Birthday message to self

One week in advance.




“I hope you will have a wonderful year, that you'll dream dangerously and outrageously, that you'll make something that didn't exist before you made it, that you will be loved and that you will be liked, and that you will have people to love and to like in return. And, most importantly (because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now), that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind.” 
― Neil Gaiman

Of homecomings. And then some.

The day's over. The sun is out and has been since oh, more than 3 hours ago. It's getting closer and closer to midnight but I'm still stuck halfway to my destination, halfway out of my yesterday.

That's my current pseudo-profound, if not "trying-hard" state, attempting to make 'stuck-at-the-airport' sound as poetic as it possibly could. (Which is to say, not at all. Not tonight. Not ever.)

Airports are sui generis, though at present I'm not completely sure if I'm doing the words justice. (Heck, the words just sound right that's why I used them as such.) Yes, airports are public places. Yes, they conform to the usual foundations required of buildings. Yes, they accommodate heavy foot traffic. 

But, though they belong to a particular territorial jurisdiction, they seem not to be part of that geological area at all. They're the launching pads of heartaches. They're gigantic keys to the future. They're temporary shelters to the wandering few, and a given inevitablity for the pro's. They're there. And then they're not. You appreciate their architecture. And then you forget all about them once you leave the tarmac. Or at least up until your return, but by then, you'd most likely be feeling the rush of homecoming that airports and their magnificent or appaling facilities would just be a fly on the ends of your hair.

You may be there, but you're just passing through. Much like everyone else.

Much like everyone else, I'm in my own little bubble. I'm here, typing away on my iPad, trying to seem as if 'passing through airport' is just second nature. I am trying to look like those frequent flyers, minus the beige trenchcoats, the briefcase, and the Financial Times tucked under their armpits. I try to look busy and unaffected by the numerous strangers sharing the humongous boarding area with me. I try to look unconcerned as the person beside me talks on and on to (probably) his girlfriend over the phone. (Geez, they've been on the phone for so long now. Seems that they don't run out of conversational topics. Good for them. Hell. Good for them.)

So, back at the airport and I'm zoning in at the fact that I'm here and I'm thinking too much, rationalizing things too much. Those are my tendencies - and what dangerous tendencies they are. 

2 hours of sleep last night and almost a whole day spent shuffling around, talking to people, and thinking (out loud and otherwise). That's after a delayed early morning flight. And now, I'm here. I'm stuck at the airport cause my flight is delayed.

I wonder what others are thinking about as they pass through this airport with me.

I wonder if they have blogs to go home to whenever the world forces them to pause for a while and just... sit still and give in to their demonic tendencies. 

Or maybe it's just me, since I do not have a warm body to talk to. 

In any case, I'm going home. No, wait. I am home. I'm back. I'm blogging.

Socially inept and lost

Socially awkward is not something my friends would describe me. When I told them I thought of myself as such, they would either throw their heads back with laughter or vehemently insist I was wrong. But, seriously, I am.

I can do small talk, yes. But after 10 minutes, I'd start to doze off (while keeping both my eyes at least partially open). Sometimes, I tend to just count the pores on the other person's nose - which is not very helpful in my effort to carry on with the conversation. Those are practically the beat things I could do. Oftentimes, I would blurt out a taboo line, an exaggerated statement, or something utterly senseless - with no ill intentions, no. But only with the desire to keep the other person interested with our little chat or with me.

Oftentimes, specially in big groups, I just listen just so I can save face. When the group is composed of girls, I'm on my guard. Girls tend to dislike me. I can honestly say I understand them.

I would dislike myself if I weren't, well, me.

**************************************

It just occurred to me that if I'd eve figure in an accident, the police will have a hard time contacting the people who are supposed to be contacted and get the message across. If not that, well, at least I would have a hard time getting someone to come to my bedside - in the hospital or in the morgue.

In IDs, there's usually a slot where we'd put the person to be contacted in case of emergency. I usually put my father's details there. But while ahowering, I realized that if my father treats every call as he would treat mine - meaning, he wouldn't answer unless it's the person he would like to talk to at that moment, then I'd be waiting forever for the police to be able to inform him of my situation.

My cousin, the academician,and my niece, the dear one, would rush if ever they'd get the call but why would I inconvenience them with the designation? Plus, they have their own families to worry about. I'm just an extension of 'family', just another member of the clan. (Weirdly, this sentence led me to sing "just another woman in love, a kid out of school, lalalala" in my head.)

I would want to put the boy there but he would ask me why. And he'd say no. And he would not like the idea. (COMMENT MADE ON 2 MARCH 2010: I told him and it was okay. I think he loved the idea, even. Yay for me!)

Plus, I'm not sure if I'd even have a boy with me tomorrow or next week or next month, at least. As revealed above, I am senseless and awkward. Nobody would want that.

So I have to find somebody who will actually be there and who wouldn't grumble about the bother and whome I can pay back someday w/o any fear of actually hearing the favor done for me recounted to elicit guilt. I have to find aomeone who will not be thoroughly inconvenienced as, say, he/ she would have to catch a cab and pay expenses using the teeniest bit of savings he/she has.

But then, why would I want to inconvenience my friends when they have own lives? I wouldn't.

Maybe I should just leave that parf of the ID blank and go through the emergency alone, piting myself for being alone - if I would have the capacity or the conciousness to do so. Or maybe I could put my housenumber there and pray that my staff would be able to catch the words of the police and vice versa.

Bahala na.

*************************************

People talk down to other people when the latter permit the former to. I joine the latter group. I'm weak and spineless. Apologetic is my middle name and I apologize for everything imaginable.

As all this is my fault, I shouldn't be blaming other people for making me feel small. I am small. I should just accept my fate and keep my silence. I'm tired.

Now, I'm hoping for numbness to finally take me in.

Lightnings

Looks up at the sky, waits for a meteor shower or something that will break the constant stillness, sighs in defeat.

So, the night is still still. I don't mind the cold - it's just a reminder that the holidays are coming. Soon, too soon. The year's about to end and here I am: still hoping, struggling against pragmatism, that lightning will strike, or at least that I'll come across some excitement somehow.

I really don't want to be stuck in a hustle-and-bustle world. I need excitement. I need fire. Magic. The real kind. I want to be swept off my feet. I want to run. Run free. I don't know why that phrase came up, I just feel like I have to run. Run free.

I want to have a reason to laugh out loud. Or just laugh out loud for no reason at all. But I also want someone to join me in the laughter. I want my lightning to strike now. I need it to strike now.

But there's a little pull inside my head, still. What if there's really no excitement to look forward to? What if life really was supposed to be constant and monotonous? What if I'm really supposed to be contented with... this stillness? And my constant yearning for "magic" and "the great relief" will only catapult me into despair - since those things will never come, anyway?

Gah. But I don't want to think about the possibility of magic not ever happening in my life. I just want it to happen. I want it to come and find me. And when it does, I'll take it from there. For now, I'm just wanting for it to happen. That's all.

escape to home

... and when I plunge into the mundane,
you reappear, you pull me back;
and upon your touch, I succumb
to the dream that never left me --
not one second, though I'd been spending my conscious hours
walking the path that does not belong to my heart.

Upon your touch, I realize
you never left me --
not for a second -- and I,
I've always been yours.

Bukidnon

where the air is clean and captivating,
where you feel the dewy grass beneath your bare feet;
where the birds awaken your senses at sunrise,
where the trees' roots play with boulders and pebbles alike,
and where the same trees' topmost branches reach skyward to tell the Heavens of your dreams;

where the roads go up and down and up again,
curving toward the hidden inevitability, another magnificent unknown;
where restless souls are given time to think, to breath,
where castaways are welcomed and given space to heal;
where escapists are provided caves to hide their fears and their tales,
and where all abandon and adventure gallop along with the roan horses - unbridled, untamed;

where smiles are free and laughter comes much easily;
where the clouds meet the pale blue mountains in a quiet coexistence,
where the moon and stars shine brightly against the night sky;
where the end starts just like every song's beginning,
and where tomorrow feels like countless of good, harmonious days;

where comfort lies, snugly with a cup of freshly brewed coffee,
where the children play like how our children are supposed to play;
where we sleep, soundly - even dreamlessly,
where the colors are bright and soothingly familiar:
where our true home lies. and waits to warm our tired spirits once more.

Mountain song

I found a Land in the mountains and beyond
where you cross a river twice,
where blades of grass cut you until you repent.

Up and down I went with a young troop of five
and a wise man who told us stories
of the sky and of the plains.

The wise man taught us a song about journeying
to a bountiful land where welcome would be warm
to a good lady with my own name.

The men joined along but I could not -
not because of shame nor pride but because
I knew the girl was not good, though she tries to be.

On we went, through the raging river, past many questions
until the path ended at a cliff:
across the river stood the sacred Land, the people's Land.

I crossed the river with only the wise man,
his son, and the son's friend. I knew the trip,
like so many others I've had, would change me yet again.

We pitched our tents and swam like kids on summer break
and communed with the natives like it was
our second home. Yes, the Land, like my second home.

The mountains have always brought verve into my life,
a sense of freedom and danger that
no other form of nature could ever give.

Passion. It has always brought me passion.
And in the late hours, I listened to the wise man's tales
of love and dreams. I listened to the cold mountain breeze.

To the constant pattering of the rain.
I listened.
And I listened to Him.


The story ends there, where heaven and hell meet:

across the broad sky, across the mountain ranges
I had come to understand Time and Nature's humor.

The mountains brought me life.
Energy without the usual concomitant weariness.
Questions without the need to find answers.

I found a place I've never gone before
but in hindsight, I realize I'd been mistaken:
I didn't find the Land that I speak of --
the Land found me. And it had the last Laugh.

Finding Polaris

It was the first time for me to see Orion's Belt. (Come to think of it, it was the first time I had been able to make out a constellation even though I had often prided myself for being good in connect-the-dots puzzle games, courtesy of Manila Bulletin.) Worse, even if I had actually passed all my science classes, it was just last night when it REALLY dawned to me that, yes, the earth rotates! All the while I had believed that the stars that twinkle in the night sky are permanently positioned in such a way that when you look out of the same window at night, you get to see the same stars. When daylight comes, you cannot see them anymore but they're still there: in the same place as you look out your window. They don't move. Neither do you. Yes. I am such a dumb prat.

The unbearable freezing temperature of the room at a Batangas resort, and the lost aircon remote as well as the fear of being electrocuted if I were to yank all the wires I see in pure rage, prompted me to traipse outside and snuggle close to the exhaust fan at the terrace. And then I looked up and listened.

The North Star, or Polaris, is at the end of the Little Dipper's handle, which arches toward a small cup formed by four stars. On the opposite side of Polaris is the constellation Cassiopeia. Travelers often use Polaris for navigation. Wanderers look to the North Star to find their way. There's a Native American tale about the origin of this star. It was said that a brave son tried to impress his father by climbing the tallest cliff he could find. Through difficult conditions he continued until he arrived the top of a very high mountain. The mountain was so tall that the son looked down on all the other mountains. Unfortunately, there was no way down. When his father came looking for him, he found his son stuck high above. Not wanting his son to suffer for his bravery, he turned his son into a star that can be viewed and honored by all living things. And so the North Star.

Me? I was just captivated by the stars last night. And I liked the serenity the lake provided and the wonderful company I had. I liked listening to the tales, fictional or otherwise. I liked the night breeze.

And I liked sitting there by the exhaust fan as I tried to warm my feet.

Labyrinth

This is the point
where you close your eyes
and let the brown walls seep through,
calming your nerves.

Open your ears to the constant strums
rhythmically filling
the tiny cocoon
as the aroma of freshly roasted beans
wafts through.

No one says anything -
the words all but soothes
the silent lips:
this is the place
where you ought to be mute
in order to feel.

Beyond the glass panes,
the crowd bustles about
excitedly, doggedly,
routinely taking their paths.

You,
in your cocoon,
you hear not the ticking
of the clock.
Time is merely Time;
you do not grow old.

You are not trapped -
any moment, you'd have to step out
and join the moon
as it changes its orb,
inevitably.

For now, it is a comfort to remain,
benign and serene,
in your earthly abode,
away from the strife
of motions, of noise.

Within the world,
yet apart from it.

A Wanderer's Morning

The Sun's rays has never awakened me more. New days always begin with a question of your existence: who are you, and who are you going to be today? But on this particular day, it was 'why'?

There's nothing special about either the question or the way sunshine streams through the white lace curtains hanging by the east windows. That has always been the occurrence on sunny summer mornings. But the question itself on this summer morning led my eyes to the ceiling in a prayer. I have always tried to understand the world by bending into its palms without any further thought or resistance, voicelessly floating amid its reasonings.

Why?

The ceiling doesn't answer and I fade into a trance, mesmerized by the faint lines of cobwebs that face me. It is true then - Time exists even for non-believers. The Clouds fade into the Sky without any warning or any modicum of sound. Men fall and turn into worms that search for more life. And we, the drifters, do not feel all these happening. We float away in time for another tryst with the insignificant unknown.

Morning. Mourning. The thoughts confound me like the silence which only an overcrowded beach can give - populated but most private. I am naked but clothed enough so as not to shame myself. It is blasphemous to reveal Weaknesses but more blasphemous to reveal Truths.

Why?

I get up and fix myself a cup of coffee. Black, bitter, but still with a hint of sweetness even without a pinch of sugar. A new day is before me, a continuation of life. Another chance to be spent walking, dreaming, and just feeling the Earth beneath my bare feet. There is nothing to rectify nor retrace: there shouldn't ever be. The air is there for you to breathe. It cannot hear your confessions; it cannot disparage your guilt.

Why.

And the word hangs on.