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Archive for the ‘music and noise’ Category

Duffy, Welsh Singer-Songwriter

Welsh female soul singer-songwriter Duffy performs the track ‘Stepping Stone’, taken from her 2008 debut album Rockferry, at BBC2’s Later…with Jools Holland.


British newcomer Duffy performs the track ‘Mercy’, taken from her upcoming 2008 debut album Rockferry, at BBC2’s Later…with Jools Holland.




Written by cthulhu

April 17, 2008 at 3:33 am

The Cake Is a Lie

with 4 comments

The Cake Is a Lie

If you ever came across the Portal™ game inside The Orange Box, you’ll notice there’s a lot of reference to cake and a poetry reference to both Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Emily Dickinson — which in fact is a parody.

As I’m still in the spirit of “doing the Hudson”re-Hudson or de-Hudson. Here’s a bite in the patois cake.


Si Malaikat Maut dan Kuntuman Bunga
by Cthulhu

Bukan dengan kejam, lagi amarah,
Si malaikat maut datang pada hari itu;
Tapi bagaikan malaikat dari syurga ke muka bumi,
Memetik bunga jauh ke hati.

Note: It’s hard to differentiate between Angel of Death and Archangel in malay term. I used “memetik bunga jauh ke hati” since it has the symbolism of affection, instead of “jauh lari”.

The Reaper and the Flowers
parodied in Portal™

Not in cruelty
Not in wrath
The REAPER came today
An ANGEL visited
this gray path
And took the cube away.

The Reaper and the Flowers
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
‘T was an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.


Kerana saya tidak dapat menahan Malaikat Maut
by Cthulhu

Kerana saya tidak dapat menahan Malaikat Maut —
Dia dengan baik hati berhenti untuk saya —
Hanya kami berdua di dalam Kereta Kuda —
Dan keabadian.

Note: “Keabadian” instead of “kebaqaan”, the former is a proper noun for us mortal, while the latter for divinity. “Kereta Kuda”? Hahaha.

Because I could not stop for Death
parodied in Portal™

Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
The cube had food and maybe ammo
And immortality

Because I could not stop for Death
by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death —
He kindly stopped for me —
The Carriage held but just Ourselves —
And Immortality.

Morbid, no?

By the by, I prefer this version of re-Hudson Cake (by Roger McGough):

Kek Coklat
by Rem

aku mahu satu hayat
engkau mahu satu lagi
sama-sama kita tak dapat
kita pun saling berkongsi diri.

Compared with this:

Kek Coklat
by Natasha Hudson

Saya mahu satu kehidupan,
Kamu mahu sesuatu yang lain,
Kita tidak dapat makan kek coklat,
Jadi kita makan sesama diri.

by Roger McGough

i wanted one life
you wanted another
we couldn’t have our cake
so we ate each other.

I think I’m having a sugar crash.


Quotable Portal™:

  • “Quit now and – CAKE – will be served immediately.”
  • Cake, and grief counseling will be available at the conclusion of the test. Thank you for helping us help you help us all.”
  • “The Enrichment Center is required to remind you that you will be baked, and then there will be cake.” (subtitles say: “The Enrichment Center is required to remind you that you will be baked [garbled] cake.”)
  • “OK, the test is over now. You win! Go back to the recovery annex for your cake!”
  • “Uh oh. Somebody cut the cake. I told them to wait for you, but they cut it anyway. There is still some left, though, if you hurry back.”
  • “I’m not kidding now. Turn back or I WILL kill you… I’m going to kill you, and all the cake is gone, you don’t even care, do you?”
  • “Who’s going to make the cake when I’m gone? You?
  • Cake Sphere: “One 18.25 ounce package chocolate cake mix. One can prepared coconut pecan frosting. Three slash four cup vegetable oil. Four large eggs. One cup semi-sweet chocolate chips. Three slash four cups butter or margarine. One and two third cups granulated sugar. Two cups all purpose flour. Don’t forget garnishes such as: Fish shaped crackers. Fish shaped candies. Fish shaped solid waste. Fish shaped dirt. Fish shaped ethyl benzene. Pull and peel licorice. Fish shaped volatile organic compounds and sediment shaped sediment. Candy coated peanut butter pieces. Shaped like fish. One cup lemon juice. Alpha resins. Unsaturated polyester resins. Fiberglass surface resins. And volatile malted milk impoundments. Nine large egg yolks. Twelve medium geosynthetic membranes. One cup granulated sugar. An entry called ‘how to kill someone with your bare hands.’ Two cups rhubarb, sliced. Two slash three cups granulated rhubarb. One tablespoon all-purpose rhubarb. One teaspoon grated orange rhubarb. Three tablespoons rhubarb, on fire. One large rhubarb. One cross borehole electro-magnetic imaging rhubarb. Two tablespoons rhubarb juice. Adjustable aluminum head positioner. Slaughter electric needle injector. Cordless electric needle injector. Injector needle driver. Injector needle gun. Cranial caps. And it contains proven preservatives, deep penetration agents, and gas and odor control chemicals. That will deodorize and preserve putrid tissue.”
  • “The cake is a lie. The cake is a lie. The cake is a lie. The cake is a lie.”
  • “The weighted companion cube DOES speak. Superstition, perceiving inanimate objects as alive, and hallucinations. I’m not hallucinating. You are. The companion cube would never desert me. Dessert. So long… Cake. Ha ha, Cake. A lie. The companion cube would never lie to me. NEVER.”


Portal™ – End Game:

Portal™ – Credits Song, Jonathan Coulton – “Still Alive”:

The December Literati, The Lips [He] Tastes, The Auburn Neko and The Cheap Joint

Thank you for this bitter knowledge
Guardian angels who left me stranded
It was worth it, feeling abandoned
Makes one hardened but what has happened to love

Someone :) wrote this in Last.fm journal. (Oh yeah, I’m totally stalking her. Not.)


He gives his thanks, feels abandoned, looks at stars, vanishes into powder, suffers paranoia, bitter disappointment. My eyes close and I see a broken man with his back to Medusa, wanting nothing else but to turn back and look into her Gorgon eyes, over and over and over again, wanting to forget, choosing to throw it all away.

Only he doesn’t.

What has happened to love.

It’s repeated, but only as undertones. Not in the forefront, it isn’t a question burning with curiousity, sung with sparkling passion. It’s delivered with poignant echo, as if the answer, if it exists, isn’t really sought after at this point.

Go, or go ahead and surprise me. Say you’ve lead the way to a mirage.

When you’re on the edge, nothing’ll do the trick anymore.
What do you do when you’ve been lead to a mirage?
You drop your guide. You turn around.



“Readings” December at Seksan was crowded with Awang Goneng a.k.a Wan A. Hulaimi fans (me included). I enjoyed the littoral sea creature shorts from Dina Zaman (with her parent). Patrick Teoh can-I-say-fuck?-I’ll-say-that-again-FUCK! read the column snippet from The Edge Daily — poking fun at the Malaysian Malaise, and truly, saying what is truth out of principle is such a bitch, niamah! — and talking about leaking rooftops in Putrajaya as I stand nearby a plate of stencil print that parodied the incident:

[Picture of Perdana Putra]
Got a rooftop leak?
Call 1-800-idunno

Ah, the irony.

Sharon Bakar preceded with a reading of an intro out of Awang Goneng’s Growing Up in Trengganu (GUiT) before the author took his seat. As he seat, he spoke of memories and recollections, rhythms and forms, nascent phonetization, and of course the idyllic Trengganu — T[e]rengganu that used to be. I can almost hear the susurration of the monsoon wind as vivid as the flickering DSLR and PS flash of the literati. The recital of the Arabic verses was heart warming and as AG said, it brought tears to the eyes and soul.

Amir Hafizi is the shit. This mofo having an autophilia-cum-autofellatio moment (a quickie, real quick) as he ejaculated to Jackie Chan crotch, lesbian, sex, gym, BMI, obesity, gigolo, prostitution, ass, tits and boo boo kitty fuck. Yes, he’s the Ω Malay α Male. Got to lap up to his shit, non-scatological that is.

Patrick TeohAmir HafiziA. Samad Said

Here’s Patrick Teoh, Amir Hafizi and A. Samad Said.

Irmy NatasyaLiyannaJane Doe

And Irmy Natasya, Liyana Yusof and Jane “Comel” Doe.

The Seksan Literati really love ’em DSLR and PS: Irmy Natasya (Natinski) with her Nikon D40, Liyana Yusof (Dizzyfirefly) with her Nikon Coolpix P5000; and a girl that frequently got molested with Sufian Abas‘s Fujifilm FinePix S5 Pro. Oh, that’s all Suf flickr set by the way. Credits to his highly saturated post-processing on Adobe Photoshop CS3. And there’s more! The one with her Canon EOS 350D/Digital Rebel XT and a resident photographer (perhaps) with her Nikon D2X. And Panasonic’s Lumix. And Sony HDR-CX7 too, cool camcorder, might replace my old JVC with that one.

It’s a Seksan’s camera obscura picturesque kodak moment!

In retrospect, I should have bring along my Canon EOS 40D. Those Canon EF 28-300mm f/3.5-5.6 L IS USM lens would make such a good topic of the conversation, if I ever own one.

Click! Click! Click! 6.5 fps baby!


She got her red lips tasted and the hair dyed red. Good.

What has happened to love.

Sans me. [S]ad.

Go, or go ahead and surprise me. Say you’ve lead the way to a mirage.


Countdown to New Year 2008

I’m off to “this one simple cheap but surprisingly lovely restaurant at the top of a hill.”

With some company.

Or just one.


I really need that 3 month bonus so I can buy an Apple MacBook Pro after Steve Jobs’s keynote address at Macworld Expo 2008. Hopefully the new Intel’s Penryn processors [Intel® 45nm high-k (Hi-k) metal gate silicon technology with 45nm architecture] would be ready for the January upgrade.



Bibliobibuli – Readings Gets Respectable … Well Almost

Madcap Machinist – Jasmine at Seksan’s

Talking Only Me and You

Peter Bjorn and John (Featuring Victoria Bergsman) – Young Folks

Usually when things has gone this far
People tend to disappear
No one would surprise me unless you do


We used to talk only me and you.

It’s hard enough to conform with your privacy area of null communication (e.g. not at [his] place or in the dynamic geolocation of your erratic privacy) much less to get the convenient time to keep in touch with you (e.g. not during the gameplay or idiot box gawking).

To get a call for a spat — that is not what I have in mind.

I Might Not Love You, But I’d Make Love to You

I might be near, but we never been closer.

It’s only by convenience of location, I chance to be in the intimate yet distant retreat.

While my presence taken for granted within the solicitous cynosure due to locality differences.

Perchance; privacy and comfort of familiar scent and warmth is much more desirable. Waking up to the calming morning dew and misty touch of versed cognoscente.

In distant epoch, I see myself as the ascended one from falling in love with the idea of being in love. Petrarchan sonnet befalls on wary heart where the concept of unattainable love twisting, punishing the fool’s naivety.


I remember you as the apotheosis,
Beauty walking before the springtime sun had set.
Eyes of onyx deep in ivory cheeks inset,
Space-black river of cascading tousled tresses,
Soft lips with smile hiding your thoughts behind guesses.
Such was as I saw you that ancient day we met.
Your face in longing visions disturbs my nights yet,
As long days have been filled with weary restlessness.
But now I see the unkind years on your visage,
The awful beauty that I once beheld faded
With hard life written in every line and time-scar.
Your grace and beauty was no thicker than a midge
Awaiting but the passing moons of life jaded
To slough off showing the cruelty you truly are.

I would love to meet but not when you’re in a rush for more important matter at hand. I serve only as time-consuming obstruction in the time-shift of inbound interest.

I hate to be blame for being a “date”line gremlin.

I rather be blame as deferrer of fate than tempt fate deterring time frame.


Experiencing (incidental) repackaged pop music of melodic death metal or progressive death metal of Scandinavian and Mediterranean origin is like hearing a lullaby from transgendered KISS crossdresser with tag name of obscurely fancy words like Disarmonia Mundi.

Pop punk and post-hardcore is another words for MTV’s schizophrenic death-by-emo-song genre. Naming the band The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus is commendable, provided I’m not the one giving it.

I love spatting to those guys. I’m a big believer in character-building by destroying the morale.

Often when he was begging, Diogenes would be spat on by the people who passed him. Diogenes would ignore this and simply wipe his face with his sleeve. When ridiculed for his passive behaviour, Diogenes said, “Since men endure being wetted by the sea in order to net a mere herring, should I not endure being sprinkled to net my dinner?”

[Source: Teaching of Diogenes (c. 412 – c. 323 B.C.)]

I’m also a cynic.

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Written by cthulhu

July 30, 2007 at 12:34 pm

Nightmarish Residue

Incubus – I Miss You

To see you when I wake up,
is a gift I didn’t think could be real.

To know that you feel the same as I do,
is a three-fold, utopian dream.

You do something to me that I can’t explain.

So would I be out of line if I said,
I miss you.

I see your picture,
I smell your skin on the empty pillow next to mine.

You have only been gone ten days,
but already I’m wasting away.

I know I’ll see you again,
whether far or soon.

But I need you to know that I care,
and I miss you.


It would be a pleasant sonorous effect to the ears IF only my resentful mind didn’t notice how much it reminds me the (almost) routine five days (half of the ten days absence) suffocation of reality I need to endure for the last 443 days.

I really wanted to make it 444 days, and put off this entry for tomorrow morning. Triple number 4 (四; accounting 肆; pinyin sì) to the Chinese means a triple death warrants for me. Yeay, death!

Stupid Feng Shui’s tetraphobia. What is 2 plus 2? 3A. What is the level 24 says on the elevator? 23A.

The (almost) routine 2 days on the weekend is almost as stupid as pushing the 23A button on the elevator. 2 days that transcends to 3 days, and scaling to full 5 days (or worse, full weekend). Stupid prime numbers (2,3,5,7…) sequence.

I woke up to the smell of asphyxiating nightmarish sweat, feeling numb to the idea of tangible lost — being comfortable with the idea of solitary.

I only need to know that my life is not worth to be wasted away for fleeting ephemeral dream.

What ever you did to me, I can articulate it with fitting conception.

Do I miss you? Do I really care?

I’ll tell when I see you.

If I see you.

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Written by cthulhu

July 24, 2007 at 5:19 am

Gravel-Blind to the Silver Lining

Josh de Rox Fine Art Photography provides experiential photography for people in love.

Today I feel…like stargazing.

Today I am most like…a mountain.

Show me something…outside of time.

Hello stargazing mountain. Who do you love? (Thank you for being here) .

Amy Seeley‘s Gravel Lines (Call It Life EP) becomes the opening track for Jesh de Rox website. A fine art photography portfolio that explores the experiential photography (for people in love). The website recently featured on Digg.com, garnering a spike of attention.

I’m not sure how to deal with it. it’s sooo surreal.

Last year – the entire year – I had about 10,000 visits to my site. Since the new site launched about five weeks ago, we’ve had over 100,000 unique visitors – almost 37,000 of them today, lol!!!

Apparently someone posted it on a site called digg.com, and it’s reached the top 10, which puts it on the front page.

[Source: Jesh’s blog]

Amy Seeley

Amy Seeley’s music is inspiring in its melancholic tune sometimes haunting back of past memories.

When you want to stop…take a moment and pause.

Take a piano. Put it in your living room by the wood burning stove. But not too close. And write. Write until you can’t help but want to play the songs outside of your living room. That’s me.


Amy Seeley – Gravel Lines

What do you expect from me, after these takes…after this
What do you dream…in the afternoon
I’ll never know…what’s in your head

Out past the cars on the railway
Out past the city’s finery
We see our breath and connection
Underneath these gravel lines

You…you stole a page from the blanks
How do you weigh all of our fears
Typical, isn’t it typical
That someone like me would invite you in

We took a drive in the country
Your photographs were never mine
Slapped in the face by the questions
Posed by these gravel lines

Out past the cars on the railway
Out past the city’s finery
We see our breath and connection
Underneath these gravel lines

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Written by cthulhu

May 17, 2007 at 1:41 am