jeda

On That day, Swimming pool water at exactly right temperature.  I take long soaks and broad strokes inside it before I begin work. I am embarrassingly dependent on my hands, for the lack of better practice in times I could have trained my other limp limbs. I much prefer my excessive obsessive compulsions to only entertain my brain. Could have, should have. Resting in peace, all my bones, my meat. And skin, from where it ends to where it all begins. Stark naked in a body of transparent warm sky juice, my fingers prune to perfection.  

I have the grip of a thousand realities. This non-fiction friction laboratory tests can confirm improves control. This way I cannot possibly slip off of the plates. 

An extensive array of expensive herbs and twelve different sauces. A handsome bearded bloke with the most comfortable stomach sits having a cold-nosed smoke on the blue leather armchair by the pool gifted to me from the Blue Moon Rabbit Shangri-La. He waves while I float in backstroke. I remember these planes of possibility. I remember opening my eyes. 

Right now, I am awake. On the floor, paint stained. Vain pains. Hey, it's another day. Today is today. Today is not That day. Today I need to mandi, do laundry. Today I'm hungry. 

It is a moody afternoon in the heaty-pretty concrete sin city on my temporal tour here, currently. Every year, I find a way to live here and now I have addressed response and abilities in my full name. Constant relocation has found it's way to me each time in different faces, forms and variations. The habitual hop in habitations displayed on the brown envelopes containing encapsulations of expressed emotion that day that I send away. Away on awake days. An array of away daze. A dose for the road to put me in the mood.

SUITE 619 / ROOM 505 / No. 17 / No. 10A / PHOENIX BUSINESS PARK / LEBOH AMPANG / JALAN PUDU / CITY CENTRE / SMOKING ALLOWED / LONG-STAY / CHEAP ROOM 

Now, I’m in a spanking shoebox spinning space that houses my garter belt hanging from a coffee coloured bedpost, next to the organisms I water and share stories after sundown with. Where I’m currently working >eating, sleeping, breathing, cooking, cleaning (utensils, urinals, jasmani, rohani), stretching, stressing, writing, living, shaving, braiding, braising chicken, having religious band practice< in has been kindly collaborating with my My My, Hey Hey, every day is a new, new day attempt at an A+ pozzy star mindset.  At a destined age after enough years of pickling under the moon to sun to star to dust surrounding alchemy, the human action + reaction more readily assess, accepts and adapts to what is required within a situation and out of themselves better. In less of a tongue twister, the older, the better.

On the transit train on the way to empty what is beginning to fill up. Long term loud thunder no matter how well internalized the nervous fear, scream, shudders, can and will creep up on nights the blanket is half it’s usual size. If you pass a family of black cats, cut your fingernails under the light of nighttime and haven’t called your friends and family in almost four weeks, it even creeps claws crawls its way through you, into your bright waking days. 

In many ways I never really went to school, also, I never left. Rearranging and engaging again with the numbers, colours and alphabets. I can maintain sane indulging in extra tense rest trial mundanes. There is only the ever present grey, although my bad brains would like to debate that seven different ways.

 

I am the ring master in this burning bus of a circus and all acts will hip and hop in synchronized harmony on schedule. Extra patience towards all things desperately needed to mend what supposedly cannot be amended. Our hairs stand at the extension of a hand out to help. Sincerity is scary. Feet in the air, head on the ground, over and under the moon at the entrance introducing fair friends. They know who they are. 

There are too many questions that enter the sphere of my sun sunken forlorn encephalon I can't seem to keep to myself for long before blurting out bold bull. The absurdity of the every thing explodes itself in the faces of my every day. There are ten ways we can go about this and twenty more we should not.

The clock in front of me, the numbers glow green in the dark. Could it be jealous of me? Human: puny, shadowed purity, cherry scented insanity. Constantly given the tocks and ticks to perform a finally final last trick and still somehow manage to lick the spilt milk from the semi-stained floor. I'm strumming in inexact chords but playing, playing, playing some more. Trust in no body who claims these are all passing phases to certain degrees. Incorrect, Minus One Hundred Points. As a collective species of sensitive sentimentality, we are quite aware of all we go through, all we carry. The common melancholy is friendly. I understand pain because I too was born into this world from man and woman. Here before, now here again. All I have touched becomes a part of me and all that has touched me, becomes poetry in it's many shapes, forms (in and out of norms). Organically laced within the Venus of a pink powdered pretty face, the helter skelter that shows no trace of ever even claiming the landscapes of your melting mind. I am growing towards the approaches of being fine, just fine. Never mind the melting mind, only I can nurse the nonsense. The actions applied in a want for adulthood advancement requires rebellious discipline. A drive so bitchin' solid no number of sick days can excuse. You know, that one foundational feeling one can always return to. Catalogued causes and because that become the catalyst.

A body driven as a vehicle to arrive at the eventual end that has no end. The waking moments in which I truly realize I'm alive lies in all inevitable interactions. Plants that require watering, skin that needs scrubbing, a housemate, two guitars, responsibilities that require bodies, dishes in the sink, thoughts to think and think. Although the days seem only passing, I cannot conclude that the hours have successfully made an android out of my anatomy. Far from it, in fact, for the first time in the entirety of my existence on this planet: I'm recognizing it's kismet. I've shifted the blame off of the boomers that birthed me. Through them, I am now ever involved to participate and evolve in what is much larger. My mother tells us that out of the 4 siblings, she struggled with labor the worst bringing me here. In the back of my head, I believe it's because I never really wanted to leave but that doesn't change the facts. Stripped off the luxury of empty, unable to reset to zilch. Wanting nothing is still wanting. Can you imagine nothing? No, no, because that would be something.

This swerve in perspective is a long overdue gift from me to myself. I owe this borrowed brain and body almost the entirety of all I have, all I can be. This year injected itself into my streams of reality and dreams, swearing on graves that it will conspire to help me navigate as long as I kept putting a helmet to my head and so far, A-OK. Any ways....