Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Archive for the ‘life and dream’ Category

Shure vs. Grado Labs

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Shure SRH440 vs. Grado SR60i

  • The Grado SR60i is just a bit less expensive (on the street), and comes from a design philosophy that seems to parallel the approach Shure has taken with the 440s.
  • The Grados have a mid-range emphasis as compared to a mid-treble emphasis on the Shures, which means the Grados sound richer but perhaps not as lively (though the Grados will never be accused of sounding dead).

Via AVGuide: Light & Lively

I’m supposed to talk about how good the Grado SR60i Open Back Headphones over the Shure SRH440 Closed Back Headphones that I owned. I would even wanted to make a benchmark on the Shure SE310 Noise-Canceling In-Ear Headphones too against those two, despite being the most expensive headphones that I owned (RM1080 last 2 year, now RM888).

Then, I wrote this instead.

Past vs. Karma

  • I dated a girl who already got a Miri Boy Eins. I got introduced to the concept of soul mate. I got into the middle of the relationship — going awry with delusion and rampant jealousy. I apologized and broke up. She likes headphone.
  • I befriended a girl who’s into music. I got introduced to the concept of gastronomy and musical muse. Miri Boy Zwei got into the middle of the friendship with delusion and rampant jealousy over headphone gift. He apologized and make up. She still likes the headphone.

But on both account. The relationship with them turned sour. I became indifferent.

I used to rant a lot about that Miri Boy Eins, then Miri Boy Zwei arrived in my life. And what did you know, my last-relationship (not related with the Miri Boy Eins, Zwei or Drei) ended up while I’m offshore in Miri.

What the fuck, Miri. This is not Zack and Miri make a Porno [2008] gone hardcore.

But now I realised how Godop felt. That Miri boy whom I kept referring to the scene of Waiting for Godot.

I’m Vladimir.

I’m Estragon.

I’m sorry it took 6 years to realise how abstract our past relationship had gone into, it became too intricate.

On the day I found this in my timeline with all the rage just gave in:

I write.

Writes.

Writes.

[delete] [delete] [delete]

And ended up deleting the draft.

I wrote another one in the tumblr instead because the headphone girl picture relives so much nostalgia.

lainieyeoh:

Digital illustration for a music night poster.

This is based on a good friend, for another good friend. Entire thing done using a mouse — I no has tablet anymore, after the dog ate the two tablet pens for the Intuos, and my spare cheapo tablet’s wire is broken.

I put a heart on the headphone to mark how I’m spending Valentine’s. WORKING!

Headph0ne Phet1sh.

I’m an avid listener to music. I burn-in my headphone set by thousands of minutes.

Varying from cheapo Panasonic earbud, Altec-Lansing clip-on, Sony earpad, Shure closed over-the-ear, Shure noise-canceling in-ear, Grado open-back on-the-ear and Sennheiser closed full-size.

It’s only natural I share my passion with others. Yes, I spent hundreds and thousand on audiophile set for the so called studio experience.

I’m not a sound engineer but I appreciated the value of crisp sound to video production. I own directional Rode video microphone and omni-directional Zoom H4n just to make sure I got the sound right in my video take.

One guy pissed me off the day before the V-Day.

It may seemed petty for “still” feeling insulted by mere tweet for an uncalled hip-hop gesture of juxtaposed expression of his jealousy and of me lending a girl (who’s his new found affection and a long last.fm friend of mine) an expensive headphone. The hurt part is to equate all of these into one middle-finger 140 characters tweet — that I’m trying “to get into her pants.” His own choice of word may not be ghetto, but it sure smacked me right into the face.

There’s a lot of good train of thought that night before it gone head up to this “petty” barrier.

I’m sorry for having a grudge, usually I would ignore it. But that night, there’s too many up and down for me to ignore this little spat.

I forgive you, eventually you’ll know I’ll, since you are keen to spy on me with different twitter account. I’m in the production community, I know it’s your pseudonym.

Why do I rant here?

The operative words of headphone, heart and Wacom tablet.

I just bought 2 Wacom tablets to my sister and brother who’s very much into deviantART account. Neither of them a graphic designer. That doesn’t mean I’m into incest. (I own one too, an old Intuos3 A5. I love Wacom product.)

That may not be sound odd in familial way — being good to your siblings — but try being a good samaritan with the opposite gender of your closest friend.

You must knew about the UK & Eire Knuke Tour: Altimet & Monoloque? You should, since you’re in their social circle and a producer. I didn’t go to UK to cover the videography due to my other day job: offshore engineering stuff. Yet I’m willing to support a friend who’s working with the tour with my shoulder-mount Redrock Micro rig, 64GB Extreme Pro CF cards and other videography rig for free. That tiny square card alone cost me RM3k. Am I looking for a buttsex?

I’m not the person who build up name in the photography and videography world with the word [your name] photography and [your name] videography watermarked on the online portfolio. I feel I’m not good enough for this self-branding.

Maybe I would in the motion-control time-lapse sense, since it’s my niche market.

Hey, no grudge.

I’m just ranting.

Even though this rant is mild in comparison with what I drafted in my wordpress blog.

Here comes the problem, I knew some of your friend that my name might have pop-up somewhere in the conversation — like the one you did during your meet-up with your friend (and mine) at The Cookie Cat store. Publishing it, shall make both party uncomfortable.

It’s in the draft. No worries.

Thanks for the DM, you know I’m a cool guy (your word, not mine) when I end up this conversation with this quotes: Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.

+++

I’m not going to direct this post to you just yet.

But one of your friend might.

Cheers.

+++

Afterthought. I blame 6 hours of non-stop Deftones tracks (The Strokes on top of the playlist) for being Chino Moreno on you. “Head up!”

+++

UPDATE: Uzairsawal answered.

I think you quote me wrongly: “his (you) new found affection and a long last.fm friend of mine.” Jeez.

Alright, both of you can kiss and make up, now.

I don’t understand you, too.

For people who don’t know me, to judge me.

+++

It’s stranger than fiction and like the movie Stranger than Fiction [2006], I end up being in love with a baker who used to study in law school, even though she end up with a Master Degree in something else. The last 2 exes are TEASL major, so is she. What’s with me and language student?

Haih.

Even though the courtship is premature, but a night of Deftones at KL Live with her is all that I need on the Black Valentine’s Day. Perhaps, The Gotan Project later at MPO would be more laid-back than the crazy night of moshing.

I’m trying to be less indifferent with her.

Not a soul-mate.

Nor a muse.

She’s that 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning.

May I call you Ash? I like it androgynous.

Gila-a-a-a-a

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Therapy by Rebekka Guðleifsdóttir

Therapy by Rebekka Guðleifsdóttir

Hoping for the last ship to arrive
I’ve been blessed with a kingdom, half-mine

Gila-a
Gila-a-a-a-a
Gila-a
Gila-a-a-a-a
Gila-a-a-a-a
Gila-a-a

Playing with irony there. Beach House’s Gila.

+++

Do you know that quivering feeling as if when you speed up the shutter speed of 24/25 fps footage? Everything going jerky like Saving Private Ryan war theater.

That’s how I define irrational jealousy.

Uncontrollable fear and insecurity.

Then you hit the shutter speed below 1/30 with ND 8 on a bright day light of those raging jealousy.

You control the flaring fear, you eclipse the insecurity vignette.

Smooth cotton sea at long exposure at 12 o’clock.

+++

Lucky bastard.

+++

Afterthought. Those feeling is also true when you’re zombified from sleep deprivation. Your senses assaulted by a manic Drill Sergeant out of nowhere.

Blaring horn at the side of the road like screaming banshee to you ears. Uneven light blinding you like psychedelic trip. You pushed your step from the hard asphalt road to the cold concrete to the warmth edge of your bed.

Sleep. Solace.

+++

Still. Lucky prick.

Solar Sailer in the Sea of Simulation

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Life is something that happens when you can’t get to sleep.

— Fran Lebowitz

And drama.

+++

Orange ambiance bathed half-a-dozen of Classic Juice empty bottles — a habitual beverage in a solitary mood for cinema — the light streak in between the soft toy of old and new as I set an alarm for Monday morning wake up call. The radio-iPod player warm glow at the the corner of the room commanded an ambiance of warmth. I should sleep easily.

The led light blinking and slowly lost it warm glow to outside light, screened by the blue blinds curtain.

I’m awake for hours from midnight. I ended up shutting the buzzing alarm at dawn. I let tiredness drape me, as the warm sun drape me to sleep till noon.

I thought of her.

The 6 months of offshore paid leaves ended. It’s a been awhile I’m being accustomed to cubicle 9-5 life. Even though it’s a contractual work on building up a database for newly bought Saturation Diving System from France, I rather be in the old office than being alone with other distraction at home.

Creative work on cinematography on hiatus, at least until March, then again, I might end up to Turkmenistan if I got a slot as a Diving Coordinator from the company that called themselves Sigur Ros — but none of the older generation engineers are uninterested with the Icelandic post-rock band. Come to think of it, I never met one of them who are genuinely interested with the band or even post-rock. By them, I meant a group of engineers that stuck on board the flotilla of  vessel or clunky oil rig in the middle of the sea or desserted town of post-communist bloc. A little appreciation of the melodic strings, percussion and synth might boost up the morale a little, that, and prayer.

I wanted to talk to her.

That sleepless night I thought of cold mechanical structure, sleeping in helium, bath in brine, work in abyss — translated in numerical database in a spreadsheets system.

Would she give me her number?

I got Numbers in my MacBook Pro, but they’re working in Win OS environment. Good thing I got Boot Camp installed — for MS Office, but more importantly for AutoCAD. Autodesk just released Mac version, but I don’t think I can spend a grand more on software. I’ve to make do with the old office’s version.

There’s countless version of scenario of how I should tackle the matter regarding her number, but which?

I spent the noon till evening crunching data from 7 boxes of manuals and technical books. It’s a mix feeling of elation meeting with the ex-colleagues and re-training my old engineering mind back to its track. 6 months break from engineering into creative work is an enjoyable months. From amateurish shot to professional production. I’m glad I’m given the chance to prove my strength in HDSLR cinematography, no matter how lack the skill I was when I first started out. It’s no wonder the ex-colleague are more interested with time-lapse question, choice of body and lens than answering my question to matter of the database work. It’s my first day. Be easy.

Getting her number won’t.

I was at the The Gardens’ Machines. It’s late. After three visit to different Machines store, finally I found a capable technician who are willing to take my Shure SE310 earphones.

Yuna, the musician just beside me with her errr, manly-friend. My mind said “Hi, I’m a fan!” My tongue uttered otherwise, slipping “uhm” and “ah” until it finally manage to change the subject of tongue slipping to more technical matter and economics: “It barely two years, the left ear bass driver are little off and why does it cost me RM1.2k in 2009 and now it’s RM800?”

Almost like bragging my audiophile attitude in front of her. While she’s more interested with buying an iPhone 4 for her (or her male-friend).

My ballooning audiophile technical jargon found its way to the the able Mac Technician, we talked about active-passive noise cancellation, treble and bass driver, stopping at vacuum amplifier, while waiting for my receipt.

I’m now less of one favourite earphones for traveling. At least for a month until they got it fix. Grado SR60i is too old school for a walk-about, and being open cans, not a good choice for public usage.

I like Sennheiser too.

Funny thing happened that night. I’m having my late fix of java at the Starbucks nearby and as the barista just about to pull the espresso shots — blackout. So there I was, coffee-less and with iPod without earphones, a MacBook Pro without wi-fi, a man without his night bath, a smelly guy sitting in the cozy cafe without air conditioner.

A guy trying to make a sense of this digital distraction and monologue affection.

Like any sane people in the deluge of digital world. I tweet on my handphone.

The timeline gone a little bit wild that night.

Instead of my smiling facial expression digitally bath with the white led, I’m now in a lit cafe. The power is back. Oh, the sweet barista troubled herself to Starbucks at The Borders to bring me to-go java.

I’m smiling a bit more and biting my lips as the timeline getting more visual.

I’m hungry. A hungry fat cat.

Semisonic’s Closing Time accompanying me home but not to bed.

I was wide awake till 8 am.

I started with compliment, gone half-through with half-joking intention. Ended up with embarrassment.

http://twitter.com/#!/daftsavant/status/27024421092859906

My tired mind failed me.

I was wide awake at noon, in the office. They’re formulating the work flow of repairing a hole at the strengthener of a Floating Production, Storage and Offloading (FPSO) vessel. A converted tanker that work like an oil rig in deep sea oil field. There’s a hole smaller than iPhone inside the bow area. A work that only need 1 hour on dry land will took us 5 hours deep in the water. Welding in confined space always spells trouble. To make it worse it’s directly under the engine room and the waste collector. Oily and feces in the muddy dark cold water.

Oh, shit. I fucked up! I shouldn’t have asked her number!

There’s teleconference with a senior Inspection Diving Supervisor on the phone that involved with the FPSO’s last year Underwater Inspection in Lieu of Dry Docking (UWILD). He gave a pointer with the work flow, that shouldn’t be a problem getting a nod from Ship Classification Body like ABS or DNV. One of the engineer joke about sticking an iPhone with epoxy. Then the joke goes on from Corrosion Alarm App to Nanobots (my joke). We’re digressing. Back to the drawing board. Literally. The whole white board are blue lines of diagram and sea of red marks.

All it takes is time.

I can wait. Can I?

The underwater compartment will be flooded, the air bubbles from the air hose should gives the Welding Diver a few centimeter of clearance of open space and oxygen for the welding work. It took an hour to let the muddy water to settle down the sediments.

Settle down. The digital distraction may have wrought physical attention. It’s just classic Othello jealousy.

I was at the cafe. They’re a crowd of executives. Talking, sipping, eating, rowdy with laughter.

And all I thinking was is sleep (and finishing off this draft of entry).

Good night. Love.

+++

Daft Punk’s Tron: Legacy drowned me to sleep with Solar Sailer and Sea of Simulation.

Written by cthulhu

January 18, 2011 at 11:26 pm

My Friend

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There was once a very lovely, very frightened girl.

She lived alone except for a nameless cat.

My Messy Moleskine

Image by Alexandre Dulaunoy via Flickr

I’ve been revisiting the moleskine diary again. The last jotted ink was dry since my past birthday. Nothing much written on that last one except the summary of the years’ written words inside the black bind cahier. A summary of the year 2009. In a very succinct form and if it’s a colour it would be a faltering hue of grey, a glimmering ray of silver and haphazard strokes of blue. The colour of conscience, hope and life at sea — and the love of the ocean. Considering it was soak in brine once.

“In case of loss, please return to” and “as a reward: $” were the printed words at the first page of the moleskine. There’s never a monetary reward written on it but I do mull on the ever cryptic xoxo and xxx. Depends on whom who find it as a romantics or sober samaritan. There’s still blank pages unused from the countless doodles and periodic rants. It’s worth more to the founder than the owner. If he’s the type who didn’t type but writes.

My Friend.

Holly Golightly in Hell

Image by bixentro via Flickr

The title originated in one particular scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) when Paul (George Peppard) slowly typed on his typewriter and then came forth the line of a lovely girl and a nameless cat.

The strings and soft voice of Holly (Audrey Hepburn) came in tandem with the lines and she sang Moon River at the window sill with calm composure and remote emotion.

Two of them broke the silence with greetings when she ended the song with a blank stare to the finite space.

I felt so invested with the emotion with a simple a ‘hi’ and the soft ‘oh’ that it moved me to write in the abandoned notebook. I remember the dialogs, I wrote the lyrics and I spelled the emotion. Why it doesn’t affect me as it does 5 years or 10 years ago when I first saw the movie. Why do I favour the Louis Armstrong version back then, when her voice is more sincere? Why do I think this passing scene so suddenly became so magically enthralling in the history of celluloid?

I don’t know.

Yet I do know that I’ve been missing the details in the past decades in favour of end result. The last view wasn’t out of love for lyrical and cinematography value but out of entertainment. I’m not saying that I dissect the current view with empirical proportion but I can feel the sincerity without satirical exhaustion. Two non-matrimony relationship taught me how to endure as a wounded bipedal mammal. Another two pre-matrimony relationship ended me as a quadruped mammal on my back looking at the sky, like a half-dead panda munching bamboo on a deforested patch of urbanised land.

What I’m saying is, or what I think that I’m supposed to say is that I’m becoming less sardonic. Less cynical with romance, but I’ll never be without one when it comes to the world view. Always one with a cynical eye (or eyes).

I keep my optimism alive still with romance. In the back sleeve of the black cahier moleskine lies 3 pieces of paper of optimism and sentimentality.

My first Singapore dollar note from that damsel in distress who (almost) ruin my academic life in United Kingdom.

Train ticket with hand-written notes as I sat for hours on that last train station for the Seremban girl to wake up for a cup of coffee at Starbucks on Saturday morning.

The Sunway girl’s signature on a folded receipt from her flight to Neverwhere with a purple binded book of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran as a gift to me.

The trinkets were there to remind.

Just as the words are.

They’re lovely friends who’s now in love with their nameless cat — their significant other.

+++

On a different note. The WordPress Zemanta plugin for recommended media gallery is fun to use. Who doesn’t like tattered moleskine and Banksy-ish stencil graffiti?

Distant Mirage

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Lately, I’ve been treating this space like a whirlpool of nostalgia, a wormhole of memories. I’m not sure why I’m siphoned into this maelstrom of fragmented gloom. All distant and “insignificant”.

Maybe it’s Ramadhan and Syawal.

Not to say that I detest the holy month. Religiously, it’s fulfilling. I’ve done my Puasa Enam today . Breaking fast at one place that I’m comfortable being alone (that served spicy Penang fares) after attending Student Power lecture by Fahmi Reza at KL & Selangor Chinese Assembly Hall. Digressing, the student movement nowadays are lacking in the “Mahasiswa Jurubicara Rakyat” spirit due to one thing. Apathy.

Apathy is what I associated with the holy month.

It happened last year when I’m offshore in Miri. It lasted for 3 months and it felt like 3 years. I’ve been working at almost the same oil field near the petroleum platform last 2 years — and even longer. For 6 months. With the only break in Bintulu and Labuan for ship repair and changing vessel.

It’s that 6 month offshore that foster the breaking up with the penultimate relationship, and that 6 month I form a new one with the previous relationship.

Heaven knows how hard it is to get connected with the terra-firma world when you’re living in the dead space of static telecommunication wave at the distant sea — except for UHF and VHF wave, and the pricier satellite phone like Iridium. I’ve known one Diving Supervisor who owned one, who called her lucky wife every 12 hours break. Being responsible for the 24 hours shift, that’s one luxury that I can’t engineered into the hectic schedule.

In those 24 hours shift, she managed to break through the vacuum of nonexistent communication with one phone call. And it was at Bintulu when the vessel anchored for one day for a quick crane repair. I called that destiny or maybe I’m just lucky.

She called in Ramadhan and it took me another 3-4 months after being offshore to finally meeting her. I’m patient back then.

I’ve known her for 3 years as a friend. 1 year as a fiancée to be.

Then it comes to another 3 months of offshore last year. The dreaded months that felt like years.

She called in Ramadhan and it took me another 2 months to meet her again. But it didn’t happen. She told me the relationship won’t work out. I keep my patience but only just.

I’ve been distant from her for a year now. Until last night, I just can’t keep the pain inside me compartmentalized no more, hidden and unassuming except for the discharging miasma.

I wrote. I wept.

It felt almost cathartic telling her how I kept the one year alive with her memories, how it kept me sane. Despite her replying that the past is where the past belongs and that she’s shaping a new future with someone else. It feel good to keep in touch with her again even if it’s semantically indifference.

It’s an emotional sincerity that had been repressed since last Ramadhan. The memories maybe far, but it’s not distant.

Melancholy is not something that I’m looking forward to, at that months. I can’t help it triggers the sentimental switch.

I hope there’s dead man’s switch for closure.

+++

I’m not being depressive and I’m not in mirthful condition either. Life is life.

I took the freedom purchasing a Kessler Crane time-lapse rig that cost me ten thousand and another ten thousand for a new MacBook Pro.

For the penultimate breakup I spent that same amount of money on full-frame camera body and prime lens with cinematography rig. If you’ve to know, it’s the 5DM2.

That money should be in the nuptial ceremony that didn’t happened.

Look how easy it is for one man to compensate a heartbreak with mere gadget? Not to mention, travelling.

Time lapse photography can be treated as meditation with its long exposure, long hours at the field and of course long hours of post-processing.

There’s a muse — a she-devil — who inspired me with the musical soundscapes with the trailing flare of bioluminescent fireflies.

There’s an eccentric graphic artist who speaks in puzzled that even the she-devil amused with the conundrum — of whom draws me close to the technicality of cinematic.

There’s a little scientist-poet who speaks of love and (korean -_-) songs and a little writer who purrs-cuckoo and writes wonderful prose that inspires a theme or two for the future time-lapsing.

Time-lapse, as space and time frozen in light sensitive sensor with a flick of a timed switch.

Now there’s a switch that I know how to turn on and off.

The intervalometer.

If there’s a thing called interval-love-meter?

That might be the perfect gadget for closure’s dead man’s switch.

+++

Oh, I’ve to add. Listening to The Helio Sequence – Lately doesn’t really help at all. In retrospect, I listened to it after I finished up this entry.

As for the song. Sweet, tragic irony.

Yeah, I wish.

Written by cthulhu

September 17, 2010 at 4:51 am

Sisyphus and the Prophet

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I. Sisyphus

I see you’ve set aside this hectic time to lose your priority and further impaired you with multiple tasks that shall rendered you with the tragic Sisyphean merry-go-round – like an amusement. Maybe you like to amuse yourself with inconsistency so much you marvel with the notes upon notes and devoted precious time to simple shot of dopamine after-hour then suffers with hangover of procrastination.

Since when you treated an iMac as MacBook Pro? You don’t packed it around town and got back home to unpack it later for a “quick gig” of narcissism. I’ve already make a scheduled for moving out your stuffs and you rather play snooker until wee hours? Keep up with this attitude in UK — though I’m not sure what kind of sleazy pub will opened at this ungodly hour at Aberdeen.

II. Prophet

The preacher of the altar is running out of time and never bothers to inquire further with that holier-than-thou robe of his. I’m still without clean slate but I wish him to leave with clean sheet on the bed. I don’t expect myself to clean up on someone else’s mess for the last time. Practice what you preach!

This is one confusing convert. Cleanliness is not one aspect that reside deeps in his faith, that’s for sure. Moldy bathroom, broken toilet, unmaintained washing machine and kitchen after usage, spoiled food in fridge and totally absorbed in his utopian idea that the routine maintenance of his rented house seems foreign. I felt like I’m a janitor in this house.

III. Janitor

I changed the bulbs at the living room because no one seems to care with the flickering madness.

I fixed the choke and the starter of the light in Sisyphus’s room, because it’s too much a complex system for an architect.

I changed the broken flexible hose of the toilet because the Prophet’s stinking feces permeating the air (obviously he can’t flush and too “pure” to clean up his own shit) as I step out of my master bedroom (with my own toilet and now I have to take care of theirs too).

I fixed both the outside toilet and Sisyphus’s room door knobs because the Prophet and the Sisyphus doesn’t mind at all about their privacy — much less broken amenities.

Spoiled foods and dairy products are their own little science experiment (perhaps I can tell the same about their floating feces in the toilet bowl).

When I got back from offshore for 3 or 6 months. I can expect a brick layer of lint inside the washing machine’s filter — which none bother to clean up, at least once a week! Last week, I found a handful of coins inside the outlet tube from the washing machine!

The drying rack is broken but no one seems to bother to change the grip mechanism, it took me 5 minutes of twisting and spare foam to replace it.

I make up a list of to-do items last time but the Prophet took it as a blasphemy — like a totem of passive-aggressive notes and a tablet of heresy for championing personal hygiene. So I got a little scribble to fuck myself in his most prophetic manner.

It took Sisyphus quite sometimes to understand my effort for paper and plastic recycling, although he can’t really understand the system behind proper recycling management. If you want to send the refuse to the recycling centre, make sure it’s well tied and properly selected, not with those half-hearted attitude. Good luck with the Green Building Index (GBI) revolution. If you can’t even manage simple recycling, I’m not sure about those green-movement preaching of yours behind those sustainable architecture design.

The Prophet totally lost it to the recycling idea. He took all the stacks of bottle to be recycled to the garbage chute. All of it, that’s awaiting to be flattened!

Maybe I’m a bit anal about hygiene and OCD in the way to implement cleanliness but their ignorance and selfishness are all the reasons I needed to reinforce my Gestapo attitudes.
And dude, both of you lost the humour of my little post-it notes.

What with confused Muslim (and hypocrites) that can’t get witty sarcasm and respect to environment?

I’m getting a Malaysian-Chinese girl (not to be confused with the one from China) room mate next September.

3 more days before you two move out for good.

Let’s see how she — the food scientist — fare.

Wait, now I got a real “science experiment” in my fridge!

Written by cthulhu

August 28, 2010 at 6:01 am

The Stop at Sèvres – Lecourbe

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I’m sorry I can’t help being sentimental — even with sufficient compartmentalizing in this faculty — her memories still tampers with facility of felicity.

The drips of her optimism.

Those veiled salacious intent and dry tears of forgotten misery.

5 years is not something that’s easy to bury. Unearthing it is not an option too. Yet as I pass by the memorial site in my own memory. The wretchedness and those smile comes flooding to me uninvited.

The momentarily stop at Paris Métro is unexpected to both of us. And the first kiss at the station of Sèvres – Lecourbe is unexpected for me.

I’m the luckiest man in the metro station.

Then life interjected with career.

I wait and wait for time to pass by as I try to get home back to her.

Your goodbye silence is as unexpected as those first kiss — five years later.

I felt like I’m the loneliest man in the busiest metro station.

I almost hate Paris.

+++

I’m glad with her reply.

Even after 9 months later — calling me by full name stated much how her felt — tacitly.

That’s how she spell disagreement — as if I’m infantile.

Yet she purred and mew — as if she’s my favourite feline.

It’s not bitterness neither acquiescence.

She accepted it as it is.

I didn’t reply.

It won’t matter.

She finally replied.

And that’s cathartic.

Written by cthulhu

August 9, 2010 at 1:54 am