A Meeting At A Hotel Lounge (feat. Blanchot and Cummings)

Monsieur Blanchot and Mr Cummings were waiting for me. M Blanchot was staring out of the hotel window at the lush and green garden and Mr Cummings was reading a magazine behind a puff of smoke. I apologised for my tardiness and took a seat in front of them. M Blanchot nodded, his suit seemed as stiff as his chin, but his smile was friendly. Mr Cummings flashed me a tiny smirk and flicked his cigarette. The corner of his eyes crinkled.

“I did have the naive plan of arguing with Aristotle, and Montaigne, regarding their conception of friendship. But why bother?” (Blanchot, “For Friendship”34)

I thanked them for having inspired me to write my theses. I explained to them how much I admired them. They gave no response, but they appeared to be listening. And after some silence Mr Cummings chuckled. M Blanchot cleared his throat.

Image result for e e cummings
“”Good” and “bad” are simple things. You bomb me = “bad.” I bomb you = “good.”” (“Foreword to an Exhibit: I”, 1944)

I politely asked them to begin their conversation together and requested that they pretend that I was not there. And they did just that. Because I was not really there anyway, and they did not see me.

I whipped out my notebook and I listened intently to everything that they were saying among themselves. They were not talking to each other. They were not even in the same room together, as was I. But still I listened, and still I paid attention.

M Blanchot had an angular smooth face with a soft but piercing eyes. He talked to me about his reading on Hegel that he often quoted in his writing. He talked to me about silence, space, author, literature, and death. He talked to me about his friendship with Dionys Mascolo. His admiration of camaraderie.

I looked at Mr Cummings, and for me he was oozing masculinity as much as he was reeking of tobacco. His voice was melodious and he might as well be a swing singer or a newscaster to some extent, maybe. He did not look bathed or washed, and he was probably in his 40s, but he has this irrefutable charm that made me could not stop staring and listening. I scribbled on my notebook, dividing my attention between the two. M Blanchot kept talking without pause, but Mr Cummings liked to light a fresh cigarette between each pause. Mr Cummings’ vocabulary was mesmerizing, like a labyrinth of mind game I would be willing to get myself lost in.

I could listen to them all day long, although sometimes I could not help my mind to wander. But the day was ending soon, and the sky was getting dark, so I packed up my notebook. I sometimes still wonder how these men can manage to inspire me this much. I thanked them. They were there and then they weren’t. But their words resounded inside my notebook and inside my head, and I carry them everywhere with me.




I knew that since the first moment I met you, I didn’t want to let you go.

On the rooftops, I see you. I touch you. I listen to your voice I the wind. I see your tears in the waves. Your hair is the ocean I sink myself into.

The road I travel is the breath that you take. I taste, your blood, I walk, in your smile, your pain, my agony.

I hold you and you disappear.

I remember the music inside you, when we make love to the melody of the moon. I remember the stars when I sleep in your whispers. The air, our air, the dream, our dreams.

I never want to let you go. You fly away.

I catch a glimpse of you in the crowd. I don’t want to get lost in your lullaby. You are the one who first makes me. Creates me.

There is that river peeking in the corner of the street. You are the hill I surrender myself to. I surrender myself to you.

I will hold you again. Someday. Everyday.


The Clearing


In the clearing he stumbles on a tree trunk, but he does not fall. He sees a spring, crystal, quenching, not unlike the brunette girl bending over it. She drinks, and sees him. She runs. He tries to go after her, but the only thing he catches is her shadow and the fragrant whiff of her figure.

The next day he comes back, and the girl is there too. But this time he tries to talk to her. She wants to know about her. The girl looks disconcerted, anxious, but she answers him anyway. He asks her name. “Drucille.” She looks as lovely as the first flower that blooms in the spring. He asks about her age, and she looks right at his eye, smiling sadly. “Follow me.”

He is captivated. He does as he is told. She walks really fast, he almost can’t keep up so he jogs. He remembers his mother and little sister down at the hillside, fire blaring, pot boiling, waiting for a fat deer or juicy sluggish rabbit he hunts for supper. Then he smells the air around her hair. The day is old and the branches of the trees are long sharp fingers of the Devil himself. The moon peeks from its hiding. He follows her deeper to the calm darkness.

She takes his hand in hers. He shivers. “Welcome to my home,” she breathes.

Inside of the shack is warm and balmy. Her father, mother, and two little brothers sit around an empty table. They all smile, he smiles back. “Welcome to our home.”

Drucille must be an angel. She comes from a family of angels. The shack is so warm and comfortable, and the warm chocolate drink her mother gives him makes him all giddy. The aches on his muscles disappear. He even forgets about the bleeding cut on his right forearm caused by the thorny plants he passes on the way to her house. It throbs, but his head is too light and his insides are too warm. The pillow on the table would look out of place if he was sober, but it just seems so nice to rest his head there. So he does. He doesn’t see the glint of the knife on his side, or the glint in the little brothers’ eyes, but he does notice Drucille’s sad smile. Why are you so sad and so beautiful, angel?

In Defence of “Suicide Squad”: Yes, It’s A Mess, but It’s A Beautiful Mess, Nonetheless


I don’t define myself as a Marvel fangirl, DC fangirl, or the like. My comic book knowledge is limited up to the point of I sorta know who-is-who and my gift of Wikipedia-browsing. I used to have an unhealthy obsession with Naruto manga (Kakashi-sensei~~~), but that’s another story, and I’ve moved on (no, not really).

I do, however, enjoy a good comic book movie, with brilliant acting and plot. Awesome soundtrack is just a bonus, albeit a truly significant one. And in cases of great comic book movies, those things often go hand in hand.

An honourable mention here is Watchmen (2009). I didn’t read the original comics, so I understand a lot of hate it received from the comic book fans. I won’t say them wrong either, especially when it comes to its faithfulness with the source material, since I can’t say I knew better. Even so, I still think Watchmen is a flat-out brilliant movie. I spent literally all Sunday watching the Director’s Cut (the entire three hours and six minutes of it) and fell in love with the gorgeous visual and the stunning soundtrack. Who would forget the suspended-in-the-air lovemaking scene with Leonard Cohen’s melancholic “Hallelujah” playing in the background? Granted, most of the actings did not really stand out, with the exception of Jackie Earl Haley. Haley was sensational as Rorscharch, right to the last drop of his scattered body tissue. Watchmen was directed by Zack Snyder who at that time was still fresh out of his 300’s fame.

Seven years and a godawful Batman v Superman later, Snyder sat on the Executive Producer seat to produce Suicide Squad.  The hype exhilarated me to the bone. The trailer—oh that Bohemian Rhapsody trailer!—easily should be one of the best trailers ever made for a super/antihero movie. Again, I am not that knowledgeable of the characters, but I got myself enough information in my pocket (it’s called smartphone, perhaps you’ve heard of it) to feel super excited. I also watched David Ayer’s Training Day when I was in middle school and thought it was a solid movie. I was curious about his take on a comic book movie, especially with such interesting multi-faceted character ensemble. But of course, what got to me the most was the Joker. More on that later.

Here in New Zealand, where I live now, Suicide Squad opened in theatres a little bit later than the rest of the world. I bought the ticket a week before the movie’s opening night and it was all I could think about at work (and instead of my thesis). I browsed Facebook happily, thinking there must be glowing positive reviews from the critics and the fans alike who had watched the movie before me. But what I’ve got was a torrent of disappointments as Suicide Squad got absolutely shredded by the critics. It got a pathetic 37% rating on Rotten Tomatoes (which is down to 26% by the time I am writing this) and countless brutal reviews. The Muse has compiled some of the most scathing ones that reading them is almost as painful as reading hateful rhetoric from a swarm of bigots.

I tried not to let the bad reviews affect me. I still had high hopes when I walked into the cinema. After the credits rolled, I realised it was not as good as the promotional materials wanted you to believe, but it was nowhere near as horrific as you hear from the critics. True, it was a mess. Everything was mashed up together so incoherently it almost made no sense, and at times the fonts used to introduce the characters made me want to scratch my eyes out. It was a tough job for Ayer to introduce such complex characters and backgrounds for the maniacs and psychopaths in a little under two hours, so the first half of the movie was too rushed and sloppy with bits and pieces of scenes jumbled in. Almost unbearable to watch. Almost.

It could have been way better. Some reports have said that it was all the studio’s fault. With Marvel and its easy-to-like glittering cinematic universe soaring above them, DC and WB seemed to be desperately snatching at everything they could get their hands on in order to compete. The pressure was extremely high for Ayer and he was reportedly to be constantly exhausted. His initial vision was said to be closer to that of Nolan’s trilogy, with much darker tone and grim storytelling. (which I would much prefer, to be honest, as long as it is not over-the-top like BvS that I don’t even want to discuss) However the studio intervened to make to film more “fun”. As a result, some scenes were re-written and re-shot completely, costing them more millions to waste. Although Ayer has recently proclaimed that the theatre version as “his cut”, he admitted the ginormous pain in the ass for to make a movie that caters exactly to what people want. One of his sacrifices is leaving 10 minutes of Joker scenes on the cutting floor.

Which brings us to, yes, finally, the Joker. Let’s talk about the Joker. Before I say anything else let’s just agree that Heath Ledger’s Joker is the most well-acted Joker in the history of DC movies. Hell, maybe even in the history of superhero villains. He was simply flawless in every scene. Even the newest Joker, Jared Leto, agreed with me on this his recent interview. Nobody has yet topped Ledger’s performance, be it in the past or the present, and I would not argue otherwise. Nevertheless, with all that stuff, I still need to ask: but is Joker Ledger really the best Joker?

We’re talking about a comic-book villain in a comic-book movie here. The boom, thwack, and kapow with all of its glory. Nolan set the bar incredibly high with his Batman trilogy that successfully changed the expectations of the moviegoers for superhero movies. With superheroes like Batman we want grit, we want grim, we want to do Frank Miller justice. We want good storyline with the main character who is coincidentally a superhero. Heath Ledger performed so astonishingly as Joker that we came to want a pattern of Jokers who are as grisly and less giggly in the future. But Joker Ledger is not Batman’s Joker. He was a cunning madman, indeed, but his main objective was chaos for shit and giggles. He wasn’t obsessed with Batman, and even the “you complete me” interrogation scene in The Dark Knight felt more like a mockery to show that he could not care less for Batsy.

Enter Joker Leto. Leto is a brilliant, brilliant method actor. That Oscar he got for playing Rayon in Dallas Buyers Club is well-deserved. I can’t look at Rayon without feeling affection and heartbroken at the same time. She’s so fragile and likeable. Leto is always committed to disappear completely into every role he plays, and Joker was not an exception. News have covered his penchant of giving bizarre gifts to his Suicide Squad cast mates or that Will Smith never felt he’s met the “real” Leto, just the Joker. But what I want to bring up here is that I feel that his version of Joker really became the highlight of the otherwise shambled movie. It is mainly because of Harley Quinn.


Some critics who aimed at Joker Leto called him “too stereotypical to be menacing”, and his chemistry with Margot Robbie is “rigid”, but this is where I beg to disagree. The scattered chunk of scenes regrettably did not explain anything about how the smart and beautiful Dr. Harleen Quinzel came to fall for her green-haired, iron-toothed, red-lipped psychopathic patient. Even the moment of Harley’s transformation was poorly played and, dare I say, a little bit awkward. But the combination of gripping soundtrack and that kiss following the Joker’s dive somehow made up for all of its lacking. Blame my inner fangirl and shipper, but any scene with those two in it is what I enjoy the most for the entirety of the movie. In the comics, they have sadistic, abusive relationship which I would not approve, obviously. But despite the Joker’s real intention of keep trying to get Harley back, or whether or not he only sees Harley as his valuable property, I truly enjoy his showing his genuine care for Harley by pushing her out of the exploding helicopter. And that ending scene…. Let’s just say butterflies and stomach in one sentence.

In regards to awkwardness, do people forget how awkward it could be in comic book movies scenes? Remember that scene in Batman (1989) when Joker tried to woo Vicki Vale and then literally tried to waltz her to death? Yes, Jack Nicholson as Joker was pure concentrated madness, but Nicholson doesn’t even need to put on a costume for us to think so. Leto, meanwhile, is a chameleon. He unleashed his madness and he did not hold back. He enjoyed playing Joker even more than his previous roles. He transformed into Joker, as opposed to Will Smith’s Deadshot who was just basically… Will Smith. I can’t say I’m not disappointed to know that I could have seen 10 minutes more of Joker in the movie. Showing Leto’s full potential as Joker could have been something that made the movie awesome.

Aside from Harley, the rest of the cast, sadly, was more like background characters with almost no tangible developments whatsoever. Margot Robbie really shone, as she also pushed the boundaries of mad obsessive love to her Puddin’ and mad obsessive need to physically hurt people. And her scenes with Joker were honestly everything I thrive for.

Will Smith got waaay to much screen time than I care to see, because let’s be serious, who watched the movie to see him anyway? The Arrow’s Floyd Lawton, played by Michael Rowe, is three times more interesting than Smith’s version. Shame that the studio thought casting a name as big as him would do anything to help the movie. Jai Courtney, however, could have been given more backstory and quips. He was a delight and watching him pocketing his pink unicorn was more exciting than any of Smith’s scene combined.

El Diablo, Killer Croc, Katana, and the sadly short-lived Slipknot were like the members whose name nobody remembers from Taylor Swift’s squad. Enchantress was terrifying, I give you that, and Cara Delevigne was not really given the portion to showcase her talent. Joel Kinnaman’s Rick Flagg was unfortunately replaceable with nothing really worth remembering. Whilst Viola Davis as Amanda Waller was ruthlessly convincing enough, but not quite there.

Yes, as I said earlier, Suicide Squad could have been way better. It has all the elements to make it a startling comic book movie, but sadly it was not. It was still a mess; but a beautiful one, nonetheless. If Ayer could have been given more freedom to arrange these scattered pieces of colourful papers into one masterpiece collage, I believe he truly could. I have faith in him. But since it did not happen, we may need to take a look at what we considered as “messy”. There is always a beauty in madness, and a beauty in a mess. Suicide Squad reminds us of the good ol’ mess of comic book absurdity, in its own way. Hopefully there would be some kind of a redemption for DC in the form of Justice League (although I would never truly accept Affleck as Batman until the world ends) as long as they stop trying so hard to top Marvel and just let it be.

In the meantime, for y’all Ayerverse Joker fans out there, this one is for you. The music is not my cup of tea, but let me just indulge in the overexposure of Joker Leto for now…

Lotus Blooms

Antithèse, by Victor Brauner (1937)
Antithèse, by Victor Brauner (1937)

Lotus, your name is written in the language of the stars. You painted the sky with the colour of your smile; it was blood red. I am breathing the ground suffocating in your aura,

the rainbow in the sand, the shorelines of the broken shells, bubblehead bubbling jaunting
gargling amazing sharp shreds jagged edge tangy scent copper tongue
escaping curls touching fingertips. I am so artificial, aren’t I?

“exquisite corpse”

Petal modelling—unrelenting, releasing, immigrating. Electricity when our gaze met.

Lotus, your name is written inside my wrist, I carved it yesterday, using shrapnel of our past.

-Auckland, 22 October 2015

Insoluble Yearn


I’d like to sink myself in every rough detail of your face

I’d like to bathe myself in your sandpaper voice

I’d like to immerse myself in your scent and your breath

I’d like you to swallow me, swallow me whole, digest me, make me a part of you

I’d like to circulate inside your body and be within you

I’d like you to think that of me too.

Memento Mori


He already knew that things wouldn’t be easy, but he had never thought it would be this hard.

Sighing, he leaned his weary back against the decrepit bench, probably as old as he was. Hand on top of his walking stick: black cedar wood with a polished handle because he didn’t like those grubby metal-type that made a loud clang whenever he bumped into something. The wind is silent, the afternoon was falling, the babes on the playground were dispersing one by one to the arms of their loving parents only to come back the next day and wreak another havoc on the sandbox or the jungle gym. He paid little to no attention to any of them, as his mind was too preoccupied with the same feeling, same smell, same touch, same everything that was no longer there ever since she was gone forever.

Half of his heart, part of his breath. He watched the life diminishing from her beautiful eyes before they were closed, forever, he watched his tears dropping on her hand, grasping his own tightly, the tears dropping and then sliding down to the sparkly gleam of their wedding ring on her brittle finger. “Goodbye, my love,” she said, barely a whisper, before his life shattered into a million tiny pieces.

This playground, where he was now, sitting there but not really there, is where she said yes. What felt like an eternity ago. They danced under the streetlamp after, laughing merrily, she couldn’t hold back her ugly cry (that’s what she called it, but for him she never had an ugly cry, never even had a single ugly moment). Not even when she said her farewell, a skeletal figure on the hospital bed, with countless tubes over the sinister beeps of the machine. She was beautiful. Every day. Every moment. Even now, when he closed his eyes, and opened it again, he could see her dance, smell her hair, feel her soft fingertips caressing his face.

The night has arrived and the same streetlamp where they once danced and laughed and were infinitely happy gave out a feeble light to the bench where he sat, while the montage of her smile flickered across the opposite wall like a neverending loop of silent movies.