Imaginary Friends

more to come..

Alive

As I am staring at the computer screen sitting on the table in my small apartment, I can’t help noticing its dusty and old appearance. Through its existence, it is clear that I do coexist somehow in this plane, a dimension which makes me visible and touchable in the ways of sense experiences.

My existence is a priori since that doesn’t need empirical explanation, but the relationship between I and the computer screen is a posteriori since that is a gained experience.

Oh yes, I know. I am getting old.

Recently, I’ve read almost all of Banana Yoshimoto’s books. They inspire me in a great deal. But the more I am into my own finding on meaning of life through books—mostly literature and philosophy—the more I become detached to my physical surrounding. The more I see myself by slowly tearing apart my mental restraints, the more I become distasteful in societal standards.

My thinking becomes way off, you see.

If someone says something to me, I can’t help asking an obnoxious question, “Why?”

Why is that? Why do I/we have to do this? Why it is predetermined to be such? Why isn’t there a reasonable explanation rather than a protocol to be followed by everyone? Why do you believe that? Why am I expected to believe that? Why all these nonsense/wastes have become societal consumption?

I am not smart. Not at all. But I am definitely not a pessimistic and sad person. The truth is I can’t just absorb what is fed.

I can’t regard things merely as they are. I am more skeptic than ever. Most importantly, I ask so many questions in my own little head. It sounds nuts, right?

But the force somewhere inside me—which probably in my head—is so vigorous that I can no longer resist, but ask myself countless questions.

Questions about things. Things around me. Things those are near or far. Things unreachable. Things that are categorized. Things with or without purpose. Things about this whole thing.

I simply can’t let them go, can I?

...

...

...

For some reason if this became my last post on this sketch book, which I desperately hope not, I would like to thank my grandmother for the first reason why I started it, and my fish for many other great things happened in it.

Swan Song

Everything was strange at first. But after a while, the feeling of strangeness wore off as things stopped revolving around a particular point.

……………

Time wore on.

……………

Whether you like it or not, it’s part of this vicious circle, sometimes you’ve got to give vent to your emotion in formality—a tear here, a smile there, a smirk in between.

Nobody is a victim of circumstance. It’s just an act.

An act or one little mischief.

Life has gone too far. Time has gone too far. Humor in existence has gone too far. It is getting more and more than I can bear.

My patience has become so exhausted.

I no longer want to be in this circle.

……………

At one instance, I was in the Colorado River. You couldn’t imagine how cold the water was. Icy cold. Water coming from those frozen mountains.

And it’s getting dark. I could say that because I noticed the sun and the moon being together, almost touching each other, not really, but almost, you know what I mean?

And all that I could think of was the fishes in the River. Fishes might or might not be swimming with the tide across pebbles. Fishes whose eyes were as wide as my own eyes when they got a glimpse of what’s going on around them in this world. Fishes with no fins. Fishes with broken fins. Fishes with some sort of self-preservation. Fishes eating fishes. Fishes making out with fishes. Fishes just being and wanting to be fishes.

All of a sudden, something nudged me in my back. Oh, it might as well be a fish.

I longed for you. So much.

……………

You.

You are a thorn in my side. You are also the one I can fall back upon at any time.

You and I must reckon with everything that would undo us. You and I must press for fair play. You and I must stop trifling with our feelings.

Don’t I say that enough?

……………

I don’t care.

As long as I live, I don’t care why Gregor Samsa transformed into an enormous bug when he awoke from troubled dreams one morning. I wake up from troubled dreams every morning and I find myself limping towards the face of a new day, without a slight sign of metamorphosis.

This is poison to me. Too much of Kafka is poison to me. Too much of this and that has worn me out in a way that I’ve become my own swan song. I don’t need that last breath.

Just let me go. Just let me go. Just let me go.

……………

Sonnet 16

Long have I long’d to see my love againe,

Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it;

Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)

Would I desire my love’s sweet precious gaine.

Yet in my soule I see him everie day,

See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,

But (ah) what is of long continuance,

Where majestie and beautie beares the sway?

Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,

(As love is full of foolish fantasies)

Weening to kisse his lips, as my love’s fees,

I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him.

Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:

Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.

--Richard Barnfield (1595)

……………

In every sense, you are me.

……………

Arigatoo ne.

……………

Momiji, Raymond Carver and JK Cafe

...Once my body turned into a forest.. A forest filled with Maple trees. I transformed into Momiji and you touched me gently.
...
...
...

Every time I recite the words of Raymond Carver, I remember how you make me become one of his characters. I intend to be isolated. I intend to be alone. I intend to be living marginal. I intend to be in terror and loss and despair. I intend to be ordinary. I intend to end everything I am not and start everything I am. Perhaps, I am one of his characters.

..
..
..
Momiji are still my favorite.. they don't live long. ..
but they always come back..
when they come back, make sure to touch them gently...please..
..

Love: One Thing that Doesn't Fit Me

“I love you.”
Is it a falsifiable claim?
How many times have you said that in your life? Or have you not said it at all?

It’s like a morning cup of coffee, love is what it is.
It’s like drowning into the deep ocean. A breeze carrying winter snow. Encompassing the Universe at a blink of an eye. You feel as light as a cotton ball and suddenly, your shoulders sink into the darkest of all.
Have you not experienced that? Have you surely not? Tell me now.

You say love makes you move and eat and drink and learn and live and laugh.
Well.. it might or might not be there, still we talk about it , don’t we?… we talk about it, so dearly, and so lusciously.
The more we talk about it, the more it transcends, and in the end, we could no longer go back to where we started. We get lost. We get lost no matter what.

I want to recognize how it all started, simply for the sake of recognizing. Before I can falsify its shape and form and physicality, I need an empirical proof, in any case, an experiment of my own. Or your own. Or our own.

I just want you to know that love has all sorts of ephemeral qualities, whether you like it or not.
I want you to refute its many facets hidden under that well-rounded disguise.
I want you to come forward and be able to talk about it when we talk about it.
I want you to distinguish it not as a social norm or a labeling but as a thing which we talk over and over again that it becomes a social norm or a labeling.
I want you to embrace it as it is, whatever it is, or isn’t.
I want you to love nothing else but love only.

Because I love you.

And I talk about love.
What do I talk about when I talk about love?
What do we talk about when we talk about love?

It won’t matter, we get lost anyway.

Attestation

..

.Being afloat, I sense nothing, no more or no less, just the dark energy closing all in.
I am slow, the Universe is slow.. I am less expansive now than ever..
How much of me is dark energy?
How long have I been floating?

I dreamt of you last night. It was a real dream.. Yes, it was… I certainly recognized it as a real one since I’ve kept so many of those in a box under my bed…
In the dream, you and I were watching the sky. Suddenly, you sobbed and said.
“How about afterlife? Is there or isn’t there one?”
I answered, “What about it?.... We will never be there anyway.”

we'll never be there anyway..we’ll never be there anyway…we’ll never be there anyway…
It echoed through my body.. I trembled and woke up, and it’s 3:06 am.

I am not Aristotle. I am not Descartes. Neither Locke nor Kant. I am not Hegel. I am not Kierkegaard. Neither Nietzsche, nor Russell.
Hence, I can’t be metaphysical.
But I live.

I live therefore I weep.
On countless nights, I merely gaze at the sky and weep because I feel alone. Living is such a lonely realm. As much as we share within us, I am still alone, my love…. I am so on my own.

We sing. We dance. We love. We hate. We eat. We drink. We kiss. We hurt. We give. We take. We pray. We cry. We stop. We continue.

Amazingly, it all started with an extremely concentrated and unstable energy.
Now here we are.. you and I, trees and the oceans, pyramids and empires, constructions and destructions, art and music, philosophy and religions, breeders and killers, money and technology, cubicles and depressants, KKK and www.

…and still, we are all on our own..

Don’t you feel that we are being pulled towards the black hole?
After which, I am no more… you are no more…
we are no more.
Till then, let’s float one more time…Let’s gather in the dream one more time.
Carelessly and heartily.
..
..
..
My love, I want to stand with you before the first 3 minutes of us, this Universe. I want to meet and greet you before it went all crazy.

Perhaps, perhaps, you would still remember me then???

..
..
..

My First Ballet: Love Poem: A Suicidal Note

I love you

I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you

I love you

I love

You

I

l

o

v

e

y

o

u

Betrayal

.

Aging knocks around the imbalance of my living room—

disassociation, a used couch, a worn-out blanket,

static on an old TV, a couple of paintings,

repeated defeats, lack of the whole thing.

Love is the last drop of wine remained in that dirty cup;

Still more, you make me weep.

On a Saturday morning,

Or a Tuesday’s or a Monday’s,

doesn’t matter! doesn’t matter!

Weeping hurts; it pains the whole process. Not that

I am weak or strong, not that you have

a permanent tattoo on your psychological self.

The outings, where can we meet? At the

front porch? On the swing? Near the

lovely lake? Your choice. I would listen.

But again, outings are not

outings without a damage.

Outings are merely where we nibble love and talk

nonsense, and pine for Tibet and Kyoto and Irrawaddy.

Senescence knocks me dead. You wither

like a summer flower, so does the last

song we sang together.

Your voice echoes:" Plants teach us how to live

….O Plants teach us how to live!"

disposable good sense of yours

has told me so.

-->

Alas,

I get mutated inside out. Alone

in my living room. Just next,

next to that old,

static TV of

yours.

“4:14 am”

At the dawn, the night

meets yet another

soaring soul

I long for Rangoon

there lies a thousand birds which

can take me places—

bridges of the past.

.

.

.

.

Hands

       

I am not scared..

But I’m afraid…

This morning when I looked at my own hands, I couldn’t believe that they’re gone..

years of nurturing them… years of showcasing them… years of abandoning them…

They didn’t even bother to say goodbye.. just slipped away like strangers after one encounter..

…but, wait… now that I remember, my memory is on again all of a sudden..

it’s me who chopped them off!!

But don’t you worry; there will be new breed blossoming before long…

Spring is on my doorway…

It’s time…

Time for a pair of newly fresh hands out of this bamboo plant I’ve been staring at the whole morning….

..yes, they are.

….Arriving soon…

A Decade of Its Own

..

If time and space are correlated, I have just passed another decade, a systematic framing we use to structure our sense and experience.

I am not old, nor young, I am not here, nor there, I am not passing, nor passed by.
It's just happening and non-happening..

The sunset outside my window has the same face, it's just me who is not used to it..
.... It's just me who has never been used to it..

..

...

sometimes I feel like the end is near..
I believe the end is exciting.
the end is the epilogue of everything what has been done.

goodness of life..
essence of life..
nature of life...
Aristotle's four causes can't be unwound..
moving.. moving.. moving towards the end..

you may read this.. I may write this..
you may understand this.. I may explain this..
you may love this.. I may entice this...

but it's all going to end.. one way or another..
I so anticipate the end.
Life with an ending is a complete cycle..

....
it's beautiful out there after the rain..

...

thought of the week

"Dreams have only one owner at a time. That's why dreamers are lonely."

-Erma Bombeck, American humorist

...

Lured into the whole world of sham,

I no longer distinguish if the blue is still the blue that I’ve longed to catch from the sea..

They are cultured to think and constantly feeding others the notion

that money and beauty are the core of life…

I have none and I get bored

let me tell you, time has just passed by me….

too late to make money ..

too old to fake beauty

all that I have in these hands is

fantasy fantasy fantasy..

... as soon as the fantasy of life is gone...
I misplace myself, lose my soul, break my core and whatnot

Lonely and loud…

Here is to my dreams..

Never to confuse that blue again..

Jet Lag

“..with a feeling like jet lag—an odd sensation of fragility, of being there and not here, somehow distant from my surroundings.” Roberto Bolano, Sensini.


It’s funny and sad, in a weirdest way….
During the recent journey, I’ve seen so many skies—sky with scores of faces and colors, sky with outrageous mood, sky whose voice calms me down, sky pretending to be sky, sky with or without evenings, and sky who steals my last morning with Asia.

Those skies.. follow me to my deepest unconsciousness.

..when I woke up, it’s in the middle of night.. Then I choked up with nausea in my head..
Seemingly asleep the rest of the world was, or at least my surroundings, I had this numbness, because I tried not to think.. or feel..

Hey.. it’s not a feeling like jet lag, it is a jet lag..
but then I know exactly neither is true..

Who suffers more? The leaver or leavee? I or Asia?
She doesn’t seem to care; it’s morning over there anyway.

I, now, continue to drag my tired body to the familiar arena of seclusion... till the dawn comes..
with its soothing warmth, my soul rests, while my eyes are still open, searching for things that I cannot have.

..

The painting is still incomplete.. I am not satisfied with the color nor the brushstrokes.

..I have terrible headaches..maybe from poor eyesight.. ..My eyes are lazy, and I have overworked them for so long.

Consequently, there is this pain ..so horrible, horrible pain in the head..

Absence....the lack of unknown… even in this moment..

I need sleep..

I need to rest now..

I need to just close my eyes..

But the painting is still not finished..

breaking up with Thibaw

-->

what would I do..

if there were no more stars?

everyday can't be as muted as it is now..

I am in “the Glass Palace”

its mirrors reflecting thousands of images

some near some far

past is now the only witness

inside all these walls

we look around and around..

Nothing left..

one more time and

Nothing exists.

as if there were no as if..

Kipling shouting out “Mandalay”

I keep on looking for the stars..

He, Thibaw, the last King of Burma, the Greatness

with those binoculars..

Searching for the stars that never went home..

What would you do

If there were no more stars?

-->

Marlene Dumas

The writer of "Irrawaddy Tango" and "The Coffin Tree"

"The role of the artist in the East is not to question and challenge the nature of reality but to reconcile society with reality. Self-expression in the Western sense is not the task of the artist in the East. Rather it is affirmation, repetition, the subjugation of the ego’s very desires and ambitions that preoccupy those in the West. "

............

"History, after all, is the version of the victors. The history books are slanted in favor of the successful conquerors. Literature, on the other hand, documents the version of the conquered. I’m on the side of literature. "

Wendy Law-Yone

To Err Is Human

I stepped onto someone's spectacles..
why did he place them on my way?
didn't he know that I was going that way?
..on the ground..who would put glasses on the ground?
was it a trick?
was it an act?
..now they were under my shoes... they were not supposed to be under my shoes.
the owner of the spectacles was from China...I pretended that I didn't know Chinese..
I compensated him with $100.. that's all I had, my friend.
He kept on murmuring in Chinese, holding the broken glasses..I kept on pretending, looking at the red sky bringing in the storm...

it's not easy to be erroneous.
one has to be very careless and unobservant..
perhaps, I am too human..

...I am too human to not look for the things where they are not supposed to be..
..I am too human to not think that there are other human beings just like me who are ready to make errors..
...I am too human to not expect things coming into my way and only to realize it's too late after tripping..
..
..way too human..
..

...

Today I am very unfortunate..
Or yesterday or tomorrow..
..there is only callousness around me..
It’s only too cold..
so I try to smile… cheer up .. and be pleasant within my ability to do so..
…but too hard.. too hard to please you..
Maybe I have already been a vile person, and it’s too late to mend my standing..