The tick feat

It never seemed so hard. I've done it quite a few times and I always forget how hard it was. You don't care if you said good bye or not, you just miss everyone wholesomely. Whores, bores, killers, lovers, rock stars, morons, drunkards, nerds, gays, strays, nuns, bananas, ghouls and angels; it's wholesome.

I've listened and watched ready to carry them around in a mental diary. The diary doesn't filter nor does it give ratings. Except maybe the ones. I love the ones. They are not in a mental diary but safe in the heart.

The hardest is the thought of leaving home. The notion of always being foreign is almost intimidating really. Those sights and sounds that remind you, where you come from will be missed dearly. The taste of the wind will be anonymous and the scorch of the sand will be anonymous. They are all anonymous but adaptable, so survival will take care.

Leaving is always a reminder, of how time and we are one entity. It ticks and we tick too. We tick in and out to the North and South, we tick left and right with the East and the West. You tick or you're kicked, right out to the universal blues of a mess. A mess that will degenerate anything and everything you achieved in the past; your feat. It's true, you won't have to leave until you're ready to go.

What does your tick say? Will we tick together one day? I want to know how you tick. So hell yeah, I'll watch and listen, and I don't think I'll stop.

Never sink China Doll

It's a blur but we still remember it all.

Now when you are sitting in the middle of the sea dressed and labeled as what everyone wanted to see you as, makes you feel like a super laughing stock. It's a memorabilia; for you and the many who wanted to ever seek you messing it up.

You start with letting go of that mask. You take it off for the very one you made sure you never will. The problem solves then and there. You get the support, you get the reassurance, you get the protection and most of you feel the game begin.

You can't stop the lips, you can't stop the winds but you can swim. Sometimes, running away is the beginning. Just make sure you run right to the right side with the right one.

The Waiting Fucktor

Met your psychotic eyes, crashed at your perfect grin, saw the setting sun, got salted at the beach, had a few beers and so I had to say this.

To wait. It kills.

I wish I could kiss.

Take you away,

bring you back,

bid you farewell

but remind you,

I'll always be there.

Maybe I won't.

Maybe you won't care.

But you the sun that sets,

leave a tear in my eye.

As you reach for her the sea

and not me the sky.

So,

To wait it kills. I wish I could kiss.

Now go have another local beer.

Pills that drain and stain.

A hydrant I have been for the past few weeks and it's not the best of feelings. It takes your body to rot away till you can get some attention around my household, because everyone has so much of tolerance, and so expects everyone to have as much tolerance as possible.

After throwing up over 5 times within 1 hour or so, my dad was convinced it's time to head for pills. So off we go to a dispensary, where people who can't afford would usually walk in. I always had a way with not so able people in life. I looked up to them for all that horror they went through just to feed themselves daily, while we find our horrors trying make the right choice of lipstick for the cocktail tonight. Whore.

I flash a smile to everyone amidst my whimpering pain, and then groan because I know I have to wait. This wait, is usually hours. My realisation falls down to the bottom of my shit list when a kid walks up, looks up at me to greet me and then pukes right in front of me reminding me of an exorcism. I felt my biological pipeline triggered off immediately, but I still say my prayers and it works regardless to the fact I sit comfortably on the top ten in Satan's list. I started helping 'Emiles' mother clean up, while everyone else rushed out in disgust. Morons.

Settling my dad on a seat, I finally sit on a worn off chair myself. I dozed off completely with no food or drink for whole 24 hours or more. Then I remembered....

Back in time, when I'm sick I was happy. My mother stays back home without being off to work. I get everything I want. I get a cozy blanket and bed sheet to go with. Warm warm bathes. Hot hot food. The home made soups and the famous Elephant House Cream sodas and Cream Crackers. Not to mention the ice cold, Cologne soaked gauze that is put on my forehead to ease the pain. The big big hugs and kisses. So, being sick is all you ever wanted. Bliss.

Ching! It's finally us. I drag myself in just to see the doctor on the phone. She makes me sit in front of her, while she bitches about her colleague to another. I couldn't stop eavesdropping and realised she is bitching about the very doctor who cured my dad many years back. Humans.

A good 30 minutes and then she gives me a thorough examination to know where I live, what my father does, where I study and if I'm off to another country after my studies. It all adds up to the bill you see. Three hours and I finally drag myself and dad out of there. I couldn't focus anymore and I remember my dad say my eyes were blood shot. I go home, no one to really warm up water so it was the cold splint of water down my back. I had to take a wash after that dispensary. I hit the bed and I think. Blackout.

I was not well after the dosage. So off I finally went a real hospital with all the blood tests and AC. Another new dosage which had almost triple the number of medicine given by the dispensary. So did the cost. Luxury.

The reports made matters worst with conclusions drawn I'm mighty messed up. So precautions started to pour in, and now I'm in a glass box. These are tough times and I can't afford to be in a glass box. Not now, never. I am an investment with a virus. Aiyo.

The pills made me feel like a toad, so I crave for the sun. I love the sun. Always will. I walk down streets just to smile with the sun. Then now, I know the cure. Warmth.

My stone cold face hangs as the childish loveliness has drained. I try to bring it back not by eating hot hot soup, not by a blanket so warm, not by smokey baths, not by hot water bottles and certainly not by running back to my mothers' arms, but by powdery expensive pills. Pathetic.

When Life drains, you end up a stain. So stop the pills and hit the beach. Live.

Passing by the picture perfect

We all have difficult weeks. One with unending failures are the worst ones.

Next comes the usual outbursts that is nothing but alot of crying, whining, hair loosing depression and loads and loads of sleep. You just lie on your bed, while every minute adds a new reason for you to lie low and, sink even. Starting with realising how fat you are, how sun burnt you are, how lonely you are, how everyone jeers at who you are, how stupid you are and how dead you are really, the sensuous hums of denial flows in triumphant; it's murder in the wind.

One thing lingers in you mind best at this moment; even if your just blowing it out of proportion; You've lost it all. We conclude there, but what if we step beyond that line?

You've lost it all, so.......What have you got to lose? Start over sounds like the simplest plan.

Emotions are not easy to get over. As simple and common that ideology is, the hardest it has been to conquer the real remedy for it. It is as unique as you are. It is mysterious as you are. It's your mental finger print, that no one but you know and go through. No one can save you or share you beating yourself up. Don't expect anyone to either.

We rewind life so much, we forget the present and that future waiting with his arms wide open. Fall down; feel helpless, sit down and let it pass by. Just don't sit there frame the picture into perfection and watch. Your admiration of your grief will inhibit you from seeing the walls of time falling apart along with a life; a life that you could have built up to a fortress of glory resembling your greatest strides of recovery.

Remember that merry-go-round and the world that becomes a mere blur you simply pass by while you enjoy spontaneous doses of the rush? You never did let go of that horse; you never let go of this life.

Boys do cry Robert Smith

Sadness is bad ass. It's stronger than fear and subtle than joy. To say it's over is really very hard. You can't define the end of sadness, but you can that of happiness; and that is sadness. It has a systematic methodology in breaking down a human life piece by piece, organ by organ, cell by cell to thought by thought and feel by feel. Degeneration has never been so evident as what sadness causes.

I've seen the women weep, but it's always a little different when the man weeps. One minute he is all that can keep health and wealth in tact, next minute hes' tears fall with echoing thuds, shattering a courage or two and a hope or two. The sobbing is worst. It keeps coming in patterns attempting to gasp for air, or maybe life you might think. It sends so much of body reflexes showing the amount of control the mind and body is under now. All you do is, sit and watch. While you watch, you want to know what's next. When is recovery going to come and will he live down the shame? The solitary minute of weeping in front of you will he live it down? Can you live it down? Feel not too alone, not too wrecked to know this whole life is up to you, no matter how many are there for you in person? Wreckage is meant to call on doubts and doubt is a monster who lingers for a very long time, time being a monster of its' own of course. I always hated time. bah!

Maybe men need to cry. Maybe that's what lacks a bad man. Maybe that's what causes sexual harassment. Maybe that's what causes a man choose violence as the emotional out put. Maybe that's the cause of the Sexist you live with. Maybe masculinity was defined wrong by Merriam Webster and now a whole sex suffers and feels defeated at the event of shedding a tear even when its' the biological process of resisting something that just went into your eye.

Well, I made up my mind. I want a man who cries. So cry for me baby, cry.

Lavender eyes

To see too much of beauty in a dream that you can never reach might seem a shame. Making that dream not come true is still a shame. Fight the thoughts, light up the neurons, feel good with the very blank lasps....

You need the Lavender eyes.

Everyday you're a hero to all. To be a hero of your own you don't remember. To give up on the daily breath you're suppose to breathe is killing the dream, day by day, night by night. It bids you good bye along with the sunset, into the coastline disappearing into the tides that you loved so much, and yet will never come back. You sit back here thinking... 'It's all fine. I'm building my boat. I'll be there with you soon.' You won't. So....

You need the Lavender eyes.

Watch their thunder, watch their tears, watch their flame, watch their hunger. You don't do thunder, you don't do tears, you don't do flame, you don't do hunger. Then you're not one of them, but still you watch till your heart tumbles over your guts all the time.

You need the Lavender eyes.

Perspective rejoices, and you cry out loud. It stops the world from being from one; but no. Everyone wants you to give an explanation, to give your opinion, to give your word that perspective exists. To debate, to criticise, to argue, to get heart burns and eye sores. You need to say no....

You need the Lavender eyes.

Can't stop the aficionado in your lovers eyes. They will dig for the gold while you scream no, no. The maggot in your eye starts creeping in to your hind head, wailing on its' way 'I will feast, I will feast. I will feast in your sadness like a juicy fest'. You can't stop the lovers, but you can stop the maggot.

You need the Lavender eyes.

You want to live this little alone. You want to get away from them all. You want to start over all new. You want to ask them to fuck off. You want to make sure they follow you not at all. Then you know....

You need the Lavender eyes.

A distant swim, a distant revival. You're finally living the mirage, live it well. Head high with the sun in your eyes you'll see the clouds in you face, and the ocean ripple that carries you high. Sonatas from the mellow crimson caves not too far will fill your imagination with everything in between you and the soul. Fill, fill and fill. Drink till your drop, feed till you drop, live till you drop. See your way out....

You need the Lavender eyes.

The dream; it keeps you under the hood.

Bad day, fists fly, rotten words sweep by and then an ache deep down inside reminds you the human heart can't bare this anguish that you are hoping to inflict. We ignore. The rest is what we call regret.

You wish you kept your mouth shut, you wish you let that beast whine, you wish you didn't see the blood on it's face, you wish you would have ignored it, you wish you remembered it matters to you anyway. Humans are such. It's more human to realise.

Living the dream helps you a lot. Don't start running wild and fiery. Next time think 'I have a dream to live so screw this'. Drift away from the energy drainer to an energy generator. Stay under the hood of your dream, it's the best booster you got. My dream goes somewhat like this; 'Heel girl! Heel!' it shouts.

The mind of mine so light I feel,

It shows nothing but the bliss I want to see,

The heavenly seas say out to me,

Our warm blue waters wait for your dive so deep.

Peace to all. Peace to this world. Peace. Peace. Peace.

A million dollar you

The savagery of an eye exist when it does nothing. Let it look up high a million feet up, let it look down a million feet down, let it look around and spin around along with the boggling head.

The leaves keep growing, the grass will always be green, the sun will rise on the other side, the flowers will bloom and so I ask...What have we got to lose?

A ticket to heaven - 'Working according to the scripts assigned by human nature can get you somewhere only on the other side.' Think again. God meant something more when he said do good and you will see heaven.

Life long love - You really want to put all that effort to be loved only by one being while there's quiet a few millions hearts out there? Love a world fellas, love a world.

Vanity fair - A stunner you are, a stunner I am in this disco ball of a society. We make it complete, we keep it going even though we are rubber flip flop clad or leather boot clad, sarong clad or micro mini clad, combed our hair less than a month before or curled it to match your dog.

Leaping frogs - Time croaks all the way leaping away from us every time we try to grasp it. It leaves with us nothing but the signs of the love it made to us or the hate it wished for us. Bid farewell and bid it well. It didn't come across you for nothing.

Diamonds in the house - Only a diamond cuts another. Greed is never a friend and never far away. It's with you, around you and sometimes it's on the house. Cheers for the death wish mate.

The crimson tide - Reaching between the legs is quiet a deal. Sometimes, that's all it is. A tide that you ride when you're high, when you're low.

Your life is a million dollar bill. Sometimes you'll be picked up, sometimes you'll fly with the wind, sometimes you'll be trampled hard on and sometimes you'll end up real old money. But you'll always be a million dollar bill. So yes, hell you have nothing to lose.

The sour grape, rape and ape.

The grapes always listen to the ape.

He loves it when they listen to him justifying rape, but it's just so ugly. Most of the grapes smile along. But Sour Grape shows nothing but bitterness and it bothers the Ape.

He has seen nothing but bitterness on Sour Grape. It makes Ape not feel ape-y.

'Sour Grape. I will bother you, because your mere smirk has bothered me.

Tell me Sour Grape, why the face so bitter?'

'Ape from very cold Apeland, everything about you was disgusting from day one. It will be so forever. I will be bitter on you forever.'

'No, no. How can I promote rape that way. I have to! You not looking is an option. An option for the other grapes to follow suite. I'll lose it; this rape adoring nation I'm building!'

'Yes, and you can go back to Apeland where you will freeze your furry arse to death. My Grapeland has treated you very exquisitely hasn't it? And you mock us with nothing but allowing rape?

Rape our beliefs you say? rape our sense of values you say? rape our need of effort you say? Rape the long tough way to life you say?'

'Well it works. You grapes like it nice and slow.'

'Well then, I will continue. I will continue disliking rape and you. Every day my bitter face will bother you. I will keep my bitter face on for as long as I will be seeing you.'

'Sour Grape, I'LL DESTROY YOU. YOU WILL REAP NO MORE. NO MORE THOUGH YOU HARVEST MUCH!'

'I will harvest, I will harvest for my many wine dreams. I will never let them be your urine dreams.

And I will reap. When you are gone I'll reap. After all your nothing but an ape in my life.'

So Sour Grape left Ape who ran around, jumped up and down, twirling his frisky fancy white tail raping the Grapeland about how bitter Sour grape is, while Sour Grape started harvesting all over again on her many colored wine dreams..............

Because as Sour Grape said, after all, he is nothing but an ape in her life.

So many of you, it kills

Yes I slave. I slave as much as you would expect one to in a short time of 21 years on earth. Appreciation is not there I accept, but now and then it's nerve wrecking. Especially when you are one of them who thank someone over a million times for the slightest matter because I know, that minute counts.

It's the minute that takes our effort to put up with your whining that,

1. pleads for service for free

2. explains to us it is our responsibility

3. reinforces we are brothers/sisters from another mother

4. rattles as a speech of how we will technically save the world

5. believe they are giving us a valuable chance that we shouldn't throw away

6. suggests I take a certain approach to it as well!

7. thinks I should totally put up with the bitch you don't want to work on this with; it's all about the LURVE apparently

8. reminds me I'm meant to do it; I'm chopped liver

9. blesses me in the name of God for the deed

10. tells me I'm all you can count on from the billion odd people you party with the other times

Not forgetting the bomb of it all; 'you do remember you owe me this one mate'. ON FUCKING WHAT? You try to remember.

A misery of measuring the value of a deed seems like a vitamin deficiency of it's own kind. It is primary basics for your information where you can't hold a ten dollar note as a million dollars. So where does this 'You owe me' come from?

1. A guilt trip

2. You're Osama; great brain wash.

3. A racist, you believe you're better.

4. You are an old hag, and I'm young and wasted you assume.

5. You gave birth to me. sigh.

6. You matter to me, but of course I don't to you!

7. You can get away with it anyways. Trying me out was an option.

8. You dated my sister???

9. I helped you before.

10. Apocalypse is near. I'll never figure out what you meant by then.

Sad, sad, sad situation.

Help I will, come clean I need. A jagged edge proposal never cut through without a horrible painful, dodgy and time consuming process. And what's more; it damages a lot and spills an awful lot of blood. Appreciation is more than words we all know, but what we have forgotten is it's way more than silence.

Next time tell me I did a great job, and give me a pat on the back. Yes, then I owe you.

Sunny went home, so the Pearl goes mad

Another day of celebration in Island Paradise. The whole land rejoices as the Sun traveled from one mythical dimension to another. I hope Sun feels at home. I certainly do, and so layed back doing what I do best to relax, I read. I haven't been this fascinated with something I read for awhile and to post it was almost another Avurudu craving. So here goes.

Professor Gilbert J. Rose, a clinical psychiatrist at Yale, has a therory about the artistically creative mind. I came across an account of this specualtion in an essay by John Fowles, who describe it as follows;

'In simple terms, his proposition was that some children retain a particularly rich memory of the passage from extreme infancy; when the identity of the baby is merged with that of the mother; to the arrival of the first awarenss of seperate identity and the simultaneous first dawn of what will become the adult sense of reality - that is, they are deeply marked by the passage from a unified magical world to a discrete 'realist' one. What seemingly stamps itself indelibly on this kind of infant psyche is a pleasure in the fluid, polymorphic nature of the sensuous impression, visual, tactile, auditory, and the rest, that he receives; and so profoundly that he cannot, even when the detail of this intensely auto - erotic experience has retreated into the unconcious, refrain from tampering with reality - from trying to recover, in other words, the early oneness with his mother that granted this ability to make the world mysteriously and deliciously change meaning and appearance. He was once a magician with a wand; and given the right other predisposing and environmental factors, he will one day devote his life trying to regain the unity and the power by recreating adult versions of the experiance: he will be an artist. Moreover, since every child goes through some variation of the same experiance, this also explains one major attraction of art for the audience. The artist is simply someone who does the journey back on behalf of the less conditioned and less technically endowed.

John Fowles added a footnote to this piece: 'Sensitive female readers may not be too happy about the pronoun used in this, but the theory helps to explain why all through more recent human history, men have seen better adapted - or more driven - to individual artistic expression than women. Professor Rose points out that the chances of being conditioned by this primal erotic experiance are (if one accepts Freudian theory) massively loaded towards the son...' Actually I don't see why girls would have differing memories than the boys as described by Professor Rose, but I thought it sufficiently controversial to merit an airing.

- John Fowles, Wormholes, Vintage (London 1999) -

Bloody fascinating don't you think?

Oh well, happy New Year buggers...Go mad till we meet again at another sunny side.

The forseen unseen

Whoever is in the sun and shuts his eyes. Begins not to know what the sun is and to think many things of heat. But he opens his eyes and sees the sun, and he can no longer think about anything, because the sunlight is worth more than the thoughts of all the philosophers and poets. The sunlight doesn't know what it's doing and so it does no wrong but is ordinary and good. -Alberto Caeiro-

The need to see appeal in what we see is a beauty I must say. From the time you set your eyes on the shades and hues of the colors blending around, you mingle its' essence into the air you breath. All you will feel is the nurturing of it, that makes you want to feast your eyes more and more on the simplest form of detail you can. To see a variant is almost orgasmic, and the annoying space that blocks your imagination is a killer. A monster on the hunt you are for a flower with no name.

All hail randomness, all hail randomness.

The plushing velvet luxury you fly on, smoothly climbs up the clouds of inert art. All the creativity you can grasp is now in your lungs. You hold your breath with it all and a hunger leftover. A device of capture, a trap of the heart, your mind works wonders with a caption from your soul. It's yours, always yours.

No need to share it, really no one else will see it. It's your prize treasure you can manifest on. A pool of life you look into every now and then, just to remind you; you are a God. God of nature, that creates this utopia so perfect, this utopia so excellent, this utopia the drug.

You haven't seen it all till you see beyond what you behold. Let you see you.

Lover, you are so sad

To love with all your heart is easier done than said. It sounds the most valuable thing yet, who can define it? The pathetic situation of everyone doing it to everyone is a arm bender when spoken about. To value a life, to respect a life is no bewilderment. It comes with ease, it comes without awareness. You believe its' the real thing when its' just a time you let down the rest of the world and your sanctuary is setting your eyes on this beauty, hearing this beauty or feeling this beauty. Hurrah! you are in love?

Beauty is admired by them all. The pretty faces, the famished lips, the flowing hair, the skin so fair and the walk so light you will put up with any fight. To see deep in where the Satan of it all lie low, till you murmur the best out of them is a sight you wish you saw way damn before. A reflection to your inner is your face they say; and I sit and laugh with all who consider it and seeks a refuge now that they are nothing but wounded and grasping for a clear breath of air. I shall not help. I shall not be the saviour. No one is, but your loser self.

Beauty is a horror that unleashes the many other horrors that you will cultivate as long as you believe in it and bleed with it, ignorantly.

When death calls

A call we never await for. The spontaneous bewilderment is much more than a human mind can take. The beauty of it rises when hope acumulates invisibly. The sudden laughs, the sudden smiles that dawn amidst the clouded wails and mourns is almost a miracle. Death doesn't like it, it simply wants to root down in the hearts and grow pain. Thrust down the angels of cherishing moments, jubilations of a life time and a future to come. Love will not die, nor will its' life. A life has acheived too much, seen too much and heard too much to let it all go with the a gasp that would be your last or a blink that would be your last. You live with those you shared, with those you loved and those you cared for. An eternal journey it is, an immortal one.

The dogs that shun when death calls will shun for life. Never do you want to see them or else you will wipe them. The dust that clouds a shimmering wand, you will wipe them off.

Death will call, and the dear will not depart. You live, you live, you live with the ticking time in our hearts you live.

For my best bud, Chanuka.