trepidation

the pain surrounding us
radiates a monotonous hum

as the darkness creeps,
probing for our tense forms,

as the silence encompasses
the length of this

insignificant space
we are wont to occupy,

as your hands draw forth
the reverberations of my torment
and terror

The Brutal Truth

You start out with an itch, an annoying sensation at the back of your mind poking at you, urging you to write. You think up all these great concepts for ghost stories, love stories, how-my-life-is and what-I-ate-for-breakfast-today stories. You end up frustrated because everyone else is writing about that and it would take up too much energy to come up with a piece that would be considered unique. So you decide to write about something that nobody really writes about (although there’s a perfectly good reason why nobody writes about it). You decide to write about being a dormer.
The stage is set, you only need to start. You fumble for words but everything’s been used. Who hasn’t talked about the dirty toilets, the bad cooking, the musty odours or the half-baked rules? Who hasn’t written about being annoyed by the cats that spawn out offspring in hordes or the rather ambiguous way to answer the paging system: “coming!”? Who hasn’t ended their essay on a rainbow-and-butterflies note that despite all of the really negative aspects, dorm life is made worthwhile by the love, friendship and all the other phoney flowery words that supposedly spring from bonds between dormers? You decide that you are still too young to have your writing career end on such a sad article. You do not write about the above-mentioned things.
By this time, you are now so tired of thinking and your brain is finally so fried that you give up and decide to write the honest truth. Your masterpiece turns out to be a single sentence: “There is nothing uniquely amazing about being a dormer only that for a brief moment in your life you are allowed to feel the amazing rush of becoming independent (and all that this entails) in a place where three hundred other people are having the same experience.” No one understands your final piece and you end up in the same place you started, a blank blob of nothingness in an endless sea of faces.

-untitled-

I saw a butterfly today.
As I waited for life to start,
I watched it dance across the space
allotted by time.
It piroutted above the milling heads
of important individuals,
parading its exquisite hues.
Slowly, it floated up towards me and whispered,
"I try so hard for them to notice
even knowing they will all to soon forget."

hanging

What then
when all the words
have been written
and all that is left
is life
moving on
without you?

just a thought...

We create so many ghouls and monsters in the hopes that when we project the horrifying truth about our humanity onto them, we might by some miracle become beautiful.

mine

in this darkened corner
i hold the two pieces
of a long-forgotten puzzle

as the shadows lengthen
and the echoing
moans of a broken soul deepen

blameless

where was i when the sides
were chosen
when the laws and the

endless
bickering
chose the arbiter

for this
our last
tussle


i feel now as if



I



am to blame
for only i
wished it upon US




i won't be posting for a while (probably 2 weeks) because my 1st semester has officially ended and i have to go home for the break. *this note is for all the sweet people who are kind enough to visit my site. thank you*

the ninth

she stands barebreasted
in the rain
with her softness
and infirmities
naked
to the wetness
carressing her intimately
with tiny fingers
and broken nails

the night
black and beckoning
abides
on the temples of her luminance
lathering
the shoulders of her longing
tracing
the curves of all
that is woman inside her

she dances with eight muses
bending to the silence
and submitting
to voiceless agony
as a stream of raindrops
cover her in anonymity
forming puddles of doubt
beneath her feet

as she turns
arching her back
throwing her head
flailing wide her arms
the rust sets in

-blank-

i can't seem to find anything to write about. just when my life is getting interesting and things are starting to seem just about ready to explode into a big kaboom of angst and hurt, i find myself in this slump most often called "writer's block".

i am a big mess of ironies.

even if in vain

I search for your silhouette at night
when the lights are dimmed
and the corridors
that witness your whispers
are lifeless

I seek your warmth
as the wind traverses across rooms
reaching with scrawny
fingers
for sleeping prey

I wait in eager anticipation
for the return
of the faint trace
of your breath
upon my being

Once upon a time

Walt Disney ruined my life. All this talk of true love and happily ever-afters. All the dreams of having prince charming come and sweep me off my feet to take me to a haven full of blurred flowers and yellow butterflies. All their poor little princesses who eventually get their perfect lives together in the end.

It would have been so easy to tell who prince charming was. The first guy to come along who looks just about ready to go fight a fire-breathing dragon just to receive a perfumed handkerchief from your dainty hands would be mr. regular-everyday-prince-charming. The only problem would have been locating the nearest fire-breathing dragon.

But alas, as is the sickness of youth today, I fell for the immortal joke of good old Mr. Walt Disney. How was I supposed to know that the ride into the sunset does not go on? Who was supposed to tell me that the story continues to include twelve children and an oversized prince who apparently forgot the important concept of moderation? When will I learn that nothing and nobody changes? Those who hurt you aren't under a spell that can be broken overnight. No. Not even if I wait a lifetime, it will not change and I do not have the power to break the curse we have stumbled into. No amount of shooting stars or waiting for a fairy godmother will do the trick.

How much longer before I get tired of this?

of you?

desperate

harried streaks of tears
r d
a o
c w
e n

dark skies

containing stories of eros
shattering on the pavement

creating echoes in the
recesses of the soul

and you run
naked
as the downpour begins

with outstretched arms
you fill your mouth

in the hopes of
salvaging
even
a
single
drop for your own

mushy stuff

For those of you who don't know, I have a twin. Normally, I wouldn't feel like writing about people connected to me in such a direct way (Both because it's an intrusion on their privacy and also because they might be reading this.) but today, I feel like writing about it so bite me. (just kidding. i would never dream of having your incisors on my very sensitive skin.)

When classmates or new acquaintances find out that I have a twin, the first thing they ask is, "How does it feel to have a twin?" I HATE THAT QUESTION. It's like asking a goldfish how does it feel to be swimming all the time. I bet it would get this really dark look and scream "WHAT DO YOU THINK? I DON'T SWIM = I DON'T BREATHE!" Being the calm (don't give me that sarcastic look) and gentle person that I am (WHAT? I CAN BE GENTLE!), I politely tell them that I wouldn't know because I've never known how it feels like not to have a twin. I'd rather they had asked me the reason for our existence on earth or the date the magna carta was signed.

When I was younger, I used to scream "I have my own identity!" just to let people understand that my sister and I are two different people. And when people would start comparing us, I'd scream even louder, "I'm my own person and I don't have to be like her or compete with her!" But I think I screamed more to remind myself than to let other people know.

Don't get me wrong, I love my sister. She's great and to put it in a word, perfect. I used to think that I was lucky to have such an independent personality or else I would have been eternally struggling every step of the way just to catch up with her. With the way things have always been, I've never bothered to do anything beyond what has moved me. I'm my own person. Yet slowly, I have realized that if not for her, I wouldn't be so independent and adamant at being my own person in the first place.

I have a lot of friends and classmates now that don't know that I have a twin. They usually find out by themselves (This involves meeting my twin somewhere on campus, trying to engage her in conversation and getting a DO-I-KNOW-YOU? stare from her.) and when they do, I am sure to receive a detailed accounting as to how, where and when they met her. Maybe if this happened in the past, when we were both taking the same classes and hanging out with the same people, I'd roll my eyes and say that it wasn't that big of a deal to have another individual out in the world with the same birthdate as me. Lately, however, I've found that I like it when others find out that I have a twin. And when I pried into that emotion, I realized it's less because it involves me but more on the fact that I still want her to be a part of those aspects of my life. When people find out, I get this big lump in my chest that would scream PRIDE if it were painted neon.

I think that even if we weren't twins, I'd feel the exact same way.

my father is so adorable!!!!

Three days ago, my mom went to Sri Lanka to attend a forum. As expected, we're all proud of her and we're all really happy that she's been given this opportunity. What surprised me, however, is the e-mail i got from my dad the day after my mom left for Sri Lanka. (She's only going to be away for ten days.) I thought the e-mail was so adorable that I've decided to post it here (I think my dad would have posted this on his own blog if he had one).

Liham sa Aking Asawa na nasa Labas ng Bansa:

Ging,
*That's what he calls my mom.*

Miss na kita.

I hope that you are enjoying every minute of your out-of-the-country experience.
I am sure na marami kang kwento pag balik mo.
Promise, I’ll give you my ears one-hundred-fifty-five percent pag dating mo--on one condition: pasalubong ko.
Pero if it will be a problem, never mind. I can live without any pasalubong.
It is you I want. It is you I love. (and is it you they are talking about?)
*cute!cute!cute!*

Jacob went to CDO today to bump heads with YFCs. Their venue: SM. He is probably just going to enrich his love life, to which I have no objection whatsoever.

Esau brought home two chicks yesterday: one was tall, and the other, much shorter (but probably taller by a few ml than Vicky Morales of Miranda, MF, Buk.). Both are from Manila and work with yellow cab, and will probably be stationed here for quite awhile to supervise store affairs; which store, by the way, is still being put up on the SM garage building.
While we were eating lunch, I asked the shorter one if she has a bf from cdo. She said, “wala po”. I asked the taller one the same question. She said “meron po”. I asked her the family name of her bf. The shorter one answered for the taller one and said, “Real”. And the three of them (that includes Esau) were looking at each other like silly, and were uttering gibberish jokes only the three of them understood. So, I just pretended not to care or understand. Question: should I object or pretend to object or leave things as they are?
*my older brother and his real girlfriend (they've been together for 4 years, probably it's been longer but i stopped counting at 4, had a quarrel after they read this.) *

I have not heard anything from the twins today. They are probably busy with their studies today, Sunday. Anyway, I hope they will text me at seven pm tonight. It shall surely make my day and will put a happy smile on my right-this-very-moment lonely predisposition.
*my sister cried after reading this. that's probably because we didn't text him. ahehehe.*

Yan muna for today.

Love you mama!

Le jeune (Real)
*I have no idea where this came from. Why didn't anyone tell me my father was FRENCH???*

I think most of you would agree that it would be really nice to read something like this when it comes from your dad who's writing it for your mom. However, after reading it, I only have one question in mind, WHY DID HE SEND IT TO ME, MY SISTER AND MY MOM'S SISTER AND NOT TO MY MOTHER???? Haaa...I think this is what they meant when they said "It's the thought that counts." *sigh sigh sigh*

RED

You keep hidden inside your closet
all that you fear to
cast your eyes upon

For you shiver
at the nakedness
of my withered soul

Reminding you only too well
of unearthly cries
and savage drops of red

Of starless nights
when the wind failed to stir
and children hid under beds

Of when you left me
in the guilty hands
of lust-ridden demons

tignan mo sila

Nasabi ko na ba sa iyo? Lagi akong nakatingin sa kanila. Dahil bago pa sila. Dahil hindi pa nila matiis na mahiwalay sa piling ng isa't isa. Dahil iniisip pa nila yung mga bagay na nakakatawang isipin. "Kumain na kaya siya?" "Sino kaya kasama niya ngayon?kausap?iniisip?" "Ano kaya suot niya?" "Sana nakapag-aral na siya." Na para bang hindi pa sapat sa kanila ang hirap ng mabuhay na iniisip ang sariling pangngangailangan kung kaya't dinadagdagan pa nila ng pamomroblema ng buhay ng isa pang tao. Kung iisipin, may alam na rin ang taong 'yun. Kakain kapag gutom. Marunong pumili ng mga kausap at kasama. Mag-aaral kapag kinakailangan. At mabilis ang pagsagot ng "ikaw" kapag tinanong mo kung sinong iniisip.

Nasabi ko na ba sa iyo? Natatawa ako sa kanila. Lagi silang magkasama. Laging may pinag-uusapan. Bakit kaya di sila nauubusan ng kwento e sila lang rin naman ang nagsama buong araw? Nakakatawa kapag nakikita ko silang nagkakabati pagkatapos ng isang maikling away. Hindi nila alam mas dadalas pa ang mga sagutan at walk-outan. Minsan, gusto ko silang lapitan at sabihan, "Magsasawa rin kayo sa isa't isa! Wahahaha!"

Nasabi ko na ba sa iyo? Minsan naiinis ako sa kanila. Masyado silang masaya. Masyadong tumatawa. Masyadong madalas ngumiti at magbulungan. Nakakaloka sila. Parang ang saya ng mundo para sa kanila. Parang walang mga taong gutom at handa nang magpakamatay dahil sa hirap ng buhay. Parang ang bukas nila ay ang liwa-liwanag at wala na silang aabutan na ano pa mang hirap. Gusto ko silang pag-uuntugin at imulat ang mga mata nila sa katotohanan ng buhay.

Nahahalata mo na ba? Inggit na inggit ako sa kanila.

more on my "favorite" professor

Since I've started writing about my beloved Psychology 150 professor, I've decided to share the rest of the strange yet highly interesting lessons he's been teaching. (The guy's a riot!)

First of all, our class is supposed to be a class on personality. Other classes with the same course outline have been talking about Jung, Freud, and all the other major contributors to personality theories but as expected, my class hasn't even touched those topics. I want to learn! I want Freud! I want Jung! I want a normal professor who would talk some sense even if only for a maximum time of 5 minutes! But with the luck I have, I got the ONLY class, imagine the chances, with the professor who refuses to teach about anything remotely related to the syllabus.

Okay maybe I exaggerate. All our classes are based on theories on personality. However, the method with which he teaches us are so unorthodox, not to mention a wee bit loony, that it's rather hard to take any of it seriously. During one of the more productive periods in class, we talked about the validity of the claim that an unconscious mind exists. Being the brilliant mind that my professor is, he rushes out of the classroom in mid-sentence. He comes back quite proud of himself whilst holding in his hands tiny crystal balls attached to pieces of string. And the excited gleam in his eyes slowly spelled out T-W-I-L-I-G-H-T-Z-O-N-E.

What was his brilliant plan you ask? Simple. We hold the free end of the string to which the crystal was attached and we sort of suspend it with our arms stretched straight out in front of our body. Now, with all the concentration we could muster, we would will the crystal to rotate clockwise and then counter clockwise without moving the string physically. When this tiny feat was accomplished, we would ask a question about ourselves (something we know about ourselves) and if the ball swings backwards and forwards, the answer is yes. When the ball swings from left to right, however, the answer is no. Hmmmm...And the plot begins to thicken...

So we're all kind of in this state of is-he-serious-i-think-it's-time-to-drop-this-class, when he instructs us to ask the ball if we could talk to our unconscious mind. (I could only just supress the nervous laugh arising from my throat) If the answer was yes, we were to proceed to ask it questions about our future. We spent the next hour and a half consulting a fake crystal ball, which he apparently bought for 15 pesos, about the most important decisions that would affect our future. Perfect.

If there's one thing I'll get from this class, it's experience as a fortune teller, which if I'm lucky, I'll be able to add to my resume.

It was worth going to class for

I was in class last Thursday and although I'm sure most of my classmates found the lecture very interesting, I had a tough time keeping my lids open.

*note to self: Erik Erikson's psychosocial stages of development makes for very good reading material for nights when sleep seems elusive*

I snapped back into reality, however, when the sound waves resonating from the general vicinity of my professor reached my ears, bounced along the necessary boundaries of my ear canal, hit my ear drums, converted into energy my nerves were capable of carrying and were then transduced into information my mind comprehended.

*another note to self: Do not listen to much to your Sensation and Perception class. It will turn you into Frankenstein and rip your non-existent social life into shreds. *

"My father is 94. And there's nothing wrong with him except for the fact that he's, well, OLD.", my professor uttered. It would be good to add at this point that my professor is already married, has children, and has a head crowned with an abundant amount of gray hair. He is also considered to be an esteemed member of the SENIOR faculty in my department.
OLD. OLD. OLD. OLD. OLD. OLD. OLD. OLD.
The word seemed to echo in my head for an eternity. The way he said it, it was like being old was a disease that MUST BE AVOIDED AT ALL COSTS. As if going through the cycle of aging was tantamount to having your arm cut off, being diagnosed with cancer and having on and off kidney failure. It was as if he, himself, wasn't...(you get the idea)

Maybe I over-reacted when he said that but believe me, you'll love the next inspiring thought that enters his head (Hallmark should make cards with this on the front cover. They'd make a killing out of all the children who would buy it for their own LOVABLE dads):
"I really think he's ready to die. It's just that it hasn't happened yet."

Ah yes, with age does come true wisdom.

Pseudo-intellectual

Sometimes, when I'm alone and bored, I get this overwhelming urge to write. Most of the time, it's all a ruse to make passers-by think that I'm busy and somewhat important. I get a lot of silly notions of becoming an acclaimed writer. I don't mean in the sense of becoming an international best-seller (although raking in that much dough would be nice) but rather in the sense of being known to have my own style, my own unique way, of telling a story.

But I can't, for the life of me, write anything worthwhile. In a quest to cure myself of the curse of remaining a newbie writer for life, I determinedly enrolled myself in a creative writing class (CW 10 to be exact). My professor said I had "good command of the language" and that she "appreciates my effort at trying out new and creative ways of presenting time and plot." I think it was her way of being nice while trying to tell me that I'm a genius at dotting my i's and crossing my t's but at the end of the day, I'm the only one who has any idea what I'm talking about.

To complete the course I had to write something to be workshopped by the whole class. Being workshopped meant making a zillion copies of your work, and preparing yourself to watch it be torn apart by the rest of the would-be writers who enrolled in the course. It would undoubtedly be placed under the guise of "constructive criticism". Our professor kept reminding us not to take whatever words were to be exchanged personally. Uh-huh. Sure. As if complete strangers (okay, maybe not COMPLETE strangers) telling me that my work wasn't worth the paper it was written on isn't personal. However, I was willing to take her advice no matter how misguided.

I came prepared on the day my piece was to be workshopped. I was confident. I was more than just a little bit excited. I had written the best piece of literature since the Bible. I was ready to shine and be hailed as a master.

Nobody booed. Nobody made a snide remark. Nobody did much of anything except stare at their desks and think of new ways of shuffling their shoes. Nobody had any idea what I was trying to talk about. Of course, my professor came to save the day with the brilliant question, "How many characters do you have in here?"

It's kind of sad really when all I've ever wanted is to see something I've written truly move somebody.

And so I find myself here with a half-eaten donut and a half-full glass of iced tea, writing to look busy and maybe just a wee bit important as passers-by steal a glance at my direction perhaps wondering what I'm being so intent on. Ha! If only they knew that I've already put Mona Lisa'a smile into words, that I've captured the essence of our existence on paper, that I have created the supreme masterpiece and that after my hard work all I drew from the rest of the world was blank stares.

This is my true story.

Efa Iram

Naglalakad kami sa init ng araw noong umagang 'yun. Tumatawa. Masaya. Walang anu-ano'y bigla Niyang sinabi "Ang daming nagbabago." Nakangiti pa rin akong nagtanong, "sa alin?" pero di Niya malalaman na sa loob-loob ko, unti-unti akong nanghina at dahan-dahang humihinto ang puso ko. "Sa lahat," sagot Niya. Sa iyo. 'Yun ang gusto Niyang sabihin. SA AKIN. SA AKIN BA? Sumisigaw ang puso ko samantalang boses ko'y napigil. Walang tinig. Walang tunog. Ngumingiti pa rin ako sa kabila nito. Patawa pang sinabing "Change is good." Paano tayo umabot sa ganito? Ikaw pumili nito. Kasalanan Mo 'to. Good luck nalang sa atin.

Walong taon na Kaming magkaklase. Walong taong magkaibigan. Walong taon ko na rin Siyang hinintay. Hindi naman ako mag-isa sa pagtitiis. marami akong karibal, maraming pagseselosan, at marami ring kasabay sa paghingi ng himala. Hindi naman nakakagulat eh. Walang perpekto na tao sa mundo pero kung meron man, Siya na siguro 'yun. Korni pero totoo. Noong una, sabi kong kaya ko Siyang hintayin habambuhay makita ko lang na may nararamdaman Siya para sa akin. Pero tao lang rin ako, napapagod rin, nagkakamali at nawawalan ng pag-asa. Kung kaya't noong nalaman kong may gusto sa akin ang isa sa mga kaibigan Niya, nadapa ako, nagkamali at naghanap ng pagmamahal sa piling ng iba. Doon ko nalaman na mahirap palang magkunwaring mahal mo ang isang tao. Pero doon ko lang rin nalaman na mas mahirap itago ang tunay na laman ng iyong puso. Pangngalan pa rin Niya ang lagi kong muntikang masabi. Ang mga mata Niyang malalim at malungkot ang hinahanap-hanap ko. Ang mga kamay Niya ang nais kong mahawakan. Tawa Niyang babaeng babae ang gustung gusto kong mapakinggan. Ang halimuyak ng mga rosas tuwing nandiyan Siya ang gusto kong langhapin. Araw-araw. Habangbuhay.

Noong hapong 'yun, naglaro kami ng chess ng barkada ko. Hindi ako makapag-isip ng maayos. Paano ako makakapaglaro ng maayos pagkatapos ng mga binitawan Niyang mga salita kaninang umaga? Kalat ang mga piyesa ko, walang depensa, walang papupuntahan. Tinitignan ko ang kabayo kong itim. Kabayong hindi makapagsabi kung duwag ba siya o hindi. At napansin kong may naputol pala na bahagi sa piyesa kong hari. wala na akong nagawa pa sa laro. Pinanood ko nalang na unti-unting nalagay sa sulok ang hari ko at sa wakas, bumagsak ito at kinain ng kalaban.

Iba na ang naglaban sa chess nang dumating ang syota ko na kaibigan Niya. Umiiyak. Hindi makapagsalita ng maayos. Nang huminahon na siya, ang tanging sinabi ay "Dinala Siya sa ospital. Dinala Siya sa ospital." Binalot ako ng kilabot. Gusto kong tumawa. Gusto kong umiyak. Tinitigan ko lamang ang lupa at dahan dahang sinabi "Hinanap kita kanina. Wala ka." ...hinanap kita para hiwalayan ka, mga salitang sa puso'y itinago. Wala ka, andun Siya, dagdag ng nakapiit ko ng mga labi.

Ngayon, kasama ko pa rin Siya. Pangngalan Niya'y aking bukambibig. Ang mga mata Niyang malalim at malungkot ang laging katitig. Ang tawa Niya, ang halimuyak ng mga rosas, ang tanging naiwan sa akin. Naaalala. Araw-araw. Habangbuhay.

Hindi na Siya kailan pa man magiging akin. At sa kaalamang ito, ang kilabot ay patuloy na bumabalot sa akin. Hinding hindi na ako ulit makakaramdam ng init.

Patawad sa Iyo. Hindi ako nakapaghintay.

titles are always inept

I long for a passion to wake my core,
a fire to tear my heart and render it void

Something more than art
but life and death and coldness
in my writing

I long to shiver at my words
and to be astounded
by my thoughts

Grasp the infinite
and twist it to my liking.

I long for the sublime
utterance of silence and
the depth of darkness as
I shut my eyes

Straining for the words to which
my being writhes
and surrenders

Vain as it may be,
I long for immortality
with each piece.

I cry because it hurts more to try to be strong.

A friend asked me what drives me to write. It took me a long time to answer. And the reply I eventually rendered was hazy and generic. Thinking about it now, however, I don't think there is a particular reason that causes my writing.

Sometimes, while sitting in a cafeteria, I grab a pen and jot down words without a single thought as to their meaning. Most of the posts I have in this blog have been caused by an empty piece of paper, a blank screen and a rather tired mind. I don't think much about what I write. I just write. I don't think that's what the really great writers do. I don't think that's what any truly serious writer would do.

But then again, I'm not really a writer. I am a soul overflowing with words unknown to me and to quench the brimming emotions within me, I must write, I must sing, and dance without stopping to think about the reasons for my actions. What drives me to write is what drives me to live: an eternal force of purpose for my being. I don't think I really have to worry about why I do the things I do, about why words come out of me without my knowing their source because I am already answered for. I am in the hands of a God of Wisdom and Truth.

regret

faltering, my heart begins to slow
i see the arch of your back,
the curls of your hair,
the steady receding of each step.
and i wonder all over again
the merit of all that
i fought over with you.

sheer boredom

here i am again, sleepless and bored. i wish i weren't so lazy. i wish i could write something more worthwhile. but then again, we all need a reprieve from the heavier parts of our souls.

i haven't posted in quite a long time. my blog looks rather empty. i wish i could be more faithful in posting. but then again, i've never been to good at keeping things the way they should be.

i still haven't installed the new template i want for my blog. perhaps it's because i don't understand all the code that's supposed to be there. i had to choose a blogger template because my experiment with the template i downloaded didn't work. in the process, i have lost my HTML code for both my site meter and my chatterbox. i now have no idea how to get them back and therefore have to sign up for a new one. i should do it now while i have the time. but i know that after posting this, i will slowly drift off to other things.

i wish i weren't so lazy.

beautiful poetry always makes me cry

i've been reading blogs for the past half-hour and after everything, i'm glad i have been. nothing i can say will justify the following lines. how i wish i too could write something as moving. something so wonderful for the people who have touched my life. i place this here in the hopes that someone stumbling upon my blog might also be moved by the words of Pablo Neruda.

thank you hunter for sharing this in your blog.


"Tonight I Can Write" by Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example: "The night is shattered,and the blue stars shiver in the distance."

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I thought of the saddest lines.
And I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, and sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great, still eyes?

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance, someone is singing.
In the distance.My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another’s. She will be another’s. Like my kisses before.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me
suffer, and these the last verses that I write for her.

on teaching

My first encounter in teaching as a volunteer was when I was in Grade 6. We taught kindergarten students the alphabet, helped them to color inside the lines and helped them with their diction. Doing this under the supervision of older more experienced individuals (teachers no less) made the job quite simple. It was only during my civil welfare classes during my second year in college that I appreciated the tasks delegated to the teachers of this nation.
It was very hard for me to accept that although our students could write down the word “dog” when asked of them, they would also spell “aso” as d-o-g. Memorized. That was the first thing to enter our heads. They didn’t really know what they were writing. What they did know was that these certain symbols together meant dog. Although the kids going to us were supposed to be undergoing tutorial programs (supplementary programs to the classes they were currently enrolled in), we ended up starting from scratch.
“A” is a hard letter to teach and so are the other 25. It was grueling to watch my student strive to write an “a” for me and heartbreaking to see that each and every time, she would write it upside down, backwards, reversed, and all ways imaginible except the right one. Something deep inside me just wanted to quit but I kept thinking, “If I don’t help her, who will? I am the only one given the opportunity to touch her life at this exact moment in time.”
Even now, I wonder why students like me just squander the rare privilege given us to study, to learn. Here we are in a premiere university and we don’t even take full advantage of it. We slack off. I slack off. Everything becomes last minute when it comes to academics. The grade becomes more important than the actual things we’ve learned. We study for weeks to perfect an exam, yet we forget overnight the same golden nuggets of information acquired. When brought face to face with children desperate to understand, to learn, to excel, all I could feel was guilt and shame. Somehow, I never thought of my education like that. Yes, I would rant and rave about how the government should increase the budget allocated to the educational sector because the less privileged need to study too but I never realized that I, myself, was wasting what liberties was allowed my person.

Somehow, looking back, I don’t think I was the one doing the teaching in that classroom.

D.O.A.

In the air was the distinct reek of sweat as bodies collided and shirts stuck to the backs of the unceasingly milling crowd. Enrollment. The perfect way to sum up chaos and agony, discomfort and despair.
The sun beat down heavily on all the unsuspecting victims hanging around the open quad. Even the lucky few who were inside the school’s buildings couldn’t escape the heat as they waited hours on end to get a piece of paper signed. Conversations were held at a minimum in an effort to save the little energy not yet sapped by the heat.
“Stand still. Stand very still. It doesn’t hurt. I just need to get through this one last signing. It is not hot. I am not worried." Jumbled thoughts and muddled voices ran through her mind as she strived to take control. And as sudden as the shift from hush to noise that would ensue afterwards, she fell.
Panic ensued. The other students crowded around trying to be helpful, killing her in their own sweet way.
“Fan her.”
“Call the nurse.”
“Mafe? Wake up! Mafe?!”
“Call a teacher.”
“Call anybody.”
But there was nobody to call. The nurse couldn’t be found anywhere, she had seen her fair share of faintings and would not have been affected anyway, the teachers were now oblivious to it. In a public school, students dropped like flies every day.
“What do we do?” onlookers inquired from eyes full of apathy as word came that the nurse was missing in action.
“Call a tricycle.” the teacher finally concluded.
How those words resemble so well three others more unwelcome, “I DON’T CARE.”

The stink of wet dog. Familiar, unwanted, cheap, contagious.
“Tope! Tope! Si Mafe! Hospital. DG’s carrying her. Tricycle. ”, an unfamiliar face had told him.
Stunned, he rushed to get to the hospital as discordant memories flooded his head. “Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay,” he murmured to himself all the while replaying in his mind their Christmas party.
The room had held an aroma of butterscotch and mixed chips. The gifts had been put to one side, carefully wrapped looking like cakes and tin foil and nobody had mentioned it but all eyes had been on the biggest box. A number of attempts had been made to inconspicuously see who it was for, and the Nancy Drews had been put to a disappointed rest as the ritual of exchanging gifts had been undergone. She had smiled (knowing she wasn’t his kris kringle) when shyly he gave her the gift everyone envied. Mafe.
“Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay,” he murmured as he replayed in his mind every memory he had with her, and those around him could only try to avoid his searching gaze.

The smell distinct to hospitals lingered in his nostrils, traveling across his nerves, intoxicating him with its cruelty and coldness.
“I’m sorry there was nothing more we could do.”
His hands formed into fists as the nurse’s laughter rang in his ears.
“Mafe.”

* * *

I smile as I hug him, inhaling the scent of his Downy bathed clothes. The radio in the lobby of our dormitory oddly complements the scene as it blares out a song, “Teach me to be indifferent,” the singer begs. I hold him tighter relating only too well.
“I love you,” he whispers slowly.
Blurred images of memories not my own chase one another, clamoring for attention and recognition in my head. His memories of three years past, playing over and over in my consciousness, gradually becoming my own. No matter how hard I shut my eyes, I see her face. How could I possibly ask you to forget Mafe?
“I love you too.”

- i wrote this for a friend. this story is based on her life.

banal things

I'm sinking slowly back into the quagmire of my past life. Even now, I hide behind words to cover the grim reality of it. Immoralities, obscenities and self-righteous impertinence. The haunts that we frequented either precious morsels or the bane of my being. Only one or the other, never both or neither. Unlit rooms with undusted chairs. Empty houses smelling of rot and decay. Unswept halls and old worn-out buses, witnesses to secrets and lost innocence. Trifles fought over, bled for and eventually surrendered to. Tiny things that never mattered yet made all the difference. I, myself, don't know why I gave in. Just goes to show, ignorance is pure bliss.

pagsang-ayon

unti-unting nawawala ang sarili,
tulog ang isip at diwa'y nakapiit
sa lumaos na't natatanging sandali
ng pakikipagtunggali sa pusong napilit.

sino? kanino? at saan ba pumunta?
bulong ang sagot at ang pinanggalinga'y
di man lamang mahagilap o matantiya
dahil ang mundo mo'y puno na ng nakabibinging ingay.

ngunit tao'y sadyang mabilis maglaho
ang paninindigan. kakalimutan rin ang pag-aatubili
sapagkat sa gulo't ingay na nagdulot sa iyo,
nalalasap na masarap rin palang mawala ang sarili.

writer's block

in my heart's silence,
i search for a word,
an emotion, a single breath,
a wisp of something,
anything greater to speak of,
but there is nothing.
only deathly cold and stillness.
only frozen moments of untruth.

Hidden Thoughts

We say polite goodbyes,
The learned ways of pleasantries,
The pain of farewell comes: a dull surprise
Yet hidden by a mask of gallantries.
I gaze upon untouched beauty,
Knowing forever after I'll lay bereft.
Unbreakable silence as departure screams finality,
Eternal regret for confessions convention left.

Shut OUT

Staring at you, an arm's length away
Separated by the immeasurable gap of hurting hearts
My heart screams but to what avail?
When in your nearness, I've no power
To comfort, to forget, to erase
The scars and brokeness of my handiwork.

Were you the SMARTEST decision we could make?

Sino nga ba ang mas matalino?ang taong boboto sa alam niyang kurakot na? O ang taong boboto sa alam niyang wala pang bahid ng pagkakurakot? Tanggap nalang kasi tayo ng tanggap. Di na natuto.

Ayan. Sana masaya ka na. Presidente ka na. Tuta pa rin ng bansang Amerika. Inuuna pa rin ang pisikal na itsura ng pilipinas habang inaakyat ang tax, presyo ng mga bilihin, at kung anu ano pa na maisipan mo. Mabuhay ang mga nakapagaral! Salamat sa mga taong nagiisip katulad nila, maganda na ang north luzon expressway (WORLDCLASS!!!), priority na ang military, binabayaran natin ang utang nating bilyones na ang halaga, at ang buong Pilipinas ay WOW na WOW na. Pero ang taong bayan ay lumubog sa mas matinding hirap, di man lamang makabili ng pagkain. Pero sa bagay, maganda na ang daan papuntang north, mas importante yun. Salamat rin sa paglimot mo sa kalagayan ng taong-bayan, napaganda mo na ang mga iba't ibang lugar sa Pilipinas. Dinadayo na tayo ng mga taga-labas. Matalino ka nga talaga, naisipan mong takpan nalang ang masidhing kapangitan na bumabalot sa Pilipino. Kapag di natin sila makikita, di rin natin malalaman ang gutom nila, ang hirap nila, ang pagkawala ng kanilang pag-asa. Hindi na makapag-aral ang marami dahil sa laki ng mga budget cuts pero ayos lang yan, napopondohan naman ang militar at ang utang natin ay nababawasan naman ng kahit iilang milyones. Kaya lang, ang taong may sakit ay di makakabayad ng utang sa ospital hangga't di pa siya gumagaling. Akala ko ba ekonomista ka? Akala ko ba matalino ka? Akala ko ba ang matalino ay boboto sa iyo?

Salamat. Ang katotohanan ay kamatayan.

palangga

And then it was late afternoon; the smell of dank wood and of rusted steel mingled with the taste of salt in the air pervaded the child’s senses, drowning him. “We’re going for a walk,” she had told him with practiced indifference. That didn’t keep him from noticing the hint of red near the lips and the violent shock of blue beneath her eye. Once around the block, twice around the park, that’s where those words usually brought them. He treasured those moments when he was allowed to have her all to himself. He would gambol to and fro as if the world would stop on its journey around the sun just so he could have her like that forever. But it never lasted long. His father would eventually find them and take them back home. But this time, she was different. It was different. This was not a walk. He was old enough to know that it wasn’t the same, and also old enough to know not to ask her about it.

The chill of the winter breeze crept up his bare arms, sending goose bumps along his chocolate skin. But the cold was furthest from his mind as he explored the deck, spurred on by the noisy churning, excited by the undulating motion caused by the steady currents. She could only watch him play, unable to join in his joy, longing to be part of an innocence lost and long forgotten. Only when he was tired could she hold him, lulling him to sleep, pretending they were one, pretending she was he.

The wind whipped the strands of her hair about her face. A wild beauty, untamed and dangerous. Her deep black eyes stared out past her child, past the horizon, past everything she now was. Unlike him, she was all too aware of the cold, yet numb to the noises and smells around them. All she knew was what was her own, the secret nobody could know. The smell of guilt. The touch of death. She dreaded what was beyond this moment, knowing he would wake soon and ask for his father.

umaasa sa pagputi ng uwak

Tiny fingers. Tiny hands. That’s what I remember most about her. That and her smile. The heat was insane but there we were, sitting on a tree stump, baking under the sun, talking about everyone we knew, catching up on what we’d missed, remembering good times and crazy days.
“Do you remember the time we almost totaled your car?”
“ALMOST? I had to commute for two months after that!” I reminded her, recalling the incident oh too well.
“It was worth it, you must admit. I was in a very critical period in my life.”
“I hardly call dumping your current chew toy a crisis, D.”
“To be great, is to be misunderstood my friend. You, of all people, should know.”

Things had always been like that, Dianne the envied and her weird friend what’s-its-name. I was loathed, ostracized and stereotyped. But I was happy. In a silently warped and utterly secret way, I was happy. But then she found out who I really was, how I truly felt, and all she had left to say was “That’s just not my kind of thing. And I don’t think it will ever be.”
I wasn’t so convinced about that then. I should have prodded, I should have ranted and raved like a lunatic but like the softy that I am, I left hoping she’d stop me or that by some miracle I could have been turned into something different. But my heart and my body would not make peace and until now, the battle rages.
“Do you think you’ll remember me ten years from now?” she asked nonchalantly.
I waited a while before answering, confused by the contrasting emotions in her countenance until, unable to bear the intentness of her gaze, I replied,
“Ten years from now, a lot of things will be different. I’d have saved hard enough to retire early and start writing. That’s what I really want to be, you know, a writer.”
“Yeah. I guess ten years does a lot of damage.”
“Nobody really knows about these things Dai.”
“Like Dorothy Parker said, “Women and elephants never forget.”
“Dorothy Parker, whoever she is, has no idea what she’s talking about.”
“But maybe I do.”

The clouds began to race across the sky, providing a respite from the previous onslaught of sweat and discomfort. She cracked a joke. I shared a story, The Drawbridge Operator. She was silent after that. And out of nowhere, I heard her sniffle. “You’re good at telling stories,” she said. Then she laughed. “That’s the second time I’ve heard that story but you know how to say things better.”

She’s like that.

The shadows lengthened and the silence grew deeper. It was almost time to go but we stayed a little bit longer, hanging on to the chance meeting that might never happen again. Somewhere far away, her mind lingered.
“It’s time to go,” I said, calling her back to the present, holding her hand a little tighter than necessary.
“Well then, I guess this is goodbye.” It was all that I could say. She nodded. “I guess this is goodbye.” I turned around quickly then. It was the second time I’d heard that but somehow she just knew how to say things better. Alone, I laughed long and loud.
Tiny fingers. Tiny hands.
I’ll remember.

Sentimentality

I was asked how the 'g' in bologna is pronounced and for some reason beyond my ken, i launched into a full blown dramatic rendering of bologna.

The 'g' in bologna is pronounced as sex is pronounced. It is the way you would talk to a baby's sleeping form beside you. It is a breeze picking up on a stifling summer day. It is love, it is death, it is ruin and triumph at its best. And when someone asks you a mundane question like "How do you pronounce the 'g' in bologna?", it is the sound of dry leaves under your feet.

Coffee Spoons

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons." - T.S. Eliot
For you who should have been here...

The coldness of it pierced her. With hesitant surrender, she suppressed a scream. No. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. The moment had come. This was it, the point of no return. This time she spread her legs wide and exposed her vulva to him, nulling herself to the cries and warring thoughts within her. As her body relaxed and all tension escaped her, only two things circled in her mind. I love you. I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
She felt it enter her and she cringed with the familiarity of the sensation. Not once did she dare to open her eyes as he searched for life deep inside her. Fearing his face, his eyes, the judgement and disgust to be found in their emptiness, the reflection of herself, her soul, to be found in those unwavering black dots. She fled through the night, her mind borne away. Away from the battle raging at her core, away from the dark rendesvouz with sin occring through her, in her, everywhere around her. She flew away to a place she once knew, back to innocence, away to a place where he could not reach her, to a time when she didn't need him to touch her with dread and death.
All too soon it was over. She dressed hurriedly, not being able to leave soon enough. The few pesos taken from a pair of worn jeans exchanged hands and the strangers parted ways in secret, behind dark alleys and shards of broken glass. Alone, she sank to her knees and cried with bitterness for the injustice of life. For freedom, for choice, suddenly so dear, becoming a luxury only for the buorgeoisie. She cried for the filth she would never be able to wash off, groping for a reason and convincing herself that her answer lay in her squalor. She cried and her tears fell immeasurable. She cried, mourning for the stillness inside her and the barreness he had left, for he had taken his prize, blood of her blood, her redemption.

First post ever

Welcome to my blog...may we both find something here to fulfill a part of our hearts even if it be just the most inconsequential desires...