1 recent writings...
Static electronic particle rain bounce from the magnified Aug 28, 2000, "Technology workers", Bill
Sad caresses of memory scratching away the dust that had gathered Aug 3, 2000, "Untitled", Bill
Whining recoil of a talking spring coughed down pieces of its Aug 3, 2000, "Untitled", Bill
There were dancers moving to Hip-Hop or experimental techno on an unsteady wooden stage, stumping in unison on the thin wood platform they dance on, doing strange and sexy postures with their young bodies, a girl in the second "performance" wore bright pink hair and a black laced choker, her movement was an expression of natural fluidity and unconscious rebellion. On another stage, Mardi Gras voodoo beat had been moving a crowd to a trance, a carelessly limp shouldered girl playing center stage, she was running her fingers over a washboard-like instrument with a take-it-or-leave-it grin hanging on her face, behind her fiery drums tap out a hypnotic rhythm. Four to five small food booths were lining the tiny avenue that branched off mid-Post street, serving home-made sausage samples, or thick-with-??? gumbles, and a selection of beers. By nine p.m., the narrow Post street was a boil with people and it must've appear like a panicking ant colony from above; the wind and small rain had brought several electric outages to plagued the temporary stages and merchant huts erected for Mardi Gras. And falling with the rain were coins of chocolates or chewing-gums throw from the second-floor partiers and people watchers. by Bill Chiu, Mar 11, 2000
I walked down the newly paved 880 seventy miles an hour, the yellow post lamps painful on the black winter background, light obscured by skeletons of summer trees screaming pass the fragile wiry figure, took me into its bright whirlpool and spin me dizzy. I walked passed other lone cars at seventy-five miles an hour, and what kind of people spent their lives on a freeway next to the hour of midnight, I ran pass them (or her, or him), found my comfortable distance ahead of their low beam, how close am I at making home, how far away makes it comfortable? Those silent complex fractal outline of factories and apartments and power polls transforming their shape in a language of random overlays, in artificial shades, telling the history of those men who built it and then left forever. I ran down the freeway at eighty now, the speed is taking me away into something shapeless, I flicked on the radio and an old tune poured away like bitter syrup into my closed dried mouth, I felt a song coming ... (Unintelligible vocables) I ran down the ramp a hundred miles an hour, the story came to an abrupt ending. by Bill Chiu, January, 2000.
Breasts hung across my sensitive chest, "Her Body", December, 1999
Like countless uncut diamonds boiling from the green depth "Autumn Image", October, 1999. Bill
Harp hall ring and reverb in soothing octave "A Good Day", Aug 16, 1999. Bill
I stumble in the heavy dust of heart break, "Piercing note", Aug 16, 1999. Bill
Morning opened a day that "Speed of routine", Aug 16, 1999. Bill
Mysterious broken-like color-stained glasses "Planting", Aug 14, 1999. Bill
The English language is reaching for the trigger "Your Poison", July 31, 1999. Bill
Afraid? Yes, of you leaving - me. "Afraid of you", July 31, 1999. Bill
Shimmering, gold, paint, layers, peach & banana yogurt, "Form into colors", July 31, 1999. Bill
Being on the outside, "Outsider", July 5, 1999. Bill
"Day flu", July 5, 1999. Bill
Cajun soup and street cafe:
When you have too much, and when you feel superior, then you close
your eyes to abundant beauties that's all around us - free for everyone
to see. Now that you've grown up and have a socially approved "taste",
as you give up your aesthetic independence and depend on the majority
or the authority to tell you what's right and beautiful, then you
step yourself into a prison for the long haul, as most likely your
muscles for freedom atrophies for each year you coward deeper into
a subconscious anguish.
I want you like I want that sizzeling baked pizza,
Andrea had just turned 15 when it started. Growing up as a local newspaper child-prodigy, all her friend were much older then she is at her school - and she resented being dragged there by her insistent Mom and Dad each morning - She'd thought about running away with her elder sister's shy boyfriend, they already have a connection between them, a kind that her neighbors and classmates would frown weightily upon, but no one would ever find out, she thought to herself, especially not him. In her dream that begins at her tuesday morning English class, she was becoming a bird-man sort of a creature, but he was there too - he's always somewhere close by but not reachable; and he would be watching her with the back of his head. It was on the edge of an abandoned harbor where she had reached out with her feathered shoulders and jumped off from the roof of a hollow warehouse that's overlooking a rocky shore; the wind had taken her higher into the air, much higher then she had wanted. From above, the land below seem like a broken china, disconnected and dangerous. An eerie feeling of deja vu creeps across her body like an allergy with leather fingers. Then she woke up in the middle of the afternoon Algebra lecture. It was always like this, these dreams, they play like a documentary and could be paused and continued, but it was only recently did they began to swallow up the time in between. "Ceramic shore (seed draft)", May 18, 1999, Bill
Segments of powder orange white crusty
Focus now, you won't be able to
My friend Mary, she's out there tonight in Santa Cruz, "Birthday Less Traveled", May 8, 1999. Bill
Candle white sunk into an internal landscape "Destructive Impulse", May 8, 1999, Bill.
You are my environment, "Attack Amplifier", May 8, 1999. Bill
And we human beings, "Living out loud - out there", May 7, 1999. Bill
Why is it that I'll never understand you,
Small cozy family television room,
A big orange sun risen from the constantly slipping ocean table,
still wet with the lingering sea and the goodbyes from the scorched
fishes, it opened it heart and burnt through the morning cap with
the speed of photons they hitting and they bouncing between the walls
lining this secret basement and tunneling through our shared dreamscape.
With an unhappy rubbing of sleep from the eyes and the foul gifts
of morning yawns, another day left from our bodies through the opening
of our mouth, flee into the air and drenched the morning air with
dirty beginnings.
Licorice taste like peering through the thick forest morning fog
from an
A shapeless shadow ran across the wall and disappeared when it met the ceiling, an opera song lingered in the now cold and now warm airful box of a room. There is no visible source of lumination and entrance, but I can feel part of my body trapped there, in that 5 by 5 by 5 inch cube right in the middle of the ocean, carefully positioned there by no human nor any other sentients (i.e. gods), but I was aware of its placement and state of its well being, feeling it grow and sleep like a massive giant born outside our news medias, and sometimes my whole body can fit in that enclosure, and then this box seem as large as the universe itself, with beautiful layers of crashing clouds bumping at the free running animals painted on the cave ceilings, young birds that had just learnt to swim they ran and laugh cheerfully on long beach wearing colorful swimsuits, and I was soaking in the vitamin-rich rain radiated from seven young moons in the sky, including the youngest one that was just born yesterday, and that she had fell in love with the old man ocean that had died and reincarnated into a baby stream early on the CNN this morning. I look up momentarily at the transparencies for the general AE training tomorrow, promising myself to review them before sleep, then when I look back, I found only the skeleton of the cube left chipping away alarmingly from the solar wind in the middle of the space, the sun weeped at the lost paintings that had been worn down to meaningless solar dust, but it was unable to hold its lethal breath, and so in blind anger I threw the moon at that careless fireball, and the sun ended in the ER along with all the moons and skies that hanged on its gravity frame. My experience tell me I need to wait another half hour before everything grow back as it was before; meanwhile, and I suppose, now is as good a time as any to take a look at my slides for tomorrow. Bill Apr 13, 1999
Carbonated distilled tears at corner liquor stop,
On the street corner, where
Laundry in the 3rd wash cycle
I don't know how to paint this down,
Damn that scsi controller, why would it
Fairuza,
Your heavy green cotton woven sweater
You push your traditions across the bow,
As you are self assured I'm confident,
Good night sweet prince
Other dreams I beg Between love and friendship you made both
bare tree branches
shiver through the cold winter wind of confusion "necessary distance", Feb/10/99, Bill
Dear god: your drain is clogged, and I'm having bad weather down here man, please send your plummer a.s.a.p. "Rainy at 2:37 PM", Jan 20, 1999. Bill Silver blood shot into this divider wall of monotonic shield I stumble on bits of bread crumbs you left when you went away angery at me, at the situation, angery at you I don't want to but I can not reach you being in the flood when I commited suicide of words when I left you to be with me to dress my war wounds slashed on the mine field of shredinals and broken expectations. I want to be fine again, I want to be great like before, but I am lost in you and my hopes and dreams went away with each breath I shared here with you. "Heart trap", Jan 18, 1999. Bill Old rusty typewriter hammering on outdated ink ribbons feeds trying to free my spirit from this automation, from your systems of traps you teach me control, you teach me skills and urged me on wisdom, but I don't know where I'm going with you leading my life, I guess I lived my life and had loved and had lost but I still feel empty and I don't think it is because I need a woman, I think it's because I am still prisoner of my life, and something important in me is still pushing for the freedom of flight, I crave to reach into you and lead you into sun. "Behind walls", Jan 18, 1999. Bill
1999 you are one step off that mile tall ledge falling constantly toward me won't you look away for a second so I can prepare for my rebirth I want so much to get away from you that I'd create a new number I can marry into some other world, some other dreams ahead and not behind me, but then this happened to me before, all the time anyway -- well, all I want - All I want is to be angelic and eat other angels until I'm sick and tired of heaven, and then I can live my life again in the next century. "Reincarnation", Jan 8, 1999. Bill
They say the clothes makes a man, or should it be that, it is man that makes a cloth, in fashion for resursion and transmission these impressions of perfections to pair, stolen into the fabric linen into hats, learned by decades of hair styles tainted into sun framed specticles, while the soul of the man fades into objectivity, demending a new style to form around the old crust of the man, or woman, they said clothes makes a woman, or is it... woman that makes, a cloth. "Fade into fiber", Dec 22, 1998. Bill
That heat lamp's been knocking this door urgently for past two hours, playing I'm the fool who always answer, but I question every five minutes, "who's there?" I inquire thru the peephole, telescopically no one showed up, and the mirror in my bedroom laughed at my hair - what idiot! I combed in agreement, for a girl I trip and fall so easily but no.. my life is fine the way they are, I don't need more confusions, wearing pajamas drinking midnights chewing sentences to blossom will I ever reach that shore, where all those unhappy people are standing in pairs, do I understand happiness? do I want happiness it's so quaint! small patient steps my love and even one day I shall grow old and grow up! meanwhile, the heat lamp will do it's trick. "Lamp heat", Dec 20, 1998. Bill
Citrus bitter orange illuminates the afternoon traffic through a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses Passing through this interdeterminate hour like a golden sunrise yet not so worn down as to warrant a a pink production for a blue sunset stringy muscle moved lazily to the post-noon rhythm that spins down to completion in sleep through a day's work and unwind into a night of electric dreams leaving on the insomniac ships that move stealthly after dark, guided by their instincts as they move between the interstate in between stars. "Orange paved afternoons", Dec 14, 1998. Bill Slow thoughts moving like a sleeping herd of elephants acrossing this plane of chaos, houses burnt to a crisp letting in a drowsy dog wondering aimlessly sniffing overgrown weed patches for the memory of an absent minded master went away with its favorite chew toy, in a day where sky flickered like an aged flourscent tube, and the cars stopped moving and started rusting where they sleep And the time moving like slow thoughts drifting in the fog of impressions hoovering over a herd of dead elephants. "Drowsy with temperature", Dec 14, 1998. Bill Antarctic sound escape in an anxiety circle aiming for antipodes under oceans of empathic fans leaking from estuary the charismatic intentions to shift equator behind million fathom of summer wind and falling stars, in night music in this canyon of feminine sunrise the ego chorus flew pass a rain forest sleeping beneath the snowy blanket of volcanic dusts hunting for exotic kinship in a black market in an oceanic hypnosis to quake awake my nomadic roots and boycott any will for ascension. "Depeche devil mode", Dec 12, 1998. Bill Chiu
Coolness left in trail away against salty warm tumbling tear, bring this hurt from sensitivity in exposure, flooding thunder rained in my universe, angels and fairies ran away from their humanities with magic and makeup and songs of redemption but not enough, I won't run away into this surreal symbolism wrap this touch into explanations, so in this house from flame to keep me safe I ran away. "Weight of sleep", Dec 9, 1998. Bill Light shadows rolled off my palm across the pink and air from between the delicate flesh thin as a whisper quiet like morning rain she breath the whole dreamscape into elements of this room making green blue, blue red, red pink, and pink grey. tapestry into weave, dance into form, isn't space really just meaningful time left to drift into pieces of moments? "Quiet interlude", Dec 9, 1998. Bill Old age you took me for a ride, trickster with glamour under its coat shiny belt and spiffy suit, a date out on broadway, lost my way in the fishnet, no, I got lost since the very beginning, dazziled into being, from words to knowledge, smelled the food and tasted the air, those thousand footprints pointing away into to a million pathes, unable to stamp out my prints over them, impossible to ignore their influences, in these circular dreams nightly, some theirs and some mine. "Whirling pieces", Dec 9, 1998. Bill
South pole you keep your center still so always I chase your orbit from this northern hemisphere, here sipping lemon juice and watching my elephant crawl across the sky merged deep behind that cloud, you keep my stars racing these moving horizons dance me from your life and wake me to your dreams of water. "Southern god", Nov 30, 1998. Bill Streched far this thinning wail splash angery drum steps pushing this sky to break and age between tear drops and pulling falls into painful sensation void, defying the racing weather from entering this sphere of thread I'm clinging lone to unable to let fall my weight to free give and take, ripples crash against this skin inviting to enter the cup of my soul can I be known by any other names and any other colors, but thousand blurring fleeting moons leave me dizzy and giddy in my spin, feasting on this magical current that clense my sins from my ancestors and all my future manifestations. "Worn", Nov, 30, 1998. Bill Between this toe and under these nails gourmet juice ran red into white marinating the 100% cotton into 99% cotton, 1% toe marinate, seeping deep to strengthen each strand until it's ripe with flavor and mustard and that soft-to-touch organic texture, ready to be peeled off from these loyal cellulites and flung upward to a weightless moment of living flight, and land a crash into this cold laundry basket for the weekend... "Pickled Sock", Nov, 25, 1998. Bill Rock bread knock me unconscious, sweet wine dripping from the shower head, this rocking boat slowly multiplying - across the dry ocean of space, stole the stars from my iris shoplifting the stagnant tears layering it beneath my days singing it dry, lolling it asleep, in time even the moon will sink below this blurred horizon, leaving the night to dream about that singular, sustained brilliance to explode across those million miles of forgotten murmurs and sighs -- over here! and here, and there! "Lucid day", Nov 23, 1998. Sneer twist harden cheek eyes punching holes across my blue sky killing seventy-two birds with one pillet, falling into another dimension of watery dreams and sharp tangy smells swirling, spirling, shouting and coughing dancing trees and intoxicated squirls seeking inner peace in local cafe's and cactus nights dancing into pieces sinery auro patterns seep microscopically into my photographic memory disturbing the rotting deadwoods down the drain adding honey mustard and bake at 450 for fourty-five seconds until dawn, oh shit! what a weird nightmare what's that? rain and lightnings shot across my morning newspapers, words turning brown and toasty, kitchen focit leaking day and nights; can we be in another war already? we can't. "Preconition", Nov 23, 1998. Bill
Double your pleasure double your fun, spearmint chewing gun, (slick announcer) yes, that's right! for a limited time only, you'll automatically received this 45mm semi-automatic, came free with every box of our doomsday cereal. 6 bullets included (fast announcer) additional bullets are available at your local participating 7-eleven convience stores. (normal announcer) don't delay! get it today! supply is unlimited. "Free toy", Nov 23, 1998. Bill
"Fraise gateau snack", Nov, 10, 1998. Bill "Gum break", Nov, 10, 1998. Bill "Rhythm and lullaby", Oct 30, 1998. Bill "Unknown fire", Oct 30, 1998. Bill "Dent in a perfect octagon", Oct 30, 1998. Bill "Invisible distance", Oct 30, 1998. Bill
"Growing in full", Oct 29, 1998. Bill Chiu
Slam! behind their cold metallic bars and separated into another world, or, is it really another world or just another facet of me? In desperation I get real, the best and worst of all instincts push out like a tidal wave, pass hesitations, break through the dam of inertia and flood into this prison court yard, into the open wounds of troubled souls, and ferment into songs that rap and spits and rhymes, and I feel my fists thrown in bold and gentle arcs - trying to pry loose these jail bars and free myself - from myself, to be heard, to be known, and now - I'm ready to forge in fire a key that could turn open this locked gate, a magic door of soul, to leave the broken promises of yesterday at the door before, finally, stepping into that promising unknown." "Slam reverberations", Oct 25, 1998. Bill Background music getting much closer, much louder, trash drums, medician wails, heavy breathings and mouth wash, then an eternal stretch of a faded green, droplets of semi-solids bounces on that sheet, a cool non-directional song chilling and cooling, pulling consciousness along that echoy, expanding room, like the crumpling of ancient roman temples, granites turned into sand and pulled into an indeterminate distance, never quite reaching there in all its travelings, metal coin droped into syrup of water, waves riding away from the hurt, energizing every particle in the pond, soothing the interrupted sleep, back into the deep, back to that calming existance, and remain so 'til the next rain. "Space travel", Oct 15, 1998.
"Static morning", Oct 8, 1998. Bill
"Autumn I", Oct 7, 1998. Bill
"War instinct", Oct 7, 1998. Bill "Boring color", Oct 7, 1998. Bill "Mischievios Lore", Oct 7, 1998. Bill "Sorrow icecream" Oct, 7, 1998. Bill "Strength", Oct 6, 1998. Bill "Blue screen", Oct 6, 1998. Bill "Brown leaf", Oct 6, 1998. Bill "Strange attractor", Oct 5, 1998. Bill
"Uncoding", Oct 5, 1998. Bill "Insensitive intrusion", Oct 5, 1998. Bill "Rescue", Oct 1, 1998. Bill
"Falling afternoons", Sep 29, 1998. Bill "Throwing color", Sep 29, 1998. Bill "Off key melody", Sep 25, 1998. Bill
Torn edges framing colors, ziploc seal left airtight salad to soak and dry, not paying attention, the refrigerator lightbulb broken and unreplaced, carpet dotted with minutes of unheard notes from that background music, moving away like a bank robbery getaway truck, no one is around to see it go, so does that make it disappear, non-existent? paper dolls thrown into trashcan, packaged together with tomorrow's trash to be taken out. but they said there were a trash union strike... how long do I have to keep it here then? when will that dog stop barking at those old footprints in the moon? stop it already and unseal them windows, let the wondering spirits roam your heart until you are strong enough to pull-in the next sunrise. "Disarray in the after", Sep 22, 1998. Bill Looking down from that height coward, what do you see? You see yourself imprisoned by all that you keep from yourself, all your hate and your fists fighting to keep you away, keep you safe from the dirt and mud and sweat necessary for growing forward. There is nothing up here for you to see anymore, nothing that can help you live your life beyond yourself. "Fools on rooftops", Sep 22, 1998. Bill Smile, face, hair, cloth, style, manners, depth, interest, habit, conflicts, changes, lost, pull away, suck back, push away, pull back, wound, healing, too slow, faster, move, movies, friends, toys, browse, smile, face, hair, cloth, style, ,, "Strange iterations", Sep 22, 1998. Bill If age is measured by the bendings, the white lines in the black, and black spots on the white, then we are superficial people indeed, to ignore the content of the book. but follow the root to the water, to chase the branches to the sunlight, then to swing from branch to branches until we learned of all their names, and all the nameless names they've touched onto these pages in our own. "Wealth", Sep 22, 1998. Bill "Moving again huh?" "Why yes, change is good!" "Well, it's easier said then done!" "What happened to my stuffs?" "Oh I throw it all out in the trash for you." "Haha, well thank you, I was planning do that later on my own!" "Think nothing of it." "Well see, I wasn't gonna drag all that stuffs along for the trip anyway." "You a minimalist?" "Well no, but change is good huh? I am gonna try to start anew." "Will miss ya!" "I'm sure you won't." "Ha, yeah.. well good luck!" "Hmmm, I am,.. I have." "Change is good", Sep 22, 1998. Bill Uninvited star reach deep into heart and gave all its brilliance, honey is poison when its thick and wild, when the night is short but dark and the daysun is blistering and possessive, when water tastes like wine, and wine fails to intoxicate, then the world is changed only for me, only my eyes can splash those undefined colors behind those random afternoon shadows, turning straight lines into beautiful curves, and summon invisible rains to fall into my skyblue canvas. "Angel", Sep 22, 1998. Bill Sun shine roared across the ocean, pieces and shimmering fragments caught in the wet pockets and swallowed below, illuminating the insidious activities in the world beneath, their innocence tainted by the ever longer nights that frequents here. oh but trust yourself, fish. eat those microbes and lay them eggs, and one day we'll be your offspring, with our wild arms and dancing feet roaming the land and sky, falling into the spell of mighty sungod. "Evolution", Sep 22, 1998. Bill Texas cowboys, drooling and snoring, reaches into their slumber and pulled at the lock behind where bears and Indians runs uninhabited. Hands loosing strength as age nibbles at that handsome shoulder, tearducts filled with sediments of sand and regrets, pull harder, harder! wounds can be healed later, free your spiritual animals and let them run wild in your blood, and let your blood run wild in your veins when you finally wakes up! "Locked cowboys", Sep 22, 1998. Bill Illusion or fact? who cares if nothing matters, and nothing matters, does it? a basket of fish in a tin can, or a tin basket banged out of shape lifted by the hook of a thumb -- a dark thumb connecting to a bony wrist, a wet shoulder and bright face shining in the sunlight, hairs curling and numerous, feet bare and ground harsh, in the middle of a dry beach where ocean evacuated long ago, and fishes were made with mud, slowly breaking from the corners, chipped into sand. huge air storms playing in the vast plain like the neighborhood bullies -- hurling sand at each other, howling and laughing, and then they too left. nothing is left standing except the storyteller, a la artist, the kneader of moods and dreams; and somewhere in the ether another world is being created in bold strokes, with wind and air rhyming and twisting into substance. "wanna play?" she points, "there is your brush!" "Fiction for real", Sep 18, 1998. Bill Piece of shrimp cracker i love you, you smell so good, so greasy and crusty, like a whiff of stale beer or freshly baked bread, i like to break you apart and sniff you in, to put you in my mouth and let the flavor migrate, to throw you in the air and catch you with my tongue, but i can't i won't, oh i mustn't -- i'm on a diet. "Shrimp cracker", Sep 18, 1998. Bill Left and right symmetrical as maple leaf, eyes shifted left and pupil dilating, parsed lips, and the quiet even rise and fall of shallow breathing, cools and condenses the air, letting color fade into memory, then a point of reference is established to measure the exchange of sun for moon, and moon for sun, and shattered blue glasses falling into the night sky; a celestrial river carrying boats and swimmers, fishes, leafs and sands -- away from old interpretations into this unknown of unknowns. fabric and silk shall pave the road from here to the past and all the pasts to come. "Monthes into years", Sep 17, 1998. Bill
"Watching you eat your cake", Sep 17, 1998. Bill Thin line and thick line, one black and one white, tangled, then untangling, mechanical hissing from the old harddrive went up an octave, chattering and laughters on thursday afternoons sounded more optimistic then wednesday's or tuesday's or monday's. where am i going? how do i go from here? weekends comes only once a week and that's no way of living, and weekdays are no ways of dying. plans unfinished and ideas drifting into the spidery attic for what? habits dominating the everyday story like a recurrent dream, passing from father to sons, mother to daughters -- in stubborn resilience. "Glue", Sep 17, 1998. Bill Vancouver, portland, and down down south to san francisco, spanning the airspace with my wings, the feather shook loose and lands in morning coffees and afternoon teas, interrupting midnight conversations, philosophical or personal, catching first light in an early sunrise, caught in the morning rush hours, ran over by the lunch crews and picked up by teenager wondering the street, before schools' over, video games and all you can eat pizza, then an early evening, a lonely whistle pierce the night and my milk and cookies left forgotten on the kitchen table. "Forgotten road", Sep 16, 1998. Bill In another self-appointed birthday, dressing for occasion, and the moth burned to dust in fierce flame, and the bat flew into space despite of decompression, and an old vampire racing the sunrise, in smoke and on fire, to set the spirit aflight, and to spit in the eye of all suppressors of life, so to finally hear the music in the flesh, and let crumple, that promise of tomorrow. "Biology", Sep 12, 1998. Bill It takes a million bricks to pave this road, and another million to replace the broken ones five years from now. In between, photographers would come from afar, their spirits high, they would throw something memorable in the foreground snap, and take it home with them -- with all the bricks, and the corner candy store, those cross-walking pedestrians, and the double-parked cars there; all in the embrace of million oranges and browns, some chipped and some cracked, and in their vertical, horizontal, circular, or floral placements. "Brown brick road", Sep 11, 1998. Bill This side up, handle with care, fragile glassware, and falling fast from the back of that cargo plane there; soon reaching its terminal velocity, and changing direction at the whims of high altitude wind rivers, packaging a selected volume of blue in layers and layers of wrappings. off to the right 3 o'clock, man, toward that big cloud there you see it? see that little moving dot? where? oh there yeah, "you think its a bird?" no it's gotta be a plane. hey no way it's superman and he's coming this way! his strong arms and strong legs and large chest with that stronger smile threatens with each well intended approach, justice will be served and the lost box returned to the weeping cargo ship southing into that smaller piece of cloud there. and then the world will perfect, until the next box falls out of another plane, and one day millions of boxes will fill the sky in a morning of leisure breakfast and orange juice. "Lost box", Sep, 11, 1998. Bill I missed my feelings, I missed being blind and eager; and being nervous and happy -- living inside me and be utterly unaware, or sometimes painfully aware, Stretching this moment to keep that last note hanging, and to paint it down with angelic words, to let it cast a permanent shadow on the old, tired wall there. And so i heard they got a new jazz band in for monday nights. I think they ought to play something cheerful and chase these depressive, cold autumn evenings further down the season. "into autumn", Sep 11, 1998. Bill Having a car that moves only in reverse, and actually driving it too, on route 66, cross country, chasing airplanes' afterimage in the sky, burying personal treasures unmarked and at random, naming stones with a green marker and toss them (both) into rare rivers. in the end all is gone but all is still here; everything stored in a jar designed not to hold but to leak - a little memories at a time, from a whole life worth of unimportant details that weaves into a complete present. "Unimportant details", Sep 8, 1998. Bill bit of water brimming inside the drained styrofoam cup. familiar shouting in the cubical over there gets into my head - i'm sitting on the table, my head leaning over and resting on the chair; rhythmically rubbing my unshaved face on the worn fabric over the depressed spot. presently i turned and smiled at the ass that point naively toward the ceiling; the pa system seized that moment and crackle into life -- "john doe, please call the operator, john doe, call the operator please." that insanic announcement tipped me over the table, but being me i managed a graceful roll to the side and off the edge; as the chair went swirling toward the wall, and me chewing on a mouthful of carpet, the manager walked in with his coffee in his hand, offering: "good morning, bill! bill?" "Tuesday morning", Sep 8, 1998. Bill Midnight browsing, isle behind isles of life substitutes, non-fat, no cholesterol, low sodium, artificial sweeteners. "Hello there, can you give me a hand with that box there young man?" "lady I think you should go home and save your money. I can walk you pass the check-out stand, and if we just keep-on talking, we might make it out the door without buying into anymore regrets tonight." "Open 24 hours", Sep 6, 1998. Bill I don't know what this colors is, maybe it is purple, tainted slightly orange, slightly dull, but sharp like wine and smells like cheese, looks like a deflated balloon, sounds like off-keyed guitar, feel like a bent metal plate, expires like a gallon of milk, fades like a year-old commercial. Moves like a wintering sun. "What's my name?", Sep 5, 1998. Bill bubbles rising to the heaven receive, delicious brown liquid lifting cool, new leafs unrolling, over-ripe fruits falling, evening winds blowing, sleeping old man growing, dogs pulling, cross country train going, lost stars burning, entering atmosphere cutting, forming a path in the darkening, curious eyes following its journey and thinking, and feeling the parting, from space to space, what's remaining? "Space rhyme", Sep 4, 1998. Bill Star rays escaping from absolute zero, everything heated into gamma particles tearing physics into brilliantly bright zero-gravity rain of cosmic strings going in mind-hurting number directions. Language language language language you are drowning me with the dizzying pace you are creating new worlds, I can't shut you out you begin to overwhelm my senses. paint my world with your hyper-speed rhythm and push me to the edge of edges, until the universe is remade into infinite singularities, super-heated in the howling solar wind. "Momentum," Sep 2, 1998. Bill On Sep 1, 1998, at 6:11PM, Jessie discovered that the source code he had accidentally erased can be recovered from a backup he made earlier -- a file named "po_ft.ccc", stands for "fix transition delay optimization". Jessie then proceed to express his happiness with kind words directed at himself, "i'm so smart" he said, "i'm so intelligent" he emphasize with vigor. I do not contradict. "Transition delay", Sep 1, 1998. Bill Moo! Bark at the moon and eat fried chicken with vampire, click click pause click and repeat, would you guys turn that shit down? Seventeen hours drop away into the well, ponding at the perfect moon giggling into pieces. Geez I gotta get a grip 'cause the vampire finished his chicken. "Fried chicken (vampire)", Sep 1, 1998. Bill Down with the walls! No more categorizations, just plain "stuffs" mixed together to form "stuffs". Take the wall down brick by brick, taste yesterday's coke reheated in the microwave. Oh my god who let the toilet paper ran out, man I gotta get some more vegetables in my diet. Hey I wonder if anyone is around? "Cake mix", Sep 1, 1998. Bill Immature and insensitive, I have a lot of growing up to do. I feel like a fake. I know everything and yet don't know anything. I can do anything but always tie myself down. My feelings distorted by expectations, within and without. More then anything I wanted to be free, but won't set myself free. I wanted to be loved, but by doing so I forget to love myself. "Empty street", Aug 30, 1998. Bill downtown evening, cats in the blue light, cats in the red light. Meowing, singing despite of the flying shoes, their left cheek stained red; tracing the curvatures to those eyes framed in magnificent gold and green; light purple and dark yellow on the other cheek. fine whisks reaches over the colored patches; eyes widen as if in surprise, then blinked to tell a story. Mouth contorted, forming a sad smile; head slumped and the stage showered in harsh light. An empty trolley glided passed the building, the timbre of its bright sounding bells aging off the surrounding invisible skyscrapers. Night deepens, but in the vibrant enclosure of the theater, songs reverberated off the thousand souls held there captive by feline spells. "Cats, center stage", Aug 29, 1998. Bill Tears won't stop falling. How can I be embarrassed for crying? It isn't fair, and knowing nothing is fair isn't any comfort. Clouds slowly moving away, showing the stars beyond, beckoning encouragement. My head hurts from the storm that had occupied it so angrily for so long, the wind slowed and changed direction, the ocean calmed to a whisper. A female turtle emerged from the sand, moving slowly across the moonlit beach, leaving a trail of diamonds in its path. Tonight I shall dream about the ocean, where I'll finally be swimming unafraid to your shore. "Ebb", 23:17, Aug 28, 1998. Bill folding a piece of paper, half and then half, and half again and again. did i mess up? was i too rude? questions that don't have answers don't help, but won't go away. i hate to be normal, i hate to be predictable, i hate to be just like everybody else. but what i feel is definitely not new, and not creative or innovative -- only a stupid chemical reaction, but of course it is more then that. of course it is only natural and it is natural that it hurts like nothing you can put a bandage on. i would never hurt anyone, and i should never give up. and i need to be assertive, and i need to be realistic, and i need to be bold and mature and knows what to do at anytime. i need to be sensitive, and need to be giving and sharing, and need to a macho man, be uncaring and self-absorbed, and be focused on work and be artistic like poets, and i mustn't ever compromise or be defeated. i hate you for all you put me through. i hate you that you didn't even know. i will cry and i will forgive and i will love and get hurt like no one wanted to, and i will run away from you to that distant strange land, where i will meet you again and again in different persons, and i'll walk quietly pass them in the rain, never looking back. "Breakingdown", 18:40, Aug 28, 1998. Bill a man suspended in midair, motionless and asleep. million tons of thick wind passed through his translucent body like a river, the sun hung in the air and refused to move, chasing clouds to the furthest corners of the sky. Unspoken tension surges through his body, humming like a high-voltage transformer. distant thunder fill the air - it seems even the molecules stopped bouncing off each other. The wait is like a desert wind, dry and filled with stinging sand migrating the whole desert toward the fringing civilizations. I fell asleep in the old desert-bus driven by a mad man, my dreams lost amongst all the missing submarines lining the unexplored deep sea terrains. "Suspended frame", 15:37 Aug 28, 1998. Bill wrote her and told her. waiting anxiously for her reply. what might she write? i don't know but i will trust her and let go of my fear. now its upto the wind of the night, whistling children at the breakfast table, the weatherman's forecast, the alignment of vehicles before a red light, the crushing of ocean waves in early morning light. there is nothing left to do but read a good book or listening to the push and pull of airwave at midnight, letting an old fashioned radio sang me to a sleep filled by tangerine dreams. "First hour calm", Aug 26, 1998. Bill Ah-yeee yaaa! God bored to tears why do we have walls between cubicals and how come the guy two desks over haven't spontaneously burst into songs yet and comon budda and jesus when are you guys gonna come so and we can have a big orgy and have pizzas delivered by superman and browse fbi's "xfiles" on satan's home page and when its all over they can go back to their wars and maybe come back on super-weekend tv-rerun-specials but oh please god no more "titanic" okay or you can kill me right now. breath-in deep and hold. relax and let your mind wonder, slowly let it out through the mouth. feel better my son? Nooo you moron!!! and give me back my g.i.joe action figures and shut up i'm watching "batman" and its a new one. "Errr-ahhh jumping jesus!", Aug 25, 1998. Bill Straight line of shiny sedans born from the neighborhood autowash. Men in ragged shirts moved hurriedly between the metallic babies, gentle fingers to wipe and dry those weepy eyes, preparing them for the wear-and-tear avenues outside that connects the world. Rolling and tossing in the backseat, amused young chicks making faces, their unheard of and self-made songs rang confidently from those sensitive, curious, laughing eyes. Frontseat man and woman install their old leaky, frozen smiling masks; the tiny punctures wearing bored, indifferent gaze - soaking wet with stale resentment and ambiguous defeat. Two o'clock sky-way, mobs of seagulls spin around for another flyby -- their secret plan to liberate the countless captured dreams locked behind iron windows; their tireless effort fueled by the hope that one day, to share with us -- their vast, lonely sky. "Small weather", Aug 24, 1998. Bill Concentration unbroken but diluted by that far away calling -- "come and join us" they urge. Little hesitant and lots of demons in the basement -- planning the next big house party. It was a good day and naturally something fundamental changed below the surface; I wonder what will become of me tomorrow. "Turning point #2938201", Aug 22, 1998. Bill Happy birthday Brian of twenty-six. Many more will follow. But the 'today' bracketed between sunrise and sunset will not be scientifically repeatable in the total history of entire universe -- not even with all the monies and man powers, and all the combined computational gadgetries, and all the imaginations and charms of all civilizations of all times. Hope you wrote it down. "Once at 26", Aug 22, 1998. Bill (Brian asked his name, Brian Chiu, to be fully displayed here) Indistinctive and distant, empty voices cried for fulfillment, quiet sound of breathing and thundering chorus of thoughts -- they mixed into that constant background noise, where, people sitting slumped and cross legged, single thumb rubbing forehead in a slow circle. Their tired old spinning conversations spiral in and out -- sometimes orbiting on real feelings; the camouflage of sleepy eyes giving no sign, of the busy memorization of each soundless words uttered in precisely unpronounceable dimensions. "Unconscious dance", Aug 19, 1998. Bill Heaven is when light took shape and bend around sound creating new colors for the first time. When movements takes on their own lives, to speak body's ancient language. When new dance styles blend in with the old, forms becomes intangable feelings and circles becomes rounder then ever.. sky becomes an active participant, and poetry of interacting sounds reach deep into us to find one common ancestry far before the stars, before definitions. Heaven is a mystical place that is found to exist only in details of our extrodinary everyday perceptions. "Brief touch", Aug 18, 1998. Bill 1/2 hour before the start of concert. Faded Apple(R) banners and AMD flags atop the stadium's twin peaks the only source of entertainment. The $75 red chairs in the front rows are mostly without claims. Only 5 mins passed since but the excitement of the children went up a notch. There are some mature audiences in our midst. Dancers amongst the audience began to identify themselves. Only 20 to 30 percent african americans; but over 50 percent caucasians attending. It is 20 min prior the event, lawn area is now 80 percent saturated, with a large percentage of attendees eating fast food sold here in the Stadium. Some self- proclaimed jerk finally landed next to my grassy spot, but the impending uncomfortable feelings so well expressed on his face quickly drove him to sit somewhere else. A sudden quiet overcomes the masses, the anticipation hangs like a solid over us, gathering strength in the setting sun. "Pre-Concert", Aug 16, 1998. Bill Fucking freezing, piercing wind cut directly into bones turning blood to ice; unshielded and unprotected, fierce cold invade into body without excuse. Mind and heart waken to the pain and becomes quite focused. Distant cloud and fading city comes into a distorted view. Night turned on and straight city street now lit with human activities, and the many prized street lights. "From twin peaks, SF", Aug 15, 1998. Bill Horizon obscured by the everpresent fog, covering, hiding, teasing the present with what might be tomorrow; fogs rolls in and the ocean surface slithers with chaotic movement. Slug of a ship inches on the border of mirror ocean, waves cut off on the edge of omniscient mountains now hidden behind the gray curtain. "Intermission", Aug 15, 1998. Bill Army of white waves arrived at the sands' edge to crash and push indecisive sand rocks back and forth along the ocean's edge. As ocean edge symbolize human's edge, lovers and present couples tease on its border, afraid to get too far, too wet, too deep, too dirty. Few surfers wonder too far for the land culture to notice; they learnt to stay afloat without drowning, yielding and maneuvering the waves with mastery and seemly mystery. But nothing changed on the shore -- same lovers and new parents come to admire the waves from afar, generation after generations, with the ocean as the witness. "Instinct", Aug 15, 1998. Bill Oil and paint smear interpretive resolutions; it dips imagination to conceive modern huts, and sporadic rainy nights accompanies by her dimly lit neon signs. Forgotten moldy wood chairs piled against an electric pole; the surface split, chipped, loosing some of its defining coloration. On the farside concrete glass refract and tends to the walk-bys' tired old molten masks in the consistency of their routines. Thirty feet above, chorus of hundred unattended balconies weeps passively to the brand new growths atop city plants, each one extending and reaching for the few but farest twinkling dots hung in the serene, unobtrusive evening sky. In steady pace, civilizations of rust migrating lovingly to all metallic surfaces in all of the worlds, silently ignoring the surrounding human affairs; their metallic cousins would intervein but their frenzy protest encourages only further contamination. "Rainy street corner", Aug 12, 1998. Bill Her realm, lush but contradicted; in flight and (watch out for) the falling cows, and (learn to) swim for her love, and for serenity (tend the wounds), and for passionate sleep (active dreaming); endeared by thousand wings swaying without shame. "(let her have) Her realm", Aug 11, 1998. Bill Thousand pins blinded immediate sensations for delayed interpretations, killing spontaneousity -- exchanging consciousness for sleep. Sandy surface scaled, not aware to the interpretor -- for matching horizons and mawed sense of balance. And always subjected to fabricated image of how to be loved. "Reaching for balance", Aug 11, 1998. Bill glowing, energized; pure positive energy, pure high; feeling brave, fearless, empowered, sensing the limitless horizon; free; unlimiting space for growth, feeling that even impossible is now possible, feeling dazed; thoughts seems to be trapped in every poetic details in a painting that expand, contracts, and expands again. i don't care if this is just chemical, or if it can be explained through psychology or mythology; i'm alive, and my wakings and sleeps have combined to form one continuous present. "High,", Aug 7, 1998. Bill Lunch with Beth, and her friends. She shine just like an angel, and I feel drunk with happiness. I love every aspect of her, the unique individuality and all her expressed strenghes and weaknesses. The sound of her voice and quality of her emotions; the nervous manner she peeks at me. I like to get closer to her and understand the whole the her. "Happiness", Aug 7, 1998. Bill I'm quite okay. Just relax, focus, and let everything flow in. "Calm yourself", 18:16 Aug 5, 1998. Bill What is a goodbye if left unsaid, when I need a symbol to mark an era, and to capture in sealed envelope her grace and attractions? I can never do this to her -- But I'm so confused about these messed-up emotions and I think I love her. What is wrong with me, why can't I tell her? Tried so many times to reassert, to forget, to push away, to cut it out, to distract, to redirect, to dismiss, to run away... But it returns and it burns and I gasp for air. "Nuts," I'd say, "Go away," I plead. "Stop this," I whimper on edge of tears. And my logical self laughed silly at this absolute insanity. Guess it is funny, and very bitter. "Vent", 11:05 Aug 5, 1998. Bill Suppressive, airless, room filled by a darkness darker then any soul can stand. Expectations do violence to the free will, got to get to the openings, for just a little bit of sunlight, a brief moment to taste the gentle caress of summer on my finger, and space to grow without fear, without promise of punishments. we are limited only by our own fear, in whatever form it may take. "Caged bird", Aug 3, 1998. Bill She is leaving... I want her to stay, but words can't keep her. She is important to me, I know that now. "Going away", July 31, 1998. Bill Turbulant emotions by chemical imbalance -- oh how I hate chemicals; but then, hate itself is very chemical. I'm at lost for words, and I suffer in silence. "Driven by genes", July 30, 1998. Bill Chiu What is an innocent fasination, when the ground can give away so abruptly without reason? Startled but already failed, I lost to the weight of my immanent fall. Neurons wailed, my sky weathering scorching rain freezing famine blinding darkness burning fields sharp nights torn speeches alien dreams; in full embrace of celestial isolation - it becomes infinitely painful but confusingly intriging. Denial won't take place of memory; experience do shine in all blue green purple crimson shades and in "te-da-do-yay-ahh" vocables; inside parallels angels sang and died of suffocation. "Stagger", July 29, 1998. Bill Chiu I touch everything, everything touches me. Patterns intermingle creating beauties as unique as their individual expressions. Lost is the fear and joy of their lazy resistance. Expand and extend inward and outward accepting forms and chaos beyond the confines of era and distance, everything becomes fluid. Balance becomes absolute; conflicts becomes growth. "Becoming", July 28, 1998. Bill Chiu New shirt new pants new sharpness, dull mind, dull movement, dulls clarity, expressions becomes expectations, and love becomes lust. colors takes on the feel of commercialism, while fear find its way through the cracks to form new dis-tance. "Emporer's new fear", July 28, 1998. Bill Chiu The loosely ordered, high flying power cables chatted back and forth, swaying dance-like to the early arriving evening current; the stage is set in the vast, evening summer ampatheater, with her possessive clouds of crimson pushing fiercely against the deepening shore of blue -- soothing his injured self-importance, and eases his outrage as the setting sun slips from his bosom. Drowning in the airy immenseness alive with loose floating threads and weight-liberated sand particles, fallen leafs, rising expectation and lost anxieties thickens her atmosphere -- they gave out a strange, complex glow over the young nightscape. "Local accent", July 27, 1998. Bill Chiu The initial symptoms of a fall is similar to a flu, and here are some of the parallels: Dizzy; an emotional blanket that overwhelms normal flow of wants and thought process. Characterized by waves of highs and lows that demonstrate the unstable and fun loving nature of love. Similar to a flu, the ending stage of a fall is usually difficult to determine -- endless lingering of flu symptoms with no end in sight -- then suddenly you are healthy again; at once air thins and cool slips back in; art becomes alive and perceptions sharpens - balance comes back -- liking waking up from a long and suppressive dream. It is with this property of a fall that guarantees the continuation of a race -- a characteristic of an emerging property labeled as "generation of being". From individual point of view, to fall in love is important part of self experience. "Revenge", July 21, 1998. Bill Chiu The birth of a new sun obscure the sky of anything but the crewel reach of its radiation -- setting everything afire orange and blue, and sad. "New sun", July 17, 1998. Bill Chiu Fucking confused and resenting rebelling self grilling wall punching sun blocking ants dying, to fear and envy and bath in heterogeneous mixture of sour milk cakes -- delicious lows in luscious highs breaching every sense of balance, urging growth and expansion of the heart, forcing acceptance of human nature with violent disregard for timing... Slow and deliberate savoring of life's gravy. "Bombardment", July 17, 1998. Bill Chiu Thousand silly threads of bundled consequences emerges from her well-weathered scalp -- lines sorted in a barely recognizable sequence forcing a limited definition of beauty, to give a harsh separation of ideologies, and endless foolish gaming with blind competing egos. "Yellow form", July 15, 1998. Bill Chiu Shadows casted all around me, liberation from sun soothes me in a moment of coolness -- one that I so desperately craved. Intellectual emotionalism abstracting pain into acidic cubism, burning landscape seeping inward and solidified the returning sharpness. "Reassert", July 7, 1998. Bill Chiu Falling stars kiss fresh wounds on my unhealed lip. Milk, honey and blood tricked my soul and pickled the heart into fossils, locking on one prehistoric sunset. Cries of a just-born snake demanding the creation of new consequences. Lava rivers march defiantly on the unformed landscape, liquidify its solid cousins with soft menace; the acrid, burning smoke mixed with the oxygen rich atmosphere abound. Small creatures struggle across jagged cliff seeking meaning of self-preservation; thick volcanic cloud obscures the wintering sun, projecting mountain-sized ellipsoids from horizon to horizon. Lost and left-behind I hide amongst the stormy clouds; ice of a tear cling insistently on my newly formed mechanical wing. "All wrong reasons", July 7, 1998. Bill Chiu Midnight rush hour passed and I look forward to a deep embrace on a old old, torn, lone boat lost in her desert with nothing except whale mating songs. Reaching up, picking any sky I wanted, I measure my deaths with age-lines on her smooth, polished surfaces -- always eager to kiss, always wet, I set my spirits free to roam in the everlasting, autumn night space. "Running amongst rivers", July 7, 1998. Bill Chiu Irregular grid in a non-spatial space, swimming like a fish, flying like a high, sleeping like a leaflet; the embossed banner shine gold and dark green, high- heels landing on wet washed sidewalk, dancing on convoluted glow of desires or expectations that permeates into every whispers, in a quiet dream. "Flickering noon", July 6, 1998. Bill Chiu one 7 four 2 -- 1 2 1 3 six. three 7 twelve 9 sixteen - 3 7 five. "Dance on the fence", June 22, 1998. Bill Chiu Taste of metal in my mouth, fading sensation of sting on my tongue, this evening had lasted twenty-years between me and the city. Crewel sunlight exposed unhappy broken hidden imperfections in her smile, in his laughter -- in my scars. On the edge of imbalance life thrived and glowed orange under a lonely street light. "Abandoned shipyard", June 22, 1998. Bill Chiu Running in the windy autumn air in the crowded (but deserted) city street, the gradual decay of brick-paved road bring hurtful knowledge to consciousness. above the orange sun exploded - the gigantic nuclear-furnace swept through all hesitations and destroyed any reasonable doubts. With the heart free to roam, fire fighters ran amok, battling flames with honey and 1,000 syllable words. Deep in the Atlantic ocean, deep sea current alters direction to change global weather patterns -- In my dreams houses have already learned the new shapes. "Crash dummies", June 19, 1998. Bill Chiu Broken wall, chipped worn discolored bricks, sand piles liberated into chasm below in a sudden gust of wind. Evening sun burned earth's irregular edge with painful intensity, seagulls cried in the delight of chilling evening air. Dark black sea pulled in -- threatening the senses with its boundless freedom. I hurt. Punishing the earth below with my heavy mood while the sheltering nightsky lured my spirit to join above the million grains of ancient lights, each desperately signaling for attention. To seek refuge amongst them... It is better to have..., No! I will not be so easily defined. Blue and green and red, and orange and silver and purple and blue -- swimming through my veins and creating a new self on the gentle damp sand of silicon beach -- distant city grew and shrinks (and shimmers), always inviting fool-hearted to chase its seductive mirage. "Verge", June 19, 1998. Bill Chiu Dimming of the light. Gray turned into color, fabrics turned into textures, holes in the perfection turned into perfect holes. Nutrients bleed forward blending into retreating sand. I'll take a leap wayward into center. "Spiral stair box", June 12, 1998. Bill Chiu Light blurred racing along an axis toward an important mirage. "Shallow breaths", June 11, 1998. Bill Chiu Colors saturated as dreams. Dreams in thick purple -- imprisoned silver wire cutting sky blue into perfect squares, of dark green milky vanilla chocolate gravy yellow mango perfect vertical spheres. "Deep afternoon vision", June 10, 1998. Bill Chiu Confusing mixture of colors and tastes and touches and smells and sounds and thoughts and people and cultures and surfaces and layers and volumes and orders and textures and reasons and intersections and threads -- reaching every centers and balancing all edges. "May, june", June 10, 1998. Bill Chiu Beat quicken breath short perception prolong -- coloring subtle information pulsing through moments of childhood; and random partitioning of day light or intensity. Surface texture temperature moisture insidious placement of origin. "Kiss of light", May 20, 1998. Bill Chiu Invoke be this my desire hold, time transport ocean into flight of flame, pin-down inter-mixed current engulfing -- the whole of heaven and hell; and the sighs chasing generations run. In the story of Eden. "Eden falls", May 20, 1998. Bill Chiu Stephanie of Schaufele, she steals my heart and taunts me in my night dreams, like a faded impression of an angel, that I wanted to keep. "Relapse", May 17, 1998. Bill Chiu Walls are equally deaf but with less blockage, psyche create landscape of everyday experience, experiences cut off at the first sign of trouble -- blind corners grew into teeth; Personal confinement and gradual dimming of senses for, in exchange -- the illusion of stability. "Blank souls", May 14, 1998. Bill Chiu Extremely dangerous -- Change is inevitable; Disintegration -- Bone melting heart bursting eye blinding anger; seething through the faintest secret blood vessels. Nothing survived; disconnected whole lost in the aged, black, evil river. I am enhanced. "Lost and possessed", 1998. Bill Chiu I burn in sea of inspirations and desire, forced to run as undercurrent -- Now flooding and covering everything -- every senses suppressing this energy from escaping -- but it had already broke free. It had already dominated all. "Escape velocity", 1998. Bill Chiu My head has turned to stone -- punished by lack of creative inspirations. My tears turned to salt, my life turned to clock, my blood turned to mud, my breath turned to quiet. My eyes turned to blind, my desires turned to thief -- I must grow again; I must glow again! "New order", 1998. Bill Chiu The exciting pain I felt when I see academic treatment of networking theories and computational intelligence. It pains me deeply to have done nothing for things I love for so long. There is a death of creativity and innovation, in its place monotonous iterations and routines. I must try to get back! "Wish", 1998. Bill Chiu Decay is beautiful. The falling apart, the dimming of surface; Cuts and wounds inflicted by sand and speed and memory. Streaks of gray substance clinging to surface diffusing substance bleeding out perfection. Damage marks the abuser disrupts true form -- ancient artifacts modern arts. "Marking decay", 1997. Bill Chiu Running and hiding into the open -- into the opening of nothingness; embraced by lucid plastic twisting into puzzle, growing, eating into chaos, senses exploding and shrinking and running away into more pain and more lust for life and sensations. Death isn't the barrier. "Critical growth", 1997. Bill Chiu Shifty gray splashing all consuming blood spiced into purple tasting green smelling mental scream that echos in the substance of flash and separating soul from color and forms. "Silent scream", 1997. Bill Chiu I escape to a corner -- the center of all corners. "Hid", 1997. Bill Chiu Close of Day. Just fixed some old codes. Slightly disappointed. "End", Aug, 1997. Bill Chiu I feel uncertain. I got a few unknowns to juggle. shall I do the netlist or fix the code? Now I asked, I feel more certain. "Ask the unknown", Aug, 1997. Bill Chiu axCreateCell, axOverWriteRefLibCell(), axCreateLibrary, their magical interactions unknown, their intentions hidden. I will test their reactions until their motives are exposed. Then, they will be mine. "The logical approach", Aug, 1997. Bill Chiu Exhausted. Burp -- I ate too much netlist. "Netlist hell", 18:09, Aug 18, 1997. Bill Chiu P visited. "P visited", 16:12, Aug 18, 1997. Bill Chiu Head light, spirit a little drained. I can smell dead-line shimmering on the horizon. Set target at 6. "Drained", 16:07, Aug 18, 1997. Bill Chiu Restored. Or found hope to restore. further away. "Restored", 14:28, Aug 18, 1997. Bill Chiu Upset about something, don't know what it is. air is turbulent, compressive. I can't fit a circle into a box. Something is upsetting. Balance is compromised. Somewhere, somewhere close by. "Upset", 14:14, Aug 18, 1997. Bill Chiu I have a cold. My nose failed to grab air -- suffocation. My head locked in a crown of pain -- can't get no peace; sky is lower, lights dim, all distinctions escapes their bonds. Words fails to con-nect, emotions become strange and distant. Clusterphobic, disarray in the normal flow of time -- Muted and exhausted. "Feeling flu", 1997. Bill Chiu Dark colors and artificial flowers dim and subdues the heart; new and repeated hopes recycles efficiently, in the efficient and beautiful monster, we are. We are not -- I. Perfumes and lavish treats are not substitute for smell, and salivation, and a touch, and inhaling and exhaling; and seeing, and climbing and falling, and crying and living (and dying), and growing (glowing). Now I am free. Now I am whole. "Defy materialism", July, 1997. Bill Chiu First day of joining work force. They made me put on my plastic eyes and custom fit casts on all of my joints to prevent excessive movements - for my own good. Day and nights are to be concepts measurable only on the face of my digital clock. The distant marching songs goes something like this: "I will be rewarded for my dedication here, and I will be paid well, and I will be happy for my own sake". I cried. "Exile from myself", Bill Chiu |