Journal 13: World's shortest poem.

" ! ? _ "

! : Birth
? : Life
_ : Death




- Kay

Journal 12: Answering outside the box

there was this new assignment
the question asked for me to write down
what i wanted to bewhen i was older..
i scirbbled happy
and handed it in
they told me
i didn't understand the assignment
in return i replied
they didn't understand life

-Kay

Journal 11: Random Reflection

After reading “Faces of the Enemy” by Sam Keen, I was inspired to write a reflection titled “Facing the Enemy.”

“Facing the Enemy”

So I question myself, "who is your enemy?" That is, if you’re lucky enough, or, who are your enemies?

Well, "they" were my enemies.

Childhood

If you were the younger version of me - the prudent yet naïve little boy, "they" would probably be your monstrous father, authority-hungry mother, and perhaps that homeroom teacher with the poker-face stare whom would always pick on you for socializing – or perhaps, what I called educating others.

My Father had a vicious habit; he was obsessed with slavery (child labor, as I learned later on), and always commanded me around, “Son, would you kindly tidy up your toys in that box over there? Please?” which really meant “You spoiled child, move along, and start working those muscles, take these rubbish and dispose it at once! AT ONCE!” And once in a while, when I was joyfully educating my little dinosaurs on how to speak, the huge sinister tyrannosaurus would growl, “Down the dungeon you go! Time to feed the hungry beast!” Oh, mesmerized by those eyes, my soul had no choice but to submit to that spellbinding order – although I heard him say “Son, today’s recycling day, would you so kindly, and generously help daddy bring these cardboard boxes down the hall, to the disposal room?” I knew that was a skill of his – trickery speech. At night, the holy God would send an angel, illuminating that corner in my room, defending me from monsters that lurks in the darkness, but this ghostly figure would appear, smelling my forehead to see if I was aware (I pretended to be asleep of course), and I’d witness him exhaust the light from that innocent protector, sucking the life out of it like the wind to the flame on a candle.

Speaking of my mother, she has a thirst for hunting. And inevitably I became the savory running pork chop, while she played the earnest hunter. Rambling through the plush-toy and plastic traps I had set up, she would always find where I was, and intimidate me with the threat of burning me alive. “It’s going to be hot in there, better come out or you’ll have a difficult time breathing.” It was my safe-house, but she always called it a closet. During imprisonment, as punishment for disobeying, I was always forced to consume these disgusting mephitic green flower-shaped things or end up like that skinned creature on the plate. “You have to finish your vegetables okay? Or I’ll have you on the dishes.”
Like I said, I was good with pretending, so I’d pick up my spoon and wait until she’d ramble off to bring back more of the things she hunted, and then escape. I’d rather be chased and hunted all over again, than be helplessly consuming this alienated substance.

I had a similar fate at school – that’s what they’d called the place. My grade three teacher, Ms. Anderson, loved to partner me with the wall, in the quiet corner during her reading-out-loud sessions. It was a way to prevent me from sharing my discoveries. “Today, we will read Arthur Learns his Alphabet”. I whispered to the girl beside me, “A real bear doesn’t look like that. Its eyes are smaller, and It has a bigger mouth..” Ms. Anderson stopped, just froze perfectly still, the only movement was the enlargement of her fierce eyebrows. “I’m sorry.” She continues. “Arthur said…” I gently tapped the boy in front, and whispered, “A real bear can’t talk, they aren’t smart enough.” Like I was any smarter, I didn’t even notice Ms. Anderson was staring at me while reading. With one of her huge fingers reached out, she pointed at the wall. This enemy waged a challenging war, but I was determined to fight alongside justice and truth.

-Kay

journal 10: when my mind itches - i scratch it on paper

It is quite amazing for what one can turn to when there is no soul to bond with, nor a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold – simply fragmented voices in one’s mind. Music playing in the background, lights dimmed with a tint of darkness, a pack of cigarettes to arouse the senses, and of course, a paper and pen to spill one’s mind upon. All contribute to the retribution of a grieving soul. The longer I am ashtray from you, the deeper and more reclusive I feel, could this explain the blague sorts of moods? Now I am not sure why my fingers itch to write this, this source of such depressive spell, what could’ve triggered such chemical reaction? An attempt at self-examination perhaps, I mean a simple glance at the comments section, most would simply overlook this blog, but then again, in a sense it helps, I’m not mourning, bitching or whining for that matter, it’s an expressive way for me to re-align my mingled emotions, and be prepared for another period of whatever shit, life throws at me.



-Kay

journal 9: obfuscation: midnight

as the aching hands tranquilly encounter each other at 12..

So firmly stationed within this nocturnal position, quietly gazing into this whirlpool of a quadrilateral frame, slipping from focus as my synthetic conscious is vacuumed towards a luminous blank word document; strangled by a disturbing epidemic of pixilated strings of characters, they rigorously interrogate me, “How are you?” Suddenly my mind tingles, and an obnoxious awkward reaction erupts in chemical warfare. The microscopic muscles in my jaw aroused, as if displaced from ordinarius alignment, “I am inspired”.


-Kay

Journal 8: Muddle World of Instructions

The assignment was to publish a 10-step instruction on carrying out a daily task. I chose hair styling. Basically I mocked "Gatsby: Moving Rubber" (Japanese Hair Clay) brand with my own "IN-StyLe Clay" ad I made in photoshop. And the 10-step instruction was intentionally made comical. This is what happends when Japanese instructions aren't properly translated into proper English.

Note* "IN-StyLe Clay" DOES NOT EXIST. It is COMPLETELY made-up.

To calrify though:

A properly translated 10-step instruction for hair styling should look something similar to the following:

Step 1: To open, turn cap.

Step 2: Apply a little to fingers and palm.

Step 3: Gently apply to hair, untill little clay left on hands.

Step 4: Careful not to irritate eyes.

Step 5: If hair is short, twist the hair ends.

Step 6: If hair is long, apply to areas which need volume.

Step 7: For thin-hair look, twist hair ends.

Step 8: For thick-hair look, just lift hair with fingers for volume.

Step 9: After sha"p"ing (intentional typo.. add a laugh lol) head

Step 10: Remember to wash clay off, before lying down.

Journal 7: Cut out + Mix Up

Drew with sketch pen + photoshop/illustrator coloring

Behind these eyes of rose quarts, a gorgeous pair wings emerge.
Blinded by prisms of light; it pulls at my softened heart,
Her puppet I have become, so powerless and unintentionally obeying,
The grip around my heart strings,
Drawing me into a prestigious garden of soft fluttering butterfly wings.

Her hair drifts in a captivating dance, sprinkling a fine dust of glow,
Delicately inhaled by my final breathe, my eyes ease open,
Sending me back to a grayscale and grieving dungeon of gloominess,
I'd re-live a moment I'd embraced to omit, from the curtained filmstrips in my mind.

Here I am, remembering your beauty and your love-fought death,
washed away in the oceans of time.


-Kay.

p.s. They say a picture projects a thousand words,
and this is just one of those words that
brings back more than a thousand memories..