Category: Uncategorized

How glorious is authored destiny!

On my bed, I read The City of Ember. It’s a hard-bound copy, taped and sealed with a promise of a light darkness. To mark my passage across its pages is a deep, velvet red leather bookmark embossed with the words, The Hobbit. It often reminds me that I should return to my literary sojourn of Middle Earth very soon.

As I read through, I came upon plenty of pages that were left dog-eared by its previous borrower. I ask, why on earth do they perform such sacrilege to books!

(I’ll never get over it.)

When I pinched the dog-eared page with my fingers, I felt, suddenly, an instant connection to whomever once read the same written words, and felt the same roiling emotions as we followed Lina and Doon on their quest to save a city forgotten under the earth.

I often wonder if our destinies, our individual strings that lay across the world in tight leashes or unspooled across the continents, have always been so active in our every day but we simply forget, or are whimsy to it, because we are tragic creatures who’d rather dream of it, or watch it unfold in other people’s lives than our own?

What if we pledged our days, bygones and so, tightly to the reality of our own authorship of our lives? If we but say when and allocated a smile for the littlest touches between all of us; the lingerers and wanderers of this magnificent terra!

Can you imagine?

The unfolding of our watery courses in this vibrant/muted suburbia, country town, village, anchorage, city.

The illustrations we produce for each other without knowing; the photographs we share, seen by eyes thousands, millions of measurements away.

The same breath, the same persons.

Every one, every soul.

So entwined, connected, affiliated!

Destiny! Like, how glorious is authored destiny!

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In that, it’s la Nouvelle Année!

I cannot believe that we have passed the juncture to a new age already. Here’s some stats:

21% of my time this year has been about the contemplations of creativity. There were no physical, actual iterations of it. Just mere whims.

64% has been quite sad. Often, I dreamt about a life different from the one I asked for, prayed for. The pipe of gratefulness having burst mid-way and I attempted to not fix it wholly.

15% were the laughter. Much repressed, and mostly during the first half of this year when we had destination weddings, and I slept late, woke up late, free to write and adore and stand in the rain as it fell in torrents by torrents. And New Zealand. O, magnificent New Zealand.

100% a mixture of what seems to be the consensus for most of us for this year. It seemed like a travesty, all of what has happened, your sense of purpose dwindling to the social structures that are starting to crumble around us.

But hey, Harper, my compadre, believes in glorious faith. In the destiny written for us, some as black as the darkness between the stars, some as bright as light reflected on a metallic surface. It is a destiny that binds us all together. A journey where we equip ourselves in accoutrements for every experience, wonder, awful, tragedy, happiness.

And the never giving up.

So let’s be grateful for our family who are annoying and who are annoyed by our foolishness and loud/soft voices. Let’s be grateful for the times spent on trains, car rides, planes or dragging wheelbarrows. The feeling of being full (even though there’s still room for dessert), and hey, the failures too.

We have come a long way. And I’m excited that we are two years away from calling this new age, the ’20’s. My absolute favourite.

Richly flavoured yellow.

I still remember the spring of last year. When September rolled around and the canola flowers bloomed in rich yellow as we passed in our daily haste. I remember feeling the still chilly wind as I ambled around my backyard with my hose, careful, knowing that the thorns will start to breathe life and colour once more.

I took out my journal, 31st of August 2016, dog-eared (an accident) and I’m reading through my flowery script as I regaled nobody – myself – something to do with rainy days and sweepstakes, and missing verdant Massachusetts. The plane ride to Hartford, Springfield from Dallas was a nightmare, but the landing was a dream. Fresh lobsters served butter-hot in our exhaustion, quaint, rustic, American dream house with its trademark squeaky floorboards.

It’s haunting, alluring, and I feel so unapologetic that I fainted while waiting in line for a ride at Six Flags.

Spring has a quality of superstition about it. Hades and Persephone, a fave. It can be dark, but light, humorous, but itchy. I wonder how this year will go. Will it be inescapable? Will it be richly flavoured?

Hmm, hmm, hmm…

I wish

I wish the ocean chose me.

Or the sea, the river, the pantheon in its destruction.

I wish they stretched long, structured, crumbling limbs and I saw the stars reflected by the waters, the ripples pooling beneath my teeth.

I wish the constellations chose me, the stars chose me, the wind, the Sun, Spring, chose me.

If I were to be chosen,

I want to be chosen by the earth, by the universe, by the melted snow, and the dying flowers, and the cascading brush of ice and deep, coldest waters.

I wish the tallest mountain chose me. Or the regime of stalks and wheat, of rice-steps, and hawks in mid-flight.

I wish the winds chose me. And the bright, luminous cascades of the ethereal, burgeoning of life, and sound, and music, chasing me, hounding me. The invisible, and the real.

I wish,

I wish,

I wish…

Issue II: H- ponders signification.

H- and Nicolo (a trombone-playing curator of soul ships and wanderers) will visit The Chapple Press Symposium, a conference for the like-minded and a voice for the obscured, this very Saturday. The travel won’t be their problem. The difficulty lies in whether, in their mind’s eye, a towering breakfast of hashbrowns and bacon, buckwheat pancakes with raspberry syrup, and two pots of brewed gold-leaf tea, will suffice for the entire duration, to and from.

Nicolo simply puffed and H- involuntarily jerked a shrug.

The Chapple Press Symposium will be hosted by a nonentity speaker. He is a local of Amsterdam and has an “excellent” photographic collection of his displacement. H- believes he is rural and a mid-weight influence amongst his peers. Nicolo believes what he will see at the Symposium. No more no less.

When H- was nomadic and found herself camped in front of the Capitol Building 500 days or so before, it had been a starry, cold night. She was sitting on a marble hedge across the illuminated stairs, unaware (or ignoring) the stationed guards at almost every step, loggia, and stony gables. Whilst Nicolo had been travelling in California with a dog,  H- was snuggled between her two companions for warmth and solidarity amidst the crisis that lingered in her mind: will they ever be as significant, as important as she believed she would be?

She wrote it down in her notebook upon returning. The underground train lines of Washington D.C. were built like bunkers, the significant man said. But to H-, they were space stations. Roofed and bedecked with inimitable power of salvation of both the wicked and the good. She scratched the first word out (I). With thousands upon thousands in each space station, awaiting their doom or demise, salvation or safety, it never once occurred to H- that no one will remember anyone’s name. And it won’t be because of lack of trying.


There is something curtained and bleak about the great capital in the West. At night, at freezing temperatures, you value your existence more than you value the statuaries and edifices that holds centuries of history, language, and life. For one, struggling moment, the buildings became discrete, disconnected entities to me. They held no value, no life, no genus loci. But there was no shame. Only a sudden, inexplicable change in perspective.

FM: You favoured Washington D.C. over many cities in your travels. You mentioned its vibrancy, its colour amidst its structural power. What changed?
H: It is a lot quieter, the city. And I never thought the city was colourful in any way separate to its red-bricked, sun-kissed palisades. Its vibrancy, like Georgetown, remains in the forgotten entities that lingered. It seems contradictory to my previous statement but hear me out:
Its not the buildings that haunt you, or the old houses or street posts. Its the people who have entered said doors, who repainted and refurbished the windows and the old courtyard by the train lines. Its the why a museum has been erected to pay tribute and to never forgot those who have fallen. It’s the dynasty, the legacy of each generation in every decade that is haunting. That is real.

FM: And why is that important to you?
H: Because we want to be significant. At all ways there is a need to be known, even if its to be forgotten. There is a purposeful stride to be remembered.

FM: And Nicolo?
H: He believes in seeing. He has a great rapport with artists and painters, jazz pianists, and saxophone players. He hears the music, he sees the strain on the forehead, the sweat, the adoration for their craft. And the product is there. It is limitless, but it’s tangible.

FM: You see the world more abstract. You favour fables and mythology over the corporeal.
H: I find they complement each other and are significant to each other. And that is why you can hold a perspective for one or the other. You can believe that the other is more significant to you and the other as less important. And vice versa. It is a study on perspective more than factual.

FM: Tell us about the symposium. Your attendance must be of consequence to your pursuit of this philosophy.
H: I am weaving a narrative fabric about displacement and emplacement of characters, personalities, and personas against the framework of that which surrounds us. Por ejemplo, an evil cat living in the Old Supreme Court of Capitol Hill. What is the significance of this animal against the assassinations that have happened in the buildings themselves? Would no one have befriended it? But someone must be feeding it.

FM: Is it for a film?
H: You never know.

 

Boston.

I’d like to thank F slash M for that horrendous interview. Some of you could probably tell that I had a toothache. My answers were just so bizarre! *sighs*

So, I wanted to be frank and appeal to all of you science nerds –  there is so much respect there for someone who cannot differentiate from an electron and a neutron – in regards to people (me) who cannot fully articulate what they would like to say when they are in front of those who are terrifyingly staring at you and listening to your every appellation. I mean, I don’t have stage fright or else I wouldn’t even stand at the front in the first place. But, my tongue feels like green jello and my brain would rather play Fetty Wap’s 679 whilst I’m in the middle of my very important spiel.

Has that ever happened to you? Is this a psychological, social science thing? ‘coz if it is, let’s just talk about Boston.

I love Boston. I miss Boston. I am everything to Boston. Jokes. Boston is everything to me. It’s known as the 2nd city in the East Coast but who cares. It has brick roads, less traffic, colourful subway lines, and trees, trees, trees, I could marry a lumberjack. I met someone in Boston who fetched food for me when I decided not to get up, and they have these duck tours that made me wish I was a Viking of technology. I’m only ever good at ranting and monologuing about whatever.

I took a photo of a father and a child at the Boston Public Library by Copley Square, Boylston Street and I felt its summation to my entire trip there. Four months, alone but not alone…you harness more than the power of individuality.

A poem:

For once,

I dream.

About fernweh.

Now fernweh,

dreams

of me.

Please indicate your destination

They say East is as far as the West.

Sometimes, certain persons are troubled by quiet roads when you hear nothing but a clutch, a turn, a hiss and whisper, and rubber on asphalt tracks. I wanted to enjoy music, but music, like the uncontrolled, swiftly evaded me.

I travelled quietly and I travelled it well. It was lethargic but I was certain the road will eventually lead me to my destination. I had to turn off the GPS and rely on instinct. Gut. I was rewarded by non-indicating bravado that could have turned a lethargy into an accident. It makes me think: why do most drivers drive as if they are always in a hurry? As if they have an innate desperation to be ahead of someone? Is there power behind the wheels? When you smoke ’em, hun, ‘s the only way out?

Honesty time. There is a sense of accomplishment there, but only when there are two lanes merging into one, you’re both paused at the lights and the green blurs as you rush in, taking their previous spot at a time-trial. You veer off different directions when a few minutes pass but did you ever think about it? That you never really notice their eventual disappearance unless they somehow “follow” you to your destination some lights later?

Cool cucumber, why do I talk about such lame things on the net? Someone should hit me with a Hardcover copy of the Divine Comedy that sits, currently, so still on my shelf. Then perhaps I can talk about how this all relates to Beatrice and whether I have a love that stirs me ever so that I could just perish.

*sighs in Spanish*