So hold me, you know this wasn’t planned. Hold me close, you’ll hold

Class today was a bit of a joke. I had a clash so got moved into a different combo, which meant that I now only have 1.5hrs of class on Tuesdays. On all the students’ timetables online, it said that our Composition & Arranging class was at 1pm-2.30pm, but according to the teachers’ version of the timetables, class is set for 12pm-1.30pm. I only found out by accident yesterday, whilst trying to sort out the clash with the HOD and the teacher in charge of combo placements; so I ended up txting Oli, the teacher for this paper, to confirm that it was indeed at noon. In the end, only five people (myself included) showed up for class on time, so Oli decided to call it lunch time and to start class at 1pm when everyone else showed up.

Turns out, Student Services Online and the music school admin is more useless than we thought, and they had mucked up the times of the class before and after ours as well! And this is for classes of 3rd years, 2nd years and honours students, all for just one room! Ridiculous.

I ended up going over to Albert Park on the other side of campus to have lunch with the boy since the weather was so lovely outside. Lovely, but freezing. I happened to have everything the boy wanted for lunch so I shared and took a couple of quick snaps before anyone spotted me being touristy. Basically, going anywhere else on/near campus is a novelty for me, since I virtually never venture out of the KMC.

Seeing this fountain today made me think of The Fountainhead. My sister is a fair way through it now, and I read her a chapter earlier tonight as she curled up in bed.

My box of fuit and salami & cheese sandwiches. I bought that Marcs skirt along with the cardigan I was on about yesterday. It’s nice to own and wear a bit of c0lour… I constantly look fit for a funeral, otherwise.

 I was going to post a couple of nice songs but decided against it… I think I’ll post a full playlist along with youtube links later in the week instead. For now, a poem:

“HOme”

O I have allowed too many
visitors
Not guests
into this house that
was not
my            Home

until You
entered and affixed
a light
a heat
into the deep bellies
O’ the ceiling.

i have sat and laid
and chat
with mortal,
ordinary ones.
more than once.
special, they ought
think not,
for what is a host
without a cause?

for empty nights i stared
            at walls
            at all
            at.
i can’t alter the backlog.

you wonder of the
dozen more hands that touched
the door and
wiped the floor
filthy tracks
like thoroughfare
i conduct memories as an
   archival library –
irrelevant, useless, left to dust and rot but
libraries must be kept in order. In check,
in line,
with time.

            You daren’t
            Enquire.
for this HOme was an old house,
      a trodden, (mis)used refused
      house with mislaid boards and
      traps, set just-so;
But this HOme is now
transformed
morphed
crystallised
into well-polished
sparkling form today.

and my Home is no longer open,
            not for sale
            to the highest bidder,
any bidder,
even more handsome than thee–
this once Open HOme is
            Sold
to its old-Owner
whose key to the door
and cellar
Is the Only
One
that Fits,
O.

When I’m yours, I’ll be waiting for the strike of two, Cause we know, There’s something left for me and you to do

My mood since the last time I blogged has been all over the place, but I think I’ve finally found some kind of mental and emotional footing. Semester two started today, and my timetable is a trainwreck waiting to happen. I’m still waiting on final confirmations from the jazz tutors about when exactly my remaining classes will be, since my jazz courses seem to be colliding with one another. Clashing classes is something that isn’t supposed to happen in such a small department!

In remembrance of the holidays that flew past, here are some photos from last week. My sister and I had appointments over the shore, after which we went and got lunch and ice cream. I also bought an amazingly kick-arse leather jacket, but I haven’t taken photos of that yet though.

Eggs benedict with bacon – my favourite.

This photo makes me feel funny about myself. Something about the angle makes me feel like my nose is abnormally large and that my face is a bit warped out of proportion. Nevertheless, I’m totally loving my Marcs mens cardigan that I bought on sale. So warm, so comfy.

Chocolate ice cream- also my favourite. Liv got mango sorbet which is probably in my Top 5.

For someone who loves taking uncalculated, un-thought-out and seemingly blind risks, I am so boring when it comes to food. I’m just such a sucker for food habits! Once I latch onto a favourite from a restaurant or just in form of a flavour, it’s really hard for me to order something different, to try something new… it just feels like I’d be taking a risk at the potential price of missing out on a guaranteed satisfaction!

The boy and I went out for a dinner date on Friday night. (I’ve always wanted to say that, casually, you know… “oh we went on a date”, blah blah, so blasé, like in the moooovies!) It wasn’t for any particular, specified reason – we just both felt like it. It kinda seemed as if we were celebrating something, but I’m not too sure what. Although earlier last week marked the precise date of two years since we met, and in a couple of weeks’ time will be our “6-months” mark… and all of that sounds terribly cheesy and overtly sentimental, but my gosh I’m such a sentimental person. For some very hard-to-explain reasons, the whole “a year/two years since we met” business means a lot to both of us, in the break-your-heart-then-mend-it kind of way, and it’s about the only time I’ve ever seen anyone more sentimental than I, remembering a date better than I.

We went to Sale St and it was amazing. Even though it was really busy and full of lots of people just going out for a drink rather than a meal, it still felt awfully intimate like we were in our own bubble, and everything got slowed down and slightly muted when they came too close. We also did some spying and live commentary of a couple who really sucked – they looked like they were cosying up at first, but then the girl was really keen and the guy looked like he wasn’t feeling it, it was awkward and awful and such a laugh, most especially when they were then joined by three female friends! The only bummer of the evening was the fact that I had actually taken a little camera with me, but then discovered that it didn’t have a memory card, dammit! So you’ll just have to take my word for it that we’re a killer couple, especially when we go out in our leathers and I even wore what Cara calls my “fuck-me boots”. Tasteful ones, of course.

I wrote something earlier this evening and then decided that the things I write would make a nice love-letter-esque collection. If only there was a market for these things, and if I was even willing to sell my inner-most vulnerable self. People, it frustrates me to not know what to do with my writing! I wrote something last week that, according to the boy, sounds like an excerpt out of a novel, but I have no idea what to do with it whatsoever. Actually, I just realised that whenever I publicise or share a piece of writing with anyone, I get a weird sensation akin to that of stepping on stage – like stage fright but in the form of words on paper. And because I never tend to edit my writing and keep it so raw – just like a performance, really… played once and left unchanged forever – it feels like I’m walking around fresh out of bed (if not naked), waiting to be told that all is okay; that there is indeed beauty in my raw, most pure form of self. Isn’t that what we’re all looking for?

And I don’t know who wrote this, but since I didn’t want to post my own writing today, I thought this was lovely:

“I don’t think there is a middle ground for love. Either we are dreaming, or we are drowning. I wouldn’t change a thing, because I’m either dreaming or drowning with you.”

Ohhh, and how could I forget – OH MY GOD HARRY POTTERRRRRRRR. Childhood’s momentary revival is gone once again. AHHHHHH. That is all.

… something you want becomes something you need

So this is like an angsty-teen type of blog post. Even though I’m not a teenager anymore, bummer.

Tell me – if I gave someone too much credit and held expectations too high and then they fuck up and let me down… is it entirely their fault for fucking up? Or is it also partially my fault for now feeling like utter shit because my expectations were too high to begin with? I’ve mentioned at some point on this blog that I never hold high expectations anymore because I’ve become such a pessimist that I don’t want to be let down – so I definitely didn’t think my expectations were too high. Until they were crushed.

I actually have no idea why I still feel like I’ve been torn inside out, stomped all over and constantly on the verge of breaking down when there is nothing imminently wrong. But I just can’t seem do dislodge this huge accumulated load of crap that is stuck, stuck on my mind! I always feel it’s ten times worse for an intelligent person to do or say something dumb compared to if a dumb person did. And I forgive but forgetting is so much harder to do. Especially when I’m now in constant defensive mode thinking, bracing myself, wondering when I’m about to be let down again. Because lately it just feels like I’m constantly having to deal with emotional barriers, getting over things that hurt me, healing and trusting all over… just to have it carelessly thrown back in my face.

I’ve been taking such care as to not hurt people as of late. Why couldn’t the same be done to me? When I was younger I was much more impatient and selfish, and I never invested in anyone else – never trusted people enough to invest in them, expect anything of them. People thought I was ice cold, heartless, self-centred, un-trusting. So now that I’ve reversed all of the above, why do I actually feel a lot worse than when I was supposedly a worse person?

Is it really that hard to expect someone to say and do what they DO mean and feel, and expect them to not say and not do what they DON’T mean and feel? I’m so strung out from trying to disregard things said and done that weren’t meant, and trying to invent words and actions that are meant but never said for me to hear. It’s like that Radiohead song, “just because you feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there”. But I know it’s there. Fucking tell me it’s there. Tell me how you do fucking feel, not how you don’t. And show me it’s there instead of accidentally making me doubt first, and then trying to win my confidence back. Whatever happened to my confidence? In anything.

Okay, I feel marginally better now. Maaaarginally. It’s definitely time for me to resume writing, instead of attempting to finish tidying my room.

a mess

the tired boy, post-party

painting bathroom

more bathroom painting. today I got some paint on my hair, urgh

And funnily enough, I think this picture best describes the decision which confronts any boy that’s ever been interested in me:

… I sure as hell ain’t emotionally stable.

One last thing: I’ve fallen for Autolux, especially their song “Supertoy”. There’s like a nice mix of My Bloody Valentine, Radiohead, good lyrics and a moving bass line to keep me interested. Oh, and their bass player sings, so:

down to the beauty that you see, Think of me

Rummaging around on the internet this evening, reading random things, looking at pictures, listening to a lot of new music, generally being inspired… and this is the quote I read that stuck out the most to me:

“I feel that art has something to do with the achievement of stillness in the midst of chaos. A stillness which characterizes prayer, too, and the eye of the storm. I think that art has something to do with an arrest of attention in the midst of distraction.” – Saul Bellow

Double exposure photo of the boy and I; Taken on Ilford HP5 Plus 400 B/W film; Nikon F3. A photo I had used in the exhibition.

I’ve never read anything of Bellow’s, but that was so eloquently and perfectly put that I know I will eventually have to hunt down something of his to read. I know I spend too much time dwelling on art, and the whole “art for art’s sake” thing, but stumbling upon something amazing once in a rare while is what makes it all seem to make sense and worth it in the end. The feeling of “stillness in the midst of chaos” and “an arrest of attention in the midst of distraction” is exactly how I feel like when I write, or photograph. Or the even rarer occasion during a jazz performance where I feel like I am perfectly static and calm even as the song moves past me, with me… that frozen moment where I feel the stillness enough to acknowledge the occasional brilliant note choices that happen.

I was txting the boy about a self portrait that I need his help to take sometime in summer (because it’s temperature dependent…), and he asked why. Fair question, but it’s a question that I’m always rather afraid of, on some level. Reason being, self portraits are so damn self-indulgent. That’s why they’re called self portraits, not just a portrait on its own. I’m sure I could pass off many things as photos other people might’ve taken, but there’s also a weird joy in taking self portraits. I’d rather not discuss the finer details to this particular potential-self-portrait, but mainly it made me reflect on my motives once again. I want to immortalise what is mortal. The me today will resemble the me tomorrow or me next week, but I will not be 100% the same. So it is with this self-indulgent motive in mind that I would like to immortalise my “self” now and then. Even if it seems rather vain and completely superficial to most people, I know and feel that whenever I’d taken self portraits in the past that some piece of my then-spirit was captured. What I wore, what I looked like, how I held myself, the look in my eyes… that sort of thing just can’t be claimed back.

A couple of evenings ago the boy and I went to Cassette #9 with some friends. It was funny because his younger sister was also there, and a friend of mine got into a fight with the boy’s friend. They dissed each other pretty bad, much to the amusement of us. I had told the dude earlier in the night that he’d have much better luck with the ladies had he worn a collared shirt rather than the tight t-shirt he was clad in. He disagreed. Then I was joking to my friend who only stopped by to say hi as to whether she has any single friends for him… she proceeded to (drunkenly) tell him how his shirt looks pretty gay, and had he worn a collared shirt she would definitely have hookups for him. Oh dear. The comeback was “if you were hot I would hook up with you”, followed by a drink thrown in his face. Eventful indeed. It was just weird going back to Cassette after all this time, for once not single, and for once with the boy when so much drama has happened there in the past. Ironically, it was the first bar we ever went to together two years ago. And how scary time flies, it will be two years to the day we met, next week.

For when…

Behind cabin curtains, Let’s join the mile high club. I can’t wait anymore

How rare is this? My computer has been off for days and days in a row – probably four or five days? – I lost count! Between then and now, I’ve had Japanese food, tacos, far too much cheap wine and ice cream, and I’ve been to the Auckland Museum as well as the Winter Gardens, plus won a hockey game. There’s something so satisfying about disappearing for a few days, especially with some of my favourite people and food in the world.

After the boy finished his exams, we celebrated with an evening in with a western film and Boston Legal; then went out for a long-awaited meal at a very delicious (yet affordable) Japanese restaurant not too far from my house. I decided to take a roll of 24 Kodak colour film with me, and here are the results. For once I didn’t fuss too much over anything, really. It’s quite refreshing using colour instead of black and white for a change – plus it was easier and cheaper to get developed quickly. These are most of the photos, and as you can see, most of it entailed me stalking the boy around the place:

Banana and jam on toast for breakfast.

The Winter Gardens: I hadn’t been here in years and years, and the boy had never been until that day.


Sitting at a bench in a corner.


I think we enjoyed the tropical gardens more because it was heated to a very warm temperature inside. Auckland’s been freezing lately. Winter’s finally here.



Those lily pads!

He took this one of me. I like not reaally being seen.

Stalking strangers, as I do.

We were too lazy to take our boots off to go inside the marae that’s been built inside the museum. But I waited a little while til this guy walked through.

Bones.

That statue thing is badly placed in this photo. Oh well.


More stranger-stalking.

Glass ceiling.

View from the top floor.

Double exposure.

It was far too dark inside this room.

The display was “Auckland 1866”, but someone had tacked a polaroid inside and dated it 1989, haha.


Double exposure: the Sky Tower and city skyline v.s. the boy and the museum.

I have some personal favourites out of these, but I’d like to see which ones other people like most?

It’s funny that I used to think the Auckland Museum was huuuuuuuge when I was a kid, but now it seems so small. Especially in comparison to places I’ve been in the last while such as LACMA or the Getty Centre. Traveling and seeing things outside a daily, normal spectrum really does help to pull the size of the world in perspective, I think. It’s also interesting how I can react so differently to feeling small – at times it empowers me on this I must search for so much more and see, feel, live more things feeling, but other times it belittles me and demotivates me if I’m not careful. Everything in moderation, I guess. I’ll try and take more rolls of film during this semester break. Before taking extra papers takes over my life again.

By the waaay, the boy’s name is Daniel. I personally can’t stand people calling him Dan. It doesn’t suit him. I think that irks me more than it irks him, haha. And I don’t know yet, but I still don’t think I’ll ever blog with his name. I think it’s more obvious and endearing to just call him “the boy” on here anyway. I used to worry about how he’d feel having me splash his face all over my blog – since some friends of mine mind, although most don’t – but it seems he rather enjoys it. Oh, to be someone’s muse.

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