The sign had said ...

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The sign had said, “There is no room for that.”
But I didn’t know how to read something so simple.
I thought I learned well enough
for an occasion that did not require casualness.
It was a farce, having to follow tradition.
Knocking on doors, the proper introductions.
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When it comes down to it,
everyone is the same. Everyone is adept
at lying through teeth; charming with their tongues.
It comes with age.
It comes with getting in.
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But I, have not grown yet.
I refuse to be understood.
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And there is no room for petulance.
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The Things That I Read

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She stood there beside my pod, I was reading up on the Amityville Horror, trying desperately to keep myself awake with tales from the paranormal. I asked her who my new supervisor was; we've heard rumors about a breaking up of groups. She took my glasses, which were resting with its arms unfolded, on top of my schedule folder. She began to clean the lenses with her black wool jacket sleeve and assured me that I wasn't going to be under our Hitlerian boss. She put the glasses on, its elliptical frame resting on her cheeks. She asked me if it looked good on her, its arms unfolded resting on her auricles. I said not really, the frame is too rounded for her face. She gave a nod, then took my glasses off. I proceeded to wear them after she left. With my other hand cleaved between the book from where I left off, I continued reading with clarity.

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So she started to ask me while we were seeded in between rows of tall wooden shelves of purchasable knowledge, "Tell me, did you have a thing for you-know-who?"

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"Thing? What thing? What are you talking about?," sounding sarcastic but nonetheless most obviously unable to keep my denial askew.

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"You tell me this is the second time you went here with that feeling you'd see you-know-who in you-know-where. There must be something you're not telling me."

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"Fine. Let's just say you-know-who is the edition of the novel I'm looking for. If only it were in the same genre I was delving into, then I would be a very happy bookworm indeed!"

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It was true though. I stayed for more than a fair share of friendly minutes catching up, wondering what it was I saw in it's idealistic words, the silky feel of its sleeves, the smell of its pages. I wondered what it was about the possibility of encountering chaos in reading the story's finale without skimming through the threads, how brilliant the author was with imagery, how passionate the words were with emotions ... always had been an extraordinary writer.

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Somewhere between the shelves we exchanged numbers. It was like asking to sign an autograph.

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The weekends ...

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"Sorry for the late hug. We have a choice not to hate idle time, no matter how dreadful it is to wait for the call that would never come. It's time for a cool change. Ü"

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-- texted by a cool friend

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I spent almost half of Saturday in the house, slightly going crazy over the heat (Oh my god! There are two birds mating beside my window and I wasn't quick enough to take a video of it ... sh*t! Sh*t!)

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Anyway, I decided to meet up with my friend at a nearby mall. I was early so I chose to roam around for whatever's available on my list -- new sandals (the old ones are too shabby now), button-down shirts for work, a new pair of shorts (because I have to clip the old ones just so they'd fit), a pair of underwear (same as previous), a ring perhaps, and a cheap leather watch for work.

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I started with the shoes, err, sandals. I hate the new styles now. They're too, I dunno ... fashionista? I was looking for the strappy types that can be worn casually but can also be used with a bit more semi-fomal attire. Nada. I went gaga over shoes. So much to buy, no money to waste on them. Sigh. I got into this clothes store called GQ, locally-manufactured clothes with imported branding. They were on a clearance sale and so I dove into their racks for all the button-downs I can muster. After all, if they were selling shirts at P200 each, where those would sell at at least P400 on regular days. I stayed there all afternoon.

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My friend, who couldn't find me, decided to go home. I apologize. I know you hate shopping and waiting on shoppers.

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My shirt spree ended at around 7:30pm. I then walked around to search on the "others" on my list. I tried on stainless steel rings, but all of 'em were too tight. I actually felt scared I wouldn't be able to take them off after trying them on. That's probably how newly weds feel like when they slip on to try the ring before the actual ceremony. I checked on watches but the ones I liked were costly. Ugh ... the price of having expensive taste (mussolini and I share the same burden hahaha)

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Moving forward, my money gone, I looked for a pair of shorts. There was a nice pair I saw but I decided to buy another time. Maybe next Friday when I get my salary or something. So there, I did everything on my to-do list for shopping Ü

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It's Sunday. I'm home. I don't wanna spend, and yet I still wanna go out. Ho-boy ... the weekends ...

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Scenes from the beach

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Today
Today
I saw a man
using an empty whiskey flask
as a walkie-talkie …
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8 Ball by Underworld
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On the 3rd day while eating breakfast alone, I saw a man light his cigarette using a grill. He simply dipped the open end of the stick unto one of the hot coals and as soon as the filter touched his lips, he started to puff. Who needs a lighter anyway?
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It had rained hard the 2nd day and I was out by the hallway listening to The Doors. Down by the pool, there were 2 middle-aged Arab men fooling around with 3 locals in their swimsuits. Fooling around in the water, under the rain, one guy puffing up his hookah. It reminded me of the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland for obvious reasons.
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The 1st night, the 3 of us were under the bright stars on a moonless night. I was smoking, trying to rekindle how it was during my first visit there. It wasn’t the same. The shooting stars did not mean a good wish. I could hear the music playing at a distance. There were 2 friends beside me agreeing to disagree. The air was very humid but I knew I'll miss it.
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On our last night, I initiated a pitcher order of spiked liquor. We were laughing the first part, having taken in too much too soon. Then things started getting hazy, for me at least. One friend took off and walked through the shores. I felt like purging my dinner in front of 3 Korean teenagers. My other friend accompanied me back to the hotel room where I fell asleep the moment I reached the bed.
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It became clear what directions we were going.

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I suddenly realized ...

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I'm sick of my family. I don't hate them but I don't feel love for them anymore.

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It's not sad, it doesn't make me want to cry. There's no emotion. It's like the way I automatically delete my father's forwarded messages (and the LOT of them in a day!), like the way I dislike how my mother follows up on what time I go home, or the way I get so pissed off when my sister always corrupts her important documents and spreadsheets, or the way my youngest sister annoys the hell out of me whenever she uses my slippers and eats junk food in my room.

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Ok, I take it back.. I am FULL of emotion but I refuse to carry them out. I'm settling for indifference than anger or hatred toward them. It's not worth it. I know I'll come back to my senses and find out how or why I'm wrong. Perhaps I'm simply an ungrateful bastard of a son who keeps everything secret. Perhaps I'm just one of those naturally rebellious people who feel unloved.

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Why the fuck does it take so long?

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The Scent of Androgyny

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She licked her fingers, tore a Nubbin into bite-sized bits, fed one of the bits to Jimmy. Then she let him lick her fingers for her. he ran his tongue around the small ovals of her nails. This was the closest she could get to him without becoming food: she was in him, or part of her was in part of him. Sex was the other way around: while that was going on, he was in her.
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-- excerpt from Oryx and Crake
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A weekend at the beach gave me a slight tan, not too dark, not too light, perfect like a warm mocha latte. My hair's unruly and wavy now like the afternoon currents rolling over the white sands, my face with a delectable pinkishness like fresh watermelon. I haven't swum in open water for years and it felt splendid burning up under the summer sun.
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I've never eaten so much since I started tightening my belt. I couldn't help myself -- the chewiness of grilled squid, the moistness of grilled fish, icy sweet banana shakes, the aroma of cooked rice, the gentle sea breeze, a few satisfying cigarette puffs, the convivial atmosphere, the enticement of bare skin. I just had to indulge.
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Back in the office, I felt like putting on a new fragrance. I'm bored with my assortment of citrus-based scents and wondered why I had so many. The new one I bought is a mixture of fresh laundry scent and a bit of sugary musk. Smells good enough to eat. So while I had been walking around the office diffusing my commercial brand of synthetic pheromones and showing off my mocha latte complexion with wavy surfer dude black hair and goatee, I had no idea I'd be upstaged, for in one of the quieter moods that day, while I was busy sitting in my cubicle working, I never thought my nose would pick up something more fragrant than my own. It was coming from my seatmate who just arrived for work a good 2 and a half hours past my shift. The scent was fresh. It wasn't fruity. It was androgynous. And for those who know me, I bask in the celebration of the senses. I easily forget what I see but scent and speech I remember very well.
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So there I was, talking to people in distant lands but my desires were very much within arm's length. I was sitting next to the shore, my thoughts drowning in the waves of an indiscernible scent, my hearing closing in on a tender voice, I had wished, was calling out my name.
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1 more day and I'm off to the beach! Yipee!!!

A few seconds too late ...

Train Doors

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Just as they were about to board the train
two passengers kissed each other farewell.
It was insentient the way they held hands,
the sweetness and the heat combined
wearing thin like old paint on the bars.
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Perhaps it was not forever, this missing,
this lingering memory of a warm embrace.
The proximity could never be replaced
by the multitude of people crammed
behind the red demarcation on the floor.
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Perhaps this was not a bid of farewell
like a pair of punched out train tickets
swept away by the cleaning man's broom.
There was space left only for one,
the silent argument at a greater expanse.
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With a loud shrill, the door closes.
It is, a step back to being stangers.
Perhaps it doesn't matter to which side
this lingering memory of a kiss remains
when two people are divorced by train doors.
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if i were deaf

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It is going to be a considerable trend, I think, this continuing silence for me. I have been busy putting out fires in my life -- at work, at home, with friends, with love, with the future. And this mutedness is a welcome reprieve from my once turbulent emotional state. Even now as I begin to write about these feelings, I am out of words and unable to describe the sense of stability I am feeling. It might go on like this for the next few days, weeks, or even months. I'm not one to complain though because it's just what I need at the moment.

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Perhaps it's true, simplicity is the key to a happy life. To either be content with what you already have or to be appreciative of the things that you worked for, to know the value of every little thing that you own. There will always be this drive in me to be great, to exceed my own expectations about myself, to boldly push for an adventure only a few people can boast of having in their lifetime. But the time to go trekking isn't now and may not be any time soon. I am, however, patiently hoping that I will still achieve what it is I was planted here for; then perhaps, if I allow myself to be involatile for the time being, I may say simply that I wish to pursue my passion for optimism.

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It has become increasingly difficult for me to be open up in this blog about how I feel in fear of giving out the wrong impression to certain people. This had become more pronounced when I posted my blog address in a friendly network. It's not that what I write down are absolute truths about myself or how I feel about life and people in general. My blog entries are moments of proactive expression, they are literary snapshots of key parcels in my life. They may not be exciting or always fun to read about. And if you know me too well, I some things about me change as often as the weather. I mean, this blog is an online diary for me so I type down what it is I want to type down. The problem is I fear sometimes that people might miscontrue what I write about. I know, I know, I shouldn't really care, but perhaps, the real fear for me is that I will be understood exactly the way I want to be understood. A good thing gone bad. In any case, sometimes I'd prefer a little bit more anonymity. Just sometimes, when I can't seem to write about what keeps me astir.

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The Lord listens to me. I know He does, and He's proven it a lot of times. For this I'm grateful because I know that somehow I'm in good hands, I know that somehow, I won't go astray anymore. I was telling my friend the other day how I was never the suicidal type. You see, he had a batchmate who committed suicide recently by jumping off her condo unit in Ortigas. Poor girl; successful on her third attempt. Most people will never get to understand what goes on in the mind of the suicidal and depressed. And they should consider themselves lucky enough not to do so. I've been there (but without any serious steps at actually doing it) and I know exactly how it is to be plagued by noise only you can hear, to seek even the remotest bit of attention to appease your hurting, to know that even if you meet with death square in the face, you will never be in peace.

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Sometimes I can't help imagining what's it like to be deaf, to know how it is to hear the world in silence.

If I were deaf, I would hear with my eyes and my voice would come out like water.

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For now I'd like to be careful what I wish for ...

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