Sideways and Beneath

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ShrtTrmMmry
What the FUCK! is wrong with me!
Through some quirk or ill-fated decision, I came across work / pieces / websites / artsites I used to spend my time on. It just registered to me so vividly why they exist and I'm screaming at myself trying to realize just how I came to forget them!

How the HADES!

RecollecTion
It seems like such a stupid thing, probably for many of you, how I came to not register this thing. I totally forgot I did artwork for the artsite "Yaoi Gallery", same goes for my participation on forums for Muscle Growth Stories and Artwork.
What happened to me! ? !

And I have a Ark's load of artwork to catch up with and do!

Stink of Necessity
Since I started this new job.
I ... fuck, I ... just forgot about all the other things I chose to be active in.
Perhaps I realized them, maybe I knew about them, but it seems so fleeting. Like I lied to myself again and again.
And only now I realize just how important they are to me.

FUCK!
I hate rotating priorities.

Creative Juices
So the cont is several artpieces for Y-Gallery, 1 long time owed piece in DA, catching up with posts in MGForums | damn damn damn ...

And where I am wondering where I've slipped to.

ReincarNation
Do I re-write my entire memory, life, priority and behaviour with every new environment I settle into. There's something wrong with me for sure.
Now what will happen if I choose to move out.
Will I forget many more things, or brush them to my subconscious to torment myself.

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As clear as night, glass like stone.

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Clarity
Is being able to find clarity of thought and mind a good thing? Are choices any easier, or do they simply make our justifications for our actions stronger?

Are we blinder still for our want of greater clarity?

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Vitreous
Do we always borrow strength as an illusion? As we say, it makes us stronger, is it only a fragile reasoning, an illusion of words and false inspiration to bolster ourselves?
If we grow stronger from that which does not kill us, do we not only have that one chance?

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Shimmering Mirage
How far should I go to believe my own lies? How soon should my beliefs hang on to these things beond my grasp? How does reaching for the stars, the beyond help me find my roots, always looking up?
Am I a better person because I say so, or by someone's spproval? When?


ps: Today's posting is uhmmm, somewhat random. Just trying to string some words together as a free-form practise. Nothing really emo about it actually. But I did realize something as I wrote it, and as I do, I will do more research on it. I may be having Night Terrors.

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Prose

My insignicant thoughts, strangely, define me.
My conscious actions are without real pride or conviction because they can be waived by neither.
My wishes are extensions of a fantasy I use as a lifeline to life.
My patience is as tolerant as my needs need to be.
My dance mocks my living movements.
My song is critical to my voice.
And I am left with myself. this way.
Every moment of my life, till the last bright light burns into my cornea.

Butter Slippers

Kowloon Yellow
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The Orient
I abhor being asked what makes me chinese. I don't know the first way to answer that. The generic -easy-to-back-out-of way is to say 'My culture'.
But I lie.
Its not mine - not to claim anyways. I was born into it. I don't defend it, nor do I valiantly champion or embrace it lovingly as a lover. I think few of us do, unless we have a job at the Chinese Cultural Centre (C3) and their ilk.
So there - I don't know what it is to be chinese besides culture and general variant tone for asiatic skin hues between light to dark on the nutmeg'gy side.
*groan*
I should be disinherited by the ancestors.

Shortly After
I'm slowly preparing for this Saturday. I'm also trying to time myself, so I don't go over hte recommended 10 - 15 minutes. But you know 'artistes' - we'll take all the time we can. All 15 minutes of it! Of course I have, on some decent authority there are those who preceed me, who have taken a much more gravious period.
(evil laughter insert)
So yes, let's plan for my '15' minutes, shall we?

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Prose

I wonder if one day or even one night, some late dark lonely night, if I would be a meal.
For an alien.
Like myself, having lunch in an hour.
Or dinner by the diner tonight.
I wonder if I would be an appetiser, an entree or, I shudder in glee to think, dessert.
Would I be slushy, or crunchy and sweet, maybe sour to the palate.
Won't you wonder with me?

Imago with her children green

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Flightpath
"The trajectory of a moving projectile mass relative to a fixed reference."
"The precise route taken or due to be taken through the air"

Shoudln't we all have had it this easy?

Destiny, karma, fate
"The inevitable or necessary fate to which a particular person or thing is destined."

Do we really believe in this?

Wings of the Sea
I'm entranced by this memory sometimes. This early memory of watching an early piece of digital animation at its infancy back in the days. This story that seemed to capture every other moment in my past, future and present.

There's a clear bubble that hands in space someplace, and the globe is divided into two parts. The lower and upper half is segmented by a clear thin glass as well. Above, the birds fly free and in groups and families. Below, the fishes swim in clusters and much abandon.
But one inhabitant from each side seems to recognise a kinship.
And as close as they can veer to the glass bibble separation, you can see the exchange on wonder, awe and questions. They show each other things, like wings and fins and have flight/swim competitions but can never beyond that barrier.
To keep this short, the bird crashes down from on high to shatter the glass and the two worlds collide and intermingle.
But the concept, the visual, the memory of that world.
Its stays with me.
I think its been with me since I saw it back ... about 15 years ago, or maybe longer.

Sypnapsi
Never forget, I am told.
I see that message often, but I don't believe there are things to remember sometimes.

Focus
I have Jonathan Togo, Eric Szmanda, Sean Maher, Steve Bacic wallpaper looking back at me. I chose the more casual shots of them, unposed, smiling or caught in a moment. That sparkle in their eyes that say more than 'pose'.
Do I have that 'sparkle' ?
Do I relate to the world around me, or at least give something of a seeming? Is it a glamour?
Am I real relative to my environment?
Does the mirror show me to myself who I really am? Am I what I pretend to be?
Ask yourself.

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Prose

I'm not sure I can do it, Grand Auntie.
I know some nights you listen and others you don't. Sometimes you even have a cloud over your eye and I pretty sure you really don't want to listen but I guess I'm just persistent then.

Tell me Grand Auntie - you seem so sure.
You have so many names, and you fulfill them all. Am I worthy of the one I have? Can I say with pride the name I was given, to live up to it?
I pray when you're silent. Though you are aloft on high, you are always my constant. It doesn't matter how many courtiers you entertain in the nights. It does not matter how high and far away you discern me with your critical white eye. I find security in you.

How are your cataracts?
Does it bother you, or blind you to my faults? Is that why I keep repeating them? Grand Auntie?

Tonight, I'm full of empty questions. I have to have my answers. I can no longer sleep without you touching my skin in the darkness. I can no longer tolerate the dark Uncle who scares me every night, in the middle and haunts me till dawn.
I think he see's me everywhere in the darkness. Even when I'm playing with my thoughts of drowning. I constantly search for you. I'm so far beneath you, I feel humbled by your distant grace, Grand Auntie.

Can you take me with you when I leave? I have no bags to pack. I'm a simple person, but with many complex thoughts. Maybe I'll be punished for having so many thoughts. I will take my pillow. I don't like neck aches when I wake up. But I suppose I'll always be sleeping in your palace.
Your cold white palace.
Tell me about where you live again, Grand Auntie.

Tonight, hold out your arms to me. Receive your dutiful child, when I return.
Tonight, Grand Auntie.
I come home.

Fireflies in Space

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Game Over
There's a strong desire to refresh.
To step back and take account for all the things that have come to pass. There's a fear holding me back as well. The monsters we left behind, the damning memories we intentionally left to be forgotten and worse still, the fact we will realize the parts of ourselves we always intended to hate.
So here I am.

Insti-gates
I'm going to re-evaluate my relationships.
Who are the people I surround myself with, who shape my life as I shape theirs. The perceptions, the outlook on life, the support. What gives, and what does not, and what takes ... too much or too little.
Do I stay true and loyal out of obligation, out of memory and childhood camaderie? Even if we are too far apart when standing back to back - what is there truly to hold on to?
Have I looked too far past those who could have been true friends to me, because I was too blindsided by bias and hearsay?
I ask now.
I am asking myself.
It'll take some time, perhaps. Maybe. It will take time. The rest of the year I give myself.
To be true.

Peace,
Serenity, Come unto me.

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Prose

A heart wrapped in thorns as its often described.
Was my gift to the world.
As much a gift it was that was born unto me.
My words were never truer still
The gift of thorns around this heart.

The world owes us nothing
When we ask for much.
My aching black head is filled
With hate. the frozen scorn
Of the gift of thorns.

My mind has sunken into darkness
To where no saviour dare breach
The tears fall too slowly
Fill the cavern to swim above.
To the heart wrapped in thorns.

There's no forever,
to prolong this feeling.
There's no moment passing by, to save me.
Take this heart of mine,
this gift of thorns.

Celestium

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What celestial choir do you resonate?

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Boon of the Erth

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Red and blue
I'm travelling between the rivers of angry resentment and lethargic depression.
I feel like a shambling, unsteady bridge of twigs and mud, haloed by the impending glow from the waters below. I might crumble, fall and drown, swept away someplace.

Migration
The Canadian High Comission mailed a polite and well outlined (which is a nice gesture that I appreciate) letter to the house. Its was a soft way of rejecting my Brother's PR request and sponsorship to Canada. He was to go under my parents as a dependant.
I understand the costings he will incur, and if he made it - they would pay for his training, adaptation into society there (they have wonderful government social responsibility), and as I understand it, have someone to watch over him (social wroker) to check in on him occasionally.
I could be wrong, but it has to be better than here.
I don't see our government with the financial or social backing (blame the citizens partially), for handling the handicapped; physical and mental.

5 years we waited.
Year after year, as evalutation dates are pushed back for new reinstatement and reconsideration laws into Canada (due to pressure from the US a year after 9/11) to be more stringent. The tsanami catastrophe, as they are given precedent on applications first (they are socially conscious, which relfects this action) ...
And the money spent ...

Mirror
It might have been easier if I were in the family inclusion package for PR sponsorship. Even though my brother would have beem entered as a "burden on state", my qualification as a professional would have balanced things out.
But no.
The delays meant I was well over 25, and already working. It wou;d have to be me as under 21 to be claimed as a dependant or even as long as I was still studying - but I couldn't just keep studying.
Now to begin again?
If he were to apply under me now, it would be weird c oz my parents are still alive and he's not a dependant on me, until something happens to my parents. And ... like that's a better choice.
We can appeal - but unless we are under more dire straits, it would change little.

Fuck.
fuck the shitty damn shit ass fucking twat machine crank pussy whacker shithole wonder ass-licking crackwhore fuck.
And I say that in the quietest, mildest way I can.

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Prose

When Tide told Time,
he could not wait.
Time obliged and followed.
I was left behind.
Suffering from the cold void.
The winds of abandonment.

There were no snakes
that crawled in temptation.
No ladders to lend their weight.
Bleak, laughable silence.
I thought it would last.

Writers who read, make readers of the word.

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Fact of Pride
The Violet Quill

In its narrowest sense, the Violet (or Lavender) Quill was simply a circle of gay male writers in Manhattan who met a few times in 1980 and 1981 to read to one another from their works in progress. In a much larger sense, however, the Violet Quill commands interest because this group of friends and rivals--Christopher Cox, Robert Ferro, Michael Grumley, Andrew Holleran, Felice Picano, Edmund White, and George Whitmore--helped create the post-Stonewall renaissance of American gay male writing.

The members of the Violet Quill were quite different from one another and did not consciously constitute a "school," but collectively and individually they placed homosexuality at the very center of their literary visions.

As David Bergman has observed, they "shared several impulses: a desire to write works that reflected their gay experiences, and specifically, autobiographical fiction; a desire to write for gay readers without having to explain their point of view to shocked and unknowing heterosexual readers; and finally, a desire to write . . . in a selection of the language really used by gay men."

In retrospect, they may be seen as pioneers in the struggle to create a literature that reflected the social revolution wrought by the Stonewall uprising. Their works chronicle both the headiness of the early years of gay liberation and the tragedy of the AIDS epidemic, to which four of the seven have succumbed.- Claude J. Summers.This Entry Copyright © 1995, 2002 New England Publishing Associates. www.glbtq.com/literature/violetquill.html

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... because we should all write with such passion, want and exploration. We should all be driven by ourselves and the world around us. Because we have to speak, to say and to write.
- me

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The imagination imitates. It is the critical spirit that creates.
- Oscar Wilde

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GAY PRIDE MONTH 2007

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Gary Pride Month: 2007

(in America, anyways)

Video
Yes, I will be attempting to make, the, you know, uhm, video blog thingies.
Youtube.
Yea.
Well, at least for this Gay Pride month to say: WOOHOO!
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Prose
This month after May
In America, they say
Its all month, all day
Be merry and well, gay.

I celebrate my diversity
I sleep with all colours
I know with some certainty
I love creamy white showers.

Judge me not, have some pride
We are greater united
We change trends and the tide
We're gay, I'm excited.

So this month, this June
I proclaim with clarity
Watch out, it'll be soon
I'm on the loose, I'm Gary.
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Battalion of Words

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The Queen of War is Silent
The way it always is.

Readings
Am I on the list for Seksan House this June?
I don't know. I'll ask in a couple more days.
... But there's an Open Mic at MPH Bangsar Village II. saturday, this. 3.oo PM, as I rush to work. 2-3 minutes, and I'm fretting over what to read. Prose or Poetry ... eep. I actually have prepared material, unlike my other 2 open mic experiences (thanks Pat and Priya!).

And its free admission, which means kids might be there.
And its under KLua - Could I use offensive vocabulary? I don't know. But if its to be an exploration of open words and tunes, should I not be censored for content because of sensitive language? How about content? Can I EMO much?
Sharanya will be there.
Hmmm's.
She's a feature of the event, so is Accolade Niccolade.

i'm not even sure I can leave work soon enough and sign up 45 minutes before event showtime.

Running Start
Trying to get a running start on things. i've slowed down.
Again.
Must ... run ... faster ... and catch up before I'm left way behind again.

Food
I feel like Canoli.
Eating Canoli ... mmmHmmm ...
I went for spicy Pan Mee the other day which I didn't end up thinking or tasting the chilli-ness of it, but my stomache did. For 2 days.
Bah.
mmmHmmm Canoli.


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Prose
Imperfection is sublime and its stands to prove our existence.

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My Blonde Days

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Hair Raising
It seems those stray hairs that fall from my head onto the white k'board are black. I bomb-blonded myself up to whole way with blonder hi-lights and yet Black hair tips down softly.
Are the blondes ostracizing and sending the brunette strands off the ledge?
Ouchies.

Crime and Prejudice
I want to look good. I'm pretty sure everyone does but I'm not a mind-reader (as someone I know is fond of saying).
But would you look good for just a small group of people which you find attractive or just want to generically appeal to the masses.
I'm not sure what my choice is. We all know the advantages of looking gorgeous or belonging to the modeloid circle is like, we all have Very attractive friends somewhere in our social reportoire and how well it influences their daily in most aspects.
But is it to a few choice ones (if you could chose to be attractive to those you are attracted to), or to the masses (basically good enough for runway or TV soaps).
And as much as I am inundated by the images, I'd like to slyfully believe I can be one of them one day. The plastic pod people.
Through the magic of surgery, of the plastuc variety, what else.

Hours.
I want more hours in a day.
Day AND night.

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Prose

There's whistling in my head.
_____phwit.
________phwit.
__________Lost at the edge of my wits.
___phwit!
So the adder can climb the ladder,
With instructions of mother Eve.
_____Lay the tales
_____Of children still
___phwit.
cold, in the graves of imagination.
phwit!
Adrift the captain said.
To which the crocodile replied, "Tea for two".
And he caused much mirth when
_____He blew.
________phwit
___________phwit.
That'll do, that will do.
When will the holes in my head.
Whistling holes in my head.
_____phwit.
Stop.

Estrangelito

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Visual update
Yea, seems like I'm using the inbubilt cam on the ocmputer and taking ONE picture per week since I've been at my new job. On week 5 now.
Starting from 1st week: Yea, the Initial Cool hoodie look - I'm so straight (muahahaha!)
2nd week: I love this shirt!, its so real and its not false advertising, so do people laugh?
3rd week: Yessirree, this is mah trucker look, ... spottle spitt ... Ah mhean mah red-neck hicksville trucker looks.
4th week: Woo! Gotta recent haircut and COLOUR and Highlights! (note the Gingy cushion! so postmodern!)

Yea, my good friends tell me all sorts of things.
One says me looks like a trucker TWINK for some porn production.
Another says the new hilights makes me so ... well Yaoi-esque pornage material.
WTF!
But occasionally, when I just chill and wear me own chill-out clothes, I look like some street punk straight dude.
I'm never gonna listen to my friends.
Ever.
I'll dress how I like and fuck them (well the cutes ones) - and in the nicest way possible :D (much hugs), they can comment all they like :p
This half of the year, its the "Love myself rule" - both out and in the bedroom (twice a day!)

Superficial
Yes, this post is vapid.
Indulge ... like stcky hershey's on hot skin, preferably without perspiration.

Lucky
I suppose. That my brother is still pretty healthy considering the heart condition. I suppose, because I don't get kicked out as often as maybe I should be or want to. I suppose I'm still in one piece and pretty happy at the size, girth and length of my erect penis. I suppose, lucky coz only you special few get to see it anyways.

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Prose
This shadow play I saw recently used a word I learned to love..
Irreverence.
From the shadows in the play and from my past, I heard the word.
Irreverence.
Tongue twister the first time on my lips and out my mouth.
Irreverence.
It demanded mine, the word.
Like age, it would come, fast or slow dealt with by my perception by inevitable, inexcusable Irreverence.