Day #__

somewhere unspeaking sits my life;the grim
clenched mind of me somewhere begins again,

-E.E. Cummings-

On a clear day...

Nabibigatan na ako sa hangin dito. Pagaanin naman natin.

I-click ang link na ito.

=D

Sunday

But only say the word and I shall be healed.

When we are left with nothing, we are not left with nothing.
For at our most forsaken, we are being thrown a cue to remember that there is more to here and now than here and now.

There is always faith.

Peace be with you.

"A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, / A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief, / Which finds no natural outlet or relief / In word, or sigh, or tear."


-Samuel Taylor Coleridge-

...

Pag natapos na ang lahat ng ito, magbabalik-tanaw ako't maaalala ko na ikaw ang isa sa mga dahilan kung bakit nalagpasan ko itong pinagdaraanan ko ngayon.

Maraming salamat, kaibigan.

When we love a wanderer,
We wait for footsteps
That may, or may not, come:
First the hours-the-days;
Then-years. Then, never.
Yet always we do know
Whereof we wait:
The creaking gate
The scraping on the steps
And at the door the level gaze;
For these we wait to know
The roving one is home.
...
So it's the space between
The wishing and the end
That is the true unknown;
The massive world's timekeeping
And our own agile flow
Never to blend.
And thus we care,
And thus we live
Not for the end
(Since it is not unknown),
It is the wait, creative
Life and love in full;
Unfinished, uncertain, unknown,
Yet mocking the known end
That comes sooner,
Later, or not at all.

-from "Between-Living" by Edith Tiempo, Beyond, Extensions-


We wait for the end while we pray for it not to come; and yet, with its arrival comes freedom from whatever it is we want to be freed from. While waiting, we do not think of that freedom, do not know that it is what comes with the end.

Oh, but here it comes,

the end.

What's next?

Massacre+key+witness+killed+in+Maguindanao
http://www.gmanews.tv/story/194255/maguindanao-massacre-witness-killed-lawyer

And the DOJ is pointing fingers.
Tsk.

And, as usual, huli na naman ako sa balita.
Tsk.

Zero, in.

There comes a time when you swim or sink
So I jumped in the drink
'Cause I couldn't make myself clear 
-Aimee mann, "Invisible Ink"-

A couple of days ago, J-- told me, "when the water is agitated, you won't be able to see yourself clearly." True. When we try to make sense of things even as we are kicking and screaming and whatnot, whatever perspective we might end up having and whatever decisions we come up with could only be blighted. We find ourselves on the wrong side, where we started out. Back to zero, as they say. And zero shouldn't be good. Unless zero is where we want to be.

And if one is the loneliest number, what does that make zero?

Hay, gising na agad ako. Ang aga. Though I'd have to say, early morning can never be half as gray as twilight. Here is light, all light, no matter how much we deny it entry.

Sabi ni M. V. Arguelles sa kanyang "Matin":

Kay-kinang, napakakinang

From my dream: Charlie Chaplin's "Smile". Parang "Glee" lang eh. Geez.

Sex and the Shitty 2

Watching this

has been a complete waste of time and money.

Well, at least I get to bash it in this blog, I guess, like i did the first one. I mean, the movie has obviously been another flimsy attempt at glorifying woman, with horrific results. Oo na, sige na, madaming LV at Hermes sa movie. And then, what? What did the movie have to say about woman's strength amidst aging and domestic angst and (ehem) true love? Nothing that we didn't, and don't, already know.

The entire thing was an insult to its viewers' brains. Pwede ba. Scrabble na lang tayo. Or, nood na lang tayo FTV, buti pa, then chika tayo about our wonderful lives.

Poem 3

Tumbling-hair
                        picker of buttercups
                                                         violets
dandelions
And the big bullying daisies
                                            through the field wonderful
with eyes a little sorry
Another comes
                       also picking flowers 


-E.E. Cummings

Away

"silence, and the keenly musical light/ of sudden nothing..." -E.E. Cummings-

The evenings and the nights have not been good to me; they've been almost as cruel as the days have been. When I do get to hoodwink sleep, I'd wake up in two hours. 

It's one dream per night, now, too. I could still recount them, could still remember the faces peopling the stories, except that I could not name the strangers strewn here and there, every now and then. 

Just last night, I was almost sure I felt someone--something--sit on the empty space of the bed. The gentle push of (its) weight shook me out of the precious sleep I had so long tried to woo, an hour and a half prior. I am not easily scared. But I did feel the fingers of fear touch me. I turned on my phone's mp3 and left it on until drowsiness, once again, took over. 

And then it was 7 a.m. and I was almost grateful for the moon's unannounced absence.

Loot bag! =)

A visit here (some time last week)

and a twenty-something-minute wait among these beautiful greens

yielded these:

Your absence

brought these lines

into this page.

You are not here.

Without us,

the world will turn.

excerpt from E.E. Cummings' introduction to his Collected Poems 1922-1938

     Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles:they are by somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being;somebody who said to those near him,when his fingers would not hold a brush "tie it to my hand"--
     nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints childrening,innocent spontaneous,true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and impossibly such a garden, but actually flowers which breasts are among the very mouths of light. Nothing believed or doubted;brain over heart,surface:nowhere hating or to fear;shadow,mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of making;only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and yesno,impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing ecstacies of inexistence;never to rest and never to have:only to grow.
     Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question

E.E. CUMMINGS

Another part of the text may be read here. 

Beginnings

are wondrous things. A beginning might purport a preceding end, which is a death of sorts. It could be a circling back to something old that had been forgotten, an unearthing (accidental or otherwise) of buried loves, an act of resurrecting, of breathing hope into a previously abandoned dream. It could be a picking up of a scattered life. It could be a fresh start, altogether--one small, but prominent, stroke on a sheet of paper. It could be that sheet of paper, too, clean, white, unscented.

From the (not-so-weekend) couch:

Caught this on the Turner Classic Movies channel last night. My dad had taught me "Over the Rainbow" (yep, that Arlen/Harburg ballad that was to become Judy Garland's signature song) when I was a kid and so I finished the movie, even though it turned out horribly outdated (but what did I expect?).

And yeah, I was Dorothy, too, as she uttered the line "there's no place like home" over and over , on her delirious way back to Kansas.

So, what's new?

Read Chekhov's "The Lady with the Dog".

Therese

            She could not stand the anger in her mother’s body and so she made her way out much, much sooner than they had expected. She couldn’t very well refuse the blood that was being pumped into her, a continuous stream of pure pain and anguish welling from her mother’s tight, cramped mind, could not do much with the movements she had been confined to making; her kicks were puny and her turns measly.

            So there she was as the doctor found her, her eyes shut at the bright, yellow lights, her tiny, wrinkly body just a little bigger than her mother’s hand, not a cry escaping her crimped mouth, so that she had to be coaxed into letting out a shout, a soft wail, really, if one thought about it, a wail that multiplied into four others. And with those, they were satisfied, and they put her near her mother’s cheek for a few, perfunctory bonding seconds, but her mother’s cheek wasn’t warm enough for such matters and so they whisked her away to be washed and was, promptly and as part of SOP, examined for further signs of life, and put inside an incubator, where she was to stay for the next two months of her life. And between these two months, a total number of three blood transfusions were done--in essence, none of the blood running through her was her own—the last donor was a friend of her uncle’s, who was now a lawyer.

            She remembered none of these, of course. 

            None of these.

An idle mind...

Thoughts can be such devils. When so much time is in one's hands that one runs out of things to do, the mind takes over and disaster often follows. The mind takes one to places better left alone, and yet one goes to visit because the lure of the imagination is hard to resist. Granted, yes, a wonderland could lie out there from which one could harvest a whole slew of new things (but as if I needed another wonderland!). And what if the wonderland turns out to be Captain Hook's lagoon pala? Pa'no na?

I can't wait to go back to work. Baka mapunta pa ako sa bahay ng "The Others". Ayoko nga.

The Pond

by Louise Gluck

Night covers the pond with its wing.
Under the ringed moon I can make out
your face swimming among minnows and the small
echoing stars. In the night air
the surface of the pond is metal.

Within, your eyes are open. They contain
a memory I recognize, as though
we had been children together. Our ponies
grazed on the hill, they were gray
with white markings. Now they graze
with the dead who wait
like children under their granite breastplates,
lucid and helpless:

The hills are far away. They rise up
blacker than childhood.
What do you think of, lying so quietly
by the water? When you look that way I want
to touch you, but do not, seeing
as in another life we were of the same blood.

(from The House on the Marshland, 1975)

My dad would love this:

And so would I.

From Broadway.com:

DESCRIPTION

Come Fly Away combines the seductive vocals of Frank Sinatra with the sizzling sound of a live 19-piece big band and the visceral thrill of Twyla Tharp’s choreography. Fifteen of the world’s best dancers tell the story of four couples falling in and out of love at a swinging nightclub on a sultry summer night, set to a score of beloved Sinatra classics including “The Summer Wind,” “Fly Me to the Moon,” “One for My Baby,” “My Way,” “Theme from New York, New York,” and “I’ve Got the World on a String.”

Once again,

a tree.
This time, the rain.
This time, the night.

One Art

(Elizabeth Bishop) The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three beloved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. -- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

To be still.

To be still.

From the weekend couch: Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

How is it possible 

that a 30-year-old such as I could still find herself thinking "that's me, I'm Alice," while watching this film?

I didn't have to wait to read what was written on the "Drink Me" potion and the "Eat Me" biscuit and I just had to say them out loud, to my chair's annoyance. The Cheshire Cat was fab, the March Hare quite stressed out, the Red Queen dreadful, and the Mad Hatter so very lovely!

Some people refuse to grow up, I guess. Paging Peter Pan.

I wanted to stay as I was
still as the world is never still,

-from "The Doorway"
Louise Gluck, The Wild Iris-

The great thing
is not having
a mind.

-from "The Red Poppy"
Louise Gluck, The Wild Iris-

Funny Girl

A girl ought to have a sense of humor 
That's one thing you really need for sure 
-Fanny Brice, "Funny Girl"-

Trip lang. hee

from YouTube

I remember telling you

about my childhood--about the quaint, old house I grew up in, about its resident turtle and trusty, ancient Queen, the dog, about the dear, kind people I spent my mornings and evenings with, the chirping birds and squawking hens I woke up to, the crickets I listened to as I drifted off to sweet, innocent sleep.

I remember the sad smile that turned up the corners of your mouth. Most of all, I remember your reply: the world is a cruel place and you're just a little, little girl in the middle of it. And I remember thinking, perhaps you're right. Indeed, there is much evil here, squalor in so many places, greed in some, leftover misery from the first miseries that were, so many lonely people trying to make their way in whatever way they can.

But I remember thinking, too, how there must have been something wrong with what you said. After all, you're here. After all, my dad, my brother and I just had a really nice time catching up with each others' lives a week ago. After all, my other brother just texted me his wish that I get well soon. After all, my mom just called me up several days ago to cheer me up. After all, colleagues are helping me take care of work matters. After all, friends have sent and are still sending get-well-soon messages. After all, you just made me a comforting cup of coffee. After all, the sky is finally dousing the dry earth with its rain. After all, I have a pink towel. After all, tomorrow is another day. After all, there is the gift of words. After all, I continue to dream of and hope for a better life. After all, I know you do, too.

The world can't be all that evil. 

It just isn't possible.

This girl looks so pretty I just had to post her here

Hmm.
I just realized...
I haven't shopped in ages.

photo via the sartorialist

My (fairly) new friends

And then, there's "Glee"

I jumped on the "Glee" bandwagon a long time ago. A couple of things made me do it:

First, the music. "Glee" mixes and mashes show tunes and pop music with unabashed fearlessness, and I think it does today's young people a world of good that this level of musical exposure is made available to them. One moment, we get an REO Speedwagon treat and next, there's a number that educates us on Fanny Brice's warning to anyone who dares rain on her parade, and then we get to share in Elphaba's resolution to defy gravity. The Broadway fanatic will find something to like as much as the next pop music lover will. Plus, the songs span generations, too. From Frank Sinatra to Madonna to Color Me Badd to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch--how awesome can that be? And "Poker Face", a ballad? Sheer genius. The end of each episode strengthens my wish to walk up to its creator/s and give them a strong, extended handshake. Is it a sin to want to shout "encore! encore!" to such bravado? I guess not. Thank goodness for the internet, I can watch any episode any number of times.

Next, the plot. I mean, don't watch the series with a snub-nosed goal to look for credibility and all that crap because you sure won't find it. The show's strength, I guess, would be in its single-mindedness in pursuing a storyline that makes way for the music to be put in and, along the way, sprinkling bits and pieces of life's real drama and social issues that target individual conflicts in order to portray the whole--in a manner of speaking, if it's happening somewhere, then it must be happening somewhere else, too, and if someone experiences something, then, surely, someone else has experienced it, too. Whatever.

Whew, the air's getting kinda heavy around here.

But, yeah, here we get to peek into the lives of a bunch of musically-inclined teenagers (who become outcasts for pursuing their passion(s)--so much for art and the individual!) and see their comings-of-ages as they deal with issues on sexual preference, teenage pregnancy, thwarted dreams of dancing, delusions of stardom, obsessive compulsive behavior, etc.

Quite a load we got here, one might say, so where does restraint figure in all these? The answer is--nowhere. The in-your-face drama of "Glee" will surely get to a number of us, but then again, didn't a famous bard once say that life is a stage and we are but actors? So, if you're like me, who's more than a bit theatrical, you'd probably find something to like in the series. And by "theatrical" I didn't mean that you have a background in theater, but that you find drama in the small pockets of your everyday life. You know, like, you feel the urge to bawl your eyes out each time someone tells you the sad story of their lost love, or if you walk out of the movie house with a twinkle in your eyes because the film you saw just cemented your belief in magic. Or, and here's the real deal, if you feel the urge to burst into song every time you cross a milestone in your wonderfully colorful painting of a life.

Shit like that.
You know.
=)

Ripple

That's how it is when it comes. First, a teardrop of a thought that falls into clean, clear space. Next, an encumbrance of pain struggling out of the quiet. Then, the surge of memories swelling outward, outward.

And one is back, again, to the stillness.

Except that it's seldom ever the same one.

Equilibrium: 7%

...because, in the delicate ecosystem of our body, too much of anything will disturb the balance. So, in this sense, pain really is a sign that we're out of harmony with Nature. -Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of The Senses-

From this episode of illness, I learned:

1) that the body can only take so much of the mind's anxiety binges--
one's gotta give if the other is to make it, and in the end, they conspire to jolt one into reflection;

2) that in sickness, we are equals--
our body can be hosts to the same virus, the same rash

and none is spared the squalor and the ugliness;

3) that my God does have strange ways of delivering messages across--
this time I'm being told to shut up with my bickerings and just enjoy the view, for once.