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  • Hi! my name is Aiko. In this blog are poetry, and pastel, and pink cute things.


Introduction
Aiko Lactaotao is a rare fat Asian specimen, a writer with the artistic temperament of a sloth, and the world's youngest elderly lady. A sleep-deprived Law Student, she still squeezes in time to blog about her passions which include books, reading the Classics, Fin-de-Siecle, Decadent literature, modernist, post-modernist, post post-modernist, experimental fiction, poetry, creative writing, linguistics, lexicography, philosophy of language, phenomenology, philosophy of mind, philosophy of law, criminal law, constitutional law, torts and damages, intellectual property law, public international law, Biblical exegesis, avantgarde films, collecting obscure, foreign, (mostly European, Asian, and Latin American) words, learning modern and ancient languages, and traveling the world whenever she has the budget.

About This Blog
This is a creative writing blog by a law student who'd rather travel the world and be a full-time writer if not for reality burying its fist up her ass and telling her she's not rich and that she needs to get a real job. Hence, the journey of a reluctant law student towards obtaining the Atty. title. When she's not moping around about how miserable being in law school is, she writes literary works that so far garnered compliments ranging from "Are you on drugs?" to "I'd like to have some of what you're smoking." Still, she's hoping that these seemingly outlandish writings of hers will eventually be able to land a book deal. Aside from writing, she is a voracious reader, currently owning around 300 or so books. In fact, she is infamous around the post-office because every other week a parcel or package of books arrives there for her to claim. As of the moment there are still 175 titles on her wishlist. She will not stop reading and writing and dreaming, law school can survive on its own; whatever happens, the aim remains the same: to become a full-pledged author.

Favorite Books
Monday, February 18, 2019 | February 18, 2019 |
Wax Philosophical (A Poem)



Ah Caprice, the mother of Spontaneity

your daughters are weeping

at the foot of History

all your whims led to Revolutions

the Synthesis of which

earned dissatisfaction

Technology is but a postmodern thirst--

for Immortality

a postmodern twist

to a thousand year old plot

of Man daring to become what he is:

educated and godless,

invention is his Vice,

devoted to his Objects, he becomes one:

a means, not an end.


NOTES:

I remember writing this poem after I read GWF Hegel's "The Philosophy of History." I was heavily fascinated with world history during that time and was invested in thinking about the future of Mankind. Admittedly, I am more mature now and have realized my smallness in the totality of the universe, that I decided not to be too affected by things I could not control (such as the "unknowability" of the future) and just live my life in the best possible way I could. That way, if I couldn't change the world for the better, at least I could do it for myself. One less noise in a cacophony full of voices demanding to be heard doesn't remove the headache, but on the bright side, it at least lessens its intensity.

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Sunday, February 10, 2019 | February 10, 2019 |
#NotesOnThings1



To the spider on my shower curtain, peeping as I’m taking a bath: behold you my naked body. Judge it, despise it, or laugh at it as you recall seeing it to your fellow little spiders, but never, my eight-legged pal, deny me respect.

Let the hissing of the pipes seal this secret between the two of us— that is, of the many imperfections my mirror assigned to me, magnified in your numerous eyes.
The cascading waters from the shower head inundate the hairs on my head in a diluvial frisson of half-patronage and half-mockery, gliding from each strand down to the body I’m most ashamed of, wearying out its welcome by perambulating unchartered territory and having me marked with a conspiratorial nod as if saying: “we know.”

And you, in your little corner of the shower curtain, will you spin your web full of my tale? Is your cold-blooded heart keen on weaving in your tapestry my shame? Or are you an omen of peripety, the unexpected help to what is soon to be an anagnorisis?

If you could speak dear spider, it is not for someone like me to come begging for a diapason of praises, but instead shall brace myself for a cacophony of insults, but dare you not, I say, deny me respect. 

The dignity I accorded you by not crushing you underfoot surely needs to be reciprocated; but as it is with my fate, like a fly stuck in your web, I am defeated and brought down by my own weakness: attracted to the gossamer-like promises of an intricately-spun lie, I lurched to my doom head-on, not even considering myself as a scoundrel, only less than that: a pathetic fly consumed by shame and self-hatred, an anomaly among the greatest of all creation, for whom it is not written, “man shall have dominion over beasts”, whom instead is possessed by the memories of original sin— that heirloom clothing my naked flesh with chthonic cognizance, and its perfidious perfidy.

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