Right now, I am:

1. Writing on my blog and alternately reading Alice Munro's short story in The New Yorker website.
2. Listening to U2's "The Fly" on my ipod.

3. Regretting not having waken up on time to catch the early morning practice of John's World's Pep Squad. On Monday, I'm really gonna get it from our trainer. Oh, boy.
4. Trying to think of the best excuse to give on Monday when I get interrogated for having missed practice.
5. Wondering if I should have another cup of coffee.
6. Looking at a square patch of blue (called "the sky") from the window beside where I'm typing this entry.
7. Listening to The Philippine Madrigal Singers on my ipod. They're singing "Light of a Million Mornings."
8. Relieved that a spectacularly harrowing week at work is over.
9. Wondering what to type next.
10. Happy.

The Eternal Scapegoat

A guy gets dumped by his girlfriend and someone says "that's Karma." The man from next-door gets killed in a car crash and the neighbors say "it's Karma." China gets hit by a high-intensity earthquake and someone (like, um, Sharon Stone) says it was brought on by Karma.

I mean, come on.

If this Karma were a person, he'd be the most battered, most abused fall guy by now, and he'd have gone ahead and hung himself to death (a long, long time ago). So let's just give him a break.

Him, her, it, whatever.

It's easy to find someone--or something--to put the blame on when something unpleasant (from poverty to natural calamities to tragedy) rears its ugly head. Let's face it, shit happens and will continue to happen. The fact remains that there are and will always be things beyond our control that it would be futile to look for someone/something to point a finger on.

In the first place, do we even have to?

Bottom-line is: Nature will always be one force impossible to contend with and people will always make mistakes. We make "bad" decisions, give in to our "human" weaknesses, choose the "wrong" paths. And when the consequences of our actions come barging in for all the world to see, the world would say that it's Karma and that we deserve it, which is an outright misconception. But one that would be difficult to counter because we, being human, could be judgmental to a fault.

Until the world gets to understand the complexity of the human brain, until our scientists discover a way to halt the next earthquake or storm, until we all develop the power to see what will happen tomorrow, until we evolve into perfect beings, if perfect means faultless--it would be so much easier to point at something that would make sense to things that don't seem to make sense.

Hence, the ubiquitous line: "it's Karma."

The trouble with meeting so many people

(This little ditty is for my friends from Mortgage and Auto-Finance with whom I shared 24 fun hours in the Tagaytay Strat Plan)


There is no name that will suit this kinship

because truth is,
later at 7 a.m.
we all will have lost the nerve to:

sing like long-time pals
(who got drunk)
or laugh at our clumsy ping-pong
or outdo each other at poker
or laugh over small talk

or remember each others' names.

*This is so stupid! Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that I had a great time. c")
Looking forward to next year's!

"We like to think of our beliefs, and disbeliefs, as founded on reason and close, thoughtful observation. Only in theory do we begin to suspect the power of aesthetics to shape our lives."

-Tobias Wolff, "Winter Light"-

Conspicuously Juxtaposed:

In the May 12th issue of a prestigious international periodical, a Louis Vuitton spread sat smugly alongside an article on the skyrocketing price of oil and the sad, mad socio-economic implications of the crisis.

And on the page at the end of the article, a Patek Philippe ad grinned unashamedly.

Ah, the ironies that surround us everyday.
You do the math.

Woman, Awakening

I was browsing through some of the papers I wrote in college and, having chanced upon a review I wrote on Kate Chopin's novel The Awakening, I shook my head at the anger I sensed creeping on its (my review's) pages. It was funny--and sad, at the same time--to note how, even at that point in my life, my indignance at the failure of society (even now, at this modern age) to recognize woman's rightful place, was already incipient.
Here are some "tell-tale" signs:

1. Kate Chopin’s decision to make her heroine swim away to sea, at the end of her controversial novel The Awakening, has been met by raised eyebrows and emphatic shakes of the head. That it is symbolic of twenty-eight-year-old Edna Pontellier’s final, total emancipation from all that used to chain her, was never justification enough for such an act. This, and most—if not all—parts of the whole novel have elicited condemnation, even as it is a novel that seeks to tell woman’s story in an honest, uninhibited light.

2. For many, during the time of the novel’s publication—and even now, at this present time—the conclusion, and the actions that preceded it, were indecent, immoral and improper. This was, of course, to be expected, coming as it did from a world that, even as I write, has only just begun to recognize woman’s place as that of man’s equal. Even this last concept is problematic, for why must we always look at woman in relation to man?

3. Mademoiselle Reisz, as I see her, is Edna Pontellier’s doppelganger. She seems, at first, to be Edna’s complete opposite so that we might dismiss the connection that binds them as brought about by their differences. Upon closer inspection, however, it is easy to see that they are very much alike, only that one of them has not yet learned to see herself for what she is, has not yet awakened to her true nature. It seems that Mademoiselle Reisz—a musician, unmarried, completely devoid of any care what other people might say—is the person that Edna wants to be. The latter, though, lacks the recklessness, the utter disregard for societal opinion that the former has.

4. Taking all these other characters into consideration, perhaps Edna’s suicide would not be so difficult to understand. Every woman is the product and, in this case, the victim of all that surrounds her. Foremost among these are the confining walls that society has erected, and is still erecting around her. Edna Pontellier is simply the prototype of the repressed woman who, awakening at a certain point in her life to the fact that she is no longer content to be the way she is, or that the world that society has built for her has become too narrow for her to be able to breathe, decides to swim away to freedom, even if it be death which that freedom stands for.

Hurrah to girl-power!
(cough, cough)
Better get me a glass of water.

Lea, Her Life... On Stage

Lea Salonga is not a human being. Disguised as a thirty-something (though she barely looks twenty-five), very pretty lady with peaches-and-cream skin, she is, in reality, a self-winding machine that sputters out spectacularly beautiful music, at will. But then again, there is that word will, which gives away the fact that she is, after all, human. Contradictions arise when we come face to face with immense talent. While at her concert last night, this fact was not lost on me.

Watching Lea, My Life... on Stage at the PICC Plenary Hall proved to be an amazing experience for this Lea Salonga fan. Never mind that the concert began 30 minutes behind schedule and that I was mistaken in thinking that the Filipino audience would know, by now, not to carry a cellphone (the ones I saw last night were not switched off, or even on vibrate mode, at that, so that every now and then, a text message alert would be heard--so much for respect to the performers and to the rest of the audience) inside the theater, or that several American Idol wannabes would break into song at random times during the concert, perhaps with the evil plot to upstage Lea, herself, annoying the hell out of the rest of the audience. Never mind all those because whatever distraction they posed were erased by the sheer talent of Lea Salonga herself, whose pitch-perfect, perfectly beautiful voice tackled every song like it was the easiest, most natural thing to do. Some of the pieces had high levels of technical difficulty, but she sang them all effortlessly.

She was perfectly at home doing her thing, very confident and un-self-conscious, hitting both high notes and low notes with equal skill and flawlessness, lighting up the whole stage with her mere presence (she's very pretty on tv but she is beautiful in person-she positively glowed like a gem in the middle of the stage!) and singing her way to everybody's heart, in command althroughout. Suffice it to say that she had the whole audience at the palm of her hand. As for me, she was twirling me by her little finger.

I was delighted at the repertoire; as suggested by the title, she sang songs which depicted her life story, including, of course, songs from the musicals that she played major parts in, like Annie, Miss Saigon, Flower Drum Song, Les Miserables, and They're Playing Our Song and less-known (to the non-Theater-enthusiast, at least) musicals like A Chorus Line (they modified the lyrics to "Nothing" to make it more in accord with her struggles with Philippine Popstardom) and Oliver (she once again did the beautiful medley of "Where is Love" and "As Long as He Needs Me," which she also sang in her Broadway concert some years back). Her Disney songs (from Aladdin and Mulan) were part of the programme, as well. There were bits of Pop (Aga Muhlach had a cameo role, by the way), and as further proof that she can, indeed, sing all the phonebooks in the universe, her version of Menudo's "If You're Not Here" sounded like a Broadway classic. Now beat that. Magic tricks aren't just for Circus Magicians, after all.

I am raving and speaking in superlatives, and that I'm well aware of. This was my first time to watch Lea perform live, and I would have to say that it was worth millions more than the ticket price, worth all the heavy traffic we had to go through just to get to the venue on time. An experience like this is one that I would cherish, if only for the fact that it has enriched me in ways that I couldn't even begin to imagine. Music is priceless and artists like Lea Salonga continually remind us that, yes, life could get real ugly, at times, but hey, there will always be beauty in it, however stubbornly our cynicism would want to turn the whites into greys. After all, that is what art does--turns the world inside-out and upside-down, digs deep and soars high, just so the beauty in things could be shown for the saddest, most jaded being to see.

And as for me, I'm off to make a list of songs that would make up the repertoire for my own concert.

Which, of course, I will stage in my dreams, haha.

DARK HOURS in the Morning

Today, I woke up early, had a breakfast of tuyo, itlog na maalat and rice. Not to forget, of course, coffee. Then I went outside, sat on my favorite chair, sent a "good morning!" text message to my dad, mom and brothers, sent text messages (oh, this age of text and text and texts some more!) to my team reminding them that we had a shift tonight, skimmed the pages of a magazine, put it down, opened Conchitina Cruz's Dark Hours and read it for the next hour or so.
I've read the book a couple of times before and, like every piece of good writing, it doesn't matter how many times one has read it: going through its pages is always a cherished experience. Poetry differs from Fiction (aside from its form) in that the former would take you longer to chew on fewer lines than the latter. And yet the richness would be the same.
Anyway, I did not mean for this post to be a dissertation on Poetry vis a vis Fiction, so let me stop right here. Going back to Dark Hours, below are some of my favorite lines (the beauty of which will be more appreciated in context with the whole of the poem, of course, so go get a copy of the book, now!):

1) Inside the story, she sees nothing but darkness. She is ungrateful for the luxury of despair. (from "Geography Lesson")

2) ...and the room is flooded with the radiance of the moment, a man and a woman in the middle of a sweet misunderstanding. (from "Smile")

3) on a typewriter the stammering pulse lone comfort of the wrist the alphabet falling

like seeds the white page blooming (from "I must say this about the city")

4) Across the city, a man turns from a corner to his street. There are too many keys in his hand and not enough doors to open. (from "Now and at the hour")

5) What is a shadow? It is the self without a face or a name, all outline and no feature, the self on the verge of being erased. It is the incidental child of matter and light. Look how it spreads itself on the ground, weary but weightless, unable to leave a trace.

...Is it possible for this not to be a story of disappearance? (from "Disappear")

6) If I keep still enough inside this shadow, it is as if I'm not here. If I keep still enough, there is no proof you are not here with me. (from "Inside the Dark")

*Lines #1-6 all taken from Dark Hours by Conchitina Cruz.

from James Merrill's "Lost in Translation"

And after rain
A deep reverberation fills with stars.

Lost, is it, buried? One more missing piece?

But nothing's lost. Or else: all is translation
And every bit of us is lost in it
(Or found—I wander through the ruin of S
Now and then, wondering at the peacefulness)
And in that loss a self-effacing tree,
Color of context, imperceptibly
Rustling with its angel, turns the waste
To shade and fiber, milk and memory.

Seeing

A stranger once said there's a ghost in the house.

But it's a benign spirit, she added, hastily, seeing the fear cross my face. He watches over you, a companion, you know.

I did not know.

Until I was told. Telling is frightening; knowing even more so. (He was told in jest, put up a tent and I'll buy you a crystal ball. Read them the future while I sell my wares outside.)

I was scared to know, but still, I asked.
How am I?

He told me what he saw.

And none of them were ghosts.

*painting: Gustav Klimt's FARM GARDEN

Writer's Block Thought #2:

The winds have come.
What have they brought with them aside from the rain?

When I was young, I remember speculating about whether the rain has feelings or not. How silly, to think that something inanimate could have emotions. But I remember, as well, a poem I wrote in college, wherein the speaker was a chair.

Writer's block thought #1:

It's been nothing but work, work, work these past few weeks.

I could perfectly empathize with the Energizer bunny--I feel like one from the moment I step into the office building--as if some invisible hand turns on the switch--to the time I get out, batteries drained from all the mechanized movement.

Lit Geek Update #7

Last book I read: Imagining Characters (A.S. Byatt and Ignes Sodre)

This would have to be one of the best Literary Criticism pieces I've ever read. It's written in a dialogue form, a recorded conversation between psychoanalyst Ignes Sodre and A.S. Byatt, who has been hailed as the George Eliot of her generation. For me, though, this description doesn't at all do Byatt any justice because she, on her own, is worthy of being seen as a literary giant, right up there with Charlotte and Emily Bronte, Jane Austen, and George Eliot.
The conversation being between two women, it goes without saying that the feminist undertow figures strongly on the book's pages. Nothing radical is presented, at least not the in-your-face kind, although for female readers, the seemingly innocuous ideas would rightly come across as stronger than they would to the casual (read: male--no offense meant) reader.
To put it in a nutshell, the two authors discuss books written by women, giving them a motley richness of readings--mythical, biographical, archetypal, psychoanalytic, structuralist, feminist, etc. Some of the pieces they discussed (and the ones I liked best) were George Eliot's Daniel Deronda , Charlotte Bronte's Villette and Toni Morrisson's Beloved.

Here are some insights which I found really noteworthy:

1. Coleridge's idea of life-in-death, from his "Rime of the Ancient Mariner", is a recurring discussion thread in the conversations. It's not surprising for such a dark theory to be associated with the texts, as the texts' writers are women who, at some point in their lives, found themselves bound by the patriarchal social structure in which they lived, which, to some--or more--extent, must have thwarted their supposedly "ideal" (again, as expected by society) perception of how they should have lived their lives. A life strictly patterned (for the sake of conforming in order to avoid stigmatization) after the dictates of a seemingly "moral" or "correct" society would eventually prove to be a form of death, after all. Upto this very day, the emancipated woman is looked down upon; if at all admired, it is done so begrudgingly and with reservations.

2. One of the most beautiful parts of the book is where Byatt dips into Beloved for the section where Sethe, the main protagonist, arrives at the breaking point, having punished herself for so long in desperate longing for a lost child, Beloved, whom she calls "her best thing" and Paul D., her lover, corrects her, saying, "You your best thing, Sethe. You are" (p. 273). I remember having been moved by the line, as well, while I was reading the novel about a year ago. One of the remarkable differences in the treatment of men-women relationships between literature written by men and those written by women, according to Byatt in the discussion of Villette, is that in the former, women are made to respond to masterfulness whereas in the latter, women respond to kindness (ch. 2). Both authors agree that Paul D's statement embodies their belief that the true literary heroes are the men who see women for what and who they are in themselves, their intrinsic make-up as opposed to their relation to the external world; that prior to being daughters, mothers or slaves (in African-American literature, especially), women are foremost women, and no one has the right to take this from them, regardless of whatever costumes get thrown their way by society.

3. Below is a passage from chapter 6, stated beautifully by Sodre:

"...however horrible the past, you can only live and be sane and integrated if you live in contact with it. The connection with beauty is important--the sense of hope and the will to create a better life are deeply connected to the ability to preserve beauty and goodness in the internal world. One of the fundamental ideas in Kleinian psychoanalytic theory is that sanity depends on the capacity to retain a good, trusting link with good figures in the internal world--the capacity to survive loss through the internalisation of the good experience." (p. 221)

"What is a mirror but water that refuses to budge?" -Conchitina Cruz-

Well-read and Well-dressed

Sunday mornings find me at my most laid-back state. A cup of ginseng or red yeast coffee and a book or a magazine are my best pals at this time of day, this day of the week.
This particular Sunday in question, things were just as they should be: I, emerging from the house in an old, yellow shirt, cup of coffee in hand, walking toward the glass-topped table, where lay a copy of the April issue of Preview and A.S. Byatt's Imagining Characters, a bookmark sandwiched between two of its pages.
I sat down, musing, eyeing the magazine and the book, lying casually beside each other like old friends enjoying the early morning sunlight. It occurred to me how this partnership might strike some as unlikely--the fashion magazine with its emphasis on the superficial and the Booker Prize Winning author's book on literary criticism of Women's Fiction (which could just as well be a dissertation on Feminism, by the way).
I sat down and stared at them and tried to weigh which one was more important to me--a silly thought, really, but one which crossed my mind, nevertheless, like an epiphany of sorts. I knew very well which one I'd rather lose over the other and which one I'd cry over if I ever had to lose it. Still, the fleeting question breezed by and I realized as I shook my head and grinned wryly, that I wasn't the nerd that some people (from High School, in particular) thought me to be. For me, intelligence dressed in mismatched clothes (a striped top and checked pants, for example) is less interesting, in the same way that a smartly-dressed woman without brains is ugly.
If you can quote Oscar Wilde but know no better than to wear those hideous white flats with purple pants, then it's time to look in the mirror and ask yourself why you never paid attention to what you wore. Or, better yet, grab a magazine from the bookshop and take a crash course on the difference between a pump and a mule, what a tulip skirt is and what season it was from, who Stella McCartney is aside from being a Beatle brat, is Yohji Yamamoto a he or a she, what does tweed look like and will it look good on you, etc, etc.
But make sure you don't forget who it was that said that to think is to be, or where the Leaning Tower of Pisa is, or if Pompeii is a person or a place and who Coleridge is. And brush up on those fractions--you just might need them on your shopping spree next sale season!

My Oscar Buzz

Let me brag and say that I have watched four of the five Academy Award nominees for Best Picture. I know this might not mean a lot to the geeks (and I use that term with admiration) out there, but hey, this is me talking, and I've never been that much into movies until fairly recently. I have yet to watch Michael Clayton, but here are my two cents' worth on the four that I've seen, so far:

1. Atonement- I might go so far as to say that the movie is better than the book. Ian McEwan's prose should be lauded for its intricateness but more often than is acceptable, the words and paragraphs tend to go over the boundaries of tightness and spill out into overstatement. The plot is riveting, though, and the movie succeeds in capturing both the excitement of the story and the gamut of emotions felt by the characters. Freed of the excessive expositions, the film is held in check at the seams and the actors' portrayals blend well with the setting, the plot and the themes.

2. Juno- please see review in previous blog entry. Thanks.

3. No Country For Old Men- the film's victory over the others is well-deserved. I am guessing that the chances of the regular movie-goer liking this film is low, and that should be warning enough that this is definitely not your "typical" blockbuster hit (will it be a hit, I wonder?). It has almost no score, very quiet except for a few, paltry but well-written lines here and there, has lots (as compared to the minimal script) of gunshots, and pools of blood staining the desert sands, the streets, the floors, the sheets, the clothes. The film completely overturned my expectations in that the man I was rooting for during the chase unceremoniously dies in the middle, the protagonist never captures the villain, who disappears without a trace, leaving me positively clueless of his whereabouts, or what it is that fate has in store for him. Javier Bardem is spectacularly creepy in the movie and his acting should be reason enough to make the film worth your time.

4. There Will Be Blood- My only take-away from this movie is that Daniel Day Lewis can act. And I mean, really act. And really, that is all I have to say. I guess I'd have to watch the film one more time. And then one more, after that.

Jackie knows Laura I. Wilder's family tree. She's read LITTLE WOMEN and is currently devouring L. M. Montgomery's ANNE series. She is 8 years old.

Kim is a pro at Gameboy, Play Station and Xbox games. He makes a hundred faces in one day. He is 6 years old.

Together, they make Mommy's world a more beautiful place.

Conan and Jay on the Rewind

And The Writers' Strike is finally over. (I felt the need to write it as a proper noun--it's become such a phenomenon over the past months, as most everyone will agree, and considering the effect it had on the American entertainment industry).

The great Conan O'Brien, without his writers but armed with his Harvard degree in History and Literature, managed to make do with slapstick, stupidly innovative gadgets and laughter-inducing brouhaha. His ever-reliable wit, not to mention his tall, lanky frame and cartoonish face crowned with that pompadour-like red hair, pocked with those beady eyes, that longish nose and those strip-thin lips (I have a feeling that one day, not long ago, he suddenly had this urge to strip off his mouth and sketch on a new pair of lips!) got him through those trying times.

And Jay Leno, undoubtedly my favorite among the three late night talk show hosts (I'm not much for David Letterman--there's simply too much sarcasm in his humor that leaves a sour taste), remained his old, hefty, understatedly funny self. He didn't have to resort (much)to antics and stuff; though without Conan's comical looks, his, uhm, sizeable chin and spectacularly down-to-earth (oxymoron, anyone?) way of delivering his punch-lines more than made up for the absence of the organized script.

So these two hosts have yet again proven that they are forces to contend with, and that they could stand on their own, much to the satisfaction of the late night talk show addict.

It's no different year, after year, after year. The weary sigh in defeat--they know they won't get any flowers, just like last year; the cynical roll their eyes in (feigned) disgust; the blase (haha) shrug their shoulders; and the young--oh, the young--shiver in anticipation (ugh), starry-eyed, ignorant. Foolish.

You probably know what i'm talking about, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I Recommend: JUNO

One of this year's must-see movies, Juno proved a tear-jerker for good ol' sentimental-but-trying-hard-not-to-be me. Don't expect dramatics, though. The script and the acting are as understated as a pair of white school socks. Diablo Cody has done a great job with the story, proof yet again that genius doesn't go around sporting airs and an up-turned nose; and that womanhood could be respresented, in turns, by a beautiful, well-mannered, high-heeled yuppie named Vanessa, and a spunky, sassy sixteen-year old named Juno, with her no-nonsense shirts, baggy jeans and dirty sneakers.
There are some things that only women will understand, bonds that only mothers will share with other mothers, as this movie will inevitably prove; but here's hoping that the movie will speak to men, as well, because the men in Juno's world prove themselves worthy of being called men, after all.
The four Academy Award nominations running behind its back should be decoy enough.
So, watch it! Watch it! Watch it!

Not A Party Girl

Glammed-up people streamed into the great halls of the World Trade Center as HSBC's Manila Global Service Center held yet another big-- no, make that huge--party, with DISCOVOLUTION as the theme. Once again, the Senior Managers outdid themselves in proving that it wasn't just the corporate world they lorded over; they could also strut around as Madonna, Rihanna, Justin Timberlake, John Travolta (in Saturday Night Fever), Village People, et al.
Most everyone was in party mode. Even the shy ones found their feet keeping in time with the rhythm and beat of the dance music. No techno here, or house. Just plain old disco, true to the theme of the night.
Drinks were a-plenty, food overflowed. Everyone was dolled-up and in the mood for celebrating. The night spelled F-U-N away.
I had a nice time, sure. I'm not the type who won't enjoy a party here, or there.
But in true Shan fashion, I couldn't help wishing, in the middle of all that gaiety, that I was back in my warm bed, snuggled against my pillows.

Glory Be to the Mind

and its branches of thought:
scattered into alleys,
terrifying in their number
so that there is no way of putting a finger
on one pathway and hope of getting out
into the next and remain the same
as in the beginning
if sameness
is sane-ness
and infinity means one to a hundred

then you can count the trailways
and end up with a number
that might help you come up with what they call
an intelligent guess,
a measured frame to enclose
your mind,
parameters to use in building
the walls that would finally,

finally

guard your thoughts
from stretching out
where it's impossible
to follow.

-from "The Seventh Man," Haruki Murakami's Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman-

"It was the biggest wave I had ever seen in my life," he said. "A strange wave. An absolute giant."
He paused.
"It just barely missed me, but in my place it swallowed everything that mattered most to me and swept it off to another world. I took years to find it again and to recover from the experience-- precious years that can never be replaced."

Click here to read more.

In Praise of Work and the Friends We Find There

After a long week at work, it's finally my rest day. Am still recovering from the after-effects of a long break but, all in all, I feel happy about myself (in the workplace, at least). Considering the demons I'm trying my hardest to ward off right now, I'm handling it all relatively well.
I attended two conference calls with the US team, and, in both, I managed to speak up more than the usual self-effacing Shan did, and got good feedback from my bosses. But, more important than that, I'm finally getting to really love my job. I've been watching more of CNN lately and knowing about the Mortgage slump in the US has proven helpful in making me understand how critical it is for my department to be working even harder now more than ever, and for me to use a more strategic and less conventional approach in managing my team.
Our jobs usually suffer when we go through personal trials, but in the end, it proves to be just the therapy that we need in order to get by. My friends in the office have given me so much motivation and helpful advice. Or, if you will, just plain laughter and light moments, which is really all that our heavy, worry-laden minds need, most of the time. Special thanks to my friend Lizette, who, herself, is at a crossroads in her life, but still manages to pop up at just the right moments and linger for a while to provide some wise words and lots of comic relief. Hang in there, girl! We're both gonna make it!

The Art of Curbing

You probably know how it is, when that tiny wail clamped inside your chest balloons into a huge lump of painful, ear-splitting screams. For some of us, it's easy to let it out. Never mind that the odds of being heard by the people two doors away are ninety-nine to one. It's as easy as one, two, three, scream! Then it's all over and you feel a thousand times better where it used to hurt like needlepricks.
For the less fortunate ones (namely, the repressed), shouting is out of the question. The thought of it just never comes, simply because it's not the natural instinct. We probably never learned the trick as children.We feel the gargantuan pain (and we're talking physical pain) shooting up from the chest to the throat and we push, push it downwards so that the effort makes breathing difficult that tears start to well up in the eyes. But we don't stop until we know for sure that we've dug deep enough to bury the scream. And, with it, the pain.
And then the tears never really come.They have retreated, pushed down, as well. And we think, what a feat it has been, what sweetness in the strength of temperance, one more victory for the taking.
Then we sit there staring at some grey wall, wondering when the scream will surface again.
Some person sees us and wonder what we're looking at.

Anxiety is clingy and stubborn and breathes down your neck like some persistent
reminder of an ugly past and a future filled with monsters pretending to be people.

Those aren't people but monsters, that crowd across the room from you
laughing
they are laughing at you.

The worst is always the best thing to think about
(blue is really black the fate of life is death and yes, that image in the mirror
is yours, yours) because it prepares you for when it comes.
Or so you are convinced

because you have been living for too long with that monster
breathing down your neck.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE! HERE'S TO A BETTER, BRIGHTER YEAR.

What Do You Know, I'm Smiling!

And so it shall be that at 3 o'clock the next morning, I will be marching back to work after a long vacation, armed with the dreaded but inevitable extra pounds, my trusty cloths and trinkets of vanity, a renewed sense of peace, and a stouter, happier heart. In fact, banning the Christmases of my childhood, this holiday season has been the happiest I've had in years. Knowing that I would have to go back to work soon enough doesn't seem half as dismal as it used to be, not with the memories of mornings and breakfasts spent at my family's home in Naga still warm against my sentimental heart; the sound of my father's laughter, my mom's words of wisdom, my brothers' stories and my kids' precocious, childish bickerings still ringing in my ears; the feeling of contentment (finally, a word that I can claim as mine) wrapping me like some watchful, protective guardian.
Sigh.
There's nothing like home to rejuvinate a tired, anxious mind (in particular, this mind); nothing like family to remind me (and, I hope, everyone else) that I am not alone, no, never alone.

The Air Between Us

is still

but soon will drift

(the years, the days,
the hours)

to somewhere else
and so much would have been lost
the moment we decide

not to be strangers
anymore.

By then I would have gone
or you, yes, why not you?
and all we--you, and I--
will be left with

are shadows
digging in agony
for that place in our minds
where we are not

strangers.

SAMSON (by Regina Spektor)

You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first, I loved you first

Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth
I have to go, I have to go
Your hair was long when we first met

Samson went back to bed
Not much hair left on his head
He ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed
And history books forgot about us and the bible didn't mention us
The bible didn't mention us, not even once

You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first , I loved you first

Beneath the stars came falling on our heads
But they're just soft light, they're just soft light
Your hair was long when we first met

Samson came to my bed
Told me that my hair was red
He told me i was beautiful and came into my bed
Oh I cut his hair myself one night
A pair of dull scissors and the yellow light
And he told me that I'd done alright
and kissed me till the morning light, the morning light
and he kissed me till the morning light

Samson came back to bed
not much hair left on his head
Ate a slice of wonderbread and went right back to bed
Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down
Yeah we couldn't destroy a single one
And history books forgot about us
And the bible didn't mention us, not even once

You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first

Reposted from my previous blog(s)

July 18, 2006
Nothing, Whatsoever

When I was a whole lot younger than I am now (yep, I feel old), my favorite weekend pastime was sulking and giving everybody that get-out-of-my-way look, barging into my room as if the rest of the house was on fire, plopping into my unmade, books-and-papers-and-whathaveyous-filled bed and reading myself to death, vegetating like a piece of broccolli (i love this veggie, by the way) left out in the sun until my eyes would droop and so would the rest of me (how convenient that a pillow is nearby and I can just get lost in dreamland and meet Eustacia Vye on her way to meet The Native, or, maybe, just maybe, the great Holden Caulfield himself). Whew. Long sentence, wasn't it? But where was I? Oh, Holden--no, dreamland? I forgot. Totally lost track of my thoughts. What was I writing about? Sulking, I think, or maybe something to do with being young? I am typing, typing, typing and I don't care if I am making sense, or not. Are the punctuations correct? Is my grammar okay? Whatever. The point is...well,the point is that I don't have a point. I am rambling and how I started would tell you what kind of a person I am. Or maybe not. I mean, the last book I read was like a week ago, and it's taking me ages to finish the great Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five. I remember reading Slapstick when i was thirteen years old and not being able to make heads and tails out of it. It was my dad's, by the way. Yep, the great Dad who boasts of not having gone through the Hardy Boys and going straight to Moby Dick, from whom I got my copy of Faulkner's Light In August which is still in my bookshelf to this very day, pages tattered and browning away and browning some more, and all. Where was I, again? Oh, yeah, Slapstick. Fast forward to seven years later: One of my favorite English teachers, Prof. Thelma E. Arambulo (she says she hates her first name, but a heck of a woman she was!) tells us, her English majors-- and by the way, Contemporary American Lit just rocks!-- that the great Kurt would write in bits of paper and compile them into a piece of work that is so incoherent it would have your eyes glued on to the pages until everything would make sense. Where are you, James Merrill! Theodore Roethke! You Beat poets! Adrienne Rich! Omigawd my punctuation is so downright sloppy but I don't care I'm writing can't you see. I wonder, why this difficulty with Slaughterhouse Five? I mean, I read The Hours, Mrs. Dalloway and An Invisible Sign of My Own (which I bought at a booksale for a hundred and ten bucks and turned out to have been autographed by Amy Bender herself!) in a span of, like, four days. Is it just laziness? Is my brain deteriorating into something awful? Is it Vonnegut? The answer to this is: I don't know. I really don't. And I still don't know what my point is. I have no idea what shape this entry is taking. And, really, why is it called an entry? Because you enter the words into the keypad and they pop out into the screen? Who first thought of calling it an entry? Did it have, in any way, a likeness with how James Joyce started using the word epiphany to mean something else other than the feast of the three kings (were they really kings?)? I am so lost. Other words/names to think about today: canon, pathos, incoherent, James Thurber (where in the world can I find a book by him, aside from the UP CAL library?), lunch (or breakfast first?), sleep. Yep, sleep. I think it's lack of sleep that got me started, lack of sleep that made me go on, and on, and on. Stop. This is so much fun I'm dozing off.

October 27, 2006
From Billy to Randall

Correction: It's AIMEE, not Amy Bender. Sorry for that. I happened to look at my bookshelf this weekend and saw the mistake I had made. A whoops! moment, right there.

Slaughterhouse-Five was a real blast! Yes, I have finally finished the book, and managed to swallow Faulkner's As I Lay Dying in between. Now, S-5 (that's what I've taken to calling it) is about this guy named Billy Pilgrim who's become unstuck in time (sounds so glamorous, doesn't it?) and gets abducted by the Trafalmadorians (hope I spelled that right) who, by the way, are a group of aliens who have taken a keen interest in the human race. Now, what the book implies(or what I have gleaned from it, whichever) is that Billy began to have these hallucinations (they could just as well have been real, for all we know) after he survived the 2nd World War (why does this phrase always have to be in caps?), the climax of which (in Billy's experience, at least) was the bombing of Dresden, Germany. Slaughterhouse-Five is the name of the structure which housed the Americans (Billy included), and which miraculously escaped the bombing (yep, it was supposedly that disastrous).

Now, what am I doing? I am boring myself to death. I didn't come out here to give a summary of the book! No way! Go and read it yourself! But why should you, right? Why the @#**#$% should you read a book written by some guy (sorry, Vonnegut fans. No insult intended, none at all) who had nothing better to do than write a book about some crazy war survivor who had, in turn, nothing better to do than walk in and out of time zones?

I am so incoherent. This is what non-writing (is there such a word?) does to people who used to write like writing was breathing. And so I have taken to coming up with patches of script that I am hoping would turn out to be worth this page, anyhow. Or your time. Now that was downright smug. I mean, am I really writing this with the thought that someone would even care to read it? But then again, there's always the zeitgeist, the invisible audience (reader, whatever) one has in mind when one is writing. I mean, come on, give me that luxury, at least! The only person I'm pretty sure would read this is the friend who gave the book to me. So, there.

Well, back to Dresden. Reading about the bombing made me remember Randall Jarrell, a contemporary American poet who was a fighter pilot during the WWII, who wrote about what it was like to be up in the air and just fire and fire away at a piece of geography (it mustn't have seemed real to them, at all, just a part of the map they were ordered to annihilate). That there were people being killed, living beings being shred to pieces by the ammunition raining like fire from the sky-- these would hardly have occurred to them, at all, at least while they were at it. What Jarrell's poem ("Losses," that was the title) seems to be pointing at is the unreality of what was happening, to them who were no more than just pilots with an assignment. What was real enough must have been what came after, that moment when the task is done and they land and hear about it from the news, look at the photo spreads of the ravages of war, the deaths, the shattered limbs, the ashes. And then they say, or think: Hey. That was me. Us. I did that. We did that. And then the sadness. The ache of guilt. And everything else.

I have no idea how to end this. A period would, I think, have to do for now.

So there.

Borrowed

"In the end, life is no more than the sum of contingent facts, a chronicle of chance intersections, of flukes, of random events that divulge nothing but their own lack of purpose."

-Paul Auster, "The Locked Room," The New York Trilogy-

"Is not an event in fact more significant and noteworthy the greater number of fortuities necessary to bring it about? Chance and chance alone has a message for us. Everything that occurs out of necessity, everything expected, repeated day in and day out, is mute. Only chance can speak to us. We read its message much as the gypsies read the images made by coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup."

-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being-

THE WATCHER (excerpt)

this was a story that I wrote for my Writing Class under Luis Katigbak

Once, during the night, I had the strange feeling that she had seen me--really seen me--for the first time.

She was sitting up in bed, reading under the yellow light of the lamp, her black-rimmed glasses framing her eyes. It was very quiet and all that I kept hearing, for the last half hour and in intervals, was the sound of her fingers flipping through the book's pages. Then she yawned, dropped the book to her side and leaned deeper into the thick pillows propped up on the headboard. She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes with her palms, after which her gaze landed on me.

For what seemed like a very long stretch of minutes, she looked at me, just looked at me, with her dark-circled eyes. I saw questions, thoughts skimming her countenance in fleeting hosts. I felt her really look at me, past the layers of shadow and dust, ending the certainty of never being seen. Or so I liked to think.

This girl--whose name I did not even know--looked at me as if she really saw me, as if I was real, was more than what I had been for so long. And, inside me, a flicker of something that made me feel more alive than I had ever been began to stir. The hope that, perhaps, this girl was going to care enough to look for me, to find me.

And then, the moment passed. Overcome by fatigue, perhaps, or simply by the lateness of the hour, her eyes started drooping. She drifted off to sleep and I watched her, praying, please look at me once more, the way you looked at me tonight.

War Stories

There was this feature on The History Channel wherein they juxtaposed ancient warfare to modern ones, and it was chilling to see that, yes, history does repeat itself.
Here are the ones that I remember:
First, suicide bombing. The catastrophe at the World Trade Center has its roots in Japanese history, wherein the Japanese army of World War II, out of a desperate attempt to win the war and save their country's honor (they were quite big on this one), deployed young fighter pilots (17 to 22 years old-- you figure out why) to crash their planes on the American fleet anchored on Japanese waters. They are better known as the Kamikazees.
Next, Bioweaponry, like the Anthrax scare of several years ago. Some centuries before, the Mongols employed the first (known) biological warfare by starting the outbreak of one of the deadliest pandemics in history-- the bubonic plague of Medieval Europe known as the Black Death. The Mongols, unable to penetrate the strong walls of Rome in a war that they were desperate (notice the re-appearance of this term) to win, slung out corpses that were in numerous forms of putrefaction. Their purpose was to terrorize; they ended up killing two-thirds of Europe's population, a terrifying enough ratio, but one which even the perpetrators did not count on producing.
History is fraught with war. And war is, ultimately, the result of man's greed-- even hunger-- for domination. The tales of conquest that fathers tell their sons (why not their daughters, one might wonder) for purposes of inspiration and entertainment, aren't so inspiring, or entertaining, after all. What they are, it seems, are stories of horror that we should rightly be scared of, because history teaches that wars like the ones that have already been waged, are sure to be waged again, as long as man lusts after power. And that is a disease that, sadly, will just not let itself be cured.

Antidotes to Sadness

To all of you out there who find yourselves being visited by melancholia much too often (and would like to do something about it), here are some friendly suggestions:

1. A good book that doesn't take itself too seriously (I recommend the Jeeves collection by P. G. Wodehouse, Jessica Zafra's Twisted series or any book by James Thurber);

2. A cup of frappucino, a cozy coffee shop and three buddies (who aren't half as predisposed to depression as you are);

3. A rummage through your closet should do some good--you'd realize how blessed you are to have the nice clothes that you own; what more, you can sew the hole on that favorite old shirt;

4. There's nothing like a good, intelligent show on TV to steer your thoughts from the blues; your mind will turn (or be forced to) and you'd be all the better for it. Remember, the cliche "an idle mind is the devil's workshop" wasn't coined for nothing. So watch The History Channel and refresh yourself on those History classes in school that you never paid attention to;

5. When all else fails, sing! This happens to be my favorite reminder to myself. Music is the cure-all for every kind of sadness out there. So try it, it just might do you some good.

Darker Circles Around My Eyes

I admit, I've been losing sleep over it. But I don't really care.
That I know more now about the French Revolution and the Rennaissance than I used to, is worth all the winks I've missed.
I look back and trace this fascination back to my days as a grade 8 student, when one of my favorite teachers, Ms. Perez, made me fall in love with Asian History (yep, map quizzes, Hammurabi and all).
But then again, no.
It actually dates back earlier than that. I do remember being in grade school and leafing through the first set of encyclopedias nestled in a long, white shelf in our living room, and finding myself glued to the pictures of the Egyptian pyramids and the paintings of Da Vinci and the sculptures of Michaelangelo, and reading about The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the tragedy of Pompeii, the sophistication of the Roman empire. It was an addiction that stayed with me throughout my days as a student, which was refueled by the documentaries on The Discovery Channel (wherein I learned, among so many things, that what really caused the defeat of the Spanish Armada was a colossal navigational error, that Marie Antoinette never really uttered the line "let them eat cake," that Napoleon died of arsenic poisoning, that it was the Cavaliers who won in the Battle of Hastings and that its story is forever preserved in a beautiful tapestry called "The Carmen.")
And now, here comes The History Channel, which has made me topple over with excitement, that finally, there is an entire channel devoted to one of the biggest loves of my life! Its well-made documentaries have, for the time being, deviated my attention from books (I have yet to finish the one I started reading 3 weeks ago!). But it's a fair deal. That I now know who Maximillan Robespierre is, that the visual arts don't start and end with Da Vinci and Michaelangelo, that the Coliseum was originally called "The Plebeian Ampitheater," that Augustus was the first Roman Emperor and that Nero was not a rightful heir to the Roman throne, makes me feel that I have become richer.
In knowledge, not in money.
Now that is an entirely different thing (which I also lose sleep on. But come now, don't we all?)

An Apology

I was editing my posts when I accidentally did the stupidest thing. I deleted the post entitled "My Father's Songs."
And here I am hoping that I'd be able to watch "Singin' in the Rain" again so I could write another testament to my dad's influence on me.
But then again, do I really need Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly to remind me of the gift of music which my dad has given me? (I have often been told that when my mom was in labor, my dad requested that there be piano music so that when I came out into the world, it would be the first thing I'd hear.)
So, Daddy, here's to you. And to music.

I do not know what to make of this

A glass door crashes down to the floor and shatters into countless pieces.
I fall with the glass door and land, somehow, on top of it. My whole body is pierced by glass bits.
There is a sharp pain on my right elbow and there, a sizeable, triangular shard of glass is lodged.
I cry.

I find myself in the hospital, seated on a white couch. Someone, a man garbed in green, plucks out, unceremoniously, the chunk of glass from my elbow.
Incredulous, I look at the man, then at my elbow. I can see the bloody flesh inside. There is a hollow, a gap between my arm and forearm.
There is a piece of string sticking out.

"Heaven, perhaps, is what we imagine happiness to be. And hell, the failure of the imagination, the failure of faith, the triumph of fear, the triumph of despair, the inablility to rise above the suffering self."
-Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo, A Book of Dreams-

Questions Bored People Answer (got this from Gabby Lee's blog; title, mine)

1. Were you named after anyone?From Chanson D'amour (a Lettermen song) and from Vanessa Redgrave, the actress
2. When was the last time you cried?last Monday
3. Do you like your handwriting?I don't think much of it. Although several have complimented it.
4. What is your favourite meal? fried galunggong with sinangag and a dip of toyo with calamansi. yum!
5. Do you have kids?Jacqueline Louise, 8 and Joachim, 6
6. If you were another person, would you be friends with you?The probability is high. I gravitate toward weird people.
7. Do you use sarcasm a lot?Depends on who I'm talking to. With Myton and Kane, yeah.
8. Do you still have your tonsils?Yes.
9. Would you bungee jump?Never. I don't see the point.
10. What is your favourite cereal?I don't like cereal.
11. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?I wear pumps and sandals. No sneakers for me. Except before, when I used to run. But yeah, I untie the laces before I take them off. (Sorry, long answer)
12. Do you think you're strong?
My opinion of myself varies a lot.
13. What is your favourite ice cream?
Cookies and Cream and Double Dutch
14. What is the first thing you notice about people?
whether they're like me or not (talk about self-centeredness!)
15. Red or Pink?
Hmm. Tough one. But I think I'd go for pink.
16. What is your least favourite thing about yourself?
My arms
17. Who do you miss the most?
Daddy, Mommy, Earl, Otom, Mama
18. Do you want everyone reading this to fill it out?
Sure.
19. What colour pants and shoes are you wearing?
Right now I'm wearing an over-sized shirt and I'm barefoot
20. What was the last thing you ate?
Ensaymada from Shopwise
21. What are you listening to right now?
It Never Entered My Mind by Miles Davis
22. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be?
Apricot
23. Favourite smells?
Coffee, warm croissant, frying garlic, frying bacon, my new body wash, Victoria's Secret Secret Crush (my scent forever), Clinique Happy (for women), Liz Claiborne's Curve Crush for men
24. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
Kim
25. Do you like the person that sent this to you?
It wasn't sent to me. I snitched it from Gabby's blog.hihi.(thanks Gabby!)
26. Favourite sports to watch?
None, really. But lately I've been forced to watch wrestling (!) because my best friend is a fanatic. And I mean fanatic.
27. Hair colour?
dark Brown.
28. Eye colour?
Wish I could say hazel. But no. They're black as black can be. haha
29. Do you wear contacts?
Nope.
30. Favourite food?
Adobo, Fried Tuyo, Chicken macaroni soup, pizza, carbonara, Glazed Donut (Go Nuts or Krispy Kreme), Garlic Bread, Baked mac, mac and cheese, sisig, churros (whew! now I'm hungry)
31. Scary Movies or Happy Endings?
Neither
32. Last movie you watched?
Intruder in the Dust (it's this old film adapted from Faulkner's novel)
33. What colour shirt are you wearing?
white. with a blue print that would best remain unspelled (is this a word?)here.
34. Summer or winter?
Summer
35. Hugs or kisses?
Depends on who they're from. :)
36. Favourite dessert?
Gloria Jean's Choco Macadamia frap
37. Most likely to do this quiz themselves?
people who like to talk about themselves (haha!); people who have a lot of time in their hands (like me-- I'm hibernating right now)
38. Least likely to respond?
People who have better things to do
39. What book are you reading right now?
What Was She Thinking? (Notes on a Scandal) by Zoe Heller
40. What's on your mouse pad?
Coffee stains. Haha
41. Favourite sound?
Miles Davis, Jackie's and Kim's voices, Doorbells (not buzzers)
42. Rolling Stones or Beatles?
Beatles

Recipe For A Delicious Morning

It's best to be up while the sun is still mild--and newly-risen as she is. It wouldn't do to open your eyes to her glaring rays; this, when she's already at that all-time high with whatever's new in her life at the moment.

Next, inhale the fresh, crisp scent of the sheets wrapped around you (so it's imperative to sleep on clean linen, haha).

Then, turn on Miles Davis' Flamenco Sketches, let the music float into your head, waft into your limbs, then stretch, stretch your arms. But slowly, slowly, taking your sweet time.

Think nice thoughts. Like that warm, buttered toast waiting for you on the breakfast table.

Which you will have only if you rise and walk to your kitchen and make one.

The Panther

by Rainer Maria Rilke

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars, and behind the bars, no world.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tense, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.

Lit Geek Update #6

Last book I read: She Flew The Coop by Michael Lee West

This book is hilarious, had me hooting with laughter and kicking my heels up while reading it. The writing is candid but spiced up with color and wit. Human frailty and resilience are celebrated equally, the setting being the fictional Limoges, Louisiana, a small-town backdrop with quirky characters that just as possibly could represent any community in any part of the world. A lot of recipes, too, that made me go hungry and grab something to munch on just to satisfy the craving brought on by the raw, unembellished description of Creole fare (Gumbo, crawfish pie, jambalaya, peanut butter and bacon sandwich (!), loads of mayonnaise and chili). A light, most-of-the-time-funny-but-when-it's-sad-it's-sad read.

What I'm reading now: What Was She Thinking? (Notes on a Scandal) by Zoe Heller

from Ian McEwan's ATONEMENT

That night creatures were drawn to lights where they could be most easily eaten by other creatures was one of those mysteries that gave her modest pleasure. She preferred not to have it explained away. At a formal dinner once a professor of some science or other, wanting to make small talk, had pointed out to a few insects gyrating above a candelabra. He had told her that it was the visual impression of an even deeper darkness beyond the light that drew them in. Even though they might be eaten, they had to obey the instinct that made them seek out the darkest place, on the far side of the light-- and in this case it was an illusion. It sounded to her like sophistry, or an explanation for its own sake. How could anyone presume to know the world through the eyes of an insect? Not everything had a cause, and pretending otherwise was an interference in the workings of the world that was futile, and could even lead to grief. Some things were simply so.

Lit Geek Update #5

Last Book I Read: Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

I find it remarkable how Ishiguro manages to draw so much emotion with so little fanfare. The Remains of the Day put him in my list of must-read authors; but reading Never Let Me Go (the last part of which I read outdoors under a very quiet, very still, twilit sky, tinging everything a shade of orange) made me realize how much more he's capable of, not just to tug at heartstrings with such spare language.
The exposition left me quizzical, very much uncertain of the ground I was treading, but very much aware of some impending darkness that was about to unfold. And therein lies one of the strengths of this mildly eerie, wonderfully strange novel: it shows rather than tells, but inch by inch, so that the strategically-torn piece you are given leaves you hankering for the next one. And so it goes, until the middle part, where things seem to fall into place, but not just yet. The story is carefully, if not fastidiously, crafted, so that the end result is a finely-woven novel of pain and non-pain, of innocence and betrayal, of loss and acceptance, done with such breathtaking restraint.
After I put the book back on the shelf, I knew that the words carer, donor and completed would never again mean the same to me. This book taught me, made me realize how finally, we are all human and mortal, and that most of us take each day that we are alive--and free--for granted, not knowing there could be people out there who live, but are bound by painful, irrevocable destinies spelt out for them the even before they started being.

What I'm reading now: The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood

IN THE MIDDLE

Somewhere between afterimage and stark reality,
I bend back into my shadow
like a circle that is not yet,
reaching for the edge, an attempt to seal the rift
between my light and my dark.

The waking is not part of the dream
and yet, it is there, in that moment between--
the hollow that is seldom ever filled--
where they merge, two textures commingling:
so which the silk, then, and which the velvet?
Where does one end and the other begin?

I uncurl from the margins of my slumber
and stretch out into wakefulness. It is a violet dawn
that I see, floating in through the window.

I close my eyes once more, still
wafting in my memory of darkness.
Something had pulled me away from the embrace
of sleep, where it was night, where I felt safe.
What rippled the stillness?

A flickering, somewhere. A faint memory of light,
like the agony that uncertainty, now and then, becomes.

This is an excerpt from an unfinished story:

It was on a beach that they first met.

He preferred it to have been on a busy street or some squalid corner of the city, instead, to preclude picturesqueness from its recall. The crowd’s din or the stench of garbage would have made it seem less of a memory.

Instead, what he had with him, now, was the rhythmic sound of crashing waves as accompaniment. The undulating sea, the blanket of heaven, the sun-kissed trees, the warm sand: these formed the backdrop of his reminiscence of that first encounter. And in his mind, she would be there, etched against a blue sea and an even bluer sky, toes curling on the sand, looking at him.

His misery made the whole picture seem even more ephemeral.

Thinking, memory

Thinking does things to a person. It turns the mind into coils that, in turn, mesh into chaotic swirls that lead nowhere and, so it seems, have come from nowhere, too. And so you are driven into thinking even more, until you reach a place that’s precariously close to the brink; madness is there, lurking somewhere.

Memory is somewhat similar, but with a tamer air about it:

When the mind wants to remember, it gropes around for something to anchor itself on: a landscape, a scent, a face, a texture. A person afflicted with nostalgia, for example, finds himself probing into the recesses of his mind to trace the origin of an overwhelming smell of, say, roses, which has suddenly come upon him, one gray afternoon. He then follows it into traversing certain pathways. Along the way, he picks up images that interlace into a picture, even before this “trip” is over. A few steps before the final image, he suddenly thinks:
ah, yes, I remember.