Tuesday, 30 November 2010

Joanna Newsom, "Easy"




* Joanna Newsom sounds like an enigmatic robin trapped in the webs of a harp.


His mistress rubbed his forehead gently, fingers drenched with oil balm.
His exhausted body planked down before her like a long-rooted tree under defeat.
The sound of humming mantras swerved with the smoke of a burnt-out candle.
"Just lay down and relax, my lord," he heard her said, "just take it easy."
His eyes blurred.

She took an odyssey to a foreign land with a rumbling hope of meeting her long-lost father,
but hope dusted away.
Loitering aimlessly on a street packed with esoteric hurly-burly,
she tried to put up the easy-breeziness by forcing down the mingled, nondescript feeling
While stomach still churned.

Dismissing love before disillusioning the pain without love,
the thought tumbled in her head along with the punishment of her imprudence.
Drawing up the curtains unconventional for a heavy nightfall,
she perched on the sill and waited patiently for the lights to come.

Trouble, weariness, loneliness, dejection,
we all loathe you and jerk you off like disease.
You scrape through the sky with traces of your lilting waltz resembling the aeroplane clouds,
under the eyes of the wary you seek for the next person to spawn on.
The world of idiotic easiness, you sneer.

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"Everybody has problems, but the thing is not to make a problem about your Problem."- Andy Warhol, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol

Friday, 26 November 2010

Double Identity(Part IV)

But I did see him! And her! In the mirror! He greeted her, in a pleasantly robotic manner. She showered him with much-belated condolences and inquiries- for his health, for his mood, for his living condition(wouldn't that wench just browse the house herself?) and for the weather!? Ha, the weather! He replied absolutely nothing saved that of a constant bow-head and idiotic smile. She was crushed by his idiocy and reticence, and also the fail attempt to display her notorious ardency(Hypocrisy!Idiocy!) Complete noises. He crooked his head somewhat, still keeping that idiotic smile which feigned a pure form of innocence. She was also notorious for her low boredom threshold; she lost the patience to coming to terms of his indisposition so she knocked the table with her knuckles, hoping the loud sound would psych up the numb soul. The escapade worked, for he held his head askew as a dying fish struggling in a net and let out a shriek. A shriek I wished I had never heard unless I was born in hell.

For years I have tried desperately to stop him from making any further scene. I bolted the door, I kept my activities as sedentary as possible, I even tied myself on a chair once I sensed signs of his uncontrollable excitement. But all of those measures still proved to be tragically abortive. You thought the world was the same. You thought you two were of a kind. You thought you could dominate the world, which unarguably included yourself. And things would eventually smooth out in the end, as written in the scenarios.

People have been afraid of me. They claimed to see me wandering around the proximity, like a waif. Gulping down the river greedily at dawn, fawning on dead creatures as vultures when night fell. It was that idiotic smile that frightened them the most. The veiled artlessness which folded up extreme viciousness. So in dribs and drabs people began to eschew me. I had a wrong illusion that world was rumbustious enough to accept people like us, well at least, people like my other half.

So my story ends with me and my alias living happily ever after? Apology, my readers, but I don't think I can ever put up with him, nor can I shake off my intermittent desire to end his life. And end mine. But it can never be that offhanded. I used to be made sit through the grueling family union dinner by my mother. You know that hackneyed process, of people trying to put their fingers into your pie yet water you down all at once. The label of a social inept, the manifestation of social snobbery, all weigh down on me. You feel the repulsion yet the obligation makes you stick to your chair, dealing with those bestial, blood-sucking bastards. The feeling is sort of miserable though, unless you have no souls.

(The End.)

Double Identity(Part III)

The climax of my story finally reached, and I warn you my readers, there are not many pages left till the end of my story, but more empty pages yet to come for my restless, ceaseless life. I confess to you that I did, from time to time, think about destroying both of us. I suspected it be the best way to stem that fetid evil. It was beyond horrific when one day it came to your disillusion that the practice of exorcising the evil spirits must be done at the expense of your own self. You and your own self, to be more precise. Or to say, the evil spawns in you, in that reflection of you in the mirror.

Then one day came was the neighbor who used to drop by with baskets of tomatoes when my mother was still alive. It must had been an eventful day, for the frail wooden door hadn't heard its knocks for years. As I stood up and was ready to make my way to the door, all in a style of complete insouciance since now the curiosity of how my alias would react overrode the astonishment of my unwelcomed guest.

Now, if I ended the story here and deemed it a cliffhanger, I wouldn't be more grateful, for what that wide-eyed evil did next was extremely hideous. Hideous! He started as well, much to my contentment, when he heard the door knocks. Contrary to my presumption though, he triggered up and within a few steps, there he landed beside the door, as swiftly as a hare. My neighbor's characteristic, jingling laughs swarmed into the room, the next thing I knew. Once I saw the downy leg of hers poising on the threshold, noted that the conventional dressing code was not prevalently adoptable in this area, hence the permission for dresses which were short enough to reveal one's legs, not to mention unshaved legs.

Once I saw her downy leg poising on the threshold, I jerked my head with such violence that the neck has been pretty swollen till now. Much to my bewilderment and disgust, I saw not a single flesh and blood standing before me. The door was well-shut. Little spots of swiveling shadows only belonged to those importunate flies hovering on an unfinished cake.

(to be continued...)

Double Identity(Part II)

You were always certain that those preternaturals did exist, although in your life you might not have the privilege to witness them within a nail's distance. You knew they would exist, although your mother had been trying desperately to wean you from those 'ominous mumbo-jumbos.' You read them in havoc-wreaking stories by Allan Poe; they were all fairly familiar to you: ears on walls, cat in walls. You sneered, dismissed them at times but still, you had to admit that they did give shivers down your spine. It's like a tribal statue, looming, standing stock-still before you. It has preoccupied your mind for ages to remove the statue, for it triggers unnecessary fear. But every time when you happen to glance at its eyes, red-beaded, infernal perhaps, in a shimmering way, your plan of dispelling the statue freezes up.

So I lived with him for days without taking any measures or extending my shocks. I lived with him, that phantamagoric image of mine. He was there while I was toiling with my daily chores. The chores weren't too tedious though, I only swept off the dusts on my books, a well-organized library of them; never too bothered to scrape off the fungi climbing on my walls, for they give out a titillating smell which made the termination relatively difficult to perform, hard to put into words.

He was also there, every meal, thrice a day, made me have penitence of even swallowing the smallest morsel of food. This conjured up my childhood memory of swashbuckling in my backyard and even before my mother came scolding me, I could feel the moon kept its severe vigilance. The moon itself didn't have eyes, of course, but I was sure it never dropped its stare.

Things stayed unchanged for days. I was kept under rigid vigilance(or hostage) by that wooden phantom, whose eyes were two completely arid allotments in where torrents were impossible to awake the sprout of rod. But the innocence was there, the wicked innocence which exempted him from the profound understanding of the viciousness behind this hideous shenanigan and my intractable hatred. Yes, the case had become pretty ominous instead. The mysteriousness had worn off over time once you took into account that it was even madder not to believe.

I'd always suspected the wood behind my hut to be something more than what it deceived me- with trees and trees and myriads of trees. My mother, when she was alive of course, used to warn me of not straying near any distance of the wood. She wouldn't acknowledge enchantment, sadly, for the atheist's mind was always doggedly scientific. But I knew something must reside there. Something I might never witness, but took advantage of the ripened time to seep into my dull life, to weave itself into my fruitless storyline, and cast its necromancy on me.

(to be continued...)

Double Identity(Part I)

Now if you're sitting comfortably, I'll tell you my own story. That thing came unexpectedly. One morning, a slightly unordinary day it was, the sun-frazzled day when I saw three instead of two albatrosses perching languidly on a tree.

On this serene morning when even the paperboy was self-conscious of making scratching noise with his bicycle, that thing encroached upon me. Like a disease and stealthily it was, it slid in from under the door and mounted up my body, a pace resembled that of a fox hovering around its prey.

Despite the intricate process of my transformation, the consequence was unarguably simple. That is, I was split into half.

It was such a pity. It certainly was. I would rather have my own replica: someone doing a send-up of me so we can laugh, talk, whisper our secrets together, like my twin brother as to say. That is presumably what people will commonly assume when they are informed of me 'splitting into half,' but no! One must understand that I do fancy companions. Although the old maxim attest to the attributions of a good company, I do find a large horde of chatty larks more tiresome than delightful.

I was born an only and not long after, a single child. Life had been bitterly lonely, especially since my ever-dutiful mother had passed away, I had cloistered myself in a dinky cottage hut, like every rabbit burrow you will read in a whimsical fairytale which you expect some furry gnomes to pop up and wave.

For short, I accept one or two friends who share my idiosyncrasies, who can put up with my volatile temper. I accept friends but not him.

I would love to make my story more novel, more esoteric, if I were a writer, bestowed with ingenious yarn-spinning talent. I personally relish upon Dylan Thomas and Emily Dickinson, with short stories I prefer Allan Poe and Borges. But once I got an opportunity to be a writer, an honest one I would see me as, and besides, my story itself was too explicit to be obscured. When the scenery is already denuded of colours, why bragging about it? Sheer hypocrisy! Idiocy!

So that day I ended up staring at him. Wry-smiled, head askew- that was what the mirror presented, with accuracy I guaranteed. I did suspect somewhat at first, but was too flabbergasted to touch the mirror. Wasn't because of my cat, whom I assumed sensed the differences too and was too eager to welcome our 'new guest,' screeched and pranced onto the mirror, and the whole escapade undoubtedly resulted in the cat's bleeding nose, wouldn't I resolve myself to take this occurrence as a rigid fact. You should always hold it to your belief that for some toiling decades of your existence in the world, something will deign to happen.

(to be continued...)

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Tim Buckley, "Love from Room 109 at the Islander (On Pacific Coast Highway)"



One's mental journey flows like streams.
They start out smoothly;
their surfaces glisten like transparent lids.
Sunshine be the first one to bid them farewell,
for it has the strong belief that the odyssey will definitely augur well.

So they flow,
with the illusion of meandering in a fairyland.

Then the streams run into pebbles,
freckled at first but permeated the next.
The waves therefore occur.
At times they can grow so strong that the initial pureness of the streams' colour is muddled.
The streams race at full tilt,
as troops of horses fleeing out of a conflagrant barn.

The aforesaid case should be diagnosed as some usual undulations human lives,
but their nosy friends can hardly care no straw of it.
They stir up the waves again;
verify the eternal delusion.

The streams are propelled into gushes.
Despite of how the others might consider them- to be mad,
their words can still be sane and genuine,
just like the notorious Septimus in Mrs. Dalloway.

But who will lend ears to them?
People are constantly seeking for balance,
but how the balance will exist if the world is already tipped over?

A polychromatic butterfly waltzes by,
doing somersaults,
swiftly.

The streams (or the gushes) do find their balance eventually.
When the grueling journey marks out in a sudden swoop of elevation,
the streams are home again,
with the sun welcoming them in balmy beams.

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"Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime."- William Wordsworth, "Mutability"

Saturday, 6 November 2010

Judy Garland, "Me And My Shadow"



In his odes John Keats eulogizes the immediacy of emotions.
Pleasure, joy and melancholy go hands in hands,
and there is merely a translucent film blocking each compartment which enables the fairy of sentiments to skid liltingly in-between, gently tapping them with her sparkler.

It is both importunate and inexplicable,
of how instant a transformation can take place of a person's temperament.
In the blink of an eye she is both evil and angelic.
Wallowing merrily in the mud like a pig but the frill of her subtly-made dress reminds her of her extravagant past,
and she is duly aggravated.

You and your shadow.
You are fretted about it always tagging along you so you trample it,
with repugnance you trample.
But it is with little wonder of the impossibility of casting off your shadow,
so you learn to accept it and include it in your life,
even when it can be the major culprit for your incident of caught-red-handed.

Sometimes things are trapped in a web of intricacy that they can never be fully solved,
or fully explained,
so you convince yourself that the only resolution is to accept the fact.

Sounds like a mantra for the Lost Generation,
isn't it slightly sheepish to accept everything that comes in your face instead of taking resolute actions?
You are slightly baffled when the kid on your knees asks you this question, wide-eyed.
But the words flow out of your mouth, intuitively with no staccatos,
"and this is how we all live."

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"One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth forever."- Ecclesiastes