#4

On regression--

Two decades of life leaves me in a time warp. Richey's disappearance is of my concern over Alex Kapranos' late fringe; Plath is the new big thing, not yet Winterson. It feels as though you're running on a rewinding film strip, inching backwards from where you've barely begun.

On a side note, I guess I'd buy Colburn's theory of the substitute people in Elizabethtown over the the innate, sweeping foul decay prevalent among poets. Many of us barely lived, deeming semi-existence as decay may just be giving ourselves too much credit.

#3

On twin&twin dialogues--

I like seeing double. Having a mirror reflection comforts me, and it eases the process of defining oneself, to a point where the need of it even diminishes, and plain mimicry takes over, effortlessly.

I hate having to leave home, just because there is a bunch out there allowing me to define myself (although impressionistic classification can be overcome by stereotyping all too often), mirror image or not.

#2

Like a Rainbow Brite gone deranged, I take great joy --or rather, malicious glee-- assigning words their own tint of colour. Not the sundress or melancholic or Big Spender (dandelion, grey and black respectively) but adding tinture to Parker and making it dark green, or brushing a lilac hue to whimsical, and consenting enjamb to a tangerine. Edmund, of King Lear, has got to be crimson -- it is overwhelming but not acerbic.

#1

(Initially penned 14th January, 2006. 06.33am )

Because you're my American dream -- Where Plath crosses Falstaff.
Falstaff, not totally Shakespearean but the operatic take on it. Maybe already presumptious in its art form.

I pen this in the lukewarm coming of a new day. The break of dawn makes this all more comforting -- the possible (impossible) beacon of hope, embracing, suffocating you in both mercy and pity. It was pitch dark the quadruple 60-minute lapses, hour after hour of chestnut brown blending into a dark green Parker grandeur. It kills to figure my self-dictated perceptions are the only things that differentiate a demonic pitch-black from a towards our new found promised land pitch-black. It terrifies me, perhaps it is all of the mind -- its workings, or malfunctions, sometimes perhaps just simplistic among its unnecessary complications.

#0: the scribe.

Starting this blog, perhaps, is just a movement from the quill to the assigned buttons of a keyboard; it is an attempt to find a niche where the occult princess commences her own two-way monologue, dancing her little duet, barefoot, alone.