die Farben

Blau ist
die Farbe
der kalten Flamme

Rot ist
die Farbe
des heißen Regens

Schwarz ist
die Farbe
des toten Herzens

Verrücktmann- Ja.
Verrückt bin ich.
Sehe die Welt im komisch Farben.
Komisch- Ja.
Komisch bin ich.
Kannst du nicht was ich sehen sehen?

Kannst du, kannst du nicht?
Vielleicht, vielleicht nicht.

Verstehst nicht?
Ah- nein, dumm? Nicht du.
Ah- nein, anormal? Nicht du.

Alles ist klar, alles ist klar-
weil ich ein Krüppel im Kopf bin.
Denk nicht zu schnell, nicht zu verdammt schnell-
weil ich ein Krüppel im Kopf bin
und dumm bin ich
sehr dumm.

Nein.
Du Schwein.

tournikiss

retreat you are my retreat
when flowers die and sky collapse
my searching eyes long for
your face your grace

repeat let the tale repeat
when stars fall and moon in flames
our longing souls look for
your arms unharmed

repent smile when i repent
when time ends and sun is out
remorse- i wish i was
your mannequin

hold me love me
around my neck
around my back
wish i was dead
'fore we met
tourniquet tourniquet
you're my tournikiss
my tournikiss.

while i should be working on theatre,

i wrote a bad sonnet- well it's kind of working on theatre too but it has nothing to do with my classes. believe it or not the sonnet was done in half an hour (while i wish i could have wasted more time on it).

untitled sonnet

when time has seized the life in me away,
forsake thy sadness, quit of shedding tears,
for he has granted me immortal days;
thy cry, thy sigh- in death what is to fear?

in here the nights are long but i'm in peace-
no wars, no fights, no gods that counts our sins;
no nightmares, no disputes, i sleep with ease;
no rules, no norms i only wear my skin.

in flames my corpse, my heart, my soul is hung-
a phoenix of our time shall rise to sky,
the tune of crazy diamonds shall be sung,
behold- for i'm the one whose grave none prys.

the thought of being gone ills me no more
than you, the sight of you, my love, in grief!
hence never let go of my plead before:
the separation of our souls is brief-

the dark side of the moon is not the end,
soon thou and i will join our hands again.

i dug out an old script i wrote before going to flekkeland. fung gave it back to me just this summer as he somehow found it in his possession. probably the best thing ever he gave me so far. heh.

it was supposedly written for a minifilm me and fung planned to make over one summer, dated back possibly as far as when i was fifteen turning sixteen, or maybe sixteen turning seventeen. it was surprisingly written in chinese. i never wrote anything serious in chinese and i don't know why i wrote in chinese.

surprisingly and not surprisingly i found out i indeed have always been the same. i wish i could post the immature script i had- it was even typewritten. maybe i will translate it to english and expand it, and actually work on it contraty to my usual habit of having ideas and never work on them. it was basically a story between a random student who secretly declared major in theatre instead of business or something else his parents wanted him to and a (now when i read it again) possibly schizophrenic alcoholic with too wild of an imagination. surprisingly i was so much like i am now. not surprisingly the story was just another condensed story of myself. i seem to have a subconscious habit of writing plays/stories/poems in certain important tragic stages of my life about myself. i never write happy plays/stories/poems for some reasons.

surprisingly it was not as immature as i thought it would be, at all. there were, objectively, delicious sentences and lines, even in chinese- heck i did not know my chinese was not that bad at all. surprisingly i indeed have dreamt (and possibly done, as it is afterall about my life) about something very similar to that. i really should write at least poems if not plays about my dreams.

not surprisingly it was really just a me, me, me play. i have forgotten or have not realized i have started talking to myself at that young age. maybe it has something to do with the thing with my father stopped talking to me from that year on for two years and rarely really talk these days either.

looking at that play, i don't know how i should feel. i really don't. it makes me feel happy and sad. i am happy that the real derek has always been in me since i was that young even. i am happy that i was capable or writing a half decent script at that time. (i wrote quite a decent a play about 4 homosexual young and not so young men a year before that but the manuscript was misplaced and lost because of the stupid 'chairman of the drama club', saying it's 'all weird and is like some silly bullshit'. i miss that play a lot and i wish i could read it again.) i am happy and sad that suddenly i remembered a lot about that year or two. happy that i pick up lost or suppressed memories again, sad that i pick up lost or suppressed memories again. those could easily have been the most fucked up years of my life so far. not a single thread of real happiness. a feeling of companionship through hanging out with fung was the best thing i got already. maybe also feelings of madness and fiery temper at peak too. those were also the years that everything went out of hand, the years that i started drinking vodka and hurting myself in different ways, mentally and physically. those were the years that i never wanted to go home (though i did). those were the years. i am sad that the innocence and restlessness might never come back to me, partly because (though i hate to admit) i inevitably have grown up a bit and changed a little- there went the innocence; and days sure have been a bit better now- hence the lost restlessness.

i really should start translating it.

that reminds me i have a couple of short and not so short plays to work on...
so that i can look back at it when the next big stage of my life comes. or so that someone will let me read them years later after i have nearly forgotten about them.

another nightmare

this morning i woke up soaked in sweat. literally soaked in sweat. surprise, another nightmare. similar stuff, something weird and even sort of funny (which i never remember) happened and then it jumps to a gory terrifying scene, usually includes death and then i had to run for my life. maybe i should start writing plays about my nightmares and make a 'nightmare trilogy (or more)' out of them.

so this time i was involved in a strange hold up. first i was forced to be locked in a mental hospital because i was accused to suffer from serious mental disorders. even my parents have abandoned me there. i have had a series or interesting and somewhat funny therapies and treatments. i also vaguely remember meeting some other patients, planning a 'prison break'. sadly the detail was lost during the day but anyway i broke free. my mates broke free and immersed in the 'normal' society again and i never have heard from them again.
then came the twist. i suddenly found myself the leader of a gory hold up. i have a team and those were people who seemed familiar but i could not put a finger on who they actually were. we had a HQ roughly based on two or three rooms that i have always been in this semester- the kitchen, a room in a basement of the theatre, and a studio where i have most of my classes. we were abusing the hostages, beating them, cutting them with knives, hurling insults just to scare them. soon after dashing through the different hold-up places i found all my allies disappearing and they transformed into an arsenal in a plastic bag. a huge plastic bag. the hostages tried to break free and there was a small hassle but for some reasons they failed because they did not know where to go.

soon i decided to kill all the hostages for some reasons that i forgot. i picked a weapon for each of them. the hostages were also people who seemed familiar. i had great fun (i seriously did) in torturing them and shooting and cutting them in all the non lethal places after putting a final blow. i rather not trying to dig into my memories about the details- all i can tell you is that it was worse than the nightmare which i had to save the all-pierced girl (check the archives, i wrote about that dream too) then i felt like time was running out and something is coming to get me, maybe the devil, maybe the rescue team so i hurried and finished off the last hostage with two unaimed shots from a automatic rifle, it should be a kalashnikov as far as i remember. and i rushed back to my room , soaked and drowned in sadistic satisfaction drank some vodka and went to sleep. i had a feeling that they were never going to catch me. then came the next morning- i tried to sneak around the rooms and see if they were really dead. (i put the dead hostages in weird positions which all meant something to me in the dream at that time) and of course, one body was missing. the last hostage it was. so i hurried out of that room and i saw him standing right outside, seemingly waiting for me and my shocked and worried face.

'they rushed me to the hospital and i told the police who you are.'

i started running to a parking lot, where the escape bus was supposed to be waiting- i knew i had to do the hold-up and then i would run away to see my darling across the ocean. but it never came so i car-jacked a young boy's white toyota and told him to take me away. strangely enough he looked exactly like me, just more geeky. he obliged without a word and he took us into a forest, one which resembles flekkeland. soon the forest was so deep that i abandoned the car and started finding my way to the airport/dock/portal. it became silent and very scary for a while. i was all alone and fearing that the police might suddenly pop up. i saw a bright light and rushed towards it, thinking it was the place. it ended up being a forest ranger's office/resting place so i silently turned away and ran. i heard someone coming out of the office and shouting- i knew they saw me fleeing but i was also sure that they did not know everyone was trying to hunt me down. then after a while of dranged stumbling i came across an electric fence and a main highway. i heard footsteps and it was a father with his young son. without thinking i turned and ran back into the forest. i was also sure that they saw me and i knew they have watched the evening news last night. i was scared to death and i did not know what to do.

so i kept running, crawling and running and crawling.

after a while on the other side of the forest i reached a tiny ghost town full of bums and crooks. it looked like a mix of flekke/dale and commercial drive. i just knew they were crooks. they all knew me. everyone was staring at me as if they saw osama in person- petrified and amazed at the same time. i tried making them understand that i had to go but they spoke in some sort of gibberish that i could never understand. burnt out and restless, i walked down the main street and saw the white toyota. there were parts of the engine, trashed and burnt beside the car and suddenly a female incarnation of myself appeared and asked,

'what to do now, what to do?'

then i had a chill down my spine. i knew something which was not meant to be there was behind me. i turned to my back and saw the hostage whom i failed to kill standing behind me with the scariest grin and glare i have ever seen and he whispered in my hear, 'gotcha' and nudged a gun into my hand. i knew that was it. i knew i had to.

so slowly i placed the gun between my eyebrows, trembling, i put my finger on the trigger. and i woke up. i literally went to the kitchen and see if there were any dead bodies.

i was that scared.

prepare to say. say. reflect.

and repeat. that's pretty much how to deliver each line, together with other things to consider. i am not anyone to go in depth about acting theories though.

reflect.

not only on line delivery, but also on myself. i have been doing a lot of reflecting today as a result of knowing that i will have a holiday on monday when everyone else goes home for turkey- yes, the canadian thanksgiving is earlier than the american one. so reflect: what did i just say? what did i just do? what have i become? what did that mean?

sometimes i wonder if i am ever going to blossom into a stunningly vicious yet attractive flower. maybe a black dahlia. maybe a black rose. i wonder if i am ever going to. teachers and classmates have said i am interesting and all that. am i just interesting or am i ever going to grow from the psychedelic black little grain of seed into something that i wish i could be? what if i just am interesting as a seed which looks like it has the potential to grow into a whole secret garden for dreams, but after years and years of watering and waiting the gardeners will see nothing but the same seed dying away in its own petty little dreams? it could be worse. maybe the seed is just nothing but a plain grain of rice and thought it is going to grow into a garden of black roses. there is a difference. between having potential but failing and not having potential and expectedly failing. maybe i am expecting too much from myself too quickly. or maybe the seed is going to grow into a plant that is so ugly and grotesque because no one has seen such a plant before. too many possibilities.

although i pretty much wish so, i am not saying i am going to grow into something totally unique. sure someone has become the future me before, may it be 10 years, a century or five before me. as a consolation i always tell myself it will all be different even though (i hate to say) me and those people will be the same. in relation to the society, to one's self, to everything else. just like gertrude stein's rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. but that is not my fear and i have no worries about that. back to the fear of blossoming.

it often strikes me that what i have taken so much risk for and put so much effort on doing might simply turn out to be an absolute failure. it is not like being a mediocre doctor or lawyer- one can still get by if one is one of those. but deep down there is something in me saying that there is no way that i am going to make such a compromise. i want to be the grotesque garden, i want to be the black dahlia- but can i? when everything else in life is going on so well as a pessimist one just has to search for something and make a melodrama out of it. but in this case it is not a pointless melodrama at least.

others' expectations and speculations do not bother me directly. think whatever you wish about me and i do not directly care. but eventually such speculations on potential builds up within me even more expectations from myself on myself. even more. if i fail miserably, instead of crying out loud 'i have failed you all who thought i am going to explode and blossom with my potential', i would simply say 'i was deceived, by myself'. bit pathetic, eh? maybe all the whining sobbing child needs is just some sort of confirmation as 'boy i know you'll make it' from someone who knows how much potential one has.

sometimes i feel like i am looking at myself and i am a big box of christmas gift and it is only 20th.

wishing and dreaming of the gift being such flamboyant surprising, the child just cannot wait for a second more to tear the wrappings open just to see if it is the same as he imagined and wished and dreamed. but it is not christmas yet.

let me possess a thousand hearts i would still need more to be broken if after hours and hours of waiting and minutes and minutes of frantic attempts to find out the truth all i see is nothing but a box full of wet hay soaked in transparent blood instead of a pack of psychedelic black dahlia seeds as wished.

i am scared.
no i am not.
let me out. but don't come in.
i want to stay here.
who are you?
who am i?

what am i?

thank you.

it's been another 7 days. maybe more than 7. i cannot count. i really cannot.

i have indeed had quite a busy week with classwork, homework, meeting with my future landlord and some misc. stuff like groceries & co.. i wish i could come back to this blog with a signature weird derekish post or some silly german writings but i'm afraid i don't have time or energy for that yet. anyway it's still about time to write something just anything though i don't think that many of you care to read this as much anymore- reasons ranging from having hectic school life to simply losing interest. i don't mind.

it's funny how i have changed. i don't slack as much anymore. i actually try to work hard on everything, at least i try to... i like my acting class. my ensemble is gorgeous and we're getting to know each other a bit better now i guess. i have got remarks like 'you're really interesting' from another person from my class now. during some work in class, the teacher came up to the partner i was working with and whispered something in her ears when i was doing my piece. i wonder what was said but i suppose if i was to know what was said i would have been told and known about what was said already. anyway so i am interesting, according to some people. maybe they mean i am interesting in a sense that i am an interesting person to work with in terms of theatre or acting. or maybe some do find me genuinely interesting. but how could they? maybe everyone knows how or who i am and just that i myself don't know how or who i am. maybe it is so. then again i am happy that people are interested in how i work or in my style.

i was rereading the paragraph i just wrote. what boring crap i've written. i better just stumble off to do something else now until i have energy or am interesting enough for this blog. that might take merely 5 minues or another week.

on a side note, it's funny that i don't feel that i have time for slacking or have time to feel bored (except the times that i use 'i'm bored.' as a conversation-starter with my floormates...