spiderpig: (mmmmm. // ariake koichi)

How to, Ensare

Lay the trap nicely, firmly, gently,
Know what she likes, bring her
In with the old smell of paper, remind
her of the rustling turning of pages
as she opens, with a pen-knife,
----shhhhhhhreeeeeeeppp-----
through the perforated cardboard,
opens, with both hands, looking
into a womb of dead trees.

spiderpig: (Default)

Good Morning, Love
The perfect morning greeting is,
When cold water hits warm skin, when
Your warm lips meet my cool face; maybe
When I breathe in deep and you
do the same. I smile,
and the day begins.


Something that came to me when I was reading Possession with a sandwich.


I can never forget you; all your feelings for me (I'm not sure if it was love, but it was certainly an affection of some kind) are written in every page of all the books you made me read. Made me read with a vengeance, to keep up with your vociferous knowledge. I wanted to be like you, to be you, devouring, ingesting, nibbling on old paper and new books. I can never ever forget you, because every thing you said to me is inscribed in those books. They are worse than memories, because memories I can bury under dirt, shovel under deep dirty snow and forget that you asked me to read this or that. They stand there, proudly - almost smugly - on my shelves with only a layer of dust sneaking into the crusty old pages, or turning crisp new ones into yellowed history. I cannot forget because these, no matter what, are my favourites, and every time (every single time) I pick them up I feel you, pulsing through the one millimeter lines, threatening to stain my fingertips. As I read and reread, I do not want to, but am forced to, hear your voice reciting out my favourite lines. It's unfair. Why must my most treasured pastime be filled with so much hate, so much regret, so much love?

I continue to read these tortured receptacles of old love. I read them again, and again, and again because I want to believe that with every new reading, I forget yours, and then finally, these books will become me.
spiderpig: (moyashimon rabu)
best of friends
they wrote letters to each other,
marked "return to sender", because
they knew what the other wrote. understood
that even with the reading and the crying
they would never truly understand; understood
that they were one and the same of the many.
zizek's best friend was slavoj was zizek was slavoj.
spiderpig: (bitch please :: tiera)
COPY CAT, CHASE THE RAT
GO HOME LET YOUR MOTHER SLAP.
FATHER SAY NEVER MIND
BROTHER/SISTER SAY GO AND DIE


Wah lau eh. Why people want to copy until like that. Got no life of their own ah. :\ I damn pek chek when I see it lor. Okay lah, I not some big towkay or dua pai kia but still EH DON'T COPY ME CAN. Kao beh. Simi lan jiao.
spiderpig: (bitch please :: tiera)
Waste Land Limericks

I

In April one seldom feels cheerful;
Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;
Clairvoyantes distress me,
Commuters depress me--
Met Stetson and gave him an earful.

II

She sat on a mighty fine chair,
Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;
She asks many questions,
I make few suggestions--
Bad as Albert and Lil--what a pair!

III

The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;
Tiresias fancies a peep--
A typist is laid,
A record is played--
Wei la la. After this it gets deep.

IV

A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
About birds and his business--the lot,
Which is no surprise,
Since he'd met his demise
And been left in the ocean to rot.

V

No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,
Then thunder, a shower of quotes
From the Sanskrit and Dante.
Da. Damyata. Shantih.
I hope you'll make sense of the notes.

-- Wendy Cope


ROFL.
spiderpig: (literary criticism)
I have been reading!

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.

-Lord Byron


Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud


Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

-John Donne

(I remember having this as my last PC exercise during JC2, but I never did hand it up!)

Excerpt from Darkness

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.

-Lord Byron


Reading up for my own enrichment (oh wow, I sound like an educational spokesperson!) and for upcoming classes next sem. University has made me read less, much to my disappointment.

Anyway! I am definitely getting these lovely Moleskine City notebooks once they're out!

Feed my soul! )

random band ranting )

I wanted to get Tales of Beedle the Bard for my two younger boy cousins but I couldn't find them at Kino (a.k.a I did not want to navigate the throng of people there) so I picked out two pocket versions of the Iggulden brother's Dangerous Book for Boys. To my surprise, they were lovely reads! Yes yes, I read my cousin's presents. I can't help myself. I just read whatever I have at hand - shampoo bottles, sauce bottles, pamphlets, newspapers, magazines - if it has print I'll read it.

I was pleasantly surprised at the amount of poetry that was included in one of the volumes! (I think it was the Facts, Figures and Fun one?)

Iggulden's Dangerous Book for Boys )

I mean, the oodles of (good) poetry in there astounded me. And made me more certain that the boys should be getting this book for Christmas. Not only are the nuggets of information delicious fun, there is poetry! I wish that there were books like these when I was a kid! Though, I would've never gotten them for Christmas because I'm not a boy. I'll be adding these lovely books (even though I'm still not a boy) to my collection soon. I love the fact that they're hard-cover cloth books, which makes them really pretty on the bookshelf. Plus, their spines will hold up to the obvious wear and tear. Cheers to the Iggulden brothers for putting together what I think is an awesome book for children (and children at heart)!

Anyway, off to read more and need to wrap presents for the maternal family christmas party tomorrow! My mum wants to pair ham and oranges together. :\

leftovers.

Nov. 27th, 2008 05:29 pm
spiderpig: (speed of light // hoshi no koe)

Leftover Food.

I let, the water run over
flow under and around,
the vegetables in the drainer.
hope that, the flavours will be
washed away.
just like, how I hold my hands
beneath running water,
sitting and wishing that my
flavour, my tart taste will be
muted and rendered unseen.


spiderpig: (sheets of fire :: the office)
Remember
That to have the eyes of an artist,
That can be enough,
The ear of a poet,
That can be enough.
The soul of a human
just pointed
in the direction of the divine,
that can be more than enough.
I tell you this to remind myself.
Every gesture is an act of creation.
Even empty spaces and silence
can be the wings and voices of angels.
- Michele Linfante
spiderpig: (opposable thumbs :: konata)
By Maya Angelou (who is one of my favourite contemporary poets)

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

constraint.

Oct. 7th, 2008 03:07 am
spiderpig: (sakura sake :: byousoku 5cm)

stop        en
trap        ping
our         souls
in between four
walls      letting
words    force
us          into
small     spaces.
let         me, and
my        world, overflo
w.



What do I miss? I miss T04 where I could be myself entirely. Where I loved my classmates because they were inspiring. I feel a horrible lack these days, that I've been left behind. My body is here and right now, but my soul is still stuck in 2006.

to a lion

Sep. 18th, 2008 05:45 pm
spiderpig: (i have opposable thumbs :: konata)
to a dead lion (hanging on my wall, or lying on the floor)

I dresssed you in wit; placed
some sort of intrinsic value in
you.
I gave you shoes too big; made
you socks too tight (your bony feet
looked horrible -- gaunt -- in them).
I brushed until you shone; glowing
with your own self-imbued glory and
my foolish belief that you had no teeth.
O, but they were sharp. You tooled
me, secretly building up a false lustre upon my work.
I took off that mantle I gave you, along
with the badges that came along with it: Lance Corporal (Intelligence),
Private (Charm), Sergeant (Breaking and Entering).



Lost my self, trying to find me again. O, existence is a pain. A pain in my very short and thick neck. My shoes are either too small and constraining my feet; or too small that they've disappeared altogether.

I'm feeling particularly myself these days, and by that I mean I like to be alone. Surrounded by four walls, but not that tight that I feel claustrophobic. Not that it's easy for my to feel claustrophobic. The walls of life are always closing in. I don't really want to speak to anyone, I don't want to see anyone, I don't want to be seen by anyone. Prolonged seclusion and isolation - not loneliness. Loneliness is forced upon you; isolation and seclusion are choices - that I've made.

I like, I'd like to be able to unafraid to speak during lessons. To say what I think and not think of any repercussions. I'm slowly trying, slowly inching my foot into that circle. I spoke a bit during the 19th century class (and I suspect that I'll go slightly raving mad during the Alice tutorials because I have so many things to say about Carroll) about Hopkins and his relationship with God. Would being a non-Christian and hence not indoctrinated with all these Christian beliefs and parables affect my understanding and interpretation of Hopkins? I said yes - or rather, I said that I wasn't a Christian and I did view things differently. But being Christian or not, I always view things differently. I saw Mariana in her moated grange as not being entirely passive - I saw her as choosing a (wrong?) way to cope with her world which was falling apart. Views were met with silence apart from Dr P's attempt in pulling out my thesis. So with Hopkins and the whole issue with "(my God!) my God." Why an exclamation mark? And then a period? Why not two exclaimation marks or two fullstops? What effect does it have when you try to eununciate? I saw it differently.

Differently.

I tend to dwell on things, I like to read into things - pick apart silly details but details nonetheless - and I revel in the lattice of meanings that I can find. Which is why I'm trying to pull apart this mess of Me and hopefully find a beautiful iron-wrought lattice.
spiderpig: (put me out of my misery! :: konata)
An hour or so to Wednesday and half the week would be over! I have a philosophy essay due on Friday and have to try to complete that while scheduling in the Thursday screening of The Hours. =A=;; Life is not getting easier by the day, but I'll just take whatever it throws at me.

So a little breather before I plunge back into the sea of possibility. I mused to Prof Ang that I can't seem to escape from ships and the ocean this semester. Hyogo Ship, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The Wreck of the Deustchland(sic), me dreaming of ships sinking and people drowning - all very wet, and very dreary but all things are interconnected and well. I do like the sea and its flux of unmutable power.

Today's presentation on Coleridge went much, much better than last Friday's presentation on A Portrait. (Last week was a dismal failure, I apologise to all the poor souls who had to sit through all the drivel that I put you all through!) I adore Prof Ang (or Prof A as I like to call her, because it goes along with Prof G and Prof P!) and she really makes me want to attend tutorials. I never actually want her tutorials to end, which is rather odd considering how I just like to stay at home and, read. Still, I must wax lyrical about how Prof A rocks my socks off. She inspires me, she prods and pushes without being overbearing -- it's all very very pleasant and a very (almost horrendously) wonderful atmosphere to learn in. I feel positively glowing when I'm in her lectures and classes! Fangirl much?

Yes, a breather for now.


ideal ideal

What I look for in a man: brown
nearly black eyes that only
look at me and those quaint
bits of knick-knacks by the window.
Buy them for me: magnetic milkcartons,
petulant pins; take pleasure in
presenting me with precious things and
enjoy receiving them in return. glow, when you
see sturdy wooden shelves, weathered through
love and aged with use. smile, when you
notice that small rocking lamb with frayed tail
edges.
You take delight in the study of light, the musty eeriness of the
darkroom; you bathe in the yellowed pages of
leatherbound books, words are your soap and you lather them
they rise up as bubbles, and I gather them one by
one by one by one. The rhythm of drums and bass, we revel in
the songs of tomorrow, lounging like lizards (i do hate them so) and you
sing soft verses that only I can hear.
You will, you would, you could find me waiting here as I walk slowly,
catching glimpses of you in everyone, but still not finding any one. Will you,
your books, your music, your eye for the serene and beautiful,
catch me before I fall off the
edge?
spiderpig: (you tripped my heart :: lelouch)
immeasurable strength

I wish,
I was stronger. Strong enough to
To cut myself in two;
Separate
My from Self and then live
Happily Ever After.

I wish,
I was stronger. A whole lot more,
So I could lift my heavy heart;
Hurl it in the Sea, and let the waves
Part
(for a brief moment)
As it sinks, like the Hope and the Star.

I wish,
I had immeasurable strength. The same sort of
meaning that "a thousand miles" has (but doesn't
really mean 1000 miles)
Just, a figure of speech
That bends slowly to the salty sea breeze;
But never breaks.
spiderpig: (you tripped my heart :: lelouch)
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime...
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near,
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.

- Andrew Marvell, 1621 – 1678


But how should I avoid to be her slave,
Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath
My fetters of the very air I breath?

- Andrew Marvell, 1621 – 1678


Note: Please let The Time Traveler's Wife not fail the book. The book was lovely. I won't go so far as to say that it was a literary masterpiece, but it moved me. It moved my rock-hard soul and frozen heart. I have yet to find any other recent book that has had such an effect on me.

Oh wait. Murakami.

Let me correct myself: I have yet to find a not-translated book that has such an effect on me. I've read it twenty times over (or more, but feelings don't measure up like that) and I have never tired of Henry and Clare, just as they have never tired of themselves.
spiderpig: (relakkonata mfu~)
IT is bleeding with a lust for life
As something emerges from you,
"Born to the world" it says, and crys
a babel of languages, a song of woe
in a multiplicate desert where the rain
evaporates before it hits the ground.

IT is bleeding with a lust for life
As it rolls out from your mouth, spills
from your veins and onto paper, everyw
here, on the sheets and tables,
on the blessed ground - sand and grass.

IT is bleeding, bleeding with such a want to live again,
That it cannot bear being alive
it must die
or it shall never feel that desire, that immense
longing to live again if it were but not
six feet beneath the froth of the sea.

IT is bleeding, it has bled for that
Lovely, longing, lust for life
that nothing remains.
not a skeleton of bones,
nor a thread of hair that marks
something which was once there:
an idea,
a thought;
unfamiliar phenomenon.



So anyway, the latest issue of HOOKED is out and yours truly has penned two articles for the Oddball issue.

The Steven Lim interview (interview was conducted by my co-writer but everything else: writing of the article, style, voice, everything else really is me - I must pimp myself!) and the L - change the WorLd review (which I also posted on In Your Basement).

Yeah, that's a heck of a long review but I assure you, it's a good one. ;D

Come to think of it, it's already been a semester and a half since I joined and have been writing for HOOKED. Hmm. O: I have an urge to join the Campus Observer too.

I've become horribly inactive in my fandoms. I am a failure as a fangirl!!!!!! Need to write fics and draw some fanart.

uguuu~

Jan. 28th, 2008 12:19 am
spiderpig: (robot. robot.)
First things first, HAPPY BIRTHDAY [livejournal.com profile] phrotus!!! (over in this side of the world!)

This semester isn't going as well as I expected. I seem to be stuck in an motivational slum. I need to do some sort of work on the annotations between the Lears that I have but I just don't want to do it. What I really want to do is just sit on my bed, still in its sofa-form, and wrap myself in my comforter.

It's going to take a whole lot of effort to consistently study this semester. I mean, what with the amount of readings I have to do and the homework. Gah.

a conditioner of air, which drips
water to the steady beat of background beats (drums, syncopation)
a lustrous, velveteen voice singing over the frantic
clip-clops of keys being pressed into crevices.
i am, deaf to the world, ears cupped in softness,
before me is only light. light jumping out from screens,
creeping behind shaded plastic, peeking shyly out from under
curtains.

because i want to feel something tac-tile beneath my fingers,
to see something materialize out of otherwise blank (sometimes lined) space,
to hear something other than loneliness skipping towards me with its
moonsmile, to taste air that is cold and piercing, to smell
burnt radiator fluids, churning in an labyrinth of wires and electric pulses.


Anyway, I've been given the go-ahead to write the video game music article I pitched! I'm limited to only one A4 page (single spaced, font size 12 Times New Roman LOL) so it's time to work whatever creativity I possess into making a concise but addictive article. Something that people will be reading again and again. Even if it's just one A4 page. XD

And I've been "promoted" to become a moderator at the SMUN! OMG. @__@ I am slightly overwhelmed!

con-troll.

Sep. 25th, 2007 12:57 am
spiderpig: (relakkonata mfu~)


They descend, like thick snake-heads, in parallel lines, twisting around each other. They descend, like moonbeams on a still night, or like starlight that has been forsaken by their heavenly placements. They descend, flying downwards, to an unmistakable end of uncertainty. The moment is captured forever, but everything else after or before that, is lost.

Light, )
spiderpig: (Y__Y)
we produce it for human beings

Trapped, liberated, pushing through and past bodies
A hit and miss, you are now so far away.
I grasped at thin air, trying to touch your heavy shoulders
Those creases around your eyes
Only a silver, momentary weakness showing through.
Then it's all smiles for the camera,
Put on that mask, that people want you to wear,
You've lost your self to the world, and all I can do is watch.
Watch, and watch you submerge into masses of people,
swallowed whole by fanatical love
and all I can do is just
Stand in a distance and

Futility is my middle name.
spiderpig: (just peachy keen)

"My road is beyond the blue sky;
The clouds never make any commotion.
In this world there is a tree without any roots;
Its yellow leaves send back the wind."
- Sozan
[his dying words]



The very air
(Faith Reason
)


but we tire      of spirit      sight
         striving always      for elsewhere as we are
so much      among phenomena      God
         loses luster      where we are local only     inured
to detail      starting small      with grasses
         flowers then trees    we don't know     nor rocks
days      to recite the names      of them all
         seems heaven enough      to us      because  what is
language that      "categories of thought
         embodied in individual living forms"      thread through us
& things equally      —matter      a sidereal charity
         & doesn't it bract      doesn't it sepal & send seed splitting sheath
into soil      doesn't our flesh      the very fossils      tremble bedrock

Brian Teare
spiderpig: (just peachy keen)

somebody told me;;
that life was spread out in a million miles of paper
trails from one end to the next, in a flash of bygone texts
mses, messages that spring forth from an wavering river
of flickering data packets.

if this is life, would i want to hold it (hold you) in my hand?
soft, hardened, feint veins of being, all encompassing,
four walls of flesh
on bzztbzztbzztbarely there feelings and intonations.

if this is life, pull the plug, i no
longer want to be surrounded by reams,
tightened at the seams, it is
suffocating, undulating.
wrap in a fantasy, me, i long for no
multiple meanings, duly constructed readings.

give me something not made from LED light,
(please pull the plug, drain me off my battery)
it, five centimeters per second. (just like the amount of time, to read this line)

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