Bits of Brisbane : Eagle Street Pier

 

No seriously, who let the dogs out?

"I would spend late nights online talking to my friends while having him in my lap as I pat him to sleep. He would shift around restlessly. But most of all, I like it that he is keeping me company."

"When I come out of the shower, my hair is wet and she loves to run her face around in it. If she's sitting on the couch or bed or something and I ask her to come to me and she doesn't, if I said 'Oooh Dallas you're gonna go in the kitchen' she goes completely limp and falls down like a bag of beans. It's impossible to pick her up." - Becky

"When we give him food, he just puts it in front of his paws then growls at us and barks when we wanna take it away from him." - Yik Khee

"When I sleep on the couch, he knows I don't like him licking my face, so he licks my toes to wake me up." - Esther

"It was my 20th birthday and I came back from my party, drunk. She ran out of the house just as I came in and I had to run round the neighbourhood to 'catch' her, shouting her name at the same time at around five in the morning." - Yi Shu

Credit: Pictures and comments by Becky, Yik Khee, Esther, Yi Shu and TxVooDoo.

Lesson #3

Invictus
William Earnest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
  Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
  For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
  I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
  My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
  Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
  Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
  How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
  I am the captain of my soul.

No fate but what we make

"Too many options may kill a man." - Damien Rice

 

The first time I decided I want to be a grown up was when I was 15. I gathered in my arms whatever responsibility I could find at such young age. The "big" decision I had to make back then was which stream to head on to in Form 4. I bet none of you spent hours pondering about whether to end up in the Science stream or the Commerce/Art stream. Because in this side of the world, the Science stream is the smart one. If you are able to get yourself up in those four Pure Science classes, you are literally God. So why bother contemplating about it? Call me silly but I did. I spent some time of my life thinking if I should register for the Science stream. I weighed out what I had in my hands then: mediocre grades, overwhelming school band, no future whatsoever after high school in the Science stream. My PMR grades could have gotten me into a decent class in the Science stream. The fourth and last Pure Science class if I wish hard enough. Instead, some may say I took the easy way out and went for the Commerce stream. Not Pure Commerce in fact. An IT Commerce class right smacked at the fourth arrangement.

So maybe I did take the easy way out. But I saw myself not being able to handle the pressure at the Science stream. I have heard testimonials of pressured seniors and I knew it would be suicidal. I chose what I chose and my high school life floated in an easy breeze compared to the others burdened in the Science classes. I worried only of Additional Mathematics (The teachers switched too often and I skipped too many classes), Economics (God knows I can never ever memorise jackshit from this subject) and IT (The teacher hates me, period). My SPM grades were fair enough and I was a happy camper.

That was probably the best and last choice I have made in my life.

There were scattered decisions to make mostly when I was in Form 5. I was (as mentioned) the Woodwinds Senior Leader in the school band and the Vice President in the graduates magazine committee. I knew I should not have attended the first annual meeting. I knew my friends would be there to put me on the plate. What was I thinking? Time crawled through sticky caramel this year. I had to juggle both responsibilities good but everyone knew I put the school band first hand. Besides, the President was more than willing to hug everything to her bosom and work things out herself. I had to brainstorm for ways to better my section with my partner, ready myself for parental disagreements as well as resignations from members. Because not everyone is as dedicated and passionate as me and I had to think of better ways to impress them. Fuckers. In the later society, I had to pry the President's fingers off the tasks and distribute them fairly to the supposed positions. It has come to be that the Vice President's job is to take care of the President's wellbeing, be it good or bad. On one not so special day, I found myself sitting under the table with her and the Secretary telling her off while she was crying her eyes out and others trying hard not to peek to see what was going on. It was a helluva year. Nonetheless, I grew up a lot. I learned a lot. I left high school feeling achieved and satisfied at least. I could live to tell everyone yes, I learned something in high school and it was not a total waste.

I was 17 as I continued wanting to be a grown up. My parents wanted me to get into the Sixth Form and eventually set foot into a decent local University. I wanted to get as far away from high school as possible - as much as I enjoyed my stay in high school, I would not, under any circumstance, head back in there when I have a ticket going the other way - and get into college. To me, college was cool in some really lameass way. I had to negotiate with my parents and meet them halfway there because they were the ones paying for my education. I had a choice of studying HSC in Inti College. However, I thought I had made up my mind to be a writer and my only way to not waste anymore time was to get into a college offering Journalism. I signed up for Han Chiang College.

I was never a happy student in the college. I can say it was probably the longest two years of my life. The admin tricked us and I was halfway done only to realise I have stepped on the wrong train. Damn. After such revelation hit me, it was a harder drag finishing college with perfect grades I was trying so hard to maintain. Alongside some crappy lecturers I wanted to strangle. I wanted to get out of the country so badly I failed to see what was right in front of my eyes.

Maybe it was not a good choice I have made. But there were circumstances I had to complement. I was nearing the end of my final semester when the tiredness of pretentious adulthood started to seep in.

I was 19 when I needed to decide on which University to go to. Indecisions started to grab me by the ankles henceforth because this is what exhaustion can do to you. I found myself widening my options until I had an unnecessary headache when really, QUT has always been the choice and is the only choice. It was a waste of time killing what is left of my intelligence just like that. But this has come to be me. I fear to miss out. I fear to let go. I fear to make bad choices. After what has happened in college, I fear I will end up in the wrong dead end. Again. I have become of such perfectionist, an obsessive compulsive, it sometimes does me more harm than good.

I was at my fresh age of 20 when I decided I do not want to be a grown up anymore. I was on the verge of finding a job after my college graduation. I had plenty of time to waste. Six months to be exact. I stood in between working in Dell and GSC. Call me crazy but I had an urge to go for the latter. Despite the vague and various work positions as well as the crappy wages. Maybe it was not because I settle easily for simplicity, for an easy satisfaction in life. Maybe it was a denial. What happened in the beginning of that year killed half of me and I could never see myself ready to be an adult for the first time clearly. You see, I was pulled into the working world via an internship in the most awesomest newspaper corporation Malaysia can own. Maybe I did not emotionally prepare myself because upon submission for the internship I was more focused on my assignments at hand rather than weighing the pros and cons. It did not sit in my head well enough that I would be working until I was sitting myself in the empty office of nobodies. I fucked myself twice over for the entire January and finally called it quits come February. Right then, wearing professional working clothes and calling myself a yuppie is not my ultimate dream anymore. I tainted my miniscule reputation in the Journalism world. I dishonoured my college's reputation in that company. You should fucking be there to see how desperate they were to make me stay in my internship. It was so pathetic it was not even funny back then. Because I was bawling my eyes out, of course it was not funny.

So maybe that was why I feared to choose Dell. However, after much coaxing from my dad and sister, after really making sure that I have sat in my own head about this long enough, telling myself yes you are going to work now, I decided to give this another shot. It will forever remain a mystery as to why I threw up on the supposed first day of work.

I drag through my days as a person since I quit the teenage years. I live through everyday reluctantly. I refuse to plan ahead for five years. I refuse to weigh out the pros and cons of one situation or one decision. Some sick rebellion of sorts maybe. Since I turned 20, I have been telling myself to let go of controlling my life. I have allowed the winds to blow me to whichever direction they desire. I owe my younger days a carefree life when I swap it for a future that will eventually come. Caged in a house with no authority, I wanted to break free for a singular life. I craved for my driving licence for a phony getaway. I conducted acts only a citizen over the age of 18 is legal to to convince myself I am an adult, finally. I lied to myself I can take care of myself when I have strings attached to my parents financially. I wasted almost five years of my life being who I will be for the rest of my life.

I tired myself way ahead of schedule and now, I just want to be young again. Live days when worries are nothing but a mystery and best days roll by every waking moment next to your friends out in the street. I want to be flexible again instead of shackling myself with grown up responsibilities. Why did I ever think it is cool to be an adult? I remembered I was so happy when I turned 18. I barely remember why.

It is a deceit of a greener grass on the other side. You will learn that they are of the same colour because they water the same rain and bask the same sun.

Do not get me wrong. It is not as if I will lapse into childishness in days to come. No. How can I ever go back now? A tiger will never change its stripes. I will still find myself planning for things, staring at my planner when I am free and making up lists. This is what makes me happy with something to do. I still find serenity knowing I have something to wait for, hope for. Years before have shaped and molded me into the maturity I believe I am wearing today. I will neevr go back to undo the best lessons I have learned and the wise people I have met. I see things clearer now. Which is why I am thinking things I am thinking now. Missing a forsaken childhood of sitting next to an old stereo on Saturday afternoons listening to timeless 90s rock. Wishing for a wilder adolescence that will only be an imagination from here on. Who was I yesterday has made me the person I am today. There may be regrets on how I lived my life in the past but it is altogether a combination of today.

I have friends like me, driving ourselves into the adult world intentionally only to realise everything is not fun all the time. Dang. I have friends who flow into adulthood matter-of-factly. This is the most peaceful transition I can think of. It is not jarring. It is not fake. I have also friends pushed into the adulthood ever so surprisingly, ever so hesitantly. Plucked out from the comfort zone and being shoved down mouthfuls of responsibilities too hard to swallow.

Not too long ago, a sudden revelation hit me at the back of my head and left a huge lump that made me cried in a weird kind of relief. I realised that no matter how we plan our lives, or how we do not; no matter how many steps have made us fall, or how many tries have made us succeed. I realised that we will still be alright. As long as we have a good head on our shoulders and working limbs, and an active mind to keep on dreaming and aspiring, we will be alright. That it is not a complete doom even though life does not turn out the way we have always hoped for. As long as we are happy with who we are, we are still the person before the whole world changes, we will be fine.

Truth is, we all grow up in eventual time in different ways. If I tell you today do not try to grow up too fast, you will not listen to me if your heart still desires for an escape. No matter how many testimonials I have put forth for you, no matter how passionately I speak of my experiences, no words are ever strong enough to murder the infatuation you have for another world. Until you have been there and back, done that. However it is, it will come. This transition. This moment in time when it dawns on you that you have crossed over. Will you feel relieved. Will you feel sorry. You are the master of your fate, captain of your soul. You have only yourself to thank, to blame.

Bits of Brisbane : Picasso on the streets

"Graffiti is art. Picasso on the streets. You can't rush art."

 

QUT : Creative Industries Precinct

God with a paintbrush

"Then something unusual. Something strange.
Comes from nothing at all." - Damien Rice

Kelvin's got balls

Unplayed piano

"She sits alone in her silent song. Somebody bring her home." - Lisa Hannigan

It is one of the two or three things I quit in my life so far. I was in college when I announced to my parents over dinner that I would like to quit piano lessons with tears in my eyes and hair in my mouth. I was already preparing for the Grade 8 examination. I have only one final grade to go and I will not need to deal with the piano anymore. I still get the same reactions now from fellow friends who have completed their eighth grade. But you have one more grade left. Oh what a waste. Yeah. Maybe it was a waste, jumping off the train when I was so close to home. But playing the piano has turned to be more of a task than a volunteer. I found myself dragging towards the piano reluctantly just to practise for the lesson a couple of hours later. I was merely playing for examinations and not pleasure. I have to go. I have been like that since Grade 6 or Grade 7. I remember limping to piano lessons on Saturdays after long morning hours of band practices. Sometimes I was so emotional I teared up when I could not play up to my teacher's standards. One can only put on a mask for so long. One can only pretend everything is alright for so long. I have to go. So I left. I have never touched the piano ever since. I never sought for this closure.

When I was younger, I would like to believe I am destined to join the school band when I hit high school and that somewhere down the line, I will go study Music in University and become some artsy musician with wages to boot. I will be honest with you that I got into the school band in Standard 4 because I was attracted to the uniform. It was shitty, looking back right now. But you know how uniforms are. There is confidence weaved in the lanyards and stripes. With that I brought myself to the high school military band. The first two and a half years were crap because seniors were snobbish like that. But I was oh so fortunately chosen to make the transition. I blended in with the seniors and eventually, I was put on the committee list as the Woodwinds Senior Leader when I was in Form 4. There was not much competition, to be frank. I was just at the right place and the right time. We were already starting to run low on talents.

Every day of my life in the band was the best. Skipping classes legally for hours of band practice under the sun. Face it, every one of us (even the leaders, save maybe the conductor and the drum majors) faked nauseats to have a longer break of an extra hour or two. Having special threatments from the big shots of high school. Our principal loved us to bits and every other uniformed societies fucking hated us. The incentives. Never in the life of me I would be so active to get incentives. I was never a smart student to go on national speaking competitions or a sporty athelete going places rubbing gold medals on my school walls. Getting ready for performances will always be something I hold dear to my heart. Something vain and cocky no other people will understand. Getting our uniforms from the Quartermasters, double checking the lanyards and sleeves and badges (making sure my double rank badge is included to boast about my position), polishing the instruments. There were National Day parade marches, State and National level formation competitions, in which we fail to win the latter every time. There were tears, there were sweat (and a hell lot of it). I screamed my head out, I cried my eyes out. I was disappointed, I was proud. I was happy.

School bands in Penang were never high on orchestra symphonies. Every day I craved to someday play in the Penang Symphony Orchestra and every day I find a reason to procrastinate myself. But I had an opportunity to be involved in something close to an orchestra. It was the PESS Band. We have to admit being merely a "band" because an "orchestra" includes string instruments and in PESS we do not have string instruments. It was a combination of probably four of the best high school bands in Penang. But when the performance date nears, a few members from the PSO team jumped on the wagon. The conductors had connections, you see.

It was a good few months. The songs chosen were nice to hear and I paid so close attention hoping that when it ends, I will still remember some pointers. I always forget things too easily. Sometimes, I go through life thinking I did not learn much but when really, I just forget. The conductors were encouraging. I was given a solo only to be taken away from me. I had to bite my tongue because he was a star flutist and an apple in the eyes of Penang's most sought after conductor. He eventually became my friend-cum-drum-major's boyfriend. Still is. He is a year younger than me and studies Psychology in HELP Institute. A fucking smartass. How could I protest? It did not affect me till I was in shambles. But there was always a small hint of disappointment that the solo part was so matter-of-factly passed on without even a polite "is it alright that he plays the solo now?" But I understand. Symphony orchestras are business. There are bureaucratic politics. It is a dog-eat-dog world. It is cut throat. Besides, I was more than happy to be a part of it. I was never really properly borned a musician.

I reminisced much of those days after I have left. I bought Gustav Holst's The Planets - in which three of its suites were performed in PESS. Back in my older house in Tanjung Bungah, there was a swing outside. I would listen to the songs under the dark starry sky and imagine a different world above and beyond. It was a nice escape. It was a nice remembrance.

I remember the Swan Lake Suite vividly. His name is Eric and he is an oboeist. He has given us a few workshops during the PESS practices. He is quite a cocky fellow. Everybody hates him at one point or another despite his good looks and charming smile. One can never be certain how many devils hid behind that smile. He plays the flute good but plays the oboe better. It was a few hours before showtime for the PESS performance. It was dark backstage and everyone was hogging the tuner and frantically searching for the neutral wavelength. He was wandering around and playing the memorised solo from the suite. Like a dawn breaking on crashing oceans. Like a beautiful creature emerging from the dark confinements. Like a flower sprouting from cold white snow. I will always remember the way his tune slices into my head. I will always remember the way I quench my thirtsy heart with the song. I always thought of him whenever I listen to the opening oboe solo in A Storm is Coming from the Return of the King soundtrack.

It hurts. It does. Whenever I listen to instrumental songs with crystal clear flute solos. It kills. It murders. When I hear piano solos calming my heart in ways I can never achieve if I were to play it myself. How I wish I am able to do something about it. To be a part of something so big once again. But despite all that I have lost, it brings comfort on days when songs with lyrics are too much to swallow and every sung words are too heartbreaking to cry one more time. It brings back older memories. Once upon a time I belonged to something I loved. Once upon a time I was a part of an evolution, a symphony, a music. Once upon a time, I was there. Like a graffiti attendance on a clean wall that cannot be erased.

Maybe I can have the chance to proceed this life of a classical musician if I have another me. Pick up the flute again. Try harder to play the piccolo and eventually settle for the former instrument. Learn the oboe. Learn the clarinet. I love woodwinds instrument. Learn the violin, an instrument that takes up most of your life to shape and mold to perfection. But alas. I was borned a single unique form. These fingers will now only try to speak of a world not able to be captured in three by fives. Something intangible and invisible to the naked eyes. It will be forever lost once it has come to past.

When did I let it slip through my fingers, I am not certain. Is it when I begged to stop playing the piano? Is it when I retired from my position and handed the flute I have been playing for three years to the next protege? But whenever the soothing keys of the piano start playing and the vibrating sounds of the flute start blowing, I can feel like I belong once again. If only to pretend. If only for a while. To a life of thick scores and majestic symphonies. To a life I will forever wish to be a part of.

Secret Garden

"Someone's coming home. In hand a single rose." - John Mayer

People have asked me what my favourite flowers are and I always fail to give an answer that will stick. Picking a favourite type has never crossed my mind seeing that for the life of me nobody significant has ever gotten me flowers. No guys have ever had the need to court me with nature's pretty dresses that I have to specifically sit down and ponder over roses or carnations. So with that, my favourite kind of flower is left undecided. However, I would like to believe chamomile is my favourite. It smells good in my hair.

I have seen flowers being exchanged throughout my life. In high school, I had a mate giving another mate flowers for her birthday. I have never had such inspiration to present flowers to friends on their birthdays. For my short span of time working in Dell, I see bouquets of drying wrinkled flowers still left in cubicles. Something to remember. Something to smile at. Jennifer, a colleague, is blessed with the most adored husband who delivers flowers for no apparent reasons at all. The white roses at her cubicle were living an afterlife of old musty brown when a new bouquet were brought in for her. She said she felt like Miss Earth and had an urge to wave her hand only a crowned winner would know how. We could not help but sigh. Sharon, my regional manager, received a bouquet of forget-me-nots on her birthday from us. She loved the flowers to bits. Before I left, they were still glowing behind her laptop. I remember dearly of my presence at the busy airport in Hong Kong. A guy presented his darling a bouquet of flowers for her homecoming. They embraced. They kissed. They were so lovely I could not help smiling and wanted to follow them home to allow such optimism to linger longer.

I got my first bouquet of flowers from my family when I was hospitalised back in September 2004. I remember the date clearly because it was September 11 and when the doctor was called in, she brought along the night's newspaper with the World Trade Center's twilight substitute blaring on the cover page. While I was squirming in a mysterious pain, I stared at the picture that has nothing to do with me. I was bored out of my mind. Room For Squares and Heavier Things were only interesting till the third round and The Simarillion would run out soon enough if I read it too fast. I had a long week to go in the lonely hospital bed that I was glued to due to my immobile lower half.

The flowers came as a surprise. I could still remember the instant smile that was smacked onto my face when the delivery guy appeared timidly from behind the curtains. I could not help looking at the flowers. I could not contain this surge of happiness that seemed to blossom the way the petals stood. It was at that very moment when I realised how marvellously flowers can affect a person's emotions. You see it on TV. You see it on the streets. But what you fail to see is this feeling bubbling inside. It was a lesson well-learned. I kept it true to my heart.

However, it is the cycle of life that will end it all. An exchange between life and afterlife that knows nothing of forever. I retreated to my beloved bedroom on the second week. I requested to sit next to my flowers - including the bouquet of roses from Ames and a single lilac from Sze Mien and Ee Ling. Not to breathe in their heavenly scent but to see that they do not fall into harm's way on the long journey home. I could only protect them so much. I looked at them when I was bored. I sprinkled water on their petals. When the day they wrinkled and slowly died, I felt my heart drop like their drooping forms. For that, I learned not to gaze at a beauty that falters in front of my eyes. My mother threw the flowers away when she thought it was time. I did not protest.

I got another bouquet of roses from my family for my college graduation. Frankly, it was expected. It is a graduation tradition of some sorts. To present the graduates with flowers. You might shudder at two things during graduation: (1) Your entire family do not attend the ceremony, and (2) You did not receive any flowers from them. The flowers did not thrill me as much as the ones during the hospital did. Maybe it was the unexpectancy. Maybe because they were roses. I suspect I have problems with roses I will never know why and what. Maybe in the past life I was killed within the confines of rose thorns encircling my limbs and neck till I am out of breath, out of blood. Maybe.

I have a strange fascination on roses otherwise. They are over-rated. They are commercialised. They are in killer red. They are dipped in hypocritical blue. They are a proclaimation of love, of forgiveness, of courtship. Or maybe. They are a premonition of an ending they soon bring alongside their foreseeable death. Give the flowers five days the most to hold the intention of the sender. When they die, they do not mean anything they say anymore. Your heart will break, your forgiveness forgotten, your courtship a high school joke. A friend was presented with roses from her ex-boyfriend. Soon after that, they broke up. See. Premonition.

I wrote stories revolving these devils in disguise. A reader pointed out my weird fascination that got me thinking of my love-hate relationship. One spoke of the premonition I just mentioned. The other was an everlasting proclaimation that kept a relationship intact even after changes and distances. I broke hearts and mend the mess I made. It is closure. It is what you should do as a writer to not let things hang in midair.

The flowers we hold for the ceremony were more like candids and show-offs than appreciation. We were running around armed with our bouquets, snapping pictures with mates you merely speak a few words with during the whole two years in campus. Makes you wonder how many true friends you made in college. Not many. We were comparing bouquets, appreciating what our mates have more than the ones in our arms. We carried our flowers everywhere. Upstairs. Downstairs. A graduate should not saunter around campus on her graduation day without a bouquet of flowers. An unwritten rule or something. It seems abnormal without a bouquet in your arms.

I never bothered with this bouquet when I got home. I left it downstairs next to the piano. I barely noticed it whenever I passed by. When they died, I never knew when.

I was 20 when I gave pink roses to my family members. I did not know what sparkled me to do so. Maybe it was that time when I decided to buy my mom a bouquet of pink roses for her birthday (Or was it Mother's Day). I can still remember the instant spread of smile on her face when I emerged from the passenger seat with the bouquet. She could not stop talking about it to her friends via the phone. I kind of felt bad for my sister for not informing her about it. Although it was from both of us, we both knew our mother would only remember the person that brought the flowers home. Or maybe it was because of the lesson I learned.

I snuck up to my room when I returned home on my birthday with the roses. It was sort of easy. My dad was not home. My sister was out somewhere. My mom was pottering in the kitchen and would barely turn around to see my return. I kept the roses hidden in my room and hoped nobody would come in and see them. Past midnight, when they were all in bed, the roses were near to death from the suffocation in my humid room. Blame the weather. I felt a tad bit annoyed at their drooping forms. The petals were shut tight. I almost hated them.

I wrote my family love letters, thanking them for the 20 years of my life, apologising for my childish behaviours. I have learned that not everybody will know what is going on in my head unless I tell them. So there. It was closure. I was bleary the next morning when my dad came in to peck me on the forehead and thank me for the letter. I had to give my sister's rose the next day because she locked her door the previous night. My mom mentioned about the letter to my god-sister the next time she came to visit. I knew she was happy. I was happy.

I learned in from TV. Some Taiwanese program. Give guys sunflowers. I do not know the meaning behind that but sunflowers seem like a better choice than roses. I also read from some forwarded emails that THE SURVEY showed that a larger percentage of all males out there do appreciate it when girls give them flowers. I must admit, it is a shocking surprise. The percentage was even at the 90s mark.

So I asked a handful of my guy friends what would they think if a girl (or their girlfriends, if they have one) would to present them with flowers. Either on an occasion or not. One straight out spat at the thought because flowers are for sissies and gays, and if the girl is smart enough, she would buy him fancy gadgets rather than something so impractical. Another teetered at the borderline a little but in the end, put on his macho face and said it is better not to. The others with girlfriends said yes why not. But they said that mainly because they do not want to offend the girlfriend. They would "appreciate" anything their girlfriends give them. But you know deep down inside, they would feel weirded out and wish it never happened. Only one genuinely answered yes. Of course, it would be a surprise and sort of weird but yes why not. It is sweet. Who knows? Maybe flowers can trigger this sudden burst of happiness too even for the said dominant kind. It is universal. It is unisexual. They are only human.

So maybe I start liking flowers with visible flowerheads that are bigger than the petals. Sunflowers. Daisies. Dandellions. Flowers you remember of when you mention spring. What else? Forgive me, I am not an expert in my father's garden of 44 springs. But beware. Every rose has its thorn. That goes for every flowers out there too. They are not meant to be off from the ground. You are plucking life from soil. Dwell in the happiness these summer dresses can provide. But do me a favour. Come autumn, come death, do not look at them if you still want to lie to yourself of a beautiful world. Keep the dresses in the closet. Do not try to make them stay either. Because you may grow fat for the colder seasons. They may break a strap or taint an ugly stain. You cannot stop the world from turning. You cannot stop a person from dying, a flower from dying. Close your eyes from the funeral to remember the bright colours. What comes next, is another spring to be happy about.

Credit: Sunflowers by my Eskimo friend.

In search of a Pink-losophy

"It's the colour of the world. Pink is the colour that makes everyone stops and notices. Pink is the colour that spreads across the prism of suns, and vibrates through streaks of moonlight." - Eskimo friend

Bits of Brisbane : Goodwill Bridge

"Burning bridges in the morning light." - Remy Shand

 

Seriously, how many bridges do you need in merely the heart of Queensland? Eleven. It is really absurb but true. My eyes may be playing tricks on me but I have spotted three bridges over the Brisbane River near the city area. One for only pedestrians, one for only vehicles, one for pedestrians and vehicles. Only these three are more than enough but then I found out there are eight more around Brisbane.

1895: Albert Bridge
1932: William Jolly Bridge
1936: Walter Taylor Bridge
1940: Story Bridge
1969: Victoria Bridge
1972: Captain Cook Bridge
1978: Merivale Bridge
----: Centenary Bridge
1986: Gateway Bridge
1998: Jack Pesch Bridge
2001: Goodwill Bridge
Source: Wikipedia.org

I am a hermit. I barely set foot in the Gardens Point campus. So when I found out the Goodwill Bridge starts from the edge of the campus, imagine my astonishment. I do not see Penang Bridge starting at the backdoor of my high school. So, it is an honour. Lame, really. But you can ignore me.

The first time I crossed the bridge was during night time. I neglected my kickass camera that is why I did not deliver any night shots. But fret not, not much cameras are able to take steady shots at night. So you did not miss out much. Besides, Brisbane is blessed with stark blue skies and Simpson clouds. It is prettier in the morning.

History lesson. The Goodwill Bridge was built in conjunction with the Goodwill Games held in Brisbane back in 2001. Sad excuse, really. You build something just because a major event is taking place in town. Hey, some Olympic-like game is coming to town, what should we do to stand out? I don't know. Build a fucking bridge! What is this Goodwill thing anyway? I have not a bloody idea.

Anyway, it is a pedestrian-cum-cyclist-cum-rollerblader bridge. From Northside to Southside (or vice versa), it spans across the Brisbane River, linking from the Queensland University of Technology Gardens Point campus to the South Bank Parklands, nearby Griffith University.

Gawd, is this entry boring or what?