chaotic lines

there was an exclusive date at the lawn of eternal refuse. when everything seems to blabber in lightning confusion, the only thing that make sense is the vagueness of it all. rather than visual or entertaining, we succumb to the rather narcissistic tendencies that lie hidden in the fractured psyches of our damned existence. we produce ludicrous results from premeditated insanities. yet we smile at the face of our own demise.

speaking of which.

I shadow the mortal conclusions of my upheaving mentality. currently, euphoria playing the dominion of my headbeats. there has to be a purpose to the daily life of a wide-eyed punk like, yes, yours truly.

the drumming of the heart does not lay steadfast the true heartfelt goal of moving forward to a sudden end of all things boggeyman. if my sentences themselves are painted blurs of a discerning far more complex than every living, breathing cellular leech of an emotion lay barren with the continues deliberate anecdotes of a sad poet.

thank goodness.

the gladness of being alive is more profoundly abused with these unnatural dancing in the brilliant sadness of the heart. but here lies the executive generosity of life. you dance, even in the rain.

you dance even in the rain. 

The Sun also Rises

I wanted to speak about my growth but refrained at the last second. Words are shallow feet threading this half-imagined landscape. It pleases me, No, it is humbling enough to muse with my everyday existence; hurting enough to close an eye to what I perceive as an insult to a capacity that seems to be getting harder to realize: failure and the lack of motivation to recall what motivated me to write in the first place. But posting these grumblings are sure enough evidence that I cling to some form of Hope, to some hazy Dream. (Notice the capital letters <--- at the last sentence. They may be elevated forms of respect to the 13 year old child within me).
It excites me, it enlightens me, this post that is. This could be the beginning of something mobile, though far from eloquent, I find it gratifying that Our Good Lord does lift my spirits and whisper (as if) --it ain't over son, until I tell it so.
I wanted to steal this wonderful moments where my hands seem to find, spot on the letters by which these surprising algorithm of words take form. But more fulfilling is the thought that from time to time I'm still invited in this zone, this literary nirvana, this fluid reception of impertinent ideas banging together, but, with unabashed uniformity: this is mojo, clunking, noise, beauty. I am invited for I do not hold the key for freedom entry, but still, it is a joy to behold. Ah, I wonder if I'd be invited more often than not.

My fascination with literature is only balanced with my lack of grammatical command. And when I point to literature, I may be disillusioned, (or wrogfully understood), to speak of Poe with such regard higher than that I have for a biological father. My limited knowledge of Poe's life only brought more to my adoration of his dizzying prosical godliness, to his screaming ironies, to his vexed world painted in gray and gray gloom. I love reading and re-reading his otherworldy poetry, getting lost in his verses, and understanding so little of his stories' story, but leaning to be swoon away with his flow which is his alone for all eternity. So Poe introduced me to such contemporary story-teller monsters such as the young Brite, the venerable Burn, the lowly-disguised-genius Mc Grath, and to that other american literary god, Hemmingway.

Is this a pattern then, is this a path? I fascinate to the level of spurts they include in thier writings, but where does it come from? Is it from birth? From good learning? Is is from the heart? From the soul?

I may never get the answer today, or in the near future.

In the meantime, I could not wait to lay my eyes on "The Sun also Rises", and study Sir Ernest's flow, which, again, his alone for all eternity.

Holla 2011!

Good news doesn't come banging at my door. If there's something good in goodness, then it's the opportunity to make one. Deciding to ditch my old self is like teaching a roughed and tumbled stray dog some domesticating. But the good news in that, are a.) i'm good with learning, though dumb at times, and b.) i'm no stray dog.

So my rolled up sleeve will go bye-bye, and i'll be taking a bath with with my own stinking sweat(no pun intended here), ala Benedictine discipline if you may. But of course, nothing is what it seems here. Well if we just burn our arse-s like some monochromatic-programmed machines, then we should be called bio-robots right? I think the better understanding would be, finding the bliss in the rut, hiding under nirvana tree while the storm surges. Remember Makonochi(hehe... anime' anyone?), broken teeth, an even uglier eye socket, but still finds that crooked smile while charging on. I'm starting to see a bit of that light now. It's not the fear of getting koed with face kissing life's downthrodded canvasse. Masse - it's about not fearing at all, heck not thinking about fearing(at all -- if it's possible).

Thanks to some unconventional brand theme, JUST DO IT! or better yet, IMPOSSIBLE IS NOTHING.

Whoa 2011, it's Onse's year.

My Brilliant Aphrodisiac (Another stupid realization!)

Say, what time is it(looking at the tray's date: 2 fourty-five pm, 28th of November Decade clock)? I just turned 27, a few days back. Carefully I wanted to un-wish(if it's possible) to not die somewhere in my 28th year of existence.
Julia 10(mint) happily obliges to my computer whims, and I found out that I don't really buy too much with open source software than previously felt. Well my windows 7 works well, though it is true that it attracts a horde of digital viruses, well am not going to remove it anytime soon. I try to find some sort of nirvana in my virtual world that might be useful in my real world.
I spent another week, looking gloomy ahead. I'm afraid that my beloved wife is carrying another child. It should be good news right? Well if milk comes free, or that raising another child entails no tussle and bruising, then the answer would be a definitive yes. But you got to understand that I have a 2 then and 1 year old-ers. I work two jobs, and even on weekends I burn my ass on sidelines just to meet ends.
Ah.
I gotta figure out something.
Chocolate, anyone got one? It's been sour tasting lately.

un-Jazzy Life

"I am stuck for the nth time in this rut". I used to say between curses, looking above as if to blame something, someone. My teeth grinding in dismay over calculated loopholes and unmerciful dissapointments and suddenly realizing there's no one, or nothing to point my fingers to, but me. That's when I break into my crooked smile, my tongue caressing my rotten front tooth, and heaving a big sigh, I mimic Buble' -- "That's Life", this is.
That's when it hit me. This thing called life, is just too big for me to dissect and compress into formulas influenced by authors emotionally detached or intellectually unnerving. That's when I slowly come to my senses, this is never meant to be published before it's written, that's when I am humbled beyond the same lines of defeat and recognition. I give up.
Sigh.
I give up, on thinking too much, trying to hold on things that was not there in the first place. I give up on being too far fetched with my crooked ideas, with my day clear fantasies, with my obsession with anything and everything prosical and beautifully vague. I give up on giving up.
With fist on my chest, I may start plucking those strings instead of hooting that sax.

Incredible Days

Let's just start off with a 'kawabanga' then lay it to rest. What's a 'kawabanga' by the way? Well it's a line from a movie that I tend to forget, adopted by yours truly in explanation of the expression 'I got played'.

Incredible.

Just plain incredible.

These past few days, I thought I was making progress with something noteworthy. Got my internet going, paid three electric bills, accepted the fact that I won't get paid with my last project. I thought life will still move on. And it did. But not with some sad then turning out funny incident.

-Sigh-

The story was too perplexed to be introduced to you dear people so I'd ellaborate it the way my past High School Teacher explain with enviable bravado his self discovered formulas: A who's with B met C in a digital chit chat, got comfortable, established a connection, A began threading the imaginary polygonal with C only to find out that C was with D. WTF.

Well that's life.

Back to Reality.

It was for most part a self inflicted reality until it was no more.

So A, lemme ask you, dear sir a Q, 'Gonna die on your lap, eh?'

-Don't think So.

KAWABANGA.

Impertinent Blues

There were days when the sun does not feel right, or the nights are too animated to be excited about. There were moments when being alive is only half the dish that were served right. These were the dog days. The days of having your eyes wide shut. Creeping feelings are never bashful, always at the door, looming larger then the ray of hope they block. Ah, the never ending cycle of the remorseful poet.
Sometimes, you grin in disbelief at what is in front of you: another scripted day of familiar hours, boring minutes, killing seconds.
I wanted to write a book but struggled at its content. I could spurt out hundreds or thousands of empty words, in the end, it'll only serve my unforgiving boredom.

What to Write.
What to Think.
What to....

Well. Just give up already