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!

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

The Disappearing Eve

On a sheet of passing palpability, the disappearing eve woke up an eternal uprising that moves across blurred out spaces and stains dog-eared corners of a double-crossing title, a slivered spine corroding on a mountaintop. It sashayed high and low along a current of hormonal exchanges bouncing from one wall to another igniting feral waves to detonate thoughts of hopeful swallows hung up with powder-blue skies of a pretend-summer's dream. An acquaintance forced by a lyrical goddess, and an expected wanting of dusk and movement, pointlessly judging delated tapes of broken promises, the disappearing eve vindicated a two year's worth of seclusion with a non-acidic page sealed with a crossroad letter shared over an unstable fast food table. And there was an applause, a reverberating "ahh..." secretly hovering with a mission, an unchanging image of peaceful poultry and elegantly stretched necks overlooking a falling river, almighty.

If you could keep a memory, real or imagined, what would you choose to remember?

I worship--

My story usually goes like this, every single thing that she touches, physically or in essence, will be marked. So yes, I am owned upon first handshake. If she gets me a glass of water, and I drink from that glass, I am owned from the insides. Imagine if it's a 3-second embrace.

There's something completely overwhelming about the way I like a person.

Let me put it this way. If I come to a decision that I like you, you can pick your nose in front of me and I would still like you. You may annoy me down to my last patient gene and I will still like you. I try to pretend, or at least would like to believe that I pull it off, that when I decide that I like a person, I refer to a you-ness that perhaps only I can grasp. No, I don't turn people into a concept. I take the person I like first as a name, then as a concept, til I feel her as a beating muscle, and I reconcile word and flesh. I bridge with her resonating sound, wrap my thoughts with her warmth, fog my mind with her breath, put none to waste, til her last falling hair--I commit to everything. Come as you are, says that song. If I decide that I like you, I'd like you in everything that you are and are not.

It's fascinating how almost always, people who seek my acceptance are those who I'd accept (most likely, have already accepted) in every way possible. There's something completely overwhelming about the way I like a person. It's scary, and almost always, it's because I get too scared myself. So there are words, and there are songs, and there are torn pages, and endless cursors blinking through the midnight's plight. 

From Tumblr

All the cool songs and hard-to-spell words, they're yours. 

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

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.