Musings and Waiting

(In which I wallow in this “perfect” combination.)

***

Not being able to finish an art fiction or start an art work in lieu of the most important phone calls is something I won’t consider as a heavy sacrifice. Not even a sacrifice. I do what I choose with someone I chose to be with. We don’t look at things as troubles when they make us smile – happy even. Yes, they're not sacrifices. They're blessings. For when you finally found yourself willing to give up the little things you like for something big – for that thing that you love, it’s a blessing. Life has taken a new course and you’re on your way to completion. In my purview.

But my big things and blessings always come with sacrifices. Oh! The irony of happiness! And what sacrifices? To tire of being stationary and immobile. To hate one's self for being impatient. To resist illogical reasons and childish demands. To suppress urgency and restlessness. To set aside selfishness and conventions. To wait.

Yes, waiting. And what is more torturing that the silent and slow brushing of time against one’s stillness? What is more puzzling than the ignorance of tomorrow made more complicated by fateful surprises? What feeling is more enigmatic than the emotional outbursts that contrast each other when we wait? Oh, please, let the waiting end.

Verses by Funandfearless: Cycle

Butterflies
fluttering and dancing
in my stomach;
An intensified waltz
day after day.

Music
ringing and humming
in my ears;
Higher elation
minute by minute.

Heartbeats
rushing and pulsing,
racing;
heavier thumps
as the clock strikes time.

Tick . . . tock . . .
Tick . . . tock . . .

Then

Once . . .
Twice . . .
Thrice . . .

And it starts
all over
again.

Sandali Na Lang by Hale

Photo Source:

Silhouette

Contrast

(In which I risk . . . and rise.)

***

I hate promises
uttered with a smile
or an intent gaze stretching to the future.
I hate promises
of circles and hearts and infinity;
of cold white,
of scented orange,
of blazing yellow
and of cool green.

I hate promises sang with songs
and strings and beats and dances.
I hate promises witnessed
by the proverbial moon and stars
or by the four mundane walls.
I hate promises locked in clasped hands
and assured of tears that never will fall.
It’s the self-same tears that shall wash them.
I hate promises and bodies
intertwined in embrace
then later divided by a push and a hiss.

I hate these.
And you know it.

Now should I hate you for promising
promises with a voice as beautiful as fire
and a soul equally flammable as mine?
Should I resist and defend,
build a wall and hide?
Or should I listen and cry,
let all the hatred go,
the coldness thaw,
and my love for you overflow?

You know what I did.

© September 12, 2010
2:40 PM

The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett

(In which later is better than never.)

***

Upon realizing one’s failure in a later time, one hurries to make up for all the time lost. And then another realization will appear – that the time remaining is still insufficient. What was gained is to be cherished and what was lost is lost.

This, I believe, is one of the many things the Queen found out after reviving her penchant for reading, which actually was triggered by an obligation. (She thought it was compulsory to borrow a book from the mobile library.) And she borrowed books after another, hired Norman (who used to work in the kitchen) to be her amanuensis, made lists of her to-be-read and practically urged everyone else to read. Not only is her sudden predilection for books deterred her fulfillment of her royal duties; it also became a reason for her social and personal (especially fashion-wise) skills as well as her sanity, to be questioned.

Humorous and reflective, The Uncommon Reader isn’t only a story of a literally and figuratively uncommon bookworm. Alan Bennett weaves a story showing what reading really is and what it’s not, what we look for in books and what we gained from reading and eventually, what we want to do with what we learned.

For a better post about this novel, please check out . . . Wait, and I have to remind you that I will actually know if you left this site for the link. Just kidding. Check out the review of The Uncommon Reader on Aldrin’s The Pollysyllabic Spree here.

Currently reading:

The Passion of Artemisia by Susan Vreeland

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The Passion of Artemisia

Zildjian

(In which arts and emotions fused in an instant.)

***

A tap and a crash and a strum reverberating slowly,
the feeling of the bristle and wet paint on my skin,
uttered poetry in my ears
and a surreal image.
A surreal feeling and a romance,
audible and invisible
but impossibly palpable and sweetly felt.
Whispers into the darkness and flesh
tightening and melting through promises.
What more can I ask for than the reality caused
by a glimpse
– an actual glimpse –
of you?

The Painted Kiss by Elizabeth Hickey

(In which the unsaid are all that matters.)

***

Hickey’s debut novel reimagines the relationship of Emilie Flöge with the Viennese artist Gustav Klimt. Since my acquaintance with Klimt’s life and works is embodied by (only) the knowledge of this painting The Kiss (which fortunately was the focus of this novel) I researched a little about Klimt and decided that the novel will be a little heavy to the heart.

It took me a long time to finish the book, the initial reason for which was work and the secondary, the depression. For a woman to read something about a woman and a martyr for a man who doesn’t seem to know what he wants is such a huge source of disappointment and melancholia.

To Emilie, Gustav was a teacher, a friend, a brother, a lover and a man she loves deeply – of that I am sure. But whether Emilie was more than a student, a friend, a sister and a lover to Gustav remains a historical enigma. Art lovers will know how their affair ends with Gustav’s death and how another blow of confusion mixed with regret shook Emilie after knowing that hers was the name Gustav uttered in his last breath.

Unlike any of Gustav’s women, Emilie didn’t demand (at least not in the book). She took what he gave her. She forgave without an explanation from him. She loved him when he’s present and missed him when he’s gone. She nursed him in his sickness and waited for his return. She knew his mistresses but didn’t fret in public. Basically she knew what to do when she’s with Gustav. She knows better than to plead or beg for love or marriage. So she never even asked nor confessed.

If there’s something I liked about Gustav, it’s his reticence. But unfortunately, it is also one of the reasons why I hate him (aside from him being a chronic womanizer). He didn’t write memoirs or even keep a diary. He believed that people will know him when they look at his paintings yet in an episode, he altered a painting to obscure what was not supposed to be known. How then, can an artwork be reliable? His reticence usually solved his problems and got him out of disputes with a woman. But this is also one big reason why he’s misunderstood.

And yet when he spoke, it seemed like it was all too late for assumptions and explanations. And Emilie must have regretted that she never asked.

Currently reading:

The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett

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The Uncommon Reader