Your Franz Ferdinand Shirt

And indeed, there will be time...

There will be time, there will be time.

- from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot

A girl and a boy once roamed the city under sun and starlight. Their portion of the years, once swallowed by the city, are now resurfacing into a single moment. Once upon a time, the girl and the boy drifted into parallels and disappeared into the years. But some sleight of hand, hosts of cogent thoughts, some vagrant wish, a strange, mute sadness--they will never know which, or that even all of these--have driven the years away and pulled, tilted them into a single point.

The girl and the boy are now talking about a shirt. The girl is telling the boy about her dream, because the shirt--and the boy--were in it. They are laughing, and in their laughter, their thoughts are careening backward into another time. The boy is remembering a Thursday, the girl, a Saturday. They were both in those days. As they talk, they are thinking of each other, and they are bending back into each other. Now, they are starting to grope around for the lost years, inching their way into them, picking up the luminous fragments and handling them in a circumspect way, avoiding the cracks on the floor, kicking the shards away. 

In this moment, they are not aware that the wounds have healed, or that they were ever there. They are not thinking about healed wounds; they are not thinking about wounds, at all. They are asking each other about the last movie they saw, about the books they have read. The boy is telling the girl about the book he finished two days ago; about how, upon shutting it, he had found himself wishing he were also shutting her memory forever, because the years have failed to do that. "But here I am," the girl says, and the boy replies, "no you're not here. You're there, I'm here. And I want to be there." The girl hesitates, then laughs, and the boy does, too. They are walking around the gaps.

They start talking about something else.

Here is your line.

He sank into the couch like an old friend and lit a cigarette. His pockets were full of unused scripts, obscure facts, and cryptic notes; most of them, hoarded from walls and pavements, a few, borrowed from random years, none of them useful, except when it really mattered, none of them hollow, except where the edges began. He watched the smoke float aimlessly in the space between him and the cream-painted wall, like a nameless shadow looking for a place to go, looking for a parallel to press itself against, and he wondered at these thoughts; he knew they didn't make sense.

Outside, the darkness lingered like wine in a glass.

She threw her head back, laughing at something he had said, and she felt the space between them turn into undulating rings, becoming smaller, and smaller, and smaller. And in her mind, she was thinking, will there ever be a question I can throw at you that you cannot answer?

"Probably not," he said.

"What?" She blinked, twice, wondering if she had asked the question out loud. She was sure she had not.

"Forget it," he grinned. "Are you somewhere else, again?"

"No," she shook her head. "I'm right here."

They started talking about The Beatles and as she listened to him speak, she remembered other conversations in other places, other days, another year. It occurred to her that they had both become different people, but then, afterwards, wondered if they had stayed the same, all along. She was a lost child who had insisted on clutching at the same straws, and in one way or another, she would turn to him for answers to questions, for when nights got too dark and things that were lost became irretrievable, blackened out.

She had a tendency to slip away; he was a drifter who knew his way about, and always found his way back. She was liquid; he was the breeze. She felt like he could see through her, somehow, could read between her confused billows. She constantly found herself struggling against waves and waves of untold stories, in storms both real and imagined, in self-made whirlpools, in conjured images of drowning, in nightmares of frighteningly high tides. And she would always come back up, gasping for air.

Conversations with him were balms to her many wounds, and listening to him talk, she realized that it was really she who had dreamed up the unused scripts, the obscure facts, the cryptic notes. It was really she who looked at the smoke for more than what it was. It was she whose thoughts were looking for a place to go, it was she who was looking for parallels, and she knew that these thoughts didn't make sense, at all.

Not yet.

Meanwhile, they talked about Beethoven.

So jazz music is really a conversation

one eavesdrops on and it is of course a good kind of eavesdropping, though one could always choose to exert effort and pretend to be discreet as if the conversation isn't something one should be privy to. Either way, the

chatter between the drums and the sax and the trumpets and the piano and the cello and all that scatting

should perk the mind up into action so that one emerges more intelligent after the whole auscultating-slash-snooping thing, or more awake, at least, because all that exchange could only be more poetry than non-poetry

and poetry more often bestirs the brain cells than not, so it is, perhaps, safe to say that aside from a confabulation among voice and/or instruments, jazz is also poetry.

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--*

So, Kathryn Bigelow is James Cameron's ex-wife. Interesting fact. Guess too much genius does split a unit into two.

Anyway, had an interesting conversation with a friend today, over coffee and after-work relief. Don't you feel lucky to have people to talk to, just because? I do. And this after years of self-inflicted isolation inside sturdy walls, built with much care, one gray brick after the other. What a relief it is to realize that once the teenage angst and the depression of my early twenties had crumbled down, so did those walls. Once in a while, I do find myself feeling the urge to put them back up, brick after brick--but only once in a while. And I always find myself stopping half-way. There's almost always something that distracts me.

(End of speech and cheese)

Been raving about "Avatar" this week. I'm not a fan of Sci-Fi (both film and Lit--I hated my College Sci-Fi class so much, I built walls around me the whole semester), but this movie grabbed me and grabbed me hard.

Oh, hey, I ended up circling back to James Cameron (sans Kathryn B.), after all. Completely unintentional, thank you.

Have a great afternoon ahead.

Sign of the times: letters blooming on a screen

me: can you give me a moment?
friend: A moment to what?
me: A thought just occurred to me which I think is worth typing down.
friend: Ok.

whatever happened to "worth writing down?"


William Shakespeare's handwriting

Let's Poem!

Today, in the office, a co-worker approached me and asked if I could lend him a book of poems. Now, I work in a bank and the odds of people who earn a living as "financial consultants" going to each other for literature-related (and i'm not referring to the Shopaholic series) matters are a hundred to one.

Anyway, so I asked him what kind it was he wanted and he asked if I had a Tennyson book. "Oh, so you like the Romantic poets?" He said he didn't think Tennyson was at all romantic and so I had to give a brief speech on how I was referring to the era and not the adjective. It warmed my heart, though, to see this young man so interested in poetry. I told him I didn't own any Tennyson but that I could lend him a Rilke volume; gave some unsolicited advice (it was probably the English Major in me), too, that he ought to try reading Filipino poetry in English. He said he just might and thanked me profusely for my willingness to lend him my Rilke.

As he was turning away, I couldn't resist asking, "J--, do you read Dan Brown?"

He said, "nope, and don't have plans to."

I gave him a grin and a nod of approval.
Good boy.

Now let me remember to bring him that Rilke volume.

Map Quiz

Geek friend and I looking at a live satellite feed of the typhoon:

Me: this is some scary shit.
Geek Friend: See this? Shows you where the wind is.
Me: I know, I know! Let's have a map quiz!
Geek Friend: You sure?
Me: This is... Japan, this is... Malaysia?
Geek Friend: Nope.
Me: Let's go to that later. How about this one. This is... China? Right?
Geek Friend: Not big enough to be China.
Me: (getting disappointed with myself) That's India! And this one's China, I'm sure!
Geek Friend: Good, good. How about this one?
Me: Easy. That's Mongolia.
Geek Friend: Good, good. Now let's go back to this one.
Me: Is that... Taiwan?
Geek Friend: Hm, well, close.
Me: Tai...pei?
Geek Friend: Close, close!
Me: Tai...two?
Geek Friend: What the...?! Close, close!
Me: Thailand!
Geek Friend: Very good!
Me: Now let me look for Nepal...

The Eighties

Sunday afternoon, a drive down a busy street. Fussing with the car tuner and chancing upon John Parr's "St. Elmo's Fire", with David Foster's "Just For A Moment" and Joey Scarbury's "Believe It or Not" in tow.

So eighties.

So long ago.

It was a senti moment right there for M-- and I. M--, by the way, is an 80s' baby, like me, so we were able to go down childhood lane together. The songs touched chords in our psyches and there were moments of quiet (both of us, I guess, remembering lazy afternoons, drowsy hometowns and orange twilights), peppered with small, low conversations on how the songs reminded us of our childhoods, to the loss of innocence where one became forced to say hello to gray twilights and life's dead ends.

"Wasn't there a time in our young lives when we believed in something?"

"Ya."

"When we believed in forever and the goodness in people and in hopes of bright tomorrows?"

"From that point to where we are now--it's like having gone a hundred-eighty-degree turn."

How right he was. How right. Such a cynical generation it was we belonged to.
Sad.

Overheard:

A: Did you know that The Great Pyramid of Giza is the only one of the 7 Wonders of The Ancient World still standing today?
B: WTF? The hell I care for your pyramid. duh.
A: I'm just saying. It's a nice-to-know. Plus...
B: Oh, spare me.
A: Almost all of 'em were destroyed by earthquakes. How tragic.
B: I am so interested. Leave me alone, you geek.

Hmm. Cool.

Synecdoche, New York

A: That was stupefying. Downright stupefying.
B: I know. Kaufman's movies always, always make me think. But this has got to be the worst! Damn that guy!
A: (laughs)
B: Initially, the line--if there was one, initially, that is--between reality and otherwise was imperceptible. Then it appeared, just enough for one to sense that there was one. And then it kinda opened up, very gradually, until it became a gaping mouth. You know, like this (gesturing with the left hand, in an attempt to illustrate the point). Unbelievable.
A: Cool. You've always been better at words.
B: Oh, yeah? So, we might say that I'm more...what's the word--articulate?
A: Yup. You're more articulate.
B: Which means you're deeper than I am.
A: Oh, yeah? How's that?
B: You know, because the more one talks, the more out there it is. And once it's out there, it stays the way it is. But because you keep it all in, you keep going deeper and deeper and it never really ends. You just keep finding stuff, you know?
A: (laughs) I never thought of it that way.
B: Oh, sure you have. But, hey, did this get shown in the theaters?
A: You mean, here? Hell, no. But in the US, yeah it did.
B: Wasn't a hit, was it?
A: Nope. A movie like that? No way.
B: But what did the critics say?
A: It wasn't as well-received as Kaufman's other films.
B: Hmm..
A: 'Cause it's not really much of a movie experience, you know. More of an art experience. It's too complex. Obtuse, at its worst. Kaufman must still have been on screenwriter mode when he directed this.
B: See, you're articulate, too.
A: (laughs)
B: The ending is just something else. Damn, that was a good one.
A: So, time for Roger Ebert?
B: In a while. So, hey, what about that Genius Grant?
A: Yeah, sure would be great to be given that. Would mean a lot of pressure, though. Did you know that David Foster Wallace had one?
B: Hmm. Probably why he killed himself.

The Proverbial New Year's Resolution

The indefatigable Wowoo and I were having a chit-chat in our work stations (his desk is across mine) and we kinda got to exchanging bits about our weekend, with EJ nearby providing the occasional snicker, chuckle and witch's laugh.

I had quite some stuff to tell him about--what with the Friday afternoon Starbucks date I had with Jackie and Kim, the Friday night Margarita drinking binge (ok, just two glasses, lol) I had with my dear friend, Rowell, the Saturday night Serendra coffee session with Myts and the Northerners, and last night's family dinner at Rack's--so it was quite an animated conversation. We talked about John Travolta's sixteen-year-old son's recent death and the former's 5 private planes and very own airstrip (oh, the rich! the rich!), Tom Cruise and Scientology, and some stuff about Embassy and West Gate. Sunday is one of the worst days for working, and my team and I have to look for ways--different ways--to keep ourselves awake, and small talk is one of them.

As if that's something new.

Anyway.

Wowoo asked me what my New Year's resolution was--his was to eat at all the restaurants he hasn't eaten in, he said--and I told him that mine was to make it a point to count my blessings. He gave me a blank stare, like I was the most boring person on earth. "That's it? Count your blessings? But that's inane, so... so... do-able!" He looked at the new Charles and Keith pair I was wearing and, knowing my penchant for hoarding heeled footwear, suggested for me to make it my resolution to buy a pair of shoes in every mall that I go to. Oh, but I've done that lots of times, was he kidding?

Anyway, for the second time.

Counting one's blessings, though quite trite and insignificant for most, can be one of the toughest things to do. I certainly find it a challenging task to establish consistency on and although I know that it just might be the one cure for a pessimistic, depressive worry-wart like me, knowing alone isn't enough. But it does help to be aware, to recognize that one is fortunate to have the things that one has, to be with the people that one loves, to have a roof over one's head, to not worry about what to buy one's dinner with, to be up and about and not strapped to a hospital bed and depend on a respirator for survival. You know, things like that, things like the fifty-peso bill in one's wallet, or the healthy little daughter waiting for one to come home.

I, of course, did not voice all that out. For fear of being accused of being cheezy and sentimental, I kept mum about it, and said, instead, "how about this one, I could make it my goal to try all the cocktail drinks in the book. Won't that be neat?"

It elicited a grin and a "that's more like it."

I hate beer. I always have.