Mornings at the Garden Loft of 5

I have to admit, every day when I get to our office, I try to find a place in my mind where I can be quiet and write (to you).

But when I see the things I have to do, or have not done from yesterday, I sink into my goody good shoes and decide to scratch off the things that must be done over the things I want to do. That is every day. I'm not complaining,  because I like my job. It doesn't feel purposeful, and the creativity it requires is thin. It's fun to work where I work, people are cool, relaxed, on the go, and young (not literally, entirely). But I don't forget that I'd like to

Talk to you
Have daing salad with you
Marathon with you (not exercise)
Hug cats with you
Pass notes
With you

When I'm in my commute, quiet mostly, I wonder if I still have a page in your book. I miss how you write my initials like a tattoo, only better, because it isn't painful, just ticklish.

Yeah, the first time I saw my name on your page I imagined how it must be kakakiliti, then kilig.

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

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!

Conventions and confectioners

My world spun or spiraled, whichever available, yesterday. The day started with a confused bang, then there was coffee, large Fries and a tedious walk under the morning sun. These were then followed by a stolen rest, a stolen time, a stolen glance and a heart stolen by default. It was a conspiracy to deal with the turn of events, but it was also a magical spectacle to have seen it close with a reunion, a gathering if I may, of souls lost in misery and conjunctions, simultaneously.

I was with my tomboy friends last night. It was an impromptu tomboy convention, I can leisurely recall. It was a promise kept and a promise made. It was a promising acquaintance and a knot made to never ever falter against the changing names of gift cards in scrapbooks, well-hidden and structured by dreams.

People may find it hard to believe, but I join the renegade feeling of "feeling friendless". I'm a very out there person, and friendship is something I am open to granting upon first second of intertwining souls; but at the end of the day, I have only a few number of people I can truly, whole-heartedly, confidently and without hesitation, call as my friends. I like it that way.

So last night I was with my friends, two of which were friends since the beginning of time, one of which was a friend made when the beginning of the now spun close. Before that, however, I was with a dear friend who unknowingly achieves the personification of my unseen moonrise. Admittedly, she is unprecedented. I can't put my finger on how she acts towards me, neither can I put my finger on who she is; but I find myself in a comforting tunnel, a faltering abyss of mixed silence and whispers, I don't need to know.

Late in the night, as my unforgiving wooziness got the best of me (thank you BioFlu for allowing me to wake up the next day a bit saner than expected), I concluded that break-ups aren't the reason why relationships end. Relationships end because they stop happening. Relationships stop happening because people cease trying. Sometimes, the causes would be circumstantial, sometimes emotional. Sometimes, the causes would be rational (if you're lucky), but often, the causes would be unspeakable (quite literally). So amidst my running (pun) nose, I decided not to believe in break-ups, as heavily as I decided not to believe in a Catholic God (until they recognize homosexuality as an equal act of love, they can keep their crosses to themselves).

I tried breaking up with her, again, and she won't let me. I don't understand how far she's willing to go every time I am willing to go--so illegal things happened, and once again we're back on square one.

I'd rather believe in fairies. I do.

When everything is about me.

Today I will make you shift your head to the right, direction.

I guess February is about winning and losing. About the handsome price we pay when we want something, and then some more. Of course life is about some things, some ones, and maybe a lot of some where's if we grant it some of our time. Perhaps February is about the ransom we're forced to relinquish, like a dowry or someone else's money.

For all its worth, February was cold and swiftly turned into a promise of hope, a walking muscle shirt, an idea hiding under moving paper cups, a confirmation of some sort, and then some other worlds too unreal to explain.

"My feelings are my reality"

"But that's not always correct".

"Doesn't change the fact that I feel them."

Last second randomness:
I like being in the middle to meddle and wiggle my silly ass off. What do YOU like?

Jealousy is a lesser evil.

"Are you the jealous type?"

"No."

I'm not a very jealous person. I feel, like I have exhausted majority of my jealous genes when I was a kid--over the most shallow things, like a classmate with a new doll or the one with the highest score in class. But I'm a very demanding person. My pride, though I know when to put it to rest, is very aggressive and fierce. I demand attention, affection, dedication and exclusivity. I don't share--not dessert, not my girl.

So when jealousy flickers in the background, it usually touches my billowing skirts. Then there's fire. An insulting burn that will not go away. I may even dare say, I have been insulted well enough to light up for two people.

So earlier this morning I found out that the Y continued talking/texting/flirting/tweeting the girl she kissed while we were "dating" (in her defense she said she was so drunk and so high--and yes, she lived in a world where drugs was apparently a valid excuse, which of course I worked iron hand on to correct, duh--the other defense was "we're not formally together" so she didn't think it was an issue, but if this was presented in court, then 'your honor, may I say, that the kiss happened the very night she had my initials tattooed on her skin, so if we would validate the "we're not formally together" excuse, your honor, may I request that whatever weight or meaning and value that tattoo earned, be retracted. Thank you.')

I got infuriated. The issue with that girl, who has no playlist, library or even word bank to be proud of, is older than our relationship, was rectified from the very beginning--or so I thought. So I am insulted, disgusted, not jealous cause clearly, can I please be jealous over someone more deserving of my anguish? I'm angered and distrustful.

So this is my Valentine's letter for Y. More than anything, I truly value, my peace of mind.

Dear women, I know that you're worth all the confusion, but recognize, I'm worth the security.

It's not that we're broken up but we're broken. It's not like we live together but we always separate. It's not like we're flailing but it's downhill. It's not like we're hopeless but we fail often. I want someone who wants me so much that's all there is. I don't want to settle for less so let's not be friends, not exes, not estranged, not whatever. I just want us to be good people towards each other. I can't be in this relationship right now, right.now. I want a better love where I can always just be the better person. I'm not removing myself from the picture because I think I'm a problem or because there's a problem. I'm calling it quits because I'm spent. Let's be lovers or friends or names on each other's list. I don't mind. I just want to focus what's left of my self respect to being a good person for me, you, and the people I hate. I always think it's better to kill with kindness. I'm done. You don't have to answer. I didn't ask for anything, which is a mistake I tag myself with. I'm recognizing how the mistakes we've been doing all lead to this close. I hate you. I hate Florence. I hate hate. I'm sorry it's this big. It grew and grew and I didn't ask for you to kill it when I noticed how you weren't being sensitive-anything to save us from this release. I'm sorry for that. On Friday, I want us to meet with clean plates if you still want to meet. I just want to forget, take what I can keep and start anew. I just want to move on from this incredulous turn away. Thank you for writing my name as 8th. I like that infinite number. Symbolically, it's very apt even. Two loops, one sacred point.

Are you the jealous type?

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. 

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

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.

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.