Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Posts Tagged ‘him

Haiku Sunday: The Black Dress

Forgotten warm night
Silky fabric was unbox
Ecstasy unleashed

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It hits me, as it rain outside the hotel. The hot shower in the bathtub numbing. The sudden realization — how I’m out of touch with “the other side of the world”.

Kafkaesque.

Disturbingly alone, in the metamorphosis of life. Left alone, in my cocoon.

The world passes by today with Beijing Olympics, Singapore National Day, and wedding dinner(s) of past lover, old friends and “friend”. Invited, yet declined. Uninvited, yet inclined.

The world passes with celebration of life.

While I’m in the underpass of life celebration.

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How ironic, Johann Sebastian Bach’ s Ave Maria was playing against a backdrop of Muslim funeral on TV.

Written by cthulhu

August 10, 2008 at 12:08 am

Flights of Infancy

The phone I rang was answered by [him]. [He] echoed every single “hello” I made. The voice flippant with a hint of flagrant sardonic humour, sans the reeking sardine fragrance, complimentary of the proxy voice over the wire and wave. Not that [he] have one, at least not at that moment.

I’m in no mood to hear someone aping me, much less to have [him] picking up her phone. Never once [he] does that since I met her. Always the ever subservient porter of the magic voice box — as it rang, the perfunctory hand handed it over to her.

Perhaps it’s schadenfreude. Knowing well that I’m already reduced to a lesser subject of her affection.

No more the magus of amorous plague. Merely the pariah of delirious fugue.

Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.

I throttled the aping sound with a silent touch of unceremonious disconnection.

I was hoping the droning white noise became a stimulus for [his] dutiful mind when it concern her mobile phone.

Hello. Hello.

It works.

Written by cthulhu

March 20, 2008 at 6:50 pm

Pithy Empathy

Don’t you all treat the people you love differently? I would never understand someone who just stand and watch the person they said they love cry , and not do anything to soothe that person. I can only surmise they do not love – there’s no love in such person’s heart; only hate and a bloated sense of selfishness.

I think I miss my didi. Are you going for your blue berth already? :) I know it’s strange to feel someone who’s far away as closer to me than those who are around me. Life is never easy…right?

Dear jiji,

I wish all that is written is what I confide in with utmost privy, but I’m a creature of habit, the habit of a tortured wordsmith where his canvas of written mind screaming like the Edvard Munch’s The Scream — suffused with melancholy and anguish.

You’re right after all. Self-destructive relationship is always been the cynosure of my longings. The expectation is known in foresight but I keep on feeding on it. On hindsight, I spew the bitterness and again taste the cynicism as aperitif for the next sour meal.

Falling out of love is very enlightening. For a short while you see the world with new eyes.

Iris Murdoch (1919–1999), Irish-born British novelist and philosopher.
The Observer (London) “Sayings of the Week”.

I’m used to take umbrage on the most innocent act that constitutes the company of them. Where once I was invited to be the third in the company of two. I took that as a mockery in the looming presence of [his]. Mocking the idea of familiarity, as I would jutted there, seated on the urban cafe of capitalism with the prospect of disillusionment. I’m like a jutted and jagged rock on a jaded meadow — weary of the accusation and compromises. Whereas it just a simple invitation, that in retrospect, I would never attend. Why can’t I just leave it be?

Jealousy used to be the blind rage. As ever hidden like Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, the titular character of [his] should never arrived in my simple mind. Whereas in the play, the arrival is awaited . In my mind, there should be in perpetual absence. Even a good-natured pity is hardly welcomed. As I sought the sympathy of her but got the pity of [his], the drugged and medicated mind of a feverish man caving in the state of malaise. As if [his] apothegmaticall word of apothecary — “get medicated, rest well”– giving me an apoplexy. Why can’t I accept the honesty of a dispirited man?

Jiji, did you know one of the character in the play is affectionately known as Didi?

An optimist.

Hence the optimistic approach to my romantic life, I supposed. The last happenstance with her consolidated this newfangled attitude.

A contemporary courting. A prelude to the ephemeral relationship that be.

I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

How apt jiji, Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars.

That’s what she means to me, that’s how I feel as I lay with her. As I cry, her voice soothes me. There’s still love in her heart albeit an altered one — shaped by the sin of my past.

Love or perhaps empathy.

Didi.

P.S. : Jiji, you’ll never heard of this version of the story as I keep my life apart again from a confidante. Isolation seems to be the best policy for me, but I’ll always long for her — the ship of destiny — deep in the blue berth of my heart. I’m berthing, I’m basking. I’m sulking…less.

The December Literati, The Lips [He] Tastes, The Auburn Neko and The Cheap Joint

Thank you for this bitter knowledge
Guardian angels who left me stranded
It was worth it, feeling abandoned
Makes one hardened but what has happened to love

Someone :) wrote this in Last.fm journal. (Oh yeah, I’m totally stalking her. Not.)

[…]

He gives his thanks, feels abandoned, looks at stars, vanishes into powder, suffers paranoia, bitter disappointment. My eyes close and I see a broken man with his back to Medusa, wanting nothing else but to turn back and look into her Gorgon eyes, over and over and over again, wanting to forget, choosing to throw it all away.

Only he doesn’t.

What has happened to love.

It’s repeated, but only as undertones. Not in the forefront, it isn’t a question burning with curiousity, sung with sparkling passion. It’s delivered with poignant echo, as if the answer, if it exists, isn’t really sought after at this point.

Go, or go ahead and surprise me. Say you’ve lead the way to a mirage.

When you’re on the edge, nothing’ll do the trick anymore.
What do you do when you’ve been lead to a mirage?
You drop your guide. You turn around.

[…]

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“Readings” December at Seksan was crowded with Awang Goneng a.k.a Wan A. Hulaimi fans (me included). I enjoyed the littoral sea creature shorts from Dina Zaman (with her parent). Patrick Teoh can-I-say-fuck?-I’ll-say-that-again-FUCK! read the column snippet from The Edge Daily — poking fun at the Malaysian Malaise, and truly, saying what is truth out of principle is such a bitch, niamah! — and talking about leaking rooftops in Putrajaya as I stand nearby a plate of stencil print that parodied the incident:

[Picture of Perdana Putra]
Got a rooftop leak?
Call 1-800-idunno

Ah, the irony.

Sharon Bakar preceded with a reading of an intro out of Awang Goneng’s Growing Up in Trengganu (GUiT) before the author took his seat. As he seat, he spoke of memories and recollections, rhythms and forms, nascent phonetization, and of course the idyllic Trengganu — T[e]rengganu that used to be. I can almost hear the susurration of the monsoon wind as vivid as the flickering DSLR and PS flash of the literati. The recital of the Arabic verses was heart warming and as AG said, it brought tears to the eyes and soul.

Amir Hafizi is the shit. This mofo having an autophilia-cum-autofellatio moment (a quickie, real quick) as he ejaculated to Jackie Chan crotch, lesbian, sex, gym, BMI, obesity, gigolo, prostitution, ass, tits and boo boo kitty fuck. Yes, he’s the Ω Malay α Male. Got to lap up to his shit, non-scatological that is.

Patrick TeohAmir HafiziA. Samad Said

Here’s Patrick Teoh, Amir Hafizi and A. Samad Said.

Irmy NatasyaLiyannaJane Doe

And Irmy Natasya, Liyana Yusof and Jane “Comel” Doe.

The Seksan Literati really love ’em DSLR and PS: Irmy Natasya (Natinski) with her Nikon D40, Liyana Yusof (Dizzyfirefly) with her Nikon Coolpix P5000; and a girl that frequently got molested with Sufian Abas‘s Fujifilm FinePix S5 Pro. Oh, that’s all Suf flickr set by the way. Credits to his highly saturated post-processing on Adobe Photoshop CS3. And there’s more! The one with her Canon EOS 350D/Digital Rebel XT and a resident photographer (perhaps) with her Nikon D2X. And Panasonic’s Lumix. And Sony HDR-CX7 too, cool camcorder, might replace my old JVC with that one.

It’s a Seksan’s camera obscura picturesque kodak moment!

In retrospect, I should have bring along my Canon EOS 40D. Those Canon EF 28-300mm f/3.5-5.6 L IS USM lens would make such a good topic of the conversation, if I ever own one.

Click! Click! Click! 6.5 fps baby!

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She got her red lips tasted and the hair dyed red. Good.

What has happened to love.

Sans me. [S]ad.

Go, or go ahead and surprise me. Say you’ve lead the way to a mirage.

+++

Countdown to New Year 2008

I’m off to “this one simple cheap but surprisingly lovely restaurant at the top of a hill.”

With some company.

Or just one.

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I really need that 3 month bonus so I can buy an Apple MacBook Pro after Steve Jobs’s keynote address at Macworld Expo 2008. Hopefully the new Intel’s Penryn processors [Intel® 45nm high-k (Hi-k) metal gate silicon technology with 45nm architecture] would be ready for the January upgrade.

+++

UPDATE:

Bibliobibuli – Readings Gets Respectable … Well Almost

Madcap Machinist – Jasmine at Seksan’s

Never the Twain Shall Meet

Your relationships are requiring more effort right now -- you need to invest more

Since I’m on self-imposed extroverted probation, I think investing more for the sake of horoscope prediction would be both hypocritical and nonsensical. (Who’s the astrologer anyway? Venture capitalist part-timer?)

Wishing her a happy anniversary (tomorrow) would be such an investment. A laudable effort during this stint of pessimism.

It won’t be much a happier time — not a sad one either — a reminder of past good time, and the reminiscent of sentimental recollection.

There’s nothing much to celebrate. It’s not a significant event of cherishable memory to date. It’s been whole month of hectic days and when I got allotted time of 3 full days of a time off — no house mate, no courses, no work, full 3 days to spend with her — she unfortunately had had to have this time of the whole month to be on her own. “To have a time of her own.” At [his] place, nonetheless.

Yes. She had issues.

No. That’s not selfish of her.

Rather, it’s selfish of me to get too excited with the overindulge anniversary celebration: the night out with the view of the urbanism gone haywire with shimmering artificial light that runs with power plant that uses USD100 per barrel oil; or a dinner at the fake Italian Pizzeria over the hill overlooking the cityscape with the menu of pretentious Italian flavour of cheap virgin olive oil and questionable ingredients. Then again, she hates Italian food — when it involves herbs, eggplants, olives, onions and not-so-fresh-tomatoes. She’s finicky with her gastronomic experience, and people wonder why I had a trouble to please certain aspect of the investment.

The day after, domestic animals slaughtered by the herd. Sanguine blood drenched the soil as the muscle convulsed painfully — denying death. Flesh gathered for the masses in commemoration of the willingness of an ancient prophet to sacrifice his son.

I bleed frustration as I willingly sacrifice myself.

Morning kisses, midnight embraces and sweet nothings in a text base may not be as analogue as the real thing that she revels [with] when she retreats at her safe haven of cohabitation. No wonder there’s no need of toleration over the need to commensurate the affection. It’s a reverie of immaterial. Come to think of it, why bother with the prolong poetic rhythm at unappreciated value.

Ah, but when it comes to that. I was labelled as callous on so many level. The scenario is, I barely can get in touch with all the restriction she imposed herself when she’s at [his] place. The best and long conversation usually involves confrontation or a token call out of boredom or when [he] isn’t available. This, not including when she-needs-to-talk occasion.

My call often treated as an interruption since it’s an intrusion of her space and needs: during her odd hour of sleeping time, during the rush hour to and fro from [his] place and her break hour during her work. Classic demonstration of my egocentric.

In summation, that’s one deficit investment.

I rather invest a whole lot more for my own tangible needs: Italian Mares wetsuit and diving mask; Italian Cressi buoyancy control device (BCD); Swedish Poseidon regulator and octopus; Bob Evans Force Fin scuba diving fin; Finnish Suunto gauge and dive computer; Californian CamelBak hydration pack, Canadian Arc’teryx softshell, San Francisco The North Face adventure gears, French Salomon running shoes, German Deuter backpack, German Leica camera and Cupertino Apple MacBook Pro.

Now that’s profitable tangible investment.

Relationship investment will be kept at the most minimal and economical effort. I’m back to limited celibacy. I got to think about myself since I got into this selfish business. I might been promoted to something more sinister just after she read this.

I can’t barely read between the line of these cliché phrases: “fine”, “whatever” and “nothing”. Because I’m dense like a brick.

Our path of safe haven is a reminder of our own priorities. She and her needs. Me with mine. Shall our path cross, a simple hi won’t hurt a fly.

Talking Only Me and You

Peter Bjorn and John (Featuring Victoria Bergsman) – Young Folks

Usually when things has gone this far
People tend to disappear
No one would surprise me unless you do

+++

We used to talk only me and you.

It’s hard enough to conform with your privacy area of null communication (e.g. not at [his] place or in the dynamic geolocation of your erratic privacy) much less to get the convenient time to keep in touch with you (e.g. not during the gameplay or idiot box gawking).

To get a call for a spat — that is not what I have in mind.

Squiggly Life in a Can[t]

Wee hour is being in the lee of dream.

Skint and bored is not an impetus to tinkle.

Compensate the loss of one’s proximity with others.

It’s usually about me, but I would rather say otherwise.

This is about me — it’s 4:44 am — I’m tired.

Sleep.

Written by cthulhu

December 17, 2007 at 4:42 am