"Existential confusion is a powerful force"

"No thanks, that won't be necessary" I replied, in response to being asked if I would like to inspect and test the camera out before purchasing it.


In truth I didn't even know how to operate the bloody thing.
Shutter speed?
Aperture?
Fuck it I'll go for the highest one.

I walked out of Hartono Electronik like some rich guy who doesn't test out his consumer electronics on a no-returns purchase because he knows he can just buy a new one.

---

It wasn't long before constant disappointment in the quality of my phone camera images eventually culminated into 'I need a DSLR to document this shit I'm seeing'. (To be honest it was more my inadequate composition skills).

As soon as I had made up my mind I was straight outta Bali and towards the nearest city to drop a stack of cash for a tool which I didn't actually know how to operate.

My mission now, was to capture the sights of these new lands. These lands were full of interesting sights and environments, most of which are only interesting or novel to me because would be deemed illegal in New Zealand. It brought about a sense of satisfaction, in part I think due to being an active participant rather than simply being an observer. There's always a need to be doing creating or doing something. To simply observe or consume just doesn't seem to bring any sense of satisfaction but I've been thinking about whether the need to 'do something' is just an elaborate distraction.

Existential confusion is a powerful force and it will make people do things in order to make life meaningful in the absence of things like 'going to work'.

Was I successful in patching the slow leak of existential anxiety?
Sometimes I swear I can still hear the faint hissing sound but I can't tell if it's real or a hallucination.

For now I'll keep pumping the tyre up. If it sticks, it sticks; only time will tell.

---

Now I said in the last post that I would be producing a real banger of a story but now I'm sad to say that won't be the case. Unfortunately due to night shift scheduling and the high possibility of going through some intense interrogation by pimps and gang members or getting mugged and having all my gear stolen has meant I will not be venturing the streets of Chow Kit at 01:00am unless of course I am accompanied by Ross Kemp and a camera crew, or the support of the Vice production team. (And of course a camera that shoot 12800 ISO images without looking like a sandpit).

So I'm just going to slowly release some of the already existing content in small bit sized pieces.

-----

Like 'Trans America Airlines' without the Airlines or America

"Come Inside!" Xe beckoned as I walked down the dimly lit Chow Kit road.

Most of the shops had locked up for the night but I wasn't able to spot the vocal individual standing underneath the shadow of the overhang, behind the roadside power box.
It was as if the straightforward intentions of a man had been placed into a woman's body that was only 90% complete.

My struggle to find the correct exposure settings on the camera was only matched by my struggle to find the right thing to say in this awkward situation.

"Not today sorry"
(What that was supposed to mean?)

I wasn't feeling so enthusiastic about following a transgender woman with a archetypal homosexual male voice up a narrow, poorly lit concrete stairway. Who knows what goes up on in that nondescript run-down building.

---


Some alleyways are cleaner than others.
A lot of the time, they are occupied by rats, people digging through dumpsters, people sleeping on cardboard, and heroin addicts scampering around with their needles.

If there is one thing I learned tonight, it's the ever present watch of the Colonel. Open 24 hours, the  Colonel's ever-present gaze keeps this alley way clean.
KFC, safer communities together.

This was an alleyway I could go through and would go through. For some reason I decided to eat the cold, exposed chicken that had probably been sitting out in the 'outdoor ambient temperature' shelf for 8 hours. I now had less than an hour until the impact of my culinary choices would manifest itself in the form of mild stomach pain and/or liquid shit.