pock face.

after my nth slip in the "buddha room," i was kind of mentally whacked because my blabber machine (aka mouth) is shut. can't walk. can't work. this pain is a bugger. i had no choice but to tinker the two things that're within my reach: concealer and mirror.

"there is one here under the eye."
"where..ahh okay. (dab concealer)"
"then here..on the cheekbone."
"alright. (dab concealer). uh-oh i see one on the nose. (dab concealer)."
"there.. 3 here under the chin. dab quick."
"coming..coming..(dab concealer). there you go. 'else?"
"oh..wait..let's see...right cheekbone..there's 2."
"really..i thought it's gone. ok. (dab concealer)"
"undereye next."
"umm..o..k..(dab concealer)"
"there's also one near the temple"
"(dab concealer)"
"next, upper brow"
"(dab concealer)"
"next, forehead. There's 5."
"(dabbed concealer x5.)"
"uh..wait..(parting the bangs widely)..there's a lot on your left temp.."
"SHUT UP!"

i should have gone to sleep.

jam-coated cleone

Beat me! I am hooked. Ottoke? Ottoke?

------------------Warning-----------------
This entry again is about love.
Dang. Foolish. Me. Strikes. Again. But I love it. Nyahahaha. Beat me. :p
-----------------------

see.. I am having this really high school-ish crush over someone. Heck, I am kind of shaken. Whoooozzz.. A while back, I saw this someone ---for security purposes I will call him Jam-Coated-Cleone.

Why this name? Jam-Coated-because I don't want to use sugar-coated. simple. nyahaha. Cleone-because I was thinking of a symbol that is a little deep. (?!?!) At that time, I just opened my yahoo mail and I saw this notif on my daemon, Cleone. Daemon. Soul. Why not? So he is my jam-coated soul. I can hear roarings: eww. yuck. and all the sort :D

This is not going to be a discourse on how and when and where this matter of great importance (?!?!) occurred. Too dangerous.

I am a proud person. My pride is higher than the tip of my hair strands defying gravity. I have had too many bloopers that are enough to make me shrink but my ego seems to have a way of creeping up--like an insect you thought you had crushed but surprisingly pops in on the most delicate spots. But, why oh why I cannot open my mouth properly and make sensible inference on things as if I never expended my life reading, reading and reading; as if I don't and will not make sense; as if I am...the greatest insignificant asshole of the 21st century. (I think this line is in Wanted. :))

This is so like the first time I had a liking on someone. I can still remember his face. Fair. Tall. Puppy-eyed. Wind-swept hair..and the buck teeth. Then, his features were charming but now..its kinda..funny. FYI my dear first crush, I never paid attention to the Top Gun movie we watched.

Beat me.

aku cape re-post: i stand corrected. terimakasih bob.

i'd say, it was ambitious to command another tongue. but bob is great to give the better translation.

terimakasih, teman baru, bob nicolaus.

originally, this was entitled. aku cape. but according to boss andeka, when using "tired" in literature, it should be letih or lelah. Well, i chose lelah coz it charms my ears.

so many thanks to avantrade-jatis team. you all cool peeps. :D

aku lelah
aku lelah
bagaikan ombak
kau memukau diriku
dengan kecantikanmu yang mendua
pelan namun bersahaja
kekanak-kanakan namun juga bijak
setia namun tak tergambarkan

seperti halnya sang ombak
kau selalu memikat dan menggodaku
memelukku dan merasuk sukmaku
(terlepas dari tujuanmu yang tak menentu)
dan selalu
kau tinggalkanku di saat ku inginkan dirimu lebih

aku lelah...
sangat lelah...
ingin hati tuk berteduh
hingga fajar pun, perlahan berlalu

aku cape

originally, i wanted to just post the bahasa version of the poem that so instantaneously came to me

----yeah.it always come to me like a smooth diarrhea most specially when the object of frustration/inspiration is just so three minutes ago!!-----

just so i'd kind of fool myself that i have another language brewing in my tongue. but no. fact is, i pestered three nice indonesians for the translation. (terimakasi! cecil k., david t. and my very brilliant boss, ferry a. you're the man. ha-ha. aku pambohong! ha-ha again.)

drop of truth: while i was scribbling the poem, kathleen g.'s face was like invading my brainspace!
goddess-friend, we can't control destiny. ha-ha. our stories will always be parallel coz we're of the same built!!! this poem is a humble offering to you: while i am cold, i know you're bleeding. this shall be a soothing balm.

--patay tau kay beej, ang arte natin! hahah--

i am tired
like the waves
you amazed me
with your conflicting beauty
both weak and determined
both childish and wise
both faithful and faithless

but just like the waves
you will lure me and tempt me
and embrace me and possess me
(despite your random purposes)
and just like it
you will leave me when i want you more

I am tired
...very tired...
and desperate for refuge

dusk, too, is fleeting.

aku cape
sepekati ambale,
memukau ku
dengan kecantikanmu yg memu kau
baik lemah atau terbatas
baik kekanak tanakan atau bijak
baik setia atau ketidak percayaan


tetapi serti ambak
kau memikat dan mengoda ku
peluk aku miliki aku
(tanpa maksudmu)
dah hanya seperti itu
kamu akan pergi ketika
aku semakin menginginkanmu

aku cape
..cape sekali..
dan putus asa
busan bersem banyi

fajar berganti.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
disclaimer: billy, this is a release. you love me and kat, right? :D
---------------------------------------------------------------------


>>in progress: Becoming Enchantress (mas ma-drama itoh! :p )<<

kwenchanayo: chronicling my late night realizations

lately..i have been a kpop addict --> and.i.mean.ADDICT...  

i have been one of those who swoon and squeal over hallyu stars. it amuses me how my friends diss and tease me for being one. :p. 

hajiman (sorry, can't help it :D ), more than it being a source of entertainment, it's actually a newfound well of lines and thoughts that either make me glad or sad.  

[omma (..abojji), saranghaeyo..]

my desktop is now So Ji Sub's domain.  there in the wideness of my computer screen he reigns supreme.   and oh,  he is fully dressed.  haha.  months ago, it was Kwon Sang-woo and his glorious half-nakedness.  kuraeso, the guy is a momjjang.  i can't forget how beej rolled his eyes when i showed it to him.  this time i am sure he would not.  SJS is fine in his crisp shirt and long tresses.  but my SJS-obsession is taken not on physicality.  i have seen him in Memories of Bali and he sure has a decent acting.  really, what made me hooked was a couple of scenes in MiSa (Mianhanda, Saranghanda).     

just a short kwento, Moo-Hyuk (SJS' character) lived his life thinking that he was sent for adoption because of poverty. the betrayal of his lover buried a bullet on his head, thus, gave him the beginning of his last days.  he went back to korea to find his mom with hopes of spending his dying days in peace.  but, lo, the impoverished mother he thought is a well off, overly affectionate mother to his celebrity "younger brother" (who turned out to be an adopted son).  this began the scheme of revenge to the mother that wronged him.  it was revealed afterwards that his mother was told that the baby she bore was dead and cremated. never knowing the fact that she had twins (the twin sister was reared by an old reporter who has a grudged on her).  at this time, he already set the wheel of revenge in motion: he succeeded in becoming his brother's manager, and so, conveniently caused him distress in love and health matters.  the revelation at the end shook him to realize that as he was a victim of other people's unsolicited control in their lives, so was his mother.  

The scene i was talking about is when his mother needed to go to the house for his bed-ridden brother and needed a driver.  She saw the "natauhan" Moo-Hyuk in the park and asked him to drive her home still unaware that he is her first son.  He obliged.  At home, he "ordered" his mother to prepare something to eat.  Despite, the rude impression, she prepared him ramen and left him in the kitchen.  Moo-Hyuk cried in restraint and barely ate the first and the last food his omma ever prepared for him.  Unable to control his self, he rushed to go out  bumping into his mother in the guest hall and quickly said thank you while keeping his face from showing.  The mother went to the kitchen noticing the barely touched food and unexplainably, started to cry.  Next Scene shows Moo Hyuk watching his mother who is now in the guest hall from the glass window outside.  There he made his silent declaration of love to his omma:  that there was a never a moment in his life when he didn't love her...that if he'll be reborn..he will still be his son that she can be proud of.  He vowed to the ground for the mother that he wronged.   The dying Moo-Hyuk died in a motor accident but gave his heart to the brother.

the dramatic me being taken by such a scene hoped that his declaration sana were said in words.  More than anyone else, his deceived mother deserves justice (but yes I know, I am not the writer. hehe.). 

Freakin heartbreaking.  

at 4am till what-time-i-dunno-anymore, i sobbed. i, too, despite my acknowledged flaws, want to declare my love to the two people who at times were quietly in pain of raising me;  that sometimes, i hate myself because i am not the person they hoped to be; that there are times when you just want to come up to them and say that three words but unexplainably difficult to say, easy, though, when its a lover or a friend. (c'mon purge it out like a diarrhea.)  is this cowardice?  krum, just let me say it in the language unknown to you: saranghaeyo.

[life and the singularity of time]

The movie:  MAUNDY THURSDAY

The actors: Kang Dong Won & Lee Na Young

The story:KDW is sentenced to die for robbery and killing the maid.  Before his death, he wanted to meet LNY, the singer who used to sing the national anthem during early mornings in Seoul.  It was revealed that his dead, blind, younger brother finds the piece to be uplifting.   KDW and LNY are two bruised souls who unexpectedly "soothed" each other.   The first meeting (Thursdays: visitation day) wasn't a breeze as she was with her nun-aunt. 

KDW's character hates "good" people as this only validates how greatly a sinner he is.  The rebellious, suicidal LNY's "I am scared of you" line was all it needed to warm KDW and KDW's "I am the best person to share a secret with (as he is about to die)" to comfort LNY.  It turned out that 

LNY bears an aged hatred to her mother who did not "avenge" (not the right word, I know) when she was molested by a cousin; that instead of giving her justice, she was forced in silence out of her mother's embarrassment.  To this revelation, KDW apologized.  He apologized to her for the existence of people his kind.  The following Thursdays were days of renewal, each both beginning to see the pleasure of living.  LNY sent KDW of pictures outside: the sun, the clouds, the ocean on a Maundy Thursday.  But death was inevitable for KDW.  At his execution day, he professed his love to LNY who was behind the tainted glass barrier.  He began to sing the anthem which he hoped would uplift him to no avail.  Then, the deathly signal came. For a moment, there was hope (for the viewers) when a guard hesitated to press the red button.  But what is the reluctance of one man to the determination of men's law?   So death came upon the sinner KDW.

Whenever I am tired of hoping, a constant question is: what if all that you were hoping and working (and denied) for all your life come to you at a time when there is no enough time to steep in its pleasure?  should you be glad that it's finally given to you or sad that it is no longer the most cherished but time?

Men's tale of existence are all different, so they say.  Some began with love, some with malice.  Some with abundance, some with shortage.  But all cannot escape sorrow. All, at one point, fell from grace; that the end is about whether you finally make amends with your fallen self.  Sad truth is, time is irrecoverable. "Starting over" is more of a gift than a right; that at the end, just the knowledge of self-redemption is the consolation.  

[kwenchanayo]

..seemed that i got too "babad"? Hahaha.  It's all right, my chinggu, right?  

pahinga.

isang pangako sa aking pagal na katawan:
muli kong sasariwain ang pagyapos ng dagat sa aking kahubdan.

i stared at him and i ask: what is it that made him remember Him?

t'was last last sunday.

as soon as the full stop interrupted me of my appreciation of hedonistic inventions, from meters away from where i was standing, i saw him. he was clothed by earth's dusty proof of presence. you could tell that he is hardly aware of any pain his body is struggling with. he has no shoes. only soles of hardened skin. he is a very old, hardened spirit. he has no company. only an unseen thing in the sky he seemed to be chasing. he was pointing in the sky. i am not sure though if there were tears in the man's eyes. but i am sure they were moist. he was pointing something in the sky. he seemed eager to reach it. his walking became faster. when he walked past me, i didn't hear anything. from afar, you would think that he makes a sound by the way his mouth gapes. but there was no word, no cries, no sound. it took only a half-life, for him to parallel himself with me. but what a half-life that was: my heart broken, my mind shaken.

he is what you call tinakasan ng bait. a fallen man who lost the hold to maintain his niche. a miser. a victim of fate-- if indeed we are playthings of a sometimes benevolent-sometimes cruel and unseen power. men like him look the same. so there is nothing really that would set him apart from the others. but this man of nothingness in a matter of half a second validated me.

that half a second when he walked past me, i saw him place his thumb in his forehead, then to his bare chest, followed by the left shoulder and lastly by the right. all while he was fixed looking up in the sky. the sky then was its usual afternoon color. how i wish i knew what he saw. i wish i knew what moved the crazy man. in a society of sane people, who would give weight to a vision of an insane person?

a man devoid of mental faculties remembered Him. a girl of perfect health and sanity didn't.

shame on me. t'was a sunday.

mga hudas.

Nakakatawa na ang mga taong nakipagkumpetensya sa paputian ng kanilang mga budhi sa kapwa nila pulitiko nuong nakaraang eleksyon ang parehong mga taong parang nagsasabi sa atin ngayon na babaan natin ang ating grading system sa budhi ng gobyerno: kahit corrupt basta nagtatrabaho para mapaganda ang ating ekonomiya.

Sana kapag humahalik kayo sa mga kamay ng mga magulang nyo, hindi nila nakikita ang mukha ni Hudas.

on scrubbing stubborn dirts and thoughts.

While my hands are submerged in a concoction that cannot be described as pleasant to the touch and smell – as it was a mixture of tricloro cleanser, dried lizard poop, marble decays, fallen-hair sieve and pungent what-have-yous -- my mind is in such a wonderful state of tranquility. A kind of peace I struggle to attain during the times I had my back against my bed.

-I could not understand why despite the elaborate preparation for my sleep event, I could not not not make myself dose off in a dreamy fashion. I had all the aroma and lights detail—No lights. No sounds. No unwanted grime in my face. No unwanted bodily scent. No tea (thanks zaza for the checklist!). Lots of burning essential oils. Lots of fanning air. Lots of prayers. Lots of counting sheep!-

While on heavy attempt to whiten and cleanse my loo's tiles, my mind was processing accordingly. Yes! I was having a very engaging quiet session of Q and A albeit the hard and constant scrubbing!

Among the topics was yesterday’s ym stat: “For the first time in my life, I am scared of valentine’s day”. Well yes. I am—and I got some teasing for that. :p. Not too long ago I am still one of those who sees the fourteenth of Feb as a day any hotel, malls and resto marketing team would eagerly, cleverly and artistically look forward to. So there is no intense reason to associate the celebration of love and its state. Until yesterday I realized: inasmuch as I have grown ideas on affection and love, I have grown tendencies to be sternly detached and indifferent.

Of the thought that I was most contained is the fact that: I have suffered great losses, sadness, failures and rejections. But I dealt with them in silence as I thought that grieving is easier with less words said and done. Whenever it felt shackling, it used to be enough to go down on my knees and say “I’m hurt.” It frees me. But the past sad days made me notice how this no longer works; how I get to be a miser on the same issues running on my mind without end: how words became inadequate to express and drain me of the gloom: I have lost the power to console myself.

Then I realized that my silence is nothing but an attempt to deny myself the truth. While its good to look at being quiet as a way to salvage oneself against damaging actions done on impulse and verbal whims, I realized that I never really did it to serve its purpose; that I was all to myself because I didn’t want to admit a fate less than happy, less than simple.

I would have never come to this conclusion had I not met two wonderful friends this past few weeks: Unusual and Grace Under Pressure. Unusual is resilience personified while Grace Under Pressure is grace under pressure!! :p I love it how these two people take/took the injustices in their lives: the aggressors are forgiven, the aggression not forgotten. This saying, as much as I am concern, is as old as I am. I have read, heard and agreed on it several times. But I guess I never really knew how to live out its wisdom. I am all emotions from head to foot and that makes me remember pain better than NAMES.

I remember when I was still into Sunday school sessions (I am Catholic and so are my siblings. I think we spent a fourth of our lives going faithfully to Christian gatherings.) I would look at images of men and four-legged beasts like lions and tigers happily juxtaposed with each other. Absent was a hint of fear and madness. This is the place where I'd like to be. Heaven. I used to think that it is really possible. That the second coming is about a chance to peacefully interact with scary animals. I prayed hard to be amongst the saved ones. I'd like to see a lion purr in my hand. I guess thats where I draw the idea of a simple life. That everything is possible--just do the your end of the bargain. I didn't give a portion of my brainspace for things like: what if not?

Back then, the picture is about the easiness of things and the absence of complexities. Now, it might be saying something: that personal heaven is created when we deal with our lions-a source of fear-in manner close to being beautiful physically--no scowls, no distorted angered faces--and intrinsically--no raging foul words wanting to come out through your mouth. I am not a hyprocrite to say that I know and do this. As of writing, truth be told, I don't. Coz I know my moods better. But I'd really like to remove some unnecessary complexities in my system. It wouldn't hurt if I have less of them. I don't know if I'd become what I want just by doing my end of this bargain. But sure it wouldn't hurt if I start scrubbing the grime and poop off my chest and brain.

I don't know what but there is something appeasing when I am scrubbing my bathroom walls and floor.

this man in my mind.

If you have spared a significant portion of your life loving or liking someone--liking if you’re one who agrees that the repressed and unilateral version of luurvveee is not in any form or manner, love-- in secret, then, you would understand that writing this is a necessary release. :)

Of late, I have been glaringly appreciating my ceiling: dirty and off-white. Aside from the obvious purpose it is serving, it constantly –evening and morning, sigh..- transforms itself into a clear, whitish canvass of the face that has been squatting my brain space for the last 5 weeks. Consequentially, ideas I need for my professional sustenance is hardly available. Banished it seems by this damn too imposing invader.

If you’re one who is not convinced that I abhor the feeling, then, I think you thought that what I really wanted to say was: “What a lovely invader he is!” :)

Terrible is my weakness for a man of the arts and letters. In his presence, I unwillingly succumb into form and manner alterations. My typical straightforward approach on things becomes straight-laced. It is not however to charm him into seeing one and only female form--me-- amidst the many ready and willing options, but, because being refined is I believe the way how a lady respects a gentleman.

The last statement may be fLawEd. But with a skin like mine, which takes a life of its own and instantaneously grows spikes whenever it feels an awaiting presence of a veiled vile creature—I am always ready to match a brute with as much brutish friendship. I have had this thinking way back when I realized that Reincarnation is true for vultures and beasts born into the human form. I am beginning to get scared of my own words!! Ha-ha-ha. But point is, this man in my mind or the idea of how he really is, makes me want to imagine how he talks of sensible things; to know his stand on life, love and death; to picture how he dreamily describes—and paints :) -- the beauty of seemingly insignificant details of this world; more importantly, to listen to him when he is enraged by fate’s injustice to the weak.

He had seen me-and I to him-many times. That I am sure. But seen me in a way I want him to see me now? Na-ah. It is spatially and physically impossible: he has forged an affair with the foreign sand on his feet while I remain rooted to the ground where sand and snow has never been. As to how I have come to know that beautiful side of him is largely a charity of the information technology. I have read it all—all the thoughts and imageries he willingly shared to friends and strangers alike. I like it that he had mastered the arts of his hands in a way that made me feel his passion bleeding from the tip of his pen; that there is fire in his bright colors and serenity in light ones. There is something chronicled in his images—a perceived representation of recalled pain or joy. I could expend the rest of this night imagining that I was there as a witness of it all just so I’d discover the bridge between his experience and his artwork.

Clearly, I am very taken at the idea of this man. It’s quite an undertaking trying to remember his timbre much more analyze his cerebral workings. But before things turn into a lunacy, let me declare that I am very much aware that this too-- however pleasant it makes me, shall pass. :)

on grieving for heath.

I’ll sure be flakked for writing this. Growing up in an immediate environment where celebrity fanaticism (especially of local) is met with predominant disgust simply because its bakya, the former is a definite consequence of the latter. I am one with them in the idea that movies- with its essence and significance-are meant to be understood and digested. But I am also one with those who applaud for an in-depth performance.

It’s all because of that one cathartic movie.

Heath Ledger showed me that he understood the war of a gay man’s freedom and restraint. By the way he smiled wryly while celebrating a forbidden embrace; by the way his eyes catches the light of glistening snow and the witnessing sun, by the way he stood and swayed and by the way he is angered and quieted, he seemed to tell, there is a real, inner war in this man and this is how it looks like.


>>“Born to amuse, to inspire, to delight, here one day, gone one night.” - Gone Too Soon<<


I am not mourning for the loss of a seductive man-face who has the ability to extort oohs and aahhhs. I am mourning for the man who lent his male form likewise his courage to a persona that banners a universal truth -- love and its complexities. Brokeback Mountain is not about gayness. Beyond the physical and the rational borders, Brokeback Mountain stands to me as a persistent question. A question that will haunt all loving-capable men (regardless of sex and preference) in their own time, in their own space: what if love claims man in a suddenness that paralyzes his reason? What should man do when it seemed that the world closes in on just one path, on just one person, in just one instance of time and space and emotions? Where that very instance of love is both death-causing and life-giving: as it kills the half of you that is nurtured by reason and absolute propriety but nurtures the half made of feelings and unexplained simplicity of dreams and lightness; where that very state of abstinence of decision is like death, only, real death is more emancipating; where the immensity of the fact that you feel it--despite yourself—without escape of its monstrosity—and if indeed it should not be rightfully called love but a monster—what will you do? Do you feed it or do you let it feed on you?


To a fine performance, this is my salute and so shall be my last applause.