'It's Obvious What's Happening Here'

With a small map printed on a brown piece of recycled paper (which also holds other related information to this year's Beautiful Junk gig / art exhibition), I made my way to Armenian Street yesterday evening, in search of its exact location (for later, today).

The evening appeared darker than usual due to the rain. The drizzling more apparent under Jalan Masjid Kapitan Keling's turmeric yellow streetlights. The towering mosque on my right (the only landmark used in the map) after a long row of money changers on my left, a Chinese temple before that on the right. Puddles and vehicles (the familiar bad combination) made it a trek instead of a walk.

As of this moment I've only have a rough idea of where the event will be held. There weren't any signs or posters outside of any of the buildings. The few art galleries in the vicinity (which were closed at the time) added to my uncertainty. I was surprised to find crowds of people at some junction before the lot (after all it was still raining), gathered for a Friday evening trade. The way things were laid out, as open and without frills (and packaging) as they were, gave me the instant impression that the wares were hot. Anyway, I left the scene without knowing exactly what was on sale and for how much.

I went home and wrote all night while listening to The Maharajah Commission's 'Dialogue Amoreaux' (which supposedly, according to a close friend of the band: had only a handful sold. Yeah.), in its entirety and chronology. Noise rock to stimulate awkwardly hand-written verses and prose. And poorly too, might I add.

I would think that I'm more comfortable writing on the computer than any other media. I would write one sentence, edit it half a million times by exchanging words in it which are very much similar with what I had originally typed or restructure it, write another sentence and repeat. And no one would know how much time I've spent on it.

Things would be very much different if it was the mere paper and pen; my sentences would be crude, crude things since there is little room for corrections. There, it is a constantly obstructed language, clumsy and broken, but one which I can only hope to better myself in; perhaps one day when I am writing letters again, but in the hand-written words of my next incarnation.

And: No, I won't go moshing today.

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