Monkeying Around

i miss writing. i still have inspired moments but nothing poetic anymore. i get caught up with work issues or texting or going home to learn about my cholesterol that i forget about being inspired and retreat to passing the time waiting for everyone to go to bed so i can have the space all to myself. i miss my space. i miss not having to close the doors when i don't feel like talking to anyone. i miss watching dvds after a crappy "meal" and a few smokes to relieve myself of feeling full. i miss my privacy.

i find that i'm revisiting my teenage angst again now that i'm back home -- why i started hating going to mass, why i've kept comparing my parentage to that of tv sitcom families ... why i even bother.

i have to admit, it's affecting my attitude towards work too. why do i even bother?

with a friend's advice, i've started writing down my thoughts about my career and what i'd like to do in the future. she told me to come up with a comprehensive matrix to help me decide which path to take. i think i just have commitment issues with work. i don't know what i need to break out of this enduring rut.

Homecoming

(photo taken from apartmenttherapy.com)











I bade farewell to my apartment of more than 3 years in Makati last Sunday night. I wasn't teary eyed as I expected because there was literally no time for reminiscing. After a relaxing weekend just lounging around the house, I came back to the flat and hit the ground running. The movers were already waiting outside for me and I quickly segregated all the things that were supposed to be brought down from the 2nd floor. My flatmate had already moved out a few hours before me so the whole place was almost empty and really messy. They took my couch, they took my folding bed, took the plastic tables and chairs and everything else I laid out in the living room. I took a few photos using my phone. I wasn't even able to say goodbye to the landlord or his accommodating mother Emma. We were just in such a hurry ...





I actually wanted to post the pictures here but I misplaced my bluetooth dongle somewhere in the mosaic of my stuff now frescoing the motherhome. Now, I make sure my belongings complement the mid-50's Filipiniana surroundings -- in the morning before I go to work I get my sachets of Splenda and spritz on Provence from my "dresser", a 4-layer drawer made of plastic in periwinkle. It blends well on the landing fronting the mirror leading towards the 2nd floor. My microwave and computer look perfect beside the antique piano near the dining, and a bucket of cleaning equipment rests on the post-war art deco-inspired tiles.





My Mom bids us to join her for breakfast -- fried bangus and sunny side-up. I am home.

for year-long winters

you twinkle light, you twinkle bright

a glowering gas ball of infinite might!

the cusp of clarity caves, the crispness

curves tonight.

you cup me and swallow me,

you tickle me with delight. i thought i saw

(i thought you said)

today is not the end.

i toil with you, i toy with you

for no particular reason i remain

as if tomorrow proves, it breeds into

a herd of oxen in your domain.

(i thought i said)

your heart would, your heart would not

meld with metal like a stroke of luck.

as ridicule, as minuscule,

a decant of my sorrow, would breed not.

where my love is placed,

save me! i say, may the goat pass your way.

these are the middle struggles

for my earth-borne summers

as there are parapets and amulets

for year-long winters.

Paradise...

Up till now, I've been playing The Beach soundtrack hits in my head. Coron island in Palawan is just beyond magical. It is so beautiful there it's frightening because of its seeming perfection. Nothing compares, except maybe El Nido which I've yet to see, also located in Palawan. I wanna retire here. At the age of 30.

My officemates asked me how come I didn't bring them any souvenirs when I got back to Manila. I couldn't explain to them -- there's really nothing to bring back from Palawan except beautiful pictures and a mental imprint of almost being touched by eden. I couldn't bring them the experience of snorkeling through deep water with the current going opposite directions and "trofical pish" nipping at pieces of bread, the fear of being blown astray while on a rickety bamboo raft, or how one can exfoliate using polished coral and shell sand that feels like powder on one's feet. I couldn't give them the kind of water, so clear you can see the bottom even when it's 20-30 feet deep. I could not bring them the the stories we talked about, the laughter we shared while eating kilawing tanigue, the exhaustion of walking 700 steps to reach a cross-bearing summit, or the nudging we did inside the van on the way back to the airport.

I only have beautiful pictures, beautiful friends in those pictures ... and this blog entry.

Unwritten

1. Sigh ...
2. I miss the days when I would write prolifically and everything was inspiring.
3. I miss writing my poems.
4. Sigh.

Bento Boxed-Up

No, this is not an article about Japanese-Brazilian models. Although I would consider hiring one to help me organize my life. I'd like to start this post by telling you a short story about an orphan -- my friend's brother's girlfriend. Let's call her Harajuku.

Harajuku grew up in the US and she lived with her parents and a much younger sibling. Her mother had cancer but was in remission for a number of years. Her father was manic depressive and suicidal, although through the patience and care of her mother, her father had lived a normal life when they met and got married. Harajuku was the first born and she went to school in the US, like any other normal little girl. One day, she found out that her mother 's cancer had come back and that made her father very sad. Really, really sad.

So one afternoon when Harajuku came back from school, she found her father and mother having an argument and it was a rather violent episode. In front of her very eyes, her father shot her mother in the head, shot her sister, then her, and then proceeded to kill himself.

Harajuku, luckily (or not), survived.


(Segue to the present)

Harajuku is my friend's brother's girlfriend. She now lives with her relatives and is working in a mutli-national company here in the Philippines. She's pretty and likes to collect bento boxes. An obsession really because she would buy many different kinds, of different colors and sizes, with complicated designs and partitions, depths and inner crevices. She never uses them, but keeps them all boxed-up in their respective shelves, each collecting dust, then cleaned, then collecting dust again year after year. She buys them in shops, in bargain outlets, novelty stores, and mostly, have them delivered through the internet. I'm talking prices in the thousands. Some women buy Balenciagas, she buys Bentos.

My friend says she quite normal and seems happy, but there are times when she says she feels there's something "odd" about her, and she says her relatives say she used to be suicidal when she was younger, a Harajuku committing harakiri.

I told my friends that perhaps those bento boxes help her deal with her trauma. It's her way of compartmentalizing the pain, the guilt, the helplessness, all those thoughts that can never be answered even with time.


My friend says, "yeah you're right."



"But my brother will never marry her."

A frog prince simmering in boiling water ...

"Ahaha you've run out of lives! "

I just want to rant today since it was my birthday and all.

I just found out that my blood glucose level is 105, which is borderline bad for someone with a genetic predisposition to diabetes. My hemoglobin is 126 over 140, which is low -- I am anemic. My Mom says it's because I sleep late all the time. And my cholesterol is 329 over 200 -- waaaayyyy over the borderline!

I am dying and it pisses me off because I walk every work day from the metro to my office under the sweltering heat, I eat raw and often soggy lettuce with sardines (which is grosssss), a bowl of muesli with cinnamon every morning for breakfast when I can just eat fried pork chops with fried egg and oily fried rice.

It's fucking annoying. Shit. Fuck. Cunt. Puta.