Insomniacal poetry, inspired.

When it comes to the will, there will be a way.
Like how when you want a word, there' s a pair to tie them together.

but I digress.

Disordered

Bleach out the foolish words
Iron away the stubborn creases
Filter the whey of the very curds
Your perfecting never ceases.

Bully the incorrigible into congruence
Hammer the wild into seeming supports
Undo the knots into straight convalescence
And watch entropy undoing your efforts.

Paint the mismatched so they complement
Adjust oddities so they are woefully decent
Prod the misshapen into a shapely garment
Ah, did they try this so many times so recent

What with our own feats of clean arrangement
Don't trust your little brain in its advancements
It'll come apart just as you're idly complacent
Basking in your own self touted achievements.

Gastric musings

I say human hamster balls are wonderful child containment devices.

I think I am angry.

Is it because I failed to get my camera out in time to capture the scene of school children with their scooters, in the middle of an empty underpass, waiting for their mother to catch up? Is it because I was stupid enough not to bring the camera bag and instead rely on a laptop bag to carry all my gear? Is it because I don't recognise some of the emotions flowing through me at the moment?

It is complicated, to say the least. One could argue it is all of the above. One could argue it is only one of the above.

But on the other hand, I think I am also happy.

I think I am happy, because I don't recognise what I'm feeling. Something so foreign, yet so familiar, skirts the edge of my mind. Pain is but pain, and all it is is pain. The biting strap of my Crumpler holding several kilos worth of electronics, and my backpack containing the comparatively lightweight wad of dirty clothes, can't be denied. But I feel conflicted – glad, worried, elated, paranoid, hopeful, doubtful, impassioned, calculated. Pain registers, but is shuffled down the pecking order of stimuli – it is simple existence, my samsara for coming down here. Thoughts register briefly, contemplations noted fleetingly, and feeling, becomes an overwhelming priority. Feeling what? That which I don' t recognise, am incapable of defining, this also frustrates, angers me, as I search for a word that describes the nebulous. But I am happy.

Bleargh?

She runs though my mind,
a spectre.
Her whispers flit and wind
a rogue factor.

Such breathtaking discord
a cacophony in tune.
All falling into one accord
A beauty so roughly hewn.

With her is like a dinner
a liaise so covert.
Neither of us a winner
A wonderful dessert.

Tales of Cassandra, again.

Now, please refer to my post below, for the poem in question.
The logs themselves are lengthy, so I'm posting highlights.

(12:55:52 AM) -Subpoena'ed- OLIVIA LOVES SHOTACON: So...
(12:57:49 AM) cass: huh?
(12:58:38 AM) -Subpoena'ed- OLIVIA LOVES SHOTACON: how bout the poem?
(1:00:48 AM) cass: i can relate to that...
(1:00:48 AM) cass: (:
(1:01:12 AM) -Subpoena'ed- OLIVIA LOVES SHOTACON: ?
(1:01:22 AM) -Subpoena'ed- OLIVIA LOVES SHOTACON: You're lesbian?
(1:01:51 AM) cass: HUH WHAT!!! WHATTTTTT
(1:01:54 AM) cass: nooooooooooo

And then...


(1:04:08 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: Like what? I SPECIFICALLY DENOTED THE GENDER
(1:05:30 AM) cass: i know! but i think of it the other way round!
(1:06:54 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: So... you like butch women?
(1:08:13 AM) cass: noooooo.

And then...

(1:13:55 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: Well, you said you could relate, and I addressed a female in the poem... so you... related to being enamoured by females.

And then the next day...


(12:25:32 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: Can't have you trying to lie about your orientation can we?
(12:26:14 AM) cass: huh what is that supposed to mean?
(12:26:24 AM) cass: i lie about my sexual orientation?
(12:26:29 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: Mhmmm.
(12:26:47 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: Since you've come out of the closet, it's only fair that people know
(12:26:51 AM) cass: BUY IT IS THE TRUTH
(12:27:09 AM) cass: ( but
(12:27:13 AM) cass: oops
(12:27:14 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: Ah so you do admit to being a lesbian

AND THEN!

(12:32:28 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: You made a smiley.
(12:33:53 AM) cass: haha. but it is just a smiley -___-"
(12:34:00 AM) cass: that's all!!
(12:34:05 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: Which indicates...?
(12:35:07 AM) cass: a way to pass through the conversation?
(12:36:08 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A LESBIAN: ah, so you're saying you're a bold faced liar, and a backstabbing viper?
(12:37:45 AM) cass: nooooo!! what i mean is.normally i would add a smiley or some other emotican after typing!!
(12:38:11 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A BACKSTABBING LESBIAN: Which is then interpreted as an expression of your emotion, non?
(12:38:44 AM) cass: yepyep!!
(12:38:54 AM) cass: but i could explain about that smiley!!
(12:38:55 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A BACKSTABBING LESBIAN: And if you DID NOT mean that emotion, even in a playful manner, then isn't that a bold lie?
(12:40:15 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A BACKSTABBING LESBIAN: Actually, you have to mean it, even if the modicum of it was minor.
(12:40:16 AM) cass: but i mean it!!!
(12:40:29 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A BACKSTABBING LESBIAN: SO YOU DID RELATE TO THE POEM HAPPILY
(12:40:30 AM) cass: really!!
(12:40:34 AM) -Subpoena'ed- CASS SOO IS A BACKSTABBING LESBIAN: AHA
(12:40:36 AM) cass: omg

HELLO

Riverbank

She's like a sliver
Ever elusively slipping
In life's swift river
I'm behind, stumbling
Among the gentle spines
Splashing in the blood
And as I listen for signs
Of where she once stood
Whispering her sighs
Carried to me by the wind
Returning my wistful replies
And as I wade half blind
In the murky memories
I'm glad to be burning
I can live with the fallacies
I remember this feeling.

A Birthday post.

Note to FB leechers, the layout may not be as pretty as on my blog proper. And if I see either image anywhere else without my permission I will not be a happy person.

Now, back to my post.

I guess I should blog.

Happy Birthday me
It's a quiet morning scene
I sigh, continue.

I have an exam today.
Yes I am studying.

But seeing as it's my Birthday, I might as well blog a little.

Beauty is that which you wish to comprehend, but choose not to. If you chose to believe in the fact that life should be appreciated, not dissected, you might just appreciate beauty.

If you choose to be beautiful, expect to be subjected deconstruction. Expect them to ask why, expect them to publish a million articles on your secret to success. Expect the masses to want to know how you got your hair to have the tousled morning hair apparent in every magazine advertisement about hair care.

And expect the magazines to pander to that demand.

Expect the questions, the autographs, the hate, the fan mania - because you're beautiful.

And expect to fade away. Expect the diminishing press coverage, news stories of you spiked in lieu for the next upcoming hotshot. Expect ever more obscure papers to profile you, while you bide your time as you make your next news worthy article.

The media is a wonderful microscope into the culture that is a human. We coerce, cajole, trick you into exposing that elusive exclusive, and as time goes on, we strip you bare of any factoid you may want to keep private. After that, we keep you enthralled, ever willing to submit tidbits, as we feed you the stories excised from others.

Such a wonderful life we live in.

Why hello there world.

You know that feeling you get in your head? That sharp pain like you've gouged out something from your skull and now it hurts like a bitch and it won't go away? yeah. I think I'm experiencing that.

Why waste my fingers shouting when I could be dancing them to a meter.

Well first off academic writing is mostly the former, albeit more staccato styled dictation rather than impassioned cries.

Though I must admit - it's somewhat fulfilling in some perverse manner.

To wit a slick rhythm
So your joy may persist
Is in our solipsism
What makes it all exist.

Damn you why must you do this to me brain

A short one, to relieve the white noise within me.

One of the lines in this poem is not original (taken from someone who I assume took it off a song somewhere related to a Coke advert, who is being mute again...), however I find it pans out quite lovely, making a very coherent theme.


Span

I can't see the sun for the skies
Noting all the clouds I can see
As I bask in negativity's lies
There's a ray of light over me.

You never got a happy ending
But they never seem to count
Faithful, never down, fighting
Radiant like a shining fount.

The bridge between us is a rainbow
And while we can't see it for the pain
We're bathed in a multicoloured glow
People stare on, soaked in the rain.

grawrbrawral

Guilt.

Among other things.

That is all.
Have a haiku entitled Catch:

Speak, please do not turn

For your visage breaks me so

All said unspoken.

3AM.

This is an exercise people, and exercise in simulation.
By the by, this post is dedicated to you Jo Yee (who never blogs anymore). I love you *this* much for being an insomniac slacker (who is not actually insane) like me.


On second thoughts, this could be a drill. Or this might not be a drill. This could be an accurate reflection of the inanity flowing through my head, that's blocking out the coherent and vital thought processes that I need to ensure my own freaking survival. I'm inundated in so much white noise that even thinking about writing about the white noise in my head is hard to pull off.

Worse thing is that I can see every single pixel of this noise. And all of them make no sense. All of them make absolutely no damn coherent sense. It's like following the mad hatters ramblings and trying to build bridges. There's a pattern, but I'm not deranged enough to see it.

I'm not even lucid right now.

There are the normal black thoughts, the ones with white outlines, floating around the grey of the other thoughts, the ones that say do this, do that, run that cat over while riding with a hat, MAKE SURE THE BUS DRIVER HAS A MISERABLE MORNING, so on and so forth. I have not been able to find the hide button for these kind of updates from my lower psyche, so I have to handle them on a case by case basis every time I get this pop up. However the latter suggestion sounds so tempting right about now.

Do I think in monochrome? Or should my thoughts be more actively represented as an oil bubble rainbow, ever swirling ever changing, ever fluid. But there's a pattern, there's breaks - inconsistencies- the bubble is perfect, because it needs to stay that way, or it is gone forever, collapsing into a single droplet of liquid, that comes to terminate itself on the Technicolour grass below it. My thoughts could never coalesce like that - on a backdrop of kaleidoscopic thoughts, I must force coherence, I must blot out black pixel, I must string together images, I have to make the droplet, so I may apply it unto it's termination.

What am I doing?

Short gone crazy post

So much to do, so much to write down.
So little time.
Icons make it fun though.
Must get lovey dovey with Illustrator.
rawr.


Anyways, on to the other things:

Oh god my head why do you do this to me
Must you consistently go on like a mad hatter
seated snugly and smugly in my frontal lobe
but thats the problem, I can't lobotomise me
because in doing so I cease to be what I want to be
To live the worst experience for a bibliophobe.
Irrationality is a part of all of us,
like hot skitty on wailord action.
God this life is insane.
Wouldn't have it any other way.

Updating an irrelevant percentage more frequently.

I sure as hell am not blonde, but my hair sure as hell does that. for now. I think.

Hello my blog readers.
I apologise for the absence.


Pain is mostly physical nowadays. Physical pain, especially when self induced in a gainful manner (ie going to the gym and/or running and/or indoor soccer on Tuesday) tends to blot out the petty insecure thoughts that bubble around in the cauldron that is my mind.

Occasionally meditation is preferred, but not everyday can one dedicate a full two hours sitting motionless contemplating a hat. But it works, especially when you do it on a table in an unheated living room. Where every neuron in your mind is dedicated to answering every dissenting voice in your head, where debates between ideological facets are allowed to play out, so that you might exhaust the dissenters, silence the fanatics, and contemplate the hat, and eventually, nothing.

Mental angst (in the strict definition, not pop music or existentialist interpretations) tends to wash away when you wince to a lecture though. You're conscious of every movement as your body reacts to damage self inflicted so gleefully. You make conscious movements so as to minimize your immediate sengsara. Not that I am complaining, but I describe the feeling because it pertains to what I am about to say.

It highlights to me, especially in my endorphine/stillness induced lucidity, that we are impatient. This world is impatient, by choice, and thus by design. We also are thoughtless in some aspects, driven by advertising so wonderfully driving into our minds the normality of musicals within homes and the wonders of buying that plasma TV (not that screen space is a bad thing, mind [Oh the irony])

The recent spate of communication lectures do not help the contemplation. New media, and all that it entails, is an exercise in immediacy. We want so much, and we want it all now. Twitter allows a mother to give blow by blow accounts of her birth. Facebook allows keeping in touch with everyone you know around the globe, without sending letters and waiting a week (which I still relish though). It is also an exercise information bombardment - not that Gen Y or Gen Now's ability to absorb information can even hold a match up to an experienced verbatim court reporter or one of those finagled musician virtuosos.

We, I would argue, are more sponges than processors. I've always known that, but the contemporary comm lectures and tutorials practically cement that theory with me. Is there a conscious effort by the bulk of us to analyse why such is said and why that is said? Why use that skimpy lady instead of a homely wench?

Again, we have been normalised to the stimuli nowadays. Like accustoming oneself to a colder climate, we've been brought into an age where bikinis are mostly not taboo on adverts, where the female presenter of Hi-5 is featured in risque magazines at kids eye levels (which is not wrong in my opinion, but that is an argument in defence of her free will, and also of her being attached to the stereotype of being a- I digress) and midnight hour telly is filled with sex ads back to back with evangelistic brimstone.

It's an age where we absorb media like sponges, regurgitating memes ad verbotem in some sort of self gratification. I won't deny, it's fun. One wonders, how long it will take before memes actually become proper cocktail party talk. One wonders, how long before LOLcats stops becoming the gold standard for internet humour. One wonders, how long it will take before the Simpsons finally get eaten by the shark they jumped a couple of seasons back. One wonders, when we will stop only consuming, and contribute.

One sees that already happening, what with interactivity - but democracy is only capable via transparency, and media outlets aren't exactly the ideal version of a window pane. It's coloured, tinted, and ultimately biased. They have to serve bottom lines, avoiding the red like the plague, which in this current economy is hard to do. Decisions are made, reality is faked, while the journalism is most of the time pretty fair. I guess people have double standards, demanding transparent journalists while letting Moot of 4chan not get voted Time's most influential person of 2009 despite a clear majority.

Alas I will not take this any further, because I need the toilet and I want to go NOW.

Condensed thoughts for your easy consumptions.

Narcissism

It's a travesty

Only those close to me see

My chef d'œuvres

Haiku for the tired

On Patience

A key turns eyes search

Only your letters address

The pain of waiting

*insert euphemism that Pia understands*

Syllable Retail

All our words are cheap
Sitting piled in the bargain bin
Some hurt some put to sleep
Some heal some draw us in.

All our words are meaningful
Gone with the speed of sound
Arriving for a while, wrathful
Scarring deep and marring profound.

All our words are dangerous
Their sacrosanct obedience
We can expound melodious
The falsity of their convenience.

All our words seek to remain
That which does not fade away
Becomes history of our domain
And lives for others to nay say.

Glimmer. Completely unrelated to the other arc.

There is nothing but a sliver of light at the end of the hallway. A long streak of light, coloured a sickly orange by the sodium lamp outside. There was a curtain.

He had never opened the curtain. Never in his life had he moved the curtain. It had always been, for years, like that. Closed, but never closed, sealing off everything, but that sliver of reality. Did he want to change that?

He walked down the corridor. Soft, muffled steps echoed pointlessly down the hallway. At best, he thought, it might reach past the third door to the right. At best, maybe someone is there, typing away at a machine which hammers out words in black ink, that reflect the reflections of the owner of the fingers that type the words in. At worst, the room is empty, unkempt and dusty, but ultimately, empty.

Perhaps, he will look into the room. Just to prove his own musings right. Maybe there is a person inside, maybe he or she is hammering away at a keyboard, soft furnishing muffling the sounds of the world and their own furore insulated from the predations of exterior criticism. Maybe there are piles of paper, both blank and filled, that he may browse while the writer, consumed in their own passion, is ignorant of their surroundings.

He was half right. There were piles of papers, piles and piles of papers, crumpled, pristine, scribbled, typed, drawn, in this room. There was a typewriter. Old, well worn, and still. But the typewriter's owner, was missing.

He closed the door. Maybe, someday the owner will return. Maybe some day, the owner might bind the papers together to form their magnum opus, and exit this dank and dusty room. Maybe they'll find a good publishing agent one day, and maybe they'll make a whole pile of money. Maybe they can shed the starving author image they've cultivated and enjoy the benefits of having a padded wallet.

The possibilities were endless. The corridor he was in however, was not. The dimly lit passage was lined with doors, and the door on the end said "Exit". It reverberated down the corridor, shaking him to the bone.

It was a most peculiar observation.