hard on the back, the mind

buying a property and moving digs are both incredibly hellish experiences. if only, there's a short cut to skip the soul-breaking process. if only we have the money, not needing a mortgage. if only, down payments are acquired with flick of a wand or a click of the fingers, just by magic or fairy dusts. if only, comfort is just there. but there have been morsels of wisdom i've acquired through the ordeal. first, fiscal prudence -- buying only essentials, attenuating whimsy, no more books (in fairness, the sweet one hard-bounds take up more space than my paperbacks), no more magazines ( i will throw away loads in the next few days), no more shopping for clothes that serve no purpose (not really, but give up the old, tattered ones). second, invest in a proper shredder (some archaic receipts encroach on the living area). third, at least minimise the procrastination -- there are tons of chores to do, the clock ticks, the baby wails. fourth, invest in good and proper friendships (they may help out, if not to move, assemble the flat packs? too much? give advice? emotional support?). fifth, still percolating.
tick, tock.

that's the way

it's annoying to wallow, to procrastinate. i could blame baby girl. but it's all me. i'm the one that's slow and all too sublunary.

it was illuminating to catch up with joy during her stopover at Heathrow, on a break from her Singapore-Baltimore flight at the beginning of the month. the last time i saw her was nine years ago. nothing's changed basically, we can still talk. i got lost in between terminals and with so little time. i should have read the fine print of her itinerary. the wi-fi sucks a bit but twitter works. hurray to twitter! probably if i cajoled her to write and write, she would resurrect her blog, she's such a good writer, she should be heard.

was able to organise a get-together with the high school friends last week. it was only for the very few, the very minimum. i've learned a lot about the deeper tenets of investments, knowing about holiday resorts in what was a hidden enclave of the home province. the only downside was that Westfield was closed for an hour to give way to the Kardashians. honestly. the old lady we asked, said Kim Basinger was coming. then an hour later we saw the posters of the sisters promoting their new line of clothes for Dorothy Perkins. the highest gravitas are given to lifestyle reality people. yes.

across an ocean, still in love?

the acting is superb, relying only on improvisation, with no working screenplay, as i've read. the sundance accolades are well-deserved. this film makes one use of the subliminal consciousness. love is already difficult without being apart. bureaucracy makes living, existing and loving even harder. the gist is that due to visa violations, the English girl (felicity jones) is banned on US soil. but the American dude (anton yeltchin) can work and play in the UK, only he doesn't feel at home, his furniture design business is in Santa Monica. they met while they were students in LA.

the story spans years and from the outset the girl is more invested in the relationship; leaving notes, creating scrapbooks, overstaying her student visa for a summer of passion, texting from across the pond, suggesting marriage. they get hitched in Camden. they have relationships with other people. they thrive in their professions. it's a complicated dynamics. after several years her ban is lifted and she abandons her life in London to be with him, only we don't know if they will end up together, not the typical celluloid offering.

shot on a shoestring budget, there are very few dialogues, it's mostly close -ups of emotions, or a cut on the girl's heel in one montage. but it makes one think. yes, long-distance sweet nothings are not new but whether bureaucratic rules are there or not, if it's meant to be, it's meant to be.

set in snow

Felicity Jones, the incandescent actress from Cemetery Junction, has the title role in Chalet Girl, one of those confections, where the ending is all-apparent when the film is only in its planning stages and the script is not yet written. I only checked this frothy meringue because Like Crazy, a love story with tears and emotions, feted in Sundance, was showing on Sky last week and a quick review of Miss Jones filmography revealed that Chalet Girl, whose preview trailer I encountered while I sat in a darkened cinema in Marble Arch, also stars the Oxbridge lass. Even if it was already shown on digital telly over and over, I simply didn't recognise it was the same leading lady as in Luise Miller, the play staged in Donmar Warehouse summer of '11. I tried but couldn't acquire tickets for that performance. Donmar, yeah right, with its capacity for ten people. Still wondering how I landed tickets for Life is a Dream.

Chalet Girl also stars Ed Westwick. I haven't seen a single episode of Gossip Girl (I'm not the target demographic) so I have to compare his English accent with his Chuck Bass drawl on you tube, concluding of not spotting a tint of difference. Or I'm just too daft to detect a variety in phonetics. I'm impressed with Jones' snowboarding skills. Despite not being the female Shaun White off cam, with a few lessons, she could certainly pull off competent snowboarder on screen. The views of Austrian snow is breathtaking and I've decided for this winter and the next, I need more colorful willy hats.

thanks, murks

My second grade classmate (with gaps in between, until high school), Murky, sent me a package of various items a week ago, just a pair of slippers (above), a pair of trainers, a Ralph Lauren sleep suit, all for baby girl. And a top for me. Realising that we haven't seen each other since secondary school graduation (more than 21 years ago), all I can mutter is "she's really sweet." A few BFF's couldn't even return my text or text me without prodding or email me back for formality's sake or take time to surprise me with a few words. While Murks answers mails in a jiffy. And based from her timeline, she spoils her Facebook throng with updates. Three active children with energy-deflating school runs and activities, living in Maryland, thousands of miles away from her family do not wither her spirits.

Some people couldn't help but be good natured. Murks was not only a preeminent soprano in our award-winning elementary school choir (not to mention her church choir) but she's a grizzled arts and crafts practitioner. The trinket she sent me during my last birthday was very thoughtful. So, in earnest I've been fortunate to have met Murks when were eight. I wish her all the Hallmark moments in life. She deserves her beautiful family.

Of course there are others who are quick on their touch screens to perk me up from the mundane -- Honey, Zany, and Ryan. Let's add Julie as well.

it's about words with food

Or food with words. As the case may be, it's all about expressing ourselves in writing and sharing it with the world. Twitter is uplifting but I seem to be shortchanged by the 140-character limit. It's fast food reading. It shouldn't be the absolute truth and should provide a room for debate(s). Or arguments. Constructive arguments.

As with movie and television reviews or any other critiques for music, videos, musicals, gaming (the whole of pop culture, the entire universe), we could craft a thousand-word glowing comments or use the platform for criticisms. We're all qualified to opine.

But with great power comes great responsibility. Hey there, Spider-Man.

Memoirist is a good noun, too. I prefer diarist. Shoes, woes.