On the flip side

Sammy is a concoction of oddities, shenanigans, daft daydreams, series, and the indies.

[polkadotmotmot]

Thérèse Mulgrew - Lava Lamp Still Life, 2022

[mortphilia]

Dreaming in Sepia

I woke up to a dim tangerine filling my room and the scent of burning leaves smothering me. An ecstatic half-asleep smile was plastered on my face as I went to the porch where a gentle breeze greeted me. Ah, there it is. The sun is setting, and the sky’s fickle mind can’t decide which gradient to paint itself in again. I don’t mind its shifting- there is nothing quite mesmerizing like the hues of dusk, yet there seems to be no time of day as fleeting as this. I’ve come to realize sunsets exist to envelop me in calmness after a dragging day. For the briefest moment, everything falls right into place and I sigh the most freeing of sighs. Would you sigh with me, even though I lied to you earlier about me being awake? Please don’t wake me; for in this odd, sepia dream, I will always have dusk.

Not that it’s blatantly obvious at this point- but I’ve been, and forever will be, in love with sunsets. I’ve loved them after innocent siestas as a kid and I love them more now after maddening days of reality. This is why I’ve never been so envious of anyone in the deepest sense like I am of the little prince when he spoke of a day he indulged forty-four sunsets. I’m quite unsure, but if what he said about sad souls loving sunsets more proves true, then have I been melancholy all this time?

I almost died the other night. You see, I was riding the bus and have fallen asleep with my head against the window when a tremendous impact shook me. I opened my eyes to see a massive crack on the window I had my head rest on. Just a wee bit more force, I thought. That would have done it. I shrugged it off until I got home where I shut my bedroom door and wept, quite loudly, like a little girl. At one point I was wondering why I was even crying, and the room just grew darker when it dawned on me that tears weren’t streaming down my face because my life almost ended, but because I was deeply disappointed that it hadn’t. My heart is so encumbered, and set, on living out the unending sepia dream.

Do me a favor. Next time the bus doesn’t miss, remember me as a time of day.

[soundsof71]

[mortphilia]

Childhood crush. I wish he'd never gotten into the bathtub that day.

[hillergoodspeed]

[desertislandcomics]

[snpsnpsnp]

[mortphilia]

Actual Self-Portrait

[mortphilia]

The Twenty-Something Thrive

I made this blog a diary as a gift for myself on my 18th birthday- and here I am now, a week after my 21st, sunken in the couch while Remember Me as a Time of Day plays in the background, and quite intoxicated with reality. It has been a full year since I obtained my bachelor's degree, and I haven't done anything with it. This is one rough year, in which most of the time I found myself furthest from my happy days. Truth is I've been ill, and watching all my colleagues get busy and do what I would've loved to was pretty hard. I felt so bad it came to a point when I'm convinced I'd die soon, in which case I've instructed Jairus to have me cremated, so that when my name is blurted out at the dinner table, people would remember the actual last time we were together, not the sullen wake where they drowned in a sea of fake tears over my frozen and made-up body. If I actually had died, people who knew me would've acted all so surprised, because they were all so clueless. I opted for them to be so. Call it overreacting, but that's how I learned that you should either have a pretty face, have shit tons of money, or die for people to actually bat an eye. Anyway, I somehow got better. In a 2012 keynote address by Neil Gaiman, he revealed that he saw his goal, where he wanted to be, as a distant mountain. Whenever a decision had to be made, he would consider whether or not it would draw him closer to the mountain. He turned down attractive jobs because he thought he'd stray from the mountain if he hadn't, did things as long as they felt like an adventure, and stopped the second they felt like work. Which meant his life doesn't feel like work. He never figuratively grew up, like the little prince, so I am profoundly envious of him for having avoided the sad quicksand that is adult life. I'm a bland girl who likes the odd and indulges in fake deep, I don't own a mind like that of Neil's. So I don't have peculiarity to sell. What does that mean for my mountain? My mountain is insignificant to the world. Fernweh. It means never having my feet settle on the same land, it means having spoken to in different tongues, it means marveling at places of yore- it means being a professional nomad. It's generic and human, but it is my mountain, and the universe couldn't care less, but it is my mountain, and mine alone. It may have taken me scarred insides and broken beliefs, but my will is intact. So I am on my way and thriving until I see, a glimpse of sunny peaks called Mt. Sammy.

Thanks, Min for making me the Mr. Robot birthday graphic, truly can't stress how much my Rami Malek stan self is overjoyed. This graphic features posters of some of my favorite indie bands that kept me going through the first half of this crappy year and a drawing c/o Violeta N.

[mortphilia]

What I wouldn’t give to be normal. To live in that bubble. Reality of the naive.

Every second is but another benchmark of a crisis. Questions after questions of the unconventional life; the unanswered only calling for even more queries, like dominos falling in on each other. Since I claimed consciousness I was fairly aware I had to belong in what I like to figuratively call the mask of the world, the one known to us as society. If I were being honest I wouldn't say I am fond of the idea and that I fit in, like a puzzle piece. Was it because deep down I knew I was a misfit, for not being beautiful enough, for not finding the things common people like appealing? Stereotypes. How I despised the idea of getting reduced to classifications and labels. How low I find people who think petty comments and bandwagons are mandatory. I implore you to embrace your oddity, your silence, the subtlety of your observations.

The world itself is just one big hoax. Spamming each other with our burning commentary bullshit, masquerading as insight. Our social media faking as intimacy. Because it’s painful not to pretend. Because we’re cowards. Fuck society.

In a world of beliefs and blind structure, it's a privilege to be given the poison of your own choosing. Religion. To this day it remains the most intoxicating pillar of the system, baffling our minds from primordial instincts and always allowing the relentless, atomic crash of thoughts. There is nothing wrong in believeng that a foundation is essential, that existence is grounded on behalf of a supreme being. But it is futile to depend happiness on the hands of worship. In this world's end game, the only vital players always boil down to rationality, and the mechanism to act on it.

How about the racist, sexist, phobia soup we've all been drowning in because of him? I'm talking about all organized religion. Exclusive groups created to manage control. A dealer getting people hooked on the drug of hope. His followers, nothing but addicts who want their hit of bullshit to keep their dopamine of ignorance. Addicts. Afraid to believe the truth. That there's no order. There's no power. That all religions are just metastasizing mind worms, meant to divide us so it's easier to rule us by the charlatans that wanna run us. All we are to them are paying fanboys of their poorly-written sci-fi franchise. If I don't listen to my imaginary friend, why the fuck should I listen to yours?

I can barely contain such a flawlwess masterpiece that is Mr. Robot- this series is completely on another level. Nothing but the truth of the world put into the most hauntingly beautiful words. Not to mention the A+ OSTs such as a lullaby version of Green Day's "Basket Case", and a piano version of my all-time fave song, "Where is My Mind?" playing while Rami Malek preached with his ever electric voice. Tbh I had a pretty tough time choosing which lines I'd put on the graphic and the post since everything is fucking gold. I love this series so much. (Italicized are actual lines from the series)

[mortphilia]

Fade outs Can we talk about the thing they do in movies when it's the exact last scene and it transitions to the credits? When usually two people are giggling in a diner booth, or holding hands as they vanish into the crowded city, or talking for the first time at the train station- then the perfect song just queues in and the picture fades to black. Goosebumps. What happens next? I want that. I want endless what-happens-nexts with you, all the fade outs I could possibly get, when we're holding back from laughing inside a library; or trying to outrun the rain. And even when neither of us knows what happens as the credits roll, know our song is playing at the back of our minds, and the great perhaps will seem more definitely than maybe.

[mercury]

[mortphilia]

And then it hit me that millions of people fly everyday just to see centuries-old ruins all over the globe. They get calloused feet from walking, chapped lips from the cold, tanned bodies from an indian heat- Just to see how the paint faded, how the wood chirped away, or where the blows hit the stones. Perhaps travellers inhale their dust, imagining how its walls once embraced the king, or the commonwealth who prayed.

I realized people are like that as well. They are impaired from the oblivion of their lives; even so, there will always be someone who will gaze at how devastated they are, and adore them just the same. The trees may have simply watched how people left you weathered, but I, i adored you through it. And I would have flown twice around the world just to marvel at the most beautiful ruins it has to offer; the one whose soul is ancient and encased in a twenty year-old body.

[mortphilia]

When the teacup breaks

"Occasionally, I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor on purpose. I’m not satisfied when it doesn’t gather itself up again. Someday, perhaps, that cup will come together."

Everything about Hannibal Lecter draws me in. The way he speaks of tradition, analyzes circumstances, goads someone into doing things, smells food and/or people, or even if he gloats about his own genius- which he doesn't, he lets the papers do all the gloating. He attempted a companionship with Will Graham, but that would require fidelity and Will basically framed him up. The teacup Hannibal tried to put back in one piece- him, Will and Abigail Hobbs together, remained stranded in the air because of Will's betrayal.

Hannibal is a man of many talents and exquisite taste, and I am fond of him as much as I am of Will. Both men possess intellect I could only dream of. I will never forget how Hannibal said, "Killing must feel good to God, too.. He does it all the time, and are we not created in His image?" or when Will told Abigail, "God can’t save any of us because it’s inelegant. Elegance is more important than suffering. That’s His design." This only fired up the agnosticism in me. It suddenly struck me- Noah's ark, the plagues of Egypt, Abraham having to kill his own son. It's either protocol or death. I do not want delve into the matter of my religious hesitations here, but you get the point.

I am gravely touched by this series, as I have always been obsessed with serial killers since grade school. I'd print shit tons of research about Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy, Ed Gein, what-not. But nope, not a psycho.

[mortphilia]

Champagne Supernova - Oasis

[mortphilia]

Solitary Sail

There is another consciousness in myself that floats idly amid a field of stars. My eyes are gently shut as I inhale the dust of the universe. I ponder, and wonder, and wander. Existence is far more than a persistently curious thing; why am I here and where are the others? The constellations imply none has ventured near me in a long while. Where is anyone? Where is someone? While it is true that I do not need to implore myself to enjoy solitude, time is begging otherwise. Occasionally I would open my eyes and gather how I had always loved the nebulae- happy and harlequin as they always were. I linger in elation, among the many things that stood still long before the horizon bore me. How they fascinated me, and how I felt they fancied my solitude in return. Little did I know what seemed like forever with the cosmos was imminent to cease, when I began wading through the void that was closing in on me. My limbs feel flaccid to have not grasped onto another; my chest feels dented in decades of longing for a heartbeat other than mine. Where is anyone? Reality poured down on me like a sudden heavy rainfall, drenching my once proud being in an atmosphere of aloneness. I have nobody. None, in any form of matter. How deceitful the universe was to have lured me into thinking my solitude complements all the things I am fond of. Suddenly my mind stopped perceiving how the stars flawlessly tinged the night sky, but focused on how the vast darkness still dominates the skyline. Tears relentlessly streamed down my now-sullen self until it forbids breathing. I forcefully shut my eyes and wished for everything to dissolve.

In a blink of an eye, I returned- waking up to a morose reality where I lie alone on that idle boat, where my universe was nothing but a bland lagoon, and my stars a myriad of fireflies.

On the night of October twenty-third, I felt alone.

[mortphilia]

Days ago, I made a glitter jar of my own. It doesn’t look much, just a typical mason jar with clouds of nebulae-coloured glitters surfacing, but it’s undeniably pretty when shaken. I presume people are like that too. Sometimes finding their true worth takes a squint, a tap, a shake, a little history, an anatomy, and most oftenly, time. There is no such thing as taking a better look at something, there is just shifting perspective.

It took me nineteen years to realize I have a certain fondness for things whose beauty is hiding in plain sight.

[mortphilia]

My dearest Diana,

For the first time, I am not writing because I have lost myself again in thoughts of you, but because you haven't left my mind since she happened. I think I might have found someone, D. Our paths unknowingly met when I mistook her for another friend. I walked up to her on the street, she greeted me with a sheer smile, and that was the exact moment, absurdly enough, that I thought "it's not her" and "she's the one" at the same time. I was then told she was off to the museum, and I didn't know what hit me, but I offered to keep her company. And that was the first of a series of comfortably silent museum dates, walks by the bay, barely watching movies (because I can't stand two minutes of not kissing her), late-night "baby, listen", "no, you listen" conversations, bedtime riddles and what-not. With her, I was fearless enough to leave the shallow parts of the sea, and she demanded more than treading the deep, but a somersault in the waters. She makes me feel like everything is both certain and doubtful at the same time. She doesn't keep my feet on the ground like you used to. With you, my soul is serene; whilst with her, it yearns for more; always asking to leave the four corners of the room. She is in a world of her own, constantly enticing me to step in. The truth is, I am terrified. Mortified to death that I may not be able to grasp her for the shortest parcel of time; that what I see isn't even half of the whole her; that the tiniest scrapes of her being were scattered everywhere: in old bookstores, in dark corners of a cigarette-stenched cinema, across the most uncontroversial artifact of the museum, wilted flowershops, abandoned rooftops. Diana, it has been years since your passing and I still mourn for the 'we' that could have been, but I see the same soul in her as I did in you. I can't bear the thought of letting a soul identical to mine slip away for the second time around. I think it is about time for me to try again. Guide me always, D.

Your best friend, Ezekiel

[demiiwhiffin]