Gatsby on his (Inflatable) Deathbed




The circumstances that surround Gatsby’s death create a sense of symmetry between the life in pursuit of the American dream and the inevitability of death, which brings an end to something as limitless as success. Like the meretricious grandeur that dictated Gatsby’s life and the perception that people built up of him, the way in which Gatsby died , the visual spectacle of his dead body floating along his private swimming pool, downplays the emotion usually associated with a death, and competes to overtake the decease of such a characterless individual. It provides a near-perfect mirror image to Gatsby’s life; the extravagance and outlandish parties that became his social image were always there to overshadow him as a character, and the same thing has happened to him in his death.

The death of Gatsby itself, and the literal circumstances of his physical surroundings are a representation of the limitedness that come with materialistic values of pursuing the American Dream. The typical phrase of “you can’t take it with you” is played upon with in the setting of Gatsby’s death, as he was shot in the pool that he never swam in, and now he has literally taken the pool with him to his death; the clarity of the water  - and meretriciousness of its purity when contained in such an extravagant vessel as a swimming pool - has been contaminated with his blood, which is the purest physical embodiment of life and the loss of life itself. The swimming pool provides a representation of Gatsby’s life; a metaphor of how one can take something as simple as plain as water, place it in a vessel of such extravagance as a swimming pool, and watch it become a spectacle that is larger than life.


Of all the imagery and symbolism that Scott Fitzgerald (easily one of my favourite authors) creates in The Great Gatsby, it was the scene of Gatsby's death that I found the most poignant, and haunted me in a most perennial fashion. It seems that I am one of the few to prefer analysis to creation in a lot of areas, English literature being no exception. Here is my interpretation of the death, written almost a year ago I believe. I haven't edited the content of this, but I do disagree with myself on the idea that he was "characterless".

Artless Beauty - II


Arabesques of single-stroke as a fluid stream
Cascades and creases of artless cloth
mottles plain of greater canvas
Wind adorns the looking-glass sea; thrums
of turquoise in monochrome ebbs
Cream-white paper, recumbent 
In a leather-bound embrace
 - sallow with time
Their words, modest as they form
In curlicue spires upon consonant pillars.

Stoic, unornamental, austere
Great complexity in regress
The void of guile, one finds, beguiles
As they exist, chaste in hue,
Without one wish to coalesce.

Concertare


The concerts I have been to - in chronological order

  1. Green Day
  2. Deep Purple
  3. Mika
  4. MGMT & The Whitest Boy Alive
  5. Iron Maiden
  6. Deadmau5
  7. Two Door Cinema Club (I met them!)
  8. The Vaccines & Kasabian
  9. Laneway 2012 (full lineup here)
  10. Noel Gallagher

Upcoming concerts:

Plans for tonight;

  1. Pizza,
  2. Woody Allen movie (toss-up between Alice and Zelig - I've seen neither),
  3. Exercise my pretentiousness in an artist analysis
  4. Finish off Oh Comely submission
  5. Polish off (the unpublished parts of) my new short story The Old Man Visits Solitude
I'm suddenly starting to feel a lot better. This may be due to my reaching the centre of a humbug.

Drip

There are people like me
Who turn on taps
To hear flaws in the plumbing

Laneway 2013


The past couple of weeks have been a time of great suspense and anticipation for indie music-lovers across this tiny island. Girls (and guys too, of course) who have screamed their lungs out for the likes of Two Door Cinema Club, The Whitest Boy Alive, MGMT, The Vaccines, Bombay Bicycle Club - and, naturally, the entire lineups for the previous two Laneway Festivals - have been speculating, impatiently waiting for and even arguing over the quality of the dozen-or-so names that are to grace the festival's set list, and it goes without saying that people pledged their attendance in the hundreds the moment the date was announced. 

The wait is finally over for those who find themselves forever explaining to (the not-so-likeminded) others a reasonable jutification for the inarticulate phrases of excitement and high-pitched hyperventilation when a band that isn't Maroon 5 comes to town.

Of course this isn't the first we have heard for laneway artists this year; a list of all artists doing the rounds at this festival have been common knowledge for some time, whereas the line-up of the Singapore leg of the festival has been a point of speculation.

I have several points to make that should begin with phrases synonymous to the words "Admittedly, I..."

Admittedly, I was initially disappointed - not even skeptical, just disappointed - with the first announcement of the line-up (that is, when the list encompassing all artists in the festival was released). My immediate reaction stemmed purely from the fact that it was clearly not as great (to me) as the line-up last year, I seemed to dwell on that outlook for a while. The myriad of headliners seemed to chiefly be people that I had either heard of or never heard of, though I did know how revered they were by some of my friends. The line-up of 2012 contained a lot of artists that immediately settled with me, or that already resided comfortably on my list of favourite artists. 

Oddly enough, the narrowing down of artists for the Singapore festival made me more appreciative of them, and the fact that it's a saturday this year is an absolute godsend. The venue, however, is a matter of slight skepticism; for all it's simplicity I love going to concerts in Fort Canning, and it really helped amplify the festival vibe last year. 

I must confess that I know very little of the artists that I am genuinely looking forward to seeing. Without sounding like the biggest mindless poser ever, I really do think that it can be enough to know of the acclaim that band have received to want to go to a concert. 

The bottom line is, I can't get my ticket soon enough.

Most looking forward to [in no particular order]; Of Monsters and Men, Kings of Convenience, Gotye, Cloud Nothings, Tame Impala, Bat For Lashes

Most curious about; Alt-J (I find it shameful to admit that I haven't listened to these Mercury Prize winners!), Yeasayer, Kimbra, Divine Fits

"Homeward Bound"

I'm currently drafting this post as I stand on patterned carpet waiting for my mother and sister, and we're grading for our gate about 90 minutes prior to its opening time, in traditional D--- family fashion. Thanks to my sister I'm out of clean jeans to wear, so I'm shivering in minishorts and a jumper. My shoulders are feeling slight strain from the lengthened strap of my "Jimmy Choo" handbag - one of my heftier night market purchases - and I am trying to get used to the jingling beads and tarnished metal that now hang from my earlobes.

Hong Kong has been a blinding array of lights and dim sum and audible sea breezes. Due to the hotel's extortionate in-room internet prices and access to great travel writing, we have been planning our days the old-fashioned way; with Moleskines, a hardback topical photography book, Lonley Planet's hefty China edition, and about 3 different fold-out maps full of biro markings.

When I return to Singapore (hence marking a return to my laptop) I shall be setting up a page that links to my travel writing - soon to be inaugurated by an account of this weeks adventures. Admittedly I am somewhat lacking in the diary entry department, but a sporadic cache of tickets and tattered maps should serve as adequate reference points. Plus the notes made in my Moleskines notebooks provide an interesting account of the day in brief imperative form, which were of course intended for future reference that has now passed - if you catch my drift. I might upload scans of these pages along with the (surprisingly few) photos that I took.

I apologise for the abysmal quality of writing. It appears that my role as guidebook-/magazine-reader/ attentive note taker has deteriorated my literary skills. Oh and this hasn't been proofread.

Seven-day

Monday
Left a callus on my hand
Red,
Humid and frozen
In a curve all day - as it delves
In dots and lines and curlicues
My fingers they left
To fend for themselves


Tuesday
Smelt of coffee and plastic,
Insidious chemicals 
In which I dipped my hopes
With clenched arms,
Dream on my sleeve
On my veins
I took my leave


Wednesday I sat
Shivering in the pews
And prayed to silent reason that
The centre of the universe
Hadn’t shifted onto me.

The callus - vengeful absence!-
Cut through my palm once more,
Lip tainted; raw with nervous zeal
Tongue lay subdued and sore

Thursday, begins
With senseless perusal; ends
(forget not, the silent “e-n-t”)
With sunshine, the aberrant warmth
Of bleakness in its bends


Friday morning perspiring, twisting
Me into some sort of plait, cold vapour seeps
Into the linen, the kind
That night can rid one of  - she weeps


Saturday woke by dusty sunshine, 
Coffee and sleep - (the apothecaries of 
Delirium)
So begins the day
Of dreamless marches, recumbent spines, 
Words' weeping headaches remain thereof


Sunday, Sunday,
Sunday, arid as an overcast 4’o clock
An hour hand will rise and fall
You're cold, and quite inept at showing
That you have ever lived at all.

Nostalgia's record shelf



It is primarily due to my exposure to the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald at the age of fifteen that has lead me to the conclusion that I am a confirmed idealist. My idea of perfection is the alliance of various aspects pieces of imagery that coalesce in one moment. It is in that moment where - with an adequate dose of pretentious melodrama about me - I say, "this is my reason for living with a sense of impetus about me".