Not I - part II

till now, i know not,
what not is,
that negates
and negotiates what is
first positive,
first mine;
or is it?

till now, I know not,
if you, are, referring to
who?
that negates,
who are 'I's.
but still within one.
divided.

even so,
if I may, if I could,
dance with my body,
I would, not, be able to be outside my body
except, to conceive a body,
(immediately a body that is not mine and I'm constantly learning how to move with it)
[still, my body]
and dance that meaningless dance.
and somehow,
express that which are spiritual.

and so, if I may guess, egoistically,
then I shall say,
no, write,
that 'you' was me,
not,
that I am, neither,
there, nor here,
but always belated,
always that is left behind,
untamed by chance,
tamed by dogma.
simply, something that I can, not determine,
alone.

leaving
nothing, un-negated,
that positively speaking,
no, writing,
I am doing neither.
I am divided, always,
into colours, no,
sounds that are
horrible, peaceful, mysterious, childish, noisy, grand and silent,
which you should, not, mixed, in a generalised way,
but they
like trumpets, guitars, pianos, saxophones, violins, drums and mute
either make sense, or not.
either produced
by me,
or not.
in the mind, it fades; they fade.
my voice, so quiet
I can't hear myself too.

which leaves me,
with nothing much to see.
to say, no, to write. no, to hear.
so you will be blind,
if you look with my eyes.
insane, angry, sad, very sad, happy, very happy
if you read my mind
but most of all, I am, but a child,
trapped in a body that is mine, wholly mine.
and to sense,
is but, to negate everything that can be sensed
and to imagine
is but, to negate everything that can be imagined

somewhere then, you wish you know nothing
about,
the things I despise
the things I envy
the things I sin
the things I am, am not.
but most of all,
who I am

and not.
it is not 'I', is it?

but it is still 'I'
capable of imagining that 'I'.
whose I?

not.
read.



everything (bad) happened
when the EYE, opened, and saw each other's nakedness
Words, naked, bare naked,
with only, leaves, to cover, like cover pages,
paper, to deceive,
but unable to resist, that of imagination,
of lustrous desires
that which Eros, tainted, can devour
violence repeated,
and so,
voices, of them, of Him,
they hid, we hid, from.
forgotten,
not forgotten,
the Word, became,
seen,
as performances,
repeated
divisible,
visible,
but never do we, quite get it.
if we, not,
f
a
l
l,

plunged into a certain threshold
attended to like a sparrow,
cushioned,
after,
but before, not.
it is the irrevocable end, that judges us,
but it is the beginning, already begun,
that spins us,
into a leap,
throws us,
into a perception never before experienced,
(remembered)
so reading kills (to my detriment)
as I have discovered
black comes to the fore
and white,
as backdrops,
that screams back as absence
only more evident.

suspend this for a moment
and think of spirit, if possible
not spirit,
but spirit.
then the fall
is no longer a human fall
but a floating sensation,
a limbo,
a suspension
perhaps, still a punishing gravitational pull
somewhere in between space and Earth
between Evil and Good
but it's not dialectics
it is aurora,
it is rainbow
it is an experience no metaphor can fully represent
it is in between your flesh and the air you breathe, (a thorn?)
it is nebula,
it is falling through a cliff deep inside a ocean
it is pressure,
profound pressure
of love
that drives you insane, supposedly
as if you are a sparrow metamorphosing into an eagle.
only not quite, not Enoch yet,
always not yet, perhaps already is,
but not, not what you think, not what I wrote,
not what we think or write
it is that which always eludes us
that is why
it is so compelling, so heart-wrenching,
that drives us to tears and secret smiles
that pulls us from certain disaster
and only nothing, nothing in its most powerful way,
can seperate us from this experience
precisely by making us go through it
from beginning to end
in the end,
it is not,
never what you imagined, thought, read, etc.
it is 70 % water, 30 % land, like bodies
evaporated and condensed,
multilated, pierced, bloody mess, till none left as water
perpetually.
or not.
it is an ascension,
we cannot even dare to imagine.
it is trembling...
every night, i tremble.
every sin, I tremble.

it is not,
so easy.
to see with my Eye.
or dance
my dance.
i bleed each night, when I write.

I is not i.
(that is my key doctrine. or was it Beckett's? or Paul? or?)

---

Was 'You' referring to 'I'? in a literal way?
or is it not?
it is puzzling.

look up ^


in the beginning, was division.
in the beginning, there were, are trees.
all trees are different.
but the roots sometimes touch

it's sad how one can slowly eliminate the people who you once thought understood you.
one by one, you cross out the names
(I bet I've been crossed out too)

in that case, we will always be alone,
except that somehow, we are actually tied in ways unknown, unseen, hidden.
that is implicit in the struggle to be.
perhaps, (just probably), all we have are expressions of a same theme.
but let's be more specific.

who you think are naturally your best friends, buddies, beings of the same kind (of soft spots), may turn out to know you the least.
Enemies, in fact, the best enemies who stand against everything you fight for, may in a perverse or ironic way, be exactly everything that you are, and believe in.

I may have forgotten how to dance (with words?);
I may have forgotten how to make good friends;
But I certainly make the best enemies
because I believe, the swerve, the anti-thesis of everything the other posits,
is my way of engaging in a lifetime of questioning what is implicit in the division of self, of everyone around us, and the final; the end, the blood flushed across our faces, which marks us.

if my words do offend, do not pardon me
but try as you might, come to questions of your own
it is an odd way to be,
but one can never learn to love, if they don't know how to hate
that is the only thing, if I should leave a mark in this world, that I want to leave.
that of ugly beautiful.
i hate myself.

latte, mi-te, the green rain is cooling the earth, our earth.
my room, sucking from a plastic straw, who is sitting beside me?
letters, unpurloin-ed, there must be someone who can help me read them.
i fight to remember the words I had written
but i can't.

exit, lucid, the way is as clear as chance, calculated and thorough.
my space, squarish-looking receptacle, and plain to the eye.
I made a mistake, the rain is not green, I imagined it.
i fight to remember the words I had imagined
and I can.

musik, lasik, my brain has been fried by Shugo Tokumaru, Shugo who?
a name, a Poe, a Dupin and a Shugo + Yoko, that's all there is to my afternoon.
The rain is not green, but the leaves of a tree swaying to the green wind is.
i fight to reach out to it with my mind
but i can't.

john, the restroom sure is far away, but I'll go, in a while.
eat, read, there isn't much a differene if you think about it.
something green to go with them, when will the sun shine again?
i fight to learn what I have to learn,
and I can.

there comes a point where there are too many words
that is the point to reach.

(my words are dying...)

what is the question?
why are we obsessed with the Question?

I feel like a moth, uncontrollably attracted to the light.

burnt the next instant, being too close to the flame.

be near,
be here,
the words
far away
from here,
there,
somewhere
where time is not experienced
here,
sometime later we'll be there,
where?
there,
where bridges fall,
where seas dry up,
where mountains erupt.

am I alone,
you bet,
I am
what are the chances we'll meet?
you?
as much chance as you and I had when our parents gave birth to us.

so what's the fuss?
what's the hurry?
Haven't words delayed us long enough?
take it slow, take it easy,
haven't words obliterated us enough?
I'm glad I'm born to die.
after every waking dream.

It's weird how some regard me as this lighthouse, who in the dark of the night, would show some unknown but safe path in which they can be safe in the knowledge that my light won't fade or sway away.

how ironic.

that despite that impression I give to them, I can't be both the lighthouse and the person threading a path at night.

I'm not being boastful here because i find it extremely perplexing that I should take up that responsibility.
I am faced with a dilemma - between my personal emotions and their emotions who could somehow depend on me to listen to them and also be a pillar of strength.
I don't have a deep sense of duty or eloquence, to be that important a figure in their lives.
But indeed they regard me as so and I'm confused that they do.
It is like giving me the choice between Chopin and Rachmaninov - between the soft and the dramatic

Perhaps I'm just the most unromantic person around, who can only smile when I notice how Derridian a moment is.
Perhaps I notice things that are unromantic and will very blatantly tell you so.
Perhaps it is just my high sensitivity and pathos that makes me unappealing when I attempt to be a Don Juan, but appealing as a pulpit fireband preacher who tells you things you don't understand. Someone who remains somewhere else.

They have this weird sense of who I am.
Perhaps I carry a smirk all the time.
What they do not know is that behind this egocentric smirk is a heart-wrenching nihilism that eats me up. Externally I am a Mona Lisa. Internally I am a Munch's scream.

Perhaps I just love silence too often.
"To die in peace: to die without words" - Edmond Jabes

Silence is this void that demands speech, sound, or anything to fill this deadly silence.
What is more dreadful?
A dark room or a room entirely silent?
I can go mad in a silent room. But that is where I can be closest to Him.

I speak that you may recognise it as mine, and then again it seems so anonymous that it obliterates both of us.

Silence is that loud thunder that comes only after a lightning - it is in between lightning and thunder.
Silence is the passivity of the moment, ripe for birth and death;
it invites us to die and give birth at the same time. The moment I speak, I am alive and dead.
Everything that is not said, not written, is this silence. It is that absence that ties the dark and dirty words together. It is the presence of whiteness, pure obliterating, indiscrimating force that demands all the time.
It is the voice I run away from. Hence it is also the silence of the voice that pulls me back.
When there is darkness, I can only depend on silence. I can only tremble and fill up that silence with the gnashing of my teeth.
Silence is the peaceful death, after the murder has already been committed.
Silence is the sword wielded as indifference, a weapon of political struggle, the aufhebung of opposing forces.
Silence is question that demands.

So much for mediatations of silence.
it still does not answer the question of this bind that I find myself in.

"Because I listen." yea. for silences.
for quiet, and often dark motivations. infidelities. sin. lust. that which can murder without having to draw real blood.

I listen because I listen, every night, in that silent void, between waking and dreaming, out of time and space, a sense of the ultimate other, where I am and am not.

I cannot live not listening. I used to think I would go mad if I went blind. Fair enough. But I will be murdered if I can't listen. And the greatest gift I can ask for is to listen to silence.
Pockets between sound, where we don't listen, when we don't listen, which in fact we do. Every pause is that key to somewhere deeper. Somewhere we choose to veil.
And I'm standing at the somewhere else. Always the someone else.

Maybe, that's why I'm suffering from this role I play to a few. I am thankful I can be there to listen.
but who will be the one to listen to me? who can really listen to my gaps of silence? Who can partake in my supper?
It is not that I do not wish to share. But I cannot express it. Once I do, I immediately do injustice to it.

But that is not what it is about.
it is about coming to an understanding, a reason why there remains a few who regard me as important in a sense that they cannot explain. This is just my attempt to make sense of this situation I find myself in. I don't really like it because almost none does the listening back.
But it just is.

Forgive me whenever I snap, whenever I feel intolerant or depressed by that intolerance. Or when I resist this relation I find myself in. It is a helpless situation.

I find this dilemma more perplexing when I am simultaneously courting appearance and disappearance. They contradict. It is to appear as a lighthouse, but at the same time, wish I could just be that dark path that the light does not shine on.

If, they could but not walk the lit path and venture into that darkness, that is where they will truly find me. But that is also where they would never venture to. In the end, it might just be that loneliness that troubles them, and I become that answer; a connection conjured up from somewhere. And I am at that somewhere, presently.

But that might be too cynical of me. I know for some they are genuine friendships that I will treasure forever. However, one is often trapped by confusion, when definitions are thrown out of the window and doors are shut. How often can we hear the best harmonious symphonies? Perhaps, I am at fault for being who I behave in front of them. Perhaps, there is no perhaps but as mentioned before, it just is. Where I am that intervention of life that uplifts them in a way, either to my benefit or detriment. But if we smile over glasses of teh, why not?


For someone to venture into darkness and to find me there, one must be silent alongside me.
When that happens, she will be the one I love -- as if that love would mean anything to anyone....sigh.

It is just that egocentric me, screaming.
And my frightening, trembling cold me, staring back, silently. (You won't want to meet him)

uncle specs
glass of teh
book at hand
and some baggy shorts
unmatching flip flops
and a gigantic plastic bag
that's all there is to it.
that's all I am with.


someone else will make you happy.

.

i can't smile.
even when all the books are finally nicely placed on my new bookcase.

dream

she walked me home, a reverse order, and with that indescribable smile, she left.
I hestitated. and I ran down the stairs to catch up to her.
there she was, on a bench, humming a song I have not heard before; talking to him.
I knelt beside her, as if that was all too natural. I couldn't hear what I told her.
and it ended.

ready, aim, fire.
ready: that which is ideal
aim: that which is the projection towards the ideal
fire: that which is puke.

Mary had a little lamb.

easier for her to be without one.

awful to take away
awful to give her one
just let her be
the little lamb will grow up.

I, can only wish, to write like, Beckett, only, possessing me, no spirit, no life, just fingers, typing, then, there will be answers in the typing, and not, the product that comes with a plan, but the meanings are discovered during the process, and as the words flow, my mind, branches off to unimaginable places, bringing, spreading the fruits and seeds, easier that people do not see them, and I can cry alone on my bed, even if I am left alone, I'm never alone, if no one could listen, then I'll listen to myself, whisper words I never heard before, I heard so often, with you, near, always, I speak and hear my own voices, then we can imagine, no worlds in between, but just the suspended dream that I have no wish to fulfill, little by little, the wind I believe in so much, even if it knows my name, I'm pinned to the wall, and I see, birds fly, maybe it's all a little too painful, but it's so liberating, to know someone who bothers to carry me up, and I can rest easy, knowing I have the attention, myself as audience, time will not mean much, this is when I realise I'm so alive, then the wind will be so cooling, the rain will wash away my sweat, and I will refuse to say anything more, for they have been spoken before, the story has been told before, I'll leave it to patience, the patience that suffers the overflowing words, without reading in between, but staring at the black void, spaces of infinity, then you find yourself staring back, screaming back at you, in front, then a pat on the back, you hug with such strength, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, no more, we find things overloading, no space, there is no more left to spare, to spare a thought, I can't save you, I can't save myself, I cannot pretend, no longer, my brain is falling apart without a skull, and there is no one, still no one, after the hug, the warmth lingers, but it's fading, return is imminent, but when? the wait is long, the fig tree can withstand, chimes, bells, hang some on me, play a music I have never heard before, then the wind will come again, and lift me high, the words will slowly mean nothing, but the joy that comes from not understanding, shall, ever again, bring me words to say to you, they burn with something I cannot describe, but we'll be happy, not now, but we will, sleep now, o, hanging me, now there is no one to listen, no one to watch, but rest assured, there won't be oriental drums, I won't cry this time, before we end this, before, always before, before the inevitable storm, rage! the implosion happened long time ago, residue, that which is the end, these words, form, Gestalt is not even imaginable, and we will somehow feel our way through, through light, with black darkness, and come so close to the Tree of Life, that we taint it, fire will engulf again, and burn again with renewed virtuosity;
on the surface of water, near a beach, as if, nothing ever happened before, except that fullness, that is the point; there comes a point where there is no return; that is the point to reach.

first note on the piano.

Existential tones.

it's like staring at a to-do-list and you realise you have struck off none.
and you realise how plans are just excuses which are used for procrastination. It is simply the avoidance of that fundamental radical leap that your existence projects towards.
And my lifetime project is to be radical.
(you will not want to know what that constitutes)

I'm growing weary of being a passive nihilist. The advantage and disadvantage of being one is my apparent indifference to everything that proclaims to be true and real.
I only know that what is true and real is depravity.
And I also know that I have since ceased to be motivated to do almost anything.
The books I read are like bricks.
The words I speak are like swallowing my own puke.
The words I hear are like ear wax. They pile up but they are not processed as wisdom.
Increasingly, I clap less.
I stopped being curious.
I smiled at children but they didn't do likewise.
I feel extremely tired and I drag my feet.
I waved to cats and dogs and they ignored me.
I am dragging my body to catch up with just the activity of existing.
I think I know who I am, but others don't.
I am impatient.
I am too patient.
I am like a loaded cannon with gunpowder.
And I am a yellow Volkswagen without a driver to bring me to strange lands.

At the core of it is not even melancholy or despair.
It is my eyesight deteriorating as I age.
I cease being.
I'm going through the motions of being.
I can numb myself with superficialities or intense passions.
But I cannot unbecome myself.
Erasure is the worst concept introduced by deconstruction.
I find answers indeed; Too Many.

My only solace seems to be Ferrer's vocals.
But that's another island I escape to.

There is this big banner in front of me. It reads: "SO WHAT?"

I'm subjectively in an ethical relationship with the Other.
So what?

I aim to finish my p.h.d.
So what?

I want to fall in love, marry and have children.
So what?

Every statement has answers to justify actions that lead to its fulfilment.
But it's that But that lurks beside the central host.
the demand to do presupposes already a suffering; the labour to supply; to provide the effect that the cause demands.
So what?
There is beside the point something entirely in co-existence with me;
yes, I call it the green man.
But he does, with devastating effect, is to remember on my behalf, what I have done and not done.
Nothing escapes him.

I am a tree because,
here I am, all rooted and naked. (not quite)
pretending to take flight to faraway places.
but I am here/there all the same.

I become afraid, nightly.
Of doing.
and not doing.

That is my fear and trembling, that I am blessed with.

he presupposed she would be there when it'd be all over.
he supposes she was there before he arrives.
he will be asking this over and over again
where is she now?
somewhere else
when she eventually leaves
or he leaves
he posthumously supposed he would be away for good.

then.

he doesn't like being teased that this may be the n. time I say goodbye.

the moment is that which presupposes another moment that happened before;
almost immediately
the moment ceases to be the same moment

he doesn't like being told to do what is 'best' for me.
superlatives are the worst invention of language.

how do you measure love?
how do you measure pain?
how do you measure joy?

you certainly asked for it.

the moment is that which escapes me.

I can't stop the flow,
that which tears us apart;
splits us,
and we become bubbles of memories,
remembered and forgotten by the same minds that can imagine

/ / / / / / / / / / / /
all over the place

the moment and the person trapped in the moment are inseparably apart

assuming this ends,
is it then a beginning?
how long can we prolong?
he doesn't like being thrown and tossed by his pathos
he likes being thrown and tossed by his pathos

the moment is implosion!

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
change your perspective

I have one more task at hand.
before my entire self falls as an abyssal swerve of existence;
before I cease to be.
when you become an atomized memory, colliding with my consciousness
and I sigh, thinking how it is possible,
that my soul can never touch you, and hold your hand
towards

the moment is eternal

for once,
think of only me,
alongside
as an invisible presence
who truly
sincerely
earnestly

prays for you

every moment


yours,
(fill in the blanks)

with this,
I give up.

wist the borders of truth,
and find nothing new to know.
all that is left - an acceptance that it's not meant to be.

it is as deep as this.

ahhh
silence creeps in.
stop screaming!

seasons?
reasons to pretend
round and round we go
she chases him
or he stands stationary
but it is an ocular illusion
that spins a tale so real
I seem to move in circles
and I see you
again and again
visions

has it been so long?
seems yesterday
i walked the black forest
seems tomorrow
i'll see you at the Champ-de-Mars
i return daily in a forced
eternity
and i dream of you
again and again
seasons

a conglomeration of images
I can't find you
i fin d m a ny yo u- s
i cant wait to see you again
release myself from this mortal coil
spinning around and brandishing
but really,
i can't violently object
what images to project
what ghosts to exorcise
i am haunted
excuses.

i can't convince myself
you can't convince yourself
so loops we exist
between fake deaths and births
simulating pain
but merely poor cousins
rehearsals for the final act
a return to where we belong
in between the cock and the egg
someone will always be ahead of someone
release me.

This is not Augustine's Confession

Perhaps I have relied too heavily on the notion of determinism to reflect upon every future event, hence tried to find answers where there are none. So to sum it all up, I actually know nothing.
That is the foundation I stand on - a quicksand. And what lies beneath me is that slow death that will finish its destination, eventually. Now. Am I suggesting that it is fatalism then? No. But if the trajectory of our birth to death is fatalism, within that is not determinalism. It can be anxiety, desire or despair, but it is not purely it is. I find then only one possibility left - chance.

What are my chances?

It is they are.
there are in front of me (behind me too) many chances/possibilities.
That is the reason for my melancholy - an indifferent reaction/resistance to movement, work or destination. I cannot go on. But I have to go on.

So if you know what I mean, then you probably find yourself facing the front but moving downwards as well.
I cannot experience out of time and space.
And so the anxiety I have of future time and space is deep. It is that gaze that I cannot turn my head away from. If I ever do that, it is the Orpheus impatience that will certainly be my regret. Or even my death.
If I should pursue my escape so complacently, my waxed wings will melt and surely I will fall.
Either way, death pursues me quicker than my escape.

What do I have left? This foolish thing called Will. That does nothing except to be ego-centric.
That sees nothing except with my eyes.
That hears nothing except with my ears.
That tastes nothing except with my mouth.
That feels nothing except with my skin.
that writes nothing except with my fingers.

How easy it is to be so wrong. How easy it is to just be in the moment and ignore the possibility that it will never be the way our pathetic minds hope for.

what is left is the profound and simple thing call faith - and I wish what I have is a faith on nothing.

The faith that what chance I take, is the chance down the narrow path.

these mediatations still don't give me the courage. when shall I really stop writing...

leaves me cold, those touches
Endlich aber gar ich nach.
I could not let the wind go.
maybe i have lesser things to say.
maybe i just don't want more

I received a letter today, dated 51 years ago.
I opened the letter and read it.

"I will see you at the usual place, where bubbles and steel co-exist"

She waited 50 years at the usual place. She died the following year.
I woke up 51 years later. I slept for the past 51 years ago.

leaves me warm, those pieces of papers Endlich aber gar ich nach. I could not let the trees go. maybe I lived to meet you. maybe I live to leave you.

I received a letter, dated today, with a stamp that was not chopped.
I opened the letter and there were no words written.
it was warm.

leaves me lukewarm, the blue transparency,
Endlich aber gar ich nach.
I could not let the pen go.
maybe you are all I could write to
maybe you are all I could write about.

I didn't receive a letter ever since.
I open my letter and it is empty.
I begin to write.
and I realise...I am writing letters that I will never send.
I disappear behind the words.
but somewhere, you are there; always there.
hold me when I wake.

but you can't.

I can't go on. I'll go on.

ohne sie.

断。
互，忽，呼。
盼
不用太
勉强。
哭，苦，枯。
树
不用太
竖立。
跌
罢，拔，疤。
了，了，乐。
将，僵，降。
跌了
又。
树。
没了。
唯恐不再有
束。
结不了。
忘，望，
亡。

the tree has fallen.

--

I will stop updating this blog for a while.

It must have been a long while.
I'll write something...normal.

and then i realise.
I have nothing to write.
hence...

break time!

took me a year to get to this point.
couldn't bear to read on what I wrote before.

nothing has changed.
or has it?

I shall
leave. bow. curtains.
and be delivered to a new world.

counting down.

everyone is leaving for somewhere.

this is another entry that may be elusive to
you.
The references may pass you by. Ignore it when that happens.
Listen to my playlist Track - Blue Ridge Mountains by Fleet Foxes before you begin.
Start Reading at 0:47.



over the sea.
beneath the galaxies.
back where you are, back where I am,
somewhere in between.
stationary.
I stay
I still.
I am

angel wait.
angel come.
my brother

I don't intend to say much, but I am obliged to.

tonight I will go to where planes don't go.

tonight I will give you an answer, not the one you expect, but it is still an answer.
a blue...
no one there,
no one.
no one will

*pause.
I am not welcome

yes, no one.
don't be careless.
there are always words unspoken.
What illusions haunt you tonight?

what allusions do you make tomorrow?

what will you dream next week?
wait
I don't want to leave my house by the lake.
no mountains is low enough for me to climb.
can you remember what I just said?
I don't welcome you.
But you always come back.
let someone else knock on the door.
someone else.
I worry.

long pause

is it?
maybe?
someone will worry.
I will get careless,
angel
I won't be...there

I don't.
I don't
I don't love you.
I want to leave.
Yes. You're not.

(fast)
perhaps, that is all I can say.
even if I mind.
the trees don't dance for me tonight.
yes, I shiver.
But I will do good.
I tried.
every frozen lake is a path I must take. I will be careless.

every moon is the moon of yesterday.
or is it not?

the sun belongs to you.

maybe.

I won't be careless.
I am always careless.
I won't be fine.
I assure you,
I don't love you. I don't love you.

(pause)
in comes....

qu
i
vering
forest.
the trees
hide me
from the lake
and
the mountain
I won't
declare
that
God
Is
Dead.
I
am dead
sick
unto
death
terrible!
imagine
yes
I don't mind.
qui-
vering
forest
shivering
dog
lives.
my grandfather
i never met
before
He is
there
among the bush
there is a burning bush
the snow
drops
till
the morn-
ing
visits
but I can't
see
but only
hear
the crac-
king
of
the wood
I don't mind
I don't mind
slow now...
the river
is somewhere
connected
to the lake
by my home
I must leave
morning must lie
that night is gone
but I may be there.
morning
comes.
somehow
He glows invisib-
ly

my Father
I mind.
tell me what to do
I will
You will.
slow.
Angel
come
I re-
mem-
ber
my child
my brother...
I mind.

in comes...


quiver-
shiver-
dog
lives
in the forest
my Grandfather
lost
I can't find
this new
house
snows
cover me
the moon is
not there
the morning can't
come
without the moon
maybe
maybe
my Grandfather
is still there
the repe
at
the story
and
I cave
in
and find
the dead
rising
I'll still
be there.
I will.
the dog who
survives
by the river
the home somewhere else
and the river
won't
flow back
I will be
there
till
You come
till
will
come

terrible...
(pause)

I mind.
Yes.




.

die Tage fliegen weiter, wenn ich allein bin.
ob wohl sie noch da ist, denke ich, dass ich Erinnergungen auslöschen werde.
werde ich? die Angst habe ich.

wenn sie verheiratet ist, werde ich da sein?
werde ich lachen? oder weinen?
Ich will nicht diesem Tag warten.
jedenfalls kommt Tag.

Ich kann nicht glauben, dass ich eine Frau so geliebt kann.

herr lim.

harder to grasp.
grasp what?
themes for today:
himmel
clouds
pundles of water
falling
horizontal/vertical

i wish I had the words

i really don't know.

looking with my myopic eyes,
once an axiomatic view of my world,
becomes a blurry vision of this moist midnight.
what conversations did they have?
what dreams did you make?
rachmaninov visits me with a quiet venegence
as if he refuses to die, forcing me to listen differently.
I am perhaps, left with no alternative,
but to suffer from a despair of possibility,
the lack of actuality except the actuality of plural possibilities.
sitting at a corner, lazing around, walking minimally, thinking excessively, looking blindly
and feeling all too tired to be
then I realise, with a strange vehemence
that I know absolutely nothing,
and hence, with nothing, do nothing
be nothing.
and the dictum nothing will come out of nothing
becomes something so absurdly true
so much so that,
even if I can't rid myself of myself
I can, at least, feel
and know the very least, that I can love.
because I can still see things immediately;
what matters are those at hand
even as they die before you, in your arms
sleep tight.

He doesn't know Why

this will be a long entry.
before
we
sleep,
if we
sleep
you
don't say
a
single
word
that I will
understand
there
must
be
a
way
to understand
seeing
you do
a hand stand
vaguely
I remember
the cartwheels
you did
don't
take
away
this memory
there's
nothing
I
have left in me
to say
which door
may
open
to
a field
with a mountainous
horizon
walls of lavender
some seeds fly
dandelions of sweetness
visions
of that long sleep
I so long for
we'll be there
if
we don't believe in the new
but the
always there
i can't
remember
the lyrics to the
song
but I'll roam
with this secret
for another
2 years,
when the river will dry
up
coming home
till later
this is
a despair
of not being
able
to get rid of
my-self
and the other one waits for
me
surely
i must leave
surely
here is where I leave to
tell my children
if you see them
I am here
weary
till
i can't even
begin
to express
ready
for nothing
to end
or
begin

I will
do
my best
to wipe
the dog
dry
before
it
freezes
and the moon
will glow
this night
to welcome
the
morning light
and we
can invite
the elves
to
have
breakfast with us
and
the wait
will be
more bearable
blind dogs
they smell
me still
haunted houses
are childhood
memories
there is a strange
song
on the radio
as if
experiencing
it
like a deja vu
where
does it intend
to tell me?
I have
never
missed a flight
but
I wonder how
that would feel
or
better
board the wrong plane
and no one knows
where
will I end up?
?
I am sure it will be fine,
when
I see you
outside
the minus degree sky
you wave
while the
seat quivers
even if
i don't mind
the seatbelt
to tie me down
while
I move
there must be a point
where I can
see
both the sun
and the moon
together
If
I have a choice to die
I wish to fall
high up
in the sky
and slowly see
your world opens itself up to me
and at
the point of impact
the entire world
inverts

the order
change
I
wait
please
?me
for
looking
you
are
eyes
my
lift
mouth
my
silence
are
you
there
and

?
i
don't
;
belong
;

please convince me to end this adventure.

i feel, scrappy, the wind, sixes and sevens, I feel you, ring a bell, there must be a piano in the empty room, free my mind with your melody, gently the palms sway, there must be a siren singing, i won't be lonely, i won't be lonely, there is just no stage here, there, with a sayonara, I say goodbye to the net, and anata has her prints on the sand, I can hear, trumpets sing, I know I can, free and jetzt there must be a language for me to utter, du or tu, not about choices, never about them, there is yesterday, I like to rub against metal, and a melody will come out, if precisely engraved, if precisely tuned, there must be a song for this moment, there always is, fastened to my mind, there is ferrer, there is yoko, no one can truly enter, 'cept u, i just listen............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................


i'll sing you the song now.

and you won't listen.

one moment, im Augenblick, she tickled me into a grin only I understood,
one second, eyes closed, she hummed a nameless song only she knew the reference,
one minute, few words, a dialogue layered with varied shades of absence and presence.
one you, just you, no time is wasted even if I just stare at your back and imagine your intertextual imagination.

temptation,
tempted to tell you all my monologues;
creation,
create the most powerful dialogues;
between you, Him and I.

one moment, im Augenblick, she disappeared from my perception.
one second, eyes closed, she would still be there as a perpetual fiction.
one minute, a prolonged laughter, Ha Ha He, and I realise how real she is.
one you, just you, I wish I had more time to make you forget your burdensome memory.

enumeration,
I lost count of the hours of encounters;
redemption,
relive those moments in 35mm;
between you, Him and I.

this structure, this mark, a precise moment of intention.
this moment, this forgetting, a lost reflection;
I hope more that you forget to remember;
if I could, I would, remember to help you forget,
without being an articulation that no full stop can pause or cause a rapture of the moment, in which to sense this helplessness, rebounding back to me as words, words of no consequence, except as unintended triggers, and relive the moments, of words said without being able to entirely erase, so left with the trace of my haphazard words, I now could not, had not, become a silence in which you could throw your worries into a void, where I could play othello with you, and we could flip those magnets over and over again, and in the end it would not be about the winner, but an evening when nothing else would matter and just that fellowship, or a gift of nothing, and nothing big enough to be everything, and the clash of two titantic worlds, would in that event, remanifest as a paradise, in which we do absolutely nothing but praise and sing, a song we would never understand in our lifetime, and a tree beside us, with the universe as our blanket, floating through nameless mountains, no, not fountain, but that fleeting moment of eternity, colours we do not have names for, in which endings never exist, cruising through mana rain, and all we are left are,

dialogues between us and them, and You.


don't rain like it did today again.

6

The decisive moment of human development is continually at hand.
This is why these movements of revolutionary thought that declare everything
preceding to be an irrelevance are correct - because at yet nothing has happened.


-

nothing has happened that has not already happened.
as such,
we trip - 1
we think (with the knowledge that is not ours)- 2
with impatience - 3
but with a blind stubbornness and consoling ourselves all is okay (again with the knowledge that is not ours) - 4
hence, limbo - 5

fundamentally, what I realised thus far, is that knowledge is precisely the ostensible fruit that presents itself as a treasure and all we have at our (naive) disposal is knowledge to replace knowledge, perpetually so. We all share the same fruit from the same tree, only eaten or prepared differently.

nothing has happened because we are nowhere near the Tree of Life.
before that, face Fire.

(it is a difficult knowledge to grasp)

what I would give for someone to be able to hear my voice;
see the images I see,
hear the voices I hear,
and dream the dreams I dream.

in the end, (when is the end?) it is just a futile attempt.
My enemies I fear not but protect me from my friends.

what she would take for someone to be able to give her a voice
see the images she sees,
hear the voices she hears,
and dream the dream she dreams.

in the beginning, (when did it begin?) it is just another attempt.
My friends I fear not but protect me from the ghosts.


--

hope is but the absence of a truth; the lie disguised as springwater from a source above that we cannot get to; to where do we climb to? and yet we hope, inside us, the sunshine yonder it appears! with words we stole from somewhere, lie to me if you will, but pay the bill when it comes, and tell me anything you want, i won't be able to tell; but the words go back to you.
nothing to recollect, just a responsibility that I imagine a future that I must go on, everything that I must eventually do, there is nothing I can't do, because I have to do. THERE IS NOTHING I CAN'T DO. I must do.
There is nothing in what I said.
wasted days, ragged wood, the tree is gone.
will she be the bride that follows beside, beside me when the support is gone;
o, silent raven if you please, words are useless when I speak with you, but you are the only animal I can talk to, with secrets I want to tell you which I believe you won't tell; for they shun away from you, and you lay to die beside me in the morning as if that is all we can do.
we can rest assured we will wait for each other, to where we both came from, the other will always be with me, in me, beside me, and I forget your name almost immediately.

Father, I was good.

There is no laughter when I imagine a pool of blood, with many who will scream and not be heard. There is no final language to express that.

M....M....m....

water is impure. Dissolved my sins into it. But the water is no longer drinkable.

who can hear and understand my musings? What lies, lies beneath, a guitar chord, a song we can both hum, and forget for a moment a future, our future, and we may soon become just another story, to forget and to remember, fleeing from reality, their realities, and tender is the rocky mountains, in which I will climb up with you, you who has always been beside me, so no one could come near, and so no one wants to anyway, and my worries are but my own, and yours, I love you...my other, my friend, the child that makes me quiver, tremble, cry, shake with a profound joy and fear, so dear, alas! so dear, and home is always almost next to me, and I can't reach, and no...terrible is the morning sun, quivering, falling, the shivering is all I can do, when I come face to face, and engulfed in this flame, dying from your mercury poison, this gift you bestow me from the beginning, already so long ago, but if I should forget, you will remember for me, in trembling, and in the washing of the rain, 40 days ago, there is no one but you, always just you, and others...I won't stop.

to the one apart from I.

---

5

from a certain point on,
there is no more turning back.
That is the point that must be reached.

what is that certain point? where is the certain point? Is it temporal? Or is it spatial? More or less? is this point measurable. How can I reach when I cannot determine that point? Certain point: a certain deterministic point? Certain point: an indeterminable entity that cannot be clearly identified?

I am sure there is a better way to discuss this apart from engaging it as a discussion, which may already sound flippant in its approach. But there is within it an aporia that I cannot follow.

How do I know where and when this certain point will be and if I do arrive at this destination, how will I even know it is that point? And from there, where do I go next?

But it is imperative; as if that has always been how it should be. It must be reached.
is this point a little dot or a long duration?

maybe that is the point of its existence: sticking out like a sore thumb; a thorn in the flesh and we fumble to define it in an axis of metaphors - vertical/horizontal, forward/backward; but really we are suspended and will soon reach that point which is really to die suddenly in a with the knowledge of this inevitable ending.

And yet this readymade symbols are what makes this point worthwhile.
we are always already ahead to be able to turn back, which if we did so would only be a return to a frontal perspective, another moving forward in time.

don't we trip and fall so often? quivering and shivering, trembling in the cold night, facing the storm and standing still under a waterfall, when terrible witches imaginations are manifested first thing in the morning, and we burned them with fire and hay.
there must be a point to be reached.
someone will somehow bury them.

the glowing moon is the child that revolves around a supposed centre, who swore never to be outside.
but the tie between the two is inseparable, without an outside/inside perspective - it will always be outside of something and inside something else simultaneously.

is this a form of nihilism?
perhaps, but there is no beyond unless a certain point is reached.
but really,

it is between reaching and not reaching, suspended.

From... - already in
...must be reached - not there yet.

-------------------------------------


will find, some resolution, that is the certain point I must reach.

I sat down with a jolly good glass of wine, resting with the soul at a distance apart, and the neighbour sitting next table came up to join me, except I did not really recognise her but no matter, jolly good, vintage, is the time up for tomorrow to be so slow, there must be a a better snack to order, straight from the oven, good to see her, and years later I won't see her again, these are such a pretty brown, deine Augen, we pursue the night with fire and mercury, and she gives me a piece of her insanity, and that was enough to propel us to a silent conversation for 3 minutes and all that matter to me was not the jolly good glass of wine but the avoidance of a forest, campfires are always a big mess and the lesser version of a forest fire but I give up my jolly good wine to sit next to a tree and with her at the other side, back facing, I can smile and she will know, not knowing why, but there is more companionship when we do not face each other, but that little meeting has since become an excuse to extend the last meeting, and perpetually near you, far away, but I give my pennies the running, and the wine will be refilled soon enough, and treat us to an evening which words less spoken is so warm, besides the blood that flows down, of his blood, and still I wish I could drink it more often, and so I decide to order that one snack, perhaps to honour this destined meeting, we took the bread and broke it and finally we shared that one snack, with our jolly good blood and I could swear, though persuaded not, that I saw the brown eyes lit up into white and blue, and further, I witness these eyes reflect the nebula, and with my black holes, I am attracted to her, and then on, this not quite a stranger stranger, sharing this table with me, thinks a thousand narratives in my mind, and they could not match up to this one narrative, that I have been in for some time, some day, I'm almost home, but I wish, to bring you with me, from then on, than to wait till we pass the gates, but it's never too late, if our eyes could shut and see the colour of rain. Patience is a blessing. if. if. maybe,,,,,too many commas