But she knew what it was like to be still, that piece
of a moment when the mind wakes up to the sound
of something crashing...

-from "Sleepwalking" by Joy Icayan-

A Visit

Well, what do you know...

It's raining tonight.

April

The days seem to have acquired an aimlessness to them. Perhaps, it's that standstill brought by the heat, that dry, dry mist in the air that paralyzes the mind into a stasis of some sort. The occasional wind, blowing at whim and frugally, too, doesn't prove much of a help.

The mind dreams of rain.

Rain, glorious rain.

For now, we watch our thoughts desiccate, crack into dust.

Girlfriends

Forsaking despair, we are keen
on shoving this faith into ourselves...

-J. Neil Garcia, "Smoked Salmon Surprise"-


The two of us, facing each other across a wooden table in the middle of a hot afternoon, 1:04, to be exact. Beer in a glass, half-finished iced tea on another. A breather, right after the quarrel with the boyfriend who's oceans and oceans away, accusing you of "never being there" for him just because you were unable to answer the phone when he called, an hour earlier. Then, forty minutes of talk, of explaining, of assuring, of telling him he's a great guy, in spite of his inability to find work, of reminding him to take some medicine or another for his flu, of promises, hush, it's alright, it's alright. After the click, a sigh.

Dearie, it's alright, you know how men can be. Yeah, I know. He needs you, you see, needs you to be strong for him. But he can get so paranoid, at times, you know? It gets to me, it really does. You love him. So it is all about that, no? Not all the time, I'm just saying he's a lucky guy because you love him and you stick by. Oh my God, imagine if I got tired of it all and just left him. You've got to be kidding. He will absolutely go mad. Yeah, he's already mad, the way things are. But, see, it can't be easy for him, too, I mean, being so far away and all alone. I guess you're right. I have to be strong for him.

Men. They are such boys.

One nods, the other shakes her head. Laughter.

Cheers to us. 

(giggle)

You'll be fine. We'll be fine.

Madaya ka, you didn't finish your beer. 

*For L--*

Weekend browse:

A walk across the rooftops 
by Luis Katigbak

Teach

the feet to arch, nonchalant, on heels. Each conversation is a potential fight to be won. Paint the eyebrows just so--even a frown should spell not doubt but mere deep thought. Stare when stared at. Don't storm off, just walk away.

Women on glossies and other surfaces: stop looking.

Resist

Simmering after that extended outburst did you think it'd be this soon the blue takes over In the middle of pretending to give options would any of those two have done it for you That secret relief oh that blessing of an exhale over his refusal to choose it brought in the calm oh what heaviness a sigh takes away what appeasement after the knockdown how tempting to give in to the pull of that traitor of a smile tiny and tugging

From "Gift" by J. Neil Garcia

And you are everywhere
even as you are nowhere
in touch, for here is the place
things cherished are laid bare in--
the edge of body's knowing,
the edge of the world.
And I know my task
for the day
is no different from the tide's:
to take in and let go,
to push against land and
pull away, to love you without claims.
For nothing given
is ever owned, and ghosts
we already are
of fickle matter's imaginings.

Hindi Man Malaman ng Mundo

ni Mesandel Virtusio Arguelles

Hindi man malaman ng mundo
nilalaman naman ng mundo

Hindi man malaman ng mundo
nailalaman sa mundo
ang hindi kailangang malaman ng mundo

Hindi man malaman ng mundo
sapat na ang nilikhang mundo
sa iyong mundo

Hindi man malaman ng mundo
sapat na ang kaalamang minsan
nagkalaman

at maaaring maabo
ang mundo hindi man malaman

I stepped into a bookstore yesterday

and was greeted by Jorie Grahams, Louise Glucks, Billy Collinses, and Robert Hasses.

Why, oh, why does money always have to be an object?

Oh, well. One book per payday, then. That's the best I can do.

PSYCHE

by J. Neil Carmelo Garcia, from The Sorrows of Water

Her error is believing she can only love him with the soul. For her sake he has been real enough-- shadow-clad and without a body, the way she accepts everything must be in the naked beginning. His voice, to her, is water: when he speaks she feels she hears his true self purling out of rocks in a blurred, dreamy forest-- a thought which makes her shimmer, unrecognizable, to herself. His words: she does not mind stepping into them, makeshift houses of sound, which the soul inhabits if only to be known at all. But the rest of his breathing absence, his lack of shape and face-- she fancies to be his most beautiful feature. Thinking herself enlightened, she must make him see she seeks him past the accidents of sight, smell and taste-- faint flowers crumbling under her sheerest touch. So it comes to her as a surprise she needs him whole, after all. Like a craving for something sour, the desire for texture seizes her one breezeless night-- and she finds herself stealing toward him with a lamp, dim and sighing. The rest we remember as a tale about gods teaching mortals a bright lesson in temperance: love, a labor of roots and sap ascending from soil to fleshy fruit, is not so much given as deserved. But in her mind what will linger is the specter of his skin, filmed and warmly gleaming with drops of fragrant oil. Beholding him laid open, at once, she understands: the love of body is the love of form. Body-- the luminous edge where the soul can begin.

this frown this mole that shirt these books these days this lock of hair those handkerchiefs those years those years those years that weariness this page those songs these eyes this sigh

me

Seasonal whining

Every summer season seems hotter than the last one.

One feels almost ungrateful for the breeze because the heat it brings along stings the skin like so, just so, so that the mind feels the pinpricks of a dizzying soreness that will not succumb to the numbness that is usually easy enough to assume.

No, not when it's this hot, this dry, so that we are almost prompted to ask why ever did we wish for sun, now that so much sun is here.

Tsk. The heat indeed does things to the mind.

What's keeping me afloat,

these days, is my capacity to drift by and over and back, that penchant for indifference, that c'est la vie attitude, that shrug, that series of languorous blinks leading to a series of standstills.

What can I do, it does seem to work.

Most of the time.

What about you? What do you do?

Again

Mercury is retrograding come April 18th.

Exhale, my dears. The thing to do is to chill.

Sorry, M--.

This crossed my mind while I was brushing my teeth this morning:

Between "Before Sunrise" and "Singles" is the distinction between "being" and "is".  

These days...

image from erinsavage

1st of April

The book I'm reading, even as it is remarkably written (and perhaps it is owing to this, too), hits too close to home and I find that I have to put it down, time and again.

I am more than halfway into it. I will finish in due time.


I guess the Holy Week does bring gray skies. Bright blue would be too much of an incongruity.

Last year, I wrote this. A little ashen, as it should be.