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.

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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.

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Heaven Is One Badass Better Now: RIP Beastie Boys’ Adam Yauch aka MCA

The thing about childhood heroes is that because they’re made of such awesome badassery, one is led to believe they’d actually live forever.

Death can be such a bitch.

But I get that now. That it’s such a hoot to live, and to die even more so. It’s a good thing you Beasties have taught me that I should chase after all the sick fun and ill adventures available to mankind. You’ve taught me to delight in danger and revel in ridicule. And how to be cool with a cause. Especially you, Adam Yauch.

 

Farewell MCA, your voice lingers on. You’re a testament to the kind of  badass that the world can surely learn from. It’s time to shake things up at the pearly white gates, make some noise from above the clouds. We hear you. 

 

Pass me the scalpel / I’ll make an incision / I’ll cut off the part of your brain that does the bitchin’ / Put it in formaldehyde and put it in the shelf / And you can show it to your friends and say, ‘That’s my old self.'”

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365 for 2012: (40, 41, 42, 43) Ever Here, Ever Now

Yesterday’s minutes

Move into tomorrow’s hours.

We remain here, now.

 

Numbers bind our days.

But we don’t count the seconds,

We count the stories.**

 

Always everywhere,

Temporarily displaced.

Home is not one place.

 

Nothing definite,

Our once and for all, every-

time is infinite.

————–

Wrote this one for one of the people who have helped me understand the nature of the here and the now in relation to what was there, what is, and what could be. It is all about vision and faith. And failure and strength. And good music, a good drink and good friends.

Happy birthday Tita Maribel. Always beyond age, never finite.

 

—————–

**"No se cuentan los segundos
Se cuentan historias"
from Calle 13's Preparame La Cena
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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.

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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.

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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?

 

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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.

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365 for 2012: (38) Left Unsaid

Don’t say anything.

We’ll let the universe speak.

It knows our heartbeat.

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365 for 2012: (35, 36, 37) After Midnight

 

I.

Stay up to keep up

and converse while the world sleeps.

Darling and discreet.

II.

Only the dawn knows.

Our silly little secret:

Promises unkept.

III.

Conversations end

when words no longer suffice.

Lips, tongues cross the lines.

 

 

 

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365 for 2012: (34) Traces of You In Me

Marked territory.

We are covered by our dirt.

Flying back to dust.

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365 for 2012: (31, 32, 33) Step Forward Further Behind

I. 

A door is slammed shut.

Is it an act of courage

if you didn’t look back?

 

II.

Walk on to nowhere.

What’s there to be afraid of?

You’ve left. Move on. Go.

 

III.

The urge to move is

just as strong as the fear of

being left behind.

***Upon the end of April we find out: nothing ever truly disappears. Sound behaves as such: static, in the air, abuzz to those who strain to hear.

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50 for the 25th: Missent

The door is shut.

(andhereigoagainwithonesentenceparagraphssupposedlymindfulofdeliberatesilence)

A note, halfway through, distorts the spill of sunset on the floor. The message, unread, is absolutely clear. The addressed has no other response. The words remain in the dark, in-between. The meaning slips through, silently, unseen.

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50 for 25th: Gray Area

Nothing stands between you and the city except for the glass walls. The rooftops of rust  pop out against the city’s gray, hiding between skyscrapers, dodging our eyes. They wait to be found beneath those crumbling roofs. The wall is easy to break, but are you ready to jump?

——–

March 24, 2012.

It was a building with a view. We had the luxury of the metro’s skyline punctuated by free-flowing coffee, cookies and leftover fancy lunch. To be able to see what the world looks like from that height, we’ll have to choose between the actual bigger picture or the dominant view. The details need attention, but they need first to be seen. Are our eyes open? Are we really looking?

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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?)

Mantra for the present. Amen.

Today i am going to skip a dance class.

 

I also finally actually really finished a major task at work, will watch a long anticipated performance, and am writing here again.

 

Oh Absence you are so overrated. Presence deserves so much more praise. That’s why it’s Present. 🙂

 

Hmm. What a random ramble. What a wonderful random ramble. It rolls out so effortlessly.

Wax and Wicker

 

there are marks we leave that cannot be erased even by waves that come again and again

like the ink on your skin

and the softness of the soul that cannot be hidden in the chaos.

the music dies in the air and joins the rest of stillness.

it  finds refuge in ears that will listen. it remains, never leaves. 

 

wax and wicker, ink and skin, clouds and guitars.

rest, rock, and roll in peace, Karl Roy. 

 

 

 

 

 

-50 for 25th: Good Morning

 The stars have left us.

But we continue to speak of galaxies and universes we converse with, prayers we whisper inside pillowcases or wide open rooftops. Inside my pocket, a piece of paper remains neatly folded. Inside your mug, steam rises. The scent of coffee wakes up my senses.

————

Well. I was just musing about the first day of March and then I realized my word count was below 50 and so I decided to edit the ramble accordingly. What a useful exercise. Hahaha. Oh these thoughts of fifty words or fewer . Such motivating inspiration 🙂

So now, instead of including this entry in my 365 for 2012 Verses Project, I’m just going to start a new project but this time for prose:  Fifty or Fewer  for the 25th.

Yeah, yeah. You get what that means.

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365 for 2012: (30) A Lesson in Movement

Predictable fall.

Hit your head and it’ll end.

You need a strong grip.

**Thirty before March. Still not good enough. We have a quantity to live up to. 

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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.

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365 for 2012: (29) Unsaintly Reminder

Faultless flirtations

anticipate bad endings.

Woo with certainty.

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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.

 

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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.  

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365 for 2012: (27) Missed Call

 

Put the phone down. Don’t

let it tear open old scars

and create new wounds.

 

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And to start off the end of the week. Face the paper, grab the pen.

The Floating Library

  1. Work on one thing at a time until finished.
  2. Start no more new books, add no more new material to “Black Spring.”
  3. Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.
  4. Work according to Program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time!
  5. When you can’t create you can work.
  6. Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
  7. Keep human! See people, go places, drink if you feel like it.
  8. Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleasure only.
  9. Discard the Program when you feel like it—but go back to it next day. ConcentrateNarrow downExclude.
  10. Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book youare writing.
  11. Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.

— via listsofnote,
via sleepzandthinkz

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365 for 2012: (26) Grey Weather

**Because the rain came too early in February.

Not the only one

left behind, will not stay, who

gets wet in the rain.

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Black & Blue

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

 

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365 for 2012: (25) Sa Simbahan ng Iyong Pagsinta

**This poem is derived from my first translation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 105. I totally soiled myself upon hearing the music composed for this poem because it had so much of the feel of Fitzsimmon’s Goodmorning which is my sort of anthem at the time. So I did a little tweaking here and there to really place the words with the sound. So here it is.
 
 

Pagsinta ko’y di basta-bastang pagsamba,

Dahil ang iniibig ko’y hindi isang diyos na bato

At lahat ng awit at pagpupugay ko ay takda

Sa kanya, nag-iisa, siya nawa.

 

Siya na nga.

 

Banal sa paggising, dalisay hanggang pag-idlip

Sa kahanga-hangang dangal, walang tinag, nananatili

Kung kaya’t salita ko’y tapat ring nakapinid

Ito’t ito lang, taimtim kong sinasambit

 

Marikit, mabuti’t totoo,

ang lahat ng aking katwiran

Marikit, mabuti’t totoo,

sa ibang salita ma’y nailalarawan

 

Ito ang layaw ng dila kong makata

Ang alay kong pagdarasal

Sa simbahan ng iyong pagsinta

Puso ko’y nangungumpisal

 

Marikit, mabuti’t totoo,

kadalasa’y hiwa-hiwalay

Itong lahat ay nagsanib sa’yo

Sa kabuuan mo’y nananalaytay.

Marikit, mabuti’t totoo,

Siya nawa,

Marikit, mabuti’t totoo,

Ikaw na nga.

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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.

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365 for 2012: (24) Contact

Because we’re all suckers to this Hallmark holiday anyway.

Staring, you catch me.

Our two seconds of romance.

Here’s to more, more, more. 

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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.

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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.

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Look, found another jumping board. Oh these beautiful things that inspire us everyday 🙂

blue bicicletta

Some while ago, a group of ideas found their way into my sketchbook about living an adventurous and creative life. I had thought I might make these ideas into a book, but then it dawned on me that they would be fun to share here on my blog in a series of posts. There are 12 of them, and since that makes a nice even dozen this is the first in a series of posts called A Dozen Thoughts on Living. I hope you enjoy them! I hope they inspire you to be kind to yourself and live with a sense of wonder and play! Happy Creative Day to you!

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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.

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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.  

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Violent Reactions

It’s not always a loud explosion. Sometimes it’s a silent convergence. Really, it’s all about chemistry.

Beam Me Up Major Tom

Last Saturday, I asked the universe for tickets to the moon.

Saturdays have become my “weepy days” these past few weeks. Aside from allowing myself to wake up any hour I pleased and spend doing stuff weekdays prohibit me from doing, my Saturdays have been bookmarked for giving in to sentimentality. But no weeping happened to me this last Saturday, just a fixation for the moon.

This was after I stumbled upon the new album Le Voyage Dans La Lune of  French electronica duo, Air (which is actually an acronym for Amour, Imagination, Rêve) .  The album was inspired by George Melies’s A Trip To The Moon (1902) the first science fiction film ever made. Because, basically, the duo was asked to make a score for the restored colour version of the film! And this happened 15 years after they came out with Moon Safari. Serendipitous, really.

I’ve always thought of Melies as true magician, being the inventor of film effects such as time-lapse, dissolves, and stop-tricks. Well, guess what? He did practice a little bit of magic. Fascinating.

And then I also went a little nostalgic because it all reminded me of  Smashing Pumpkin’s ‘Tonight, Tonight’.

I kind of grew fixated with the idea of travelling to outerspace then that day.

And now, it  is Monday. But I still can’t get over flying away.

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Buy a Lampshade and a Wall Clock

because it could really help define your evenings. Or rather your midnights and daybreaks.

It is 12:20 according to the PC. And Fitzsimmons is once again putting a mist-and-pale-yellow-light cloud over my mood. But the white energy-saving  bulb above me ruins it all. And I know that if there was a clock up  on my wall, the tick-tock of its average-sized standard wall clock hands would seep through the music cooing from my earpiece. I long for the feeling.  I continue to ramble and tippity-type on the keyboard trying to transcend this present reality and cross over to that place in my mind where the lamp that lights the room is yellow and the clock ticks to the beat of the song. When I close my eyes, I am transported. And also, I am unable to type. So I open my eyes and imagine it, look beyond the harsh white light.

And despite the absence of the mood lighting and ambient sounds, I manage to sift through the words I’ve caught in my net and make sense of it —

The song plays, the bed beckons. The dream is waiting for me, its doors are open. The yellow light slips through the cracks. There, it’s calling me: tick-tock, tick-tock.

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In The City In February

—this is what it’s like, being out in the city, in the frenzy of the anticipation for the 14th of February. All around me are couples of all breeds and buds. They either rush ahead or trail behind. Others stay still. I strain to see their faces, decipher the codes in their looks, find a message there somewhere. In the distance, I listen to the movement of their lips and wait to hear the truth bounce from their skins towards me. I could make out some affection, some real love, some pure desires, and occasional lies. I look at the way their skins touch. My mind magnifies the movement of their pores, breathing each other’s scent. I try to see which ones are ready to take on forever. I shake my head at those I see who couldn’t. I pity them. I shrug. I permit myself these moments of judgement.

Today, I gain a sincere understanding for the cynicism of those who used to put a countdown timer beside the label of my own romantic undertakings. I’d do it myself right now but I’d really rather not engage in anything pretty stupid at the moment. Kidding.

There will be couples that will fail the meaning of the word the next time February comes. Some will be strong enough to withstand a few more years. And there are those, gifted by the universe with such honorable values and magnificent timing in every circumstance (the minute he walked into the room, the moment she dropped her phone, when the train doors closed, when the lights finally came on), who will persist. For the meantime, let them all cling to each other and litter the streets.

It’s a tricky thing, the way people commit themselves and lose portions of the self to that commitment eventually. Eventually, they will be left alone figuring out where everything else went during the times they were so immersed in the fever and frenzy of it all. And they will have their days of non-belief, too. They will have their questions, doubts, fears, anxieties, apprehensions, spite, disgust — they will nurse the inner cynic, even for just a while. There is no definite measure of how long it lasts or how short it should be. Or of how brutal the truth becomes, albeit sometimes unnecessarily so.

Don’t worry, the phase ends. It doesn’t last forever. Cause you know why? Nothing does.

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I should be asleep.

And I am actually sleepy. Really sleepy. But a portion of my mind refuses to rest.

The reasons of unrest stem from: the inability to comprehend occurrences that influence daily thought too much, the unavailability of answers to questions poorly formulated and ridiculously considered, the unnecessary recollections the mind randomly taps into, the undisclosed truths that cannot be confronted, the accidental heartbreaker, the uninvited lover, the lacks, the hoped-fors, the ands and the sotheres.

I am hoping that by drawing them out and labeling it one by one, rest would actually come. That the mind would calm down and let me sleep. I hope, all the time. I am a hopeful person. And I usually will the hopes to actualization, too. Tonight, or in this dark morning rather, I supplement the hoping-for-peace-of-mind-to-let-me-sleep-already-at-2-am with a lullaby.

My lullaby is a song  meant for the day’s beginning. Oh but 2am is indeed morning. Fantastic.

It repeats to me the inevitable revelation of love. I will find it, the song tries to convince me. I know, maybe, perhaps, hopefully. Really? Oh I can be a little skeptical, too.

And now while I listen, I get fixated with the meaning of harvest instead — that the long wait, the patient investment on Earth and its natural processes, will bear fruit. The song repeats a prayer for me. Finally, a sense of peace.

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365 for 2012: (21) Tuloy ang Sagutan

And we continue the game.

 

Sabi niya:

Tama, dapa

Hulog, untog

Pero iba ang nangangarap sa nahihibang

Iba ang naniniginip sa nababaliw

Iba ang nilalagnat sa inaapoy

Iba ang naghahanap ng langit

Sa tinakasan ng bait

Hindi pinipiling pikit-matang tumalon

O kagat-labing umurong sulong

Walang pinipiling lasa ang dila

Walang pinipiling tama ang tula

Matamis na ang lahat ng pait

Sa tinakasan ng bait

At pwede mo sabihing

Nahanap mo na ang sarili

Nahanap mo na ang pag-ibig

Dahil nawala na ang lahat…

 

 ——————————–

Sabi ko:

Kahit ang usok na naglalaho sa kalawakan

Sumasanib sa ulap, bumabalik bilang ulan.

Ito ang mga bagay na hindi natin napapansin:

Ang pagsuyong nakaipit

Sa paminsan-minsang ‘di pag-imik;

Ang tamis na nakapinid sa pagitan

ng mga labing nakailag sa pait;

Ang digmaan sa dugong pinapaikot

ng pagtibok ng pusong may sakit.

Ito ang pira-pirasong katotohanang iyong matitikman.

Masinop na itinupi ang mga hiwaga ng mundo

At ikinubli sa mga sulok ng kaluluwa,

ingat na ingat na inialay sa kalaguyo.

Ito lang ang katotohanang kinakailangang mabatid.

Ganito ang mga bagay na hindi natin namamalayan

Akala mo’y wala, yun pala’y nariyan.

Ang galos hangga’t hindi mo nakitang nagdurugo,

Kaiba man ang pakiramdam ay di pa rin kikirot.

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

 

deannewilliamson.com/paintings-iii/

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365 for 2012: (Twenty) Playmates

Much like a child’s game

we only hide to be found.

So stay still. Don’t blink.

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365 for 2012: (Seventeen, Eighteen) Sagutan ng Nalipasan ng Gutom at Kulang sa Inom

This exchange started because a very cool guy sent in a very cool translation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 17. The lines were just there staring at me, pulling out verses from my guts, prompting some wordplay. I just had to write back. So I did and he answered. So I wrote again. I’m still waiting to see if he’ll write some more. I hope the game never ends.

(Translation of William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 17 by Froilan Medina)

Sinong maniniwala sa isusulat ko

Kahit puro tungkol sa iyo

Kung gaano ka kaganda

Kung gaano ka katamis

Kahit ganda lang ng mata mo

Kung mailalagay ko

Sa salita, sa notebook, sa ipad

O sa palad

Hindi pa rin sapat.

At wala pa ring maniniwala

Sinong maniniwala?

Sinong maghihinala?

Sa tula sa dulo ng aking dila

Na wala kang kasingganda

Ikaw lang, ikaw na

At ang dalawang gabi ng iyong mga mata

Sasabihin nilang kalokohan

Sasabihin nilang nalipasan

lang ng gutom

O nasobrahan ng inom.

Isang imahenasyong

pumapalag at nagwawala

sa pagitan ng iyong hita

sa gitna ng isang tula

sa dulo ng aking dila.

Sinong maniniwala sa isusulat ko

Kahit puro tungkol sa iyo

Kung gaano ka kaganda

Kung gaano ka katamis

Kahit ganda lang ng mata mo

Kung mailalagay ko

Sa salita, sa notebook, sa ipad

O sa palad

Hindi pa rin sapat.

At wala pa ring maniniwala

Sinong maniniwala?

Sinong maghihinala?

Sa tula sa dulo ng aking dila

Na wala kang kasingganda

Ikaw lang, ikaw na

At ang dalawang gabi ng iyong mga mata

Sasabihin nilang kalokohan

Sasabihin nilang nalipasan

lang ng gutom

O nasobrahan ng inom.

Isang imahenasyong

pumapalag at nagwawala

sa pagitan ng iyong hita

sa gitna ng isang tula

sa dulo ng aking dila.

(Prompted Curious Compulsions by yours truly)

Paano naman ang hindi puwedeng uminom

at hindi puwedeng magutom?

Ang bagsik ng lagnat ng pusong ito’y saan hinuhugot,

Saan hahantong?

(Immediate Answer by cool person mentioned above)

Kung hindi pwedeng uminom

At hindi pwedeng magutom

Ang bagsik ng lagnat ng puso

ay huhugutin ng bilog na buwan

at hahantung sa likas

na pagtakas

ng bait.

At palalayain ka ng pagkahumaling

sa kahon ng iyong katinuan.

Sasabihin nila, kabaliwan

Pero hindi ka maniniwala

Dahil nagmamahal ka lang

Ng tama.

(And another)

Di ba ang tama ay bunga rin ng pagka-untog,

Ng mga humahalik sa sahig kapag nahuhulog?

Ng mga hindi nag-iingat at bigla-biglang napapatid,

Sa mga naliligaw sa paghahanap ng langit?

Tama din ba ang makukuha sa pikit-matang pagtalon?

Katumbas yata ito ng hilong dulot ng urong-sulong.

Ah, ang may sakit nga nama’y kung anu-ano ang sinasambit.

Ang lagnat na ito sa panlasa’y nag-iiwan lang ng pait.

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365 for 2012: (Nineteen) And?

Send me another

witty remark. Don’t forget

to sign: ampersand.

http://keepinginmind.tumblr.com/post/6273509062/for-my-kitty-ampersand

*Sweet sixteen, indeed. One of those things that only matter to me, I guess. Harharhar.

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365 for 2012: (Eighteen) Haikunnouncement

The poster is out.

Turn the calendar pages.

The love month is here.

———————————

**Yep, from the calendar series .  This is actually the original:

The poster is out.
Turn the calendar pages.
Valentines is here.

But because this was prompted by the sonnets concert project which actually opens after Valentines, I edited it. Para lang hindi tali sa katorse. And anyway, it’s the 15th of 365, not 14th. Blech.

So, yeah, it’s sort of a plug. With anticipation. And dread.

Lahat na lang ng puwedeng tulain itutula. Tsk.

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365 for 2012: (Seventeen) Thee Na Natukso

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Di ko alam kung tutula o tutulala

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

Kung putî man ang puto, suso niya’y kutsintâ;

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;

Sakdal-lahat ng alindog ng mundo’y kawangis mo

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st

May lambot ng mamon ang puso mong sintibay ng bato

And so the General of hot desire

Dilang buhul-buhol bumubulong na lang sa hangin

Admit impediments. Love is not love

parang mga guhit sa dalampasigang binubura ng tubig

Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,

Ano’ng silbi mo sa akin?

Millions of strange shadows on you tend

Kalaro kong aninag na di magbalik?

(Beat. Voices switch.)

 

Irog ko, paano na ngayon ito?

Love’s not . Time’s fool.

Istupido yata itong si Cupido.

————————–

**Yes, these are not my own words. (Yes, not?).  As a teaser for a project we’re doing right now, I was tasked to mash-up lines from Shakespeare’s sonnets and its translations. Meaning I had to read and re-read  (14 x 14  = –> ) 196 lines in Old English  as well as the corresponding translations and/or adaptations (196 ++) and find a way to make sense out of alternating select 14 or so lines from both original and translated sets. Apparently, I couldn’t keep it to the minimum.

Does it make any sense, then? And since it qualifies as a poetic exercise (excuses, excuses) I’m going to count it in the 365 for 2012 project. So there. And no, I’m not ranting. Hah.


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365 for 2012: (Sixteen) Starry, Starry Scarf

A patch of heaven,

this stellar fabric offers

galactic comforts.

*A note I tucked in a scarf I gave to a friend on her twenty-fourth year on earth. Because we got some serious sh** to shake. 

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365 for 2012: (Fifteen) After New Year

The alarm goes off.

Turn the calendar pages,

February’s here.

**Actually came up with another Haiku for January. Thinking of creating a series of twelve.

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Temporal Insanity

February is still ten minutes away but I’ve already been consumed by it.

365 for 2012: (Fourteen) Salin ng Sonnet 105 ni Shakespeare

**Salin ng Sonnet 105 ni William Shakespare, ang pangalawang sonetong kailangan kong isalin para sa darating na concert sa buwan ng Pebrero. Tinapos habang nagpapahinga sa lilim ng mga puno ng buko sa baybayin ng Guimaras. Walang katumbas ang puting buhangin at hampas ng alon para sa pressured na makata. Hahaha. The life indeed, the life.

 

Pagsinta ko’y di basta-bastang pagsamba

Dahil ang iniibig ko’y hindi diyus-diyosan

At lahat ng awit at pagpupugay ko ay takda

Sa kanya, nag-iisa, siya nawa, natatangi lang.

 

Mabut sa bukang-liwayway, hanggang takip-silim mabait

Sa kahanga-hangang dangal, walang tinag na nananatili

Kung kaya’t salita ko’y tapat ring nakapinid

Ito’t ito lang, walang pagliliwaliw mga katagang sinasambit

 

Marikit, mabuti’t totoo, ang lahat ng aking katwiran

Marikit, mabuti’t totoo, sa ibang salita ma’y nailalarawan

Ito ang layaw ng dila kong makata

Sa lawak ng saklaw ng balirala’y pag-isahin itong tatlong katangian

 

Marikit, mabuti’t totoo, kadalasa’y hiwa-hiwalay

Itong lahat ngayo’y magkakasama sa’yong kabuua’y nananalaytay.

 

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365 for 2012: Thirteen

Soap suds on the floor

Will wash away these worries.

Therapeutic chore.

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The sight of your name still pains me.

I feel the letters move from my insides to my lips. I fumble for the sound. It couldn’t quite make its way out.

The sight of yo…

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I learnt to tie my shoes

I learnt to ride my bike

I learnt to smoke

I learnt the vulnerability of fully exposing an idea

I learnt to tie my shoes

I learnt to adapt my behavior in the light of others’ actions.

I learnt the difficulty of sustaining the hopes of youth.

from Schematics: A Love Story

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365 for 2012: (Twelve) Tinuhog ng Espada

**After a pseudo-faithful translation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 20, here now is the version that should hopefully serve as lyrics to a song. And yes, pun intended. Lame pun at that. With syllable count that needs improvement. Sheesh 😛

Kinis ng mukha mo’y pang-billboard ng Belo,
di na kailangan ng Master Eskinol yan
Bagong gising na puwede nang frontpage ng magasin
Mga dilag sa iyo’y di lang hahanga, ikaw pa’y kaiinggitan
 
Puso mong mamon, iisang suki lang ang nakakatikim
Di gaya ng iba diyang kung kani-kanino naghahain
Talbog silang lahat sa talim ng titig mo
Duguin na’ng madaplisan dahil iisa lang ang tutusuk-tusukin
 
Bossing, ikaw ang senyora ko,
Kumander na nakalalaglag-panty ang asta,
Tagos-kalamnan ang lagnat-lamig abot hanggang buto
Ang puso ko’y tinuhog ng iyong espada
 
Okay na sana kung hindi ka lang napag-tripan ng tadhana
At sa paghubog sa walang-paris mong katawan ay ‘di nasobrahan
Tingnan mo nga’t mas may tambok ka pa sa akin
Anong silbi niyan sa’kin, e meron na ako niyan?
 
Bossing, ikaw sana ang senyora ko,
Kung di ka lang itinakda para sa ibang senyora
Tagos-kalamnan ang lagnat-lamig abot hanggang buto
Ang puso ko’y winarak ng iyong espada
 
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365 for 2012: (Eleven) Salin ng Sonnet 20 ni Shakespeare

**This is my translation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 20. Did this for a sonnets concert project we’re doing for February. This already sort of fails the traditional sonnet form, but oh well. 😛 Linguistic discrepancies. The more lyrics-for-song version follows after. You are such a challenge Bill.  

Sonnet 20
Mukha ng dilag sa’yo ay ipinintang likas
Ikaw na mayordomang kumander ng natitira ko pang lakas
May lambot ng mamon ang puso mong sintibay ng bato
Panay lambing ang pag-ibig na walang bahid ng pagkatuso
Talbog ang titig nila sa mga mata mong walang ligaw na sulyap
Nababasbasan sana kung hindi pinapangarap ang iyong pagkurap
Ang tikas mo’t dating, kumporme’t nakapanunukso
May suwabe kang hatak sa kaiba’t kapareho.
Nilikha kang babae sana, pero sa pagpeperpekto ay lumabis
Sa iyo ay may naikabit na sobra na nagdudulot sakin ng pagtangis
Ang kasaganaang bigay sa iyo’y para sa aki’y walang saysay
Ano’ng silbi mo sa akin, kung dapat akong umibig sa isang Inday?
Anu’t-anupaman, nilikha kang aginaldo para sa mga dilag
Kanila na’ng katawan mo, maliban sa puso mo’ng sa akin sana ipanatag.
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365 for 2012: (Ten)

Uncontrollable

patterns of fall. Lives at risk.

How constant hearts beat.That's Audrey Kawasaki For You

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365 for 2012: (Nine) Quarter-Life Crisis

Domestication.

The dawning of a new age,

of growing up pains.

**Finally, one that came with a title with it.

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There is a profound sense of being alive while listening and processing the statement of the need to chronicle the experience of practicing the values we teach and study in our actual lives. Creativity, mistake, compassion, strength.

Positive Discipline

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365 for 2012: Six, Seven, Eight

I.

A morning crime scene:

A blooming red mark right there

From the culprit’s lips.

II.

Another crime scene:

Rouge marks on a shirt’s collar,

A ring down the sink.

III.

No more evidence

Door’s ajar, wine glass empty.

Our case unresolved.

**I got a little fixated with the idea of a crime scene . Here’s a different take that churned out another series. I like doing this series of threes. Feels like a comic strip in verse.

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365 for 2012: Five

A morning crime scene:

When an escaping dream leaves

pillows stained with ink.

**Aren’t there so many possibilities in changing the word ‘ink’? Imagine your own murder, then take your pick.

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365 for 2012: Two, Three, Four

I.

Hair strands on pillows,

Traces, thoughts falling away

To count and pick up.

II.

Hair strands on pillows,

Traces of thoughts fallen out.

Don’t count, don’t pick up.

III.

Hair strands and pillows.

Traces of us. We’ve fallen.

Count on being caught

**This is the product of the magic of repositioning words to find the most apt manifestation of the image in the head. Thank god for details that strike you upon waking up. Although I am still quite uncertain about the order of the three, I’ll leave it be for now and go for the gut feel. The time will come to edit it accordingly.

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365 for 2012: One

Good book, new hobby, checklist:

Petty distractions

For a life empty of one.

**First attempt, please forgive. This Haiku is actually erratic. Instead of 5-7-5, I was thinking 7-5-7 thus the count. But anyway, that’s that for now.

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Charles Bukowski’s Blue Bird

Animation by Monika Umba

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsc3ItAKSLc

Bluebird
Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

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When The Sun Sets

This is the image of how my fantasy should be processed by my brain.

There’s a thick cloud covering a great portion of the sky, drawing a straight line that defines where the stars appear and disappear. The horizon should stretch as far as the eyes could see, but heaven sets its limits on mine.

Fair enough. The divide between the starry and starless sky evens out as the night deepens anyway. And the stars do shine bright. They pop out in the dark. Twinkling and dancing, too.