talking of Michaelangelo.
Friday, February 29, 2008
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a note on MacCorrians // 2:40 am
(also known as: people working in MacCorry.)
They look like pirates. They SWEAR like pirates. I'm serious. I'm not holding prejudices or anything! I'm serious. Next time you go to MacCorry at Queen's University and you buy food from the cafe... especially the grill area and the ladies that swipe your card. Their stares and service attitudes and tattoos remind me so much of...pirates.
I guess it's just my runaway imagination.
I think I influence people ... into saying things I say often.
E.g. "Thing, thing is so ____, it's not even funny." "Really?!" "Are you serious?" "No way."
There are a lot of things that I wish happened.
But they don't and won't.
(Edited Installment)
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
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"...all you need is love" // 8:55 am
... is a lie.
You just keep telling yourself that...and it'll screw you over.
I put my heart in a little box and I left the box on my desk, open.
It was by accident.
My heart ran away.
No, more like I tipped over the box.
(That was an accident too.)
And it escaped. I tried to chase it.
But the faster I ran after it,
the faster it ran away from me.
But one day, I realized... some stupid person picked it up and
started fiddling with it.
Ridiculous, huh?
I know I am. But I can't help it, 'cause I'm already too deep into it.
Every waking moment it's like I'm in a dream.
I guess I'm not a very down-to-earth person at all.
Just wish my heart will find it's way back into my ribcage...
soon...
somehow.
Friday, February 22, 2008
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bewitched, bothered and bewildered // 3:57 am
How befitting these words are in this in-between time. The words of this song really got me. I really like the blue-jazzy feel of Ella Fitzgerald's lyrics and swaying rhythm.
I'm wild again, beguiled againA simpering, whimpering child againBewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I...It kind of lulls me to this soft sort of melancholic state. So, why befitting you ask?
Bewitched:What does this word mean? It has such connotations of magic and enchantresses. "To captivate completely; entrance." That's the definition from the dictionary. I hope I have that power to bewitch you. A lot of people have that effect on me, nowadays. It's got this wicked kind of undertone. Like a silly kind of wicked. "Bewitched" makes me feel like someone is winking at me secretly...when we're both in a crowd. Love comes so easily sometimes. Or probably just infatuation. It all makes me feel so giddy.
Spring is in the air. So is my inclinations to fall easily for people. But then again, when am I not inclined? I feel like a little flapper of the 1920s, though I'm rarely scantily clad and of course, I don't sleep around, but my heart flutters around. Perhaps that's just as a bad? Hah, but for now. I'll be bewitched. (Or bewitch you.)
Bothered:Couldn't sleep and wouldn't sleepWhen love came and told me, I shouldn't sleepBewitched, bothered and bewildered - am IHow interesting, insomnia... and sleeplessness. Why is it so pretty? Why does this song make such painful, bitter insomnia sound like a sweet little thing. It sounds so twinkly in the song. Something glimmering in the light. Something by a fireplace. Warm and fuzzy and... lovely. Like a little wrapped present beneath a tree.
Love's the same old sad sensationLately I've not slept a winkSince this half-pint imitationPut me on the blinkSo why am I bothered? I'm not. But I'd like to be. It's boring not to be. My heart is agitated just a little. Restless in a bemused way. Nervous, but happy at the same time. The colours painted are a warm glow.
Bewildered:My absolutely favourite of the three words. Strange, it's so sad but the music makes it so... lovely. This song is driving me insane slowly and prettily. It's so mellow yet jittery at the same time. It makes me want to dance to firelight. Perhaps in a dainty little summer dress.
The end of the song is so puzzling.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered... no more..."Lost my heart, but what of it!" What of it indeed! "Vexed again, perplexed again..." Yes, yes, or else why am I bewildered!
Burned a lot, but learned a lotAnd now you are broke, so you earned a lotBewitched, bothered and bewildered - no moreI've been bewildered by my own reflection. My image in a hundred mirrors. Which part am I? Am I beautiful? Can I find the fairest one of them all? A mirror is simply a representation. Then help me reach the real one. The self that's in me somewhere.
I keep going back to the quote from John Steinbeck: "
When the night is dark—why, the stars are sharp-pointed, and there’s quiet. Why, you rise up and up! Every pointed star gets driven into your body. It’s like that. Hot and sharp and—lovely". I keep thinking about shooting up and out there and losing myself. Shedding everything anyone ever thought I was and rebuild, redo, restart.... and restrain! Then burn some new passion. Find some new inspiration!
He's a fool and don't I know itBut a fool can have his charmsI'm in love and don't I show itHow can a song be so... expressive and ironic at the same time.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
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so this is goodbye // 1:50 am
...but, some remarks before I leave.
In this post I will be quoting someone who will read this, which is very perplexing because I usually quote people who are dead, or too stupid to read my blog. I'm being mean. I quote Michael sometimes too... but the person I quote today is someone I've never done so before.
But my TA is lecturing on ... "bedroom games" in
Antony and Cleopatra by Shakespeare. I want to tear my ears out of my head so I don't have to hear this anymore. My purity is being corrupted by Shakespeare?! Terrible!
I haven't blogged in awhile and already I digress. Here are the quotes: first, a quote of a quote: "The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others." From the story: "On seeing the 100% Perfect Girl" by Haruki Murakami. Interesting, please pay close attention the the age and the loneliness.
And then now, I get even creepier.
This is so my thing...
Life: A comedy imposed in a tragedy.
With a charming start and middle but an unfortunate end
No poetic finish or climatic conclusion...
Just a disembodied, disillusioned reader.A comedy imposed in a tragedy! What an interesting notion to play with in my mind! The correct term for that is a
problem play as denoted by literary scholars.
Ah, this echoes the sentiments:
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts..."
- As You Like It Ace 2 Scene 7So we are all just acting in some stupid play being watched by some force somewhere out there (I like to call Him God.) And we are part of this "comedy imposed in a tragedy", or perchance vice versa? Perhaps we're all comedies, with bits of tragedy eating at us?
And the final line... is saying a piece of writing, is nothing but for the reader itself? The text in itself means nothing without a reader. And same with out lives, then? We are a piece, waiting to be read, but some disembodied reader? Or are we the reader? Are we reading our own lives in a disembodied manner? Maybe, the author can shed some light?
Hah! I am strange in the morning and I am strange at night.
I hate it when people ask questions but already implies the answer that they want. But I do it all the time. I love this incoherency. I wish I could use more stream of conciousness. It's been long since I've done it. But I'm not really in the mood. My surprising lack of anticipation for Montreal is making me feel strange. I mean I'm really excited to be hanging out with the Alfredo ladies. But, I don't know. I feel like something's going to go wrong.
I guess it's just because I stayed up for the whole night writing about queer theory and feminism. My brain kind of hurts.
And I've wrongly accused someone to be queer last night. Sorry, you. Even though you won't even read this. You don't even care. You'll never read this. I'm like some little girl in passing to you. I'm not your ideal. For once I must say this: "I'm most likely
not your cup of tea." Not that I'm upset. I tried hard enough. I don't want to try anymore. I don't need to come to a realization afterwards that "Oh, I was just being stupid." Yet subconsciously I already know. And you're just apathetic towards everything. Me? Who am I to you. It's not like you really see me when I walk past. But when I see you, I try so hard to act detached and make it like I don't notice you. But I see your every move. I want every opportunity to meet your eyes.
I'm such a cheese. This is what fatigue does to me.
My final words: I will miss you and try not to regret being stupid.
Hope you still remember me when I'm back from Montreal.
Have a good reading week everyone who bothers to read this dejected thing of a blog.
quotes accredited to Alvin Szeto
Monday, February 04, 2008
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somewhere in between // 5:17 pm
Who am I fooling? No one.
It's 4:19am and I'm procrastinating.
This is ridiculous.
In essence, the idea of
in media res is back to haunt me. I'm feeling that restless sense of - ah, lost. I'm going nowhere. I feel as though I will end up nowhere. If the beginning is actually the end, or the end is actually the beginning, I'm definitely stuck somewhere in between.
Where is my ending. Hah, my happily
never after. I'm hyper and tired.
This essay is driving me
mad. I want to scream at someone. Something.
I want to go to the lake. I need someone to go to the lake with me.
It's late. When will my April come?
On a brighter note, I had a really nice weekend, actually. I truly love my housemates with all my heart and soul. They motivate me and encourage me. They try to keep me on track (probably in vain). And, of course, the snow frenzies. And the crazy dinners. And laughing at ridiculous things.
I felt like a child once again. Returning to that youthful giddiness. Throwing everything, everything aside. Throwing all facades and rigidness I wrap myself in. I've had fun. I laughed, I was enticed by new, young things. Growing, bright things that have futures. Because for once, I had hoped I could rub some off of them. Just a glimmer of youth, once again.
I have a future too. And I'm running out of the path. And no one is stopping me, and it's so hard to admit that I'm scared. I'm scared too, of the dark. Of going off track. Of losing myself. Because I have such identity problems. I'm such an odd, awkward creature planted out of nowhere, growing out of nothing, loving with everything I have. But that passion... that passion that I once had. That I still have, is boxed somewhere and hidden in some hole. Some time capsule.
That I still need to look for. Neglected and cold.
As a side note, thank you Melody Lock. You are precious. You've taught me so much. You've brought me to people I had never expected to meet. You have given me a new perspective.
I am fatigued by this choppiness of my phrases. I am tired of having to wait and wait for nothing at all. It's like...
Waiting for Godot. But not. At least they're waiting for SOMETHING. And I'm not, I'm waiting for naught. It's all for naught.
All of it.
I'M ALL OVER THE PLACE AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!
P.S. "You are not my cup of tea." How come I hear it from so many people. It must mean something.
