Archive for May 2010
“Hello. 1857 artists. Is it any wonder that the compatibility is super?” She said.
I never realized the magnitude of the accumulated scrobbled artists in my library until phynaz mentioned it on the shoutbox.
Scrobbling since 26 Oct 2005 doesn’t that make such a wander.
Music community on the internet help much in sampling the ever eclectic taste of music genre.
Much thanks to leesunlay for his manic library of post-rock at:
‘This Post Will DESTROY Your Hardisk’ indeed true to its title. I got a dedicated external HD for iTunes after much sampling from his LJ.
ColonelTheSlav, the insane Burek. This guy is one crazy Croatian. Diverse collection of music, from bebop & jazz to grindcore & harsh noise. Word of caution, his blog is NSFW:
I’m currently following the duo who make the monthly Music Alliance Pact at:
Each sampling comes with a thorough comment. Take for example, the 2222th scrobbled artists in my library: trinkets – What Letters Failed To Achieve.
in an accelerated era of instant music floating about on countless electronic press kits, it feels so comfortable receiving something on the recommendation of a friend, and listening to it without having to deal with “recommended if you like” comparisons. all tom told me about trinkets when he passed me the old museum last night was that it was a band from brisbane and the music was “nice and mellow”, which sums up this album rather neatly. the band’s simple combination of guitars, violins, bass and drums is emotionally engaging with its keen sense of pace and space – crucial for an album recorded live, in this case at the old queensland museum. the last track of their set before their improvisational pieces, “what letters failed to achieve” seems to validate with both its title and content the role of instrumental music in stirring you in ways where words fall short. when things recede into an aching emptiness in the middle of the song, i hold my breath with the rest of the audience, urging the band on for that final flourish. – dan.
The instrumental is as dreamy as the explanatory note.
For the 2000th artists is a bit of unexpected. The girl who make me realised that the statistics of my populated artists embraced her music compatibility — also sang.
Elementary of statistics breeds Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious compatibility. Or in this case, SupercalifragilisticExplosionsInTheSky. If you love EitS, you’ll love God Is an Astronaut, The Album Leaf and Deepset (M’sian post-rock group)
I know, I don’t have to wonder why my music compatibility with indie and post-rock population on last.fm is SUPER.
There’s a slew of indie artist that I found through AMP Channel V.
Izzy Mohamed – Folk / Acoustic
Aiqa Halim – Alternative / R&B
Nadhirah Rashid – Acoustic / Other
I just found out that Aiqa Halim is related with the latter. She’s Nadhirah Rashid’s mum’s cousin. You can see where the music gene flows in the family.
So, here’s another indie artist in my list, an amused muse: Safinaz Yazed – Ego.
An apt song for the 100th score (2000th) as I finally conscious with the number. Bloated or deflated, that comes with ego.
When I’m alone in the aisle of a library, I secretly dance to my iPod tunes.
When I’m alone in the aisle of a book shop, I hum and frolic slowly to the music on the background.
Why am I alone? So that I can entertain my own idiosyncrasy?
Soul searching is a private affair, but aisle dancing alone is barely that.
It just feel right; being alone, among the silent tomes.
Watching rows of book is an inspiration by itself.
The typography, colour gradient, quality hardcover, common trade paperback, seamless alphabetical order and the Dewey Decimal Classification.
Along the vertical line of order — I’m the chaos.
A solitary bedlam.
Published June 21, 2006.
The entry that fucked up the rest of my day. Silly me, opening up old wound. Older wound, I meant. Old wound is Sue.
I slept because I’m tired. I’m tired because my mind tired. My mind tired thinking of her absence.
The day after, after dusk she went to [him], near midnight she gave me a kiss, at midnight she greeted and said farewell to me while I fell asleep with this tired mind.
I slept well. I dreamt of her. I don’t remember waking up incessantly. I remember being awake, awake with that waking memories of her. I’m awake. Awake with her in my mind. Did I sleep well? With her, I did. Even if it is just a phantom image inside my head, she’s there. The body reel and my mind keel over. I lied. I didn’t sleep well.
I woke up at dawn, before dawn. And it was raining. Fate have it that it shall rain to cleanse and to rise this miserable aching. The cold air refreshing, cooling, but I don’t feel invigorating. It didn’t cleanse me. The humidity risen, tepid, my heart grew restive—restless. It raises this unquiet yearning.
It’s a coincidence she rang me before I could send her the messages. She directed me to the video repository site. There, I saw her sweet smile again, there; I heard her gentle voice again. It’s crazy. The song’s title and how we are crazy for each other. I saved and kept the video. The song I gave to her of yesterdays, was sang in [his] quarter with [him] strumming the guitar, serenaded by her voice. It’s the moment she spent with [him] last night. And how do I feel?
(What’s the Story) Morning Glory? The drizzle lulls, the earth damp. This Libran sun lights a dull beam. It tolls the warmth of his heart. In bed, he tosses, he rolls. In sadness, he sighs, he keels. In the middle of the lone field, he wonders how she feels.
“I feel. I’m a July child after all.”
It’s not just love passion, lost soul, livid moment, lingering hour…but there’s lust. Oh, did you know: the phrase “Morning Glory” is British slang, referring to an erection experienced after waking up. Morning wood. I lust for her love.
How did I spend the morning hour? Morning glory and morning lament. Elated with her voice, her messages and her fond memory, I remain awake, fleetingly. Then the crack of morose dawn marred the epoch. I lee behind the state of suspended animation, I be dead to the world. My state of mind deadened for awhile till I received her message before she took off to that highland theme park with [him].
She’s going there to celebrate the mutual amity between them. It’s their 36th month of “friendship” on the 21st June 2006. Her past relationship may not be platonic; her relationship with [him] isn’t platonic either. At least that’s what I told myself. Alas, she loves [him].
“Evil. That doesn’t mean I don’t love him.”
Indeed, she’s in love with two men in her life and torn between them: the one who gave 3 years of his live to her and the one who consummate his soul to her after one month and 13 days being IN love with her.
“Only different is I am IN love with you, my love.”
Ah, being a lover.
I hope she’s having fun, but only for her sake. Not theirs. I’m that selfish.
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
And I hope that you are having the time of your life
But think twice
That’s my only advice
I felt thirsty. My lips parched. I went downstairs, drown the thirst. This worrying feeling never sated, never settle. I went back upstairs, when in most disconcerted moment, the tune: Shell, an opening theme in The Witch Hunter Robin played in the audio player with high fidelity. It’s the last song she sang to me in the morning after, before she went off to [him] yesterday.
Deep inside my parched throat
Lies the reason for this growing impermanence
Scared of the approaching tomorrow
I’m afraid, but…
I cower and collapse
But it seeks me out and whispers to me
This voice of thin darkness
…her voice whispers otherwise.
Quest: Dirty Outdoor. Dirty Indoor.
Action: Laundry. Spring Cleaning.
Question: As thy heart torn asunder, why doth mine grow fonder? Broken elevator, rising televator. As I stand stunted with abrupt halt of ascending elevation, I scale the ladder. Mending silently, attempting to hoist her beyond the basement gloom. She rise, looming in glistening beauty — metallic hard, glassy class and velvet softness. No more, mere broken shell of an elevator, where none shall enter.
That my child, is Mr. Janitor in love.
A janitor with a history of OCD — and a darker secret.
Fiction inspired by a heartbroken elevator, that none shall enter.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
T. S. Eliot (1888–1965), U.S.-born British poet and playwright.
Prufrock and Other Observations “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”.
At dusk, we met. At night, we drove in the sleepless street. At dawn, we retreat.
A bliss. In past tense.
Rainy night never fails making me hopelessly nostalgic.
Not the best shot of her. It’s out-of-focus and blurry.
Yet, it’s my favourite moment with her.
“Stop taking picture of me”
It’s actually a video.
“Argh, the attack of killer woman!” In reference to Attack of the Killer Tomatoes (1978).
Yup, it’s time to forget the past — sometimes in the near future.