Posts Tagged ‘relationship’
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).
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  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 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:
[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.
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!
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.
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 , 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?
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.
May I call you Ash? I like it androgynous.
There was once a very lovely, very frightened girl.
She lived alone except for a nameless cat.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
When missing someone, the most logical and likely-to-be-successful avenue by which to appease that feeling is to get in contact with said person. When this communication would doubtless be damaging to one’s emotional health (but staying out of touch is also very unpleasant), which solution is really considered “coping”?
I might have severe attachment issues. Coping mechanism simply do not operate on an adult level of refine maturity, it is as though in my own mind, I can’t get past age sixteen.
I trudge along the route of melancholy and dare myself to get in contact with her again.
Of course it didn’t work.
All I got is silence, since 11 months ago.
I knew it from someone else that her dad was treated for cancer and she start to visit the specialist for her spinal therapy again — a recurring sickness, that almost never exist when I’m still with her.
In the distant, I’m worried of her.
Those short electronic message of wishes is cathartic — at least to me.
I wish her and her family the best of health.
Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, Sue.
Neither would be a “coping” solution. Yet every avenues make us human. The zeitgeist might not be the best of je ne sais quoi but it’s better than being blasé.
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.
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.
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.
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.