All I Want For Christmas

1. Richard M. Nixon
2. A Jewish Doctor Husband
3. A Wailing (feature) Wall
4. A Pair of Industrial Sized Clogs
5. A Reprise of the Petrov Affair
6. A Cure for Pins and Needles
7. A Really Really Tiny Horse (Like a REALLY Little One)
8. A Felicity Shagwell Costume
9. A Sewing Machine, Spatula and Dryer (to make me more gender appropriate)
10. A Moustache.

Oh and a Glee Box Set.
If Santa has more of a sense of humour than Julie Bishop, he'd probably get me this stuff. We all know he's just pretending that he is ficticious.

Connection.

I feel this connection. It's strong, and lasting, and fills you to the fingertips. Yet, I've never been to this place before. It's not mine.

I trace large characters in the air while I lie in bed, o yo u yu eo yeo, avidly attempting to remember the slant and stroke order. There is an urgency created in the darkness, as if learning for a purpose, the moon peering in through the window at a girl doing strange hand actions, trying to figure out why. I'm sure if the moon was conversational, and I could fully explain myself, I would answer him. But the real truth of it all is, I have no idea why I am drawn to this particular system. All I know is that one day, when I was supposed to be concentrating, I looked to the left of me and just watched kun gom writing. I didn't know what it said. I don't think it mattered. It was the way he shaped his characters. It was the face he pulled when he was trying to think of the best way to express before writing. Now I spend nights at a time, with my bing translator, slowly matching words to shapes. Reading kun gom's day. Blogs. News reports.

no ran sae. that's who i am, on top of this lonely mountain. in between languages. connotation confuses you within both. so what's the point of belonging to just one?

Dreamed. The misspelling is important.

Once I dreamed an idol dream
Back in the late September,
His voice was dark, his eyes were dark
My heart grew black and tender.
His breath was burnt with cigarettes,
Presence hallowed by the bar
and suited up with devils teeth
Who'd lament for gin swept stars.

Once I dreamed an idol dream
that my piano had been drinking.
His necktie had slid down to the floor
in a drunken stupor; sleeping.
Yet, as wax pools on my window sill
I get hungry for the blues
And dream again of Factorytown

the blind-sick howls,
the smoke spat fuse.

The Hangover.

There is a feeling that you could not quite describe other than with the phrase 'hangover'.
It fills you to the brim and rips through the pits of your stomach,
you feel cold of the mountain that you left only momentarily as ice down your shirt.
Eyes sting from a glare of white.

An erratic buzz where conversation once was. Connections are blurred with your own tongue and anothers, you don't understand it, but you belong completely. Turn your head to face the wall, gazing at the letters that paper it. They get a little more yellow each day I see them. Some curl at the edges, blutac hardening to a solid against the wall. Everyday the letters age, every day they turn a shade, every day I feel just a little bit better about leaving it all in August. I'm just one step closer to being back to tatami. At home my bed feels too high. Some nights I'll slip off with my blanket and pillow, and sleep on the floor. There I feel grounded.
I heard once that 'the story is in the soil; keep your ear to the ground'. This was told me by a man, over a recording, who spends his days and nights searching for a yellow bird. Or in Korean, they say it, No Ran Sae. That's what Ji Hwan told me. I keep my ear to the ground. I listen for the story. Dig through the dirt to find the hidden treasures. If you listen closely enough, you can hear the drumming, like in Jumanji but less African. The story I hear, when my ear presses to floorboards, is the same another would hear in Indonesia, within their own home. Through the tatami mat of her Japan. The tiled floor of his Brunien apartment. The dirt floor of his Cambodia.

Kami adalah dunia.
When you put this into a translator in English, it is 'We Are The World'. When you reverse it, and put it in written in Indonesian, it says that 'We Were The World'. Now I'm not sure.
But the tone is not for me to decide.
It'll change whenever I read it back to myself.
I'm never quite

sure.

Open The Door and Here Are The People.

This is a post for Mrs McCauley (and possibly to Mrs Parsons, depending on whether you gave the link to her[not that I mind or anything, I just don't know]).

Maybe not all of these posts are relevant. Some are written as tributes I met overseas. Some are music reccomends with links. But there are some creative writing pieces. This is a little entry to point you in the right direction of the stuff you might be interested in.

-October; Particulars, Swelling and I'm full.
-July; Something Borrowed.

These are my main creative pieces, and the rest are just.. you know, Sally kinda stuff.
I hope you enjoy. And, don't read into it, put the technique mind to rest. I wasn't thinking technique while I was writing.
:)

I really really want this tattoo.

I found it on a Marc Johns website. I love his stuff. One of my favourite artists.

www.marcjohns.com

But this tattoo is on Anniken's arm from Norway. Yes, she AND her arm are from Norway. But I would really love to have this tattoo. If not there, then maybe near my ankle or on my hip. :)
That'd be pretty cool ya.

The Month of October.

I feel that these blogs have been an excuse to get out of serious homework. Thus, the sudden burst in October. It's so hard to fight procrastination, if your methods of procrastinating are actually influential, useful and with a general point.

I think instead of ancient history, I'll write my own instead.
Tonight, I dream of FACTORYTOWN!