Another three weeks before home and I’ve already started packing impatiently, as if the flight was tomorrow. I guess I just can’t wait for another Fascination Street experience.
My dreams are bordering on madness, sometimes they appear so vivid that Ihttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif tell myself in my dream that it’s only a dream, it’s only a dream and I would tell myself three times…
My mind is passing beyond the limits of sanity, because I’m hungry. I haven’t even properly started this self-imposed diet yet and the transition seems to already hint or enhance my sense of deprivation.
Last week’s dream was bestial. I won’t elaborate, but it was like this.
Last night I had to make a decision whether or not to take a trip on a ghost train. I remember a black circle-shaped door. The door was part of a massive graffiti on the wall illustrating a pale dark-haired woman – the door being her mouth. The bell was in her nostril. Her eyes were white, almost ghost-like. I didn’t go inside, because I was distracted by other things. A lot was already happening outside, around me – something like a riot, I don’t quite remember. I was selling designer lip balm at some point. I think my pillow is gathering Lovecraft’s perspiration of poisonous murk.
Do you reckon Ellen P. will like these dreams?
In my dreams desire is androgynous, which I find somewhat worrying.
The month of the Taurus has come to an end. My attempt to occupy myself a little longer with nihilism has failed big time. Where do emotions go otherwise if there’s no hangman you can offer them to? If you hold on to them for too long, they’ll get corroded by time; they’ll be useless and no longer easy for the heart to digest. I keep finding myself mask my self-pity. I don’t even care; you seem to care more about it than I do. This can’t be healing, I think it’s scarring. Maybe I’m hungry after three years of celibacy.
I recall the memories of losing virginity twice. The third time will be a novelty – sad or wild, I don’t care anymore.
If my interests are shocking and morbid, then it’s because others are boring. I hate it when people ask what I put in my blog – it’s like…It’s none of your business! Well I write about what you don’t talk about. And I use creative modifications to cover up my nastiness whereas you just insist on concealing your naked soul from me. Not even a little hint, or a flavourful taste. You make me sick.
Sycophants and opportunists. You make me sick.
I shall start the incision right here ______________________
Let’s analyse what’s inside that pillow, then plunge into delirium. I promise it won’t be that bad. The only impediment we have is your fear.
The suture can wait.
Sonntag, 29. Mai 2011
Mittwoch, 25. Mai 2011
Perseverance
A dislocated dream in the art world
Like reality's eye seeking escapism
Where to go is not what matters
For this cage expands in the heart
Every keystroke, every footstep
Every enunciated word of madness
Is perseverance within absurdity
Like reality's eye seeking escapism
Where to go is not what matters
For this cage expands in the heart
Every keystroke, every footstep
Every enunciated word of madness
Is perseverance within absurdity
Montag, 23. Mai 2011
Somewhat Damaged: Chapter 5 (first half)
My next patient is Scott Griffith, a seventeen year old rock musician. I watch him kiss his girlfriend in the waiting room before he enters the treatment room with me. She is petite and has pink hair urging people to misjudge her on the spot.
Scott’s transfer papers indicate a deteriorating thyroid condition which needs further examination before contemplating operation. An ultrasound scan diagnosed excessive iodine production leading to an increase of thyroid hormones. According to the previous checkup, the size of his thyroid gland is still increasing. The current state of the swelling already looks as severe as I have assumed.
“Ever since these goiters, I’ve been having sore eyes, as if they were bulging.”
“It’s a symptom that occurs under very rare circumstances. I’ll give you drops.”
Toxic goiters have always repulsed me in a non-medical way; they remind me of fat people who don’t chew before they swallow, resulting the food to accumulate in their throat. Scott, on the other hand, is a handsome fellow, however, despite his tired eyes suggesting chronic lethargy. He stares deliriously at my four panel curtain, as if there was a ghost hiding behind it.
When wiping his neck with antiseptic solution, he makes no noticeable movement, not even a little reaction to the cold liquid on his skin. I wonder whether numbing his skin with some anesthetic is necessary before the biopsy.
“Is this the result of not eating healthily? My immune system’s a bitch, y’know, like life itself.”
I pause and look him in the face, but he’s still glaring at the curtains with his automaton eyes.
“It is very likely that your immune system has turned against your thyroid’s function, Mr. Griffith, and this stimulates the antibodies in your gland to a more enhanced activity.”
“A shame that antibodies can’t think, eh?” he says. “Driven by instinct.”
I prepare the syringe for the aspiration biopsy.
“Ironically it is me who produces these proteins, right? I am all those assiduous cells, but the cells aren’t me…”
Now he glances at me in a way as if he had always known me, then he looks at the fine thin needle. He slowly curls his hand around mine which is holding the needle firmly.
“I used to be a hard-working cell, Doctor Parker.”
“I’m sure you still are.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not referring to this life.”
While he shoots me a sinister look, his grasp around my hand becomes firm.
“I used to be the leader in your body when you were little, but during that particular battle you bled me out.”
I immediately let go of the needle.
“I was gazing up at the grass while resting on dark ploughed earth,” he continues, “I felt very cold. Then the earth sucked me in…my new purpose was to fertilize a daisy by offering my life.”
Before I realize it, I feel the first tear drawing a line down my cheek, and I don’t usually cry to poetry.
“Did you write a song about this?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s called ‘Innocent’.”
It’s early in the morning and I watch how Nurse Manager Judy and the scrub nurses set up the operating theatre while a few junior surgeons gather at the back of the room. During the microscopic examination, I discerned that Scott’s cells were no longer following their regulatory mechanism. On the micrograph the specimen looked like fluid cyst, but the resulting prognosis was follicular neoplasm – possible cancer due to cancerous tissues showing growth. With ambiguous diagnoses like this one, the only way to identify the illness is to check the whole capsule of the goiter.
I watch Scott’s girlfriend hold his hand in tears while the nurses push his hospital bed towards the operating room. I inhibit the girl from entering the room with her restless nature.
“You seriously have to calm down. Everything will be all right.”
“I don’t like you,” she says.
I step aside, as though allowing her to enter the operating room.
“I know about you,” she continues, “Scott won’t stop talking about you.”
“I’m just here to perform a lobectomy, Miss.”
“Yeah, do what you have to do! But don’t you dare touch his larynx!”
She knocks my arm with her shoulder as she walks past heading for the elevator. I’m sure she wishes our shoulders were the same height.
Scott gives me a delicate smile before the anesthetist puts him to sleep. The idea of me having authority over his thyroid’s hormonal function involving his body’s energy level explains Scott’s lady friend’s attitude.
I make a 3 inch incision along the mass above where the clavicle and sternum meet, and then watch the blood slowly ooze out and accumulate at the edge of the wound. So to Scott, these are living citizens in his body; inborn citizens with a right to remain in their homeland, in order to continue their vigorous work. The scrub nurse applies a self-retaining retractor to hold my fine incision open and adds another to pull back the infrahyoid muscles, allowing me an unconditional admission into Scott’s mushy little kingdom. When removing organs I tend to use the electrocautery to control heavy bleeding. As I cut through the thyroid tissue, I hear a moan. I throw a quick glance at the nurse.
“Is anything wrong, Doctor?”
I look at the bright halogen lights above me and at all surgical apparatuses that I’m surrounded by.
“It’s nothing.”
After the removal of half of the tissue I see the laryngeal nerve behind the gland, and I just can’t refrain from grinning behind the mouth mask. The nerve originates as a sort of limb of the vagus nerve, which ascends to one’s brain in the carotid sheath; the sheath that engulfs the neck’s vascular cubicle – an escapist’s playground.
In fact, now I can hear Scott’s song. His sweet, mild sounding baritone voice resembles Dave Gahan’s. I wonder whether his pink haired lady friend has touched his every part, including hidden spots of his slim body.
Scott’s transfer papers indicate a deteriorating thyroid condition which needs further examination before contemplating operation. An ultrasound scan diagnosed excessive iodine production leading to an increase of thyroid hormones. According to the previous checkup, the size of his thyroid gland is still increasing. The current state of the swelling already looks as severe as I have assumed.
“Ever since these goiters, I’ve been having sore eyes, as if they were bulging.”
“It’s a symptom that occurs under very rare circumstances. I’ll give you drops.”
Toxic goiters have always repulsed me in a non-medical way; they remind me of fat people who don’t chew before they swallow, resulting the food to accumulate in their throat. Scott, on the other hand, is a handsome fellow, however, despite his tired eyes suggesting chronic lethargy. He stares deliriously at my four panel curtain, as if there was a ghost hiding behind it.
When wiping his neck with antiseptic solution, he makes no noticeable movement, not even a little reaction to the cold liquid on his skin. I wonder whether numbing his skin with some anesthetic is necessary before the biopsy.
“Is this the result of not eating healthily? My immune system’s a bitch, y’know, like life itself.”
I pause and look him in the face, but he’s still glaring at the curtains with his automaton eyes.
“It is very likely that your immune system has turned against your thyroid’s function, Mr. Griffith, and this stimulates the antibodies in your gland to a more enhanced activity.”
“A shame that antibodies can’t think, eh?” he says. “Driven by instinct.”
I prepare the syringe for the aspiration biopsy.
“Ironically it is me who produces these proteins, right? I am all those assiduous cells, but the cells aren’t me…”
Now he glances at me in a way as if he had always known me, then he looks at the fine thin needle. He slowly curls his hand around mine which is holding the needle firmly.
“I used to be a hard-working cell, Doctor Parker.”
“I’m sure you still are.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not referring to this life.”
While he shoots me a sinister look, his grasp around my hand becomes firm.
“I used to be the leader in your body when you were little, but during that particular battle you bled me out.”
I immediately let go of the needle.
“I was gazing up at the grass while resting on dark ploughed earth,” he continues, “I felt very cold. Then the earth sucked me in…my new purpose was to fertilize a daisy by offering my life.”
Before I realize it, I feel the first tear drawing a line down my cheek, and I don’t usually cry to poetry.
“Did you write a song about this?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s called ‘Innocent’.”
It’s early in the morning and I watch how Nurse Manager Judy and the scrub nurses set up the operating theatre while a few junior surgeons gather at the back of the room. During the microscopic examination, I discerned that Scott’s cells were no longer following their regulatory mechanism. On the micrograph the specimen looked like fluid cyst, but the resulting prognosis was follicular neoplasm – possible cancer due to cancerous tissues showing growth. With ambiguous diagnoses like this one, the only way to identify the illness is to check the whole capsule of the goiter.
I watch Scott’s girlfriend hold his hand in tears while the nurses push his hospital bed towards the operating room. I inhibit the girl from entering the room with her restless nature.
“You seriously have to calm down. Everything will be all right.”
“I don’t like you,” she says.
I step aside, as though allowing her to enter the operating room.
“I know about you,” she continues, “Scott won’t stop talking about you.”
“I’m just here to perform a lobectomy, Miss.”
“Yeah, do what you have to do! But don’t you dare touch his larynx!”
She knocks my arm with her shoulder as she walks past heading for the elevator. I’m sure she wishes our shoulders were the same height.
Scott gives me a delicate smile before the anesthetist puts him to sleep. The idea of me having authority over his thyroid’s hormonal function involving his body’s energy level explains Scott’s lady friend’s attitude.
I make a 3 inch incision along the mass above where the clavicle and sternum meet, and then watch the blood slowly ooze out and accumulate at the edge of the wound. So to Scott, these are living citizens in his body; inborn citizens with a right to remain in their homeland, in order to continue their vigorous work. The scrub nurse applies a self-retaining retractor to hold my fine incision open and adds another to pull back the infrahyoid muscles, allowing me an unconditional admission into Scott’s mushy little kingdom. When removing organs I tend to use the electrocautery to control heavy bleeding. As I cut through the thyroid tissue, I hear a moan. I throw a quick glance at the nurse.
“Is anything wrong, Doctor?”
I look at the bright halogen lights above me and at all surgical apparatuses that I’m surrounded by.
“It’s nothing.”
After the removal of half of the tissue I see the laryngeal nerve behind the gland, and I just can’t refrain from grinning behind the mouth mask. The nerve originates as a sort of limb of the vagus nerve, which ascends to one’s brain in the carotid sheath; the sheath that engulfs the neck’s vascular cubicle – an escapist’s playground.
In fact, now I can hear Scott’s song. His sweet, mild sounding baritone voice resembles Dave Gahan’s. I wonder whether his pink haired lady friend has touched his every part, including hidden spots of his slim body.
Mittwoch, 18. Mai 2011
Fascination Street
I dreamt I took my guinea pig Joey with me down to Fascination Street. I hadn’t seen him since 1996 when he died. I remember how my sister and I were watching him convulse with pain and there was nothing that we could do, except watch and hope that he was only having a terrible nightmare. Afterwards we took Joey to the vet only to get a confirmation that he was not sleeping. You don’t sleep with eyes open.
In my dream Joey was sitting on my shoulder. He pooped on me a few times, too. I’d almost forgotten that guinea pig poo is somewhat capsule-shaped.
Well, I have no idea which city we were in, let alone, which country. It’s sufficient to know that there is such a place like that in my head. A street that blurs the boundaries between what’s real and what’s only in your head.
Unfortunately before I could even discover the street’s delights, the next thing I knew was that I was on a plane to Dublin with my dogs. When thinking or talking about flights, I’m always reminded of this unpleasant sensation of losing ground, similar to hypnic jerks which often occur before falling into your land of dreams. The idea that you’re no longer walking on solid ground is always daunting. I don’t think that the plane was heading towards Dublin, because it flew up vertically into the sky like a rocket. It felt normal. Everything that would take me away from people seemed very normal at that point in my dream.
This anxiety engulfs my entire mental and physical existence, triggering fragmented, dismal and pathetic speeches that I cannot believe are coming out of my mouth. Also my ears and eyes become obtuse like wood and broken glass when I listen to others, as though I’m not there, but they are talking to me, therefore I am there.
When a person says “I don’t want to talk about it”, you respect that. But for the sake of socialising, I always find myself talking about what I don’t want to talk about, just because…
…I have nothing better to tell people. I don’t want to talk about the future, I don’t want to talk about unrequited love, I don’t want to talk about my book – not when you aim for small-fucking-talk.
I want to talk about your scars instead. Yes, I still want to talk about your scars. If you say no, it’ll mean you are more scared that I am.
Funny that whenever I do open up myself with sheer honesty concerning my personality and personal view on things, I scare people off, unknowing that all this is caused by agony of expression. You speak perfect English, but instead of telling about yourself, you use your eloquence to hide within the bleak interpretations of your interests rather than tell how your interests shape you. I’m sick of conversations in which I’m not allowed to point out the mystery hidden between the lines.
‘Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention.’
These lines are good to steal in order to cover up a self denial mode.
The wall that I mentioned in my previous blog entry is about to break – check my iron fist! Don’t ever let anyone or anything break your wall – do it yourself, for your own reasons and intentions.
If you don’t want to use violence, just go to your room instead, sit in front of your window and watch the crow on the antenna. He’s plotting something evil.
It’s better than watching plants; plants that grow upwards, because these little shits believe they can reach the sun. We all want the sun.
How do you know you’re not mending broken pieces of your previous life? The arsehole you were…
So karma – my debt collector: Whose dogma did I run over?
The accident had better not happened on Fascination Street. Or maybe Fascination Street was all about that journey going upward.
No, seriously, whose dogma did I run over?
In my dream Joey was sitting on my shoulder. He pooped on me a few times, too. I’d almost forgotten that guinea pig poo is somewhat capsule-shaped.
Well, I have no idea which city we were in, let alone, which country. It’s sufficient to know that there is such a place like that in my head. A street that blurs the boundaries between what’s real and what’s only in your head.
Unfortunately before I could even discover the street’s delights, the next thing I knew was that I was on a plane to Dublin with my dogs. When thinking or talking about flights, I’m always reminded of this unpleasant sensation of losing ground, similar to hypnic jerks which often occur before falling into your land of dreams. The idea that you’re no longer walking on solid ground is always daunting. I don’t think that the plane was heading towards Dublin, because it flew up vertically into the sky like a rocket. It felt normal. Everything that would take me away from people seemed very normal at that point in my dream.
This anxiety engulfs my entire mental and physical existence, triggering fragmented, dismal and pathetic speeches that I cannot believe are coming out of my mouth. Also my ears and eyes become obtuse like wood and broken glass when I listen to others, as though I’m not there, but they are talking to me, therefore I am there.
When a person says “I don’t want to talk about it”, you respect that. But for the sake of socialising, I always find myself talking about what I don’t want to talk about, just because…
…I have nothing better to tell people. I don’t want to talk about the future, I don’t want to talk about unrequited love, I don’t want to talk about my book – not when you aim for small-fucking-talk.
I want to talk about your scars instead. Yes, I still want to talk about your scars. If you say no, it’ll mean you are more scared that I am.
Funny that whenever I do open up myself with sheer honesty concerning my personality and personal view on things, I scare people off, unknowing that all this is caused by agony of expression. You speak perfect English, but instead of telling about yourself, you use your eloquence to hide within the bleak interpretations of your interests rather than tell how your interests shape you. I’m sick of conversations in which I’m not allowed to point out the mystery hidden between the lines.
‘Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention.’
These lines are good to steal in order to cover up a self denial mode.
The wall that I mentioned in my previous blog entry is about to break – check my iron fist! Don’t ever let anyone or anything break your wall – do it yourself, for your own reasons and intentions.
If you don’t want to use violence, just go to your room instead, sit in front of your window and watch the crow on the antenna. He’s plotting something evil.
It’s better than watching plants; plants that grow upwards, because these little shits believe they can reach the sun. We all want the sun.
How do you know you’re not mending broken pieces of your previous life? The arsehole you were…
So karma – my debt collector: Whose dogma did I run over?
The accident had better not happened on Fascination Street. Or maybe Fascination Street was all about that journey going upward.
No, seriously, whose dogma did I run over?
Freitag, 13. Mai 2011
Industrial waste
The result is fake, illusory smiles; second hand smiles with unknown origins. Except, one thing’s for sure – they aren’t mine, despite acting them for real. It’s an extraordinary outward appearance which most people are expert at establishing, whereas I’m best at genuinely smiling through my guts with the most daunting tunnel vision ever experienced. Basically no surroundings visible, except for the ugliest shapes of my own writing: uncertain curves, stiff lines – all aiming towards undiscovered directions, hoping to find some solid ground to rest on. And the abusive liar’s job will then be to discharge them into the white sea which is right behind these words that you are overanalysing. Comatose phrases that no longer ignite, but nullify your very own concept. Has there ever been a concept? An attempt not to stagnate in your overcrowded mind? This page, for all I know, is as meaningless as your leftover food. Never has this been any clearer. I no longer wish to be a charlatan. This so-called ‘dogmatic sleep’ is a hoax or merely absurd. What to do if not bite into the fishhook and let reason fish you out? It feels like death to fiction anyhow. I don’t know where it is easier to breathe. Whatever really. Behind the wall is still a massive dump of mental waste waiting to get recycled, reinvented and reintroduced. And I can’t do it anymore.
Some words taste like chemicals on my tongue. Even the most fundamental terms no longer reflect this upside down crusade. Like what crusade? An act of bravado I no longer wish to pursue. Absurdity too inexorable to circumvent.
I no longer want this, but it’s too early for the halt; I am not through, yet.
Some words taste like chemicals on my tongue. Even the most fundamental terms no longer reflect this upside down crusade. Like what crusade? An act of bravado I no longer wish to pursue. Absurdity too inexorable to circumvent.
I no longer want this, but it’s too early for the halt; I am not through, yet.
Dienstag, 10. Mai 2011
Never trust a hippie
To Sid: Oh thou beautiful May – month of the Taurus, month of cleansing, purification and new commencements! No more self-extinguishing through denial and rejection but through blind self-destruction – happy birthday, Sid Vicious.
About Rotten: This is one of those days where I like to recall my past from twelve years ago; my teenage crush on John Lydon after watching the ‘Anarchy in the UK’ video on Viva2. The age of revolt began from there.
I remember buying my first Sex Pistols record ‘Kiss This’ without realising that it was the Best of record. It included all the songs that were on ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’, also Sid’s cover and Jonesy’s and Cookie’s song ‘Silly Thing’. I didn’t get into it on the spot and throughout listening I was hoping to stumble on a slow song – mind you I didn’t know what punk was all about back then – all I knew was Green Day and Offspring, and they did slow songs.
Well, my love for Johnny grew and became everlasting ever since I’d finished reading ‘No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs’. I was fifteen when I ordered that book in a bookstore, and I remember the outrageous expression on the sales assistant’s face when he saw the title. I had no idea where my boost of confidence came all of a sudden. A whirlwind had blown away all my teenage fears and I didn’t give a toss about anything any longer. Ironically that was how I made my first proper friends in school and I was no longer standing on my own in the schoolyard. I started cutting holes in my clothes and used safety pins to fasten them back together. I drew the signs of Anarchy and ‘Nazis raus!’ everywhere – on my bags, clothes, bedroom walls and exercise books, quoting the Pistols, especially Johnny.
After reading his autobiography I converted from anarchy to individuality, finally understanding the point of it all. Henceforth I knew I had somewhere to go in my life.
The notion of being me became more vital than anything else I had ever known, and more significantly, I began to think for myself. So the Pistols – Johnny was the catalyst of my change of personality by transfiguring my ego from frail to resolute. Hell knows what would have become of me otherwise.
My timidity used to overshadow my entire being with painful pressure and inexplicable loathe. Everything that took place inside was almost monstrous, but then I saw the Pistols on TV and I found what I had been looking for since Hamlet.
The value of honesty was next.
I went over the top like a moral absolutist. I wouldn’t lie to protect, I wouldn’t lie to be nice and I wouldn’t lie in order not to hurt (Alceste played a big role here, too). Though, a change of attitude occurred when I did the worst mistake of my life, which was hurting my mother.
I never apologised – not even after twelve years. It is not a common thing to say sorry in a Chinese community – no matter if family issues, political turmoil or what. Maybe we are too proud or we simply don’t like reminders. But Chinese people have the tendency to hold a grudge against others, even if it’s just the stealing of a chocolate bar.
I maintained my values nonetheless. What I’ve learnt is when not to speak.
One of the many reasons why I choose to be quiet.
To Steve & Paul: Ah thou kleptomaniac, Jonesy – my second favourite Pistol, my former favourite guitarist, voice of a gentleman! Memories of masturbation stories with plenty of imagination about you and Cookie singing the cutest hook-up line ‘How far can you spit?’
About Rotten: This is one of those days where I like to recall my past from twelve years ago; my teenage crush on John Lydon after watching the ‘Anarchy in the UK’ video on Viva2. The age of revolt began from there.
I remember buying my first Sex Pistols record ‘Kiss This’ without realising that it was the Best of record. It included all the songs that were on ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’, also Sid’s cover and Jonesy’s and Cookie’s song ‘Silly Thing’. I didn’t get into it on the spot and throughout listening I was hoping to stumble on a slow song – mind you I didn’t know what punk was all about back then – all I knew was Green Day and Offspring, and they did slow songs.
Well, my love for Johnny grew and became everlasting ever since I’d finished reading ‘No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs’. I was fifteen when I ordered that book in a bookstore, and I remember the outrageous expression on the sales assistant’s face when he saw the title. I had no idea where my boost of confidence came all of a sudden. A whirlwind had blown away all my teenage fears and I didn’t give a toss about anything any longer. Ironically that was how I made my first proper friends in school and I was no longer standing on my own in the schoolyard. I started cutting holes in my clothes and used safety pins to fasten them back together. I drew the signs of Anarchy and ‘Nazis raus!’ everywhere – on my bags, clothes, bedroom walls and exercise books, quoting the Pistols, especially Johnny.
After reading his autobiography I converted from anarchy to individuality, finally understanding the point of it all. Henceforth I knew I had somewhere to go in my life.
The notion of being me became more vital than anything else I had ever known, and more significantly, I began to think for myself. So the Pistols – Johnny was the catalyst of my change of personality by transfiguring my ego from frail to resolute. Hell knows what would have become of me otherwise.
My timidity used to overshadow my entire being with painful pressure and inexplicable loathe. Everything that took place inside was almost monstrous, but then I saw the Pistols on TV and I found what I had been looking for since Hamlet.
The value of honesty was next.
I went over the top like a moral absolutist. I wouldn’t lie to protect, I wouldn’t lie to be nice and I wouldn’t lie in order not to hurt (Alceste played a big role here, too). Though, a change of attitude occurred when I did the worst mistake of my life, which was hurting my mother.
I never apologised – not even after twelve years. It is not a common thing to say sorry in a Chinese community – no matter if family issues, political turmoil or what. Maybe we are too proud or we simply don’t like reminders. But Chinese people have the tendency to hold a grudge against others, even if it’s just the stealing of a chocolate bar.
I maintained my values nonetheless. What I’ve learnt is when not to speak.
One of the many reasons why I choose to be quiet.
To Steve & Paul: Ah thou kleptomaniac, Jonesy – my second favourite Pistol, my former favourite guitarist, voice of a gentleman! Memories of masturbation stories with plenty of imagination about you and Cookie singing the cutest hook-up line ‘How far can you spit?’
Samstag, 7. Mai 2011
Commentary on Somewhat Damaged
The title, obviously borrowed from Nine Inch Nails, has nothing much to do with the novel itself. Throughout the writing process I was listening to Depeche Mode and even now, during redrafting, I need that music desperately in order to access my protagonist’s habits, quirks and entire psychology such as motivation, self-contradiction and unreliability.
It’s funny writing about someone who you’ll never be and after all that’s all you are.
I’ve been working on this novel since 2007 and after all these years I am still trying to trace down the origin of this pursuit that made me venture into something so big – bigger than I’d ever want a dream to be.
In 2007, Nick, my tutor in Prose Fiction, asked us to do a writing exercise illustrating a connection between character and object. He gave us a list of objects, which weren’t ordinary objects, but tainted objects with a history.
I chose the ‘blood-stained plaster’ to pursue a yet to evolve imagination. It was there in the back of my head, slowly bubbling out reaching my mind’s quixotic surface of genuine lies. Although those were only fragmentary images I knew that the energy anticipated was highly influenced by Bret Easton Ellis’ grotesque and sex-induced madness which would lead me towards my own version of a yet undiscovered territory of fragile insanity.
The result of that writing exercise involves an obsessive compulsive doctor who is subject to taking blood samples of herself as well as all her patients. When on a date with a non-patient, she deliberately causes an accident that hospitalises him just because an examination of his blood is essential for future decisions.
I received a full mark for that piece and I had only received a full mark twice at BCUC and I have to admit that I was incredibly proud.
Nick had not only inspired me to that but had also supported me in pursuing my other novel Single, Fused & Separate, which is an undeveloped, science fiction-based novel that I had left untouched since September 2007, after the dissertation deadline. During the course, I was mostly reading science fiction: Asimov, Dick, Siodmak, Cook, Gibson, etc. Nonetheless, I was struggling with the actual destined path of that novel and realised that I was not yet ready to continue it. Despite the lack of identity and conscious progress of that novel I received an acceptable mark for my final dissertation; I was 9 points away from the full mark. With that achievement, I still lacked the motivation to continue a piece that was not about me, but about a labyrinthine future within a Freudian brain. I felt that I was, by no means, ready to sketch out such a deep and difficult maze with that delirious perception of mine. Maybe I could have done it, but there is no point if the writer does not know the fundamental key of the story. It’s never enough to merely write about what interests you, and if you aren’t ready to sacrifice a crucial piece of your mind’s marrow, you might as well take a step back and reconsider what you really want and question your ability.
The story or novel has to be a quintessence of you otherwise it’s nothing. This might make me the most selfish writer you’ve ever known. I mean I am depressed that I never got to become an inventor destined to make the world a more comfortable place for people, or a secret agent – be obsessed with others rather than myself. Assassin was another dream job, because I admired Jean Reno in ‘Leon – The Professional’.
Then my mother bought me a Hello Kitty journal when I was eleven. That changed my life and outweighed all my preconceived ideals about what I really wanted.
After sixteen years of writing and rummaging about in the marrows of my existence, I still feel dumbfounded when looking at myself in the mirror, only recognising sheer detachment as if I was only a prototype of my own reality. It is not interesting.
If I wasn’t made of cells but letters and numbers…
Yes, I believe I am merely made of letters and numbers. This approach simplifies the dealing with feelings and thoughts that you cannot put in order, because flesh and blood deliver no precise expression; heart and brain signal meaning, but they leave YOU to express them – how lame. All this effort that you have to make…
I was aware that if I did nothing, I would end up continuing my life at KFC or in retail where I would live a prolonged death.
So I had another look at ‘The blood-stained plaster’ and something immediately clicked, especially when I remembered Nick saying that the story was worth developing.
Despite the anxiety of embarking on a new novel (after circa 15 unsuccessful attempts), I gave it a go anyway. Three to four years later I had a first finished draft. ‘The blood-stained plaster’ became chapter 9 in the novel.
The first draft felt like a sketch of Ellen Parker’s life, as if she was still in the phase of a foetus, still in development. Now it is all about putting up signposts pointing at where to go from here. Enhancement of motivation and revitalisation of style and grammar need the main focus, as well as the question ‘What does she want?’ – No, ‘What do I want?’
Looking for eternal love and dreading it at the same time due to post-traumatic stress. So before messing it up again, you’d rather not have it at all. The fear shrinks your belief in it and hinders you from giving it second chance since there are far more creative ways to deal with a desolate heart that still looks good on the outside like Dorian. You prefer fun (= no attachment) to love (= commitment). The obvious thing is that both are transitory, but this is neither the problem nor the question. The major question is ‘What’s easiest to obtain?’
People with narcissistic personality disorder lack empathy with others and thus are difficult to sympathise with.
No matter how often Palahniuk warns us about his despicable and repulsive protagonist in ‘Choke’ or how cynic and nihilistic all of Houellebecq’s characters are in his novels, the authors still manage to make us feel sorry for their fictional characters.
It is so easy to make the reader empathise with Parker from page 1 onwards, but this is not going to happen.
I am still in the middle of creating other useful empathy factors, forming clear judgements, controlling emotions and generate symbolic reflections to manoeuvre the reader into following the fucking plot. If only I cared more about the reader – but at least I have reminders of what needs to be done.
Some (conventional) female readers find Parker entirely unlikeable due to her detachment and outrageous stance towards women. This point will be excluded from my helpful feedback notes and ignored for further consideration. I would be lying if I said the novel wasn’t about sexual repression and female guilt, but more importantly, that piece of criticism made me want to avoid having a close attachment evolving between Parker and any female reader altogether. That was a little act of spite then.
I know very well how the end of the novel will be perceived by certain people and I am looking for more ways to enhance that effect.
It wasn’t until I had watched Lars von Trier’s movie ‘Antichrist’ which helped me in regaining confidence for my attitudes and values.
I believe I know where I am heading with Somewhat Damaged. There’ll be more concentration on Parker’s relationship with objects and the city. About gender and femininity I couldn’t give a damn.
Self-mutilation is common in both genders. The feeling of guilt is universal. If men write about the downfall of man, women will write about the downfall of woman also.
The opening of Somewhat Damaged
It’s funny writing about someone who you’ll never be and after all that’s all you are.
I’ve been working on this novel since 2007 and after all these years I am still trying to trace down the origin of this pursuit that made me venture into something so big – bigger than I’d ever want a dream to be.
In 2007, Nick, my tutor in Prose Fiction, asked us to do a writing exercise illustrating a connection between character and object. He gave us a list of objects, which weren’t ordinary objects, but tainted objects with a history.
I chose the ‘blood-stained plaster’ to pursue a yet to evolve imagination. It was there in the back of my head, slowly bubbling out reaching my mind’s quixotic surface of genuine lies. Although those were only fragmentary images I knew that the energy anticipated was highly influenced by Bret Easton Ellis’ grotesque and sex-induced madness which would lead me towards my own version of a yet undiscovered territory of fragile insanity.
The result of that writing exercise involves an obsessive compulsive doctor who is subject to taking blood samples of herself as well as all her patients. When on a date with a non-patient, she deliberately causes an accident that hospitalises him just because an examination of his blood is essential for future decisions.
I received a full mark for that piece and I had only received a full mark twice at BCUC and I have to admit that I was incredibly proud.
Nick had not only inspired me to that but had also supported me in pursuing my other novel Single, Fused & Separate, which is an undeveloped, science fiction-based novel that I had left untouched since September 2007, after the dissertation deadline. During the course, I was mostly reading science fiction: Asimov, Dick, Siodmak, Cook, Gibson, etc. Nonetheless, I was struggling with the actual destined path of that novel and realised that I was not yet ready to continue it. Despite the lack of identity and conscious progress of that novel I received an acceptable mark for my final dissertation; I was 9 points away from the full mark. With that achievement, I still lacked the motivation to continue a piece that was not about me, but about a labyrinthine future within a Freudian brain. I felt that I was, by no means, ready to sketch out such a deep and difficult maze with that delirious perception of mine. Maybe I could have done it, but there is no point if the writer does not know the fundamental key of the story. It’s never enough to merely write about what interests you, and if you aren’t ready to sacrifice a crucial piece of your mind’s marrow, you might as well take a step back and reconsider what you really want and question your ability.
The story or novel has to be a quintessence of you otherwise it’s nothing. This might make me the most selfish writer you’ve ever known. I mean I am depressed that I never got to become an inventor destined to make the world a more comfortable place for people, or a secret agent – be obsessed with others rather than myself. Assassin was another dream job, because I admired Jean Reno in ‘Leon – The Professional’.
Then my mother bought me a Hello Kitty journal when I was eleven. That changed my life and outweighed all my preconceived ideals about what I really wanted.
After sixteen years of writing and rummaging about in the marrows of my existence, I still feel dumbfounded when looking at myself in the mirror, only recognising sheer detachment as if I was only a prototype of my own reality. It is not interesting.
If I wasn’t made of cells but letters and numbers…
Yes, I believe I am merely made of letters and numbers. This approach simplifies the dealing with feelings and thoughts that you cannot put in order, because flesh and blood deliver no precise expression; heart and brain signal meaning, but they leave YOU to express them – how lame. All this effort that you have to make…
I was aware that if I did nothing, I would end up continuing my life at KFC or in retail where I would live a prolonged death.
So I had another look at ‘The blood-stained plaster’ and something immediately clicked, especially when I remembered Nick saying that the story was worth developing.
Despite the anxiety of embarking on a new novel (after circa 15 unsuccessful attempts), I gave it a go anyway. Three to four years later I had a first finished draft. ‘The blood-stained plaster’ became chapter 9 in the novel.
The first draft felt like a sketch of Ellen Parker’s life, as if she was still in the phase of a foetus, still in development. Now it is all about putting up signposts pointing at where to go from here. Enhancement of motivation and revitalisation of style and grammar need the main focus, as well as the question ‘What does she want?’ – No, ‘What do I want?’
Looking for eternal love and dreading it at the same time due to post-traumatic stress. So before messing it up again, you’d rather not have it at all. The fear shrinks your belief in it and hinders you from giving it second chance since there are far more creative ways to deal with a desolate heart that still looks good on the outside like Dorian. You prefer fun (= no attachment) to love (= commitment). The obvious thing is that both are transitory, but this is neither the problem nor the question. The major question is ‘What’s easiest to obtain?’
People with narcissistic personality disorder lack empathy with others and thus are difficult to sympathise with.
No matter how often Palahniuk warns us about his despicable and repulsive protagonist in ‘Choke’ or how cynic and nihilistic all of Houellebecq’s characters are in his novels, the authors still manage to make us feel sorry for their fictional characters.
It is so easy to make the reader empathise with Parker from page 1 onwards, but this is not going to happen.
I am still in the middle of creating other useful empathy factors, forming clear judgements, controlling emotions and generate symbolic reflections to manoeuvre the reader into following the fucking plot. If only I cared more about the reader – but at least I have reminders of what needs to be done.
Some (conventional) female readers find Parker entirely unlikeable due to her detachment and outrageous stance towards women. This point will be excluded from my helpful feedback notes and ignored for further consideration. I would be lying if I said the novel wasn’t about sexual repression and female guilt, but more importantly, that piece of criticism made me want to avoid having a close attachment evolving between Parker and any female reader altogether. That was a little act of spite then.
I know very well how the end of the novel will be perceived by certain people and I am looking for more ways to enhance that effect.
It wasn’t until I had watched Lars von Trier’s movie ‘Antichrist’ which helped me in regaining confidence for my attitudes and values.
I believe I know where I am heading with Somewhat Damaged. There’ll be more concentration on Parker’s relationship with objects and the city. About gender and femininity I couldn’t give a damn.
Self-mutilation is common in both genders. The feeling of guilt is universal. If men write about the downfall of man, women will write about the downfall of woman also.
The opening of Somewhat Damaged
Dienstag, 3. Mai 2011
Casu Marzu
A sudden disgust. I don’t know where from or where it is headed. Often you just run your finger across a dusty surface and you see the answer right there. Little moving animals whose movements you cannot perceive; animals that feed on our skin scales. One day they will grow and reach the size of mosquitoes or flies. And mosquitoes and flies will be pets that feed on human cadavers and excrement. Mutilated and maggot-eaten remains of birds and rabbits.
Who will be the master? The master of decay?
There’s a human hand – unable to operate the machinery of control from under the ground, for science is no longer progressing; it’s all over the place. So much to our longing for transcendence.
Who cares…
Organs will dry up and eventually become meaningless matter. It’s a question of time and skin and bones will crumble into dust.
I tell you.
These images appeared in my head all from looking at a Casu Marzu – cheese that contains larvae of flies. Cheese flies. Bacon flies. Flies that can live in your intestines and make you shit blood.
Who will be the master? The master of decay?
There’s a human hand – unable to operate the machinery of control from under the ground, for science is no longer progressing; it’s all over the place. So much to our longing for transcendence.
Who cares…
Organs will dry up and eventually become meaningless matter. It’s a question of time and skin and bones will crumble into dust.
I tell you.
These images appeared in my head all from looking at a Casu Marzu – cheese that contains larvae of flies. Cheese flies. Bacon flies. Flies that can live in your intestines and make you shit blood.
Montag, 2. Mai 2011
Microsoft Word 2003
I have sore eyes from constantly staring at the screen, overanalysing words and wondering whether the grammar is correct. If only the grammar dictionary had a little “Paula’s peculiar grammar”-section…
Once it’s post-deadline, I will ask myself “What now?” and I will wonder whether I’ll be able to embark on a new story which is not metafiction and self-obsessed.
I feel so obsolete using Microsoft Word 2003.
4 days ago my laptop wouldn’t boot and I figured that something was wrong with my hard drive, but I couldn’t watch the bloody blue screen to pin down the trouble. I emailed some IT guy whose business card I found at the halls of residence reception. He came round to my place the next day to give my laptop a check. And as already presumed my hard drive was fucked. He installed a new one for me which took almost two hours and in between we did small talk. I hate small talk. He was either of Pakistani or Indian descent, I don’t know, I didn’t ask. He seemed shy, too, he avoided eye contact more than I and everyone knows I hate looking anyone in the eyes. Whenever I was at my laptop, fiddling files, he would look around in my room and feel intimidated by the two masks on my pin wall. He also pointed at the Orozco flyer showing the skull with the black squares and elongated diamond shapes. He hesitantly asked whether I was into horror and voodoo. His lack of interest in art and literature kind of put me off. In general, people who go “Ooopf!” after telling them you study creative writing are getting even more annoying than those who say “How the hell do you want to find a job?” I could tell that he was a conventional type of guy by the way he viewed things and I hated that. I did imagine dating him, but couldn’t help concluding that he wouldn’t be able to find connections between the way I am and the books that I read…because he doesn’t read them and I would have difficulties tolerating his religion no matter how laid-back he is with it.
So he fixed my laptop. I think I overpaid him by choice. And I escorted him back to the station because I had to go to the corner-shop. But I assume he thought I had an agenda or something.
The day after he sent me an email saying that he hoped my laptop was working perfectly and that I was such a cute, DECENT girl with such a nice smile. He was basically asking me out.
So WHAT’S THE MASTER OF REJECTION GOING TO SAY?
I am not sure whether he had dropped by again or what, because today I saw more of his business cards at the reception.
Maybe my horoscope was right for saying I needed to get out more and be more outgoing, so I get to know more people and find a lover. I feel awkward when people say they can’t believe I am still single. I don’t tell them that all I do is sitting on my arse in my room all day. I have no particular desire to show the world that I exist as a person. Or maybe I’m lying, but I don’t think I am. One thing is true though, this room has sucked the colour out of my face. I envy people who go on a night out and immediately get laid. But you can’t be who you are not. I only drink alcohol twice a year. Once on my own and the other time with friends on New Year’s Eve. In Germany only.
When I watch people consume alcohol I wish I was one of them, but the moment they’ve swallowed the last sip, I always take my wish back.
Close before dying I would like to consume LSD and take a similar trip to the place that Paul Groves visits in ‘The Trip’. One final trip through the intestines and subconscious of my fiction.
I am halfway through ‘A short History of Decay’ and it is now that I learnt that Cioran was a sympathiser for the fascist regime, calling himself a ‘Hitlerist’. Despite his stance, I still can’t help liking that book; he is more radical than Schopenhauer ever was and angrier. The book has nothing to do with fascism; it merely portrays a realist point of view. All blissful realists, however, will hate it. He condemns people’s ‘mortal thirst for fiction’, and claims that we ‘could not exist one second without deceiving ourselves’. Bravo, now give me some Dickens.
Do you know where I find my fiction? It’s all hidden within my favourite music. There’s nothing more evocative than music, but of course it’s not relevant to everyone. Art and films! FICTION FICITION FICITONN! Fiction inspiring fiction!
Where do YOU look for fiction other than in your own life?
What’s more important than fiction?
- Your family, of course.
I miss my family, knowing that they are not in the other room makes me feel sad. It’s funny how my mother knows me best without ever having read any of my writings. My father was asking when my ‘EXAMS’ were and I had to giggle. Too cute. My sister doesn’t read me either. This is why my family means to me the most, because they already know my worst of the worst. So why read me?
When one is decent on the outside, you’ll know on the spot that you cannot trust them. Especially not if they are into horror, strange masks and voodoo! Not to mention Giger-based nudity.
My Window version isn’t genuine and the Microsoft Word version is doing me head in. It’s all getting slow again, too. Don’t die on me, yet.
Hold on, hold on, it’s not long till home now and I’ll have my CD-ROMs.
Home.
Once it’s post-deadline, I will ask myself “What now?” and I will wonder whether I’ll be able to embark on a new story which is not metafiction and self-obsessed.
I feel so obsolete using Microsoft Word 2003.
4 days ago my laptop wouldn’t boot and I figured that something was wrong with my hard drive, but I couldn’t watch the bloody blue screen to pin down the trouble. I emailed some IT guy whose business card I found at the halls of residence reception. He came round to my place the next day to give my laptop a check. And as already presumed my hard drive was fucked. He installed a new one for me which took almost two hours and in between we did small talk. I hate small talk. He was either of Pakistani or Indian descent, I don’t know, I didn’t ask. He seemed shy, too, he avoided eye contact more than I and everyone knows I hate looking anyone in the eyes. Whenever I was at my laptop, fiddling files, he would look around in my room and feel intimidated by the two masks on my pin wall. He also pointed at the Orozco flyer showing the skull with the black squares and elongated diamond shapes. He hesitantly asked whether I was into horror and voodoo. His lack of interest in art and literature kind of put me off. In general, people who go “Ooopf!” after telling them you study creative writing are getting even more annoying than those who say “How the hell do you want to find a job?” I could tell that he was a conventional type of guy by the way he viewed things and I hated that. I did imagine dating him, but couldn’t help concluding that he wouldn’t be able to find connections between the way I am and the books that I read…because he doesn’t read them and I would have difficulties tolerating his religion no matter how laid-back he is with it.
So he fixed my laptop. I think I overpaid him by choice. And I escorted him back to the station because I had to go to the corner-shop. But I assume he thought I had an agenda or something.
The day after he sent me an email saying that he hoped my laptop was working perfectly and that I was such a cute, DECENT girl with such a nice smile. He was basically asking me out.
So WHAT’S THE MASTER OF REJECTION GOING TO SAY?
I am not sure whether he had dropped by again or what, because today I saw more of his business cards at the reception.
Maybe my horoscope was right for saying I needed to get out more and be more outgoing, so I get to know more people and find a lover. I feel awkward when people say they can’t believe I am still single. I don’t tell them that all I do is sitting on my arse in my room all day. I have no particular desire to show the world that I exist as a person. Or maybe I’m lying, but I don’t think I am. One thing is true though, this room has sucked the colour out of my face. I envy people who go on a night out and immediately get laid. But you can’t be who you are not. I only drink alcohol twice a year. Once on my own and the other time with friends on New Year’s Eve. In Germany only.
When I watch people consume alcohol I wish I was one of them, but the moment they’ve swallowed the last sip, I always take my wish back.
Close before dying I would like to consume LSD and take a similar trip to the place that Paul Groves visits in ‘The Trip’. One final trip through the intestines and subconscious of my fiction.
I am halfway through ‘A short History of Decay’ and it is now that I learnt that Cioran was a sympathiser for the fascist regime, calling himself a ‘Hitlerist’. Despite his stance, I still can’t help liking that book; he is more radical than Schopenhauer ever was and angrier. The book has nothing to do with fascism; it merely portrays a realist point of view. All blissful realists, however, will hate it. He condemns people’s ‘mortal thirst for fiction’, and claims that we ‘could not exist one second without deceiving ourselves’. Bravo, now give me some Dickens.
Do you know where I find my fiction? It’s all hidden within my favourite music. There’s nothing more evocative than music, but of course it’s not relevant to everyone. Art and films! FICTION FICITION FICITONN! Fiction inspiring fiction!
Where do YOU look for fiction other than in your own life?
What’s more important than fiction?
- Your family, of course.
I miss my family, knowing that they are not in the other room makes me feel sad. It’s funny how my mother knows me best without ever having read any of my writings. My father was asking when my ‘EXAMS’ were and I had to giggle. Too cute. My sister doesn’t read me either. This is why my family means to me the most, because they already know my worst of the worst. So why read me?
When one is decent on the outside, you’ll know on the spot that you cannot trust them. Especially not if they are into horror, strange masks and voodoo! Not to mention Giger-based nudity.
My Window version isn’t genuine and the Microsoft Word version is doing me head in. It’s all getting slow again, too. Don’t die on me, yet.
Hold on, hold on, it’s not long till home now and I’ll have my CD-ROMs.
Home.
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