Am craving for a cuppa corn soup from MOS Burger. This bodes well for my imminent homecoming, or so I'd like to think. Packing and selling and throwing out stuff that's been part of my life for the last three years is the most dreaded part. But dreaded parts come, whether you want them or no; I am pitifully swamped with packing now.

This decision feels right, deep down, much as I'll miss Melbs.
But not VegeMite.
Independence has been fun; now, back home to close proximity with friends and family.



iTunes is shuffling me a healthy dosage of Nine Inch Nails this arvo: first, I Do Not Want This, then Piggy, then Somewhat Damaged all in the span of the last half hour. Wonder if iTunes is trying to make a point somewhere. Or if that point is tacitly existing. Oh, now I've got Franz Ferdinand. This proves it - the point is that there isn't one.

I'm just a cross hair
I'm just a shot away from you

Back in those days I'd fervently skip AutoCad classes, content to scrape through that module with a pass. This progressed into the next semester, where, if it was possible, I'd skip 3D Studio Max classes with even more fervour than with AutoCad before. So now, it all comes full circle to bite me in the ass. Concept-wise, it is moving along. But there is no way to communicate those ideas effectively when, sometimes, that ink-and-paper sketch just doesn't cut it.

Will be burying my nose in some CAD books right now, in self-imposed purgatory. Amidst all the packing.
Isn't life *just* peachy? I mean, what's not to love?



To sweeten the deal, I am currently enjoying stuff from the Treasure Trove at Silhouette Masterpiece Theatre.
Perfect for a shallow grave!
Indeed. I concur.

Here are some funny Japanese men torturing themselves on a game show involving a large rubber band and marshmallows. Just so they can have a laugh at themselves. Grotesque but oddly hilarious. I didn't know whether to look away, cringe or cackle til I was breathless, so I did all three.

They are helping with the packing. Really.

After several trips to the supermarket to pick out several each time, and still not getting enough of the stone fruit, how does one quell a craving for white peaches? Why, trot to the market at closing time, and pick up an entire tray for $2, of course! And have about five a day to ensure they don't all go bad.

And so it was, how a girl came to stuff herself with white peaches all week. Never minding the juice running down her arms, or the peach-mush getting stuck between her teeth. Or placing her elbow on an armrest and accidentally discovering her elbows were still sticky an hour later.



The Diving Bell and the Butterfly gave us no reprieve, N and I, last night. There we were, two girls, with our alcohol and pasta and more after-dinner drinks, thinking we'd indulge in a lovely french film to end the week. And it was heart-breaking. The whole bleeding time. It never let up. But then again, that's life (or a lack of) ain't it? You'd never guess from the movie poster the excruciating wrenchedness of the story.

But the colour - oh, it was lovely. I didn't want it to end, though my heart was already shattered ten minutes into the show. The torture! But the beauty, too. And the sheer torment of having the ability to see. Those were sombre moments. N, thoughtful as she took a bite of her Pear and Blueberry Cheese Tart, and me pensively staring at the patterned foam on my mocha latte.



It's cliche, but y'know, there's an awful lot to be thankful for. To be charmed by. To fall in love with. To breathe in. To hold in your arms til the passing of time is no longer a container of moments but becomes the moment itself.

From Junichiro Tanizaki's In Praise of Shadows, which I bootlegged borrowed from the Library,

... Where lies the key to this mystery? Ultimately it is the magic of shadows. Were the shadows to be banished from its corners, the alcove would in that instant revert to mere void.

[via keri smith]

When I watch clips like these, I am very very very grateful my mom pushed me to attend my music lessons, and sat next to me while i practiced.

Someone in the same apartment block is currently watching Pulp Fiction. Or listening to its soundtrack, because neither can I hear the dialogue, nor are the songs in sequence. It's one of my favourite shows - wonder where that DVD went. My life is in limbo right now. I wait for job offers from potential employers (to which I might respond with another hearty cry), while on the other hand, I am making lists to assist me in packing up my life, and freighting, and selling my Lucifer, and being homeward bound in general.

'Keeping your fingers crossed they don't offer you a job?' with J, on Skype. Now, if only I could remind myself why I'm back here.

It's funny how G said the same thing too, the other day, over a homemade soup and Turkish bread.

And Dangnabbit but I am very very mesmerised by Uniqlock. Just can't stop looking at it, and marvelling at how much faster time seems to pass with this little application. I even have one on my sidebar. Addictivity is this.

I am killing myself with my portmanteaus, aiight?

The pesky flies of summer are gone, back here in the lower Southern hemisphere, back here in Melbs. Here is where I put on a smile and greet the cashiers and waitstaff - who care to reciprocate - with a 'hello, and how are you?' Not so crowded here; the rumble of trams, especially the rickety old City Circle, bids me an odd welcome. 'I wouldn't want to be inside that,' declares N, 'not after a meal'. Aah. But you can't deny its quaintness. I am such the sucker for nostalgia and a slower pace, tram crashes and irate drivers aside.



Back to the city of mocha lattes in laneway cafes. Of bumping into a gazillion people from the Uni all in one afternoon. Of crowded Italian al fresco dining. Of sitting on the grass in the parks. Of sun scorching my cheek one moment and rain lashing the other the next. Of white peaches and more stone fruit. Of honking mad socceroo fans flying their flags and scarves and marching down the street.



Gone are the flies of summer, yes. But all I can think about is, waking up in my room back in Singas, beneath the refuge of the mosquito net, and listening to the birds outside go cu-ru-ROO and aaaAAGH. And the construction of what is to be a brand new neighbour's brand new house.