I feel like just updating this blog, but I have nothing artful to speak about. What better method than just ramming down the keyboard and listening to a good list of indie music?

Andrew Belle is playing on my Windows Media Player right now. Ever since I first heard ‘Oh My Stars,’ I’ve been hooked. This is one of the few tracks that I can enjoy the whole working shift. Belle’s voice is nice, even if he sounds like beating his baton. HAHA Bah, it’s raspy and orgasmic. Perfect for this time. (It’s 2:30 am, btw.)

For a personal note, my biggest complaint about my life now is that things are turning quite unhealthy. Despite some interesting instances, and a cliche love story going on for a month now, it’s mostly tedious and dry. Yeah, I’m a really boring person off the single life. The partner? Oh, uninteresting! Sharing a note about him needs a year or two, so at least in the story/poem that I will write abt him he will come changed or whatever I’d want him to be. God! This is crazy. But I love him. A LOT. Of course, I can make our story exciting in here or if I prepare it beforehand, but I wont. So I’ll just spout all the things off of the top of my head. What am I talking about?! It’s cold here. Excuse this blabbering.

Belle & Sebastian’s Oh Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying is next on queueing. Btw, I’m going to make a trip to my father’s hometown probably next month. I certainly need a vacation. All things have been so whiney, so this invitation to a wedding is just timely. I have to take this before all the wells of opportunity run out.

I’ll stop muttering to myself now, because I have 15 minutes taking my break. Please visit my poetry blog – Noiseless Patient Spider – and feel free to drop comments on a few poems you’ll like. Have a wonderful day!

It’s different today. I don’t know what to think. Probably this is what I experience with this horrific consistency. I cannot turn on the lights, as the electricity has been shut off, and why this has happened– why something like electricity may be shut off– is incomprehensible to me, so I am forced to light candles and place them in tin cans or empty soda bottles, and I sit in my dimly lit room far from whatever I knew downtown, without secure thoughts to comfort me. Disoriented. Beat. Without thoughts at all perhaps. And I am blank, as empty as the proverbial unpainted canvas.

This morning everything is clean; the landlady of the house I am living in has picked up the branches and leaves strewn around the yard, which I normally pass by; all the rags and curtains have been washed and hung dry but pocked with impressions of rain, and the wooden floor glisten in the yellow seven am light. I sit at the living room couch with a stick of cigarette, looking at the grace of the morning.

Today is much new from all the other days. I woke up at six, cooked omelet, and ate while looking at the beautiful sunrise, wondering how many times I missed it. It’s not much new from the many other mornings I woke up but still, I felt something miraculous is about to happen. This time I know something will come, eventually. I sometimes wonder if this excitement, this growing expectation can ward off the miracle from happening. But I have felt it. It is coming. I am waiting while reading Derek Walcott’s poem, Love After Love.