last of july

Last day of July and July being so important and so sentimental a month for me that when I was coming into July I thought, "How am I going to get through this?" but now that it's ending I think to myself, "Thank god I'm still in one piece." It's boiling hot today. 40-degrees kind of hot. The insane heat-wave kills my sentimental cells. What better to do than stay home and crank up the air-con and play video games!

George Orwell decides that he ought to write for mankind, that he ought to refrain from writing purple prose, that he ought to write while keeping a point of view that is historical and political. I suppose I'd like to do that some day. But right now, my writing is about me and it's nothing but me me me and I can't help not making random connections especially when that water fountain is sitting there outside Mel Lastman Square so refreshingly inviting that makes me wonder if I could throw a tennis ball from my balcony and have my tennis ball hit the water dead centre and splash...

And so the summer goes... and so slowly goes the summer. It appears to be slipping sideways.

tt

The clock shows 2:34.... now ticking down. What can I write in this short short time. A gun at my head. Yes. Shoot me. Shoot me. I am in the library and I am thankful there is air conditioning and I tell myself I should be posting and so I am here writing something that don't make no sense but who's reading anyways... here I am... As for my website it's here and my thoughts are rather green at this moment. Green as in Christmas tree kind of green without the colourful shiny ball things and now I have a minute left and I really have to go. I will go home and make a late lunch. And then I will read that book with the red cover with the windows open but I don't know if I want to do that for today is so hot and now I have ten seconds and they are going to shoot me

the juicer that only makes apple juice

O! isn't he a wonderful writer? Look at the way he pads his words layer after layer as though he's making cake! Look at the way he writes without verbs! Look at the way he reads his own writing, become so engaged, so indulged in his own words that he's left his Word document open when he should be clicking 'print'! Look at the way he looks at himself. I love his complete self-consciousness. It's so attractive.

Dear me. Would you like to read this book? I would like to lend you this book. Yes, please read it, when you have time. I like Katherine Mansfield lots because she wrote these playful stories while she was dying. I hope you'll like these stories.

O! there he is again. His fingers are tapping the keys more slowly than usual. Wonder what the matter is. He is thinking. Yes, I can see it. He is thinking. That's not good. He writes best when he doesn't think. He sings best when he sings like no one's listening. But now, his fingers are treading the keyboard so slowly as if there was a dark hole somewhere on the keyboard that might swallow up his fingers, his hands, his body. But you can't swallow my soul! He says to the dark hole. How arrogant. The writer, I mean. How arrogant.

He is totally in his own world. But not really, because his world is part of this world, it's part of everybody's world. But he thinks he is in his own world. How can one say he is in his own world when everyone in the existing world sees him walking and breathing the air of their regular world? And how can one being in his own world say he is in his own world for if he was really in his own world, his utterance would not be heard! A passer-by looks at him and sees right through him. But still, he insists, I am in my own world!

Maybe I'm just a little funny-minded this morning. Maybe I'm just escaping from my pile of tasks. Maybe I should stop writing and go eat an apple. Maybe this is all just too weird and if I do this so much I wonder, I wonder, I wonder if I become hurt so badly one day that others cannot understand me, which is fine, but what bothers me more is if I cannot understand them. And so I say this, but really, I know how I'd end up saying to them, "No need to understand, just experience and feel it for what it is." And then they become so frustrated.

Stop this voice. Stop this voice. Stop this voice. Stop this voice. Stop this voice. Stop. I am bleeding profusely.

She doesn't like you. You are too fuckin' weird. You don't look it but you are. You are scaring the hell out of her. But somewhere in the back, in the remote corner of a dark-bright room, a girl sitting on a tiny chair says, "I find that mightily attractive."

melty

My room is melting and I'm melting with my room. Which of us will melt away first? Is it possible to melt away, totally? Will my eyes leave me once I melt away? But what if I don't completely melt away, say, part of me sticks around like the sticky edge of a crumbled cake. My consciousness becomes confined to this shapeless stickiness. Then I think about wedding cakes and triangular chocolate cakes and poppy seed muffins, cakes that hold up their own very well and I say, dear me, why don't they let me melt away --

big hat

I have this really big hat and I put it right over your head. The hat is really big. It covers your entire face. The hat is so big that no human mind can see its shape, no human mind, except mine. Except mine. I know this hat because I've had it since I was little, only the hat gets bigger and bigger and once I put it over your head, you won't be able to see anything. You say, "Ah Ah." Then you say, "It's all dark. Get me out of here. Where am I?" As I watch you being surrounded by this big hat I realize I cannot see you. I mean, your face is totally covered by it, and all I see are your petite legs wobbling about trying to spell the word 'help'. "Here," I say. I take off the hat. But it's too late. You cannot see me and I cannot see anything anymore.

they say

They say when you're in love you look more beautiful. I find myself spend more time in front of the mirror than usual. On the highway I clutch the steering wheel with both hands and I tell myself, "I cannot die. I cannot die."

meditation 060629: me and glass

Undeniably, I am attracted to glass. I sit here watching over the city from the wide window in my nineteenth floor cubicle. I like watching the windows of other buildings, both during the day and at night, for each offer a different perspective. In the day you see everything on the street, even the hot dog guy and the lady in high heels almost getting hit by car, yet when you look into the windows, you don’t see much, as if nothing goes on in there. The windows, during the day, are mere reflections of daylight. At night, you still don’t see much inside these windows when they have their lights off. Even with their lights on, there really isn’t much exciting about them. So it’s not what’s inside the window that interests me, but more like the way the windows light up, the patterns they make when you have a series of buildings and you can count which ones have their lights on and which ones don’t – a myriad of possibilities! Then there is your own window, yes, your own window, the one which you are looking through, right now. During the day it has no presence. You look right through it. But at night, you look through it and you see your own reflection on it along with the reflection of all the little diddliwinks in your cubicle, and its like your existence, your entire cubicle and everything that’s in it, are all floating in the night sky. It’s really quite transcendentalistic. But what gives me a poetic thrill is to see all this and play Track 3 on my CD Player. When I was listening to “Destiny”, one line really jumped out at me. Well, it’s jumped out at me before, but having not heard the song in awhile, it jumped out at me again, and I know the next time I play it, I’ll set myself up for it to jump out at me. yubi to yubi wo karamasetetsutau kono inochi no morosa utsukushisa wo. It’s like ocean. It really is.