Like what brought us here: boredom


The point is that, someone killed me in the deceptive lure of the week. I was busy twiddling with dominoes and elementary-school-old crayons when an airplane crashed in the neighborhood – no, not AJ Perez, I heard a boy calling my name. and take note of that amusing irony, busying oneself with twiddling. Haha. Language betrays us in several ways, and we are hardly focused enough to capture its adroit passing.

But I remember his voice and his name, and knowing that creates that afflicting crease inside my paper heart. Oh yes, All-American Rejects. Which hardly wins against the lethargic pasyons of the season.

I am refusing to give to you his name. I’d rather let you know about him through his eerie mannerism – how he looks on top when he hems and haws and test the depth of his word’s cistern, how he scratches his nose in a gallant manner when he spots trouble, how he dabbles with children when he encounters them – and his raw general behavior, discreet machismo and flare for snorting included. And his name will not matter anyway, you can’t see him in facebook, he thrives in a galaxy only I am aware of.

Oh, this reverie gets boring when there is no TV and torrent and a real, even quasi-boyfriend. I am casting great doubt in everyone who shows me even the slightest hint of attention. Even though I easily fall in love with them, just like Joel Barish does.* But in the embiterred recognition of a 70-year old couple, amidst the sea of thoughtless fanatics of malls, I thought I might fall prey to impudent flirtation.

Thankfully, I am yet to me to meet someone who writes as seductively as D.H. Lawrence, and sounds as cynical as Matthew Arnold.

*Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, see it.

the most boring piece of pee


in the internet, only 1 of ten sites, o.5 of 1o people and 0.05 of paragraphs can interest you, well, me.

it is quite a boring place. i tell you. unless you love eavesdropping, or watching porn back when you’re 10 and the house only has one tv set, unless you adore kris aquino and isabel oli and bieber and willie. unless you love internet-stalking and can sustain the deed for what, weeks.  unless you knwo where the find the superb bloggers, or you know who they are, and more importantly, what are their URLs.  unless you know that foucault exists in it, or to begin with, you know foucault.

and even my posts are not tempting, well, not as tempting as ahm, the boobs of kristanna loken. are we all eating dirt here? i am certainly saying no. fingers crossed, because what i averted to say is that, we all eat dirt but not all of us eat only dirt. the 10% of sites, the 5% of people and the 0.05% of paragraphs, they are the venues for some virtual magic. hmm, for instance, the unexpected springing of a charming engagement in a chat room, or the realization that kevin durant is being sold at nba.com, or crossing paths with jouissance or fuck, mind is dead.

when you are stuck at past 12 in the midnight wracking your nerves waiting for the sunrise and for a long friend to beat the door, you end up floundering with letters and synonyms. you could expect some sanity hours after, when tense nerves have been calmed and pineapple juice switched with coffee and companilessness.

when you’re voluntarily numb, you sometimes turn poetic, sometimes plainly silent. when you are involuntarily numb, you start erring with language and choosing long, unwieldy words when “loneliness” will do.

i am in dire need of door knocks and a novel, interesting post.

I don’t want to be undeserving


But sleeping is like surrendering against the persistent tides of human frailty, of defatigability – perhaps a fact all of us subconsciously wants to regard as a misnomer, an improper ascription. And so I am pushing myself towards the equally persistent pull of this hour’s beauty. Relative calmness and neatness, the most winsome combination of sound and silence to validate the idea of Derrida’s difference. No I think I don’t want to sleep, not in this time when my lips looks prettily pink and I can understand the elusive meaning beyond my eyes’ abyss. Although there are yawns, although there they are few, I am miscalculating contradictions perhaps because I know that despite of them, I will go on with my pursuit.

Less tired, more relaxed and more calm nights like this one, they are perfect for poetry. Lucky are those who have at the top of their heads boxes of stories, or tales of human enigma. Their words won’t go into just some dishevel or utter crap. Where are my words going right now? I hope they are mere elements not blessed with organization and a more important point of discussion. I don’t like doing crap. It makes me feel undeserving, and yes, crappy as well.

And that is a horrible feeling. The poetry in the mundane passing of strangers, the gnashed teeth and the fury of a farmer whose parcel of land has been stolen from him by a ruthless, fat man, the inspired music of Fine Frenzy, the tales of unemployment forcing OFWs to go through illegal procedures just to work abroad, they don’t deserve undeserving writers. Writers who replace careful selection of sound and sense with reckless picking of the fanciest within dictionaries, or memory banks. Writers who rely too much on pens and papers, not utilizing eyes and ears and skin and tongue and nose to fathom the predicament of human existence at the clearest possible way. Writers who rely too much on genius, not on some truly involved experiences.

Sometimes I feel like I am undeserving. For the past 18 minutes or so, at the heated upsurge of this linguistic torrent, I feel otherwise. Words must not come and go for us.

Kicking off parodies


While i am starting off a silent career here, i am listening to Ashes and Wine. Is not that romantic? Cigarettes and alcohol and a beatiful jazz person serenading me while in this loneliness. The whole family is out, my sisters are off to Tagaytay, for a day or so of feigned relaxation. Mom is at work, as usual. and i am trying to make sense of poetry and piano and my state of sequestration.

Does Fine Frenzy need me? Alison Sudol, her real name, and the reality behind her slowness and her ambiguous language,  i find hard to discern. Aren’t girls supposed to understand each other more easily?

And Summer has avowed itself, waiting not only for recognition but some engagements that are either baloney or perfectly romantic. I am thinking about beginning my journey towards Palanca. Haha, what am i saying? what i am saying is that i have this very beautiful dream and i am only about to realize it, haha.

seriously, mom said we can be off to cebu by may and i felt excited. can cebu beat baguio’s poetry and invitations of romance and sensibility and delusive thoughts? i am doubting it, now. there is something special about baguio’s chill, something which may work at cebu’s disadvantage. still, i am excited. i feel like experiencing cebu can actually induce in me some new sensibility, something which baguio cannot proffer. different perceptions should spring from new places.

so welcome myself here, in this virtuality of crafted words and shared dreams and the intentional construction of failed recognition. we beat ourselves at lovemaking and reach the loftiest of heavens through the parodies our words create. thankfully, language is reeking at my fingertips.