i can be your pocket ninja

i love creeping around the house at night.

invariably, between three and four in the morning, i make a trip for the essential OJ recharge. the house is so quiet then, the street outside is too. doors closed, not even a hush. carefully enough, i pretend im breaking in when i sqeeze my palm around the door knob and turn it trying to be most silent. i know exactly how to open my door without a oil thirsty creak. without touching the banister, least my rings clank againt the iron, i pad quickly down the staircase and into the kitchen, bare foot and all. a glass must be picked up with the slowest and most cautious movements, and it must be my glass, the one usually right at the back. its just me and lizards then. quickly, the pouring and drinking of OJ is done, and like i wasn't even there, i creep back up the stairs (two stairs at a time, when ankle is in one complete piece). Door is closed in same fashion as was opened, and then, Sanctuary! I'm back in my messy, warm, loud, smelly room.

I can't help but feel like an OJ stealing ninja.

: P

3.03 to 3.48

ive been writing here so often because i have enough time to come up with this crap. my ankle is still malfunctioning and thus i am still rendered disabled. oh well.

so...
its 3.03am on a monday morning. its warm here in the room, and still but for the slow blades of the ceiling fan. its dark too, my lava lamp glows blue, green and yellow, and the paper lamp in the far end of the room throws around a flimsy sheet of gold glow. snow patrol belting it out on the speakers.

ive been watching too many movies. and because i am so terribly bored, wide awake at 3.15am i'm going to list all the movies i have seen (and re-seen) in the last few days and rate them on 10.

the usual suspects 8
up in the air 6
whatever works 7
where the wild things are 7
youth in revolt 5
waking life 6.5
lord of the rings (trilogy) 9
taking woodstock 7.5
the boat that rocks 6.5
the fantastic mr fox 6.5
the invention of lying 8
the lovely bones 5 (read the book)
sunshine 7
shrink 6
snatch 8.5
natural born killers 8.5
once 8.5 (.5 for the awesome soundtrack)
old school 8
moon mulholland dr. 8
ink 6
his girl friday 9
easy rider 7.5
doubt 9
black dynamite (i stiall cant figure if i loved it or hated it)
big fish 5
away we go 7
arsenic and old lace 6
new york, I love you 5

thats alot of movies for seven days. well, what you going do.
so i think for a while, im going to hold back on the tele and get back to all the stories on the shelf i haven't read yet. i miss that stimulii.
im starting with a Rushdie, the Moor's Last Sigh. and i think after that i'll (really need to) go lighter, maybe woody allen or doughlas adams? I dunno. lets see.

and before i leave, i rediscovered the soundtrack of Once (2006). you should too.

good morning.
i bid you farewell as i take your leave, kind sirs.

Dr. Who? Dr. Me.

I do sometimes feel as if I may have a lack of ambition. I'm highly competitive at university; I try to push myself to think more, to think ahead. I have this dream, and this goal and I’m working towards it with every molecule of myself. But sometimes I look around at other people and (what I see of) their lives; Forensic lawyers, musicians, pilots, computer specialists, Philosophy with a minor in Creative Writing, dancers, marine biologists; I see people taking risks, or looking feverishly for their dreams, I see people climbing mountains because that’s what they love, or putting on a uniform so they cam travel the world, and I feel much less full of ambition than I was during AP208 Evolutionary Psychology, and much less accomplished.

I admit that everything I want could be really, quite ordinary and boring. I had dreams too, of being very rich and very famous and everyday is a tiring but wonderful adventure, fly business class, be on TV, write a script, buy Louboutin’s, big house, big car. Everybody love me, everybody knows me. And this simple dream, to be a doctor, not for the title but to show, proudly enough, that this is my thing and this is how good I am, seems so mundane, and while everyone’s doing these fantastic things around me, maybe I’m selling myself short. Maybe I am settling. Maybe I’m just too scared to take a brilliantly wrong decision and make it work because I'm in love with it.

But today.
Today I lay in my bed in the middle of the day and I thought, this is what I love. What I learn, I love. What I'm getting myself into, I'm going to love. It’s so much like an obsession, and the absolute truth is, I cannot see myself anywhere else. I could not imagine being anywhere else. I feel enveloped in this, almost romantically, as if I might share my bed. It crowds me and it calms me. And it leaves me with so many reasons as it leaves me with none. It’s as if I can read its mind, and not see a thing. Do I sound smitten-love bitten? And maybe I am.

I don’t really give a shit, do I?
It’s simple.
I don’t really want to be anyone one else, but everything I am.
End of story.

Introduction.

I nudged quietly into their private lives, mostly bearing grudges. They acted out entire scenes as I stayed hidden in the walls, not knowing if they were impervious to my burning eyes or if one of them knew I was watching, enjoying my stare, purposefully egging my jealousy. As I nurtured my grudges, they nurtured each other, each nursing the others heart, growing over all the cracks, beautiful love that seemed to blossom from the lowest points. I was there first, I was. But tender souls are easily replaceable. To believe there are more stories behind all the fucking facades is just not enough. One has to know it all. One has to go under the surface and everything comes bloody clear. Not to deep, contrarily. Go too deep and it all is empty, remnants of memories, parents, original beliefs and fascination with shit. You can’t tell the upside from the down.

When you're in water, when you're sinking, when you are aware; you don’t know if you're going up or going down. Everything is clear and empty. Stuck in limbo, anticipation to hit the bottom and feel air on your head. When you dig too deep under the surface, you stay floating in a purgatory, haunted by memories that are so far from your own, your foolishly compromised mind does what it can to adapt. The crumbles of a life forgotten embed themselves comfortably in your sunken head. And you are left with an alien Id raping you.

Dig too deep and the mud will fall right back into the hole.

Days and days just float on by, inconspicuously, in a dreaded monotonous format, leaving nothing for the imagination. Everyday the same routine, a daemon would be silly not to have a look around the empty corridors of an unused mind.





(what remains of what was supposed to be the first chapter of my book.)

Woodstock- i should have been there.

Well, I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him,
Tell me, where are you going?
This he told me

Said, I'm going down to Yasgur's Farm,
Gonna join in a rock and roll band.
Got to get back to the land and set my soul free.

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon,
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.

Well, then can I roam beside you?
I have come to lose the smog,
And I feel myself a cog in somethin' turning.
And maybe it's the time of year,
Yes and maybe it's the time of man.
And I don't know who I am,
But life is for learning.

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon,
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon,
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.

By the time we got to Woodstock,
We were half a million strong
And everywhere was a song and a celebration.
And I dreamed I saw the bomber death planes
Riding shotgun in the sky,
Turning into butterflies
Above our nation.

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are caught in the devils bargain,
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.

Joni Mitchell

tsk.

Oh, just give me a hint!

Waiting and guessing is maddening.

Womb Time.

I believe that we spend our lives, sub consciously trying to recreate the feeling of being in the womb. Now, of course I'm stating on theory and assumption that we all had healthy womb-time. It does make some sense, so don’t stop just yet.

I'm not taking too much to Freud, but come to think about it, our womb time, theory states, must have been a state of constant euphoria and orgasma. We grow in a warm, dimly lit, comfortable little capsule, we are fed with food, oxygen, and blood; we are kept safe in this little environment. Our brains are empty, tabula rasa. We know only feeling, no scientific intelligence or knowledge. All we know is a feeling of carefree, absolute luxury. Our first experience of the world is this little cavern in our mothers.

Our next experience is probably the most traumatic in our lives. We are pushed, unwillingly, out of this little cavern, into a tight canal that squeezes, pushes, prods, until we are born out, into a cold, very bright, noisy world. It is suddenly difficult to breathe. And our bodies are left with mental and physical trauma, which very possibly stored as trauma memory in our brains as well as our muscles and tissues.

My point in all this is not to rant and blame the birthing process for all out vices and shortcomings. I want to tell you why we love music.
It’s not as strange as it sounds.

So, return to the womb. Imagine being swaddled up warm, satin blankets, with the feeling of floating. The one sound that we grow with, from the moment of conception, is the steady beat and thud of our mother’s hearts. This is our first song, the first rhythm. Like the bass it thuds on, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, sometimes all a flutter. Every time her heart beats, we feel it and we are more alive for it.
And when we leave her, the sound stops, replaced by a constant buzzing of the outside world.

All we do in our lives to achieve any sort of pleasure is to feel the same complete ecstasy of the womb. Thus, music. We listen to hear the heart beat which once assured us that we were alive and we were safe. Why else is the bass so appealing? Why do we need to have rhythm? Why do we need to have pattern? Our concept of end and beginning could very possibly be rooted with the start and stop of each heart beat.

Sigh.
Theories, theories.