Change by Angela Manalang-Gloria: An Analysis Invitation

(In which I have to stop myself.)

***

For three and a half years, I taught Asian and World Literature, along with other Com-Arts subjects, in the university. But if I have to choose which among the subjects I taught I loved most, I'd choose Literature in a heartbeat.

I like taking liberties when it comes to choosing literary pieces to teach. Sometimes, I even go as far as deviating from the syllabus. But don't get me wrong. I am not that kind of a rebel. However, when it comes to independently choosing pieces to teach, I always come back to a poem I learned in the Graduate School. 

But, wait. Before I get lost in analyzing this poem, I would like to remind you, readers, that this humble blog is a collection of my thoughts about books or literary texts I read. If it helped you in any academic way, then it served beyond its purpose. However, I believe this poem deserves respect that I implore you to veer off the Ctrl-C, Ctrl-V practice. Instead of spoon-feeding you, I invite you to relish this poem with me.

Change 
Angela Manalang-Gloria 

I have outgrown them all, and one by one, 
These loves I took so mightily to heart 
Before you came: the dolls that overran 
My childhood hours and taught me fairy art; 
The books I ravished by the censored score:
 Music that like delirium burned my days; 
The golden calf I fashioned to adore
When lately I forsook the golden phrase. 

And thus I shall outgrow this love for you. 
Sooner or later I shall put away 
This jewelled ecstasy for something new. 
Brand me not fickle on that fatal day: 
Bereft of change that is my drink and bread,
I would not love you now. I would be dead.

Just like most readers, when I first read the poem, all that remained with me is its beautiful rhythm – and maybe some other comprehension, but not a lot. But our professor, Dr. Ma. Lourdes G. Tayao, is such a gem in analyzing poetry. Whenever I read or teach this poem, I always thank her.

The poem, apparently, is about change. It talks about things we love and forget. We love out of a whim, or a habit, or a need. And then we leave them. And love something else.

The speaker in the poem also loved. In fact, she loved a lot of things:

... the dolls that overran 
My childhood hours and taught me fairy art; 
The books I ravished by the censored score:
 Music that like delirium burned my days; 
The golden calf I fashioned to adore
When lately I forsook the golden phrase. 

And those things she loved, might mean differently from each individual. But she loved them all nonetheless. And forgot them all, too.

The poem could easily be divided into two sections: the first is an elucidation of the things she loved in series. The second, a plea for understanding.

And thus I shall outgrow this love for you. 
Sooner or later I shall put away 
This jewelled ecstasy for something new. 
Brand me not fickle on that fatal day: 
Bereft of change that is my drink and bread,
I would not love you now. I would be dead.

At this point, we realize that true is the saying that "There is nothing constant in this world but change." For some, it is easy to accept. In other instances, it takes more than skepticism to reject and fear change. Sometimes, it's disillusionment, hurt and anger. 

When discussing this poem, I always ask my students:

• Who is the speaker? What is the speaker's gender? Why?
• What did the speaker love? Why do you think she left them?
• Did you love the same things the speaker did? Do you still love those things? Why?
• If this is a call for understanding, would you understand and forgive the speaker when that "fatal day" happened?

Readers, what's your answer?

Poem source:

Change by Angela Manalang-Gloria

Mt. Mayon by Simeon Dumdum Jr.

(In which I got the chance to see it again . . . in someone else's eyes.)

***

Mt. Mayon
(From the airport in Legaspi City)
Simeon Dumdum Jr.
As to this jacketed, hunting-cappedAnd skippered man following me as thoughAfraid I might ogle his daughter,Perhaps he is really just a tricycle driverStalking a fare, but beast enough to standWide-eyed, watching this mountain tooAs it goes déshabillé, while the windShoos away the clouds of sheep untilnothing remainsBut a lamb sucking the blue nipple.

***

At first read, or even at the second or third, a reader will simply find a scenario typical of provincial mountainside life in Simeon Dumdum Jr.'s Mt. Mayon. It is just a fleeting moment, a scene captured through the lens of a camera and could even be an abstract emotional memories of one's first visit to a province. But the structural brevity and simplicity of the poem actually exude beauty and love for it.

I have been to Bicol only once and was granted a visit to a mountain where we got a better look at Mt. Mayon. Some of the memories I had from that trip include children running barefoot after our vehicle while shouting greetings of welcome, and old men and women smiling toothlessly at the sight of local tourists. It was so heartwarming, light and human. Yet those adjectives always fell short of full description. So when I read how Dumdum described the man he encountered at the airport, I was amazed both by the simplicity and the weight of words he used.

As to this jacketed, hunting-capped
And skippered man following me as though
Afraid I might ogle his daughter,
Perhaps he is really just a tricycle driver
Stalking a fare . . .

And then the sight of the mountain. It had been a long time since it was branded for it conical perfection. But I dare say that at time, I, the amateur self-proclaimed connoisseur of beauty that I am, saw no apparent disgrace to its name, based on postcards from which my judgment emanated. It was no wonder why the man was,

. . . but beast enough to stand
Wide-eyed, watching this mountain too . . .

It was just a moment, a fleeting moment when wind and mist of evaporated water waltzed to uncover a beauty capable of putting other beauties to shame. The excitement one experiences while watching the mountain come into clearer view is akin to the expectation of a gallery spectator for a celebrated masterpiece to be unveiled. As the clouds, which Dumdum referred to as "clouds of sheep", moved away, what remains is the perfect mound of earth, déshabillé. At the peak of it was "a lamb sucking the blue nipple", the tip of the cone kissing the blue sky.

As it goes déshabillé, while the wind
Shoos away the clouds of sheep until
nothing remains
But a lamb sucking the blue nipple.

Poetry, in its purest and most perfect state, is a reproduction of ephemeral beauty with the hope of making it last for posterity. In Mt. Mayon, Simeon Dumdum Jr.'s artistic play of words was a gift to people who love nature as well as verses. It could even be a call, a reminder for people to look around and marvel at how wonderful the world is, and perhaps ruminate on the fact that serenity could be sometimes found in a glance at a beautiful mound of earth.

Gerald’s Audacity and the Definition of a Poem

(In which Carl Sandburg reminded me.)

***

And so, I have recently written a poem about an innocent, anonymous individual, which, by the way, may sound creepy otherwise you’re informed of the darkness surrounding the verse. But provided you were informed, it will only sound creepier if not utterly crazy. Not that that was supposed to be cryptic or something like Pérez-Reverte. But that’s something ought to be left to the benevolence of time and pizza to be completely healed.

The poem, anyway, was visible in two separate sites and received a little more attention than most of the posts I dare publish online. One comment was of theological inferences and the other, structural and/or formalistic. I just love it when my readers dare or ask me. Besides, that is the threshold of communication – you ask, then I answer, or the other way around, and then we already have a conversation.

Coincidentally, my lesson with Gerald was about Carl Sandburg’s poem “Languages”. Yesterday, I read it aloud, with the enthusiasm and (pseudo) passion highly reserved for speech and drama class rather than ours, which recently consisted of his “knight in dire lovesickness” syndrome – he lurking on their national chat room and sighing every now and then.

Languages
By Carl Sandburg

There are no handles upon a language

Whereby men take hold of it

And mark it with signs for its remembrance.

It is a river, this language,

Once in a thousand years

Breaking a new course

Changing its way to the ocean.

It is mountain effluvia

Moving to valleys

And from nation to nation

Crossing borders and mixing.

Languages die like rivers.

Words wrapped round your tongue today

And broken to shape of thought

Between your teeth and lips speaking

Now and today

Shall be faded hieroglyphics

Ten thousand years from now.

Sing--and singing--remember

Your song dies and changes

And is not here to-morrow

Any more than the wind

Blowing ten thousand years ago.

And the ubiquitous comprehension questions were asked, this time about style analysis.

“What tells you it’s a poem?” I asked, reading from the textbook and avoiding looking at his downcast eyes, the ones that tell you their owner doesn’t give a damn about a letter on the book, let alone anything to do with poems.

“I don’t think this is a poem. But I have to believe because it’s in the book,” he answered rather robotically.

“What”? I asked, perplexed.

“This,” he stressed, “is not a poem. I think he just pretends it is.”

He! And he’s referring to Carl Sandburg as a poet whose theme song for the moment, as Gerald claimed it, was something from The Platters! Alright. My blog readers can comment anytime with a question meant to target my writing style, i.e., whether what I wrote was a poem or not. But to actually tell me “Languages” by Carl Sandburg wasn’t a poem and he just pretends it to be one, is a crime against literature!

“Okay, Gerald.” I started explaining, “There are two kinds of literature – prose and poetry. It’s prose if it’s written in paragraph form. If it’s written otherwise, like using lines or verses, it’s poetry. In fact, poetry can come in the form of an apple or the letter S. So that,” I pointed out to the poem on the book, “is a poem.”

And then I remembered something I wrote almost four years ago. Yes, it’s a poem, too.

What a Poem is to Me

To me a poem is beyond words that rhyme
and measured lines.
It has a body like that of a man,
That sees loveliness in simple things,
Hears the songs of birds in fields of gold,
Smells the fragrance of roses upon one’s nose,
Tastes the sweetness and bitterness of tears,
And feels the softness of the breeze upon one’s skin.

A poem has a heart
that knows the hidden beauty and darkness
of humanity –
and a soul
that lives within the body;
gives life to the words and
essence to the thoughts.

A poem may be a prayer,
a phantasm,
a song
or a hymn.
A poem’s grace is far beyond word’s that rhyme
and measured lines.
It is beauty.
It is life.
Once it is written, it never dies.
Its beauty lives on
from eternity unto eternity.

March 16, 2007
11:35 PM

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

“Poverty” by Martial

(In which the ones who grumble more are the ones who work less.)

***

The ubiquitous complaint regarding assignments and school tasks in a teacher-student conflict is starting to get into my nerves lately. I feel my frustration getting the better of me, slowly but deeply. I still wonder why students still marvel at the amount of homework their teachers give them. When will they accept the fact that it is eternally included in their roles as learners and stop bargaining?

I wasn’t able to contain my impatience any longer when Crystal suppressed a shriek after I gave her a twenty-item assignment on grammar.

“Aaahh! So many homework! Teacher Jean – “ she stopped speaking and started flipping the pages of her huge notebook to show how many words she has to define for her vocabulary class the next day. “And you – “she looked at me deprecatingly and sighed a disappointed sigh.

“So what?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“It’s so many!” she once again flipped pages to prove her point.

“But you have your dictionary. You use that to get the meaning, right? Just do it. Teachers give homework so you can study and practice what you learned.”

“But I’m tired,” she whined. I tried my best to stop myself from wrapping my hands around her neck.

“Who isn’t?” I smiled instead.

“I read many many!”

“I also read.”

“I slept 11 last night,” she reasoned out.

“I’m still working when you’re already asleep.”

“Sometimes I sleep twelve,” she uttered one more irrelevant argument.

“I sleep at past one o’clock in the morning everyday,” I retorted.

“But I wake up eight o’clock,” she sighed.

“I also wake up at eight. Travel for at least an hour. Work more than half the day and go home exhausted,” I enumerated to emphasize that no student’s hardship is greater than the teacher’s.

She sighed. I didn’t know if that’s to show understanding or she thought I talked nonsense, as if she was the one who’s in the more reasonable end of the argument.

I wanted to ask her what worries her. I wanted to reprimand her for thinking that her life as a foreign student is the hardest she’ll ever have. Did she really think that sleeping late and waking up early is a burden? Doesn’t she know that there are students who patiently walk along mountain trails, cross rivers barefooted and swim the sea for hours to get to school and endure the same sufferings to get home? That these same students read the dog eared, yellow pages of their textbooks which are at least four years old using a kerosene lamp? And she complains about reading her new, imported textbooks; writing her homework using her Dong-A mechanical pencil; defining words with the help of her touch-screen electronic dictionary and sleeping late and waking up early in a comfortable dormitory situated in a sophisticated city?

It’s becoming a common trait among them and it’s depressing. It’s depressing to hear them grouse about how hard it is to study when they don’t sweat much for their tuition fee and take their studies seriously. Do they even understand how much their parents have to work to send them abroad? Forget that they’re studying in a Third World nation. Some people in this country never even had the chance to sit in a crowded, dilapidated classroom in the distant provinces let alone before a private instructor. And these less fortunate ones would give anything to have a taste of the full-of-hardships student life that our lucky students scowl at. I bet they don’t even know what real hardship is.

***

Poverty
by Martial

When your landlord would not hold your goods
In lieu of rent,
I saw you moving –
Your scrawny red-haired wife was loaded down,
Your gentle white-haired mother, loaded down,
And last, yourself as loaded –
Withered with cold and hunger –
Carrying your household treasures:

A three-legged bed,
A two-folded table,
A broken lamp,
A horn cup,
A rusty stove,
A jar which, surely, once held herrings –
Faugh! – it smells like a dry fish-pond,
A square of strong smelling cheese,
A four-year-old crown of herbs,
A rope of onions,
The resin to restore your mother’s hair
In an old cracked jar. . .
Which corner of the bridge open to beggars,
I wonder, will hold you now?

Photo source:
Walk to school and Crowded Classroom

A Game of Rhymes

(In which I need a memory enhancer.)

***

I joined a poetry game on Shredded Cheddar where players are supposed to submit a word and a question. Then they will be given a word and a question submitted by another player. They should answer the question using the given word in a poem.

The game was held a couple of weeks ago (?) and I was (ugh!) the only one who hasn’t submitted a poem yet! And I wouldn’t know if I hadn’t checked my email for the follow-up comments.

So here is my Word and Question poem. I’m really sorry for being late. (Oh, I know late is an understatement.)

Word: ephemera
Question: How many times is too much?

How many times is too much?
If there’s a thing as such,
If we are to follow other’s advice,
Then it has to be “twice”?

But we all differ – you and me
It’s not easy as one, two, three.
A room full of ephemera for Pat
May never be enough for Jack.

How much is too much?
Is then yet another puzzle.
If it also needs an answer,
Oh! It’s such a hassle!

When My Student Meets Richard Cory

(In which my storybook eyes are not enough.)

***

One thing I like about conversation classes is that the topics may come from anywhere and anyone can say something about it. Depending on the language proficiency of the student, a single topic can last for an hour or two, even days. In one of our classes, Judah and I talked about suicide, the reasons and effects. And because (I think) he’s dead serious about improving his writing skills, I gave a reaction paper about “Richard Cory” as his assignment.

Richard Cory
by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, richer than a king,

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Though I know it wasn’t right, I expected him to criticize Richard Cory’s actions, write about how wrong his choice was. (And I thought I am not very puritan!) But after providing a brief summary of the poem, he wrote:

But I don’t think we should question Richard Cory’s decision. Why would I condemn him? I do not know his sufferings. No one knows my real sufferings, too. His pain might be too much. So I think if he killed himself, he has enough reason and right.

I didn’t mind the part where he advises people to stop caring much about others – they’re old enough. But what struck me very powerfully was his trust in a person’s decision making and his understanding of other’s pain which was (ironically) manifested by his acknowledgement of his own ignorance regarding how others suffer.

“Judah, you mean he did the right thing by killing himself to escape pain?” I probed after I handed him his essay.

He examined the purple ink on his work and sighed. Then he started and peered over the top of his notebook.

“Right thing? I don’t know,” he sighed again and put his notebook on his lap. “But for me, maybe he just thinks the pain is not tolerable anymore so he just wanted to die. People will think, ‘Oh, he’s crazy! He’s rich and all that then he did this? Crazy!’ But what do they know? It’s his life.”

Right then, after I ignored the fact that he evaded my question, I was convinced that our difference does not only lie in our religion or our language. It’s in the difference of our perspective as well. His insouciance was a perfect façade for a soul sensitive to human sorrow.

To question others why they did something – left, broke someone’s heart, ended their own lives – means questioning ourselves about what we know and how much we understand beyond the surface. Besides, pain – real pain – isn’t always skin deep. It doesn’t always show in the contour of one’s face. And reasons, what are they? When are they enough? When are they valid?

Wealth. Education. Fame. Richard Cory had them all. But if he chose to end his life despite all these, then Judah must be right – his reasons shouldn’t be questioned.

On Longing For Youth: 100 Years by Five for Fighting

(In which we could never go back.)

***

It seems that no one wanted to stay young when they were. We all chased time and wished to get older, perhaps envious of the advantages of being a grownup and therefore taking our youth and its fleeting excitement for granted. Then upon growing up, we wonder why time seems to be racing forward; each day comes and goes in a seemingly rapid succession, leaving us bewildered at why so little progress were made, so many things were left undone and so many times were just let to pass.

I was reminded of these thoughts after listening to a song on the radio. The voice of the singer was so high that some of the lyrics were lost to my ears. I could not stop and just focus on the words for listening and enjoying his voice. Then I thought of having the song recorded and then I searched for some of the lyrics to find out the title of the song. When I finally got my own digital copy, I listened to it over and over. The media player on my PC might have gotten tired of playing it on replay.

The official music video was just as captivating as the song itself. It shows how time passes and how life progresses. We grow old from the innocent youngster we once were. It shows how verve was replaced by weakness. But until our final days the innocent youngster in us never dies. So is the desire to bring back time and being the innocent child. Perhaps we never had the understanding to enjoy the years that were supposed to be enjoyed. Maybe we enjoyed it too much that we neglect the responsibility that goes with the coming of age. Maybe we were just nostalgic. Or perhaps it’s because we’re just downright selfish and discontented.

100 Years by Five for Fighting
***

“Why didn’t you give me longer?” I barked at him as soon as I stood in front of him. “Why just two hours?”

“Two hours, two days, two years . . .it’s never long enough,” replied Gable . . .

– The Center of the World by Andreas Steinhöfel
pages 195 – 196

***

Nothing Gold Can Stay
Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Reading for Self-Discovery

(In which a turn of a page is a step closer to me.)

***

I just knew I found a good hobby when people started sending me text messages without the usual questions of what I am doing at the moment. Instead, they are armed with a good guess – I am reading. And my thoughts were just confirmed when my father eyed my secondhand books with wonder. He must have been thinking of how much I’ve been spending for those things that only made my tiny box of a room more crowded and added another layer of blackness to my already dark eye bags. Nevertheless, I just knew I am doing things right.

I have loved books ever since preschool. Running my fingers over the smooth cover of a good-smelling new book brought happiness beyond description. And finishing a book feels like gaining a new friend. However, most of the new books I was able to lay hands on are the ones given free in school. No matter how much my parents took delight in seeing me read, they hardly had enough cash to purchase children’s books so I had to settle with really old books with yellowish pages that were so crisp they might be torn when I flip them. Sometimes, there were torn or missing pages and I had to guess the words or invent my own ending for the story. I never consider them bitter experiences though. I wouldn’t have appreciated reading the way I do now if I could easily get the books I wanted by just pointing to them at the counter.

I started purchasing books about a couple of years after graduation and it felt great. Not only because I worked for it but also because I do not have any deadlines to meet and penalty to pay after returning it to the library late. After a book, I got another one. Then another. I do not care if it’s a bestseller or it’s crappy or brand new or secondhand. I just do whatever will assuage my thirst for reading as if I’m making up for the years I missed because of poverty. I do not mind if my sister thinks I have too much books on the shelf or my father thinks it’s a waste of time and money. I just knew that by reading, the childish happiness I felt so long ago was relived. And I find a part of me waking up after each novel; there’s an insatiable urge to read more after every story. There is a call for further understanding of literature. And a stronger desire to share what I learn through writing. Reading for me has become a regular journey through time and space and a thoughtful walk along the hidden alleys of my inner self. Perhaps it may lead to something closer to finding what I’ve been searching or just another search. But I knew I just have to keep on travelling.

***

There Is No Frigate Like a Book
Emily Dickinson

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.

We Filipinos Are…

(In which a little love and pride are everything we need.)

***

The two units of the company were spiced up by the story about the latest rudeness that overly/pseudo nationalistic student has displayed. No, it’s not Lex. It’s the son of the stage mom.

I really can’t imagine how I’ll behave if faced with an eleven-year-old East Asian boy who claims that “Filipinos are not thinking” and that he’s better than his teacher. How about spelling supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?

As the other teachers share their hatred toward the ill remark, we have come up with a stand that we should start dealing with them with less kindness and more strictness. And that we have to step up for our country and our people especially in times when these siopao-faced foreigners with glasses of quadrilateral lenses ventured upon insult.

And for a little dose of racial pride, here’s for everyone.

When I See a Barong-Barong

Maximo Ramos

When I see a barong-barong neighborhood in the heart of war-torn Manila;

When I behold beside the Pasig sudden lean-tos defended against sun and rain with salvaged sheets of tin;

When I take a truck ride through Suburbia and find nipa huts clustered within the shell-punched walls of former mansions of stone –

I do not look away in shame or throw up my hands despairing for my people.

I fill my chest with the bracing breeze of this my country and say:

Though my race has been pushed around in his own land for nearly half a thousand years,

Though my people have been double-crossed again and again by foreigners,

Though my race has been pitted against themselves down the centuries;

I joy to discover that they are whole and remained unbroken in spirit;

Building them makeshift huts of nipa and salvaged tin and standing straight with heads against the stars.

I’d Rather Be Blogging

(In which it is surprisingly painless this time.)

***

How pathetic is it to still be thinking of the circumstances and people that reside nowhere else but the past? To still keep the memories properly documented? And worse, to still be writing about it? No one needs to tell me I’m just a breath away to being a total freak. But after all the negative things I’ve experienced, looking back still gives me some reasons to celebrate today:

1. I have a safe database of my old poems. That’s the reason why I keep your e-mails, baby.
2. My internal “strength counter” tells me I’m closer to being stronger… as well as to being numb and indifferent.

I remembered to check out my Myspace for some poems and found out that one of my favorites was posted on Bebo. I already forgot the password and had to reset it. However, the computer illiterate side of me has forgotten that some contents might be lost after failing to log in for a long time which includes that beloved blog post. That’s when I remembered to check out my old email address for the comment he has posted on that poem. Oh! The beauty of technology!

Forbidden

My whole being started to dissolve into this endless space
Into this endless square space where I feel my own breath surrounding me.
Suffocating me.
And you were there –
you were always there
to redeem me from my solitude only to plunge me deeper into sin
with such naiveté and warmth.

I wonder if you could see through my mask
which has become thinner time after time.
If you’ve seen the reality,
I should be cursed – as well as you.
We should be cursed.
For in your presence, hell is a garden of roses and butterflies
where we dance with the wind and birds and the leaves.
It is only when you leave that hell becomes hell.
I’ll see you again, to redeem me from my solitude
and if you return only to plunge me deeper into sin,
I would be sweetly submissive.
For what I couldn’t spare is
the present
this perfect moment –
Now.

October 5, 2008
2:40 PM

I couldn’t resist the temptation of looking at his profile which reminds me of the vestiges of words and actions that seemed real once upon a time.

On the title: I read an SMS message quoting The Reader’s Digest about being vocal about your problems to people.

“Do not tell everyone about your troubles. Half of them don’t care and half of them are happy that it happened to you.”

Scary.

But hey… it’s a blog viewable by anyone!