In the Ash Rain

February 26, 2014 § Leave a comment

It’s numbers and the understanding that ceases to make sense in the early hours of the morning. I’m dissolving into foreign music and American rock. I’m floating in a pool I thought I’d sink in because the water is salty and dense.

There were days where I’d write, but it always took time; time that I never seemed to have because I squandered much of it doing things I can hardly remember due to the mundane, cathartic, mindless nature of the time wasting. I have no records to keep since the records would have hardly been worth keeping. I’d like to make more of a mark than I have as of yet, but will my time allow me to? Will my mind allow time to allow me to?

The music will keep my mind up for now.

Winter and Flan that Tastes Better

January 8, 2014 § Leave a comment

I found what was lacking: heavy cream.

It covers the instability of the flan and gives it a hefty structure, I’m becoming better, slowly. My grades have, on the other hand, slipped. I’m not writing to seek pity except from myself.

The more I see business and structure, the less creative I become- that is, until finals week.

Finals week is a mash of perspectives as I switch from being human and being able to look out a window and conveniently count the green lights across the river from my dormitory to shutting blinds, covering light, obscuring my view (or perhaps focusing it?).

I just want to look at buildings. Buildings are the most tangible creation of humans and the most visually striking, at least to me. I need to focus, I need passion, and I need to not write in such gaping generalities. I’m trying creativity once again, just once before this short winter break ends. That last sentence might be a lie.

I made the flan better this time, with heavy cream. I’m not good at changing how I’ve always done it, but one change is better than none. This time, the cream made all the difference.

Burnt Flan

November 12, 2013 § Leave a comment

And here I am again, eating my burnt flan whilst listening to German rap in the middle of a financial accounting problem on amortization.

My nails are bitten down-  a future in management won’t look kindly towards these hands. The library becomes chilly after midnight and noises become louder. My black keys tapping, the janitors shuffling mops and chairs- over-under- around and around the dryer in my dormitory spins and i sit in the library waiting

sitting, tapping, writing, waiting

Remembering the burnt flan I left for an hour too long five hours ago while I occupied myself with video games and laundry.

The laundry is long done

I hope it doesn’t get thrown up

Tick tick tick goes my circadian clock

Negligence

November 10, 2013 § Leave a comment

Here I am in the library in the middle of my university (in the middle of the city). It’s different living in the middle of everything as compared to commuting. Time management skills have decreased (or maybe I’m just being negligent) and I’m perusing music alongside a second paper for a company analysis assignment.

Top 40 German hits aren’t a far reach from the US billboards, but it gives me an ounce more of perspective on a country I love but have never been to. I’m filling up the green tea ginger ale soda can with these ounces- this new flavor of ginger ale makes Asia seem closer, and the radio makes Europe seem closer.

I’m still blind,but I still feel closer.

It’s time to finish researching the Vespa.

Stay bright, I’m back.

And hey, I’ve brought some music:

some Korean:

and some German:

German-Vespa-Advert

Between my Teeth

August 18, 2013 § Leave a comment

There are words clenched beneath my teeth and a summer which ends without pomp and which contained little pomp. That’s a word- a real solid word: pomp.

I sit back behind the curtains I’ve hid behind all summer ,and regret like the underachieving goal maker I am. but what goals did I make? None.

I bit into clay, into money, into my wallet, into writing. By that environment I was socialized in, I’ve accomplished nothing.

The clothes are folding on the floor as I ready for another year. Again.

But it’s what I do in between the years that matters. Or so I’ve been taught.

Lots of things can be wasted in this world, but also nothing- everything we use is already on or inside, with only speculations outside.

I need to speed myself up, wind myself up until I can be wound no further

I’ve stayed too long in this room, I’m a shut-in by Japanese standards now.

I need to let the clock work go.

D-Day for Xanga

July 31, 2013 § 1 Comment

Reading, sitting, contemplating, reflecting on what is about to commence.

Xanga is closing old doors and opening new ones, but I’m just stuck on the same page of old posts. Each post has my emotions and memories- some which I have forgotten- all piled up together in one place. My review of a decade on Xanga will begin today- but it will begin with hesitancy.

They changed their fundraising date and the jar is full- but their move will be without many of the Xangans that made the community so vibrant and diverse. I’ll stop by once or twice and observe the new community as it blossoms, but I’ll choose to stick with WordPress for now.

The words stick to me and breathes out of me in sighs- deep, long, nostalgic sighs

The typing and recording begins now.

[By the way, Xanga met their goal]

On Looking at Art

July 28, 2013 § Leave a comment

You don’t look at art, you look at yourself.

How you look at art is a perspective generated by the way you were conditioned every single day leading up to the day you viewed that piece of art.

I stare and imagine while another calls it stupidly simple.

I imagine the artist as he paints on a rectangular canvas- he uses long strokes of blue from end to end of the five foot emptiness.

I see a sky that he clears blue and deep like ocean

The light is on his back casts a faded shadow as he paints with vigor. His perspective is simple- but the artist is a culmination of everything he has been conditioned to be every single day leading up until he created that piece of art.

So he paints lines of red to define himself, chiseling in the sky a line of crimson top to bottom

and at the bottom there is a splash of color- the end of the artists dreams ending in a line of crimson

His arm cuts the canvas from top to bottom in red

He ends in a culmination of color.

Looking at art is a combination of the viewer and the maker. It is a culmination of everything they have been conditioned to be every single day leading up to that blue rectangle cut with a line of crimson.

How stupidly simple.

white_canvas