Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A thought on Love
Some people you shouldn't love
because they are far too smart
to play this game of love with you.
It takes a great amount of naivety
to love,
and most of us just aren't brave enough.
Some people you shouldn't love
because of how much
it hurts.
because they are far too smart
to play this game of love with you.
It takes a great amount of naivety
to love,
and most of us just aren't brave enough.
Some people you shouldn't love
because of how much
it hurts.
The Time of the Month
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
-Mary Oliver (Excerpt from In Blackwater Woods)
I've been reading poems again. Often they make me want to weep. The urge to weep is a very beautiful thing, it makes me feel human. Perhaps it sounds extremely childish - that the urge to cry makes me feel human. But it's very easy to become jaded in this world, I don't want to live just physically moving... I want to be moved. I want to write, but it's very hard to break the barrier - even in this space which I have told no one. Maybe, I'm scared of myself. Sometimes we grow and experience things that throw our emotions out of whack. Our brain says why do you feel these things... why do you head this way? to our ignorant hearts that perhaps know better but can only feel so. Why do you feel these things? Why do I feel these things? I don't know. It is only so.
The Ubiquity of the Need for Love by Ronald Koertge
I leave the number and a short
message on every green Volvo
in town
Is anything wrong?
I miss you.
574-7423
The phone rings constantly.
One says, Are you bald?
Another, How tall are you in
your stocking feet?
Most just reply, Nothing's wrong.
I miss you, too.
Come quick.
message on every green Volvo
in town
Is anything wrong?
I miss you.
574-7423
The phone rings constantly.
One says, Are you bald?
Another, How tall are you in
your stocking feet?
Most just reply, Nothing's wrong.
I miss you, too.
Come quick.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
I've missed you
Falling in love is easy. It's commitment that is difficult. Maybe some people believe in a laissez faire kind of market for love - if at that point of time, you are willing to give and someone is willing to receive, why not? Love is a service, a commercial transaction, easily purchased brand new. But for me, there is always only One. I think love is 1/3 part memory, 1/3 part reality and 1/3 part imagination. We are starting the third year of our relationship and we can't turn back time - we can't go back to the moment, where we were strangers, tenderly and clumsily moving towards each other in the dark, where every word you said was a gift and every bit you shared of yourself was light.
Light that re-oriented my life. Every part of you that was like me made me fall deeper, every other part of you that was not like me made me intrigued. And most of all, all those parts of you that understood the strange parts of me, felt like a reason for their existence.
I remember how the first time you touched my ears. They burned.
Just last saturday, you made my heart moved again. I had left food in my bag and there were fruit flies. But you, as always, you took the bag and cleaned it. You cleaned it with such detail and focus, with such eloquence - you who was never good with words, only actions, spoke volumes. I know why you put such effort, you were scared any nasty eggs will turn into nasty creatures and eat me up. Or simply, you just always gave your all when it came to me.
I've missed you. You say all the right things to me, but words just aren't your thing. I try not to idealise. But, every now and then, when I'm feeling low, I'll think back to when we first met. I miss you knocking on my window to call me for breakfast or anything you want to call me (knocks beat technology). I miss you walking with me even though you have a bicycle because my bicycle got stolen. I miss you buying kebabs for me when I'm too lazy to feed myself. I miss us in supermarkets. I miss our tuesday ribs. I miss the extremely fat rabbits and chickens on our way to the supermarket. I miss your backpack. I miss your addiction to Coke. I sometimes miss reading maps. I miss you buying me flowers. I miss the owl I drew for you in your room. I miss the shirts you threw away. I miss Orange and how warm she makes us feel of humanity. I miss my overly expensive fake sushi and banana orange juice. I miss the vintage postcard store. I miss the giant pancake buffet I never got to eat with you. I miss fighting with you every thursday morning.
No matter how off the track we go, we always return to the first time we missed our train. We trudged back to my room, waiting for the second train, hours away. Our bags all strewn on the floor. Our boots all tied up and ready to go. I had knocked my lips against the door in the rush to get ready and it was cut and slightly bleeding. We looked a mess. I smiled at you, "Two of us against the world". From then on, everytime we hit a bump, either one of us will say it to each other. And I know, it'll always be you. And you, you will always choose me.
Light that re-oriented my life. Every part of you that was like me made me fall deeper, every other part of you that was not like me made me intrigued. And most of all, all those parts of you that understood the strange parts of me, felt like a reason for their existence.
I remember how the first time you touched my ears. They burned.
Just last saturday, you made my heart moved again. I had left food in my bag and there were fruit flies. But you, as always, you took the bag and cleaned it. You cleaned it with such detail and focus, with such eloquence - you who was never good with words, only actions, spoke volumes. I know why you put such effort, you were scared any nasty eggs will turn into nasty creatures and eat me up. Or simply, you just always gave your all when it came to me.
I've missed you. You say all the right things to me, but words just aren't your thing. I try not to idealise. But, every now and then, when I'm feeling low, I'll think back to when we first met. I miss you knocking on my window to call me for breakfast or anything you want to call me (knocks beat technology). I miss you walking with me even though you have a bicycle because my bicycle got stolen. I miss you buying kebabs for me when I'm too lazy to feed myself. I miss us in supermarkets. I miss our tuesday ribs. I miss the extremely fat rabbits and chickens on our way to the supermarket. I miss your backpack. I miss your addiction to Coke. I sometimes miss reading maps. I miss you buying me flowers. I miss the owl I drew for you in your room. I miss the shirts you threw away. I miss Orange and how warm she makes us feel of humanity. I miss my overly expensive fake sushi and banana orange juice. I miss the vintage postcard store. I miss the giant pancake buffet I never got to eat with you. I miss fighting with you every thursday morning.
No matter how off the track we go, we always return to the first time we missed our train. We trudged back to my room, waiting for the second train, hours away. Our bags all strewn on the floor. Our boots all tied up and ready to go. I had knocked my lips against the door in the rush to get ready and it was cut and slightly bleeding. We looked a mess. I smiled at you, "Two of us against the world". From then on, everytime we hit a bump, either one of us will say it to each other. And I know, it'll always be you. And you, you will always choose me.
The Temporary Face by Imtiaz Dharker
I draw your face on the huge sand
in the early morning, when small crabs
run and hide in the holes
I have provided for your eyes.
I go away. Through the day
people come and go, knowing nothing
but themselves, the sun on shoulders,
salt, fish, net. They scuff
your outlines, walk across your mouth,
they put down footprints in your eyes.
This makes you real, peels back
your absence, lets your image heal
like a temporary skin. I learn to
love the thing that has to be erased,
the thing I may not be allowed to keep,
sand that runs away beneath my running feet.
in the early morning, when small crabs
run and hide in the holes
I have provided for your eyes.
I go away. Through the day
people come and go, knowing nothing
but themselves, the sun on shoulders,
salt, fish, net. They scuff
your outlines, walk across your mouth,
they put down footprints in your eyes.
This makes you real, peels back
your absence, lets your image heal
like a temporary skin. I learn to
love the thing that has to be erased,
the thing I may not be allowed to keep,
sand that runs away beneath my running feet.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
My Confession
I remember very vividly the scene in 2046 where tony leung's character screams silently into a hole, in some temple? in some wall? was it his character? was it the right movie? The older I get, the more my memories seem embellished. In my memory, I watched it with D, and I told her I would always be her hole. Sometimes when such memories come to me I don't scold my younger self for making such brave declarations promising eternity, I scold only myself for not fulfilling them. How many of us have promised forever only to have time outpace us?
This entry is actually not about 2046 or D or about holes. Well, not entirely about holes. But back to the scene, the idea of having a hole, somewhere you can say all your painful and sad things, or perhaps somewhere safe to keep all the painful, sad but precious things, somewhere to put all your hurt. So a hole may seem kind of useless - empty space and whatnot, but it is an emotional safe. I've kept this confession in the emotional safe for a while. Playing the if you don't say it out loud, it does not exist trump card.
I was losing my conviction that I would actually write a book one day. From secondary school, I think, I have been telling my friends with full certainty that I would write a book one day and give it to all of them. I didn't know what I would write, I didn't care about the money, even more horrified of fame. Already at secondary school, I was conceiving pen names. Although I'm quite sure my fourteen year old self never imagined her older self would have forgotten the pen name already. But such is the fate of anonymity.
My dream, my deepest dream, was to a write a children book with illustrations (my own!) that children and adults will love. In the spirit of the books that gave me my love for reading - a great definer would be The Little Prince, or Roald Dahl. Roald Dahl's books, more than any other books, fired my imagination. To me a rat is always a potential witch and every chocolate hides a golden ticket. I wanted to be as smart as Matilda and make the craziest inventions.
So, yes, I was thinking that I wasn't going to be able to fulfill my dream. With modern technology, I don't really even need lots of money or even a publisher. I really just needed words. However, my dream, was not just a book. A 100 page, double-sided, font size 12, stapled, binded, document with my words on it. I always imagined the book to exemplify a part of my soul. Yes, as corny as it sounded, I always thought that the book, however bad it would be, would represent a bit of me. However, the words I've been writing felt foreign to say the least.
I don't imagine that by saying out loud my fears will magically go away. I will need to check my Roald Dahl stories to see if that is actually literally possible. But, this is me, taking it out of the hole, and trying to tell myself, don't give up. Confessions are rarely given to other people, in reality they are always given to themselves. To admit things they rather not admit, not really because they don't want to hurt people, but they don't want to hurt people's impressions of themselves. Confessions are our little monsters.
So, I was all ready, even after the incident I described below after meeting TY and TYu to hang up my writing cap, when during lunch one day. It itched. The writing itch. Some word in a conversation had triggered a connection in my brain and even though I was still participating in the conversation, my mind had flown off, completely absorbed into this new idea. I was going to take leave, one month or 3 weeks, fly off to some place I've been to before, peaceful, languid, and simply write. Although I have never been to a log cabin in a forest, I could see it already - that log cabin, that desk with the shitty lamp and very functional (but ugly) notepad, a simple bed, one of those really old fat televisions and creaky chairs. Was I actually dreaming of a cliche? But I didn't care. Outside, there's a wide lake... and there He is fishing with his bucket of worms I will not touch. I will sit next to him, probably with a shawl, with my ugly notepad or maybe a book. We'll talk or stay in silence. The two of us have the most comfortable silences. There'll be nothing important to see, nothing important to do. Just groceries and finding clean water and food. It'll be nice if we are near markets and second hand bookstores, the kind just like the one in Holland where the book seller always give me a discount, so my books are so cheap that I always leave them at the places I finish reading them, believing they will meet new readers. We'll maybe do jigsaw puzzles, but I will give up half way, like i usually do. Then finally remember that I came here to write, and I did write, but here and there, on various scraps of papers, and maybe receipts, especially napkins, and hope they will all end up in some kind of poem. Be some kind of beautiful.
This entry is actually not about 2046 or D or about holes. Well, not entirely about holes. But back to the scene, the idea of having a hole, somewhere you can say all your painful and sad things, or perhaps somewhere safe to keep all the painful, sad but precious things, somewhere to put all your hurt. So a hole may seem kind of useless - empty space and whatnot, but it is an emotional safe. I've kept this confession in the emotional safe for a while. Playing the if you don't say it out loud, it does not exist trump card.
I was losing my conviction that I would actually write a book one day. From secondary school, I think, I have been telling my friends with full certainty that I would write a book one day and give it to all of them. I didn't know what I would write, I didn't care about the money, even more horrified of fame. Already at secondary school, I was conceiving pen names. Although I'm quite sure my fourteen year old self never imagined her older self would have forgotten the pen name already. But such is the fate of anonymity.
My dream, my deepest dream, was to a write a children book with illustrations (my own!) that children and adults will love. In the spirit of the books that gave me my love for reading - a great definer would be The Little Prince, or Roald Dahl. Roald Dahl's books, more than any other books, fired my imagination. To me a rat is always a potential witch and every chocolate hides a golden ticket. I wanted to be as smart as Matilda and make the craziest inventions.
So, yes, I was thinking that I wasn't going to be able to fulfill my dream. With modern technology, I don't really even need lots of money or even a publisher. I really just needed words. However, my dream, was not just a book. A 100 page, double-sided, font size 12, stapled, binded, document with my words on it. I always imagined the book to exemplify a part of my soul. Yes, as corny as it sounded, I always thought that the book, however bad it would be, would represent a bit of me. However, the words I've been writing felt foreign to say the least.
I don't imagine that by saying out loud my fears will magically go away. I will need to check my Roald Dahl stories to see if that is actually literally possible. But, this is me, taking it out of the hole, and trying to tell myself, don't give up. Confessions are rarely given to other people, in reality they are always given to themselves. To admit things they rather not admit, not really because they don't want to hurt people, but they don't want to hurt people's impressions of themselves. Confessions are our little monsters.
So, I was all ready, even after the incident I described below after meeting TY and TYu to hang up my writing cap, when during lunch one day. It itched. The writing itch. Some word in a conversation had triggered a connection in my brain and even though I was still participating in the conversation, my mind had flown off, completely absorbed into this new idea. I was going to take leave, one month or 3 weeks, fly off to some place I've been to before, peaceful, languid, and simply write. Although I have never been to a log cabin in a forest, I could see it already - that log cabin, that desk with the shitty lamp and very functional (but ugly) notepad, a simple bed, one of those really old fat televisions and creaky chairs. Was I actually dreaming of a cliche? But I didn't care. Outside, there's a wide lake... and there He is fishing with his bucket of worms I will not touch. I will sit next to him, probably with a shawl, with my ugly notepad or maybe a book. We'll talk or stay in silence. The two of us have the most comfortable silences. There'll be nothing important to see, nothing important to do. Just groceries and finding clean water and food. It'll be nice if we are near markets and second hand bookstores, the kind just like the one in Holland where the book seller always give me a discount, so my books are so cheap that I always leave them at the places I finish reading them, believing they will meet new readers. We'll maybe do jigsaw puzzles, but I will give up half way, like i usually do. Then finally remember that I came here to write, and I did write, but here and there, on various scraps of papers, and maybe receipts, especially napkins, and hope they will all end up in some kind of poem. Be some kind of beautiful.
First Lily
I have been cowardly for a long time. I can give lots of reasons - lack of time, energy, confidentiality... but the main reason I've stopped writing is the ability to be truly open. Even now, the words are rusty, children clumsily running from the places they were hiding in. I don't know when awareness started to creep in... that words have responsibilities. As if "always" was a father of two or "cowardly" had a mortgage to pay back. I wish I could go back to the earlier times where I wrote "freely", but freely now seems like a pair of pants two sizes too small for me.
So this is me, trying to find new clothes. Trying to be less cowardly.
The motivation started around the last week of last year. I was waiting with friends at the train station for more friends. Then, TY and TYu appeared out of nowhere (the first of many reunions that night). The first thing TY said to me was, "I have something to tell you!" and I immediately replied, "You are getting married?!" and TY said, "No. But before that, you must tell me your new blog address!" And I felt something I haven't felt for ages already - that strange mix of guilt and regret and recklessness? of not meeting the expectations of someone strange and intimate. I know this phrase "strange and intimate" is awkward, but it expresses the idea of someone who was relating to you not in a position of friend, family or lover but almost a third party stranger - for e.g. a teacher. And so in that moment TY was not my friend, but a reader. And as a writer, even with no obligations to write, I felt that I had failed her in some way.
So, this is me, trying again. Trying again and again and again.
So this is me, trying to find new clothes. Trying to be less cowardly.
The motivation started around the last week of last year. I was waiting with friends at the train station for more friends. Then, TY and TYu appeared out of nowhere (the first of many reunions that night). The first thing TY said to me was, "I have something to tell you!" and I immediately replied, "You are getting married?!" and TY said, "No. But before that, you must tell me your new blog address!" And I felt something I haven't felt for ages already - that strange mix of guilt and regret and recklessness? of not meeting the expectations of someone strange and intimate. I know this phrase "strange and intimate" is awkward, but it expresses the idea of someone who was relating to you not in a position of friend, family or lover but almost a third party stranger - for e.g. a teacher. And so in that moment TY was not my friend, but a reader. And as a writer, even with no obligations to write, I felt that I had failed her in some way.
So, this is me, trying again. Trying again and again and again.
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