jungian dreams

in jungian dreams,
black is both white and black;
vividness is both a willy-nilly blurred image and as clear as the sun shining at you.
the tree is split into two by an invisible force,
and naked bodies dance in ancient rituals unknown.
the unknown bodies surround the boy that never could escape the school compound.

in jungian dreams,
the manikins are both secrets and obvious tautologies.
where the tearing of flesh by canine beasts,
felt without any pain but a profund emotion bathes you into a quiet submission.
leaves you lying on floating clouds and the great buildings crumbled beneath you.

in jungian reality,
the voices of men are automated voice-overs,
so cold and distant, mockeries to the profound unknown,
a collective secret to all, but a discreet thorn in the flesh, never to be removed by mere intellect.
so I love solitude, and to leave the old man to decide my fate.
so I despise the young man, so passionate and bold in his desires,
an archetypal behaviour no doubt, but who is that green man who haunts me?

back to jungian dreams,
the talking creatures warn me of future trials and tribulations.
seasons of faith will not save me.
the stones will fall on me, and I will be just be like another stone,
cold to the touch, unfeeling, left alone for centuries, small and insignificant.
skips three times when I throw it onto the surface of a lake.
the empty house returns to haunt me.

remember my dreams of trees.
deja vu of my future existence.
only to separate my personalities into two.
ever so familiar hunger and thirst,
release me, no relief.
my entire consciousness against my unconsciousness,
feeding each other, fighting, peaceful interactions, constantly;
where it is no longer about strength and courage,
but a flight to an eroticism of violence,
the more I am not myself, I am returning to being myself.
the more I hate, the more I can love.
to fall is not to immediately begin with a free fall,
glide for a moment, the wind surrounds me, suspends me,
I am lifted,
to leap is to fly up,
it is to suspend, to fall.

Yes, Jung, so your secret is not that secretive after all.

travelling,
latent footprints,
tracks that bring us to undiscovered countries.
floating,
soft ripples,
waves that bring us to stationary ferry points.

we can start sooner than later,
homecoming happens without deliberate attempts.
keep on trying to not try.
the choice has not been made, it was taken.
we're not here to understand the choice,
we're here to be here.
to maintain the distance,
always a mystery.

as I progress,
the silence deepens,
my eyes turn,
and yesterday becomes today.
dialectics do not work here.
it is actually a fight to the end.
loneliness if not in body, at least in my dreams.
to meet the unknown.
to hesitate, cursed by the fecundity of my rich ignorance;
give birth to death.
zeal to go beyond death,
alas, vanity.
listen to whispers ceaselessly.
fallen to the point of numbness,
numb to the touch, but mostly,
to the soul.
release occurs, at the point of leaping,
when the fall is endless,
truth departs,
to reveal just mercy,
loosening my grip,
am I?
the echoes disappear.
to the final horizon,
future extinctions of hope,
annihilate fire itself,
perpetual thirst,
floods end.
the titans of tidings,
bolts of fiery sarcasm.
but to face them all,
one has to do so in silence.
a silent void.
ready to contain more than one can.
plates crumple,
to reveal new worlds,
clashing in swords and amass banners,
the inner war will end.
the final consciousness to make us all look like idiots.
but the void remains.
always too early to say.
The Said has been said.
what more? what else?

always a mystery.
always meant to say adieu.
a fatal thing to do, but between life and death,
one doesn't have much choice, yes?

yawns

there are always a lot more other things to do, unwillingly.
they are done, anyway.
any second now.
can't stop the flow,
there are also a lot of things we give up. gave up.
so,
keep the visions in us,
ungraspable,
unspeakable,
unfathomable,
only to torment us each night, that which refuses to acknowledge the repetition of the new,
so
find not worlds here,
but to destroy the here and now,
with the fire of creation.
unable to reach more hearts eventually,
to be the other of myself,
a body with broken organs (you're both wrong Deleuze and Zizek)
der Sieg der Vernunft
ist, vorloren.
der Weg ist von innen heraus.
always other and Other.
ich vermisse mich sie, meine Angstgegnerin.
an absence highlighted,
awaiting a predestined latent sign,
wait, and

KEEP QUIET,
BODY,MIND,SPIRIT.WITNESS;

i do not know what else to say.

13

13.
one male.

ignore the symbolism.
pretend it's a hoax.
but 13 and one male just sound too insane to ignore.
but that's for another day to reflect on.

the end of the beginning is the middle.

take nothing away from this free verse,
in the middle always,
of something for the future,
looking back at some foggy apparition.
won't know the difference,
unless some form utters its message.
IN.ROMAN.SCRIPTS.
Italicised emphasis.
ORJUSTABOLDNESSOFLANGUAGE
pity, we can't escape the superficiality of life.
what do you appear to me as?
an angel of strife?
or a demon of peace?
tell me a bedtime story that has no words.
or about tributaries of ancient genealogy.
confusion creeps inside me,
raining down,
don't know how to get to me,
except through some rhizomes.
invisible to the eyes.
it's about time to remove the anamorphic lens,
reflections lie too much,
in the days of our youth.
call me, when those days are over.
call me, when the telephone is mouth-free.

no peace of mind,
as far as words are concerned.
ready to change history,
as far as words are concerned.
kinetic thrust of endless forgotten words,
i am so weary, so very weary,
a punishing fatigue. o so very slippery.
as far as words are concerned.


"I know, that in time, it would just fade away."

in the most silent and painless way.
without words.
just Juliet drinking the poison.

sakura petal, leaning on my shoulder,
never seen them before,
praising a mental image,
feeling beautiful for only me.
you are watching fervently, away.
the glow of your voice, though, I can't cast the sound away,
the falling, gently caressing my ears before the landing.

stagnant water, flowing to nowhere,
never could speak, proper words again,
pressing a formal image,
forgetting how I once behaved,
I am watching, feverishly, away.
the faint mumble of my voice, repetitively, you cannot cast the sound away,
the rising, rapidly to take the past away after the landing.

comes the centre,
where both depart,

to each

separate way,

meeting, perhaps next sakura season,
that will happen,
here,
now.

a van,

a scooter.

selling teapots in a rundown street.

gratitude towards a lack,
always a lack, a lesson of brutal frailty,
and desire can have her punishment
hatred for a lack,
always a lack, a tarnish to the spotless mind bent eternity
and desire can be the opposition to faith
;few steps aways from the sky

faces of Sirius blink at me,
whose pups will not stop licking me.
they look at me with wide-eyed amusement,
or are they curious to know why I'm still alive?
who cares, for we all fade and disappear, eating ourselves up along with others around us with our bright gaze.

hollow roots, rhizomes of ephemeral apparitions,
I look up because I am underground, with parts surfacing out of the ground for only a season.
grateful still, water seeping through, refreshing, what cannot be washed away so easily.
but they say with feverish opposition:
"wither away, you without a flower to manifest your worth."
who cares, for as long as the roots are there (even if they are hollow),
what withers on the surface will grow back again.

I look up to the sky, underground.
I am tree that cannot grow unidirectionally, arborescently.
I am an imploding machine of desires,
a lack because of those excessiveness,
therefore I challenge Cerberus, only to lose, fallen, waiting for the time and chance,
to bite my existence back, to shed my metallic body,
to be no one and a variant of Prometheus.

and give him his final death.

(black) dogs

dreams.

#1
first, an escape in a forest,
a pack of hounds, mostly black.
could not escape. fell. they bit.
it did not hurt. the rest pursued the unknown people who were with me.
blinded. but I waited, and waited, for that right moment,
just me and my enemy, then,
I bit back.


#2
second, I was the hunter,
with a group of unknown companions, (3 of us, one was an african)
place: next to Braddell Road, where the overhead bridge to Lor 8 is.
a radio or voice recording ensues,
of mockery and diabolical laughter,
we looked up at the trees,
to find an oversized black dog staring down at us,
with a pack of black dogs (even a poodle)
they landed, actually there were 3 to 4 of them. can't remember.
We stepped back, cautiously.
they threatened, stepped forward.
we clashed.

la melodia von Wümboo Wumboo

Wümboo felt sorry for Wumboo,
who slip when he danced on the dance floor, with vodka, had to be vodka, spilled, not from a glass, from the stomach, the guts, why of course, for Wümboo was the culprit, only that he was too drunk to know, but he felt sorry, because both Wümboo and Wumboo wasted the alcohol.

Wumboo felt happy for Wümboo,
who teased him, while Wumboo was on the floor, and Wümboo looked very tall, for he was always so short, but now he grew taller, suddenly, and so Wumboo was happy for him, and he thought for a second, how strange, that everyone grew taller as well.

Wümboo and Wumboo were, both dancing, to a melody, remixed in patches of Brazilian flavour, but had a confusing scratching to it, so much so, that the spinning of the track, was synonymous with their own head spinning.

It didn't matter, and as a matter of fact, they both soon found out, they were both lying on the floor, dancing quietly to shifting phantasms, tunes resembling Hindi and Muslim, and had a Japanese pop percussion to it, that went, easily mistaken as a siren, while visually, a blue and red pyschedelic looping reel, approaching them, under the full moonlight.

Who are you?

Wümboo Wumboo.

keep a little handkerchief in your pocket,
it'll come in handy.
for moments like this --

teach, learn, undo that magic, relax, freeze, skip to the next beat, break the bone of another, yell for help, help, sacrifice, bloody, woah, there is someone stalking me, wipe, kick that, someone is hugging me, freedom, origin, of destiny, the paper airplane flies across the road, the flakes drop,
bubble wrap me, gravy, the sauce is on the table, folding clothes at the side of the stage, sucking chilli from plastic packets, sneeze, wave goodbyes, the bell is ringing, make that phone call, alarm clocks, MTV, the radio is playing a crazy song, progressive rock, there is no one to say hello to, yesterday was a good day to reflect on, babies are crying, the milk had a bit of water mixed into it, the ass needs some wiping, skipping down the road, torn a ligament, infection and pus, blood is dripping from the nose, no drugs tonight, the refreshing drink is coke, zero, the world is beginning in a minute, win a free meal voucher, had a sushi buffet, there is a boy running a bike, the taxi takes us to nice places, may i have your number, a pen to write, can i come up to your place, the tap is still running, boil the water please, sing a song when the heater is switched off, there is a stalker knocking on the door, the email is flooding, i hate spams, the t-shirt is hanging there for days, the ants fell into the cup, eating, electronica, books to read in the loo, waking after a dream, coffee spilled, yelling at the top of one's voice, had a hockey match, there is no one to pass to, the tense moments of holding your pee, teeth left un-brushed, Sundays, the focus on the morning news, nothing is in the oven, the fire is burning next door, Singapore dreaming, grey skies, she has been playing that song again, the wind is blowing the trees, weeds, the world is contemplating, pray, next to the weighing machine, no one there to listen, happy days, the loose tie, the gun is not loaded, playing the next favourite show on streaming, reward, the fruit is not ripe, the fan is not moving, the sunshine, windows are shut, Hoffnung, the park is dark now, take along your newspaper too, the wind is still blowing, the sandy beaches, the plane flies across, just break up, the faulty camera, the watch is ticking, the dissolved girl, reaching for some stars, the painful expression of an actor, the green fields, day and night, missing some dvds, children laughing, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, run into trouble, jazz is playing, crazy vibes of hokkien nostalgia, the hand holds us close, closer to the end, the belief, grace, thinking about the dream I had yesterday, receive a mail, pick up a dollar on the floor, the toilet is flooding, living in an apartment, the treasure chest has already been opened, woah, the human bone is mistaken for a giraffe's bone, faceless, the bus is leaving the station, the blog is not updated, the lost and found has not be updated too, repeating the nights, the car is parked next to us, the tea is too sweet, the phone won't stop ringing, the words won't stop coming, the attention is too much, the drums are hit, the ghosts are not visiting tonight, the train takes us to far north, the fish is stationary, the bubbles, arrival, the game is played, scoring goals for fun, the fire is still burning next door, the wind is not blowing, the trees are never left alone, weeds, tissue paper used up, summer again, the falling leaves, want some more icecream, the quiet room, the wall is still not painted, the cup is not half filled, energy, machines are moving, the music player is faulty too, passions overrated, the safe is opened, the ring is missing, a scar is formed, a cat walks away without turning back, yawns, the umbrella is not big enough, save the drink, earth, the tree is still there, on the expressway, went fishing, waiting, under the tree, the handkerchief in someone's hand, wipe sweat, and smile.

the roads, a silent roar,
motionless to the point of no return,
homeless, to the return of the day.
the roads, a liminal space,
ceaseless to the destination of choice,
yieldless after a choice of prisonment.

safe, for a season of safe journeys;
mercies, the tender chants of quiet prayers;
grace has her season in the living world.
there are always words we cannot hear ever again.
When the speakers are gone.


silent foams, gravitating from below,
underneath, flowing into forms, bubbly repetition,
the roads, now slippery, fading windscreens, the rain that didn't fall...until dawn.
the dew of sacrifice.
a velvet sky cast over the horizon.
separates, me, and, you.
intangible tangibles.
leaving me with an uchronia:
but both have their lightnings and thunder.

in spite of love,
faultless to a flaw,
exergue throws us into a chronology of existence.
veiling the anterior
revealing the exterior
and hastening an immediate reaction.
a motive that haunts us, so long a time.
in spite of love, we hardly show that love.
how sad.
how very sad.

a tender hand to stroke our oily hair,
perhaps,
is all we need, to let the tears flow,
in a shelter, opened.
leaning on a sprouting flower, lifting us and allowing us to fall
a dandelion next, to spread us far into the wide field,
of yellow and green, spots of red, stopping us in a while, that we may continue our flight.

brave souls, just tiny wicks, to light a room of flaming existence,
bright, fleeting,
enough to engulf, burning, everyone around us, immediately,
almost reaching out, almost covering us,
in flames of Daniel,
to find hands to hold us,
near bushes that burn ceaselessly;
protect us, from nightmares,

of dogs, biting limbs, torso,
paralysed, blind.
after long sprints, reaching nowhere but a forest,
fallen, and they bite, without the pain, teeth sunk deep.
all fours, waiting, patiently, to open our eyes again,
to bite back, ten times more hard, in reality.

forever is a long time.
reality is always the immediate.
peace is a chaotic stranglehold on us.
a resistance to turbulence.
no journey has no bumps.
tripping and standing.
reveal what must be shown.
the centering comes later. always later.
know both. both and none of the double.
no more simple cliches.
always seasons, to fluctuate.
gone in 60 seconds.
truimphant in disappearing.
not immortality,
mortality, teaches all of us.
growing patience.
refreshing dew, dew...flooded with rain, instead.
the earth is always washed dry.
to start anew, old.
to accept more than acceptance. cruelty.
overcoming, unbecoming, becoming.
the saying and not the said.
in relation to the said.
more than enough, is said. always too much.

took an hour.
must come to an end.
hope not.
but,
being nearer than near,
hold hands, with whom you cannot hold hands with.
your neighbour,
your immediate neighbour; whom you love, as you love yourself.

rain pours.

sun shines,
when we wake.
new morn.
old refreshed.

to whom I can no longer talk to verbally.

you are the sun

ignite in me a simple flame,
to burn away those documents of memories;
I don't want my...
visions to come clean, shadows depart, or
crayons to colour the next white canvas.

can't you burn the sky with your flame?
jest of the night, little by little, fading dream.
the burning must occur.
I want my,
a charred cloth, a choking smell for a while,
the remnants burn in a quiet flame.

water, from somewhere, extinguish.
where it feels the most, choking, burning with desire gone astray
it must burn, and so the water must fall
I don't know what I want,
the pause to breath in air,
humid and smoky, blurring visions once clear.

weight of the handle, patience, terrible patience.
looming destinies, of return and veritable wrenching pains
I want,
the distant sun to be you,
shining always but far away from me.

my voice, gone silent, a wall to my inners
the masonry of restoration.destruction.production.reaction.
every count of the beat, a retrospective of post-events
I want,
the sky to burn, a bright orange, to devastate the innoncence of the moment,
so that it may burn away, disappear and flash into distant memory.

forgot to remember.
but resist all temptations, a kill-joy fire, perish,
all the memories as they come back,
that I don't want.

but to burn, is only to change something to another state...

sweet sounds, to hear once again, a lullaby of insomnia.
if i hold still, will i sleep and dream again?
no.
burn, no. not desire.
burn, yes, what must burn.
you are the sun
do what you must,
when the magnifying glass points.
and burn me, deep, right where it hurts most.
and in an instant
combustion.
and I leave, a mark, that will eventually, be cleared.
ashes, once living, the wind blows,
they spread,
and so the sky, once again, gets a little tainted,
but soon, ashes settle,
and forgotten, in time to come,
in time to come.
to come to a closure.
for once, let it be.
t.e.a.r.s. evaporate.
to fly home, high up above...and below, in another season

burn, sun.

but if you want,
collect me in an urn,
called photo.

Water-fai has just some amazing instrumental beats.

Exploding/Imploding sky!
the subtle expanding twilight canvas,
a fading and welcoming transitory moment
receding and proceeding
with nostalgia of things gone and came back
with mysteries of things forecoming
a treasure of peace and chaos,
I feel stationary
flying by standing still
indeed, this is such an oxymoron
if only that is ever possible.
The impossible continues to intrigue me, the vague grasp of it's mysterious quality.
the substance of non-substance,
the materiality of the non-material.
If only I understood the meaning of meanings.
but is it always a sensous experience?
why can't it for once be an entirely simple moment,
that instanteanous tug of love
that moves even the most stubborn of hearts.
i can't ever describe it.

don't believe all will be well. don't believe all will not be well. don't believe.
just think twilight, when moments are always transitory, flux.
it's always easy to imagine, to desire or to do as you were told.
but what is more real is the suspension of every learnt, taught, told, thought,
and allow that absurdity of the moment to move you.
move you to move not mountains, but those little small steps of confidence.
It wasn't about the waters Peter was told to walk on,
It wasn't about the cock that he had to prevent from crowing;
It was always about the moment that made him realised his grave mistakes.

when you're told to do something you can't do, it's only because you are meant to learn something about your failure.

hence, I enjoy (rather sickly) those moments of twilights,
when a false move is looming at the background,
when a mistake is inevitable,
but always, the point is to come good at the very end.
the very end...how foreign a concept!

being faithful is never about the end.


i am thankful for my new camera, which captures those moments so well.

Most Wumbo Script EVER. Wumbo good.

Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy IV
[originally aired January 21, 2002]
Storyboard Directors: Jay Lender and Sam Henderson
Storyboard Artist: Caleb Meurer
Writers: Jay Lender, Sam Henderson, and Merriwether Williams
Animation Director: Sean Dempsey
Creative Director: Derek Drymon

[the Krusty Krab]
Narrator: Ah, the Krusty Krab. Through these doors pass all the many kinds of undersea life.
Mermaid Man: Through the double-doors... away! [he charges in, knocking away two fish who were going to exit]
Narrator: And also these guys. [Barnacle Boy walks in]
Barnacle Boy: I told you I'm not hungry, Mermaid Man!
Mermaid Man: N-nonsense, Barnacle Boy, we've got to keep up our strength for the fight against eeeeevil!
Barnacle Boy: What a dive.
Mermaid Man: To the register... away! [they approach the register]
Squidward: [exasperated] Can I help you. [a 'ding' goes off]
Mermaid Man: A double Krabby Patty and coral bits for me, and a silly meal for the lad.
Barnacle Boy: [hurried] It's not for the toy, I just... [he stammers] I've gotta fit in the tights, y'know?
Squidward: Whatever. Five dollars, please.
Mermaid Man: You got it, bucky. [he pulls off one of his bra-shells, opens it, and pulls out a metal nut] Will this cover it?
Squidward: No.
Barnacle Boy: Listen, Big Nose, this guy has been saving your butt since you were born. Don't you got a living legend discount or something?
Squidward: This is a restaurant, not a lending library. And who are you calling Big Nose, Big Nose? [they press their noses together, 'hmm'ing and flaring their nostrils. Barnacle Boy takes off his hat, pulls out a $5 bill and tosses it over to the register]
Barnacle Boy: Well next time danger threatens, don't expect any help from us! [he walks off]
Squidward: I'm shakin'. Hmm, Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy. [the wall next to the ordering window presses in with Sponge's imprint, and then Sponge bursts through]
Spongebob: Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy?! Must... get... autograph! [his one hand reaches out and tears a pen out of Tom's shirt pocket. The other grabs a piece of paper outside the restaurant]
Mermaid Man: If you wanna grow up strong like me... you gotta leave room for seconds. [he pulls up his shirt a bit, revealing a gigantic gut] Here comes our waiter! [it's Sponge, psychotically running toward them]
Spongebob: Aaaauuuutoooograaaph!
Barnacle Boy: Holy sea cow, it's that Sponge-kid!
Mermaid Man: Quick lad, to the invisible- [his pants and belt fall down] -boatmobile! Away! [he grabs his pants and holds them up, leaving his belt behind. The two run out of the restaurant]
Barnacle Boy: Where'd we park?
Mermaid Man: Uhh...
Spongebob: Can I have your autograph?! Can I have your autograph?! Can I.. they're gone! [he notices Mermaid Man's belt and gasps] Mermaid Man's belt!
Mermaid Man: Wait! We'll find it with the invisible boat alarm! [he pulls it out, and makes as to press a button. A car flickers in and out of visibility three times, making beeps as well] There she is! [they run over and jump in the car. Barnacle Boy hits the seat divider]
Barnacle Boy: Yeeow! I told you we shoulda got the automatic! [Sponge runs after them]
Spongebob: Hey guys! Wait up! [slow-motion] I've got something for you... [he pulls out the belt]
Barnacle Boy: Floor it! [the boatmobile drives away]
Spongebob: You forgot your belt! You forgot... [he looks at belt in awe] Mermaid Man's secret utility belt! The emblem of submersible justice! For sixty-five years, this belt has helped prevent the fall of nations... and pants. I can't believe I'm actually holding it in my hands! Well, I guess I should return it. [he starts to take a step, then dashes back to the kitchen, he now has the belt on] Or not! [he giggles] I could just hang onto it 'till after work... All alone with Mermaid Man's belt. I wonder what this button does! [he presses something on the belt. A green light flashes out and zaps a barrel of pickles, which becomes tiny. He picks up the barrel on one finger] Whoa! The small ray! Hee... [Squid is at the register, talking to a muscular fish]
Squidward: Here's your shake, sir. [he starts to hand him the shake, but he is startled by a loud noise from the kitchen and Sponge's giggle. The shake lands on the guy's head, the guy punches him and leaves. There are more flashes, noises, and giggles from the kitchen] Grr... [in the kitchen, Sponge places a tiny Krabby Patty on a cockroach's back]
Spongebob: There you go. [the cockroach walks off] Come again, sir. [Squid barges in]
Squidward: Spongebob, what's going on in here? Huh? [he notices everything is tiny: Sponge's hat, his spatula, then he sees the cockroach eating a tiny patty at a tiny table] Why's everything all... tiny? [Sponge shifts the "M" on the belt away]
Spongebob: I don't know.
Squidward: What do you got there?
Spongebob: Nothing.
Squidward: No, really? [Sponge backs against the wall]
Spongebob: Nothing.
Squidward: You've got something alright, let's see it! [he grabs the belt]
Spongebob: No! NO! [Squid sees the "M" and gasps]
Squidward: Is that Mermaid Man's belt?
Spongebob: Yes.
Squidward: Wow! I can't believe he'd lend it to you!
Spongebob: Me- uh...either. [he laughs nervously. Squid gasps in mock astonishment]
Squidward: He didn't lend it to you, did he?
Spongebob: Please don't tell!
Squidward: You stole it!
Spongebob: Please don't tell!
Squidward: Oh. I'm telling.
Spongebob: Squidward, if Mermaid Man finds out, he'll kick me out of his fan club for sure! Please don't tell!
Squidward: Uh-oh! There's the phone! [he points at it]
Spongebob: Don't!
Squidward: I'm walking towards the phone! [he walks towards it]
Spongebob: No!
Squidward: I'm getting closer to the phone! [he moves his tentacle towards it]
Spongebob: Do-o-o-on't!
Squidward: And now, for the moment we've all been waiting for... [Sponge starts tearing himself in half]
Spongebob: I'm begging you! [Squid picks up the phone]
Squidward: Hello. I'd like to speak to Mermai- [a green ray of light shoots Squid and he is shrunken. He lands on a little table] What did- what?- [the phone hits Squid] Ow!
Mermaid Man: [on phone] Hello? Hello?
Squidward: What did you do to me?
Spongebob: I'm sorry Squidward, but you made me do it!
Squidward: Spongebob, if you don't return me to normal size right now, you are gonna be in really big trouble!
Spongebob: Uh... uh... OK, uh...
Squidward: I said now!
Spongebob: Uh... [cut to the belt, with dozens of switches, buttons, dials, and gauges] Uh...
Squidward: Do you hear me?! [a ray of light zaps Squid, he now has about many, many eyes] Holy fish paste! Get it off me! Get it off me! [he flings all the extra eyes off like a wig] Dah! [he pants] Don't you know how to work that thing?
Spongebob: Uh, I can do it! [Sponge keeps zapping Squid, but Squid keeps getting malformed and tortured. Eventually, Squid, who is now charred, has had enough]
Squidward: Stop! I've got an idea. Let's call Mermaid Man and-
Spongebob: NO! I can't let you do that! But there must be someone else who can help! Someone smart and wise, with years of life experience... [cut to Sponge running up to Pat's rock] Patrick! Patrick! Patrick, Patrick! [Pat is sleeping with his face on his rock. He wakes up and stammers]
Patrick: Oh, hi, Spongebob. [Sponge waves his arms]
Spongebob: Patrick, I was at work and Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy came, and I got this belt, and look! [he pulls Squid out of his pocket. Pat gasps]
Patrick: A Squidward action figure! Let me play with it!
Spongebob: No, Patrick!
Patrick: Fighter pilot! [he makes lots of fighter pilot noises] Dive bomb! [he makes Squid do a dive bomb]
Spongebob: Patrick! [Pat holds up his fist]
Patrick: And here comes a giant fist!
Spongebob: Patrick, NO! [Pat stops] That's not an action figure! That's the real Squidward! I shrunk him by accident.
Patrick: Oh. [he pauses, then holds up his fist again] And here comes a giant fist! [Sponge screams]
Spongebob: Pat, you don't understand! This is serious! I don't know how to unshrink him! He could be stuck like this for the rest of his life.
Patrick: Oh, don't worry about it. He'll find love one day... [romantic music plays]
Spongebob: You think so?
Patrick: Well, sure. But it'll be with someone his own size. [the music stops and Pat pulls out a pickle] Like this pickle! See? They like each other!
Squidward: N-n-n-n-n-no! [Pat pushes Squid and the pickle together and makes kissing sounds] Ick.
Spongebob: Oh, if only I knew how to work this thing! [Pat leans foward]
Patrick: Lemmie take a look at it... hmm... [he points at it using Squid] You know what the problem is?
Spongebob: What?
Patrick: You got it set to "M" for mini, [he turns the "M" upside down, making it a "W"] when it should be set to "W" for wumbo.
Spongebob: Patrick, I don't think wumbo is a real word.
Patrick: Come on. You know: I wumbo, you wumbo, he she me, wumbo, wumbo, wumboing... [he rambles on]
Squidward: [to himself] I wonder if a fall from this height could be enough to kill me.
Patrick: ...wumbology, the study of wumbo? It's first grade, Spongebob!
Spongebob: Patrick, I'm sorry I doubted you.
Patrick: Well alright then. Let 'er rip! [Sponge presses a button on the belt. Green light shoots out and zaps Pat, he is shrunken down next to Squid on the ground in front of his rock] It worked!
Spongebob: Oh no!
Patrick: Look, Spongebob's giant! Can I be giant next?
Spongebob: Patrick, I'm not giant, you shrunk too!
Patrick: You're kidding! [he pulls out his pickle, which shrunk along with him] Good thing I still got this pickle! [he kisses it three times]
Squidward: Hey! Now will you take us to Mermaid Man!
Spongebob: NO! He can never find out! But I'll think of something. I promise. Until then, you'll be safe in this jar. [he pulls out a jar and puts Pat and Squid in]
Patrick: You know what's funny? My pickle started out in a jar, and now it's in one again! Heh, it's like a pun or something. Heh-heh.
Spongebob: [to himself, sweating] It's only two people... no big deal, nobody else saw it... [Sandy walks up]
Sandy: Howdy, Spongebob!
Spongebob: Aah! Sandy! [he zaps Sandy and she shrinks]
Sandy: What did... for cryin o'... What did y'all do to me?
Spongebob: I'm sorry Sandy! [he puts Sandy in the jar] Mermaid Man came in and- [Larry walks up]
Larry: Hey Spongebob. [Sponge screams, shrinks him, and catches him in the jar. Some guy walks up]
Guy: Hey Spongebob. [Sponge screams, shrinks him, and catches him in the jar. Nancy walks up]
Nancy: Hi Spongebob. [Sponge screams, shrinks her, and catches her in the jar, then runs off]
Puff: Hello Spongebob. [Sponge screams, shrinks her, and catches her in the jar. Scooter and his friends run by]
Scooter: Sponge-dude! [Sponge screams, shrinks them, and catches them and their surf-gear in the jar. Exterior shot of the town, where we hear people greeting Sponge and him shrinking them. Cut later, Sponge is in the road of the now barren town trying to squeeze the lid of the now extremely full jar down]
Spongebob: Woo! I'm gonna have to get a bigger jar.
Squidward: Spongebob, will you just face facts? You've shrunken everybody in Bikini Bottom! You've got to go to Mermaid Man!
Spongebob: Oh Squidward, he'll be so disappointed...
Sandy: Well, you can't leave us small forever! [Sponge starts crying]
Spongebob: You don't understand!
Mrs. Squarepants: [in the jar] Spongebob, you need to admit your mistakes! [Sponge stops crying]
Spongebob: Mom?
Mermaid Man: [in the jar] Your mother's right, son. Mermaid Man will understand.
Barnacle Boy: [in the jar] You're Mermaid Man, you old coot!
Mermaid Man: Oh yeah.
Spongebob: Mermaid Man? I'm so sorry, it's just that I'm such a big fan, and your belt, and...
Mermaid Man: Oh, don't worry son. I understand. Why, I remember back when I first used the belt, the year was nineteen o- eleventeen twelve, why I believe the president-
Shrunken People: Just tell him how to unshrink us!!
Mermaid Man: Oh, yes. The unshrink ray... let's see, uh.. uh... did you set it to wumbo?
Shrunken People: WHAT?!?! [the jar shakes and the jar pops off, and all of the people shoot out. They land on the ground and form the statement...] GET SPONGEBOB!! [they make battle cries, sort of, and climb up Sponge and crawl into his porous holes]
Squidward: Now I have to drive five miles to go to the bathroom in my own home! [he kicks Sponge's stomach. Sponge jerks, holding his guy]
Sandy: And I need an elevator to climb one stair! HI-YA! [he kicks Sponge's brain, we see an imprint of it in the top of his head]
Mermaid Man: We've been shrinking for years!
Barnacle Boy: But this is ridiculous! [they both kick Sponge's eyes, which pop out of Sponge's head then return into their normal sockets. People keep on attacking Sponge's organs and bones, disfiguring him]
Shrunken People: EVERYTHING'S TOO BIG!!!
Spongebob: I've got it! [cut to Squid and a fish harassing more of Sponge's internal systems. They then see a big flash of green light through one of Sponge's porous holes] Ta-da! [everybody pops their heads out of Sponge's porous holes] Since I couldn't make you big, I made the city small! [the town is now shrunken. Everybody files out of Sponge] And now, only one more thing to shrink. [he pulls the "M" off the belt and faces it towards himself] Cheese! [he shrinks himself, and finds himself in front of all the other shrunken people]
Squidward: I guess this is okay.
Larry: Yeah, what's the difference?
Nancy: Good idea, Spongebob. [everyone cheers. Exterior of the town. A bus drives by and Plankton gets off with two suitcases. He is now as big as the entire town, although the town is actually as small as him]
Plankton: Well, it's great to be back! [he notices the town] Huh?
END

Explosions in the Sky
Album: All of A Sudden I miss everybody
Track #4: What do You Go Home to?
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CzVnnB5w_HM)

I go home to a piano.
playing tunes so familiar and distressing.
I miss and hate
the same living space I come home to

repeating and weaving new chords into a pattern of destruction
can I know my home better?
can I know myself better in this home?
so disturbingly familiar

so warm the gaze
so cold the touch
dust settling in every corner
is this where I had my name?

beats me.
the piano announces my return.

songs of tender reminiscence
hopeful of a chance to relive
particular present excesses of presence
tie me to the absolutely absence of the once lived

to live to lived
implicit in the thoughts of the everyday
i found, am finding a voice to articulate
the explicitly indeterminable complex

trees must not be understood as only root to crown
trees are more complex than that

do i have the words to speak?
do i have the words to write?
too strong to carry on,
this force of multiple significations

without death, I am nothing.
let violence overwhelm me once again
and again,
the violence of selves
for the sake of creative rediscovery

if i ain't got you,
there is always another.
the mysterious always Other.
who follows me in my superficial journey to my ultimate negation
a positive negation.

killing me slowly, then, with a song.
of noises, high and low notes, melodies and counterpoints, depression and euphoria

absence does not make the heart grow fonder.
the heart changes.

and pushes me to the other side
the always other side
and tender is the violent act
so tender it gently sings me a lullaby
and i sleep with such peacefulness
i sleep to retreat from the day's violence
and to wake with an addition and a subtraction
and everything, everyone and everywhere;
everytime
the waking is the sleeping is the waking
to say farewell is to greet

adieu -
to say goodbye but to allow one to be greeted by God

we are born to forget,
and the annihilation of memory happens at the future time of death.
The complete negation.
Death, as Levinas puts it, is "ungraspable" and comes at me as such, outside my possibilities, which always comes to take me against my will, too soon.
While there can be instances that death can be willed, one cannot deny the confirmation that death brings: always a premature end because we can never know the future of a person who no longer lives.
Hence, my emphasis is on the future. A mystery of the future. At least for now, as I consider what is my relation to my Other; the other who I have yet to know and will come to know - my own subjectivity of my alterity (who I am not yet.)
But too soon, do we forget the things we once lived with. The things that we grew up with and eventually disappeared. And time became events and events became pockets of memories. And pockets become lacunae.
I am, thus, ready to forget. because that is always what I am more capable of. I will not let my remembrance ruin the perfect understanding that is unique to the moment of experience and immediate retrospect.
And indeed, I am forgetting. I am remembering.
they can be the same cognitive process. And they can also be entirely different, but they always happen at the same time.

While determining them, I am always re-engaging with my memory, my solitude, shut up within the captivity of my identity/ies. I am both hypostatized by insisting on my solitude, but I am always projecting my future (death); always leaping and moving in ways unimaginable. And I am incapable of removing this dilemma.

Hence, my melancholy/pleasure rests on this dilemma. The paradoxical relationship of my fundamental choice of achieving totality (living my life in an identifiable existent) and my existence in flux, in shifting identities and inconsistent micro-narratives of conflicts, contestations and correlations; my beings so to speak. I am looking at myself as a consistent entity as well as resisting myself by engaging in the fragmentary alterity that will perpetually mystify myself, such that I cannot rest alone - I rest and not rest both at the same time.

The joy of such an arrangement is that life is more than just stages of life, it is stages of life all colliding at random points of time.
It is to fall so madly in love and then the next moment laugh critically at such a foolish emotion.
It is to agree that this film is so great; if only it did this or that irrationally.

It is really about living life similarly as it has always been linearly as well as to live differently.
Hence, inevitably, I have to forget the past (at this stage) in order to be who I am in the future.
I have to remember the past in order to be who I am in the future.
It is such a radical dilemma.

on a lighter note.

I realise, Walter Benjamin wrote a paper for promotion to a university position and it was rejected because of its unconventional and lyrical style.

reminds me so much of my HT. Haha!

however, that's as close as we are to our ideas.

I still believe in the aura of simulacra.
the infinite reflection of idolatry and images
the great concealment of truth that there is no truth within it
but true...it is an evil aura.
the aura that threatens to take over its represented.

for one to be born again,
one must die first.

I am dead.

but
when will the death in me
collide with the death of the body?

consider the effect of death, the everlasting fate, and relate it to the living and breathing self
begs the question of living and dying
what is your stand?

must one die in order for another to come alive? as suggested by Bataille?
or is it more like a rupture, the plucking of individuals from the flow of life,
and call upon to defend one's own life before a jury?
Duerrenmatt-like.

I cannot quickly answer that now.
but in order for me to live,
I have 5 seconds before the moment of death to understand the irony of life and death.
after which, I'm on uncharted territory.

can any verse, prose or song
express the dying question,
the condition immune to simulation,
our deaths.

but the only opportunity to understand dying,
is by living.
hence, my entire philosophical enterprise is anchored on this premise.
hence, I introduce, my latest endeavour,
to live to live,
before I approach death.

flowers are,
for congratulations,
for funerals,
for openings,
for well wishes,
for idols,
for altars,
for graves,
for loved ones,
for special occasions,
to cheer someone up
for the simplest reasons...
but really,
they are meant to be wild, blossoming and dying, as the seasons change.
flowers are also,
for farewells.


dramatic closures are actually very hard to achieve.
and I feel that it has more to do with being able to end with the simplest of touches.
and it really felt that way.
I always ask myself, how to end a play. and thankfully, I always knew.
In between there could be a huge mess. but it will still come to an end.
maybe it is just that simple stroke.
That stroke that invites a million possibilities.
And finally, someone narrows it down for you, and there you have it;
one answer or interpretation out of other possibilities.
It's almost pleasurable to witness the unfolding of that masterstroke.
simply because I didn't expect it to be the end until it happens.

and really, you cannot anticipate the circumstances leading to the final stroke.
You just must believe it is time. and it just happens.
Yes. It's almost like the approach of a rollercoaster car approaching the top, anticipating...
and then boom! it goes to a new bottom. It can be so quick and so slow; both the highs and lows;
and the transition.
It is almost cruel to inflict that same conditions on yourself and apply (subconsciously) the masterstroke.
But somehow, dramatic closures are so necessary.
Just remember.
any more...and it will be like drawing legs to snakes.
dramatic closure happens because it happens.

and i'm alive again!

"Somewhere.
there's someone who dreams of your smile,
and finds in your presence that life is worth while.
So when you are lonely, remember this is true.
Somebody, somewhere is thinking of you."

in exactly the same shades of green and blue (not sure about the pink),
this really encapsulates my entire experience of Europe.
thank you.
I had to fight back this little pinch on my heart,
before I gasped for more air.
and screamed.
the repetitions. the sad truth that colours fade (or remain the same) at the same terminal;
of transits, of travelling, in between a place of interest to another.
Repeat.
Isn't travelling about waiting?
waiting for that moment to capture that ephemeral quality of a moment
waiting to board the next plane or train?
waiting to get from one street to the grand tower, church, museum, hall, ...
and only, if I had paused, to look carefully at the windows, the roofs, the stones that come together to form the pavements
only if I had paused and understood this waiting.

"Somewhere.
there's someone who dreams of your smile,
and finds in your presence that life is worth while.
So when you are lonely, remember this is true.
Somebody, somewhere is thinking of you."

surely. I'm never lonely.
thank you.

what better to describe my transformation in Europe?
That inexpressible struggle that came with the self-discoveries
only repetition of the places
only in each repetition, something remains, something is removed.

it is a book that brings tears close to falling
it is a book that tells so much by doing very little (or too much)
it is a book that may have a simple motivation to it but achieves so much

perhaps, only you, saw the change in me.
that irrevocable repetitions of change;
a linear course of whirlpool-like proportions, threatening to derail out of course;

aren't the undiscovered countries always capable of disorienting us and forcing us to redefine ourselves?

"Somewhere.
there's someone who dreams of your smile,
and finds in your presence that life is worth while.
So when you are lonely, remember this is true.
Somebody, somewhere is thinking of you."

Now, I understand.

zu mir meinst du so viel.

"I saw you standing there,
under the big tree,
floating about a metre above the ground,
with your eyes closed.
a gentle breeze touching your face.
You smiled.
Because the breeze spoke in a familiar voice
that calmed your heart and excited you at the same time.
In a voice only you can hear.
Just you and Him and the tree."


it would have been better, if you could be there as well, and understood what I was hearing.
beside us.

next meeting

shining solitude, the void of the sky, a deferred death:
to live again (and again)

next meeting…

A, B, and C are three different voices but they are from the same person. They speak one after the other, almost instantaneously unless stated.

A: never ask for more, never ask for less, but can never avoid, asking, for the next meeting, in summer, always summer, when trees are always green green butterflies in time for birds, trees to shed brown brown leaves, leaving nothing on the roads, swept away, in time for the next meeting, meeting someone beside the tree, if the tree is still the tree, where the someone will recognize and approach me, in summer, where the skies are blue blue rain raining in summer, and postpones the meeting to a next occasion, waiting, with brown birds, accompanied by the occasional black ones, never ask for more, still waiting, the moment of the next meeting, comes, will come, in time for the next meeting

B: with my old man, the grumpy uncle who drinks less than the number he boasts, desperate to dig more coins from his pockets, to pay for the next cup of tea, prolonging his stay in this seat, that seat, through the day, alone, drinking more tea, flipping coins, and have them drop, to hear the sharp disturbance in an already noisy environment, only then to slip into a routine, a painless addition to the surroundings, a site where the old man, this old man of mine, where he can only imagine, having no one but himself to have a drink

A: With you, in time to witness, the rain is about to stop, the leaves are still falling, and you will see, someone old and grey, the scabby scruffy face leaning on the brown brown bark disturbed by the crawling red red fiery ants, with you possibly gently touching my arms, maybe a shy wave to announce your arrival, but the rain pours again, in summer, pouring, to drive us away from the tree, to lose ourselves in the blurry falling water, cleansing, to find us a new place to meet, a place, a concrete building to shelter us during our next meeting

C: And I will tell you the story of the child who I think I will have, who I want to have, who I will groom him into a perfect child, my aspirations and my dreams, my aspirations and my dreams, the accumulated, of a past I cannot have, so he or she must be blessed, with a hope I always have, to the future, the next being who comes into being, clumsily I have lived, therefore he or she will never be, and I will prepare the plan

A: In time for the meeting again, to do what we must, to say what we must, the words unspoken, long before we set the date to meet again, always saying less than what we prepared, in a contemplative mind, running to our next meeting, in the rain, cold rain, never stop pouring, still pouring, still running, along the stone stone pavement, the green green grass, and little to see beyond, only the place of our next meeting

C: at a time when it does not rain, instead, a rainbow shall appear across the blue sky, to welcome the unborn child into this world, close to nature and marvelous landscapes of today, the present glories and the everything that you will inherit, the child, the bringer of hope, all hope lies on the child, the love I give so freely, what I can only give, will give, and he or she must have, where one would most certainly be deprived of

A: In another place, far from the tree, where you do not know where the birds will be to hide from the rain, where there will always be another place for us to meet, to imagine, you in the shabby grey tee and blue blue jeans, (pause) by the lights, the flashing red reds and green greens, the stumbling across black black roads, to the next place, you and me, together and apart, one and one, one after another, to our next meeting

B: that never happens for the old man, who waits for no one, does not want to be disappointed, convinced that the tea will never disappoint him, absolutely certain that the cup of tea will taste the same always, and people who pass him by, know as well, how the cup of tea should taste like, and suddenly he is aware of my arrival, as I sit down, and soon, though we speak nothing, we recognize each other, and we nod in admission of this fact, and so I order a cup of tea, this meeting with him, him alone, and somehow I know, the cups of tea are different, but it does not matter, because this is our meeting

C: love, (pause) the skies paint a different picture every moment, but how I will carry the child, a little angel, to soar up, my raising arms, to lift him or her, to see the sky change, over the perpetual season, in the course of the day, on the wood, wooden bench, we sit, and stand next, the tree to cover the coming rain, but we see, the winds are blowing the clouds away, and when we walk away, pausing occasionally, the sky changes to a grey shade, before we can ever have our next meeting

A: Where the joy of seeing you again and again, in our previous meeting, does not deter me from asking for a next meeting, in a life so short, where it is always a luxury to ask, for a next meeting, and what can we say in our next meeting, where will it be, all cold and wet, the hour hits nine, before long it will be a minute past nine, what to say, before we stop, the anxiety of nothing to say, before our next meeting

C. and lately I ask if I will ever see my child, on the day we are going to meet, and that will be such a painful reality, if there is no child to born, maybe I depend too much for a future, long time ago, waiting for you to be real, you make me real, is there something lost to hope, but there is no harm hoping, a perfect excuse to stop me at my tracks, to stop walking in nonchalance, and makes the strangers disappear from my sight, out of sight, with only our next meeting to look forward to

B. with the old man, I could almost understand that he is not actually waiting for anyone or anything, but it is about the empty cup being removed, and replaced with a new one, the drinking and the finishing, and the filling that comes thereafter, a rhythmic end to the day, to watch no one walk past him, to lament on nothing and no one, to be ignored because he has ignored the world, and I am just glad, I can sit down, safely next to him, before my next meeting, and know I am not even seen

A: (pause) With God, to thank Him, after this joke, perhaps the joke of putting us together, the millionth time together, always a new meeting, a new death, when He leaves, leaving us two, the running two, to find the place to go, to stop, to thank Him when we must, the sky turns a darker shade, that time the shade was brighter, the time before the next time we meet, we must already know, we have to, know, when is our next meeting

C. Because I do not know if he or she will grow to be healthy or not, and this anxiety I shall ignore because there are more pressing things to consider, of which the thousand possibilities cannot dissuade me from fulfilling that one hope of seeing come to live, your birth, my salvation, you life, my mission, the only thought I shall have and must have before we meet,

A: Before ten, if we drag this, and has already dragged this end, we draw closer and further, from the next meeting, and the cars depart, in a solemn march, a movement of precision, to ignore us, to abandon us with grey grey invisible damage, and do not take us, bring us along on their journeys to places, where we can have our next meeting

B. by the old man, and silence ensues the last hour of our meeting, and soon I know we must say goodbye, and of course I can always visit him again, but how many tomorrows does he have still, and life is too short for him, and too long as well, for perhaps all it takes is an instant for him to declare that he has lived life to its fullest, simply because he has lived it, so perhaps no next meeting is ever required because to meet is really to not meet at all. I said goodbye.

A: When the hand strikes eleven and we are still running, in the long raining, the land covered by a refreshing baptism, to purge the surfaces of its filth, the impurities that perpetually cloak the openings of other worlds, and into the drains they hide, away from us, the wind cannot blow, in this noisy rain, but somehow, perhaps the perfect picture of a moment of us together and not, we somehow reach, somewhere near our next meeting

C. with all the future and dreams we can ever project and imagine, before the instant of manifestation, when they all become tangible, and then perhaps, I will suffer from a panic, a slight uncertainty, when I hold the living body, that is not of my labour, but alive; I then realize, all I ever did before, was to shamelessly believed I was the master of this life, and I shall look at time..

A: When the clock strikes twelve minutes before midnight, the apparition that is time, the monster that greets us called new day, and all I could, was to gesture to the wrist, and hand her the gift of death, when the day has ended to prevent us from finding, still finding that next place for our next meeting

C. and time will convince me that I shall have to let go, this life, this birth of monstrosity, the crying breath of life, that is of mine and not, has a pulse of his or her own, and exists and lives, with a bloody force, and once alive, has every right to oneself to be, being, the being that I cannot fully shape, and forever we are in relation to each other, for better or worse, that inescapable reality, such unrest, a peace of uncertainty of which, I know not,

A: which will happen, at the moment she leaves, watching her back, a step from the platform to the train, the moment of departure suspends, aching in the rupture of my linear consciousness, feeling nothing, cannot feel, asked too much, only to feel the growing pain, anticipating, leaves me breathless, calling out to the now empty platform, she left from the present meeting, and all my hope rests blindly, in the next meeting, which may never happen after this

B. (coughs)

A, B and C:

(long pause) How to say, how to say I love you, you, you…

How to know, how to imagine, death and birth collide, the end and beginning of this emotional journey, but

perhaps we shall meet, again and again, till death.

Gently we sleep. Our arms not touching,

The wind whispers our quiet voices, words we cannot articulate, but they cover us, like a scarf around our necks, the blanket of the dead night spread around us, falling gently down from above, it is time to sleep. Time to rest.

How to say,

I love. you.