burger

I have been staring at the blank white page of Microsoft Word for a while. Robson Green’s “Extreme Fishing” and James Wong’s “Grow your own Drugs” stole my short attention span for the past hours that the blank canvas of MS Word left untainted but begging to be fed with even a single word. However, I’m afraid “Samantha Who?” is threatening that.

I finally gave in. The purity of white which signifies nothingness drives the eternal disarray-loving self to whack a foray of colours onto the MS Word canvas but that is just a sad notion I guess. There comes a time when a clean sheet of paper or a monotonous existence is a harbinger of quiet and peaceful life. This may be the bone of contention for most of us who live life to the fullest but a plateau of existence is certainly inevitable.

A friend of mine celebrated her birthday at Maxwell’s (Covent Garden) today. It’s Monday Madness promotion that most of the originally pricey American viands were slashed to 50%. The massive burger was down to a fiver and the cocktails were on the happy hour scheme. My friend argued her “blue crush” cocktail being crimson red but the waitress happily pointed out the blueberry content of the cocktail. Whilst masticating the medium-rare beef and partaking on her chilly fajitas, our conversation focused on one’s well-being and relationships. As she explained, she was drowning in tears few days ago. To cut the story short, we deduced that a relationship has enough energy to fuel a Cruise Ship through the plain and rough seas from here to eternity and back.

At last, this canvas has started to fill up with words but I am pretty certain that it will be less colourful than usual. Black and white tinge is coincidently appealing to my senses at the moment. Transiently, I am docked and the anchor is secured in shallow waters.

The time will come when we will all have our own little trips to Maxwell’s for intense reflection.

Flu

This is a low key Sunday.

For days, the sun has graced the beginning of Spring. I must be in convivial spirit for I’d be able to step out in lighter clothing and free the strapping of my feet but I certainly feel betrayed. I do not know who or what to blame for my miserable and disconsolate self but perhaps the two or more sneezing and coughing souls inside the tube and the transition of weather conditions aggravated my condition. With my nasal sinuses clogging up and my throbbing head tampering on my patience, I am the worst representation of myself.

Not to be outdueled by affliction, indoor activities do not have to be stodgy. Being flat on my back and feeling incapacitated is the least appealing option to spend my precious weekend. Together with occasional sneeze and the clearing of nasal passages, I am just content spending it with these:

1. Lemon cheesecake that Bo made out of scratch
2. Facebook loathing
3. Watching telly
3.1 Repeats of American Idol
3.2 Cooking programs
3.3 Dark Angel
3.4 Stylista
3.5 Step it Up and Dance
3.6 D.A.R.Y.L
3.7 Beyonce Top 20 Video (as forced by Bo)
3.8 Gattaca
4. Cooking spaghetti meatballs and beef rendang
5. Youtube browsing
6. NADAL, NADAL, NADAL

D.A.R.Y.L just made me cry and tonight, I am anticipating the final of BNP Paribas Finals, Indian Wells. Andrew Murray, the pride and glory of Tennis Britain will duel against the bull from Spain, Rafael Nadal. The juggernaut that is Rafa will try to win his 13th ATP Masters title today and I will be chanting and rooting for him in front of my 15.1” laptop thru streaming.

Now that’s a good distraction to the ongoing onslaught of viral plague as my body tries to outfox the invaders.

For Arts Sake!

Everyone’s got talent (debatable). There is always something that we are just good at. Some are painters during their spare time and work as an accountant during the week. Some are buskers at the London Underground and yet, like most of us “work-drones” are scrambling on a daily commute to work in a 9 to 5 job.

Some of my friends say I can sing and few agree that I can dance. But then again,who cannot sing and dance these days? Lately, I’ve had this budding interest in photography that prompted me to yearn for a heavier SLR camera which is now a far cry from the point and shoot photography I used to express myself in pictures. And now, some say I have the knack for it and should I get bored of my present “bread and butter”, there’s a job I could fall back into with little adjustments. But seriously, why would I give up my job?

Two weeks ago, I confided my deep interest to learn a guitar and was shunned away from it. Acutely aware of my persona, I was made to believe that it was just a passing fancy. Although at the moment, my passion for that venture of strumming a guitar and singing an indie classic reverberate inside my head like a pathological tinnitus. Thinking of these artistic inclinations to better myself, I just couldn’t help but fall as prey to the green-eyed monster when I see someone who has an innate affinity to artistic expression.

Allow me to convince you. If you’re not, then you must have been born under the same sign as those who judge the Turner Prize. However, let me warn you of the filth and racy lines they evoke. With his will under my persuasive coercion, Bo’s artworks totally brighten up my web page with these few selected sketches.

Above are the few stolen ones from his sketch pad.

Rubbish

Taking advantage of the River Thame’s low tide, an army of green volunteers set out a two-day green blitz. This is a clear out of rubbish clogging up the shoreline. Below are the finds of this endeavour other than the 30,000 plastic bags that millions of Londoners (and visitors) surreptitiously discarded without care:

A skull

Second World War bombs and shells

Plastic bunting from Charles and Diana’s Wedding Day

Models of Lenin and Buddha

Guns

Packet of cashew nuts (best before 1983)

Clay pipes

Tyres

Knives

Coconuts

Engagement rings

Every missing item tells a story. Those who claim life is simple are obviously deluded. Even the Thames can conjure up an Oscar winning screenplay out of the things that begrime its face.

Should I come forward and claim my engagement ring?

As I type

On my way home, typical elements of multicultural olio inhabit the northern line (tube). After a long warm day, I am tired and suffering from that perceptively sporadic mood swing.

Let me start with the curtain-haired chap from the Far East pulling boogers like a deep mining expedition during the Thatcherite revolution. Next to him is a pale old Indian man wearing an oversized pea coat in a truly deep contemplative mood occasionally looking around the carriage like a mentalist reading thoughts including mine. He must be wondering what on Earth I am poking on my E71 Nokia so hopelessly and endlessly. Intently quiet is the Sofia Coppola clone sitting next to me and reading a book. With the unwanted use of my peripheral vision, it is not a fictional novel nor a screenplay she diligently reads but a textbook about commodities and economics. How apt, I think. Of the 14 strangers at peace with their own microcosm, 10 are absorbed into mp3 magic. Half of them, nodding to imaginary beat.

The mentalist is the first to depart at Belsize Park still pondering about my curious look and the ostensively interminable and laborious text writing. I am planning to yield a smile but the door shuts in seconds and he’s gone. It is just past eight pm and I am starting to lose my stranger-friends. The girl frowns as I foolishly and insanely smile out of nothing. She follows it with a penetrating gaze as the train inches towards the dark tunnel. She will never find out about my thoughts but to care about it is the least thing in her mind right now. Just a mere moment and my stop beckons. “People- watching” seems interesting to fritter away time. They are the friends in a classified wordless existence that amplifies the volume of silence.

At that fleeting juncture, I thought they were friends and I was just listening to their supplications about British life and perhaps, the growing tetchiness surrounding recession. I was listening to their stories as they sat there quietly.

I wonder if they were listening to mine.

finding correlation

Her eyes were telling me that she had nothing else to add to her litany of monologues about the question being asked. Looking at my list, she's yet to mention a few more of suitable responses to tick the box to meet the achievement of a certain competency. Eventually, it was a blank stare and an act of submission to the fact that she may have to pass on this one and just hope for the best.

Her body language was betraying her thoughts. Her firm grasps of the cushioned side of the chair as well as her fidgety feet were evident as she restlessly expounded on a topic unnecessarily. The simple statements became incalculable and sparse. From the double-glazed glass window emanated the faint roaring sound of drilling from across the street but seemed louder than her voice. The words were drowned by sheer insecurity of shattered confidence against the fundamentality of questions. With utter hesitation, the English words became elusive as her second language.

The past twenty-five minutes dragged on. Her written exam was a complete mirrored distortion of her physical actuality. Lastly, she smiled wryly.

As she stepped out of the room, I knew it would be the last time I’d see her in person. I refused to be the bearer of the bad news on the phone later that day. I was in deep reflection. I realised that I was weak. Contemplating on the impact of professional and personal judgments on major life’s decisions was enough to question my morality against the established tools of measure.

It was survival of the fittest in action.

man.woman

It is 22:33 and the weather outside is in irresolute disposition. It is behaving like a woman. I will be branded a chauvinist pig for this sexist remark but I will take it as a compliment for now. Venturing into a man’s psyche is something a gay man wishes to explore in times of the wild, untamed woodland call. The tug of war of sexuality is finding these fickle-minded atmospheric conditions a precursor to such instability of mental predisposition.

Tonight, I feel like a man.

Being one means brevity and directness.

I haven’t written anything for ages. At the moment, the only appealing thing to me is a good tinker of a gadget: my camera. I call this piece “home”.