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.