..it was knocking on the door for so long. Or perhaps it was just silently waiting for me to acknowledge.
There are pictures on my wall, and postcards, and gifts. May 23rd was my birthday and I spent a magical 2 hours on the nile with friends. Felt like a child again, having all this much ado business just for me :) Just For Me - the friendship and laughter of friends, gifts such as bubble-maker, zong airflyer, jigsaw puzzle, noisy anklets among others that acknowledged the child within.
Now i know what to do when I am bored, just blow bubbles :)
O O O O :)
Friday, May 26, 2006
Monday, May 15, 2006
a poem
Introduction
Writing without emotion is quite difficult at this age, at this stage.
Maybe just one page without emotion will not be so hard a concoction.
Rhyming is such a bad, bad habit. I have not even begun
the story, and already poetry is such a distraction.
I step in the door, and already I slip. Is life full of warning?
I have been slipping the whole snowy way, this snowy day.
He is the first person I see, unbuttoning my coat.
The party has only just begun, very few people.
Only him, in a way, two others, and me with someone.
He greets when introduced, but I can tell he has not seen me.
Hello. How polite! And he only has eyes for her.
I do not remember when we all gathered in the kitchen, but we did,
And he told me he was a writer. And if his looks were not piercing enough,
That word signed my deal with Cupid - I’m trying metaphor not emotion.
I told him a story about writing. I actually gave him a metaphor.
He interrupted me once, to correct an inconsequential fact,
In the manner of literary scholars, “But I was certain that…”
Yet, knowing it only detracted from the point, was quiet.
I gave him a metaphor. I actually told him a story about writing.
And I could see then that he actually looked at me.
I looked at my wine glass. And we were properly introduced.
He was very attentive the rest of the evening.
I tried to be - I was - charming. And I even played it coy.
Anyone else could tell we were at it, except him and I.
- CK
Writing without emotion is quite difficult at this age, at this stage.
Maybe just one page without emotion will not be so hard a concoction.
Rhyming is such a bad, bad habit. I have not even begun
the story, and already poetry is such a distraction.
I step in the door, and already I slip. Is life full of warning?
I have been slipping the whole snowy way, this snowy day.
He is the first person I see, unbuttoning my coat.
The party has only just begun, very few people.
Only him, in a way, two others, and me with someone.
He greets when introduced, but I can tell he has not seen me.
Hello. How polite! And he only has eyes for her.
I do not remember when we all gathered in the kitchen, but we did,
And he told me he was a writer. And if his looks were not piercing enough,
That word signed my deal with Cupid - I’m trying metaphor not emotion.
I told him a story about writing. I actually gave him a metaphor.
He interrupted me once, to correct an inconsequential fact,
In the manner of literary scholars, “But I was certain that…”
Yet, knowing it only detracted from the point, was quiet.
I gave him a metaphor. I actually told him a story about writing.
And I could see then that he actually looked at me.
I looked at my wine glass. And we were properly introduced.
He was very attentive the rest of the evening.
I tried to be - I was - charming. And I even played it coy.
Anyone else could tell we were at it, except him and I.
- CK
Friday, May 12, 2006
Triptych
decided to go ahead and post up bits of my writing...
Triptych: a tri-partite work of art (how snobby of me to call this one :))
Sometimes when I stand on the wood-parquet between my bed and the bookshelf in my bedroom, I can hear creaks on the floor. As I sway, the parquet beneath me creaks. It reminds me that there is a space underneath, undiscovered. Have you ever lifted tiles, and found ants underneath, tens of ants, busy, living in an ecosystem unknown to you? It reminds me of stories that my grandmother told me, of people that found treasures buried in their houses, in corners, under floors, between bricks, in gardens, treasures with gold coins, precious stones, statues of gods. Treasures visited by snakes or ghosts. As the parquet wood creaks, I think of those treasures, and how I imagined how very possible it would be for me to find one such treasure.
My parents and I went to look at a house one, a villa sort of place that had a basement. My brother and I thought we could do some "Famous Five" sort of investigative work from the basement there. We already wanted it and we didn't have the house. We lived in an apartment, and it had a secret dark roof above the bathroom that was used as storage. We liked going there. I liked going there. I was of the few that could fit in that space to move in or out storage items. Sheets, extra luggage and so forth.
Once, my art teacher (HS) was very impressed by my abilities in graphology. He thought I could tell him something, just the way I search for psychics online thinking they could tell me something, something mysterious, interesting, something deep about me. Really, if I made a few calculations even I could predict some parts of my own future. I told him that from his writing I could tell he was very concerned about what other people thought about him. He was charmed. "How do you know that?" I wasn't very beguiling at that age, and I can never resist temptations of this sort. So I told him, "because you wrote 'read my handwriting and tell me what other people think of me.'"
Triptych: a tri-partite work of art (how snobby of me to call this one :))
Sometimes when I stand on the wood-parquet between my bed and the bookshelf in my bedroom, I can hear creaks on the floor. As I sway, the parquet beneath me creaks. It reminds me that there is a space underneath, undiscovered. Have you ever lifted tiles, and found ants underneath, tens of ants, busy, living in an ecosystem unknown to you? It reminds me of stories that my grandmother told me, of people that found treasures buried in their houses, in corners, under floors, between bricks, in gardens, treasures with gold coins, precious stones, statues of gods. Treasures visited by snakes or ghosts. As the parquet wood creaks, I think of those treasures, and how I imagined how very possible it would be for me to find one such treasure.
My parents and I went to look at a house one, a villa sort of place that had a basement. My brother and I thought we could do some "Famous Five" sort of investigative work from the basement there. We already wanted it and we didn't have the house. We lived in an apartment, and it had a secret dark roof above the bathroom that was used as storage. We liked going there. I liked going there. I was of the few that could fit in that space to move in or out storage items. Sheets, extra luggage and so forth.
Once, my art teacher (HS) was very impressed by my abilities in graphology. He thought I could tell him something, just the way I search for psychics online thinking they could tell me something, something mysterious, interesting, something deep about me. Really, if I made a few calculations even I could predict some parts of my own future. I told him that from his writing I could tell he was very concerned about what other people thought about him. He was charmed. "How do you know that?" I wasn't very beguiling at that age, and I can never resist temptations of this sort. So I told him, "because you wrote 'read my handwriting and tell me what other people think of me.'"
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