Sunday, 31 January 2016

Saturday's Plays and Midnight Memories

Plays after plays I see them on stage, while I sit quietly in the audience. My buttocks hurt, the benches aren't cushioned and it is cramped up in this Pit. I smell the woman next to me, she is wearing black. We're in a vault, the trains running above us. The spotlight bounces off of her face and I wonder if one day the ceiling would give way and the train would slip through the cracks. The stage is small, very small. I suppose I wouldn't pay to be here though it isn't half bad. A place that catches one's attention, yes, underneath the Underground, but the plays... Maybe I'd just explore the bar next time, with him. I didn't pay today, no, I was invited by my flatmates, extra tickets because a friend bailed: hoes before bros. But I don't know him.

On going on night walks through this city I know not well enough to describe: The bridges, so many to choose from, all within a walking range from where I am and will be for a few months more. With who, that is the question? But it is out of the question. In the night when the wind blows, only behind doors will I feel satisfied. Those strolls that I have taken after dark with another I know not well enough to speak of, they still bother me. The possibilities that they lay bear before me-- endless. How many days and how many nights and how many of them could there be if-- only if. I don't suppose I'll ever forget a name like that. I still buy grapes every time I visit the supermarket.


I listen to Jay more and more these days, though I replay the same old songs that I loved and love. Should I venture more into the world of Mandarin pop? There certainly is no harm in doing so as my mind is already as corrupted as the regrets that inspire their work. Maybe I'm just afraid of finding disappointment in that world.

The emotions are strong this evening. I look at the bus ticket that has been pinned up since Monday and the crooked crosses marking down the days to the Friday I would leave this town until the next Monday morning. I'd say I'm going home but home is far away but it feels like home to me and I feel at home: I know the smell, I love its scent and I love the people there who trust me with their keys, dog and son.

0004: "Do you want Domino's?"

Supper. It reminds me of my nights in Malaysia, the months I refused to go home because of sheer stubbornness and pride. Arabic food, Mamak food and that one unfortunate time at that Korean bar with alcoholics who wanted to play a drinking game. My African brother needs to join me in this part of the world.

0025: There is no reply.

Off, off, I go. Glittery eyes, but puffy.

Friday, 29 January 2016


Sunday: To wake up free but to go to bed enslaved by the remembrance of responsibility.

Monday: Tom. 

Tuesday: At first there were many... Now, we are with six. Who to enter the oral examinations with? 

Wednesday: To not leave the flat, pretend to be busy-- do assigned readings; distraction as guide. 

Thursday: To see her hair. 

Friday: DR's head is always so shiny. 

Saturday: I'm a little piece of shit. 

maandag: Winkelen of niet? 

dinsdag: Beetje Japanse. 

woensdag: Ik heb tijd... 

donderdag: Haar haar is heel leuk. 

vrijdag: Ik heb niet lekker geslapen.

zaterdag: Met Jor? Maar hij werk of niet?

zondag: Opa en Oma en soep.








Wednesday, 13 January 2016

On Salty Dessert, a Glimpse at University Life, Destroyed Bread and Other Irrelevant Lines

Did you think that I'd forget you? Of course not. I rarely forget those I love, or who have loved. Neglect them, I do, but not forget; no, never. And thus I am back here, with you, you that never deserts me. Today, I bought some salted caramel ice-cream because I've stopped resisting temptations. Every now and then, I still do, only rarely. If I had the self-discipline that I claim to have, I wouldn't be seeing you right now and you wouldn't be seeing me.

What have I come to discuss today? As always, my stream of consciousness is a stream that never lets me go against it, forever associating this with the next and the previous with similitudes-- ah! Het regent. This is irrelevant.

 It is awfully quiet at Moonraker this evening, I only hear the loud shouts of one woman and it only lasted a second. Next, I hear the wind, and-- what is that? That incessant noiseless noise. It is the wind? Is it the wind? Is it? It is? It is.

University education is a disappointment. I'm not saying this because I think that I'm better or smarter than everyone else, but because I simply do not enjoy it. I love my course: I love what I learn and I love learning what I learn but how I learn it is not how I want to learn it and how I want to learn it is not how they say I should learn it because I have to think like them even though they say not to think exactly like them but think like them anyway because that's the way things are. To be original you first have to be unoriginal-- there is no originality here, because we're scholars, not artists! Everyone is always asking us for citations and I really really really really just want to... Bloody hell, if God was the word, then can I just list God in my bibliography?  AND DID ANYBODY ASK GOD FOR A CITATION!? I THINK NOT!

I am 19, I write like I'm 6 and act like a 4-year-old.

Grammar and syntax are irrelevant after learning much about language in time and language itself. I start to find bad English interesting instead of thinking of them as headaches, though reading such works do give me headaches, I have to admit.

The only course I am serious about is my Japanese, and of course I treat my Dutch lesson on Duolingo with utmost seriousness as well. You know, I have a three-hour examination tomorrow that I've had a month to prepare for but I've only just started leafing through the cheap photocopied and plastic bound course pack an hour ago. Barely an hour later I am here blogging. I should be studying. On a page on the bed, "Saussure's Theory of Language". There are some bits and pieces that still cling to my memory from three months ago.

They know that some people like salt with their dessert. The other day, I sprinkled some salt onto my store-bought Tiramisu that shocked the folks I was having dinner with. ''Huh? Zout?" they said. The meal went on as usual and I ate in silence-- I'd accidentally poured in too much salt and it hurt, but I wasn't about to tell them I didn't enjoy it! The person next to me poured even more salt on his ice-cream; oops.

Someone destroyed my bread, the bread that Tom made, the bread that I hugged for 8 hours in my canvas bag, the bread that I thought would get me through the week, the bread that has dried at the sides, the bread that is now destroyed.

Is this the reason why nobody visits me, here, because my entries are unnecessarily long? What does this big body of text hold, exactly? Nothing relevant, nothing at all, and even the style... There is no style, or is there? Could you tell from my words that I am me and not you and not the other? How do you know that I am me and not another? The spaces between my words, gaps? The silence and what's not been uttered but only implied? But what can you infer from anything at all, if I do mean something at all? It is all quite pointless, really. I sign my work, that is my mistake. You wouldn't have to know that it is me because you expect that it is me. But then again, I could also be someone else, using this name only. What's in a name?

I use a swimming cap as a shower cap and it is blue.

I use a cup in the shape of a milk bottle complete with a rubber nipple but the body is of ceramic and it has a handle for me to hold.

I have a year planner on my notice board and I use it as a calendar and a calendar only with no plans marked, though I have tried.

I have a shelf full of books but the books I don't use as books but as dust collectors.

I'm in the home of Fish and Chips but I think the Australians make them better and the Dutch Kibbeling is a thousand times more Godlike.

I want fried chicken but there's Nando's in the fridge because Brits are crazy about Nando's for whatever the fuck reason I don't know.

It is not snowing, but my dandruff makes up for the lack of white falling from above.

Enough with the Is I say, they are starting to bore me.

Have you come this far, just to groan and exit this page? At least say goodbye.

Hair is falling, hair is falling!

Red is fading, red is fading!

Erase not what brought us where we have come.