Dawn

As she angrily struggled to hide the stubborn tears from her father upon taking off yet again into the always awaiting chock full of remote possibilities of what may be and whys and wherefores, she was sure of one thing and one thing only - the next time as those many occurrences encore, things will never, ever be the same, ever again. In a multitude, myriad of ways.

Hits and misses,
ghosts and corpses.

Plenty of times she had made the return journey. Plenty of times she burst into flames. Plenty of times she stumbled upon observant discoveries. Plenty of times she played this foolish game. But this time, as gracefulness and gracelessness were simultaneously felt, the tears they eked out uncalled for, unforgivable. Heartfelt hope and heart, they melt.

It wasn't too bad, what a fool she'd be to start complaining.

Now, would you kindly pass me the salt shaker? It is, but time.

Shangri-la, scream that you're happy
Shangri-la, even if you fall over on a straight path

Remnants Revisited

Recollections of yesternight indeed. Well, quite.

I spied with my eye as I hover-revolved - occasionally perching - around the throes of mental battle ensuing an excessive sluice of the written as those individuals rendezvoused amidst the city lights underneath a sole, sparkling star. The resounding stillness of the night was left to settle, only haphazardly punctuated by the constant barking of a distant dog.

Black, I imagined.

The rumblings of modern machinery were curiously absent. It could possibly be that its ubiquity has deigned or bowed its head to what is seemingly - or presumably - the oblivious.

No, not oblivion. Surely not.

It was as if time obligingly stood still, defying its very own principle of impatient indifference, forsaking the minute hand - threatening it that if it were to budge even a nanomiliminute, it would be immediately discharged of its duties and the second hand be immediately promoted to play both (very prosaic, imo) roles.

But we all know that the minute hand knew better.

Well well, shame on you Father Time.

Kaleidoscope

Hexagonal, polygonal?

People...
they see love in a kaleidoscope of ways.
Some give and give - relentlessly, unconditionally.



Wonder for me.

As for me,
love takes form as naturally
as reciprocation, the form
of thankfulness,
of thanksgiving.

I'm a taker and I
appreciate.

I'm a learner and a
subordinate.

And if there is
one thing,
a lesson,
as far as my mind can reason,

The gemlike fragments
tumble and combine
hyperbole, elliptical
topology divine...

may forever be
to me

undefined.

- an idle mind, Febru airy '10

Kitteh

Hi.

Did you know that an earthworm has 5 hearts? Urgh.

Dictionaries' Stories

Those little voices, they bring tidings of an impending misery.
Misery, that of which begets woe.
Woe, that of which begets a frailty deep within the corners of my mind.

Writing about the simple, everyday things in life has come to a grinding halt.


Loosely translated, it could possibly mean blogging.
(shrugs) Pah, nomenclature. I bet "translated" doesn't even come close to the right word.

But, I digress.


Instead, those swirling thoughts are either carefully nitpicked to fit in here - nothing too offensive or infuriating, for instance - or stored safely away in the drafts, locked, keys swallowed.


Why?


'Cause of all you pestilent judgmental creatures.
'Cause you can never be too good at what you do.
'Cause love and hate, both sides are conjoined. Physical forms have to deal with both sides of the coin.

All of us were wrong, except for you.

Silly little smart girl.

Eurus

I enjoyed it.

Potong

Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.

My my, what is it, really -
Your inability, miss sully
to abort mission completely?

Your idea,
most childlike
like "dire rear"

Not quite.

I vowed, sorta,
to keep the beasties in check.
In rank and file and order,
to separate train from wreck.

Ergo, darling,
Friend or foe,
Scissor it - shoestrings, ties not bows.


- Anger, Janyuar2010

Fine

Reporting in on the fifth day of a new decade, for I am but as lazy as always.

How's everybody a-doin'?

Uni life had finally hit a brick wall and broke through it with might and much glory. I am now an aimless and purposeless being grasping around in the dark for the slightest semblance of...sense and gleaming hope and ambition whatnot and the like.

I foresee more updates, seeing that my schedule is in its lightest of states. (That is, if Glee and Californication have unsuccessfully snatched and whisked me away from the outside, sunny outside.)

For now, I want a workstation - for order, in rank and file, to sit up straight and sit back pillared.

Happy 2010!

Effy

There was a girl who could only live on lemonade. Or her parents were really old and rubbish and just kept giving it to her to the point where she couldn’t have anything else. Or they were really nice and only gave it to her because they really liked her. I can’t decide that bit but she could only live on lemonade. If she didn’t have lemonade, she’d die. And her parents were going to die soon too because they had something wrong with them that their blood was blue or something like that. And she had a brother but he was really stupid, though, no one really cared about him. They just wanted their little girl to live. The only trouble is, no one thought about her brother. She was in a bottle, he was on his own, no one thought about him. They just left him. So he sat by her, her brother, he sat by her in the bottle and ‘cause lemonade helped her eyesight, she could see him really clearly through the sides, even though the grass was as a thick as his skull. And cause it was the countryside, there was nothing for him to eat, nothing for him to buy and he was starving. And she could see that and there was no one looking after him, cause he was a bit stupid, couldn’t really look after himself, and it kept on raining so he was getting a bit rusty. She was having an amazing time with the lemonade but she knew she had to help him, so she swam to the surface but she couldn’t get out, it was too far away, this bottle was too big. She knew she had to do something, he was getting worse and worse and worse and he was really hungry and thirsty and he started eating glass and puking up all the time. So she tried to think of some plan for him but she couldn’t. All she knew is that he needed her with him. All she could do was watch him puke his guts up on the other side of the glass. But then bingo, she knew. She started to drink and she drank and she drank and she drank. And this was a lot of lemonade, enough to last her till she died, cause her parents wanted her to live for ages but she drank, every last drop, until she was in an empty bottle but that was no good, she still couldn’t get out. But that was okay, because she just waited until she had a big one stored up. Because she drank all the pop, she drank all the lemonade. And then she started to fart. It was slow at first but then it was really loud and hard. She blew her way out of the bottle, straight from the top, like a rocket. Then she stopped her brother eating grass and they went and found a nice little house to live in together, her and her brother. And it turned out drinking all that lemonade had cured her because she never wanted it again. She had orange for the rest of her life.

Perception

Something to think about….

Washington, DC Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007. The man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approximately. 2 thousand people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After 3 minutes a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.

4 minutes later:

The violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.

6 minutes:

A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

10 minutes:

A 3-year old boy stopped but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.

45 minutes:

The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.

1 hour:

He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.

This is a true story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people’s priorities.

The questions raised:

*In a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty?

*Do we stop to appreciate it?

*Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this:

If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made.

How many other things are we missing?