kindergarchy.

night and day

2012-02-01T07:48:00.000-08:00

the stolen girlfriends club's 'garden' series is like the couch potato, less lofty version of mary katrantzou... (below, mary katrantzou spring 2012 rtw)

NOW ON SALE at sgc official website but still, forking out a few hundred dollars is out of option for an average unemployed student who's just got her money down the drain for more-than-occasional affordable whatnots. let the more obsessed/resistant/financially capable ones handle these marvels. i'm all about sincerity. i could actually do some fast persuading on le mother for the silk pants but am in no mood to do so… a price to pay is expected, e.g study hard for this or less weekend fun, less concerts (although in reality it is very unlikely—fathers/mothers are often much kinder than the unbenevolent parental creatures in our minds)

so ok i say, let go

BUT HOW CAN I?? (of course i can.)

precaution on heavy stolen girlfriends club posts in the coming days….their cutouts and fun lace/sheer/other materials deserve more loving

6

2012-01-30T05:53:00.000-08:00

FAVORITE WAYS OF DOING THINGS

a) folding jeans cuffs, usually with socks and platform shoes/wedges

b) wearing collar necklace and collared shirt; necklace peeking from between my collar ends

also

new mix containing 12 electronic melancholic tracks:

Scale It Back feat. Little Dragon (Robotaki Remix) - DJ Shadow

 Miami (Radio Edit) - Walter Sobcek

 Lights & Music (Boys Noize Remix) - Cut Copy

 Love In Motion (ft. Mayer Hawthorne) - Sebastian

 A Real Hero (ft. Electric Youth) - College

Lisztomania (Classixx Version) - Phoenix   

Far Away - Cut Copy  

New Theory (RAC remix) - Washed Out

   You Need Me On My Own - Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs   

Skeleton Boy (Air France Remix) - Friendly Fires   

Feel It All Around (Toro Y Moi Remix) - Washed Out  

I Wish You (Cosmonaut Grechko Bootleg) - Capsule   

WE ARE GOODS

2012-01-29T06:57:00.000-08:00

ASOS MARS loafers in pewter, size 4, fresh from delivery oven last friday but i only tried today, turned out that they were a little too small for me to walk in (since i'm planning to catch buses running in these shoes with socked feet)! photobooth photo taken at night, so a little blue-y but they shone perfect metallic shine during daylight or under sufficient light; dramatic blue palette under fluorescent light. you'll do me a very kind deed if you decide to purchase these mirroring silvers from me, promise i'll send you down some extremely nice prayers. i will get another pair of course, one size up but the return policy seems like much hassle, i mean not really but it just takes more time. uk-sg-uk. le sigh. better to sell them to your more deserving hands. letting go at SGD 30. standard mail at SGD 2. meet up at my convenience, can be discussed if you are really interested. thank you very much!

ON HOLD NOW!

sneak peek of things that i am going to sell as well, help me prevent my closet size from expanding!

BUYING YOUTH

2012-01-27T09:16:00.000-08:00

Dearest Diary,

Today I've made a major decision: I am never going to die.

Others will die around me. They will be nullified. Nothing of their personality will remain. The light switch will be turned off. Their lives, their entirety, will be marked by glossy marble head-stones bearing false summations ("her star shone brightly," "never to be forgotten,""he liked jazz"), and then these too will be lost in a coastal flood or get hacked to pieces by some genetically modified future-turkey.

a.k.a how gary shteyngart's portrayal of future, fast-forwarded to an indefinite year ahead of us—perhaps no more pinpointed by number—first commences from the book's most ancient, most civilized, and most humane protagonist's perspective.

i used to think that i might want to keep something like a diary, but in a letter format to show to my children in future. of how much has changed. of how much is still relevant, like for example (my prediction of) the generation gap that technology will still not be able to bridge over or resolve. i think this book would have done it.

the book is set in (near?-)future, but because this is not a science fiction, the absence of exact calendar year is dismissed permissibly. (although we all would love to have one so we can compare when we reach the said year OH C'MON we all do. just look at 2001:a space odyssey and alikes.) the first noticeable thing is that it is fun to watch our current big names in music, literature, culture, etc referenced as 'stuff that were once big in another lifetime'. how stardom will eventually deplete and the 'had my time' imaginary emblem will be bestowed upon the currently (according to our timeline not the book's) revered stars.

the narrative mainly alternates between the diary entries of lenny abramov—perhaps the last man in america who still literally pens down his thoughts—and globalteens (a future social media integrating e-mail and messenger chat exchanges) entries of eunice park, the love of lenny's life. contrast in their usages of language protrudes noticeably here, as if lenny and eunice are from completely separate eras.

the future reality is built upon a construct in such way that is believable, indistant, but still oozes with surprising and funny elements. for example girls in future are obsessed with onionskins jeans that are made of transparent materials to show off their shaved labias and behinds. also people rate each other's fuckability, personality, and sustainability—the world then seems like a giant prototype of the sims or other simulation games. i ROFLAARP (one of the book's fav expressions) while reading these bits.

lenny is the sole character that connects the book's reality with ours—he's the only one left who still treasures physical reading activity when the rest are 'scanning through the information' on their apparati (all-in-one electronic devices), online shopping, or streaming. it is mentioned in the book that the last physical library book has just been closed for good. discussed this over english breakfast skinny pizza, seems like a foreseeable idea via invasion of e-books, closing of a few giant bookstores in singapore. sad.

and here we have our lenny, a literate immigrant in his late thirties, an NYU graduate from moscow with degrees in english and business. going down to the most crucial information; lenny is a guy who has alarmingly low fuckability, less than average personality, and moderately high sustainability. and he is completely floored, knees on shaggy rug, by eunice park the tiny young fickle korean mind, whom he first meets in rome during his supposedly business trip.

lenny works for this post-human service that mainly aims to extend people's lives without any divine intervention, only via extremely 'healthy diet' topped off with shiny polish of some advanced technology. his task is to find high net worth individuals (your financial and even personal information are just a click away from curious peeks) who might be interested in the manifestation of the concept of eternity. in order to be qualified, viewed as deserving by the company of the highly personalized beatific treatment, one must not only possess a strong financial standing, but also several other qualities that are gauged via the conducted tests/surveys. this took my interest as i think, in the era where the idea of death still haunts every living human being, the ambrosial smell of eternity often tempts but challengingly requires wise handling which could be laborious from a lot of aspects. e.g, assuming now you can afford the treatment, can you sustain that given blessing when you have to bear the thoughts of or even eventually be outliving your children? or wife? or friends? etc…seems like one neglected area when eternity is offered as a luxury commodity, limited in quantity.

it is not like the research is all and thorough; it is still ongoing and hence we have joshie, lenny's boss, as their current object of experiment (not that it's a bad thing AT ALL, actually). he is under this impression that his aging process has now been reversed—living in his 70s but indulging in early 30s rigged vigor. his escape from death is not still a guaranteed success but at least his life expectancy is growing (hopefully) exponentially.

there are so much thoughts going on for this topic. what's the basis for human desire in living longer? where are the secret pollen grains? is it because some of us regard ourselves as more important than others so we become sure that our prolonged existence will give off benefits to our surrounding? or is it mere selfishness? is it the wanting, the curiosity to explore what's beyond a sole generation, to experience newness and oldness first-hand?

for me it would the last one, if i ever had the chance to be in contact with this unearthly quality. i want to slice through generations and feel the lives i'm not supposed to be living. to understand the young flames in an unending cycle, how it differs through the years but never dwindles. to strive for excellence that can't be done in one lifetime, single generation. now let's try to bring this to a more applicable level. when we migrate from 'english-as-a-second-language' country to 'english-speaking' country, it's hard for us the first generation to obtain the full grasp of the language. but there is a high likeliness that the second one will come out redhanded with the much treasured possession, one that is not merely supported by intensive education and rock-hard willpower but also real, forced, deep-rooted learning experience through early authentic encounters; customary, much needed frequency; and direct applications. applies to other languages, especially those that greatly differ from our first language in nature.

next

the love life is the main stage that absorbs most of the sympathetic limelight, apprehending applause, and cheeky laughter. the topsy-turvy, uneven life paths the characters lead; to which overload, impossible cuteness, awwness, and ewwnes all cling on. (there are only thin lines disjoining them anyway.) the idea of the all-eembracing love knowing no conditions (I knew that I could never leave her. No matter how she treated me. No matter how bad she made me feel. Because in her anger and anxiety there was familiarity and relief.), and hence compromising ("Eunice, go to bed. We don't have to ever read again. I promise. How can we read when people need our help? It's a luxury. A stupid luxury."), unfaltered, kind and immaculate, accepting (She turned around and brushed my graying hair with her moisturized hands. I prepared myself for a comment on my age and looks. I prepared myself to become Chekhov's ugly merchant Laptev again. I knew this hurt so well, it actually had left a strange foretaste in my mouth, that of almonds and salt.), untarnished, not so much pure but constantly rebuilt and fixed. takes so much effort, so much labor and hard work but in the end they all amount to one hope that it will all work out in the end. how love transforms and how love stays, how love studs sturdy at the backbones of the lover, its marrow melting on fire, constantly rekindled and remolded back. the very familiar taste of pain, of trembles, of ambiguous moans, of immeasurable duration of kneeling and crying. gaps and differences. eventually commonalities of third party have to intervene, differences have to step back and gaps have to give way. two lovers are (and CAN ALWAYS be) too different and it takes time to realize that it all is so futile if you think that way. but you can refuse to and learn the hard way. i mean, you'll learn that you can't smoothen the frictions, iron out the incompatibilities that easily. you can't expect so much of immediate change in your partner. you have to acknowledge that there are some immalleable traces that can never be reshaped no matter how much you try. love doesn't work that way, more often than not.

I had either to accept the girl cradled in my arms, or to spend the rest of my time searching for something else.

yep. just these two options.

but the end of the road, when the road finally branches and these two romantic counterparts have to part, is still comforting because being with someone whom you don't love/who doesn't love you is just "a little less painful than being alone." but it's much truer.

and then

immigrant lives. during the first half our shaking mirths are lubricated via eunice's mom broken korean english, and her inarticulateness in using technology

but the middle and the second one feed our thoughts more

beliefs and religions (apparently people still go to church and some are still conservative) (i'm not saying that religion is obsolete, but it's a difficult idea that clashes hard with the skeptic minds full of contemporary ideas). the throbbing truth that even if one happens to be a devotee, s/he must be in complete (although sometimes unconscious) awareness of the high chance upon giving birth to some delicate being devoid of coerced faith in the presence of superior deities. that his/her child might very well believe that goodness does not always have to trickle out from an unknown mind. that goodness is in all of us, not in gods. the next generation will ask for concrete truths. instant rewards. or 'evidence'. 'where is god? god is just some imaginary figure you can gingerly pass your burden, your insecurities over to; because it's easier to live that way. to think that there's someone else responsible for each of our unhappiness and to think that there's someone else capable of each of our happiness. to think that all is just and fair, that we can get some rewards for our good deeds in afterlife. that we need gods to motivate us to do good because otherwise, on our own will, deep down we are all evil. so believe. even if you don't.' that kind of stuff. you know.

all in all i need to pin down my immediate thought on the book: THIS IS A VERY IMPORTANTSLASHINTERESTING, ALL-ENCOMPASSING WORK THAT TRANSCENDS BOUNDARIES OF BOTH GENRES AND AGES (caps lock activated to reveal a sense of urgency, not boiled rage). please read this book. (but it's okay if you don't want to. perhaps that's just to show how deep the slit the book had wounded my holy arm and seep into me. or it's just a way of saying that i like this book so much and it is my favorite modern literature ever. also there was like this very IMPORTANT reference to kundera's the unbearable lightness of being a.k.a our era, used as a tool to make up a romantic relationship. even though it fails. how appropriate.)

days taken to finish: 5 days

apple cider to celebrate the discovery of this book yesterday, subliminal celebratory concealed by a customary dinner from the exterior. this i just realized today. thanks for the brief discussion and listening to my frivolous tidbits. and for the bacon and sunny side up egg pizza dinner.

why do you think you would be happier if you could live forever?

f:funny, f:friends

2012-01-24T09:54:00.000-08:00

all wardrobe by me

on avissa: odd ball sweater from haji lane, gift from my boyfriend

thrifted yellow highwaisted skirt

her own flats & bag & sunnies

on me: denim shirt from bugis, oakham market neon skirt, actually giant tote bag, g.h.o.s.t necklace (which has received moderately much lovin' & tender caresses from me…), sandals from hongkong

how to: celebrate post-chinese-new-year-madness in singapore

2012-01-22T17:52:00.000-08:00

these are my prescribed cures to sway your way away from the chinese new year road diversions, traffic, fireworks, and flocking madness: shop and dance-prance.

i've got a few questions regarding my creepers so here we go: they're underground double-sole leather creepers, which i got via actually or actuallyactually physical stores at seah street and purvis street (my shoes were stocked in one of these stores, but i forgot which….) the store was running some promotions on other types of creepers as well (not sure if mine were part of the sale too), but definitely if you're lucky this wild pink love would be yours at 30% discount; which should be appropriately followed by "what a deal" and some exclamation marks. yeah. now that their online shop is in full operation, and the free worldwide shipping is available, there should be no traces of hesitation if you sure are attracted by these beasts. underground creepers are real sturdy bad boys in real life, strong survivor against the gutsy gusts of singapore wind and surge of flash flood in parts of town (tried and tested personally, gotta be relevant with the currently unkind weather). the soles are a little heavy, which when you think a little further, are quite practical as you can throw them at anyone who has raised your emergency bar to full.

and while you're already in your funky soles/heels/whatever fancies you, there's no better place to be headed to other than the dancefloor. sbtrkt had quite created a spur in 2011 via his exciting debut self-titled album which maintains dark, post-dubstep-y vibes throughout. standing out from the rest of the electronic crowd, sbtrkt's act might not belong to the most dance-able side, but if you're looking for some new experience of less profane-mundane musical immersion, or if you prefer good music some would say, go for this one. nod your head and i'll see you there!

rolling in the woods, or rocks, or grass, and park, and earth, and backyard

2012-01-22T07:54:00.000-08:00

most of the time when it comes to shopping, or some very much needed quick wardrobe fix, or most importantly: an indispensable festive moment when the 'sale' labels happily tag along with things that often otherwise i couldn't afford; the timing is divided into two main subcategories: the 'OMG JUST IN TIME!!!' or the 'shit, i can't believe what i just missed.'

with collina strada the case pretty much belonged to the second one, with me missing the whole sale period of a curious teepee's moving out sale…of course the whole sale deck was also filled with other lovely razzle-dazzles, but the bag more or less outshone the others. now what i can do to elevate my unfit mood via post-missing-sale-depression is to write about their products and patiently wait for a curious teepee online shop…

it has already perhaps been an outdated idea for us consumers to think that beauty and eco-friendliness would never ever have a plentiful area of intersection should they be represented in a venn diagram. now is time to throw those obsolete doctrines away. collina strada is one of those labels that could very well be a real-life example of the rise of eco-friendly stylish goods. (now scratch the phrase from your list of oxymorons!)

the brand's collections have been quite anticipated largely due to their already strongly rooted signature recycled leather panels in such practical and sturdy designs, without being rigid and overly solemn. usage of patterned fabrics is one of the way to jazz collina strada bags up, and that's why it is also fun.

transitions are quite evident throughout their collections—a progress i would say—which consistently offered something fresh each season without discarding their main details.

their spring 2011 collection speaks much of nature, as if depicting their goal to merge elements of beauty and eco-friendliness together. the backpack, bike bag, and bucket bag from this collection stand still as a favorite of mine. dominant colors and pattern are those that could chameleon themselves into all those soft woods. besides bag collection here collina strada has also introduces their accessories line--comprising of vests and harnesses featuring their signature leather panels.

the accessories range is put on hold for a while during their fall 2011 collection, focusing more on new designs fabric patterns for some bags. for fall, the lookbook seems to underline the nomadic quality of the products. my three favorite pieces appear again here, in more variants of color (grassy hay-ey tare-y army of army greens), bleachstained denim, black, deep earth brown…

and finally the accessories pieces pop out again in collina strada's winter 2012 collection, and here we're in for a pleasant additional surprise: a whole range of ready-to-wears featuring, yup, their rectangular panels, sometimes boiled down to simpler structures. vests are still made of recycled leather while suede is used for their clothing products. and i think their flowerheaded models are very enticing…or attention-drawing, to say the least.

she knew what i wanted her to tell me

2012-01-16T08:33:00.000-08:00

I’ve been very interested to see what different writers have done with the very short form. It can go in so many directions, and whether one chooses a sort of mini-essay or mini-narrative or prose poem, meditation, etc., each will be quite different because the mind of each different writer comes through so clearly–the writer’s way of thinking, viewing the world, and then of course his or her way of handling language. In such a short form, each word has to be right. –lydia davis

i am a down right noob when it comes to flash fictions, short stories, and poetry; the modern juxtaposition of daily reveries, motions and dimensions, indirect similes. but it is never too late to learn, after class today i picked a book: a how-to on literature, feels like an URGENT need because my writing seems to have again come back to a point where it loses a sense of clarity, coherence, and direction on certain kinds of writing (esp fiction)–although this time it obviously is much better than the previous times. i thought i could lend myself a hand…

i read the poetry below in jkt, a few weeks ago and i read it twice and i still didn't really get it. and then i asked bening, hey i have just read two interesting pieces of poetry, but i don't really understand. with her voice my perspective had somehow shifted, angles skewed, allowing me to absorb the writer's intention, whether partially or fully. it felt like a giant relief, a breath of satisfaction, a sense of fulfillment–like finding some hidden shapes or patterns in a profane scenery. it takes time, but once you find them, you won't look away and let go. because they've been there forever, only waiting to be unraveled.

both by kate fujimoto via used furniture review

I Lied to My Parents When They Asked How I Lost My Car Keys

I couldn’t say
I had been in the graveyard
with a boy who
dropped out of my high school – that we
walked between the headstones and woke
ghosts, let them
climb up from
the ground onto our shoulders, rustling
like paper, kissing our cheeks with
lips that felt like moths’ feet, stretching
spider-fingers into our pockets, taking
everything that shone.

I don’t know why
I didn’t care
when I saw them swallow my keys.
Maybe I figured
the dead get hungry
or that they knew better –
and I didn’t want to go home anyway.

*

Palmistry

In high school, we joked that
my best friend would become a seasoned fortune teller
because she knew her Chinese Astrology
and how to interpret dreams.

Once, she read my palm
for kicks, I said.
I didn’t believe in fate –
and this made her laugh.

She knew I wanted her to tell me
that I really was braver than I thought
and stronger than I felt.
That I would never get old.
Instead, she smirked
and traced my life-line – a crease
that curved down to my wrist.

lashbatting

2012-01-12T07:27:00.000-08:00

homemade collages: asos mars metallic loafers, pard clutch, issey miyake bilbaos, comme des garçons pouch, topshop battered gold skirt, eyelashes by shimmer twins
also, 2010 fav video

imprisoned eye

2012-01-11T16:19:00.000-08:00

humorous, practical pieces to boggle your surrounding + accesorize your day with:

1-3 hair clip by humans since 1982 which when worn, can make you throw away your plastic frame sunnies 'cuz the old trick of wearing 'em on the back of your head just don't work no more.
4-5 double face watch by swatch (yeah, very TEMPTING to state the obvious pun there…)
6-7 engrossing gross-tesque masks by shin murayama
8-10 luxury tents by field candy

smokey taboo

2012-01-11T04:16:00.001-08:00

THIS WRITING WAS FINISHED ON 23 DECEMBER 2011

on my last visit to jakarta i had expressed my interest in picking one or two local reads and during this trip now the decision fell on Ayu Utami's saman. i vaguely remember reading the book either when the junior high school years were nearing the end or when i was still in my very first, freshly-ironed high school uniform. but my reading that i just finished yesterday did not feel like a re-reading at all; only very few (i must admit, too vulgar and too in-the-face for my standard back then) details brought a real sense of deja vu to my brain. unfitting, spoke the environment surrounding my fourteen or fifteen years old to some phrases and references in the book. in the name of anticipative clarification here i would like to further declare that it was not because of any forgettable phrases or unimpressive storyline. it's just that back then, perhaps, i was too young or way too illiterate for her book, although what i'd really like to do now is to talk to my teenage self, "great, at least you've tried" with a sincere pat on the shoulder, for introducing me to the all-consuming opulence and brilliance evenly spread on EVERY page...

saman shot up to my best 5 books quickly, even before i reached the middle part. the book to me felt partly distant partly near: devastating, futile, like most books that seized a good amount of space in my mind. amidst all the hopelessness and in the sea of desperate thoughts, everyone is stained in one way or another. that seemed to be what saman was trying to say. was it comforting? not really, because all the wrongdoings done in the book seemed very unsettling, like if you haven't experienced them in real life chances are, it's possible. saman opened the door to all unnerving possibilities that, like death, always seem to only happen to other people, not oneself. in such scenario finding a character who could secure an absolute protagonist role became difficult; i could not shelter my reading self under any of which. what could not be found was a character who could guarantee that everything is going to be okay. no one i could trust, although some might seem trustworthy in several parts. they have reasons, of course. promising personalities that would put one's well-being at stake for the sake of avoiding harm to others. but it is also good intentions that pave most ways to hell; not only are they inadequate, they—in one too many cases—ruin everything.

the book has often been deemed to be 'controversial' because of the sexual content but i myself am of opposite opinion, personally i think the work is important. saying that the beautiful prose manage to disguise the stark vulgarity behind them all would be a shortcut, but i would admit that in any book, the main topics will still be important and they have to be shown through various measures (in this book, sexuality, or women's and supposedly ingenuous man's view of sexuality through ayu's distinct phrases). but the writing did not overexpose or sensationally exhibit the vulgarity to address and explore the issue, they just popped up at unexpected times, which i always subsequently felt to be oddly appropriate. here ayu did not only talk about gray area, or saying that sex is a universal thing or whatsoever, she more or less showed how accidents happen and although coincidences are not supposed to be the main thread connecting those dots and leading to any sexual experience, they often open the opportunity and teach the characters many lessons.

the book was thick of various elements: history, fairytale, social values that merge into a smoothly threaded knit of self-constructed reality. but on a very personal level having re-read the book served as a concrete reminder of what has changed in me and in my surrounding inevitably.

i stopped my writing here. that was about all; there is actually a sequel to the book that i haven't finished

010112

2012-01-10T19:41:00.000-08:00

NEW YEAR'S EVE IN RETROSPECTIVE

1-6 were taken near my house, thanks to my generous, benign neighbors who happily (silently) lent (let) us (make use of) some space to roll around in their houses' front yards. karaoke videos were an attempt to recover and to 'jump back' to reality, a timeline that we had failed to keep track of until we woke up at january first

4 was taken at the lobby of a friend's apartment while waiting for a cab; BEST WAY TO SPEND NYE a not-so-party houseparty, just drinks and new/old friends and a toilet bowl that should feel grateful for beholding my vomit that night. could barely recall people beckoning 'a fresh start' with fireworks at the balcony, counting down, flailing around squalling their lungs out, sleet of wishes falling and rising and falling while i was slumping my head on the clean off-white toilet lid (was it really off-white or was it the light), half-smiling, my cheeks alternating every five seconds or so to lay themselves on the cold surface. she said that this is a "part of growing up" and i did not swallow it entirely because i 'coincidentally' threw up some of her words back down the sewer system. but the rest i cherished gleefully, 'thank you for everything', i guess we can have cake slices together some time, have a slightly more sober time.

5 was taken before NYE, at my house, waiting for avissa—FIRST PRIORITY IN TOWN—supposedly posing coolly with my semi backless dress and all

grins

don't wanna jinx anything, just WELCOME 2012

hello blog, i hope you'll be good this year

long ears

2012-01-05T07:46:00.000-08:00

london-based danish designer peter jensen's name had popped up twice in my mind last year; and those two rare occasions would be when susie bubble wore a pair of striking (without forgetting the fact that her entire wardrobe is nothing less than striking) hiking wedges and when my boyfriend wore sneakers from his collaborative collection with b-store to, ahem, one of our dates. i honestly wouldn't have bothered to check back susie's post had i not taken a glimpse of peter jensen's name on my boyfriend's shoes when i either dropped something in P.S cafe palais renaissance or when i was tying my shoelaces outside shaw house. i was sure that when i saw the name peter jensen, a vague ring of bell could be heard in a distance. a recent post about PJ's book back then was up on susie bubble's blog and the cover had the exact same pattern so i thought, what a sprightly coincidence. gotcha, rabbit.

and then it's 2012.

for the start of the year perhaps you've heard A LOT (at least I have, on my twitter & fb feeds) about ln-cc's devilishly tempting sale…it's not like i could happily click 'add to cart' that easily (via student budget) (even in such style emergency situation), so this is what i ended up doing: desperately browsing through their facebook albums. and when i did so i happened to see an album containing peter jensen's lookbook; and boy did i fall in love at the first sight. not as much for the clothes though, it's the photography that consumed me. the atmosphere. the smoo-oth blend of preppiness with a whimsical dash appeared to be very attractive there—reminded me immediately of several local brands that seem to be headed in similar directions. for clothes i would opt for his textured floral skirt, one of the stuff that had been on my what-to-buy list even before i saw this version by peter jensen. i think it should come from the previous season (but it's not….sold….out…yet…..GUYS)

P.S this post is not about magnifying the rather passable coincidence revolving me and peter jensen that happened back in 2011; i'd perhaps like to state that i'd long come to realization that such coincidence solely serves as an amusement to spice up this entire post.

year gazing

2012-01-02T18:59:00.000-08:00

2011.

perhaps it is not very right to sum up every 2011-thing only once a year because it's a lot of things, really. by the end of the year most details gathered and accumulated would be those from late 2011: internet reading habit, change of blog direction, internship, meeting new people, making new friends, losing new friends, losing old friends, losing contact with old friends, internship, new year's eve party, etc; making them more 2011 than the earlier parts of 2011, if that makes sense. january to june seemed like someone's distant dream that had never happened before.

recalling what a whole year had been like is a little like heartbreak—tiniest details will seep into the sheets of time as words are written over, previously carried like flower seeds by the wind which kindly blows an old soul into them. and then you remember that they did happen. these details are genuine, thrown from the past and time-traveled. although maybe details are a little too sentimental. although maybe we do not want such selective, dramatic, all-consuming clarity. although maybe details aren't as important; but then i remind myself that details are probably the only thing that could prevent the past from fleeting off, from absolute extinction. (if a tree falls and no one is there to hear it does it make a sound? if something happens and no one is there to recall it does it really happen?)

observed with details i now have to say i went through 2011 days with bare amount, minimum level of enthusiasm; the first few months spent mainly in bed, gaining extreme familiarity with the house, the humble neighborhood i was/am still living in, going to library everyday, alone, reading while spooning up some mango pudding to make love to my mouth—good solitary times, i was very happy, although guilty for the low, unyouthful productivity. but now i realized that was a very important part of the year, of my life even; rekindled love towards reading and writing, voluntarily, easily, as natural as other already incorporated daily chores. one day i would stay up reading martin page's how i became stupid and couldn't stop, another day i slacked my way through eugenides' the virgin suicides, which i really loved, although i was still at the stage where every maudlin, mildly piercing thing would stick onto me for the longest time and produced some of the purest emotions—manifested in liquid drops rolling down my cheeks, and i found myself now embracing those feelings. those times when reading did move me felt very beautiful.

i read a lot of palahniuks too during that holiday, which might not be as moving but were immensely enjoyable. sensational, which was why a lot of interested friends gravitated towards me whenever we were meeting—towards my story about a mother who puts needles, screws, each kind of harmful materials into her cooking so that people will eat very slowly, watch each of their chews, making them pay attention to the food and no matter how much better her neighbor's cooking is in comparison, this mother's never pales. and after telling stories, after reading and eating and going out to buy some warm snacks occasionally i would hit the bed and have empty dreams. reading books did not offer me much intelligence but it left the door to the world out there ajar, i guess, in which all sorts of reveries lived; colorful and bleak and vivid and blinding and motionless dreams.

and then i went to college.
very fussy at first; every previous education-related move had always been planned carefully—target decided, which school i wanted to spend my next few years in, seemed like a very grand investment. and then i had no idea where to go to after my o levels. in january the lady who handed my o's certificate said to me, beaming, wow, you've got good result; and i thought it was just because i went to an average neighborhood school. knew i really tried hard but felt like, perhaps i could've done better, typical slightly-hardworking-but-not-so-schoolgirl mentality. and i sank thinking maybe it's just that i am probably not smarter than anyone else, what should i do? (is what i should do what i want to do.) i wanted to do arts/design, joined portfolio camp (basic drawing, 3D drawing), liked it but the path seemed to just end there. so i applied to a few polytechnics for some more relatively conventional courses but spending another three years to just get a diploma made me reconsider my decision a lot. i had already been a few years behind my ex-classmates in jakarta so i decided to take a brave leap and applied for an overseas degree in a private institution. i gave in to a certain standard inside me which said that i should try everything and it is okay to take a path not commonly preferred. i managed to escape the peer pressure that said i should spend another two years in a JC and go to a public university. and i guess age was quite an issue. it still is and i still feel like time is very precious and if i was not certain whether i would be happy during my two years in JC i better not waste time anymore.

avissa nanda rayhan nadine fidhya aghnia anindya syanadia, not everyone was in the picture

friends.
might be the most visible aspect of my life that had received most exposure and knowledge throughout the year. some really stayed, and it was not because of anything that i knew; which ignited some bewilderment still. it did not feel like any disturbance though; i refused to constantly squat my life by the gutter trying to figure things out. things are just there when i stop looking and these names of friends were exactly like that, always there—and it was not like we quickly clicked, had same interests, were on exactly the same wavelength or whatever, surprisingly; these friends were near because of something else. i let others to drift in and drift out and i still had some energy to welcome people in or let people out. there were also new friends i found myself diligently investing time and attention in. it's easy with me, if i want you to stay and you don't want to it's fine, but probably i'll still watch over you—because if i insist on your stay that must mean i've learnt a great deal about a lot of things from you, which i hope you do not mind. but if you feel any burden in this situation you are always free to voice it to me. i am okay dealing with a lack of reciprocity, it feels like a part of growing up. maybe it will tire me out in the end but now i do not see any regret at the end of the road yet.

sometimes i just feel like writing things out. sometimes i do not know what i am writing about. maybe someday i will do. maybe that is why i finished writing all things 2011 here. i have not much expectations of 2012 (still don't get '2012 be good to me,' sounds like a plea for some pitiful mercy), except that i will turn 19, which is slightly disappointing, because i thought i would be young forever. it's a lie if i say age is just a number. age carries the weight not only of expectations but of a lot things else. i used to be proud of being young, felt like being young was the only thing that set me apart. but growing is important too. i used to wonder when i was in my early teenage years, what else would i be figuring out in the next few years? what else is there? at that time i could not see all the big things that lurk in future, their back to my teenage self concealing their existence. now i know that there are still things to be figured out, all the knowledge i have now would not even be able to sustain a sproutbean's life.

what i learnt:
firstly, now i know that even not trying is considered a try because sometimes things are just right there when you are not looking. i'm not trying to say that giving up is the only way, but maybe you need some good kick-ass mighty amount of rest. cut yourself some slack, not pity.

secondly, saying 'it's okay' does not always mean an effort to justify your wrongdoing. sometimes it really is okay. sometimes you can kick someone's ass and get away with it. sometimes you need to be nasty. sometimes you need to admit that you do certain things to look 'cool'/'badass', like drinking whisky when hanging out with guys (via madison's hate post) or wearing androgynous clothes sexy crisp white shirt with effortless hairdo or chewing gum when there's nothing to say. and then you begin to understand that it is really okay because the voice inside you only cares whether you care about being happy at all about yourself. sometimes the words don't have to be right because you have all the rights to not be right. and then you realize that regrets don't teach you a thing but learning plus failure do, and you realize that life is short. you realize that life is not like a pretty woman because when you stop and think and speak of life's beauty to it it does not stop and say thank you to you. and you don't have to say you're welcome. and life goes on.

hello 2012

2011-12-31T01:04:00.000-08:00

new mixtape: i was actually planning to make a 'conclusive' 2011 mix but these dance numbers should keep your limbs occupied at least during NYE tonight / safe for dancing with morning coffee in your right hand, hair dryer in your left hand too because THAT'S WHAT I DID

Christmas Boxes

2011-12-21T00:13:00.000-08:00

Another Dear Santa post on the internet, another unrealistic wishlist of mine:

1) Maison Martin Margiela candy wrapper-inspired oversized metallic clutch. It is really oversized, don't be fooled by the appearance here. The clever twist on its edges looks amazing...

2) Alexander Wang boxy wristlet. I used to hate fur before this.

3) Jil Sander S/S 12 boxy bag. Fell in love instantly the first time I saw it on polyvore.

5

2011-12-20T01:08:00.001-08:00

(2) homemade collage inspired by tavi's pompom sweater
(4) homemade collage inspired by stab's heykiddo pompom sweater

(6) homemade gif
(1), (3), (5) thrifted sweater - oakham market pompom knit - thrifted sling bag - topshop flower sneakers

click on the pictures for larger images

2011-12-20T00:52:00.000-08:00

but is not a kiss a kind of touch, a kind one betwixt those touched by each other's mutual solace of closer, of lips parting a part of themselves, part hole, part whole again, lips as morning flowers arcing towards the sun, glistening dew beads as love's clear acne and the stickiness of stamen throbbing in defiance of the wind, the honey so thick it may clog the heart, that blind wrestle of vagrant tongues, the saliva soup in an emotional coup, therein lies the dark call of twisted sounds and clanking teeth, to swallow each other as some glorious reverse birth, is not a kiss a kind of touch?

via jimmy chenchen

brainwich

2011-12-16T21:28:00.000-08:00

Bread Sandwich (bread crumbs and painted clay) and Sugar

Hay

Food for Canaries and Black Rice

Chili, Candies, and Barley

What have you got in your head? A collection of edible brains by Sara Asnaghi

Now, would you eat any of these?

KOKIKO

2011-12-15T22:40:00.000-08:00

(1) Can we have enough of Kiko Mizuhara?

(2) Can we even say 'no' to her?

To some, it's hard. To some others, it's impossible. The rest would say, "don't even think about it".

Falling in love with her very instantly and very recently in the middle of 2011 via 'Norwegian Wood', she was the only reason why I bothered to stay for the movie until the end. A music video in which she sang and acted in further intensified this uber physical infatuation of mine.

But of course, I'm not asking everyone to agree with me. Some people have decided to say "yes" to the previous questions (1) and (2). Tagging her with "a Japanese model no tits, no ass, and weird lips," they tried to defend their stance or at least tried to provide an alternative perspective to the seemingly flawless attractiveness of Miss Kiko. A surge of comments put more effort to defend back and rebut these counter arguments, but as for me--I did not possess such intensity or perhaps blindness of love dedicated to Kiko Mizuhara yet. I am not going to deny their points, feel like their points are valid--her not that conventional beauty would divide the world into two, albeit unproportionally: those who love her and those who just don't understand what's in her a.k.a those who hate her. Although this post was born out of my love for her, it was also born to acknowledge the other indispensable opinion the rest of the world might be sharing.

I guess here beauty is just not a matter of whether 'you get it or not'. Kiko reminded me of a survey done a few months ago, which basically concluded that there are two types of beauty in general: the universal beauty and the extreme beauty. The universal ones generally received above-average rating (eg 7/10) for beauty, although very few people rated them as 'extremely beautiful' (9/10) and even fewer rated them as 'extremely ugly' (2/10). On the other hand, the extreme ones seemed to yield highly divided opinions; ie although majority still showed them extreme appreciation for their beauty (9/10), quite a considerable proportion voted them as 'extremely ugly' (2/10). I'd like to think that Kiko belongs to the second category: her unconventional beauty has invited a billow of strong counter-opinions inevitably. I remember that Megan Fox also belongs to the second category, according to the survey.

Her face that has appeared in almost innumerable international and national media indicated that she is still on the peak of her career. Perhaps it does take a certain dose of unconventionality to prevent public from getting bored of such overly frequent appearances.

Gratitude expressed to Kiko's spontaneous photo-taking hobby for the lovely instax results, and Nylon Japan for the last three photos. Digging the vibe

polished and coated and ready to go

2011-12-13T13:05:00.000-08:00

Mourir Auprès de Toi by Spike Jonze on NOWNESS

'Don't judge a book by its cover.'

And I will have to cover my ears from the echoing 'really? really? really' that sweeps over all the rooms in the back of my mind.

No, I mean, really. If you have no idea about a book, have never heard of it even once, the first thing you're gonna recognize about a book after or even together with its author is either the spine (if you're seeing it standing erected on a shelf) or the cover of the book (if you're seeing it at the topmost of a stack from above, or lying closed on the carpet, or clutched tightly by some stranger on the street, or referenced in various media). Not even the synopsis. No. You have no idea about the story at all. No premise. But you know something about the book. The cover. And subsequently a question: What is this cover trying to convey?

I have, during several occasions, picked books based on my curiosity to the previous question. Or simply just because the covers caught my eye instantly. Or any 'award' or 'finalist' emblems embedded on them. Not gonna lie. Especially during my secondary school days where I had very minimal references for good reads… (see the rules of survival and broken soup)

Now I do so less (anyone will as s/he begins to gather sources of book recommendations s/he is comfortable with), although I still take pleasure in having or reading books with good covers. Admittedly, if there are two versions of the book; I will definitely pick the one with the better cover. Simple logic? Not really, since we are bounded by the 'don't judge…' idiom. According to the idiom, if the contents are really the same, both books should have equal chances of being picked. But the truth is: of course no!

Here are my favorite covers of some books that i have read/tried to read/owned (some of them come in a few versions):

The first one (Brave New World) looks MUCH prettier in real life.

I was so glad to have gifted my boyfriend the book in this version--the sides of the papers had this cute raw-cut look. Plus, the little circles dotting the cover actually arose slightly, taking appearances of some golden nails. Before handing it to my boyfriend, groping the cover was one of my hobbies…the texture was just there for me to be felt. And the blue--the blue was really beautiful, not as dark, but deeper and richer in real life.

I really like this version of Norwegian Wood cover (fourth picture). The one that I bought looked really stupid and ugly (like a mini movie poster pasted over the cover), but I didn't really liked the book anyway.

This cover of The God of Small Things looks really perfect. I just find seamless, two-page cover to be more alluring…like you could stare at it and let the world read some random two pages at the same time. Very open. The color scheme is great, with hints of red-orange-pink--very asian without screaming it out loud.

I like this cover of The Virgin Suicides (ninth picture). It's also the copy that I read, so grateful because I know there is another version of the cover with a (very) bad choice for font and photography. This version seems to portray everything the characters in the book are trying to achieve or sustain--youth and freedom, lush and lust.

Caribou Island (twelfth picture) has a neat, tempting graphic on its cover. I like their use of golden ripples as its background. Cold, isolated, grand, full of desire for warmth.

I read The Curious Incident of The Dog in The Night-Time with a different cover, but I prefer this one. The silhouette of the poodle is really open to interpretations: upside down position that signifies mysteries, black color that indicates bleakness, the message a character of poodle brings across itself--playfulness only kids are capable of.

I read Cat's Cradle with the thirteenth picture as its cover, The first one does more explanation, though (via the footnote: novel = a harmless untruth, a concept from the book that I really dig…)

The Bell Jar has a lot of different covers--I read the one with the less interesting picture on its cover. I really like the fourteenth one, bubble-gum girl, not here not there. Beautiful photograph…

Of course, the covers just spiced up my reading. The contents were the reason why these books had lived a short/long life in my shelves, after all. You can read some of the reviews/essays I made on these books here.

you hear colours

2011-12-08T21:31:00.001-08:00

"generally, I prefer make-up girls. they just seem fun and more open to try new things. natural beauty is overrated. not everyone can look like Kate Moss." -lulu chang

photos: yayayeah x mellisa alexandra jusuf

record down to the bone

2011-12-06T23:52:00.001-08:00

photopost.

1 month+ ago, ann siang hill--been wandered about one too many times

jakarta in two days, final exam in one day

drifting and fading and floating away

2011-12-05T07:21:00.001-08:00

For the past few years, Indonesia has been joyfully witnessing the rise of local fashion brands—especially those targeted at younger audience. Surely, we have many more choices to pick from now; and this has contributed to the increased relevance of the catchphrase “national pride”, which previously perhaps only applied in the sports field. Wearing local products now comes naturally with an additional attachment of pride, and there’s an inevitable surge of pride in seeing them being brought up to various national and international spotlights. I do think that’s a good thing, of course. Better, boasting about wearing local products feels so guilt-free compared to boasting about wearing internationally recognized “branded” goods, simply because the “supporting local products” tag is a reason much more absolute than the “exceptional quality” excuse offered by branded goods in justifying one’s fashion buys. But has the local fashion industry become too overwhelming now?

The current industry that might seem too crowded to some people has left them wondering whether it’s worth it to fork out more bucks on locally produced fashion merely just for the sake of national pride or hype. In result, customers have been more selective and careful nowadays. Firstly, there seems to be homogeneity present in some local fashion products, making the brand names the only thing that differentiates their identities (have you ever browsed through different local online shops and thought, “kok gini-gini aja?” or “their products really look the same with the previous ones deh…”).

Secondly, the price tags slapped on these products that seem to get heftier everyday do much in reducing our will to make any local fashion product purchase. It might seem greedy or demanding, but apparently national pride is not enough a reason to buy a product, especially for a not-mature-yet budget of young students! Rather than a therapeutic experience, it turns out that shopping local fashion products could sometimes feel like an amazingly exhausting task.

But that’s not the case with fashion label Nikicio, one of the most successful pioneers of young local fashion labels in Indonesia. After earning her first diploma of fashion design at Lasalle Singapore and subsequently her second diploma in fashion business at Lasalle Jakarta, designer Nina Nikicio launched her own label to “challenge the notation of fashion world” by making clothes that are “able to be worn & last forever” without leaving the fun part out. In result, most of her collections incorporate classical cuts and unquestionably high quality fabrics, topped off with a handful dose of whim. I found that the collections, while might not be entirely affordable to the younger audience, are consistent with the quality offered. She places very modest prices upon most of the pieces, yet she does not hesitate to bestow high prices on certain products when necessary.

In her latest, much celebrated Mixte Le Printemps 2012 collection; the manifestation of the brand philosophy is becoming more apparent. As a fan myself (specifically after eyeing the past season’s head-to-toe cat print look), I’ve witnessed the brand grow and continuously breathe a fresh air into the competitive and strict local fashion industry. Now, the overall “laidback” and “effortless(ly stylish)” feel the collection tries to conjure is diluted and infused bountifully into the entire collection.

Mixte le printemps generally consists of the never-boring monochromatic shades, upgraded with a touch of bright yellow—a very fascinating palette to begin with. Despite the specific “laidback” concept, the entire collection is flexible as the pieces could be easily dressed up or dressed down. The various cutting and length of fabrics add to the plus points of the collection, hence it would be impossible for anyone to not find his/her favorite piece that is able to cater to his/her preference here. For instance, the super fun donut crop top over the fitting yellow bralette make for an excellent choice if you like to show some skin without looking lazy and tawdry; or you could opt for the now-famous silk-print asymmetrical dress and reversible parka with faux fur hood if you would like to nicely wrap yourself up.

The highlight of the collection is probably the much craved, currently best-selling black wool coat embellished with handmade bone china porcelain beads—a collaboration between Nikicio and Kandura keramik. With a passing glance the coat may resemble a cute pompom outerwear that has gained a considerable hype recently, but with close observation the exquisite details of porcelain beads make the coat an extraordinary treasure worth keeping, or even passing to the next generation.

Besides the collection’s eye candies, spotted in the collection are some essentials in exciting materials such as the vintage looking brown lamb leather jacket, the unisex chambray dress, the bleached denim shorts, the soft fur top with side metal zip, and the cropped white t-shirt made of lamb leather.

You can download the complete lookbook on their website http://nikicio.com/

a serious discussion about the carrotless carrot cake

2011-12-02T15:58:00.001-08:00

2 December 2011

me, greg saunier of deerhoof, prima aulia, and tamma febrian sitting down on a moderately filled hawker centre trying to solve the mystery of chinese carrot cake, principles of journalism, etc

G: so you guys work for this (uptothesky) festival?

One of us: no.

G: okay. you must be an artist. (talking to me)

A: i'm not?

G: oh really? then you are. (talking to tamma)

T: me? of course not…

G: you're not. (now talking to prima) you're designing websites.

P: yeah.

G: okay, so what do you do? (to me)

A: i'm a student. studying communication.

G: ah…communication. then why is our…our communication so poor?

A: yeah that's because i haven't enacted my communication skills yet.

(greg laughing)

G: okay. so what do you do? (to tamma)

A: well, make a guess! it's easy.

(to be fair, this is tamma. try to guess yourself)

G: hmm…you are a…barber?

All of us: WHAT? (choking, laughing, dying)

T: no, man…i have such a boring job.

G: boring? what do you do?

T: i work in a bank. (tamma should get his head slaughtered by his boss for this)

G: you work in a bank! that's not boring! that's what she wants to do! that's what you're studying, right? (referring to dara, their artist coordinator slash our friend)

D: hahaha, yeah, yeah

G: so you guys will be watching us tomorrow?

P: yeah, we actually are from a magazine…we'll be reviewing this festival.

G: you're from press? oh no!

oh no!

A: hmm, why?

G: first rule of journalism. if you're from press, you're not supposed to make friends with the artists.

A: why is that so?

G: because, because you see…when the artists start making friends with the journalists--which i'm NOT doing btw--don't you feel a little burdened to write a good article? now that we're friends, with my new yorker charm and all...don't you feel like you should write a good review about us? and if you don't, i'm gonna get mad at you!

A: oh, bias.

G: yeah, that's the word. bias. okay, what about this: you can design my website, you can deal with our finance, and you…you take care of the publicity. and then you can watch our show for free.

A: hmm, interesting.

G: so deal?

P & T: yeah, deal.

A: wait. your show or your shows?

G: my shows? what do you mean? we only have one show in singapore.

A: no, i mean. we can come down to new york and watch your shows for free…and then you pay the flight tickets.

(greg laughing)

G: hmmm this is nice.

A: umm, yeah. that's…carrot cake. i often eat that too.

萝卜糕

(i can't speak chinese, in case you're wondering. but for the sake of it…)

G: yup. carrot cake. that doesn't look like carrot cake.

T: there's no carrot in carrot cake.

G: hmm yeah, i don't even know what i'm eating.

A: there isn't? i thought there is?

G: no, there's no carrot here…doesn't taste like carrot at all.

A: well, but i thought some of the real carrot cakes don't taste like carrot too…you know, the american ones. the sweet ones with cream and all. the real cakes.

G: oh yeah, that's true…

T: but there isn't supposed to be carrot there!

G: oh really? what's this then?

A: flour?

G: oh yeah, flour.

P: and eggs, some veggie…

A: and soy sauce.

G: yeah, yeah. so there's no carrot.

A: i still think there is.

G: okay. WANNA BET?

A: umm… (thinking twice) (or thrice) (or not really, just being a coward) AH i just remembered, yeah. there's no carrot in carrot cake. i remember a book with that title before. no carrot.

G: ha! and the book, there is a book about carrot cake?

A: no, well, it's just about singaporean food. you've just gotta have a very catchy title for it.

G: yeah, that's true.

("thanks for keeping up with our insults and stuff", said greg by the end of his band's show. i'm quoting him here, just in case...)

up up up

2011-11-30T05:13:00.001-08:00

If you are suffering from an agonizing thirst for good music, arts, and design, make sure you make yourself available this 3 December 2011.

Because UpToTheSky Festival is surely going to let you off the hook with a holy matrimony of music, arts, and design—including seventeen regional and international powerful musical acts. The festival expects 2,000+ people to attend and will be held at Old School, Mount Sophia, from 1130am to 11pm on December 3. Tickets go for $70 for students and $95 for everyone else.

LAST MINUTE MIXTAPE…THAT SHOULD IMMEDIATELY CHANGE YOUR MIND if you haven't purchased your tickets yet. (HA!)

Negotiations with An Inner Voice - MUON
Irish Girl - The Trees & The Wild
Nothing to Fear - White Shoes & the Couples Company
Outside Looking In - MUON
Setengah Lima - Sore
Chandelier Searchlight - Deerhoof
 The Great Glass City - They Will Kill Us All
Honeymoon on Ice - The Trees & The Wild
Now That I'm Real - Chad Valley
Big Bad Drummer - Zebra and Snake
 This Wasted Heart - Tenderfist
 I'm Unsatisfied - The Cambodian Space Project
Wrong Time Capsule - Deerhoof
Sunday Memory Lane - White Shoes & the Couples Company

also, snippet of an article i wrote for diaspora magazine
the three main acts featured in my crappy collage are white shoes & the couple's company(!), deerhoof(!!), and the trees & the wild (!!!)
my favourite besides the main act…sore, MUON, and tenderfist.
full list of artists and some of their videos here
gonna be exxxxciting

on instax, on versace for h&m, etc

2011-11-29T19:21:00.001-08:00

instax. that poor little thing that has once or twice been aggressively attacked by internet rage. a rage that often takes form of a real breathing entity--a hatred-absorbing, emotionally consuming rage.

ever come across a polaroid =/= instax post or jpg on tumblr? i still don't have with me a full understanding of it... although there are some people who still name their albums containing scans of instax pictures 'polaroid' (and i'd like to believe that the previously mentioned jpg is directed towards these people), there is also a portion of internet audience who do acknowledge the differences between the two. and we still think that the differences do not always grant one an absolute power over the other--sure, polaroid is great, but i love instax too.

initially i stood a true blue stance on polaroid's side. but reeling a friend into buying one AND subsequently witnessing her selling that brand-new vintage camera because of several considerations sort of shed a light on me. rare and expensive films (that impossible thing ain't of much possible help to her) take up a major responsibility for her decision, but mostly i think some people just grow past the 'dreamy' pictures stage. it's fine if you have not, or will not and never intend to enact the same change. i'm one of you, anyway.

so i discovered a sudden desire for an instax camera afterwards. no matter how much i tried to deny that my decision was fueled by my friend's not-so-happy times with her polaroid, i must admit that there was a certain correlation present there. and aside from its hideous body design, i appreciate my instax results as much as the polaroid ones. slightly faded lines that make the objects blend into background, softer colors that tame down loud details, i think instax pictures are beautifully nuanced in their own way, without doing the objects much distortion. they are not polaroids. that makes them a popular alternative medium for fashion photography, and i am glad that some people have come into almost full acceptance of instax pictures.

and then, another high-street x high-end fashion collaboration.

recently the whole internet (or at least my version of internet) had been shaken almost ragingly by a collaborative collection by versace for h&m--and as if that was not enough, the real-life version of this hype managed to take h&m's only branch in Singapore by storm.

i feel like, examples to illustrate the enthusiasm are unnecessary because they are so evident everywhere (endless runway pictures of the show, glossy reviews on the official launching, varicolored paper bracelets worn by people queueing in front of h&m singapore), i don't feel like there's a need to add another unimportant view of the (i'd just utter here very briefly) awesome collection to the virtual collective of raving reviews outside. oui, i succumbed to the majority. i mean, i am a fervent fan of prints and colors (tropical and vintage feels just waved us hi)…need i say more of my opinion on the collection?

if anything, i guess i'd say that this versace for h&m collection does not falter the enthusiasm for h&m spring 2012 collection. each caters to a different audience, although there are some who covet them with similar intensities (eg me)...

and here are the rest of Karolina Słota's take on versace for h&m collection, styled by Azra Szpura featuring Viktoria Rutkowska. obviously taken with instax, baby.

i swear i solve your life

2011-11-27T03:10:00.001-08:00

I guess you get to a point where you look at that pain as if it were there in front of you three feet away lying in a box, an open box in a window somewhere. It's hard and cold like a bar of metal. You just look at it there and say, all right. I'll take it. I'll buy it. That's what it is. Because you know all about it, before you even go into this thing. You know the pain is part of the whole thing. And it isn't that we can say afterwards the pleasure was greater than the pain, and that's why you'd do it again. That has nothing to do it. You can't measure it, because the pain comes after and it lasts longer. So the question really is, why doesn't the pain make you say, I won't do it again, when the pain is so bad that you have to say that, but you don't?

break it down by lydia davis

favorite paragraph, obviously, that conclusive ending where the lines start throbbing you from the front, leaving you alone with your space. nevertheless it's nothing like the whole story, you should read it in its wholeness

credit goes to nat for introducing this story on her blog

love it

(also, new music)

WORDS CAN NEVER MAKE UP FOR WHAT YOU DO

2011-11-24T23:35:00.001-08:00

lykke li

esplanade theatre, october 13 2011

i wish i had enough courage/invisibility to jump over the fence barricading the relatively small space..or at least enough prerequisite knowledge that having a $128 ticket did not mean i could rest my elbows on the front tip of the stage liberally admiring her.

the show was explosive, youth = best word to describe the entire performance
youth that does not have to sparkle with colors
or glitters
to be complete

she was clearly someone everyone looked up to that day, i felt overwhelmed by the love her fans showed. we danced together on the seats and sang along to her songs, and tried to offer her silence when necessary. from the opening to the ending she made the night magical.

lykke li you are a loved woman

hello

2011-11-23T23:03:00.001-08:00

this semester had been quite a dry one for me, modules taken being mostly communication and sociology-related--and i did not get to take any psychology (favorite subject, or perhaps it was just the teacher) module this semester or even possibly for the rest of the years i'll be spending in university. that should come across as no surprise for me as after all, i am a communication major. but when studying psychology i found many interesting things to talk about, or to just stop and ponder about; psychology felt like a science closest to human beings and to society. but now, if there was anything interesting slash relevant i managed to learn this semester, it would be dialectical tension from interpersonal communication module.

i feel like, this is the thing that has been closest to explaining what has been happening to my blog recently (or maybe, since forever): wanting two opposing things at the very same time. (not that it's a bad thing or a major problem, it's just like some tiny bug that takes away a slightest portion of my comfort everyday…)

especially this dialectic: public vs private and openness vs protection. i want this space to have some intimate depth but it is really difficult to achieve this without intruding my own personal space, no matter how sentences are being craftily rephrased. and maintaining the balance constantly feels like a hard work especially recently...

and therefore i am thinking of shifting this blog (again) to another direction

all the personal baggage would not be dumped here anymore. not a depersonalization attempt, just filtering out what would be appropriate and what would be not. a few times i was tempted to sail away in this direction but an internal force always tried to pull me back. an internal force that is afraid of change,

but there shall be no shame in changing.

hence, some major changes are expected in short time (eg layout and content of the blog). i am just a collection of likes and dislikes anyway.

so from now kindergarchy will be a collection of my likes (movies, books, arts, fashion, design, music) that i want to share with you. to let loose the kindergarten self in you and me that in actual fact never graduate. to admit that there is a part in us that refuses to grow up. to show that this kind of retaliation is fine, and here we should not attempt to eliminate its visibility. an escapism? perhaps.

the blog will remain slightly personal to the extent that some personal contents are hoped to align with this new goal --including my own pictures, reviews, writings, and thoughts. otherwise it will be more like you peeking at the world, instead of you looking into me, through my lens.

that's for now

thanks a lot for sticking up…

(sources of collages can be found by clicking on the images)

WE ARE WATER

2011-11-23T15:13:00.000-08:00

after the much coveted swimwear collection of we are handsome (especially after the rihanna whose-design-is-it panther swimsuit craze), australia now is presenting me with another print bonanza via something else by natalie wood--but this time in form of much flowy, airy, or rather watery pieces of clothing from her latest 'submerged' collection. the palettes that differ from one piece to the other, seemingly unrelated--vivid & bold in one and light & delicate in another, make the collection a little more diverse, in my opinion. the first one might conjure mary katrantzou prints up and the other might bring one to imagine a subtle fusion between spring and summer colors. i'm such a sucker for prints and palettes…

beautiful t-shirt and tank designs featuring patterns that i suspected come from real-life pictures that have been melded, flipped, and folded in such a way that one could no longer recognize what the starting picture looks like (except for the first one, perhaps). or they could be drawings too, considering the brand's reputation for excellent printmaking.

admiring the detached-collar-look detail on the right picture, and the mixture of whites in differing textures (shirt in lace & the inside of the coat being in lace too)...

although the collection claims to say no-no to hard lines, in this collection there are still some a little structured (but never stiff) pieces for people who refuse to be liquidified and prefer to stay in their solid forms. but no hard feelings! hard lines shouldn't mean that you're less fun, classic color-blocking such as block and orange definitely still works jolly well here...

it is a far, far better thing that i do, than i have ever done

2011-11-22T03:49:00.001-08:00

the god of small things was another book i discovered very randomly via two friends' facebook 'likes'--whose taste generally i could identify with, or at least am often intrigued by. to be honest: title is the first element i normally look into upon exploring a book and in this case i jolly well loved it. this was how it went with this book. liked the title, googled it and found a conceivably memorable quote of the book. off to the library to look for it besides several other desired titles that i had safely pocketed, and picked it above all else.

my progress with the book had been initially VERY slow as the god of small things adopted (invented, in one of the reviewers' words) an entirely different kind of language from cormack mccarthy's the road--the book that i finished before an immediate picking of the god of small things. the road, firstly, had done a considerable amount of 'balancing' act to me; the stark, fussless language had become a specific genre of entertainment on its own in my reading experience. it is different from most things i had read before that used language as a powerful tool, that i've also come to love. the god of small things, on the other hand, reminded me of a lot of small things that lurk inside, and rekindled my previous love for this kind of magical, largely nuanced writing. in which it has a lot of layers that should be peeled one by one, without restraint, because the words would not like to be wounded.

so since i was still being in mccarthy mode, language did not hook me up at first (although i got used to and even learnt to love it with a certain, gradual build-up), and nor did the story--everything seemed to be tangled, although in a neat ball, but not always in a pleasant way. i was being very demanding at first, impatiently waiting for a shred of red thread to link all those little events that at first appeared interesting only when standing on each own.

but this is the main plot:

the god of small things tells of a 'tragic decline' of a syrian christian family in kerala, india. rahel and estha are dizygotic twins whose relationship has undergone sweeping currents, it goes invariably back and forth, mostly without concrete directions. although the synopsis claims the book to mostly center around the story of 'forbidden love', very fortunately it was not the only thing i managed to learn from the book. i found that the focus of the book hovers beyond this context, there is much more to offer. there is a lot of things that feels more relevant to me, which does not have to grow to be something as huge as 'forbidden love'.

the familial ties receive the central attention of the book; how much one should love one another and how the amount could decrease because of some gravely reasons. the consequence of having someone in ties that have been determined since long; even before you were born.

love laws. which are not arbitrary.

the book, from some personal retrospects, feels like a densely culture-infused tale akin to jeffrey eugenides' middlesex--something that most people could relate to, despite being from different cultures. there are also a lot of cross-cultural ties and relationships that play important roles in the book, and how some common stereotypes might arise in such circumstances. perhaps one of the most relatable ones to english speaking commonwealth countries would be the stereotype that nonwhites are english handicapped. estha and rahel's australian relative is visiting their house when they are about seven, and as a visiting gift they are given a children book. rahel and estha take this as an insult (they've started reading classic literature at this age) and teased their relative by reading the sentences of the book backwards aloud. they tell her that in their native language, they could read sentences backwards. so why not apply it to english? their relative is definitely not amused by this and there is a raise of tension in the air. in the end the relative dies an ironic death: being hit by a van that is moving backwards. the twist to the end of this conflict to me, feels way too colossal, fabricated. although in every other consideration it is actually a very fine sarcastic touch of a spectacular event to end things. they make death look so easy here.

brief reports on political situation, though i failed to catch them as a whole, serve as not only as basic background information, but also a starting point where a subplot emerges from...

perhaps the part that i really like would be the 'love story' between margaret kochamma and chacko, estha and rahel's uncle. when first meeting margaret, chacko is still studying in oxford while margaret is studying there while working as a part-time waitress as well. although both are away from home, they definitely espouse different values and worldviews. chacko is a 'helpless, exiled prince' whose room is always a mess--cigarette butts and books and dirty underwear scattered on the floor. margaret, on the other hand, is almost like a saint. not studious, not excessively altruistic or holy, but quite. their encounter in a small cafe where margaret works at shreds a light to margaret's enclosed, narrow space. chacko brings along with him the world that spins in a new manner, in which the horizons have expanded.

what chacko sees in margaret = independence and self-sufficiency
what margaret sees in chacko = knowledge and passion

but more importantly, it's the withering away of comfort, which margaret has previously found in chacko's existence, that finally brings an end to their inconclusive marriage.

A few months after they began to go out together, he began to smuggle her into his rooms, where he lived like a helpless, exiled prince. Despite the best efforts of his scout and cleaning lady, his room was always filthy. Books, empty wine bottles, dirty underwear and cigarette butts littered the floor. Cupboards were dangerous to open because clothes and books and shoes would cascade down and some of his books were heavy enough to inflict real damage. Margaret Kochamma's tiny, ordered life relinquished itself to this truly baroque bedlam with the quiet gasp of a warm body entering a chilly sea.

She discovered that underneath the aspect of the Rumpled Porcupine, a tortured Marxist was at war with an impossible, incurable Romantic-who forgot the candles, who broke the wineglasses, who lost the ring. Who made love to her with a passion that took her breath away. She had always thought of herself as a somewhat uninteresting, thick-waisted, thick-ankled girl. Not bad-looking. Not special. But when she was with Chacko, old limits were pushed back. Horizons expanded.

She had never before met a man who spoke of the world-of what it was, and how it came to be, or what he thought would become of it-in the way in which other men she knew discussed their jobs, their friends or their weekends at the beach.

Being with Chacko made Margaret Kochamma feel as though her soul had escaped from the narrow confines of her island country into the vast, extravagant spaces of his. He made her feel as though the world belonged to them-as though it lay before them like an opened frog on a dissecting table, begging to be examined.

In the year she knew him, before they were married, she discovered a little magic in herself, and for a while felt like a blithe genie released from her lamp. She was perhaps too young to realize that what she assumed was her love for Chacko was actually a tentative, timorous, acceptance of herself.

i also like how they remain friends after marriage; and how their post-divorce relationship matures with time, although for different reasons to margaret and to chacko.

other parts of the book that i like: ammu's death (estha and rahel's mother), sophie mol's death (that occurs not once, not twice, but several times), the day when ammu 'loved rahel a little less' and punished rahel (rahel asks for the punishment herself; i think this is a culture embedded to asian/high-context society and children are expected to be obedient and hence, perhaps, they expected themselves to be obedient too).

‘Rahel,’ Ammu said.

Rahel froze. She was desperately sorry for what she has said. She didn’t know where those words had come from. She didn’t know that she’d had them in her. But they were out now and wouldn’t go back in. They hung about that red staircase like clerks in a Government office. Some stood, some sat and shivered their legs.

‘Rahel,’ Ammu said. ‘Do you realize what you have just done?’

Frightened eyes and a fountain looked back at Ammu.

‘It’s all right. Don’t be scared,’ Ammu said. ‘Just answer me. Do you?’

‘What?’ Rahel said in the smallest voice she had.

‘Realize what you’ve just done?’ Ammu said.

Frightened eyes and a fountain looked back at Ammu.

‘D’you know what happens when you hurt people?’ Ammu said. ‘When you hurt people, they begin to love you less. That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.’

-

‘Ammu,’ Rahel said, ‘shall I miss dinner as my punishment?’

She was keen to exchange punishments. No dinner, in exchange for loving her the same as before.

‘As you please,’ Ammu said. ‘But I advise you to eat. If you want to grow, that is. Maybe you could share some of Chacko’s chicken.’

‘Maybe and maybe not.’ Chacko said.

‘But what about my punishment?’ Rahel said. ‘You haven’t given me my punishment!’

‘Some things come with their own punishments,’ Baby Kochamma said. As though she was explaining a sum that Rahel couldn’t understand.

Some things come with their own punishments. Like bedrooms with built-in cupboards. They would all learn more about punishments soon. That they came in different sizes. That some were so big they were like cupboards with built-in bedrooms. You could spend your whole life in them, wandering through dark shelving.

when i was on my way home i saw a guy holding this book, still in his jc uniform. i saw words scribbled beside the printed words, and some thick strokes of fluorescent yellow. i thought i might have been quite unlucky, never having a chance to study the book properly. but it's okay

i do not need confirmation from others to validate the book's tact and beauty

4

2011-11-18T02:53:00.001-08:00

Gymnopedie No. 1 - Millionyoung
Green Grass of Tunnel - múm
Pure - Blackbird Blackbird
Batu Karas - Rock N Roll Mafia
Aruarian Dance - Nujabes
Lazy Noon - Keep Shelly in Athens
LUV - Giraffage
Drop (Kings Of Convenience Remix) - Cornelius
You Hear Colours - CFCF
Free My Mind (RAC Remix) - Katie Herzig

thrifted tee / thrifted blazer / c&k heeled boots / actuallyactually giant tote-sling bag / mom's scarf

thimble-drinker, cart-wheeler

2011-11-14T01:28:00.001-08:00

i would not stop thinking even if everyone else thinks otherwise
sophie mol's death that occurs not once, not twice, but several times
how one's death could grow robust and alive, outweighing her previous life
makes my fingers numb, one of them struck for a split-second by an invisible shock
it is true. sometimes your life boils down to your death. your robust, alive death.
and nothing else

a death of an acquaintance. a death of someone unknown, untouched, Untouchable
death that always feels familiar
like a tree that grows in the backyard you spend your childhood in
it is true. sometimes a stranger's death could very well be your best friend.

do you get to see everything
or nothing after death?

everything at all?
nothing at all?

death invites a polarity too extreme that any element of life could never allow
an awkward matter, included yet excluded
polarity that permits a gray area
like a lover
but death is not a lover

oh yes it is.

parallel

2011-11-12T18:35:00.001-08:00

at first the sky was empty

2011-11-08T01:31:00.000-08:00

here goes my fascination with the new twin sister's track! loudly i say yes to this special "halloween edition" track, aside from glass candy's equally striking halloween.

decided to volunteer myself to be "victimized" this year, braving my way (not alone) to universal studios that had been beautified with dry straws scattered on the floors and an awkwardly fascinating selection of halloween figures (wounded diver? stilted mummy) studding the roads. very very fortunately the rides got me hooked! and addicted! can't safely say how far my addiction would go because not a lot of people, me included, are big fans of lengthy queues. doesn't mean that i hate--or despise queues, though. amusement park queue conversations are certainly of more values than those idle water fountain conversations.

sailing

2011-11-06T00:31:00.000-07:00

my home is a salad of half baked education and hopes and middle class mundanity. inborn bravery and ignorance and buried insanity. corroding kitchenwares. two floors of anchored workload and hanging playload. daily exchange of basic conversations. prayer rugs and beads and endless sermons on a 52 inch tv screen. remembrance of death and heaven and hell 24/7. it is clear which direction it is heading. my home is an island of contentment in the sea of bare, glass-walled concretes. my home is trying to prove that conservatism can blend with, or rather cannot be swayed by, the temptation of total freedom. my home is an epitome of clear familial division.

in this structure i try my best to spit more words onto papers, a stack of deadlines which now feel numb. what my father and i have in common. when the dry clean machine beeps i hurry downstairs and stare at its whiteness. what my mother and i have in common.

must i must i must i.

must. i get all the fabrics out. i fold the shirts and undergarments and mismatched socks in pink and orange and tosca and other colours that are not as cheery. frills and hard furs and fluorescent work uniform which resembles a giant one-piece pajama. i spread my brother's t-shirts in the air, letting the invisible splash to iron them out. i run my fingers through my father's shirts to reduce the creases. i hang my mother's house dresses with wire and plastic hangers by the window to invite the wind to come by and to comb them clean.

beneath all this we all are tired. of convincing of preaching of trying to bridge this seemingly absymal gap. this inherent suburban stubbornness found in the family that might as well breed a tragedy. but there shall be a stopping to this. we are past the beginning of the end. now is the difficult part, the middle part, that is hiding a change of direction. children try to palm their true intentions while probing for a possible solid ground. they have directions in minds that often collide with their parents', the modernity that flowers in a conventional and wholesome family. they are afraid to be mistaken as being swayed by the promiscuous wind. but past the middle part in future these children hope to see a gleaming light of freedom that might not be as good as conventionality but they will face their death beds with no burden of regrets.

to this children hold on, to this children say there shall be no shame in changing.

through the backrooms of the world

2011-11-05T22:09:00.000-07:00

a sliver of warmth handed over to envelop the frail substance inside, a strange sense of pretense cast off disdainfully. an attempt made by the man who gave this to the person who lent this to me, a piece of blue fleece soft and unadulterated like a wildgrown daisy petal. forgiveness conveyed, and (or at least) an artifact of it--two separate ideas that he tried to connect unsuccessfully. one too many apologies. too late and still no one regrets. i have no part but i hold onto the sad artifact. in some mornings i watch it diffuse into my stream. in cold nights i would slip my body in it and walk the pavements off, the world disapproving and the wind trying to disassemble my hair. an off, slippery arrangement of you and him.

but at least it shows you that he tried.

glass/candy

2011-11-01T05:43:00.000-07:00

your life flashes before your eye

coma

2011-10-31T23:03:00.000-07:00

if you believe in this you should blow all the ashes in your hands
calluses from all the vigorous rubbing,
one golden pot with warm angles,
and silky, weightless wishes,
unfulfilled

if you take something in your right hand you should give up your left hand
and now your lap, geometrical and warm,
that never looks for direction,
that never truly belongs,
knotted

if you discard a book it should be half-read
a torso you are holding on to,
cited word by word,
by now a stranger,
misunderstood

battered and stolen, crushed and blown up,
you'll see me catch the ashes and
murmur to myself
it's okay
it's okay.

3

2011-10-28T17:40:00.000-07:00

perhaps one of the most comfortable denim pieces i've ever come across! this not so awkward hybrid of hoodie and denim shirt never seems out of place, always fitting. i often find myself twirling the rope strings. ah, those fine little details that are so easy on the eyes…

borrowed tank and topman shirt, g2000 ombre cardigan

2

2011-10-25T03:32:00.000-07:00

Made In The Dark - Hot Chip
The Greatest - Cat Power
Smile - Télépopmusik
I Don't Want Love - The Antlers
I'll Try Anything Once - Julian Casablancas
Fuck Was I - Jenny Owen Youngs
Choking - Angus & Julia Stone
Firework Special - Velveteen
Corbeau - Coeur de pirate
I'd Do It All Again - Corinne Bailey Rae
Can't Go Back Now - The Weepies
Comforting Sounds - Mew

underground creepers, gifted socks

twelve tracks to accompany you through your voids or through the rain.

tried and tested.

Things Can Change in a Day

2011-10-24T04:40:00.000-07:00

Estha had always been a quiet child, so no one could pinpoint with any degree of accuracy exactly when (the year, if not the month or day) he had stopped talking. Stopped talking altogether, that is. The fact is that there wasn't an "exactly when." It had been a gradual winding down and closing shop. A barely noticeable quietening. As though he had simply run out of conversation and had nothing left to say. Yet Estha's silence was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy. It wasn't an accusing, protesting silence as much as a sort of estivation, a dormancy, the psychological equivalent of what lungfish do to get themselves through the dry season, except that in Estha's case the dry season looked as though it would last forever.

Over time he had acquired the ability to blend into the background of wherever he was--into bookshelves, gardens, curtains, doorways, streets--to appear inanimate, almost invisible to the untrained eye. It usually took strangers awhile to notice him even when they were in the same room with him. It took them even longer to notice that he never spoke. Some never noticed at all.

Estha occupied very little space in the world.

did the world stop giving estha space
or did estha withdraw from the world

but whichever occurs first,
when the world stops giving you space, you'll begin to withdraw
alternatively
when you withdraw first
the world is not going to go down with you and with it and
it will eventually stop
giving you space
to occupy

anomali

2011-10-24T04:20:00.000-07:00

people might be getting vexed by this: i am never a purist when it comes to sushi! heaps of mayonnaise fried onion cheddar cheese chili sauce BRING EM ON

P.S my opinion, though i purposely put nadine's picture at the bottom so as to make it look as if it was hers
P.P.S and i don't do sashimi
P.P.P.S don't give me that nasty stare

my words are frail not audible, they do not even convince me

2011-10-23T01:25:00.000-07:00

1

2011-10-19T19:06:00.000-07:00

mom's shirt, pants from hong kong, lilac socks

been living quite for a while in this pair of emerald green goodness, except that they are a few sizes too big i could pull them off without any unzipping involved (it makes such a terribly vain statement if you take it figuratively, so please don't...) the shirt is one of my most precious hand downs from mom, so so delicately textured material and pastel print… which never fails to induce some nostalgic response from my dad, whenever he finds me strolling around in it.

sorry for the frowns high up there, it was such a sweaty sunny morning (i swear it was only 9), facing east unshielded was not as easy without the aid of a pair of sunglasses.

pictures taken by bening.

"ever is no time at all"

2011-10-19T06:04:00.000-07:00

cormac mccarthy's The Road tells of an account of a man and his child, heading south, stripped bare from almost all worldly necessities. paving their way in the ice cold of winter in america, through days uncalendared and moments unmarked. the world is ending. feet wrapped in whatever kinds of wearable pairs of shelters they can find in the road. the book is blackness so bleak and dull and dying, a gray account of such a bare life. a possible way for the world to end feebly, violently.

the narrative plays around with types of grayness, that even the bleakest things have managed to exist in various levels, that there is not only one kind of monotone. dialogues without quotation marks to blend with the story, like an inanimate human being who blends into the background. they are reduced but not dry, filtered yet honest. at first the son's participation in the dialogues seems only to affirm what his father has to say, but along the story he begins to disclose his own opinions which, more often than not, contradict with his father's. pure and scared and little, the son always tries to urge his father to take with them most people that he meets along the way. another little boy around his age. a weak beggar-looking man. he cries and sobs and won't stop until his father tells him to. and he grows up witnessing all kinds of humans barred from humanity and all seas and skies and ashes deprived of colors.

the father is the only man he can cling himself to. the son has no choice but to trust him fully, and the man understands this, by continually convincing his son that they are going to survive and he is not doing the son, nor himself, any harm. "if you break little promises you'll break the big ones," the boy's ball of trust begins to unravel. the man tries to thread it back, intact: "i know. but i wont."

the images conjured by the book are not easy to forget, especially as they alternate with the disturbing dreams the son often has. but they are written beautifully: brutality--and flames that can be not only a source of light and life, but also a warm death.

the road focuses on the relentless journey the father and the son have to go through, as background information is very scarcely provided. but in the beginning the book is supplied with a few glimpses to the previous life, when there are more souls in the family (eg this conversation between the mother and the father):

No, I'm speaking the truth. Sooner or later they will catch us and they will kill us. They will rape me. They'll rape him. They are going to rape us and kill us and eat us and you won't face it. You'd rather wait for it to happen.But I cant. I cant. She sat there smoking a slender length of dried grapevine as if it were some rare cheroot. Holding it with a certain elegance, her other hand across her knees where she'd drawn them up. We used to talk about death, she said. We dont anymore. Why is that?

I dont know.

It's because it's here. There's nothing left to talk about.

I wouldnt leave you.

I dont care. It's meaningless. You can think of me as a faithless slut if you like. I've taken a new lover. He can give me what you cannot.

Death is not a lover.

Oh yes he is.

it's too early to draw this conclusion based only on two books that i have read (this and caribou island), but if i may suggest, don't get any hopes up on books with immediate, cold dialogues that do away without an employment of quotation marks. they are going downhill, always. they slow down, perhaps, look back, at times, but they never climb back to a better state, or their initial points.

velvet elvis

2011-10-16T07:21:00.000-07:00

an ambulance outside outdoors bar, anchored keenly to the solid ground. ican feeling ecstatic for some dodgy reasons, always, as we walked past through it (although i too, admittedly wondered in silent curiosity about that cold white structure). beside the alley, we found a lady; hair tied back, glowing with her skin tired and wet. she laid on her friend's/partner's lap, eyes flickering under the timely lack of light, trying to whisper a breath to the vacuum air. the space did not smell like anything, and without the presence of the ambulance we would barely notice her subsistence. so we walked off after stealing a glance or two at her, and continued to look for a decent shelter that could satisfy our only criterion that night: air conditioner. we found a place to sit and share a bucket of cantonese chicken wing, realising how hungry i had been after the food was served before me. yes, hunger might be the best spice one could add to magnify the food's flavour, and i know chicken wings can't go really bad anyway, but those golden-skinned little wings deserved one last lick to each bone on their own…

and with that i conclude: nothing can indicate money well spent more accurately than a couple of happily filled stomachs.

paper romance

2011-10-13T18:27:00.000-07:00

TV's autumn/winter 2011 collection nothing but flowers projects a very specific mood which i feel very appropriate right now: modern yet vintage, conservative yet flaccid. it of course did not escape my attention when tribute jakarta first announced the sacred arrival of these pieces in town, but they feel compatible now more than ever, somehow. perhaps the bold stripes and the prada-esque ambience overcrowding almost the whole stretch of the year had begun to take its toll on me, and this harmonious hodgepodge of fluorescent shades, sober palettes, and couch-y floral patterns that didn't seem to make much sense before now suggests a tempting, if not perfect alternative to blanket myself in this tiring season...

they look unduly great when being put together, indeed, but i think each item also makes a promising standalone piece: dandy graphic in sandy knit, short circle skirt in a very sight-quenching shade of neon lime, sedated button down shirt in a magnified liberty pattern, and a neat ropey knot. i would not mind spending time slouching and living comfortably in looks number 2, 3, and 6 while uttering a bunch of see-you-soons to all my stripes and vivid fabrics in the meantime...

pink houses

2011-10-12T18:30:00.000-07:00

post-the drums concert sleepover. won a pair of meet and greet passes via a curious teepee's pot of cactus… night of sweat and battling throats. photos in my camera incidentally went lost forever and these are the only things left of that night

2011-10-11T10:09:00.000-07:00

hold on

to where you're from

it's where your heart goes

when you're done

so let's say,

i'll come another day

and maybe you'll understand,

i look into your eyes,

"you don't know who I am."

day #9: a chauffeur-driven dream, told us where to drop

2011-10-08T19:03:00.000-07:00

i remember this place as what it used to be, despite several shifts here and there: new glass walls and doors, unlit skull candles, new books with yellow discount tags, and a warm carpeted dwelling upstairs that i never discovered before. (not in the photos)

what stayed, obviously, were books, picture books, novels, how-tos, children books (which could be found at the corner where rayhan and i used to sit together, legs folded scruntinising big bears telling different tales on different pages), little lenses, modern graphics and glistening photo papers.

i remember a lot of things happened here before, raging youth for example. i was glad that these people who were involved in such a gooey discussion with me still stayed dear, if not closer now more than ever. and the new friends i was spending time together with this time, had drawn their own territories too, decked closely with each other.

people are pleasant creatures if you know whom to spend your time with.

nypc

2011-10-04T14:27:00.000-07:00

h&m kids sweater, topshop two-tone tights, supermarket hair
read the full article that i wrote about h&m here

“I don't know what good it is to know so much and be smart as whips and all if it doesn't make you happy”

2011-10-03T11:22:00.000-07:00

too impressive to be put off: Franny and Zooey by J.D Salinger. it's been a month --another stolid mistake of putting aside a book before writing about it--and while the faint traces of his writing are still lodged, undefiled in my brain, some of the delicate post-reading bits have long fled out of their temporary dwelling here, in perpetual search for other places to inhabit…

the book is divided into two parts, unequally in terms of length, and both consist of descriptive sentences constructed cannily and very, very smart and powerful dialogues. the latter is definitely the main strength of the book (most of the main points are emphasised there), and while they may seem to supposedly diminish the need for all the thoughts and the happenings, peerless descriptions are utilised to still sketch them here, as pointed out earlier. i feel like i need to substitute the word 'descriptive' and 'descriptions' as they are often, for some, perceived as an extended platform to exercise one's vast vocabulary, or identified with tiring verbosity--but they really are not the case with this book.

besides, the content of the book is also relevant--not in the way that The Glass Family is noticeably special when coming together as a family unit as well as when separated into autonomous individuals--but in issues that some of the family members are facing. in the first part, Franny mostly tackles the conflicting needs for recognition and self-actualisation within herself during her conversation with Lane -her boyfriend-

"All I know is I'm losing my mind," Franny said. "I'm just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else's. I'm sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It's disgusting – it is, it is. I don't care what anybody says."

Lane raised his eyebrows at that, and sat back, the better to make his point. "You sure you're just not afraid of competing?" he asked with studied quietness. "I don't know too much about it, but I'd lay odds a good psychoanalyst--I mean a really competent one--would probably take that statement--"

"I'm not afraid to compete. It's just the opposite. Don't you see that? I'm afraid I will compete--that's what scares me. That's why I quit the Theatre Department. Just because I'm so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else's values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn't make it right. I'm ashamed of it. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I'm sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of a splash." She paused, and suddenly picked up her glass of milk and brought it to her lips. "I knew it," she said, setting it down. "That's something new. My teeth go funny on me. They're chattering. I nearly bit through a glass the day before yesterday. Maybe I'm stark, staring mad and don't know it." The waiter had come forward to serve Lane's frogs' legs and salad, and Franny looked up at him. He, in turn, looked down at her untouched chicken sandwich. He asked if the young lady would perhaps like to change her order. Franny thanked him, and said no. "I'm just very slow," she said. The waiter, who was not a young man, seemed to look for an instant at her pallor and damp brow, then bowed and left.

in the second part of the book, Zooey reveals the background of The Glass Family: a family of natural prodigies who participate in an interactive radio show during their childhood. it is always interesting to follow the maturing process of such children: Zooey who has become a handsome actor sufficiently equipped with more than enough wits and perspectives in hands, and Franny who has flowered with her interests in theatre, which she actually gives up in the first part of the book. the problem is, inborn geniuses are often portrayed 'freaks', and so are they, as stated by Zooey in the middle of the book. but to the readers (to me, at least) they are captured very attractively and flamboyantly here, which actually induces some longing in us for a generous speck of their innate intellect…

my favourite description (when Bessie -the mom- tries to converse with the disturbed Zooey, who is still in the middle of his bath)

She lit a fresh king-size cigarette abruptly, dragged on it, then stood up, exhaling smoke. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said. The statement, innocently, sounded like a promise. “Just please use the bathmat when you get out,” she added. “That’s what it’s there for.” She left the bathroom, closing the door securely behind her.

It was rather as though, after being in makeshift wet dock for days, the Queen Mary had just sailed out of, say, Walden’s Pond, as suddenly and perversely as she had sailed in. Behind the shower curtain, Zooey closed his eyes for a few seconds, as though his own small craft were listing precariously in the wake. The he pulled back the shower curtain and stared over at the closed door. It was a weighty stare, and relief was not a great part of it. As much as anything else, it was the stare, not so paradoxically, of a privacy-lover who, once his privacy had been invaded, doesn’t quite approve when the invader just gets up and leaves, one-two-three, like that.

VERY WELL-WRITTEN i really let out a daft sigh out of awe after reading the previous two paragraphs.

in the latter part of the book, the conversation between Franny and Zooey builds up on the idea that religion could be an excellent tool to conceal people's needs to simply hold on to something, or to just have some private treasures to imperceptibly, indirectly brag about. just like how others may cling tightly to their materialistic or intellectual wealth for any sort of reason: sense of possession, belonging, source of pride--spiritual wealth is nothing different, if not worse. and this vain ego sometimes permeates out of the person, spilling uncontrollably into the surrounding. (real life examples would be religious people who deem superiority on themselves over others. that's the point: oxymoron, don't religions teach you to be a humble man)

i like the book as much as the bell jar, i think. Franny and Zooey is a very solid book. i knew that salinger was a great writer, and catcher in the rye may deserve its own shelf in any great library, but Franny and Zooey has really exceeded what i expected before, especially in terms of fluidity and use of language. RECOMMENDED

it could be sweet

2011-09-30T07:15:00.000-07:00

it is to my delight that blackheart has always been consistent in producing their 'rock-inspired, sinful' pieces so far--only that they seem to have outgrown lace fabrics and studs this season (i never quite, though). for blackheart 2012 spring summer collection the previous materials are replaced by flowy smooth fabrics, minimal yet impactful graphics, cold shoulders, cropped tops, fringes and high-waists washed all in my favourite shades: the necessary monochromes, light denim and orb blue. now they are also expanding their collection to include swimwear and accessories lines.

on another note, i must reveal the fact that i had a great time letting my eyes indulge in their 'salvation' campaign video. the classical black, bad thing VS white, unadulterated purity--lifted with a little twist and a massive soundtrack--who could resist such a lethal combination?

would you prefer a

2011-09-28T08:10:00.000-07:00

or a

?

only the gods are real

2011-09-27T00:28:00.000-07:00

finally, time to write a proper post. 'proper' that is ignorant of the palpable dimension of reality, 'proper' that is me; prone to subjectivity (a phrase that i am really fond of using i may need to patent it someday), 'proper' that needs no validation from any other entity. someone said that i am always trapped in my own tangles of thoughts, hermetic--yes that's the word, separate from the empirical expansion that all other people are living in. in other words i am thought to neglect the fact that we are living in a shared world, i am thought to dismiss the fact that not a space should be specifically assigned to one person only. in other words i should not be acquainted too well with loneliness and that time and place are to be shared because the world is just a very much interconnected giant sphere: i cannot live without you and you cannot live without me, we are one big happy family.

a few days ago i was reading the library copy of neil gaiman's american gods on train, which surprisingly garnered much interest in me (surprising because i don't usually read science fiction or fantasy). that was the last day i ever saw the dusky book cover and the book pages that yellowed unevenly--dark shades eating away the pulpy surface from all directions. i read and closed the book before alighting.

and then the book was gone.

i went to the customer service and reported the loss, it affected me so much. it really upset me. i liked the book and as usual i folded the tips of some pages that contained beautiful paragraphs and important parts of the book. this time there were a lot of pages--there really were, because the plot meandered and branched every now and then. the pace went up and down to my delight, the content heavy with stories instead of thoughts. another thing that upset me was the simple fact that i could not keep my possessions well, moreover the book did not belong to me in the first place.

i went home, my fingers kept twitching while waiting for the library website to load (i was a living bucket of cold sweat) and it indicated that the book had not been returned. i got weary and thought of letting it go. i still remember the concrete evidence of effort the previous person had put in in order to hold the book together: a clear strip of scotch tape on the back cover to fix the photograph of neil gaiman, who is "too good-looking an author", according to a friend. i did that too to the library copy of jeffrey eugenides' middlesex. and it is comforting that although battered, people bother to keep these books in a readable condition for the subsequent readers. (i know they may do it just because the books belong to the library and they are supposed to return them in a good condition, but still.) now that i have lost it i could not help thinking that the effort had been wasted.

last sunday i met my boyfriend and he handed me a brand new copy of american gods. it weighed like feather, but was definitely thicker than the library copy. author's preferred text.

i rarely buy books, lest you forget. he didn't. he just wanted to give me that copy and scribbled something inside. i think a book is a perfect medium to convey your thoughts, whether through the words of the author or through your own handwriting interspersed between the printed semantics. it is a pretty way to communicate. i said thank you, holding onto the book awkwardly, did not know how and where to begin. a new book always feels so foreign to me. it gives me an impression that no one has read that story before, because each evidence of previous readership--blunt page tips, battered covers-- has vanished into thin air. i have not read the new copy except for the introduction.

ps: today i checked my library account again and it indicated that i had returned the copy of american gods. to whoever that found and returned the book to where it truly belongs, i can't express enough gratitude for your very noble deed today.

drenched in heat

2011-09-25T03:40:00.000-07:00

currently feel alienated by words, each of them draining out of my toes and hairtips--so this, i hope, would make a good filler. also thanking omar prazhari for casting a better light on some of our otherwise appalling sunny affairs and letting me discover another peachy washed out number.

seeing double

2011-09-24T04:12:00.000-07:00

thrifted denims, topshop sneakers

A story's a good way of gettin' someone on your side—

2011-09-20T04:12:00.000-07:00

"No stories," said Wednesday. "Not now. Later, there will be time for stories. Not now."

"No stories. Right. I'll just be the warm-up man." And Mr. Nancy strode out into the firelight with an easy smile.

"I know what you are all thinkin'," he said, "You are thinking, What is Compe Anansi doin', comin' out to talk to you all, when the All-Father called you all here, just like he called me here? Well, you know, sometimes people need remindin' of things. I look around when I come in, and I thought, where's the rest of us? But then I thought, just because we are few and they are many, we are weak, and they are powerful, it does not mean that we are lost.

"You know, one time I saw Tiger down at the water hole: he had the biggest testicles of any animal, and the sharpest claws, and two front teeth as long as knives and as sharp as blades. And I said to him, Brother Tiger, you go for a swim, I'll look after your balls for you. He was so proud of his balls. So he got into the water hole for a swim, and I put his balls on, and left him my own little spider balls. And then, you know what I did? I ran away, fast as my legs would take me.

"I didn't stop till I got to the next town. And I saw Old Monkey there. You lookin' mighty fine, Anansi, said Old Monkey. I said to him, You know what they all singin' in the town over there? What are they singin'? he asks me. They singin' the funniest song, I told him. Then I did a dance, and I sings,

Tiger's balls, yeah, I ate Tiger's balls
Now ain't nobody gonna stop me ever at all
Nobody put me up against the big black wall
'Cos I ate that Tiger's testimonials
I ate Tiger's balls.

"Old Monkey he laughs fit to bust, holding his side and shakin', and stampin', then he starts singin' Tiger's balls, I ate Tiger's balls, snappin' his fingers, spinnin' around on his two feet. That's a fine song, he says, I'm goin' to sing it to all my friends. You do that, I tell him, and I head back to the water hole.

"There's Tiger, down by the water hole, walkin' up and down, with his tail switchin' and swishin' and his ears and the fur on his neck up as far as they can go, and he's snappin' at every insect comes by with his huge old saber teeth, and his eyes flashin' orange fire. He looks mean and scary and big, but danglin' between his legs, the littlest balls in the littlest blackest most wrinkledy ball-sack you ever did see.

"Hey, Anansi, he says, when he sees me, you were supposed to be guarding my balls while I went swimming. But when I got out of the swimming hole, there was nothing on the side of the bank but these little black shriveled-up good-for-nothing spider balls I'm wearing.

"I done my best, I tells him, but it was those monkeys, they come by and eat your balls all up, and when I tell them off, then they pulled off my own little balls. And I was so ashamed I ran away.

"You a liar, Anansi, says Tiger. I'm going to eat your liver. But then he hears the monkeys coming from their town to the water hole. A dozen happy monkeys, boppin' down the path, clickin' their fingers and singin' as loud as they could sing,

Tiger's balls, yeah, I ate Tiger's balls
Now ain't nobody gonna stop me ever at all
Nobody put me up against the big black wall
'Cos I ate that Tiger's testimonials
I ate Tiger's balls.

"And Tiger, he growls, and he roars and he's off into the forest after them, and the monkeys screech and head for the highest trees. And I scratch my nice new big balls, and damn they felt good hangin' between my skinny legs, and I walk on home. And even today, Tiger keeps chasin' monkeys. So you all remember: just because you're small, doesn't mean you got no power."

(American Gods, Neil Gaiman)

watch me die

2011-09-19T01:05:00.000-07:00

Donnie Darko, 2001
good and not as disturbing as i thought it would be.

you'll be dead anyway

2011-09-17T03:19:00.000-07:00

if someone has said that he said something to someone else, and he said that he thought he would never say it to you, but of course he did; he is going to say that a few more times, to you or other people, for better or worse.

the past should not exist, there are only the present and the future.

the past never happened

today i walked home from the bus interchange, on grasses instead of pavements. it was nice, as if they knew i stepped on them, unlike the cold pavement devoid of all hues and colours.

i'm never feeling up to par recently.

YOUNG BLOOD

2011-09-16T06:19:00.000-07:00

day #7: without seasons

2011-09-16T04:13:00.000-07:00

one of the shortest karaoke sessions i'd had in while, but fun nevertheless…instant exercise portioned well for lungs and all

first picture: dara and me, so glad to find out that she reads during her spare time too. she likes classics, so we talked about salinger, and for something more contemporary, she said that she's in love with murakami's works. i said i need to read more of his works, i divulged my love-hate relationship with them--some of his books i found myself having an immense fondness for, some others i could just dismiss heedlessly. also told her that i wanted to read more of local books, i do think they leave a certain trace in the air that cannot be easily found in other literary works. it's full of, dilemmas to disclose desires and needs or to adhere to the present norms ie modestly concealing oneself from anonymous stares in public. and i do not mean this in its literal way only...

made up my choice, it feels pretty exciting to hold a title firmly to yourself. i hope i could get my hands on the book soon

good intentions

2011-09-09T19:28:00.000-07:00

when you have an endless array of reasons to be miserable, and someone comes up to you and asks, "why?" so you have to pick one reason, it's crazy. it's mad crazy. it's crazy how we always pick things arbitrarily, but it's crazier to think that after weighing them against one another, forming order based on importance: which one should come first, or timeline: which one occurs first, we are still not able to pick one amongst those truths.

(no, can't do)

parental

2011-09-08T06:39:00.000-07:00

the front door swung after a loud, definite click. a mother, who just got back from her trip to Hong Kong, dragging luggages with her son and husband, joyfully exclaimed at the presence of dull, boxy black bulks in front of her daughter who stayed home all the time, "we bought you most things!" and then there was a pause. and then, as usual, the daughter could not help grimacing, half-forcibly as she did, naturally, feel some kind of terrible hope raising from the bottom of an eighteen year old girl's heart, a hope that said, soon enough, (in fact so soon this escaped her train of thoughts) some nice present was going to be handed over to her hands, inherited from a foreign land she had no chance to step on yet, physically. although she realised that most of the time, it was not going to please her, whatever thing that was brought over by her mom. however, this only took up a very minor proportion of her attention, as like most young people, she tended to be very optimistic, even when the eminent truth was making its way to her quite slowly, quite visibly . . .

. . . the two-faceted thought of her optimistic and pessimistic sides might escape, but the giddiness of hers stayed where it was. but as soon as she was made aware of this giddiness, the hope all at once was self-destroyed, it plummeted like a comet, it reminded her of how she should not give the hope a chance to rise at all in the first place; and only then, only upon the sight of the laid-down assortment of jeans with imprecise cutting, pants with the wrong shades, plastic rain boots with unflattering length, crochet vest with just, all the wrong pattern and texture, did she become very upset. not so much that they did not suit her specific taste for things, but it was more like a faint stroke of guilt getting bolder gradually, yet permanently on her inside that bothered her each minute she let time pass by.

"how d'ya like them, honey?"

silence.

but not for long, because she had always been frank, or at least she tried to, with people she was close with. "mom, i don't think i am going to wear any of these. Alright i mean, i think i might wear some, but not most of them," she said, reluctantly, which was quickly retorted by her mom, "oh it is fine honey, totally . . . i actually knew that you already had some of these in your old closet. but you know how your father always forces me to buy things, and how his taste goes. anyway, what about the necklaces, love? have you seen them? you should like them, i knew you would . . . " the daughter nodded, with an apparent ease, because she had always been frank, so was she that night, and thus this statement did not strain her at all, which she felt very thankful for. at least there was something in the suitcase that she managed to show genuine affection for.

"thank you, mom, you know you shouldn't get me too many things. i should've come with you in the first place."

her mom just stared at a fixed point in space, and, amidst all dust in the space between the two of them, the daughter could now think, this was not going to work out. this is never meant to. mothers are not their daughters' boyfriends, or close friends who share exquisitely similar taste, and all daughters are to understand this. (they do understand, sometimes, they just sometimes forget.) no matter how close they are with each other, mothers will still buy daughters ugly pairs of shoes and bags and pants and books. that mother will not buy you those eclectic pairs of socks, impeccably tailored knits, pants in all the right palettes, laptop cases with whimsical patterns adorning their soft fabrics . . . daughters should understand that some voids are not meant to be filled, that some gaps are there to provide a safe distance for them to walk in, without feeling too attached or too alone. daughters should acknowledge the different linear timelines they and their moms separately grow up in, they each spend their young adulthood in. therefore, when things do not work out between them, daughters should understand, with nothing less than a sincere relief, that they are meant that way. because, trust this, parents have always tried doing some difficult parts of the understanding too.

day #7: a ship in the harbour is safe but that's not why ships are built

2011-09-08T04:17:00.000-07:00

OK, here we go for some real, serious food porn! remember when i wrote here about the goods cafe whereby i mentioned my hastily held expectations of the place and how it did not fully satisfy them? (with your kind excuse, i shall beforehand mention that such statement obviously lacks a clear objectivity, and is very prone to generalisation, as i have only paid the cafe one single visit. i might be simply unlucky, come to think of it.) anyway, this place really made up for it. the food was good, teehee, as it can be seen here..this is apparently one of those occasions where the pictures really do some justice.

1) farmhouse sandwich
seared striploin on a bed of sauteéd mushroom and a creamy mustard top with melted mozzarella cheese, with vegetables in balsamic and olive oil dressing. quite good, not very good, the salmon tasted rather generic, but the french fries compensated the sandwich.

2) carbonara?
can't remember exactly what it was, but one thing for sure, it was meatless, as it should be, considering it was my vegetarian friend dara's choice. not the best creamy pasta, surely. but the portion was quite gigantic, the pasta was not bad, the cream was not bland, but for a cream pasta it kind of lacked some flavour. truth be told, i've never come across really good cream pasta in jakarta. my school's carbonara can effortlessly outdo any of them at the same price… (fact!) or am i just a sucker for extremely tasty, savoury cream sauce? (asian tongue, duh)

3) junkfood killer
wagyu beef with crispy onion and tomato hollandaise squeezed between two burger buns, my order and my favourite as it filled my stomach to its fullest! ok not only that certainly, the main thing was i liked how the flavour was kept at just the right balance, you could feel tomatoes in the sauce kicking unoverwhelmingly, blending delicately with the already flavourful patty…what a sublime, subtle outburst i had in my mouth! on the downside, i could not see what's so wagyu about the beef, but i did not mind, really. its taste exceeded my expectation, though you should keep in mind that the buns were a little too difficult to slice...so if you don't tolerate breads whose softness cannot match that of a piece of kitchen sponge, i suggest you to just, errr, discard them?

upon entering the restaurant, my friend fidhy mentioned how the interior/the ambient was so me (haha?) but i guess that shall admittedly align with the fact that i DO have a thing for brick walls (partially plastered/non plastered, white painted/red painted, raw/polished), blackboards with pastel-chalked-quotes, sofas (you can't see them here, but there was an adequate array of slouchy sofas you can actually live in…too bad we came in a big group so we had to sit properly on dining chairs like this--which were not bad, either.)

the lighting was fine, the staff was helpful and friendly, the food was great, and priced decently.. (junkfood killer at IDR5k-7k, can't pin down the number exactly.)

alright, alright..you know i am going to cough up this conclusive statement that sums up my whole experience there, but i am going to type it anyway: it's my new favourite dining place in jakarta! that shall mean, without the absence of an essential comfort, i can spend hours and hours here, with or even without company...

Munchies Restaurant & Bar
Gandaria City Mall, Kebayoran Lama, Jakarta Selatan, Jakarta, Indonesia
Operating hours: Mon - Fri 11:00 - 22:30, Sat - Sun 11:00 - 01:00

day #6 ninotchka

2011-09-06T06:08:00.000-07:00

this is axiom

2011-09-06T00:46:00.000-07:00

you know, you are not going to read this. but anyway.

let's rewind the time a little bit. i had, for several times, caught more than a few split-second glimpses of your figure, without taking serious note of your existence. not that i refused to do so, trust me, i (or must i say most of us) was mostly made unaware of the surrounding sown by this invisible thread leading back to my hand that yells, "you have the right to choose". most of the time i gave the decision as to who i befriended--though i have not a shred of regret upon encountering these other people who have come a long way to become my solid companions--mostly to the roll of fate: whoever happened to sit next to me in a biology class, whoever happened to be involved in the same project group for the seniors' mass reunion, whoever happened to live not an abundant distance from my home. we both happened to be not in any of these, and it gave me no chance to develop any sort of indispensable proximity with you. in other word, what a terrible luck those times bore. i often wish, even now, that i had more time to know you, and what you really feel inside, without having to knife you out, without any extended force. i would say, "talk only if you feel like it," and i would really mean it, even if the world rejected you.

(this tingle of longing and curiosity, which might be prescribed as a mark of youth blossoming to the ripest, have sometimes felt awkwardly empty, or even a trifle depressing. it might just be just one thing among the bunch of unaccomplished 'what if's in my book. anyway, it's a pressing feeling of losing something that i never had.)

to me, you are everything that lacks in everybody in my surrounding, even when this escapes their notice. i dare say, nobody, i say nobody has ever come closest to just the right amount of sentimentality before you. i guess it has to do with how much of a woman you are. there's nothing too graceful or too gentle or too delicate about your presence, nothing too modern too. when i say woman, it's just my definition: a role not a gender; a symbol of precision, a cunning multitasker who doubles up as a sincere mom, but not only to her children. that is what i see upon the word 'woman'. now, you are just blessed with the familiar, bursting youth vigour and the intimate, debonair understanding all in one package, and i would be very, very sad if they have to end up being tossed among other devalued treasures on the sidewalk.

if this is the bottom of the dwelling sea of your life, be gentle to yourself, for no one is going to discover this but you and i. you are not the only one who has been trying to get yourself together through all the ripples and storms all this time. i mean, i know i never really know you. i won't pretend. but you should know that there are people, like me, who wish that they had known someone that might seem like, to other people, just a mere decoration spicing up these people's lives, while they actually mean beyond half as good as other people who have been closely acquainted with them in the first place.

please, take care. that's all you need to hear from me.

duck scratching

2011-09-05T04:32:00.000-07:00

fav things at the moment, fav music all these two months. i might dye the longsleeve burgundy/wine…in love with those shades of colour!

day #4 still

2011-09-05T03:41:00.000-07:00

reunion with high school friends, dodgy venue (seriously) but relatively good food

very nice chocolate + strawberry martini ice cream at hong kong cafe central park before midnight, and super cool / brazen apple mojitos

in the toilet, we did a prank on nanda, making super creepy squeaky sounds i swear we could not stop laughing! i was pranked too, but too sheepish and ignorant to realise my position at that time…they took photographs of me in the toilet from the neighbouring cubicle, with flash, and the flash was supposed to shock me, but it didn't, duh. gabbyta was the mastermind behind all those funky pranks, and i was the perpetrator subsequently. throat hurt the next day but it was all worth it!

DIPPED

2011-09-03T19:13:00.000-07:00

current fav snack

2011-09-03T03:13:00.000-07:00

2011-09-02T17:39:00.000-07:00

it is mad to write about the past. these past few days i have been writing about my 10-day holiday in jkt, and it does feel weird; it's like my memories are accumulating, it's like the one i am experiencing right now will not be real if i fail to pin it down. and then, there is the one that has long passed--its off-white rims fraying, slowburning with each day it passes by. and eventually, time consumes the whole surface of the neatly weaved, erratically entwined fabric of events, people and places..

sometimes i feel that my thoughts are too foreign to communicate with, and i am afraid that these ripples of thoughts will sometimes freeze, just like yesterday. their unblunted, razor-sharp edges may etch lines on whoever tries to come close. are my writings like cages, selfishly impounding this bulk of ever-changing thoughts and events? but i feel like, that is the only way…to keep a record of what i am doing and thinking. people have weighed a heavy importance on physical, real evidence and i do not blame them, for i am almost always in that opinion as well; but i think, since i do not do and write everything very swiftly, very quickly, very efficiently, i should cut myself a break, slice a chocolate cake with sugar icing and lots of whipped cream, sit back, and worry less about the passage of time. should i then let time pass me by like a liquid, instead of congealing it everyday? i do remember, vaguely, of certain things that were once so vivid, and to keep a record with just the optimum clarity is important to me not only because i want to keep all those warm details, but also because, i want to see for myself how i have come to accept whatever that has happened in the past. time is not cyclical, time is not linear, then what is the concept of time, it's not a matter of whether you believe in time travel, it is about something else….something that i have yet to find out, something i have always been writing about.

can you love yourself when you hate your age? my age, it never stays still, and this is perhaps the reason why i do not want to stay still as well. age is a traitor, age may leave you behind if you are too still. and you choose what age you want to live in, sometimes. people may judge you based on this; the gap between your ideal age and your real age. it can be a solid weapon for them to sink you into the state of private guilt and misery. if you want to live in an age that you haven't tried living in, people are going to have opinions. if you want to live in an age that you have tried living in, people are going to have opinions too. it is useless to think about all that, so is trying to convince them that you are fully content with what you have in hands. but in the end you are the one who decides what kind of wrapping you want to envelope yourself in.

i think eighteen is a good number, but i could not resist the temptation of living in the age of seventeen or sixteen again, to be honest; and this makes me feel horrible. to be ricocheting between the past and the present, when you have some objective in mind to accomplish in the future. time is a terrible thing, really. but in memories passage of time has always seemed to blur effusively, "it seems like it just happened yesterday…"

day #4: i found a better life in memories

2011-09-02T07:09:00.000-07:00

august 20th: sundipped bodies, legs almost always immersed underwater. our eyes flickered from too much sun, hair glistened under yellow heat, which makes me think, even now, what a sweet day we had. i do not know what happened, but i suddenly gained a new basic life skill that day…a much needed one, admittedly: SWIMMING! although i ain't no instant pro, no sports comic protagonist material, but i could swim effortlessly--as if my body had liquified with the water--for a short distance. for those few metres, my body swayed at ease amid the water, although i gave up after about five or six takes of breathing in land. then i promised myself, that i would get better at this. i really liked water, being underwater, familiarising myself with this dimension where i could see clearly if i wanted to. (via avissa's goggles)

staring at our wrinkled fingers and wet toes, we sat by the swimming pool. our conversations hovered over topics, which, might or might not occur had we been only in land all the time--i would not know. but it was pleasant, we hugged ourselves all the time, as if providing a helpless shroud over our grilled red skins. sometimes we took a dive or two, swam again, floated, or drowned ourselves to the bottom of the pool and laughed at the camera just to seek comfort, a shelter from this all-year summer air.

i've tried swimming alone before, which was fun and *felt* healthy, although i could not really swim. but the only thing with swimming alone is you have no one to talk to. and swimming pool conversation is never the same as water fountain conversation...

day #4: UNDERWATER

2011-08-31T15:49:00.000-07:00

day #3: people never notice anything

2011-08-29T23:57:00.000-07:00

woke up early, and forgot that i had not set up the time properly (phone still showed singapore time); alarmed because i thought i was late to get a tax application form for my dad. rode a cab, first forth to the office, and then back home. the security guards there were being very helpful--if i may add a little detail here--they were the ones who flagged the cab for me. after arriving, i decided to take 'a day off' and read a book instead, at home and in a non-pretentious cafe nearby for one hour or two while i let my soup go cold. i forgot whether i finished it that day or the next day; it was the catcher in the rye by j.d salinger, a good travel book. i mean it was thin and lightweight, and it was the perfect time to read it, during a trip back home, when i was eighteen, when i could still relate to Holden Caulfield, the main character. (or the goddam bastard, as the narrator likes to call some people..)

besides the distinct use of language (i think language is contagious, i really do), the relatively rapid flow of the narrative allowed me to flip through its pages more quickly than i would like to… the book tells of what Holden does during the break he's got after being kicked out from school. it's the fourth time he is being dismissed from school because he fails most of the subjects, except english. throughout the book you could see that he has more sense than most of the boys in the school, even more than most people he meets along the way. he has a (typically, though) interesting opinion regarding the system, hence refuses to follow what he believes to be useless. when he acts stupid he will tell you that he is being stupid, is not ashamed of it and that, is perhaps one of the reasons why i found him quite likable. (was never sympathetic for him, though.)

this is the passage that i liked the most

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way—I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.

upon reading this i felt sad, i felt that this is true, all the things you have heard about people who do not change is a terrible lie, because people do change, and it is not only you yourself who has always changed. the world is not a museum, everyone is in constant movement to other places; their souls scattered, their desires transposed, their directions skewed…they don't stay still. even if they do, i believe, people will still change because their surrounding does the job of making the movements, and this is how these very still people are affected. however i realised that not everything about everyone changes. it's a little like your handwriting: no matter how much it has changed, there will still be some 'signature streaks' behind each stroke and each gesture. if you find your friends to be all the same after a few years not meeting with one another, you definitely have become closely acquainted with their signature streaks, which is a good thing indeed. but still, it's not that they really stay the same. they never do, and neither do you. that's how people change, i think.

lost & found

2011-08-28T05:47:00.000-07:00

FROST GREEN KANKEN - my new purchase. super light, coolest colour this summer (we're talking about temperature aren't we)

faux leather shorts + leaves necklace, ican's sweater

day #2

2011-08-28T02:08:00.000-07:00

i thought i was just going to curl under my old blanket and think about how new it felt that day, but then nadine came to my house, which was a pretty pleasant thing. we went into my room, had an exchange of words; the good old vocabulary we had been sharing for years. and then we set off to this ribs restaurant, leko, with avissa. later on, jj joined us and we had a very nice meal accompanied by a seemingly endless supply of laugh (on our own stupidity, mostly.) third plate, and it was not even enough! at night nadine stayed awake in my room, until past midnight, when i had dozed off for a few good hours. i loved her company even in my sleep.

THE FOOD - before

THE FOOD - after

SMASHED MUSHROOM - the best comfort food; i swear we kept salivating over three plates of this (and we would not actually refuse the fourth one.) it was very light, savoury and not excessively crunchy, i loved the sauce we dipped it into as well… there's nothing really extraordinary about these mushrooms, but they were just so good

SMASHED BEEF RIBS - i ordered the non-spicy one, yet as you could see, being partially immersed in the lake of chili sauce indeed it was still spicy, but i loved it. the meat was tender and flavourful. i tried nadine's (the spicy one) and ok, you've gotta have pretty tolerant tastebuds if you want to go for it. like the mushroom, there were no special flavours of exotic spices and herbs detected, but they cooked it goody good!

thirst quencher// ice tea and lime juice

Leko spesialis iga sapi penyet: APPROVED!

day #1

2011-08-27T23:03:00.000-07:00

i was no longer shifted by the transitions of colours here, the red bricks hanging on the wall of the airport, the bad lighting, the low ceilings which i consumed in less than a few seconds. however the transition of the heat still astonished me, 30"+, and i was fully clad in the blackness that absorbed all the heat. once i stepped outside, i searched for familiar faces among the masses. and then i found them, walking towards me, with rayhan saying, "i thought you were a guy."

we were headed to my house, the roads were okay, if there was a change somewhere i must have missed it. the billboards looked all the same, the trees, the skies shared some tinge of grayness spread out evenly throughout their surface. i was uncertain whether this was the thing that i missed.

...arriving home, we watched modern family, weird how i laughed so hard, it'd been years since i saw a tv series. (and it was not good at all) after that we went to rayhan's house because he wanted to take a bath, but we wanted to stay in his car because to me and avissa, his tempestuous canines were always a threat. but rayhan insisted for us to go inside so we just stormed into his room, walked past the dogs and waited for him to get ready. his house was dimly lit and we met his grandmother. the visit was quick and we spent more time on the road now. congestion became prevalent on these roads that led to the central area, which was something that went missing from the previous trip to my home. we took U-turn several times, feeling hopeless amidst these moving constructions of metal and rubber tires.

more than an hour, i think, until we got to step outside and look for a place to eat. it was another hell, trying to find an empty table for three at that time. people were going to break fast, and they spread out their friends' bags on other chairs, so people would not sit on them. we just waited for people who were eating, and a few of them were really nasty, they met their friends and their friends, acknowledging our presence that had been there for a considerably long period of time, just assumed our invisibility and sat there staring into each other. it was a private racket between strangers, the whole table-bidding business.

we gave up and ate standing with other tableless people. the cheap plate of steak we ended up eating standing was really good, but the next, the so much hyped coffee rub burger was a massive letdown. the beef was dry and salty. my school's regular burger could outdo it effortlessly. and our drink, baileys milkshake, ugh.. tasted like dry vanilla with an uncomfortable sour aftertaste. what raged me was, when the waitress asked rayhan about the food while i was not listening, he answered that the food was good. i did not like such thing, the food was bad and if the restaurant wanted some feedback you should speak up the truth. rayhan and avissa told me the food was usually nice, perhaps they had a new chef or something.

so it had been a bad day after all, except that i got to meet my two dear friends. at least it was a start.

taupe

2011-08-16T16:07:00.000-07:00

today is my flight to jakarta, and i feel an air of uncertainty embracing me, which is weird because i am going back home and uncertainty should be the last thing on my mind, if not left behind. but this happens everytime too, perhaps because i always hold expectations, unconsciously, of the place i grew up in, of the friends i came close with. rayhan and avissa will be fetching me at the airport, they are the best.

yesterday we bade farewell, i said, it is only ten days, it should be okay like always. and he said, tell me if you are going to do something stupid, i will not mind. and then i patted him on his cheeks and we parted, but before that he handed me, almost solemnly, almost demurely, a clumsy orb of cotton, showing american flag print inside out. and i yelled at myself, partly angrily, how could i not know, he was asking about the socks i had been thinking of getting these past few weeks. and i quickly snapped it with an infallible whip of frenzy, and he was taken aback, and he said, it cost nothing… but we both know that it does not matter. i was happy for the fact that, i did not realise it because we often talked about this kind of thing without having any suspicion that the other party was going to make it a gift. another common point of interest i was glad for sharing.

two months is an important milestone, by the end of the second month it is usually time to reevaluate what you are having and whether you want to carry on. and yesterday i did not even question myself about this, because two months did not feel like two months, because what should be settled by the end of the month had been long resolved before that point of time.

hush the static sound of time dispersing

2011-08-15T23:03:00.000-07:00

can't sustain this breathing, it weighs on my chest, these lungs are filled with water from the tide. and i, watch them go by...

NEVER

2011-08-15T18:52:00.000-07:00

on the cover page, TIME declares it as "the best novel of the decade." for the first two chapters i was not convinced, almost disappointed, with the mundane introduction of the character whose job and background are described very vaguely. the language used is so simple i sometimes had to go back a few lines because i took the sentences for granted, it almost had the same effect with lexically dense sentences on me. but also because of its straightforward quality, i felt most comfortable when reading the book, it felt very intimate. the narrative also made me aware of the possible subjectivities of the main character, we may not get the complete look, a bird eye view of the whole story. (not that i mind..)

the system which the characters live by is revealed little by little, the truth is sometimes assumed to be already acknowledged by the readers. in the book, this happens to the characters when they are raised in Hailsham, a bounded territory where they spend their childhood and teenage years in. here the students are claimed to be "told and not told", somewhere in their unconsciousness they are aware of the system, but unable to recall/bring them to the surface unless they are asked to. this is the state kathy assumes us to be in as well; hence, references to the system in the book are constructed in such a way that they are regarded as a normal thing, as if this is not the first time the readers are being introduced to their world. just what their system and their world are would be a moderate spoiler for the book, although i have been told that if you have watched the trailer, you have successfully bagged a very big proportion of the whole explanation.

like what i have said before, in the first two chapters i had been a tad disappointed, but at the end of chapter three the narrative began to nudge me

Thinking back now, I can see we were just at that age when we knew a few things about ourselves—about who we were, how we were different from our guardians, from the people outside—but hadn’t understood what any of it meant…

…so you’re waiting, even if you don’t quite know it, waiting for the moment when you realise that you really are different to them; that there are people out there, like Madame, who don’t hate you or wish you any harm, but who nevertheless shudder at the very thought of you—of how you were brought into this world and why—and who dread the idea of your hand brushing against theirs. The first time you glimpse yourself through the eyes of a person like that, it’s a cold moment. It’s like walking past a mirror you’ve walked past every day of your life, and suddenly it shows you something else, something troubling and strange.

after finishing this book i often think that it was not the system or the big concept that really enticed me, it was how human relationships are captured in this book, the very essence of them. for instance kathy often goes back and says to us (especially in the beginning when they are still students) something like 'of course, at that time i didn't think from her point of view…', 'if only i could see from the bigger picture at that time...' indicating her previous lack of interpersonal ability, her previously skewed perspective, and then they began to change gradually. i think it happens to us too.

another aspect the book zooms in is, how some conversations have some effects on kathy's relationships, with ruth, with tommy, with her other friends, how important these intimate talks are. oftentimes kathy just walks it off, she does not want to argue or tries to sort things out because it is too complicated to explain the truth. but in the end where kathy has a proper talk with them, the issue gets settled. sometimes it is settled just because they understand each other well, understand that the other party never means any harm in the first place.

the book has a very tranquil atmosphere, calm and peaceful, and whenever i think that any of the characters is going to do something extreme, like committing suicide or harming other people (considering the influence of previous books i have read, where impulsivity often takes its toll) it always turns out to be a not very serious case, which can get a little crazy sometimes, but realistic. it is just a way of releasing their burdens, like how tommy often has a tantrum in Hailsham and nearing the end of the book, he just screams to himself in a muddy field, flings his fists and kicks his legs out with kathy.

i really like the book. it does not try to do anything to you, it just points out some lost importance of things and perhaps, helps you place yourself among others in various kinds of relationship.

green green

2011-08-15T17:46:00.000-07:00

SELLING FAST zara trafaluc striped skirt @ SGD10/Rp 70k, still with tag, brand new, never worn. size: EUR M USA M MEX 28, fits me well. decided to sell it away after being made aware of how saturated my closet is with the colour green and the pattern stripe. e-mail/comment if interested, i will be in jakarta tomorrow so if you are in singapore please let me know by today, meetup/standard mail. if you are in jakarta i might be bringing this baby over so do not worry!

sold! thanks cindy :)

turn to paper / into rocks / into plastic

2011-08-13T21:21:00.000-07:00

thrift finds: animals sweater, plaid shorts.

past cantabile to eryngo, past fandago to formicate, past hyperthonia to hyposensivity

2011-08-13T02:31:00.000-07:00

the most battered book i have tried reading. in the middle of my reading, the back cover detached itself, which my mother saw and offered to fix. it was a library book.

Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in "sadness," "joy," or "regret." Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, "the happiness that attends disaster." Or: "the disappointment of sleeping with one's fantasy." I'd like to show how "intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members" connects with "the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age." I'd like to have a word for "the sadness inspired by failing restaurants" as well as for "the excitement of getting a room with a minibar." I've never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I've entered my story, I need them more than ever.

the book feels like a diary in a sense that, i feel like i know how i'd have felt had i been in calliope's shoes. (it is, in fact, written in a form that resembles a diary, only backwards/a recount) i wouldn't exactly know, perhaps, for it is impossible to fully understand someone unless you are wrapped under his skin and veins, but i would know with an almost perfect precision because even the vaguest detail like how some figure slips out of the narrative secures its portion in the end. (it indicates that along calliope's life, some people have stopped crossing paths with her, which always happens in real life situations too: not everyone stays.) the book is personal and honest, and like eugenides' previous novel the virgin suicides, it encompasses all major and minor events happening throughout the life of the character(s). what is even more interesting in middlesex is that the story comes across three generations, that your entity sometimes has to be traced back to its very root where it all first came from. i am not close to my grandmother and grandfather, even when they were still alive, at all, and i was not supposed to be able to imagine bathing a pair of feet of an elderly with warm water in a room that often lacks sunlight. however, the image provoked in the book was so vivid i could imagine myself feeling over my grandma's wrinkled toes and pale veins, the wash of the salt water, the colour blue and the container that holds it altogether.

"There have been hermaphrodites around forever, Cal. Forever. Plato said that the original human being was a hermaphrodite. Did you know that? The original person was two halves, one male, one female. Then these got separated. That's why everybody's always searching for their other half. Except for us. We've got both halves already."

middlesex is an elaborate account of life and transitions. calliope suffers from the 5-alpha-reductase deficiency; a mutation of 5-alpha-reductase, an enzyme that converts testosterone to dihydrotestosterone, causing her to be born with ambiguous genitalia. like most 'abnormals', calliope experiences denial, depression, regression and acceptance when dealing with her uncommon features. from puberty to love stories, each told from an amusing, different perspective. it is not only about irregularities, the book is also a window to the pre-millenium America and the crises that drains the country for a few times. they are viewed from both macroscopic and microscopic levels; the latter for example, to watch the adults' business rolling down the dimness, to watch teenagers with slight excess of wits doing stupid things other teenagers do, to witness rich kids running away from their fathers and mothers' embracing hands to the dirty corners of an unwelcoming suburb. and all these are only a slice of the whole narrative. the true narrative spans all stages of life, perhaps with the infancy stage being the less prominent, but that should be understood because we have infant amnesia anyway, so that does not subtract the charm of the book by a little. if the virgin suicides feels more attractive in a doleful and delicate way, middlesex feels more open and true, although it is still adorned with some perky fairytales. (for example, the dainty relationship between lefty and desdemona back in the greek village in turkey, which i really liked.)
I was thinking how amazing it was that the world contained so many lives. Out in these streets people were embroiled in a thousand different matters, money problems, love problems, school problems. People were falling in love, getting married, going to drug rehab, learning how to ice-skate, getting bifocals, studying for exams, trying on clothes, getting their hair-cut and getting born. And in some houses people were getting old and sick and were dying, leaving others to grieve. It was happening all the time, unnoticed, and it was the thing that really mattered.

such a beautiful book.

painted eyes

2011-08-09T07:56:00.001-07:00

they kept repeating the same tracks, overall quite disappointed with the last two sets, i was waiting for punks jump up's massive remixes, and then none of them was played. the first set by moonlight matters was quite ok: some phoenix, gossip, robyn…and then after that it just never went up again. (i didn't come all the way to dance to barbra streisand, but it couldn't be helped.) but it was ok in the end, i hope this friday breakbot will play a much better set. so far my fav set is by classixx, they really knew what to spin, and the petite venue was perfect: la maison, allowing all of us to interact with one another.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

2011-08-07T07:34:00.000-07:00

iamamiwhoami is an electronic music and multimedia project headlined by Swedish singer-songwriter Jonna Lee. Videos released from the project's YouTube channel have spread virally.

iamamiwhoami is notable not only for its artistic multimedia output, but also the creators' leveraging of social technology (YouTube) and phenomena (viral videos, crowdsourcing) to disseminate their music and music videos.

(from wikipedia, while reading it at first i thought, what a very fine concept. she has released many videos, which could be categorized into the numeric series, the alphabet series, the concert series, the short/teaser series and the latest one that seems to be part of yet a bigger series, consisting of three videos titled '20101104', 'john ;' and 'clump'. notice how in 'clump', the visual shifts to a different setting whenever joanna blinks, which can be translated as a metaphor that represents a temporary escapism from the current activity joanna is experiencing.)

ice

2011-08-04T13:43:00.000-07:00

your circle is getting bigger, consistently magnifies, its edge overlapping with other circles, almost touching mine but will never be, because you are too fluid, too mobile; and it is a scary thing to think that once excluded i will never become included again, no matter how many times i try to slide around, to slip in again. you, on the other hand, will shift away, you move around, and there is this magnetic force your ways of moving always seem to exert, which only works one way towards my direction, a one way mirror, a great way to torture and suffocate someone because you will never have to plead guilty to this crime whose presence you have never been aware of…

…now our lives comprise one disunited venn diagram, because you have taken parts of my circle that you shouldn't. and now my circle is deformed, its rotation an ugly sight to behold. nothing can be done to fix it again, unless you come around and offer me back the stolen part. but to me it is gone forever, the probability of the previous proximity only a dream, a thing from the past, a history. and this is the only 'what if' i would ~~ever~~* allow myself to bring over to my deathbed.

i was a technicolour girl back then. i do miss my colours but i think i do not mind satisfying myself with
a bluer palette, a paler scheme, or a monochrome.

*we are too young for the word 'ever'.

frost

2011-08-03T06:24:00.000-07:00

life is too short to set up your camera and press its shutter.

i know
i'm that lazy

IT FEELS SO GOOD

2011-08-01T05:57:00.000-07:00

i like how metronomy has slightly shifted the direction of their music, it is still more or less about fun but obviously a different kind of fun: their music now about white fabrics, waters, villas, sun, popsicles, and long legs…which feel so good indeed. i know i've said it tonnes of times but i am going to say it again: i like their new album! unlike the previous one, i think any remix is not necessary this time.

here for the full video.

simple is something of a mystery, no longer making sense to me

2011-08-01T03:39:00.000-07:00

new purchase: why tee, shield ring

AND a mixtape for my jakarta trip, mostly consists of music staples such as rac and metronomy. exxxcited! the image i picked for this mixtape is interesting: cigarette butts found in the ocean, labelled "catch of the day" highlighting how polluted some waters have become. i think it fits jakarta in some way, what kind of air i am going to inhale there. but i know exactly what i'm after, what i'm in for.

know where

2011-07-28T07:34:00.000-07:00

there was a sound fading in. each defence layer toppled down one by one, disarrayed with each knock as sharp as a glass puncture. the sound stabbing the air like a silver clawed faucet. i backed off, i locked myself in a room surrounded by rust and dust. the sound kept knocking on the iron wall; the wall now no longer smooth-skinned, the wall now flawed and veined with untidy bulges that swelled like an ocean tide. but i knew i would not be going anywhere, i had my head immersed between my lifted thighs, my legs folded, my arms curled. i fingered my legs, further down until i touched my feet. the back of them had a funny sore that felt like a bolted heat, as if they had just treaded on a hot stone. i scratched my feet, first few seconds, and then one minute, and then five minutes, and i did not stop. i scratched until my skin peeled off. and then after that: nothing. i scratched until i could not feel anything, i dug until nothing was left, but i kept on scratching. somebody inside of me, somebody whom i often bow my head to, somebody named shame finally said stop. so i listened and stopped, but the nothingness still lingered, i could not feel the sore, i could not feel the tingle, i could not tell if my feet were still there. but of course they were, albeit no longer the same. this was when every part of my body, including my feet, felt like a manifestation of my heart, the projection of the idea of love that we had long wondered about. a space in which we so often get lost, a futile device. we dig until we get lost, and we try to dig back home sore-handed, empty-headed, only to to throw ourselves into the nothingness again.

Fear is a powerful drug

2011-07-25T20:26:00.000-07:00

Hard Candy (2005)

On the internet, "nobody knows you're a dog."

Amazing use of lighting and colours; I love the bold colour block against the atmospheric photographs of teenagers with fragile hair and delicate skin. As for the narrative, hard candy is powerfully minimalistic although perhaps, implausible. Teaches me that forever--the state of being, not the phrase--must suck. And when it's finally over, it's over. An immense sense of relief. I like it.

now they're all dead hearts to you

2011-07-25T05:17:00.000-07:00

i am beginning to accept the truth. there is plenty of space in this room, but not enough molecules to occupy it, not enough to make this work. the air is humid and the thoughts are scattered. they no longer have the power to float.

the silence employs the space inside of me, but i am trying to regain this authority. in this room, only me and the faint sound of water dripping.

"if something does not matter to you two years from now, let go."

which is supposed to make the whole thing easier. and it did. but this time it is difficult.

1) how do you know what you are now dealing with will not matter in future?

2) how do you weigh the subjective value of one person?

3) why do people consider love that is not reciprocal a waste of time?

perhaps it is because of this inborn drive, perhaps it is because of this desire that is trying to claim an authority over that person too. perhaps it makes us feel better. perhaps it is because we have troubles defining what is important we pretend that we are capable of doing it. "we are what pretend to be," but because some people are not good at pretending, they are not good at being themselves too. this is not a matter of whether someone has accepted your presence or not. this is a matter of whether you are ready to accept when someone rejects your existence.

in the end, i will say that i do not know. if i do not know then i do not have the right to keep on going.

as i recite this on top of my lungs, the spotless ceramic tiles reconfirm it, and i begin to believe it myself. there is nothing wrong in heading in the direction that you believe is true, there is nothing wrong to release the burden of evaluating, assessing and analysing for a while and just take what you have with you. if that person refuses to be brought along, the decision has been made. do not try to drag a dead body. this is as easy as it gets.

sometimes, just because you like what someone has created. does not mean that you should like that person too.

waxing lyrical

2011-07-23T09:17:00.000-07:00

thank you

for the bump below my knee: dots of violet dispersed unevenly, dots of violet growing darker a tone or two every two hours.

it was when my knee kissed the wooden surface of the ground, that i realised how long it had been since i fell the last time; and i thought of the importance of remembering that split second of unsteadiness, the opposite of domineering stability. that is the only moment where all sorts of possibilities become plausible, a reminder that all those unyielding castles of mine could as well, crumble.

today i looked over the window and saw fabrics hanging from the poles, i saw shades of white: ghost white, cosmic latte, polar white, pearl and cream…some tarnished, some clean as water. i walked past into the bathroom. and when i went out, back to the room where dust and ashes were hovering over glossy tiles, i saw the sky beyond those fabrics had now turned violet like the bump below my knee.

and then i felt safe again.

2011

2011-07-18T04:14:00.000-07:00

peace signs buttering the black air, summer fabrics swaying with panache, skins wrapped in sangrias, crimsons, coquelicots, and other shades of red… sentences significant enough to be hanging from your mouth like a hemline dripping threads of gold.

"you wouldn't want to hear what i have to say"

2011-07-15T05:05:00.000-07:00

firstly, i would like to thank natalie chin for recommending this book (really, i owe a lot to her, marisha pessl and jonathan safran foer are another two whose books i have come to embrace/know through her) (finally i said it, from now on i'd like to thank people who recommend me books/movies/music that i like because, pieces of them are reflected on these works).

i just read her essay on caribou island, when she first posted it i retracted my desire to read it as a whole because, i wanted to experience the book myself, so i did borrow the book from the library, and i figured that they only had one copy (and i am still holding it). finished the book around two weeks ago, hadn't had the chance to write about it (and everything is illuminated too). a few minutes ago i was halfway through eugenides' middlesex, another exquisitely written tale, decided to take a break and wanted to have some sleep but failed, and i remembered nat's essay, read through it here.

i felt what she wrote on the last part of her essay too, how the book had some effects on my thoughts of marriage, i think especially because i have not experienced it. my mother and father seem to always be at ease when handling it, but i would like to think that perhaps they are exceptional because in most cases marriage is never easy, to say the least.

fourteen days have washed away most of the strong impressions of the book, little by little, rinsed by dense stacks of sociology experiments, communication lecture notes and psychology concepts. now amount of schoolwork has generally decreased and through this fissure i intend myself to rekindle those impressions and write about this book.

in the book the pre-marriage and marriage relationships are captured in hazardous motion, always riding fast downhill, all the way, slowing down at some bumps perhaps but never making a point to stop. to be honest in the beginning i had some tiny wishes that their marriage would later reflourish, with the help of wooden logs, swollen ripples and an asymmetrical cabin. i hoped that irene's sickness, whatever it is would heal itself and irene would be able to present her 'proper' self to gary afterwards, just like what her husband has hoped. but it never happens in the book, and i felt very sorry, almost apologetic when reading parts where irene's head is hammered with illusive needles that are beyond x-ray, pains whose existent is true to her, solely. i imagined the pain is not only coming from the pounding in her head, the black hole under her eyesocket but also from the forced acceptance of the claim that says, irene's sickness is nonexistent.

(this struck me as familiar, when everyone around you does not see what only you can see, do you choose to disbelieve yourself or persist on this impenetrably private reality? a few years ago i read a beautiful manga called eternal soul, about a soul eater who eats other humans' soul in order to live through eternity. those whose souls have been eaten lose their physical presence, also their previous presence on earth is no longer valid. in other words they leave no trace: they are not in any class photographs, anyone under them in the family tree disappear, anything related to them diminish and no one, no friends and no family members could ever locate in their minds the deceased's previous presence ever again. but there is one person who can remember the presence of her lost boyfriend, whose soul has been ripped apart, gracefully digested in the soul eater's flat stomach. her friends deny the truth, call her crazy, bully her; yet she carries on. these images of her diary being torn apart by her friends are still vivid in my head. what does it feel like to be the only one to know the truth, when there is no evidence and the only seemingly possible explanation to this plot hole in your mind is just: you must have gone crazy. this situation must be barely endurable)

also, a lot of 'what if's in this book. what if i have settled for something better. i always thought that it is such a pathetic thought, to have so many 'what if's in your life, but now i am beginning to be afraid that throughout these years i myself have also been putting only more 'what if's into an imaginary saving account, the number of them burgeoning sweetly, until it amounts to a tremulous tower of regrets. this thought scares me off because life has no rehearsal, i only want to live through this well for once and all.

The question, really, was what his life was about. He didn't believe in God, and he wasn't in the right field to become famous or powerful. Those were the three biggies: faith, fame, and power. They could justify a life, perhaps, or at least make you think your life meant something. All the crap about being a good guy, treating people well, and spending time with family was only crap because it had nothing to anchor it. There was no cosmic scorecard. Having kids seemed to work for some people, but not really. They were lying, because they'd lost their lives and it was too late. And money, by itself, didn't mean anything. So all that was left was sex, and money couldn't help with that.

is this true, i do not know, but i know that something like this often happens. the void you could only fill with achievements, the moment where money no longer matters: when you start to look beyond money, but not necessarily in a good sense.

Here’s the truth, Mom. There’s nothing wrong with you. Your husband loves you. Your family loves you. And there’s nothing wrong with your head, either. You’re just freaking yourself out. Why are you doing this?

You don’t believe me?

No, I don’t. I don’t believe any of it.

Irene felt a strange calm then. Rhoda standing before her, worried, condescending, understanding nothing. And yet Rhoda was the person she was closest to in this world. She stepped forward and gave Rhoda a hug, held her tight. I’ll only tell you this once, she said quietly. I’m alone now.

Mom.

Shh. Just listen. If you don’t wake up, you’ll be alone like this too. Your life spent, and nothing left. And no one will understand you. And you’ll feel so angry, you’ll want to do far more than throw a bowl through a window.

Rhoda pushed away. What the fuck, Mom.

That’s all I have to offer you. Just the truth.

You’re scaring me, Mom.

Well maybe you’re starting to understand.

nat mentioned that she cried while reading the book, so did i, but i did during the above part. "your life spent, and nothing left." because supposing and understanding are two very different things.

the book is full of stark truths and late contemplations, which, to put it mildly, more or less give you a rough outline of what adulthood is, if you have not faced one. the book may seem like the worst case, but don't think that your life can't get any worse than this.

Rhoda opened the fridge, and she wondered how much of Jim she was marrying. What percentage. Ten percent of his attention, some larger percentage of his affection, ninety percent of his daily needs and errands, some percentage of his body, a small percentage of his history. She wondered what she was signing up for. Half of his money. She didn’t like to think of it that way. They were supposed to be joining their lives together. They were supposed to be sitting together on the couch right now, looking at the sunset and the brochures.

rhoda and jim's relationship (her fiance) is also very devastating, nat pinned down what i felt but had missed to draw the significance of: the contrast between their objectives. rhoda does not necessarily feel happy with jim, but happy enough. on the other hand, jim, he may be happy enough with rhoda, but he wants to be happier. he thinks that he deserves more. this contrast is more or less consistent throughout the book; it is implied that men here overestimate what they deserve whereas women settle with whatever they have. make do with what is within their grasps.

i like the part where carl is sending a postcard to his address, full of laments, enclosed by a bitter laugh.

the book is haunting and intense and cold, so is the ending. how rhoda is sailing through the coldness of the lake, breaking thin layers of ice, coming with bright expectations, to the island where her mother is trapped forever in her nasty guilt; mute and feeling tricked. (this part where irene realises the same mistake her mother does her came as revelation to me, so striking)

i love the ending and the book has taught me a lot, although again supposition does not mean a complete understanding...

pocketful of secrets

2011-07-14T16:02:00.000-07:00

re-listening at the moment, feels nice because what i really like is what i have found on my own, i do not have to evaluate them for anyone, a like is a like. i'm not keeping them to myself so here have some

2011-07-14T09:11:00.001-07:00

because sometimes

i cannot bear the notion of letting time pass by, waiting, but that is the only way because like books, things have their own shelves of time where they truly belong,

and i am writing this not because i want to rush my death, or any form of clarity, neither do i want to absorb all the pains and crises and the calamity so that i would not have to experience them alternating with joy and comfort and the calm throughout my life. how could i know what is best for me, when subjectivity is all what i have been clinging to. eighteen years of my life is a rootless island, deserted, bobbing in the warm ocean, the ocean being the true expanse of my lifespan that i have yet to swim through. but i want these waters to freeze, this damp moonlit skies to dry up and let someone throw me a rope, which i will be climbing on without having to worry about the vigorous passage of time. and then, on top where the rope ends, i will step on a cold ground, my right foot going first, my calves slick with sweat, my toes tickled by hot dry air. i will be in a helicopter, its blades dizzy, and i will get to see the ocean and the island of the eighteen years of my life. i will see the ocean, the rest of my life gradually darkening towards its invisible edges, dissolving with the horizons, or getting shallower, or going down deeper, or getting brighter with coral reefs and sand and seahorses. they are creatures i am yet to know, to find out, to shake hands with; and if they do not have hands, time will shake my hands very kindly on behalf of them. but i will then have the most satisfying overview, something i could not wait for, something i have to find out now: the outline of my whole life, the past years and the upcoming years of my life. i miss things that have happened, that might have happened, that have not happened, and that might have not happened. i do not want to adhere to the concept of time: the concept that says that just like books that have their own places, understanding also has its own time, understanding comes with time. i do not want to believe that, because i want to comprehend now, even if the understanding will not stay after the helicopter blades stop spinning. for a few moments i will get to throw all these burdening, wavering subjectivities. for this experience, for this most valued, desirable knowledge, i will have to trade parts of the most important thing in my life because that is the only way to achieve it.

but even giving that all will not be enough, so like what i have compromised before this knowledge will not stay and these memories won't only fade or dissipate, they will completely vanish, untraced, they do not dissolve into fogs like those memories that rot with passage of time; this is that kind of knowledge that is only relevant on that moment where it is experienced. it is external, independent from my entity, detached from this world. something that you have touched but you cannot remember touching. something you have witnessed but you cannot remember witnessing. since the beginning i cannot trust my memories, i reject any kind of perspectives, experiences, facts, records, they could be just a preprogrammed set of datas being input to my brain just yesterday. in the world where the sense of time is always vague, there is no beginning or end (this is not equal to eternity). there is really nothing you can trust in such world. hence, i live, and i would not mind going on living.