Monthly Archives: February 2007

“waking life”

“(The song) said it all! … After we got together he made me write out a list of all the men I’d slept with before we met. I started to do it quite casually – then I realised how serious it was to John. He didn’t even like me speaking Japanese because that was a part of my mind that shut him out.” – yoko ono

jealous guy

i was dreaming of the past
and my heart was beating fast
i began to lose control
I began to lose control
i didn’t mean to hurt you
i’m sorry that i made you cry
oh no, i didn’t want to hurt you
i’m just a jealous guy

i was feeling insecure
you might not love me anymore
i was shivering inside
i was shivering inside

i didn’t mean to hurt you
i’m sorry that i made you cry
oh no, i didn’t want to hurt you
i’m just a jealous guy

i didn’t mean to hurt you
i’m sorry that i made you cry
oh no, i didn’t want to hurt you
i’m just a jealous guy

i was trying to catch your eyes
thought that you was trying to hide
i was swallowing my pain
i was swallowing my pain

i didn’t mean to hurt you
i’m sorry that i made you cry
oh no, i didn’t want to hurt you
i’m just a jealous guy, watch out
i’m just a jealous guy, look out babe

  Continue reading

moon lady (a mad entry)

my favorite name is luna, and i love the moon; i love the restlessness and vigor of the night. i feel sluggish during the day; at night, i feel like a cat ready to pounce. i feel ready to dance away and shout and skip and live, live, live, LIVE.

i took a test for fun: which tarot card are you? ever since grade school, i’ve been obsessed with the new age and mystical stuff. i keep a tarot set at the house, and i love looking at the pictures. i’ve also been fascinated with the moon all my life. i’ve heard so many tales about it.

i love the tale told to us by my high school lit teacher. that was about the man in the moon. it’s actually a movie he made us watch, about two sisters who fell in love with one hottt man. our teacher used the man in the moon as a metaphor. he is there, living on the moon. he is waiting under a tree, and his silhouette is the only one comforting you. i often looked at the moon, and think of the man in the moon, his hands, his thoughts. does he stare at women and men looking up at him, and wordlessly telling him about their heartaches, their silent joys, their secrets, their tantric prayers? does he even listen? is he the one sending falling stars? does he cry? does he read my poems when i write in the middle of the night? does he whisper other names of god to us?

“don’t you forget about me?”-from the breakfast club

lo and behold! i took the test quickly, without analyzing stuff, and look what i got. i got the moon lady… must be fate, must be the night…

You are The Moon

Hope, expectation, Bright promises.

The Moon is a card of magic and mystery – when prominent you know that nothing is as it seems, particularly when it concerns relationships. All logic is thrown out the window.

The Moon is all about visions and illusions, madness, genius and poetry. This is a card that has to do with sleep, and so with both dreams and nightmares. It is a scary card in that it warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks and falsehoods. But it should also be remembered that this is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition. You may be going through a time of emotional and mental trial; if you have any past mental problems, you must be vigilant in taking your medication but avoid drugs or alcohol, as abuse of either will cause them irreparable damage. This time however, can also result in great creativity, psychic powers, visions and insight. You can and should trust your intuition.

 

as usual, there’s the case of my spontaneity, and that word again, madness. all logic is thrown out the window…hmm, i think i’ve been stepping on shards for quite a long time now.

fascinating.

listening to the track: feel the pain (dinosaur jr.)  <i could definitely use a drink>

*********************************

unexpected continuation for moon lady

i was again wondering as to how a search engine tagged my blog with the keywords, moon lady. so i tried it, and i found out that amy tan has a book called moon lady. i have been so out of touch. i’ve been an amy tan fan since high school, and i immensely enjoyed her two books, kitchen god’s wife and the hundred secret senses. the titles alone make me shudder in beautiful anticipation of her stories. when somebody close died, i found a paragraph from the book, hundred secret senses, very touching. it said that all our loved ones who passed away are wholly felt with our hundred secret senses. hmm, i’ll reserve this for another entry.. it’s so overwhelming.. right now, i like how every little thing i ponder on slips into place. my little joys in life…

moon lady

my smoking secret

  –february 14, 2007

when i was in grade 1, i was so curious as to what it felt to smoke cigarettes. i saw men doing it, and i was enamored. when my yaya left me to make tsismis with other helpers, i picked a used cigarette from the ground. it still had a bit of life, and i tried it. i wasn’t that paranoid about saliva and germs and AIDS and cancer and decay, and so i took my very first puff from a stranger’s cigarette. there was no epiphany; after that puff, i threw it away and continued playing.

one time, i had a crush on a guy who looked like he shooots junk up his nose daily. gangly and pale, he occupied my mind like a confused boy. he wrote plays; not the usual emotion-ridden ones, but plays that speak of pyschedelic wars and tormented people. i saw him once walking to the school gates; i was so bewildered i wrote an entry about his walk, how his shoulders seemed to hunch up as if defying the wind.

another time, i saw him rushing out of a building and throwing his cigarette to the ground. i don’t know if another soul occupied my body, but i went and picked up the cigarette butt. i didn’t put it to my lips, but i gingerly placed it between the pages of my journal. i still have it pressed between the pages, with dried petals, my heart, wishing feathers and other ethereal items. i don’t know where he is now, if he snores in his sleep, if he still wears large shirts for his frame, if his cheeks are still sunken. for all i know, he might have quit smoking, he might have migrated. but oh, when i remember him, he is a ghost that is of words and flesh, and he jars my days, and i would be back to wondering if he threw any scrap away for me to grovel on it.

now, whenever i am overwhelmed in a negative way, i go out and smoke. all by myself. i don’t believe in smoking with friends. i can’t bear their incredulous stares and probing remarks when it appears i am smoking for the first time. when i decide to smoke, it means i am frazzled about a situation. or i am simply sad. such as today. so i bummed a stick from a person who i know wouldn’t question me. i took in that cigarette very slowly, as if  pondering on answers, but truthfully, i was just trying to slow down time. if i can’t have the bigger things in life, if some dreams and some people are only a mirage, at least, i have a stick that understands me.

so aside from my habit of assigning songs to persons dear to me (e.g. snow in the sahara for person a, head over feet, somewhere only we know and stars for person b, building a mystery for person c,  take my hand for person d, and so on…), i also pigeonhole people according to the number of sticks they made me take.

i’m not sure if you, dear reader, are one of the people i am referring to. but if you are, thanks for the sticks. gave me one more reason to stock up on lip balm.

while i watch, blue stars shiver in the distance

(isn’t neruda something?)

little miss sunshine is a movie i’ve been dying to watch for months for the following reasons:

i love the color yellow
it’s about a floundering family
it’s a cannes entry

the poster is beautiful
quirks are accepted

after watching the movie, i wanted to critique it. i remember chatting up someone at the movie house before the screening. he was a movie critic, and i almost kissed his feet. for me, it’s a job sent by the heavens to all those who deserve that post. But then, he said something mundane, “sakit na nga ng mata ko, kanina pa ko ditong umaga.”  he was clutching a pamphlet containing a list of all the movies in the festival. i pitied him and his eyes, but a large part of me envied him. wow, he was authorized to watch all those movies? god. i felt i was the little prince, all giddy and grinning when he found the planet having over twenty sunsets each day.

it’s a nerd thing, to want to write about something—a book, a song, a movie, a painting—-and critique it. i want to pull any beautiful art form apart, and bring to light beautiful, throbbing pieces causing me awe.

little miss sunshine was my sunrise for that day.

it was a raw movie, with family members in the movie initially apologizing silently for their existence.

in the end, they realized there was nothing to apologize for. they were fine, and as long as they dance to their own lovely songs, they’ll be alright.

track to accompany this entry: float on

 yellow

they had a beat-up van which they had to push for it to accelerate. they were struggling on, but enjoying the ride.

 

paper bag

i was in first year high school when i discovered fiona apple’s songs. her songs were melancholy and sexy; needless to say, i adore her songs. she seems to suppress emotions; all that comes out are beautiful, random words….

Paper Bag

I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star
To pray on, or wish on, or something like that
I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had
But then the dove of hope began its downward slope
And I believed for a moment that my chances
Were approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near, so did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
‘Cause I know I’m a mess he don’t wanna clean up
I got to fold ’cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
And I went crazy again today, looking for a strand to climb
Looking for a little hope
Baby said he couldn’t stay, wouldn’t put his lips to mine,
And a fail to kiss is a fail to cope
I said, ‘Honey, I don’t feel so good, don’t feel justified
Come on put a little love here in my void,’ he said
‘It’s all in your head,’ and I said, ‘So’s everything’
But he didn’t get it I thought he was a man
But he was just a little boy
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
‘Cause I know I’m a mess he don’t wanna clean up
I got to fold ’cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
‘Cause I know I’m a mess he don’t wanna clean up
I got to fold ’cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love

watching a goddess

on a mac. sadly, not during a live performance.

situationer: when i get starstruck, i freeze, blurt out stupid phrases, and smile like there was no tomorrow. once, when i saw my mermaid-mentor in a concert after eons of not seeing her, i cried while i was hugging her. in my own twisted hierarchy of truths, to see her at unlikely places serves as a sign from god that everything would be alright. while we were conversing, she saw j. neil garcia, her colleague and mate in the pantheon of literary people. she introduced me to him. and i was so starstruck, so fatalistically moved that i shook his hand and blurted out: i love your poems with crazy fire in my eyes. (it’s just so hard to control emotions during times as this one.) another time, when my friends and i went to U.P. to drop off something, we passed by the lit faculty, and i saw on a door a nameplate with the name, bienvenido santos. i stayed rooted on the spot, with my friend gaping at the door. i guess we were waiting for the door to swing open and reveal the great writer scribbling away on some sheaf of paper.

fast forward to today, with no certainty of growth when it comes to my maturity: recently, i was able to watch cynthia alexander’s chord progression video. i remember being rooted on the spot when i saw  cynthia a. perform once. i can’t remember if i held on to a friend’s hand, but knowing myself, i would have written a journal entry out of it. naturally, i was in that state when i had a stupid grin on my face. the first time i heard one of her songs was when i was in grade 7. it’s a very distinct memory: i was lying on the floor, as it is my habit to listen to albums in that position. NU played her song, the ceiling spun tales, and time stood still.

i watched the video on the mac, mesmerized, as she scratched her forehead. i thought, so this is how a goddess scratches her forehead. she performed, and her fingers did little dances on her guitar’s frets. on the video, she admitted she was a bit shy being taped. my god. i just stood in front of the mac, and listened to her. no thoughts rushed in, no noises from other people filtered in; like everything was distilled, as if i can do anything and everything if i willed it. my mind was lucid. everything was at it should be: my goddess was singing, and i was listening.

if i were a stupid writer, i would give you pieces of trivia about her, but today, that’s not my calling. a goddess doesn’t deserve less. digest her words, eat the words if you like so that you’d feel, even if only a bit, her rawness and sincerity.  

“woke up this morning i was staring at the ceiling cracks.. i have seen, i have been to places far and deep in my mind, only to find comfort in your strangeness.. we are nothing, we are nothing, we are nothing, but the dust on our feet dying to be born again….” comfort in your strangeness

“and threw wide open the door, slippin’ away, slippin’ away from me….” slipping away

“i remember walking in the rain, no umbrella with your arms around me…” no umbrella

ghostly smile (lousy post)

a friend has an interesting blog. she doesn’t know that i browse her blog, and surprisingly, i enjoy reading it. her tone is a bit fierce, like every breath she takes in is tinged with sarcasm. hmm, we have an angry soul here. what’s more, she’s a smart girl, so it’s a deadly combination. no wonder men are afraid of her. tee-hee.

another (ex)-platonic friend shared that she feels 2007’s first two quarters will be hard for her. and then just this day, i realized mine might also be similar to her situation. oh drat. i used to think that i have annual bouts or periods of depression. it went on and off, until i got a pattern. and oh boy, when it comes, it seizes me, as if i am being shaken by my shoulders for two hours. after that, i end up mangled, with a ghostly smile on my face.

hmm, today is a sad day. fyi. wtf. omg. (acronyms make me smile. amazing. *i’m so gullible. tee-hee.*)

–february 1, 2007

a bit of science of sleep & stranger than fiction

breathing your name 

 going first base with science of sleep
i saw the trailer of the science of sleep, and it made me shudder. i have to watch the movie. this is one of the movies i should watch before i die. it’s a crazy film, promising to carve a hole in your heart. as usual (based on the trailer), gael is at his most wonderful. in the movie, he gives you that sense of living a life of peaceful torment. not to mention the fact that i am reminded of my fascination towards him every full moon.

ain’t i completely strange and incomprehensibly lovable?
i finally got to watch stranger than fiction. i love this druggie trip down insane lanes. the movie is like being john malkovich with more uppers. i especially loved the last line of the novel: a wrist watch saved harold crick’s life, and the paragraph where this line belongs. i love emma thompson’s character, a very passionate writer who would go to lengths to closely experience events vicariously. i love the sparseness and richness of language, and how the events tied themselves in. i remember a book by coelho, about your old life being killed so that out of the corpse of the old life, a new life can be born. wow.