blooms

in my mind it was clear and concise
only the delivery was draining
the content of the articulation
i had to pause between establishing my points
and checked my breathing

that was after i got better
i caught a chill.
and i believe, nicotine poisoning
in a poorly ventillated tiny room of another run of the mill over hyped boutique hotel, philippe starck chairs notwithstanding, lying next to a dear girl who grinds her teeth without mercy, outside before daybreak, a steady and slow stream of cabs, i was convinced, i swear they were near and ready. i fantasized about grabbing my stuffs, hail one that would bring me to my bed. once i stand before my bed, i would burst with gratitude, enveloped in my grey comforter, hug my fat fluffy pillows and sleep soundly. i dreamt an insomniac's dream.

i didn't go. i didn't sleep either. nicotine hanged in the air. i could smell it. emitting from the blinds, the pillows, my carbon dioxide... i could feel it. in my throat. my respiratory tract. nose, larynx, trachea, bronchi, and lungs. the claims of friendship supercedes all. "tomorrow i would go home with adel" i thought.

it is very simple. every small part is vital to a group effort, if everyone starts to walk away, the spirit of the group effort will dissolve. it does not have to be a pact. i want to see it through once i've given my word. it could be something trivial, doesn't matter.

a massuese and an aspiring child size porn star. we had great fun. in the midst of everything, c asked," how long have we known each other?". we answered differently. c-" feels like we have known each other for a long time."
the service was poor though.

when c did the stepping on me, it felt like my heart was a tulip that was going to burst and bloom and spread in red across the white bedsheets. like my bones would give way and open its doors and let the bed swallow my heart. when the blow came, i was sure i was going to die, yet when her foot lifted, i always survived. the near death like experience is almost spiritual and reviving. i kept thinking about it. remember cronenberg's crash, james spader and holly hunter played survivors of car crash who became only capable of having sex in car crashes. that involved some amount of wrecked metals and torn flesh. sex by asphyxia.

flu, to most people, would be laconic flu or something typical. but little common ailments wears me down greatly, leaving my parents to wonder. in the days that i've been sick, i found myself uttering the name of someone i know vaguely for 5 years, constantly. when i was on my bed, when i was awake, when i ate, when i went to toilet, when i brushed my teeth etc. it was the name of my pyscho-analyst.

echinacea did the trick.

let's go back to scarlet next time. the most beautiful boutique hotel. if not the only.

thank you

i have recieved the rabbit with the book

and your love

interesting article #131

......

Since his departure from Blur in 2001, Coxon has ditched the liqour, gone on happy pills and rejected them, reassessed his priorities, focused on his daughter Pepper, bought a lot more shoes, had two galleries exhibited his art, and written a tune inspired by Meryon by abstract painter Franz Kline ( he describes it as "vibrations, an electronic conversation"). All the while, his last two albums have seen him emerged as an endearingly awkward pop chart contender.

Free from his addiction and Blur committments, Coxon has become hungry for time, if he had more of it, he says, he would fix up his barn in the countryside, unstiffen his paintbrushes, and learn how to be a tailor or cobbler, or both.

.........

for Dewey

a cat
a library mascot
charmed patrons
took care of rodents

and more

your afternoon nap

dearest h m,

i have been trying to post this comment for 2 days but i couldn't log in as helen

i wanted to tell you that it is a beautiful post

that makes me feel warm reading it

that's the power of good writing

it's about the moment

reminds me of what virginia woolf described as recording the objects in the order with which they fall

way wrong eye candy

there are two kinds of wealth
those who are born into it and those who made good
inherited and acquired
the latter will always feel like the neo bourgoeis
who needs to attest to his wealth or flaunt

he cannot help it
that he has a booming voice
he cannot help it
that he keeps talking about money culture
money is nice but you don't talk about it
it's uncouth

i want someone who's humble
who is very sure and confident of himself without having to affirm his wealth

i remember ws, the only time i saw him in a different light
was when he told me
as a boy, he wanted a pair of adiddas sneakers but he could not afford it

he could buy anything he wants now

he said,"one day, i went into the shop and realized i have nothing to buy."

he too couldn't help it

i guess i was disappointed or even upset
like the child who discovered there was a worm in the candy all along
what will we do
i talk about balzac on graveyard shift you talk about money... and money
will we be enough eye candy for each other without conversation

what if the storm doesn't come?

i don't necessarily feel it

i recgonize the pattern and the signs

i draw inferences from my file of inconclusive evidences

fate. fate plants something in your path. she plants it where it will take root

she plants it so you would take note

at the entrance, at the staircase

eminent storm threatens small village

the mastery of fate on the minute spots; the bane of your existence

now downcast clouds hang over the horizon

so often, you begin to wonder if there is more to it than mere chance

surely fate jests, first curousity, then bafflement and bemusement

we live in an age where fillers are realer than the real thing

a man took a walk with another to talk about headlines

they both worked for the local newspaper

a: tell me what you see

b: downcast clouds hanging over the horizon

a shook his head

a: eminent storm threatens village

b: what if the storm doesn't come?

a: village saved from eminent storm

and so i'm flushed from the corona and not the fierceness in your eyes

today i learnt a new emotion




"you are a surreal sight to behold in banal familiar surroundings"

the damage of the guttural consonant

someone once said to me about his life that almost nothing is always happening

that about sums up the displacement of ennui-laden contemporary living

is that why people go on acid trips, have torrid affairs or engage in secret habits, subtle and controlled self destructions in doses that are immediately gratifying but not fatal

your life is a placid pool and you don't know if you are seeing the wrong people because you are in love with them or simply because they are wrong

last night i saw a familiar face as i was coming out of the glass doors
and he looked at me with stop-moment shock registered on his beautiful face
at that moment, i believed he had something to tell me
it died the moment he opened his mouth
and i realized the reason why he looked familiar was that he's a deejay
you see we live in an age whereby we are attacked with images of media hoaders daily and everyone can have their extended warholian fame
and modern romantic intrigues last no more than a mere 3 seconds before the mechanisms of the human soul seeks to do something about the intrigue
that's the damage of the guttural consonant

a friend once passed me a short story by muriel sparks
the protagonist was being used by her friend for self delusions of her marriage
she and her husband found it easier to keep the appearance of the perfect marriage only in the protagonist's presence
she knew they were using her yet she still returned to them
the part that struck me was this though-
she had 3 affairs and each time she had to called them off as she realized she had no inclination towards conducting a romantic affair
she thought she might be homosexual but upon self-investigation, wrote that off
initially she could psyched herself into getting excited about someone
she realized her affairs were attempts to make up for her sexlessness
after the third, she came to terms that there was nothing she could do about that lack of sexual interest afterall

my bloody valentines

he wears an expression between expectancy and bemusement
we are trying to solve a mystery
everytime he opens his mouth i pray he does not break into capitalism
well-groomed and interesting
i used to go out with a Man of Ubiquitous White Shirts
this one has a signature pink
that is not to say he wears pink all the time
just that he looks splendid in pink
nonetheless, he still gets a compilation i made which i called 'songs for his ubiquitous white shirts'
which Man of Ubiquitous White Shirts was given previously
not that i set out to give it to every shirt i see
the whole thing sounds like a ride through the gutters of a surreal schizophrenic mindscape
ok, too rhetorical, let's just say, i thought it an awesome compilation
i gave a lot of thoughts to the sequence and experimented with a few approaches

it contains -

french monologue

beautiful instrumental yann tierson

woman wailing

sounds from a music box

a song reminiscent of the 50s era sounding faded

the theme of an argento horror film made in the 70s

itsy bitsy bikini in french

it sounds like a sinister fairytale and the bikini song was supposedly added as a nod to discurvity like something out of context

other times i would give him noisy music which i know he dislikes and imagine he would get into an accident as he drives

doesn't neccessarily work that way

he says he enjoys the cd

quite happy

quite happy to see him busy sorting out the stuffs and arranging..


one day he came up to me. he said, " i've noticed how inconvenient it is for you to smoke here. please feel free..."

i like the chandelier. most of all, it looks like it would fall.

what's eating you?

i was fucking depressed during the concert
i entered late
10 mins later, interval for refreshment, it could not get any worse
i spent my time maneuvering my way out of socializing
life is one long series of obligatory societal norms
i am always running away from something or somebody
when the bell sounded for end of recess
i made my way to the direction of the lavatory
and out of the building

off to forbidden city
potato, bamboo shoots and shitake muchrooms wrapped in beancurd skin
all time favourite
goes well with corona
it's not just the food or the beer
it's about getting a breather
from familiar sickening faces

***

i was relating the dish to adel

when it seems people who don't care for food are usually disgusted with people who can enjoy their food

i wonder if there's this holier than thou mentality attached to 'my-body-is-the-purer-temple'

or those anorexic girls who feel empowered by not eating

in the office, there's a colleague's disdain for foodies whereby the defintion of foodie refers to one who welcomes food as opposed to one who welcomes good food

did i share her disdain?

no sign

it's like a polanski film, the earlier ones
all week, it has been on my mind to go and see the smoking man
i can't
now i'm not even sure if i would recover enough to go next week

the lip of the slash

i looked at the formal note. for he has the habit of a formal tone when the matter is grave. it makes me laugh. like there was a butler to discreetly leave the note on a silver tray in my cell phone, and in type, i was able to see the flourishes of gs and fs of the not-handwritten message.

i can't reply that i want to laugh

in a futile friendship, you make futile attempts and i allow myself to be tempted by futility. it is all very tempting. the idea of temptation combined with futility. without which my life would not be less interrupted. i could see you think i'm interrupted. are you so lonely? does your partner not talk to you? life is not true. you have too much common sense. i could see you once in a while and watch my mind through your eyes. it doesn't hurt. i could listen to you. until one day i realized for a moment that your words were full of feelings. misguided feelings. then silence falls upon us. hangs down like a sudden flood of theater curtains, heavy as lead. and when you break the silence, for you always do, i realize it's because, like a psycho-anaylst, you would never abandon me no matter how cautious you are of the idea of me as a habit. no matter what mean things i say, you would not be mad with me as you can see, in my mind, that you are meaner.

we got to make a start somewhere. the lip of the slash. after fearing that people who talked to her might realize that her mind was gone and collecting suicide articles and whatnots, the protagonist decided to make a start one morning. she brought the blade down to her calf, and watched the blood. from the lip of the slash. oozed and trickled to her black patent leather shoe. she felt nothing.

we would feel nothing too. if we make a start somewhere for an end. if we even observe the silence at all. try not to break the silence. pretend it's not there.

the sign

i don't like or dislike him

but i can't get him out of my mind

it is a strange feeling

i was drinking my strawberry smoothie and he sat on his black couch staring at me

i hadn't realize he was around

i couldn't concentrate on the conversation at my table

there was something to be deciphered in his eyes

torn between the conversation and his eyes

at that moment, i believed he has carried some secret message to me from somewhere

yet i wanted to look away cause i would be looking at his soul, it was too clear, something very stark and human

i can't explain, i tried to recall those who have bore secret messages before

they were never resolved



i have to figure it out

the comeback kid

for a long long time, her blog stops at dreamlessness
everytime i went back to check, it seemed more and more like an epitaph
was m not to blog again...

you don't have to miss her writing, her askewed views anymore
m is back
the world of blogging seems brighter again

i only started to blog after i saw you (looking as pretty as a korean actress)

all my pretty ones

all my pretty ones?
did you say all?

macduff in macbeth did not name them all
as i attempt

m who writes a lot took time off to pass off as an korean actress while not lamenting on dreams or the lack of, no., it wasn't a statement or an epitaph, computer crashed
k who came in a distracting tube, you can say that again, a distracting tube
angeline who taught me how to smile- 'you just look at your friends and smile from your heart', very beauty pagent like advice delivered in a heartfelt manner
jamieko with an exceptional sparkle in her eyes who declared 'i'm a present' in her black tube dress with a bow on the bust
sze lee, gorgeous in a sea of calm, peace and decorum, take it slow kid, make your own choices, not what others make of you
weizhen, jetaime, the other angeline- the devil, aishah...

you see, i can't name you all
and the boys

before the prom, a few of them followed me in the morning to collect their courseworks, one guy from technical studies that i hardly know
after moving the works to the 4th level, we just sat down and chatted
kr said she's missed the artroom
they didn't really want to go at once
we were talking about what to wear and stuff
i wasn't that keen to go at first but i wanted to see them

at the prom, when i remarked to kr that i actually got past the psychogical hurdle of facing the camera and... smile, she said i should give myself a round of applause
thanks to kr and subsequent people who asked me to take pictures
'as long as you don't post it on friendster or myspace'
the one i took with jinlong was most natural by the time
something about them, the realness and sincerity, put me at ease and make me want to try for them
they must be a gift
to allow me another perspective of life
most of the times, they are more matured and down-to-earth than me
thank you, guys, for your friendship
it was so good to see everyone again

the lower notes of the recital

the lows are getting lower
how long can this go on?
i am going to be 30 next year
time to go
high time to go

we stood watching disturbing pictures in silence
what disturbs me is a very private thing
that i cannot share with you
so standing with you
i am irrevocably alone
listening to a private recital

' what's on your mind?'
if i look into your eyes will you see through me
if you hold me close enough will the light go out
in my private hell
in the consultation room
i believed for a while i would be well again
perhaps it was my doctor's voice or eyes
that we would work together for me to get well
perhaps the hospital is true to their vision, mission

perhaps you could knock the breath out of me
shovelling the sand on me later on
i read about this man whose cat died
he put it in a kinokuniya bag
drove to somewhere quiet and buried it
shovelling, the sound of sand, or mud, hitting the plastic bag
above ground, birds were chirping

kipper in the bag, that was the cat's name,
body stiff as a starched collar, as a cold turkey
what was kipper thinking about
when the sand hit the bag
what was i thinking about
can kipper hear the birds chirping

he began to cry driving his way back

to society

another pair of star-crossed lovers

no matter how much they feel for each other
circumstamces prevail and play them like a game
no matter how much they try in spite of themselves
the game precedes and plays them
they can only be... this true
the game continues
yes, everyone has fears, it is true
how true can we get,
not true enough to renounce the connection we've 'forged' with reality
' through some clever juggling..........a life based on token values.
was i now supposed to give it up?'

she can't
she cannot be sure she truely want it

if we've viewed the world without holding our heads out of true
we would never be able to view the world again holding our heads out of true
that slant-
ed view

the monogulist continues his monologue
tells his mute girl stories, sitting on his bar stool,
he is solitary, he is himself a planet
he has given up on the notion of conversation
and come to realize that the girl of his affections is deaf and dumb
he doesn't say things like 'talk to me' or 'what's the matter? Tell me'
cause he has said enough of that for the last 3 years
ironically, the mute girl wants to be talked to by the monogulist
despite her physical impairments and emotional handicap
she thought he would be silence-literate and understand
when words fail
she thought of a communication that exists without conversation that neither addresses either of them directly
in this way, they could preserve their connections to reality, their planetary alignments, they cannot shift, they cannot meet
and in this way, every story could be the last

take a seat

She no longer dared go into society because often, on the very chair that was being politely indicated to her, she could see an elderly gentleman sitting.

She was quite sure that either the gesture of invitation or the presence of the elderly gentleman, was a hallucination, for they would not have been showing her to a chair that was already occupied.

Her doctor, in order to cure her, forced her to return to a reception whereby she experienced a moment of painful hesitation wondering whether the hospitable sign they made to her was the real thing, or she was about to sit down in public on the knees of a flesh and blood gentleman, the humiliation.

Her uncertainty was cruel. Her eyes blinked and her hand went to her face. The long fingers on her temple moved downwards in an attempt to cover her expressionless mouth and her horror.

She made up her mind. She sat down.

haiku for you

they are almost always seventeen syllables long and they don't rhyme

someone is waiting
for me. someone i cannot
see. and my pain is.

or

and my pain is, some
one is waiting for me. some
one i cannot see.

i won't see you again
means i want to see you too
and that is pain,

which ever way i
write. you don't even need to
count the syllables

gross indeed

i was stoning on the couch, sulking
horrors of all horrors, the baker did not make blueberry cheese muffin that day
and brunch was becoming a nightmare
when mum emerged from her room, face twisted into an expression of pain

there was a dead lizard under the mattress and ants were feasting on it
she had been changing her bedsheets

i looked at the insecticide in her hand

"you tried to kill it with that?"

"no, i had to kill the ants"

yes, i understood i am to dispose it
as mum is terribly afraid of lizards. who isn't?
a chance to be the good daughter

so mum sat on the couch, stoning from fear
as i inspected the carcass
not a pretty sight, some dried up shrivelled stuff
mum 's bed is really too big, bed fellows, too strange

" can you imagine you have been sleeping with a dead lizard?"

" luckily, i was facing the tv last night"

remembering cheryl's reptilian ordeal with chopsticks
(she was very traumatized; threw everything out the window)
i found a pair of disposable chopsticks
i stopped before mum and pretended to be eating
she advised me to use the kitchen paper and cover it up first

bad idea, i had to uncover the lizard to target my chopsticks
in my 2 failed attempts, i was able to observe the lizard in different angles
it was sap-greenish with a trace of yellow orche
i must admit mum's fear had affected me
i assured myself that i was insulated
there was no actual physical contact
got the lizard between my chopsticks
dumped everything into the plastic bag

bingo

i thought about cheryl's mum who thinks that the lizards residing behind her cupboard are her pets
and she talks about them, according to aston, like they are her grandchildren who have learnt their first steps. never mind that she could have been so sure that they are the same lizards which come back each night. she talks to them and swears they respond through their eyes. what if they jump on her face? never mind that too. by the way, she has named them lili and liza

the book of folly

he was driving
when i showed him the book i was wearing

" it's a dictionary, this is the magnifying glass."

he regarded it seriously, turned to the steering wheel and smiled

today, mr folly looks tired and he's impatient with other drivers
for a moment, when i thought i lost the clasp

he said, " careful, don't ruin your nails "

i am going to wear the book everyday, adel dear.

too late

( for the cat-loving girl who thinks too much

this is from man or mango, a lament

someone has lost my book again

the protagonist's name is eloise

she had a good fuck before she died

the other interesting thing is a writing student's notebook

she died in an accident while running away from her writing teacher)

My favourite cat has died and my house has been burglared. A speeding car ran over the cat and broke her back, just outside on the lane. She was still breathing, so i took her to the vet, yelling at her all the way to live.

Returned, minus cat, to find a police car outside my house. The neighbours had called them when they noticed a window had been broken. But not only had i been burglared, i'd been incompletely burglared. My parents' papers were strewn everywhere- a sea of papers- and my clock and my cello were gone. Eventually, the police found the clock beside the broken window: the burglar must have been disturbed as he was leaving ( perhaps by the neighbours), panicked, and left the clock behind. But he took the clock key, so now i can't wind it. But why do i need to know what time it is? I know all too well it's too late, too late.

The neighbours are thrilled- their every new D.I.Y window lock has been vindicated. While i lay here in a pool of my parents' papers, papers designed to overwhelm the soul.

Why couldn't the world just leave me alone, me and my little clock and my little cat?

( i am going to find the book online now )

Silence and Monologue

silence is about the things people think and feel but do not say

silence can be read in the negative space rachel whiteread cast
under the staircase
the exterior of bookshelves
the interior of an entire
house

or the six good friends in the waves that the reader knows the intimacy of their innermost thoughts, desires and fears, throughout their lives, yet never knowing what they look like for the author has presented the reader, in beauiful prose, 6 interior monologues

what i refer to as what barthes refer to as death of the author

on what defines tangible
what defines not, the irreversibility
of signs

this is about your monologue and my silence

"J. An indian wedding in a chinese restaurant. A stranger sits beside me and she's already drunk."

something is always absent in everything present
when you are just getting on with your life
being with friends and family
and nothing to worry you
and you try to reach the person that has nothing to do with everything before your eyes
you know what that means
you recognize that you could be happier

and you know what that recgonition entails
in the course of our lives
we are bound to experience that recgonition
and we are bound to carry on with life pretending it's not a lie
until we believe our pretensions
and read what boundaries and desires look like wielded by winterson
like reading about it might offer some clues out of the maze

the price of that recgonition is resignation
you don't know what yearning is until you begin to yearn
henceforth, herve joncour said nothing
he became the silent observer of his life

continue the story
you are writing prose
it sounds like something i would have told you
don't ever give up on my silence
if you could see
this is what my silence looks like
- a monologue
mono locked
in silence

we make each other lonely
but

it might be lonelier without the loneliness

broken hearts

......

HS: to hear your voice

WS: why the long silence?

HS: life gets in the way... take care, _.

WS: i want to see you again


but life gets in the way. and we get broken hearted.

fiends of helen

do not link me

thank you for making it

the cruel gift

as lately as last
night. i recieved a beauty
of faked time, stop

watch, 3 pm. the
lovely thought of a friend who's
not in the exchange

of the giving
repertoire. adel and i.
she got a book neck-

lace. ay, that's the rub
everyone knows i collect
books. it escapes me

why one gifting me
would make a watch over a
book? it upsets me

the entitlement
could have not been. i might
have no gift at all.

yet i am upset
perhaps i've attached too much
significance to

the symbolic book
form. alex might talk me out
and make me realize

how silly i've been
but alex, was another
cruel gift.

the beautiful stop
watch. alice paused in wonder
land. forbidden to

i invite you