Monday, July 30, 2012

all grown up


---

for a second there, I almost mistook you for a real person

---

how terrible it would be if all the things I tell myself turn out not to be true

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Aurora


did you know? there are devils
living in the bay

---


Aurora now had left her saffron bed,
And beams of early light the heav'ns o'erspread,
When, from a tow'r, the queen, with wakeful eyes,
Saw day point upward from the rosy skies.


---

there is a small growth just beneath the medial third of my left clavicle that I haven't told anyone about. it doesn't hurt or move when I touch it, it's just there; an abnormal lump of - flesh I suppose. It has become something of a habit of mine to touch it when I'm thinking or distracted, such as I am now. Perhaps its the flashing lights or blaring bass, but I seem to have entered some sort of a trance. My index and middle finger absentmindedly trace concentric circles around the inconspicuous bump on my chest, palpating its contours through the fabric of my shirt. Without warning, a vision of a girl swims into view. I am vaguely aware of still being seated at the bar facing a wall of spirits, as one is vaguely aware of their breathing or blinking, but my attention is being drawn elsewhere. Just to clarify, out of body experiences are not normal for me. I've never participated in any tarot readings or seances or even touched an Ouija board before, so you can imagine my surprise when her figure suddenly appeared to me, but I have lived long enough to learn to accept surprises. A part of me writes it off as some odd alcohol induced apparition, but whatever, if my drunken subconscious wants to show me visions of pretty girls, I have no reason to protest. There she sits with a markedly disinterested expression on her face, as if waiting for a friend to rejoin her so that they can leave. She has strawberry blonde shoulder-length hair and is wearing a fantastic bright green dress, one that hugs her curves nicely but consists of enough fabric to contain some mystery. Her face is obscured by shadows, but she looks to be about 20? perhaps 24? Certainly no older than 25. A young man with perfectly ruffled dark brown hair slides confidently into the seat beside her.

Hi, what's your name? 
Jessica. 
That's a lovely name. 
It's not really my name. Like, it was my grandmother's name, but I stole it cause I liked how it sounded. Plus, I got bored of my real name. You like it? 
Uh, yeah.  What's your real name then? 
Hmm? Oh, sorry I gotta go. You seem like a real nice guy though. tata

He stares after her in confusion as she gathers her purse, gets up and walks away. He doesn't seem too disappointed though. He simply looks around for a moment, then stalks away to find easier prey. The camera in my head follows her at a distance as she wades her way through the crowded dance floor. She then makes a sharp left turn, approaching my imaginary camera, coming closer and closer. I see her clearly now - she has a small, delicately defined nose and a pair of rosebud lips, as well as a mean look in her mascara lined eyes, filled with some sort of burning desire or intent. Combined with her graceful lankiness, she could've passed for a supermodel. She stops abruptly, her face filling the frame and staring, it seems, straight at me. 

Hey.

The tone is accusatory. I hear it being said in my head and then a split second later, when the sound enters my ears. It's then that I realize that the source is standing quite immediately behind me. I snap back into my body, eyes unfocused upon rows of liquor and turn in my stool to find myself being accosted by a skinny blonde in a glamorous green dress - an exact replica of the one that appeared in my head - every detail the same, from her crown down to her cuticles.
You were watching me, weren't you? She sounds sort of offended, but also wary, as if I had been discovered taking pictures of her secretly, which is not true. I had no idea what I was doing.
Excuse me? 
Just now, with the guy. You saw all of that, didn't you? 
Her inquiry contains no sense of uncertainty. Even though I'm slightly tipsy, I'm pretty sure that this makes no sense. The sheer absurdity of the whole situation and force of conviction behind her assertion, for a moment, overwhelms my common sense and, along with it, the most primal of instincts, that gut feeling that urges you to deny everything and feign ignorance when you're not sure where a question is going. I unwittingly nod in acknowledgement. She shoots me a look that says, I thought soShe allows her gaze to linger for a second or two until she's satisfied that her disdain is apparent to me. She turns around without a word, her bare back visible through the low cut design of her dress. Come. She issues forth the imperative with the urgency and authority of an impatient monarch, and then disappears. Not literally, of course, but it appeared that way. I rise from my seat slowly, searching the crowd for her. As I do this, I begin to regain some of my senses. Who on earth was she? How did she know I was watching her? And more importantly, who does she think she is? Telling me to Come like that. And yet, I feel strangely compelled to comply, as if something disastrous would happen if I didn't. I rest my fingers on the lump on my chest, its familiar shape oddly comforting to me. There, I glimpse her strawberry blonde hair and slender back slipping through an inconspicuous door near the restrooms, painted the same shade as the walls. I make my way towards the door, squeezing through the hot, sweaty hordes of gyrating bodies on the dance floor. The lights seem to flash with increasing frequency and intensity, psychedelic illuminations painting the flailing limbs and bobbing heads, bathing them in shifting incandescence. Suddenly, I feel dizzy. Something in my stomach starts to churn, it's making its way up towards my mouth. An alarm bell starts ringing in my head - I have to get out of here. I push through the inky figures surrounding me and make a dash for the door. The distance starts to span and stretch before me, the wretched doorknob growing further and further away. I won't be able to make it in time. Horror and dread starts to build as something like a great snake uncurls in my stomach. The air grows thick, jelly-like; my body feels the slow push of its resistance. Just a little bit more. All of a sudden, the door appears within reach, the rapidly pulsating lights urging me to enter. I just manage to close the door behind me before retching alcohol and gastric fluid onto the floor. It makes a sickly sound as the viscous solution hits the ground. My throat burns with bitterness and bile. It smells disgusting. I stay doubled over, hands on my knees, waiting for the nausea to subside. Another wave starts to thunder from deep within. As it makes its way violently up my throat, I choke and gag on my own spit trying to expel the contents of my empty belly. I gasp desperately and remain motionless for about a minute. My erratic breathing eventually becomes regular again. It's over, that's the worst of it, I tell myself. 
Spoke too soon. 
One last spasm, lurking deep within my gut, just waiting for me to let my guard down, launches itself like a rocket heavenward, crashing along my insides wildly and amidst the stifled chaos of my innards trying to escape, I feel something unusual - something that shouldn't be there - begin to rise up my oesophagus. A single pearl made of jelly or something like it enters my mouth. No larger than a marble, its shape on my tongue is unmistakable. There is no discernible taste, but something about its shape, or its size or consistency, or maybe just the fact that it traveled up from my stomach makes me regard it as something vile and unclean. I spit it out immediately with great force and catch a glimpse of it as it flies and disappears from my mouth into the shadowy abyss. It is black.

A breeze hits me and I find myself on some precipice, staring down into a sea of stars. My surroundings are completely dark, there is no light, save for the distant glimmer of the celestial bodies that seemingly surround me, an infinity away on all sides. Before I can figure out where I am or how I got here, I become aware of a slowly approaching figure, backed by the dim inconspicuous glow of the universe as it breathes silently. It closes in, deliberately and with the steady regularity of an unconscious man's beating heart. I am mesmerised by this clockwork procession. By now, I can faintly make out that the figure in the distance belongs to a woman. She draws nearer, slowly. I am beginning to feel drowsy, my limbs feel like lead. With every step, a new feature is revealed to me and I'm drawn deeper and deeper into her strange spell. She has long black hair with gentle waves that frame her face. My eyelids grow heavier. She has almond eyes and a grave expression. The hairs on my arms and neck are standing. Her face is pale, almost glowing, the light reflecting off her skin creating an aura of luminescence about her. My whole body is tense, unable to move, every muscle locked into place. She looks around thirty, no twenty, perhaps eighteen, and then thirty again. Her cheekbones and orbits of her eyes at once look both mature and undefined, shifting beneath the shadows, making her actual age impossible to discern. She stops an inch away from my face and stares straight into my eyes. Her eyes are cold, like the space surrounding us - vacant and unforgiving. She is very beautiful, not like a model or actress, but there is confidence and conviction beneath her skin. Her features are inscrutable - no traces of thought or emotion upon her brow. She takes a single step forward and leans in close towards me, the edges of her cheek almost grazing mine. Her lips open, I can hear them part. They hover just over my ear, and then she whispers something terrible.









This is the part of the job that I hate the most - the drudgery of it all. Check boxes, blank forms, names and dates. The thing about paperwork is that nobody likes doing paperwork, otherwise, we'd be able to hire people to do our paperwork for us and pay them peanuts. I lean back in my chair and put my hands on the desk, gripping the smooth mahogany. I wonder if I could actually pay someone in peanuts. He'd have to really like peanuts, or they'd have to be really really good peanuts. Okay, focus, I tell myself. If I keep letting my mind wander, I'll never be done. I take a look around at the tomes and volumes on the austere bookshelves surrounding me. Orange light from the lamp on my desk casts long shadows across the room. The carpet, furniture and walls are all painted a variant of the same colour tone; it's supposed to create a 'harmonious' work-space - an atmosphere conducive for form-filling and etc. etc. but I just find it really boring. Why is my office so brown? I wonder. I return my attention to the paper in hand. The lines of words start to blur, I can hardly read them. I feel sooo tired for some reason. I take off my glasses and try to rub the sleep from my eyes but it doesn't work. I look at my watch. 4.05am. That can't be right - I never stay in my office past seven. Suddenly, the doorknob starts to rattle. I remain silent, stunned. I hear a key sliding into the lock. It turns, metal tumblers and grooves clicking swiftly into place. The door swings open and the girl from the bar begins to enter casually. As soon as she catches sight of me, she stops dead in her tracks. I wonder if she recognizes me. She stands in my doorway incredulously, her bright green outfit looking very out of place in the midst of a room dominated by brown. Her eyes are wide, shocked. She looks at me as if I am a ghost. After a moment, she finally opens her mouth to speak. In panicked and hushed tones, she utters a single question, each word dripping with dread: 


what are you doing here?



I am awake in my bed, completely drenched in sweat. I sit up and look around. I am in my room, but something is not right. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can make out shapes and edges traced in moonlight. The furniture and books have been tossed about as if hit by an earthquake or hurricane. The empty bookshelves lay overturned and broken lamps are scattered across the room, with loose leaves of papers still rustling about. The moon shines in through tattered curtains, half hanging from fractured rings and chipped edges of the windowsill. A girl I've never seen before stands across the room, her back to the door like a startled animal in a cage. What have you done she whispers.
My hand reaches for my chest reflexively, searching for something that isn't there. I look down. The growth is gone.

---


Aurora
Save me from the fallen shadows
Pull me out of my dream
Aurora
Wade me through the phantom shallows
Shelter me from the screams


---

i hope horoscopes are actually telling the truth

Monday, July 23, 2012

fake words

is there such a thing

---

lol you know me well

---

Even in the apparent solitude of my room, the world still has me in its clutches. It draws its long, serrated claws, reaching out from beyond my illuminated screen, a gigantic black talon, lean and unholy extension of an equally fiendish finger, stretching monstrously across the gap between my bed and my desk like a hungry shadow, sharp and ominous, hooking itself tenderly but securely onto the fabric of my shirt. I try to concentrate on my reading but can't ignore its quiet, steady tug - a desperate tide of dread and desire, refusing to let go.

---

when she sings, I forget everything

---

The real names of Hirama and Hata are "平間 幹央" and "畑 利樹" respectively, but, Ringo Sheena gave them stage names, using Kanji which is not usually used for their names, but as they are the phonetic equivalent, the pronunciation is not changed. Since Ryosuke Nagaoka always drifted unsteadily and nobody knew where he would go, Sheena named Nagaoka "Ukigumo" which means the drifting cloud. Sheena planned to give Keitaro Izawa a stage name, but he refused and chose one for himself, Ichiyō Izawa.

---

Sheena and Izawa write a musical score. Kameda takes various means, recording a humming and using musical instruments or the PC. Since Ukigumo cannot write a score, Izawa or Sheena (mainly Izawa) copies down his tune in the studio.
Hata stubbornly kept refusing to write music, even declining to write lyrics when Sheena asked him to. However, he finally changed his mind.
Since Ukigumo writes music without considering a song, it is hard for Sheena to put the words to his music. That's why he often writes lyrics by himself.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

young adult

dear young adult
you've heard it all
seen enough
ran all your speed away
under mountains and over seas
you've dug your feet deep
into the earth and named it home
and in your room of clay
you spend your days
repeating the same words 
over and over to yourself
until they finally come true

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

queen of the world / taiyaki galaxy

witches don't know about my secret identities

---

we don't talk about ourselves anymore. we're far too smart for that.

---

The suds stick to my hands, tracing the creases of my palms. A torrent of water splashes off the smooth surfaces of the bowl I'm currently scrubbing. I find myself wishing for an apron without a hint of irony. Ever since I returned three weeks ago, this has become my routine. We recently got a dishwasher, so it's pretty easy on me, but I kind of relish carrying out this simple chore, it gives my body something to do while leaving my mind free to tend to its thoughts. The sound of the running faucet has a soothing effect and the kitchen view provides a setting of contemplation that differs from my room. My mom is a busy woman. She runs an eye clinic downtown and drives to work each day. She leaves in the morning, in a flurry of worry and confusion, trying not to forget her watch, keys and coffee. On rare occasions, when I wake up early enough to see her off, she gives me an absentminded peck on the cheek, tells me that lunch is in the fridge and stumbles out the front door, declaring exasperatedly, 'I'm sooo late... The patients will be waiting'. Understandably, she doesn't have time to do the dishes before leaving, so my usual morning/afternoon routine includes being greeted by a pile of crockery and cutlery, stacked haphazardly in and around our sink. But like I said, I don't see it as a hassle or inconvenience, but simply a speed bump. A necessary change of pace.

As I grab the dishcloth hanging from the handle of a nearby kitchen drawer, I am reminded of the main character from Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, Toru Okada, and how he is relegated (liberated?) to the role of househusband after quitting his job, doing mundane chores around the house and finding a peculiar delight in doing them. I wonder if reading that book has coloured the way I view performing menial tasks - if this perception is derived from that character's perspective. At this moment, I find myself identifying with him quite strongly - at home with nothing to do except wait for the breadwinner's return. The day feels like a prelude, a period of preparation as I ready myself to receive her crumpled figure, laden with paper, emerging from the darkness of our tiny porch, exhausted from a full day of work. As I scrub each dish, watching the patches of oil and foodstuff disappear, I rid myself of some of the guilt at not being able to provide in her stead. Not yet. I bring this chapter of thought to a close as I finish putting away the last plate, a wide ceramic disc with its edges decorated by drawings of fish in blue chinese ink, a large blue koi sitting frozen in the center. Now, I wonder, what should I think of next? Song lyrics, perhaps? Fall Out Boy? Sounds good. The sound of a young man's ardent wailing echoes down the empty hallways and rooms of their modest apartment, shifting erratically from operatic falsetto to crackling baritone in order to compensate for his severely limited range, but it doesn't in any way diminish the gusto of his performance, this voice that belongs to a boy that has discovered the well kept secret joys of being alone at home.

Monday, July 16, 2012

on the nature of water

I could do with fewer screens in my life

---

perhaps love is like water, able to support the entire weight and worth of a person if there is enough of it, or sweeping them along unwittingly in its violent current, being tossed about helplessly like a paper doll in the breeze. it can be destructive if its flow is impeded or obstructed and then released suddenly. capable of generating tremendous pressure, of launching plastic rockets into the sky and shooting sparkling jets of quenching beams on an arid summer's day.

at one moment, refreshing and thirst-curing, suffocating and oppressive the next. it expresses itself in strange ways; stern and firm, cold and harsh, strong and confident, creating cracks in the most steadfast of faces; light and airy, a shimmering vapour, bashful and blushing yet brimming with energy. we occasionally immerse ourselves in it and allow ourselves to float in its embrace, forgetting worries and troubles as they submit to the seductive swaying of the tide, gently coerced by its ebb and flow, the playful waves dragging them further and further away to rejoin the dense, seething ocean of unformed thoughts and emotion.

it may fall from the sky unsolicited and without warning, tiny hammers tapping lightly on windows and sidewalks like a mild-mannered visitor, or it can come crashing upon our heads suddenly like a volley of projectiles discharged from the heavens, often at times when it is least convenient.

in barrages of calculated droplets, we use it to cleanse ourselves of any dirt or dust we may have picked up during the day. because it is so clear, it can sometimes be hard to tell if it's even there but is quickly noticed upon contact, even in tiny amounts. it can bend light and distort the way things appear. some people feel naturally at ease around it while others absolutely fear anything to do with it.

it is an essential element of survival; we take it in and break it down to use as needed, in different forms, in different ways. sometimes, in some places and certain cases, we need it more than usual, even if we don't think we do. at the same time, we have to give it out to maintain the balance and natural flow between our internal and external environments. 

harmful particles can be suspended in solution, fragments of things that should not be there, and if present in high enough concentrations, they can make us sick. perhaps our bodies have become weaker or untainted sources have grown scarce; perhaps neither, perhaps both. now, we have water that is sterile, bottled up and sold; no longer fuel for rockets but capped and stamped with an expiration date. afraid of what it used to contain or what used to contain it, it has been 'purified' and processed and packaged for the masses - labeled with information or added vitamins and gases. we become so used to these little transactions - the cost of convenience and guaranteed immortality - it's easy to forget that clean water can be free if you know where to find it. but water can never be safe; that's just not in its nature. 

Sunday, July 15, 2012

we made it to the coastline

- have you heard of the ballet Giselle?
- no, what's it about?
- it's about this peasant girl who falls in love with a nobleman, but then dies and becomes a ghost. so the guy goes into the forest to visit her, but the thing is, because she's a spectre, she can only meet him at night and has to go when the morning comes
-         so? what happens next? what do they do?
a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips 
- why, they dance all night

insightful eyes / death by numbers



---

enchanted by the truth in/behind her wandering lies
I wonder how, with what, with why did I fall in love last night
could it be eyes or heart, perhaps voice or face 
or that one song embroidered with both hers and mine laced


---


content to take apart what others have laboured to create 
skimming the message for some(any)thing to relate
I think that this is a grave mistake


---

loss of information can give rise to new information, but which is worth more

---

so easy to subtract

Friday, July 13, 2012


hip hop gentlemen

too bad for the nice girls; too nice for the bad girls

---


So many things are happening all at once. I can't keep track of what's been or is being said. I just want to drink in this moment, this feeling of - I can't find the right word for it - familiarity? The word is too diluted. Too distant. Although we don't share blood or a surname, I feel like I'm at a family reunion; meetings like these don't occur often enough. Though separated by time and space, I still feel connected to these people by some intangible, unbreakable bond. A motley assortment of characters thrown together by fate, and here we are almost eight years later, the fifteen of us, afflicting the other restaurant patrons with our mangled english and enthusiastic recollections. The inescapable fact is that we've changed in many ways: gotten fatter, taller, gone overseas, improved our english, gotten jobs, girlfriends, goals - grown up, I guess you could say. And then someone brings up the contents of a love letter that was written and discovered in sixth grade, and amidst the cacophonous laughter and half-hearted protests we find that we haven't really changed all that much. That we're still ourselves, and that that's okay.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

milestones


It recently occurred to me - I've attended about as many funerals as I have weddings. (which is not many, admittedly, but nonetheless, the ratio still stands) I don't know why, but this statistic somehow seems significant. There ought to be a word for such milestones, if not in English then perhaps in Japanese or Korean; they tend to regard these things with importance and a sense of ceremony.

Birthdays seem to mean less and less these days; the celebrations are always fun but feel slightly incommensurate, like receiving praise for one's ability to stay on a conveyor belt. But things like funerals and weddings, they're like signs or badges by which you can gauge, not necessarily maturity, but the extent to which one has been actively involved in someone else's life - a battle scar, or something similar. To me, attending such events are a form of verification - actual proof of having lived some kind of life.

A standardized ruler or scale by which to measure one's growth and experience - why don't we have one of those?

---

If life were a movie or novel, what would you choose to keep? Would you edit out the awkward pauses? Would you choose to skip small talk? Would you discard the time you spent waiting in line?
Were they all significant experiences? Were they all important people?

Saturday, July 7, 2012

no answer

"you've met someone else."

she finally speaks, slowly and deliberately, weighing and testing out the various possible meanings of each word with her tongue. she looks into the mirror as she says it, as if searching for some answer in her reflection.

I don't know what to do, so I remain completely silent. I had not expected this. I was expecting tears, anger, for her to fling picture frames and and other sharp edged objects at me. But not this - this unnatural calm - this unfathomable absence of a response. she had suddenly become someone I could not predict, and that scared me.

Friday, July 6, 2012

the hallowed men





























---

if one day I were to climb a mountain
or descend an ocean of despair
perchance the world may be distinguished still
from such dreadful depths
and those lofty airs


---

thoughts on finishing murakami's the wind up bird chronicle: not sure if book too genius to understand or just doesn't make much sense

---

perhaps the attempt to separate myself from all carnal contexts is a fruitless affair

Thursday, July 5, 2012

花街 / summer break


the sound of interrupted bursts of hushed gunfire finds its place among the quiet corners of the crowded mind. its source being the sleek black laptop set upon the ground, its glow whitens the intense furrowed features on his face as his fingers and hands move frantically over the keyboard and mouse, hunched over the screen, sat cross legged in a pair of blue shorts and faded old t-shirt. on the bed a youth with short spiky hair and clad in a wife-beater reclines on his side like a sacred statue of contentment, similarly bewitched by the artificial light emitting forth from his magical box, eyes set in cold satisfaction. words in a pleasant foreign tongue stream forth with the bright intonation and calculated cadence of a young female showbiz professional with shiny hair tied back in a bun and wearing an impossibly neat cream colored business dress. her feminine articulations sound small and far away as if coming through a tiny tunnel from another world. the dim fluorescent tubes humbly cast their monochromatic light as the portable fan whirrs on quietly in the background, comfortably ignoring the organisms occupied in their respective reveries, their preferred abstractions - the hours don't matter in this realm of marble floor and wooden doors, of humans and their electronic escapes

---

her hair elaborately done up revealing the nape of her neck delicately wrapped in layers of cloth hovering collar at the same time fitting yet loose her yukata draped over the soft curves of her shoulders billowing folds flowing elegantly free the vibrant coloured patterns of youth she at a distance walks gracefully her footsteps concealed in mystery like a flower afloat in still water voiceless zephyr that urges her onward toward the light in effortless procession

---

streetlights and billboard signs whizz past against the pitch black evening backdrop. in front and behind, surrounded by the familiar glow of headlights and taillights - the tacit and tenuous solidarity of tired travelers trying to get home. a young girl's bright tones occasionally chime out a melody above the baritone hum of the car engine. in the enclosed darkness looking out at the scattered orbs of light, reminiscent of some sort of fort, three voices conjure up late night conversation and chortles and terrible renditions of popular songs as the road continually winds and disappears and rushes on soundlessly beneath us

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

zero

I hear the words "good old days" a lot recently, but I have to say, for me there really were never any good old days.
When I debuted, I was embarrassed of my work from one year before that.
Ten years ago, I was embarrassed of the work I made one week before that.
Currently, I'm embarrassed at the same time that I actually draw it.
I will probably always be embarrassed of every work that I produce.
I regret the future.
I regret it in advance.

- Koji Kumeta

---

honeymoon is over

---


"BUT IF YOU KNEW YOU MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO SEE IT AGAIN TOMORROW, EVERYTHING WOULD SUDDENLY BECOME SPECIAL AND PRECIOUS, WOULDN’T IT?"

   ~   Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore 


---

the creases have been irreversibly made
it is now time to leave this bed

---

"I CAN’T GO BACK TO YESTERDAY BECAUSE I WAS A DIFFERENT PERSON THEN."

   ~   Lewis CarrollAlice in Wonderland 


---

It's hard to appreciate the present when our minds tend to be perpetually set either on fast-forward or on replay

---

and the machine marches steadily on

Long Revision

 夕食後、ベアは湾のパノラマビューのために4月をエスプラネードに連れて行くことを申し出たが、彼女は翌朝早く空港にいなければならないと言って断った。代わりに、4月は金融街を二分し、川の河口を横断して少し上流のMRT駅に到着できるルートを提案しました。そこで彼らは手入れの行き届いた都...