Monthly Archives: November 2007

nakapagsulat ulit si ebe dancel; nakinig kasi siya sa sarili niya

i seldom have good, long talks with people i care about. i rarely confess secrets to friends. for me, i act as a good friend by being a listener, a repository of their dreams, fears, rants, raves, hopes. friendship for me, generally, is a one-way street with all the traffic going my way. so it was a relief when i met up with coni, and we had a good, long talk.

after telling her updates about my family, she commented: god, it’s f*cked up. she’s the only person who can get away saying that about my family. she’s found out secrets about me, and i about her. and there is no judgement. that’s what i was thankful for. it was still the same, me teasing her for her big breasts (yes, she’s blessed) and her carrie (of “sex and the city”) habits (except the promiscuity); she teasing me about my work and my hopeless romantic habits.

she’s such a beautiful person with a massive willpower. she knows that God is reserving a suitable man for her to be her husband, and he is to come in 2009. she’s never been kisssed, but she’s dated, and had messy heartaches (yes, i can rant about her men, especially that guy with his emo songs, but i love her, so i’ll shush), but she’s that strong-willed. she knows that God doesn’t want her to have strings of ex’s, or her “detours,” so she’s waiting. patiently. while i, for one, am adamant about remaining controlled and well-behaved, even if we’re in the midst of global warming effects, and my doomsday mode is pushing me to live life to the fullest.

a friend is ill. i wanted to hold his hand. but silly me, i held the mother’s hand. i could feel her fear. and i wanted to hug her. in my mind, i was hugging her, and i was stroking his forehead and his palms. all mind-works. all so metaphorically rich, and i remain still. even if it means not writing poetry, not listening to myself.

you’re not writing poetry? this was the question coni threw at me. it’s like cutting off your wrist, she said. wisely put, and yes, you got me there.

love is a disease, akin to cholera

i am one of the worshippers of gabriel garcia marquez. i’ve read one hundred years of solitude four times, of love and other demons thrice and love in the time of cholera twice.

now, a movie has been made of love in the time of cholera, and my hands are shaking while i am writing about this.

Fermina Daza and Florentino Ariza

see, gabriel garcia marquez haunts me as a writer and as a girl. he has managed to give me exact metaphors and has left me illusionary when it comes to, yes, love. his images are exemplary: blood trailing a straight line towards a house of a murdered guerilla fighter, a train running in the night full of corpses, a stuttering boat plying across mangroves, a mother and daughter about to visit a graveyard, a priest waiting for the train in the extreme summer heat, another priest convinced that he’s met Satan three times, a group of ex-guerillas tending a fighting cock, a woman always being followed by an army of butterflies.

Fermina Daza

gabriel garcia marquez owes me (and i’m sure countless others) for turning my heart into an impressionable mass. he has fed my nostalgia, and i lapped up his words like a hungry, suckling child. if i could choose the contents of my dreams, i would like to dream of his characters’ heartaches and little redemptions, his realities.

it would be an understatement to say that i can’t wait for the movie to be shown. when i first read love in the time of cholera, i found myself putting the book down when i was still in chapter 1. i was so overwhelmed by the scene, by the descriptions and the intimate ideas that i couldn’t help but put the book down and indulge in the moment. it’s akin to that instance when one is about to kneel in front of a deity.

This is the first excerpt (out of countless ones) that caused me to put the book down in awe:

“The young doctor was disappointed: he had never had the opportunity to study the effects of gold cyanide on a cadaver. Dr. Juvenal Urbino had been surprised that he had not seen him at the Medical School, but he understood in an instant from the young man’s easy blush and Andean accent that he was probably a recent arrival to the city.

He said: “There is bound to be someone driven mad by love who will give you the chance one of these days.” And only after he said it did he realize that among the countless suicides he could remember, this was the first with cyanide that had not been caused by the sufferings of love. Then something changed in the tone of his voice.

“And when you do find one, observe with care,” he said to the intern: “they almost always have crystals in their heart.”


Fermina and Dr. Juvenal Urbino


“are you the one they call beowulf?”

i’m sure you just read that phrase in that eerie but sensual tone of voice. heck, i’ve been watching too many movies that i know the lines from the beowulf trailer by heart. this friend i watch movies with even got amazed when i uttered the complete trailer lines at the moviehouse.

i’m fixated by the scene in the trailer where dead bodies hang from the ceiling. i know which part it’s to be shown so i kind of close my eyes but peek just when the bloody limbs appear.

fast forward to my room where a book causes me to sacrifice my CSI las vegas night marathon watching to read schindler’s list. i avoid watching the movie due to the tortures and the morose faces of the jews specially the children. the book has introduced me to amon goeth, who’s now one of my latest Google searches next to adolf hitler.

what’s my point? that i have met a version of amon goeth in real life, and that i better stop before this post gets any worse.

“she’s not my curse. not anymore.”

i wish i could say the same.

useless entry (i mean this. this is not a ploy to attract you to read on.)

roughly a year ago, i wrote an entry with a title, “weight for me.” i wrote it for a very nice person who was meant to leave my sphere.

now i’m back on ground zero, and i am still uttering that damn phrase like a somnabulist. for once, i am writing directly on my wordpress account. yes, i am not writing it on a digital notepad as one would write a draft. i am writing this head-on.

i like freefalls. i like letting go. of things. of people. of events. i have been on a swimming frenzy, and i find myself getting tempted to go deeper and rest at the bottom. i was at a hotel last week, and i was avoiding the terrace. why? because i got tempted twice to climb the ledge and dive head-on. it’s not only the outcome that is bewitching; the feel of the wind on my face, loose limbs fluttering, eyes staring ahead—these are the tokens one gets during freefalls.

i haven’t written poetry for the past months. i am a sham, a shame. that should be my mantra. my muse has left me, i left her. it’s a common feeling. to quote one phrase from one of my aging poems, i am “even afraid of holding the bread knife.”

i was at the dentist awhile ago, and it was exhilarating. i was basking in the crunch of metal on my teeth, the sour taste of bile and blood, the tightening screws, the airconditioning causing my back to ache. i was living the moment, my own fight club, my own taste of what pain is and should be.

last week, my friend’s dad decided to rest in final peace. and when i heard the news, i cried in the middle of a planning seminar. i thought, “what’s the use? a huge portion of my friend’s soul perished. what’s the use?” death was all around me last week. a vase of flowers sat mute on a table. wishing feathers greeted me yesterday. a dream of my dead stepmother smothered me. i am reminded of haruki murakami’s sputnik sweetheart. how i wish i could just go with her and vanish. but then, this much is true: “it meant i love. it meant we love. what a life. what a beautiful twisted life.”

the dance of life
edvard munch’s the dance of life