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January 09 black, not whitethey're so close.but it's not smug. he plays with marbles, that one. he's always the grand winner in his eyes. she embodies the marbles. she gets rolled into nooks and corners she despises, yet comes out with armourous glory that betrays every notion of simplicity. she lost the game before it even started.
and what is simplicity, then. it's the wind that whispers and caresses, then blows you away into depths of forgotten morality. it's the fairness of Desdemona, so forgiving in death. it's the fulfilling of the mind twinged with the emptiness of a broken heart. it's an unnecessary argument brimming with unjustified excuses. it's the dark fear of losing a single petal on a rose, and then losing it anyway. it's the soothing angel inside the soul with his counterpart lashing obscenities with fire on his breath. here, then, simplicity has been defied by its own being. it has been used against its own marbles and tortured to loss.
their relationship defines the courtesy towards false pretenses. superficiality in its own rights preserved. now apocalyse is beckoning us and i don't want to twitch a single muscle in my weak arms. i look over at the marbles and catch the glimpse of the cat's eye. so powerful in its weaknesses. i don't look over at her yet. she's the seed of the flower of the sun on the ground of the garden. she's still got to blossom. one day, maybe, she'll shine in the shimmering sun, which stands for all the goodness we'd like to believe in. fate belies in her soul. he will then be the void she'd once captured lifetimes and moons ago, waiting, waiting waiting forver to touch the ray of the sun that was lost long ago.
the marbles have melted, the ocean has dried, but doesn't life sustain wither souls sigh. December 29 next door nightmareinternet dating reminds you of yourself as part of a quintessentially techno-body era. with the autonomy comes inevitable constrictions, with social relations comes constructed alienation. and with the loneliness and frustration of being single comes the desperate hopefulness that may change your life forever. which raises some serious issues. technology is a culture, a trend of its own. it is diametrically opposed to nature, a forgotten facet of the world we live in. this culture embodies what i like to think of as superficiality. having been on the planet for only 21 years (note the ironic emphasis on 'only'... yeh right) i'm not sure exactly when humans began becoming superficial beings. but what i do know is that techonolgy has a direct connection to it. perfectly impervious.
a lot has been said and written about this: technology has made us unsocial. you're intensely conversing about the neighbour's unitdy lawn over coffee with your best mate. his cell screams in his trouser pocket. it's urgent. it's always urgent. it's his brother on the line who just burnt the roast chicken he was cooking for his dinner date. the ten-minute fix-it conversation only gets his cell screaming again with the kitchen on fire this time. cliche? mp3s and ipods have the same bloody effect. what next? i'll tell you what next. we can all have robots for our friends. (give it a few decades). that way, if the robot is being 'unsocial', then it has a flamin' good reason! perfectly miserable.
people need therapy because their phone just died, and they can't afford a new one.
with internet dating, you can't complain. you live it out through technology. it begins with it, and ends with the absence of it: a week after she saw him first, the phone's stubborn silence confirmed that meeting to also be the last.
but i'm not planning on going solo!
July 28 nakedness stylisedthe last time
i felt grown and embodied in my true age was when i turned 18.
turning 21 last week was just another winter day in sunny auckland. i
woke up wanting something to be different. something like a
surprise breakfast in bed. but everyone had fled the
house for work and school by eight. maybe a miraculous change in
my personality - the way i talk, think, act,
react. maybe a phone call from an overseas much missed bud. but
we're all uni students who're only too keen on (trying to) save
money, so emails should do. and they did. they so did. but i'm only
still 18. i never grew up, since.
i tried
walking taller. stretching that 5ft. 3" scale only hurt my back.
tried to talk smarter. but i'll always have the kid in me! i tried
congratulating myself on hitting the casino age. until someone
corrected me on the age being 20. how disappointing. no matter. i
don't look 21. i don't even look 18. so maybe i still have a
chance to celebrate the ecstacy of hitting 18 and 21 at some future
stage. meanwhile i can flash my ID like an FBI wannabe everytime the
bouncers refuse to believe i'm of legal age.
i'm pretty sure the age limit is 21, even in new zealand. or at least i want to believe it is so.
meanwhile
i get into the Argument, Writing, Literacy lecture that teaches us
to debate the issue of pornogrpahy in artistic terms and defy
the pornography in art itself in a gothic-castle of a lecture theatre.
food for thought? our perverted minds are starving. a Revlon ad
demonstrates a bare naked sixteen year old just out of the shower with
a moisturiser shaped like a phallus hanging off her left breast at
an angle. oh yeah. that's art. that's not x-rated material. if it is
x-rated then why do we admire Michelangello's David as artistic
perfection? portraying young bodies in pornogarphic art has become an
art in itself. another innocent faced eighteen year old is poised on a
victorian couch in a red skimpy outfit that shows off deep cleavage and
long virgin legs. victorian paintings and furntiure blanket her
surroundings. art? go figure.
i walk out of
the lecture feeling like a defensive, protective mother of 41. a punk
passes by me with torn patches that stylise her clothes, parts of
her body revealing exotic tatooes. art. surely. i snap back to my
18 year old self. or was it 21?
July 25 stuff you never get overhe comes in little packages. now and then. it makes me so sad. i smile so much my jaw screams. i'll hold him, look at him, stare a little harder. maybe it's an Anne Gerdes, or body butter. Maybe it's incense for me to get lost in, which only ends up sitting on my top shelf bathing in dust under the yellow crape he wrapped them in. maybe it's a phone call, just saying hi, or a letter. he's the best thing that ever happened with a worst-case scenario. he's what i need without wanting, and want without needing. i can't remember what it feels like to be normal.
but some things are best left unsaid. and i should learn to not wear my heart on my sleeves. i think i'll make a good Mills and Boons writer without the steamy lust. how boring. whenever i'm thinking real hard of something creative to spice my sentences up with, i have an intriguing habit of looking over my right shoulder and staring into the nothingness of the carpet below. there. i did it again. other times i'm making music like Beethoven. there's no stopping the notes slipping out of a relentless mind. every word is a discovery that was never meant to be uncovered, and that makes me proud. i've then cracked the invinsible space in time. i've then become the next Einstein. ok, maybe not einstein. but you know the feeling. there's a lot more to the english language than meets the ear. like 'sean'. the hot English 257 tutor who pips "sure!" pronouncing it "sho'!" everytime he wants to agree to a point a student makes. and it just sounds as if he is repeating his name, leading me to think "we KNOW your name is Sean, buddy!" and then i feel like such an idiot and smile like one, too. wonder if anyone else notices it.
June 13 gentlemen don't prefer blondesso. somewhere between fantasies of happily-ever-after and a desperate desire for my secret gold-rimmed pink pages to come alive as a best friend, even as a clairevoyant, i decided to not keep a journal. but a blog is as good as a journal, you say. i acknowledge. but how many secret crushes would you tell an online journal? on a scale of one to ten...none. but 'none' wasn't an option, you point out. well, now it is. how annoying. i am annoying. i acknowledge. but journals. hmm. the one journal i did keep... is too full of sticky secrets. i still wonder what it would be like to be happily writing in a journal, rather that scribbling and thinking "i'd rather share this with someone". excpet there ain't too many someones that won't turn cold as stone on hearing what i had to say. but so many people have them. journals. and they are their solitudes. shelter during snow and rain. trampolines on which they can bounce off their joys without having to phyisically be a kid again, or a nuisance to the neighbours. but with me, it's never been that way. writing every night or once a week a new mini-chapter of life that no one else would read. but having said that, i'll probably start doing it again. i have been urged. by people's conversations and my own thoughts on it. i love irony. after analysing english and media texts at university, i've decided irony is what appeals to me. i'll have at least two paragrpahs in my uni essays dedicated to how irony functions in a text and what's ironical about this irony. what fun? yes, it is. but there's also times when i've had much too much of a dose of the irony nation. i just have to succumb to Unreal Tournament or Friends. irony there? go figure. can't be bothered? well thank you for reading this far. anyhoo, it's ironic that i even should say what i've said so far. i might as well keep a journal. not happening. ironic. "A no-smoking sign on your cigarette break." - Alanis Morissette June 08 blemished fearsyou're having an outrageous joy-ride in the new chevy you bought, breaking every 100 km/h threshold with the shiny spinning mags that show off like a new james bond movie. the wind that rushes through your hair and caresses your sun-bleached face whispers promises of utpoia. the adrenalin feels so good. you'd drink it to quench your thirst instead of water. it would make a great energy drink too. and then you have to slam the breaks. no reasoning. snap back to reality. i like to fill sleepless nights scribbling jumbled thoughts on yellowing paper. makes me feel like a true Austen. even Shakespear. "to be or not to be. that is the question". how often we quote it under unnecessarily complex situations. how simple it really is. i wish life was as simple as that. as simple as Amelie skipping stones as a hobby or using Clearasil on unblemished skin in adverts. i don't have unblemished skin. but i have a lot of questions. as a child i'd gaze at the moon for answers. its shape symbolised the blank answer. no beginning, no end. that's the philosophy. then i turned to my parents who were so full of answers to unrelated questions. blabber blabber. now i look within myself and contend with my heart's instincts. now i'm having a joy-ride. the adrenalin feels good. hell it feels great. and when i try to persuade people to not crumble under life's demon's with these instincts of mine, they look right through me as if i were another being, not quite human. there's a glimmer of reluctant realisation and hope and then they're back to the crumbling. these are times when i wish i could curl up with the stars and float into divine sleep with dreams of spiritual eternity. but when i fail to achieve that, i dive into plath's poetry. so much destruction, so much meaning, so less hope. i have to slam my breaks. end of joy-ride. when tomorrow comes, i'll wake up to the same shit on a different day. |
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