The Little Things

I found this a couple of days ago from a friend's facebook: http://k0ks3nw4i.blogspot.com/2008/12/my-boxing-day-girl.html. Do take a look. If you don't, you'll never know the context.

The post was written in 2008. Before I begin, I want to state categorically that this isn't a grudge 3 years in the making. I sincerely hope that the author is still with the girl of his dreams, and that he has found meaning within his meaning.

At the same time, having read his post I felt a vague sense of disquiet. So here are my thoughts.

There is a conflict that runs through the narrative. A tension between the other things other people do, and the 'things I do', and the 'things that I do' are always well thought out and infinitely better. But isn't that the case here as well, you ask. Are you not reversing the roles of hero and villian, conqueror and the vanguished? Ah bravo. It seems then that you've caught me in a moment of delicious irony.

In our stories we write about suffering, about pain and the human condition. Our best stories are not written by the mentally sound or the fundamentally happy. Our best stories are born out of conflict, a father's belt, a broken picture frame, a silent scream.

And in the absence of an enemy, we create one. He writes about the frivolity of other couples putting numbers to their game of love. There. In the shadows he has inked the beginnings of an eldritch horror, eyes smoldering like coals, the gaping maw of death, the devourer of worlds.

But I exaggerate. Some monsters are made from nightmares, others made from straw.

In the intro, he writes that he has stopped believing in high notions of love like 'till death do us part', or a 'one true love'. In closing, he tells us that love should be in the moment, in the 'yearning, the desire and the hope for forever'. You've had some time, have you looked up irony on wikipedia yet?

As it is infinitely easier to find fault than to offer a solution, let me make this more interesting by offering some of my own thoughts to the altar of criticism.

I think defining the parameters of a relationship is something personal to every couple. Simply because your relationship goes against a norm does not necessarily make it better or worse. Now the question is, did he propose that his relationship was better? I don't know, did you get that feeling when you read it?

I think it takes both courage and effort to go against the norm. But it may be the case that here, much effort and little courage is required. What if others don't go against the grain of expectation because it is easier not to sweat the small stuff. What if, God forbid, they actually enjoy counting days. What if their love was defined by the days just as yours is by the moment. Is it wrong? Do you pay for the whole night's experience, or just by the hour?

I think love is blind. Take what you will, and give nothing back.

p.s. For those interested in knowing the context behind the context, I must be a lonely, cynical man without a love in my life. You actually might be right.

Candlelit Escapades

I took a sad song, and made it better.

You don't need no fucking thesaurus.

Were you looking for a word or a sentence or an inspiration or

The space in between.

Or did you stumble on nihilism in a mess of tangled sheets.

Does it worry you that the enemy is now long past your gates?

Be somebody (Anybody!)

They say still water runs deep,

But did the bandwagon take you out to see the ocean?

I forgot that they sell naivety these days

Or did the package say innocence

The myths you tell yourself, the myths you become

You might be horoscope perfect,

But what the hell

Somebody told you how to live your life

Were you supposed to be deep, mysterious, brimming with desire

The hunter, the twin ladies, the scales. Adam, Eve, the serpent

Temptation is naught but a apple in a orchard

Come meet the owner.

Seated by the Fireside

There were 7 cities of gold. 7 cities foretold.

There was once a sword and a king, and there will be a sword, there will be a king.

There was a cup, became a woman, became a quest, became a myth, became a figment of our imagination.

This thread once spun, cannot be undone.

The Cursory Biennial

The word economy got up and offed itself the last week. Imagery has been jailed for running a Ponzi scheme, and Deconstruction just filed for bankruptcy.

This is the stimulus package. Well, sorta.

Another Tale of 3 Cities

Mediocrity

'It is a city built to last a thousand years, a city to which other cities pale in comparison', the guide tells you as you near the towering gates. You admit that the view from outside looks magnificent. Carved out of marble, the sheer whiteness of the walls dazzles your eyes as it reflects the sun. The towers sparkle like gems, illuminated fingertips of a heathen god reaching for the sky. It will be a good trip, you tell yourself.

But you find yourself leaving within the week. And as you leave, you struggle to remember what the city looked like, and why the hell you were there.

Grandeur

There's a hill. And a single house sitting on the hill. A young man in little red shoes and a peculiar hat prances about in the garden. A lady sits on her rocker. Now and then, she laughs uproariously in response to something he says. Another boy comes up from behind the house and bows to the lady. She nods regally, and says something you cannot quite catch. The two males snap to attention and follow her as she sweeps into the house. You look around. There is nothing to see, only a single house sitting on the hill. Were you expecting a royal welcome? We're sorry you came all this way.

Ambition

The ship lands at night. You find that the city is entirely lit by torches. A million pinpricks of light stretch into the distance as far as your eye can see. From the light you can make out the valley that the city resides in, and the absence shows you the meander of the river delta. The sheer expanse of the city is breath-taking. Even Immortality can barely hold a candle.

The captain tells you that your lodging is but a short journey on foot. But daybreak finds you cold, tired and hungry. You are no closer to finding your way as you were when you started. As you stumble down another crooked alleyway, you are struck by the revelation. The street you are on, looks the same as the previous street as the previous street as the previous street. Misshapen brick and chipped cobble, déjà vu sits like a beggar in every street corner.

Still, better this than a single house sitting on a hill.

Head-to-wall futility

Stress-induced blogging disorder.

Blow out the candle and follow me into the dark, footsteps snapping at your heels like dogs on the hunt, all ragged breathing and red eyes burning. Like sulphur.

There's a spark in your eyes that burns. A faint acrid smell of fire and brimstone, of rage unchecked, all-consuming, a demon, a monster, a djinn, Efrit, the dragon the Destroyer of worlds, a gaping mouth that swallows the sun. And it is nothing but a spark.

 

And while I was bored in class.

A moment of madness. A moment of ire. A moment of disdain. The things you do and can never, never, take back.

Without much fanfare

There will be no opening ceremony as such. The ribbon was confisticated at the airport, and the guest-of-honour has been detained by a military junta loyal to the king.

Anyway,

A tale of 3 cities

Immortality

Immortality is a sprawling citadel of gold. A city of a thousand shimmering colours, unassailable in its splendour, its foundations are built on dream stone and envy.

Hubris

Constructed after Immortality was completed, its builders ran out of achievement. So only the city walls are made from those bricks. Inside, they used conceit instead.

Nirvana

Some say a man built her single-handedly. Some say she was built upon the consciousness of an entire race. To seek her is to journey on a road forked and deceitful as the devil’s tongue, chasing a dream that wisps in smoke.