Misplaced Comma

25 Nov

every, single, misplaced comma
(a bracket without a partner
(not parenthesis,
but alone.

every, single, fullstop
An end. Always alone.
just there
An overcomplication,
something extraordinary
or just superfluous
an accident, eccentricity
Madness!
a blemish,
every, single, misplaced comma,
an isolated (is it a mistake
or maybe something else,
,a point for consideration, (maybe

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Unachievably Impossible

25 Nov

I’m officially a NaNoWriMo (is that right?) quitter. I know I shouldn’t say it and feel proud about it but I do. After about two weeks of writing I realised that what I intended to write about is far too complex to write in a month. I would need a year or two, I would need an infinite amount of time, and since I am still not payed for my writing I realised there is no way in hell I should continue with that project. It’s sad that what I intended to write ended up seeming close to S by JJ Abrams and Doug Dorst (which I haven’t read yet but intend to sometime soon). What I intended to write would be huge and complex and far too ambitious to be published by a young author – the world sucks!!! Anyways I quit, and surprisingly I don’t hate myself for that decision. So anyways I haven’t written here in aeons and I’m sure no-one wants to know what I’ve been up to since I last wrote.

I’ve actually been doing nothing. I lie. I’ve been taking French classes et je sense j’ai recu (c with a thingy on it) rien a patir de la classe. Tout ce que je recevais etait (e with a different thing on it) une fascination (is that right?) avec thingies sur des lettres. If you bother to translate that and find out how bad my French is then: I’m sorry. So anyways other than that I’ve been writing a lot. I even got another rejection letter from a publisher. I wish we had agents in South Africa so they could tell me whether I should pursue an idea or not. Why do we have big ideas? An even better question why do we have big dreams? All big dreams ever seem to do is hurt us because they are so unachievably impossible. I know I don’t feel alone on this. I’m sure everyone out there keeps reaching out for their huge dreams and then bam, we fall face first into a pile of shit. And then after you stand up you step into that same pile of shit and fall right back down. The sad thing is the pile of shit is warm and kinda comfortable only it smells like shit so we never appreciate our comfortable landing spot we always try to leave it as fast as possible. Maybe if we stayed in our shit for longer… nevermind we’d just smell like shit.

I wonder though, I wonder a lot.

I wonder why everything everywhere is so… so whatever it is,

Things are hard to attain, things we do get never seem worth getting anyway. Why do we dream when all we are met with is disappointment? Am I the only one who thinks about this? Am I the only one who thinks like this? Is there going to be an end to my rhetorical questions? Do you think I should stop now? Why are you still reading?

I bet you can’t repeat that last question cos you skipped everything after: Is there an end…? And yes there is an end, everything ends #sadreality #Istillhatetwitter #whyamidoingthis? But that always happens, always things go on and on we keep #hashtagging and falling in our shit. We keep dreaming and dreaming some more and then we realise our dreams are and only can be dreams. But then we say with work and time and effort and the tick of the clock things will happen. And then we realise that tautology is a crime greater than the error of syntax (which should not be confused with sin tax – the taxes I pay on booze and cigarettes, stupid government!), and we give up, only to try again a day later. We put ourselves in the trap. And as always I wonder, why isn’t shit comfortable.

Shit is soft and squeezable and warm (if fresh) and also stinky, so I stand up again. I try to go. But bam I spilled and am now lying face first wondering if the cycle will end or this blog post has a point.

It doesn’t have a point, That’s because a blog post has no shape, or does it? I wonder and I think and I dream if blog posts were actually important what would this say about me and I dream that someone would read this to completion, and I think someone out there must know what I’m talking about. I dream of that someone and shaking their hand. I dream of smiling at them but we are computers apart and my dream is dashed, back to shit. Back to trying to stand knowing that I will only fall in the next few seconds.

Back to me and this silly name: AnotherWannabe.

A Fly

19 Jul

Bzzzzzzzzz
Whir, Kung Pow!
Phew! Dodged it.
Bzzzzzzzzz

Off I go.
I’m a fly, I fly.

It doesn’t matter,
Whether I’m here or there.
All I know is:

DODGE THE SWATTER!

Inspire Me or Maybe Post Me

19 Jul

So has anyone ever tried the ‘inspire me’ link? I just did about 5 seconds ago. And then I wondered if the inspiration changes so I clicked it again. I didn’t try the link ‘cos I was uninspired I was just curious. It seems like I was just too curious today because I stumbled on Heed not Steve’s “Do not read” post, I know I should reblog it but I actually don’t know how so sorry. Any way as I was saying, I was feeling curious about the Inspire Me thing because today was the first time I saw it.

I actually intended to post some of my older work, but I didn’t feel like the uncreative empty work of just blindly retyping things I’ve already worked on (just remembered copy paste – AAARRGH! CAL, YOU IDIOT! anyways…) What do you think about the things shown in the inspire me deal? Have you ever, will you ever use them? I’m not sure if I ever will, maybe one day if I’m really bored and have a serious case of writer’s block but then again I always find something to write about as soon as I turn on my computer. Even though half of what I write is total bull shit I still have something to write about, I guess maybe I’m just inspired. No need for you ‘Inspire Me’. I have years and years of insecurities of sadness and anger to write about. I have thousands of things I can write, but then comes the obvious question why don’t I post it?

Hmmm, I guess I need something else, not an inspire me but maybe a thing like that says is this really worth posting. A should I or shouldn’t I. Or maybe something that says post me, publish this. Something that says the effort of sitting on your ass watching your fingers hopping from one letter to the next was worth it. Maybe the word is inspire as in inspire me to actually publish. You know it’s all good that I feel inspired and that I actually have stuff to say but I want something that will tell me post you stupid – son of a bitch (sorry mom) forget I wrote that, how about mother fucker (sorry mom again) didn’t say that either – fool -yes that’s better. There should be some tag under everything you write that says: ‘this should be posted you stupid fool’. But then comes my other problem I like using a pen (that way I can say I actually write), and when you write with pen and paper there is nothing that could say publish me (maybe I should get one of those pad thingies that type out handwritten work). I guess I just have a problem with no solution.

Urgh! WordPress help me, don’t help me feel inspired help me post, please.

AnotherWannabe inspired but not going anywhere.

Slim Fit Blue Jeans

17 Jul

This is probably one of my favourite poems ever, it was one of those that haunted me until I found the time to pen it down and just let it be. It was also the first poem I performed publicly and it’s also probably my longest piece. Hope you enjoy:

The first time I saw your jeans
You were sitting at the bar
A tall drink in your hands, alone, but with a smile on your face
I couldn’t help but approach you:
Pay you a compliment.

“Hey, dude! I like your skinny jeans.”
You smiled, gave a thanks but corrected me,
“They’re actually slim fit blue jeans.”
We sat, we talked for a bit, I was taken in
but you left me, and went over to that girl over there
with her skin tight dress which covered
only a hand of her thigh.

It was okay that you left me but your jeans continued to haunt me
I saw your slim fit blue jeans in the bathroom.
They were all the way down on your ankles.
I saw you in the stall with someone
Your legs mixed with hers creating a four-legged beast,
A beast with slim fit blue jeans constricting
Its slow sensual back, forth, up and down motion

Then again, I saw your slim fit blue jeans,
at the bar, this time she was hanging on
your shoulder, she was all the way in your
skin, breathing down your muscled neck. Holding
tightly while the bartender brought you
Two glasses  full. I admit I was jealous,
She entered your heart – I couldn’t. So after
a few more hours with my friends I left.

I didn’t think I’d see you again, but there
were those pants. Those slim fit blue jeans
That caressed your body so tightly. I gave
a smile in your direction, you didn’t notice me,
You were with her again up against
the alley wall. Faces glued together by
sticky tongues and moist lips.

I ran straight to my friends house. Hoping
Never to see you again. All my attempts
To reach you would be futile. Any try to
strip you of those jeans just wouldn’t be so
I left. I left you and your jeans behind.

As I was going home, I was only a block
away and there you were. Slim fit blue
jeans neatly in place as you walked without
a care in the world. Stupidly I called you
over and walked in your company.

I don’t know what I did wrong. When I
told you: “I’ve seen tour jeans all over the
place tonight.” I don’t know what gave you
a bad impression when I said: “your slim fit
blue jeans are a sign of our shared destiny.”
I knew we would never be together as a couple
but when I’m with you I smile; When
you’re with me you smile

But the last time I saw your slim fit blue
jeans, they came hurtling towards me
as a flying kick. You knocked me onto the
ground.

Your jeans, mercilessly flailing, kick after
kick as I lay there screaming in pain
taking hit after hit as your fury exploded
“AHHH Stop!” I screamed: “stop!”
Your jeans rained blow after blow
Never letting up. Blood spattered decorating
Once perfect jeans. Staining you with the
hatred coursing through my veins at this
moment. You left me there alone. You
left me with your blood stained slim fit blue
jeans.

That was the last time I saw your jeans.

You killed me, over fucking skinny jeans!

Demystification

12 Jul

Today was the first time I told someone about my blog. Sure plenty of people know I blog but I never told them my address or what my blog is about. Today was the first time that someone who isn’t a stranger read what I had to say. After I told my friend about my account he immediately jumped at the opportunity to read my page. He says he liked it and all (you know the usual stuff), but that isn’t why I’m writing. I guess I’m writing this because I wanted to talk about secrets. Things that we keep hidden, things that other people don’t know or shouldn’t know about you.

The one thing I want people to feel when they read my blog is demystified. In real life I spend so much time hiding things about myself to the world. In the real world I spend so much time pretending that I am something else, that I am happy,strong, confident, well-put-together, the list goes on and on, when really on the inside I am scared, angry, confused, self-deprecating, this list goes on and on too. I’m glad to have my blog, I’m glad I have a space to discuss my insecurities. I am glad that there is one space in my life where I am free to display a secret me.

So when people read my blog, I want them to experience a secret. I want them to see a life that can’t be and isn’t displayed out there in the real world. I hope that through reading it people will realise that there is more to people then what they display on the outside. I want to demystify myself using this space. I guess there is a lot more I could say, but I’m just thinking back on a post I made yesterday. I suppose it is a good thing to write about yourself, at times, especially when our world is so full of secrets, writing about yourself opens doors and welcomes people into the last sacred space in the world (our minds). My blog is my space to show what my life is without all the smoke and mirrors, and I hope that that is what people get out of it.

(Okay I think I’m comfortable enough to show some of my work on here now)

So I guess now everyone knows why I’m so uncomfortable telling people I know about my blog right? Anyways my parents will only read this in 30 years or so (if ever).

Significance of Me

11 Jul

I suppose I should just start this by saying that I don’t really know where this is headed, it is just another post that has no direction and no real intention, except for maybe some therapeutic venting (is that a real thing? it should be). This post is just another self obsessed post about myself. I’m actually really sick about writing my own life, it makes me feel uncreative, it makes, me feel conceited. It makes me feel stupid and childish. It makes me feel a lot of things a whole lot of trash, but still I continue to do it. I do it over and over again. I recently read a blog post, not sure whose or what the title was anymore, about writing about one’s self (I actually hate when people refer to themselves as one, will edit this soon) and in it the writer said it was something about finding a deeper truth. I guess it made sense, writing about myself is sort of a way to gain insight into my hidden feelings but does it serve a purpose? What is the significance of writing me?

What is the point of going on and on about myself? What am I trying to say about me and my life and anything in general when I write about myself? Surely there are more interesting things to say then: ME, ME, ME. Surely I can find something else, anything else out there in the world to write about. Surely there are thousands of things more significant then I am. I started this blog with the intention of finding an audience, of writing to people about things in the world that actually matter, of actually using my talent (or lack there of) to do something interesting new, exciting. But in the end all I used this for is to showcase my never ending self-hatred and need to change who I am. I use this blog as platform for nothing other than self-indulgence. I am getting so sick of singing the same note over and over again. When will I move from Me to Fa? And as a follow up question why skip Doh and go straight to Me?

You will actually be shocked to know that I’m kinda too embarrassed to post some of my poetry and short stories up here. I find them too self-obsessed. Posting those on my blog will make me feel like I’m way too conceited. For once I want to post something that isn’t about me but then again I always feel that people will hate those more than they hate what is already published on this blog. And there i go again, doubting myself, mocking what I have to offer this world. I am so sick of it. But mostly I am just so sick of writing about me. And here comes a follow up problem, I have this idea for a novel based on a short story I wrote. The story is about what a guy, me, experiences when he reads and rereads his suicide note, it then goes into a crazy conversation he has with Death. So my idea for the book is what this guy experiences in the future, and what it is like living with a chip (named Death) on your shoulder. I haven’t started work on the book yet, partly because I think the idea is too out there for the South African market and also because it would be another thing based on me. Could there possibly be a way for me to stop writing about myself? Why am I so frikken obsessive?

So to end off, this is another post about me. This is another post in which I can’t stop hating the way I work and think. It is a post in which I really ask, What is the significance of me:

AnotherWannabe?