Lord of War

Tuesday night, you went home 7 hours after you accidently left the door key inside with the lock on. It's been raining these couple of days after the 4 o'clock barrier. You finished your thesis before the semestre ran out of time, and one month later you're still here doing nothing, or probably just desperately trying to take in the last view of the place that you've ever stayed longer than your parent's place.

Tuesday night, you stayed in your room by yourself, as usual. But something's different this time around, you're watching tv. You don't watch tv. Something's wrong, you got too much time on your hands, and you're at a loss of what to do. You like to read, but now is not the moment. Your computer is on and connected to the internet, as usual. So many names are there hanging on the thin line, some are available while others are either idle, busy, away or plain invisible, like you. The fact that their number equals the number of names in your cellphone does little to help you in conjuring up a single smile.

Tuesday night, you turned off the tv after the final line of the credits escaped to the upper part of the screen. You guided your glance towards the pictures of sexy chicks on the monitor, paychecks for your multi-hour "investigative" hard work in front of the computer. They turned you on, of course they do. Still you can't manage to make a smile surface onto your face, you just stare at them cold. You can only stare lifelessly into the emptiness of your life.

And it's moments like this, Tuesday night, that reminds you what a lonely person you are, despite the glorious academic radiance, the charm emitting out of solo cycling tours, quick thinking, brilliant ideas, and your witty remarks. None of them come to your aid at this state of emergency. The one that does, and always has been coming, is an overwhelming feelings that fancies to address herself as Solitude.

Tuesday night, you are desperate, and you have a feeling that you've forseen the future. A future full of nothing but Tuesday nights because you are what you are. People come to you when they need you to do something for them, a question they couldn't figure out for example, or when they were in a dire need to be entertained by something to make this senseless life easier to forget. Apart from that they don't even think about you, out of sight out of mind. Cruel, but every bit as real as the pain produced when a projectile hits you. And just like scars, they never fade, rather they amass, and one day, probably a Tuesday night, you will realize that you are in the inferno that you can never leave.

The Appreciation

If you've been following my blog for a while (yo Kevin, you're probably the only devoted subscriber and commentator) you've probably already discovered that I'm somewhat a skeptic, I doubt things, too many things for my own health perhaps. But there is one thing of which I have absolutely no doubt, and that is I can understand and, most importantly, appreciate, why some popular figures gone mad.

Popularity is addictive. It's like drugs, it takes hold of you gradually, you know its effects perfectly, but you just can't fight against it. It digs further and further down, deeper and deeper, you know you're sinking, but the more you struggle the quicker you're being drowned.

You soon realise that you're caught by yourself, that you're being the hunter and hunted at the same time. That there weren't two, but just one: you! Surprise, surprise, the prey against which the arrow is released is yourself. The one screaming under the crushing weight of the mighty tank is the one operating the beast from within. Sounds like fantasy, but it's one hundred percent reality.

You're being defeated by your own humour, they love you for that, they love you because you're funny, and that is also the thing that will bring about your demise. The thing and your incapability of introducing the dark side to the public. That's why comedians are so eager to show and prove that they are also capable of other sentiments. They need to, because they'll perish otherwise.

You've had enough with compliments and admiring eyes. You're fed up, hasta los cojones, with assumptions of a trouble-free you because you're excellent and exceptional, but the thing is, the higher you reach, the colder it gets, and when you're up there, you are completely alone, phisically and spiritually. And that makes you want to leap off the edge and put an end to this bloody farce.

Die Berliner Mauer

Been lurking around people's blogs, and my investigation so far leads me to the conclusion that no man is happy. Yet, they all look so merry. Yes, so joyful and animated, jolly good.

The other day at work they talked about one of the students losing control over himself and yelling something incoherent with a desperate and suicidal air. Funny how sunny he looked normally. But, after a second thought, it's not all that strange. When you make a mistake and try hard to pretend that nothing has happened, it just gets all the more obvious. No matter how good one is at pretending, you can always catch him off guard, provided that you know how to look. Provided that you know how to look at yourself.

Frustrating it is when someone tries to escape from this hell and his every attempts been met with doors shut tight, doors of false images, concived by himself and those around him.

In order to breach the wall, one must not harbour clouded vision for it only lures and misguides. Fear is another major benefactor in the construction and maintenance of this abyss, like a well-trained watchdog, it keeps one at bay. It sinks its teeth into you and leaves you bleeding to death should you tumble upon its territory. And if one fails in the task of breaking free, then the downfall is destined, it's just a matter of time and the way it is brought about.

Withering Flower

The freshness of blogs got worn out sooner than expected, but that's probably not such a bad thing considering how busy I'm right now. I've deleted almost all my blog bookmarks, except those that belong to my friends, you know, spying on them and such. There was a minor resurrecction these couple of weeks, but now it's all quite again. I don't know, it could be that because I'm busy so I can't spend the usual amount of time reading blogs, but that's self-deceiving really because I also spend an aweful lot of time on news and Solitaire.

Hahn said she had already given up on blogging for it had become too mainstreamish. I guess that was probably one of the reasons why I stopped my blog-reading activity, too mainstreamish, too full of shit. However, being mainstreamish doesn't necessarily make it crappy. Probably it was all that plug-ins, musics and clips and stuff like that, too dazzling for me, like an exquisite yet empty firework, a lack of creativity. Perhaps it was because there simply is too much information out there and my brain suffered from blackouts from time to time. Or maybe I was tired of this futile attempt to find some communication.

Downsides of Documentaries

The documentary festival ended seven days ago and its devastating effects are ever present. These buggers leave you wondering how their subjects are doing, a yearning to know that they are well, or at least, to have some news about them. You don't just walk out of this like you would with a film or a novel because they're real people with a real story in a real world, their world. You feel a kinship with them no matter how mundane and dispicable they are, curious, probably you are mundane and dispicable yourself and that's why you identify with them.

Or probably you're too coward to recognize the real you in real world, even though you know that you all along but keep dressing yourself with books and ideas. An intellectual! The world of laughter and friendship seems so out of reach and you're so poisoned that you can't laugh like a normal person would and this academic robe is too heavy to be shrugged off. Probably you're just a detestable little man who claim that you are a lover of books and ideas so that you are spared of yourself, so that the world don't get to hate you, so the world will love you and that you're funny and desirable.

No wonder you have no friends, you don't want them. You're afraid that they will discover the other side of you and decide that you're not cool at all. Your prestige, something that you've worked so hard unconsciously along the years to achieve so far, will disintegrate and your world will crumble and you'll be reduced to less than a maggot. It's like standing stark naked in an open field plagued with onlookers, humiliating. No wonder you always keep a distance from the world, lest they should spot something foul. So you keep playing the game, the game with no way out. Trapped and lost in the labyrinth unable to rid yourself of it even if you want to.

And what's the meaning of a blog telling the world how hateful you really are? Are you trying to make up for what you can't do in real life? Well, the internet is surely a good medium to talk, just as good as a confession booth, it's liberating. But also quite useless the moment you walk out the church.

The picture of Germaine Greer and some others scared you because you see yourself walking towards the same path, the path of total self-delusion and self-importance. You wonder how has it all come to this? You sometimes wish that you were just a simpleton living happy and ignorantly in a backwater world, but that's just another excuse really because you are not and you can't be just like that, and you know that. Or is it all just a big fat lie you make up for yourself, to cover the fact that you like fame and power? Saying that "ooh I'd love to lead a simpler life, to find the innocent child, the nostalgia...", to cheat yourself, pretending that you are not doing what you liked? To make youself believe that you're not bad, but just another poor victim of the sick society? You don't know, being a skeptic makes you unable to say much for sure, including your own thoughts and feelings, you can only say I don't know. That's why you envy those who can say and believe in something wholeheartedly, because you can't and you don't like it at all.

The Accidental Tourist (1988 )

It has been a fairly uneventful day. I cut short the vacation to prepare for my classes back in the uni, but I haven't really done much intended serious work yet. Woke up at 0900, received some cookies from sites with naked sheilas, and, like their awesome power that never ceased to surprise me, half of the day was gone.

Following my well-trained student habits, I checked the telly schedule and there's a seemingly interesting one on HBO at 2100 so I thought to myself, well, why not? Occassional reunion of the plug and the socket won't hurt that much anyway.

And so William Hurt, Kathleen Turner, Geena Davis and the rest, in a duration of 121 minutes, saw to it that it wouldn't. I would probably regret it if I hadn't seem it, a film that became the latest entry into my all-time favorites list. But, then again, of course, how could I regret something that never took place?

This is all I have known

This sunday is the funeral and wednesday the deadline for the paper on Nada of Carmen Laforet, then before the end of this month two short stories for the department publication.

He felt like he didn't even exist when he saw people giving advices and talking so fast and briskly, as usual, today in the department. They went to a café with hotspots so nearly everyone was with their laptops. He felt he didn't belong there the moment he saw them, it just didn't feel right, it's not saying that it was dirty or uncomfortable, on the contrary, the chairs, tea and temperature was perfectly fine and the toilet was spotless, but he just felt so out of place. He didn't like the modern, neat and "intellectual" feel of it. Those two guys sitting next to them talking about how much the whatever costed, every smile and every laughter from every corner seemed so artificial and theatrical, seems so unreal and far away.

Then they had dinner in another place which he frequented and liked a lot, they got some really nice rye breads, jams and vegemite. But tonight he loathed it. He thought he had lost the function to be happy. The paternal smiles, I know, yes, I understands, intellectual and not-so-intellectual conversations, I know it's not a problem for yous, everything, everything! Everything seems so unreal and external and he is but an empty shell roaming around in his vacant hell.

Ciudad de la furia y la muerte

I found an article (or parts of an article) written in Spanish on some torn parchments in the bottom of my pocket the other day. I was taken by surprise when I first saw it because it was entitled Ciudad de la furia y la muerte which means City of Rage and Death, then I thought it was rather interesting so out of curiosity I kept it in a safe place and thought that the existence of such coincidences would surely intrigue you.

Here I present it to you in its salvaged and translated form,

Dead, what a riveting word. I wonder how's it like when one's no more? Sometimes my feelings tells me that it doesn't make such a big difference being dead or alive, don't feel anything anyway nor worth a dime living like this. Would do the society a big favor by not consuming more food and breathing more air.

I know some people would definitely disagree with me, saying that how great life is, how big the world is. Life is only great when some things are not missing. I know what they would say, that I have no faith, well, maybe they're right, I don't know what's out there, out of the reach of the eyes. I don't know anything, I don't know why I'm alive.

I would really put an end to this life if there're no possibilities to be out there on the road (my last reason to survive, since Fortune has already turned her back on me), if I had to stay in this putrid water, with all these rubbish and frustrations around me, alone in this city of fear and rage. Nothing changes in the world with one miserable soul being dead.

Regrettably, even with weeks of working on them around the clock (hence the starvation and the doc), these are the few lines that I could make out, some of the handwritings are simply impossible to transcribe, they are torn just like the parchments themselves. Having said that, despite the lack of vital informations, we could rightfully suggest, from the handwritings and the physical tortures that the document had received, that the writer was in an extremely agitated psychological condition as these quoted words were being put down. According to the feedback from the lab using the Carbon-14 Dating technique, these universal lines were penned somewhere between 340 and 322 BC (this is Nobel Prize winning stuff, we've just proved that Spanish goes way back to 340 BC, so much eariler than the generally accepted and fallacious XI century), however, much to our dismay, the incognito writer's possible identity and whereabouts remain mysteries to this day.

Death and the City of Fear

These days I've been waking up at around midday, actually I regained consciousness hours earlier, but couldn't find any good reasons to crawl out of warmth, nothing to look forward to outside, so I just lay there and in a confusing state I fell asleep again till hours later when I found out that it was already past twelve o'clock and the nasty taste in my mouth drove me finally out of my bed. I took a lengthy shower and sat before my computer to do my internet routine, then before I knew it it was already time for dinner. I bumped into her in the eating place, but I didn't say hi, just walked past through her, if she didn't want to see me or talk to me why should I bother humiliating myself? She wouldn't like it anyway.

Back home, I played Party Shuffle from the iBook and a song of Sarah McLachlan came soothingly out of the speaker. Under a hit of nostalgia I played all her songs and looked her up on the net. On one of the pages I came upon a story of a fan of her, Lisa Cammilleri. Of how the songs of Sarah helped her through the death of her dad and how she wanted to meet her. She almost did because there was a greeting backstage set up for her to meet Sarah, but she died last year before the concert.

Her story reminded me of why I became a fan of Sarah in the first place. I looked at photos of Lisa and then I thought about the oh so meaningful half-life that I was leading. Then all of a sudden the music went back to my ears and it was "Hold On" that was playing. Stirred up by her voice, I couldn't stop my eyes from turning red thinking about all this, thinking about the time when I could still sit down and appreciate songs and every details without haste and that there was magic and wonder in the world and that I was feeling something. Well, I do am now, but I fear that very soon I would get back to the state of apathy.

The other day in the library I came upon a phrase which I loved so much that I wrote it down, all the world's great have been little boys who wanted the moon; running and climbing, they sometimes caught a firefly. But if that mind grows to a man's mind, that mind must see that it cannot have the moon and would not want it if it could - and so it catches no fireflies.

Good Day, Sir!

My old man gave me the order to go back home to vote, Taiwan is sinking for god's sake, well that's more or less what he said, but to be honest with ya, I don't even know who the candidates are. But I guess I'll go home anyway, to save my ass from receiving more fireballs of complains and lectures, but when he sees my hair there's gonna be some more screeching their way down this way. Then it's about how I should behave myself, how I should talk, how I should dress, what I should eat, what I should do and what I shouldn't and so on and so on and it goes on and on. Hah! What a joke. Just vote that guy, he's his friend, alright. That's the easy way.

You know I'm sick, yeah I mean it literally, I'm starving but I have no appetite. Oh, it's one bloody painful way to die. I went to the doc and I'm on medication. And I'm jealous, I've turned into a green eyed monster, I envy those guys who are so sure of what they want and of their beliefs, I envy those who have a theory about everything, I envy those who always seem so rational and happy and carefree and party after party and never gets tired, I envy them because at least they still have something, even if they're not. I don't have nothing and I ain't nothing. My life is a big nothing, it came from it and it returns to it. And I should bear this nothingness between the two nothingnesses that perch on both extremes which are occupied by nothingnesses which will eventually render into nothing. Maybe I should go read The Unbearable Lightness of Being, don't have the slightest idea of what's it about, but the title sounds good to me anyway. However, it could be about things very different from what I'm thinking about, titles tend to be quite misleading these days you know.

Yesterday I met a guy from my department in the campus, oh he was a pretty pleasant guy, very nice fellow. During the whole conversation he's got this shine in his eyes saying, "you are my hero" Lots poeple also think that way. Why? Because I'm good at what I'm doing, a high ranking bookworm, and I'm different, they think me cool and they think me funny. But tell you the truth, I'm not too much different from the lot. But, well, after a second thought, maybe I am, let's have a look: I'm worse, I'm sick, I'm doomed, I'm fucked, whatever you like, I'm all by myself, yeah, I'm different. How comforting is that.

It's good to be ignorant, ignorant is bliss after all. No troubles of mind whatsoever at all. You do what you're told and you'll get your candy. What more do you want? Huh? Oh, make me one of the drones that roam the streets, oh make me a Borg, suck the emotions and thinkings out of me, I ain't want it, they're yours to take, if you claim one I'll give you another one for free.

I still can't figure out why and how one can inflict such a big damage upon the other by simply not doing anything. How can someone who is seemingly mentally strong be so weak? It is a strange thing. The star of tomorrow! Hah! How to kill the time when nothing excites you? How to kill the starvation when you have no appetite? Oh, well, I think I've watched too much Al Pacino movies, what can I do? He's my favorite actor, and it's really good the way he shouts in them, makes you want to yell the way he does, yeah. Well guys, it's been fun, but I'd better run, am going to put some drugs into my blood and fight my way into the train that goes home, and save the future of my fellow countrymen.

Plain Pleasure

In the midst of yet another cycle of "state of nothingness", it's not sad nor joyous, but plain nothing. Don't feel anything, don't have the energy, to do anything. It's the kind of mood that makes one feels like he is decaying, deteriorating little by little, undermined by the invisible termite.

It's been like this for days already.

Left the library quite early tonight, read for a while back in my room, but didn't really have the will to continue, watched the TV for a while then it suddenly came to me that the schinken Juan gave me was still in the fridge and will expire on the 23rd of this month. So reluctantly I cut the package open and mowed that chunk of meat down to slices. Then something incredible happened- that I thoroughly enjoyed the process of dissecting it. It took me quite a while and during the whole time I was absorbed in the delicate work and the taking care of the leftovers (into my mouth, of course).

Now the work is done, with slices of ham in one hand and beer the other plus the pictures from Salamanca, boy, what a weird combination is it! But I surely feel something now.

Skrik

The pattern of the picnic continued to darken and spread.

Tempest

My hands are shaking, the uncontrollable rage wells out, found its voice on the door agitated by the sole of the shoes, like ruthless lavas pouring out, hammering down with great might, like cannonballs flying furiously out of the maddened mouth, striking down the unfortunate lot, its prey, like victims under the fallout, endless and silent storm, a cunning hunter awaits, and attacks when the target is out of its den, with precision, without mercy, and ceases fire only when it is out of sight, leave it to bleed, I have no mouth and I must scream.

Uncontrollable, incomprehensible rage wells out of the depth, where came you this fury? Those who call themselves friends who never even write or, call to say hi, who give a ring on the cell and hang up right away so that you can call them to let them talk to you, who act so friendly and promise so much things, who don't even reply after farewell was said, not even once, pretentious, artificial good will, unbelievable, spit at them in the face, o sweet!

The silent life, hypocritical faces and words, the pathetic, me, trashed over and over again, all these years, the cause torrential rain is not, ignites the unstable undercurrent it only does, like a fuse to a dynamite, gas by the fire, exploded, the door takes the place of the mouth, cries without restrain, signs of exhaust appears and it falls to the ground, with a great thump, that's it, enough.

The hands keep shaking, there're people laughing, judging, lecturing, a long and a lone fight, a bloody farce, a surface, les misérables, the humiliation, the destiny, always enslaved, unworthy, well-being is vain, and always fades into nothing, cast me into the fire and there I shall, at long last, scream.

The Only Comfort Is the Moving of the River

He sits on the bench by the creek for hours without uttering a word, accompanied by the gentle touch of the wind and the soothing sound of the passage of time. Peace, as it might seem. It's the only place that brings him the solace for the omnipresent tendencies towards the pathetic.

Everynight when he goes to bed, his thoughts invariably find their way back to the place where he had a glimpse of a new world and its inhabitants. The wonder identical to the instant when Dorothy opened the door and stepped into the newfound land, full of colours.

He yearned to go back the moment the 4 wheel monster started up its engine with a cruel roar and trembling thump marching to Barajas at 6 o'clock in the morning, to be walking on Compañía, Toro, Zamora..., touching the stone walls, strolling in the piso and resi and being in the places where drops of emotions were shed. Even after all these years and so many things forgotten he still sees them clearly.

Yet, he is afraid to go back there. Fear. He looks wide-eyed into the darkness which moments ago was his room. But, to be honest, it doesn't really matter whether it's bright or gloom, he is not looking at what's in front of him anyway. Even if he does, they all appeared to be the same. He afraids that when he finally finds himself standing on the acquainted soil he is but by himself. The realization came to him that even before it had begun, it had already ended and will never repeat itself the very same way, it's lost, swept away and gone. This thought tortures him and he has no way of battling against it, no weapons powerful enough to turn back the tide. It is written and unerasable. In another place and time, she told him not to be so pathetic. But there is not really much he can do because that's what he is.

It is heavy, sometimes it makes him hard to breathe, it sucks away his joys like the relentless mid day sun, hanging high on the sky, out of reach of the ants below.

One day a good spot he found. So he sits by the stream listening to the stories told by the flow.

Today

Is one of these days that you don't feel like doing anything, and I mean anything, you just stand there with four books in you arms without knowing where to go, what to do and how to feel. You don't want to call anyone because you don't know who to talk to, to get you out of this mess, to touch and to hold on to. You have no idea of what took over your emotions. Or you do, but just can't do anything about it because all you see is yellow and stale. The pictures in your wallet just can't materialise and be there by your side. You're so tired of having to crack a smile when encountering people.

Today several symposiums were held, the morning ones were pretty good even though they're not something that would provoke much passion in me. But the afternoons were so bad that I was left shellshocked. Not knowing exactly what unearthly thing that had spoiled my day, I got out of the place without any spirit whatsoever at all. It was around 1515 and I just didn't want to go home to press down the mouse aimlessly with my index finger for a couple of happy hours, or take the optional tres hora siesta and wake up wanting to jump out of the window because everything was so obscure while my mouth was giving me the same old lecture, so I headed towards the library.

I sat down and replied to a letter and when I finished it I felt the tranquility in me. Snail mails, abandoned by lots of people, have lost the combat to the efficient and economically friendly email. Well, it doesn't mean that I don't use emails, I appreciate the convenience they bring along, but nothing compares to having something tangible between the fingers, the envelopes, the stamps, the post marks, the aroma, par avion.

So of course my next move was not to go home but to keep staying there and study, which I haven't been doing since this Monday (and I suspect that was one of the causes for my mood this afternoon). It was a beautiful read and after I got kicked out of the building by Sarah Brightman's Time to Say Goodbye I continued back home. Finished it a moment earlier and, amazingly, my normal tiredness was nowhere to be found. Well, guess that means I should at least be able to rest in peace tonight.

Trouble Living la Vida Loca?

Don't be frightened, I'm not selling you some drugs for some obscure reasons.

I live in a big city, we have everything that's absolutely necessary in order to survive the harsh condictions of the modern urban battlefield. There's no shortage of the latest cellphone with cameras or whatever fantastic gadgets they put out everyweek with great puntuality that put even the German and the Japanese to shame, all the hottest CDs, coolest movies with the most astonishing special effects the history has ever seen.

The 7-11 is at every corner, 5 minute walk. And we're so fond of our scooters and cars that we seize every single chance we have to let them roam the streets with their mighty roar. With 90km/h we arrived in our destination in just 3 seconds, enter (2 seconds), buy a beer (15 seconds), get out (2 seconds) and another 3 second journey back home. The total operation took less than half a minute, geezus, nature calls? Dude, I'm in a bloody hurry, you know.

But hurry for what? Hurry to go back home and watch TV? Hurry because you don't like going out because it is boring and disappointing while staying home and surfing the net will make such a life and death difference? You browse through one site to another, you have works to do but don't feel like doing it, you just click and click and click aimlessly, typing "Hi"s to people you don't know over the Yahoo Messenger and hope that you will get a reply and you can establish contact with someone because everyday you wake up you find that there's nothing in your Hotmail inbox. But often, just too often, there's no reply because they think you're just another frigging pervert looking for nothing but cybersex! And even though someone does reply and you have a fabulous time chatting with the person of the opposite of sex, when you turn off the computer, switch off the light, lying on the bed, you couldn't help staring at the dark room with dilated pupils.

Give in now, don't think. Life's easier when one's ignorant. We all are. However, life is no easier... So, in the end, are we not ignorant enough? Or we are just too innocent?