21 May 2006

The mayness of May

They trip to fall into themselves unknowingly.

—Seamus Heaney, The Play Way
I'm taking all the chances to make my chances.

Elliptically talking to friends. Sentences disguising the sentiment.

I make a dedication not to list the statistics, for I want to turn the facts into story. That which has beginning, middle—how I'll linger in the middle, and I'll hurt in the middle, and I'll wait in the middle, might even make promises in the middle.

For something sane:

But for the name, the only pronoun appropriate is in our common tongue: siya, niya, kaniya. And of between us: kita.

Pagtingin: no, never, never a feeling, but a way of seeing.

I have a way of seeing you.

That which the I can never elucidate to the you.

Thus the injury.

With E:
E: I don't think I can handle rejection.

Me: I undermine rejection with worth of that gift of knowing someone finds a certain wonder about you.
Simply acknowledge that someone honestly admires you.

Either accept it or reject it: in both ways, you'll acknowledge it.

Own my sincerity. Hold the most abstruse part of me.

And stray, or end it in the middle?
When suddenly at midnight you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don't mourn your luck that's failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don't mourn them uselessly;
as one long prepared and full of courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don't fool yourself, don't say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don't degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and full of courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion,
but not with the whining, the pleas of the coward;
listen—your final pleasure—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

—CP Cavafy, The God Abandons Antony

13 May 2006

No connection with pain

Gwendolen MacEwen

it's interesting how you can brag about a scar;
I'm fascinated with mine; it's diagonal and straight,
it suggests great skill, great speed,
it is no longer or shorter than it needs to be.

it is good how it follows my natural symmetry
parallel to the hip, a perfect geometry;
it is not a wound; it is a diagram
drawn correctly, it has no connection with pain.

it's interesting how you can brag about a scar;
nothing in nature is a straight line
except this delightful blasphemy on my belly;
the surgeon was an Indian, and beautiful, and holy.

06 May 2006


I went to Paenaan, Antipolo last Friday for a company outing. Suddenly, 17 of us found ourselves bored and so nagkayayaang umakyat ng bundok.

We were just supposed to see a waterfall. We didn't know we had to climb a mountain for more than an hour.

It was my first time. I haven't even tried wall climbing in the malls. Had I been alone, I wouldn't pursue it at all. But "Since the rest of the girls are doing it, why can't I?", I said to my self. Uhuh, peer pressure.

Every time I worry about going through a very steep incline, my worry doubles, for I also had to think of going back--how I could manage that.

And because I'm writing this, I managed.

Not A Virgin In Mountain Climbing Anymore Talk About Hard-To-Get Water

I never thought I would enjoy it. After reaching the waterfall, and higher, drinking the fresh water from a bamboo tongue, I got a feeling I could do anything. There really is something about challenging your physical limitations--the moment I got down, I thought of when my next climb would be.

01 May 2006

Good Intentions

I guess it's an old idea that in the end (or at the core?) of all acquaintances and relationships, what we really want and need to know of another is what they think of us. With the knowledge of how the other perceives you, suddenly s/he becomes complete, or suddenly uninteresting.

I never1 reject a Friendster testimonial, for I would like to believe those things are written with urgency, thus sincerity.2

And you are, of course, excited about what people would like to say about you, excited even at the craft of it--how they say it (your friends, after all, are reflective of you.) And you, of course, can't help but wait for that adjective you want to hear.3

And, of course, the time when I overanalyze. I get a bit crazy when people throw away a description like "she's a good writer," when they haven't read anything I've written, nor are they interested in writing at all. I get crazier when they write their testimonials as if they're texting you. But I will never reject, because again, the theory that it's done in the highest sense of spontaneity.4 Plus, I am of the mythological conditioning that I get along well with all kinds of people: elitists and others; text-conscious and not; homophobic and alcoholic; Ann, Anne, Ana and Anna.

This source of blind trust is what intrigues and bothers me, because I cannot figure anything but ignorance. Not that I'm being hard on my self and them, but pleasure and pain are accurate when their source is real. And real things are hard to come by.--Or that it must agree to what I opine?5

I wonder what those friendsters of mine think of me now. Now, at this very moment, that I look at some special ones: each of them surfacing constantly from memory, since their pictures have never been complete in my mind.

1) Well, not entirely true, since I do not approve those graphic stuff that you don't really think of.
2) There are two instances, though, when my friends blatantly told me they're writing me a testimonial, so I should write them one too! Eww.
3) For the longest time, I've been waiting for someone to say I'm sexy; I can't understand why no one has written that yet. Leche.
4) And hey, it's just Friendster. And hey, who among us is perfect anyway?
5) To make it easier, what I only mean by "real" is "intelligent." What I always mean by real is intelligent.

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