God.

I can be such an idiot sometimes. What the fuck.

I go through bouts.

True.

Stop escaping into your virtual world. It's not real.

Noise: I Go Deep by Jim Rivers.

(sigh, Nicole...)

press pause, please.

I am so desperate to live an interesting life. My life is worthwhile and interesting, but I just have spent so much time focusing on getting it that way that even though it's happened, I just haven't realized it because I can't remember what it was like before.

That said, even if I stop to appreciate what I have, I soon realize that sometimes I am tired and want to go home. Maybe my life was more justified when I made less of a purposeful effort; but I'm so afraid of fading into oblivion, of having nothing to show for my time here.

I am so afraid of being pointless.

reverse effect.

is it strange that the more I live, the less I value my life?

...

... Actually, no, I take that back. I do feel pain. I just wonder what it would be like to admit it.

x

Hi.

It's been awhile.

I don't really have anything of value to say... I just thought I'd send out a thought to the universe.

I've realized that I have been so disconnected that I no longer feel pain. And I've recently wondered what that must feel like. Real, gut-wrenching, heart-breaking pain.

Noise: I'm Waking Up To Us by Belle And Sebastian

Live below your means.

I'm 21. I have a full time job. I shop. I eat. I take taxis. And the day before I get my pay, I find that I am always broke. Why? Because I can never find the discipline to live below my means. But I'm getting there... I'm almost there. I'm learning to live a comfortable life, and not a wasteful one. I'm learning that it's pointless to try and live life to fool myself into thinking that wealth is measured in material objects. A Ferragamo bag, a silk robe, a pair of Jimmy Choo's... they are beautiful, but they don't mean anything. I'm learning that it is not about spending to impress others.

Manage your money wisely so that your money does not manage you. Always live well below your means, and redefine your definition of 'rich'. Because wealth is about being able to live comfortably, and then helping somebody else to do the same.

Here, but not here.

'I'm aware of my tongue... It's an awful feeling!

Every now and then I become aware that I have a tongue inside my mouth, and then it starts to feel lumped up...

I can't help it... I can't put it out of my mind...

I keep thinking about where my tongue would be if I weren't thinking about it, and then I can feel it sort of pressing against my teeth...'

- Linus, Peanuts

Recently, more frequently, I have become particularly aware of my physical body in its entirety, the world in its entirety, reality in its entirety. It feels like suddenly waking up from a falling dream, or almost bumping into somebody upon turning a corner, or like you're being chased by a bear even though you are sitting still. It's like the simple fact that I am actually real and breathing suddenly hits me, with the same freshness of an epiphany each time. It leaves me a bit giddy, gets my heart beating a bit faster, produces a slight acidic taste in my mouth and causes a brief surge of clammy, bubbling anxiety, like the initial stages of a panic attack. But I look around and see that everything is actually OK. It doesn't really match up. The moment quickly passes, but leaves me in a sort of confused state. 

The thing about such moments of heightened awareness that bothers me isn't so much the dizzying headrush that accompanies them, but the implication that the rest of the time, I might as well be asleep, since I am essentially cruising around on autopilot, scarcely even aware that I am...here.

The men and women in secret.

I wanted to journal my thoughts today, to etch them in pen and paper like I so rarely do. I wanted to write them down in an indecipherable script, or use some kind of shorthand that only I can understand. But here I am, typing clearly, whispering my words. I'm not sure why I want to write this down, what to release to this digital world, or why the stirring and repetitive wonderings of my memory alone is not enough. But my observations of the passers-by, their ambiguous thoughts on love, life and lust, of things that were over and would not come back yet the belief that they were still vividly present somewhere within reach, these things almost forcefully guide my tone as my perspective manifests.

I took a long walk home last night, partially to think about the phone conversation I had before and also to reward myself with some quiet time. At one point I parked myself by a bench along a train station, perked a cigarette between my fingers, folded my legs and watched the rush hour leftovers hurry right past me. Around our lives there will always be hints and rumours and suggestions, and I wonder if it's just part of the time and place.

Everyone who walked by was carrying with them a heady aura of a second life which seemed half secret and half open, as if it was OK to know but not mention. I sat there and searched each face as it passed, trying to decipher what it might unwittingly reveal, straining to listen carefully to their thoughts for little nuances and clues to take a brief but substantial peek into the souls of these strangers. And for the brief moment that these precious ones allowed me insight into their world, I forgot my own.

For myself, I've learned never to disclose anything, and never even to acknowledge the moment when some new information was imparted. I seem to have mastered the act of behaving as though a mere pleasantry had been exchanged, one that never concerned me. The men and women in this literary country move about like players in a game of knowing and not knowing, pretence and disguise. I've learnt everything from these strangers who whizz by, those who guard their heart and thoughts with fierce protection.

But is it really just part of the time and place? Maybe in a different country or period people allow themselves to believe that you had no hidden and secret self unless you emphatically declared to the contrary. Maybe there's a culture out there... one of easy duplicity, the sense you'd get of those men and women as they casually withhold what matters to them the most. Wouldn't that be shocking.

I've never had such a strong affinity for the intrigue, yet I thrive in knowing secrets.
Because not to know would be to miss almost everything.

x

Noise: Saviour King, Hillsong.
Let now the lost be welcomed home.

New crossroad, new direction, new destination.

So life is gratifying. I finally am on the road to achieving the financial freedom I have been secretly wishing and vocally praying for. It comes in the form of a job... A different kind of job. A non salary-paying kind of job.

My dad is also finally getting some butter on his hands as he releases his unreasonably suffocating grip on my life, particularly in the form of my passport. So I have travel freedom too, and I'm going to celebrate by traveling A LOT more this year. This month, actually. On the cards as of now is a three day two night Bintan break with some media folk. Some radio people, some magazine people. Then at the end of June I'm hoping to head to Melbourne and maybe drop by Sydney to say hi to some of the friendlies at action sports.

Henry and I are oddly better than ever. This whole distance thing is such a healthy balance. Although I do miss him insanely, I'm sure whoever is reading this doesn't want to believe there is a sappy teenager inside the practical realist that is me.

Speaking of age, I turn twenty in a couple of days. 11 days, to be exact. 11 June is the day I say goodbye to being a teenager. It was fun while it lasted.

That's all, really. Life hasn't dished out anything all that arresting, nothing that would make a sensational read. At least not in my book. Give it a month or so.

x
Noise: Last Request by Paolo Nutini
"Grant my last request and just let me hold you,
don't shrug your shoulders...
Lay down beside me.
Sure I can accept that we're going nowhere,
but one last time let's go there..."

If you're my queen, it's a beautiful thing.

Finally, in this remote villate, his quest ended.
There, by the fire, sat Truth.
Never had he seen an older, uglier woman.
"Are you Truth?"
The wizened, wrinkled hag nodded.
"What message can I take from you to the world?" he pleaded.
She replied, spitting into the fire,
"Tell them I am young and beautiful."
- Robert Tompkins

It's hard to say exactly when it happened, but gradually my want for conversation has become an increasingly important entity in my life. It is starting to dictate my decisions, to distort my sense of myself, and, is about to eventuate into a constant, droning, hopeless backdrop against with everything else occurs. It's starting to become all these things in the form a voice, a voice that is telling me that I am never going to find good conversation because there is something fatally flawed in me and that I might as well just face it.

I could go on about the people I have met who have somewhat measured up to some of all of my conversation-fantasy, but the truth is that the minutiae of many of my encounters aren't that interesting. Most of them start to seem the same in retrospect and eventually exhaust me. When they were taking place, each word weighed lightly. Maybe that is what makes them seem the same, in the end: They were not real.

So how do I live? I thrive off the memories. The way they used to listen, the things conversations used to say, the extent of their responsiveness; I would replay these details over and over, and live on them, use them as touchstones to brighten up my day in a bittersweet way.

I may seem like I am pining for a lost love, but what I really am doing is just trying to find my way back into the whirl of genuine social activity. This place is, after all, the only place - apart from Manhattan/London - I know of that moves at the speed of panic. So right now all I can do to escape this predicament is to distract myself with plans for the future. And that is something that I am attacking with a zeal that is beginning to border on compulsion.

x
Noise: Change Your Mind, Sister Hazel.

So you want to be a journalist?

There are many things in life that I have wanted to be, and still want to be. A lawyer, an actress, a mom, a model, a wife, a property agent, a plastic bubble...

But then I get my hands on something like this, and I know what I truly want to be. I want to be a writer. I want to be a creative writer, I want to be a journalist. A humourous journalist. Maybe this is why all the writers that I have admired seem to have that common denominator; humour. Humour comes easily to some, but it's a little challenging for others like me, who seem to have a knack for 'the crimson blood curled in a velvety fashion' type of language.

Wit is mostly inborn, and it seems like the British are very blessed with it. Singaporeans tend to be a bit more... uptight, for lack of better word. We access and re-access what we write, what we think, what we say... and that kind of takes the originality and character out of most things that we say/do/think because we are just so desperate to be politlcally correct. Which could possibly be a reason why our media tends to be great at the news items, but not so entertaining when it comes to... entertainment.

Here's a great example of entertainment. Of writing, of humour, and of something in life that I want to be. Or in this case, write.

P.S. I got hold of this because basically the guy who wrote it was with Henry in Russia and Henry was there at GQ Bar with him.

------

Gentlemen's Food

By Mark Ames ( editor@exile.ru )
I'm a GQ man. As more cultured readers know, I've had a regular column in the Russian edition of GQ for nearly three years now. I'm handsome, stylish, confident, and successful. Men want to be me, and women want to carry the weight of my burdens. My elitist contempt radiates across Eurasia from the magazine's glossy pages, but it's not the mean-spirited contempt you might find in the pages of this free rag rather, my GQ contempt says, "What can you do for me?" and "I'll give you ten seconds to wow me, starting five seconds ago."

So you can understand that I was not displeased when I heard that GQ had opened its own 24-hour elitist bar/restaurant, appropriately named GQ BAR. Finally, my own secure place to escape the noise and riff-raff.

I had the mud-caked Moskvich gypsy cab I rode in drop me off about two blocks away from GQ Bar, located a block from the Balchug Kempinski hotel. A GQ man should have a driver and a Lexus SUV. Unfortunately, my Lexus is still in the shop. At least, that's what I've been telling myself for about six years now, and will continue to tell myself and anyone else for the next six years.

If I was a plebian rather than a GQ man, I might have noticed the fine details about the restaurant's tasteful interior. As a GQ Man, I barreled past the door goons with contempt, and they reacted to my contempt as they always do: parting like the Red Sea.

Waiting for me at the far table on the room on the left was a group of international publishers from the world of glossy magazines. I can't tell you about the substance of our meeting you probably wouldn't understand it anyway, and besides, what can you do for us? but I will tell you that our waitress did not know the difference between whiskey and bourbon. When I asked for "Maker's Mark" she grimaced as if I'd just stuck my thumb into her ass. Poor peasant girl, I hope when they fire her, they let her down easy.

As for food, I have no fucking idea what we ate or what the prices were. They gave us chopsticks to eat European dishes like Lamb's Tongue (which I didn't touch), gnocchi with kidneys (tasted a bit Kal-Kan-ish), liver with mashed potatoes (m'm-m'm! I felt like a Senator!), another plate of thinly-sliced flesh with a demi-glace which no one bothered explaining, and finally a plate of dumplings that looked nice, but lacked substance. Sort of like me.

The international publishing titans paid for my meal, so I have no idea what it cost. And frankly I don't care. If you're a GQ Man, you don't bother with such silly trivialities. In fact, you don't bother even writing a review that offers relevant details to readers. If you want that kind of information, go read one of those plebian magazines like Afisha. But if you want to live vicariously through me and to envy me, then re-read this review. Either way, whatever you choose, I really couldn't care less. I'm too busy being great.

GQ Bar
Balchug Ul. 5
956-7775
24 hours
Metro: Tretyakovskaya

------

x

Noise: Miami Ink on Discovery Travel & Living