Abuliac

on you...

I drink your words like water, and am always thirsty... You close your eyes and smile. I watch like art unfolding and undressing before me. Klimt would have blushed to see your smile right now, but I blush, too, undeserving.

Don't give me NutraSweet -- just your cane, raw and real in my mouth -- melting like spoken words... I woke the first time beside you and for the first time was not afraid. Your chin -- rough; your eyes -- soft and smiling, always smiling... "This feels right," we thought.

Help! I've contracted a disease! My lips won't uncurl, my smile won't unfurl. You tell me not to seek a cure, but you ail yourself. How can I believe someone whose face is twisted into a smile? and how can I not?

Screams outside chase me from sleep, but I am sick and smiling....

on driving the scenic route...

I took the long road to school today. For a good reason - to help a friend. Frankly, going around the Chesapeake Bay is less scenic than going through the bay, but the company made it more enjoyable. There's something to be said for going out of your way in aid -- the trip seems shorter, more satisfying.

A new semester starts Monday. I look forward to a new start. Every beginning brings hope for change. Less procrastination. More focus. Less distractions. More effort. Still, I always forget... or ignore. J thinks that it's his fault, but his presence is probably one of the few things that grounds me. I only have a year and a half left, so I need to make the most of it. I know I'll have regrets, but who doesn't?

I smiled at the stars...

I smiled at the stars today... but they ignored me and just kept on glowing...

I don't know where I'll be a year from now. I rarely admit it, but I like having stability, so it's frightening not knowing what the future holds in his scaly hands. I'm at his mercy, and the stars give me no comfort tonight. I know that I shouldn't expect much from them. Rarely do they twinkle at my questions or pleas (that only happens in cartoons and cheesy sitcoms).

I don't believe in fate, you see, or distant gods that hold us by our strings, watching us dance to the jigs or waltzes that are destined for us. No, I like to think that I have control of my life and am responsible for it.

I stare at these stars and know that they don't exist. They exploded, perhaps millennia ago, and I just see their memory staring back at me. Will others see my memory when I'm no longer here? I'd rather be a star, that gleams with a light of its own creation and dies, than the moon, which reflects the brilliance of another, and lives on.

on smell...

Who decided that garlic smells bad?

People tend to avoid extremes, to choose the median -- in prices, in options, in colors. Is it the same with smells? Is garlic too far to the extreme?

What would be on the other end? At first, something sweet, pleasant comes to mind: roses. However, roses are hardly an extreme. Their aroma is faint, yet powerful. Some perfumes -- especially those older women wear -- seem too sweet. So sweet that the sweetness chokes you.

Is it a biological disposition to dislike certain smells or are people taught to be disgusted by "garlic breath"? Our parents responded to a smell in a certain way, so ever after, we learned to respond to it in the same way. Babies don't cringe at the smell of their diapers, but do they recognize it as a bad smell?

Considering the "laziness" of the olfactory senses and cultural differences, it could be possible that there is some society that celebrates the scent of garlic as much as ours celebrates the odor of roses.

on comfort at night...

Last night, unable to sleep, I pet my cat as she lay on my stomach. I realized the comfort -- the security -- that her presence offered. Sleeping with J, laying my head on his chest, even just feeling his body next to mine -- reminds me that I am no alone. My cat -- she doesn't realize how her slow purring, her soft fur, relax me, coax me. She simply indulges in the pleasure of being petted. She fell asleep before me, and I was left alone, petting someone who was unaware of my touch. So much I wanted to roll over and onto J's chest...

on all-in-one...

Just found Soople! It combines a bunch of Google searches in one place, which may make searching a little easier.

So many sites try to combine multiple features. Trillian tries to combine Yahoo messenger, and ICQ. What happened to enjoying things for what they are?

2-in-1... 4-in-1... ALL-in-one... all for one... one for all... Nothing is ever enough on its own.

We are always searching to improve things -- improve our lives, improve ourSELVES. We see something bigger, or smaller, or better, or faster, and suddenly what we have is no longer good enough.

on the corner of illusion and reality...

Where will I run when my thoughts chase me to my bed... and I lay awake, recounting all my wrongdoing? How will I pretend that fear has betrayed me when counterfactual visions seep from my restless mind? The mind that forgets my sanity in an unmarked brown bag... on the corner of illusion and reality...

Regret knocks on doors that we forget to lock in haste, sprinting from the past to a world we don't know yet. We just hope that it's a better place than our own.

on the same old war...

Willows shed tears of pity as they look down upon us, fighting for thousands of years. War for greed. War for power. Penis envy killing millions. Young bodies dying for the qualms of their forefathers. Decrepit lies... outdated differences... but the same old war...

The earth screams in agony as she is soaked in fresh death to fertilize dreams... that another man will want. Naive souls -- they think they can win. Fight these battles for their country, save the helpless, protect the meek... but the meek have armed themselves with anger. Hate fuels the fire that we attack with arrogant flames. Cannonballs launched like seedlings of death are scattered with the wind and randomly fall.

Machine-gun rain can't wash away blood that's been leaking from our youth for millennia. Cease this cycle of false forgiveness, wars of pride. Our voices are muffled by shouts of rifles as we announce new threats... the threads... but the same old war.

on home...

I'm home... It feels strange. Familiar, yet empty. It amazes me how my mother can live here alone. I get lonely after only a couple of days. Perhaps, that is why she's always so anxious for me to come home. I'd feel guilty if I didn't. She deserves so much more than this. She deserves someone who respects her, loves her, and appreciates her for everything she is. I hope she meets someone like that. I want so much for her to be happy...

on completion...

It's so strange when you finish something,(an exam week, for example) and feel no sense of accomplishment. Only emptiness is brewing inside -- so many thoughts of what I could have done differently. No pride, no happiness. Just a gnawing feeling in my stomach. Is it the same with everyone? Do you dread finishing something, knowing that once it's done, it's over, and you can do nothing more?

It almost reminds me of breaking up with someone -- "dumping", that is. On the one hand, you're relieved to have it behind you, because this is what you've wanted, what you've been worrying about and contemplating for a long time. But even though the stress is over, there is a residual anxiety -- perhaps a regret, perhaps a fear (of failure)... or perhaps it is just my body being exhausted from over-caffeination, overworking, and excessive stress for much, much too long.

To sleep. (This is the first night this week that I have gone to bed before dawn -- an improvement!)

DAWN: When [wo]men of reason go to bed.
~Ambrose Bierce

on speaking...

We say so much while truly saying nothing. The very act of uttering a thought makes it a lie.

Language is a bridge that connects us with the world -- consciousness to communication. We forget that our castle will always be surrounded by muddy water, separating us from all others. This moat has waters so murky that no codes could break the opacity of our minds. Even we -- ourselves -- cannot comprehend our thoughts, because we try to tame them with words.

Words are just breath, and each syllable we speak is just a rock we're tossing to the other shore. Can't you see these bricks I'm trying to lay between us now? I'm throwing them at you!

on a snowy night...

The snow kissed my lips as I walked home, but tasted nothing like you. I watched your sleeping body, your chest rising and falling, your eyes moving to the visions of dreams that I hoped to be in. I whispered, "I love you," but you never heard. The 3am stillness swallowed my words, and you left the next day, without knowing.

The spiteful moon sweeps across the floor... and then the ceiling. She leaves her bitter poison on the rim of my midnight water. And I drink, thirsty, hoping to see your face again.

"Soon," you'll say. But the snow keeps falling, and your footprints have already disappeared.

on poetry...

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse."

What will your verse be?

~ John Keating, "Dead Poets' Society"

Heartbreakers' Club

We sat next to the fire, you and I. Flames lit our faces with reflection. We were two killers, two careless creatures, leaving a trail of carcasses wherever we tread. We clung to each other, because we knew each other's pain.

We trampled upon men like earth. We turned men to dust. You sighed, "They start as creatures of courage and strength -- full of talents and surprises. I'm drawn to them, thirsty for their passion. But soon, I find myself reluctant to reciprocate, as if care were a burden."

They crumbled beneath us: men of stone cracked and fell to our feet... and we no longer wanted them -- these shards of what were once men. We wondered when we would meet one that would not be crushed by love, but strengthened by it.

We were heartbreakers, sipping tea by a fire, comparing conquests... losses... pains... and lessons.

on sleep deprivation...

Too little sleep can make you fat:

"The metabolic regulatory system may have evolved to motivate humans to store fat during summer months when the nights are shorter and food is plentiful, which was a survival mechanism for the body to prepare for the dark winter months when food would not be as plentiful. As a result, sleeping less could serve as a trigger to the body to increase food intake and store fat."

Ha! But not surprising. My mother always told me that not sleeping would lead to bad consequences (it sounds much more threatening in Russian!) Considering my lack of sleep in the last two weeks, I should be well on my way to becoming a blimp. (Exams after winter break are just unhealthy -- mentally and physically). Perhaps this is one of the reasons behind the Freshman 15.

On the other hand, people will grasp onto anything to blame for their weight. If it's not suing McDonald's, it's blaming sleep patterns. But why aren't those fat people sleeping? Maybe they're in the kitchen eating midnight snacks? And then, they come out with diet pills specifically designed so you don't have to change your lifestyle to lose weight! Craziness.

The study was based on 32 to 59 year olds, which gives me some comfort -- not so much about the weight (dancing takes care of that). Rather, in general, young people may be more resilient. (All I need to do is catch up on my hours!) Maybe I'm not doing irreparable harm to my body quite yet.

So... after many nights of working and not getting enough rest, I shall indulge in sore labour's bath...

Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast...
~William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Sleight of hand

He waved his hands... and coins appeared... and disappeared. Physics suspended for a moment and let imagination roam beneath its curtain.

A rope... became two... became one. Rings spun and clinked and clanged. A twist of the fingers and a King became an Ace... or an eight a Queen... or unseen.

A tipsy-topsy balancing act... to the door, ajar. But when our hands met, with some sleight of hand our fingers intertwined... for just a moment longer than expected... and remain woven still. When will this rope disappear?


Running on 3 days of almost no sleep... might be delirious!

a love sonnet...

Love Sonnet XVII

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of hidden flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without complexities or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
than this, in which there is no I, nor you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Pablo Neruda

This is one of my favorite poets, ever. Me -- I still have no time to write anything of my own... no time to even have ideas aside from those I must put on paper -- those that must be graded. How silly is this society that grades us based on our ideas!

on words...

wrote this last summer...

Your words are processed and chewed by a machine... digested into zeros and ones... and spit back out onto "extra brite" white paper, blinding me...

I once knew this language, but it has become foreign to me... swimming before my eyes -- block letters that never even touched your hands -- so cold and yet so warm.

Where is the voice I spoke with before I swallowed my tongue in search of it? Now only can my hands can speak, but know no signs... except for one: "I love you." So that's all I say, because it is the only thing I can.

There are no words to say to make you understand... only presence is felt, but 5000 miles are lodged between us, as if prying apart the world -- so slowly. We're so used to being held apart that we pretend we wanted it that way... and are losing the sensation of this force, pulling us away.

"Man becomes accustomed to everything," Dostoevsky said.

a poem...

...but not mine (because I have too much work to write today)

The World Is Not A Pleasant Place to Be
by Nikki Giovanni

The world is not a pleasant place
to be without
someone to hold and be held by

a river would stop
its flow if only
a stream were there
to receive it

an ocean would never laugh
if clouds weren't there
to kiss her tears

the world is
not a pleasant place to be without
someone

about a devil...

The devil took a seat at the heel of my bed. He smiled, as if he knew what I was thinking: that he looked familiar. Black-lined fingernails, interwoven.. thumbs competing for the top place -- revealing a nervousness that surprised me. He was the devil, for god's sake! What was he nervous about?

on escaping problems...

There's no way I can get all this work done in time... anyone willing to hide me in a bag on a flight to another country?

on fate...

Fate is loose... it shifts each time you move. Each step we take sends ripples through Einstein's liquid universe... and the future is effervescent, like oil spilt on a summer day... forever sending us to chase falling stars... never static, but always right there, just out of reach.

Every decision we make falls like a domino with ten trillion paths to take. Each time we drive home, we survive a hundred deaths -- we escape ten accidents each time we break. Each moment is a "what if" that could have passed ten million ways. Each hour asks: What could have been if...

I hadn't stopped...
I hadn't looked...
I hadn't heard..
...turned... smiled... laughed... called...

With all the pebbles we throw in each second the world, the present, is an ocean... Ripples turned waves beat upon our shores, but even the sand isn't stable. Time swallows it whole -- and we thought the sand controlled Time!

on arguing...

The say that you don't really know someone until you've had an argument. A good argument. We mask our true opinions for others, softening the edges of our convictions, dulling the extremities of our passions, or even burying our true thoughts... all for the sake of civility... or even friendship.

What happens when we argue is that we allow our opinions to take their true from - unmasked, unguarded, and untamed. And when we give this beast free reign, which we can only do in the presence of a select few people, it fights for its place to the death. Very few people will see us argue passionately for what we believe in, taking our opinions for what they're worth, and understanding that we argue not to cause pain or harm or even to prove a point... but because this beast inside of us needs to play and they're the only ones who'll understand tomorrow if the beast gets too violent tonight.

I'm not sure I believe that... It may be easier to argue with someone whose esteem you don't value...

on taking off...

So there I was again. The pilot said the weather's clear and we're ready for takeoff. I buckled the seatbelt around my fear of commitment. I put my seat in its upright position as though I'd never leaned back... and I didn't even want a cigarette until he told me I couldn't have one!

So there I was again, about to depart, to embark, to unglue myself from this boredom, because the French say decoller. On this private get, we two were the only ones flying. I fear the pilots planned a jump midair.

So here we are -- aflight alone, no parachute or wings, but maybe we can make it. I just should warn you... I get motion sick.

on acceptance...

Nothing more I can do... but sleep...

on editing...

I want to throw all my old words away and start from scratch... I want to pull the chainsaw from my closet and tear through these walls... I want to jump from the roof of a castle just to see if I have wings... and maybe, if I still remember how to fly, I'll still have a chance... to soar.

I want to rip these photos to shreds and light a fire from their remains... so that, perhaps, somewhere, in the melting plastic, I might see myself... I want to write down everything I think, as it comes from me, so that I might know myself and not the person I'm trying to emit...

...but where is the paper that only shows truth? ...or the flames that burn only flaws? ...and how do we find ourselves beneath the pretenses of strength?

I want to throw all my old words away and start anew... but who would I be if I didn't have words?


I hate rereading papers I've written. It's usually as painful as pulling teeth. Editing papers for freshman writing seminars was bad enough, but even looking at my JP after I'd turned it in made me cringe. Shouldn't I want to improve?

on obstacles...

It feels so strange to come back to an Everest-sizes mountain of work after spending the most incredible weekend melting in J's arms. Yet, it also feels too familiar. This cycle of working too much for too long seems to never end. In high school it was all for the goal of finally getting into college. Now, I have the added stress of getting a good internship, or getting into a good grad school, or getting a good job. It never ends. Sometimes, I wonder, what's the point?

Even when I was in elementary school, I remember wishing I was dumb so that I wouldn't have to work and could goof around and be stupid, but have fun. In high-school surrounded myself by slackers and underachievers, partly because they made me forget--just for a little while--that I'm an overworked stress-a-holic.

I think part of the reason that I wait till the last moment is to test myself. It's like an obstacle I set for myself, almost subconsciously. Now, with 12 hours left till this JP is due, and with only 5 pages written, all I want to do is go to sleep. And I might... just to give myself even less time to finish. If I fail, I can blame it on lack of preparation. But I won't be able to blame it on lack of intelligence, because I will have not actually put enough effort into it to test that faculty.

Back to work... I'll force myself to work another hour at least before taking a nap...