ALIEN LANDSCAPE
Author : NHJ
MSN: crescent_cage@hotmail.com
email : spherickey@gmail.com
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echoncyllan
Before Gargoyle
One Million Footnotes
Read My Poetry.
Playing:
Between the Bars (Elliott Smith Cover) by Metric
Saturday, March 26, 2005
the silence of colliding plates.
i have a talent of washing dishes without noise.
my dish-washing is silent as graveyard when angry. a few moments ago, anger was flared dangerously close to loss of logic and control. it all went back in shooting to my head and heart.
dish-washing was quiet. no clangs or clings from utensils. everything was done with the controlled discipline of disgraceful anger. just water running quietly and plates and utensils floating silently back and forth. uncanny. and that soothened me. the weirdness of all of it. the redness of anger ebbed slowly into my veins. not one sound. i take comfort in muteness and quiet.
the routine robot sanity of MRT dullards move briskly like poodles. there is no beauty in their movement. with anger in my blood, everything slowed down. i watched as plates touched without salutations. the beauty of water running. animated stalactites and stalagmites. puddles which remind me all too well of the past. "the image may be disturbed but in the end, it reforms once again"
i saw again the sanity of dullards. i saw them dance this time. governed by programmed grace, and made beautifully imperfect by their beaten down emotion.
Connor sung, the angry are animals, senseless and savage, they act without order, in logical lapses.
no Connor. the angry are dancers, poisoned and graceful, they walk without movement, in logical ascent.
well of course now i have a gargantuan headache.
Posted by NHJ 3/26/2005 11:26:00 pm
Monday, March 21, 2005
"this morning, all birds came back from the dead. they flew too slowly. lumbering to their victims, chirping: braaaaiinnnsss..."
one day i would love to wake up dangling from a tree in the wood. a cypress preferably.
even if it were from a noose.
Posted by NHJ 3/21/2005 10:41:00 am
Thursday, March 17, 2005
quiet tears with stars in his eyes.
i told a story once, on the breakwater in Pasir Ris at night. me and F were just sitting and watching stars. what's left of them anyways. it was mournful, the black sea brutally laced with ships with lights. and those few stars. and he asked me something like: the seabreeze. how? the first thing that came to mind was the sighing breath of a long dead giantess. i started to tell him so.
there was that rush of thoughts and pain again and naturally i began weaving a story. of giants, love, deserts, the birth of mankind. it spanned for long moments. the stars listened and nodded. the breeze wailed in relief. the waves crashed in applause. that night, i was on the floor of the earth, cross-legged and old like a grandmomma and telling every child their history, before birth. i felt it. history, still warm in its death coursing through me like lifeblood.
i cannot record the story here. i told him it was too special, it was too big. mankind cannot have the responsibility of hearing the Giant story. to my amazement, when i reached the ending involving death and stars, i turned to see him in tears. quiet tears with stars in his eyes.
Posted by NHJ 3/17/2005 09:02:00 pm
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
class politics are so... neanderthal. ashamed to play a part in it. you can only return grunts with three more consecutive grunts anyways to at least pass it off as some kind of language.
there was a frenzy of scribbling back at school just now. a sudden lapse of logic. a result of the poisonous muffin from FC6 served by a sneering pimply boy. awful mannered bugger.
'they are everywhere. buzzing in my fingertips, clawing at my throat. i am fearful of the blank paper here, right beside me. evil paper starting to grow hands to embrace me into white emptiness. come my trusty orange lizard pencil friend! and so i wrote and wrote. not words of mine but of Connor. words as prison bars, as sleeves of straight jackets. and i wrote yet still till the paper was drowned by emo philosophy. i get annoyed when Connor screams "i know a disease that these doctors can't treat. you contract it the day you realise all you see, is a mirrorr and a mirrorr is all it can be. a reflection of something we're missing!" bloody know it all.
i imagine there is quite a magnificent African storm raging in my tummy. i am nauseated. a cumulonimbus is choking me. i haven't felt like this since i last smoked 3 years ago. the last cigarette is memorable. menthol. soft and corrosive. the urge for another smoke is so tempting. oh no, hidayah, you're supposed to be a good girl now.
oh bugger these chinese boys! they look so much like flamingos! squawking away like nobody's business. *gasp* i said the B word! i think i might faint. i would so like a mirage of a kindly old granny offering me a cuppa. she needn't be English. just old.
i slammed my watch on the bench. willing everything to freeze, so i might draw these fevered flamingos in their thoughtless dance. so i can vomit and clean the retch out of the air like graffiti. the cheap darn thing just ticked away annoyingly. you stupid watch!! i'll throw you into a limbo how'd you like that eh! obnoxious little thing. man is master and i his queen!
oh dear. this is all it's fault. that poisonous muffin.'
keep a wide berth of people sneering while they serve you food.
Posted by NHJ 3/15/2005 08:26:00 pm
Thursday, March 03, 2005
in between business jargon and pretentious advices, i actually manage to breathe a word or two of proper English and Malay. it is like they're deforming me into something like them. i feel like a butt. a pair of butt cheeks.
so escapes were executed. nothing grand. just flirting with thoughts of F which makes me positively flutter, hanging around with wise royalty with the cloak of poverty about my shoulders and taking horserides with Satyra in Sreth. King taught me only the poor deserved to be rich. i was with him when we saw a lady in rags stand up to a mammoth machine digger which was about to crush her makeshift house and exclaimed 'i have my own wooden chair!'. she said like it a queen.
i almost cried. and couldn't because i was afraid. i don't see them but there are so many things to be fearful of it seems.
Satyra told me she did not want to forget. i told her i wanted her to.
these days we haven't been into rough patches. mostly telling stories and riding old Mockingbird. Mockingbird must be the most beautiful mare in Sreth. it was a fine sight, watching Satyra and her. lots of times i choose to walk. i feel like i am not really part of this whole adventure. i feel like the painter. the chronicler.
sometimes its painful looking at Satyra back on that plane. what would it be like when i move on to another stage and won't be able to see her again to preserve her face and posture in Sreth? i shall have to ride Mockingbird alone and watch empty landscapes and audiences of trees who watch nothing.
Posted by NHJ 3/03/2005 09:40:00 pm