Mornings

I hear the door click shut and I start to panic. My scrambled eggs are a mess and I just realized I had put too much oil in the pan for the bacon.

I hear you whistling, and soon, your arms are around me, and you plant a kiss on my nape. I wriggle out of your embrace and shout, "stop it, I need to focus on your eggs!"

"I think my eggs are just fine," you say, looking over my shoulder to check the yellow blob on the frying pan. "Hmm. You want me to take over?"

"Please do, Love," I sigh with relief. I am out of sorts this morning. I had woken up later than usual.

You whisk the wooden spatula from my hand. "Ok, princess, sit down and watch me do some magic." I do as I'm told, and gladly, too. I watch as you fix the mess of a breakfast I had been trying to prepare. Quick and sure, you are also something of a god in the kitchen, I suppose.

"Had a good jog?" I hand you the pepper mill.

"Yes, Love, although I wish you'd come with me. I didn't have the heart to wake you up this morning. You were fast asleep. What kept you up last night?" Eggs done, you are now chopping garlic for the fried rice. I stare at your hands.

I tell you about my dream--people with faces but no names, all staring at me with hostility and censure. I tell you about how, in the dream, I knew who they were and yet didn't know them, at the same time. I tell you how, when I woke up, I was crying, and cried even more when I saw that you weren't beside me.

You pull me into your arms and kiss me on the forehead. "I'm sorry, Love. But hush, it's all over now. I'm taking you out today."

My face lights up. "You are? Where? Where?" I tug at your sleeve.

"There, on the porch." You throw the garlic into the oil, and I give you a whack on the butt. You laugh and I roll my eyes at you.

Soon, we are having breakfast outdoors. Bacon, eggs, your antics and daydreams, a view of the blue sea--just some of my favorite things on a lovely, mildly sunny morning. I take a sip from my coffee, your voice and the sound of crashing waves all mingling in my ears like the soundtrack to a perfect day.

Nights

Your face, lit by the pale glow of a candle--

I gasp and ask myself if anything could be more beautiful, if any other man could take my breath away like this. Nothing, no face or name comes to mind.

In this very moment, I am floating in a sea of music, and wine, and you. From across the table, you look at me, expectant yet steady--waiting for me to snap out of the spell I'm in, perhaps? I am smitten with you tonight, Love, like I always am. But tonight is special, if only because tonight is the newest night of our lives, and every hour with you is always better than the last.

My thoughts are wandering. I am oblivious to the drone of voices around us--are they even voices, or just a buzzing in my head?

What's on your mind tonight, Love? Your eyes are aglow. I am being pulled into you, like I always am, when you look at me like that.

Evenings

Elsewhere, it is twilight. Elsewhere, I hear your footfalls on the wooden planks that lead to our doorstep. My heart is fluttering with butterflies I can hardly contain.

Soon, the knob turns and I hold my breath. The door opens and I behold your leg, your shoulder, half your face, half your smile. I run toward you and leap into your arms, and my entire world becomes your embrace.

Elsewhere, we kiss like we had been apart for years, when I had just walked you to your car this morning.

Elsewhere, our lips part and you gently touch my chin to look into my eyes.

Elsewhere, I drown in bliss. Elsewhere, I have no thoughts of elsewhere.

Here, I teach myself, over and over, to let go.

I always end up waiting for you to come home.

Prayer

Teach me to walk away:
from what hurts me,
where I am not needed,
where I intrude,
where I am but shadow,
where I cause pain.

Teach me to turn my back
on the wait for what will never come.

Teach me to accept
what will never be.

Teach me to remember
what it feels like to be abandoned,
how it is to look down on myself,
what the self looks like in the mirror
of doubt and loneliness.

I have forgotten;
teach me again.

I thrash around my self-made net
of misery, my hands bleeding
from holding on--
Teach me to let go.

Teach me.

Variation on a Theme: Apollo's Lament

"In the heart

of the wood,

a god learns too late:

love transforms

never quite in one way."

- J. Neil C. Garcia, "Daphne and Apollo"

God of the sun, he
sees but half his light.

Half-blind from the glare of his own
sadness, he sees
only the certainty of her
shape--roots clawed in fear,
the absence of body
in the whorls of her length, stillness
amidst her shaking leaves:
formlessness in form,
trance in transformation.

Even as she sighs, it is
only the wind he hears, and not her
voice, whispering:
I love you enough to love
you my entire life;
I love you enough to love
you only as I am, silent and without
reproach;
I love you enough to know
that I can defy the desire
to possess;
I love you enough to give up
movement and sight.

Consumed by his loss,
he turns his back
and walks away, head bowed,
transfixed by the wreath
of her leaves.

Nights

Words elude me tonight, Love. I am filled only with prayer that your path and mind be lit with starlight and moonshine, that your thoughts be clear, and your heart be safe in the knowledge that it is loved.

The night is dark but the sun awaits.

And Love, you are my sun.

Close your eyes and drift to sleep.

I am here, always here.

Mornings

The sky is painted a certain shade of lonely today; the sun is sulking behind willing clouds.

I take a walk among the dunes, my bare feet cold against the despondent sand. The hem of my skirt is lined with stray twigs and my left heel feels tender from the scratch of a broken shell.

Everywhere, your silence resonates--the breeze, the noiseless shadows, the woeful waves all echo your absence.

I stop and look at the sea, listening as it chants your name again and again and again. I am wondering how you can be nowhere and everywhere, at the same time. How is this so, Love?

There is tumult in my heart, and so I recreate the sound of your laughter and the calm in your voice. I look for comfort in the memory of your face, the fire in your eyes, the light in your smile. It is never difficult to do these things--they are what I lean to when weariness comes. My love is entwined with sadness, and no sadness has been as beautiful, no love as all-engulfing.

I have known this, all along: I have no need to look for you in things, for you are everywhere, even as you are far away. I understand that the distance that takes you away is the same one that brings you near.

But what am I doing, trying to unravel this mystery, right this very moment? After all, you are the puzzle I would like to spend the rest of my life piecing together, the question I would like to keep asking. It matters little if I never found the answer.

I need only marvel at you to understand: your soul is the light that sets my being aglow. Nothing and no one has made me feel as alive as I am now, now that you have entered my world like the ray of light that you are.

I stare at the sea, safe in the quiet and constant faith that my love will bring you home someday.

Someday, my Love.

Someday.

Nights

"Look how the stars shine so tonight, Love, see how they illuminate the darkness. We still haven't decided on our constellation, but I know that our stars are out there, somewhere, waiting for us to find them."

You stir from where you're reclined, grazing the sand with your feet. You gaze sleepily at the heavens and whisper, "it's beautiful. This is beautiful," and flash a lazy, lovely smile at me. You are exhausted from the day's work, and I am torn between tucking you to bed and staying up just for a bit more, lying on the sand like this, your hand on my arm, the sound of your breathing mingling with the sound of the waves.

I sit up and lean to kiss the tip of your nose. I trace your left brow with my thumb and run my hand over your tousled head. "That feels nice," you say, "don't stop."

"Hadn't we better get going, Love?" I wish you would say no.

"Just a bit more," you mumble, squeezing my arm and slipping a hand into mine. As always, our minds are in sync, as always, we do not want to leave the sea.

"All right, Love. But you've got to get some real rest, soon. You're not as sturdy as Superman is, though you're just as handsome, I must say."

"I am sturdy as a tree and more handsome than Superman."

I giggle. "You're hopeless, and I love you." I lean my head against your shoulder and inhale your scent, feeling the rise and fall of your chest.

All these, that's all.

Because what you have done, Love, was to gift me with the discovery that I could go so much farther and do so much more.

Did you catch a glimpse of the sea in my eyes, I wonder. Did you hear the sound of the waves in my voice? Was there sunlight in my gaze? Was it golden, like the sunrise, or muted, as dusk is?

Did you know I loved to climb trees when I was little, and that I would take a book with me to read on some sturdy branch? Were you privy to my dreams, so that you knew of the enchantment I would find underneath wisteria-wrapped bowers? Did you watch as I lay dreaming, did you see yourself in my dreams?

You were a hand that had unlocked my hidden doors--how did you know that when you entered my life, it was the perfect time to do so?

Did you know you would make me sad in so many ways, but that my losses and sorrows have made me strong enough to withstand those little waves?

Did you read between the lines of all I had written, and knew that more and more lines were lying at the tip of my pen? Did you see the unexplored distances in my eyes, terrains and woods and gardens and seas I would want to travel with you?

Did you know all these the first time you laid eyes on me?

In your stead

I ask for nothing, my Love,

nothing.

I teach myself to map the stars, instead;
learn the language of dreams, instead;
decipher the patterns in tapestries, instead;
sink into the silence of evenings, instead;
poke my fingers at dust motes, instead;
listen to the rustle of curtains, instead;
decode the sound of raindrops, instead;
make-believe that the word "enough" is enough (instead of the illusion that it is), instead;
decrypt the litanies of forgetting, instead;
instruct my mind away from the futility of speech, instead;
adjust my vision to the farthest distances, instead;
unlearn the anguish of hope, instead;
thwart my own laughter, instead;
dream of sand and sunlight, instead;
convince myself there is value in patience, instead;
languish in skeins of words, instead;
teach myself the comforting rote of "it is what it is", instead;
subsist in waiting for I know not what, instead--cross this out--
I scream into this page, instead.

I know there is nothing, my love,

nothing.

I repeat this to myself, over
and over, I know
it by heart

ah, but my heart, you are 
my heart 

I teach myself the art of endings,
instead.

I teach myself how to write endings,
instead.

Mornings

I draw the curtains and sit on the high stool by the window, waiting for you to come home. I have tried writing almost the entire day yesterday, but have ended up deleting what paltry lines I've put down.

I am a little restless. This morning, the sound of the waves fail to soothe my nerves--I sit here, watching the sea, biting the ends of my nails, my cup of tea grown cold.

You have been gone for two days. For two days, I have not heard the door knob click open, have not heard your voice boom that "I'm home, Love!" which is music to my ears, have not been swept into your arms and smothered with your kisses, have not giggled at your jokes or laughed at your antics. I am cold from the lack of your warmth. I miss peeking through the curtains and watching you chop wood.

Two days is too long a time.

Please come home.

Daphne's Grief

I pinpoint a particular,
an exact length of time,
A blur of seconds, one
after another, and another,
and another:

Just before she disappears
into a flurry of root, trunk, branch, leaf,
and just after he stretches out his arms
to embrace the paleness
she had started to fade into--
a tightening around her heart materializes
and a river of tears gushes out,
spilling all over: all her pain,
her exhaustion, the misery of having asked
so many questions that didn't have any answers,
the grief of loving while knowing
the anguish that comes with it,
the struggle to keep at bay
the infliction that comes with wanting more,
the grief of knowing she cannot, must not want more--

that moment, dear Reader, I
bespeak you to picture yourself
in that commotion
of plea and prayer for something one can hardly
know not what, exactly, the question
that must overcome the mind
while running in a chase
that seems to have no end in sight
except loss.

A reprieve was what she must have asked for,
a deliverance in any kind, any form,
anything but the pain that is and is to be.

Understand that all these, she bears
before succumbing to the transformation
that was to be her end, and even then,
she lifts her arms in a stance

of prayer: redeem me from my fall,
deliver me.

And because we choose not to hurt other people, we hurt ourselves, instead.

Dance

There was no music--
or was there? The music
was inside my head
like it always is when you are near.
I heard strings, and a lone trumpet
began softly cooing
when you gathered me into your arms, my cue
at sound, rhythm, movement.

My cue to extend love.

We started to sway--
by instinct? Imperceptible, at first,
tentative because that is how most of us learn dance: I remember
moving under dim lights,
the evening underway, time pushing itself
forward, and soon, goodbye,

but not yet, my Love, not yet.
I was not ready to let go
and neither were you--the story
of our lives, prayers for a little more:
a little more time, a little more you.

We flourish in agitations of hands,
grappling with minutes,
grasping moments with our palms,
despairing in low tones, muted cries and
held back tears, hidden in accepting smiles.
But not tonight.

We froze the clock's hands
and lingered in each other's skins.

Souls entwined,
we danced.

An exercise on futility

Then why did we worship clarity,
to speak, in the end, only each other's names?
- Louise Gluck

I teach myself the mechanics
of blankness:
I put my hand over the page
where I have written down the letters
of your name
as if it were your face--

a caress over
nothing. To undo

the deed, I erase
your face. But the heart
is a trickster, and

evenings make it twice
as difficult. The lights are never bright
enough for me to see
it is not your face I am erasing
but my own clumsy handwriting.

Teach me how to make sense.

Fear

it is, and fear, it must be
that has made her summon the wind
to push her feet
ever into a run
over damp trail, thorn and leaf,
across rivulet, brook, spring,
this naiad, child of the river,
pale figure in the woods, frail except
in the chase that is to be
the beginning of her end.

For what gloriousness must he have possessed for her--
god of sunlight and truth,
music and poetry, all
that she has loved and will
love. For love,
when it overtakes us,
finds us at our weakest, exposes all
that is naked in us until, confronted
by that which we dare ask for only in dreams, we
tremble in the face of the very thing
we desire:
Possession.

And at the core of her fear lies
her soul, struggling against the promise
of redemption from being haunted
by her own shadow. There is
beauty in capture, but the heart insists
on the imminence of loss--
absolute, encompassing--
the plight of all that is beautiful,
as he is beautiful, and therefore,
may yet be her greatest
loss.

This, he does not understand--he thinks
her flight a refusal of his outstretched hand--
so that when, finally, the struggle ends (for it is written, and so it must be)
and she transforms into the magnificent myth
where the story ends,

her deliverance is from herself--
whom she most fears, not
he.

Lament

I kneel on the grass, weeding. There are no blooms to be seen, and I am a little angry at you for leaving this garden desolate. It is covered in brown leaves, fallen over all the nights you have lain, unconscious, in that scary-looking bed of yours, and you, breathing so softly as to almost be still--you have made your own garden out of those stern-looking tubes and little wires, the cold smell of medicine wafting around you like cold ether.

I pause and look at the chairs, the big tree, the empty basket, and I swallow the lump in my throat, willing the tears downward, downward. How abandoned everything looks! Where, the laughter and the conversation, where have our plans gone to?

In fact, dear friend, I am more than a little angry at you. You still owe me Prague, Paris, New York. You owe me pages and pages of stories. You owe me that autographed book in your shelf. How can you lie so still now, so changed, a stranger to all who love you? How can you be so distant from me, how can I not save you, you who once saved me?

I will pull out the weeds until my hands bleed. I will replace those tattered seat cushions with new ones--yellow, not brown. I will tend this garden until it comes back to life. I will read here everyday, dear friend, I will wait for you to come back.

Listen to all the people calling out your name in their prayers. You are so loved, so how can you lie, so still, unheeding?

Colors

--the dark red they call Brennende Liebe,
which I find so beautiful.
- Louise Gluck

Amaranthine, the sunset, where we are. The eyes, for a moment, flicker, arrested by the sudden transitions, looking for gradation, nuance.

Capture, understand: there are no in-betweens.

But look toward the sky, now, Love, and touch that remaining light blue of forget-me-nots, for it is making way for teal, turquoise, and soon, the hour's riot of shades mimicking fire--flaxen, amber, saffron, ochre, rust. The mind conjures primroses, orange blooms. You, golden.

Next: crimson, rose, magenta. Now, a scarlet flame, and for the briefest moments, cobalt fire. But there is no cobalt in fire, you say--your voice, sapphire.

I put a finger to your lips.

Brennende liebe.

Dearest Love, a poet once wrote, and I, too, write: Dearest Love, look for my name in the sky. Trace that hint of scarlet, the color of kindling. I languish in embers. Look for my face in the sky.

Soon, evening. My silence turns from cyan to midnight blue, following you wherever, everywhere you go.

Train Station

A train station is one of the worst places for a chase. If this were a movie, the tall guy in the blue shirt knows his chances of success could be higher; as it is not, there is the sad reality of a huge, rush-hour crowd to elbow through: throngs of people determined to get to where they are going, unmindful of other possibilities aside from their own, heedless of such intangibles as the potential loss of a love some people wait their entire lives for.

The seconds he had spent hesitating now hang in the warm, congested air like silent reprimands. If he had started running the moment he had recognized her, he thinks, perhaps, he wouldn't be watching her board the train fifteen feet away from him, a tiny figure in a moving picture, rushing with the rest. A hundred memories stir inside him--sunsets, long walks, snapshots of her smiling up at him, woven dreams of tomorrow.

So there he stands, his feet cemented to the floor, his breathing as heavy as regret. The day she went away, she had told him "let me know, kiddo. And don't take too long." She didn't tell him where she was going, and he didn't ask.

For months, he had hesitated, weighing his options, having sleepless nights. He became a ghost, a hollow shell. Until one morning, he woke up and realized none of the lights wherever he was was ever as bright as when she was there. Something inside him seemed dead; he could feel a sun setting inside him everyday. Suddenly, panic, rage at himself.

Frantic, he called her number again and again and sent her e-mails everyday, ready to rise from the pool of uncertainty they had seemed to swim around forever. For years, he waited for the chance to redeem himself from indecision. She never answered his calls, never wrote back. 

And now he watches the train speed by him, past him. He says her name out loud, but the engine drowns out the sound. 

Nights

"No more drinks for you tonight," you, whispering into my ear, whisking my glass away.

"That tickles," I cower and giggle. The duo onstage is playing "Turn Your Lights Down Low" and I am feeling warm all over. Warm from the beer, the mojito, from you. "And what was that you said?" I turn sideways to look at you, rest my cheek on my hand, and gaze at your jawline. I trace it with my eyes, up to your cheek, your brows, your eyes--gold-flecked, dark pools by the dim lights of the bar. I could disappear into them. I know I would; I often do.

You smile. "I said I think you're drunk." I look at your mouth. I've always liked looking at your mouth. I know their movements, their rest.

A waitress comes by, smiling. "More drinks?"

You shake your head, "no more, thanks. Our bill, please."

"But I want another mojito," I, pouting. You kiss the tip of my nose. You don't say anything. Our check arrives and you place three money bills on the small tray. "It's time to go, Love. We don't wanna miss the moon."

"Alright." I get up, letting you lead me out of the bar. The night breeze greets us as we step into the sand, and I wrap my arms around my shoulder.

"Cold?" You pull me close, and I smell the scent of your skin--clean, familiar, a scent I know by heart.

"Hmm, you smell nice." I snuggle close to you as we walk toward the shore. Now and again, a wave crashes against another, creating a rhythm that both fascinates and comforts. Moonshine reflects on the water.

"Let's sit there," you point to a spot.

"Have you forgotten what day today is?" Your voice is low and calm.

"Today is a beautiful day," I murmur  sleepily, lulled by the sound of the sea, enchanted to a stupor by the moonlight. I am watching the waves, wondering if you are, too.

You laugh. "Years ago, we pulled an all-nighter and shared a fluffy blanket underneath the stars. Tonight was when I finally gathered the guts the tell you how I felt."

I break loose from being nestled in the crook of your arm and turn around to look at you. "But that was eons ago! And you once confessed you only got around to teeling me because I told you I had been having dreams about you, for some unexplained reason."

I smile at the memory. I lean back against your chest, listening to your heartbeat, reliving all the fumbling and trembling and shyness of that night.

"You keep forgetting I have the combined memory of five brilliant men," you laugh and kiss the top of my head.

"Bah, humbug. You didn't seem so sure of yourself then, and I was wracking my brains for what could have possessed the Mr. Swagger I knew that he seemed so uncertain, all of a sudden. I could taste your fear then, do you know?"

You brush your thumb along my forearm. "But here we are, Love. Here we are."

I am a little surprised by your thoughtful, mellow mood. You seldom have them and I wish you'd have them more often. "And all that week, you seemed so happy and so sad, both at the same time. I had to keep telling you--this love is what it is, this love is what it is, this love is what it is--until I knew the words by heart and could recite them in my sleep."

You wrap your arms tighter around me. "I believed you, then. I just wasn't so sure I believed in myself. I am full of questions--always have been."

"I know," I say, "but see, Love, asking never leads anywhere except to more questions. Sometimes, we just have to let things be. Just feel, just be. Don't you think that makes one more alive than asking and seeking? The universe conspires to let happen the things that happen and will happen. I mean--did it even occur to you that we would meet, at all, before we  saw each other for the first time?"

"I know. I learned that from you. It takes courage to surrender to the air. I have never been good at letting go--I need to grab everything by the horns."

"Yeah, that's why you used to throw fits of rage so often and that's why you would keep talking about being in between rocks and hard places and advocating Murphy's Law." I pinch your arm and you laugh. "But anyway, there's one thing I'm sure I will never, ever learn," I look up at you and tickle your chin.

"And what's that?"

I turn my gaze back to the sea. "I don't think I will ever learn how to let you go."

Splashing waves, the strains of a guitar, a friendly breeze blowing. "It's not as if I didn't try. I practiced, everyday, in case you didn't know, long before I was even aware I was thinking of you much more often than I should. But I never figured out how--even my books couldn't teach me that."

"I'm glad you failed miserably. Otherwise, you wouldn't be in my arms right now, sharing this sea with me."

"I wish this night could go on forever."

We both turn quiet, and I'd like to think our minds are meeting somewhere, in this hour, one.

Somewhere in my soul, rapture. Gratefulness fills me and I whisper a prayer into the sea, for handing you over to me, if only for this moment.

Above us, the moon glows bright and silent, illuminating the sky with its gentle light.

Afternoons

"Ahoy, Captain!"

I do not budge from the book I'm reading, but from behind my dark glasses, I watch you run toward where I'm sitting.

I trace your leanness with my eyes, drink in the length of your strides, your legs reminding me of the sleek lines of sports cars. You are squinting at the sun, and just at this moment, you are the personification of adorable perfection--a man-boy, naked to the waist, dripping with saltwater, gleaming in the sunlight.

"Effin hunk," I mutter under my breath, my concentration now completely ruined.

"What was that, Captain?" You swoop down to kiss me.

"Ahoy yourself," I dismiss you with a wave of my hand. You slump into the chair beside mine and start shaking the water off your hair and arms.

"If you so much as ruin my book with all that water, you're gonna have to get me a new one."

"Cranky, cranky," you snatch my book from my hand.

"But that's a Hemingway!"

"I'll get you two of these, my Love," you laugh and toss the book to the sand. "From this point, no more reading. It'll be sunset soon, let's go for a walk."

I shake my head and reach for the cooler. "Here, have a beer first. You look like you need one."

"Thanks, Love." You take off the cap and take a swig, and I watch you from lowered lids--head tilted back, the lines on your neck and jaw sculpted to perfection, droplets of water glistening on your skin. You look like some sun-kissed deity come to grace my world with your presence. My breath catches and I groan.

"I know, I know," you wink and grin, "I am very good-looking."

"Shut up and kiss me," I mumble, and you do. My world stops turning, for a moment.

"Walk, Love?" You take my hand and I oblige.

Soon, we are walking along the shore, the sound of crashing waves enveloping us. My hand is in yours and I sigh, content, thinking how all this is more than I have ever asked for. Once in a while, I would stop to curl my toes in the sand. You have made me fall in love with beaches and sunlight, you have made me fall in love with water.

"Do you remember the first time we did this?" You look at me, smiling.

"Yes, Love, I do," I glance back at you. "Something like that wouldn't be so easy to forget. That beautiful blue, that strip of sand. I wanted that walk to go on forever, though I was still too shy to tell you that. I mean, how could I have known you were already planning to sweep me off my feet that time?" I giggle. You make me giggle.

"Well, we could take long walks forever," you squeeze my hand. "We can go to all the beaches in the world and walk along each shore."

One of the things I love about you is that you never fail to surprise me--the things you do and say, all these bursts of sweetness. Changing from straight lines to undulating ones, teaching me invoices one moment, dreaming of sunsets, the next. You are so many wonderful things wrapped in skin, sinew, muscle.

"I like that plan," is all I say.

Distant music reaches my ears. "Look, Love, dancing!" I grab your arm and start heading for the bar to our right.

You stop me in my tracks. "Yes, Love, dancing. But later." You turn me toward you and put your hands around my waist. "Can I just tell you something first?" I feel my heart start to race as you look at me with those lovely, lovely eyes, eyes that mirror starlight and all things beautiful in this universe.

"Love," you say, tightening your hold on my waist and brushing your lips on my forehead, "such a tiny, tiny thing you are."

"Bummer!" I shout, laughing, and break lose from your hands. "You stay there and talk to the waves, I'm going dancing!"

I lift my skirt and start to run, laughing. You catch up on me and we head for the bar, holding hands.

Behind us, the sky begins to change colors. Twilight is waiting around the corner.

Sonnet XVII

- Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Evenings

The soft lights of blue lamps lend our surroundings a peaceful, muted glow. Hours ago, the place was alive with sound--tinkling glass, laughter, conversations in low tones, a soft syncopation of forks hitting plates, jazz in the background--contained energy, all in all.

The lights were orange, then.

It was your idea: sunlight in the morning, orange lights in the afternoon, a blue glow for when evenings come. "To simulate the changing lights of the day, Love, to steal just a little magic from creation," was what you said when you came up with the plan, a few years back. You, whom I thought ate logic and numbers for dinner, you who snacked on facts, timelines, data. Who would have thought you knew poetry? I may have seen it in your eyes, at some point, or another, but this--this loveliness is all from you.

I remember you startling me by quoting Shelley, once.

We have closed shop half an hour ago, it is 10:33. Now it is just you and I, and the fairy dust in this blue glow has mingled with the wine you've poured into my glass, making me feel lightheaded, awake and dreaming, even as I watch you take a sip from your wine, your eyes on mine, watching me, watching you.

"Put on Miles, Love," I hear myself saying.

Soon, "It Never Entered My Mind" fills the air. Soon, your arms are around my waist, my arms are wrapped around your neck, and we are swaying gently, gently to a cooing trumpet, a piano, soft cymbals. I lean my left cheek to your chest and you brush your lips against my temple. The music floats around, wrapping us, and I think of tenderness, think of the color blue, of tears all behind us, of warm breakfasts, of walks on the beach, of guitar strains, of sunsets, of moon-glow, of starlight. I feel your heart, beating.

"Let's get you to bed, Love," you, whispering, freeing my hair from its clasp. I feel your hands running up, down my back, and I bury my face into your shirt. "Five minutes," I say, "just five more minutes."

I am exhausted and tipsy, but I want this moment stretched into as far as it could be stretched. The wine, the music, and your nearness have all gone to my head, and I close my eyes. I mumble the lines of a sonnet, mixing up the words, my memory faltering a little, my voice trailing off. You touch the small of my back and I grow weak. I let myself. I feel no worry, no fear when you are with me.

Outside, the night deepens. Moonbeams reflect calmly on still surfaces.

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.