Category Archives: freefall

foothold

When I watch movies or TV series episodes, I look for very specific moments. These become my foothold. I look for the dining scenes. I like it when people eat with their bare hands. I look for cats and their hiding places. I also look for scenes with trains — idle trains, trains in motion, and trains being set on fire or exploding into a million sharp pieces. My attention is piqued when the hands are too anxious like birds unable to find suitable places for rest. I look for scenes where the characters just look up in ecstasy toward the ceiling or the sky, and their eyes and the jut of their chins say it all: I am here, look at me, do not dare look away.

Advertisements

truths

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.

Tagged , ,

game

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.

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

When you add an exclamation mark after game, the sentence connotes acquiescence, excitement, the promise of a burst of energy.

When you add a question mark after game, that can project search for approval, hesitation, courtesy, with a slight purring and vibration thrumming at the base of your throat.

When you say that someone is game, you think of dark meat, risqué, gamey, pluckiness, fearlessness, the whiff and waft of the wild nipping at the air.

You say game and you channel feral. You say game and you channel go or run or hide or attack.

(The best game should be subdued with strong limbs and tongue and washed down with yesteryear’s wine.)

(The best game is right here right now right there at the base of your throat right there on your wrist right at the center of your ribcage the caged inside the cage right at the marrow of things within the inner fold of secrets and bright blight of this day.)

Game? Game! Game. Game

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.”

 

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.

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

Timed

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.

(It’s been a long time.  The last time I wrote a Freefall entry was in 2011. How jarring time flies.)

The time it took for me to walk from my spot to your spot took years and one day.

The time it took for you to walk from our spot to your spot was three hours.

The time it took for me to walk from my spot to a soiled spot on the floor was five minutes.

The time it took for me to walk away took months and an hour.

The time it took for me to wallow was zero.

The time it took for you to wallow was zero and two days.

Conjure the distance in figures then walk toward me no more.

Vonnegut-ing or So Beautiful and So Dead

I think I’m in the wrong decade, or my gods just killed themselves way too early.

I mean look at Kurt Cobain. I would have bought all his records, and I would have attended his concert/s here in Manila, and I would have fought promoters if they make of his music too much of a commodity, but then he goes and shoots himself.

Take Janis Joplin. In one concert, she asked about the crowd’s condition, if they were getting enough water and if they had a good space for sleep. And she told them, it’s just music, people should just enjoy it. I think she was referring to the whole hoopla of buying expensive tickets and lining up a day or two before the gates open for people to secure a good place — all those consequences of commercialism and merchandising. And she said: “If you’re getting more shit than you deserve, you know what to do.”

Don’t even get me started with Amy Winehouse. Or with Jimi Hendrix.

I’m in the wrong decade. I’m in the wrong country.

Don’t die yet, Joni. Don’t die yet, Aimee. And Fiona. And Skin. And Ani. And Sarah B.. And Sara M.. And Michael S.. And Karen O.. And Dave M.. And Thom Y.. And Florence. And Adele. And the rest of the artists peopling my music player. If I could, I would construct a bubble as large as a football stadium and fill it with sustenance and clean air and provisions and all the things to satisfy your whiles and your wants plus shifting seasons customized for your allergies and tastes and complete with state of the art music equipment. You’d just be staying there inside that huge-ass snowglobe living your lives and creating music when and if you want. You’d forever be protected. The globe would be bulletproof, nukeproof, bombproof, biochemical hazard-proof, anthrax and all the invisible killers out there-proof, and end of the world-proof.

It would be a musical Eden. I would only have to slip the earphones on and lose myself in your world.

A TOTALLY UNRELATED POSTSCRIPT (OR P.S.)
I totally hate on people who tend to call me emo even in jest whenever I exhibit distress or weariness. As far back as I can remember, I have been utterly sad since I was five or four years old, and I think I have enough baggage to prove it. That time, emo-ness was still swimming in a primordial soup of base urges. I would say I was way ahead of its time, and I’m not proud of it. It’s just the way things are, and it’s not as if I wallow. Wallowing is several steps away from “the secret house,” from annihilation. I could take the adjective dramatic or blue but not emo. It’s a matter of word choice, and you know how worlds can be contained in a word. Let this be a warning from a person who is onion-skinned.

My ultimate top 2 song (top 1 being Candlebox’s Far Behind) and part of my funeral playlist

Part of my ultimate top 10 songs and, of course, part of my funeral playlist

erasure

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.

(It’s been a long time — January 3, 2009 to be exact — since I wrote my last Freefall post. How sad, how pitiful. Here I am trying to resurrect that old part of myself.)

In Twitter no more.

In Multiply no more.

In Friendster no more.

In your psyche no more.

So.

She clutches at a pile of aches beneath her chest right where breath is harnessed. And there they are, all her stories, her growls, her escapes and her muted shrieks. She thought an invisible hand is done scooping them all out. But here they are encased; the wanton span of your voice sealing a gigantic shard.

at 407 km/h (a la Bugatti Veyron)

so here i am rushing to finish reading a handout on feminist criticism (catherine belsey is a god for her simple words and relatable examples) while snooping on the past lives of a couple of M.A. classmates (twitter, multiply — a profusion of words and images they’re just mind-boggling) driven by curiosity as driven by their choices of genre — poetry and CNF — and realizing that hey, maybe for my final thesis i can opt to do dance pieces a la merlinda bobis as opposed to my original plan of contributing to the meager (and i mean meager in the sense of quantity) ‘canon’ of lesbian literature in our neck of the woods, and then i realized maybe i can ground my subjectivity in those two — see, hitting two birds with one sure aim of a stone — since dance is a way of liberating your body and your sensibility and releasing and living out your sexuality are also ways of dancing to your songs and rhythms and leaping away from haters and bigots; thus adding another set of tasks to my humongous to-do list that in itself requires a rhythm, an organization, a personality of epic patience, “a shudder in the god. a gale.”

gotta go, have class.

Tagged