I'll tell you, I'm afraid of silence. I'm afraid of the inhumanity that exists in silence, and I crave the humanity that will never be present in silence. Silence is unnatural. I could never sleep in silence; I would switch on the television outside and put it on mute just to hear the white noise, or turn on the dehumidifier to hear its whirring hums.

When you don't talk, I cower. The effeminate side of me emerges, I become paranoid - I would do ANYTHING for you to talk! I could built a skyscraper and jump off it and built it again, I would do it over and over and over until you pull me close and tell me, "I'm fine, I'm here."

Sojourn@KentVale

So a few seconds before I started typing this post, we were discussing about the cats I was taking care at Dr Hecht's place. Just to give you guys all a heads up I've been living for the last month at Kent Vale, an idyllic condominium for the professors and lecturers professing and lecturing at NUS.

Why?

Because Dr Hecht left for Baltimore, Maryland to return back in the arms of his family. Eight brothers and sisters, lots of nieces and nephews. Phew.

How does this concern you then?

So there isn't anyone back home at Kent Vale to take care of the cats. Enter me, protector of all cats slim and fat. At first glance, I might not seem like a "cat" sort of guy, but at second glance, you would realize that I REALLY, am not a "cat" guy. On the contrary, I look like a Homo Caninus, sound like one (whenever I bark out commands hurhur get it), and act like one (when I don't get my deserved good-bye kiss, very rare). Like dogs, I have sharp features, a chipped tooth, extremely sensitive ears and black-and-white vision.

Kidding, I just tell racist jokes but I do not condone racism.

not pictured: me

Now, cats.

Max (black) and Barney (tortoise-shell) are two felines I've taken under my care for the past month, and with much pleasure. They are very stress-relieving, when they don't fight or jump all over the house. I got a bloody shock when I first met the two boys back in June; they were the Fattest cats I had ever seen. Fat with a capital F. They were practically obese, them lumbering pieces of cat fat. They were fats with cat legs. Fats with cat legs. And to back it up, they had serious cat attitude, aka cattitude.

Back in June, if they talked, they totally would have sounded like this:


JS: Holy shit! Dr Hecht, why are they so fat?
Barney: Meow. I see my body as a way to transport my head somewhere. Meow.
Max: Meow food now you asshead meow!
JS: MEOW! How are you guys! Barney's so cute, and Max's so playful... HAHA! I'll be taking care of you all till July!
Barney: Food now, please. Meow.
Max: Meow fuck you meow piece of shit meow meow yellow dicktard FOOD NOW FOOD! meow.
JS (to Dr Hecht): Ah. They look a teeny wee bit antagonistic. Do they hate me?
Dr Hecht: No, they just want you around more often. I'm sure you guys will have fun!
Max and Barney, simultaneously: Meow, HELL NO!

In recent weeks, they have remained unchanged, as cats are wont to do. They budge for nobody except the occasional non-movable object in the house . They worry about nothing except when the taller cat doesn't fill in the food bowl or top up the water basin, at which they would mewl continuously at me while I attempt to read the newspapers.

When I sit on the sofa to watch the TV, the cats would often jump up and siddle close to me. Finding my left outer thigh uncomfortable, Barney would traverse the two hills of thigh to sit by my right. Give him 10 times to make that arduous journey, and 10 times he would place immense front paw pressure on the valley, inducing huge shock and an involuntary gasp.

But they deserve their credits. These cats are so clean, and they don't shit or pee anywhere else in the house other than where they are supposed to. Many people have fancy perceptions (and superstitions) about cats, e.g. that they are really dirty and all. But the fact is, they are probably much cleaner than you, the reader. None of them smell at all. Odorless. Tautology.

Just recently Chiling had a kitten running into her house, and we wanted to keep it but Aunty thought it unlucky (its feet were white, probably alluding to the emptiness under a floating wraith) and with the maintanence fees and all.

On a more supranatural note I do believe the two cats at home are "half in, half out" for the reason that I can scare superstituous people reading my blog. Them cats? They're normal, although Max sometimes looks really creepy because of his green eyes and his total... darkness. Though I admit, yes, they do know how to manipulate human feelings by imitating the sound of a crying baby so well, I HAVE to give them attention, or be accused of being an unfeeling prick.

I'll be moving out tomorrow, back in my messy lair that's now under a fine layer of dust. But I'll clean up.

___________________________________________________________________

I will miss the sunset. The consummate glow of lamppole amber and sky violet quivering and throbbing sensuouly under the lobster red sun. The deep yawning call of a lone ship as I breakfast solo in the morning, the ribbons of water treading behind as I watch them leaving port.

Leaving for home, where a new adventure awaits them.

Crystal Jade - summers of DIMSUM!

I'm back. With a vengeance.

Finally, a place where I can tap "enter" and the flashing vertical line doesn't skip two spaces down, ala WordPress. More room for maneuvering.

But before I post anymore, I have to leave for a lunch appointment at Vivo-city.

"Where are we having lunch?"

"Crystal Jade."

- thinks of hot steaming siew mai -

"See you at 12.30."

Hi guys! I am in the process of shifting my blog. So here goes - the New URL is...

www.thatsiaopianoguy.blogspot.com

Yes, I have decided to move on to a new URL. I talk you listen has been with me for 2 and a half years now, and it was started only in the name of RI assignment. Yes, it's true, just get down to the first blogpost and you should see that I started it only because we had an English Assignment, and that was to write two blogposts about current affairs. 

So that was it. When the assignment ended, I decided to carry on blogging using the same URL and it's lasted me a good two old years. Two blog years = 45 human years. A blog that is 5 years old is as good as a senile old man with cobweb in his ears. 

So this blog is close to 67 years old of age. A good old age to die. 

I Talk You Listen

January 22, 2007-

July 15, 2009

Here Lies

I Talk You Listen

I Die You Change URL

I Lie You Hear

Hear Lies

I Talk You Listen

THE END

E-D#-E-D#-E-D#-E G# E!!!!

Sort of like, in a limbo now. I'm waiting for the new term to start, with much excitement, but the orientation is only next week. And I've been through NUS orientation for 2 times already. Next week would be my third.

I'm sitting in front of the television now watching the Prestige. Nothing to blog about really. I think I might just delete this blog. Then everyone will get all droopy and sad.I really don't know.

I'll see how it goes. Maybe we would shift it to a new URL. Somehow.

My house's turnng into a music studio. An upright piano, a grand piano, a cello, an out-of-tune violin, a guitar, and an electric keyboard.

A whiteboard. Sofas. Chairs. Coffe Table.

Come join in the fun. And the church rehearsal went well today! Well at least my arranged "There's Nothing Told" sounded better than expected. I should start working on more orchestral works. Until I finish Ballade.

Groucho Marx

I've had a wonderful evening

*shakes hand*

but this wasn't it.

The morose weather has invaded my head. I've actually started to believe that there were people watching me all around, while I eat, sleep. And these guys were from the Government. I'm not kidding. But for the sake of my family and loved ones I have to keep a sensible head and get rid of this thought.

While at lunch just now I was constantly taking my attention away from the ban-mian and glancing at others, in a belief that everyone was government, they were all spies. It really is so easy to fall into that. Only the questions of "why would they be hunting for you?" prevented me from walking out of the food court.

Yet they all looked so 'normal'. It was as if they had been trained to do this for years, and it was only their job to keep the security of the nation and to prevent any dissidents from compromising the safety of the nation. They were the eyes, the ears.

Those taxi drivers. Whatever. Trying to get more information out from you as you spoke, talked about your opinion. And that I was living in a bubble world, trying to hide away from them.

No, I have to rid my head of these stupid things. It's driving me crazy now, it really is. It feels as though I were typing this to warn you about them. Your phone might have been tapped. They could be anywhere, if they even existed.

And it's piling up in my head. I feel like puking my lunch out now, both the nonsensical and childish idea, and the possibility that it might be true. No, it isn't. Somebody tell me that it isn't. Hopefully when I come back the thought would have been erased, and that it was just a childish thought.

I need to get back to my music. Franck is so damn haunting, especially that F# major passage I played for you.

The curtains twitch. It really seems like the winds are hurting them, and the curtains beg for them to stop. But they can't, because they're just fabric and they have no mouths. I'll tell the wind for them.

For now I need to get in the company of people. More people. I need my friends. Some trio come over please. We can play Dvorak. Or Schumann. Or Shostakovich. I can write gebrauch music for piano, oboe and violin. Disconcerted, is it? Confused.

Short Stories

Just a little queasy in the stomach right now after chomping down cereals, bread stuffed with ham, and biscuits - all while reading about MJ's autopsy report on how he was a 'virtual skeleton' upon death. And the details.

The past week has been really fun. Fun as in like, fun. There isn't really much of a way to describe fun when you know it is. Fun.

Chi Ling's relatives flew over from Hong Kong last week (in a decision made the night before in Hong Kong while myother was there.) and I've finally met ALL of them! Though my grasp of Cantonese is so terrible but I admit I felt pretty comfortable with all of them by the end of the three days. Now I miss them, but I know I'll get to see them soon.

Lunches, outings, photos, dinners. Esplanade, VCH, ACM, Geylang No Signboard stall. Housewarming! Kids, Megan, cone ice cream, chocolate ice cream, corn strawberry ice cream, 2 million points, pillows. Gameboy parties, Jordon, Jessie, Aunty Jasline's birthday! The Singapore side, the Hong Kong side. Well, it's just about it. Everyone.

I spent the whole of last night reading The Catcher in the Rye. I mean, I read it until 3am. Then I decided that I could no longer take it, and slept.

Have a clear focus of what's going to happen for this year's competition, and I'm going to win it. But Zhang Aidi's so imba. Sigh.


Next book to read: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

Re-thinking Life

Can you not believe in ghosts but believe in God at the same time?

What's the difference in believing in ghosts and God? After all, both are as intangible. Just that the idea of a supreme being appeals more to the head. We all need a little light and organization in our lives. The idea that I'm trying to push through here would be that God is man-made, an invention, a utility to all questions that seemingly have no answers to. He is the jigsaw piece that makes our puzzles complete.

He is Our jigsaw piece. We really do need it. So we make one ourselves. Why question? We need it anyway. These are people living in different places. Some look at the jigsaw puzzle from afar. Others want to be part of the jigsaw puzzle.

So much one can talk about but-

After reading CL's blog I feel like blogging intelligent stuff but I realized that there's a social limit to your intelligence - any further show of knowledge and lack of ignorance would mean transgressing The border!

Thus preceding the sudden possibility of a private blog.

Which is useless because the private journal would be a better option.

But it really is better to run these thoughts through your own mind (at least for me so that I don't get heckled by people for being 'extra' - those badass memories coming from The Musical Chord). And keep the journals occupied with musical stuff, experiences, and observations.

But you're wrong about life not just revolving around music and you. It's always good to keep it simple and less cloudy. Clear, simple, directions. There's already a hell lot of things to do with music, anyway! Obviously there are more things in lfe to think about, but these are just the cardinal ones, duh.

I prefer my life to be that way. Definitely doesn't make my life any less interesting, right?



Do bloggers plan what they type before they start, or do the thought processes happen concurrently? Am I wasting my time thinking about this? Probably not. At this age it's only normal to keep asking questions. Then when we get older we hardly find time to ask these questons and realize at some point that all the while we have been working to earn more money, raise a family, and lead a comfortable life.

Then we return to these questions. It's a cyclical thing I guess. Stop, reflect, go on. Stop, reflect, go on. Maybe the only thing that matters is which stage you are at when you pass on. Were you at a state of desperation, with no one to turn to? Were you surrounded by friends and leading a comfortable life?

Yeah, that's all that matters right? You either die a sad or happy or contemplative death. Like, a frozen frame. That's how your life ended. Here, tis' a picture taking when you died. You left in the dead of the night, your wife beside you, your children and grandchildren all asleep.

You've done it. You have ended it on a good note. Great. All the highs and lows, pleasures and pains, but really, ALL, all that matters is you died Good. A morally-high ending. No one cares about the bad things you have done in life. As long as. Yeah, he's dead already, forgive him.

Imagine what would have happened if you ended on a moral low. Your histories would tilt towards the ending. The things you have done that made the ending this way. Not good. Bad life.

No death does justice to the person.

'Real Love' by John Lennon

All my little plans and schemes
Lost like some forgotten dream
Seems like all i really was doing
Was waiting for you

Just like little girls and boys
Playing with their little toys
Seems like all they really were doing
Was waiting for you

Don't need to be alone
No need to be alone

It's real love
It's real, yes it's real love
It's real

From this moment on i know
Exactly where my life will go
Seems that all i really was doing
Was waiting for love

Don't need to be afraid
No need to be afraid

It's real love
It's real, yes it's real love
It's real

Thought i'd been in love before,
But in my heart i wanted more
Seems like all i really was doing
Was waiting for you

Don't need to be alone
No need to be alone

It's real love
Yes it's real, yes it's real love
It's real, yes it's real love...



Which expresses what I want to say to you. For you.

Yay.

Yeah.

Ok just to confirm the questions posted to me by friends over the week, yes, I'm going into NUS full-time.

FINALLY. I get to not do all the shit work that RIJC gives me.

Ok. I'll blog later.

Untitled 3

I want to play the piano now. Because I've finally hit upon what comes after the slow introduction. Always think about expectation...even I just thought about what I couldn't expect right after the slow intro.

BUT I NEED TO USE THE PIANO NOW and its already 1.30am. Later in the morning then.

Tiring day today, but the efforts paid off. If I did put in any.

Maybe I should go downstairs and take a walk. With my manuscript paper.

She's right, I need to focus more. Enough sleeping, and I need to get into the right mind. Should be back by 3.

On my favourite hobby that is Improvising -

Yes, something that I do in the morning, in the afternoon, and just before I sleep. Frequently, I would lumber straight to the piano a few moments after I open my eyes, clad in only boxers and eyes adjusting to the light of day. Of course, this only happens on weekends and the holidays, and no one is dumb enough to do that at 5am during schooldays.

Maybe at 2, but 5am is definitely overboard.

When did I pick it up? I started improvising since 9, but the music had no logic in it, and could thus be safely labelled 'atonal'. By logical I mean, with the proper voice-leading, melody, meter, form, and structure that could stretch the improvisation to well over 5 minutes. I only reached that level last year, while preparing for my Ettlingen competition. Surprising to know that it was not attained in Singapore.

Oh, and suddenly I remembered that there was one object that gave me the inspiration for my first improvisation - that of a clocktower in the centre of the town.

While practising the Ettlingen pieces in a musty practice room in the school, I noticed a most elegant and wise clock tower, gleaming white in the lukewarm afternoon sun. Underneath it was luscious green, and red-roofed houses were angled around it.

Interesting to note that the inspiration for Tendresse was drawn from the ticking of a green alarm clock in the dark of the night. Time and again.

Back to Ettlingen, I immediately recorded the improvisation, which was in D major. But before that there was a short process of discovery, taking roughly 10 minutes - a realization that everything did actually clicked into place - D major, G major, Bb major (the beautiful submediant major), A major, B minor, all of its different inversions, thus allowing the chromatic shiftings of each individual voice that would eventually lead to another key.

So all those years of nonsense didn't go to waste. All those years of "What are you playing? Doesn't sound right," from dad didn't lead to nothing. They lead to the realization of a dream. They led me to believe that it wasn't fake, those words from the history books - "Beethoven and Mozart improvised, Haydn improvised, he was good at improvising".

I questioned constantly the meaning of improvisation, WHAT it was. I had absolutely no idea what improvisation was - such was the cluelessness.

To know that I've finally improvised was such a huge joy. But the learning never stops.

The moment I got back to Singapore (without any prizes of course, those guys were freaking good), I immediately googled the word itself - here's something from Wikipedia that I read when I got back:

"

Improvisation is usually defined as composing music while playing an instrument at the same time. In other words, the art of improvisation can be understood as composing music "on the fly". This of course requires great skill and knowledge, and is a very important aspect of music in general, for any experienced musician. Musical improvisers often understand the idiom of one or more musical styles—e.g. blues, rock, folk, jazz—and work within the idiom and music-theory of the certain style to express ideas with creativity and originality. Improvisation can take place as a solo performance, or interdependently in ensemble with other players. When done well, it often elicits gratifying emotional responses from the audience. Very few musicians have ever dared to offer fully improvised concerts such as the famous improvised piano recitals by classical composers/pianists like Franz Liszt. The origins of Liszt's improvisation in an earlier tradition of playing variations on a theme were mastered and epitomized by Mozart and Beethoven.

"

(munch munch, eating baos I just finished steaming)

Then again I'm thinking that it is a really good way of revealing one's character, and personally I think I would be amazed also to see the huge array of personalities and characters emerging if everyone could improvize.

Experience of improvising? It does seem overwhelming at first sight, but after a while, I absolutely appreciate the large range of tones I have in front of me, 81 of them, 1200 chords in one octave, 8400 in seven. Combine the different chords together, at different intervals, different dynamics, different configurations, and there you have it, a NEW WORLD available at your whim and fancy.

That is, if you can make it yours.

I search for passing inspirations, experiences - they float across my mind, and zip through my brain. There have been times when it gets so overwhelming I wish that I could write it all down, but such orgasmic moments are meant to be relished, with nothing worthy, not even time, of capturing it. It is meant as a gift of the moment, for the moment, that the performer could receive, but only just, before it withers into memory's recesses.

Yes, mind, body and soul are required.

You need to have the facility -and as I always emphasize, arsenal- to get the best OUT of the keyboard, and of course, to better express yourself. Look at it this way - the larger the array of technique you possess, the more you can express with. It's better to have something you have but don't need, rather than something you need but don't have.

Mind - the vision as to how your improvisation would turn out to be, its form and structure. This took years and years of looking and listening to hundreds of songs and pieces. And command of theory I guess, must be really way high up. Just that I have a cheat source, that's perfect/absolute pitch. Which is something I really treasure. Ok, this whole passage looks easy to type, but I'm proud of whatever that goes behind it. At least 10 years of immersing yourself in music.

Soul doesn't need much talking about. The lifeforce to the music, without which there would be nothing.

BTB

Bleary-eyed, just woke up. Some of the goodies of the holidays would be being able to wake up so late in the morning (we're talking about 8am here) and still able to laze around.

Yesterday's night ended with a table-tennis game right in the living room, and within minutes I was glistening under the light. Moonlight, fluorescent, no matter. Oh wait, it don't. [inside 1E joke]

We went for another family outing on Saturday again. Ok, so, no more drunken chicken, no more drunken tapirs, no more drunken rhinos, we went to the Night Safari!

Took a hell lot of photos together, but MYJ is at camp now, so I can't upload them. Would be up by this week though.

Went back to Johor Bahru yesterday to celebrate Ah-Ma's 80th birthday. I'm so proud of her!!! She's still so healthy and strong. I did however, felt a queer mix of joy and sorrow when she took a photo with her birthday cake. I do hope for many more years of this to come.

An indignant boy had made his way into my blog by opportunistically vomiting on MY sandals, while I was taking a break inside the house watching Night at the Museum. Good job, BRYAN. But I still like you though, although I wished you'd rather stop jumping around.

"See Brrryan Mummy 跟你讲了，不要乱跳，跟Jonathan-gor-gor say sorry?"
"My sandals!!! My good old sandals!"
"Cool! There's grape, porridge, oh look at that, it's bubuchacha. Oh is that the mango?"
"My SANDALS. Sand..*faints"

Was the exact scene yesterday.

I think I was a little harsh but setting him down in front of me and saying, "Look, do you really have to vomit on my sandals." He gave me a look, and then lost attention and his gaze started to wander on my hair.

You know you fail if your hair grows long enough for people to call it Jonathan.

You know you fail when you shatter your permanent tooth riding on a four-wheel 'bike', realizing only after the accident that brakes exist.

You know you fail when you help a guy open the door, and he shatters your tooth by pushing the door too hard. The same tooth.

You know you fail when your mum passes away on Mother's Day (this one isn't funny but it's quite fail)

You know you fail when you dream of your friend telling you, "Jonny, 136 nipples on your face and still counting.


Ok another non-descript post worth forgetting. It's lacking in any bite but that's because I'm just a bit lazy. Now, back to Ballade.

My Adventures on May 31 and June 1

I wandered aimlessly around my bedroom for close to a minute in total darkness, trying to figure out whether I should, or not, switch on the air-conditioning. Just two hours before I was lying on my bed (that was ten), clad only in my jeans, and sweating myself in this moist cabin.

A short account of the previous few days would do good. A rehearsal at St Mary of the Angels, with my cello still missing its A-string. For the 2nd time running we rehearsed Schubert's Ave Maria, but with fewer instruments because the rest couldn't make it. By the time I got back, it was already early evening, and Chi Ling and I did well to finish watching License to Wed. Ma Yanjie desperately needed a partner to watch it with, but she watched it solo anyway on the other couch.


We waited for Aunty to get back home, and we reckoned that we should watch Night at the Museum 2 together since it was going to be another Family Day.

Now here's the part that showed me something important for the rest of my life. No, it's not another reflection on my part, no, but really, a physical ailment. My dad ordered steamboat on behalf of himself and Aunty, myself reluctant and my other being quiet about it, while MYJ suffered from a case of diarrhoea, subjected to my endless teasing (which had its retribution).

We were at our favourite Hong Kong restaurant (probably the only one in Jurong Point) once again, with all the food fare that we usually had. But today had to be special, because they were offering a package, and the package had to include the elusive drunken chicken.

It had been known since time immemorial that I have an alcohol allergy, or either that, am extremely sensitive to alcohol. Just one spoonful of drunken chicken, I was down. At first I thought it was just myself, imagining that there was a raging storm within my walls, but it wasn't.

I wasn't imagining. So here I was in the brightly-lit room, the two adults leaning against the glass wall opposite us, on my left my mei (:O, yes since ChiLing calls her that) and on my right ChiLing. The lanterns hanging overhead did drift in different hues, and my vision blurred several times as a immediate response. A plastic bag was soon at my disposal, and my attempts to retch out the wretched liquid was to no avail.

Meanwhile, I think we were there for a total of 15 minutes, myself suffering not so quietly, MYJ silent with the incessant thought of diarrhoea. My other got up to get medicated oil and she returned swiftly, the contents of the dial dabbed onto myself to sooth the pain. No, it wasn't a brilliant pain, but it was spasmic, and I could feel them shifting and groaning as the supposed cause traversed its normal course.

The walk up to the cinemas was itself a terror, and I once-again nearly vomited into the plastic bag.

Night at the Museum 2 was generally amusing, but it severely lacked coherence and we both agreed our intelligence (if we had any) went down. By a lot. But it was innocent kid fun, I guess. So not much to mention here.

The climax of the show undoubtedly came at the last part, when my eyes started itching. And they itched more when the show ended. By the time the credits came, it had hit upon both of us (we were sitting behind Dad Aunty MYJ) that my eyelids were swelling, and for myself, that I would soon be practically blind.

From this point onwards I could seriously not get a hold of anything, except that I proceeded the staircase with no incident, but I literally had to be led by the hand. While waiting for the car to arrive, I decided the best way to hide that hideous face of mine (for two bunions for eyes don't make a good human) was to cover it with the hood of my jacket.

Everything after that was a blur, and I suppose I had fell under the onslaught of the minutest spoonful of alcohol.

Every loud thud or sound rattled my brain, and there were consistent flashes of black lines that zipped across my eyes. The world seemed to be whirling around slowly, and I dozed off several times (or drifted in and out of consciousness), only to wake up hearing the sounds of my girl calling her mum to know where the nearest clinic or hospital is. I think. I think that I might have shouted 'Thank You Aunty' to the phone, but even this needs confirmation from witnesses.

I remember vaguely being bundled out of the car, and as you all know my vision was limited to only the ground beneath me, even with it a black line consistently hovered across, and that was the hood. A change of environment, the black night washed away by a sterile light, a greenish-white.

I thought it was a clinic, but only much later did I realize that I was in a hospital, a West Point Hospital. And that I was in the Accident and Emergency Department - my queue number, if there was even a queue, was 3035. Last check on 4D yielded no results.

One of the clearest instances of the entire hospital trip was the temperature taking, that comforting protrusion into your ear, a fuzzy feeling, a click.

"It's only my eyes that are inflamed, not my ears," I had said at one point. Either the nurse got too tired, or she just had a terrible day, but I heard no response. Probably she laughed, but the thermometer prevented any sound from reaching my drugged ears.

An injection was obviously performed, because not long after my right arm felt a burning pain, the muscle having been penetrated and the medicine dealt. This pain lasted for several days, and was evident during my Chopin performance the next day, which I would elaborate upon later.

It must be known that I didn't take much notice of the pain at all, simply because I was in such a stupor, that any bright lights or loud noises would only startle me, and stimulate all my bodily muscles into a tense fit, only relaxing after a few seconds. This condition continued right until the third day of my poisoning, where the alcoholic effects finally started wearing off.

[a reminder to the reader that it was only a sip of drunken chicken soup]

Also imperative to note that not at any point of this post have I exaggerated a single word, and I am merely describing my experiences at that point of time.

Returning from this digression, the ride back home was essentially missing, because the next time I opened my eyes ChiLing was no longer in the car, and for once I had failed to preserve my sanity enough to step out of the car and ensure her safe passage home. Upon discussion we both realized that this was wholly impossible, and I might have been a burden should I concur to faint in the lift or along the walkway.

I found myself in bed the next morning, and was told that I had fell down upon the floor in an attempt to remove my shoes. My socks were miraculously off, but my polo, jeans and belt were expectantly, still on. At this point I was reminded of a joke told to me a few years back, when a boy had fell asleep after physically pleasuring himself, only to find the next morning that he was clothed in his entirety.

Hardly a joke, but terribly amusing-amusingly terrible experience one could be in. To thus step out into the living room and find both parents at breakfast as if nothing had happened, to ask what state he had been found in the previous night.

"We figured out you had such a sneeze that your mucus went everywhere, and the obvious cause being that you weren't dressed, thus being exposed to the winds, my dear. So we clothed you."

Ah, it's only human to digress.

This day I wake up to would be Monday, June 1.

My eyelids were still in its enlarged state, but only less. I was fed half a dozen pills in one go, but I was willing to try anything that could rid me of the alcohol. Any intense stimulations caused all my muscles to contract, and my sense of balance could not be worse. I decided that I should continue watching the movies that I had borrowed from the Shaw Foundation Library, but could not bring myself to concentrate on them, for the fact remained that I still had to practise my Chopin.

Nothing much of interest happened in the afternoon, except that I went for rehearsal, which involved much shifting of chairs and sofas, and I wasn't of much help either. I was half asleep most of the time, and only awoke when there were exceptionally sudden motions, one of them being Thomas Ang's slam upon the table, which left me reeling.

Whilst on a stroll with my beautifully-dressed girl back to the ArtsHouse, I lost my balance after swivelling my head to take a view of the Central Business Area. This was not surprising then, considering we were walking on a sloping platform, and the buildings loomed so majestically over me.

The performance that ensued in the evening was without incident, and no chandeliers dropped while I played my Nocturne. Thank you to all who came to support me, the four most important being my Dad, Aunty, MYJ and ChiLing. You lovely people.

The rest of the night was spent getting ChiLing to Pre-U Seminar, at 11pm. And thus ends my Monday, which was spent mostly in a better state of mind, contrasting sharply with the horrific events of the day before.

Thus ends my narrative of my adventures. Do wait, if possible, with bated breath, for the next chapter. You might get to see more interesting shit.

Edgar Allan Poe is really cool.

The Alcohol Allergy.

The past few days have been the craziest days of the year.

I know this sounds like something out of a Taiwanese soap opera, but it's true. Few weeks back my dad found his long-lost brother at Parkway Parade, and subsequently his brother started calling up everyone else to inform them that, yes, they've found the last brother.

Well, my dad could have been dead for all they know, but of course he's still alive. In any case, the gathering was last Saturday, and we had a hell lot of fun. Singing Beatles, Carpenters, and Barry Manilow, not forgetting the Hokkien songs and the Chinese ones. If I can remember, I think there were 9 of them in all, with the spouses and such.

Truly frightening and hard to believe, because everyone laughed so loudly and cheered even louder. They were all soccer fanatics, and one of them even said they would die for football. So it seems it indeed runs in the veins. They are all my uncles and aunts, and I just found it super cool.

Finally, after 16 years of knowing their existence but never having seen them.

Feeling super tired now. Yawn. None of you will know what happened yesterday, shhh. Delirious.

intarkinatal

I cannot deny the fact that I am mildly depressed, but music is my drug and my sleeping pill. Here are some of the stupid aphorisms that I wrote down after finishing the comprehension in my GP test.

Women hold up half the sky, men pretend to do the other half.

Life is about minimum effort, maximum credit.

I'm not doing to type the other few because they don't look like aphorisms at all. Currently, I don't feel like a guy at all. I need to show more confidence. Strength. Faith.

Ok but anyway I'm advertising for another concert I would be performing in, this time for my Piano Ensemble. It's going to be at the ArtsHouse, which is behind Victoria Concert Hall. I would be performing Chopin's Nocturne in F# major. It's at 7.30, and tickets are sold at $10 or less. I can't remember, maybe even $5. There would be free drinks and an excellent ambience, with the purple and blue lights and cosy sofas, it really feels like a living room. A classy one.

Headed back to the studio again this Thursday to record Yisin's new song, Regrets. Great to see Martin again, Nathaniel his intern, and of course Lennard (i think?) who OWNS the studio. But the local music scene is always so cool, just that I wished everyone would stop smoking.

My dad's long-lost brothers and sisters are coming over in a short while, and I think everyone is quite excited about seeing them, especially since I've been hearing about them since young but never ever seen their faces. So it has been a long 16 years of waiting. Well, can't believe I would get to see them today. I'm rambling on and on.

I think I need some sleep. Sleep is my drug and my sleeping pill.

Wait! That means I'll keep sleeping right. I can't. I need to wake up.

I feel like typing a short story. But it will probably sound like I'm rambling. Like, a Narrative! Or a Travelogue! That would be cool.

And I finished my PI finally. No more work. .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........ ......... .......... ........... ........... ............. .............. ............... ................ ................. .................. ................... .................... .

Are the dots of the equal size? They look comparatively different beside each other. The rows of them.

. .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........ ........ ..........
.. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........ ......... ..........
... .... ..... ...... ....... ........ ......... ..........
.... ..... ...... ....... ........ ......... ..........
..... ...... ....... ........ ......... ..........
...... ....... ........ ......... ..........
....... ........ ......... ..........
........ ......... ..........
......... ..........
..........

Wheezlebug! Bungaloon.

Bishbangpoofbamf! Butterbatter. Come on tomorrow. I'm waiting for you. Come on.

I shalt be deluded and go read the Bible now. I wish Thomas Ang were here to entertain me with Kapustin. I wish some musicians would come over now to improvise with me. I can't wait to practise four hands. It's every musician's wish I suppose, to play with someone they are most comfortable with.

soya bean milk with honey stars

This house has two blogophiles, one who blogs almost everyday and the other not-so-frequently but often enough. So here I am sitting beside my dad, who has taken to pasting all sorts of notes all around the house, with new rules being set up. It's like Camp Senja being run by Corporal Daddy who tracks shares constantly around the hour.

Actually I don't know why the change, but I preferred it better last time when he gave us the freedom. I mean, that's why the $10 is for right? We definitely can't spend more than that. But I suppose he wants both of us to eat inside the house, which is pretty reasonable, but considering we both have our own close circle of friends I think he should adapt to the situation, be flexible, and allow us to eat outside on some days. But the problem is, on what days?

Ok but we figured out the answer - that him not working makes him feel lonely for dinners, so we should do our best to join him for dinners. Then what happens to dinners with other important people? Well, I think the best way to find out is to let things run by its own. But it's already kinda sickening to watch him stick to the computer all day and look at all those numbers.



Drink beer, eat, shit, cook, look at stocks, go out with friends.



Head nodding, pencil scratching, hum of the computer, stacks of papers, notes.



Dinner at 7mile, tangyuan is <3.>

Oh right, about this morning. Yes, I waved Ma Yanjie off in the nicest of manners, with a few polite words spoken while I was in a trance, but I think it went something like, "no, school starts at 9am. please go away." It is articulated in the way that you wish you could tell the person to sod off, but because such an impolite order would most likely provide no following peace, you might have as well be nice from the very start. Which I think I did, correct me if I'm wrong MYJ.

Meanwhile I would like to use my blog to adverti$e again for the Inspire concert series! Let us all rally behind the hard workers who slog behind the scenes to make these concerts successful.

And dear readers, on my part comes a more personal request - if you ever meet Chi Ling these few days running up to the concert, do step up to her and say good job and thank you for doing this for charity. I will greatly appreciate it. I'm sure she would too :)

You can tag on her blog at www.chilly-chanchilla.blogspot.com, or alternatively you can tag on my tagboard since I placed this here.

Starting from myself, great job Chiling! All the hours dedicated to ensuring the success of the concerts, all the phone calls, letters, e-mails, SMSes, and the recceing. You rock :)

Cya lovelies!

failed to continue post.

Words in italics are written by MYJ.

BAlls! I have no idea why I decided to type that as my first word for this blogpost, but it warranted a "that's disgusting" from HORSEY! So today's post will be a split-post. Basically, in a split-post, two people will blog IN THE SAME POST. So you really don't know who the fuck is typing what. And who is typing which. And what is typing who. Deng deng.

Ok now I wouldn't tell you who is typing this, but I'll pass the computer to MYJ.

i was told to just type some shit, so here it goes: some shit.

After staring at the computer for multiple seconds, I'm utterly shocked and curiously clueless as to what to type in response to the comment. As they say, shitty things come out from shitty people. :O She tried to assassinate me by pushing my head! (onto the computer screen duh not some oncoming car). Stop laughing bitch.

Hou no! She's going to hyperventilate. As her feet constantly kicks the dustbin lever, she tries to recall her driving lessons. Well it's kinda terrible because she's laughing SO badly she just lost her balance. And the most absurd thing is that the floppy hair she has on her head (duh, where else) moves around in the most inconsistent manner. There, she goes off to the window to cool off, with hands on her hips and attempting to control her breathing.

Yes, that's it. One, breathe in, two, breathe out. Her lips curl into a tight shape, a fight against a sudden gust of laughter.

And no! The pillow goes on top of her head.

Now, my week.

Just like any ordinary week, this week has been sprinkled over with a myriad of activities, like powder on the donut. It culminated with HC Dance Night 2009, which was nothing short of titillating. For some reason whenever that word comes out the first thing that pops up in MY head would be lactation. I hope I'm not the only one. I'm sure any word with a 'tit' in it conjures an image of the breast.

"Can'(t it)?"
"(Tit)-for-tat"

Then the French irony of pe(tit).

If you googled what French irony really meant I'll laugh at you, in a French style.

Where were we. Right, titillating. Before that? Dance Nite. Sure. Before that I had the joy to have dinner with Chiling, Michelle (from her class), Kaizhi and MYJ. Homey Loses, Lomey Hoses, Holy Moses, I finally get to meet the man that MYJ talks about every single minute when I'm at home, Kaizhi this, Kaizhi that. Woah Kaizhi dao me. Kaizhi is so cute. There she goes, rattling the word 'shit'. But hey, look who invited me to the living room in the first place!

(the author has to go to school here - it's already 8.46am)

driving - the blogpost that spans a week

I just realized how busy it can be if you're a musician and you don't have a car. I reserved this Sunday morning for getting the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto score from Neville at church (now I can proudly say I went to Church this morning, but any other questions after that are entirely unnecessary. Questions like, "How was Mass?" are vastly irrelevant).

But as Dr Gooi says, the process is very important. How did you get to Church? Did you enjoy getting to Church? Answer was no, because my Ez-link ran out of money, which meant walking back from the bus-stop to Senja LRT station to top up the EZ-link card. Ain't it EZ.

It was convenient though, considering the bus-stop I was at was the wrong one, because 176 didn't stop there. Yes, lots of sweat and morning mucus. Must have been the instant teh-tarik. And then my favourite breakfast fare of pancakes and scrambled eggs for myself and MYJ. Done in 10 minutes, full for hours.

It's not a myth that I sweat alot, which I guess would be attributed to my body's high metabolic rate, so I wouldn't really blame the morning sun and the teh tarik for the mildly wet clothes.

Visited my mum, and then it was a change of two buses before I finally got to the Conservatory, where here I am sitting in the computer room, aware of the fact that I have only seen two other people in this building, one being Dr Hecht himself and the security guard. Everyone's probably back home hundreds of kilometres away, spending time with their loved ones after months of music and homesick-ness.

I thought, if only I had a car. Getting from home to Church, then Church to Conservatory would be much easier. And subsequently, from the Conservatory to Evans Road. Then I can also fulfil my dreams of one day being able to say, "Chiling, let's go for Rochor. Yeah, downstairs already." Then I'll dwindle my time at the carpark reading scores, and then she'll get down soon enough.

Or Ma Yanjie. "Oopezi, don't cook dinner tonight, eating out. If you don't get down by 5 minutes, I'll drive the car into the kitchen and shine the lights at your face."

So that would be it. She would get down, and then we could go eat out. Unfortunately/fortunately, she's going to be able to drive first, and then I would have to wait till I turn 18. By next year, she would be able to drive...then she could go fetch me to RJC already. Eh, entirely cool.

The past few days have been a flurry of motion. No, wasn't a case of terrible food and visits to the loo. On the contrary...(pentatonic scale please, with pedal. Technician! Fade out!)

On the contrary, I visited Seven-mile junction (now known to today's generation as Bukit Timah Market. Whatever. I'll stick to Seven-Mile Junction) together with Sydney and Kenneth earlier this week, one of my favourite food haunts. Kenneth had mutton soup, which apparently 7-mile boasts one of the best in Singapore. I had Happy Duck Rice (literally), and it dasted really telicious.

[yes, you probably re-read that again.]

But nonetheless, it was really good, duck was tender, peanuts were great. Sydney and I decided to rob some of Kenneth's mutton, but I sort of adulterated the mutton by having it dipped into duck sauce. Never mind that it still tasted great.

I guess the next day we went to watch the Chamber concert at Hwa Chong, got a sunflower for Fiona. Knowing that it was a school chamber concert, we weren't expecting an Esplanade performance, but it was fun enough. Three of us, myself, myother and myhalfsis then went for a sumptuous and beautiful dinner at the same place, this time having peanut tangyuan. The whole time we were laughing so hard, and I think MYJ even teared a little. But it was nice.

(here the author decides to go relieve himself and go up to practise. Bye!)

for now.

It's 1.55am, and I'm back home feeling more dull than ever. Firstly I'm pretty tired, and secondly there's no one to disturb from sleep. This morning's words were written under deft and silent typing so that I did not disturb my colleague while she had her sleep in the computer lab. Now, I can type at whatever volume I wished to.

Let's continue the day's narration - well Pop gave all of us the ride back home, including Chiling, and I was glad we could all reach home before the dose struck us. But before that I think I am pretty apprehensive towards Hwa Chong guys, (no don't ask, it's instinctive. and besides, sensitive.) But one of her classmates (apparently class gentleman and poet) actually said hello to me! (sorry I forgot your name) - I know this sounds really absurd and quirky but he probably was the first HCJC person to ever say hi to me other than my primary schoolmates. Maybe I just don't look receptive enough.

The next day being Friday - gosh, it's Monday already - and all 5 of us (by now you all should know who...pop aunty MYJ CCL JS) caught Angels and Demons. MYJ was so scared she cried on the way back home. I got really worried and was super concerned, you know the fabric of the pillow right...not good material to cry on. But I let the person to her devices. I didn't eat much of the popcorn, was probably staring at the screen the whole time without realizing. Solid movie. All the questions were surprisingly answered, and it was a satisfying end for such a complicated movie.

The next day, we practised four-hands...

And Sunday was just another busy day of soccer plus the most heavenly shower I've ever had. Besides we talked super long about OBS, kinda prep lesson for Amanda. And then later in the night, about music, practice, and careers. Discoveries, revelations, and practice. Hanon, Czerny. Mind, body and soul.

Next week, I'm bringing the bass and the amps to Boon Lay. Let the rock begin.