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Relentless, and how to be it.

I just took some sleeping medication that can make me go loopy. I intend on going to bed the moment I post this. If I start talking about carrot fingers, we'll know the culprit.


I found the common factor to pretty much every piece of music I've ever obsessed over. From Classical to Jazz, Swing to Pop, Rap to R'n'B, even goddamn kpop. Every song I've inexplicably had to hit pause and replay immediately has a relentless beat. I used to have this annoying habit of only being able to study to Bolero, not because Ravel was a particularly great composer; it's neither elegant nor complicated, but it has that something that keeps building and never lets up until the very last note when you can take a breath. I usually pause and repeat before that breath, so I can hold it in for longer. That one song I've listened to more times this Summer than every other song combined has the same quality of running uphill until there's nothing left to tread on.

Inertia, my all consuming fatal flaw. The only way I can get going is to keep going; the only way I can stop is if I collapse.

Reader, I have collapsed.

The post-graduation, post-summer, post-structure slum has finally caught up with me and I don't know how to get out of it. All my forced reboots have achieved nothing but accomplishing the day to day errands that ensure I'm still wearing clean clothes and have food in my stomach. How do you get a ball rolling when you can't even find the ball?

[paragraphs redacted due to despairing tone and my most loathed of all human qualities - self pity]

[paragraph describing how I feel much better now that all the poison has been spat out redacted due to the non-existence of previous redacted paragraphs]

It always helps to talk something through, or in this case, dumping it all into ones and zeros and just letting it sit there in the ether. Did you know that it's been 10 years since I first started blogging? That very first xanga site no longer exists so I don't know the exact date, but there it is. 10 years of vaguely oversharing, of seemingly baring it all but revealing next to nothing.

The hardest part of it all is not having my rally team behind me. The people I can text "steak?" at 3am and they will be at Chapelli's, waiting for me in half an hour. Nothing is more crippling than loneliness, and baby, I can write volumes on that subject.

The eternal optimist in me does possess that blind faith. If there is a way, I will find it. If I can see the pothole, I will side-step it. I am capable, goddammit. Give me a grain of sand, and I will turn it into that boulder which would impress you with its magnitude. Just give me the time I need to comb through this mess. I will find it.

Carrot fingers. It's time to shut this thing down.

Here's that song I've had on repeat for the past 4 months, served with a side of skateboarding.

Kilian Martin: Altered Route (a Skate Film) from mb! by Mercedes-Benz on Vimeo.


Seriously, someone buy me a camera already so I can just start filming things.


He said She said

When He said "today", She said "sooner".

Greed. The greed of always wanting more than what is on offer. Even when what is on offer was bestowed unrequested, without a caveat, only a short moment before; When what is on offer was the happy accident itself. Always. Wanting. More.

He gave her permission to create narratives She had no rights to, and when the movie ended, She stayed watching the writing crawl up the screen hoping for the hint of what She wrote. Standing in the doorway, She stared this pathetic version of herself repeating patterns of former behaviour, while He flickered in and out of frame, none the wiser.

He gave her that pretty dress to wear and told her She looked pretty in it, She wore that dress everyday that month. He looked at her face without a trace of makeup and told her She was beautiful, She broke down her guard and showed Him everything behind that mask. This composed woman you see in front of you, the one who can walk into any room like She owns it, is terrified of her beating heart.

Piles of cigarette ashes fall listlessly about the carnage that is her weary body. Spent, She whiles away her days waiting for signs of her former self to return. He will always come along, giving her something to grapple on to. Life kicks back in, that smile replasters itself back on her face. What comes next would always be better, but what comes after that, invariably worse. Each time She comes back from what feels like a battle, She loses yet more of herself. Each time that truckful of woo pulls up to her door, She is yet more susceptible, gullible, vulnerable. More ashes, longer battles, heavier armour.

What gets her out that door again, and again and again is that awful notion - hope. Her greed is fuelled by her hope. She floats on by this semblance of a life with this hope, this greed. As long as He says "Today", She will always say "Sooner".


Sleeping Configurations

I've check my numbers, oh I know, there's almost noooooobody reading this anymore.

Muahahahahahahahaha. Kitty wants to play. Unleashing all my inappropriate claws.

For those of you who did manage to find this post, you deserve a badge or something. Go ahead. Find a badge, and write on it "I've Stuck Through All Of Qinny's Crazy And Now Know Too Much" and wear it with pride.


The analytical side of my brain and the part that actually makes decisions for me are like rival siblings - both party knows what's going on with the other, but there's just no direct communication. Fact is, no matter what is physically happening to me, my brain is running on some crazy tangent that has zero first person perspective, I call that the ball of crazy. When I'm pushed to make any decisions, what to do, what to say, anything at all, that ball of crazy just disappears, leaving in its wake, nothing. My impulses are rooted in basically nothing, except for some rudimentary triggers of salivation or repulsion. Everything in between receives a well meaning "meh", and I do what's easiest. This is the point at which my inertia kicks in, i.e. I will continue in either my state of motion or inactivity until something external stops me.

The trick of making this all work for me is that my brain eventually catches up to my impulses, and the conversation goes something like this.

Brain: (out of breath) Hey! Hey... so this is happening.

Impulse: Yup.

Brain: Are we sure about this?

Impulse: Well we're going for it.

Brain: Alrighty then. On board.

See? It's a perfect circle scenario! I do shit, then I make my peace with it. Y'all don't even KNOW how easy going I can get.


I've been thinking about sexual economics. Not the sex trade, it's way too early in the morning for that, but just the basic exchange of goods and services involved. Goods, being goods, services, being services, but the currency being memories.

I have this blue lacey bra that has spent more time away from me than in my possession. A week after I bought it, I misplaced it somewhere in Queens. Later, a fro of mine (female bro, our codes date way back) who was playing hookie within the vicinity of where the bra was proudly being hung, she rescued it for me. After spending a happy 5-6 months reunited with it, it is right now, as we speak, tucked away somewhere in LA, with no plans of coming back to me. The next time I see it, I'll think of both times it ran away from me, and my fro, well she'll think about the time and events that facilitated her rescue mission.

Last night, as I gave a man who was taking a shower here a pair of boxers I had lying around, I thought about that day I had to wear those home because a boy had, in his fervor, torn my panties off. For almost 2 years now, each time I opened my panties drawer, I would see the boxers, and remember that night. Now I get to picture another body inside them, of another night. (He left them here this morning, so it's going to live in my panties drawer for a while longer.)


My brain had a lot of time to run tangents last night. My non-sleeping habits does not mesh well with other sleeping bodies. It's either time to make some coffee or take a nap.



A week ago I hit that age where I told myself things would change. To hell with temporality, I'm finally done with all the life deterrence schemes I'd come up with, I have no choice but to actually live through something that resembles real life. Now here's the big secret that everyone knows - I have no idea how to do that.

The lists that I carry now say big scary things that I have no way of breaking down into manageable pieces. I don't do well with the big picture. The trip to LA did nothing more than splintering my heart yet again, tearing me in three opposing directions of wanting to be somewhere that's not right here.

Images of the possible lives I could be having keep running around in circles. I've been coddled by the comforts that I surround myself in and this feigned contentment. As long as I don't take root anywhere, then the possibility of everywhere is still there. But all that really means is I end up nowhere. I'm so used to slipping in and out of people's lives that I'm really not sure if I'm even capable of being a constant. Maybe my relationships are only buoyed up by distance and nostalgia. I'm unable to settle for right here because, frankly, here is an unbearably lonely place.

Do something. DO SOMETHING!

That's the refrain that I impotently yell at myself on a daily basis.

Displacement, detachment, defeat. Rinse, repeat.

Take comfort in the fact that I know I'm good at this; everything that I need to do. I know I'm capable. Everyone else seemed so assured of my inevitable success that I'm beginning to believe it too, and for the first time, I'm seeing myself in fragments of skill sets that would suggest that capacity.

After a few weeks of blissful transition and mental readjustment. I feel ready, again. Even though that blissful blip of breaking patterns and testing the waters to see if I can wear my heart outside of its iron wrought cage received its deserved swift kick, I now know the safe distance between that cage and my sleeves.

Tomorrow is a new week, I have a new list. Tomorrow, I'm going take steps that would leave firmer impressions on these grounds.



LALA Reports: Day 1

You know how sometimes, you'd go through your bag and you'd realise you've left something important behind? Usually a wallet, or a phone, and it's terrible for a second, but then you'll find it somewhere deeper in the handbag you're digging through and it ends up being pretty okay? You know how when you're traveling by air and you keep thinking you're going to forget something important, like your ID or passport or your boarding pass so you check it obsessively but really, it's still there? You know how sometimes, you decide to be economical, and organised, and keep everything in this one amazing traveler's journal; your passport, your driver's license, your credit cards, your day planner AND your boarding pass; and then you leave it somewhere public, say, the curb outside the airport where you stopped to put your luggage onto one of those overpriced carts, and then you forget about it until you're waiting in line at the baggage drop?

No, you don't know, because you're not that stupid.

I don't think my heart has ever dropped quite as hard as when I did exactly that this morning.

I panicked exactly like you would. Dug through every bag I had on hand 4 times over, then ran out to that curb only to find it empty, then run back and dig through those bags some more. Well, I have good news for you my darlings. As long as you're willing to put up with a thorough frisking, then maybe you'll be allowed to board that domestic flight. If you're did this rapidly stupid series of things at an hour ungodly enough (6 a.m.), then maybe the nice girl who picked up your journal would stroll in and catch you before your mad dash down to the security check.

I still got my frisking though, it was sufficiently intimate for all involved.

For a day that began like it could've been one of the worst, LA sure knew how to turn it around. After a 5 hour nap, I woke up to the most glorious weather I've stepped into all year. Flanked by the beach and the desert, I can assure you, LA Summer feels exactly like Australian Summer. As in, the best Summer.

Our ride is giant and janky like this story requires. The struggle between the GPS, the iphone google maps and the physical roads offered just the right amount of detours. The house we pulled up at is exactly that picture perfect, location scouted studio set for all our sitcom needs. Each of the three bedrooms are about the size of a studio apartment which those vindictive agents in New York would ask your life savings for. Oh and kids, we have kitchen. We have a whole lotta kitchen. I can do cartwheels in this kitchen.

The prerequisite walk around the neighbourhood garnered the prerequisite sighs of contentment. I've had some of the best food in recent memory, all in one day! I'm not sure this story is allowed to go this well at this stage. My Davidoff's are $7 here, at a little market that's open til an all too convenient midnight, within walking distance. Not late-night-pounding-the-pavement walking distance, but the late-night-I've-got-the-jitters walking distance.

The TV works (tonight's Tony's were successfully chewed up and spat out), the internet works (hey there), It's late and I'm ready to conk out in the bedroom I chose of the three. I'm afraid I'm suffering from vertigo, kids. Before the real business starts, I'm not sure there's much more "up" to go.

Oh, that's right. Clear skies and sunny days as far as the forcast can see.