CLXIII - a strange day's

i kept telling myself today, as i kept crying, that today was a strange day.

crying is a bit strong of a word. what's better? getting teary? getting emotional? no, i cry. it is crying. i'm not bawling but i do that too, in my room. i refuse to be seen crying, so it's just a welling up type of crying.

crying feels strange. but we all do it. in fact whenever i do it i am reminded of a friend who was once so pissed with me that she said that i would never be able to truly love. as with all things said in anger, i have never failed to appreciate that it carried its proprietary kernel of truth. but that's beside the point. and the story is not a romantic one. the point is that we all cry and it feels strange. in a way, very human. vulnerable and cathartic. comforting in an uncannily strong way. it's so strange. but we do it.

i'd hate to think that the pity i feel for myself is the cause of my crying. i'm better than that. i feel like i cry for lost things. but that's too deep into the matter.

we all cry. today is a strange day. today i cried, but always to be strong. to pick something up and to live. so there is no pity in that. no matter what it is i cried for. i know what i cried for. of course i do. there are only so many things a man can live with and then also without. it's been so long, and yet it's again those goddamn chinese songs at all the wrong moments that get me welling up. fuck! those feels.

but anyway, today being a strange day and all, i tried to do right. it is difficult. but i did right. i wouldn't call it helpful. but in a way i'm doing everything i can about it. in my way, well, that's fair, i think, in my way i'm sending you my love. even though i'll never be able to stop.

so that's today.

CLXI - tragicomedic, at best

of course there is a final act. of course there was. that's how it is.

when you asked me, what was i to say?

what could i say? in my mind i knew that i wouldn't last five minutes at your wedding. oh i knew. wouldn't last five minutes. couldn't function with all that drinking, at the least.

but i've long buried what remains of it, haven't i? so the least i could do is to follow through, right. let you know that it's dead.

send in the fucking clowns.

CLX - i feel i could write

haruki murakami was interviewed once and he said that in 1978 he was watching a baseball game and he saw a ball struck to left field and he knew that he could write.

i've kinda had that feeling that i could write for a while. when i was young my mum made us write a journal. i remembered that i didn't like it very much. i remember some things that i wrote about, like how i was proud that my dad's car was faster than a motorcycle, those darn motorcycles! and how we once took a river taxi on the singapore river. my mum would review it. after awhile she didn't any more so that came to that. that sort of half-assed parenting is basically how my folks are.

but that's really just my first memory. nothing to do with my writing.

i guess it stems a little from being smart as a kid. feeling like i could write. i'll be honest, i think it's related. nobody knows that they're smart as a kid because, as you might imagine, it comes naturally. in a way it takes people to tell you. i just thought i liked reading, so i read. and i usually didn't need people to explain books to me. and as it turned out i had a couple of bright spots. so that was that, i was a smart kid. i was smart as a kid.

but that's also just i guess just the start of it. i mean, how far does being a smart kid go? i'll tell you, i wasn't the best of the smart kids, back then. so it took these years and i guess really the enlightening days of the early twenties to become i guess the more intellectual person that i am now. i think i write okay, so i think i can write. i have a feeling that i could write a decent story.

and that feeling is enough i think for it someday to happen. i'm not worried about what to write about. in the meantime i just have to keep reading. but that's the thing too. the last two authors i've read are philip roth and julio cortazar. to me if you wanted to write you would have to ask, well, can i write as good as roth? and can i write as good as cortazar? and if the answer is no, then you'd ask, well, why write at all? why be a little shit writer next to these guys? and to me that is a significant question. but you could write a million books and never touch these guys. these guys are fantastic. but i don't know if anyone who wants to do anything should ask these sorts of questions.

i feel like i could write. i feel it. i've read my murakami, borges, marquez, fitzgerald, orwell, tolstoy. it's a feeling i have. there's no impetus right now. i just feel i could write. that's it.

CLIX - there's a feeling I get

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Q7Vr3yQYWQ

There's this feeling I get almost every day. Like that I've forgotten the moment. I sit down with something and I try and detach my consciousness and live in that something. To try and evoke the original and pure memory of being in the moment with that something. To remember the feeling of being alone with that thing alone in all the universe. To feel it to accept it to embrace it to sense it to resonate with it to be in it to be as it to be it. To be not me but me as it.

But almost every time now I can't do it anymore. I can't lose myself in the moment. I feel I've lost the pure memories of so so many things. It comes to as if I've lost that child that is me. I just can't close my eyes and be pure again.

It feels like my adventures are over. I'm old. Some vital part of me extinguished. The gleam lost in my eye.

Doesn't that scare anyone when they think about it?

Is growing up worth all that? And where the fuck did I lose the way? Did the world want me to grow up or did I make that choice?

It feels like I've lost.

CLVIII - polemic

what kind of man am i? so eager to do good. and so consumed by anger. oh what kind of a man am i.

CLVII - this is goodbye; may we never meet again

the 4th of May 2013. it feels like a year ago. i don't know if you'll find this hard to believe, but that was one of the roughest days of my life (the next few nights, weeks, months were no ball either). i remember everything. the monstrosity of the sheer chance of seeing you there! saturday night; and i remember you wore a black dress! oh, the horror! all i wanted was to flee. and the year that followed, and the anguish. i knew that i could never do that to anybody. i could never take someone's love away.

that was my destiny. i say it all the time. i believe it, even though it would have been easier to hate it. it was my destiny to be lost on you.

i will always love you. ciao.

CLVI - libestraum without scratch

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkXOrkeZyqQ

in some other world, i am holding your hand in mine and my eyes are closed and we listen to this libestraum without scratch.