Monday, August 31, 2009

in the momentary throes of wicked nostalgia (because one can't stir things back)

When seen retrospectively, life always makes such harrowing dramatic sense. Will I change what I've done, or will I not, these questions are moot but they haunt, and there can be no answers, for nothing will alter those days of which choices are made, doors are closed, cutting off of limbs,

and today, I find myself a poorer person, laden with burdens of the past, of my own making, my favourite catch-phrase. From this, I know that if I could, I would do everything differently, everything. I would have taken up offers which I have inadvertently rejected, rejected those that were proffered, spun myself around the trees of bauble and light,

and it goes on, such is the twisted fantasy of mine, that I can right everything that has gone wrong, just by writing it in my mind, where I am the director, producer and scriptwriter.

In my play, there will be no endings, save for the right ones, and many, many beginnings that should never see the end in sight.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

action, reaction.

It seems as if those mad days of work have arrived.

And these days which are upon me, have stolen my words, robbed all thought, bereft and devoid of feelings, I am no longer myself, but a small cog in the greater scheme of things which must continue to turn, turn, wear-and-tear, but turn.

I am slowly believing that there will never be anything more to this rinse-and-repeat formula.

They sell youth elixirs, did you know? Some of it is mine, unwillingly given, and never to be returned.

Let's see if this works

Sunday, August 16, 2009

a knotted spiel

It's the middle of August, where does the time go?

I have a growing list of things-to-do, and none of them have been crossed out. Like, getting a driving instructor who will pick me up from the college and take me to the driving routes (yes I know I'm asking quite a far bit but I'm willing to pay), seeing a physiotherapist for my wrist (aha, this one will have a checkmark next to it soon), squeezing in a run twice a week (might never happen), reading Berlioz's Treatise on Orchestration (collecting dust in the room), stacks of opera DVDs untouched and unopened, piling books to read which are sitting pretty on the shelf, and of course, practising the piano which I have not done apart from the odd snippets of time I can catch (like, once a month) and my wrist hurts, and I stop.

It's very sobering to slowly lose an intrinsic part of yourself. See, I always thought that even if I'm shit at everything else I can do, I can at least play the piano - not well, but not too badly either. But that is taken away from me, from an injury sustained from overuse of the mouse due to work, and it's not worth it, not worth it at all.

The two Ys in college are right - I have to do something, hence, the physiotherapist I will be going to see on Friday. Even so, I know, I know that it's never going to be the same again. I can but try, you know?

Right now, I feel like I'm worth nothing, that's how closely tied the sense of self-worth and the ego is with the only skill I have ever had. A self-professed musician who can't even play. An oxymoron, don't you think?

Still, there are other things to look forward to. Or so I try to tell myself. And it gets better, for I am learning once again that some things can't be revived nor restored.

Starting afresh is not easy, one of the most difficult things in the world, it's the risk of abject failure that one courts, but since when has life been any different?

Monday, August 10, 2009

More holidays, please, more holidays

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

in between, twixt.

There are so many things I want to do, to learn, to listen, to read, to love, to cry, to mend things back, to undo.

Am listening to the somersaults and pyrotechnics of voices long past, are great times truly dust? There aren't voices like Sutherland or Corelli anymore. Or Leontyne Price.

I will like to play again, the way I used to. Then, maybe, I can choose not to understand the world.

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 Statcounter phlegmatic souls.