Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Posts Tagged ‘memories

The Stop at Sèvres – Lecourbe

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I’m sorry I can’t help being sentimental — even with sufficient compartmentalizing in this faculty — her memories still tampers with facility of felicity.

The drips of her optimism.

Those veiled salacious intent and dry tears of forgotten misery.

5 years is not something that’s easy to bury. Unearthing it is not an option too. Yet as I pass by the memorial site in my own memory. The wretchedness and those smile comes flooding to me uninvited.

The momentarily stop at Paris Métro is unexpected to both of us. And the first kiss at the station of Sèvres – Lecourbe is unexpected for me.

I’m the luckiest man in the metro station.

Then life interjected with career.

I wait and wait for time to pass by as I try to get home back to her.

Your goodbye silence is as unexpected as those first kiss — five years later.

I felt like I’m the loneliest man in the busiest metro station.

I almost hate Paris.


I’m glad with her reply.

Even after 9 months later — calling me by full name stated much how her felt — tacitly.

That’s how she spell disagreement — as if I’m infantile.

Yet she purred and mew — as if she’s my favourite feline.

It’s not bitterness neither acquiescence.

She accepted it as it is.

I didn’t reply.

It won’t matter.

She finally replied.

And that’s cathartic.

Written by cthulhu

August 9, 2010 at 1:54 am

shell, part one

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Published June 21, 2006.

The entry that fucked up the rest of my day. Silly me, opening up old wound. Older wound, I meant. Old wound is Sue.


I slept because I’m tired. I’m tired because my mind tired. My mind tired thinking of her absence.

The day after, after dusk she went to [him], near midnight she gave me a kiss, at midnight she greeted and said farewell to me while I fell asleep with this tired mind.

I slept well. I dreamt of her. I don’t remember waking up incessantly. I remember being awake, awake with that waking memories of her. I’m awake. Awake with her in my mind. Did I sleep well? With her, I did. Even if it is just a phantom image inside my head, she’s there. The body reel and my mind keel over. I lied. I didn’t sleep well.

I woke up at dawn, before dawn. And it was raining. Fate have it that it shall rain to cleanse and to rise this miserable aching. The cold air refreshing, cooling, but I don’t feel invigorating. It didn’t cleanse me. The humidity risen, tepid, my heart grew restive—restless. It raises this unquiet yearning.

It’s a coincidence she rang me before I could send her the messages. She directed me to the video repository site. There, I saw her sweet smile again, there; I heard her gentle voice again. It’s crazy. The song’s title and how we are crazy for each other. I saved and kept the video. The song I gave to her of yesterdays, was sang in [his] quarter with [him] strumming the guitar, serenaded by her voice. It’s the moment she spent with [him] last night. And how do I feel?

(What’s the Story) Morning Glory? The drizzle lulls, the earth damp. This Libran sun lights a dull beam. It tolls the warmth of his heart. In bed, he tosses, he rolls. In sadness, he sighs, he keels. In the middle of the lone field, he wonders how she feels.

“I feel. I’m a July child after all.”

It’s not just love passion, lost soul, livid moment, lingering hour…but there’s lust. Oh, did you know: the phrase “Morning Glory” is British slang, referring to an erection experienced after waking up. Morning wood. I lust for her love.

How did I spend the morning hour? Morning glory and morning lament. Elated with her voice, her messages and her fond memory, I remain awake, fleetingly. Then the crack of morose dawn marred the epoch. I lee behind the state of suspended animation, I be dead to the world. My state of mind deadened for awhile till I received her message before she took off to that highland theme park with [him].

She’s going there to celebrate the mutual amity between them. It’s their 36th month of “friendship” on the 21st June 2006. Her past relationship may not be platonic; her relationship with [him] isn’t platonic either. At least that’s what I told myself. Alas, she loves [him].

“Evil. That doesn’t mean I don’t love him.”

Indeed, she’s in love with two men in her life and torn between them: the one who gave 3 years of his live to her and the one who consummate his soul to her after one month and 13 days being IN love with her.

“Only different is I am IN love with you, my love.”

Ah, being a lover.

I hope she’s having fun, but only for her sake. Not theirs. I’m that selfish.

Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
And I hope that you are having the time of your life
But think twice
That’s my only advice


I felt thirsty. My lips parched. I went downstairs, drown the thirst. This worrying feeling never sated, never settle. I went back upstairs, when in most disconcerted moment, the tune: Shell, an opening theme in The Witch Hunter Robin played in the audio player with high fidelity. It’s the last song she sang to me in the morning after, before she went off to [him] yesterday.

Deep inside my parched throat
Lies the reason for this growing impermanence
Scared of the approaching tomorrow

I’m afraid, but…

I cower and collapse
But it seeks me out and whispers to me
This voice of thin darkness

…her voice whispers otherwise.

Written by cthulhu

May 26, 2010 at 9:48 pm

Weep Not for the Memories

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“Remember Me,” said the cookies in the internet browser — each time I cleanup the cookies cache.

“Clinging to a past that doesn’t let me choose.” It’s best to purge and diffuse.

Written by cthulhu

May 2, 2009 at 2:52 pm

Growing Up in T(e)rengganu

“Awang Goneng does with words what Lat did with pictures.”
–Dr. Annabel Teh Gallop, Head of the South and Southeast Asia section, British Library, London.

Awang Goneng - Growing up in Trengganu

The book has been my top secret project this year, and even my better half Kak Teh only knew about it when the editing work was nearly done. My regular readers will know that Growing Up has been a regular and eccentric feature in my blog and if numbers are to be believed, the series has gone through many hundred thousand parts. But fear not, it is not coming out in many volumes but in just one small collection with cover design by a talented lady in Ireland, published by a small but reputable (and no doubt talented) publishing house in Singapore, and a cartoon of me on the writer’s bio page was drawn by a talented but no small cartoonist called Lat; and it is even embellished with photographs sent in by readers from as far away as New York and Canada. I am, needless to say, over the moon.

[Source: Kecek-Kecek – On Trengganuspeak and the Spirit of Trengganu]

The blook (book from blog) is what The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy does to AngkaSawan (Epileptic Figures) as what it does to the Ganu(s). Appreciating humour with philosophical elements, knitted with ‘foreign’ dialects (thank you Babel Fish) and immersing in nonchalant culture without the needs of a towel, unless you’re at the beach.

Just what I need now — books and towel — at Pulau Perhentian.