And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Friday, February 23, 2007
a general detachment, from love, from things. perhaps it comes from leaving singapore. when i think singapore, i think, the passion of people, emo spectacles, photographing fairies, sweltering humidity, storms, the smell of fermenting fruit in markets - pork lard, acrid fish, mangoes, flies, armpits - it stinks of death and sadness and incompletion, and life. the snow has come down, masking smells in new york. a part of me wants to stink, wants to smell like body odour, but the air is dry. so it is a different sort of incompletion, the incompletion of half-lives, half-perfected accents, a life half-buried in books, half-sleep (dear god, anything, but half-sleep), the half-memory of a vacuous half-kiss. my heart today, is half-empty, half-full, oh if it would threaten to spill. if i could be hysterical and longing, and exhausted from myself, then sleep, then wake. instead, half-melted snow. in the bed next to mine, two halves are resting beside each other, between their bodies is tension between two stanzas of a sonnet. and the little room is littered with hysterical clothes. and then, the general detachment. a general irritation at the way the sentences in my mind all end with irresolute commas

Tuesday, February 20, 2007
michael fischer: "if" opens the gates for the devils to enter.

Saturday, February 17, 2007
the influence of the sunlight
i compose myself, slightly, almost thrown off balance, by the influence of the sunlight.

Thursday, February 15, 2007
love and learning

today, writing to pak, i came to the conclusion that love is not really it.
madilyn came back from babysitting last night on 86th street. the child in question was a chinese adopted 4 year old who has saks bags in her room, and is growing up in a jewish home, and loves the "ladybug and the thread". she was a pretty child, and pretty children usually have it their way. beautiful girls should not just be raised on love.
you are the quiet one tonight.
i will carry my silence, maybe when it gets heavy we can stop to rest for a while. it's a long way.

the silence that stood between two bodies took a long time to settle, when it settled, it settled like snow. they were from another country, and were still trying to understand whether they liked the silence of the snow.
now we are both in exile now.
and i am sitting here while it snows, and thinking, love and learning. what a lovely ring, love and learning.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007
dear god.
i beg you to help me sleep.

Sunday, February 11, 2007
flowers, and etc
to escape the cold, he flew in. we brushed the snow and dust from his shoulders. we learn to breathe in spite of winter and ourselves.

he left. i cooked

black bean tofu and rice, cleaned my table, and did my laundry.

now my room has the faint smell of detergent, flowers incongruous and laughing in winter, other residues of him.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007
and the same black line that was drawn on you, was drawn on me/ has drawn me in, sixth avenue heartache.
i'm in the library, reading Kagan's The limits of morality. last night i read Mitchell's Colonising Egypt: An Appearance of Order my education in new york has been thoroughly destabilising, in thought, morality. but in 6 months, i have learnt the value of doubt. i like where i study. it breaks you down, the same way you would be put in a room without light, and made to confess your secrets. and as each secret was divulged, she realised everything that she had come to know which intrinsic to her as the muscle fibres that constituted the heart, was merely a form of bribery. as the secrets unravelled, like nerves, she felt her body falling apart. each piece of knowledge you know must be spat out, with blood, to deliver yourself from the place where they locked you. and the moment you divulge these secrets, you will be free, but you will also have lost your clothes, your hair, everything that reeked of you, everything that was of you.

and maybe they will release you, and finally you will cherish that white, impossible light, you took for granted. and maybe in complete absence, you will be finally be in a state absent of expectations, and life will assume a dimension of intensity you never known before.

a roomful of white
last night our heater broke down and our window fell off its hinge. i was trying to sleep, but it was too cold. in the middle of the night, the radio came on. i am worried, about numerous things, which i don't talk about because it is being self-indulgent. ive been home from the library really late every night. new york exists in paired couplets, especially after 2am. but more than anything, i would like a roomful of white and snow.

Monday, February 05, 2007
this blog is screwed. now everytime i feel like blogging and being adolescent i think about the faces of the people reading the blog and i feel like laughing, in gratefulness. and its too difficult to be sad.

Saturday, February 03, 2007
Excuse me but can I be you for a while
My dog won't bite if you sit real still
I got the anti-Christ in the kitchen yellin' at me again
Yeah I can hear that
Been saved again by the garbage truck
I got something to say you know
But nothing comes
Yes I know what you think of me
You never shut-up
Yeah I can hear that

But what if I'm a mermaid
In these jeans of his
With her name still on it
Hey but I don't care
Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent All These Years

So you found a girl
Who thinks really deep thougts
What's so amazing about really deep thoughts
Boy you best pray that I bleed real soon
How's that thought for you
My scream got lost in a paper cup
You think there's a heaven
Where some screams have gone
I got 25 bucks and a cracker
Do you think it's enough
To get us there

Cause what if I'm a mermaid
In these jeans of his
With her name still on it
Hey but I don't care
Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent All These.

Years go by
Will I still be waiting
For somebody else to understand
Years go by
If I'm stripped of my beauty
And the orange clouds
Raining in head
Years go by
Will I choke on my tears
Till finally there is nothing left
One more casualty
You know we're too easy Easy Easy

Well I love the way we communicate
Your eyes focus on my funny lip shape
Let's hear what you think of me now
But baby don't look up
The sky is falling
Your mother shows up in a nasty dress
It's your turn now to stand where I stand
Everybody lookin' at you here
Take hold of my hand
Yeah I can hear them

tori amos, silent all these years

[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators

[people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel .

[other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc

[me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca.

[yesterday] holding on tight -- vol ii
death and new york city
ever get afraid of sounding stupid, boring, uninfo...
sleep activism
things im excited about
thinking about flight
accents and attractions
i got an on-campus job--production assistant at th...

[archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

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