Direction: “Avatar”
Best Cinematography: “Avatar”
Best Costume Design: "The Young Victoria"
Best Film Editing: “The Hurt Locker”
Best Makeup: “Star Trek”
Best Music (Original Score): “Up”
Best Music (Original Song): “The Weary Kind” ~ “Crazy Heart”
Best Sound Editing: "The Hurt Locker"
Best Sound Mixing: "The Hurt Locker"
Best Visual Effects: “Avatar”
Best Animated Feature Film: “Up”
Best Foreign Language Film: "El Secreto de Sus Ojos"
Best Documentary Feature: “The Cove”
Best Documentary Short: "Music by Prudence"
Best Short Film (Animated): "Logorama"
Best Short Film (Live Action): "The New Tenants"

Fun-fact: This is my 82nd post, which happens to be on the 82nd Academy Awards. No, I didn't plan.

Airtight

2010-03-01T23:49:00.000+08:00

I forego February. One lonely post was all I need to paint the allusion that I am simply not interested, or perhaps the scale of events are far too great no words should be ascribed at this moment in time. Imagination still ticks as and when I deem relevant, and work goes on rather smoothly but without any satisfactory inputs. There are tasteless decisions to be relished at every silly turns. Only the sound of keyboards being punched by pathetic workaholics who are on Group B corticosteroids kept the air at its right temperature. The mood turns somber and bright like a symphonic tone-poem changing keys. The thing I'm looking forward to everyday is discovering gems from the accidental canvas of creativity – which is basically not much to even brag about. Besides that, I am numb to the point of no escape. Bottomline, I’m expired. But the sun still shines and there are bills to whine about – so yes, as everything remains monophonic and tightly plugged to its original equilibrium of the universe’s survival tangents, I am still breathing heavily to the tunes of Ravel’s Bolero chimed in reverse, sounded by an accordion and two giant harmonicas playing the side-drums parts. What other open spaces require my attention now? What might be the next offering to be projected on a medium not known to mankind? Who shall maintain this bridge between reality and illusions? Are expectation meant to be devaluated as you aged? Or have we grown immune to the templates of distorted truths? I am hungry to know. I am ready to go.

This brain is too fragile for such thinking, so please do not push me to the brink...

The End Is Nigh

2010-02-03T23:06:00.019+08:00

I would like to believe that the end of LOST is ultimately the end of serialized TV in general (copycats like Heroes and Flashforward don't seem to have that pull factor for me). Spending almost six years theorizing, speculating, rewatching through the flashbacks, flashforwards, finding constants, seeking variables, jumping back and forth through the years and back again, it is time to be rewarded with the 4,815,162342 questions that are still pending to be answered. OK, maybe not that many. But from the get go of the first episode in this final installment, it's clear that this is the season of answers. 18 episodes more and that is that. Concluding one week before my birthday, I hope it would be a solid, satisfying end, if not a brain-twisting one. LOST is a mythologically rich piece jampacked with great character studies, where the themes of good versus evil, science and faith flows through the central vein. A drama not confined to one specific genre, where each episode focuses on specific threads to weave a piece of abstract fiction - this is clearly TV at its top form. It has been said that LOST is too deep for the casual viewers. My nonchalant reply is: Confusing meh? (*Apple and the Apple products are registered trademarks of Apple Inc. Montage by Madally Wurlpiz, 2010)

On A Treble Note

2010-01-21T23:16:00.027+08:00

Late-night ruminations brought me into suspension, threw me off line and back to the cleft I once preside. There are troubling sections that are curtained from view (not hiding the fact that they might be characterizing a block of runes, but what do I know?), so further analyses depend on the introspective slants of my mental ingenuity, if indeed I am lavished with one, which I doubt. Keeper of the past shall remain in the whittling vacuity, but its hard to dispose such role; yet to leer pass beyond the unfolding pool of events will only make me look daft even if the desired intention are within scopes of reasons. Let’s not delay this progress; let’s not fill this cavity with fear. I have plenty of sensible wits to enrich the state of existence, luxuriating with thoughts of good hope and savoring them with the present acquirement (as if). Going with the flow shall be the motto to follow, but the guiding light will never be out of sight, hypothetically speaking. The catalyst of change is the constant ambition that exists in one's attitude to make tomorrow better than what was today. To surmise, the smears in former times are just life's happenings too sombre for this farce. But move along I must. Fast. Without fuss. And while the going gets tougher, I am harboring the thoughts of preserving the many startling moments I terribly adore. Especially those that involve you, Baby.

Our three parts story continues right where we left off. But let's stay in the middle a little longer, OK?

Inscription

2010-01-10T23:19:00.024+08:00

Thereupon the chapter begins, yet I returned to gather the vestiges. This is the ideal time to re-engage and recollect the fleeting moments that floated by with the inscription of pains and smiles. The path leads to here; a path plainly laid, both easy and treacherous. This year’s Favlist (a personal list of the best in arts, lits and infotainment) is relatively shorter than the previous, with 20 categories instead of 33. This is a concise list to an otherwise eclectic selection; an overall approach than a detailed one. It was a year where these eyes saw things through a micro lens. It's a year where most things are condensed and everything comes in lovely bytes and glitters, yet none picayunish to be shared with among allies. To reiterate, it was simple and nothing that exceeds the upkeep. Hence it was a pretty good year to conclude a decade, so to speak. Up next are explorations of self on a new level beyond my fathomless imagination. Otherwise, promotion is due, and my creative sense is developing an urge to harvest on greener pastures. The day is ahead, a time will come. Wish me luck if you still believe in wishes.

And so I conquer this slumberland, for this life is but a dream. Time to define what needs to be defined.

Seventy-Seventh

2010-01-01T22:51:00.006+08:00

And What's Next?

Day One of 2010. Log Number 77. This is the teaser of things to come.

I Have Scenes

2009-12-27T21:08:00.119+08:00

In an attempt to make 2009 a year of content and not let life go haphazardly to waste, or worst - channeling energy to work slavery, the mission that was set in motion a year ago had played out pretty well as I had hoped. The objective was simply to watch 100 movies and not one film less. That's child's play you might say, but not if your work demands that time be taken away from you, usually at strange hours, sometimes without a wink to forewarn. As the curtain started to draw for its final call, my exit plans will begin with the presentation of 20 finest films in 2009 (some are released in the previous year but I was only able to catch them this year). Listed in the order of viewing, here are my definitive picks, with additional 3 that deserve an appropriate special mention, all of which could tuck comfortably within the final 20. There are too many good titles for inclusion but it all came down to this. And just for the record, Blood: The Last Vampire takes bottom place when I actually took time to rank every title in its totality (a man of my age should probably get out and get loud rather than carrying out such trivial taskwork, but… anyway, all the 100 titles after the best list).

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
David Fincher

David Fincher’s adaptation of the infamous short fable deserves the Best Picture nom for the Oscar’s race last year, not only for it’s dramatic pace and beautifully structured storyline but also for it’s allegorical notions of life and death and what comes in between as experienced by a unique, grows-in-reverse, human being.

Verdict: Best Adapted Screenplay

The Fall
Tarsem Singh

The Fall flows like an astral tale that never fails to surprise your visual sensory, escorting you into dark and light territories like a ride through the chamber of wonders, where each revelry is a feast for the sight and a decorative flight of fancy that makes you feel awfully good or inspired.

Verdict: Best Art Direction

Synecdoche, New York
Charlie Kaufmann

Kaufmann’s directorial debut is also the movie that makes you want to bawl and laugh, in silence or out loud, as the piece speaks subliminally of large and minute things: the aspiration of oneself, the crisis we faced, the people we chanced upon, whether interpreted in reality or within a fictional reality from within.

Verdict: Best First Feature & Best Score - Jon Brion

In Bruges
Martin McDonagh

Two hit men formed an odd team of comic disaster in a dark comedy that strings themes of the undulating human condition in the course of redemption, all while the picture moves with sharp acting and capricious interplay of words, worth a nod for it’s screenplay and choice of stars, namely Farrell and Fiennes.

Verdict: Best Original Screenplay

Okuribito (Departures)
Yōjirō Takita

Without question, the Japanese has the best Zen touch when it comes to dealing with weighty themes such as death; and with Departures we see nothing lesser than poetic gestures and graceful drama that depicts moments of unvarnished truth in a country where the living and the dead are respected with honor.

Verdict: Best Foreign Language Film

Star Trek
J. J. Abrams

The mastermind of acclaimed TV series (Alias, Lost, Fringe), whose name needs no further introduction, delivers one of the year’s most surprising hit blockbuster on the silver screen; a modern re-interpretation of a classic action-adventure that dazzles from one frame to another with scenes of majestic skyscapes, spacecrafts over-glared by lens flares and poignant use of colours on white spaces.

Verdict: Best Sound Mixing / Editing

The Brothers Bloom
Rian Johnson

Rian Johnson’s sophomore after his debut (Brick) is delightful in hundred ways, from casting to cinematography, from costume to its impeccable comic timing - in which every piece has it's intention fixed to the story of cons and deceptions, making the believable world so much fun to live in with aids of conniving plots and quizzical characters cohered with unconventional frameworks.

Verdict: Best Ensemble

Låt Den Rätte Komma In (Let The Right One In)
John Ajvide Lindqvist

There could never be a more memorable vampire movie than Interview With The Vampire, or so I thought, but I retracted and ingested my words after watching Let The Right One In - a Swedish sleeper hit that illustrates the timeworn genre in a different light, interlocking teenage and social issues with striking shots that seems to elevate it’s modest narrative outlines.

Verdict: Best Cinematography

Du Levande (You, The Living)
Roy Andersson

Existence, displayed on a barren stage called Earth, monotonous hues hinting at boredom, a town that connects 20 players or so, somewhat loosely but never dull, the low-toned sounds humming the theme of nonentity and a languid montage of 50 vignettes with tragicomedic murmurs - these are us, which is You, The Living - a film that fills the soul and makes you chuckle quiescently.

Verdict: Best Director - Roy Andersson

Moon
Duncan Jones

Science fiction is old and predictable, so take the traditional shuttle beyond the contemporary air and you will land on a whole new planet - Moon: a refreshing version of the old adage threaded with psychological-thriller motives, set in a factional universe with nothing but the lead, ensnared in the tropes of sanity, haunting himself in the claustrophobic space and time.

Verdict: Best Directorial Debut - Duncan Jones

Inglourious Basterds
Quentin Tarantino

One name: Christoph Waltz, and the rest is self-explanatory: Tarantino is swell, and his script is not limited by his drolleries or ornate trademarks which never seem to stale; in fact his crafts simply got better with each project he undertakes and this we are sure of because we have come to grasp the understanding that his pursuit of cinematic excellence knows no bloody boundaries.

Verdict: Best Actor (Drama) - Christoph Waltz

Talentime
Yasmin Ahmad

Controversies aside, the late Yasmin Ahmad is the definitive force in the Asian film industry, and with her vivacious hands she handled delicate topics such as multicultural connection, family issues, integrity and human values by painting visual poems in her swan song: Talentime, a moving film that touches hearts with bittersweet vehemence.

Verdict: Best Original Song - I Go (Pete Teo / Aizat)

Madeo (Mother)
Bong Joon-ho

The Korean award-winning director Bong Joon-ho returns with a compelling approach to his beloved themes - relationship and murder mystery enclosed in an inconspicuous event - as he demonstrates in style the dramatization of grit and determination endowed by one steadfast mother tending to negate the guilt of her beloved one.

Verdict: Best Actress (Drama) - Kim Hye-ja

(500) Days of Summer
Marc Webb

Cheesy romcoms are aplenty, but none sticks with you like Marc Webb’s feature length debut: (500) Days of Summer - a lighthearted and unpretentious look at true love and its many side stories, whereby the non-linear storytelling are less gimmicky than it is indicative of an idea that love, when seen from a macro view, is literally the sum of events that you faced each day of your adventitious life.

Verdict: Best Actress (Comedy) - Zooey Deschanel

The Hurt Locker
Kathryn Bigelow

Kathryn Bigelow’s latest offering pushes the limit of her mastery as she tackles a more intrepid theme revolving around tensions and insurgencies in a warfare ambience, but it was the brilliant performance by Jeremy Renner that took the film to another level as he punctuates a sense of unruffled coolness even when his character was expected to live on the edge of suspense and terror.

Verdict: Best Breakthrough Performance by an Actor - Jeremy Renner

Los Abrozos Rotos (Broken Embraces)
Pedro Almodóvar

Like many of his films, Broken Embraces is a theatrical exposition of characters in an over-the-top melodrama, conveying the ‘movie within a movie’ figurations explored in the context of a colourful noir-romance, made more stunning with the masterful camera works and detailed mise-en-scène - something only an enfant terrible like Almodóvar can pull through with unwavering composure.

Verdict: Best Costume & Styling

Up
Pete Docter

Personifying love through human interactions are the hardest when attempted on a medium once seen to be campy or kiddish, yet Up proved the opposite, by delivering stories true to the heart and unfolding rip-roaring actions through cutting-edge animation that enthralls with each spirited turns and rebounds.

Verdict: Best Animated Feature Film

An Education
Lone Scherfig

With a solid cast and a top-notch script by Nick Hornby (of About A Boy fame), An Education is a scintillating coming-of-age movie that is as charming as it’s luxuriant 60s embellishment, and while every performer did great to turn this into a fine material, it was Carey Mulligan’s deliverance as a 16-year-old girl with an enthusiasm to discover life’s many facets which stole the whole picture.

Verdict: Best Breakthrough Performance by an Actress - Carey Mulligan

Avatar (3D)
James Cameron

About eleven years ago, when Cameron proclaimed that he was the King of The World during his Best Director speech, I felt it was just a turn of phrase plucked out from Titanic’s frozen dialogues, but here I stand corrected, for he is indeed The Shah of Technological Wizardry, The Lord of Imagination, a Dreamer, an Originator and above all, a Mighty Storyteller, in Three-D or otherwise.

Verdict: Best Visual Effects

Sherlock Holmes
Guy Ritchie

As the 75th person to play Holmes, Downey Jr. remodeled the classic protagonist with flair, demonstrating modern takes on the clichéd identity that puritans have come to accept: genteel sides are toughened, minus the fore-and-afters; and at a time when every superhero in a superhero feature seems too smart to be true or too stupid to be believed, this vintage bloodhound appears prevalent, swank and, dare I say it, unbeaten.

Verdict: Best Actor (Comedy) - Robert Downey Jr.

The Hangover
Todd Philips

You’ll be hurt, cracking up without a care in the world; and even if the hooplas are silly to begin with, it’s because they are intended to be for no other reasons.

Üç Maymun (Three Monkeys)
Nuri Bilge Ceylan

A powerful film with very strong imageries, enhanced by excellent directions and subliminal visual effects, bound to muse your perceptions and inner workings.

Los Cronocrímenes (Timecrimes)
Nacho Vigalondo

Time-travel movies are prone to paradoxical whims, but Timecrimes managed to steer into new directions, with alternative inaugurations through a fictive yarn.

All this clearly out of the way, I shall usher in 2010 with renewed energy to watch another set of 100, perhaps more. And hopefully soon, when time is on my side, I might assemble a personal compilation of the 20 greatest films of this decade, a task I believe would be rather exhausting as we are faced with a wide selection of titles to choose from. Till then, may your resolutions come true.

A few months ago I was deciding on the best 13 films, but I couldn't resist adding 7 more for the fact that there are just too many good films not to be excluded, not to mention the ones waiting to be seen: Up In The Air, The Lovely Bones, A Prophet, Invictus, Precious, The White Ribbon, Where The Wild Things Are, and a whole lotta titles coming up.

Atrium

2009-12-02T23:59:00.010+08:00

... and it skips a little just so to thrill us ... to fill us ... with lust.

Thee Minus Zero

2009-11-08T23:38:00.030+08:00

Presently, I can only be one of these things, and you decide which one before your time is done:

An atrocious medley of your life’s symphony \ A distinguished member of the Cut & Paste Society \ A mathematical representation \ A website on nameless atoms and matters \ A subject of experiment \ A clueless lead \ A tiny pigment of paint forming an illustrious vignette in your dream \ A dark comedy in three unrelated acts \ A guidebook on mirages \ An antagonist \ A trajectory \ A love hunter \ A body of work with a confusing twist \ First drafts radio drama \ A faulty search button \ Earth tour-guide for aliens \ The one with a monophasic sleep patterns \ A variant \ A side pocket \ A sparrow in a lion’s den \ Steriled surgical tools \ A vessel \ A vase \ A hidden treasure \ A stranger in a strange land \ Eastern coast maps \ A photocopied something \ A page unedited \ The voice over with an extrasensory perception \ A line segment joining two points on a curve \ A downward spiral \ A chromatic scale \ Cabalistic notations on a buried journal \ A concurrency \ A cold infusion \ A return with a ‘No Image Available’ message \ A peer to peer as it appears \ A shoulder to cry \ A fear to deny \ A predecessor's successor \ A figment of imagination \ A bi-monologue \ A black alert \ An incomplete list of do's and dont's which you might bring for your next staycation \ A comma \ A dogma \ A solo drummer with millions of unredeemed strokes \ A vanishing trace \ The number nine \ A tarnished space \ A blinding sight \ An open source \ A close call \ An inverted arrow \ An extra deemphasized note in a bar \ A defective poetic diction \ An antiseptic \ Last hour of midnight \ Queer topics of metaphysics \ A polyphonic tune airing in the background \ An actor playing a troubled man with a heart of gold \ A fearsome brimstone \ A furious ring tone \ A breeze \ A sneeze \ The second movement \ A wrong guess \ The looking glass \ A one way avenue \ A noble gas \ The right of way \ An origami of an iris \ A cross sectioned of a lantern \ A cloudy vaccine \ Twelve split screens \ An echo \ A guiro \ A mute witness \ A restrained killer.

Thou shalt know the truth and speak of not.

Sound Off (Part 2)

2009-10-25T23:59:00.003+08:00

Sleepless. Thinking.
The songs in reverse. This man sinks.

I sensed the appearance of speckless clouds assembling within the infrastructure of my medulla oblongata. They possibly look like some misshapen Caspers ready to take flight upon a finger cue. I have nothing more than wonderfully bad ideas at this hour of darkness. Some ill-humoured train of thoughts came choo-chooing with the blares of untuned tympanic pulsation, accompanied by a sudden burst of smokes whose sole objective was to disintegrate this foggy mind and blur this night visions. The voice of ideas, on the other track, slurs in heliocentric circles tethered on lunatic cords saving not one zing of its pathetic little breath. Ideas are essentially my survival tool for all times, that’s for sure, since I am neither rich nor very handsome. Cause at the end of the day, be it those that are notable for a dedicatory mention or mundane like the cardboard backings of your untouched sketchpads, we all lived by our own ideas about things surrounding many other things. Major things. Not that major a thing. Things unseen to things unforeseen. From dangerous ideas to pompous ideas. Killing an idea just to save other killer ideas. Even when penning an entry such as this, where the simplest of night is nothing more that just ambient lightings covering 45% of the bedroom’s visual spectra (where else the moon is both a night décor and a mystère to behold), a single strand of idea is the only sensible reason that might just set you helming. Please raise your hands if you have no idea what I’ve just said. You’re not alone.

Charcoal was factually my first spec script which turned out to be another short unedited novella of imperceptible proportions, unpublished but shared. Fitfully, my first spec script had to appear somewhat inventive, something entirely out of standard rules, out of the median and one that rolls aside from the norms. Yet I predicted about a minute ago that this is not going to be anywhere near unique (since my pieces have always been bulls and can be categorised from slightly OK to dreadfully unexciting and perhaps mediocre to say the least) so let’s just crawl down to the root of matters, shall I?

Spec Script

Summary: 5 friends in an interactive agency, each a noisemaker of various degrees, are trying to save their company from losing their last and only account, or they’ll face an end-result that could spell doom to their already doomed career. This is a drummedy set against a modern day backdrop in a future not so distant away, in which each episode is told from 5 contrasting narrators. And they are:

(Mental notes: Descriptions are subject to change. Establishing identities must be done with experiential research. List a list of specific non-actors for future castings. Watch selected Woody Allen shows for inspirations. Think about how certain characteristics of your protagonists relate to real life personalities that you had encountered or chanced upon, all this while you are waiting eagerly for someone or taking a crap).

Royce Metalteeth Tan

Royce Tan was one of the cutest baby born 28 years ago to unknown parents and has been living in foster care for as long as he can remember. Known as one lucky bastard who received a Design Scholarship to study Digital Arts in LCC without any prior experiences (but whose portfolio glints with pluperfect photo effects and thoughtful type treatment inspired by constructivism), he only came back to work in Singapore when a man old enough to be his father confessed that Royce was his real son after seeing him winning a prestigious yellow pencil in D&AD. Royce was obviously conned, and from this hurtful incident, he is determined to reconnect with his real parents whatever the cost may be. Wanting badly to know their reasons for years of absence, he decided to run a 5 by 3 columns ad in The Sunday Times fortnightly without fail (now reaching it’s third year, with rather minimal responses). Royce is always well groomed, normally spotted with slim ties or checkered shawls and was popular amongst friends as the creative genius who singlehandedly clinched a viral campaign deal for Biore. He also had silver fillings in most of his left and right lower premolars and as such was nicknamed Metalteeth by his peers. It is also a direct reference to his favourite instrument, the Vibraslap, which he aptly described as both corny and serious. Royce loves French Films and Japanese cuisines and had countless failed (ala tragicomedic) relationships, which he openly discussed with his close friend...

Tasneem Rattlesnake Khan

An artist of voluminous dreams but small abdominal solar plexus, Tasneem Khan possesses an elephant’s memory ~ he remembers everything that he reads, from phone numbers to stock figures, from useful facts to useless information that no one bothers to know. His life, though not as dull as you might perceived, is full of negative spaces waiting to be filled with what one believes to be that of an artist’s autobiography. As an animator whose knowledge on molecular genetics equates that of a Britannica encyclopedia, his true goal in real life is defining the inner workings of a human brain – and he wishes to display this interactively through a sound and motion online exhibition (now into it's seventh year in the making but is waiting forever to launch). For him, money does not necessarily begets a smile to a person’s face and to get involve with the emotional subtexts in some course of romance is a profoundly unfathomable issue no humans in their right minds should ever attempt. He is trying to find that one true identity, just like his animated figure named Viktor ~ a character based on him, only slightly less pessimistic. Tasneem talks in the speed of a bullet train and often get stressed up for nothing. He counters the stress by rolling the mini cabasa that he kept in a special stainless drawer in his office. According to his online journal, this is the best and cheapest therapy management in the history of therapies. Rattle5nake is both his email password and a little reference to the instrument mentioned. He is 32, tweets incessantly and listens to Ravel while dropping a deuce. He is often seen debating over the choice of screen typeface with...

Aeryn Steelrain Zee

Aeryn Zee will make men drool. Even other ladies find it hard not to notice her at first glance. One of her biggest traits is that she is highly energetic, and despite her regular frame, she climbs mountain and does trekking as a hobby. She is also (pathetically) one heavy drinker and is going through counseling phases for her addiction. Five years ago she was trekking under the influence of alcohol and fell into a booby ditch meant for animals, resulting in a swollen cranium and broken bones in 12 different parts on her thoracic vertebrae. But as fate has it's way, she met her husband in the hospital while undergoing treatment. Now on the verge of recovering from her alcoholism, Aeryn drinks only when the dire need of ideas arises. Aeryn loves Killer Sudokus and tends to decipher them quicker with the consumption of red wines. In the office, she’s the flasher with an inexhaustible techno-geeky wisdom, where Flash actionscripts are concerned that is. Aeryn is probably the only woman on this feeble earth who knows how to play a triangle 71 different ways to produce 71 different sounds, and she demonstrates the various techniques on a website called Timbreland. Her given moniker, Steelrain, is a metaphor for a woman who amassed both gentle and tough personalities, while being an ethereal reference to the triangle too. Aeryn is 29 plus, rides a Vespa to work and believes that Elvis Presley is still alive. She often gives indecipherable and idiosyncratic advices to...

Yoko Brushbaby Yew

When asked about her name, Yoko Yew will break into John Lennon’s Imagine in a slow four-four. When asked again about her name, she will tell you to go and ask her mother. Yoko acts as the writer of the company and has oriental eyes that sparkle like trigonal crystals every time a perfect phrase blooms in the outermost epicentrum of her necromantic brain. When she writes, she tends to speak in the first person diathesis. When not writing, she will compose instant jingles for an imaginary brand of healthcare products. As a pianist, Yoko had written 10 short etudes while in her sophomore years, all of which except one were dedicated to her late grandfather who taught her the pianica and introduced her to Jamaican reggae. She also plays the French horn, banjo, drums and sousaphone. Yoko is a shy girl who longs for some loving after her parents got separated when she was only eight. Quiet by nature but poetically vocal, she harbors a secret crush on one of the guys in the office, but have been keeping low about it for fear of rejection. Yoko carries short bangs and gets turned on seeing guys with cornrows. She earns the pseudonym Brushbaby from a journalist who saw her in a little segment at a corporate media gathering when she played the bongos using Zildjian retractable wire brushes with great artistic precision. Yoko is 26, idolized Pablo Neruda and collects odd shaped bottles for her sister who is working on a performance cum conceptional art. Anything else, she will share secrets with...

Willien Glissando Ho

The admirable guy in the creative team, Willien Ho is a fashionista of the highest order. Always clad with something fresh and outlandish everyday, he is what the guys called The Unorthodox Homo Sapien. His experimental styles can be seen evidently in the e-branding works that he had done for several companies, some of which were considered very high-art to be regarded as marketable in the real corporate world. Having said that, his funks and grooves are just a wacky façade meant to cover his veiled, bleak past. Willien suffers from borderline personality disorder and it is a topic one wishes to avoid in a discussion. It is debatable as to whether he is truly suffering or acting as one. Willien professes to all that he is a brand conscious freak and claims that he hides his dysphoria through shopping therapy. Not ready to share the secrets of his life story, he usually spends his free time baking cookies and named them after dead celebrities. He lives by himself in a rented apartment and visits his mother’s grave twice a year. His busy father travels for business and wired Willien money from everywhere. Gliscendo, his self-given virtual alias, is a combo of the Italian terms Glissando and Crescendo, meaning: “A person who gets louder as he glides”. Nobody has any idea what it actually supposed to imply, but Willien simply likes the synthesis between the two words. He is 28, collects wind chimes as part of his dreamcatcher series and found inspiration in the midst of unrest made better by the strident outcry of an untouched vacuum cleaner.

Cloudburst!

By now, actual clouds have gathered and flushed themselves to the other side of the earth. Rain is eminent and there's a certain air of discordance bothering the moods but not as much as to make me itch. Everything else being constant, I still held in high regards the significance of rain. They can be summarized in just 8 simple words, though at this moment I shall pause and withhold it with some strains, because (1) I am not ready to share, and (B) you ultimately don’t care.

Either way, this is how I end.

Fin.

Sound Off (Part 1)

2009-10-11T11:59:00.060+08:00

Guided by a dusky north star and propelled by the insanity of whatever was left on the palette of my toyed or tortured mind, I reached the high points of tonight in blah-coloured style, a manner almost certain to give one a moment to barge in and comment freestyling. While I gulped mugs of caffeine that had once again yanked me further into oblivion blackened with poisoned prose, a pleasing voice rather soft and pristine peered above my right shoulder, talking grimly by way of whispering about things that sat crosslegged between true and false. This is the voice of ideas, a voice wired through the conscious that reverberates with forced rebounds and gapless shuffles. The night ideas were heavily cold, imprisoned in foreign bars, begging urbanely using the word “please” thirteen times for some form of way out. I answered nonchalantly, replying that I just want to write my next spec script. Just so you know, I just want to write my first spec script for TV, the one that doesn’t involved shirtless hunks playing water sports called “polo” or a group of crime investigators or a set of troubled families rigged with a couple of rebellious pre- or post-puberty youngsters.

But here I was listening again, and what I heard (dubbing over that voice) was a multitude of sounds, cacophony and melodious, tangled in a basket of infectious hums. Hours ago, the matchless modulations of Latin percussion and saucy brass thrilled me immensely. Esplanade Concert Hall vibrated with the tuneful romps of Afro Cuban All Stars, where the gaieties amongst audience could be seen as they danced (some pranced with weird steps!) without a care in the world. Then rewind to three days back, in a scene involving the variations of pipes, trashcans, sinks, lids, brooms and mops. These are the rhythmic noises that cast a colourful riot of splendour. STOMP, after roughly more than 17 years, still proves to be a scintillating work of trash art. Bursting with animated dynamism, the extended flippancy was a fun watch whilst the thumps and thunders provided a satisfying (if not resounding) conclusion to the standard midweek. Now flashback to two days prior, in one of the most awaited full-house concert by the new wave, pop rock cum country artist: the ever so witty performer, Elvis Costello. This time, the pumps and charms of the versatile crooner were made stranger by the strums on his electric guitar; a progressive (or maybe precocious) take on the soundscapes genre if I can put some sense to it. Strung together like a rhapsodic travelogue of moods, this is yet another sonorous ride that fills an unfurnished space.

To top it all were three movies in between days: two Koreans and one Hungarian. Madeo (Mother) by Bong Joon-ho has all the right ingredients for a suspenseful murder drama involving a mother and a wrongfully-accused mentally impaired son, and this is one movie I should be recommending just by the sheer cinematic display and engaging storyline that got me hooked from the onset. Haeundae, made with a budget of US$10 million, is a Korean film you are not required to waste your time on. Though it promises a good premise that would attract wide audiences with similar taste for natural disaster flicks (tsunami attacking the city of Busan, yes very original), the build up was a mishmash of flimsy interlocking dialogues and convoluted subplots, and by the end of the movie I couldn’t help thinking that the deadly tidal wave was merely a god-of-machine device installed to make the characters come full circle with their sets of problems and achieved some form of atonement. That aside, I would still watch this feature if only to witness the effects glorifying the screen in full 3D surround sounds. But make no mistakes: Korean films are moving on to higher territories where Singaporeans could only dream of. See it to believe it, and you might be swept away with the visual accomplishment; never mind the story. The third film is way out of league, with its surrealistic scenarios and oddball characters, containing an array of very stunning cinematography that surpasses my presumptions when I first caught the trailers online. Taxidermia is a Hungarian film with dark plot points told in one linear fashion involving three generations of men from Hungary: an orderly during World War II, a speed-eater during the Cold War and a taxidermist in the modern times. To reveal the essence of the film would be too much a detail. Also, I am advising you (whoever you are) to not see this film right after a meal. Halfway into the show, I officially labeled Taxidermia as the Ultimate Gross Movie of All Times, and thanks to me you might want to catch this just to see if I am being hypocritical with my 60 seconds movie review.

78 down and 22 more films for the viewing. Time is slowly closing up. Not a day goes by without a little something-something on the side. Being busy is kind of normal, while love, for good or bad, is still hiding in plain clothes.

Tomorrow marks another day, where it was expected to be partially cloudy and everyone will be wearing their invisible overalls in cynical shades of greyish blue. Perhaps a little contemplative theatre play would be sufficient to clear the blues away. Matinya Toekang Kritik (Death of a Critic) allured me many months ago and seeing that I am only a quarter into the script, it is pretty safe to say that I'm still unspoiled as of today. A review might follows if I have the craving to criticize.

Speaking about scripts, the voice of ideas threw me back into existence for the trifling task at hand.

But my energy sapped, my minds snapped, my power snared, jabbed, trapped, kidnapped, grabbed by the flaps, wrapped in a web of bits and maps. The ending mark came upon me, as I wrote a short closing passage that was meant to be apt, writing blindly with no tendency to use heavy words that could misconstrue the stories beyond the lies and craps. The ideas are there, ready to leap further out of the ledge. Call me if you have any visions where all these might lead to. You could save me from this guise, this intuition, this cruel perplexity. Please take me away from a realm where ideas are vain and the only sign of reality is the sound made from the ticking of the pregnant clock hands asking me to wise up and go to bed.

To be continued ...

Inconclusively

2009-09-16T00:07:00.025+08:00

What could be more pointless than… wait, no, I should take that back. Perhaps instead I can lay claim by saying that the only point of going to Geylang in this bright month of Ramadhan is to find the latest album by Hujan, and yes, I did. As if the disc is not obscure enough to begin with, the shop owner veiled them underneath his stacks of cash. There must be some agreement between the band and the distributors: “Only sell to those who asked for it.” Discrete selling must be a new marketing term.

On the album, the title track impels with jazzy chord progression, and no lesser, an anime inspired chorus. Avid music listeners have been comparing the tune to Innocent Sorrow by Abingdon Boys School. In a single audio test they stood in parallel, but they are sonorously two different melodies with contra distinct set of musical semblance. Such would be the norms in the creative field. Originality is of the essence but who can control our simultaneous thought processes? I might be thinking about what you are thinking right now, and I do think that I actually think about it first, but we could go on arguing until the cows come home and there is still no conclusion to this. So flag it out, shake it off. Mencari Konklusi – cryptic lyrics for the fuzzy minds, if you get their drifts. Heavy, typical indie, but cute synths in the mix, too.

On the other side of stuffs, wafting between the corporeal and abstract, here’s an incomplete list of things you will never find in Geylang’s Bazaar:

Gigantic umbrellas with ketupat repeated-patterns imprints, Hang Tuah and Gang's limited edition LEGO® set (Taming Sari sold separately), mooncakes with durian fillings, dodols in the shape of Mickey Mouse, festive lights adjusted for the colour blind, electronic feather dusters, Michael Jackson’s afro hairpiece, pineapple-scented Virginia Slims, bestial facemasks for adults to be used as scare tactics in chasing away kids who asked for green packets twice, Sahiba Box Set (2009 Edition), a compilation CD containing medleys of forgotten oldies sung by runner-ups from various Community Centre Singing Contest, handcrafted sepak takraw balls made from optical fibres, Pantone™-inspired Kueh Lapis, chrome tinted Tupperware®, eight lines pantun sold in bubblewraps by artistic buskers, jagong flavoured Chupa Chups®, agar-agar manggustans, hairless rambutans, orang-utans, special DVD of your favourite Western pop artistes singing familiar festive tunes entirely in English (and some in Portugese), water guns that spurt out Iced Bandong, greeting cards that self-destruct into quad-coloured whistling sparklers after you're done reading them, rice paper curtains, Javanese blangkon that can be transformed into a trucker cap with only a single pull of a hidden tab, hand carved deer-antler ear rings, mini vacuum cleaners with enhanced nozzle and Suck-up™ technology powerful enough to swallow tiny debris of homemade cookies stuck in between the fibres of your newly bought carpet, Sari-like textiles that change colours with the weather, authentic tribal regalia, brooches made of Tago nuts, Arabic movable types, miniature proas made of rattan, Persian cats, Minangkabau dolls, portraits of Parameswara, sepia-toned chess boards, jars of unfolded cocoa-filled love letters, an immigrant's guidebook on Rojak Language, songbooks on selected ghazals, beginner's books on proper phonology for Malays and non-Malays, books on Surabaya dialects, fakebooks on traditional Balinese polyphonies, recipes for singing praises, gravy-proof and glows-in-the-dark vests, transparent scarves, wolf-skin bongos, cutleries made from jelutong, batik prints nightgowns, boomerang-shaped glutenous rice, silver-plated mortars and pestles, ornamented hawksbill shells, real flowers with artificial one-drop fragrance and The Afghan War toy soldiers with actual machine guns audio effects (suitable for 18 years and above, batteries not included).

You might find clay models of Persian cats in an approximate 1/7 scale.

You might even find love, but honey if you shrink your balls, there goes. Pump up your man-voice. It helps.

Exercises For 11 Rhymers

2009-09-09T00:00:00.006+08:00

Movement 1 -

He crossed his eyes, dotted his tees,
Read the italics by your heavy zzzs,
Led his lines, kerned his space,
Pathed the curves of your serif face,
Flushed his words, hanged his puncts,
Threaded thoughts with glyph of tongues,
Changed his case, wrapped his texts,
Hid his characters in zapf dingbats.

Movement 2 -

Bright green was the sea, calming the tempest of mood
that ensconced his true feelings deep in the blue.
What smells of egg-yolk yellow have slowly imbued
into a moisture of wrath stuck in the dying canoe
demanding a compass. Without light and in the nude
he jumped, indigo memories reeling as he withdrew
from the bureau of sorrow rouged with blood feud,
where flaming members larked in the the culture of zoo.
The sea was restless, he swam mightily against the rude
tides and dashed through the whitewashed shampoo
of waves and seawalls. The next hurdle was cruel, hued
in dirty yestergrey, unmasking thick noises he knew
nothing of. The lighthouse emerged like magic and stood
upright upon the violet horizon, of which the angle of view
were thwarted by his chromatic insecurities and accrued
interests. His mind, unfrozen no more, was the only clue
to this succubus of colours and replicas, to be unglued
from the body, the senses and the spectrums of deja vu.

Movement 3 -

P_ O _ _ E M S

Movement 4 -

if you chanced upon Coincidence, please
tell him that Fate is waiting.

if you happened to see Fate,
tell her there is such thing as Coincidences.

if you are fated to meet Chances,
good luck!

Movement 5 -

with loves, with hopes
with doves and dopes
with lives, with friends
with knives of fiends
with joys and grieves
with ploys of thieves
with words as tools
with flirts, with fools
with rights, with wrongs
with sights and songs
with one, with you
with who? with who?

Movement 6 -

She tames the gamers and renames disclaimers
before the famous framers flamebursts.
He digs the chick who digs chick flicks
whose feet flic-flacs with flexi-chics.
She treats the dictionary like a kid's fiction story
or a street directory to that sweet confectionary.
He laughs at the humour crafted in the rumour
grafted with fervour enough to defluff her.
She'll fill the wills and seal the deals
then he'll be healed by He who shields.
He irons his ironies with syphons and symphonies
then tries on the sunnies of fast-dry acrimonies.
She follows the fellow with rainbow eyeshadows
who swallows marshmallows of snows and marrows.
He blooms with a boom but dooms by the fume
from whom he presumed still looms in his room.
She employs the boys to destroy the ploys
with soys, savoys and cloyless bok choys.
He lunges with plungers, expunges like thunders,
then wonders what's under the others' suspenders.
And he empties his trashes by trashing his emptiness
as she came to rescue him from his death.

Movement 7 -

Volumes of findings are done through
Advanced searches mostly used for
Raw footnotes with silly,
Irregular metrics, often cited in
Altered notions with timings of
Theatrical pauses that run
In shifts and switches, but somewhere else
Obiter dictums took charge when
Nimble stunners become
Suicide bombers.

Movement 8 -

I am not a poet lah,
who say?
I just write something flowerish,
you think I gay,
but I tell stories,
you see dear,
if I don't tell these,
they call me liar,
sometimes got meaning,
sometimes don't have,
sometimes got rhyme,
(what rhymes with have?),
but still I write,
use keyboard not pen,
people don't like,
nvm, bopian,
I don't write to please,
but please rate this,
one star also can,
not happy? comment,
and maybe if you care,
(got money must share),
send a donation,
so I can straighten,
my octavian
hair!

Movement 9 -

At the eleventh hour the painter had no idea
as to why he should try no further than here.
At the tenth hour the vengeful proprietor
planned a way to replay his stage-role better.
At the ninth hour the daughter and her mother
feared the sight of the lightning in the sphere.
At the eighth hour no one but her could hear
the sounds that abound the runty shelter.
At the seventh hour two men hit a mousedeer,
whereby one is the son of an animal lover.
At the sixth hour the MRT commuters were
eyeing for a spot so they could rot in one's corner.
At the fifth hour the lovers took cover by the pier
and found that drowning is a guiltless killer.
At the fourth hour a homey met a stopwatch dealer
who was sweet and neat as a timeless cheater.
At the third hour the poet sneered by the rear
with an austere face and traces of queer.
At the second hour we caught the suave riddler
failed to unveil his arts in the belvedere.
At the first hour the boy with the Irish sunflower
ran like a man to the man he called 'father'.

But what really happened at the twelfth,
I delved and discovered not a single hand,
Minutes or seconds, right or left,
whilst I shelved this ruined meter, uncomprehend.

Movement 10 -

Thrown in between Uxor & Vita, he dislodged himself
and spun a turn, out from a thresher's grace,
submerged into the quirky Escher's maze.

He shouted but no one greeted,
none of his loud words heed,
fallout sleets.

Landed, he saw a capricorn, a torn thorn,
and couple of sonnets belonging to a hornet
who died from Acid maltase deficiency,
two purple Leos, a Gemini who crippled the other,
and four Pisces smashed into pieces by otters.

He ventured further, into the scoria
of unknown naos, brown chaos,
of sirens and gyrons
pictures-mixtures exotica,
into the branches of pines that giggled whenever
a riddle is out of punches or lines.

The virgin and the water bearer, now soaked
with hocus birdlimes, sang folks schlepped along by
the chorus of mimes.

In the flooded hallways, where giants guarded
the orange gates, deranged kids of strange glees
pleaded in peace with baits.

He moved at haste, as
Aries dropped on it's feet and supplicated
for a crop of weed which he had duplicated.

Now in the Zone of Mors,
rich gargoyles orgled,
loud beasts on Scales toggled with Oh!,
threatening to blow fire through their olfactory
nerves engined by the multi-
versed Scorpio.

He mad-dashed to the next scenes,
like jumpcuts,
like flashes of images and texts marching
in the cocoon of ruts and sins,
done abruptly but in vein, a style
he adopted from years of writing
wild cinquains on mild sequins.

Here, no
one wants
a hero.

The humming was overwhelming,
Taurus grooved through the roofs, and neath the tappa
The Cancerian Band were controlling
the wind effects strolling from the intoxicated,
modulated talk box of Vangelis, Moroder,
Bowie and Zappa.

He finally found an end,
he saw the Moonlady descended.

She said:
In this abysmal constellation,
The Archer holds the key,
and the house of philosophy
is only next door.

Therefore?

You need to put on a disguise.
A siltstone would be wise.

Gleaming eyes, petite in size,
He apologized, thrice,
I do not dramatize.
I do not tell lies.
Nor am I wise to to know
if it's worth the price.

Then she reached her wings to him,
and they swam into the diminishing
phlegm of ink, where sinking
poets and ~ notepads
are indivisible.

Invincible.

Movement 11 -

Haiku For A Retired Poet on Diet:

Poet. Admired.
Hired. Sired. Desired.
Quiet. Dead tired.

And we all lived happily ever after............................ NOT! (But we must, no?)

One Passage Apart

2009-09-02T00:10:00.017+08:00

Dear X,

You smiled an Argentine smile and then left me hanging like Babylon. Why is this happening? Such unkind acts will be declined even by those whose sanities are tainted by grieves. Haven’t you noticed by now that my heart is as fragile as a piece of China – once broken, hard to mend? Even in this situation I must make myself believe that beneath the abyssal Deep Creek of your concealed emotions, the feelings stay true to its form. You just didn’t realize it yet, since of late you have decided to put on the mental state of self-denial. Eventually, (this I rather lodge upfront), the Ethiopia of promises that we once laid in the open pith of Île de France will be nothing more that just a stain of Greece. I've decided to reside at the lowest district as of today. My Hungarian moodswing shall be the talk of the town, but I bet you don’t give a toot. Let me be like this. I will then surrender to higher calls, go the distance and be a recluse amongst the Ireland of tortured souls. Each of those warm praises and cool sycophancies that you have poured with loud amorous stature shall now be precipitated urgently in close vicinity of the Jordan River; I assumed that they are better off as anagram pickings for the Kyrgyzstan sea creatures lurking for a bite. I wish you could take the Lithuanian route and flee as far away from here as possible, for this nigrescent, Mozambique heart would uncautiously falter at the glimpse of your hair whenever seen in full view under the latitude of a brilliant crescent moon. If you ask me, the answer is no; I am not in a spot and not defeated. I am merely alone in a familiar place that has neither lands Norway. But we are officially here in the crux of Overtown, at the dead-end street of a Plainview relationship, in the Quebec of a sad, winding Romanian journey. And it’s also here where we chart our paths and repose, thus giving in to what we are meant to be: you - the Swede one (obviously), and me - a Turkey. The only question that must be forwarded via snail mail to all the pale residents of tomorrow shall be this: Will there ever be a United States of U.N.I.? Blinded by the Venetian blinds of my loosely fit consciousness, I can only conjure tiny, molecular images of possibilities, where none is partially true and all is but a topographic dream. And as I stand longitudinally in the enclosure of adjectives and conundrums, prep with nothing but a Stabilo liner 808, I pledge to Wright you off and mark you simply as terrain ‘X’ – the unexposed Yuma Desert buried in the deepest Zürich of a fractured mortal.

Yours Truly,
McKinley Wisconsin

There is no country for poor, lonely man. Nor is the story above a solid land of earthly facts. It might be a fiction born from the seed of a fertile soil, but it is definitely a fabricated plot based on firm grounds. And strangely, true love exists in the strangest of places. I’m worn out from all this searching. Love’s hiding makes me seek.

Antithesis.

2009-08-16T11:55:00.002+08:00

Focalize, we might find the patterns to this conflicting ideals. And side by side, we'll conquer this space.

Ten Minutes

2009-08-10T01:09:00.020+08:00