cheers
to late to slow to far

Raining.

So I was stuck there with her, lying on her bed, bored.

I want to go home, I kept thinking fervently.

I thought of my new pack of mild seven lights waiting for me on my table where I had tossed it. I imagined its shiny cellophane packaging winking at me. I foraged through my jeans pocket for my squashed pack and opened it. I remember hoping desperately that I had missed a stick. Which is why I still kept the pack. Right? Right? Wrong. I was disappointed. I crushed the pack and threw my jeans back on her chair. It hung there, limp like a fish. I smiled, remembering the same stupid simile I used in my play. I stared at her window, with the rain on it, fat twisting ropes rushing pell mell to their death on her window sill.

I want a drink.

She was saying something but I didn’t care. I just lay there, on my back, in my boxers, over her blanket and listened to snow patrol sing over and over again on her laptop. If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world? I don’t want to forget the world. I want to forget you and your obscenely ugly pink sheets and pink walls and stupid streaked hair that you seem to proud of. All that I am, all that I ever was, is here in your perfect eyes. They’re all I can see.

My ass.

She was still talking. I distinctly remember recalling a simile Stephen King once used. She’s not like a jukebox. You never needed to put in a quarter and she never came unplugged. I don’t even know her. Who’s she? A friend? A friend’s friend? I don’t give a shit. I don’t even like her. I thought of what I knew about her and came up a blank. I don’t know her. She kissed me once when she knew I was feeling melancholic and that was it. I didn’t know her then, I don’t know her now either. So what was that that we did? I hesitate to call that groin sneeze sex. I don’t know what it is.

I wanted to go home.

And I never wanted a drink so badly in my life.

I think I am an alcoholic. How many substances can I get addicted to? Cigarettes. Alcohol. Writing. The smell of hugo dark blue. The smell of a new book. The way hot water feels when it thumps my back in the shower. The feel of money in my fingers. Grass. Sand. The wind. Reading. Chocolate. Hearing someone laugh because if something I said or did. Feeling happy. I’m a serial substance abuser. Maybe I need help. I blocked out her voice and rolled over onto my stomach and played with her laptop, in all its resplendent nausea –inducing pinkness. I mumbled something about using her msn and just logged her off. I alt-f4 the shit out of snow patrol in sour triumph. She hit me across the shoulder and I ignored her. She turned away, in a huff. I don’t give a fuck. I went back to clicking around aimlessly. I checked my mail. I logged onto facebook. I logged onto Friendster. I stared at my profile page. As I did so, an absurdly cheesy question popped into my mind and I turned to her and kicked her in her calf. How do you know we’re made for each other? She turned back, eyes bright like lighters and smiling, thinking it was a reconciliatory attempt. I don’t know, she said, just have faith. And I looked away and continued amusing myself with her com. She looked at me, waiting for a reply, got disappointed, got up, and strode out of the room. I stared at the screen.

Have faith, she said. But I can’t, no matter how much I want to. That would spoil everything. The rain still beats down outside like it’s trying to flood Hawaii.

I never wanted a drink so much in my life.

i hate tiger.
and i hate the world.
leave me alone.

it's quite funny.
but when i'm drunk.
i never seem to think of you.
this time notwithstanding.

asato ma sad gamaya
tamaso ma jyotir gamaya
mrtyor mamrtam gamaya

take care, friend

it's that word.

the one you always place at the end
of everything, like
a reminder a boundary a
warning.
keep away, it says.
trespassers will be prosecuted.
and that makes something
change
within me, everytime, everytime
my heart does a hitch and shifts,
e to d flat.

everytime.

and no number of babes or darlings
or
dearests from her or her
or her
matters. they never did,
never will, to be honest.
i was just waiting. but not for
them.

you said that word again, the other day,
wrote it actually,
and i had to smile and try to convince myself
that it didn't prove anything,

everything.

just sat there as she looked at me,
eyebrows raised, i guess
something on my face
betrayed me.
no one else noticed.

she paused in dealing out the cards,
and kissed me then,
chocolate, beer, toothpaste and giggles
but i was far away instead,
wishing she were

you.

if i could just forget you, things would be so much easier.

why i think guillermo vargas habucuc is innocent.

ok so far my sources are:

1) costa rican newspaper la nacion, article published on october 4, source quoted as nicaraguan newspaper la prenza

http://babelfish.yahoo.com/translate_url?doit=done&tt=url&intl=1&fr=bf-home&trurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.nacion.com%2Fln_ee%2F2007%2Foctubre%2F04%2Faldea1263590.html&lp=es_en&btnTrUrl=Translate

2) nicaraguan newspaper la prenza, article published on october 5, source quoted as costa rican newspaper la nacion (do you see something weird AND stupid here)

http://www.laprensa.com.ni/archivo/2007/octubre/05/noticias/revista/219438.shtml

3) http://guillermohabacucvargas.blogspot.com/, anonymous, supposed offical blog of the artist, it keeps getting quoted all over the place, but it can't even get basic facts right, like his age. there's other scattered blogs purporting to be the "real" blog of the artist but they don't seem credible at all.

4) the guardian and the observer both ran the pfficial statement of juanita bermudez, director of the codice gallery. both the guardian and the observer published the statement on march 30th 2008.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2008/mar/30/art.spain

5) there's a ton more, like PETA's and various other organisations' replies and statements regarding the issue, tethering laws and animal rights laws in USA, which isn't consistant with european animal rights laws. californian tethering laws etc.

http://www.lib.uchicago.edu/e/law/subject.html

nicaraguan animal rights laws are seemingly non-existant, and i honestly don't blame them.

6) vargas's 4 statements which i can't seem to find anymore. can anyone help me over here?

7) vargas' exhibit was in august 2007, first animal shelter in nicaragua, casa lupita, in granada was started sometime after, closest date so far is 29th october 2007.

http://www.nicaliving.com/node/8343

8) previously, the nearest animal shelter in the area was in costa rica or honduras, (yes in the next country. there were no shelters in nicaragua when vargas did his exhibit)

http://www.friendly-directory.co.uk/dir/216/73.php (this link makes it even bleaker. "No results found in Animal Rescue - Central America ")

9)for my point on stray dogs being vermin in nicaragua:

http://www.transitionsabroad.com/listings/living/livingabroadin/living_abroad_moving_to_nicaragua_with_pets.shtml

http://www.gazettetimes.com/articles/2007/11/16/news/community/3loc03_vetstudents.txt

http://www.bootsnall.com/articles/07-05/domesticated-wildlife-corn-islands-nicaragua-central-america.html

edit: not to forget my sources against vegans!
http://web.archive.org/web/20041107084521/http://eesc.orst.edu/agcomwebfile/news/food/vegan.html

http://www.wildlifedamagecontrol.com/animalrights/leastharm.htm
(doesn't seem to be there anymore though)

fuck. if i actually spent the same amount of effort researching and reading up for my school work i'll probably be on the dean's list by now.

a friend of mine is writing so much on her blog it makes me look positively blocked.
i am ashamed. boo to myself.

i was searching for the light
and you showed me the lantern in my hand

i'm getting really frustrated.

i don't care anymore what everyone thinks (other than you, you know who you are)
everyone seems to have their own idea of how my ending sucks, how things should end, how things shouldn't end, how i should resolve this, how i should resolve that, the resolution i chose sucks, i should do this instead.

sod off.

i know this is mean, but if you can't write for nuts, don't tell me my ending sucks in front of everyone else, especially since you seem incapable of reaching a satisfactory one for your own play. if you have nothing constructive to say other than this sucks or that sucks, shut up and let someone more intelligent speak.

i'm sorry but unless i ask you for your opinion personally, not like the way i'm obliged to offer my work up in class to be torn into pieces by people who don't know better, then i value what you have to say. i'm anal that way. maybe i'm elitist, but write something better than mine and maybe i'll hear what you have to offer.

if not shut up cos i don't write for you.

i write for huzir, for his approval which means something to me, and his opinions, which mean something to me, and the grade of course.
and i write for someone else only, because she inspires me and damn she writes fucking well. you know who you are haha!

that's all.

the rest of the pinko asshole fucksticks who think you know more than you actually do can go and die. btw, if your name starts with M, A, C or H then i'm not talking about you. chill.

i know i shouldn't be feeling this way still
but

i'm sorry.

today i woke up grumpy
then i played d2 with wy, where my ghost's teleport refused to work
my vt got bugged and could only freeze in one spot to get pounded on
my d2 crashed when i was playing the most definitely bug-free zon
then i had to
go to school for rehearsals for a graded acting project ninja-ed on me
by an overenthusiastic and myopic professor who suddenly decided that
presentation = acting
and slipped on the wet road and dragged my foot along it
so now my left toe looks like raw hamburger
and after we were done at 9pm (who stays in school until fucking 9pm)
i got my mom to fetch me cos i thought things couldn't get any worse
and i didn't want things to get any worse
and i told her to go straight at the junction and pick me up
but she arrived half an hour late and turned left
so i ran after her but she kept going and i phoned her
to go back the way she came from but no, she drove back halfway
and turned right
so i had to chase her again and when i got into the car
i asked her which part of "just go straight" did she not understand
and we argued and argued and argued
all the way
home
fuck my life.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who need reasons when you've got heroin?

-Renton, 1996

i was licked by an siberian husky last night all over my arms up to my elbows.

and got charged in the tummy repeatedly by an excited bulldog who sounds like a flushing toilet when he drinks from his dish.

and watched an alaskan malamut shit in a corner and play dead.

IT WAS SO FUN! I WANNA DO IT AGAIN!

High and Dry - Radiohead

Two jumps in a week, I bet you think that's pretty clever don't you boy.
Flying on your motorcycle, watching all the ground beneath you drop.
You'd kill yourself for recognition; kill yourself to never ever stop.
You broke another mirror; you're turning into something you are not.

Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry
Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry

Drying up in conversation, you will be the one who cannot talk.
All your insides fall to pieces, you just sit there wishing you could still make love
They're the ones who'll hate you when you think you've got the world all sussed out
They're the ones who'll spit at you. You will be the one screaming out.

Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry
Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry

It's the best thing that you've ever had, the best thing that you've ever, ever
had.
It's the best thing that you've ever had; the best thing you've had has gone away.

Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry
Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry

i wanted to write

something about you
(to you).
but you already know
what i'll say though.

if you squint hard enough when you look up at the sun
and raise your hand to cover its brightness
sometimes it looks like it's in your grasp.

gravel

When we were younger, we sat by the roads, knees like suns before our faces as we watched the cars go past. We used to come up with dreams, colorful tales concerning the passing cars; that proton sagas were made of crushed milo tins, car tires were made of licorice. The girl in the passing white Mercedes was a princess in disguise.

And then we would secretly, guiltily creep those chosen cars at night. Braving the parents, the hard heavy hands, the police at our backs as we scratched, scratched away at the car paint, hoping to spot a fleck, a spot, an idea of that bright green paint on milo tins. And we would get bored and collect gravel bits and pitch them at one another. The gravel would cut our hands, but it wouldn’t matter. We would gather more in a second. And soon, the sound of laughing boys rise up the heartland flats even as the sun begins to rise.

We go on to secondary school, jcs. Ns. To work and start building families of our own. And gradually, we drifted apart, the closeness became passing words, the claps on the backs became smiles. And then. Nothing. The gravel remains dead at our feet. The scabs on our hands remain uncovered.

I am now married to that princess in the white Mercedes and now I know that proton sagas are not made of milo tins. I have a job now, an office job and if I play it right, maybe I’ll get an increase at the year’s end. The old flats where we used to play are now gone, replaced by yellow new condominiums. I have a car of my own, and two kids, one boy, one girl. We can make ends meet.

And still, when I remember, I make it a point to stoop and gather some gravel, more stones now in my bigger hands. And I would smile, ignoring the small cuts on my hands as I throw them into the distance; at the friends I used to have. At the small boys in white singlets and buzz cuts laughing and dodging between the early morning cars, long gone.

last night

i dreamed we kissed
and everyone was watching but
we
didn't
care.

When I killed Ron, I lost myself. For the longest time, I stared at him on the floor, lying with glazed eyes, throat still retching to get rid of the blood filling it. He was dead, but his body didn’t know it, didn’t want to know it yet. I stared at him, my brother, my best mate, and said goodbyes in my head as his fingers twitched, causing his nails to click on the linoleum and like his throat, finally still. My greatest friend, my confidant, my lover, he died without making a sound. I caught my tears with my hands and sleeves before they hit the floor, and dropped the knife in the bag. I strip, stuff the clothes in a ziplock bag and zip it up. I toss it inside my duffel with the knife. I change into some clothes I find in his wardrobe; jeans, a black t-shirt with “I’m sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit” printed in bold white on the front, a pair of his old sneakers. Adidas. He never wore Nike. No socks, no briefs. I look in his mirror, see a murderer, shoulder my duffel and walk out. At his door, I hesitate and take a last look at him, my Ron. How unglamorous, I think absurdly, to be found the next morning in some obscene swastika of stiff limbs with your blood setting around your head like old wine. I gag, and in reflex, squeeze my eyes shut and I see not my best friend, but a horned lycan, one who sets off every full moon to hunt. I remember the newspaper articles about missing children and couples from the park. It’s gray fur is matted, it’s eyes are misted. My friend’s eyes are misted. No it is not him. Not him. He didn’t know. He could not have known. He would wake up after every full moon, yawn, dress and shuffle off to school, thinking about fucking my girlfriend, never knowing what he had done the night before, the blood I can see on his hands and mouth and chest, that just get more and more each time. He never knew, he never knew, he never knew. I didn’t know. I’d see him every day and the fur gets thicker and the blood gets more, and I never realized. He never realized. I open my eyes convulsively and run down the hall. At the landing, I remember and run back up to his apartment to wipe the doorknobs with my handkerchief. It is like watching someone else do these things. The part of the hanky I use is bloody and leaves a red sticky film on the knob. I find a clean spot and redo. My hands shake. When I’m done cleaning and running back down, I trip and fall on my face. The neighbors give me weird looks and puzzled smiles. I want to shout and grab them by their collars and shake their pathetic polite faces, and tell them I just murdered my best friend, my darling Ron, he’s dead upstairs on the floor of his living room with a hole in his neck so big I could put my fist down his throat, but instead I smile at them, help Mrs. Nguyen pick up her fruits and apologize for the fright that I caused. I run out the door and down the street and far away until I can’t tell where I am anymore. My chest burns. I hope I am dying. I throw my bag down, bury my face in my handkerchief, taste Ron’s crispy blood drying to flakes on it and that’s when I started hitching, big fat hitching sobs and like a tide that couldn’t be stopped, I sat there with my hands in my face and cried for seven days and seven nights.

lunch

it feels strange,
looking at you over our bowls of noodles
as you deployed your cynicism once again
when i described my friend's relationships,
my relationships: like water.

it is as though i'm asking for your approval.

and then what, you said; and then what?
with that amazing impish grin that makes me wonder
if a little tooth will suddenly unblemish
the whole picture at the corner of your mouth
and make the world end.

so he fucks her, and then he fucks her again
and then what? there's nothing more to it.

you place a fish slice in your mouth and chew.
i sit there and play with my chopsticks in my soup
swirling it around: my pangaea of sediment breaks and dissolves
into continents.

so we could hold hands and we snuggle and we sit,
drinking your sour plum tea, and i think, maybe
we don't really need to bother if there is an 'and then what'
maybe there doesn't have to be an 'and then what'
cos this is all there is, and to me, it is enough.
but of course i keep quiet and smile
and watch you smile, feeling happy that you're happy.
i wonder what would have happened if i had leaned over then,
spontaneous and not thinking like i am wont to do,
and just kissed you.
you'll probably taste
just like the tea: deep orange, a ridiculous mix of sweet and sour,
so awful but strangely wonderful all the same.

but i didn't,

and so we sit
with our cooling bowls and half empty drinks
(alright, mine was empty already, i'm sorry);
my soup developing an atmosphere of its own,
cumulus clouds of stock included,
and i hope for an hour at least, you didn't think
'and then what' thoughts of me.

and truthfully, that is enough for me.