will i ever be enough?
every day alive takes up twice my energy and leaves me unsatisfied.
Friday, June 5, 2009
am subsiding
dear reader
i have come to a conclusion that the world is too much. i've been feeling quite empty lately, probably because when everything is just fanatical and busy and overbearing (such is life) and people are coming at me from all directions, yelling 'buy me!' or 'look, look at me!' making me feel insecure and shapeless and hapless, and just small small small I resort to simply feeling empty, because if I were to be anything else I would be insufficient.
I have also concluded that I have no readers anyway. As I said in previous pieces, who will take me seriously? impassible versus impossible. what am i among the kids, with their backstreet hair cuts, painfully touching (art) blog contributions, people with success and cars, kids again who kiss boys in bands and have photos taken of them as if underground urban celebrity.
i am none of these.
god, i don't even capitalise my 'i's'.
I is a word used too often here and there and everywhere.
One day, when I am big I'd like to be a freelance journalist. I'd like to have time, no day job or power cuts or boy troubles or self troubles at least! just me, my keyboard, my coffee (and it doesnt have to be vida!) and my brain working as if oiled new and slick for a new and rainy day of analysis, arguments and a whole lot of bloody cheek, until i can finally and ultimately GET SOMEONE TO HEAR ME THE FUCK OUT.
there is no time. life is not enough time.
there will be time, time for romance, time for projects. time to meet, time to fight.
i am never enough. never awesome enough. never me enough. surround yourself with awesome people, who write about their days in blogs. sit slumped with drink in hand at gigs, sling back your hair, dance with hands above your tilting head. make out with a girl. pretend pretend!
visit the biscuit mill and pose a bit more. design and sew your own clothes and be an indie kid. do you know, do you know? you're trying in vain to stand out from the rest, when all you're doing, kids, is fitting straight in.
i have come to a conclusion that the world is too much. i've been feeling quite empty lately, probably because when everything is just fanatical and busy and overbearing (such is life) and people are coming at me from all directions, yelling 'buy me!' or 'look, look at me!' making me feel insecure and shapeless and hapless, and just small small small I resort to simply feeling empty, because if I were to be anything else I would be insufficient.
I have also concluded that I have no readers anyway. As I said in previous pieces, who will take me seriously? impassible versus impossible. what am i among the kids, with their backstreet hair cuts, painfully touching (art) blog contributions, people with success and cars, kids again who kiss boys in bands and have photos taken of them as if underground urban celebrity.
i am none of these.
god, i don't even capitalise my 'i's'.
I is a word used too often here and there and everywhere.
One day, when I am big I'd like to be a freelance journalist. I'd like to have time, no day job or power cuts or boy troubles or self troubles at least! just me, my keyboard, my coffee (and it doesnt have to be vida!) and my brain working as if oiled new and slick for a new and rainy day of analysis, arguments and a whole lot of bloody cheek, until i can finally and ultimately GET SOMEONE TO HEAR ME THE FUCK OUT.
there is no time. life is not enough time.
there will be time, time for romance, time for projects. time to meet, time to fight.
i am never enough. never awesome enough. never me enough. surround yourself with awesome people, who write about their days in blogs. sit slumped with drink in hand at gigs, sling back your hair, dance with hands above your tilting head. make out with a girl. pretend pretend!
visit the biscuit mill and pose a bit more. design and sew your own clothes and be an indie kid. do you know, do you know? you're trying in vain to stand out from the rest, when all you're doing, kids, is fitting straight in.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
je t'aime
from now on i will be blogging stuff that i come across that i think is cool. 'stuff' and 'cool' equals my list of interests, material things that i may come across that catch my eye.
je t'aime
gumboots from journey, long street.
fine leather gloves from glitteratti at the antique quarter
apple macbook
big heart sunnies
al gore
katy perry
ee cummings
earthdance
heroin chic
kitsons LA
lark
lily allen
oxford street
second time around
tegan and sara
perez hilton
the old biscuit mill
gossip girl
warped tour
soho, manhattan
sowearto
daddy long legs
tom waits
to write love on her arms
film noir
Thursday, April 30, 2009
not one sparrow falls to the ground without him knowing it
Last night I finished reading Marley and Me and cried a sufficient number of tears thereafter.
This morning, my bird whom I had for ten years died, his precious life having been extinguished during the night. As I have said before when his brother died, God knows when every sparrow falls, and from now on whenever a small bird falls from his perch, hvaing breathed his last, i will remember that verse. Not that I really read the Bible. My bird's final curtain was not led by musical accompaniment, but oh did he have a beautiful voice! On the lid of his coffin (a 'hallmark' box with tissue inside) I wrote, dear bird, be at peace in a better place with your Creator. Your feathers have never been so radiant. You are in a better place where you will always be free. From all who loved you.
We buried him to rest at the foot of a tree, which blossoms in early spring. In the great circle of life so will this bird's dust become sustenance for the tree beneath which he is laid, and the roots of this magnum opus will entwine with his mortal body. Thus his earthly ashes will once again become one with the ground from which God created him.
Be at peace and may God's grace be with you, sparrow that fell this morning.
xx
This morning, my bird whom I had for ten years died, his precious life having been extinguished during the night. As I have said before when his brother died, God knows when every sparrow falls, and from now on whenever a small bird falls from his perch, hvaing breathed his last, i will remember that verse. Not that I really read the Bible. My bird's final curtain was not led by musical accompaniment, but oh did he have a beautiful voice! On the lid of his coffin (a 'hallmark' box with tissue inside) I wrote, dear bird, be at peace in a better place with your Creator. Your feathers have never been so radiant. You are in a better place where you will always be free. From all who loved you.
We buried him to rest at the foot of a tree, which blossoms in early spring. In the great circle of life so will this bird's dust become sustenance for the tree beneath which he is laid, and the roots of this magnum opus will entwine with his mortal body. Thus his earthly ashes will once again become one with the ground from which God created him.
Be at peace and may God's grace be with you, sparrow that fell this morning.
xx
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
a holiday until further notice
i did not bother to straighten my hair today before i went to work. work seems a little less familiar now because i'm taking a break so that i can live my life within my maturity level. i ahve thought about being a freelance journalist but what would i write about? and better yet, who would take me seriously?
once upon a time when a girl was broken up with by her boyfriend she moved her mattress to various rooms in her house, determined for a change of scenery. she spent each night trying to sleep, but not without fear of dreaming of him and regretting, and then waking up with her pillows soaked by tears. she refused to leave the comfort of her mattress for weeks and weeks, convinced that her sorrow would endure and that she would never be able to love again. but then one day she threw off her covers, dragged the mattress out of front door and down to the seashore. here, she let the mattress adrift upon the waves, watching as it floated further out to sea.
i wash away the hurt
with the tide there goes my vice
my self-inflicted pain will no longer hold me prisoner
calamity is no longer that mattress
it's a way of healing.
once upon a time when a girl was broken up with by her boyfriend she moved her mattress to various rooms in her house, determined for a change of scenery. she spent each night trying to sleep, but not without fear of dreaming of him and regretting, and then waking up with her pillows soaked by tears. she refused to leave the comfort of her mattress for weeks and weeks, convinced that her sorrow would endure and that she would never be able to love again. but then one day she threw off her covers, dragged the mattress out of front door and down to the seashore. here, she let the mattress adrift upon the waves, watching as it floated further out to sea.
i wash away the hurt
with the tide there goes my vice
my self-inflicted pain will no longer hold me prisoner
calamity is no longer that mattress
it's a way of healing.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
the fifth week
someday, when i am in love we will stay awake all night, drinking tea in the kitchen.
someday, when i am in love we will foxtrot for the moon.
someday, i'll know that i can love again!
i may have given away too much the first time but no, it is not the end, nor too late. i do not love him anymore, because i need to learn to love again. if ever i do love again it will be a new start, like rain on my skin. my heart will be like water and not like stone.
just for now, in the days where loneliness may be the only principle, i will learn to live. i will travel the world, take up salsa dancing again, carry on with my knitting, have my stuff back and listen to music besides the usual sad and depressing songs that make me think of him.
fifth week: it's rain on my wedding day.
someday, when i am in love we will foxtrot for the moon.
someday, i'll know that i can love again!
i may have given away too much the first time but no, it is not the end, nor too late. i do not love him anymore, because i need to learn to love again. if ever i do love again it will be a new start, like rain on my skin. my heart will be like water and not like stone.
just for now, in the days where loneliness may be the only principle, i will learn to live. i will travel the world, take up salsa dancing again, carry on with my knitting, have my stuff back and listen to music besides the usual sad and depressing songs that make me think of him.
fifth week: it's rain on my wedding day.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
works of fiction
in some blithe fictional work i might start and finish, there's a cafe down the street that serves tea with milk and honey. they always have fresh flowers and paintings on the wall (which are, in turn, painted pink).
i also knew a young man, who, every weekend and public holiday, would go to visit his sick mother who suffered from alzeimer's. although she did not recognize him nor remember his face, he brought her flowers each time, and after each visit graciously kissed her hand and said til next time mom.
there is a forest down the road from my house. when i was little i believed the fairies lived there, and at night would come to whisper secrets into my ear while i slept. the trees in that forest are so tall they reach up into the heavens, silent, ancient and incomprehensible. a child would believe in the elven kingdoms of literature, crystal pools of water that become the wintry voices of myth, resounding through the wood. these were the fabled songs of the tall and hooded peoples of the wood. i used to believe this.
there are many things i used to believe that have become marred by the death of make-believe. pretending cannot redefine my world because i know too much. childish whims and pleasures are no longer such diversions.
places i'd like to go to:
Tel Aviv, Israel
Havana, Cuba
Great Britain
Barcelona
Ireland
New York City
Mozambique
Thailand
Milan
The French Riviera
Cannes
Paris
Casablanca, Morocco
Sicily
Santorini
New Mexico
Mexico
Los Angeles, California
i also knew a young man, who, every weekend and public holiday, would go to visit his sick mother who suffered from alzeimer's. although she did not recognize him nor remember his face, he brought her flowers each time, and after each visit graciously kissed her hand and said til next time mom.
there is a forest down the road from my house. when i was little i believed the fairies lived there, and at night would come to whisper secrets into my ear while i slept. the trees in that forest are so tall they reach up into the heavens, silent, ancient and incomprehensible. a child would believe in the elven kingdoms of literature, crystal pools of water that become the wintry voices of myth, resounding through the wood. these were the fabled songs of the tall and hooded peoples of the wood. i used to believe this.
there are many things i used to believe that have become marred by the death of make-believe. pretending cannot redefine my world because i know too much. childish whims and pleasures are no longer such diversions.
places i'd like to go to:
Tel Aviv, Israel
Havana, Cuba
Great Britain
Barcelona
Ireland
New York City
Mozambique
Thailand
Milan
The French Riviera
Cannes
Paris
Casablanca, Morocco
Sicily
Santorini
New Mexico
Mexico
Los Angeles, California
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