three accessory exploits

all that glitters is gold. all that fritters is banana.

yay! so fun. just being at home and creating things. my family's flying over to korea tomorrow night! i cant wait. though.. im not sure im expecting anything. its the suspension of expectation i guess, so i can be surprised later. so i didnt go research on what i'd find there.. you could call it plain laziness too, i guess. yes, anyhow i was arguing with kevyn online yesterday because he said blogs are lame. haha, ironic, coming from him. and if you overcome your fear of blog lameness and actually do read this, have a good trip kev! well-equipped with 20 books, lifetime supply of uniball pens, hifi and macbook pro, can lah. got beng and esther to keep u entertained for a short while, no? make many golden friends there and find your secret secluded multi-purpose rock, and if you're bored.. well, you could try blogging. haha. see you in __ months time.

KOREA! maybe i have an idealised perception of it, but well, what are holidays if not ideal illusions? and just in case i dont blog tomorrow, see you in 8 days, friends. uhm, or after 6 june when i return from the Palace of the Golden Horses. See? more illusions and fantasy.

below are excerpts from Jean Cocteau's Preamble-
the good thing about reading something you dont fully understand, is that you can dissect a part of it, and lift it out, and not hurt, because in your mind there is nothing left behind to weep for.

Let's get our dreams unstuck.

Greetings
I discard eloquence
the empty sail
and the swollen sail
which cause the ship
to lose her course

it's your foot
of attentive satin
that I place in position
pink
tightrope walker
sucked up by the void

to the left to the right
the god gives a shake
and I walk
towards the other side
with infinite precaution

----
i walk towards you, with infinite precaution

so i arrange the parts of my life carefully
to assemble a whole.
but the bits keep coming, whirring to be added on
the belted confectionery of production,
and like a factory labourer i keep going.
unless i see the end there is no end, my hands do not rest.
so let me see- that stationary point which does not move further each time i approach
that axis that does not shift with perspective
that absolute you.

i just need my dreams to be unstuck-
the bottle unstopped
for reality to flow.

fishing for warmth

the day the rooster crowed, it was cold. and the servants and officials stood around a fire they had made to keep warm. an ordinary man, too, stood in their midst, warming himself. but the fleeting flames cast brief shadows upon his skin only, their transient warmth not penetrating beneath the surface, where the heart was gnawing in a wintry cold. it was colder than it had ever felt before, and huddled in a crowd of faceless people, this man knew the chill of owning a face, wielding an identity, but trying desperately to lose it.

it was not that his heart had turned cold, but it was true that a thin, white crust of fear had crept over it, a fear that ate into his bones and into his conscience. it was an uncertainty which kept his feet shuffling, a nervousness that made his teeth shiver and a dismalness which kept his head bowed in disgrace.

images fastforwarded their way through his mind- barrage of thoughts, accusations, memories, like bullets racing and tearing their way through mental paths. in this jungle of confusion there was one voice which held so still, which felt so real, and for all its reality and earnestness seared deeper than any shifting image. it was his own. which he now tried to estrange from his mind, but could not. the more he tried to stifle it down with pillows of denial, the more it struggled and kicked, kicked and pressed into his consciousness.

"Lord, why can't i follow you now?
i will lay down my life for you!"


Lord, i can't follow you now. no, i will not no not betray you. greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends! you are my friend, you know that i love you. oh but, but. i am so afraid.

"didn't i see you with him in the olive grove?" a voice cut through his thoughts like a knife, sharpened thrice over. it ran through him mercilessly, it silenced his thoughts, froze his memories, pierced his centre. why is it so cold outside here? you are behind this door, and for the first time since i met you it is a door i dare not go behind. the waters did not deter me, but this door- it is so heavy, it is a kind of death. why cant i love you enough to be unafraid?

i'm sorry.

and at that moment a rooster began to crow. when his heart couldn't take anymore it was a final arrow, a final breaking of a lacking thing so that wholeness could be arranged, pieced together, made new. beside the ashes of a dead fire, whose flames in a foreign crowd only chilled and could not warm, peter's tears fell to the ground and soaked up the dust.

---

i think we often turn to things for warmth when the cold is not merely an external thing, but an internal one. but inner chills are not warmed by gloves, mittens or scarves, nor by foreign fires. such cloaks are threadbare and insufficient. and what warmth does fire provide amidst false company and torrential wind? peter waited in the courtyard, trying hard not to be himself, trying hard to lose himself or lose his fear- he did not know which.
but what he sought in the fire lay elsewhere, in a place after the time of loss and grief, after the time of waiting and release, after the time of questioning and doubt, a place at the end which wraps up the beginning.

peter the fisherman learned, again, how to fish.

he cast down his failure, lack and brokenness and pulled up the rest of his life.

he recognised the voice which asks a question-
that same voice which asks that same cutting, searching question today,
and he said, "Lord, you know that i love you."
'

john 18:18
'it was cold, and the servants and officials
stood around a fire they had made to keep warm.
Peter also was standing with them,
warming himself.'

john 13:37
'Peter asked, "Lord, why can't i follow you now?
I will lay down my life for you."

john 21:5-6
'Friends, haven't you any fish?'
"No," they answered.
He said, "Throw your net on the right side of the boat
and you will find some."

john 21:17
'Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time,
"Do you love me?"
He said, "Lord, you know all things;
you know that i love you."

take the wheel

in the car
the air was caked and brittle
and silence threatened to fall apart in crumbs of tears
so much to say
and so much left unsaid.

the unspoken words unspent themselves
unravelling in stagnant time
like single threads fraying from wool
fraying always occurs alone.

who's to speak,
and who's to listen?

there is a kind of closeness that is too barriersome
a kind of buffer that cuts too close.

more than enough baskets

new feline blogskin. hopefully it provokes more incentive to blog. lime green is supposed to be a creative colour! i think.

A fish once asked a wise man what she needed to do for her life to be filled with meaning. He replied, 'Give yourself away. Death comes to all, but few die giving, and even fewer give life in their dying.'
She kept that in her heart, until one day she was caught within a fishing net while swimming in a lake. The sun beat down hard upon her and her gasps were expended in the final flaps of her fins. But despite her flailing might no relief came from the heat, no swirling waters came to comfort and soothe her thirst. As she lay dying, she thought, 'it is time to give myself away.'

--

She remembered her conversation with the old man, his kind, worn face smiling.
"But if i give myself to different persons I can never be whole again."

He replied, "I only ask that you give yourself to One. The heart is small, indivisible, and is most precious when it is most singular. At all times your heart may belong only to one."

"What will happen to me if i give myself? Won't I still be torn apart apart and lose myself?"

He shook his head and said, "Whoever tries to keep his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it. What you give away to touch another's heart is that which cannot be lost; you become spirit, and in your dying give that person life by remaining in his heart for as long as he lives."

The fish nodded and went on her way.

--

Now, as she stared up into the blue sky, the light dimming slowly around her, the face of a young boy dawned above her. Here he is! she thought. The one i will give my life to. She whispered to him, "take me with you! i cannot keep my life, but i will find myself if i lose my life in your hands." The boy was the son of a poor fisherman. He picked up the fish gently with both hands, and she flapped her last and died.

Carrying his basket, the boy looked afar and saw many people gathered on a hillside. The boy had no brothers or sisters to play with, and his father was too busy fishing to be disturbed. He was used to being by himself and eating alone after these years. Who were those people? Didn't they have to work, too? Why were they there? Drawn by curiosity, his footsteps treaded lightly over rock and sand paths, until he found himself at the back of the huge crowd, trying to peer over their shoulders and look between their hips at who was talking. Dusk was falling, and still the people did not budge. Settling on mats or on the grass, they listened intently to the Teacher, telling stories they did not fully understand but were amazed by. The Teacher, noticing the darkness, turned and told those around him, "Give these people some food." At this time, the boy had crept to a bush behind the Teacher, listening to his every word. The teacher's students started exclaiming, it is impossible! How do we find enough food for all these people? He can't be serious, surely?

The teacher was not fazed despite their worries. The boy stared intently at his face as he asked 'who has any food?' There was something in the teacher's eyes that spelt a calm knowing, something in his smile that did not worry. Even when his students' faces creased in protest and dismayed at the growing crowd, the teacher's expression did not change. "Who in this crowd has any food?" The boy stood up slowly, and the bush he hid behind rustled. The teacher turned and gave a smile. "Do you?"

The fish said, I give myself to you, that you might eat me and live.
The boy said, I give what i have to you, just as i was given.
The teacher said, I give to whomsoever is hungry and weary. Open wide your mouths, and I will fill it. Give me the little you have, in spite of your lack, and I will multiply it. I give myself to you, as I myself have been given, that you may eat and drink of me, and live forever.

And there were 12 baskets leftover, all of which were collected, none were allowed to fall to the ground. No offering is too little or too much, nothing in part that cannot be made whole, nothing too perfect that it cannot be broken and spent, nothing too precious that it must be withheld, nothing too worthless that it is not heartfelt.

For it is not only what you have, but what you lack, which is a divine gift. The lack which supplies the need for faith, the need for grace, the space to give and receive. Without lack, there is no need for overflow.

I am the only one to blame for this
Somehow it all ends up the same
Soaring on the wings of selfish pride
I flew too high and like Icarus I collide
With a world I try so hard to leave behind
To rid myself of all but love
To give and die
-
To turn away and not become
Another nail to pierce the skin of one who loved
More deeply than the oceans,
More abundant than the tears
Of a world embracing every heartache
-
Can I be the one to sacrifice?
Oh, grip the spear and watch the blood and the water flow
-
(To love You)
Take my world apart
(To need You)
I am on my knees
(To love You)
Take my world apart
(To need You)
Broken on my knees
-
All said and done I stand alone
Amongst remains of a life I should not own
It takes all I am to believe
In the mercy that covers me
-
Did you really have to die for me?
All I am for all you are
'Cause what I need and what I believe are worlds apart
-
And I pray
(To love You)
Take my world apart
(To need You)
I am on my knees
(To love You)
Take my world apart
(To need You)
Broken on my knees
On my knees
(Bridge)
-
I look beyond the empty cross
Forgetting what my life has cost
And wipe away the crimson stains
And dull the nail that still remains
More and more I need you now,
I owe you more each passing hour
Battle between grace and pride
I gave up not so long ago
So steal my heart and take the pain,
And wash my feet and cleanse my pride
Take the selfish, take the weak,
And all the things I cannot hide
Take the beauty, take my tears
My sin-soaked heart - make it yours
Take my world all apart,
Take it now, take it now
And serve the ones that I despise
Speak the words I can't deny
Watch the world I used to love
Fall to dust and blow away
I look beyond the empty cross
Forgetting what my life has cost
And wipe away the crimson stains
And dull the nail that still remains
Steal my heart and take the pain
Take the selfish, take the weak
And all the things I cannot hide
Take the beauty, take my tears
Take my world apart
Take my world apart
And I pray, and I pray, and I pray
Take my world apart
Worlds apart


i have found my centre. let me not give it up for another.

dreamlessness

pet project for the night. in the wake of the onslaught of dreams i have had this past week, i've tried to look beneath the murky waters which dissolve and erode all light that enters it, and emerged with more questions than answers, since questions may be more telling than answers. answers are stagnant ponds, monocausal, while questions stir up waves behind itself, rippling outwards further and wider beyond itself.
-
are dreams indicative of absence or presence, reflective of the clutter of emotion and sensation, or of voided internal space? do they culminate from excess thought and leftover feelings unspent, like a pot of froth boiling over in senseless, tasteless nothingness? [air bubbles envelope voids, and essentially exist because small vacuums are isolated from a larger emptiness by a thin, frail film.] or is the body and mind overspent and in overdrive, producing visions of its hyperactivity in its reluctance to slow down and cease?
-
do dreams enter time from the vantage of the past, or hover in the foreshadowing of the future? do they echo the present or shape it? are they a figment of the mind's anticipations, or a silhouette of the soul's dread?
-
why dream?

only hollow resounds.

i feel like a stranger in my own house. hah. detached, aloof, quiet. there is nothing to say, nothing i want to say, nothing to ask that will not sound pretentious, so i stay mute. they had their girl chat, while i stayed in my room and talked to ahlee. my connection to a new world, a different world, one which speaks to me.
-
holidays have been.. lukewarm so far, with a few perks. hmmm i don't feel any impetus to blog, so i wonder why i'm here. words are slow in the coming and shallow in their falling. one week of stagnation and next week's the whirl wind. monday-thurs i'll be conducting the aki survey, monday i've got driving, tuesday night im meeting cherie for spiderman, wed we're supposed to go karaoking with zhonyun + wohwoh gang, thurs.. driving again? and somewhere in between these days i have to cram in rag planning, which will only get more intensive. argh, help. chill. 'strive to enter Your rest'. i always found that quite intriguing- striving for resting. unsettling enough to uproot you from the shaky foundations and replant you on firm ground.
-
haha i got rescued today from smoke. shan't say anymore. none of my plans for the week have been working out. today we were supposed to visit zhongxing but he had some scans to do and we couldnt visit til 4pm. belle, nasty n i met at 1230 for lunch at crystal jade instead, then i went with belle to the Australian High Commission to apply for her visa to Goldcoast. But we hiked up the hill and narrow winding path to no avail, and were stranded upon the wasteland of our ignorance until we imposed on the owner of a shop by-and-by, seeking directions. She told us the desired destination was at the foot of the hill, ALAS! we lifted one hand and flagged a mobile carrier on wheels to roll us down to the foot of the hill. upon arriving at the golden land of the Australian High comm which was uncannily quite low down on the hill range, we discovered that we could get no yellow ticket (visa) to the Coast of Golden Tresses because the High Comm only received guests from 9-11am on weekdays. Disappointed and dejected, we turned to the accumulation of cloaks on our backs for sustenance (read: retail therapy). This is so crappy. reflects my boredom.
-
After that, we abandoned all our prior plans to escape to SGH (Socially Gracious Hideout) to display some gracious visitation etiquette to our poor ailing friend, because there was no mobile multiple pumpkin carrier willing to ferry us over to SGH from the orchard grove. [no friggin SBS bus goes anywhere remotely near to outram park from town. seriously.] So after the A.o.C.o.B [Accumulation of Cloaks on Backs] escapade, i headed down to City Hall NewYorkNewYork to meet studio8studio8. NYNY did not let us get the big table we wanted, nor allow us to join tables so 9 of us could sit together, so we left in a puff and blew the house down. [not really lah. i made friends with the manager. she's a filipino, pleasant. called.. Maria.] After we left with a huff and a puff we went to Marina Square's Cafe Cartel where the pasta & macaroni tastes like a heap of cream doused upon macaroni morsels. Quite unappetising, very jelat. i feel sick thinking about it now. But the staff were very enthusiastic. Kept on refilling our glasses with water (4 different waiters asked us if we wanted more refills and we kept rejecting them, cos all our dinner was digested/rejected already, but they kept coming. so we acquiesced and let them fill it to get them to stop coming. ULTIMATE GOAL IN LIFE>> fill those darn cups. like beating the badgers. "i score one point. muahah.") Then we went to millenia walk, to a german bar name of which i cannot remember and cannot pronounce. and then...
-
why do i catalogue my life like this? does it even matter?

/its like walking on the beach and there's sand all around
all the same, too similar to be different, too homogenous to segregate
so they coalesce- one formless, boundless stretch of plain.
but the only one which bothers you is that speck under your last toenail
because it is all you feel, despite its minute inaneness
it is all you concentrate on, for the mere fact of the
mundane stares you in the eye,
you long for the splinter just so something can stick out.

happy birthday bello! you're 20! :)