thirty nine

what if you rolled over.
and given the choice.
to never wake up.
would you choose
the beat of your heart.
or to finally meet your mark.
inst life just one big grand fuck.


on a utterly unrelated scale. the yeasayer.



raw bliss.

thirty eight

one. he looks like a bobble head character with a clown nose. feel free to glance above.
two. he finds running fun a necessity. a drug that he has not been able to take forever.
three. he is proclaiming runners withdrawal due to his busted knee.
four. he rather be left alone to play than with the other kids.
five. he feels largely awkward without his his music player.
six. he will never understand or ever will be in love. just have intercourse goddammit.
seven. he then again has never had intercourse. or felt all the trash talk about sugar spice and everything nice.
eight. he does not believe in marriage and everything it represents.
nine. he believes in crystals chakras magic reiki and all that sortastuff.
ten. he hates loud obnoxious humans although there are times he was exactly that.

plus

one. he believes his death will be cause by getting run over. the only question is when.
two. he always will be in his own world when his headphones are on.
three. he always need more clothes. to distract passers by from his face.
four. he feels out of character doing this. the sole reason being to stall studying for his exams.
five. he wants to grow up to be jamie oilver bon iver and an amish guy.
six. he researches on food probably way too much but he still does it.
seven. he wants a new oven. and a camera. and so many others it will be a whole other post.
eight. he wishes he a creative genius. and a zillion times smarter. working on the former.
nine. hes the kid that skips orientation cause he rather work.
ten. he aspires one day to farm his own crops herbs and daily staples.

plus

one. he hates anyone touching him. pats on the back included.
two. hes this old now but still acts like hes ten. please refer to picture above.

ps. thats not his shirt its his fathers.

thirty seven

words immaterial
no explanation desired
for a love like this.

my solitary premature valentines days post.

thirty six

support our starving local artist.
not the ones they fly off to taiwan.
so they continue doing on that sweet spot.

thirty five

photo from here.


i felt compelled to write about chinese new year. days of gluttony forced conversation red packets. reuniting. like an unspoken pact set each year the schedule set deeply entrenched written erstwhile i was born.
an occasion that can never be replaced by other holidays. never lackluster. nothing holds even close to this celebration.

the gatherings.
the fights.
the food.

crumbly buttery soft flakes whipped into auspicious shapes topped off with sweeten fruits.
hand rolled heavenly shards of crispy crunchy heated batter of a secret concoction of egg batter to paper thin manufactured uniformity.
slivers of toasted almonds sprinkled onto a simple base lighter than a meringue snapshot eating sweeten pillows of white airy clouds topped off with toasted crunchy bits finished by drizzling melted molasses.
the lost battle of trans fats.
braised duck soup stewed for days on ends to archive textures that are soft falling off the bone goodness. the flavors of the stock through every single spoon filled wonder.
homemade pounded chilli spiked secret ingredients made with a pestle and mortar instantly transporting you back to the era when firecrackers were still legal and you trying in vain to scare that hated cousin.
curries spiked in coconut milk not generic evaporated milk. filled with the aromas of bashed up shallots onions galanga curry leaves a shaving of candlenut amazing.
the hot pot broth that exponentially gets more scrumptious as the night goes on. bubbling with seafood just waiting to get caught by ones mini scoop-net piping hot into ones mouth.

happy chinese new year.

to you too obama.

thirty four

the airborne toxic event

after a long hiatus my obeisance to the sloth and all his close relatives i appear again like the maggots left in weeks old meat.

first question. whats up with the darn ominous apocalyptic band name. go read up more maybe one can figure it out. white noise.
like a snow ball put together by calvin and hobbes on a white blanketed mountain they are gaining more momentum. factoring in pitchfork stunning review of a reassuring one.six its as prodigious to me failing my a levels. bad press is better than none i guess. you scrutinize the many brazilian shown by paris hilton.
in parts their self titled album sound faultless with its rock based literary lyrics arrangements perfection.
but put together they still seem lost. finding what makes them unique. their own identity. but think this should be the path paving the roads with black bricks. to

somewhere around midnight.

but still they make rockin music. just take the tunes like they were done by darn adroit schizophrenic mature kids making the best sounds alive.

thirty three

if only things stayed that way
peter pan had a point
nothing good came from growing up.