Help I'm Alive (Chaos Theory) [The Party]

Vacuum of doubt, of change, of delirium, of love, of serendipity, of the face in the mirror.

Vivaldi. January 22. 1974

His sleeves was tucked in the most unusual way. Was there a battle to prepare for? Amidst the rave, the carpet dance floor?

I was the man on the island. The crowd was my sea. Salty was their demeanor, but helpless were their waves. I couldn't think of a better night to think.

And then he walked up to me with a glass of colada.
"Have you passed the suitcase?"

"....yes. But I'm not sure if we've got the right location"

I remembered it clearly. The grin he hid inside the mask of empathy. There was no modus operandi to this mission. It only had a goal.
"...and we've done everything possible to get it"

"How bout the owner of this place?"
"He's drugged"

I locked myself in the bathroom after that conversation. One was for the taming of adrenaline. The other was the goal. It was to happen here.

Oh Allah, I am afraid. I am afraid and doubtful. Don't let me be the accomplice of Shaitan.

Could I have materialize such a thought, I would.
Could I have stopped the whole atrocity, I would.
Could I have answered the door, I would.

"Open the damn door!"

But I couldn't.

"Hey, it'd be all over soon"
"What will be over? I don't like the sound of that. Na-ah"

There was that empathy again

"Yarhamukallah"

My mind was dislodged of it's altar. Time was immaterial. Life was immaterial. I was material.

That means it will hurt


Soft voices. Like breeze in a nuclear reactor.

"You have the trigger, Simon"

Blood ran cold. There was nothing else to interpret. Except for a resounding din of "No other....God....Muhammad"

I'm in a toilet. God forbid this will be my grave.

And the door was still being hammered at that time.

It was all wired. The sewers, the argon lighting. I didn't know why I was there.

"YOU HAVE TO GET OUT OF THERE. THIS IS NOT RIGHT. YOU ARE IN A CRAZY CONSPIRACY. NO ONE 'NEEDS' YOU. A PROP. THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE"

Alleys Incandescent

"Tonight we beg,
Tonight we beg a question,
If a married man,
A married man bangs a Catholic,
And his wife dies without knowing,
Does it make him unfaithful, people?"

Channel 3. Jackie Collin was a madman. A madman who smiles at the people and say "Hey,
you're like me too, you just happen to get away with it". Polly was sure he was behind the bombings if it wasn't for the fact that he gave a speech on the 'Terrorist of Our Generations'.

"The old men are to be blamed. Have you noticed that all of the people you really despise have either facial hair or something along the lines of that? And not one of them are completely bald?"

He was speaking to rabbis. Rabbis in the terms of "children who are most likely to commit suicide and are rather Jewish at that". He hugged all of em. Made a few friends.

Jackie Collins was himself bald.

And as they say, the angel arrives amidst all the chaos with the burden of baggage.

60th Avenue was a thin demarcation. Of rats and chop suey cartons, to high rise flats with puppets who solve problems by dodging them.

*knocks on the door*
"Whozzat?"
"Er...Polly, I'm here to rent an apartment"
"Shit here, Molly? Your twin is here?"
"Fuck off"

The doorknob turned. And behind it were whispers of anger, or rather, Polly thought, of humor.
The moment a crack was visible between the thresholds, there was a shriek.

"YOUR FUCKING CAT IS AT IT AGAIN"
"er....hi"

It was as though they had forgotten that someone knocked on their door only seconds ago. A scream leads one back.

"Who do you look up to in life?"
"Er....do you always interview potential renters?"
"Is it the Man?"
"How much money do you have?"
"All the money in the world"
"That doesn't make sense"
"Well neither does the latter"


The apartment was predominated by a kitchen, with a stove as big as a small car. The saying here is that if you can't stand the heat..

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE"
"Hey Molly, let's take this into consideration, we've got a new roommate here.."

Polly smiled at the man who was being harassed out of the premise, it seems that people are always so thoughtful of her at the verge of them leaving.

And then at that moment, her mind drifted away to thoughts of the Painter.

"...I mean you're gonna need some extra hands"
"Can I use the bathroom?"

And she finds herself in a claustrophobic space.

Who killed you, and brought you back to life?
Who made the land parched, but gave it seeds to thrive?

Meanwhile, in the darker ends of the street. Jannie smokes a herb, whilst staring at the turrets in the sky.

"My time is near"

She was 15, and inappropriately, well-off as a human being. Her father, Stan had broken many ties of relations. With the grace of a politician, Stan treats everyone like dirt, but loves his daughter so. But with all of that considered, Stan wasn't campaigning anything.

"Next please"

Charisma is the very last thing they care about when it comes to banking. But Stan was murdering people's integrity without the knowledge of even the smallest of microbes.

"Smiling is charity? Then beggars should be better off at Disneyland"

Jannie walked up the fire escapes, and saw a woman staring blankly into a mirror.

"Extremely vain, aren't you?"

In her James Dean jacket, and torn denims, Jannie gave the impression of having relations with lawyers, investment bankers, parliamentary members and most importantly, fast food cashiers. In fact, she gave such a strong impression at that, that those people seem to live inside her.

"You're new here aren't you?"
"....well, not to you. No. I've heard about you"
"...OH...YOU'RE LILITH's FRIEND"
"Mmhmm, but you're not a prostitute"
"Hahah, no, no I'm not"
"But is Lilith a prostitute?"
"She buys souls, if you get what I mean"
"Oh...but"
"Hey, care to be my sister for the night?"
"..alright"

Polly didn't want to be anyone's sister at the moment. But she figured that if Jannie and Lilith are affiliated with each other, then they must know where she's heading.

"So Polly, who are you working for?"
"Huh?"
"In this world, everyone's working for someone"
"Oh, well I'm still in college.."
"Are you a Buddhist?"
"..no"
"Good"

The Painter came out of her mouth like a random tale of a pet's death. Jannie didn't look shocked though. But for the first time ever since they first met, Jannie wasn't smiling either.

"The Painter...he's the kinda person that gives hope to people who are dirt y'know. We don't want that"
"What do you mean?"
"He told you to come here, not Lilith"
"Yes...but how do you know?"
"He does that to people.."
"So you know him?"
"Everyone does. Different names go around"
"Oh God...."
"So you're on our side now at least"
"No, no I mean..."
"We take doubts and appreciate it as a value. You, Polly, are on fire"

Polly was in a state of destitute. Who was she to choose? All of those psychological thesis seemed to make more sense now, but it left her in a greater state of lost.

"I'm sick of other people making decisions for me"
"That's the superego we're looking for"
"Why does everyone here give the impression of recruiting members into their own cliques?"
"Hey, the sky is falling. You either be happy with people or pretend to be satisfied on your own"
"Why can't I stand alone then?"
"Because loneliness is an opium that deludes"

It was raining again. But now the drops of water sounded as audible as the hissing of a serpent. A serpent who is mad for the lack of hands, and bites everything he sees. A serpent, that Polly called, the Britney Spears of Mother Nature.

There was a garden on one of the rooftops. Polly only started noticing it when a lightning seemed to struck a wooden surface instead of an antenna. Jannie was asleep now. So Polly's opium is now extant, in the small island of life amongst the sea of desolation. Although death is subjective, 60th avenue wasn't and will never be anything more than a one-way street.

"Hello..?"

A familiar face appeared drifting over a broken park bench. But no...this one has wings on him.

"Hello Polly"
"I'm not gonna ask you how exactly do you know my name"
"Haha, Molly's got a strong fury in her voice, doesn't she?"
"..oh"

Gypsy negros were dancing in her cerebellum at that very moment. The pigeons on that man's shoulder seemed to send message scrolls to her brain, telling her that magic is believable. And that beggars cannot read minds.

"Hey let's step on the grass patches, the rain seems to make it sparkle doesn't it?"
"Alright"
"Take off your shoes"
"Not until you tell me your name"
"Oh...I'm Gabe"

The garden was beautiful. And not even in the relative sense. It was small, but the leakage of the hose water, like tears flowing in intervals between blades of green, made Polly feel like she was a giant over Nature's field.

But she did not feel free...

"I'm gonna give you 10 things"

The burden of power made her think about the man who she slept with just the night before.

Who is she to choose?

"You know, what's down there maybe satisfying, but when it rains, 'tis here is the last place to flood"
"Haha, good to know, but I'm staying at the apartment downstairs"
"Why don't you stay here then?"

She tried to hold her tongue from saying the silliest things

I'm not worthy of your roofless home, and the endless river that flows beneath,
But neither am I willing to suffer,
So forgive me, when there's no one else to forgive,
It does not matter, whether I'd be the last one to live

Flicker, flicker. Thomas Edison loved his failures. If only he could see 60th Avenue in the rain.

Never seemed to light up the darkness. But attractive, nonetheless.

"Fireflies hahahahahha"
"What's so funny?"

Farhan (?!)

hazim- one smart knowledgable man, like said by someone.....

"Farhan takde kerje"

-ZiM

This Blue

A field of maiden grass,
Of patches from the tromps of survivors,
Of giant entrances,
And liquidized views,
I see the stars,
On top of you.

A bed of opposites,
Directions connect,
But I digress,
And stare at the speck,
When the eyes turn warm,
And the heart turns wild,

But the face is as soft as a yaks

To own this land,
The green and parched,
While heavens bounty,
Are left untouched.

I seek to call your name,
To call you by one,
But to forget is the same.
The wrong things are written on the table,
A slight remark, a witty fable.

"Hold my hand as it falls into space"
While rockets fall and turtles race.

So I came back,
To a house of indifference,
But that lead to a place,
Of might and complacence.

A falling star,
A supernova in the veneer of a blush,
I seem to talk to you,
As though my love for you,
Is to love a rush.

Cause you would leave me forever,
Where as the option of staying isn't mine,
"What has it done to you?"
Only choices - made divine.

To speak is an art,
Harms the soul and mind,
Of misleading lies,
You thought to be divine,
Logic has a heart,
Only recklessness, the faith that undermines.

How to miss a white horizon?

Have I been turning my back to the sun?

The sun that only comes out at night?

"I want your number, if that's all right"

Hell is near, tangible and there,
So why is heaven so far, so out of reach,
Yet everywhere?

And then I walked upon a flower,
Guilt was my salt,
Why did I leave it there?

And it wilts,
While Sirius sparkles down hopelessly,
I wanna say,
That even if all good is at bay,
It will never disappear,
Just like the moon today.

Embrace black embroideries,
That reminds you of coal,
A dictatorship,
In the hill of a mole,

It is a blessing that you can't read my thoughts.

It's just that one thing led to another,
Relevant to all, and connected to the other,
And as I hold in my arms a figure of the eternal,
The devil goes on "For what shall make you detrimental,
Is a prosecution, and it too a tradition"

I miss you, you know that

This blue,
This sky that we forget to look up to,
We are not reaching the stars anymore,
Just a straightforward journey of finding doors.

This blue,
The water that cleanses,
Before the morning dew,
Eyes half-closed and the carpets are dense,
I want to hear you,
To listen to a view.

This blue,
An aura under a machinery of current workings,
Beggars who wait by public phones,
Because hope is something you cannot really see isn't it?
The beauty of Grace, is that it leaves you alone.
Sometimes the beauty of Grace, is that it makes life unfair,
I will pretend that you're not there.

To alleys incandescent and racial riots.

Dah nak subuh.

The Afterlife of The Party

This was the scene.

"It's too late"
"Was it ever early? Why did you call me here?"
"He's gone"
"Who?"
"Him"

It was a Thursday evening and everyone was in their rooms, asleep, condemned in analogies.
So appropriately awkward that another police siren blared exactly 2 minutes later.
Polly was too tired to think but not restful enough to lie down. The pub that night was without drama or plot, an image of violent violet fluorescent over dusty mugs and ashtrays.

The chair was there, and on it was her.

"It's too late"
"You're still here"
"Did you hang yourself?"
"What? What is this an irish joke?"
"Did you?"
"...I don't remember"

The stairs, there was nothing else to remember. The biggest harm of all. Discerning memories off a sea of perspective and paradox. To choose to forget. To choose to...

"You don't understand"
"No one understands you"
"It was the night, the negros, the voodoo"

It did turn to morning, that was certain. She woke up denying that she ever slept.

Which side of the bed did I get off or not,
I've forgotten,
So it can't be real.

Is it graffiti if other people won't be able to see it?
Or is the whole point just to damage property through honest acrylic?

Verona March, Prostitute, 21:
I wasn't there, I doubt anyone was. It was all noisy and shit I expected something exciting ya know. To think it was just. Blasphemy. I wasted a good client on that.

"Report says she's never taken any recs or medication, sir"
"Report?"
"Yes sir, I took it out from the archives sir, just like you asked.."
"...there's something ...dodgy about this"
"I feel it too, sir"

If I close my eyes,
Then maybe I won't feel.

The sun doesn't smile on the concrete form of men but it smiles on the obedience to illusory.
Polly occupies a diner now. To see others, was to see pass a torn barrier of reflections.

"You know I'd still give you your soup, honey. No matter what you tell me"
"Because you're kind, I know"
"Share it with me, it'll be fun. Awkward, as always. But fun"
"Doesn't love just seem to blind you, Doris"
"God is great when love is blind"
"God?"

When you're on the brink of a cliff, and you feel no fear of jumping off, you feel no urge to turn back. You feel that there's nothing stopping you. There is no external force guiding you. You're free. To choose but never to be chosen. Existence. That's what it is.

In the trash can. Post-it notes on the window panes. As though someone was trying to dwell in the ecstasy of routine while filtering out any sense of hope. Because hope is a nursery rhyme.

Specifically this one.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe
She had so many children she didn't know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread,
Then whipped them all soundly
And put them to bed.

"So what's the special today?"
"I can't tell you"
"Well, if it matters that much...."
"Haha, shut up"

Sleeping next to him was a long-lived enigma. She could see what he was doing to me. She could see what I was doing to him. She could see everything. And yet know nothing.

Rain often loses itself inside it's own fading choreography. But this dance seemed like it was going to last forever.

"Did I really kill myself?"
"Well, I don't know. But you were leaving that's for sure"
"Come on, Lilith. You know"
"Never more than I know the funeral dates of the stars, Polly"
"Are you comparing me to a star?"
"Don't flatter yourself"

Lilith,victim's best friend, 19:
They had to destroy the door.

"No one cares if you die"
"You would, wouldn't you?"
"That's because I am no one"
"How did we get here?"
"Shit Polly, we're in a damn pub, have some sense of doubtful intuition once in awhile"
"Alright"
"You hear that? The fuzz is here. Some prostitute probably offered Sgt. Pepper some uninhibited love, I bet"
"What can I do?"
"Leave something behind"

Drawing pictures in my mind,
Trying to feel my pain

Polly was mad at the violinist. To play a tune that resonates into the emptiness of an alley would just get you killed. Maybe that's exactly why he's here. To welcome salvation but to prepare drinks for death.To say fuck religion but hail Satan.

"They're not giving us any information"
"But what are we investigating? A disappearance?"
"Can anyone really confirm absence? We're cops, Ravi, not philosophers. Heck, I can't even philosophize my way out of a donut"
"Yeah, what happens if we have to murder one?"
"Murder what? A donut?"
"No, sir"
"I wouldn't. Not now anyways"

Follow the porcelain kitchen sets. Forget semen, blood and hair strands. A legacy is never deliberately a sin.

"Don't burn the curtains!"
"SHHHHH..do you believe in heaven?"
"What?"
"Heaven? You know, happiest place possible? Heaven?"
"......why now? When you're burning my curtains? What has paradise got to do with a piece of fabric cotton?"
"Answer my question"
"WHO ARE YOU"
"You've thrown yourself too far into the pit, Polly, I am nothing as you are nothing as everything you see right now is nothing.Save for the only thing that you can't even see"
"I just thought you'd be sleeping with me..that's all.."
"I did"
"...the cops are here"

If lust can be exuded through reluctance, then why not anger through composure?

I try to bend it,
And it hurts

"Uptown, 60th Ave"
"Yes, miss"
"You can see me..."
"I wouldn't be a taxi driver if I can't see, would I,miss?"
"You talk funny, where are you from?"
"Nowhere"
"Before nowhere?"
"Oh..Czechoslovakia"
"I'm glad. Finally, someone I haven't seen in my entire life"
"You don't go out too often, eh miss?"
"The people here are all the same..er.."
"Faris"
"Yes, Faris. They're all the same here"
"You're saying such a sad thing but you're smiling like an angel"
"Haha, 60th Ave is pretty far isn't it?"
"With the traffic, it will seem far"
"As long as it takes forever"



New Jersey, 13 March - _______murdered through immolation. ______ no remains found.______premises undamaged.__________woman's identity non-existent. A man who calls himself The Painter __________________.

Strips of paper cuttings were left to fly across the checkered kitchen floors of a newly rented apartment. A cat trailing along between the legs of a refugee. Not to run away. Just to stay somewhere else for quite awhile.

I'm another too endless,
So do you think I should end this?

Sin Where?

Clouds are marching along,
Singing a song,
Just like they do,
If the clouds were singing a song,
I'd sing along,
Wouldn't you to?

If you just knew what they could do,
If you just knew what would they do.

And if the birds are just lettered words,
Flying along, singing a song,
What would they do, if they just knew,
What they could do, if they just knew.


You know I'm glad,
That I never gave a damn about the weather,
Cause it never gave a damn about me.

I know it's mad,
But if I dig a well, will you dig with me,
Or just leave?

I know it's mad,
But if it was time I was defending,
Will you just leave me?

Clouds are singing a song,
Marking my wrongs,
Just like you do,
If the clouds were playing a song,
I'd play along,
Wouldn't you too?

If you just knew,
What they could do,
If you just knew,
What would they do,

And if the words are just feathered birds,
Flying a love, Singing a soft,
What would they do, if they just knew,
What we could do, if they just knew.

I know it's sad that I never gave a damn about the weather,
And it never gave a damn about me,
No, it never gave a damn about me.

And I know it's mad,
But if you broke and fell, I'd call the doctor,
And just leave.

I know it's sad,
That if the sky was bending I would kiss thee,
And just leave.

Cause they never gave a damn about me.

Hey Moon

If all our life is but a dream,
Fantastic posing greed,
Then we should feed our jewelry to the sea.
For diamonds do appear to be,
Just like broken glass to me.

And then she said she can't believe,
Genius only comes along in storms of fabled foreign tongues,
Trippin eyes and flooded lungs,
Nor the downpour sends it love.

Hey moon please forget to fall down,
Hey moon don't you fall down.

Sugarcane in the easy morning,
Watered veins, my one and only.

The ink is running for the page,
It's chasing off the daze,
Looking at both feet and wounded knee.
I miss your skin when you were eased,
You clicked your heels and wished for me.

For playful lips made of yawns,
That fragile cat forlorn,
Unraveled words like mobs upon old stars,
I know the world's a broken bone,
But paraplegics call it home.

Hey moon please forget to turn round,
Hey moon don't you turn round.

So she came in the breezy morning,
What invades my one and lonely.

You are at the top of my lungs,
Drawn to the ones who never yawn.

Bye moon.