2:16AM

.

In spite of obstacles and disagreements, women continued to campaign for suffrage.

Jennifer wong posted on your wall. What did u get for ur midterm? I totally

failed. The turning point in the long battle

finally came in 1916, when the vigorous I did OK suffrage

campaign waged by western women

culminated in their

                                      Omg I wanna kill someone. Cooper like,

rapidfires and my hand can barely

keep up. My notes are shit. imma leech on to

yours from now on kk?

Enfranchisement in Manitoba, Alberta, and Saskatchewan. A year later, British Columbia and Ontario followed suit; women in Nova Scotia,

                           I’m sure you did fine.
I TOLD YOU I FAILED.

.

2:20AM.

New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, and Newfoundland won the vote in 1918, 1919, 1922, and 1925, respectively. In all cases except New Brunswick and Ontario, the right to vote was accompanied by the right to hold office; New Brunswick women

 .

2:23AM

Emily Goodman likes your link.

2:23AM

Emily Goodman comments on your link.

                                                                                                   WTF? That’s just horrible.

New Brunswick women became eligible to hold office in 1934; and Ontario Women, in 1919.

I know. Poor kid.

Are they calling him a nigger? But he’s Asian…

People are weird.

.

2:27AM

Emily Goodman likes your comment

2:28AM

Jennifer wong commented on a post on your wall.

.

Fine just ignore me.

Only Quebec held back and refused to grant the provincial vote to women until 1940. At the federal level, women’s franchise was achieved in three phases. The Military Voters Act in 1917 gave the vote to women nurses

                        Look I’ve got a crapload of reading to do.

LIAR.

Seriously Jen I’m like 100 pages behind my women’s studies.

THEN GET OFF FB.

THEN STOP DISTRACTING ME.

^dislike.

.

2: 59AM

Emily Goodman also commented on your post.                                                  

.

Shit it’s 3AM.

This is an experimental poem of mine and also my attempt to capture a procrastinator’s mind…let me clarify, though, this is not a personal experience. I don’t really procrastinate because I’m a good student, haha. At least, not like this, going back and forth between Facebook and required school readings. I did quote extensively from my women studies textbook, though. I was also referring to a real video being posted and later removed on Youtube, about this Asian kid being beaten up by seven other kids. The “friend” names I totally made up. I tried to imitate online “Facebook” talk and I used some abbreviations…the spacing was really tricky when I transferred it onto WordPress, because the editing box doesn’t really reflect the reality of the page (once it’s published, that is.) I had to preview like crazy to make sure everything looks right. And anyway, I am SO HUNGRY right now. I need to go eat.

I fell asleep counting

the many tomorrow’s,

solving and unsovling a

nonexistent equation;

weaving and unweaving

a never-ending dream;

waiting and unwaiting

at the edge of my world

for the brim of your shadow.

Inspired by “Destination Moon” by The Dining Room. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kr7BDJGMWy4&ob=av2n This version on Youtube is slightly different than the one I have, but it’s the same song.

She boards the train

with calculated caution and

adequate reason—she convinces herself.

Now she’s on the train

the clattering beast, her old foe;

no railings, only wings.

.

The way she floods her eyes

with intention, searching for a

destination that seems to be soaring

past the windows, illicit ghost stations

that, for some reason, excite her.

.

She denies. There’s no way

you will be able to persuade her.

She sits, content with this journey,

this so-called adventure, this anticipated

quest of the heart. In her certainty

and incorrigible wisdom she will not

be bowed. She will not listen.

.

If you beseech her to

come to her senses

she will angrily and promptly

produces the train ticket from her

hand, asserting justice and righteousness,

and you shall suspect lunacy: a girl

sitting on a weathered bench, wrapped

in her flamboyant traveling coat,

humming a gentle tune,

holding a suitcase that is empty,

and her hair adrift with

a mythical wind.

.

There is no train. There never

will be a train. There is only

a mirror, tugged carefully in the

folds of her reason which

on its surface contains

the reflection of a pair

of clear-cut diamond eyes,

ever-seeing and ever-knowing,

shimmering like stars in the dark.

This is unlike my usual writing style…I’m trying to explore different modes of expression. This “mode” is inspired by Leonard Cohen’s poem, “What I’m Doing Here”, which is an excellent poem about…hehe, I won’t tell you what it’s about. Or you’ll be influenced by my interpretations! If you’re thinking about reading it, that is. It’s about 20 something lines. It’s super short and it’s worth a read.

I perspired

against fabrics

of wind wrapped about my arms

like sleeves; silken dreams

flailing, aimlessly brushing

aside restless thoughts

that clung

to my dampened skin.

Her world revolved around perfection,

balanced on top of her surreptitious efforts

to avoid annihilation. Too many mouths to feed, too many

demands, too many dead-ends, too many what-if’s,

too many if-only’s—she was burdened by a meta-awareness

that reverberated through the sully caves

of her battered soul. She lied to herself to survive,

questioned every little detail of her life,

examined everything with fanatical care

and predicted, enacted every possible predicament

in her pretty little head for she was scared

by the things she thought she knew.

.

Should she fail,

the universe would shatter, a glass castle besieged

by an army of ghosts, and people’s faces

would darken, a darkness that she gravely feared,

would fall. There would be no redemption, only perdition.

Her very heart, held wholesome and beating

by this pitiful fragility, pumped wearily against

her mellow ribcage, in the shadows. To not care

meant to tread on thorny roads, to move mountains

with her bare hands, to drink a river dry with spoon.

.

Yet she heard it; she heard it constantly: step into

the light. Embrace the sun. She yearned for it. Yearned

for that light that would set her free—and one day she was saved—

saved her from the claws that were

etched in her flesh and she watched the chains around her

feet come undone and joy come pouring through the chasm of

darkness, a shower of golden energies, an ever-shining

rain that cleansed her anew, and made her see

the beauty, the perfection of imperfections and herself.

A world where nothing mattered and everything mattered and

she doesn’t give a damn because she is who she is. She

doesn’t care if she fails or if she makes a fool of herself,

because aren’t we all fools when we think we look like fools,

because aren’t we all human when we try to be above and beyond,

because aren’t we already the best of who we are

if we simply just be.

I was a perfectionist, and perhaps I still am. You have no idea how difficult life is when you’re a perfectionist. But recently, I’ve changed. Why should I care? Why do I care? There are too many things I can’t control in life and I don’t want to be just merely surviving, I want to be living. I’m not scared anymore. I’m free.

He found a bloody eclipse in her eyes,

dark orbs rimmed with crimson,

shining secrets beautifully and wonderfully sordid

that whispered of years and centuries and eons of things

beyond his existence, memories thick

enough to smother his soul. Gradually

he became lost, yet again,

inside the labyrinth of an impossible love,

hunted by the inscrutable darling of the night,

a diabolical creature so tender, so true,

so hard to touch and so beautiful. She danced

to the rhythm of his violent heartbeat,

consuming the scent of his terror

through her monstrous nostrils and

every time as he tried to rationalize desperately

their unorthodox romance, she would

fade into the shadows whence she came—

her smile branded, tattooed upon his flesh—

and vanish out of his reach.

I had a brief gothic phase for about one week or so, during which I once again fell in love with vampires. This is the product of my short-lived fervour. This reminds me of high school…I was completely gothic-minded and wrote about vampires, angels and demons all the time. I remember my creative writing teacher refusing to publish my poem about demon conjuring into the school anthology haha. I had to switch it with another poem that wasn’t blatantly evil. Heh heh heh heh heh.

You stood before me

with your pretty promises spread

across your feet like a

gasoline rainbow and

as your inevitable lies fell

like a match and set

you on fire

I watched you burn

in silence.

She wore madness on her face like an

expression; those self-induced flickers

of uncertainty inside the pale hues of her iris

represent something dark, some trembling secrets

sewn across the edges of her mind, of chaos. She

wrapped herself in her beauty and vulnerability,

a blanket of stars and fire and so easily,

she caused the unrealities to become realities

with her meticulous alchemy, securing, augmenting

tears and melancholy with chemicals

distilled from her poisonous past, the everlasting

genesis of justice, the immortal core of reason—

where she first died, emerged, and gave birth

to herself—where she rejoiced, celebrated

her own diabolical victory—feeding her

dreams to the devil while her heart—lost,

forever, in her own silhouette.

the fabrics of my mind,

tickled by the loose stitches,

like soft feathers across

my palm, and I searched

for the lost syllables that

rained down onto my hair,

a young, frivolous haiku trickling

down the lines of my body, kissing

my feet in a rush and disappearing

down the drains without

being born, without a word

of good-bye.

So if you have a twitter account, follow me @ kimtsan0417

I’ll always follow back.

Thanks for your support!!! <3

You heart recognizes it before your mind does. Over

the years it has decoded the language of your soul, deconstructed

the patterns of your behaviour and systemized your

various reactions and thoughts. In order to ensure survival,

it strategizes your emotions and efficiently segregates

your truest feelings so you react appropriately to

things that it considers too good to be true or

things that will certainly do you more harm than good.

.

Its calculations are nearly always exact, immutable

and indispensible and just as your heart masters

the mechanics of your internal chaos, you

indulge yourself in its loyal service and you feel safe

wrapped in this dependence, this self-deception. With

continuous practice, your faithful servant tackles the difficult

maths of life, what you call, bad shit that always

happen to good people.

.

Like any intellectual being, that little piece of beating

flesh inside of your chest gradually comes

to its own wistful conclusion: to simplify

the equations and formulas and to reduce the

constant complication of its computation—it begins to

defragment its hard-drive, erasing the unnecessary files,

memories of joy, of love and of hope. Those things

are not needed. What good have they done so far?

According to its calculation, humans need only

one thing to survive, and that is thing is fear.

.

So it teaches you to be afraid,

To live in fear, to become fear itself.

Only then, can you be fully and truly

protected from pain, from unfulfilled wishes,

from one job to the next, from one lover to another,

from the shards of your broken relationships,

from the dawnless sleeps, the nightmares that

do not end, the devil that is life.

Perfection through absolution:

Halved, with a profound and indispensable jealousy.

An insufferable displacement. From chaos, he

shall give birth to himself, stain his princely hands

with the blood of a condescending illusion constituted

of destruction, lost lives and scorched waste. His

own personal manifestation of reality, of unreality,

a dense web of lies, an estranged dimension of suspended

pain and diabolical joy. He lives in an inescapable paradox,

the only space for his existence; an exit and a dead end;

a loveless labyrinth; a complex, wretched  architecture built

upon the darkness of his soul.

This is the Loki from the recent Marvel’s movie, Thor. I’m having a helpless crush on him, haha. And he’s such a fascinating villain to write about (and to adore hehe). He’s going to appear as the primary villain in next year’s Avengers movie, which I am seriously looking forward to. I just hope that the movie will be epic, because it has such a great character set: Loki, Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, Hulk, Black Widow, Hawkeye. What could go wrong, really? They’re the superheroes of our time. I just hope it won’t be ruined by a shitty plot, like Captain America, which I thought had great potential after seeing the trailer.

Anyway. I’m so busy these days *sob* I have to steal time to write my poetry. I make myself seem like a thief. But truly it’s my midterms and papers that are stealing my pleasures from me…just wait until I finish university. Ha! Then I’m going to be a full-time couch-potato for a year, just to make up all the time in which I didn’t slack off properly. Mwahahahahahaha.

A crimson explosion of blood serves

as an accurate representation of her heart,

beating in accordance with the cocks

of the machine gun, a rhythmic crescendo

of the sounds of destruction, fusing with the

undeniable chromatics of remorse, corrosive chords

of forsaken love and splatters of awry glissandos

that reflect the self-contained chaos within her

trembling self. She must not utter a word, in

order to conserve an expression of serenity.

Tears are not allowed. Love is not allowed. You

are not allowed. Thus, she restrains the violent spasms of

despair, pulls everything close, inward, inside, those

demon claws that tear her into pieces, corrosive aspirations

that she knows will never be realized, will cease once

she ceases. With a horrendous cry, she fires, charges,

at her enemy, the princess of destruction, destroying

all that’s in her path, all that is  herself.

Haven’t been able to write much lately…stupid midterms and group presentations. This has been a free-write. I just let words flow. I am so haunted by this warrior princess these days…a character without a name, a story that I will have to write sooner or later, because I have never been so obsessed about a character before, not like this. And I’m very tempted to name her Gloriana, a name I’ve come across in reading Spencer’s Faerie Queene. But that will be for another time…right now, I’m so busy with school that I practically don’t have a life.

And here’s the playlist I’ve created for her using 8tracks. Here’s my warrior princess in motion–and her narrative expressed in the forms of music.

http://8tracks.com/kimtsan/soldier

The enemy dwells within my throat

like a furry hairball of sulphur, stubbornly

resisting my coughs, refusing to come

to terms with my mutilated voice that of

a premature hag, too early for Halloween

to justify its unnatural coarseness. Words,

entangled in that sickly mess, a sticky web

of overjoyed virus that has colonized my

body and my spirit. I sneeze out my protests,

attempting to drive those uncountable

microscopic pests out of my bloodstream, a

long-sounding battle cry from my immune

system. No, I will not surrender. I shall

continue to fight with a warm bed, a cup

of minty green tea with stirred-in honey

and Tylenol. So quit bothering my health and my

worn-out school life. This is the ultimatum or be

rest assured that I, shall, destroy, you, with,

CHICKEN SOUP.

Floating trousers, dangling feet

Chuckling bouncers, Suspended heat

Fingertipping clouds, marshmallow breeze

Honey-dipped wind chills, courageous indeed

Hear my words, obey me, heed

From gravity, I, shall set, you free

.

2. Of tripping

Toes-slide and collide.

Kiss the floor, scrape your chin,

Let those tears fill your salty eye.

.

3. Of tickling

Feel the tickle, wiggle, wiggle;

Invisible fingers, tickle tickle.

I started writing spells, haha. I wonder how I’ve never done it before, having loved magic for so many years…anyway. Writing spells are fun, hehe, although I’m not very good at it yet. And I suck at rhyming.

a timid turtle seeking shelter

in the indispensible silence, a casual

impersonal disconnection from

my surroundings, somewhere that

was safe, where I remained withdrawn,

unspoken to, wordlessly smiling.

.

My voice was a quiet one. Phrases

that emerged out of my throat

easily lost their coordination

and function, always ending up

tangled, in the nearby molecules,

lost between empty places, configuring

spaces. Like a dampened cloth I

hung undisturbed on a shadowed rack,

my existence melting, blending

into the scene.

.

Most of the time you wouldn’t know

what I was talking about, since I never

was able to say what I intended to say.

But how I yearned to be understood,

how I craved for verbal expression,

and how I hid behind my shyness, hugged

it to my chest like a child’s teddy bear

and how I wished to be free from this

imprisonment, this inconsolable

genetic code, this auto-lock of speech and

self and this subliminal separation

and sedimentation of my character.

.

How I wish I could be. I could be

so much more. So much more

than this.

Went to an icebreaker event last night for this club I joined (oh shoot…I forgot to pay the membership fee!) It took me a while to adjust to it since everyone spoke Mandarin, and I hadn’t spoken Mandarin for a while LOL but anyway. The usual social situation for me–I was braindead because I was shy and I couldn’t speak up because I was sick and I sounded like a old hag (and unsuccessfully joked about it and made a complete idiot out of myself) and also I totally screwed up my self-introduction. Bleh. And all the time I was too self-conscious of my throat which felt like it was turning into sandpaper.

I really ought to just take it easy, eh?

I sat displaced in the bloated

classroom, the air fighting its way

into my nostrils, assuming its desperate

quest down to my timid lungs that were

shrunken with self-repression and deflated

by an unbearable awkwardness. My professor

is such an idiot. My retracted

muscles pulled closer to the depth of

my bones, wringing me dry, that diabolical

force—flailing relentlessly at the

panicking words in my throat, cries for help

and salvation, save me from all this frustration,

cries that were meant to be heard. He doesn’t even teach!

I was quarantined, made to exist in this nameless

dimension, my own designated area, suffering

alone in a pool of stale discussions and irresponsibility,

and I was lost in the intensity of their breaths,

their silence, some forty three other students

whose names I did not know and would probably

never know, and I was lost, in a morally

deformed labyrinth, compelled to tread on thorny roads,

followed by an abhorrent demon lord whipping

my bare back with that disgustingly innocent

smile of his. I was dying for an echo,

a resonance, a possible improvement, but I rued,

for reaping up what I sewed. For taking this

stupid class taught by an incompetent professor

who can’t even summarize an academic article

for the love of God and asks the most

utterly retarded questions ever which

totally ruins his status as a teacher at a

prestigious university. How did he get hired anyway?

 .

End of poetic rant.

 This is my professor who assigns a bunch of hardcore reading to us and expects to come to class, having them all read, to discuss about them, while he walks around with zero teaching, zero input, and I am pretty sure he secretly blames the class for being dead if we, at times, do not talk as much as he wants. Oh come on. This is a UNIVERSITY class. And you dare call yourself a teacher.

I disintegrate your expressions:

your nonchalant eyes, your pupils that

shine, perpetually, with a crystallized,

inexplicable anger—and your

dignified nose, freefalling

past your thin lips, trembling and

crumbling, and finally, flakes of your

Caribbean beach-tanned skin, shafts of

light that nobody can fight.

You are a burning paper mache;

pieces of you, caught in the iridescent

flickers, fly reluctantly into the

centre of my hand, forming into a

sun-blanched axe, which I then hold,

my fingers turning white. I shall

penetrate you with your own defiance,

shatter your diamond armour that blinds

anyone who tries to be near. I shall

dive into your ribcage and seize that

chainlocked heart, send the arrows of my

flaming love through and through

and through until I reach that barren,

destitute chamber of secrets, secrets

hidden in the origami of your soul, where

truth is carefully tugged under the wings

of a flightless crane and hope is buried

deep inside the curves of a dying rose.

And ruthlessly, I look into your eyes and

seize your beating paper heart

and I take hold, I unfold.

 Omgomgomgomg it’s 9:41 and I still haven’t read Spencer yet $*@#&)$*#&$*)&@# I’M GONNA DIE and I just ate 9 golden oreo cookies dipped in milk which were yum–no. FAT. FAT IS WHAT THEY ARE. PURE FAT. With 4% iron…that’s as healthy as it goes. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

Anyway. Sorry for ruining the mood. I haven’t been able to write poetry these days because of school…I wish I have more time if only we have 30-hour days. That will make my life so much easier. How did we decide on the 24 hour per day and 7 days per week thingy again? We should totally revolt and start a new calender. Ha!

And I want more of those cookies…darn it, Kim. Stop being a slave to your tummy. D:

trying to shape out its true form,

but you evaded my meticulous attention

like a cockroach

scurrying away from a hand-curled

magazine, your six-legged frenzy

left me disarrayed, dismayed and afraid.

.

I was growing tired

of the dire need

to imagine your expressions.

and digitally-expressed individualism

claws out a juicy part of my

consciousness, falsifies it, a

merciless regurgitation of meaningless

likes and status updates that holds

me close, refusing to let me go. Is

it my denial that gives it power,

this strange world populated by people

I never meet, or is it this inexplicable

pull that draws me near, that grotesque

sucking mouth of the general public, and

divides

me

from the inside, and offers half

of my soul to the omnipotent internet,

on a silver plate?

.

Either way, I am scared,

of letting go,

of not letting go.