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Random Articles
Today’s sky I read somewhere that grey is the only possible equivalent for indifference. It also removes all feeling and shape. Is there a chance to relate grey with neutrality instead of the negative points just mentioned? I admire black and white thinking in terms of one’s personal principles, attitudes and values, but this kind of thinking has no capacity for compromises. I’m not sure if it’s good or not. For me grey offers a lot more options and hypotheses that...
The low girl and lacrimation... A friend said my love life bore a great resemblance to everything Shakespeare – unrequited love due for a miracle. When I hear Shakespeare I don’t think about love. Instead I have images of death, despair, madness and vengeance swirling around in my head. This may be because I only have two favourites: Hamlet – my prince, my well-controlled man of madness and Macbeth – a play proving that women in power are evil. I read my daily rat...
hey foon lei (shubidoo) So the sun’s not out today. A shame really, because I would’ve gone outside for a nice smoke. One bad thing about being at home is that you can’t help sitting in front of the TV. Just because you own one. It wasn’t like that in England. I used to spend most of my time reading or writing in the library. There was just nothing else better to do. I never used to be bored; I didn’t even know...
The four chambers This room has the flair of an operating theater and I think I will stay. I have nowhere else to go. The halogen bulbs are nice and dim, throwing light on the examination table. However, the light does not reach me. There is a pool of blood forming in front of me, but I feel no pain. Perhaps it’s not me bleeding after all, but her. I believe that you can make your own God out of your very...
This year’s mind This year’s mind Comatose The self-delusive heart Dying on a page From overdose Of love, Hands washed In others’ wounds Fingerpaints, red To blacken the shiny night Dripping on our flesh Share the nature’s bed This year’s mind oblivious The dirt under the nails Mainly shedded skin Sleep, says Morpheus Dream now Eyes sewn shut Eyeballs choking on tears, Figures of the subliminal In your dusty vortex and Twisted imagination Create life that’s unconditional...
Attempted novels and boy crushes... I started writing novels (or novellas) when I was thirteen. You know that period when you had massive, pathetic crushes on the youngsters in boy bands? I remember it started with Ronan Keating, Gary Barlow, A.J. McLean, Taylor Hanson, and then Darren Hayes and so on. No matter how pathetic (tongue-kissing posters included, not to mention masturbation leading to tears), they were my muses to write the most sentimental shit ever in my damn life. I didn’t have friends...

(no title)

When I was brushing my teeth this morning I noticed something in my pupils that was very alarming. I moved closer to the mirror and somehow my head was in a black hole.

How my novel is not misogynistic

One recurring fear that I have about publishing my novel is the hate that I might receive from feminists. I would like to point out that there is no gender discrimination of any sort in this novel. What I tell agents in queries is that the story examines the guilt and posttraumatic stress disorder of a female heart surgeon. She has a twisted mind and finds satisfaction in the operating theatre. Of course you have to include a lot more detail if you’re sending them a synopsis. But some instantly get put off by the term “rape”, although I wrote “apparent rape”. It’s obviously not for people, who are sensitive about stories touching upon paedophilia, rape, bestiality and details of surgery; besides, my novel examines these themes on a completely different level. I used art and imagination to embellish surgical scenes, because for f*ck’s sake, I’ve never witnessed a heart surgery and I don’t have to, because this is fiction, but I did spend over six weeks of research when I was at university. I don’t remember the number of books I had borrowed from the library. I even grew to like the series Scrubs, which gave me an idea of a hospital routine (no, I don’t watch ER or Grey’s Anatomy – not my cup of tea at all!). My target audience is both men and women, who are into literary fiction. You may even want to call it women’s fiction. About 80% of the agents that I queried were women, because it seemed that mainly women are into good fiction, a lot of them are very picky, though. Most of the male agents I looked at were into non-fiction about current affairs and business and the ones that were into fiction were looking for thrillers and historic fiction (duh!). I might have contacted a lot of mainstream agents, which didn’t help. In the first rejection that I received, the agent said that my novel was a “strong project”, but it didn’t fit with their agency. And you wonder what would fit, or perhaps you didn’t bring the story across well enough in the synopsis? Or perhaps the agents should specify better in their biographies what they are looking for? Apart from the “apparent rape” front I also indicated the main theme, which is HOW TO DEAL WITH A BROKEN HEART? And what do you do, if you are unable to feel orgasm? From here, it’s all about my fascination with French philosophy, which, on a personal note, is keeping me alive these days. Sartre’s book on existentialism...

Attempted novels and boy crushes

I started writing novels (or novellas) when I was thirteen. You know that period when you had massive, pathetic crushes on the youngsters in boy bands? I remember it started with Ronan Keating, Gary Barlow, A.J. McLean, Taylor Hanson, and then Darren Hayes and so on. No matter how pathetic (tongue-kissing posters included, not to mention masturbation leading to tears), they were my muses to write the most sentimental shit ever in my damn life. I didn’t have friends until I was fifteen, so there was no one to confide in. All I did was feel sorry for myself in fiction. I was accumulating burning emotions triggered by neglect, loneliness, self-loathing and ennui. I wanted love, too, but it was all unrequited or wishful thinking. So what would you do in that case? Yes, read some Nicholas Sparks, cry your fucking eyes out and write your own stories by using your own name and the name of your boy-band-crush. You think of how you want the relationship to begin and develop and then you write about how you imagine your first sex. You want it to be gentle, slow and full of love! And what’s the reality like? It’s shit. For most girls the first time feels shit. It hurts, you bleed and you feel shit (unless you broke your hymen another way and feel awesome). I believe I over-fantasized about that one in my stories, whatever. Taylor Hanson was the main figure in most of my attempted novels from around 1997, I think. Most of the time I would copy high school movies and write similar scenes, but as far as I remember I used to write in third person mostly (which I find hard to do now). Another aspect, other than love, was friendship. Without realising at the time how much I wish I had proper friends I would write about being in love with my best friend, because no love could be stronger than that (ever watched Reality Bites?). I used to re-write a lot of stories, such as Interview with a Vampire, Titanic (yes, I did), Stand By Me, Jim Carroll, etc. A fascinating thing that happened during the period of 1997-2000 was when I wrote short novels that suddenly came out as movies. I wrote a story called ‘Inside your Iris’ (main character John Rzeznik from the Goo Goo Dolls) in which a blind man meets a woman and falls in love. And what happened? A movie came in out where Val Kilmer played a blind massage therapist and met a female eye doctor....

Effluvium

I got off the pill over a month ago, because I’ve been losing lots of hair for over a year. (The doctor said it was Telogen Effluvium due to stress from travelling, but even a year after my hair was still falling off whenever I was running my fingers through it.) And what can I say it took my body about four weeks to register that I was no longer swallowing hormones. I still work out as much as before (5-6 times a week), but I’ve been going to hot yoga sculpt classes for a month (at least 2-3 time a week). I don’t think my body (or hormones) has entirely gone back to its normal cycle, yet. I thought I noticed some PMS symptoms, because I’ve become more of an emotional mess than ever, plus, I am an acne monster and I think I’ve gone down in bust size. But on a brighter note, I managed to lose 1.5KG in less than two months. I have decreased my portion intake and make sure I consume foods with antioxidants and anti-inflammatory compounds. But what’s this all for? I don’t know. I’m still torn and trying not to fall apart. Everything I do is just a distraction – a necessary one. It’s not easy to make a change happen, especially if you don’t know whether or not you’re planning on your own. And when you’re in a job that makes you undermine all your abilities it’s hard to stay strong. As for my hair loss it’s not as bad as it was before, but I’m still losing a lot. I no longer wear my hair down if there is no volume. I used to like wearing it down – others liked it, too. Now it all falls flat and you see my scalp and this is how naked I feel. I never really had full hair, but my hair used to be pretty. I’m also not 21 anymore. I started the pill when I was nineteen and it had always been very good; I was almost two cup-sizes bigger than my mother or sister, or at least that’s what my mother said. I didn’t have pimples, menstrual pain or anything. I used to get post-period pains and nausea, though, but not always. I don’t know if my body has any more side effects in store. I just want it all over. It’s all about my hair; I’m not looking to get pregnant, I don’t even want pets anymore in future. It doesn’t mean that I want to be alone –...

The four chambers

This room has the flair of an operating theater and I think I will stay. I have nowhere else to go. The halogen bulbs are nice and dim, throwing light on the examination table. However, the light does not reach me. There is a pool of blood forming in front of me, but I feel no pain. Perhaps it’s not me bleeding after all, but her. I believe that you can make your own God out of your very own blood. I close my eyes and see this beautiful child floating on the surface of the red sea. I have been there. It’s where I fell in love. She is staring at the sky, mapping out her future. I see how in the future she will grow up to a successful woman like me. Her father loves her very much and yet he doesn’t know how she really feels. Unfortunately I will never meet her and I can’t tell her that I am sorry. According to the map on the wall there are four laboratories on this wing and they’re all connected, but I haven’t got the energy to visit them all. At least I’ve made it into one of them. My heart rate is going down. There is not much blood left in the left ventricle to pump into the aorta. My body is still fighting as I watch internally. I feel how it is compensating. It’s trying to maintain a blood pressure by pumping whatever is left to my brain, my heart and my lungs. It’s drawing away all the blood from my skin and my limbs. I have a conscience after all and it’s paying attention to what keeps me alive…   Paula Deckard (c)...

Three years

Three years ago I arrived in Canada – ready for a new start, adventure, purpose.                   Three years prior to that I arrived in London – ready to show the first draft of my novel to fellow students, writers and tutors.               Three years prior to that I graduated from my BA degree and returned to Germany from England – ready to give my home country another chance and made great friends.             Three years prior to that I completed high school in northern England and was looking forward to going to university.   Three years prior to that I was close to finishing high school in Germany and didn’t know what to do with myself.   Three years prior to that John Lydon’s autobiography changed my life by teaching me how to think for myself.   Three years prior to that my parents insisted I went to grammar school, although I was recommended to go to a less challenging school.   Three years prior to that I was standing outside in the schoolyard on my own every day (Years in Primary School).               Three years prior to that I was celebrating my sis’s 1st birthday with my family.                 Three years prior to that my parents bought me a wooden rocking horse.             Three years prior to that my mother moved to Germany to marry my dad.       I was a planned honeymoon baby to be born in the year of the rat, made in autumn and then first saw light in the summer. I don’t know why, all of a sudden, I began looking so far back. I guess I’m just looking for meaning as usual. There must be a reason why my beautiful mum and dorky dad met. I’m still trying to understand the result of it all. Bouncing between determinism and indeterminism is an existential crisis that I can’t share or talk about. I’ve become aware of the major changes that have taken place in my life and how they have shaped me, but certain traits are inborn – you just can’t explain. Also, nothing is constant or everlasting and it’s suddenly saddening me. I used to be good at seizing the day and at being who I am. As of now I have forgotten how it works. Either that or my awareness has made me...

Broken endocardium

See through my eyes The green is the garden in which  I bled It’s hard to forget My passion was built on a lie I dissected things that lived no more They fell dead at my feet I’d marry you in a heartbeat Since I don’t know what else to live for The past is seated in the car Driving towards more trouble I’m sure you’re smitten with my double For I know who you really are It’s the crimson in which we bathe The red sea of life keeps me warm But my femininity already torn I don’t know if I still have faith   For E. (by Paula Cheung (c) January...

I’m scared of losing meaning

Louisa hurt herself. It was ok. She didn’t feel anything. The knife simply cut through flesh. Before that incident she was at her doctor’s office where he showed her PET scans of her brain, which indicated little activity compared to other people’s samples that he had on file. All she thought about was why everybody had to compare her to others. He asked her whether there had been any recent traumatic event, which could have triggered such a state of mind. She answered that she had divorced her husband a few weeks ago, but didn’t explain that it was for his own good. Her husband was all a woman could ever dream of – handsome, kind and loyal. Unfortunately her view on life changed one morning when preparing two fried eggs for breakfast. They reminded her of a painting that she did in which she mixed yellow with a little bit of orange in order to paint the sun. Soon the frying eggs became scrambled, but she didn’t like scrambled eggs, so they burnt on the pan. If she had done something about it, it wouldn’t have happened, but something else would’ve happened – the eggs would’ve rotted. She merely decided that she didn’t want them to rot. It wasn’t just any decision. In fact, a world had fallen apart – her major internal nociceptors were no longer sending signals to her brain. Just like that. Of course she got nervous; she believed that nihilism had physically invaded her and that it was punishing her first with sexual anhedonia. She masturbated to a James Deen video, using everything possible, including her father’s golf club, but she felt nothing. Of course she didn’t tell her doctor that part. He wanted her to come in for more tests, but there was no point, there never had been. At home she grabbed her kitchen knife and cut the inside of her forearm. Paper cuts used to hurt, her first tattoo hurt, but this cut didn’t. Hopelessly she opened her childhood treasure chest in which she’d stored all her favourite CDs. How could she forget about all the music that had shaped her art – the only thing that really defined who she was? She listened to one CD after the other and eventually found herself shedding a tear. Love at the first sight is possible, so are miracles. Something in her stirred during a Nick Cave song, it could be the only stir she’d ever feel again, so she began to paint. She cut deeper into her forearm, grabbed a clean brush and painted...