January 2012
32 posts
In Marketing 1 Lecture. I’m taking it as a ‘university requirement’ so that I can graduate into the type of person the university wants me to be. It’s been awhile since I sat in such a huge lecture hall. Everyone around me looks really fresh and young; and not in the I-just-bathed way.
I wonder to myself: was I really like that four years ago? Some bright-eyed, possibly...
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A Club named Aura
Hey lady with your knee-high boots: sweet innocence has met her match and all you had to do was shoot your pistols, oh my what a catch,
it must have been some dizzied day your rocker-chic, came strutting in, she stole the stage with just a sway her hips they surely caused a din.
and garland, garland by the buy, around your neck: new sins were born, only after the drinks were dry did dancing...
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Experience-Distant
In the incompleteness of our days, where emotions are rain clouds away, what is left to feel amidst the plains, flat and full of barley wheat tears?
No, this is not sadness showing here; that may be so in places beyond, but distance never mattered for you: it was more the dreams in the end.
Ah yes, the dreams we are so used to, shaped, molded, built-up and eroded, like mountains made to move by...
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Prison Glass
And it felt like those prison days, when the only thing between is glass, but oh what a glass!
That kept lives from living in and out of sync, connected only by the wires that spoke of carbon tungsten, so that the only voice you hear was the voice of someone who you used to know and love.
It was no different then, nor now, and maybe the faces have moved in step with the days or was it months?...
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Postage.
I wondered if you could read between lines, the spaces that need no explaining for themselves?
And did you accidentally misplace, Those freckles on your face, Or did the sun catch them in her rays?
Or what of those words that meant, the questions asked and sent, before a letter was ever born?
Still there must be some way through When hands were shaped anew, To not feel anything but the touch
...
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Sand Songs
Take me to that place, Where earth can meet sky; all else is nothing save water wishing why.
And sand shall find sand nestled between toes; please build me a castle before sea-salt winds blow.
To catch in morning, her majesty’s red; orange in a dawn-song and snow-owls in my bed.
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The Myths of Speech
This was one of those times, the only thing common between the two of them were the words, those damn words which could not ever speak.
And that was all they had, but (or was it an or) perhaps, that was enough.
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7 Habits of Effective Honours Thesis Writing
1. Find the works of a recently dead figure in academia. This is to ensure that said figure cannot correct you in the event that you misquote his / her ideas.
2. Ensure that he / she is obscure enough (though not too much) that little has been written about him / her. Congratulations! You are a now a pioneer in the field.
3. Pick one or two words he / she uses repeatedly in his / her writings as...
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Letters
Two pairs of hands bringing letters to their nearest postal box one by a river the other by rocks. Two boxes swallowing envelopes tiny ones to giant ones carrying moons and stars and suns. Two mailmen delivering with bags on their back like Christmas in a Santa sack. Two post offices with stamps a-flurry hurry hurry hurry hurry. Two planes that flew like birds that never went the ways north south...
Because all experience involves meaning and the interpretation of meaning, anything is, for purposes of being inquired into, constituted by a web of meanings. It follows that there is no significant distinction between matter and mind, nature and consciousness - ‘no interesting difference between tables and texts, between protons and poems’. - Richard Rorty
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Thompson Nights
Slowly but surely, We came to realize that The night was lonely.
Although it did try To entertain the thought of Being wonderful.
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Memories of My Literary Whores
Random Act: I bought me some suspenders today.
Also, I just finished reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores. It is a short gem of a read - only 115 pages - and each page is a solid 100 words. That amounts to 11500 words: a shy short of an undergraduate thesis. But in those pages Marquez has led me by his lyrical writing into a world I wish I was born into.
I...
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The Memory Jar
I collected memories in a jar: Memories both living and unliving, Of places, of people and fancy things, That have been around, and some not around. And stare at them through a wall of mirrors, Reflecting the things I want them to be, Until they are no longer memories But me.
Small Pleasures are often Innocent
There is a secret delight in easy listening music, and learning to imitate the words of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Simple pleasures are becoming increasingly rare, and I wonder if it is better to let the world leave me behind, or if I’m the one leaving it?
December 2011
43 posts
“Spend your money on the things money can buy. Spend your time on the things...”
– Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via bookmania)
The spaces between letters grew further apart, Until I could not tell how far the I s were from the U s.
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I just finished reading ‘Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close’ by Jonathon Safron Foer. It’s really a pleasure to just do nothing in bed and read the day away, especially when the sky is being really mean and rain-esque. Some bits of the book were a little puzzling, but that’s more my fault for reading it in stuttered breathes. Sometimes when I pick it up again, I seem to...
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How we make love: Palm-to-palm reading, Words left leading From lips, part alone, Part a-way from home, Fully familiar Like Christmas lights.
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In Agreement
Although The heart knows how not to think And the mind how not to feel, It baffles me the way They are both able to agree, on You.
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He still held the residues of a past. He held them tightly clenched within his hands, thinking that the act of holding what little was left, protecting it, keeping it safe from everything, became the only way he could remember it. Sense memory, he read the term from somewhere. The way we remember things without knowing how, like the grating of fingerprints onto the old pages of older books. It...
