Lament

Stay the heart that rages in its cage, furious in its muteness. Desire

is fluid, doing all that water does: simmer and rise to heights,  wash over, pull back, let go, drown. Along

the fringes of a dream, reality waits. I smooth back the blurred edges and stay, stay, stay in the center. Where you are. Somewhere, sometime, I will lose you. But

not yet, Love. Not yet. Understand

this: I did not ask, but was given, and what was given to me, I now hold close. My palm

clutches like it will never let go. As if water can be contained forever by human fingers, as if I could tempt fate into submission. I grasp

you, my cupped hands growing weak at the pull of a hundred tomorrows. Yesterday

I sat beside you and was swept in a tide of sadness. Wave after wave, they came, washing

upon my shores, taking, piece by piece, my resolve to be fixed, as a stone is, as this moment

is not. This moment is seeping through gaps where I thought I was gapless. On the crest of a wave, I break

into shrapnels of soul. I am washed

to your shore. Know this: wherever you are is where I am--impalpable because I will it; content because I have known

what loss is like. I pin loss and clarity together because I can. While

I still can. I teach myself

patience. It is what will stay the heart that rages

in its cage while you are where

you are.

Mornings

I lean on the wooden counter and rest my cheek against my palm. There is accounting to be done--the year is about to end--but I would rather just watch you right now.

You are standing by the doorway, talking to the handyman, discussing woodwork. Long-limbed and golden, you are a god come to life from my favorite myths, as far as I'm concerned. Now you are the mortal you have decided to become, making arrangements for your coffee shop, making sure everything is in order, surveying your turf with your quick eyes, your astute mind taking note of what ever is not in place.

I glance at my little notebook and cringe at the numbers--I decide I would have you do it and giggle as I picture you, your eyebrows furrowing a little as you say, "but Love, I have shown you this so many times--this is how you reconcile the figures." And you will show me again and end up doing it yourself, all the while reprimanding me at my insistence on notebooks and pens. Yes, that is my plan of action, fail-proof and cute. And I can almost be sure you've already done what you're asking me to do--you simply want me to practice my Math. Numbers and I--we dislike each other. Immensely.

I look up and see you walking towards me, smiling. My heart melts, yet again, for the thirteenth time today. How can you be so handsome at 7 in the morning? I decide I will spend the day just looking at you. Or, not.

I return to my notebook and pretend I am writing something down. "How's it going, Love? I saw Mr. B-- outside today and he said the new coffee we're serving is tops."

"Well, it's supposed to be--it's a little more expensive than our usual stuff."

You nod. "That's ok. Expensive can be good." Laughter. "Remember we're closing early today. Need to whip up something nice tonight." That lopsided grin of yours--I could kiss you right about now.

"Yeah, sounds good to me," I, trying to steady my beating heart. I think it's a little crazy, my still having a crush on you. You have cooked dinner every night for me for the past 6 years and my knees still grow weak at your nearness. My books weren't lying when they said some loves last longer than others. But back to work. You distract me so.

You lean over and ask, "any progress, so far?"

I purse my lips. "A little, yeah."

You fish the notebook from my hand. You look at the page I was writing on, frown, and run your thumb along your jaw. "Hmm. A stick figure and lots of doodles. I think you make a charming accountant. Is this supposed to be me?"

I shrug. "Of course that's you, who else can it be? I studied you this morning and decided to paint you."

You shake your head. "Boy, oh boy. I am handsome."

I roll my eyes and snatch the notebook from you. "Stop smirking and go ask that nice little man over there what he needs. He's been looking under his table for the past 5 minutes."

"Yes, Ma'am," you wink at me and walk away. Smiling, I bend over to pick up a scrap of paper that has fallen to the floor, and decide I will go out to buy flowers. Mums, perhaps, and pink Gerbera daisies.

Finger Exercise

Begin with alliteration. For example: flickering firelight, tentative tenderness, shivering shorelines, preempt this predicament, cling to comeuppance, feline feelings, hapless hunger, wanton wanting, cloven clocks.

Begin with: caress as a caveat, primal as prelude, dance, darling, do, climax to the clandestine, fall from fastenings, culminate in crying. Bristle, break, bruise.

Alphabetize: decry, demand, desecrate, desire, desolate, despair, desultory.

Forget assonance--it is imperative that I infer nothing from these impressions of impetuousness. Impossibilities inspire inevitabilities.

Start anew with simile: you are like the word luminous; you and I are like two erstwhile distant lights touching, parting, touching again; my heart, like something--anything--about to burst at the seams; you, as near to me as someone--anyone--in the next room. That room is always locked, like something--anything--marked restricted.

Linger in metaphor: I would like to sink in you, I would like to swirl in you, I would like to drown in you; we were one in a parallel universe--here, we are parallel lines; you gather me in your fist and I submit; help me reach those heights, Love, I am in flight with your wings; you are the word luminous; we clasp and become a single flame.

End the way things always end: pictures that blur, edges that tear, breathlessness, a gaze, a question, a word, a tree.

Look, my Love, I have written you a story.

Unpacking Sydney

In journeys
we are completely at the mercy, not of memory but of the road 
we take, which carries us across moonlit worlds and skins
at the same time that it waylays and alters us within.

- From "Orpheus and Eurydice" by J. Neil C. Garcia

It is time to unpack.

You fumble with the zipper, lift the suitcase's cover, and out come the streets of Sydney: the non-intrusive drone of cars breezing past you as you walk down a busy side street, people's arms lightly grazing yours, a mumbled "sorry" or "excuse me" as men and women rush to work under a benign morning sun, gazing down at you as you make your way to the office, with Jessey walking beside you, talking animatedly about the evening before, the both of you wondering what time Rolly and Bo will arrive and if they will ever arrive before you do, what sort of ice cream Pionna will buy today, or will Vin be frowning before his laptop, preoccupied with a phone call, and what dish Cy will whip up for dinner. You remember telling the girl at the counter, "one latte with three sugars, please, and a Coke for my friend." Geraldine said to try it with two, instead, because any more packs won't make a difference. You remember saying, "but I like my coffee sweet," when Phil expressed some barely concealed surprise at how much sugar you put in your coffee. Craig, marching in, turns the lights on and says, "good morning, everyone!"

You pause and smile. Ah, Sydney mornings.

Will you ever make progress with your task, with all these memories coming at you like sudden bursts of sunshine?

You resume, taking out a trip to the beach. And another, and yet one more. You run your hands over memories of sun, magnificent blue, shouts of glee, murmurs of delight, the sound of camera shutters, butter pecan and banana ice cream, people milling, strewn across wide expanses of sand, pink and green cocktails. A pack of beers, warm coffee. You remember the feel of the sand, warm against your toes as you sit on a smooth, grey stone and watch the waves crash against boulders, and you bottle up the beautiful sound that they make, the wondrous sight that it is. You remember a cold wind blowing patiently to and fro, and you shiver a little at the memory of shivering, sway a little at the memory of being swayed by the gusts, warm up a little when you remember the long walk to the other side of the beach and all the other memories that come with it: friendly chatter, harmless banter, exclamations of wonder at how all these will be but memories later, laughter over blackbirds, clumsy attempts at transforming into poetry the fugitive sand that has found its way into thighs and--

You laugh and laugh some more. You are lucky to have been with the best companions you could ever have had. You sigh and wonder how unpacking could be so difficult.

You shut the suitcase and place it back in a corner. The unpacking will have to be done another time, when you are farther removed from all these memories, and less inclined to zone out.

You daydream about the beach, instead.

Mornings

We open at six o'clock.

You are always up hours before, and you always have to pull--carry--me out of bed and I, still warm from your kisses, would groan and mutter, "you have dragged me out of a delicious dream." I often dream. Of water and trees, sunlight and moonshine, you.

You smile that wonderful smile of yours, your smile that still renders my insides weak, still bewitching after all these years. I smile sleepily back and start to fold back into the sheets, if not for your tender admonition of "wake up, Love. Wake up."

Ah, yes, the cafe. The customers will soon trickle in. Breakfast will have to wait.

We are tucked in a street corner, beside a bake shop whose smells of warm bread waft into our open doors. Our unspoken partnership has invited more patrons into this spot than we had cared to expect, the only part of the city that has cobbled streets. 

I had been particular about cobbled streets, as much as I had been about the orange gabled roof you had asked the builders to so carefully put into place. I gaze happily at it as you earnestly pull up the red and white awnings, and I look at you, grateful for indulging my wish for an old English look. You look at me and say, "time to work, Love," and I roll my eyes, mumble a "yes, Boss," and laugh. You tousle my hair and kiss me on the cheek. A neighbor waves hello, and we wave back. 

You scoop me up into your arms and walk into the cafe. I bury my face in your neck, thinking of our fig tree.

Daphne, Descending

Descending from your flight to madness, still shaky from the breathlessness of the tempest, you step down and plant your feet firmly on palpable ground. 

The air pauses in its billowing, the heart trembles, sighing, for a little while, still hopeful, still wondering: where things are found and held--could it have been where you were to have been found, and held, at last?

Is this where the hapless, aimless chase ends?

Somewhere,  a clearing.  Nearby, a promise. From the soul, a hunger, inchoate. The longing to stay. 

Oh, to stay. 

But the breeze turns, unannounced--a host of forebodings arrive, whirring with the wind, and the time for trembling, sighing, closes in, like all days do. To love so fiercely is to invite pain in; to love so madly is to lose yourself.

But it was so still in that last second, so still! How a moment--certain moments--can alter time so.

Still, the feet, reluctant, spring into a run. Gently, at first, then swiftly, as always. Only this time, questions weigh the mind, the heart down, willing the eyes to turn toward directions other than forward.

But that slice of brilliance, so lovely and luminous--

Run. Let the broken heart propel you forward, only forward, always forward. Step on those clocks, crush them with your pain. Summon your strength and keep your eyes where they should be--away, away. Light foot, you are good at this.

Run.

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.

- J. Neil C. Garcia, "Gift"
from The Sorrows of Water

"They took to silence. They touched each other without comment and without progression. A hand on a hand, a clothed arm, resting on an arm. An ankle overlapping an ankle, as they sat on a beach, and not removed. One night they fell asleep, side by side... He slept curled against her back, a dark comma against her pale elegant phrase."

- A.S. Byatt, Possession

Arrival

"And when I go away from here, this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run." - A.S. Byatt, Possession

You are the middle of the story, where my favorite story begins.

You are an early morning, lovely and bright, you are beams of sunlight slanting on surfaces where dust motes dance gracefully upward, mimicking starlight.

You are a balmy breeze, kissing my cheeks, teasing my skin into dreaming of flight, glorious and terrifying.

You are a brisk walk along a sunlit side street.

You are the anticipation pushing the heart and feet to go faster, faster.

You are two pairs of eyes grazing each other from a distance, locking, gazing away and returning, unlocking and meeting again.

You are the mind soaring, looking for a wall to lean against, because unsteady, because uncertain.

You were last week's thoughts, yesterday's pang of regret, last night's gaping absence, the dawn's promised sight.

You are the quiver along the spine, the tremor in the heart, the ray of light rippling the soul.

And you are, finally, finally, the beaming smile in a crowd--the face that has haunted my dreams night after night--breathtaking, oh, so breathtaking to at last behold, looking at me, smiling at me.

You are the word luminous.

Contain

Your name lingers near my mouth like a kiss that never quite happens--
fingertips hovering over delicate wineglass,
breeze brushing past leaf after trembling leaf.

I keep still, so still
lest I spill you over, all over.

I look for you in the rustling restlessness of moments.

I long for the peace of your presence--if these quickenings be peace, if these flutterings be peace.

Slivers of silver course through my being at your nearness. I am alive, love, alive because. I feel the brush of the air, hear the faintest beating, see the glimmer in things.

I gush into fountains. Be kind and let me flow.

I have let go.

The trembling, pulsating heart insists: there is sense in this.

Breathless and a little lost, I run, wild, in haze and mist.

Anchor me.

For what is longing but the space between the absence of the beloved and their presence? Still, the minutes stretch like miles in the pathways of the mind, the hours, endless ribbons leading somewhere, then nowhere.

We wait in the shade of sunset, open our eyes to a burst of sunrise--another day insists its distance. I have been told that time is nothing but my mind persists in grappling with clocks. I emerge, scathed, the hours, enemies. And I thought I had mastered the art of moments, the same I who has--had--learned that there are no answers to questions. I wait, and impatiently. I sulk at my wrist. Time is nothing.

I stare at walls and see your silhouette. I am mocked by my own shadow.

Blue

"But now, love, we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere."

        - A. S. Byatt, Possession

I have told you about this; painted this picture for you, as best as my frail, limited language can, as ardently as my feeble heart can. I have told you about how, in a dream, you were surrounded by beautiful blue, smiling, happy. Do you remember?

I have summoned this moment, love. I have summoned you. One moonlit night, my soul called out, mouthing your name. Night after night, wrapped in starlight and song, I waited.

And in this instant, you have come, palpable and magnificent, the waves crashing behind you, golden sand stretched out before you. From where I am, your soul materializes: your childhood becomes visible, shining through your eyes; your fears raw; and your joy, unabashed. In this moment, you are my entire universe.

I can see you, love. I do. Now walk with me down that tree-lined path. Walk me home.

Soul-like, something slips from my grasp and goes to you. A promise? A sigh? A question?

Something--a word, a phrase. I cannot quite be sure. With you, I never am.

How suddenly, surprisingly sad, the word parallel.

Step forward. Retreat. What dance is this, what chase, game, subterfuge?

We were walking along a tree-lined path. We were looking at the sea. We were tracing the stars with our eyes.

We were. We were. I run my fingers along these words--the texture, painful, scratching my skin.

Something in me reaches out to touch you and I draw back, empty-handed.

This, I understand: I am lost in a loss of my own making.

What sadness is this, what woe? I can hear the waves crashing to shore, only the sound is receding, only the blue, dimming.

What ails the ailing heart, ailing in spite of what it knows, ailing because it knows? It knows, my love, it knows.

I write your name on the sand and realize the sea will take back what it bestows, bequeathing only memory.

The sea is constant. It giveth, taketh. All the while, it remains, its magnitude, engulfing.

The heart shudders in this knowledge. For what can love give that cannot be taken away?

Still, the heart remains. Like the sea, it is steadfast--being, despite the tide, beating, despite the fear. Whispering your name, chanting I am, you are, we are.

Daphne, defeated

Because I was afraid of the recognition my light had seen in yours, I ran, and ran. And as I ran, I threw shafts of darkness your way, conjuring erasure, willing the shadows to take over.

I did not know all this will come to be--I was so certain, my love, so certain. But the heart is wise in ways unknown to us.

I had consigned you to the shadows, but your light has shone through. Dazzled, I turned my turned back; dazzled, I stared. Dazzled, I allowed myself to be drawn in to you. Dazzled, I succumbed to your brilliance.

My nimble feet are nimble no more. The weak, blurred edges have given way to clarity. I now recognize what I have always known to be sacred, what I have felt to be more powerful than the strength I tried to break it with.

And now here I am, bathed in the glow of you. Breathless from running away, and scarred in the struggle, I recognize my defeat and lay my (erstwhile) hesitant heart before your feet.

And what now, my love? What now?

Martial Law and the Price of Forgetting: a Reflection

"Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real."
- Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses

Forty three years ago, Martial Law was devised and declared; days later, it was announced on National television, with promises of order and prosperity, threats of capture for those who would dare go against the decree, the voice of one man claiming power over one nation. Forty three years to the day, we are a people divided on the era that Marcos, in his quest for absolute power, seized and grasped by the palm of his hand, squeezing an economy of its promise, stealing from a nation's coffers and piling up billions to its debts, strangling a democracy and stripping its people of its right to speak. Forty three years to the day, and most of us have forgotten.

The shortness and selectiveness of our memory, coupled with the stealthy maneuvering of certain bodies whose goal is to rise to power once more and revise history and further erase the bloody footprints they have left on our land and streets, have all combined to create the cultural, historical amnesia so prevalent today.

Forty three years to the day and those from whom loved ones and friends were torn through abduction, incarceration, torture, and murder are still grieving their loss, and whom we are depriving of justice because we choose to be deaf and blind to their truths. The people who witnessed the horrors of Martial Law are still fighting to be heard, to educate, to inform, to make us see the light, because the opportunists and the people whose minds they have corrupted are creating a clangor meant to blind our youth to what truly transpired.

But there are those who refuse to believe that the crimes against humanity committed during Ferdinand E. Marcos' regime will go down in history as hearsay, as knowledge shared by few, as dust swept under the rug, as a mere whisper that fades and will continue
to fade as the winds of time blow by and away. We refuse to believe that decades down the line, our children will echo what they hear nowadays: that Marcos was a great president, that his regime was peaceful, that this country knew abundance during his time. We refuse to believe that Marcos will be remembered for everything that he was not; for seeing him otherwise would mean a great disservice, would mean dismissing the sacrifice of all those who paid the price of opening this nation's eyes and ears to the cruelty of that era. They have paid for it--and dearly--with their lives, and those lives could have been ours, they could have been us.

I take a stand because I have been told about and I have read the stories of those who had lived through that dark time. I take a stand because contrary to the glossed-over claims of the Marcoses, their cronies, and loyalists, there were elements more terrifying than one can imagine, but were stymied and put under guises--and claims--of peace and progress. 

There was Alex Belone, a young Bicolano who was my father's classmate at the Naga Parochial School and who, my father told me, met a gruesome death after being captured by the military. He had taken a revolutionary stance against the dictatorship, joining the movement that sought to decry the atrocities of that time. As a UP student, he was active in the marches and public demonstrations of outrage, that condemned the crimes against humanity and blockades on freedom of speech rampant during martial law. Witness to the deaths of his co-students and companions, he continued to fight from the underground, locking arms with his equally passionate and fiercely concerned brothers in the movement. 

When he was captured in 1980, he underwent torture, as was customary for anyone who dared speak, write, or go against the dictatorship in those years, and was eventually killed. His story does not end with his death. As a warning to everyone, the military tied his body to a tricycle and was dragged around the streets for all to see. I shudder at the thought, but I cannot help picturing the already badly bruised and beaten carcass of a man  scraping the asphalt, scuffing skin and flesh and bones, further tearing the already torn sinews, blood staining the streets, countenance defaced. 

This was a dead man in his 20's, unutterably helpless against whatever was being done to his lifeless body. During his wake, none of his friends and comrades could drop by because the military was nearby, on the prowl for any suspected members of the movement. In my mind, the mental picture of his family blurs from the cloak of sorrow I seem to have subconsciously painted on them. The cloak is dark, heavy. 

This was Martial Law. 

Another story that has stuck to my mind is that of poet Pete Lacaba. He was an activist, writing against the cruelty and corruption of the Marcos of those days, who, along with fellow writers Jose Y. Dalisay, Jr. and Ricky Lee, were wanted men for their roles during the First Quarter Storm. It is documented that the PSHS and the UP--among other campuses--were teeming with youthful, passionate rage at the injustices perpetrated by Marcos. They were jailed and tortured in ways too horrifying to stomach, that it took a while before any of them could take the time to sit down and come to terms with it, if they ever did, at all. 

Pete Lacaba was detained in Camp Crame, subjected to regular and numerous forms of torture, when he heard that his brother, Emmanuel F. Lacaba, had been killed. Lourdes Gordolan, in her February, 2013 piece entitled "And My Life Flashed Before Me" published in Rogue, wrote:

"The dehumanizing treatment continued in Camp Crame, where Pete suffered through disparate acts of violence from prison guards for nearly two years. Whereas in the beginning the mental and physical torture may have been done under the guise of “interrogation,” eventually, as the 1975 Amnesty International Report describes, the brutal treatment was done for “no particular intent, except to inflict pain.” 

'Pete remembers being called to the guardhouse, where the aging prison guard held up a newspaper in front of him. Its headline reported the death of Emmanuel Lacaba, an activist killed in a military encounter in Davao del Norte. He looked at Pete. “Are you related to this Lacaba?” the guard asked. Expressionless and still, Pete answered no. Emmanuel was Pete’s brother. It was the first time he heard news of his death.'"

These ongoings were common in those days, but well-hidden from the general public. These stories make up but a few drops in the bucket of many more, harrowing experiences of real people, but whose truths have been silenced by time and inaction in our part; by the denial and nonchalant shrugging off of those guilty of these crimes; and to add insult to injury, the passing off of that dark time as peaceful, orderly, and prosperous, and as some would say, manned by "the greatest president this country ever had". It makes one wonder if the word "great" has a different meaning for some.

Reading alone about the torture that these forgotten heroes had gone through is, by itself, painful--nail-pulling, burning the private parts with lighters and cigarettes, rape, beating, electrocution, and other unimaginably cruel methods. It grabs one by the heart and wrenches the soul. 

The many senseless deaths--and we are talking thousands-- make one ask what one life is really worth. And the desaparecidos--those who have disappeared, by abduction, and many at the prime of youth--whose stories of suffering will never be told, make up another set of victims.

The Marcos loyalists harp on the economic progress supposedly created by their idol. This, in itself, is a very problematic claim, but it deserves an altogether different discussion, as it covers a huge scale of data, analysis, evidence, and form of discourse. Marcos' time was characterized by corruption, but the massive plunder is only half of the story. The human lives--damaged, broken, so gruesomely taken--account for the more significant part.

If we are to go by the respect for life and freedom that are of utmost importance if we ever value humanity, knowledge itself about the tortured and the murdered should be enough to make us want to say "no!" to another Marcos--their cronies and loyalists included--ever setting foot on any position of leadership. Time and again, they have made many attempts to revise this nation's history, to distort our perception and understanding of that truly dark period. 

I am one with you in condemning these acts. May we seek to know and kindle the flames of enlightenment to those who are in the dark, because from the look of things, the Marcoses are once more making their footsteps echo loudly in our lands. May we not waver in this fight, for those who fought and died under this cruel regime, fought and died so that we may be in possession of the democracy we now have.  

Blood spilt is blood spilt. Let no man erase their heroism.

Forty three years to this day, Martial Law was declared. May we never forget.

Redemption in Remembrance and Reflection, Part 1

"Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real."
- Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses

Forty three years ago, Martial Law was devised and declared; days later, it was announced on National television, with promises of order and prosperity, threats of capture for those who would dare go against the decree, the voice of one man claiming power over one nation. Forty three years to the day, we are a people divided on the era that Marcos, in his quest for absolute power, seized and grasped by the palm of his hand, squeezing an economy of its promise, stealing from a nation's coffers and piling up billions to its debts, strangling a democracy and stripping its people of its right to speak. Forty three years to the day, and most of us have forgotten.

The shortness and selectiveness of our memory, coupled with the stealthy maneuvering of certain bodies whose goal is to rise to power once more and revise history and further erase the bloody footprints they have left on our land and streets, have all combined to create the cultural, historical amnesia so prevalent today.

Forty three years to the day and those from whom loved ones and friends were torn through abduction, incarceration, torture, and murder are still grieving their loss, and whom we are depriving of justice because we choose to be deaf and blind to their truths. The people who witnessed the horrors of Martial Law are still fighting to be heard, to educate, to inform, to make us see the light, because the opportunists and the people whose minds they have corrupted are creating a clangor meant to blind our youth to what truly transpired.

But there are those who refuse to believe that the crimes against humanity committed during Ferdinand E. Marcos' regime will go down in history as hearsay, as knowledge shared by few, as dust swept under the rug, as a mere whisper that fades and will continue
to fade as the winds of time blow by and away. We refuse to believe that decades down the line, our children will echo what they hear nowadays: that Marcos was a great president, that his regime was peaceful, that this country knew abundance during his time. We refuse to believe that Marcos will be remembered for everything that he was not; for seeing him otherwise would mean a great disservice, would mean dismissing the sacrifice of all those who paid the price of opening this nation's eyes and ears to the cruelty of that era. They have paid for it--and dearly--with their lives, and those lives could have been ours, they could have been us.

Insomnia

You slump into a couch, exhausted. A host of thoughts flits by--faces, names, faces with names, nameless faces, random names, random faces--and your tired mind shuts down for the briefest of moments.

What was it she said? Tragic. What was it he said? Flatulent. He and she--they blur, their words and voices commingle, first; next, their words turn into a colloquy of opposites; and finally, the dialogue booms into a cacophony of sounds. You close your eyes. That girl could have been you.

Ah, to be lethargic, ah to be nothing.

But the evening waits, the day is not done. Night is not only for counting the stars, it is also for mapping the syzygy of circles and squares that surround us each day, that set us looking for what is not there, for what could be there, that keep us on our toes, aghast and running, that make us feel alive, that make us stop and notice. For those of us who recognize the ephemeral, the ubiquitous is seldom--if ever--what it appears to be. Our heads are filled with imagery, color, tune.

You wonder how long the night is going to be, tonight.

You turn on Chopin and mull over the pictures in your head: the bright lights of the city you ride across each day, the woman selling hot cakes, the looming figure of a bright-eyed man, the misplaced, baroque facade of an old building, the puddles in side walks, the look of worry on a friend's face, an unlit street lamp. You run your fingers over the texture of words and you realize that sleep will be elusive tonight, the way it often is when your mind is wide awake the way it is now. The goal is to be blithe; the reality seldom lives up to the conjured. We are thinking beings, counting on the clemency of paradoxes. We breathe love like air, but we find it discombobulating. Our quest for spontaneity leaves us planning where to go next.

What time is it, you wonder. The music has stopped. The night is just as dark as it was when the first strains of Chopin wafted into your ears, but you've already filled the hours with the scenes of the day. The questions remain: in what context did he say what he said? Did you say the things you wanted to say the way you should have said them? Did you say what you had meant to say?

He throws figures at you and you become a shadow. Mute, sighing.

You play with the idea of writing a letter. You start writing it, in your head, with the night stretching ahead of you like a long, confused road.

Stranger

Strange things happen, sometimes.

Sometimes, we are not where we are, we are somewhere else.

This evening, the sea is beside us--the setting seems passé, but here we are, and we have never been here before. The ebbing waves are lulling us to something very much like peace. Stranger things have happened.

We have spent the afternoon talking and frankly, you have not told me anything new. I already know all that you have told me--from watching you, from various distances. I know you. I have taken the time to. I know the curves of your brows, the lilt of your mouth, the light and dark in your eyes, the shadows there, the fire, the flickers, the embers. They show me your mind, and oh, how quick it is, but how crowded and full of faces, teeming with the weight of thoughts! I know your hands--their rising and falling, their grip, their submission. I know your lines and turns. There is a pathway. I know your heart. I know its weight. I wonder if you do.

I want to tell you: learn to let go, if only sometimes. The world will turn without us. Life trickles on, let us flow with it. Learn to go with it. Teach yourself to stop and just be. You are tired. Breath out the heaviness.

But I do not know how. So I just sit here, watching you from lowered lids. You have mellowed into a subdued mood, and I am relieved. I am thankful for the distance, thankful for the time. I exhale my gratitude into the great void, and whisper a prayer into the sea.

I am aware the end will come. I accept it. But for now, we are. Let us just be.

Stranger things have happened. This does not surprise me, and this does not surprise me.

And foolish though it may seem--

Here is one last faith in metaphor.
That it must do what it's meant to,

and draw you near.
Abstraction is the silence of skin:

- from "Braille", Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta

This morning, the sun was not its usual self and let the clouds have their way, but, pushing the threat of rain aside, I braved the gloom and took a walk. My feet led  me to a pathway I had not taken in a long while, and soon, I found myself in a familiar spot where the trees parted, ushering me into a clearing that I knew well.

"and there whisper-sing her songs to the sky, to the distantly aloof stars, the insomniac clouds, the attentive moon."

I felt my heart skip a beat at the sight of a well-loved wisteria-wrapped bower and, crossing the short bridge, I braced myself for the next sight.

"and when he spoke it was with a voice that reminded one of a perfectly tuned harp."

There it waited, the garden, but oh, how empty it stood, how desolate! Patches of brown grass called the eye's attention; yellowing leaves, fallen overnight, danced aimlessly about, blown by some vagrant wind. Last night's rain still lingered everywhere, its drops lacing what  little green remained.

My heart broke a little when I saw the chairs, empty now as I knew they had been for a long time. I walked toward the spot that was and still is sheltered by that huge beloved tree, its branches privy to so many conversations, much laughter and, later, some tears, some talk in low, mournful tones, an uncertain parting. Sometimes I fear I would never see you again. No books lay in the faded basket, no cups of tea sat on the rain-streaked table. I leaned against the still sturdy trunk of the faithful tree and looked about. I wondered if you had been here, at all, all this time. It didn't seem likely, but not absolutely impossible. Still, my heart sank as I drank in all the emptiness that lay about. How still the place seemed, but for a cold breeze blowing by, now and then. I am very ill, love. I am.

I searched my memory for all that had been said and realized I could no longer remember what the last words were. Has it been that long ago? Yes, it has. 

I started walking away but could not resist looking back. One last time, if this, indeed, be the last. Wherever you may be, happy birthday. I cannot altogether promise never to come back, but I will try.

"There's a few ways to call down the moon-road, if the sky is ready, and the timing's right. Sometimes you can summon a moonbeam by whistling, like some people can summon the wind."

Radiohead, The King of Limbs: This Fan Raves

"It's like I'm falling out of bed

From a long, weary dream

The sweetest flowers and fruits hang from the trees

Falling off the giant bird that’s been carrying me--"

- from "Separator", Radiohead

Heard melodies are sweet (sorry, John Keats), but music also "seen" is sweeter. For a musician's full magnificence to be experienced, one has to be witness to the performance. The auditory reception is enhanced--non-exclusively, of course, since people have different ways of appreciating--all the more when one catches these people in the act of making, creating the music. Imagination liberates, but we are, sometimes, limited by what we cannot see.

In the case of Radiohead, masters at their craft who have forever changed the sonic landscape with their music, and withstood the test of time and all other elements, this is especially true. I watched "Radiohead: King of Limbs Live at The Basement"--over at YouTube, where else--and was struck by some nameless sensation: quickened heartbeat, bliss surging up from the chest, or something of that nature. The passion, skill, and ease with which the band went at it, just doing their "thing", took my breath away. I experienced something similar with "Radiohead: In Rainbows Live in Japan", but "King of Limbs", because recorded in a smaller venue, offered a much closer, more intimate view. The years have not at all diminished the intensity that Thom Yorke not so much exhibits as exudes; the same is true where Jonny Greenwood is concerned (still ruthless, still insanely skilled); and of the rest of them, all as essential and as present as ever. Face contorted in intensity, mindless of all other things except the music; fingers caressing, plucking effortlessly at, and flying over guitar strings; fingers touching and striking keys; able hands, masters to drum sticks--what a spectacle, a thing of beauty!

Radiohead's lyrics have only become more cryptic, the music as beautiful and more complex. My favorite track from the album is "Lotus Flower", but I was blown away by Thom's performance of "The Daily Mail" (the phrase "king of melancholia" crossed my mind); "Codex" has a similar relish, though a bit toned down; the jazz barroom flavor of "Feral" and, by a little measure, "Little By Little" (I wondered if they were trying to pull a Miles Davis, with a 21st century flavor, of course); the percussion-led sensuousness of "Separator"; the acoustic, mellow air of  "Give up the Ghost"; the guitar-playing skills showcased in the rest of the songs.

The King of Limbs, like In Rainbows, features elements of electronica (in smaller doses) but the former, upon close inspection, chronicles Radiohead's absolute comfort in what they do, and highlights the poetry and talent that has been characteristic of their music from the very start. The King, for this fan, is sonic perfection. The effect of their music on me has always extended to the heart and the deepest recesses of the brain, but more so this album. I could only wish I were really there when they recorded the session--probably sitting in a corner, and certainly my cup of tea would have long grown cold, forgotten.

Imagine how much tea I've been consuming, waiting for the next album. Meanwhile, let the music play, and let me watch while it does.

Variation on a Theme: Rain

On a rainy day, one entertains thoughts similar to rain. The general chill in the air becomes a prolonged brush of coldness against reluctant skins. The falling raindrops create a symphony of sounds--raps against windows, patter on the ground, pin-sized knocks against doors, but magnified many times over. The mind roams over darkened plains and dismal landscapes, beneath unfriendly skies and indifferent roofs, across winding streets.

On a day such as this, you materialize, but never matter enough to be palpable. Your ghost descends, in perfect synchronicity with the rain and the blowing gusts, disturbing the spell of warm days, a hand against the stillness. You appear, though the validity of this, I am never certain of.

I am wiping the glass to make your image clearer, silently praying for recognition. I end up mumbling into the grayness of the day, mouthing names I can barely pronounce. Your image gets washed away by the rain, but for a moment, I make-believe it's your face I see reflected in a puddle.

What I love about rainy days is they blur remembered faces, dull the sound of uninvited voices, wash away intruding memory. The rain dampens the very sadness it carries with it, turning it into something that faintly resembles sorrow only. There is comfort in faintness--it softens things like pain, the way years of forgetting sometimes do.

After hours of rain, a hush follows. We wonder if the rain has gone, and slowly pick up where we had left off before it came.

Summer, Part 3

I am typing down these words. In the background, Jeff Buckley is singing, "kiss me, please kiss me," and I am wondering who he wrote the song for, and if he really did write it, and I am thinking, there is so much I am uncertain about, there is so much I don't know. There is no point to these words, to these thoughts, but I am hoping there will be. I resist the urge to stop. There is always the urge to. We wonder about the things we do, we wonder about the sense in them, or if there is any sense to the things we do. But we keep at it, we do not stop. At least, not when it matters--when it matters to us. Most of the time, the things that mean so much to us would not make sense to other people. I wonder about other people. I wonder about the things that mean something to them.

The song has ended, another one has begun. I wonder what sound will come out if the last one and "Lilac Wine" overlapped, at some point. If moments of our lives overlapped, what would it be like? Do moments ever overlap? What do the sciences say about time? It is a thought I do not wish to pursue. I can feel the sweat on my temples. "Why is everything so hazy?' Jeff Buckley sings. Outside, the sun is going mad with its own glory. How exaggerated the heat these days, have been. The word "exaggerated" was deliberately chosen, yes. Today is May 1st. It always rains on May 1st. Today, there is no rain, and the heat does not seem to have any plans of making way for rain. The heat always compels me to write. Sunlight such as this stirs up so much, but when I sit down to name them, I keep drawing blanks. There is nothing new in this.

"Oh, that was so real, oh, that was so real, oh, that was so real," Buckley sings. And then there is something about the moon and the wind. I go blank. I am wondering what to write next. Was it so real? This morning, I went through my stash of unfinished stories. I wonder if I would ever get to finish them. These things mean nothing to you, I know. But now, Jeff Buckley is singing, "Well, I heard there was a secret chord", and I pause to listen. Some songs command one to listen. Am I making sense to you?

Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah


The song has ended. I have run out of things to say.

We/ are we/ random

A conversation is an overture to many things: the next conversation, kinship, love. Cross this out. We redirect, retract, swerve--we talk about the weather. We hesitate to talk about love because we are proud, we are strong, we are practical, level-headed creatures; we would rather talk about things that matter--the stock market, the upcoming elections, your neighbor's latest acquisition, my last meal, your next.

And inside our heads, a voice, cooing a soliloquy: But my love, you are my miracle.

We snort at sentiment. It is shallow, it spells weakness. We are strong. We do not talk about love. The world will turn without love. We insist.

Abdicate, my love. Because the world is ruled by numbers. Ejected by the maths, the story of Eros and Psyche remains a myth. Yet we die a little at love's facelessness.

We do not admit this. We would rather have plotless dreams when we are asleep. Or grind our teeth.

We concatenate one chance with the next, and come up with a kaleidoscope of flukes. Where do they all go? We wonder. We wonder, and wonder, and on the surface, we are placid bodies of water. Stagnant, too, the voice. And on and on, we insist--what is dilatory must stay hidden.

Serendipity is underrated (or is it over? I can never tell) -- you are here because you filled out an application form; I am here because I had nothing better to do. We will never walk the same line; this conversation is flimsy. It will never hold. Art is for the foolish, I heard somebody say. But he who is not moved by sunsets and violins must have some serious searching to do, yes? My teacher agrees. Even Euclid had feelings, I'm sure. But where is it written?

There is a mathematical formula for everything. Yes, even love. We talk in tangents; the parallels outrun each other. We measure and throw away the excess. Love is an excess. We throw love away, we erase it. Or pretend to, at least. And then we cope by subterfuge.

"There will be time, there will be time," wrote one T.S. Eliot, and "Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,/ would it have been worth while,/ to have bitten off the matter with a smile,/"-- oh, hapless heart, what do you beat for? Who?

Stop that sighing, the minutes are ticking, we do not have time.

We do not talk about love. Let Apollo chase Daphne to the ends of the earth. It is a myth, as love is. Turn off that music in your head, and let's be productive, instead, so resume brainstorming, snack on these data, reconcile those figures. There is no you, there is no me.

But look, my love, you have turned into a tree.

Strings and Stones

Today is your birthday.

Today is your birthday and in my mind, we are thirteen again. It's 5 in the afternoon, and I am standing by a doorway, admiring the cuff lacing my wrist, its plastic stones blinking, wondrously catching the dying afternoon light. You are inside, talking to the shopkeeper, asking her about the crystal bracelets on the display counter.

Today is your birthday.

Today is your birthday and we are thirty-something-year-olds, miles and miles apart. I am thinking about grace, I am thinking about laughter, I am thinking about sunlight and moonshine, about dreams and oceans, about mysticism and music, about warm firelight, about friendship and constancy--because these are the thoughts people like you inspire in other people. I am looking at the bracelet I'm wearing, the mild sheen of its magenta-colored beads stark against my skin, and I remember the broken pieces of me that you had strung back together into a circle.

Today is your birthday and I am thinking of the sound of waves crashing to shore. How beautiful it is--both the thing and the memory of it. Thank you for letting me hear its music, once more. One day, we will find ourselves along another sunlit shore, scouring the sand for forgotten dreams. Or pretty little stones, maybe.

Happy birthday, Kristine. The world is one brighter place with you in it.

Summer, part 2

Water.

Oh, to soak, to sink

in dreams
of you, to wade through you, or drown, perhaps, but gloriously. Because I cannot swim.

Stop struggling, they say. The tide will bear you to safety. I find it hard to believe, but it's not wholly impossible--nothing ever is. Some things are like water;

so pour me out.

These lines are figments--I am standing somewhere square.

Trickle down my throat, or wash over me.

Solid things wear me down; edges can be scathing. Hard surfaces, those bricks, that street. A rock and a wall, you say, and I, in between.

Let me flow, instead.

Billow, crest, and fall, and start again. And again, and again. There is rhythm in repetition, but beauty lies in swirls. Oh, let me swirl. I want to swirl with you. I want to swirl in you.

It's this darn heat.

"I wish I had a river", Joni once sang. I wish I were a river.

Tonight, the moon glows bright, illuminating the rivulets coursing through my mind, liquid pathways that lead to you.

The moon seldom ever insists its presence, but it always finds its way here. Like you do.

This page is full of abstractions, invisible streams gushing everywhere, taunting my delirious brain.

Will somebody please hand me a glass of water.

Caliraya, by moonlight

Is that moonlight in the water?

I stand up to get a better view of my view of the lake. All things that could be still are still; only the crickets dare disrupt the enveloping quiet, but intermittent, as if they, too, suspect their cry a sacrilege to the calmness.

Muted rays of pale yellow light slant toward the surface of the water and I stare, fascinated. I wish the moment would go on, and on. I could feel the air and my fingertips, brushing against each other. I feel the hair on my nape rise at so much aliveness and for a moment, I picture myself, wrapped in moonlight, lost in the rapture of solitude. The mind reaches for the soul and is surprised at its nearness.

Above me, the sky is ablaze with starlight.

I shall always remember this. It is what I will take home with me. This beautiful memory of evening, lake, stillness, moonlight, and I, one with all--they shall find their way to one of my storage boxes at home; and some distant day, should the threat of chaos once more come knocking on peace's door, I will close my eyes and summon back this evening, reach out for this moonlight, and let go.

I will remember the light on the water and cast anxiety aside, push fear away. It should be enough.

Lost

I grieve my inability to turn you into what I want you to be: here.

You are always somewhere else: next month, seven steps ahead, a moment away, three hours ago, the past week; a few distances away, framed by a window, an inch apart, walled by glass, wrapped in distance, lost in thought; that indecipherable frown, cryptic vibrations, obscurity.

The wall I put up falls into shambles, but patiently, I pick up and rebuild. The foundations are weak. I make do with pretense, believing it would hold, as if it ever did, as if it ever will. Meanwhile, the distance picks up its pace, the hole deepens, your absence becomes more and more present.

And so, I I toil, I dig, never knowing what it is I work for, what it is I look for--your presence or obliteration. Am I conjuring or am I erasing?

Even this page fails to capture you. When I get to the bottom, I glance back up. In the end, I go back to where I started.

Peace Be With You

I remember the scent of burning candles.

One finds oneself at home in the crowd, the lack of space. One gets accustomed to the rush, the madness of everyday. One gets used to the lights and the noise, to losing track of time, to losing count of what was and what comes next. One becomes familiar with the randomness, the flurry, the blur of it all. One gets lost in it; one forgets what is.

One gets so used to it, that the upcoming stillness becomes an assault to the senses. The present quiet disquiets; the mind gets jolted by the lack of sound; the eyes get overwhelmed by the onslaught of space.

But how beautiful, too, these impressions of muteness. How calming, how peaceful. The heart finds itself pulled into reflection. The question of faith ceases, finding respite in the hinges. In the hush of things, one stops being lost, if only for a moment.

Our part of the world is once more taking a pause. May peace be with us all.

Rain

Today, it is dew that you awaken to, a morning wrapped in cloud, soft notes from some distant music. Yesterday's weather report said it will rain today, and you are certain it will. All signs point at raindrops, sing of wetness, hint at fluid things. The yielding heart, yielding to forgotten days. Time slipping by hands that can barely hold. Tears.

Your consciousness still shakes at the (fragmented) memory of a strange dream. There is no sense in piecing the shards together, but you allow yourself--for a few moments--to waft in that barely perceptible line between sleep and wakefulness.

But broken things get lost in the language of the everyday.

And soon, rain, its drops hitting the roofs, the windows, the grounds, soft patter on hard surfaces, prying open what will yield, permeating what will not; washing away the dust, brightening the weariness; so that what was dull soon sparkles, what was withering gets revived.

You understand this: there is reason for the stillness in the day before; you, who have long believed that always, always, there are (heavy) things suspended in the unmoving air. You are grateful. You have been taught that what has gone is gone, and today is here, now.

(In a parallel universe, things may be different; but all the same, it is there, not here.)

In the distance, a door shuts. Tonight, the moon will be her usual, lovely self, and you remind yourself to notice.

Notes for a story

--In the swell of evening,

all is space and more space.

Crickets go darting the night

to alliterate a face. They scree

a name there are only broken

vowels for, broken words,

broken music. Absence,

- Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta, Burning Houses

In my heart, a foreshadowing. In my heart, a premonition. In my heart, a question, unasked. In my heart, a heart, sinking.

This evening, this book. This evening, its unassuming spine caught my eye. I wasn't looking for it; I had long stopped looking for it.

Now, my finger traces this book's cover. I leaf through its pages. I allow my eyes to linger along its lines, parsed into shorter lines. I allow my eyes--but only for a while. Holding this thin volume is both uplifting and heartbreaking. Bittersweet, extremely so. Opening it felt a little like sacrilege. How precious our friendship is. How fragile. It rests on the hinges of you and I. I break a little, grasping it.

You had once told me, smiling and sad, how you could never seem to win the race against things that find their way to me. I trail, too, dear one. But you already know this.

I think of this book, at rest in your shelf. My heart breaks into little pieces.

I think of the conversations we had. I think of the conversations we never had. I think of the conversations we will never have. I think of your pain and the silence with which you cloak it. I think of your suffering and all the unnamed distances that separate me from it.

I think of the things you taught me--how to write a story, how to un-write a story. How does one write a story?

I am certain I will end up writing you a story--I have known this for a long time. I do not know how it begins; I only know how it will end.

In the story, this book will remain in your shelf.

My heart sinks.

That Requisite Pre-Oscars Post

"People, they love blood. They love action.

 Not this talky, depressing, philosophical bullshit."

This year, Neil Patrick is hosting the Oscars. This year, I finished my marathon quite late. This year, the Oscars happens tomorrow.

This year, too, the Academy seems to have chosen fewer gems than they usually do. 

But anyway, here's my annual two cents drop into the piggy bank:

8 American Sniper, Clint Eastwood

Bradley Cooper's acting is restrained and brilliant, and Clint Eastwood, as always, directs with a competent hand. The movie, though, falls short in terms of width, and though there were some heart attack-inducing scenes (which is a good thing, by the way),  I feel that the scope of the biopic could be wider, which is not to say that it is completely lacking in depth. And the tribute shots in the ending--this viewer somehow feels cheated. Come on, Clint, we know you could have done better than that.

7 The Theory of Everything, James Marsh

The film has much to say about hope and perseverance, and I salute Stephen Hawking for his remarkable strength in the face of so much adversity, and James Marsh for making this film because now, we are reminded that our little complaints are nothing compared to what other people must be going through. The film, too, has much to say about Eddie Redmayne's talent. He shone in the film.

Ah, but that's all, folks.

6 The Imitation Game, Morten Tyldum

Benedict Cumberbatch has always been--looks, notwithstanding--flawless for me. He (and he, taking on Alan Turing, of course) was reason enough to see the film, and I was not disappointed. But only in that aspect, and that statement deserves a repeat: only in that aspect. Cumberbatch aside, it seemed to me like the film was created precisely with one goal in mind: to become part of Oscars history. Which is not to say that it's an entirely bad thing. But let's see where it goes.

5 The Grand Budapest Hotel, Wes Anderson

It started out on a whimsical note and I was, of course, smitten. The language was smart and elaborate, the background grand, and Ralph Fiennes, well, adorable. Until the first train ride scene, the movie had my full attention, and then I just started going downhill. Yes, it was I who went downhill, make no mistake. I have no doubt that the movie has glorious, wonderful things going for it; I have no doubt that it has much to teach about history and the melancholy remembrance of things that were; I have no doubt that Wes Anderson is a genius, as he has often been called. I, however, have doubts about my own capacity to focus when things start dragging on, and on, and on. I have a penchant for falling asleep on things that fail to sustain my interest, besides, but that is entirely my fault--I take full responsibility.

You do the math.

4 Whiplash, Damien Chazelle

If you're at all into the arts, if you're a musician, especially, and a drummer, specifically, you must see this film, and there is absolutely no reason why you should not. Pardon the exaggerated language, but I stand by my words. I imagine that your heart, like mine, would be up in your throat for most of the time, because Chazelle delivers in the film-making aspect. Plus J.K. Simmons is intensely fascinating, hateful, and arresting here, and one would wonder why he should best be remembered as that loud, annoying, bossy newspaper head in the first Spider-Man series. With Miles Teller (Andrew), he forms one of the most memorable (if a bit dysfunctional) mentor-student relationships on film. So drop those drumsticks for just a while and catch this film.

A digression: I usually refrain from ranking, but I decided to do it this year, and after I got those 5 out of the way, came the difficult part. I drove myself a little mad trying to decide which of the three films below came first, second, and third, and almost gave up. But because I do enjoy tearing my brains apart (sometimes), here are my top 3:

3 Selma, Ava DuVernay

The film, famously snubbed (in all other categories excepting Best Picture) by the Academy for all the wrong reasons, is a historical drama that chronicles a people's march to unequivocal civil rights, as led by Martin Luther King, Jr. The historical context is not at all tiring--the viewer feels as if he could be right there, in that moment. The film is executed in a way that the viewer does not at all feel wanting, where most of the aspects of film are concerned. The rising action is gripping and the drama is sustained, all throughout. The movie affects without employing excess, and this is an admirable quality in any form that tells the story of a leap from oppression to liberation. David Oyelowo delivers exquisitely; DuVernay has definitely made her mark in film-making history. 

 2 Boyhood, Richard Linklater

This was the first of the nominated movies that I watched, and I was quite taken aback at how wonderfully understated--and beautifully crafted--it was. This is a film where nothing really happens, but so much happens, at the same time. It is both detached and intimate, piecemeal and complete, restrained and moving--you get the drift. It tells so much about one life and all the other lives entwined with it, and with so much gentleness and intricate subtlety about it. Up to now, I'm still hard-pressed to place this where I'm placing it, but meanwhile, I'm letting it stay here.

1 Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu 

Because Michael Keaton's acting is above reproach and praise; because Edward Norton is matchless; because I am straightforward in taking the storyteller's side; because I feel that he is able to say what he wants to say in a manner that is interesting and thought-provoking; because thought-provoking films bring me to uncharted heights; because we all have a Riggan Thomson in us; because cinema and theater will almost always find themselves on opposite sides of a spectrum; because culture is subjective; because, in an effort to explore it in its entirety, I could think about--and talk to someone about--this film for hours and hours on end; because Raymond Carver; because.

What about you? I would love to know what you think.

No more tears

"As I lay next to you in hyperacidity," I sing, in my best imitation of Geoff Tate's unabashedly bass bass, my best imitation being pretty, pretty bad. You snicker, then laugh, and your laughter extends into extended laughter that lasts more than I expect it to. I roll my eyes and giggle. It's 6:19 a.m., and our day has just begun.

There's a turn in the road and you steer; meanwhile, the DJ introduces the next song, saying it's by Better Than Ezra. I say, "T. S. T. S. is better than Ezra." You hoot with laughter and I settle snugly into my seat, secure in the knowledge that I'm the funniest person on earth. Never mind Tina Fey, and never mind the people who laugh, not at my jokes, but at my (almost always) failed attempts to crack them. You--with your usually morose moods and propensity for brooding--think I'm funny, and that's all that matters, where my sense of humor is concerned.

I squint behind my glasses and make a mental note to get a better pair. It hardly ever happens, but today, they start to play "Friends of P." and excitedly, I sing along. From the corner of my eye, I could see you grinning, and I find myself throwing a "thank you" note into the air, for turning us into the pair of (slightly saner) fools that we have become.

Double Vision

I am piecing you together, broken, absent one--you are whole because I say you are.

I think you up in metaphor: the rustle of leaves against a playful breeze, your laughter; this slant of sunlight, your arm; this track's drumbeats, your footsteps. "Hey, Squirt, come here," I hear you say. You are always calling people things. You are always dreaming things up; you are always dreaming. You think people are better than they are. I remember that cold December night when, not having seen each other for years, the first thing you did was scold me about my smoking, and I rethink my life.

Four Minutes, half an hour, an hour. I squint at the page I'm reading--did my heroine really say, "Death is a lie"? My eyes start to strain and I think of eyeglasses, words blurring, a morning, darkening.

Faceless, you brush past me to reach for that book you've been meaning to read since September. My breath catches, I spill my glass and I wait for the page to blot. I had forgotten you are here, and I begin again.

You are here because I say you are. Otherwise, the words I have not yet gotten to remain undisturbed. Otherwise, the page remains dry.

Slytherin has changed, kiddo. The files are saved in my drive.

For RJP. You are missed.