The Unnamed

At the RSPCA ‘Million Paws Walk’.

Sun, 19 May 2013 14:20:22 +1000

At the RSPCA ‘Million Paws Walk’.

“Spontaneously” After a nice day out, I browsed through the...

Sat, 18 May 2013 15:35:00 +1000

“Spontaneously”

After a nice day out, I browsed through the iPhone pictures I had taken. Much to my surprise, I found this; a photo taken without my knowledge, through some accident or mistake that resulted in something not so bad at all.

On Learning

Sun, 05 May 2013 11:37:39 +1000

Anaphase: the fourth step of mitosis, in which each doubled chromosome splits at the centromere…

I read on.

…producing two groups of chromosomes that each migrate to opposite ends of the cell…

I read on.

…pulled by spindle fibres.

I sighed, then repeated the process. This time I read slowly; pausing at each word, letting its meaning sink in. Surely, I reasoned, repetition would provide the key to committing the information to memory. I’m going to ace tomorrow’s biology test, I told myself.

But morale was running low, and fatigue was setting in. It was late. I pondered my next move - lethargy is never good during a test, but neither is not knowing the answers. A delicate balance had to be found, and quickly. I was wasting time, idly procrastinating; I was supposed to be studying; learning, not—

How do you learn?

A broad question, indeed. How do you pick up new information? How do you acquire new skills? How do you learn to ride a bike, how do you learn to play the French Horn or speak Japanese, how do you learn your friends’ birthdays or the quadratic formula or the intricacies of JavaScript? How do you study for a biology test?

Science, as always, can provide us with an answer.

In the brain, it’s all about neurons. And pathways, and synapses, and potentiation. Heidi Johansen-Berg, of Oxford University, explains:

Learning mainly takes place at synapses, the junctions between neurons where information is relayed.

When learning new skills of information, certain sets of neurons fire simultaneously. A synaptic pathway connects them; every time you repeat the activity, the synapses become more robust, and the pathway becomes stronger.

The process… is called long-term potentiation… After a strong connection is established between these neurons, stimulating the first neuron will more likely excite the second.

It seems that repetition is indeed the key.

But we’re not quite there yet. Recalling my earlier studying efforts, it is clear that my methods were still proving to be ineffective. The bottom of this conundrum is yet to be reached.

Perhaps a change in style is all that is needed.

My enthusiasm rekindled, I returned to the sheet of definitions, pen in hand. I drew a diagram; hardly artistic, but an adequate representation of the dreaded anaphase. I recited its meaning, while at the same time playing out the process in my mind. I explained it to myself, speaking aloud; once again, I paused at each word, letting its meaning sink in.

Repetition, but not quite. One thing had changed, though - now I had a willingness, a thirst.

A desire to learn.

This looks really epic. The names that draw me to it: Chistopher...

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 20:46:20 +1000

This looks really epic. The names that draw me to it: Chistopher Nolan, Hans Zimmer, and to some extent, Russell Crowe - he was brilliant in Les Miserables, which was also brilliant, by the way.

I guess it’s appropriate that I spent ANZAC Day writing up...

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 14:39:00 +1000

I guess it’s appropriate that I spent ANZAC Day writing up a history assignment on World War II.

"Your ears are cold."

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 13:04:00 +1000

“Your ears are cold.”

- said the hairdresser while cutting my hair, in a feeble attempt at making conversation with an obvious, but true remark.

"They went with songs to the battle, they were young. Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and..."

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 07:05:04 +1000

“They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.”

- For The Fallen, Laurence Binyon

I. From the moment he stepped out of the car, he felt it. The noise of the airport was getting to...

Sat, 20 Apr 2013 22:14:56 +1000

From the moment he stepped out of the car, he felt it.

The noise of the airport was getting to him, not in a bad way. Whilst checking in his baggage, and lining up the endless queues, the voices of unknown faces bounced around the hall. Though the tones were not familiar, the languages were.

“Keilan kami aalis.”

At an airport, one can usually detect a multitude of different tongues, and the boy, being a seasoned traveller, knew this.

“Alas-dos ng hapon.”

But this place was different.

“Salamat po.”

Only one language was being spoken. It was not English, yet he could understand them.

“Ingat kayo.”

He knew that this meant take care. He knew that it was spoken in Tagalog. He knew that he was surrounded by Pinoy compatriots, all preparing to board a flight to the Philippines.

———

II.

From the moment the plane began its descent, the feeling intensified.

The boy looked out the window, called by the glow that was beginning to emanate from the misty plexiglass. He was greeted by stars - not in the sky, but on the Earth. Millions of lights lit up the night — street lamps, buildings, cars. Colourful neon signs that brought to mind the sparkle of Las Vegas.

He began to see patterns in the sea of lights. City streets became elaborate constellations, and cars became comets shooting past.

In the distance, he spotted a cluster. Here, the buildings rose to majestic heights, and the lights shone so bright that the streets were illuminated with the strength of daylight.

This was the centre of the galaxy. This was the centre of the city. This was the heart of Manila.

———

III.

From the moment he exited the airport, he knew for sure.

The boy knew that this was no mere holiday destination.

The boy knew that this was home.

———

IV.

And home, it was.

In the following days he found himself journeying throughout the urban sprawl of Metro Manila, the province in which the eponymous city of Manila is located. To old residences he went, to places rooted deep within his memories. To the homes of family friends he went, meeting people whose faces he could not put a name to. And yet, they remembered him.

On one occasion he made the southerly trip to Lobo, Batangas. A straightforward, 100 kilometre drive was rendered a laborious, 200 minute marathon by the relentless traffic of the Philippines. Anywhere else, this would have been atypical, but here, it was the norm.

While much of the time was spent asleep, the last half hour was spent gazing out the window in awe and wonderment. Undulating hills lined the scene, so tall that they lay on the cusp of becoming mountains. They were rough, insincere; shaped by regular landslides that carved gaping holes in them.

The road meandered around them, on precarious cliffs and rickety bridges. Its Filipino nickname stems from its winding shape - bitukang manok, literally translated as chicken’s intestine.

And as he travelled, he tasted.

The food of Batangas, the food of Antipolo. He tasted the distinct flavours of provincial cuisines. He tasted the delectable delights of the Philippines. Among the many were dishes such as sisig, panotsa, and lechon. Spice, intensity, excitement — he found it all.

And as he tasted, he heard.

The sounds of the street were unlike any other. Intense, industrial; he heard the urban-ness. The quarrels of angry drivers. The honks of angry drivers. The roar of their cars, speeding away while the lights still shone red — futile attempts at beating the ebb and flow of traffic.

And as he heard, he saw.

From his window, 23 floors up, he saw the metropolitan forest, densely packed with not trees, but skyscrapers. And the haze — was it mist? No, it was smog that obscured his view of the horizon, it was smog that was the cause of the city’s faded palette.

He drank it all in with gusto.

But, as he listened to his families’ stories of times gone by, he realised that, while he featured in many of them, as hard as he tried, he could not remember them. Nor could he tell any stories of his own. Had he forgotten? Or had he simply missed?

For a moment, a shade came over him. He recognised the many goods his family’s move from the Philippines had brought them, but now, he began to consider what had simultaneously been lost.

But the light returned soon enough, as his mind turned away from the past, returning his focus to the present.

———

On the flight back to Melbourne, he thought. About the trip. About what he had seen, what he had felt, what he had experienced.

Upon his return, he felt the comfort, the familiarity of home, the gladness that came with being back. But it felt restrained. The satisfaction wasn’t as immense as he had previously imagined it to be.

Its cause was clear — he missed the Philippines.

Then he felt it. A desire for expression, a desire to share.

And he sat down, opened up his laptop, and wrote.

"The best font choices are the ones where readers do not notice the font, but the message."

Sat, 20 Apr 2013 21:03:00 +1000

“The best font choices are the ones where readers do not notice the font, but the message.”

- the Urban Fonts team, on an epic infographic which you can find here.

The city is, of course, Melbourne, where the baristas thrive and...

Fri, 19 Apr 2013 10:06:17 +1000

The city is, of course, Melbourne, where the baristas thrive and the customers delight. Cafes line the hidden alleys and backstreets that exist even in the CBD. The vibe is unparalleled, the buzz of the street invigorating. Melbourne, a city of mystery, a city of intrigue; a city of flavour.

“Hey, it’s an infinity symbol.” “No,...

Sun, 07 Apr 2013 20:29:55 +1000

“Hey, it’s an infinity symbol.”

“No, it’s an eight. Obviously.”

Both opinions are right. And wrong, incidentally. It depends on your view, on which way you look at it. It’s a matter of perspective.

"The miracle isn’t that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start."

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 19:43:56 +1100

“The miracle isn’t that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start.”

- John Bingham

A great song, a great music video. Hauntingly beautiful, with...

Fri, 29 Mar 2013 12:00:51 +1100

A great song, a great music video. Hauntingly beautiful, with truly epic cinematography.

March Fires - Satisfying, Yet Frustrating

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 18:22:28 +1100

I turn up the volume. Still silence. I check my iPhone - yes, the song’s playing.

Then a lone guitar breaks the calm. It’s a bass. An electric enters soon after, playing a sparse melody. It’s simple, but I’m already hooked.

And so, the latest album by Birds of Tokyo, March Fires, begins.

Immediately, it is clear, that in the 3 year break since their last album, their musical style has greatly matured. It’s cleaner, more refined; almost minimal. The guitars are less complicated - now the interest flows from exquisite hooks and edgy textures. They get to the point, rather than over-embellishing it. Ian Kenny’s voice has a reformed finesse to it, one that starkly contrasts the grungy, indie tones that decorated Universes and Day One.

Much has changed, but if there’s one thing that has remained the same, it is Birds of Tokyo’s driving force.

From a musicians point of view, their music is driven by chordal accompaniments, by hypnotizing ostinati and subtle progressions. It’s driven by bridges that either impress or disappoint, by suspensions and dissonances that push the boundaries of listenability. It’s driven by nauseating guitar riffs and modest vocals that know when to step forward, and when to step back.

All of that, all the factors that propelled them to fame - March Fires is full of it. That’s what makes the album so satisfying.

But therein lies the problem. It’s all the same.

Each track adheres to the same formula - it’s only the values that are changing, and even then, the differences are incremental. March Fires is great to listen to once or twice, but when the play count grows to four or five, you start to feel yourself tuning out. Sure, it’s their ‘style’, but I can’t help longing for something else - something ambitious, something experimental.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason why, in my eyes, the album’s best song is Sirin. It differs from the rest; it stands out amongst the crowd. The piano begins proceedings, playing chords that don’t fit in with the rest of the album’s alternative feel. You begin to hear the influence of Ian Kenny’s background in metal and hard rock. You begin to hear the drums, playing the first major part they’ve had in what feels like an age. And then, you realize that the song is in 6/8 time - in each bar, there are six quaver (or eighth-note) beats.

Seldom is a song ever structured in this fashion. It’s unusual, and that’s what makes it great. That’s the only thing that’s missing from March Fires - a drop of ingenuity, and a touch of imagination.

March Fires soars, but not to ethereal heights.

My brain, reading the Internet: This looks interesting. 'Polar bear escapes from zoo and devours three elephants'.

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 16:00:34 +1100

My brain, reading the Internet: This looks interesting. 'Polar bear escapes from zoo and devours three elephants'.
Me: Meh.
My brain: How about this, sir? 'Danish chefs bake cake so big that it collapses and implodes'.
Me: Meh.
My brain: Ok, here. 'Apple's iWatch will run iOS and arrive later this year'.
Me: Ha, very funny.
My brain: Sir, what do you mean?
Me: Wait, what? This is for real?
My brain: It's on The Verge. It must be.
Me: I'm praying this is all some early April Fools joke.
My brain: I'm sorry, sir, it looks like it's true.
Me: Oh god, why...

Initiating the Maniacal Rage

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 08:00:40 +1100

Initiating the Maniacal Rage:

In light of recent events, I’ve decided to give the ‘Maniacal Rage Podcast’ a go.

Only four episodes in, and I’m hooked.

If, like me, you enjoy harmonicas, platypuses, elevators, learning to be American, generally nonsensical chat, and of course, maniacal rages, then I’m sure you’d love it too.

Africa

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 16:09:06 +1100

Africa:

Quite simply, stunning.

David Attenborough’s latest TV series, four years in the making, shows us, once again, that nature never ceases to amaze and fascinate. The cinematography is brilliant, as is the soundtrack, surprisingly.

Oh, and Attenborough’s iconic narration is fantastic.

Last week, I purchased March Fires, the latest album by Birds of...

Sun, 24 Mar 2013 13:29:48 +1100

Last week, I purchased March Fires, the latest album by Birds of Tokyo. So naturally, I had to make a celebratory video.

A Murder Foretold

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 06:44:34 +1100

A Murder Foretold:

Rodrigo Rosenberg knew that he was about to die. It wasn’t because he was approaching old age—he was only forty-eight. Nor had he been diagnosed with a fatal illness; an avid bike rider, he was in perfect health. Rather, Rosenberg, a highly respected corporate attorney in Guatemala, was certain that he was going to be assassinated.

A fascinating read. A story so full of twists, turns, and shocking revelations, that it deserves to be made into a film.

The wind rushed in. It had been doing so since the early morning, but it was only now that its...

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 06:24:47 +1100

The wind rushed in. It had been doing so since the early morning, but it was only now that its relentless advances began to intensify.

It was midday. The clouds covered the sky. The sun was hiding. It shone, somewhere up there, yet it could not penetrate the layers of grey.

A cumulonimbus silently meandered into the scene. This one was a giant, and it held no good intentions. It circled above, like a vulture; black, ominous.

The whistle of the wind rose to a crescendo, morphing into a low-pitched moan. It was barely audible, though. Just as the sun was conquered by the clouds, the wind was conquered by the roar of the trees. Raw and powerful, the noise was louder than the roar of a thousand lions. For a while, it held the throne in the orchestra of nature.

But it, too, was usurped by a greater power.

This time, it was the rain. It poured down, pounding the ground until the soil was pitted with tiny craters. The trees were pounded too, and their leaves began to fall. Only the stoic evergreens could resist. Once again, the ground was painted with the familiar hues of orange, brown, and red.

And amid the storm, the leaves danced.

Miniature wind systems conjured up miniature whirlwinds, propelling the leaves into the air, into erratic spirals that moved as if they were alive.

And the rain continued, washing away the last remnants of summer. And the wind continued, blowing autumn ever closer.