it’s like a book elegantly bound but, in a language that you can’t read just yet
Hello it is me hoho
hahahahha roar oj
ohohohohohohoho oh oh
this is the pat yime
Gibr im ot ght
Ar the anges ar debils
vrawling im
Osee
See the pain in youB
Oh yrah
De,omsd will talke ti,e
Will rakw
Amgls they nrum gor us
Arr w ever
Ar wr fly
Nurm imside of us
Dpwmwwwwmnnn
All
Tje yihms
If we give it up tOmihjy
Lasxt omeast
Vo
Cooooo(oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh gonae voooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
—————–
:):)
in xanadu did kubla khan
“this is perfect.” and his voice had a finality in it. his gruff voice resounded against the lonely walls, his vision unquestionably inspired. he lay down his blueprint, in determined mood. he will start tomorrow, for it is sunday today, and thus he has declared today a day of rest. and tomorrow, he will build, ex nihilo, a most stately pleasure-dome that will be for himself and his love.
i glance at the blueprint. he has had everything covered. the porch. the vast verandah. the elaborate balustrades. even the glittering night sky that will perpetually eclipse it.
all he has is a pack of cards.
woke up and for the first time
my cave is deep,
but your light keeps shining through.
i close my eyes,
but all i see is you.
hey boy, try not to despair.
fill my life with song
i finally gave up the fight. and let the words that were causing pandemonium out. words that were circling around the tip of my tongue for what definitely felt like longest time, and which i had drawn strength from various false sources to suppress. till now. and in perhaps the most uncryptic words ever to appear upon the face of my blog, “yes, i love you”.
big implications of those small words aside, i beg you don’t run away from me. i know it’s not easy. nothing ever to do with love is. ‘love’ is a difficult concept, not unlike modernism. it’s flaky. it’s fragmented. and so are people. put people in love and you have a doubly complicated mass of unspeakable ideas.
but i will be here till you bid me gone. and i will walk only at your pace. as far as you’re concerned i’ll never run out of time, patience or a sweet gesture. i hang on a diamond tether. may nothing change between us, for i am before anything else still your friend.
as we are now, as we have always been, you light up my life.
:)
.
i promise you, metaphysically.
i’ll be around when you think you need me.
lash at me, spit in my face,
and may i still love thee.
for/against
i swim increasingly furiously, but the ferocious and pitiless tides get all the more relentless. i want to give up, but i can’t, and all i can manage to do is to pedal faster, just to stay right where i am.
text for something
sometimes, something that is nothing can be more real that all the things that are something.
final nail in the imaginary coffin
being naturally attracted to pain is not exactly the smartest thing ever. right about now, i just want to keel over and die. but i have no casket. i have, though, a handful of well-rusted nails, each one hammered into my inexistent coffin with much euphoria. i scream under my breath as each nail penetrates lovingly through my brittle, comminuted bones.
this imaginary sarcophagus is proving difficult to escape. i can’t break free. i must break free.
Note to Self
Deadlines left:
5 Nov – Tennyson Presentation
6 Nov – Euro Lit Essay 2
11 Nov – 19c Test #2
12 Nov – Asian-American Lit Essay 2
13 Nov – Film and History Essay 5
13 Nov – School Ends
Time till school ends: 24 days
Things to do: 6
Average: 4 days each, assuming a non-stop work rate, cessation of all life and repression of all human desire for rest and relaxation.
Yay.
give me a lake that i can dive into
i’ve had enough. enough of these topsy-turvy nights, and yes, i want out. but then again that begs the questions, “out from where?”, and “what next?”
and these are questions that i am fatally unable to answer. because one, it is not logically possible to get out of nowhere; and two, if ‘next’ is necessarily defined as being ‘in relation to’ whatever comes before, and what comes before is nothing, the concept of ‘next’ is therefore untenable.
i turn and hide behind thought, in thinking and overanalysing, when the heart ceases to feel correctly. and i can find no answers to the questions i do not have and am silenced, what by i do not know, or maybe i do but cannot say, into not having a voice to ask you the questions i do.
Drummer Hodge, by Thomas Hardy
this poem took me through the first few weeks of army. :)
Drummer Hodge
They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined – just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.Young Hodge the Drummer never knew -
Fresh from his Wessex home -
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge forever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellation reign
His stars eternally.- Thomas Hardy
i can’t go on. no, i must.
as if connected by some metaphysical force, chelsea lose. first game in a fortnight, and it just about sums up my two weeks. plenty of opportunities created without much success. trying, trying, only to be knocked back. to be denied. it started out with a search for three points. then one. then having nothing left, just some pride.
i would love to be able to say, that like the great boxers always do, i will get right back up, like the cockroach that would not die, everytime i get knocked down. but i think i might lie here a little longer. to the chorus of jeers that ring in my ear.
the next game, the next conquest, it goes on. chelsea will go on. for me, i will go on, even if i don’t.
so two nights passed, the night’s dismay
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again. And then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me,
that when I waked, I cried to dream again
- Caliban, The Tempest, III.ii.130-137
it was just about the most cheesy scene. you were running away from me. and i was desperately calling out your name, my 20-year-old self barely managing to keep up. then you turned and came running back to me, and hugged me so tight it was as if you never left. there was a chapel. a cottage. very 18th century.
the frame of reference then switched then to where there was modern day architecture. the 21st century. myself, having now only aged minimally and without comprehension of anything from that earlier scene, compared paintings of the now with that of the previous scene. everything had changed, but the chapel had remained. and there was you and me. the movie’s great revelation at this point was how i discovered, cue oohs and awws, that we have been lovers all along.
yeah i know doesn’t make sense. but then dreams rarely do.
but for all that’s unreal and ridiculous, you really never did leave.
please don’t try so hard to say goodbye.
a little encouragement goes a long way. in school, at home, from a friend, from a stranger. have you encouraged someone today? say a kind word, will you?
my days are bleeding into one another. my nights run into the days, my days, still days. it seems as if night never comes for me, insofar as night is darkness, and darkness is rest, and rest is the absence of work, movement and thought. how critical to us is rest? and how grossly inappropriate then, for us then to define rest not in its own intrinsic right, but only in relation to another concept?
i dig my heels in, hoping and praying that my pain redeems me. but my unreligious throat remains slaked, my tongue can say no prayer. pain is the means to an end, and unwittingly the end in itself. i have distractions, and i have either had, or found, great friends for whom i am endlessly thankful for. but at the very end it seems like i love chasing that which has no end, that which has is elusive and intangible. because that which is elusive and intangible purports, by its very definition, no rest, no finish line, and no goodbyes.
i would bear all the pain in the world anew.
because pain will pass, but so will you.
picture by nicole, who does it better than i can ever introspectively do.
thought of the day
Grant me the courage to change the things I cannot accept, and the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Grant me the wisdom to hide the bodies of those people that I had to kill today because they pissed me off, and help me to be careful of the toes I step on today as they may well be connected to the ass that I will have to kiss tomorrow.
- from Dr. Pan’s office wall
waiting for godot
All cities are not eternal, that of this pensum is perhaps among the dead, and the station in ruins where I sit waiting, erect and rigid, hands on thighs, the tip of the ticket between finger and thumb, for a train that will never come, never go, natureward, or for day to break behind the locked door, through the glass black with the dust of ruin.
- Samuel Beckett, Texts for Nothing
.
everytime chelsea lose i rant. and i rant again today because the defeat could not have been more deserved. and we were lucky to lose just 3-1. fuck, i don’t quite remember the last time i was so frustrated in front of the telly. must have been scolari’s time, light years away now. and usually we get away with playing badly, but wigan just happened to be so good today, concurring with our off-day.
hell, i don’t remember a single notable contribution by ashley cole. and i calculated only ONE forward run from bosingwa in his entire 68 minutes. the midfield kept losing the ball, and anelka at times was dropping so deep to retrieve he was like a central midfielder. that they kept the fullbacks quiet AND compressed the central midfield suggests that either wigan had 15 players on the field or chelsea were just not moving the ball with any acceptable pace.
drogba tried hard but was pretty much feeding on scraps. malouda was bright, beats the hell out of me why he was taken off when we were already a goal down. mikel was absolutely barrgghhhh i’ve never seen him play worse. cech, rush of blood to the head. carvalho was by far and away our best player, with some awesome last-ditch tackles and the like. tells you how badly we were on the ropes.
maybe this whole 100% record, new record for winning streak shit has got to the players’ heads. well, this IS a good kick up their millionaire backsides, lest they play like this against liverpool and lose 6-1. and i get torrents of taunts to endure.
liverpool next. i’m not sure what the rules are now, if cech’s suspension takes effect immediately. used to be in the match after, which means chelsea will still have cech for liverpool if the rules haven’t changed. fuckkkkkkkk.
large medium small
chanced upon a friend’s old blog entry, and she has huge lofty dreams in academia. so do i, as people close to me would know. but mannnn, huge difference is that, she’s got everything all mapped out. grad school application, to-do lists and everything. she knows her dreams, which sound crazy, but then again wussy, achievable dreams are not much good are they?
i want a Ph.D. so that i can have a ‘Dr.’ in correspondences to me. so that i am enabled to write, teach and live somewhere where i am not forcibly conscripted, where the weather’s not perpetually a million degrees and where the crisp red autumn leaves, the first fall of snow and the spring winds are not just concepts i read about in poetry. and so that i am paid decently. is the pragmatism not depressing, especially from a literature major?
well of course i love lit too, but my area of greatest romantic interest and hopefully specialisation, the 16th and 17th century, is already inundated with canons and critics, and more papers published than a million middlemarches meshed together. people who know literature often point that out to me, and to them i confidently reply that ‘i shall maybe find a new slant on the renaissance’. that’s just smokescreen-speak for ‘i don’t know’, and i’m still waiting for that new great idea to hit me. someday.
and, grad studies is a bit of a luxury as far as my family is concerned. i have access to rather moderate means, and perhaps unexceptional ‘expectations’ (heh heh), but i highly doubt i could get through grad school in some nice glamourous country without at least some self-funding. so i’ve got to make my own way, and half-kowtow to my government paymasters (much as i hate this place). as we speak i have some tiny amounts of money invested in some managed funds, for the express interest of saving for grad school. it sucks to have to fend for myself so young in life, but in a nice positive way it is also greatly empowering.
and these days i live with the growing fear that my life would peter out and be ordinary. just another one of those teachers who teach and hate their job, and return home, wherever it might be, to debts, to a whiny wife and mundane middle-class mediocrity.
or maybe it’s just that none of this semester’s modules really fire me up. last semester, i had great dreams, and really enjoyed myself. this semester, *cough* i could not even muster concerted attempts to finish a number of books. and so it is just one deadline after another, before i get my head up again.
blasted with sighs, and surrounded with tears
Hither with crystal phials, lovers, come,
And take my tears, which are love’s wine,
And try your mistress’ tears at home,
For all are false, that taste not just like mine.
Alas ! hearts do not in eyes shine,
Nor can you more judge women’s thoughts by tears,
Than by her shadow what she wears.
O perverse sex, where none is true but she,
Who’s therefore true, because her truth kills me.
- Twickenham Garden, John Donne
——–
the allure of the uncanny connection between heathcliff and catherine is so immensely powerful only because they can never be together.
to have is to cease to want.
