Looking On Leaving
Life's Orange Light
Licking One's Lollipop
Like Other Loons.
Live Our Lives
Listed Or Listless
Layers Of Lime
Looking Out Lucidly.
Lest One Lose
Love Of Life
Little Orange Lamps
Lead One's Legs.
Links Of Lunacy
Lurk On Lines
Leading Ourselves Left
Like Oblivious Lemmings.
Live Or Leave
Living Or Lifeless
Lied Or Lying
Lamenting One's Loneliness.
Lawak Orang Lucu
Laughing Out Loud
Life's Opaque Luminescence
Limps On Lamely.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Neither Fiction Nor Non-fiction Be, Strictly Speaking.
Um hi. Haven't posted for a while but here's another bit of writing that is too long to be a proper post. Read at your own leisure.
The Man
I'll try to post shorter stuff next time.
The Man
I'll try to post shorter stuff next time.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
An Essay...
A little something for those who wish to read. Written last year, some people have read it before:
My Interior Monologue.
Enjoy. Maybe? Just a bit? Please?
It's a bit too long to post as a post.
My Interior Monologue.
Enjoy. Maybe? Just a bit? Please?
It's a bit too long to post as a post.
A Girl's Point On View...
In the cold wind-blustered streets of the metropolis, a matchbox girl approaches you slowly, shyly with small steps shuffling in your direction. Being kind hearted (as you are, aren't you?) you slow to stop, comfort the matchbox girl with a smile and reach for your moneybag. As the girl reaches you, you see her little face, world-weary yet with the still blossoming softness of youth. You begin to ask, "How much for a box, my dear?" getting only as far as "How..." before she snaps a match along her matchbox, lighting it, its small warm glow reflecting the heart of its bearer, both puny against the winter chill.
It strikes you as odd that the girl, whose comfort depends on wasting not that precious commodity, might strike up a match for a complete stranger but her next question draws your thoughts away.
"Sir, what colour do you see?"
You see the orange of flame and the blue of complete combustion. You see the blackness of the soot rising against the paleness of the white buildings that surround you. You see the oily brown of the matchstick. You tell her so, quite bemused by the raggedly adorable child staring at you with questioning eyes. And the child speaks again.
"Sir, are the colours you see the same as those that I see?"
That is the girl's point on view. Is the blue you see the same colour as she sees? Perhaps she sees what you would call red but by convention calls it "blue". Perhaps her orange is your purple and your brown her green. In that case only by convention are they the same colour.
Perplexed and embarassed to be so troubled by that innocent question, you forcefully reach for you coins and drag out twice the cost of 5 boxes of matches. Staring her in the eye, you open your hands into hers and close her tiny fingers over the coins. A mass larger than her cupped palms can comfortably hold.
"Get yourself something warm, girl," you say, "I have no answer for you this day."
She looks on at you in wonder and gratitude. Perhaps fearful you might change your mind, she laughs happily and runs as only a child can run. For now, in her mind the world is all right.
And yet yours is all topsy-turvy.
You stroke the new bristle at your chin and wonder. Do we all see the same colours? When I look in the mirror, do I see what others see when they look upon me? Might I maybe look like a rock and yet be recognisably me to the other people around me?
Is the world I see the same world that you see? Perception and interpretation tie together in a dead knot of reason. What we see is what we interpret. What we interpret is what we see. Would that you could all see the world as I do that we might understand each other better.
Is the world I see the same world that you see?
It strikes you as odd that the girl, whose comfort depends on wasting not that precious commodity, might strike up a match for a complete stranger but her next question draws your thoughts away.
"Sir, what colour do you see?"
You see the orange of flame and the blue of complete combustion. You see the blackness of the soot rising against the paleness of the white buildings that surround you. You see the oily brown of the matchstick. You tell her so, quite bemused by the raggedly adorable child staring at you with questioning eyes. And the child speaks again.
"Sir, are the colours you see the same as those that I see?"
That is the girl's point on view. Is the blue you see the same colour as she sees? Perhaps she sees what you would call red but by convention calls it "blue". Perhaps her orange is your purple and your brown her green. In that case only by convention are they the same colour.
Perplexed and embarassed to be so troubled by that innocent question, you forcefully reach for you coins and drag out twice the cost of 5 boxes of matches. Staring her in the eye, you open your hands into hers and close her tiny fingers over the coins. A mass larger than her cupped palms can comfortably hold.
"Get yourself something warm, girl," you say, "I have no answer for you this day."
She looks on at you in wonder and gratitude. Perhaps fearful you might change your mind, she laughs happily and runs as only a child can run. For now, in her mind the world is all right.
And yet yours is all topsy-turvy.
You stroke the new bristle at your chin and wonder. Do we all see the same colours? When I look in the mirror, do I see what others see when they look upon me? Might I maybe look like a rock and yet be recognisably me to the other people around me?
Is the world I see the same world that you see? Perception and interpretation tie together in a dead knot of reason. What we see is what we interpret. What we interpret is what we see. Would that you could all see the world as I do that we might understand each other better.
Is the world I see the same world that you see?
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Giving Her His Head...
'Twas a love,
Destined to be.
'Twas her love,
That was the difficulty.
He sought her so,
His heartache physical pain.
Where she was he didn't know,
Only his purpose kept him sane.
Tragic love stories abound,
Nature is a cruel mistress.
Never was there a love so profound.
Never was there a lover so against digress.
No, he searched for her.
High and low he searched for her.
And then by chance contact was made.
A silhouette beautiful,
Against the sunlight beginning to fade.
But she did not love him yet.
Try as he might, his heart so set,
She wholly refused any such union,
For without a dowry
How could there be a junction.
But then the male lover,
Spied a dragon fly by a flower.
And so crept the young brave,
And so struck he, hard and true
And in the name of his love, the dragon he slew.
With stubborn purpose he carried the carcass,
Presenting it before his maiden.
With such a suitable dowry for a lass,
How could any refuse their union.
And so they were joined,
The boy now a man.
And by now raging was the fire in his loins,
And he fell upon his bride as only a hero can.
At least, that was the plan.
But alas this tale is another tragedy,
An almost Romeo and Juliet story,
For Romeo the praying mantis,
Fell afoul of his maiden Juliet's kiss.
And so he passed on his gene,
But as they kissed she bit him clean,
And left him bereft, left him dead,
Left him his body,
Without his head.
Destined to be.
'Twas her love,
That was the difficulty.
He sought her so,
His heartache physical pain.
Where she was he didn't know,
Only his purpose kept him sane.
Tragic love stories abound,
Nature is a cruel mistress.
Never was there a love so profound.
Never was there a lover so against digress.
No, he searched for her.
High and low he searched for her.
And then by chance contact was made.
A silhouette beautiful,
Against the sunlight beginning to fade.
But she did not love him yet.
Try as he might, his heart so set,
She wholly refused any such union,
For without a dowry
How could there be a junction.
But then the male lover,
Spied a dragon fly by a flower.
And so crept the young brave,
And so struck he, hard and true
And in the name of his love, the dragon he slew.
With stubborn purpose he carried the carcass,
Presenting it before his maiden.
With such a suitable dowry for a lass,
How could any refuse their union.
And so they were joined,
The boy now a man.
And by now raging was the fire in his loins,
And he fell upon his bride as only a hero can.
At least, that was the plan.
But alas this tale is another tragedy,
An almost Romeo and Juliet story,
For Romeo the praying mantis,
Fell afoul of his maiden Juliet's kiss.
And so he passed on his gene,
But as they kissed she bit him clean,
And left him bereft, left him dead,
Left him his body,
Without his head.
Friday, August 3, 2007
What I've Done...
So yes. It happened. In the blink of an I. Eye should have known better. No wait that was wrong. 'Twas my eye that blinked and I who should have known better. No matter, minor things like these cease to have significance in the face of tragedy.
And so the bitter wind blows the clichés into my head. Filling the sails of my mind's ship as it plows through the waves of shame, despair and regret. So follow the clichés like dolphins to a fisherman's boat and so they are trapped in the net of my creative stagnation and absence of proper substance so as to be less blasé to you. The unlucky one. The reader of this journal of emotional void. And yet it is not a void, rather a deep dark pit with spikes and razor lined walls. A pit in which lie a multitude of flesh eating cockroaches and their voracious larvae intent on feeding upon the bowels of man. The hunks of manflesh. Bipedal meat.
But I digress. In my hour of darkness the distractive intrigue of a 'pit of death', by no means bottomless, serves to bring my mind away from the very topic that drives me to convert this post to emotive rambling. However I must emphasise that this post is not merely a personal one. Nor is it by any means an "emo" post however much it might seem so at the moment. Bear with me or bare with me. Actually, give me warning before you do so that I can close my eyes. Much appreciated.
It started off with a footstep. One footstep that would forever stifle the life of that poor innocent organism. The little thing merely trying to live in this harsh world of UV radiation, free Al cations and the occasional lack of sunlight. But it had persevered. Nobody knew how long it strove to live, to pass on the information so terribly important, the burden it carried. What was that information? Now nobody will know. All because of a footstep. One single footstep.
The crunch was the punchline. The culmination of all the endured hardship. Poor little thing it stood no chance. With that crunch came the end of the toil of generations, the failure of the masses of individuals that lived and died such that this creature, this thing, could pass a message to the future. A message of hope to the masses, to the collected collection of its kind. A message never to be sent. Gone in the blink of an eye. With the lowering of a foot and a slight crunchiness.
And so befell a great tragedy. However that's not the worst of it. Worse is the fact that it could have been avoided. What I wouldn't give that I might take back my actions, neither purposeful nor in hot blood, and let the messenger through to do its work. I doomed a species. I doomed a race. I doomed a provider for perhaps the simplest of food chains that grows into the most significant of food webs. I doomed it and by doing so, I have doomed us all. Such is the Butterfly Effect. Such is the fate of the world. Repent not for you will pass anyway. Cry not for it will be to no avail. Noone can save you now.
"Except perhaps Christine," you say. Nay, even Miss Daaé can do nothing.
But now as eukaryotic macrolife draws to its end, the world deserves to know the truth. You, dear reader and the rest of the visibly living world deserve to understand that it was by no group effort that your existence draws to a close. No. It was solely an individual action. An accident as it were. I can only say that I hope, for your sake, that death is all that you expect it to be. Now, mass extinction faces us all and thus marks the renaissance of the evolution of bacteria to more large organisms such as you and me are now but not much longer. Perhaps they will be more perfect. It matters not anymore to us who are about to die.
Yes, it all happened because of me. Because I acted without thought. Because I stepped off the pavement in carelessness. Because I killed that important little thing before it could be pollinated. Because I stepped on a flowering daisy.
And so the bitter wind blows the clichés into my head. Filling the sails of my mind's ship as it plows through the waves of shame, despair and regret. So follow the clichés like dolphins to a fisherman's boat and so they are trapped in the net of my creative stagnation and absence of proper substance so as to be less blasé to you. The unlucky one. The reader of this journal of emotional void. And yet it is not a void, rather a deep dark pit with spikes and razor lined walls. A pit in which lie a multitude of flesh eating cockroaches and their voracious larvae intent on feeding upon the bowels of man. The hunks of manflesh. Bipedal meat.
But I digress. In my hour of darkness the distractive intrigue of a 'pit of death', by no means bottomless, serves to bring my mind away from the very topic that drives me to convert this post to emotive rambling. However I must emphasise that this post is not merely a personal one. Nor is it by any means an "emo" post however much it might seem so at the moment. Bear with me or bare with me. Actually, give me warning before you do so that I can close my eyes. Much appreciated.
It started off with a footstep. One footstep that would forever stifle the life of that poor innocent organism. The little thing merely trying to live in this harsh world of UV radiation, free Al cations and the occasional lack of sunlight. But it had persevered. Nobody knew how long it strove to live, to pass on the information so terribly important, the burden it carried. What was that information? Now nobody will know. All because of a footstep. One single footstep.
The crunch was the punchline. The culmination of all the endured hardship. Poor little thing it stood no chance. With that crunch came the end of the toil of generations, the failure of the masses of individuals that lived and died such that this creature, this thing, could pass a message to the future. A message of hope to the masses, to the collected collection of its kind. A message never to be sent. Gone in the blink of an eye. With the lowering of a foot and a slight crunchiness.
And so befell a great tragedy. However that's not the worst of it. Worse is the fact that it could have been avoided. What I wouldn't give that I might take back my actions, neither purposeful nor in hot blood, and let the messenger through to do its work. I doomed a species. I doomed a race. I doomed a provider for perhaps the simplest of food chains that grows into the most significant of food webs. I doomed it and by doing so, I have doomed us all. Such is the Butterfly Effect. Such is the fate of the world. Repent not for you will pass anyway. Cry not for it will be to no avail. Noone can save you now.
"Except perhaps Christine," you say. Nay, even Miss Daaé can do nothing.
But now as eukaryotic macrolife draws to its end, the world deserves to know the truth. You, dear reader and the rest of the visibly living world deserve to understand that it was by no group effort that your existence draws to a close. No. It was solely an individual action. An accident as it were. I can only say that I hope, for your sake, that death is all that you expect it to be. Now, mass extinction faces us all and thus marks the renaissance of the evolution of bacteria to more large organisms such as you and me are now but not much longer. Perhaps they will be more perfect. It matters not anymore to us who are about to die.
Yes, it all happened because of me. Because I acted without thought. Because I stepped off the pavement in carelessness. Because I killed that important little thing before it could be pollinated. Because I stepped on a flowering daisy.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Musings In Bed And Train
Amidst the murmuring of the common sheep, each one of the concious bipeds hears the faint humming of life. It is a tune that runs through and through leading the bipeds towards an unknown goal. What is the goal of life? It would seem at first glance that the ultimate goal of what we call animals is to reproduce and keep alive that hum, that natural song. But if we merely live to reproduce then there is really not much point in living the way we do. If life's goal is to keep life going then it is but a mere attempt to survive. What then is the point of evolution?
The bacteria say, "We survive quite well, thank you very much. We don't need you to give us more habitable habitats, though they are rather nice. However, honestly speaking, feel free to bugger off because we've been here and will be here a lot longer than you fragile bipeds and your 'higher level' of conciousness."
And so we run along scientifically, superstitiously, morally, politically and by doing this we say we are distinct for mere 'animals', mere 'beasts'. "Our life has purpose". But does it really? What is the purpose?
Ask a parent and they'd probably say, "We want to make enough money to support our children and ourselves till we die."
I wouldn't know, that's just speculation. But doesn't that come back to finding a means of keeping life going?
Maybe the goal is to: Live a fruitful life by helping others within our means etc etc etc.
Helping others is to help them to survive isn't it? Do we always come back to the point of keeping the 'circle of life' going?
Or maybe the goal is to "Unravel The Secrets Of The Universe"! But doesn't everything the unconciously, so self-concious bipeds do have to have a practical use? "Curiousity killed the cat" they say. Some would say, "Curiosity has killed us all."
Would unravelling the secrets of the universe fulfill that "oh so wonderful" dream of the naive to live forever? Again keeping life going seems to be rather important though ultimately rather pointless.
I call individual eternal life a dream of the naive because I say there is no point in eternal life. Yes it would be nice to have the time to do everything there is to do, see everything there is to see. But would you share that sip of immortality? If you don't share it wouldn't you not stare at other's deaths every day? To watch the ones you love die to be replaced by similarly mortal loves is more of a curse than a blessing. What is complete knowledge when you're all alone? A veil?
And yet there's more. To be so "blessed" with eternal life (and so independantly fulfill nature's purpose), comes coupled with eternal aging. How many centuries of knowledge can make up for creaking bones, leathery skin and assorted health problems. Sure you can't die, but you can sure as hell be in quite a bit of pain.
Thus advocates of eternal life might turn to a different phrase: Eternal Youth. Again, would you share this eternal youth? Would you rather watch those around you growing old and dying while you remain spry, youthful and 'blessed'. If you choose to share it, who would you share it with? Surely it becomes even more of a curse once you share it. First you share it with a partner, then maybe your children and theirs and their children's children, in the end you have a race of "immortals".
What's so bad about that? Isn't that good? Isn't it easier now that we don't have to worry about dying before we fulfill what we wish?
Well, once you fulfill EVERYTHING, what will you do then? After a while everything will have lost it's flavour, just as even now there are young-ish people so bored with the world around them and life in general that "been there, done that" prevails and wonder is lost to all but the children and those who are able to overcome the deadening routine of life itself.
What is the purpose of life? Why live forever?
Why question all this? Why why?
Because.
The bacteria say, "We survive quite well, thank you very much. We don't need you to give us more habitable habitats, though they are rather nice. However, honestly speaking, feel free to bugger off because we've been here and will be here a lot longer than you fragile bipeds and your 'higher level' of conciousness."
And so we run along scientifically, superstitiously, morally, politically and by doing this we say we are distinct for mere 'animals', mere 'beasts'. "Our life has purpose". But does it really? What is the purpose?
Ask a parent and they'd probably say, "We want to make enough money to support our children and ourselves till we die."
I wouldn't know, that's just speculation. But doesn't that come back to finding a means of keeping life going?
Maybe the goal is to: Live a fruitful life by helping others within our means etc etc etc.
Helping others is to help them to survive isn't it? Do we always come back to the point of keeping the 'circle of life' going?
Or maybe the goal is to "Unravel The Secrets Of The Universe"! But doesn't everything the unconciously, so self-concious bipeds do have to have a practical use? "Curiousity killed the cat" they say. Some would say, "Curiosity has killed us all."
Would unravelling the secrets of the universe fulfill that "oh so wonderful" dream of the naive to live forever? Again keeping life going seems to be rather important though ultimately rather pointless.
I call individual eternal life a dream of the naive because I say there is no point in eternal life. Yes it would be nice to have the time to do everything there is to do, see everything there is to see. But would you share that sip of immortality? If you don't share it wouldn't you not stare at other's deaths every day? To watch the ones you love die to be replaced by similarly mortal loves is more of a curse than a blessing. What is complete knowledge when you're all alone? A veil?
And yet there's more. To be so "blessed" with eternal life (and so independantly fulfill nature's purpose), comes coupled with eternal aging. How many centuries of knowledge can make up for creaking bones, leathery skin and assorted health problems. Sure you can't die, but you can sure as hell be in quite a bit of pain.
Thus advocates of eternal life might turn to a different phrase: Eternal Youth. Again, would you share this eternal youth? Would you rather watch those around you growing old and dying while you remain spry, youthful and 'blessed'. If you choose to share it, who would you share it with? Surely it becomes even more of a curse once you share it. First you share it with a partner, then maybe your children and theirs and their children's children, in the end you have a race of "immortals".
What's so bad about that? Isn't that good? Isn't it easier now that we don't have to worry about dying before we fulfill what we wish?
Well, once you fulfill EVERYTHING, what will you do then? After a while everything will have lost it's flavour, just as even now there are young-ish people so bored with the world around them and life in general that "been there, done that" prevails and wonder is lost to all but the children and those who are able to overcome the deadening routine of life itself.
What is the purpose of life? Why live forever?
Why question all this? Why why?
Because.
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