Mind Your Language - Season 1 Episode 1 (Hilarious!)

Spleen

Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle
Sur l'esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,
Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle
II nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;

Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide,
Où l'Espérance, comme une chauve-souris,
S'en va battant les murs de son aile timide
Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris;

Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées
D'une vaste prison imite les barreaux,
Et qu'un peuple muet d'infâmes araignées
Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,

Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie
Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement,
Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie
Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrement.

— Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,
Défilent lentement dans mon âme; l'Espoir,
Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique,
Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.

— Charles Baudelaire

Spleen

When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid
On the groaning spirit, victim of long ennui,
And from the all-encircling horizon
Spreads over us a day gloomier than the night;

When the earth is changed into a humid dungeon,
In which Hope like a bat
Goes beating the walls with her timid wings
And knocking her head against the rotten ceiling;

When the rain stretching out its endless train
Imitates the bars of a vast prison
And a silent horde of loathsome spiders
Comes to spin their webs in the depths of our brains,

All at once the bells leap with rage
And hurl a frightful roar at heaven,
Even as wandering spirits with no country
Burst into a stubborn, whimpering cry.

— And without drums or music, long hearses
Pass by slowly in my soul; Hope, vanquished,
Weeps, and atrocious, despotic Anguish
On my bowed skull plants her black flag.

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

I am irrevocably lost...

I am lost. The bread crumbs have long ago been picked away by the birds.. Retracing my steps will be more painful than treading into the unknowing abyss of the life that lies before me.. I am lost. Nothing is certain anymore; everything teeters on the edge of consequence. My path has been effaced..

Show me your face...

Show me your face
     I crave
     flowers and gardens

     open your lips
     I crave
     the taste of honey

     come out from
     behind the clouds
     I desire a sunny face

     your voice echoed
     saying "leave me alone"
     I wish to hear your voice
     again saying "leave me alone"

     I swear this city without you
     is a prison
     I am dying to get out
     to roam in deserts and mountains

This poem makes me weep...

Translation of Rumi

I promised myself...

     I promised myself a long LONG time ago to write everyday to help me sift through and remember my thoughts better, but excuses ran amuck. So today I turn the leaf of my mind over and start inscribing everything because I am sure that one day I will appreciate this (if not for the short-term equilibrium of my sanity (that hopefully won't be so short-term after all)). Here goes...

Queen Maji

     My finger is so swollen that it is beginning to resemble a small balloon. I hope my sweet, fat Maji is happy, for she drew much blood! Not that that was her goal, I hope. And all at the cost of rescuing my sister's already-crappy headphones from the depths of Maji's jaw. But alas, how can one be upset with a face that cute? That is constantly my problem. Maji gets away with murder (well, at least that's the case with my poor finger, R.I.P.) and bugs walk all over me (for God's sake, I am hoping that is not literally true...). I just have a weak spot for all bugs and animals! Today, for example, my mom and I were folding blankets to get them ready to take to her storage unit, and I found a spider on the sheets (they had been left out on the ground of the living room to dry, I guess, so who knows what else is lurking on them). Well, I tried to slyly make my way to the door so I could put him outside, but, of course, my mom noticed when I was wandering away from her with the sheets in my hand. My mom likes to yell, especially when one attempts to chisel away at the cement that holds her rigid, daily goals, so..she yelled. Boy, did she yell. I told her I was going to put Mr. Spidey outside, but she quickly brushed him off of the sheets and yelled at me some more. Joy. Not only was I pissed for being discovered but I was sad because Mr. Spidey's fate didn't look too promising to me right then... That was the last time I ever saw him. Dang, I just reread this paragraph.. I am one bizarre species....

     Anyway, today was such a beautifully overcast day...Overcast days always give me an insatiable urge to walk in the rain, but once the rain comes, my heart dreads actually taking a walk. I can only take a walk when it first starts raining, because once it's been going for a while...the poor wormies come out. And shoes are not kind to them. I shudder each and every time I see a squished worm on the sidewalk because they thought it was moist and safe enough to come out. If I see a living worm on the sidewalk, I cannot walk by it without putting it into the nearest dirt pile and covering it. I CANNOT do it. It makes me sick to my stomach if I walk by, knowing that that worm could be dead in the next few moments because I left him. I am so bizarre, but it's true. I just cannot enjoy walks in the rain anymore, it torments me so much....Sometimes I wish I were different, but then I think about all of the worms that I have saved these past years....

     I am tired and all of these thoughts about the death of cute spiders and worms and my poor balloon of a finger make me sad, so off to bed I go. Sweet dreams, my friends...

Dreams...

I dreamt about you last night... Or was it just a memory that smiled across my drifting mind? These days it is hard for me to tell the difference, as sunrise fades into sunset just as carelessly as a hand that is pricked by the sharp thorns of a tender rose.. The moment my mind settles on the beginnings of an answer, it all but vanishes for good. I am completely null at starting over; with goodbyes, my foundation is shattered and seeds refuse to grow.

Life Goes On...

I often wonder why I am still hanging on, but then I remember that if I give up air altogether, death is inevitable. So. Should I go on as a phantom, living but not feeling, transparent as the reflection of the water before me, or should I surrender and stop being a hypocrite to the emptiness in my heart as I have for ever so long been?

Beauty is exposed but to a few...

I have always been in awe of those who can find a source of beauty in those things that we have already defined as banal or insignificant. Beauty is not created but merely revealed. A unique point of view, like a magnifying glass, unlocks and exposes these sources solely to its possessor. This source of beauty only makes sense to the mind of the beholder, serving as a source of inspiration. It is only in these rare occasions, when the point of view is "tweaked" in an unusual way, that the most spectacular and profound artistic revelations are formed. I truly believe that my favorite poet, Pablo Neruda, possesses this unique gift, as proved in this beautiful poem that follows:

Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market

Among the market greens,
a bullet
from the ocean
depths,
a swimming
projectile,
I saw you,
dead.

All around you
were lettuces,
sea foam
of the earth,
carrots,
grapes,
but
of the ocean
truth,
of the unknown,
of the
unfathomable
shadow, the
depths
of the sea,
the abyss,
only you had survived,
a pitch-black, varnished
witness
to deepest night.

Only you, well-aimed
dark bullet
from the abyss,
mangled
at one tip,
but constantly
reborn,
at anchor in the current,
winged fins
windmilling
in the swift
flight
of
the
marine
shadow,
a mourning arrow,
dart of the sea,
olive, oily fish.
I saw you dead,
a deceased king
of my own ocean,
green
assault, silver
submarine fir,
seed
of seaquakes,
now
only dead remains,
yet
in all the market
yours
was the only
purposeful form
amid
the bewildering rout
of nature;
amid the fragile greens
you were
a solitary ship,
armed
among the vegetables
fin and prow black and oiled,
as if you were still
the vessel of the wind,
the one and only
pure
ocean
machine:
unflawed, navigating
the waters of death.

Pablo Neruda

And what do you do with the carcass of a withered dream?

And what do you do with the carcass of a withered dream? I can't simply bury it. No, I've grown far too attached to it over these long years. I raised it since it was merely a seed of inspiration...I watched it grow, as I grew. From seed to beautiful, nearly-tangible fantasy, obsession. I believe my tendencies sucked the life out of it - maybe I should brush up on my knowledge of the manual on how to grow dreams properly? Or maybe I should just figure out what the hell I am first. How do I expect to figure out who I want to be in the future, where I want to go, what I want to achieve, when I don't even know how define my desires now? I guess in the meantime, I will distract myself by planting new seeds. It has always been all but too easy for me to start something. The difficulty lies in following through. Inspiration radiates from all, ripe for the picking, whereas nourishment and growth takes years, sometimes a lifetime to give birth. Why bother, when success is rarely guaranteed?

Over these many years of my life, I have learned to be complacent in this false reality that I have built for myself, plucking the fruit of inspiration around me and laying the seeds behind me, again and again forgetting to carry them along with me as I trek through this journey of life alone. The mere satisfaction I get from depositing each seed keeps me more than satisfied, adding more cement and thick bricks to my personal domain that hides me from this world. One by one, I plant each seed behind me, like cookie crumbs reminding me that the life that I long for is "this way." But day after day, promising myself again and again that I will return, I take the path "that way." Confrontation with these angry, neglected seeds will only tear away at my fantasy, one brick at a time, exposing me to the ravenous world that longs to ensnare my sanity. No. No, no no noooo. I am perfectly comfortable this way. For I am safe from the world, and my mind is ignorant to its cruelty....Right?

And the enigma of this world still torments me...

It’s at night when the stars knit sense into the frayed strands of my thoughts...

"What are you, my dear bloom? For, though you resemble the silhouette of the rose, your stem runs as smoothly as the cool water beneath your roots."

"I am but a weed, sister to the daisy, as hollow as the reeds that sway in the wind. My empty core lacks the nourishment to coax even the slightest thorn. I will last but a single week in this world, for my beauty has betrayed me."