music directory: by artist

The Ukulele Ensemble Main Directory
Last updated by Zhu: March 26, 2006

[sub directory]-> Japanese Artists

Categorised by Artist Name, In Alphabetical Order

{A}
Aalyiah: baby girl (complete discography)
Anggun: deep blue sea

{B}
Billie Holliday: I'll be seeing you

{C}
Cocteau Twins: Alice

{D}
Damien Ric: the blower’s daughter
Danny Elfman: corpse bride OST

{E}
Eminem: when i'm gone

{G}
Gabriel Yared: Betty Blue
Green Day: wake me up when september ends

{I}
Indochine – le grand secret

{J}
Jean-Baptiste Maunier: concerto pour deux voix

{K}
Keren Ann: Not Going Anywhere
Kidney Thieves: serene dream & dyskrasia

{L}
Love Psychedelico: 5th album

{O}
Ono Lisa: ono & bossa nova

{R}
Rufus Wainwright: across the universe

{Y}
Yann Tiersen: Amelie OST
Yoko Kanno: cowboy bebop music (complete discography)

hohoho no updates for very long! here's something interesting relating to rufus wainwright.. and in case you are wondering who wrote it, it's the wife of the philo prof of the philo course i took 1.5 yrs ago. she's a literature prof who writes and teaches greek at NUS, if my info is correct. kinda fun. ^^

Unfinished letter

I dug through the paper mess on my desk and found this—an undated note, scribbled in haste and addressed to you—which must have been early this August, as I was sitting in the plane waiting for the take-off to Singapore. I wonder what I had in mind to say to you and didn't go on to say. In all probability just restlessness.

Dear Jude,

The plane has yet to take off. I suddenly have this strong urge to write to you. A young lad is standing down there from my window, blond hair ruffled, face pink and lovely with the sunlight on it. I wonder what he's doing in here, working as an airport staff, here in Hong Kong, somewhere he doesn't belong. On this bright morning (too bright, and too many leaden clouds in the sky). I am unprepared to be moved by youth--shadowless youth that one can do anything in/with. I take out my crimson pashmina and wind it round my shoulders, feeling ancient and ageless, as if this warm, dark wool piece is the perfect shield to the piercing, luring beam of that pink robustness. Youth, whatever happened to mine? "When was that innocence-lost experience?" M asked, months ago. "I don’t know. Probably the time when the chickens I reared were ruthlessly beheaded to make the New Year feast. I was three or four."

(some spaces later..) 云朵的影子映在山丘上, 似水波般流动. 揉烂的天空棉花, 我正向你飞去..

donuts

nonsensical topic. since you said you were dropping by, i'll offer some donuts - gesture of hospitality.

i haven't been on MSN for some time. no urge to talk, exactly. just want to sort out my own mess. picked up a copy of Virginia Woolf's ' The Waves' yesterday. In fact I haven't read a single novel since summer but yesterday after class, i had this urge to touch them again. The 13th floor dedicated to good old novels isn't very popular for the general sicence orientated readers and when i was there, few people lingered around. It's almost impossible to navigate without the reference code ready at hand but anyway my trip was without purpose. Maybe i just missed the particular stale smell of ancient paper backs. To be embraced in calm serenity once more while outside late autumn rain trickled endlessly. It was soothing.

i bumped into virginia woolf and thought about what you said. There was a huge collection of her diaries. Now i think of it, I have no idea why I didn't borrow them. Maybe there're simply too many to choose from.

quotes of the day, from the introduction to 'the waves', written by Gilian Beer

While she was writing Mrs Dalloway Woolf copied a passage from Book VII of Wordsworth's The Prelude and added a comment:

The matter that detains us now may seem,
To many, neither dignified enough
Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by them,
Who, looking inward, have observed the ties
That bind the perishable hours of life
Each to the other, & the curious props
By which the world of memory and thought
Exists & is sustained.

Good quotation for one of my books. - Virginia

Not like I understand it. Maybe I will one day.

Dropping by

Blogging industry is at a standstill, my own, I mean. And so is communication. Now and then saw you and a couple other friends online that I talked to often, and never seemed to have that urge to talk out these days. Busy life is so smothering. Clicked around and saw your revamped redro and attic rambles, whoa, loved those; that background picture of redro..and the perfect choices of pictures with words in rambles..beautiful.

Looking at the dates I realized there is almost a full month's lapse between your last entry and today. It's shocking, it's shocking, time zooms by so!!! The shock almost shook my sleepiness away...

Letter to Jude from Jady

Dear Jude,

Addicted to Jewel again, indeed. In little times like this, when doubts about self worth, truth and deception quietly awake and nibble away at the heart, I go to Jewel, Jewel the sensual yet innocent one, wise yet wild, still long before one day turning up posing sluttish on a neon colored album. (No, I still can't quite get over that.) if I sound as if I have been pensive and absorbed in thoughts for days, I wasn't—I had to axe away that pile of work little by little, everyday for a long while now, before it becomes a monster and squashes me. I threw myself out there to be consumed by those notes and texts, with a blank mind, little enthusiasm and a nasty sense of urgency. Not reading the eclectic way any more (just slowly reading a wonderfully written French novel, Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan..hope you are going on to take francais!) not writing, not meeting up with friends and acquaintances (I missed to meet tree, and feel most regretful…most inexcusable.) shutting myself off but again not so thoroughly—every night when I sign on online my sight would linger over a certain name for a while too long, wishing, not even subconsciously and knowing too well the improbability, that a message would pop up and clarify some things. I didn't know I'd care this much, about tucked-away truths, of a possibly purely impulsive phrase and an ultimately commonplace and trivial incident, and even if the moment has long expired; but then again, I can't say I don't know myself through and through—it was only that certain self-knowledge is harder to confront, so I did know I'd be caring this much. And the boy is blameless, for, what would anyone say or do after all that happened? (There's no need to contradict this because there are still stretches of the story omitted and untold...and probably should remain so.) And I keep my reticence. Long silences suck things far and away, like vacuum, intangible, boundless, and dreadful; that dread is excruciating in just that—for fear of saying the wrong things, one says nothing, and for fear of turning a small disaster into a crisis by trying to mend it, one ties oneself down and does nothing, and let silences fill out the endless stretch of hours; it's more like thin shelled snails than happily feathered and warm blooded chickens; and I don't know what to think about snails. Or about hiding, or being frail and guardless. (now strangely, Esther's face surfaces and sneers that Esther sneer, says, yeah, go wallow in self-pity!) (I say to her, but I don't pity myself, and she scorns in return.) (Bravo Es, hardly anyone I know of could take up that pitiless cynical insolent devil role as you could. So stay in my fantasy a while…) anyway, I was at Luo's place for a while today. What took place in that very room almost three weeks ago seemed at once dreamlike and immediately erase-and-rewindable. I imagined the boy walking into the room any moment, saying a nonchalant hi, and everything would be back on track. But that's too dramatic to be true, of course, and the real me would probably be a real bastard again, picking up my bag and running off in nameless rage and self-inflicted sadness again. And those aren't even important any more—as soon as the rush of emotions was past each would realize that there are too much at stake—independence, freedom, peace of mind, deep secrets, and happiness itself—to exchange for some uncertain, short-lived thing that vaguely resembles love. Was it out of loneliness? Was it out of boredom? And by just how much need I reduce human emotions to categories and abstractions and reason before I could finally deal with them? That question is going to stay with me for a while...I'll rest my fatigued fingers and mind here..and post this on ss, an arbitrary something that might as well be imagined, impersonal, fictional..

Jady.