Mild devastation

That Will to Divest
Kay Ryan

Action creates
a taste for itself.
Meaning: once
you've swept
the shelves
of spoons
and plates
you kept
for guests,
it gets harder
not to also
simplify the larder,
not to dismiss
rooms, not to
divest yourself
of all the chairs
but one, not
to test what
singleness can bear,
once you've begun.

Made some more cleaning today. It hurt my head and body. Reaching the top of the cabinet, inhaling dust, and sorting—especially sorting—make me weak.

I filled three big plastic bags with trash: student handbooks, bookmarks, scrapbooks. I put one bookmark in the plastic bag and thought, why not throw the other two bookmarks? I forgot my reasons.

I kept all those things before, thinking it'd be nice to look at them in the future and that I might need them. It wasn't nice to look at the free Jollibee pocket calendar and I cannot use it now. No nostalgia's even slightly evoked by it.

Am done with the closet. There's still the study table to organize, and another small cabinet of files and... stuff. I need to fix everything for me to sleep well in my room, because having my own place is still far ahead in the future.

At one point I wanted to burn everything and start life from scratch.

My playing is my praying*

1.
Afternoon, I was watching my friend, Heizel, on ABC 5's reality show, "Ang Pagbabalik". But I'm not going to talk about Heizel (my friends and I will talk about her and the show when we meet, hehe).

The show was basically a retreat recorded for public consumption this lent. Watching, I was imagining my self there with a different group of people. I always enjoyed having retreats in high school. We go to a clean, open place; trees abound, birds chirruping; songs were sung, good breakfast was shared. And I must admit I had satisfiction crying with people.

I only felt reluctant to get involved in sharing life stories, for the plain reason that I had no stories to share. I felt experience-poor.

Not that I have tons of experience now. But when I was younger, I only had fantasies. Now I have fantasies and failures. When I speak of what I dream of, there already is an anxiety in knowing I may or may not make it; and that making it is not the end of sadness.

2.
Retreat master, Father Bert, discussed the different types of prayer. I was glad he mentioned that by being aware, we are praying—some think attention is the highest form of prayer. And I believe that is why art exists, because we pay careful attention. I trust art is not made, but discovered.

3.
I cleaned my closet. I'd gone through many closet-cleanings and I kept a lot of clothes, thinking I would use them in the future. Now I got rid of them.

*From a pianist

You don't know me

Whenever I hear someone say that—in defense, I think, Well of course I don't!

I am never one to claim I know a person. Or say, Ah, si ano, hindi niya gagawin 'yon, kilala ko 'yon, e... I am always ready to be surprised by people both in a good and bad way.

Word. A silence charged with sweetness*

The moon has been terribly violent these nights. It wakes me up at 3 in the morning. Pulling down the curtain doesn't do any good, because my curtain's too thin—you know how hot it is in the Philippines.

In other news, I am completely immersed in Seamus Heaney's book, Death of a Naturalist.

The Play Way
Seamus Heaney

Sunlight pillars through glass, probes each desk
For milk-tops, drinking straws and old dry crusts.
The music strides to challenge it,
Mixing memory and desire with chalk dust.

My lesson notes read: Teacher will play
Beethoven's Concerto Number Five
And class will express themselves freely
In writing. One said 'Can we jive?'

When I produced the record, but now
The big sound has silenced them. Higher
And firmer, each authoritative note
Pumps the classroom up tight as a tyre,

Working its private spell behind eyes
That stare wide. They have forgotten me
For once. The pens are busy, the tongues mime
Their blundering embrace of the free

Word. A silence charged with sweetness
Breaks short on lost faces where I see
New looks. Then notes stretch taut as snares. They trip
To fall into themselves unknowingly.

* From Seamus Heaney's book, Death of a Naturalist

Fourteen/twenty-four: Still, fool

Just saw The Virgin Suicides (thanks, Jen, for the gift DVD).

At the beginning, I envied Lux for being the elusive object of Trip's desire. Trip, who was every girl's fantasy. After the Lisbon sisters' suicides, he, already an adult, was interviewed and said his love for Lux was the real thing.

When I was in high school, my goals consisted of writing a graphic novel, find the nearest available puppy love and construe it as the real thing. Just finding things to call mine. I never had both.

By the next half of the film, it was suggested that Trip had been mentally unstable. I felt a strange relief, because their love failed, or that there wasn't any solid love at all.

After the many small accumulations in life, there is this and that that I proudly and securely call mine. But I'm still confused with reality. It's very hard for me to convince other people that I love them as well as it is hard for me to be convinced I am loved.

Finally Trip said that he was happy he experienced it, because other people just don't. It being the thing he and Lux supposedly shared.

The relief had been taken away from me. What if it indeed was the real thing? He left Lux alone in the field, in the cold. —Left her the burden of their irresponsibility. He promised Lux's parents he'd take her home. But what if for the briefest moment there was really love? That they've had it and I just won't?

April fool's smile

There, I've done it. I mean, here, I've done it.

Due to my OC-ness, I'd been itching to alter, make more functional this blog's template. And for the longest time, I badly desired to have the codes cleaned. Now I can breathe. Now my chest is light.

As you can see, people change, but not really. I moved to a different house, but virtually retained all the furniture. I would've gone for a totally different look, but with lack of technical skills (or money to hire a webpage designer) and time, I'd have to settle with this skin. All that I need is here: labels, hierarchical display of archives, recent comments feed, selective expandable posts, and you.

This weblog is important to me, if it's not obvious yet. And so dear Blogger, I hope you continue to improve your services. I shall remain loyal to you.

*

Anyway, with this online journal's overhaul, I've just completed another item on my birthday to-do list and it really feels good! (I can't believe I'm using an exclamation point in a tone such as this! Now there're three exclamation points! [including that one], so you should understand that it indeed feels good).

And speaking of my birthday, I thank Mich for the personalized birthday cake. I usually get furious when my name's misspelled or mispronounced, but that time, I just smiled and thought, ang jologs.

Now let me get dirty. The truth is this is just a test post. I want to see if I got the codes right. I believe I did, since there should be no other way.

A special mention to Alts, because I envied some of the features in her personal blog; that if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't know there were such features and it was also in that blog where I got the links to the hacks.

As for Diwata Nakpil, don't ever think that I killed her, or will. She's very much alive and active, and she's currently writing under the pseudonym, Razel.

Testament

Do not mistake me for an angel. I am a human animal that cannot love you unconditionally. But accept the blessing: It is not in my nature to be child-like and sweet, to be selfless and this vulnerable. I will, till death, love you excessively.

Cumulative weather

Or A life of almosts.

Afternoon, I dropped by the university to pick up my transcript of records. I hated doing that. I hated getting report cards, course cards, anything that has grade—my grade in it. Not in fear of failure in the zero-point-zero sense, but in failure of making the cut in terms of excellence.

I started out college with the awesome feeling of taking the right course: of enjoying seven o'clock classes, forever enthusiastic, because I couldn't get enough of learning and being my self.

And then terms ended. Terms ended with regret of not making it to the dean's list. School years ended. They ended with the frustration of having only three-point-something averages.

College had to end with disappointment in graduating almost with distinction. Had I only pushed a bit harder, my undergraduate self said.

In the afternoon, my graduate self looked at the transcript. With the simple intention of dropping by the school to pick up a two-page document, I wound up sitting for half an hour looking at numbers, recounting each imperfect episode I lived through: an enjoyably prestigious career, if only the boss wasn't such a baby; the loveliest lover, if only there was love going on; the chic blouse missing a button.

Yes, no point spending much time, intellect and energy on things like these; only you realize that after doing it, after making amends with your mind:

(There's no place for bitterness in my life but my coffee...) 3.450 is not a story but a stat. The glories of a term, its deathly dullness, or sheer uselessness are not translated in those figures.

(If I only needed to be employed, my transcript of records is in fact good-looking.)

—Or How we fool each other.

Do Not Disturb: Lady Fantasizing

Sinangag. Longganisa. Tocino. Tapa. Nilagang baka. Kaldereta. Mais. Crab and corn soup. Cup noodles. Kit Kat. Tourist. Tofi Luk. Hello Panda. Curly Tops. Bangus. Danggit. Mahi-mahi. Aratiles. Tuna melt. Chalk. Fishball. Kamikaze. Cappuccino. Latte. Bacardi. Pale Pilsen. Egg. Banana. Kare-kare. Vcut. Kesong puti. Mushroom. Blazing burger. Afritada. Sky Flakes. Cowhead. Mrs. Fields. Macadamia. Chilli flakes. Wheat bread. Ludy's. Doughnut. Mashed potato. Mais con yelo. Pesto. Shrimp. Panini. Arroz caldo. Bagoong. Pula ng itlog na pula. Lechon. Luglog. Canton. Palabok. Embutido. Sago't gulaman. Ham. Crepe. Lasagna. Monggo. Paella. Paksiw. Pinakbet. Turon. Teriyaki. Mang Tomas. Cheesecake. Lumpia. Morcon. Ovaltine. Chocolait. Clubhouse sandwich. French fries. Naan. Pancake. Kamatis. Garlic. Green peas. Ube. Empanada.

Not tinola. Not sunny-side up. Not decaf. No sugar. Not Light. Not Bloody Mary. Keep the bones, if we're talking chicken. Not flat tops. Not caramel. Not powder. Not keso de bola. Not chocolate cake. Not ice cream. Not fruit salad. Not pineapple. None of the berries and cherries. Not halo-halo. Not bihon. Not siomai. Not hard-core Japanese. Not banana ketchup. Not maling. Not angel hair. Not dense company. Not chopsticks. Never marshmallow.

Valentine, without the sugar

To live whether or not s/he requites the love is not my tougher task in loving, but being awake all night and disrupted all day, hurt for their wound.

Oh Seven

Sir R: ...Hope all is well on your end--love, career, thesis, poetry...

Me: ...funny you mention that. If I had to grade my performance in those aspects, I'd have a poor, and therefore improvable average of 1.5.

Sir R: Given the state of the world and the nature of human existence, 1.5 is not bad at all. I'd give myself a 1.5 as well!

And then the mention of the word, desire.

2006, Best of, Part 2

2006, Best Of, Part 1

How and why on earth do I love thee?

The truth is not always logical and what's logical's not always the truth.

Inaderwurds: Shut up! and just let me.

Res

And then comes the moment when you're doing something for so long the made purpose of the course is to prove a point you've drawn before only in theory.

My stay here at the office has been all I needed it to be: a money-making gig. But I won't deny its queer gifts. An object of my affection and desire, and therefore my literature, and the precise affirmation of the concept itself: Life sucks, but I'm cool.

I will leave this work. This is an authentic announcement. I must admit that this, for me, is a happy place, making it the very space where I get hurt most and often, and easily.

There should be shame in this weakness perpetually practiced: It's more convenient to get mad and fight than reason and compromise.

It is hardest to reason and reason well. It's nothing short of telling a plausible story.

The Rest Of October

And how it went--

"Gusto ko, kapag kinuwento ko sa iyo, kuwento na lang siya."

*

Before, I benefit from/in thought that trust is a singular affair.
Now, the lesson is to trust in trusting people.

The point where both our facts meet, that they fit, is truth.

*

This must be friendship when the silence and distance you communicate
elicit not coldness.

*

Commitment to the moment may be the closest I can get to forever. But
let me spare the details as I often have. I cannot yet betray my
self, the person, the story.

Half Of October

And where it went, I refuse to accept.

Probably because what went with time, I know I cannot retrieve, exactly as time.

Or I cannot hurry whatever I assume, pray will still return.

*

Given our changes are still us, where are those who've changed with
us?, through us?

*

Amazing how time passes swiftly along with waiting. And hurt does not
hurt enough.

Yet almost crazily I obsess with beginnings and endings, like my
sanity relies solely as to where I place my self in the spectrum.

*

What I give may be mine--what of those I'm not willing to let go of?

The giving game is fun only when someone's needing.

*

Half of October is spent in doubting and hanging on to whatever's left
to hold on to: dreams, deceit; what's left of good intentions;
figuring the extent of things I could do and the extent of what I
could forgive, thus accept.

I measure my days with how much I manage to live without: messages
and a plea for a call, the desire to send messages and call.

Take Tuesday Off The Calendar

If you could take away a day from the week, what day would it be?

I heard this question in a radio talk show a couple of nights ago. And I answered it in my head.

I cannot take away Monday. It's "Manic Monday." It's when one is either excited/hopeful in starting the week, and in some ways, a new life or highly frustrated for again starting yet another unremarkable seven days.

Wednesday, I cannot take away too. It has such character. It's the middle of the work and school week and Lisa's made a song with it, "Waiting for Wednesday." It's the day when you think of how you'll progress through the rest of the week, make it quite pretty, if not fantastic.

Thursday, Thursday is my favorite. It's the day before Friday. When Thursday comes, Friday becomes so near, meaning the weekend is so near. And just pronounce "thurs." Hear it. It's soft and smooth as rabbit's fur.

Friday? May be over-rated, but I, too, scream, T.G.I.F.! on that very day.

Saturday--well, we love it. Simply, excessively. I treasure a heartful of Saturdays in my life.

And Sunday is always blessed with that "Sun"--er--that clarity of sorts. It's my personal rest day. Lazy Sunday. Slow, sweet Sunday.

Therefore: Tuesday is the unspecial one. It simply lays there. It's like one of those acquaintances whom you can live without. Who has not stirred your story even ever so slightly. A verse that has not pierced its way into memory.

Tuesday, I had my heart bruised. By not knowing enough. By knowing too well. Both A and B. A fish in a bowl well aware of salted water.

You are not fair. You're rejecting me at the wrong time. Variations of no and silence would've been useful in the beginning when nothing's begun yet; when there's nothing to end.

The Weather: "You Don't Have To Name It"

1.
"You want God to laugh? Tell him about your plans." --Amores Perros


2.
I just had a great Saturday with my brother. We went to Brittany Bay, ate burger for lunch, had coffee, then on the way home, while drizzling, I vomited on the street the liters of water I drank at the cafe.

At home, we watched, "Amores Perres," a film that reminded me of Sannrise--which reminded me that "hope is severed from expectation," as Ms. Michaels put it quite well.


3.
It's nebulous, how I'm feeling, I don't know the things I have, I don't know them, because I don't have a name for them.

To name is to limit, to capture, yes, in a way. But what if I give a wrong name, what if I assume? I'll just force the circle into the square. But then I agree man makes miracles and that "everything is in everything else," as Mr. Paterson put it quite well.

And I like the advice, not having to name it. To just stand at an approximation, though so worried now, I like not being worried about an end. Dot dot dot.

I'm just scared, maybe. Fear is noble; it's quite cool, in fact. I'm lazy.


4.
Let it be, let it be. But let is also a verb, an action as consequential as pull.


5.
The present is quite disappointing, yet like you, would I really rather be elsewhere?

I'm not good enough for this very common world

1. I cannot endure how something must be given up for something.

2. How my human wishes are being disapproved.

3. I cannot purely give.

4. Love is killing me, and without it, it's killing me all the same
and more. The way he and his absence torment me.