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“-I have alot to give someone, someday. But I must not be too Christian. I can only end up with one, and I must leave many lonely by the wayside. So that is all for now. Perhaps someday someone will leave me by the wayside. And that will be poetic justice…”

they understand not what Plath says when she recites Lady Lazarus by the heater, after slowly showing Rilke’s The Panther. the eye doctor, who’d rather read dancing in the rain, knows not our suffering. of course, it is always good to put out a front, to spew sarcasm from noon till midnight (for i am awake earlier and thus retire earlier), as if to entertain ourselves, filling in the fringes of life with the negation of others, but to what end, my loves? shall you trade your ability to see about one’s eyes for mine to see into one’s eyes?

of course, i am very much in love with you, i who need another soul to cling to, one whom can i move towards to, but because i want to pour myself, and cease to be myself. oh, if only, if only. but she was here, and i think she grieves still. twenty five, twenty three, does it matter when, we shall marry?

of course, i must not delude myself. this distance kept is precisely what keeps me confined. i am a nun, with no one else to confide into but You.


it is sickening, this, i want to be severed from my head, and replace it with someone’s else, one who isn’t spoiled with notions of the individual or stout philosophies or that dark deeply embedded blackness within me, really. but that is the heart. 

i am no prophet,
angels do not,
cut me open,
bleach me into
perfection.

as to battle out boredom and loneliness. as the month of ramadan starts, it is not the food that i miss, nor my own family (because space is annihilated with time), it is the longing towards the yet unattainable peace, the tranquil of being one and be content with everything. if i could declare that i want everything, this insatiable urge to become, and not to just be, the progress towards something, i think i shall be happier off with myself. we must move. and to lie deep in our slumber, thinking of perfection, the ideal (there’s always the idea of the ideal),without ever initiating any action towards it, i am oblomov. and i desire not to live like the little boy in his dream in the dull country of oblomovska, like those little peasants who live a day waiting for the day to end and another to start (what a waste), thinking of routines and the food and the day’s labour only, or to dwell about slowly a problem for months without ever coming to any resolve (towards initiation, at least). things like that.

it is important to not to slip into atrophy.

sedang dengar lagu Lotus Flower, sebenarnya.

i have a few ideas to be jotted down, but now is not the time, i think i need to acquire first, a cup of coffee, second my own laptop, third, good music. 


much, much, has happened.
i am returning home, hopefully, tonight.
i think i am forever bounded to you
(because there is no other way around this, no matter how much i think of it).
only to put those into simplistic words and present myself
the unrolling of the tongue
that i cannot do.
yet.

but i remain faithfully yours.

uni of sydney it is.
it is not favourable to stay here.
either i am utterly alone.
or doomed to mingle with worldly beings.
occupied with filling in their lower senses.

else we head to cambridge.

scrap cambridge, i’m thinking of going to adelaide instead for postgrad studies. firstly because i do not think i am that well equipped to even step into cambridge, secondly, as of today, i think i am roughly in love with adelaide already, despite the damning weather. the city has been worked under the hands of the jan gehl, author of life between buildings whom i adore deeply. closely resembles our copenhagen, in terms of livability.

in observing this city this evening, after being to some camp (in which i shall probably write of later, due to my incapacity to cry and everything), for about four days, the first thing i noticed was the pace of walking.

now pace, the speed of walking does coincide with the degree of comfort of your surroundings. and the people here are incredibly relaxed while walking (most noticably at traffic lights). i, who hail from sydney soon blend in with this new, make up. brisbane somewhat suffers from being too urban. too many people? they are gold coast, barren. melbourne is too crowded and cramped despite having great great coffee shops and the like. (but i havent really explored melb thoroughly yet). sydney? hectic. people running between train stations.

it’s interesting really, going from one city to another. because each have different policies and rules, so their social make up (or behavior) is different. so adelaide does not have much tall buildings. sunlight penetrates, enough noise isolation from the main street (cars), wide enough spaces for pedestrians to walk, and speak, stand, stop. enough chairs and tiang for people to observe without really beig observed, and absorb the atmosphere. lively enough to sit and talk across one another. a livable city.

in short, ideal.

(and i recommend everyone to read this pakcik, excellent stuff. if only his team could revamp kuala lumpur. much of adelaide’s livability is outlined in this book).

so sustainability. masters in sustainability. the only reason to take in electrical engineering, was to me, the prospects of renewable energy (there are degrees in those now, that ship has long sailed).

and doing that course allows you to go into economics, science, statistics, geography, urban planning, energy, law, society, governance, technology, the environment, all at once (over the course of two years).

ideal, eh?

but what is the ideal? did i not wish to become some shabby writer? or some archeologist?

belajar agama nak campak mana?
bahasa arab? french? history? philosophy?

egh.

kata dulu nak ambil malay literature.

decisions decisions.

as if there is anything substantial to be done over here. tomorrow morning, i shall be off to adelaide, attend some supposedly WARM camp (that’s not warm at all….) and afterwards, spend some three days over there, then in melbourne (i have a week to spare, and a heart to bear), then off to tasmania. i suppose i am not terribly excited by all this. but say everyone one has to marvel at life and be merry and everything. but i am no aesthete not anymore, if anything.

walking some seven kilometers back and forth the beach yesterday. the streets were empty, and there is nothing to see except the sea. the bubbles froth, the waves roll, the water yonder looks very still. at the beginning of each section in v. woolf’s the waves, se explains each transition from dawn till dusk with poetic ease. but i am still uneased.

i have an insurmountable problem yesterday. it is between both, persons. and i do not, cannot, detect a tinge of jealousy whether it is present or not, but i shall remain, indifferent. if any one wishes to marry me, he may go to the father or brother. my mother. there is no other way around it. i am bad when it comes to hints. one either comes, bursts forth exclaiming everything or do nothing at all.

kierkegard mentioned that there are three stages of life. one that is purely devoted towards pleasing the senses (imagine Rimbaud in his youth) then one of humanity, that is to behave in a most moral and correct way (aaaah, i dont know who, the humanists? ) and then when both of these stages are boring in themselves, with no divine purpose, then only one could, act, on a leap of faith, to believe in a supreme god and act according to his will.

for our own will, however free we may reign it too, is eventually torn between two dualities, one of angelic and one of the animal. the right path or the wrong one. all multiplicities can be boiled down to this. and that is why, at the beginning of each rakaah, you say, guide me to the right path.

i think i like the greeks and the romantics better than all the other etas in philosophy. kant and hegel were concerned with all theories of knowledge, that is, what we can know and how we perceive knowledge. all this seems very removed from me. at least the romantics were concerned with feelings, however erratic they may be. the greeks were genuine in their pursuit, and all else is boring.

they say mulla sadra is the first… existentialist, so to speak. malas nak baca lagi.

i guess i have to go into the habit of selecting the books that are interesting and useful at the same time.

as it stands now, i have no time for plath, pessoa, or boring murakami.

to be bored is the highest insult for creation.

how am i to write?

i who lack a narrative, i who use single phrases to describe everything, i who cannot weave seamlessly into one unified sentence that give semblance to a plot, i, i, how am i to write anything? if everything lies in making everything lyrical, to abandon structure and just burst with words words words that scatter around like butterflies, all pretty but alas, escape us entirely, and so we are left only with only an impression, a sequence of an act, the chaotic act of fluttering, the relentless erratic movements that go off in every direction but one, then how am i, to move?

everything escapes me.

she surrenders herself before the act. she feels incapable. a gallant nothing. he is ascending in his grief, elevated, free, but here i am stuck in my pool of doubt, the insecure brat, i refuse to cut myself off. i am afraid. i remain shackled, beneath his gaze.