a rusty repertoire

the black blot whizzed by the entire visual area of the window. a bird. i think so. or at least, i'd like to think so. they're the only beings flying around early this morning. well. hopefully most of the time.

the connect. or the disconnect. i recently watched Waltz with Bashir. to a certain extent, it was a great disconnect. an animated documentary about a war that took place even before i was conceptualized as a human being. yes. conceptualized. to become, human. on levels of the intellectual, emotional, and moral. on the other hand, it wasn't a context that i was entirely estranged to. o, the bane of such incidents. incidents. if it could be lightly termed that. the bane of such horrors in its refusal to become History. its refusal to end and become a chapter in History. instead, it keeps Time as a constant mistress. a neverending affair with Time. an eternal patron. each feeding on the other. sustained.

the film. my greatest connect/disconnect surfaced through the film's use of animation. like the film Persepolis, the use of animation presents us with a different experience/perspective/representation/performance of reality. the reality of real events such as wars and revolutions. expressed, illustrated through motifs. comic style colors. surrealism is expected. picturesque dreams. grotesque nightmares. epic scenes. room for the visually-idiosyncratic. an animated film can easily create all of this. blood begins to look, artistic. in fact, it is no longer red. but black. brownish-red. maroon. it becomes symbolic. and we, as the audience, recognize it, nonetheless. connect. even death as expressed through animation, is made artistic. unreal. and perhaps, surreal. however, when this light-hearted use of animation is suddenly juxtaposed, mirrored, 'mimicked' by footages of the real, that is when the greatest connect and disconnect happens. both, at the same time. footages. terminology.

and then the realization. and then the tears. and then, the end.

the ability to finish looking, seeing, feeling something, as time passes, as a footage ends, as a memory fades, is perhaps the greatest disconnect between us. as one. the human race. can one perpetually look, see, feel, remember, and do?

momentaries

there are certain things in life that are just hypnotic. mechanical. like staring at the moon. it gets brighter and brighter. as everything else around it diminishes in sight. like watching fish swim in a tank. around and around. becoming blurs of colors floating around a landscape of blue. like the flailing arms of fire, etched onto a stove. its unachieved potential to soar. blue. orange. mild tints of pink. licking the bases of pans. limited. like peeling off dead, dry skin from a nasty cut. can't stop until it's all gone. even if it's bad to do so. scars. like a face in the fan. sitting in front of it, on a hot day. the constant wind, blowing secrets into the eyes. closing to contain. closing to contain. ruptured blinks. like waiting for the moments. the perfect moments. when they come. will they come?

leaky bahloons

found a new character
i love him

plans.plans.plans.

this is a final resolution. i shall and will and must finish the thesis draft by mid next week. after which i will and must send out my resume. i will patiently wait for my supervisors to get back to me and let time, life take its own course. in the meantime, i will start on my many projects and collaborations. those i've been archiving in my mind for the past year and a half. will. must. shall.

i will not become the legless toad. never.

6.52pm

love at the end of life

heard something mildly hilarious today. and yet, wildly intriguing. the person who, for the whole of his/her life, has hated, loathed you, will, towards the end of his/her life, love you the most. meaning. if i suddenly find my worst enemies being utterly nice and lovely to me, it means that they're going to die. soon. it’s akin to getting revenge. but without having to do anything.

but why? well, it’s just a superstition. an old wives’ tale. nothing to it. perhaps. but even these usually deemed ‘illogical’ systems of thought possess a form of rationalization. nothing is unexplained. almost nothing.

maybe it’s because, it’s fate’s way of allowing that person, who has wronged you your whole life, a final chance to make up for all the bad, and do good onto you. a chance to repent. for all the misdeeds. hmm. or maybe it’s just a way of knowing if you are the person who has been most mistreated by that particular person. as in, if that person suddenly dies, and he/she never did suddenly love and fawn over you, then you’ll know that you were never the person he/she hated the most. and won’t that be a good thing? perhaps.

so maybe, we shouldn’t really worry about having enemies. they’ll love us. soon. because, well. everyone dies. perhaps, just make sure they go first.

evolution

layers. on & off

layered on. and off.

i often wonder, if an art piece is ever finished.

artist | Alexandre Farto (Vhils) | site

by the window

from the 'black & TEA' series

the sit & stare routine

the sit & stare routine
newly developed
it involves the act of sitting at any random space that is permitted in both public and private spheres. although. in private, you can sit anywhere you want. worst case scenario: you'd be compromising your own comfort
and staring at anything as long as it does not stir chaos or uneasiness of any sort to the person or object being stared at
and although I have been in a state of utter ugh
this new sit & stare routine has become effective for me
let me explain
because I have been trained to never waste time
a trait I believe most, if not all of us, have been taught to instill in our everyday
seize the day!
it is because of this very socialized trait, idea, thought
that the sit & stare routine is successful
as I sit & stare, I subconsciously realize that to merely sit and stare is a time waster
and yet I sit & stare
why?
because
I can
I must
but after a while
I snap out of it
because I actually realize how much time I’m wasting
engaging in this very act
and so
guilt crawls in
and I snap back into work
I become a more productive worker
in doing what I know I must do
making up for lost time
having sat
and stared

the sit & stare routine
do not disturb

dear diary

it is getting harder to write in a diary. to a certain extent, people are more willing to share personal thoughts, emotions, with strangers. with friends. twitter. facebook. blogs. postsecrets. it takes an extra effort to discern between that is really, really a secret or a 'truest' feeling, 'authentic' enough to be written into a diary. more layers to the self. most of which are lost and owned by the world wide web. are we really getting more open? or just less layered?

Time. like a twitch.

Time is a constant shift when there is an ‘old folk’ in the house. flanked against the fast paced rush of the working adult, Time is not only different in its form as ‘matter’, but also in its spatial estrangement: each from the other. it exists as two separate entities for both individuals. one nestles within the lull of each minute, each moment. in thought. in wonder. amidst questions. of whys and what ifs. awaiting the intervals of meals. breakfast. lunch. tea. dinner. supper. the intervals of medication. before each meal. after each meal. white tablets. blue. plastic coated colors. to-be-quickly-swallowed ‘raw’ pills that cling to dry throats. is it painful to swallow so many, all the time? or has it become just another part of a routine. like plucking eyebrows. shaving. bikini wax. Time is also spent, un-spent. sleep becomes a needy companion. the bed. a comfy overture to the grave. why so morbid? well, isn’t it? the working adult, battles with Time. against it. alongside it. deadlines. dead-lines. they appear on the face, skin. termed ‘wrinkles’. there are creams for them. a multi-million industry. Time boxes up activities and days. lunchtime. weekends. planners. dates. pay day. a slave to time. watches. alarms. sleep is shortened to accommodate more time, more work. more. the light bulb. an invention created to conspire with Time, to extend it. faux daylight. more day. more time. less time.

and then there is the liminal being. suspended in the space where she is expected to conform to the rush of the adult Time. and yet, she wanders with the free-floating Time of the old. lulling. each moment. in thought. in wonder. what an anomaly. she needs an alarm clock. wake her up to reality. yes. but perhaps, at another time.

playful parts

she flies

tomorrow is the day she abandons all hopelessness as she attempts to make that flight back up to the world of dreamers

hook in the eye

her world was an ocean. a vast spread of a universe that contained within, pockets of life. habitats enriched with vibrant beings that bump into each other, like frenzied atoms. touch. leave. touch. leave. there were also spaces of void. empty in its echoes. like a swallow of air. a residue of nothing. she swam amidst this ocean like a bulb. darting from place to place. on and off. but one day, appeared from above, a shiny blur that sparkled. calling. enticing. come forth. it said. and she did. a hook in the eye.

she escapes her world of the ocean.