Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Posts Tagged ‘love

Sometimes It Lasts in Love But Sometimes It Hurts Instead

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Adele – Someone Like You

If you ever had a broken heart, you’re about to remember it now.

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Written by cthulhu

February 19, 2011 at 11:49 am

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.

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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.

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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.

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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

9 Month Later, A Reminder Text Changes Everything

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I realized I never did delete a reminder of your birthday. I wish you’re not bitter at me anymore. Be strong and hope you’re already doing your master degree now. Hope your family is ok. Sorry for the wee hour txt. It’s been 9 month since we parted. Hope all is well. Regards, Fez.

I didn’t dare to add, I miss you.

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It’s a cruel realization of her memories as I picked Kahlil Gibran book at the book store and the iPod hit Climie Fisher – Love Changes (Everything). Later the text came: Sue’s Birthday, 5th August 1983.

Her favourite book, which she later bought me a hard cover while she’s visiting her grandma at Singapore.

Her favourite song, which became my ringtone whenever she called me when I’m outsation and offshore (when the phone line feels like reaching the fringe of the oil field).

Then the text. The reminder.

It’s just too much.

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It’s time to move on but like I said to @Voltairess:

YES! But first, I’ve to rant (write). Not to relive, more to revel. OR suffocate this sudden sobs in the pillow & wait for dawn.

And what do you know.

My last entry in my moleskine is on 27th December 2009 in which I quote her entry on her blog on 16th November 2009:

This is the date which mark something new.

Now I can’t sleep.

And I can’t write (yet).

Despite of all thing — I miss her — my petite literature chic.

Written by cthulhu

August 9, 2010 at 1:51 am

Question: Quest + Action

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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.

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Fiction inspired by a heartbroken elevator, that none shall enter.

Bliss, from Dusk till Dawn

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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.

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Rainy night never fails making me hopelessly nostalgic.

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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.

*pinching me*

“Argh, the attack of killer woman!” In reference to Attack of the Killer Tomatoes (1978).

*mirthful amusement*

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Yup, it’s time to forget the past — sometimes in the near future.

Written by cthulhu

May 17, 2010 at 3:06 am

Eat, Pray, Love, Sleep: Bali

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Eat ♨

Pray ☪

Love ❤

Sleep ✿

Bali ✈

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Eat Pray Love

Written by cthulhu

March 25, 2010 at 2:17 am