Words by Angela Manalang Gloria

(In which I’d rather write.)

***

I was supposed to be writing the continuation of my essay for Asian and Philippine Literature when I stumbled upon a poem whose title was what I needed – Words.

Words
by Angela Manalang Gloria

I never meant the words I said,
So trouble not your honest head
And never mean the words I write,
But come and kiss me now goodnight.

The words I said break with the thunder
Of billows surging into spray:
Unfathomed depths withhold the wonder
Of all the words I never say.

It was beautiful. What I admire most about AMG is the way she weaves reality and the female psyche into her verses. I felt so connected to the poem I can almost claim the voice, of course, if not for the poetess’ superior play of words and thought. But I read it again and realized that the first stanza wasn’t for me. Yes, it wasn’t for me. I mean what I say. The second, however, describes me. What I don’t say I mean more.

Sometimes it’s ironic that no matter how many words I utter, I still run out of ways to express myself. I speak, and somehow it gets forgotten. I write for the sake of memory and they get lost. I thought I knew words. Now I doubt if I ever knew them. No one needs to understand. I don’t understand it, either.

So I’d rather write. Besides, I should be writing now.

Photo SourceWe Are Made of Words

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

For Vanity and Wallowing

(In which I show an evidence of being productive despite the lack of posts.)

***

I know you’re not asking and you don’t mind if the last entry was dated last month. But as the keeper of this site I feel obliged to post something. It would be nice if it’s a review of the last book I’ve read with a final note about the new book I’m on but since I haven’t even finished At Risk by Alice Hoffman halfway, the sight of a review on this blog will take time. I thought of posting the titles of my gradually increasing to-be-read pile but that would only make me depressed that I still have to read three hundred pages to officially start on another art fiction. So to compensate and to explain to my constant reader/s (I know you’re not more than three) I decided on posting the reasons for my procrastination. There are two.

The first one is this.

I made another decision lately – that I will be making pencil drawings of roses. And I started with this one. It took me almost two weeks to finish it, having only a couple of hours of work or more each day. I had to do this while working or during breaks in between classes. Now my current floral project was left pending to be fair with the book I should be reading.

The other, I guess, is more obvious. I write poetry. I admit that I am a slow reader. I ruminate when ambushed by a heavy scene or a thought-provoking line. Then sometimes, memories flash through. And then images. And then words. And then music. Actually, there isn’t any particular order. The chronology may change anytime. Right now, it’s music then memories then words.

I Think God Can Explain by Splender

Nirdla (Part II)

Should I regret
that I’ve asked what those words meant?
Those words that shouted messages
As secret as yourself.

Should I be glad
that you answered despite
your taciturnity and nonchalance?

Should I be happy
that you shared four minutes of melody
of guitars and drums
and voices lamenting,
questioning?

Or should I just understand
that your reticence is suffering made calmer?
That your smile is a curtain for fears
And smears
And tears?

And that the melody is a sanctuary
for your silent agony?
That the melody is yours for her . . .

. . . and now mine for you?

(For the first part of this verse click here.)

Photo source:
Full Bloom

Through Spines and Pages

(In which the recluse speaks.)

***

I find refuge in the written word
I, the epitome of loneliness
the person no one wants to be
the face you don’t want to see
in the mirror
before you.

I find respite in the written words
I, the escapist who believes
in ever after
and waits patiently
for the one destined.
Yes, I believe in destiny.

I find comfort in the written word
and love – yes, love –
in fictional lives,
of fictional people,
in fictional situations.
I, whose hands sought
darkness and felt air
walked
and still found
nil.

I find life in the written word
of others and mine.
So in case I, the existence unnoticed,
woke up one day invisible
their words and mine remain.

I find respite in the written word

when almost everything in the world spites me.
I, the person next to you,
your neighbor, your friend,
your unrequited lover
whose life is about
hope
and the death of it,
expectation,
frustration,
a ray of light,
total darkness.
Dreams.
Failures.
And the cycle goes on
and on
and never
ends.

Photo sources:The Reader

A Lucid Dream

(In which it hurts like reality.)
***

It was a journey of an unknown reason
bound to the unknown.
He was a traveler and so I was,
his path similar to mine.
Nights and days rolled by and I
am always by his side.
I often thought that I am somehow destined to be his bride

But lo! The desert turned into the forest
and the forest to my bedroom;
With me on the cushion and he on the floor;
staring right through me.
Screaming in a foreign voice;
uttering deafening insults and painful facts.
Does the truth need always be harsh?

Though aware I was of dreaming,
oblivious I was of why
when I asked him the silly question
he changed into another man!

Then off we went,
outside my house,
Walking on a familiar path.
Behind him, I walked.
His face from my eyes was obscured
but his voice was clear.
It was his.
It was real.

He no longer speaks hurtful truths
and how avaricious I really am.
But he said he has to leave
and that the time has finally come.

We climbed a stairway of hard clay and dust
that leads us to a road.
I wished to walk with him farther
but he looked at me and refused.
At last I saw his face again
but why is he suddenly far?

He finally turned and left me.
I know that I have yet again lost.
I felt my eyes open
and I slowly rose.

June 10, 2010
1:30 AM

L

(In which I look back with mixed emotions.)

***

Look at me again with the eyes
of an innocent child.
Touch me again with your
warm, trembling hands.
Tell me stories of your life –
Your eccentricities
Your clan
Your complicated life
Your beautiful plans.

Talk to me again.
Forget the struggle for words
and speak about
your philosophies
and romantic analogies.
Tell me again
how stubborn I am
how I enchant you
and torment you.
Confess again to me.
Tell me your secrets.
Trust me.

Let me hear your voice again
in your moments of glee;
its shaking and trembling
in austere sorrow,
pain and fear.
Tell me you’re scared
of missing me.
Of losing me.

Show me who you are.
Talk about your reverence to your people
your family
and religion.
Utter again promises you can never keep.
Write me more letters to read.
Give me more reasons to weep.
Let’s make more memories to look back to.
For you said
that those lovers without
beautiful moments to cherish
are the most unfortunate.

June 6,2010 12:21 AM

Bon Voyage

(In which the thoughts of an unrequited admirer all pop up suddenly.)

***

In your clandestine trip,

God bless you.

Regarding your coldness,

I don’t care.

And for your happiness,

cheers!

Go

For the space between us isn’t measured by miles.

You were already far

Even without

the physical distance.

On Dating: The Center of the World by Andreas Steinhöfel

(In which I can’t believe I’m taking Glass’ advice.)

***

“Right. Well, I’ll give you a mother’s tip – in fact, I’ll give you three if you promise to leave me alone after that.”

“Cross my heart,” I say hurriedly. My eyes gradually get used to the dark. I see Glass gesticulating. Her hands are two vague, faintly shimmering blobs, huge moths fluttering about wearily.

“First, on no account let him know he’s the first date you’ve ever had. That’ll make him just as nervous as you, and if a sexually aroused man is too nervous – “

“Glass, no one’s talking about sexual arousal here!”

“Second, never ask him if he loves you.”

“Why not?”

“If he says no, you’ll wish you’d never asked. If he says yes, you can’t be certain whether he’s just doing so to avoid an ugly scene. In both cases, you’ll be devastated.”

“But he might say yes and mean it.”

“How old is he?”

“Not as old as Michael.” It’s too dark to see if or how Glass reacts to this little sideswipe. “About eighteen.”

“Then he may still tell the truth.”

The floorboards creak as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “And number three?”

“Wash under your armpits.”

“Very funny, Mom!”

“Good night, and see you at breakfast.”

“Stupid witch.”

“I love you too, darling.”

– The Center of the World by Andreas Steinhöfel
page 176 - 177

One of the biggest reasons why I enjoy reading this book is the balance between humor and drama. Steinhöfel’s description of characters and experiences plays between sarcasm and emotionality, thus creating an experience of a rollercoaster ride at every flip of the pages.

The confusion of the main character, Phil, in almost every aspect tries to reach out to the reader. It makes me feel as if I’m reading a part of my own story. Anyway, who’s never – in the slightest bit – confused with matters concerning romantic relationships?

I’m no dating expert and I’m not a dating newbie either. But I still screw up regardless of the fact that I’m not completely inexperienced. These three tips were useful. Seriously. But they’re difficult to follow, to say the least. I mean the first two because it’s hard to deny the truth and to suppress the questions that have been for a while fighting for an orifice in your psyche.

Okay. So whether you’re a Phil or a Glass, dating requires more than experience. It’s about control.

And in case you were wondering, Michael is Glass’ current boyfriend and he’s in his fifties.

A Sudden Reminder

(In which I believe it the way others do.)

***

The world is unfair.

When something goes wrong, the sentence above seems to be the immediate – and not to mention, handy – response. People take it as a fact. You don’t have to explain it. When someone tells you how terrible life is and you retort with this reason both of you get silent as if the sentence puts an end to everything, and it leads to acceptance for there is nothing more to do.

Sometimes I marvel at how fatalistic this sentence has made me. But then again, what else is there to believe? When you’ve done all you can to make things right something will pop up to ruin everything, it’s easier to believe that the world has a playfully evil nature of being unfair than to chide and blame yourself for doing things wrong. Besides, if you believe you’ve done things right, then how can you actually blame yourself?

The unfairness of this world gives birth to a condition where “in an ideal world, everything’s perfect”. In our whim, we create a world where there is equality – you are with the person you love and the person you love loves you, people live in perfect harmony, there is no hunger, no war. We thoughtfully create our own utopia only to awoken from our reverie and go back to the real world. The cycle goes on.

The world is cruel. The world is unfair. It’s a fact we have to deal with.

End of discussion.

The Sad Summer Drizzle

(In which everything is washed away.)

***

Judah has been complaining about the heat since the start of the season. I can’t blame him. To live with snow (and four seasons) all your life and then be sent to the Philippines in the summer is a torment. But for some reason and perhaps for the first time, I have loved summer. The dry feeling and the scorching heat are reminders that I am still living. And the refreshing, albeit short, kiss of the wind tells me hope still exists. When I walk under the sun, I try to slow my pace, not minding that people are running for shade. The sun gives me life. And the burning sensation of its rays revives my senses. I’m alive.

This morning I wake up under an overcast sky. I looked at the clock on my phone. Nine o’clock. I am automatically aware that I’ve set the clock thirty-five minutes ahead of the real time. I remembered my sister’s reminder; that it’s not Time who should adjust with me but the other way around. I feel stupid every time I conduct a time check since I have to read it thirty-five minutes backwards. Maybe that’s why it never works. I am always late for work.

I got up feeling heavy, as if all the week’s pains were tolled on this day. I’ve been out of myself lately. But it’s today that I feel the most broken. Tomorrow, the truths will all be laid out and our lives will shatter once again. I am not sure if the remaining pieces of us are big enough to be reshattered. Perhaps it will feel more of a grinding than a shattering. We’ve always been broken. Just as we thought it’s time to emerge, we have to face being broken once more.

As I sat on the hard cushion of the public van my thoughts wander. I do not mind what’s around me, though I am aware. I am aware of my cocky seatmate who bragged of him being a driver as if I care. I did not give a damn when he keeps on looking at me smiling and sometimes laughing. Then his curiosity and ill manners got the best of him and asked me random questions to which I gave one-word answers with the “po” and a poker face. But when he asked me why I was serious, I did not speak nor look at his rough, rugged face that looks like an acre of the moon’s surface. I have done my very best to be polite and civil even to the least deserving like him. It’s his turn to do me a favor and shut up.

It was drizzling. Cold air and crystal droplets disturb me. The grayness of the landscape before me seems alien, even threatening. I have been used to a long, hot season before the chains of rains and typhoons blow the heat away, signaling that time has underwent a new phase. It was just March, early summer. And here comes a drizzle, the start of a shower and a downpour. The soft showering of crystals is a blessing to those waiting for a break from the sun’s embrace. But for me it resembles my current emotional state. In the onset of a beautiful, sunny day of our lives, rain comes in to ruin a promise of happiness. And we are now warned of the darkness lurking in the corners, ready to drown us in its anger.

The Loser Writes

(In which I don’t seem to do anything correctly.)

***

I have been running out of ideas worth blogging about lately. So this post is about how I have been screwing up in so many things.

Loser Issue #1: The Diary “Keeper”

I have decided to start keeping a diary for the sake of keeping records. (How lame is that?) And as what experience has taught me, I have also decided not to write personal things on that collection of thin and femininely colored sheets of paper which include my first crush and my first kiss and all the gossips around and my stand on those; because that kind of diary is never safe from my family’s curiosity. I never thought I mattered that much until I started keeping a diary. Now I know what to do if I want to feel some “love”.

And as always, the passion for writing with a pencil on that thick pink notebook only lasts for less than a week. I realized that a diary should contain juicy stuff anyway and keeping it safe means making the experience boring. And not writing on a regular basis will make it senseless. So far I have missed out on more than a couple of days.

Loser Issue #2: The Sleepless Reader with Very Little Progress

Those of you who have read my previous posts, (And I am sure you are not more than five) know that I have just finished reading The Master Butcher’s Singing Club and now I am on the last book on my shelf – The Year of Fog by Michelle Richmond. And guess what, after more than a week, I have finished reading forty-four pages! (I know that’s not a happy news.) Anyway, perhaps it’s because I don’t have any more books to read after I finish this, as if I can finish this soon considering that I am now considered a workaholic. And talking about the problem with the next book, I should be making my way to the bookstore soon, that is, if I have my motivation back and if my wallet can handle it.

Loser Issue #3: The Workaholic Teacher with Dissatisfied Students

Okay. The adjective that qualifies the word students has an invisible question mark. But not because it’s invisible means it’s not there. Here’s the thing: I have made a terrible mistake of forgetting to update the comments on one of my phone students’ comment box and followed the wrong page, which made me overlook that the book will be finished in less than two weeks. And the student’s mom has called and asked why I’m not reminding them that an order of the new book should be made to which I reasoned out that it’s not yet time, with the wrong page in mind.

So when I found out, I immediately made the request. However, we have already finished the book two days ago and now I am in a terrible state of covering up. I kept on telling her that the book has been ordered and that we can just review the old book while waiting for the new one for twenty minutes every day. It feels like talking about the same old topics you’ve been talking about the entire year since she doesn’t know how or like to handle a free talking session, which made me not to like it too.

And the responsible Judah has been exhibiting an unusual show of absenteeism lately. I know that he hates summer and considering that he came from a country with four seasons, it’s summer in the Philippines all year round. Well, I somehow feel guilty thinking that I have been usually late for our first class. And I was given this notion that either he’s getting even (which doesn’t sound like a good option since it’s his money he’s wasting) or he lost his interest in studying because of my terrible example. Oh for the love of God, somebody tell me it’s the first choice!

Now I am stuck in making a level up test for a grammar book which is so much worse than talking.

Loser Issue #4: The Great Pathetic Romantic Loser

Alvin kept on denying that he’s ignoring me but I’m nobody’s fool. My brain might betray me at times but my intuition will remain faithful. And it just so happened that I wanted to diminish the number of my friends on Radiusim from a senseless, whopping 400 to a reasonable 60+ with Alvin and his best buddy’s name out of the reasonable number. I did it. And I somehow felt light, happy even. But just lately I wondered what his status is. And now I’m thinking: should I delete his stupid number from my phonebook and his stupid profile from my Facebook?

I Could Not Ask For More by Edwin McCain

(In which something made me look forward.)

***

During the heavy times when I was uploading Sandy’s pictures and making the draft for my post about her, I was able to get lot of help from teachers who luckily brought their gadgets necessary for file transfer. And inside one thumb drive I found a huge playlist of MP3’s and copied more than a couple.

The day Sandy left for Korea, the academy seemed to emit a sudden air of lonesomeness and quietness. And what a strange air it was! For there were no more tiny feet running here and there or an army of children following and clinging to Judah in search for his dangerous cigarettes or bodies rolling on the floor while laughing. I somehow felt happy that the absence of Sandy was at least felt – she’s not just another soul that came and went. And I thought that’s how she wants it too.

It was so quiet even during lunchtime when the academy used to transform into a playground and an arena. The silence was so alive it seemed to be as solid as the walls. And that’s when I wanted to hear some music.

I Could Not Ask For More by Edwin McCain

The moment the first note was hit, I felt a sudden flow of emotions run through me. It felt as though all the energy was set to the minimum and I was put into a delicious state of drowsiness. And then one by one, the words came and I melted. I listened and listened and felt as if the song was sung for me. All the while, I had Radiusim on. I saw the site logo blink on one of the windows showing a response to my message. The magic the song has on me still lingered and I asked him.

“Do you know the song ‘I Could Not Ask For More’?”

“What about it?”

“It’s been playing ten times on my player already.”

“Why don’t you choose another song then?”

“It was so beautiful I set it to play repeatedly.”

“I see. Make it twenty.”

There was an exchange of virtual laughter. I moved on.

“I think it is optimistic. Do you think so?”

“I don’t know. People keep on asking for more.”

“I disagree. So you don’t think it is optimistic?”

“I’m not sure. Who sang it?”

Edwin McCain. We pressed enter the same time.

“Oh, yeah. It’s him,” he replied back and the momentum was regained.

“Yes. I think it is sad but it is still optimistic.”

“It’s not sad. It says 'I could not ask for more than this time together'. That’s not sad. It’s actually meant for lovers.”

“Is it? But it made me feel sad. And it could be meant for singles too. Or maybe I am just weird. Now I remember something that happened in my classroom last year. Come to think of it, it happened sometime in late January or February.”

“Go on.”

“In the classroom I used to have, another class had an activity. It’s like a Valentine card making activity. One of the students wrote to her parents. The other made a hilarious card for his friends. The other one made a card for his wife. I wondered at first because he doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”

“That’s possible. He must be reserving it for the future.”

Well, he almost hit it. I continued. “So it turned out that he wrote that for his future wife. He said he wants her to have a happy Valentine’s Day even if he’s not with her and that he’ll make it more special when they meet.”

“I see.”

“That’s why I thought this song isn't just meant for couples.”

“Wow! That was cool!”

Nirdla

(In which I could never find the right and sufficient words to tell you what you are to me.)

***

Your eyes never tire of aristocratic beauty
And they always are free for censored pages
But they never seemed to be when I flashed a smile and my
Texts are never worth your time.

Your lips admittedly never run out of lies to utter
Yet I believe the prevaricator that you are.
Did I sense the subtle truth in them
Or was I just another stupid woman?
I know. You never told me to believe.

This is not meant to insult you for I’m sure you’ll never know.
And if you did, the insult is mine
For I bothered again to write about you
And your elusiveness
Your beautiful elusiveness.

Have I told you that your eyes are enough to melt my internal ice down
and your smile makes me feel blessed?
That your name is more than a reason to be breathless
And that I sometimes believe the second god-like word is destined?
But Nirdla, worry not, for I know
That you always have the heart for and your eyes on
Her
Never for me.
Never on me.

January 18, 2010

9:30 PM

A Rough Start

(In which I share some thoughts with the people who matter.)

***

Last Sunday was actually a decision day. I decided to watch the fifth season of Kyle XY which made me glad and hungry for the next season, which I unfortunately failed to find. But there’s always another time. I also decided to use a different cellphone network. Don’t ask me why. I decided to send messages to people I want to connect and reconnect with only to be successful with the second purpose. I never noticed how long I had been sitting in front of the TV set until it gets dark. I checked my phone and found nothing. Yes, it’s a decision day and I actually decided to be stupid. Pathetically stupid.

***

As I was cutting the potatoes for the French fries, I saw my sister texting and decided to ask her something unlikely for an older sister to ask her younger sibling.

“Excuse me,” I hesitated at first, “How would you know if a person doesn’t like another person?”

That’s it. I didn’t look back at her and focused on the potatoes to avoid seeing the why-the-hell-are-you-asking-that-question kind of stare. I heard her sigh and complained about her lack of sopranos for her recital.

“They’re backing out. What’s that again?”

I reiterated the question, this time faster.

“What do you mean by ‘like’?”

“Like.”

“Okay, a person doesn’t like another person if she/he looks at her/him as if she/he is the worst thing ever created.”

“Well, not that kind of thing. I’m talking about the romantic kind of liking.”

“Oh ok. He doesn’t like you if he doesn’t even care that you existed or that you are existing. In short, he doesn’t give a damn.”

“Like Kyle and Jessie?”

“Do they seem not to care about each other?”

“Give me more signs.” I sighed.

“Okay, if he doesn’t give you time.”

“And with that you mean?”

“If he doesn’t give time to even think about you.”

“How do you know if someone’s thinking of you?”

“Kyle and Jessie can read minds right?”

I threw my hands up and sighed. “We’re not talking about Kyle and Jessie.”

“Okay. So it’s you and another person. He doesn’t like you if he usually or totally ignores you.”

“Like he’s not responding to – “

“Text messages? Right.”

“Or if he – “

“Replies after at least two hours? Yes.”

I stopped talking as I saw that the potatoes looked browner than they should be.

Later on that evening, I found myself confiding to my Virtual Confidante again.

“The signs are all out. It’s like he almost said it,” I said with a tone of a desperate job hunter after a terrible interview.

“I suggest you wait until he says it. But honestly, I doubt if he’s ever going to say it.” His voice was always placid and smooth, that when he says something meant to break your heart you will first compliment his tone and then curse him for saying what he said.

“Thanks for pointing that out. You really are trying to help, aren’t you?”

“Why don’t you find out the truth straight from him? We are all clueless. I can tell you everything I know but it apparently won’t suffice.”

He has a point. But extracting the truth out of that elusive heart of Alvin will mean letting all the truths pour out of me while taking the great risk of being stupid and then a loser in the end. I was told not to assume unless otherwise stated but do I have to hear what is already obvious? But then could I still trust my intuition when it has failed me so many times? I was now caught between being wrong and being right that the truth matters to me so much and it would be redeeming to finally find it out. Yet I am never sure if it’s really the truth that I’m going to get.

I never aimed to be in something emotionally complicated and totally devoid of reason but that’s what I am in right now. Yeah, I might be having another decision day soon.

She Could Be You (Kyle XY Theme)

(In which a female version of the song plays in my head.)

***

After my sister watched the first season of Kyle XY (which I bought) when I wasn’t home, she got so interested to finish it that she borrowed the DVD copy of Season 1 – 4 from a friend. So for the sake of getting even, I ran a double season marathon when she was at work. And I loved it! Yes, it’s Kyle XY. So how late am I?

What troubles me in this series more than the unrequited interest of Jessie toward Kyle is the D4 song from the juke box at the Diner which Adam and Sarah usually play. No, I don’t hate it. In fact, I love it. But the message keeps on getting into me like an unwanted truth, that no matter how much I try to shake it off, it just won’t leave. The music was ironically comforting but the message disturbs me – yes, like an unwanted truth

She Could Be You by Shawn Hlookoff

Dreadful December is Coming!

(In which blasphemy is the last thing I mean.)

***

People would usually avoid being in or ending a relationship on special events; i.e., birthdays, Valentine’s Days, Christmases and New Years to prevent the suffocating feeling of being reminded of how sweet those days used to be until we got dumped. However, we often forget that the first and the last days are not the ones that really count. It’s all the days within the relationship that you’ll be reminded of.

I was actually tempted to have a three-month older version of Green Day’s song as the title of this post. But I realized that waking after December isn’t really a good idea since January is another month to hate and the months that follow are hurtful and desperate. I can’t sleep all year long. Right. The happiest days of my life so far ends in January and begins on I-don’t-know-when. But it was the approaching of December which brings me to another half-burned, half-elated state of being.

You just know when it’s December by the mere picture of everything. You can even feel it and smell it. I don’t know how to describe its odor. I just know when the air smells like Christmas.

And Christmas used to be a happy moment. We didn’t start then nor end. That’s the point. It’s one of those times within the bonding moments I just can’t let go. As for me, I can give away the first meeting for anything. Especially when I think of what mess I had made of myself since then. And who wants to remember the parting of the ways? But when all is over, all that remains is the memories. And happy were those memories. When I saw the pretty Christmas tree being put up by our lovely officemate, it seems like time is moving backwards, though only internally. I seem to be the only one who goes back in time and all was looking forward.

I don’t think there is any point of avoiding any memorable day before making and breaking somebody’s heart aside from saving the sanctity or anything of that day. It’s not just about the lovely Christmas tree. Not about the expensive one-hour long distance call which was shortened by fifty percent to save the other half for New Year’s Eve. It’s not the Christmas card with the lovely message though grammatically incorrect. It’s not those days – not even the best day – that really break me into droplets at the slightest thought of it. For the daily calvary is indeed more painful than a single day.

On Losing and Mourning

(In which I got someone who somehow understands in the form of printed text.)

***

After finishing The Four Temperaments, which is about the complex love affair of a ballerina with a violinist and his son as well as with her dream of becoming a star, I started reading the novel I bought together with it on a secondhand books store.

The Nightingale’s Nest is about Pamela Griffe, a girl who lost his husband three days after their marriage when the man was sent to fight in The Great War. She then works for a couple who owns a gallery years after. Their home and the people they know will eventually add another life-changing chapter to Pamela Griffe’s life.

Here are two paragraphs relating to how she felt when her beloved husband was taken because of his duty to defend his nation.

We only had those few days, but they changed my life forever. It wasn’t only grief that separated me from other single girls of my age; it was that I joined the ranks of the widows. We were no rarity value; there were tens of thousands of us, each dragging her individual tragedy like an untidy packed suitcase, a disobliging memento mori for the as-yet unbereaved. Even my parents managed to give the impression that for me to miss Matthew too much, or to show that I did, would be something like bad form, when so many others out there were in the same position. And many of them, their tone gently implied, almost as if comforted by the fact, had been married for years, and had children. It was as if my fledging marriage to Matthew did not, could not, count for so much as all those longstanding ones, exemplary or otherwise.

. . . In telling me that I was in some in some way fortunate to have lost Matthew before things went any further, before we had built a life together or got to know each other better, or had a family. . . they were driving the very aspect of my loss which I found more agonising.

I always hear people – whether celebrities or common people – console a brokenhearted person after a breakup by saying that it is better that it had ended rather earlier before too many times were spent together and too many memories were made. They would even give the example of a couple being together for ten years, got married and later found out that they were not really meant for each other and have to separate.

“See? At least you were saved from that fate!” they will say.

But, regardless of the consolation the early parting might give you for saving you of more sweet days to be recalled painfully and be forced to extinguish from your mind forever so as not to incur any more pain, the fact that you have lost never changed. You don’t need ten years, or children or a marriage to know that you loved and were loved in the same manner that you don’t need any of those to know that you have just lost someone. True. Telling anyone who just had their hearts broken by whatever or whoever, that they somehow do not have the right to mourn the way they are mourning since the relationship hasn’t even lasted for how long it should have based on whoever’s standards, doesn’t give any cure to the wound. So what if it lasted for only two months and the relationship was a goner ever since it started?

I too had my own share of this tragedy, only not about death of a physical body but death of a dream. But as far as I know mourning I also know that life doesn’t end with a parting and my life needs to continue. When I think of him deserting me, I thought of Maria Clara and Ibarra. Though they love each other, Maria Clara was forced to marry Linares to spare his father, Kapitan Tyago (not that he has any reason close to Maria Clara’s). But when she heard of Ibarra’s death, she’d rather die.

“While he lived, I could have married–I thought of running away afterwards–my father wants only the relationship! But now that he is dead, no other man shall call me wife! While he was alive I could debase myself, for there would have remained the consolation that he lived and perhaps thought of me, but now that he is dead– the nunnery or the tomb!”

- Maria Clara, Noli Me Tangere, CHAPTER LXII, "Padre Damaso Explains"

Perhaps, that’s the only consolation I have from everything that happened – that he was alive and might probably be thinking of me.

Currently reading:

The Nightingale’s Nest by Sarah Harrison

Music playing on my mind:

Think of Me (from The Phantom of the Opera)

Me and My Impulsive Nature: Another Desperate Post

(In which Fate has caught me by [semi] surprise.)

***

Our work was highlighted by the exchange of loss and resumption of electricity for the last two days, which means less pay and more irate parents. However, the several hours that we were given to enjoy was blissful. Blogging is my only consolation in times like this.

And as expected, a couple of hours before the shift ends, the buildings went dark again so we were sent home. That’s another chunk off our pay slips. Aww…

I saw one of my officemates by the exit door as we walk down the stairs. She lent me her hand which I gladly took.

“I read your note (blog post),” she said with a smile.

“Ah, yeah – “

“-Uy I have good news for you.”

“What?”

“I saw him – X – at the Korean store. He looked really different! He’s so fair and handsome…”

My heart sank. The last news you would want to hear about a past lover is that he’s more handsome now and he’s over you. What a beautiful recovery! I managed to flash a smile and joked “I want to go home.”

In the comfort room, I heard a friend say “Oh so he’s here? And he looks better? Come to think of it, I thought I saw him in one of those 24-hour convenient stores. But if his face is smoother now then it’s probably not him.”

“Which reminds me of what I told him before he went home.”

“What is it?”

“I suggested that he get a treatment from a dermatologist and eat more.”

“Well at least you know now that he listened.”

I went out of the building and sent a message to my “cab peeps” telling them we’re dismissed. I crossed the streets to the building opposite ours and waited near the Korean store and remembered what she told me.

“Is he still there? I forgot to ask if she saw him today,” I thought. If there’s anything good about the news, it’s the fact that he dared to come in closer proximity to where I am, of course, without the slightest intention of seeing me. But knowing he’s somewhere near is already good news. Or is it another bad news?

I glanced at the store and saw a couple of guys occupying the table near the glass walls. I recognized the guy in blue who’s facing my direction. That long, lean face with glasses – Jeff? I shook my head and looked away. I might be wrong. But if it's Jeff, then the other guy who was with was probably X. Gosh! What am I thinking?

My heartbeats raced. I walked towards the other 24-hour convenient store which was then closed for inventory. I sent another message to my friends telling them I’m waiting. They asked me to go to their office but I declined.

I waited there. My body was aching for an unknown movement but I stayed still. For moments I felt like my heart is going to be thrown out of my ribcage. Then I remembered what my friend told me when we were in the comfort room.

“You know, according to The Secret – “

“You’ve read it?” I interrupted, trying to regain my usual composure.

“No, I watched it on video.”

“Ahh,” I nodded understandingly. Then the feeling of terror mixed with worry that has been lurking in the corners of my mind suddenly burst out. “I think I don’t want to see him. Not now. Why should I – “

“Well, according to The Secret, the universe only gives you what you consistently think of. So if you keep on thinking how much you don’t want to see him, the more the universe will conspire for you to meet.”

“So what should I do? Think of how much I wanted to see him?”

“No. Don’t think anything about it.”

Does that mean I should just refuse to think about anything that has something to do with him? To suppress means to hide the pain in the depths of your soul. It doesn’t mean to kill. And the only thing you have when you suppress the pain is the desperate hope that it will die a natural death. Or should I just indulge my whole being to pain and have my heart and soul be brought to the death row over and over until I am too numb and cold to ever feel any pain? In the end, it is the selfsame desperate hope that reigns. It is but the proverbial choice “between the devil and the deep blue sea”!

Several minutes passed. Out of boredom, I turned my head to the left, just in time to see X walk out of the store with Jeff. It’s really him! I watched them walk away. For a moment, the earth seemed to pause. And then my connection between the present snapped loose. I found myself walking towards their direction, my light steps slowly quickening. Then I stopped and watched them walk away again.

I stood motionless as they get farther by another meter. I watched X intently as if counting the steps that he takes. I know he’s unaware of my presence. I know. So when he slowly looked back it seemed like all the air I have in my body filled my ears, deafening me. For seconds he fixed his frozen, wide-eyed gaze on me. And he continued walking.

The wind brushed the heat off me, freezing me more. I was about to turn away when he stopped and spoke to Jeff in a manner so serious I swear I thought someone’s going to die. Then he gracefully moved his lean physique towards me, his smile widening with his every step.

He smiled at me! And oh! The office mate has spoken the truth indeed!

He passed by me on the left side of the road which makes me wonder why he doesn’t take the wider side. It made me feel as if we were on a stage play where blocking is as important as acting. I swung my head and looked up to him.

“Long time no see,” he beamed at me.

I was supposed to say “It wouldn’t take this long had you not been hiding from me.” But I just said a cool “Yeah. You look good.”

“You also!” he replied in his very unique manner that I longed to hear.

It was just your usual small talk. Until I took the chance to get bolder.

“So how’s your girlfriend?”

The smile on his face vanished as if I hit something vulnerable and he took a light breath. He twitched his lips the way he always does when he’s thinking and muttered “So-so. Just so-so.”

I nodded. “I see.”

“You? Do you have boyfriend?”

“No, I don’t.”

Whether he responded with “Not yet?” or “Ah, you don’t.”, I can no longer recall. He tried to lighten up the mood by saying “I’m studying here.”

“Ah yeah! Do you know that I’m studying – ”

“Red Warriors?” he asked and his eyes brightened up. That simple question made my heart swell to the extent that it’ll explode. I felt like I’m Erik being swept away by Christine Daae’s sweet smile and voice.

The conversation went on. Regarding which, I can no longer remember.

“Uhmm… You want to eat?” I muttered, out of stupidity. I forgot he just got out of the store.

“Aww… But my friend is waiting for me. Some other time. I’ll text you.”

“Do you know my number?”

He held his mobile phone in a way as if to say, “You see? I’ve got one?” But then again, I might be wrong.

I crossed another level of boldness. “I can give it to you if you want,” I said, which I regretted right after I said it. Another comment made out of sheer stupidity.

He smiled. “Well, I’ll just ask Esmeralda.”

I coaxed him with a sideward look and said “You’re lying.”

“No. I will.”

I admired his uncanny talent of telling a lie so effortlessly swift. And what is this moment but a potential six years older version of Maureen Daly’s “Sixteen”.

“You look happy. That’s good,” I commented, unaware if I’m still wearing the smile I’ve been faking from the start.

“You too.”

“Anyway,” I concluded. The moment is getting more and more awkward.

“My friend waiting for me.”

“Your friend is waiting for you,” I replied as my teacher mode suddenly kicks in. “Bye.”

We walked away.

Daroga*, you should have seen him. You should have seen his smile. He smiled at me, Daroga! He’s been nice to me! My angel has been nice to me! Are you listening to me, Daroga?

I walked aimlessly as though the minutes that passed have cost me all my life. And in a matter of a few steps, my entire vision has turned into a mirage.

*Daroga/The Persian was the person who saved Erik (The Phantom) in Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of The Opera.