Sunday Morning

Crooning on my STEREO: Domo Mia by TAZENDA ft. EROS RAMAZZOTTI

This is indeed an unusual Sunday morning for me. I am awake at 10a.m, still in my PJs and dragon breath. No hangover. No miserly hole in my pocket. I sprained my back.

Or rather, I didn't quite go out the night before. I only had ONE drink at a friend's place where I mourned about how 75% of my friends are plastic fishes and how they should all be kept in an aquarium. This is a very depressing metaphor; a truth which I somehow always knew, but I never had the guts to press 'delete' on my social keyboard. You can have 500 friends on Facebook but only 5 would even care to know where your house is.

Consequently I dreamt of Giorgio Armani who urged me to buy a pair of sandals off him. His words of advice were, "start kicking pests out of your life." My thoughts were, " I will kick YOU for burning a hole in my wallet."

Just like any underpaid employee, I have financial issues. Eventhough I am so assured that 2008 is going to be a turnaround year, I still have 4 more months to plod through 2007. So its a matter of killing time and earning interest in my bank account.

Financial and social issues are the least of my concerns. The love issue is pivotal, and my life is more or less gauged by its strength. I watched Un Viaggio Chiamato Amore and I saw my personal fears rolled out before me.

Yeah, I worry.

I relate to Dino Campana's manic disillusion of love. And I also acquaint my great grief in Sibilla Aleramo's unrequited passion. The freaky bit is that the two characters constitute me, but perhaps, not my lover.

In any case that you are wondering, they are both great poets. In love.

I am trying to get hold of a copy of Orphic Songs, which will give us a breathtaking translation of Dino's poem below:-

In un momento
Sono sfiorite le rose
I petali caduti
Perché io non potevo dimenticare le rose
Le cercavamo insieme
Abbiamo trovato delle rose
Erano le sue rose erano le mie rose
Questo viaggio chiamavamo amore
Col nostro sangue e colle nostre lagrime facevamo le rose
Che brillavano un momento al sole del mattino
Le abbiamo sfiorite sotto il sole tra i rovi
Le rose che non erano le nostre rose
Le mie rose le sue rose

P.S. E così dimenticammo le rose.

Grief turns one into insanity. Madness turns one into a genius. I can only cry at the sight of these eternal words. And how it aptly describes my current crossroads; I really cannot handle love.

And I am sure that this is the same for many of us.

Okay, on a lighter note. Just when I thought that my acting career was on the decline, I found this pirate DVD.

Sorry about the boobies. Its an art film, y'see?

You may remember that I worked as a film extra in London 3 years back. (Oh, how i miss those days of lunching in trailers with other fascinating stars-to-be. During this shoot, I even fancied the casting assistant...)

Back to my self-indulgent point, the kind director DID NOT remove my cameo, so try and spot me !!! (eventhough i resemble a downtrodden Chinese immigrant. Don't worry, I am not naked.)

Oh, this feature is going on the big screens in Europe, Singapore and other liberal Asian countries.

And hey, this is not porn.

We will meet soon.

Crooning on my STEREO: Last Night by DIDDY feat Keyshia Cole

I've been in this rotten TV industry for too long; I've forgotten what constitute great films and I've also disregarded their crucial existence in my mundane life. You see, I've recently been watching so much of telly trash that I am led to believe that either this world is stupid, or the tube is stupid. Or both.

It's all in the name of work. It has made me benign. I think that I was a lot smarter when I was a student. My Phd hormones are kicking in.

Sit tight. I am going to lament over the deaths of Antonioni and Bergman. Not that they were my favourite directors to begin with, but one cannot deny that they were the last surviving European legends of a bygone golden cinematic era. Initially, I thought that both dudes were already dead 20 years ago simply because they hadn't produced any significant work since their glorious 50s and 60s, hence I would assume that they shouldn't be alive for another half-century.

Forgive my miscalculations. I suck at maths. I am trying to say that their lives have outlived their peaks.

First of all, Ingmar Bergman and Ingrid Bergman are NOT related to each other, although I reckon that itd be more interesting otherwise. Their only similarity is that they are both Swedish. I mean, they are from the land of Ikea and meatballs.

Ingmar Bergman is VERY nordic. So, expect alot of blonde characters and long winter nights in his films. His most famous work is the Seventh Seal; featuring the infamous scene that frames an aptly dressed knight playing chess with a figure of Death clad stylishly in a black cloak. Trust me that you would have seen this image; it has been exploited in all media forms after Bergman's death last Monday.

This is one of my favourite scenes from the film, where the poor knight is suddenly overwhelmed by the surprise visit of Death in his confession box. I think that this is very hilarious.


Malaysians can easily obtain a pirate copy of this film through your local DVD vendor. Just ask for Cerita Hantu.
Although I must stress that this is FAR from a horror flick.

My favourite Bergman work has to be Fanny And Alexander, a TV miniseries totalling 318 minutes. This has to be the longest viewing I have done in one sitting, but enough to instil great hopes in 1980s television. Every frame is simply breathtaking.

Michelangelo Antonioni is Italian. But not conventionally Italian as what you would see in La Vita E Bella nor La Dolce Vita. In actual fact, I highly regard him as boring. And slow. But not as painfully boring as Tsai Ming Liang.

If you would like to acquaint with Antonioni, L'avventura is a great start. It is the first part of the director's infamous trilogy that comprises of L'eclisse and La Notte... and for your info, all had done worlds better than the LOTR trilogy in critics' circles.

I am not a fan of films that subscribe to 'time suspended' narrative (aka. long windedness).... but this is what Antonioni is all about. You can have a storyline that can be compressed into 15minutes of whirlwind action, but only a great master can stretch it to 146 minutes in such an unforgettable and non-frustrating manner. (think: Tarkovsky)



In this old style 'survivor' tale that explores the strangled nature of relationships, Monica Vitti's performance on screen is certainly worth admiring. After Giulietta Massina, she has emerged as my second favourite Italian actress of all time. Watching her strengths portrayed on Antonioni's visuals makes me somewhat bitter that contemporary cinema no longer carries such quality performances.

Okay. Enough of whingeing. If Fellini had died within my era, I would have written his tribute in the form of a massive literary text. But alls hath passed and we, the surviving beings, are here to stay to indulge in their legacies.

Let's pray for the emergence another generation of awe-inspiring filmakers.

God bless Ingmar and Michelangelo. Rest In Peace.

Mi Manchi

Crooning on my STEREO: Stand by Me by THE FUGEES

I may put salt into your coffee. Knock the kitchen cabinet over your head. Ask you lame questions such as how to peel a carrot.



Eat all your food. Salivate on your pillow. Use up your toilet roll. Bite your ear.



Drink like a horse. Cry like a kid. Flaunt my cellulite on the beach. Brag on and on about Foligno. Steal all your sheets.

I am useless, I know. And I am downright annoying.

But you still cared for me in your strange ways. Perhaps you do feel sorry for me.


I miss you, baby.

Suddden Death

Crooning on my STEREO: Non Puedo Explicar by LAURA PAUSINI

First of all, apologies for the update delay. My faithful 4yr old IBook died a sudden death the night before I took off for Rome. I am distressed. I have lost 4 years worth of hard drive memory in a blitzkrieg. Please refrain from sending me wreaths.

This is a metaphor of life's unpredictability. Anyone of us is prone to a heart attack any second from now.

Eeesh.

Morbidity aside. I assume that you guys are checking out this page for photos of my annual bash.


To suss out who went this year, fotografias are here. I wish I had more time to snap EVERYBODY, but i guess there is only so much you can drink and hold the camera steadily at the same time. And not to lose it.

If you are a busybody, piccies from the 2006 bash are here. And I gather that people were far more drunk last year.

OK. Short Post. I am now back home in Perugia. Savoring Umbria Jazz with my beloved Limoncello. And my boss will eventually fire me for taking a week off ad-hoc.

But Life Is Short.

Fudge career. At this point I don't need one. Play when you can. Whatever that makes you happy.

Ci Vediamo, i miei amici!!!!!!!!!!!

Stupido.

Crooning on my STEREO: King of the Bongo by ROBBIE WILLIAMS

You are Zeus. You have followers. They desire to live in the countries you have lived in. Travel to places where you have been to. Envy your belongings. Stalk your footsteps.

They aspire to be just like you. Or better than you.

My friends, I call those pagans who reside beneath your toes: worshippers.

I have very little respect for worshippers.

Then there is Venus. Goddess of self-perceived beauty aka. 'perasan-ness'. Women who would utilise the spineless nature of mortal men for their own gains. Women who would perceive themselves as a femme fatale, are actually those who are blinded by their own beauty. (inaccurately reflected by their warped Ikea-endorsed mirrors.)

Last week, I saw a very fine example of Venus which made me puke.

Not the razor, I mean.

My point is, you people make me laugh.

Yes, I have many kickass adventures. And I share them. What freaks me out so much is that I have inspired a number of naive fools to run away from home.

I am responsible for the dumb people I know who are flocking to illegal jobs in ulu areas of Spain. I am also responsible for a handful who are leaving their families behind to flock to Europe in search for eligible bachelors.

You guys are dumb, or what? You don't even speak the language. What do you know of their culture? And Europe has the same ratio of bad male species as anywhere else in the world. Stop dreaming, you cows.

Living is different from holidaying. Get Real. Stop running away.

Kids.

Hair. Because You Are Worth It.

Crooning on my STEREO: Amore Disperato by NADA

When I was 9


I had the same haircut till I was 19


Bleach stripped my hair of its virginity when I was 21,


and after a heated consensus, I decided to ditch those infamous dumb-blonde locks in my midst of turning 24.


As you can probably tell, I've only had 4 hairstyle changes in the last 23.8 years.

I AM GINGER!!!

Moving On

Crooning on my STEREO: Crazy All The Time by 33HZ

Dear concerned friends and curious enemies,

LET'S TOAST TO THE 200th POST ON THIS BLOG!!!!

Only God knows how I have kept this crapology alive for so long.

It's like feeding a carrot to an elephant.

In conjunction with this celebration of stupid sorts, I am in the midst of contemplating some earth-shattering decisions. Please include me in your respective prayers and kindly alert your local bomoh as I will be in need of some blessings.


Fret not. The drinking will continue. The madness will continue.

And I will be packing my bags once again.




Yours, with courage.
Senorita Lyn xxxxx







"Se l'amore, nomade benedetto, e tuo ospite, tienilo caro."

SUMMER

Crooning on my STEREO: Too Drunk To Fuck by NOUVELLE VAGUE



I ADORE SUMMER(s). It is the time of the year when everybody gets less pissy, less inhibited and more accomodating. The youths party. The adults picnic. The dogs play. The birds sing. The children annoy.

Sunburnt whales invade the beaches. Bikini anorexics exhibit their silicon cleavages. If you have lived in the Great Britain, you will marvel at the slightest indication of summer's coming.

Ahh.... those were my days of liberty: Skipping around Regents Park in discounted New Look summer dresses and H&M flip flops. Long live, London.

Okay. I am back in Kuala Lumpur. I love it here. But it is a little painful adjusting to a weather-less climate. To my fellow foreign friends:- I have said this many times, DO NOT BE DECEIVED BY THE POSTCARDS. BLUE SKIES DO NOT EXIST IN THIS CITY.

The sun, well, is something that the locals avoid. And if they see you basking in the sun in your little strapless dress, they'd laugh at your foolish obssession.

And there is no such thing as the monsoon season because we have been plagued by thunderstorms almost every other day.
Hence, you do not have to plan your holiday here on specific periods of the year - since we're gonna have sucky weather all year round anyway.

Truth is, my best summers were spent abroad. Minus those numerous drunkfests and decadent student summers, my happiest will always be Summer 2003; the year when I got out of uni and flew to Vienna to meet my family. We then embarked on a month long holiday through Austria and Switzerland via the Glacier Express.



I saw somethings so sublime that I was ready to die in the mountains. No, it wasn't a yoddler.

Back to the distasteful present. I took a day off last week as a partial-recuperation from Champion's League, followed by an impromptu doc's visit over a suspicious tumour in my body. As I did my first ultrasound, I thought," Damn, I have had so many wicked summers.... if luck is a bitch I could be spending mine in a WARD this year."

No. No. Of course Not. Damn You.

So I planned my summer vacations asap. I am going to the beach. I am going home in August. And I will be spending more time on real charity. Together with a loved one, we have even charted optimistic plans for the next 12 months.

Well, value your life. On top of that, you should also stop listening to stupid things that stupid people say to you. A smart alec once looked at my palm and said, 'Oh, hun... I hate to tell you this, but you are going to have a difficult life.'

My life actually got very good after that.

I Don't Want To Sleep Alone

Crooning on my STEREO: A Ballad For My Little Hyena by AFTERHOURS

We all have issues with trust. You don't trust your postman. You think your husband is cheating on you. You suspect that your son is oogling porn sites on the internet. You think your cat may eat your fish. You don't like Bush. You don't trust Alam Flora collecting your garbage on time.

You see, I have always been a fiercely loyal person. I live by a kindergarten formula: Be nice to me, and I will be very nice to you. And it takes a very simple betrayal to break that pact.

If you stab me with a blade, I will slash you with a scythe.

In fact, this is a bargain; you give me some and I will give you MORE. Faham?

Of course, life is not as anal as it seems. This scene from Bali has taught me about the beauty of co-existence.


Woman sleeping beside python.
(And I can testify that both woman and snake are very much alive.)

Salvation does exist in this world. If a reptile is able base its trust on Man, they share a mutual understanding that one will not harm the other.
This illustrates that trust transcends words. It is simply built on instinct.
If I am able to bring myself to sleep beside you, I wouldn't expect you to strangulate me in my sleep.

Speaking of such, I am not encouraging you to sleep with your enemy.

Building a comfortable level of trust between two parties is never instantenous. It takes an awful amount of time. Years. Or even decades.

Sometimes, you simply can't bring yourself to trust a particular person.

We all have our fair share of disappointments. There was a girl I knew who constantly whined/ exaggerated on the cruelty of the people around her, and how she is unable to progress in her life as a consequence.

All I could say to her was, no matter how many bastards and bitches we encounter in our lifetime, we just have to move on.

Life is a domesticated bat. You were once wild, but you were held captive.
And in order to survive, you have to trust your captors.



Off tangent, you may even have to fight for your right to co-exist with another being.
I call this: the passionate pain of love and hate.

Odio ed amore.

And I am fighting it. Because I love him.

Questa Primavera

Crooning on my STEREO: Pledging My Love by JOHNNY ACE

During one of my carefree days in St. Petersburg, I taunted a generic statue of Cupid to his face. I said, "You are a selfish prick. How many more times do you intend to wank me?" The museum guards chased me out. Nah, kidding. Cupid gave me a Russo-passive smirk which insitgated my desire to hack his pretty face. No, no. I have to give credit to anger management.

Fast forward a few months. And if you may recall, I wrote an extremely emo post sometime back in December 2006. And yes, I displayed my vulnerability. And I exploded my sob story to the world that all the men I was involved with were either pissers, bastards or the type of assholes that are featured in Cleo's Annual Eligible Bastards.

Well, Cupid's wanking came to a halt. Through an intense chapter of meeting a significant other, I have found strength in life through love.



Love is a strong entity. And unconditional. My mother once told me that a long distance relationship is a test of maturity. The test is even greater when he is, let's say, your first love.

This Spring is one of the most beautiful. After a series of exhaustive work travels to Bangkok and Cannes in the past few weeks, I detoured and returned to Perugia. My incentive came in the form of four days.

And I found myself attempting to freeze time.

The whole process became sublimely sad, but devastatingly beautiful. I recall leaving Nice with a schoolgirl's grin, to sharing a kiss with him on opposite walkalators in Fiumicino. Then there was the train ride where he pointed out Cinecitta to me; a place that is incredibly close to my heart and dreams.

From then on, everything was perfect. It was so perfect.

But, like your typical Korean soap, a happy duo had to part. That dreadful feeling is familiar, i was overwhelmed by the same fleet of thoughts as the time when I had to leave home for a few semi-unproductive years in Britain.

I miss him. I miss being with him. I never knew that Nuotando Nell'aria can be the song that can shatter my fragile soul. Reason being; he had whispered the lyrics into my ears the night before I left.


Cupid has thrown me into an Orpheus-inspired labyrinth of questions. Why am I stressing over the pending deal of a nonsensical TV programme? Who gives a damn if your fax had not reached your supplier in time? Why do you even bother with friends who backstab and those leaches who lick the arses of society?

I took some time off in Bali. Everything was nice. But I longed to smile the way I did when I was with him a few weeks ago.



But life has always been good to me.