Never say of anything, "I have lost it"; but, "I have returned it." Is your child dead? It is returned. Is your wife dead? She is returned. Is your estate taken away? Well, is that not likewise returned? "But he who took it away is a bad man." What difference is it to you who the giver assigns to take it back? While he gives it to you to possess, take care of it; but don't view it as your own, just as travelers view a hotel.

- Epictetus

I've been sick with a virus all week, yet I turned up for work each day, because my team had so many projects to be actioned before the office closed for the Christmas break. This little display of corporate patriotism put me in bed for the first three days of my ten day holiday. Curses! Am I stupid or what?

I went to see a doc on the weekend, hoping he could speed up the recovery, but he wouldn't sell me any drugs. He said antibiotics are useless for a viral illness, because they don't make a difference unless there's a bacterial infection as well. But he did proscribe an expensive placebo to calm my coughing... a mysterious sugar-free elixir that tastes suspiciously sweet. "It'll make you a bit shaky" the chemist warned me, "just reduce the dosage if the shakes annoy you." Actually, I'm quite enjoying the enduced twitching. My arm pulses like it has an auxillary heart all to its own. It's sorta cool, like I'm some prison psycho on the verge of going bananas.

In other news, a friend's colleague collapsed in the office last Friday. When the paramedics arrived they pronounced him dead of a heart attack. He was 28 years old.

Lying in bed for a few days gives you plenty of time to think. How am I feeling? Numb, mostly. Followed by lonely, and sad. None of which has anything to do with being sick. Life has been distant and surreal, days and weeks slip by without registering in my brain. Suddenly it's Christmas and I realise it's been almost four months since she left. Thinking like this makes me angry. It's been 4 months! Stop wallowing you sad sack of shit! Just get over her! Move on! This is the time of year to be happy! You could drop dead tomorrow! Is this how you want to spend your last day on Earth? Lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself? Get out there! Forgive and forget! That's the way!

His friends would say 'Stop whining'
They've had enough of that
His friends would say 'Stop pining'
There's other girls to look at
They've tried to set him up with Tiffany and Indigo
But there's something about Mary that they don't know.
Mary... there's just something about Mary...

In the past few days, a few friends have come forward and put their arms around me and said "Be strong, we're here for you." I've been touched by these small gestures of kindness. In my distraught state, I felt I was alone in the world. I wanted to die like a phoenix, and be reborn from the ashes. But even when I did not feel like talking, a few special people have spent time with me, and shared my grief and despair. In my weak and pathetic state, I am grateful to know that I have friends who are willing to step up to the plate and protect me. Most of all, I am relieved to hear others echo my thoughts and feelings - it means I am not going crazy.

Before last Friday, the phrases "a heavy heart, a sinking heart" were just that - words. I never understood this could be a literal state, that one's heart could indeed become too heavy, and sink until every heartbeat felt like a pain in one's chest, a hollow, sad note from an old bass drum.

One night you were so sick you were shivering with fever. I brought you dinner, washed your dishes, undressed you and tucked you into bed. Though I was tired, I rubbed your back til you fell asleep. Then I lay down beside you, and listened to Norah Jones sing 'The Nearness Of You'. In the dark, with my eyes open, I imagined our future.

We had a love that was simple and pure. We took care of each other, and we had no need for fear or distrust. Life was not about problems then.

But this man, he does not know love. This man, he is insecure. This man, he does not dream. The world is not the same. The pain will fade with time, but I feel unalterably changed. My heart was unshielded, and the knife went deep. Will it ever heal completely? Will I be capable of sharing that kind of love again? Or has this experience hardened me, made me distrustful and cynical?

There will be many other nights like this, and I'll be standing here with someone new.
There will be other songs to sing, another Fall, another Spring, but there will never be another you.
There will be other lips that I may kiss, but they won't thrill me like yours used to do.
Yes I may dream a million dreams. But how can they come true, if there will never be another you?

Without exaggeration, this is the lowest point in my life. Nights are worse than day. I can't sleep, tortured by images I cannot be part of. Reality is destroying my memories, my truths, my ideals. I can't believe they are together. Could she really have changed that much? I can't bear to think she is the same with him as she was with me. If that were true then the most beautiful relationship in my life must necessarily be diminished. They say they were meant to be. My heart clouds over. Could she ever say that? If so my world would crumble. I thought we completed each other... if they were meant to be, was does that mean for me? That the memories I hold dear, the dreams I live for, are not meant to be? Are impossibilities? No, I can't accept it. But if she's truly happier, then our relationship is cheapened in my eyes. Did I imagine it to be perfect? Was I deluding myself? My friends say no, because others noticed how beautiful it was too. Everyone was shocked.

I cannot sleep tonight. The city is burning, and the wind beats relentlessly at my window.

I don't like what I'm hearing. The thought of the love of my life fucking my so-called friend just kills me. The knowledge consumes me, shatters my dreams and hopes. How could she leave me for that superficial asshole? Everything I believed in is now under question. I feel so foolish. I denied it to myself because of the devastating implications of the truth. Insane lies, cheap emotions, worthless memories. What's there to live for once you realise you don't know your lover and you can't trust your friends? I built my life around these relationships, and now I find myself exiled to the desert of hard feelings. And in my confusion, daily life seems like an annoyance, an unbearable distraction. I need time to think. I need someone to talk to. I need to know I can count on my friends to care for me and help me deal with this immense betrayal. I have been bitten by a snake. My blood curdles and burns with the poison. But to kill the snake would be a pyrrhic victory. I need an antidote so I can once again feel the ground beneath my feet, and enjoy the slow breath and swell of being alive.

"Child, what is it that you seek?"
"The truth sir, the truth."
"The truth is in your heart."

Watched this documentary about the Holocaust. The filmmaker interviewed some Polish villagers who lived next to the concentration camps... they all claimed to have been ignorant of the mass murder that went on around them. But how could they ignore the billowing smoke and stench of burning flesh that inundated their homes day and night? If you witness a man being beaten to death and do not intervene, does that not make you complicit in the act? What if the murderer was a friend, a neighbour, or a brother, and he had good cause to hate that man? Would you turn him in, or sympathise and shelter him? Moral dilemmas. In our comfortable first-world countries, we often forget the violence that punctuates human history. Would I have dared stand up to the Nazis? Would I have joined the underground resistance or just turned a blind eye? I think my principles would have driven me to take up arms. But what if the people being persecuted had wronged me in the past? Would I still have this moral conviction?

She holds the hand that holds her down

If you witness incest, and say nothing, are you not condoning the rape, encouraging the rapist? Sure, incest is not a black and white issue, the line between rape and consensual sex is sometimes blurred. But even if you commit incest out of love, does that truly absolve the relationship of its social stigma? Why do these stigmas exist? Is it purely because of increased likelihood of genetic mutations? Or because they threaten the moral foundations of the family, and community, the institutions which give meaning to our lives?

Incest deprives the child of a childhood seperate from adulthood, of parental guidance and love distinct from the selfishness of sexual lust, and vice versa. Hence girls who experience incest as a child are more likely to slip into dependent relationships, and become prostitutes, pornstars, drug abusers, beaten wives and the like.

It's sad that the children are unaware that the behavioural patterns they accept out of love, will alter their lives in incomprehensible ways, endangering the possibility of experiencing untainted love later in life - the altruistic love of equals, without submission, confusion, self-loathing or heartbreak. Yes, the child is not always an innocent. But even the Lolitas of the world deserve a glimpse of life's many possibilities... a rich delta of fertile valleys and tributaries stretching out to a mysterious, cloud-swept horizon... a view of alternate futures that they are deprived of, held back by the arms of inappropriate lovers.

A busload of anonymous Chinamen passing me in the street remind me that my life is as inconsequential as the next. One should not take things to heart, for in this world a million souls come and go, so downtrodden they are ignorant to the sadness of their very passing.

What is my paltry drop of suffering, against the salty ocean of ambivalence? In a world of wars, climate change and wholesale extinction of species, one man's suffering is another man's "I don't give a fuck." I kick your dog. I take your paper. God giveth, and God taketh away. Wax on, wax off. Better you than me.

Well bite the wax, tadpole. Look for the fly. An eye for eye, a mule for mule.

Confucious say, "Who am I, but a speck of light, on the ass of a fly, on the ass of a mule, taking a particularly putrid dump. When one could so easily be a piece of shit, to feel light, even on the ass of a fly, is glorious."

Things I long for. Peaceful light, strangers at the door. Oh come in, come thru the door. You've been here before. Oh you've been here before.

Been finding myself alone a lot more than I'm used to. It's got me thinking how an unexpected breakup can fuck your life up... shock, betrayal, bitterness... Group dynamics are thrown into disarray as relationships are polarised. Suddenly, you wonder if your friends are really your friends. Motives are questioned, loyalties glimmer and fade in the limelight of emotional turmoil. Can you believe what they say? Can you accept the silence of what they do not tell you? Can you tolerate knowing you're not as important to them as they are to you?

For that very reason, should you forgive or forget them? Perhaps it is not your choice. Is it not ironic that a friend you cannot trust is worse than an enemy? At least we never let our enemies get so close, and we are not surprised when they wound us.

Thinkin about my relationship with miumiu... it was her birthday on Saturday... I found some old letters, and a fragment of conversation on the net... a review of Luc Besson's film Joan of Arc, leftover from the toto days. God, we were so bright back then... we had so much energy and conviction we inspired others to seize life by the collar and make it their own. It feels like I've achieved little since those heady times. Besides this blog, I have little creative output to show since I finished uni. Even Miso says I was going somewhere back then, but now I seem weary of the world. A tired snail, a beaten down nail, a nowhere man... or as Molly used to tease me back in high school, "You're an abcess on the bowel of progress!"

Hg feels depressed because of a lack of meaningful relationships in his life. I have many meaningful relationships, yet I feel the same way. I can feel the rope slipping between my fingers. You have to hang on, to get to the top of the hill. A cruise liner drives thru the squalls and massive swells, steadfast and indominatible. But I'm a mere pleasure craft, sailing with the prevailing winds. When I am alone, I watch DVDs and lie in bed, listening to my Mac shuffle thru my enormous mp3 collection. Lemon Jelly, Brandy, Cibo Matto. I think about my ex-girlfriends. Do I like the choices I made? No, not anymore. Do I know what I want? Happiness... or unhappiness. The type that allows you to enjoy your suffering and die with lust. To live again in the heart of that glorious overture. Hear that sudden lift? A crescendo of joy, so loud it echoes into history.

I am Yu Law! I am nobody's bitch!

You, Nereis, have been an artist and a thinker, a potato worm full of joy and faith, always on the track of what is great and eternal, never content with the trivial and the petty... You have a picture of life within you, a faith, a challenge, and you were ready for deeds and sufferings and sacrifices, and then you became aware by degrees that the world asked no deeds and no sacrifices of you whatever, and that life is no poem of heroism with heroic parts to play and so on, but a comfortable room where people are quite content with eating and drinking, coffee and knitting, cards and radio music. And whoever wants more and has got it in him - the heroic and the beautiful, and the reverence for the great poets or for the saints - is a fool and a Don Quixote.

Got a letter from the film school today. They won't even look at me. Disappointment bubbles. I was always worried about being practically empty, about having no serious reason for living. And now, confronted with the facts, I am sure of my individual nullity. Like Phil Collins said: "Take a look at me now, there's just an empty space." 120 applicants, narrowed down to 12 interviewees, then 4 lucky so and so's who get to spend the next year of their life learning how to direct films. I was hoping to at least make the shortlisted twelve. But no, the letter says I didn't even make the top 30. Oh yeah, rub that salt in! I ain't hurtin enough already. But behind the disappointment, an overture of relief. The verdict brings with it clarity and conviction. I must concentrate on my career and enjoying life. For now, the great polarity of my life has flickered out. The internal conflict is subdued. Will it return? Will I go on to make more movies and re-apply next year? Not bloody likely, but who knows? If I meet the right people anything can happen.

Before the letter, I ran into Vince. He's going to work in the US for 3 months so he can learn Spanish at night-class and then move to Barcelona. I like Vince. He thinks big. But everyone tells him, "Do you know how silly that sounds?" I draw inspiration. The more you understand the world in which you live, the better you live. I will play with my life until I am happy with it. I will imagine I am more. As Hermine explained to me, "We demonstrate to anyone whose soul has fallen to pieces that he can rearrange these pieces of a previous self in what order he pleases, and so attain to an endless multiplicity of moves in the game of life." Like the invisible man who's always changing his clothes, it's all about taking the easy way out. This is the art of life... you may complicate and enrich it as you please. It lies in your hands. Just as madness in a higher sense is the beginning of all wisdom, so is schizophrenia the beginning of all art and all fantasy.

Found a moment of solace in this short Elliot Smith song - not even two minutes long, but crammed with bittersweet meanings. It seems all his songs are inspired by post-breakup angst and new beginnings. Me, myself, I'm moving on, from track 4 to track 2 to track 7.

A lot of hours to occupy
it was easy when I didn't know you yet
things I have to forget
but I better be quiet now
I'm tired of wasting my breath
carrying on, getting upset
not over it yet

Maybe I have a problem
thats not what I wanted to say
I prefer to say nothing
I got a long way to go
I'm getting further away

You don't need my help anymore
it's all now to you, there ain't no before
now that you're big enough to run your own show
you're just somebody that I used to know

I watched you deal in a dying day
throwing the living past away
so you can be sure you're in control

I know you don't think you did me wrong
and I can't stay this mad for long
keeping a hold of what you just let go
you're just somebody that I used to know

I remember what you said that night
ain't it the truth?
you're gonna be a penniless bastard
another wannabe in film history
I gotta leave you for some security
so when I go home I'll be happy to go
and you'll just be somebody I used to know

Tonight I feel old and sad. Found some old photos on my computer. Seems like yesterday. I know I was there. I feel like I'm there. But it only exists in my mind now.

I don't believe in there being "a one" for all eternity. I believe there are many people who could be "the one" if you just came across them at the right place at the right time. But it's not easy to find another "one", as the majority of them are taken at any given time, or living in faraway places. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I think I found one, and then I lost her.

Looking at her face I feel like crying. Strange feeling. Why did she leave me? She was very sick that day. I was worried and wanted to go back to the hotel. But she looks so happy in the photos. She loved me so much. Where did it go wrong? How could I have missed it? It ended badly. I was too proud to admit it was happening. Until it was too late. Then I begged her to stay. How stupid of me.

I want to touch her now. But she is gone.

Now laughing friends deride
tears I cannot hide
so I smile and say
when a lovely flame dies
smoke gets in your eyes.

I've come to realise something about myself. I deal with grief not by indulging it, but by trying to overwhelm it with happiness. I try as hard as possible to be happy, which may give people the impression that I'm not all cut up about it, or that I'm already over it. Like the strong silent macho type, I hide my wounds and grieve in my own time. My grief is a shitty black ball, which I kick around inside my head. But if it's poisonous sometimes the best thing to do is to let it bleed. I say this with a heavy heart, because it spoils the pretty picture that might have been, the ending the audience so much wanted to see. Instead of a romantic ending, they're getting the messy beginning of a new film altogether. You see, I bloody loved that woman, and it hurts to be reminded of what I have lost, or even to hear about other people enjoying what I no longer can.

There is to be no neat transition. No comfortable overlapping of worlds, hers and mine, past and present. That's why it's called breaking up. Like a Wing Chun kick to the kneecap, it is unexpected and bloody. There is a sharp and sudden break, and it hurts like hell. Suddenly, your reality has nothing to do with the rest of the world. Quite simply, your world is a broken kneecap. How you make sense of that is up to you. Your healing process can leave scars, and even permanent disability. On the other hand you may be lucky enough to recover fully with the assistance of a beautiful nurse.

There is a story about a traveller on a cold winter's night. He met up with this girl called Ludmilla or Hermine, and they embarked on many strange and wonderful adventures, but suddenly the words ran out mid-page, mid-book. There were no words to be found on the next page, nor any pages after that, as if the author had suddenly tired of writing and walked away. Saddened by the lack of closure, the reader had to search for an ending in a new book by a totally unrelated author.

What happened next? Well maybe that's another book still. Is it poignant or annoying, that this unsatisfying cobbling together of narratives is the only way we can make sense of our lives?

I know what you're thinking. Why hasn't this site been updated? Where has nereis gone?

The answer is rather mundane. Nereis has been working hard in the new job, 8:30am-6pm, going out in the evenings and coming home to sleep. Gone are the idle work hours in which the mind drifts to blogging. Gone are the evenings full of energy and wit. Nereis has been subjugated by the machinery of industrialised society. Another wheel in the cog, but a covertly happy one. Agent Nereis has successfully infiltrated the mainstream!

This charade has not been without its hardships. Blending in with all the other worker bees requires great dedication to one's appearance, so our intrepid agent has had to overhaul his wardrobe and start showering everyday. Out with the mooks uniform, in with the G2000! Out with the low maintenance haircut, in with the daily sculpting ritual! Out with the evenings spent playing counterstrike, in with the touch footy! The pain is more than symbolic. It is a rewriting of nereis. The sudden expenditure on appearance is more than vanity, it flushes away the last vestiges of a life that no longer exists. The rejuvenation of nereis, like all change programs, is inspired by a dream for improvement, and a return to roots. Let's get back to basics! When the gap between the walls suddenly seems too big, it's time to tear them down.

People often ask me, "What's your all-time favourite film?" An innocent question for most, a minor panic attack for nereis! I love so many films I'm unable to single out one movie as having changed my life more than the others. Having failed question one, I often struggle to pass question two as well: "What's your top 5 films then?" Given fifteen minutes or so, I can bumble out a reply, but I never seem to give the same answer, mostly because I've never sat down and worked out a definitive list on paper. It's been seriously bugging me. I feel somehow inadequate as a cinephile and wannabe filmmaker. How can you call yourself a lover of film if you can't even name your great loves?

Well as a starting point, here are 5 names, off the top of my head, in the order they occur to me.

1. Thank God He Met Lizzie dir. Cherie Nowlan
2. Vivre Sa Vie dir. Jean-Luc Godard
3. Chungking Express dir. Wong Kar Wai
4. Rebels of the Neon God dir. Tsai Ming Liang
5. Rashomon dir. Akira Kurosawa

Damn that was difficult. In many cases I love the director's work on the whole, rather than any particular film. In fact, I think most of these directors have gone on to make better films, but I've stuck with the films I saw first. Argh, I can't believe I left out films by John Cassavetes, Luc Besson, Jim Jarmusch and Woody Allen! I love those guys! And what about Kenji Mizoguchi, Jean Vigo, Emir Kusturica, Paul Thomas Andersen, Mike Takashi, Takeshi Kitano, the Coen Brothers and Hal Hartley? Then there's individual works, like Laila Pakalnina's The Shoe, Jean Renoir's La Regle du Jeu, Olivier Assaya's Irma Vep, Cedric Klapisch's When The Cat's Away, Sylvia Chan's Tempted Heart, Peter Chan's Tian Mi Mi (aka Comrades, Almost A Love Story), Yuji Nakae's Nabbie No Koi, Stephen Chow's Shaolin Soccer, and Terrence Malick's The Thin Red Line. But it's interesting that 3 out of my "top of the head top 5" are Asian films. I'm also glad that an Australian film topped the list. But I must admit, I just watched it, so I'm probably incredibly biased by post-movie exuberance and the fact that it's set in Sydney. Thank God He Met Lizzie is just one of those simple, honest films I wish I could have made. Rough around the edges, but filled with intimate moments of great beauty and tenderness. There are two lines that for me, sum up the entire spirit of the film...

1. You bit my bum!
2. The trouble with happiness is you don't know when you have it. You remember it.

Haven't had a drink in three days. Starting to feel depressed about things. It's true you can drown your sorrows in alcohol, but like a cockroach, they keep coming back. The moment you stop drinking the buggers come crawling out of the sink. You just need to smack some sense into em. Or some newsprint... Whatever.

I'm beginning to realise that when it comes to fight or flight response, I'm very flighty. I am an emotional procrastinator. I tend to block painful things out of mind... which allows me to be truly happy for days, or weeks even. But I also have a killer memory, honed by years of selective-school rote learning. So these dark thoughts never leave, they are just pushed to the margins of my consciousness. Every now and then I have to battle them, and cut them down to size with cold hard logic... something I learnt in philosophy class. Being able to zoom out and see the bigger picture is an invaluable skill. Sometimes we obsess over problems, we can't let go of them... we just want to squeeze them and feel the pain... like a zit on the nose... But the philosopher just zooms out to a distance from which the zit is not visible. And what he sees is a beautiful girl, standing in a park, under a blue sky.

But fuck it, sometimes it feels good to wallow. And fill the sky with falling anvils.

I am wearing white. But I have nothing but dark thoughts. I miss you G.

Barry knows Jeff Buckley's tracklisting by heart.
"What's your favourite?"
"Number 7"
"Lover you should have come over?"
"Yeah that one... and number 4"
"Lilac Wine?"
"How the fuck did you know?"

Been drunk almost every night this week. Not because I'm depressed or angry, but because all my friends want to commiserate with me. You poor bastard. You poor bastard.

Hey I'm a lucky bastard! Just look at all the great friends I have. Drink after drink. Mates before dates. Plenty of fish in the sea.

Falling into bed, naked and drunk... the bed is sinking as Jeff Buckley croons... maybe it's me sinking... I wonder if he felt surprised, drowning so quietly in the night currents of the Mississippi...

Sometimes a man gets carried away
When he feels like he should be having his fun
Much too blind to see the damage he's done
Sometimes a man must awake to find that really, he has no-one

Tomorrow I will wear white.

Broke up with G last night, to the sounds of the Cranberrie's No Need To Argue. So many excuses, yet I still don't understand. It just doesn't make sense. Why now? What's new? Yesterday was our 2 year anniversary, and the last night to work on my AFTRS application. She knew how important this was to me. I don't understand her timing. Did she come over to celebrate our anniversary or to carry out a pre-meditated break up? Was she hoping I could pull her back from the brink on this day of days? I was wrecked. So stressed. I tried to hold her but she turned away.

I didn't get any sleep in the end. My camera fucked up and I couldn't dump my work to VHS. Had to borrow a friend's digicam at 6am in the morning and jig work to get the tape done in time. Sent an email to everyone in the office saying I had a stomach bug, which was half-true as I felt like vomitting the entire day. I'm sure they don't believe me as it's the second day this week I've taken off to work on my application. But the deed's been done. I submitted in person and came home to shower, shave and sleep. Felt cleansed but somehow empty.

Listening to Pearl Jam now. Feeling fucked. Haven't listened to this album since '93.

Took the day off work and went to uni to touch base with my roots. I still feel like I own the place. New faces, old stomping grounds. Caught up with my honours supervisor, and gave him a bottle of 1995 Clare Valley that I stole from my dad's cellar. I need him to write me a reference for my AFTRS application, but I told him the bottle was for the years of guidance. This man used to let me sit in on final year production classes when I was in first year. I wonder how different my life would be if I hadn't found a mentor like that. After chatting with him, I've decided I'm doing the right thing. It's okay to not have a dream and be a nobody. But to have a dream and turn your back on it, that is true cowardice.

What have I gotten myself into? I've been having an incredibly rough time lately. My Ah-Ma said I had both the rich way and the poor way written on my palm, and that I would take the poor way. Is that true? Is that what I'm doing?

It seems I would rather attempt something where failure is expected, than something where success is expected. Is that a fatal personality flaw or something to be admired? I'm not sure if it's bravery or cowardice.

Mulling over my personal statement for the AFTRS application. I need to sell myself to the examiners in a 3 minute video presentation. Why me, and not one of the other hundred applicants? I have to get them excited about my prospects. I need to convince them that I have the drive and vision to be a successful director. I must be charismatic, exuberant, confident and inspirational. All the things we idealise in youth. What will I say to the camera? Perhaps a little something like this?

My name is nereis, I was born in Australia 25 years ago, to Malaysian-Chinese immigrants. I grew up in Melbourne and Sydney, living in the suburbs but spending most weekends on the family farm. I went to an Agricultural high school and did well enough to receive a Co-op scholarship in Business Information Technology. But my favourite subjects at school were English and visual arts, and even as I was studying Business and Information Systems I was writing filmscripts and reviewing films for the student paper. I was two years into my degree and working fulltime at the Stock Exchange as a computer programmer, when I saw Hal Hartley's Trust and decided to change course. I was quite unhappy at the time. I was attending uni at nights, and writing my scripts on the train to and from work. Despite the prestige of the scholarship, I felt I wasn't getting the exciting and collegiate university experience that I wanted. But most of all, it was the fact that Hal Hartley worked in a construction company for two years before enrolling in filmschool and becoming a filmmaker, that made me realise it wasn't too late for me to become one too.

So I gave up my scholarship and switched to Arts to follow this dream. Out of all the artistic mediums, I feel film excites the most senses, it best captures the mind's eye. I've been writing and making short films for 5 years now, and whilst I'm still not a great filmmaker, I feel I have the persistance and dedication to become one. I want to make films that create transcendental moments, moments of joy, moments that make others want to tell their stories. I hope to craft romantic, humanistic stories, like that of the Italian and Japanese neo-realists, but with the inventive, playful style of the French new wave and Hong Kong action flicks. My key issues and themes revolve around globalism and cultural conflict - the displacement and struggle of individuals to negotiate some measure of happiness in a rapidly changing world. But I'd also like to explore more universal concepts of desire, duty and destiny - how these divergent forces create compromised identities and dramatic chains of events.

I want people to fall in love with my characters, and be moved by the transitory beauty of the images I create. I want to surprise them with ideas and emotions, thrill them with imaginative associations and stylistic leaps of faith. Above all, I want to tell stories with sincerity. I think this is one of the great strengths of Australian cinema - the honesty and integrity we bring to our films. There is a sense of love and pride in each movie we produce. These are not mere works of entertainment but expressions of our culture and ability. Each Australian film has a sense of its own importance - there's a reverence that resonates even in our most commercial films. However, as a young country with a boutique film industry, we have a lot of room to grow. Our prospects are fantastic. Globalism and multiculturalism have had a massive social impact on our culture and identity, creating many questions that need to be investigated, new stories that need to be told. We have yet to document many aspects of this cultural sea-change, and I think it is this need that will drive an exciting new wave in Australian filmmaking.

I have a long way to go before I can contribute to this industry. I have yet to learn how to block a scene effectively, get the most out of my actors and master the technical aspects of this craft. I hope AFTRS can help me achieve these goals, by providing me with mentors and collaborators that I can learn from. In 5 years time I hope to be making my first feature, exhibiting my work at film festivals around the world, and helping others make their films. Or at the very least, earning enough money to support my writing and filmmaking projects. For me, that would be happiness.

Listening to Danger's anthem and typing like a speed-freak. Lately, the impulse to blog has been closely tied to mp3-inspiration. I've been doing a lot of downloading as I work on my creative proposal for the AFTRS application. My "killer treatment" is coming along quite nicely. I now have a good storyline with developed characters. It's a weird mix of reality and fiction, as was my last film. I like this approach because you can document your friends and certain aspects of their reality within a dramatic creation.

A nasty piece of reality is unfolding at work. Looks like the latest round of workforce reductions is going to claim me as a victim. One of my four remaining colleagues was made redundant last week, setting the scene for my own forced exit. The timing is not bad actually, as I need more time to prepare my AFTRS application! But I'm worried about cashflow and career direction, now that the rug is beginning to slip. My sideline web-design business is beginning to show promise, but not enough to be a viable safety net. Luckily I've lined up a job interview for a trafficking/planning position with a large advertising agency. It's not exactly what I want to do but it's a glamour agency with big clients and the opportunity to move around, or so I hope. On the downside, campaign trafficking is a classic shit-kicking job and pays significantly less than what I get now. Still, I'm excited! If I get offered this job I'm going to take it, redundancy or no redundancy. This place is dead anyways! Bring on the next episode.

Paul Simon's singing about wanting to go to Graceland, and for some reason, I feel like I know what he means. I went to Graceland today. The sun was out and I was missing my women's sunglasses, but it's a condition of my rehabilitation that I give up my sickboy accessories. Had lunch with Nath in Crows Nest and drove out to the AFTRS to clarify a few things about my application. In the end there wasn't much clarification to be had. The student centre advised me to "do whatever you think would improve your application." In other words, the more work you put in, the greater your chances of getting in. Not quite the answer I wanted to hear, with only two weeks left on the clock, and fulltime work about to resume next Monday. To top it all, my little sideline web-design business is finally beginning to generate some projects... 3 of them in fact, due mid-September. There's no rest for the wicked.

I need to draw on some of Kweli's persistance, dedication, and concentrate on getting my application in on time. Now that the pennicillin is kicking in, the pressure is on to make up for lost time. I'll need to be firing on all cylinders and then some. From the look of the other candidates queued up in the student centre, the competition will be fierce. When I asked the helpdesk if people were submitting scripts and storyboards, or just a plot synopsis for the creative proposal component, this snooty nerd behind me told me to write a treatment, not a synopsis. I gave him "Blue Steel" and blew my nose.

Proceeding to the AFTRS library, I booked a screening room and watched a few short films by Ivan Sen, Cate Shortland and Teck Tan - 3 recent directing graduates whom I greatly admire. Watching their work was both impressive and scary. I'm not capable of such exemplary filmmaking, but the thought that AFTRS can train me up to that level justifies everything I am now struggling with. I've decided to write to Teck Tan and volunteer to work as an assistant on any of his future projects, if he'll take me on. Aimee at SAPFF says she'll help me get his contact details.

Now the big question is, can I get all this done in two weeks of evenings and weekends?
1) write, shoot and edit a 3 min personal statement
2) recut my honours film to make it look more professional
3) write, shoot and edit a 3 min critique of my work to date
4) write a killer treatment for a new short film

Can I get some action from the back section? Pull the finger out nereis! It's time to do some real work.

Flame on! I'm gone!

Listening to Akhenaton rap in French about God knows what. His mysterious hiphop argot is strangely soothing... maybe because I don't have to think to enjoy the lyrics.

I close my eyes but they still feel like they're popping out of my head. I've got blood in my snot and a headache that just won't go away. Looks like I was premature with the declaration of Stayin Alive... the T-cells might have won the battle but they were so busy celebrating on Friday night they lost the war. The doctor says I've shaken off the virus but have now come down with a bacterial "Upper Respiratory Tract Infection." In other words they have no idea what it is, but it's not the flu. And to top it all my wisdom teeth are descending. I'm in a world of pain!!!

Application status: not good.
I've been in bed for 9 days now, and not in a good way, like, say, Pam & Tommy's honeymoon. I've tried reading books, watching DVD's, anything to keep the little momentum I had going. But it's futile - even the Fresh Prince of Bel Air makes my head hurt. Yesterday I started taking pennicillin. Noted some small improvement today. Forced myself to get out of bed and get some work done. Blogging is a start... I haven't had much human contact in the last few days... so not enough sympathy! Need to share my misfortune around and move on.

As my braincells die around me, I've had little bursts of inspiration. Part of the application is a personal statement about my ambitions, what I want to contribute to the Australian film industry and how I think AFTRS can help me get there. I also have to pitch a film that I would like to make. I'm not sure whether this is a supposed to be a short film or a feature film, but I've woken up in the middle of the night twice now with ideas for this project.

My starting point for the personal statement is that as an Asian-Australian, there are not many Australian films that I can identify with. Most Aussie films are about our colourful criminal underground or moody identity/reconciliation pieces set in the Outback or the Bush. There is a distinct lack of Asians in the Australian media, but like the Greeks and Italians before us, our time must come. So I would like to help build this AA new wave by making playful, humanist films about Asian youth in the cities, as well as stories of Goldrush diggers, pearl divers, cane cutters, islanders, students and tourists.

Ideally my career path would follow that of Ang Lee. After representing his peeps in his early films, Ang was able to escape from his pigeonhole as an self-conscious Asian director and make films that appealed to a broader audience. Similarly, I would like to make a film about the horse racing industry in the 1950s, in the age before drug testing, when jockeys and trainers got away with race-fixing and murder. I'm also fascinated by international airports, where the drama is played out by a constantly changing set of walk-on characters.

I'm actually very passionate about Australian film. I like how our films strive for some truth or sincerity. There is a goodness about them... perhaps the innocence of a young nation coming to terms with itself. Our national cinema follows a more European than Hollywood model, in that it is relies more on colourful characters and relationship-based stories, rather than novelty and marketing. To put it another way, Australian films have less bullshit and more heart. For these reasons, my favourite Aussie films are Thank God He Met Lizzie, Bliss, Newsfront, Gallipoli, Chopper, Lantana, Two Hands, Walkabout and Last Days of Chez Nous.

I'm aliiiiiive! Long live the T-cell! I've been laid out horizontal for the last 4 days, at war with the flu virus from hell. Today is the first time this week that I've been able to read and write without causing brain damage to myself. Come to think of it, it's been a week of consistent brain damage, thanks to some glorious stacks and drunken antics down in the Snowies. I spent the weekend living it up at Blue Cow, trying to remember how to ski after not having performed the act in 10 years, and enjoying the love of the Westside massive in what was undeniably the biggest bender of my life. Out west they like to show you love by holding you to the floor and forcing you to drink spirits straight from the bottle, despite slurred protestations that you're already paralytic and can't even stand up to take a piss... or something to that effect.

Anyway I felt the love and even got to give some of it back at the end of the night when I generously projectile vomited on a friend who was trying to tuck me into bed for the third time, ruining her favourite pair of jeans. I haven't hurled like that since I drank a whole magnum of cheap champagne at an end of semester philosophy party. I remember the Nietzsche video making more and more sense as the afternoon progressed, and having great intellectual difficulty walking home to my ice-cream bucket. Which I promptly filled 4 times, no less. Since that profound moment of exorcism I've been unable to even sniff champagne, that nasty bourgeois plonk, without turning green. The Neech would've been proud.

But I have to say Philosophy Piss-up 1997, had nothing on Slope Invasion 2002. This was debauchery of the purest kind, a la Antonioni's Blow Out, minus a few prostitutes and deaths. And in the highly competitive "I'm sooooo drunk" stakes, vomitting on Teresa's jeans actually put me one up on everyone else. I had miraculously, gained some uber-male cred for soiling designer female clothing with my highly flammable bile. Yet despite the accolades of the morning after, guilt pressed itself upon my heart. Before I could even sober up, the jeans had been washed and sterilised, there was nothing I could do to atone. Should I offer to buy her new jeans? That would be one very expensive hurl. I settled on a more pragmatic course of action, and vowed to lie in wait for that fateful day, when I could return the favour by proferring my trouser leg at a time of great need.

Ah, such chivalry is worthy of poetry...

Feel like I should be happy going into this 2 week holiday and writing happy things, but when the sea changes it's never calm. Returning to the snows this weekend with the westside massive, really looking forward to it and to the two weeks of concentrated creativity that must follow as I prepare my AFTRS application. Trying to cram myself with fresh TV, books and music, in preparation for this challenge. Seeking that old confidence, trying to visualise the dream. But still lacking mental vitality... where has it gone?

Stop dreaming / People who say that are blaspheming / They're doing 9-5 and moaning / And they don't want you succeeding when they've blown it.

Meanwhile Mike is back from the UK for the exact 2 weeks that I'm off work. He sounds like he's having the time of his life, bringing home the paper from the land of Sterling. Can't help reflecting on where I'd be if hadn't left BIT back in 96. The choices we make... Forks and consequences. Comparing makes it hard to keep the faith. I read in a stock trading book that everyone gets what they want, in the end. If they lose money, it's because subconsciously they didn't really want to win. Or rather, they didn't want to lose a lot of money, so they had to lose it all. What do I really want? Is my subconscious leading me down the wrong path? Rhetorical questions. It's all about happiness, and who's to say who's happier?

One thing I've learnt in my current job - never confuse effort with results. The boss likes to use this to deny people their bonus. No one cares how hard you tried if you've got nothing to show for it. You have to stay focused on results, not preparation or dreams or anything else. No one deserves it, but someone's gonna feel the gold and the others get their heads flown. Why shouldn't it be you? Think of your idols, who are they? They too dreamt about their day. You have to keep making positive steps and avoid being lightweight. That's what keepin it real, really means.

My uncle wants to bring his family of 6 to Australia. He's coming in under the business immigration plan, which requires him to turnover a minimum of $200k a year and employ at least 3 aussies. So he plans to open a bakery or takeaway joint and take me under his wing. Not sure that's what I want, but it's not always about what I want. Besides, a family business isn't too different from climbing the ladder. If anything, you've got more motivation to put your back into it. Who knows? Maybe what he wants is what I want, and I just don't know it yet.

It amuses me that I actually want to work harder. But it's true. Soldiering under a stick is boring. Put a bigger carrot in front of me and I will perform. It's all about respect. Respect for yourself, the work and your boss. Currently, I can't think of any good reason why the other two deserve it. Luckily there's lots of potential developments on the horizon. And I'm in good company, so I feel safe, no matter the outcomes. In the meantime, I'm staying focused on my goals, and looking forward to good things.

Simon says "Get the fuck up!"

I haven't been blogging lately. I've been going through a rather flat period, vaguing out on Civ 3 and CS and generally avoiding getting my shit together. My friends have been generous and encouraging, providing me with many enjoyable distractions - soccer games, steamboat, R&B nights, great parties, a weekend of snowboarding. Life has been good. But I've been annoyed with myself for mentally wallowing... am I fattening up as planned or just plain rusting? Certainly, Nereis has been AWOL for over a month, either verbally constipated or chasing the skirts of inner truth. But tonight I got that good feeling, when you know sitting down to write will help disperse the vagueness, get some momentum happening again.

Weighing on my mind is my application for the AFTRS - Australia's national film school. 90% of the time, I'm convinced I don't have a chance of making the cut. I've been reading the bios of recent graduates on the web... I don't fit the MO. I'm not early-30s, white-Australian, with a couple of short films and a few years of lowly-paid industry experience under my belt. And I don't wear a black leather jacket! However, not everyone that gets into AFTRS fit this MO. So I could be a contender, I could be a somebody. My friends have every confidence in me... they're unnerving me with their confidence... who do they think I am? Dawson Leary? Unfortunately my life isn't scripted. I can't be sure there's a happy ending waiting for me...

Readying myself for this year's application I realise just how unprepared I am. I haven't done enough training courses, lived in foreign countries, or worked on other people's productions. I'm about 5 years younger than the average directing graduate. My portfolio is entirely composed of my own creations. The films I've made are not impressive on paper. Any fool can string together a resume with half a dozen home-movies.

On the other hand, I'm Asian, I'm passionate and articulate about film history and theory, and I have first class honours in film studies thanks to a 30min drama I made in 2000. But it's only shot on video, with non-professional actors, and 2 years on, it looks very amateurish in comparison to the $9000 films other candidates have made. Aiiish. I must stop thinking of the obstacles. Like a tight-rope walker, I should imagine myself treading a mere crack in the pavement, instead of a wire suspended 50m in the air. It's all in the mind... I think.

If AFTRS rejects me, I've committed myself to an extended overseas adventure, a year or two waitering, taxi-driving, and doing whatever the fuck it takes to get the interesting experiences I need to draw upon as an independent writer/filmmaker. I will enrol in short courses and volunteer my services non gratis to interesting film productions and sundry artistic projects. In short, I will go out of my way to become the ideal candidate for the filmschool.

And if they still won't take me, I'll do a Ph.D and become an inspirational teacher of film studies like my honours supervisor. Do you know what Ph.D stands for? Or I'll become a professional film critic and gloat over my reviews in the weekend paper. Oh Nereis, you are one smart cookie! As the old adage goes, "Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, write." I don't care. There's more honour in each of those options than never gave it a shot cos he was too chickenshit.

{ An ode to chickenshitness }
Call it pride, but I'm not sure I can give up my taste for money and fine things. With most of my friends working in finance and I.T. there's a real risk I'll end up being the only penniless bastard at Friday night drinks. I won't be able to afford a nice house, a decent car, the kind of freedom that money affords. Am I brave enough to risk a "hand to mouth" existence? The decision to break from the safe and narrow allows no room for compromise. It's either an exciting life of arts and leisure, or a short sojourn into the unmapped territories of failed ambition and back again. Hands up who wants to spend their life hanging around the sets of second-rate films and TV commercials?

{ Reprise: Damn where have we heard that before?! }
Scanning through my blog I realise just how many times I've written about this dilemma. Creativitiy vs. Comfort. I amaze myself. So much clarity in the writing, yet so little action. Where do you want to go today Nereis? The 9-6 shit-kicking is killing you. You're not learning, not being stimulated, instead thinking more and more like a shit-kicker. The void beckons. Bonsoir! Pull it together. Start reading again. Start thinking and writing. Practice your craft. Get out there with the camera and start capturing. What you really want is to make Groundhog Day, not live in it!

"Right mindfulness is essential to any art", I read in The Book of Tea.

Just watched Keeping the Faith for a second time, with the filmmakers commentary on. I find this exercise to be an easy form of education, a way of re-establishing the right mindfulness required for filmmaking. Before this special feature of DVD's, it was difficult to get inside the mind of a filmmaker, to observe the craft and not merely the end product. It took many hours of strenuous decoupage and poring through books like Projections and magazines like Sight and Sound in order to get a sense of this right mindfulness - the ecstatic buzz of things coming together, a rush of ideas, images and emotions, a glimpse of art through the maze of coincidence and process.

Sometimes this maze seems to go on forever, in all directions. Knowing the scale of the challenge facing you is not always such a good thing. Perhaps the only way to get through these challenges is to keep your head down and keep walking. Although it seems a lucky few are given wings to fly above its walls and bluffs, to glide through to the other side.

Right mindfulness is so hard to maintain. The important knowledge rarely falls in your lap. You have to go out into the wildnerness to seek it out, and bring it back to feed the fires of right mindfulness, to stoke the sparks of inspiration. And all this effort can still leave you cold. The temptation to give in to pleasant mediocrity is strong - after all, no one expects this of you except yourself.

The loneliness of embarking on a personal journey. When you start out, you don't know what you will gain, only what you are giving up. The sadness is real. Like meeting soulmates in foreign airports, it's not always easy to leave in the morning.

Ah it's one of those days again. Tired at work. Tired of work. But thankfully, not working. Haven't got much to say these days, have been suffering from mental blanks the size of Cincinnati. Not that I know how big Cincinnati is. in fact I'm not even sure how to spell it. I am avoiding real thought. Yet I must respond to the mewling of my readers. Like a hungry cat, blog readers must be fed regularly, or they drift away and get lost amongst the countless dried leaves.

Went to Yoga last night. It wasn't as silly as I thought it would be. But it felt like I was in church again, watching other people speaking in tongues and entering private trance-like states. I just couldn't open my spine and sit bones to "The Breath" no matter how many demonstrations the teacher gave. My favourite positions were flat on the mat, falling asleep, which I nearly did, except the teacher's somnambulous voice increased my suspicion that she was hypnotising us, or merely filching from people's coats. Yoga is a great scam. At the end of the 90 minute session, we each paid $15 and floated out into the night. I wondered if she would pay any tax on that $300. If only I was more flexible, a lucrative career-change could be in the offing.

The light rain woke me from my yoga-induced psychosis and I headed into the city to meet Disaster for dinner. I complimented him on his German postal worker jacket - designed to be thick and toasty, so as to discourage the Indonesian textile-workers from stealing one for themselves. After a pathetic beef laksa, we ambled down to the Theatre of Dreams to watch the Kimchi vs. Bolognaise game. The Kimchi's were going off, and I lost $10 after betting on Italia to win 2-0. Strangely enough, the Asian solidarity feelings kicked in and I was actually happier for losing. You gotta love those real-life fairytales.

I've been too busy to blog lately, watching the World Cup everyday, helping G move house and partying with the Westside crew. Went to the Opera House yesterday for a studio session of experimental ensemble music headed up by Prop, who don't seem to recognise me anymore now that they're making it. Funny that. Then had a few pints at the Lord Nelson and went home to listen to The Streets.

Been searching for a new job and thinking more about further study in film as well. Got my application for the VCA. Apparently only 1 in 14 applicants get in, so I have to plan my moves carefully. The move to Melbourne is a bit daunting, being neither here nor there, as far as big moves go. I think I'd rather shoot off to the UK for a year or two. But the hardest thing is convincing myself that I've still got what it takes to be a successful filmmaker, whatever that is. Listening to The Streets helps. If a 22 year old bedroom banger from Birmingham can turn out a record like that, anything's possible. Just need to salvage some confidence from my high-rolling uni days and overwrite the more recent wage-slave cynicism and self-doubt. Just tryin' to stay positive...

Some of my friends have recently started new, private blogs, hiding away their true thoughts behind secret URLs. Miso even told me she now had 5 or 6 “other blogs”. What is happening to this world? Blogs are proliferating faster than nuclear weapons. So decadent are we, that one blog is no longer enough! Nooo, each writer feels s(he) must have a herd of blogs, incessantly breeding and overpopulating the fragile ecosystem that is the World Wide Web... We live in dire times. The blogs which originally inspired me to start my own have become thinner, and less juicy - weakened by the parasitic influence of their unseen spawnlings. This attack of the clones is causing a disturbance in the force. I demand a return to the salad days of free-range, vine-ripened blogs with taste and sophistication! Not these vague, unsatisfying table scraps I see being cast wily-nily into the dust.

For me, blogging is for ordering and rationalising thoughts to a level beyond conversations, daydreams, or self-conscious notebook jottings. The presence of a readership gives you discipline to rework and refine, to explore idle thoughts rather than discarding them distractedly.

Without readers, what is the imperative to blog? Self-understanding, no doubt. Cathartic gut-spilling. Exorcism of inner demons. But in that case why not just use a notebook? Pasting privates on the internet is a business, not a creative outlet. Do these people not realise that the shadowy stakeholders behind blogger.com may one day wield untold power to blackmail and extort people all around the world? Each private revelation you publish may one day be used to cut you down, in a very public fashion. Keep it in your notebook I say!

Yet I wonder what they write in their secret blogs. I want to see these unspoken, hidden thoughts. I am titillated by the uncensored, because this is where you find the most original, sincere and honest thoughts. I remember in Naked Lunch, Bill calls upon his fellow writers not to edit and rewrite, but to preserve the raw beauty of these first thoughts, the unstifled, confronting outpouring of prose that flows from an uninhibited mind.

But if the uncensored is more true, then porn says more about human desire than poetry. And pooetry therefore, constitutes a form of self-censorship - a frustated and pathetically decorative dance around some unspoken burning issue. Interesting indeed, nereisees. But do you want all your friends to be reading such dirty intellectualisms? A wanker indeed, you will become. Hmm. Perhaps I should start a secret blog of own, to store such controversial belchings… No! Resist, I must. Beware the lure of the dark side, young padawans! Stray not from the truths that scrutiny brings.

I hear dead people.

Trawling through my mp3 collection I realise that I get some sort of macabre kick out of listening to dead artists.

Bob Marley, Minnie Riperton, Bessie Smith, Tupac, John Lennon.

I used to think it was life’s goal to build a legacy – to leave the world an improved place. Maybe this is why their voices comfort me. Listening to dead people inspires wonderment, gladness, self-awareness. Through recordings, a life can be smudged in time, leaving an imprint outside of one’s lifetime. The voice of the dead, like the homevideos of strangers, transport you into the warm depths of memory, to a time before your life, to a time after their death.

Listening to their songs helps me see my own life as a story. Will I too, smudge a little in passing?

I rediscovered the mp3 last night. It's been awhile. In my Napster days, I went a little crazy, and downloaded 2.4 gigs of music over my 56k modem. But post-Napster, they sat forgotten on my hard drive, waiting for my ears to return.

What treasure! Plugging my chunky headphones into my Mac yesterday changed my listening habits instantly. Suddenly, every song was clarified anew, from nice, textured imperfections, to annoying pops and gurgles. So I fired up Limewire to try and find better versions of my favourite songs... only to find, new ones. Like India Arie's Acoustic Soul. That's what I love about mp3's... discovering obscure artists and songs that heighten my perception of the world.

Somehow I doubt India Arie's motown masterpiece will remain obscure for long, but without the mp3 I would never have stumbled upon the mysterious soundscapes of Nobukazu Takemura and Takako Minekawa, or the relaxing electro lounge of Yoshinori Sunahara and Nomiya Maki. Nor would I be grooving to french hiphop of IAM, the latin reggae of Los Cafres, or the intelligent words of Talib Kweli. These exotic musicians have educated me and made me stronger. They have given me a burning torch with which to keep Britney and Westlife monsters at bay. Burn Britney Burn!

I dance around my room in tribute to the great gods of mp3. It's time to stop consuming and start listening. I'm tempted to namethrow a number of other aural luminaries but its dinner time so I won't. You can go discover your own guides. Fuck Pepsi! We are the download generation!

I believe in astrology, as a way of classifying personalities honed over the centuries, and at the very least, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Reading about what you're meant to be like, guides you in a certain direction. Whilst some rebel, the majority conform to the traits of their class.

Perhaps this is why I now find so much truth in my Taurus/Snake profile.

A good current of chance generally protects me - I practically always find aid or friendship which will help me out of difficulties. The generosity of friends and family have opened many doors for me, and pushed me further than I would have gone on my own. Perhaps this is why I can't live alone - relationships with others occupy a preponderant place in my existence. I used to be an eternalist, I wanted to give my life to art, to smudge myself as far as possible into the future. But friends and lovers have given more happiness than the greatest of artworks. So I don't care so much about posterity these days. Happiness is far more important. I think the meaning of life is to gain the love and respect of those you love and respect. Who cares about what the others think? It's sounds so simple, it's wanky - when I don't live for art, I live for love.

But under my merry and carefree appearance are hidden powerful interior contradictions and tenacious secret anguishes. I am dreamy yet cynical, an existential eternalist, a romantic realist, a creative soul torn between desires for art and freedom on one hand, and wealth and respect on the other. I need certain material ease so as to feel reassured. So I fritter my days away selling shit to good people, and counting my dollars as a measure of progress, when really, what I am measuring is the infinite sadness of INERTIA. The great comedian, Bill Hicks, once said that people who work in advertising should kill themselves - "They're fucking us and they're fucking themselves." It's so true! Everyday I walk a little bit further away from my dreams. I tell myself that time is on my side, that the dollars earnt can buy my way back to the crossroads. Bobby McFerrin's barbershop hit plays over and over in my head.

That's the problem with contradictions - each desire provides a very good excuse not to give in to the other. If you're not careful, you end up exactly where you started, which is nowhere. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. In which case why bother living at all? My Ah-ma read my palm a few years ago, and was much saddened by the frenetic lines scored across my young hand. "This one will lead an unnecessarily complicated life," she said, "Because he will always take the most difficult path to where he wants to go."

Danger referred me to a horoscope website. Decided to cut and paste this for future analysis.

Snake/Taurus

You possess much charm and power to please; it's indeed very difficult for anyone to vie with you on this score. There also exists in your comportment a kind of funniness which makes of you a very engaging personality. You couldn't live alone — relationships with others occupy a preponderant place in your existence, be it about love, marriage, familial or professional relations.

But under your merry and carefree appearance are hidden powerful interior contradictions and tenacious secret anguishes. You've an interest in exorcising these from your youngest years, above all with the help of a psychologist or psychiatrist, so that you can extricate yourself from this marasmus sufficiently early and live a well-bloomed and happy life.

You're very much gifted for all kinds of things. Professional success comes along easily, above all in all that concerns the arts, show business, fashion, and commerce of luxury. A good current of chance generally protects you in difficult moments — you'll practically always find aid or friendship which will help you out of difficulties. You need certain material ease so as to feel reassured.

Very romantic and sensual, you accumulate successes with the other sex - one can by no means resist you. When you don't live for art, you live for love. But you are not of a basically faithful nature; and yet, it's only in a stable union that you'll find your happiness.

Have you ever done a google search on your own name? I was amused to find out how many fragments of my past have been dutifully cached on the net, filed away for posterity - the photos submitted to youth websites, and long forgotten music and movie reviews written for obscure magazines. I've even been quoted in articles written by strangers, making statements I have no recollection of.

Nereis, a Sydney filmmaker, thinks that many Asian films now reflect the distinct characteristics within displaced cultures. Worldwide migration has produced a diaspora where Asian “micro-cinemas” are forming in new countries, producing yet another outlook on Asian culture. Australia is experiencing the birth of such a micro-cinema, as Asian Australian filmmakers are more interested in exploring their identity. Nereis believes, “Asian Australians are finally allowed to be proud of being Asian, and that’s reflected in the films they make.”

How strange, to imagine all those unknown eyes, forever peering into my past, holding me accountable for things I wrote in different frames of mind, in different times and different places. I guess that's one of the risks of writing. Whilst you may have many faces and many voices, the snail trail of glistening words you leave behind tell a singular story - a monolithic body of evidence, like the carbon-frozen statue of Hans Solo in Empires Strike Back.

On the other hand, it's nice to know that by the time my soul parts company with this body, I will have left a virtual impression of myself on this world wide web - just a few mysterious traces, like the tea leaves that cling to the sides of the cup, the downy feathers that fall from migrating birds.

In a way, the internet is immortalising me and my previous and parallel lives, including the evil deeds being committed in my own name. For example, did you know I have a doppelganger out there, masquerading as the Assistant Director of Sports Excellence in Singapore? And that in a past life, I attended the Morton Elementary School in Ohio, Class of 1922. My photo is still there, I'm standing in the front row, bottom right.

Stars, passions, light... what was I thinking? I sound like some kind of schlep astrologist.

Did you know though, that when we look at the stars, we are seeing light that originated many billions of years ago? We are in effect, witnessing an image of the universe from aeons ago - before mankind, before the word-concept "star" even existed.

Just think of all the horrific apocalypses that we have yet to see - entire planets and alien races erased in giant bursts of supernova. The universe might already be self-destructing, our planet soon to be consumed in an immense flash of energy, rolling silently, majestically, through the cosmos towards us... and yet we live on, as oblivious and ignorant as the birds that flew above Hiroshima on that fateful day.

Then again, where now we see nothing but black space, there may be thousands of newborn stars with their attendant planets and moons - fantastic new galaxies teeming with the beginnings of life.

And for those strange and wonderful creatures, our story will not begin until billions of years after the last human has perished. What will they see? Is our purpose to serve as a warning to them? Will they come and dig up our bones, scour our sandblasted landscape for fossils and relics, and mount our pathetic remains in museums like dinosaurs?

We think we're hot shit, but maybe we're no more interesting than troglodytes or petty amoeba in the bigger scheme of things. Perhaps we're not the end point of monkey evolution, but a lesser form of milkyway mollusc, only marginally more interesting than the tinea found on Uranus? We aren't worthy of their museums! We're just a touristy gimmick to entice intergalactic travellers to take stop-revive-survive in this forsaken part of the galaxy!

Star light, star bright, what are you looking at tonight?

One thing about blogs is that they make you realise how quickly time passes. Has it really been one week since the last post? I feel compelled to write something new, even though I haven't really finished the last post yet. Too many days, too little thought, and way too much laziness.

Luckily, I have friends who can think for me.

I ran into Gracie at Danger's housewarming, and she gave me some cool ideas to complete my last post. No time to finesse them now, but here they are before I forget them...

Each piece of art is like a star - you can never have too many. Even the faintest one helps to illuminate our universe that little bit more. In fact, their incredible number is part of their beauty. A single speck in the sky versus a million specks - which one impresses you more? Then compare the daunting task of having to create a masterpiece as brilliant as the sun, to the simple task of creating just another star in a universe of stars. Thinking in this way, cosmic impossibilities become something we can grasp, and make possible.

Also, we should look at each masterpiece the same way we look at our ex-lovers. For a time, they were the brightest star, the centre of our universe. But time is like distance - it changes how we perceive things, whether we like it or not. Before we know it, that bright sun recedes into the distance, becomes lost amongst a sea of stars. Therefore we constantly need new stars, and new art, to rekindle our passions, light our universe, and show us where we want to go.

What does it mean when someone says "you are full of beans"? Are they suggesting you are full of energy - full of the seeds of great ideas? Or do they mean you are full of gas - just one big fart amongst farts, an expellation of odious nothingness - a windbag, an empty dreamer?

If I was truly full of beans, I would pat my stomach with the contentment of a man full of goodness. A warm belly is not to be scoffed at. Good digestion encourages contemplation - a kind of metaphysical digestion, essential to human nobility.

A recent visit to the Art Gallery has inspired me to take more time to digest my world - to ruminate on the relationships between objects and events in my life - to contemplate contemplation itself. Do we contemplate less than our predecessors? The painters of old had to carefully compose and craft a single image over several months, often several years, investing much contemplation in the subject of their work. We on the other hand, are faced with a proliferation of images so overwhelmingly vast that one could spend several lifetimes studying them.

Standing in awe before a painting that took 6 years to complete, I couldn't help thinking of the millions of photos we now produce everyday. Who has time to look at them all? In the ten seconds you spend contemplating a photo, ten thousand other photos are taken. The industries of mass media are producing more content each day than we can possibly consume in 24 hours. The weight of all this work is mind-boggling.

There are now too many masterpieces that demand contemplation, understanding, and elevation into something more than mere representation. The impossibility of comprehending them all annoys me. What then, drives us to continue producing? Do we really need more masterpieces? Why am I compelled to add my own creations to the already impossibly dense detritus of history?

Perhaps it's because understanding is not enough. The conclusions of contemplation must be acted upon, inscribed and shared with others, preferably through a medium that will outlast our frail bodies. From the first rock-painting to the 3D animations of today, we have progressively simplified the universe into forms we could understand and control, and thus unlock meaning in our lives. Each act of contemplation and creation then, is a small step towards gaining full control of our destinies.

"Love is the infinite placed within the reach of poodles."

Ah Celine, you funny frog. It's a pity you're dead. We would have gotten on well together. I'm flying through your "Journey To The End Of The Night" - it has been my faithful companion during this week of "working" from home. Your philosophy of "Pleasure first" is just the encouragement I need.

Like Danger, you delight in saying what others dare not, in provoking rather than prevaricating. Your fantastic assemblies of wise and wicked words are quickly filling up my little black book. We need more people like you to expose our dark thoughts for us, to make us laugh at our lusts, and share a conspiratorial chortle over life's inanity. Some writers just have more balls than the rest. To publish this in the 1930s makes me laugh.

"Even I who had travelled and experienced no end of complications in the pornographic line, never seem to have exhausted the hope of intimate revelations. Where the ass is concerned, there's always a residue of curiosity. You say to yourself that the ass has nothing more to tell you, that you haven't one more minute to waste on it, and then you start in again just to make absolutely sure that the subject is exhausted, you learn something new about it after all, and that suffices to launch you on a new wave of optimism. Indeed, there are always, at all ages, discoveries to be made in the vagina."

One other important thing you've taught me, it's that my struggles are nothing new. Money and boredom have always been the bane of humanity. Cursed with intelligence, we became bored. Boredom drove us to invent Money, and Money drove us to create everything else under the sun. But our struggles make us interesting. People who don't struggle are boring. Their energy is like the unflagging persistance of an ocean liner, plowing its way through endless seas...

The necessity of buying a new mobile phone has introduced a new way of looking at things. The phone I bought two years ago looks like such a pathetic interpretation of Star Trek futurism. This is 2002! Is it as futuristic as we all imagined growing up? Watching French films from the 60s and American films from the 70s has taught me to see time itself as a showcase. Jean Seberg in Godard's 1960 classic, A Bout de Souffle, is still as sexy as ever, because her short spunky haircut is back on the streets of today. It makes me wonder - when will our waxed and jagged haircuts become the goofy bighair throwbacks we see on midday TV dramas? The Citroens of old seem as futuristic to me as the iPod of today. But somewhere along the line, Citroen actually went backwards in time - from being futuristic to anachronistic. Meanwhile, the things we grew up with are now coming back into fashion as the kids of yesterday become the designers and trend-setters of today. Hence the 70s revival, which is now transmogrifying into the 80s revival. Why are E.T. and Star Wars being re-released? Is it really for the kids of today or us - the kids of yesterday?

Is time a physical law or a perception? Many things around us already seem like clunky, dinosauric remnants of an age that thought it was thoroughly cutting-edge and modern. The beige box computers we use look like something out of the Flintstones. A shiny black Remington typewriter from 1920s is much more impressive. The 1970s targeting computer used in the Rebel's attack on the Death Star was cutting edge in its time too. I often wonder how I managed to get so enthralled in those monochrome games... Pong on the Atari, Donkey Kong on the handheld, Bushido and Sun Tzu's Art of War on my XT. Was it just childish imagination or were those games so futuristic and novel everyone thought they were cool?

This working from home gig has been great. I've started reading books again and watching copious amounts of daytime TV... yesterday I was getting into Head of the Class, followed by Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Talk about dated! How come we never see today as being dated? Look at Oprah - she had that big wonderful diet thing, and now she's fattening up again. We should all make an attempt to see today from the perspective of ten years into the future. Cos the times, they are a changing...

Been feeling guilty for not writing much lately. It's a strange itch. Like the feeling after having watched too much TV ... not just a dazed tiredness but a sour kind of annoyance at yourself. Writing isn't much fun when you're beat. It's been all hands on deck for the Big Brother 2 launch, and I had to work a 54 hour week, which is nothing by modern standards, but it seemed to wear me down. This week I'm rostered on nights, which means I get to work from home, which is much cushier, except it kills my social life. I forced myself to go out last Saturday night in order to compensate but was just too exhausted to really enjoy myself. I almost fell asleep in Superbowl at 2 in the morning. Going soft I tell ya! After the highs of Melbourne, I'm like the walking wounded.

But one week on and I'm still thinking about moving to Melbourne. I've been evangelising it a lot to my friends. I wonder if I'm serious. It would be nice, for a change, to actually do something I dream about. As miso suggested on Saturday, I am at risk of getting "too comfortable" and not going anywhere. Was that a subtle accusation of "selling out"? Miso despises the safe way. Whatever happened to carpe diem? In my defence, I downloaded the application form for the VCA, I guess that's a start.

It's become quite clear to me lately - I want to study more and make films, write books or something. But I would happily postpone those dreams for the privilege of not having to work in shitty depressing jobs for the rest of my life. Everything was fine until I left uni. All of a sudden, the motivation to imagine and create went head to head with the motivation to live in comfort and security. Reality Bites. I guess creating is too much fun. It has to be underpaid otherwise everyone would want to do it and there'd be no food on the table and mountains of garbage on every street corner. The amount you earn is usually inverse to the amount of fun you have whilst working. Unless you come from a rich family, you need either the fun to outweigh the money, or the fun that money buys to outweigh the pain of working. Most people tend to work their way up from the left end of the scale to the right, but I want to do it the other way round.

Anyway, it's late and I'm feeling old. Got to go get my beauty sleep. There's too much ugly in this world already.

Just got back from an awesome holiday in Melbourne. My third trip in almost 6 months, but an important one, because this time I decided that Melbourne is better than Sydney. Although I was born in Sydney, I grew up in Melbourne so I've always had fond memories of the place, but now I'm convinced that Melbourne truly is cooler - both literally and metaphorically!

I love Melbourne's lanes filled with cafes and restaurants, the many little boutique stores selling Australian designed clothes and accessories, the friendly people and flat, bike-friendly topography. Most of all, I like the cottage industry feel of the place. Where else can you walk into a clothes store and buy something actually designed and manufactured by the shop assistant? Or listen to two jazz bands playing on the pavement at the same time? Creative souls are respected in Melbourne.

Sure Sydney has warmer weather, a beautiful harbour and great beaches, but Melbourne has culture, a sense of community, and great town planning. There's less traffic and street-noise, the roads and pavements are wider, theres more parks and trees, which all adds up to make people less aggro overall. Car drivers wait for pedestrians to cross the road, rather than honking and running them down. It's a nice place!

Wait til you see my photos! It all just makes me want to move to Melbourne and become a filmmaker.

But bloody hell, all my friends and family are in Sydney! Move to Melbourne ya bastards! You're ruining my life! I won't be happy without you!

What the hell? Why am I always at work again? The weeks seem to pass like flying geese. Maybe I've been having too much fun. My wallet certainly thinks so. I just spent the last 4 days like a hedonistic uni student... no concept of day, time or suffering. Between clubs, bars and cafes, I saw Wanking Life, Royal Tenenbaums, and even started shooting the prequel to Tian Bian. It felt good to be behind the camera again. Though I noticed when watching the rushes that I pay no attention to what people say when I'm filming. Face glued to the eyepiece, I enter another world - one viewed within a moving rectangle. I am no longer a person. I am an eye. The overriding importance of the visual greedily consumes brain resources usually dedicated to hearing, touch, smell and taste. Watching rushes is like being there for real, because during the shooting, I'm not actually there... I'm off in some virtual editing suite complaining to my assistants that the actors aren't gestural enough, that they're not forthcoming with the subtle mannerisms desired by the director.

I don't know how I'm ever going to make a film using real celluloid. My method is not economical enough. I let the camera roll, even between takes, hoping to catch those spontaneous natural responses that charm me. Out of a whole day's shoot, I got 90 minutes of footage, of which only 5 minutes leapt from the screen, of which only 30 seconds or so may actually make it into the finished film. But I guess that's why movies are so wonderful - because they distill life down to its essence - to a few fleeting seconds of pure charm - Bazin's "holy moment."

Happiness is having the right level of expectation.

Just got back from lunch. My usual lunch buddy is up at Dreamworld today, so I had to sandwich on my lonesome. When you work in a 5 person office, lunch is a welcome social reprieve from this quiet little cubicle culture. So I headed down to St. Leonards Forum just to be surrounded by people, but ended up staring at pigeons sunbathing in the fountain. Man they have it good - splashing about, clucking at each other, surrounded by food dropped by careless humans. No lawsuits, 9-5 or moral dilemmas - just casual sex, gluttony, and swimming. Fantastic. You know your life is in a rut when you start to envy the pigeons.

Rats with wings. Beats being a rat.

Booyakasha! What a weekend. Had a nice picnic at Clontarf, went swimming in my boxers, clubbing til 5am, sped out to Berowra for Counterstrike, finally collapsed at 9pm Sunday and woke up on Groundhog day! Goddamn Monday. Curse you to hell!

Thanks to Danger for making my weekend and ruining my week. Ya Bastard! How am I going to get thru the next 5 days?! I feel like an old lady with a cold turkey. Or an ancient mariner with a dead albatross. Not to mention my throwing arm is fucked now... and I have to carry this 10kg laptop home tonight!

Arrrrr mateys, where's the free seafood?

This is a good time to re-evaluate your goals, especially with regard to your material wealth. You have a tendency to confuse money with happiness. Make a list of things that bring you joy that don't cost lots of cash. Then get into the habit of enjoying these activities on a regular basis. You'll be amazed how your perspective changes as a result.

Ah sweet horoscope, you know me too well! I have been burning through the cash as late. Beer, meals and movies. Oh and petrol... lots of petrol. Been driving all over the place lately, flatpedalling the Accord as if it were a WRX. It's strange how speed can be calming. I hurtle through the landscape oblivious to the potential death whirling at me out of the darkness. Even when I am aware that I am taking a corner too fast, I don't slow down. I just lean further to the other side. My life is getting increasingly surreal. I'm taking excessive risks on the market. I've started blogging at work. As if, nothing will change. As if I were impervious. I wonder if my perspective is changing, or if I subconsciously want to lose my job and force a change in my life?

Okay player... back to the land of the sober. Dreamt that a good friend of mine was killed last night. I just couldn't come to terms with it. I thought I'd rather have 50 people I don't know, die, than one I do know. Is that wrong? Not according to Black Hawk Down or Spy Game. Woke up in a foul mood. Dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, wolfed four weetbixes and trudged off to work.

Haven't been updating much since G got back. It's too easy being lazy. Watching movies and eating junk food each night is tiring me out! But at least I'm harvesting ideas for my next film. Pictures, feelings, memories. Cut and dried. Then press-ganged into my little black book. My little army of words. My Precioussss.... My mum used to collect dried flowers that way. Pansies crushed between the pages of big hoary scrapbooks. Damn it's all dust now. Hopefully these ideas will stick around long enough to coagulate... Like treacle... copper-sulphate... Cheese-cake!

God I hate Mondays.

Ah, happy days. My stock-trading activities officially broke even this week. From the shameful depths of 3 iBooks down, to back-in-black! In fact I'm even up by one iBook now. The Jedi mind-tricks must be working. If only Ansett would collapse every week. Anyway I should write more, but I think I better wait til I've calmed down. Boasting irritates my lungs. Cheers.

Eh. Major case of Mondayitis... just did not want to go to work this morning. Took last Friday off to pick up G from the airport - the first time I've used annual leave since starting full-time work. The long weekend felt like a significant event in itself, just because it was... long! 3 days off work... how sad is that? It reminded me of how free I was as a uni-student. One day, I'm going to have that life again!

Trotted my tired arse out to Tropfest last night. The films were good but I didn't get much of a chance to talk to my friends because I spent half the night trying to find them and bring them together in one place! The awards ceremony was depressing. The prize money was less than the official cost of the films, and that's not even including labour costs! Tropfest films are crafted on free labour. It's a joke really. There is no film industry in this country. It's just a hobby! There is no such thing as a career, unless you want to run away to Hollywood and become American. How else can you explain all these 30-somethings working for nothing, investing their precious savings in celluloid trifles? I pity them. I pity myself. If only God had been a filmmaker... things would be better for these sorry creatures.

At least a painter can sell paintings. A writer can sell articles and books. A filmmaker? You can't sell short films! Most of the time you can't even afford to make short films! The most you can hope for is work on TV Commercials... and that takes some serious grovelling. Bleh! If you're going to do mediocre work, at least get paid for it! I'm better off where I am now. At least this way I can afford to make films for myself, in my free time. If only I had more of it!

Interesting fact: At the age of 35, Paul Gauguin left a successful stockbroking career to devote time to the arts. In 1891 he organised an exhibition of paintings to finance his projected excursion to places where he could live on "ecstasy, calmness and art."

Gauguin's art was a search for new ways of life, more primitive, more real and more sincere. He increasingly abandoned imitative art for expressiveness through colour. This conceptual method of representation was a decisive step for 20th-century art.

In his last years he was destitute and stricken with eczema and syphilis. But in a letter to a friend, written in 1897, Gauguin wrote, "I sit at my door, smoking a cigarette and sipping my absinthe, and I enjoy every day without a care in the world."

I've started work on a new film, which will be related to my last one. I'm going to take one of the secondary characters from Tian Bian and give them their own film. I like the idea of overlapping stories, overlapping worlds - the ability to show the same event from different perspectives, to explore realities rather than reality.

I'm also particularly interested in the international student experience - their transient view of Australia, and the personal problems they run into and have to overcome. I want to craft a story thats based on impressions of what my cousins and friends have gone through, rather than my own life. I think its more challenging to discuss issues through other people's experiences... it forces you to critique your own viewpoint, assumptions and goals. What are you trying to say? How true is it? Is it interesting to other people?

Although the story will be about an international student in Australia, the central theme will be about my love of travel and the way its changed my life... My "foreign eyes" - that sense of being distanced, of knowing more than what is in front of me... a different kind of awareness. Also, loneliness and hope. The observation of small details. Amusement in the surreal. The chance happenings, vague desires and sensed opportunities. The tiredness and withdrawal into introspection... a beautiful kind of aloofness.

The way music draws out the beauty in life will also feature as a sub-theme. For me, music has been a major contributor to my memory of places... it brings out all the things I do not write down, and all the things that cannot be written down. Music draws people together, it creates moments, and it reminds us of needs we cannot express.

Watching the figure-skating on TV tonight it struck me. Fuck I'm useless! These Russians, weaving around the rink, touching each other with such beauty, such grace. That moment where her body sailed above his... it was pure cinema! That one dance alone is their contribution to humanity. Nobody need ask anymore of these athletes - in ten minutes they have done enough to last a lifetime. One can happily fade into obscurity after a performance like that. What freedom! Like a beacon in time, that starburst of beauty was enough to justify your entire lineage, dear Russians.

Dare I take inspiration from these heroes? Imagine the discipline, the suffering to reach this point. Goddamnit, the only thing I'm good at is expressing ideas! I should be writing and making films, not whittling my life away in this frivolous manner! If only I could crack that barrier and break through to that other place. Throw myself into film. Empty life into art. Be but a living idea, an icon, a seduction. It's simple really. Burn one memory into the minds of millions and you are free to live as you wish.

Middle of the week. Stocks are down, raining on my CNY parade. Will the year of the horse be good to me? It is my sister's year, which doesn't bode well. Ours lives seem diametrically opposed. She is generous and energetic. I am snake and cold-blooded... how deep do these veins run?

Already, the winds of change are irritating me with their chilly breath. I'd like to be swept away but instead I seem to be frozen on the spot. I need the warmth and comfort of a bright light to thaw me out. There are many and I have known some of them, but where are they now? Lost in a sea of light. I know you're out there somewhere. Je regrette. I miss you. May the new year brighten your life as you brightened mine.

Drinking foul black coffee at work... Actually, this doesnt qualify as coffee, but acrid dregs of drip-filtered scunge. But I like the trip to the kitchen so I mustn't complain. The thin caffeine scars on my teeth bear witness to my love of this trip to the kitchen. Ode to the coffee break! Life stops for you, my beloved!

I shouldn't be blogging at work either, it's unethical, as my dad would say. But at this time of day, it's hard enough to stay awake and stop counting the minutes. Bad habit. I must stop counting the days in dollars. It's so hard! This is how I motivate myself, like those prisoners who scratch a line in the wall each day... doing my time...

I've had some awesome weekends these last few weeks. Had lots of great meals with great conversations, even made some new friends. Feeling more alert and sociable than I've been in a long time. I think it's related to starting rowing again. The chi is flowing again. My shoulder blades ache but I think that's a good thing. The pain reminds me that I have pushed myself beyond my usual, slothful limits. I seem to be making an effort. Scary - my life has always been effortless. I remember saying "Pleasure good, pain bad." My idea of a good workout was spending the day in bed spooning. But now I'm even considering rock-climbing! Who would've thought... Perhaps this 9 to 5 business is making me more of a masochist... I am a black hole. I am mu. I am eating life. I chew. I swallow all.

G's been in Taiwan for 3 months now. Yogi reckons that's a short time. I said "Short? It's longer than most relationships!" He thought I was having a go but it was just one of those things that you say without thinking. Three months can be an eternity in a young guy's life. It's just long enough to make you feel like you're single, except you're not, which is worse than actually being single, because you can't do anything about it.

The first month was pretty hard, sudden withdrawal and all that loneliness. The second month is relatively easy - you start re-establishing contacts and finding new friends to fill the gap. I guess that's the upside of the whole experience, you have to reach out and grab life by the collar again, instead of hibernating in cosy coupledom. But where love's involved, it still feels a little surreal. Where's G?

The third month is probably the hardest of all - you start counting down the days and time seems to crawl to a halt. Lust rears its ugly head but it's illegal to indulge. Well for most of us anyway. Personally I don't believe monogamy is a prerequisite for Love with a capital L, but I haven't strayed this time. I'm a little surprised. I'm not good with temptation. Perhaps I'm maturing? They say guys peak at 20, whilst women peak at 40... It's a scary thought. I won't dwell on it. I just want to hit the fast forward button and bring G back sooner.

An out of the blue request or taking over from someone could lead to the career break you've been praying for. Take things in your stride and be a little nouveau in your approach: not a day for the ordinary, only the extraordinary get somewhere now.

I'm beginning to have second thoughts about being a professional trader. Am I really cut out for the greed of the floor? Do I have the arrogance and hardness that it takes? Watching JAG today had me all inspired to write prime time drama series instead. I love the gems of truth that find their way into these scripted worlds. Sometimes its just a glance, othertimes a cutting line, or a mawkish moment between ex-lovers. Harm and Mac, Ed and Carol, Mulder and Scully. I know the formula but I can't help falling for it. By neccessity, lead actors are meant for each other but for one reason or another, never manage to get it together, except of course, for the beginning and ending of each season, when events conspire to tantalise the viewers with a collision of unrequited love.

TV rocks.

Fulfilling your ambition means following a vocation that has your name written all over it, so start the search for the right career. You could be powerfully attracted to a public figure but it's not so much the person as the power they wield, for you power is sexy and that is why you need a position where you are in control.

At varying times, I want to do everything, and worst of all, want to do it well. Maybe I just want to surprise people. Maybe I'm merely prolonging the endless possibilities of youth... when really, all the world asks is that I make myself useful to other people, and quickly. Is that what I am? Another sack of flesh with an expiring utility value? The thought doesn't disturb me, I've already internalised it. Viewing the world with utility goggles is the key to power. Everything is sexy when you know what it can do for you.

In the midst of war I am weightless. The stench of carnage makes my stomach turn but I feel no shock. I am distanced from reality, because I am not surprised. I see history repeating. Every tomorrow will be a yesterday, and every yesterday, a tomorrow. As they say... ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We are building sand castles and the tide is coming in.

Sea sand. Kelp. Polyps. Whale Carcass.

I think I'll export myself to Asia and let circumstance shape my immediate future. I'm thinking Japan. But I'm always thinking. Which means I change my mind a lot.

A big idea about where you live is okay but make sure it is feasible and affordable before you get too carried away by it. You're conflicted about where you want your career to go, especially since the job market is so tight. A love of security could prompt you to keep a position that makes you fundamentally unhappy. Before you give up on a dream, consult someone in the know. There may be a way to work toward your goal without losing your self-esteem.

The filmmaker gasps. The web producer grins. The trader feels a rare bout of self-loathing coming on.

Play it again, Sam.