Impossibly cheery, despite the stuffed nose and sore throat (which seem to have miraculously cleared up in a matter of hours). I've always enjoyed moving desks. I loved the excitement in Pri/Sec school when we would switch desks every so often. I just loved the newness of it. And plus I work better because I happen to become very sucky when I fall into routines.
So we had a major internal moving day in office today, and although I'm now squeezed into a dark and cold and rather claustrophobic corner (since I'm leaving soon I get the lousy seat, and I'm ok with it), I had a helluva time rearranging my desk and creating symmetry on my very asymmetrical desk.
And also, the weather has been lovely. Ok, wet shoes are not lovely. But still! I like being made to wear jackets. Jackets and sweaters and coats and boots. Happy days.
And also, Parents and Brother are off to Shanghai. Do you have any idea how much I love having the house to myself? Do you? Do you know what kind of plans I have with DVDs and wine? DO YA????
And also, there are his photos.
I can't remember how I came across the Poloroid Kidd's beautiful, timeless photos on some obscure website which listed neither his name nor the context of the photographs. Some argued that the photos were from an American Apparel catalogue. Others thought it was Diesel. Most agreed it was likely to be a mix of "real" people and models.
It took me a while, but I finally unearthed the truth.
So now I'm infatuated with Mike Brodie aka The Poloroid Kidd, and I feel certain I've seen and heard about his work before, and I feel a bit silly that I haven't come across him before. I suppose if you've to spend time to search for details things are seared a little more clearly into your brain.
I don't think i'll be able to explain myself very well, but its got something to do with reverance and friendship, and the absence of voyeuristic gaze. And Respect. A whole lot of Respect in his photos and almost no exoticism.
Well, at least to me anyway.
And you know who has it best on these rainy days don't you? Our fur-covered friends.
I thought I'd try, but I decided that no words would sufficiently describe how much I am in love with Roystan Tan's 881.
I just feel so goddamn proud, you know?
I wasn't particularly surprised to read that Roystan loved getai as a kid, or that he's Hokkien-speaking. I suppose this is what happens when you do something from the heart, something that comes from the very essence of who you are.
This is the one film that I would very, very proudly like to label as a Singaporean film.
When murder becomes art - what are we to make of it?
Collector James Allen published a book titled "Without Sanctuary", featuring his collection of lynching photographs collected from all over the America.
There's a website as well, with about 80 photographs. They're about as explicit as you could possibly get. Thank god the quality's lousy.
I found it to be an interesting commentary because you see the same photos today emerging from other countries. Someone already drew parallels between the Fallujah incident in Iraq (concerning four US private military men) and some of the photos here.
Castration, mutiliation, decapitation, burning of dead bodies and dragging charred corpses through the streets. It's the same thing, repeated decades later with different people.
I'm constantly amazed at human beings' lust for blood. And not figuratively either.
I am utterly exhausted at this point, having spent the last three hours talking to my parents about Bangladesh. I am impatient and stubborn and easily irritable - exactly like my father. So conversations between us tend to, erm, get slightly heated.
But really. You'd think that living with them for 23.5 years would mean that there's very little they can do to surprise you. Oh boy, was I wrong.
It turns out that there was just one niggling thing, one issue, one point of contention that he had which was the cause for his resistance.
After hours and days of arguing, you can imagine my shock when that little nugget of truth finally wriggled out. He never wanted to say it.
All that talk, and it was really just about that???
I can't believe it. And I can't say it either, because its really not going to make him look good.
Well, all I can say is this - he's usually wrong about mw, but this time, he was spot on. His one and only worry turned out to be the only valid worry.
I apologise for all the cryptic-ness in the last couple of posts.
Nothing is confirmed, but after tonight's debacle, things are finally moving in the right direction.
It's been quite a while, and I must say, my tequila is tasting extra special tonight.
It's a strange feeling to be drunk in your own home. I don't typically blog or write when I'm drunk because all that comes out is emotional and depressive rubbish, but I am thankfully neither emotional nor depressed, so there's no real danger.
I found myself wanting to attend the NDP, true blue kiasu Singaporean that I am, because I wanted to see for myself how they would do it in the new location.
I perversely enjoyed the defense display. I might not have if i hadn't already watched Transformers twice (the movie made me love metal), but I really thought it was quite bizarre when the machine guns mounted on the boats started to fire blanks.
Well at least this year they made it real clear - we can kill you if we have to.
I never really got into the mood, even though it was much more picturesque than the Stadium. It was just too different and foreign.
And I really really hated the fact that they renamed the Kallang Wave. And the hosts were screechy and very irritating.
What I do like is the location, ironically enough, because I could see how hundreds of other people thronged the coastline along the Esplanade, One Fullerton and even Marina/Raffles Place area. At least everyone had a great view of the fireworks.
I don't think I'll ever want to attend NDP again. Unless I'm shooting, of course.
Sat down at Dhoby Ghaut to take in the scene before going home. The two of them were already going at it, and by the time I noticed them, the girl was discreetly trying to wipe away some tears. I have no idea what they were arguing about, but it looked like a employee-employer argument. I did not envy the girl. That is no way to spend a Friday night.
And look, I understand loitering and loud laughter and cursing at the top of your voice. I understand! You're 15 and you want to be heard. I'm still doing the exact same thing.
But I really, really don't understand spitting. I don't get what is cool about it. As long as you're not 70 years old with a chronic phelgm problem, you really shouldn't be ejecting spit in public.
I used to know the answers to my own questions. Most of the time, anyway.
I don't think it has been particularly difficult in knowing what to do, it was just doing-it part that was tough.
So I switched jobs although I didn't really want to because I knew it was the right thing to do. I haven't regretted that decision yet, although I do pine and whine. I went to NTU and I did this and did that, went here and travelled there - and really, I don't think I've had to make any sort of difficult choices.
Because you run on instinct, and instinct usually gives you only one answer. It's just a matter of whether you want to take it up.
But there is always a first time for everything.
My instincts are all silent right now. For once, I think I really don't know what I should do.
I always talk about leaving this place. I knew it was just a matter of time, but I guess I never expected the opportunity to come so soon. I never expected having to tally the losses, what i would be leaving behind.
I always wanted to go back to Bangladesh. I kept my eyes and ears peeled for potential jobs. Who would've thought one would just fall in my lap?
And who would've thought that the day would come when I would finally have to actually think about money?
My father has already made it clear he would not support me on this choice. Who would've thought the day would come when I actually cared what my father thought?
A year ago, I would've made the choice easily. There was nothing to hold me back. I can't believe how much has changed, and how clueless I've become.