I have always wondered…

flabby plates

I hate elitist-ness in anything art, coffee, road accesses, book prices and availability, smartphones and coffee again…

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Tree granny

tree granny 2

because in the end we’re all odd plants in granny dressing gowns with too much coffee and tea on our systems and a desire to express how hurt we all felt at not being seen as we really are

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The lady in the red hair

20171217_144816The lady in the red hair (and sometimes brown and sometimes black) laying claim to curls she doesn’t have, a son of a decade and a cup full of bitter twisted pain

“cuz I’m arrogant, I’m proud so I’ll make it out that my man and my drinks, and my clothes are somehow raw things to do”

“I’ll make myself a femme fatale and give a forced claim of the pain I was once forced to follow as my moral guide, and go against it, no trash it at every turn”

She tries so desperately to fit into a movie or a reality show, one a few decades old, one she watched on TV one night when she was nine. One she should not have been watching as a nine year old

as her brother screamed in the background at her dad and her mom and stormed out to kill in an evil war. She walked a path that seemed wild but was silly. She walked a path that hurt. That laughed at her and seemed like abuse now, on her

and by her

She took red haired pictures at the beach, for her it was such a privileged thing to do, she stole privilege and tried to force it into her muted showy life. When she is old she will have stories to tell. So will all of us.

About her.

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Panic. Fear. Worry. Dread.

I feel like I’m a giantly insignificant thing that’s like jelly, instead of being like water, or a proper being, and that I lean forward into the world, no, I lean down, my head is bowed. I feel like panic, fear and worry are all inside me, like the weights used to hold those bright adverts down over the railings of the overhead bridge, I feel there is something terribly wrong, something I missed out, something I can no longer express, something I can’t hold inside of me. Its like a bright streak of sour, stinging with chilli, through my jelly self, this fear and worry and panic. Like I’m doing something wrong. Wrong. Again. There’s something so wrong about my world again. Something frightening. Panic. Fear. Worry. No. When did I start caring again? I desperately need time. More than I have now.

I can’t seem to walk straight or upright anymore, my moral conscience bites me down, telling me I’m wrong, in the wrong. There are no safety nets from myself, not anymore. I am just being, nothing more.

I don’t like hearing their happy voices, I don’t like waiting for this, but I dread when it actually comes. I can feel them again, my old dead friends, Panic, Fear, Worry.


How do people walk straight? How do they go through this without being bowed down almost completely. The harder pain is knowing that as the days go by, we are slowly moving into newer selves that don’t have us so much anymore. I can barely breathe. I am so-

Panic. Fear. Worry.


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Mastadons across the sky

Its hard from where I stand now. I used to have so little to ask for from time, I used to feel so little responsibility for the seconds and minutes of my day, I used to feel so old, because I had so much time that I was not responsible for and so I lived in my head more than out of it. I lived in my thoughts, a second not thinking was a second wasted. I built the clouds in my world, I lifted those fluffed up mastadons and traced them in graceful deformity across my skies, I felt that nearness whenever I stood under the vast, curved starry sky over KL from the 18th floor, with the city stretched before me, I paid attention to colors and not just lines or maybe I didn’t, I felt my fingers itch to draw and paint and twirl around and around like a demented pianists hands. Or a conductors hands. I was like a conductor of my life and my world was in my mind, and I lived in the past, and my body moved through the same places, tracing the same footsteps over and over again, through the living room, the sidewalks, the fast food place, the path next to the fire station, the train, the uni, the bus, the sick dizzying feeling of too many bodies and of the need to glamourise every bit of my life in my writing, when neither was it sordid, nor was it Paris style class, it was just a life and I chose to live it with dignity, mostly in my mind.

Now its like I forget how much responsibility I have for time, and I drift off into nothing again when everything is so sharp and real. So many times I don’t think, I just am, I just be, I just feel, I just perceive. So many times I just exist and that seems to be enough, I no longer always feel guilty just for living, I no longer always feel guilty just for existing, or just for caring. Except I do feel guilty sometimes and that drives me crazy…

Could we walk straight anyway, or as straight as its possible to be, if we opened up the part of our brain, our mind, that contains the pain of all the humans in the world? And yet if we didn’t, if we kept it shut, how could we live? I know we aren’t gods. But don’t we have to just do what we can? Have we thought of that? Did you? If you haven’t, than maybe you haven’t thought enough. Like me.

I still get confused with collective pain and our own pain. I still forget what matters. I still feel dizzy, like I want to throw up.

How sorrowfully convenient it is when the person you are sorrowing over is absent from your everyday life! At least in a fictional world, from a literary perspective. That was a sudden insidious and awfully sadistic thought I had about Unless, by Carol Shields with which I think I am in love.


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this or that

The completeness of the ultimacy of intersectional partiality with compliance and implementation of both autotypes and female agency should make such platforms so complete,  they become redundant.”
The sort of incomprehensible statement that seems to define us today… 

I suppose it is my fault for liking shock and awe pages. For giving into that feel good feeling that comes with reading a overly simplistic  set of articles that claim to involve occurrances of bigotry, misogyny, body shaming, and how they were put rather finally down, killed off. Or a set of cute cats, turtles, baby humans, or small acts of kindness involving money and notes and possibly a meal and how we all are people after all in such meaninglessly presented ways.  There is this fundamental act of making a POINT. Like how x shared a lengthy post about how x doesn’t do this or that or let her or his children do this or that, when this or that is a widely accepted thing to do. There is a basic level of simple inspiration, except the language and thought process of the news page or viral news or whatever is not present, all there is is a desire for shocking headlines and clicks and money…Or there is a moral simplification… Feminism is feminism and there’s only one way to think about it, and thus only stories that prove this one way will be reported on. We will either report on your cute cat or human rights, there’s nothing else worth talking about because we make the social simplication that the shallow fun loving cool kids used to because we, like them, want to be popular widely. The language is so basic and so minimal, its like we all forgot how to speak, its like we don’t care about words anymore or their mystical power, we don’t care about un reality or imagination or all the things we cannot perceive, all the wistfulness inside our heads…

Most “inspirational” stories spread widely online are sickening because of their overbearingness or simplified or unempatheticness or black and whiteness or silly or preachy or holier-than-thou or look-at-me or arrogant-humbleness or show-offy or wordy or bubble worldness or lack of reality or lack of any literary respect for language by the writer of the stories or blind followingness of their proponents/readers or the almost-religious-like way they are spouted by almost every other person today as the “truth” or their rigidness or their claim not just to rightness but also to being the only right way,  or the fact there is just something so awful and materialistic about selling and buying inspiration, which is almost done by everybody today…

I will despise you if reading self-help books is your idea of literature…

If any of those italic things in the second paragraph occur, many news agencies seem to flock to it like the small brown chemical-ly ants that dart after any artficially sweetened mango juice set on table tops…

What happened to the wild and the free, the sense that the truth is so deep and justice isn’t shallow or easy, what happened to depth and sadness and feelings and peopleness, 

What happened to the nockity monster or the Oura or the Oau, 

What happened to non-conformity and being different?

What about the eerie and the odd and the strange and the mad? What about life and soul and the small things that really matter? 

Why are we all so inhuman in our clicks?

Its all about money.

I am NOT making a POINT. I am sick of the internet doing that.

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the lab

So you’re working in straight white clothes, your lab coats so neat and starched, you are always on time, all the time, and there’s a smile, a humble one, on your face,

Just bordering on a self-satisfied smirk, every word you say comes out perfect,

Every word you try to say helpfully comes across as a little bit eager, a little bit happy, just the right amounts, but you- all of you- are part of that “clique”, that clique of success, where your lives are so smooth and fine, and everythings going your way- you make sure of that. Your world is your friends, you’re always cheerful-sometimes callously so, and you don’t see how much they hurt around you, you don’t see their hearts or their compassion- all you see is their outward and not what’s inside, all you see is the fairground elite, 

All you see is that failing grade or the dirt stain on that shirt or the messy hair or the smelly socks,

All you straight edged white coated lab-bers,

All you all saw was the stain on the dress, the messy, curly, spilling hair, the smelly socks, the fat-ting stomach, the falling grades, and the eerie wordlessness, that complete lack of speech accompanied by a rather desperate frightened look in the eyes, 

That look that you seemed to detest, that drew you in with your mockery,

You never looked any deeper, or you never felt any higher than your own damn fixation of what real should look like.

Look at me now. Look at you now.

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