Laneway 2013

The bare essentials

The festival as it reached nightfall

The legacy of St. Jerome returned with vigour to the open arms of Singapore's indie crowd in its best form yet. Amid weather that refuted the existence of shade, bustling throngs of moshers and sprawling bivouac of  recumbent music-lovers, twelve hours of indefatigable good vibes transpired and stayed for good. As follows is a review of most of the lineup

Sodden

You and I, drenched in life's disdain,
Are a pair of bucket lists in the rain.

Musings of the nightly tears

I am far too sad
To go to sleep without a
Story in my head

slovenly

coffee became a solid meal

your thighs shrunk with pride

you became a poser in button-down shirts and black panties

you drew from plastic pens like they held the wisdom of a cigarette

people stopped saying "you're clever"

time became a volatile essence

those orange paperbacks, in such simplicity of irrelevance, were your unobtainable ideas of euphoria

an obstinate streak of exhaustion rendered you stagnant

your intake of mind-numbing pop culture became nocuous

fears materialised and your own words of diffidence were a basis for the truth

the hours before midnight touched you in every way but that of sleep

the chronic remorse of a passing day stunned you into consciousness and an inconsolable whimper

and ultimately you wrote down those few contrivances in a note that affirmed the 

suicide of your intelligence.

r.l.

Auld Lang Syne

I would like to (at least modestly) broadcast a valediction to the waning hours of 2012, a year so diverse and opulent in the curiosities it inspires that it seems almost wrong to place these abstract wisps of experience under the same archive of four lustreless digits.

As always, it pains me to say that I have nothing of profundity to attribute to this topic. At this particular moment I fail to recall everything that could have possibly mattered in the year that has passed. And there is living proof of this in the twelve coloured Moleskine cahiers, most of which stand empty, the rest devoid of true substance. (My inability to record what I wish to remember has proved itself chronic, and the severity of such a problem has induced an embarrassing magnitude of emotional strain.)

Though it has probably materialised in my head, I probably won't be producing a list of New Year resolutions as things nearly always fall short of tangibility once they are in written form.

Here's to a month-or-so of correcting twos into threes on nearly every paper I write.