Monday, June 29, 2009
Ah, and these ponderous people wonder why I lack blood.
Oh well, now I officially am lacking blood for a little less in a month running. It had the ponderous people's certification. Ah me, ah my, which explains why I've been more on the yellower and purpler side of things--that is, on the outside. I would have told myself that a long time ago, but it was not official, and I was no more official than... than... than a pig is about matters concerning cows. Old McDonald would be. But I admit I fantasized about being sick, it gave an excuse for why I was tired most of the time and have the tendency to be floppy and inadequately dexterous. Then it turns out that it was because I was really sick.
Yay, for me. Fantasies do come true. But the Knight would frown upon this thinking, and would force me to get well, for a good reason. But I do have a reason why I like getting sick. People care about you more during those times. If they don't, then one has the excuse to indulge in self-pity, that emotional chocolate and cream truffle. But then again, I don't really know why I like being slightly sick. Note that I said slightly sick. It means sickness without a tremendous amount of pain. Or even half of tremendous amount of pain. Not even a quarter of it, I think. But I like me sick, nevertheless, that fuzzy, disconcerted, silly state. Every time I have a fever, I think that I am a furry ball, emitting a tangible fuzz of heat.
Malady, thy name is Anaemia.
Come to think of it, I've always found Anaemia a lovely, lovely, lovely name. If I were to name myself, I'd probably call myself that. It's so nice, it has this yellowish tinge in its sound, and as childish as Gretel or Spiegel. And its dipthong, especially when it is writ with the second A and E in miniscule are joined together, is wonderfully antiquarian. No one makes such nice names about sicknesses anymore. It's either named after a physician, or an odd jumble of inconsequential letters. They write it like they write mathematical equations, letters and numbers with parentheses and brackets. You could say that the physicians from long ago simply loved their illnesses.
There was this one ponderous person from that said group earlier who gave me a psychological test. An official psychological test. A first for me. One that will go down my national records. It was long-ish, but I savoured every question mark and blank. It seems that I am more being offered questions and looking for answers. I don't know how he did interpret my drawing of a boy and a girl. He asked me to do one, and I thought of churning out Hansel and Gretel, in the moment of unbeknownst brink of desperation, because right behind them, a crow is eating their crumbs. I don't know how he'll find it. Them people always make fabulous conjectures, almost downright silly. Maybe he'd find that I am stuck in my childhood, terribly moody, and depressive.
Oh wait. I think I am that.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
There are times when the Knight and I would patter around the school after our classes, then decide to lie down in the middle of a grassy somewhere implicitly not so allowed, where the sky was unobscured and seem just within your reach. We would look at it and think about it, our thoughts spanning the length of truth and the fantastic.
The last time we did so, one ventured to ask what I would be, in his opinion, if I belonged to that sky. His answer was very curious, if not altogether endearing. However, it reminded me of a story that I had in mind a long time ago, when one was still in the habit of fashioning complete universes--so complete it had even its own cosmogony and literature. He was, and still is, doing that sort of things, something that makes me tremendously happy in knowing, and partly selfish, whenever I hear his tales, as I never do get enough of them and insist that he keeps on weaving them. Methinks we both are the reverse Arabian Nights, he is the Scheherazade, word-spinner, and I am Schariar, spouse-killer, or rather, one who has yet to outgrow the other world of words, weary I am of this world.
It is for his sake, that he reminds me of it, that I will retell the story.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Storm, where are you? No sunshine for me, the shadows it makes fools me into believeing that time passes, when it does not. No, it does not seem to pass in this limbo of waiting. The paradox of wanting is that everything else would conspire against the one who wants, time being the most prominent of these conspirators.
Wanting for a storm, am I simply waiting for the weather to console me, accompany me in this solitary state I am in? They had called this literary technique as "pathetic sympathy," the author fits the hero with a suitable weather to emphasize all that makes him the hero, as one would don a cape for dignity, or a teacup for civility.
Be that as it is. What makes me wonder is if asking for sympathy really just pathetic.
It's hard to believe in anything it shows you. These rent skies, does it give you anything to believe in? Just when you had gotten used to the sunshine, it turns its back on you and its milk-face goes sour, sourer than yogurt, curdled by some bile who knows where it had procured, or how it came to be produced. It scowls before it cries. And how it cries...
You can believe it's the past century, and I pretend that it is. Preoccupied with tea and afternoon things, there is nothing to occupy the eyes and the mind but cakes and mince pies, and space, more space.
Amuse myself with stories, that's what I'd do. But odd how it is that even if one does this, the picture in your head is not within the words, but of the words, black and serifed, puncturing the skin of virgin paper.
Ah, I ramble.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
to figure out the outline of things,
you're looking for lights in the night
but i'm lost in the lifetimes between.
There's a girl who lost her mother
and a bear who got no further
than the ends of both earth and sea;
sitting on a black hole, i never can see.
Tomorrow there will be
another sky above me
orion's just another hunter
just too far from his lover.
Going to where everyday's morning,
until then, love, i want it to be night,
where you had burnt through heaven
when you said you'll be that fire for me.
Stars are falling down tonight
but i told you all i can say
a few had gone into my eyes.
Friday, June 19, 2009
I remember crying in a way that seemed more like screaming, because the sadness wasn't much like itself but more like fear. I would be screaming for an hour or so before my nanny would come and snap at my pointless crying. Whoever cries during the rain, anyhow? Rain was simply water falling, she said.
If only rain was just that.
She was the kinder one, her. The crying-screaming took too much air, and I hiccoughed when it was too much, so she gave me water to stop the hiccoughs, and would console me with some afternoon snack, like chocolate rice pudding or fried plantains. And I would forget that I had been afraid, until the next afternoon.
Strange that I should recall it now. There is nothing about this noon that ought to have reminded me of it. No shadows, no rain.
It would take several summers more to outgrow the rain, and years more to outgrow abandonment. To be precise, twenty years and one knight to outgrow abandonment.