08/10

In poetry class today, we talked about the Figure in lyric poetry or more specifically, the lyric 'I'.

'I' cannot be defined without a 'you'. There is always an implied 'you'. But there is no actual need to move outside of 'I' - AKA Narcissus and his reflection; a hedonistic, self-absorbed relationship that does not open up. 'I' defines itself. Whereas 'you' opens up space, or spatiality of relation, a relationship between two parties.

In my notebook, I wrote: The God of the Bible says, "I am who I am."

But Who Are You? What makes You... You? Which made me start thinking and the question that gets thrown back at me is: "Ling, who am I to you?"

Here, God is not a Narcissus: the emphasis is placed on learning of and leaning on God's Identity before our own. And if Man and Creator are intended to be related and to be part of a two-way relationship (<->), who takes the lead? Who is the 'I' and who is the 'you'?

"I am who I am - but really, Who am I to you?" Do we really get God and who He actually is?

"Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." - 1 Cor 13:12

Life is great and I'm singing tomorrow
There really is nothing to be sad about
But god I just want to cry and feel everything stream down my cheeks
Thought by thought
but
There is nothing I miss
I am in the moment, I am in the present
I am not looking behind or towards
Anything at all
I've always wondered if there was a reason for grumpiness
For a bad mood, because surely
A mood is more than a mood
It is an overflow of the heart
Why is my heart not satisfied?
What else is there?
What the actual shit???

??????????????????????????????????shit???????????

One day I woke up thinking,
"Maybe I'm not a drama student anymore"
There's an annoying little voice in my head that's constantly telling me,
"Paint. Paint and you'll be happy"

I wonder what it's like doing an art degree
Sure, it must be tiring as hell, but I don't mind spending hours in front of a canvas not needing any interaction with humans just so I can find myself again.
Some days I get embarrassed, even when I'm alone, on my own

I don't like one bit of it at all

Can I detach myself from my emotions
Because they are just not helping
Somebody tell Paul Layzell I'm going to art school

Art

"What is he (dancer/artist) then to do with the rest of his life, knowing that he was no longer a glimpse of God? This is one of the most painful reconciliations to make in a creative life. But maybe it doesn't have to be so full of anguish if you never happened to believe in the first place that the most extraordinary aspects of your being came from you. But maybe if you just believe that they (talents) were on loan to you, from some unimaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life to be passed along when you're finished with somebody else."

- Elizabeth Gilbert's words from a TEDtalk: Your Elusive Creative Genius, and author of Eat Pray Love.

A very, very short story that I wrote at 6 AM because I could not sleep.

ART

It is the 21st century.
We are learning to see things in black and white alongside Brannan, Nashville and Valencia.
Emotional distance is sacred; We are our own heroes.
Apart from that, it's either subdued Willow or everybody's favourite, harsh-ass Inkwell.

It's the 21st century and stories are hard to tell.
She wishes she were born a hippie; she wants to live in a literary world of natural magic behind technicolored frames.
Focus.
Light spills out of the Stabilo colour pencil as she lasers the shit out of the empty page.
Ah. The smell of burning papyrus…
Desperate, the hippie gulps down every curlicue of smoke. This is when her eyes start rolling back into her head, like rabid, internal pinballs bouncing off every surface imaginable, not missing a single ding.

Woah.

She steadies her woozy self atop a weak stool, determined to prove her pinpricked focus to a blank wall in the smoke-filled room.
Grunting, the hippie gathers her black and white clothes, holds them against her abdomen, and with a monstrous heave, she does projectile like never before: every nook and cranny spewed in thick, tacky gunk and glittery saliva.
With flared nostrils the size of Russia, she stands over her masterpiece and yells, "Now THIS - this, is REAL ART!"

Across the street, her neighbour stirs, wonders what the heck that was, and goes back to sleep.

It's the 21st century and stories are hard to sell.
But fuck it.
Fuck fashion, fuck the press, and fuck this mediocre, never-gonna-make-it life.
The hippie wields her wooden lightsabre and holds it up like a trophy - a magnificent, shining middle finger to the black and white world.
So go grab your Faber Castells everybody, b'cos it's time to get high.

A monologue

I am thinking of turning this into a monologue.
Might be part of a future play.

Over these couple of years, I see myself laughing at things that I found repulsive in the first place. Moralistic as it sounds, I have learnt to embrace the perverse perspective, and many times, I don't actually like it. I laugh, because it shows that I have no fear. Until the day I saw you laugh. That was when I realised I didn't want to be like this anymore. I will say "Ew" at things I am truly grossed out by, and not mask it anymore. I try too hard to be like you, because I admire you. I want you to accept who I am - but 'who I am' was created according to your tastes, your interests and what you find beautiful. I know that to you, I am not beautiful and you wouldn't look twice at me if I continued wearing clothes you found tacky. Revolting. Tasteless. If you heard this, you'd probably be mad, and you'd lose steam in light of the countless of times and ways you've tried to show me your love, your acceptance of who I am, and that I am the one who is doing all the comparing. But recently, I've been observing the ways in which you un-love me. It started when loving me was no longer a necessity, where there was no longer pressure to keep this whole 'love' thing alive. I am not enough for myself, and I will never be enough for you. There are so many girls to feast your eyes on, and there is only one me - nobody looks at me. And I am okay with that.

So honestly, I am not tough. Not in this way, at least.
And I don't have to be.

I don't want to make you laugh anymore.

I am growing quite wary of our current domestic helper.
Or maybe it's because I'm a pretty suspicious person.
By the way, as a disclaimer, we respect her and empathize with the fact that she has to wash a daily batch of laundry contributed by four persons living in this house excluding herself, cook, tend to the garden and clean the rooms.
Most days it's hot as hell outside and she wears long sleeves so she doesn't get bitten by insects when watering the plants.
She smiles and greets us good morning, which I guess I'm quite crappy at returning (I don't like talking in the mornings, neither will I whisper sweet nothings to my husband in bed when he wakes me up next time).
I guess she wants us to accept and to commend the work she has done. But my parents aren't the most encouraging people around. I mean, what for? In fact, they are more critical than anything else, and I am quite critical as well but I guess the difference between me and them is that I'd actually say "The food is nice today," or "Thanks Elma."
I try to not be so nice all the time though, because it gets to her head.
When we tell her she did something wrong, she dismisses us with an "Okay" and a smile, and does the same mistake AGAIN.
Her command of English is pretty weak, and she doesn't write things down even though we've told her umpteen times - just so she may remember what to do the next time and not commit the same mistake.
When I come home to find my things rearranged, I get all stressed and my mother just says, "you have to tell her." I wish someone could record the number of times I've told her not to do this and that, but she never gets the message. I'd rather speak to an answering machine.

I don't trust her.
It's been six months but I still can't warm up to her.
I want Johnna back.

- but -

y'know,

i wait to write poetry but it never comes

the mood to write is so

delicate

it passes me by so quickly

i want it to be intrepid

- but -

i use vocabulary i don't quite understand,

can't quite explain

and still,

i am here

waiting to write

waiting for the words to flow

- but -

i am bogged down

by the depression a writer knows all too well

slipping beneath the undertow

the gnashing of rocks

against my head

and still,

the words will not flow;

they keep on

rolling,

rolling on,

like waves

in this head of mine

telling me

you have to write, you want to write

- but -

when it hits,

it just

leaves

full stop