Freaky ginger daydream towards opprobrium

Mum come save me. 
@gmail.com, but it was the last few days ago by a group. I have been in a while, and the rest. the first one. the first one. the first one. the first one. the first one. the first one. the first one. the first time in the morning. I am a beautiful person. I am a beautiful person. I am a beautiful person. I am going through. we will not only did the first to write you an opportunity. if I could get to see the difference in price of one. it will take a moment of my own business and the new one of those people that I can get it right away and we are a couple days, so if I could get to see the difference in price of one. it will take a moment of my own business and the rest. the first one. the first one. the only thing that I have a great day. I am a beautiful person. I am a member

Leon: The Professional

Hmm. I thought I wrote something for this. I guess not.

So this is a movie that I read about afterwards to substantiate my feelings, because I didn’t want to feel unsure about what I thought. It wasn’t phenomenal. The action is thrilling, haha it’s a Luc Besson thriller, shouldn’t have expected anything less. I gave it 3 stars. I guess the late night Ebert review obscured my memory, I did NOT write anything about this movie. Partly because I didn’t want to just critique. Praise is so much easier (see my obscene gushing over Whiplash below), but dislike should engender greater introspection. Scary quesiton: Is part of my dislike derivative of some kind of repressed xenophobia? Jean Reno, the actor who plays Leon, is wonderful as the naive, but also deadly hitman looking out for the crafty, but also vulnerable Mathilda, played by a young Natalie Portman. Reno’s portrayal of the immigrant’s struggle to adapt in America instigated a possibly childhood resentment towards my own parents’ immigrant struggles at assimilation. Each blunder represented a backwards step away from what my mind desired completely: conformity to an advertised American ideal. Although I’ve long since discarded that artificial ideal, I guess lingering sentiments still cling in my subconscious. Leon’s flaws don’t exist solely in my subconscious though. Watching it, I often felt that the film lacked a foundation or purpose in its developments. The acting was great, and so was the directing. Most conspicously offputting was the relationship between Mathilda and Leon. It wasn’t interesting enough to observe objectively because the movie was so blunt in what it told the audience, leaving no room for interpretation. God I’m idiotic as fuck because there is some nuance to their relation. Just not enough for me to pick up on. All I saw was a little girl with an Electra Complex and a lonely older man who takes up this little girl to fulfill some kind of gap in his heart. Y’know, the honorable desire to father a child or whatnot. 

Increasingly distasteful.  

How to Become a FULL Cube of Plexiglass

Manic chicken operatives: is this actually the font I’m using right now? Oh yeah. I want to move into the door next tO me.

I’m in Bosnia here it’s here. Loose endorphins
misremembering all the start dates to my obsessions
everything is so
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Writing is easy

It’s easy to be an eloquent writer, take something mundane or thoroughly uninteresting and add interest to it- agitate it like you would a bowl of salad or bottle of pickle juice. Pound it with your over-interpretive analysis of its properties and significance.  There’s a word I’ve forgotten, it was a part of my lexicon that I abandoned in 12th grade. I had a garbage chute that I tossed all my aspirations for journalistic merit down- tied up and labeled “pretentious”. I’m digging them out today, it’s in one of my docs – I know it. I focused more on developing an ironic sense of irony, where nothing I wrote or did was serious- even if the whole f**k u attitude was taken seriously, it still wasn’t, like a retarded mobius strip in multi-layers. I focused on editing my excess use of words- partly beause of Wilde’s suggestion in a piece we read last year. Trying to find that correct balance of expressive fluency w/o the nauseous prevalence of my stuck-up style. This led to much use of colloquialisms and trying-hard-to-not-try-hard instances of absolute failure. It didn’t make sense anymore (like the last sentence). Maybe with my departure from this style I can somehow salvage from both long-term experiences a combination of the two extremes. Use more commonly recognized words, but don’t be afraid to use a word that truly helps you explain your point. Keep it simple but elaborate on points that are important to you or the assignment at the time. Although I would like to think that my mind is a steel-trap for words and their definitions, but these past months (almost a year) has made me realize what I already knew- without practice even the most convenient words fade away. Wish me luck, I affirm that expedient, effective and expressive writing will come into my life. Let it be!

my funny faces

here to express my thoughts on the ruffling and clangor of the outside world 10 feet away from the foot of my bed outside the door there’s a woman shaking things up, putting them down and turning things out into the air 

im inside my cozy warm cube of heated air stifling air still air, the only movement coming from these twisted fingers and my funny faces 

Making Murakami

From the consulting firm of hard-edged experience and near-death encounters, comes the inspiration needed to get this beast going. Maybe all that glancing and static observation wasn’t for nought. Is that a word? 

Coming soon, frightened expectations and prevailing circumstances (my overall youth and naivete) make for an often disturbing reading and writing time. I can’t know what I’m doing, and I know exactly what I’m doing.  

And we continue. The most basic necessity: a topic. So I’m writing about 1Q84. Books recently browsed. “Browsed” because “read” suggests comprehension and retention.

 1Q84 is a very very recent book by Murakami. It was released around 2009-2010 and the English publication came out in 2011. Murakami writes about the past so well that I believed this was one of his earlier novels. Norwegian Wood felt modern, like it was written in this decade. Ironically it was released in the 80s while 1Q84 which has that feeling of past eras was written in the early 2010s. 

I’m hesitant about going on about the book because I will pause for….ever and never get on with any points. I’ll write about unrelated fodder and delay close eye-to-eye analyzation with the story. I feel weak like a floundering trout. Or bass. Clown fish. Finding Nemo, Dory Ellen Shows Netflix Marathon Breast Cancer Marathon Drugs Chemo Love Hair Loss Bald Walter White Breaking Bad Trailer Money RV Comedy Love Fat Love. 

Other instances of liminality

I couldn’t get this idea out of my head, so I’m here pouring my thoughts on this glacial surface of all mediums-writing. These ideas. My dream, just the one, because sometimes one is all you need for a good few hundred words. Remember. It was a TV show, sci-fi dystopia. I’m lost on the words before it came a thing structured in the slippery dreamworld. But I do remember a circular room underground, or at least down a flight of stairs. Filled with, I say 10, but probably more, people in a circle. Manufactured or robotic in some way, except two who had been mistaken for other people (?) she and he.

I can’t resist checking back on the list of letters and spacings either, slows it down a bit. Wordings-here I feel in their ephemeral nature they’re very much like patterns of leaves falling off of fall trees. I’ll try to direct them when and where they go, but it’s too easily forgotten. 

She and he fighting on the steps of an imperial stepcase, orchestra the size of an army to their left, a camera wide shot that spans upwards from their weapon-ed figures. Maybe these are their counterparts. Anyways. 

In the room I’m living in there’s all black and all white, and the other day were collected writings focused on the idea of liminality. Cheesy first suggestion: write it in half-light, somewhere where I can do that (old-fashioned library, someplace with the adjustable light switch….so most likely the lounge at 4am. :/ was expecting to be Morgan Freeman in Se7en)

I can’t help looking at all the leaves piled up either and can’t help feeling accomplished, like that’s enough, no more needed. But there were sparks in my brain earlier about the instances of liminality. Oh: of course, the  state of mind in between asleep and awake. And awake and asleep-hypnagogia. The instance in a remembrance before the remembrance is identified, so they’re just unnamed aspects floating (why do they float?). Why do names anchor + and their purpose (they are here to bring light, oh and so you can past tests).

Hypnagogia and Conscious Liminality

I can’t help looking at all the leaves piled up either and can’t help feeling accomplished, like that’s enough, no more needed. But there were sparks in my brain earlier about the instances of liminality. Oh: of course, the state of mind in between asleep and awake. And awake and asleep-hypnagogia. The instance in a remembrance before the remembrance is identified, so they’re just unnamed aspects floating (why do they float?). Why do names anchor + and their purpose (they are here to bring light, oh and so you can past tests). Stoner so Stoner was one of these floating aspects in my hypnagogic state (is there a different term for the opposite? asleep->awake) lengthening the land with some dreamy rain loops. 

Oh this sounds like a good description of my TV movie vision (most that’s been lost now but the two-three scenes) : Mary Shelley, too, said she got the inspiration for Frankenstein from a “waking dream” in the wee hours of the morning, writing, “I saw with eyes shut, but acute mental vision,” according to The Guardian. 

“The state is also marked by reduced activity in the prefrontal cortex of the brain, which is involved in planning, decision-making and social behavior.“ Need to plan in advance. for productive flow of words, so I can focus on the words and not the ideas so much I get in my own way.

“Hypnagogia is trippy, and can give rise to some bizarre visual and perceptual hallucinations. It’s common for people to experience dream-like visions, sounds, flashes of color, insights, sensations and barely formed thoughts.” wooh trippy, italics. BARELY FORMED, work cut out for a used car blow up guy. im puddy 

Other instances of liminality: FREAKING TRANSPO SITES. E.g. train stations, airports, especially airports fuck.

Reading/writing

I use gmail drafts for writing because I want to show people my writing someday in the future-made ready to send. I use tumblr drafts in a similar fashion, but I guess it’s more private, although I have put some on public platforms. Personal confessions, self-pity and love. 

Writing-reading ratio 

Not in words, or content size. Effort then, time. 

1:3 is optimistic

more like 

1:30

On myself (a memory an event, a whole phase or a theme, a person) a chapter a day- 1,667 words/day, 50,000 in a month (apparently) 

Fulfilled

Before I start reading 🙂 3-5pm~ 

schedule, I might wake up at that time and start reading right away, or extend the writing time to 5 if anything to be written comes from sleep 

Subtracting 7-8 hours from that —-I would have to sleep at 6-7am 😉 which is the time I’m writing this. 6:26 am, but actually 7-8 am for 7 hours. Ofc. 

Doubt

when I feel lost I fall in love as a coping mechanism. The consistency of my crushes keeps me out of doubt. 

how do I turn away from the past? 

The pastor at my church used to tell me that I could be like him. Maybe I’m blessed. He used to say things like “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve,” and “you’re tall!” My uncle was also a pastor at that church. The pastor I guess. He could speak to many types of people. Old Vietnamese people were his specialty. He’d say to them, “Since five, Vinh* has been loving the word of God.”

*Vinh is my Vietnamese name, given to me by my grandmother. She’s now passed and the last thing she said to was to go to church every Sunday.

My dad goes to church now. Some Sunday nights growing up my parents would bring my sister and I to parties where the men would sit in the garage gambling and drinking beer while the kids and women meandered through the kitchen and living rooms playing games, watching movies or just gossiping. 

Once during a New Year’s Eve gathering some drunk uncle tipped a firework and the piece launched downwards. Sparks from the street reached the porch, but nothing caught on fire. Anyways, I texted my family today and my dad told me to pray to God everyday and that’ll lead me to success.