I only know that your face, the sound of your voice, will never diminish for me.
I refuse to give you up.
There are people like that, after all - individuals who resist the current, who hold out against that betrayal. Who refuse to take their small bouquet of mis-remembered moments and leave.
You'll run into them at the supermarket, or while waiting in line at the cinema, and they'll say, "I had an acquaintance many years ago," or "I once knew someone who I cared for very much who also loved oranges," and suddenly, standing there waiting to pay the cashier, or clutching your movie ticket, you can see them leaning into the current's pull, hear the rocks of the riverbed clattering like bones.
Sometimes we do the right thing - the only thing - and be hated for it. Inevitably.
Even justly. (Perspective?)
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Where Are We, Jes?
When I read, I form pictures in my mind. That is, after all, the point of the written word, yes? To create a film in the mind's eye using your characters, your setting, your pace - with their script. Using one's delicious imagination, you become a movie director.
But what about those times when the picture you had all that time turns out to be (even slightly) incorrect? Unfortunately, I have had this experience myself, not too long ago.
It is utterly disappointing (to me).
I feel as if I've betrayed the author - but is it not the author that has betrayed me, by not painting a picture I could translate?
It's all in the detail.
I fear I may be slipping away. Getting lost to things that are of no importance. I will try to read (everything) with clearer understanding.
Adieu.
(excerpt from my book.)
Jesamania.
But what about those times when the picture you had all that time turns out to be (even slightly) incorrect? Unfortunately, I have had this experience myself, not too long ago.
It is utterly disappointing (to me).
I feel as if I've betrayed the author - but is it not the author that has betrayed me, by not painting a picture I could translate?
It's all in the detail.
I fear I may be slipping away. Getting lost to things that are of no importance. I will try to read (everything) with clearer understanding.
Adieu.
(excerpt from my book.)
Jesamania.
Monday, 15 August 2011
Destabilise
I have been dreading writing this post. Not for lack of things to say, but because I know I will be lying, inevitably, about some things.
Even if I deny it, every other post of mine has been for the readers, and not written for me. This time, fuck you guys (in the nicest possible way), because it's about time I start speaking to myself about some things.
Let's start with family.
Big ugly topic, eh. You have no idea.
It's an unfortunate thing to say that the people I call friends have not had the opportunity to know me throughout all my transitions. Not many people know the story of my life. Do I prefer it that way? Mostly, yeah. The last thing I want is to elicit sympathy because of circumstances I'd been in. There are things that I've been through that I wouldn't wish on anyone, but I am grateful for having experienced it.
I used to be a happy child. Obviously, things changed.
When I was 12, my mother, who was no longer married, began this relationship with a co-worker. Right from the outset, I was against it. I had this childish notion that it was wrong for a mother to bring strangers into what was an established home space. And so I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that I hated what she was doing. No doubt it upset her. I became a troublesome child at that point. I would let him know that he was not welcome in our house, and it probably tore my mother in two. Eventually, she decided to break things off with him, but it seemed almost impossible. He was very taken with my mother, you see, and refused to let her leave. He told her that if he couldn't have her, no one else could.
On the 29th of September 2005, he took her life along with his.
That man stole a mother away from 3 children, a sister from her siblings, an aunt, a cousin, a friend. He changed so many lives by taking away one.
It was a difficult time for me. I'd never been so lost, so eager to follow anyone who could make me forget. We endured months of court cases in attempt to find somewhere stable for my brother and I to stay. Can you imagine what that's like? Imagine telling a child that they're a burden. We were made to stay with our biological father, and his family. I couldn't bear to welcome new people into this new life, so I spent a lot of time on my own. 'Family' became a new concept to learn. And I'm still learning. Somewhere in my heart, I know that as dysfunctional as my family history might be, its only made me stronger. I'm a better person for learning how to appreciate all the small things. That's what it's about, right? The particles of being.
Speaking of beings, I want to be able to tell you what draws me to people I deem important.
I have a lot to give, emotionally, physically, intellectually. All I want to be happy is a companion. Someone with whom I can share my deepest thoughts, and not have them be subject to judgement. It probably sounds conceited of me to say so, but I feel that I am not appreciated for what I am, what I have to give. I am a lot of things to many people, but I am not who I want to be to them. Does that make any sense? I'm not able to be myself, because no one would understand me as I am. Ok, that isn't entirely true. But there are times when I can only remember who I am, by remembering you.
These people who are important enough to remain, are those who treat me as an equal. They teach me, as I teach them. We're following these derelict trains of thought together, because we want so much to understand, so we can be understood. There are entire lifetimes in every thought, and it saddens me that I cannot share some of them with you.
But I will try. Sometime.
Perhaps.
Jesamania.
Even if I deny it, every other post of mine has been for the readers, and not written for me. This time, fuck you guys (in the nicest possible way), because it's about time I start speaking to myself about some things.
Let's start with family.
Big ugly topic, eh. You have no idea.
It's an unfortunate thing to say that the people I call friends have not had the opportunity to know me throughout all my transitions. Not many people know the story of my life. Do I prefer it that way? Mostly, yeah. The last thing I want is to elicit sympathy because of circumstances I'd been in. There are things that I've been through that I wouldn't wish on anyone, but I am grateful for having experienced it.
I used to be a happy child. Obviously, things changed.
When I was 12, my mother, who was no longer married, began this relationship with a co-worker. Right from the outset, I was against it. I had this childish notion that it was wrong for a mother to bring strangers into what was an established home space. And so I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that I hated what she was doing. No doubt it upset her. I became a troublesome child at that point. I would let him know that he was not welcome in our house, and it probably tore my mother in two. Eventually, she decided to break things off with him, but it seemed almost impossible. He was very taken with my mother, you see, and refused to let her leave. He told her that if he couldn't have her, no one else could.
On the 29th of September 2005, he took her life along with his.
That man stole a mother away from 3 children, a sister from her siblings, an aunt, a cousin, a friend. He changed so many lives by taking away one.
It was a difficult time for me. I'd never been so lost, so eager to follow anyone who could make me forget. We endured months of court cases in attempt to find somewhere stable for my brother and I to stay. Can you imagine what that's like? Imagine telling a child that they're a burden. We were made to stay with our biological father, and his family. I couldn't bear to welcome new people into this new life, so I spent a lot of time on my own. 'Family' became a new concept to learn. And I'm still learning. Somewhere in my heart, I know that as dysfunctional as my family history might be, its only made me stronger. I'm a better person for learning how to appreciate all the small things. That's what it's about, right? The particles of being.
Speaking of beings, I want to be able to tell you what draws me to people I deem important.
I have a lot to give, emotionally, physically, intellectually. All I want to be happy is a companion. Someone with whom I can share my deepest thoughts, and not have them be subject to judgement. It probably sounds conceited of me to say so, but I feel that I am not appreciated for what I am, what I have to give. I am a lot of things to many people, but I am not who I want to be to them. Does that make any sense? I'm not able to be myself, because no one would understand me as I am. Ok, that isn't entirely true. But there are times when I can only remember who I am, by remembering you.
These people who are important enough to remain, are those who treat me as an equal. They teach me, as I teach them. We're following these derelict trains of thought together, because we want so much to understand, so we can be understood. There are entire lifetimes in every thought, and it saddens me that I cannot share some of them with you.
But I will try. Sometime.
Perhaps.
Jesamania.
Thursday, 16 June 2011
When Things Fall Apart
The centre does not hold.
What does 'perfect' mean? Flawless? Beautiful? Success? Unmarked?
How is that we all have different ideas of what it is?
That is because perfection does not exist as an entity. It is a concept. A concept used for comparison. We mark things according to how close they come to being ideal - to you.
THAT is what perfection is. A subjective notion.
How many people allow that cognition to cloy their reality?
A laconic description must exist..
Tell me, if I find beauty in one's pain, does that make me an optimist or a sadist? Irony amuses me.
That we ARE but our own Gods; why are we so inept, so inadequate unto ourselves?
Pain is alive, yes.
We cannot choose whether or not to feel pain. That is what draws me in awe. We can, however, choose if we want to suffer. Sometimes, we choose suffering as a means of atonement, and other times, we choose it because it forces us to reawaken - to move on.
Perfection is as prone to morphism as I am. It changes every time we envisage something better, more pleasing, more efficient, more encapsulating.. More forbidden.
Perfection is exactly that which we could never have.
When something big happens, time divides into before and after, the before time breaks up into dreams, the dreams dissolve to darkness. This bifurcation is necessary. Leave the past in the past; go find the future.
Sigh. The solace of infamy.
I have done it again.
What does 'perfect' mean? Flawless? Beautiful? Success? Unmarked?
How is that we all have different ideas of what it is?
That is because perfection does not exist as an entity. It is a concept. A concept used for comparison. We mark things according to how close they come to being ideal - to you.
THAT is what perfection is. A subjective notion.
How many people allow that cognition to cloy their reality?
A laconic description must exist..
Tell me, if I find beauty in one's pain, does that make me an optimist or a sadist? Irony amuses me.
That we ARE but our own Gods; why are we so inept, so inadequate unto ourselves?
Pain is alive, yes.
We cannot choose whether or not to feel pain. That is what draws me in awe. We can, however, choose if we want to suffer. Sometimes, we choose suffering as a means of atonement, and other times, we choose it because it forces us to reawaken - to move on.
Perfection is as prone to morphism as I am. It changes every time we envisage something better, more pleasing, more efficient, more encapsulating.. More forbidden.
Perfection is exactly that which we could never have.
When something big happens, time divides into before and after, the before time breaks up into dreams, the dreams dissolve to darkness. This bifurcation is necessary. Leave the past in the past; go find the future.
Sigh. The solace of infamy.
I have done it again.
Friday, 27 May 2011
if you like my poems let them
One of my most heinous crimes is being overtly too succinct. There is so much I can feel, but still be unable to give you words to paint this picture.
(If) only you would understand. Maybe the pain is mandatory?
Maybe if you saw me, you'd be able to see it in my eyes,
the way I see it in yours.
Seeing with newer eyes,
the old pain.
Falling Away With You... " I travelled half the world to say, You Are My Muse."
What is this musery.
"Pills of information, pills of misinformation, we swallow a handful everyday."
"Willingly and by choice. If only tags existed to differentiate between them.. And even then, would you not still willingly be misinformed if it felt better? Pills, you say. Way of life, says I."
It is no secret that I miss you.
It's all routine.
(If) only you would understand. Maybe the pain is mandatory?
Maybe if you saw me, you'd be able to see it in my eyes,
the way I see it in yours.
Seeing with newer eyes,
the old pain.
Falling Away With You... " I travelled half the world to say, You Are My Muse."
What is this musery.
"Pills of information, pills of misinformation, we swallow a handful everyday."
"Willingly and by choice. If only tags existed to differentiate between them.. And even then, would you not still willingly be misinformed if it felt better? Pills, you say. Way of life, says I."
It is no secret that I miss you.
It's all routine.
Soliloquy of the Solipsist
I?
I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
When my eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high.
I
Make houses shrink
And trees diminish
By going far; my look's leash
Dangles the puppet-people
Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Laugh, kiss, get drunk,
Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.
I
When in good humor,
Give grass its green
Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun
With gold;
Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold
Absolute power
To boycott any color and forbid any flower
To be.
I
Know you appear
Vivid at my side,
Denying you sprang out of my head,
Claiming you feel
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,
Though it's quite clear
All you beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear,
From me.
~Sylvia Plath
I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
When my eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high.
I
Make houses shrink
And trees diminish
By going far; my look's leash
Dangles the puppet-people
Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Laugh, kiss, get drunk,
Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.
I
When in good humor,
Give grass its green
Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun
With gold;
Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold
Absolute power
To boycott any color and forbid any flower
To be.
I
Know you appear
Vivid at my side,
Denying you sprang out of my head,
Claiming you feel
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,
Though it's quite clear
All you beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear,
From me.
~Sylvia Plath
please (don't) stop
It's this air.
It subjects us to beautiful thoughts and wondrous ideas, and then
tells us that it is not ours to have.
Why do you taunt us so?
There is much to love without having created.
Admirers.
Where is the line?
In my mind crawls babies of epiphanies,
my potential genius.
What bars them?
You.
You, with your fanciful promises
of unending happiness, storage of
fulfilment, and loving lies.
You hinder my growth
by not letting me live
as I ought to.
But I have made you,
you exist as some delusion
of Mine.
Yes, you are but a thought,
a potential ideal
in a 3D space,
that has failed me.
How unbecoming.
You are mine, my creation
that deems to possess me?
Am I subconsciously claiming Myself back?
I will never understand you,
you are Unfinished.
robotic.
clipped.
We cannot exist in togetherness;
We cannot exist apart.
There is a train of my thought
that binds me to you.
We do not feel alive
unless we are hurting,
is why.
It subjects us to beautiful thoughts and wondrous ideas, and then
tells us that it is not ours to have.
Why do you taunt us so?
There is much to love without having created.
Admirers.
Where is the line?
In my mind crawls babies of epiphanies,
my potential genius.
What bars them?
You.
You, with your fanciful promises
of unending happiness, storage of
fulfilment, and loving lies.
You hinder my growth
by not letting me live
as I ought to.
But I have made you,
you exist as some delusion
of Mine.
Yes, you are but a thought,
a potential ideal
in a 3D space,
that has failed me.
How unbecoming.
You are mine, my creation
that deems to possess me?
Am I subconsciously claiming Myself back?
I will never understand you,
you are Unfinished.
robotic.
clipped.
We cannot exist in togetherness;
We cannot exist apart.
There is a train of my thought
that binds me to you.
We do not feel alive
unless we are hurting,
is why.
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