Category Archives: Blurtouts

Revisited Reflections: Paris 2013

This was a year ago. Some thoughts are due now, I suppose. 

——————————-

July 28, 2013

Due to certain trivialities that my weaknesses fall prey to, I sometimes forget how wonderful being alive could really be. The little details we often fail to pay attention to are usually what truly matter: the water that sparkles as it emerges and then splashes back upon itself creating ripples of wave and sound, the ink slithering from the pen onto the page, the statue smiling from a building’s elaborate stonework reflected on the stained glass of one of the world’s most famous landmarks — and then the self, in its most realized element, pen and paper in hand under a bright Parisian sky. I am not saying anything new here. Only pointing out that there are things we ought to really notice sometimes. Then everything else that don’t matter will cease to clutter the big picture.

 

1072222_10151594086202746_1134669114_o

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Intimamente

For all the eleven hours between us,

and all of the moments shared in between.

 

 

At breakfast, you tell me about dinner,

then you watch me make my way to work

while you wait for sleep to come.

Past midnight here and midday there

are our everyday hours: short,

too quickly greeted,  too soon ended,

but constant —

like birds that chirp all around us during humid Amazonian mornings

or the smell of bread that follows us from the boulangeries in the streets of Paris

or the tickle of the third glass of wine on the lips, in whatever continent we taste it.

The sound, the smell, the taste – it lingers, leaves a trace, constant, it remains.

 

Like an image of you in my mind—

Ever smiling, ever moving, ever vibrant,

Ever there and never quite.

 

I keep your memory there,

Where the seconds lose meaning

And the hours need no counting.

Because at midday here or past midnight there,

we are nowhere there yet everywhere we wish to be:

a good morning greeting

almost as if you were breathing

within the reach of my fingertips—

 

soon enough, buena onda, indeed,

soon enough, it will be.

 

 

 

Tagged , , , , , ,

A Kind of Nightmare

Intrepid, the ceiling stared back
fully aware of slumber’s abandon
While I lay there wrenched in the gut,
eyes peeking out of a blanket of black.

20140613-190855-68935930.jpg

Tagged , , , , ,

Never Out Of Time

It will come to a point when the seasons no longer define our timelines

We will gather in vases the bloom of fallen leaves in autumn

We will wade through the waves with snowflakes whispering in our ears

We will come to know moments instead of counting hours

And splitsecond kisses will sustain us year after year after year

Tagged , , , , , , ,

On this Ocean of Linen

The creases that stem from this valley of temptations slink into the raft of fingers that float from the branches where your forest crumbles. The sighs stretch themselves out in currents that roll with the ocean floor and each inch settles into the silt of voyages that only horizons and seagulls know.

This is the corner of the sea where the wayward disappears.

It flows and finds the island of my thighs, settling at the edge of my beach where the tongues of your ocean lap and dissolve. The ripples freeze into a map of movement paths that trickle towards the spot hidden by the blanket of your tricks.

On the other edge, another ship sails.

The sea levels rise as the trees that line the shore sweat into the night. While this island sinks, little by little, then slowly, disappears.

 

Paglilista

kapag ako’y naguguluhan, naglalabas ako ng papel at bumubuo ng listahan

ng lahat ng mga bagay na bumabagabag sa akin.

halimbawa: ang hilera ng mga sapatos na iniwan ng mga paang nagmamadaling unahan ang hatinggabi sa kama, ang balumbon ng mga damit na bitbit ang amoy ng mga usapang sinawsaw sa kape at binalot ng usok, mga salansan ng librong nagkalat sa bawat sulok at lilim ng kuwarto – bakas ng mga bagay na hindi kayang tapusin, ayaw tapusin, at hindi na siguro matatapos

tulad ng listahang ito

hindi na nalayo sa listahan noong nakaraang buwan, umulit noong nakaraang linggo, at malamang ay mabubuo ulit sa darating na mga araw

ang mga bumabagabag sa akin ay lulubog, lilitaw, lilisan, madaragdagan, makakalimutan, hahawakan, bibitawan, hahanapin, aalalahanin, at tatandaan–

para may listahang bubuuing muli at ipapakita sa iyo, puno’t dulo ng lahat ng gulo, ikaw na una at huling babagabag sa akin.

ikaw, tagabusisi ng mga bagay na naiwang nakatiwangwang sa iyong pagdating: ikaw,  tagapulot ng sapatos, tagatupi ng damit, tagabuklat ng libro. tagapunit ng mga listahang pinakatago-tago ko.

at kapag hindi ko na maisip ang mga bagay na bumabagabag sa akin, kapag hindi ko na maintindihan kung ako ba’y panatag na o lalong naguguluhan, ibinabaling ko ang mga tanong sa mga mata mong ayaw gumanti ng sagot. sa mga mata mong nakaukit ang ‘okay lang.’ sa titig na ayaw kumilala ng gusot. pagbaling na walang katuturan dahil may sagot ka na kahit wala namang katanungan

at kapag muli akong naguluhan, bubuo na lang ako ng listahan ng mga bagay na natatandaan ko na lang at hindi na nakikita, dahil naglakad na ang mga sapatos para salubungin ang papaalis na umaga, dahil ang mga damit ay binanlawan na ng beer at pinatutuyo ng bagong kuwento ng huli mong dalaw, dahil ang mga libro’y nakapila’t nakaayos at naghihintay na lang na mataunan ng pumipiling mata, daliring naghahanap ng hahaplusing pahina, dahil  isa-isa mo nang itinuwid ang mga baluktot para hindi na ako makapaglista.

Ng mga bagay na bumabagabag sa akin.

Dahil ikaw, puno’t dulo ng gulo, ang tuldok sa huling pangungusap, ang bakas ng huling patak ng tintang nagmamantsa mula sa listahan hanggang sa punda ng unang dinuduyan ang mga panaginip ko’t bangungot, ikaw ang taga-istorbo’t taga-ayos, ikaw ang pasimuno’t ang tagasunod, ikaw ang una, ang huli, ang paulit-ulit na lumilitaw sa mga linyang nakasulat sa papel, nakatago sa mga titik, nagbabadya ng pagdating at paglisan, ikaw ang dahilan at ang solusyon sa lahat ng kaguluhan;

ikaw ang laman  at pag-aalayan ng lahat ng aking listahan.

it’s just another sunrise

When one begins to ignore universally accepted celebrations and rituals of mankind to comfort itself, we get to the core of what we truly think and feel. We begin to pay attention and learn that the word ‘essence’ actually means something. Another turn of the year, is it? Cheers.

 

I was reading myself to sleep (an unfortunately pointless activity when one’s reading through a page-turner) when a turn of the song from my sister’s playlist prompted me to put the book down and proceed to write these thoughts down immediately

I am gripped with that feeling again, a feeling that hasn’t visited me lately – for quite a few months already, alarmingly – that feeling that cannot be disregarded – the urge to just go ahead and write

it started three songs before the beginning of this entry. when i recalled how, a year and a half ago, i would leave my laptop on all night playing unfamiliar songs from foreign independent artists so that i could put myself to sleep or survive the night without succumbing to paralysis-inducing loneliness. those nights i stayed up talking to The Lawyer, and we would wait for sunrise and it was then when I got over my feelings of brokenheartedness caused by That Guy

tonight, the sensation is reincarnated in this quiet evening of music in moderate volume, filling up the dimly lit room. it was like just as it was before but now all the songs are familiar by virtue of Billboard-Hit-popularity. so there is a difference but still not quite.  the memory finds new life and the difference in this playlist’s dress is in the annoying reminder that listening to this kind of music actually falls starkly in line with the effort to keep buried a persistent sorrow shoved deep down beneath book chapters, to-do lists, and constantly rearranged activities of my everyday hours

the music that accompanied my waning nights and creeping dawns have faded, and now – the approach, though i did not intently try it – no longer works. it doesn’t. it won’t. maybe never. ever.

funny how we change constantly. and frequently.

am i sad? i guess. i miss him like shit. not as much as before, i guess. i am making progress, snail-pace peace with myself and with my issues, i guess. uncertain, definitely. but better than being in denial. at least now i don’t go into constant fits of breaking down in tears. without just relentlessly bawling out to the universe, whether in my howling screams of pain or silent breathless exclamations, truly understanding why why why. they are occasional bouts of crying instead. that occur to me in sudden pangs of memory and which i can now control relatively well

i guess i love him that much, yes, but i am learning to love myself more and live with the choice i made no matter how unfounded it could have been the moment that it crept up on me. and i will get into grips with the realities that i will face, now and tomorrow and in distant futures. more will be revealed and though i wish all will be out as soon as possible, there will inevitably be continuous weeks of drinking the self to sleep and wishing and hoping and praying that whatever is now is otherwise

it’s a new year and everybody, or most of everyone at least, aspire for new beginnings to make better continuations of their lives

a turn of the year could be both as profound and as meaningless as the next sunrise. so another minute passed, so the calendar changed dates. so maybe we are older by another planet’s revolution or maybe we didn’t

all i wish is that i could sleep better soon

that things will make sense. that these feelings and choices and deeds will matter more than the time that i seem to lose every other second

where does it go? why does it pass? why should it matter?

like another song played, forgotten too soon, echoed too late

tonight i realize i am learning to dance better in the silences that remind me how i am alone completely, that i am alone. and complete.

happy new year, indeed.

Tagged , , , , , ,

365 for 2013: (9) Captured, Stolen, Framed

Quickly captured, a smudge,
a trick, a splitsecond stolen
then framed, then thrown 
onto the wall, this memory —
a shade less bashful,
a brushstroke braver,
a degree warmer than midnight’s fever.

Here, a wasted glance.
Here, the corner you refuse to 
sign your name on to.

 

(Or whatever, later, maybe a verse longer, maybe titled better)

 

Captured, Stolen, Framed

 

 

365 for 2013: (7) when the loss is one you refuse to own

when the doors of the elevator open

my eyes will make its way through

dressed in amber and rose

looking back at the space 

of secrets only mirrors inside the box know 

you dont reach out

because i am no longer with you

i am no longer with you

 because i am within

i will be in the space you breathe

in the same rhythm you beat

in the same paths through doors that close

and open again

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Breaking Habits

I turn on the TV to keep me company in your leave. Slumber comes and goes and I am left alone with the sound of a woman’s thick French accent drowned out by the hiss of a lush body of butter melting in the heat of a sleek steel pan. For an hour after noon, the room is dim. Even with all the lights on, there is a void punctuated by all things suddenly starkly visible: wrinkles on the bedspread, strands of hair, stacks of clutter, unsorted business gathering dust. Only the curtain shifts to the draft of a cold artificial breeze.

The air swells with your absence and I breathe.

In another morning after, the room will be aflush with the simmer of our exhales. Stillness tickled briskly, light will slip in through the tangle of limbs beneath crumpled sheets.


365 for 2013: (5) Before Gravity

Naive

would be the first word

an apple, fallen, breathes

to the ground. It rolls, sullen. 

While sunlight, air, mist,

dabs its bruises

with a kiss. 

April 24, 2013

——————————-

 

This summer, I lost in a game I played with my students in class. The  consequence for anyone who lost was to show the class something special that you can do. So I stood there with a pen and the whiteboard and asked them to throw at me random words at random moments. I just let the words work their magic. 

 

Now, the class is almost over. I almost couldn’t believe it.

I can still hear the apple breathe. 

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Cutting On The Need to Brew Things In The Morning

It is an ugly truth, the necessity of overpriced coffee and the need to be away from the house that you keep wanting to change but are never able to. There are too many details about the rooms that call your attention that, instead of ticking off items from the list, they keep adding up to things that need to be done. The plans are all listed down in pieces of paper you keep under your pillow. You rewrite them in your dreams only to realize that dreams are meant to escape you when the alarm clock sets off. So, to get started, you take all your things and step out.  In this city, there is nowhere to escape to and everywhere to be. You walk into a place that serves coffee in fancy cups, hoping to find what you couldn’t keep under your pillow.  You will eventually learn that the value of being able to sit at a café’s corner by the window is the same as being able to walk from one point to another without just thinking of beating the minute hand to your destination. They keep talking about motion and stillness and inside and outside and finding the silence in all the noise. Everywhere, something needs to be changed but you don’t need to write them all down in your list. That was the first piece of paper you found at the turn of the light at the intersection. It is the beginning of the trail that the city has left for you. It includes an inconvenient detour to where the ocean laps at the edges of this island. The trail ends at the space between your bed and your pillow. If you had paid attention and strained to remember before putting the coffee pot on this morning, then you would know that the map was scrawled on your bedspread all along. But you could only think of washing the curtains and adding shelves to the wall while your morning coffee steeps silently in the mug on the table. You are always awake before you let it wake you up. The coffee was just part of a routine that, you now realize, maybe you no longer need. 

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

365 for 2013: (4) treasure hunting

i know where you should be but you refused to be found so i dipped the tips of my fingers in gold and settled for a version of treasure that your chest would not offer up; the sentences still go different ways and i try to chase them but you’ve put the commas in so many random places i’m forced to dot the end of my phrases and  each time another one of  your commas show up, a swoop beneath the dot, almost as if it says we should go back. but that messes up the map and then X is no longer the point to pursue but a footnote to the treasure that should now be dug up. not all that glitters is good for the soul, we offered a toast to that. we know where the shiny things are and we could have been led to that but the holes we fall into are much more interesting. and in the interstice between where we’ve fallen and where we’ll land, all your words come rushing through and i’m rushing just as fast. this is another terrain we’re traversing, another target we’re hunting. my compass points me to a direction which i reckon now defines forward, though it be pointing away from the pot of gold they’ve laid out for you and me, it is exactly where you didn’t tell me we have to be.  i will find you there. i have nothing else to seek.  the stardust from my fingertips have seeped into my veins, it has made my blood rich. while all these chests and troves, heavy as they may be, will never have enough to hold.

Tagged , , , ,

365 for 2013: (2) From the Leaf to the Lover

Meant as a gift. 

—————————–

In the fiercest of winds

and the most glaring of summers,

I may tremble, even wither;

but in the passing of seasons

and the changing weathers,

I will bloom in the dusk,

feed on stardust

and you will find me there.

In the scent of moonlight

and warmth of sunrise,

You will find me there. 

566718_10151250210102746_1290330322_o

Tagged , , , , , , ,

The Accidental Anniversary Post: The Dip In The Ink Before the Blot

I find that I could not work on publishing a new poem here without first acknowledging all the work that went into this blog from the last year. I still find myself quite overwhelmed by how much shiz I’ve actually shamelessly put out here and how much this has helped me write. Ah yes, this post is going to be one of those typed-out-musings kind. If you wish to spare yourself, you can skip the paragraphs and go straight to the year’s first poem.

But, please, allow me to indulge. After all, because of all the stalling I’ve done ever since the year started, I realize, as I write this entry now, that today actually marks the anniversary of my  first ever post in this blog. Fascinating. Even my apparent laziness when it comes to writing seems to have a reason. And the reason is to kind of underscore, at least for me, the value of what I’m doing here. That sounded a little twisted, but, well, the universe works in twisted ways. And so, here we go.

The original intent was to keep this 100% literary (meaning, no notes to self such as what you are reading now), no acknowledgement of addressees (but, see, I now freely refer to you reader) and just fill it up with entry after entry after entry (based on the statistics, the average would be two entries per week which, really, isn’t bad at all). While I wasn’t able to fulfill my 365 for 2012 Project, having been able to publish only 67 poems, I’ve sparked several other writing projects through this and have come up with quite some material. One would be The Kingdom of Concrete, a category I’ve created for my writing to push me to write about the city, the urban landscapes and the urban life. To be quite honest, I just had to find a way to steer my writing away from all the cheesy mush I’ve been churning out. Gotta constantly remind the self about the breadth of material out there that one can tap into without the need to nurse a broken heart. *insert gagging sound here* And then after being inspired by the blog Fifty Items Or Less , I started my own -50 for the 25th Project: I have to come up with at least fifty entries with just 50 words or less while I’m still 25. I still have 46 to go and  10 months to work on that. Let’s see how I’ll fare with that one.

So do I feel bad that my 365 for 2012 project lack 298 entries? Not at all. 

Why? Because I continue to write even if  I do not publish it in this blog. What else have I been writing? Other than the prose and poetry you see here, I’ve written several other poems-turned-songs for shows and productions which I never really took time to post here. Maybe even a little embarrassed to do so but, who knows? When we’ve finished recording the songs, this blog will see the verses set to music  published. 

I checked my dashboard and discovered  23 unpublished, unfinished drafts of stuff I started to work on and then abandoned. That already sparks an  exercise for this year:  to get back to these stubborn spurts and whip them into shape. More as an exercise for editing than anything else. While I do recognize that there may be things that just sputter and die despite all the attempts to let it run, I won’t be letting these drafts remain unpublished without a fight.

I could do something really out of fashion and publish executive summaries and terminal reports that I write for work here, just for laughs.  But I don’t think my boss would be too happy about that and that would require a total makeover of the blog. 

So now we get to the ‘what’s-the-point’ question. It’s easy to just say that there’s never enough time to just keep writing and posting and writing and posting. But that’s not entirely true. At the end of the day it’s really an exercise of how you push yourself to come up with material and what you’re willing to put out there for the world to either marvel at or spit on. When I came up with the category Blurtouts, it was a deliberate baring of the self to this cyber universe – letting the world in on my random and often most personal musings. There’s a human being behind all these carefully titled entries and she wants to allow herself to let out some raw no-nonsense unadulterated typewritten thoughts sometimes. Also, she wants to be allowed to refer to herself in the third person. She’s going to stop doing that now. Or maybe later.

What she will do now is wrap this up and proceed to the year’s first poem. She will end this paragraph in maybe two to three more sentences and then re-read what she’s written so far. She will nod, satisfied, and quite excited at starting on another year – maybe to continue on old projects, rename some categories or come up with new ones. These words are what make her/me,  the hardest and most vulnerable selves enveloped in a syllable, a page, a universe. 

011313

At the back of a pick-up truck snaking through the mountains of the North, the words whipped through my hair, touched my face, left traces on my fingertips.

Tagged , , , ,

channeling Bukowski

so you want to be a writer

charles bukowski

 

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Tagged , , , ,

365 for 2012: (65) A Note The Postman Lost

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines, Pablo Neruda

Dear lover, there is no need

for you to tell me, again and

again that the night is

shattered . There are pieces

of it on the floor, the crumbs

of your leave heading for

the slam of the door. Shaking

the house, gently. Echoes, only 

a broken record: the voice

breaks, at that crack 

 

before the revelation: I no longer

love her, so suddenly, but maybe

I love her and again no longer — 

gibberish. There is dirt on the surface.

I could not wipe it off.

The poem could not end itself.

 

Dear lover, what nights we have

known: all the truths we have

thrown away to make way

for the ones we could own. 

Nothing about shivering

stars, pale moons, imagined

heavens , endless skies —  none

of those, only versions of hell. 

Where wars are lost

when heroes leave,

the white flag raised

then torn to bits. Oh, it is

 

all so simple: sometimes 

I loved, and then

sometimes I did not. 

When the rest of the world refuse to.

We held each other in our arms,

 blue stars shiver in the distance.

 

They lie when they say, dear

lover, I cannot have you.

 

The night is shattered.

Souls are not satisfied.

We are lost to this world, too.

Tagged , ,

365 for 2012: (64) Bandits

Out of place, like invitations

for the anticipated absentee.

Misplaced, is it, an absent-minded

unintended misfit? Half-hearted guarantee.

 

Not where it belongs,

that should be returned,

Or lost . To be found again.

These belongings, owned at once,

then used, then worn out, then thrown.

So is the cycle of what we wanted,

what we took, what we had, what we stole.

 

We couldn’t place our names on it,

Harder to get rid of things we wish we owned.

Tagged , , ,

we flipped my quarter

<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/45360365″>That Fresh Feeling – EELS</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user12442079″>zondagzanger</a&gt; on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

words can’t be that strong, my heart is reeling

this is that fresh , that fresh feeling

this is a love song. and this is dedicated to life.

because celebrating life does not end when the last party song is played or when daybreak signals the end of a birthday. not even when the late greetings stop coming at the end of the birthweek or birthmonth even.

you celebrate life  every single morning you wake up, acknowledging the mood of the sky for the day; you celebrate life with every sound you take in from the city and every sigh you breathe back; you celebrate life with every smile you accept and pass on,  every new flavor you discover, every scent you whiff, every sneeze that makes your heart skip a beat, every drip of sweat, every drop of blood, every dribble of drool, and every single blink and breath. you celebrate life with every ounce of love the universe allows you and you allow for the universe.

with every bit of yourself at every second that you can feel, then there is reason to live —  that is what you celebrate

i can only try so much to put the enormity of this joy into words, yet it will never be enough. (meron na ngang kanta, mamaya lalagyan ko pa ng image yan. medyo OA na pero di pa rin sasapat, i’m sure.) one more thing too bad is that i did not even bother to take pictures of that night myself. i was too caught up in the moment of being there with everyone that i failed to capture snapshots that  i could keep in a box to look back on whenever i feel the universe is playing some nasty game on me. but no matter. i can still feel, and will forever feel, with every pore of my body, that electric sensation of being superbly alive in each moment of that night. 

so. 25th birthday huh? and the best i could do is ramble, embed a music video into this delayed birthday-post (which can get me sued, by the way hahaha. but not really very funny.) and attempt (very lamely) to illustrate how much love i feel for life in this petty little corner of mine in cyberspace. 

but you know what? so what?

sometimes we forget how much love the universe actually allows us, showers us, drowns us in. yes, guilty as charged, more often than you could imagine. but now, it’s no longer just about accepting the love we think we deserve, it is knowing there is so much love to go around.  and if only every single person at every single minute is made to feel that love as well as is able to GIVE that love, then it will be a better world. 

in the last week, the people around me have successfully reminded me that it could indeed be a better world. and, yes, that i am loved. and i love you all back.

 so, therefore, let us all resolve to

i have faith that we will succeed. because we know how to actually live.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

365 for 2012: (62) Pag-inog ng Mundo

While listening to Ada Tayao‘s blues-y melody for ‘Lambat at Sagwan’ a song we wrote about fishermen, fishing, and sun movements, these verses came to me, sort of forcing itself into the music.

Such cheesy cerebral flatulence. It’s actually not even cerebral, but oh well. Carry on. 

 

Sumisikat na ang araw, dahan-dahan

Gumagapang ang liwanag sa ating paanan

Sa lilim ng kumot, oras ay ating tinakasan

Sa bisig ng isa’t-isa’y hinanap ang kalawakan

 

Humiram tayo ng kaunting sandali

sa mga bulalakaw na nagmamadali

At bago tuluyang bumagsak at maglaho

Dito sa bagong-tuklas nating langit tayo magtago

 

Tamnan mo ng mga halik ang buo kong katawan

At aani tayo ng tamis na kailanma’y ‘di tatabang

Sa kuyom ng palad ko, ang puso mo ay ipinid

Pag-ibig natin ang susi sa pag-inog ng daigdig

 

Paano bang natangay ako ng mga titig mo

At heto na tayo, bumabaybay ng bagong uniberso

Matutunton ba nila kung saan tayo papunta?

Hangga’t hindi pa, ipanatag muna ang pangamba

 

Ngunit  sa pagtirik ng araw sa tuktok ng kanyang trono,

Tanghaling tapat ang huhudyat sa ating prumeno

Saka mo tutuntunin ang daangtalang sinumpaan

Saka ko titiyaking hindi ako nakaharang sa inyong daan

 

Tamnan mo ng mga halik ang mga pisnging binasa ng luha

Mangarap na lang na may uusbong pang bulaklak

Sa kuyom ng mga palad natin ay ating ikukubli

Bakas ng pag-ibig na hindi maaaring manatili

 

Nagtanim ako ng mga halik sa lupang hindi ko maangkin

Sa bawat dampi ay inilibing ko ang mga lihim natin

Ang ating langit ay kinanlong ng walang-katiyakan

Alikabok na lang ng mga bulalakaw na naglaho ang naiwan

 

September 5, 2012, Pagadian  

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

can i call you darling–

–and tell you how i am moved by the way your eyes caress me from that distance, two bottles of dark roast brew between us and a universe with seeming infinite possibilities in our hands on this table where the rest of the world is lost on us and the only people who know us are the waiters ever so loyal to bring us our elixir, make the night possible, permit us to prolong, stay

can i say, darling, lean closer, let the roll of the r elide into the curl of the l, the way tongues move – oh you know that well – and plant another kiss on your cheek, and another, and another. easy, it comes naturally. acquainted properly, our lips know where to go, what mark it will leave on the skin that anticipates, the body that craves, every inch that aches. we have imagined this so well. waited, so eagerly. darling, i whisper, and on your ear you will hear the blooming of a flower.

darling, darling daredevil slip your hands where it belongs, if you will. under the seat, behind the wheel and hold on, hold tight as we speed through the night. have we not always longed for dawn? to be bathed in the rays of a rising sun? finally, together, our morning no longer another typewritten daydream. there it is, don’t you see, at the turn of the highway, away from this city. or maybe, just maybe, under these sheets in a universe that knows only you, only me.

 

 

**a replica of this somewhere, lost in stealth

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

i was writing a poem about waiting, about delusions of anticipated arrivals and denied certainties of absence. i was hoping to finish it before August ended, for more reasons than one, more as a sort of remembrance than a random deadline.

i could not finish the poem. something was lacking. something was still bound to come and complete the emotion, synthesize the thought. i thought at that time that i would never be able to  finish it.

and then that’s how i found the ending i needed.

———————-

 

You have a key to the door. And if you call, you know I will answer. 

 

 

 

 

365 for 2012: (61) Sky, Blue

there is something amiss,

 

 you notice the colors of my nails twice

and reckon, ‘that’s a piece of heaven

right there at the tips of your toes

and where your touch begins.’ the sky, 

painted on the edges of my body. something

i stole from when i took the fall. now,

reaching for that piece of paradise 

across the table, your hand gets stuck–

 

between anticipated temptations and bad luck.

 

remember, keep in synchronous rotation 

with the body that keeps you in place 

yet in constant motion. these things can be

as bright as the sun, dark as your doubt,

round as your woe. we know how

these things work. if we remember at all.  

 

it only seems random. but the distance 

between this body and that is deliberate.

calculated with precision. we move

according to rules of the universe, irrelevant

whether understood, implied, or imposed. 

 

how do we approximate matter and space?

what occupies us? what is missing?

where do burning bodies go?

 

and the color of our skies, on surfaces 

we think we own. may not be

how heaven appears to be at all.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

washed over

i thought i could put myself to sleep but there you go rushing through side streets, rising from the sewers, catching the rest of the sky and taking it with you into the gaps between the doors and the walls. slowly you reach for the first flight of stairs, inching your way to the top of the fridge and the cabinets. scaring them away, pushing them towards the ceiling, higher if they could find a place to stay, to hold their weight, to keep them from you. restless you seep into every nook, every surface of the city. from the walls of the sea and the floors of the rivers, to the palms of hands that wait behind lit windows, and even cheeks hide under pillows to muffle the sounds you running across the roofs. the city is being cleansed, is it right? what else will be wiped off at the end of the night?

I’ll Write You In Until I Could Sleep

I write you into the night like this:

if Joni was singing beside me she would have already hurled on my bed, the case being constantly revisited. and the blinking cursor awarded the medal of honor for always giving in to my unwillingness to blink back. the line-cuts are non-existent where they should be because the spill of thoughts refuse to let them in. and when the foot couldn’t reach for the brakes, we speed forward farther. it’s getting harder to go back. 

it could have gone into the style of Neruda channeling the moonbeam on the windowsill or tears that turn into oceans the way hearts are ripped apart by continental differences. But all I have is a love song gathering mold on my iPod and an online journal where I gather shame writing you into the night like this.

Others have absolutely less. And we have been so lucky to have found each other in the city. Your car neatly parked below the balcony I lean over to reach for some sense of the scenery. They have made us drunk and so unsatisfied. We walk past them who live off another breath if they be allowed. You don’t even hold my hand.

If you make me feel small it is not because you do not talk to me at the mark of the green light. It is because I realize I could not cut through you the way caged animals could. Although if you start believing in the cause of freeing Beluga whales then maybe there would be hope for you and me. And maybe we can skip fast food on our morning-after delivery. 

We can cook and wash dishes and segregate our junk and leave our shoes under the couch and know the way in is through the door but not the way out. Look, outside on the next street they’re building another part of the city. There will be another window there, another girl held, another heart staring out. This is what feeling has cost me, nobody gets anything for free. So I write, and I don’t let the pen breathe. The next time the city knocks into my walls and tells me there is so much more to turn into that road for, I’ll write you in. I’ll write you in deep.

365 for 2012: (58 – Random**) Confessions

This is their method of extracting 

our stories. First, the isolation.

 

 Where it is still and quiet, questions are

asked. The process is done 

and repeated: a tip of the chin, a click

of the tongue, a slick

look from the side, sweeps past

your eyes. Twice over, if

you fail to deliver

the truth. Then, here, still

us, quiet, the way words unspoken are loud.

We all know that by now.

 

What are you afraid of? If this is

the way our bodies emerge from underneath

blankets and dim lights. The will

of the flesh, our breath, our mouths;

our travels down south. The paradise

we know destroyed by fear?

 

The narrative of the consequence,

is yet to be made. Still, there will be 

you and me. Our stories known or not.

 

Take my hand under the table, they’ll ask

you again. This time, keep

the secret pressed between our palms.

Slip it beneath our skins, we will

                                                                                     never let them in. 

**Again, without much thought.

patterns beyond sleep

i have stopped waiting for sunrise. but morning after morning, it creeps in. it makes its way through the thicket of rainfall, slithering through disappearing stars, spilling onto my bedroom floor. it enters my room, finds a spot at the crevice between the wall and where my body crumbles. it has no voice but it speaks the truth: morning has come and i am still waiting. in twenty-four hours it will happen again. and again. and again. but maybe on a different morning the pillow will be somewhere else, the wall would look back sooner, my body will not be on the bed. not this bed, maybe another. morning is certain to arrive everyday. to subject one’s self to wait is borne out of an illusion that there is something special about the arrival. maybe because the return is as certain as the departure. this is how we know things should be. as children, we were taught that morning light comes to take the place of a dark night. growing up, they tell us that the night is darkest before the dawn. some of us were convinced the moon and the stars are just as, if not even more, beautiful. our lives revolve around the movement of nights and days. we are bound by the habit of the universe. we are made to believe that this is how things should be. what celestial bodies do not shed light on is this: how are we able to feel the absence of something that is always there anyway?

sometimes an  arrival does not signify the return from a departure. sunrise will come again tomorrow.

 

Tagged , , , ,

365 for 2012: (56) Rush Hour

There, where you should have been

standing five minutes ago, all at once occupied

and emptied by commuters chasing  buses  

that approach and leave. I place myself

precisely in-between distances

of come and go and constant transit.

 

Across the street, a waiting

shed: dilapidated. Waiting 

to be torn down. Will it be

replaced by another, a new

improved nook for passing time,

anticipating comings and goings.

 

Here, nobody wants to wait

too long. Nobody stays.

Yet hurrying away, they wonder

if somewhere, anywhere, somebody

takes note of their arrival. Hoping,

if they get there fast enough

they wouldn’t leave.

Tagged , , , , ,

Smoky Room, Yellow Light, Persistent Desires

This one. Ash on my fingertips, dribble of scotch from the corner of my lips. My sin, my soul. Sole. One step ahead of the fall. Him, honey? Tip of the tongue, flick of desire, taste of sugar traced behind the pucker of your lips. A world of delight inside your mouth. This, baby, baby? A tiptoe, a tuck of the  nose under your chin. You, upright, top of your head seven inches away. Me, at dawn, in the crevice of your arms, we lie down, nose to nose. At sunrise, asleep, the length of a sigh separates our cheeks.  A nest of limbs, the length of our reach stretch on to trap the other.  This one, a name known only from backlit screens. This one, under the sheets a body I can own. Mine. What I can reach for. Exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged imagined. Look, this one: entangled, torn.

**Referencing Nabokov’s Lolita for my own delusions. 

A Roadblock of Sorts

The poems, they come and go.

Or they stay just an inch away from the gutter waiting to be picked up. One poses beneath the broken streetlight. Another melts inside an unplugged fridge. One more gathers molds among a row of old shoes. The other hides under a blanket of fallen leaves.

Poke at it till your pen bleeds. It pokes you back so you can’t sleep.

Tagged , ,

The Things That The City Tells Us

Inside the train, the bodies are still. Everyone is rushing home, hoping to catch what everybody else will be watching on TV. Strangers avoid each other’s stares, thinking the same thoughts. Outside the tinted windows, large squares of imposed ideals are lit brightly. The same brand of age-defying cream sits inside an old woman’s plastic bag. The girl beside her wears the very pair of shoes that overlook the highway. She is thinking of the man in the picture. He smiles at her through the camera lens and poses for the rest of the world.

The train speeds past. Nobody takes note yet they all remember. The brand names go on the shopping lists, usually never tried nor tested. They believe the ladies that smile and the hunks that stare. They hold the truths, the ones who can afford the size and height over everyone else. These are the things that the city tells us, we take it all in and believe.

In a moment, everyone is exactly where they should be, thinking exactly what they should, knowing just about enough of the rest of the world. Their thoughts are to themselves, like everybody else. The doors slide open to give way for people to move in and out. The train moves through the city. One path, back and forth, never-changing. The same view blurs past empty stares. Inside, everyone is still. 

Tagged , , ,

i am not inspired. i am just going to force myself to churn out some words so as not to waste some empty minutes online.

 

apparently moments like this really exist. there is nothing that needs to be expressed yet you want so badly to make up something just to feel that you’re in touch with the craft. even my journal entries these past few days have become empty chronological accounts of daily activities. i make the pen meet the paper out of habit. nothing else. there is a bland air to the self these days. almost a kind of numbing. it is just that i am so afraid of losing the habit of writing again. although i shouldn’t be afraid because i should not lose that habit. but i guess it is a good thing to be afraid at times. shakes up the balance. keeps things in check. kinda drives you nuts too. makes you ask questions. makes you wanna read books. makes you wanna engage in conversations. never mind that most of the sane world would remark that these are things you need not say, need not ask, need not think, need not feel. but screw the rest of the planet. the need-nots need not be entertained.

i am not inspired. but the wonderful discovery here is that you can imagine being inspired. and then you will be.

 

lovely.

 

Tagged , ,

a few times before, i have stood over the edge of a building’s rooftop and stared at the ground several floors away from me. i would imagine myself taking one more step towards that fall. in a breath i would turn my back to the street and face the sky. i would be smiling, i’m sure, guessing at what precise moment my body would hit the pavement. the clouds would stare back at me and shift shapes. the light would be blinding, perhaps. i would be falling to make my way to that sky. and when my body shatters on hard earth, that’s when true flight begins. i imagine it now, it makes my insides turn and my hairs stand on end. the rush of the air is real.

there is no particular reason for this. no, i have no broken heart nor a stagnant career. i have quite a fulfilling life, i would say. it is not the end result that is death that i seek. it would be counter-productive. it is just the rush, the jump, the turn, the drop. it is  just utter curiosity for what it feels like to step over the edge and fall with utmost uncertainty. and fall without knowing when it will actually end. it must be quite a thrill. surely quite a thrill.

 

 

It Only Takes That One Precise Second You’ve Already Seen Before

I was watching a video about New York and on the 18th second I felt that inexplicable pang of a moment’s recurrence, so precise it hits you right at the center of your gut. The other day, the same blow struck me while our car turned from a church’s parking lot onto a street where the double-parked cars are covered with dust and fallen leaves. Shortly before the car made that turn, there was an encounter that I’ve been trying to wrap my head on. The universe plays funny games. The universe often changes the rules of the game just when you’ve wrapped your head around it.

There is no music to accompany this entry because my sister is asleep at the foot of my bed. No sentiment of an empty Saturday morning because it is a Tuesday and it will not be quite as empty as I hope the day would be since we are supposed to celebrate freedom of national proportions, no matter how fallacious it actually is. They say moments that recur, AKA de ja vu, are memories of a future one has already witnessed. Again, fallacious because how can one have memories of a future? Imagined futures, maybe. But then those shouldn’t be called memories, they are like streaks of clairvoyance. Some people believe that experiencing deja vu means that one is on the right track in life. One gets a glimpse of the future precisely because it is the path one must tread. I think there is no one right track. Moreover, I think one can actually define and make a track right if desired. Isn’t it strange how human beings associate the accuracy of a life’s course with a splitsecond of certainty yet the circumstances around it without due clarity? Uncanny, Freud would label it.

I mull over this because it has obstructed my original intention for blogging which is to talk about excruciating longing. Because now I am fixated with the idea that I may be experiencing the right kind of desire because the recent experience of a recurring moment is supposed to justify the predicament I find myself in. When the car turned from the church gates to the street, certainty hits me like an arrow to a bullseye. And yet, in as quick as the moment hits me, uncertainty washes over me like an Indian monsoon. Whatever. I’ll leave it to the wind and the drizzle of this gray morning. I’ll keep to my sheets and clench my fist under the pillow. Because when I turn to my side you will not be there. In another morning, maybe, you will be. But until then, I have nothing but arrows from the universe, hitting me in precise target points I never knew existed.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

a friend was telling me this morning that the sense of longing is often brought about by  change in a routine that the person follows — weekend picnics, phone calls in the evening, waking up to a person holding your hand, a constant comfort throughout the day. so, to prevent one’s self from being thrown into a pit of nauseating longing, one must steer clear of routines that the self can grow too familiar with. do not slink into the safety of seemingly secure habits. find comfort in the uncertain.

Under Dim Streetlights

Here is something I copied and pasted from the notes section of my iTouch. Even during a cab ride from Makati to Quezon City, the city tries to get through past the tinted car window. You just have to catch it before it gets lost at the next corner. The journey provides the process, the thoughts become the story to tell. 

————

May 14, 2012 9:32pm

I’m inside a cab snaking through Manila, from a different city towards another city. The rain taps on the window I stare out from. I stare out far, thinking of what deep thoughts to occupy myself, internalizing the moment like a sequence from a film. Maybe something about families and the struggle with distance. Or how to get the kids off the streets. Or the problem of garbage. And water. And hunger. Or maybe just him. Maybe just hoping to hear from him before I sleep. Then the light will fall the way it does in the movies while in my head the soundtrack of the moment plays. Fundamental loneliness might fit it. Or that’s more like a song that will play while I’m biking to meet my lover at sunrise. The thing is I don’t know how to bike. Haha. And that’s the needle that pops the bubble. Im back in my cab. Now a lady sings in Spanish and the driver rants about men looking more and more like women. What’s the world come to, he asks. I think of all the men I did not choose and then all the men who didn’t choose me. Manong driver takes a sudden turn, a detour. It will be easier this way, he says. He chooses the way, I do not complain. The street we are on is called Sobriedad and the children play in the rain. It is past their bedtime. And I haven’t had dinner. Actually, no decent meal the entire day. I think of why I made my choices. The woman sitting under a dilapidated waiting shed reminds me of why I chose to leave a man who wanted to take me away. I do not know where we are anymore. The street names are unfamiliar. But we are moving fast. I think we’ll be there soon. I do not know the way but I’ll get to where I have to be. I am after all in a city that owns me. There is no running away. There is no need to run away. The driver steers clear of roads that can get us stuck. I let myself be taken away. Somewhere, the cameras are rolling. Another song, still  in Spanish: quizas, quizas, quizas.

Tagged , , , , , ,

Monday Morning Prayer

Universe teach me to keep my faith in your workings.

Ignite in me again the fascination for watching things fall the way they should, to have the will to open my palms and let the raindrops slide through my fingers. 

Remind me again the story of the rainbow. 

Put my heart at ease, let my soul know strength. Help me believe.

 

Throw me a bone, universe. While I can still catch it. 

Tagged , , , ,

Conversations with the City

I wonder what tonight will bring.

Polished nails, a decent dinner, another bottle of beer (or more), a cold breeze? Today there is no orange sky. What will I long for then, after the gray heavens stop rumbling, when Wednesday has sneaked up on me?  

The cars crawl through the city while the children smelling of afternoon sweat rush through the dimly lit streets. My hours of work are finished, the reports pile up on my desk. Outside the window, a horde of problems wait to be solved. There is no rest. I walk through the alleys wondering what  needs to be done. A motorcycle speeds by and I catch myself  swept off to the side, clutching a sense of reality that almost escaped me.

The sun is down. The ones in uniforms are on their way home, worn out books inside bags weighing down on their backs. The soles of their shoes crumble with every step on the concrete. The day’s heat rises from the ground, stinging tired feet. At the end of the street a mother waits, forgets about the rice boiling over the stove.  Her child cries in her arms. I hear these things from an opposite corner. The sounds bounce off other bodies, dragging with it another banter, squeal, whine, scream.

Tonight, the city brings me a new story. She whispers something in my ear. 

But I am still behind this window. Still staring at the lampposts light up one by one, illuminating the metropolis inch by inch. The sun has set. Another day ends. What am I waiting for?

Why am I waiting?

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Five Hours Since The Last Call

It’s almost eight. Today I woke up with an anticipated sense of calm. Like, coming from my dreams, there was no other way to feel upon facing the morning in this realm.

I am gaining a sense of bravery here. Talking about the  way I feel in such exposure. But believe me when I say that this time I really didn’t know what the song meant. I just liked how it sounded and paid no attention to the words. I didn’t understand it. But after this morning, I wish I still didn’t.

This is deliberate, the act of stepping out from that shadow of a pseudonym nobody knows about. You will find these words duplicated in another backlit sheet. If you do find that, you must have probably deserved the privilege of access. Right now, not yet.

Right now, we maintain this distance. Let’s try to catch ourselves from stepping beyond the lines. While it is somewhere we’d like to be, it may not be something we need to destroy ourselves for.

Right now, I’ll write my stuff and listen to these songs. You, stay.

And if you no longer can, tiptoe quietly away. Because if I catch you drifting away, I might never let you go.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

Monday Morning Blurtout / 365 for 2012: (44-50) Estimated Arrivals, Definite Departures

there is nothing to prompt this note. it is half past ten and yet it feels like the hour hasn’t moved past three AM. only the fan moves in the living room, whirring steadily. while i listen to a hipster playlist made for mornings like this by a stranger somewhere i’d like to meet someday. there are options to get up and eat or clean up the room or — just get the fuck up. but i’m still in bed, stuck.

somebody, please remind me how do i pick up myself from this. or, no, yeah, leave me alone.

—————-

another strange dream

i would like to revisit,

lost under the sheets.

 –   

under the blanket

there is a body missing,

another concealed.

 –   

under the pillow

fingers search for another,

that cannot be there.

 –

the bed, a landscape

of plains, crevices, cliffs: vast.

 we travel this way.

 –

there’s a map somewhere,

find yourself searching for years

when you go to sleep.

 –   

the return ticket,

the cost of a memory,

brings you back: awake.

 –

strange dream, you again,

always there. where will you be?

gone in the morning.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Appealing at Daybreak

Half past seven and I’m not supposed to be awake.

Half past seven and I could only be awake. I was waiting when I fell asleep at half past one, listening to a song that hauntingly speaks of the kind of mess I now seemingly find myself  in. The song is repetitive, persistent: Stay, don’t close your eyes. Stay open. Apparently, it seems to have manipulated my own patterns of sleep.

These recent nights, I kept toggling between what I needed to do and what I wanted to do: write a poem or write a report, keep talking or wait for a response, sleep before sunrise or wait for it. I couldn’t let it rest. The thing about absence is that it makes us crave for something that could not be there. There are things that we could have and things we could only allow ourselves to hope for. Like a few more minutes to stay awake. Or another hour. Or the rest of the dawn, maybe until daybreak. Could you afford a day?

Maybe not. At least not today.

So, stay. Don’t close your eyes. Please. Stay. Stay open.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

50 for the 25th: A Kind of Disconnect

my hands are cold. my fingers, stiff, tap on the keyboard. i try to get to you. each letter becomes more difficult. my voice fades into a series of clicking sounds. can you hear me? i press both palms against the keys. warm. do you feel it?

i wish i could.

Tagged , , , ,

365 for 2012: (39) Before Sunrise

There’s no certainty.

I’m waiting with my senses.

Breathing in the dark.

There’s always something about being the one at the waiting end. Oh these things we subject ourselves to. I did write about this before.

So, after all the waiting, what do you get in the end?

 

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

Triggering the Rain

In the middle of a hot afternoon at the end of April, I am taking down notes about telling stories. The people inside the room begin to lose themselves in details of objects that hold the secrets of the character in the story. The story is about leaving.

The atmosphere around me changes. I begin to lose myself in a memory. 

—————–

I remember the rain. Drops fall from the gray sky and shatter themselves on the hotel window. Shards of water pass in front me and get lost in the puddles below. I press my palm against the glass. I feel the city shudder. I pull the blanket tighter around me. The cloth is soft against my skin but offers little warmth. I trace a line from my lips to my neck, and lower, to where his kisses lead and end. My fingers feel like ice. I shiver and the city shivers with me.

Inside the room, music plays faintly. The soft melody is drowned out by the patter of rain running after each other on the surface of the city. There are all these sounds and yet it is as if he breathes into my ear. The air in the room is still. Cold. Below, people hidden beneath their umbrellas rush through the streets. They do not look up. They keep on running, running away from or running to something. They all have to be somewhere else other than where they already are.

I feel him asleep on the bed behind me, in a room I do not own. I look out the window at a view I will never see again. I turn around and look at the man sleeping on the bed. The sun rises in the rain. I turn around and continue to stare out the window, waiting for when the rain will end.

—————-

Yeah. So I did get lost. But that’s just that. I’m back taking down notes from the workshop now. 

Maybe waiting for when the rain will come again.

Tagged , , , , ,

March passed me by with barely any word. Literally.

It’s not a sin, really. And I’m trying very hard not to give in to self-flagellation and lecture myself in this medium because, really, I never imposed a quota for given periods of time. But I must admit it makes me feel horrible to not have published anything here. How hard is it, really?

How many more times am I gonna use the word ‘really’??? Grrr.

So, there. I’ve given in to self-flagellation, faced my regret, and allowed myself to post about not being able to post. If you’re reading this published on my page, that probably tells you a lot about how my brain is wired, yes? Yeah. Well.

Screw it. I write a lot, I just need to post more.

(Excuses)

Marching Away (eh?)

What should be put here? An apology for an entry three days overdue? An enumeration of the weekend’s significance or lack thereof? Another haiku? How about a  justification for a lousy ramble to begin an entry three days overdue containing accounts of what transpired since Friday leading to a poorly edited 3-line poem?

Perhaps.

And the tentativeness strikes again. Like a Monday possessed by the laziness of Saturdays bringing forth the sensation of being in-between the attempt to fulfill duties and giving in to rest.

Somewhere in this virtual universe I’ve already mentioned my lack of commonly placed bias for weekends. Any day can suck as well as any day can rock, that’s the principle of everyday living I stick to. So did anything significant happen last Friday? Saturday? Sunday?

Life kept happening, that’s the truth and that’s all there is.

My body yearns exhaustion, really, it does. It does not want to just lie in bed because it does not yet feel tired the way it wants to. My hours are beginning to be filled in by performances and dance classes and opportunities to break 8-hour work habits and come home feeling a little overjoyed, slightly overused.  I’m bruised, I have slight burns, I have cuts but not wounds, I have energy, and, I hope, I am still of good use.

Is there a proper translation for the Filipino word ‘gigil‘? Dahil lalo lang akong nanggigigil na hindi ko maisip kung paano sasabihin sa Ingles nanggigigil ako. 

The week has begun but I haven’t drawn the curtains, haven’t set off the alarm.

Remuneration for the Wait

Don’t we all dwell on things serendipitous, paradoxical, ironic? We interpret signs, try to read between the lines, sometimes over-analyze. We hope to satisfy  our most banal instincts and our impossible delusions. We dream. We make-believe. We also laugh and mock ourselves for it.

I could hear the laughter, you know. These backlit displays and protected profiles are not enough to temper the energy. It goes on and on and on.

Oh, and did you hear that? Could-have-been, should-have-done, probably-would, maybe-if, guess-so, guess-not, guess-what, will-you-ever, I-would-never, someday-perhaps, perhaps-perhaps.  Here is a list we should avoid.

Do you know what  ‘uncanny’ means?

Yeah? Strange. I thought so too.

Tagged ,

365 for 2012: (29) Unsaintly Reminder

Faultless flirtations

anticipate bad endings.

Woo with certainty.

Tagged , , , , ,

Paradox and Paradise

In a letter I wrote to a friend, I talk about how the concept of emptiness gives such a negative connotation to the actual beginning of things. The reason why  Nothing and Absence is often associated with an agonizing sense of lack is because too much emphasis is given on What Should Be There and Presence.  If only we learned to take things as they are, we would be able to overcome Loss painlessly precisely because Loss as a concept would cease to exist in itself.  

There was nothing to lose to begin with because there was only Nothing in the beginning. 

The song is an appendage to the thought. It is not the point of the post but maybe necessary to the mood and feeling. It could stand on its own, it can also be done without.

 

Tagged , , ,

365 for 2012: (28)

**I know, I know. It feels incomplete. It’s not supposed to be whole yet. It will get there. 

 

I am on my way 

Up north. The highway stretches

on. Another sign.  

Tagged , , , , ,

Black & Blue

The song sounds so delightfully painful, it makes me want to dance and do headstands. But for who? 😛

 

Tagged , , , , ,

The bright lights they hurt my eyes. They make me think twice.

So Shoot Me

Like what I said previously, it’s that little chubby winged creature’s day.

If he’s not tossing around our hearts —

–he may be releasing arrows towards unwilling targets. So please, duck.

And as for me, I’m still waiting for that arrow to come my way.

Say hello to my bullet.

Tagged , , , ,

That Red But Not Red Letter Day

Something significant is expected to take place here. And, actually, there is an attempt to live up to that expectation. I don’t know whether to smirk or shrug at that. Even I could surprise myself sometimes.

Is it because we are now adhering to the frenzy of the ever so ridiculously hyped day of hearts for which I’ve already offered a piece of my mind to, weeks beforehand? It is, after all, that day when the little chubby winged being is forgiven if not celebrated for all the arrows he let loose, often towards unwilling targets, and for the other arrows that, insert-pessimist-remark-here, he didn’t throw. The temptation to let out some dirge on the L word (oh wait, even I have my own archived dirt on that) is too scrumptious to resist.

Or maybe I just want to make up for the entire weekend that didn’t see a post from me. The established consistency renders me guilty for the sudden break. Not even a haiku, another blurtout, a catchy new tune, a video too good to miss, an awesome illustration. Nothing? Too sleepy or too tired or uninspired. Or just the changing tide? Whatever. Excuses, excuses. 

What is expected to happen here? In a rambling post written at 3am, the universe is waiting for the side to be chosen: to shit and fart rainbows and butterflies or to puke at the thought.  The choice between bitter and sweet. To pick up the broken pieces (ugh, gimme a better clause please) and attempt at putting it all back together or to inflict bitter revenge on  someone else’s heart with the shards.

We all go through phases of bad judgement. Choosing to believe in everlasting  forever is one of those. See, being born knowing that we’re going to die eventually should precede that assumption. The majority of us all seem to skip the logic and learn the practical wisdom of time only after we’ve been stood up, the rug pulled beneath our feet, and left listening to time tick away. 

But resigning to the thought that forever indeed is non-existent is worse. Forever may be equivalent to Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy but these are the very reasons we grapple with reality the way we do. Doesn’t mean we can’t go on inventing new fantastical creatures to believe in either.  In fact our creatures of choice actually customizes itself to our comforts. All you have to do, like when you could justify how St. Nick fit down that chimney and got through the blades of the exhaust fan unscathed, is believe.

If you allow yourself, you will actually be converted from being brokenhearted to  wholeheartedly brave. Now the world and the rest of the brokenhearted-brink-of-giving-up population is in bad need of more of those. All you have to do is choose.

While Nat King Cole coos to me a waltz about delusional impulses, I myself battle with my own convictions.

And now it’s four in the morning. Easier said than done when you’re still nursing the pain of anticipating an arrow that will never come.

Tagged , , , ,

Workweek Ends

My desk is filled with such delightful thingamabobs. If too much home-dwelling activity prompts domestication, there’s probably an equivalent for a life lived in cubicle corners inside brightly-lit airconditioned rooms. I never thought I’d enjoy office life this much.

I like surrounding myself with all these paraphernalia: the post-its, cutters, scissors, paper clips, bull clips, clip boards, cork boards, push pins, stamps, stamp pads, ink bottles, markers, pens, pencils, erasers, sharpeners, book cases, book ends,  long bonds, short bonds, special papers, scratch papers, paper trays, punchers, staplers, staple removers — I could go on naming everything that’s on my desk and even justify why I have it there. There’s even a separate tray under my table dedicated solely to office snacks. The more stuff occupying my desk, the more meaning desk-dwelling develops in my life. I’ve begun to fully embrace administrative, logistical, eight hours per day, Bundy-measured workweeks. It’s created in me a life of habit that puts a sense of order to my intrinsic chaos. The overlap of order and spontaneity is beautiful.

This experience is showing me how logical wonder really is. That it erupts in so-called unlikely places when it does because it should and therefore, although it is unexpected, we can anticipate it. Better yet, we can will the wonder in each minute.  That is how I know for a fact that there is never too little time to smile in-between to-do lists and marginal notes despite tight schedules and guerrilla meetings. The random smile will take place when it should if everything has fallen into place beforehand.

Strange? Maybe a little difficult to follow. For the skeptic, even maybe a little unbelievable. I don’t know why I’m saying all these things but, well, this bubbly  blurtout’s been brought about by the accomplishment of the week’s tasks and had I not been able to answer that need according to the order of what needs to be done then maybe this entry wouldn’t exist.

Every little knick-knack tucked in each nook of my desk is evidence of a fulfilling life. I would do away with nothing, make room for more than enough.

Tagged , , ,

365 for 2012: (23) Dealing with Departures

Before you leave, don’t

forget your return ticket.

Reconsider? Stay.

**This haiku deserves a follow-up ramble on how — bam.

I just can’t deal. It’s so unfair universe. I just can’t deal.

Tagged , , , , , ,

You Don’t Get It Do You?

You know that line about the being second-rate and a copycat?

I stopped at nothing.

 

 

You’re nothing but a second-rate, trying hard copycat.

365 for 2012: (22) Slash and Burn

Through thickets of texts

a woodland of words unfold.

Stories, forests, told.

*Now just look at what this random haiku’s become with a little tweak. A sort of about  and introduction to whatever there is.  

Tagged , , , , ,

Word or image, what do you choose? Word and image, nothing to lose.

 

deannewilliamson.com/paintings-iii/

Tagged , , , , ,