stay, thee, heart

stay, thee, heart and bleed no more,
for dearth of blood and hurt from yore;
dost thou not feel, nor trow, nor think? but last in lust for nevermore?

hush, now, heart - in silence sing,
a solemn hymn for spurned love's sting;
canst thee hope for 'ternal calm? and harbour gifts for futures bring?

cometh soul, 'fore cometh meet,
hast thy none of thine heart's beat?
nary strength nor devout veil, left with sickly sorrow sweet.

plead, thee, heart for death's embrace,
cold wit of thine lover's face;
but fleeting, fleeting, this faint feel is but all gone with too much haste.

beseech, heart, of what is true,
oft rued decisions misconstrue;
shalt thou remain along thy course, or seek another heart anew?

so tarry here no longer, heart, it pains me much to hear thy beat,
though i ask much of thee today, prithee we should soon again meet;
but should it not that thou hast love, perchance thy hath of hope and calm,
know now i clutch thee at breast's breadth, and keep thee farthest 'way from harm.
stay, thee, heart;
stay, thee, heart;
stay, thee, infernal mine will,
stay, thee, heart;
stay, thee still;
mayhap wish for 'nother chill.

my first contact with contacts

Putting the contacts in was quite the ordeal. If I recall correctly from first year anatomy, the conjunctiva of the eye is supplied by the ophthalmic branch of the trigeminal nerve, which provides sensory innervation to he brainstem, where the reflex arc connects to the motor nerves of the orbicularis occuli via the facial nerve (mixed from the temporal and zygomatic branches). In layman’s terms, anything touching the conjunctiva causes a reflex to close your eyes. Which is basically what happened every time I tried to pop the contacts in.

Needless to say, my eyes were sore, red and watery. After a half hour endeavour, finally one contact was in. and I can happily say that I can see nearly as well as I can with glasses. That’s quite impressive, and should prove useful when I play football or basketball in the future.

I’m not really looking forward to tonight, though, when I have to remove them…

shopping for chocolate

When you go into a store – it doesn’t really matter what kind – and you look for something to buy, there’s always a series of complex and pressing questions that you ask yourself. Sometimes this process is elaborate and well thought out, whereas other times the process can be trivialised.

Let’s take an example: say you’ve just walked into a world class chocolatier. I use this example because I have a direly sweet tooth and chocolate is always a safe bet when trying to find something that everyone can relate to. So, you’ve just walked into this state-of-the art confectionery. There is an unlimited variety of chocolates to choose from; all your favourite colours and flavours, sizes and shapes, smells and ingredients. Everything your mind can fathom and more. As always, there’s going to be some chocolates that you wouldn’t dare try – maybe durian chocolate, or 86% pure dark, or giant fire-ant coated chocolate, or wasabi-infused chocolate. Some may be chocolates you might try on a daring day, but you may not normally choose, and others might be chocolates that you find mundane and too bland (but note that without the tasteless and generic, there cannot be the exceptional).

Of course, strolling through the aisles, left unattended or bothered by salespersons and other patrons, your mind wanders and contemplates – this chocolate is too expensive, this chocolate seems too sweet, this chocolate smells funny and this chocolate melts too soon (although in the lattermost case, I cannot believe any good chocolate melts too soon). Given an infinite amount of time, you are bound to come across the perfect chocolate, or at least a handful of the most perfect chocolates (perfect here being personal and subjective). But, as with all life’s dilemmas, you do not have an unlimited amount of time. Time is pressing. The chocolatier may be closing, or your ride may be leaving soon. Maybe you have a prior engagement or maybe the world is ending. Whatever the case, you only have so much time, and for complexity’s sake, let us assume that you do not exactly know when you have to leave – only a rough idea.

Now, say you really want to purchase at least one chocolate. Just one, to make it simple. All these considerations come to mind. But, say you haven’t made the purchase and have to leave for any of the abovesaid reasons (or other, that is fine, too). You will be left wanting, and on your way out of the store, wondering; ‘Maybe I should have taken that chocolate because it was not too pricey? Maybe I should have taken the other because it was perfectly delicious? Maybe I should have taken yet another because of random reason #293?’

Whatever the reason might have been, you have left, never to return. And you are empty-handed with no chocolate to savour or brag about. Nothing, in effect, besides your cold, hard, conscience. That, and the burning questions in your head, that you will continue to ask yourself, and extrapolate upon.

Are you going to buy that chocolate now, or not?

p/s: been away for a couple of weeks and will continue to be for another few. hence, the typing entries out on word and copypasta-ing to blogger whenever i can. note the capitalisation where i normally would not. in any case, be back when i can. also, incoming chunk of entries very sporadically

birds of paradise

pink galahs and cockatoos, with yellow, recursive crests,
kookaburras and emus, and lorakeets with bright red breasts;
rosellas with a dainty gait, ones which are playful all the time,
black swans from perth and weird parrots that sometimes sing and sometimes rhyme.

an eastern rosella

kookaburra

an emu. they're actually not nice at all

cockatoos. these are amazing

and galahs are just as much

i find it funny enough, though, the most pretty bird of them all,
is not of wing or avian, and if sought flight would surely fall;
and though not fallen, has fallen true, i feel this bird can't fall for you,
so molt now and grow rainbow plumes, that i may heed your beck and call.

and au contraire it seems to me, that bird may sing a sorrow song,
till wind beneath your wings you find, i let you go for now - so long!

seconds of silence

for the past week, i have been living alone in an apartment for three. two of my housemates had gone home to work and get engaged, respectively, and it was an unfortunate situation that i could not attend the latter. on a side note, i should point out that it was a very auspicious occasion, and there was much pomp and rejoicing to be had. i'm sure this comes as a norm and expectancy to you, but in a culture where engagement is a very personal event (usually observed only by the mate, bride-to-be, and their immediate families), i was quite surprised to see photos up on facebook of his engagement event where it was very much like a small-scale, but elaborate wedding. kudos and hearts to the engaged couple, but let us not tarry on that, lest i divulge information not mine to talk about in the first place.

staying home alone has been something i have been familiar with for some time, and, to be honest, something i very much miss at times. one easily pipes in to say 'aha, but you say that now, because you only see things through rose-tinted glasses', and i won't argue with this. there have been perks and shortcomings, pros and caveats of living alone. however, at the end of the day, i think i very much prefer it to living with others, especially many others. don't get me wrong here, i think i get along fairly well with people in general, but there's something to be desired when you come home from work (or studies, or play, or whatever you do that makes you weary), only to have to engage with the social contract (refer to gregory house on this one). again, do not be dissuaded into believing that i am antisocial for any reason, but sometimes you just want to come home to silence and a little bit of emptiness.

i've had much time to catch up on many things - job applications (no, i do not have a job yet, and this makes me a particularly sad panda), reading some novels (yes i am still on the same reading list for a year), gaming (got back into gaming, and it's a full time job for a bum. serious business, mind you), and lazing around.

however, as much as i enjoy it, i do welcome my housemates back (for now); at least the one person who has arrived yesterday, qurrosh failscream. i don't doubt i will longingly miss my time alone soon, when everyone has returned from wherever they are, my housemates and random family and friends, included. but till then, going to catch up on my series (oh, yes, i am watching house, glee and friday night lights right now), and not miss the fact that i have to consider other persons' wanting to do this or that at any point (not that i have, prior to this; and not that my housemates are awesome enough to not care for what i do anyway!)

letters to santa

yesterday, i wrote my first love letter. it was passionate, and obfuscate, and awkward, and puzzling, even to me. when i wanted to mail it, the cashier and post office attendant was being quite the nuisance, though. she insisted that i use some fancy air mail stamp because 'this stamp has the "mail" word on it'. i thought to myself, 'really?' the letters that i had come with, that i normally carry in my wallet were some ruddy old teddybear stamps, though i imagine that can hardly be dismissed as legitimate postage stamps. as for the ones she offered, i have no idea why they would be superior in any way. forgive me, for i do not understand the complexities of sending a letter, something that i used to do every weekend but do no longer because, who really uses snail mail. however, the last time i did, it was fairly straightforward - just use the correct amount of postage paid (and in this case i used $1.80 in stead of the required $1.65).

interestingly enough, counting my shillings as i stood in front of her, only to realise that i had not enough, i offered to pay using card (i actually had some notes in my wallet, but really, i don't like carrying around coins). she quickly said, no, that's fine, just use my stamps anyway. contradiction, much? in any case, if my letter arrives, i curse you for being a pain; and if it doesn't arrive, i curse you for being so dismissive. since when did post-office attendants become little napoleons. oh, i should note the demeanour in which she handled the conversation was... lacklustre.

having gone through that, which i don't really mind, except for the fact that now i worry whether my letter will arrive or not (love letters are serious business), i was now ready to finally pop my letter in the mailbox. it's quite cute that there was a dedicated mailbox outside (madeshift from a red cardboard box) just adjacent to the permanent mailbox upon which is written in capitals, 'LETTERS TO SANTA'. i am not sure where these letters end up, but, i write now another love letter, in hopes that santa is actually a sexy, blonde and blue-eyed woman from scandanavia who lives just north enough of the arctic circle to warrant the name 'santa', but at the extrme-most south to warrant living where it's not dark all winter long (though i now concede that this may be geographically impossible). one never knows, that should (s)he reply, i may want to move in, and the aurora borealis will never look prettier.

lovingly for santa,

etc.

my new favourite thing

500g of oven-baked french fries (or freedom fries, for the american anti-terrorist)
one cup sour cream
thickly sliced cheddar cheese
home-made guacamole and salsa-sauce (avocados, tomatoes, salt, water and peppers)
thai chilli sauce
a dash of salt
a dash of pepper


mixed and microwaved for 30s.

voila, hey presto!

either it was epic or i was really hungry. in either case, i am now full and this warrants making again another day!

most wicked

i do not care for silly hats, tiaras made of gold,
i do not care for pumpkins, mice, or ball gowns (new and old);
and never cared for handsome princes (god, i hate them most),
what's probably worse are crystal shoes! and wearers oft who boast.

and really who keeps mirrors now? even those that in tongues speak,
for all i want to hear is how i'm prettier than child, so weak;
and even then it would serve best to whisk away, let dwarves apart,
than have a hunter sin behest, then lie instead with foul boar's heart!

woe is me yet, i can't tell lies, like roses red for my safe keep,
for 'ternal beauty one's soul vies, and this is source enough to weep;
take steady aim! release your shot, and pierce this wretched, beastly heart,
you see skin deep a slyly plot, it matters not, death does me part.

i'd be surprised, if you still cared for women's rights in france,
do you still think we live backwards, in dark ages, perchance?
and do not think i care the least for golden flawless hair,
(but, heavens, it's so silky smooth, it would make a fine stair).

i do care, though (you'd be surprised) of 'chanted spinning looms,
they fill my heart with so much dread, of demise and of dooms;
but thwarted (yet again, curses!) by one true love's first kiss,
my plan, it was so perfect so, i wonder what i missed?

and sometimes i do love to frolic with souls of the damned,
so that i may enact out all the nasties i have planned;
i could not care less for green frogs, or toads, or of the sort,
though french-prepared frogs legs are nice (i kill them 'times for sport).

i sometimes care for cooling breeze, though not for colours of the wind,
but who can care for dainty child, especially those who have erst sinned?
but maybe it will be alright, if left to stand there hand in hand,
behind them all i plot to take, their gold, buffalo, wives and land.

i notice sometimes, in the night, when tigers eyes' are shining bright,
a desert rose, or diamond rough, that in the darkness then takes flight;
but give up power, gold and love, i cannot do this for my health,
and envy still a beggar's luck, a sultan's will, a daughter's wealth.

i cared not for the longest while, of sickly sorrow sweet,
voices of an angel though at expense of one's feet;
thus vanity, oh, vanity, so pointless to impress,
for what? for men? for dainty forks? to wear a pretty dress?

a fighting spirit, now that is cause for someone to envy,
i'd say i care, but, no, i don't, i'm just not that savvy;
but stab me through the heart and find gender is no import,
reflections of cherry blossoms in a river for sport!

and lastly curse my aching back, i could not feel a thing,
and yet those supple children feel a pea of a sapling;
how could this be fair, one must ask, in light of all that's right,
i will not care, i cannot care, i shan't with greatest might!

and so my sisters, up in arms! your call has come to fight!
who dares shun and belittle our solemn, slightly plight?
a curse on them, a doom on them, a hex of dark voodoo!
beware young child, your time is nigh, we're out in search of you!

*written on behalf of all the wicked witches, horrible stepmothers, ghouls and ghosts and scheming antagonists. for all the knifing, backstabbing, treacherous knaves, this one is for you*

dikhabarkan

i've been told many things. i've been told that man cannot fathom the vastness of space, i've been told that there are lives at stake when one loses faith, i've been told that you cannot feel what another can face, and all and everything in between. i've also been told that i cannot write in a foreign language. i tried writing in (what little smattering of) french last week, and i found myself very much wanting. it has been an interesting experience, though - one that i intend to keep to myself because french is such a puzzling language! i cannot understand now how it can be so romantic, yet when i try for and towards such things, all i can see is eyesore. so, today, a little bit of malay:

dibuahkan hujan seribu bahasa,
mencari peniti melangkah jambatan;
dikhabarkan padaku seribu binasa,
biar padamu aku doakan.

janganlah dendangkan selamat tinggal,
lagu sumbang menyingkap sanubari;
dikhabarkan padaku benang sepintal,
membuat teman mengganti mentari.

mencari ratu sehingga syria,
biar terpaksa menerbangkan takhta;
mengenang hati dan mata si dia,
dikhabar lagi warnanya raksa.

janganlah khuatir tentang persoalan,
bermain di minda bermadah bicara;
khabarkan padaku buatmu sialan,
dalam hati ni sematkan segala.

khabarku padamu, padanya, padaNya; tiada erti coretanku lagi,
namun begitu dikhabarkan pula, tak pernah merasa pun hatiku ini.

going solo like a baws

i wanted to post a list of the most awesome guitar solos of all time, but then i realised that my coverage of music is somewhat limited. instead, i'll post some of my favourite guitar solos (and some not-so-favourites, but just because they're awesome). i need to find some peeps with more varied musical inclinations so that i may sample better auditory hallucinations. only once you've drunk from the seas of rhye can you judge the bitterness of ambrosia!

10. thank you for the venom by my chemical romance
my chemical romance was one of those bands that defined my university years. don't get me wrong, nobody's being an emokid here (well, maybe a little bit), i just liked their music. past tense being the active word here. i still listen to 'three cheers for sweet revenge' and 'the black parade' on the occasion, but their latest album (of which i cannot even recall the title. edit: it's 'danger days') delivers mostly in disappointment. this solo is performed by ray toro.


9. knights of cydonia by muse
another cult popular band is the british trio, muse. at first, i must admit, i did not like muse. when my friends were going crazy over 'plug in baby', i thought their music to be too unrefined and raw. only later did i start liking this kind of music, and by that time, muse had moved on to more harmonious (if you can call this genre of music anything of the sort). check out the official clip, i love it - it's hilarious. and while you're at it, check the base on 'hysteria', which i've also included below. the solo is performed by matthew bellamy.
knights of cydonia because embedding has been disabled, boo.
hysteria, also because embedding has been gg'd.

8. monsters by matchbook romance
i've talked about this band before, and this song is exceptionally awesome. one of my all-time favourites. this solo is performed by ryan 'juda' depaolo
monsters: more disabled embedding.


7. talk shows on mute by incubus
no elaborations needed here. incubus is my second-most favourite band of all time. mike einziger rocks the guitar solo here like it's his little female dawg. their latest ablum, however, is lacklustre. but they always experiment with new stuff, and i'm willing to let this one slide, and keep waiting for the next album.


6. november rain by guns n' roses
for those who have never even listened to gnr, the name is still a hallmark of rock-idolatry, living in the fast lane, burning hard, lighting up, kickass music and flambouyant performances. axl rose is one of the most iconic frontmen of all time and they have this lead guitarist whose name, if i mention here will just burn through your monitor with awesomeness. it's slash. he does this (and many other solos) like a true guitar legend.


5. be yourself by audioslave
i guess that since were' down to the top 5 now, every guitarist i mention henceforth should be at least known to the masses. tom morello is no exception with his very technical and experimental riffs. i would talk about this superband in more detail, but we're only concerned with guitar solos today, so have at ye, tom morello!


4. stairway to heaven by led zeppelin
two words. jimmy. paige.


3. hotel california by eagles
eagles was a band that defined my father's 20's, and hence defined my childhood. back in the day, my dad would rock up some tequila sunrise on his vinyl with the turntable. my brother and i got used to changing the pinheads to make the sounds less distorted - we even had a couple of pins reserved for eagles. then my dad got cassettes and we listened to eagles every day after school. no doubt, we had memorised most of the greatest hits' lyrics (if not all). unfortunately, i cannot remember more than maybe half a dozen songs, now. less words. more listening. no particular person performs this solo, they do it as a group.


2. sweet child o' mine by guns n' roses (slash is such a baddas mofo)
because slash is such an epic guitarist, he made it twice into this list. initially i thought sweet child o' mine would be a most definite pick for my top spot, but after deliberating, i've got something else in store for you.


1. i believe in a thing called love by the darkness / don't stop me now by queen
i wanted to write something quite elaborate here. however, i think i've written too long and my time is short. you may have noticed this, as we progressed down the list, my paragraphs have shortened substantially. if not, then now you realise. anyway. it's a tie here between the darkness (3 solos in the same song! which are conducted by justin and dan hawkins, and frankie poullain); and my favourite band of all time, queen (whose solo is rocked up by brian may)



enjoy!

Fe2O3 like hell

i was rummaging through some old files today to get rid of unwanted and outdated stuff on my (relatively new) computer. i found a huge pile of letters i was trying to send to fermina, but never had the guts to send. needless to say, i revisited them and broke down into a puddle of tears. well, not really, but that would be the sentimental thing to do, and in the stead that i cannot do that, i will write as if i did. a couple of things i forgot that i did were: 1) i wrote her ever day we were apart (and since we were just friends, this phrase is literal in the most platonic way, at least for her), and 2) wow, i was really blind back in the day.

here's a sample for half of you to go 'dawwwww' and the other half to laugh at. and maybe the other half to /facepalm.

i swore to love forever more,
for mountains high and chasms deep;
of stereotyped lines of four,
for heartless lovers oft to keep.

and swore again to love you still,
through aeons after death has died;
with nothing more than hardened will,
let unmet promises abide.

it still, was not to be enough,
of this, of you, i cannot blame;
like diamonds shining in the rough,
my own mistakes are my own shame.

of fault and fate, and ridicule,
from demons low, angels above;
for all to see i am a fool,
if for nothing more, than for love.

i lie prostrate in front of God,
and beg and pray he beckons come;
still now, i find this to be odd,
and weird, and tasteless, and then some.
how never would i wish for you,
if by this meant it would not be;
profound from hearts that speak so true,
instead forced unto you from me.

but how could i live not in pain?
and speak of wills that are lived free?
while preach to others naught in vain,
while in plain sight, i lie to see?
that in my stead you ‘ready chose,
a soul of bliss, eternal shines,
like maroon origami rose,
of his, of hers, of yours, of mines.

i cannot fib unto my own, and even moreso upon you;
so here i beg you claim this wish, and make this love at last come true.

such a dsck

henry miller wrote that there are only three things you can do with a woman. you can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature. a lot of people interpret this as that to get over a woman, you pen her down, and drown her in pages of silent sorrow. i just interpret it as miller being a total dsckfaes. he has no idea what he's talking about. and neither do i.

in bloom

a couple of weeks ago i travelled about 600km north of where i live, along with my parents, to enjoy some time away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. when i say big, i fail to mention that perth is just the right size of a city for my taste. possibly even slightly bigger than what i would prefer. but never you mind that.

in any case, the objective of the trip was to spend a few days away from it all (not really in the outback - still in a relatively acceptable slice of civilisation), and as per my father's wishes, view some rare australian wild flowers. now, it may seem mundane to most of us (i say 'us' because it's not my cup of tea to begin with), but apparently, these wild flowers don't bloom too often. once a year, in a window of a couple of weeks during the spring rains. i guess, for my father who had lived in australia for many years, this was something that brought back fond memories of his life here, and though i cannot say i could re-live his experiences, i am more than happy to accompany him on his vicarious pursuit of what is lost and stored at the back of his mind. in return, i hope that my children allow for the same; amidst bickering between the yet unnamed kids, and continual questions of 'are we there yet?', although i reckon that them not knowing this will make it entirely irrelevant.

so, we set out with a beggar's plight. dad, mom and i, accompanied by an aunt and cousin, on a sojourn of sort to see the various facades of the australian outback - from arid deserts to lush canyons (that sounds so counterintuitive, but there you have it), and most importantly to glimpse some desert flowers. i should remind myself here that the australian outback scene is very monotonous (and monochromatic). a red-brown hue as far as the eye can see, separated by a baby-blue sky by the horizon with nothing to see in miles. hence, even driving at speeds of 80 - 130 km/h, one can easily spot said flowers from a distance. the reds, oranges, whites and yellows stand out like phosphorescent fireflies on a calm, velvet night. which, if i may run off on a tangent, is eerily beautiful. i totally have this romantic setting in mind when it comes to fireflies in the night. except that it's usually accompanied by very humid and warm air, making me sweat and get slightly hot and bothered. although, that might be the whole agenda of setting up the frolicking with fireflies. oh yeah.

ahem. anyway, here's some pictures of flowers that we (might have) seen. i really cannot remember them all, and knowing me, i don't have any personal photos anyway.

p/s: god, not having written in ages makes me cringe when i read what i just wrote. so disorganised. deal with it.

you never say hello any more

hello, there. i wish you would.

lethargy

i seem to have not had the thought of blogging for some time now. i am quite surprised. old age may be kicking in, or i may just be changing like that keane song.

anyway, just a jumpstart here. nothing much. had a weird dream, someone drove a car into sydney bay, and i was in the passanger seat. woke up and met miley cyrus. seriously. i don't even like her (at all). but she was kinda cool in the dream, but that's a totally random thing...

also, just woke up so cannot brain much right now -_-. hopefully will get back to proper blogging in a while. toodles.

something that goes snicker snack, snicker snack

first, we had american mc gee's alice. then we had alice: the movie. now, we have alice: madness returns.

congratulations to me for procrastinating, and instead of finding a job or finalising my phd applications, i took a week off, in which i completed multiple small projects (i.e. nothing much). however, i did manage to complete the newest installation to the 'alice' series on my friend's ps3. i'll try not to be as big a fanboi as i usually am about lewis carroll's stuff, and try to keep my post to a very short impression of the game. please bear in mind that this means that this piece will not review the game, instead will be my two cents' worth of an 'aye or nay':

the good:
- the game keeps true to its predecessor as well as lewis carroll's original (and this should count thrice because my expectations were exceedingly high).

- story-line is actually very immense and deep. in fact, one might even say it was too well constructed, such that some of my friends who watched me play (intermittently) needed speedy updates from time to time. the plot progresses well, and keeps you entertained, although one could predict the final villain. the twists and turns do make for very good red herrings, though, and i definitely was thrown off the track more than once.

- the art is beautiful. really. couple of bad shadowing here and there, but nothing too glaring. overall a 9/10.

- music score is not too distracting, but not too bland. it blends well with the changes in themes, and transitions into combat. however, it's nothing stellar (although this could be influenced by me not playing with the speakers up, and all the background noise going on. hmm). on second take, i'll retract that! music is awesomesauce.

- gameplay is fairly intuitive, controls are easy to remember and maneuverability is a lot better than the first installation.

- there's more good points, but let's move forward! let's just assume that if i've not listed something in 'the bad', then it deserves some merit in 'the good'.

the bad:
- sometimes camera angles can be annoying, at other times it can be unintuitive, and once in a blue moon, it can be downright annoying! luckily the camera is easily manipulated with the right thumbstick, but camera adjustment speed seems a tad low, and, especially when performing some of the more acrobatic jumps, aiming for a mushroom / moving platform / specific spot can be horrendously skewed when you cannot rotate the camera in time or end up with a bad angle. just takes some getting used to, but i'm nitpicky about this, as the whole game centres around a lot of platform play.

- mini games. some love them, some hate them. there's a nice balance of mini games in 'alice', to retract from the 3rd person shooter/rpg so that it doesn't become too monotonous. however, if you're one of those persons who are like me, i found there to be just a bit of repetition in a couple of the mini games. the slippery-slide ones are okay. the side-scrollers are a bit teeth-grinding (luckily they aren't particularly hard), and the puzzle-box (?) chess puzzles were sufficiently hard but not 'omg-i-need-a-walkthrough' hard. if anything, there could be a few more of the chess puzzles. those were fun. which brings me to another mini game that deserves its own mention in 'the bad' section...

- sidescroller / 3rd person baby doll head mini game. this. is. so. [insert ragefase]. it's quite infuriating because the physics and mechanics of this mini game are quite poor compared to the other aspects of the game. alice, i am disappoint. if you take a look at the clip below (it's very long so i won't recommend viewing the whole thing), you can see an example of a box-rearrangement puzzle (this was probably the hardest one) at the very beginning, and compare that to the head-rolling minigame (this was the easiest as it was our first encounter with this mini game) at the 10th minute.

i guess i'll blame my inability to perform these mini games on my childhood depravity of mario and sonic, but hey, luckily it's just a small (although time-consuming, if you failed like me) part of the game.
- besides these particularities, in general there seems to be a bit of a clipping issue if you jump near ledges. just a tad. teeny weeny. itsy bitsy. yellow polka dot magnitude. it did cause me some grief especially with the purple/invisible platforms, but i guess i'm just a bit of a n00b to be complaining about this. maybe some other players won't notice this.

- my friend, miss-tanuki, pointed out that during the guitar-hero mini games, there was no audio cue. small pedanticism, but it would have been a simple and nice addition to the game.

- the game might be a bit linear for the newer generation of gamers who have become accustomed to 'limitless' worlds like in fallout 3 (also an epic game, btw), but i liked it.

the insane:
- if you have a minor ocd like me, you'll find yourself looking for teeth, which are required to upgrade your weapons, even long after you've fully upgraded your weapons. smashing boxes and treasure chests which you know will just contain more (useless) teeth and extending your game time unnecessarily. damn you, developers. similarly, with potion bottles (which, we found out only after finishing the game, is required for viewing extra material), rose paint, random secrets here and there. just like any other game, though, this depends on how particular you are about chasing that 'perfect game'.

- there really are no 'boss fights' per se (you just get introduced to a new monster-type, that eventually becomes bread and butter baddies) except for the final boss [no spoilarz plx! you're welcome]. i have nothing against this, but it would have been nice to have had battles against some boss characters, similar to the first 'alice'. i can already think of some game mechanics that might be nice, but i'm no game developer, so i'll leave this up to your opinion.

- and finally, here comes the eye candy. when you've played through the game once, and seen all the different themes in the game, you'll quickly come to realise that you've had chosen your favourite theme / dress / weapon / character etc. i don't know why, but i became attached to the characters and themes in the game fairly quick. blame it on the whole lewis carroll obsession, but i have no doubt many players will, too. in any case, you get to mess around with alice's costumes. not gonna use the word dress-up here, to save all the male players out there some grace. each dress has its own ability, but let's just concentrate on the aesthetics here:



my personal favourite is probably the 'royal suit' (the red dress with a cards theme, pictured below with alice holding the hobby horse weapon). the steamdress (black but not gothic one) comes in a very close second, though, because steampunk is so awesome. have a look through the video and see for yourself.

p/s: a friend pointed out that the fleshmaiden dress looks like something out of a lady gaga concert. the white pupils and permanent hysteria mode, however, make it worth equipping. also, it's in theme with little-sister liddle's queen of hearts. awwww. cute in a tentacle-rape sisterly kind of way... how disturbing.

looking for the colour fuchsia

certain cultures in this world believe that men and women are made in pairs. they believe that every individual is created, long before their souls are breathed into any physical form, and made attached - spiritually, at the very least - to another. if there is any notion of heaven or heavenliness, these cultures believe that a pair of souls are made, intertwined and already in relation, separated then by the souls' journeys to earth. and while their transcendence (or fall) to a physical plane dooms them to separation , the cultures (at the very least) believe that they are destined to rejoin.

this is romantic, at the very least, and a self-fulfilling prophecy, at most. i want to believe in this, but the sheer amount of polygamists, divorcees, never-been-marrieds and homosexuals leads me to think - romanticism has long died and her predecessor, pragmatism, is a cruel and banal dictator. i'm sure the number of each of the aforementioned categories varies from culture to culture, but even the very existence of these categories is doubt enough.

in effect, all i'm saying is that having a fuchsia or et cetera out there waiting for you - fully devoted, admiring and subservient to your every essence and being - is a beautiful idea. it is such a beautiful romance for and of the soul. it is so much a beautiful construct. but, really, that's all it is. an idea, a construct, a novelty. you cannot wait for him or her to come for you and instead, you must create that person yourself. for those who believe, i am envious. for those who disbelieve, i am sorry (and sorrowful). and because of that, i am most sorry for myself.

maybe one day i will learn to paint without the colour fuchsia, but until then, i will keep my palate with only one colour.

parting is such sweet -fsck it-

what’s that, my dear?
nothing to fear,
just something less than chinaware;
you sure it’s true?
it comes for you,
for fair, it actually comes in pairs.

but worry not,
for eyes so hot,
instead ask why it has to part?
now that you’ve gone,
left me forlorn,
why, now I see a broken heart.

it makes much sense,
this decadence,
now rise to fill this empty shell;
with ignorance,
and no two cents,
my dear, this heart has left to swell.

come lonely nights,
with bitter fights,
that exist not because of loss;
my love, farewell,
or fare-thee-well,
now that I can no more accost.

since I once thought,
that was for naught,
for sometimes lies cannot come true;
yet hold on now
and ask me how?
i messed it up for me, for you?

it was a simple, dainty dish – to feast upon this soul’s last wish,
and yet could not be answered by whom now I beg to ask her why,

instead I plead you let us part with nary shattered, broken heart,
but know that till that day arrives, my dear, you spare me not our lives.

monique

for those who read sinfest, you may be familiar with our protagonist - a certain short, skinny, blond man-child who goes by the calling of slick. imagine now, how he is and can be a connoisseur of woman and lustfulness, but at the same time is in love with his muse, monique. imagine, too (now non-canonically) that monique is no longer his friend, even when leading him on, and has chosen to disappear from slick's life with nary a trace, and not a social response.

slick has become the loneliest of the forever alones. shallow, sick and sad, is it more describable of slick, or that of monique (of the red roses)?

p/s: do read the comic. it's one of my favourites.

meta-ing it up.

Little does this thoughtless know,
Of astral beings and ‘bysmal woe;
Verily it does meta- dim,
Every thing takes place but for him.

quote me if you can

remember, remember the 5th of november,
resounding forever for forsaken bliss;
take tit for tat, make fist and take gander,
nothing is free, quid pro quo, clarice.

a man should have two wives just to be efficient,
not rich but a man with money - that's quite different!
you just have to love your mother, dear hemming,
a revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having!

i will take it though i do not know of the way,
and in darkness bound they are now all gone astray;
yet surely we're too smart for own good to be true,
dear god, grant me that I love those who love you.

not rich - a poor man with money, but no peace,
nothing is free, quid pro quo, clarice;
i will take it though i know not the way of the living,
a revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having!

so do away with hope and discard originality, lay low from your nightmares and cower under covers,
on ne sait jamais! le langage est source de malentendus, and believe that all of us are equal but some are more equal than others.

you jelly?

some people like birds as pets. others like dogs or cats. some unique individuals will like the odd frog or snake or robot chicken. but for me, i don't think these are animals i would be comfortable taking care of. i mean, cats are awesome, for example. don't get me wrong. they're cute and cuddly (unless you're a sphynx cat. eww), but i'm a very low maintenance kind of person. i'd rather not have the responsibility or the obligation of taking care of these animals. not that they're hard to take care of, i guess. i'm sure a lot of people think it's a fairly easy task. but the poop! the voms! the hairballs and other unsightly bodily excetions! do not want.

so, a long time ago, i made up my mind that if i ever got a pet, it would be a jellyfish. on a side note, damn you will smith in 7 pounds for taking this away from me for a while. however, not any old jellyfish is sufficient, i would think. though most are mystical and hypnotising in the way they glide through the water (and that is sufficient to keep me intrigued), there's a kind-of wish list i have:

bloodbelly comb jellyfish

green fluorescent protein. we've talked about it here. super. epic. awesomeness. i guess i would ideally like a tank of multiple species of bioluminescent jellies.


uv jellies
i couldn't find an image of multiple species in a single tank (especially uv ones) but the concept is slightly different from bioluminescent jellies (which emit their own light). uv jellies still use GFP but require an external light source (UV light) to induce the green - purple spectrum of emissions. to compensate you for the lack of a visual cue, here have a video of fake pretty jellies. it's not safe to go alone.


(edit: i found a nice clip, albeit it being misnamed)


deadly jellyfish
ok, i realise the deadliest jellyfish are a group of box jellies (apparently chironex fleckeri, carukia barnesi and malo kingi, but i just cited wikipedia for this). my fascination lies with the portuguese man o' war. there's something about the... foatiness? that just gets me. enough talk, more videos!





how beautiful are those!

extra virgin o-love oil

i have lived a life ripe with western, eastern and middle-eastern literature, and for that i am blessed. however, though i have met the literature motif many times, i had not yet placed a name upon it till today - virgin love. it basically encompasses love between individuals (and this is emphasised to differentiate it from love with divinity) where there is no marriage or love-making. i will even extend it to include platonicism, as that is what my middle-eastern background (what little i have of it!) will dictate. and we do away with how practice seldom reflects theory, but forgive this little, hopeless-romantic his small corner of literary poland.

my friend introduced me to layla and majnun, specifically by the poet jalaluddin ar-rumi. i must confess that though i have heard of him before, i had never really appreciated his work. maybe it has something to do with how fermina of the red roses was such a fan of rumi, and how poetic it is that i should find inspiration in his work now that she has passed into the hands of another. and hopefully, i will be better able to appreciate the love for godliness, rather than that between humans, now that i have felt the bitter taste of rejection (also overlapping the mystical 'friend zone', though this serves more humorous value than anything).

i think i shall try reading more rumi in my free time, but for now, there are far more important things to do than dwell on virgin love in poetry. such as falling victim to it in real life. ah, life, how well you mimic art. ah, art, how well you mimic emotion. ah, emotion, how well you mimic yourself.

that is just a roundabout way of saying how ironic my situation is (as is everyone elses, but in different aspects). i wish, though, that for all this confusion, maybe it would be appropriate that my writing some day be synonymous with hopeless romanticism. or virgin love. or at least, unrequited love. something to the extent. as long as it deals with lots of irony and humorously so.

no drama

who knew that guys have just as much drama as girls? as i keep saying, though, if you want to see the worst in people, you will; if you want to see the best you will. it's all about the trinity of: 1) you, 2) 'the other guy' and 3) environment. this is a dogma i have so unashamedly pinched from microbiology (where the outcome of infections depend on 1) the infectious disease, 2) the host and 3) the environment).

in any case, all we need, male or female, to lead drama-free lives is to go out with that perception. no drama.

selling religion (and other stuff)

some days ago, my friend was telling me that religion is a business plan. it markets greed and pits power struggles against self-righteousness. but, like any business plan, you can't market a product without proper advertising. so you bundle up this (innate) human greed and sell it with promises - and what better promises to hand out than false ones. false here, because as my friend says religious leaders promise things which aren't tangible. for example, a religious figure may promise eternal bliss (in the afterlife) in exchange for all your worldly possessions. according to his argument, i, as a greedy human, fall for this because i want something more than i already have (eternal bliss). one cannot test the promise because it involves that leap of faith (of being dead and gone) so the promise is a false pretence, easily backed by a statement such as 'mr. x went to heaven because he gave me all his gold, mr. y went to hell because he was a miser', a statement nobody can empirically prove. add in some flamboyant marketing skills and possibly cult-mentality. spice up the mix with stuff a person can relate to (like spirit of the corn marketing to the farmers or blessing of the water to a tribe of fishermen), and god is a construct. religion is a facade and prophets are... well, prophets are the greediest of us all, and apparently the best marketing strategists.



i, for one, find dismal this whole portrayal. however, i do consider it to an extent. one must be slightly empirical, and with my denial of these statements (be they with bases or not), makes me a stronger 'believer'. because, obviously, that gives me a bigger palace of diamonds when i pass over to the other side.

p/s: i know i always bitsh about love here. i'm so sorry. it's just that, you live. you fall in love. and sometimes, you just don't climb out again. at least not for a long time. i know this, as an observer from the outside. but when you're up there centre-stage, there's not much you can do about it. except... break down and cry? no. pine and pray and hope for miracles? no. sigh and deject yourself, forsaking much of what you believe in? no. i don't really know... maybe, yes.

yours, mine, eh.

some undertakings are harder than others. but none are as hard as yours.

to this i am blind but plainly see, that the world does not revolve around me; neither does it around you, nor he, nor she, nor them. specs of dust carry the same weight that we do.

to that, i am deaf because i turn such ear, but that is not because i do not hear the rushing of wind as an eternity passes by every time i realise that to hear, one must live in absolute silence.

and to fare further away from the senses, one has to live free - free of emotion, free of fright, free of all inhibitions that make one reluctant and unable to act. and this is such a hard undertaking.

some undertakings are harder than others. but none are as hard as yours.

via experience

languages are one of those things that you can pick up easily but can only master through constant and prolonged use. just like how a native speaker of a language can differentiate between regional accents, so can he tell when a non-native (non-fluent) speaker is butchering the language. much like i do. much like illegal immigrants do. much like pretentious posers in cowboy boots and overly-warm sweatshirts. ahem, i digress.

languages are also one of those things that, with failure to continually exercise, it falls into decrepit decay and slowly ebbs away, leaving one with fumbled gestures and stuttered words. it's like a literary muscle which suffers from the withdrawal effects of a proverbial steroid, leaving us hapless in the absence of injections of farfetched words and uncommonly-used phrases.

so how, pray tell - how does one improve on a language by shortcuts and improvised lies? by turning on the subtitles to movies when one should be listening for nuances in speech? by not looking up alien words or culturally placing exotic phrases? by dismissing education for ignorance?

i don't pretend to know the answers, being a speaker of foreign languages. i don't pretend to know how one would attempt to answer these questions, being a writer of foreign tongues. all i do pretend to do, is write. and speak. but not so much that i'm a pretentious poser in cowboy boots and overly-warm sweatshirts.

how?

how do i live through every day?
my eyes are blind, my heart's gone 'stray?
what is my name? it's been so long,
my legs too heavy to carry on.

how do i wake from 'ternal sleep?
a slumber of nightmares that make me weep?
and 'tween them sporadic ungazing stares, from you, my dear, my star of flares.
how does this body heal through such pain?
from canc'r'd sun and acid rain?
'tis easy compared to flightless stairs, to beggars who peddle most worthless wares.
how doting love in sins mayhap?
that prays to God with lips so chap'd,
where 'doth' and 'wherefore' destined pairs; goodbye, enough of careless cares.

how do i live through every day?
how do you under starless nights?
come now whatever demons may,
june and july, for this one's plights.

how cares he not for endless smiles?
and you not, too, for wasted whiles?
how ragg'd poet writes in prose,
and lets go now while no one knows!

my life as a soldier of fortune

my youth was so full of ignorance. and this is not something that is new or exciting. it's neither unforseen nor unwanted. but, i'd like to point out a particular naivety that has come to light in the past 3 or 4 years - that i used to do things for idealism. that's not a misstated concept, i did not do things idealistically, but i did things for idealism. what does that even mean, you ask? let us take some examples and see if this concept can be... conceptualised.

1. i used to want to do a job because i loved it. now i just need the money. lots and lots and lots of money. it's a bit too late for that, but what i want is more important in this conceptualisation that what i'm able to achieve.

2. i used to want to eat because it sustained me, it tasted exquisite, it was worth eating. now i'm just fracking hungry.

3. i used to want to love because i loved this person, this divine being, this heart of purity and flesh of ambrosia. now i just love because everyone's doing it. and because you can't love with just love alone.

4. i used to want to live because life was worth living; that the succulent taste of life was double rainbows and cats and cheeseburgers. now, wtf is this, i don't even...

5. i used to want to write because words are melodic and true and faithful and sweet, sweet release. now i write because, if i don't, the darkness of the world sits upon my chest like an imp with ball and chain.

6. i used to want to play because it was joyful and relaxing and exuberance of the flesh. now i want to play because, what else is there to do?

i hope this has exemplified how someone may do things because of idealisms (but not any more).

paradiso

a humming din reverbs this night,
that timid souls may falter flight;
when weary strangers come accost,
and with dawn draws paradise lost.

i want to get ahold of paradise lost. also, given time, 100 years of solitude. where do i find the time? oh yes, the dodos have it!

my dear alice

some years ago, i played a (at the time, little known) game known as american mc gee's: alice. it's basically a very macabre and twisted version of alice in wonderland. you can read about it more here, in which post i have made all the appropriate links (and shall not bother with in this post, thence).

anyway, a couple of weeks ago. guess. what. i. stumbled. across. oh. mai. gawd.

hells yeah. i'm totally getting this game some time soon. or someone could get it for me for my birthday. i'll probably post all about it when i've played the game, but for the inquisitive, here's the official website (go to the american portal, it's way better).

you can tell i'm so excited. like rebecca black on friday. because the giddiness is practically oozing out your monitors and if you listen closely to your speakers, you can hear me giggling like a little girl on the other side. just like that girl. in wonderland. tee hee. except with less crazy and more happy.

in which forgetfulness is key

i had the most amazing dream last night. i woke up in the middle of it and (heard this before, folks) it was so vivid. then i forget.

i had an idea i penned down in a single sentence. to write and rhyme and make in art. then i forget.

i have a million things on my to do list, each one more important than the previous. then i forget.

i read from tongues i do not speak, i read from authors i keep wanting to read. i make a list somewhere of books that i need to read before the day is done, before the year is out. i lose these scraps of paper, and then... then i forget.

every day i think of a red rose, and how fermina of such heart is... ineffable. but against all my will, and sometimes more. of this i cannot forget.

he is number four

go forth, valiant, trusty steed,
gallop now a steady flight;
and of the time, pray, pay no heed,
descend silently into the night.

and with you take these souls of babes, their ribcage oft'n skinless bared,
while stomachs bloat with gaseous falter - breath from neighing nostrils flared.

thy brother mare, of taint sanguine,
ride templar thrown from wild thrashing;
spew gushing blood from kin of mine,
good for absolutely nothing.

taint of blood and sin of flesh, be gone and sound horns of retreat,
for in one's victory war cries, sings eulogy of kin's defeat.

but hark! who goes there, callous fiend?
with unarmed hand, and sorrow'd fame;
and wreak stench of rot and gangrene,
verily, oh, death is thy name.

let your disciple do your bid, and flay our souls from bodies lie,
that even aeons come to pass, that deathless beings even may die.

despair, thee, mortal, hope does no more,
a fourth is come, dressed sickly white;
but what lust has this equine for?
blanch'd hooves upon whose mount takes flight?

with submissive fault faith demise'd, let havoc loose to end's degree,
mayhap hope persists insomuch, a lamb to save us from brothers three.

that's just the way it is

this is me,
looking at you;
falling in love,
or love misconstrue.

this is me,
gazing through eyes;
like depths of an ocean,
that soulless demise.

this is me,
realised now;
i misplaced a thought,
so i take a bow.

this is me,
fumbling retreat;
while dropping my heart,
that's now at your feet.

this is me,
crying in shame;
as passer-bys smile,
'oh god, that is lame'.

this is me,
in ignorance, bliss;
fatefully that's just the way it is!

it all makes sense

i don't understand.

tick tock

life's old clock, doth tick too fast,
whilst seconds gone that nev'r last;
a grandfather now tells and bell tolls,
like bowling balls upon eventless black holes.

hush, silence now, and list'n well,
hath this stopwatch not pray and tell?
of sorrow'd times filled with regret,
breed condescending love beget.

and falt'r with thy heavy heart,
like burning stars from far apart;
count years in which light doth traverse,
with burden'd betterment oft for worse.

now gravitate towards all that you impart,
tick-tock, repeat, for that was false start;
expand at expense of expanseless dark void,
of stellar proportions much like brandon boyd.

falter, falter, falter again, time seeps between fingers that cannot withhold,
reject, reject, rejection, my friend, for thou art forever alone and are old;
(forever thou art alone - an arsehole).
tick tock still goeth this clock.

every fracking day!

every day, a little bit, again i die inside,
every day, just that much more, my soul does run and hide;
every day, now and again, this mind is sorrowful,
it thinks of mundane repeatings and laughs at pity's fool.

for what is life, this everyday, if not that of motions gone through?
if not for person's emotions, on which imprint unto?
what is our being, if left distilled, in beakers and on shelves?
of quirky, orbiting atoms, and imminent ourselves?
but then, why should we think of things existential in nature,
when at the crux of everyday is being now and here?

again to sleep, with haunting dreams, and shallow sane descents,
again to rise, for present whims that daily decadents;
again to pass a slumbered wake of putrid, tasteless sounds,
again a day to turn anew, much like merry-go-rounds.

every day, an inch closer,
every week, if you prefer,
every month that passes now, remains that of a sinless slur;
every year, now gone - begone,
every time, that is forlorn,
every threshold reached for love and every hatred-leading scorn.

oh, let this hollow carcass lie, another day thus passes by,
along the roads that pave this way, that lead us more and more astray;
a wish for may,
and spring today,
where loves portray,
with much dismay,
this bitter heart of moulded clay;
it breaks that much more every day!

steampunk, woo!

trash talking

i apologise profusely for the recent strew of posts which have come during a very depressing time in my life. it always seems that when i see that little spark of light at the end of the tunnel, it's only a freight train coming my way. but, that is no real excuse for being perpetually depressed. especially over another person! oh, how dreary!

in any case, today we visit some more detached things: trash.

something i've found quite interesting is the types of trash people throw out. they say you can tell a lot of things of a person from his/her trash, and that one man's trash is another man's treasure. i like to believe that most of this is true, but for most part, trash is simply a by-product of cultural upbringing. how is this even related, you may ask? well, let's see...

1. food. i've found this most prevalent (and thus best exemplified) by the way people prepare their food. most asians tend to prepare their food from scratch (although i notice a changing trend in this, now that instant foods are more abundant and cheap), and so a lot of their food waste is 'wet trash'. you know, eggshells, potato peel, fruit skins, cat tails. stuff like that. westerners are more likely to eat out (and even when they dine at home, they usually buy partially-prepared stuff, like insta-mash and 3-minute spaghetti and meatballs), and so a lot of their waste is 'dry trash'. more tin cans and cardboard boxes. milk cartons and plastic containers. of course, there's going to be a bit of both in everyone's bins, but if you observe trash collection day, you might find this to be true. it kinda blurs in multicultural areas so, i dunno.

2. quantity of trash i don't know why, but young people have way more trash than old people. maybe there's a slight bias in that the young people i observe do live in bachelor(ette) groups, whereas older people have families (which are smaller than the bachelor(ette) groups, and i assume kids don't really generate that much trash. but then, it still doesn't really fit for me. maybe teens to young adults eat more? and waste more? who knows.

3. tidiness of trash (bins). this is just something that boils down to how neat people are, i guess. and, by far, i've noticed that westerners keep their trash cans well in order. no spillage of liquids around the bins, no overflowing bins, and even then, the plastic bags are neatly put in a pile beside the trash bins. asian people just tend to chuck the bags wherever. i mean, it's not as clear-cut as that, especially if you live in an are where trash collection is frequent enough such that you don't need to worry about this becoming a piling problem (pun intended). and maybe the messiness and smell does relate to the contents of the trash, like we were talking about earlier e.g. 'wet trash' vs. 'dry trash'. but, eh, i don't think it's really that hard to keep things in order just for good practice. i don't think it really effects many people, and even the garbage collectors are not callous as to leave stuff in spite when you don't really keep your trash in order. it does prevent the wild ravens from becoming too-dependent on humans, though, and my eco-friendly cousin would like to talk to you about that.

hmm, writing on this new computer makes my ramblings seem so much shorter because the font is so small and screen is so huge! (btw, i have a 15' macbook pro now, yay!). so i guess i'll sign off for now, even though i have a few more points i wanted to 'breeze through'. again, i apologise that my recent posts are a bit out of the way, even for me (not that anyone would notice). i blame my muse (or, i guess now, lack thereof).

on emotion

romance is the work of the devil, and love is his sardonic laughter. late into the nights as we cuddle up in bed, a duvet the substitute for what warmth another body may supply to fend off the biting winter chills, we hear this laughter - hollow, resonating, mocking and eternally piercing. we hear it when we're alone, we hear it in the presence of others, we hear it when we're tired and we hear it when we're lying there unable to catch a breath of sleep, even when the very strength of our wakingness has far left our bodies and our spirits are already deep in slumber before our eyes could even shut.

for love, in any measure or extent, is what jeers at us as we lie there, slowly absorbing the banality of existence. the meaninglessness of being, if it were not for that significant heat sink, upon which our toes pander a measly attempt at intimacy, which is only a guise for annoyance in the form of warmth and personal space.

do you know that feeling when you are in love, or at most, when you are newly in love? the feeling where everything is beautiful and sweet and tasteful and perfection? the feeling where nothing could wrong you and you could do no wrong? the exact inverse of this feeling is the emotion of love when you find out one of many things; that your love is unrequited, that your love cannot be, that your love is futile, that your love is laughable, etc. but, the zenith of this dark, pitiless emotion is when all these antonyms of love and intimacy coalesce and form a realisation that all that you have held dear in ideology is a blatant lie. and even more sarcastically, that the lie was concocted by none other than yourself - fed to an ego that is blind and naive. and that, is what the work of the devil fruits in, also known as the failure of romance.

sometimes, i regret that hopeless romanticism is abundant in my life. in one's life. in anyone's life. not just for himself (or myself), but also for passion, for ideals, for another person, and for love in itself. sometimes i regret it so much because it leads to nothing more than contemplation, and nothing less than heartbreak. but on other occasions, i am happy that this holds true, for what other than human fallacy is a better representation for all that we hold dear - the human condition?

naive, indeed. maybe one day i will have realised what emotion really is, and when i finally do, i will compare and contrast it to this concept of hopeless romanticism. i only pray that i will come out the victor when all is not lost. but if i should ever have to live a lie in order to live a life, then i cannot fathom something more worthy of lying for than life in itself.

and that, is what drives an (the) emotion.

starless night

stormy day, stormy day,
make my worries go away;
mend my flesh and lead my mind, let not this heart go astray.

peach-tinged dusk, peach-tinged dusk,
guide this soul's most arduous task;
let it not collosal crush, leave this body's lifeless husk.

starless night, starless night,
protect this jittered mind from fright;
know that it begs forgiveness, and in recluse it finds its might.

warmth of dawn, warmth of dawn,
colour not these arms with brawn;
instead make strong its eye of mind, and with sharp tongue, again reborn.

calm blue day, calm blue day,
come whatever, come what may;
with yesterday's passing of sins, again to supplicate and pray.

sometimes, all you need is a spell

me: i cast magic missles, level 3 on the raging behemoth!

dungeon master: interesting choice of spell! *rolls a d10 behind the DM screen). do an intelligence check to see if it hits

me: ok! *rolls a d20, which comes out an 18*. wewwwww! 18 is good, right?

dm: :( your arcane missiles miss the monster horribly.

me: GOD . FREAKING. DAMN. IT. rageeeeeeee



d&d with horrible dms are a parody of my life.

boomerang intentions

i don't really fancy myself as a man of philosophy, but if i were to associate with a classical school of thought, it would be existentialism. this is somewhat counterintuitive for the developing me, as i used to try very hard to be et logos, and very empirical. in any case, the crux of existentialism has been a central tenet to my every (well, at least most) decision-making process, and i am very thankful for this. some think this may be at odds with supposed piety, but au contraire, it just fuels the fire.

revisiting the whole purpose of this post (yes, i have degenerated to having purpose again, how awful!), it is with a lead heart that i betray my own feelings and write for hope where there is none. the prejudice against all that is dear and holy seems so hypocritical now. i can see myself staring at the past me, sitting in bed, writing this entry, feeling so uncertain. and all i can do in that future state is shake my head and possibly laugh at the infantile optimism that plagues my recent existence.

as a reminder to all, this is just convolutions to mean that sometimes, you don't really know where you're headed, and (even worse) how to describe the journey. what's important, though, is that we never lose sight of the fleetingness of life, and (for those who believe in higher powers and afterlives) that what may come has the potential to supersede everything we find tangible today.

and for those who don't believe in such things? then there is nothing left to lose from doing whatever you find necessary - except your own. c'est la vie.

another fleeting hope in may,
come slighted feelings disarray;
with nothing left to gain or lose,
one does rely on his own muse.

and when she flees and goes away,
one must not let love lead astray;
yet hope that if all is done true,
one's muse in end, comes back to you.

i cannot fathom disregard of dead old saints, and purity;
but if this muse does live unscarred, therein lies my own destiny.

death of art

rembrandt!
oh, rembrand!
where have you gone?
the broken are downtrodden without your etchings;
i cannot believe that this world is worn,
the calmest and greatest of all your blessings.

van gogh!
oh, van gogh!
to where have you fled?
the sunflowers are wither in lack of your shine;
your room haunting arles is now without bed,
and all of us are sane, yet out of your mind.

tchaikovsky,
tchaikovsky!
where lies now your soul?
there dreaming of death and nutcrackers and swans;
i hark now the sugarplum's coming of old,
like queens who have crossed and checkered by mere pawns.

shakespeare,
oh shakespeare!
where for art thou?
mayhap lying still at stratford-'pon-avon;
why question the why, with pertinent how,
when can you let bygones be bygones begone.

plato,
dear plato!
stop hiding in caves,
stop thinking of logic, rhetoric and maths;
come masses and ages, all of this still waives,
yet, maybe one day we can proper cross paths.

celestial

i wished this sordid soul of i,
to freely fly and touch the sky;
and grace the heavens above all things,
strike angels down with broken wings.

alas, i did not comprehend, the beauty far beneath their souls,
so fell prey to incompetence, somewhere between love and black holes.

i begged and pleaded to their hearts,
and bargained mercy from their eyes;
but neither have they human parts,
nor have they ears for callous lies.

so cry, ashamed, and banished i - before i could yet chance my stay,
and beckoned back the angels frowned, and told to i to go away.

yet icarus did not heed hear,
and listen oft to primal fear;
again wished i this sordid soul,
could mend itself - again be whole.

so in the constellations prayed, and divined in the planet's gaze,
for 'nother chance at angel's tears such that we would not yet pass ways.

how can this sordid soul beget,
what does deserve he not this yet;
and complicate in words unsaid,
far and above and angel's head.

so supernovas and big bangs, are pass and manage cyclic feat;
come back, oh angel, to this soul, and make him once again complete.

the best inspiration derives from things that are real. and, for me, i find that one of the most real feelings i have ever had (or at least the most realising of feelings) is heartbreak and the torment of a hopeless, soulless romantic. some of the most beautiful poetry i have ever read are those abound of love, but none of them ever did compare to the ones unrequited. and so, here, for the first time (i think), i am unabashedly publishing something i wrote for fermina of the red roses. i think there is a stellar irony in knowing the fact that it will never be read by fermina (or anyone else for that matter), but if ever there be justice in this world, let it not be said that i did not write.

things i've learned

it's funny, thought i've failed most of my experiments in the lab, i still learned a lot of things:

1. the smell of fresh (and not-so-fresh) agar is so good! sometimes, the ones with bacterial growth in it smells good, too...

2. pipetting after the nth time makes it 2nd nature. you can even turn off and multitask e.g. listen to music, read some lovecraft online, think of long-lost loves. which eventually makes you depressed. then you realise you're pipetting. yay!

3. fungus grows everywhere. really. sterlie plates. not so sterile anymore :(

4. running the autoclave machine or macro-centrifuge at 12am when nobody around is pretty fricken scary. it's like the malaysian equivalent of hearing whispers when nobody's around. on that topic, it's funny how you get spooked back home so easily, but here... not so much.
5. a career in science is... way overrated :/ at least the lack of job security is such a big worry that everything else pales in comparison.