"Sailed not as a seaman, but as a traveler..."

"Sailed not as a seaman, but as a traveler..."- Sir Thomas More's Utopia

Thursday, April 28, 2011

If you stop dreaming, then you're just sleeping.

Image: Sai Kung Harbor - Politically part of HK, geographically part of Mainland China.

All this running around Asia has got my head spinning. People ask me if I will go home once I'm done with all this soul-searching. My usual reply is an involuntary cock of the head, facial features rearranging themselves into a confused snarl.

First of all, who said that I'm searching for my soul? Actually, I think I might have too much. So much that it drives me a little crazy. Literally. Secondly, if I were "soul-searching," why would I ever willingly stop? It's like saying that dreaming is only for sleeping. Well, I say, fuck that.

Thirdly? There's no thirdly. Just a Firstly and a secondly, but they were both doozies so I think I can get away with it. Anywho, the following is another attempt at being a writer. Enjoy!

I dwell too much in my head

So don't get offended if I seem offensive, I'm just
Searching for space between make-believe and nightmares
Searching for lonliness while engorging on emptiness
Creating faceless wraiths of shadows of inklings of people
As I sit on foreign toilets purging myself of diarrhea
Why can't creators create in the non-exotic
Stop looking for inspiration in blanched tentacles in crowded Hong Kong alleys
Sai Kung coffee shops lined with writers watching passers-by waiting for lessons
On how to be human
Singaporean bars filled with thirsty scholars guzzling down the dreams of starving artists
I walk and walk to see and see but I can't seem to make sense of it all
Why is it so hard to be natural
Forcing sagging stories into chiseled slabs of some
Hard stone quarried from some realistic setting captured by some metaphor with a moral

I sleep too little

Overflowing with ideas that never amount to much except for frustrating fits
Of insomnia
Of explanations
Of giving everything up to be someone else doing something else
All underneath the shadows of Philippine volcanoes sipping instant coffee
Blurring the lines between night and day possibly purposefully who knows
Who knew imagining could be so hard
Even in humid jungle heat
Especially in humid jungle heat
Unfamiliar mounds of earth covered with unfamiliar sounds of words I can't pronounce
Asking strangers in hostels if they can understand me when I say I'm Californian
Balinese cloves rising up in thick smoke sweetly calming bundled nerves
Trying to unravel plots that prove to be too simple or just non-existent
Like the lady bits of Thailand's lady boys

I talk to myself too much

And I call it research because well it is
To lose touch with reality to better convey reality is what we call sublime
Or at least I think it is
Think it aloud as I stroll through Portuguese Macau hunting for Europe in China
I'm too far fucked you see to make any more sense to sensible people
Mixing myth with history making men turn into trees because a limb is a limb
And I think I love puns way too much
And I worry what the critics at the New York Times will say even before I've written a single word
Because tiny island lizards make clicking sounds, chiding my too sultry nights
Filled with too much avoiding
Sitting in Semarang in the middle of mosquito swarms I wonder if dengue fever will help
Help with writer's block with vivid hallucinations
But I never get sick, just cough from diesel soot and cigarette smog
And don't you dare compare me to Eat, Pray, Love.

I want to give up too much

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