I can totally relate.

Except for the making out with myself part, of course. But the dude who did this is a genius.

The Spiderwick Chronicles - Retold.

Inspired by the Spiderwick Chronicles, this story has been through a number of incarnations. And each time I change it, it sounds less and less like the story that inspired it. Still, it was the Chronicles that kick started it. Many incarnations also means many hours spent. I certainly hope that the quality is proportionate to the effort spent. Enjoy. =)

It was a curiously bound book, wrapped in purple velvet with a gold spine, and gold flowers printed on the cover. It had nothing written on the cover, nothing to indicate what lay within. Around it was a matching ribbon, tied neatly into a bow, keeping the tome from being unintentionally opened. The little boy stared in wonder at the book that lay on the table; he had never seen anything quite as unusual. He was quite apprehensive about the book, the superstitions that seemed to govern the workings of all things strange were clanging the alarm bells in his head. He was drawn by the book, that much was apparent. Its flamboyant colour and intricate mural that decorated the cover appealed to him, for no particular reason he could think of. He was asking himself if he would ever find the courage to pick it up and open it.

It wasn’t exactly the first time he had found himself in such a dilemma. For so much of his life, the boy had let fear of the unknown control his conscience. It was only recently that the natural urge to explore his surroundings, that seemed to be inherent in every other child his age, took a hold of him and started his journey into the uncharted waters that he had once felt content to leave unvisited.

The tug of war still raged in his little head, but this time, as it had been in his recent history, curiosity had an inherent upper hand. The reassuringly cold tone that superstition used to take seemed to have lost their powers of persuasion. Finally, after two hours of deliberation, the boy made up his mind. He crept up carefully and silently towards the book, as if afraid of offending it by making sudden moves. When he stood within an arm’s length of it, he stopped and stared at it. It was even prettier up close than it had been from where he had been sitting. The boy began noticing little details that he never saw before. He decided that the book had to be special.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled at the ribbon. As the knot became undone, he heard a soft sigh, as if the book was talking to him. He stared at it. The book was alive. Or had he imagined the sound? Shrugging away his petty concerns, he slowly lifted the cover.

It was full of writing, complicated cursive written in compressed paragraphs. The boy had enough trouble reading in block letters, so neat lines of flowing writing looked like a messy jumble of random lines to him. He was intelligent enough to pick out certain words, and he began to piece together the story of the book a little at a time. He found the writing to be very melancholic, and most of the time, very evasive. He could never actually be sure about what he was reading, not knowing if his interpretation was accurate. Still, he persisted.

As he flipped the pages, he reached a sudden change of tone in the book. The writing became more pronounced and larger. At the end of the page was a large print warning :

‘Proceed no further. You will bring nothing but harm to yourself. I beg of you, dear reader. Put me down’

The boy froze. The message was clear enough, written in such a way that even one of his limited vocabulary could understand it. He read the message again. And again. And then he flipped the page and kept reading.

Some would call him stupid to defy such a clear warning. Others would applaud his tenacity, but ultimately conclude that he asked for the consequences that he would have to pay for. As he continued scanning, he felt himself lose control of his own conscience. His actions were no longer his own, yet it seemed like he had done everything by himself. He was in a haze, a dreamlike state from which he couldn’t snap out of.

As he continued, he felt a sudden stinging in his right arm. His first reaction was to retract his arm, but his body defied him. Another sharp spike of pain seared his arm, and he started screaming. There were no physical marks, just a continuous barrage of unadulterated torture.

`The open page of the book flipped itself, and from its glowing pages, rose a shining meat cleaver. Terror overwhelmed pain, but the boy still could not move voluntarily. The large knife turned around in the air and presented itself hilt first to the boy. He heard a sad whisper in his ear. ‘Cut yourself free, dear child. Remove that part which hurts you so.’

Frightened and confused, the boy sat there doing nothing. He suddenly realized that he had control of his left arm. He flailed about trying to release himself from the bond, but always found himself being drawn back in. The whispering continued, ‘Cut yourself free. Cut yourself…..’

“NO!”, cried the boy. He was still defiant, refusing to give in to the pain. There was something more than just himself in this chain of events, and he was determined to see it through. But the pain intensified, and more voices joined in, telling him to let go. Telling him to do what he needed to do.

He reached for the cleaver, willing himself to get it over with. But each time he drew close, something within himself stayed his hand and kept him from touching the weapon. Then it happened.

A white hot flash of pain burst through his arm, overwhelming his senses, very nearly driving him insane. Reality set in very quickly and in one swift motion, he severed his right arm at the elbow. The pain shifted at the moment of slashing. It was a thoroughly different kind of pain, but equally torturous. The fact that he now had regained control of his own body did little to dampen the burning.

He collapsed into a sobbing heap as to book snapped itself shut. The ribbons that had held it together did themselves back into a pretty knot.

The boy’s stubbornness had cost him. Again. He had left a piece of himself in the book, never to regain it.

Unless, one day, the book sees it fit for him to continue reading.

I haven't written a caustic rant in a while, and even I'm beginning to miss that part of me. With any luck, regular service shall return. =))

For the love of a project.

He walked briskly, wanting to get the matter resolved quickly. His posh leather shoes fell silently on the soft carpet, making his heavy footstep sound a lot lighter than it actually was. The lack of exercise was beginning to show; he wasn't quite the compactly built person he used to be. He passed the abstract sculpture that stood in the middle of the waiting room as he walked. He never liked the sculpture. Too ostentatious and vulgar for his tastes. It actually looked like some ancient phallic symbol, which isn't exactly something you want as the focus of the waiting client's attention. But the boss liked it, so naturally, he kept his opinion to himself.

He turned into the brightly lit meeting room at the end of the hall and found Nathan sitting at the end of the conference table. He was staring at the mess of papers that lay before him, his mind quite obviously wandering. There was a look of defeat on his face, a look that he had carried a few times before. Only this time, it almost looked devoid of hope, as if he had lost one battle too many and he was going to leave everything to rot now. At the sound of the door opening, Nathan snapped out of his dreamlike state and sat up. "Micheal! Finally! A voice of reason!"

"What happened?", asked Micheal.

Nathan picked up a folder and flung it across the table. Micheal stopped it before it could fly off the edge and took a look at the cover. Across it, was emblazoned the insignia of Jetstar Enterprises.

"What about Jetstar Enterprises? I thought this was a work in progress. Under top administration instructions. One of the long term projects that our apparently brilliant CEO seems to think is a worthy investment," said Micheal.

"I looked at the books already. It doesn't look good. Percentage probability of actually hitting the target the the CEO has set is in the single digit zone. And even then thats after heavy investment and a long string of making the right calls. This is bloody insane!"

"Mate. This is investment banking. Its always crazy. I've seen projects with worst odds make it before."

"Yeah, but this is ridiculous. Even the upper management of their company has told me that they welcome the investment, but they can't provide any returns. He actually asked me to take our money elsewhere. They know that they can't deliver."

Micheal frowned. "They actually said that?"

"Yes! And our CEO's response was 'have faith, son'. God dammit, sometimes I feel like wringing his idealistic neck. This company is a no-go. Every manual on investment banking will tell us to stay away. I got consults from a few third party bankers. All of them gave negative appraisals. One actually pointed out that even if the company does post a genuine profit return, which it won't, the alliance is not likely to work. Two separate philosophies. I just don't know why our CEO loves this little project so much."

"There are some things you just cannot explain, Nathan. Just accept that."

"Don't you go pseudo-philosophical on me now! You know very well what this is costing the company. At first, I played along. It looked like a fantastic deal actually. I had a few doubts, but when I started to get to know the company, things started to look up. I was actually cautiously optimistic. Then I went to one of their meetings and they dropped this huge tangle of problems in front of me. And every subsequent meeting, the web gets more complicated. And here is the kicker! I can't untangle it. I'm not allowed to. Apparently, its all very complex and it will be a complete bother trying to explain the whole thing to me. We have to seriously cut back our involvement with this company. It could spell the end of our organization."

"Nathan, listen to me. You just came out of graduate school, and you have this very preformed idea on how the system works. I'm not saying its wrong. I'm saying that sometimes, things just don't work out the way you want them to. But we are a company with principles and values, and we will stick by them. Whatever the cost. If leadership wants to love its little project, then let them do it. There is more to life than making money. How you make it and who you make it with is important too."

"You're kidding right? Money is money! Its the same wherever it comes from. And besides, we can never provide them what they want. We don't have the ability. I've seen their journal online, and I know that we don't have the kind of understanding that their past backer used to have. Its heart-breaking, but so searingly true, that I can't ignore it. We can't compete. Time to cut our losses and move on."

"Dude. You have no idea what you are talking about. Maybe you will in the future. But let me give you a word of advice. Stop fighting it. I've given in to it, and everytime you storm into the CEO's room and you try to prove a point, he is just going to brush you off as the noob who doesn't get it. In a way, your apparent discontentment could be setting off alarms in Jetstar Enterprises. They are not going to storm off and refuse to cooperate because of you, but they are probably going to resist the ultimate aim of the company a lot more. We already have a whole bunch of things working against us. Don't make it any worse."

There was a tone of finality to the speech. Satisfied at making his point, Micheal turned and walked away.

/curl up and cry

/wake up to reality

/wallow in own insignificance

/scream

/emo

/repeat cycle

Teardrops on my guitar.

I never make music endorsements in public, and for good reason. I don't really think that I have a right to do so. But this song....

There is just something about it. Its sad, but it makes me smile. (not in a cynical way, I know what you're thinking) I can't really say that I particularly relate to it; it is after all about a girl pining for her friend who is seeing someone else. And I can't really say that I play the guitar either. And its sappy and uses a lot of the usual love song lines that song producers seem to love recycling.

I suppose ultimately, it does tell a bit of a story, and I'm a sucker for that kind of thing. I still listen to Stand (Eminem) and my favourite song from Music and Lyrics is the one that the washed up pop star sang to win the girl back, not the main theme song that the movie revolved around. And as atheist as I am, I love Hallelujah, the soundtrack from Shrek sang by Rufus Wainwright.

One thing though. I had no idea what Taylor Swift looked like until I saw the video. I imagined it to be a melancholic brunette strumming a guitar while sitting on a stool under a spotlight looking sad. What I got was a blond bombshell in an evening gown singing on her bed hugging her guitar.

Dude.

I guess I don't see the song the same way as the music video director.

Feminists, may I introduce you to your worst nightmare.

I wrote this post a long time ago, actually as a very immature response to emoness. But I guess the ghosts of the past have been mostly banished, I'll publish.

A bit strong, but then its just my opinion. And last I checked, a very unpopular one.

I seem to have built up quite a reputation of being a hater of all things related to Japanese culture. I've ranted about anime, the influx of Japanese music, and I've written an article about how the Japanese are just as guilty as the Americans when it comes to cultural imperialism. To be honest, most of my criticism of Japan in the past really did spawn from fear of the unknown. You know, the old saying 'What you don't understand, you fear'. I never did understand Japanese culture, probably because I hold much of oriental culture at contempt. But now, I'd rather just ignore that part of the world and let them do as they please. After all, they aren't doing any harm.

So, which part of Japanese culture is a danger to the feminist movement? One word. Kawaii. The most overused and popular of Japanese vocabulary exports. Anything positive is kawaii, much like how anything negative can be represented by fuck in the English language. The underlying causes behind the kawaii phenomenon is scary. Granted, the people who came up with these causes were just postulating. They are theories, which means they are not proven causes and are still very much open to debate. If I had a better understanding of the human mind, I would be able to come up with credible opinions of my own, but for now, I borrow from the pros.

There are links between kawaii and social acceptance. And the lolita culture. And submissiveness. And general helplessness. Its almost like anyone who wants to be kawaii wants to be the damsel in distress. The helpless little girl who needs a man to take care of everything. It just so happens that there are lots of men who like girls who turn to them for everything. Gives them a sense of control, massages their ego.

So any girl that sticks two fingers into the air and squeals 'kawaii', and then later in the day bunches the same hand into a fist and screams 'girl power' is essentially being hypocritical. To me, you can't be both. Pick one, and stick with it. I'm not saying that one side is better than the other. Each has its merits, and depending on what gives you fulfillment in life, choose.

Feminine feminists can exist. Kawaii feminists are just confused people.

I may have mentioned anime in the start, but this post has nothing to do with that. For the love of God, don't misinterpret this post.