Pag nababadtrip ako, baka dito na lang ako magpakasabog! Apir. Rakenrol.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
I know this is an old story, but I just want to say that any Portnoy may opt to quit or not quit his particular Dream Theater, for reasons that no one would fully understand. BUT let me insist that there has to be some mutual agreement, some sort of resolve to seal off the years of world domination as one Dream Theater. I ...need some sleep. A sleep devoid of dreams. Yup. And theaters, too.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The title does not mean anything.
Nothing means anything.
This implies nothing.
by Charles Bukowski
waiting for death / like a cat / that will jump on the / bed
I am so very sorry for /my wife
she will see this / stiff / white / body / shake it once, then / maybe / again
Hank won't / answer.
it's not my death that / worries me, it's my wife / left with this / pile of / nothing.
I want to / let her know / though / that all the nights / sleeping / beside her
even the useless / arguments / were things / ever splendid
and the hard / words / I ever feared to / say / can now be / said:
I love / you.
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
by Herman Hesse
Translated by James Wright
My Pillow gazes upon me at night
Empty as a gravestone;
I never thought it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Not to lie down asleep in your hair.
I lie alone in a silent house,
The hanging lamp darkened,
And gently stretch out my hands
To gather in yours,
And softly press my warm mouth
Toward you, and kiss myself, exhausted and weak-
Then suddenly I'm awake
And all around me the cold night grows still.
The star in the window shines clearly-
Where is your blond hair,
Where your sweet mouth?
Now I drink pain in every delight
And poison in every wine;
I never knew it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Alone, without you.
by Charles Baudelaire
Translated by William Aggeler
You are a lovely autumn sky, clear and rosy!
But sadness rises in me like the sea,
And as it ebbs, leaves on my sullen lips
The burning memory of its bitter slime.
— In vain does your hand slip over my swooning breast;
What it seeks, darling, is a place plundered
By the claws and the ferocious teeth of woman.
Seek my heart no longer; the beasts have eaten it.
My heart is a palace polluted by the mob;
They get drunk there, kill, tear each other's hair!
— A perfume floats about your naked breast!...
O Beauty, ruthless scourge of souls, you desire it!
With the fire of your eyes, brilliant as festivals,
Bum these tatters which the beasts spared!
The Bliss Of Sorrow
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
NEVER dry, never dry,
Tears that eternal love sheddeth!
How dreary, how dead doth the world still appear,
When only half-dried on the eye is the tear!
Never dry, never dry,
Tears that unhappy love sheddeth!
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Everything might be a work of fiction. This is fiction.
I should've written something here, and published my supposed last 2010 entry, but I opted not to. I tried to read, to write, to rationalize, to make sense of things, but I failed. I tried to breathe. I tried to think and to remember vivid images of the dilemma of others and the harsh social realities and other problems plaguing and threatening humanity that lead me to conclude that most of my problems as a petty bourgeois are trivial. Now, I doubt the objective truth of my realization. Things seem abstract during these illogical times of subjectivity when Reason is a Stranger. All these reduced everything I thought I learned into vagueness and speculations and footnotes and memories and information and inanimately psychedelic everything, though I've seen and felt the concrete backslap of this System during my soulsearch. I thought I knew how to handle things until I am confronted with something I did not expect AT ALL. I had a lot of things withdrawn. I wanted to refrain from unsolicited disclosure of internal torment. While everything I am trying to do ends up as failure, I maybe succeeding on one thing. Or so I thought. As I've often said, everything doesn't seem to make sense. Everything doesn't seem to make sense. Everything doesn't seem to make sense. But this painting and its description somewhat does. Thank you for sharing this link, Jonallin Yang. "All this pain is an illusion," sings Tool.
"About Distance: The title for Distance is very literal. It is a painting about growing apart, feeling cut off, alone. It is about the feeling of being able to sit right next to a person and yet feeling as if you are worlds apart."