Tuesday, May 25, 2004

its amazing how simple the things you miss can be..yea, you had it right: its the physical intimacy of us that we miss most...theres so much you can't say, without labouriously typing out *grin*..a shoulder squeeze, a smile, a shrug..bilingual..

my scripts still lying on the floor, wind flicking the pages.

dove, shove, above.

Friday, May 21, 2004

the artist attempts to paint the world the way only (s)he sees it...whether the medium be words, paint or film, each piece attempts to tell a story only the hands of the teller can see.
we move through pictures, words, two-dimensional depictions of three-dimensional life..each trying to get closer and closer to what we see...what is reality to you?
and as it comes in fragments, what we're really doing is constructing our own reality.

-escape artist.

it sounded better at 5am, lying flat on my back staring at my fan go round and round and round

Thursday, May 20, 2004

the highwayman

part one
the wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
the road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
and the highwayman came riding-
the highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

he'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
they fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
and he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
his pistol butts a-twinkle,
his rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
and he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
he whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
but the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

and dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
his eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
but he loved the landlord's daughter,
the landlord's red-lipped daughter,
dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

"one kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
but I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
then look for me by moonlight,
watch for me by moonlight,
i'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.

he rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
but she loosened her hair i' the casement! his face burnt like a brand
as the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
and he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

part two
he did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
and out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
when the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
a red-coat troop came marching-
king George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

they said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
but they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
there was death at every window;
and hell at one dark window;
for Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride..

they had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
they bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
she heard the dead man say-
look for me by moonlight;
watch for me by moonlight;
i'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way..

she twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
she writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
they stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
cold, on the stroke of midnight,
the tip of one finger touched it! the trigger at least was hers!

the tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
she would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
for the road lay bare in the moonlight;
blank and bare in the moonlight;
and the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
the highwayman came riding,
riding, riding!

the red-coats looked to their priming! she stood up straight and still!

tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
nearer he came and nearer! her face was like a light!
her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
then her finger moved in the moonlight,
her musket shattered the moonlight,
shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

he turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
how Bess, the landlord's daughter,
the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
with the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
when they shot him down on the highway,
down like a dog on the highway,
and he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *

and still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
when the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
when the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
a highwayman comes riding-
a highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
and he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
he whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
but the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

-alfred noyes

Sunday, May 16, 2004

its 4.20..

it's been 4.20 for the past three hours. its a peculiar property of sunday afternoons, this.
so hot it seems to have gotten under your skin..so you're baking alive, but from the inside. the winds blowing its merry way, but not this way. jack and jill have gone back inside..the hill's for another day. tell me, is this the way we once lay?
strawberry cheesecake.

...its still 4.20!!!!

Thursday, May 13, 2004

the interesting thing about memories, or atleast my memories, is i almost never recollect them. i do, however, live each detail out.
i'll explain..ask me to tell you about some crazy thing i've done with my friends..and i'll stare at you. draw a complete blank.
but as i look at that curve in the road, i can't help but think of the time we went down to the beach for someone's birthday, racing each other like maniacs. i see my neighbors house, and i'm throwing stones at it again, from the shadows. i walk into my kitchen and i'm drinking chai, sitting down with an old friend after a semester of college and comparing notes on how we survived the big bad world.
it's a fine line. and in the end i wonder, drinking chai on my porch, staring at my green gate, if i'm living two lives, or killing one. fondly recollecting, or frantically escaping? fine line.

escape is one thing. but you can't keep running away. in the end, you draw lines between what's real, and what isn't. But you never stop remembering. You also never stop adding to things to remember when you're old, withered, and sitting on a chair staring out towards the horizon.
(just because it looks quaint, and someone is bound to happen by and take a picture)

Thursday, May 06, 2004

dark bitterness. it starts in the back of your mind, travels throughout your body, stretching you out, spreading you over too much bread, and then it hits the back of your throat.
we're so utterly spoilt. completely. we don't even live real lives anymore...understand, a real life does not exist in a bubble. life in a box is no life at all. so distant from whats really going on, so fascinated with the latest ways to fight our boredom with pretty lights.
its dark outside.
so transfixed by the sounds that can transport us so far away.
..people hearing without listening..

wow. isn't that great? i'm a spoilt little rich kid, trying to find his place in the world. should i do engineering for a living? should i buy this car, or that? should i build that annex to my house? should i buy the fucking big television of my dreams?

yea. i'm the rich kid who's got everything he ever wanted, or should ever want. i write to exorcise myself. catharsis through the written word, metaphors set me free, images give me wings. ..but my soul still aches.

shit load of good that does anyone.