Monthly Archives: September 2012

just a quick thought

When I travel, here are some of the various (and sometimes crazy) things I do:

a) I sleep
I can only sleep very late at night. Because of the lack of sleep, fatigue sets in anytime of the day. That instance in the photo while on route to a beach in Quezon, I just had to sleep so I found the most convenient spot. It’s not the most comfortable place in the world, but it did its job nicely. Except for that part when the wood loosened, and it landed on my head.

Not the easiest person around during mornings (or I hate perky people especially in the morning)

b) I bring a book and try to be alone
This photo entertains me because it shows how sloppy I dress even with a maillot; how impossible for me to get that hourglass figure; my attachment to books wherever I go; and how good-looking people are never too far away (and upon closer inspection can disappoint, hehe).

Ay, tabingi lang maglakad

c) I do an Elmira
Yes, I do an Elmira of Tiny Toons by terrorizing/cuddling too much/regarding too much animals. Here, I just wanted to pet the giant chicken/local turkey. They were not warm and welcoming as you can see.

Freak show

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ballerina

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.

******

“remember that time when our friends found us too funny?”

“i didn’t know what we were repressing.”

“they knew all along.  it’s just that you didn’t want to ‘name’ it.  it’s semantics and more.  it’s there, and it’s gaping at you, that thing you said was lifeless that’s mumbling and moving on your workshop table.”

“when we talk to each other, why do i feel like we’re characters straight out of a book?”

“because we are, sort of.  you’ve made me your character, text, subject, mound of clay, clutch of plaster.  how many times did you write about me, my tics, my neuroses, my nightmares, my having nightmares, my writing about my having nightmares?”

“i needed to write about you.”

“and you did.  a lot.  you wrote never to fall in love with someone like me.  you wrote about me in relation with pails of colors.  you wrote about me and about mangoes and clutching at walls.”

“you write about me, too.”

“but they’re locked inside little vaults. your works about me are out in the open like billboard ads and grocery lists.”

“i’ve named my muse after you.”

“but you will never acknowledge me in your books.”

“we know why.  restraint.  but it’s not easy to forget (you).  i have eidetic memory, remember?  i’m sure you’ve forgotten.”

“you remember the color of my sneakers the first time we talked.  a person like you shouldn’t be forgotten because we should be wary around you.  you repeat my words, and it is horrifying — my thoughts jumping at me from another person’s mouth.”

“i live an orderly life.”

“i know that.  did you know that new zealand is the hotspot for adventure these days? why do i feel that you see me as your new zealand.”

“because i live an orderly life. it’s so orderly that i need to sleep light.  if i sleep way too deep, i would sleep talk.”

“and so?”

“i would surely say your name and other dangerous thoughts out loud.”

“dangerous… so what time do you need to be at that place?”

“too soon. please go with me?”

“no.”

 

the tiny monster

There is something about our names and the way we were raised that haunt us and hold us captive within labyrinths of instincts and behavioral patterns.  In short, I am going to play with the idea behind the question, What’s in a name?

Timon’s first week at our place

Let us focus on the name, Timon.  Timon is short for Tiny Monster which is short for Tiny Monster Calvin&Hobbes.  I also decided on the name as a parody since one of my favorite songs is Elton John’s Tiny Dancer.  Timon is an orphan adopted from the streets of Alabang.  She was a scrawny, two-week old kitten that spied V from afar and followed V all the way to her house.  She dictated to us that she wanted to be let in.  And we did let her in.  That was on June 30, 2012.

Redefining the meaning of snuggling

At my place, she lords over people and lives up to her name.  One time while she was walking past my unsuspecting housemate resting on the couch, Timon just lunged at her leg and bit her. Without provocations, without distractions thrown Tmon’s way. After her heinous act, she loped away, and I imagine, with a sick grin on her face.

This funny nuisance

I raised her along with V and housemates, and we have raised a monster, a cuddly, feline, FERAL monster.  Every time I see her stretching or slinking in a corner, the song of Silverchair, Freak, plays in my head. That and David Bowie’s Little Wonder.

Big and small monsters

We borrowed a puppy with a sweet name, Princess Samantha (yes, there is someone out there who thinks naming her puppy Princess Samantha is acceptable. I give you the license to shoot her.)  We call her Sammy or Sam or Sam-sam.  When Timon saw Sam being cuddled by V, she bared her fangs at Sam and hissed and threatened Sam with her stare.  Sam was oblivious to Timon’s menacing behavior, but we were alarmed.  We were like parents who just witnessed the beginning of the end of their child’s access to acceptance during play dates and at playgrounds.

This is Sam

My leg is a map of scratches and wounds.  You can identify Timon’s height based on the scars on my legs.  She used to mark my ankle area with her claws and fangs.  Now I have wounds inches away from my knees.

But at this rate, she is sweetest in my presence.  For some sick reason, she listens to me the most.

I have come to accept the reality after being told several times that she is like me — all claws, all fangs out, all anger lashed out at others.

But when she cuddles and expresses warmth, it is rare and brightly stellar, a rare comet drop.

Thought bubble: Bored, bored, bored

At first…

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.

“At first it was your stories.  Your omissions.  Your negations.  The too-long-for-comfort pauses.  The tightest of grips on my wrist.  The heaving sighs.

Then it was a pillow. Then two pillows. Then a stack of books.

I fought hard to wedge distance between us.

Now this. Do you hear my calls? Over by this stretch of wall that scratches and stings flesh, do you see me writing your name on lichen and moss?”

— Found above is a possible poetry project about my endless pursuit of creating distances.  Credit it to my fascination toward the continental drift theory and my fear of good things.

— I just created a different set of drafts for three poetry assignments.  I’m on a roll, I know, but the output are all horrendous.  I don’t know how I can salvage these poems when it comes to the critical hour.  Read: workshop

— Deception is an art form.  I have an M.A. degree here.  With honors.  The art here is knowing when to rein it in and when to wield it.  And with whom and against who.

— I don’t have many friends, but I’m happy that my friends who’ve stayed for this mad roller coaster ride with me accept me and all my epic failures and negations.

back breaking

there’s a poem by Louise Glück titled Purple Bathing Suit that i like very much. is it just me or did someone really dedicate that poem to me years back? memory as a landscape viewed without clear optics is hazy and fizzles at the edges.

i remember that poem because of the lines, “your back is my favorite part of you, /the part furthest away from your mouth”.  yes, today’s entry is all about back. as in my back. not about writing, not about nostalgia, not about going back and enjoying life’s insipid reruns but about my stupid. irritating. back.

i have to devote a poem just for my back. it makes its presence known like a marching band on full performance mode outside my window at 8fuckingAM.

it is my life’s biggest wedgie.  no kidding.

as much as i would like to abandon it, kick it away until it becomes only a whirring funnel of nothing, i can never leave it. it is my hobbes to my calvin, my tattoos to my skin.

the weather is unkind to people with weak spines. the cold pinpricks into flesh and wedges itself into sinews and bones.  the pain is THERE, it is present. it is heavy and leaves the unlucky breathless.  there are some who get intrigued by the kind of pain i feel. i always describe it as: makirot na mabigat as if a hollow block is resting on the small of my back.

countless times, i have cursed my back. i have imagined scenarios that show myself trading my back for a sheet of steel or a pair of training wheels, and the barter would cure me, would heal.

it is alive, too. the pain courses up and down as if testing the strength of the nubs of my spine, as if the pain has legs and it needs to exercise by climbing up and then going down, climbing up and then going down. often, i track its progress and i am surprised that it has reached the middle section of my back past the spire of my lighthouse tattoo.

back breaking! (look how things go, the outline of my body shows a scoliotic framework)

it seemed the pain is a crawling creature, and it is looking and searching for something. it has committed itself to staying. and i, silent house of its wandering, give it a reluctant go. like a fish, it flicks its tail and swims up, up, and up. i hold my chest and try to pin down my breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*********

 

For your information 🙂 This is the poem, Purple Bathing Suit, from Louise Glück’s collection, Meadowlands.

Purple Bathing Suit by Louise Glück

I like watching you garden
with your back to me in your purple bathing suit:
your back is my favorite part of you,
the part furthest away from your mouth.

You might give some thought to that mouth.
Also to the way you weed, breaking
the grass off at ground level
when you should pull it by the roots.

How many times do I have to tell you
how the grass spreads, your little
pile notwithstanding, in a dark mass which
by smoothing over the surface you have finally
fully obscured. Watching you

stare into space in the tidy
rows of the vegetable garden, ostensibly
working hard while actually
doing the worst job possible, I think

you are a small irritating purple thing
and I would like to see you walk off the face of the earth
because you are all that’s wrong with my life
and I need you and I claim you.

A letter to G

Or why this post ought to be called “arrested development” or “On deciding to make this letter public to make this a writing exercise, too”

G, remember the times we said, “fuck, c____!” and “fuck, n____?”

Well, I know we’re in that stage, and it’s not good. For me, most probably.  For you, I can only imagine you and your lovely smile, you and your hands and his in yours.

It looks like I am thigh-deep in what we abhorred. Over bottles of beer, we looked for answers in moisture left on the labels. It was as if we were divining messages, but what was happening was only these: night folding deeper into itself, people dreaming, our hands becoming much too cold for our comfort.

So there: I am thigh-deep in that phenomenon.  Or should I term it accident?

When it was at ankle level, it gave me a mild discomfort. A sting. A quick thump on my ankle.  It was an irritation that was cured by a slew of songs.

When it was at knee level, I started to panic. I wanted to tear my self into pieces and be flung here and there like ragged pieces of driftwood. I fancied buying an inhaler, but my shortness of breath was not physiological. The shortness of breath was here, was immediate, was braying in my ears.

Now I am thigh-deep.  This accident has revealed facets of myself I never knew existed.  I was discovering new monsters in me, and they have limbs and several brains and they spoke and acted for me.

I am back to counting things that look similar, counting lampposts, counting steps, counting lines, counting bricks, counting tiles.  This has never stopped actually, but now, I count as if I were chasing deadlines.

Oh and whenever A Case of You is played, I remember you, and I smile. We were like wolves howling the lyrics to the sky.