Untitled Yet

for D
How many grocery bags of vomit again last night, dear?
And was I on the phone with some guy?
Had I invited everyone around to join us?
And were you left until morning to entertain the friends I forced to come?

I remember looking at a college boy across our table,
I remember thinking he was good looking
You were beside me, and I was looking at him
Sleep is my friend, darling, sleep is my savior.

That toxic mix of sadness, rage, and alcohol again, love?
Did I, oh did I, pour out all my "artistic" ravings on you again?
And were you just there, listening, looking at me,
Trying as much as you could to understand . . .

I am so sorry, sweetheart,
I am most dumb sober,
And my pride won't let me accept the mediocrity of the sane,
Normalcy is death to me.

But this, keep in your heart,
I am yours more than anything or anybody else's.
Ngan hangtod san-o ko ikaw hihigugmaon?
Hangtod an mga kamote tuboan nala hin liso.

Of Motocicletas and Pickups

"Some songs just aren't fitted to be sung in certain places," Missy explained to me as we were starting to be on our way home from our friend's house. We were riding on the back of a pickup and were enjoying the cool very early morning breeze; it was about three in the morning. "It must be the walls. Some songs are just too loud to be sung indoors," Kip chimed in on our conversation. The playlist for that night included Tejano, '90s pop, reggae, and '80s metal, among the many genreless others. Missy started to sing some lines of some song, "Hold on tight! You know she's a little bit dangerous . . . " We all laughed. She was referring to us needing to hold on to the sides of the pickup lest we become an on-the-spot circus act. "Yeah, you forgot to sing that," Din tried to make her voice heard over the sound of the cold winds. I nodded at them. The pickup was gaining speed. I reckon it must be because Mardi's dad can't wait to get back to his sleep; he was very kind to offer us kids a ride to the highway after our little party. It was Kip's birthday, and Mardi offered his place because they were located on a more kiat-friendly place. But that was that--there were no more rides that time of night around their area, and the pickup kept us from having to use our last resort, which was to walk. Silence followed; we were all taking in the precious moment, not to mention it would take effort to speak and be heard with the sound of us cutting through the thick morning air and all. "Born to be waaaaa-aaaa-aaaaayld!" I had to cut in through the silence. We all laughed. Din, my current roommate, then went on to tell the guys a story of another one of our weekend getaways. It was on our trip to Tagbilaran, when we had to pass by Tubigon, and Din's boyfriend had to fetch us from there on a motorcycle. That always reminds me of Che Guevara's The Motorcyle Diaries. "She just had to sing that song! Imagine the looks of the people we were passing by. They were quiet villages, so imagine it when she just all of a sudden greets them with that song!" I had to laugh. Blame the silence, I thought. It really just catches up on you, and if you don't sound off, it'll seem to explode inside your eardrums instead, becoming more deafening.
    
It was our third and last day of insobriety. We slept, of course--our only rest. But I couldn't help but think about the coming tomorrow, when reality hits again. I was feeling lighter though, knowing how Din would be in a bigger trouble than I. She had hooked up with another guy, a friend, over the weekend, and I knew I would then have to hear of her many aaaaaaaah!s and noooooooooo!s the moment we get back to the city and sobered up. I had to hold back a laugh. Things ARE different when we're sober. "Well, for one, you know the feeling would return once you drink again," I tried to comfort her. Jiminy was slowly finding his way back to her head. "I can't believe I did--ahhhhhhhhh!" I was laughing; I had to hold back the sound though. I was just too amused. "You're only feeling weird because it's the alcohol leaving your system. I assure you, once you drink again, you'd be horny again and you will forget this whole regret thing." I couldn't help it. I was already doubling over with laughter. I had to look away from her face because the more I see her misery, the more I can't help myself from laughing. "Lanox ba!" Believe me, a good dose of schadenfreude is healthy; I did feel good laughing at my friend's misery. Seriously though, I knew this would bother her for the coming days. The good friend that I was had warned her, but we must all know how it's like for her. The warm sea, the moon, and just about enough beer . . . it goes zzzziiiiiinnnngggg! then silence, then poof! it's the next day.    

To be fair, it would seem as hard for the guy too. You would know the people who has it real hard easily by the way they focus too much on the mundane. The entire night of that last drinking day would find Kip teaching Missy's sister how to play poker. By the looks of him, you wouldn't think anything was up at all. I was seated beside Moi, a guy I just met; he already knew the rest of them, except Din. Mardi and Missy was on my other side, acting the way group couples usually do, with the teasing and little fights and all that almost nauseating cutesy stuff. Once in a while, I would see Din going in and out the door to smoke outside the house. Tsktsk, drama queens are drama queens. I told her I saw it coming, and I would try and stop her when I see she no longer could hold herself. Well, it would seem even I didn't have what it takes to promote a little reservation. By the looks of it anyway, they have been holding it in for years already, and some things are just, well, inevitable. So, maybe, it was not just the beer that did it, not even with the aid of the nebulas in the cosmos and mother nature's seductions. They had it coming, and, boy, are they in biiiiig trouble. I am laughing still. Apart from my irrevocable pact with alcohol, I also take pride in my being a sucker for good stories. And, boy, wouldn't this make one heck of a good story. Din the Hardcore Chic and Kip the Sensitive Pornstar. You didn't even have to know the full story to understand my amusement.        
 

Red, White, and Booze

Disclaimer: The names of the people in this story have been changed to protect their secret identities.

You have to admit, people can be pretty narcissistic. They could go on bouts and bouts of getting wasted again and again just to try and lose control of themselves only to wake up the next morning and be amazed at themselves. "I did what?" Yeah, there's a shock on their faces, but you know they can't wait to hear the rest of the stories. "I actually forgot I did that!" But the sound of their voice alone tells you, they're proud of what they did . . . and forgot.

"I was talking to a tomato!" I could only give Chay a grin. More often, when I get the "allergies," I remember the entire night's highlights and, well, the lowlights too. That would be because I would then have to stop drinking and dilute the alcohol in my blood lest our drinking session instead turns into an ER episode. I then went on to tell Chay what happened, as I remembered them, the night before.

It started with the "new" drink. It was in a green bottle, not soju, and came in quarter-liter packaging. I think it was gin. I am not allergic to alcohol per se (thank God!), but certain nights just are, well, weird. So yeah, I can remember nights by the kind of drink we had then. Don't ask me dates nor special occasions. "Do you remember Ika's birthday last year?" I only would if I'm pretty close with the person, otherwise it would just be one of those nights to me. Forgive my drunkenness, really. "You remember that night we had ______ (name of drink)?" I would readily say I do. It's a gift; let it go. So it was the green night, as we now call it. "How do we drink that?" We started being concerned on how we drink new products when once we saw some Koreans down by a service station convenient store drinking sangria with bananas for pulutan. It's not that we think they were being weird or anything (we welcome that around here), it's just that we thought maybe that's how it's really done in some other part of the world. Who knows really, right? If we decide to be original and drink beer with banana cue, how are we to know if it must be how they also do it in a town in Liechtenstein? In the case of the green drink, well, it was just gin. We can handle that. We decided on lemon soda for our chaser.

It would seem there had been many bottles of green gin that night. It's like this, like when once you reach that certain level of intoxication, all else either become slower or faster from thereon. I'm rooting on the latter being what transpired that night, only a little faster than usual. There were four of us then. All I remember was one bottle after another then another then Lyla crossing the street as fast she could, pissed it would seem, and hurrying home. A guy friend somehow found himself with the remaining three of us, already drunk, and ended up going home with En-en, leaving her bag behind. The next coming days would, of course, find us interrogating her on what happened, perhaps something worth leaving her bag behind for. She said she was only very drunk. So there remained only Chay and me. "You were crying!" I laughed the moment I remembered what happened. "Whatever were you crying for?" I had to stop when her face started to took on her pikon look. Then, almost in exact synchronicity, "The pictures!" Lyla was our official photographer and kept a site where she posts our pictures. Usually, we would be excited to see our pictures after our nights, but this time it was different. En-en was shaking her head. "Let's blame the drinks." Lyla and I only looked at her, as though to say, Duh, what else? These are not us. Chay said it, "We're ugly in these pictures!" We laughed at that. They were pictures of how the green gin took on various forms using humans, us. Lyla got pissed. En-en got horny. Chay got dramatic. And I turned into a tomato.    

In the Blood

Call me sick, or twisted, whatever, but it was the most logical idea I could possibly have at that time. I wasn’t trying to make her become like me, or anywhere close. I was only trying to protect her. From the possible jerks who might fool her into thinking freedom is only in insobriety. Her world is as charmed as mine already. The only difference between us is that she’s in the sober world. I wanted her to see that the grass is just as green here as they are on her side.

We talked about family. I told her, well, yes, my drinking money I used to get from the parents. And yes, I feel guilty sometimes. I think guilty is not actually the word. I’m thinking pride, but that would require of me deeper reasons and more profound ideas and a possible nosebleed. So I decided to stick with guilt. I remember a friend, Adia, she told me she wouldn’t mind if her children become drug addicts in the future as long as they don’t ask the money from her. I was thinking the same thing about alcohol. As long as I have a job to pay my intoxication, I should be all right. And I did get a job. Only, I wasn’t able to foresee that I’m not alcoholic enough to drink down all my earnings. And I am not boasting. You should wonder why there are many alcoholics in the slums. It isn’t so expensive to get drunk. Drinking is the only thing I’m good at. And well, yeah, writing and words, which is my job, but you get the drift. I was earning more than I was drinking. That’s a big problem, to me at least. When I said drinking is my only forte (let’s make writing a given so that we could take it out of the picture), I wasn’t exaggerating. When I have money, I drink. When I don’t, I look for money; and when I do, I drink again. Clear enough, so far?

So there, my first justification. I could tell from the expression on her face that she was starting to feel sad for me, like all along I was a big disappointment in the making. After I told her, well, we still were not that rich to think about doing charities, and we really have everything else provided for, for us, already, she seemed to understand my point. Alcohol was an end. I don’t drink to be anything else, to serve any purpose, whatever; I drink because there is nothing else left for me to do. For me, I repeat. This should not apply to everyone else. Intoxication is customized. She was about to go further into the future; I stopped her. That’s a different story there. Let’s be egoistic for now.

I told her, well, the parents were big drinkers too, in their youths. We laughed. We had to agree on that. Even if they question my alcoholism again and again, they still would have to insert now and then their stories on how once upon a time, they would sneak at the stock area of bars, with a handy bottle opener, one at a time, with an excuse of taking a leak, only to feast on the stacks of cases of beers ready for their taking. The bar owner would wonder how, even with only a set of beer on their table, they would come out of the place ass-drunk. Those kinds of stories make one see the essence of drinking, and those same stories were the ones that made me realize the scolding I get was simply the SOP of parents to their children.

She was starting to burn on the cheeks a little. I had to smile to myself. There is this “zone” in drinking. Once you’re there, it’s where and when you realize why people drink. She must be there already. She was starting to laugh harder and was even telling some stories herself. I knew the guilt would catch up the next day (it always does for me in cases involving my intended manipulations), and so I doubled the toasts and the cheers to lose myself that night and let the next day worry for itself. It wasn’t going to get twice my worry time, that’s for sure. I only reminded myself again and again, this won’t happen again, and I’m doing her good. Ignorance and innocence are two different things. It’s not like the deal with cancer that you harm the good cells while trying to kill the bad ones. I only wanted to kill the curiosity before it gets to the cat. 

The thing about drinking is that it’s done sitting down. Thus, one can’t really tell if he’s had enough not until the time when he tries to stand up and walk and go home. And a drunk mind has way more strength than the body actually has. It’s kinda like, mathematically speaking, the inverse proportionality relationship. The more alcohol one takes in, the stronger his mind thinks it is, while the otherwise is true for the rest of him. In other words, I, again, had too much to drink that night. I made a temporary enemy of a friend, who, for some reasons, shared our table that night, the details have escaped me I’m afraid. I was to wake up the next morning with a nasty bruise on my left elbow (much as I had wanted to take all the blame, I had to be honest and give credit to the alcohol as well). Then my sister woke up. She laughed a bit before saying she wouldn’t go through one of those ever again. I succeeded.

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.

put that finger away; i tried to tell him then i was in love . . .

I drink with Ricky when I feel I'm most confident, not chemically induced, to add. He was just one of those smartasses whose big egos you'd just like to keep on adding air into until that one critical moment when the thinnest pin would do for a perfect prick. I cannot come unprepared; it is always a war around him. He would have the littlest annoyances. I understand how guys tend to make a big deal out of girls' toenails. Ugly nails are really a turnoff. My point was that I thought I didn't have to worry about my nails around my guy friends. "Be turned off all you want, MF! I wouldn't mind having ugly nails if it means keeping myself hump-free from you!" He allows me certain cuss words now. "No, really, even without the sexual clause, you should look after your nails." I looked at my nails then. I had to agree; they looked ugly. "Get over it. Just keep your eyes from my knees up."

After one bottle. "Some women cannot afford the look to reach your standards, you know," I told him. "What? Clean nails?" "Get over the nails already!" He smiled. He could get really picky with his women. Perhaps it was his only indulgence. He is a good person and has many opinions regarding how unfair the current system is for some of us. But this does not mean he would all-of-a-sudden go courting some nice girl from the slums. He likes them well dressed and all worked up to match the perfectly photographed ones in magazines. It's a man's world to him, and women could go and make themselves pretty all they want; the world has created heavier crimes than making its women beautiful. "I think if nails really should not matter that much, I would meet a girl who'd actually make me forget about them." This guy just could not get over things quick. I decided to join him further on with this topic he seems to be unable to let go of. "What do you think women before used for nail cutters?" I was really now starting to wonder. Of course, he, predictably, turns to me and gives me a look as if to say, "That's going too far back."

After the second bottle. "For all we know, God must have created Adam and Eve to see if they would end up killing each other." He laughed this time. By now he was already used to me being fond of God-thoughts. "Yeah. It's really a wonder, huh? Maybe they were not the first couple God made. The first ones could have killed each other. They only happen to be the first to actually learn about sex, which stopped them from cutting each other's head off." "And they say God hates the serpent." We were both amused and became silent for a long moment or two, each inside our respective Gardens of Eden.

The third bottle got opened. "I'm thinking of moving to a new place." He looked at me. If he was about to say something that would hint on an attempt to stop me, it didn't show on his face. As I've said, I only see him on a few occasions, and my moving to another place would not seem that big of a deal to him. By looking at the the number of times we get together, I could move to another city and still see him just the same, with the same frequency we currently have. "What's wrong with the place you have now?" I had to hold back a smile. Even if he understood clearly what I meant, he was making me feel as though the impossibility of what I intend to do just could not reach him. It was always like him to twist what I actually meant into something else, into what he thinks I intended to say, and he just has this way of making me end up going along with him until I become convinced that it was what I really meant to say to begin with. I meant a new city, not just a new place. But I still ended up saying, "It would be great to have a kitchen of my own." He nodded his head. He had me again.

The fourth bottle came, and I still wasn't even half drunk. "I'm running out of ideas for my book." I tried again. Even I cannot understand why I had to establish it with him that I was moving away. I could just send him a message one day that I'd be leaving in a couple of days and that I would like it if we get together with our friends for a despidida. I guess I'm a sucker for romance too. I'd like to know if he'd try to hold me back, or if he'd finally tell me some secret feelings that had been accumulating inside him--things like that. Don't get me wrong. I don't have a secret love for him or anything, or that I'm dreaming for us to one day realize we are actually in love with each other or something. I told you, this guy has some serious dose of megalomania in his blood. Those people, you wait for them to fall head-on just for the sake of seeing them tumble over. I have to say, though, that it never occurred to me as a problem just in case he actually does. There's a reason why I stayed friends with the conceited brat. Ricky could be a real charmer.

The fifth bottle found me starting to morph into a carrot. "You're starting to burn around the cheeks. Do you think you can still drink some more?" I told him I was fine. I just had too much sun over the previous weekend. "What happened to your hiatus from smoking?" I decided to go to another topic. I am an egoist too, and I considered him a break from myself. "I told you it was only going to be a short one," he answered me matter-of-factly. "I didn't think you'd last long without smoking either." I saw the look on his face and went for a quick follow-up to keep the tensions, his mostly, from rising. "I mean you really don't have any reasons to quit or anything, do you?" He must have realized I didn't mean anything from my last statement because he looked away from me and just stared at the space in front of him.

There were more yawns than talks when we reached our sixth bottle. He finally gave in to this one-case minimum when I pointed it out to him that we don't drink that often now anyways. I grabbed for one of the last two remaining slices of pizza left. He waited after my third bite and went for the last one. More silence followed. Halfway through his slice, he poured himself a shot, twirling the ice around in the glass to make the beer cold before drinking it. He then poured another shot and gave the glass to me. I got the glass from him and placed it on the table between us; I finished my pizza first before drinking down my shot. I then went on to stare at the space between me and the vandalized wall across the street.

and so there, both love and guilt

reversed fear.

 

your redemption instead,

 

much on that first introductions.

 

only to be back, yes,

 

but nevertheless not yet.

 

even if only to prove,

 

good things, you can live in their absence as well.

 

yes, even if only for a while.

 

"By my leaning over the precipice
Of your presence and your absense in hopeless fusion
My finding the secret
Of loving you
Always for the first time" (Breton, Andre). 

i will not live forever

i could only but quietly stare at his apparent disbelief.

he was not used to hearing no.

no.

"until when, then?"

i don't know . . .

i have to look for my insignificance again.

i need saving too.

i am no hero.

but i cannot be your damsel in distress.

our story cannot be that easy, even if classic, oh yes.

elegance? we never lacked modesty and our sometimes-overboard humility.

i remember, "don't be too humble; you're not that great."

ouch.

forget my arrogance. up until now, i know nothing still.

you cannot force any more words out of me.

i do not know anything.

take your ivies with you.

your quick-melt bullets.

your well-thought-up phrases.

i gave a knowing smile.

i know love now as well.ü

things less mundane

half old

he complains, "he does not love her enough."

yes, she wants some love to come from her as well.

don't take all the credit for this love we have.

i have given as well.


half blames

"you were never here."

your mind runs on time and infinities.

it's been minutes, i think, just mere fragments

to you

but to me, i've had forevers with you.


half sweet

sugarless, "i seem to have lost my senses somehow."

you laugh.

that story had been wanting to be told.

from you, to me.

somehow stories become a little livelier.


half home.

i know i've found it

yet i had to go

always, my absence had to follow.

half gone.

only because you were half there.

Undress

water on cardboard

i envy her words

we throw each other praises until onlookers decide we must have been the same person once long ago, and that our or my or your narcissism made us or me or you decide to want another entity for a mirror. i laugh when i see a misplaced punctuation. ha! see, i am smarter than you. then i read on. i see courage. then i remember your words. no, you deserve a better word. i then take a little piece of your bravery. oh yes, a mimicry. i then think to myself, she uses different words. unlike mine. not medieval nor renaissant nor victorian. those are the only ones i can come up with so far. she knows a lot too. she's loved. she's loved. i then move my head from side to side--what do you call a horizontal nod? tsktsktsk. a connoisseur. i began to wonder whether it was she who made him the whore that he's become. in some tabooed land, there is a temple where men peer through grids of multicolored laser, awaiting a mistress to lead them to some chamber. i can never understand how they mean when they say to love with the heart. i then search old shelves with cups for display--half cups. half cylinders. and then the clay carabao with one of its horns broken off. fingers like candy. a guitar tuning peg. like frankenstein in a costume party. shame. hidden.

when she reads, does she stick her eyes near the screen sometimes? bloodshot? perhaps not. her crazy dance. limbs flailing, hands unclenched. women. she made her first tambourine with seashells. the sound comes with a ckle in the end. shackled to the sand with threaded thin cyclinellas and coffee-bean trivias.

how do you keep the flame from falling off the wood it stands on. "you throw a strand to a wall. if it sticks, it's cooked." i laughed. not to these walls, not. i drew near to have a feel of it. webs too. i decided not to. something behind that laughter, roarious sometimes, you see. of course, i always wait for you to rescue me. you instead. every time. i will never understand your hate, thus i always return it back. a little childlike, you say, then when you get mad, it becomes childish, foolishness. sometimes you even simply brush me off. thus i hide in your unknown. giggles of knowing friends. matching objects. a pact. forever. lovers were people not mindful much of time.

you make me laugh as well

with the smiles not so often seen.

then immediately sadness when we part

you see, i got too shook up with the quickness of your leaving         

metered word, they say, love, would bring you back

only a feel, a feel, then words

here now mourns one poet

for a death that left her excluded

a whispered, "speak to me in french . . . "

from which you broke into an uproarious laughter

you have mocked my lovemaking again

i then smile, oh you . . .

my scripts are made up of clichés. i see with one, thus i only see one. a table near a sink used to be kitchen enough. culinary with fire. the trees felt the blood touch the ground on which they, too, stand on. then weeping followed. they thought, perhaps such is the case always. then, one of those days, it was explained to them what hematophobia is. "where are the trees' ears, ma?" she then looked down at the child. "they only grow them when you start talking to them. you start with a whisper. then the tree grow ears on its part where it can hear you most clearly." everyday, with her ipod, she takes a seat under her favorite tree, leaning on the nook that she found cradles her just well. she places one of the earpiece beside her, touching the tree. "i won't carve you an ear. i can't play with knives yet."

maybe a story about a woman this time. knowing the things that girls are not supposed to know just yet. women with mysterious smiles. she's tried them too before. deciding one day to pick up a mirror and just play with her face. a woman looks this way, she thought, as she wiped all smile off her face first, then recalled a good memory, a funny memory, but she can't laugh. she must try to look serious still, and slowly, just slowly, let the laughter start with a smile first. slow, graceful. she then let out a giggle. she was being silly, but then she didn't know what that word meant. she didn't talk in her mind yet back then.

she's got it programmed in her. when it hurts her even a tad bit too much, she then shuts it off her conscious thoughts. "at some point, i would have a bad day too." "we're seeing too little of each other lately. maybe we're done." "like you have a bad day now." "oh." "maybe sleep." "yeah."

her smile is a wave that moves sideways

it is the flaw of seeing with unbiased eyes . . . you become fixated instead on the pendulum-like swinging . . . back and forth, all things covered, back and forth. if you are one of those greedy with moments, this saturation of an always different everydayness should be for you. say this is a dare . . . i dare you to love.

to lose track of time. thoughts rendered incoherent just because there is a lack of the idea of the order of time in it. you no longer remember things according to what happened first nor how long the moments lasted . . .

when you fall in love, you do not fear the person you are falling for per se. it's the beautiful images that come with her--a fear that you might disappoint, yourself most of all. if love is blind, it could as well go deaf too. you have become a part of your own concepts. reality. beautiful images. now with you in it . . .

and now here's the smile . . .

you dared.ü

gnyt . . . just a good night this time . . . ü

*crack* breaks another layer of her shiny shell

i know when i'm back with only a pen, i'd look back to the last time a keyboard was at hand. so here. but i really am not contemplatative right now, so maybe next timeü

Random pic

circa 2006

of euphemisms and double entendres . . .

for a certain thought, there is a many language. for a certain image, picture, frame, clip, there are a many words that can be used to describe, tell, express, explain, ask. nobody listens anymore. they look for the second meaning, the third, and so on. take me literally. the time when people use some other perceiving senses other than the ears to listen. words. words. words. nightmares. nightmares. nightmares. shakespeare said at some point a man plays many roles. a single word now holds so many meanings. thus i look for the unnamed, the unknown, the new, the not yet existing. do not be scared. you were once nonexisting too.