I think I forgot to announce that Kel placed second in the Commonwealth Essay Competition! Second in what is essentially half the world by virtue of geography! Incidentally they somehow transliterated her last name wrong, and thus I was deeply confounded for a moment on Wednesday while I was scanning through the results - but of course there’s only one Kellynn in SAJC who submitted her essay for the competition. (Coincidentally, Jun En, who was awarded a ‘Highly Commended’, was another victim of their sloppy name-checking - lol, ‘June’.) I’m immensely proud of her, holy shit, winning the Commonwealth Essay Competition is the stuff of dreams and the aspirations of covetous school principals salivating at the prospect of a marketing coup for their Junior College programme. This also means she beat such impressive essays as Daryl’s and, uh, Patrick’s? Don’t bother hiding behind your veil of secrecy any longer, Kel - EVERYONE’S going to find out. Especially if your school happens to include a mention of it in their promotional materials. Also, you should obviously post it online. I digress.

So we caught up first over lunch, then amid the quaint interior decor of the cheesecake cafe - miniature statues in the style of Ancient Greece, antique clocks abound, and sunlight streaming delightfully down through a sunroof upon an indoor pond which provided a measure of Zen with its subdued trickle of running water. I am seriously in love with the ornamentation - few cafes can boat such tasteful attention to detail, much less the old-world charm it exudes. On a unrelated note I have confirmed my suspicions about myself being decidedly un-photogenic (at least in comparison to my friends). I am much better kept behind the lens than put in front of it, as one of the following photographs will evince. Nevertheless:

Also, Mom: I am thoroughly dissatisfied with your compact camera. It flounders in low light!

Forgive me for the uninspired post title and the mediocre photographs, I am currently embroiled in an academic nightmare (World Literature Essays), and the camera (Zhe Xian’s, which I have borrowed) lens was godawfully grimy. I am at a loss to explain how he managed to smother so minute a glass surface with the oil content of a Big Mac, and am not about to enquire. Nevertheless I have since cleaned it.

Anyway, at the behest of the anonymous on the Shoutbox I have uploaded a couple of photos of the crippled Greenshank. You can observe its broken leg that sticks out so conspicuously. It’s not particularly morbid, and it’s also somewhat blurry, so I guess that makes it worksafe?

Unfortunately, my working on it was pretty much conditional on the completion of my World Literature 2 essay, which I thought would be a piece of cake. I had handwritten notes! Not to mention, I greatly admire Lu Xun and relish his writing. (Ironic, I know, as apparently my IB grade in Chinese is not truly reflective of how inadequate I am at the language. Still, I am somewhat able to grasp Lu Xun’s unpretentious vernacular - that, and that I’m working off an English translation.) But alas, I say ‘unfortunately’ because I am sure anyone could take a stab at what deplorable sequence of events happened, and hit the bulls-eye right on. The tendency for imagination to collectively align is a wonderful thing, but it worries me that my procrastination complex (for complex it honestly is) is arousing lazy stereotypes and generally handing out bad impressions; besides, at this critical juncture, it really isn’t wise for me to put off such work.

I can analyze myself to death, and maybe I shall - but I cannot afford such a luxury today. (I should consider taking psychology in college.) There’s a great net called ‘passion’ that’s mitigating my rapid descent into the very bowels of the hidden cirriculum. However, it seems that at the moment I’ve accumulated too much inertia to immediately spring back up.

This is what the people jogging by crinkle their noses at - daily. But in these putrid conditions, a fragile cripple has made its home. No, it’s not one of those ‘resident invalids‘ a certain Wikitravel editor claims you will find in well nigh every hawker centre. (That was pretty funny, though. Yet, regrettably, somewhat true.) Instead, it’s a Common Greenshank, Tringa nebularia, one of the few species of wading birds that inhabit the (artifical) waterways of this island.

Our little Greenshank has had one of its feet horribly mangled - whether by birth or not, it’s hard to say for sure. It’s pointing, quite grotesquely, in the opposite direction one would assume a foot to point. Needless to say, this double-jointed ankle poses quite a problem for the little bird - it has to hobble. On its contorted ankle. The effort it makes to move looks excruciating - even more so when we consider how, as a wader, its natural function is to deftly stalk in shallow water. You wouldn’t think it could survive.

I noticed the Greenshank three weeks ago, and I saw it again today, occupying the same spot on the elevated ledge of the ditch proper, head cocked attentively and beak hovering above the slight groove that accommodates the mucky stream at its driest level. It has been a veritable rock of determination, hunting small fish with the same fervour as its more able-bodied brothers downstream, albeit with a funny gait, and generally less gesture. Just pure concentration. You can see it in its beady little eyes.

Barack Obama’s Epic Win:

The historic nature of Obama’s victory is portrayed in racial terms. But Obama will join William Jennings Bryan (1896), Woodrow Wilson (1912) and Jimmy Carter (1976) as one of the rare Democrats nominated for president in the heady first years of their appearance on a national stage. Five years ago, Obama was a little-known Illinois state senator embarking on an uphill race for the U.S. Senate. Think of all the ambitious Democrats who have eyed the White House in this decade — John Kerry, John Edwards, Howard Dean and all the rest — and realize how Obama just blew past them without ever working up a sweat. This is an up-from-nowhere narrative that puts all modern politicians to shame. Even though Obama’s cool charisma often evokes memories of John F. Kennedy, JFK had spent 14 years dabbling in Congress before he ran in 1960.

Oh, yes. I’ve not forgotten that it’s the anniversary of another epic victory:

On a side note, whenever I skim through the comments on YouTube videos I cannot help but get the impression that a large majority (or at least, a very outspoken minority) of its users are what rational people would deem the scum of the earth. Tragic, truly.

Eh, eh, don’t drink that! Get some water! Coffee isn’t for young children; coffee will give you brain damage! You have to wait ’til you’re an adult!

Well, I choked on my fry. Nevertheless, I don’t expect her daughter to grasp the true perilousness of brain damage, but kudos to the lady for possibly one less too-young caffeine addict, and also for melodramatic hyperbole.

Today, or should I say, tonight, was also the date for the Sundown Marathon. While cycling, I met this man who was not participating per se, but following his buddy, who was a participant, along the route, presumably for encouragement. This would be pretty commonplace and humdrum if not for the fact that he chose to do so in a handbike which looked somewhat like this:

Being initially ignorant, I asked him if he made it himself. (In my defense, it was an unfamiliar cool mechanical contraption, and cool mechanical contraptions are often made by eccentric individuals in a well-equipped garage. And no, this is not a residual influence of the Iron Man movie.) Seems like you can purchase these pretty easily! Though I’m sure all that tiresome hand-pedalling is way beyond my ability. Also, because his bike was configured for such a low profile that he was virtually lying straight down, its length meant that sharp corners were quite a nuisance, though he could go reasonably fast otherwise.

1. Play Metal Slug on their laptops with the speakers activated, whilst simultaneously blocking the aisle with their stretched legs
2. Put their five-toed-socked/bare feet on the couches, contorted in what must be rather uncomfortable poses that nevertheless take up an inordinate amount of space on the originally two-seater seats
3. Lean on the somewhat fragile Southeast Asian painting exhibit during loud conversations on their expensive mobile phones that they brandish like gaudy jewelry and not notice the damn boards are shaking precariously
4. Play dull sports simulation games on their PSP, putting their bare feet on books their friend had obnoxiously strewn around on the floor, and feeling so pleased with themselves when they score points that they cannot control their urge to recount loudly the details of his triumph to said friend

Yes, this is my diatribe against the flagrant infractors of the unspoken rules of public space. I don’t see why Singapore should be selectively adherent to the vague notion of ‘Asian Values’, picking out what seem to be the worst of the bunch for its own (well, I use ascribe things to owners here rather loosely) self-actualization but ignoring the genuinely favourable sense of courteous public spirit that is supposedly rooted in our (again, nonspecific for some effect or another) culture.

To ground it in the context of the library,

‘… a culture that doesn’t value its librarians doesn’t value ideas and without ideas, well, where are we?’

- The Sandman, Neil Gaiman

One has to question if this sort of conduct is symptomatic of the state of our society as a whole; in my opinion, some people really need to think a little more often.

In particular, one the arguments he makes is that Atwood’s vision of a purportedly technologically-advanced future is decidedly outmoded and retro, even when taken in the context of our modern day; thus precluding any sort of commentary she might have intended on humanity’s plausible socio-cultural trajectories:

And Atwood’s vision of the future of the Internet has to be experienced to be believed:

When they weren’t playing [seriously old-fashioned computer] games they’d surf the Net—drop in on old favourites, see what was new. They’d watch open-heart surgery in live time, or else the Noodie News. … Or they’d watch animal snuff sites, Felicia’s Frog Squash and the like. … Or they’d watch dirtysockpuppets.com, a current-affairs show about world political leaders. … Or they might watch hedsoff.com, which played live coverage of executions. … Shortcircuit.com, brainfrizz.com, and deathrowlive.com were the best; they showed electrocutions and lethal injections….

“What is this shit?” said Crake. “Channel change!”

And so on, and it becomes increasingly clear that Atwood’s got something deeply wrong here—that she’s satirizing yesterday in the language of the day before yesterday, 1990 in the language of 1960; and that she’s not taking her sci-fi potshots at the Net at all, but at cable television.

It is indeed ironic that Clute should find the prevalence of video over the Internet passé, for, since circa 2006, the World Wide Web’s consumer-fueled existential circumstance has been exactly that. Moreover, and eerily enough - as minute or two on Google will attest - such gems as this video of ‘open-heart surgery’ already pepper our increasingly media-rich networks.

Clute entirely fails to consider that a cultural trend (a predilection for video in this case) can be intransigently recurrent despite the unrelenting advance of technology. What really ‘has to be experienced to be believed’ is the extent that Clute’s imagination is embalmed in its myopic notions of a future with so hidebound a range of possibilities that even video over the Internet - already in existence for as long as RealPlayer has pushed its adware infested bloat upon unsuspecting users - is alien enough to be denigrated as a vestige of the past. Or perhaps, conversely, he is expecting far too much from the fabrication of near futures - warp drive, universal translator, holodeck, who-knows-what - also reflecting a narrow-mindedness; this time for the inability to accept human ingenuity as somehow limited.

I would argue that Atwood’s contextualization of a contiguous (to our present) milieu is fairly believable in some respects, especially technology-wise - yet, as our society stands today, it would have to do much worse to match the utterly depraved world as depicted in Oryx and Crake. Atwood excels at forceful hinting: she puts the fictional dystopia well within our reach, but it is necessarily too slippery at present to grasp. Perhaps as the sands of time trickle into our half of the hourglass we might garner enough friction for the deplorable task.

I contrast the serenity I felt then with the ennui that plagues me now; it is disheartening. I remember poring over the treasure trove of photographs taken during the day. Now I hardly even have the time or motivation to take the Nikon out for a brief spin. All I have troves of now are uninspiring but important assignments that the perfectionist part of me is reluctant to touch yet obsessively adamant on mastering.

—

A shitty poem of mine that possibly suits this torpor:

Shine your promise on me
Muse, I don’t think I can
Live any further than the door
Out of my room of doubt and misery.
I can’t see the ends of my
Tapering fingers, though I can
Feel where they touch.
It’s invariably slimy these days,
Seems like I’m stuck in a rut.

—

It’s five days to my birthday and boy does it suck.

I didn’t originally intend to take advantage of Ben and Jerry’s ‘Free Cone Day’ today, but eventually did, with Mel, Steph, and Ted Kin; City Hall station is pretty convenient for me, and I had to procure my aforementioned stylus in the area anyway. Thankfully the winding queue that had formed snaking around Raffles City mall’s basement level was quick-moving despite appearing deceptively long. My only qualm with the free cone of New York Super Fudge Chunk I received was the residual adhesive I think I ingested. It still tasted fairly excellent, nevertheless. It was fortunate that we got our share early - as the evening wore on, it seems, the crowd increasingly swelled with the sort of obnoxious simpletons you would usually avoid queuing with, and by 6.30 PM or so the chain had deteriorated into a sort of mass mess.

I’ve taken to writing more in my poetry/prose/metaphysicalramblings journal quite comfortably as of late. My pen usually ravages its virgin pages at 2 to 3 AM, thereabouts - after the varied pressing concerns of the day spontaneously segue into the hazy lucidity of insomnia like cold milk flooding crisp breakfast cereal. Unfortunately this tome of my half-consciousness is not of sufficient quality for me to be proud of, yet, at least. I shall spare everyone the details.

There is nary a person as brave as Grace Wang.

The new Genesis took fifteen minutes, most of which were spent requisitioning fish from the pond. I even have a token tadpole. They’re fairly happy with their new home, as far as I can tell, even if the water is tinged with a copper hue, likely due to the driftwood. I quite like the colour scheme as it is now, actually, it’s very… Ubuntu?

The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside.

- Before the Law by Franz Kafka

As part of our ceaseless quest to uncover idyllic spots conducive to the production of high quality work, precious islands of intellectual serenity amidst the hectic zeitgeist of our busy little city, Patrick and I hatched up a plan to pay a visit to Raffles Town Club after school, in lieu of the usual Esplanade Library. We did this last Wednesday.

Yes, we actually played the part of pretentious pricks and did our schoolwork at the club. Or, at least, unfortunately predictably, tried to. But why even try? This is the club that tragically overpromised and underdelivered in its infancy; it was once embroiled in a highly publicized class action served by its own members. My father’s rationale for still keeping the practically worthless membership notwithstanding (seriously - about the only thing we go there for is the rather good Japanese restaurant), we figured that they shouldn’t be too discriminating about who they let in. Also, I might as well get our money’s worth.

Brandishing my dad’s tragically underutilized card, the security guard at the entrance - which, incidentally, was somewhat inconvenient to pedestrians such as us, being located on the side of the quadrilateral establishment the furthest as was geometrically possibly from where the bus stop was and all - did not stop us. I guess my practiced look of vaguely snobbish nonchalance can come in handy sometimes: perhaps it detracts enough attention away from my especially recognizable school uniform. This is perhaps also a good time to throw in the utterly random detail that we came across a person who had previously taught at our school right as we were reaching the gateway - we said hi in polite acknowledgement, not that we know her much or anything.

Upon reaching the imposing glass doors, with their comically badass twin guardian dragons in the Chinese tradition, that demarcate the interior of the club premises, the level of security was perceptibly increased: the doorman threw us a quizzical look of mild disbelief along with his welcome. Despite my quick insistence that I was going to meet dad who was apparently lounging about the premises for no reason at all on a weekday, I could not shake off the unsettling feeling of his supercilious eyes probing my uniform-clad self with disdain until I was entirely out of his sight.

There are a few major downsides to visiting a club on a weekday, and perhaps the most irksome is the lack of food and beverage of rational expense, or, maybe, it is the lack of any food and beverage at all. We should have had taken tea prior; the poolside cafe was largely deserted, save a couple of waiters who were rearranging the furniture, and we thus resorted to overpriced ice cream cones. To my knowledge, those were the only things that could be purchased with cash - everything else was either closed for the afternoon, or required a (my father’s) signature to charge the relevant exorbitant amount to the membership card.

Feeling thoroughly satisfied with our ice cream, not, we walked around the premises and eventually found an acceptable reading spot, and set up the essential laptops. NO WIRELESS INTERNET, much to our chagrin, UNLESS YOU GET A TEMPORARY LOGIN FROM THE COUNTER. Which had staff who were preternaturally suspicious of schoolboys.

This post is getting unbearably tedious to write; I’ll just conclude with the observation that the Internet thing pretty much sums up our experience on Wednesday: irksome. We didn’t even get much work done… ;_;

Why thank you very much, Fedac. Should I want to subject myself again to ‘disturbed coordination’ in future, I’ll try my luck with alcohol.

It was Good Friday a couple of hours ago. As anyone could guess I am not what you would call your average exuberant upper-middle-class protestant-or-independent-church-going quotes-Christian-song-lyrics loves-strumming-the-guitar repeat-chorus-ad-infinitum Singaporean youth - I ask (perhaps too many) questions and look/wait for the answers to this existential paradox, just as I suppose everyone does in his or her own way. Even then, I guess I have quite a few things to be thankful for, notwithstanding the mounting pressures of a hectic academic curriculum that seems designed to impel students to expand their vocabularies of swear words, if nothing else: I’ve actually made significant headway on some of my more important assignments, and have at least one already virtually confirmed for a distinction grade. I think the way the Catholics so fastidiously celebrate Good Friday and indeed the whole Easter Triduum is enthralling, and I would love to go through the motions in the future, perhaps when this backbreaking scholastic baggage is all shed and forgotten, hopefully bartered for a certificate with digits I will be proud of.

The events of the past week have been perspicuously illustrating, yet again, that the world is fundamentally ambiguous: a furore at school, Barack Obama’s outstanding address on race, the regrettable (and by that I mean facepalm-worthy) violence in Lhasa. This indeterminacy of the universe’s constructions plagues the mind and, by extension, the soul as well. A disconcerting ambivalence in feeling persists.

I am conscious but find no stability - I find no stability because I am conscious.

I sincerely wish to proclaim that I will not debase this blog by fashioning it into a jeremiad against these trivial student concerns, but unfortunately I cannot. Somehow, and not at all surreptitiously, ‘boring’ is becoming the perpetual word of the day. Goodness, what I would kill for a sojourn overseas, a brief respite…

—

I was going to write
My Extended Essay out of spite:
For the air conditioner, too cold;
And the impenetrable thick notes I hold.
But then I decided that wasn’t quite
Worth it - there were better things
To do upon a backdrop of catchy
Foreign music. Read Livvy’s poems,
For example - they’re sublime.
Or write one of my own
To pass the time.

Beneath an acacia tree, you watched the Singapore dawn burst from a tropical sea.
Who are you?
What do you dream of?
Was it you I saw in Rome? You sat by the Trevi Fountain in your Sarong Kebaya and cast a single coin.
What were you wishing?
Now, aboard this giant Boeing I see you again. You bring me a blanket and a pillow. And serve brandy with a smile to a tired father.
The brochure in my seat pocket tells me that you fly to half the world and more. But it doesn’t tell me what you’re thinking.
Who are you, Singapore girl?
When will I see you again?

Who are you?

1981 - preserved within the intransigent yellow-bordered covers of a National Geographic issue.

Instructions:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

—

Seems like the book in closest proximity is The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers by Paul Kennedy. Oh great, long sentences for sure.

Right, here’s the extract:

The expeditionary force sent to Flanders and Holland under the Duke of York in 1793-1795 had neither the strength nor the expertise to deal with the French army, and its remnant eventually came home via Bremen. Moreover, as so often happened before and since, ministers (such as Dundas and Pitt) preferred the “British way in warfare” - colonial operations, maritime blockade, and raids upon the enemy’s coast - to any large-scale continental operation. Given the overwhelming superiority of the Royal Navy and the disintegration of its French equivalent, this looked like an attractive and easy option.

Alright, now to tag five people, yes? I’m going to have to be the dead end here - blame my limited social circle and its constituents for not being avid bloggers.

I want to exercise neurological pathways not associated with the incessant, banal tide of schoolwork. The ones concerned with aesthetic appreciation, philosophical introspection, and being au courant with what slices of the literary scene I chance by. Heck, I don’t even have the time or peace of mind (more the latter) to read the Booker prize winners, much less Marius The Epicurean. Nowadays there’s a constant radio chatter about in the recesses of my mind, and it’s increasingly in a foreign language I don’t understand, so that only its tone establishes a cogent notion: that I should be panicking, I should be more conscientious about stuff relevant to my formal education, and again the former as a consequence of the latter, etc.

I’m trying, damnit. But then again I would hate to leave this comfortable nest of adolescent inertia - I’ve so delightfully decorated it with the fruits of what I deem my creative process, and these contrivances repeat in my head, ad infinitum, for me to revel in my supposed genius (cue in self-indulgent laughter). As such a dilemma very homologous to the one encountered while confronting the Sisyphean task of my Extended Essay rears its head: ‘Wait, wait, I can’t take the eggs out of the basket now; I know it’s Easter, but they’re far too pretty!’

I think my bullshit needs to go on diet.

I watched Three Times on Patrick’s suggestion. In a surfeit of director Hou Hsiao-hsien’s illusory visual enchantments - comprising captivating yet evanescent love-tinted tableaux arranged sublimely upon kaleidoscopic period settings - this trinity of tales stands out for the candor of its recurring romantic leads, who deftly weave passion, tension, anticipation - the multifaceted collage of love - into the tapestry of time.

The first sequence is saccharine. Bleached hues dominate the palette while streams of sunlight delicately perforate the languor of houses through open doors and windows, as a casual romance finds its bearings in the wake of the minor travails of a young serviceman, who renders any bitterness impotent with his subtle patience. I found the setting perfect - perhaps it is merely my idealized view of prosperous postwar East Asia, but the light-heartedness apparent in this tranquil land of opportunity and hope is the perfect backdrop to frame the fleeting moments of bliss emanating from the tentative mutual attraction the would-be lovers share.

A sedentary lifestyle could be construed as paradise; the second tale revolves around a tea-house courtesan and her regular customer. Hou seems to have pulled out all the stops in creating a conscientious replica of early twentieth century Chinese interior living space: this is definitely one of the best period settings my eyes have indulged in. Communication, in the form of polite speech, is key in this story - and this significance is further underlined when the realization that this third of the film is essentially a silent one (with a mild, somniferous classical(?) Chinese soundtrack laid in for good measure) sets in. Dialogue between the characters is conveyed to the audience through a few slides: this necessitates only snippets being revealed. In the world of the courtesan, her love affair is the most private of all - even discontent is left unvoiced until towards the end, where love triumphs over duty’s constraints. Overwhelmingly beautiful, and perspicacious: this is how you make a film about Asia without a peek through the curious but insensitive occidental lens (Memoirs Of A Geisha, I’m looking at you), though I disliked the incongruous introduction of a slight and ambiguous political slant where the issue of Taiwan’s struggle for independence from Japan was brought up.

Hou isn’t as polished a master of the exotic-pockets-of-paradise-in-postmodern-Asia’s-urban-sprawl mise en scène as, say, Wong Kar Wai, and certainly the last section of filmic trio is perhaps the most formulaic; nothing we haven’t really seen before. Nevertheless, it is an excellent formula - and Hou’s efforts in replicating the mood for love is replete with his own brand of evocative imagery, which is sometimes surreptitious, sometimes blatant, but mostly right on the mark and a joy to piece together and unfurl. This vignette is also notable for being the culmination of tension in the movie: the ebb-and-flow relationship between our familiar protagonists has finally become so bold as to explicitly adversely affect loved ones caught in the tide. While it is the nadir of moral responsibility in the film, it is also patently the most impassioned story - affection has evolved into an almost carnal desire that transcends verbal communication.

Three Times was thoroughly engaging - visually and artistically stimulating - save for a brief misalignment of elements in the second chapter, where the unholy amalgamation of traditional Chinese music, silent dialogue and warm colour tone made for a lethally soporific cocktail. Otherwise, the sheer affluence of sublimities will tease the senses, seduce intuition - you don’t have to do mental gymnastics to enjoy it. This film about transience paradoxically proves haunting in its whole: its impact is surely nowhere near fleeting for me.

On another, unrelated, note, what is, exactly, that curious processor Apple has engineered into their slick new Macbook Air?

A current favourite song by Tullycraft suddenly made irrelevant; one more set of stairs to haul a bedraggled mess of lethargy and semiapathy up every morning; a few more dreams, now seemingly closer, to chase.

Back to the selfsame old habit of sleeping excessively late, unintentional (and intentional) procrastination, poking fun at and pulling jokes out of everything and anything - and even nothing at all. There is such nebulous resentment-joy now at finally getting forward - this necessitates more work.

Mulling over curriculum-stipulated literature texts, replete with prefaces chock-full of overly (self-)effusive drivel. Copypasting and inelegantly summarizing points, in one fell swoop, to fit on a drab, monochromatic slideshow that I will no doubt be terribly unenthusiastic presenting to the class. Reading Simone de Beauvoir ’til 3AM. On a school day. In electronic format. Boy, am I tired.

Now, what is to come?

“Thank you Apollo 8. You saved 1968.”

The Final Fantastic pedigree is certain, that’s for sure - it has all the hallmarks of the series, save the shift in gameplay genre: haunting, immersive music straight out of its PlayStation 2 progenitor; resplendent artwork, especially in its beautifully rendered cutscenes, but also in-game proper, considering the DS’s technical limitations; and an engaging, imaginative story populated with idiosyncratic yet amiable characters.

The game has merits uniquely its own, however. The novel (to Final Fantasy, anyway) real time strategy approach has been implemented rather successfully, and although I wish there were some better way to organize multiple-unit groups (epic armies tend to get stuck), the largely intuitive controls add far more to the game than they detract. Moreover, the role-playing and adventure elements preserved from the traditional Final Fantasies add some customization potential and strategic depth during missions to the perceptibly streamlined gameplay befitting of a handheld game.

Still, even though I’ve heard the English localization has been tweaked (essentially made more difficult) from the original Japanese release in accordance to presumed market predilections, why does the game feel just a tad too easy?

A place with wintry, lucid nights.

I scarcely think my words can add to its embellishments more than photographic evidence will advertise,

yet they could never find a shortage of Engrish to ridicule.

The domesticated wildlife was certainly peculiar,

and so was the perpetually smoking mountain.

What is it about this handsome blanket of snow,

or the cozy neon glare of modern Japanese civilization,

with its requisite futuristic cellphones

that have got its text messaging culture firmly embedded even in the unlikeliest of urban nooks and crannies

and its overabundance of too-cute anthropomorphic mascot characters,

and the jarring confluence of the two,

realized most aptly in the commercialization of the cold

- and boy, was it cold -

and the winsome animals at the zoo

(as you can probably tell, I love ‘em)

or perhaps even the production of sake,

so that even when heavy snow pelted the already-frozen streets, making for arduous, slippery journeys from mall to mall,

or to quaint little shops along the frigid way,

causing one to huddle inside gloriously heated buildings and take swigs of Asahi ’super dry’ beer,

only emerging from the toasty interiors to sightsee during the precious few hours between sunrise and early sunset,

otherwise window-shopping whilst gawking at the ridiculously high prices the locals will pay for pungent tropical fruit,

exactly what is it that makes me want to stay just a little longer?

But Christmas is coming; I just ordered a nifty new camera bag for 20% off from an e-retailer’s Thanksgiving sale, there’s that tempting threadless sale in anticipation of the holiday season, too. I’m predicting Christmas carols will soon supersede whatever’s occupying my mind right now, but I’d rather wait a while before they inexorably become ubiquitous in December, so enjoy another discernibly holiday-themed song for now:

Yeah, it took an awfully long time to compose this post.

I had dinner with Kel and Xiu at Clarke Quay on Friday. A dinner by the riverside usually conjures to mind peace, quiet and sober relaxation - well, we had that, except there was this indiscriminate noise polluter of a G-MAX Reverse Bungy in the background. Just like the last level of Elite Beat Agents on ‘Chieftain’ difficulty, that monstrous structure is so intense it’s scary. I have to admit that I’m wholly afraid of these high-G death-defying rides - yes, that’s probably irrational fear seeing as they’re usually almost completely safe, but then again how rational is the compulsion to actually give any of these vomit-inducers a try? I think I’d be too damn scared to even scream. I think I’ll stick to deriving whatever excitement I want from my DS, thanks… I hope Xiu’s not entirely serious about giving it a spin the next time we’re there, I couldn’t tell.

I think I’ve been letting my mind a little too loose as of late. First there was the hilarity with that Ramune bottle, and I shan’t mention more of that here, lest my demolished wall of hubris gets blown up further. Curse you, weird bottle and incomprehensible Japanese instructions. Moral of the story: in contrast to conventional wisdom, doing weeaboo things is detrimental to perceived self-image. But deleting the folder labeled ‘Writing’ (which was home to all those incomplete potential poetic masterpieces) while migrating laptops has to hurt more, especially when a backup was actually made, but was prematurely deleted, too. Shit.

Yes, it’s exactly as it appears to be. I am now a beaming owner of a Macbook Pro running OSX Leopard.

They aren’t lying where they tout a 24-hour-next-business-day delivery time. I ordered it on Saturday; received it Monday afternoon. I have to admit that I was expecting Leopard preloaded, but the drop-in disc installation was a painless experience. Apart from some outstanding minor, but nagging application compatibility issues (curse you, font not setting properly in Adium bug), I’ve already set it up as comfortably as possible, of course, spending the better part of the afternoon doing so.

This may sound obvious, but it’s a helluva lot more responsive than my iBook ever was… in addition to the monstrously powerful dual core Intel processor I figure Apple has tinkered behind the scenes - and nowhere is this more obvious than the Finder. Not only has it received an ‘upgraded’ iTunes-esque facade (ugly), I hear its processes are now multi-threaded (no more lags playing around with network shares) although some anticipated functionality (in essence, to finally match up with Windows Explorer) is still very glaringly missing. Cover flow is superfluous, but I like the tweaked List view.

Stacks, Spaces and Time Machine are beyond a shred of doubt very nifty, and they work flawlessly, although Time Machine makes for a perhaps too compelling reason to buy an additional high-capacity external hard drive. But my favourite new OS feature has to be Quick Look. Highlight virtually any file and hit the space bar - and an unbelievably speedy popup preview of its contents appears. I never liked Preview - now I can browse PDF files without opening any program, for that matter.

I love my new laptop, and I would love it even more if I could disable the dock background entirely (currently I’ve switched the horrendous reflector to the dark glass, which is somewhat bearable, but still not perfect). Or get rid of that distasteful translucency plaguing the menu bar. Seriously, Apple, what the hell. You don’t have to go out of your way to discourage people from dual-booting Vista by dressing OS X up so ostentatiously; furthermore, please, what is with this NON-CONFIGURABILITY?

On the desktop front, I’ve implemented a pretty (and working, and workable) Enlightenment desktop on the Xubuntu install on the Pentium III. I might utilize it as a photograph repository - Picasa works.

Oh yes, time for some Civilizations IV and, thereafter, Extended Essay. I need to pack these boxes, though.

I suppose it’s trying to tell me to go to bed. And I shall.

I was approached by a Falun Gong practitioner who reckoned I was some sort of tourist and proceeded to hand me a flyer proclaiming the evils of the Communist Party of China. At first I was like -_-, then I walked a few steps while chuckling to myself, and somehow managed to hit my head on the underside of the cursed low-slung bridge. Ouch. I’ll post a scan of the flyer soon, perhaps.

But are we all the same, then? The answer has to be an emphatic no. By our very definition as encompassing combinations of lesser components it stands to reason that each of our respective occupied spaces in the universe are different in some way or other. This is no mere coincidence of description: it is fact, logic. Is your person of a millisecond ago exactly the same as the person you are now? I doubt it - the smallest alterations in physical attributes, even seemingly inconsequential fluctuations, prove that existence is linear in all dimensions: all shades of grey nevertheless still comprise black and white. Information is perpetually, incessantly, produced - and metadata ascribed unto anything of being in perpetuum.

Maybe, then, just maybe, an ostensibly insignificant part of this behemoth of a system can change the world. I suppose I shall write my story - make it.

— — —

He saw the sun tonight. Still not fully believing, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the brilliant glare and with the other, dug around in his pockets for his mobile phone. Finding both pockets empty, he panicked, then realized that it did not trouble him as much as he thought. He was in a different world now.

He had always needed a familiar environment to think, and so he walked toward the old playground from his childhood, which was, inexplicably, positioned a lane’s stroll away from his current position. He questioned his state of mind: why did he not more immediately marvel at the strangeness of such an occurrence? It was absurd.

Nevertheless in a few minutes he was pacing among the swings which had accumulated a thick layer of grey: pesky particles that when stirred caused him to erupt into frenzied fits of hacking cough. Deciding he should tread a little more gently among the fond memories that lay in peace with the dust bunnies, he thought. About the world, and how to get back there.

—

By the time the sun set, he had found a shady spot under an unfamiliar tree and was sitting down down cross-legged, not particularly ruminative any more. He enjoyed the light, playful evening breeze as it kissed him on the cheek, on the neck - a smothering of invisible love.

It was morning.

I’ve been meaning to dual boot Xubuntu/Windows ME (of course, after undergoing a major operation courtesy of 98lite - it’s too big a piece of crap otherwise) on one of the old PC’s I have lying about, and, for the most part, I got this set-up working the way I wanted. Except, there was this teeny problem of Xubuntu not immediately detecting and configuring my Lucent Orinoco USB Client, a wireless B adaptor which is relatively ageing, not to mention obscure.

I figured it wouldn’t be so much of a problem - I used to run SuSe on that PC and have always managed to install precompiled binaries from here. Unfortunately, the kind fellow does not update the binaries for newer kernal revisions anymore - I gather he has replaced his own Orinoco card. Anyway, I don’t really take to RPM-based distros, and I figured an Ubuntu derivative would allow me to install such drivers via apt-get. Easy.

Or so I thought. It turns out that I in fact need to install the drivers by manually compiling and subsequently invoking it at startup by loading it into the kernel via modprobe and adding it to /etc/modules (this is the clearest set of instructions I’ve seen so far). Again, this wasn’t too difficult - but required Internet access to install the prerequisite software packages needed for the compiling and such. I carried the computer across the room within (cables’) reach of the wired network router in the hopes of plugging it in temporarily, getting the drivers done and putting it back to its original position, isolated from the wired haven and totally reliant on wireless Internet. That was when I realized I had taken the ethernet card out of that particular machine and had grafted it to another one. And so, frustrated, I placed the PC back in its spot, and, until today, there it had been languishing with only Windows ME providing Internet access - sufficient, as I don’t use it often at all, but nevertheless still irksome, as I had not accomplished this simple task.

Well, I finally bought a ethernet card today (spent the better part of half an hour in Sim Lim Square scouting for the cheapest one, and eventually paid $9 - not bad) - and as per the aforementioned instructions, proceeded to compile the driver. Here I hit a (sorta expected) snag - the drivers weren’t compiling correctly. Specifically, I had the exact same problem as the first commentor to this blog post. But this proved to be an easy obstacle to overcome. I fired up nano and merely deleted the offending line, along with the lines immediately adjacent that were directly related (it was an if, else bit of code) - I had deduced that those lines weren’t very important, in any case. I attempted the same steps again, and this time it worked like a charm. The sight of the green LED finally blinking after a reboot elicted, I have to admit, a burgeoning sense of accomplishment. Yeah, let me revel in my (small) victories.

Today’s a good day.

In other geeky news, wobblin’ is currently undergoing a slowly-paced overhaul. Hence the broken links, etc. I promise it will be a hundred percent up and running (and improved) soon, and by soon I mean when we get off our lazy asses, and, of course, by that I mean never. Just kidding, it shouldn’t take too long. I hope. In the meantime you can torture youself by looking at the archive of all out previous posts here. (Yes, I merely moved the blog to a subdirectory. Told you; lazy.)

Which is to say, I probably would not be able to do as well as I’m supposed to. Again. This pathetic cycle of weariness and disappointment is such a bore, not to mention a drain. A big, polluted drain with shit sloshing about. Adverse swimming conditions, surely.

Lately, I’ve noticed that one of my subconscious pastimes involves attaching imaginary faces to complement voices divorced from their visual companions. For example, callers to radio shows - I don’t merely guess how they look, but also take stabs into the dark as to the nature of their personalities. It’s fun, and you don’t even have to be entirely awake to compute the information - great for dreary mornings and grey evenings. Intonations, done and timed right, are alluring, as are little idiosyncrasies in pronunciation.

Still, I started the school week sleepily writing an incomprehensible essay answer to some equally incomprehensible question on a Greek tragedy involving a neurotic woman, harsh exile and infanticide. Oh, the days of my youth: unforgettable.

Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.

- Margaret Atwood

…whose work, incidentally, I am writing my Extended Essay on. Well, I’m not actually writing it as of yet, but you get the point… oh, bother, I have three useful books (thanks to Mr Quek) that delve into deep analysis of her writing soon to be due. Which I have not read, yet.

And, no, I doubt the day my heart is satiated is anywhere near - there’s just so much I can complain about right now.

Intel Core 2 Quad Q6600, 4GB Crucial Ballistix RAM, ATI HD2900XT 512MB… it’s amazing what you can get for a little over two grand these days.

That said, I’m still set on getting a Macbook Pro once Leopard is released - I hardly touch my desktop nowadays, save for viewing the occasional video, and this iBook is leaving me increasingly wanting. Especially when I have my customary insane number of tabs open, and multiple active IM/chat windows - yet still insist on soldiering on in Photoshop running at snail’s pace.

Oh, and 32-bit Vista is all fine and dandy (even more so on Kyle’s new system) except for the part where it cannot address more than 3GB of RAM. Effectively, one of Kyle’s shiny new orange sticks is there merely to allow dual-channel to function. An expensive little stick. >:(

The latest wave of comment spam is reiterating how stagnant its imaginary writers’ lives are. This is somehow striking a chord within my own prosaic bubble, which I fear is going to burst from self-imposed inactivity and irritability.

Yes, I know, I talked about just this in my IOP, about how to escape this abyss. But there’s too much, and too little feels important. What do I do?

I don’t feel that I’ve encountered nearly enough chances to make the best of and stay in the light. So I’m still stuck here, practicing the same line. And I fear this monotony will not break anytime soon.

Naturally, I immediately looked up my school’s records - bingo! You just have to dig around a bit to savour the hilarious edits, no doubt made by a random crew of miscellaneous bored students. I’m pretty sure every other school has their own Wikipedia vandal gang; here’s one. Well, other organizations worth a little snooping into are the Singaporean Ministry of Defence and Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Certain employees in the public sector evidently have quite a bit of free time on their hands…

ISPs, especially those providing wireless services, are another good repository: take a look at Qala’s log, for example - some inter-school rivalry going below the belt, there.

But, damn, no records exist for the National Kidney Foundation - and I was so sure someone there would attempt an online cover-up, too. Perhaps they’d the good sense to use some anonymous proxies.

Anyway, that’s enough talk from me, go find more.

I have never paid witness to such a thing before, and it was thoroughly refreshing (just like the afternoon shower) to see the animals bringing a bit of their wild side to the concrete and tarmac that comprise the housing estate. More interesting were the unique dynamics of the relationship among the birds - the crow, ironically, was the sole watchman, while the others pecked around sheepishly, looking every bit like potential cat fodder.

Of course, I couldn’t resist stepping closer, and due to my affinity for felines I gravitated toward the hunter, who did not seem the least bit concerned that my approach had scattered its prey, and even let out a little friendly meow. Just then I felt a horrid whoosh right by my head - the crow had obviously acquired a new target. Having no intention of losing an ear to the bird, I reluctantly but hastily left the warzone.

Of course, I’m looking forward to acquiring more games - Ace Attorney: Phoenix Wright, Elite Beat Agents, Tetris DS, Meteos, Final Fantasy III, Mario Kart DS… Yep, I definitely need to amass a credible library.

The new console will not be the sole addition to my tech arsenal in this quarter, as I’m (eagerly) anticipating the purchase of my new PC. The new iMacs are very tempting, but I think I’ll sacrifice a little of the style for a considerably higher-spec (hint: 4’s the lucky number) desktop. Continuing the small form factor trend, I have my sights set on a new Shuttle chassis, so it’s not like I’m stuck with ugly (or fatass, for that mattter).

I’m quite sad to see my old SFF go, though. It’s served extremely well these past four years. Alas, it was a trivial case of the ethernet port dying that prompted a replacement of the entire aging system. But, despite any slight emotional attachment I might have, it’s still just another piece of technology, so in with the new!