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K_Mon
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Name: K.
Country: United States
State: New Jersey
Birthday: 1/25/1983
Gender: Female
Interests: Few things amuse me as much as irony and unfortunate chance, for the humor of sadness attests only further to the beauty of joy. It's a new age and I can't say I know any more...but we can love what we don't know.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Legal
Message: message me
AIM:  l K Mon l
Member Since:
5/4/2002
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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| -voice of fat-lady, possibly the owner/wife. not that she's really that fat-- perhaps by HK terms, she could be. butch is probably a better word here, but they call her fat-lady... as they love to call people fat-lady here. If you're ever called fat-lady, don't be offended... it's like how they call other females pretty-girl. It doesn't mean your fat, like it doesn't mean she's pretty. Screaminig voice, meaning the voice can only scream. don't bother speaking, forget whispering, let's just scream. effortless, natural, permanent state of scream. -there is no angry, there is no nice. now try to imagine what humor would be like in place where people don't smile. if sarcasm comes to mind, good-- now think exactly the opposite. why waste time being sarcastic when you can be direct? there is no time for jokes. candid facts of life are absolutely hilarious and there really is no need to try to be funny or creative. their delivery is hard to imitate though... it's got nothing to do with one-lining timing, or audacity to be blunt when the elephant blushes. what's especially relieving about this brand of humor is that it belies the fact that these people are not at all miserable; why would you think they are? just cus they don't smile? -usually, people just look apathetic. there is the occasional ice queen though, and usually they are young, also thin. don't you love it when ice queens warm up for a few minutes? just never to you... -where there is a young woman, there will be an old man. old men are never cold... they mumble things like "wow it's hot today, it's gotta be 29 (C) degrees-at least." it's the first day to dip below 20 degrees all season- in fact, you even brought out ur Cornell hoodie. It's alright though-this is the old man's first day back on the job after a mysterious 3 month leave (the chef was afraid he'd died)-and all the walking back and forth from the counter to tables with mugs of hot lemon-honey and ovaltine drives a body's temperature up a bit. -"what're you talking about? after 30 years, you know you love it here. this is your momma's house." Oh... no wonder they all wear pajama bottoms with their uniform tops. -[Gray person. seriously, gray skin.] The atmosphere is unmistakably Cantonese. I love it... it's comfortable and reminds me of my grandfather. It almost reminds me of my dad, except my dad smiles and a smile changes a lot. The comfort comes from the fact that these people really don't give a shit. They don't give a shit about you, about appearances, about time--they don't give a shit about shit. | | |
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"To Start Again" - Jean Paul Pecqueur
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Before tackling the actual infinite
etherized into some cliché of blue,
you should practice with the difficult moment,
the heirloomed crystal serving platter
shattered in a baroque fit,
the celebration abruptly ended.
You should reflect upon why you sent the letter
filled with precision machine buzz and thorns.
Maybe it was because of an absent mother?
Decorative shadow on the dining room wall?
At first the invisible is tangible
only when it’s rotten with technique,
so daily you should exercise your technique
as though the great guest house were on fire,
which it is, the house of upper-cased Being
being consumed while you sit here reading
thinking fretting planning and Big River
follows its clumsy course to the sea.
Stupid lugubrious, stupid myopic river,
who asked for its prehistoric opinion anyway.
The heart is made of sturdier stuff
than that neo-platonic sweetness and light.
Admit it. On hundreds of occasions
you’ve tried to piece it all back together
only to discover some hissing swan
or vaguely swan-shaped piece missing,
and still you feel you’ll be made whole again. |
"What We Want When We Want It"- Jean Paul Pecqueur
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The bumper sticker on my friend’s car
reads Visualize Whirled Peas
and so I close my eyes and concentrate,
but all I can see through the grey snow
of dead ocular cells is me suspended
over my desk with its clutter of photos,
last month’s letters and party bubbles,
my eyes screwed shut. It seems
I am trying to concentrate, but the day
keeps casting me out, reeling me in.
Fill the thistle sock for the goldfinch.
Water the lava rocks. First coordinate
then subordinate. If what you don’t know
cannot hurt you, then it must be impossible
to be hurt by anything at all, which sounds,
on the whole, like a pretty fine idea.
Like fifty one push-ups before coffee.
Like quote-end-quote now. Now!
Really now. Just place the needle
in the groove, the groove in the basket.
Asked what I wanted for my birthday.
Asked when I would finish the job.
Asked about the comma, the mocha,
the jaw pain which last week was chronic
today is mostly tragicomic, function
mimicking form like Matisse’s Dance
where all seems union, more free & perfect,
and bright levitation in the presence of flowers.
Asked where I wanted her to place the flowers
I responded that everywhere would be fine.
Time is not a burden... it's our savior.
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| They were all there as a group during the easy time of day, warm sun and good air - but together, they made it the worst moment. I hated them. Here and there, I didn't hate the individuals when I saw them now as Lisa and then as Greg, but when the focus relaxed and their personas faded into just one happy mass, I hated them. I wanted to be away from them, away from this. It was peculiar; I found it harder to forgive them around their friends and family than when they were flat. I found these other facets of their lives to be unbearable. Here I was, observing them with the dimensions that are usually hidden. These are the people behind these people. The context beyond this context. How could they be as they are when there's so much more? I hate them. I couldn't be like them even in multi-dimensions. I couldn't possibly be here with any dimension at all, but here I am. They don't see me, because here, I am not me. I can't bring any of my dimensions here and even if I did, they wouldn't show. I hate it here. But they seem happy, and I want them to stay happy. Here is my problem. They are happy. It is possible to be happy, even here.
Me. My own doing, my own choices, entirely.
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| but a moment for all months of grey to melt into yesterday.
but a moment for purple wild-flowers to appear in blankets
and clusters across grass and dirt.
Bees, drunk in swarms from their emergence,
students, the same from the sun.
There are no days but glorious days.
There are no nights but gorgeous nights
with moons and stars,
fading streaks of sun, and whispers of cloud.
Colors of the day lie low,
colors of the night hold still
in depth against the contrast
of what shines.
There are no nights but gorgeous nights.
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| and maybe, I'm just a fool.
Serenity to accept and wisdom to know are both worthless without courage to change. In the end, it just might take more effort to accept what we can change than to try to change what we can't. how can you all keep so much when i've got none?
Maybe my convictions are nothing more than desperate attempts at self-persuasion. am i clever for seeing through my own lies, or not, for letting myself try
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