Padang

People live side by side they sleep side by side they share bread and motorcycles and nasi. There is no space which exists by itself without others there to claim a part. You enter this city, you crave the people of this city, it absorbs you, it claims you. yOU don't own yourself, you don't own your skin, which becomes a thing, an attraction, a point of the conversation - kulit putih! cantik sekali! saya mau sy mau sy mau... - and like that we are spent we are not tourists but the spaces to be toured. Eye for an eye. Sharing breath and sweat and smoke and dua-ribu rupiah. Back of an angkot our hearts become one with the pulse of a loud and dirty tune or an Indonesian favourite. The heat cannot be deciphered as that arising from humidity or bodily warmth. People are the centre of gravity. The masses of them tell the story to be so. Our downfall. Our POTENTIAL. Our wishes to reach the highest point exists through people.
This is the crux.

The more taxed, the more used up, the more depleted, the more sapped of energy I am,
for sure,
for living here,
 ~ but  ~
the more I live,
the stronger I become,
the more I shall thrive, and
laugh at the end,
biting lip and
crazy like that with a
hardened shell of an eye
still soft on the inside.
Because
the more stressed, the more frustrated, more hindered, the greater the cage, the
greater the
b r e a k
from
this.
Suck all you want. :-)
(I'll just do something else.)

we and i, me and my. (quips on the symbology of fever)

Fever. Feverish. Sweating profusely. Feeling a hotness of the skin yet it remains white with denial, or maybe green in counteraction, as the fever takes over. A possession takes place. Makes us appear livid as the fight within begins. A struggle for identity - are we human or are we virus? Delirium ensues and the feverish can never be sure . . .
Any thoughts?

methinks tis time to recycle Adrian and... do away with him completely.

So instead I should like to introduce to you Paddy. She's a she, this time, now that sociology has got me hooked on blaming other people for the way some things in life just don't seem right or fair (wawawaaa, bitching about my race or sex or poo. again.) Anyway, her name is Paddy Malon, emphasis on the 'lon'. She's a little like a plant, roots uprooted to feel the breeze just before they begin to dry out, she is reckless, flitting about and tottering on erstwhile feet and a near-broken heart, mouth almost wrecked like it has been smashed in the past by a demolition ball. She abandons old self to enter a new one in a new strange land filled with other-mother milk, reverse-parents, money (not hers), stares, and a whole heap of people lapsing into incomprehension even though they speak the same sets of words.
There exists a little something called religion... and yet even within the one person will be an array of inconsistent remarks and changing breathing dynamic ideas in a state of constant revision yet who would ask for anything else??? least of all Paddy MaLON. Is it true that every body in this P-town is longing for what we in the West would call a white-picket fence and a dog that won't shut up...? (And a pet dog too?) Well sex on the sly doesn't sell, unless you want to feel like an artist, whereupon names are forgotten. Ah, give me a shit-whistle. Stay tuned to discover more tunes from Paddy Cake and what she ended up jamming like after this. . .
So together we will venture into a new era of creative processing, before I end up in a dark room, voluntarily, listening to Daniel Johns, Julian Lennon, and Enya, spewing words into a little black notebook Arabic-style, right-to-left. again.
Great!
After all, Indonesian Mama calls me keras kepala and I think she's onto the truth, as all mothers tend to be.
Peace out! - He:Di