-painful means to a happy ending-

Let's dance to Joy Division

I was in college, listening to Perry Farrel croon "I have the devil in me, it's a cloud. Sadness. It's a cloud".

I had long hair, played the stylized pretense of a writer who strummed the guitar clumsily to the rhythm of Pavement's In The Mouth Of A Desert in such proud fashion that you'd think i wrote the song.

15 full years ago- what mattered the most seemed almost like gospel.

Now looking at myself in the reflection afforded by the greasy water of a clogged kitchen sink- things have changed. Or have they really? I'm bald and all grown up but I'm still as worn-down, still as unwise, still as weak and still feeling as dreadful as when I had dreamed of the paradoxical image of loaded guns and how they always seemed to gleam with the promise of hope and other wonderful things.

I'm wishing I could sing- "Let's dance to Joy Division- and celebrate the irony- everything is going wrong- but we're so happy". There's really nothing left but tuneful mind-fucking but hey, it's better than silence.

There are these questions that press into your head as persistently as a migraine would. Am I acceptable? Will I ever be? What do I have to do? Tell me.

Always, the reflection whispers nothing back. What would you do to survive this? Laugh at this scene of quiet resignation? Detach yourself and remove all emotion in one more valiant act of disassociation?

That might actually work- except this time, you've realized there's truly less in you to love than there is to hate.

You say this out loud. There's less in you to love than there is to hate-- and then- everything just starts to make perfect sense.

You have the devil in you- it's a cloud. It will follow you around no matter how hard you dance to Joy Division, celebrating something you wished was even close to irony. Everything is always wrong.

But you're so happy.

Say that again and you might believe it.

Yeah, you're so happy...

reinventing chances

you know.

the few minutes it takes for the desert sun to overwhelm the heavy drapes that dull its shine in this apartment is a sign.

you know it's gonna be a good day.

is this really a fresh start? does it matter? it's a start- and that's probably all we can stand to hope for. a start.

how it begins is-- well, that's beside the point.

it's been 14 days since i got here. i was told this was far from the place i'd dreamed about but- somehow, this stewing broth of asian and european cultures seems exciting.

tall men speaking in tongues at the mall, cabdrivers who respond to your directions in an encrypted mumble, a flood of cars coming through towers built in the architecture of designers trying to one-up each other, buildings everywhere cropping up so fast they seem like dunes that shift in a sandstorm, girls in subtle couture walking through shops touting tax-free wares 18 hours a day and local girls covered up in their elegant abayas and designer jewelry making me wonder why they mask their faces within those black veils- and i think i've figured out why. the ones that take down the covers on occasion are so stunning that if they leave it off- men would fight wars of possession, enthralled by their breathless beauty.

the days start at 6am- thick fog obscuring the skyline, filling up the spaces left by traffic on the road. and they end late.

i'm struggling with writing the project brief for a portal that envisions vivid connections between the girls and boys that queue the clubs here. open from 10pm to 3am, they serve the drinks, light up the eyecandy and leave you with the inspiration of a chance to know each other's names. from denmark to london, hongkong to moscow, australia, germany and the united states- they descend on the dancefloor with the princes of arabia, swaying to the beat of heart-pounding electronica .

masih asks if I wanted to come to Armin Van Buuren's gig this friday, effectively derailing my train of thought. he says that knowing the market is half the job done. maybe he's right. but i gotta get this paper finished before the day ends.

project brief: outcomes and objectives, deliverables, the scope, approaches and assessments. 7 hours to go.

i should hop to it.

4 weeks ago, the soul was aimlessly floating on the open sea, a ship without a rudder. is this any different?

it's a start. a chance for one-- and i'll take it.

but even so, in my head i recall the famous last words of all the great men who have lived and died-- "Arrggghhh".

dreaming of the sun (redux)

locked up tight in this dank room, empty water bottles toppled over like bowling pins screaming a 7/10 split. yeah. it's depressing. actually, it's fucked up. but don't let that scare you. it's just the beginning.

about 5 months ago, this friend of mine asked me if i wanted to go to japan. japan? are you serious? yes, i'm serious. no shit? i shit you not my friend.

japan. the dream of dreams. land of the twisted samurai salary-men, a culture of swift and absolute discipline and underneath, a wild creative angst that liberates itself in controlled episodes of anarchy, perversion and all sorts of unique asian modern youth culture.

listening to them talk lulls me.  looking at the pictures, reading about it, watching the japanese brand of entertainment from animation to weird, lewd independent films, even the news. i find it all very therapeutic. it takes me away to a better place, full of-- well not exactly full of-- just a bit of maybe-- possibilites.

anyway, back to the story. he says-- wanna go to japan? you kiddin? of course i do. so one day- he says-- settle your stuff at the office. we're leaving next week.

this starts the entire spiral staircase that descends to what the bible calls "hell" or at least the functional equivalent.

with a little hesitation, i speak to my boss. i tell him, dude, i gotta leave. he says-- what? you're in the middle of a project. you gotta see it through. if you don't, you're retarded and should have yourself institutionalized post-haste! but i say-- i gots to go pops. this is a dream come true for me. i gotta grab it or i'll never forgive myself.

go then. but you are burning bridges here. - this echoes in my head for a few days.

i quit a sweet well paying job doing what people would kill for to do. but it was gonna be worth it. japan. home to square. killer-design hotspots. cosplay. electronics. high school uniforms. deadly cuteness.

i buy my tickets. it cost almost an entire month's salary. but i used my head and traded the frequent flyer miles i've been saving up for times like these. substantial cost still, but no matter. the dream is just around the corner.

then he says-- sorry bro, no go. we're gonna have to wait til middle of next month coz i have to sell the house here. ok. ok. i can wait. i quit my job. maybe time for a little break. never took one since i've been here. a short break will be good for me.

i move my departure date.

december comes.

...

he goes: sorry bro, no go.

my dad is comin over for christmas. we leave with him. same trip. he'll even pay the airfare so we're on the same flight. problems? ah. yeah. but it's cool. it's cool bro. if that's how it is, that's how it is.

as the days pass, i keep asking-- how's this gonna happen? if this isn't a sure thing, i need to know so i can do what i need to do. he says-- dude, leave no doubt in your mind. this is gonna happen. it's guaranteed. 100%.

aight. cool. 100% sounds awesome. i'll wait.

end of december.

nothing. no word. no progress. and at the end of the year-- another notice:

sorry bro, no go.

my grandma is sick. she is at her deathbed. my dad wants to stay here and settle things. it's gonna take a while maybe. probably end of january or mid february. it takes a little patience my friend. it'll come. i guarantee it. 100%.

oh shit.

what am i going to do until then? i've changed a good amount of my money in dollars in preparation. and the exchange just went down. i've repeatedly mentioned my different departure dates to friends and family. i've been asked more than once-- why are you still here? i cope. i stay at home, spend very little, stay lean-- no social life to speak of. no spending. no movies. no nights out. save your money, dude. for your trip. that's what's important.

i languish away, dreaming of this.

since i don't go out, i play the rugged nomad who hasn't shaved in days. since i had to spend the least, i started losing weight, from being 148 lbs to 120. people say it's too marked. i look paper thin. but it's ok. i'll recover in japan. i'm going to be in a place where i owe it to myself to look better, feel better. so it's cool. i can take that.

january. february.

march.

started to lose hope. maybe it's just bullshit, after all. man, that's too fucking cruel. if it ain't gonna happen-- you shoulda just told me. but this is torture. if it wasn't gonna happen-- just come clean. 2 months ago. come clean. 3 months ago. come clean. 1 week after i lost my job. come clean. it ain't gonna happen. i'm sorry. i can't help you.

and then, a phonecall.

bro, i got your tickets, your passport and your visa! holy shit. are you serious? yeah man. we are leaving next saturday. that's more than enough time to say your goodbyes. settle things. do what you have to do.

awesome. the next day, i start giving all my stuff away. appliances. gadgets. tv. playstation 2. cd's and dvd'd. books. clothes. shoes. kitchenware.

i talk to my friends and relatives. the day has finally come. yeah, it's definite. i'm leaving this saturday. people shake my hand and say good luck. they're excited for me. they know it's what i've always wanted. i left my job for it, my only source of income so i must really trust this friend who's putting it upon himself to help me make it come true.

the days start crawling towards that date of departure.

no news. no word.

sorry bro, i'm with family. my sisters are keeping me from leaving. i'll give you your passport soon.

tomorrow. the next day.

i call and don't get an answer. i leave messages that stay unreplied.

thursday comes.

just 2 days short of the said departure date. he says-- i have to come clean with you. after almost half a year of waiting in monk-like patience. after holding on to faith while everyone around me tells me to be on my guard-- that guy's just shitting you.

sorry bro, no go.

i had a fight with my dad. he cancelled your visa sponsorship. you have no visa. you have no tickets. there is no japan for you.

what? you had a fight with your dad? a fight? with your dad? and that's the biggest reason in the world why i'm competely utterly fucked over? shafted? screwed?

a fight with your dad? dude, you had an obligation to me. the moment you asked me to settle stuff at the office, it should have been clear to you that i was serious enough to actually follow your advice and do it! i bought fucking tickets! i said my goodbyes! i've waited almost half a year! i've given away almost everything i own except the ones that will fit in my bag and you say-- sorry bro, no go? i had a fight with my fucking dad?

why man? why do this? it doesn't make sense. this is bullshit. again and again in my head-- i keep asking-- what the did i do to you man? why fuck my life over? it doesn't make sense.

and i remembered. the warnings. dude, he's just shittin you man. he can't even look you in the eye when he talks to you. it's all a pipe dream. it's BS. some people confronted me asking me-- what's the matter with you? trustin your life to someone like that? you're fucking stupid.

and i go-- nah man. i trust his word. he says he guarantees it. it's a sure thing. i'll go by that.

man, i hold my hands up. it's up to you man. do what you want. it's your life.

in a nutshell, i got punked! bigtime. whatever the motivation was on his part for fucking my life up, i don't know. i can't pretend to even fathom it.

aside from that, he owes me money. could that have been it? dude, that amount of money is no reason to fuck my entire life over upside down and sideways. it's not. if you need it and i have it-- go for it. take fucking advantage and shit, i don't mind. that's how it is with me-- but that ain't no reason to do this. this is fucking bullshit.

oh shit, it's almost 730. gotta go. ciao.

eat me

don't ask me what's cooking.

i am the spam of the earth, the burnt bits of corned beef sticking persistently to your teflon-coated fryer. i am garlic, burning in butter, hissing out in a pan of pain.

i shrivel easily, like badly kneaded pastry. and in times that i don't shrink, i bloat like batter-- crunchy on the outside, empty on the inside.

i am junk food, artificial flavoring, monosodium glutamate, olestra, sodium nitrite, 210 milligrams of 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine dissolved in 6 ounces of frozen orange juice ready to ease your pain and unleash your inner bitch.

i am the poster-boy for chemical adulteration, your food additive, your chosen carcinogen, the cotton in your candy whetting your addiction with stale plumes of sugar fumes, a fake form of sweetness: cyclamate, stevia, aspartame, saccharin...

i am the leftover lard that oozes out of your grease-fed porkchop dinner, coagulating faster than blood on the edges of your fridge-crisped microwave-ready plasticware.

i am mold and mildew, salmonellae, listeria, staphylococcus aureus, vibrio vunificus-- often quiet, sometimes invisible, poised to seal your breath away by touch of tongue.

throw me away and still, i'll remain. i'll haunt you with the stink of a household legion: maggots, roaches, flies, mice. take your pick.

so don't ask me what's cooking.

just open your mouth.

and let me in.

Cigarettes taste good tonight

It's a slow friday night.


Outside, the weather washes over streets like the uncomfortable silence that drowned us just a few minutes ago.


It's numbingly cold-- for some reason. My voice, if it had substance, would have frozen over the phone. I had nothing to say. I've got nothing to do. It's a slow friday night, easing into the weekend like a tired marathon runner at the last leg of a back alley race. You look at the finish line-- too tired to be wry.


I'm encouraged to ask what i don't need to ask. It almost feels like standing on a sidewalk where empty cabs pass me by knowing i'm looking for a ride.


This whole gaping wound thing has got me. It gets to me. I walk without a bounce. I trudge. That's the word. I'm trudging home to a slow friday night looking for something to soak up. I am spongebob-- looking for sutures.


The weather is trivial. Whether the skies are clear, the city lights blot it out anyway.


This city gets to me.

Maybe i'm just sapped dry by the thought of running after one small reason to smile.


It's a slow friday night.


It's ok.


It's always ok.

i'm just as screwed up as you

you ought to know-- you're not the only one born left of center.

don't pretend that i wasn't in the wringer with you when your world got twisted. i was there, baby. i watched it happen.

so you think you're worthless?

you know i think the world of you.

imperfect as you are, mad, dazed, half-awake, half-elsewhere, always lost. and i still think the world of you.

so you're a liar-- and you deserve nothing but pain? well you're not the only one.

i was there to hold you still, to keep you steady. i was there with you-- seeking redemption by gently soothing the bruises of your furious crimes.

you know what it's like to feel worthless-- to be an eyesore, to be an angry stain tainting the walls of someone's precious ivory tower, to be a bloody hole in someone's holy robes.

you can't help it. neither can i.

we un-make beds. we wake people when they're dreaming good dreams.

we are who we are. and it's ok.

because baby, what i am, what i do-- i can't help it either. i still think the world of you.

i bask in the glory of your darkness when the sun glares at you like a disappointed mother.

you're a bottomless well and i want to climb down into you, shiver with you in the cold, cry saltwater down your neck until i find myself floating in the depths of your arms.

don't you understand? if it was to be so bad that you'd love not having to love me-- the least you can do is not stay mad, baby. don't stay mad at me.

it'll be ok. you'll see.

you love to be lost like you love the thought of loving her-- because it's as safe as watching the sun set in a horizon that will always run away from you.

you pine for her because she's not here. you close your eyes in made-up memory of short happy days that you don't really remember-- except when you want to-- because it's easier that way. but that's ok. you're in love. it doesn't matter what it is-- you're in love. well, so am i.

so am i.

i wanted to tell you-- that you're really just like everyone else.

you only want what you can't have-- no matter how bad it gets.

baby, you're really just like everyone else.

you only want what you can't have.

i like bloody breadknives

i like lighting candles until the wicker sears through the floorboards.

would you rather that i pretend to down this drink calmly? pretend to take my time? playing it cool is like praying 300 hail mary's instead of 3.

i'll play it cool and let you come to me. but you never will. we'll pretend to kiss, let it all go like you would an urge to piss. there's nothing to miss but the odd little rhymes that keep going until it's 6am and we all need a little sleep.

when i said it-- you heard me right. anything worth doing is worth doing until the universe crashes down like cheap chandeliers.

is there a god? am i listening to too much of your soundtrack's pop sensibility? was it iron & wine, lucinda williams or kinnie starr singing it's alright? well it's not. it's not alright.

connie francis lets it out-- everybody's somebody's fool. and i'm yours, baby. i'm your fool, your designated bellhop serving in your imaginary hotels of hell, your whipping boy, pleasuring you with soothing tones of touch, with a wordless tongue, with lips that don't hiss when i kiss your demon skin.

anything worth doing is worth doing until the hand of god leaves its mess on your junkyard city.

mr. buddha, there is no middle way-- you fly or you fall-- whichever way you end up-- don't stop and think.

just plunge in headfirst with the bloody passion of a burning spear and pray it doesn't sting.

so come with me. let's do something.

For the "L" Word bitch who got the best of me

It does happen.

Episodes in a TV Series espousing intelligently crafted notions of lesbian love and lust-- where everything doles out chaos at every turn and all modern concepts of Love are shoved down the chute like a bag of muck. She watches them. She admires their every thought-- their every motivation, how they make decisions, how lust makes you alive, how feelings can be shattered at any moment-- how truly impermanent things are-- how lost we all are to the point of ruin. She loves that. The freedom to be lost.

Love. My god. The idiot who thought the word up should be shot! How it all falls into place so fluidly is a testament to how seriously screwed up the world really is. How does one stay sane in the grip of these dreary states of fucking mind? How can you stand back and not dive in headfirst and hope you regain consciousness soon enough to come up for air?

Yes, i walked that ocean full of hope-- riding passion like a mad shark hungry for anything and everything. I got lost in the middle of it-- completely-- without the skill to read currents for self-preservation or the benefit of predatorial ruthlessness made to defend the rawness of what's left of the heart i thought i once had.

This is the real world. There are no candy-coated love boats floating on a river of wine and chocolates. You can either be a saint who gets crucified or a demon laughing his ass off watching the saints getting nailed.

I've been the former. And the demons have laughed their asses off at me-- and their heckling sounded more melodic than angels singing those depressing psalms.

I've had my heart broken, giving out blood like some impassioned hemophiliac to whomever wanted to drain the life out of me. Suffice it to say that i gave plenty.

And no, i have no illusions of myself being the only one getting screwed. I have broken hearts myself by lashing out at the world without thought or a single pinprick of remorse. The world deserved it. But not emoon. Not maude. Not aia. Collateral damage in my hatred for how the world nailed me down-- unjustified, immoral, emotionally diseased, evil and without regret.

I resurrect today, ready to begin again, demonized. Not so much alive as undead.

I will cross those lines again and ride the wave straight to the rocks and into the fucking lighthouse just to prove a point.

I hate because you said I should. I have to feel nothing because I gave it all i got and felt every single point of pain that at one point, i thought about why bliss needed to be this excruciating. I seek and destroy on command because the rules dictate that this is how the game is played-- nothing else matters but the survival of the fittest.

This is my testament, my manifesto to the fucked up world we all live our shitty lives in.

After 6pm, July 11, 2005-- this shipwreck is going to burn as many souls as possible.

And when it all comes to ruin-- i'll be there, laughing myself to tears.

One fistful of Roche, a bottle of tequila to cap it all off-- and i'll die smiling. Soon, when the forest of this unbearable hatred bears fruit-- you'll feel it too the way i feel it now.

And if i'm wrong-- it's not like anybody gives a flying fuck.

I think that's hilarious. Perfectly comedic. Demonic. Sweet. Just like the shadows of all your twisted, lustful lies.

I shall empty my guts of your putrid memories until there is nothing left.

In the end, in all the glorious fucked up states the human brain can come up with-- it'll all come burning down with the heat of your pornographic epic.

Reap what you sow, bitch. I'm sure you'll love it.

At the L after not having talked to C

It feels like i've been spun in a centrifuge. You know it's coming. You feel it coming. And when it hits you, you know you're alive only because bliss overwhelms you like a fit of madness.

Sometimes, the heart lights up like street lights. You pass them by and watch them bleed into the night sky thinking- i want to stand under them. One streetlight after another, basking in the brightness that robs the darkness of its reason to exist. I wanted to lose myself there, even for just a moment.

I wanted to know what it's like. Even after a 3 second narcoleptic episode of forgetfulness, i wanted to know what it's like for you to be there with me.

I wanted to see you. Who you are. What's inside you that yearns for something bigger than the moment. I wanted to know why you breathe the way you do. Why the wanderlust in your eyes never seemed to get doused by the same apprehension i felt around everyone, there in the dark.

We all got lost in the beat, lying on the floor breathless after the weight of our bodies push spots on our backs and we yield by groaning in sweet relief.

I thought about you. How bright your eyes still were after hours of welcome comfort-- and minutes of abrasive desire that felt like drops of candle wax on your skin. 

You say that it's ok. But what you really mean is that you want life lived on your own terms and nobody else's.

I wish i was there, slowly sinking out of the shadows and into that room-- just to be there. Just to stay. To ask questions that might never have been answered. And answer questions back in words neither of us would've probably understood. Or maybe, nothing needed to be said at all.

That's wishful thinking that washes out after breathing restfully on the living room couch-- sleep-- covering my body like a cold, crisp blanket.

Wishful thinking that's remembered days later, knowing that it's over-- and the world spins forward like it always does and never in reverse like it did in a waking dream i had on monday morning.

sizing up the edge before looking down and tripping over

12:15 ticks by with the usual fakery taped around my face. Makes you think what people mean when they say things they shouldn't. You see, I've got too much to say-- but removing the dark secret parts leaves nothing for conversation.

I am happily efficient at sounding like a simpleton. It gives people a positive experience and elevates their sense of self-esteem. For some reason, it doesn't feel as awful as it's supposed to-- probably because i've been handed my fate and i don't thrash wildly against it but just smile like an idiot and take what i can take.

I've been thinking about the act of giving and the art of giving in. They seem inseparable, like circus twins, biological freaks conjoined at the hip. I keep telling myself "I'm bigger than this. I'm better than this." I should just say it out loud-- but talking to myself all the time makes me feel so goddamned lonely.

Right now, I'm cheering myself on with bunched up fried noodles as pom-poms. 12: 54.

The lunch hour passes by this way.

It's OK.

Outside, the sun baked city contorts into a mirage.

Airconditioning is man's greatest invention.