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.

Sunlight slanting over surfaces is a breathtakingly beautiful thing. Like sadness, sometimes. Or, certainty.

Throw in particles of dust (star, or fairy), let them glimmer for a little while, and the mind's eye settles.

Exquisiteness is in the seer's point of view.

Blanks and blues

on random things and loneliness

The dust keeps settling too nicely on the floor. And now I need to wipe them off my books. I ask myself how it is that I keep forgetting, when I keep reminding myself to bring that notebook everywhere, but it's a lie. I often forget to remind myself. The thought seldom crosses my mind. But today I will put it in my bag and have it dig a snug space in my bag. 

Later, yes. 

I have just committed the sin of looking back at what I have written. I shouldn't have done it. But what gives, when this space is so tiny, the ceiling, not high enough? No matter, I have enough space inside to put things in, though there isn't much headroom for memories as there is for listlessness. 

Time, I steal--because I have to, because I want to. Twice, during the last eleven seconds, I typed spave, instead of space. 

Let's see:

It's March and yet much rain has already fallen. What is the world coming to? There isn't much to be seen where I am. There never is, but how come I see so much?

How many sunsets more?

If the line forms to the right, chances are, you'll find me on the left. Surely there'll be one, or two, others there, on the line, with me?

If not, then, let me be by my lonesome self. I figure that's where all these are going, anyway.

I don't know what my point is.

As usual.

Pulse check

Weight: 97 lbs (gained 3 lbs from the recent week-long break from work)
Height: diminutive, still. pffft. hahaha
Books read: .5 (I know, right?!)
Movies seen: 4
Moves watched: 17
Hours of sleep missed: 76
Mood: ennui, extracted from determined resolution to detach from issue(s) causing chronic headaches, both actual and imagined
Number of (actual) headaches since last blog post: 4
Inspiration for this post: coffee date with girl friend
Girl friend's name: Celine
Celine's status: confused
Comparison with girl friend's status: same
View from the window: brown gate, neighbor's water meter counter, dried-up tree whose name I don't know
Plans for the near future: read the e-mails accumulated while I was on break from work
Tanduay Ice bottles consumed since general confusion began: 9 (so not an alcoholic, thank God, haha)
Closing in mind: a giant sigh, a shrug, a prayer for resolution of issue(s)

remember remembering writing

about the girl
who prayed
to St. Jude

the sad clump
of candles
drooping
beneath the weight
of flame
and supplication

Here

is never where there is and I am made to make do with what is in it: the two shoe boxes under the shoe cabinet, the coffee mug on top of it, the yellow stress ball perched so snugly on the mug's mouth, the film of dust on the ball, the nothing in the dust which can't be nothing but which I call nothing because I cannot see it--

The next minute

is an entirety in itself. Mere specks that we are in the vastness of the now as we know it, how to make it in the spaciousness is to loosen the grasp, whatever length of time it may take--we each have our own learning curve to consider and after all, five minutes could really be an hour, right?--to finally let go and go on letting go until the act of letting go finds itself under the same category and on the same level of difficulty as fixing oneself a cup of coffee.

Because one minute could take but a moment from our day, but the next could ask the world of us.

So, take a deep breath and keep saying let go, let go, until it becomes as easy as stirring the cream into the cup.

Because this is: an exercise in senselessness

Because a moonbeam falls on the unlikeliest places.
Because a myth is a myth is a myth.
Because it takes time for sand to find itself.
Because eight hours do not make a day.
Because naming things does not mean owning them.
Because nothing can be equal to something.
Because soon or late, hours do go away.
Because not being does not mean disappearing.
Because yesterday has no place here.

This part of my world has been so painfully neglected. Sorry, dear blog. I've been bad to you.

Some updates are due, then.

...

...

But my, oh, my, I'm drawing a blank. Or, ellipses.

Tsk, tsk, tsk. What's up with that?