I set the limitation of a minute to express what may take a lifetime to elaborate:
the love
you love
as fragile, as the snow flake - so invisible
and natural
that we may continue/ stop at the limit of my melt/ing
Photo
13 years ago
Sunday, June 28, 2009
day 111
the difference between being the dog, or the animal who is often seen as the one animal most commonly domesticated and most suited to be a human companion, and the human, is that it does not have to be responsible to the mess it makes while the human has to.
But I still think it is cathartic to watch them pee on public goods.
But I still think it is cathartic to watch them pee on public goods.
day 112
It is so prestigious that the effect it has on the unsuspecting victim is how contagious it is with its subtle energies.
And what is IT?
To stand on the pulpit.
I hate the pedestal. But I live with it.
And what is IT?
To stand on the pulpit.
I hate the pedestal. But I live with it.
day 1
The most intangible disability I have is my apparent lack of a traumatic memory. I should rejoice.
And that is my challenge: How do I stand in the crevice of imagined amnesia and realistic anamnesis?
This is not an easy question to answer. So we shall take our time, in time to come, to answer what cannot be answered.
And that is my challenge: How do I stand in the crevice of imagined amnesia and realistic anamnesis?
This is not an easy question to answer. So we shall take our time, in time to come, to answer what cannot be answered.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
day =
Without the soft caress of your dried lips, the thirst that comes out of my unquenched passion punishes my own lips: pursed as two pieces of meat, acting as a replica of your intangible kiss and mechanical in its production of moisture;
Thursday, June 25, 2009
day 99
It is always an unnerving experience to be in a foreign land. The truth is, beyond the exoticism and eroticism of the unexpected and strange world when the familiar clashes and interacts with the unfamiliar, I know for sure I don't exactly belong.
Whether it is the way I utter or make a sound, or simply the colour and physical traits of a face that stands out like a sore thumb, I am highly conscious of my displacement and difference.
The reality is that I don't just exoticise my surroundings with my tourist phallic gaze (my camera is perpetually hung around my neck, thus it perturbs out from my chest like a masculine symbol), I recede away and hide behind my heavily exposed yellow skin. Of course, this is my imagination. But when imaginations clash, the result is often one of quick judgement.
Which makes me wonder: why so? Why must I be highly conscious of this difference, when it is a priori the condition of humanity. The troublesome aspect of this thesis is that I just end up universalising difference as a pre-condition of experience.
Let us take a step back - what un-nerves me the most is actually my familiarity - the fact that I always feel like I'm back to the combined experience of being somewhere familiar and unfamiliar. But we can't really take a step back. I encounter the strange and uncanny similiarity of buildings, food, shopping malls and even nature (hills, mountains, streams, lakes and seas). What I confront is more than difference, it is the engulfing sensation of a world I don't belong by feeling very belonged.
We cannot just escape by way of the exotic and/or the familiar. The threshold of comfort or discomfort attends to us like a IV drip that fills us as much as we exhausts it of its nourishment. It pokes and penetrates us as much as it heals us. There is always that great spiral, where the exhaustion of one is the extension of another. But suggested in this theatre of repetition, is really the compulsion to belong, to do and to belong.
I think I have to stop consuming myself, as a way of being less the embodiment of my misgivings, misfortune of being different, etc., etc..
Being different, or being the lightning that strikes the tower of universalism, there is a profound engagement and intimacy with ourselves and others, even if done in passing. Nothing you do will be right - therein are the complications of binaries of success and failure. But it is the relentless forwarding of a step taken, traces no doubt, that should humble us and chastise us to the point of kneeling at the point of exhaustion. Whatever you do, you will still fail as an immortal being. What being different demands of us, if we truly know what it means to be different, is that we perpetually undo ourselves, forgetting and remembering, the unprotected procreation, whether for abortion or birth, not knowing what else to write, to be, to do, to think, to know, I feel then the need to resist myself, suspending myself in this realm unknown, surrending to the test of time and place, myself, fighting myself, the strive of the condemned individual in the babelesque world of universal peace and universal conflicts. If there is a stage where salvation is truly preached to you, it is within your life, your uneasy misses and truimphs of walking, sleeping and waking to the dawn of your end.
Whether it is the way I utter or make a sound, or simply the colour and physical traits of a face that stands out like a sore thumb, I am highly conscious of my displacement and difference.
The reality is that I don't just exoticise my surroundings with my tourist phallic gaze (my camera is perpetually hung around my neck, thus it perturbs out from my chest like a masculine symbol), I recede away and hide behind my heavily exposed yellow skin. Of course, this is my imagination. But when imaginations clash, the result is often one of quick judgement.
Which makes me wonder: why so? Why must I be highly conscious of this difference, when it is a priori the condition of humanity. The troublesome aspect of this thesis is that I just end up universalising difference as a pre-condition of experience.
Let us take a step back - what un-nerves me the most is actually my familiarity - the fact that I always feel like I'm back to the combined experience of being somewhere familiar and unfamiliar. But we can't really take a step back. I encounter the strange and uncanny similiarity of buildings, food, shopping malls and even nature (hills, mountains, streams, lakes and seas). What I confront is more than difference, it is the engulfing sensation of a world I don't belong by feeling very belonged.
We cannot just escape by way of the exotic and/or the familiar. The threshold of comfort or discomfort attends to us like a IV drip that fills us as much as we exhausts it of its nourishment. It pokes and penetrates us as much as it heals us. There is always that great spiral, where the exhaustion of one is the extension of another. But suggested in this theatre of repetition, is really the compulsion to belong, to do and to belong.
I think I have to stop consuming myself, as a way of being less the embodiment of my misgivings, misfortune of being different, etc., etc..
Being different, or being the lightning that strikes the tower of universalism, there is a profound engagement and intimacy with ourselves and others, even if done in passing. Nothing you do will be right - therein are the complications of binaries of success and failure. But it is the relentless forwarding of a step taken, traces no doubt, that should humble us and chastise us to the point of kneeling at the point of exhaustion. Whatever you do, you will still fail as an immortal being. What being different demands of us, if we truly know what it means to be different, is that we perpetually undo ourselves, forgetting and remembering, the unprotected procreation, whether for abortion or birth, not knowing what else to write, to be, to do, to think, to know, I feel then the need to resist myself, suspending myself in this realm unknown, surrending to the test of time and place, myself, fighting myself, the strive of the condemned individual in the babelesque world of universal peace and universal conflicts. If there is a stage where salvation is truly preached to you, it is within your life, your uneasy misses and truimphs of walking, sleeping and waking to the dawn of your end.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
day 70
A Letter to Sentiment
Appearing often during the pinnacle of one's solitude, a figure that simulates your senses of love walks across the stone-tiled streets of a foreign city. But you know it is not she. And the window of despair reopens completely to invite the gush of wind and the biting cold of a mistaken autumn. It is summer, but the senses are often more in-sync with the temperature and brightness of the afternoon city than convention.
You walk alone, and you also walk with others, mistaking yourself for someone else you do not know. And you and I both know, we are incomplete now, dependent on the other to balance our clumsy steps. There is nothing conventional about us as a couple. There are only mistaken identities - I thought I knew who I was until I met you and soon I noticed how I refashioned myself! Only our senses, or the lack of your warmth, your touch and your voice tell me how it is not yet home. A single bed, an empty single room, and a pair of legs do not tell me where I am. They tell me where I am not.
However, it is useless to think of pairs and binaries.
I think, with only I to think.
Eventually, thinking of you in order to understand myself is just self-centred. I must be sadly mistaken, to think that with sentiment I could find you next to me.
There is something a letter cannot do. And I know this for a fact, despite the romantic notion of a letter communicating sentiments and emotions to the faraway person. It only reminds the other that you are faraway. So far away that words are all you could afford to soothe the pain and anguish of a separation. A letter is also belated. A letter reaches only the face and eyes of the reader; it cannot bring with it the tangible body, where the other can touch and feel the well-being and safety of the writer.
A letter does give us a presence, of which the reading and misreading of the text determine the form of the sentiment. But it is difficult for the reader to know the exact emotion or sentiment of the writer. The problem is with the distance and the belatedness, isn't it?
I think there is a simple reality to letter-writing. It is the medium in which something can be expressed. It can only replace the body for a while. But nothing is compared to your body, your soul and your heart, beating next to me, guiding me, supporting me as we both trip and scramble through more bodies, uncertainties and the unforgiving urban landscape.
I'll come back soon. I am my own letter.
Appearing often during the pinnacle of one's solitude, a figure that simulates your senses of love walks across the stone-tiled streets of a foreign city. But you know it is not she. And the window of despair reopens completely to invite the gush of wind and the biting cold of a mistaken autumn. It is summer, but the senses are often more in-sync with the temperature and brightness of the afternoon city than convention.
You walk alone, and you also walk with others, mistaking yourself for someone else you do not know. And you and I both know, we are incomplete now, dependent on the other to balance our clumsy steps. There is nothing conventional about us as a couple. There are only mistaken identities - I thought I knew who I was until I met you and soon I noticed how I refashioned myself! Only our senses, or the lack of your warmth, your touch and your voice tell me how it is not yet home. A single bed, an empty single room, and a pair of legs do not tell me where I am. They tell me where I am not.
However, it is useless to think of pairs and binaries.
I think, with only I to think.
Eventually, thinking of you in order to understand myself is just self-centred. I must be sadly mistaken, to think that with sentiment I could find you next to me.
There is something a letter cannot do. And I know this for a fact, despite the romantic notion of a letter communicating sentiments and emotions to the faraway person. It only reminds the other that you are faraway. So far away that words are all you could afford to soothe the pain and anguish of a separation. A letter is also belated. A letter reaches only the face and eyes of the reader; it cannot bring with it the tangible body, where the other can touch and feel the well-being and safety of the writer.
A letter does give us a presence, of which the reading and misreading of the text determine the form of the sentiment. But it is difficult for the reader to know the exact emotion or sentiment of the writer. The problem is with the distance and the belatedness, isn't it?
I think there is a simple reality to letter-writing. It is the medium in which something can be expressed. It can only replace the body for a while. But nothing is compared to your body, your soul and your heart, beating next to me, guiding me, supporting me as we both trip and scramble through more bodies, uncertainties and the unforgiving urban landscape.
I'll come back soon. I am my own letter.
day 69
Looking down, which I often do, I saw,
the landscape transfigured from vast land of green and yellow
into islands
An archipelago emerged.
And I saw,
the archipelago transformed into...I couldn't quite figure what it looked like.
As the plane climbed and the cotton wrapped itself around the tiny white machine,
(turbulence...)
And I caught another fleeting glance at the scenery below and I knew what it resembled.
Stars.
Sometimes, we don't have to look up to feel trapped.
the landscape transfigured from vast land of green and yellow
into islands
An archipelago emerged.
And I saw,
the archipelago transformed into...I couldn't quite figure what it looked like.
As the plane climbed and the cotton wrapped itself around the tiny white machine,
(turbulence...)
And I caught another fleeting glance at the scenery below and I knew what it resembled.
Stars.
Sometimes, we don't have to look up to feel trapped.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
day 81
|| or two planes, flying side by side, with their own destinations. They never meet; and they shouldn't. It would mean they are on collision course.
|| and they repeat, three times a week, to and fro, each carrying hopes, passions, dreams, duties, missions, tasks and...well...just passengers.
[] and we are held together, as solid particles, stuck in the seats of our destinies.
I always believe that at some level we should not let planes take us around.
/\ two legs, to bring us to where we must.
and observe this world from a different angle and at a different pace.
|\ we cannot stand straight. Our legs are actually not built for that purpose.
and we touch so closely to the ground that sprouts us and later receives us.
= and we lie flat, on the surface, returning again, side by side, that we may whisper our last words and continue the dreams in a more tangible manner.
The plane leaves in two days.
|| and they repeat, three times a week, to and fro, each carrying hopes, passions, dreams, duties, missions, tasks and...well...just passengers.
[] and we are held together, as solid particles, stuck in the seats of our destinies.
I always believe that at some level we should not let planes take us around.
/\ two legs, to bring us to where we must.
and observe this world from a different angle and at a different pace.
|\ we cannot stand straight. Our legs are actually not built for that purpose.
and we touch so closely to the ground that sprouts us and later receives us.
= and we lie flat, on the surface, returning again, side by side, that we may whisper our last words and continue the dreams in a more tangible manner.
Goodnight.
The plane leaves in two days.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
courtesy day
|| The tangible lines that breach our conversation; between pauses for several inhaling and exhaling.
|| we probably have a name for everything.
|| To breathe, we affirm our lonely existence. We breathe alone, though we share the air.
|| I used to think that by changing the personal pronoun, we can assume multiple identities. Truth is, the more I change, the more it reveals my insecurities. You can only affirm the existence of words, limited no doubt, but tangibly there, a name is always there for each to be safe in the knowledge that we can be known as much as possibly forgotten.
|| beneath each surface, is another surface concealed.
|| you asked me that night, if we belonged to the world. I said, 'yes'. And then we ceased to belong.
|| Do not speak the words that mean too much. Speak, as if to communicate your last breathe - and that last breathe vaguely encounters the same air as the listener inhales.
|| O, I repeat. A thousand words. A million permutations.
|| What if there is no oxygen in the air?
// The intangible force that pushes the lines to slant.
\\ and the mirror takes over.
|| | do not ignore the loner. | will haunt you.
| am here.
|| It's hard to place them together, in a way that they could disappear. Perhaps, I would like to stare straight at it, and then it is clear, I have created a space in between.
|| lines have no meaning on their own. They have us to accompany them.
|| When I meet her, I feel infinite. When I stand next to her, I feel finite. Frankly, it's either immortality or the sum of one and one equals two.
|| It is possible to conceive of a new universe with lines, intersecting, meeting, running parallels, and all cutting and crossing.
|| we probably have a name for everything.
|| To breathe, we affirm our lonely existence. We breathe alone, though we share the air.
|| I used to think that by changing the personal pronoun, we can assume multiple identities. Truth is, the more I change, the more it reveals my insecurities. You can only affirm the existence of words, limited no doubt, but tangibly there, a name is always there for each to be safe in the knowledge that we can be known as much as possibly forgotten.
|| beneath each surface, is another surface concealed.
|| you asked me that night, if we belonged to the world. I said, 'yes'. And then we ceased to belong.
|| Do not speak the words that mean too much. Speak, as if to communicate your last breathe - and that last breathe vaguely encounters the same air as the listener inhales.
|| O, I repeat. A thousand words. A million permutations.
|| What if there is no oxygen in the air?
// The intangible force that pushes the lines to slant.
\\ and the mirror takes over.
|| | do not ignore the loner. | will haunt you.
| am here.
|| It's hard to place them together, in a way that they could disappear. Perhaps, I would like to stare straight at it, and then it is clear, I have created a space in between.
|| lines have no meaning on their own. They have us to accompany them.
|| When I meet her, I feel infinite. When I stand next to her, I feel finite. Frankly, it's either immortality or the sum of one and one equals two.
|| It is possible to conceive of a new universe with lines, intersecting, meeting, running parallels, and all cutting and crossing.
It is impossible, however, to conceive of a world without lines. We don't live in one.
|| I stroke her back that day. And it was smooth and unsmooth. It curved but it went on as I repeated my motions. Then I realised, I could do this forever - as long as her back is there for me to stroke.
|| However close we get to someone, even with a hug and a kiss, there is that distance between us. And the distance is called love.
|| Perhaps, that's why we draw lines.
And if one day, we truly forget how lines look like, perhaps we could hope to hold each other, without adjusting our backs, and purse our lips together, as if touching infinity and inventing new skies without borders and horizons, then we could truly give up our human perception, and take on an immortal perception - that we conceive the lines, and not the lines conceive us.
But for now, before we wistfully and arrogantly think that it is possible, we should first rely on and appreciate the lines of our bodies that are not straight. They are all we have.
Let's start with a smile.
|| However close we get to someone, even with a hug and a kiss, there is that distance between us. And the distance is called love.
|| Perhaps, that's why we draw lines.
And if one day, we truly forget how lines look like, perhaps we could hope to hold each other, without adjusting our backs, and purse our lips together, as if touching infinity and inventing new skies without borders and horizons, then we could truly give up our human perception, and take on an immortal perception - that we conceive the lines, and not the lines conceive us.
But for now, before we wistfully and arrogantly think that it is possible, we should first rely on and appreciate the lines of our bodies that are not straight. They are all we have.
Let's start with a smile.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
day 256
It's not easy to say this.
Sad-coloured clouds filled the afternoon skies three days in a week. It's not always that gloomy but the unpredictable weather gets you. You either feel like sleeping, or you feel like napping. (There is a subtle difference.)
It's not easy to say this.
I've been drinking so much water, I tend to forget that I need plain and clean water (with the occasional minerals and element composites) and not sugared and carbonated water. It's so like us to have this heavy reliance on dubious contents to fill us up. I wonder who permits all those artificial colourings and flavourings to go into the drinks. In any case, if plain water can drown ants, we ought to be more vigilant with the stuff we drink.
It's not easy to say this.
I've been thinking of what to do in the next 5 minutes. Then 5 hours. Then five weeks. Then five months. Then five years. Whatever the order. And frankly, I have no idea because things change, in 5 seconds. There is no sure path to the destination in 5 years. But there is a sure path to the toilet.
It's easy to say this:
I love you.
Sad-coloured clouds filled the afternoon skies three days in a week. It's not always that gloomy but the unpredictable weather gets you. You either feel like sleeping, or you feel like napping. (There is a subtle difference.)
It's not easy to say this.
I've been drinking so much water, I tend to forget that I need plain and clean water (with the occasional minerals and element composites) and not sugared and carbonated water. It's so like us to have this heavy reliance on dubious contents to fill us up. I wonder who permits all those artificial colourings and flavourings to go into the drinks. In any case, if plain water can drown ants, we ought to be more vigilant with the stuff we drink.
It's not easy to say this.
I've been thinking of what to do in the next 5 minutes. Then 5 hours. Then five weeks. Then five months. Then five years. Whatever the order. And frankly, I have no idea because things change, in 5 seconds. There is no sure path to the destination in 5 years. But there is a sure path to the toilet.
It's easy to say this:
I love you.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
hug day
patience, the peace that would not come,
came, with the storm no balm could appease.
can we learn patience in a storm?
reason, the chaos that comes ever so often,
went, with the stillness of the matured night.
can we learn reason in a stillness?
I have a better proposition.
Let words fail us.
Beneath the temples of our foreheads, there two sides of a single skull. They do nothing, lead nothing and we can never see them with flesh unless we look at a mirror. Even if we do so, we cannot look at them straight on. If we do, we only see one and miss the other.
The two sides of coin cannot be seen simultaneously, as long as the coin remains a single coin.
There are mysteries in this world that confuse us, elude us and remain as mysteries.
I do not have the words to form the answers.
And yet, let us use words to carry us henceforth, towards the storm, in the stillness of the night. Don't always depend on visuals. Depend on the hug that does a million more things.
came, with the storm no balm could appease.
can we learn patience in a storm?
reason, the chaos that comes ever so often,
went, with the stillness of the matured night.
can we learn reason in a stillness?
I have a better proposition.
Let words fail us.
Beneath the temples of our foreheads, there two sides of a single skull. They do nothing, lead nothing and we can never see them with flesh unless we look at a mirror. Even if we do so, we cannot look at them straight on. If we do, we only see one and miss the other.
The two sides of coin cannot be seen simultaneously, as long as the coin remains a single coin.
There are mysteries in this world that confuse us, elude us and remain as mysteries.
I do not have the words to form the answers.
And yet, let us use words to carry us henceforth, towards the storm, in the stillness of the night. Don't always depend on visuals. Depend on the hug that does a million more things.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
day de- F--sS, O--d
You would be loved? - then let us prepare to sing, perhaps
a song to mark this hiatus from life.
between everything then,
and everything you will not be.
Once - and love not a duty.
a song to mark this hiatus from life.
between everything then,
and everything now.
be everything you will be.and everything you will not be.
Once - and love not a duty.
day 177
perhaps, the quiet minutes and seconds before I sleep, are for me to realise that I was never awake to begin with.
day 199
So much for the container of things. - Calvino
I don't quite know what to write.
I wonder what my brain contains.
Am I able to articulate the things contained in my mind?
The substance of things.
Between my brain and mind...I find it hard to conceive what a container of things really is.
Perhaps just full of words. Within the limits of my container.
I wonder what my brain contains.
Am I able to articulate the things contained in my mind?
The substance of things.
Between my brain and mind...I find it hard to conceive what a container of things really is.
Perhaps just full of words. Within the limits of my container.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
day 174
nothing is as exact as today.
thereby, today immortalises itself
while, I, as stubborn as I am, can only be mortal.
exact time: time of sacrifice. I write.
thereby, today immortalises itself
while, I, as stubborn as I am, can only be mortal.
exact time: time of sacrifice. I write.
I can only sacrifice myself to today. I write.
Reaching the plenitude of stardust kingdoms, we could, perhaps, grant ourselves a little emotion - that of gratitude, because we cannot reach and cannot hope to reach and yet we hope today is the day, to stars we soar. Or so I wrote.
We get by, with the smiles of others we have never met. Have you seen the picture of a baby smiling?
We dream, the little dreams, to forget that we could remember.
when lovers become stardust of yesterday, today is really the music that goes by...
"dreaming of a song, the melody....touch my reverie...and I am once again..."
I wish I hear, the theatre of life, re-imagined as a gentle giant, lending its palms to lift us to the heights of heavens...
And then, we fall like leaves, of autumn, of red and gold. crashed, winter burns...while we hibernate along with silence and immobility.
And shall we then start anew, forming bubbles of suggestions...
swim then, to the fountain of youth, and we won't be too late to be young again.
On our deathbeds, be the theatre of life.
On our birth cradles, perhaps, the sight, as blinding as staring at the sun.
Stare up. And take your last bow.
Yes, take your last bow.
Today is Sunday.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
day 8
nothing creates this empty noise, that creeps up behind you, NO wait,
from the sides and makes you pause to wonder if it is worthwhile to even bother standing at the crossroads. And you realise it's you big O - your mouth.
And you say, either:
I pretend "it's fine." I pretend "it's worse."
And hope lies
in between them,
messing me up,
calming me...
restoring me
in an equilibrium
that I do not
want to be at...
that is the question - a pathetic thing they called existentialism.
I hate that big word. I hate -isms.
What is the fuss about existing when you're already forced to be, breathing and shitting as we tug after and along whoever our predecessors (sorry mum, dad for using a big word on you) may be. If you ask me, I don't give a shit what Derrida wrote about SIGNS, SIGNIFIERS, and SIGNIFIED.
I rather give the damn shit about how to pretend to be, even though I am so clueless about the next meal I will have.
My books are a great wall, a porcelain one, since we're talking about a great wall, we might as well talk about the one in China - that I have never visited.
They are as depressing as they are exciting. Exciting to sleep with, and doze with after reading. Depressing to know they actually make so much sense in writing...and does nothing to relieve the pain, the slings and the arrows of those who so do not want to exist. I mean, seriously...who gives a damn about tropes, metaphors and similes?
I am as blur as a cock.
My Margins of Philosophy cost me $44.95 at Borders.
The Huns cost me 5 minutes to read about at wikipedia.
Right down to the mere history of my mere existence, I frankly, have no way of writing about myself. I'll just lose myself in the existence of my medium, and forget who I am anyway. I'd actually prefer to log down the food I ate yesterday. That would be a great history of Alvin's bowel movement.
To purge us of those things superfluous would be to deny ourselves of what we consist of:
SHIT.
or for lack of a better word,
manure.
from the sides and makes you pause to wonder if it is worthwhile to even bother standing at the crossroads. And you realise it's you big O - your mouth.
And you say, either:
I pretend "it's fine." I pretend "it's worse."
And hope lies
in between them,
messing me up,
calming me...
restoring me
in an equilibrium
that I do not
want to be at...
that is the question - a pathetic thing they called existentialism.
I hate that big word. I hate -isms.
What is the fuss about existing when you're already forced to be, breathing and shitting as we tug after and along whoever our predecessors (sorry mum, dad for using a big word on you) may be. If you ask me, I don't give a shit what Derrida wrote about SIGNS, SIGNIFIERS, and SIGNIFIED.
I rather give the damn shit about how to pretend to be, even though I am so clueless about the next meal I will have.
My books are a great wall, a porcelain one, since we're talking about a great wall, we might as well talk about the one in China - that I have never visited.
They are as depressing as they are exciting. Exciting to sleep with, and doze with after reading. Depressing to know they actually make so much sense in writing...and does nothing to relieve the pain, the slings and the arrows of those who so do not want to exist. I mean, seriously...who gives a damn about tropes, metaphors and similes?
I am as blur as a cock.
My Margins of Philosophy cost me $44.95 at Borders.
The Huns cost me 5 minutes to read about at wikipedia.
Right down to the mere history of my mere existence, I frankly, have no way of writing about myself. I'll just lose myself in the existence of my medium, and forget who I am anyway. I'd actually prefer to log down the food I ate yesterday. That would be a great history of Alvin's bowel movement.
To purge us of those things superfluous would be to deny ourselves of what we consist of:
SHIT.
And so, as we learn anew what SHIT means, we should remind ourselves that there are some people who will never be able to read my SHIT as written here. Instead, they will still go about shitting, till the last dump. We will do well that it does not matter if we read or not. It matters, most of all, what we eat. Worded shit forming worded sentences, that piled up one after another, after another, and more worded shit as anthologies, readers, inventories of inventories, with extensive catalogues and bibliographies of more worded shit to read, to fart, and to produce more shit for the benefit of those with constipation and we release them - - - with pleasure, more, the temptation of a fig tree leaf, and next to uncover the pleasures of the naked skin, lying just next to the hole that produce those shit, those gases -
hence, noise.
hence, noise.
or for lack of a better word,
manure.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
day 287.9
o, the sea, the sea, the sea, the sea,
dissolved into a pure passion
foaming around my lips
that's all. that's all.
that's all.
that's all.
(pause)
that's all?
that's all.
(repeat)
the sea, der see, dercy, d c,
c, c, c, cccccccccsssssssssssssss
the soft sibilant relentless hiss
that reminds you
of your dissipating
(at least it is
still subsisting)
sanity.
till, blown kisses, shrouded in mystery, never again heard and felt -
the click, the click and clicks of O
the death sentence avoided by the breaking of the rope,
thrice, (or more)
I hear no voice.
thrice, (or more)
then:
I hear a C
a crack, a cringe, at
either 2nd and 3rd or 4th and 5th cervical vertebrae
that's all.
scatter the masses. scatter whatever.
a recorded message ensues.
dissolved into a pure passion
foaming around my lips
that's all. that's all.
that's all.
that's all.
(pause)
that's all?
that's all.
(repeat)
the sea, der see, dercy, d c,
c, c, c, cccccccccsssssssssssssss
the soft sibilant relentless hiss
that reminds you
of your dissipating
(at least it is
still subsisting)
sanity.
till, blown kisses, shrouded in mystery, never again heard and felt -
the click, the click and clicks of O
the death sentence avoided by the breaking of the rope,
thrice, (or more)
I hear no voice.
thrice, (or more)
then:
I hear a C
a crack, a cringe, at
either 2nd and 3rd or 4th and 5th cervical vertebrae
that's all.
scatter the masses. scatter whatever.
a recorded message ensues.
day 287.7
o, the sea, the sea, the sea, the sea,
dissolved into a pure passion
foaming around my lips
that's all. that's all.
that's all.
that's all.
(pause)
that's all?
that's all.
(repeat)
the sea, der see, dercy, d c,
c, c, c, cccccccccsssssssssssssss
the soft sibilant relentless hiss
that reminds you
of your dissipating
(at least it is
still subsisting)
sanity.
dissolved into a pure passion
foaming around my lips
that's all. that's all.
that's all.
that's all.
(pause)
that's all?
that's all.
(repeat)
the sea, der see, dercy, d c,
c, c, c, cccccccccsssssssssssssss
the soft sibilant relentless hiss
that reminds you
of your dissipating
(at least it is
still subsisting)
sanity.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
day 287
o, the sea, the sea, the sea, the sea,
dissolved into a pure passion
foaming around my lips
that's all. that's all.
that's all.
dissolved into a pure passion
foaming around my lips
that's all. that's all.
that's all.
day 300 and seven-fold
inadequate to frighten,
we live a half nightmare,
with the world passing us by.
everyday, if remotely
there: will be a traffic light that fails.
it catches us by surprise.
here: will be a train that stops.
it resembles a failed ejaculation.
absolutely disdainful
but disgusting-ly so.
so we can sell ourselves
one by one
trucks of sweaty men,
and perfumed women.
and recall with romantic vigour,
the bedtime stories of our adopted parents.
and we can let someone else perform
our potency.
"countless windows quivered with manifold movement and light"
and the story goes,
that there are lions and fishes.
the lions jump into the rivers
, drown themselves with their dying sperms,
,and the fishes impregnate themselves by themselves.
each comma resembles a sperm.
and bridges hang lightly over the river -
commemorating -
the orgy that didn't happen.
and museums hold funeral wakes
cataloguing
plastic bones that last forever.
we hang, idly on organised
trees.
1 by 1
and chant
das Spiel dieses Nachts
and let cry in unison
with our hollowed throats
the painful, painful
random names of our parents.
and invent new names
for our hotel staff.
e.g. Arrivederci
to wash anew the bed linen,
(without virginal blood and semen).
wine glasses . . .
(sorry, I don't remember enough to write here.)
Messer Polo,
come visit again.
and dream this inadequate dream
of us in our tiny hole
where we view outside with a eye of a needle
and convince ourselves that
we will always be there for you
to carry the camel's burden.
"May I help you!"
translate.
and we will do well
sooner or later
and weave an adequate
nightmare.
with the world passing us by.
everyday, if remotely
there: will be a traffic light that fails.
it catches us by surprise.
here: will be a train that stops.
it resembles a failed ejaculation.
absolutely disdainful
but disgusting-ly so.
so we can sell ourselves
one by one
trucks of sweaty men,
and perfumed women.
and recall with romantic vigour,
the bedtime stories of our adopted parents.
and we can let someone else perform
our potency.
"countless windows quivered with manifold movement and light"
and the story goes,
that there are lions and fishes.
the lions jump into the rivers
, drown themselves with their dying sperms,
,and the fishes impregnate themselves by themselves.
each comma resembles a sperm.
and bridges hang lightly over the river -
commemorating -
the orgy that didn't happen.
and museums hold funeral wakes
cataloguing
plastic bones that last forever.
we hang, idly on organised
trees.
1 by 1
and chant
das Spiel dieses Nachts
and let cry in unison
with our hollowed throats
the painful, painful
random names of our parents.
and invent new names
for our hotel staff.
e.g. Arrivederci
to wash anew the bed linen,
(without virginal blood and semen).
wine glasses . . .
(sorry, I don't remember enough to write here.)
Messer Polo,
come visit again.
and dream this inadequate dream
of us in our tiny hole
where we view outside with a eye of a needle
and convince ourselves that
we will always be there for you
to carry the camel's burden.
"May I help you!"
translate.
and we will do well
sooner or later
and weave an adequate
nightmare.
day 189
the still-ness of the night,
stirs me to inaction.
peace be the death of me,
while gently the bed is still.
limpid air, o perfect magnification
nothing more than a blur.
Here: where I press
against the bright lights
On each note, not so much a fuss;
then: I slipped away as another melody.
stirs me to inaction.
peace be the death of me,
while gently the bed is still.
limpid air, o perfect magnification
nothing more than a blur.
Here: where I press
against the bright lights
On each note, not so much a fuss;
then: I slipped away as another melody.
There is a soft murmuring going on in my room. Paralysed by the invisible appearance of this abomination, I slowly wake up to find myself in a blue-tinted room, which is my own. I stared blankly at the room that is no longer truly mine. I am sharing this world with this murmur. I have no voice to scream out, so l I listen with increasing gratitude that at least I hear, and what use is a voice, when it only points to the alien of my whereabouts? But I am certain that the beast knows I am there. I again try to move. Such stillness. The muscles of my once toned limbs will not work. I can now sense the impending doom. And then: I wake.
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