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i suppose it somewhat exhilarates me to have found a real person you’ve just met for about five minutes and then suddenly out of the blue, to be talking about iranian films and the underlying themes, or about time and being, time and space, spools, a multitude of books, phi-lo-so-phy, the velvet underground, iggy pop, amelie, memento, trainspotting, doc martens, the strokes, perfect day, sunday morning, dissing sophia coppola, calling lost in translation cynical, but i thought it was beautifully existential, phoenix, alex turner, koreans and their loss of identity, germans, london, streets and houses, winona ryder’s hair, wes anderson, uitm, ptptn, typography, bjork, writing, travelling, the art of getting by and how it parallels your humble narrator a trifle bit, black swan and her descent into madness, mila kunis, aerosmith, walking, for hours without end, only to be interrupted by our exit, our journey towards north.

let them ripe.

i am reading woolf’s diary, which i incidently acquired upon stumbling upon a bookshop in newtown, home of the sydney hipsters. there are no asians here, not as much as in kingsford, and the atmosphere much lively as well. people are not in a hurry. friendly. they have run out of the smith journal, i’m sure to buy a copy of the first edition soon. maybe at the end of may. i am to limit myself right this instant.

woolf, how shall i describe her? very serious in her writing, does she not laugh? i suppose there is a touch of tragedy in each of her words, as if she laying down a momentous task for herself every single moment, always something to do, the greeks the greeks. being a writer must be hard. you’d have to occupy yourself with the subject of writing and nothing else. tiresome indeed. no wonder she killed herself. she did hate joyce though. ulysses. i told you, pot, that joyce is too full of himself, that he likes himself too much. egoistical bastard. even though i liked daedalus as a person, or plump mr bloom, i couldnt enjoy him. unreadable? yes. aaah, what beauty you’d find in patched up writings that resemble nothing? ineffable? hah. i am the same. virginia laughs. hm bosan la cakap pasal ni. nak cari rumet. rupanya dia tengah buat recording nasyid.

getting a ride to the train station from arnold is enough for me. he even took the liberty to entertain me all the way with historical lessons on katoomba abd the blue mountains. i even taught him how to wear the sarung properly. he called it saree. no no.

sincerely, the girl who doesnt know how to wear kain batik. superficial at best.

i am not dead. i am listening to heima, sigur ros is releasing an album soon, wurtzel still wants her ice cream, much is left to explored. do not think for a second i am thoroughly bored. depression is merely a transition towards the heights of clarity. kierkegaard mentioned that ages ago. we climbed mountains yesterday, didnt we? temporarily, before we find a new rarity.

where are our female friends? they are left in their private room, doing god knows what, filling stupid ideas and ghost stories in their head. stupefication at its best. i have a poet for a friend, and no one else. others i try to love and seduce with all my wit and passion, yet their hearts are dead. am i too intelligent? nay, i am the vortex of dread. the sick soul the heterogenous bowl.

i am at a train station, typing because i am too gullible and subsidising to bring a pen. beside me is a woman, reading dylan thomas, enough strangers for a day, i do not want to be estranged. today i shall strike tall and believe myself to be happy.

plath is nobody, her dead body shall not overpower me. dead beards, pigs, moles, snakes, horses, mushroom, away with them. the sea is not our resting place, it is the heavens.

enthrall everything and set sail straight towards perfection and god and illumination. trod through these carcasses, steer them away. do not stow them, for skeletons can find their way out of the closet.

i do not want to err anymore. allow me to be free, and declare love to thee, my rilke my new prodigy.

i want to bundle myself in enjoyment yet nothing happens everything evaporates quickly as the turpentine. sting sting, nothing to be said. as if there are words that could replace us. soon soon we lodge ourselves in words that are inaudible, only readable, a cipher that needs to be cracked and detached and assembled so we could make sense of where do we go from here. after all, where do we depart to? we sink into the boards, into the pages, non existent, only the essence remains. here, come, tither, where shall we go tomorrow?

i want to bask myself with ideas. i do not want to be bored, to be insane and pick myself up all over again. this is tiring. on waking up she sees the solitary sheep perched on the mountains, is that the Rat? no. we are in appin, campletown, penrith, in some kanji ghost town. there is nothing there, only stretches of red rock and the udder of chinesemen smacked between the trees. i asked thoreau whether he would like this. “no not without a lake. i need my walden pond, and my bean gourd”.

apparitions of naoko appeared before me today. i imagine her strutting in bedrocks, with her frock and gullible scarf. she wants to be consumed by the earth. she wants to melt in the sea, this massive unbearably pregnant ball of heat is killing me. let us bathe in the pond, be ophelia, not cordelia. no pond? a puddle would do.

but there is no water. i want to be quenched. yet none is near. nor do they hear. here i lie, and slowly die.

and not one of them you shall bother. things, collected from the public sphere, are, essentially public. it matters not that you have made private your thoughts, who knows how long, but once they are out, they’re out. no need to burn the evidence of its existence. you can only fade, or pave, your way, towards dying, towards non-existence, towards decrying god, or slowly dif-f-u-s-e yourself into the ground, return return, return to earth, our mother grave, the plot of dust and soul (ha ha), but before you begin all that, the past remains as it was left as is to begin with. try to erase, to riddle, to put a shroud on it, or to deny – ah denial our most familiar friend – , nothing shall come out of it. only our memories and perception of them change, in an endless perforation that continues to choke us till the day we die. exorcise these ghosts! exorcise our mini gods and goddesses! we need to be rid of them entirely, but no, that would never happen, kan?

but more importantly, not everything is about you. nothing is ever directive, unless we array ourselves towards you. one would not act or jump or fly or perform without a motive in view. unless, well, we are merely, entertaining ourselves to no end with all this mental games. nothing is ever personal. i am the most impersonal person around. because i value nothing of myself – perhaps – only this malleable brain. words are our playground. the avenue to play around with the different toys and tools present, to use them at our will, laugh among ourselves and mostly our own self, whenever we feel like it, heedless of the adults prying constantly eyeing us. we never seek to perform, to be judged, because nothing is ever constant, and to be stopped and pointed out and singled out, and tell us, “play”, aaah, stupefied, a child would run run run and never return again. he will seek another playground.

let us roam freely.

i may or may not be the most stable person around, but a little bedspread change will do at the moment. i even decided to use the boring pathetic organza curtain to block out the maddening sun. everything’s just dandy. medallion dead snakes and bad faith aside, we continue on living building and programming codes for ourselves this very evening. this is merely a bad case of mood swing, is all. i think i might have killed my cynicism entirely, because teasing on bad grammar doesn’t really entertain me anymore. this might be due to a blind woman i meet/see almost on a weekly basis passing the house every other day. or the fact that i don’t think suicide is a grand notion anymore, or any of that mental pysch ward ect zoloft shit, so much that repeating those godless questions over and over in my head during a certain meeting six years ago just nauseates me i think i won’t ever speak to him no more. am i in denial of a memory? yes. let’s leave it at that. now, we are less crass. i am cured, says the humble narrator. Zooey Glass would be find me completely boring.

i want to make creme brulee soon. wish me luck.

and be forever obscured from my view, forging replies and uniform answers, stocked from the previous hearts you’ve broken, out of stoic guilt, nonchalant while you grin, rearing what seems to be fragmented idiotic dreams, gay and free, free and gay.

i don’t care, i don’t care.

like a tiny jellyfish cupped in the middle of sea, you shall watch me dance dance dance pathetically in your hands, quaint but pale, uninteresting as i gently appeal to be freed, so you lift me up back to the beach, and then poke at me my tentacles and my transparent empty head when i’m dead.

i’m happier this way.

between
your speech your gait
your protein milkshake
and sleep routine
i am a discarded passenger
hymning idiocies

do you talk to everyone?
it must be your job
you say marvel at me
and my strutted muscles
my eloquence my maneuver
as i babble and cackle to
bus drivers

you make me feel stupid
rearing my head out
guessing your borderlines
mapping the insignificant
into my mind

i think my head is about to explode
or drop from excessive weight
i’m about to stoop
descend and never reappear again