quoted from
http://images.etsy.com/all_images/0/03e/9dc/il_430xN.21780637.jpg

i was called a whirlpool. or tornado.

i prefer to call myself an orange sky.

Alexi Murdoch - Orange Sky Lyrics

Well I had a dream
I stood beneath an orange sky
Yes I had a dream
I stood beneath an orange sky
With my brother standing by
With my brother standing by
I said Brother, you know you know
It’s a long road we’ve been walking on
Brother you know it is you know it is
Such a long road we’ve been walking on

And I had a dream
I stood beneath an orange sky
With my sister standing by
With my sister standing by
I said Sister, here is what I know now
Here is what I know now
Goes like this..
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, in your love, in your love

But sister you know I’m so weary
And you know sister
My hearts been broken
Sometimes, sometimes
My mind is too strong to carry on
Too strong to carry on

When I am alone
When I’ve thrown off the weight of this crazy stone
When I’ve lost all care for the things I own
That’s when I miss you, that’s when I miss you, that’s when I miss you
You who are my home
You who are my home
And here is what I know now
Here is what I know now
Goes like this..
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, my salvation lies
In your love, in your love, in your love

Well I had a dream
I stood beneath an orange sky
Yes I had a dream
I stood beneath an orange sky
With my brother and my sister standing by
With my brother and my sister standing by
With my brother and my sister standing by

where the long road I am walking on,

does not neccessarily mean walking with someone side by side.

Get this widget | Track details | eSnips Social DNA

Quoted from: scetch02.jpg (JPEG-Grafik, 600x505 Pixel)

blog.merdanchik.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/12/scetch02.jpg
it is always difficult.

and simple.

1,300.

there is an unspoken beauty in numbers, especially a linear count of number...1, 2, 3, ...
it is like approaching infinity but you have to stop somehow and somewhere.
it is the perfect analogy of life - you count your days and you do not know when you have to stop counting.

Instead of fearing the inevitable end of our lives,
consider how it is like to live a life that is both linear and fragmentary.
It is like taking a picture at every moment - all the joy, sadness, excitement, horror, pain, tears, laughter - and pasting them all on a wall called life. It is to try to piece together a dream, a reality or just a figment of our imagination that consists of real events, real people and real emotions.
Then step back, in a moment of appreciation (not reflection) and admire the beauty of inevitability and unity (of fragments).

There is certainly a painter drawing my life with colours that I may or may not like. But we shouldn't oppose this painter because there is a omnipotent knowledge of our lives that demands our due reverence. It is to be firmly faithful to this painter and trust in His masterstrokes, such that even those strokes we do not understand form part of a grand master plan. (Am I conforming to a grand narrative?) No. It is to understand that even a micro narrative such as a wretched me can still interest this painter to make me His painting subject matter. It is like a Picasso painting that people did not understand until in retrospect, we realise the conventions he broke. It is not to paint the most beautiful painting a mortal would consider as, but to paint an immortal one, hanged in the heavens. It is realise it is not meant to be seen, but to be hung, and form part of a universe, where Hubble's telescope cannot even begin to fathom that vast infinite beauty.

Hence, even if I disappear from this world (this cruel happy world), I shall appear somewhere else busking in glory and reverence to the one who granted me this privilege.

even if I mean lesser and lesser, day by day, I shall still want to die knowing I left a footprint, that even if the waves sweep the sand smooth again, I was once there, forgotten in time to come, to take my place in the stars, fade and fall, burn and be self-absorbing, disappear eventually...but a new star is born again and again until all is over, all is over.

Therefore, sometimes, dare to resist a little and not be the person this world wants you to be. Resist a little and let it become an adventure; the willing canvas to be painted on.
What is imperfect to us may very likely be the perfect masterstroke. The used up oil can still be reused and painted over, releasing its hidden potential, which may just be a change of perspective. It is an art I do not possess so I shall leave it to the expert.


A crushing anvil on a stubborn and proud heart.
If we do not first tear and destroy ourselves,
will there still be a need to be healed? to be blessed? to be saved?
Beyond words.
it is that intangible perpetual consciousness of the future - what-is-to-come.
but let go of what is in between - the gap between the present instant and the future end.
for in our lifetime we will never know how the final painting looks like.
The crowning does not happen in this world.
even a surrealist empiricialism will not describe this other world for you.

the cruelty of life is that our subjectifications can never encompass everyone and everything.
therefore, leave the subjectifications to the Master painter.


such conclusions can only be made after I exhausted all ways to answer my questions.
when i feel i am hanging on to the ledge on the 13th floor.
when i feel so cold, it is hot and I am burning.
but all at the same time, I can feel this profound smirk on my lips, knowing all will be taken care of. I just don't know the details.


i am praying for you.

2-2-2

drawing by Jimmy

I used to tell myself, "it's easy to move on".

at the crux of that statement is actually that feverish desire to deny any doubt from seeping into the consciousness. Perhaps, it is more appropriate to suggest that "there is nowhere to move on to". so if the veiled desire ultimately remains hidden, which at the most poignant moment and in a most cunning way, it releases itself on you and fastens its grip.

Indifference is not the actual condition of society. Deep within that indifference is that hungry desire to say, do and change something; for the sake of doing. Rather than call it indifference, I prefer to call it contemplative, which is a prolonged process of contemplation before a very pragmatic decision - of inaction. After all, the long-lasting grip of desire works when you do not act upon the desire, but allow the desire to remain perpetually.

Therefore, (a great leap in my argument) humanity has not moved on, because 'there is nowhere to move on to'.

Despite my academic mentor claims that 'the illusion of desire has been lost', desire has more profound origins and perpetual implications and resonances that prevent 'desire' or 'illusion of desire' from being dismissed as 'lost' entirely. It is at its very core, a profound gap that is itself a filled space. It is where great imaginations, warped dreams, convincing illusions and perverse fantasies slide in and out without you acknowledging them. It is never easy to acknowledge them. Ultimately, production (to feed those desires) does not obliterate the process of desire. As long as there is one person who experiences the iron grip of desire, desire and the illusion of desire remain.
Is it not more about an impatient anticipation for a great event to occur and simultaneously wish that it fails ultimately, so that we can continue to hope and desire?

This observation is only made possible because of a recent earthquake that occurred in my life - a purely cognitive earthquake.

To put is simply, I would not have noticed this if I had not stepped out of my contemplative mode and radically denounced my commitment to a desire. In so doing, the radical step returns me to the precedent step of landing myself deeply into a gap called passion. This return, is only to realise that I never made any leaps and progress to filling up this gap of desire and passion. Ultimately, it also made me realise that desire and passion are not what I need. And this return is a return before that unknown, enigmatic but familiar moment when you fall for someone, without reason.

she teared behind me. after the hand was raised.
she walked ahead then. after the damage was done.
but that had a more profound implication than what I had expected then.

she climbed ahead of me. after the dare was given.
she smiled below of me. at the point of descending.
but the beating of the heart ascended faster than what my mind could understand.

so who is she at the bottom, standing, inside, filling that gap within me?
if desire is the gap, then what are you? Desire?

Perhaps, it is this uneasy tension between what is an iron grip of desire, and what is purely just you.
and if they clash, the knowledge of her and the imagination of her will collapse together into a misshapen form of desire and reverence

it is a reverence that places her at a position that no one has ever come close to. A position that I dare not venture into. Because I know it will prick when I do. A long course of inactivity, contemplation and just empty promises of leaving the periphery of her position.
But her sphere of influence extended beyond what I can handle.
I end up knowing so much about her only to realise that I equally know nothing about her.

there is an extreme melancholy at this revelation.
from what was just a simple nemesis and name calling, morphed into a complex patchwork of meanings I cannot defined and identified all at the same time.

they are all repetitions of a common theme. (repetitions of reminders of impossibilities)
there is a fiery furnace waiting to melt everything together but I cannot allow that.
I cannot stand close. too close and I will forget this feeling of familiarity and enigma.

when the two finally collide, i will reach a third area of ambiguity.

It has finally reached that stage. The return.
when feelings take their winter holiday and go into hibernation. I stand close after radically departing (returning) from the position.

So now, it cannot be contemplation, desire or passion anymore.
Somehow, it's no longer allowed to be.
it is that silent quest to diminish.

like a shooting star
like a melting snowflake
like an invisible blown kiss

like a gift of death
like the morbid sensation that comes with a sweet kiss on bleeding feet
like the ending sentence of a short writing

they end with a next life awaiting them

and I am in a room,
with an ah pek me, a young twelve years old me and the recent me.
we stare at each other for a few seconds,
and they both ask me:
"How is the next village like?"

you will know what I mean when no tears can drop for you too.

I leave with a last poem dedicated to this moment.

who's theme is it to believe,
a yesterday's ephemeral relief?
she did, she said, she believed
she does, she says and she still believes.
today's reference to yesterday is to make us smile or cry

whose prayers are there to keep her safe
a future's perpetual faith of hope?
she does, she says and she still believes
she will do, she will say and she will still believe.
tomorrow happens to make today worthwhile.

she is safe in His arms.
so everything she does is beautiful.

let us begin
with a short story by Kafka,

---

My Destination (transl. Alex Flores)

I called for my horse to be brought from the stable. The servant did not

understand me. I myself went into the stable, saddled my horse and mounted.

In the distance I heard a trumpet blast. I asked him what it meant but he

did not know and had not heard it. By the gate he stopped me and asked

"where are you riding to sir?" I answered "away from here, away from here,

always away from here. Only by doing so can I reach my destination." "Then

you know your destination" he asked. "Yes" I said "I have already said so,

'Away-From-Here' that is my destination." "You have no provisions with you"

he said. "I don't need any" I said. "The journey is so long that I will die

of hunger if I do not get something along the way. It is, fortunately, a

truely immense journey."

---

my life is too short to have an immense journey.
And yet.
it is immensely weary to not think of this journey.
Away from here.

Where is Here?

Here the here that remains constant?
here the there that I never belong at?
here the here that changes?
where is here?
away.
if here is always here,
then i must continue my journey away-from-here.

away from the text before me

But my life is too short to begin this journey.

and there will be those people and things which will stop me.
and there will be no

END

to the interrogation
so if I may, I prefer to continue with my journey,
an immense journey
that lasts as long as my life

as long as
the centre...

slides past
and start all over again.
away-from-here again and again.......................

truly, a renewal of faith, that has to be done by myself.



I trembled when I realised how fast time has passed.

Almost Earth is done!

why bother when she does not want you to?

There exists a weariness which is a weariness of everything and everyone, and above all a weariness of oneself. What wearies then is not a particular form of our life - our surroundings, because they are dull and ordinary, our circle of friends, because they are vulgar and cruel; the weariness concerns existence itself.

Instead of forgetting itself in the essential levity of a smile, where existence is effected innocently, where it floats in its fullness as though weightless and where, gratuitous and graceful, its expansion is like a vanishing, in weariness existence is like the reminder of a commitment to exist, with all the seriousness and harshness of an unrevokable contract.

One has to do something, one has to aspire after and undertake.


...Weariness is the impossible refusal of this ultimate obligation. In weariness we want to escape existence itself, and not only one of its landscapes, in a longing for more beautiful skies. An evasion without an itinerary and without an end, it is not trying to come ashore somewhere. Like for Baudelaire's true travellers, it is a matter of parting for the sake of parting.

emmanuel levinas
- existence and existents

he said it better than i could.

i'm keeping quiet for a while.

before they sound like:
Mmmm m mmmm mmm mm m mmmm mmmmmmm.......
and it did...i felt clumsy with my words...


so i'm keeping quiet...
then i will know what to do...
or even say.

but it scares me.

as much as it scares me to see how swift the dynamics changed.

and it makes me miserable more,
to find no words to express

the only confidence left,
is the prayer that resides at the tip of my tongue,

"And lead us not into temptation"

endings are beginnings.

it shouldn't be about me.
I died long time ago.

first and foremost,
have maturity to be stable and steadfast,
in a storm.

and that storms are there, that there may be a tongue to calm them

calm us.

(before we lose it....I hope I haven't lost it yet.)

夫战, 勇气也, 一鼓作气, 再而衰, 三而竭, 彼竭我盈, 故克之。

曹刿

why must I always approach things with silence?
why can't I believe in miracles?
why can't I believe in faith?
why can't I believe in courage?
why can't I believe in vocalising my conviction?
why can't I stand up and act?
why must it always be silence?
why must I allow things to slip me by?
to react only after something has happened?
and react with such lack of courage, faith and conviction?
why must I believe that the outcome must definitely be pessimistic...

is it because I have experienced and seen too many disappointments?
is it because I dare not venture into the unknown?
to fight battles and wars that may severely cripple me?
Aha! to declare defeat even before the battle is fought...such cowardice.
but in all fairness...I did try.
but in all seriousness...I had to give up so often.


SHOUT.
and perhaps it is not only I who trembles.


but inevitably,
i shout by keeping silent.
they won't listen.

i desperately scream in my sleep,
to touch hearts I cannot see.

i can't find a way to stay,
to see you again.

i refuse to be.
i shout the hardest when I'm silent.

I like the moment when I pull out a music box,
turn the mechanical hand,
and it plays a tune I'm familiar with.
at least I can decide when I can stop the tune.
but it happens only when my hands grow tired.

I am tired.
to turn with my hands and be not able to join in the dance.

to go nearer is to be further away.

I shall leave it to God again.

(Alvin, you are a coward.)

like a flash,

it ended.

it was beautiful while it lasted.

a disappearance is possible when there was first an appearance.
a light illuminates a room because it was first dark.
someone is unforgettable because he or she first made an appearance.

my mind is blank because it once had too many things in it.
But really,
it is all about a reluctance,
a reluctance to think, wait, and accept that there are only gaps.

when one makes that appearance, another inevitably bows, curtains fall, and he or she exeunts.
he or she disappears.

will you dance with me?

will she gently dance or dance without restraint?
as I let go of her hands (i never did)?

highlight the words to read them

and so the way is once again a grey tint.
but the way is always as it should be,
narrow but sure.

i won't survive on the luxury of hope.
i will survive on determinism.
on the inevitable moment of disappearances and appearances.

when my consciousness collide.
with the other.

i shall die once more.

die.live.dream.breathe.drink.eat.breathe.live.dream.eat.drink.work.sleep.work.sleep.die.live.love.

dream.live.die.eat.drink.think.think.think.think.think.eat.drink.sleep.work.breathe.break.die.sleep.
dream.live.eat.drink.think.work.work.work.work.wish.stare.watch.see.rest.rest.work.dream.
thinkof.her.die.

such that even pictures and videos wont save those moments
but i shall remember them.
remember as long as i can.

quiet.

it is all quiet now.
it used to be about the moment before a storm.
a moment before the quake.
a moment before death.

but as quiet as it is now,
i finally realise that this silence is a moment after a storm, after a quake, after a death,
when the dust settles.

things seem like they were happenstances.
but that is because they were quiet.
and i did not want to listen to them.
i failed to accept them.

so...

i don't expect anything.
only yesterday i was different.
only today i am going to be different.
only tomorrow will I be different.
but some things don't change. they just disappear into silences.

the faces come and go. a flash of quiet intensity.

when I leave, I leave as quiet as I leave as I am quiet
as words flow into a dissipation...
they heal.

i don't say much do i but the feeling i get sometimes is that i say too much like flowing words that go on and on and i do not know when to stop so why can't i now embrace quietness to feel my way to a new state of tranquility?

i don't expect anything.

i walk down this long hotel corridor.
they all look the same, really.
the velvet carpet and the hanging electrical candles that flicker occasionally.
but it glows with an amber conformity.
the doors are redwood with 4 digits
every step i make is softened by the surface below me
i walk the quiet steps.
it doesn't matter where I'm heading.
the walls along the corridor are a soft and warm brown.

I turn a corner.

leaving this thing called 'love'.
But i do believe, it wasn't a construct.

i'll find a way, i'll see her again, someday.
Again.
i don't expect anything.
really, you can't don't expect anything. so...don't repeat those words.

i shall walk down the stairs at the end of the corridor. quietly.
and remain a familiar enigma.

maybe that is the best I can be, someone always misunderstood, always removed, always dishonest,
always Be;
and not allowed to be consistently fluid.

so i'll find a way.
to see you and myself again.

"ok."

it is so quiet, it hurts.

my world went blank.





one last radical move.

i wish that journey was forever.

i wish those tears were forever.

i wish they

forever

but no... ... ... ...

it
s
lip
p

p



p
s

away
.

I wish the sun took forever to set.

a sentimental moment freezed.

but these beauteous moments are so treasured by me because they are fleeting.
when it shouldn't be about the aftermath,
but that immediate moment when thoughts fly away and the moment takes over completely.
till you are blown away.

I was blown away, twice.
even if i rewind them now...it is just not the same.

it is just not the same.



and now I have to return to reality.

what can i use to express myself besides writing?

each beat.
each split second before I react.

each closing of my eyes
each darkness
each brightness
each moment of helplessness

comes with,
every devotion, every passion, every whisper,
the wind will not blow...

the colour fades but the trace materialises...
slowly i will,
release
this
,
,
.
.
.

just yesterday, I witnessed how we can subtly enjoyed those little moments of our story-making-
just look closely at those fleeting images of people laughing, smiling and that slow waltz of -
little angels making that tiny steps to their guardians,
and squeak at the delight of a familiar taste of love;
the grand stewards of time, though time has drawn lines on them,
they walk side by side, in threes - spouse and spouse, and Joe Black
I am caught in between two thrones of grace,
one will be the infinite innocent receipient of the tiny bottle of grape juice;
the other will be the vintage wine of bittersweetness in an intricate grail,
so much to tell but silence says it all.

don't say anything. life is made up of moments of imagined bliss;
taste it, and even if they are imagined, the sensation of it flowing into you is real,
is smooth,
just like how tears of joy flow...

this world, I do not know.

whenever I encounter her,
she pulls away from my painful grip.

I strangle her, and squeeze her dry,
refusing to let her be as she is.
I murmur words, and skew her trees,
governing her every little movement.

whenever I leave her,
she suffers the liberal illusion of free will.

I sit in a chair, in an enclosed room, staring outside behind a window.
I am rocking the chair.
I decide to look at the room more carefully.
She screams at me.


So, this world, I am a sojourner.

henceforth, I leave the room,
the cruelty of a hot and cold desert awaits me.

She strangles me, and veils me completely,
entrapping me with her openness.
She speaks glibberish, and builds castles,
poisoning the inmeasurable consciousness.

henceforth, I leave the room,
the desert forces me into a double confrontation.

The chair sits on me, at an open space, facing the distant horizon.
The chair is rocking me.
I cannot decide to take down the chair.
She pities me.

I stare at the world and I sing,

"What a wonderful world..."

the closer i get, the further it becomes.

wenn es zum Schluss endet, werde ich sie wahrlich lieben.

sie ist nicht sie.

ich starb viele Tode,

ich kenne sie nicht.

diese Antwort zu erkennen.


ich warte mein Tod auf.
mein Herz hört kein Ruf.
dann ich kann sie lieben.
Sie wird allerdings weg sein.



Wart nicht.

so ich lerne.

ich schlafe wieder nicht.

Ich werde sie lieben,
wenn sie sterbt.

I simulate a 'I' who is loving.

I simulate a 'I' who is loveless.

Both a familiarity and an enigma.

I am none of those "I"s,

a persistent me who loves flux,

a hopeless person who finds peace in not doing or thinking about anything.

I wish I speak less,
I wish I do less,
I wish I know less,

but things still happen.


what happens when I finally produce the useless perfection of my image?
will I plunge into a irreversible illusion of the real?

am I really being listened?
am I really listening?
am I really talking?
am I really looking?
am I really thinking?
am I really knowing?

There is a repetition going on.
I just cannot articulate what that repetition really is or where it is heading.
But persistenly projecting in a linear time,
I cannot face myself when time passes,
but I can face myself in these pockets of loose time, when time is ignored and I fly to somewhere far away...

Perhaps, it is a strategy I adopted to disappear behind my images;
the impulse to leave no traces.
An ironic one;
where I appear profusely,
in order to disappear.

come look for me if you can,
as I slowly mute myself and disappear behind simulated and blatant veils.


I seem to be escaping, eluding, all;
but within this closed circle of I,
I am really just I.

where the issue is never about identity (your identifications of me),
but maintaining a silent melancholic smile;
chasing butterflies by first touching caterpillars,
and trapping myself in loops of silk threads,
to transmute into an intangible fleeting moment of transient beauty.

where no symbols and signs can imitate me...
and when (somehow and someday) it is no longer about an external forgiveness;
but a self-forgiveness.

(just like it was once, "I do believe, but help me with my unbelief".

You do forgive, but help me forgive myself.

It is really, (thanks to Blanchot), about a practice of forgetting (and forgiving).

thoughts in the morning

I feel a little ripple, the one on the surface of water, and comes before a great earthquake.

I feel a little burning of skin, the first flames of a forest fire.

I feel nothing, the one that comes before everything.

I hear the wind, because I feel it but I do not know, how to stop hearing the silence.

I feel a little drop from the heavens, the one that drops just before a storm.

I feel nothing and I hear nothing for I need nothing; Sweetness overflows.

I feel an overwhelming fatigue, just after the clash of swords and trowels.


thoughts in the afternoon

....

thoughts in the evening.















jazz, when presented in its raw beauty, looks like a blank piece of paper with lines scribble all over.

That is why I love jazz. so rich, harmonious and individualistic, all at the same time.

I was allowed to run wild, as I listened and visualised the music drawing lines in my mind. The energy flowed into me.

to hear is such a strange sense

I decided to use a different style today. This is from a piece I wrote long time ago.

I associate my life to sitting in a plane cabin. You are told to buckle up. They tell you repeatedly how dangerous it could be. You are bored, so you switched on the in-flight entertainment. Your meals are served; they’re part of the package; the overall experience of an air flight. Some people sit in the economy, some in the business, and some in first class. Each class has specific number of seats. Perhaps they are aware that there are only a few rich people and many poor people. And some even have their own private jets: these are usually presidents. I remember fondly the moments when the food came and I was given a choice between oriental and international. I ignored the fact that their definitions of oriental and international seemed a little inconsistent. I also realized that they usually didn’t seem to have a lot of choices (perhaps the first class passengers would have but I never sat as one before). The most choices given were the entertainment channels. I could choose the many movies available. And they were usually the latest films. Of course, I had to bear with the uncomfortable seat and the tiny screen before me. Not forgetting the occasional harassment from my neighbour, as he or she would need to head to the toilet, and at this point, I am reminded of the experience of the toilet. I once entered the toilet, asking myself where all the waste went to. Are they sucked down to some unknown realm? It also felt like a miracle, so much so that I would marvel at technology and its convenience, though at the back of my mind, I still pondered how the manure had been dealt with. Within such a compact space, one could sometimes find a power-point for the shaver, endless rolls of paper and a little corner to change diapers (not that I needed them). I particularly liked the big mirror that shows how pathetic I was with that lack of sleep. I also marveled at how easy people could sleep on the plane and the volume of their snoring. Back to the in-flight entertainment, I realised that there weren’t that many choices after all. The only choice I seem to have was to sleep. It was a long haul plane. I often lose track of time and space. I needed the map on the screen to inform me of my coordinates, the temperature outside, the wind speed, the altitude, plane speed, and distance away, etc., and not to forget the various languages available. Frankly, I had no idea what I can do with that information. The plane flew. The plane would land soon. Bringing me to another land. The journey ended. The journey ends. It has since been 2 years since I last took a plane.

this part is new:

the terrorist is sacred.

imagine there is one sitting right next to me now.

A: are you alright?
T: (silent)...sorry. I'm praying.
A: O. I'm sorry. But I just thought you looked really pale. I thought you're having motion sickness.
T: No.
A: Ok.

a few minutes passed.

A: Are you really okay? You're shaking.
T: Yes. (pause) I am okay.
A: Hi. I'm ...
T: Assalam alaikum
A: Which means?
T: Peace to you.
A: Are you a Muslim?
T: Yes.
A: But...
T: I don't look like Muslim?
A: Well...at least, I wasn't sure why you, though I presume an European, would say Arabic to me.
T: I'm American.
A: And your name?
T: Just call me Lucas.
A: Ok. (pause long while) So are you okay?
L: Thank you for your concern. I am fine. I just need to pray.
A: First time flying?
L: Last time.
A: Haha. You mean you're so afraid that you won't fly again?
L: No.
A: Then?
L: Just no. (looks away)
A: (pause) Well. If you need help, just tell me ok?
L: Thank you.
A: Ok. (goes back to watch his show)
L: (he prays but begins to shake violently)
A: (looks back at him) Are you okay?
L: I must do what I must do. (he stands)
A: (this is when I felt as if I am staring at death) hey...
as Lucas stood up. I saw an angel; A fallen one, who spreads his wings to cover a sin that stretches generations. This is too much for one to bear. Somehow I realise, he really has to do what he is going to do.
The terrorist is sacred, as he approaches the end of the infinite. The end of the eternal. The fulfilment of a prophecy.

Each burning of the page.
to end the book
to deliver Chronos and Logos to the final page,
to begin eternity
where presence can only appear with the appearance of absence
presence must not be proud.
Forever we cannot stop the imagination,
of evil in its most transparent self, sitting right next to you,
with torn feathers,
and a burden, not even his cousins could remove;
he approaches the silence,
in a prayer no one can hear,
except a dread, an anxiety, or a pure silence and void,
that he must take that step of destiny,
and do what he must

to exist as a speculation.

L walks halfway down the aisle. He vomits.

~

on a side note, Yoko Kanno's Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex OST 1 is amazing.

i hear voices.

biting.

introduce, and breed.

skip the journey.

find the end.

of errors.

I am a baby.
I am a monster.
I am a ghost.
I am human.

I am my own neighbour.
I am my own other.

maybe I cry when I watch sad movies.
maybe I laugh when i'm not supposed to.

what is my myth? (I am born)

dear john, I do not know what love is.

is it the moment when you realise the person you love becomes unfamiliar?
i.e. when they die?

it is too soon...

stay...I want to feel your warmth.

shall i sing you a song?

I'm sure you are not alone.
belong somewhere where the sun don't set.

and the rising hangs like a painting.

a mirrors.

k
i
ng

an impression that reaches your inner dwellings

an illusion that overrrrrr rrr rr rr r r uns

f
r
e
e

unser Freiheit.

the question remains
n
o
b
o
d
y

ROWs
&
RoWs
of Enigma

there is no clear freedom when it comes to the tragedy of truth
when I have no words to say - truth.

I wish randomness never ends.

no. there is no illusion.
just faith

a tiny drop that falls from the sky, a moment before it disperses

a smile is a smile because it is a moving expression.

and there is a plate of chilli crabs somewhere. because I smell.

there is wind because I feel and see the leaves dance.

can i move with such abandoment that I fly?

F
L
Y

that I may drop and soar
both at the same time

repeated...

all words break l o s e

aligned to form
a message that never ever...stays.

that is why,
words can be beautiful,
when they are transient.

as she sits in front of me,

i am afraid, she may...

eventually,

fade,

this will all end...

one more minute...perpetually,

i wish for one more minute,

again and again.

Call for Help

An ambitious project embarked. help me.
(this will stay on top for a year)

if anyone has any quotes or descriptions of Singapore. please send them to islandsingapura@gmail.com

These quotes can be from famous people, tourists, friends, anyone who has an impression or lived/is still living in Singapore. But they must be about Singapore or any aspect of Singapore, e.g. the people, the culture, the music, the buildings, etc.. They can even be from movies, literature, plays, history books, journals, tourist guides, interviews, criticisms, academic essays, poetry, songs, speeches, blogs, any source that mentions, makes a reference to, criticise, praises, Singapore, Singapura, Temasek, Syonan...Any language is acceptable.

Please include source cited from, the person quoted, and the year it was said or published.
If you do not have the exact quotes but can recommend me the book or source I should refer to, please also email me some recommendations.

an example will be:

Singapore ( in Mandarin: 新加坡, Xīnjiāpō; in Malay: Singapura; in Tamil: சிங்கப்பூர், Cingkappūr) is an island nation located at the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Singapore

This is actually a bad example. Haha! I personally prefer, at least for now, comments made by people who have visited Singapore or lived in Singapore. E.g.

"It is not a question of which aerodrome in Singapore Island would be cheapest but which... would be the best. Looking into the future, I expect to see Singapore become one of the largest and most important airports of the world."
— Sir Cecil Clement, Governor of Singapore 1931

I cannot provide the details of this ambitious project yet. My sincere apologies.
But your contributions will be noted at the end of the project.

Thank you.

201st post

201? no significance really.


yes. i have a wild heart to explore.
and fall flat at the discovery of my most inner self.

discoveries can be scary stuff. just ask myself 2 years ago.
never ever go to the wilderness unless you're ready to receive revelation.
But then again, who can ever be sure when they will be ready?

someone tie me before I fly up like a DHL balloon without a rope and lots of hot air to spare

i like keys, and keychains.

As many as possible.

And for a weird reason.

Our mind is like a big hall with doors after doors to rooms of memories.

Some doors are huge. Some doors are tiny. Some squares. Some round. Some invisible.

And what I have with me are keychains and keys to these doors (or not; possibly drawers as well). I cannot remember the exact keys to the exact doors, drawers or locks.

But with each passing day, comes a a new key for a new door. And I feel the increasing weight of the metals in my pocket.

It is a solid immediate sense of the keys brushing against my flesh.

And somehow, I will know when I misplace a key. And this is what I am feeling right now. Both the feeling that I have already misplaced a key; and the premonition that I will misplace a key.

Away from Her was depressing.
It made me think of the possibility that the person you love could forget about you.

I feel as if we are all suffering from Alzheimer's Disease. Ours is a slower process than the actual disease. I mean it metaphorically.

I think I am getting closer.

slowly.

tonight it was your turn to die.

I am a chain, a sequence, a series of unprecedented uniquity

I am and I am not, always, simultaneously.

I am an understated presence in a body of bodies.

Hence - I am a drawf in a universe of bodies.

I am the screaming absence in the bodies of differences.

Hence - I am both light and shadow in a juxtaposition with darkness.

I am nonsense embodied.

I am always somewhere.

I am always nowhere.

I am a number in a sea of bodies.

I am the individual in the skull of my consciousness.

I am always myself and not myself.

I am a corpus of individuals, unified in an imagined continuity, coexisting within a society of change and repetition, and outside the lavatory of selfhood.

I am a follower of destiny.

I am a rebel of totality.

I am an ironist.

I am a powerless word arranger.

I cannot create tangible immortal bodies.

I give birth to traces, dying and living one after another.

I indulge in the hope of renewed faith, pretending that I will stay alive in the next 5 minutes.

I am living on borrowed time.

I have no faith in these words.

I am thrown to an alien world, without choice and without might.

I choose to stay in this world.

I believe in nothing. Hence - I actually have a belief.

I am a liar to myself.

I protect nothing but my temporary on-going self-existence.

I engage in activities, relationships and chronological journeys to stablise my perpetual chaos.

I give up because they haunt me of my insecurities.

I am an emotional wreck who denies rationality the place of coronation.

I am nocturnal because I resist the temptation to be someone repeated all over, every night.

I am breathless.

I am banal because I cannot locate my origin.

I am somebody because I am told so. (I am so.)

[I am framed.]

I question everything. Hence, I end up with a boring answer that everything needs to be questioned.

I am lazy because I cannot stand the anxiety (or dread) of possibilities.

I am active because I cannot stand the mundane narrowing of my infinity to a certainty.

I am liar because I am never infinite.

I am just using such language to mask the fact that I am frivolous and fickle.

I am, at once, every instance, someone in the making, being or becoming.

I am, at once, every instance, someone unmaking, unbeing or unbecoming.

I consist of repetitions of standards, signs, codes of commonalities, mentally rejecting the undesirable.

I am imperfectly insane.

I am perfectly sane.

I believe in my loneliness, heightened by the continual presence of others.

I am not alone.

I see only what I see.

I think, however, always beyond what I see.

I cannot see my back and my face.

I love to imagine because that is my only source of uncertainty.

I stare at you and I do not know you.

I await all arrivals and departures.

I am loitering in an airport terminal.

I am silently waiting for people to come and go.

I am silently waiting for me to leave.

I do not fight back because my greatest battle is within me.

But.

It is always about I, isn't it?

It is such a lonely world to be in.

It is such a scary world to be in.

It is such a joyous world to be in.

It is such a funny world to be in.

It is such a crowded world to be in.

It is such a ironic world to be in.

The moments of staring at nothing; waiting for that moment of truth to unfold before you; vaguely conscious of your individuality, as a consistent thought, mind, soul, whatever you call that consciousness of yourself thinking, before it goes to rest into pitch darkness or coloured dreams; are moments of my black holes. Where I can hear myself cry, laugh, sing, hum, breathe, talk and listen all at the same time, but no voice comes out from my tongue.

It is scary shit. It is inner peace.

Is this how you feel when you wrestle with an angel?

is simply the expression of a kind that anticipates tangible reciprocation.

= ?

is the result of an indulgence called free will.

is an empty shell that ambiguates reality.

consists of intangible signifiers.

is [love].

is

€

is to use ilogical associations to make logical assumptions.

is not

is language.

I have no .

----

I shall stop this weakness and be firm.

I found the best book ever!

《沉飞》

乘舟将预行，独目寮矮星。
朱雀赴远行，一踏忘忧情。
我伸手， 触摸不到的星空。
我伸脚，默认失却的美梦。

朱红画星雨，耀眼夺心语。
不及死又复，不及告心数。
我高飞，穿梭永追玉光辉。
我深沉，溪水飘浮寻平归。

will you gently take me down from the shelf and wipe me clean?
will you see me differently?
will you let me shine as I am?
will you believe you will shine as you are with me?
will you not believe your monologues?
will you hold me back if I leave you?
will you regret what you said?
will you love me?

nein. you won't.

you make me smile the most
you make me laugh clumsily the most
you make me cry inside
you make me laugh and cry both at the same time
i am myself with you
you are honest with me.
too honest.

;

I will if I must.
(even if it is hard to do)
to cease this perpetual foolishness.
and never, vis-a-vis, say those words with all my heart, mind and soul.

anyway,
smile lego


o-o
U

~

time for a break. because i no longer make sense, even to myself.

lego me.

pieces

of

me
to build

in a building of lego

a frustrating mix of distinct connecting points,

but different worlds that can be created from a box of lego

Lego me
but don't leave me on the shelf.
collecting dust as you miss one piece/block to complete the world.

i'm not a jigsaw puzzle with a missing piece
i'm not a broken lego set
i'm just who i am to you.

brrr...it's cold tonight.
and i hate it when there are more monologues than dialogues
anyway, all is vanity.

the fruitlessness of endeavours?
or a rubber chicken?
(i prefer to be a starfish)
and to be thrilled by the bubbles of change.

~

like.no.other.







monochrome feelings?
each dot to separate.
each dot to join.
each dot to reconfigure the words.

a blank paper.
and black is black because there is a white paper for black to stand out.
really?
monochrome reminds us more of the colours it erases

you are fine and beautiful just the way you are.
i
like.no.other.

半途而废 词/曲.潘协庆

半途而废 词/曲.潘协庆

要不痛痛快快地哭个够
要不乾脆向他低头
别再苦苦压抑心里的痛
昏昏愕愕爱过又算什么
贪图快乐等於堕落
你说一生不是为爱而活
别搪塞藉口
到最後反反覆覆忙忙碌碌
辛辛苦苦不知为了什么
半途而废 你无所谓
少了自由怎能海阔天空
真是 自作自受自怜
半途而废 你不後悔
义无反顾 断了退路
还谈什么幸福
你又何苦

ah......
very apt.
the next just as well.

醒不來
作詞：Kwan　作曲：Jack吳2　編曲：張亞東

分不清白天　看不見黑夜　心情冷豔晝夜徘徊
分不清是非　看不見完美　十分酒醉　七分疲憊　沉溺在晝夜的邊界

不是想沉睡　噢　醒不來　醒來你依然不會在
不是醒不來　噢　醒來我還是發呆

朋友都說我夜裡比較美　只因他們看不見我清醒的臉
朋友都說我夜裡更冷豔　只因他們看不見我的悲

太陽升起來　噢　醒不來　醒來依然沒有未來
月光灑下來　噢　醒不來　醒來我還是發呆

   紅豆 - 王菲
    曲︰柳重言
    詞︰林夕
    編︰ALEX SAN

    還沒好好的感受　雪花綻放的氣候
    我們一起顫抖　會更明白　甚麼是溫柔
    還沒跟你牽著手　走過荒蕪的沙丘
    可能從此以後　學會珍惜　天長和地久

  ＊有時候　有時候　我會相信一切有盡頭
    相聚離開　都有時候　沒有甚麼會永垂不朽

  ＃可是我　有時候　寧願選擇留戀不放手
    等到風景都看透　也許你會陪我看細水長流

    還沒為你把紅豆　熬成纏綿的傷口
    然後一起分享　會更明白　相思的哀愁
    還沒好好的感受　醒著親吻的溫柔
    可能在我左右　你才追求　孤獨的自由

    重唱　＊,＃,＊,＃

have you felt like you were stationary as you stared out of the window of the plane?

have you felt like you were so tiny as you ventured to look beyond the horizon?

have you felt like you were falling so hard, so long, so endless that you were actually suspended?

have you spoken so much that you felt that you said nothing?

hello and welcome to my little room I call the 'train room'.

Imagine.

i like the fact that the train set just goes round and round.

i like the fact that there is a chair, a window, a giant table with the train set on the table.
the train is moving now. Round and round.
i like the fact that I'm staring at the miniature tracks.

and those are all I can find in that room. Just me and a corner that is so dark, I dare not go near it.
the might of photography is not that it captures the 'real'
it is its might to undo the 'real' and exist as its own 'real'

it is such a silent image. noise fills around it. But it is absolutely silent.
everything freezes in it.
you are staring at merely a picture. nothing else.
and its might is also in how the association always arrive belatedly, almost in a secondary afterthought.
the primary being the moment before recognition. beyond the mere fact that it a palette of colours organised in a particular way.
that is when photography is most mighty. That it deviates from what it is; from being silent, stationary and unreal. it is still real.




when you cannot even tell if it is dead or alive.

i dare you to take a picture of person you know, dying before you.


the soul is psychodelic.
left on its own...it is plural.
free to float into non-existence and existence.
free to be as it is.
free to fly to the deepest possible infinity.
the picture is not the soul.
it is the body.

take me on a ride where I truly become.
project me beyond and within the disillusion
becoming by unbecoming
unbecoming because i am dying by reaching the end of the becoming
living in a shell of perpetual evaporation
i melt
into a cloud of troubles
and it evaporates
into a vask of fantasies

beauty is the impossibility.
the denial of the raw force of creation and destruction
such that beauty is the invisible, the intangible, the ephemeral,
and the dying

i can't wake up.
i crawl and dig within my shell
i hear voices calling out to me and they are holding me
my silence is my stubborn retort against this condition

i laugh and cry at my predicament.
but I know that there are worse predicaments out there.
amazement indulges in a feast with the cunning sheep
there is no wolf in the sheep.
the sheep is cunning.

you cannot and will not tear down the fences around you

I step no further,
one step away from sliding.

because you, we hypocritical friends, are content in your little fenced up patch of grass, with fellow sheep to partake in a feast of delights.

I go blind when the bright colours flash around me.
I go deaf when all the white noise fills around me.
I suffocate when the stench of perfume mixes with the mechanical breeze around me.
I faint because I just faint. and everything around me disappears.

fences are not enough to keep me from my ambition to die
i do not count sheep to sleep
I have to open my eyes wide to stare at the fading paths before me.

you must stop seeing the things you only want to see
you have to flow down the rivers
where forests do not end
where wolves snarl at you in close proximity
where owls mock at you for your lack of flexibility
you must die.
before you live.

Then Take My Bones.
they rattle in a shaking silence.
no night is quiet.
the silence itself is painful noise.

ah. you must feel so wretched
so pained
so tainted
so cursed
you must feel so oily
so very oily
and then you shall see

like a lighting that strikes you into your core
and all bones shattered
all muscles pulled
your eyeballs bulge
blood gushing out from your holes
you must stare at your own death
tremble
burn
crash

before you live again
not as a picture
but as a falling star
and leaves a trace of mighty glory
and then you realise and hear all around,
the wolves are tearing from their hunger


faith is a scary thing.
very.

... ...

i'm so tired. so very tired.

i'm staring at a void.

and i have no words to say.

(i suspect this is going to last a week.)

the end of the leap year was when I still lacked the courage to tell myself and her;

that I love her.
because it won't make a difference.

so i press the red button, alight and board another bus. different buses but for now we're on the same route.
I'll still throw paper aeroplanes to you when our buses are close beside.

but let my dreams of you end tonight.


I await Your answer.