Monash Music Festival; Pulsate.

It's already been a few days, an excess of 48 hours, much of which lack sleep and cohesion; hours fueled on caffeine, nicotine, kilos of nasi lemak and much love from all quarters.

The days blend into hours, the hours blur into minutes as each second becomes less distinct from the last, yet each stand individually and upright alongside its' companions, keeping the beat pulsating and the flow of time moving.

We expand, grow and and diffuse far past the first 9 corporeal beings that pre-existed before last epic Saturday, into a family far-reaching and warm. One that grew from a single digit number to all those who slaved without complaint or those who screamed and sang along to the lyrics thrown out into the night sky.

From the infant beginnings of the organisation of the Monash Music Festival up til the climax of headbanging joyness have we poured much love, time and energy into the fruition of our efforts, to be able to look around the Monash carpark, note the steel barricades and think to oneself, "me and my friends put that shit up". We trudged for hours and hours together, sweating in tandem as we lifted, heaved, ran and worried as one collective and cohesive unit. Joking and laughing, cursing and swearing, whether high on adrenaline or burned out by the sun, we bonded together as a band of brothers and sisters striving for a collective cause.

And then there were the tunes, my melodic brothers with whom we spent many hours perfecting our beats, smoothing our riffs and projecting our music to volumes previously unreached and unseen by any of us, beyond the watts of amplifiers and the kick of the bass pedal into the ethereal nature of the crowd and their energy. Walking onto stage to the cheer of the crowd, jumping into our set and being received as a band by such awesomeness is nothing short of electrifying.

The collective energy i've spent over these last few days in particular has finally taken it's toll on me, as I cringe at the bout of sniffles that threatens to decimate a tiny African village at the sight of dust, nurse a headache that cleaves the mind and a general lethargy that has permeated the student council, but such an experience is not worth endless cartons of free cigarettes, as everything can be measured against cigarettes. The emotional care and support that everyone has dissipated freely and generously reminds me that although the world is a cruel and dark place, we can always rock the fuck out with our friends so long as we surrender our feet to the mosh pit.

A big shout out to my greatest mates: The Activities Committee of KT, Joanna, Namie, Sarah, Philip, Azrul, The Titan and Ju/Jew. The Subs of Usman, Malati, Ashwin, Mahal, Dom and Danni, Fendi and the other Ashwin, the entire damn security team included cuz i can't list the entire team here, all the other sub-committees, my mates Hani, Mutiara, Jegs and Azim for coming out to watch us play, and lastly but-in-incredibly-cliched-fashion not the least in any way, the entire band of Crossing Boundaries including the team of girlfriends, Jerry, Shaneil, Tristan, Hasi, Denise and my baby, Nicole.

I love you guys.






Committee needs a proper photo!

One, Two, Three Marlenas

Sometimes there are a thousand things to say, a million things to express, a bucket of tears to cry and a flurry of laughter to throw into the air, but words have and always will fall short. Words are the limits of our expression, framing the mind into as much as a vocabulary can hold. Words make thoughts tangible, but tangible to a limited degree, tangible as to the lines that we draw around ourselves.

We exist as products of our language, that it is language that constructs us and not us who constructs language, that language precedes us, that we all exist within a pre-existing structure where all our actions and thoughts are pre-conceived and pre-meditated? How different is that from the submissive belief that God is all-knowing and all is up to him, therefore it doesn't matter what we do since he is all powerful and already knows what we're going to do and we're eventually gonna get fucked over by something outside our control? Lacan must've never heard of free will, sitting in his room nursing his black, black heart.

I say a massive "fuck that"; nobody messes up on my behalf.

The Cure for Fridays

Four weeks has it been? Or five, since I've typed out my thoughts in this virtual space. I do enjoy the rarity of writing but the sporadic nature of my posting habits isn't really all that cool...

Neither is the weather.

A scorching inferno humidityfest that blows like a autistic zephyr, the prize sweats out from the pores, permeating across every corner of the cancer ward and drenching its victims in a pool of bad metaphors.

I probably should get started on that assignment due Monday, or at least attempt to look for the question. I probably should stop eating the kheer (goodness the sin!) and have a granola or something. I probably should rid my self of my "-ine" addictions, put on my shoes and go save some whales. But hey presto, blog precedence.

Blog precedence = life precedence = life fail

The best rambles are metaphors, so in the words of Tristan here comes a "fuckin' tsunami".

Ramble in shambles. Loosen your shackled feet and drag them to the furthest corner of the hottest campus in the world only to accentuate the heat, whether it be from the sticks we cradle, the moisture of laughter or the sweat on clenched palms. The perspiration hits the floor and mingles with the ash forming a pool of blithe only to be trampled by our lingering shoes.

The grim coolness exudes from a select few, whose lives bathe in similar oil that ignites in the hands of the Chair on a whim or spur; melt and mold into the concrete beneath our feet.

Run.

The chill emanates from dulled rooms, where the most penile of people stand at attention while the pedantics nestle loudly in their foreign sections, blaring at every opportunity. The Accented Shrill sets into normalcy, as those with greater senses of sanity roll eyes in opposing directions at such expressed stupidity.

But not all them birds are dimwitted.

Escape and respite. Laconic or expressive with the penchant of colour and curls splashed on screen like summer undergoing indigestion, we traverse and transcend the monochrome that envelopes ordinaries and subordinates, far away into a place we vaguely remember entangled with the sensation of freshness and virginity as lovers on a steel sofa. Intertwined and immersed in thoughts and memories that construct themselves on the fly, goofy smiles creep across faces like sunlight on skin as sweet nothings fill the air; redolent and perpetual. Day breaks and die as we sit and witness the world on revolution, barely noticing anything other than the twirl of her hair, her iris gleam and my own selfish giddiness.

But we are spatial beings and thus the weekend is here to give reason to all that we miss.