owenSoft.net - Logbook

Smiley Faces (Logbook)

2008-05-04 13:19:38

I am often asked how I find time to update this website, what stars direct my faith. Its not really hard. A focused mind can find anything. There is so much bueaty in the world. All that it requires is a little time to write it down, separate the clutter. At the base of it all, every song is a love song. Its all a matter of perspective, how you look at it or listen to it.

As I'm eating my calalloo rice out of a Styrofoam cup takes a very long time to decompose in the environment and has been documented to cause starvation in birds and other marine wildlife. If I had the time, a whole lot a money or if luck was a lady; I would rent a whole floor of the pan caribbean building - don't ask me why. When you live by the day, pay by the hour, and sleep on the weekends, you tend to lay in the bed that you made, die by what you live by. Passion is a curse.

I spent all of last week thinking up new application concepts and watching wild ants eat babies on Discovery - not really - they were eating chickens. Babies taste like chicken? I ask cause I'm not sure. I learn fast, so you don't really have to go into the details. Photographic memory tends to be a curse when you remember odd little details about everything and yet absolute nothing about others. It does wear me down at times, like a caged animal.

By owen on Logbook

We and dem (Logbook)

2008-04-20 22:26:29

I've been watching african movies on dvd since my cable company's feed was hyjacked by the latest monopoly - cream and bastards. I'm hooked on them like a baby on a well endowed milk machine - a monkey on a swing. There is no hesitation in these films for men to head butt women, jealous sisters marrying there dead sister's husbands, women fighting over men in supermarkets - its not the typical regurgitant I am accustomed to seeing on american cable or on profile for the last twenty one years. Cinderella gets her fair share of bad treatment.

African films live on a whole different set of rules; women typically stay at home, have babies and then get murdered or betrayed in some unusually conniving way. Only to return as ghosts to set things right. There are also a lot less curse word and they place a lot of emphasis on morals and ethics. Cursing is replaced with long sensitions of crying, well bawling would be a better word to describe the river of H2O that percipitates when anyone dies or gets slapped - did I mention how they like to slap alot? One girl got headbutted once, shot, burned with acided, given a letal injection and slapped at least once by every character in the movie, all because she was in love with the dude that president's daughter wanted. It was very painful to watch - I loved it - pure drama.

The films I've been watching seem to be from Ghana. Which may explain why the director keeps using the same actors over and over again - not that I'm complaining cause there apparently is no shortage of leading ladies with healthy backend support, thickness, camera crews, etc. Hair extentions are abundant but not quite as annoying as the fact that EVERY MOVIE IS A TWO PART SERIES. It is as if they can never finish slapping anybody in a hour and a half. Nothing is worst than watching part 1 and having the possiblity of NEVER SEEING THE CONCLUSION! I am enjoying still, if not only to see who will get murdered or slapped next, how and when the father will catch the son sleeping with his mistress who happens to be his wife's sister. The plot is never the same, which is good.

By owen on Logbook

Smooth Operater (Logbook)

2008-04-11 16:28:05

I haven't been the same since I went to that beach, far, far away. The hot sand beneat my feet, wind in my hair. It started to get to me, prudence was never my clean suit, I had to get out. Cream and bastards. I am at the point where people keep asking what makes me special, what stars direct my faith, the circle on which I run about. Wanting me to sell myself like a lady of the night. Quixotic about this thing called reality. Malcontent, a ghost in a shell. Truth is, I really never saw myself as special in anyway, I enjoy the madness, we are all the same, just doing enough to get by. I see myself as a product of my environment, the fifth car in a train wreak. Hey Jude. Each person I know bringing me closer an closer to perfection. Each being a part of my puzzle, having a specific purpose. I am never the same unless you are there.

I love my mother. She brings forth the supplication. I went to the dentist, only because it will give me pain, something to write about. Last time I was there 6 years ago, he left my teeth in a state of unrest. I'll be fine as long as somebody takes me home - everynow and then. The price doubled to 4000 JMD and the pain somewhat reduced to random miscalculations of her air powered tool of pain. Now the student had become the teacher. The feeling like I had a stroke as I lost control of my jaw muscles, a combination of water and saliva ran down my cheeks, unto my neck as she pressed my head against her breast.

Its hard for me to define myself. I'm somewhere between unsure and a hundred. Its like asking a tomato why its red or why the sun shines and then explodes. There is only some many words we can say; hello, goodbye. You asking me will my love grow? I don't know, I don't know. I'm a revolving door.

By owen on Logbook

Malibu (Logbook)

2008-03-24 18:24:16

I started walking. By the time I realised, it was too late. I had nothing to do and had ended up on a beach in Negril surrounded by white people reading Harry Porter - foreign people are much more fun in their home country. Red Stripe still 100 dollars. I could not fight the feeling anymore. I had come down with a case of "infinite beach" syndrome.

It happens, like most things in life when you are left unamused at a unenclosed beach. I wonder off like a 5 year child at a supermarket. Kartel clusterfuck. Except with the lack of structure my mind erupts with a wave of endless possibilities. I go into a state of euphoria, there was nothing left in the whole wide world - just me, the beach and people baking in the sun. All the best things in life are free. The beach had to be concurred, wrinkle free.

An hour, 3 topless women, 1 nude man, 10 hotels and 4 miles later I ended up at a dock, with sea gulls and a big white boat called "Wild Thing". My calves hurting, the snickers were melting in my pocket. The return trip always shorter because you've seen it all before, never save anything for the swim back. I was done, the beach ended and I was still alive.

By owen on Logbook

Grow Young (Logbook)

2008-02-22 17:41:26

As of late I have been eating food - in the food court using late meal vouchers, getting there around the same time, late at the night. Facading my facades. The interesting thing about food courts is that it is always filled with people of some kind. People that you will see only if you go there at that time, that second, its like monkeys in the wild or tulips in the spring. And they are not there for the food. It is a place that they were meant to be, if destiny is kind. Death and taxes. Now if someone tells you that the Chinese food at Little Tokyo is good, make sure you ask them if its really Chinese - not some foreign country which happens to have "Chinese like" people that cook. I began to worry when I asked for chicken and she said "which chicken?". Chewy. Too many choices.

In the food court there will be cults of people. You have the mid-week daters who have nothing better to do than the same things they do every week, except this time with other people. The people who cannot cook and prefer to eat among strangers - every once in a while. The student group who are still polite and have the dreamer's disease. The laptop users who are just there for the free internet. The old couples discussing the blue color that results when you put the thing in the toilet water - watch the stars fall silent. The janitorial staff who have their own little circle of people who they talk to - everybody hurts.

Its a place where you go, stay for a while and then leave. Like a temporary hotel without the water sports and little chocolates. The others, the kids on a night out, people on permanent holiday and the local foreigners who don't feel safe anywhere else. The people seeing each other on "the side". The models, sexy ladies, the punks, the idlers looking to pick up other people, the business meeting, the drug deal. Cute babies, people waiting for people, people finding people. Its like a playground for the mind, you don't want to go there too often, or stay too late, just long enough to get what you give.

By owen on Logbook

Hollow, An ode to my beloved (Logbook)

2008-02-12 12:50:27

I’ve been addicted to you, it seems like forever. As each day passes I fill it with soporific activities designed not to let me forget but just to keep going. From time to time I actually feel released from your grasp. But every now and again you creep up into my sleep and into my being. What can I do to shed this pain. I saw the end before it began, pretty much I suppose when you go on a roller coaster you know the thrill will be for so long and no more. No one actually lives on the roller coaster so you couldn’t expect to stay forever; it’s only a temporary state of excitement. There comes a time when you know you have to go home.

What surprises me more is that I am my own demon; it seems I stole your soul, Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won. So I took what's mine by eternal right. Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown? No, you had your time to save us both.

But I won’t let you go even though it’s over, you changed my life my very being and now my DNA is infused with yours. Each year passes only helps me to linger, but that doesn’t help because it doesn’t change anything except my broken dreams. My spirit lives on to try and give a normal smile and only time sees my pain.

And I still hold your hand in mine, when I'm asleep. And I will bear my soul in time.

I am here for you if you'd only care.

You touched my heart you touched my soul.

I've kissed your lips and held your head.

Shared your dreams and shared your bed.

I know you well, I know your smell.

I've been addicted to you.

Remember us and all we used to be

Goodbye my lover.

Goodbye my friend.

You have been the one.

You have been the one for me.

Now I'm so hollow

By DLBG on Logbook

The Seeker (Logbook)

2008-01-28 21:09:03

She was mildly attractive with a low cut blouse and pamphlets about disabled kids in a folder as if she had just come from a conference. I assumed she was a basic school teacher like most are if not that a church girl or a monkey. As she took out her phone out of her incredibly large purse, I was already turning off my phone. The bus and the fact that the hot younger girl sat in the wrong seat. She was about 30 plus and had one maybe 2 kids - as I get older I tend to not fear the curse of attachments that I download will affect my computer. Life is either a perilous adventure or nothing. A freckle on the nose of life's complexion.

My assumptions were correct for she preceded to argue with her 5 year old daughter on the phone about why she love other people yard more than her own - she was a bit clingy like paint on a dry wall. It was clearly important to her and I listened patiently because I had the window seat, trapped, the bus was full and my Jedi mind tricks are yet to prove profitable. I listened, she spoke. She was well endowed and had a strong conviction for what she was saying, it was important to her as I said before in the last sentence.

You tend to not talk about relationships and common-law marriages when you first meet a woman, especially on the bus where she could shank me many times when I laughed at her misconceptions, dreams that were fables, the married man calling her at dinner time wanting to eat her. I don't remember how the conversation progressed, it just happens, once you get pass the barrier. A good hour into the bus ride I hadn't even asked her her name - I forget at times and she'll want me to remember it. I haven't even asked her up until the point when she went off into the darkness. She wanted to continue the conversation and adjusted her bra strap to that effect but I couldn't save her - she had to learn to save her self.

By owen on Logbook

When you were young (Logbook)

2008-01-11 07:12:58

I have a hatred of calendars. Yes I said Hatred because I think its necessary for you to have something to hate since I can't hate Brittany Spears anymore, it gives you a point of reference. I hate calendars with the fire of a thousand suns. And they are rather prevalent nowadays, this time a year like Jehovah's Witnesses who hand out little magazines. Drug dealer business model. I never understood them, turns out there is a lot I don't understand. I'll be OK as long as somebody takes me home - every now and then. Make everyday worth all the pain that you went through.

Why would you want to look at the same, uno, one, single, solitary picture for an entire year? Especially if there is advertisement on it. And don't even tell me about the ones come as a flip-book and have different pictures for every month. I despise them as well, for when I get them, the first time, I cheat and look at all the pictures that same day. I can't wait, I forget to stop, pull out. Ruins the monthly surprise. Makes you fret.

I want to celebrate this time, look through you and know who you are. Destiny is usually kind. And the average reader may think I hate clocks as well but I love clocks - surprisingly. I love them so much that the clock in my living room is set 20 minutes into the future and the second hand doesn't work at all, it just sits there and rocks between 30 and 31. I took a calendar from the supermarket hoping that I might draw on the white surface of the back like I did - in the the past. They gave me 4 when I only wanted one - bastards.

By owen on Logbook

Woke Up This Morning (Logbook)

2007-12-31 22:17:40

After working late facading my facades on the Friday of a weekend times 2. Absolut Disco in hand, houses with wrong numbers, off dead end streets, too far to walk, too near to fly. Too much eye shadow.

Fresh young lady, hair like Toni, ass like woo and the sexy lady next to her. I asked her to love me but she didn't want to love me. I am waiting on the food before I go, tempted to touch, shorty smile like she on drugs, instrumentals playing the background, new school, old school, 1976. The regulars chatting about vampire movies, I am Legend, WIFI. Cashews spread out on the table, solar lawn lamps give off a dead glow as I listen. Soap got served, don't ask whats in it, its soup - you can assume its magical.

By the end of the year the cake didn't go too well with the cranberry 1/4 vodka, shorty deleted all the good pictures and the guy was 2 hours late - unschooled to the rules. I'd reject you but I can't follow through, all we can hope for is that one of us dies young. My only resolution is that I'll try to be less contrived next year, its all I've learned how to do, I've forgotten how it started.

By owen on Logbook

One More Addiction (Logbook)

2007-12-09 20:14:47

I'm still at the open cubicle, in the open, away from my base cubicle which was snuggled-neatly-passively in a corner where I could disappear, successfully defend against attack and be at peace. It started to rain and I had to move. I often look back to make sure that none of the new, ignorant have sort to capture my domain while I linger here. I may have mentioned that I hate to leave from somewhere, that I am, to go somewhere else, doesn't matter where. So I linger here for now, a few feet away, training myself not to look up when a someone passes behind me to go to the printer. Studying the blurry outline of the quaint secretary to my right, the sunlight in my face in the evening, the ghosts in the corner of eyes without moving my head, full of focus. Adjust my eyes to undulate the reflections in my monitor. Leave me alone.

Strange in an interesting or pleasing way, there exists another that I smile with, on purpose, I never say anything to her. And even if she isn't smiling I make her smile because some people just can't resist it - its a rare curse. So I make a game of it, eventually she'll want to break the silence and I will want to continue the game and she'll hate me for it, but I don't care - its all about the memories. When the morning comes don't say you love me. Yes, she might be a cool person on the inside, but only fools rush in, unless it makes you happy - die by what you live by.

I would like to think that when you say something that you expect an answer. That when you say something it evaluates to more than the fact that it causes the water in the toilet to turn blue - which is painfully obvious. Don't try to change the way i feel. We only have a limited amount of time to think up names for our children, a master plan to take over the world and what next to waste our money on. There are not alot of things that I care about - you will soon realize why I do, not, neither, triple negative. Even flowers on the window can appreciate a lovely day for what it is. Plant your seeds and let them grow, sometimes I will see it happen once, maybe twice and then I will just stop. Because doing the same thing over and over again because its the safe thing to do is a waste of time - unless - its a game you can win.

By owen on Logbook

If Les Fleur Were Mine (Logbook)

2007-11-25 21:39:33

At some point in life you'll end at the supermarket late at night. Sometimes one thing leads to another and you just have to be there. It happens to me a lot - trading fame for love. In America everything is open twenty four hours which spoils the fun. Here in Jamaica I like to get there at about 9 o'clock, a full hour before it closes. When the lines are long and the kids are so tired that they just sit in the trolly or cry for someone to pick them up. No-matter how hard an experience seems while I'm going through it, it always at the end seems like a learning experience - a substitute for love. Candy Perfume Girl.

I do not have a car which maximizes the amount of random people I will have to interact with on my way to and from the supermarket. I suppose that when that changes I will have to adapt - carry these sins to the ocean floor. Adapting is not quiet the same as pretending that your happy. Adapting lasts longer and is quiet easier to maintain, with less regret. Not everything goes back to square one, somethings change, water washes over you. A high you can't come down from. The price is paid and there is nothing left to grieve.

There are forces with me that I can't control, blessing that I can't curse, oceans which I cannot swim. I would rather not change you. You are who you are, to thine own self be true. Its much easy when you don't have to teach somebody to love you, it just happens. Quicker than a ray of light. Just the way you are. Its often hard to tell why the other people are there at the supermarket - this late at night. On a Sunday night, because no body is in a hurry. The supermarket tends to have a higher mix of people, its not an escape from anything like a hotel. The only problem is that you can't eat while your there - which is ridiculous. It leaves you wanting more.

By owen on Logbook

Three Little Birds (Logbook)

2007-11-17 21:36:57

I know I'm not perfect but if your heart is weak I can't be the one to save you. My mother will ask me when I'm going to give her some grand children to spoil. But I'm no angel and it doesn't mean that I don't care. To know me is to love me. However I tend to avoid things that I might regret and let people die by their choosing because I can't save everybody, no matter how hard I try to save a life. I was talking to her the other night. Her life had a sudden change. While shes mine to leave or take. I imagine that the worst had happened - now I only fear is that I might impregnate a woman that annoys the hell out of me (but eventually, accidentally). I would say that I haven't found anyone thats right for the job. The how I can't recall, for those that I made the mistake of allowing in contact with my mother often led to her nagging me about the stages. Don't worry about a thing, because every little thing is going to be alright.

I've been lucky, its hard, but I'm banking on good faith and condoms, eventually where you are and where I am and where she is will be the same place. I could care less how big her butt is or how nappy her hair looks in the morning, we are all the same. When you are between unsure and a hundred there is only one place to go and that is up. No regrets, everything happens for a reason. I would have been well on my way if it had not been for the fact that getting a woman pregnant changes the dynamic of the sex all together, and she better be damned sure shes ready. Plus pregnancy just doesn't fit certain women. Some women need to be free for as long as possible. And most times I am not the man for the job. Her eggs may eat my seed. Cry not for me my willow tree.

Its not that I wouldn't love her, its simple a matter of what to pick up the supermarket. How easy it is to make her happy, satisfy her soul, what she will try to kill me with when she gets angry, warm her heart because such things are important - just as important as a pre-nup or the size of her breasts. Come to decisions quickly, change slowly. I would rather cross all the bridges necessary than jump into the water and hope for the best. Patience is a virture. Sometimes you know for sure and other times you play the game while your young and your dreams are clear and bright. I don't want to grow old, wake up the next morning, put all my cards down on the table and find that the crazy little life that we brought into this world is going to look at us and wonder - wtf.

By owen on Logbook

Man On The Moon (Logbook)

2007-11-05 06:24:52

Its dark outside and what I don't know haunts me ever so constantly. The work is too important and I'm no longer young. The air is cold and there is a buzzing sound coming from the vents in the low ceiling above my head, thats driving me crazy. Harvey Danger plays in my head phones as I facade my facades. Thirty minutes to go and somebody here knows what I want to know but is afraid to tell me or just doesn't know that cup a tea. I wonder why. I don't wanna get up yet, the answer is somewhere here, abstracted.

At some point I can only hope that somebody wakes up and runs a kill on something so that I can be entertained, save a life or be inspired to crash. The menu for today is pork ham choy, beef soup, fried chicken, sweet & sour chicken, fish. The man-ager calls me to the side and askes me if everything is ok, (as if I just came back from rehab). For happiness writes white. I thought. As long as I don't have to interact with anybody on a meaningful level I'll be fine. Espouse. I just want to sleep. Every so often the power goes out and I wish it didn't comeback for an hour. Warm my hards on the monitor.

I often never talk about the lives I've lived or the ways in which I can warm your soul. To know me is to love me. Because when you live by the day, pay by the hour, and sleep on the weekends, you tend to lay in the bed that you made, die by what you live by. Whatever makes you feel alright, whatever people may think, the tall grass. This is how we roll. There is no goal, no devious underlying routine or kernel, hand or mission. Everyday is like a first day and as long as the sun still rises and everything is new, now, today will always be the best day ever i.e. until tomorrow.

By owen on Logbook

Porcelain (Logbook)

2007-10-15 02:04:35

There comes a point every so often when I end up at a point of "culture shock". Where the patterns stop occuring as I expected. The noodles in my chow mein don't taste quiet as well. The same parties, the quietly increasing cost of the sunday gleaner, the rain, babies coming out of vaginas, secret weddings. I am not easily surprised but every now and then a new pattern begins to form, a simple enigma. Some are clear while others exist only to confuse me - change my cheque point. On such a rare occasion I will ask a question and get a weird look. Hell is other people.

I solve problems. Troubles. Tribulations. Nothing is ever quite what it seems unless you are apart of it. I have this analogy which I often use to explain a certain theory of relativity. I don't remember where I got it from(I seem to be quoting alot of literature lately - My Coy Mistress). The truth is like the sun, its benefit is totally dependant on how close you are to it. Too close and you'll get burn up in the bueaty of its firey desire. Too far and you won't feel the warmth of its glow and go mad. Not only won't you feel its effect but you'll spin off into the depths of outer space.

At the points where new patterns arise I often end up with a muse. Someone who connects with me on a level that nobody else can. Together we will create bueatiful things. A cookie in the Jar. God's child. A little monkey. Eventually we will loose communictions with our muses, life is bitch depending on how you dress her. And life doesn’t let us forget the best muses we’ve had. And our better muses tend to keep annoying us until we die.

By owen on Logbook

Not About Love (Logbook)

2007-10-10 20:47:17

It has been raining a lot for some odd reason which I cannot understand or out think. It makes no sense at all. Let the love back in, give us the sunshine instead of the rain. All that I want is to be happy again. I broke office style code and started wearing sneakers to work, why does it have to be so hard, linger, remain present although waning and gradually dying. I am never ready for what you do.

"Leave pretty women to men without imagination". I have no idea who said that - look it up. And I would rather not be lured into commenting on relationships even when talking to myself. I get myself in trouble. I always say the wrong things like an insensitive bastard from a far away place with wide never ending fields of grass and stone walls on the edge of the ocean. Any comment I make is usually misinterpreted, one false move, its hard to breathe, words fail me, can't trust my hands for the work is too important.

I have not written in a while and without a suitable muse, writing about anything is useless sans something beautiful. Before long I'll start writing about writing. Or I'll just not write anything at all but there is always a ton of beauty in the world that appeals to all my senses. Had I the time to stop, look, smell and kill it. It is like when you feel something for a split second and it changes you somehow that you have to go back again and feed the hunger.

By owen on Logbook