455: It Has Been So Long

455: It Has Been So Long

It has been so long since I wrote something for my blog. It’s almost like I abandoned it. But I have to keep to my quota of at least 5 posts a month. Even more of them next year, but still. So here it is. Even though I am writing on my phone, and not really thinking about what I would normally write if I had been sitting down in a “romantic” place.

The posts become more and more intermittent, and with each new one once in a while, they deteriorate more in quality. I feel sorry for myself that my writing skills may have dulled a little, but my ability to make new memories and preserve them with photos, stories, dreams…they are still as sharp as the first day I set up this blog.

One day I hope to write a book. I am trying to follow the train of thought that came before this, but one day I hope to write a book that is a culmination of my experiences, of the human experience, a celebration of human lives, our lives, all unavoidably intertwined with each other. I want to preserve the experience, the privilege, the power of our five senses that we take for granted everyday (yes, I know we have more than five, but I’ve always written with the main five in mind). I want to preserve every memory, the joy, the happiness, the melancholia, the pain, the phantasmagoric realisation of how simultaneous the presence of mundanity and beauty in our lives is, how gorgeously romantic yet grossly misunderstood and misrepresented our own memories and nostalgia can be to others. I keep speaking of a novel, but how can I be writing a novel if all I do is work in the daytime and party when the sun sets? It is difficult to say. Inspiration comes and goes. Perhaps the most difficult thing to say is that I have, in a way, almost forgotten about my desire to write. I feel the shame in me rise to extraordinary heights, the self-beration, the spiritual self-flagellation, for how could a torn and lost soul misplace the need for preservation, the need to be heard, the need to be read, the need to be beautifully appreciated in an almost bemused yet serene way? Although now that I have finally admitted to myself my wrongdoings both in writing and in thought, I only feel but a lingering residue of remorse. One day they will, no, we will technologically advance to the point that we can have a dictaphone for our thoughts, a private dictaphone for which we can record and play back these endless streams of consciousness, save the potential blockbusters, groundbreaking bestsellers, tap into wells of creativity that have-more often than not- dried up with forgetfulness. One day I’ll be able to stop forgetting my dreams while I’m awake, recall them in perfect clarity rather than reciting summaries of summaries, rather than reducing these cinematic motions to nothing more than a few shaky frames, rather than letting thick cobwebs of fallibility shroud them in forever lost archives in the endless recesses of my mind. One day, one day…I think this, I walk home in the semi-dark, thinking of typing the words as they come to me, instead of waiting for the perfect opportunity to sit down and let the creativity flow, because there is never a perfect opportunity, just as there is never the perfect moment to break up, just as you can never be fully ready for what is to come, but ready enough. Walking, thinking, bus rides, train rides, they will be my “ready enough” times. The next time I unknowingly board a train of thought, I’ll run with it. Up and down the corridors, cross each car, bump into strangers, mutter empty apologies under my breath, chase the words as I think them, as they pop into my brain, as they run away from me as soon as they appear.

Now I listen to the crickets chirp, the breeze blow gently, my slow music, walk slowly home, about two minutes away if I continue at this pace, and I feel this insanely lucid rush of creativity stagnate just a little, a car rushes past, it is the eve of the eve of New Year’s Eve, when I cross the road in about twenty seconds, the magic will be lost, the Fantasia that plays in my ears and my mind, no cars come by now, the street is quiet except for my footfalls and the crickets. Now I am five seconds from home, and the magic dies as I exhale. When I look up from my screen, it’s as if I teleported here, having not caught a bus or train home, or whatever it was. Like I’ve been in a trance, and must return to the obligations that occupy my life when I do not pursue the hedonistic lifestyle…

~ Serendipitous

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365: Ideation Fixation

365: Ideation Fixation 

Well alright let’s get this shit started
Not any storm cue or anything
Don’t worry, kid, I’ll bring
Some reels that I’ve been having lately
Nothing that’s, honestly, very greatly

That one time I remember you said
Yeah I love you but this is too much
What’s too much? What things such
Have made you say these words
Word man, this word
More ridiculous than an irrational surd

Yeah I love you but I need some space
What space? You have the universe
Oh right, you told me that’s a curse
To own everything when you need nothin’
Oh but I’m nothing now? You shittin’

Me as usual, what a terrible man
Why do I stick around? Right, ’cause it’s love
And in my face laughs Jove
The god up there who decides our relos
Man oh man worse than his worshipper fellows

The last time you kissed me it was too short
Now I sound like I’m complainin’
Or really, maybe I’m just whinin’
Always starving me of my addiction
Quick hand it over I need a fixation

Yeah I’m writing this rap
It’s poetry in motion, and it’s visually divine
Sorry Bliss n Eso, hope you don’t mind
I’ve stolen a couple of your lines

Sorry for the shit ballad
I tried my best for my first time
First time for everything, divine sublime
Hand me over to the darkness
I think that’s enough, though would I rather see
Blackness or blindness?

 

~ Serendipitous

A rap ballad. Since I haven’t written poetry since November. Or whenever it was the last time.

2.04 am

 

364: The Delusional Visionary

364: The Delusional Visionary

Granted, I don’t think many, if any, of us were born visionaries. Borne into the world by our mothers, screaming, crying, maybe even laughing, but not yet visionaries. Barely, if any, of us have any memories of our first few moments being held by our mothers or fathers. So I don’t think we were born immediately with the purpose of a visionary.

Things change though, as we grew up. Exposed to disease, other people, life as it was then. Strange dreams, unusual happenings, bizarre intellectuals. The first scab of a wound on the knee. The first of many growing pains. As life goes on, and people change, and people grow up, a visionary is born from a baby who once knew nothing.

At what point in our lives do we become visionaries? Was it that first kiss, the first love, the first book we read, the first house, the first what? For this little girl, it was all the firsts she’d ever had that made her a visionary. A visionary of creative arts, especially language, of imagination, of dreams, of things hazy that only made sense to her in her vivid sleep. However, it was her last love, all her lasts, that made her delusional. Crossing the line, the boundary, that separated her from the insane, and finally, irreversibly, into the realm of madness, condemned to never experience the mundane ever again. Is this what it feels like to be a delusional visionary?

Growing up with the last love of her life, bearing his children at the wrong age, forgoing her numerous fantasies as a young adult, forgoing her never executed obnoxious misdeeds, what was it that made her so delusional, but still a visionary? She watches her children play in a garden surrounded by white picket fences. She lives in the idea of an American Dream, not her dream but someone else’s. There is no pool in her backyard but she takes her children to the pool and watches them test the temperature of the water with their feet before they slide into the water. Their feet never touch the bottom while they’re floating on the surface. Face down in the water, they float lifelessly. She cannot help them. There is no pool. She does not own a backyard with a pool. Moreover, she has no children.

Once a month, we let the delusional visionary out into the residential gardens for exactly twenty-four hours. How did we decide this? The world is always changing. Every five seconds, the world changes. A famous celebrity posts a controversial tweet. A leaf falls from the highest bough of a tree. A child is separated from her mother in a supermarket. A teenager loses her footing climbing a sheer cliff and falls to her death. A woman wakes up in a cold sweat with the heavy imprint of a nightmare still fresh on her mind. Another woman gives birth to a child. A mother watches her father die of leukaemia. A grandmother signs her last will and testament before drawing her last breath and passing on into the afterlife. All this, in just five seconds.

So it would be best for the delusional visionary to have a taste of the outside world, 24 hours every month, on the Ides. It would not hurt for her to sample the world that continually changes every five seconds.

 

~ Serendipitous

345: After Hours

345: After Hours

Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. And so she did. What I find amazing is that Virginia Woolf is played by Nicole Kidman, but Kidman looks completely unrecognisable in The Hours. I fell in love with her portrayal of Virginia Woolf. The cold, piercing, fierce gaze into the nothingness, a cigarette in her left hand, the wandering mind that cannot be communicated through the screen. In a period of lucidity, she would create a wonderful novel that which I can only read and aspire to write but never truly grasp. These three women whose lives are so disconnected but somehow at the end, are interconnected in all these little ways.

The whirlwind of romance, passion, familial love. Post-war context. Intertextual references. Richard talked about the birds which may have sung in Greek. The contemporary relationships of these characters. All in a single day. In a way, Richard was Septimus and Peter Walsh combined. I find this appropriation wholly amazing.

Turgid passion, raw and all-consuming. If you hear the soundtrack, you will understand. The music touches your soul. No, it doesn’t just touch it; it is grabbed and treated with a kind of emotion that only the soul can feel. Crescendos, diminuendos, all in parallel with which that can only be described by natural human emotion. Anger, sadness, wistfulness. These are just some I list.

We are studying this film at school. I love it.

 

~ Serendipitous

293: Whoa

293: Whoa

I think today is the first day where I’ve truly been excited and in ecstasy. I’ve been dancing the can-can around the kitchen in happiness trying not to kick the table or chairs or sink or anything really and my father asked me what I was happy about. I don’t think I can tell him. Nor will I be able to tell here… 🙂

I’m just happy. I intend to keep this for as long as possible.

 

~ Serendipitous

243: Stromae

243: Stromae

The friends I have who take French Continuers recommended me to watch/listen to Stromae. As a former French student myself, I thought, why not discover some more music in foreign languages, and lo and behold, he has become one of my favourite artists already. These three songs are the ones I’ve been trying to play on repeat a lot since they resonate with me quite a lot – they are so meaningful and really address real world issues. I love that. For me, he’s like the French Zico, and I love that.

I really love Stromae. I think he’s doing something quite wonderful, and I’m ready to immerse myself in French culture again.

Stro|mae comes from Mae|Stro 🙂 French verlan by reversing the position of the syllables and you get some pretty cool words! Fun fact of the day, I guess. You learn something new everyday!

 

~ Serendipitous

149: Fruits

149: Fruits

How sweet the fruits of love must be
They begin to bloom in the spring
And then in the summer, shall bear fruit
The sweet juice of your peach runs down your chin

I’ll sit by your side, watch rapt,
Hold your hand in mine like lovers would
Let silent screams consume me
While you indulge in the fruits of love

It is with sadness that I say
I may never be able to understand
What the fruits of love are or can be
With envy I will desire your knowledge

How sweet the fruits of love must be
How sweet it is that lovers can hold each other
Whisper sweet nothings into ears
How sickeningly sweet

 

~ Serendipitous