Night Painting by David Pink

Yes, yes? You're here to buy a painting? I should have guessed, by the look in your eyes. Come in. Welcome! Sorry, my friend, I didn't recognize you. We all look different in person. You're early, that's good. Early means eager, eager equals desire, and desire means business. Come, come look!

See here my friend, you could wait all night for the right light. All night long and it might not happen. The day is okay but the sun--that light has been overdone--Vermeer and his over-saturated, buttery light. Realism, my friend, is an illusion.

Now Night, night obscures, night endures. Night is also when most of the action happens in our current wars.

Although half our lifetime is night time, how many really right night paintings do you see? Nearly none. A real good one plays with our senses the way morality does, it's all grey area. Look at this piece. Is that a tree? Yes, yes, it is. But it's also--get this--draped with bodies. That's the beauty of night in Somalia! Or anywhere that's the subject of some good old fashioned American intervention. I can't decide whether or not to begin selling Bosnia. These things sometimes have short courses (we'd be there already if they had some decent natural resources). For sure, for sure, something there is that loves a war.

Of course, it's horrific, my friend. Even more so if the painting is veiled, non-specific, about the human limbs entangled within tree limbs. Abstraction. Synecdoche. How the world goes on despite tragedy. Irony. The car beneath the tree, looking, perhaps, like the burned out husk of a locust! But there are lovey-dove lovers in the car.

In the painting--in your painting, my friend--it will be moaning and rocking and the street will be in Washington--the possible impossible future! Jesus, my friend, can you hear it! "Oh! Oh!" Such a high voice that at first you wonder if someone is dying--or crying. Is this a wedding or funeral? That kind of confusion makes the world go round.

The painting--it's abstract my friend, abstract, abstract,abstract--has as its subtext, its pretext if you will, its pill beneath the sugar, its stick beneath the snow, the figure of someone who has just left his well-lit building for say sushi after staying late at the office, trying to better the world through effective product placement. Most everything is indistinct. But you, you're half in and out of molden golden darkness.

Yes, yes, yes, you're in this. Don't worry! No one will guess! That's part Hopperish, like the midnight cuppa-coffee-at-the-diner bit. Hat pulled down, under a ton of paint, my friend, you could be anyone.

Then it hits the wall! Across semi-dense atomized darkness rocks a car in rhythm and sorrow (like there's no tomorrow). The viewer's mind is on you as subject; stunned, projected into the scene as if the object that the unknown fantasy woman's tourniquet-tight panties are applied to were your sex (but this is all extrapolation, deeply hidden and chic--believe me, no one will link you with world events). Both men and women, instead of being aghast, will respond with a voyeur's laugh (who asked for any of this?)--it's all bittersweet, joyous and absurd! New life being created beneath the shadows of newly created death. What more does anyone want!

You're in your own world, just out and about. Forget about the sushi--say you're out to see about your mother, who maybe hasn't been feeling all that well as only she and you should know, my friend, (I saw her yesterday).

Anyway, in dark grey-greens and oh so subtle magenta are the strange fruit of human limbs dripping blood onto the top of that late model lovers' lodge! Let's make it a Dodge for rhythm's sake and made it that the schmuck in the car's been cheating on his wife, etc. etc. Just like real life!

This idea is a winner, my friend. The significance of the painting is so well hidden that no one will figure out is its meaning. It'll be like surrealism: it could mean anything! The key is in the interpretation. But believe me people will comment. The blood color alone is enough to excite the shark in us. It's a way for you to feel out your clients. Whatever they see you see and Bingo! Bango! You've bagged another account!

Why the long face?

Too much blood?

Listen, last night I had dinner with a very wise American couple (for whom I've done a number of these things). They were over there earlier during this terrible trouble and know the scene and its possibilities quite well. They are the ones who said that if something isn't done soon there will be blood someday in the streets of Washington!

She writes and he takes pictures. They are an attraction.

Believe me, they are both quite well-off from their experiences. My art-on-their-wall, I submit, deserves no credit. Death, my friend, sad to say, is money in the bank. But show me a fear and I'll show you a career. Fear is the opiate of the masses! Capa & Capra! McCarthy! Germaine Greer! People want to know what to fear next. Believe me I'm correct. The beauty of this, my friend, is that you need no expertise to be an expert. Saying art makes nothing happen makes as much sense as saying that beauty is an illusion. But that's the beauty of beauty, will people never tire of interpretation?

This couple, my friend, are very well paid "witnesses of conscience." He shoots the pics and she starts the memoir almost before the bodies hit the ground.

"As long as there's a war," they said at a recent awards ceremony, "we'll be there to see." Talk about job security!

The Governor, the speaker at the dinner, called them the vanguards of "thinking without blinking." They are reality. When not on sabbatical making money at whatever front, they team-teach a course in "International Morality" at a major American university; one course per year, full tenure and full salary. He wears Lauren, she wears Gucci.

Everyone knows their names. They sell. But I'm not selling them, my friend, now I'm selling you. And you, you could do quite well too.

Believe me, my friend, I can paint you from a photo--easily and quite cheaply.

My friend, be clever. The stars in the painting, if anyone sees them, will shine down as if they've been there forever, the sky opened up like one big jewelry store.

So what do you say? Bombs away with night painting?

My friend what is it? You look like you're fainting!

Akon

Honestly I so have no idea who he is, but his song is just sooo cutteeee! (Yet another odd description seeing how he look in the picture above)
I'm so totally addicted to perfect it, especially in the off key octave owwwnnnn

Lonely
(in the American Tale's voice)

Lonely I'm so lonely,
I have nobody,
For my owwnnn
I'm so lonely, I'm Mr. Lonely
I have nobody,
For my owwnnn
I'm so lonely....

Can someone teach me how to play music in my blog? Yeah that song.

P.S. I cannot believe someone thought the "poem" below wasn't my own.

my solitary little dance

pink little top
white little heels
couldn't stop me
from dancing in the rain

i jumped into a puddle
ran, hopped, laughed, twirled myself round,
got splashed by a passing car
but it couldn't stop me
from dancing in the rain

i knew i will sneeze
and even catch a cold
fall sick
and miserable
but the rain
the rain it beckoned me
come dance with me

and so i did
like i would when i was a kid
mascaraed? lined? waxed?
who cares about the stares

it was between me and the rain

with my arms wide open
head right up
feeling it

nothing stopped me
from dancing in the rain

I forgive you

No matter how fucked up the situation is, I can never stay angry at you for long.

So yes, as loud as you shout, I'm too the same.

No we din go through the foreign lands, 90% school, 200% outside school, for nothing.

Neither did you suffer hearing things you've heard 50 times before, again and again and again and pretend that you actually don't mind hearing it, for nothing.

flawed as you are, I told you before:-

I think I will love you forever.

I'm a Schizotypal antisocial histrionic narcissistic dependent sloth!

OMG. I am not as normal as I thought I would be.


Disorder | Rating
Paranoid: Moderate
Schizoid: Low
Schizotypal: High
Antisocial: High
Borderline: Moderate
Histrionic: High
Narcissistic: High
Avoidant: Moderate
Dependent: High
Obsessive-Compulsive: Moderate

URL of the test: http://www.4degreez.com/misc/personality_disorder_test.mv

P.S. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying. I'm still not studying.

So so, which SATC character do you identify me with?

Please mail your answers to chonghuihui@gmail.com and let me collate the results.

It can be a mixture too.

You've Been Bit By the Shopping Bug! You're constantly adding to your wardrobe - and it shows However, you can show some restraint. You love good deals. Your love of the clearance rack has paid off... You probably have only maxed out card or two, if at all!

Are You a Shopaholic? Take This Quiz :-)

I've always remembered how people kick a big fuss out of cutting hair. When I snipped off the long tresses towards the end of J1 (which wasn't all that long like to my armpit or chest because I only tried to grow it out sec 4), my friends were like,

What happened to you? Your boyfriend dumped you?

It must have been drastic incidents, never just because you're sick of your hair or something.

I've never felt like that. Going for a hair cut never have been a big deal, but I almost always feel better. I never had the experience of crying and feeling like a coconut. Perhaps I am just lucky. And my Brad Pitt said Hair will Grow. So whattheheck eh.

I feel lighter, like a load is now off my head. And I love the way it feels to be shampooed. I love have people wash my hair for me, to fuss over not getting soap into my ears, and of course the mmmm mmm sensation of having my head scratched.

And I love to look at my hair being cut. I always hold a magazine, but never really read it, because I will just stare right at my hairdresser looking so intensely at my hair, paying so much attention to make me look good.

And I always let them have their way, because I like to make people feel happy. And the okay loh, you think nice then cut loh always brings a smile to their face.

And because of all of the above, I really think my hair will never ever grow long enough.

Now I'm sporting a bob head with side fringe (see I will never grow out my fringe despite the fact that I've tried for years). That funny Malaysian man even asked if hairdressers simply love to chop my hair off off off because it is so layered. And he said even he felt like doing it, but I insisted I wanted to grow out the layers, so he decided on that bob head thing.

I would have loved to put up a picture if I did not concuss on my bed (make up, presentation clothes and all) the moment I reached home. So too bad.

P.S. because I was in full suit, I was charged adult price for my haircut. (!!!) And no one looks at me on the street anymore. Not like a lot of people stare at me all the time, I actually liked the way people check you out by taking a glance. Bimbotic as it sounds, it empowers me that hey, okay lah, you still look not bad. Or at the very least, your clothes are not bad. And me in my full black suit and another full black suit beside me, we were transparent, people just walked passed us. We just blended into the background.

Anyway, at the library yesterday, I met THE MAN himself. Hideo Asano. Kirpal talked about him in class about being this man (I'm rather open to eccentricity lately) who believed in his own writing and printed out books in photocopied paper and binded them unprofessionally. He even printed a page which had Kirpal's name and comments in it. I should let him know.

I thought he would be some shabby looking man, but was a well dressed Japanese who spoke good English and had big dreams and ideas in life. He wanted to sell his books because he could not find any publisher to do it, and instead they printed all the junks that surrounded us.

That he was a lone fighter, and said writers only become famous after they die.

I could have handed him money for that new "book" he had, (which was actually first printed out in 1994 but he said he spent 1 year improvising it) American Breakfast easily, just like the way I handed my money to the Malaysian who cut my hair, but I was not convinced by him.

Can I say I feel that he is stupid to waste his life away like this? Not really. He simply believed. He could have taken the easy way out. The way I did. But he didn't. But I just wasn't convinced. So I said no politely, and he walked off.

Kirpal thinks he wouldn't survive in Singapore. But if he was in Europe, perhaps he would, because people will just buy it from him anyway. But how many Singaporeans will?

And I agree. Sadly I am one of those. I tried to give excuse that I was sleepy and couldn't think properly (I really was sleepy and really couldn't think properly), but even if I wasn't sleepy and could think properly, would I?

I think I won't.

i surrvvivveedd the piitttcchhh boooOOk

First I was afraid
I was petrified
Kept thinking I could never live
through this monday without falling on my side
But I spent so many nights
thinking how to do the figures (and not get it) wrong
I grew strong
I learned how to carry on (without much sleep)

.....

Oh no, not I
I will survive
as long as i know how to love
I know I will stay alive
I've got all my life to live
I've got all my love to give
and I'll survive
I HAVE surviveDDDD

And now, just 2 more reports *gasps*, 1 more presentation and 2 more exams *uhhhh!* till I am

officially

unemployed.

And I think I might suffer from SMU withdrawal, despite the lack of committment throughout the 4 years.

Afterall, it is the only school that students are willing to pin badges declaring their undying love.

Btw, does everyone know that all graduates are automatic members of the SDU once graduated?

I'm going back to Bangkok. AGAIN!

I love Air Asia.

Oh, did I mention, at $1.99 each way?

buey tahan liao. i need to sleep.

tuesdays with Morrie

yes i have taken down the i am so full of self pity post.

i've saved it in my email as a draft, so for kaypohs who want to have a peep, drop me a mail and i will see if i want to send it to you or not.

anyways, morrie helped. i think. i thought he din. but when i woke up (at 3pm no less, since i slept at 7am) i felt.. hey, okay. i was actually truly happy today. i went for a jog, my mom won 4d, we went for a good meal, i set up my hifi, packed up my room, did up my bathroom shelving system, threw out 3 empty carton boxes (i love to see the way the no. of boxes decrease slowly), sold a few more stuff on auctions, now i am here to deal with my beloved ibanking again, and my partner has affectionately renamed herself bang keyboard on msn.

I STILL HATE IBANKING.

btw, yesterday, despite my committment to my projects, which i was cursing and swearing when i was in the lift on my way home (welcome where the pigeons dwell) intending to make a big fuss here ranting all about it, because it is afterall my final sem, and all the bullshit and boosting of my meer 3.5 modules are rubbish because i've been in school, every single day last week, 'cept one, and i still have 3 more projects due, and 2 more exams in these 2 weeks, i finished reading tuesdays with Morrie.

but as a result, i had to work till 7am.

but then again, i feel happy. because i saw some light. (literally too! you know, the sunrise view at my room, not bad sia) i never thought i could. i could rewrite my previous post then, since i hate it but not as much as i thought already. maybe, one fine day, i could really deal with this pitch book shit. real life. real time. real money.

haha. dream on bumblebee.