I'm not saying I love you

I won't say I'll be true
There's a crimson bird flying
when I go down on you


Ballad of the Broken Seas




I think he used to like my mother.

Now she is married to the only man she has eyes for and they have children. So does he, but once.

What hard eggs.

Spellbound

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing dear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

Emily Brontë

Now it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table

But you only want the things

you can't get.

If reality is constructed in the mind and life is only as we perceive it, then if given a chance would you want to be put in a sleep forever where your mind can dream whatever it wants to, construct worlds, greece, spain, oceans, even outer space, beyond the milky way, even back in time, kampongs and medieval castles; could you agree and accept that as reality, knowing flesh-and-blood life could never give you that? Could the lover from the dream become REAL like the blood and bones lover standing before you who is, equally, a perception?

What stops ye?

Waking up everyday without reporting to someone, not spending the day in an air-conditioned room, using the day thinking and making things, but most of all

the world of adventures, places, rides, strangers, corners, oceans, fields.

I suppose I'm stubborn and seem mad, but I only feel sane thinking this way.

What does it mean to Make a Living?

I suppose, ironically, one has to work for freedom, towards being more free.

She comes down from Yellow Mountain
On a dark, flat land she rides
On a pony she named Wildfire
With a whirlwind by her side
On a cold Nebraska night

She ran calling Wildfire

ode to no one

my cartwheels are never straight
for the dust inside my bones
pollute my young boy's frame
make my rosy little cheeks
the rouge of an old grand gran;
happy laugh lines are wrinkles
lying against plump pillows
on moonlit nights with crickets
outside the cracking wood windows
lying with soft feet crossed
can't sleep or weep
dreaming of cartwheels
and circus crowds
the marvellous blue-yellow tent
sticky slippery lollies
and steaming caramel corn.
i do cartwheels for you, my sweet
handstands tumbles somersaults
just to get to your dark hole
my love is a cartwheel
strong and free and flying hair
green grass to cirrus skies
to lie with you in a caravan
how grand we'd be
for no one to see
just me and my ruby ring
you and your hohner rust
forever young
forever old.

Do you think to kill me?

There's no flesh and blood within this cloak to kill. There is only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof.

-V for Vendetta

*

A new year, and I've never felt more different. I don't know what it is. Wake up every weekday to do something that does not make me happy, wait for the next fulltime job with hope but a large dose of cynicism, brewing plans in the cauldron of my mind, butterflies in my stomach from possibilities, clinging onto old but always fresh fantasies of greece, spain, japan, and magic, more than ever, understanding more about the world and the un-world and myself and what I am to become, thinking of all my plans, plans, plans of which some may never bubble and some will. And the first meal of the year was The Elvis. It's going to be a good year.

*

I haven't slept well in three weeks, and am hardly allowed access to dreamland. Listening to MR. CHILDREN's 深海 restores some hope in men. One hardly meets them but I do everyday. The fruit uncle downstairs who has no favourite fruit.

Dive into the big blue sea!

Why is it so hard to find a sea around here to dive into?

Why don't we have a deep dark wood?

And John, because I can't ask my Mummy or Papa, why can't we lie down somewhere at night and look at the stars?

Lastly, what is the meaning of breasts and pubic hair?