Monthly Archives: August 2012

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: approximately a year ago, G and I talked about the possibility of looking for our own version of KL. T was supportive. in a way, she is her own KL and Leland’s, too.

: two days ago, a five-seater plane crashed in masbate. the plane contained secretary jesse robredo, two pilots, and one police assistant. only the police survived; divers and rescuers are still combing sites looking for secretary robredo and the two pilots.

: since saturday afternoon, i’ve been feeling sad for secretary robredo’s family. if the passenger were PGMA or P-Noy, i would have celebrated. you know how goodness just emanates from a person? secretary robredo’s does.

: over bottles of beer, G and I used to debate about the commercialism and  trivialities of love. oh if only we were simple-minded, and no theories and intellectualisms weighed our minds, we would be happy.

: i was never really combing for anything. if anything, i cherished the unmoored life.

: my body is defying the lack of dancing activity. yesterday, it threatened to pack its bags and set camp in a dance studio. it tells me, i am looking for a melody, and my bones can’t handle the stillness.

: my pinkie finger is missing its rightful ring and feels left out from the other fingers with their rightful bands. my pinkie is so small that i suspect the ring must have slid off and landed unnoticed on a cinema carpet. i have never stopped my search for it. it is made of faux silver, and its band has yellowed over the years. the design is an itsy-bitsy yin yang. this is a ring i bought at a stand when i was in grade 7, year 1995. i noticed i write about it in present tense. when you are still in search of an object, the present overwhelms you, and the item in non-possession summons.

 

 

the lady who rocked

i don’t mean to brag, but i’ve read ayn rand, and i understand her thesis and support it.

her thesis, individualism, is neither for the faint of heart nor for the sentimentalist. it’ s for the steely-eyed, the iron fisted, the fucked ups, the honest-to-goodness Self-centered individuals.

she died in the year i was born, and it saddened me because i could have enjoyed more of her works if she were alive and producing more publications.

at the heart of her teachings is the individual who is the Alpha and Omega of his or her own life.

i am writing this after reading the non-fiction work titled Heaven is for Real: A Little Boy’s Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back written by Todd Burpo (you can read write-ups about this piece here).

it’s good to read a piece of work that makes the wheels of your grey matter work on overdrive (Atlas Shrugged, The Fountainhead, etc.) and other texts that jar you (Heaven is for Real).

Heaven is for Real dangled a tempting foothold. if what Burpo wrote in behalf of his son is true, then I have nothing to worry about because I would again see my stepmother and dog-dog and tiger and my five turtles.

if things were this simple, i would be over the moon by now.

but at the heart of things is a heartless chamber, and ayn rand’s works occupy almost all of its niches.

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in snippets

freefall is a section in weight of words for masturbatory, practice writing, random quotes and pieces of poetry. similar to a tattoo where an artist sketches an outline first before the very illustration, freefall is an outline of either beautiful or monstrous sets of words to come.

the epistolary style used here has been used by poets and musicians. i have come across several and two of the most unforgettable are alanis’s unsent (“your face comes up with a vengeance like it was yesterday”) and barbie almalbis’s dear paul (“you make a girl insane, paul” which for others fond of misheard lyrics hear it as “you make a girl in st. paul” as if the school were a factory which in turn begs the question of labels and sexuality and gender, etc. etc. etc.). i wanted to write a similar piece entitled “dear dears” for my M.A. class, but i am sure the piece will come out raw and unforgiving, and it may not be a sturdy piece for the inevitable carnage.

*****

dear dears draft

dear ___, i am listening to the song you recommended. it was your anthem back then when things were rough and you were lost. it became the third most played songs in my iTunes for a time. every time i listen to it, there is a thud within me, and i think, this must be like how you felt — having a piano landing on the center of your ribcage, and no one catching even a squeak of the fall.

dear ___, ola! what happened to our plan of redecorating my place? to be more specific, whipping magic to hide the blemishes and expand my space? so much has happened that i could only send you a text with this “ano na, 10 years na! haha”  line. remember the time we met up, and we talked about your loves, and my words and i ganged up on you? i would forever remember you walking away while i was being driven away. i wanted to embrace you and tell you they’re all the same and you are different, but the light was green, and my hands were cold.

___dear, there’s a line from a song of alanis that says, “you rocked my world.”  you did but not in the beautiful sense. you rocked my world because you jarred me, shifted the plates, and left cracks here, here, and here. i used to be really angry at you because of the way you revealed certain facets of myself i never knew existed. like caring. like remembering. when i remember you now, i can only imagine parts of you. i would have wanted to remember your voice, but even that slipped into fissures.  now i am back to where all my limbs, organs, and my thoughts choreograph themselves to forget you.

dear __, i know what you liked about her. those things are the ones i liked about her, too. when i found out you two were hanging out, i was waiting for the train to arrive. the platform felt too narrow as if i were on a balance beam. i wanted to puke, but i hadn’t eaten, and i didn’t want to be fined. we could have had fun the way we did before. you would talk in that high pitched voice of yours and whine about your sisters and about your dad (seriously, we should grow up and start living our lives on our own terms). when things would become serious, we would fold into ourselves just like what we did, and we would listen to the echoes of our conversations, content when it comes to recycling stories. i don’t know what has become of you. i don’t know if i want to know more. my place here on this balance beam is satisfying. it is easier to whip out my arms for balance than extend them toward you.

listening to: falling or flying by grace potter and the nocturnals

and another season ender

the series, new girl, had me at the moment when zooey deschanel’s character, jess, started coining aliases for her whorish personality she made up as a way to surprise her boyfriend after coming from a trip. it turned out she was the one surprised — she caught him with another girl. that was when she needed a new apartment and ended up being the new girl in a loft she shared with three boys.

another time that the show had me was when the four did a slow chicken dance in the middle of a wedding reception.

another time was when jess went through another break-up, and she found comfort in a song. instead of doing a dirty dancing marathon the way she did when she left the boy who cheated on her, she played joni mitchell’s river for 10,000 times.

one after the other, the stand-out scenes came and went. the show entertained me and made me laugh at 1:45AM or at 11:01AM. props to cece, the hottest best friend a tv series can ever cast and to my favorite, schmidt, whose o.c. tendencies partnered with a prissy yet douche-y personality made him a winner in my book. it came to a point that i “fasted” by not watching succeeding episodes for three months to prolong reaching the final episode.

and just as expected, the ending came. and it was sassy, fun, whimsical, light, offbeat, and memorable. the season ender even played several of the songs i like.

just like that, the show drew to a close.

i wonder how i would react once i reach the season ender and finale of house. i’d probably grovel and forget the passing of days. if i have genes for beards, i would grow it long.  i would have a song or two on loop, too, and maybe do my version of the slow chicken dance.

i will update you. the possibilities of coping are endless.

in other news, The Newsroom series is promising. the pilot episode was riveting, the lines were brilliant, the camera work was superb. i didn’t realize i was holding my breath in awe until the credits  rolled in. if the pilot were a song, it would be jimi hendrix’s purple haze.