12.5.13

mothers day

mothers' day is a different one this year
it will never be the same
a comfort of ritual,
of small gathering now
broken
ripped away
furious violation of the young with the old

a mother with one less child
a mother with a child who have lost a child
it is a day that i cannot say
happy mother's day

happy for what, i may ask-
why is it always about happiness
the world that is full of possibilities

as much as
of misfortune suffering grievance
of irreplaceable loss
of the days of unspeakable feelings

for twenty-eight years
she have spent in nurturing bickering
convincing and convinced
for the days- for how long, we do not know
she now can only
remember reminisce
the allure of graspable existence of
a lost child
deep in her heart
each beating moment

the mother consoling a child
who has lost one of her own

two different mothers
confined in the same invisible grid of bereavement
leans to one another
in front of a cemetery plot
still fresh without grass
the earh freshly sunken in
too new to be commemorated
in iron and steel

mother's day is yet just started
as a child died
as a child buried
in their minds

11.5.13

yes, he was great, mr. gatsby



as the semester is quickly rolling off its insanity, now i finally have time to go and do things other than chasing schedules and notes.

i learned that one of my fav band, depeche mode, have released a brand new album in march. so i caught up with that. delta machine is breaking my heart. depeche mode always been on top quality for writing, but their lyrics in this little journey of falling in love to manifestation of love, to its inevitable end, is really doing my head in.

http://youtu.be/BdEZq6F7SEM
... i couldnt save your soul,
i couldnt even take you home
i couldnt fill that hole
alone...
there's a thin grey line
between the black and white
it's evidently hard to find at night...

the idea of being alone after tasting what it is like to be with someone, intertwined and mangled together, that upon separation, the two individuals who has been one, is no longer a whole, but a maimed mess of flesh and blood-

and to make matters even more complicated, one of my favorite novelette, the great gatsby came out as a movie this week. so excitedly i went, despite of all the bad reviews.

i thought it was beautifully done.

before i go any further, here's a brief summary:
a poor boy falls in love with a rich girl.  poor boy gather wealth. the girl felt she cant wait, marries a wealthy man.  poor boy, now talk of the town, tries to win her back.  little girl she is, she does not realize the powerful consequence of her musing.  she gives formerly poor boy a half-promise.  but at the heart of confrontation, she buckles under pressure- all she wanted was glitter and gold, no more, no less- not even love, as she realize it will cost her.  she passively decides to leave the poor boy. poor boys gets shot, while waiting for the call from the girl, never knowing that she may say 'no more.'

though im not a jewellery kinda girl, i could not help but to admire the beauty of tiffany & co. collection.  it was reasonable to think that even that could not save gatsby from his fate.  however, did it cost him or did it add to him? i think it probably added to his life.  to own such beautifully crafted things, though one may not know the full value of it, i think, is a simple human desire, to acquire.  and to fulfil that- is nice.

and thats what gatsby does. collect one thing at a time, but eventually, he would collect them all. 'no' is not a possibility.  car. house. parties. influences. power. he will get them all and as he collects them all, he experiences even greater hunger for the ultimate acquisition: daisy.

some may think he was a fool. only a fool would trust such fickle girl. the fact he didnt see that wealth could not make him happy makes him a failure.  he forgot what it is to love- which is different than to obsess.  it is a cautionary tale.

i believe not.

in fact, gatsby dies in his peak.  he dies in full glory, in his ghastly massive house, with no soul left in it to console him, the moment full of hope- 'she loves me and she will be with me.'

in my book, that makes him the richest man. he dies in his beautiful illusion.  surrounded with beautiful things. and none of the party-goers who never knew nor understood him.  it's slightly biblical for me.  a man at his peak, dies, without full-acknowledgement of his actions and its consequences...

and of course, when he dies, there's nothing left of value. but perhaps that's only natural.  gatsby the self made man.  against all the odds. why should he matter to anyone else, as who he really was?  no one was interested - even daisy. daisy liked the idea of gatsby i believe. and with that foolish young heart, she did love him as much as she could- which is, not much... a beautiful fool she was.

to die as a devoted man is a great achievement.
to die as a believer.
to die while one consumes with vigor and desperate hunger.

that is a great man.
who cares if no one came to his funeral?
to die with heart full of that near-victory anxiousness-

as i try to collect self calmly in midst of all these dramas (esp of depeche mode and great gatsby), i make a foolish wish, to die with heart full of hope, even if it's all delusions.  i have yet to know what it must be like to have such conviction, strong enough to self-make, to shake the world and to entice the world with one's charisma/mad devotion.  but tonight, in mid-spring frenzy, perched on top of 32nd floor by self, i dream of what it would be like to be a prophet.

prophet of love. consumption. of final death.