April 23
Highlight of the day:
20 vintage Volkswagen Beetles, 20 different classic colors; driving in a straight line down
the highway. I couldn't get a good picture because I was locked in the car. Now you just don't
see that every day.
April 25
Right after my exam I started reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close again. I read it
first December last year, and now that I read it again it's so different, I interpret it differently.
It's either I grow very, very fast, or I have suddenly become extremely over-analyctic.
If a boy like Oskar Schell existed, I would ask him out for coffee, seriously. Even though he is
only 9. Foer is a genius.
I adore the sound a French horn makes. It's got this lazy drawl that is at the same time so
full and, I don't know. It's unique from other wind instruments. And it reminds me of Cirque du
Soleil, too for some reason.
I was at a café once. Woman walks in with her chin in the air. A girl follows shortly after,
probably around 14 or 15, walks struts in, spots me, stares for a while and then
tosses her hair.
Why I get all these people staring is beyond me, I only start to look when I feel them looking,
but anyway.
"I'll have the... #name what was that drink we saw outside again go check?" The woman said,
half to the cashier and half to the girl, whom I was by then sure was the woman's daughter.
Girl struts back out, opens the door to look at the advertisement outside Seattle's Best
Coffee (which sucks, by the way). Now you'd think opening a door would be simple but she did
some sort of dance, stopping about an arm's length in front of the door and then leaning over
for the handle. Hair swishes; left leg is raised behind her, parallel to the ground. She puts up a
show in the middle of the café, whose customers at the moment was only myself with the rest
of my family. I raise an eyebrow from behind my cookie.
Et cetera, et cetera.
Soon after I passed by her while I was on my way out and she was watching me again, she
seemed to have developed some sort of grudge within the 5 minutes (give or take a few) of
being under the same roof. She was standing up, and then when I was Right in front of her, she
took off her top.
Okay I'm kidding.
She was actually only taking off her sweater - which she could have just simply unbuttoned
instead of doing her own grotesque rendition of Show Tunes.
But it did look like that at first, because of the way she took it off and how the top stuck to her
sweater for a while. I raise my eyebrow again and my sister snorts beside me. The girl had
her eye on us the whole time even after we passed by, when we looked back. It was as if she
was saying, "I am a googolplex times sexier than you, rah rah!" Seriously. Do I Look like I
want your face?
You see this is why I cannot become a novelist. That description of the few minutes in the
café was so draggy to me so I just cut it off with "et cetera, et cetera." I find it extremely
tedious to come up with a good plot and not lose adrenaline to work the same story for so
long. I wouldn't be able to keep it up for even 80 pages of a book. If I were ever to write a
book it would probably be some sort of compiled thing. Like this blog.
But the probability of the content of this blog being worth mass production is 1 out of
239851953. Besides, what I write will probably only be interesting if the reader knows me
personally. I need to tell things to someone, you see, and I used to be able do that all the
time when I had my phone and people to text. And MSN (though actually if I were given the privelege of IMing right now, I would run from it like the plague. The final stage of withdrawal symptoms from something must be the withdrawal itself). And regular phone conversations
with Rachel. So now that all that's gone, and my need to Tell isn't, I'm putting everything into
this page, no matter how random or pointless.
Yollie, she told me I should write something, she could be editor and if it was good it could
probably get published. She thinks I'm an aspiring novelist although I thought I made it quite
clear that I didn't want to be.
If I show her something I've written, I can just imagine her eyebrows raise as her opinion of
my potential flips completely. Everytime she comes for her weekly voice lessons she says
loudly, "Where's the journalist!"
April 26
Today I looked up the word 'art' in the dictionary, because I realized I knew what it meant but
by my own understanding and not the standard definition of the English Language. As I
expected, the dictionary defined art as the skill of something, or paintings and drawings.
Not once was the word 'understanding' in any of the three definitions.
Or maybe they meant that by saying 'skill'. But anyway.
Art is all about understanding. The elements, the technique, yourself, the artist. I've always
wondered if anyone has really created anything on his/her own, and not fuelled by inspiration
- be it sub-conscious or conscious.
But right now, as I start this new paragraph, I will contradict myself. I have no idea where my
sort of 'art' comes from, so I don't understand it. There is no meaning even if someone stares
at it the whole day. Usually all I do is look at regular things, and distort them, make them
something new but still keeping some of the original genes.
Ever since the sudden boom in development of the digital camera (not 'arrival', pioneer digital
cameras were around the 70s), the art of photography spread faster than the news of Tom
and Katie's "Silent Birth" plan.
One of my top pet peeves is when people pick up a camera, snap at a couple of oranges with
the flash over-exposing it, and call themselves photographers.
Then again, I'm not either - I'm only halfway through mastering the art and the camera I use
is a slightly advanced point-and-shoot. I'm an enthusiast, I do know a handful and have
some photos I can be proud of, but I haven't learned enough.
So what is it, really? What does is take to be rightfully called a photographer, if not one
professionally? I was thinking last night and I decided that the final product is what has to be
taken a look at. Not the camera, not the amount of knowledge, not the subject. I mean, if the
photo looks good but the person who took it knows nothing about photography then it Must be
something, right?
I've come across a lot of people who do a double-take on me when they spot me with my
Panasonic, they say "WOW, are you a photographer!" and that's the tragedy of it all, it's all
about the gadgets. A quote from photographer Sam Abell in a digital photography guidebook -
It matters little how much equipment we use; it matters much that we be masters of all
we do use.
And I couldn't agree more. I've used my father's EOS 350D a few times but I always go back
to my Panasonic because that's the one I'm familiar with and there's no doubt I would come
up with a better photo with the latter rather than the pro-enthusiast one my father has.
The best camera a photographer or enthusiast can ever get, they already possess - their
minds. The Photograph before the photograph. I could have the best camera in the world but
if I don't know my way round it then it is useless.
April 29
My parents slept in my room last night, because the air-conditioner was turned on and money
is supposed to be saved like that. They were asleep and I need to write.
So I wrote in the dark.
Used a ruler to prevent my lines from running into each other, but it didn't work that well.
Weird, but anyway.
It was interesting because it was never so easy to put thoughts onto paper before. I could
see absolutely nothing, all that was on my mind was my train of thoughts, and the 0.3
diameter pen that was scratching against the paper. No distractions. Unfortunately that train
of thought was full of shit, so.
I was at the village's art festival today. It wasn't that mind-blowing, it was more of a
celebration of the Filipino art culture, than the typical air-conditioned gallery of paintings and
sculptures. In fact it was an inaguration of the village Art Pavillion, meaning it was outdoors,
meaning exposed to the at-least-37-degree heat.
And by the way, if you thought Singapore was humid, then seriously man, you haven't been to
the Philippines. In Singapore you can sit still and feel cooler, but here if you sit still the heat
will slowly envelope and dominate.
Anyway. I hate it when I look at a painting but can never interpret it correctly. Was
reasonably enlightened when I stopped at the booth of a guy who must have been in his late
teens or early 20s, who had digital art framed and on display. Easier to understand,
obviously.
You paint?
No, not really. It's either I'm not good with a brush or I don't have the patience. I love
looking at them though.
Haha. I can relate.
Oh so the paintings aren't yours?
Nah, the digital art is.
Those are brilliant.
Thanks!
-
So. I'm not coming back to Singapore. My parents made it pretty clear last night
when I brought the subject up for the 93846th time.
If I were Oskar Schell I would be telling you how I got really really tremendously heavy boots
when I heard that. But I'm not, so.
This really really really fucking sucks. And that's like 1/2 less to look forward to, and the
things I look forward to in life right now isn't really a lot of things if itsn't already obvious.
To think I was thinking up how I was going to meet everyone again and stuff. Sheesh. Yeah
nothing oozing philosophy and pretentiousness today.
April 30
Mom's office. Will be online till 1pm. If anyone's reading. Archives are the numbers (well,
number, for now.) at the top, 1 being the oldest (the entry before this one.)
Internet here doesn't load pictures
wtf.
Updated Sunday, April 30, 2006, 10:40 a.m..
Say hello comment piss moan rave or whatever.
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