Showing posts from March, 2006

3 Days, Baby*

Blame it on him.Meme No. 2: Write 20 random facts about yourself, then tag a number of people equal to the number of minutes it takes you to write the facts.1. I am more interested in doing Meme No. 1 than this.
2. I used to eat chalk when I was young and won't mind eating some now.
3. What poses as fact in this blog is half-truth, if not a complete lie.
4. I classify friends.
5. This meme is too pacute, but I'm answering this, because: a) JO is a good friend; b) It's in my nature to be pacute; c) It's a break from my usual blogging mood and d) There's nothing better to do.
6. I drink coffee at Starbucks/Figaro/SBC every day.
7. Am not fond of short stories.
8. I don't believe in anyone who says s/he is passionate about Bjork's music.
9. I love watching basketball and volleyball.
10. I do not know how to cook. (And I feel ashamed.)
11. If I'll be bestial, I'll do it with a cheetah.
12. I have pathetically dry skin.
13. I am willing to spend 1,000 …

The Sound Breaking

Got seriously sick in six months. I woke up, the right side of my head felt like breaking. I thought it would just go away if I fight it, just like what I did to my other headaches. And so I got dressed, went out. I rode a bus from Buendia to Ayala, and as the bus passed by the LRT station, I felt like vomiting. I got off. Vomited.

I vomited the ache away. I could already walk and think straight, but I opted not to go to work. Six months ago, given the same situation, I would've gone to work with no question, but now, no.

Figuring my way back home, I still considered going to the office. It was so near. I felt bad for the sum of money I'd lose and the impending blemish on my attendance report. Funny, I never wanted to live for money and records, but if not for these short-term objects, what for?

I kept remembering my friend who'd not attend to work, because he had to write a poem. (Bakit kaya ang sarap-sarap ng tula? I completely admire those who trust, ang tu…

What keeps some of us

Don Paterson

In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps
one spark of the planet's early fires
trapped forever in its net of ice,
it's not love's later heat that poetry holds,
but the atom of the love that drew it forth
from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love
begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice
suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's--boastful
with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins;
but if it yields a steadier light, he knows
the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound
like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.

Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water
sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.The greatest gratitude for poetry.