Grid 3

The frog says these spikes on my head are for the better. The slug proclaimed eggactly. In any case, we don’t need to get there until day strikes, so we best gather the lilac tulips and expect the worst forecast. It’s causing an itch on my lumbar spine you see. Well, the splotches should be chilled by then, then the  Writing will no longer require to borrow our hindsight. Are you essentially describing When? No my dear, insight!

TBC – The Adventures of Shady and Slime.

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Grid 2

These ‘grids’ are saving my life.

Amidst a social media strike, I am finally updating the Instagrams, but feel clogged and pained due to an apparent viral sinus infection affecting my entire left side.

It made me cry when I finally picked up my arse to wash the dishes. I angrily threw Tupperware into the drawer, more fluffed that Bishop’s plastic quadrant plate was obstructing  my *stance.

*I only cry in some sort of revelatory station, like that train ride Daisy got on, I die a little every time when I realize I never (in stance) make errors in judgment.

So, enjoy this grid. They shall not be named for sake of simplicity. Bye!

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I’ve Got Some Work To Do, So Please Stay Awake!

Day by day, she fought to stay awake. At night, facing the white wall, she would see her breath come back instantaneously, stirring her into place. The gaze could not help but stare at the odd black shadow that looked like a miniature black, spider web plague.

But seriously, in uni guys, I was feverishly napping on an ex-boyfriend’s mattress and my breath came to me instantaneously, stirring my mind up like a messy face. There was no odd black shadow, but the conceptual piece I had just completed about a red cross, red intersecting paint brushes — which over a predetermined schedule of time morphed (by me painting over it) into a black matte surface of nothingness — was replaced with a glowing symbol of something or other.

Could have been yellow.

I can barely remember.

I gasped for air, clutching my heart as I stared into Kevin’s barren closet only to see me as a ‘doctor’, healing the world from every known pain of mankind. In that moment, my heart sung and I cried. I felt adorned, but yet I was confused as to how this could have happened. How this could be a reality that I, simple Chona Fe, changed the world. How could I be the charging force that set everything in place.

The only other time this happened again, I was napping, this time at my aunt’s house around the bend from our house, in one of the empty rooms. (Note: Filipino homes always have empty rooms) All of the post 80s furniture, including a mainly stark but super reflective black master’s bedroom set had no meaning or intent in that place. That place where I slumbered and was suddenly awoken by, myself. I think I was 13, sitting up abruptly on the left side of the bed staring at myself. Yelling, screaming at the top of my lungs.

I was looking at a reflection that wasn’t ours.

My brother and my cousins, Ryan and Vanessa,  ran from the playground in the centre of the crescent. They heard my scream, they were horrified to think something terrible had happened. But nothing did. I was alive. I was not attacked or eaten in the middle of my sleep. Vanessa grabbed me and I blinked slowly thrice. “What. The. Fuck. I…don’t know what just happened, but I think I…died and I…saw a different person in my…reflection.” I couldn’t even continue. It was that bad.

TBC

She Saw Him First

In university, I was fervently attached to impermanence and how it spoke to love and the meaning of life. My creative process would start with a blank surface, although it did not have to be literally blank, just stark. Definition: Complete; sheer. Purpose: To feel everything; to be whole. And with that, I would commence. Commence a process of removing completeness; commence a process of covering up visibility – to reveal something unique. I was utilizing a very special skill set to uncover my identity.

I am simple. I am me. I am beauty in everything. I am everywhere you need to be.

Pushing down non-artistic capabilities; denying intellectual understandings. It was easier to pretend that I didn’t have drive than to begin the self-exploration required to achieve bigger and better things. I hated that I lacked moral support. I loathed that I was just an artist. If only I had been shown empathy and was equipped with real world survival skills, everything could have been so different.

Everything should be. The space-time continuum moves forward and does not evaluate past failures, previous motivations or work.

My struggle with identity began as a young woman. I felt completely transparent and to make matters worse, my mom would try to help me by covering up any apparent weaknesses with her motherly prowess and intent. I just wasn’t at the receiving end. I did not know how to define it or how to get there on my own. Furthermore, my mom did not have the energy or input to output our individual success. She struggled with many things. Growing up was about resisting and playing, if safe. We both lived in fear.

Fear is weakness. Be passionate. Be real. Be able to tackle everyday things with intuition, knowledge and strength.

Who remembers the wallpaper in their baby bedroom? Who recalls the vibrant tones of shag rugs in every ‘box’ around the house – intense violet, indiscernible mustard, Oscar the Grouch green, rusty red and so on and so forth. Definition: He has a green body, no visible nose, and lived in a trash can. Purpose: To love my body, my style and the way I live. Who recalls bubblegum pink mohair, fresh brand T-shirts from The Body Shop or Le Chateau. Things have changed so much in fashion, things have changed so much in our world.

We are united. We are technological. We are happy and we are proud to be free. 

Really?

Yup, listen to me.

In university, I obsessed over process to the point where I think it became my source of envy. I didn’t understand how Bradley Harms could make these prints like it was nothing.

How the fuck did he do that?!

I do it now, so I’m not worried.

Are you sure?

Listen, at the time, my inner artist screamed. It didn’t matter that I was making things with my own hands or that I was taking things that were already whole, erasing them and reconstructing a sort of murder scene using x’s and o’s. It didn’t matter that I was mapping. What mattered is that I could have turned out.

I was meditating, frowning worries and heartaches away with medicated pens and BIC Wite-Out.

In my mind, I was substantiating Gilles Deleuze…

…and I quote:

“Writing has nothing to do with meaning. It has to do with land surveying and cartography, including the mapping of countries yet to come.”
― Gilles Deleuze

Definition: The technique, profession, and science of determining the terrestrial or three-dimensional positions of points and the distances and angles between them. Purpose: There is already a movie about language saving the world. It’s called Arrival. Can we really still cure cancer with words? (this was my original thesis, you see)

Mapping the continuum can spark regret, so better focus on real world debacles.

I am something out there.

My trek is long and arduous.

What matters however, is living continually knowing that I am loved and spectacular.

Yes, yes!

I actually used an entirely different quote, which I cannot find online, but I do have it written somewhere in a sketchbook. All of this work transmutes the power of being by Being and the power of regression through ignorance. The tale of Daisy emotes this vulgar clash, where love is thrown to sea, but the water is brown and murky. We do not see this however, we only see the elaborate underground scene beneath it made up of pink, green and other living things.

She is trying to objectify life. She is avoiding subjectivity. The beauty is in interpretation!

Thanks to you, bye!

fe.

Chapter 5 – The Train Ride

I had a semi heart attack when I realized I left my computer at work. Daisy folded her legs out of bed, throwing her white duvet towards her pillows in an act of defiance or something like that. For some reason, she could feel her forehead wrinkle as she quickly discerned, “Oh, just wonderful. I’m angry again.” She walked towards earth, sashaying in a banana yellow-toned gold.

Comma.

She entered. Now, walking criss-crossed down the tree-lined, brick-rung park pathway, she hated this part. She knew they tried to conceal the portal at the ‘end’ of the line, but you could always see it. The air around it was crinkly and wet. It was also technologically Prussian, giving off data to Whom (a.k.a. Google Analytics). They were still around, you know. In any case, she supposed most disconcerted artists would notice it.

Daisy proclaimed with both arms outstretched towards the new entrant, “Hop right in!” She was stretching really. He didn’t notice it. He was a mediocre-sized weasel carrying ‘today’s’ paper and sporting a rather smart trilby hat appropriately coloured rat. Hmm, I wonder if he’s just come in from the races? Daisy adjusted herself, pulling her navy blue rayon skirt down her legs.

Filburt squinted quintessentially. She has to think I’m coming here from the 50s, otherwise this proposition just won’t work. “Ahem!” Daisy stopped daydreaming for one second. She was playing with the ‘quaint daisy design’, imagining days of lorn, when she was just a wee little cartoon. “Yes?” “What is your girth? And are you in a state of dominant Manipura?” 

She didn’t even bother to reply. What a stupid statement. Of course she was. She always was. Especially in Free state. Daisy curtly ruffled her shiny snakeskin BCBG and answered him, “I am now going to roll my eyes and you are going to walk that way. In that direction.” Filburt trembled like a dandelion in new spring wind and promptly – disappeared. Goddamnit! Skirt?! Stomach?! For Christ’s sake!

I don’t have time for this patience. The Need paused. This is not something new. The Pause crossed long, lanky arms and turned his eyeballs in reverse. Training never ended, Daisy hated it. She had been through it a million and ten times. She was even beginning to seem like him. The father of all wrong doing. Addictions created them. Where found them. Elevententeen was their only solace. “Please come, spring”

TBC