spiderpig: (literary criticism)
Written on the bus; might use it for the opening of my steampunk novella.


She worked in a bookshop, surrounded by the ghosts of all the Great Whales. She struggled to "recommend me something", "I don't know what I like", because what the hell, she didn't know what she liked either. It was like chasing after the elusive " " after writing half a sentence. Nothing fits. She'd pull out books at random "try this", "what about him?" but they never did understand her choices. Littered on the floor, she screamed.

"Then what's the point of it all!"


I really want to name her Auden.

Another snippet, from the same bus ride:

But what she really wanted, was to be embalmed in paper and ink, to be felt through the edges, age of pulp flattened by the industrial machines, her soul compressed in between the lines.


I really want to finish this book!
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)
Film is loaded (expired film, a gift from my brother; two more rolls of film are nestled in the suticase, a gift from Goat Shabu Shabu lovers), my iPhone has recovered and is filled with over 900 songs to last me 2 weeks (about 282mb of free space for ad-hoc recordings), just sent in my FlowTV article which hopefully will be accepted, have 3 notebooks in my bag (1 for academic stuff and 2 pocket sized ones for my diary of sorts), I am still a little uncomfortable at leaving Auden behind but this is for his own good, suitcase is packed and I'm going through it one more time, I am imagining mountainous landscapes and surreal vistas. I want to scream a little right now.

I just read Dan Baum's story about being hired and fired by The New Yorker - now that's the kind of magazine or publication I would like to write for in the future. I am not and will not be, in the near future, capable of writing anything as intelligent and compelling like the things in The New York Times or The New Yorker, but I hope that someday, after years of putting pen to paper - or in this case, fingers to keyboard - I'll be able to write with flair and distinctive style.

I was at TCO's potluck and I felt like an outsider. This is not to say that TCO has such at atmosphere, it is nothing like that. TCO is wonderfully warm and challenged me in so many more ways that well, other publications do. It's a different spin on things and something that I appreciate. Still, I have this phobia of socializing. And I felt sufficiently unaccomplished because well, I haven't had any of my stories published. Not sad, just unaccomplished.

But it was a fun night. Talked to Jon about Buddhism and the Buddhism programme, watched American Idol and Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader with Dr Perry and TCO team.

Next day saw me getting up waaaaaay too early and hitting 3 Buddhist places before heading down to BooksActually to collect my Goat Shabu Shabu! :D Hung out there for a while before going off to meet my parents. Dr G popped by (was late, got on the wrong bus >__> ) while I was there.

FlowTV article has been giving me lots of grief too. I think I am not cut out to be an academic. Or rather, my insides would have turned inside out before I survive past the first year. It is Tough Work and I would like to labor at it still. If it gets published I will link it, if it doesn't I will post it up and learn from it.

Am bringing The Enchanter (Nabokov) and Design as Art along with me. I would like to bring another book along. Still contemplating if Umberto Eco would be a good choice. It would er, add unnecessary weight and I'm planning to raid bookstores in Thailand and Taiwan for nice old books.

Going abroad reminds me of the brief two day trip Choon and I took to Vietnam, before going on board the Hyogo ship. I remember distinctly, with the dust in my eyes and a dark-skinned lady coming up to us with books balanced on the ends of a pole, beckoning us to buy some of the cheap copies she had. We were mere facsimiles in her eyes, copies of other tourists she hoped to interest. I was more interested the men on the other side of the street, crouched over a small chess board, cigarette in hand. Horrendously orientalized images, but still so true in a strange, Kodak moment way.

I sent

I will return on the 30th, and will immediately set forth in looking for a job. Something that will give me enough time to write - aside from the novella I'm working on, I want to write an academic piece on Disney! - at my own pace: which is slow. Work because I like to work, because I like the industriousness of the Protestant ethic.

Which reminds me, must get de Botton's latest book when I get back and get my allowance.
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.

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A Tan

September 2011

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