do i dare?
Michaelangelo.
let us go and make our visit
time for you, time for me click above for a handful of dust
so how should I presume?
If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in! Come in!... for where the sidewalk ends. - Shel Silverstein
These fragments I have shored against my ruins. - T.S. Eliot
do i dare...disturb the universe?
ren-ka // alias. karrot,kawun
dob.11.10.
I live in a world where
lobster and corn can be very
good friends.
i have known the eyes already
songs: Strokes
tvb: dinner at 8
kvariety: nil
kdrama: ryeo
twdrama: love O2O
anime: nil
book: Moveable Feast Ernest Hemingway
website: moonbeard
website: stumble
headache: the boy
about the layout
Credits to magnette from blogskins.com, mods made by me.
Lots of it is inspired by T.S. Eliot's Hollow Men and Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
talking of Michaelangelo.
Friday, March 30, 2012
- tell me a story, tell me a truth // 9:22 am
Just as in some essays I wrote in university, I do care quite a bit about perspective. Who is telling the story, who's lens are we watching, hearing, knowing this from?
I am hyper aware of this, perhaps I need to train this hyper awareness and take it to the next level. I've been asking "who" and "what" for so long that I should begin to start asking - why?
Why are they telling this story? For what purpose? Through what lens? How is it coloured? How should it be received.
Also, I have recognize the mistake of diminishing the importance of the receiver's internalization and the large part interpretation plays in the whole receiving end of things. It takes a believer for belief to happen. More skepticism and discernment needed in the receiving end.
I walk and walk in the halls of my school and sap the energy of children. They gladly give it. They don't need all of theirs. I feel recharged, happy. My heart does little hops once it is full of energy of children. I feel like skipping.
The spring air is beautiful. It's not too humid, but not too dry. Lovely. I am going to a colder place soon though. It'll be lovely there too. Can't wait for the luxurious hot springs!
My turtle is a fat, voracious thing. Little Eddie, just a baby. My fat baby.
And I just want to lay in bed and read... all day.
Pack up! Almost time, another exciting adventure :)
Love's arms beckon With their naked delights, And Eden's promise of ecstasies. Why do I remember the scars, Dream of old transgressions... And why do I sleep with fears?
The problem is and always has been just that. The loss, the losing to yourself. It eats at you. This diabolical temptation that raptures you and takes possession of you. It possesses you.
How can you dream that? The people you least want to see. You are being punished. The Control that you have sworn you wanted to take back, you let it go and so, this is your penalty.
You toss and turn and you wake so many times, pushing yourself in and out of consciousness, wanting a breath of real air.
And you see the children, you see them getting sucked in in the very same way. They'll struggle at first with their own desire to obey, to listen. But when others are all falling apart letting chaos reign, they lean onto the other side. They dip the tip of their toes for too long and they fall in. They get eaten by terrifying temptations they had never seen were coming. You see their peripheral visions at work, calculating, falling, falling
Yeah, this is your penalty, child. Be afraid, keep your reigns.
Woke with a pang of dread; this falling away from myself feeling. The dream lingered. What was I watching and who was it? Perhaps it was a bit of him and the others. My grandma's apartment too? I feel infiltrated and haunted.
That white room, with the glass cases and the white floorboards and the hanging necklaces and the and the and...
How could you... in a dream, like this, even a few days after being woken from it, I still feel its mark on my thoughts.
Edvard Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King", maniacal in its crescendo and build up to prestissimo with a whirlwind of strange crazed passion. It's a really terrifying piece and raises hairs on my back. What chills this music sends down to my neck and back. Almost a demonic presence in the music and the shouting of the chorus in the music.
I feel seriously frightened when the lyrics come on. My heart tense. And the finale with the mad timpani just going like that.
Like a tornado or a frenzy of humongous waves; I am tossed and smothered at the same time, excited, moved, pushed into a corner and released and cut up into a million pieces. Oh, the music, I let it take me away!
Are ones with interesting strangers... as I read in my friend's blog lately.
The irony is that the humidity is suffocating here and the abundance of water is just too much and Thomas the Teddy is going to be smelly because of the lack of drying but that's not the irony, the irony... is that I'm reading a book where water is a scarcity...
I've read many articles and they all diagnose the same for me: the common migraine. I am still within the 3-4 days that they say it lasts. If it continues to persist I should go see the doctor.
A work routine is not conducive to a good reading habit. It makes me restrain my desire to involve myself more, to fall deeply into my book; to stay in bed all day reading would be the exact thing I would like in this moment. That or sleep.
The little damned man in my head keeps squeezing and squeezing... Just want to step on him.
"Do you wrestle with dreams? Do you contend with shadows? Do you move in a kind of sleep? Time has slipped away. Your life is stolen. You tarried with trifles, Victim of your folly." - from 'Songs of Muad'Dib' by Princess Irulan in Dune, Frank Herbert
There should be a science of discontent. People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles. - from 'Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib' by Princess Irulan in Dune, Frank Herbert
On the Bus Near the stop I was getting off the bus, I encountered a woman, shoulder length greying hair, a little bit hunchbacked. Protecting. Her arm around a 5 or 6 year old, her granddaughter. The little hand curled around the wrinkly index and middle fingers tightly. The bus came to an abrupt stop and the woman pulled the girl up easily; she chastised her lightly and they wobbled off together. Grandmother sporting a bright pink Hello Kitty backpack.
One day, I want to be that grandmother. I want tiny fingers hanging onto me in my old age. In my frailty, I'd like to have young around me, trusting me, clutching onto me tightly. I have an intense desire for this. For me to be young vicariously through my offspring, to be close to them.
In the Restaurant How awkward, the desperation to talk as much as possible; to fill the empty air with as many words as possible, even if the words are mundane, meaningless. Strangers. The father across his teenage daughter; her focus only her food, hanging onto every word of her next incoming text message. But his is different, an intent gaze, attempts to know more, to learn more about the mystery sitting before him. He asks, "How do you like the food?" "Fine." "Do you want to go to the grocery store? Do you have anything to buy?" "Yeah." "Let's walk around, then?" Silence. "The udon is different from the other place we ate at." Silence. "Are you eating well."
With a sigh, his face betrays what he thinks, "How did she become this way? Messaging frantically on the phone, one word answers to my futile meaningless questions. How has it become this way? Is the only topic of familiarity between us this mediocre food we're eating?" With a sigh, he watches his daughter eat. A curiosity, an overall "How did we arrive to this stage" feeling.
And I remembered my own father. How different our togetherness is, how fleshed out our conversations are, how they are hardly ever just attempts. How much more full our relationship is. And I find it hard to think back to that time in our lives when this was the way conversation was. But my father has mentioned this phase to me before. This phase of non-communication, when all my father knew how to talk to me about was school work..... And I am thankful that has fallen away and I am a better me, I have grown and I can carry conversation and be open, because that's what he deserves at the very least.
In the Lift She had huge eyes. Over-bright. She was too big to be in a pram. Her father looked at her like she was a gem. Her tiny hands waved at us, her father beaming with pride. How easy it was back then... how easy. And I thought of the dinner conversation. Young father, you will be there one day, sitting across this precious gem of yours wondering how time flew just like that, how cold and mysterious it became, how changed, how time wears people down. Even gems will change, but they'll come back. They'll come back soon enough, hopefully.
The day is sooo gorgeous; finally, a gloomless day! The past few have been bleak and dark and wet. Today is a bit humid, but it's a lovely day. The sun is here, the trees are swaying. Small breeze. Time to soak it all up.
The sun is shining :) I just wish someone was here with me...
