Monthly Archives: July 2009

hypnotizing alice

Romantic, gothic dresses from the Victorian Era; like a Valentino wedding dress yellowed with age, the dress fitted like a corset around the perfect mannequin. Eyes wound around and around the twirls and contours of the dress; despite the intricate details and patterns, my eyes followed the spiral, fulfilling the perfect silhouette. The most beautiful dress, that I would never wear, of imagination stood in the closed store. A dress meant to be locked in time, perfectly untouched. Never opened like Pandora’s Box. 

The store’s walls are a maroon red. The ceiling, a tapered black cloth that limps loosely as dangling masks decorate the fixture in the most eerie manner. Oil brushes, palettes and sketches are plastered to the wall, hanging amongst dark nature. Always closed, the only notice is a post-it with a phone number:

2711 —-

The designer is everything you would imagine him to be; only he is not a she. The long, shaggy and unwashed hair that fell over the large eyes held up by dark eye circles is only the beginning. Black clothing, secluded corner of the store, and calmly sketching away as if he’s only here because of extra time. The only thing you never imagined him to be was funny, talkative and sociable. You would never speak first, but the rare occasion that the locked wonderland is now open, your mouth moves non-stop. 

Looking up, you see the delicate light fixture. Bear, rabbit, fox and a mannequin’s hand, a group of masks that have no correlation is the perfect design. Your finger poises before letting the shutter snap, and you swear, as you take the photo, the fox’s face moves. No doubt –

You are in a dark wonderland.

 

 


click for the story behind the story:
inspired by a store in TST and the artist 

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Filed under Christal (dearskye.)

Ocean, love

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do you see the way
the sea breeze brushes her hair
against her still face
the way the salt spray
nuzzles and strokes her smooth neck
and pale silent cheek
to you, her lover
by the sea: love her like this
and she won’t let go
do you see the way
the sea breeze brushes her hair
against her still face
.
the way the salt spray
nuzzles and strokes her smooth neck
and pale silent cheek
.
to you, her lover
by the sea: love her like this
and she won’t let go

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Filed under Preston Hartwick

wind water tree – dragon tree

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im the dragon tree.

i have grown too long and have begun to lean to the side. i am old. the support -my cane. 

i touch the sky. i touch the ground.

i roam free.

i am the dragon tree.

 

 

this photo was taken for my grandparents (seated). happy 50th anniversary.


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Filed under Joseph Chun Jr.

raft.

I exhale, my breath adding moisture to the damp air.Where am I going? Where will the currents take me? Where will my future take me? I lean over the edge of my wooden raft, my home, my life support, and see an unfamiliar face imitate my every move.

Who is she? And how has she found me stranded amidst the vast plane of water?

Was I not alone?

She turns away from me, her eyes searching for something greater. I follow the direction of her gaze. Alas! In the distance there is land! How long have I longed for sturdy ground to stand on? For something stable to rest upon! For something firm I can assure myself in. I reach for what I can, a plank of wood, the image of a success, the torn and weary pages of Pride and Prejudice, anything that might pull me steadily through the water. I rhythmically row through the rolling waves. Forcing my way forward, forking through the forceful forming currents. Pushing past my doubts, persevering through my pain, progressing forward?

No, I am right where I started with nothing more than aching throbs in my arms.

I look behind me and see that the sun has already traveled more than three-quarters of its journey through the southern sky; I am almost out of time. One last time, I try to fight the mercurial waters, the unpredictable essay prompts, the ever-changing expectations, but the horizon pulls me in, away from the land I longed for. I curse. Not at the horizon, who could blame it in all its splendor and at the peak of its beauty? I curse at myself, at my inability to progress— physically, mentally, and spiritually. The sun sprints behind the mountains and moves forward, forgetting me, and I am left in the dark without a moon. I peek again over my wooden raft and find no faces— I am alone.

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Filed under Natalie Nicole Lau

jellyfish

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jellyfish in the sky
i wish i too could float on by
rote, routine, regular, repeat
move my soul, move my feet

undulate past clouds and fluff
breezing by birds, carefree ‘nough
get, going, gallop, groove
to the commute, to the move

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Filed under Charis Poon

I?

First line from “Fault Lines a Memoir” by Meena Alexander.

What would it mean for one such as I to pick up a mirror and try to see his face in it?

In times of solitude, when my eyes are willing and my mind ready I am able to peek into the encased abyss that is I. Having lived now for eighteen years, what has my experiences, relationships, and my own mental and physical struggle to get somewhere, anywhere, conjured up to?

*

Was that heart elating yet heart crushing teenage infatuation, which felt extremely close to what I thought was love, a waste of time? Was getting drunker than drunk and watching friends get higher than high mere insolence and stupidity of youth? Was refusing and walking away from my God – the creator of the grandiose, the creative, the meticulous – utter foolishness? Was my return to Him inevitable? Was my discovery of the beauty and brilliance of Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, Woody Guthrie, and Elliot Smith only a refusal from me to not conform and be outside of the crowd? Was my revelation of the feeling of empowerment to control emotions, ideas, and love that came from a guitar the result of disillusionment and loneliness? I think back upon my memories for all its glory and its many disappointments and am forced to feel that there must be something tying it all together – some glue, some wire, maybe someone. And by having the vignettes of my life connected and relate to each other like how the dark distance of a middle C note and the 6th octave B note are connected by the C major scale, then am I only able to begin to tell you or tell myself who I am and what I have become and hopefully will become in the caverns of tomorrow and finally offer whoever willing to listen, the song that has come out of me and still has still yet to reach the double bar line. Because when one listens to a piece of music, individual notes are of no significance – it is when the notes are brought together in the mind or on a sheet of paper that the beauty of it all makes sense.

*

Though I wish “I” was as simple as just adjoining the things that have been in contact with me and then view the created object from afar, it is not so. I am not simply just defined by the notes on the lined page which guides me from measure to measure – the highs, the lows, and the time in between. But I am also delineated by the potential and possibilities that “I” represents.  I once heard it explained like this:

“I equals all the ‘ifs’ over time. The ‘ifs,’ those are the possibilities, that’s infinite for all of us – everyday there are just millions of them. Time – that’s finite for each of us, no question there. Maybe if you divide the choices (the ifs) by the amount of time you have, the real ‘I’ can emerge depending on those choices.”

This idea that I am not just made of the choices that I have chosen, but also the choices I have not chosen has confused me. I am not merely just the joyful song you hear that is coming out of me, but I am also the dirge that can be potentially played. Can this be? That “I” is not just me, the individual in the present, but also the potential of the me to come? That my future – with my hopes of being a bona fide songwriter, writer, and human being – though still unwritten, is also the “I?”

*

So what is it that I see in the mirror?

I see the sweat and ambitions of a meticulous craftsman who has chosen to use various types of woods – mahogany, koa, rosewood, maple, ebony. I see hints of the fine curves that have taken eighteen long years to manifest from ridged edges and splinters, as a result of His adamant work and desire for perfection in me. I feel tensions growing, growing, growing as time passes and the strings that defines me attempts to tune into harmony with each other and eventually go out of tune and attempt to retune and again go out of tune, etc. I see the craftsman’s eyes watching and his hands caressing in full admiration of His art. Then I see and begin to hear the craftsman playing his piece of work, producing a composition so epic it touches upon the full spectrum of emotions – the crescendos of joy – the decrescendos of devastations – and the fermatas of contentment. Every new measure He plays is unfamiliar to me and requires me to adjust in order to produce the best sounds. The upcoming measures are unknown to me, compelling me to fully depend on Him to continue playing and play what is sound. And though some strings are unable to cope with the strain and snap while others bend out of tune, and furthermore the neck bends away forcing all chaos, He has been patient and has re-stringed, retuned, and re-assembled His piece of art and still – He continues to play –

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Filed under Uncategorized

pattern in/sight

Photographs pattern themselves like yellow wallpaper.                                                     There’s something underneath, something crawling and I’m                                           searching until I become what I’m looking for;                                                                       madness has found me first.

3:11 AM

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Filed under Christal (dearskye.)