Morning

Memi was getting older, and she loved it. Wrinkles crept through the corners of her eyes, finger joints begged to stop bending every time she gripped the handle of her teapot, and the balls of her feet wept and ached as she shuffled around on hardwood floors, barefoot as always. Her husband often commented jokingly on her callused heels and toes, but lotions and files couldn't soften or scrape through the thick tough skin. Even if it was possible, Memi wouldn't appreciate it - soft heels were no guard against knobby stone walkways and woodchip-covered grounds.

She could remember the woodchips of her New England lawn, where they covered the roots of the oak tree in the front yard, and her brother used to chase her around that tree in games of tag. It was dead now, burned to black carbon in a fire that also claimed the family home. The whole lot then moved out west, where eventually, as her siblings grew old and found families of their own, they spread out north and south along the Pacific coast. Only Memi stayed behind in the original Western house, Her parents had long since passed away.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside the curtains and smiled at the morning sun, ready for another old day.

One Page Stand

The clock on the nightstand shone "2:40" when she sat up, weary but restless. Beside her slept Jacob, his arms curled around his bare torso, his lips slightly ajar. His breathing was slow and gentle with a hint of mint breath spray and sweet sex.

Jacob, she thought, as she wiped a spot of semen off her lower hip. Such a divine name. Barely anyone has that name anymore. This world is too forsaken for it. She paused when her tongue tasted stale sperm on her teeth. Or forbidden, actually. Just as our little play was forbidden. Just as that aconite in your tea was forbidden...

Aconite. The bottle was still in her purse, empty. The killer was now doing its deadly duty within Jacob.

Sighing, she stood up cautiously, slipping on her panties and evening dress. My job is done. It's a pity, really. I was beginning to grow onto you, Jacob. For a night, you made feel more than just an assassin.

She smiled sheepishly. Or a sexually-deprived assassin, to be exact.

Silently, she left, leaving the aconite to its purpose.

Accident

"Where's the holster?"

Coheen stood in front of his mirror, hands on his hips, fingers twitching with impatience and nervous sweat. He was looking grudgingly at the door, waiting for an answer.

"Where's my fuckin' holster?!"

"Shit, hold on." His bumbling assistant stumbled through the door, trying to pull his trousers up. From the crook of his arm, he tossed up a bolster, with a gun tucked inside. "Here ya go."

"No! You idiot!"

It was too late. The holster landed on the bed and a crack broke the air. Coheen watched his assistant jerk suddenly backwards and collapse against the door, slumping to the floor, a pile of business suit, cheap cologne, and brain blood that sprayed onto the door behind him.

"Aw shit..." Shaking his head, he picked up the holster and equipped it, before dragging the body into the tub in the bathroom. Stupid assistants, he thought. It's the third in a month.

He wiped his hands off and left the hotel room.

Changes In The Wind

I changed my blog of musings to "One Page Muse", to be utilized as a container of short writings. And I do mean short. Starting May 26, 2008, all posts will be transcribed each from one sheet of paper, just one side. These stories will be senseless, they will be short, and they will be amusing. You can count on that.

In other news, I have also another blog called "Notes from Overground", which is a series of confessions, large and small, that I never had a chance to discuss with anyone nor want to share with any particular person. 

The schedule of update will be a bit erratic for both blogs, but then I'm not planning on using them as my center of Internet identity. I will eventually make my own webpage. In the meantime, please tolerate the cookie-cutter Blogger templates, and enjoy the delicious morsels of word-food.

Can't Go Outside - A Tale of Depersonalization

My shoulders shivered. They shouldn't be. It wasn't that cold at all, maybe fifty degrees Fahrenheit, perfectly warm for December. Or was it November? Can't remember.

But why would that matter? The sun will set anyways, every day, no matter the weather, no matter the season, no matter how much I cower under the suffocating bedsheets that were the only embrace of warmth I could ever have. The sun will set soon, at 8 AM, its fingers of antilight piercing through my windowpanes, through my bedsheets, drawing out shadow-blood. People don't know it, but the sun is the most powerful vampire no one has ever known. And we see it every day.

Some foggy distance away - was it foggy, or was it just a blizzard-ghost? - rang the bells of academia. One, two, seven, eight... eight days until Brother rides up in his silver engine-horse, the carriage's back open, eagerly awaiting for my things, and I would leave and embark on just another winter break, back to my parents', back to that house, that oh so elderly house that wanted to sheltered but instead pampered me. Always the same house, always the same city, the same streets, the same Safeway, the same post office, the same insurmountable distances between any two localities.

Is home there? Or here? Sure doesn't feel like home here, but I can't go outside. The view outside my window looks pleasant and tempts me to step out the door, but I can't. Once my foot passes the doorway, the sky will spiral into a blueberry cream swirl, the trees will cry timber and splinter on the sidewalks, the pedestrians will clutch their heads and scream. Scream like I do. Scream like I want to.

Too many days I just wanted to scream. Days where I felt like a ghost drifting over my body, a camera over my head, whirring left and right and projecting everything onto the screen of my mind - and below me walked my body. Whose was it? It was mine. Or so everyone said.

But if I could scream, if I could bleed, anything, anything... just to shove myself into that shambling body with the too-big white jacket and plain black hair...

Can't go outside. The world will implode if I do.

Can't go outside.

Whatever Happened To... Honesty?

How much honesty can we tolerate? How brutal can we make that honesty, to get our point across?

In discussing honesty with my psychologist, she mentioned that many people simply don't like to be honest, or at least honest in terms of dealing with someone's peculiarities. Most of them would provide, how should I say it, an euphemism for that little piece of honesty that should in nature be more blunt.

I believe in brutal honesty. No matter how painful the fact is, so long as I know about it, I will be grateful that someone is willing to speak up and say something honest. In fact, I will be happier.

Now I realize that many people do not want to hurt others. They have a good heart not to do so. This is not a criticism against those people, but rather... a call, I suppose, to avoid watering down or keeping mum about personal opinions about other people.

Case in point: in a conversation a few months ago, I was told, in a moment of person-to-person honesty, that I was "a bit imposing". Later on, in an argument with that same person, he told me that he just gave me "a nice, watered down version of it", though he refused to tell me exactly what. It took not long for me to figure out his connotation. (Regrettably, I had to break all ties with him.)

Had he given me the blunt version in the beginning, perhaps many of our troubles would not have emerged. But I understand that, given his amicable nature, hurting others through words or otherwise isn't in his blood, and I hold nothing against that. Still, sometimes it pays to be frank - terribly frank, if need be.

Why would I want to be hurt with brutal honesty? I'm not sure. Maybe it's some kind of, for lack of a better word, masochistic desire (if anyone can come up with a non-sexual term for "masochism", feel free to share). All I know is that I have been hurt so many times, physically or mentally - the latter more common - , that eventually I became rather numb to pain. Any added brutality to honesty would barely faze me.

Cursive and Calligraphy

Does anyone write in cursive anymore? I personally knew one person other than myself who does on an occasional basis. It is perhaps fact that word processing has made cursive writing obsolete, and one rarely finds regular use by today's youth, save in romantic prose or private musings.

From childhood to the end of middle school, I used cursive for any handwritten works, regardless of their nature. Eventually, when cursive proved inpractical for class notes (lectures fly fast), I abandoned cursive for normal handwriting. Some habits of cursive writing still remain to this day, notably the tendency to tilt my paper at a 15- to 25-degree angle while writing. Nevertheless, the speed and universality of normal handwriting made cursive all but obscure.

In practicing this seemingly endangered style, however, therein lies a therapeutic assuagement in commanding such a style. Cursive requires patience, concentration, and control, and somehow, whatever content appears in this style seem poetic and mind-pleasing, no matter the content tone or syntax. At least, that is how I view cursive writing. It helped me control my private thoughts so as not to leave a verbose bigoted tirade in my notebook.

With word processing, the patience and control diminishes. One needs not patience to craft words, instead devoting it to ideas. Control goes not to the physicality of the pen/cil shaft, but rather to staccato fingertip work on the keyboard. Speed and convenience rises in priority, perhaps alongside form and idea. Style obtains the ability to assume other styles (more commonly known as "fonts"), rather than the typer/writer's own style.

But it seems that the sentimental value of cursive writing has not waned. It has merely been ignored or undiscovered. English majors, writers, poets, and other literature frequenters may use cursive on a regular basis, but if the majority uses it, would it make a difference to social psyche? Would it broaden attention spans and patience? Or would it be merely an inconvenience?

My concern is not to preach cursive writing for everyday use. Rather, it should be used for interpersonal and/or intimate work. Notes, letters, postcards - anything to be shared between close friends and lovers, is ground for the attempt at creating an art within a love letter or sweet note. Admittedly, I never wrote in cursive for my letters to a friend, but given the chance, I would.

Then there's the art of calligraphy. More prominent in Asian cultures, it is as much an art form as other visual arts. But as far as I know, only a minority practice the English version in America. I am well aware of the setup hassle of calligraphy: there is the fountain pen and ink bottle, or a refillable pen for modernity's sake. For Chinese calligraphy, there is the brush, ink (or inkstick and water, for a more old-fashioned feel), inkstone, special paper, a cleaning cloth, and something underneath the paper to catch bleed-throughs. The latter calligraphy especially hogs space; my typical setup would occupy half of my dinner table. But for the price of space, the experience of complete control and patience adds much to calligraphy's aesthetic value...

In short, this post is really just my rant for more people to practice cursive and calligraphy. You don't see too much of those two in modern writings.