New Project " FRENCH KIND " - Vol.1 ( ongoing )

    One lovely day I was walking Downtown and, for the sake of doing something new, decided to check out a gelato/pastry shop that I happened to pass by along the way back. With no decision in mind, I pulled the door handle and stepped in. As soon as one of the lady clerks in black spotted me, she greeted and stationed behind the grand display cases full of cakes, pastries and Italian ice cream. Not knowing what I should get, I scanned quickly through the transparent glasses, seeing if anything would appeal to me. Now, even though it was my first time in that particular store, I had been to many pastry shops before. But, in this case, for crying out loud, I had a hard time reading the damned labels to figure out the names of those things. Because the labels were way in the far back behind the products and because the trays were slanted forward AND BECAUSE a group of, what looked like to me, curious and energatic European tourists just came marching in the store, I was put on the spot and had to make a quick decision right away. I looked back and forth between the clerk and the display and then one of the ladies cried " It's showtime! " addressing to the crowds. I decided to use my index finger to point at the ones I wanted and used a phrase like " the black square thing " to describe the pastry. And, at one point, she said to me with tired face" Sorry I can't hear you. " When this was done, I paid and I walked out.

    On the way back, I felt a bit silly that I didn't have the basic pastry knowledge and somewhat angry that I couldn't read those fucking labels. And, for convenience sake, shouldn't the salesclerk be a little bit more courteous? After that I thought that I would do something about it one day and then one day, I thought, why not combine the learning about bakery with art. That way I could make the learning seems fun and at the same time practice my art skills( as I'd never painted watercolor before). Thus, the new project came to life. I will start off with the French bakery and then I'll go into another country's as many as I can( Italian, German, Japanese, Thai, India, etc. ). One day I'll go back to that store and I'll point and yell her the names of those things, and tell her something she don't know about pastry. Well, I'm too sweet to hold a grunge that long anyways.

FRENCH KIND - Vol. 1 ( ongoing )

It's 7 a.m.

I just woke up from what appeared at first to be a good dream but ended up as a nightmare. I won't go into details; honestly, I remembered half of it. But the ending involved someone died an awful, impossible death. I saw everything happened in slow-motion and the corpse's graphical details are still fresh in my mind. I don't need Carl Yung to analyze anything. I know the reason behind it.

It's raining as it was before I went to bed.
I can't go back to sleep.

To Sylvia(2)

Sylvia, why did you cut your hair ?
The last time I saw you was a long time ago.
It no longer rains anymore. Just the shivering air raid of loneliness
attacking me when I'm down.
The cardboard that you once held, I went and bought it from the art supply store.
I put every ounce of my spirit into it;
I wanted to make something, Sylvia, but without you, nothing is worth creating.
It is as if my scissors have gone dull or else the cardboard has become damp.
So damp from my sweats and tears.

Tell me how I am supposed to cut water ?

Unless I'm Moses.
But I'm not, Sylvia. I'm a mess.
You can take a mess out of Moses
but not Moses out of a mess.

I missed you, Sylvia.
Your slim innocent hands that I'd never held.
And your angry pretty voice that I'd never heard
more than once.

I really don't have anything to update
but I really do feel like writing something.
You know, if one must meditate once in awhile,
I prefer writing meditation more than anything else
( Occationally walking meditation and
room-cleaning meditation worked also!! ).

They said that " I think, therefore, I am " but
I don't know what I really think unless I write it down.
But writing things down also has its disadventage;
It is the trying-to-understand-it-all phenomenon.
There are times when I really don't need to understand
anything but just feel it living and moving around.
That is, what I think, the art of poetry. Because when
I write poetry I don't have to find the conclusion.
I just have to make sense out of vague messeges or
feelings that have been hanging onto me like some
gums underneath my shoe. Speaking of poetry,
I'm taking a poetry class just to fulfil my English
requirement at UW. It turned out to be quite alright.
The teacher is VERY emotional and easy-going.
I learned some poetic terms and styles and how to analyse them.
I first thought that the class was going to
teach people how to become a poet
but it turned out to be just teaching about poetry.
I always thought that nobody can try to be a poet at all.
You simply become one, just like that! Just like a boxer.
Nobody can try to be a boxer. You simply become one.
You can train your ass from day to night, seven days a week
but if your spirit is not that of a fighter, you're not going to be
a real boxer at all. You will become an acrobatic dancer.
To be a poet, you need to live your poems. At least, that's what I think.

(sign) Hasn't it been awhile since I came up with a new song?
I came up with some ideas but they are still lingering around
and failing to come together. I, for one, dislike having too many songs anyway.
Maybe it's my amatuer uptakes on those things but I prefer organic music.
Something that simply grows on me. But also I have to tend it little by little.
Not doing anything at all and simply waiting for it will take me eternity.
No tree grows on its own, right? Even when sometimes it appeared to be growing
on its own it was just something helping it grow.
Could be something invisible like bacterias or air and whatnot.
With my music, I try to capture something I'm not sure what.
Some particular moments. Nostalgic moments mostly.
I try to capture those moments and transform them into songs.
Sort of like taking a photograph.
Days ago, I just went and took pictures of some old-style houses
that I happened to pass by. I did that too with music. I realized it now.
Same process but different art form, that is.