You have no idea how many times I’ve typed in this window then realized I don’t really have much to say and can’t be arsed to fully say whatever that could be said. What I really want to know is, do you really want to read about what I ate, or did, or thought all day? Does it matter? Because I’ve been speaking about myself for the whole year, I don’t even feel like blogging anymore. Post after post which “invoke catharsis of the mind” just seems to me too.. self absorbed. At least for now.
If you’re wondering about what I’ve been up to lately, really I’ve been doing the same thing I was doing before exams. Reading Monocle magazine, hoarding more magazines, listening to CDs, hoarding more CDs, downloading movies, watching movies on youtube, and making no attempt whatsoever at writing or whatnot.
So lets try one magazine and two albums tonight.
The Reading List
If you’ve not been recipient to my random gushes and somewhat subliminally encoded advertising and praise of Monocle magazine, I might as well just write about it here. Monocle magazine is this absolutely fucking awesome global affairs and culture magazine that spans international editorials from anything like on the state of Abkhazia calling for freedom from Georgia, to an interview with Tadao Ando; columns where they disect the political sartorial details of Hamed Karzai to Sarkozy with features from anything like Country Branding to … Politics and bicycles.
Think Wallpaper*(a magazine by the same founder) meets The Guardian meets Time. As thick the width of your thumb. I’m in love with this magazine; costs a bomb though, so I’m borrowing a lot from my Uncle Fadhil, my dad’s cool friend/ my print media saviour.
The guy who founded Monocle is this awesome journalist, Tyler Brûlé. Seriously, I want his job. I’ve gushed about him enough to the point of being a bit obsessive and pathetic, but nonetheless go Wikipedia him or something. And read his columns for Financial Times and The International Herald Tribune.
It’s just awesome.
On the literary front; I am just trying to finish this plethora of unfinished books.
The Playlist
A week before my last two papers, I went to Bangsar with my parents for they wanted to get something from Cold Storage BSC; -when that usually happens I would almost always excuse myself from the horror of getting groceries the housewife-ADD-inducing atmosphere that is the Supermarket- and run up to check out the Victoria Music Station and Times Bookstore upstairs.
-”I want something different.”
“Erm, Plain White T’s?”
-”Are you kidding me?”
“Rock?”
-”I’m sick of rock. I’m sick of indie. I’m sick of electro and nu-rave and bands that sound the same.”
“Urh.”
Then I saw the new PJ Harvey album and knew I found what I wanted. Then I also saw the new Bright Eyes album. Then I realized my wallet should have a hole cut out in its honor.
White Chalk is probably one of the more solemn and depressing albums I’ve got in my already depressed and solemn collection. It’s all piano, untuned piano, harp, broken harp, zither and harmonica in this album; a real contrast to the PJ Harvey-distorted-guitars-and-fierce-lyrics style. No “lick my legs I’m on fire” here, but more like “graaaaandmooother I missss you”. I love the album anyhow, I went to Bangsar itching and wanting for something to feel and then spent the remaining afternoon with this colossal block of emotion in the pit of my stomach.
Best enjoyed with earphones, with eyes closed and preferably a stable mental status, the liveliest (well, song with fastest tempo) here would probably be “The Devil” which is actually far from lively with lyrics like “As soon as I’m left alone / The devil wanders into my soul”.
The Bright Eyes album has this fantastic fantastic fantastic album cover which comes with a “Special Decoder” which you have to slide slowly over the distorted grey sleeve background. Only with the Special Decoder can you read the artwork, and it’s got everything from lines in Russian, Portuguese to French to English; though the messages are vague as fuck most of the time.
“Plantas de pirâmedes cheio de cores tatuado na barriga de puta”
(“Pyramide herbs, full of colours, tattooed in the belly of a whore”)
Whatever you say, man.
Listen with full attention to lyrics, an open mind, and an appreciation of the mind. Prepare to finish the album feeling inspired/pissed/depressed with the state, God, government, oppression, immigration, institution, The Man, globalisation, religion, modern life, the human condition and etc.
Not recommended for civil servants.
There’s still a ton to talk about; but lets just hope that I’ll take that into account when I next feel blocked.