podeam

Lists Of Things.

A little trick I’ve been using, with regards to to-do lists:

I adore Remember The Milk, for a todo list web-app that meets my needs. I can create tasks using the site itself, or e-mail, twitter, or Quicksilver (my favourite)¹.

While twitter is absolute love, it’s true yumminess shines through not when you use it directly. If you have your mobilephone “set-up“http://twitter.com/devices with your twitter account, you immediately have a means to create todos from wherever you are.

If you’re like me, and way too broke to afford the cost of twittering from your mobile, you can use it as a notification device. It’s brilliant to get smses reminding you of deadlines and to-dos – something that you have with you, whenever.

¹ The RTM plugin is here

jammed networks.

I wanted to send out my NYE texts early this year, just to skip the jammed signals.

So did just about everyone on the planet, apparently.

They’ll have to wait for tomorrow, but the point is this: the whole selecting to whom it goes to has always been an important part of my my new year. It’s strangely fulfilling, looking through that list of names, hopefully matching faces and memories with most of them, deciding who it is you’ll need (networking etc etc), who is it that you want.

People I’ve met over the past year, new possibilities, new potential; them I’ve known for a longer time, the changes in our relationships; the people I’m not particularly close to, but want to keep in touch with just because they remind me of a specific time of my life.

It’s a way of stocktaking, really.

I’m not really excited about the countdown; it’s just like any other day, this year. Why? I suppose the past years have been exciting because I was hoping the next would be better, would be good.

The past year has been pretty great. I’m glad.

As I intended to say, to all 125 of you – It doesn’t matter if ’07 was vaguely awesome or vaguely terrible; it’ll all be just vague in time to come. So down those shots and kill them braincells! Here’s to waking up tomorrow next to a face that’s vaguely familiar. Or vaguely human.

2008’s in for an arse-whooping.

awesome stuff

LOVE it!

coal in my stockings

I’ve been Naughty.

I don’t want to go into too much detail – it still makes me cringe – but let me say this: nice helpful indian boy on arab street? You didn’t deserve to be snapped at.

Sorry.

=(

A groupmate said he’s from the same school as us. I’ll be on the lookout, with chocolate. I feel terrible.

Run Spot, run.

Today was the Standard Chartered Marathon 2007 you know, maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t have picked a full marathon. It doesn’t really make much sense to attempt 42km at your very first try, does it?

Well. I’m glad I don’t have sense.

It was bloody amazing. Absolutely brilliant fun. My knees are screaming bloody murder, but I could be floating on clouds for all I know. I fucking love the endorphins!

The absolute best part of the run was coming down Shenton Way, where you speeding down the road, the glorious office buildings looming all around, with a blissful breeze whipping in your face, and a band joyfully blaring a march, and spectators cheering you on.

I had the stupidest grin on my face the entire time, I swear.

Only bit I regret is not giving a good ol’ TP OEI when I saw Temasek Poly’s Blazers cheering for the runners, but hey! Next time!

Of course, it’s not to say that the run was a breeze. It was a walk in the park, but very literally so: I hit the wall for most of the East Coast Park route, and ended up walking. Still, that bit was glorious fun, for chatting up with random peoples and making promises to meet at the finishing line (that I never kept, but only because I couldn’t remember who was whom). Helps to have long legs, too; I didn’t lose too much time with the brisk walking.

Next year next year next year. Maybe I should try something new. Like actually running before the marathon. That might help! And getting a bloody hair-band. My ipod died on me 5km in (all the jiggling, I bet), but I had to keep my headphones on: it kept the hair out of my eyes! Shh, but the end of the ‘phones were tucked into my shorts.

Yes, there’s very little coherence to this, but I’m still bubbly and excited and achy and high. Damn.

doodels (har har)

southbridge

I kick myself for not bringing a camera, nor noting down the musicians for the night, but last night was a Good Night.

Jazz@Southbridge is one of those places I’ve always passed by and said, dayum I’ve got to come here some time, and a friend flying into town gave me the perfect reason to do just that.

I adore it.

Alemay on vocals, she stole my heart. I love a woman who can sing, and honey, she can sing. Eddie on bass and Boon Gee on the drums (if I remember correctly), and the pianist’s name slips my mind – they were all great, but still.

She was gorgeous.

Do head down, when you can. And the lamb quarter-pounder’s absolutely sumptuous!

A proper review-rave will ensue once I get pictures and such; see how cleverly I give myself an excuse to return?

(and hey, the cute waiting staff didn’t hurt either!)

space explorer

I went to Jupiter today, how exciting. The air was different, the land was different, the people were different. I wonder if you could call them people, but I’ll call them people. Jupitians doesn’t roll off the tongue. Jupes? Jupites?

But back to the air. It smelt different and felt different; like there was more in the air than just air. The ground too, was just air; Jupiter is a large gaseous mass, isn’t it? There are many other gaseous masses, but that’s usually just because of beans. This, now this, this place was special. You could still splooge around the soggy ground, feet sinking and staining, as you make your way around.

I think the Jupitians have a special sense, another sense; there seemed to be something I missed. I was never able to figure out what it was that got them riled and got them wild.

I’ve been to very many planets, an alien on alien worlds. This was the first time, however, I wasn’t afraid. I was an alien on an alien world, yes, but I was there only because a Jupite had brought me there.

And I trust that silly Jupe.

fuzzy lines

When you laugh when walking down the streets, blushing furiously when your hands almost meet but barely brushed, really, and laughing when you’re waiting in line, and terribly worn out by the day and by the wait you lean on each other silly, you try focus on the head firm against your chest, or the pressure of nuzzling against the side of your neck.

Not the curling mists and vague tribute to time and space that makes you realise deep down that none of this is happening, really.

You want time to stop, because you know all this will stop if it won’t. But you don’t, because you need to find out what happens next.

And you need to wake up to find that person to walk down the street with, and wait in lines with.

loops.

Fresh beginnings make you think about what it is you want, about how you will spend the remainder of whatever it is that is beginning. But the beginning to the end of something you’ve been waiting for for the longest time just makes you think about what it is you wanted, and what it is you will want.

Looking back at the path taken, you see the meanders and you cringe as you see how they drifted from what you set out to do. You don’t even know if you are where you meant to be, because you don’t know where you are any more.

–

You make my heart weep and sob, weep with joy and sob with sadness. Isn’t it funny how two polar feelings both cause an annoying leak in the eyes? Maybe they’re not polar at all, no not opposites, but simply ends of a loop, a loop that – as loops tend to do – loop back on itself, joining the ends in a not-end.

Is love what the music pounding in my ears now claim it to be, a glorious drop into the height of passion, up is down and down is right and left is wrong?

Or is it indeed simply a cruel joke we play on ourselves. A cruel joke I started when I met you, when I talked to you, when I dropped into heights with you.

We sit in couches of almost brown-tan time, soft under blankets and blanketed in music as we don’t talk the words that spill from our heart; fingers twine and your soft long hair that has the black showing from the roots tickle my neck as we shift and laugh trying dislodge the remote that had dropped onto the cushions and is poking us in our collective bottoms.

We are in our own bubble, where we don’t take part in the world around us for those stolen moments, where we are no longer ourselves but simply us; the you and the me we’re trying to know, instead of the You and the Me we tend to be.

We don’t walk on the beaches or talk in the parks or sit in the theatre because we despise sand and insects and talking during the movies, but we walk and talk and sit in our own secret hideyholes with food and drink and us.

–

Now. To find a You to be We with.