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Monday, August 29, 2005

My consummate love.

Open mike night at the black box on Saturday- an intimate setting for an activity that will reel both your heart and mind in like expectant children being pulled into a roomful of candy by a pink silk ribbon escalator. It was more than an eye opener- poetry and all its manifestations- first a malay group with their drums and theatrical styles to entertain even those who cannot understand their finer works because of the language barrier. Then, a remarkable display of four brilliant pieces by my favourite local poet- Cyril wong, a genius in our time; I hung onto his every word like a prisoner chained by his neck from the ceiling- gasping, holding on, every second a breath of fresh air, every second a new life bursting, every additional minute my heart palpitating with anxiety lest i lose a word, a slight nuance- his voice, a pause, a punctuation, a glimmer in his eye- oh its sheer beauty brought tears to my eyes. Next in line a Chinese poet and his translator, thereafter an Australian poet with quite a witty satirical voice in the spread he had to offer, and lastly a group of asian Americans who rapped, with such intensity and soul- my heart broke into an applause the moment she teared- such vulnerability, conviction, and strength all at once- much to admire, and quite a cause poets all share.

-

For distant loves.

Despite the eventful weekend i had, the absence of three dear people (the last a very recent sunday departure) weighed heavily in my heart as i thought about those who were important to me and whom i trust quite entirely:

gen: i miss you lots dear, come home soon and i'll buy you a black bunny! (:

marcus: miss talking to you muchos.

gabriel: best friend. i hope you're safe in Boston now as i write this. write me soon or something okay? aye, i miss dialing 978***** already. :(

Word associations are much fun when writing, but when loss and love come within the same line, the inadequacy of words lends itself a stark contrast to the former instance.