|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| Been waking up ridiculously late these days. I make elaborate plans to rise before the sun does (double alarm clocks, handphone ringers, etc.), but always end up frozen when the sirens hit, wishing for another 5 minutes. 10 minutes later, I'm still still. Bells still ringing, me still wishing.
Komeda rocks.
| | |
| 
The Holy Hour is here. Where the Figurehead speaks. At the Funeral Party. And Other Voices say How Beautiful You Are. They give The Kiss to The Snakepit, and hide their Plastic Passion. Because Boys Don't Cry. So it was that Three Imaginary Boys sang a Lullaby down on Fascination Street. They sang on through The Forest, and reached Club America in a Mint Car. With Faded Smiles, a Fire in Cairo and Pictures of You. I write a Letter to Elsie, to tell her From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea: Friday I'm in Love — with The Cure. The Cure are coming. The Cure are here. The Cure are coming. In Faith, Pornography, Disintegration. They come as the Bloodflowers blossom. Just Like Heaven.
| | |
| 
Life has a funny way of turning out right. I've been reading through my old blog posts after a relatively dull flick (Kelvin Tong's "1942". A complete dud. I have the DVD if anybody wants to loan.), when I realised just how much has happened in the past year. And how I've grown.
OK, that's a big cliche, and in my line of work, cliches are taboo. But I can't express growing up in any other superlatives without sounding contrived. So I shan't bother.
But it's true, I have become a wee bit different. For one, I smile a lot more these days. I didn't really notice it until my partner at work remarked: "Kevin! You're a really positive person!" And this after a whole wasted Sunday brainstorming for a pitch due on Tuesday that we only got the brief for on Friday.
In fact, there's a rumour floating around the office that the shorter the deadline, the wider I smile (not true...).
And whenever brainstorming sessions hit a snag, I find myself saying things like "There is a solution to every problem. We just haven't found it yet."
It's rather embarrassing really. After all, I used to pride myself for being all doom and gloom. Adds depth to my character I thought. Juvenile.
Because I soon realised that there's no profit in worry. I mean, it's always easier to worry about problems than to actually solve them. You can worry about your future, the deadline, your career, whether the path you've taken is the right one, whether you're good enough in whatever it is you've chosen to do, whether you've sold out, whether you'll be poor forever, etc. etc. etc.
And while you're worrying, fretting, and shitting all over yourself, the world moves in the only direction it knows —forward.
And believe me, it does this with or without you (mostly without. But we're not talking metaphysics here...).
Plus, it just got so goddamn self-serving. And utterly tiring.
So I made a decision to stop worrying 'bout the things I can't do anything about, and start focussing on the things I can.
And it worked.
For the first time in a long, long while, I feel like I'm working towards something. I've achieved the targets I wanted to achieve since leaving my previous shithole, and have gotten my foot into the door of something better. Heck, I've even grown to like having dogs around the house (much to my mum's dismay...).
Yes, late nights are still norm, the stress has increased ten-fold, and sleep's definitely still a luxury.
But I love what I do. I have fun doing it, despite the load of bullshit that comes with it. Incredibly, I can't imagine doing anything else. And when you can't picture yourself doing anything else but, I reckon that's when a job ceases to feel like one.
I guess we all create our own little dramas every now and then. But I think it's important to realise that at the end of the day, all dramas (soapy, action-packed or otherwise) must have an ending.
I'd like mine to be a happy one. Hope yours will be too. :)
| | |
| It's tiresome to keep on wanting things but never having them. If you were an anaemic, slug-like creature there would be nothing to fear, but we have the feverish blood of lions in our veins and an appetite for twenty foolhardy acts a day.
— Honore de Balzac
| | |
| A memo that shuddered the hearts of copywriters everywhere during the 50s.
"In my role as Copy Chief, it will be neccessary for me to know more about the talents of our copywriters than I now know.
Will you please let me see — in proof or layout form — the six best advertisements (print or broadcast) that you have produced since joining Ogilvy, Benson & Mather, and the three best that you had produced in your previous incarnations — if any.
I would like to have these on my desk before tomorrow evening.
David Ogilvy"
On Friday, my traffic manager cheerfully informed me that our venerable 'Chief' had requested that all my copy work for 3 of our biggest clients grace his desk from Monday onwards.
I've had trouble sleeping since.
| | |
|
