Good news and Bad news

Bad news first.

So I spent the day at the ER today. Something about spitting out parts of my tonsils and blood today in the morning had to do with that. 7 hours later, I was told that it was the worst case of tonsillitis that they have ever seen. That and I have a huge pain tolerance, because I was reporting a low amount of pain with swallowing. And that I should take medication for a week then go back to the ENT in a week to check up.

That said, the good news is that there is a game design competition coming up, hosted by the Netherlands Embassy. I’ll be joining, but will need to find someone who would specialize in the art and coding aspects. I asked if I can join more than one team, which would be great in practicing on working on multiple projects. I really want to try to create three or four games at a time, and keep dishing top quality work out. This is going be so much fun.

Everyone has a story

Foreword: Something I found from a while ago. There was an assignment that I expanded on, and it became a free write from two, three years back? I should probably see about doing a reply to this myself, but that will come at the end of my four year stay in Lebanon. But reading over this, I can safely say that I have changed. The drinking for instance was cut down. My brother matured into a better adult. I matured more myself I would say. Well, maturity, being an adult for me is being able to turn that button called maturity on and off. So that it isn’t permanently on, and isn’t permanently off. Anyways, here we go.

 

Everyone has a story. That story can begin with a word, an action, something random, crazy, unbelievable yet true. Things that can happen when you open the door to Pandora’s box and let the craziness that you call life to overflow you and enter and welcome you and look and work and feel and everything. This is the life we hold, the life we have and everyone doesn’t pay attention to it, nobody looks and feels and acts accordingly. You have life that is the subject and people work day in and day out and act like nothing is off place, nothing is different, nothing is the way to move against or for life, that the world, and it’s entirety is a demon that cannot be given, you have to live in a closed box and seal the world away from you and live alone and tired and waiting for what? This isn’t the life that people should ask for, this isn’t the world that we dream and live for. The closed mindset that plagues and kills the lives of others. The ones that look down on the women, that makes them into sex objects, that plague and strive for us, we aren’t doing the right thing, we aren’t working for the right thing. We are not using this information and changing things. Instead we allow this world to continue to move on because most people are not willing to let things change. For a chance.

Everyone has a story. My story last night was I took my brother out for a few drinks. I haven’t seen him in a few years, and wanted to show him off to the world. We went and ate food at this restaurant, Lord of the Wings. Made fun of how the place lacked Gollum, that the employee of the month got a chicken ring, and how the waiter looked like he was going jump off the building in a few more months. We started drinking at five pm and finished drinking at four am. Fucking a that was… enough. Enough so that we couldn’t think of drinking another thing today. And the stories we can tell. The things that have happened. J—– picking my nose while I was talking to R—-, and the waitress, cute chick, looking outside through the window and going what the fuck, and me responding I don’t know. For a man that wanted to get laid so much, he cock-blocked himself like a charm. It was just us four, did I say there was four? Me, my brother and his friend, and my friend. We went to the same bar three times that night, moving back and forth, starting there, leaving to Mono, then Hamra, then back to mono, then to Gemmazy, then to the end of Gemmazy, then back to the main street of Gemmazy, then Mono. One long crazy fucking night that was beer filled and fun. Leaving the first time, there were a couple of chicks ahead of us, and I told my brother, he’s younger than me, mind: That chick has a very cute ass. They turned and laughed and got into the car – and he looked at me and said, I think they heard us. That was 5 pm. The nose picking incident was at 2:30? am. We wanted to go to Name this Bar, around 2-2:30 am, and decided against it, Standing outside and suddenly a finger goes into my nostril and digs about. I looked at J—–, and continued to talk in a straight face to my brother as if nothing has happened in the world. The waitress just stared at me and raised her hands up in question, as if going – what the bloody fuck – and I just shrugged. Straight face mind. There were a couple of really hot chicks, ahead of us, and they walked on the street to pass by, and J—– turned and started to follow them, and they turned, saw him and walked faster. Just had us cracking up to that, pointing our fingers to him and laughing. Or going to mono, and to Hole in the Wall, and talking about the “fight” I saw a long time ago, grown men ripping off their shirts to slap each other. Yes. To slap. Forget everything, but all that came was slap slap slap, slap slap, rip off shirt to reveal puny body, slap. We heard a fight, were excited and walked out, and all there was is just slaps.

Then came the other stories, and we went to Hamra, and I toured my little brother around, showing him off to the different people I know and such. Passed out fliers, still have a few with me, and just looked about, passing them around. It was a fun-fledged night, it had to be, 11 hours of almost non-stop drinking. Waking up though, that was a bitch. Go see if my brother is awake, he was sleeping, call our dad, tell him that everything is ok, that my brother is fine, go see my brother to get called a Bastard of a Brother, and that my brother didn’t get this drunk in a very long time. He cursed the Tabasco shots I gave him. A flat liner with white sambuka, tequila, and Tabasco. Extra, mind. Stories, stories, stories. Everyone has a story. Slowly as I tell you mine, you can understand me better. You can understand my laughs, my tears, my moments of insanity. This is my life, and this is how you can understand me.

And eventually, you can tell me yours so I can understand you too.

Everyone has a story. My story, your story, holds different connotations, different things, we can both talk about the same thing and the different things, my life, your life, the connotations hed in between, my life I do’t know. If you are going to talk to someone, the correct first thing to ask is, what is your story? That story, and afterwards. Everyone has a story, and some stories may be more interesting than others. Then you have that common persona, where they would create a story that they think is interesting, because they are afraid that their own life is not as interesting. This basic lie, the lie that isn’t needed. Why do that in reality? My life is not so simple. I moved from here to there, I had my share of loves, had my share of dreams, goals, ambitions, everything. What was taken away and what was moved past and what was held without and forever. So everyone has a story. Remember that, that story can come through a prose, a poem, a song, a tear. It is when you start remembering those tears, those moments of sadness. I loved you first. The moments, the tears, the ages of mystery, everything was explained in the first few moments. And all that remains are tears. The tears that lead to nothing, to sadness, to whispers, to dreams. I don’t know why, or how, or when, or what , or dreams. I really wish everything would stop, would move away, would leave me alone, and separate myself and the goals, and the world, and the tears, and the regret. Every looked at something and regretted something you’ve done? I’ve had how many had of the moments I’ve had, the moments and everything and I regretted my actions and I wished that I could have changed and dreamed and moved, and did something different and did something new and different and when I tried to save the world but failed, and in my head I would recreate this situation until I could defeat it and no longer regret it. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know what happens next. I wish, well, I really do wish that a lot of things things I remembered, I looked at and remembered, and though of the regret I’ve done and wished I could have done better, or less, and did differently, and moved and done and wished, and moved, and prayed, but failed in praying for. My life was without religion, but it lacks completeness, just tears and more tears because I don’t know what is going to happen in the future. Just lies upon lies to myself, and so on. I wish I could know more, could understand more, could dream less and inhibit more, inhibit my.. everyone has a story

Speedwriting poetry

Foreword: Just like how you have people speed paint to generally become better artists, I prefer to speed write to create better prose and poetry in the long run.

Nature Poem:

Glorious rays of morning light burst forth from Father Sun’s crown as it peeks over the world’s edge,

announcing a bright and shining new dawn:

• Mornings came as to nothing, just a continuity of the next day, movements, moments, times, the worlds of nothing and everything created but for what?

The sharp sound of a twig snapping echoes throughout the forest:

• Movement, moments, times, the world moves on whether at a standstill and the life steps on the branches of the fallen and moves and moves and breathes and life is corroding for ever in this forest.

Tiny munching sounds drift up from the earth as a small shrubbery is sucked into the ground.

• This forest, breathing living in a situational moment of a standstill and the life that steps on the branches that moves and moves in the movements, moments, times of the world.

A large shadow flits across the edge of the tree line for a bare instant, vanishing between the trees.

• Nature is limited. Though everything can be of nature, the world is limited to reserves and branches and tree clumps. Movements, moments, times. The world will continue to move on, and nature and the animals will move their course. But life is unstopped and stopped and movement and life will continue with the continuity of the next day – Mornings came as to nothing. Nothing in a blink of an eye.

Place description Poem:

Almost completely concealed by creeping vines

an open shop in the corner of the garden has been

constructed

of dark wood that is slowly rotting away Precarious

shelves and tables that have been hastily repaired with nails and even rope

stand around the half-room

displaying the various wares that

being of a relatively high quality seem to be out of place in this

shabby

establishment The vines cover almost every surface

creeping up the walls and ceiling and even spreading out over the floor twisting around the table legs and up the sides of a counter at the far back

The rest of the garden is filled with thorny bushes and dark exotic flowers with dirt paths leading to the shop and to the larger portion of

the garden

that continues

to the northeast

Musician Playing:

She swept the viola between her breasts, bringing it up slowly, slowly – creeping so slowly upwards.

Nudging the chin rest above her shoulder, she stopped. Barely clothed, or bad eyesight would say, she would rest on the side and play and play.

Sounds came out of nothing. Beauty would come out of nothing. A gift as the bow swept the strings. Swept and struck and dripped and the sound would drip and sing and fall and the viola would cry and breathe to me.

• It is an art of the musician, isn’t it? To bring life to instruments that the mudane would perceive as a tangible object, and believe that it would do nothing but remain as an object? That the life and love can be directed through? It is the art of the musician.

Sounds came out of nothing. Beauty would come out of nothing. How her fingers will press against the strings and drip and droop and how the bow will clash against the viola swept with innocent naked fingers and a drop of hair will drop and fall against the body of the viola. How crafted out of wood and the dreams of the listener would come out and play itself all at

the musician’s whim.

3×5 poem:

You left the cigarettes on the ashtray,

As you left home last night.

Is it a bad thing, that reason that you smoke?

It is sad, how when you leave,

All that I do is sit on the kitchen chair,

and breathe in that smoke you left in the air.

It is a way of feeling you there,

Your fingers dripping across my body.

Your scent, your scent falling across.

The cigarettes on the ashtray. How I hate you.

Home:

The mist would lift up after a few minutes of staring.

Clearing out the covering in front.

The military trucks and cars will still move past.

The kings and queens still moving past.

But I was stuck in my own kingdom.

Safe in my bed.

The blinds slightly open, safe in my world.

It feels like being a king somehow.

Safe in my democracy.

One for you and two for me.

The trucks still move outside of the walls, moving past

But for me, I am the king of my domain here,

At home.

Sektor 83. Jupiter Space Colony.

Some things you don’t want to forget

Mohawk

Oracle

Oracle. Mixed media on canvas and glass. 100 x 150 cm. Smoke series.

A young warrior approaching a dragon oracle for advice. Smoke on canvas, outlines of form on glass.