Wednesday, May 30, 2007

the drowning of the formless unspoken.

You looked at me with eyes so guileless, barely masked by that translucent film which bespoke of your firm conviction - that your reality is mine, and mine is yours. You see yourself in me, your father, your father's father, but you deny the existence of my own. The sun was curled on your lap in a spiral, or so I imagine, but the only warmth you felt was from the cradle of my hands. Again, you tell me your story from a mirror's perspective, and everything is so simple and clean. Again, I speak words which you want to hear, words which I also want to hear, but not from myself. Nonetheless, they are ignored or forgotten, at the turning of the next blind corner, as we have a relapse of the banal mundane. Why, nothing had ever happened.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

If the soul of my dead father

If the soul of my dead father remembers anything
he will remember the rake of these rock pools, the lean
of their stacked lines, he will note limpets and shrimps
and know this umbrella mist as it falls lightly as drizzle.

If he remembers anything he will hear the clipped whisper
of the waves on the turn, here where he used to swim
far out as if - I wonder now - it was his only solitude.
I suppose a soul from this place will hear gulls squeaking

and have no argument with far-sighted oblique storms.
'High tides are expected', a woman said to me today,
my father's soul will want to be here, in the spray
and in the gale, in the storm's uncompromising rage.

I.M. Albert Hart

Friday, May 18, 2007

no rest for the wicked.

I'm so, so incredibly knackered from work that I can't fall asleep, I'm still high on adrenaline that's supposed to have dissipated long, long ago. It sounds oxymoronic, but it's true anyway.

There are ten million things yet to be done apart from work, and I only have two hands. I just wish I've more time for coaching, teaching, and everything else that matters - and more.

Sometimes, you just go past the point of no return. And once it's been breached, you just have to pray that somewhere along the way, you'll be granted the undeserved gift of a second chance - of making an informed choice at the subsequent turning point. One can only be blind and unknowing for a definitive period of time.

Friday, May 11, 2007

what ifs.

Intangible, it's all about intangible possibilities. Knowing that things can, or could be different, is not enough.

Today, I'm left feeling unsated and bereft of all human reason. Not that it's a drastic change from my default state of mind (since when am I ever half-sane), but at least, I know why I feel the way I do.

One baby step at a time in directions that have no name nor fixed bearings, but at least, it's a start. Beginnings and endings are the same thing, really, but let's just ignore that, shall we?

Moving swiftly along - and now - to sit back and watch the crop circles grow from stem down.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

or a scent.

Even when the mind or heart forgets, your fingers don't. Small comfort there? That not everything is lost, as if nothing had ever taken place.

All it takes is the sound of white against the black, and the colour of raindrops slicing through the air.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

crooked x-ray.

So it took me three months before I would deign to move my arse and unpack my cartons. Everything has since been haphazardly stashed onto shelves within the span of an hour, and I'm absolutely devastated. I just didn't want to take the items out of the boxes, you know? As if by not taking them out, I would have retained the last vestige of the illusion that I'm not here.

Or, perhaps, that I had never left. Dislocation. Dismemberment. What's that?

New routines possess and enchant, I live and breathe the rhythm of the morning sun, that which is so foreign but once-familiar to me. New old, old new. It's the mobius strip all over again. Fraught hilarity, not because I've come full circle or shit like that, but it's the complete divergence away from paths which I had thought I will never leave. But I still come across markings which I can identify at some previous point in my life, enough to draw parallels, enough to feel as if nothing has changed, enough to wring a tired laugh from myself to mask the unsaid.

There are too many layer cakes around, you see, and I feel the need to deconstruct and rebuild them from ground up. But more often than not, nothing will be left after the first step is taken. Some things - you just know.

It's been quite some time. I've yet to learn the words to the sung broadcast of honour and duty, I can't bring myself to sing something I don't quite want to, or something I'm unable to do. Inadvertently, I do pick up a few phonetic sounds here and there, and each time I learn something new, a red laceration opens up from the anguished conflict, that which only exists in my mind.

You know, I want to tell you about the affliction of memory. I want to tell you about the divinity of recollection, the rejuvenation of dirty nostalgia and bereavement. I want to tell you about the splicing of words and phrases, and the splitting of tongues. But I don't really know how to say what I want to say anymore. Out of it, out of practice, out of phase.

I hope it rains tomorrow.

blueprint

I will like to spend my days, as though they are my own, which I mostly end up doing in halves, for duty beckons, and I am answering its clarion call. Soon enough! I am also a veteran procrastinator.

fresh monodies

Old wounds hurt most, I learned this today, becaus...
She speaks, repeating the old litanies, of worn ac...
time skips
and it all comes together!
beethoven's symphony no.7 2nd mvt
again,
towards that something
In the alley of shadows and death
Masking Tape
another end of the world

previous rants

August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
November 2010
January 2011
February 2011
August 2011
October 2011
May 2013

treatises on life

arty jen
betty boop
carmentica
charming-linn
chasing snowy cars
cheeky lynn
cheryliciously glam
clean and cute
cyclist-mad bass
darling dominic
feisty jing
fellow ditz-sista/porkSTAR
hail mary!
hell's kitchen
hero on the beach
h-Euge heart
hunky lenny
lipgloss queen
little cheryl
live n learn, baby
lolita lou
loony loon
mr popular
musically dan
m y s t j
phringe
princess tania
roger smurf
runaway pigeon
sabotage king jeremiah
sibling angst1
sibling angst2
spector dan
spunky tian
steffy bunny
sun-sunzzz
teeny wee-nee
weeeee, leonard!
yangtze yang'en

frivolous pursuits

for shallow ppl
for very geeky ppl
for the truly bored
spun prose
binary thoughts
past imprints
some stamps
montage of images
other memories

mulling over

And there were phlegmatic souls.