Coffee, the colour of the past.

Hi guys. If you weren't aware, I'm just back from a 23 day holiday in sunny Spain and Portugal. Which means I have a massive backlog of thoughts/ideas/ruminations to clear. I'm supposed to be studying, however, so I'll just put down a couple of stuff on my mind. I think I'll just transfer a couple of the unfinished stories I was trying to write actually.

Some context. About a week into my trip, I was having an immense amount of fun, but I was suddenly struck by this thought: This has got to be the most unproductive trip of my life! In terms of journalling, or coming up with pretentiously deep thoughts etc. No go! I murmured under my breath, hoping beyond hope that the wings of inspiration would then and there lift my very being into the dizzying heights from whence I would never have to descend.... Which began a pretty long series of half-written stories cause I never quite felt in the right frame of mind to finish them off.

Will be random, unpolished, and possibly even senseless. But here goes.

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1

Life is hard, but I am harder. The world is cold and mean, so I am meaner. The world will betray you. So I am alone.

He said. Come with me. Come on a journey with me.

Why?

You are my son.

No, I know my father. He's the one who taught me everything I needed to know about life. "Life is hard. The world is a cold and mean place, and it's out to get you. Trust no one, cause everyone will betray you at some point. The world is gonna lie to you, don't listen to them, listen to me."

Where is he now?

He.. he left. He told me he was coming back for me, and then he left.

He's gone. He's never coming back.

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2

I know you. You are a seeker of solitude. I have known men like you. Who have given up on any chance at meaningful relationships. Some men use and abuse the women in their lives. You're all searching for something, a special something, but you don't know what it is.

Know this: most men like you never find what they're looking for. You know why? Because most of you who are searching, actually want to be found.

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3

Guard your heart, but don't freeze it. Living life without at least the chance, the hope! of falling in love is not much of a living at all. You'll fall in love, and it might amount to nothing, but it will not be a waste. You will hurt, you will cry, you will wish it all never happened, but you'll pull through. You will learn from it, learn to live through pain, learn to love better. Let yourself love completely, don't hold back out of fear, or be self-conscious about your love. A love that is half-hearted is doomed from the very start! Love completely, or not at all. One day, someone will love you for who you are. Someone will love you for your chipped tooth, your not-perfectly-straight hair, your small breasts. The world is going to try and tell you many things, but don't listen to it, listen to me. Don't change anything about yourself just because the world tells you to.

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4

What is love? Love is the feeble attempt by the English language to, in four letters, describe the indescribable. The French do it in 5 letters, the Chinese in 9 strokes,but they are all inadequate. It is impossible to describe it, only to experience it. But I will say this. Love is the single most powerful, transforming experience any one can have.

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5

"W-w-w-where are we?"

Silence greets this sudden question.

"Are we reaching yet?"

A few passengers glance backwards, wondering at the source of the interruptions.

"Hello.."

A couple of people close to the source exchange glances, silently querying whether any of them should answer.

Rachel received a little shrug of the shoulders from her co-passenger, so she thinks well, it's not just me then. It is kinda mean but.. I'm not even sure of the answer anyway, maybe someone who does will reply him.

She does not voice, even to herself, that she does not want to be the one to answer the man because then she'd be obliged to do so for the the rest of the journey, and she definitely didn't want that.

"W-w-where are we now?"

Natalie stared straight out the window. God, of all the people to sit next to me! I had to get a retard. Maybe I could pretend to fall asleep.. She closed her eyes but half-opened her right eye every once in a while to make sure he wasn't doing anything crazy. You never know what people like that could do to you, especially a woman alone like herself.

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6

In The Attic

A locked chest
Keepsakes.
A catalogue of the people
Who came into your life.
Those who stayed
Those who didn't.

A trophy, a medal.
Once were proudly placed
Polished, burnished.
Now unwelcome reminders
Of bygone days
Of halcyon days.
Of potential gone to waste.

An album
Out spills the musky scent of nostalgia
And faded photographs.
From the dusty confines of plastic sleeves
Which the years and endless rearrangements
Have frayed beyond repair.
Solemn faces arranged by height
Preserved forever from domestic violence
From hypodermic needles and bottled rage.

A family portrait
Seven smiling faces behind a facade of glass.
Betraying nothing of the frustration
Three hours, seventy dollars worth
Of re-shoots and tantrums.
A perfect representation
Of modern family.
Gleaming veneers
Rotting wood.

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7

We live in an odd age.
Duality of life.
Two realities: the real world and the online world.
Which is richer?
Which is more real?

Which is more permanent?
Which will stand the test of time
Which will stem the tides of time?

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8

A tapestry of other people's thoughts. Something I mistook for a certain sensitivity, something I thought that I, too, possessed.

A girlish demeanour, the wide-eyed wonder with which she took in the world around her. Her soft lips, slightly parted in awe at the beauty only she could perceive.

Those same lips are not the same now. Pursed in vexation. Curled in anger.

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9

When we are young, it is to fly. To test the limits of our endeavour, of our courage.

When we are older, it is to survive. To remain afloat in a world of shifting currents. It is to get by, to reach old age relatively intact, ah but what a dream!

When we are older still, it becomes an end in itself. To be alive. To feel alive. The rare occasion of visits from grandchildren, them so full of vitality you can only hope it rubs off.

(What it means to be alive)

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10

The tranquility of a park. Parents trying to capture as many memories as they possibly can of a child who's only going to grow up much too quickly. And of themselves, what remains of their youth. The dramas of every single person who's walking by. Maybe the old man on his daily routine, aching knees and aching heart, but still he persists, day after day. The woman who finally, after weeks and weeks of drudgery and household chores and wailing kids, finds some quiet time for herself, to brace her for the next few weeks of the same demanding, consuming tasks. The professional who needs his 10 minutes cause it's the only thing keeping him sane in this crazy, crazy world. No office politics, no bickering with the wife, or the increasingly outrageous demands of his children. The punk who's considered suspiciously by everybody, who's understood by nobody. But he's looking for the same things as the rest of us here, just some peace and quiet, anything soothing in a world which offers precious little in the way of comfort. Not for the drained mother, the lost punk. The stately woman with her two adorable dogs, who gives a gracious little smile to everyone she crosses paths with. Because those two dogs are the only companions she's got, and those smiles she gets in return (if they even are) the only human contact she gets, no matter how superficial they may seem. The kid sitting on a bench, plugged into his MP3, penning his thoughts into a battered old diary. We're all so different, we're all the same. We're searching and working for what seems to be vastly different things, but really isn't all that different when you think about it. Not just a park, in schools, shopping centres, the streets. If we would only realize it.

Instead of being pulled and pushed by the world, by our emotions, into frustration and simmering rage. Pulled under into endless melancholia, sapping depression. Being angry for minutes, hours, because you were jostled rather roughly when exiting the train. Cause the auntie was being brusque with you as you ordered your morning coffee. All these small, ridiculous things! Laughable things. Stuff you wouldn't record in your diary, your blog, and yet it affected your mood for one whole day! It's not worth it, it's almost never worth it. Peace comes from within, now this I am learning!

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11

The occupants of buses. The travelers. Those roving, restless searchers. Who've left it all behind. The lost loves, the disappointment of parents, etc. But have they really left it all behind?

Traveling is simple. You've got clear cut objectives, destinations to work your way towards. Sure, those objectives change once every few days, but for those couple of weeks, life becomes so simple again. You look to do things out of pure interest, not with any thing like responsibility, or duty guiding your hand. Carefree, in almost every way. All you're thinking about is the present, the next two days maybe. You're not weighed down.

The traveler. The weary soul. Those lonely hearts, whether by choice or by circumstance. A kid, thousands of miles from home, one of millions of transients. Doesn't enjoy life one bit, because every dollar he saves translates into that much more food for his family.

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Yep that's all. Okay those last 2 are kinda cheating cause they're not stories per se, just random thoughts I had instead, but I'm gonna pretend they are. I think some of these stories need more context, also I am seriously plagiarizing the works of some of the best authors I have had the fortune to come across, and I don't want to get sued so here are some accompanying explanations.

At the point where I realized that I was having an unproductive trip, I tried to explain it, if only to myself. See, it is my belief that the least productive state of mind to be in is peace. Think about it. Books, songs, movies. Most of the best ones aren't conjured up whilst in a state of happiness, in fact it's the very opposite. Turmoil breeds genius. That's putting it a bit strongly cause I'm nowhere near a genius, so maybe let's say it encourages creativity.

It just comes easier when you need an outlet, when you have to channel some of that hurt you're feeling inside. When the pain, the emotions are real to you, when it's not just an intellectual exercise.

And that's the thing. I feel like I'm in a really good place right now. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually. (Incidentally, geographically as well! #exeterboleh)

It's a good thing I have not been burdened with talent. That my writing is not so integral a part of me that I could not bear to give it up.

Tragedy, misery. The elements of a good story, but also necessary for its author? Think: Sylvia Plath. You have to draw upon your own experiences, your own emotions when you write, or not it's just technicalities. Certain words arranged certain ways.

It's not like I'm House, or Plath, that I have to give up happiness for my craft. And maybe that's a lie. Happiness doesn't take away understanding, which really is the heart of writing. An understanding of the human condition.

 This I wrote in my diary, which was when I decided heck, I'm just gonna try and write even though I wasn't feeling particularly sad. Because that's how I'd always felt, that I couldn't write unless I was down. I'm not sure about quality.. although these stories were written while on the go instead of about 18 hours in front of a computer screen.

Not sure if anyone's noticed, but the line "Don't listen to the world, listen to me" appeared twice in two separate stories. Only because it's one of the most impactful lines in a most incredible book, A Visit From The Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. It's so good that I endeavoured to use it in a story, which didn't work out so well, so I tried again.

Number 3 and 4 are kinda related. First I wanted to define love, or explain it, cause it's something everyone should have a shot at at least once in their lives! Pretty hard. Then I tried to do this thing where I thought about what sort of advice I'd have given my younger self (or my future son, #familyplanning #BTOhereicome) or actually even to myself right now, perhaps. Then it evolved into something for a self-conscious girl, which is straight out of Goon Squad. Basically, it's a rip-off. Also affected by brainpickings, which has introduced me to many of the writings of esteemed authors and their letters etc.

No. 5 I wrote while on the bus. There was this Chinese guy on the bus between Cordoba and Seville, who seemed to suffer from a mild form of autism or something. He was sitting across the aisle from me, and he suddenly tapped my shoulder and began to talk rather loudly. Didn't initially understand him despite it being clear he was talking to me, then I realize it was heavily accented Chinese. As well as kind of slurred speech as well, cause he didn't seem able to articulate quite clearly. He began asking me questions like how long more the bus would take, before moving on to other stuff like family etc. So I was initially quite embarrassed, cause he was really loud and it seemed clear that some of the other passengers weren't quite happy. Or that's what I told myself. Maybe it was cause he was weird and I didn't want to be associated with him, even in a bus full of strangers, people I'd never meet again the rest of my life. I'm not sure.

And he spoke Spanish as well, cause he'd been working in Spain for 7 years or something. The lady next to him stared out the window the entire trip, possibly my imagination working here but when he tried to speak to her, looked at him with a certain mixture of revulsion (maybe too strong, distaste perhaps) and fear. As if she were afraid he would suddenly act out, or do something funny. Hence the story. I started listening to my MP3 halfway through the journey too, because we'd stopped talking and I didn't really want him to disturb me any longer. What's the best thing to do? What's the right thing to do? I asked, but couldn't answer myself. So I wrote a story instead.

No. 6 I wrote while halfway through an exercise I was doing, which was to pen down the most notable and memorable places of my childhood. And of course I had to have a pretentious title for that page of my diary, which was Sepia Tones, Fading Photographs. Next page, Washed-Out Memories, The Musky Scent of Nostalgia. Coffee, the colour of the past. (I never actually got to that third page cause I got lazy.) By coffee I actually mean the way old photographs look, as if they'd been dipped in coffee. You'll never guess where I got the inspiration for this from but it's from Usborne Children's Detective's Handbook! Which I read ad nauseam as a wee young lad of.. eight I want to to say. Never knew it remained imprinted on my mind. Cause art forgers apparently dip paintings/forgeries etc into coffee to give them that aged look for added authenticity. Now you can be a forger too!

Probably my favourite out of all these, cause it's the only one with any structure at all probably. Also I was midway through reading The Orchard on Fire which is a seriously good book. Such evocative prose, it really dragged you kicking and screaming back to England in the 50s (in almost exactly the same way my last sentence didn't) and it had this line about that typical locked chest in the attic, so that was the inspiration for this one.

No. 7 isn't so much a story as random scribblings in my notebook cause I was struck by this idea while in some sort of rush. It's sort of about how I was looking forward to uploading my photos upon reaching home. Cause it's "safer" there in the sense that it will always be there. Which suddenly turned my world upside down cause that's the internet we're talking about, a virtual reality. Doesn't it seem now more permanent than paper? Newspapers burn, but online archives last forever. There's a certain permanence now which is associated with bytes of data, certainly far less temporal than mere physical, transient objects! Kind of what I was getting at.

And those people plugged into a virtual reality. Whatever label you happen to want to derogatorily mock them with, otaku, loser, nerd, MapleManiac™ (patent pending), DotaDegenerate™ etc etc. Who's to say they don't have more of a life than you? Perhaps cyberspace is the only place they are able, allowed to experience the whole range of human emotion. You might say it's an escape, but maybe it's the only reality they really care about.

No. 8 and 9 were inspired by the next amazing book I was reading, A Memory of Love. Incidentally (and criminally) I took both these books from the hostel in Tarifa, Spain. And couldn't bear to leave either at any of the subsequent hostels with book exchanges I went to. THEY'RE MINE NOW. Truly gems, especially cause I wandered about Spain for the first week and a half without any storybooks at all.

When you want to love someone, you give them certain attributes they might not possess, or even claim to possess. Then you get let down and angry when they fail you. Or you see in them what you want to see in yourself, if only to corroborate the fiction of your life.

To fly, to test the limits of our endeavour, of our courage. Lifted straight out of the book. And the grandchildren bit, probably from last summer and days spent with grandma at the home.

No. 10 was written right after I'd missed a bus to Sierra Nevada, and had to wait an hour for the next one. Some hotel receptionist had given me wrong instructions so I waited at the wrong bus stop. I was incredibly pissed off. Then I went walking, stumbled upon a park, and decided to calm down. Okay I didn't really decide to do so, but I couldn't help myself. Looking at this little boy hitting up the playground bigtime. His parents with iPhones out trying to capture as much as they could, one or the other going up to the child to pose for pictures. Couldn't help thinking how it seemed so... fleeting. And that the parents were so aware of that. And so they were doing all they could to keep as much of the water as they could in their cusped hands, as long as they could.

At peace after making that observation, I began to observe my fellow parkgoers. It was noon so I wondered who the sort of people who'd go to a park at noon were.

No. 11 was just a random journal entry while I was on a bus I expect. I think I saw someone who looked so lonely, so unenjoying of life while he commuted between cities for work. Or those restless travellers. Eyes darting about, roving, searching. But what are they seeking? Some say it is beauty, some truth, meaning, peace, life. Or they are seeking not to find themselves, but to lose themselves. Cause that's the beauty of travel. It's all so simple, uncluttered. You leave the real world behind. No mortgages, exams, debts, strained friendships, broken trusts, politicking, career prospects. Et cetera. Of course, then you return home and everything smashes into you all at once, with the vengeance and fury of a crossed mafia boss.

Truly, I need to study. Hahaha shit. Oh well. One life, live it! (None of that YOLO BULLCRAP FOR ME THANKS I HATE THAT SHIT SRSLY.)

Umm yeah that's kinda it I guess. I had this idea in my head of having cards where I could write down favourite phrases from books etc (this idea came from a book actually, title of which I actually forgot...) but I've been too lazy to actually buy any cards.. And when you're horizontal on a comfortable bed with the most luxurious throw ever how could you possibly be bothered to rise to record a catchy phrase anyway?? But I have a start of sorts in my new pictorial/graphical/statistical diary. Here's what I've got so far, and good night!


"Some of them in churchyards lie, and some are lost at sea."

"Through the multi-coloured lens of candy wraps."

"No. As she walks away from you, what you feel is loss. A premonition of loss."

"Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it."

"To fly, to test the limits of our endeavour, of our courage. Otherwise what point is there in being young?"

"Chained words we could not say except on the lips of dreams."

"Auxochrome - chromophore
  She who wears the colour,
  He who sees the colour."