*
some people are born thoughtful in an odd orgasmic way:
for the very first time, i am able to reread my own words
from white sheets of paper that still smell like burnt ink
“How to Lick Melancholy Between the Thighs of Life and Dying”
(the recent poems of everything amber and clumsily falling)
“It was true that I didn’t have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?”
—Factotum, 1975
“sis, go get an ambition. i never thought you write outside genres. I HAVE NO CHOICE but compile them and give you a legend’s last songs. seriously, get seriously published. if you fail, another option is to get pregnant. belated happy birthday, ageless muse, karanso”
.
*
2008, thank you.
salamat for mornings with these little rascals
i am going to miss them
one day, when i am finding freedom
in another year, another horizon.
.
*
“write down something true for our paper.thanks. I will let you know when to send it.”
had to lift this weighing machine for my mother. she is leaving again. i don’t feel sad at all and it is weird and offbeat and weird and cold. i hate to say i stopped romaticizing leaving. i used to be so good at it, writing about it was a former fascination, i don’t know what made me quit. i was not a quitter. i used to be a jerk during college and during my post-grad days but it did not reach to the extent of quitting. well, yes, i cut classes a lot in exchange of staying on my boarding house room and thinking about a lot of hazy things. but i don’t want to romanticize my sorrows now so that i’d be called an artist or something similar to that.
this feeling makes me celebrate being ordinary. i have to learn everything not out of training but out of daily evolution. sometimes, being ordinary makes me feel depressed. if i were special, i would love to read minds and make a day easier for others. i want to save lepers. been down for days but my being ordinary saves me from being fried and chunked. you know ordinary happenings like old friends appearing in front of you, tangling your hair and telling you, you have grown up and you have a nice t-shirt.
had my attempts to be special:
a. colored my nails green.
b. acted like Helena Bonham-Carter during evenings.
c. deleted “i” in most of my self-lifting statements.
My family and acquaintances think that I am the most brilliant part of the clan or the community. They also feel that I have to push my self more or get my self a passport, and, comb my hair. But all I really want is to reach towns and cities here in my country and watch the sinking of the sun, kiss someone i really love on the sheets, against the wall, in the public library. take a bath each day and smile.
back in college, teachers would call for me, remind me of my attendance and how wonderful i answer the essay type of examination while the rest of my yellow notebook flashed nothing but spaces and hesitation. i did not like most of them. i was a failure as a Political Science student. however, i was never absent in my Socialist Government class. she was a great teacher and she called me one day to write an oratorical piece. we met when I was fixing my 4-year old school shoes in the female CR. I was pushing my chewing gum between its damaged parts.
I was not a quitter but I quitted my online teaching class because I traveled. I was not a quitter but I sent my core group leader a message that I will not be in my cubicle the next week because I had some problems. I left home for days and felt better.
Last night, I was with younger people. I found my self on the sofa in our terrace. I could see the stars because the roof was removed. The mosquitoes made me feel sick. Worse, I was so thirsty. I have been an obedient girl. But perhaps those who survive in life are those who know how to swim, not those who swim with the current. sometimes, it is better to be happy than to be right.
and also sometimes, it pains to be nowhere between happy and right or to be confused: which is which between them.
the walls are there and it is good to hit the head on them.
to know that they are there and that they can hurt.
i am writing this down not because i want to give you answers or to stir your feelings or your years as a teenager. maybe, you have seen me around in different hair every other month or maybe, your teachers have mentioned my name and those old days when i had to compete in three contests in a week. i write this because more than anything else, this is one certain time, i feel i am alive.
i own nothing else to share to you but that. and perhaps, i can teach you how to hum on your way to school when you have no money to take the tricycle.
*
*
more members
bigger fire to inspire others
catalysts of change
earning a life
(rehearsals for HUBLAG)
singgit singers: jeffrey, fey, helman, dv, mm, clint
singgit dancers: an, alets, sheen, karleen, syra
singgit musikeros: leomarf, michael, paul, jeffrey
HUBLAG (dec 22)
intsik bantito, mic baye,marfiang, aninipot, tinay
and some lowbatt moments …
♥
.
*
“it does not want you to feel that you mean nothing, it is just,
some things and people are not meant to be. to last”
from a conversation between the one who remembers a lot
and the other one who forgets the most, in a special manner.
being forgotten is like
being a boy once more, when you hear the sound of the airplane
and you thought that giants sleep that way.
it is a part of life that we all deny
like hiding scars, smearing creams on them
and fearing wounds not because of the pain
but because of the indelible scratches they leave.
being forgotten is wooden clips hidden in the kitchen
as the sound of the washing machine stirs your sadness,
it is like the fading laughter of children
when the world is asleep and Christmas lights speak of
something you cannot retell.
being forgotten are cribs in your old house, an e-mail you do not
want to read because it
might
hurt.
it chops your whole self, your heart on the sink
and you keep on asking:
“am I not worth it?”
being forgotten is like the best movies you failed to watch
like songs without vocals but lead you back to
the sea, the hills, the roof, the porch.
it is in my past life when i relocated to a town, shaved my head
and worked as a waitress.
it is rewatching all your video clips when nobody’s at home
and i am free to cry.
it is the way you sit on the floor after a party
and each person has left.
it is the flock of birds you see flying from the sky,
fading into small dots and you feel like
everything has the season to go away.
it is the last kiss, the last morning you woke up
and he was beside you, like a pretzel of tender hushes and a heartbeat.
it is the steps you take
back to the bus station when you just pretended
you are leaving but you are scared
that nobody is waiting at the other terminal.
and so you walk back,
unzip that bag, take out everything
your comb
your toothbrush
your comb
your clothes
except your heart
because at many points of our lives, we really forget some, halves.
we have to.
but then again,
why do we have to? when all the while, nobody really gets over
the shattering
we are all little people wanting to appear complete.
losing one piece, one fiber, one vein in the heart
is not making us less whole.
we all are forgotten in a corner of our lives
that is why
one day,
man
discovered photographs
and why i have been wondering
about
“i miss you”
miss which can actually mean lose
if one uses it the other way around.
*
*
she likes seashore naps and the view of everything from the bus window. she likes tiny moments and the small spaces between faces when people talk.
sometimes, she wakes up to that odd feeling of being a fallen leaf, an old tree, an azotea or a waitress somewhere-- talking to a taxicab driver about that random song on the radio.
*
---
---
and this. a proof that:
how you see LIFE is how
you actually see YOUR self.
*
*
***
maddening spurt:
----------------------
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”
-Jack Kerouac-
