Friday, 28 August 2015

Eva

She had some sort of wicked mystery to her; the kind that suffocates a man with temptation and desire. One that I wanted no part of, and yet here I stand ranting about her effects on my character, as if a mouse allured by the music of a pied piper. Fitting that the aforementioned woman here is from Vienna, where music plays a vital role in its culture. Where symphonies and orchestras, balls and whatnot, intertwine to form a cavalcade of passion, decadence, and other posh leanings. Suffice to say I am intrigued by the prospect of a short visit in her motherland, if also only to see Sabrina in all her glory. It had been such a long time since we last shared the same air and space, and eager to create new crooked smiles and tragic mishaps.

However, this woman in question is not Sabrina. She is of a different flavour and context; she is fire when Sabrina is ice; she is work when Sabrina is play; she is ambition when Sabrina is happiness. One whose future denotes a compound of worthwhile misery and blissful lay. But what is life but making misery a worthwhile endeavour? This woman escapes me, haunting my thoughts of her leaving, turning me anxious at a loss of another potential flame. Sometimes we just give in to regrets and live on with our lives knowing with certainty that we would have been someone else had we allowed our desires to decide our lives for us.

If only I can learn the tricks of fire and wash myself with it.

Tuesday, 25 August 2015

The Vagabond, pt. I

Once there came a man of youth
who fought for life as if he fought for love;
He had no spouse nor child nor pet;
only a pen which he grips on to
like a moth to a flame.

His weapon completes him;
it complements his strength as a vagabond.
No other tool is more useful
than when he seeks the right word,
for the right time,
and for the right moment.
Everything else in the world
they stutter
but words
Words carry a man steadfastly
in time
Words give value to a man's present
in someone else's present
in time.

Sunday, 23 August 2015

Dream a little dream of me

There are lots of things to like about a good night out when you happen to wake up the following afternoon dishevelled and nauseous, ready for another go, and aching to jump back into the fray of that missed opportunity. I played with some woman's heart. In the end, she played mine. She always wins. No matter who this "she" happens to be at any given moment. If you ask me whether or not I do regret these, well, to be honest, sometimes, yes.

I never get things right the first time. Repetition is something that is etched into my core that whenever I fail to get the chance to do something all over again, I lose all momentum. That was what happened to Mioseon, and everything else good that happened before or after that. My profession, if you even call it that, has the same conundrum, and now it's buried amongst the long-forgottens. Before Friday night, Angelo asked me to tell Eva to come join his party. She immediately responded, and it was a foolish thing for me to take credit for her participation on the occasion when she would have went either way because Angelo had contacted her through mobile, which he claimed he lost just days prior. I was once again used to fulfil someone else's expectation. I wanted her to be there. She happens to be an eye candy, and it would have been more or less the same faces again and again without her. Sometimes it helps when the new people you meet are those you want more than those you've already been.

When Angelo told me that she'd be coming with a wheel, I told him in return: "You can't force three wheels on a bicycle." He laughed and called it a good one.

I love to think I'm quite witty, but most of the time it's a hard press. When I say hard press, I mean, I need to press my mind hard in order for my wit to do what it was meant to do. These things came easier when I was younger. The drama in my life took a toll at my wit and comic value.

Erica was quite demanding at the beginning, I felt. But that's just how our friendship basically works now. I realise sometimes you need to be assholic to another in order to establish some sort of rapport. This method doesn't apply to every single person, of course. One needs the right amount of tactfulness in order to gauge another person's response, and experimentation is the only possible way to learn. One will fuck over themselves over and over again trying to master the art, and one will either live the loneliest life or the happiest, depending on the circumstances.

So I arrived earlier as usual, wanting to jumpstart a slow week of solitude. It was there that Bruna said hello, and Angelo came out prepping for the long night. So did his roommate of a name that completely tartles me. A Dutch man of Egyptian origin with a more Germanic spirit. Sometimes it was hard to tell if we got along or not.

It took quite some time before people started to arrive. Erica was terribly late as usual. I wanted to be pissed, not pissed off. You get used to it. Eventually Nafi came, then Polska, then Iceland, some others, et al., and then Eva and his companion. The only one missing was Italy, and it saddens me to think that I was the only person concerned. He was as vital to the group as much as the others, but apparently I was alone in that sentiment. Nevertheless I would not let my frustrations stand in the way of a good piss. Yet it somehow did. It always does. Always. Angelo put on his red district goth getup, signalling that he was ready. I was tipsy even before the night started, but couldn't be bothered.

Soon the night darkened and filled with terror. My face was Valar more ghoulish, moments after Erica applied her stuff to my face. It wasn't long then. No more.

Tuesday, 18 August 2015

Infinite Jest

The smell of food attracts the prey. I fell for it, it seems. There was no miracle in my life but the sound of her voice. Hoarse, but oddly comforting. Ugly. Rather enchanting, however, was the habit of having to listen to it every day. The first wind of her morning breath permeating in bed. As foul a smell as turd can be. But I had no cause to complain. Morning sex. She responds, never resists. It was anticlimactic, and how can one reach climax in something like that?

Underwhelming, sure. Nauseating, yes. Definitely aversive.

But... doesn't it always, always, always seem to go that you never know what you have until it's gone?

Virgo

Was I ever wrong? About things. Things that influenced me, big or small. Boy, was I ever wrong about things. But I could never tell where it was that I was wrong. About things. Only that I was wrong, and now that I admit that I was wrong I still will be wrong. Over and over. Again and again. And pretend I never was. Even if I am. Because I just know now that I am and will always be wrong. Even if.

The Great Battle of Sadness

Thus began a new chapter in my book of life. Armed with jazz, I move on towards new endeavours. Officially I am now alone. As if I was ever in the company of someone else's. It's hard to assume the best when the worst keep imposing itself upon me.

Independence, what do I make of it? I could run off now to who-knows-who and god-knows-where. At least I have some semblance of sanity knowing I can express my thoughts now, if this is what would pass as.

I try to be decent. I try to blend in, to actually flow along the tide now. Tomorrow I have a guest at home, and it's been years since the last. Feels like forever. It is forever. The past year or two, a blur. A blur of literal nothingness, no jest, of my own doing. Rebellion of a heart that will forever feel slighted. No voice of reason. No one to calm my wits to tell me all is right. Every single thing is a sham, and now I swim with the shammery and yada-yada. Let's taste the shit that shit will endure.

Father, discarded. What is a father? A parent? A mother? Sister? Vessels of illusion to blind us all from the reality, and that reality which in the end always prevails. What is the concept of love? Of adventure? Of joy? Distractions. To fill us all with hope when hope is all we've got.

Jazz is all I've got. Jazz is all there is.

Twenty to three, and it will be that in twelve or so, I will see where my true path takes me.

Sunday, 16 August 2015

Soledad

I want to walk
but not run;
Running tires me easily
And I still have a long way to go;
If for a chance I fall
I'll just lie down and rest
and keep going
when the sun
has rested
as much as I have

Friday, 14 August 2015

Still ill

And suddenly I'm wanted
It feels nice to be loved
Now I feel that strange burden again
Holding me back
Acting as if love is a crime
And I don't deserve it
It just would not satisfy
No matter what I do
I appreciate it
I really do
But I have been kept in the dark for some time now
That any light shining through my eyes
Feels ten times as painful
So this fear inside me is growing
Out of something very beautiful
I cannot foresee a happy ending to this
I just want to run away
But then where do I go from here?

Scratch that

I have an infinite number of places to go
The problem is where to stay

Monday, 10 August 2015

An urge for an itch

Something dawned on me yesterday. Despite my inner desires to break free but the shackles of my whatever-this-nagging-feeling-is, I was never really even that. Subconsciously, it was something else, and I still could not comprehend why deep down what I wanted was never really what I needed. So when Erica invited me to come with them and a new (some at least) group of people, all of a sudden, there was no longer any urge from me to go, but still I did, not out of necessity of whatever-this-nagging-feeling-is, but because I want to be in the company of acquaintances I have, in a span of weeks, grown fond of.

Thursday, 6 August 2015

A Priori


A Priori (310715)

But is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid? The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in the love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously the image of life’s most intense fulfilment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?

Search and destroy