black cat.

A Portrait of the English Major as a Young Woman: silly boy, commitments are for men.

Sat, 18 May 2013 04:24:27 +0800

A Portrait of the English Major as a Young Woman: silly boy, commitments are for men.:

i’ve always written my suicide notes on Sundays
with a No. 2 pencil
next to the gun (with an empty chamber) a glass of
unopened scotch i stole from my
grandpa on his seventy-five birthday, it is Jim Beam
that i drink as I sink lower into my seat

it is usually night, and the…

"Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee..."

Wed, 15 May 2013 19:17:54 +0800

“Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened everyday and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.”

- The Winter of the Air (via aulacrimosa)

aseaofquotes: Meg Rosoff, There Is No Dog

Tue, 07 May 2013 13:57:50 +0800

aseaofquotes:

Meg Rosoff, There Is No Dog

Photo

Fri, 03 May 2013 19:21:20 +0800

Photo

Wed, 01 May 2013 02:27:42 +0800

park bench conversations with rye.

Fri, 19 Apr 2013 19:46:05 +0800

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are.

— Lord Tennyson Alfred

aseaofquotes: Abria Mattina, Wake

Tue, 16 Apr 2013 15:26:40 +0800

aseaofquotes:

Abria Mattina, Wake

— C.K. Williams, Poetry, September 2005

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 14:52:00 +0800

— C.K. Williams, Poetry, September 2005

i feel like the window closes oh so quick.

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 07:13:00 +0800

I wake up and it is all already a funny story in my head because God, in his eternal wisdom, has, along with intelligence, beauty, charm and failure, nourished me also with a very healthy sense of self-deprecating humour. To be sure, this was very speedily facilitated by strength-fortifying phonecalls from Melbourne and Sydney, Mya all tender quietness and Lady S. all passionate vehemence; Nat Retsel’s signature oddly comforting funny messages; Ly’s magic messages of love; and a best friend who took me out (in my scarlet o natas lux dress because even in crisis, we must look fuckbulous), fed and watered me, walked me 5 kilometers around my favourite place on earth, the reservoir nearby, never mind that it rained half our walk, and when something stronger was required, made sure my glass never ran empty, and that cigarettes and conversation were never in short supply, as day turned to night and night turned into whatever we wanted. We drove, drunkenly, laughingly, with 7-year-old secrets spilling from our lips, backwards and in circles and onto pavements. Then Coldplay’s Fix You played and I dissolved into tears in her lap. This was in part a rebound relationship, she points out. I could not marry the man I loved so I wanted to marry a job that would ensure I would forget myself in workhaholism being a glorified P.A. first and soon writing reports ranging from the mindlessly mundane to the mildly exciting with no time left to spare for a life of one’s own and where, eventually, I would be packed off for three years to Dhakali where I would spend every day of three years having diarrhea (or every day for the first week, once every two days for the second week, and once a week by the first month and maybe not at all by the end of the first year, or whatever observations on bowel movements I made for a good ten minutes to the gentle-voiced, fair-faced, raven-haired, left-handed interviewer of round two who looked tired and worn out but who was so lovely and kind and whose name now I shall never learn). It was in part that and in part also because these workaholics, as Nat Retsel would say, shall inherit this earth and us dreamers with our heads in the clouds shall have to eat their dust. And I no longer wanted to eat dust. April, you are indeed the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. I shall not go back to blanketing myself in forgetful snow, feeding my little life with dried tubers. But the universe, Ly says, is infinite and possibilities, endless. Other gentlemen will steal my heart. Even if I never marry, I shall never stop romancing. And I will find someone somewhere who will hire me and make me feel like they actually do want to hire me. Because you, dear dear dearest R., are much muchlier than all this muchliness.

lights will guide you home and ignite your bones.

Mon, 08 Apr 2013 13:47:25 +0800

When the first line of Coldplay’s Fix You keeps running in your head like a broken record over the past few days and you get an email and it all falls into place. When you glide (because we glide, never stumble, even in the thick of disaster) to your secret stash of Jägermeister and empty its burning contents down your throat. When you press your hot forehead against the wall and stand motionless for hours.

And so it goes. The shorter story.

Photo

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 09:57:30 +0800

letters to G.

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 18:15:00 +0800

The new pope looks thoroughly endearing. He seems very of the people, for the people, if you know what I mean. The kind of spiritual leader I would want, no matter what my religion. How is reception of him over where you are? And that Welsh documentary you’re in! It wouldn’t be online anywhere would it, by any chance? I haven’t any plans to be anywhere this year but it would indeed be very nice to see you again. I would settle for a TV appearance if it seems unlikely that either I will be visiting the UK or you, Asia.

I made it to the third and final stage of the selection process. The first round was 7 hours long. The second, 10 hours long. I assure you not all selection processes here are like that. This is my first ever selection process, though, and of course I had to sign myself up for the hunger games of all selection processes. If you survive the first two rounds, you are invited to the final round, which is a panel interview. Mine was yesterday. It was a most unpleasant half hour! These people are bureaucrats through and through and thoroughly bullet-proof to charm. One specialised in singling out the weakest links in your argument, using them to back you into a corner out of which there is no possible extraction. Another utilised a tone that bordered on the insulting and was capable of only one facial expression: disdain. The third was mostly on her mobile. I am not discouraged, however, because a fellow candidate had warned me beforehand that it would be painful and very, very traumatising. But you are right. I am not temperamentally suited for this. Still, I shall accept if it is offered. It’s one of the best jobs in government service for fresh grads and as far as salaries go, our government pays their civil servants very well. I shall, however, have to sell my life. Never my spirit, never my soul, though, no, that was, is, and shall always be untouchable.

I had a moment of clarity today. While walking in the sunshine and thinking of my nephew and niece, it suddenly occured to me that yes, I would like to have a child of my own someday. There’s no one to have that child with, though, so I shall marry my job instead and pretend I don’t ache to have one. I attended an old flame’s baby shower over the weekend. He looked positively beautiful standing there, holding his newborn daughter in his hands. I did not ache watching that scene but I am certain that image had something to do with my moment of clarity today. And you, my friend? What news of love?

thelyonrampant: anonynaila: subvertcliche: mello-dramatic: Everyone who reblogs this will get...

Mon, 01 Apr 2013 16:32:55 +0800

thelyonrampant:

anonynaila:

subvertcliche:

mello-dramatic:

Everyone who reblogs this will get the title of a book to read based on their bio/posts.

Everyone. I mean it.

THIS IS THE BEST POST

I HAVE EVER SEEN

EVER

they really do mean everyone

Ok I want to see this.

Bohumil Hrabal, Too Loud a Solitude

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 21:51:30 +0800

Bohumil Hrabal, Too Loud a Solitude

with rose in hand and stone in heart.

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 09:32:00 +0800

Once, while driving, and quite by accident, I found myself in your area. I was hopelessly lost until that point. It seems the way home from yours is etched deep into habit.

I have had to find and re-find my way back home from you many times this past year. I am over you; over love. But you are still the ‘you’ in every long song I hear of loss and end. And if something, anything, makes me weep, I am aware that some of the tears I shed are still, in some vague way, for you. Those vague tears are the only times the loss of you is expressed. Because I cannot, and will not, deal with questions and sympathy, you have become an unmentionable.

An unlikely interview question two days ago asked how I would prepare if, in a month’s time, I were to leave for a faraway place for three years. I answered succinctly on the logistical and administrative challenges this would pose. It was not until the interviewer asked if there were perhaps no relationship issues, at home or otherwise, that needed resolving, before I realised I had completely glossed over mention of people and was probably coming across as emotionally constipated. Which must’ve been confusing, because I was also coming across as warm, sociable, friendly, candid and at ease.

One day, I shall be able to broach the broken subject of you. Not in the dismissive, free-spirited way I do now, to a select few. One day, I shall dust off all your belongings that have taken root in every cosy corner of my room, seal them away in a box, find you, and the way back home again from you, one final time.

Fortitude and a secret smile to get through it all.

Thu, 14 Mar 2013 07:30:32 +0800

Fortitude and a secret smile to get through it all.

trade your heroes for ghosts.

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 22:56:00 +0800

The best talents I know; all growing up and selling out. The golden years of our youth; truly over. The most gifted writers, thinkers, dancers, actors and free spirits that I have had the pleasure and privilege to have known and worked with; all simply doing what must be done now. It makes me want to weep thinking of those Midas-touched years and how fleeting they were. We were truly infinite then. How achingly aware I am of my own limitations now. But I shall, come what may, always be grateful to have had those years, brief though they be, like a candle burning on both ends. To know, love and be loved by those talents and free spirits. This, nothing can take away from me, no matter the long hard years ahead. There is nought to be done now but to join the ranks of those who have traded in their heroes for ghosts; pack away the foolhardy passions of youth into a shoe box under the bed, bravely soldier on and exchange a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage.

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. — Groucho Marx

Tue, 05 Mar 2013 12:41:00 +0800

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.

— Groucho Marx

letters to Nat Retsel.

Mon, 04 Mar 2013 00:03:00 +0800

Dear Nat Retsel,

I’m a huge one for line-stealing, especially from you. I started saving the letters and emails I send as entries here because I realise that they are the closest thing to diary entries that I have. You too must return me the favour of imagination and pretend this is written on a thick sheet of paper in the kind of ink I favour, the very blackest of blacks; sexy ink smudges and all.

I know those infinite moments you speak of. Generally speaking, I feel infinite when I give myself up to acting or writing but I do not remember when I last gave myself up to anything. My last infinite-inducing piece of writing may be my (not quite) ten-thousand word love letter to Marquez, dashed out in a week with little other than caffeine coursing through my bloodstream and a restless sleeplessness keeping my mind vigil. My more recent thesis, unfortunately, failed to even touch the borders of infinity. The inevitable product of the crystallisation of a suspicion I had long since harboured — that the greater my sensitivity to art, the deader my sympathy to life.

Of smaller but equally infinite moments, like yours on your Florence double decker bus, I have had the despairing joy of experiencing a few more recently than the ten-thousand word love letter of nearly three years ago. But such moments are fiercely individual, infinite to the point of making no articulate sense and if I attempted them into articulation, I am afraid I shall drive the moment into utter incoherence. Suffice it to say that I hear you, understand you and echo your sentiments. Yes, they do make life worthwhile; in their small, quiet, incomprehensible way.

I won’t lie to you where I lie so casually to so many others. I miss the first kind of infinity, kiddo. But deeper than did ever plummet sound have I drowned my book. (Who do you reckon I stole from this time?)

Yours,

R.

PS. Thursday is perfect. As I have no wish of being spanked, I am getting my hands on The Perks of Being a Wallflower this very moment and promise to have watched it by Thursday. If at all possible, come in a yukata.

letters to Lady S.

Sun, 03 Mar 2013 15:16:00 +0800

My dear S,

Happy birthday. I wanted to get you a card but there won’t be space in it for everything I want to say so the humble letter shall take its stead. I hope your 25th year was everything you wanted it to be and that your 26th, everything you want it to be and more.

When you called a few days ago and told me that you’ll be coming home to stay at the end of the year, I’m afraid I wasn’t eloquent enough. I was happy that you’ll be home, that goes without saying. But how sad that your homecoming will be a forced affair. If you had wanted to come home, and stay, I would rather you did it of your own will. But here, now, in our mid 20s, I’m beginning to understand that our lives are not necessarily wholly ours to live. That is not to say you should be a slave to everyone else’s needs and desires all your life, or ever. But no man is an island either, and what we choose to do with our lives will necessarily be impacted by others and will in turn impact still more others. You have lived all your life bending to the will of family. I was thus so proud of you when you made that solo decision to uproot and live and learn in Sydney by yourself for a few years. But will you really be okay with leaving your widowed mother and your aging aunt again, this time indefinitely? It’s utterly unfair that your sister up and left, unceremoniously leaving responsibility of family to you but fairness aside (for life is after all hardly ever fair), will you really be okay with it?

If asked to pick the saying of my life, I would quote Margaret Atwood: “What should I do about the wild and the tame? The wild heart that wants to be free, and the tame heart that wants to come home.” Each time I am on the verge of packing my bags, something calls me back home. A scandal in the family, a death, or the smallest of moments that unexpectedly bursts forth, brimming full of poignancy: the image of my mother waving goodbye from the window. Friend from my childhood, I bear the same scars of family you do and for me too the lure of bridge burning may never dim but after years of uncertainty and doubt, I know now that my place is here, at home, no matter how clear, every now and then, the siren calls in the distance may be.

But mayhaps it is not the case for you. Where for me, the tame heart that wants to come home always proves more powerful than the wild heart that wants to be free, mayhaps for you, it is the wild heart’s desperate longing that cannot be ignored. If that be the case, I won’t stop you. I’ll give you my blessings, with promises to visit you someday in the home away from home you may choose to make. But, my dear friend, during the year you’ll be forced to spend home, try to forget the fact that you aren’t here of your own choosing and promise me that you’ll live as richly as you would had you been here of your own choosing. Probe deep and find out which heart’s call you wish to obey. And then, if it still be the wild heart that wants to be free, go, and never look back.

Love,