I like reading.

Only two things can truly keep me up all night long: a good book and a girl.

So today I decided to re-arrange my bookshelf in search of my seemingly lost copy of Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson. It's such a valuable copy/edition and I feel my heart break a little more every time I fail to find it. Yes, it got a bit more broken today.

On a lighter note. I piled up magazines where I wrote for and ended up with this (sorry, had to remove photo... privacy shit). I think I started writing around 2009, but only on the sides, and I'm quite a happy bee to realize that they're not as few as I thought they were. I got to cover the entire table, yey!

Other than my articles, my Starbucks 2009 2008 planner also resurfaced. This is probably my busiest planner because it has so many add ons and stick ons and whatsoever. It's truly more a scrapbook than a planner. In the spirit of commemoration, let me share with you a lovely conversation, an exchange on paper to be precise, that I got to experience with this girl I "dated" in 2009 2008. She's someone I fondly call K, and it's so interesting how my entries of her feel a bit fresh in my memory. I guess it goes without saying that when something good and honest happens, no matter how badly or even how soon it ends, it's fond to remember the good times.

K: So??? I don't know. I can't judge something that comes from the heart because there is no right or wrong answer. Actually, your "letter" just brings up more questions. I guess I interpreted it differently because I don't know how you felt when you wrote that. Has the person you're writing about read it already???
Me: Yes I think. I gave her a copy. It's a closure letter. Like before I go, I just had to say things I didn't get to say. Do you think it's okay?
K: Hmm... A goodbye letter... S? (S-- WTH I don't know how to spell her name) Yes it's ok... but sounded like you were still hung up on her when you wrote it.
M: S-- yeah, I guess I was but it's okay. Like after I wrote it, I'm good.
K: Hahaha!!! I knew it!!! Sorry sorry sorry. But that was like very recent huh... May, right?
M: Yes. Let me read please (pertaining to a paper she had out)
K: It was for class. About my dog that died. That's it. We had to write it on the spot. It's nothing, and stop changing the subject. So did she reply to your "closure letter"?
M: No she didn't. I'm not changing the topic. I'm begging you to let me read.you. Can't I know you more?
K: Know me? Haha... you won't find out anything from that worthless paper. It was like seatwork. Why do you want to read it so bad?
M: Because I really want to know what's in (points to a drawing on the paper, pointing on the head)
K: Wouldn't you rather like to know what's in (points to a drawing of a heart)
M: I do.
K: So it's better you don't read the paper. I am ashamed of it because it does not show what's in (points to a drawing, two arrows pointing to different things: the head and the heart)
M: Let me read something that's from your heart.
K: Well you have to learn to read me because I don't put it on paper or words because my lame words doesn't do my heart justice.
M: I try, always try my best to read you. I don't know if I do it write :s
K: Haha! No you don't do it RIGHT sometimes (mocking). Am I really that hard to read? If I am, I guess I like it that way.
M: TANGA KO!!! I wish I just cut (class, we were in class at that time, she sat in my class that's why we were exchanging papers) and we just hanged out or something. And yes, I think you're hard to read.
K: Ok. (then she drew a big O and K, encircled the K and put an arrow to it, pointing to an M, that was inside a heart... my college nickname starts with a letter M)

--- June 24 2008

Seriously... 'til now, I have no idea what that wild moment was about!

To those wondering, I figured it'd be proper to begin this post with No Umbrella because to me it's a song that is hugely about seeing things through with a person.

Right now, there's this girl who's territorial. I sometimes wonder if she also wants to own my past--something impossible because the past is over! Sometimes, it comes to a point where I wonder if she'd rather I have an empty past than like this, where I have these stories (bigger than life, or alive more than ever in my mind) where she is not a part of. I don't know if it's wrong to remember, I always figured, it's very honorable to do so.

Today I finished reading one of the books E recommended. I really liked how it ended. There was such a beautiful coming together as the novel reached that inevitable close. It was like a gorgeous display of fireworks where the tiny explosives you planted on air would light up together with the booming sounds and blooming pyro display. I liked how it went down my throat, how it made sense of the different flavors that I had to understand from beginning to end. It was an exquisitely aged wine, washing down the confusion with a just explanation.

When I read the above "memory" off my journal, I remembered how on that first lunch date with E, I got to read a few of her raw words. It was a poem fresh off the furnace, made in class, probably as her mind floated away. She immediately and rudely pulled the paper off my hand and I never got to read that particular poem again. She said she would email me a better poem, that she's just a bit too shut about her words especially when they're not yet on their final and polished stages. She emailed me already, but I'm still unsatisfied. I'm truly insatiable, I will not argue with that; but reading above "memory" reminded me of how she said she would also send me that very poem, once it's finalized.

I wonder how much waiting would cost, this time.

Some answers 3: Warmth

A friend asked, "what is light/warmth/affection?" as if I knew how to answer, and I took the responsibility of indulging as if I have answers to betroth. This friend is the becoming of scratched surface and wine, FYI. I have no idea why she would bother seek my thoughts, though if it's because my mind is hardly locked in her presence, I shall never know. She said she knew pain and tenderness, perhaps like a bruise that never heals. But I think when she said she knew longing and loss, the "little" that she comprehends about loving isn't so little at all.

Is it just me or has it been cold lately? This Christmas weather is long overdue. I can only imagine what it feels like for people who like their holiday weather to happen during the holidays--lack of order must be painful for some.

I on the other hand am enjoying this chilly season. I think it's beautiful to surrender to things you can't control nor really expect in the first place (ie. weather, people).


What is warmth?
It is when you cup your hand and you put it near your nose, you smell home brewing your favorite soup just like when you're ailing and all there is you need of this life is a gentle broth of another person's care.

TMI, few nights ago I slept naked because the situation called for nakedness. It wasn't really because of sex, not even because someone wanted to insinuate sex, but rather because nakedness just felt fit. And in that moment of vulnerability, I just had to lose myself to this pressing need to finally answer the last question E asked me to answer, what is warmth?

Perhaps there's no better way to discover its meaning than in the openness I was at, at that time. Turn the dial to three years from now and I believe I would even dare say, warmth is the contradiction of what we know as cold. That what defines point A is point B--my least preferred definition, that of which is co-dependent to another, as if we can't find meanings on our own.

In constant solitude.

But the absence of thread made me think, warmth is not what your wrap yourself with--fur or person. Warmth is what lights you up. I laughed a little, sooo not what you want to hear when in a state of shared nakedness, but I did. I wouldn't forgive E for entering my mind that time, but I give it to her, yet another point taken.

Warmth is what lights you up. (What is light? here)

It is what triggers you to feel rage and compassion from one minute to the next. I think warmth is the confusion that awakens every dormant organ to life. Suddenly, you pee a little bit more. Suddenly, it feels a bit colder today. Warmth is that enriched feeling of sense. That little blank space where everything beyond the line, though completely incomprehensible makes sense.

If I may dare say, warmth is also your mind playing tricks on you. It is the mystery that may never die, but may easily be displaced so let me share one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books: Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins.

"It's not at all unusual for love to remain for a lifetime. It's passion that doesn't last. I still love my first husband. But I don't desire him. Love lasts. It's lust that moves out on us when we're not looking, it's lust that always skips town--and love without lust just isn't enough."

Warmth on the get-go is a desire for something. Maybe a person, maybe an event, maybe even just an answer. Because to me, when I get really nervous, I turn really pale and cold and my voice takes on a higher pitch and a faster slur. But at the end of that wild moment, all the blood in me rushes up my face and I settle with the warmest regards to experience, a charge at having tried--because I can't say I didn't.

Especially because I would even dare, since my engine's warmed up right now, I would even dare insist that my name is a palindromic distraction.

As conclusion, let me share the last of the answers that I needed to ask for.

I decided to ask this young adult book that I bought today because there's nothing more refreshing than a quote made for a child's mind.
1. What does she think of me? 
"I wondered if the dimples on his back enabled water to travel over his body more quickly and if that gave him more life than having regular dorsal fin. I watched him swim." 
Grayson by Lynne Cox

I decided to ask my long-overdue copy of The Glass Castle because I thought the question required an intelligent answer.
2. What should I we do about this? 
"Stop the truck. We can make it on our own from here." 
The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls

I asked none other than Antoine de Saint-Exupery's words for this because I think he knows best to figure out the essentials that the eyes can't see.
3. Is this cheating? 
"One of the miracles of the airplane is that it plunges a man directly into the heart of mystery." 
Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Since I'm asking about worth, I decided to ask a Business book.
4. If yes, is this worth it? 
"Those who say theory 'isn't the real world' don't understand what theory is."
101 Things I Learned in Business School by Michael W. Preis with Matthew Frederick

Fin

February Stars - Foo Fighters

here until I'm gone
I'm right where I belong
just hanging on
even though I watched you come and go
how was I to know
you'd steal the show?

one day I'll have enough to gamble
I'll wait to hear your final call
and bet it all
I'm hanging on
here until I'm gone
right where I belong
just hanging on

even though I pass this time alone
somewhere so unknown
it heals the soul

you ask for walls
I'll build them higher
we'll lie in the shadows of them all
I'd stand but they're much to tall
and I fall

february stars
floating in the dark
temporary scars
february stars

LESBIAN BOOK#1 Fingersmith by Sarah Waters

Give me a book with the word "Fingersmith" as the title and trust that my brain will do the dirty. Fingersmith is a criminal love potion mixed to overcome even the tightest corset to unleash the wildest of chests.

Set in the quiet and in an uptight Victorian background, Fingersmith details a story of betrayal, deceit and a lesbian love story that shares layers of gray meant to cloud a sky of lace. This novel is a must-read, I say, for it is a provocative and twisted tale of push and pull. Just when you thought you've cracked the story open, more locks surface for the picking.

Plot after plot, Fingersmith is a revelation and a becoming of a woman, in the arms of another.

Today, tonight

Today I am stuck with the thought that the moon is an oatmeal cookie--a crossroad between sin and pleasure--convincing the most desperate that there's balance, a chance to make ends meet, indeed, tonight. A bite shall wash down dinner, a salted egg of gold, touched by dreamers who wished for cheese when they lie down and rest to pray on plastic ornaments which glows with a fake accent. Where crumbs take over the endless sky but without an intention to lead a vagabond home nor be pieces that can reform a broken justice, long-forgotten.

Tonight is an effervescence made to sting the eye with a drop of saliva as thick as the narcissism escaping a model's gap. Tonight is everything, but tonight.

A brief history of time

Once upon a glass, there was an exchange of murmurs only the sharpest of tongues could comprehend. There were sonic waves bouncing against wood, plastic and recycled tin cans which only the ballsy can dare catch sans proper playing gear.

Perhaps because it isn't a game. Sure doesn't feel like one. My feelings are my reality, I always say. Question not the inappropriate clothing, or the nakedness of each opportunity. The important thing is, each window is seized. But...

Do you think of me when you're with her? she asked.

I wish I asked too.

Some answers 2: Affection

A friend asked, "what is light/warmth/affection?" as if I knew how to answer, and I took the responsibility of indulging as if I have answers to betroth. This friend is the becoming of scratched surface and wine, FYI. I have no idea why she would bother seek my thoughts, though if it's because my mind is hardly locked in her presence, I shall never know. She said she knew pain and tenderness, perhaps like a bruise that never heals. But I think when she said she knew longing and loss, the "little" that she comprehends about loving isn't so little at all.

I'd hate to take credit but let's say we can assume roles--assuming it's raw enough to leave settled to distant lakes that breed Loch Ness.

And by "it" I mean the subtle admission.

What is affection?
Affection is the raging confession that a person can stir words out of smoke and carbon as a magician would pull endless silk out of seemingly regular sleeves. It is the perversion of innocent gestures into roots of malice, spawning indifference towards reason. To have affection is to admit defeat, and if the Universe permits, to oddly gain everything there is for each minute to offer.

The difference between feeling and affecting is action. So affection is beats and movement. Affection is aggression.

Affection is the brevity of stolen time. It's the first five seconds of a song, the prick of a needle, the gasp of air before a dive. It's the heat of Sriracha, the friction between skin and leather, the last line of a poem.

To the brave, affection is the drawing of the sword. To the lost, it's the heirloom of forgotten bookmarks.

And after all the words bloom forcibly against a glaring page, affection is simply the silence.

That silence. That sort-of-clean table that means Something.

And weeks begin, for days roll by, so on the seventh day (or any given), affection rests and knows it is Good.

PS. This is an example of my world-known iPhoneJournalism.

Some answers 1: Light

A friend asked, "what is light/warmth/affection?" as if I knew how to answer, and I took the responsibility of indulging as if I have answers to betroth. This friend is the becoming of scratched surface and wine, FYI. I have no idea why she would bother seek my thoughts, though if it's because my mind is hardly locked in her presence, I shall never know. She said she knew pain and tenderness, perhaps like a bruise that never heals. But I think when she said she knew longing and loss, the "little" that she comprehends about loving isn't so little at all.

Cause right now, my nose feels tender. I went overboard my me-time last night and used this heavenly purifying mud pack, then exfoliated my face, then proceeded to extraction of stubborn whiteheads... and today the only meaning of tenderness that I know is sponsored by the odd feeling of pain when I touch my nose, even the slightest.

What is light?
I remember buying the book The Unbearable Lightness of Being because I liked the images the title conjured in my puny head. Given, it's a well-loved book, followed by praise and veneration by people such as I who carry melancholic little hearts; suffice it to say that I bought it like a stranger to a casino. The dice jumped off my palm, rolled and landed on both darkness and light. I can't bring myself to say something about the book other than I felt lost in it, a very usual effect of second-hand pleasures on me. To know what light is is to find comfort in the unbearable exposure of self. For others to pick on, for others to judge, for others to segregate with hopes that there would be another to welcome all the scattered pieces.

I told E, she who carries poems in her womb, that I choose to live this life floating. Floating because I learned that it's most fun and comfortable for me to lose a bit of the control and take flight, albeit just a few inches of the ground for a few seconds. To float is to know the distance between your ideals and your reality--and to stand in that inbetweener world--with pleasure. I like floating because it gives me the luxury to reach for the impossible, as if I were a foolish dreamer who can afford such foolishness *such foolishness!* without me being forced to ever forget that I should be grounded by concrete and tangible factors such as feelings, people, responsibilities and well, my physical needs of satisfaction and fulfillment.

To be light is to be air and boldness. I feel lightest when I can breathe easily, and I breathe easily when I am honest to myself. I feel lightest when the world that surrounds me is a beauty, and by beauty I mean a realness that I didn't stir with my own finger. I feel lightest when I know that there are things I don't know but don't even need to know in order to stretch my lips half an inch wide from the sides. I feel lightest when my mind is quiet, and it's quiet mostly in the arms of love.

I dislike romantically speaking of love for I tend to speak like a frustrated bard. But love, heady or complacent, is a feeling that helps me feel lightest. I feel lightest when I can put my baggage down, not an inch away from my side, perhaps with the sling weaved tightly on both wrists, but put down nonetheless.

I feel lightest when I see lightning strike. It's scary yet majestic to imagine the heavens quarrel and play bowling when the rain is pouring hard.

Consequently, I feel lightest when I laugh so hard I forget that something's funny, and I just end up exhausting the blissful blessing of a moment such as... yes, that.

An abrupt end

Dear A,
No amount of refresh can show your name. I can't remember how many times I've tried to convince myself, "Don't push it. Let it breathe." I read in an article once, it's not true that you shouldn't go to sleep without patching things up. Some things take overnight to heal; but I can't convince myself to subscribe to the thought. My body aches on these unsettling grounds. I can't go to sleep when things aren't okay. How could you?
Sometimes I talk to myself to answer the question. Maybe you cried yourself to sleep. It's the only possible way.
But I know you're not the crying kind. Sometimes I wonder, have you cried because of me? I have this slightest hint of memory of you crying because of me... but I look at it with the clarity of the future and is it really because of me? Did you cry because you were hurting? Did you cry because you were afraid? Did you cry because you didn't like what's happening?
My mom said, I shouldn't cry so much, that only the weak cry. Tears are signs of weakness. Pain is not equivalent to tears. Losses are not equivalent to tears. Those who are strong are able to hold back the tears and keep their head high. I believe strength is in honesty, my mom believes strength is in not allowing yourself to be broken.
Have you always been strong? Is that why I can't remember you cry? I have so many questions in my head, so many I could make a list. I feel like whipping out a paper so I can have a script. When I meet you for the first time again, I can take it out. All I have to do is read my questions so I won't forget to ask. Our days are numbered. We should make each count.
Some people I got to talk to told me, I

Above is a drafted letter-blog that remained unfinished. Funny how confused and lost I was then. That's all the hurt talking--blabbering even. Months after, here I stand now, still confused over a few things, but with a clear conscience.

Every relationship has a way of ending--as much as it has its own amusing way of beginning in the first place. We can never rule out that possibility of losing somebody, or even just the spark. The best we can do is immerse ourselves in the heat while the fire dances with our hearts.

All we have is the now. What we make of it, makes us.

I love laughing.

Good morning!!!!!!!!

Yes, you can read that as outrageously perked up as it seems to be. I am painfully a morning, afternoon, evening, midnight person--although when it comes to the witching hours of 1 to 3PM, I have to admit to some fatal drowsiness.

The other day I posted "Sleep when you're dead" because I was sleepy as fuck, the clearest way of putting things down. Today, oh, on this beautiful Tuesday morning, I rise and proclaim that fuck yeah, I'm still sleepy!

But boy... was Monday beautiful.

Most people hate Mondays for the painful beginning it represents: to some, slavery, to some, a murderous commute.

But boy... was Monday exactly what I had hoped it to be

I didn't set myself up for any great expectation but pleasures aside, I was quite a satisfied woman. Don't you just love it when the Universe listens? The Universe is on my side, I tell you, on.my.side.

I still bark like a greyhound (do they bark? I imagine them as more of the howling-kind). I feel like I'm going to break my eardrums any minute now, but I can't help but feel okay despite not being okay. I wish my cough sets me down to peace soon, I would really love to cease being a walking human virus; but I will try not to wish for so many things right now--especially after having one superficial wish granted with the most eloquent execution that I laughed so hard, it wasn't funny anymore... it was bliss.

I love happy bubbles. Well... not as much as I realized I love invisible fire!

Sleep when you're dead.

I like it best when I write when my body (so to speak) is very sleepy when my head (or mind) is on fire. It's like chasing after lightning... you just don't know who's after who.

Right now, I have to say, I am sleepy as fuck. I just tweeted that, in fact, and no better place to judge a person that her private other worldly world (ie. secret twitter hideout). It's a sunday, and unlike most people, I am not resting. I am painfully working on weekends, my day off is what most people hate to call as Monday. I am hoping to change these things with "smart" choices that I, likewise, should be capable of executing with grace. I don't really know what's ahead--which leaves me frozen scared of each passing minute.

I try to move as fast as I can just so I would run out of air and run out of energy, perhaps in perfect sync as I run out of time. Chances are, I will fail miserably at this. Then again, I should be silly enough to wager on myself, right? I should be my own believer.

I'm so sleepy, I'm running after the blurred letters of my laptop. Surprisingly, I have not committed my seriel typography--oh wait. I knew it was too early to say something!

So I decided to write her because it's been one week into this supposedly amazing 2013. Nothing amazing has yet to happen, and I am struck with disappointment because my expectations were high beginning the first. It's been a week into this year of opportunities and here I am sleepy.

I hope tomorrow will be beautiful. My fingers are also crossed hoping that the iron will be ready, and that someone will strike. I feel like I need that jolt of life. Well, actually. right now I just want a home.

My mom is nagging me for PIN codes for two ATM accounts that I turned over to her because I needed to break free from the free access to those accounts (suffice it to say, I ended up with a 60k debt when I had access). She's insisting that I can remember that those are passwords that I can remember. I already told her I forgot. I gave my best try and provided the possible combinations I could've assigned those accounts, but I really am not sure. The accounts are at risk at being closed/captures if noone can remember the PIN codes. Is it my fault for forgetting after I have turned the responsibility over? Was it my fault to expect that relinquishing the responsibility gave me freedom to forget? I don't feel bad at all. I just feel a bit temperamental over the hopelessness of the situation. I'm a responsible person so I hate when irresponsible people rub off on me.

I just need a home--I fear that I have to build that from scratch and on my own. But a home is a right every person should be able to invoke.