cute cute

hmmm... it's not very often you come across a stranger who's so cute and so utterly and entirely your type that you want to go up and to that stranger, 'hey I think you're really cute.'

hmmm... or maybe I'm drunk. hmmm... but i wasn't drunk when i came across that stranger.

hmmm... and I mean really really cute.

sucha cutie pie cupcake.

hmmm...

*roar* :P

How they've made me love Haydn

I still remember how YC used to rave about the classical music that he came across - this particular piece, that particular orchestra - and he would occasionally lob a few mp3s over to me. Then, a mild revelation came in one of those mp3s - Chopin's piano concerto #1. Argerich's interpretation and play, Chopin's characteristically-dark melody and melancholy, and my being stuck in Singapore during the monsoon season of 2006's November, all made sure that I continuously listened to it. So much that it became an obsession of sorts, and a sort of escape from the noise and inanities and frustrations of my surroundings then. Somehow, ten years of learning and practicing the piano (I can't say I hated it) did nothing to open my ears to classical music. Typical of many things that we learn/do in Singapore, my piano education was shorn of context, passion, love, music, language, and life. It was just a daily tedium of practice, weekly chore of lessons, and yearly possibility of examination. Until I heard that particular Chopin, long after I'd stopped learning and playing. And suddenly classical music made sense. I saw, heard, and felt its language, texture, argument, rhythm, and character.

Then, I started attending performances in the evenings at the Esplanade, mainly, again, to escape from the outside world. But nothing beats listening to an orchestra 'live'. For two hours your mind wanders through a kaleidoscope of nature orchestrated by violins and flutes, strings and wind, through the primal to the sublime, and through the beyond of all your emotions you never imagined possible or existed. I'll never forget that day I went to a performance of the Chopin that I'd been listening for thousands of times in my ipod. I think Thibothet was the pianist. And I think I was very moved close to tears, not because it was revelatory, but because it was an ethereal moment of recognition. Just like how another time, a man seen furiously wiping away his tears as the Mugorssky was coming to a triumphant finale.

These days I try to go to a performance once or twice a month, sometimes more if there's a good programme. I no longer go as a form of escape. Enrichment perhaps. They give really good discounts to students, and sometimes if I arrive really really late, almost to the minute of its starting, they give me free tickets.

I attended two really superb performances the last two weeks. The first was one of my favourite piano concertos - Beethoven's 4th. It's funny, because my favourite parts are not the piano's (which is really the whole point of a piano concerto), but the violins'. Anyway, I really love this piece, and it's got a whole lot of sentimental value too. It was S' last night in Singapore back then, when, after everything had been packed and the apartment that we used to cook and eat our dinners emptied out and stacked up with boxes, we decided on Beethoven's piano concerti to accompany the rest of the night. It was one of those instances when a particular mood, music, and time coalesced into an important piece of memory. And two weeks ago I saw an absolutely stunning performance of it, the audience was rapt afterwards, standing ovations were everywhere, and the applause didn't seem to end.

The other was the Jeruselem Quartet playing Haydn and Schubert (nice review here). They had such emotional depth in their playing, that listening to their CD afterwards, I was immediately brought back to that irreplaceable and disappeared moment in the recital hall. They played the Schubert quintet beautifully; it's such a truly sublime piece of music, so complete, it's like a beautifully-fulfilled life lived, fell in love, died and entered the eternal. And how they made me love Haydn so much:

__

And E, if you're reading this, you'd be pleased to know that I have come to love Mahler's no. 2. Yes... because YC sent an mp3 of it right at the moment when I needed it most.

Three books

Gosh, it's so hot today I feel like fainting. Just a few days ago I was wrapped up in three layers of clothing and still shivering, and now I'm going about with nothing but boxers (oops!) and still sweating. And even that I feel like stripping off. Being the experienced boy from the tropics I performed all the necessary rites: the cold showers, the iced water, the chilled watermelon, the cold milk, the afternoon swim. But still no can do. Why? Coz the one and only thing is missing: AIR CON.

Actually I came here because I had something to want to say. For an entire week what I wanted to say was bubbling in my head, waiting for me to log-in and type it out. And now here I am, and I can't remember what I wanted to say. I think it's got something to do with . . . mmmm . . . mmmm . . . I really can't remember. I'll come back to it when I do.

Maybe I'll talk about books instead. I bought three books last week because of the joyous occasion. Actually I only wanted to buy one book. More significant I thought. Then I saw another one I wanted. So I thought, ok, why not. Then I saw one more, and I thought, why not right. Then I continued, thinking and browsing, thinking and browsing, and then I thought OK THAT'S ENOUGH. And so I bought three books. Just nice, three:

#1 - F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise: I've always wanted to read Fitzgerald. I remember going to Borders with KS a long time ago because she wanted to get a copy of Tender is the Night. I loved novels then - I've always did - but I didn't really understand novels the way I do now. Most readers of Fitzgerald would probably have read The Great Gatsby. I think it's a great book, even thought I've never gone past the first ten pages. Probably because it's one of those books you know is very good, very well-written, but somehow you already know what it's gonna say/be about. I guess the surprise element wasn't there. But I do love The Great Gatsby's opening paragraph. It's a gem of wisdom to be had for anyone who thinks s/he's too good for other people. And I think Fitzgerald has this gift of capturing and then describing human nature, above and beyond the simple yet elegant and engaging prose that I think is a gift in itself.

#2 - Herta Muller, Nadirs: When I was flipping through the pages, I had this feeling that I was holding onto something precious, something significant. The words literally burned in my hands. Incredible sentences and images. And chilling. I've never read anyone who could write like that before. And I probably wouldn't have known who Muller was if she didn't win the recent Nobel Prize for Literature. And I must say the translation must've been superbly done, if these translated words could still retain their poetry, intensity, images, and send the shivers down my spine.

#3 - Meanjin, current issue. Haha. How can I not get a copy of Melbourne's very own literary magazine, given where I am, what I am, and why I am, at this very moment?

Why I adore the night... and Winterson

I love this piece by Winterson! *awww*

the passing of an age

There's this funny feeling today. I keep remembering the times that have passed. Times when I was younger, in my late teens, and times when I was perhaps happier, even though I didn't realize it at that time. And not only in thoughts, but also the smells of particular times, places and moments that wafted in and lingered at the back of my throat. Those times of carefree Sundays and rainy afternoons. Those times when I was young.

And more than once I felt... fragile?

***

A few days ago I was sitting by my desk by the window. It was a dazzling spring afternoon, and I saw how beautiful the scenery was. First the window - a long, white, and elegantly-paned bay window that extended down from the ceiling; then the building opposite painted in yellow that reminded me of Miami; fronted by a lone tree and lamppost, the sky was blue beyond, and neatly scattered with little square puffs of clouds. All framed by the elegant window, presenting a tableau so literally out of the ordinary, so beautiful, like it was a painting brought out into the garden, into a farrago of light.

***

And here I am by the window again, and now it's night. A last night of sorts. Reminds me of that remarkable, brave, beautiful, luminous novel by James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room:

I stand at the window of this great house in the south of France as night falls, the night which is leading me to the most terrible morning of my life. I have a drink in my hand, there is a bottle at my elbow. I watch my reflection in the darkening gleam of the window pane. ...

Only I hope my morning tomorrow wouldn't be the most terrible. Just that it wouldn't be yet another morning.

It would be the morning where I shall mutter to myself with all the joy and lightness of spirit that I can muster: And the lovely night could only last so long. An age has passed, and time belongs to a new day now.