Musings. Ex Libris

But though they are gone, the night is full of them; robbed of colour, blank of windows, they exit more ponderously, give out what the frank daylight fails to transmit- the trouble and suspense of things conglomerated there in the darkness. - Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Elie found an old picture of her mother while taking a stroll in a wood. The art of wandering is mainly to seek for the astonishment of winding up in an unknown destination. To wander in a familiar place, on the other hand, is to contrive yourself a complexity with which it foretells a even more astonishing outcome. Elie took a stroll in a wood of the vicinity, an upset girl searching aimlessly for merriment. Some writers come across their rebellious phase in their early developments. Others' extend to the day of their death, to whose scatter-brained relatives' dedication of a rather deadpan elegy might even induce some ho

* Frank Sinatra's songs are widely welcomed by any occasions. They are like puddings, with various different toppings. Some become broody in their early teens, I took it further by pining for a life as a hermit. As my age progressed, the hankering only got more severe instead of blurring away on a blotting paper. How the social scene has steered to the vulgarity plays a crucial role in consolidating my dream. It is as if the whole place was turned into a massive barhouse, the most outlandish and unwelcomed ones belonged to those who steeled themselves on their sobriety. The desperate measures those heartbroken ones took to leave their beloved home, and transported themselves to another place where they still succumbed to supreme drunkenness. Being hemmed in an overwhelming scale of grimness and solitude, they sozzled. I appreciate shirking the work of being a submissive recipient of news for a day or two, but my equanimity can only withhold a short while before I pucker my nose aga

* Marc Bolan took a visit to one of his many dreams which was scattered with inexplicable patterns. Logic played the unwelcoming intruder. I had a dream last night of the world turning into one of those settings in Harold Pinter's plays. The world was practically normal; virtually silent with no other characters except myself. The grave silence of the setting foregrounded the fastidiousness of one's ear. The intermittent sound of a flushing toilet was acutely audible, interspersed with the throbs of my heart. Suddenly a shadow fleeted through the window. The queerest happened as I presumed the passing figure as a mere harmless passerby. I, who is always suspicious of things, be it only a absentminded glance, succumbed to the mysteriousness in an enigma-rousing environment! Then, like every other dream, my legs jellied. Some spend the day muse about the most improbable, or squander their doubts on trivialities. The others seize their day permitting the hours slip through their f

* Overload compliments will make the singer eventually reach into a crescendo of gobbledygook. Victor Hugo once said that complimenting someone is like giving her a kiss on the veil. Smug and flattered she might be, but the kiss is merely stained on the veil, that damnable membrane. Somebody has told you to rub those compliments into bundles of snowballs and throw them all away when the monsoon came. But your eyes are glazed over by the glistening beauty of the snowballs, therefore you keep them, after much deliberation, and rather witness them inundating your corner. Or people begin to complain to you that they can no longer see your face, for the veil has lost its transparency with smears of kisses. Little did they know, neither could you see clearly of your way. Hold back your tears. You should never let loose a drop. Until you climb up that pinnacle, and let the insurmountable altitude trigger your lachrymal gland- you caress that little diamond drop gently in your cupped hands. --

* Johnny Cash's rendition of Tom Paxton's classic is hemmed in with grits and veils of smoke. My train of thoughts always goes thus when journeying: the nervousness propels the churn of my stomach growling for inexplicable hunger. The mixed feelings of excitement and premature homesickness trigger multitudes of music notes in my ears. Numerous music notes, play incessantly and intermittently, rush to and fro, like flies in net. The melody blurs out with the increase of its speed. As a result they all turn into awkward glossolalias, the alien language I speak in some alien lands. I love a journey without an end: the prolong of one's expectation, the expectation one relishes- I suspect it to be the only moment that is truly of one's own, the time one can truly relax. I love a journey without a destination: it is a reasonable excuse to shirk one's daily responsibilities and take upon adventures, small scaled notwithstanding, life itself can be adventurous anyway. And m