Sometimes there are moments that unfold that you feel you have no control over. Some how, you've completely screwed things up. There's no one to blame, some how you got here, and the only person to thank, is you. I've been having this feeling for a few days now. Like I've made a real royale mess of things.


Stormy, unsettled, unforgiving. Broken waters.
Eating pho. Salty tears over prawn salad. Forgotton memories, now a dull mirror. Sipping tea, those niave dreams came and limped by. Injured from real life. From wanting too much it seemed. They wanted to be noticed. They moved like an aborted child wanting to be drawn close and reclaimed. But all I wanted was for them to sink into the ground and disappear. I wished that these dreams never came from me.

Feet are not moving anymore it seems.

Feeling let down.

Like a falling yellow balloon.

Chalk colours run.
Dreams and school girl wishes never seem to fade away.
Fingers-crossed.

No matter how much you try. No matter how much you remind yourself you don't care... that it doesn't matter.
All it takes is something little. Seemingly insignificant. An absent gesture.

A missing note.

To tip things over.

There is nothing worse than starting the morning with a bad cup of coffee. Especially if it just tastes like drinking warm sour milk. In the world, there is only one type of person I hate... and you know who you are. I despise people that order skinny lattes or cappicinos. Even worse are lazy baristas that mix the two types together in their jug, or don't know how to keep the two jugs separate. Queing behind some fat conscious freak will always guarantee me a bad coffee.

I woke up feeling horribly seedy this morning. I had been dreaming of ghosts, I found myself wound up in my sheets. It had been raining. Rubbing my eyes, I wanted to forget the feeling of this dream.

There was a young lady in her twenties who had returned to her old neighbourhood with her family. The old houses had been knocked down and now there were only modern warehouse appartments built in place. There was nothing to remind them of the past. There were only grand buildings. Appartments made of black steel and glass windows that reached from the ceiling to the floor. The family started to settle into their new place. Everything was fresh, it would be a new start.

They were having dinner when the doorbell rang. The daughter went to see who it was. She opened the door and saw a young blond girl standing in the hallway. Her blond hair was cut into a bob, framing an angelic face. She looked no more than eight years old.

"You have something of mine." she said.

The parents looked up from their dinner, "Who is it?"

"A friend," the young blond girl called out.

The parents had now gotton up to see who was at the door. It was J. M. They turned pale. Their daughter stood by the door. Quietly staring at the polished timber floors. She was watching her parents shadows move across the floor. She didn't seem to acknowledge J.M was even there. Her best friend.

"What do you want?" the father asked.

"She has something of mine." She repeated, pointing to their daughter.

The father grabbed his daughter, and said, "Give it back to her, give whatever she wants, so she'll leave us alone."

The daughter, looked frightened. She knew what J.M. had come back for. She begged her father not to allow it. But he had already invited J.M. inside and gave her permission to retrieve the item.

J.M. smiled, and the daughter fell to the ground, unconscious.

The daughter could feel a darkness. She wasn't sure if her eyes were open or closed. All she could see was this endless black void. No light. Heavy and dry. She felt the weight of a body press on top of her. The body was the same shape and size as hers. It was trying to burrow into her body. It was sinking into hers, nestling, as though she was a pillow resting under a heavy head. She wanted it to stop. She screamed for it to stop.

A young man was walking towards the appartment. He saw some large pink flowers on the front steps by the door. He bent down to pick one up. He smiled, thinking she'll like these. The petals were large and wrinked. Like a childs flower, crepe paper wound tight and twisted. He pushed open the front glass door and went in.

we call it krunk

I haven't written anything in ages it feels like. Teaching has been all consuming of late. As soon as the relief of one lesson prac is over, the mind stays awake buzzing trying to figure out what's going to happen in the next. By the time my eyes do close, an hour later, my room floods with light. My room has the unfortunate luck of facing east. Great city view, but not so good in the mornings.




Sleep has been broken, and sadly not too much time for art. I got this new mop pen which I want to try out. It's basically a very expensive shoe polisher used for graffiting. Graffiting sometimes reminds me of looting. I remember watching the LA riots on the news in the late afternoon. That blood red sunset. Police sirens, shadows running down highways. Shop windows smashed. Fire raging and civilians going ape shit. I guess there's nothing like destroying your own stuff.