Yes, details matters, as do ideas, and notes
I think every quarter should include a long (4 days) weekend break like what we just had. It's a relief from everyday drudgery and soothing to the soul.
Chinese New Year has always been a quiet affair in this house, thankfully, you almost don't know there's something so festive going on. Except for the hordes of cars parked on my street, visitors paying respect or whatever you call it.
Had lunch at Mimolette today with the old high school gang. It's good to see them of course, but it's also weird. Maybe it was the setting, Mimolette is hidden deep in Eng Neo Ave in Singapore, where people go for horse riding and I think there might be a driving range as well. At the risk of a cliche, it's quite unSingaporean with a lot of greenery, space, narrow roads, and the smell of horses in the air. It looks like it's been converted from one of them old houses, though someone thought it might've been a stable considering its location. It felt like a cross between of a tea setting for high society members and people who just, live in their own bubbles in Singapore.
Sitting there looking around and at everyone, I was quite amused and maybe amazed, that the same people whom I hung out at sleepovers with, are ... well, maybe not old but at this stage in their (our) lives where we do Sunday brunches like this, in said ambiance. It's especially disconcerting because everyone ultimately reminisce about the past (at every gathering we've had, over the same photos) so there's such a contrast.
I'm not really sure what I'm uncomfortable with, actually. I'm trying to put a finger on it but it's slipper. I guess I never for the life of me would've pictured where we are today. Maybe it is an age issue. I feel old sitting around like that. I can so easily picture one of us with children running around the table. I think that's it.
Anyway, Mimolette is over hyped. It looks nice and it has a nice ambiance but there's nothing much beyond the surface. There were old stains on my seat, and on the tablecloth. The table was covered with a piece of white mahjong paper that they dispose of after ever meal. The drinks menu was thin, well worn, and flimsy. The food menu came on a big laminate. It's ... I don't know, maybe I'm just being more anal than usual but details details details. I detest seeing these details not followed through. It's disappointing because from the outside, it looks like a good place for a date, hang out, or bring the family. The food looked good except, instead of serving Dawn and Garina's beef medium and medium-well as requested, both came out medium-rare. That's almost shocking because most times my beef come out overdone when I request for a medium-rare. My oxtail fettuccine was thick and yummy, except the pasta was just a bit too al dente.
::
Today is the first time I experience the guttural, visceral roar of a Ferrari engine. It was an old car, and when it pulled up next to me, the engine was reverberating my stomach. It was like a deep throated gurgling from a cavern, like a lion warning off unwelcomed guests. I actually felt intimidated. The first and only time a car aroused such an emotion in me, and only because this was an old engine. The new ones don't pack the same visceral punch. It's a pity the car wasn't well maintained. Its paint had faded to a plasticky surface and looking down at the two exhausts, I was strangely reminded of an X-Wing fighter from Star Wars.
::
"You should keep your hair like that," out of nowhere.
"Huh? What hair?" I went, knowing quite well what my mum was referring to. Yeah, they still don't approve of the bald look.
"Look younger like that, not so fierce and not so tired looking."
"But it's only a few centimeters, and if you haven't notice, I have a lot of white hair on my temple."
"Nobody will notice when it's so short, and you look better."
"Ok ok ..."
Fleeting communication with a parental unit. Seriously, what's a few centimeters of hair gonna do for me?
::
I woke up with an idea for a story. Something sci-fi and epic. Maybe it was a spill over from a dream, I don't know. I used to have these crazy epic adventure dreams. So there's a protagonist, and he's prophesied to be the downfall of a race but nobody really knows he's the one. And he grows up among them and trains with them, and even designs training systems except of course one day he's gonna destroy them because they're powerless against the man who trained them for war and battle. Sounds stupid and half-baked now. It was one of those illuminating moments between sleep and wakefulness when everything felt right and made sense. Like how everything in a dream just made sense.
Another one: A young man who owns and drives his own cab. It's extremely well maintained, he obviously takes immense personal pride in the vehicle. It's clean, and there are no superfluous markings nor any form of advertising or communication in the interior. Minimal. In his own way, he takes pride in his grooming as well, long sleeved shirt with understated cuff links, fitted, tailored pants, waxed hair. I'm picturing Tony Leung from Days of Being Wild, that last scene where he gets dressed and slicks back his hair. On the roof of the cab is a shaded, circular light. So our young cabbie, he drives around the city picking up passengers. It might be a story of lives, passengers getting on and off in succession, with the cab as the transition, the link. It could be a story of the city laid out geographically. It could be a bunch of random conversations. Or it's nothing more than a cab driver who takes pride in what he does. He could be tripping off his head and driving a cab around for fun, playing his weird experimental electronic music, and passengers' reaction to it: Some get it, some don't. He doesn't care.
Two ideas for a poem: A night from last year when Koop played in the city. It's still stuck in my head waiting to get out but it's been stuck in there for a long time, and I don't know when the right time is, will be, or has passed. Jazz in the night, a picnic on a lawn surrounded by the skyscrapers of the business district, bubbles in the air, wines, people milling around, white goblets, curtains we sat on, and I saw a light going up up up into the night.
This other one: An old car with tinted windows. A man with a thick bushy mustache and brown tinted shades. I could only see from the back. His windows were up. And there he was wreathed in smoke, merrily puffing away at a cigarette. That car, that man, those tinted windows and shades and the smoke swirling in his little mobile felt like a sepia snapshot from the past. That was a traveling time capsule.
The back of a man on an escalator. He's wearing a black polo t-shirt with the collar up, ugh. Black pants. All very non-nondescript. Except, peeking out from that offending collar, are these chunky beaded necklaces. And as he stepped up, a lift of the pants at the left ankle flashed a shiny, black, beaded anklet. No story here, just an odd observation that stuck with me. The incongruity of that anklet.
I'm meant to these down in my notebook for stuff like this. I really hate the ... finality of jotting in a notebook. The mess of scratching words out, and the inflexibility of organizing information. I'm ridiculously digital.
::
Watching this very insightful and funny anime Genshiken. It's an anime about anime and manga freaks, more commonly known as otakus. Though otaku is more a term for obsessive freaks rather than anime freaks specifically. So you can have tech otakus too. I'm not sure why I'm blogging about it, except at some point I thought it was kinda amusing that I, being an unabashed anime fan though I hope not to the point of turning otaku, is enjoying an anime about otakus and I'm relating enough to chuckle or laugh at the scenarios. And it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I should try learning Japanese. I found out at lunch Garina is learning French. I really ought to try learning something new to keep the brain working and perhaps gain new perspectives.
Chinese New Year has always been a quiet affair in this house, thankfully, you almost don't know there's something so festive going on. Except for the hordes of cars parked on my street, visitors paying respect or whatever you call it.
Had lunch at Mimolette today with the old high school gang. It's good to see them of course, but it's also weird. Maybe it was the setting, Mimolette is hidden deep in Eng Neo Ave in Singapore, where people go for horse riding and I think there might be a driving range as well. At the risk of a cliche, it's quite unSingaporean with a lot of greenery, space, narrow roads, and the smell of horses in the air. It looks like it's been converted from one of them old houses, though someone thought it might've been a stable considering its location. It felt like a cross between of a tea setting for high society members and people who just, live in their own bubbles in Singapore.
Sitting there looking around and at everyone, I was quite amused and maybe amazed, that the same people whom I hung out at sleepovers with, are ... well, maybe not old but at this stage in their (our) lives where we do Sunday brunches like this, in said ambiance. It's especially disconcerting because everyone ultimately reminisce about the past (at every gathering we've had, over the same photos) so there's such a contrast.
I'm not really sure what I'm uncomfortable with, actually. I'm trying to put a finger on it but it's slipper. I guess I never for the life of me would've pictured where we are today. Maybe it is an age issue. I feel old sitting around like that. I can so easily picture one of us with children running around the table. I think that's it.
Anyway, Mimolette is over hyped. It looks nice and it has a nice ambiance but there's nothing much beyond the surface. There were old stains on my seat, and on the tablecloth. The table was covered with a piece of white mahjong paper that they dispose of after ever meal. The drinks menu was thin, well worn, and flimsy. The food menu came on a big laminate. It's ... I don't know, maybe I'm just being more anal than usual but details details details. I detest seeing these details not followed through. It's disappointing because from the outside, it looks like a good place for a date, hang out, or bring the family. The food looked good except, instead of serving Dawn and Garina's beef medium and medium-well as requested, both came out medium-rare. That's almost shocking because most times my beef come out overdone when I request for a medium-rare. My oxtail fettuccine was thick and yummy, except the pasta was just a bit too al dente.
::
Today is the first time I experience the guttural, visceral roar of a Ferrari engine. It was an old car, and when it pulled up next to me, the engine was reverberating my stomach. It was like a deep throated gurgling from a cavern, like a lion warning off unwelcomed guests. I actually felt intimidated. The first and only time a car aroused such an emotion in me, and only because this was an old engine. The new ones don't pack the same visceral punch. It's a pity the car wasn't well maintained. Its paint had faded to a plasticky surface and looking down at the two exhausts, I was strangely reminded of an X-Wing fighter from Star Wars.
::
"You should keep your hair like that," out of nowhere.
"Huh? What hair?" I went, knowing quite well what my mum was referring to. Yeah, they still don't approve of the bald look.
"Look younger like that, not so fierce and not so tired looking."
"But it's only a few centimeters, and if you haven't notice, I have a lot of white hair on my temple."
"Nobody will notice when it's so short, and you look better."
"Ok ok ..."
Fleeting communication with a parental unit. Seriously, what's a few centimeters of hair gonna do for me?
::
I woke up with an idea for a story. Something sci-fi and epic. Maybe it was a spill over from a dream, I don't know. I used to have these crazy epic adventure dreams. So there's a protagonist, and he's prophesied to be the downfall of a race but nobody really knows he's the one. And he grows up among them and trains with them, and even designs training systems except of course one day he's gonna destroy them because they're powerless against the man who trained them for war and battle. Sounds stupid and half-baked now. It was one of those illuminating moments between sleep and wakefulness when everything felt right and made sense. Like how everything in a dream just made sense.
Another one: A young man who owns and drives his own cab. It's extremely well maintained, he obviously takes immense personal pride in the vehicle. It's clean, and there are no superfluous markings nor any form of advertising or communication in the interior. Minimal. In his own way, he takes pride in his grooming as well, long sleeved shirt with understated cuff links, fitted, tailored pants, waxed hair. I'm picturing Tony Leung from Days of Being Wild, that last scene where he gets dressed and slicks back his hair. On the roof of the cab is a shaded, circular light. So our young cabbie, he drives around the city picking up passengers. It might be a story of lives, passengers getting on and off in succession, with the cab as the transition, the link. It could be a story of the city laid out geographically. It could be a bunch of random conversations. Or it's nothing more than a cab driver who takes pride in what he does. He could be tripping off his head and driving a cab around for fun, playing his weird experimental electronic music, and passengers' reaction to it: Some get it, some don't. He doesn't care.
Two ideas for a poem: A night from last year when Koop played in the city. It's still stuck in my head waiting to get out but it's been stuck in there for a long time, and I don't know when the right time is, will be, or has passed. Jazz in the night, a picnic on a lawn surrounded by the skyscrapers of the business district, bubbles in the air, wines, people milling around, white goblets, curtains we sat on, and I saw a light going up up up into the night.
This other one: An old car with tinted windows. A man with a thick bushy mustache and brown tinted shades. I could only see from the back. His windows were up. And there he was wreathed in smoke, merrily puffing away at a cigarette. That car, that man, those tinted windows and shades and the smoke swirling in his little mobile felt like a sepia snapshot from the past. That was a traveling time capsule.
The back of a man on an escalator. He's wearing a black polo t-shirt with the collar up, ugh. Black pants. All very non-nondescript. Except, peeking out from that offending collar, are these chunky beaded necklaces. And as he stepped up, a lift of the pants at the left ankle flashed a shiny, black, beaded anklet. No story here, just an odd observation that stuck with me. The incongruity of that anklet.
I'm meant to these down in my notebook for stuff like this. I really hate the ... finality of jotting in a notebook. The mess of scratching words out, and the inflexibility of organizing information. I'm ridiculously digital.
::
Watching this very insightful and funny anime Genshiken. It's an anime about anime and manga freaks, more commonly known as otakus. Though otaku is more a term for obsessive freaks rather than anime freaks specifically. So you can have tech otakus too. I'm not sure why I'm blogging about it, except at some point I thought it was kinda amusing that I, being an unabashed anime fan though I hope not to the point of turning otaku, is enjoying an anime about otakus and I'm relating enough to chuckle or laugh at the scenarios. And it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I should try learning Japanese. I found out at lunch Garina is learning French. I really ought to try learning something new to keep the brain working and perhaps gain new perspectives.