Look Back, Move Forward

Because some days and nights felt longer than the past year. Cheers to life, my friend, to life.

Bubbles for 2012

Because fire crackers give me the creeps

photography by Laura Kok

The New Year

I will dive to the bottom of the hotel pool and find my mother’s hairpin.

With the mouth of a drowning woman on my lap,
I will add her breath to mine. In the dark, I will lay the thin white sheet

of the moonlight over the blue plums of my wife’s breasts.

With the new planet I discovered just when I thought I was losing my sight,
I will love another man because I will be a woman.

Everything important will never as yet have happened. Let it happen.

I will throw a lit match on the secrets my body
has kept from me and stand in the fire. The people I have sawed in half

will appear in my bedroom mirror, getting dressed.

--Jason Shinder

On to various manuals

A Drunkard's Guide to Heartache


“There is no space wider than that of grief,
there is no universe like that which bleeds.”
-Pablo Neruda


I can come to only one conclusion.
One that is pillared by starlight
and teaches me how to dance.
I can only dream of spaces that
dignify my sorrow with a view
of dawn, and sound out my loneliness
among all of yours. Let us leave
the world for a while. Turn our
minds to the span of mystery.
We are all children of feeling.
So hurt. Because what we require
is the opposite of space. A wall.
A tide of self. Whatever it is
you fill, know that you still hold.
Remember your family and breed.
Don’t waste your purpose.
And if you don’t have a purpose,
sit down and drink until
you reacquaint yourself  with need.
That delicate ache, that beautiful
cliché. I want to hear you feel.
I want to dream with you and search
for our ghosts. I want desire
to keep me away from my desires.
So that I may suffer space. So that
my hands may know the reaching.
So that tomorrow I may still be
too alive to believe in emptiness.
Let me keep my days filled with
quarrel and deceit. This is what
I know, this gravity, this life, that
pulls all light and turns it into beating,
A rhythm, a form of art, my being.

--Rafael San Diego

Online Test: Personality Disorders

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid Personality Disorder:	High
Schizoid Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Schizotypal Personality Disorder:	High
Antisocial Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Borderline Personality Disorder:	Very High
Histrionic Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Narcissistic Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Avoidant Personality Disorder:	Very High
Dependent Personality Disorder:	Very High
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder:	Moderate
-- Take the Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Info --

Insomnia

Sapped veins colored with penitence,

insides churning mad with frailty.

The thin of blood is thin of blood.

How do you intend to kill

these stagnant nights?

Only you could remember

how it all began: vestiges becoming

a shadow inhabiting, the restless

rising black against black walls.

Eyes drying white. The apparent

lack of signs, vital. Nights will die

engulfed in the body’s ailing.

To the Displaced

Many dread the difference time draws
in a day trying to hear careless passing
as it treats each moment like the next

just another happening no longer lasting
only a second, a minute, an hour, a life-
time behind your mind suspended inevitably

encrypted: fragments cast into the turning
tides of the sea where uncertain is recovery
grasping severed pieces being stolen away

Oh time what use have you but for us to forget
and so you are forever indifferent to all
the pining and pounding as we dare to salvage

our wants in ifs, for this is

what I mean
when I miss.

Through the Woods: An essay about an essay

I am currently digesting assigned readings for my creative non-fiction class. Out of the pile (but I've honestly only read four), an essay by American reporter Leslie Rubinkowski made me understand a little more about issues which concern truth and lies, not just in writing, but in our daily lives. The title of the piece is In the Woods, below is a brief summary and commentary about the essay. 

Summary

Leslie Rubinkowski recounted his experience as an adolescent who dealt with a grandfather who constantly told strange stories. Growing up, he always knew they were lies. He began by narrating one of his grandfather’s stories about a naked woman he saw one evening in the woods. Another unbelievable story, also set in the woods, was about some weird animal he found; it had quills like a porcupine that seemed to look more like feathers, and a duck bill. No, his grandfather didn’t think it was a platypus. He told lies with great gusto.

Rubinkowski hated it when his grandfather lied, but for some reason, he was still drawn to ask what happened next. He wrote, “That is where it all starts, doesn’t it? Then what: that lovely painful pull of the thing you need to know, whether you need to or not.” Later on, Rubinkowski became a reporter. His inquisitive nature and penchant for getting into the bottom of things definitely worked to his career’s advantage.

In one of Rubinkowski’s assignments, a woman lied to him about being cast in a hillbilly variety show back in the ‘70s. This woman even suggested she had “known” Elvis Presley, that she was in love with him. He knew the lady was lying but he did his research anyway. The lady believed so much in her dream that she came off as sincere. Although Rubinkowski knew she was a fake, deep down he still wanted to believe in her story. He realized that there are lies that try to hide, and there are those that reveal something more significant about loss and hope. He concluded that part of the essay by saying, “So maybe what I'm looking for aren't lies at all. Maybe what I'm looking for—hoping for—is a happier truth."

The final part of his essay narrated one of his grandfather’s stories about the strange animal. He saw it walking toward him from the woods. Here, he began to see the world through his grandfather's imagination. That morning, the writer was born.

Commentary

The narrative presented Rubinkowski as an adolescent who was keen on listening to the story itself, regardless of whether it was fact or fiction. At first he seemed to reason that he was just fond of good stories, which was why he didn’t mind listening to lies. While writing the essay, I believe he was trying to understand why people went through all the trouble just to tell lies, and why he actually took the time of day to even listen to them.

In an effort to understand his grandfather, he researched the kind of life he lived. From what I gather, he believes his grandfather made-up narratives that represented his ideal self. Maybe he did so to establish a connection with his grandson. The experience opened his mind to great possibilities, helping him cope with a melancholic childhood. And, I guess it worked because Rubinkowski said he thinks he did so out of love. He also acknowledged that his grandfather was a great influence in the kind of writer he has become.

In the middle of the essay, he confessed that, as a writer, writers lie all the time even when they deal with facts. Because we derive a lot of information from memory, at some point it’s likely to be inaccurate. Memories can be factual but it’s not fleshed out—it’s just imagined. I can identify with this point because more often than not, memories aren’t very reliable especially when we try to recall something so distant. They usually require proof. Personally, when I try to remember specific details from my past, I sometimes happen to confuse myself with what really happened and what I dreamed could have happened. This is why it’s so important to talk to other people and confirm events if we really want something accurate. But, what is the point? Is it simply to recover the past and arrive at some truth? I have to say the process of remembering and sorting fact from the imagined is just as important because at the end of it all, we have to make sense of it.

I appreciate how the writer was able to arrive at the conclusion that there is some significant meaning behind the kind of lies people create. He gave perspective to an essential aspect of the human condition: the kind of hopes and dreams people live with. I believe the final part of the essay described what it means to finally have a shift of perspective and to dive beyond the parameters of reality to experience life as it should be lived.

I guess it’s true that we might just find that truth we’re looking for if we hang around long enough to see it. But then, if we don’t, maybe we can move on and create new truths by living life as earnestly as we can.

Discrimination: Like a Boss

Archetypes

What Fantasy Archetype are you? Your Result: The Mentor You are wise and knowledgeable due to years of experience. Your sagacity is unparalleled, and you find yourself training the hero to fulfill his or her destiny. You are the real power behind the crusade.
The Hero
The Damsel in Distress
The Prime Evil
The Hapless Extra
What Fantasy Archetype are you? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Introvert’s Regress

                If you've never walked away from anything, you wouldn't know how good it feels. The best things in life are short, they must be savored.

               These days, I’m a very light sleeper. Even the faint sound of the door creaking can stir me awake no matter how late I fall asleep. There’s no need for alarm clocks. I’m up the moment somebody else rises from their bed and walks down the stair case to make breakfast. You can count in my mom’s hair dryer, the TV, speeding cars, and the neighbor’s caffeine infused chit-chats to wake me. Of course, I usually feign sleep so I won’t have to get up right away. I prefer skipping mornings. And lately, I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I don’t want to think about anything.

                This morning was different: my cellphone alarmed, or so I thought. It took a while for me to realize somebody was calling at 6AM. I thought what now? When I answered the call, I heard Jun grumbling just like the night before. The first call lasted a minute; I didn’t understand what the hell he was saying. His voice was stiff, languid, he sounded perfectly spent. Jun didn’t seem to have slept. After a few minutes, he called again. That’s when the gravity of the situation hit me: His recent ex-girlfriend, my close friend Tina, was threatening to kill herself if he didn’t take her back. Something inside me knew that call was coming. It was inevitable. Unsettling as it was, it didn’t keep me from staying under the sheets. I slept again right after dealing with the call. 

Yesterday, however, I decided to: 1) wake up 2) go out.

Morning Kinks

               

                Well, okay. I didn’t wake up that early, I still pretended to sleep. I woke with that morning after feeling wet and tender down there. It was a cozy morning, my head was light. I quite enjoyed lingering in my sheets fantasizing about what goes inside private rooms when two people are left alone together while others outside aren’t watching, or when two people get it on while a pair of stealthy eyes can see them. I guess I dreamt of that, I just tend to forget. I’m not sure whether I’m the voyeur or the one indulging with another body in the dream. In any case, I thought I had a pleasant morning.

                I sipped dark coffee and played 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins on my laptop. One might think it dreary to hear a song about being in a land of a thousand guilts so early into the day, but it was frankly reassuring. It’s exactly how I’d describe coming of age if I had to sing about that threshold. When you've withdrawn long enough from the world outside, coming back to reality feels like being born. This day was one of them.


             I logged into my account and made an effort to validate my existence by making a human connection. I decided to leave him a message. I didn’t think he’d reply. At first, we talked about rooms. Then, he asked about this film.

Have you seen Closer?

Yes, back in college. I liked that movie.

I did too. It was straight up, frank and complicated.

Yes, it absolutely was. I bet you can relate?

Haha. Yes, Jude Law’s character was so much like me.

Oh, but out of all the characters, he was most cheated. Guess which character resembles me? Julia or Natalie?

Yeah, well that’s exactly how I ended up. Hmmm. I’m not sure, but I think you’re more like Natalie.

You got it, I’m more of a Natalie. But I didn’t like her character at all in the film, she was so fucking vile.

Hahaha. But that’s why I loved her more.

                Then, we talked about old photographs and our desired hair length when it comes to the opposite sex. I believe we both agreed that long hair is definitely sexier. But as always, these innuendos and impish exchanges had to stop somewhere to be continued some other time. I logged out and went to take a shower. I had plans to go out.

The Hasty Aspiring Proletarian/Capitalist

                I’ve been looking for part-time work that can accommodate my schedule. Because I’ve three hour classes from Tuesday to Thursday, finding one that I could commit to proved challenging. A good friend of mine sent a link to a part-time advertising position—that’s what the ad said. I gave it a shot. At first, I thought it odd that I should text professional information to apply. They didn’t even ask for a resume. But then, the contact called me on the same day I texted and told me to come for an interview that Friday, 1PM to be exact. After weeks of searching, a company was finally willing to give me the time of day. This was the first reason why I wanted to go out: I wanted a job. Hell, I needed a job. I was dead broke.

                  So, let's pop the bubble. Shall we?

                To say I was disappointment was an understatement. I was appalled, truth be told, at how shady and misleading that online ad was. The contact made it seem like I’m going to be interviewed for a promising part-time position in a competitive industry only to later find out that it wasn’t an advertising company at all. I was hoodwinked into attending an orientation to join a 'network' which made profit by selling beauty and wellness products such as Glutathione, L-Carnitine, etc. Now, before I’m passed-off as a condescending bitch that looks down on sales and marketing jobs, I just have to say that’s not what I’m so furious about. In all honesty, I admire people who thrive in that kind of industry because I don’t exactly have the guts for it. It is not an easy job. I am mainly frustrated by the fact that somebody just had to place a fake online ad for a job opening just to have people join their group. This is a registered legal networking group which unfortunately recruits people in (I can almost imagine) every misleading way. I know they could encourage others to join in a legitimate manner, but I guess honesty wouldn't scoop much money. It felt like using your family, friends and unsuspecting students as opportunities to obtain profit. I may have been quite a liar/manipulator, but it doesn't mean I can do this kind of work. It's outright capitalism and I'm just not the right person to do it.  

               

                They had us ‘fresh recruits’ locked in listening to this awe-inspiring orientation of success stories all thanks to their commitment to networking. I was really convinced; I believed I could do it too. At first, they laid out all the benefits you can get when you join: free modeling, acting, dance, and photography workshops. You can even get a chance to become the image model for the products they sell. None of that appealed to me, except for photography classes. They presented incentives like trips abroad so members will be encouraged to sell more products and recruit more people. The list of reasons why you should invest went on for two hours. 

Eventually, all the hyped materialism drizzled and the ‘show’ shifted to appeal to our dispositions. They marketed this networking thing as an actual solution to the labor crisis: they claim that networking is a lucrative industry which garners massive profit in the long run. It's a business where in you invest small capital and earn profit exponentially as long as you stay. Because nurses can’t find jobs in the country and abroad, students that graduate with professional degrees end up working for call centers because many employers give very low compensation, networking, they say, is the best thing to do in order to have a stable life and "reach your dreams". They went as far as stressing the reality that, on average, if your salary as a professional is Php 30,000 a month; it would take you over ten years to save at least two million pesos. In networking, they explained how pyramiding profits you exponentially when you encourage more people to join so you can earn a million pesos in a span of two years. Worst case scenario, they said, would be for you to earn just Php 60,000/month (that’s Php15,000/week). Now, tell me, who wouldn’t be enticed? That afternoon was all about the money. However, the real question is whether networking is a life-long career that someone can do. Personally, maybe it is, but you can't force it on people. Those who aren't sure of their place and join these groups eventually leave to pursue more definitive career paths. This just isn't for everyone. 

               

                The most stupid thing about it, and I confess, is that I was driven to invest in this kind of shady business because it can reap huge profit in the long run. Yes,  I spent most of my savings thinking I can do sales work and eventually earn more than enough to support my matriculation every semester and, of course, be a little bit more useful to my folks. I went home and realized that kind of work really isn’t my cup of whatever beverage I feel like sipping. I’ve proven it twice, social situations strain me. I didn’t last long enough in PR or media, so I wondered what made me think I’d make a career out of persuading people to purchase unwanted and unnecessary beauty products.     

                I told my friend Jessie that I’d rather wait on tables at a small café or teach English to Koreans than sell those things. I'm more of a focused worker. I also spoke to Michael about my anxiety over having realized that I made a hasty decision with more long-term detrimental consequences than profit. 


                Direct selling and networking is much like talking to clients in a call center, the only difference is that you meet the client face to face. I just didn’t have it in me. If I do this, it would defeat the purpose of having left my previous job in a call center. I’ve said it dozens of times, and I’ll say it again. I am not the type of person who thrives in that kind of industry. I am severely socially awkward, but I know I can find other jobs that will better suit me while I'm trying to get my degree.

            What's the idea of a society that gets richer and richer when it doesn't make anyone happier? -- Lars Von Trier, 'The Idiots'

               

           This, after nearly a year of removal, is exactly what happens when I attempt to inhabit reality. At the end of the day, I chose to remain in my fishbowl, for the time being. The world outside is a crowded aquarium, and everyone needs to swim because only the dead float. In reality, we all swim in our own excrement. But I’m not confronting all that shit just yet. No. I don't think I'll be waking soon.


           I made a mistake, again. This time, I’m coming out. A bit sorry, yes, but I'm still walking away. I’m just walking away to move on. 

After Dark

God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinnsel gaiety of "parties" with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering. 

-- Sylvia Plath

1932 - 1963

Capped the day with a reminder

I got this tattoo a year after I graduated from college. I've always wanted one, but I had to work up the bravado to get it. "It will suffice" is the hopeful person's mantra. It's actually inspired by years of praying-- with hope that in everything I do, all my efforts will be enough. In difficult days and unbearably dark nights, we all have to believe in something. 

On Orange Skies and Alternate Realms

1.

My fantasy fiction class final project is done and it officially marks the end of this semester. Check it out, it's good to add something strange into a normal day. Visit an alternate world now. 

2.

I woke up to a warm afternoon. I was straining a bit, my eyes hurt. By the time I was on my way to school, it started pouring. After the rain, I was expecting more blue and grey shades, the usual monotone in the day. But this was the prelude to dusk I have always looked forward to: the sky was flushed of all its blue, bleeding orange, yellow and crimson hues. I just had to take a few photos. 

Through the mesh and last year's palaspas

View from the old man's room 

3.

Whoever you are, wherever you come from, I want you to know I appreciate you. You may be a sick stranger, masturbating lurker, psycho killer or an al qaeda terrorist. Whatever. I just want to say I really appreciate that you take the time to read all this junk from the deepest recesses of my faded soul. And to my real friends who try to read all my ramblings, of course I wouldn't forget you. Don't worry, i'm not offing myself soon. I'll shut up now, I sound like a freak recieving an award. 

I am just glad today.  

FINALINES

Concluding my first semester of Poetry

Fragile Bones

These fragile bones are wearing thin

You feel like home, so let me in

--Ali Murray

He had wide dreams, the kinds that can take one places, see the world and live its long forgotten awe. She knew promising years awaited him, while every day was a life waiting to happen for her. She relished all the moments Life left over lilting somewhere in the midst of sameness, even when its order was abridged to chaos. Long before they had grasped how memory splinters even without the intent to forget, they believed in something.

He arrived home one evening in Quezon City during the summer of 1999. It was a long way from his flat in Palo Alto, from the stony halls and wide classrooms of Stanford, its broad fields and icy mist, as if jeepneys were once just imaginary objects in his restless dreams. He saw one again and was disappointed by how pale it really was compared to his memory, or did this colorful mode of transportation lose its vigor? Like how I’m so easily parched by the heat now, he thought. It had only been five years but already he felt displaced; five years since he had spoken to her, seen her. He had often wondered what kind of life she chose. Was it as peaceful and light as she had always said she wanted? The simple: a supportive man, a white house in a green neighborhood, bright and curious children playing in the yard, a gentle orange cat sleeping on the porch. Thinking of this made him feel comfort in cliché.

Her eyes grew bright every time he would pass by their gate to say kamusta, and ask her if she’d like to go for a walk. Those sleepy eyes lit like the amber lamps at night which lined the stretch of their street. She had always looked forward to those afternoons. They would walk aimless to find themselves having fishballs and Coke for mirienda or even sweet taho just before sundown. It didn’t take too long before they started holding hands and exchanging furtive kisses by the time he would walk her back home. That was how things were as far as he could remember. They were together for what seemed like a very long time.  

His memory was selective and he would rather not deal with things he chose to forget. How the memory of their trysts didn’t lose sharpness baffled him. He had long decided to let go of excesses, at least most of it, but not her. He mumbled to himself, could I be forgetting too late? He was struggling to remember.

One afternoon in 1994, after waiting an hour for her to come out, she came to see him with stony eyes, her face pale, almost blank. She seemed very tired. He asked how she was doing and what kept her long. She smiled with a faint hint of life and told him she was happy to see him, but that she could not go out, that she had chores to do. Upon hearing this, he felt weakening sadness. He was leaving the following morning and she had known for months about his departure. He held his sweaty hand through the gate’s gap for her. She placed her trembling bruised hand on his. He didn’t know it would be the last time.

In 1993, her eleven year old cat Aisha died. It was crushed by a tricycle in front of the sari-sari store three blocks away from their house. He saw how the lithe feline was pinned to the side-walk as the tricycle’s right wheel caught its neck. The rumbling motor went by so fast. After four days, his heart skipped a beat when he finally found Aisha that afternoon, only to break—the news raw on his eyes, he ran stupefied on the way to her house. She saw him but she had to turn. She was too delicate to see his face pale with loss.  

People aren’t meant to remember memories that were never made. He could not remember things that were untold. But he was told the day he came home that she no longer lived in the old house. He decided to visit her three days after New Year’s celebration in 2000. He drove by himself to Loyola. By then, he knew he would again be going away indefinitely. He will soon fail to distinguish actual memories of her from the dreams his mind would create.

One evening in 1994, the family doctor said she needed more serious treatment. A lot of rest was necessary so she could recover from the bruises and lesions which didn’t seem to heal. Long before that point, she knew early on that he would go. He was not the kind of person who was meant to stay in one place. She didn’t try to make him. She couldn’t ask such a thing. She was not staying long either, she couldn’t anymore. By then, he was to leave indefinitely.

Like his memory, her fragile bones could not keep her vital elements together. He will try to remember but fail to recall every detail he so longed to recover. Nevertheless, he knows she’s alive inside somewhere. He resigned to this verity: Whatever we lose within ourselves, we’re bound to take to our graves. He thinks of this while removing the wilted flowers from her stone. That afternoon in January 2000, he brought her roses for the first time. 

On to Stranger Days

Good morning, don't cop out.
In a Coma (1995-2005) 

The One Secret That Has Carried

Irene loves a man
      who is afraid of sex-- 
            she's attended

to everything,
      said it was okay,
            held me until I slept.

She says, Why don't you just
      not think about it?
            But I want to know

every sensation,
      nothing untouched,
            though I pull my hand away

once she's found it
      I can't be around a woman
            too long,

too much.
      I say, I was mistreated.
            She says, A cup of tea?

I say, I can't start a thing
      and then
            describe the kind

of thing I'd start.
      We talk about ballrooms,
            long sleeves and sashes,

say someday 
      we should go somewhere
            though we can't think

of anywhere
      and then I say abruptly,
            I've never loved

hard enough
      to be loved back.
            I say it as if I've had enough

of the whole goddamn
      world and will never
            be satisfied.

I'm looking
      at the wall.
            She's looking out

the window because
      she needs 
            to be somewhere.

Later, I leave a note:
      Sorry for the difficulties.
            Meaning: how come

you don't leave?
      I've never told this story.
            Even at the moment
   
of dying, 
      I would say
            it was someone else's.

--Jason Shinder

What 8 Tracks Can Do

Yes, because it is quite a long aftermath oozing into hiatus.
I am appealing to the audiophile in you in you in you.

Listen to an 8 track mix of light and somber songs
you can let go and unwind to until you're dreaming.

Fitting

I went to my favorite dress shop to survey the latest

styles on display. Two fully clad mannequins were up:

one flaunted a refreshing red summer outfit while

the other elegantly wore a long black dress. I walked into

the new arrival’s aisle and ran my fingers through the

chiffon pleats of the delicate red skirt and, at once, went on

to caress the dark silky frock next to it. A closer look

at the dress revealed careful hands must have sewn

the chic lace near its lining. I took the pleasure of trying on

the smooth black dress—and oh, how it thrilled!

The dark fabric embraced the shape of my body

like a second skin; it hanging softly on my breasts

and falling gently to the curve of my hips and round thighs.

By then, I made up my mind. The dark dress will be mine.

But how my undressing gently uncovered these things long gone by:

The comfort of slipping into cool darkness with his hands gesticulating

immeasurable yearning, to nights on the living room floor and stripping

to the TV on static. I pulled down the black straps on my shoulders and

inevitably conjured his tender fingers caressing back, his warm hands

slowly stroking my uneasy arms. Stripping down my torso to my hips,

I could feel him embracing, mildly touching, gradually descending,

as I lower the silky garment to completely slide down the dark

dress to my touchy thighs and legs. And how I made up reasons

as to why these memories need not be agonizing (I find little

gratification in others, this hasn’t been surpassed at all these days),

until I got dressed and went out of the fitting room. I soon fell in line 
behind this pretty lady who held the same dress as mine, only to stop

in excruciating wonder to ask whose body could he be holding now?

On Salvaging the Essential

How I wish I remembered all the details. 

What more can I be but content with what has passed? 

Love remains love. Let go, for love's sake.

September 2010

See Things My Way

I miss you, those words,
And I don't know what I'm saying.

Aftermath

And so it is, just like you said it would be

Life goes easy on me most of the time

—Damien Rice , “The Blower’s Daughter”  

There is nothing more there but air. Slowly now, letting go.

When the words escape you as you trade them for silent

                                       sighs, polite glances; manage ostentatiously

                                       with well-meaning pats on the back

                                       so awkward and trite. When you would rather

                                       retreat to the dim comfort of a familiar room, remove

                                       your dagger sharp stilettos, pull down the scratchy

                                       constricting pantyhose and undress your body

of layer upon layer of flimsy affectation (odorous garments clinging

like a second skin which calls for slow and careful peeling), strip off

                                       insincere whims, the fashionable valiance that dazzles

                                       both the earnest and the fool. Wipe your blood-stained lips

                                       pale, and remove the mawkish haze from your smoky eyes

                                       before they begin to mock you again when you meet

                                       the mirror on your side. Never mind the achieved failure

                                       or the sense of indignation and discontent that surrounds.

Tolerate the slow obliteration of your soul upon grasping

what it means to forget— the disintegration of your memories

                                       and memories that will never be made. Embrace the wholeness

                                       of loss. Let your guard down. You are closed in unswerving walls. 

                                       Trepidation ceases where you can crumble numerous times into

                                       yourself. Walk inside a room inside another room with reckless

                                       abandon. Make a proposition to survey the formidable without

                                       restraint: wander about aimless without the weight of eyes

casting stealthy agonizing stabs. Permit yourself to fall naked

on that welcoming bed and delight in its soft consoling covers

convincing the core of your being to say that

                                                                    it’s over,

                                                                           it’s over.

                                                                                   It’s over.

Overcoming

She was afraid of things that hide:

The black cat at the back, the rat

that escaped the trap, the tiny

tricky ants nibbling at her snacks.

She would tremble at the sight of

the slightly opened door to

the study that invites peculiar

shadows as seen only by

the corners of her eyes.

The vacant chair by the window

is worn because of the weight

of black entities and years of

neglect. She would feel peering

eyes studying her from a quiet

distance whenever she’d enter

to pull the books out of disrespect,

read the pages, and recognize

which chapters were left bereft

by many hands which browsed

what would slowly accumulate dust.

But a child would grow fond of

unearthing bright things in the dark:

Father’s gold watch, his once loyal

pen, and a stack of old records

waiting to be played again.

Not to mention discovering

a parallel universe where

traveling is merely flipping

through pages of C.S. Lewis

just before bedtime, closing

her bright eyes, and flying

boundlessly in her sleep.

Bright as Yellow Out of Sight

Daniel:                  Can’t believe it’s been years. Did you do it?

Claire:                   Yes.

Daniel:                  Too bad. I can’t ever see your paintings.

Claire:                   You can feel the images on the canvas.

Daniel:                  It’s not the same.

(beat)

Daniel:                  What colors do you like to use?

Claire:                   I’m fond of reds and yellows. My somber paintings are blue.

Daniel:                  What’s yellow to you?

Claire:                   The sun, at certain times of the day.

Daniel:                  I don’t understand.

Claire:                   Come with me, I will take you outside.

Daniel:                  But you haven’t answered my question.

                (beat)

Daniel:                  It’s warm and I can feel the cool air. Where are we?

Claire:                   We’re in yellow.

Daniel:                  A sunny day?

Claire:                   Breathe, Daniel.

Daniel:                  I’m breathing yellow?

Claire:                   Yes.

Daniel:                  I feel so warm and light. Can I taste it too?

Claire:                   Uhuh.

Daniel:                  How?

Claire:                   If you’ve ever relished the sweetness of honey, it’s yellow.

Daniel:                  Oh. Let’s have some today.

                (beat)

Daniel:                  Claire, what’s it like to paint?

Claire:                   It feels like dreaming, only I’m awake.

Musings

We might as well be doting on clocks

each time we begin to mind details worthy

of our recollections, no matter how

faulty this faculty tends

to become,

as it withers

with age. Our consciousness

would then only house the essential.

Perhaps we wish to venerate them

by clinging tenaciously to memory,

or even fervently ask, When

will I see you again?  as if looking

forward to everyday

like an oath

never

once

said.

And we know enough that this

will not come: twice around the bend

must have been too much of a plea.

What is enough could leave

these clocks wilting as they hang

to tick consistently out of

necessity and exhaustion; weary faces

with soft arrows reminding me

of your tired

yet yearning

eyes.

The space we had

remains arid and bare.

                         What is enough

                         always leaves

                         something behind

and does not stay.

After Dali

Persistence of Memory (1931)
Salvador Dali

Last One on the Table

She was a sickly child of seven when her mother told her about the importance of eating fruits and vegetables. It was a way to encourage her to become stronger. Not that feeding her kangkong or sitaw was a problem. Angela ate anything her mother served on that table whether she liked the taste and texture or not. The child practically ate anything, she swept her plate clean. However, she never got to finish lunch or dinner without everyone leaving her on that dining table. Angela’s dad and brother would go and watch TV or play baril-barilan right after eating. She was always left alone to finish a meal, always the last to go. And she didn’t seem to mind.        

On that particular night, Angela’s mom wanted her to eat faster. Her mom found it a bit annoying that she always had to wait so long just to clear up the table. She got used to collecting the other plates, utensils, and glasses to wash them in the kitchen sink, only to come back and find Angela still poking at her food.

To instill a sense of urgency on the child, Angela’s mother decided to tell her what her lola and titas used to tell her about women who always get left behind on the dining table.

“Angela, hurry up! Do you know what happens to girls kapag napagliligpitan?” She seemed passive, but her mom knew she was listening. She didn’t talk much. Her mom sat beside her and turned toward her with a pensive stare.

“Masamang napagliligpitan sa hapag kainan. Sige ka, hindi ka makapag-aasawa.” Angela’s mom, realizing she’s too young to give thought to what she said, suddenly felt careless. The child just gave her a dumb stare like that of a delicate cartoon deer.

The next night, her mom decided not to force Angela to eat any faster. Just when she was about to stand up and clear the dishes, Angela’s brother began poking fun at his sister’s slow eating habits.

“Hey, slow-mo! Hurry up! Sige ka, ‘di ka makakapag asawa.” Angela’s mom was shocked. Gino, Angela’s older brother, must have overheard her little talk. Gino would pester Angela with this almost every dinner time. She hoped Angela would forget it but it didn’t seem like she would quickly dismiss her brother’s insensitive banters. From then on, her daughter would sit through dinner fumbling hastily on her food for years to come. She stood when everyone was done with their meal.

Years later, her memory would be too fragmented to remember that part of her childhood. A grown up Angela would come to enjoy fine dinners with some of her friends. The restaurant got used to their group’s Saturday dinners that they always reserved a spot for them, one with a good long table.

“Who’s up for dessert? Trish, Mike? Kayo, Angela?”, asked Paula.

“Ryan and I want some! Hmm, let me see”, said Angela, now with her boyfriend, Ryan.

“Order some more cocktails! Kulang pa ‘to!”, a tipsy Camille insisted.

Ryan wasn’t particularly demonstrative, but he cared a lot for Angela. He was already her 6^th boyfriend after a series of bad, not so bad, and terrible break-ups. They’ve known each other a while but have been on and off their relationship. On that night, nonetheless, Ryan wanted to ask Angela a very important question.

“Hey, drink up! Wala munang uuwi!”, it was very much like Camille to assert her fondness for friends and good stiff drinks. Ryan saw this as an apt opportunity to pop the question to Angela. All her close friends were there. He thought it was about time they settled down. So, ask he did. And the drinking just went on and on.

Hours after the plates have been cleared, the last order of Mojito came from the bar. Most of Angela’s friends have left, and so did Ryan. Here now, she thinks of how to go home, “There must be a cab somewhere at this hour.” 

Proof

In her secret heart, Miss Mijares’ young dreams fluttered faintly to life
--Kerima Polotan, “The Virgin”

The wooden paperweight, though broken,
holds down slips resourcefully with one
wing mimicking a bird in flight. It lay firm
on her table, so were her ways;
not minding the years of guiltless
crosses and dreams locked
for another day. What she had
kept hidden might as well be forgotten
in rows of drawers and mounds
of filed sheets organized meticulously,
lest one should require proof. A record
is only as valuable as what it represents:
names, numbers, dates, and signatures
reserved for proper validation.
Its austerity is overwhelming
and quite often taken for granted
as she manages to keep it
compartmentalized with fasteners,
staples, and the weight
of a flightless bird. Thrice removed
from reality (but not quite),
in due course, it gave
the impression of life
whilst cupped by sturdy hands.

Late Dates: Second Coming

Orange Lori had been waiting an hour for Green Gerry at a coffee joint. Pissed, she swigged green tea latte and smoked a heap of red cigarettes to shake off frustration.

A creepy blue boy sat on the opposite table. She didn’t mind his occasional stares until she was certain the guy was on to her. Like he knew her. Finally, however, the late Green Gerry came. Orange Lori was so relieved she forgot about being pissed.

An orange girl walked in clumsily and skimmed the café. She was off to meet the creepy blue boy for the first time.

Smoke

The shadows of smoke linger
as if trapped in the invisibility of white
on white, its intolerable lightness
clinging on walls as we breathe

signals of distress;
vapors that conjure up

instances which take place
only in haze:

Once, I was told to possess 
an otherworldly suaveness. A man
spoke of my vampiric demeanor
"How your passion is so remote.."
His surreptitious glances
caught my strident stare.

Some ghostly smoke
swathed his eye,

divulging a dark apparition
from my soul.

In my projections

where misery is withheld

and appearances are pied,

my breath extinguished the

flowing folds of smoke--

Whose hands fanned
the scarlet cinders

beneath? Why
are we burnt?

 For Niño

Misogyny in AA Psychotherapy

Dr. Grey:      Tell me about the things you would rather undo.

Ms. Maudlin: I told you, it was a lost year. Shouldn’t you ask for what I should have done?

Dr. Grey:       I must really cut down your Prozac. You’re being apprehensive again.

Ms. Maudlin: I am not. And the dosage is fine.

                     (beat)


Ms. Maudlin: Let me see. There was Mr. Musician, Mr. Painter and Mr. Writer.

Dr. Grey:       You seem fond of these types. What do you suppose you get out of their company?

Ms. Maudlin: Nothing.

Dr. Grey:       Hmm, alright… So, in what group do you classify them?

Ms. Maudlin: Manipulative egotistic bastards.

Dr. Grey:       I see. And why do you associate with them?

Ms. Maudlin: I give myself away.

Dr. Grey:       Oh, right. You’re a—

Ms. Maudlin: Don’t say it, bitch! I know you think low of us!

                   (beat)

Ms. Maudlin: Dr. Grey, isn’t your husband a musician?

Dr. Grey:       That isn’t relevant.

Ms. Maudlin:  But don’t you want to know more about him?

Dr. Grey:        No, thank you. I think I know enough.

Ms. Maudlin:  Why? Aren’t you going to do anything about it?

Dr. Grey:        That’s it. I’m changing your Prozac to Valium.

Ode to My 8,000

Goodbye, 8,000 days—

the years they made will not go 
down my book unmissed.

On my 22^nd year, let the wolves,

snakes, and rats fester on

my pesky romantic schemes.

Goodbye, 8,000 unicorns, wizards, 

my timeless friends outside 

the unavoidable door. I am grateful 

for your transient wishes.

We drank to the final vestiges

of ignorance and recklessness

youth entitled us to live.

Goodbye, 8,000 visions and tricks

and what seemed like a bright idea

but was just another stolid plan

hackneyed too many times.

I’ve acquired the stuff of machines,

chased the green light beyond the bay

and drowned in the ebb of ambition.

Goodbye, 8,000 tales and lullabies,

to nights of sleep filled with dreams.

Goodbye, 8,000 sunrises that do not

sore my eyes when I wake.