And there she was, eating on the possibility that tomorrow, she will be easier to handle, easier to walk with, easier to go along with. There is nothing special in her childhood. Everyone knows Daddy Long Legs and Pacman and Battle City and Sailor Moon and Nokia 3210s. She is yet to know how to cook seemingly complex things like kare-kare, she is yet to read David Foster Wallace, she is yet to shake hands with Mookie Katigbak. Yet: people find it hard to come with her, come to her, observe the skins on her mouth and gaze at her innermost doubtfulness.
Someone writes a letter to her, but would keep it forever in her big box of unforwarded letters. She has read Zizek perhaps, saying that the unsent letter is the best letter, the most faithful letter, for in the act of not sending the letter, it maintained its original message, untainted by the receivers’ likely misreadings, or overreadings.
Someone else said he wanted her, but was discouraged because “she knows too much and he cannot keep up with her” and that “she likes someone else.” What if, what if. She just knows how to read inside jeepneys; she just knows how to nab a Beckett or a Burroughs without paying too much;
(Burroughs is buried deep on the ocean; Beckett is still beckoning Godot and Molloy)
He thought he saw me.
Do not fade like him.
she just knows how to look at herself in the mirror and sometimes see the future of Philippine poetry; she just knows how to drink coffee stolidly and seemingly without care but actually ruminating on the possibility of interaction; she just knows some Greek thought and european landmarks; she just knows she cannot know herself. Even in the torpor of energetic chaoses in Vienna.
Get all the more lost here.
And when she suspire for another person’s breath and cannot have it right away, she just knows how to write and make-believe. She knows that beliefs are cheap, and more than anything else, there should be faith.
You just have to understand that in the anatomy of sin, there was you, there was you all over; in every crevice, every knack, every fidgeting bone marrow, every rickety cell, every thinning hairline, every languishing penis, every pinking clitoris, every snide of a bone, every tanning skin, there, was, you.
It was September holy 17 — we were nearing exhaustion, we were raining with confidence in a night that has seemed too young for us. We can see all the vehicles passing by the road, where we also stood with each other, side by side, your face smelling the air just above my head. But can all the people riding the vehicles see us? Where were we really? They called the place Marcos Highway. Perhaps we wanted to call it ours, perhaps we wanted to call it the boulevard of sacred desires.
We won’t kiss. We won’t, we just cannot. There lies the sin. We violated what we truly wanted, what we truly wanted. All sin was in every corner of your neck, all sin was in the slenderness of my fingers. We retire in the face of the night perhaps muttering all the longer prayers, forgive us holy mother, we violated our desires.
We are really worrisome kids, worrisome kids.
We spend sundays waiting for time to slip away and introduce to us something new, that will never come anyway, nothing comes when we wait. We do not wait for things to happen, we make things happen.
This, and more. In a waiting game sunday, in far-fetched anxiety over turning twenty very soon, very soon if calendars do not connive with all the lies.
On a sunday, someone said to me, check you email, someone is addressing you, partly, in an essay. And so I did as told, and retrospection became inevitable.
We idealize the past, we idealize the past — as the calcified thing where everything was done and was finally stable and most painfully, gone. Especially when now is nothing but a big lump of waywardness, denied directionlessness. This is not the trauma of teenagehood termination. This is the wariness, the dramatized finicky attitude towards beginnings. Especially when, especially when everything is encountered alone.
Calendars be damned, but please lead me to a peaceful July, a placating August, an intoxicating September, and yes, a dream-fulfilling October. We can wait. We can do things. See you on the roads.
there is a piece of amethyst here
You have to get through what I would like to communicate. As always, this could not come crystal-clear to you; we can do nothing else but settle at what comes to us.
We are not wayward lovers, but sometimes, even though I do not want to guess that way, I guess we are falling down on Dimalanta’s words, “hapless lovers” Because. Because, for instance now, we are distant not only with our bodies but with what we intend for us, what we wish for us, what we work for us.
Soon, someone will say sorry, for being unable to stick with the other’s tongue, for choosing to fly away and search for new songs and new circles, for being not enough to contain what the others seem to intently profess.
Soon. Could not be happening, but it always threaten at the distance, hovering like a skylark forebodes a storm. I want to believe I will do things to keep the skylark away, and to cover your youth when the storm takes away all your sense of security. Yes, we are young, very right of you to say. But I will keep this. I want. to. really. believe. we. we will.
OKAY! I will finish editing my last column before I hit the boring sack. I am not used to sleeping as late as this, when lateness had already verged on the early (see: it IS 05:30 in the morning). But, but. Last column drafts need all my attention. Like season finales of series with no promise of having another season premiere.
Today, the rains hesitate, while I, and the thousands of others who returned to school. First day of classes: again, new faces, old faces, new surroundings, all surroundings.
This is how we return to what we deem to be old things:
I turned over class cards today, in my second to the last semester in the university, as an undergraduate student, expected to learn some French, teach language and literature, delve into the seldom explored territory of folk literature and some more. This is how we accost knowledge, we enter classrooms and expected to thrive and be smarter, we leave classrooms and expected to be armed as we encounter the world.
I also shortly dropped by the office of the publication, nearly same same. The cruel repetition of scenarios. I wander around the university during my vast free time, summoning old times when these places are entirely different, less repulsive, more jaunty. I was waiting for the rain and some more, I was waiting for a stranger to ask me where is this room or that. I was always waiting for adventures, have always hesitated in jumping right in front of them.
As school year begins, I am promising to myself, in this blog, to the always savage wilderness that is Baguio and beyond, I will no longer just drift through the wind and ponder upon our futile flights; I promise to be fiercer than ever, teeth gnashed together and fists as obdurate as the expression of Bernardo Caprio when he was attempting to save humanity. I promise to be fancy and good, because this cycle is rarely a jelly ace and sweet watermelons. And hesitations are better when overcome.
Romanticism won’t seem to get old, and hence, no need for something like a neo-romanticism to spring.
Since Wordsworth, since “flowers are red and your puckered lips are dry territories I wish to explore,” people have been mad about themselves, mad about how they feel, and mad about how they can exploit nature. And then we have Murakami today creating characters that want to know their selves by being alone in a dry well and I can affirm: romanticism did not die like Hellenism and the Victorian tradition and Jose Rizal.