The Late Late Show 1000th Episode.

The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson 1000th Episode on 15 December 2009. The puppets took over as Wavy hosts the show and Craig is nowhere to be seen.

#Craigferguson tweet-a-thon arrived at 10th place at the twitter trending topics for briefly two minutes. 30 tweets from me, not bad considering tweeting while at work.

Wavy: Watadoooo everybody, that's right! It's me, Wavy Rancheros


Wavy: I know a midget. He was a cute little guy. I ate him.


Maria Bello: What big teeth you have.

Wavy: Yea I've got love big teeth, they match my penis. Ha Haa, Haa Haaa I'm kidding you, I've got a tiny little reptile peepee.


Kristen Bell: But I think I need someone bigger than you that is gonna be able to hold me and cuddle me and that I won't have to wrap up in a baby blanket.

Wavy: Bitch! I will eat you.

Week Ends.

III: Greater Good

Where the luminance bounce in the inner linings, something lightens, whether the understanding of old acquaintances, be it the new found connections, that shadows that brought the edges deeper than it already is, completely tucked behind, diminishes with the yielding light, into the darkness. Never to be found. In the stark silence, a quiet click was so loud, then it came, out of no where, the cacophony of of voices, talking, occasionally laughing in a language I could not understand. Strange distinctions, strange familiarities, unknown connections.

Since October skies ceased, days had been inconsistent, dreams of random nightmares, haunting in sequences. Sleep is scarce, remaining leftovers are satisfaction spent seeking that path that lapse between both worlds, sometimes drifting, unknowingly into the state of unconsciousness, always with a grin. But I refrained, and resisted the transition, often too much. A visceral reaction, to be in control, to subdue that intensity into stillness. Expected, but uninviting. Impossible almost.

Then, If I'm alive, still resisting the form of transformation between various states of consciousness, can you perhaps see now, even when everything is basked in darkness, for night is best to see with not your eyes, but senses, when all else fails; truth emerged with touch and thoughts, the greatest things of all. For during the night, I remember things which I would've otherwise left behind, tucked away by the ethereal noise.

[Being] With you ticked me off, in a way i could hardly understand, Like fire daggers striking in snow covered forest. The truth with you in an ambiguous thing, like a game without rules, word roams without directions, strayed off the path, into wilderness. To understand your mind, I would only dwell in it, to know your thoughts, I'd almost reverse my role, to play beneath a foreign mask, out in the merciless sun. Somehow, I managed, saw what you saw, just fragments, but it was more than enough to piece everything together. The power of memories, one you always seemed to discard (overlook). It was terrifying.

But it seems I find every possible reason, every possible excuse to question you intentions, to question everything that seemed too good. Incomprehensible, at least for me, always hoping to find a clean shirt tucked underneath the filthy laundry. But it did paid off, almost every single time, it appears when you are least expecting it, hits it right home. Perhaps, all this while, you wanted me to tell you everything is okay, or acted as if it were okay. I would, and I have told you that I'm all good, despite everything on the inside suggests otherwise. But I couldn't tell you everything because there are to many things to begin with sometimes I'm just drowned it it.

More than often your naivety, to the point of innocent, ignorance is a blessing I am envious of, because everyone who sees, with their eyes that is, could not possibly be happy about the way things had turned up. And why would anyone be? With you, it's different. You happiness is a result of inept definition of the world according to you, where it does not involve seeing or feeling; ignorance. Where no grief dwells, no regrets felt, not sorry for everything. Why would you?

At this point, you might be thinking, this was all about me, perhaps seeking some sort of remorse, or it was about you, where it all started. But it really isn't.

Neither both.

There is no hostility, there is no hatred, no regrets, with much love.

The anomalies of intentions, no random efforts.

It's all part of the greater good.

I,II

II: The First Thing We Saw, Far, Far Away | The Length of Truth

The clouds gaped and folded, closed across the moon. The night passes by, as the world seemed to disappear all together into the stale, soporific air. The rain finally stopped, as if to make way for the cold lightnings, no sounds, just constant flashes of harsh, blinding lights against the canvas of pure darkness. And you awoke, out of darkness that was not sleep, not dream, but something beyond the comforting sight, magnificent, pointing steadily towards the promise. In that stroke of light, the cradle of a future emerged, vaguely on the hindsight. Hope stretched far across the sea, drawing the outline of the past, dark silhouettes are now gone, the sea, visible glimmering waves, vanishes into a thin line, touching the sky above.

I remember the truth, like the warm and humid September nights, sublime agony and a million dotted lines the sweat once trickled. The vine grew after the rain, snakes up the barren land, within the gaps that split open like fresh wound. Rooted freshly at the tip of the ground, drawing moisture, dissipates heat, a container where the inevitable occurs. How many nights spent, watching the trees shiver in the midnight breeze? The perfect stillness, an after image of the future, captured in the thin glow.

The fool within us slowly stepping into murky waters, to strangle truth, to bend and twist, as if to drown it with force, every limbs, every strengths, every muscles conjured. The truth is undeniable, it is a great power that is able, and must exist on it's own without binding to any sort of beliefs and definitions., despite individual perceptions. The absolute is the same for everyone, regardless place, time or culture. With you, however, the truth is an ominous thing, your voice that promises that same thing, darted from that point of origin, torn and beaten up, long lost, confounded.

The perfect stillness outside is now gone, the whistling wind seeps through the window pane, the fluttering curtain fabric, the notion is clear. Through the window glass. A dozen trees strummed by strong merciless wind, sand and tiny pebbles flew, carried by angry ghosts. Loose pores sinks deeper, skeletons revealed. Destruction, deadly - just when normal life felt almost possible, when the world held some kind of meaning, when order finally fell into place - even some strange loveliness, it haunts, consuming it's own debris, to fortify and manifest it own existence, finally exploding brighter than ever.

I admire the length you go, just to obscure, or even manipulate the truth when you know it better, it finds it's way out eventually. Regardless the great lies you made up, or the layers of beliefs you stacked up upon, it takes the form of time, shaping it existence. The infusion of boundless chaos, injected upon controlled order, the world according to you.

That glimpse - not the imposing dark figures, not the towers raising steadily ahead, but that blistering light into the future. The wonderful feeling to be caught up in hope and deadly expectations. One step forward, to dive below, everything falls into perspective.

The first thing we saw, far, far away, nothing mere than unfulfilled fantasies. That little dream, as wide as night, deeply rooted in our vulnerability, filling all inadequacies with made up realities.

Hence we landed,

feet on flames.

Burnt into ashes,

in the light of day.

I

I : Well-Worn Shoe | The Foundations of Truth

It was rather accommodating, though it tends to get dirtier in one of these nights than any other, and every time, I’d scorn as if I never understood. Often in this light I’d be awake starring out in the dark. And it is darker in one of these nights than any other and every time, I’d wail just a little, just enough to shed a little of its weight. It is often vague, and when I’m lucky, it reflects vivid light and reveals an image. I’d stare as if I’ve seen it before. The familiarity is unmistakable, although I cannot begin to fathom the reflections of what it is; supposedly real. I’m only guessing.

Towers raising still and solid above the earthly rock, thunder blares and streaks followed by rains pouring in bucketfuls. Many nights since then have become a ritual of guessing, a million riveting thoughts penetrating its wall, eventually feeling unsatisfied, confounded. It is extremely easy to be confined by everything that is beyond us, taunted by a shadow of cosmic proportions. A wronged journey could send towers crumbling from above the earthly rock, imminently shattering every foundations of truth, revealing the barren ground it once stood.

There, your figure emerged behind the pillars, standing at the edge of the top of your tower, so high it vanishes into the clouds, swallowed by the moonless sky, and yet your shadow, dark against dark, outlined only by intermittent strikes of lighting. But you, your hands clad in silver lining that glows and sparkles, rested firmly on the pillars, stood still and proud looking down, smirk on your face, unshaken by the blares and flames of neighboring towers, crashing down, burnt to ashes and red hot glowing rocks.

I wish I were you, I wish I were exactly like you, so I could penetrate your thick mind, so I could read everything that’s hidden so well in the basement of your thoughts. I wish we traded shoes, just so you could feel the ground underneath your feet, stumble and fall because of the untied lace, hurt and bleed, just so I could understand how hard it must have been to walk tall and proud, all alone, dismissing the most innocent gaze, even, even hidden underneath that shield.

Your foundations are of immaculate artistry, however strong yet brittle, never fails, even under the enormous weight it held upon, constructed upon layers of confidence, perpetuates a truth that lies, to fill a void with gaps, defiance of sanctity, everything imagined.

My well worn shoes, they brought me close, so close to you – just like the first thing we saw for the very first time, far, far away.

Just a glimpse, it was strangely reassuring.

Album Review: The Antlers - Hospice [2009]

The Antlers || Hospice
Frenchkiss | 2009 | Indie
Release date | 18 August 2009

It sends me weeping underneath the covers, lights off, my feet went cold. For the past three weeks, I tried letting Hospice put me to sleep, but I find myself staying up, hours after hours, losing myself in it's sheer weight. It's a very dense and heavy album, and it's not an easy record to sleep to. It helps to learn the back story of the production itself - where the intensity of Hospice is a product of Peter Silberman's months of self-exile upon arriving in New York City - beautifully channeling the idea of sealed; confinement and loneliness.

Hospice is a beautifully crafted, story-driven conceptual album that draw it's peripheral lines around the relationship between an abusive terminally ill patient and it's care-taker. Inevitably, Hospice exudes sense of morbidity, sadness permeates in it's lush atmospheric arrangement. "Prologue" serves as grandeur entry to the album - the uncomfortable, crushing drone-scape, almost dreamy, tethering the idea of morbidity throughout the album. "Kettering" opens with a haunting piano rift and the yearning of Silberman's performance precisely framed a beginning of an beautiful agony. I wished that I had known in the first minute we met / the unpayable debt that I owed you / Because you've been abused by the bone that refused you / and you hired me to make up for that /. "Sylvia" renders a frustrating conversation, using large reference to the Sylvia Plate incident to juxtapose the painful experience of being helpless at watching the patient facing death. Sylvia, get your head out of the oven / Go back to screaming and cursing / remind me again how everyone betrayed you / Sylvia, get your head out of the covers / Let me take your temperature / You can throw the thermometer right back at me / If that's what you want to do okay? /



It's not hard to miss the lyrical brilliance of Silberman was one of the reason that Hospice shine. His almost surrealist poetic writings masterfully captures every essence of melancholy bittersweet. It's character forms a perpetual presence, so real like I have never felt before and the air smells of medication. The lyrics are executed in such a way that one events unfolds after another, but all connected under a singular occurrence. And this is the strength of the album. While there are standout tracks, Hospice works best in its entirely. It's structure was meant to be appreciated as a single piece of work that demands continuous plays.

It's obvious that Hospice in some way manifest itself as some sort of memoir for Silberman. That said, it's not entirely an accessible album by its own right. It's sole purpose is to tell a story - profound snippets about the painful journey, both physically and emotionally dealing with loss. It works almost in an ambiguous way . It does not seek to relate but it evokes sense of empathy. It challenges one to feel the very essence of life, and the frailty of it all. It's a beautifully crafted piece of music that is painfully mesmerizing - like an experience that forever changed your life.

It was only meant to be.

I think my blog is a rather accurate indication of just how busy my life gets. Amidst my unbelievably hectic working schedule, I’m here blogging because when I say I’m back, I really mean I’m back. But to be fair, I just nailed the Shell’s renovation project and “Bintulu Waterfront shoplots” project – YAWN, so I think it’s safe for me to murmur a very soft sigh of relieve that it’s finally over. There, I just said the ill-fated word. It’s not like I haven’t learnt the fact that it’s never over, I might as well just chill while I can. Though, I know I’m about to piss people off. There’s still so much work ahead of me. By the way, I’m really trying to hard sell myself these days, because I’m thinking about taking a leap of faith. Ahem. I don’t anything know yet, but I just might. I think it’s probably about time.

I think the shop-lots are just plain dumb and people are getting clever with the names these days – “Open malls”, “Outdoor Mall” , “Shopping Village”. How fucking lame is that. The thing is no matter how interesting people try to name these shop-lots, it’s not going to make the concept any more exciting than it already is. The problem I have with these shop-lots is that the planning itself is a waste of space. It creates too much useless in-between spaces that will inevitably turn into smelly back alleys in the long run and finally when the whole place eventually runs down it creates another slum block in the city. If anything, it just doesn’t provide an otherwise appealing shopping environment at all. “Shopping Village” apparently. Are you fucking kidding me?

I was on my routine surfing today and I came across a rather interesting piece of article - 17 Jobs That Are Guaranteed to Get You Laid . Apparently - Architects are on the top of the list. Now I really don’t know what to make of it, but I do love the idea that architects are sexy beings. Take that, other jobs chronic masturbators!

* * * * * *

I was given two fish tanks couple of weeks ago, and it’s still lying around the car porch. I’m yet to clean it – and it’s so dirty it’s shameful. Then I will have to fill it with water and start all over the new-tank-cycle process before I can put any fish in. Longer story short – it’s a long process, and I have no time for it. - It sucks.

I was thinking of just leaving the tank outside, so I don’t have to move anything inside the house just to accommodate the new tank. Too much work. Mom said if I were to place the tank on that particular spot I picked, I’d have to paint the wall first; otherwise, I’d have to move the tank again if we decided to paint it just right before Chinese New Year, which would suck even more because people get cranky during spring cleaning. And I’m not about to move the fucking tank anywhere once it’s up and running because moving a 4 feet tank takes some real muscles and I ain’t got that. So really, the only viable option I can think of is really just leave the tank outside at the car porch and move my fish there. The good thing about this is that I won’t have to worry about the fish splashing water all over the place when she throws a tantrum every now and then. But again, since I don’t live in a posh neighborhood, people here have the tendency to steal things – pets included so it’s not entirely that safe to have the tank outside. I can’t decide.

By the way, I’ve committed a sin so big - I could never look myself in the mirror again, I’m ashamed of myself. Yesterday after dinner, mom told me there are cakes in the fridge and asked if I wanted any. So I asked what kind of cake. And she went on and dropped the shameful bomb at me – that her girlfriends at work bought her those delicious cakes because it was her birthday the day before.

and I was like SHIT !!!

I guess there’s no point I bitch and moan about how sorry I am right now. I’ll make it up to her, and when I say I will, damn right I will.

In the mean time – I’m off to get laid.

The architect’s style.

Damn right I am.

I Haze U

I was going to be just a tad insightful tonight but I decided not to because the haze is so bad that my sight is compromised. So much for my attempt at making funnies. No. This has nothing to do with the haze, yuck, although I must say the air taste a little horrible these days. Yes, the haze is so dense it’s literally tangible and chocking up my lungs. It’s not exactly the kind of air I’d want to breathe all day. Oh, think about the people around me. They have been thinking exactly the same thing for years. Isn’t it great now that everyone’s a second hand smoker? People really should stop whining about those who smoke. But I digress.

I don’t get much work done these days. It’s funny because I’m literally swamped at work it’s driving me bonkers and yet I don’t get much done. When I say done, I meant getting things completed without having the hassle of following up at another time. Seriously, I do a lot, more than I ever had in my entire career. Like WHOA. But apparently, not enough to complete, and I am eminently depressed by it. It seemed like I’m engaging in some desultory tasks, one minute I’m doing this, just one step away from completing it, I get thrown another that requires immediate attention. I stopped, and I move on, then I get thrown another one, then some time during that, I’d have to go back and catch up with the earlier projects.

It’s confusing I know, and seriously, if one task takes at least a day to complete, three tasks would then require at least three days to complete, and that made me wonder just how many tomorrow can one have in one day because I get asked to do three different things in a day that is needed tomorrow. And if one would put a little effort in using common sense, they’d probably realize that it’s entirely impossible unless I have three tomorrows at a same time. Very interesting theory (Inner inner monologue). Some people really love to push it. That’s some world class stupid right there.

Oh, just forget everything. I’m one cranky bitch fighting off the mid-life crisis, and I’m only 25. Ever wonder why they call it premature?

Enough already.

Filler

I hate posting all pictures posts, but here it is, some recent renderings I did for work. Whatever it takes to keep this thing goin'.

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