On the Sticks - 1

And so it is, just like you said it would be, life goes easy on me.
Most of the time.

The silence is deafening. Never you mind the pitter-patter of the rain on the sill and against the closed windows. Never you mind the voices, beats, and crackling sounds continuously being emitted by the decade-old speaker I've inherited from this apartment's former tenants: the silence overpowers us all.

One stick. Two sticks. Three. One pack almost gone, but I can still taste cinnamon on my tongue. A faint vanilla scent is still on my skin, on my hands, on my shirt. You and your vanilla scent. The pillows, I bet they still smell of you.

And so it is, the shorter story;
No love, no glory; no hero in her sky.

They're all that's left. You took away all there is to take. Except for these cigarettes. Except for the sheets you hated so much because they make you scratch your skin all night and you wake up with red, red arms. And thighs.

You picked them, you know. I had chosen the plain blue, green, and white plaid. You found them to be boring so you got those swirly violet and grey - no indigo and ash, you had called them, as if there could be some marked difference between those colors - sheets instead. It's your fault you spent most nights scratching and most mornings complaining. It's your fault.

How dare you leave these sheets behind.

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

Four sticks. Four cigarette butts on the desk. You even took my ashtray with you. I loved that ashtray. I had gotten that at a second hand store in Peru two years ago - that morning when I found myself so disoriented that I could not find my way back to the motel and instead I ended up at that alley. You had rescued me. You had found me as if I had a homing device around my ankle. You had seen me looking at that ashtray while you asked me what I was doing out of bed at 9:30 AM and how long I was out.  So you bought that ashtray for me when I could not say a word. That ashtray, with your money.

Even so, that ashtray was supposed to be mine.

And so it is, just like you said it should be: we'll both forget the breeze.
Most of the time.

Whoever put that idea in your head must be shot. In the head. Through the heart. And through both soles of the feet.


Aren't you already living your life? If not, then what have you been doing all along? Whose life did you steal? Whose body is that? What have you been doing all this time -- sleepwalking?

And so it is: the colder water,
the blower's daughter, the pupil in denial.

The London sky is as bleak as usual. Nothing ever changes in this side of the world. Well, they do: from one shade of grey to another. From the lightest smoke to a cloudy black. And on those nights that the stars actually appeared, you would point out the constellations and I would listen, not really making out the shapes, not really caring if what you say were actually true. You talked a lot; you filled the silence. You were my laughter.

That ashtray should have stayed mine. These sheets should have been wrapped around your legs now. Those things should have stayed together.

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

I can't take my mind...

My mind...my mind...

Off you.

'Til I find somebody new.

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.

Vengeful thoughts

Oooh. I can't wait for that day when you will finally shut up and watch in utter horror as the whole world mock you. They will finally expose you for the fraud and airhead that you are, AND not be preempted by politeness and social grace to keep that to themselves. Banners will be hung on terraces, bridges, and tall buildings announcing your countless acts of sheer stupidity and thoughtless gall. Your family can do nothing but bow their heads in shame for your existence.

Oooh. Just you wait. That will come. And I will be in one of the balconies, looking down at you, clapping my hands together in a bored but mocking salute to your worth as a live creature of the Earth. And in 3 minutes, I'll retire to my suite and bask in the glory that will never be yours.

Oooh. Exciting.

I ran. I wheezed. And I finished!

Bounce back, Japan!

You are known for your resilience.
You have survived the A-bombs, hundreds, if not thousands of earthquakes, economic upheavals.

Now it's time to rebuild.
And I believe you, of all nations, can do it.

Thank You

Last week, I received one of the best news in my life: a provisional acceptance letter from Kyushu University in Japan. I was bursting out of my seams! Term starts in October, the Faculty Director said. They would need my answer within the month plus an obligatory interview with the Japanese Government. It was crazy!

I dragged my dad, who was here in the Metro for a visit, to my room, made him sat down on my ergonomic chair, told him to breathe in, and out - just breathe in and out. It was only when my dad got pretty impatient that I directed his attention to the provisional letter of acceptance from the Graduate School of Law's Faculty Director.

1 minute. 2 minutes. (Hey, pops! React already!) 3 minutes. (The letter IS NOT that long!) 4...

And finally, my dad laughed and shook his head. I asked him if he's so proud of me that he can't talk but he laughed at me some more.

We had late-night dessert and he tried to keep me from jumping up and down. This was after I've properly announced the news to the Boy, Nicona (who was with Jenesaisquois - whattahorriblylongandcomplicated name -  at that time), 10, Soldier, and GS. (I was pretty pissed since all but the Boy sounded deflated when I told them that no, I wasn't gonna be tying the knot (or rope?) anytime soon but will be pursuing further studies abroad.)

Next morning, pops woke me up at 10 am (which was good because he normally wakes me up at 7 am even during weekends) and asked me if I got to sleep at all. Ha-ha. (I had trouble sleeping since I kept waking up in the middle of the night, wondering what I'd bring and how I'd draft my LL.M thesis. But I wasn't going  to admit that to him. No no no.)

My dad went out to go shopping and then - when he was no longer face-to-face with me - texted me saying he's mighty proud. Of me. Yay.

For this, I have to thank Someone who made this all possible. Without him, I couldn't have achieved this. Nothing could've had happened. So, to the Great Architect, thank you from the bottom of my hypothalamus (and, okay, my heart even though you did not really mean for the heart to be capable of that).

I offer you this good song aptly entitled "Thank You" from your other daughter, Dido:

My tea's gone cold, I'm wondering why
I got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window
and I can't see at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey,
but your picture on my wall
It reminds me that it's not so bad,
it's not so bad

I drank too much last night, got bills to pay,
my head just feels in pain
I missed the bus and there'll be hell today,
I'm late for work again
And even if I'm there, they'll all imply
that I might not last the day
And then you call me and it's not so bad,
it's not so bad and

I want to thank you
for giving me the best day of my life
Oh just to be with you
is having the best day of my life

Push the door, I'm home at last
and I'm soaking through and through
Then you hand me a towel
and all I see is you
And even if my house falls down,
I wouldn't have a clue
Because you're near me and

I want to thank you
for giving me the best day of my life
Oh just to be with you
is having the best day of my life 

I got lost in the song. Somewhere there.