the limits of my language are the limits of my world

anti narration

2011-11-27T17:24:00.001-08:00

Flowers only love fools. They’re the only ones who buy them for being flowers. Other people buy flowers to give to someone, to put a little color into their living room, to jazz up the blah. This is having a vested interest. This is not true love. True love is when the existence of the other matters enormously to you, not because they make you happy or they look good or they carry your groceries for you in the snow. It is like keeping a piece of paper when you have no pen and you know you will never have a pen and you don’t know how to do origami and the paper is dirty and you really have absolutely no fucking need or use for a piece of dirty paper. Or when an anorexic cooks for herself. That is true love for cooking.

more ways to pass the time

2011-10-27T08:56:00.001-07:00

play!
by the way, that's a hyperlink. click on it !

and so the time passes

2011-10-27T03:21:00.001-07:00

Idea #4: Different surfaces of projection for the cinema. My one big idea is of what could be a set up of hell. You enter a cinema theatre and you see super steep concrete steps leading incessantly upwards. You make the climb all the way up to the top, to see one wooden chair on a small platform (just a bit larger than the chair). Seated on the chair, you bend over (like in the airplane when you feel sick or as a safety posture during a crash) and deep, deep down below, where you entered, is your life projected on the ground. You watch all your existence from that lofty seat. Other less contextualized variations : film projected onto a lake, or film made entirely by reflections in puddles on the ground and windows.

Idea #5: Story about a world where mind-reading is normal life. All thoughts are projected. People learn to 'mask' their thoughts by projecting another thought (pre-calculated) forcefully forward, thus drowning out the other thoughts. Thoughts can be symbolized as sound. Augmenting the 'volume' of one thought to drown out the other - ie in the metro where there are too many strangers.

Played 'The Dark Meadow' on the Ipad with Darkie last Sunday afternoon/night... I is such a geek/nerd, the shame ! But it was a good game - chilling, you wake up in an abandoned hospital without any memories. The room that you are in is decorated with colorful confetti 'IT'S A GIRL!' letters on the wall. You see an old man in a wheel chair right when you wake up but he runs away saying that 'SHE' was here ! Subsequently, he speaks to you on the loud speaker in the rooms where there is a sun drawn on the door - rooms with sunlight, where you are safe. In the other rooms there are strange monsters that you have to fight. In the sunlit rooms, you find gold in drawers and loose sheets of papers. Books, journals, legal documents. You try and piece things together - you read about random characters, what happens to them, their genealogy... you start to realize that most of these people are in the same family. That tragedies have befallen most of this family - the oldest character leaves his wife and daughter without money on some mysterious quest... the daughter who is a governess ends up dying in a fire with a famous architect's family, her son who survives has anger issues and has a labotomy... his son is in the hospital for awhile when he was 7 (he hates the hospital) later grows up, and has a daughter who disappears from the hospital shortly after she was born.... There are many references to the devil, on both a theoretical and folkloric level...

We start to realize that many of these characters are connected to the devil. They have made some sort of pact, and he has claimed his price.

There is a room on the first floor where there is a ghostly girl who you must kill. Apparently she is the soceress/ enchantress who is holding you, and the old man in the wheelchair captive. After killing her you faint and wake up in your room. But in the room where she was, there is a staircase leading to the second floor. The old man talking to you through the loud speaker tells you that you must kill the enchantress to be free. You proceed through the second floor the same way as the first floor, compiling more documents giving you more and more information - but nothing clearly indicating your identity. Are you the baby daughter who was lost many years ago? You find the enchantress again and you kill her again.

You wake up in your room again. The old man talking to you through the loud speaker has began to change his tone. He taunts you, as if he knows something you don't. He knows who you were, before you lost your memory. He finally reveals that you are the boy who was in the hospital for awhile when you were 7, and he, he is the devil. You made a pact with himbecause you were scared. You offered your own soul, in 17 years. When the devil came to claim your soul, being scared, because you are playing the role of a very frightened man, you give up your baby daughter's soul for 17 more years. But he has tricked you - during the 17 years, you lose all your money, your wife leaves you. The 'enchantress' you have been trying to kill is this baby girl. Apparently she has a pure, incorruptible soul - the devil can do nothing with her. He wants you to kill her, because you are her father, and have more power over her.

You go to the second floor, in the room where you have killed the girl, there is an elevator. You take upwards (we don't know which floor) and find the old man in the wheelchair, you fight him, he transforms into a monster, you slay him, he re-transforms. You try to slay him again. Finally, he tells you that he cannot be killed. But if you kill the girl, you will get 17 more years.

You have two choices:
1) you try and kill the devil again. he tells you that he cannot be killed. you faint and wake up in your room.
2) you kill the girl. you wake up tied to a bed, with crimson drawings of the devil, the 'trickster' covering the walls. you are in a mental hospital. you have been for awhile. it is here where you will spend the following 17 years that have been awarded for having killed - for the second time - your daughter.

THE END

creepy, right?? but very intriguing... we would like to make a game like that !

guess who's back

2011-09-18T04:30:00.000-07:00

I haven't written for so long I actually sort of forgot my blog address and it took me awhile to orientate myself.
Have decided to start a list of Whimsical Projects that I think about when I'm cutting up cardboard at work

Idea #1: Pictures of broken things found randomly in the street
(the most interesting one that i've seen was a broken onion... how is that even possible one might ask? I have no idea, it was shredded and cut up in this pile by the sidewalk.)

Idea #2: Start a boring metal accessories supplies website (like carpentry things, or hooks, small metal pieces etc.)
When people ask for images of these pieces they can choose between: impressionist, surrealist, abstract, watercolor, etc.

Initial Idea #3: Construct graphs of movies to indicate where the most exciting/engaging moments were with a timeline on the x-axis (indicating specific events in the film) and the level of interest of the Y axis
Apparently this already exists in a software that cinema people use (so informed by Darkie) - sad.

That's it for now! If anyone thinks of anything to add to the list, feel free to let me know !

I just trolled a discussion on the T & Co. commercial that you can find here: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1421107812847
or here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=apX4Dog-OAU

It's filled with comments (the fb version) of how beautiful and romantic etc the commercial is...
My comment:
this commercial sort of makes me sick with how fake it is. what kind of lies are they selling? does buying ridiculously expensive jewelry for someone mean you really love the person? maybe you're just rich...? plus, new york is a lot more ...than a fountain, a carousel, a street and a tiffany's store. the commercial reduces it to a pretty setting. and let's not even talk about the massacre of the breakfast at tiffany's film...

ok, not so mature. i didn't feel like writing an epic analysis for this yet (i will have to soon for the mémoire) but oh dear, i'm such a grouch! haha

from the one on the inside to the one on the outside

2011-05-26T15:46:00.000-07:00

Dear you,

I hope you don’t think its weird that I’m writing. I know, it seems a bit formal, we’ve known each other for so long…

But time can be a barrier.

You understand that it can be hard for me to say certain things to you when habits have been established like rules and insidiously? I don’t know when, didn’t notice and so couldn’t object. Would I have objected anyway?

The thing is, I’ve been feeling a bit

Hmm

Grey

And slow

These days

Why? Can’t quite say

Where? Well, my ankles have been feeling a little strained. And I have a blister or two on my right foot. Arthritis on bad days. Humid days. Cold days. Everyday?

What? It’s true, I’m digressing. So what I really mean to say is…

How? Floating, except that has connotations of dream and ethereal. Drifting, like a cigarette butt in the sea, dirty, rejected,

aimless,

searching some sort of destiny that was never in the plans.

You see what I mean? If I believed in God, I would say he forgot me. He made you, and me, but then he forgot all about me, and it became just you.

What I want to say is a lot like “you’re selfish” but not exactly. I don’t want to start this finger-pointing, it always comes from me. But you don’t let me sing when sometimes, randomly, a melody just wants to burst out. And you know I want to, but it embarrasses you so you stand your ground, keep me silent, and wait for it to pass. It passes quickly now I’ll have you know. Happy?

I know you’re not.

No, you’re not.

Well because I’m not, you can’t be either.

Who’s the selfish one eh?

The singing, I’ll let it pass. Fine, if I thought about it rationally I would realize that it might be difficult for you if I burst out in song in the cinema. It’s not the first time you’ve stopped me from having fun though. And I know it won’t be the last.

What is it really about then?

Not the dishes that you made me wash

Nor sleeping early when I wanted to be out

That was all a long time ago anyway, I’m pretty ok with your geriatric lifestyle now

What is it really about then?

Can you guess?

it’s him.

yes, i will talk about that if i want to and i do want to.

i had never and still have never had that sort of obsessive compulsive joy since, in those 70 years since. it's time that asshole that allows retrospective regrets. i was furious then, but it didn’t last that long. it's time that tells you twenty years later paf! that wasn’t a small mistake. like missing punctuation in an essay. it's paf! you had the golden fucking fleece around your shoulders and jason, you thought it was from gap.

you see what i mean?

just because you thought he was ugly. lucky one of us can appreciate inner beauty. he was so kind, i didn’t realize how important kindness was until the years passed and there was less and less of it.

and your other argument? he was too short? he was eight fucking years old ! he would have grown. obviously. he was very helpful. can’t say the same thing about the three husbands you finally chose and then discarded, one after another. that’s a little like having a pet, and then buying a new pet straight away when the first one dies and then giving it the same name. control-freak Fido, alcoholic Fido, boring Fido. beautiful, kind, helpful danny.

it seems that even rancor is tired with the years. i’m going to finish up since it’s almost bedtime. just to tell you i resent you and that i can make better decisions than you sometimes, and you should let me choose too sometimes. and you do, sometimes. it wouldn’t be fair to say that i never get a say. but more often. you’d be happier too – you know you regret it when you don’t listen to what i say and what i want. you know you want to say and want the same things as i do, i just realize it several hours (or years) earlier. just keep that in mind, we don’t have much time left to be in disaccord; the years keep drifting by; aimless and searching.

good night and love you always,

2011-04-06T08:35:00.000-07:00

There is a wall between us.

I will not compare this to famous history, of empires and dictatorships, scale, sweat, blood.

You will not see this demarcation of where I end and you start

It is perhaps nothing but a fat space

But distance can be a wall, when it is insurmountable

No one dies in trying to get across.

We throw up our arms bearing white lies

Defeated in our mutual respect:

I will watch you cry (I’d rather leave the room)

And silence steals your tongue (it cannot touch your eyes)

We know. I know, anyway. You might have felt, informally (unconfirmed)

I will never know if you know because questions form a ladder that i – we – would rather not climb.

Between us are gap bricks, heaped and towering mutually exclusive beliefs.

Except bricks can be broken and do not resist anguish like that time.

We do meet, often. The wall runs on then falters

into a common garden,

fruits planted on solidarity afternoons.

2011-03-17T15:37:00.000-07:00

the heart of human existence

2011-03-15T15:37:00.000-07:00

yesterday we had an exercise in photography with a dude quite famous who has done many magazine covers etc (you can find his site here: http://jonathandevilliers.com/ ) - the aim of the exercise was to take 10 photos between the train station near my school and a garden not so far off. this is one of the photos that my team mate took. the photographer said it was his favorite photo, that it was poetic, but that it didn't make sense if we tried to explain it.

instinctively i disagreed (silently :p ; my discreet asian character restrains me from outbursts or prolonged arguments using a microphone and in front of the rest of the school.) but i just felt that there was so much in the photo that could be explained. firstly, simply, the ubiquitous presence of nature, in the midst of an artificial construction. emotionally, visually, the sparrow embodies an innocence, a fragility, the sole spot of color that is perched in all tranquility upon cold, harsh, dead wire, in the middle of a monochrome nowhere. isn't that the crux of our existence? in every story there is at least a conflict - always the juxtaposition of opposing elements that shouldn't co-exist, but do. and their co-existence is the spur that provokes endless suffering, whatever the scale. the sparrow could stand for any range of virtues and blessings, poetic joy - the wire the relentless, unforgiving, invasive, prosaic reality of ugly.

that's what this image whispers to me anyway (slightly sadly)

out of the wilderness

2011-02-12T20:00:00.000-08:00

metaphorically speaking, of course.

i have been a lot less busy the past 2 weeks - started optional modules on perfume and cosmetics, which after 2 weeks of technical, commercial and economical classes on the universe of perfume culminated in creating my very own perfume ! which, to quote gaétan, is "interesting but clearly made by an amateur". it also resulted in me stinking of perfume (we had had a factory visit the same day, sniffed perfumes constructed by a synthesis of molecules, and were surrounded by 34 different fragrances during the perfume making session), and rolling around in bed feeling nauseous for hours haunted by wafts of different perfumes.

things are going to pick up possibly more than ever before (i'm pretty sure i'm behind already...) the mémoire (equivalent of a thesis in the US), 4 exams and 1 huge group project for L'oréal has to be worked on in the next... hm, 2 ? weeks. i should be stressed but i'm feeling strangely tranquil. or tranquilized. the calm before the storm, etc. i woke up at 2.30 this afternoon and napped 4 hours later...

it has been quite an awful week. but at the end of it, what i'm left with, is a sense of wonder that i can look at someone and be this moved by the beauty of his being. gentleness, harshness. curves and sharp edges. intransigence, forgiveness. the magic in banality. i seem to be making a list, but "everything", is what i really want to say. because that's what it is when you love somebody, the reasons aren't bullet pointed, there aren't any arguments. you might know why you were so inclined, but after a certain time it encompasses and then surpasses all. the feeling just surges like a wave, sometimes hard enough to knock the breath out of you overwhelmed. also, overwhelmed by the way things turned out. if i calculated the statistical probability of the events that led up to all this... it'd be a lot closer to 0 than 1. when i start thinking about it i get lost in that curious retrospective fascination. do you know what i mean? when your universe overlaps so fiercely with another's, that sometimes the edges of you and the other (almost you, or you almost he) blur, i assume it like a path trodden all my life. but thinking about how 8 months ago we were a big question mark, 10 months ago almost strangers? and even a year +++ ago, reflecting on our relationship, it seems like an alternate reality, a semblance of him or us that never reached beyond a certain stage. a blueprint unrealized, a sketch, an idea, a ghost, a shell. it's that profound change that fascinates - how one person can change everything, the air one breathes, the way one breathes. that's probably the most apt metaphor i can think of - it's almost unnoticeable, but crucial, fundamental. that discreet, grinning gap between before and after. the little things - what i buy when im at the supermarket, the brewing of tea for two, the smell of the apartment. hints and traces of a shift in existence; the metamorphosis of a world, a soul.

aaaanyway. enough mushy ruminations. tomorrow will be the unwilling revival of the spirit of diligence in hibernation. lotus-ing to the max : )

i have three things to tell you

2011-01-21T06:54:00.001-08:00

1) HAPPY BIRTHDAY HUNGRYANI !

Thank goodness we don't have to sing loudly, out of tune, with customized song lyrics in McDo this time...

Many more good times to come ! Come home! (singapore)
And of course, us being retards, and then you ling and mandy being retards. :P

the most active musk8ter :P

2) i cut my hair ! (ok that was in singapore, which makes it... almost a month ago)

3) i made a video! (ystd) -- my first upload on youtube ha ha ! the words are in french though, but the music is really nice (kikujiro - the rain) and i have michelle to thank for the song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcwxSXUa7Dk

phantom update from paris

2010-12-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

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.

Ruminations (While Suitcase Packing)

2010-09-09T14:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-09-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

"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

i forgot

2010-08-27T17:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Sad Brad Smith - "Help Yourself"

2010-07-28T10:55:00.000-07:00

what i can't put my finger on

2010-06-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

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?

tu me manques

2010-06-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

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!!!!!! ^^ )

^^

2010-06-09T21:26:00.000-07:00

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 !

WASHING THE ELEPHANT

2010-05-23T19:29:00.000-07:00

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.

my dear we're slow dancing in a burning room

2010-04-28T01:28:00.000-07:00

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.

my quiet heartbreak

2010-04-12T20:00:00.000-07:00

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

:(

aiya

2010-04-11T12:41:00.001-07:00

bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored. bored bored bored. bored. bored!!!! bored bored bored bored. sianzzzzzz.

!!

2010-04-10T21:25:00.000-07:00

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 !

waste

2010-04-10T21:24:00.000-07:00

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

the most exciting thing that happened to me today:

2010-04-09T20:29:00.000-07:00

I fell down the stairs !

yep, new lows that "life" has reached hahaha

off the radar

2010-04-08T15:24:00.000-07:00

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.

back to the crepuscule

2010-04-06T19:51:00.000-07:00

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.

SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING:

2010-04-06T00:38:00.001-07:00

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

Learning to swim

2010-04-06T00:37:00.001-07:00

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.

Payback

2010-04-05T23:22:00.001-07:00

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.

-

2010-04-03T18:00:00.000-07:00

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!!!!!!!

5 hours later...

2010-04-03T00:03:00.001-07:00

my postcard inspired by springbreak, and my thesis book cover (temp) :) it would be nice if i actually had a thesis.... (sigh)

lioness, blue, tornado

2010-03-29T00:59:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-03-28T20:27:00.001-07:00

–noun

any place or house of worship, esp. one designed for a large congregation.

(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.

Ecclesiastical. an ornamental receptacle for the reserved Eucharist, now generally found on the altar.

a canopied niche or recess, as for an image or icon.

a temporary dwelling or shelter, as a tent or hut.

a dwelling place.

the human body as the temporary abode of the soul.

water, cardamom, cinnamon

2010-03-25T23:28:00.001-07:00

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.

beer, love, anger

2010-03-25T22:22:00.000-07:00

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.

twilight, fox, zombie

2010-03-21T23:26:00.000-07:00

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.

homelessness, honey, rope-ladder

2010-03-21T22:10:00.000-07:00

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)

4.5 (million) hourS later...

2010-03-09T20:39:00.001-08:00

Une petite histoire contre l'infidélité (Logorallye)

2010-03-01T12:48:00.000-08:00

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.

#1

2010-02-22T15:06:00.000-08:00

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.)

The Girl with the Red Umbrella

2010-02-14T12:49:00.000-08:00

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.

it's so easy to be weak

2010-02-04T13:02:00.000-08:00

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.

hamlet inspired

2010-01-30T14:14:00.000-08:00

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’t

and 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 !

today i

2010-01-19T09:09:00.000-08:00

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.

japan --> home

2010-01-04T08:09:00.000-08:00

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.

"I'm not that girl" -- Wicked

2009-12-19T09:57:00.001-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NaT7DaqPbxs

Hands touch, eyes meet
Sudden silence, sudden heat
Hearts leap in a giddy whirl
He could be that boy
But I'm not that girl:

Don't dream too far
Don't lose sight of who you are
Don't remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy
I'm not that girl

Ev'ry so often we long to steal
To the land of what-might-have-been
But that doesn't soften the ache we feel
When reality sets back in

Blithe smile, lithe limb
She who's winsome, she wins him
Gold hair with a gentle curl
That's the girl he chose
And Heaven knows
I'm not that girl:

Don't wish, don't start
Wishing only wounds the heart
I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl
There's a girl I know
He loves her so
I'm not that girl

nose piercing !

2009-12-17T23:05:00.001-08:00

happy : ) except now i cant scratch / blow my nose : (

10

2009-12-13T13:37:00.000-08:00

Don’t give places away like spare change.

There is someone, then there are others –

different yes, but wedged into the perennial gap of

desire; (ful)filling need.

Places are pleasure un-autonomous: you

and only you decide, when. For how long.

Don’t ruin a good thing with sentimentality:

Weaving mythical hybrid of ours and firsts,

stage-set for time defiant narratives;

forcing arbitrary into destiny’s coat.

If this place is you and I, then what happens when it’s just ?

So, I will bring him where I happened to bring you

the night you fell in love; colder

without smoke breaks and

older he is already in.

Ownership lasts as long as the sangria –

you-connotations drained with the fifth jug

months ago. His, after this one.

Places are not lives, they don’t mold themselves

to the shape of people, and there isn’t that shock

of swimming in the cold air of oversize,

or feeling pulled tight at the shoulders; what had seemed a perfect fit.

Things Done Today

2009-12-12T23:35:00.001-08:00

1) Watched Glee Episodes 4 - 6

2) Had chinese take out

3) Watched Glee Episodes 7 - 9 (10?)

4) Had 2 cups of coffee and 5 cigarettes

5) Opened take home final document (and read it)

6) Looked up French Toast recipe (it's easy and i'm gonna try it tmr! ^^)

7) Ordered flowers to be delivered on Mum's birthday

8) Ate leftover mash potatoes

9) Wrote this post

HAHA. senioritis (or plain, unadulterated sloth) in full-blown shabbiness

2009-12-09T21:13:00.000-08:00

I haven't been in love for a long time; years.
I miss it, but then I don't, now and then I do.
In the way that one misses things of the past --
a temperamental nostalgia, for the faded and flown.
Childhood and firsts. That bloodless time;
that new adrenaline. There are only so many
categories that can be created to remember boys;
after awhile there are only lists.

This would worry me, except being In Love seems so silly now, like a fairy fallen to regrettable disbelief.
Feels like Growing Up (Continued).
A little quieter, a little colder, a little emptier.

trois

2009-12-07T11:39:00.000-08:00

I didn’t feel sad until

There was no time, with rush and
The (a)d(r)e(n)a[d]line of airports.

Fees for overweight baggage (I tried to bring Paris with me)
Or was it you I was carrying? That hurt my shoulders
- flame impact as souvenir ;
The weight of all I leaving behind

we were released from relentless
You didn’t have the ticket to follow
and we looked at each other suddenly, awkwardly
like the end of a first date: what now?
Different continents reflecting off our faces
bodies seas that connect your arm like waters drawing me in an
imprint of an overlap an ambition for territory / an emptiness of lands

lost.

your mouth gave away the secret of a goodbye
(that it doesn’t feel like one until and after
it can only feel like )

un

2009-12-07T11:37:00.000-08:00

IX. SPACE AND TIME
Up against another human being one’s own procedures take on definition.

Geryon was amazed at himself. He saw Herakes just about every day now.
The instant of nature
forming between them drained every drop from the walls of his life
leaving behind just ghosts
rustling like an old map. He had nothing to say to anyone. He felt loose and shiny.
He burned in the presence of his mother.
I hardly know you anymore, she said leaning against the doorway of his room.
It had rained suddenly at suppertime,
now sunset was startling drops at the window. Stale peace of old bedtimes
filled the room. Love does not
make me gentle or kind, thought Geryon as he and his mother eyed each other
from opposite shores of the light.
He was filling his pockets with money, keys, film. She tapped a cigarette
on the back of her hand.
I put some clean T-shirts in your top drawer this afternoon, she said.
Her voice drew a circle
around all the years he had spent in this room. Geryon glanced down.
This one is clean, he said,
it's supposed to look this way. The T-shirt was ripped here and there.
GOD LOVES LOLA in red letters.
Glad she can’t see the back, he thought as he shrugged on his jacket and stuck
the camera in the pocket.
What time will you be home? she said. Not too late, he answered.
A pure bold longing to be gone filled him.
So Geryon, what do you like about this guy this Herakles can you tell me?
Can I tell you, thought Geryon.
Thousand things he could not tell flowed over his mind. Herakles knows a lot
about art. We have good discussions.
She was looking not at him but past him as she stored the unlit cigarette in her front shirt pocket.
“How does distance look?” is a simple direct question. It extends from a spaceless
within to the edge
of what can be loved. It depends on light. Light that for you? he said pulling
a book of matches
out of his jeans as he came towards her. No thanks dear. She was turning away.
I really should quit.

also, buddhism says this about love:

2009-11-27T13:24:00.001-08:00

Flower Garland Sutra (Chapter 9)
( 9 analogies for love)

1. Love is like an unpaid debt ...
2. Love is like a rakshasa-ghost woman...
3. Love is like a wonderful lotus-flower whose roots are hiding a poisonous snake...
4. Love is like a disagreeable food...
5. Love is like a prostitute...
6. Love is like a mleccha ... [ aka "barbarian"]
7. Love is like an infected sore....
8. Love is like a destructive wind...
9. Love is like a comet...

rereading my old blog

2009-11-27T11:52:00.000-08:00

i found this "i want to be list"... from dec 12 2007. let's see what 2 years has done.
fulfilled things--> in green
no longer desired things --> italics
halfway done --> pink

travel across Europe... just soaking in sights and sounds, drifting through all the beauty
take photographs that can make people cry
be in a rock band
catwalk on the runway for a hugeass brand
write French and Chinese poetry
be dizzyingly, unreservedly in love, that also happens to be reciprocated...
see the aurora borealis
learn how to scuba dive and go diving...
visit the underground caves in France which have drawings by cavemen
be friendly, confident and at ease in any and every situation
feel like i am living the life i want, where every minute counts for something and does not have to be regretted or justified. the justification is in the certainty of enjoyment.
carry out a project that changes the lives of people in less fortunate situations, that helps them substantially and sustainably...
look at people's pictures on facebook and feel no envy
be genuinely happy for all the blessings other people have without any kind of resentment
treasure all the people i love (family and friends) for all they are worth, and be able to bring them joy instead of always taking from them
feel like i am truly surrounded by unconditional love.. does this sound contradictory to the one before? i just mean to say that i want to feel without a doubt loved, but not to make the people who love me keep giving... i don't know.
be a great capoeirista, and to love every moment of playing ack hahahaha
have energy and dedication and cheer in every aspect of life
put in full effort for all my studies and courses, and get the satisfaction of knowledge accumulation, of rapport with professors/tas, of learning

stop being a quitter...

bake cupcakes

be a sk8ter girl (hahaha) ---> NADIA! HHAHAHAHA PACT OK.

need less sleep... (8 hours max would be nice.)

stop waking up from dreams feeling so disappointed to be face2face with real life...

publish an anthology of poems and have people describe my poetry as "utterly beautiful", and quote it, and get hung up over how well things are expressed

have fresh flowers every other day...

have a steamy hot fling...

have a really cool english name like ariel, or autumn or sophie or delilah. (although sophie is ruined forever because of jy)

be able to let go of things, and stop being obsessive and hung up over every damned thing

watch a meteor shower, in an open plain, with champagne and great company --> OMG no champagne, but check everything else : )

have bigger boobs (HAHA)

lie on the grass, in gentle sunshine, and listen to music...

read great books for the sake of reading, and not for class (though that would make it a 2 in 1) and savour the words and phrases without a sense of urgency, without trying to finish the book as fast as i can

tame bunny

stop having negative/cynical/nasty thoughts pop up...

be good at painting...

stop being so damn lazy

write a successful play about facebook

have je ne sais quoi

keep a plant alive...

stop procrastinating.

an exercise in imagination:

2009-11-26T22:31:00.000-08:00

how thanksgiving break would be like if i had not fallen dastardly ill
1) Wed: Would have gone to South Street with Nadia + Amy, shopped around, gotten desserts, had dinner, hopped on the bus to NY, had sushi and watched a movie at my sister's place.
2) Thurs: Gone skating by the river, had a great thanksgiving dinner and enjoyed wine and ice cream (sigh), gone out with Y etc after.

instead
1) Tues Night - Wed early morning: Puked, puked, puked, puked. Slept for 5 hours with chills and aches, woke up feeling like shit. Decide to take a shower and try and head out w Amy, Nad goes first. Take a shower and nap a bit, still feel like shit and feverish. Tell Amy to go ahead -- sleep for 3+++ more hours feeling feverish and having diarrhea. they come back, we go for dinner by which point i feel like im going to faint, my finger tips are all tingly and buzzy... Decide that i Cannot take the bus in this state and go back to sleep at Nad's place till the next morning.
2) Thurs morn: catch bus to NY. SLEEEEP. Buy groceries etc to cook -- feel like dying while cookng halfway. My sister, her friend and her friend's ex (who's very nice) and Y are over for dinner. Don't really feel like eating (felt nauseous all day). Cannot drink the wine (which is very nice and sweet, i had some in the end). Stomach starts hurting increasingly through meal and at around 10 i retire from the table to lie in bed and convalesce. SAD. slept for a bit and now i'm awake again.
how sianz. : (

in the storeroom

2009-11-18T12:17:00.000-08:00

from earliest to most recent:
choon; 4 November 2006, 5:40:39 PM
Just thought of the time we ate recess at the long jump pit wall and cheryl lim came along and didn't scold us! Haha sky is nice have a nICE dAY! =D

ling ; 13 December 2006, 6:57:08 PM
Haha! But i liked pumpkin girl! She was cute n reminded me o halloween n fairytales. U cld hv been cinderellas carriage on yr skateboard! Bring back my Pumpkin pie.

(re: my winter coat that ballooned out and made me look like a pumpkin until i realized that i was supposed to cut the stitches of the pleats.)

phinpeng ; 4 February 2007, 8:35:05 PM
Aye we too. I love girls too.

8:58:15 PM
Anyone below 21 is a girl not woman. U girl rite. I love girls.

michelle; 7 June 2007; 12:01:34 AM
And hey! i did not drown in the night's poetry.

: )

jason; 2 November 2007; 4:08:35 PM
Lijun u didn't reply me i feel depressed n lack of love between frds

(text from my sister's friend whom i don't know) 14 December 2007
Im adopting a WWJS policy toward my writing. Its like jesus, only a better writer :-p

marco; 30 March 2008
Ready to get trashed tonight you turkish turkey

mummy; 15 October 2008
Such thing happens all the time. She is inconsiderate. That's all.

jason; 19 December 2008
Lijunnnn =( i m missing u already. cant believe this is the last day we will see each other on brown campus. u hv been such a crazy yet lovely girl frd. ='( byebye lizard... no more bitching. n hearing ur insane love stories n gossiping. also crazy nites at our suite.. no more =( u take care urself okie?

da jie; 17 February 2009
Whew, i just made it! And the airport person called me mrs! Argh, how old do i look?! I'm sad to be leaving too, i had such a great time! You were a wonderful host! I'm glad we got to spend the weekend together.. take care and i'll talk to you soon! Lots of love.

choon ; 19 February 2009
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY DEAR! HAPPY 22! Hope one small special magical moment happens today and makes you marvel at love and life in general! -huggles-

da jie; 19 February 2009
Happy birthday, mon cher! (did i get that right?) Have a lovely day and a wonderful year to come!

yilin; 19 February 2009
Hey lijun, wanted to call you but ch said you'll never pick up. Haha happy bday anw :) hope ur having a fantastic day! Love you loads, cant wait for u to come home

joe; 22 February 2009
In the depths of winter i finally found that in me there is an endless summer.

da jie; 1 July 2009
Ow!! the ones that i said give me blisters? why did you do that??

(When i msged her complaining about how i wore her slippers out and they gave me blisters.)

yi-xun; 20 September 2009
My god, I am officially a retard. I've just realised my bus is actually t half 3, I misread my ticket (215 was my arrival time on fri)

ling; 5 October 2009
I actually hv a lover in my bed n he didnt allow me to get up. Sorry hor.

da jie; 20 October 2009
Glad to hear you made it back! Hope you're feeling better, emotionally and intestinally! The greek musician called me - you get hit on by young dominican doctors, whereas i get old greek musicians, sigh.

rachy; 9 November 2009
Just made it!!! whew! Haha then i realized i don't have your number. Thanks for everything and it was so so good to catch up after so long. I wish we all had like a week to be together!

x ; 12 November 2009
Silly lijun, ur just dyslexic! And u shoulda brought ur own tea! Is it unsupervised? Will me txting u set u up for a cheating accusation? : D

ahh i love texts!!! its like talking that you can keep forever and reread and laugh over and be reminded of places and contexts, times and feelings. okay... procrastination ends here. im going to cook tonight and try and make meatloaf!!

ps: love jay chou sooo much. listening to him makes me happy like nothing else

smoking too much these days

2009-11-14T11:47:00.001-08:00

ive been feeling oddly, intermittently stressed this week. since the weekend, i guess.

started hanging out / talking to X a lot. haven't talked to him for over a year, havent really hung out since freshman year. i had disconnected myself to the point where i just made scathing, offhand comments whenever he came up / whizzed by. it's so weird the capacity for human cruelty once we are able to dissociate ourselves from the object of our contemptuous scrutiny. im ashamed of that part of me. last night he popped a sleeping pill and we were lying in our respective beds, talking for hours. about the difference between our campus/college persona and our selves. he was talking about all these rumours about him, unfounded or uncharitable, spread by people he barely knew. i listened in silence with guilt stewing, as his words recollected all of my own poisonous slips. now i feel like i would never say those things about him no matter what he does, i mean who am i to judge. for some people, its just so hard to even be alive, whatever mask they might have perfected.

i wanted to make him feel better, give any meagre happiness that i could, but i couldn't. it's sort of silly and presumptuous too, this "savior" instinct. its so clichéd, and girly. the desire to respond to need, to want to be the one who makes things okay. i wonder if i would feel that way about anyone, or is it specific to him, because i still have these vague remnants.

then, i talked to Y about this, and life in general, which left me more in equilibrium and raring to start my work. its so ironic how the inert passiveness in Y that frustrated me soo much would be greatly appreciated in X. that's just how things are, i guess. we can't have everything. i can think of many examples of this ...

so just to give an insight of how messed up my subconsciousness is, this is the dream i had last night: It was morning, and X was in the kitchen. He had made crepes with strawberries and chocolates and an omelette for himself, using food that wasn't his, without thinking of offering me any. I was kinda mad, but I didn't know how to tell him. Something happened, i went away for a bit, came back and he had been replaced by JY, who was sitting there with all that food. Suddenly I could unleash my fury, and I did, and he got up immediately and came to me thoroughly repentent and sorry, then he kissed my neck. I felt a yearning awoken.

There you go. My astute dreambeing has it all figured out. Of course, I know the clear answer: it's not X, Y, or JY. It's someone else who hasn't come along yet. Or modified version of F. Actually, I think F is the best fit so far, personality and interests and many many things wise. But, at the same time, obviously disqualified. Y is a close second, except he's so fucking passive. And too short.

This blog entry sadly unravels the pretense that I had tried to weave about this being a "literary" blog. I guess it's just me in the end.

une chanson retrouvée

2009-11-11T10:17:00.000-08:00

On s'est connus, on s'est reconnus,
On s'est perdus de vue, on s'est r'perdus d'vue
On s'est retrouvés, on s'est réchauffés,
Puis on s'est séparés

Chacun pour soi est reparti
Dans l'tourbillon de la vie

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHwiFTPomx0

been listening to it non stop since my sis sent me the link, had forgotten all about it !
here's an excerpt from the current story I'm working on for class called "Jigme and Biparna". it's not coming along so well, but oh actually writing (even fiction) is so fun! i need to stop taking econ classes ha.

"It reminded him of the fireflies he sometimes saw in the garden at night. For years, he had been struck by how temptingly they twinkled, how they beckoned as if little lights, showing the road to a shining divine. But how does one follow a firefly trail? What hidden path could he discover in their whimsical flights? These were all questions a kid could not answer, but a lack of elucidation did not diminish the wonder and conviction of Some Truly Amazing Place. Recently, he found that Biparna’s face incited the same childhood excitement, a similar promise of golden, but the way to that was no longer just an intangible, vague possibility; it was grounded in flesh and realized in blood. He just had to follow her voice, follow the adrenaline, follow her."

yes, i have an obsession with fireflies, lights and magic. also i think i have a somewhat "old" style of writing -- i feel like im trying to imitate george eliot, actually! which is so odd! for poetry my style is so much more contemporary, why do i become an old woman in a rocking chair by the fireplace when i write fiction about children's romances? hmmm.

I need to chill the fuck out

2009-11-02T22:12:00.001-08:00

but at the same time, get more serious about work.

Paradoxes, contradictions and ironies.

2009-10-18T20:56:00.001-07:00

"We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have.
The rest is the madness of art."
- Henry James

Good Tiding of the Week (and Semester)

2009-10-16T00:52:00.000-07:00

I got into the honors program for my Literary Arts concentration!!! This means I'll be writing a thesis -- a chapbook of poetry, probably. So much excitement ! : ) Shall start squirreling ideas.

I'm going to be in New York again for the weekend -- woot. Looking at the Singapore civil service career fair -- not so woot. Ah well, always good to have a Proper excuse to have fun! : )

Working you out

2009-10-05T19:44:00.001-07:00

I will write about why I, for lack of a better word, want, you. I want something from you. I don’t know what it is, if I knew maybe I could look elsewhere. But instead I call you, without feeling anything significant when I hear your voice. When we talk, there are silences, during which I wonder if I even have anything to say to you. You fill these silences with small rambling narratives about what you cooked for dinner, where you ordered your furniture online, how many hours you spent playing a computer game. I lie in bed looking at the clock and watch the second hand barely perceptible in the dark making its trusty, ticking round. I watch you on the other end, by your window, smoking the tenth cigarette of the day, laying down a winding path in the distance between us with cinder blocks of mundane details. I cannot see your face, and its expression as we talk. Or at least, I can see it laughing, I can see it smiling sometimes, but I cannot see it during the silences. I can only infer that since you do not let these silences lie long, nor do you put them and their possibility away for good, that you want something too. I wonder what time I should say I’m going to bed, and I decide initially that 30 minutes is a comfortable, generous enough duration. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I stop watching the second hand or the minute hand and the next time I look, it is two hours. At this point, I realize there is reluctance on my part to stop. The conversation does not reach any deeper into me, but the act of holding your voice to my ear does. As does speaking into yours. And I start to worry, that now you will be the one allotting a limit, and counting down. Except a part of me knows that, somehow, you won’t be the one to end it. And I always am the one who says goodbye first. But after that, a certain loss. There is an emptiness that recurs, when I no longer hear you speaking; the bridge between us no longer leads anywhere. The next day, I’m looking for a trail to take me to you, but I no longer know where you are. The more important thing is, I have no idea why I want to get to you.
Only one moment stands out: how kind you can sound. How gentle, how accepting. It is then that I can see your face, slightly frowned with concern, and those seconds are sunshine in a dusty room, saying it’s okay that you’re not spotless, dust is beautiful too.

Leaving Pokhara

2009-10-05T19:34:00.000-07:00

Help is proffered but we give you the lightest ;
Small hands and thin backs cannot lift these , not
even musclemen goodwill.

Downstairs a seated row of adorable heads
Arms folded, clear ready eyes large with farewells
swallow our faces with smiling awareness.

Then, open bodies launched as greetings –
good (morning) bye Miss we will miss you ;
a garden decimated a frenzy for final gifts.

Hands are too small for this mountain so eagerly
made, you give us black plastic bags to bring
red, fuchsia, white, yellow away, and we feel the guilt

of stripping so suddenly and widely a rainbow.
Flowers will grow beautiful again, but these earnest offerings
will not last past today.

A final frame of metal gate doorway, within:
three short figures across in endless clamoring columns of black hair bobbing -
I try, but taxi window grime does not relent not even for last