Quite an astonishing thing to realize that I wrote some entries several years ago, with the contents focusing on the saddest moments of my life. I hate to see this journal falling into the hands of the wrong persons.
It's Valentine's day today and it seems I have been doing the same routines I started doing years ago.
Not much has changed.
14 Feb 2008
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Staring
That I have stared deep into the Other's eyes is a common, often too violent, occurrence. In the pleasant yet turbulent land of desire, there seems to be no abating of loneliness and passion. As to when, there is no reckoning. Even Nietzsche would have laughed at the thought.
I let it be -- and let it go, down where it belongs.
17 Mar 2004
I let it be -- and let it go, down where it belongs.
17 Mar 2004
Echoes of my Soul
"Tonight I can write the saddest lines..." writes Pablo Neruda in his hauntingly beautiful poem. Perhaps tonight like him, I can write the saddest thoughts of my life: write, for example, how lamentably funny my life has been going, how charmingly crazy, and how enigmatically resilient to the changing fortunes of despair and triumph.
Tonight I can write the saddest echoes of my soul.
22 Dec 2003
Tonight I can write the saddest echoes of my soul.
22 Dec 2003
Natural Aches
I'm excited.
Tonight, for the first time in my life, a promise of infinite jest and ecstatic madness beckons its wonderful nod at my rejoicing and anxious heart. I shall celebrate, but with caution -- alas! -- for disappointments and a thousand natural aches the flesh is heir to may soon follow.
May the wickedly generous angels guide me in this journey.
12 Dec 2003
Tonight, for the first time in my life, a promise of infinite jest and ecstatic madness beckons its wonderful nod at my rejoicing and anxious heart. I shall celebrate, but with caution -- alas! -- for disappointments and a thousand natural aches the flesh is heir to may soon follow.
May the wickedly generous angels guide me in this journey.
12 Dec 2003
Friday, January 29, 2010
Stepping Back
Funny to realize that after I have putatively found someone to love me, I take a few steps backward. What's holding me back? What am I scared of?
There's much emotional garbage or sludge that has diluted my otherwise perfect and pleasant demeanor and readiness for getting the plunge.
Must I pursue the chase?
9 Dec 2003
There's much emotional garbage or sludge that has diluted my otherwise perfect and pleasant demeanor and readiness for getting the plunge.
Must I pursue the chase?
9 Dec 2003
C'est la vie!
Another year added to my already anxiety-filled life. The dilemma of existence plays malevolently in my life, even --- thereby? -- invading my dreams!
To live so that one may experience the goodness of the world --- rubbish! But one needs to go on living, if only to fulfill what has been scripted for him. Life may indeed be sacred, but it is living that proves to be more dramatic -- and scary!
C'est la vie!
2003
To live so that one may experience the goodness of the world --- rubbish! But one needs to go on living, if only to fulfill what has been scripted for him. Life may indeed be sacred, but it is living that proves to be more dramatic -- and scary!
C'est la vie!
2003
Journals of a Life
I keep so many journals: my life could become an open book to whomever is fortunate (?) enough to get hold of them. But I take heed of a French philosopher's admonition: Only God knows what will be made use of them when you're gone.
And, so, to the trash box they all go after all pages have been filled up.
There is not much in them, anyway, that may delight the ordinary reader: Only I, in my solemn and not-so-solemn moments, in them.
24 Nov 2003
And, so, to the trash box they all go after all pages have been filled up.
There is not much in them, anyway, that may delight the ordinary reader: Only I, in my solemn and not-so-solemn moments, in them.
24 Nov 2003
Signals from the Body
I'm tired today, both physically and emotionally. The body and the heart are clearly interconnected, and as I jot down random thoughts, my heart feels the numbness of my body: a feeling so etched in my soul that my mind wonders if I should even hope for another existence like this in the next life.
Particular moments, particular greatness -- or desperation.
21 Nov 2003
Particular moments, particular greatness -- or desperation.
21 Nov 2003
Infinite Wonder
I have been searching for inner peace, for some inner contentment that derives its energy and consistency from a feeling of oneness with God, of perhaps from a realization of the infinite wonder of the divine.
Why is there much tremor in my heart? Why are my nights not so tranquil as I wish them to be? I pray to God that I have serenity of mind and heart.
13 Nov 2003
Why is there much tremor in my heart? Why are my nights not so tranquil as I wish them to be? I pray to God that I have serenity of mind and heart.
13 Nov 2003
Loving Love as an Idea
Like my tragic hero, Kierkegaard, I relish in the idea of being in love, not with love itself. Love can be cumbersome, if not ethically mortifying. Pathos and passion about an idea -- pure Kierkegaardian, and therefore more aesthetically appealing.
I think of the desire, and not of the thought of being there myself. Working everything out in one's mind is the essence of being human.
27 Oct 2003
I think of the desire, and not of the thought of being there myself. Working everything out in one's mind is the essence of being human.
27 Oct 2003
Persistence and Suffering
Kierkegaard as a guide toward the persistence -- and beauty -- of suffering. He reveled in it; I don't. Suffering is the fly in an otherwise content life.
Suffering consciously inflicted upon oneself may, indeed, prove to be salvific: a redundant form of mortifying one's flesh. The soul needs peace and harmony, not additional pain.
27 Oct 2003
Suffering consciously inflicted upon oneself may, indeed, prove to be salvific: a redundant form of mortifying one's flesh. The soul needs peace and harmony, not additional pain.
27 Oct 2003
Disguising Delights
I watched the two of them with ill-disguised delight: she who wore peach and was a little older; and he, in his mid-twenties, who looked apparently younger. Two lovers in a definitely illicit relationship. She came back from Japan -- and he, her lover? I eavesdropped.
Back to the question: Who cares, and so what?
There's no hindrance to the joys of loving and living.
8 Oct 2003
Back to the question: Who cares, and so what?
There's no hindrance to the joys of loving and living.
8 Oct 2003
Brewing Passions in a Coffee Shop
In the absence of proper forms and contexts, they gather in such watering holes as this place -- catching little sparks, attempting to match a sordid reality: poor beings. And I enjoy keeping track of their sorrows and delights.
But why do I do so?
Perhaps because I, like such creatures, missed the formal segregation by the deity and have tried ever since to capture a moment of flashing brilliance.
3 Oct 2003
But why do I do so?
Perhaps because I, like such creatures, missed the formal segregation by the deity and have tried ever since to capture a moment of flashing brilliance.
3 Oct 2003
Intimate Journals
Charles Baudelaire's Intimate Journals: reflections and confessions of a mind engrossed with ideas and existence.
And Augustine -- no questions asked. Totally brilliant. Any reader can't help wishing he had the saint's luminosity of mind and generosity of self-expression.
In my own pages I try to reflect on, and record, the triviality, mendacity, idiocy, wonder, beauty, fluidity, ecstasy and plurality of life, living, dying and death.
2 Oct 2003
And Augustine -- no questions asked. Totally brilliant. Any reader can't help wishing he had the saint's luminosity of mind and generosity of self-expression.
In my own pages I try to reflect on, and record, the triviality, mendacity, idiocy, wonder, beauty, fluidity, ecstasy and plurality of life, living, dying and death.
2 Oct 2003
Preface
Please welcome me to the Blog World!
I have started several blogs over the years -- and never continued posting entries. The first act of creation saw no second or third act.
Why has it been so?
Perhaps because I am a simple guy of the old school: I love pens and paper. I do, passionately, and I have lots of great-looking pens and notebooks.
I have put to words my thoughts in different notebooks, small and large, inexpensive and pricey, in calligraphic writing and in chicken's scratches.
But there is always this nagging and frightening admonition from a French philosopher, whose name I can no longer recall: that only heaven knows what may be made of those not-too-innocent ramblings on the page after the writer's death.
And those thoughts were thoughts of passion and drama and desires and secrets of the soul.
...
And so, I am transporting my previous notes on paper onto this electronic world to which I have access any time of the day, any place in the world -- and I will pour in more words as the days go by and passions soar.
And what will happen to my old notebooks, in which I confided the terrifying torments and ramdom rages of my heart and mind?
Burn them -- and offer their flames to the heavens.
I have started several blogs over the years -- and never continued posting entries. The first act of creation saw no second or third act.
Why has it been so?
Perhaps because I am a simple guy of the old school: I love pens and paper. I do, passionately, and I have lots of great-looking pens and notebooks.
I have put to words my thoughts in different notebooks, small and large, inexpensive and pricey, in calligraphic writing and in chicken's scratches.
But there is always this nagging and frightening admonition from a French philosopher, whose name I can no longer recall: that only heaven knows what may be made of those not-too-innocent ramblings on the page after the writer's death.
And those thoughts were thoughts of passion and drama and desires and secrets of the soul.
...
And so, I am transporting my previous notes on paper onto this electronic world to which I have access any time of the day, any place in the world -- and I will pour in more words as the days go by and passions soar.
And what will happen to my old notebooks, in which I confided the terrifying torments and ramdom rages of my heart and mind?
Burn them -- and offer their flames to the heavens.
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