Tapestry

In writing poems,
It is laughable how
People mistake travesty for tapestry,
Vanity for soul,
The momentary thrill
Of self-worth
For laughter.

They weave silk into their ravaged dreams
As if butterfly wings
Would make up for their inexperienced metaphors
And misplaced prepositions
That stumble and riot
In damaging stupors.

Sometimes, they fashion poems like they would
Flowers on tables-
Sentiments that
Are fiercely fragrant
But are afraid to strike.

I would like to ask these writers
If their brocaded language can feed
The belligerent wailing of my hunger.

If their verses can free my faith
from these tangled webs of desolation.

If their words can insulate my beliefs.

Or are their poems
Mere tapestries-
An abundance of flowers
Whose lives are as fleeting and as
Dismissible as dying stars.

Waiting For A Miracle- Leonard Cohen

Baby, I've been waiting
I've been waiting night
and day.
I didn't see the time
and I waited half my life away.
There were lots of invitations,
and I know you sent me some
but I was waiting
for the miracle, for the miracle to come.
I know you really
loved me,
but, you see, my hands were tied.
I know it must have hurt you,
it must have hurt your pride
to have to stand beneath my window
with your bugle and your drum,
and me I'm up there waiting
for the miracle,
for the miracle to come.
Ah I don't believe
you'd like it,
You wouldn't like it here.
There ain't no entertainment
and the judgments are severe.
The Maestro says it's Mozart
but it
sounds like bubble gum
when you're waiting
forthe miracle, for the miracle to come.
waiting for the
miracle...

Antonio

If you look at her eyes long enough, you'll find that they are as brown as burnt cocoa. More traditional looking than his are. His are the color of avaricous ravens- so black that he may have been a gypsy's child. Ever since they were kids, she avoided looking directly at those eyes because they made her feel uneasy. Exposed, somehow.

It is hard to tell who's older. Circumstances have closed over the yawning years that were previously so evident in their differing demeanors.

He is sitting on their blue couch, watching music videos. The blankness of his expression surprises her. She wants to embrace him but she knows that this gesture may be too abrupt, may be silently shunned.

She remembers a rollercoaster ride in Ocean Park 12 years ago. She and Rita, a cousin from Toronto, took an extra spin because the ride felt so delicious the first time. She found him waiting for her, willfully indulging in fits of hysteria, "That was dangerous! That was dangerous! That was dangerous!"

Seven years old. She always thought that that was a bit too early for him to ascertain that loss of any kind will leave him with nothing. His screams then were their first real harbingers.

They were once two peas in a pod. They traipsed around the house in their cheap sandos and shorts, pretending to be twins (blissfully genderless).

He does not remember this. Their differences are now white cotton cloths, wiping out any evidence of happy disasters.

The fights really started when she was already in college. They would begin with something as unimportant as socks. Then they would move on to shoes. Then to the way he wore them and left them lying on the floor. Why was he so irresponsible? she'd say. Why'd she care? he’d retort.

Hugs lessened. The sound of doors slamming served as commas inserted between unresolved arguements.They tore their livers out.

It was years before he touched her or spoke to her again.

She remembers that night clearly.

He just came from the hospital where their father was confined. It was two in the morning when he returned. He didn't even need to let himself in. She was already by the gate, watching him. He grabbed her wrists and whispered, "Be strong. Be strong. Be strong." She listened to the teeming urgency corrupting his usually nondescript speech. His words were open graves. His hands, atonements that came a tad too late.

They lost their father to a myriad of complications brought about by diabetes. They spent his birthday, three days after the burial, eating Chinese takeout next to their father's grave.

They were mute witnesses to their mother’s death a year later. The same fervent whisper, "Be strong. Be strong. Be strong."

"For whom?" she replies.

They sit on a wooden bench outside the funeral home. He holds her hand and says, " Do not leave me."

"Where else would I go?" She is surprised by her bitterness. She averts her eyes and asks him what he wants to have for dinner.

He must not know how much she wants to keep running.

She looks at him now and sees stubbles on his chin. He is 19 going on 35. For the thousandth time, she shrugs off the feeling of helplessness.

He stands up and looks out the window. He stares at the falling rain for a while, lost in his gypsy thoughts. She looks at him, wanting to apologize for things that can and will always stand between them.

"The weather's changing" he says.

She nods and stands beside him. The raindrops fall, making puddles. They remember when they used to run around in the rain. They smile and shake their heads, happy with the silence. Content that they are both home.

Lamentably unfinished.
But aren't all poems?

You have slept in many rooms
But there is one you can never name.

It has too many secret cranies
Too many faults that it likes to flaunt-
A cracked roof that dances with the mango tree leaves,
A used Persian carpet,
A window that sighs and weeps when it rains,
A melancholy curtain that has seen many kisses,
An old shoebox of memories (left by a former lover),
A discarded hat,
A wailing faucet.


In the morning,the room plays footsie with the sun.
Every secret seems to be graciously revealed (finally!)
And you feel that at last, this is what it's like to know it:
Seeing anonymous fingerprints on the bathroom tiles,
Watching a party of ants soldiering on
by the bedposts,
Remains of Joshua Jackson on one side of the wall.

For minutes, you are fooled.

But you realize, she has just left
ambiguous crumbs for you to find:
An exposed leg here.
A bare shoulder.

Before the sun sets,
She becomes attractively musky,
Like an old comforter.
You look at yourself in the mirror and realize
you have turned sepia
You wear the dusty hat and pretend you are Humphrey Bogart.
You whisper your secrets
To the holes in the floor.
You dream of flying far away
And bringing her along if you could.
And you mouth the word, "forever, forever"
Like it would run out.
You were never (could never be) yourself before.

The restless moon
has been enjoying a private conversation with her
Since it settled in.
And for all your straining, you could never hear
The audacities they whispered to each other.
Again, you find yourself alone.
All the revelations of the day dutifully return to Pandora's box.
You invent words
To pass the time.
You are puzzled by her animosity, this abrupt strangeness.

But during the mornings, when the sun deigns to swallow her whole
She comes back.
Then she leaves
Running after moonshine,
Leaving you wallowing
In a confusion of patterns
you can never name.

But the cracks on the ceilings,
the holes in the floor,
and the weariness
of the startling, blank walls
whisper, I need you
I yearn
I exist
only for you.

And you realize that inspite of the minutes-
the insanity of space existing between her hellos and goodbyes-
You shall stay
For you believe that this yearning
Will give you wings.

Three Poems

Three of my favorite poems.

Enjoy.


Monday, After That Summer
Jeneen R. Garcia

Salt is the smell of my desire
clinging like seaweed dried
on fish nets at noon.
I have not loved for so long.
Inside me the Pacific Ocean
threatens to break open.
It is 4 a.m. again.
I can smell you
from a warmer dawn, pungent
salt and seaweed
dripping on my bed.
Waves crash, relentless, in my ears.
In your absence
I have driftwood
under the scorching heat.
A stroke on your hip
and my skin catches fire

WORDS
Angela Manalang Gloria

I never meant the words I said,
So trouble not your honest head
And never mean the words I write,
But come and kiss me now goodnight.

The words I said break with the thunder
Of billows surging into spray:
Unfathomed depths withhold the wonder
Of all the words I never say.

A Coagulation of Pixels
Eileen Tabios

I never had this conversation with you I never told you of dampness of sheets ripping of a pillow falling onto the floor of right hand circling wrists while left urged thighs farther apart of tendons straining of veins pulsing to a primordial beat I never told you of two bodies wanting nothing less than osmosis and agonizing over the compromise

I never had this conversation with you You never felt me bite your lower lip then quickly back away (oh, fear!) only to have your mouth follow my fearful tongue slipping back into an interior you mapped until its scent became yours You never cupped my face between your palms while you sheathed frustration to demand "Where do you want these kisses to lead"

I never had this conversation with you I never told you something I'd only articulated to shadows at night I never told you something I foretold in poems I wrote as a child I never told you I was the one who ruptured the fragile sieve of my memory so that I will forget what I never told you "I am so alone"

I never had this conversation with you You never heard my latest dream where we entered an apartment that seemed to be mine A wide loft We could feel its warmth The room blossomed into blinding light so that we witnessed no perimeter We saw this limitless space from in front of a door that shut behind you

In the dream I never revealed to you we remained within a narrow hallway though there was a huge expanse a few feet away In that hallway I began to whisper an untranslatable language of confusion I started to shake my head But you in an equally untranslatable language refused to give confusion the last word Gently but firmly you pushed me back against the wall so that I remained bound within your embrace So that I couldn't leave which is what I initially felt I should do

In this dream whose narrative you never heard from me we came to leave that hallway to enter a room you never promised me in another dream and where after the sun left to attend to other aborted conversations bruises would come to surface to our mutual delight Even the pain of painting lavender against flesh would be better than all the many things that we never shared

I never had this conversation with you I never told you that your poems made me pause linger by your side (stray finger occasionally rising to trace your earlobes) then stay (once I even sat on your lap) I never told you that I was helpless against making one exception after another to rules I so meticulously structured so that I wouldn’t fall through the grid You don't hear me now pleading with you to see me now as I drop as I plummet for you

I never had this conversation with you I never told you that someday I will pause at a city street corner Looking at admiring a greengrocer's display of fresh flowers Winter day but not too cold Coat unbuttoned A hand that will reach for red roses from a thought a hope that caressing waxy petals might release their perfume might un-freeze their fragrance Hear a sound Look up to see you I never told you that I predicted you will not be smiling Your brow in fact will be deeply furrowed For there is so much already that never was between us

I never had this conversation with you I never said hello I never said goodbye This was but a poem you wrote which I memorized to return to you I never had this conversation with you You never heard me You are not clenching your hands now as you don't hear me as you don't wish desperately for your palms to replace an erstwhile breeze for trapping my hair You are not licking your lips now as you remember how in a conversation that never occurred you half-growled half-purred before concluding "You taste delicious You rampant you"

And so it is

So the refrain

Sings itself over,

And so the game

Restarts itself - DH Lawrence, Passing Visit to Helen

Lost in Translation

I must stop.

I must stop.

I must stop.

Incognito Boy and I should stop blog surfing.

It's either we stop surfing not so anonymous blogs during the morning (it's becoming a creepy ritual) or I'll snap and start posting excerpts from the most grammatically incorrect, misleading, self-serving blogs ever created in blog history.

If only I could smuggle in some pictures to go along with the bad poetry.

I know that some self-righteous pricks would probably say that it's not any of my business. If I don't like what I'm seeing, I should just, well, stop snooping.

Right.Like I'd really care about your rights.

Like this one person, he thinks he writes really good poetry. He writes:

In the dawn of a good memory

The lightning of your touch

Is pensive

Unreachable.

Stop me.

I'd really like to do you the favor, Señor. I really would.

Or this exceptionally harmful citizen, who looks like a veritable farmhand but is deluded into thinking that he's the greatest thing since buttered toast.

I believe that I can try to be all sorts of things. Like a bird. A cavernous mule.

Light bulb!

Or the deluded girl cum pig cum Star Trek character:

Your hair

Your voice

Bleats to me

Songs of love.

Snapping begins now.

I have got to stop.

Syntax

This is Syntax. He is not my cat.

He is an Internet cat. I just named him that way because I'd like to own him but I can't. I have learned that some people have a penchant for naming things they do not own, harboring the delusion of having a personal claim on that thing/person/feeling. Since I was so attracted to the complete idiocy of their sentiments, I decided to give it a shot.

It feels like I stole a neighbor's underpants.

I digress. Back to Syntax the cat. Syntax is a curious cat. Basks in the sun like a regular god. He does not like ice cream trucks.He also dislikes phrases like 'mad scientist" or "fat pig".

He celebrates his birthday by pretending that he is a kangaroo. But since Syntax feels that he is too much of a streetcat, he's sensible enough to be himself during normal days.

He likes catnip. He also has this strange habit of frowning while watching Filipino gameshows.

I'm convincing him to put up his own Friendster account but I'm getting the notion that he's too snooty for that.

The only word he knows to wheeze out is "Bollocks."

Salvation is NEVER free

If you could ever be so kind, wipe the drool marks off my chin, please.

Check it:http://www.appleinsider.com/article.php?id=1745

Claws out

There is nothing in the world that can justify bad poetry.

And fuck free verse, too.

Living in the House of Usher

I am finding it hard to accept the fact that i now have to be a 'people person'.

Not that I have anything against rubbing elbows with complete morons. Oops. I meant strangers. It's just that sometimes, it's very very hard to smile when you'd like to smirk, hard to say 'thank you' when you want to rip the person's limbs off so that even if that person lives, s/he won't be able to walk and torture normal people again, hard to remain calm when you are experiencing a thinly veiled anxiety attack.

Would you like to meet the people in my neighborhood?

1. The Cary Grants

These people do not walk. They swagger. I didn't know anybody swaggered anymore.

Once he is seated, he looks you over, makes you feel like a three-day leftover that's turning an undeniable pukish-green shade. while you're speaking, he nods lazily and scoffs at the phrase 'will assess your language competencies." You shiver ever so slightly, thinking about the hangover that you cultivated from watching crapola all night long. You believe that you're not up to this, erm,challenge.

He speaks. "Ay am a loan opiser in da bank ober der at da batangas. Ay am interested because op the big salary ...layk dat."

You try to hold on to the table. You are very afraid that you might fall over and lose all control.

Because in this business, the motto is "Lose control,lose your job."

2. The Ghost of Lord Likethat

'Round here, we believe that there was once a person named Lord Likethat. We can only surmise that he was very attractive and died of syphillis.There were people then who considered him a saint. We believe this because everyday, we encounter followers of this alleged Lord.

They express their complete devotion by attaching the phrase "like that" to everything they utter.

Some samples- " Communications, like that.""Because of the compensation like that." "To improve my speak English like that." "To earn money por my brather like dat.""To be veter ferzon like that"

And the worshipping goes on till this day.


3. Nikitas

These are mostly women who spill their sob stories all over your hands. The stories would vary but usually it would involve men who tend to have uncanny similarities to our Cary Grants.They'd cry so hard you'd feel guilty.You'd like to turn girlfriend and wear those rollers and smoke like a schoolgirl but you can't.

And after the interview, you hand them over a letter that says they're not qualified because they just sound so danged Filipino.

At the rate I'm going, I'll be stuck in limbo forever.

4. Pips

I am not and never will tag myself as a feminist. I know that women are not the only ones who have first dibbs on sob stories.

I have met Pips from various versions of the Dickens' novel, Great Expectations.There are Pips who are bent on proving that they're worth something to a rich girl. Or sons who were left by fathers or mothers. Big sobbing men left by their wives.

And again, the proverbial 'regret' letter.

The poor and unhappy are, indeed, very much alive.

I never was much of a saviour anyway.

5. The Damning Droners

These people take the cake. Hands down. Give them the slightest bit of encouragement and they will... not... stop...talking...

They start off their introductions like normal people. Then you notice that their fillers are getting more, well, frequent. Then they line up their qualities and achievements for your perusal and inspection. But because of the atrocious preposition usage, they might as well have been speaking Czech.

And you're so far off by the time they're done that when they tell you that they're done talking, you have completely forgotten the questions you were supposed to ask.

Nice strategy, yes?

6. Serial Killers

Again, they look absolutely normal. Collared shirts, jeans.

I now consider myself their confidante, their Freudian friend.

Like today, for example. It was a simple question regarding teamwork. Sometimes, that is all it takes to let these psychos out of their cages.

The person's reply? "It is hard to work when the brain is scattered."

The horror! The horror! The horror!

7. Pantomimes

Smile. Wave. Shake head. Bend head. Frown. Stutter.Shake head. Stutter some more.Go out the door.

8. Pinocchios

They lie to get in. Bad news is, they're not good liars.

a."I want to werk hir so dat i can imrub my kommunikashun skeels."

"Let's say that after a year, you did manage to attain your goal. What then?"

"Nathing."

b. "I believe that if I can work here, I can be a good person."

"Are you saying that you're not a good person now?"

"Nathing."


9. The Hot Starters

Three words: You just know.

The minute they open their mouths, you know that you can breathe easy. There are some who are not as impeccably correct as a handful of others are but they usually can sell themselves without a cinch so that's a go.

Hot Starters are the hardest ones to come along so, with the maniacal downpour of the first eight, imagine the hysteria that I am striving to conceal now.

Which finalizes my theory that there were call centers during the time of Poe and Conrad. The parallelisms are just too uncanny.

Poe the writer, idiot.

So into Poe these days. Poe the writer, I mean.

Maybe I just want to be jolted out of the doldrums. It's been drama, drama,drama for two weeks now and frankly, i am dastardly sick of ALL of it.

The princesses can have their friggin cake. Not that they'd eat it.

If you have an affinity for curios, visit Pluto at :http://poe.thefreelibrary.com/Black-Cat

Meow.

This is a poem that K wrote last night.

Of all the poems that he has written that I've read , I consider this a favorite.

Thank you for letting me post it.:-)


To The Deaf, The Dumb, and The Doorstops


I now declare that I am a poet –
A boy learned enough but neither too well nor too little;
A man young enough but neither too cocky nor too sane.

I know just enough to take myself a-wandering
From treacherous seas to perilous mountains,
From budding buildings to hospitable wastelands,
From lubricious lakes to the infinite solitude of alleys,
From delighted train stations to ports rife with pleasures.

Yes, I have indeed seen a lot, most of which
I never wish to behold again had I the choice.
Oh, had I the choice!

I have seen rebels slither away from ideals
And dive into oblivion, with their arms and their beliefs
And holiday shoes and their combat cards
And napalm Sundays and frothing ears.
I have seen them sell their children
To the bell bottom market for a pound of hash
And a few shots of Andean raindrops.

I have seen soldiers chasing rebels, soldierly fists clenched –
Gripping tightly their medals of courage in the line for the race
To the topmost bunk in the innermost barracks
Of human achievement and decay.
I have seen them dress up in drag to please mistresses
Who ask for nothing less than all and nothing more
Than more, more, more.
Yes, I have seen their mansions and I have been dumbstruck –
Struck by the dumb waving from their balconies
Amidst a plethora of daisies and dandy lions.

I have seen singers more than I’ve heard them
And this I cannot comprehend too well.
What, I ask, has happened to the transistor?
Has the cat clawed on its own tongue?
What the radio blurts out, I cannot, for the life of me,
Even begin to describe. I fear garbage ink.

I have seen painters, their souls for sale and on sale
To the weasel king of museum magnates.
I have seen you – you know who you are –
And you have traded in honesty for fashion,
Integrity for approval, sincerity for denial.
I have seen you cry out for your self-imposed pain
And linger in bathtubs of delirium,
Misappropriating hues and textures
For the clapping of thunderous hands.

I have seen poets too – and some of them I despise
For their words blatantly echoing what they lack
And intentionally hiding what they own and owe.
I disapprove their demeanor in flaunting their ignorance,
Speaking in jargon they have feasted on with only their eyes,
Relaying second-hand truths, replaying themes long obscure,
With obdurate postures befitting not a servant of his time.
Listen, you ought to be who you are
Not who you think you ought to be.
I’d rather be who I don’t want to be any day
Than be in your elite circles.
That’s exactly how you go about your business anyway,
Going ‘round in circles.

I have seen my country sunk down – willingly –
Game show hosts at the helm, celebrities manning the oars,
Senators – torpedoes – zeroing in on the bull’s eye:
The palace seat in heat.
I have seen soldiers, poets, drunks, painters, rebels,
Magicians, gypsies, libertarians, orthodox puppets,
Priests, preachers, hippies, and what-nots
Floating in the wake, virulently wanting to climb aboard.

I have seen myself too – all that I have and lack –
And I have come to this: I am a poet.
I have harshness at my disposal –
A tongue on fire and insults set on dousing
Souls and hearts with gasoline, to lick them clean,
And render them into ashes.

Blast from the Very Distant Past

This short story was actually where one of my monologues in our production, A Series of Summers, was based. The stage production happened way back when I was in college. This draft was just sent to me today by my ex-roommate.I lost my original copies when my Lenny crashed last 2001.:-(

All characters in this story are, of course, fictional. It was originally supposed to be about a 12 year old girl who found love while taking dance lessons. But I couldn't work around that because the storyline seemed so rehashed that I didn't bother and tried to find a twist to the story instead.

It's funny how young I sounded then. I had to physically restrain myself from tweaking the whole piece.

If I ever find the actual script for the monologue, I'll be posting it here.:-) It actually turned out to be more comic than this rendition.

Ballroom Dancing

There is a tune that haunts me.

It is a Juan D'Arienzo piece. I heard it when I was 12.

I heard it the last time we met.

It was the last day of Ms. Danzig's dance lessons. I remember it as being a very long summer. We were all kids then, do you remember? Patsy was the only one who was older; she was 23 and bored. But the rest of the kids were our age. We were all in the seemingly endless pews of twelve-ation.

It was particularly hot that day because it rained the day before. The room was almost as small as this one is, but it was more cluttered. Ballerina slippers and dust motes were having a tea party in one corner and piles of decrepit chairs were stacked all around.

You were leaning against a wall, sipping on a bottle of coke. You were a little on the chubby side then.You approached me and offered me a sip.

Because you were too tall for me, I wasn't assigned to dance with you all summer. I always just kinda watched you put your arm around Gretchen, sway with Patsy, dance with Eunice.

Today, Ms. Danzig asked you to dance with me.

I licked my lips and rubbed my palms against my skirt. I was more nervous than a university riot.

Then there you were. You stared at me while Ms. Danzig put in an old Juan D'Arienzo tape.

Yowza, I thought. I just shut my eyes and shuffled along with the tune. A step here, two steps there. I brushed against your arm once. Immediately, I stepped back, as if I was stung by a thousand bees.

How beautiful you were.

The red ribbon was especially becoming because it made your hair look darker. Your cheeks were tinted pink because of the heat.

I tried to dismiss this awkwardness. I refused to believe that I have exchanged my penchant for Aga Mulach and Devon Sawa for thoughts of you.

I refused to believe that the sensations that these hours give me will not pass.

I refused to believe that I could feel something that may not be normal. Something that could drive my socialite of a mother (who is never home anyway) mad with confusion. Her voice keeps repeating itself in my head: "My little girl, I will not have it."

And I am guilty as sin for loving you, Reanna.

Then you shrieked.

The sound pierced through my romantic meanderings and brought me back to this dusty, unkempt room.

I could not believe, until this day, that in that moment between my pointless dreaming and the maniacal tango music, I managed to kiss you.

I could do nothing but stare at you.Your eyes were more confused than distressed, more surprised than annoyed.

I wanted to say that kissing you on the lips was no big thing. That I did that all the time because i lacked affection in my life . I wanted to lie. To howl. To do anything that would distract you from thinking that I was not the person you thought I was.

I was the last one to step out of Ms. Danzig's dance hall that day. They never told my mother about "the incident."

I never saw you again.

After college, I finally got married and had two kids.My husband, he takes to drinking sometimes. When he doesn't get what he wants, he hits me sometimes. But he is sorry most nights.

I have never danced since that summer.

Moving on Up

I finally found the time to get out of my 360 account.

I feel exhausted.

For newcomers, a disclaimer. I am not a monster. I cannot produce 18 posts all in one day. I merely posted some of my previous posts from my previous blog here so that I can still visit and edit them.

Enjoy.

Cajun Conrad

Since I was feeling jovial and since he was my third interviewee for the day, I asked him, "How are you doing today?" (feigning all interest, of course. i truly couldn't care less.)

He said, "I'm 23."

I know how that feels.

Urban Legends

Some of the most outstanding slips we've heard this year (so far)

1. " I took nursing. Suddenly, i'm not graduated." (the f...?!)

2. "I gave birth ON my first son." (scary shit)

3. "I stopped school and go to Japan."

4. "I am getting along with the building."(when asked if they knew where the site was located)

5. "Wait, I am in my pen." (overthrowing all laws of physics and chemistry)

6.Me : "How did you learn about Convergys?"

Dumbass: "Convergys is the best!"

7. "I can adjust my body temperature to the shifting schedules."

8. "I am a potato couch person."

9. "I landed on Infonxx." (hey...)

10. "I am aging right now."

11. "grave shift yard" (jesus)

12.Me: "How would you like me to call you, sir?"

Dumbass:768...

And who could forget the "All-Around Communication Specialist?" In block letters, no less.

13. Found on a resume: Mr. Helpful "beside of being busy to his work,his not used it as an excuse to help his co-worker if they needed...Be proud of him!" (I sincerely think that he made this award up.)

14. Same person: Skills- Basic knowledge in computer and dancing

15. "lucky go happy"

16."the continously fluctuation of the economy"

17. "i hung with friends."

18."i go with the mall." Paragraph reading: "frighteningly full of furl." (should be fur)"while she shits on a heated bitch" (hey, buddy!) " a very hot today." (sometimes misconstrued as 'holiday". who ) "ticky cheese" and "thicky thermometer." "basketball veterinarian." (baseball veteran) "Peter's nice" (hey...) "labs" (loves) "Aside from spending time with business."

"Northgate Tigerzone." or "Northgate Twilight Zone."

WORST: Converted Building

My heart belongs to daddy.

"I promise you that the pain of desertion will not wane as you grow older. It is one of life's irritating constants." -an excerpt from one of my father's June letters, 2001

Now THIS is a love poem

Borrowed Love Poems

John Yau

1.
What can I do, I have dreamed of you so much What can I do, lost as I am in the sky
What can I do, now that all the doors and windows are open
I will whisper this in your ear as if it were a rough draft
something I scribbled on a napkin I have dreamed of you so much
there is no time left to write no time left on the sundial
for my shadow to fall back to earth lost as I am in the sky

2.
What can I do, all the years that we talked and I was afraid to want more
What can I do, now that these hours belong to neither you nor me
Lost as I am in the sky What can I do, now that I cannot find
the words I need when your hair is mine
now that there is no time to sleep now that your name is not enough

3.
What can I do, if a red meteor wakes the earth and the color of robbery is in the air
Now that I dream of you so much my lips are like clouds
drifting above the shadow of one who is asleep Now that the moon is enthralled with a wall
What can I do, if one of us is lying on the earth and the other is lost in the sky

4.
What can I do, lost as I am in the wind and lightning that surrounds you
What can I do, now that my tears are rising toward the sky
only to fall back into the sea again
What can I do, now that this page is wet now that this pen is empty

5.
What can I do, now that the sky has shut its iron door
and bolted clouds to the back of the moon
now that the wind has diverted the ocean's attention
now that a red meteor has plunged into the lake
now that I am awake now that you have closed the book

6.
Now that the sky is green and the air is red with rain
I never stood in the shadow of pyramids
I never walked from village to village in search of fragments
that had fallen to earth in another age What can I do, now that we have collided
on a cloudless night and sparks rise
from the bottom of a thousand lakes

7.
To some, the winter sky is a blue peach teeming with worms
and the clouds are growing thick with sour milk
What can I do, now that the fat black sea is seething
now that I have refused to return my borrowed dust to the butterflies
their wings full of yellow flour

8.
What can I do, I never believed happiness could be premeditated
What can I do, having argued with the obedient world that language will infiltrate its walls
What can I do, now that I have sent you a necklace of dead dried bees
and now that I want to be like the necklace
and turn flowers into red candles pouring from the sun

9.
What can I do, now that I have spent my life studying the physics of good-bye
every velocity and particle in all the waves undulating through the relapse of a moment's fission
now that I must surrender this violin to the sea's foaming black tongue
now that January is almost here and I have started celebrating a completely different life

10.
Now that the seven wonders of the night have been stolen by history
Now that the sky is lost and the stars have slipped into a book
Now that the moon is boiling like the blood where it swims
Now that there are no blossoms left to glue to the sky
What can I do, I who never invented anything
and who dreamed of you so much I was amazed to discover
the claw marks of those who preceded us across this burning floor

Surf in USA

my very, very good friend inah has invited me to a site called zebo. i can never describe myself as an avid supporter of sites like those. it took months of persuasion for my ex to convince me to join friendster. i just had a ym id this year. and i almost never check my hotmail thingy.

the reason i couldn't develop a penchant for those sites is that sometimes, i get annoyed because they're all too cheesy for me. nix the word 'sometimes'.

this is a very fine example of what i'm getting at:

annette thinks you’re a barrel of laughs. In fact, annette wants you to join ZEBO so you can spread your sunshine to the rest of our hundreds of thousands of members. A fun-loving individual like yourself should share the love.

if i would do it my way, my invitation would go:

annette thinks you're lazy and that you have nothing better to do with your life. In fact, annette wants you to join ZEBO so you can share your insipid thoughts and embarrassing inanities with her so that she can have something to laugh at with her real friends (all of whom also think that you're a real loser). She knows that people like you would like to have fun but never will. So, you should be thankful for an opportunity as rare as this one for you can be sure that you will never receive another one like it for the rest of your disgusting life.

longer, yes. but more succinct, don't you think?

Epiphany #347

"If you'd never hit me, I wouldn't know my skeleton"
--from Widow Basquiat by Jennifer Clement

"Fuck you, April!"

" I do not want to write poems for the dying. I want to write poems for the living."

"Love someone on a deathbed and that person can even become someone who has never sinned."

There is an almost tangible relief in crying away years of hurt and aloneness. Thank you, Eileen.

If you have time, visit Tabios at http://chatelaine-poet.blogspot.com/.

Top 50

Thanks Alessi. Good question. Top 50?
Without any particular order (order? i scoff at the word!) :

1. A Kiss to Build a Dream On -Louis Armstrong

Lang's and Bennett's version was also good. I believe that this is the most romantic song, ever. If you'd sing it to me, i'd marry you in a second.

2. The Very Thought of You- Billie Holiday's Version

Whether it be a crazy song (she's famous for her lilting 'devil may care' tunes) or one of her heartbreakers , Billie Holiday's voice always sends shivers to my very soul.

3. Love in Vain- Robert Johnson

All my heartaches and losses, wrapped up in this one song.

4. Before You Accuse me-Eric Clapton

My ex was part of a blues band (named dr. strangelove, after the '64 Kubrick film) when we were in college. I loved it when they played it over at that small bar... what was the name of that bar? I'd always have fond memories of that band.

5. Moonlight Sonata-Glenn Miller

When i was smaller than I am now, my father used to rock me to sleep on his ricketty, wooden rocking chair. Back then, he was the manager of the Coopertive Bank in Lucena so he was always tired. My parents never read me fairy tales since I could read them on my own since I was three so, to put me to sleep, Papa always played Miller on our big LP player.

Now, that player is gone and so is Papa. I miss them both.

6- 8. Stella by Starlight, I Fall in Love Too Easily, There's No You-Miles Davis

My mother loved Davis. She used to listen to his records when she was in Japan, selling her paintings so that she could have money for food. Whenever i hear Stella by Starlight, I imagine my mother, young and penniless, standing on odd streets, forever a stranger. forever lost.

9-12. Red House, Fire, Hear My Train A-Comin, Night Bird Flying- Jimi Hendrix

I remember Pamboy's husky voice and the writings on the walls of the Kofiholics shop in LB.

13-15. Don't Think Twice, It's Alright, All I Really Want To Do, Farewell Angelina- Bob Dylan

I was never familiar with Dylan before K. Dylan to me always looked like an insane angel, always preparing for flight.

16. Let's Call the Whole Thing Off- Ella Fitzgerald's version
Easily one of the most enjoyable jazz tunes. i never get tired of it.

17. Ramblin' Rose- Nat King Cole

My father's biggest worry : " Who will love you, when your ramblin' days are gone?"

18. Annie's Song- John Denver

Yes, i'm only 23. I'm the only one who likes this song! And Tito Jessie, Papa's cousin.
Since Tito Jessie has been dead for 5 years, there's just me.

19-21 Take My Breath Away, Honey Pie, As Time Goes By- Tuck and Patti

Tuck Andres is a god by himself but it's always a pleasure hearing him with Patti. True complements. Gotta find me one of those.

22. Get Lost- Eric Clapton

Remember the movie, The Story of Us? Aww...

23. Come On Eileen- Dexy's Midnight Runners

Memories of Jos and my days in Vista Del Rey, laughing and singing and dancing like maniacs to the Save Ferris version. Happier times. My life's "pis time".

24-26 Valerie, Where Have You Been?, Drunk Again- Reel Big Fish

My "i'm bitter, who gives a shit" songs. Was listening to them last night and I couldn't help but include them.

27. Purpose- 311

My ex's other band (come one n' all) used to play this during our first year together. Crazy. The lyrics leave a lot to be desired but I'm more of a melody girl so I really don't give a fuck.

28. Secret Garden - Bruce Springsteen

The movie is admittedly overrated by now but this song makes me remember that I am and will always be, first and foremost, a woman.

29. Whose Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses? -U2

This song will always remind me of you.

30. Strange little Girl- Tori Amos

The waif's song. I always hear this song in my head when I 'm packing my things, going nowhere.

31. Carnival-Natalie Merchant

One of my highschool favorites.

32-33 About the Weather, More than This (10,000 Maniacs)

I remember after graduation, we went to a bar and More Than This played on the radio. The result: One icky and tearful group hug.

34. Sour Girl- STP

I was someone's personal stalker in college so I empathize. " What would you do if I followed you?"

35-37. Strange Attraction, Close To Me, Pictures of You- the Cure

Josh, my friend from ETEL, and I love the Cure. Oh, and also Love Song, which was also a beautiful song but is now a total sellout because of 311 and the movie fifty first dates. i'd regret the day that i'd meet anyone who thinks that the 311 version is the original version.

38. Love of My Life- Carlos Santana

Tsk, tsk. Promises, promises.
This song's title should be "Hey Ease Up, I Just Wanna Get Laid."

39-42 Crying, Dude Look Like a Lady, Jaded, Hole in my Soul- Aerosmith

I was insane over Aerosmith a little too late. They've been around for a coupla years but I went gaga over them when I was already in college. So forgive me if I swoon.

" For every love letter written, is another one burned."

43. Got You Where I Want You- The Flys

A lot of people are not familiar with this song. It's part of the soundtrack for the movie "Disturbing Behavior."

Because of this song, I remember the back of the LB library. A dark room. The sky full of starlight.

44. Always with me, Always with You- Satriani

LK is the only person I know who can actually produce the same sound on one of his guitars.

45. Carnival- Cardigans

"I will never know cause you will never show/ Come on and love me now/ Come on and love me now"

Says it all, don't you think?

46. Girl From Mars- Ash

Bebot ( Julia Ormond look-alike/ Punk debonair) used to sing this song with me. But she always insists that the song she remembers me by is Cherry Pie by Warrant.

Jen's Song.

47. Landslide- Dixie Chicks

If you try listening to this song while watching the sun set, you'll find yourself suddenly sobbing because the heady combination of the fleeting colors, the sudden darkness, and that hungry voice makes you feel misplaced and surprisingly insignificant.

48. Secret Smile- Semisonic

Pasay. Pasay. Pasay

49. Angry Johnny- Poe

My only 'angry chick' song. Insipid but it helps let out my feelings of angst!

50. Sleep to Dream Her- Dave Matthews Band

Topics like unrequited love make me feel like such a poser. I am attracted to the idea of pining but I never have had the pleasure of that particular delusion.

51-53 #1 Crush, You Look So Fine, Special- Garbage

You might remember #1 Crush from the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack. I was hoping to see Leonardo in tights. Oh well.

54. Mrs. Robinson- Simon and Garfunkel

Papa was the one who was fond of Simon and Garfunkel but again, this song reminds me of my mother. If you don't know the lyrics till now, you are not worthy.

55. Octopus' Garden, Real Love, Something- Beatles

I always dreamed that my future husband would sing Real Love to me on our wedding day. In front of all my relatives. My desire to humiliate will never wane.

56-58. Roxanne, Wrapped Around Your Finger, When We Dance- Sting

K used to have this theory that Sting had/has an affair with a prostitute because his songs hold so many allusions to being in love with someone who had to 'share her body through the night."

Hmm.

59-60. She Talks to Angels, Seeing Things- Black Crowes

I can assure you that an hour with Chris Robinson's voice and Cadbury is enough to fill any emptiness inside you.

60. In Your Eyes- Peter Gabriel

" She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart but she gave me a pen."
-John Cusack, Say Anything

61-62. In the Mood for Love, La Vie En Rose- Louis Armstrong

Prague will always be pink and waiting for me.

63. You Lost that Loving Feeling- The Righteous Brothers

Could I be Maverick for once? You've been hogging Maverick for 12 years!

Fifty's too small a number. I'll make this a hundred soon. Thanks for giving me something to do.

Nail marks

" What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we need to invent?" - Nietzsche, The Gay Science, section 125

It felt like I woke up in a scene from Twilight Zone. I checked my watch a couple of times. 10 AM. Where the fuck are all the people?

You see, my brother and I haven't had breakfast yet so, i decided to go out and look for food before we started cleaning the apartment. It isn't unusual to see virtually no people on our street because though we're actually located in the town proper, we were two blocks away ( or is it one block away?) from the main road.

No tricycles so I started to walk. And walk. And walk. I was already beside our old, forsaken mall and there were NO shops open. and NO people. i was expecting to see five-legged non-entities swarming over me any minute.

Then I remembered, "Oh yeah. Good Friday."

I managed to buy breakfast from a small hole-in-the-wall carinderia. After that, since we had nowhere to go (could you believe that even SM and Pacific Mall were closed?), I used my convincing powers and perusaded anthony (after two short hours) to help me clean our apartment.

Despite the fact that our landlord seems to be competing (with no one) for the title World's Most Persistent Money-Grubber, we have no complaints about our current living quarters. It's spacious enough. But it kills to clean it. Let me rephrase that. It's a killer for me to clean it. It's one of those old, provincial apartments where its half- cement, half-wood.Termites are gaga over at our place. On weekends, they throw pool parties.

I come home only one weekend a month. And my brother NEVER cleans the house when I'm not around. With his long hair and gung-ho attitude, I think all that's lacking is a mousterian flint blade, and he can be a bonafide caveman. I do not know where he got this notion: " women, clean house. men, stare tv." Our father didn't clean the house because he was old, not because he was a chauvinist.

That's what i would like to believe, anyway.

Anyway, I wasn't raised to condone that kind of behavior so I laid on the guilt and made him scrub the floors and sweep the backyard. I am no one's Cinderella.

My aunts dropped by last Thursday and asked if we'd like to tag along to this church event. I truly did not know what I was in for so after we cleaned the apartment, we dressed and scurried along to the proposed meeting place.

I really thought we were just going to church or something. I was dead wrong.

We just walked to Miramart, which is like three blocks away from our apartment. The shops were still closed but there were SO many people. Oh, so we're watching the wooden statues' parade, I thought.

This actually happens every year in Lucena. A large group of the well-meaning folk of the city walk from the town church and 'round to the park, all the way to the Catholic school (which was about 12- 15 blocks away from the church) and back again. This usually doesn't only include the purported 'holy clique' of the city but the circus is also joined by some of our more misguided citizens, freaks who dress in their party favorites to show them off.

A friggin carnival, if you ask me. My mother would turn over in her grave if she knew that my brother and i were going to watch the year's 'parade of lies.' ( Her term, not mine. mine would be more colorful. the shit carnival. rural waste line-up. i can think of a lot more. )

It turns out that my aunts decided that this year, we weren't just going to step aside and be bystanders. This year, we were going to participate.

Imagine the utter horror I felt at the suggestion! I, who scrubbed walls and tiles and floors all day was going to walk 12 blocks. and back again. But since I was there and since it would seem very suspicious if i slipped away now, i didn't have much of a choice but to get it over with.
So there i was, feeling so crappy because i was too tired and didn't need religious drivel at that moment. So we walked, my cousins and I, carrying candles. Really, the candles were not helping at all. Almost 40 people were carrying candles. And they all sounded like zombies, endlessly repeating their prayers into their hands, hoping for who knows what. Hail Mary Full of Grace... Our Father who art in heaven... I believe... I believe...I believe...

More than anything, it was like a walk in hell.We were all smoldered by the heat from the candles and the sheer volume of strangers. And the monotonous incantations made me want to cover up my ears and run to see my therapist. I felt far from pious. Nor did I feel like i was suddenly cleansed. Payed for. Died for. Loved.

My cousins walked with us so I didn't feel that ridiculous. When we got bored, we'd just watch the people walking in front of us. There was this unbelievable young girl, dressed in an insanely short skirt, laughing like a horse with her friends, walking with the crowd. If I ever see Jesus, I'd like to ask him if he died for her too.

By the time we were near the church, i almost wept from fatigue. It was a long, fruitless walk.

Before I slept last night, my only thought was, why should I suffer for someone who has reportedly suffered for me? Doesn't that defeat the purpose of what he has done?

Truth be told, I was the only one who could see the nail marks on his hands.

Ghost Hunting

Summer will always be your season.

I remember summer mornings when you would fling open my door, greeting me with a smile. Hugs so early in the day.

Some mornings, you bring a tray into the room. We eat toasted bread generously(understatement) splayed with cream cheese. We talk. We could not stop laughing. We giggled like foolish schoolgirls about the mistakes that I've committed during the past week. We cried and shrieked at your accumulating audacities, at the eccentric nature that you always boasted you had.

We never stayed at home for long during summer. This was because you wanted to know if the air smelled different in other cities. So off we went, dragging Papa along with our hearts. Baguio. Tagaytay. Subic ( a month in a yacht!). Sunlight streaming on strange park benches and on your face.

Then I remember you, turning me to face you, saying, "Sunlight will always look good on my girl." Like light was a mere accessory. A skirt suited for the occasion.

Now, all I have left of you are these. Memories that i fight to keep. Memories that are as fleeting and as warm as the summerwind.

Water into Wine

Days like this are rare.

I have always thought that the clouds were bluest in Lucena. Especially during summer. I was marvelling at them earlier while I was riding the jeep going to the Lucban terminal. The streets are now filled with seemingly happy, jovial people. Now, they can get out of their dreary houses because they think that today (finally) Jesus has risen from the dead (big whoop).

I was on my way to Lucban to visit my aunt. Old Miss Havisham, all 81 years of her. She has this large, hopelessly cluttered house in Lucban (To my 'romantic' mind, it looks a little like the rundown heap of a mansion in Great Expectations. Paradiso Perduto.). She lives with a 50-year old housekeeper. I can see them now: champaigne in the morning, parties at night,young men walking around in thongs. Yep, it never gets boring.

Every Easter, many adventurous souls of Tayabas and Lucban, Quezon line up outside their houses, take off their shirts and , armed with buckets of water and gaily-colored hoses, splash/ throw water at the unlucky vehicles that pass by. The goal is to get someone/ anyone wet.
We love that tradition. I don't know if it has anything to do with the Bible and I can truly say that I don't really care. See, traditions should be like that- something that you do every year to show how happy you are that inspite of all the shitty things that are happening around you, you're still breathing.

So, there we were, riding in that unusually large jeep to Lucban. Everyone was talking and laughing. And I didn't know who the hell they all were. We didn't bother with niceties like getting numbers or names. Country folk don't do that. Not that we're completely uncivilized. It's just that sometimes, you don't really have to care about who a person is or what he does or where he came from. Pardon me if I sound like a total hick, but there is such a thing as an easy acceptance, a recognition that the person is there, existing. And that is enough for that particular moment.

If you've been 'citified' and you've mistakenly wandered in a particular province, you will find that the laughter that you'll be hearing is different. Unadulterated laughter, laced with a gratefulness that you can only hear from very young children. I think if you've stayed in the country long enough, part of your innocence will always be preserved. You can hear that in the people's laughter.

Besides, my father always encouraged me to talk with strangers. You know the silly parent code: "Don't talk to strangers." My father says that if you don't try to listen and talk with the people other than the ones you're used to, how can you possibly learn ANYTHING new? So I like talking with cab drivers, ice cream vendors, fisherfolk. But not all the time. Sometimes, I revert to my being hoity-toity and refuse to talk to anyone. I'm not Miss Sunshine all year round, you know.

So there I was, chatting up a storm with the manicurista seated beside me when we arrived in Lucban. Lucban is the quaintest of cities, with very small streets. Just to give you an idea: there are no real sidewalks. Some buildings are old and some Spanish houses are still standing. There is a coffee shop, a few restaurants, lots of panciterias. But during the San Isidro festival, tourists flock to this small town, sightseeing. They see the all the trimmings, thinking that this is how the town looks like during normal days. They're missing a lot.

Finally. Paradiso Perduto. Tita Magdalena is the last survivor of the old Lucena Ravidas. She never married. There is a rumor that she was spurned by a lover when she was younger. This is because one night, when the man was serenading her under her window, Lolo (enraged because he was awakened) threw a pail of urine onto the hapless lover. Who'd like an in-law like that? But I don't believe that silly story. Probably just my father, waxing romantic. (what's so romantic about a pail of urine? hahaha)

During the Japanese invasion, my father's family fled to the mountains, taking whatever they could with them. Since food was scarce, they kept the food hidden for future use. Tita actually carries on that practice till this day. Papa thinks the experience terrorized her so much that even if the war was over, she always wanted to be prepared. She keeps molding bread, old chips, rotten bananas in containers hidden in various parts of the house. Her version of the stink bomb.

She was sleeping upstairs so I woke her up. She stared at me for a moment and said, "I have always been dreaming of you." Then we laughed and talked for hours. I had to go home at 3pm because anthony was there waiting for me.

I can't believe this is my last day in the country.

Frodo in Trachimbrod

If you have the time, watch Everything is Illuminated. Really good. Not as interesting as the book, though, ( I have yet to see a movie that is just as good as the novel it was based on) but it's enjoyable enough.

Unrequited is Not Love

Today, i figured out why i like the novel Wuthering Heights so much.

If you're a close friend of mine you will know that I do not like novels (or stories, for that matter) with unrequited love as the main theme. No matter how good the writer is or how profound the story may seem to be, I have noticed that all those stories boil down to three salient points.

These are:

1. Boy meets girl.
Usually, it's not man meets woman because their 'fate' has decided to introduce them at a terrorizingly young age. The age of accumulated acne, seemingly innocent but uncontrollable emotions, and most importantly, rebelliousness. All the important factors that would fling impressionable lovers together. Sometimes, it's poor boy meets rich girl. Which disgusts me more,really. All they are are tired, old story lines that are more magnificent than the idea of a grandmother-eating wolf.

2. Something happens that would thwart their budding affair.
These 'somethings' may come in the form of: disapproving mothers/fathers/stepdads (that would sometimes lead to the girl being married off to a wealthier man, or she goes mad, or she runs away and becomes an inevitably ridiculous damsel in distress); a natural disturbance (storms, earthquakes, unexplainable illnesses), then lastly, some vague misunderstanding that would induce prolonged and unnecessary separation.

3. By a sudden twist of fate, they miraculously are thrown back together.
They cry and shake their heads at their past mistakes and hold hands. Curtain closes. It is implied that they are stuck with uninteresting lives by living 'happily ever after'. either that or they both die (a pox on both your houses! die, pond scum!) I am right, am I not?

There is nothing that is even remotely satisfying in reading stories like that. I just cannot see the friggin point in all of it. A perfect example, (although, many may, i am sure, contest my sentiments) is Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera. I enjoy Marquez's other works but when it comes to romantic drivel, this story takes the cake. What's so romantic about waiting practically your whole life for a person who didn't want you in the first place and then dying of a disease with that self same person?

Please. Life is complicated enough. And since i am not particularly fond of barfing, i have stopped being curious about books that i know have the same story line as that one.

I forgot that i was trying to drive a point home. I like Wuthering Heights because the characters are unpretentious. Catherine didn't have to pretend that she loved Heathcliff because she really did. (do not ask me how i know this. i just do.) And we all know that Catherine died. No happy endings but there are no uncertainties either because she's already, well, dead. Even if she haunts the corridors of the manor, Heathcliff will never again be obliged to return to her or to seek her out. But he still does.

You realize that at this point, I have to remind myself that I am still talking about Wuthering Heights. Nothing else.

Just a Thought

Still weary of people who use the words always, forever,and never so easily.

Pet Peeves

1. Resumes in pink, yellow, blue.

2. Yapping dogs

3. Broken heels

4. Texting in taglish

5. Smutty novels

6. Paris fuckin' Hilton

7.Transliteration

8.Names like Sugar, Sweet, Twinkle, Star, Happy, Funnie (yes, with an 'ie'), and Lucky

9. men who get too fresh

10. Techno

Unlikely Unicef Model

I roughly weigh 100lbs now. At the rate I'm going, I'll be overweight and will develop ulcer in the very, very near future.

This job is slowly killing me. Lunch at 3pm. Deranged gibberish 8 hours a day. Colleagues who drive me to the point of insanity.

But then again, I'd rather have this than a Chiquita-splendored lifestyle.

News Flash

i'm at that age where i think i should have had things sorted by now.

today, someone reminded me that a few people are THAT lucky.

Sermon from the Mount

My friend told me this story once.

Cinderella met this guy in, shall we say, a corporate setting. The first time she saw this person , she thought, 'How disgustingly perfect.' Turns out, he was everything (forgive me for using this word) that she thought she wanted- rich, educated, cultured (segue: i can never associate this word with people. visions of pearls keep popping into my mind. or worms.), fair-skinned, white teeth, smart as a whip. Everything a quasi-prince should be.

So he whisks her off to fancy restaurants and parties. He took her to an album launch once. All his shiny, pearly friends were there, dressed to kill. Since she wasn't used to that kind of jazz, she couldn't bring herself to talk to his homies.

And there was the matter of her, erm, attire. Our Cinderella thought that they'd just hang out that day and dressed in a plain shirt and jeans. This made her uncomfortable and did nothing to elevate her social standing at that particular moment.

Then Prince Valiant, seeing that she was amply distressed, decided to step in and help her out. Or so she thought. It turns out, he was pissed because his friends thought she was as dull as a board so he just drove her home.

So Cinderella thought that she'd try to be more witty. Laugh a little louder.Learn how to look a little more interested than she really was.

Like all damsels in considerable distress, she was inflicted with a slight curse. Everytime he would attempt to kiss her, her face would automatically scrunch up. He'd be discouraged and would pull away, wondering what went wrong. And all the time, the princess remains mute. She could not tell him that the reason for her undesirable reaction was that for the first time in her life, in all her experiences in kissing other frogs, this is the first time that she'd truly know how to kiss an actual prince. It's not that she's in love, not that she's taken, but she just doesn't know what to do.

This happens everytime. And she notices that the chemistry (which wasn't that strong in the first place) between them was immediately waning.

She refuses to blame herself for this.

She remembers the last time they were together. Again, the kiss. The face scrunch. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he blurts out his last, pathetic attempt to win her over (or to get himself laid. whichever would come first.). After he says he loves her, she says that she loves him, too. As a brother. Yep, mental slap.

She sees him again a year later, by chance . He also spots her and kisses her perfunctorily on the cheek. She smiles then pretends to be busy.

The moral of the story is : Sometimes, being perfect/ living a dream is not good enough.

For most of us mere mortals, it never will be.

Reading Gaiman

I always wondered how they noticed comets,
after all, the sky is filled with stars and planets,
and I've never quite been able to tell the two apart,
see which was which.
And why did comets scare them so? ( this line, i can't quite get)

Stars fall,
Which is much worse,
But that does not make us fear that wars will come,
and fires and plagues will come,
established things be overturned
and new things come -- and new things are never comfortable things.
So I walk down to the woods, and stare up at the night.
So many stars.
But only one comet, obvious, and perfect and precise, its tail a ghost and white against the night. On seeing it, I understand at last.
And shiver, for the change that's always coming. - Excerpts from Gaiman's Nightfall

I Went To Punta Fuego and All I Got Was This Lousy Picture

One of the most photographed occurences on earth. We just decided to join the craze and took about 50 photos of the sun setting...

Because You Are No Longer Here

because you are no longer here,
i try to summon words, phrases
that you spilled over the wanting tides of my life.

because i can no longer see you,
i search for you in places where you are unlikely to be found:
under a vase,
in an urn,
sitting on a pot of daisies.

because my sentiments are no longer yours,
i creep in twilight
again scared of desertion,
again, with hands tied and eyes wary.

because you are no longer here,
i bask in the illusion
in the scent
in the wonder of pure wanting,
like a zealot,
flying, burning towards the eye of god.

Candles in April

In the past years that I have lived without the both of you, I have never seen you together in any of my dreams.

Two nights ago, I did. I do not know what it is you are trying to tell me, if you're trying to tell me anything at all. If your appearances are warnings about some great catastrophic event or just another friendly visit. If it was a friendly visit, why do I feel so saddened and bothered seeing your faces?

Ma, it's your first year tomorrow. My life ( if you would have the heart to call it that) has been no different from the way it was when you were here. I am still disorganized. Still strangely curious about everything around me. Still adamant. May be troubled and lost at times. But i am learning to deal and fight with this void you have unintentionally carved into my life. Please be reassured that I am fine with taking care of Anthony. Do not worry about me.

I am still and will always be yours and Papa's insolent soldier.

It's time that we inserted some semblance of tradition in our lives (deaths?) so I will continue to read yours and Papa's favorite Rilke poem during both your birthdays, death anniversaries, etc.
I hope you still like it. Maybe where you are, there are poems that are more fanciful and romantic (just the way you like them). Or more stalwart and sensible ( Papa's preference).:

Again and Again However We Know The Landscape of Love

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love

and the little churchyard there,
with its sorrowing names, and the frighteningly silent abyss

into which the others fall:
again and again the two of us walk out together under the ancient trees,
lie down again and again among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

Confessions to a Sleepy Therapist

It was my tenth birthday. Ma, as usual, was taking the reins.

Everything was in chaos. Dishes were overturned and soaking in pails of water and detergent. Curtains were being hung. Ate Maring was mumbling to herself while mopping the floor tiles.

While Ma was busy, she left me to my own devices. Which meant that I would have to go and look for Papa.

He was seated on one of our rusty makeshift chairs in the patio. "You've grown an inch," he says.

When I grinned, he laughed. "Or so you would like to believe." (Darn that old man.)

He held a square package wrapped in torn newspaper pages in his hands. I didn't know then how apt the packaging was to the present it contained.

"You know I was never inclined to ceremonies. Open it, my darling girl." (No, this is not bad fiction. Papa always used to call me his darling girl. )

"What's in it?"

" An octopus. A parachute. Maybe a star." An indolent grin pops out of his wizened face, reserved for this occasion.

I unwrapped the gift as carefully and as slowly as I could. He never liked seeing me in a hurry.

I knew it was a book. It was always a book.

On the cover, it said LOLITA by Vladimir Nabokov.

I flipped through the pages before looking at him. By that time, I was already used to reading books containing pure text. They weaned me out of picture books when I was 8. But this book was different. The letters were smaller. The words, closer to each other. Starting from page one, there were words I did not know how to pronounce.

The whole novel looked like a marketplace on a Sunday morning.

I did not look at him. They may have taken my interest in pictures away but this looked downright boring.

Because she probably realized that she was engaged in motherly chores, Ma decided to relax and joined us in the patio.

"Nabokov? That's a mouthful."

"We'll see," said Papa, grinning.

For the next 10 years, he never stopped saying "We'll see." To everything.

Thanks, Pa.

Alms for the Poor

I do not like it when people ask me why I write what I write. Or when they ask me why I was in this particular mood at the time i wrote whatever it is i chose to write. or, more ridiculously, why i seemingly choose to be sad.

Who the hell would purposefully choose to be sad?!

I had the distinct privilege to chat with one of my colleagues at The Los Baños Times. At first, I was excited because it's been a long time since I last talked to even one of those guys. And the Times had 40 staff members during the time that I was with them.

It just goes to show that time is a salve. It can help you forget a lot of things about a lot of people.

Just to give you an idea:

in546: Bakit ang lungkot ng mga blog entries mo?

me: alam mo naman ako, morose.

in546: hahaha oo nga. so yan lang ang ginagawa mo ngayon, nagsusulat? joke! alam ko namang yan talaga ang gusto mo e.

me: ...

in546: so, ano nang work mo ngayon?

me: Dito sa Convergys, Alabang. Recruitment/ Comm Coach.

in546: sayang di ka na ulit naging editor. galing mo nun sa times e.ako, eto practicing my craft

me: am i giving you the impression that i give a fuck?

in546: dito ako sa _________. Sa news section. very challenging. buti nga nun, na-train ako sa times e. salamat ha. hehehe

me: jesus h. christ

in546/ clueless: at least nun diba, nasa feature section lang ako. di pa editor. which goes to prove na what you've done in college doesn't prove anything.

me: right you are, sparky.

me: it's good that you're enjoying your job.

in546: yeah. beats local news.

if it wasn't for the so-called local news, asshole, you wouldn't know a comma from a period!

me: i guess

in546: so paano na writing career mo? di mo na ba ipu-pursue?

me: that's what i'm doing.

in546: ah, may stint ka rin ngayon sa newspaper?

me: wala.

me: i have loads to do.nice, erm, talking to you. be seein' ya.

in546: sige. coffee tayo sometime. i'll show you my jacket.

after 43 minutes
:in546 : ah, annette?

The worst thing that you can feel for someone is pity.

And I really, really pity that person. Probably clenched her fists during every staff meeting. With me at the helm, it must've been hell for her.

I wonder, was it the fact that I looked (note the tense) more like a cheerleader than an ed chief that earned her digust? Or was it because she knew that she could never have done a better job had she been the one in my position?

After that conversation, I deleted her from my friends list. It was time to throw out the trash, anyway.

When One Cannot Write, One Pastes.

Because I am always pressed for time these days, I am doomed to merely paste poems, photos, and songs that I fancy. Cutesy stuff.

Ack.

I miss writing.

Here's a poem from Ernesto Priego's Not Even Dogs.

Third City

I never thought it would be you;
I had postponed your ancient name.
You start, indeed, by the end,
Termini opening doors towards your secrets.
With you
I walked many hours, everyday,
reading you like an ancient book
not dusty but luminous,
profound,
unending as everything in you is
memory written,
inscribed on stone and sky
as nights are warm,
starry, lonely moons
high above the always illuminated ruinous streets full of heartache.
Dionisos rules over your crooked streets
and distracts drunk lovers with sharpened arrows,
angel-thrown, by centuries of stories.
Late dinner, lonely, cheap red bottle,
one after another,
thinking of how some things remain, no matter what.
El olvido no existe aquí,
under your street red and white candle-light,
one feeling noli me tangere,
like the poet, the murdered emperor.
In my dreams I am always walking in and out of you,
cathedrals,
temples, churches,
complete lost cities, surviving the darkness of continuous time.
In dreams I walk you again,
and realize it should be you,
instead, the city of lights.

Note to the Misguided

Today, someone told me that I must be the most unappreciative person she has ever met.

Bah, humbug.

Just because people do stuff for me, it doesn't mean I have to like whatever shitty thing they decide to do for me during that particular moment. Right?

I have always been very vocal about my not wanting:


a.Surprises

Please do not give me surprise parties, surprise vacations, surprise propositions. I will never thank you for any surprise that you would unwittingly foist on me. Nothing personal, really. Just was never a fan of misguided good intentions.


b. Gifts

Since I have always tried my damndest to emulate my dad, I also tried to adopt his bad manners. Whenever the old geezer received a gift that he flat out did not like (especially if it was useless to him, like a mirror or a spoon), he'd say, " I don't like it. Please take it back."

Please was never the magic word in our house. It was used more as a cushion for rudeness.

I'm actually having a hard time regarding gifts. Since I do have some of my mother's genes, I am compelled to receive adorably worthless gifts with a fixed smile. I use the words 'thank you' because they are the most appropriate substitutes I can think of to the real phrases that I usually want to say, which are "Because of you, I now have an extensive collection of knickknacks that are utterly useless to me. Thank you." or " I think you might be needing this comb more than I do."

This endless editing is tiring.

I won't be hard to please if you stop trying too hard.

Love in the Time of Chronic Discord

On my way to work every morning, I pass by them.

Some mornings, they're just standing there, embracing each other. Most mornings, he sits on his motorcycle while he brushes loose tendrils of her hair off her face. Sometimes, he kisses her eyes. Sometimes, he kisses her hands. I never get that close to hear what they're whispering to each other.

This morning, I saw them ride on his motorcycle. They were probably on their way home. To do more cooing.

I wonder if they live together. If all they have are mornings like this one. Maybe their love is forbidden and they are doomed to meet that way forever, sitting on their motorcycle which is always parked sideways near a construction site. Maybe the girl is working in our company and she didn't want her co-workers to see the man because he was clearly unattractive. (harhar)

One can spin endless cobwebs of dreams on scenes like that.

I watched the man fixing his girl's headgear, so tenderly. I try to walk slowly so that I could watch them a little longer but the crowd immediately surges around me and I have no choice but to match their pace, else I’ll be crushed.

This other man crosses the street. He's wearing the face of perpetual mourning. But his steps are hurried, like there’s something important that’s starting without him.

There is a woman, inappropriately stylish. She stands out like an expensive peacock would amidst confused hens. She half-runs, half-walks. Her face is as blank as a new slate.

I think about the reasons why all these people are in such a bustle. Are they going home? Going to work? Getting a bite to eat? Meeting a friend? Hurrying towards a tryst?

I look back and see the besotted man,still on his bike. He is still fixing the woman's hair while the milling crowd swarms noisily around them. The contrast between the man's unhurried gesture and the crowd's hustling stuns me into silence.

It’s nice to remember that in the midst of all this fuss and fury, this constant furor, there are still people who take the time to kiss. They thank the dark gods with their hands.

Dreams

Initially, it looks like a big, white house. There are plush white loveseats, plain, white ceilings, white floors colliding with white walls.

Everything looks wrapped in Sunday linen. Surprisingly, the place smells of adobo and cotton candy.

Then, the house transforms into a white room. It is strange how I am not bothered by the alarming brightness.I am sitting on a white stool, talking to my mother, who is lying on a bed. Her body is wrapped in a white comforter. Her mouth is curled up in a distinct moue, like a person who is experiencing much pain. She covers her face with her pale, weak hands.

I look out a French window and there you are, seated in one of the makeshift chairs we used to have out on the porch in our real house. You seem to be waiting for someone.

It would probably displease you- the fact that I have been dreaming of you for three straight days now. Do not get me wrong. This is not some sort of astral appeasement nor is it a sudden but unreliable rush of affection.It's just one of the things that are.

Maybe these are your dreams. You see me peering at you through doors, French windows, glass panels. You do not know why I am even there.

This is the way we wander in and out of each other's lives,as furtive as ghosts that refuse to be kept in closed lids.

Unlike many of my dreams where characters are faceless, you are not. Strange how I know you, how I watch you wait, when I have never seen you before.

Penguinlandia

katmandu springtime and weathergirl maria

maria, she holds a chain of flowers at the station. she stares at the cardboard houses, all molten blue. she looks at her hands and wonders why her fingers look like breakable rosaries, wrinkled and worn out by Jesus' blood wrapped in singular loneliness.

and maria, she is oh so tired of waiting... waiting for the train that flies hard and fast from
Toronto. The train tracks burn with memories of her father's tales of ships and ladders and butterflies that do not pass out in the rain.

oh how she misses sunlight in spring time. oh how she misses the falling leaves.

and maria she is sick of wandering around walls where she is someone looking for someone who already has someone. and she wonders about her freedom. it wears catsuits at night and slinks away from her.

oh how she misses moonshine in October. oh how she misses mourning desert storms.

maria she holds on to her tightrope,wanting something more than metaphors and profundities. there are daffodils painted on her shoes and she thinks of running and not thinking and not crying and not screaming so she can finally find out what goes on in white rooms.

Oh how she misses twilight in the country. oh how she misses swimming in the sea.

Goodbye is too good a word

Some excerpts from my favorite Auden piece, Prospero to Ariel, from The Sea and the Mirror, a collection of poems that serves as a commentary for Shakespeare's The Tempest.
This is easily one of my favorite Auden pieces. I hope that you'll manage to come across it someday soon.

I am glad I did not recover my dukedom till I do not want it.

I am glad I have freed you so at last I can really believe I shall die/For under your influence, dying is inconceivable

The lonely and unhappy are very much alive.

I surrender this fascinating counsel/To the silent dissolution of the sea/Which misuses nothing because it values nothing/Whereas man overvalues everything

And seducers are sincerely puzzled at being unable to love/What they are able to possess/So long ago, in an open boat, I wept at giving a city/Common warmth and touching substance/for a gift in dealing with shadows

It is only that youth is still able to believe/It will get away with anything, while age/Knows only too well that it has got away with nothing

Now, Ariel, I am that I am, your late and lonely master/ Who knows what magic is:- the power to enchant/That comes from disillusion

What the books can teach one is that most desires end up in stinking ponds...

Thick-headed goodness for once is not a bore

And no one but you is reliably informative on hell/ As you whistle and skip past the poisonous/ Resentments scuttle over your unrevolted feet/And even the uncontrollable vertigo/Because it can scent no shame, is unobliged to strike

Today, I am free and no longer need your freedom: You, I suppose, will be off now to look for likely victims; Crowds chasing ankles, lone men stalking glory, Some feverish young rebel among amiable flowers

A fly-weight hermit in a dream/Of gardens that time is forever outside.

Are you malicious by nature? I don't know/Perhaps only incapable of doing nothing or of being by yourself/And, for all your wry faces, may secretly be anxiousand miserable without a master to need for the work you need.

Are all you tricks a test? If so, I hope you find, next time, Someone in whom you cannot spot the weakness Through which you will corrupt him with your charm

TO HATE NOTHING AND TO ASK NOTHING FOR ITS LOVE.

We did it, Ariel, between us/ You found on me a wish for absolute devotion/ Result- his wreck that sprawls in the weeds and will not be repaired

I SHALL GO KNOWING AND INCOMPETENT INTO MY GRAVE.

Now our partnership is dissolved, I feel so peculiar As if I had been on a drunk since I was born And suddenly now, and for the first time, am cold sober, With all my unanswered wishes and unwashed days stacked up all around my life; as if through the ages I had dreamed about some tremendous journey I was taking... And now, in my old age, I wake and this journey really exists, And I have actually to take it, inch by inch, Alone and on foot, without a cent in my pocket, Through a universe where time is not foreshortened, No animals talk, AND THERE IS NEITHER FLOATING NOR FLYING.

Can I learn to suffer without saying something ironic or funny On suffering?

Perhaps by the time death pounces his stumping question, I shall be getting to know the difference between moonshine and daylight...

I see you starting to fidget. I forgot. To you That doesn't matter... O Ariel, Ariel, How I shall miss you. Enjoy your element. Goodbye.