Everything and nothing at all.

You want to feel something more than I could ever bring

Rewind back two, three years ago. I was underage, incapable (most of the time) of getting into gigs, let alone getting to shoot them. I’m not too sure of precisely where my desire to do so spawned from. I suspect it’s a combination of things. For starters, there are lots of photographic projects I’ve planned and plotted in my head – but I never end up undertaking them just because it requires preparation and planning – in other words, I would’ve had to think ahead. For someone as lazy and usually uninspired as me, thinking ahead for a photo seems a bit out of whack. Especially when I’m the sort of person who likes to take spontaneous photos, often in unexpected places, of unexpected subjects. There’s a magic essence in capturing a moment in time that just doesn’t exist in a constructed setting. Even when I have constructed settings in the past for a shoot, I usually end up picking the “accidental” shots, rather than the ones I had “intended”.

When I first shot on black and white film in a Nikon F3 almost 4 years ago, I was pleasantly surprised at how much enjoyment I got from rediscovering all the things that I had merely shot in passing, in the city of Wellington.  As I didn’t get the films developed until a few months later, I hardly remembered what I had photographed, especially all the little corner snippets that I had snapped away at, without a thought at all. My mother (the term “professional photographer” here sounds daunting, but she is) has always been supportive and encouraging in anything and everything I do; but for some reason, once upon a time she tried to dissuade me from attempting concert photography. It’s “much too difficult”, she’d said. And it sure as hell is. But that is exactly why I love it. The equation – so it appear so be – is: lack of necessary thought process/laziness + spontaneity + music freak + love a good challenge = concert photography.

Fast forward a couple of years, I had an amazing Friday night. Back when I was googling concert photographers and oggling at the amazing shows they get to shoot, I stumbled across a lady called Ami Barwell. Mostly lo-fi styled stuff, shot a lot of bands that I love – made me mega jealous. I think she used to be the photographer-in-tow for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, so she has a lot of nice shots of them, and a couple of nights ago I got to have a crack at it myself.

Here are some of the shots that I liked best of BRMC and their opening band, The Checks. The problem is… I’m undecided as to whether I’m happy about them or not:

The Checks:
Can I just add – their drummer reminded me of why I used to have a thing for drummers and dated a couple. He also looks like one that I had crushed on for a long time. Shhhh. Good thing NO ONE knows who it was, ha!

I just dance the way i feel

I hate cooking. I avoid it like people avoid cleaning their toilets. In fact, I am the least domesticated person I know. Most of my friends – guys and girls – cook on a regular basis. We’ll be txting each other and then I’ll get a “hold up, I’m just cooking *blah blah* for dinner” sort of response, whereas I’ll more likely than not be indulging in some form of other pastime until my mother or sister kindly fills the table with scrumptious edibles.

But earlier this evening, I really really really don’t know what came over me, and I offered to cook dinner for myself, mum and her visiting friend from Christchurch. I don’t have any photographic evidence to prove this (dammit, I knew I forgot something!) but I miraculously whipped up steak with fried eggs, mushrooms topped with bacon and cheese, and a salad and steamed vegetables to go with it all. As if that wasn’t enough, some strange sensation came over me as if someone had cast  the Imperius Curse on me, and I declared that I was going to make cupcakes. And ice them too. We ran out of icing sugar so I only managed to ice about 3/4 of them, and the end results are below.

Has anybody else been suddenly inclined to do something that they usually hate?

I’m feeling as terribly weird yet very proud. I’m also very proud of having survived my day at university today. Lack of sleep all week has been catching up with me, but I somehow emerged lively as ever after 4 hours straight of bass playing. Of both assortments.

1/ I’m loving the rain. People keep complaining about it but I think it’s amazing.
2/ Very happy with having Thursdays off on my timetable. Going to bathe in the hot springs tomorrow to loosen up and hopefully feel better. This 3-week cold NEEDS TO LEAVE ME.
3/ I’m photographing the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club concert in Auckland on Friday.

New Rules: I’m learning to be laid back about certain things

I can’t stop listening to Kele Okereke’s new album, The Boxer. Being such an avid Bloc Party fan, I’d been very curious as to what Kele’s solo album would sound like. To me it’s like listening to Bloc Party, but with less guitar and grunt, more dancey beats, plus the same lyrical ingenuity that I will quote over and over (ref to title of blog!).

Guilty indulgences aside, the thing that I never feel guilt for splurging copious amounts of money on = books. I’m sure that women the world over will know exactly what I’m on about when I describe the slow, creeping guilt that emerges after a materialistic purchase. Clothing, shoes, magazines, even if it was chocolate, or just some other silly little thing that you weren’t quite completely in love with, and definitely didn’t need. But that feeling never occurs when I buy books. I once bought a $64 hardback adventure novel, just because I couldn’t wait for the library system to offer me the next installment penned by Matthew Reilly – especially after an excruciating cliff hanger! Luckily my special lady-friend works at the local bookstore and helps me out with her 30% staff discounts – which also came in handy yesterday when I decided to buy a $95 book on Jazz: A history of America’s Music. What also helps is that, when I buy books, often my parents will offer to pay for them, if they are present; as well as the fact that I simply don’t need to justify any book purchases – but can easily do so. I mean, surely it’s a given that since I’m spending my bachelor’s degree on learning jazz performance that surely I need to become thoroughly familiar with the ins-and-outs of its history and development through the ages. Not to mention, this semester I also have a compulsory jazz history paper anyway.

Specifics aside, I’m sure many people can relate to the self-righteously intellectual feeling that comes with buying a book. It feels like it adds to me and the growth of my mind as a whole. Sure, you have to read it first, but buying a book generally guarantees that no matter how long I put it off for, eventually I will read it. The same can’t be said for books that I get out from the library: I have a tendency to get too greedy at the library (come on, it’s free), as well as judge a book by it’s cover. Also, the best and most popular books always seem to be unavailable at the library anyway, so unless I’d requested a book, it’s never what I’d really like to read.

Does anyone else do this? Or feel like this too?

I really need to go run some scales on the double bass now because semester two is starting on Monday (impending blisters in the week, I just know it). It’s sad that class hasn’t even started yet and already I am longing for the summer holidays in November already!

Four random photos that all somehow have one thing in common (guesses?):


David’s mini birthday I made him and took along to his farewell party.

The cake again, under a very erotic looking red light. The cool shade that goes with it wasn’t in sight. + Having lunch at the Sydney waterfront: view behind me reflected off the back of a Canon 50d.

The new lights I bought in Sydney and fiiiinally put up in my room. And my beloved poster.

Common thread amongst the photos: all taken by the family buddy, Mr Canon IXUS950IS.

It’s the Milgram device all over again

Photo taken by sister, as per my instructions, in Sydney.

It’s 1.30pm and I am still in bed with a cold. Cancelled musical plans for today, because I don’t want to be coughing and spluttering, blowing my nose every two seconds, and spreading it to other people.

Firstly – irony: Since the Netherlands defeat in the WC final, New Zealand is the only unbeaten team in the World Cup.

There is something about Facebook that pisses me off the most. No, it’s not something integral in Facebook itself, but moreso, something that people do on Facebook. I hardly ever sign onto Facebook – in fact usually it takes an email prompt telling me someone has sent me a message or invitation, and then I click on the link, check it out, and exit. But on the rare occasion, out of boredom or curiosity that I linger on the homepage of it, I am thoroughly reminded of why I vow to never do so again until the next spout of craaazy insomnia or whatever. I just don’t understand why some people feel the urge to sit on Facebook ALL DAY and “like” everyone’s statuses and comments, nor why they are on Facebook commenting people back and forth when I know for a fact that they are already either txting or IMing each other (or worse, both).

Some girls that I see out and about in town, at the pub, clubs, etc… what are they doing? Being annoying brats and taking photos (with such bad skill it really makes my head ache) with blinding use of flash whilst everyone else it just trying to have a good time… in semi-darkness. Don’t get me wrong, I love taking pictures, especially when I’m having a great time at something – but some people take it waaay too far, taking waaay too many pictures with the same people, in every possible pose, and it just gets ANNOYING. Especially on the odd occasion I’m going somewhere without a doorlist, requiring me to stand in queue for godknowshowlong next to snap-flashing girls. Urghhh. What’s even worse than withstanding them toppling over now and then – because, you know, trying to piggyback each other whilst in short dresses in a queue thus showing off most of your bra and cellulite is very attractive – and then flashing flahsing, FLASHING, is what happens the next morning… these pictures are then splashed aaaaaaaaaaallll over Facebook, with the people in it all tagged, who then start commenting on each picture. “Oh I remember that, I was soooo wasted”, “I don’t remember that, take that off, I look awful”, “And then this and that and this and that happened before/after this photo”, etc etc. It just gets me so bored and put off, and deters me from Facebook.

Then, there’s the type of people, who (yes, I know for a fact) are in the same room as each other, all on their separate computers, logged onto Facebok, commenting back and forth with each other – WHY?! WHYYYYYY, WHYYYYYYY?!?!!??!!!!

Whatever happened to using Facebook (and other social devices on the internet) as a means of interacting with people that you don’t really get a chance to interact with in real life? At least, that’s what I use Facebook for. If I can easily reach someone via a quick txt message or by merely turning around to face them to converse – why would I want to, oh, open Facebook, log in, find the correct person’s page, then … etc…

Now I just sound like a raging, raving looney; but I’ve wanted to have a rant about that for ages. Plus, I’m still in bed… with a rather large (and growing) pile of used tissues. Gross. Semester starts next Monday, I want to be better!

Off topic, but the title is a lyric which refers to the Milgram Experiment. That stuff (and subsequent related links) gets you thinking…

Jack Kerouac

Stoplights are swaying and the phone lines are down

My absence has been due to over a week spent in Sydney, Australia – which followed a 5-day/nights’ series of events, which were all blurred into a very long, extended lump in my memory – and I’m not too sure how I feel right now. Until I can conjure up the effort to sort through hundreds of photos and thoughts, I’m not going to write about where I went, etc.

Families are supposed to be the comfort zone. The people who’ve known you your whole life, know all your embarrassing childhood stories, who care for one another the most. At least, that is the family that I was brought up under the illusion of, despite having been disillusioned over a decade ago about its idealistic ways vs reality.

Unfortunately, over the past week in Sydney, my (immediate) family – who usually live in different countries – have been crammed into one single hotel room. It was large, yes – the size of half our house, but a single space nonetheless; and all the things we usually pretend is all okay could no longer be contained. My parents aren’t getting along. They haven’t for a long time. But under the facade of not living under the same roof for majority of the year, everything is “okay”. In the middle are me and my sister. Whilst she still has to put up with the same problems, same fights and outbursts as I do, she doesn’t have the older-child syndrome of taking on all these problems as my own. I don’t want to take sides. I have two sets of opinions and views on these problems, and how I think they should be dealt with: one, being the daughter, I want them to work through things, slowly, fine, but surely, and just at least do something productive or argue productively rather than stupidly about anything, everything and absolutely nothing at all; and two, being from a completely objective point of view – get it all over and done with, if it’s so painful to coexist.

I shouldn’t be saying this.

In the most selfish manner, also, I have so much else on my plate that I am stressing over, but the whole family thing is an overbearing darkness and source of stress, pain, guilt, troubles, internal and external conflicts that I can’t conjure up the strength to deal with anything else. It also doesn’t help that I’ve been sick for a week and a half, and it’s only draining me more, physically.

I know people out there go through much worst than me – in fact I have close friends that have, let alone all the people whom I don’t know. But it feels soo bad I don’t know how people get through it. I guess they develop some coping mechanism to subtract themselves from the equation of their parents’ misery. I can’t seem to. I am so latched onto every bitter/icy/frustrated/angry/defeated/confused/hopeless/unreasonable word that comes out of their mouths, and I catch all the hurt/vengeful/loathing/sad/intolerable look that the other doesn’t.

I can’t sleep. I was already insomniac enough without the jetlag. Skytv’s ceased working sometime over the days that we were away, so there is nothing to brainwash my sleeplessness with either.

My ipod is currently lost somewhere in the pile of luggage in the lounge, next to the couch on which my father is sleeping – so no music to dither away to.

If there was ever such a time I felt I needed sleeping pills the most – I lied. I really need some now.

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