Well, this is it. This marks my final blog post.
Of 2010, that is.
It's really hard to sum up my year, but if I could make a comparison, I know exactly what to say:
The year 2010 has been the longest movie I've ever seen.
It started off quite well, with me having taken the next step in my education and gone on to university. A lot less bordered on the choice of subjects, and certainly a lot more leeway on the time and knowledge given.
Funny how I mentioned the word movie, because this year will always remind me of taking up Film and Television Studies. A small and minor elective, it may appear to be, but it has been the most memorable time I've ever had studying.
People have even came up to me and asked if I would be going into the film business.
Who knows? Perhaps I will do so. Hey, I'm even doing film screenplay in Screen Theories and Techniques next year!
There have been some bittersweet moments as well; the most I will remember is having known my Film Studies lecturer for only half a year. It wasn't exactly the same without having Mr. Ben around - like losing a good friend, but one that I wish I got to know a lot better.
And being a movie buff, this year has also marked probably the most number of movies I've seen ( I've made track of a list of films from last year, too).
Here's a quick list of the best films to grace the silver screen this year, in my opinion:
1. Inception: Keep dreaming, Christopher Nolan. The idea of crossing the levels of dreams and manipulating them may not be original, but it certainly seems that way when you make dreams become a reality in our eyes.
2. Let Me In: Bring back some of the long-forgotten ideologies of the vampire, make a twist on the original plot of a certain movie craze that really sucks, and you've got a tale of innocence that shares her name with evil.
3. Kick-Ass: Quite frankly, a movie that lives up to its title. Of course, the story's main focus is on Hit Girl, but that's why we're all into rated-18. Her tongue is just as sharp as her weapons she uses to cut down her enemies.
4. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Nuff said with the first name. Though I hate David Yates for butchering the previous two movies, this one really lights the tip of the wand. Now let's all wait anxiously for Part 2.
5. Toy Story 3: A definite winner for Best Animated Picture. Disney never fails to inspire us with bringing back our childhood memories of our favourite toys. It's sad that we have to let them go sooner or later.
6. Legend of the Guardians: Happy Feet just takes to the skies with owls in its place. With the 3 Vs of violence, vivid and visuals in the storyline, the effects will simply take your breath away. Oh, and plenty of show-stealing characters to hoot about, as well.
I've also seen a great number of movies that were filmed in previous years, for the very first time.
A list that includes Carrie (1976), Rain Man (1988), The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada (2005), The Orphanage (2007), and one of my favourites: American Psycho (2000).
I don't think I can beat the record for this list next year, but I sure as hell am going to try.
Oh yeah, this was also the year that I got myself into writing short stories. It surprised me that it was doing great on Facebook as well, which is why I'm making a New Year's Resolution to churn out more stories before I head back to uni again.
So for those who are reading this, yes, you'll definitely be getting a load to hear from me.
Happy New Year, everyone! :)
Friday, December 31, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
A Film (and Book) With Some Serious Bite
Halloween may have come and gone in one night, but that doesn't stop the creatures of the night from dominating our written pages and silver screens.
Enter Swedish author John Ajvide Lindqvist's Let The Right One In, followed by its original Swedish film and the most recent American re-make Let Me In. Now that is a name that truly screams of one of the best vampire films I've seen in years.
Let's see: got your pints and gallons of blood? Check. Baring fangs and screaming blue murder? Check.
But a little girl who can balance the tips of innocence and evil like child's play? And the idea that evil is present everywhere, even in the thoughts of a child? Woah. Now that's two gold stars in my book.
The book itself has vividly penetrated my literal mind, not just for the amount of violence and gore, but the constant theme of child abuse (hint: expect to lean heavilly on pedophilia). Of course I expected the latter to be cut down in terms of visual screening, but there are all those moments of uncomfortable silences, creepy choir music, and what-the-hell-ah! moments that's enough to scare the living dead.
Oh, and you can forget all those crappy-saturated marble-like vampires that sparkle like diamonds in the sun and stalkers who like to watch you sleep at night. Seriously, is today's audience all about the new rise of the bloodsuckers we've grown to fear and admire?
If you're in serious need of some hauntingly new material, then ditch a certain phenomenon and go for this film. It's not just about the innocence and evil, it's a whole new storyline that will keep at your minds- forever.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
10 Things I Learned From Watching: Alpha and Omega
Years and years of waiting for an all-wolf cast movie, and out comes Alpha and Omega. Sadly, this film falls behind as the runt of the pack.
Unless you're a purist believer in wolves, you might want to cringe as you watch this film. As much as the trailer says "We can eat together, but we can't, you know, howl together", you'll probably be agreeing by whimpering in pity instead at the end.
So, here are 10 things from the movie which might have just easily gone to the dogs:
1. Wolves do more than just howl; they burst out into song.
2. The moon brings out the show-biz performer in every wolf.
3. Alpha she-wolves have all the flexibility of Olympic gymnasts.
4. Eating too many berries will make you go high and hippie-like.
5. Male wolves have toilet issues and possibly smaller bladders than the females.
6. Don't leave frosting on your mouth, especially if you're a member of the canine family.
7. A piece of log equals one wild joyride.
8. Birds play golf in the hopes of getting, well, a birdie.
9. It is pointless to do a rain dance in the middle of a downpour.
10. If you want to bring down a pack of birds, howl completely out of tune.
Looks like there isn't the perfect wolf movie yet, so until then, guess we'll all be howling at the moon.
Unless you're a purist believer in wolves, you might want to cringe as you watch this film. As much as the trailer says "We can eat together, but we can't, you know, howl together", you'll probably be agreeing by whimpering in pity instead at the end.
So, here are 10 things from the movie which might have just easily gone to the dogs:
1. Wolves do more than just howl; they burst out into song.
2. The moon brings out the show-biz performer in every wolf.
3. Alpha she-wolves have all the flexibility of Olympic gymnasts.
4. Eating too many berries will make you go high and hippie-like.
5. Male wolves have toilet issues and possibly smaller bladders than the females.
6. Don't leave frosting on your mouth, especially if you're a member of the canine family.
7. A piece of log equals one wild joyride.
8. Birds play golf in the hopes of getting, well, a birdie.
9. It is pointless to do a rain dance in the middle of a downpour.
10. If you want to bring down a pack of birds, howl completely out of tune.
Looks like there isn't the perfect wolf movie yet, so until then, guess we'll all be howling at the moon.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Madame Butterfly
In my world of dreams, I saw her.
The woman with the butterfly’s wings. The lady that carried death on the wind.
When I awoke the next morning, I thought of nothing but her. I remember it all clearly. How she grew younger with each passing minute. How the world seemed to change around her but she never did, not even for a second’s blessing.
I never quite got her out of my mind. But she wasn’t just a figment of my imagination.
She really does exist, you know.
You have to remember that it was she who did not come to me. For it would have made all the differences in the world.
I wouldn’t be here to tell you so.
There is a meadow somewhere in the field of dreams, where the air is fresh with the scent of after-rain, where you can see the high hills that stretch beyond the horizon, and the sky is filled with butterflies; thousands of them in a myriad menagerie of colours.
The souls of all mankind.
She makes her home amongst the fragile things; she plays with them and sings to them when they are feeling lonely.
And when she descends upon the mortal world, she unfolds her wings. They are like paper fans; delicate and etched with pretty colours, while the tips are rimmed with shades of black.
Black was never related to death. It is the colour of change.
Death, on the other hand, is a rainbow of colours. She has seen life flash before her eyes in streams of red, which is why she cries pools of blue misery. Yet there is the promise of hope that shines warm and yellow, for life is green when it begins anew, like fresh spring grass. And then there are all the rest of the colours blended onto this easel – the little things that make our lives meaningful, because the world will be but a blank canvas without them.
Death isn’t all about a bed of skulls or an angel of stone towering over another piece of stone.
That’s the reaper’s job.
No one’s seen him, of course. But if she exists, then perhaps, so does he.
You think you know what death is because you’ve stayed up all night with weary eyes, standing guard over the lifeless but ominous casket.
You’ve been led to believe that by putting up a masquerade of sympathy and tears, you would be accepted into a society that has embraced death the way the blind hold one another.
But she’ll let you in on a secret – something you don’t know about yourself.
The truth is, in the eyes of death, we are as worse, if not the same, as the common moth who plays the fool; a parody of the original thing itself. For the moth is by far a greater scavenger than the vulture, and while it does not share the same diet of flesh as the bird of carrion, this agent of death becomes a plague of deceit.
It deceives us all.
We appear to be as dull and as lifeless as the faded and washed-out colours of the moth’s wings in the face of death. But given the opportunity, we are creatures drawn so easily to other people’s sorrows. We feed on them because it makes us feel better than our fellow neighbour who is wretched with misfortune.
We are moths in nature; drawn to the flames of anguish and grief.
It pains her to watch as the humans grow into trees of their former selves; all gnarly and wrinkled, and slowly perishing on the inside. She has decided that she too wants to die, but the extent of her mortality stretches as far as the end of the universe.
A line on her face might disappear every now and then; her skin grows smoother than a cat’s warm pelt, but that’s all there is to her youth. After all, beautiful butterflies can’t exactly crawl back into their cocoons and start all over as grubby little caterpillars.
But when a soul departs from its body, it emerges from a shell of its former self. It is free of pain, sickness and death; free as the wings it has now grown on its back.
And when it flies, it comes into her gentle grasp.
She cradles it in her palms as she would a newborn babe, and sings of sweet songs and promises as its little wings kiss the hands of the maiden who hides her woes.
There will be plenty of butterflies to play with in my garden of dreams, she whispers. Come with me, and we will fly away to a place where happiness is free and innocence is bliss.
And I think you know the rest.
When you are old and all alone, take some time to shut yourself away from the chaos that is the world around you. Listen to what the songs of silence have to say.
If the only sound you hear is the slow beating of your heart, listen, listen carefully, and perhaps you will hear the gentle patter of wings flapping in the distant breeze – that is the sound of life that is close to its cyclic end.
And it doesn’t matter if it happens in April’s showers or December’s frost, but eventually, she will come. She wants to know you like her best friend.
When you are gone and your children’s children are gone, though I may not think about you, but she will always.
She never forgets.
The woman with the butterfly’s wings. The lady that carried death on the wind.
When I awoke the next morning, I thought of nothing but her. I remember it all clearly. How she grew younger with each passing minute. How the world seemed to change around her but she never did, not even for a second’s blessing.
I never quite got her out of my mind. But she wasn’t just a figment of my imagination.
She really does exist, you know.
You have to remember that it was she who did not come to me. For it would have made all the differences in the world.
I wouldn’t be here to tell you so.
There is a meadow somewhere in the field of dreams, where the air is fresh with the scent of after-rain, where you can see the high hills that stretch beyond the horizon, and the sky is filled with butterflies; thousands of them in a myriad menagerie of colours.
The souls of all mankind.
She makes her home amongst the fragile things; she plays with them and sings to them when they are feeling lonely.
And when she descends upon the mortal world, she unfolds her wings. They are like paper fans; delicate and etched with pretty colours, while the tips are rimmed with shades of black.
Black was never related to death. It is the colour of change.
Death, on the other hand, is a rainbow of colours. She has seen life flash before her eyes in streams of red, which is why she cries pools of blue misery. Yet there is the promise of hope that shines warm and yellow, for life is green when it begins anew, like fresh spring grass. And then there are all the rest of the colours blended onto this easel – the little things that make our lives meaningful, because the world will be but a blank canvas without them.
Death isn’t all about a bed of skulls or an angel of stone towering over another piece of stone.
That’s the reaper’s job.
No one’s seen him, of course. But if she exists, then perhaps, so does he.
You think you know what death is because you’ve stayed up all night with weary eyes, standing guard over the lifeless but ominous casket.
You’ve been led to believe that by putting up a masquerade of sympathy and tears, you would be accepted into a society that has embraced death the way the blind hold one another.
But she’ll let you in on a secret – something you don’t know about yourself.
The truth is, in the eyes of death, we are as worse, if not the same, as the common moth who plays the fool; a parody of the original thing itself. For the moth is by far a greater scavenger than the vulture, and while it does not share the same diet of flesh as the bird of carrion, this agent of death becomes a plague of deceit.
It deceives us all.
We appear to be as dull and as lifeless as the faded and washed-out colours of the moth’s wings in the face of death. But given the opportunity, we are creatures drawn so easily to other people’s sorrows. We feed on them because it makes us feel better than our fellow neighbour who is wretched with misfortune.
We are moths in nature; drawn to the flames of anguish and grief.
It pains her to watch as the humans grow into trees of their former selves; all gnarly and wrinkled, and slowly perishing on the inside. She has decided that she too wants to die, but the extent of her mortality stretches as far as the end of the universe.
A line on her face might disappear every now and then; her skin grows smoother than a cat’s warm pelt, but that’s all there is to her youth. After all, beautiful butterflies can’t exactly crawl back into their cocoons and start all over as grubby little caterpillars.
But when a soul departs from its body, it emerges from a shell of its former self. It is free of pain, sickness and death; free as the wings it has now grown on its back.
And when it flies, it comes into her gentle grasp.
She cradles it in her palms as she would a newborn babe, and sings of sweet songs and promises as its little wings kiss the hands of the maiden who hides her woes.
There will be plenty of butterflies to play with in my garden of dreams, she whispers. Come with me, and we will fly away to a place where happiness is free and innocence is bliss.
And I think you know the rest.
When you are old and all alone, take some time to shut yourself away from the chaos that is the world around you. Listen to what the songs of silence have to say.
If the only sound you hear is the slow beating of your heart, listen, listen carefully, and perhaps you will hear the gentle patter of wings flapping in the distant breeze – that is the sound of life that is close to its cyclic end.
And it doesn’t matter if it happens in April’s showers or December’s frost, but eventually, she will come. She wants to know you like her best friend.
When you are gone and your children’s children are gone, though I may not think about you, but she will always.
She never forgets.
Monday, September 13, 2010
300? Not Quite, But I'm Already There
My limbs still feel like they're straining from all that weight I've been carrying around with me. Weight that can be measured in books, that is.
It's been my first visit ever to the Popular Book Fair convention, and I must say, the experience is quite the heart attack. Seriously.
I died and went to book heaven in that hour of temporary happiness.
No pictures allowed to be taken, but you really have to be there to experience it for yourself.
So now I'm adding these new books into my collection. It's true that I now have over 300 and counting, but some of them are encyclopedias, or they don't exactly belong to me. Because in my family, I am the keeper of many reads.
Here's what I brought back as a souvenir of my visit:
1 & 2. Guardians of Ga'Hoole: The Journey and The Rescue by Kathryn Lasky. Two titles to a follow-up of the first book I read and enjoyed many years ago. With the upcoming Legend of the Guardians movie, I will adhere to my code of "read the book before you watch the movie".
3. The Left Hand of God by Paul Hoffman. The new paperback has a very cool-looking cover, and it's suppose to tell you about a guy named Cale who might destroy the world. Maybe he will.
4. The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson. Hardcover which costs me only RM17 instead of 79. Very good praise and blurbs for a story of mystery and love from many different countries. Has a storyteller's point of view too.
5. The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss. Taken from the synopsis: "I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the ministrels weep. You may have heard of me." Isn't that enough to make you want to read it?
6. The Shining by Stephen King. Ah yes, another of the King of horror writers' works falls into my hands. Which brings my S.K collection up to 12.
To me, I say: Happy Reading! :)
It's been my first visit ever to the Popular Book Fair convention, and I must say, the experience is quite the heart attack. Seriously.
I died and went to book heaven in that hour of temporary happiness.
No pictures allowed to be taken, but you really have to be there to experience it for yourself.
So now I'm adding these new books into my collection. It's true that I now have over 300 and counting, but some of them are encyclopedias, or they don't exactly belong to me. Because in my family, I am the keeper of many reads.
Here's what I brought back as a souvenir of my visit:
1 & 2. Guardians of Ga'Hoole: The Journey and The Rescue by Kathryn Lasky. Two titles to a follow-up of the first book I read and enjoyed many years ago. With the upcoming Legend of the Guardians movie, I will adhere to my code of "read the book before you watch the movie".
3. The Left Hand of God by Paul Hoffman. The new paperback has a very cool-looking cover, and it's suppose to tell you about a guy named Cale who might destroy the world. Maybe he will.
4. The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson. Hardcover which costs me only RM17 instead of 79. Very good praise and blurbs for a story of mystery and love from many different countries. Has a storyteller's point of view too.
5. The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss. Taken from the synopsis: "I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the ministrels weep. You may have heard of me." Isn't that enough to make you want to read it?
6. The Shining by Stephen King. Ah yes, another of the King of horror writers' works falls into my hands. Which brings my S.K collection up to 12.
To me, I say: Happy Reading! :)
Sunday, September 12, 2010
25 - A Random Number for Random Things
Something I did on Facebook out of complete boredom. Basically, it's one of those 25 things about yourself, and you've got to tag 25 people to do it.
So I thought long and hard. In the end, this is what I came up with:
1. The reason I chose to do this is because it's becoming quite the craze on my Facebook page, and I was inspired to write one of my own.
2. Having said that, I get frustrated when I can't think of something new to write.
3. My height is 6 feet and 3 inches (because so many people have been asking me this, I feel like a girrafe!)
4. I may not be street smart, but I am book smart! :)
5. People have told me that I have an unusual ability to stay calm in a dire situation (but mostly, it's during exams).
6. I have a fascination for pictures of predators (lions, tigers, wolves, those of the mammal class etc.), because there's something mysteriously beautiful about these deadly creatures.
7. If I had to name 5 of my favourite authors who have shaped my life, they are: Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Erin Hunter, Roald Dahl and J.K. Rowling. :)
8. I am a fan of the Warriors series, and an avid collector of the books (28 titles in my collection right now, and still counting).
9. I never had the chance to do an ISU (Independent Study Unit) for English in college, but if I did, I would have based it on Watership Down by Richard Adams. One of my truly favourite reads.
10. My fingers are always counting the number of syllables in every sentence, song, or title (book and movie).
11. For the rest of the year, I will not eat any octopus, in respect of the great Paul who was ALWAYS RIGHT and led Spain to victory. Yes, I'm a Paul supporter.
12. I took up kenjitsu (samurai sword fencing) for a year in college. So I do know the basics of attacking and defending with a sword.
13. I'm really interested in Greek mythology, and that's because it started with me finding out about my namesake (Jason who led the Argonauts on the quest of the Golden Fleece).
14. During my college graduation ceremony, the organizers mentioned that I would be furthering my studies in Biomedical Science. Boy, were they wrong!
15. Until today, I'm still wondering what the hell was I doing taking Physics in secondary school.
16. I know how to burp at will.
17. The most annoying sound I've ever heard is the sound of Velcro. You might as well just rip my ears off.
18. I sleep with 4 books or more on my bed. No surprises.
19. Whenever I'm writing a story or an assignment on Word Document, the word count MUST end with any even number or 5. Otherwise, I get all nervous.
20. I'm the oddball in my family. What did you expect? No one's perfect!
21. According to my birth cert, I'm born in the year of the Goat, but also in the hour of the Snake. How ironic is that?
22. I like cheese, but ONLY on pizza and pasta. And I don't eat those Kraft singles or square pieces, ergh!
23. I have two blogs - Jayson's Lexicon and The Hopeful Storyteller. But it's the first one that I put more of my heart and soul into.
24. To date, these are the only movies that I have seen twice in the cinema: Goblet of Fire, Bolt (in 3D), and The Karate Kid.
25. I think I might be the most boring person on the planet, but then again, it's just me.
* Bonus 26. I believe that you should challenge the ordinary. And that's not just me for practicing my writing. But I learn to avoid cliches and stereotypes.
So I thought long and hard. In the end, this is what I came up with:
1. The reason I chose to do this is because it's becoming quite the craze on my Facebook page, and I was inspired to write one of my own.
2. Having said that, I get frustrated when I can't think of something new to write.
3. My height is 6 feet and 3 inches (because so many people have been asking me this, I feel like a girrafe!)
4. I may not be street smart, but I am book smart! :)
5. People have told me that I have an unusual ability to stay calm in a dire situation (but mostly, it's during exams).
6. I have a fascination for pictures of predators (lions, tigers, wolves, those of the mammal class etc.), because there's something mysteriously beautiful about these deadly creatures.
7. If I had to name 5 of my favourite authors who have shaped my life, they are: Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Erin Hunter, Roald Dahl and J.K. Rowling. :)
8. I am a fan of the Warriors series, and an avid collector of the books (28 titles in my collection right now, and still counting).
9. I never had the chance to do an ISU (Independent Study Unit) for English in college, but if I did, I would have based it on Watership Down by Richard Adams. One of my truly favourite reads.
10. My fingers are always counting the number of syllables in every sentence, song, or title (book and movie).
11. For the rest of the year, I will not eat any octopus, in respect of the great Paul who was ALWAYS RIGHT and led Spain to victory. Yes, I'm a Paul supporter.
12. I took up kenjitsu (samurai sword fencing) for a year in college. So I do know the basics of attacking and defending with a sword.
13. I'm really interested in Greek mythology, and that's because it started with me finding out about my namesake (Jason who led the Argonauts on the quest of the Golden Fleece).
14. During my college graduation ceremony, the organizers mentioned that I would be furthering my studies in Biomedical Science. Boy, were they wrong!
15. Until today, I'm still wondering what the hell was I doing taking Physics in secondary school.
16. I know how to burp at will.
17. The most annoying sound I've ever heard is the sound of Velcro. You might as well just rip my ears off.
18. I sleep with 4 books or more on my bed. No surprises.
19. Whenever I'm writing a story or an assignment on Word Document, the word count MUST end with any even number or 5. Otherwise, I get all nervous.
20. I'm the oddball in my family. What did you expect? No one's perfect!
21. According to my birth cert, I'm born in the year of the Goat, but also in the hour of the Snake. How ironic is that?
22. I like cheese, but ONLY on pizza and pasta. And I don't eat those Kraft singles or square pieces, ergh!
23. I have two blogs - Jayson's Lexicon and The Hopeful Storyteller. But it's the first one that I put more of my heart and soul into.
24. To date, these are the only movies that I have seen twice in the cinema: Goblet of Fire, Bolt (in 3D), and The Karate Kid.
25. I think I might be the most boring person on the planet, but then again, it's just me.
* Bonus 26. I believe that you should challenge the ordinary. And that's not just me for practicing my writing. But I learn to avoid cliches and stereotypes.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Unproductive Productiveness
Having not written a self reflection for over two weeks, I feel like I’m slacking off and becoming a little unproductive in my writing. I can’t even think up of a new piece to write and I need to scream! But thankfully, this piece had got me back on track.
So, first thing I want to say is the progress of my new blog. It’s not as lengthy and as interesting as my other blog, especially since I’ve only put in one entry at the start – which talks about the kind of people that I believe writers truly are.
While I haven’t spread the word about it in my new blog, it already has become an inspiration to others on my Facebook page, and I have received a handful of nice comments regarding that piece.
Maybe I’ll want to focus my blog on topics with writing and book reviews in them; kind of like in Section Two in the Star newspapers where they put up articles about books and the reading habit (along with the occasional tips for writers) every Tuesdays and Fridays.
Everyone has their own writing style. You have yours. I have mine. That’s what makes us so unique amongst the rest.
Today, I’ve just put in another entry, along with the rest of my fellow classmates. It’s an instant news article regarding the controversial issue about the international Burn a Quran Day on 9/11. Everybody is getting caught up in this competition over trying to produce the best piece, so I guess it won’t be surprising when everyone tries to take a grab out of the event happening on the actual day itself!
So, first thing I want to say is the progress of my new blog. It’s not as lengthy and as interesting as my other blog, especially since I’ve only put in one entry at the start – which talks about the kind of people that I believe writers truly are.
While I haven’t spread the word about it in my new blog, it already has become an inspiration to others on my Facebook page, and I have received a handful of nice comments regarding that piece.
Maybe I’ll want to focus my blog on topics with writing and book reviews in them; kind of like in Section Two in the Star newspapers where they put up articles about books and the reading habit (along with the occasional tips for writers) every Tuesdays and Fridays.
Everyone has their own writing style. You have yours. I have mine. That’s what makes us so unique amongst the rest.
Today, I’ve just put in another entry, along with the rest of my fellow classmates. It’s an instant news article regarding the controversial issue about the international Burn a Quran Day on 9/11. Everybody is getting caught up in this competition over trying to produce the best piece, so I guess it won’t be surprising when everyone tries to take a grab out of the event happening on the actual day itself!
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Craving the Horror...and the Upcoming
To some extent I'm feeling bored; almost to the brink of restlessness.
And while I always find remedies for idleness through the comforting world of pages and words, I am in need of a movie with horror written all over it.
Last month's Carrie on Cinemax was a nice back-to-earth moment to remind me of how old school films (pun intended) still show great potential.
Now I'm almost sick to my guts of having to bear with movies on Astro which are either re-runs or don't seem to have much to give a huzzah about.
Fortunately, September sees spectacular shows ahead. Now's a good time as any to compose a movie list:
1. Piranha
2. The King of Fighters
3. Resident Evil: Afterlife
4. Legend of the Guardians
And while I always find remedies for idleness through the comforting world of pages and words, I am in need of a movie with horror written all over it.
Last month's Carrie on Cinemax was a nice back-to-earth moment to remind me of how old school films (pun intended) still show great potential.
Now I'm almost sick to my guts of having to bear with movies on Astro which are either re-runs or don't seem to have much to give a huzzah about.
Fortunately, September sees spectacular shows ahead. Now's a good time as any to compose a movie list:
1. Piranha
2. The King of Fighters
3. Resident Evil: Afterlife
4. Legend of the Guardians
Sunday, August 22, 2010
What Makes A Writer?
This is dedicated to those who have laid a pen on paper; to those who share a passion for the written word.
Should you ever find yourself lost at a crossroads with your worst enemy, the block, lingering at the corner of your shoulder, always remember the kind of person you choose to be as a writer, and how you relate with it to the world:
1. Writers are trendsetters. While they may not be the pioneers for establishing brand new literary genres, they are the first to set its boundaries in terms of style and substance. They play by their rules. Sometimes they transcend out of the box, and it is their uniqueness which sets them apart from others of the same kind.
2. Writers are free-thinkers. In that sense, they have their own set of beliefs – that good will triumph over evil, a solution must be made for every conflict set, and that not everyone is as good as they seem. But mostly, a writer believes that he has a story to tell, and that the world is an audience just waiting for him to spread their words.
3. Writers are manipulators. They not only play with their words, but they play with your emotions. And it doesn’t matter what kind of genre they choose to write under – they are known to break spirits, pull at heartstrings, and even stir up feelings of old. But by the end of the day, they turn out to be charmers, because they’ll assure you there is such a thing as a happily ever after.
4. The writer is a dreamer. There is never a moment when you don’t catch him living in a world of his own. He may be listening to your conversations and even participate in social interactions, but his mind is wandering elsewhere, probably thinking up new stories, plots, characters and what should he name his next creation.
5. Writers are inspirationists. You pick up a book by your favourite author, find it to be the best read ever, and go “Damn, I wish I’d written this instead!” How often have you felt that way, and then decide you’ll write the next best thing, while inspired to find your own writing style and voice?
6. Writers are perfectionists. Every word, every sentence must be lined up piece by piece like an exact puzzle. But they know that they will never be satisfied with the final result. So they cut out, extend, shorten and add in words; hacking at every detail like an ice sculpture until it resembles perfection in all of its grandeur.
7. Writers are collectors. The average person knows of about 20,000 words, but only uses 2,000 of them in his vocabulary. A writer knows more, and collects words for his lexicon. Writers are also bibliophiles. They worship and treasure each book they have collected even better than the last, like a priceless gem.
8. The writer is the human equivalent of the sphinx. What you see on the outside is just a reflection; an exterior of the shell that only shows you what you see. He is mysterious, exclusive and keeps to himself. Secrets are a plenty within him, but don’t expect to read him like an open book – for he won’t tell you anything.
9. A writer is an artist. With his hand in grip of the pen or his fingers at the keyboard, that blank piece of paper or that empty screen starts off as his canvas. Ink flows in a writer’s blood, and it is conveyed as a string of words, lines, or sentences to create a masterpiece. His hands prance about gracefully, from which bears the fruit of music or artwork – in black and white.
10. Writers are the gods. They are idolized for being the creators of worlds and for producing believable characters with life of their own. Writers alone determine the fate of their universe and those who choose to call it home. A writer also lives free of his guilt as an executioner. For with a snap of the wrist and a sentence put down, they can end the lives they created if they choose to.
We are all of these. And yet, we are not.
Because what we choose to convey through our words, we choose to be ourselves.
Should you ever find yourself lost at a crossroads with your worst enemy, the block, lingering at the corner of your shoulder, always remember the kind of person you choose to be as a writer, and how you relate with it to the world:
1. Writers are trendsetters. While they may not be the pioneers for establishing brand new literary genres, they are the first to set its boundaries in terms of style and substance. They play by their rules. Sometimes they transcend out of the box, and it is their uniqueness which sets them apart from others of the same kind.
2. Writers are free-thinkers. In that sense, they have their own set of beliefs – that good will triumph over evil, a solution must be made for every conflict set, and that not everyone is as good as they seem. But mostly, a writer believes that he has a story to tell, and that the world is an audience just waiting for him to spread their words.
3. Writers are manipulators. They not only play with their words, but they play with your emotions. And it doesn’t matter what kind of genre they choose to write under – they are known to break spirits, pull at heartstrings, and even stir up feelings of old. But by the end of the day, they turn out to be charmers, because they’ll assure you there is such a thing as a happily ever after.
4. The writer is a dreamer. There is never a moment when you don’t catch him living in a world of his own. He may be listening to your conversations and even participate in social interactions, but his mind is wandering elsewhere, probably thinking up new stories, plots, characters and what should he name his next creation.
5. Writers are inspirationists. You pick up a book by your favourite author, find it to be the best read ever, and go “Damn, I wish I’d written this instead!” How often have you felt that way, and then decide you’ll write the next best thing, while inspired to find your own writing style and voice?
6. Writers are perfectionists. Every word, every sentence must be lined up piece by piece like an exact puzzle. But they know that they will never be satisfied with the final result. So they cut out, extend, shorten and add in words; hacking at every detail like an ice sculpture until it resembles perfection in all of its grandeur.
7. Writers are collectors. The average person knows of about 20,000 words, but only uses 2,000 of them in his vocabulary. A writer knows more, and collects words for his lexicon. Writers are also bibliophiles. They worship and treasure each book they have collected even better than the last, like a priceless gem.
8. The writer is the human equivalent of the sphinx. What you see on the outside is just a reflection; an exterior of the shell that only shows you what you see. He is mysterious, exclusive and keeps to himself. Secrets are a plenty within him, but don’t expect to read him like an open book – for he won’t tell you anything.
9. A writer is an artist. With his hand in grip of the pen or his fingers at the keyboard, that blank piece of paper or that empty screen starts off as his canvas. Ink flows in a writer’s blood, and it is conveyed as a string of words, lines, or sentences to create a masterpiece. His hands prance about gracefully, from which bears the fruit of music or artwork – in black and white.
10. Writers are the gods. They are idolized for being the creators of worlds and for producing believable characters with life of their own. Writers alone determine the fate of their universe and those who choose to call it home. A writer also lives free of his guilt as an executioner. For with a snap of the wrist and a sentence put down, they can end the lives they created if they choose to.
We are all of these. And yet, we are not.
Because what we choose to convey through our words, we choose to be ourselves.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
If Life Was A Quentin Tarantino Movie...
The universe of the malicious master of the macacbre is well-known for being bold, loud and in-your-face. So, whether you choose or not to live your life as a gun-toting hitman, a wandering swordsman, or even a Basterd, here are 10 cool reasons to live for if life was a Quentin Tarantino movie:
1. No one is ever going to reprimand you for carrying a weapon (katana, morning star, baseball bat etc.) wherever you go.
2. You must have seriously bad-ass potential if the world pauses for a moment to reveal your name on screen. (Even better if it's accompanied by blaring music; think Hugo Stiglitz!)
3. Applies to girls only, but you can get away with plotting your revenge on that unfortunate bastard who's screwed up your life.
4. The best confrontations are the ones that take place in F&B outlets.
5. Unless you're prepared to face some serious bad shit, don't go into the toilet. (pun intended)
6. If you've been given a nickname (Apache, Bear Jew, Black Mamba, The Wolf etc.), be very proud of it and live up to that name.
7. A Mexican standoff has many different meanings and variations (guns vs guns, little gun vs big shotgun, katana vs katana, machinegun in the basement vs grenades above ready to blow).
8. You get your final say as you quote Biblical phrases or information off the Internet before you send your enemy to his/her death.
9. It doesn't matter if you're speaking in a completely foreign language; others will understand you directly.
10. Every baddy gets to deliver a monologue of great importance (Bill's superhero/alter-ego theory, Hans Landa's perception of the beastly rat, etc.), which means something serious is about to go down.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Airbending? More Like Nerve-Wrecking
It's official: M Night Shaymalan is destroying children's and fans' dreams of watching their favourite TV series become a reality on the movie screen. Thank goodness that James Cameron stole the title rights to Avatar, or else that name would stick as a permanent flop. Effective CGIs and graphics sometimes aren't enough to cover a storyline so full of holes; you'd think the whole plot was cheese(y).
3. Katara dear, it's nice that you're giving us the introduction to the movie just like you do at the beginning of every episode. But you don't have to tell us what's happened or going on every 20 minutes. That's the main point of any form of entertainment: show, don't tell.
4. There's a reason why Fire Lord Ozai's face is kept hidden until Season 3. Just like Darth Vader, we want to get that impending presence of a partially-known villain who reigns havoc on the screen. (Ironic, since the voice of Ozai is Mark Hamill a.k.a Luke Skywalker) Plus, the film version of Ozai is far less from looking authorative and demonic.
5. Why are all the Firebenders freaking out when Iroh is able to manifest his own fire? That's supposed to happen in the series! And why is Firebending reduced so degradingly to the fact that you need an external source of flames? It's called harnessing the power of the sun, morons.
6. To heat things up a bit, there should have been a duel between two masters of the same element. And there were two important duels of the sort in Season 1. Zuko fought against Zhao in an Agni Kai because the latter insulted the former about being a disgrace to his father. Katara duelled Master Pakku to prove she could fight as equally as the men in the North Pole (you see, there is a point of degrading feminism). Besides, such scenes could have added an extra 10 minutes or more.
7. Shortage of time also means lack of expansion for the characters. Iroh was more fun to watch in the series (he was always the Mr. Miyagi type!). And Zuko isn't as hot-tempered and arrogant as I remembered him in the series. At least his portrayal of a tortured soul looking for redemption is something you can see in Dev Patel (who did the same with Jamal in Slumdog Millionaire).
Having said that, I need to re-watch the entire first season to clear my mind of what was tarnished in an epic masterpiece. Damn you, Shaymalan.
So what exactly makes The Last Airbender so nerve wrecking?
1. It is almost impossible to cram 20 episodes of Season 1 to make a 90 minute movie. So much of the essence and quality that made the original TV series so enjoyable to watch is suddenly lost.
2. The most obvious failure of The Last Airbender is the lack of humour found not just in the movie, but what define the characters. As a child, Aang is lively, a bit childish and just wants to have fun, which doesn't happen. Not even one smile from movie Aang. And we all know Sokka with his sense of dry wits. Ok, so we see a little of that in film, but Sokka is supposed to be over-the-top with his 'The earth is doomed!' attitude.3. Katara dear, it's nice that you're giving us the introduction to the movie just like you do at the beginning of every episode. But you don't have to tell us what's happened or going on every 20 minutes. That's the main point of any form of entertainment: show, don't tell.
4. There's a reason why Fire Lord Ozai's face is kept hidden until Season 3. Just like Darth Vader, we want to get that impending presence of a partially-known villain who reigns havoc on the screen. (Ironic, since the voice of Ozai is Mark Hamill a.k.a Luke Skywalker) Plus, the film version of Ozai is far less from looking authorative and demonic.
5. Why are all the Firebenders freaking out when Iroh is able to manifest his own fire? That's supposed to happen in the series! And why is Firebending reduced so degradingly to the fact that you need an external source of flames? It's called harnessing the power of the sun, morons.
6. To heat things up a bit, there should have been a duel between two masters of the same element. And there were two important duels of the sort in Season 1. Zuko fought against Zhao in an Agni Kai because the latter insulted the former about being a disgrace to his father. Katara duelled Master Pakku to prove she could fight as equally as the men in the North Pole (you see, there is a point of degrading feminism). Besides, such scenes could have added an extra 10 minutes or more.
7. Shortage of time also means lack of expansion for the characters. Iroh was more fun to watch in the series (he was always the Mr. Miyagi type!). And Zuko isn't as hot-tempered and arrogant as I remembered him in the series. At least his portrayal of a tortured soul looking for redemption is something you can see in Dev Patel (who did the same with Jamal in Slumdog Millionaire).
Having said that, I need to re-watch the entire first season to clear my mind of what was tarnished in an epic masterpiece. Damn you, Shaymalan.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Quick Pinch of Salt
Q: What does a housewife, an archeologist, a fox, a tigress and a pinch of salt have in common?
A: Apart from being Angelina Jolie, they all get to kick some butt.
I was fortunate enough to catch an early screening of Salt, but didn't realise that it only lasted for about 90 minutes or so. The trailer was certainly enought to fool me, but there's a sly plot twisted within its storyline. And the ending was screaming: Got to have a sequel!
Sometimes, you have endings that complete the full circle, but it's out of fandom and wanting more that the movie industry tries to please us by making sequels. And then, there those endings which leave you suspended in the air, and you're wondering what's just happened? Surely there's got to be answers.
Salt does that.
And what it shares with favourite movies of mine such as Kill Bill and Inglourious Basterds is the general idea that:
A) Feminism has a new rise in the film industry. No longer the damsels in distress in action movies, there's a new take to the term 'women warriors'.
B) When women are oppressed, scorned and betrayed, they want their revenge. And they're not afraid to get down and dirty, or even break a nail just to see some blood shed.
The question you should be asking, or rather, the tagline for this movie, isn't "Who is Salt?" but "Who the hell is really in the CIA?"
A: Apart from being Angelina Jolie, they all get to kick some butt.
I was fortunate enough to catch an early screening of Salt, but didn't realise that it only lasted for about 90 minutes or so. The trailer was certainly enought to fool me, but there's a sly plot twisted within its storyline. And the ending was screaming: Got to have a sequel!
Sometimes, you have endings that complete the full circle, but it's out of fandom and wanting more that the movie industry tries to please us by making sequels. And then, there those endings which leave you suspended in the air, and you're wondering what's just happened? Surely there's got to be answers.
Salt does that.
And what it shares with favourite movies of mine such as Kill Bill and Inglourious Basterds is the general idea that:
A) Feminism has a new rise in the film industry. No longer the damsels in distress in action movies, there's a new take to the term 'women warriors'.
B) When women are oppressed, scorned and betrayed, they want their revenge. And they're not afraid to get down and dirty, or even break a nail just to see some blood shed.
The question you should be asking, or rather, the tagline for this movie, isn't "Who is Salt?" but "Who the hell is really in the CIA?"
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Red
It is the colour of roses and blood.
It screams of fury and unyielding passion.
But to her, it is the bringer of change.
Perhaps you should know that she was once human, like you and I.
Her story may have changed from time to time, like the many phases of the moon. Nevertheless, it has always preserved something that is pure and true.
For her story is as dark as the night itself.
If only you could see through her masquerade, then you would know that her life is not all fairy tales and happily ever after as it seems.
To begin with, she is the slave of her own life. Her only living relative is her grandmother, who takes the simplest of pleasures in ordering her around. You would think that any wicked stepmother would look smaller compared to this, but every chore has become a burden.
Leave a parasite to be for far too long, and it becomes almost impossible to remove it from its place. Sometimes, it is wishful thinking that one does not have a family.
She has lost count of the number of times that she has wished the senile hag would just give in to her old age. At best, her dear grandmother could simply burst a blood vessel and die on the spot.
But that is not the reason why she is afraid.
The truth is this. She cannot bear to look the old woman in the face; for fear that her own reflection will stare back through those dense and cloudy eyes.
She wonders; will she lose her beauty someday?
Eventually, she knows that she will age with time; become as hideous and decrepit as the crone who waits for Death to come and wrest her eternal soul.
There comes that time of the year when she bleeds; a sign of her maturity. Only, it has become a painful reminder to her that she still exists. The other option was in fact decent, if not insane. Her wrists bear many scars from her many attempts to take her own life. Crazy as it seems, she has collected so much evidence that she has used it to dye her winter’s cloak, until it appears to be fashioned from her own drops of blood.
Death himself has been too oblivious to her, she believes. But she will stop at nothing to rid herself of this miserable existence.
The warnings of the townspeople heed her call, but it is enough to fall on deaf ears.
Beware, beware! Tread not into the woods!
For the hounds of hell descend upon us!
And of course, she has heard the old tales of those who went into the woods. They were never heard of again, but the wolves that lived there seemed to have increased in numbers.
Even a man who is pure in heart
And says his prayers by night
May become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright!
But her mind is made up, and she dons her blood-stained cloak. Perhaps Death lurks somewhere in the dark, mysterious forest, and she is certain that he will come to claim his prize tonight.
She was sixteen, still a virgin and conspicuously naive.
All around her, she hears the lamenting cries of the wolves. For years the forest has bred its own assassins, and now their voices echo in low, mournful tones as they sing to the moon above, forever longing to touch its celestial beauty.
Just when she thinks that she will not be able to find a creature feral enough to tear out a child’s heart, from out of nowhere, one emerges from the clearing to greet her.
That was her first meeting with a wolf.
They say that first impressions are like the craters of the moon. The deeper the impact, the longer it lasts for all to see.
She knows that this wolf is not like the others of his kind.
His snout was raised high as sniffed the air. The sharp tang of blood on her cloak was strong and luring, but he did not seem in the least interested to that. The moonbeams shined upon his luscious fur, turning it from grey to silver, as though the beauty of the night had materialised into an animal form.
Thought after thought ran endlessly through her mind. Is he alpha, beta, or omega? Is he a lone hunter, or does he runs with the pack?
In the night, his eyes searched deeply into her soul. They were golden, like the sunlight’s promise of a brand new day. She does not know whether to run from this creature, or continue to be mesmerised by the strangeness reflected in its gaze.
A low, growling noise erupts from the clearing, but she does not have the time to react as another wolf bursts forth and begins clawing and tearing at the first one. In the end, the hunter has its jaws clamped over its opponent in a chokehold, while the wolf looks pitifully at her, begging and pleading with his eyes.
In that split second, she has decided.
She will not allow him to die, like some wretched animal.
The liquid courage of adrenaline flowed through her as she picked up a stick and strikes out at the attacker. Dazed, the renegade hunter pauses to turn on her, but the wolf has regained his strength as he rips a huge chunk out of his attacker’s hind leg. She watches as the beast yelps in fury before running off, possibly to crawl up somewhere secluded and then die of its wounds.
The wolf extended his paw; an offering of its gratitude of thanks. She shakes it gently, all the while keeping a close watch of any strange behaviour that might be concealed. When she knows that he means her no harm, she leans in to stroke his furry chest.
How she wished that all her problems could be solved that easily.
As though he was able to understand her grief, the wolf whimpered as he nuzzled her hand. There was something about the way he looked at his saviour once more, as though he was trying to tell her something.
I can give you a new life. But I will have to take another.
A new life. Now that’s really something to look forward to. But to take another? In her heart, she already knows the perfect victim to sacrifice. If he is serious to his commitment, then she should give him time to prepare for what may change her life.
Therefore, she decides to give the wolf a head’s start. He acknowledges her with a mere nod, before he is swallowed by the dark forest, a trail of moonbeams left behind in his wake.
There were two paths now diverged in the midst of the woods. And being one traveller alone, she looked as far as the path could take her, all the while thinking of the consequences that might await her on either end. Her mind made up, she takes the road less travelled; the path carpeted with flowers of iridescent colours beaming in the moonlight. Perhaps a handful of nature’s gifts can tame the savage beast.
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. And pansies are for thoughts.
I will bring you roses, she whispered, as a token of my love.
There is a patch of strange purple flowers that blossoms like twilight waning in the grass. Upon closer inspection, she frowns in disgust. It is aconite, otherwise known as wolfsbane to the superstitious folk. They use it to keep the wolves at bay. How trivial it seems, if humans as the dominant species are unable to defend themselves from the demons of hell; they have to resort to old wives’ tales and ancient remedies so they will feel safe in their beds at night.
But while the offer may have been gracious and sincere to her, yet wolves are well-known for being nature’s cunning politicians and ruthless murderers.
So she grabbed some. And prayed that she wouldn’t need to use it at all.
Meanwhile, the wolf runs swiftly through the forest, the wind lifting his paws off the ground with every stride.
He does not pause to catch his breath – there will be plenty of time to rest once he has brought down his prey. The thrill of the hunt excites him, courses through his veins.
At last, he stumbles across it – the old crone’s cottage at the other end of the woods. A pair of nut trees stands proudly like sentinels guarding the place, just like she told him. He breaks down the door with just a swipe of his claw, rendering the firm and solid oak into a thousand splinters.
By the way, it is really pointless to keep huffing and puffing until the house comes falling down. Especially if that house is not made of stone and bricks.
At the first sight of the old crone, the wolf bares his teeth, snarling as he raises his hackles. Then the call of the hunt resonates loud and clear from his throat, and he pounces.
The last thing the old woman remembers is a glance at the abyss of death – an endless black hole of snarling jaws and demon-sharp teeth.
She screams, but not long enough for her to feel the pain.
It is finished within seconds.
Crone flesh may be tough and chewy, but it is human nonetheless. At least its flavour increases with age, just like wine and cheese.
Sometime after he has satisfied his appetite, the wolf licks his paws meticulously and swipes his tongue over his blood-stained muzzle.
He always remembers to clean himself after every meal.
In walks the girl with the red cloak, her eyes widening in horror as she surveys the carnage of a gladiator’s sport.
Once the wolf saw her, his tongue lolled out, his rear end held high. Adoration and sympathy were etched onto her face – for a stranger, he certainly was charming to the eye.
After all, she had never seen a creature with such humane emotions.
He even wagged his bushy tail.
For a moment, he looked like an overgrown puppy, incredibly proud of the terrible deed he’d committed.
When she approached him, the savagery took over instinctively, and the wolf bared his teeth once more, now showing his aggressive side. But she was not afraid anymore, for she knew she had already gone this far not to give up.
“I am ready,” she whispers gently.
There was something so surreal about those tufted ears. They twitched eagerly at the slightest noise, all the better to hear the beating of her heart.
Then both human and animal stared longingly into each other. They were beautiful, those eyes, and they were all the better to see her with.
She shuddered at the sight of those ferocious teeth, but if he wasn’t going to eat her, then they were all the better to give the gift of life to her.
Her decision firm and absolute, she casts the wolfsbane aside and sprinkles the flowers like the first drops of rain. She leaves the clasp of her cape undone and lets it fall, revealing her body as pure as the driven snow. The girl lies in her grandmother’s bed, ready to abandon the remnants of her innocence behind in the cold eternity of sleep. When she awakens, she rises not as a child anymore, but as a fully grown woman.
Or perhaps, something more.
But tonight, he was the dominant male. He would make sure of that.
First, his soft, leathery snout caressed her skin as he sniffed curiously, slowly breathing in her scent. He allows himself to be completely immersed by her human aroma; the greatest aphrodisiac for predators.
Then he licked her all over, until the temptation to consummate finally caved in. She put her lips against his snout, wrapping her legs around the wolf’s silver-gray fur.
And to seal the deal, he nipped the base of her neck. Gently at first, his fangs tingled against the skin like music notes; sharp but rhythmically pleasant. It rouses her, and it makes him want to unleash his inner animal. With each passing second it grows deeper, more passionate.
Then he bit down, as hard as nails.
Despite the claim that wolves are indeed savage and brutal, she could tell that this one was gentler than a spring lamb. He was careful not to sever the slightest thread of life as it flowed warm and thick from her body.
After all, how many women could say that they had the chance to lie with wolves?
That was when she realised that she was truly, madly, and deeply in love.
That was when she knew she had already stepped into a brand new life.
That was when that vengeful hunter stormed into the room and tore the wolf away from her.
If you ask her what she knew on that fateful night, all she remembers is seeing a tangle of brown and grey fur with claws raking at each other, and howls that rendered the night’s silence.
By now, her life is a huge puddle awash on the floor; she can hardly keep herself awake.
It is almost impossible to predict the state of the outcome in this dreary state...
She has never fully recovered from the state of fear she had found herself in when she came to her senses a few days later. The townspeople who had managed to save her from the brink of death whispered amongst themselves in fearful hushes. You see, something had died inside of her, yet they cannot make out what it was.
By day, she is human, like you and I; a mere plaything to the naked eye.
But by nightfall, when the beast has taken over her completely, she runs wild; more freely than any bird in the sky.
A change in a woman’s heart is often quite noticeable, and it doesn’t take long for either man or wolf to want her as a companion. But she will not have them. She has decided on her mate, and she will prowl the ends of the earth until she has proof that he still exists...
She stumbled across his body a few days later. But the hunters had already made quick work of her mate-to-be. He’d been gutted like a fish, and then turned inside out. His skin hung like some grotesque trophy in the sun – waiting to be turned into a mat, where his final resting spot would be that beside the fireplace.
She has never cried nor howled at the moon so forlornly in her life. But it wasn’t long before an epiphany had risen in the midst of her grief:
In all of creation, there results destruction. And with every destruction, creation rises like a phoenix from the ashes.
Unlike most of her newfound kind, the fate of the moon does not affect her metamorphosis. And while she may not have found her killer, but that despicable mongrel has left behind a trail which reeks of death and decay. It won’t be long before she will finally catch up to her prey.
But this she is sure of: when the moon has reached its highest peak, that renegade hunter shall cease to exist, and she will have earned the respect and leadership of a pack of her own.
After all, it is written in the lupine law – you kill not only for pride and glory, but mostly for position. But there is no decree which states that you cannot kill for revenge. Or for a wolf’s love.
Somewhere in the heavens above, her mate has become one with the moon at last.
And that is what she commemorates her first kill to.
She will think of him always when she slays.
But most of all, she will remember a life she once had, a life now left behind.
A life that flowed in blood, as red as her riding hood...
It screams of fury and unyielding passion.
But to her, it is the bringer of change.
Perhaps you should know that she was once human, like you and I.
Her story may have changed from time to time, like the many phases of the moon. Nevertheless, it has always preserved something that is pure and true.
For her story is as dark as the night itself.
If only you could see through her masquerade, then you would know that her life is not all fairy tales and happily ever after as it seems.
To begin with, she is the slave of her own life. Her only living relative is her grandmother, who takes the simplest of pleasures in ordering her around. You would think that any wicked stepmother would look smaller compared to this, but every chore has become a burden.
Leave a parasite to be for far too long, and it becomes almost impossible to remove it from its place. Sometimes, it is wishful thinking that one does not have a family.
She has lost count of the number of times that she has wished the senile hag would just give in to her old age. At best, her dear grandmother could simply burst a blood vessel and die on the spot.
But that is not the reason why she is afraid.
The truth is this. She cannot bear to look the old woman in the face; for fear that her own reflection will stare back through those dense and cloudy eyes.
She wonders; will she lose her beauty someday?
Eventually, she knows that she will age with time; become as hideous and decrepit as the crone who waits for Death to come and wrest her eternal soul.
There comes that time of the year when she bleeds; a sign of her maturity. Only, it has become a painful reminder to her that she still exists. The other option was in fact decent, if not insane. Her wrists bear many scars from her many attempts to take her own life. Crazy as it seems, she has collected so much evidence that she has used it to dye her winter’s cloak, until it appears to be fashioned from her own drops of blood.
Death himself has been too oblivious to her, she believes. But she will stop at nothing to rid herself of this miserable existence.
The warnings of the townspeople heed her call, but it is enough to fall on deaf ears.
Beware, beware! Tread not into the woods!
For the hounds of hell descend upon us!
And of course, she has heard the old tales of those who went into the woods. They were never heard of again, but the wolves that lived there seemed to have increased in numbers.
Even a man who is pure in heart
And says his prayers by night
May become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright!
But her mind is made up, and she dons her blood-stained cloak. Perhaps Death lurks somewhere in the dark, mysterious forest, and she is certain that he will come to claim his prize tonight.
She was sixteen, still a virgin and conspicuously naive.
All around her, she hears the lamenting cries of the wolves. For years the forest has bred its own assassins, and now their voices echo in low, mournful tones as they sing to the moon above, forever longing to touch its celestial beauty.
Just when she thinks that she will not be able to find a creature feral enough to tear out a child’s heart, from out of nowhere, one emerges from the clearing to greet her.
That was her first meeting with a wolf.
They say that first impressions are like the craters of the moon. The deeper the impact, the longer it lasts for all to see.
She knows that this wolf is not like the others of his kind.
His snout was raised high as sniffed the air. The sharp tang of blood on her cloak was strong and luring, but he did not seem in the least interested to that. The moonbeams shined upon his luscious fur, turning it from grey to silver, as though the beauty of the night had materialised into an animal form.
Thought after thought ran endlessly through her mind. Is he alpha, beta, or omega? Is he a lone hunter, or does he runs with the pack?
In the night, his eyes searched deeply into her soul. They were golden, like the sunlight’s promise of a brand new day. She does not know whether to run from this creature, or continue to be mesmerised by the strangeness reflected in its gaze.
A low, growling noise erupts from the clearing, but she does not have the time to react as another wolf bursts forth and begins clawing and tearing at the first one. In the end, the hunter has its jaws clamped over its opponent in a chokehold, while the wolf looks pitifully at her, begging and pleading with his eyes.
In that split second, she has decided.
She will not allow him to die, like some wretched animal.
The liquid courage of adrenaline flowed through her as she picked up a stick and strikes out at the attacker. Dazed, the renegade hunter pauses to turn on her, but the wolf has regained his strength as he rips a huge chunk out of his attacker’s hind leg. She watches as the beast yelps in fury before running off, possibly to crawl up somewhere secluded and then die of its wounds.
The wolf extended his paw; an offering of its gratitude of thanks. She shakes it gently, all the while keeping a close watch of any strange behaviour that might be concealed. When she knows that he means her no harm, she leans in to stroke his furry chest.
How she wished that all her problems could be solved that easily.
As though he was able to understand her grief, the wolf whimpered as he nuzzled her hand. There was something about the way he looked at his saviour once more, as though he was trying to tell her something.
I can give you a new life. But I will have to take another.
A new life. Now that’s really something to look forward to. But to take another? In her heart, she already knows the perfect victim to sacrifice. If he is serious to his commitment, then she should give him time to prepare for what may change her life.
Therefore, she decides to give the wolf a head’s start. He acknowledges her with a mere nod, before he is swallowed by the dark forest, a trail of moonbeams left behind in his wake.
There were two paths now diverged in the midst of the woods. And being one traveller alone, she looked as far as the path could take her, all the while thinking of the consequences that might await her on either end. Her mind made up, she takes the road less travelled; the path carpeted with flowers of iridescent colours beaming in the moonlight. Perhaps a handful of nature’s gifts can tame the savage beast.
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. And pansies are for thoughts.
I will bring you roses, she whispered, as a token of my love.
There is a patch of strange purple flowers that blossoms like twilight waning in the grass. Upon closer inspection, she frowns in disgust. It is aconite, otherwise known as wolfsbane to the superstitious folk. They use it to keep the wolves at bay. How trivial it seems, if humans as the dominant species are unable to defend themselves from the demons of hell; they have to resort to old wives’ tales and ancient remedies so they will feel safe in their beds at night.
But while the offer may have been gracious and sincere to her, yet wolves are well-known for being nature’s cunning politicians and ruthless murderers.
So she grabbed some. And prayed that she wouldn’t need to use it at all.
Meanwhile, the wolf runs swiftly through the forest, the wind lifting his paws off the ground with every stride.
He does not pause to catch his breath – there will be plenty of time to rest once he has brought down his prey. The thrill of the hunt excites him, courses through his veins.
At last, he stumbles across it – the old crone’s cottage at the other end of the woods. A pair of nut trees stands proudly like sentinels guarding the place, just like she told him. He breaks down the door with just a swipe of his claw, rendering the firm and solid oak into a thousand splinters.
By the way, it is really pointless to keep huffing and puffing until the house comes falling down. Especially if that house is not made of stone and bricks.
At the first sight of the old crone, the wolf bares his teeth, snarling as he raises his hackles. Then the call of the hunt resonates loud and clear from his throat, and he pounces.
The last thing the old woman remembers is a glance at the abyss of death – an endless black hole of snarling jaws and demon-sharp teeth.
She screams, but not long enough for her to feel the pain.
It is finished within seconds.
Crone flesh may be tough and chewy, but it is human nonetheless. At least its flavour increases with age, just like wine and cheese.
Sometime after he has satisfied his appetite, the wolf licks his paws meticulously and swipes his tongue over his blood-stained muzzle.
He always remembers to clean himself after every meal.
In walks the girl with the red cloak, her eyes widening in horror as she surveys the carnage of a gladiator’s sport.
Once the wolf saw her, his tongue lolled out, his rear end held high. Adoration and sympathy were etched onto her face – for a stranger, he certainly was charming to the eye.
After all, she had never seen a creature with such humane emotions.
He even wagged his bushy tail.
For a moment, he looked like an overgrown puppy, incredibly proud of the terrible deed he’d committed.
When she approached him, the savagery took over instinctively, and the wolf bared his teeth once more, now showing his aggressive side. But she was not afraid anymore, for she knew she had already gone this far not to give up.
“I am ready,” she whispers gently.
There was something so surreal about those tufted ears. They twitched eagerly at the slightest noise, all the better to hear the beating of her heart.
Then both human and animal stared longingly into each other. They were beautiful, those eyes, and they were all the better to see her with.
She shuddered at the sight of those ferocious teeth, but if he wasn’t going to eat her, then they were all the better to give the gift of life to her.
Her decision firm and absolute, she casts the wolfsbane aside and sprinkles the flowers like the first drops of rain. She leaves the clasp of her cape undone and lets it fall, revealing her body as pure as the driven snow. The girl lies in her grandmother’s bed, ready to abandon the remnants of her innocence behind in the cold eternity of sleep. When she awakens, she rises not as a child anymore, but as a fully grown woman.
Or perhaps, something more.
But tonight, he was the dominant male. He would make sure of that.
First, his soft, leathery snout caressed her skin as he sniffed curiously, slowly breathing in her scent. He allows himself to be completely immersed by her human aroma; the greatest aphrodisiac for predators.
Then he licked her all over, until the temptation to consummate finally caved in. She put her lips against his snout, wrapping her legs around the wolf’s silver-gray fur.
And to seal the deal, he nipped the base of her neck. Gently at first, his fangs tingled against the skin like music notes; sharp but rhythmically pleasant. It rouses her, and it makes him want to unleash his inner animal. With each passing second it grows deeper, more passionate.
Then he bit down, as hard as nails.
Despite the claim that wolves are indeed savage and brutal, she could tell that this one was gentler than a spring lamb. He was careful not to sever the slightest thread of life as it flowed warm and thick from her body.
After all, how many women could say that they had the chance to lie with wolves?
That was when she realised that she was truly, madly, and deeply in love.
That was when she knew she had already stepped into a brand new life.
That was when that vengeful hunter stormed into the room and tore the wolf away from her.
If you ask her what she knew on that fateful night, all she remembers is seeing a tangle of brown and grey fur with claws raking at each other, and howls that rendered the night’s silence.
By now, her life is a huge puddle awash on the floor; she can hardly keep herself awake.
It is almost impossible to predict the state of the outcome in this dreary state...
She has never fully recovered from the state of fear she had found herself in when she came to her senses a few days later. The townspeople who had managed to save her from the brink of death whispered amongst themselves in fearful hushes. You see, something had died inside of her, yet they cannot make out what it was.
By day, she is human, like you and I; a mere plaything to the naked eye.
But by nightfall, when the beast has taken over her completely, she runs wild; more freely than any bird in the sky.
A change in a woman’s heart is often quite noticeable, and it doesn’t take long for either man or wolf to want her as a companion. But she will not have them. She has decided on her mate, and she will prowl the ends of the earth until she has proof that he still exists...
She stumbled across his body a few days later. But the hunters had already made quick work of her mate-to-be. He’d been gutted like a fish, and then turned inside out. His skin hung like some grotesque trophy in the sun – waiting to be turned into a mat, where his final resting spot would be that beside the fireplace.
She has never cried nor howled at the moon so forlornly in her life. But it wasn’t long before an epiphany had risen in the midst of her grief:
In all of creation, there results destruction. And with every destruction, creation rises like a phoenix from the ashes.
Unlike most of her newfound kind, the fate of the moon does not affect her metamorphosis. And while she may not have found her killer, but that despicable mongrel has left behind a trail which reeks of death and decay. It won’t be long before she will finally catch up to her prey.
But this she is sure of: when the moon has reached its highest peak, that renegade hunter shall cease to exist, and she will have earned the respect and leadership of a pack of her own.
After all, it is written in the lupine law – you kill not only for pride and glory, but mostly for position. But there is no decree which states that you cannot kill for revenge. Or for a wolf’s love.
Somewhere in the heavens above, her mate has become one with the moon at last.
And that is what she commemorates her first kill to.
She will think of him always when she slays.
But most of all, she will remember a life she once had, a life now left behind.
A life that flowed in blood, as red as her riding hood...
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Seven, Seven, Seven
There are 7 things I have learned today on this seventh day on the seventh month:
1. KTM trains are rundown, broken and lousy. Not only do they keep getting delayed thrice, but delayed trains also mean a build-up of waiting crowds, which also leads to more pushing and shoving to a get space inside.
2. Thus said, rush hour for trains is VERY, VERY ugly.
3. Certain people do not have the decency to say "Excuse me" or make way for others when trying to get into a train. And I thought Malaysia was one of the most rudest countries ever!
4. It really does not pay to STAND and WAIT for faulty vehicles.
5. The sitting area outside of MPH in Subang Parade makes an ideal place for a writer's inspirational spot.
6. Glee turns old songs into hippy and catchy new tunes. Kudos to Glee! :)
7. Sue Sylvester is a complicated, but interesting character, and (only in Glee) Olivia-Newton John is a jerk, so to speak.
Additional No. 8:
If Spain wins tomorrow's game, then Paul the octopus will become a living legend.
1. KTM trains are rundown, broken and lousy. Not only do they keep getting delayed thrice, but delayed trains also mean a build-up of waiting crowds, which also leads to more pushing and shoving to a get space inside.
2. Thus said, rush hour for trains is VERY, VERY ugly.
3. Certain people do not have the decency to say "Excuse me" or make way for others when trying to get into a train. And I thought Malaysia was one of the most rudest countries ever!
4. It really does not pay to STAND and WAIT for faulty vehicles.
5. The sitting area outside of MPH in Subang Parade makes an ideal place for a writer's inspirational spot.
6. Glee turns old songs into hippy and catchy new tunes. Kudos to Glee! :)
7. Sue Sylvester is a complicated, but interesting character, and (only in Glee) Olivia-Newton John is a jerk, so to speak.
Additional No. 8:
If Spain wins tomorrow's game, then Paul the octopus will become a living legend.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Damn That Writer's Block
Of all the phases of writer’s block that I am going through, this one is sucking the life out of me.
Figuratively speaking.
First off, I think that had I not written The Fallen Queen, I would have not thought about perhaps making a package by writing several more short stories in the hopes that I could create an anthology.
I’m probably into my second story called Red. It’s supposed to be a werewolf romance, but intentionally, it’s my take on the tale of Red Riding Hood.
I love the idea of butchering fairy tales and turning them to the dark side.
However, the most difficult part about writing this story is that I have no wish to see it spin out like a Twilight rip-off.
That’s the problem these days; the supernatural world is being tainted with romance.
As a student in Media Studies, I still fail to comprehend just how something so Mary-Sue and long-winding can turn out to be a huge success.
Secretly, I wish I can create something out of words which can make a huge impact on the world.
Even if that something turns out to be You-Know-What.
I know I’m there somewhere, but I first have to make an effort out of it.
Figuratively speaking.
First off, I think that had I not written The Fallen Queen, I would have not thought about perhaps making a package by writing several more short stories in the hopes that I could create an anthology.
I’m probably into my second story called Red. It’s supposed to be a werewolf romance, but intentionally, it’s my take on the tale of Red Riding Hood.
I love the idea of butchering fairy tales and turning them to the dark side.
However, the most difficult part about writing this story is that I have no wish to see it spin out like a Twilight rip-off.
That’s the problem these days; the supernatural world is being tainted with romance.
As a student in Media Studies, I still fail to comprehend just how something so Mary-Sue and long-winding can turn out to be a huge success.
Secretly, I wish I can create something out of words which can make a huge impact on the world.
Even if that something turns out to be You-Know-What.
I know I’m there somewhere, but I first have to make an effort out of it.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Good Entertainment
While I still make it a habit to visit the cinema to catch up on the latest screenings, I have picked up a recent love for going to movies where the audience claps along.
It must be a good influence coming from being in Film Studies class.
The Karate Kid actually proves to be a must-watch despite all the usual negative critics about attempting to remake a film. Everything from the previous film is still there, with perhaps a ew twists and turns. The only flaw I find is that the producers shouldn't use Karate, this is kung-fu in China. And the era of action and violence has changed dramastically over the years. Damn, even 12-year-old boys can play dirty and floor their opponents like hell!
Hearing everyone in the cinema cheer and applaud once Xiao Dre wins the tournament with the snake-kick sounded very alleviating. It means that you, along with others, have paid good money for entertainment! :)
It must be a good influence coming from being in Film Studies class.
The Karate Kid actually proves to be a must-watch despite all the usual negative critics about attempting to remake a film. Everything from the previous film is still there, with perhaps a ew twists and turns. The only flaw I find is that the producers shouldn't use Karate, this is kung-fu in China. And the era of action and violence has changed dramastically over the years. Damn, even 12-year-old boys can play dirty and floor their opponents like hell!
Hearing everyone in the cinema cheer and applaud once Xiao Dre wins the tournament with the snake-kick sounded very alleviating. It means that you, along with others, have paid good money for entertainment! :)
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
No Longer the Oracle, But the Bearer of Stress
After 7 years or less, it has come to my realisation that it's time to abandon the oracle identity. Something shorter to remember me by, and where I don't have to deal with the unnessecary mail unless it pleases me.
But mostly it's because I don't know how the hell I locked myself out of my previous account. If anyone out there has any ideas on how to save my account, do contact me.
In the meantime, I shall be jayson7391@hotmail.com
And am still stressing over the need to complete all remaining assignments. Poor thing! :(
But mostly it's because I don't know how the hell I locked myself out of my previous account. If anyone out there has any ideas on how to save my account, do contact me.
In the meantime, I shall be jayson7391@hotmail.com
And am still stressing over the need to complete all remaining assignments. Poor thing! :(
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Murderer of Trivial Things
There are three things which I have killed today: time, demons and a rat.
First off, I spent one and a half hours of nothingness after my JRN course in the multimedia lab as I had to wait for my ENTIRE footage to be converted into a form easily read by other computer's programs.
Secondly, my experiences behind the controls of a PS3 playing Dante's Inferno - that was purely magic. Being able to smite hellish demons with the scythe (though I prefer blasting them with holy magic from my cross) looks a hell lot greater with the newest advancements in gaming technology. ;)
And finally, Mickey Mouse's furry little cousin decided to pay a visit, which drove everybody up the wall, so to speak. While trying to shoo the little critter out of the house, it scampered up the stairs. I accidentally dealt death's hand onto its head as I used a stick to shove it out of the way. Poor guy, but he shouldn't have come here in the first place. :(
First off, I spent one and a half hours of nothingness after my JRN course in the multimedia lab as I had to wait for my ENTIRE footage to be converted into a form easily read by other computer's programs.
Secondly, my experiences behind the controls of a PS3 playing Dante's Inferno - that was purely magic. Being able to smite hellish demons with the scythe (though I prefer blasting them with holy magic from my cross) looks a hell lot greater with the newest advancements in gaming technology. ;)
And finally, Mickey Mouse's furry little cousin decided to pay a visit, which drove everybody up the wall, so to speak. While trying to shoo the little critter out of the house, it scampered up the stairs. I accidentally dealt death's hand onto its head as I used a stick to shove it out of the way. Poor guy, but he shouldn't have come here in the first place. :(
Friday, April 16, 2010
Delayed Thoughts
I should have put this in yesterday, so I might as well do it before it slips my mind once again.
Earlier on, I wondered when would I be called in again as the one who always pulls in the most effort and commitment in a group assignment. I thought it would be past me since my Chemistry days in CIMP. But yesterday's FTV tutorial saw me to the rescue of my group with a discussion about Quentin Tarantino as a recognisable film auteur. Plus, I had to clash those ideas with another group discussing about Mr.Tarantino himself.
It was nice recalling those techniques of camera-shots I learned, and to put them to use for JRN. Now comes the dilenma of what to do for my next assignment, and how am I going to keep up before the deadline?
Earlier on, I wondered when would I be called in again as the one who always pulls in the most effort and commitment in a group assignment. I thought it would be past me since my Chemistry days in CIMP. But yesterday's FTV tutorial saw me to the rescue of my group with a discussion about Quentin Tarantino as a recognisable film auteur. Plus, I had to clash those ideas with another group discussing about Mr.Tarantino himself.
It was nice recalling those techniques of camera-shots I learned, and to put them to use for JRN. Now comes the dilenma of what to do for my next assignment, and how am I going to keep up before the deadline?
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Choppy Movie, Happy Thoughts
Number 13 on my Movie List of the Year: Clash of the Titans.
The verdict: it's a strong resembelance to Eragon. By that, I mean it's got a crappy storyline that makes you want to wash out that bad aftertaste with something strong, but makes up for it with impressive CGI effects, especially the creation of the mythical creatures.
Pegasus and Saphira are both definitely in the same league because:
1) They are the real driving force behind the entire movie
2) Very impressive wingspan ;)
Of all the comments I've received for my writing, I'd like to thank Mr. Warren and Miss Morgan for being open and honest about their thoughts. As compressed as The Fallen Queen was, it was satirical and provocative in a good way. I must admit, I was shocked knowing that my style reminds Mr. Warren of Edgar Allen Poe, because I'm aware of Poe's writings, yet never taken the time to read or understand them thoroughly.
And after days of waiting, another review comes in for Sun Man. That makes it an average of 2 reviews per chapter. :)
I'll be heading downtown to KLCC tomorrow. Hopefully, I'll be able to pick up the first of the Warriors: Omen of the Stars book, because it seems pointless to have bought the second one in the series without knowing what's going on.
The verdict: it's a strong resembelance to Eragon. By that, I mean it's got a crappy storyline that makes you want to wash out that bad aftertaste with something strong, but makes up for it with impressive CGI effects, especially the creation of the mythical creatures.
Pegasus and Saphira are both definitely in the same league because:
1) They are the real driving force behind the entire movie
2) Very impressive wingspan ;)
Of all the comments I've received for my writing, I'd like to thank Mr. Warren and Miss Morgan for being open and honest about their thoughts. As compressed as The Fallen Queen was, it was satirical and provocative in a good way. I must admit, I was shocked knowing that my style reminds Mr. Warren of Edgar Allen Poe, because I'm aware of Poe's writings, yet never taken the time to read or understand them thoroughly.
And after days of waiting, another review comes in for Sun Man. That makes it an average of 2 reviews per chapter. :)
I'll be heading downtown to KLCC tomorrow. Hopefully, I'll be able to pick up the first of the Warriors: Omen of the Stars book, because it seems pointless to have bought the second one in the series without knowing what's going on.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Beautiful Sunday
This Sunday has been very eventful, to start out with.
Still can't locate a copy of The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada even at Amcorp Mall, but none the less the place is indeed a living wax museum with a pulse. Plus, I got the next best thing - three books for the price of RM50; hardcovers in good condition. It's definitely a place to visit more than just once in a blue moon.
I've also conducted a brief experiment to see how much one can gain from Fanfiction.net. By posting one fanfic, I can't believe that I got 5 reviews in less than 24 hours. This goes to show just how one topic can link people from around the globe! Thank you reviewers! :)
Still can't locate a copy of The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada even at Amcorp Mall, but none the less the place is indeed a living wax museum with a pulse. Plus, I got the next best thing - three books for the price of RM50; hardcovers in good condition. It's definitely a place to visit more than just once in a blue moon.
I've also conducted a brief experiment to see how much one can gain from Fanfiction.net. By posting one fanfic, I can't believe that I got 5 reviews in less than 24 hours. This goes to show just how one topic can link people from around the globe! Thank you reviewers! :)
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
This was supposed to be posted 3 days ago
I'm going to be keeping up my posts, mostly becuase I want to remember my thoughts about delving deeper into the world of arts.
Three weeks have gone by and I am still hoping to hone my writing skills (you can never stop learning) as well as my confidence and my social capacity (conversing, speaking up etc.)
JRN expects me to keep up with the everyday news, which is something I don't do on a regular basis unless it concerns the film industries.
Now, I am in dire need of a moment of clarity. I'm expected to write two 1200+ word essays which are due next Monday and 1st of April. One will have me blabbering about the importance of media studies, while the other is a comfort in analysing The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada.
Three weeks have gone by and I am still hoping to hone my writing skills (you can never stop learning) as well as my confidence and my social capacity (conversing, speaking up etc.)
JRN expects me to keep up with the everyday news, which is something I don't do on a regular basis unless it concerns the film industries.
Now, I am in dire need of a moment of clarity. I'm expected to write two 1200+ word essays which are due next Monday and 1st of April. One will have me blabbering about the importance of media studies, while the other is a comfort in analysing The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada.
Monday, March 8, 2010
A Very Merry (Not-Un) Birthday - To Me!
March marks a month of momentous meanings and mouth-watering movies.
It’s that time of the year again.
Only now, I once told myself I didn’t want to keep adding on the digits, because it would mean having to step further and further and start taking up more responsibilities.
Nevertheless, it probably feels different this year because I’m on my own. Being in charge for the next few days. Thinking about Mum and Dad who are off on their holiday to Vietnam.
I’m writing this in longhand because the net’s dying on me. Plus, the day is still young and there will be plenty more to write about on this very special day.
Will post something later. And while I’m at it, I’m going to write more now that being a year older stimulates your brain juices.
I’m back - from a very important date.
What better way to celebrate a birthday than to have a tea party? And that is what me, my sis and Ee Mah had at Winter Warmers and Krispy Kreme.
Alice in Wonderland proves that Tim Burton has once again poured in his eccentricity, though the film is a little bit confusing at times. I want a Dormouse as my bodyguard and a white rabbit for an alarm clock! And Alice reminds me strongly of a modern Joan of Arc in her battle armour.
And now, before I turn in for the night, here’s a poem from the original story:
Twinkle twinkle little bat,
How I wonder what you’re at.
Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea tray in the sky.
It’s that time of the year again.
Only now, I once told myself I didn’t want to keep adding on the digits, because it would mean having to step further and further and start taking up more responsibilities.
Nevertheless, it probably feels different this year because I’m on my own. Being in charge for the next few days. Thinking about Mum and Dad who are off on their holiday to Vietnam.
I’m writing this in longhand because the net’s dying on me. Plus, the day is still young and there will be plenty more to write about on this very special day.
Will post something later. And while I’m at it, I’m going to write more now that being a year older stimulates your brain juices.
I’m back - from a very important date.
What better way to celebrate a birthday than to have a tea party? And that is what me, my sis and Ee Mah had at Winter Warmers and Krispy Kreme.
Alice in Wonderland proves that Tim Burton has once again poured in his eccentricity, though the film is a little bit confusing at times. I want a Dormouse as my bodyguard and a white rabbit for an alarm clock! And Alice reminds me strongly of a modern Joan of Arc in her battle armour.
And now, before I turn in for the night, here’s a poem from the original story:
Twinkle twinkle little bat,
How I wonder what you’re at.
Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea tray in the sky.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Movie Bonanza
What a great day to watch two movies on the same day. I expect I'll be doing a lot more double features this year, seeing as I might have to disect films and analyze it bit by bit.
The Wolf Man brings on the horror, blood and gore as is expected. I don't know about the original Lon Chaney classic, but it is very faithful to the werewolf legend. My only fault is that I imagine these werewolves to appear more lupine just like the ones in Van Helsing. Prisoner of Azkaban shows nothing more than a naked chihuahua. Heck, even the werewolves in New Moon are bigger than your average canis lupus, but they are wolves none the less.
Moving on to The Book of Eli, it has more sentimental feeling with a touch of Resident Evil atmosphere (although I've not seen any of the movies). Maybe it's just the way Denzel Washington walks around carrying that machete. And Gary Oldman brings an edge into his villianous portrayal; I've never seen him do dastardly since Dracula.
Before I turn in, I'm going to add in Death Proof which I just saw on Star Movies. Doesn't kick as much ass as Kill Bill or Inglourious Basterds, but it qualifies the conditions of a QT movie. I'm impressed.
Ok, next month is guaranteed to be a TRIPLE TREAT. Solomon Kane, Alice in Wonderland and Clash of the Titans to appear on my must-watch list. At this rate, I sure hope to beat my previous record of 25 movies in cinemas. :)
The Wolf Man brings on the horror, blood and gore as is expected. I don't know about the original Lon Chaney classic, but it is very faithful to the werewolf legend. My only fault is that I imagine these werewolves to appear more lupine just like the ones in Van Helsing. Prisoner of Azkaban shows nothing more than a naked chihuahua. Heck, even the werewolves in New Moon are bigger than your average canis lupus, but they are wolves none the less.
Moving on to The Book of Eli, it has more sentimental feeling with a touch of Resident Evil atmosphere (although I've not seen any of the movies). Maybe it's just the way Denzel Washington walks around carrying that machete. And Gary Oldman brings an edge into his villianous portrayal; I've never seen him do dastardly since Dracula.
Before I turn in, I'm going to add in Death Proof which I just saw on Star Movies. Doesn't kick as much ass as Kill Bill or Inglourious Basterds, but it qualifies the conditions of a QT movie. I'm impressed.
Ok, next month is guaranteed to be a TRIPLE TREAT. Solomon Kane, Alice in Wonderland and Clash of the Titans to appear on my must-watch list. At this rate, I sure hope to beat my previous record of 25 movies in cinemas. :)
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Men have rights, too.
My 3 days of orientation in Monash are finally over. Finito. Habis. Whatever the phrase may be.
Today marks the most important day of it all; the signing up for the lessons, the grand campus tour and the collection of the student ID.
The campus has its own Women's Room, for females only because they have a right to their own private space. The irony of this is that I don't have a right to my personal space when after Day 3, me coming back home beat and exhausted, am dragged unwillingly off to Subang Parade straightaway.
Why? Because my sister insists on following Mum there, and being worried that she'll be all alone and myself at home, has no choice but to force my sorry, tired butt to come along and wait it out for the next 5 hours.
Where's the rights of men when you need it??!
Today marks the most important day of it all; the signing up for the lessons, the grand campus tour and the collection of the student ID.
The campus has its own Women's Room, for females only because they have a right to their own private space. The irony of this is that I don't have a right to my personal space when after Day 3, me coming back home beat and exhausted, am dragged unwillingly off to Subang Parade straightaway.
Why? Because my sister insists on following Mum there, and being worried that she'll be all alone and myself at home, has no choice but to force my sorry, tired butt to come along and wait it out for the next 5 hours.
Where's the rights of men when you need it??!
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
CNY Ramblings
Back from Muar on the 4th day of CNY.
This year, it's been pretty dull. Ok, maybe that's just because other relatives come and stay for a day and then they're gone the next. Leaving my folks to hang around for a while.
In conjuction with the Year of the Tiger, I have picked up Ratha's Creature, which deals with prehistoric wild cats, but the characters are feline none the less. Maybe I'll read Watership Down for next year.
Will be going back to studying on Monday. Can't wait as I count the remaining days left. :)
This year, it's been pretty dull. Ok, maybe that's just because other relatives come and stay for a day and then they're gone the next. Leaving my folks to hang around for a while.
In conjuction with the Year of the Tiger, I have picked up Ratha's Creature, which deals with prehistoric wild cats, but the characters are feline none the less. Maybe I'll read Watership Down for next year.
Will be going back to studying on Monday. Can't wait as I count the remaining days left. :)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Fallen Queen
This is not the story of how a woman ascends to greater authority, but rather, how she descends from her grace to become a queen...
I was brought into existence as old as time itself. That is to say, I do not recall much of my youth, yet my immortality has preserved me as though I am a living portrait. My mother ruled the lands with her green thumb. And my father, well, there’s not much that I can tell, for I did not know him at all. Was he nothing more than a womanizer? Or perhaps he was indeed the king of all the gods as legend proclaims.
Regardless, being a descendant of such divine beings, one would think that I had only eternal bliss and not any unpleasant thoughts cross my mind. Such is the absurdity that springs from the fountains of the minds of stupid mortals. Their foolish reasoning would not be able to comprehend our deific intellectuals. For that, I pity them.
The ichors that flow through my divine veins boil and seethe with my rage. Every living being, mortal or god, were expecting me to take over my mother’s mantle. So what did it matter if I had no interest in governing over the land of the living? I knew I was destined for a greater ordeal. The words of my mother, despite the comfort it was supposed to bring, only fuelled my wrath.
Everything has a time and season. And where one falls, another will grow to take its place. That is the way the living live upon.
The fates were especially cruel to me. Instead of taking my place amongst my kin in the heavens, I would first descend to the depths of hell. I hated my mother. And I hated my very existence. But sometimes, it is so easy to mistake such loathing for something far greater than that.
When I first met my uncle, I admired everything that was him. Tall, dark and gaunt, he was not exactly fashioned out of the greatest of appearances, but my heart fell for him. The stories he told, I drew in with great fascination. He fought alongside his siblings in the Great War against the tyrannical rule of their father, resulting with their laurels held triumphant. How he was deceived to draw the worst bet amongst his brothers over who would dominate the mortal realms. And the punishments he meted out for sinners with the blackest of hearts – worse than facing death itself.
Even so, he was kind and gentle to me, ironic for his reputation as king of the underworld. It wasn’t long before I knew I had given my entire heart to him. How I longed to escape from it all and be with him for eternity. My dark angel.
And so it was carried out.
He was the executioner. But I am the mastermind; the architect of my own escape and salvation.
It was all part of the plan. The first thing was to get my overprotective mother out of the way. I concocted a ruse to fool her, saying that I would be gone for a while to gather some wildflowers. I would have none of her nymphs trailing behind me. Away from watchful eyes, I waited anxiously. Then, he came from the shadows and swept me off my feet and into his dark, harrowing dominion. We were doomed souls struck by love’s arrow indeed.
Those inferior mortals who know of our relationship have nothing less than their instincts shrouded with suspicion. Some actually believed that I was the innocent victim of a demented, necrotic paedophile. Incest, that very word spits with hatred from their mouths like raging wildfire. They can call me for what I am; a whore, or a low-life slut being the least. But all I did was to simply act out of my heart’s desire. Is that really so wrong?
For a period of time, I sat on my black obsidian throne as queen of the dead. As morbid as death which I sat by his side, nevertheless I was content with my place. But the ghost of my mother’s words had returned to haunt me. Everything has a season of its own. Including the humane emotion that is love.
As the weeks rolled into months, it had come to my notice that while my husband still cared for me under his wing, his heart was just the same as those of his subjects – dead, lifeless and stoical.
I asked him if he still loved me. He said that it did not mean anything, but he didn’t know. What difference would it have made anyway?
And my mother – what would she think of me? Would it break her heart to know that her precious, only daughter had been snatched from under her watchful gaze; never to return to her side?
I could picture her now.
She is garbed in a black veil, roaming endlessly to the ends of the earth. Where her tears drop, so falls the first flakes of snow. The cold, cruel air channels her sorrow to all corners of the land. So cold; it breaks the hearts of all who can feel. Even the trees have lost the will to live as they shrivel up and die.
I could not possibly return to a former life where I had slaved away my dignity and happiness. My dark angel had saved me from that. Perhaps he could liberate me forever from this torment.
Through my tears of deceit and persuasion, I told him that he meant the world to me – lower or above. I would never leave his side. Nor could I possibly bear the fact of returning to the land above to care for nature’s gifts which had its lease, but of that I did not tell. Fortunately, he told me, not every problem had to be overcome by being a god or goddess of wisdom.
The solution came in the form of a ripe, juicy pomegranate which he placed delicately in my palm. I stared hungrily into its trove of bright, sparkling rubies.
“Eat it,” he says. “No one who has touched and consumed the food of my domain shall be allowed to leave this place. Just a few seeds, my love, and you will be my queen. For as long as we shall live.”
For as long as we shall live. Those sweet, melodious words of his have led me to deliver my own verdict.
With every seed I sink my teeth into; it bursts into juice that course through my alleviating body. Each one is indeed a mirror; a reflection of the cause and effect I will bring upon my choice.
One for sorrow, two for joy.
I cringe at the thought of the wretched hurt that I have cast upon my own mother, but it is for the sake of my happiness.
Three for a girl, four for a boy.
Like peeling the layers of an onion, I have discarded my childhood innocence. And I have willingly welcomed the intrusion of another being into my sacred body.
Five for silver, six for gold.
Despite the underworld being many a mortal’s final resting place, it is also a host of limitless wealth. Materialistic riches and spoils for a woman of my status.
But before I can take a bite out of another seed, an epiphany dawns upon me. No matter how much I try to hide myself from the world above, they will come for me. I cannot do this.
Seven for a secret never to be told.
I had eaten the forbidden fruit from the garden of my paradise. And it should have been that I was to be condemned to reside forever in this fiery limbo. But while we enjoy casting the dice with the humans’ fate at stakes, we simply cannot allow them to die in vain.
So it was the will of the gods.
When I return to my mother’s company, a smile of pretence is greeted with tears of joy. In my mother’s eyes, I am her innocent daughter. Yet in her presence, my heart secretly pines with lament. I cry not for the short, pathetic mortal lives of plants, but because my time here seems like eternity.
Then six months slip away, like sand in an hourglass. The time comes for the tides to change.
I watch over the kingdom of the fallen with my husband. The only things that grow here are the pomegranates that I plant with care – a souvenir of my little victory. The trees here are the ones fashioned from the suicides, their corpses hanging from the limbs. Birds with hideous women’s’ faces tear profoundly at the bodies with the hopes of being able to nest. The lakes are nothing more than rivers of fire, washing away the sins of the damned. Their screams of agony trash about in my ears like echoes in a cavern. But it is a small price to pay, considering how low I have sunk to achieve my goal.
I am the Lady of the Underworld. The Queen of the Fallen.
And I know that I am definitely not making a mistake.
P.S: In case you were wondering, this is my version of the Persephone myth. ;)
A Bone To Pick
Getting exceedingly temperamental these few days, and here's why:
I know of this writer's rule, but I'm hoping some higher authority can reinforce it for the sake of my sanity :-
Should ever I be struck upon by an idea of any sort for my Muse has given me inspiration, please leave me be and get out of my face. Until I have thoughts written upon paper, it clouds in the brain. It is not healthy to have ideas fogging up like the morning mist. Even worse should it slip away for I fear I cannot be inspired like that once again.
I'm always doing what I'm told to do, but sometimes I feel like the priorities I do for others, willingly or not, is a heavy price to pay considering I don't think I have plenty of time for myself to ponder and think.
I know of this writer's rule, but I'm hoping some higher authority can reinforce it for the sake of my sanity :-
Should ever I be struck upon by an idea of any sort for my Muse has given me inspiration, please leave me be and get out of my face. Until I have thoughts written upon paper, it clouds in the brain. It is not healthy to have ideas fogging up like the morning mist. Even worse should it slip away for I fear I cannot be inspired like that once again.
I'm always doing what I'm told to do, but sometimes I feel like the priorities I do for others, willingly or not, is a heavy price to pay considering I don't think I have plenty of time for myself to ponder and think.
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Truth Be Told
Let it be known to the world that I have decided to stray aside from the field of science and will venture down the path leading into arts.
That's right - goodbye, medical bioscience future; hello, career in Bachelor of Arts!
Not because I flunked any chances of doing so, but after a LONG thought about it, it comes down to a possible future in consideration with my interests. Call this an epiphany, if you must.
Orientation week at Monash starts after CNY, which sounds great! Now I can finally get my book-reading butt of my bed and start grinding that cerebral cortex once again. And find more excuses to put even more entries in here. :)
That's right - goodbye, medical bioscience future; hello, career in Bachelor of Arts!
Not because I flunked any chances of doing so, but after a LONG thought about it, it comes down to a possible future in consideration with my interests. Call this an epiphany, if you must.
Orientation week at Monash starts after CNY, which sounds great! Now I can finally get my book-reading butt of my bed and start grinding that cerebral cortex once again. And find more excuses to put even more entries in here. :)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Life's All Chocolate...And Cards
A great movie is more than just winning Oscars or having a great storyline - it's one that you can sit and watch re-runs and never, ever get bored. And sayings that you'll remember from time to time.
Forrest Gump is a wonderful example. I sit there watching Tom Hanks mentioning "Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you're gonna get." As much as I love the simplicity of such a quote, it would have made a lot of sense back in those days when you had boxes that didn't tell you what kind of chocolates you had. I guess life, or even fate, is a lot of things nowadays. So here's a saying I made up myself:
"Fate can be a bitch. But whatever cards she draws for you, use them to the fullest."
I keep reminiscing about all those lessons from English class too. Everything about fate relating Hamlet to The Outsider to The Waste Land. You can't choose your own fate. Or can you?
"There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." - Sarah Connor
Forrest Gump is a wonderful example. I sit there watching Tom Hanks mentioning "Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you're gonna get." As much as I love the simplicity of such a quote, it would have made a lot of sense back in those days when you had boxes that didn't tell you what kind of chocolates you had. I guess life, or even fate, is a lot of things nowadays. So here's a saying I made up myself:
"Fate can be a bitch. But whatever cards she draws for you, use them to the fullest."
I keep reminiscing about all those lessons from English class too. Everything about fate relating Hamlet to The Outsider to The Waste Land. You can't choose your own fate. Or can you?
"There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." - Sarah Connor
Monday, February 1, 2010
One Angel, Three Portrayals... In Someways It Is Fallen
About a week ago, I went to spend my Sunday watching angels destroy the world in Legion. The first 18-rated movie of the year I have seen in ages where there are absolutely NO cuts. Angels possessing inferior mortals, angels swearing at humans, and humans cursing at angels.
1. Tilda Swinton from Constantine. Androgynous angel bent on making Earth a living Hell. Loses its wings in the final confrontation with Lucifer and becomes mortal.
2. Andy Whitfield in Gabriel. Sent by the Arcs to combat the Fallen in the war to claim Purgatory. There's a scene where he learns of a fellow Arc's death that he becomes possessed with rage, corners the responsible Fallen in a gunfight, wins and proceeds to smash the demon's face endlessly with his gun's handle.
Which satisfies me because last year's Inglorious Basterds was as every bit ass-kicking and bloody as were my expectations. But the real basterds weren't the Jews or the Nazis; the Malaysian censorship board cropped about 1/10 of the movie's best parts! It would definitely be just the same as attending a rock concert, but telling the band to keep the music down. Such injustice.
Anyway, I admire the bold approach given to God's messengers in the film industry, though for the light of me, it puzzles me that Gabriel is always portrayed as the Angel With The Darkest Personality, The Fallen Angel (or something like that).
I had to post these pictures because they are all my favourite, unique representations of how something so good and pure can be pictured as fallen... As Gabriel.
1. Tilda Swinton from Constantine. Androgynous angel bent on making Earth a living Hell. Loses its wings in the final confrontation with Lucifer and becomes mortal.
2. Andy Whitfield in Gabriel. Sent by the Arcs to combat the Fallen in the war to claim Purgatory. There's a scene where he learns of a fellow Arc's death that he becomes possessed with rage, corners the responsible Fallen in a gunfight, wins and proceeds to smash the demon's face endlessly with his gun's handle. 
3. Kevin Durand of Legion. Leads the angels in Earth's destruction but is intervened by the protagonist Michael. Fear his war hammer and razor sharp wings.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The coincidence of rabbits in Misery
"It's not often it happens but someone will make an offer you find hard to refuse. You will enjoy this offer for a while because it happens so rarely but in the end you must decide."
So declares the horoscope for today's Pisceans.
I'm not one to believe in horoscopes (mostly because they don't happen the way you expect them), but today's is perhaps more than just coincidence.
If I had to make a list of bookstores I don't make purchases from, Popular would be one of them. Not because I have anything against the store, but I find bigger varieties and rare choices from MPH and Borders. Plus, I'm a loyal customer. Today, it finds me in that store staring googly-eyed at a copy of Richard Adams's Watership Down. I absolutely love the cover - all green and white in a sort of antique manner. It kills me that I must have that particular edition of that book in my collection, but what if I can't find it in MPH? So much for being a member and collecting rebate points.
Oh, and speaking of that, my MPH rebate voucher came pouring in. RM20 off on the joys of reading!
There's this great classic film called Misery which I caught on Star Movies. Some crazy-ass bitch keeps her favourite author captive and forces him to write for his life. Shudder! I wonder if this must be every author's worst nightmare, apart from writer's block. If so, well done Stephen King! Now, to pursue that book...
So declares the horoscope for today's Pisceans.
I'm not one to believe in horoscopes (mostly because they don't happen the way you expect them), but today's is perhaps more than just coincidence.
If I had to make a list of bookstores I don't make purchases from, Popular would be one of them. Not because I have anything against the store, but I find bigger varieties and rare choices from MPH and Borders. Plus, I'm a loyal customer. Today, it finds me in that store staring googly-eyed at a copy of Richard Adams's Watership Down. I absolutely love the cover - all green and white in a sort of antique manner. It kills me that I must have that particular edition of that book in my collection, but what if I can't find it in MPH? So much for being a member and collecting rebate points.
Oh, and speaking of that, my MPH rebate voucher came pouring in. RM20 off on the joys of reading!
There's this great classic film called Misery which I caught on Star Movies. Some crazy-ass bitch keeps her favourite author captive and forces him to write for his life. Shudder! I wonder if this must be every author's worst nightmare, apart from writer's block. If so, well done Stephen King! Now, to pursue that book...
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Soul's Conflict
Two opposing forces,
two sides of the ocean;
they roar and clash against each other,
neither will back down
A fearsome lion,
a bloodthirsty tiger.
Claws unsheathed, fangs barred;
they battle for dominance.
If you are strong you live
if you are weak you die
That is how it has always been.
And yet here I stand -
the helpless sailor at sea
or the unworthy explorer
unwillingly caught in this crossfire
They're expecting me to pick a side.
Of what significance do I play?
Am I that unworthy than a pawn?
I am not fire nor ice,
neither angel nor demon
whether
Heaven shines angelic blessings
or Hell spits its fiery curses.
Do you think I really give a damn?
For you see,
I am nothing but
I have to be everything for their sakes.
You could at least let me choose
the path of my salvation.
two sides of the ocean;
they roar and clash against each other,
neither will back down
A fearsome lion,
a bloodthirsty tiger.
Claws unsheathed, fangs barred;
they battle for dominance.
If you are strong you live
if you are weak you die
That is how it has always been.
And yet here I stand -
the helpless sailor at sea
or the unworthy explorer
unwillingly caught in this crossfire
They're expecting me to pick a side.
Of what significance do I play?
Am I that unworthy than a pawn?
I am not fire nor ice,
neither angel nor demon
whether
Heaven shines angelic blessings
or Hell spits its fiery curses.
Do you think I really give a damn?
For you see,
I am nothing but
I have to be everything for their sakes.
You could at least let me choose
the path of my salvation.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
A Bibliophile's Desire
I'm commiting the worst sin in the eyes of bibliophiles.
Everytime I'm halfway reading through a book, temptation arises in the form of a warehouse sale, book fair or discounts off. My wallet lightens with every purchase, but my bookcase is groaning under ALL that weight of books. With over 240 books in my collection and nearly 20 or more still yet to be read, it's no surprise that I find myself juggling 5 books at this very moment.
A couple of these books I might have put aside in my yearn for more, but these are stories with characters so memorable. Read them, for they will change your world's perspective.
Everytime I'm halfway reading through a book, temptation arises in the form of a warehouse sale, book fair or discounts off. My wallet lightens with every purchase, but my bookcase is groaning under ALL that weight of books. With over 240 books in my collection and nearly 20 or more still yet to be read, it's no surprise that I find myself juggling 5 books at this very moment.
A couple of these books I might have put aside in my yearn for more, but these are stories with characters so memorable. Read them, for they will change your world's perspective.
- The Shadow of the Wind
- Sophie's World
- Company of Liars
- The Sandman: Book of Dreams
- American Gods
And if that's not enough, I'm making a wish list to add on to my collection.
- Watership Down
- Warriors Super Edition: Bluestar's Prophecy
- The Books of Magic (graphic novel)
- The Graveyard Book
- The Evil Seed
- The Stand
- Salem's Lot
P.S: For the record, I seem to be somewhat of a Neil Gaiman fanatic. ;)
The Beginning - But Not the First
First of all, let it be known that this is NOT exactly my first blog entry - although I suppose it would be for this account.
Somewhere in cyberspace, my Brilliantly Ambitious Memoirs Being Imprinted is collecting dust-bytes. So unless by some miracle, if I am able to export everything from a Friendster blog over to here (other than the pathetic excuse of Copy and Paste), it's time to begin this with a fresh new start. Perhaps I shall at least mention previous entries when the time comes.
Yes, I'll still write in green. And throw in a few movie reviews and random entries too.
So, what is one to expect from an eccentric oddball such as myself?
Somewhere in cyberspace, my Brilliantly Ambitious Memoirs Being Imprinted is collecting dust-bytes. So unless by some miracle, if I am able to export everything from a Friendster blog over to here (other than the pathetic excuse of Copy and Paste), it's time to begin this with a fresh new start. Perhaps I shall at least mention previous entries when the time comes.
Yes, I'll still write in green. And throw in a few movie reviews and random entries too.
So, what is one to expect from an eccentric oddball such as myself?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)