two and two is four. despite 2 of the four languages being poor, that still amounts to a decent number of words. what do you do with so many words if you don't write? and worse, what do you do if you do write, but badly?
i have perhaps 2 dozen tubes of oil paint, 30 or more color pencils, 2 boxes of pastels, a handful of charcoal, various other means of making marks on paper or canvas. and a mind state of absolute blankness.
is there a hole or a pit some place where the coherent streams of thoughts in your mind all tumble into and disappear?
am i practicing meditation? everything is nothing. nothing is everything.
i have perhaps 2 dozen tubes of oil paint, 30 or more color pencils, 2 boxes of pastels, a handful of charcoal, various other means of making marks on paper or canvas. and a mind state of absolute blankness.
is there a hole or a pit some place where the coherent streams of thoughts in your mind all tumble into and disappear?
am i practicing meditation? everything is nothing. nothing is everything.
green tea
green tea keeps you young.
green tea keeps you fresh.
green tea keeps you up.
yea up... and here you are, writing recklessly.
wide awake at 2am spurting terrible english. practically dying inside from wanting to sleep. and needless to say, keeping the mosquito population in this room fat and well-fed. perhaps it would be more sensible to stay in bed with a book but the lights are burnt out...
my teaching affair has stemmed into a full time occupation. (my god). and painting is a full time preoccupation. the problem with this arrangement is that the preoccupation results in weak operation because the occupation has taken up much of the time.
i'm starting to wonder if my priorities in life are a little bit in disarray...
but balance is a tricky things. either you've too much time and lie around like stagnant water waiting for some frog to jump in and jazz it up, or you're running around like a buzzing bee. and by the time you look back, as the girl in the cafe put in in par-dela des nuages, you'd lost your soul.
ok. enough of rants. time to give sleep another go.
green tea keeps you fresh.
green tea keeps you up.
yea up... and here you are, writing recklessly.
wide awake at 2am spurting terrible english. practically dying inside from wanting to sleep. and needless to say, keeping the mosquito population in this room fat and well-fed. perhaps it would be more sensible to stay in bed with a book but the lights are burnt out...
my teaching affair has stemmed into a full time occupation. (my god). and painting is a full time preoccupation. the problem with this arrangement is that the preoccupation results in weak operation because the occupation has taken up much of the time.
i'm starting to wonder if my priorities in life are a little bit in disarray...
but balance is a tricky things. either you've too much time and lie around like stagnant water waiting for some frog to jump in and jazz it up, or you're running around like a buzzing bee. and by the time you look back, as the girl in the cafe put in in par-dela des nuages, you'd lost your soul.
ok. enough of rants. time to give sleep another go.
i love long intimate emails. they make you stop and reassess your reality.
it rained all afternoon. every time it rains i sit at the kitchen door and stare at the black metal gate, watching the curtain of water from the balcony drop to the gray concrete yard. everything seems incredibly beautiful and sad and real.
real.
the outlines darken and the insides melt away, and everything seems to carry a weight they don't usually have.
every now and then i feel reality's slipping away...
someone touch me. i need it.
it rained all afternoon. every time it rains i sit at the kitchen door and stare at the black metal gate, watching the curtain of water from the balcony drop to the gray concrete yard. everything seems incredibly beautiful and sad and real.
real.
the outlines darken and the insides melt away, and everything seems to carry a weight they don't usually have.
every now and then i feel reality's slipping away...
someone touch me. i need it.
restlessness seeping through the pores of darkness.
solitude, i asked for solitude. and now that it's here, it fills me with grief.
perhaps what we get are not quite what we want
or need.
the fridge starts humming.
i stand up and plug the lights in
they glow yellow and orange, warm and comforting.
i'd left my shirt and bra hanging off the couch.
this place needs more care, more presence
when you leave, i will return
when you leave, life will resume its rhythm.
a beat or two behind, but i'll make do
when you leave...
when you leave...
"when you leave..."
everything happens after that clause
or perhaps everything will tumble apart.
solitude, i asked for solitude. and now that it's here, it fills me with grief.
perhaps what we get are not quite what we want
or need.
the fridge starts humming.
i stand up and plug the lights in
they glow yellow and orange, warm and comforting.
i'd left my shirt and bra hanging off the couch.
this place needs more care, more presence
when you leave, i will return
when you leave, life will resume its rhythm.
a beat or two behind, but i'll make do
when you leave...
when you leave...
"when you leave..."
everything happens after that clause
or perhaps everything will tumble apart.
regrets
live without regrets
what sort of life is a life without regrets? a life that zooms forward like a brand new automobile on an 8-lane super highway. a life where you move forward without hesitation and never look back?
there are different degrees of regret, different forms. regrets sprouting from attachment. regrets stemming from what anchored us at a point in time. these type of regrets i can never and would never want to eliminate altogether.
i want to walk on a tightrope, to know that i'm suspended between the past and the future. i want to walk forward and look back knowing that i'd left something in order to move on. i want to acknowledge that loss. i want a life full of holes needing to be filled, full of patches, a life worn at the edges like the blanket i'd kept since a child. i want to grow old recklessly. i want to hope with the full knowledge that there's no big break at the end of road, that dreams often turn to air and light. but there's no reason to stop them from streaming into one's head, and for that moment blur the boundaries of reality.
regrets. sadness. the things that tug at our hearts are often things that fill us with sadness. why avoid them. how to avoid them and be able to taste a bit of the magnitude of our existence.
what sort of life is a life without regrets? a life that zooms forward like a brand new automobile on an 8-lane super highway. a life where you move forward without hesitation and never look back?
there are different degrees of regret, different forms. regrets sprouting from attachment. regrets stemming from what anchored us at a point in time. these type of regrets i can never and would never want to eliminate altogether.
i want to walk on a tightrope, to know that i'm suspended between the past and the future. i want to walk forward and look back knowing that i'd left something in order to move on. i want to acknowledge that loss. i want a life full of holes needing to be filled, full of patches, a life worn at the edges like the blanket i'd kept since a child. i want to grow old recklessly. i want to hope with the full knowledge that there's no big break at the end of road, that dreams often turn to air and light. but there's no reason to stop them from streaming into one's head, and for that moment blur the boundaries of reality.
regrets. sadness. the things that tug at our hearts are often things that fill us with sadness. why avoid them. how to avoid them and be able to taste a bit of the magnitude of our existence.
have been painting quite regularly, getting some sense of how oil paint works. it's very addictive.
my poor brother was forced to hold a 36"x48" canvas as well as two other smaller ones stuck to it on the back of my motorbike as i rode home. the wind almost knocked him off and i realized it was rather stupid to put him in risk for some canvas. have to figure out a different means of transportation next time... in any case, we made it back safe. headed out again for smaller sized canvases i can carry back by myself, and more paint. but by the time i got home i was far too exhausted to do anything. this dry season heat, it's destructive.
diverting from black and white these days. funny how the more depressed the feelings, the brighter the colors.
my poor brother was forced to hold a 36"x48" canvas as well as two other smaller ones stuck to it on the back of my motorbike as i rode home. the wind almost knocked him off and i realized it was rather stupid to put him in risk for some canvas. have to figure out a different means of transportation next time... in any case, we made it back safe. headed out again for smaller sized canvases i can carry back by myself, and more paint. but by the time i got home i was far too exhausted to do anything. this dry season heat, it's destructive.
diverting from black and white these days. funny how the more depressed the feelings, the brighter the colors.
i like to clean the house when i'm stressed out, a friend said over dinner the other day. for me it's washing dishes. washing dishes is strangely calming. a mindless process with quick outcome. to see all the grits come off, to put the plates one by one onto the rack and observe the sink becoming clean and empty. it'll be nice if we can go through our problems the same methodical way. it'll be nice to clean them off and put them away one by one and unburden ourselves until we're clean and rid of all pains. it'll be nice.
the flowers in the small patch in front of my house are blooming crazy. they sprawl onto the cement yard like wild flowers by the roadside in the countries. i like their messiness.
there's a man on sitting on one of the sidewalks on my way to work. he's always peeling some fruit, always concentrating, always sitting with his back hunched over, oblivion to the world. there's another man who walks around in wrinkled up shorts. sometimes he walks naked and shock the passer-bys. he looks straight ahead and walks slowly, oblivion to the traffic.
Day after day,
Alone on a hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer,
But the fool on the hill,
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning 'round...
i've taken to eating at a certain Pho place with Rob after work. i ask the same questions and he gives similar answers. this reminds me of a scene in a Murakami Haruki book he said. i smiled. i don't know why he reads Murakami, but as i pondered the question for myself i realized his books make me feel less lonely. stoic characters with methodical manners, breezing through all the chaos in their lives. sensitive enough to point out all the out of place things and situations, and yet cool and detached enough to give you space to appreciate the pain and loss.
the flowers in the small patch in front of my house are blooming crazy. they sprawl onto the cement yard like wild flowers by the roadside in the countries. i like their messiness.
there's a man on sitting on one of the sidewalks on my way to work. he's always peeling some fruit, always concentrating, always sitting with his back hunched over, oblivion to the world. there's another man who walks around in wrinkled up shorts. sometimes he walks naked and shock the passer-bys. he looks straight ahead and walks slowly, oblivion to the traffic.
Day after day,
Alone on a hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer,
But the fool on the hill,
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning 'round...
i've taken to eating at a certain Pho place with Rob after work. i ask the same questions and he gives similar answers. this reminds me of a scene in a Murakami Haruki book he said. i smiled. i don't know why he reads Murakami, but as i pondered the question for myself i realized his books make me feel less lonely. stoic characters with methodical manners, breezing through all the chaos in their lives. sensitive enough to point out all the out of place things and situations, and yet cool and detached enough to give you space to appreciate the pain and loss.
hunger. acute hunger.
dip my fingers into salt, see the paint stain the grains red.
thinking of you.
she said, "for that moment, just that moment,
if love ran dry i would too"
imagine her striding down the street, grand, erect, free
when do rocks turn to ice?
and do ice turn into rocks?
what if i get so used to leaning backwards that i can no longer push myself forward.
what ifs...
dip my fingers into salt, see the paint stain the grains red.
thinking of you.
she said, "for that moment, just that moment,
if love ran dry i would too"
imagine her striding down the street, grand, erect, free
when do rocks turn to ice?
and do ice turn into rocks?
what if i get so used to leaning backwards that i can no longer push myself forward.
what ifs...
gray sky. feels like rain. it's the middle of the dry season but we've seen quick downpours the past few days. i love the calm light, gray atmosphere, soft rumbling sounds in the distance before the rain.
i saw saigon again a few days ago, after half a year of being here. the small streets, the random architecture of rectangular houses, the sprawling shops spurting onto the sidewalks, the pushcarts and plastic table sets, the constant road constructions, the grit, the crowd, the heat. i love this place--a sort of jagged love, but love nevertheless.
endless roads. endless nights. late night roaming frightens me somewhat but i can't stop.
i have no destinations, only the thirst for movement.
what generates storms inside our beings? and what eases them? even restless people need a place to lie down sometimes.
this calm before the storm, it's a space of silence. i love silence. i love the pause between the lines. and i love too, the music after the pause. the first curtain of rain sweeping on the roof. pit pat pattering. PitpatPatpattering. slowly. hesitantly. then more urgently, into a louder. stronger rhythm. the sky bursts open. everything bursts open.
i saw saigon again a few days ago, after half a year of being here. the small streets, the random architecture of rectangular houses, the sprawling shops spurting onto the sidewalks, the pushcarts and plastic table sets, the constant road constructions, the grit, the crowd, the heat. i love this place--a sort of jagged love, but love nevertheless.
endless roads. endless nights. late night roaming frightens me somewhat but i can't stop.
i have no destinations, only the thirst for movement.
what generates storms inside our beings? and what eases them? even restless people need a place to lie down sometimes.
this calm before the storm, it's a space of silence. i love silence. i love the pause between the lines. and i love too, the music after the pause. the first curtain of rain sweeping on the roof. pit pat pattering. PitpatPatpattering. slowly. hesitantly. then more urgently, into a louder. stronger rhythm. the sky bursts open. everything bursts open.
chewing on deer jerky. the house is serenely quiet. i love these late night sessions of solitude when there seems to be infinite space and time to ponder about various things--relevant and irrelevant. mostly irrelevant.
craving bread. craving bagels. yes. bagels. it's been ages since i had one. maybe i should make pancakes... i'm suddenly savagely hungry.
ransacking through the content of my fridge. hmmm....
alright, scratch the pancake plan. the flour's infested. how sad.
eating dried seaweed with chopsticks.
maybe i should cook rice and add kimchee.
eating leftovers from yesterday's stirfried bean sprouts and zucchini.
eating a tomato.
ahh...there is no end to it tonight.
and what happens when we crave for things that are not edible, that exist outside the contents of our fridges?
craving bread. craving bagels. yes. bagels. it's been ages since i had one. maybe i should make pancakes... i'm suddenly savagely hungry.
ransacking through the content of my fridge. hmmm....
alright, scratch the pancake plan. the flour's infested. how sad.
eating dried seaweed with chopsticks.
maybe i should cook rice and add kimchee.
eating leftovers from yesterday's stirfried bean sprouts and zucchini.
eating a tomato.
ahh...there is no end to it tonight.
and what happens when we crave for things that are not edible, that exist outside the contents of our fridges?
feelingabitcrazy.anxious.mad.breathe. breathe.
untie one string at a time. take a bit more time. takeitalloff. i'm reorganizing my organs. brushing them clean and polishing them RED. thinking.notthinking.thinking.notthinking.
Drat!
thismellowlowlowlow music is not helping. dim lights. vivid memories.
thinking.drat.StoPthinking!
untie one string at a time. take a bit more time. takeitalloff. i'm reorganizing my organs. brushing them clean and polishing them RED. thinking.notthinking.thinking.notthinking.
Drat!
thismellowlowlowlow music is not helping. dim lights. vivid memories.
thinking.drat.StoPthinking!
new year resolution
probably the only way to stay sane and happy is to fill up one's schedule to the max. to occupy oneself till one's exhausted and then there's no time to be confused. to think. to feel any sort of emotional shit. hahaha.
taka left on monday leaving me the remnants of his shadows. shadows on the black tiles, a deeper shade of black. shadows on the orange walls. shadows on the wooden floor, rolling, echoing help. i don't want to be a vegetable!
ahaha. you're a bean sprout.
No! I don't wanna be a bean sprout!
but they're full of potentials!
nooOOooooo
we lay in bed and had our joint funeral. gong gong. ready to be reborn as human beings and not bean sprouts.
even though bean sprouts are tasty.
you light up when he's around rebecca said.
yes. i do light up when you're around.
what a pity I remember somebody said a long time ago. but there is nothing to pity on. i love you the way you are. exactly as is. i love where we stand. no jealousy. no seduction. no complications. simply a space that contains so much of life, arts, other people, ourselves. and how the confusions, fears -- the vulnerable part of our beings are on display and there is no fear of falling to pieces when the time for parting comes. you'd guard my heart as much as I'd guard yours.
vulnerability. perhaps, it's that moment in time when people let you see the soft unprotected part inside of them that you understand there's a solid line of trust bonding you together.
i'm sitting in a space filled with your shadows. a bit lonely. a bit hopeful.
ahaha. you're a bean sprout.
No! I don't wanna be a bean sprout!
but they're full of potentials!
nooOOooooo
we lay in bed and had our joint funeral. gong gong. ready to be reborn as human beings and not bean sprouts.
even though bean sprouts are tasty.
you light up when he's around rebecca said.
yes. i do light up when you're around.
what a pity I remember somebody said a long time ago. but there is nothing to pity on. i love you the way you are. exactly as is. i love where we stand. no jealousy. no seduction. no complications. simply a space that contains so much of life, arts, other people, ourselves. and how the confusions, fears -- the vulnerable part of our beings are on display and there is no fear of falling to pieces when the time for parting comes. you'd guard my heart as much as I'd guard yours.
vulnerability. perhaps, it's that moment in time when people let you see the soft unprotected part inside of them that you understand there's a solid line of trust bonding you together.
i'm sitting in a space filled with your shadows. a bit lonely. a bit hopeful.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)