Friday, July 29, 2016

OLD. NEW. GONE.



Album cover of Her. Check out their song Five Minutes. Both the official and live.

I'm here to update you guys about everything. 

Hedi, my cat, is growing up day by day with an impressively fast pace. He now has a longer, straighter tail, sharper paws, higher jump and so much energy in catching non-sense. Miu Miu had a baby several days ago. That makes Hedi brother to a kitten of three colors. I'm not sure if we're allowed to keep the baby. I hope we can because I don't remember having any cats with that fur. Generally, I'm excited to name the kitten. 

My sister is sick and it's not good. Of course, I'm worried. I'm trying my best to stay calm and be fine about it. Times like this require nothing but stability. I can always use a little of comfort. Then again, every time I seek for it, I have to repeat the story, and it's not something I want to keep telling myself about.

I haven't talked to someone I know for a long time. Friend doesn't define our relationship. It's absurd. We're parallel universes, yet we've never met each other in real life. Perhaps that's what parallel is for. Sometimes the support is visible, sometimes the ignorance is stronger. Confusion is what I have for it. Though I don't mind this person's absence, I wonder if there were God, what would have been going on in his mind to let me know this one?

I'm starting to feel like I can use some new friends. 
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Wednesday, July 27, 2016

THOUGHT LOVE HAD FORGOTTEN ME.

When I saw you, the whole world became empty.
When I saw you, heaven was real.
My heart, for all along, had been forgotten by love.
So as for yesterday to blame me.
When I saw you, my worries shivered.
When I saw you, my wild fire burned out.
Like a wild animal, I learned to be afraid of life.
Confused and scared,
I prayed.
If love wasn't harsh, should it be called love?
If life wasn't cruel, should there be life?
My heart was screaming:
"Please give me a chance,
To be hurt, to be held."
Let's just be for today.
Who knows if tomorrow will be the same.
Clouds still be,
Though no one recalls.
My dear, I still believe,
That nothing lasts for good.
Though our love will always be beautiful.
If love wasn't harsh, should it be called love?
If life wasn't cruel, should there be life?
My heart was screaming:
"Please give me a chance,
To be hurt, to be held."
Let's just be for today.
Who knows if tomorrow will be the same.
Clouds still be,
Though no one recalls.
My dear, I still believe,
That nothing lasts for good.
Though our love will always be beautiful.
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Monday, July 25, 2016

DARK SIDE OF THE MOON.

"There is no dark side of the moon really. Matter of fact it is all dark."
Do you writers go through the same phase as mine? When you know exactly what to write, what is real, but you keep avoiding it so as not to get hurt by its existence? I know exactly what to say, but I don't want to. This phase has happened for quite a long time. If I state it here, I feel like my words will betray me and portrait myself as a helpless person. The more I hold in, the heavier it weighs down on me. What I feel is similar to yours while watching Sherlock Holmes. The more you watch him, the clearer his humanity appears to be. And you start to feel the unreasonable disappointment of a human being being human. Sherlock Holmes should not be considered as a human. I portrait myself as a machine, here and elsewhere. If I mention something too personal, as measured in my consent ruler, I will feel human. That is too close. Many times have I repeated to myself not to give anyone that closure. Yet, sometimes I urge to explain myself.
When I write something, I don't know which is which or who is who. I just write until I stop. The only time I understand the whole thing is when I reread it for the first time. The second time won't be the same. By the third time, I'll learn by heart the details and the surprises, if any.
It's so difficult to write these days. What's left to write? The more energetic I am at work, the drier my soul becomes at night. I can feel something is missing. I know that I'm missing that thing as being empty from it and, missing it. It makes me feel incompetent.
Sometimes I imagine myself having conversations with it. Sometimes I wake up and hope it really did happen. Most of the time, I'm glad it's all in my imagination.
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Sunday, July 24, 2016

HEDI AND TAYLOR SWIFT.

I played with Hedi for half an hour and now he's sleeping peacefully in my bed. Hedi is full of love, smart and active. He made a really smooth jump tonight onto my bed. Proud sister over here. We have this thing called 'paws petting', which includes paws pressing and legs pulling. I love Hedi so much. I look at him every two minutes while writing this post.
Famous by Kanye is strange. I hear something really new in my ears. It's important to recognize someone's work for its sole value, regardless of their personal life or whatsoever. I do believe in Taylor. The fact that the second line "Why? I made that bitch famous" changed the whole attitude of the song, from being a fun little joke to tearing a person's accomplishment down. And it wasn't even true. Kanye played nothing to Taylor's success. I like Taylor Swift for her lyrics. Condensed, identical, and grammatically correct. It's so identical that you'll recognize her immediately in This Is What You Came For without her name credited. She's smart. No one can make that big life out of music without some talent, hard work, and intelligence. Look at Kanye, Life of Pablo is good. But not enough.. As in fashion, not enough, either.
- Famous is good.
- Kanye was shady letting Taylor know only half of his song's meaning.
- Kim played it dirty.
As soon as Taylor releases a new album, she will be forgiven.
I can't sleep. I should have slept hours ago. Now I'm jealous with Hedi. Looking like a bangle, happily rolling in bed with shuttered eyes.
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Saturday, July 16, 2016

A POST ABOUT PIANO.




If you're asking me what I'm doing right now.

I'm doing some pattern cutting.

On my left is the brand new piano. On my right is the tea table I use for bags and pillows. In front of me is the TV. On the upper right stands the mirror. Next to it is the sliding door made of wood. Behind the TV is my skating board, Under the TV rack is a pair of shiny black oxfords. Above me is the ceiling fan in the same color with the ceiling itself, porcelain white. The edges, where the ceiling meets the wall, are engraved with two separate, yet same-in-design, patterns. Each one has two lines. There's something French about them. The night lamp is nailed onto the right wall, which I'd like to call as 'the tiny planet'. The tiny planet gives out dreamy yellow light. Under it is the world map my sister bought in New York. I know this map is old because Sudan isn't separated into two different countries. Below the map are my shoes, two pair of trainers, one in black, the other in white, and a pair of black leather boots. Behind me is my bed, where Hedi's peacefully lying on. Actually, nevermind. I think he sneaked out somehow. Hedi should be in the kitchen by now. Bathena: A Concert Waltz is playing. I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin earlier this week. Again and again, every time feels like the first time. 

I'm doing some pattern cutting. 

I realize no one really cares about how well a person can play the piano. They care about themselves more, how the pianist makes them feel. A good pianist may surf on the keyboard gracefully. But it's the great pianist that touches the people's heart. Somehow, a bad pianist can be great just by winning his or her audience's attention. By making them remember. It's all about feelings. Music can't be delivered without it. An excellent singer spends most of her life complaining how little people know about vocals and therefore, how good she is in singing the notes right. Unfortunately, she never spends the same amount of time questioning "What have I done to drive the audience away?" The audience, the ear, doesn't only listen to the sound coming out from one singer's stomach. They also feel. Their applause is for the feelings that were given during the performance. Isn't it difficult, yet easy, to be great? We spend our life time practicing to be good at something. Then one day we realize the next level we're aiming at doesn't take another long row of years, but a deep study of self. The greatness comes from within. If someone has it, he or she will have it. 
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Monday, July 11, 2016

THE WOODEN NECKLACE.


Hot chocolate. 


Let me acknowledge to type again. These few weeks have been rough and exciting in an oddly unpredictable way. I've been hyped, blind, and weirdly enough, calm after a long while of disappointment and discontent. When it hits the deepest it could get, something rises up in return. 

I cleaned my room today. God knows what the heck I'd been stocking. Everything was dirty, messy, some covered in stains, some stunk, some even stroke me with surprise for their unbelievable uselessness. However, some reminded me of home, the one I had ten years ago. In that exact corner of the room, with that exact jewelry, I was looking at myself in the mirror, wearing a cheap wooden necklace, and thinking: "Nope. Never again." It went straight to my childhood box for years and years, so one day, one random day, to be discovered again. That day was today. Sunday, 11th July, 2016. I stared at the wooden necklace for minutes, held it tight in silence, and put it in the throw-away box. In the process of cleaning, certain things are meant to remind us of ourselves and be placed proudly on top of the shelves, some, however, should be remembered in our heart not as an object but a dearly memory. Therefore, its past belongs to the trash. Its presence stays. Its future remains unclear. 

I threw away a lot of 'wooden necklaces' today. I also kept plenty. New 'wooden necklaces' will soon fill this room. A piano, a white table for pattern cutting, a sewing machine, perhaps soon, a mannequin.

A picture book of artist Bui Xuan Phai was found next to my old bookshelf. Such a beautiful product of technology and dreams. Written in English and French, full of paintings and sketches. I wasn't surfing the book. I was detaching it. Chunks of paper were glued by moss and dirt. The end of it had an ancient corpse of a young brownish spider. As if the grief of ruined beauty couldn't get any sadder, a Japanese notebook came up in the same condition. Goodbye friends. I will find you in another copy and we'll soon meet again. 

Tomorrow will be busy. I'm up for it with all my heart. Today has been a ride of sweat and smiles. I rewarded myself with a bowl of ramen, Earl Grey, and hot chocolate at Tadioto. You know I'm happy. Now is the time for a good sleep and a definitive enter. I'll hit Publish and on this side of the globe, we'll go to bed, while on the other side, people will close this post and go on with their lives. Some of them will clean their room today and find their own 'wooden necklaces'. Such random happiness, don't you think?

Earl Grey.
Miso, the saltiest option.
Reminds me of an African cult.
Is it some kind of mother goddess worshipping? 
An illustration in the Mekong Review.
I found it under this. Will try the yellow bottle next time.
They put a branch of leaves up there. Lime leaves?
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Tuesday, July 5, 2016

MOM AND FUN COLLAGES.


Hey, another blog post.

Summer feels much better this year with less heat and sweat. Good news is, I haven't got tanned much. Still pale with no sign of pimples or such. 

I made a so-called childhood discovery several days ago: an eight-year-old Upwords, which is a 3D Scrabble, a decade-old coin collection, my mother's red leather luggage tag with her handwriting, her wedding ring box from Berlin, and some pieces of paper she jotted down phone numbers onto, which I admit were found by my sneaky wallet behavior. 

They were all in good quality and memory. I like the idea of possessing old stuffs with Western aesthetics. I thank my mom for it. She used to tell me stories about her lunch always being smashed potatoes and sausage, when she and her friends would have parties, how fast the German trains could be and what was the difference between a well-tailored piece and a fast-fashion product. I have a beautiful, red thick coat 'Made in Germany' handed down by my sister. It's the same age as mine. Put it on in the winter here, you'll never know cold. 

Even now, my mother's wardrobe is still with us. Sometimes I open the door to hear the creaking sound of the wood and smell the scent of old sweaters. There's this one in pink with white stars, pretty much like Stella McCartney. And another one with rhombic-cell pattern in dusty yellow, blue and pink. My mother had a nice figure so everything she wore fitted and matched an idea of style. 

Like other normal women, she had a habit of fixing my clothes without my willingness. I only noticed the change after showering, when I put my night clothes on. It could be a more flexible pants' rubber band, bigger pockets or none, shorter legs, or even a patch with a different pattern. My night clothes used to be full of floral and geometric prints. Several of them were made by mother herself. Before heading to Germany, she worked as a tailor for a garment factory in Vietnam, where she befriended needles and threads. I was exposed to fashion like that. We, indeed, had biscuit boxes for thread rolls, aka snack bummer; silver food wrapper to keep the needles; tiny boxes for buttons; and other silly tools I still have no idea how to use today. 


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