Moving On
Almost one month earlier, I treated my tired soles to the most expensive pair of shoes that I’ve ever bought – a Merrell footwear that the according to the price tag costs P4,590. For a poor bloke, it’s pricey, considering that it was something I bought impulsively. I just woke up one Saturday morning with this thirst for a better perspective of the world. I was Mrs. Dalloway, and instead of flowers, I told myself that Yes, I will buy a good pair of shoes today! I will explore my city, and I need a new pair of shoes to take me to the source of the stink, to the heart of the heat. What a lark! What a plunge!
And so the shoes have traveled to places and now refuse to be kept in its box – his box. In his place, instead, are letters, email printouts, cards, pictures, post-its and mementos of a love that all of a sudden seems so long ago – a pair of blue boxers, an orange shirt, LBC pouches in different sizes, torn gift wrappers, a hand puppet, a hand woven wallet, a PDI clipping on Sagada, a toothbrush that for a time had a conjugal role, and plastics and papers that, for sentimental reasons, were never discarded.
In another box, a sleeping white bear stuffed toy that snores when its paws are squeezed occupies the space. The cute thing might give some homey comfort in any spot in my little room. Ironically though, it also suffers the fate of its kind – that of dust gathering and seeping in its softness.
The next to go were the books, a DVD of Before Sunset, and the CD’s. No, they won’t be kept out of sight. Rather, they will just be among the stacks and piles that populate my space – Cummings, Dickinson, Neruda and the poets and love letter writers in the company of Garcia Marquez, Proulx, Salinger and Tolkien; and the Filipino sounds in harmony with Bach, Debussy, Rachamaninov, Tori Amos and Sarah McLachlan. They will continue serving their purpose, they will remain timeless. But they have stepped down from their little towers because they are humbled.
And the framed, handwritten Walt Whitman poetry? Something more recent is encased in glass this time – the lyrics of the song “Gorecki” by Lamb. Although this is a fairly recent song that gathered a cult following sometime in the 90’s and even until the present, it speaks of a love so fierce, its sound has a Gothic tranquility, and it’s homage to a late Polish composer.
That was almost a month ago when I paid the pleasant cashier and thanked the sales clerk, and my brown rubber shoes have since proven himself to be a good companion. He took me everywhere, then to a familiar place. It’s a different place though – new, special, beautiful.
And so I have once again cleared my table, shelves and spare shoeboxes for the letters and keepsakes that will be born out of this new acquaintance. I took a dive, a plunge, a freefall without security nets. I am young but I have learned early. I am mighty sure that I would land on my feet and not flat on my face. And I’ve got my good shoes on!
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The entire world is a stranger.
The entire world is a stranger.
A few times, though, anything within its sphere could be a friend - a lady, a woman, some guy, a man that holds a secret in his jeans, a boy showing off his kindness, a movie, a song, a good book, lines from a poetry, a photograph, a painted picture, freshly brewed coffee, smoke rising from the mouth and the nostrils, a glass filled to the rim with beer, bubbles and ice, a box of chocolates, a keyboard, a blue ballpoint pen and a clean paper, a bottle of water, iced tea, cold evening breeze, soft large-sized pillows.
On many different occasions, they step down from their little towers to offer their alliances and their loyalties. But what is this is madness, this monstrosity that prevents one from becoming all too grateful of their acts of kindness?
Perhaps one remembers the magnitude of his loneliness after turning off his lights at night and nothing from his day could accompany him through his hours of sleep – nobody to share the heat under the white sheets, nobody to accept the tenderness and strength of his embrace, no other sound except his own breathing, no beautiful reason why he should linger in bed in the morning.
But one will always live a new string of hours and the previous night’s sad passions will always momentarily melt with the heat of the day.
In this brand new day, the world will, once again, give birth to new acquaintances – a piece of literature sold at a bargain price, a hard to find CD, a pirated DVD copy of an old movie, the undying passions of Neruda, Cummings or Dickinson, funny and sometimes corny vignettes gathered from spending moments with the ladies and the women, a text message from some guy, a meaningful look from a man with a secret, a new box of Marlboro lights, a tall serving of brewed coffee, scoops of ice cream, an email from an old flame, a pen or a keyboard that helps weave words to become phrases, sentences, thoughts.
The world is a kind stranger, a compassionate stranger, and within its sphere is a man and many others – lonely hunters and willing friends who embrace the day but cry silently in the night.
June 11, 2006
A few times, though, anything within its sphere could be a friend - a lady, a woman, some guy, a man that holds a secret in his jeans, a boy showing off his kindness, a movie, a song, a good book, lines from a poetry, a photograph, a painted picture, freshly brewed coffee, smoke rising from the mouth and the nostrils, a glass filled to the rim with beer, bubbles and ice, a box of chocolates, a keyboard, a blue ballpoint pen and a clean paper, a bottle of water, iced tea, cold evening breeze, soft large-sized pillows.
On many different occasions, they step down from their little towers to offer their alliances and their loyalties. But what is this is madness, this monstrosity that prevents one from becoming all too grateful of their acts of kindness?
Perhaps one remembers the magnitude of his loneliness after turning off his lights at night and nothing from his day could accompany him through his hours of sleep – nobody to share the heat under the white sheets, nobody to accept the tenderness and strength of his embrace, no other sound except his own breathing, no beautiful reason why he should linger in bed in the morning.
But one will always live a new string of hours and the previous night’s sad passions will always momentarily melt with the heat of the day.
In this brand new day, the world will, once again, give birth to new acquaintances – a piece of literature sold at a bargain price, a hard to find CD, a pirated DVD copy of an old movie, the undying passions of Neruda, Cummings or Dickinson, funny and sometimes corny vignettes gathered from spending moments with the ladies and the women, a text message from some guy, a meaningful look from a man with a secret, a new box of Marlboro lights, a tall serving of brewed coffee, scoops of ice cream, an email from an old flame, a pen or a keyboard that helps weave words to become phrases, sentences, thoughts.
The world is a kind stranger, a compassionate stranger, and within its sphere is a man and many others – lonely hunters and willing friends who embrace the day but cry silently in the night.
June 11, 2006
For Leah
For Leah
You would know that the room is about to be filled with her presence. Not because there are drum rolls or musical preludes. There is just a progression of thud, thud, and more thuds from a certain weight, actually high heels, hitting the wooden or concrete floor. Yes, these sounds introduce her. Yes she is approaching and pretty soon you’ll warmly welcome her high-pitched voice and infectious laugh. Oh, she’s wearing her spaghetti-strapped tops today. Wait, is it March or April already? Are we done with Easter Sunday? Hey Leah, how was your Holy Week? And how was your latest performance as the Virgin Mary?
Leah is one of my newest (and closest) friends, having known her only in 2002 when we both joined PBSP (the Philippine Business for Social Progress is a non-profit corporate-led foundation dedicated to the promotion of blah blah blah) around the same time (she was two months ahead of me). In the four years that she was with PBSP, she mutated from being a finance staff to a program officer (wherein she had to hurdle both fortuitous conditions and suspiciously man-made challenges in order to perfect the mutation).
She neither smokes nor drinks anything with caffeine or alcohol, thus good friendship can actually be nurtured in places aside from bars and supposedly hip places. We both love to eat thus friendship can actually grow over slices of meat, cups of rice, slices of cake and bars and mouthfuls of chocolates. Thanks to the food, I have become heavier while she remains frustratingly slim (the world is so unfair, but surprisingly, I am not vindictive).
There were hilarious days including the V-hire fiasco that resulted to the departure of the dreaded zinger (resolved, that what transpired was simply a private matter among close friends). There are also confidences and chikas (factual or speculative in nature) over lunch and snack breaks (including unconstitutional nutrition breaks bound to occur anytime within the day), while exploring the malls, or while riding in the jeepney bound for Consolacion (my stop is Mandaue City).
And then, there was the affirmation of love (the beautiful that is a cause for celebration; the mysterious that is always nice to dissect and analyze piece by piece; the irrational that paralyzes the brain and momentarily maims the heart).
Hey Leah, why do we fall for people not within our daily reach? What’s the glory of missing? Why travel miles just to see them for a few days (he traveled or you, I traveled for him)? Why do we spend hundreds, even thousands, on phone bills and concrete little thoughts (for your guy: a greeting card, a tropical shirt, your studio shot; for my sweet baby: CD’s and books) that have to be transported by air? What is it about local boys that is/are so… uninteresting?
There are answers. There are more answers.
And there are actions - brave actions. The willingness to freely fall. In Henry James’ words, “to dig deep into the actual and get something out of that.” For you Leah, it’s that one-way ticket that would take you to New York and to a new life this coming June 16, 2006. It's that sixteen-hour threshold. Thus, my respect and admiration. My beautiful visions of love. My prayers and best wishes. Break a leg and always be in touch!
Leah is enraptured by the descent of an erotic spirit (she was just expressing her gratitude for the PBSP people who gave her an ice cream and junk foods party.
Some of the staff of the social development foundation who threw the party. There were speeches. There were wishes. And hungry mouths were fed.
A final treat at Sbarro in Ayala. One of Leah's last lunches as a virgin - splurging on Chicago pizza, pasta with tomato sauce and meatballs, macaroni salad, edible oils, olive oils, vegetable oils, and facial oils.
The writer himself and the subject (in one of her last pictures as a virgin).
You would know that the room is about to be filled with her presence. Not because there are drum rolls or musical preludes. There is just a progression of thud, thud, and more thuds from a certain weight, actually high heels, hitting the wooden or concrete floor. Yes, these sounds introduce her. Yes she is approaching and pretty soon you’ll warmly welcome her high-pitched voice and infectious laugh. Oh, she’s wearing her spaghetti-strapped tops today. Wait, is it March or April already? Are we done with Easter Sunday? Hey Leah, how was your Holy Week? And how was your latest performance as the Virgin Mary?
Leah is one of my newest (and closest) friends, having known her only in 2002 when we both joined PBSP (the Philippine Business for Social Progress is a non-profit corporate-led foundation dedicated to the promotion of blah blah blah) around the same time (she was two months ahead of me). In the four years that she was with PBSP, she mutated from being a finance staff to a program officer (wherein she had to hurdle both fortuitous conditions and suspiciously man-made challenges in order to perfect the mutation).
She neither smokes nor drinks anything with caffeine or alcohol, thus good friendship can actually be nurtured in places aside from bars and supposedly hip places. We both love to eat thus friendship can actually grow over slices of meat, cups of rice, slices of cake and bars and mouthfuls of chocolates. Thanks to the food, I have become heavier while she remains frustratingly slim (the world is so unfair, but surprisingly, I am not vindictive).
There were hilarious days including the V-hire fiasco that resulted to the departure of the dreaded zinger (resolved, that what transpired was simply a private matter among close friends). There are also confidences and chikas (factual or speculative in nature) over lunch and snack breaks (including unconstitutional nutrition breaks bound to occur anytime within the day), while exploring the malls, or while riding in the jeepney bound for Consolacion (my stop is Mandaue City).
And then, there was the affirmation of love (the beautiful that is a cause for celebration; the mysterious that is always nice to dissect and analyze piece by piece; the irrational that paralyzes the brain and momentarily maims the heart).
Hey Leah, why do we fall for people not within our daily reach? What’s the glory of missing? Why travel miles just to see them for a few days (he traveled or you, I traveled for him)? Why do we spend hundreds, even thousands, on phone bills and concrete little thoughts (for your guy: a greeting card, a tropical shirt, your studio shot; for my sweet baby: CD’s and books) that have to be transported by air? What is it about local boys that is/are so… uninteresting?
There are answers. There are more answers.
And there are actions - brave actions. The willingness to freely fall. In Henry James’ words, “to dig deep into the actual and get something out of that.” For you Leah, it’s that one-way ticket that would take you to New York and to a new life this coming June 16, 2006. It's that sixteen-hour threshold. Thus, my respect and admiration. My beautiful visions of love. My prayers and best wishes. Break a leg and always be in touch!
Leah is enraptured by the descent of an erotic spirit (she was just expressing her gratitude for the PBSP people who gave her an ice cream and junk foods party.
Some of the staff of the social development foundation who threw the party. There were speeches. There were wishes. And hungry mouths were fed.
A final treat at Sbarro in Ayala. One of Leah's last lunches as a virgin - splurging on Chicago pizza, pasta with tomato sauce and meatballs, macaroni salad, edible oils, olive oils, vegetable oils, and facial oils.
The writer himself and the subject (in one of her last pictures as a virgin).
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Live Poem
In posting this intellectual property in my infamous blog, I neither have the proper permission nor the blessing of the author, publisher and copyright owner. My act, conscious and intelligent, self-serving however noble, may be felonious. Let me, instead, advertise the source of this work: One Hundred Love Poems: Philippine Love Poetry Since 1905 published by the University of the Philippine Press (2004). This is the mitigating circumstance of my crime.
Live Poem
By Anna Bernaldo
"Love is always a choice," my mother always says,
But this time her spatula did not point
Pragmatically in my direction.
It stirred silence on the boiling broth,
Ripples matching the excited rhythm
Of the TV sports anchor's voice
In a basketball game my father is watching.
Now that I'm older, I'm forced to reconsider
You and my fixation on the Addams couple
As our role models forever.
One always hungry for the other.
I never listened to my mother,
But everyday I see her.
And I'm older and love must be domestic,
Responsible, sensible as a haircut in summer.
Is it possible for us to make something more
Out of what we are about to have?
Of course, you do not know.
Even I do not know.
Why did I even begin asking questions?
I just wanted to write you a love poem
But I can only live one for you.
Live Poem
By Anna Bernaldo
"Love is always a choice," my mother always says,
But this time her spatula did not point
Pragmatically in my direction.
It stirred silence on the boiling broth,
Ripples matching the excited rhythm
Of the TV sports anchor's voice
In a basketball game my father is watching.
Now that I'm older, I'm forced to reconsider
You and my fixation on the Addams couple
As our role models forever.
One always hungry for the other.
I never listened to my mother,
But everyday I see her.
And I'm older and love must be domestic,
Responsible, sensible as a haircut in summer.
Is it possible for us to make something more
Out of what we are about to have?
Of course, you do not know.
Even I do not know.
Why did I even begin asking questions?
I just wanted to write you a love poem
But I can only live one for you.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
The Tale of the Socialite
To be labeled a socialite is definitely not something that I would be proud of. One shouldn’t expect my expression of gratitude if he or she happens to bestow upon me such a supposedly generous compliment because the world, i think, is already crowded, unnecessarily crammed with first ladies and their respective victims. Thus, I feel most positive in perceiving a world populated with the excrements of J.D. Salinger and other dead artists and dreamers. One can’t really be too optimistic these days, but one may be driven to imagine better years ahead if confronted by their conviction, strength and tenacity.
So there, I am done with my little, hopefully profound introduction. Actually, what really triggered this little fuss about being a socialite vis-à-vis the virtues of J.D. Salinger and his contemporaries is my submission, once again, to the lure of this mildly popular online conspiracy – the Tickle Test.
According to the innovators, creators, psychos and artists who are behind and in control of this online conspiracy, Mr. Jessie Cubijano is a Socialite! Yes, I hate to admit it but I am a socialite. But – a socialite – in the REAL sense of the word.
Now let’s take a look back at the path that led me to this present day grandiosity. The phrase ‘present day’ may be vague, often misleading because I have been, and always has been, a socialite.
Basically, I just cruised along a fifty-item instrument that inquired about the intensity of my agreement or disagreement to life-affirming and life-altering situations. The immediate result of the five-minute exercise was both breathtaking and staggering. Breathtaking because I have lived my twenty-five years in such perversity to be anything but a socialite. Staggering because my being a socialite, apparently, is a vindication of my comfort zone.
But read on, Green Creation, Romantic Kisser, because the words ahead are positioned to distort, even shatter, your conventional beliefs:
You, Socialite, are unusually warm, generous and caring. Your natural friendliness and charm mean you're great at meeting people. People sense that you won't desert them or their causes, and that kind of loyalty already places you leaps ahead of many. You've got an exceptionally active imagination, which allows you to come up with innovative ideas. Your piercing social insight probably attracts people to you naturally. The world is a better place because of you.
So what makes the Romantic Kisser a Socialite?
Socialite, your two sub-types are Golden and Thinker. You have relatively high self-esteem and very conscientious. You tend to be someone others rely on since you're responsible, dependable, and dutiful. You like to go about life with a positive attitude — both about yourself and the world around you. You're known intellectually as a careful, deliberating thinker. You are the rare being who wants nothing more than to have a positive effect on the world. Not only are you are driven to make the world smooth and efficient so that everyone can live in harmony, but you actively look for ways you can make this dream a reality.
Intellectually, Thinkers like to dig deep into a problem to solve it — even when others grow impatient and move on to other subjects. As consumers of entertainment, Thinkers enjoy media that is sentimental, peaceful, and like heartwarming stories. They are interested in books, inspirational media, self-improvement, and arts and crafts.
Uhmmm…
So there, I am done with my little, hopefully profound introduction. Actually, what really triggered this little fuss about being a socialite vis-à-vis the virtues of J.D. Salinger and his contemporaries is my submission, once again, to the lure of this mildly popular online conspiracy – the Tickle Test.
According to the innovators, creators, psychos and artists who are behind and in control of this online conspiracy, Mr. Jessie Cubijano is a Socialite! Yes, I hate to admit it but I am a socialite. But – a socialite – in the REAL sense of the word.
Now let’s take a look back at the path that led me to this present day grandiosity. The phrase ‘present day’ may be vague, often misleading because I have been, and always has been, a socialite.
Basically, I just cruised along a fifty-item instrument that inquired about the intensity of my agreement or disagreement to life-affirming and life-altering situations. The immediate result of the five-minute exercise was both breathtaking and staggering. Breathtaking because I have lived my twenty-five years in such perversity to be anything but a socialite. Staggering because my being a socialite, apparently, is a vindication of my comfort zone.
But read on, Green Creation, Romantic Kisser, because the words ahead are positioned to distort, even shatter, your conventional beliefs:
You, Socialite, are unusually warm, generous and caring. Your natural friendliness and charm mean you're great at meeting people. People sense that you won't desert them or their causes, and that kind of loyalty already places you leaps ahead of many. You've got an exceptionally active imagination, which allows you to come up with innovative ideas. Your piercing social insight probably attracts people to you naturally. The world is a better place because of you.
So what makes the Romantic Kisser a Socialite?
Socialite, your two sub-types are Golden and Thinker. You have relatively high self-esteem and very conscientious. You tend to be someone others rely on since you're responsible, dependable, and dutiful. You like to go about life with a positive attitude — both about yourself and the world around you. You're known intellectually as a careful, deliberating thinker. You are the rare being who wants nothing more than to have a positive effect on the world. Not only are you are driven to make the world smooth and efficient so that everyone can live in harmony, but you actively look for ways you can make this dream a reality.
Intellectually, Thinkers like to dig deep into a problem to solve it — even when others grow impatient and move on to other subjects. As consumers of entertainment, Thinkers enjoy media that is sentimental, peaceful, and like heartwarming stories. They are interested in books, inspirational media, self-improvement, and arts and crafts.
Uhmmm…
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