licking a wound


i cant exactly make head/tail out of the days recently. especially today.
crashed. roadrash. just like the times i have met the asphalt face first while i was working as a bike courrier. but when you are on ground with roadrash, there are no questions. the reasons are obvious. days like today where one feels defeated, there are no simple answer to give out. but to lick the wound.

perhaps it's the anticipation or an old realization that sometimes, things- whether good or bad, can never be quite so rigidly defined. the weight of the things- they fluctuate. for instance, that book bag on carries around, is quite light when you are starting out for the day. depending on what one packed, it even may seem lighter than usual (perhaps that new book or new 'something' that has been greatly anticipated; like new sets of pencils etc). then as the day wears one out, it gets heavier. even may cause you a pain- slouching, dragging, etc.

there are good bits within today, certainly. i scored some works and i ran into an old friend. i think i am as ready as im going to be for now for upcoming work session, i even found some eccles cakes in toronto. i have readied the house once again, for leaving, i am not willing to take myself so seriously. generally, am trying to stay afloat.

and then at certain point,

it feels as if i have stepped on a small thing- a splinter, a pin, a shard of glass, whatever you will- and whatever that's been sustaining you 'afloat,' gradually dissipates. feeling much like those birthday balloons past its prime, the rubber no longer taut, stretched out, and wrinkly. as one deflates, one becomes desperate, even hopefully. it'll go. it'll lift. and it will. it will all work out. it does. it has to. it better.

it feels red. a red that is tinted with blue. oxidized dark brownish red. despair. scott weiland's gritty voice used to be the sandpaper i used to rub my wounds with. today, i be a small scrawny pup licking its wound, with that well-worn sandpaper. STP's 1992 album, core was one of the very first music in english i remember listening to. and i ate it up. every track. every word. every pain. every pain that was imaginable and conceivable. angsty teenager, not angry, just wounded. curled up, i may as well just sink to nihilism. broken, fragmented, bit by bit. consumed then spitted out. not pity-worthy, pathetic, really.

...I am smellin' like the rose
that somebody gave me on
my birthday deathbed
I am trampled under sole of
another man's shoes
Guess I walked too softly...
(stp, core, 1992: dead and bloated)

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

canned cocktail wiener found in walter hall

Image
today, walter hall was hosting a special event for violists: heidi castleman masterclass. she teaches at juilliard and yes, i think it is quite exciting to play for a different teacher- you can take away so much with you, the inspiration, technical knowledge, a new emotional dimension, you name it. and i was confronted by a special person as well, just not as helpful, however impressive. walter hall is a busy place. and it's only a natural thing that students want to get in there to practice- it sounds good, it feels good and yes, there is shortage of space at busy times of the day in school. however, it is a performance hall and not a practice room, especially regarding the pianos. the piano technicians work very hard to keep the instruments to meet the heavy demands.  they come way before the students, to yield to the kiddies who want to practice. and yes, they do go home after a day's work.  and because many musical events take place in late evenings, it is important t
Read more

the violence of spring

Image
spring returns brutishly below the beautiful petals transparent against the blue  is the strength that pushed through the frozen solid ground  with absolute conviction, it draws from the depth, pushes it up and up and up, little bulbs covered in papery brown skins turn into living fanfare despite all the concrete the bird songs echo off the glass menageries dead brown twigs surge with green blood  when the light hits just right everything alive is beautiful and bright flaunting victory over the days of hunched shoulders and white knuckles the absence hits with a deafening scream we are all back in the midst of this madness through it all, death carves out laser sharp edges of ones in eternal stillness where nothing changes gentle spring kind spring violent and unstoppable spring the light makes it possible to see the hollows where no shadow casts as it is empty i called mom and said that spring returned with a thundering conviction of repetition- we didnt say but we both heard the othe
Read more

someone quick, help poor ophelia.. wait, you mean she was 'help' herself? i guess she'll have to stay drawned then..

Image
in recent window gazing, i was left standing with a map in my hand, wanting to look for the girls, at the peak of their youth, at the cusp point, immortalized by two particular artists, millais and klimt. their girls are the youthful ones, have this same look of fleeting beauty, like early spring flower petals that has been surprised by the last frost- even more beautiful since when the frost melts away, their capillaries and cells would collapse from the previous expansion of water, leaving them eventually colorless, shapeless, a past. i used to have all these girls hanging up in my otherwise sterile dorm room. gazing at me as i gazed at them. http://www.millais.info/bridesmaida.htm http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c7/Millais_-_Ophelia_(detail).jpg http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dana%C3%AB_(Klimt_painting) all these passing beauty, in the richest colors of gold, midnight blue, amber, van dyck brown, winter green contrasting so sharply with their pale skin only accentuate
Read more