Grow old along with me..
Sunday, January 29, 2006
The Shadow of the Wind
It's a story about books.
About accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.
- pg 182, para 7
Setting: In me friends place.
-"Hey Lu, i bought this book, but i don't think i'm gonna read it. I'm giving it to you. Here."
Holding the book in my hands, i examined the front cover with vague interest: 'The Shadow of the Wind", in bold red font, pronounced across the entire top half of the paperback; boasting the acclaim of 'The No.1 International Bestseller" just above it. And in much smaller print, aligned at the bottom, the obscure name of "Carlos Ruiz Zafon".
-"Bro" i said, "How do you pick out such titles? I mean, lookit, the title's three times as large as the authors name. Which means that he's either a one hit wonder or not that good at all. Cauze people are buying the title and not the name."
-"Well, i'm giving it to you anyway, you can give it away as a gift if you want."
Checking the back of the title page for clues as to it's authorship and calibre, i came upon a discovery of what to me seemed outright criminal.
-"What?! It's a translation! That's crazy. I've avoided Kafka and Murakami for this precise reason: authors invest effort and skill and flair, inspiration and perspiration, into selecting each and every word to form each and every sentence in his book. And a translation just robs him of his very essence in his story. nuts."
-"Okay okay, give it back."
-"Heh. No no, i'll take it. Thanks."
I'm such a snotty little prick at times that flashbacks like this are shocking even to me.
On the bus back home, with little else to ease the passage of travel, - which to me is invariably painful, regardless of the distance - i took out the book and started flipping, seeking,with little expectation of success, to find the odd excerpt here and there which would entertain me.
I got hooked. Instantaneously, inexorably, unintentionally.
The Shadow of the Wind now tops my list of Best Book Ever Read.
Even as i admit this, the ghost of Tolkien, to whose magical prose i have sworn undying allegiance, fills me with certain guilt.
But to deny it would be to both deny Zafon his due credit, as well as the literary soul within me.
I will however, in my defence, still maintain that Tolkien has put into writing, what most mortals find hard to conceive in imagination - A distinguishing mark of his unique genius.
I spent two weeks lost in Zafon's story.
During which period i lost track of the number of occasions where i had to abruptly shut the book in order to regain the composure i had lost - to a squeal of laugher, a wrenching pain, or simply a sudden pulsating rush of raw sentiment- just so that i may continue the reading without overwhelming myself.
Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you.
-pg 215, para 5
If you believe that, I'd have to warn you that the book is characteristically male.
At the onset - the introduction of a single father, raising his son - the atmosphere is masculine.
The struggles and issues encountered in this coming-of-age novel: of pride; loyalty; hate; lust; responsiblilty; expectations; love; and of the bonds that bind the characters, are essentially male.
In fact, I feel that the female characters within the story, invariably love-interests, are only there for the male characters to relate with, and react towards.
All but one of the major characters are male. And she only appears dominantly towards the end.
What i'm trying to get at is that the fairer sex might not appreciate the novel as deeply as their counterparts.
I'm currently trying to shake off the label of being a "misogynist".
And i'm rather aware that diagonsis' like these don't help.
But i can't help it either.
Few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart.
-pg 6, para 2
This one certainly did.
Find its way into my heart.
And i'm grateful it did.
But more than that, it taught me a lesson that i thought i learnt a long way back.
That i shouldn't judge a book by its cover.
Two cents dropped on or about.. 2:58 AM
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Sunday, December 25, 2005
It's Christmas time, again..
.. it's time to be nice to the people you can't stand.
It irks me when non-Christian friends send me merry christmas greetings; and i never reply them. (Even as i say this, i'm aware that i come off sounding like an insufferable narrow-minded dogmatic little twerp.)
But then it's true.
Of course i'm aware that their greetings were borne out of goodwill and cheer; of course replying wouldn't hurt and is only courteous; and of course i'm fond of my well intentioned friends.
It's simply that i think it inappropriate to indulge their notion that the merriment of the season is independent of the hallowed event that is Jesus' birth.
Cause whilst "Happy New Year" is a greeting, "Merry Christmas" holds a meaning.
And it's all i can do not to blur that distinction.
Two cents dropped on or about.. 6:52 PM
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Saturday, December 10, 2005
People Aren't Chocolates
But you know what they are mostly? Bastards. Bastard coated bastards with bastard fillings.
And i stand in stark embarressment as a person - a singular of people.
'Lilya 4-ever' is a show you don't want to watch. I say again, you don't want to. Anything but it. Heavens please, not it.
This Swedish film - set in Russia, about a 16 year old girl- is poignant. Hauntingly poignant. More haunting, in fact, than it is poignant. I don't remember ever being quite so affected by a movie since 'Office Space'. But that's for an entirely different reason altogether.
'Lilya' will change life as you know it.
If you're a lady - you'll weep. Buckets.
If you're a guy - you'll quite possibly feel as i did: an unmitigated combination of guilt, remorse, and self-reproach; and more like never before.
Hormonal slavery serving once as salve for my conscience, has now to me become the vilest of weaknesses in my post-film sensibilities.
Towards the end of the show (the ambulance scence), as medics were attempting to revive her from her suicidal leap off a highway, i was fixated on her lids of her eyes - willing them with all my might that they wouldn't flicker; that she wouldn't live. She doesn't deserve death of course! She didn't at all. But the alternative was a far crueler fate to contemplate.
Her eyes opened, it did. But only symoblically (thank heavens) in her transition to an angel. I waited for my heave of relief, but none came.
There was, i was to realise, insofar as this film is concerned - no relief.
The human condition is so very sad. comtemptible and intolerable. and painful to bear.
I wish to renounce it.
I wish i hadn't seen it.
Two cents dropped on or about.. 3:01 AM
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Thursday, November 03, 2005
'Nobody's fool' is the title of a song in Avril Lavignes latest album by the same name.
It's also her half-baked third rate failuristic attempt at rap.
I don't mind so much that rock artists attempt to stretch their pop sensibilities. Or pop artists stretching their rock ones. (whichever it may be in Avril's case - i can never quite figure it out) Often it must be said, i rather welcome a breath of fresh air.
But Avril's rap music is the kinda rap music that confirms the common suspicion that the reason 'rap' is called 'rap' is really because they left out "c" at the printers.
But tell me now, can a face as lovely as that really do any wrong?
Well not to me. Not for long, at any rate.
I'm aware she doesn't have the best of lyrics, or the sweetest of personalities, or an angelic voice.
But what she is - is perfect. Because i'm inclined to think that perfection isn't so much a description as an opinion.
I dumped her once before though. Well, i realise i cannot 'dump' what i do not own. But if it feeds my ego and emphasizes a point, then 'dump', whether or not used appropriately, it would be. It happened right after the ordeal of watching her "He wasn't" music video on MTV. Angsty, juvenile and over-bearingly ostentatious of her punk princess personality, she reminded me too closely for comfort of a girl i used to know; or perhaps more accurately, of a girl i never truly knew. i loathed her for a period, and every memory i ever had of her was tainted with overtones of immaturity and with a sort of reserved pity.
But after a period, something happened. i'm not certain what...
And i forgave her. Out of the blue, in spite of myself and wholeheartedly. Just like that.
Two cents dropped on or about.. 1:09 AM (0) comments
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Friday, September 09, 2005
The Innocence Can Never Last
if there's one thing BMT has taught me, with far greater clarity than footdrill commands, and much more practicality than to strip an M16 under 25 seconds, would be that i am a prick.
irreverent.
ill-disciplined
lacking self-control
unmotivated.
insensitive.
impatient.
rude.
selfish.
proud.
cynical. (though not always a flaw, it must be said)
I possibly bear the fruit of the unholy spirit.
I'd positively hate me if i weren't me.
Not that one can't hate oneself, obviously.
It's just that i'm too blardy narcissistic for that eventuality.
So what happened?
I think Greenday put it quite nicely in these words -
drenched in our pain again,
becoming who we are.
- "Wake me up when september ends"
The regrettable reality is that we aren't shaped by our moments of laughter and smiles.
Aristotle expounded upon the idea of a "golden mean".
The center of two extremes.
well, if on one end of the spectrum we had bastard scum of the universe,
The golden mean of attitude would be cynicism.
Because ladies and gentlemen,
Cynicism isn't an option.
It's an inevitable response to the truth of societal realities of a thinking, self-aware individual.
Also, like Einstein once lamented, "my disinclination to forge any ties which isn't absolutely necessary has often put me in conflict with others."
Two cents dropped on or about.. 12:32 AM
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Saturday, August 27, 2005
More Than Just Words
i was about to pen a post when the lyrics to this song stopped me dead in my tracks.
i guess it's time i run, far far away
find comfort in pain, all pleasure's the same
it just keeps me from trouble
hides my true shape, like Dorian Grey
i've heard what they said but i'm not here for trouble
it's more than just words
it's just tears and rain
- "tears and rain" by mr. james blunt
Songs tend to have a effect on me. i have to admit.
And more than ever these days - during my sojourn in the sunny-rain-soaked island of tekong.
i can't really tell why.
Maybe it's because life as a bmtc recruit is largely a period of emotional and spiritual depravity.
And songs are inspired, played and sung with precisely both of the abovemenetioned ingredients.
And i feel them more. like i'm more receptive to the emotional state of mind that the song conveys.
I think it's sorta like how a dry sponge soaks up water with far greater ease and intensity than a bloated one.
i'm bone dry as far as emotional well being is concerned.
i'm not depressed though.
7 weeks and 5 confinements after, i've still got that dopey grin on my face more often than is sanely permissive.
i'm not a depressive.
Just you know, empty; spent; expended; maxed-thehell-out.
I've learnt it's very easy to cry.
but we seldom do.
Not as much as we ought to anyway.
But it's not because we're 'strong' or have attained grand-bloody-mastery of our emotions.
It's really only because most of the time, we're trying so damn hard not to cry about something else, that we don't cry over the things before us.
For there is no objective crying.
we don't coarse through an isolated train of thought in tears.
It doesn't work that way.
Crying opens a myriad of emotions and a breaks loose a floodgate of memories labelled "leave well alone" that you hope resides in the deepest dearkest recesses of your memory, but really just fringes hauntingly upon the borders of one's sanity.
and deep down inside, we all suspect this.
So we don't cry.
and i guess it's time i ran far far away...
Two cents dropped on or about.. 5:03 PM
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Sunday, June 19, 2005
And the Asian Blog awards goes to... Some hoe-slut-biatch in pink
Here's another blog that's causing quite a stir
Einstein once claimed that "Only two things are infinite - The universe and human stupidity... And i'm not sure about the universe."
No shit, Einstein.
Two cents dropped on or about.. 4:25 AM
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Thursday, June 16, 2005
About a Boy..
..about the best bloody brillant book ever written as well.
As i was reading it, i kept trying to associate the various chapters in the book to the corresponding scenes in the movie (starring Hugh Grant), but the attempts were of little avail.
Well it wasn't that i hadn't watched the movie,
because i can remember vividly, the occasion and setting and events leading up to, the evening i caught it.
And it wasn't that my memory is failing, seeing as i've attained the ripe age of 21,
because as i've said, i remember the occasion vividly.
I somehow just don't remember the movie.
I remember i caught it with a friend upon the grassy plain of Fort Canning Park during one of Class 95's "movie in the park" events.
I remember they had erected several large spherical lanterns, emitting a faint orangey glow, along the perimeters of the field, and i pointed to one of them and commented on how huge and close the moon looked that evening, which made her chuckle.
I remember buying a bag of sour-cream flavoured 'Ruffles' - which i never would have done were i alone or with another bloke, as i am unable to justify the exorbitant increase in their pricing during events such as this - only for her to mention that she'd read somewhere that sour-cream causes cancer or something, upon which i opined that at least if you die from it, you die happy, and urged her to eat up anyhow.
I remember we had laid on our backs after the show contemplating the starry skies overhead and having a conversation that went a bit like this:
me: Lookit the stars! You never get to see stars in Singapore.
her: Ya, it's always too bright. Ever noticed how when you focus in onto one star, that star gets brighter while the surrounding ones seem to fade away?
me: Really?... Oh yea! heh. You know, this phemomena seems to illustrate a lot of situations in life.
her: (musing) mmhm.. then wouldn't it be scary if you're looking at the wrong star?
me: Yea.. but i think what's worse would be that you think you're looking at a star, but it's actually a satellite.. or a planet even. ('Madagascar hasn't premiered back then, or i would've added "helicopter" to my weak list of starry alternatives)
her: Oh well.
me: But if you look at the moon, you know, at least you always know it's the moon.
I remember she wore faded blue jeans.
So there, seeing as to how i am able portray that evening in stirring detail,
it occurs to me that the reason for my inablity to evoke any substantial part of the movie might largely be due to that i probably didn't even register the movie in my mind for memorial retrival.
Which was perhaps because, for me, that cinematic viewing of "About a boy"..
...was really about a girl.
Two cents dropped on or about.. 12:39 AM (0) comments
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Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Radioactivity
Which wouldn't be surprising, had this blog posting been based somewhere in the Malay Peninsular, or Brunei, or the Middle East.
But placed into context, which is that only 13.9% of all Singaporeans are malay, the statistic is curiously peculiar.
Now, i'm not drawing any precocious inferences from the findings,
but the conclusion i will draw, compelled by irresistible inference,
is that all radio callers are cockslaps.
With faux squeaky voices.
Which is why i propose passing a bill to ensure that all recalcitrant radio callers:
1. Wear Badges on their t-shirts bearing the words "i'm a Dunce!" in bold. - In order that i may be able to spot and avoid them from afar and thus not expose myself to the risk of unwittingly inhaling the spastic air they expel. Such is my contempt for them.
2. Not be permitted to Travel - For fear that the 1st World citizenry realise that Singaporeans do not, contrary to popular belief, hail from Mainland China, but are actually sodding Amish.
3. Undergo Forced Sterilization - So as not to contaminate the Gene Pool further any bloody further than it already is.
Another related group of people who are absolute dumbwanks, are the radio DJ themselves.
Whose daily 9-hour confinement in a 8X4 feet room results , i suspect, in progessive thyroid deficiency.
So much so that when a caller - female, invariably - once requested for a song to be played on her behalf in light of her recent breakup, the DJ on the other end, exhibiting the wisdom of mighty King Solomon, went on to dispense Yellowcard's "Only one".
Allow me to offer you a sampling of the oh-so-soothing and pick-yourself-up-motivational lyrics:
Yellowcards - Only One
"Broken this fragile thing now..
And I can't, I can't pick up the pieces..
I feel so broken up (so broken up)..
And I give up (I give up)..
I can't, I can't hold on for too long..
And I can't, I can't get up when you're gone.
And something's breaking up (breaking up)
I feel like giving up (like giving up)..
You are my only, my only one..
My only one.. (x 584)
You are my only, my only one.."
Truly, never have i known of a more public display of euthanasia.
In fact, recent polls have revealed that the average DJ's impression, and they're alll average as far as i can tell, on the subject of "radioactivity", is them fiddling with the console knobs and shuffling the blasted playlist.
Two cents dropped on or about.. 12:11 AM (0) comments
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Friday, June 10, 2005
Homer, not of the Illiad
In this one, Springfield's Child Welfare Services appointed the Flanders to be guardians of Brat and Lisa after having found Homer and Marge to be plainly incompetent parents. (No kidding, Holmes) So while in Flanders residence, Ned started a Bible quiz and having noticed Bart and Lisa to be disturbingly inconspicious, Ned urged them on to answer blantantly fundamental topics the Good Book, whereupon Bart confessed that they hadn't actually been baptised at all, at which Ned promptly passed out in shock related trauma. Having regain conciousness, Ned gazed down at Brat and Lisa in condescending pity and told them:
"Don't worry little Bart and lisa, we won't judge you. That's for vengeful God to do."
I laughed at that.
I'm not without a sense of humour.
It also seems that i'm not beyond dire reproach either.
For that chuckle unnervingly recalled me to a particular lunch meeting i had with a friend just the day before.
Flavian and i share little in common with each other at first glance.
And in all probability for the second, third and consequent ones as well.
Besides the common bus route back from church and, need i say, the same church.
politically incorrect and at times downright criminal, but always gaggingly hilarious, observations of our fellow churchmates.
But it's a fair enough assessment were one to assume, from occasions in our conversations, that Homer Simspon was really a third bloke in our tightly bonded trio.
In fact just last Sunday as shared kway-chap in a jam-packed foodcourt near church, the bugger spewed regurgitated duck meat across the table and directly onto my lap whilst i was reenacting a scene in "The sssSSimpsonssss" in which Homer walked into his garage in search for beer only to uncover a mob gang purporting to wholesale imitation jeans. At that, our reckless protaganist civically declared that he would "report to the authorites about this" and turned around to leave. A nameless gunman, whose skin shares the same strange shade of yellow as Homer, (hey hey! Unintended alliteration!) points his .45mm at Homer's back and warns "Not so fast, pal." Homer, brillantly self-aware as ever, turns his head around and says "Oookaay.." while dramatically decreasing the speed of his movements as he slow-mos his way out.
Well, you'd really have to watch it to actually enjoy it. It's not much fun this way, I realise.
After apologising for the spasmic projectile, and proceeding to blame me for it as well, because apparently "I shouldn't have caused him to laugh while he had his mouth full", [Yea whatever Flabs. (aka 'flavian' aka 'flap-piang') Nope, i don't know either] he then got all Martin Luther on me and said "It's damn funny, the Simpsons, but we should cut back on it. It's damn blasphemous." I was like "Wat the.. what kinda geek am i dealing with here?" But of course i only said "Yea, but it's all in the name of humour though."
But it strikes me now that blasphemy is blasphemy.
No matter how subtle, or whatever the intentions, or however hilarious.
If the storyboarders of "The Simpsons" continue to slight the image of God,
Luwin of "The Church" cannot continue to laugh at or about it.
Maybe Flavian was right. The Simpsons might have to go.
Which opens a whole floodgate of lifestyle choices that has to be re-examined in light of Christianity and it's prescribed tenets.
And of which i'd be delving into for the next few posts.
The theme, if expressed in words, would go something like:
'Aww man.. What does it take to be a 21 yr-old christian in the 21st century?'
Two cents dropped on or about.. 2:30 AM (0) comments
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