Two years.
No, not really. More like one year eleven months and some days. But my thoughts are centered on that day, "two years" from now.
Two years. Not really a long time to wait for someone who had just spent about 21 tedious and not so tedious years of studying. Not really a difficult wait for someone who's supposed to be hell-bent on studying for four months and some days more. Two years until that fated day isn't as nerve-racking a wait than that for the dreaded results of the 2009 bar examinations. "Two years" is nothing, then.
Two years. If I had not looked for you tonight, I wouldn't have known I'd be waiting. For two years. You said you were old. But I see nothing of the years, just the little boy who sings me to sleep, the shy smile, the silent strength. I would not have seen the change: you cut your hair. I don't think much of it. I still see you, a couple of months before. Everything will be fine, I tell myself. Two years is enough time for your hair to grow back. To how things had been.
When I saw you tonight, I immediately felt guilty for being unfaithful to my books. The day pulled me into a haze and I couldn't focus. I did a lot; yet, I did nothing necessary. All throughout, I kept pushing your voice away. And to occupy my thoughts, I did everything and nothing. But dusk carried thoughts of you and your lines again. At least, I thought it did; it is just now that I realized, you and your lines were always with me, like a background melody to a poignant movie. That's why I looked for you.
When I found you, everything and nothing immediately shut down. And out. You reminded me of my purpose, my goal. And I refocused. Two years will do it for both of us. There's no escape for you; I call it a sacrifice, you call it your responsibility. A necessary two year break from the craziness. I think about it and realize: for two years, I'd only be able to think of you, hear memories of you. But not hear from you. (And I'd content myself with that, lest I hear from you and hear... pain.)
It won't be a difficult wait. I have enough of your laugh and your smile to last me through years and years. By the time that fated day comes, one year eleven months and some days from now, "two years" would have elapsed and we will be two changed persons. I will not promise to go looking for you that day. You may not arrive. But I, I will still be here wondering if there will be any certainty to our paths.
I wonder, will this necessary break build me a bridge to where you will be then? No answer for that. But I will do my end of the "two year responsibility". For myself and no one else.Two years, after all, is never a difficult wait for the impossible to happen.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
This girl
This girl is just one of those crazy girls who'd drive by you, throw a pie at your face, and apologize with a happy, happy laugh. And all you can do is shake your head and laugh in spite of your pie-smeared face. Yes, this girl likes her jokes and her pranks. She likes teasing you about anything, really. She's after your reaction, and not after any possible smugness a person might have after teasing another.
This girl likes her halo-halo dessert to have a sweet surprise under the shaved ice. She likes hanging out with those people she is comfortable with. She likes laughing out loud, throwing her head back when she does. Laugh. LAUGH. She has a big laugh. And she snickers at almost every imperceptible item in the world. She likes her happiness. She thrives in happiness.
But she also grows in her misery. She writes poetry and believes they ARE poetry. She would call them such, no matter what others might say. And though she'd claim others' perception of her doesn't matter, in truth, it does. But she'd laugh, still. Nothing ever goes wrong with laughter in your life.
This girl loves her freedom, but also yearns to be hugged tightly at night. She likes to have someone open the car door for her 'just because' and not just to prove that chivalry hasn't completely left the world. Yet. She appreciates it when a friend helps her with her gym bag or book bag or whatever big or bulky that she may be carrying. She likes her brunch to have fruits and pancakes and brewed coffee for good measure. She never puts sugar in her coffee and she'd rather have it black, although she'd settle for an instant 3-in-1 when that's the only thing available.
This girl also loves her lunch-outs with friends. One friend, two friends, more friends, it doesn't matter. The conversation will still be good. And conversations get better as the sun sets. Over dinner, the conversations take a lazy but comfortable toll. The talks are easy here. And with beer, wine, and good armchairs, conversations with good friends can never go wrong.
As with conversations with herself, she has that all the time. Yep, a monkey might call her crazy but hey, we need craziness in this life to survive. She's still planning to vandalize someday, nevermind if she does that alone. She wants to make her mark in the world - every big mark that she could ever make. And she wants to vandalize, not just because it's a mark, but because she wants to do something she has never done before, and one that she has already promised to do. A mark on a wall is just a start. She has more tricks and plans up her sleeve. This girl is just bidding her time. She's pacing herself.
This girl will surprise you: you'd think her absence would be a welcome respite. But you'd miss her, too. You just won't understand why.
Oh, but she runs! Not too long, not too far. But she runs while she can. She'd like to do it in the rain, across the freshly-mowed lawns. And when it'd finally be time for her to stop, she'd look back at the direction where she started her sprint and be amazed by the distance she had been able to cover. Yes, this girl would like that.
This girl gets tired, too. Well, she is tired. She wants to just withdraw and crawl under the covers, lie on her cold bed, while hugging her knees to her chest. She'd like to sleep soundly tonight: she had a good day and tomorrow, she'd have another. Possibly, an even better one.
And this girl is tired now. Although she still wants to write a few more paragraphs, her brain is slowly shutting down. A glass of milk and she's ready to call it a night. (And then she remembers an adventure she had just rejected. Yes, just an hour ago. All paths are adventures waiting to happen, you see, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant they seem to be.) She wonders. And she smiles: she made a good decision for a good day. She remembers to pace.
This girl says good night to jokes and pranks, good night to laughter and misery, lunches and conversations with her own self. For now, that is.
Tonight, it will just be this girl and her dreams.
This girl likes her halo-halo dessert to have a sweet surprise under the shaved ice. She likes hanging out with those people she is comfortable with. She likes laughing out loud, throwing her head back when she does. Laugh. LAUGH. She has a big laugh. And she snickers at almost every imperceptible item in the world. She likes her happiness. She thrives in happiness.
But she also grows in her misery. She writes poetry and believes they ARE poetry. She would call them such, no matter what others might say. And though she'd claim others' perception of her doesn't matter, in truth, it does. But she'd laugh, still. Nothing ever goes wrong with laughter in your life.
This girl loves her freedom, but also yearns to be hugged tightly at night. She likes to have someone open the car door for her 'just because' and not just to prove that chivalry hasn't completely left the world. Yet. She appreciates it when a friend helps her with her gym bag or book bag or whatever big or bulky that she may be carrying. She likes her brunch to have fruits and pancakes and brewed coffee for good measure. She never puts sugar in her coffee and she'd rather have it black, although she'd settle for an instant 3-in-1 when that's the only thing available.
This girl also loves her lunch-outs with friends. One friend, two friends, more friends, it doesn't matter. The conversation will still be good. And conversations get better as the sun sets. Over dinner, the conversations take a lazy but comfortable toll. The talks are easy here. And with beer, wine, and good armchairs, conversations with good friends can never go wrong.
As with conversations with herself, she has that all the time. Yep, a monkey might call her crazy but hey, we need craziness in this life to survive. She's still planning to vandalize someday, nevermind if she does that alone. She wants to make her mark in the world - every big mark that she could ever make. And she wants to vandalize, not just because it's a mark, but because she wants to do something she has never done before, and one that she has already promised to do. A mark on a wall is just a start. She has more tricks and plans up her sleeve. This girl is just bidding her time. She's pacing herself.
This girl will surprise you: you'd think her absence would be a welcome respite. But you'd miss her, too. You just won't understand why.
Oh, but she runs! Not too long, not too far. But she runs while she can. She'd like to do it in the rain, across the freshly-mowed lawns. And when it'd finally be time for her to stop, she'd look back at the direction where she started her sprint and be amazed by the distance she had been able to cover. Yes, this girl would like that.
This girl gets tired, too. Well, she is tired. She wants to just withdraw and crawl under the covers, lie on her cold bed, while hugging her knees to her chest. She'd like to sleep soundly tonight: she had a good day and tomorrow, she'd have another. Possibly, an even better one.
And this girl is tired now. Although she still wants to write a few more paragraphs, her brain is slowly shutting down. A glass of milk and she's ready to call it a night. (And then she remembers an adventure she had just rejected. Yes, just an hour ago. All paths are adventures waiting to happen, you see, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant they seem to be.) She wonders. And she smiles: she made a good decision for a good day. She remembers to pace.
This girl says good night to jokes and pranks, good night to laughter and misery, lunches and conversations with her own self. For now, that is.
Tonight, it will just be this girl and her dreams.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
105
You have everything
in you.
Yes, you do.
Drinks and good time,
dirt and shame -
you're a conundrum
of trash and treasures
and you leave me
speechless,
wanting to close
my eyes,
so as not to see
your evil.
Often,
I walk past the threshold
and pray for enlightenment
along the way.
Other times,
I walk with acceptance:
you would be no different
from yesterday
and the day before,
save for maybe
a few more empty bottles
and silent protests
from the distressed sheets.
"Open the door",
you tell me.
I hear a wicked promise
of change;
I am drawn towards
a hopeful drama
of adventure.
I put my faith in
your promise
and prepare for something
magically neat.
But you,
you
you stay the same.
Ugh.
in you.
Yes, you do.
Drinks and good time,
dirt and shame -
you're a conundrum
of trash and treasures
and you leave me
speechless,
wanting to close
my eyes,
so as not to see
your evil.
Often,
I walk past the threshold
and pray for enlightenment
along the way.
Other times,
I walk with acceptance:
you would be no different
from yesterday
and the day before,
save for maybe
a few more empty bottles
and silent protests
from the distressed sheets.
"Open the door",
you tell me.
I hear a wicked promise
of change;
I am drawn towards
a hopeful drama
of adventure.
I put my faith in
your promise
and prepare for something
magically neat.
But you,
you
you stay the same.
Ugh.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Wicked thoughts before retreating
Probably a bad idea
but the possibility is daunting -
never could resist
challenges,
'specially those
that may have lasting aftereffects:
severe consequences
or the probability of damages
just seem to
work like trophies
and fresh bouquets.
but the possibility is daunting -
never could resist
challenges,
'specially those
that may have lasting aftereffects:
severe consequences
or the probability of damages
just seem to
work like trophies
and fresh bouquets.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Ha-ha.
You look like you.
All dune and juniper branches.
You look like you.
I look like me.
And I walk past the Tombolo.
All the scratches in my history
I carry with me.
But here, there is no more familiarity.
Just the wistful terse bond
of strangers.
All dune and juniper branches.
You look like you.
I look like me.
And I walk past the Tombolo.
All the scratches in my history
I carry with me.
But here, there is no more familiarity.
Just the wistful terse bond
of strangers.
Friday, March 13, 2009
I take whatever is given me.
I was there, wasn't I? I still am here, am I not?
If I'm needed, I go. I sit and listen and talk. I use the time you give me.
I become. I am there.
If I need, your time is not mine to ask for. Not even an hour. Minutes.
Just. What used to be.
Just. One.
And all is just in my head.
If I'm needed, I go. I sit and listen and talk. I use the time you give me.
I become. I am there.
If I need, your time is not mine to ask for. Not even an hour. Minutes.
Just. What used to be.
Just. One.
And all is just in my head.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
TAXonomy... err... taxation
I read 78 pages worth of Tax Infos today - a far cry from my usual 15-pages/day-cause-I'm-so-sluggish quota. Didn't quite hit my projected 100page goal but that's gotta count for something.
Oh, and I watched Mulan, Stormbreaker, The Game Plan, and Catch and Release. Lovely.
It wasn't all sunshine, though. I slept around 5pm to 7pm. I woke up dead scared. It was the nightmare. If I remember correctly, I had a similar bad dream when I was in a somewhat like situation. And thereafter, I got really scared of sleeping alone. BMaybe it's one of my withdrawal symptoms. I used to cope by sleeping over at my friends' apartment. Now, I decided to just jump off the bed, check the room to see if any of the things that happened (or appeared) in the dream were true, turn on the tv (and, which, only bothered me more earlier since the movie channels were all showing horror flicks), and go downstairs to have dinner. I ate in silence and gobbled up some dark chocolate for good measure. Voila! I wasn't scared anymore.
Withdrawing... withdrawing... withdrawn.
Oh, and I watched Mulan, Stormbreaker, The Game Plan, and Catch and Release. Lovely.
It wasn't all sunshine, though. I slept around 5pm to 7pm. I woke up dead scared. It was the nightmare. If I remember correctly, I had a similar bad dream when I was in a somewhat like situation. And thereafter, I got really scared of sleeping alone. BMaybe it's one of my withdrawal symptoms. I used to cope by sleeping over at my friends' apartment. Now, I decided to just jump off the bed, check the room to see if any of the things that happened (or appeared) in the dream were true, turn on the tv (and, which, only bothered me more earlier since the movie channels were all showing horror flicks), and go downstairs to have dinner. I ate in silence and gobbled up some dark chocolate for good measure. Voila! I wasn't scared anymore.
Withdrawing... withdrawing... withdrawn.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Thinking of you
I put my ipod on shuffle this morning, turned on the speakers and proceeded to have breakfast. Thinking of you.
I was catapulted into a contemplative stupor. Then another song I didn't want to hear came on. Just the strings. No words. Purely instrumental. But that other song, still. The odds.
I turned the ipod off, turned my laptop on, logged into imeem, and played a random song. I left it on and went to take a shower. Of course when the song I had chosen finished, imeem automatically chose another song to play. Thinking of you.
With shampoo on my hair and soap in my eyes, what could I do but shower and listen.
Good thing that when I finished, imeem was already playing something by Paramore.
I dressed up, turned my laptop off, got into the car, and turned the radio on. Thinking of you. WTF. And I mean, "What The (FRIGGIN') F*CK is wrong with the world today?
On the way home, I had the same story. No, it didn't play when I got into my car while still in the parking lot. But about 2 minutes away from my house, it did. I forced myself to listen.
Nobody would be thinking of me, I'm sure.
Katy Perry, I refuse to like your song.
I was catapulted into a contemplative stupor. Then another song I didn't want to hear came on. Just the strings. No words. Purely instrumental. But that other song, still. The odds.
I turned the ipod off, turned my laptop on, logged into imeem, and played a random song. I left it on and went to take a shower. Of course when the song I had chosen finished, imeem automatically chose another song to play. Thinking of you.
With shampoo on my hair and soap in my eyes, what could I do but shower and listen.
Good thing that when I finished, imeem was already playing something by Paramore.
I dressed up, turned my laptop off, got into the car, and turned the radio on. Thinking of you. WTF. And I mean, "What The (FRIGGIN') F*CK is wrong with the world today?
On the way home, I had the same story. No, it didn't play when I got into my car while still in the parking lot. But about 2 minutes away from my house, it did. I forced myself to listen.
Nobody would be thinking of me, I'm sure.
Katy Perry, I refuse to like your song.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Random Musings: Princess vs. Angel
So I ask: what'd be better, to be someone's "princess" or someone's "angel"?
Princess: "More precious." - from a source
Angel: "Angel? Why angel?" - from the same source
Princess -
Denotes a recipient of such tender care; someone a person would give the world to. Ships will be launched for a princess. Mountains will be moved. The best and most expensive flowers will be given to her. Knights, dukes, princes from all over the world will go high and low for her hand. The sight of her turns even the toughest men to putty. She need not raise her hand: others will do things for her.
She is that lady you open the car door for, that lady whose head you'd shield from the rain with your new trench coat. She is that special person you will proudly bring to a ball, with her hand resting ever so gently on your arm. She is that one woman you would give your whole heart and life to, without any hesitations nor questions.
Someone will take care of his princess. He'll love her so much and give her everything she wants, needs. He'll give her everything he can and so much more. He'll give her the world. Hell, he'll make her another world if she asks him to. The princess is the world. Sometimes, she weighs more than the world. When a man stands next to her, he'd feel so special and so proud. A princess would always treat her man royally, so much so that he'd feel like the most powerful human being to ever walk the planet, all because she'd look at him with those big, adoring eyes. He'd be happy with his princess by his side. And there'd be nothing else for him to ever wish for.
Angel -
Denotes a giver of light, blessings, and saving graces; someone who would give you the world. An angel guards you, guides you, and saves you from every peril imaginable. She would take a bullet for you, even if the bullet was aimed at your own stupidity. An angel will stand by and watch as knights, dukes, and princes from all over the world fight against each other for a princess' hand. Her heart will break while watching her dear knight, duke, or prince fight to his death for the princess' heart. But she would not stand between her man and the man's victory. She would support him every step of the way, listen to his cries of anguish and, finally, of victory.
She is that woman who will patiently wait for you whenever you're ready. Sometimes she'd wonder if you'd ever going to be ready, but still, she doesn't stop waiting. She is that woman who understands that you cannot bring her to fancy places. She silently wishes to be the princess, but she takes whatever is given to her. She knows her place, and tries to be content with it, if not at least try to remember that fact always.
She'll take care of her man, even if he is not hers or even if he never will be hers. She'll protect him and his world. Her tears will be worth more than all the planets combined but she'll bear them alone. For her, the world is complete, just as long as her knight, duke, or prince is happy. She'll be happy knowing that there would be nothing else that her man could ever wish for.
Princess: "More precious." - from a source
Angel: "Angel? Why angel?" - from the same source
Princess -
Denotes a recipient of such tender care; someone a person would give the world to. Ships will be launched for a princess. Mountains will be moved. The best and most expensive flowers will be given to her. Knights, dukes, princes from all over the world will go high and low for her hand. The sight of her turns even the toughest men to putty. She need not raise her hand: others will do things for her.
She is that lady you open the car door for, that lady whose head you'd shield from the rain with your new trench coat. She is that special person you will proudly bring to a ball, with her hand resting ever so gently on your arm. She is that one woman you would give your whole heart and life to, without any hesitations nor questions.
Someone will take care of his princess. He'll love her so much and give her everything she wants, needs. He'll give her everything he can and so much more. He'll give her the world. Hell, he'll make her another world if she asks him to. The princess is the world. Sometimes, she weighs more than the world. When a man stands next to her, he'd feel so special and so proud. A princess would always treat her man royally, so much so that he'd feel like the most powerful human being to ever walk the planet, all because she'd look at him with those big, adoring eyes. He'd be happy with his princess by his side. And there'd be nothing else for him to ever wish for.
Angel -
Denotes a giver of light, blessings, and saving graces; someone who would give you the world. An angel guards you, guides you, and saves you from every peril imaginable. She would take a bullet for you, even if the bullet was aimed at your own stupidity. An angel will stand by and watch as knights, dukes, and princes from all over the world fight against each other for a princess' hand. Her heart will break while watching her dear knight, duke, or prince fight to his death for the princess' heart. But she would not stand between her man and the man's victory. She would support him every step of the way, listen to his cries of anguish and, finally, of victory.
She is that woman who will patiently wait for you whenever you're ready. Sometimes she'd wonder if you'd ever going to be ready, but still, she doesn't stop waiting. She is that woman who understands that you cannot bring her to fancy places. She silently wishes to be the princess, but she takes whatever is given to her. She knows her place, and tries to be content with it, if not at least try to remember that fact always.
She'll take care of her man, even if he is not hers or even if he never will be hers. She'll protect him and his world. Her tears will be worth more than all the planets combined but she'll bear them alone. For her, the world is complete, just as long as her knight, duke, or prince is happy. She'll be happy knowing that there would be nothing else that her man could ever wish for.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Help me.
Help me lock away my heart. Hide the key. Don't give it back to me until I am up there, until my name is secure.
Remind me to close my tear ducts. Tell me whenever I need to hear it that tears are for sissies and that I am no sissy. I am that wall, that indifferent bitch you'd be afraid to mess around with.
Look me in the eyes and tell me all you see are my lenses. Touch my hand and remind me not to touch you or anyone else back. Touch me and feel my coldness. I am depositing all my warmth in a safety deposit box and giving it to you for safe-keeping. Keep it until it is well for me to have it back. Touch me then go.
Help me to not feel, to not care. I need to be numb; I need to forget the breeze for now. I need to close my eyes and lie.
...next to the mausoleum...
Help me play dead. I need to be... *lowers my eyes*
Help me.
Remind me to close my tear ducts. Tell me whenever I need to hear it that tears are for sissies and that I am no sissy. I am that wall, that indifferent bitch you'd be afraid to mess around with.
Look me in the eyes and tell me all you see are my lenses. Touch my hand and remind me not to touch you or anyone else back. Touch me and feel my coldness. I am depositing all my warmth in a safety deposit box and giving it to you for safe-keeping. Keep it until it is well for me to have it back. Touch me then go.
Help me to not feel, to not care. I need to be numb; I need to forget the breeze for now. I need to close my eyes and lie.
...next to the mausoleum...
Help me play dead. I need to be... *lowers my eyes*
Help me.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Jamming it all up
Got only one life to live. Hence, I'll do as much as I can during its duration.
Not do things indiscriminately, no. I'm much more classy than that. Do what I want. When I want. How. Why - and the answer to this is gonna be "because".
Of course, it's still going to be little ol' goody two shoes: me. Only with more spunk.
Not do things indiscriminately, no. I'm much more classy than that. Do what I want. When I want. How. Why - and the answer to this is gonna be "because".
Of course, it's still going to be little ol' goody two shoes: me. Only with more spunk.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Jogger
Ahh...
It feels good, just running without stopping. The breeze runs along with you and you hear the crunch-crunching of dried leaves and the snapping of twigs under your soles.
Your thoughts constantly flicker towards other images, other memories: those lines from a song you heard about 4 times before you left your house, images of someone laughing, of someone's back, the "high", the feel of...
And you run again. Ahh...
It feels good to be back.
(And you make it a point to always come back. The feeling is so wonderful that it makes sabbaticals worthwhile.)
It feels good, just running without stopping. The breeze runs along with you and you hear the crunch-crunching of dried leaves and the snapping of twigs under your soles.
Your thoughts constantly flicker towards other images, other memories: those lines from a song you heard about 4 times before you left your house, images of someone laughing, of someone's back, the "high", the feel of...
And you run again. Ahh...
It feels good to be back.
(And you make it a point to always come back. The feeling is so wonderful that it makes sabbaticals worthwhile.)
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
I say
no more to masochistic adventures and "end-less" roads.
no more to hot, senseless pursuits, to one-sided devotions.
I am no saint. But I also don't want to be the losing sinner.
I was at home in that insane whirlwind but got scared of being spewed out a little too early.
to stay means to subject myself to whiplash.
to leave means I'd only have might-have-beens to look back at.
but there will never be might-have-beens, cause there never was.
"Whatta laugh." But I'm not laughing.
I wasn't supposed to think about this, but I am. I am drawing castles in the air.
the breeze chills me. And it reminds me of a faint perfume. Not mine. Never mine.
"Walk away?"
I wasn't supposed to be here in the first place. My own feet just thought wrong. Even my instincts failed me. My heart? Leave my heart out of this.
there isn't anything here for me to wait for. Not even hope for.
you have never been here with me.
your home was elsewhere, but I had the gall to think otherwise.
what I think must be said, but think otherwise.
"I know", but I don't really want to listen to words that would further crush my pride.
I could have been. I could be. But, no. My chances are frugal. Possibilities though endless, remain in my head.
you think this line of thought is inappropriate. I think it is only fitting.
"Walk away."
I say, I will.
---- And I will.
no more to hot, senseless pursuits, to one-sided devotions.
I am no saint. But I also don't want to be the losing sinner.
I was at home in that insane whirlwind but got scared of being spewed out a little too early.
to stay means to subject myself to whiplash.
to leave means I'd only have might-have-beens to look back at.
but there will never be might-have-beens, cause there never was.
"Whatta laugh." But I'm not laughing.
I wasn't supposed to think about this, but I am. I am drawing castles in the air.
the breeze chills me. And it reminds me of a faint perfume. Not mine. Never mine.
"Walk away?"
I wasn't supposed to be here in the first place. My own feet just thought wrong. Even my instincts failed me. My heart? Leave my heart out of this.
there isn't anything here for me to wait for. Not even hope for.
you have never been here with me.
your home was elsewhere, but I had the gall to think otherwise.
what I think must be said, but think otherwise.
"I know", but I don't really want to listen to words that would further crush my pride.
I could have been. I could be. But, no. My chances are frugal. Possibilities though endless, remain in my head.
you think this line of thought is inappropriate. I think it is only fitting.
"Walk away."
I say, I will.
---- And I will.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Assumptions are the mother of all fuck ups.
Rant time, everyone.
1. Sucked in class today. So what else is new?
2. Was all set to go to this drinking thing. But my pals had to cancel since they have a previous engagement. Gah. I didn't want to go by myself. So I went home instead.
3. Was all set to go to this fun thing tomorrow but someone else made plans for me. Understandable. But I really wanted to go... :(
4. Got really hungry while driving home but then when I asked my yaya what's for dinner, she said she didn't cook since she assumed I was eating out since I had no class tomorrow. Gah. Sure. I will never tell her again that we wouldn't have classes the following day.
5. I'm blogging. I'm hungry. I don't want to go out and eat since I don't like eating out alone. Also, I don't want to have to open the gate myself and parking my car again later since my yaya would probably be sleeping in a matter of minutes. Yes, I've thought about having food delivered but then... I'm too pissed to eat now.
6. Someone came up to me earlier and asked if this person and I are now "officially together". I stared at her. I never thought that, at this point (a year has come and gone), "we" still wouldn't be "officially together". What was up with the question? Then I remembered. The person who asked is the "official" girl of a sibling of the person she was asking me about. Does this mean that for the siblings, the person she was referring to and I are still not "officially together"? Good Lord. I am unofficial.
7. *Read the title of this entry.*
8. *Read the title of this entry again and think of other possible reasons why I'm stressing on it.*
9. It has always been a bad, bad idea.
10. I'm all sober now and can see everything. I hope I won't get intoxicated again so as to not be up in Cloud 9 once more.
11. Sigh.
Hate mode. ON.
1. Sucked in class today. So what else is new?
2. Was all set to go to this drinking thing. But my pals had to cancel since they have a previous engagement. Gah. I didn't want to go by myself. So I went home instead.
3. Was all set to go to this fun thing tomorrow but someone else made plans for me. Understandable. But I really wanted to go... :(
4. Got really hungry while driving home but then when I asked my yaya what's for dinner, she said she didn't cook since she assumed I was eating out since I had no class tomorrow. Gah. Sure. I will never tell her again that we wouldn't have classes the following day.
5. I'm blogging. I'm hungry. I don't want to go out and eat since I don't like eating out alone. Also, I don't want to have to open the gate myself and parking my car again later since my yaya would probably be sleeping in a matter of minutes. Yes, I've thought about having food delivered but then... I'm too pissed to eat now.
6. Someone came up to me earlier and asked if this person and I are now "officially together". I stared at her. I never thought that, at this point (a year has come and gone), "we" still wouldn't be "officially together". What was up with the question? Then I remembered. The person who asked is the "official" girl of a sibling of the person she was asking me about. Does this mean that for the siblings, the person she was referring to and I are still not "officially together"? Good Lord. I am unofficial.
7. *Read the title of this entry.*
8. *Read the title of this entry again and think of other possible reasons why I'm stressing on it.*
9. It has always been a bad, bad idea.
10. I'm all sober now and can see everything. I hope I won't get intoxicated again so as to not be up in Cloud 9 once more.
11. Sigh.
Hate mode. ON.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Hearts' Day
Off to the flower district yet again to do some favors for people. Lovette (dry laugh).
I went there with three friends before and got so intense in finding the perfect bunch of liliums for a friend's girl that I forgot myself and asked the flowersellers there (the men) to help me find the foliage for my liliums. "Foliage". In the flower market. Smart. Sometimes I get so into it I forget to use the vernacular.
We made several trips to the flower market that week and then returned a few weeks thereafter for "special requests": anniversary, birthday, make-up-flowers, what-have-yous. I was all for the trip with my friends, who just followed me around as I haggled and wheedled my way into the Princess Irene tulip freezer. I liked visiting each and every supplier and comparing the wraps and ribbons. I'm all for unconventional arrangements: mixing goldenrod tulips with dark red berries, in lieu of grass (although no one has consented to that idea yet).
I've done orange Royal lilies with pink gerbera daisies, dark pink snapdragons, and lemon leaves. The requests involve the usual blooms: roses, a few tulips, mums. Twice, liliums were requested, but usually, people stick to roses, which is the Hearts' Day staple. I have yet to encounter someone who knows and would ask for Japanese irises with reticulatas. And when someone requests roses with flat ferns, I'd shake my head and make them see reason.
For one friend's bouquet, I had three liliums with carnations and accented the bouquet with Silver Dollar eucalyptus. They say eucalyptus has an aromatherapeutic effect. I wouldn't know. I've only held the bouquet for an hour or so, while holding other bouquets as well in the backseat.
The flower market also has the usual ferns and baby's breath available. Surprisingly, I saw some Japonicas once. But they don't have Magnolia Leaves, which I really like because although they, at first, look like the normal big green leaves, a day or two thereafter, they turn into this beautiful golden orange color, which reminds you of autumn, my favorite season. It would be nice to get a bouquet yellow or peach roses or tulips accented with gold-tipped pink carnations and Magnolia Leaves. (Would it be too pathetic to send one's self an anonymous bouquet of that sort?)
There was this other time when a friend of a friend needed to surprise his girl. This friend of a friend was in the province so he needed someone in the metropolis (where his girl was at that time) to find some nice mums and make his girl a sweet note, nevermind the fact that he wouldn't be able to sign his name on the note itself. Hey, the bouquet was pretty refreshing. And the note (fine, the poem) was smartly done, if I could say so myself. Twas worth the damned trip. I only wish I could have mixed yellow roses and white lilies, as well as wisteria (which is rarely available in the flower market) or Holly's ferns with those reddish-orange Italian mums. But, of course, there's the friend of a friend's budget to be respected. *sigh*
There was also a similar instance when a boyfriend of a good friend called me to ask if I could get his girlfriend, who was my thesis partner at that time, an ordinary bouquet of a dozen pink and red roses and a breakfast treat. Incidentally, the guy was in the States so he couldn't buy the items himself. And the girl was working at a call center (while we were still in college). Her "coffeebreak" was at 7:00 to 7:30am. I was a late sleeper and, thus, I tend to wake up really late, too.
Cursing time and friendship to oblivion (but not really meaning every word since I was pretty hyped about the surprise factor - I love sweet gestures and thoughtfulness), I woke up at 4:00am and headed to the flower market an hour thereafter, got a bunch of roses, arranged them and grabbed a bunch of balloons (cheesy, I know). I went to Starbucks (sorry! I was rushing and I didn't want to buy McDonald's stuff!), grabbed a non-fat extra hot Caramel Macchiatto, a whole wheat sandwich (I couldn't remember exactly what was in it), and a slice of cake. I rushed to Ortigas, smiled at the guard, ran into the building, went up to the 34th floor, to her desk, and gave my friend a big, big smile while holding her boyfriend's treats. She was so happy.
But, of course, there were times when I would just order something from the flower shop. I gave someone's aunt Hydrangea plants (yes, complete with the pot and the soil) once. She loved them so I guess potted plants, which you just grab from the flower shop, work, as well.
So it doesn't matter if you'd have to wake up early or if you have to brave the traffic on the way to the flower market and get lost while delivering those cheesy bouquets. It doesn't matter if you just buy and prepare the flowers (as opposed to receiving them for the most part). When you see the reaction of the girls, their wide-eyed smiles, and when you hear their squeals of delight (as well as the oohs and aahs of the people around them when they get their gifts), you'd also be happy in spite of yourself. You'd realize that even if the world is filled with hate and anger and poverty, there'd still be that one day in the year (at least one day, for that matter) when most people will strive to be thoughtful and sweet for that one special person. On that one special day. And you're happy since they're happy. On that one special day.
Well, at least you're supposed to be happy in spite of yourself. And, yeah, at least it's not supposed to matter. Supposedly. But it does, doesn't it? And you ask yourself, "Wait a minute. Why do I have to be the flower arranger?"
But you only get a big smile from the girl holding the big bouquet of flowers. Your flowers (or at least they were yours while you were still arranging them in time for delivery.)
I went there with three friends before and got so intense in finding the perfect bunch of liliums for a friend's girl that I forgot myself and asked the flowersellers there (the men) to help me find the foliage for my liliums. "Foliage". In the flower market. Smart. Sometimes I get so into it I forget to use the vernacular.
We made several trips to the flower market that week and then returned a few weeks thereafter for "special requests": anniversary, birthday, make-up-flowers, what-have-yous. I was all for the trip with my friends, who just followed me around as I haggled and wheedled my way into the Princess Irene tulip freezer. I liked visiting each and every supplier and comparing the wraps and ribbons. I'm all for unconventional arrangements: mixing goldenrod tulips with dark red berries, in lieu of grass (although no one has consented to that idea yet).
I've done orange Royal lilies with pink gerbera daisies, dark pink snapdragons, and lemon leaves. The requests involve the usual blooms: roses, a few tulips, mums. Twice, liliums were requested, but usually, people stick to roses, which is the Hearts' Day staple. I have yet to encounter someone who knows and would ask for Japanese irises with reticulatas. And when someone requests roses with flat ferns, I'd shake my head and make them see reason.
For one friend's bouquet, I had three liliums with carnations and accented the bouquet with Silver Dollar eucalyptus. They say eucalyptus has an aromatherapeutic effect. I wouldn't know. I've only held the bouquet for an hour or so, while holding other bouquets as well in the backseat.
The flower market also has the usual ferns and baby's breath available. Surprisingly, I saw some Japonicas once. But they don't have Magnolia Leaves, which I really like because although they, at first, look like the normal big green leaves, a day or two thereafter, they turn into this beautiful golden orange color, which reminds you of autumn, my favorite season. It would be nice to get a bouquet yellow or peach roses or tulips accented with gold-tipped pink carnations and Magnolia Leaves. (Would it be too pathetic to send one's self an anonymous bouquet of that sort?)
There was this other time when a friend of a friend needed to surprise his girl. This friend of a friend was in the province so he needed someone in the metropolis (where his girl was at that time) to find some nice mums and make his girl a sweet note, nevermind the fact that he wouldn't be able to sign his name on the note itself. Hey, the bouquet was pretty refreshing. And the note (fine, the poem) was smartly done, if I could say so myself. Twas worth the damned trip. I only wish I could have mixed yellow roses and white lilies, as well as wisteria (which is rarely available in the flower market) or Holly's ferns with those reddish-orange Italian mums. But, of course, there's the friend of a friend's budget to be respected. *sigh*
There was also a similar instance when a boyfriend of a good friend called me to ask if I could get his girlfriend, who was my thesis partner at that time, an ordinary bouquet of a dozen pink and red roses and a breakfast treat. Incidentally, the guy was in the States so he couldn't buy the items himself. And the girl was working at a call center (while we were still in college). Her "coffeebreak" was at 7:00 to 7:30am. I was a late sleeper and, thus, I tend to wake up really late, too.
Cursing time and friendship to oblivion (but not really meaning every word since I was pretty hyped about the surprise factor - I love sweet gestures and thoughtfulness), I woke up at 4:00am and headed to the flower market an hour thereafter, got a bunch of roses, arranged them and grabbed a bunch of balloons (cheesy, I know). I went to Starbucks (sorry! I was rushing and I didn't want to buy McDonald's stuff!), grabbed a non-fat extra hot Caramel Macchiatto, a whole wheat sandwich (I couldn't remember exactly what was in it), and a slice of cake. I rushed to Ortigas, smiled at the guard, ran into the building, went up to the 34th floor, to her desk, and gave my friend a big, big smile while holding her boyfriend's treats. She was so happy.
But, of course, there were times when I would just order something from the flower shop. I gave someone's aunt Hydrangea plants (yes, complete with the pot and the soil) once. She loved them so I guess potted plants, which you just grab from the flower shop, work, as well.
So it doesn't matter if you'd have to wake up early or if you have to brave the traffic on the way to the flower market and get lost while delivering those cheesy bouquets. It doesn't matter if you just buy and prepare the flowers (as opposed to receiving them for the most part). When you see the reaction of the girls, their wide-eyed smiles, and when you hear their squeals of delight (as well as the oohs and aahs of the people around them when they get their gifts), you'd also be happy in spite of yourself. You'd realize that even if the world is filled with hate and anger and poverty, there'd still be that one day in the year (at least one day, for that matter) when most people will strive to be thoughtful and sweet for that one special person. On that one special day. And you're happy since they're happy. On that one special day.
Well, at least you're supposed to be happy in spite of yourself. And, yeah, at least it's not supposed to matter. Supposedly. But it does, doesn't it? And you ask yourself, "Wait a minute. Why do I have to be the flower arranger?"
But you only get a big smile from the girl holding the big bouquet of flowers. Your flowers (or at least they were yours while you were still arranging them in time for delivery.)
Saturday, February 7, 2009
A Valentine Note to (place your name here)
I'd been staring at this screen for about 5 minutes before I could even begin to type this first sentence. It's not because I have absolutely nothing to say to you but because I don't know just where to begin. Like the motormouth that I am, I have a lot to say - stories to tell you (the chorale is working on an interesting piece and although we have yet to finish it, it has, I must say, come out rather well. I can't wait for the whole song to be finished), rantings to unearth and force out of myself just so I can hear your soothing words, questions to bug you about (do you...? did you...? why is the sky blue?), and truths to confess.
This note, or this blog rather, is too small a space to write down everything I want and need to say to you but I'd try. Frankly, I know I never would nor COULD, even if I wanted to, say everything I want and need to say outright. Social norms prevent me from doing such. Thus, here I am, resorting to explanations on why I couldn't type things as quickly and bluntly as I could. Here I am, resorting to tales and childish questions.
But this is all I could ever do.
It's going to be Valentine's soon enough, and although I don't really celebrate the occasion (I'd smirk and say with a patronizing tone, "Who does?!?" but of course, deep down, I'd also love to receive some flowers and girly whatnots, which never ever come, by the way), I'd take a big step forward and type embarrassing things in this "note". No, I don't have alcohol and circumstance to blame this on right now. I only have myself to claim all the credit for this stupid move. Consider this one of the dumbest moves I'm ever going to make.
Still, I don't know how to begin.
*takes a deep breath*
*prays for guidance*
*bites lower lip and curses her need to confess*
*imagines herself looking into (place your name here)'s eyes*
Crap.
Then again, scrap Valentine's, big leaps, and dumb moves. I'm keeping my pride. Or at least, what's left of it.
This note, or this blog rather, is too small a space to write down everything I want and need to say to you but I'd try. Frankly, I know I never would nor COULD, even if I wanted to, say everything I want and need to say outright. Social norms prevent me from doing such. Thus, here I am, resorting to explanations on why I couldn't type things as quickly and bluntly as I could. Here I am, resorting to tales and childish questions.
But this is all I could ever do.
It's going to be Valentine's soon enough, and although I don't really celebrate the occasion (I'd smirk and say with a patronizing tone, "Who does?!?" but of course, deep down, I'd also love to receive some flowers and girly whatnots, which never ever come, by the way), I'd take a big step forward and type embarrassing things in this "note". No, I don't have alcohol and circumstance to blame this on right now. I only have myself to claim all the credit for this stupid move. Consider this one of the dumbest moves I'm ever going to make.
Still, I don't know how to begin.
*takes a deep breath*
*prays for guidance*
*bites lower lip and curses her need to confess*
*imagines herself looking into (place your name here)'s eyes*
Crap.
Then again, scrap Valentine's, big leaps, and dumb moves. I'm keeping my pride. Or at least, what's left of it.
Friday, February 6, 2009
cantante
I've been singing the whole day. Thus, my diaphragm is now begging for a reprieve from the high notes and cheesy lines. I've been singing so much that the words just come out automatically and my brain doesn't really register their meanings anymore. So while I take my break and let the others belt their intestines out, I step back and appraise the songs which are randomly popping into my brain right now as well as those songs which I had listened to and sung (or hummed) for the day.
Most songs tell the same, or at least similar, stories: love, love lost, love, and love lost again. Or sex. Sex with someone you love, sex with someone you're not sure you love, sex with someone who loves you, sex with someone you don't know. Mild sex, rough sex. Watching someone else have sex with someone else, promising to be the best sex partner another has ever had, promising to never have sex again. Promises, yes there are songs about them. Wedding promises, filial promises, broken promises. Promises in all colors.
Then there's death. Death of a loved one, death of the flowers you planted in your neighbors' backyard, death of a relationship, which then brings us back to the love song yet again.
But there are also songs about fights - between and among friends, families, lovers - and, of course, fights with one's conscience. Drugs and booze also make up a big chunk of song topics. Some songs recommend them, others put vices up on a pedestal and declare that they're the best "escape" one could ever have, or the best "friend" one could ever get, up until they crash their cars and enter the Golden Gates. Some songs say they're the bane of the world's existence and that kids should never use them. These songs are referred to by many as "preachy" songs. I wonder why.
Some songs are about bitterness and others are about finding something wonderful and amazing at the end of a rainbow. Ultimately, we are led back into love songs. Bitterness is an offshoot of love (lost). The discovery of something wonderful is often about love. So, love is often the deadend of most songs.
And even if the theme goes on, over and over: a repeated litany of feelings and all supposedly uncanny emotions, these songs still sell.
I wonder, if we write songs about other things, not the aforementioned topics, would the singles still sell?
Most songs tell the same, or at least similar, stories: love, love lost, love, and love lost again. Or sex. Sex with someone you love, sex with someone you're not sure you love, sex with someone who loves you, sex with someone you don't know. Mild sex, rough sex. Watching someone else have sex with someone else, promising to be the best sex partner another has ever had, promising to never have sex again. Promises, yes there are songs about them. Wedding promises, filial promises, broken promises. Promises in all colors.
Then there's death. Death of a loved one, death of the flowers you planted in your neighbors' backyard, death of a relationship, which then brings us back to the love song yet again.
But there are also songs about fights - between and among friends, families, lovers - and, of course, fights with one's conscience. Drugs and booze also make up a big chunk of song topics. Some songs recommend them, others put vices up on a pedestal and declare that they're the best "escape" one could ever have, or the best "friend" one could ever get, up until they crash their cars and enter the Golden Gates. Some songs say they're the bane of the world's existence and that kids should never use them. These songs are referred to by many as "preachy" songs. I wonder why.
Some songs are about bitterness and others are about finding something wonderful and amazing at the end of a rainbow. Ultimately, we are led back into love songs. Bitterness is an offshoot of love (lost). The discovery of something wonderful is often about love. So, love is often the deadend of most songs.
And even if the theme goes on, over and over: a repeated litany of feelings and all supposedly uncanny emotions, these songs still sell.
I wonder, if we write songs about other things, not the aforementioned topics, would the singles still sell?
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
In the Messy Corners of my Mind
Shame on me.
I didn't think. Hell, I don't think.
When I cook, I cook. I shove recipes aside. I heed no directions and instructional messages - helpful or otherwise, from good sources or not. I step into the kitchen, close my eyes as I tie my apron on, and feel. I mix whatever smells good and looks good to me. I pound and slice and mix some more.
And I know that the taste is just a bonus. It's the exhilaration I feel when I'm cooking that gets me going. The thrill. The adventure of looking through the cupboards and the fridge and just finding something interesting there. Interestingly mundane, maybe. But still interesting.
I love cooking. I love how it makes me "me".
I just won't think about it.
And I'd just go on. Mixing and slicing and pounding. Doing what I love best. I don't measure the salt as I go. I don't stick to exact lines and grams. I just laugh it off and hope for the best.
The dishes all contain a little of me - and I'm not talking about gross unsanitary things. I put myself into whatever I make - and yes, even if they don't really taste good in the end. That's exactly me.
So even if you find the meat a bit raw or the soup too bland, they contain my heart just the same. I never would have made them voluntarily, willingly, knowingly, if my heart wasn't in them.
It won't happen again.
I said I will give up cooking. That I will never ever cook a single dish again.
That was a lie.
How can I give up doing something which has become a part of me? Even, say for example, it was only my first time to cook yesterday, giving it up would be ultimately difficult. I'm counting months, days, minutes, of just being drawn to the kitchen, to the art of cooking. I am no artist but I feel like one when I'm in that zone.
Say, for months, days, minutes, I've wondered how it would feel like to step into the kitchen I've been dreaming of for years, and for almost every second thereof. I could not NOT want to visit it again and cook there again. I would. And I would want to spend every Sunday of my life in that kitchen. I would still want to cook and cook and cook some more.
Yes, even if I had already said that it won't happen again.
Soft as marshmallow, sweet as melon. Passionate as red wine.
What's with food and drinks? Unlike most women, I love to eat and I let myself eat. Of course, on a good day, I'd say no politely. At first. And then give in after a moment's insistence. It's a human weakness: hunger, thirst, they say. For a long time, I believed them.
But when I come across the most festive meal of my life, as yet, I can never view hunger and thirst as weaknesses or liabilities. I welcome them. I embrace them and let the longing encapsulate me. I fight against each pang of hunger, thinking about the calories and the hours on the treadmill. I resist the sway of liqueur, reminding myself that driving under the influence shall make my insurers not liable for any damage or loss whatsoever in case of an accident.
But then I go and take the first bite - not because I am human and, therefore, weak, but because I want to. And after the first bite, resistance will no longer be possible, especially when the first bite proves me right about this being the most festive and delicious meal I have had. As yet.
I don't blame the food decors and arrangements nor the chef. I take all the credit for having my fill. I'd like some more, but that would be gluttony.
And I know I have got to wait and work my ass off to slim down. I can't be greedy. I can't be selfish. Cooks should never be greedy and selfish and I want to be a good cook.
So this is how it feels to be home. Home away from home.
And I want to stay in this kitchen forever.
I didn't think. Hell, I don't think.
When I cook, I cook. I shove recipes aside. I heed no directions and instructional messages - helpful or otherwise, from good sources or not. I step into the kitchen, close my eyes as I tie my apron on, and feel. I mix whatever smells good and looks good to me. I pound and slice and mix some more.
And I know that the taste is just a bonus. It's the exhilaration I feel when I'm cooking that gets me going. The thrill. The adventure of looking through the cupboards and the fridge and just finding something interesting there. Interestingly mundane, maybe. But still interesting.
I love cooking. I love how it makes me "me".
I just won't think about it.
And I'd just go on. Mixing and slicing and pounding. Doing what I love best. I don't measure the salt as I go. I don't stick to exact lines and grams. I just laugh it off and hope for the best.
The dishes all contain a little of me - and I'm not talking about gross unsanitary things. I put myself into whatever I make - and yes, even if they don't really taste good in the end. That's exactly me.
So even if you find the meat a bit raw or the soup too bland, they contain my heart just the same. I never would have made them voluntarily, willingly, knowingly, if my heart wasn't in them.
It won't happen again.
I said I will give up cooking. That I will never ever cook a single dish again.
That was a lie.
How can I give up doing something which has become a part of me? Even, say for example, it was only my first time to cook yesterday, giving it up would be ultimately difficult. I'm counting months, days, minutes, of just being drawn to the kitchen, to the art of cooking. I am no artist but I feel like one when I'm in that zone.
Say, for months, days, minutes, I've wondered how it would feel like to step into the kitchen I've been dreaming of for years, and for almost every second thereof. I could not NOT want to visit it again and cook there again. I would. And I would want to spend every Sunday of my life in that kitchen. I would still want to cook and cook and cook some more.
Yes, even if I had already said that it won't happen again.
Soft as marshmallow, sweet as melon. Passionate as red wine.
What's with food and drinks? Unlike most women, I love to eat and I let myself eat. Of course, on a good day, I'd say no politely. At first. And then give in after a moment's insistence. It's a human weakness: hunger, thirst, they say. For a long time, I believed them.
But when I come across the most festive meal of my life, as yet, I can never view hunger and thirst as weaknesses or liabilities. I welcome them. I embrace them and let the longing encapsulate me. I fight against each pang of hunger, thinking about the calories and the hours on the treadmill. I resist the sway of liqueur, reminding myself that driving under the influence shall make my insurers not liable for any damage or loss whatsoever in case of an accident.
But then I go and take the first bite - not because I am human and, therefore, weak, but because I want to. And after the first bite, resistance will no longer be possible, especially when the first bite proves me right about this being the most festive and delicious meal I have had. As yet.
I don't blame the food decors and arrangements nor the chef. I take all the credit for having my fill. I'd like some more, but that would be gluttony.
And I know I have got to wait and work my ass off to slim down. I can't be greedy. I can't be selfish. Cooks should never be greedy and selfish and I want to be a good cook.
So this is how it feels to be home. Home away from home.
And I want to stay in this kitchen forever.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Dear Diary
Dear Diary,
I saved the world today, and it felt good.
I woke up at 8am with birds chirping from somewhere near my window, stretched, went downstairs and grabbed myself some toast. The newspaper was already next to the cup of coffee my reliable housekeeper had made me. On the front page was Obama's picture, just like yesterday and the day before that.
I was reading my horoscope when it happened.
A raspy voice was cackling with glee. The hair on my nape stood and I paused, listening carefully. The voice was muttering to himself, in a sinister way.
"Red wire, white wire... 10 minutes will do. The MRT will be nothing but ashes. Ahh. Burnt corpses. Singed hair. Lovely. Good thing Ayala station is always overpopulated."
Everything happened in a flash. Or so it would seem to other people. For me, it's all in a day's work: ripping my "normal" clothes off my body (I can always go out and buy more clothes), running outside the house so I won't have to ruin my roof when I go while tugging on my super strength missile-proof skimpy black and red ensemble (yes, you'd call it costume or uniform or whathaveyou, I'd call it ensemble) and matching cape and mask (oh, and my knee-high boots of course!), staring up at the clear blue sky and zoom, zoom, zooming away to the scene of trouble.
I got to Ayala station even before the bastard finished taping the bomb onto one of the toilet bowls in the men's room. Just one quick kick was enough to do the job. Off to Mongolia he went. I wasn't too sure if he was conscious during his surprise flight but I sure hope he wasn't. It's always great to wake up in a different country altogether, without a clue as to what had happened hours, days, months, years (it depends on the force of the kick) ago. And of course, it's funny to think about the bastard's reaction when he finds out he wasn't in the Philippines anymore.
So I got down to business and carefully removed the unfinished bomb from the bowl. Phew! It stinks in the men's cr! Pigs.
There was no more need to look for some planet far, far away where I can detonate the bomb. My super zapping vanisher (low - power) was just right for that amateur bomb. One *pop* and, voila!, Makati was safe again.
In a flash, I was back at my breakfast table, my ensemble nowhere to be seen, and in its place was a blue and white polka dot pajama pair. Sipping my coffee, I started to read my horoscope in its entirety.
I saved the world today, and it felt good. It always does everyday.
SuperMe
I saved the world today, and it felt good.
I woke up at 8am with birds chirping from somewhere near my window, stretched, went downstairs and grabbed myself some toast. The newspaper was already next to the cup of coffee my reliable housekeeper had made me. On the front page was Obama's picture, just like yesterday and the day before that.
I was reading my horoscope when it happened.
A raspy voice was cackling with glee. The hair on my nape stood and I paused, listening carefully. The voice was muttering to himself, in a sinister way.
"Red wire, white wire... 10 minutes will do. The MRT will be nothing but ashes. Ahh. Burnt corpses. Singed hair. Lovely. Good thing Ayala station is always overpopulated."
Everything happened in a flash. Or so it would seem to other people. For me, it's all in a day's work: ripping my "normal" clothes off my body (I can always go out and buy more clothes), running outside the house so I won't have to ruin my roof when I go while tugging on my super strength missile-proof skimpy black and red ensemble (yes, you'd call it costume or uniform or whathaveyou, I'd call it ensemble) and matching cape and mask (oh, and my knee-high boots of course!), staring up at the clear blue sky and zoom, zoom, zooming away to the scene of trouble.
I got to Ayala station even before the bastard finished taping the bomb onto one of the toilet bowls in the men's room. Just one quick kick was enough to do the job. Off to Mongolia he went. I wasn't too sure if he was conscious during his surprise flight but I sure hope he wasn't. It's always great to wake up in a different country altogether, without a clue as to what had happened hours, days, months, years (it depends on the force of the kick) ago. And of course, it's funny to think about the bastard's reaction when he finds out he wasn't in the Philippines anymore.
So I got down to business and carefully removed the unfinished bomb from the bowl. Phew! It stinks in the men's cr! Pigs.
There was no more need to look for some planet far, far away where I can detonate the bomb. My super zapping vanisher (low - power) was just right for that amateur bomb. One *pop* and, voila!, Makati was safe again.
In a flash, I was back at my breakfast table, my ensemble nowhere to be seen, and in its place was a blue and white polka dot pajama pair. Sipping my coffee, I started to read my horoscope in its entirety.
I saved the world today, and it felt good. It always does everyday.
SuperMe
Thursday, January 15, 2009
musings
What if the world wasn't ending
and we are given the choice
to go back -
2 years
3 years
or maybe even 6 years -
just go back
to how life once was
and relive our selves
starting at that selected point.
Would we dare
to look the other way
and choose to take the busy elevator
than the long, gray steps?
Would we dare to tell the joke
which seemed too bland
for everyone's tastes,
save for that of the insane?
What if the world was again
the one we once knew -
millions of seconds
of minutes
of hours ago -
and the choice is ours
to make and break.
Would we remain still
and unfazed by the chance
to weave our own tales?
Would we tread the same paths,
the same causes, the same days?
Or would we dare
to walk where we could not
had the present world went on,
where the answers would not have mattered,
where the questions would have been left
unsaid?
But the world is ending
slowly, even painfully
if you think about it too much.
And there is no more Time to go back to -
there is only Tomorrow and So On.
We can't erase the lines
defining our palms
nor evade the seasons yet to come.
We can only dream to be back there -
years
scores
eons ago -
only dream, and sigh,
and dream once again
to be younger and freer,
to have another chance
at our very own lives.
Dream, yes. And nothing more.
and we are given the choice
to go back -
2 years
3 years
or maybe even 6 years -
just go back
to how life once was
and relive our selves
starting at that selected point.
Would we dare
to look the other way
and choose to take the busy elevator
than the long, gray steps?
Would we dare to tell the joke
which seemed too bland
for everyone's tastes,
save for that of the insane?
What if the world was again
the one we once knew -
millions of seconds
of minutes
of hours ago -
and the choice is ours
to make and break.
Would we remain still
and unfazed by the chance
to weave our own tales?
Would we tread the same paths,
the same causes, the same days?
Or would we dare
to walk where we could not
had the present world went on,
where the answers would not have mattered,
where the questions would have been left
unsaid?
But the world is ending
slowly, even painfully
if you think about it too much.
And there is no more Time to go back to -
there is only Tomorrow and So On.
We can't erase the lines
defining our palms
nor evade the seasons yet to come.
We can only dream to be back there -
years
scores
eons ago -
only dream, and sigh,
and dream once again
to be younger and freer,
to have another chance
at our very own lives.
Dream, yes. And nothing more.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
cheer up.
*published with permission from both Friend and Higala*
Friend:So, why?
Higala: Because I can't go.
Friend: I dare not ask why.
Higala: I can't cope with the aftermath.
Friend: I'm sorry.
Higala: I believe in making things work. If you just continue holding on and making things work, it will work.
Friend: I dont know whether you are something amazing or just plain old fool. Perhaps both. Lagi ka sigurong mag isa nung bata ka. At nung lumalaki ka -
Higala: Kapag may kasama na ko, ayokong pakawalan.
Friend: Happiness is integral. Otherwise, you will have a patchwork relationship.
Higala: I want a stable relationship.
Friend: Stable, huh?
Higala: Ah... Love, love, love.
Friend: Perhaps there is still hope for jerks like us.
Higala: Of course. For jerks like you guys, there are fools like me.
Friend: What a pair that makes.
...
Friend: I hope you don't change that quick smiling attitude and cheerfulness despite agony which at times annoys, since i think the world needs more of that because we have grown to be more realistic.
Higala: SO, I'M NOT REALISTIC?!?
Friend: Realistic in the sense that we don't dare see whats beyond. We take things as [they are]. And perhaps the reason you smile and be happy and perky is because you see something more.
Higala: I dare not tell you but... I am near-sighted.
...
Higala: Thanks, Friend, for cheering me up.
Friend: No problem, your [j]ester is glad to be of service.
Higala: Wait. Knock knock.
Friend: What?
Higala: You're supposed to say, "who's there?"
Friend: Who's there?
Higala: Jester.
Friend: Jester who?
Higala: Jesterday. All my troubles seemed so far away...
Friend: *cricket*
Friend:So, why?
Higala: Because I can't go.
Friend: I dare not ask why.
Higala: I can't cope with the aftermath.
Friend: I'm sorry.
Higala: I believe in making things work. If you just continue holding on and making things work, it will work.
Friend: I dont know whether you are something amazing or just plain old fool. Perhaps both. Lagi ka sigurong mag isa nung bata ka. At nung lumalaki ka -
Higala: Kapag may kasama na ko, ayokong pakawalan.
Friend: Happiness is integral. Otherwise, you will have a patchwork relationship.
Higala: I want a stable relationship.
Friend: Stable, huh?
Higala: Ah... Love, love, love.
Friend: Perhaps there is still hope for jerks like us.
Higala: Of course. For jerks like you guys, there are fools like me.
Friend: What a pair that makes.
...
Friend: I hope you don't change that quick smiling attitude and cheerfulness despite agony which at times annoys, since i think the world needs more of that because we have grown to be more realistic.
Higala: SO, I'M NOT REALISTIC?!?
Friend: Realistic in the sense that we don't dare see whats beyond. We take things as [they are]. And perhaps the reason you smile and be happy and perky is because you see something more.
Higala: I dare not tell you but... I am near-sighted.
...
Higala: Thanks, Friend, for cheering me up.
Friend: No problem, your [j]ester is glad to be of service.
Higala: Wait. Knock knock.
Friend: What?
Higala: You're supposed to say, "who's there?"
Friend: Who's there?
Higala: Jester.
Friend: Jester who?
Higala: Jesterday. All my troubles seemed so far away...
Friend: *cricket*
Friday, January 9, 2009
Why do we drink beer?
1. To socialize.
2. To make it look like we're socializing.
3. To prove we can.
4. Because beer's 'hot'. (Fine. It's usually cold. But it makes you seem hot.)
5. Because of the acquired taste (thanks to hops).
6. Because it relaxes us somehow and makes us sleep better (the latter part of the sentence I don't really agree with).
7. Because beer increases the amount of good cholesterol (HDL) into the bloodstream as well as helps decrease blood clots. (Go, Google it.)
8. Because it warms you up (this number is waaay different from statement 4).
9. Because you get to think more clearly. Trust me.
10. Because it justifies your being a show off. And your being passionate. And emo.
11. Because it allows you to be and everyone else will either forgive you for 'being' or not take your words and actions seriously. (And then you can rest knowing that they'd shrug everything off thereafter. )
12. Because we want beer. And more beer!
13. Peer pressure?
14. Because we'd like to be on the morning news: Minor arrested for DUI.
15. Because we'd like to experiment with tastes.
16. Because we'd like to see (and feel) the aftereffects.
17. Because we don't like the hangovers that hard liquor causes.
18. Because we're Pinoys and huge fans of Red Horse.
19. Because our fathers drink beer. And our forefathers did, too. And their forefathers. And their... zzz.
20. Because beer's fun!
21. Because we don't want to outlive our friends by being squeaky clean and vice-free.
22. Because we want to live crazily for the moment and wake up the next morning to tell the tale. Or to make sure everyone else does not (tell the tale).
23. Because it livens up the world, somehow. Everything's vivid and magical. And, in it, you can be so happy - yes, in that drunken stupor.
24. Because. Just because.
2. To make it look like we're socializing.
3. To prove we can.
4. Because beer's 'hot'. (Fine. It's usually cold. But it makes you seem hot.)
5. Because of the acquired taste (thanks to hops).
6. Because it relaxes us somehow and makes us sleep better (the latter part of the sentence I don't really agree with).
7. Because beer increases the amount of good cholesterol (HDL) into the bloodstream as well as helps decrease blood clots. (Go, Google it.)
8. Because it warms you up (this number is waaay different from statement 4).
9. Because you get to think more clearly. Trust me.
10. Because it justifies your being a show off. And your being passionate. And emo.
11. Because it allows you to be and everyone else will either forgive you for 'being' or not take your words and actions seriously. (And then you can rest knowing that they'd shrug everything off thereafter. )
12. Because we want beer. And more beer!
13. Peer pressure?
14. Because we'd like to be on the morning news: Minor arrested for DUI.
15. Because we'd like to experiment with tastes.
16. Because we'd like to see (and feel) the aftereffects.
17. Because we don't like the hangovers that hard liquor causes.
18. Because we're Pinoys and huge fans of Red Horse.
19. Because our fathers drink beer. And our forefathers did, too. And their forefathers. And their... zzz.
20. Because beer's fun!
21. Because we don't want to outlive our friends by being squeaky clean and vice-free.
22. Because we want to live crazily for the moment and wake up the next morning to tell the tale. Or to make sure everyone else does not (tell the tale).
23. Because it livens up the world, somehow. Everything's vivid and magical. And, in it, you can be so happy - yes, in that drunken stupor.
24. Because. Just because.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Wunderkind
When you seek a place, a thing, a name,
When you try to gather all then sleep,
When you listen to every word, and sound, and grief,
When you're filled to the top and cannot breathe...
When you roam and wonder at the undiscovered sights,
When you cry and hunger for warmth and light,
When you kneel amid the thorns, amid the vines,
When you grope for understanding but are given a knife...
When you speak of tales, of wrath, of haste,
When you smile in pain and nod 'hello',
When you close your eyes and let the anger flow,
When you open your hand for a Touch you missed so...
... you wait for Magic to happen
and will Time to hold all Wonders.
That's when you realize you're perfect, but all alone:
and there's No One there to take in the Beauty with you.
February 10, 2006
When you try to gather all then sleep,
When you listen to every word, and sound, and grief,
When you're filled to the top and cannot breathe...
When you roam and wonder at the undiscovered sights,
When you cry and hunger for warmth and light,
When you kneel amid the thorns, amid the vines,
When you grope for understanding but are given a knife...
When you speak of tales, of wrath, of haste,
When you smile in pain and nod 'hello',
When you close your eyes and let the anger flow,
When you open your hand for a Touch you missed so...
... you wait for Magic to happen
and will Time to hold all Wonders.
That's when you realize you're perfect, but all alone:
and there's No One there to take in the Beauty with you.
February 10, 2006
blank stare
Blank, yet again, but still I have the urge to pour out the deafening silence onto this canvas. And I realize the 'blank' state is only an armor I resort to when times get dire.
Thus, though I'd call it blankness or even apathy, in all actuality, I am not devoid of any emotions. I'd be irritable and angry, even bitter. I'd be depressed, the pathetic loser that I really am.
The blankness is just my friend - a blanket to ward off further damage to my shell.
[cursor]
Inside, I bleed.
Thus, though I'd call it blankness or even apathy, in all actuality, I am not devoid of any emotions. I'd be irritable and angry, even bitter. I'd be depressed, the pathetic loser that I really am.
The blankness is just my friend - a blanket to ward off further damage to my shell.
[cursor]
Inside, I bleed.
personal ghosts
No reasons, just what is:
I couldn't question the existence
nor do I want to - it just is.
The thoughts, the words
in my head or elsewhere
are.
They are.
Perhaps I know the why's
and the how's
but I choose to be ignorant.
After all,
only I know my truth.
Others can only guess.
You can only close your eyes
and wonder.
I couldn't question the existence
nor do I want to - it just is.
The thoughts, the words
in my head or elsewhere
are.
They are.
Perhaps I know the why's
and the how's
but I choose to be ignorant.
After all,
only I know my truth.
Others can only guess.
You can only close your eyes
and wonder.
peanut butter-lover
Joe Black: ...But Allison loves you?
Quince: [Quince nods yes between stifled sobs]
Joe Black: How do you know?
Quince: Because she knows the worst thing about me and it's okay.
Quince: [Quince nods yes between stifled sobs]
Joe Black: How do you know?
Quince: Because she knows the worst thing about me and it's okay.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Almost there.
Browsing through my "parked quill", I saw an entry I had for June 23, 2005. The first line looked familiar, as well as the rest that flowed thereafter. I decided to update the last part, though, for Time's sake.
Additional note: I didn't just update the last part. I modified the entry from top to bottom, not completely but enough to change its feel.
I'm torn halfway between the gutter and the stars. To fall means to go back to certainty, with the stable pavement under my feet. To soar means to touch the sky, to lose myself in the process, and perhaps to realize there aren't enough comets for us all to call our own.
This is the farthest distance I've flown so far, not to mention the strangest route I've taken. Law is art and science fused, they say. Perhaps that is why I had thought I can just go halfway. I live for art; I'd rather die than study science. I had thought I would be torn halfway. But I've moved past the midpoint, just a short distance from the clearing.
In the course of three (yes, three) weeks, my then uneventful life experienced a lot of good times and enthusiasm, bringing back the bloom in my cheeks. And it was as if I were sixteen yet again. I gallivanted with countless of people who had been longing for a tease of the carefree life once more, and albeit temporarily. I've surrendered to sleepless nights due to booze, fun, and freedom. Letting my hair down, I engaged in unplanned conversations and trips, in adventures and misadventures.
And when I returned to the uneventful life I had, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I still had spontaneous bursts of energy and verve within me. Everything's fast-paced and monochromatic now, save for the ties and scarves and shawls worn by the expectant faces around me. But I still feel refreshed. I still have the urge to giggle at every unusually mundane sound.
And I realize that this is what I'd like to do (yes, 'this'). Though Code's pages mandate discipline, I choose to sway against necessity and imperativity. The right to expression. The freedom to be. And the choice is mine, as it had always been.
I've found my lines. I realized it as soon as I changed the title from "Halfway" to "Almost there."
You see, I don't search for my passion anymore. I make it - from scratch or otherwise.
Additional note: I didn't just update the last part. I modified the entry from top to bottom, not completely but enough to change its feel.
I'm torn halfway between the gutter and the stars. To fall means to go back to certainty, with the stable pavement under my feet. To soar means to touch the sky, to lose myself in the process, and perhaps to realize there aren't enough comets for us all to call our own.
This is the farthest distance I've flown so far, not to mention the strangest route I've taken. Law is art and science fused, they say. Perhaps that is why I had thought I can just go halfway. I live for art; I'd rather die than study science. I had thought I would be torn halfway. But I've moved past the midpoint, just a short distance from the clearing.
In the course of three (yes, three) weeks, my then uneventful life experienced a lot of good times and enthusiasm, bringing back the bloom in my cheeks. And it was as if I were sixteen yet again. I gallivanted with countless of people who had been longing for a tease of the carefree life once more, and albeit temporarily. I've surrendered to sleepless nights due to booze, fun, and freedom. Letting my hair down, I engaged in unplanned conversations and trips, in adventures and misadventures.
And when I returned to the uneventful life I had, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I still had spontaneous bursts of energy and verve within me. Everything's fast-paced and monochromatic now, save for the ties and scarves and shawls worn by the expectant faces around me. But I still feel refreshed. I still have the urge to giggle at every unusually mundane sound.
And I realize that this is what I'd like to do (yes, 'this'). Though Code's pages mandate discipline, I choose to sway against necessity and imperativity. The right to expression. The freedom to be. And the choice is mine, as it had always been.
I've found my lines. I realized it as soon as I changed the title from "Halfway" to "Almost there."
You see, I don't search for my passion anymore. I make it - from scratch or otherwise.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Zero visibility
Flights from Cagayan de Oro to Manila on January 3, 2009 were canceled due to the weather in Cagayan. Good thing the airlines got the stranded passengers a special flight for the next morning.
So, since I didn't want to sit through another road trip to and fro Bukidnon yet again, I opted to check in at Malberry Suites here in Cagayan de Oro.
And now I'm torn between "blankness" and bleakness.
Can't see the distance
can't look through the fog;
I try to live as the minutes tick by
and for these minutes
I'd be able to understand the hours.
My plane has landed
yet it can't take off again
and I wonder: should I stay
still, where my feet are stable
or try to fight the rough
inconstant winds.
(You give me the answer
but I shrug it off.
I've always wanted to make
all my flights work.)
So, since I didn't want to sit through another road trip to and fro Bukidnon yet again, I opted to check in at Malberry Suites here in Cagayan de Oro.
And now I'm torn between "blankness" and bleakness.
Can't see the distance
can't look through the fog;
I try to live as the minutes tick by
and for these minutes
I'd be able to understand the hours.
My plane has landed
yet it can't take off again
and I wonder: should I stay
still, where my feet are stable
or try to fight the rough
inconstant winds.
(You give me the answer
but I shrug it off.
I've always wanted to make
all my flights work.)
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