Monthly Archives: August 2013


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.

“You hold me in the dark when storms arrive.” – Ellie Goulding

No, you don’t hold me in the dark or in the light. I don’t hold you either. Why hold each other when we are the storms themselves? My country is a sea and water country, and every other day, the skies are committed to fall and fall. We are committed to retain our roles, and we make mad love with our eyes.

Anything and nothing may happen, and you and I let it. That boat, this bed, that jar of stories, that canister of silver water, the real and the inevitable fictions. I let my eyes scan this room, that cubicle, that auditorium, and while you tell me Let’s forget About This while This is happening and while your hands are all over me, I smirk and let you know, why of course, not a problem, suit yourself.

There’s a paper boat or a paper plane that you have to catch, and there’s a magic carpet ride I have to catch.

Once, you told me about your long walks with your pets. Once, I saw you looking at my wall filled with mad scribbling. I wanted to tell you that you did not have the right to read those words on that wall, but I saw your hand mindlessly miming writing on an imaginary piece of paper. Were you copying my words? Were you rendering them in shapes?

She doesn’t know why she is mad at you. Maybe because you only have words, and words contain mayhem and the occasional lullabies. She is tired of words. She wants nothing to do with these one-dimensional lies and liars. She wants to commit to the parade behind closed doors, she wants the lines on your palms to dissolve and become thunderstorms.


When he proposed to her, she thought, that’s the best non-proposal I have ever received. He said, let’s be together without emotions, let’s just pleasure each other every day, and hunt down each other’s bodies in time, when we find ourselves singular, without any hangers-on, without partners. She asked, are you sure? and Are you crazy? and Are you sober? And he said, yes, yes, yes, and she danced on top of the table while he looked outside his window, regions away, and played a song on his aging guitar. The characters here are talking about years and years into the far future; a lot can happen, she may even be long dead by then, but it was nice and sweet to receive a non-proposal, to be treated like what she really is: an animal only committed to writing verses.

He showed her his kittens. His female cat gave birth to two sickly kittens, and now he is invested. She is happy to meet his kittens. Inside his house, the bed is warmed with anticipation, and the sheets are conditioned to receive a delicious beating. But before the madness starts, they stand a foot apart committed to watching a family forming before their eyes. Their eyes glow with startled tenderness, and their lips form riddles and rhymes. Tomorrow, he will bring the kittens to the veterinarian. He is worried about them. She looks at the kittens, and the day slides back and back.

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Water everywhere

There are interests and hobbies that stay and there are some that (I let) go. Just like people.:) Being an ardent monster of recycling, I find myself recycling a person or two in terms of ties (more on this in a future WordPress blog entry and its link with my fascination toward GGM’s theme in his book, One Hundred Years of Solitude) and recycling interests.

When I was in college, my sister and I would go to Rizal Complex for our weekly swim. We hired a coach to coax out the inner Phelps and Franklin just bobbing within us. I learned the backstroke, breaststroke, and the butterfly kick but never the freestyle. My body is not aligned for swimming, but I kicked and treaded water as if I had been born in it.

This I wrote in a letter to a friend: “When I swim, I keep my eyes open, but sometimes, I end up closing my eyes. The silence is very palpable, and the sensation of moving without impediments (or the illusion of their absence) like gravity, objects, pollution, is freeing.”

There is a painting of Ophelia done by British artist John Everett Millais that has a special place within me. That painting reveals myriad meanings to me, and it is never flat and finished for me. Like a spectre just swimming in the periphery, that painting continues to arrest with its absent answers.

When I swim, the voices in me grow calm and silent. I think they follow the flow and speech of water or they realize that they are home.

Recently, I have swum in a well-maintained pool in Makati. I would do laps of breaststroke and backstroke and let my head stay underwater for as long as I can for the dolphin kick. Once, I tried the arm stroke of the butterfly stroke, and I landed on the surface flat and hard. Jolted, I felt the suspension of pain, but there was water and silence swirling everywhere salving the impact.


Music yet again

[Yes, I am still alive, folks. Crazy, right? :>]
[This entry was drafted weeks back.]

I almost always leave the ones who show me tenderness. I am allergic to people exhibiting tenderness toward me. I feel it is a put-on, a show, something insincere and transitory. While most people are excited about relationships, I always ready myself for the end. That’s how I am. However and whenever we part, know that I have exhausted mental energy plotting, choreographing, and directing the versions of the characters in my head way ahead of the actual parting.

It’s not a good way to live a life — preparing for the end of all things and ties. Top this with a faulty memory, and there lies the tragedy. Top this further with my drive to prioritize convenience over emotional ties, and there lies the grain of the matter: All for my benefit, all for my convenience, comfort, and welfare.

The worst that people said to me or about me are the following: “You’re a bitch.” “You’re vicious.” “Wow, walang puso [i.e., heartless].” My perpetual response: “I love animals.”

But nature/life/universe/playful gods made sure that I don’t go scot-free.

They have given me deep obsession for music — well-crafted, well-arranged music.

When a person leaves a mark in my life (which is quite rare, to be blunt about this), I tend to associate him or her with a song. Mind you, I never recycle a song (key persons, I tend to ‘recycle,’ but that’s altogether a different story and adventure). I pride myself in an eclectic taste and a wide swathe of songs in my collection inversely proportional with the depth I feel toward people.

So sometimes when I listen to a song, a wave or a flick of memory washes over me, hits me, and then leaves me full of questions. The best part about this? It’s so quick and so transitory that I let go of it in the blink of an eye, and everything is light and bright once again. It’s as if I paid a visit to Lacuna, Inc. years back and had my memories erased. Only in rare times does the procedure fail and reveal its errors, but for the most part, the procedure is a success.

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