{ CAGES }

Life for Beginners

Sun, 09 Dec 2007 05:33:26 GMT

{ CAGES } was my online journal for most of 2004. All the entries have now been archived in my new blog LIFE FOR BEGINNERS, available at http://kennymah.wordpress.com/ or http://kennymah.net/ --- which includes my earlier journals all the way from 2001.

A few excerpts...

Why Do We Always Hurt The Ones We Love?
There will be days, weeks and longer periods even when we won’t be together. Intimacy isn’t a touch or thoughts; it isn’t a constant presence. Maybe what it is how we deal with it when we are separated, maybe that’s true intimacy, maybe that’s how we know.

And if we get hurt along the way, maybe that’s fine too.

Then & Now
Nothing beats the realisation that yes, in this life, we are alone. We are just us, by ourselves. We have to be, to forge an authentic identity. But yet, we are never alone, not really, not unless we choose to be. There is so much love out there, no amount of pain or suffering can diffuse it.

Thing is, people change. We all do. Even when we don’t. Feelings and idea and our bodies especially. It’s aging and when we are fortunate enough, it’s even a bit of growing up we do.

We
I love you. I love finally being able to say I love you. I love that you knew I have been loving you even before I said it. I love that, despite struggling to find the perfect moment to say I love you, from planning a candle-lit dinner this weekend to conjuring up something in the midst of the restless masses, the perfect moment came anyway – last night, when I said I love you, and it came like thunder and it came like a whisper, and nothing could hold it back.

My Fussy Valentine

Wed, 07 Feb 2007 11:10:31 GMT

One does not have to be grumpy and grouchy just because one is single, available, and as the years pass, increasingly unappealing. Nay, as wine ages fine, so shall we! Let’s meet our beloved friends who have coupled up (and in some instances, multiplied) with as much grace as we can summon. Truly, the unloved (or worse, non-dating) are our modern martyrs.

Read the rest here...

Broken Mornings

Tue, 30 Jan 2007 14:08:51 GMT

28 stories for my 28th birthday. Who says you can't give presents to yourself a birthday present for your own birthday?

This collection of stories, verse, et cetera is now available in PDF format, ready for download from the permanent page here:Broken Mornings.

Please leave your feedback/comments/criticisms on this permanent page instead of LJ. Thanks!

A Little Bit of Everything

Sat, 27 Jan 2007 09:25:26 GMT

1. Wine & Dine at Alvin's
So, last Saturday, right after my BodyBalance audition (which I passed/survived, thank you very much, Klevin), I picked Henny up and off we galloped through the rain to Alvin's condo for a little wine & dine. The rest of the folks (host & hostess Alvin and Ellyne, and their wacky sidekick Nisa) thought it be a nice change to sit down to a home-cooked meal ala posh. All dressed and nowhere to go.

But plenty of nice mash - food galore! Stirfried tofu, mock meat and vegetables in bean sauce; a cream cheese potato salad; omellete ala carbonara; the chef's own special couscous; a bottle of Chilean Merlot... pikante!

Conversation was wonderfully lurid (to the ladies' dismay, or perhaps not) and we ended with some nice hot red bean dessert and a Japanese samurai film. Much mention of harakiri, and even better, I got to borrow a DVD of Rashomon from Alvin. Akira Kurosawa is the man.

Henny, Alvin, me, Nisa

Food, glorious food!

Me & Ellyne, listening to Alvin's hilarious anecdotes

2. My 28th Birthday
O damn. Another bloody year older.

Except this round, it doesn't seem all that bad. It seems an achievement almost, to have come this far, and have gone through so much and survived. 2007 feels like it's finally getting started. All is good.

Darling Jess took me out for lunch at Seastar. Lovely Chinese stirfry. We had seafood laksa noodles, black pepper beef, honey chicken, and she got me a slice of cheesecake with one tiny candle. (As it should be; don't wanna be too accurate and set off the smoke alarms, eh?) Jason joined us, which made for mucho fun times.

Afterwards, I went and paid a month-old parking ticket and got a discount. I believe Jess and I are the only Malaysians who even bother with this; most of our friends have stacks of the stuff crammed away in their glove compartment. Strangely, settling this fine made me happy. Odd, me.

Dinner was at Kim Gary, the HongKong restaurant. This round, it was Nisa, Alvin, Jason and Henny. We had hot-stone unagi and porkchop with onaki mushrooms, kimchi and snow peas, cheese baked rice with fish, a chicken 'n' chips platter, and the most sinful French toast on Earth, lathered with peanut butter and melting butter...

We (or rather, the rest of them) proceeded to wreck havoc with the Cantonese dialect of Hongkies and us who live in the Klang Valley. Mangled the shit out of it. I attempted to stab myself with the steak knife at least half a dozen times the night. O but that shit was so funny! Sigh... best birthday I've had in recent memory...

Which may not be saying much considering how those brain cells go as I get older... :P

Dove Caught by the River

Fri, 12 Jan 2007 04:01:26 GMT

Why is it that I never seem to forget my crushes?

The ones I loved and lost (or more accurately, abandoned) are easy to lose sight of. There is some unequal bitterness, something that never recovered from the breakup or the fights or the jealousies and madness. It's like some favourite dish I have finally eaten too much of and can no longer stomach another bite.

But my crushes, my sweet infatuations that never came to be, they are like exotic delicacies that I never got to taste. The hunger persists, after all these years. Such unbearable longing. Is it foolish, at my age? But what am I saying; I am not yet twenty-eight, though that threshold approaches rapidly. I have to keep reminding myself: I am not that old yet; I have still life to live.

Sometimes I feel like a long-distance dove, finally failing and falling, caught by the river rampaging across the lands I journey, finally crushed and ended. What is the cause of it all? What is the cost of it all?

The real reason for this faithful desire, of course, is the sheer impossibility of it. No chance of consummation. What can't be fulfilled, can't be dissolved. The dream, the fantasy holds. I will always want you. This perfect, stupid idea of you. I can't have you, and this is the way it's meant to be.

O but what if, O if only...

[ http://kennymah.wordpress.com/2007/01/12/dove-caught-by-the-river/ ]

The Art of Doing Nothing

Wed, 10 Jan 2007 07:47:07 GMT

Let's do a little game of compare 'n' contrast, shall we?

Films I have watched/re-watched since January 1st, 2007:

Gattaca

War Games

Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone

The Pledge

The Gift

Agnes Browne

and tonight, with Zima and Jason...

The Curse of the Golden Flower

Books I have read since January 1st, 2007:

Poppy Z. Brite's Soul Kitchen

That's seven films versus one book. Is it any wonder I'm developing a late patch of attention deficit disorder (ADD)? It's so difficult to focus on any one thing for long. I feel that I have been remiss of even the simplest of my laze-about duties.

To recount, I haven't:

finished archiving the rest of my Munich journals though it's all there, just waiting for me to copy-and-paste each entry, resize and reformat each accompanying image, and... oh, maybe this is why I haven't done it yet - it's too much damn work.

cleaned out that one last paper bag of useless papers, forms and what-nots, a whole month after my insane storming of my bedroom, reorganising each and every drawer and shelf; it just sits there, staring at me, taunting me:"You're not done yet...

gone for any proper yoga classes yet (in order to get my postures corrected by an instructor who doesn't have to stick to a platform and keep to his/her cues ala BodyBalance).

returned to the perilous world of dating though I keep telling my friends I'm totally available now.

spoken to more people about doing some freelance projects.

written/rewritten a single word of “Only the Greatest Gets to Go” despite ranting about it last week.

Who knew doing nothing took so much time?

Of course, it says a lot about my obsessive-compulsiveness that even while loafing around, I fret about doing something and getting it done. Still. Maybe one day, I'll write a book called "The Art of Doing Nothing". It could be a bestseller, only people would have to stop doing nothing to go buy it, so...

[ http://kennymah.wordpress.com/2007/01/10/the-art-of-doing-nothing/ ]

What Time Is It?

Mon, 08 Jan 2007 11:57:40 GMT

I have a confession to make. I fear I am repeating myself. I have yet to learn how to be nice. Some times. Otherwise, plain nasty. Or aloof. Distant. Disconnected. (But never unconcerned.) Time was I thought I cared about something.

Saturday night with Jason, Henny and Nisa. I have forgotten how easy it is to slip into a sense of camaraderie with Jason. We discussed how, in your late 20’s, it’s near impossible to lose that little bit of a paunch that develops. Of course, Jason looks lean and Nisa insists I’m thin, but still. That final little itty-bitty that drives you crazy. Henny ate an entire slice of decadent chocolate cake at Starbucks after dinner by herself. I just tore my paper cup into origami-aeroplane-shreds. It never flew.

Sunday breakfast with Uncle Henry. We haven’t had a chance to catch up since before I left for Munich. This was five, six years ago. I’m almost twenty-eight now. Quite sure it frightens me. Time to look back, to look ahead.

But just living here, right now, is the most difficult thing to do, goddamnit.

[ http://kennymah.wordpress.com/2007/01/08/what-time-is-it/ ]

Brute

Sat, 06 Jan 2007 02:48:04 GMT

And it’s difficult to feel anything. Throat is dry, lips chapped. Here he stands. Taut and lean, like a gymnast sailor. Too elegant, too brutal. Here is the swing of his arm. Punch: a good word, a good hammering, honestly.

“Here is a beating. Here is my love. Rough and easy.”

I’ll take it because I believe I love him.

[ http://allmylittlewords.wordpress.com/2007/01/05/brute/ ]

Stuff to Do

Fri, 05 Jan 2007 03:18:47 GMT

.1.
Thursday: After my morning BodyBalance class, I had my instructor Li Lin show me how to do the Backbend/Upward Bow Pose. Couldn't do it without her supporting my back and pushing my head down. And it hurt like heck. Ah, I think I'll stick to the Bridge Pose for now.

But I have an audition for the BodyBalance training at the end of this month at Fitness First, The Curve. What are the chances of me looking like a bloody fool with a class of people who have been stretching and contorting for years, and me, blundering around with this for only a few months?

I guess this is one way to keep my life entertaining...

.2.
Jess and I had dinner yesterday; hadn't seen her in awhile. She's plenty stressed about work, especially her new manager, the very stereotype of the unreasonable power-hungry office demon who piles on the work on ya even though you are already up to your eyeballs in shit, who is jealous of your experience and good relationships with vendors, lecturers, students, etc. Yeah, like I said, one stressed-out friend coming right up.

Makes me wonder if I ever want to return to a nine-to-five career with the inevitable office politics and back-stabbing, the hard work with few returns and even fewer signs of appreciation. But this may just very well be reading too much into perceived patterns; I fall too easily into the trap of seeing things purely as I wish to see them.

What can ya do? Some people are just complete cunts. I'm pretty sure I have been one myself plenty of times. All that matters was that she got it off her chest and we had dinner. (Just the facts, sir, just the facts.)

.3.
Later the same night, Henny persuaded me to join her on some corporate espionage: we had to infiltrate a local shopping complex and spy on their parking and security system. I won't go into all the details but it sure wasn't the way I had expected to spend my evening. Let's just say it ain't that easy to take photos of the ticket-vending machine when you are trying your best to keep a straight face with all the shoppers staring at you, curious curious.

She had locked herself out her room earlier, and maybe there is something to say, regarding security and irony, but I wouldn't know.

.4.
Tomorrow night: The Malaysian Philharmonic Orchestra with Nisa! This is the first time I'll be attending a performance of the MPO and I'm rather excited about it. Time for a bit of culture in my life! :)

[ http://kennymah.wordpress.com/2007/01/05/stuff-to-do/ ]

The Beauty of No Future

Wed, 03 Jan 2007 12:27:55 GMT

The heart still lusts for things, for objects to purchase and hold and own. This inescapable desire: it returns and returns, unforgiving in its relentless pursuit of our attention. I ask Jonathan why is he so angry.

Figures don't fit the reality: Career and money is, if not spectacular, damn good. Not much burdens or responsibilities. He just gave up drinking, even socially (well, maybe not just - it was a couple of months - but he just told me yesterday over lunch). Fantastic relationship with his sister Ben (something I never had with my own sister, eleven years my senior; nothing I regret - I'll always be her children's favourite uncle and that must mean something).

But it's okay: numbers don't always add up. There is no linear logic in life.

Jonathan wonders how I can give it all up. (Have I, really?) There is no choice, at least, no other option I can canvass right now. This moment is all. There is a slow, simmering realization that, yes, I, we, only have this one life after all. What I could have done with it. What I have done already; what I regret. Thing is, even with the regrets, I can find some means of seeing that it, like a link in a chain, has connected me to my present, has led me here. That matters, cos this is all the reality I have. No "what if?"s. (Not anymore.) It can be hard to resist the pull of speculation but that path, as wiser men have said, leads only to madness.

This is now; giving in isn't giving up. It's letting go (or trying to, anyway, and I ought get points for that if nothing else) of all the expectations that like rope burns and bind. Not just the expectations of Others, but worse yet, so late did I realize this, my expectations of myself. We betray ourselves too easily, I fear.

Becomes a rhythm, a habit, a life, to set standards and to toe the line. To falter is to fail. Yet I have discovered achievement, results, success, these fragmentary ideas are passing pleasures. Nothing lasts when nothing truly connects.

So I wonder now, what have I deprived myself? What have I not allowed myself to do, to be? It is not too late, no, not too late, to give in and to follow my heart. Here is not to expect, to not prepare for wickedness and disaster; after all that is the beauty of no future.

[ http://kennymah.wordpress.com/2007/01/03/the-beauty-of-no-future/. ]

Two Years Disappear

Mon, 01 Jan 2007 08:16:45 GMT

Two years have passed since I last posted an entry here, on Livejournal. Spent a year in Indonesia (Jakarta, Bandung, Surabaya), and almost another year floundering with a business that never really got off its feet. Now comes a time for reflection, to review what has once gone, what I had done in belief it would get me somewhere but here.

Time to write again, to spend some time with words, to figure who I am building, brick after brick of years spent and done with.

I'm blogging again, then. Regularly on my new personal weblog - Life for Beginners - where I am also archiving my Munich journals, in addition to { CAGES }. My stories and poems I'm archiving separately at All My Little Words. (I'll post when I can on Livejournal but mirroring takes time, so it's probably best to bookmark the new blogs.)

Well, hello again.

~*~
RSS Feeds:

Live and Dance With You

Mon, 27 Dec 2004 16:03:25 GMT

Elly called me up today; she was writing an article for a magazine and she wanted to know if I believed in the one true love. (Or, as she put it, THE One True Love.) How would I know if that someone is the one I can love for a lifetime?

Really not the type of question you want to ask someone like me.

Now, I've been telling a lot of people that I was born a cynic, a pessimist. That's mostly untrue. If anything, I used to be a diehard idealist; I believed that anything could come true. But I was a child then. Years came and took their toll on me; they robbed me of any hopes that lingered and I became bitter. (I'm smiling now as I realise that this is true, and not just another cliché from my lips, yet I still can't but appreciate how completely absurd it sounds.)

Can you imagine how crushing this was, especially when it didn't come suddenly, but with the ugly, trudging hammering of the years as dream after dream died on you?

Unrequited crushes. College darlings that turned out to be nothing like what you fantasized about. (They all fall short; they have to. Expectations are terrible, terrible things.) Great doomed love affairs. And you either give up or settle. Or the brave ones, well, we go on.

Yes, Elly, we go on. Perhaps you shouldn't ask me if I believed in the one true love. Is it not enough that my actions must dictate some faith in love at all? Does it have to be one? Such a solitary number, such a diseased throw of the die.

I have loved greatly twice before. And each time, well, let's just say you know it when it's staring you back in the face. "This is the one." No, that's not quite what your mind says. "I love you." No, not that either. No, I think I remember it right this time. The first thought to come to my mind was simply "Wow." Not the word, the thought, the impact, the first and last and biggest blow you'll ever get. Wow.

And I got it twice.

They are only memories now, but memories I treasure. They are a reminder that one day, some day, great love will come my way again. Wow again. It may last a day or a year, who knows, maybe forever this time. But I think all that truly matters is that it came, and I wasn't too frightened to fall.

Let go. Fall. Love.

Am I idealistic again? No, I think I have always been this way, even during my years disguised as a cynic. I'm a heartless romantic; I don't think about the love and the warm, fuzzy feelings. No, I don't spend too much time digging up past wounds and luxuriating in the hurt either. When it comes, it comes. Wham! And that's it.

Elly, maybe none of this will help you with your article. I apologise. I can't seem to give you any straight answers. But I will tell you this: I still dream of the day when I meet the one to whom I'll say, "I want to live and dance with you."

That'd be sweet.

~ * ~

Current Mood: Grateful.
Current Music: Live - Dance With You

It Doesn't Hurt No More

Thu, 18 Nov 2004 09:39:41 GMT

1.
One day all of this will make sense.

In the meantime, put your best foot forward. Describe yourself as the cheerful, interesting and intelligent personality a large segment of society seeks to be acquainted with. Smile, but not too wide. Don't forget to use a breath freshener. Brush any dust or dandruff off your shoulders. You too can look neat and proper. Don't speak too fast; they can't make out what you're saying. Stand up straight, my boy.

This is not an introduction to me. This is not who I am.

~ * ~

2.
That's alright. It doesn't hurt no more.

Some days it is intolerable how nice people are, how easy it is to depend on the kindness of strangers. You helped me reach the pier and the ferry to Belfast on time, though your niece barely escaped Bali and the blast and you were wary. Decency won out this time. I only wished it did all the time.

And there will always be that three a.m. and the Spanish girls we picked up in the storm and that wedding on the dancefloor and that last cigarette I bummed off you.

~ * ~

3.
"Hi, there. I'm Kenny. What's your name?"

Translations lose me. Left behind in the quagmire of syntax and conjugations, I can only reply with a maybe. It's always the safest choice. No promise of yes or no. Neither here nor there. In the confusion, we find our answers. No I love you's. No I don't love you's. Just: I. You. Love.

"Hallo. Ich bin Kenny. Wie heißen Sie?"

~ * ~

4.
"You aren't from around here, are you?"

No longer recognizable. Always stereotypes. Who I am is how you see me. The bohemian nerd or the well-educated derelict? Does it matter? We shall be stars, all of us, bright, shining, happy. (Stars fade, and fall. Goodbye.) Once, I had an idea of who to be; now only traces remain.

I used to be me.

~ * ~

5.
Tender.

These scars we carry, some call them tattoos, beats of ink on our skin that do not smear, frozen pain you can't wipe away. The tempo, ba-di-da-dum, ba-di-da, ba-di-da, it kisses your mind and you can't erase these blinding beads of sorrow, strips of black & white film that is not nostalgia, only wretched memory. There is no honesty in recollection, not even when the evidence is stamped on our very own flesh.

Of course, none of this is true.

~ * ~

Elsewhere: Leavin' & Arrivin'
Current Mood: Rejuvenated. Letting go. This is faith, finally.
Current Music:

Mary J. Blige - Time

Mel Tormé - It Happened in Sun Valley

The Smashing Pumpkins - We Only Come Out At Night

Those Days

Wed, 20 Oct 2004 17:03:31 GMT

Those days I seemed to know who I was. Those days had me laughing like I never knew how to laugh before. (I must forgotten how, since.) Those days were the worst, and the best, of days, for I recall each and every one of them, like the milky beads threaded around a blessed wrist. I remember because I lived those days; I was alive.

Then.

Is this merely me missing my friends? Is the loss of easy camaraderie so difficult to swallow? I've returned to old friends, and made many new ones, good friends, great ones as well. This is more than any man could ask for, surely? But I cannot wipe out those days when the sun is bright above and we are opening bottles of good Bavarian beer and Useless McGyver is at the grill, flipping home-made burgers, someone is singing, Marco's guffaws, hearty and generous and true, and those were the days, I think.

I cannot return, yet I must attempt to do so. Fruitless tasks have their own rewards. This is less of a torture than allowing those days to creep on me suddenly, when I'm alone in the LRT, and dozing, my body sways, sways, and I'm in an U-Bahn again, why haven't I left this behind? No more questions; it's time for answers.

Ich suche sie. Seek them I shall.

~ * ~

Elsewhere: Last Orders // Schlecht seh ich aus?
Current Mood: Nostalgic.
Current Music: Rufus Wainwright - Baby

Leaves

Tue, 19 Oct 2004 19:24:01 GMT

These are the days of companionable silences. These are the leaves strewn at our doorstep, at our feet. Autumn is here; she seeks our gifts of fruit, freshly harvested, and home-made wine, rotten with mildew. Set me aside, take this of me, and learn the language of my thousand whys. There is no more time; consider only this hour; in which we are still friends, as we ever were; in which fools may still tell us truth without us beating them; here are the sticks, they may be worn with years and sour blood, but they will not break; here is my hand, my palm turned over - I'm ready for a whipping, I'm ready for my fortune.

Tell me everything.

Once, and I remember this as a much resented slight, though the years may have curdled my memory, you told me that I was weak. That I could not be faithful, that I must wander, simply because I am a man. Would not matter even if I were a woman, you said, for it is human to regret one's promises, and to repent, to amend. Your only faith was that I had none. You were certain that you couldn't satisfy me, and that I would leave. And so I did. Yet I would have liked to believe that this wasn't because you were right; that there were other reasons. I doubt this, however.

Only you. This is an untruth. There were, always were, others. These are songs that must repeat; it is in their nature to do so. We leave no traces of ourselves but the stains of our greed. Our desires, spent as seed and spill. A warm shower, and even that is gone. We are unable to remain. This is why we are not faithful. This is why we won't stick. You know this. You always did.

Is this why you pushed me away?

Yes, I'm rewriting my history, our histories. Who are you? Which of the many, whom I thought I was in love with, are you? Are you the one with the smile that made me feel I could take time off, and live a little? Are you the one who lost me my pride? Are you the one who made me loathe, simply loathe you so much? (I hated you so terribly then; it seems all but silly now.)

Who are you?

Nothing can touch me now; I know enough, surely. I can seek waters that are deeper, clearer, waters that taste like something new can come into me again. Is this foolish? This is a season where everything is dying, after all. Perhaps my fears and inhibitions can be carried to the grave as well. Let dead leaves, gold brown red shadow, fall over them, burying and masking them from me. I can let go. This is release.

Autumn is here; time for you to leave.

~ * ~

Current Mood: Memoryless.
Current Music: Patti Smith - My Madrigal

Evil. Rambles.

Mon, 18 Oct 2004 15:15:27 GMT

I want to crucify somebody. Anybody; it doesn't have to be Jesus, or me. It can be anybody. I'm evil, and I'm rambling, for I am ill, and it sucks to high heavens when this happens. For one thing, I become evil, and I ramble¹.

~ * ~

Friday and before:
Did not sleep for a grand total of 39 hours. Bad idea.

Saturday:
Gave a talk on estate planning. I was good, I think, but it doesn't feel like it matters at this point. Had lunch with </a></a>bluorred. Dance practice for the Thriller routine we're doing for Fright Night. Fun when I'm not busy cringing from performing to Michael Jackson. Apparently I make a very good zombie; the girls seem to scream in terror for real, though Sharon just giggles. I'm an undead with really good sound effects. Futsal. Babysitting two little angels. Slept at Gordon's for a bit, discovered which film I'd save if it were the last one on earth.

Sunday:
Jennifer came to Batu Caves for the climb much earlier than I'd expected. (In fact, given our history of consistently not seeming able to meet up, I'd assumed that she'd find a way to give this way a miss too.) The rest joined us soon enough, then it was a breakfast of thosai and iced coffee. Henny texted me to ask if the Girl came in shorts or long pants, and I replied, "Short, and much shorter than expected." Life can be good, if momentarily and for cheap thrills. Mahesan showed me a dirty SMS. Laughs. Cheap thrills again. Swimming pool. Sauna (us boys had some sort of ceremony, with Hari officiating, him of Finnish bosses and their steambath negotiations).

Lunchtime. Dadhy and Mahesan fed us, and gave up their entire living room too. Some of us watched Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (Extended Edition), and some of us slept. I slept, though I got up for the Faramir/Boromir flashback, and the parts where Aragorn snogs Arwen, or where Éowyn looks like she wouldn't mind a piece of the 87 year-old Ranger (well-preserved, my boy there). Afterwards, I realised I had a sore throat, and drove home in a haze to die.

Today:
I remain dead. No sound effects cos the throat still hurts.

~ * ~

This is what happens when one is sick, becomes evil and is allowed to ramble. One also hurts a lot, and physical pain is far more annoying than the imagined variety. I'm not making any sense, am I? Just a fog of Paracetamol and chicken soup from supermarket sachets. There is construction going on next door. Too much noise, drumming. I take back what I said about living in the city. I want to leave, find a quiet place somewhere with a little bit of green that won't grow to strangle me, and stay there. Do nothing but read my books and forget this world.

Of course, knowing me, I'd make a terrible hermit. Complain too much. To begin with, I'd bitch about being alone...

~ * ~

Current Mood: Sick. Also evil and rambling. (Didn't we cover this already?)
Current Music:

Phoenix - If I Ever Feel Better

Beck - Deadweight

Nicole Kidman & Ewan McGregor - Elephant Love Medley

¹ Which is not to say I don't ramble when I am healthy, but it's like when you have bad teeth and a proclivity towards leering, then there's gonna be some prominent choppers on display, eh? Or what.

ICONurbation

Fri, 15 Oct 2004 21:55:37 GMT

~ * ~

I was playing around with a list of words, when I decided to mix and match them with the user icons of my LJ friends list. Now here's the fun part: use any of the 36 words above (but only those words, and none else) to create a haiku. Yup, I guess this here is a veritable Haiku Challenge, courtesy of your friendly neighbourhood icon abductor/mutilator.

A haiku is made up of three lines of 5, 7, 5 syllables each. That's all. Simple, but the results should make a fascinating read. So, get started and have fun! (Post your haikus as comments.) And lest we forget, here are our good LJ folks, in their respective rows, from left to right...

[1] </a></a>brie_eliz, </a></a>paranoidgoddess, </a></a>delicate_flower, </a></a>officialgaiman, </a></a>cualdo, </a></a>alex_priest [2] </a></a>_vide_cor_tuum_, </a></a>bumblefreque, </a></a>nir, </a></a>yabbadabbadude, </a></a>readabook, </a></a>words_of_jade [3] </a></a>ivyheart, </a></a>bosendorfer_boy, </a></a>flats, </a></a>redder_hue, </a></a>purpleankh, </a></a>wern_da_great [4] </a></a>all3n, </a></a>_haiku_, </a></a>humancarnival, </a></a>wanderlust_nyc, </a></a>muhloy, </a></a>fakepaperheart [5] </a></a>female_penguin, </a></a>internautte, </a></a>ferahga, </a></a>abrokenbottle, </a></a>mojoflea, </a></a>bluorred [6] </a></a>absinthe_feyrie, </a></a>snninasimone, </a></a>witty_repartee, </a></a>davemckean, </a></a>camcamerson, </a></a>beingkenny.

~ * ~

Current Mood: Creative. (What else?)
Current Music:

Life Without Buildings - The Leanover

Blondie - Rapture

Scientek Basement - Laufen

You Can't Wait

Wed, 13 Oct 2004 17:39:49 GMT

You can't wait. You simply cannot afford to.

Be happy today. Bloody right now. Switch off your computer. Stop telling strangers over chatrooms how bad your nights get, or how miserable you are. Gets you no where. Grab a cellphone. Do this now as you walk right out, whether it's light or dark, and call a friend. A good friend, one who won't spend the precious minutes you have bitching about her own horrid life, or allow you to. Arrange to meet at the coffee place around the corner in half an hour, or as soon as she can. This is urgent. It's your life, and hers. Don't fucking care if it's a Starbucks or not - whether you worship or hate them - just go there.

It will be thirty minutes before she comes. Don't hang around, circling like a tool. (You are not a stalker, and no one stalks you.) Talk to someone, anyone. He looks like he could wring your neck in a heartbeat. He'll do. (Yes. I mean it, go on.) Gurgle. You can't find the words. Just smile. He'll think you're hitting on him and walk away. Or hit you. (Who cares? It's something.) You aren't prepared for a smile back and a g'day, are you? Not many are, these days. Now, that's sad.

Try the barista next. Yes, she's out of your league. You only think so. Open your mouth, order a drink, anything. She's been on her feet for hours. That sucks. Say something to make her see you understand and appreciate that fact. (Do you? Doesn't matter; say it first, it may become true, or at least enough to bring a smile to her face.)

But she frowns, a slip. (She's supposed to smile always.) You've broken through to her, that's good. You feel stupid. Stupid is good. Stupid is alive, is breathing and doing and not stuck in a dead room with wires buzzing, frayed nerves, cramped wrists, beep-beeps of slow madness.

Your coffee comes, and so does your friend, possibly your best friend in the whole world right now, someone other than a stranger to talk to, why the hell did you listen to me in the first place, why the hell did you leave your room, your comfort zone, and walk out here, outside, badbadbad outside?

And your friend's crying. Her boyfriend's been beating her up again. You've forgotten about that bastard. (Did you mean to? It's easier not to think about such things after all.) No more talk. You wrap your arms around her, and if they never seemed large enough before (throw away all those big boy magazines and their steroid biceps), they sure are now. You are Baby Bear, you are just right, you are just what she needs as she sobs into you her life and her sorrow and her suicides and her days that crave to end. You are a blanket, you envelop. You make sense. You are everything, you matter. You do.

This, too, is just what you need. Taking on all the bad shit out there, outside, and letting go. Forget about joy, just be happy. No more chasing, no more fights, no more howling into your pillowsheets at night. Every drama must end some time.

Tucking your friend deeper into yourself, you know exactly how you're gonna ask the barista for her number.

~ * ~

Current Mood: Pushy.
Current Music:

Arab Strap - Love Detective

David Bowie - John, I'm Only Dancing

Portishead - Roads

Is This Missing You

Sun, 10 Oct 2004 17:30:03 GMT

1.
Is this missing you?

I don't really know. When I'm close to you, everything seems alright but it hurts all the more cos I can't really touch you. When I'm sleeping alone in my room, when I can't dream up your face, I can imagine touching you, I can believe I'm missing you when you're gone.

~ * ~

2.
Will you braid your hair for me? Or mine? It's not as long as it used to be, but I'm sure you can do something with it. I just like looking at your hands move, slipping through waves of hair, sheath and silk. You make me feel like a woman, like I can get wet enough to drip. You make me wanna whore. For you, for you, you make me cheap and beautiful.

Let me be your sweet child, your little boy. You can be nasty to me, I won't mind. Treat me like I'm yours, a piece of property you intend to abuse. What the heck is that, you say? This is me turning the tables: you sit down now at the head; mine shall be in your lap. Don't I look less intimidating when I'm kneeling? You've always wanted me down on my knees, haven't you? Tell me, tell me. Let's play confessions.

~ * ~

3.
I like you best when you're half-naked, padding around in your underwear. You have the smoothest skin I have ever touched. Or perhaps it's only when I get to touch you that it feels this way. What mystery does my fingers imprint on your flesh, what chemistry do they create - BANG!BANG! Always explosions, always invisible tremors too soft to indict, easily denied.

Why do you always go away?

I'm filled with this colossal breath of want you never fulfill. You never care enough. But I let you do this to me anyway. I want you so much it almost doesn't matter my not having you. Not having all the mottled spots and frayed lines crossing all over your body like a map of my desire. You are the sweetest, harshest creature I know. You flay me, you test me, you do this all for fun. And I let you. How could I not?

I think I'm in love with you, after all.

~ * ~

4.
Yes, I'm still here. The bar - this bar - never closes. The drinks are always replaced by more. Strong or weak, the alcohol tastes the same soon enough, when you're here long enough.

I don't talk to anyone here. No one sits beside me, there isn't even a bartender. Only me. This is the prison you've sent me to the day you left. There's only me. And this hopeless hoping-you'll-come-back fantasy that keeps me here. I must be waiting, then. I never move.

~ * ~

5.
I have a friend, he's a stalker. He's obsessed with the women he thinks are in love with him. None of them have gotten a restriction order yet, but I bet they will. He works real hard to buy big, fancy houses and luxury cars. He tells me they will get him all the chicks. He doesn't see, he can't, that he is creepy and even the callgirls won't step into his Porsche. He will never understand that he is not in love, only desperate and horny and just plain crazy.

I don't stalk. I won't even go near you. I want you so much but I cannot imagine us together. We can't talk, we can't fuck, we can't even smile at each other properly. No, I best stay away from you, and maybe you do this too. It doesn't matter who's running away from whom, just the distance between us.

~ * ~

Current Mood: Geil.
Current Music:

Air - Sexy Boy

Pet Shop Boys - Can You Forgive Her?

silverchair - Steam Will Rise

Letter

Wed, 29 Sep 2004 09:18:13 GMT

I've not written letters for a while now, and never had the habit of doing so, even before. So, when I wrote a letter recently, a private one to one of my friends, it was like learning to ride a bicycle again. You never forget how, but it takes some time to get the hang of it, to be confident again. Writing letters by hand is a treacherous business; more is revealed in one page than a conversation saturated with gossip or a slew of never-satisfying e-mail quickies.

After a couple of paragraphs, you even forget to lie; it's that dangerous.

And soon enough, you realise that you are not really writing to the other person, not really writing for him or her; no, you're writing this to your own damn self. It's a cheaper form of therapy without the annoying twat's incessant questions. (You'd think we're doing the bugger his job for him.) You're tricking yourself into revealing more of yourself than you would like to see, under the pretense of a proper correspondence. It feels right, somehow, when you can tell yourself, "I'm only writing a letter."

("Only" should be as taboo a word as "never", possibly more so.)

You may begin with some idea, some agenda, in mind. You will write about how good or bad your week was, you will tell her how much you miss her, you will complain to him how horny you are these days. You want someone to return to you, you want another to stay away, preferably without the hassle of you getting a restraining order. You intend to sound clever, empathic, understanding, sweet, guileless, perfect. You want to look good, through the disguise of words bled in ink.

Then the plan changes, somewhere along the way. You don't notice this till it's too late, of course.

Bitching about the lack of sex, even bad sex, leads you to reminisce about the German girl you met in Capri, and how you talked for hours under the tender sun, without even once touching. (You didn't ask for her number; you didn't want to, no, don't risk ruining that moment.) Trying to impress and reclaim a lost lover has you listing everything that binds the two of you together, and, perhaps not surprisingly (definitely not strangely), you find the rope of lust to be nothing more than threads of a stubborn refusal to let go. (Shaking your head, you release yourself from hanging, and find clean relief.)

Words that sound sweet, that tempt and promise, lay now lifeless on the page. You finally see yourself as a braggart, a demon preying on praise and applause; the well runs dry and you can't leave for the real shores. There is no escape; you have to see yourself as you are. Would you? (Don't turn away, not from your own words.)

Everything that you were too cool to be, too pious to want, to good to lie about, it's all here. What do you do about it?

Here's what I did: I stacked the pages, folded them and slapped them into a large envelope. Licked the flap, sealed the damned thing, and dropped it into a mailbox after writing the address. Now is not the time for smirks or shudders, for laughing or screaming or any fucking insights. It's just a letter.

Two to three weeks from now, one of you will hold a part of the puzzle that is me. Be kind. Don't throw it away; store it with the other odds and ends that clutter up your life, and one day, when we meet, you can take it out and read me back to me, and I'll gasp in wonder at how innocent and tortured and foolish and young and beautiful and vain and happily unhappy I used to be. You'll give me a huge hug that lasts because you mean it, and we'll go out to a local bar and have us some beers. And that's it.

Watch out for Mr. Postman.

~ * ~

Current Mood: Open.
Current Music:

Coldplay - In My Place

Skunk Anansie - Tracy's Flaw

Bette Midler - Night and Day

I Will Not Fold

Sat, 28 Aug 2004 05:29:07 GMT

It's like winter, in the middle of an incredibly cruel summer.

Voices no longer drifting; I hear them clearly now, chastising, condemning. Things never do change, do they? It wasn't gonna be easy; I knew that, I know this still. Really, I must have gone into this with the stubborn eyes of an innocent, refusing to believe that I could crash. Even in these callous hours, I have yet to fall for the simple promise of inevitable failure. I will not fold.

There comes a time when dreams tire, when flesh can cast no more hooks on the distance it takes to run. That day may come, but not yet. Not today. Throw all your petty baubles in my path; such glimmer has no worth, no pull with me. I will not stray from this path I've chosen. I will walk, no matter how much the stones may crack or the thorns may tear. I will not fold.

Independence Day looms. When forth comes mine? I shiver even as the sun glowers. This world pledges no mercy; I'll have to take what I can. I just want to be free, and happy. It is all I deserve, if I would only seize it. And I will; no matter what tests present themselves, I will deliver.

I will not fold.

~ * ~

Current Mood:
Rage had lead me down this road. Now only desire burns every step of the journey left.
Current Music:

Tori Amos - Hey, Jupiter

Tori Amos - Scarlet's Walk

Tori Amos - Lovesong (Live)

Dandruff

Mon, 02 Aug 2004 13:01:25 GMT

The Old Man

Tue, 15 Jun 2004 08:32:55 GMT

There is an old man who lives in the room next to mine.

Well, actually, he's not really an old man, maybe middle-aged, but he talks and he walks like one. And really, there are many cheery and active old men, so perhaps it would not be fair to compare him to such healthy seniors. This is a man who looks like all the life of the world has left him.

He has no wife or lovers, no children nor friends. He lives alone in his rented room, and leaves the apartment for several hours in the day to conduct his business, unknown and of no interest to anyone. I hear him playing some classical Indian songs sometimes and I imagine he must hum along with it at least, that this is some sort of companionship. There is nothing, no one, else.

~ * ~

I have spent the past week outside, travelling and moving. I take the metro and I drive. I meet directors of companies and I greet the cleaning ladies at the restrooms in shopping malls. I chat up complete strangers, in bookstores and in the subway: financial analysts, choirgirls, Norwegian marketing students, Chinese basketball players, even a short divorce attorney who spends hours perusing Judge Dredd hardbacks in a bid to bring back his 2000 A.D. childhood. I told a man who planned to have his honeymoon in Italy before his wedding (just to avoid winter, for sure) where to find the best gelato in Venice and certain indispensable cuss phrases.

Last Saturday night, I did karaoke for the first time, in a room of forty strangers, half of whom were screaming into the two lonely mikes in Mandarin. I can't read Chinese, so they pulled up an English song for me. I believe this was another first for me: singing to the Backstreet Boys. I survived the experience, and faked the other songs that I did not recognise. It's usually a good sign when you lose your voice an hour into the game and keep going anyway for another four.

The next morning, I got up before six and joined some new friends for exercise. This meant warming up, jogging, flirting with the girls before being pulled into a game of basketball (my team lost; didn't help that I could hardly dribble or shoot with any degree of accuracy), and after, several rounds of three-on-three football (soccer to you folks Stateside; my team lost again but this time I found out I was a halfway decent defender).

And really, it's been non-stop since then. I have never met this many new people in such a short period of time, or listened as much, in spite of my propensity for talking. Yesterday, I met an old friend I've not seen in three years and she said she's never seen me more alive. She didn't know, before my arrival in the city, I had spent six months dead.

~ * ~

I don't pity the old man. I see myself in him, in his desolate appearance and in his harsh, desperate speech. Come years, I may lose all and everyone around me and replace his position on this earth: to walk without being hailed, to pass without being mourned. I could breathe my last without meaning anything to anyone, my feet leaving no impact on the ground, no print for even the rain to wash away.

I feel so high right now, all the positive energy that keeps me going and going till I pass out at the end of the day on the floor the second after I get my key into the lock and open the door. On and on. Sharing and learning. Moving and never stagnant. Yes and how are you?

Today I took the day off, just because. I woke up after midday had passed; I sat around and did nothing much. The fatigue from such inertia is quite different from the healthy tiredness the comes after a day's hard work. But it gives me time to pause, to think, to write. To observe.

I won't end up like this old man. He played hard or he may have not; all that matters is that he is alone now. The me from the six months of self-imposed exile; he would have ended up here. Poor kid. Not me. I want life, I demand it. There is so much to do, to learn and explore. I refuse to complain, not one whit more. This robs me of precious time and energy I could and do spend on the entertainment and education Life provides. Everything tastes so sweet, even the stuff with the hard, bitter bits. You just take it all.

</a></a>shannon wrote in her journal - item no. 8, I believe - that Kenny must have died and that's sad. I walk and I'm mourned. Will I be hailed when I pass on? Intriguing, ja? C'mon, people, let's just mix it up a bit.

Don't us become old men before our time, or even ever.

~ * ~

Elsewhere: My Good Wrath haiku.
Current Mood: Heavy with lurve. (No, really.)
Current Music:

U2 with Daniel Lanois - The Ground Beneath Her Feet

Bananafishbones - My Lovely Senorita

Morrissey - Last of the Famous International Playboys

What Friends Are

Wed, 26 May 2004 01:20:20 GMT

Wern,

When I nearly got myself killed yesterday, you were the first person I thought of to tell. It's easy; we've been friends so long, these are things we know, these are things we share. Bloody idiotic that even given the circumstances and how shaken I was, I was still busy mentally recording the details: how I realised that the car was going to be really fucked up and I'm such an idiot for turning away, even for a moment, right before I crashed; how the second after crashing I thought the woman who got out of the car across the lane was gonna come and help me and how embarrassing this was, cars stopping to have a look, and how disappointed I was when she just turned away to wait for a bus, and no cars did stop. I thought about all of this before I even evaluated my condition: Was I alright? Anything broken? Am I still alive? I find it so easy to be ridiculous, to let my emotions take hold of me, and who better than my logical, eternally calm best friend to tell? What comfort to be told that everyone screws up sometimes; all that matters was that I was okay.

This is our friendship for the past ten years. I get into scrapes, I fall hopelessly in love, I get depressed and suicidal, I do my end-of-the-world routine, and I go to you to rant and ramble and smoke that stick of self-pity, and you nod and you show me the new CD you bought, no, no one has heard of this artiste before, yes, she's black and bisexual and plays a mean bass, here, listen, fuckin' cool, right? And I forget, and it's not better nor is it easier, but the music calms me and your not saying anything calms me and your coolness tells me that it's never too bad, not when my best friend can take the world in his stride. The world can't collapse, even if it feels that way. Not when I have a friend who feeds me Me'shell Ndegéocello when I'm feeling blue.

I don't think either of us were prepared when you were the one who was close to breaking down today. That's just not the way it's done. You were the cool one, the one all the girls called 'grungey' when you weren't listening, back when Kurt Cobain's suicide was still fresh and we were young. I was the sensitive, poet type though I didn't really write poems but bad, verbose, overly-descriptive escapist short stories instead. (I suppose I still do.) You aren't supposed to get emotional; how do I comfort you? How do I tell you the truth, what I think you need to hear, when I don't even think I have a right to ask you for it, your truths? Friends don't push each other, not this hard. Right?

I think we've tried too much to avoid confronting each other before. It was so safe, so comfortable. How many people you know stayed best friends for a decade without once really fighting? We can maintain this status quo, sure, but I think our friendship deserves more. Surely we care enough to confront?

I don't remember telling you about any of those I've fallen for, sweet crushes or bitter, not really. Just the run-of-the-mill surface crap. You didn't look like you cared for the details much, anyway. You had practically no reaction to my last relationship other than simple shock. No curiousity about why I fell in love and how, or what was it like, the way my other friends would ask me immediately. Worse still, that I didn't bother telling you, didn't feel the need, assuming the topic will come up eventually, that you never knew a thing, you didn't know about my girlfriend, till I told you and that was when I broke up with Phoebe.

At least you had the excuse of focusing more on your career than such 'emotional' concerns; I was the complete opposite and so should have pushed this, shared this. I guess I took you for granted - that Wern will always be that best friend of mine that's fun to hang around with so long as we don't discuss any icky 'emotional' stuff. I'm sure you've borne more ranting, grumbling crap from me and I feel selfish to not have returned the favour. (Of course, you hardly made things easy by not opening up either.)

I think we have to be more open with each other, even if we are uncomfortable with it. Best friends can't exist on a small intersection of interests alone, or at least I doubt it can be sustained with any degree of meaning. We're not fifteen any more. Things are changing, and we've got to face them. Maybe me with an adult life of career and seeking financial security; you with realising that everyone has emotions, no matter how well buried they are.

You were right about me beating about the bush. I don't recall anyone else telling me this (or bothering to) other than Seow Yin and Justin. I suppose being vague allows me freedom from commiting to an opinion and softening the blow (the message) allows me to be the Nice Guy still. I still remember Shwu telling me, when I tossed around all the ways I could to tell Phoebe I no longer wanted to be with her, that I was just trying too hard to come out smelling of roses still, and that's never possible, even in the best of cases, not if I want to be honest. Which I do, trust me. It's just not easy getting the words out, not when you're me.

I saw an episode of Friends the other day, the one where Phoebe's ex-boyfriend broke up with his current girlfriend to get back with Phoebe. He did it on the ex's birthday. What a shitty thing to do. But it's television, no one does that in real life, right? Wrong. I did that with my Phoebe: I broke up with her on her birthday, and when she wouldn't agree to breaking up, I just dumped her. There, I've said it. I'm aware many people assume I'm this sensitive, vulnerable type and sometimes I even believe it myself. I tried breaking up with her before, try a separation, I said. I did everything but what I needed to do and finally did, all because I couldn't stand the thought of being the Bad Guy. (And I did the right thing; though she might not have thought so then, she's happier now than when we were together, so maybe sometimes we all just need to stand firm on what we believe in, instead of compromising in order to avoid immediate discomfort.)

You are right, Wern, I do need to learn to just get to the point. To stop worrying about how others will feel right now, so long as I believe what I have to say is worthy and is the better decision in the end. I've gotta be tougher and make all those hard calls as they come. And you, Wern, you've been tough so long. You're the strongest person I know but you can't be tough all the time. You'll last the days but you'll never survive the nights.

Fall in love, Wern. Take what you have while you can. Friends don't go around giving shit advice to each other, no, they can only be here to listen to ya and offer a shoulder to lean on. I think that idea is completely fucked up. I'm ashamed that I found it so hard to tell you that I have changed my mind about us sharing an apartment, so worried about hurting your feelings and you being pissed at me, that I wasn't just upfront about it. I'm ashamed that I have chosen not to say certain things to you in the past simply because it's none of my business and friends don't judge, right? Bullshit. People judge each other all the time. We are just too afraid to be judged ourselves and be found wanting. Well, I've weighed my friendship with you all these years and I've found myself severely lacking. I've not done my part. I don't care if you think I'm butting in where I have no business doing so, I'm butting in anyway.

Fall in love, Wern. Allow yourself to open up and get hurt. It sucks, actually feeling, actually allowing yourself to feel, and it fucks up your life some, but better to allow yourself to be wounded than to reach life's end blemish-free and empty. Fall in love badly, drastically, completely - you know you're doing something right when you know you look the fool and you don't give a fucking damn.

Fall in love, Wern, and tell me about it. I will stand here listening with a grin on my face; I will harass and embarass you for being so mushy; I will tell you it's okay when love turns sour and I won't allow you to think that that love wasn't ever real - it was cos you gave something of yourself to it and it doesn't cease to exist just cos the relationship has ended. I will tell you to stop fucking around when I see the gleam in your eyes that I've never seen before with your other gorgeous dates; I will tell you that this one is the one, so grab it while you can.

They say 'love' is the most over-used word in any language. I think we call each other 'friends' too easily as well, without knowing what it entails, or should entail. Nor are we prepared to work and contribute to sustaining something that can be so vague, so lacking in faith and loyalty and conviction. I won't allow this anymore, I promise you this, as much as I can't promise you anything else. What's my fucking point, you ask? This is what friends are, this is what friends do.

~ K.

~ * ~

Current Mood: Stirred.
Current Music:

Pulp - Like A Friend

Tori Amos - Me and a Gun (Xerxes 2004 Remix)

Belle And Sebastian - Take Your Carriage Clock And Shove It

Six Months Later

Wed, 19 May 2004 06:13:32 GMT

And I will be happy.

~ * ~

Dust has gathered in a thin but perceptible layer; it's on everything. I've not cleaned my room in ages, and I trust you'd be quick enough to spot that this is a poor attempt at a metaphor for the state of my mind, my life. Recent, current, continuously inert. What a washout.

Time off, time away, all but ill-spent. I've tried a diet of decadence: chips, beer, cigarettes and chocolate ice-cream. One DVD after another - after a while, even the backdrops start to recur, repeating backgrounds written in celluloid HTML.

I remember swearing not to rant or bitch in this journal; I also remember a time when I kept promises religiously.

Getting out of cages isn't easy when you won't even step outside.

I have spent six months struggling with bureaucracy. I have spent six months telling myself I'm practising; here, practice some small writing first; hey, play with Photoshop to get those creative juices going. I have spent six months forgetting that I used to live.

Six months I've been saying I need to get out.

Six months I've refused to move. I've whaled myself here, chains and chains again. Viciously. Gladly. Hopelessly.

Six months I've been dallying with excuses and promiscuous fears. I'm so sick of all this shit. I'm so sick of me this way.

Six months. I've spent six months most unwisely, wasted these hours and these bright, lost days.

Six months gone already. Surely there could be no time for regrets. There isn't. I remember hesitating when I spotted Rufus Wainwright's Poses album at WOM, two, three years ago. </a></a>cualdo was there; he has seen the regret on my face when I went back to find it gone. Took me six months to find another copy and this time I grabbed it immediately. </a></a>cualdo would've kicked me if I hadn't, anyway.

Six months gone, six months I could have spent being happy and writing a book. No more hesitating, no more regrets. I'm giving myself six more months. In which to be happy, to be free and to smile and laugh cos I haven't these things in far too long a time. Six months to do what I've always wanted to do - write, write, write.

I will complete a novel by the end of this year.

There, I've said it. And now to do it. It can be done. This isn't about talent or discipline or scheduling or anything at all other than just a desire to do it. If I want enough. Oh, I want this enough.

Let's see, maybe a couple of months researching, playing around with ideas? Then four months of hard writing. Maybe some of you will be kind enough to help me out with draft-reading. Criticisms and suggestions and the like. That means the finish line is November of 2004. And that leaves December to reread, revise and edit. And some bloody rest, yes? Come January 2005, I'll throw it to the world outside and see if I can find me some readers. January 2005 and I shall start writing the next one. Yes.

The thing is, I've gotta dream and I've gotta do this thing that's my dream.

I'm moving to the city, at last. I could've moved six months earlier, I suppose, but I've allowed myself to be inert, as I always have, when there's nothing demanded of me. I've let other people and situations push me too much - enough! Now I demand this of myself. In fact, I'll prolly drive up to KL this weekend. I'll be staying with Justin first; Wern's coming back from Europe on Saturday and we'll see about getting us an apartment for next month. I'm doing this, yes.

No more waiting.

I want to be happy again. I want to be busy again, to write again, to be with my friends and feel laughter at my throat and around me again. I want to be in love again. And I'll probably be frightened and depressed again, but not tonight. Now is when I take back my fucking life.

Yes. And I will be happy.

~ * ~

Current Mood:
Kinda scared, kinda worried, but mostly just relieved. And, happy, don't forget happy.
Current Music:

The Martins - Free

Garbage - The Trick is to Keep Breathing

The Magnetic Fields - Busby Berkeley Dreams