entry(26): asshole

         Perhaps it is because of the novel that I was just done reading, of how as a wanna be writer I am again nudged by my thoughts to create a piece. And how could I? How do I start writing if I already feel jealousy flowing through my stream of consciousness? Thus the eternal writer’s block and yes, curse you Milan Kundera, curse you along with all other geniuses. You did me good. So to avoid making a complete asshole (I say that Milan and I hope you see the connection *insert evil laugh here*) of myself, let me be just a commentator then.

          In the novel Slowness, Kundera wrote that, “There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting…the degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.”  I find truth in that. It can’t be helped that I would believe in some of his notions; given the fact that I really adore this writer (although I have only managed to read two of his novels yet, thanks to the constant reminder of his biggest fan in the house, Fatimah the mither whore.)

Going back to Kundera’s notion of speed, yes I find it quite true. With the adverse effect of modernity, people get so accustomed to speed that unconsciously they keep forgetting. And when one forgets of some simple facts it then that one admits oneself slowly into a comma that he/she him/herself doesn't know about. How else would you explain the monotonous cycle everybody is trapped in today? Of endless planning, due dates and deadlines? Of work, of nothing but work and no art of remembering what it is that drives us.

And in this tone I once again hold my tongue, afraid to end like a trout that can’t stop gagging about being bored. Yes that perpetual boredom that drives some of us mad. What of madness and how is it better than speed? Madness for one is a raw emotion waiting to explode in one’s brain, a scream that is hidden in one’s lungs. It has its own drug, and speed is one of them. In relation to that, madness is superior to speed in the sense that it controls speed. I get mad and I feel the urge to become impulsive, thus the series of activities may take in place: road trip to an unknown destination, jog/hike to an unknown territory and if madness thickens well then it is off to liquor and endless rock and rolling. So if lucky, one might overcome boredom and thus overcoming madness.

Madness uses speed, it constructs speed to its own advantage. Madness summons speed to pacify its intensity, madness deliberately provokes speed to attain the ultimate orgasm – of peacefulness and calm, of slowness. 

entry(25): becoming Zoey

She won’t do it. There’s no way.

Though this kid has some things going astray –

But she won’t.

She can’t do it.

She’s just too…fluffy. She can’t.

She’s been warned. Now Dawn you shouldn’t have.

Oh Dawndy, what were you thinking?

You do know that she’s a rebel by heart, right Dawndy?

But still, she won’t do it.

Yet I admit I would love to see her try.

But she won’t.

Looking at her contemplates on that half-split pill makes me giggle.

What a kid. That’s right,

always read the label, and pretty yes google it over.

Read the information that might come in handy –

            That might come in handy in case the ink spills.

If I could paint that kid, if I could –

I would need a lot of black, yes she would like that? Oh yes black.

Oh wait, she’s touching the pill again, is she gonna do it?

Man I haven’t had this feeling of intensity since –

Oh since when?

Nope she won’t. She’s parking it back.

I’m damn sure I’m going to paint her black.

Oh kid if I could –

But hurry now and my words are loosing me,

Make me dizzy as they are not my expertise,

You do know that do you?

You know a lot about me, how could you?

Flip a coin now, would you?

I’m getting bored now so could you –

Could you really? Could you be, in some ways –

a person that has fragments of me?

And would you really, would you?

In some god forsaken ways trade your soul with me?

The pill is waiting kid.

Now what are you up to?

Hey why do you get up, get your ass back here would you –

            See she won’t.

Now she’s fixing a cocktail, oh the tease –

If we were friend would you shake me some if I say please?

Well it has been amusing, your thoughts kid.

A toast to life and to that tequila you’re playing with.

Don’t do it.

entry(24): becoming Dawn

This is not fiction. Then again, maybe this is. Like a dog chasing its own tail, I just could not rub off these emotions. I have laughed like this before. I have felt these hands before. A cycle that is, but who really believes that things could happen twice? Not quite exact as the first occurrence, but similar--oddly similar.

These are facts. You might bump into some humps of my story and get lost of the time and the person I am talking about. Then again, a circle has no end points.

“Take it off, it’s no use!” Splatters of rain from her mouth as she was shouting these few words to me. Cars and machines running past us. Wishy-washy and splashed puddle of rainwater into our freezing bones. Hell into my freezing bones. Nonetheless, I took my jacket off. That was it, to let it be and just feel the moment.

Moment. Like how she’s struck with art and would be madly in love with her brushes and paints, the visual representations of thoughts that were meant to be.

A few mornings after I awoke with her peculiar scent on my skin, she chuckled as I made that silly face again. They always laugh like that, and it is quite annoying--yet lovely. We breathed each other in, and out of nowhere, she grasped a trip from her head. One spontaneous trip coming up. That has always been their thing.

“Don’t think much about it, just wait and see.” She managed to shut me by her smile. She said the only thing she worries about is that if it gets too dark. I caught up with her enthusiasm and assured her of things and such. So we decided to stay for the night.

We headed to the beach. She cried with the sun’s death as I lay on her lap. She danced like frenzy.

She danced with me. Her face bloomed as I cheated her with that beer that was supposed to be shared. I really could not stand the aftertaste of it. She was happy to oblige and drank half of my share. She was always warm; that night, she was my furnace.  

This part, I should remind you again, all are real. Nothing is added for aesthetic purposes. She was the poet. The visionary. She lay quietly into the night covered with stars and rays of the fully bloomed moon. She lay quietly and staring into the sky, looked at me and smiled. Said, “I have thoughts running in my mind again. I’m about to give birth to poetry, my wife.”

She did. As the other painted thoughts, visions that explain words. The other one wrote sights that needed to be erupted. Brushes and pens, canvas to paper, paints unto inks. I tell you; the cycle never ends. You cut a circle in its circumference and you see a reflection. She was my best friend who became my lover; she was my lover who unconsciously became my best friend.

A circle doesn’t have any end points. 

entry(23): retaliate

The anesthetic spell of love roots in to make us forget about reality. Life is as boring as it is; routines that never end and thus we pray for some adventure (!) and a person whom we call lover to perhaps lead the way to wonderland. A lover to witness our being, our actions, the very complex of our demons; whom by the way nobody ever cared to witness before. So we split our self open; yes we split our legs in bed and our souls bare. Naked enough to be confident on exposing one’s anxieties, fears, and frustrations; confident enough and then challenging until we clash and loathe each other and grasp on whatever it is that remains of one’s infidelity.  The smear of lust and sex and orgasms - oh please orgasms for crying out loud. The conscious subconscious to move away from a lover’s arms and on to a stranger’s breasts - the beauty of careless sex. Free of charge, emotionless, sweet sweat of sins denied mightily in an unfaithful mind. So the other party left nothing but the options to weigh things in hand. To be torn by pain yet be liberated in the acknowledgement that the sinner would be miserable without the parole of the one she admitted to love; or to act brave and cut loose on the foolishness of the impeccable pecker.  By then the lover who was once left behind would have chosen rationality, yet again always rationality. Fingers have been smeared by vaginal fluids, always a bath soap for that. Bodies have been putrefied by the devil’s lips; always her tongue to untraced the crime. By then things would have been set to their proper resolution. Steady things would become, now let us just wait for her retaliation.  

entry(22): welcome back crazy

Tick tock tick tock.

Oh you mocking clock.

Must you always set frames to my happiness?

Now, now hush and let your fear subside. Let your body burn or your brain worn out to thoughts about the future that cannot be. Oh there you are thin air, oh now where? How limited my deck of cards; nothing but a year of fragmented hours. No more of a kid in me but still just a kid in me. And how the world is moving, oh so fast; and everyone will be leaving, oh so fast; and my mind would be thinking of plans so vast. All these plans, so out of hand that even hoping is a hypocritical show; unrealistically set and sugar coated my love. Like that drug set to bring us sleep, that sweet tempting cheat; really tempting. Let us try to be a fool and just be happy then shall we?

entry(21): mad girl's note

First off, you do not get to tell me what to do, nonetheless what to feel, to think and how to love. I frankly tell you everything with confidence because I am as fixed as a compass pointing to North Star. If you find me impulsive do not worry, that is a temporary thing. If you get scared of what I can give then you can always tell me politely. But do not tell me what to do, think and feel – more so, do not tell me about these things if I have not done them yet.

Simple things and yet you have successfully complicate them. I can read you and you are scared as shit as me. I told you plainly I am scared, why can’t you just tell me the same? Must you hurt my pride firsthand by warning me not to be madly in love with you? Or warn me again about the classic phrase Amores Perros. I know that, trust me I know that. You have hurt me really. So maybe you don’t comprehend me. Let me simplify then.

I am in love with you but I know my place.

Even if I love like hell I know my place.

I love like this because I respect life and I know that I never love the same person same as I have loved the past lovers.

Love is too broad to comprehend.

But I always love like hell no matter what the risk, and right now I’m burning.

Now is this the price of love?

I show how I feel. If I want to kiss as if it will be the last time to taste you I do as I please.

I am in love with you and I know how to show it just fine; just enough so as to not scare you, but again tell me if it gets too high.

Now I am the one in doubt.

And again you really scare the shit out of me.

Do you love me enough to be with me?

To at least commit with me.

I think that what scares you is your past.

I know I can’t tell you to forget them, but can you at least remember that I am nothing but your new clean slate?

What makes you think you do not deserve a tabularaza?

And I hate to beg, of all the things I hate to beg.

I do not ask you to do anything but accept it that we are in love.

Do you even deserve me?

Next to being rejected, I hate to beg.

AND IF THERE’S ONE THING I HATE ABOUT PROPHECY, IT IS SELF FULFILLING PROPHECY.

entry(20): poetic impulse

I’m gonna let you loose before I even tie you up. It is indeed a question of wanting you and wanting me back in return. It falls under the categories that they have built; are you in? I bet not.

Therefore, as clearly stated earlier: I’m gonna let you loose before I even tie you up.

These days bring me nothing but blank thoughts, pitch blue night sky, a glowing moon adorned by stars and a bothered heart. A phase of transition to disposition my feelings, whether I love you or preparing to love you yet. Ah, but the misery of it all. We ended in acknowledging it and we live normally again. So I live normally again; and would fake that we never existed. Back to the very start; I didn’t know you then and I’m nothing but a stranger to you.