Coffee with Fadh

Fadh came to Singapore for work, and bless her heart she had time for coffee with little old me. There were pictures!

She came bearing gifts.

She bought us pastries

HUJAN!

All in all it was good day.

A D5100 named Zooey

Why lookie here. Prav's gone and got himself a DSLR. The cheeky monkey. He's even taken some photos with it.

Nikon D5100

18-55mm

50mm 1.8

A dream journal

I've always had dreams where I was flying, but this one was different.

It started in some arbitrary location, a field where a football game was happening. The referee was an old Malay man with a goatee. The kind you expect to wear a kopiah and randomly lecture young people on the dangers of hedonism.

He walks up to me and asks me if I can fly, and not knowing that this was a dream I say no. He says it's easy.

All I have to do is lift one leg off the ground, then lift the other.

My subconscious stole this line from Neil Gaiman's Sandman. My subconscious rocks.

I try to obey the old man, and unsurprisingly I start floating. I flap my arms furiously to generate forward momentum, and I'm off.

I pass through a generic cloud and sky backdrop, I wave to a generic kid in an air plane from the scene in all Superman movies where he's flying and a kid looks out on him from an airplane window in awe.

I go high enough that I can see the curvature of the earth, and I see the of fingers from a hand grasping the planet like a cosmic shot-putt. A man in a bowler hat cycles past me.

I fly by an impossibly tall apartment building, and inside a room I see an awesome party. I stop by the window and a girl offers me a line of coke arranged on a piece of glass. I take it, thank her and fly off.

After a while I come to a wall of water hanging in mid air, and I fly into it. Now I'm at the bottom of some ocean, at the back of a line of people. Everything is the midnight blue of sunlight diffused by miles of water. The group moves forward with a purpose. Heads are bent low, so I can't make anyone out, but I feel like I know them.

At some point we walk past the moon, resting on a moon-sized golf tee.

We eventually happen upon a convenience store. A 7-11 on the ocean floor. I head inside to buy a pack of cigarettes, and meet a girl I used to date. We share a few words and I head out. I ask if she's coming with us, but she replies that she's waiting for the bus.

I head back out the group, and we continue the trek.

We arrive at out destination after a dream time skip. A large, open auditorium with a stage decorated like a vaudeville show.

We take our seats, and there's suddenly enough of us to fill the place up. A man in a top hat is on stage and talking, but I don't pay attention. The curtain opens and there's an image of a galaxy on a cinema screen. All of us float upwards and towards the screen in unison.

We reach the screen and break through the surface of it, it feels and looks like mercury. I turn my head to the left just before my left eye breaks the surface, and I see the girl next to me has done the same, and is looking at me. She looks like Olivia Wilde.

Then it was done and I wake up feeling sad.

Observations from the second funeral of my adult life

Sandalwood incense does it's best to mask the odour, but if you take a deep enough breath you can catch the sharp, earthy, metallic tang of embalming fluid.

There are three distinct classes of people here.

The people who are from the deceased's generation, crying and wailing out of grief, but every now and again flashing a look of mortal fear when they think no one is looking.

The people from one generation below, playing the role of the organizers and pillars of strength. They try to remain stoic by making themselves useful, but occasionally that dam bursts.

The youth of my generation stand about in the corners and corridors, trying to stay out of the way. The slightly older ones search their memories for some relevant, personal memory of the deceased because it's inappropriate to be bored at a funeral. The younger ones revel in their ignorance of any real idea of grief.

The sombre, sober tone of funerals seems to create the perfect atmosphere for business and political talk. If anyone needs to stress the importance of a point they just made they only have to turn their gaze on the deceased and somehow it becomes a profound statement of some sort.

I can't help but question those who have overly dramatic moments of mourning. Is it a cry for attention? Unless you're immediate family you need to let the deceased be the centre of attention for a while. That okay?

Funerals are for the living, not the dead. That is obvious to me now.

Everything is happening at such an amazing, warp speed rate. I haven't digested it all, and I don't have the the words to describe this feeling yet. But rest assured it's all happy, trippy, life affirming stuff.

I am where I need to be. I have what I need. I am in a state of mind that will make full use of this time.

dancedancedance

Singapore 2011

I've been going a little snaphappy with my college's Canon 550D.

I still need a lot of practice. The thought of practice makes me very happy.

Canon EF-S 18-55mm f/3.5-5.6