talking of Michaelangelo.
Monday, May 24, 2010
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albeit // 2:50 pm
Waiting,
it can be the worst feeling.
Waiting for a call that would never be dialed. Waiting, waiting for someone to come up in conversation, too cowardly to be the first to speak the name. Waiting, waiting, waiting for tears that refuse to spill. Waiting for things to end. It's always waiting.
...how much longer?
When we were that young, we invented the world, no one could tell us a thing.
So it's all over already, why is she still looking there, like some uncontrolled puppet returning and turning to same spot by some strings moved by some wind, some force. It's been so long and she's still turning in the same spot like some pathetic instinctless beast.
Waiting and turning in the same spot are similar agentless unactions. Limp, thats what she feels.
Friday, May 21, 2010
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egregious // 12:46 pm
Her characterization draws me in and grips me and sweeps me off my feet in all the right ways for some reason. The precise prose, distinct and familiar, it draws me in. Her well-read writership impresses me and flows through.
Friends': trouble. Awkwardness, hard to say.
I miss... as selfish as... jibber jabber.
Fatigue.
Talk as long as you can, until the batteries run down, until dawn,
until I see you again, my love.
"...betwixt and between, aren't we?"
Her Fearful Symmetry
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
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// 1:42 pm
indolent:
So indolent that nothing is here.
Monday, May 17, 2010
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experimental and congratulatory prose // 2:06 pm
P.S. Congratulations to the birth of a new couple, Mr. and Mrs. Eddy and Loretta Yuen -- may your joy and happiness last long after all overgrown gardens and shrubbery has withered and dried.
Her hair is a voluminous nest of carelessly thrown together bobby pins also hardened by hairspray. The faux-silk stiff table cloth brushes against her bare high-heeled calf and no one catches her attention. She grows conscious of the hairs growing on her calves under the table. She sits there in the perfect shade of blue gazing into the distance, the tides of people in the usual attire of pomp and circumstance. Whirls of cutlery, clinking of glasses. Trickles of wine and conversation mingling in a yellowish-golden lit room. Banquet hall, laughter and chatter, May 2010. Spring in the air, winter not too far gone; it is cunning and hides in the night and wind, returning to haunt when warmth is having too much delight.
Lights dim, and she is caught by surprise for a moment, breathless. The opening dance.
Tonight I celebrate my love for you
It seems the natural thing to do
Tonight no one's gonna find us
We'll leave the world behind us
She paints a wistful face to meet the faces she must meet. But she smiles sarcastically at and to herself pushing thoughts of dance away. No, no one will ask her to dance tonight. No, she finds herself mentally chastising herself for even entertaining thoughts.
Something captures the attention of her peripheral vision. A small figure, bouncing about amidst the closely dancing couples. Baby blue. He looks up with wonder at the bodies, curving towards one another in affection and intimacy. Fresh! Curious! Wide-eyed, he clicks madly at the camera pausing time with a light, a snap and some giggles. Snap! Snap! He does not look at the photos he has taken, nor does he care. He bounces amidst the dancing silhouettes like a floating soap bubble, buoyant; fluttering away from anything that would carry him. He is a blur, a blur, a blur of light blue.
Bemused at first by the absolute vivacity, the idyllic carefree nature, she laughs at his small hands and shoes. She wishes to be there again, little and unworldly, afraid and unafraid of the world. She yearns for that spring in her own step again. She feels the heavy weight of her own age momentarily, but she musters the courage to walk towards the boy, and looking down, she puts out her hand and, "Would you like to dance with me?" He looks up, caught, bewildered, and his eyes grow impossibly wider.
His mind is racing, "Me?" he asks tacitly, saying yes already inside his tiny beating heart. She smiles encouragingly offering her hand once again.
She twirls him in her perfect, her favourite blue hues. She laughs, she swings her arms as he does. It is all childish games and playful jumps and spins and twirls. He holds on tightly, as children do. The steps are not planned out like a map, but spontaneous flowing along with the music. For a brief moment, she is allowed to become a little girl again, innocent and unknowing and protected from the savage blows of reality.
I'll never break your heart
I'lll never make you cry
I'd rather die than live without you
I'll give you all of me
She is aware of the eyes on her. She is too judged already, or feels too judged. Too many faces to meet the faces she must meet with no closets to put them in. Her faces left scattered, mindlessly scattered. Judged, maybe too harshly by her self. But she doesn't remember anything anymore. Experiences, feelings, unrequited, nostalgia, rapturous pains of Memory -- all stripped away. For moments, it is just the spontaneous movements and youth again.
The song ends and she asks "How old are you?"
"Eight." A timid reply.
"That was fun." She smiles, patting his head awkwardly.
Suddenly serious and austerely adult-like he clears his throat, "It was nice meeting you."
She laughs at this play-grown-up pretense. "It was nice meeting you too." Then, as if waking from a dream, she sends him off with a tousle of his hair. "Don't break too many hearts when you grow up." she silently wishes as he run off to his bemused parents.
She sits back down in her perfect blue hues, they feel dark, heavy, twisted all of a sudden. She must return to this existence she wishes were not her own now. Regrets and desperations, a shade of perfect blue.
The shade taunts her. It is no longer perfect. She turns once more to catch a glimpse of the boy, a reminder, a light of youthful joy again, but he is no longer there. Her shade of blue taunts her, it was perfect before and now, it is merely a shade of desperation and judgment.
Defeated and undone, in her imperfectly perfect hues of blue.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
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her fearful symmetry // 9:10 am
I think I'm going to name my child Audrey.
She said, "I know what it's like to be dead.
I know what it's like to be sad."
And she's making me feel like I've never been born.
- The Beatles
a west coast halibut filet seared with lemon pepper, served on a bed of red skin garlic mashed potatoes and served with spinach lightly sautéed with white wine and mediterranean balsamic vinaigrette
lethargic, most of the time
and regrettably, interrupted
with lots of television
... bits of my idyllic life
(in bed for most of it
lots and lots of Korean food
with some little surprises
along the way)
ripened, delicious pears
juicy. hydration count, cal count.
talking in code, or is my prose just dwindling...
Monday, May 10, 2010
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unresisting, asunder, laceration // 11:25 pm
Rounded homewards, and the seagull:
And under the oppression of the silent fog
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell.
- From III: Dry Salvages
I always love Eliot's description of time. It's always so poignant and pulls strings in my heart. Last night I fell asleep to Ralph's voice. Surprisingly it didn't disturb my sleep or generate fitful nightmares. Still a bit of insomnia though, 'cause I had more or less awake sleeping -- didn't really feel like sleeping. Words just kinda filtered into my brain somehow, unresisting.
And then some more for you, from IV: Little Gidding (I fell asleep to this last night...) Some verses that stood out...
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of motives late revealed, and the awareness...
Saturday, May 08, 2010
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didn't see this coming // 2:24 pm
For some reason, the cinematography of this MV gives me butterflies in my stomach. Kim Hyun Joong is so good looking. He's my style of guy, my cup of tea. It's mostly the colours or lighting and the shades and the set and the amazing room that Jung Ryeo Won gets to have in it. I want a white bed like that. I want to be able to dress like her and be so free like her.
:) maybe someday, I'll fill my room with post-its...
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selling bits of my life away // 6:45 am
I once read an excellent blogpost by impish-momo (that is her online alias, not sure if she'd appreciate it if I just posted her name here)in her Peripheral Vision blog and here's an excerpt:
"The realization was somehow enormous. I'm not leaving behind dusty books in those second-hand bookshops, I'm leaving behind the loves of my life, the people and situations that formed me, my best and most familiar childhood companions. Many children are avid readers, but being an ostensibly-paradoxical people-centred bookworm I consumed words as something more than wholesome entertainment. At the time that I learned to read, I was a fundamentally anxious and easily overwhelmed child, split between languages and realities.
...
Books taught me to animate English like a second skin and socialized me into a new culture. They reassured me, against the backdrop of a haphazardly organized home life, that individuals could assert order over chaos. Books paraded before me a host of clever, able, kind, and resourceful playmates, on whose values I patterned my own. Adrift and desperate to know the logic of people and society, I read like the words were my salvation...and really, did they not save me?"
The way she personified books is much more than I could've done. The emotions she evokes is exactly what I want to express.
I am planning to leave behind some of my books in second-hand stores now... so it's like I'll be selling some limbs of mine, selling my salvation?
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this is what I want... is this what I want? // 5:53 am
... a Korean drama romance.
open and exposed
we feel too much...
(from Grey's Anatomy)
The way he looks at her... ack!
That probably doesn't happen in real life or at least my real life... Maybe I should really stop watching these things... it's turning my world a grossly pink colour. Ugh, I'm starting to dream in weird romance plots too.
My books are all over the place and I've once again given up half way.
I really need to do something productive, right now I just feel like I'm rotting away into a sappy mush pile. My brain clogging with unwanted clouds and fogs. Of looks and feelings and returned affection and kisses and intimacy. Why am I letting fiction take reign over life again? Am I really lacking that much substance?
I need newer skies to float in.
Someone take me away from this place.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
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distressing // 11:14 pm
This morning I woke up from an intimate, almost smothering dream. I dreamt of words, caressing me in form of Ralph Fiennes. He was in a terrible rage of jealousy, that I also internalized as my own. So it was like... me... smothering myself but in form of him but at the same time it was heat and intoxication of his warmth. His voice haunts me even though I'm awake.
And something about painting a house with either grey or yellow.
The house had curtained windows and walls partially painted. It was furnished.
Dreams! Dreams! When the mind is idle, perplexing things arise from the subconscious.
And then a slam of reality when I arose:
My mother painstakingly told me the details of an accident that happened. Her friend's friend ran over her own 2 year old son as she was reversing the car. I fell into a state of trauma and my heart cramped up. You know that feeling when you get little wrenches in your heart that just happen repeatedly...
I need something to get my mind off things.
distracted from distractions by distraction
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
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Burnt Norton V // 10:39 pm
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die.
Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only,
but the co-existence,Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them.
Eliot's... words, less than three. Can't help it.
-- (yesternight I dreamt, of a person. His birthday is March 13th. I can't for the life of me figure out who it is... and I don't really want to. Perhaps I'm a little afraid of the reality of fancies and the subconscious urges they reveal.)
Monday, May 03, 2010
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count your blessings // 11:21 am
-- It's not the first time my dada said this to me. fruit for thought ;)
Summer is here.
My goal is to sleep by 11:30pm every night and eat healthily -- with loose criteria.
(hehe)
Let's try and enjoy this one, shall we?