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.
2.12.2008
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.
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.
-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.
2.01.2008
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. :)
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. :)
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