Monthly Archive for March, 2007

All Alone

Published
by
theroo
on March 29, 2007
in Inane, Music, Photography and Rue
. 0 Comments

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Alone on the East-West Line…

Are you lonely? Desolate? Separated? Is acceptance all you want?

Is acceptance what we all want? In everything we do, everything we say, does the desire to be accepted resonate throughout? In essence, isn’t that why we find people who don’t conform to this philosophy so strange to us, and if not strange, do they not irritate and enter into the depths of our thoughts as people we generally want to dispose of in malicious and oft not violent ways?

And yet, those who want not our acceptance, are usually those who can find acceptance that is more meaningful elsewhere. I leave you, so I can be with him, or her, or them, or that. I throw away my flat, so I can buy a house, I leave Singapore, to go to London, I leave the earth, to be in Heaven, I throw away my Giordano Polo and buy a Hugo Boss shirt. It’s all a balancing act, is it not? Life, balancing, priorities, needs, wants, desires, expectations, selfishness, what do you get out of it?

Quelqu’un qui m’a dit

On me dit que nos vies ne valent pas grand chose,
Elles passent en un instant comme fanent les roses.
On me dit que le temps qui glisse est un salaud
Que de nos chagrins il s’en fait des manteaux
Pourtant quelqu’un m’a dit…

{Refrain:}
Que tu m’aimais encore,
C’est quelqu’un qui m’a dit que tu m’aimais encore.
Serais ce possible alors ?

On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous
Qu’il ne nous donne rien et qu’il nous promet tout
Parait qu’le bonheur est à portée de main,
Alors on tend la main et on se retrouve fou
Pourtant quelqu’un m’a dit …

{au refrain}

Mais qui est ce qui m’a dit que toujours tu m’aimais?
Je ne me souviens plus c’était tard dans la nuit,
J’entend encore la voix, mais je ne vois plus les traits
“Elle vous aime, c’est secret, lui dites pas que j’vous l’ai dit”
Tu vois quelqu’un m’a dit…

Que tu m’aimais encore, me l’a t’on vraiment dit…
Que tu m’aimais encore, serais ce possible alors ?

On me dit que nos vies ne valent pas grand chose,
Elles passent en un instant comme fanent les roses
On me dit que le temps qui glisse est un salaud
Que de nos tristesses il s’en fait des manteaux,
Pourtant quelqu’un m’a dit que…

It is said that our lives aren’t worth very much
That it slips by in an instant like a withering rose
It is said that passing time is a bastard that carries our heartaches.
Yet, someone told me that

{Refrain:}
You still loved me.  Someone told me that you still loved me. Could this be true?

It is said that our destiny mocks us
That it does not give us anything and yet promises everything
It is said that happiness is within our reach,
But when you tighten your hand you find yourself with nothing
But then, somebody told me that…

{to refrain}

But someone said to me that you always loved me
I don’t remember anymore, it was late in the night
I still hear the voice but I do not see the face
‘She loves you, it’s a secret, do not say to her that I told you’
You see, somebody told me that…

That you still loved me, that it really was you
That you still loved me, is it true?

Quelqu’un qui m’a dit. Carla Bruni



Why do all good things come to an end

Published
by
theroo
on March 26, 2007
in Inane, Lit, Music and Rue
. 4 Comments

Honestly what will become of me
I don’t like reality
It’s way too clear to me
But really life is dandy
We are what we don’t see
We missed everything daydreaming

Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end

Travelling I only stop at exits
Wondering if I’ll stay
Young and restless
Living this way I stress less
I want to pull away when the dream dies
The pain sets in and I don’t cry
I only feel gravity and I wonder why

Dogs were whistling a new tune
Barking at the new moon
Hoping it would come soon so that they could die

And the sun was wondering if it should stay away for a day
’til the feeling went away
And the sky was fallin’ and the clouds were droppin’
And the rain forgot how to bring salvation
The dogs were barking at the new moon whistling a new tune
Hoping it would come soon so that they could die

Da Paolo

Published
by
theroo
on March 26, 2007
in Food, Photography and Rue
. 5 Comments

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Da Paolo Pizza Bar

You’re woken up to the sound of children laughing in the courtyard, the patter of their feet playing a game you can only imagine. The sun streams in through the half open grill on the window and a cool morning breeze gently rustles the leaves of the plants outside and graces your bare back. Stretch. You lie there, momentarily, and turn to stare blankly at the ceiling, the shadows of the plants from outside dancing entrancing, free. You think about the previous night, smiling slightly at the brief memories.

You look over to the beautiful girl next to you, she’s already awake, just staring at you with those gorgeous brown eyes of hers. Her hair falling neatly down her bare shoulders…

Okay, scratch.

You look over and reach for your phone to check the time, mentally calculating the hours you have slept, ensuring it is at least significantly more than a normal working day. You sigh, you have to leave the bed.

You swing your legs over the edge, reach for the heavens and drag your feet over to your itunes where you look through a morning song. Goo Goo Dolls maybe, James Morrison. Hmm. Then again, Nelly Furtado catches your eye. Give It To Me.

You shower, change, shorts first, then a slim fit polo, and open the fridge to pour yourself a glass of Tropicana orange juice. With bits included. Yeah you know some people don’t like it, but hey. The laundry basket goes into the washing machine, (whites only of course) and then you start it. You grab your havaianas, your keys, your phone, your wallet, oh, your vain aviators making sure you haven’t left any lights on, open the door, lock it, and head off.

The blue sky above and the warm air welcome you as your stroll out of your block. Couples, families, dogs abound as you head down the road. Quaint book shops, the aroma of different cuisines as you walk past each restaurant, the laughter of those enjoying each other’s company. You receive a call and you answer ‘I’m nearly there,’ you explain, ‘yes, I just woke up’ followed by a hearty laugh (almost pirate like, yes) yar har har, it’s all too common on the weekends.

But you reach there in the end, slightly late, but to no matter, the party started without you. Lunch, brunch, whatever it is, the company matters more.

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Fiorentina.

I think she knows

Published
by
theroo
on March 22, 2007
in Inane, Lit, Music and Rue
. 17 Comments

Those flashing lights come from everywhere
The way they hit her I just stop and stare
She’s got me love stoned
I think I’m love stoned
She’s got me love stoned

I think that she knows, think that she knows.

And now I walk around without a care
She’s got me hooked
It just ain’t fair, but I…
I’m love stoned and I could swear
That she knows
Think that she knows.

Coco et moi

Published
by
theroo
on March 19, 2007
in Photography, Rue and Sartorial
. 2 Comments

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Chanel model #1

People who are smart and have a quick tongue can be more often than not, slightly irritating. It’s irritating enough that they have the wit and sarcasm to completely tear you apart in a conversation, it’s worse to know that mostly, they’re more often than not correct about things you wish they weren’t. However, people who are pretty stupid but think they are smart and have a quick tongue are actually rather amusing. That is, if you aren’t in a hurry and have the time to spare.

Unfortunately, however, these types are far and few between. It’s either that or perhaps most people are smarter than me. Either way, (and I wish for no commentary on the latter), I do sometimes find it entertaining to be within the same timezone and space as these types. No matter how much we want to live in an equal world where four legs are good and two are bad and we all strive for the common good of man, there is a very small, though perhaps less small for others, part of us that just adores elitism. Even in the most godly of environments you strive for it, take Jesus’ disciples as perfect, human, examples.

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Chanel model #1 encore

This of course brings me to my topic of writing. I wouldn’t really say it was the highlight of a weekend or that I enjoyed myself beyond my wildest expectations. Yes, rich, mostly gorgeous, well dressed women were in abundance, and yes, there was free champagne and red and white wine, and, sigh, yes, there were ‘famous’ Singaporeans in my presence. But to what end? To be a socialite? To feel privileged that one can view the 2007 Spring Summer Chanel collection before anyone else? To be in the presence of the sophistication and charm of the world that so many cannot touch? To be in a location no one except the sparse maybe 500 people in Singapore know about? To be so self-absorbed and pretentious?

Well, I guess so?

Yep, I’m that superficial. Go figure.

The Chanel Spring Summer 2007 fashion show. I have to say with pride and joy, I did enjoy it.

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Chanel model #2. Spot Zoe Tay.

Off the record, though half on because I do owe my lovely pretentious night to somebody and I ought to give credit to them. To whom I owe my invitation: words do not suffice. Just remember what I’m giving up on Friday, that is thanks in your eyes? (insert grin)

P.S. I love you

Published
by
theroo
on March 15, 2007
in Food, Photography, Rue and Singapore
. 8 Comments

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PS Cafe, 28B Harding Road

Alighting from the bus you feel somewhat isolated. As is rare in this city island, the presence of high residential concrete blocks rising like monuments of old are nowhere to be seen. Instead what you are greeted by are the structures of nature’s green towering trees, their branches stretching, reaching to the heavens like hands spreading to block out the harsh sun above, their buttresses digging deep into the dark, dusty soil below. In the interspersed absence of man’s horseless carriages, the silence is serene, the drone of insects audible and the melody of God’s aviators filling the air.

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Please wait

The walk up Dempsey Road is shorter than expected, and as you delve into the depths of this cove of unknown, a string of stores unravels, holding old teak furniture and statues of old Buddhist folklore the meaning of which lost, generations ago (well, alright it probably isn’t lost, but allow me to indulge myself).  It is here, amidst the foliage and dusted antiquarian surroundings, that one finds what one is looking for. PS Café, hidden, shrouded by the greenery that is ever so present in this region. The quaint path made of old wood panels leads to the entrance and encapsulates all that needs to be said about the restaurant. Undoubtedly one of the finer locations in Singapore it seems to capture a part of mild pretentiousness that is so easy to slide into and missing from many other areas of this city. It helped, of course, that upon visiting it was a beautiful Saturday, enlightened by the natural sunlight and buzzing with the middle class and their young families. It hardly mattered not that some of the orders were actually not as wonderful and delectable as anticipated, but it just goes to show that ambience, and company, as with all those other memories from across the globe make one savour the moments in a hidden treasure such as this.

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Pancakes?

Paris, je t’aime

Published
by
theroo
on March 14, 2007
in Film and Rue
. 8 Comments

I can hardly recall a movie that has brought up such emotions such as this. What I find amusing is how I initially wanted to write about Leonidas and his abs, but somehow the aggression and passion and glory has been sucked right out of my soul and instead has been placed with a rather sweet serenity that could kick the karma out of any monk in Tibet. Okay, so maybe there’s a bit of aggression still lingering.

But last night I watched Paris je t’aime, literally, Paris, I Love You, which has been critically acclaimed and given the usual gloss over by the critics. Yes, it has 18 short stories supervised by 20 directors throughout the various arrondissements of Paris, and yes, it is in French, spoken badly in parts (by Americans no less). Yes, it has Elijah Wood in some vampire thing and Natalie Portman too. But anticipation, as with anything, is key, and it was with a vague gravity that I set my heart upon this movie. A friend wrote ‘I find it hard to believe that one can find true art in a cinema every other week for just $7’ and I would have to agree. More often than not, most critically acclaimed ‘art house’ movies have baffled me. If I’m honest, that is. Sure, you can find the hidden meaning no doubt, and you can talk and discuss and critique the production, but to truly enjoy it? Well, that’s another story altogether.

And so it was with Paris, je t’aime, that a series of short films more than surprised me, and more than captivated me. Stories that were all about love, love that was lost, love that had died, love that was resurrected and love that was sacrificed. Love that was missed, in death, and love that somehow manages to survive. Poignant images of a cheating husband who through initial sympathy, regains his love for a dying wife, amusing scenes of a father and his grandchild, stranger still of mimes falling (metaphorically perhaps?) into love.


Natalie Portman and Melchior Beslon

I shall not delve too much into the storyline lest those who have yet to see it miss out on the little surprises. But by an inch, or maybe three, my most favoured story was that of Natalie Portman and her love, the blind Melchior Beslon. Perhaps it’s the lingering memory of Portman’s performance in Closer that still so captivates me, or simply just her innate ability to play the somewhat erratic, but yet vulnerable, strong willed woman. Yet combined together with the performance of Beslon as her blind love, it so encapsulated the sort of exploratory, new, changing, evolving, emotional, spontaneous love that can sometimes so cry out from the depths of one’s heart. It was also, I suppose, the raw reality of it all, containing that care-free attitude that you so often have with those you are closest to, that ability to take on the world, and of course, the charm of the beauty of a girl like Portman falling in love with a guy like Beslon.

A close rival (perhaps nudging that three inches back to one) is Isabel Coixet’s short based in Bastille (I suggest at this point you skip to the next paragraph should you not wish to know the ending of this story) regarding the husband who, on the verge of cheating on his wife decides to love her, or at least act like he does, when he discovers her severe medical condition. Inevitably in doing so, his love for her is rekindled in such a bittersweet manner that it is apt that it is the red overcoat that so distinguishes the wife, and this story in particular, that graces the poster for Paris. That it is he who suffers later is but a worthwhile epilogue for the choices that he made. Regret, for him, is not even an issue. His love, unquestioned. His suffering, all too real.


Nick Nolte and Ludivine Sagnier

It was not that all 18 short films were truly marvelous. Indeed, some of them were just plain bizarre, like the episode involving the Chinese hairdresser and what I could’ve sworn was a Kit Chan soundtrack (though even this episode had quite a poignant note on identity and the east and west), but rather the shorts themselves felt like an old friend. Comfortable, relaxing, amusing, intriguing. Sometimes when you read a novel, the first few paragraphs can make or break your interest, and these shorts seemed to capture that moment of attentiveness perfectly. Those that were mediocre were short enough for you to let them pass. Those that were wonderful lingered in your mind, like the wonderful aftertaste of a good wine. Sip by sip, you take this movie in. And by the end of it all, a sigh, not of sadness, but rather of satisfaction, sits upon your heart.

If there is but one criticism, it is the fact that there is a rather poor attempt at joining the eighteen together at its end. That and the rather sad nature of Elijah Wood and his eternal association as being Frodo. Poor Mr Frodo.

Other than that, though, this movie is, like any wonderful friend, a must see.

In summary

Published
by
theroo
on March 12, 2007
in Film, Food, Photography and Rue
. 9 Comments

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Brunch at PS

Not often does one sit alone and smile to oneself, grinning stupidly simply at a lone memory. Yet a weekend just passed with so many individual moments that could be taken simply on their own to be enjoyed, but instead were put together to surpass even the greatest of expectations. And for every moment there was a smile and laughter, and put together there was but a journey of something greater.

One can hardly say that it began on the Friday as the queuing technically began 20 minutes before Saturday began, but nevertheless, Movida was a cacophony of live latin music muddled together with the hundreds of other voices and swaying bodies present. Upon standing in Bellini, it was a curious sight to behold the excitement of individuals at the presence of Sylvester Sim in Dragonfly below, and the absence of the resonance of the percussion although they were so clear in my eyes. Like they say, in space, no one can hear you scream, and yet here in the middle of an old powerstation, I could not hear the humdrum emitting from a seemingly quiet, quiet Chinese audience in front of a stage of dancing girls with guitars due simply to the glass panels in front of me. Back in Movida, though, beer mats were the real subject of discussion, though that, I believe, is a story not for me to tell.

Saturday morning, slightly askew, though nevertheless thoroughly impressed by Singtel and their ability to hook me up to the world in a matter of hours (my connection to the world was stolen from me late into Saturday morning, though at least I had a bejeweled replacement in its stead, much to the amusement of certain others), I found myself in a place that seemed anything but Singapore. It felt like an isolated island in a sea of noise, hidden, tucked away in the depths of a land unexplored. Away from the well traveled road, a solace for the seemingly pretentious.

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Hug me!

I found there two places that, while distinct, seemed to capture a Saturday in as perfect a way as possible. The first, a couple of friends’ kindergarten, ironically named with the patron saint of my night previously, where youthful minds ran and played and smiled and cried amidst all the games and colours in their annual carnival. It was almost Victorian, but Asian, and well, danced to the tune of the Parachute Band which I suppose made it anything but Victorian, but charming nevertheless in comparison. There is nothing really that compares with the simple enjoyment of a child, or of watching a child enjoy those simple things. How complicated life becomes when you finally discover hate and betrayal and lust and love, when instead all you want is a balloon animal, and an embrace.

The second was PS Café. To be ever so magnanimous, the world (or at least Singapore) did seem so far away, as with friends we talked and laughed and whined and deleted photos (sigh) over waffles and omelettes and sandwiches stuffed to the crust with bacon and eggs and everything you could possibly find for brunch (albeit already 3pm by now). With the afternoon sun embracing the foliage outside and the sweet scent of a lazy afternoon filling the senses, we could have sat there forever. From there to the east that mellow sunny afternoon continued as we watched a couple of episodes of Hunter x Hunter, and that distinct comfortable lethargy set in as with the breaking of waves against a sweet sandy beach, the silence of the tide withdrawing preceded another intense evening.

Made fabulous by food prepared by one for many, and the divulging, perhaps unnecessarily at times, of personal stories and the stories of others, it became apparent at one stage during the evening that you just had to stop and wonder what you did to deserve company that made you laugh til you teared on a regular basis.

Sunday was, well, indulgent, to say the least. A late wake up, a tshirt covered in fuzz and the fantastical viewing of Leonidas and his 300. That I actually could understand why Jennifer Hudson won her Oscar in the next movie gives testament to the captivating nature of her performance given the distracting memory of overly perfect men beating the hell out of the distasteful, detestful Persian armies in the most gloriously prodigiously marvelous manner known to all mankind.

Interspersed with food and the unwitting over-caffeination of a friend and the screams of scoring own goals of foosball, it was time to view the bounty of a new toy, and then sleep. Late. And hereafter, another week begins to drudge by. Though there is hope on the horizon. Youn Sun Nah and Miss Yamagata await.

Denial

Published
by
theroo
on March 7, 2007
in Inane and Rue
. 7 Comments

Denial is one of those features of the human psyche that habitually resonates through and somehow exemplifies the attitude of mankind in general. It is, somehow, the epitomy of what makes man, man, and woman, woman. Encapsulating the true meaning of what being human really is. What better example of the characteristics and results of emotion can there be than denial? Really. The blatant disregard for the true facts, the obvious choice to turn away from what is in front of you, and to simply go with routine, with what you’re comfortable with, with what you want to do. It sums up the fallacy of man in a nutshell. So it was with Eve, it was with Adam, and henceforth, all mankind.

The mother, beaten, bruised, cursed, betrayed, cheated, and yet still staying loyal. The boyfriend, jilted, rejected, slapped, and yet still professing his love. The girlfriend, ignored, deserted, hurt, abused, and yet still choosing him.

And yet, there are less obvious, everyday traits. Like watching movies before an exam, eating expensive meals without sufficient income, delaying a UCAS application until December. Desires to travel to exotic places (like Malaysia) with an average salary, wanting to buy an Aston Martin, with an average salary. Never saying no, when you have no time, nodding that you understand, when you obviously don’t. Thinking you can run a marathon, when you haven’t run in a year.

The funny thing about denial is that it seems to emulate from a simple lack of discipline. The miscomprehension that somehow, you can get something for nothing. Perhaps it’s just the way some of us were brought up; spoilt, pampered, in this consumer orientated world we live in where with a few paper notes in our hand we can, more often than not, get what we want, now. Gone are the age old days of working hard to get what you want, of saving for years and years, of scrapping for pennies and getting dirty – only to reap the rewards at a much later date.

It’s all well to make plans, to think you can do something, to discuss over tea, or dinner, with a friend of all the business ideas and opportunities that you have in that small underused by 90% brain of yours. But really. It’s hardly worth a cent if you just sit there and do nothing.

And to be honest, denial is my reason now. So hence. I shall stop. And face the world and the infuriating people that exist in this world. Well, person. He vexes my soul. One day I’ll fire him.

(See, now that’s denial.)

A little less hurt

Published
by
theroo
on March 3, 2007
in Film and Rue
. 0 Comments