on separation.

hush, Nature's protest
upon hearing its tendriled children split asunder
by those Hatchets who promise
'we'll make your lives better', and thereonin
unleashed a cry that pierced the empty woods
fearing for the fruits of her slow labour.

even the verdant She cannot deny progress
that slashes-and-burns to send smoke rings
the morse of dots and (even more) slashes
welcoming the first of five-stages-of-dissolution
She keeps up the pretension
under a muted facade.


Silence ferments into a delicate, bitter mix
Conjuring storms
to shock and awe those pre-modern Cro-Magnons 
who make a distasteful beat of ceaseless pining

but fear gives rise to fevered pitch


which harmonises with a xylophonic settling in of bared solitude
where ding-a-ling-ling across time and space
pollinates barely contained glee


still She dreads the the lonely dusk that crickets bring forth
with the souless whine incomprehensible, and when
the passing of a night grows
sound into material teardrop dew
adorning glistening leaves in the morning sun

everyday seedlings root themselves
in a once-dense undergrowth
were the nitrate levels accomodating two seasons' patience
that the diverged tracks will merge again.

Ithaca.

he sits on the jagged edge of
crumbling stone glued together
by cruel time's embrace
a wretched gargoyle perched
feeding on hopeless Notre Dame romantics

she counts the moonlit scales
that shreds reptilian tears
playing Russian roulette
on an infinite revolver
'he loves me, he loves me ...not?'

he impales his underbelly on the pointed arch
seeping an ache through
stained glass. hopeless defiance against
Siren's wet refrain - is your Odysseus
seeking a common safe haven?

his flying buttress removed
so Gorgon tendrils follow
the tail end of Styx daggers to complete
masonry's cardiac lobotomy.

but a familiar tug gives push
to grey claws on greyer belfry
ascending, shedding stoneskin inertia
grasping empty air, to barely contain
a longing half-satiated by precious vantage.
she fletches an arrow.

herstory.

Was it vindication
Or relief?

Light captured in that narrow aperture tunnel
summing up, that quarter decade (and then halves more -
rounded off, +/-1 because you just weren't taught to count)
An ineffectual reminder of duty done, and then -
soon you'll be Dusted?

How'd you piece together our jigsawed youths
and return us the happy ending (that we+you2 应得的？)
Or were you the one unwashed knight,
that emperor wearing the leper skin, shedding that fur decades late
the tale of an ugly duckling that you just couldn't
tell (or know anyway)

did you spy a familiar silhouette
three Cinderellas realised just as the dial turns,
full circle, or twirl with broken, dead hands that
dust-sweeper, envious of fairy-godmother's chances
that never got sieved to you?
(the pumpkin carriage that no matter how hard,
it just turned to mush on a porcelain plate for five)

'I've always wondered how it would feel to look through those glazed eyes that must have seen half a century of bitterness and regret. How it must have felt venting life's unfeeling sentences on the doe-eyeds (without meaning to), and knowing that you were never far off unfairness' parole. How vindication laced with regret would taste. Was this culmination in spite of, or despite, your best efforts?'

I'll like to think it goes something like this:
'Hush my babies hush.
Hush because I just might cry.'

Perth, Part 2: The Real Melting Pot

The Real Melting Pot

Fremantle’s immigrant culture is not just for touristic show. In the hyper-local Growers’ Green Farmers’ Market, racial integration is promoted by smoked salmon, Persian cakes, tortillas, and even potted plants.

Ethnic integration comes alive at Fremantle's Growers' Green Farmers' Market.

White Australia is no more, at least in Fremantle. I reached this conclusion after a Sunday morning spent browsing the stalls in the Growers’ Green Farmers’ Market. In its place is a tightly-knit local community of diverse cultures who bond over a common love: of quality market produce.

Compared to the famous Fremantle Markets in the city centre, this hyper-local counterpart is an undiscovered gem populated by even more diverse cultures, such as Persian, Salvadorian, Japanese, and Chinese. Its authenticity– such that everyone knows each other on a first-name basis – almost made me feel bad for intruding on someone else’s neighbourhood.

Yet, rather than guard their secret jealously, its inhabitants are eager to share. When I identified myself as a journalist, John King, a volunteer of the South Fremantle Senior High Parents and Citizens Committee that organises the Sunday market on the high school grounds, asked me to tell readers that “the fat guy at the gate will take care of ya!”

(Not) By Invitation. Every Sunday, the private community takes off its fences  and demonstrates a unique local hospitality.

As “the jolly mobile traffic light”, John helps with car parking for visitors since “we didn’t insure the front lawn”. In return, visitors can donate spare change into a big metal tin that the parking wardens carry. The money raised from donations and stall rentals are then used to fund school programmes such as camping trips and environmental initiatives.

The market, as manager Georgie Adeane said, was conceptualised as an “alternative to supermarket shopping”. Rather than promote impersonal buying from shelves, it focuses on bringing both the producer and consumer together by selling grower-direct fruit, vegetables, and potted plants, as well as food such as pastries and burgers. The result is a true bazaar that transact beyond money and products.

Here's a Charmer with Honeyed Words. A friendly proprietor of Colombian  descent, manning a stall that sells organic honey products. 

Oh, but for the Love of Food

The love of quality fare is probably a unifying trait for both vendors and patrons alike. Don Heather’s smoked products cut across these nationalities. He sells Irish whiskey cured smoked salmon, which is an Irish-inspired, but wholly Australian invention. The cuisine was a fortunate accident, as he misread “smoked by whisky oak barrels” as the alcohol alone. Yet, it won him nationwide fame as a “mastersmoker” chef and great demand for the dish in the nineties.

Despite scaling down his operation to a simple Sunday stall, Don’s specialties have caught on even with expatriates. His smoked olive oil and semi-dried tomatoes passed even regular customer Karine Boulmier’s strict French standards, who normally deem Australian cuisine too overpowering. The French, she said, “are crazy about their markets, and if they had their way, half the restaurants here should close down”. Yet, Growers’ Green’s immunity to these food purists suggests that there is something universal amongst cultures after all.

Bon jour, Mastersmoker. Even the French taste buds agree with Don's smoked specialties.

Even ethnic desserts transverse these racial differences. The Persian-influenced cakes made by housewife Parvin Bahremand sold out even before the market closed. Perhaps the extra bit of effort to cater to the healthy-minded Australian helped. While there is the typical Iranian influence of saffron, almond, and macadamia, her cakes are also gluten-free. There are even vegan options for the dietary-conscious.

Purr with Pleasure. Even the health-conscious would agree with Parvin's gluten-free, vegan Persian cakes.

Parvin also has a bigger purpose in mind: to continue popularising these Persian-Australian fusion desserts amongst the locals. This is despite the tedious process of baking ninety cakes – the work is so hectic that she sometimes has “only one hour available, which is to bathe”. Yet, the pride on her face because of the community’s acceptance of her pastries was obvious, as she kept lamenting how I should been there earlier to see the bulk of her cakes being “devoured by the locals”.

Same Same, but Different: Repackaging Australian Culture

Ethnicities are not the only that sell. The novelty of an unfamiliar body embodying Australian culture does equally well. The Salvadorian mother-and-daughters team has acquired the talkative Australian candour, which they put to good use in chatting up the snaking line of patrons who wait hungrily for their Salvadorian Pupusas (tortillas filled with cheese and kidney beans).

Even though I approached them at this busy period, that humour was still intact.

            “Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

            A toothy smile. “How much are you giving us?”

            “So, uh…. That’s a yes?”

            “Yes… and no.”

Not something I expected, but after spending close to six years in the hawker trade, Leticia, Iliana, and Anna seem to have fully mastered Australian banter. There was a fluidity to the verbal to-and-fro between them and their patrons as they flipped the tortillas on the outdoor grill.

The Salvadorian family gamely pose for a photo.

Other than chatting up their customers, Australian entertainment is in their blood as well. Restaurant rentals are too expensive in Perth, so the family business tries to “do big music festivals to generate more word-of-mouth”. Once people try Salvadorian food, “they can’t get enough!” This local acclaim, coupled with their Australianised nature, seem to be the main draw for customers.

Yet, some have assimilated so well into the community that they are essentially Australians selling Australian products. Margaret Wong, who emigrated from Malaysia more than 40 years ago, is one such example. She does brisk business selling potted plants to gardening enthusiasts with a perfect Australian accent.

Her gardening expertise is very Australian as well in the nature-loving and land abundant country. Despite having less than one acre of space in her backyard, she constructed a patio to shield her plants from the sun. Even her stall space is handpicked. She insists on setting up shop in Growers’ Green because of its grass field, which is not as hot for plants compared to concrete pavements in the Fremantle Markets.

This gardening knowledge has impressed the locals, who probably do not expect a Chinese to take up an Australian pastime. Even gardening hobbyists stop for a prolonged chat with her as she freely shared her experience with high-chill and low-chill plants, soil variety, and fertilizer use. To Margaret, the Australian saying “customers are your bread-and-butter” rings true, and “it’s all about building a personal relationship with Aussies so that they’ll come back.”

The influx of new immigrants has led Australians to question its national culture and integration issues. Yet, Growers’ Green has demonstrated that integration can occur in a simple marketplace, by interacting with other ethnicities that might not be all that different. Perhaps the enduring aspect to Australian culture is its subtle welcome to all new inhabitants. As I left the market, Margaret pulled over in a dingy old Volvo, and gave this mere acquaintance a lift. A morning spent experiencing the diverse cultures that call the community home already makes me feel like one of them.

Stop and Smell the Roses. The local community's idea of a day out: enjoying the buskers and world music band.

 

Growers’ Green Farmers’ Market

Every Sunday, 8a.m. – 12 p.m.

South Fremantle Senior High School

171 Lefroy Road, Baconsfield

Fremantle, West Australia

http://www.growersgreenfarmersmarket.com/

Perth, Part 1: Caffeinated Dreams

Something from the oh-so-far school days, when you could just write anything you want come hell or high water. Or just something a writer wrote, not a journalist.

Caffeinated Dreams

What is good coffee without a novel companion? Ng Kaijie browses through the bookstores near Fremantle’s Cappuccino Strip, and admires the idealists who continue to resist the superficial tourist culture.

“Books occupy a space that time doesn’t own, so we find them when we need them.” – Jeanette Winterson

You can’t judge a book by its cover, and you can’t see the heartbeat of Fremantle by looking at its squeaky clean and freshly scrubbed façade. It’s fake. Tempting, pretty, alluring, but fake.

Fremantle, or Freo, as the locals call it, is famous for its South Terrace coffee stretch that is the heartbeat of the city. The 200 metre strip houses a selection of alfresco cafes, restaurants and pubs in a meticulously preserved 19^th century streetscape.

Colonial facades have been maintained, but the buildings are hollow. The pleasure district is one where people dine and drink, to see and be seen. Beneath the bustle of middle-class pleasure, it is hard to see any sophistication in Fremantle’s culture. Overpriced meals herald a period of plenty, when tourists and locals alike, in place of yesteryear’s prospectors, pay the surcharge for over 300 days of sunshine a year.

A touristy bubble world has descended on a fiercely independent Australian culture. In Freo, both tourists and locals are plugged into the same drip – caffeine, microbrewery beer, fish and chips, and in the words of more than half a dozen locals I met, “bloody good weather”. Once you approach the Fremantle Market where the Cappuccino Strip begins, independent thinking ceases, and customers flock to the pleasure abodes with abandon.

Yet, there is a cure. Tourism pretends to be old and significant, but this false front is easily exposed by the real deal. As I wandered beyond South Terrace and onto nearby High Street, I discovered defiant grey-haired exiles - traditional bookstores that inhabit the same district, but offering a counterculture of books and nostalgia.

Looking Inwards - Redefining Fremantle’s Soul

“What I say is, a town isn't a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it's got a bookstore it knows it's not fooling a soul.” - Neil Gaiman, American Gods

The façade of the New Edition Bookshop shows no sign of its 27 years of age. Its front is a perfect rendition of a theme park’s New York Courts of Justice. Indeed, the pillars are so phony and the shop sign’s font so infantile that it might as well be a kitsch copy of Rome-inspired architecture. Yet, there it stands, almost sarcastic in a flamboyance that suits the heritage-and-façade conscious city so well.

The design also symbolises a booklover’s protest against the tide of superficiality. At 40, James Calligaro has spent more than a quarter of his life managing the store and owning it for half that period. His black-and-brown outfit (from spectacles, to long-sleeved shirt, pants, and shoes) make him the stereotypical intelligentsia, while his genteel voice gives the impression of patience and stoicism. Both characteristics, I assumed, were nursed by the store’s setbacks – falling profits and a forced relocation.

The Mid-Life Mission. At 40, James Calligaro didn't go through a crisis. He made it his commitment.

The New Edition Bookshop specialises in paperback Penguin classics and modern classics - playfully described by Mark Twain as books that “people praise but don’t read”. However, James maintains the necessity of these books in instilling “insightful thought”. This is despite publishers dropping their prices overnight from AUD$14-50 to AUD$10 as a response to cheaper e-books. More books were sold, but profits continued to decline.

Even though the New Edition Bookshop has been a veritable grandfather of Fremantle’s book industry, it has not all been plain-sailing – due to increasing rentals, the store was forced to move from South Terrace in 2007. While relocation has thinned the crowds, it has also allowed for a revamp of the business concept to keep up with the times.

Seeing coffee as “a phenomenon that people do in the morning”, James decided to merge a café with the bookstore to cater to the caffeine-loving crowd. A partnership was worked out with the Grumpy Sailor (which, funnily enough, was also born to adverse circumstances. The name was intended for a fish and chips shop that didn’t work out) to provide coffee and cake on its premises. Quality coffee, not the “terrible goop being offered on that stretch”, was what people would come for and meet up over.

Victorian Coffee Culture. Calligaro's re-creation of a bourgeois salon.

Books, on the other hand, “sell incidentally in comfortable and interesting environments”. Coffee was merely the bait that reeled in the catch. The bookstore’s interior represents James’ private war against “sterile public spaces”. He points to the Woolstores Shopping Centre that sits beside the main train station, lamenting, “It is the number one community place, but it is chock full of generic shops.” In contrast, James envisions the bookstore as a forum where “people gather and ideas collide”.

He is already halfway there. The store’s interior successfully melds contemporary library furnishings with old English-style reading furniture. It is a meeting place where you just feel intelligent and talkative enough to discuss the significance of some classic or recommend favourite novels to a total stranger. The harder part is in the conversion. Sipping a cuppa at the Cappuccino Strip is still remains more attractive than getting some food-for-thought at the bookstore.

A Business of Nostalgia, Where Books are Sent to Die

With first-hand paperbacks sold at fire-sale prices, how do second-hand bookstores survive in a lower-tier market of condemned titles? I found the answer in Bill Campbell Secondhand Books. Its exterior was refreshingly simple – the words “SECOND HAND BOOKS” in giant letters fronted the store, leaving no mystery as to what it offered. I was reminded of Notting Hill’s The Travel Book Co., with grayish-blue paint and full-length windows that revealed a treasure trove of tomes.

Old, But Not Out. Antiquity lives on at Bill Campbell Secondhand Books.

If Hugh Grant ever owned a bookstore, he would be Bill Campbell. Everything about Bill and the store said old school. At 55, Bill cuts the figure of an English professor with his poise and measured tone. There is a subtle charm about someone who has spent more than 7 years in the book trade, which has also translated to the store’s décor. Bill merely wanted “something that smelt literary, where people can sit down, read a book, but also buy one”. It was basic and backward, but that suited him fine. His renovation plans consist of little beyond “maybe shift the counter over there?”

Hugh Grant at 55.

All in the Family. Ancient mixes with the mature, young, and titles that have just shed their first ink on the bookshelves.

The truth is, he doesn’t need to. Locals and tourists continue to flock the premises. Even though there are only dark wooden stools and chairs for the sit-down reader in cramped quarters, there is a certain allure in imagining yourself as a classic author, sitting cross-legged and smoking an ash pipe in a great library.

Yet, with the drastic drop in book prices, why would customers prefer a used copy? Rummaging through the shelves of books, I hoped to find my own answer. After all, not everyone is an avid antique collector. Or are they? The distinct smell of some ancient titles lured me to open them and smell it, as if uncorking a fine bottle of vintage wine. The aroma of yellowed paper pulp caught me as times past, complemented by the occasional written dedications and notes on the margins.

And then it struck me. Bill was in the business of selling nostalgia, and I was living someone else’s life – the dog’s ears and creases piece together to reconstruct the tale of its previous readers. This is the real history of Freo’s past inhabitants.

I walked away from High Street’s book stretch, feeling less perturbed. Freo’s touristy culture may be alive and fed well just a street away, but its antidote lies here, just waiting to be discovered. While the New Edition Bookstore tries to introduce sophistication through a nourishing public space, Bill Campbell’s second hand trade casts light on Fremantle’s forgotten legacies. In these secret vaults, their custodians persevere in a common purpose, biding their time for the next golden age.

New Edition Bookshop

Monday – Friday, 730a.m. – 6p.m.

Saturday, 8a.m. – 6p.m.

Sunday, 9a.m. – 6p.m.

82 High Street

Fremantle, West Australia

Telephone: +61 (08) 9335 2383

http://www.newedition.com.au/home

Bill Campbell Secondhand Books

Monday - Friday, 10a.m. – 5p.m.

Saturday - Sunday, 12a.m. – 5p.m.

48 High Street

Fremantle, West Australia

Telephone: +61 (08) 9336 3060

on specialising.

at first there was none.

and then you came, the little upstart, who would completely change the world with your perspectives, techniques, worldview, and philosophy. the one who would capture the human spirit (what'd they call it? humanism?) in a bottle, and then display it proudly on a shelf. something that you could turn around, like inverting mirror, to shine on people themselves. to show them their laughable, wretched relationships with the world, with people people, with the air molecules surrounding them, with light, colour, position, sight, sounds, the five senses bar none, and then the actual endeavour of what it means to be living. you are the conduit to that divine philosophical understanding, who would open their eyes, ears, touch to a greater truth - some truth that only you (wish people) knew.

but no one would take it, kindly; to them, it's a trick mirror, not the ones magicians employ, but rather the overused, tired fun-house type that was so covered with slobbering fat men and children who were so prone to indulging their own random kinaesthetic desires that it wasn't polished anymore. we all know what that means, because shiny means good and new and the opposite is uncool. that was the initial phrase, the tough phrase. you were the straggler, the last of the bunch, the one people will up-turn their nose on whenever they knew your profession. the one voted "most likely to rule the world" based on a whim, and we all love losers, don't we? because they just won't win.

and then drip by drip, it was improved, perfected, developed. every brush, stroke, swipe, and dab. and people stood up, took notice. not that it was good, not at all. because people never had an idea of what was good. good was you becoming, but never you being. their eyes never saw you. they saw the beginning of something new, exciting, interesting. something they can get kudos about if only they'd share it on Facebook, Twitter, or the like and get the like vindication, or comments. yes, even better with comments, because someone would care, would say that they have a good eye, or better still, ask them something unrelated so that they can take the conversation offline and then finally be out of their pathetic isolated shells that they've so kindly shut and plugged themselves into.

so it's nothing about you. not at all. you're just the monkey wrench for wrenches and the lubricant for a well-oiled chat.

then things gather steam, as likes and shares pile onto the cindering oven. then people start doing the same thing as you. a similar poise, point-toes, split, spread-eagle double-double. but it's okay; they attribute. they get together with you and form a village. something like the men of ymca, minus the dowdy chats and poses that people do on wednesday night mamboes. instead, form tales of heroic sacrifice, self-imposed melodramedy that bards (you'll wish) would yodel even ages after you're gone. Vindication, we all desire it. so when it becomes vicious and circular, you become us.

but the winds keep blowing, not signalling change, but more of the same. and with the same, and with a populous following, it is necessary to cull. population control. quality control. to differentiate, to divide between sects, to legitimately call each other names like in playground play gone bad. so faiths are implemented to sieve the blasphemous from the devout, the ones who pay no heed to those commandments, those who would dabble in the occult, heresy, black arts, and then pervert the practice in unorthodox ways. for those, a special punishment awaits. cast out, not by stones, but as sell-outs, has-beens, marginal radicals, vigilantes. different. not like us.

all the while as the narrow church begins its ascendancy. a little higher, a little better, until it dwarfs the surrounding villages and overlooks them. 'no, we'll teach you ways of looking,' we say, 'we are the enlightened, and you unwashed masses will have to learn - slowly.' We'll invent new ways of speak if there was none, or coin our own if there was one. Simple rules and laws. Submit to the jurisdiction of this profession, or we will throw tantrums, lawsuits, and the kitchen sink. We're the specialists, the forerunners of our fields, and amateurs like you need not apply. For the ones who don't get it, well, just trust us. On (and use) our terms. We have the Eye. and for the blind, just follow.

if humility is lost forever, then what connection?

Exclusivity Bites Back? Battlefield 3 Razer Blackshark 2.0 Gaming Headset Review

Firstly, thanks are in order for Techgoondu, from whom I won the prize in its online contest. And now that I have my interests out in the open...

Product co-branding has always been a marketing strategy for companies who see the synergy between different brands. In its basic form, brands create products out of another franchise. Lego, for example, manufacture bricks that assemble into Death Stars. Fast food franchises jump on the latest movie craze by offering themed toys with Kid's Meals.

In another iteration, brands stylise their products after others, hoping to garner the unique fan following between the brands' overlaps. Razer is the exemplar in the gaming peripheral industry, having already dished out its offerings in Transformers, Dragon Age, and Mass Effect themed gear. The Razer Blackshark marks the inroads Razer is making into the Battlefield 3 arena (which it has already dominated with mice and keyboards). However, is the trick becoming too old? Will such stylised products turn off the common gamer who want (or has) nothing to do with the game itself, or are they welcome icing on the cake? Does the licensing of game-themed gear pass on a completely avoidable cost to the gamer? Read on to find out!

First: Even though Razer mice is known for having low, middle, and top-tier ends, the Blackshark screams premium right out of the box. And yes, us gamers are always suckers for packaging and unboxing. The headset and accessories sit snugly inside black cushioning (so comfortably that I was almost afraid to damage the cushioning pulling them out).

The Battlefield 3 theme is also pretty evident, from the helicopter pilot-ish headset, the trademark orange-and-black styling, and the bold title emblazoned across the headband (not sure if that's a good thing, actually. What if you're playing something else?). The earcups are not soft and spongy like cheap headsets, but instead feel like they can withstand torrents of abuse from getting constantly fragged cheaply (which does happen). And they feel like what a real aviator would use, with a detachable and extendable microphone to communicate with comrades. You just can't wait to get started.

Unfortunately, while the cushioning around the headset and earcups feel quality enough, the plastic glossy cover for the cans break the illusion. Plastic feels cheap, no matter what. Plastic ruined the Samsung Galaxy 3, and in here, it's not much different. The saving grace is that the black gloss is of a dark nature, which minimises the sweaty smudges that you're bound to have in drawn-out Battlefield 3 skirmishes.

In real world usage, you would likely be forgiving of the exterior because you can't see it anyway. And unlike other headsets that I've used before, the Blackshark feels comfortable enough even for extended periods. This is possibly due to the leather lining of the ear cups and its nice weight and balance, which makes users feel the headset's weight, but not dramatically so.

Its noise isolation is also superb. With the headset on, even the fan blowing half a metre away is barely audible. The likelier problem would be missing out on your spouse's or family's conversations (which, again, could be a good thing). Heat is also a problem that manifests frequently for closed isolated headsets, but again, it's the leather to the rescue. There is adequate ventilation and it doesn't trap heat around your ears that much.

Sound reproduction is pretty right on in-game. The headset is made for gaming, and thus cinema fans and bassheads can also apply as the Blackshark leans pretty heavy on the low end of the spectrum. Every round fired, clip pulled off a grenade, and footstep can be heard clearly. The sound also reverbs very well within the cans, which lends a dramatic flair to games while retaining them for films. One thing of note is that the headset is stereo and not 5 or 7 channel. While it can reproduce distance and direction well enough, it will still be a pretender to the real thing.

Accessories are also well thought out (for the price, they'd better be). The Blackshark comes with a 3.5mm splitter for left/right channels output should you so desire. When you're not busy shouting orders to your team-mates, Razer has also included a cover for the microphone input when you remove the microphone, so you can look less ridiculous when enjoying your music.

However, premium has its drawback. For a specialised gear, the headset seems a tad too expensive for the mainstream crowd, at USD 129.99 from Razerstore. I suspect some of that cost goes towards the Battlefield 3 branding.

Chances are, even though you will take a second, or even third look at this alluring gear, it just isn't practical enough for the rest of us.Even though Razer has made a concession of me-too! by suggesting that it can be paired with other audio devices, the Blackshark is obviously a gaming headset. The Battlefield styling makes the headset stand out even more than the once-popular Beats cans. Using it outside is akin to wearing your pyjamas to a fancy cocktail party because "it's a shirt and pants anyway". Yes it is. And it isn't.

The Blackshark will not convert any discerning audiophiles either. The headset's over-emphasis on lows and its muddy mids are evident on jazz tunes as Lisa Ono and Olivia Ong's vocals frequently get drowned out by the bass. Mainstream pop music, however, is serviceable. Again, for the price, there are better cans to be had, but you're not exactly auditioning a pair that can serve gaming, home theatre, and music, right?

Even true-blue Battlefield 3 fans might feel hard-done by the deal, as the exclusive content commonly available in such license product is just an in-game Serpent dogtag. Yeah, you got that right. A dogtag. That's it, they took peripheral too literally. Previous products such as the Mass Effect themed ones got the player extra in-game items. While I'm not suggesting that Razer break the game, more significant exclusives such as an entire skin would be rewarding for loyal customers.

The bottom line: Blackshark is a top-of-line product from Razer, no questions asked. The only thing in doubt is whether you're as hardcore a shooter fan, or even a Battlefield 3 fan, to shell out the dough for this. Razer has obviously primed it towards a certain target market with the deliberate branding. Add in the licensing, and the market has shrunk even further. Can Razer maintain this deliberate strategy? Only time will tell.

The Good
Premium built-to-last quality
Delivers on all the gaming headset notches
So cool, if only your friends could see it

The Bad
Pricey
Lacking audio quality for music
So cool, if only your friends can see it

anecdotes.

anecdotes don't make more than just one mere data point, but often it's the understated that claim tyrannical significance. it never is about the person, but how do you ignore the assault on principles that one would have held as categorical imperatives, only for clauses and circumstances to exclude them as imperfect duties? there is no greater denial of existence, than dispelling the very ideas that one would stand for. there ought come a point when enough time has been spent in purgatory, deeming every punishment as divine justice. no, I will not lie in wilful submission when my thesis is trampled upon.


- researcher notes, before being judged by the scales of censure

prosaic.

I haven't written for a long time. The truth is, social networks kill writing and the ability to think cogently for more than 1xx number of characters. It teaches, at most, another style. The style of murdering your words, letter by letter, just so that you get your point across in a creative manner. In a 'I'm-not-whoring-but-I'm-intelligent', 'oh-please-anyone-but-me' fashion. That's trending now. Add a hashtag, and it fragments your thoughts to the point where you get disciplined into thinking about something. And then, nothing.

Writing requires discipline, I suppose. Which I don't have. Because to me, writing seems to be just a release, where emotions are so caught up in the moment and you just seek that very outlet to vent your feelings on. An empty abyss, where you look upon sometime later and find out it's has filled with a strange clarity of thought. Some welling up of nostalgia, like you almost knew the guy. Unfortunately, I procrastinate.

But not today. With that rich gamut of emotions filled up, I ran, jogged, and then walked briskly. A pyrrhic victory in the end, since that very inspiration emptied itself out en-route. But to write anyway, to at least hope that that half-hour of genius did not go to waste, to eulogise that fleeting moment in paragraphs that meant nothing. Nothing but trash, perhaps, looking back. But genuine, and one can never beat reality.

So how does one lose everything and anything, and start with that blank slate of mind when a lit screen of mostly white stares back at him? it is unblinking, except for that damned cursor, that dares one to write. Except for the disclaimer that one needs to input, at the very start, writing at length but not compensating for brilliance, that this is free-flow, unorthodox, ill-disciplined writing that is all spur-of-the-moment. Yet writing a specific form of writing, is exactly that. Conformity. Writing is not a talent or breaking down of barriers or an act of defiance against the norms of the world. It simply is. Is? Is what? What do you expect from 'it simply is?' Nothing. It just is not, not that it is. Since writing that it is something requires you to substantiate some feeling of the moment, flavour of the month, that ultimately is, of course, what it is. Ridiculous fleeting thoughts, twisted, wrung, dried and then pieced, jigsawed and rearranged into your very own 360-piece argument.

I had hoped that this could wait. That the blog would wait until my other trivial travails  have passed, so I can really really begin to write. I begged to defer, yet somehow you can't keep the tide from flowing back in, dammit. You just had to stem it, build a dam, divert some flow and hope it turns out something good from a churning turbine of machinery. It's not looking at all either, and I'll be ashamed to call it my own. Some bastard child that ought never to be. Someone that I can't bear writing a letter to. Like a Foster Wallace, only uglier and dirtier. Someone doomed to the unemployment line, queuing in soup kitchens, getting handouts, forever stuck to the lowest 10th percentile.

But so it is. Life is never fair. And things, people exist just to remind you of it. I loved to write, once. I hope I will like it, someday, again, and again. Discipline makes a good writer when one can really get down to write. But discipline also killed the writer in his sleep, but ensuring that all fun is sucked out of whatever he produced. That everything is necessarily judged, first by ego, then by applause. But it cannot be. Feeling, events, people, things, they need an outlet to be validated. Just by writing them into permanence. Into a concrete existence that one day I can point to, and say that I felt.

So here it is, to the joy of writing. I hope I return to these roots. Again.

certain seating plans on the MRT

I take the same train everyday

the 06.57, housing three 1-year-old institutions to voyeur

the 40-something housewife clutching a basket empty

the short-skirted teen with self-esteem made from fleeting glances

and the straight-laced male executive wedged in between

conjoined triplets craving

what little acknowledgement of their existence

beyond the beeps of their punch cards

 on society’s gantries

the auntie is charity’s druggie

enacting a daily habit

of dominating thrones, only to abdicate

to the most wretched case she sees

and then mistaking gratitude for willingness

to listen to life stories

when everyone would rather eavesdrop

on everyone’s iphone

or not at all.

I know where the guy stands, ramrod straight

the way he looks at the opposite window

without excuse

a brazen criminal after the tunnels of Tiong Bahru

to memorise every minute detail

whereupon in the evenings after work

he would pore over photos on facebook, half-naked

and finding none, settle for someone else instead.

the girl likes to stand at raffles place

after a generous 7-minute display of her thighs

to offer an additional serving of the rear

even while she endures incessant droning and a warm fuzzy feeling

pretending to use her phone

she celebrates others’ lives online

everyday’s 23-minute ride

starring weird auntie and stalker uncle

where likes and comments and cattle prods

become vindication of one’s worth.

people play-pretend isolation

when in fact, they desire to touch

more than just plastic hand-grips or cool metal bars.