Sweet basil

So I killed the basil plant. I dragged my Internet feet on checking how to take care of it and let it die.
That's just useless of me.

Regret Of Creativity

So here is another piece that resonates, prods, churns, even inspires.

We seem to have evolved into a society of mourned and misplaced creativity.

Though I suppose you inspiration is only really such if actually moves you to do rather than only to want to do. Of course, I am not suggesting that one's own laze or inertia reflects badly on the source of inspiration. That reflection, of course, is all one's own to deal with.

It is called, after a quote from one Charles Bukowski, "Find what you love and let it kill you."

A May Day

I took a few photos around Singapore today. Part of a personal project I am doing (if it is for someone but they don't know it yet and it is not for work, it's a 'personal' project, yes?).

The weather is kind to me. I pass by Revenue House and recall coming here many years ago to pay my tax because I had left it to the last day. Gillstead Road, then Moulmein Rise. Construction and construction workers. Litter in the grass on the pavement. I refer to my list and check the map on the old, old phone and buy water and stride. It can almost be a trip I am on. Kinokuniya by MRT, and I am already weary of trying to take interesting photos of bland, generic signage. I like clicking signs and boards and writing, but this is not of that kind. I do what I can.

I sit at a bust stop waiting for one bus, then decide to take another from another stop. It is warm but bearable. And every now and then there is aircon- a bus, a mall, a shop. I walked on Tiong Bahru Road, up Kim Pong Road to Yong Saik street. I must take what light I get, and click. A bald ang moh man sitting outside Forty Hands shakes his head disapprovingly as he sees me take a photo of the place.  No, I am not interested in photographing you, I say to him in my head. He turns away. I go in. I have decided to treat myself to lunch there but I seem to have forgotten that it is expensive. Maybe the brunches hide the cost, for they are 'nice' brunches, nice outings. It is too late, and I even order coffee. In Forty Hands, you must order coffee. Preferably with an extra shot. I take photos as I have my coffee and then my sandwich. It has been better. It feels like a pit stop, this lunch. I see that they have opened another coffee place, called the Kiasu Espresso. I like the name, but why would they not call the branch Forty Hands as well?

Chay Yan Street and Guan Chuan Street, for more bland photos, though I get a couple of moderately interesting off-project shots. A chalk on blackboard sign like an easel lies on the corner of a corridor, it says 'nana & bird' with an arrow pointing left. It seems to point to nothing. I don't know what it means, and I don't find out. Typical. Another arty shopfront about books. An simple old-style restaurant, with old style locals sitting around, talking, eating, having teh and beer and not bothering about this man clicking a photo. I do not know what Hua Bee restaurant serves, but I am sure I can't eat it.

There's another walk. Then two trains get me to household chores very quickly. I amble through the supermarket, as I often do. I buy a basil plant after years of threatening to. I know I will be told it is entirely my responsibility to take care of it. I hope I will, because I love basil.
I shall check the great internets on how to maintain a small basil plant.   

Wailing memories

Getting flashes of being in overnight trains as a kid. Not being able to sleep at night, listening to sounds & watching the shadows. Babies crying. Sticky berths. Rumbling. Clattering. Babies crying. Tossing. Turning. Wishing I had. Alight to read under.

Twatberry

I think the blackberry is quite the symbol of disrespect. Of course, all mobile phones ride on owner behaviour to be symbols of present day discourtesy, but at work nothing surpasses RIM's only worthwhile product. And mostly because it gives people the misguided impression that they have the right to not respect your time, as the device in their hand always heralds incredible importance.

Please.

Aaaargh

I was quite alright a while ago. Now I have that feeling in the chest when it seems like a long violent scream is stuck inside.

Oh well.

Free

I am free.

I don't feel the need to break rules. I don't have the urge to break shackles. I have no shackles. No oppressive society. No overbearing parent. No strangling debt. There is no cause I am fighting for. There are no rights I have to demand. I am educated and independent and loved. I do not need to grovel for opportunity or plead for a chance or pray for a meal.

I don't have to rebel, revolt or retaliate. I am not a zealot, nor a revolutionary.
I just am.

Is this freedom?

"You want to always be somewhere where your individuality (selfishness?) absolves you of a larger responsibility"

True?

Action/Cut

"Don't stand on sentimentality", he said.
"Don't make it out to be more than it is. Sure, it has been 4 years now, more or less. Sure, you have come to be identified with it by many (for good or bad), others have not known you differently. It has fuelled debate and love, amusement, dislike, sighs and squeals and shakes of the head. But why be sentimental about it?"

He sighed. The silent one looked on.

"Yes, it will spark reactions of all kinds even in departing. People might see you in a new light. Or not care at all. Departures are always bittersweet, separation is never easy, more so when wilful. It is, at the best of times, tinged with emotion or sentiment or-"
"Oops", he paused.
"Sentimentality", the silent one completed the thought.

He seemed at a loss for words for a moment. Then, with an air of finality, he just shouted, "CUT!"

65

I had dinner at the Gs today. When I kissed friends and kids and dog goodbye and walked to the road, I realised I shall take the bus home. A direct bus. The first to spring to mind was Bus #65. I said to myself, "Sixty-faaiive." I realised what I was saying.

It was from "'65, tensions running high...in my high school", which was from Springsteen's My Hometown. I did not have it on my iphone. I youtubed it. Heard it a couple of times as I walked to the bus stop and waited for my bus. I was moved. I walked, thinking it wonderful how a song so deeply & specifically relevant to America in the 60s could resonate with a 10 year old in Delhi, India. And now with a 30something year old in Singapore, in different ways and also in the same old way.

My undulating day bonded with the me that was being moved by the song. Circuitry connected, welling saltwater threatened, my inner rawness found new (even silly) connections that even in fleeting were weighty. I listened to music (Heloise now) and read nothing, did not even take out my book. I just sat in the bus and came home. I now don't even know what I thought of, or what I saw or quite what I felt. I just was.

And oh, I caught bus #64 home.

And oh, I just realised 65 is how I often refer to this place. The 'plus six five'.  

Flipwish

I love Flipboard. It is one of those apps that genuinely value adds to my iphone (and occassional iPad) surfing experience. Two features that would make me 'live' in Flipboard even more?
1. Integrating a 'Read it Later/Pocket' type feature. I use Pocket and it resides within Flipboard, but I still have to launch Pocket to read the links I have deferred.
2. A delicious equivalent so I save links for later.

Of course, what would really kick these in is a Flipboard for Mac app. Now that would be something.

On pain.

How do you take yourself to a 'bright place' in your mind when pain pierces your body?
Th

Does your threshold for pain change when you know what to expect? Is it more when you don't know what's coming?

DNA lights

The Helix Bridge by night with the Marina Bay Sands in the backgroud.

Singapore.

from flickr

Tatooine?

at Tabo Monastery, founded 996 AD.

Tabo, Spiti, India.

from flickr

anti cool

wall philosophy in Venice, Italy.

from flickr

sacred tangle

Praise of the Hindu god Ram, on a wall above the back lanes.

Jodhpur, Rajasthan, India.

from flickr

Looking to Mohali

Ok. It’s a World Cup semi final against Pakistan. It’s not f’n war! It’s not about history or Prime Ministers or soldiers or bureaucrats.

Having said that, it’s a WORLD CUP SEMI FINAL. Against PAKISTAN.

Some points that I don’t quite know why I am trying to make:

1. To self: it’s going to be tense. Deal with it.


2. To team and fate: PLEASE, please bat first.


3. Talk rationally. Or emotionally. Or both. But don’t joke. Nothing’s funny on Wednesday, I can tell you that right now. No, not even Munaf Patel.


4. I understand that booing is part of sport. I don’t agree with it but I accept it. I cringed a few times when Ponting was booed. But that was Ricky. To Mohali: Please don’t boo the Big Green Men on Wednesday. That will not be cool.


5. I can’t watch it in a pub. Scars from 2003 remain. Also, I don’t want to watch it in a pub.


6. Don’t expect ANY work to get done.


7. I am struggling to think about the match. What is at stake and potential after-effects derail any normal thought processes that begin.


8. To Mohali: back the team. Cheer when it’s tough, not only for runs and wickets. Focus on the game.


9. Don’t. Give Up.


10. To everyone: Don’t get tense. Ignore me in point #1.

Indiaaaaah, Indiaa!

Just got back from a live cricket game. That's right, not just any live game.

I'm still a bit spaced.

showcased

A sort of live display at the Mehrangarh fort : charming but also a bit sad. On display is a hookah and also the apparatus used to consume opium.

Jodhpur, India.

from flickr

thirsty traveller

a stop, a sip.

Kunzum La Pass, leaving the Spiti Valley.

Himachal Pradesh, Indiaa stop, a sip.

Kunzum La Pass, leaving the Spiti Valley.

from flickr