Lamming 3

I can tell if something's feral if I give in to telling my best friend. Because she's a woman who can't be bothered, unless you are me. (feelings)

But I don't want to abuse the free pass, because I am me.

Anyway. Let's seal a memory.

-----

The first time I ever broke
a rule, with memory
was when I was 6--I
climbed a pole
slid, flashed, laughed
did it over again.

So I raise a glass
for you, people of endless spinning
hearing none but a cheer
do at least once!
Do all over again
if it was fun.

It is fun if it churned your insides
to a sparkle seen in mirrored eyes

Fun if it tasted like tomorrow
and tastes the same ‘til now
spicy at the tip of your tongue,
like a name
or a song
of a dream only you would know how to spell

My first time to be scolded
for having aimless fun
childhood giggles championing
foolishness
was when I planted my feet, on ground
unknowing of who waits
hopeful for a face
breaking sobs, in between
tiny hands and little feet
dirty soiled silly dreams
turning to a 90, stretching out
hands gracefully gripping air,
realizing for sure
that none.

SONG: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBVX5qOtvA8

Drifting off

If you’ve ever found yourself fixated on a season that you feel a blur in you when that particular season shifts, then you and I must be sharing a gene or so. I feel queasy over losing summer without accomplishing something big or grand or legen, wait for it, dary.

My journal has been empty for weeks now and although I am open to the idea of overlooking the big and small, I am still badgering myself over my dullness. I’ve been making new friends in the office, though I must admit, office friendships are what I would suspect to be unsound and temporary, based on the little and the lot that I’ve experienced and heard from people’s stories.

Yesterday, I was drifting off while this new colleague told me of her love life, of this guy who once broke her heart but is now bothering her over a made out session they recently had, and about her hot friend’s perfect life but melodramatic way of living. It’s a lot to take, so I drift off as I try to listen. I’ve been smoking a lot lately. I’m not happy about that.

While drifting off aka pretending I was listening, I managed to note down three mildly peculiar things about myself and what I was feeling in the moment. I feel fortunate to remember those three things until this morning. I know this blog post is a heavy load of me-me-me things, but then again this is my page so if I would like to start each of my sentences with an I, I shall.

 1. I think my friend V thinks I’m a good listener. She’s a very talkative girl, and I think any secret I tell her will not be a secret at all. She’s a free-flow of information, like the internet, and I think she thinks I’m a good listener. I wonder if she can notice me checking out random cute clothes in the background. Boy, our building’s smoking lounge is lovely; despite the dilapidated chairs.

 2. I have been recently arrested in my own head for quite a while. At first, I thought it was just a random swing of craziness but it happened again this morning. It happened the other night, yesterday and this morning, as I was trying to get over one difficult level of Candy Crush in my commute. It scares me, when my head spins heavy like that. I don’t even know how to describe the feeling. All I know is it makes me breathe heavier and my heart beats faster when I get arrested in my head. It’s like I hear voices and all the thoughts crash into one mash of scrambled noise. It isn’t peaceful. This morning, I felt like crying. I don’t understand why it happens or what triggers it. I just know, every time it does happen, I want to hurt myself.

 3. I like taking selfies while waking outdoors. Literally, while walking down clear sidewalks. I don’t even feel ashamed nor fear what the passing cars would think of me. I never really liked cars anyway. Wouldn’t care less about what the people in those cars would think. I don’t like people.

So to officially bid my beloved season goodbye, I have been carrying an umbrella in my bag every day. It made me miss my college umbrella—a hot pink one. I wish I don’t lose my green umbrella now. I hate it when I lose my umbrella. It’s very hard to find a good umbrella nowadays.

What have you lost lately?

What am I to you?

Today’s the day I’m going back to you.

I find myself feeling busier than fuck. Interesting how hugely little turns in events can affect a life. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not doing enough. At times, I feel like I’m doing too much. Which is the greater evil? It depends on my mood swing—as everything else pretty much does.

It always starts with a girl. I will go on and on and on again, it will always be because of a girl. I live in no man’s island, and sorry to the cock blockers out there, no amount of girth can make me bother. Or wait, I’d probably puke a little. Then again, puke is vagina. Fuck, everything is vagina!

My coin purse is a vagina.

When I fold my arm, there’s a vagina.

Chicken ala king, ala vagina.

I want to go to Vigan, or vagina.

So today’s the day I tell you a secret—as if everything I put on this anonymous blog isn’t secret enough. Or pretty much, how anonymous is this anyway? The answer is anonymous until someone finds out.

It’s 6:01PM and I don’t have business to do overtime work so I’ll be fucking up anytime now. I still have an eye infection to treat, oh yeah, today’s the first day I came to work without my blonde hair. No one noticed the change, as much as I thought they would, because I am wearing my super cool fuchsia Ray-bans the whole day, yes even as I type right now, because my left eye is swollen. Mind you, our office is very lenient when it comes to outfits—thank god—I feel like dieting til I lose half of what makes me me because I want to wear naked clothes because it’s so cold in our office. It’s so cold. It’s so vagina!

So the secret is, I don’t like hanging questions. If you’ve ever met a person who talks a lot, and asks a lot, and bothers to ask even the dumbest questions about the most atrocious details of social conduct, expect that that person is either of these two things: 1) not going to let a question rest without an answer, or is 2) me!

Few days ago, I went Amsterdam on E. Told her I missed her. Meant it.

Few days ago, I learned to sing a song for E, because I thought I wanted to ask. Didn’t need to, but felt the worse evil, the want, so I asked. She answered, pretty much. Ain’t it pretty. Vaginal answers!
What the fuck is this thing saying? What the fuck does this thing want? What the FACT, she’s delicious.

I like delicious. I like delicious feelings and moments of retro succulence that I can only go hyper with my feral fertile mind. And I guess, just in case she won’t rest until I answer. She’s vagina. Clearly, how wrong is it to see people as an orifice! But then again, were you even listening? What is a vagina to me?

YUM!

Tumbler

Back in college, I broke up with someone because she demeaned Starbucks. Well, not directly, but rather, Starbucks' price marks. She hated the fact that I go to Starbucks at least twice a day (it was planner season); thus suffer the bad effects of too much caffeine like a palpitating heart, difficulty in sleeping (to no sleep at all), and frequent heart burns.

All those reasons fuelled just how much she hated the part where a visit at Starbucks is P200, at minimum. In hindsight, I didn’t realize that she was coming from that place where she was a college student but working as the breadwinner of her family. I was too fucked over the idea that she (jokingly?) required sex at least three times a day—which I said I couldn’t.

So I broke up with her because, judge me all you want, but to me it was and still is as sound as the break of dawn… I said, Starbucks meant more to me. I said something to the flavour of, I’ve been with Starbucks for years and it has comforted me through countless number of bad days—though at an expense—but still, there for me; while she, was a newcomer. That considering, Starbucks is a more valued friendship-relationship that if I were going to choose, since she was completely making me quit the coffee habit, if I were going to choose, I’d choose Starbucks because it is a more loyal friend. (Later on, the girl did end up ‘cheating’ with someone else, thus the soundness of me choosing Starbucks over her, brava.)

I don’t remember how she took it, badly I would assume. I don’t even know who else knew about it, it was, I’d love to think, a private breakup; but if people knew about it, I know judgments were passed. Despite so, I still think choosing Starbucks was the good choice (if it isn’t the right one), because years over and Starbucks is still there—a home for P200 at minimum.

Today, I am mad over my head because the beautiful tea tumbler that I bought for myself as a birthday gift to me (yes, I gift myself with mundane things), was lost last night. That tumbler was the most beautiful thing because it had star-like cut holes as an orifice and it was a clear glass with multitudes of greens as leaves for design. It was perfect because during my last birthday, I took steps to be Wiccan and more in-touch with my earthy zone. That was my tea tumbler, because I drink from tea leaves (sans tea bags) and the star-cut lid was the perfect filter. It was perfect because I bought that to console myself of the bomb that exploded from the core of our house. It was just a tumbler for the outside world, but motherfuck, it was my sanity set to plastic jug. (I found a photo online)

And it got lost. It got lost last night. Judge me all you want, but sometimes we rest ourselves to the most mundane objects (because people can’t be trusted really), so objects develop souls, and these souls attach themselves too tightly on our hands that when we lose grip, the hands just feel so weightless. I feel hollowed.

Dancing

I write these words to you,

 

river of foaming dreams.

 

Your mouth is a poison of bitter taste,

 

your blood the chilling song I hear.

 

In this room of jazz

 

crippled vintage trees,

 

I am a patient rock

 

dancing on your skin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Magnetic Fields - Dancing in Your Eyes

Wishi-wish-wish

I hate taking medicines. I have that new age belief that medicines make us weak, vulnerable even, to more reasons to be weak and vulnerable. I know that’s not true is it not? but we all have to hold on to something we can believe in. I’m a firm believer of false truths. How sometimes, these false realities become true—The Secret, I would say—sometimes, just plain delusional.

Next week shall be the start of a new chapter in my life, a chapter that I can only hope to write well, eloquently, elegantly and strong. I have always wanted to be a writer. Not for the by line nor the fame, should there be any. Definitely not for the money because knowing me, though I know I have the bone and spine to find pure joy in the simplest things, am easily attracted to glitter and the sparkles of life. Luxury is my middle name; but like most of us, that middle name isn’t quite necessary.

So next week will begin a new chapter of my life where each day shall be a make or break point, in its most literal sense. My responsible DNA hopes to satisfy with excellence; while my playful bone can only pray for pleasantries along the way. I hope it wouldn’t be a tireless cycle. I hope for growth and a steadfast movement towards something better. It’s almost mid-year and I’m closer my “moving out” deadline. However, today, I shall be thankful for movement.

From point A to B.

From Y to everlasting changes.

To highways and pitchforks.

Credits.

Cue music.

Here comes that little teaser at the end of a movie. That elusive five second spiel you didn’t think existed, a gift for the patient ones.

I own a Toshiba something laptop that is brutally butchered into a seemingly functional piece of metal. This would probably sound pointless, or maybe even shallow, but I’m kinda looking forward to using a new computer for work. I think I will be issued a laptop, it wouldn’t be mine to own, but still mine to use and bring home and stuff, I assume. Now, knowing my paranoid mind, I’m sure commuting with a laptop that I might be held liable for should it be lost or worse, stolen, wouldn’t settle quite nicely; but I’m actually excited to have a new laptop.

Let me tell you a little something about my Toshiba. It’s so odd, because I didn’t name my laptop, or if I did, didn’t take its nickname seriously. I got this laptop three years ago when my tito asked me to return home and help with the family business. I paid for this laptop for six months and come to think of it, is the second most expensive thing I ever bought with my own money (the first being my 60k camera which until now, I have no idea how to use, really haha). I got a Toshiba because for gadgets, I always believe Japan knows best. I also got a Toshiba because I remember S owning a white Toshiba. According to her, a Mac was too expensive and complicated to maintain. Well, who am I kidding? I got a Toshiba solely because S owned a Toshiba. End of story.

To date, this laptop has been the dearest thing to me. I know that may have sounded geeky, but I have written so many things with this laptop. Music and relationships aside, this laptop is the reason for the many little successes I have earned the past few years. This is the room I never had, my room of requirement. Every scratch on my Toshiba looks beautiful to me. I even have scotch tape over it’s track pad (?) because it’s so overused, the protective covering against static, I assume, has been completely erased out. It has a crack, not just a dent, on its side, and its battery life is almost non existent, but my god, this Toshiba is more than a laptop. It’s a SEAL. It’s an overworked soldier, tortured with years of almost 24/7 typing, multiple-almost-illegally-multiple windows, and excessive careless downloads—all of which were done without an anti-virus! But hey, it’s still alive and kicking. I am a bit sad to part with it, but I know I must save up for a new laptop. Should I be given a new laptop to work with thanks to my new job, I will be grateful that my Toshiba, though unnamed, will be earning its well-deserved rest. It’s been three years, but with my abuse and misuse, that’s three dog years for this Toshiba wonder.

With that, I hope my office issued laptop will be a Toshiba. I honestly can’t see myself using a Samsung (that will die on me), and I doubt an Acer or an HP will survive me as well. I think I can only live with a Toshiba, Sony or a Lenovo… but then again, any would do.

Still, I hope!

Of course if I end up having my own PC at my station, please disregard all the talk and stop at cue music.

Ahh... these simple almost mundane wishes make me, me.

Reasons and Excuses

Between thought and action is reason. When we lose it, forget it, or worse completely neglect its value, we become animals imprisoned by our own self-serving missions rooted on an irrational culture set to stone by protruded impulse.

Few days ago I left my email open on Y's laptop. She accidentally opened it and saw an ex's name. This prompted her to read the exchange, or at least open what it started with. It was an email I sent with a poem in it. A poem I wrote in trance while my life is in transit, so to speak. The issue for Y was: why did I send the poem.

The answers to me were simple but the anger, frustration and distrust that clouded her mind were too thick, her grace was taken away. The little bit of it, if I may say.

I sent the poem because I wanted to send the message. Sometimes, when what you want to express is too personal, digging for words become tedious and even antiseptic. That's where resorting to pictures or symbols or prose or colors come in. I found my medium in poetry and decided to pounce on it. I wanted her to know, just know, or at least grant her a better chance of knowing what little I can deliver. I've been in the position of being left blind-sided and it was never fun and safe to sit with shadows. It shouldn't matter says Y. But I've no bad blood with A despite what happened so it mattered to me that I can do something like leave a trail to MY reason so she can someday, when she wants to, know the thought and understand the action. Y can't get that. She didn't have any reasons to be graceful.

So she did something, an uproar that I can't tolerate blindly, and that uprooted some of the things we nurtured the past few months. I felt/feel an anger and disgrace, shame and sheer disappointment over the person she decided to become. Denial, repulsion, hatred set in and I struggle to meet with acceptance and heart.

There is the monster that slept. There is her monster.

But the villain in me taps my shoulder, whispers understanding and empathy. And maybe there is reason why I'm willing to swallow. The action may not be thought through but the reason is shining over an airless box. For all its worth, Y exploded right before my eyes. Graceful or not, I'm at a point where I'd prefer that than someone who will speak of me heartlessly then pretend to be the soul to which my weakness can recline with.

So the poem was set free, free enough to be whatever it wishes to be. I'm happy with the butter that was churned, there could be better but that better world is no longer for the same spirit that ignited the first lines of my poem. The changes are still happening, forming worlds cornered by numbered streets, and these changes are mine, mine alone. Mine to decide with whom I would share it. Mine to build, hide, protect and cover with sealed lips, cryptic words and beating pauses. That although A didn't understand what I was saying, the message was sent. I blame my failed style in depicting my feelings with words, sure, but I also blame "the reason" why she was unable to capture the song between the lines. The reason is change. 

Change has taken over everything.