Miseros

You made the introductions,

Between sadness and me;

What can I do but take such soft hands,

which seemed to have only known a few.

 

When I looked deep into those watery eyes, I knew,

loneliness would be an eternal company.

 

For without knowing this emptiness,

How would I have known what your embraces were for.

 

No, I don’t need your love because I am sad.

I am sad

so that when your love reaches me,

I would know why all the time without it,

I was in misery.

Requiem per Desiderio

People don’t ask for forgiveness sometimes,

not because of fear

nor of pride (nor of laziness).

They just see—it is pointless.

 

Maybe, if every time we say sorry,

we can also offer a witch’s vial—

a concoction to forget,

an agreement to forget.

 

Desire can be so powerful

to render one weak, yet free.

Yet desire can be the biggest coward;

rejected, unrequited, it hides.

 

Jealousy, the great traitor—

that which holds in suspension

outbursts, yet peeks out

through eyes, unveiling itself instead.   

 

Arrogance, what else? A lie.

Again and again, a plea for consideration.

Poke a blind man’s eyes.

It will still hurt.

 

Rage. Passion. Fusion.

To create this great structure,

For you to try to chip off pieces, unknowing

that its fall could be your death.

 

Is there love there at all?

When infidelity takes a new name—

being true to (or, in your case, denying) one’s nature (blah!).

Semantics’ act of betrayal.

 

You give me not what I seek.

I hand to you what you don’t.

A constant swing between fascination and disappointment,

just another clash of indifferences.

 

Maybe, there is love there.

Why else would today be cursed with heaviness?

Only . . . I smelled the scent of great desires this morning:

yours for me waning, mine for you hiding. 03092007

Stoning for Dummies

I started when I was eighteen. I think that part is a great factor on why I didn’t end up a junkie (although, to be honest with you, I really wouldn’t mind having turned into one—my only worry would have simply been where and when to get my next high, or how for that matter). Because I’ve had had some time with the world as it is, let’s just say, I was already grounded before I started taking my flights. It’s both a bad and a good thing. Good, in that I could always return to the default me; bad, because I can never completely let go (but there were rare moments when I did get a glimpse of total surrender; it was bliss, at worst).

Let’s start. The keyword here is “heightened senses.” That means, you don’t get superpowers, you don’t instantly become a better version of yourself; although, you might start to “think” that you have and you do. That’s okay, if only for the mere realization of your “self” and your first experience of going through the process of dismembering yourself from society even if only temporarily (some people experience this by other means, thus those rare sober individuals who still exhibit nonconforming behaviors). Back to the senses, your perception of things change—sounds, sights, smells, tastes, and feels. But it’s still you, and it’s still your mind. 

Let’s skip to the paranoia part, as that seems to be always connected to psychoactivity. Defined in Merriam-Webster, it is “a psychosis characterized by systematized delusions of persecution or grandeur usually without hallucinations.” Let’s focus on “delusions of persecution or grandeur” since we’re only dealing with paranoia here as a side effect and not really as a mental condition. Heightened senses lead to heightened mind activities. And more thoughts about what you feel mean more thoughts about yourself, and gradually, the world seems to revolve just around you. It’s just you . . . and then there’s them. And when you start perceiving them as entities apart from yourself, you ask how they, in turn, might perceive you. Of course, it’s only one of either two things—they might either love or hate you (grandeur or persecution). Around this point, clichés work just fine: “everything will pass” and “it’s all in your mind.” Once your mind calms down, the best parts can now begin. 

Personally, I’ve known the feeling of really wanting to know how other people perceive me. I have this unhealthy need to please everyone. If you long to reach that divine state where you have “unconditional love for all,” sometimes your human side would seek to be unconditionally loved by all also. When I begin getting thoughts on how I might be perceived by others, I find my peace when I let go of trying to manipulate their views of me, acting out what I know would accomplish applauds. Let them see me as I see myself. For anyways, one of the more crucial moments in our lives are those time we spend with but ourselves judging us, and the voices of other people either praising or criticizing really don’t amount to much anymore.

Back to the lighter side of stoning, the laziness part is only half true. We still move a lot, although, yes, sometimes it’s already after being in a vegetative state of unsleep. What we do while in that state, it differs for us. For me, it’s like dreaming, only awake. I let my thoughts run free, not of my willing. Sometimes, I see beautiful things, and sometimes, I get nightmares. Then when I have the thoughts that I need, I take a more active role, and I mix them all up here and there until I come up with some form of logic, any form at all (whether sublime or mundane, universal or specific, eternal or momentary). It’s the awe that I’m after, regardless of the doses. It’s a lot like making love—it’s best when I reach my peak, however it happens and however long or short it lasts. And when I do, nothing in the world seems threatening anymore, even if not indefinitely.

It’s true what they say about food tasting better, but just a warning, you have to wait to feel the munchies (when you’re really craving), or else, you’ll have system overload. Prematurely, even just a slight taste of whatever it is you’re having would send your senses flaring, and it’ll be just too much for your enjoyment—well, unless you’re really the indulgent type. 

Music does sound better, but not in an otherworldy way or anything. Nobody becomes a better singer or a better musician when she’s high. It’s just that there’s this isolated feel to the music, as though it is the only sound you’re hearing, and thus you’re able to thread through the layers and listen piece by piece until it seems that the music has intertwined with you in a very intricate pattern that it has already melded with every aspect of you. As though you’re a puppet attached to the strings of a guitar and you’re dancing on top of a large bass drum lying on its side. Boom, boom, boom, boom. And you’re feet gladly follows the rhythm.

And you begin to see the images at the back of your eyes. The puppet, the strings, the instruments, the dancing—and oh how you’d like for your eyes to see them as well. And you get your brushes and dare to recreate what you’re seeing with your amateur strokes. Earth colors for the guitar and the puppet, black and grays for the strings and the drum, and you let it all out with arrays of bright and dark hues intermingling together to portray the movement of your doll’s dancing. 

[Deep sigh of relief]
I’ve reached my peak for now.           

   

Rock Stars and Revolutionaries Die at 24

Haruki Murakami said that. I think he meant that ideals die as we spend more time in the world. The more we stay, the more we fear losing the things we've began putting up. We learn to worry about insurances, security, until such time we forget our music, our art, our principles, our philosophies, and, yes, our romantic loves. I'd like to say, "No, Haruki, you are wrong. I shall not die." But I'll only be lying. I've indeed learned to love the world, and I'm glad I have a valid medical insurance card. (I even told a friend once that maybe I should marry the boyfriend already so he can get one too.)

My music. It's been a while since I last played my guitar with such a passion that only sleep could tear me away from it. I know I only need a new song; but as I've been telling another friend, I'm new with this happiness thing. With sadness before, I could whip out poetry after poetry about the loneliness of my heart; but now, with my newfound happiness, I just can't seem to find my way around it just yet. Sometimes, after a hit or two of weed, I do remember how it was like, and the longing to play returns (certain scents really make me nostalgic), but I fight the feeling off. I love weed and all, but I don't want to be that kind of artist who can only play while she's high. Maybe I'm on this phase right now, of outgrowing certain habits to be better at what I love doing. Maybe the independence that I seek includes independence from these "things."

My art. The last drawing I made, I let the ants devour. I thought then, Well, isn't this nice, the ants made better art than me. The watercolor I use must be sweet; I really have not tried tasting it, as somebody suggested to me. And again, yes, everytime I get a whiff of weed, I find myself itching to wound a canvas again. And I fight the feeling off again. No more artificial art, artificial music. I think I'm done pretending, squeezing myself dry for beautiful pieces when truth is my ideas are still pretty premature. I do feel, some time soon, I'll start conceptualizing again, and now according to my own pace, and with as minimal influence possible. No more art and music out of heartbreaks. It's just too juvenile for my taste now.  

My principles, my philosophies . . . I think I still have the same views regarding things, issues. I still wish love, happiness, peace, and prosperity for everyone. I still think racism roots out of ignorance. I still think true love exists (and it sure as hell can surpass all expectations and fantasies). If I were a Christian fundamentalist, I would also say I think the signs are here for the second coming (bitaw, simba ko!). No, kidding aside, really, I find a little pleasure out of the sufferings of the richer countries. It would seem like Mother Nature herself decided to make the move of evening things out, as humans can't seem to practice what they preach regarding equality. But I do hope things get better in the end, after the lessons are learned.

And with my romantic loves . . . I smile at the thought of this. I would always remember them boys with fondness, sans the betrayals and the self-preserving moves of breaking hearts of course. At least, I'd have stories to tell. And as it is always heard, I wouldn't have found the need for somebody to fix me if I had not been broken. Some say to fall in love for real is like dying. You lose yourself to be a part of a twosome. I am 24. Maybe this love is my death.   

 

silent falling

The thing about intellectual conversations is that they are almost for certain never funny. And even if they were, you only get the mild ha-ha’s that end as immediately as they started. Like if you talk about Hitler’s funny mustache while talking about the Nazis and genocide and the Jews and the great conspiracy of this and that. You laugh a little, yes, but it’s just not it. Not that we are boring people, it’s just that sometimes even the funniest people need to be serious too, and need to be seriously taken.

A heaviness always falls over me every time I sense that my humor should stay somewhere hidden for a while. Even if Bonaparte would sure as hell give me an idea that would draw some chuckles from my friends, there just is something that whispers to me to save it for the rainier days. Not this time, dear, not this time. I then counter the heaviness with a heavier sigh. All right, what now?

I remember I heard this from a movie, and the actor (Bruce Willis in Rumor Has It) just quoted somebody else as well. Che Guevarra had said, although nonverbatim, “A revolution is characterized by a turn of the heart.” Yeah, I figured too, there’s nothing funny about what he said, and although laughter is a very genuine thing, there are just some things that although are as real aren’t as light to the heart.

We talked about respect and hospitality. Visitors should respect the place and the people inhabiting such said place, while the locals should welcome their neighbors and make them feel as at home as they could. Then one of us, Tops, came up with stories of how some places aren’t as welcoming. I was—how do I put this?—in a state where my senses were heightened above my average consciousness. (We had been drinking from the moment we finished breakfast, and it was already after dinnertime.) And so I had to react to diminish the fear he was starting to draw from me. I could ask him to change the topic, but that would be asking for too much. Newton’s law of equal and opposite reaction to every action tells me I could come up with something. I had to, and well, if I don’t, I could go down in history as the one who thought up of using Newton’s laws for the laws of reasoning and discourses and proved that the opposite is true for matters of ideas.

“It is wrong to draw respect from a person by threats.” Tops looked at me. I was over the edge, he must be thinking. I then went on to explain. He then told me, “But I’m just telling the story as I’ve heard it!” It dawned on me. Yeah, maybe some people are just more territorial than some. I almost drowned myself in the sadness of that thought. The thing with me is that I have learned the logic in the “unconditional love for all” philosophy. But when one single entity pisses me off, it becomes “unconditional hate for all.” I then decided to heave out another sigh and admit to myself that having partiality for some things over other things is not a bad thing. “Good thing this place is not one of those places, huh?” He had a look of disbelief in his face, like saying, “Duh!”  

Laughter, for my case, has a life all on its own. It knows I need it. Like a nurse who knows when I’ve had had enough sadness and immediately comes to my rescue. But that night, somehow, it preferred to stay in slumber.

We continued to talk, and our discussions reached to our ideas about paranoia. “What if the people were only unwelcoming because the visitor already had in mind a fear? What if all along the people couldn’t care less actually, and the hate for the visitor only started because in his mind, the fear was too real that it decided to just manifest itself in reality to get over and done with the limbo (of whether that fear is real or not) the visitor has placed himself into?” We all became silent. Maybe every person has some paranoia in him, only that it differs in levels from one individual to the next. It is after all defined as a feeling of greatness for the self. Nothing’s wrong with that. It is only when we draw other people into the stage we set for ourselves and force them to join our tableaus that conflicts arise. Perhaps it is hard to do our own thing without needing to hear the applause or the boo’s after. We all want to know if what we’re doing is right or not. Some people, though, have learned to find that out for themselves.              

I remember this situation we discuss in one of my philosophy classes. If a tree fell in the forest, if none was there to attest to that event actually occurring, then there really is no point in the falling, is there? But to the tree itself, that event would be the most significant event in its entire existence. Then I felt the silence. I tried to listen to the sound of a distant tree falling. I then looked around at my friends. Good thing they were around; we weren’t going to be like that tree.

my logical poetry (or my poetic logic)

my poetry is now wholly mine,
not for who it is for, not anymore.

and it becomes more his, more about him,
more not about myself.

and as i write more about him,
with words more mine,

he becomes more mine.