The road is too far to the light
There are no bridges to cross
I need a boat
Row me to the other side
Where I'm to go
You cannot follow
Where you are
I cannot come
Mountains won't stand to save
From the monsters returning
In the spaces between dreams
Bursting into roaring waves
Where I'm to go
You cannot follow
Where you are
I will not come
And when the night feels heavy
See the empty boat under
Keep me in mind
And take another on your journey
Friday, December 28, 2012
Tuesday, December 04, 2012
Making it Count
Sometimes we do. Make love like there's no tomorrow; 'cuz there is no tomorrow. Be kind and ignore the past years 'cuz we plan to leave. Sometimes.
And sometimes we hate like we never have 'cuz that is far more easy. For us. But mostly, it is for them. Cuz even if you don't want to let go, it is easier if the other person has given up on us.
Letting go is easier than putting the effort to make things right. Because no matter how we try, it will never be enough.
And who in their right minds and logic would not want to take the easy path?
And sometimes we hate like we never have 'cuz that is far more easy. For us. But mostly, it is for them. Cuz even if you don't want to let go, it is easier if the other person has given up on us.
Letting go is easier than putting the effort to make things right. Because no matter how we try, it will never be enough.
And who in their right minds and logic would not want to take the easy path?
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Rules
Stay silent.
Don't state your opinions, thoughts. Keep yourself to yourself.
Don't dwell on words. They mean nothing, they come to life to kill you only if you think about them.
So don't think.
Use your rage to get the things you want.
Hold your breath - it helps when you're close to tears.
Never leave a city you love to escape a darkness that follows you. The darkness will catch up with you in a strange place.
So don't leave.
If something feels wrong, it is wrong no matter what anyone says.
What anyone says does not matter.
When it does matter, and you make a change, it still doesn't matter. To anyone.
So don't waste your time.
Your dreams will die.
Your nightmares will awake.
You will lose time.
And will soon slip away.
Don't state your opinions, thoughts. Keep yourself to yourself.
Don't dwell on words. They mean nothing, they come to life to kill you only if you think about them.
So don't think.
Use your rage to get the things you want.
Hold your breath - it helps when you're close to tears.
Never leave a city you love to escape a darkness that follows you. The darkness will catch up with you in a strange place.
So don't leave.
If something feels wrong, it is wrong no matter what anyone says.
What anyone says does not matter.
When it does matter, and you make a change, it still doesn't matter. To anyone.
So don't waste your time.
Your dreams will die.
Your nightmares will awake.
You will lose time.
And will soon slip away.
Monday, November 05, 2012
Hurricane Sandy - A Tale of Two Cities
October 29th, 7.30pm: Lights out. This is MacDougal Street, West 3rd, home to (perhaps) affluent NYU students, musicians, artists, crazy and regular folk, in shoebox-size apartments, paying 2500+ dollars in rent, and sharing space with mice, and who knows what else. Not heaven, not hell, but definitely in the middle of things all year round. This night, we were plunged into eerie darkness, and SILENCE...except for the raging wind.
Two blocks west, the Hudson had breached its banks and my beloved pier was flooded all the way to West Street. With the lights, went the internet and phone service. No matter. Yet.
And then you see the Empire State Building - all lit up (picture later). Now on a regular night, this structure is beautiful (though sometimes I wish they'd light it different on four sides so I know which direction I need to walk). Tonight, all I could think was 'seriously? They have lights?? I need a realllllllly long cable and tap that power'. (I HATE the dark, one reason I live in the village).
Anyway, since I don't have a long cable, and since it was only now about 10pm (when the village buzzes on a regular night), I went for a walk around the block with a neighbor. Aah, the NYU dorms and Law School libraries have lights, bright lights. After bitching about it (since we're not particularly fond of NYU for ruining our neighborhood), we concede that if you are a student and shelling out a lot of dough in tuition, might as well provide lights. But heck, you can only be generous about things like this for 10 minutes, try living in the dark for 5 nights.
October 30th, 8am: Man, it is cold as hell, and damp as a swamp. And since I don't have gas, there is no point having 2 containers of instant and ground coffee. So, I venture out. And see 2 people with wow! store bought coffee cups. They tell me the deli on Bleecker and Sullivan is serving hot coffee. Boy was it crowded... I have never seen NYers so grateful for a cuppa. I had 3 people thank and bless me on my way back when I told them where to get it.
Now living on chocolate chip cookies can only go so far... as far as a day before you feel sick. So I decided to walk uptown. Now this is where it gets interesting. No traffic lights up to 40th Street on the east side, no phone service and lights up to 30th Street on the west. Ditto for phone service. And life goes on as normal above 35th Street. Shops are open (get hot hot coffee), ATMs work (run and get cash), all normal. Ok, good for them. This charitable feeling lasted all of one day. Seriously, these are two New Yorks - the ones with everything, where nothing has changed other than some transportation issue, and the other side - the dark New York, where you have to walk for miles to get a decent (tepid) cup of coffee, and phone service. After sunset, my neighbors on the block sat on the stoop and exchanged vital information - hot coffee and breakfast on Bleecker and Sullivan (you need to be up by 8.30am, else they run out), T-mobile service available on the pier near Hudson, or above 14th Street, 6th Av, Sprint service available north of Washington Square Park, AT&T service - just in front of my stoop (at least the cop on the beat told me he got service if he stands still in front of my stoop).
Day 3 and 4 - this is getting old. I would do anything for hot spicy food, but don't want to trek all the way up and eat, cuz by the time i trek back down I'm hungry again. And no I will not take a cab, I walk faster. And never trust a NYer who would rather take a cab than walk, or take a subway.
As for internet, NYU allowed the public to charge their phones and laptops (thanks very much), but wouldn't allow them to access the Internet through their network unless you have an (NYU) ID (asses). There are 3 ways of getting around this: 1. Look young enough and walk with a purpose past the security guard (avoid eye contact). 2. If they still ask for ID, say please and smile, and tell them you just need to, your life depends on it. and 3. Know someone who works there or studies there.
Or you can always give up and say to hell with work, but of course that is not an option.
Lessons learned:
1. Too much chocolate (and chips) make you sick - especially if you have to have it cuz there's no other option.
2. Always withdraw cash before a storm.
3. Stock up on candles, alcohol (one is never enough).
4. Reading while holding a candle in your hand is not a good idea. Wax spillage is unsightly, and a pain to get out of clothes and floor.
5. Coffee, pizza and hummus is the solution to all problems for NYers. And for some, peanut butter.
6. Battery-operated radios have the power to save lives, or your sanity.
7. Oh, and soap doesn't lather much in ice cold water. And it is the worst thing about all this - cold cold showers.
Now that the storm has passed, I am grateful that nothing serious happened where I live, save for some fallen trees. Oh I am especially grateful for the cops on the beat - their red and blue flashing lights provided me with my much needed night light to sleep in snatches. To my neighbors and roomie for Ramen noodles, entertainment, and company in the dark. And thank you Mike Francesca of WFAN for a great talk show and putting all things (not just sports) in perspective.
Two blocks west, the Hudson had breached its banks and my beloved pier was flooded all the way to West Street. With the lights, went the internet and phone service. No matter. Yet.
And then you see the Empire State Building - all lit up (picture later). Now on a regular night, this structure is beautiful (though sometimes I wish they'd light it different on four sides so I know which direction I need to walk). Tonight, all I could think was 'seriously? They have lights?? I need a realllllllly long cable and tap that power'. (I HATE the dark, one reason I live in the village).
Anyway, since I don't have a long cable, and since it was only now about 10pm (when the village buzzes on a regular night), I went for a walk around the block with a neighbor. Aah, the NYU dorms and Law School libraries have lights, bright lights. After bitching about it (since we're not particularly fond of NYU for ruining our neighborhood), we concede that if you are a student and shelling out a lot of dough in tuition, might as well provide lights. But heck, you can only be generous about things like this for 10 minutes, try living in the dark for 5 nights.
October 30th, 8am: Man, it is cold as hell, and damp as a swamp. And since I don't have gas, there is no point having 2 containers of instant and ground coffee. So, I venture out. And see 2 people with wow! store bought coffee cups. They tell me the deli on Bleecker and Sullivan is serving hot coffee. Boy was it crowded... I have never seen NYers so grateful for a cuppa. I had 3 people thank and bless me on my way back when I told them where to get it.
Now living on chocolate chip cookies can only go so far... as far as a day before you feel sick. So I decided to walk uptown. Now this is where it gets interesting. No traffic lights up to 40th Street on the east side, no phone service and lights up to 30th Street on the west. Ditto for phone service. And life goes on as normal above 35th Street. Shops are open (get hot hot coffee), ATMs work (run and get cash), all normal. Ok, good for them. This charitable feeling lasted all of one day. Seriously, these are two New Yorks - the ones with everything, where nothing has changed other than some transportation issue, and the other side - the dark New York, where you have to walk for miles to get a decent (tepid) cup of coffee, and phone service. After sunset, my neighbors on the block sat on the stoop and exchanged vital information - hot coffee and breakfast on Bleecker and Sullivan (you need to be up by 8.30am, else they run out), T-mobile service available on the pier near Hudson, or above 14th Street, 6th Av, Sprint service available north of Washington Square Park, AT&T service - just in front of my stoop (at least the cop on the beat told me he got service if he stands still in front of my stoop).
Day 3 and 4 - this is getting old. I would do anything for hot spicy food, but don't want to trek all the way up and eat, cuz by the time i trek back down I'm hungry again. And no I will not take a cab, I walk faster. And never trust a NYer who would rather take a cab than walk, or take a subway.
As for internet, NYU allowed the public to charge their phones and laptops (thanks very much), but wouldn't allow them to access the Internet through their network unless you have an (NYU) ID (asses). There are 3 ways of getting around this: 1. Look young enough and walk with a purpose past the security guard (avoid eye contact). 2. If they still ask for ID, say please and smile, and tell them you just need to, your life depends on it. and 3. Know someone who works there or studies there.
Or you can always give up and say to hell with work, but of course that is not an option.
Lessons learned:
1. Too much chocolate (and chips) make you sick - especially if you have to have it cuz there's no other option.
2. Always withdraw cash before a storm.
3. Stock up on candles, alcohol (one is never enough).
4. Reading while holding a candle in your hand is not a good idea. Wax spillage is unsightly, and a pain to get out of clothes and floor.
5. Coffee, pizza and hummus is the solution to all problems for NYers. And for some, peanut butter.
6. Battery-operated radios have the power to save lives, or your sanity.
7. Oh, and soap doesn't lather much in ice cold water. And it is the worst thing about all this - cold cold showers.
Now that the storm has passed, I am grateful that nothing serious happened where I live, save for some fallen trees. Oh I am especially grateful for the cops on the beat - their red and blue flashing lights provided me with my much needed night light to sleep in snatches. To my neighbors and roomie for Ramen noodles, entertainment, and company in the dark. And thank you Mike Francesca of WFAN for a great talk show and putting all things (not just sports) in perspective.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Once upon a time...
Most stories begin in dark, stormy nights. A cliche. The truth is it starts way before that. We just tend to be aware of the dark, stormy nights, when wicked deeds are done, when the masked man kills his hapless victims, the girl runs away, the 'unsuspecting' boyfriend finds his girl in bed with another. But all that is just the now. It's the events before that make a story. And what happens after. The present is just drama, it doesn't make sense, it never does. Fairy-tales never make sense (towards the end anyway). There IS no 'tale' in a sentence "And they lived happily ever after.", more so, the words "lived", "happily", "after". How did they "live"? Happily. How did they live "happily"? How did they make it happily to "after"? What in the world is "after"?
Too many questions there. But does it matter? It is true, that the incomplete story, the ones with all the questions, the gaps and all that unresolved desire, non-action, and so on, make a hard-sell. Ask the Brothers Grimm. Or consider Scheherazade spinning a yarn the best way she knows how, just enough to pique the interest, to extend her life for another day. A good story is one that we tell as if our lives depend on it. Because it does.
Reality, our daily lives are stories, most of the time, bad ones. It is either too mundane and hardly worth killing a tree for, or so full of drama that would make Shakespeare blush to the roots of his bald head. But it is the possibilities of what could've happened that makes a good story. If I had gone for my walk, what would have been the day like, how would it have ended, what would I have begun (instead of sitting here writing on this blank page)? The alternate realities that make up the fabric of our lies that are our stories. More fun. More happiness. More sadness. Suicide. Murder. Lust. More feeling.
If Judas hadn't killed himself, he could've written a book with a zillion possibilities - what if he hadn't betrayed his mentor, had not taken the twenty pieces of silver, what if he invested it instead of throwing it away, what if he planned a rescue mission,...what if he hadn't crossed paths with Jesus after all? Different endings. They all may not be a good read, but there are stories in there.
We all dream of the path not taken, some more often than others. The kind of stories we dream or have night terrors over depends on the kind of things we think are missing in our lives. The search, the quest, the need for horror, mystery, light and darkness. Everything and nothing. What we are doing is trying to look at the unknown. And like children, beg for more "And then what happens?" Because something has to happen, even if it is just the skies turning from white hot to orange. It always is the best of times, and the worst of times.
And whatever be the plot of the stories we write, there are always happy endings. All we need to know is when to finish the story.
Too many questions there. But does it matter? It is true, that the incomplete story, the ones with all the questions, the gaps and all that unresolved desire, non-action, and so on, make a hard-sell. Ask the Brothers Grimm. Or consider Scheherazade spinning a yarn the best way she knows how, just enough to pique the interest, to extend her life for another day. A good story is one that we tell as if our lives depend on it. Because it does.
Reality, our daily lives are stories, most of the time, bad ones. It is either too mundane and hardly worth killing a tree for, or so full of drama that would make Shakespeare blush to the roots of his bald head. But it is the possibilities of what could've happened that makes a good story. If I had gone for my walk, what would have been the day like, how would it have ended, what would I have begun (instead of sitting here writing on this blank page)? The alternate realities that make up the fabric of our lies that are our stories. More fun. More happiness. More sadness. Suicide. Murder. Lust. More feeling.
If Judas hadn't killed himself, he could've written a book with a zillion possibilities - what if he hadn't betrayed his mentor, had not taken the twenty pieces of silver, what if he invested it instead of throwing it away, what if he planned a rescue mission,...what if he hadn't crossed paths with Jesus after all? Different endings. They all may not be a good read, but there are stories in there.
We all dream of the path not taken, some more often than others. The kind of stories we dream or have night terrors over depends on the kind of things we think are missing in our lives. The search, the quest, the need for horror, mystery, light and darkness. Everything and nothing. What we are doing is trying to look at the unknown. And like children, beg for more "And then what happens?" Because something has to happen, even if it is just the skies turning from white hot to orange. It always is the best of times, and the worst of times.
And whatever be the plot of the stories we write, there are always happy endings. All we need to know is when to finish the story.
A Peculiar Music
'No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief.'
...
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
- Gerard Manley Hopkins
- Gerard Manley Hopkins
Tuesday, July 03, 2012
Waiting for the end of...
April. It IS the cruelest month. And this time it has spilled over to the rest of the year. 2012 has been a period of lows, with the occasional slivers of hope. Which of course makes it worse.
There were resolutions. Walk more, eat less, reveal nothing, the usual. I stick with it for 20 days, then break down. I start over. Again and again. But never get anywhere. I haven't gotten anywhere.
There's this vicious cycle of thoughts that I try to ignore with the logical:
I have a dead-end job. (At least I have a job in this economy). But I do know people with better jobs/ who do what they love. (I also know people struggling without steady jobs).
I don't have my own space to live. (At least I live in the most dysfunctional street of NYC for relatively cheap). I sleep on a couch and have to share the bathroom. I don't sleep and when I do, random people ring the buzzer at 2am to use the bathroom. I share my room with a mouse or it could be three mice. They always seem to be hungry. (Exterminators can't do much with bugs and mice). I hate mice, they eat my food and chew on my socks. I should get a cat. Oh I hate them more.
I get into useless fights over silly things. I'm a vapid narcissist and am delusional and get paranoid over imagined affronts to my sense of control. That's already four abnormal behaviors as explained in the psych book I'm currently editing. (And I don't have control over anything).
My sense of adventure is sleeping along with my quest for greatness. (My adventures are limited to getting lost somewhere between the Bowery and Delancey street).
Boredom sets in too quickly. (But I don't do anything about it). I crib about hearing the same old songs over and over. (But I don't change the radio station to listen to something different). I willfully destroy everything that is important to me so I can feel something, anything other than boredom. I won't talk about the casualties. Because I am a vapid narcissist.
And then there are always the things one doesn't talk about.
I am in way over my head. Cuz it is hell inside my head.
There were resolutions. Walk more, eat less, reveal nothing, the usual. I stick with it for 20 days, then break down. I start over. Again and again. But never get anywhere. I haven't gotten anywhere.
There's this vicious cycle of thoughts that I try to ignore with the logical:
I have a dead-end job. (At least I have a job in this economy). But I do know people with better jobs/ who do what they love. (I also know people struggling without steady jobs).
I don't have my own space to live. (At least I live in the most dysfunctional street of NYC for relatively cheap). I sleep on a couch and have to share the bathroom. I don't sleep and when I do, random people ring the buzzer at 2am to use the bathroom. I share my room with a mouse or it could be three mice. They always seem to be hungry. (Exterminators can't do much with bugs and mice). I hate mice, they eat my food and chew on my socks. I should get a cat. Oh I hate them more.
I get into useless fights over silly things. I'm a vapid narcissist and am delusional and get paranoid over imagined affronts to my sense of control. That's already four abnormal behaviors as explained in the psych book I'm currently editing. (And I don't have control over anything).
My sense of adventure is sleeping along with my quest for greatness. (My adventures are limited to getting lost somewhere between the Bowery and Delancey street).
Boredom sets in too quickly. (But I don't do anything about it). I crib about hearing the same old songs over and over. (But I don't change the radio station to listen to something different). I willfully destroy everything that is important to me so I can feel something, anything other than boredom. I won't talk about the casualties. Because I am a vapid narcissist.
And then there are always the things one doesn't talk about.
I am in way over my head. Cuz it is hell inside my head.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
WIP
And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is...
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky...
- The Blower's Daughter, Damien Rice
maybe it is not so easy
maybe it is not that hard
but my guitar sleeps in the corner
and i wake up with your taste
in my mouth
don't melt into this cloudy dawn
don't come so close and burn
as i reach out to touch you across
all the spaces you left behind
in my bed
it is not meant to be so hard
not meant to be easy
but we keep circling around
without song but in sight
of each other
my guitar sleeps
and all we trust is the silence
between us as the world
eggs us on to charge
and kill on contact
-- for T
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is...
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky...
- The Blower's Daughter, Damien Rice
maybe it is not so easy
maybe it is not that hard
but my guitar sleeps in the corner
and i wake up with your taste
in my mouth
don't melt into this cloudy dawn
don't come so close and burn
as i reach out to touch you across
all the spaces you left behind
in my bed
it is not meant to be so hard
not meant to be easy
but we keep circling around
without song but in sight
of each other
my guitar sleeps
and all we trust is the silence
between us as the world
eggs us on to charge
and kill on contact
-- for T
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
You can go your own way...
There are moments that define our lives. Singular seconds of time that make us who we are. These are the seconds that seem like time has frozen; or gone by so fast it is frozen, like the spinning earth you can't feel but obviously know. These are moments that no matter what you do, you can't erase them from your head. The first tooth you pulled out on your own and you realized your threshold of pain, the time you punched someone for no good reason, the time you didn't fight back when you had all the reasons, the things you survived only 'cuz you held your breath... these are moments when realizations occurred in the spaces of your choices: that you were an expert in open silence and internal screams, and pretty good at jigsaw puzzles and breaking mirrors. Bloody good really, that you could hide rage and fear in silence. A skill you thought would hold you up after the lights go out...
Aaah the pride...
Behold the Lord will carry thee away with a mighty captivity, and will surely cover thee.
He will surely violently turn and toss thee like a ball into a large country: there shalt thou die, and there the chariots of thy glory shall be the shame of thy lord's house.
And so comes a time when you decide to give yourself a break. A weakening by refusing to believe in your acquired strengths. You take the stairs whenever possible, and get in an elevator only if there are 3 people or less. You refuse to hit someone even if every fiber in your body screams it. You avoid by absence. It gets easier with time, and it helps that you stand so still no one notices you're around or not. This is good. Really. And defining moments of different sorts now happen. When it all comes together in chaos. You begin to believe anything is possible. After all you've changed despite swearing you never would.
Again the pride...
Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further: and here shall thy proud waves be stayed...
Right.
And so we go back.
But can a butterfly metamorphose back to a caterpillar 'cuz it fears flying?
Wanting something really bad results in not getting it.
Not wanting something can go both ways.
And some other random thoughts:
You will never be able to go back, return to where you have been. You may never reach the end of the road you have chosen. When you come to a fork, just take it.
And enjoy the view.
Aaah the pride...
Behold the Lord will carry thee away with a mighty captivity, and will surely cover thee.
He will surely violently turn and toss thee like a ball into a large country: there shalt thou die, and there the chariots of thy glory shall be the shame of thy lord's house.
And so comes a time when you decide to give yourself a break. A weakening by refusing to believe in your acquired strengths. You take the stairs whenever possible, and get in an elevator only if there are 3 people or less. You refuse to hit someone even if every fiber in your body screams it. You avoid by absence. It gets easier with time, and it helps that you stand so still no one notices you're around or not. This is good. Really. And defining moments of different sorts now happen. When it all comes together in chaos. You begin to believe anything is possible. After all you've changed despite swearing you never would.
Again the pride...
Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further: and here shall thy proud waves be stayed...
Right.
And so we go back.
But can a butterfly metamorphose back to a caterpillar 'cuz it fears flying?
Wanting something really bad results in not getting it.
Not wanting something can go both ways.
And some other random thoughts:
- An addiction sometimes aids living.
- Sleep is an unreliable ally.
- LPs on Edison phonograph and radio on the Victor victrola is how music should sound, how it was meant to sound.
- If you were really smart you'd learn from others' mistakes instead of making them. How many different ways do you have to learn the definition of pain??
- Absolution should never be asked for since it will never be given.
- More things can be hidden in writing than can be revealed.
- There is no need for a lighthouse if there are no ships passing through.
You will never be able to go back, return to where you have been. You may never reach the end of the road you have chosen. When you come to a fork, just take it.
And enjoy the view.
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Letting Go
There is a limit to paying for mistakes that you can't remember except for the other person's anger and disappointment. And when generalizations extending from that anger is the norm, and they are convinced that every action of yours is only a reflection of your past mistakes, it is time to break ties. Because there is no point trying to prove otherwise, in fact it doesn't matter to them at all.
They are happy in their beliefs and the 'fact' that they're right. Why should you always be the one to make allowances for these people and try to see their point of view?
There comes a time when you have to give up the hope that things will be alright. There is no such thing. It is better to just leave these people, be it friends or family, and remember that your life will be better for it. Because if you need people, you'll only end up resenting them for it anyway. Because they're above it all and don't need you.
Your life is diminished if you don't have a person you care about. But it is far worse when you know that your life doesn't make a difference to another person. When that happens it is time to let go. Letting go is easy. Moving on is easy too... once you've left the encumbrances. All it takes is to awaken the rage that once made you immune to every blow you were dealt with. Forget the people who made you weak by fooling you into believing that they cared and then hung you out to dry. And remember never to trust anything or anyone.
We have to keep moving on.
They are happy in their beliefs and the 'fact' that they're right. Why should you always be the one to make allowances for these people and try to see their point of view?
There comes a time when you have to give up the hope that things will be alright. There is no such thing. It is better to just leave these people, be it friends or family, and remember that your life will be better for it. Because if you need people, you'll only end up resenting them for it anyway. Because they're above it all and don't need you.
Your life is diminished if you don't have a person you care about. But it is far worse when you know that your life doesn't make a difference to another person. When that happens it is time to let go. Letting go is easy. Moving on is easy too... once you've left the encumbrances. All it takes is to awaken the rage that once made you immune to every blow you were dealt with. Forget the people who made you weak by fooling you into believing that they cared and then hung you out to dry. And remember never to trust anything or anyone.
We have to keep moving on.
Friday, April 27, 2012
The shape of scars to come
There was a painting she stared at for hours every day. The colors seeping through the canvas was a blend of green and blue, the leaves, the placid river, the obligatory red-brown house by the water...A commonplace thing, an ordinary landscape, so perfect it was sickening.
Every piece of creation has a soul - at least that's what she believed. A painting is more than the sum of its components. A single brushstroke tells multiple stories - from the depth, the slur, the light , the color, and the spaces. A sentence is more than the sum of its words. All works of art reveal facets of the person who created them.
But this painting was soulless, faceless. She tried to see it through others' eyes, to understand what they saw in it. And realized from their superficial admiration of the skill and technique that they too saw nothing. Like the clean lines of machine-cut wood, that boasts the power of well-handled power tools but showing no signs of fatigue and sweat. Antiseptic.
It was the silence of the painting that she couldn't take. A picture that did not fight but allowed itself to be trapped within the edges of low-grade paper to be stared at by pathetic people with no taste. So she stole it.
Paintings are supposed to be mirrors. And you need a mirror to see whether the picture you painted is true to what you've desired. Maybe that's why people who stare too long will finally go insane looking at infinite reflections for a glimpse of their soul or lack thereof. Mirrors after all deceive through amplification, illusion and distortion. And some lose lustre, become toxic or corrode.
So she had to steal it. Hide it from view. Perhaps she will bury it, crush it or do a Dorian Gray on it. Maybe then the veils will fall and reveal the reason for the silence.
Every piece of creation has a soul - at least that's what she believed. A painting is more than the sum of its components. A single brushstroke tells multiple stories - from the depth, the slur, the light , the color, and the spaces. A sentence is more than the sum of its words. All works of art reveal facets of the person who created them.
But this painting was soulless, faceless. She tried to see it through others' eyes, to understand what they saw in it. And realized from their superficial admiration of the skill and technique that they too saw nothing. Like the clean lines of machine-cut wood, that boasts the power of well-handled power tools but showing no signs of fatigue and sweat. Antiseptic.
It was the silence of the painting that she couldn't take. A picture that did not fight but allowed itself to be trapped within the edges of low-grade paper to be stared at by pathetic people with no taste. So she stole it.
Paintings are supposed to be mirrors. And you need a mirror to see whether the picture you painted is true to what you've desired. Maybe that's why people who stare too long will finally go insane looking at infinite reflections for a glimpse of their soul or lack thereof. Mirrors after all deceive through amplification, illusion and distortion. And some lose lustre, become toxic or corrode.
So she had to steal it. Hide it from view. Perhaps she will bury it, crush it or do a Dorian Gray on it. Maybe then the veils will fall and reveal the reason for the silence.
Thursday, March 01, 2012
Excerpt from the ONION March 1, 2012
"A report released Monday by the Federal Consumer Quality-Of-Life Control Board indicates that the cost of living now outstrips life's benefits for many Americans....
For the first time, we have statistical evidence of what we've suspected for the past 40 years: "Life really isn't worth living".
The studies indicate that "it is unwise to go on living."
Took them so long figure that out uh?
For the first time, we have statistical evidence of what we've suspected for the past 40 years: "Life really isn't worth living".
The studies indicate that "it is unwise to go on living."
Took them so long figure that out uh?
Monday, February 27, 2012
Managing Expectations
There is a threshold for how much we can endure. Some never reach it. Or more accurately, are unable to recognize it.
These same people do not know what certain feelings are supposed to be - love, disappointment, pain. Everything is just a varied numbness.
A benchmark or comparison is a necessity for these people. How else would they know what is acceptable? If everything is functioning the way it is supposed to. How would you know you're doing right without some form of an example?
You can ask for advice. That's all you can do. But at the end of the day, you know that the voice in your head is right, that the niggling feeling that something is wrong almost always means that it is. Even if you can't rate it on a scale. All you have to count on is in binary: 0 or 1.
Others don't understand this, this inability to articulate the wrongness you feel in exact terms. And often lose patience. What is more important - so have you. Lost patience with yourself.
It is then time to let things slide, and sweep the things you can't understand or face under the carpet. Trick is to never change the carpet, or look beneath it as you sweep more stuff under.
These same people do not know what certain feelings are supposed to be - love, disappointment, pain. Everything is just a varied numbness.
A benchmark or comparison is a necessity for these people. How else would they know what is acceptable? If everything is functioning the way it is supposed to. How would you know you're doing right without some form of an example?
You can ask for advice. That's all you can do. But at the end of the day, you know that the voice in your head is right, that the niggling feeling that something is wrong almost always means that it is. Even if you can't rate it on a scale. All you have to count on is in binary: 0 or 1.
Others don't understand this, this inability to articulate the wrongness you feel in exact terms. And often lose patience. What is more important - so have you. Lost patience with yourself.
It is then time to let things slide, and sweep the things you can't understand or face under the carpet. Trick is to never change the carpet, or look beneath it as you sweep more stuff under.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
here we go again...
There is no point in trying to change things to make it go your way. You still won't know what to do when it does.
And the things you want to stay the same, don't.
Screw it.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Guns N Roses - Feb 12
If you've survived a November Rain when you've been Estranged, been accused of a lack of Patience in your journey on a Nightrain to the Paradise City; remember it was all worth it, even Better than whatever you expected from this Street of Dreams...
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Futility
That day at the church, she knew. She'd never been to churches before, not the traditional ones anyway, the kind you see in the movies or read about in books; where something poignant, romantic, sad, happy thing, or some bloody strong feeling happens to people. But this morning was different.
Redemption and damnation after all are just results of desire.
Redemption and damnation after all are just results of desire.
Clarity. That's what happened, that's what usually happens when you're recovering from a drug high. Clarity like this make people take a gun and shoot themselves in the head. Or someone else. [No it's not just men who shoot, women do too. It's about accessibility, not gender that makes men shoot themselves, and women to take pills. We'd all like a little privacy for our private actions, so what are women left with at home when the men have taken the guns out to play?]
Anyway, about the epiphany in church. It was when the flowers were to be arranged on the pews for someone's wedding. She knew nothing about what was to be done. She'd never done it before you see. Never was good at things like this. Arranging flowers, sewing, making polite conversation. All the things that's supposed to come naturally to anyone with half a brain.
She didn't like flowers. Why anyone in their right mind would like things like flowers, things that are beautiful but stupid to get their heads chopped off and thrown into the bin was beyond her comprehension. But apparently, they make ugly permanent wooden pews look good for an hour of the service. Make a good photograph they do. A masquerade for an uncomfortable evening. Oh they're perfect for funerals. Dead heads on dead heads. That was apt.
But she tried. To be normal. Like her friends. To be with her friends. But then she started sweating. Again. Like when she has to talk to some stranger, or make up a story on the spur of the moment. Whatever she took to get her courage up wasn't working now. She was still nervous, shaking. Loud voices disturb her more than she lets on. She is so good that to the world she doesn't react at all like normal people to sudden sounds. But really her heart has stopped, she knows it. People think she's got a thick skin, but it's neither fight nor flight, just freeze. Then the sweating begins once her heart starts normal mode.
When heat is removed from a superheated gas, the temperature of the gas decreases as it is cooled until it reaches the saturation point. If enough heat is removed after it reaches the saturation, some of the gas will turn back into liquid.
Remove heat after saturation point. Become liquid. You've got to love physics, it explains everything, don't it?
She realizes there's no getting away from the truth. She leaves without a word to anyone, takes a bus, and 12 hours later is in another city. Just for a day. Meets him. Has lunch. Doesn't touch him. Or him her. He doesn't see her off, but she leaves. Again.
She realizes there's no getting away from the truth. She leaves without a word to anyone, takes a bus, and 12 hours later is in another city. Just for a day. Meets him. Has lunch. Doesn't touch him. Or him her. He doesn't see her off, but she leaves. Again.
She didn't want to... she knew it that day among friends, among strangers, in a small chapel that needed beautiful stupid flowers for some strangers' wedding.
She may not have stayed. But she didn't want to leave. That day. And he never knew.
He never will.
Word outside my place
"Whitney Houston's dead. Bobby Brown is still alive. HOW UNFAIR IS THAT??"
- screamed by some random guy out here on MacDougal...
I guess now she knows where broken hearts go... RIP
(Playing your greatest hits tonight...)
- screamed by some random guy out here on MacDougal...
I guess now she knows where broken hearts go... RIP
(Playing your greatest hits tonight...)
Friday, January 06, 2012
Separations
1. Medusa
She drifted in and out of consciousness. In the haze of dawn, she realizes the strangeness, an otherness. A curious thing to find a body next to her, sleeping like a child not afraid of monsters under the bed. She stared at him, remembering the intensity of his eyes a few hours earlier, and she rises, but his fingers are caught in her hair. She untangles. This memory she did not want.
There is however, a moment of hesitation. 'What is this deep slumber, how does he surrender to the unknown?' This thought had crossed her mind earlier when they first met, then later, when they stumbled into each other... 'Does he not hear the seas raging in my head, is he not afraid of drowning? Isn't this too close for his comfort? My comfort? Is this all a dream?'
She liked him, maybe she loved him. But that was something she didn't think much about. So she let him be. Sleeping, but not stone. No more kisses. And no kiss goodbye. She slithered out of bed untangling her dark hair from his grasp.
2. Her Song
If only you would wake up
and see the distance between us
You'd close the space with rain on this desert
If only you would sleep
and dream about the ocean
You'd start a fire and blame me for the burn
Then maybe
you'd swim
and run
and run
to hide
here in New York
and find
If you follow the silence in the song
You just heard
All the words
I did not say
When I ran away.
3. And then...
Sometimes love is only a figment of your imagination. Sometimes love just is - something that can't be expressed, can't be fulfilled, can't be had - something that passes you by and settles on other people. All you have is the memory of the feeling that drifted by.
And then all you remember is the loss - how you let things slip out of your hands when you had the chance to hold on. The one who you let go. And who let you go.
She drifted in and out of consciousness. In the haze of dawn, she realizes the strangeness, an otherness. A curious thing to find a body next to her, sleeping like a child not afraid of monsters under the bed. She stared at him, remembering the intensity of his eyes a few hours earlier, and she rises, but his fingers are caught in her hair. She untangles. This memory she did not want.
There is however, a moment of hesitation. 'What is this deep slumber, how does he surrender to the unknown?' This thought had crossed her mind earlier when they first met, then later, when they stumbled into each other... 'Does he not hear the seas raging in my head, is he not afraid of drowning? Isn't this too close for his comfort? My comfort? Is this all a dream?'
She liked him, maybe she loved him. But that was something she didn't think much about. So she let him be. Sleeping, but not stone. No more kisses. And no kiss goodbye. She slithered out of bed untangling her dark hair from his grasp.
2. Her Song
If only you would wake up
and see the distance between us
You'd close the space with rain on this desert
If only you would sleep
and dream about the ocean
You'd start a fire and blame me for the burn
Then maybe
you'd swim
and run
and run
to hide
here in New York
and find
If you follow the silence in the song
You just heard
All the words
I did not say
When I ran away.
3. And then...
Sometimes love is only a figment of your imagination. Sometimes love just is - something that can't be expressed, can't be fulfilled, can't be had - something that passes you by and settles on other people. All you have is the memory of the feeling that drifted by.
And then all you remember is the loss - how you let things slip out of your hands when you had the chance to hold on. The one who you let go. And who let you go.
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