hello !!
i'm not sure if anyone ever reads this anymore -- not surprising since it's been consigned to the depths of obscurity for over 3 months...
well, well.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Ruminations (While Suitcase Packing)
I just put up the "Lotus 
Potato Super 6 Class" poster that the children and I made together in Nepal. It's been more than a year now, how does time sneak around like that? Everytime I see it I feel giggly, vaguely remembering our group name-choosing process (I think Monkey Boy suggested "Alu class" at first ... that's potato in Nepalese right??) and after some convoluted brainstorming process (which I admit to probably manipulating quite a bit) all the kids chorusing (esp Biparna) "Lotus Potato! Lotus Potato! Super 6 Class!" ^^ Aiya, so cute! It was one of the least cloudy periods of my life, I don't think I'd ever felt so clean (metaphorically speaking; hygiene standards left some to be desired), so uncomplicated, so content, so present in years.
Then I think about how they took this poster off the wall in the common room; I'm not sure why actually. One of them gave it to me, and told me to bring it home, to put it up in my room. So typical of most of them, a furious generosity scattered out like confetti in all their little presents - 4-colored pens, hand-woven friendship bands, the flowers on our last day. On one hand, the common, shared, unindividualised environment of an orphanage made them fiercely possessive over what was "mine" in order to own anything. On the other, what was "mine" was precious partly also because they could afterwards give it away, and we would have something that was theirs. Do you see what I'm trying to say? I never really delved into the logistics of gifts with these children before, only marvelled previously at how eagerly they pressed, slipped, their rare, weary treasures into foreign hands and pockets.
I remember Ling dissuading some of the children in her class from parting with a keychain, a pencil, other random knick-knacks that acquired a magnitude far beyond their function. The kids usually ended up un-giving the presents when asked a few times if they were sure they wouldnt rather keep it, and that the intention was lovely and well stored already. It was the act of giving then, mostly. I can't navigate clear paths in my head to explain or elaborate how these little ones thought or what prompted them to act exactly as they did, but when I remember, I am (as I was then) just floating, lulled off my feet by waves of their beauty, amazed. Awed and uncomprehending, the smallness of my soul reiterates how little they have, assembling the somber background against which their open hearts glow like fireflies or candles. I'm not saying they're angels, they were definitely insufferable at points, but only as children inevitably are. And then there were other moments like when I opened Round Face Boy's letter to me, and saw that he had put rabbit and giraffe stickers on the cover ( he asked me what my fav animals were earlier that day) and that the inside was full of the stickers I had given to the kids the day before, that they really liked and had been playing with all day... It just made me want to be a better person, to be worthy of children like that, who deserve, and more.
And then, I didn't go back this year... and, I need to write them letters.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Potato Super 6 Class" poster that the children and I made together in Nepal. It's been more than a year now, how does time sneak around like that? Everytime I see it I feel giggly, vaguely remembering our group name-choosing process (I think Monkey Boy suggested "Alu class" at first ... that's potato in Nepalese right??) and after some convoluted brainstorming process (which I admit to probably manipulating quite a bit) all the kids chorusing (esp Biparna) "Lotus Potato! Lotus Potato! Super 6 Class!" ^^ Aiya, so cute! It was one of the least cloudy periods of my life, I don't think I'd ever felt so clean (metaphorically speaking; hygiene standards left some to be desired), so uncomplicated, so content, so present in years.Then I think about how they took this poster off the wall in the common room; I'm not sure why actually. One of them gave it to me, and told me to bring it home, to put it up in my room. So typical of most of them, a furious generosity scattered out like confetti in all their little presents - 4-colored pens, hand-woven friendship bands, the flowers on our last day. On one hand, the common, shared, unindividualised environment of an orphanage made them fiercely possessive over what was "mine" in order to own anything. On the other, what was "mine" was precious partly also because they could afterwards give it away, and we would have something that was theirs. Do you see what I'm trying to say? I never really delved into the logistics of gifts with these children before, only marvelled previously at how eagerly they pressed, slipped, their rare, weary treasures into foreign hands and pockets.
I remember Ling dissuading some of the children in her class from parting with a keychain, a pencil, other random knick-knacks that acquired a magnitude far beyond their function. The kids usually ended up un-giving the presents when asked a few times if they were sure they wouldnt rather keep it, and that the intention was lovely and well stored already. It was the act of giving then, mostly. I can't navigate clear paths in my head to explain or elaborate how these little ones thought or what prompted them to act exactly as they did, but when I remember, I am (as I was then) just floating, lulled off my feet by waves of their beauty, amazed. Awed and uncomprehending, the smallness of my soul reiterates how little they have, assembling the somber background against which their open hearts glow like fireflies or candles. I'm not saying they're angels, they were definitely insufferable at points, but only as children inevitably are. And then there were other moments like when I opened Round Face Boy's letter to me, and saw that he had put rabbit and giraffe stickers on the cover ( he asked me what my fav animals were earlier that day) and that the inside was full of the stickers I had given to the kids the day before, that they really liked and had been playing with all day... It just made me want to be a better person, to be worthy of children like that, who deserve, and more.
And then, I didn't go back this year... and, I need to write them letters.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
"The only dream worth having is to dream that you will live while you are alive, and die only when you are dead. To love, to be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of the life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget."
- Arundhati Roy
- Arundhati Roy
Friday, August 27, 2010
i forgot
the gentle words, the soothing hand. soft, sweet.
the lessons i tried to engrave , not yet inked
perspective, hope rising from ashes.
more lists and ramblings, more of yes, yes, i will and exclamat!on marks replacing full stops because there were not to be ends only surges forward.
kind
for the moment, i forget, how i feel.
that is not true. it's easy to forget when youre alone, but when you're with people again it's okay. you remember. one remembers. i remember the resolve, i dont remember how to talk anymore. i wish i remembered how i feel, it's very quiet inside. try to guess the contents of an opaque black box without shaking it around at all. toss up a few options, but we'll never know, and right and wrong are equally quiet (or loud). a banana, two paper clips, i hate you, it'll pass.
is this the ocean or a glass bowl?
...i need to know if we'll meet halfway if we set off on separate ships.
the lessons i tried to engrave , not yet inked
perspective, hope rising from ashes.
more lists and ramblings, more of yes, yes, i will and exclamat!on marks replacing full stops because there were not to be ends only surges forward.
kind
for the moment, i forget, how i feel.
that is not true. it's easy to forget when youre alone, but when you're with people again it's okay. you remember. one remembers. i remember the resolve, i dont remember how to talk anymore. i wish i remembered how i feel, it's very quiet inside. try to guess the contents of an opaque black box without shaking it around at all. toss up a few options, but we'll never know, and right and wrong are equally quiet (or loud). a banana, two paper clips, i hate you, it'll pass.
is this the ocean or a glass bowl?
...i need to know if we'll meet halfway if we set off on separate ships.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
what i can't put my finger on
is why everything seems to be unraveling even as i have seen and heard and breathed more consciously more profoundly than ever before. where i believed a whole, there are cracks and spaces minute, but there is also a zoom function and helplessly i'm transported into further into deeper these pockets of empty until i no longer know where i am and 'it' is no longer representative of anything because there is no means of identification.
do you see what i mean?
what i really mean to say is, i'm lost.
what i really mean to say is, i don't know why.
what i really mean to say is, i've lost the why.
what i really mean to say is, i thought i got past all this and was somewhere else all together. but this somewhere else is suspiciously looking like the there of before, the here and the then confused and merging.
maybe not having furniture and 20 boxes to unpack is affecting my sanity. or maybe pulling out dusty, old faces of love is tipping a perpetually precarious equilibrium. or maybe silence to an unreasoning need is stirring clear waters murky.
I still need to write about Rwanda. I haven't forgotten. it's still processing, still. Maybe it will be forever. but what do i know of forever?
do you see what i mean?
what i really mean to say is, i'm lost.
what i really mean to say is, i don't know why.
what i really mean to say is, i've lost the why.
what i really mean to say is, i thought i got past all this and was somewhere else all together. but this somewhere else is suspiciously looking like the there of before, the here and the then confused and merging.
maybe not having furniture and 20 boxes to unpack is affecting my sanity. or maybe pulling out dusty, old faces of love is tipping a perpetually precarious equilibrium. or maybe silence to an unreasoning need is stirring clear waters murky.
I still need to write about Rwanda. I haven't forgotten. it's still processing, still. Maybe it will be forever. but what do i know of forever?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
tu me manques
c'est tout
(c'est un message prévoyant si tu peux voir l'heure, en fait c'est 21h48 et j'ai recemment retrouvé michelle et on a pris nos billets!!!!!! ^^ )
(c'est un message prévoyant si tu peux voir l'heure, en fait c'est 21h48 et j'ai recemment retrouvé michelle et on a pris nos billets!!!!!! ^^ )
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
^^
Nat
come to thailand
fun fun fun
ive spent so much
but so fun
12:24pm Me
o_O
spent so much doing what??
what have you been up to !!
12:25pmNat
haircut, face treatment
karaoke
movies
and eat!!!!
-----------
aiya, so typical nat !
come to thailand
fun fun fun
ive spent so much
but so fun
12:24pm Me
o_O
spent so much doing what??
what have you been up to !!
12:25pmNat
haircut, face treatment
karaoke
movies
and eat!!!!
-----------
aiya, so typical nat !
Sunday, May 23, 2010
WASHING THE ELEPHANT
by Barbara Ras
Isn’t it always the heart that wants to wash
the elephant, begging the body to do it
with soap and water, a ladder, hands,
in tree shade big enough for the vast savannas
of your sadness, the strangler fig of your guilt,
the cratered full moon’s light fuelling
the windy spooling memory of elephant?
What if Father Quinn had said, “Of course you’ll recognize
your parents in Heaven,” instead of
“Being one with God will make your mother and father
pointless.” That was back when I was young enough
to love them absolutely though still fear for their place
in Heaven, imagining their souls like sponges full
of something resembling street water after rain
Still my mother sent me every Saturday to confess,
to wring the sins out of my small baffled soul, and I made up lies
about lying, disobeying, chewing gum in church, to offer them
as carefully as I handed over the knotted handkerchief of coins
to the grocer when my mother sent me for a loaf of Wonder,
Land of Lakes, and two Camels.
If guilt is the damage of childhood, then eros is the fall of adolescence.
Or the fall begins there, and never ends, desire after desire parading
through a lifetime like the Ringling Brothers elephants
made to walk through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel
and down Thirty-fourth Street to the Garden.
So much of our desire like their bulky, shadowy walking
after midnight, exiled from the wild and destined
for a circus with its tawdry gaudiness, its unspoken
pathos.
It takes more than half a century to figure out who they were,
the few real loves-of-your-life, and how much of the rest—
the mad breaking-heart stickiness—falls away, slowly,
unnoticed, the way you lose your taste for things
like popsicles unthinkingly.
And though dailiness may have no place
for the ones who have etched themselves in the laugh lines
and frown lines on the face that’s harder and harder
to claim as your own, often one love-of-your-life
will appear in a dream, arriving
with the weight and certitude of an elephant,
and it’s always the heart that wants to go out and wash
the huge mysteriousness of what they meant, those memories
that have only memories to feed them, and only you to keep them clean.
Isn’t it always the heart that wants to wash
the elephant, begging the body to do it
with soap and water, a ladder, hands,
in tree shade big enough for the vast savannas
of your sadness, the strangler fig of your guilt,
the cratered full moon’s light fuelling
the windy spooling memory of elephant?
What if Father Quinn had said, “Of course you’ll recognize
your parents in Heaven,” instead of
“Being one with God will make your mother and father
pointless.” That was back when I was young enough
to love them absolutely though still fear for their place
in Heaven, imagining their souls like sponges full
of something resembling street water after rain
Still my mother sent me every Saturday to confess,
to wring the sins out of my small baffled soul, and I made up lies
about lying, disobeying, chewing gum in church, to offer them
as carefully as I handed over the knotted handkerchief of coins
to the grocer when my mother sent me for a loaf of Wonder,
Land of Lakes, and two Camels.
If guilt is the damage of childhood, then eros is the fall of adolescence.
Or the fall begins there, and never ends, desire after desire parading
through a lifetime like the Ringling Brothers elephants
made to walk through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel
and down Thirty-fourth Street to the Garden.
So much of our desire like their bulky, shadowy walking
after midnight, exiled from the wild and destined
for a circus with its tawdry gaudiness, its unspoken
pathos.
It takes more than half a century to figure out who they were,
the few real loves-of-your-life, and how much of the rest—
the mad breaking-heart stickiness—falls away, slowly,
unnoticed, the way you lose your taste for things
like popsicles unthinkingly.
And though dailiness may have no place
for the ones who have etched themselves in the laugh lines
and frown lines on the face that’s harder and harder
to claim as your own, often one love-of-your-life
will appear in a dream, arriving
with the weight and certitude of an elephant,
and it’s always the heart that wants to go out and wash
the huge mysteriousness of what they meant, those memories
that have only memories to feed them, and only you to keep them clean.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
my dear we're slow dancing in a burning room
i had an awful, awful nightmare. haven't had one in a long time and this one was fucking terrifying... (its actually funny on hindsight because i see where a part of it came from.)
but the moment i forced myself awake my heart was just pounding -- and then i reached out and called jy. i called him on his bday 2 days ago, i guess i've been thinking about him since. he sent me a message earlier today saying he thought i shouldnt visit after all, and there was another msg that was incomplete that i couldn't read. so he said he'd send it to me again, and this time i deleted half the msgs in my inbox so i'd have space. when we were on the phone suddenly i thought maybe he found someone else and was seized with a panic. what a selfish bitch i am. but he said it was quite horrible, when i asked if it was, and i just started floundering in deep anguish. the nightmare had disoriented me already i guess. its weird but i can go so long without really thinking about him except in a fond way, then suddenly, bam. it's like j1 or j3 again when i'm drowning and the flooding is in my core, from my deepest being. and i'm thinking... not again, not again.
i know i'll get over this by tomorrow morning and everything will seem bright or at least light. it's already starting to fade like the nightmare that was so excruciating and overwhelming and all surrounding for those moments...
i don't dream about getting married to him anymore ... although i know what song we'll sing/play at our wedding if we did. i don't imagine him as the father of my children (fuck the biological clock) i think about new exciting romantic encounters i might have everyday / in the future but then i can't efface this other plane of contained irreality, a refuge of the mind, where he is mine, and i just love him love him love him. i do love him and i always will. i know that the fact that i don't worry about our seemingly very separate destinies anymore or consider the future or our inherent differences means that i have isolated this love and consigned it in some fashion. i have removed it from the unravelling thread of my life and stored it. but i can't give it up, i know i should, but i can't.
but the moment i forced myself awake my heart was just pounding -- and then i reached out and called jy. i called him on his bday 2 days ago, i guess i've been thinking about him since. he sent me a message earlier today saying he thought i shouldnt visit after all, and there was another msg that was incomplete that i couldn't read. so he said he'd send it to me again, and this time i deleted half the msgs in my inbox so i'd have space. when we were on the phone suddenly i thought maybe he found someone else and was seized with a panic. what a selfish bitch i am. but he said it was quite horrible, when i asked if it was, and i just started floundering in deep anguish. the nightmare had disoriented me already i guess. its weird but i can go so long without really thinking about him except in a fond way, then suddenly, bam. it's like j1 or j3 again when i'm drowning and the flooding is in my core, from my deepest being. and i'm thinking... not again, not again.
i know i'll get over this by tomorrow morning and everything will seem bright or at least light. it's already starting to fade like the nightmare that was so excruciating and overwhelming and all surrounding for those moments...
i don't dream about getting married to him anymore ... although i know what song we'll sing/play at our wedding if we did. i don't imagine him as the father of my children (fuck the biological clock) i think about new exciting romantic encounters i might have everyday / in the future but then i can't efface this other plane of contained irreality, a refuge of the mind, where he is mine, and i just love him love him love him. i do love him and i always will. i know that the fact that i don't worry about our seemingly very separate destinies anymore or consider the future or our inherent differences means that i have isolated this love and consigned it in some fashion. i have removed it from the unravelling thread of my life and stored it. but i can't give it up, i know i should, but i can't.
Monday, April 12, 2010
my quiet heartbreak
Hi Li Jun,
:(
Regarding the rest of that packet of poems etc. that you gave me,
I like the graphs. Regarding the rest, it's frustrating to be honest. So much
good stuff-- wonderful stanzas of suprising language or phrasing or
syntax (or all three) and then clunky passages, misspelled words (except/accept),
clauses with weird shifts of syntax, purely silly stuff. There are flashes of
remarkable talent that I wish I had been able to work with you to highlight,
but we didn't really get the chance. You should hook up with the writers
connected with Double Change in Paris. The often have events at Pointe
Ephemere which is a good place to discover anyway. If down the line of
yr life, you decide to shift courses, I think you would really flourish in an
MFA program in poetry. I hope you'll keep writing in any case.
Yrs, F:(
Sunday, April 11, 2010
aiya
bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored. bored bored bored. bored. bored!!!! bored bored bored bored. sianzzzzzz.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
!!
thesis to the printers, THESIS TO THE PRINTERS!!! wooot.
now:
write french essay
have dinner w RUFFLES TEH
do french writing assignment
do illustrator/photoshop assignment
get thesis back and stick photos + "captions" in
plan lesson for recalcitrant kiddies
...
WEEKEND FREEDOM.
fighting!!
ps: ive been squandering hours looking at tattoos and lotus pictures today. photoshop is my new best friend !
now:
write french essay
have dinner w RUFFLES TEH
do french writing assignment
do illustrator/photoshop assignment
get thesis back and stick photos + "captions" in
plan lesson for recalcitrant kiddies
...
WEEKEND FREEDOM.
fighting!!
ps: ive been squandering hours looking at tattoos and lotus pictures today. photoshop is my new best friend !
waste
our mouths cruised
through obscurity
soulwave fuelled
speed bumps of silence
restraining unfeasible
thirst
sometimes was not
a protrusion but
concave temporary:
potholes of infinity not
yet chosen by words
this path was not meant
to be our final
but silence became your
crazy filter decided
on nostalgia
perceived tree death returns
you to memory
though what you
consigned still grows
taller than in the wistful mind
through obscurity
soulwave fuelled
speed bumps of silence
restraining unfeasible
thirst
sometimes was not
a protrusion but
concave temporary:
potholes of infinity not
yet chosen by words
this path was not meant
to be our final
but silence became your
crazy filter decided
on nostalgia
perceived tree death returns
you to memory
though what you
consigned still grows
taller than in the wistful mind
Friday, April 9, 2010
the most exciting thing that happened to me today:
I fell down the stairs !
yep, new lows that "life" has reached hahaha
Thursday, April 8, 2010
off the radar
ive deleted faceb and my phone is dead... and charger nowhere in sight. woo its kinda nice in hermitland.
econ exam down, one thesis,one essay, one phot oshop assignment to go.
econ exam down, one thesis,one essay, one phot oshop assignment to go.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
back to the crepuscule
in petal reach of
this toothless bloom
who knows happy is
no mimosa a stranger
can make shy
the trade of barbie’s wardrobe
for monochrome freedom
smells like lemons.
this toothless bloom
who knows happy is
no mimosa a stranger
can make shy
the trade of barbie’s wardrobe
for monochrome freedom
smells like lemons.
SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING:
Persistence in Unreciprocated Affection Causes Stress, Heart Disease, Sleeplessness, Uneasiness and May Complicate General Existence.
I.
you are ugly like a scab;
I cannot keep away.
II.
inferno commotion
reverberates my fingerwalls
molecules tremble before
disaster agitating for f(l)ight
III.
the pain is unfortunately surmountable,
blood dots half-hearted tears.
IV.
two hands churning milk into frantic ;
four could have made some tranquil butter.
V.
still riddled with temptation,
but edges melt into flesh;
eager nails can find no ready opening.
VI.
conflicts of a contrary nature pitted against
an inert gas :
even sparks cannot ignite
VII.
I persist because
and succeed in tearing heal from roots
a small skinstrip;
an angry Roscharch test
I see the dry end on this napkin
VIII.
containment is the subtle shift
when outlines start to merge
I.
you are ugly like a scab;
I cannot keep away.
II.
inferno commotion
reverberates my fingerwalls
molecules tremble before
disaster agitating for f(l)ight
III.
the pain is unfortunately surmountable,
blood dots half-hearted tears.
IV.
two hands churning milk into frantic ;
four could have made some tranquil butter.
V.
still riddled with temptation,
but edges melt into flesh;
eager nails can find no ready opening.
VI.
conflicts of a contrary nature pitted against
an inert gas :
even sparks cannot ignite
VII.
I persist because
and succeed in tearing heal from roots
a small skinstrip;
an angry Roscharch test
I see the dry end on this napkin
VIII.
containment is the subtle shift
when outlines start to merge
Learning to swim
My love,
You have complained of stale
bread, when you think of me.
While I lack the ability to regale
I will try to fulfill your subtle plea.
If my life were a dictionary,
you would surely be aardvark
for being the top priority.
The scenario in Noah’s ark
floods me with rough envy:
if only we were the soul two of a kind,
flank to flank up the gangplank
separated from all else by strict sea
(except the rest of the menagerie)
my rivals could only drown behind.
Does this show of jealousy surprise you?
I know suspicions arise that I am robot
from tide to tide. But I assure you not –
though sometimes forgetful it’s true
with calls and dates, and I did buy
a pound cake as gift on Valentine’s (I now know
that is not acceptable/romantic and why)
so you should know too that there is no
deliberate or sloppy involved; I do try
(it took me hours finding the perfect pound cake!
and would have made my own if only I could bake)
With you, the world spins west
and all my directions are confused;
which way to turn my head becomes a test.
I never used to muse, but trust me I have mused
over you my amuse who have planted seeds
of strange flowers within my yard of weeds.
I don’t think I used to feel even half as much before,
still acclimatizing to life in the sky since the floor
was where I roamed. (See, you even have me
using words like “roam”, taking some liberty
of imagination; I used to walk everywhere.
I cannot comprehend your wondering stare
at sunlit streets, and star-filled night plains
your precious mind filled with the delight
of existence, while heart overflows with its pains
and trying by osmosis to learn, I hold you tight.
Quantum physics is a piece of (pound) cake,
but you are a proper Valentine’s present,
and I a gorilla in a crystalline lake
trying to swim.
You have complained of stale
bread, when you think of me.
While I lack the ability to regale
I will try to fulfill your subtle plea.
If my life were a dictionary,
you would surely be aardvark
for being the top priority.
The scenario in Noah’s ark
floods me with rough envy:
if only we were the soul two of a kind,
flank to flank up the gangplank
separated from all else by strict sea
(except the rest of the menagerie)
my rivals could only drown behind.
Does this show of jealousy surprise you?
I know suspicions arise that I am robot
from tide to tide. But I assure you not –
though sometimes forgetful it’s true
with calls and dates, and I did buy
a pound cake as gift on Valentine’s (I now know
that is not acceptable/romantic and why)
so you should know too that there is no
deliberate or sloppy involved; I do try
(it took me hours finding the perfect pound cake!
and would have made my own if only I could bake)
With you, the world spins west
and all my directions are confused;
which way to turn my head becomes a test.
I never used to muse, but trust me I have mused
over you my amuse who have planted seeds
of strange flowers within my yard of weeds.
I don’t think I used to feel even half as much before,
still acclimatizing to life in the sky since the floor
was where I roamed. (See, you even have me
using words like “roam”, taking some liberty
of imagination; I used to walk everywhere.
I cannot comprehend your wondering stare
at sunlit streets, and star-filled night plains
your precious mind filled with the delight
of existence, while heart overflows with its pains
and trying by osmosis to learn, I hold you tight.
Quantum physics is a piece of (pound) cake,
but you are a proper Valentine’s present,
and I a gorilla in a crystalline lake
trying to swim.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Payback
speeding car in darkness late
pebbles like candy on hate
mocking a pedestrian bait
with misplaced konichiwa
does this somehow satiate
1’s entertainment quota?
six asian girls and a white guy
2 can’t help but wonder why
well curiosity can perch then pass
did 2 really have to ask
if he were teaching a language class?
what amusement from this task?
I will not go back to “fucking Tokyo”,
since I never came from there.
If 3’s swine ignorance were not blatant show
perhaps 3 would get somewhere
with “exotic” women I suspect 3 to crave
from legends of a submissive care-taking doll.
Perhaps if on broken glass 4,5,6… beg and crawl
I might consider (as opposed to a manic rave
about that fill-in-the-Asian-race ex-girlfriend
as 4,5,6… slyly try to take my vise-clenched hand.
And are the food snipes really necessary?
A friend has been yelled pork fried rice, another
labeled spring roll, I guess while possibly you see
good cooks in us, I’m sure you could find other
means of praise – no one calls 7 baguette or 8 taco bell;
save these slurs for the long stint in hell,
asshole.
pebbles like candy on hate
mocking a pedestrian bait
with misplaced konichiwa
does this somehow satiate
1’s entertainment quota?
six asian girls and a white guy
2 can’t help but wonder why
well curiosity can perch then pass
did 2 really have to ask
if he were teaching a language class?
what amusement from this task?
I will not go back to “fucking Tokyo”,
since I never came from there.
If 3’s swine ignorance were not blatant show
perhaps 3 would get somewhere
with “exotic” women I suspect 3 to crave
from legends of a submissive care-taking doll.
Perhaps if on broken glass 4,5,6… beg and crawl
I might consider (as opposed to a manic rave
about that fill-in-the-Asian-race ex-girlfriend
as 4,5,6… slyly try to take my vise-clenched hand.
And are the food snipes really necessary?
A friend has been yelled pork fried rice, another
labeled spring roll, I guess while possibly you see
good cooks in us, I’m sure you could find other
means of praise – no one calls 7 baguette or 8 taco bell;
save these slurs for the long stint in hell,
asshole.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
-
feeling so sick with worry and stress - why am i so high strung?? i need to channel the energy but all it does is induce this very thorough invasive dread beginning from the pit of my stomach and extending outward like the branches of a poison tree. and so it fills, it fills, it drowns
fuck, as i told michelle, either i finish my thesis or it finishes me.
(right now it looks like a knockout in the first round.... and im the knocked out. but, underdog perserverance. put your money on me, the odds will win you a fortune.)
spirit of the lotus !!! FIGHTING!!!!!!!
fuck, as i told michelle, either i finish my thesis or it finishes me.
(right now it looks like a knockout in the first round.... and im the knocked out. but, underdog perserverance. put your money on me, the odds will win you a fortune.)
spirit of the lotus !!! FIGHTING!!!!!!!
5 hours later...
my postcard inspired by springbreak, and my thesis book cover (temp) :) it would be nice if i actually had a thesis.... (sigh)
Monday, March 29, 2010
lioness, blue, tornado
i was in bed, but got a sort of anxiety/panic attack when i thought about my thesis and all the work i had to do (mostly my thesis, though) so i got up and started writing after like an hour of fast heartbeats and word storming in my head. et voila.
Close Enough
There was once a lioness that longed to be blue. Not for her fur, her paws, her eyes and tongue to be dyed, but for her existence to transmogrify from animal to hue. She yearned with the ferocity that other lions reserved for their prey, so made a poor huntress, stretched thin on impossibility. (Strange how some are intrinsically intimate with unattainable desire, while others are so lackluster in their insect-chasing success). One day, a tornado blustered into the plain, and the lion pride fled; only the wistful lioness stood in its way. Scram, said the tornado, or it will be your end. So I will end, replied the lioness calmly, for I wish to become blue. You will not become blue; you will not be the sky, nor will you be water, nor a bluebell, nor a jay, nor anything remotely in that color, the tornado insisted. I do not want to be in that color, I want to be that color, the lioness clarified. Well, you will not be that color either, you will die, then you will be ashes that turn into dust, and you will be the grey of a dull eternity, predicted the tornado, and that is not a grey you want to become. Better to be unassuming, humble dust lifted in dreaming a futile dream, than a lioness, beautiful and golden, wasted on the unfeasible; a queen with her head and knees sealed to the ground, explained the lioness. Very well, I see your point; it’s an excellent point actually. May I add, that when you are ashes and dust and terribly grey, the wind will carry you around. Being a speck in the sky, you will be surrounded by blue, an ultimate, invading blue, and you may feel that you are part of that blue: seeing, smelling, tasting, being nothing else. Almost, added the tornado. Nearly, said the lioness, could be close enough; come on, now.
any feedback is, as always, greatly, muchly, terribly appreciated.
Close Enough
There was once a lioness that longed to be blue. Not for her fur, her paws, her eyes and tongue to be dyed, but for her existence to transmogrify from animal to hue. She yearned with the ferocity that other lions reserved for their prey, so made a poor huntress, stretched thin on impossibility. (Strange how some are intrinsically intimate with unattainable desire, while others are so lackluster in their insect-chasing success). One day, a tornado blustered into the plain, and the lion pride fled; only the wistful lioness stood in its way. Scram, said the tornado, or it will be your end. So I will end, replied the lioness calmly, for I wish to become blue. You will not become blue; you will not be the sky, nor will you be water, nor a bluebell, nor a jay, nor anything remotely in that color, the tornado insisted. I do not want to be in that color, I want to be that color, the lioness clarified. Well, you will not be that color either, you will die, then you will be ashes that turn into dust, and you will be the grey of a dull eternity, predicted the tornado, and that is not a grey you want to become. Better to be unassuming, humble dust lifted in dreaming a futile dream, than a lioness, beautiful and golden, wasted on the unfeasible; a queen with her head and knees sealed to the ground, explained the lioness. Very well, I see your point; it’s an excellent point actually. May I add, that when you are ashes and dust and terribly grey, the wind will carry you around. Being a speck in the sky, you will be surrounded by blue, an ultimate, invading blue, and you may feel that you are part of that blue: seeing, smelling, tasting, being nothing else. Almost, added the tornado. Nearly, said the lioness, could be close enough; come on, now.
any feedback is, as always, greatly, muchly, terribly appreciated.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
tab·er·nac·le
–noun
1.
any place or house of worship, esp. one designed for a large congregation.
2.
(often initial capital letter
) the portable sanctuary in use by the Israelites from the time of their wandering in the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt to the building of the Temple in Jerusalem by Solomon. Ex. 25–27.
) the portable sanctuary in use by the Israelites from the time of their wandering in the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt to the building of the Temple in Jerusalem by Solomon. Ex. 25–27. 3.
Ecclesiastical. an ornamental receptacle for the reserved Eucharist, now generally found on the altar.
4.
a canopied niche or recess, as for an image or icon.
5.
a temporary dwelling or shelter, as a tent or hut.
6.
a dwelling place.
7.
the human body as the temporary abode of the soul.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
water, cardamom, cinnamon
Anyway,
I was just thinking about how we could
*
I mean, water is free isn’t it? Even if you’re not sure about
*
What I mean to say is, we could just grab a glass of water together and
*
I was just thinking, what will we lose if we got together and enjoyed some
*
You know, I’ve been feeling like maybe
*
You see, maybe we’re not that different just like
*
Well, I’ve always thought of you as a spice, something sweet, something
*
Actually, I don’t know many spices but
*
Yeah, so, you might remind me of
*
Hey, so, I had pumpkin pie the other day and I could really taste
*
I guess cinnamon is what it is, what you
*
No, I don’t usually get coffee but the other day I had a cinnamon
*
I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it before but
*
It’s strange, the other day I
*
I’ve been thinking, and in a personality quiz thing I might describe myself as
*
Have you ever heard of cardamom? It’s a spice and
*
Cardamom can be used in cooking, for sweet dishes, it’s really
*
Funny how similar two spices can be huh?
-----
please please please give me feedback on this one. perfectly honest and brutal feedback.
I was just thinking about how we could
*
I mean, water is free isn’t it? Even if you’re not sure about
*
What I mean to say is, we could just grab a glass of water together and
*
I was just thinking, what will we lose if we got together and enjoyed some
*
You know, I’ve been feeling like maybe
*
You see, maybe we’re not that different just like
*
Well, I’ve always thought of you as a spice, something sweet, something
*
Actually, I don’t know many spices but
*
Yeah, so, you might remind me of
*
Hey, so, I had pumpkin pie the other day and I could really taste
*
I guess cinnamon is what it is, what you
*
No, I don’t usually get coffee but the other day I had a cinnamon
*
I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it before but
*
It’s strange, the other day I
*
I’ve been thinking, and in a personality quiz thing I might describe myself as
*
Have you ever heard of cardamom? It’s a spice and
*
Cardamom can be used in cooking, for sweet dishes, it’s really
*
Funny how similar two spices can be huh?
-----
please please please give me feedback on this one. perfectly honest and brutal feedback.
beer, love, anger
3 Sonnets
I.
A devil that forces a mirror in your face,
burning titanium shackles locking you in place,
your eyelids have disappeared and you have to see
the familiar distort, in grotesque mimicry
of a beast, savage without reason. This is me
you realize, in the terminal stage of fury,
condemned portrait in the rage of Dorian Gray.
Then hatred invades, vicious strain of self-loathing
and disgust: what you have found, with torches flaming,
in the darkest retreat of soul is too ugly
to endure. How sick you feel, how small and lowly,
but the second ill does not cause the first to flee,
they weaken you together while you helplessly
watch that glass hell and yourself burning away.
II.
When I was younger, every boy I liked was perfect.
I saw one corner then one line, knew he was a square,
up in the air he went. But I never did suspect
that with me down here and he on a pedestal there,
our lines of sight could never possibly intersect.
Then of course, inevitably, the time would come where
I saw more angles that were not right, and would suspect
the inevitable: might he be a triangle?
The geometry of my affections then fall apart,
I wrench him off his mounting, he topples to the floor.
He is supine, I still standing, now I see the door
and move a step closer, but it’s no more than a start.
The wistful pedestal, the memory of four
right-angled equal lines, [can not yet leave my heart].
III.
I never used to like this frizzy froth,
bitter as a loss that stays on tongue when
swallowing is done. Taste recalls a moth
still perched, wings furled: dark, dusty, then
asleep, slowly, lightly laying self down.
But now I have come to find some pleasure
small, in this everyman’s brew, a crown
of good times with acrid tones of leisure.
The trick is tuning expectation low:
there will not be sweet, nor any fancy,
take off those heels, and barefooted go
into a keg of honest, cheap, hearty.
Wine is the candle to vodka’s fire,
beer the occasional cigarette desire.
I.
A devil that forces a mirror in your face,
burning titanium shackles locking you in place,
your eyelids have disappeared and you have to see
the familiar distort, in grotesque mimicry
of a beast, savage without reason. This is me
you realize, in the terminal stage of fury,
condemned portrait in the rage of Dorian Gray.
Then hatred invades, vicious strain of self-loathing
and disgust: what you have found, with torches flaming,
in the darkest retreat of soul is too ugly
to endure. How sick you feel, how small and lowly,
but the second ill does not cause the first to flee,
they weaken you together while you helplessly
watch that glass hell and yourself burning away.
II.
When I was younger, every boy I liked was perfect.
I saw one corner then one line, knew he was a square,
up in the air he went. But I never did suspect
that with me down here and he on a pedestal there,
our lines of sight could never possibly intersect.
Then of course, inevitably, the time would come where
I saw more angles that were not right, and would suspect
the inevitable: might he be a triangle?
The geometry of my affections then fall apart,
I wrench him off his mounting, he topples to the floor.
He is supine, I still standing, now I see the door
and move a step closer, but it’s no more than a start.
The wistful pedestal, the memory of four
right-angled equal lines, [can not yet leave my heart].
III.
I never used to like this frizzy froth,
bitter as a loss that stays on tongue when
swallowing is done. Taste recalls a moth
still perched, wings furled: dark, dusty, then
asleep, slowly, lightly laying self down.
But now I have come to find some pleasure
small, in this everyman’s brew, a crown
of good times with acrid tones of leisure.
The trick is tuning expectation low:
there will not be sweet, nor any fancy,
take off those heels, and barefooted go
into a keg of honest, cheap, hearty.
Wine is the candle to vodka’s fire,
beer the occasional cigarette desire.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
twilight, fox, zombie
Twilight zone
starts from around midnight just ‘til dawn,
when we are safely by ourselves
when time is a stowaway
the watch negligent (and neglected)
the darkness outside reveals
nothing of the hours
you lean a littlecloser
touching heads, arms, shoulders
silently agreed upon
as raindrops melt into ocean
*
we shrink the world
cut reali ties and set ourselves afloat
these four mundane walls
form our buoyant vessel
our fox burrow, rabbit hole
traveling out to sea
on the winds of goodwill:
there is nothing to think about here
no past
no subsequently,
only this long, elusive rising,
the horizon of a new land
*
there are pillow islands
and down muffled words slow
a flimsy, persistent bridge
shaking with drowsy
fossils unearthed restored slowly,
in warm arms of sympathy
two sardines in an ample can;
you choose contact over space
I think, or maybe I imagine,
within the confusion of a tangled quilt
your front grazing my back
your lips,my hair
*
birds tweet an alarm inversed -
the sky lightens, time to sleep.
*
when we wake there are only two friends in one bed
and something else
not quite alive
but never fully dead.
starts from around midnight just ‘til dawn,
when we are safely by ourselves
when time is a stowaway
the watch negligent (and neglected)
the darkness outside reveals
nothing of the hours
you lean a littlecloser
touching heads, arms, shoulders
silently agreed upon
as raindrops melt into ocean
*
we shrink the world
cut reali ties and set ourselves afloat
these four mundane walls
form our buoyant vessel
our fox burrow, rabbit hole
traveling out to sea
on the winds of goodwill:
there is nothing to think about here
no past
no subsequently,
only this long, elusive rising,
the horizon of a new land
*
there are pillow islands
and down muffled words slow
a flimsy, persistent bridge
shaking with drowsy
fossils unearthed restored slowly,
in warm arms of sympathy
two sardines in an ample can;
you choose contact over space
I think, or maybe I imagine,
within the confusion of a tangled quilt
your front grazing my back
your lips,my hair
*
birds tweet an alarm inversed -
the sky lightens, time to sleep.
*
when we wake there are only two friends in one bed
and something else
not quite alive
but never fully dead.
homelessness, honey, rope-ladder
The honey bear’s dilemma (almost an odyssey)
when it ran out of honey:
was it still a honey bear?
I.
yes,
absolutely
(he knew the prefix to his name was arbitrary,
being named after one’s diet is unfortunate.
still,) it was his name
like green, or ocean,
intrinsic possession.
(the enigma of an identity
is only as deep as one digs ;
he was gladly shovel-free.)
he decided to look for some;
as food the taste was pleasing,
nothing more.
*
the forest was wide
and his strength of paw
could easily procure some
breaking branches
crushing leaves
he walked the forest for hives of bees
and strangely, unnaturally,
finding none, he kept walking
as moon and sun
took their turns to retire
and he began to tire.
finally he saw some bees
and following them excitement-seized
he found their hives and
a group of other honey bears
he thought new friends !
he only found mistrust ugly
when he explained he had no honey.
no honey, no honey? they mocked
you really a honey bear then?
of course I am, I’ve looked and walked
and walked and looked
the soles of my paws are sore like red
and I am weary as a bed
(because beds you know, have no place to sleep)
please, will you share your honey?
there's plenty here, I won’t take much
my tongue just misses it’s sweet sticky touch.
you lazy bear, you lying piece of fur,
how dare you covet what is ours
I bet you haven’t even tried for hours
you call yourself a honey bear, I’m not so sure,
be gone now and don’t think twice
the second time, we won’t be nice.
the honey bear was stunned and left –
his head spinning like a top;
a cleft to his world dealt swift, indifferent.
was he less honey bear without honey?
was he impotent and lowly?
besides, they hadn’t even made the honey
why would they not share
the abundance that was there
chanced upon by being early?
he would show them!
be the early bear to some other hive
fill his belly ‘til it was fat and thrive
as a real honey bear affirmed by wealth
(despite his proud indignant thought
a battle had been lost unfought ;
a dent where certainty had been
a doubt in what no honey could mean
a shovel found unsought.)
*
no honey, still no honey,
steps were weak and lighter now
creasing leaves
bending branches
his curving back a perpetual bow
as he stumbled thoughts evolved,
turning metal developing edge,
a hundred shovels all involved
deepening the dent with his every stumble,
a honey bear falling fell below humble.
why can’t I find honey, what does this mean?
who is a honey bear when he is so lean
on honey ?
*
he found himself in a pit ;
a profoundly empty honey pot
where all he tasted was his own spit
where he imagined he would rot
while dreaming about rope-ladders
and kind paws
he was still wandering in the forest actually
but the tall walls he imagined around him
cast a shadow
and he consoled himself in the shade
*
sticky amber
functional as its demand
took on the value of gold
and he who no longer knew who he
was a pauper
II.
no,
it is now a bear(ly)
when it ran out of honey:
was it still a honey bear?
I.
yes,
absolutely
(he knew the prefix to his name was arbitrary,
being named after one’s diet is unfortunate.
still,) it was his name
like green, or ocean,
intrinsic possession.
(the enigma of an identity
is only as deep as one digs ;
he was gladly shovel-free.)
he decided to look for some;
as food the taste was pleasing,
nothing more.
*
the forest was wide
and his strength of paw
could easily procure some
breaking branches
crushing leaves
he walked the forest for hives of bees
and strangely, unnaturally,
finding none, he kept walking
as moon and sun
took their turns to retire
and he began to tire.
finally he saw some bees
and following them excitement-seized
he found their hives and
a group of other honey bears
he thought new friends !
he only found mistrust ugly
when he explained he had no honey.
no honey, no honey? they mocked
you really a honey bear then?
of course I am, I’ve looked and walked
and walked and looked
the soles of my paws are sore like red
and I am weary as a bed
(because beds you know, have no place to sleep)
please, will you share your honey?
there's plenty here, I won’t take much
my tongue just misses it’s sweet sticky touch.
you lazy bear, you lying piece of fur,
how dare you covet what is ours
I bet you haven’t even tried for hours
you call yourself a honey bear, I’m not so sure,
be gone now and don’t think twice
the second time, we won’t be nice.
the honey bear was stunned and left –
his head spinning like a top;
a cleft to his world dealt swift, indifferent.
was he less honey bear without honey?
was he impotent and lowly?
besides, they hadn’t even made the honey
why would they not share
the abundance that was there
chanced upon by being early?
he would show them!
be the early bear to some other hive
fill his belly ‘til it was fat and thrive
as a real honey bear affirmed by wealth
(despite his proud indignant thought
a battle had been lost unfought ;
a dent where certainty had been
a doubt in what no honey could mean
a shovel found unsought.)
*
no honey, still no honey,
steps were weak and lighter now
creasing leaves
bending branches
his curving back a perpetual bow
as he stumbled thoughts evolved,
turning metal developing edge,
a hundred shovels all involved
deepening the dent with his every stumble,
a honey bear falling fell below humble.
why can’t I find honey, what does this mean?
who is a honey bear when he is so lean
on honey ?
*
he found himself in a pit ;
a profoundly empty honey pot
where all he tasted was his own spit
where he imagined he would rot
while dreaming about rope-ladders
and kind paws
he was still wandering in the forest actually
but the tall walls he imagined around him
cast a shadow
and he consoled himself in the shade
*
sticky amber
functional as its demand
took on the value of gold
and he who no longer knew who he
was a pauper
II.
no,
it is now a bear(ly)
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Une petite histoire contre l'infidélité (Logorallye)
Il était une fois, deux jeunes gens qui s’aimaient comme des fous tout en ayant une relation insolite Plusieurs problèmes existaient entre eux : l’homme, qui s’appelait Sel, marchait à voile et à vapeur et la femme, Poivre, était une vraie coquette. Par conséquent, l’idée traditionnelle de la fidélité ne jouait pas de grand rôle dans leur relation.
Pourtant, bien que les deux amants n’aient pas été de radin de leurs faveurs, ils suivaient des règles tacites mais bien entendues. Le corps, visible à tous, était l’outil pour faire (et recevoir) de plaisir, donc il ne devrait pas être retenu dans les mailles de toutes les conventions construites par la société. En revanche, le cœur était caché au milieu de la chair et du sang parce qu’il était sacré et merveilleux (comme un secret chuchoté entre les papillons). Quel que soit le nombre d’amants « supplémentaires », les mêmes règles restaient toujours. La première était l’ honnêteté : le « quand », le « qui » et l’ « où » de chaque rencontre d’un parti seraient dévoilés à l’autre. La deuxième était le dévouement émotionnel : ils garderaient bien toujours le cœur et l’amour seulement pour eux-mêmes. Ils n’avaient pas peur de la perfidie, et dans cet esprit de confiance, ils se firent un promesse : à partir du moment où l’un d’entre eux aurait rompu l’une des règles, quelle qu’elle soit, il neigerait pendant deux jours. Comme ils habitaient dans un pays tropical, une trahison serait évidente tout de suite.
Un jour, Poivre rencontra Vert-Bleu, un vétérinaire qui avait une langue de miel et une vache marine. Il lui dit des choses belles et sucrées ; ses mots dorés et gluants lui firent plaisir. Puis, il lui donna une rose rose. Poivre n’aimait pas de roses, mais elle fut fortement attirée par cette rose sans en connaître la raison. « Mais, pourquoi suis-je si fascinée par cette rose ? Je suis presque joyeuse que vous me l’ayez donnée…» lui demanda-t-elle. « Parce que c’est une rose rose -- cet objet est la plus complète représentation du mot « rose ». Elle est remplie de sens, et pour ça vous l’aimez. » répondit-il. Poivre se rendant compte qu’il avait raison, se trouva soudainement presque accablée par le désir de l’embrasser ; elle avait hâte de goûter la douceur de sa bouche. Vert-Bleu, inconscient de son désir, lui suggéra d’aller voir sa vache marine, qui pesait plus de 300 livres (et elle les tous avait lus). Poivre, qui n’était jamais timide, s’élança vers lui, la bouche prête. Dès qu’ils se furent embrassés, il commença à neiger.
Pendant quelques instants, dans la chaleur du baiser, ils ne remarquèrent pas la neige. Finalement, Vert-Bleu sentit les gouttes de froid qui chatouillaient ses bras. En ouvrant les yeux, il s’écria « Mon dieu ! Mais c’est impossible ! » Poivre ouvrit les yeux aussi et vit la neige – elle ressentit tout d’un coup une douleur dans la poitrine. Elle sut qu’elle avait rompu les règles, elle était tombée amoureuse de Vert-Bleu, et maintenant Sel le savait aussi. « Je dois partir tout de suite ! Je vous retrouverai ici une fois que j’aurai réglé un ou deux trucs chez moi » dit-elle en partant.
Poivre se dépêcha de rentrer chez eux, elle était sûre que Sel serait là, à l’attendre. Mais elle ne le trouva nul part à la maison, il y avait seulement un cœur sur le lit. Elle le regarda de près… et elle le reconnut. Quoi ! C’est possible ? Le cœur était le sien, elle connaissait trop bien ses lignes (les veines), ses courbes (les ventricules), sa nuance de rouge. Mais il s’était transformé: deux petites ailes de toile aux couleurs vives, qui ressemblaient à des ailes papillons, poussèrent des orifices d’oreillette. Elle les toucha doucement, elles étaient un peu mouillés, et il y restait quelques flocons de neige. Les draps autour du cœur étaient humides aussi. Elle fut jetée dans la perplexité : D’ou s’était envolé son cœur ? Il était arrivé de dehors, c’était sûr, mais d’où exactement ? Si son cœur était là, quel cœur était à l’intérieur d’elle alors ? Elle mit la main dans sa poitrine et arracha le cœur dedans. C’était le cœur de Sel ! En fait, ils les avaient échangés depuis si longtemps qu’elle l’avait oublié ; Elle le connaissait presque aussi bien que le sien. Mais il était changé, ce cœur : il se ratatina, il eut la grosseur d’une cerise. Devant ses yeux, dans sa main ouverte, il continua de rétrécir, jusqu’au moment où il disparut.
Sel, brisé comme leur promesse, n’était plus.
Pourtant, bien que les deux amants n’aient pas été de radin de leurs faveurs, ils suivaient des règles tacites mais bien entendues. Le corps, visible à tous, était l’outil pour faire (et recevoir) de plaisir, donc il ne devrait pas être retenu dans les mailles de toutes les conventions construites par la société. En revanche, le cœur était caché au milieu de la chair et du sang parce qu’il était sacré et merveilleux (comme un secret chuchoté entre les papillons). Quel que soit le nombre d’amants « supplémentaires », les mêmes règles restaient toujours. La première était l’ honnêteté : le « quand », le « qui » et l’ « où » de chaque rencontre d’un parti seraient dévoilés à l’autre. La deuxième était le dévouement émotionnel : ils garderaient bien toujours le cœur et l’amour seulement pour eux-mêmes. Ils n’avaient pas peur de la perfidie, et dans cet esprit de confiance, ils se firent un promesse : à partir du moment où l’un d’entre eux aurait rompu l’une des règles, quelle qu’elle soit, il neigerait pendant deux jours. Comme ils habitaient dans un pays tropical, une trahison serait évidente tout de suite.
Un jour, Poivre rencontra Vert-Bleu, un vétérinaire qui avait une langue de miel et une vache marine. Il lui dit des choses belles et sucrées ; ses mots dorés et gluants lui firent plaisir. Puis, il lui donna une rose rose. Poivre n’aimait pas de roses, mais elle fut fortement attirée par cette rose sans en connaître la raison. « Mais, pourquoi suis-je si fascinée par cette rose ? Je suis presque joyeuse que vous me l’ayez donnée…» lui demanda-t-elle. « Parce que c’est une rose rose -- cet objet est la plus complète représentation du mot « rose ». Elle est remplie de sens, et pour ça vous l’aimez. » répondit-il. Poivre se rendant compte qu’il avait raison, se trouva soudainement presque accablée par le désir de l’embrasser ; elle avait hâte de goûter la douceur de sa bouche. Vert-Bleu, inconscient de son désir, lui suggéra d’aller voir sa vache marine, qui pesait plus de 300 livres (et elle les tous avait lus). Poivre, qui n’était jamais timide, s’élança vers lui, la bouche prête. Dès qu’ils se furent embrassés, il commença à neiger.
Pendant quelques instants, dans la chaleur du baiser, ils ne remarquèrent pas la neige. Finalement, Vert-Bleu sentit les gouttes de froid qui chatouillaient ses bras. En ouvrant les yeux, il s’écria « Mon dieu ! Mais c’est impossible ! » Poivre ouvrit les yeux aussi et vit la neige – elle ressentit tout d’un coup une douleur dans la poitrine. Elle sut qu’elle avait rompu les règles, elle était tombée amoureuse de Vert-Bleu, et maintenant Sel le savait aussi. « Je dois partir tout de suite ! Je vous retrouverai ici une fois que j’aurai réglé un ou deux trucs chez moi » dit-elle en partant.
Poivre se dépêcha de rentrer chez eux, elle était sûre que Sel serait là, à l’attendre. Mais elle ne le trouva nul part à la maison, il y avait seulement un cœur sur le lit. Elle le regarda de près… et elle le reconnut. Quoi ! C’est possible ? Le cœur était le sien, elle connaissait trop bien ses lignes (les veines), ses courbes (les ventricules), sa nuance de rouge. Mais il s’était transformé: deux petites ailes de toile aux couleurs vives, qui ressemblaient à des ailes papillons, poussèrent des orifices d’oreillette. Elle les toucha doucement, elles étaient un peu mouillés, et il y restait quelques flocons de neige. Les draps autour du cœur étaient humides aussi. Elle fut jetée dans la perplexité : D’ou s’était envolé son cœur ? Il était arrivé de dehors, c’était sûr, mais d’où exactement ? Si son cœur était là, quel cœur était à l’intérieur d’elle alors ? Elle mit la main dans sa poitrine et arracha le cœur dedans. C’était le cœur de Sel ! En fait, ils les avaient échangés depuis si longtemps qu’elle l’avait oublié ; Elle le connaissait presque aussi bien que le sien. Mais il était changé, ce cœur : il se ratatina, il eut la grosseur d’une cerise. Devant ses yeux, dans sa main ouverte, il continua de rétrécir, jusqu’au moment où il disparut.
Sel, brisé comme leur promesse, n’était plus.
Monday, February 22, 2010
#1
Click on it ! I don't know how else to put it up with format preserved.... Just back from Vermont, had a very fun and funny time with everyone, doing minimal skiing :P i'm so humji meh, still plotting plans for ski/snowboard camp with the bro (maybe in december / next year after his a's...) Turned twenty three with some of my favorite people and saw more the whole birthday. It was very nice and I'm thankful for all that I have.
Feeling the stress of homework and commitments and the mess i left behind and am adding to with each minute... going to take a nap, revive self, psyche up, and be a productive hardcorer (like amy / faith on the slopes.)
Sunday, February 14, 2010
The Girl with the Red Umbrella
There was once a girl, with a red umbrella. There were no patterns, or pictures on the umbrella; it was a clear, even, crimson bloom when open. The girl carried her umbrella everywhere, usually closed. She didn’t want to, it was such a striking color that even closed, was never discreet. But she couldn’t leave the umbrella behind, it followed her everywhere regardless of her wishes. She liked it sometimes, she knew it was special. The trouble was that guys always noticed, and even when she held it casually, sneakily, behind her back, neatly furled and tied, they still always managed to catch some glimpse of that demanding red. And they always asked her to open it for them, even if it were only a gentle tiptoe of rain. She almost never wanted to open it, and she always wanted it closed before they did. She didn’t like showing off her umbrella, she didn’t like the interest it attracted. But she couldn’t refuse requests that were nicely phrased; it felt impolite. And once she had blossomed her umbrella for their attentive eyes, she didn’t feel like she could close it before they had finished their viewing. It was like robbing someone of springtime, or an interruption mid speech. She had to find a convenient distraction or natural pause to retire this gregarious burden.
Every time she opened her umbrella, she had to lift it high into the sky so it could be properly admired, and it was heavy. Her arm grew weary after time, she ached from the undesired effort. She even cried, once, but it was drizzling that day, and raindrops were obsequious; no one tasted her face to realize that there was salt amidst the fresh water. She started to hate her red umbrella. She didn’t want to open it anymore; she wished to a god that she had never served, that they would stop asking. So of course they didn’t.
Don’t make me open my red umbrella, she thought, every time she met someone new. Don’t think about my red umbrella, don’t look at it, don’t talk to me about it, and for fucks sake don’t ask me to open it. Don’t open it for me either. She felt like curling up and imploding, minimizing her surface area so fast that she would disappear in half a heartbeat. Funny, that she thought of a heartbeat, her own vital organ was so bullied and neglected by this point that there was no constant pulsing. Sometimes she had to run away from everyone and hide under her covers, in absolute silence, to be sure there was still activity, that it had not died. Sometimes she felt like it had turned to stone, and that was why her feet seemed to melt into the ground, why she was stricken by a sudden desire for immobility, the deadweight in her chest making its tragic presence felt. It would have been nice to be a tree, ravaged at by the weather, without any pretensions of defense. It could rain forever and I would just die helpless, she thought, roots loosened by the torrents, without any pretext to open a red umbrella.
One day, she decided that the red umbrella was going to stay closed until a real thunderstorm, and nothing else. It didn’t matter who or how many asked her to open it, it would take the downpour that precipitated the Great Flood in the bible before she would relent. Then she would open her red umbrella, autonomously and willingly: just, all, happily, for herself.
THE END
I started work for my thesis today!!! So far, the title of the chapbook is going to be "The Bakery, the Bar and around the Block", I'm going to be getting 3 elements from random people at these 3 places and write a poem based on each 3 elements, and include a photo of them too. : ) it went really well today, I was at the Seven Stars Bakery (up hope st, took me like 20 minutes to walk there but it was suuunny!) and since it's valentine's day i just asked people who were together (don't know if they're couples, i could guess but i didn't ask) to give me elements. everyone was really nice and friendly : ) hopefully I'll get at least one poem out based on these groups of people soon -- it'll be up here.
quiet heart breaks are the worst ; so subtle you don't even notice at first. so silent you cannot hear it, until there's only stillness left. a little more serious, a little older. examining streets before crossing, gauging distances before leaping. thinking about how kindness may be the most important quality in a person.
Every time she opened her umbrella, she had to lift it high into the sky so it could be properly admired, and it was heavy. Her arm grew weary after time, she ached from the undesired effort. She even cried, once, but it was drizzling that day, and raindrops were obsequious; no one tasted her face to realize that there was salt amidst the fresh water. She started to hate her red umbrella. She didn’t want to open it anymore; she wished to a god that she had never served, that they would stop asking. So of course they didn’t.
Don’t make me open my red umbrella, she thought, every time she met someone new. Don’t think about my red umbrella, don’t look at it, don’t talk to me about it, and for fucks sake don’t ask me to open it. Don’t open it for me either. She felt like curling up and imploding, minimizing her surface area so fast that she would disappear in half a heartbeat. Funny, that she thought of a heartbeat, her own vital organ was so bullied and neglected by this point that there was no constant pulsing. Sometimes she had to run away from everyone and hide under her covers, in absolute silence, to be sure there was still activity, that it had not died. Sometimes she felt like it had turned to stone, and that was why her feet seemed to melt into the ground, why she was stricken by a sudden desire for immobility, the deadweight in her chest making its tragic presence felt. It would have been nice to be a tree, ravaged at by the weather, without any pretensions of defense. It could rain forever and I would just die helpless, she thought, roots loosened by the torrents, without any pretext to open a red umbrella.
One day, she decided that the red umbrella was going to stay closed until a real thunderstorm, and nothing else. It didn’t matter who or how many asked her to open it, it would take the downpour that precipitated the Great Flood in the bible before she would relent. Then she would open her red umbrella, autonomously and willingly: just, all, happily, for herself.
THE END
I started work for my thesis today!!! So far, the title of the chapbook is going to be "The Bakery, the Bar and around the Block", I'm going to be getting 3 elements from random people at these 3 places and write a poem based on each 3 elements, and include a photo of them too. : ) it went really well today, I was at the Seven Stars Bakery (up hope st, took me like 20 minutes to walk there but it was suuunny!) and since it's valentine's day i just asked people who were together (don't know if they're couples, i could guess but i didn't ask) to give me elements. everyone was really nice and friendly : ) hopefully I'll get at least one poem out based on these groups of people soon -- it'll be up here.
quiet heart breaks are the worst ; so subtle you don't even notice at first. so silent you cannot hear it, until there's only stillness left. a little more serious, a little older. examining streets before crossing, gauging distances before leaping. thinking about how kindness may be the most important quality in a person.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
it's so easy to be weak
oh, why is it so easy to be weak?
this is going to be short : have not lived up to the standards as of this morning (and today) , but i'm not going to say much because it's so boring and so sian to complain about one's inadequacies. i get so bored of my flaws sometimes. these endless cycles are so predictable they're almost painfully dull.
i just felt like i should clarify because my last post cast an unduely flattering light on myself. tadah, honesty at its height of futility. okay i'm shutting up now, even these words are so boring. boring, boring boring ew.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
hamlet inspired
What is a man,
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more:
Sure he that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and god-like reason
To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on th’event –
A thought which quartered hath but one part wisdom,
And ever three parts coward – I do not know
Why yet I live to say “This thing’s to do,”
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means,
To do’tand so i have been trying to reform my lifestyle! basically, sleeping early (usually before midnight, often before 11pm!), making my bed the moment i wake, and gymming everyday ! wooohooo. im not sure if its the new attitude, or the gymming (all those endorphins!!) but ive been feeling quite chipper everyday despite the phlegmy cough the -10 celsius weather has cursed me with.
plans for this semester
classes:
1) VA 10 !!!! : ) :) : ) oh this makes me so happy! its basically a studio foundation for visual arts, so i'll be sketching and painting a lot !
2) French creative writing workshop -- taught by the prof who was i/c of the b/rown in paris program, who's very funny, cute, and also no nonsense ! one of the first things we are supposed to do is choose a "nom de plume" (pen name) via an anagram of our actual names. so far, the best choice i have is "Junk Pile"... hahaha ! not so inspiring / credible as mich pointed out ... so i shall try a bit harder. but its so funny!
3) French lit course from 18th century to today
4) Public Economics
5) MY THESIS CLASSSSSS. (end product: poetry chapbook!)
extra-curricular:
1) Writers' Group -- the creative writing workshop for developmentally disabled adults that I was doing last year
2) Applying to be a French TA
3) MAYBE this teaching english program to kids whose first language isn't english
personal improvement:
1) reading the economist every week
2) gymming regularly, so far every day, but depending on how work etc comes in...
3) ZEN living
so far, so good. wish me luck !
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
today i
sent him off at the airport, where i also lost my camera.
went home feeling heavy and dull with a once familiar but now unaccustomed moodiness that sank slowly through my cloud fabric self and out as salty, angry rain
couldn't tell if i were sad because of the camera or him (both, i suppose)
came home after supper and saw the phone
realized how much i wanted to call the ocean traverser
remembered what it felt like to miss someone so helplessly, frustratingly
relived the dread of leave takings
knew that i am re in love
know that life won't wait while i pine
finish as much packing as i can
get ready to move along
yes, i suppose i was wrong. 6 years is not water under the bridge, and i have not outgrown him.
Monday, January 4, 2010
japan --> home
the family vacation in Hokkaido was ichiban ! my brother and i skiied like maniacs the first 2.5 days, then switched over to snowboarding for the rest of the third. i also fell like a fool in love too many times to count and passed traumatized, panic-ridden moments peering down slopes far too steep for my quavery amateur legs. these varied only in details (whether i was standing or sitting, whether both skiis were off, one ski off and the other several metres behind and above me, or both skiis were on) but not sentiments/thoughts. the combination was usually like this:
1) oh shit, oh shit oh shit.
2) what can i do besides ski down? (i.e., could i walk carrying my skiis? just stay on my butt and slide down?)
3) sian.
4) why am i skiing?
5) damn sian.
etcetera
still, having ones blood replaced by liquid fear is a very unusual experience. i don't think i've ever been so completely weighed down by the absolute non-desire to continue, with no alternative in sight. it was one of those things that might possibly build character. the rest of the trip was sight-seeing as we were driven from random attraction to attraction in a mini van with our own tour guide (Homma-san). we did glass-blowing (very scary! i had these paranoid visions of burning a hole thru my thigh with careless molten glass), a short horse ride up a snowy hill, fed bears (so kawaii!), looked at monuments, shopped, walked near a volcano... all the days just clambered one after the other, up the stairs of time.
now i'm home -- and home too, is lovely. feeling so lucky to be moving from one wonderful, beautiful place to another. today, i sent my sister off (poor thing is starting work again in 2 days!), went walking with choon for hours at Henderson Waves, which i had never heard of / seen before (some kind of swaku) and which was so thoroughly enjoyable! such tall green, so much space, a winding bridge, an uphill path, countless species of trees and flowers. my heart felt all spiritually united with nature and the world ! haha
after, my bro and i went to my cousin's house to meet for the first time the boy she's engaged to and his brother. it was a jolly bbq, my uncle was dishing up huge grilled prawns, satays, fish, beef, chicken wings non stop. all grilled to almost-perfect. the cousins and the soon to be cousins-in-laws sat together, eating, talking, drinking. when dessert was done, we played pictionary, then pool. on a tangent, i realized i really like pool! i used to suck, and everytime i played well it was just tyco. but recently (well since i played w my bro in japan once) i feel like i'm getting a greater control over my playing -- and its fuuun!
okay, i'm going to bed soon, super shagged from the long day. but also very content -- such a nice mix of friend and family day. sometimes i think about how if i stayed in singapore after graduating (or all the time) i would have this warm fuzzy mélange always, not the rare day that like a rainbow graces my life with its presence then fleets leaving a wistful longing for more. choices, choices.
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