M'aimer, me detester

Friday, January 02 2009
7.56pm
Love me,hate me.

He gently placed the ipod shuffle in my hand like an undying love pledge. Technology is a strange way of getting to know one another’s taste. Instead of listerning to music together, you pass them ipods which reveal bits of information about the other party. Flowers bought off the internet and posted to my office, emails and sms exchanges. Imagine a world lost in tehcnicolour blandness, gentle robotic monotonic whispers of declarations of desires. The mind is willing but the flesh is weak….Thus the new modern pre-coital courtship.

I woke up one morning sometime in the last 2 years to realize that I fu$%ing suck at Love. And the new world technology hasn’t made it easier. Like the interface between Windows and Mac, ‘Love’ is a mastery of liking and hating.

The main problem is that I’m in and I’m out. I’m for and against. I care too much but wish I’d rather not give a damn S%^t. I’m the cool thin gal in skinny jeans, 3 inch heals, chain smoking slims, slugging strawberries daiquiris who’s also the fat gal who would rather walk out of the house in sweatpants and pimple cream. I like contrast. I like being in love but I like being out of love as well. I like capturing images, making evidence of a moment, but I am terrified of someone taking pictures of me, like someone nailed me down to a jpeg.

I hate definition. Its as scary as settling into a life of predictable normality. Normality is like stillness. Deadness. Soundlessness. Just like some of us almost like being depressed and lost in a sea of blue. The truth is,good gals like bad boys. But am I a good gal? What good is the flesh when the mind is unwilling…I like to be with people who inspire me. My main inspiration are people down in the dumps, especially people who have struggled and made it through to the other side. I prefer gnawing questions, existence of a maker, death and purpose of life. As hard as it is, sometimes, I prefer suffering.

Mum said, that whatever I do, as long as I keep doing the right thing, everything will be alright. This year, despite all odds in my path aready, without fail, I’ll wake up, try my best and then fall asleep. If anything, waking and sleeping are still different, aren’t they?

Happy New Year!

Lots of hugz and kisses,

L aka CJ

On Player_Harvest_By Dragon Ash

La figlia delle stelle

Saturday, 11 October 2008
11.48am

How can it be this beautiful? How can it be this beautiful? This is what I kept asking myself today while walking in the park. It’s that favourite time of the year for me again. And today, the heavenly beams shone brightly on me, crisp leaves crackled under my feet and auburn leaves fell on me. It was good. It was too good.

To be very frank, I’ve been complete mash. I’ve been crying alot recently. Each time I go to church, I silently shed tears when I sing. I cry silently in the shower after a long tough day at work. I cried at lunch time this week when no one was looking. I felt my tears welling up when I finished the last chapter of Jean-Dominique Bauby’s ‘The Diving-Bell And The Butterfly’ while waiting for the tube to come. I really need a reassuring pat on the back and a proper hug.

I remember the last time someone held me. We stood at the bus terminal to say goodbye. It was an awkard hug because he was tall and my head barely reached his chin. We held each other politely. I had an urge to draw him close, and stoke his back and tell him I was sorry. But it is impossible to apologize about something unsaid, something yet to happen even though you know it may.

In general, the people closer to me know I don’t like to be touched. I have to clarify this. I don’t like to be touched unmeaningfully. There’s the general cheek kiss, long-time-no-see-hug, how-are-you-hug which is all well, but not of any particular significance.

I felt myself ready to cry when I read the last chapters of Bauby’s ‘The Diving-Bell And The Butterfly’ when I’d come to the realization that I was experiencing the exact opposite of what the author experienced. Bauby suffered a stoke which left him unable to do anything physically even thought his mind was as able as before. Recently, I feel like my body is active and going through the general motions of life, but my mind is inert, like my soul has lost its spirit and my mind has lost its vitality.

I want to be the daughter of stars. I want to bath in the moonlight. I want to prance wildly in a field of tall grass at midnight and feel its blades sliding past my fingertips.I want to breath the air of degenerating leaves in the depths of an Autumn night. I want to be held again and feel the tenderness of being held. It may be dark and I've lost sight, but at least I want to feel something stiring within me. I need a real hug....

On Player_Notice_By Gomez

*Fleeting...

Monday, 26 May 2008
12.22am

I am confused. I am confused. Did I say I was confused.
I must be.

In the past few days. My head has been a blur. A Blur.aBlur….

Fleeting memories having been slipping past me. Like water in my hands. I have been waking up a lot throughout the night and the day. Maybe because the sun rises too early and sets too late in Spring/Summer that I can no longer accurately guage time passing. Or maybe its just that I haven’t been sleeping well at all.

I use to like playing Dovorák, Debussy and Chopin on the piano. My dog’s name is Chopin. Debussy’s daughter’s name was Chou Chou. That’s what Viv told me when she passed me Shunji Iwai’s ‘All about Lilly Chou Chou’ and that sentence has kinda just stuck in my head ever since. I never finished watching the DVD because it made me nauseous but Debussy’s daughter’s name was Chou Chou. Debussy’s daughter’s name was Chou Chou. Debussy’s daughter’s name was Chou Chou….

In my awake/sleep mode I’ve been dreaming about tasting a bottle of Chateau de Verger 2004 Beujolais again that I had at the The Pig's Ear. In my dream it is at the tip of my tongue but I can’t grasp the taste. How painful.

I just bought a copy of Takeshi Miike’s ‘Ichi the Killer’ for Viv. Not because I like Takeshi Miike but because I love watching Tadanobu Asano. I have every single DVD with Tadanobu Asano in it except ‘The Picnic’ and the soon to be released epic 'The Mongol' , where he acts as Genghis Khan. ‘Ichi The Killer’ must be the most teeth-ghashingly violent and stomach churning movie I have watched, but I think Viv would like it. She’s a real special one….

Tonight, I just bought a cake online for my mum. She’s not really into violent movies.

I think Taka Hirose is the coolest modern bass guitar player around. He built his own bass. How cool is that?

I’ve been trying to search for an old Yano Maki album. Something that brings back painful yet tender memories for me.

My hair has grown long again. Too long for spring and summer I think. I should cut it again.

I am confused. Am I confusing you? But I aready told you I was confused.

I just started reading Jean-Dominuque Bauby’s ‘The Diving-Bell and the The Butterfly’. It was a gift from Viv after we went to watch the movie and I told her how much I would like a copy of the script. In simple terms, it is about the ex-editor of French Elle magazine who suffered a massive stroke which ended up paralyzing his whole body except his left eye. He wrote the entire book letter by letter with a person translating each alphabet letter by letter with an approving wink of his left eye. In a passage he talks about the last time he saw his father before his stroke.

I remember the last time I saw my mum. I held her briefly at the airport in February. It seems like such a long time ago now. Every time I go home. She appears to have aged. Her eyes seem to protrude more and more from her sockets and emanciated frame. I can see her capillaries through her now translucent and delicate skin. If I dig deeper into my memories, I use to remember that she had jet black hair. Even into her 50s. But now, with the fatigue of age, I can see all the whites. I can remember lying beside her and watching her during her afternoon naps. I have never had a habit of afternoon naps, but I liked to lie there right beside her watching her on afternoons when it was too hot and humid to do anything but lie still. I can remember her scent, her faint moisturizer and the ever comforting feel of your mother beside you. Mostly I remember how gentle and kind my mother was.

Happy Birthday Mum. Sometimes. I miss you. Very much.

On Player_Sumidare_On Yano Maki’s 'Live your Life’