Today I borrowed my neighbor's dingy and decided to bid one of the places I call my own my farewell. An insurmountable slew of mad emotions shook my soul and pinched my heart, knowing I won't be seeing this place again. The water was strangely calm, everything I cast my gaze upon bear the earmarks of my reality. The reality of deep sorrow, my familiar grabbles.
Alone on the dingy, armed with a fishing rod and a faulty remote control, I caught a six inch trout and sank my brother's tiny boat. A couple of geese took turns picking on the half-decimated "ship" as the little guy called it. I affixed my gaze on the lake perimeter, my breath was then taken away by the explosion of rose-colored and yellow leaf buds of spring attached to the trees' branches and the three majestic pine trees whom we dubbed "The Three Stooges". Beratingly wished to have brought a camera with me, but I realized no camera can ever capture what I felt and saw.
Resisting the urge to weep, I struggled to enjoy the experience. As the bone-chilling air embraced and comforted my soul, I closed my eyes, silently waved goodbye. The beach welcomed me with consoling anticipation as I slowly rowed back. Forever burned will be, the deck where I countlessly stomped my feet, jumped naked from, tossed trout on and felt the gentle spray of sweet spring rain on my neck. Memories that will forever remind me the life I lived, the last pages of my book's latest chapter.
With one last look before I stepped aboard the car and made my way home, I wondered how this place would look like without the aftermath of winter, with the fulness of spring and radiance of fall. Enveloped in smoke, I silently drove back home; the home that started to fall before my eyes and will crumble as soon as I turn my back to put my best foot forward towards a new venture.
.: Iconoclastic :. 8:20 PM
:: Wednesday, March 17, 2004 ::
Lasts
A sweet kiss, warm farewell
Somber face, eyes glazed
Burned on my reel of memories.
Laughs and tears,
A hug or two,
The plums in my basket.
May your bowl be full,
Glad tidings come your way,
Farewell.
I have no more words, only pity. Disappointment can never even cut it.
Thick branches of my own muliebral rootstock tripped my feet, bruised my face, drove through my chest. How could you? My well is empty, no amount of rain could choke my stock full. Why do you hurt me so? How can you deny me? My heart can only take as much flogging, I am deeply sorry.
The fruits of your womb will be safe, I give you my word, as I gave them my arm and leg. My heart is swollen with both joy and woe.
My pockets may be empty, but my heart never will be.
.: Iconoclastic :. 11:31 AM
:: Wednesday, March 03, 2004 ::
Once I had a dear friend, who spoke of whistling and peeping birds. In the attic I could hear the little hungry rascals, then felt the truth in what my friend said.
Sometimes I wonder how our species are always swamped with worry. Worries that never do much of anything else aside the unrequested slew of premature wrinkles and anxiety attacks. It is amazing that we all presume we crafted a system that works for all of us, so that civilization can flourish, yada-yada. But in fact each day billions of people are ravished, flattened and nearly dead from the system.
How can one be as free as a bird? Totally oblivious to deadlines, curfews, bills, and what not? It is incredibly funny how most people cannot live without pieces of paper, lifeless sheets of records and not much else, not even a wisp of a life force. Pathetic.
A hole of spastic proportions, it's sick.
.: Iconoclastic :. 7:30 AM
:: Friday, February 27, 2004 ::
Ghosts. They come small, they ride big. Sometimes they come in parcels, delivered by an innocent six foot carrot top.
Handed to me is a boxful of ghosts, small but potent apparitions I wish to no longer remember. Arrived in bullclips, the evidence of my existence, photographic memoirs of a life I have known, wanted and loved. Ghosts.
Hot in my hands, I sifted through each page as it burned my palms, my soul. I quickly stuffed them back to the accordion that never failed me for years. The recluse of my old life, suddenly sporting a serrated gash along its flap and side. A scar that seared itself to my eyes.
Where do I start from here? A dear woman once told me to never be afraid to take that first step to any direction as an open field has been revealed to me. I'm scared, but I did it just the same.
May courage find me, as it staunchly did since time immemorial.
So many blessings, I am grateful.
.: Iconoclastic :. 2:48 PM
:: Friday, February 20, 2004 ::
Hurt. Pain. Throbbing, empty, cold.
As the eyes turn glassy from unshed tears...why? What do you want now? Did not you get what you always wanted? What more could you want from me?
Late.
The soul is tender, but resolution is strong. Bruised pride blooms heftier than a sunflower. Slim chance, very slim.
I'm tired and hurt.
I'll heal.
I will.
.: Iconoclastic :. 11:45 PM
:: Sunday, February 15, 2004 ::
Truth is so much stranger than fiction.
What is truth? What is fiction? Can one co-exist with the other? Real or not, there is truth in everything that can be heard, seen, tasted, felt and read.
I am grateful for the inner sanctum of my thoughts. Untouched, collected, impenetrable and pure. Do I own a worthy enough dwelling for it? I can only hope so. How the indistinguishable and obscure trail my gift leaves my being contorted and misinterpreted, or is it really? How the soul is ravished by adamantine split pictures, and how I long for those moments my whole world is represented perfectly and utterly.
To those I have hurt walking along the journey, thank you. For those who hurt me, I thank you more. For each fluff and bungle made me surer of who I am and who I am supposed to be.
So who am I exactly? I am who I am.
.: Iconoclastic :. 7:06 PM
More than a month ago I packed my bags seeking a breather from my daily grind, and who would have thought that a breather is minutive to what was served to me on a blinding silver platter? Who would have thought that too much stuff laying atop my platter is enough to have me trailing on a preemptive unmitigated and depressing ruminations? No one I suppose, not even I saw it coming.
It was judgement day, uncalled for or not, I found out who my real friends are. The pride, ego and reputation mercilessly kicked and deflated, bouncing back gracefully seem to be out of hand, and that is probably the wrongest thing I could ever conceive because I know the truth and otherwise.
Well, thinking people can act and think stupid too sometimes and each pinkish gray matter- efficient beings know that they are entitled to such ridiculous incidents. The pains of humanity and the consequences of genius flairs.
What's the plan? Live today, live again tomorrow. Am I going back? I don't think so. Will I bounce back? I certainly will. Do I believe anything that I'm saying? I do, even if I don't, I'll make myself believe it so much until virginal fiberglass icons cry metallic life juice out of their every imaginable pore.
.: Iconoclastic :. 11:01 AM
:: Sunday, January 11, 2004 ::
Two days ago I boarded a plane going east. Since I hardly slept any Zzzzs at all, I crawled from my bed an hour and half before my plane's scheduled takeoff from the ground. The time that was left on my hands gave suffocating leeways for brushing my teeth, getting myself dressed, brewing my coffee, and that 30 minute drive to the airport.
Since I booked my flight without so much of a sudden notice, to the injustice of this world, there was no available straight flight. I had to stop by Phoenix. *sigh*
The whole country is blinking with orange alerts. The whole airport have tags of "Orange Alert" everywhere. It's curious how airport security checked my luggage while I stood in front of a glass window while security took a piece of round sticker to steal some of my luggage's fibers, what for? Fingerprinting? Sheesh.
Please do not fly America West. They are the cheapest airline in the world. Six hours total on their 037 airbuses, and what did I get? Two cheap cans of orange juice from concentrate and two small bags of peanuts. I nearly died. Ponderous Patatas couldn't help but laugh, he said even Asia Spirit passes out ensaymadas for one hour flights. *sigh* Not even a cup of coffee at 10:00 am. What cheapskates!
The skies were blue and cloudless, I had a great opportunity to observe the changing landscape. From light brown hills with green bushes and pale yellow fauna of California to Arizona's dune-like tan hills sprinkled with bushes, maybe even trees
Soon as I made a touchdown on Phoenix, my stomach tugged at my esophagus like crazy and won't let go until I feed it a CPK BBQ chicken pizza. So I did and washed it down with a spiked pink lemonade without the slightest request from my gargantuan of a stomach pit. Little did I know while my mouth dove on the melted smoked gouda cheese and chopped cilantro, a soft-spoken flight attendant called for me ten minutes before the gate closes.
Good thing that CPK is adjacent to the gate, else they would have left me to rot in that ugly airport.
All that I could have, and all that I could ever want.
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Living the penultimate hours prior to midnight are stepping in and out, moving forward and back worse than the cha-cha. With my duck steamed and roasted to perfection, and my hair (and scalp included) permeates of five spice and clover honey scent, anybody who's perfectly blind will very well grab my arm and take a bite out of biceps. I can nearly imagine them saying, "Very nice, delicate, moist, well-marbled, by no means emanciated."
Can my mind get any sicker?
Now the deliciously pungent concoction of shabu-shabu broth silently simmering in my heavy-bottomed pot awaiting drop-ins of glass noodles, slivers of napa cabbage, crab, scallops, mussels, salmon belly and squid balls. Hmmm...
Waiting for the demure Viet-Cong to barge in with my crab balls. I'm hungry! you hoisin-hating waif!
And my editor's significant other better bring the best dumplings L.A.'s China town has to offer. I'll strangle him if he forgets my buchi.
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Lack of Bloodstream Nicotinic Acid Induced Thoughts
My soul sister, insisted she's crazy, psychiatric drug/meds swallowing freak. If she's insane, then I must be too. Birds of the same feather huddle together I said. In this world which simpleminded mediocrity runs amok across plains, oceans and boondocks, caused an age-old pandemonium that what the rest of the population calls 'weird' and 'abnormal' are actually what should be 'normal' and 'common'.
If only I reek of enough charms to actually ingrain that thought to the craniums of each and everyone. *sigh* So far my charms only work on unconventional freaks such as I am, who thought of the same things I did and do. Life would be so much easier for me and the rest of my kind. The INFP is slowly emerging from it's faberge (so it hopes) eggshell.
The wonderful woman told me I have to heal memories of my X-chromosome contributor, I believe I already did that, in stride and with surprising finesse even. Maybe she could not believe the pieces found in my semi-buried chest of retrospective mementos.
A good fat pry of the chest for a special lady. I hardly do that for just anyone.
.: Iconoclastic :. 6:06 PM
:: Wednesday, December 24, 2003 ::
A thousand words swirling in my head, not even one is a mile close to illustrate how I feel.
