I was surprised, that’s all.

It was like going up to the sixth floor in an elevator with no lights.

Dark… and scared.

Looking forward to it to stop.

Love? What are we like so much about it for?


What a strange feeling to count on for?

Are we all not just so much deceived?







It is not about creating something “new” but rather creating a situation to find out what already existed.

Looking at her standing with her pendulous arms to the rhythm of her breathing I had to be in love with her.

Like people who has been waiting for the bus for a long time just to have the bus arriving but packed with people and no space for you.

I like to be in a country where I do not understand every words people are saying. I like to have this space without words and speakings to be able to sense things.

A short bio_Junkies

“Thanks for offering me to stay with you under the bridge, man… but I’m going rooftop with my girl tonight.”


All junkies seem to have a certain certainty. They seemed to have certain superiority. I don’t know if the pride comes from a sense of knowing something that the others don’t or a forced necessity from lack of it. Even when they lie, they lie so honestly. It’s like in the house of justice when you see the man in charge going in and out of the room of justice without a single change in their expression whereas their family would cry or shout according to the verdicts of the judge.


“He is to be remained in custody until the 25th July.”


“Oh my… it’s day after his birthday!”


Cracks and browns were reserved for the junkies and junkies were reserved for the foolish, uneducated, nameless crowds. The police told me that it’s dangerous to be here and asked me what I did. I told them that I was a university student. The woman police enlarged her eyes wide open and asked “So what are you doing down here?” But then again it’s not just the police. Even Monic told him off saying, “Why did you bring Cha here?”


I remember liking what I used to call “the coke sleep” It’s when I would have trains of images from the real life (in front of me) passing by as an assemblage of strong but unusual images. The images were not telling as to foretelling. I would use these images to have some positive impacts on the reality. We would be in a waste factory – like place with the sounds of electricity just next. I’d say something like “Let’s imagine that we are at the waterfall or at a riverside or something.” because the sounds of electricity to me were like water falling.


He would say “Listen to the various languages of stones, walls, shops and dogs then when you don’t hear them anymore, that’s when you write.”


He had a body like what I would say Siddhartha; a long and thin but boned body.


Maybe a time to examine

But I am still the one to you

Can we save the place so dear to us

Chances are not saved but my body is saved


I miss my father,

My mother and a brother I never had

My sister would clean my cold and dirty feet

Our feet and the same unwinding road

It was the time we accept everything

Of each other, but, is it still the same?


I love you still but not your house.


Lyrics written in 2010

An occasional dream

As I open my book (a ‘book’ starting with M) to write a letter to my dear father who is now eighty-three years old, I feel my guts sinking in sorrows. Who knows what have caused these sentiments? It could be the dream I had this morning of him leaving me all alone (yet once again). It could be the article I read on the screen about rape and all the rest of ‘politics’. It could be the sudden flash of news popping without warning, in the case of today, being the end of David Bowie (physically only because his music wouldn’t), thanks to the ever-fast, ever-living internet (or, Internet). It could be a series of nameless emotions I am whirled into, each with its images and words, either from my past or from the past of the others. Those recent tsunami of feelings I am experiencing are certainly very different and new. My emotions had certain pace before. They would come but in times such as a long bus ride into the country, while looking out to the window or in the middle of the flock who try to get into the bus with heavy packs. They would arrive without warning but at least I would have been relaxed and solitaire before and after of such melancholic moments. Recently, I am shedding my tears and then, soon before they are fully dried, I would turn on once again, with a different but perhaps all related feelings.
Things of paradoxes make me howl and bawl. A mistake with its real definition cannot be called as a mistake, since we repeat the same mistakes all the time. A love (and/or a lover, indeed) cannot (theoretically) be singular at all except if you were a big braggart. The ideas and concepts float in my mind as definitions, as experiences, and as sounds and colours, of which, until a couple of years ago, I did manage to translate into canvases, words and well, sometimes, at karaoke’s. Now, it seems I am a hot potato in a thin ice. This psychological vulnerability has no excuse at all to show up like that, and I am small like a guilty, a shame and a child objected.
It is important to grow up they say. Simply, it is more important with who we grow up. Until now, I have grown up with the already grown-ups. Those already grown-ups were happy with me because I was to them, some kind of their youth of the past. I was happy with them because I felt like I was grown up (the job done sort of feeling). In reality I did not grow up at all. I grew up because I was different (with the grown-ups). I did not repeat my developments. Finally the need to re-( ) everything has been understood.
A letter is written. (Unfortunately,) I do not remember the first letter I have written. I was wrong in thinking though, that the reason I like letters, is because I can keep them. I thought the meaning rested on the physical materiality of the letters. I have a box of letters at home from the friends and the family throughout my life. I also have lost at least half of the letters at the end of my stay in London. I think the reason of liking letters isn’t actually anything to do with the contents or the actual object but the re-( ) of its actions. We repeat. We call the name of the person we are writing to. Dear.. To my.. Or, simply their names. Then we reappear. We salute each other. We recapitulate some news to share. As if we want to share the life we did not share together. We report which allows replicating the real relation we had before on to the paper. When the relation is renewed and reproduced, we are finally calm and satisfied. These needs to have endless redundancies are mysterious but very necessary. People say that it’s the age of reproduction. I don’t think so. It must have been always necessary. It’s only that now the means have developed to aid our desideratum.
I have some things I don’t know how to say. So, I decide to write a letter. It would be a sort of rehearsal before I gain enough confidence vis-à-vis. It will become a part played in my growing-up. A recital to marked events yet to come in my life. It will be a returning to myself without the cruel and abrupt cries of the moments covered in blood. It will be a refrained emotion in a relation without the needless surplus. I want to be able to leave the cave I am in. Never really too far, because in a way, the cave is also a big part, concerning myself. Just so that I would be able to spread my arms towards the others, especially those who love me and I love.
Surely though, there are certain situations where even letter would not reduplicate the once hopefully relation. In those circumstances, I would only have to pray and desire for them. In those circumstances, I have no other choices but to accidentally die and resurrect. Not forgetting to sincerely say, “I am sorry.”

“In our madness/ We burnt one hundred days/ Time takes time to pass/ And I still hold some ashes to me/ An occasional dream/ And we’d sleep, oh so close/ But not really close our eyes/ ‘Tween the sheets of summer bathed in blue…/ Gently weeping nights/ It was long, long ago and I can’t touch your name”
(David Bowie, An occasional dream)