Sleeplessness.
Desire(s) translated into restlessness. Or, that which is untranslated into the fulfillment of said desire(s).

For time to run faster so that the next task can be worked at and accomplished; for the object of one's affection (a dress? a goal? a woman? a man?) to be within one's sight; for time to unravel, unravel because time spent in sleep is--or seems to be--stationary, and lack of movement is desire fulfilled.

Whereas our nature requires movement. How contradictory, this raison d'etre.

Sleeplessness. Desire unfulfilled. Movement.

Toss, turn.

Racing to the 24th

I did my Christmas shopping quite late this year. Compared to last year, I did not spend as much time scouring shops for gifts for family and friends; mainly, I guess, because I already knew what to get for each.

Traffic was a headache today. I mean, it's usually heavy Fridays, but the jams I found myself in earlier this evening were horrendous. Lines in front of ATMs were eyesore-long. The mall I went to was thronged by on-the-go shoppers.

Looks like most of us were--and still are--caught in the holiday rush.

How's your Christmas rush going?

You know how it is

...when the hours and the days drift by like never-ending seas of curtains and you barely have a moment to blink and realize that they are actually unfolding before your eyes because the only thing you know is that you're there, watching, and not noticing that the curtains are not only moving but are really changing color, too?

The past several days have been like that. As usual, there's comfort in cliches, so, yes, the days have flown so swiftly by with the breeze, and the chore of having to step back and retrace one's whereabouts from the starting point of choice, up to the mark one has drawn between the step before the finish line and the actual finish line, seems a needless one, one might say, because something always seems to get lost in the retelling.

Or is something gained, instead?


I am going home soon--in less than two days, as a matter of fact. Probably explains all the breeziness.

Imogen Heap: "Ellipse"

Released: 2009
My favorite tracks: "Half Life", "Between Sheets", "First Train Out", and "Bad Body Double"

Imogen Heap turns 32 today.

But that is not the subject of this post; though this doesn't mean that the statement above isn't true.

Okay, okay, start over.

Imogen Heap turns 32 today.

...the sweeping insensitivity of this still-life.

Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth.
Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs.
Speak no feeling, no I don't believe you.
You don't care a bit. You don't care a bit.

-Imogen Heap, "Hide and Seek"-

*Watch the video here.

My favorite tracks: "Hide and Seek", "Headlock", "Goodnight and Go", "Have You Got it in You?", "Loose Ends", and "The Moment I Said It".

And if I could sing myself a merry little tune

...I'd be fine.

It was the saddest thing. As I and a friend were walking in the mall just last week, my mind's eye captured the sights and sounds of the holiday cheer--the glitter, the carols, the laughter, the reds, the yellows, the greens--and I thought, all these will be gone before we know it. I looked around and saw lights disappearing into the air, saw the dying smiles on folks' faces.

I shook myself out of it.

Brr. It's been awfully cold, lately.

Precious

"Some folks has a lot of things around them that shines for other peoples. I think that maybe some of them was in tunnels. And in that tunnel, the only light they had, was inside of them. And then long after they escape that tunnel, they still be shining for everybody else." -Clareece 'Precious' Jones-

Some funny shorts from an e-mail my Ninang sent me:

FIGHT
A couple drove down a country road for several miles, not saying a word. An earlier discussion had led to an argument and neither of them wanted to concede their position.

As they passed a barnyard of mules, goats, and pigs,the husband asked sarcastically, 'Relatives of yours?'

'Yep,' the wife replied, 'in-laws.'
***
WORDS
A husband read an article to his wife about how many words women use a day....

30,000 to a man's 15,000.

The wife replied, 'The reason has to be because we have to repeat everything to men...

The husband then turned to his wife and asked, 'What?'

***
CREATION
A man said to his wife one day, "I don't know how you can be so stupid and so beautiful all at the same time."

The wife responded, "Allow me to explain.God made me beautiful so you would be attracted to me;God made me stupid so I would be attracted to you !"

Heehee

When you start reading "sink in" as "skin it"

...then you know something's wrong.

You could be: a) sick; b) extremely sleepy; or c) just plain old fatigued. One could probably add a dozen or so more reasons to the already mentioned, maybe I'm just too lazy (or too sick) to put my brain cells into action.

Either way, I guess it's time to run outside and get some fresh air.

Or, hit the sack and doze off, and this, barely an hour after waking up.

*this post was spurred by my attempt to reread Luis Katigbak's creative nonfiction collection The King of Nothing To Do. "Sink in" appears on the first essay in the book.
=)

Let me shout, too.

In the same way that I put off writing about typhoon Ondoy (I eventually did, I couldn't help it), I have also tried to put aside saying anything about the Maguindanao massacre. And this, for reasons difficult to put a finger on; though I will definitely make an attempt to make sense of it in this post.

I did try, you see. Tried to be my usual, clammed-up, indifferent self--a side of me which only the people closest to me understand, or tolerate--who would much rather stay in one corner and watch while everybody else scrambles for something. It's a sorry state to be in, most people would say. But it does have its advantages, which might seem selfish, but to those who understand the human psyche and its workings, and how the clamming up is a result of some trauma or another, it would make sense.

But, moving on, I could only stay quiet for so long. Not that it matters if I could, in any way, influence those reading this blog--which is not to say that I fancy this blog to have a host of readers because I am fully aware that it doesn't; but if I could provide some faint glimmer of rhetoric to you, dear reader reading this now, then I would be content. And as for the self that is trying to make sense of this whole thing, let it be spelled out that this is for you, so that you could gather whatever pieces of it you may and, in the process, perhaps emerge the least bit enlightened, for whatever it may be worth.

I realize that this may be the only time that I get to vent about it, so now is definitely not the time to hold back. Excuse the lack of understatement. It is not called for, at this time, nor will it be until the perpetrators pay—and pay what they owe—for the deed they have done.

So, the massacre. Massacre. The word itself is chilling, and for it to be actualized is nothing short of horrifying. Horror should be reserved for the movies, not real life. That this atrocity even happened is stupefying.

What evil, allegorical worm could be bad enough as to plant itself in someone’s mind, which must be narrow enough, small enough for the worm to be incubated and for it to grow to a size unwarranted by such a brain, so that it would, at some point in time, break loose into an act so violent, so full of hate, so blood-curdling?

I did feel my blood acerbate the first time I saw it in the news. How dare these people think that they could kill and violate and tamper with life and get away with it, too? It’s the proverbial glutton wanting to have his cake and eat it. Or, the severely misguided charlatan who was given a hand and now wants to take the whole arm.

It is an assault to the Filipino, this barbarity; a crime against humanity and its animus.

I am fuming as I type this. One can only shake one’s head and wait for what happens next. And the Filipino—even this Filipino--will wait. Woe to him who underestimates our capacity to think, and feel.

At the end of the day, though, is the question of what will happen next: so we have expressed outrage at what happened; so we have talked about it, discussed the details in detail, shaken our heads at the unreality of it all; so some of us, especially those in positions of power, have vowed--in front of millions, in front of the press, making our words seep through the television screens and the airwaves--to follow this affront through and ensure that justice sees daylight.

The question, then, is: where does this all end?

Here is a prayer that the archives get to record the event to its last; and may it be written in the last page:

RESOLUTION: JUSTICE.

Under the Blanket

I'm down with a cold. Again. I only get sick once a year, so coming down with this very bad cold barely a month after I recovered from the previous one--which was worse, I must say--is a little disconcerting. Or, baffling, at the most.

I think I'd be able to come up with a host of possible reasons, though, namely, that:

a) the past week's flurry of activities finally got to my immune system;
b) I am vitamin C-deficient;
c) I'm sleep-deprived;
d) it's my body telling me to take more rest;
e) the December breeze--aka "the herald of depression and all things numbing"--is whipping us, folks of the warm land; or
e) I'm simply getting old.

The last one makes the most sense. LOL.

Or not.

???

Maybe it's all of the above.

Bottom line: being sick sucks big-time!
Ugh.

Let's Poem!

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

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

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

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

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

Now let me remember to bring him that Rilke volume.

Thanksgiving in Manila

So there was the party that S-- and I lost a lot of sleep on (though the sleep I lost was nothing compared to S's), that turned out just the way we had all planned it to...








where an engagement was announced and cheered on


where mentors were thanked and put on the spot






where there was fun



and fun

and there, too, was a toast...


And this is why I love working where I work.
=)

Pandora

And so you stand there, turning the box in your hand, looking for cracks where you may peep through, examining the angles for irregularities, squinting at invisible lines, lines you know might not be there or might be, thinking, thinking, should you pull the string and risk letting what's inside get out, or should you leave it where you found it, do you remember the exact spot it was sitting on? You're thinking, maybe you're not supposed to be holding it, in the first place, maybe it was meant to just be there, where it was when you saw it, but what if it meant for you to find it, yet how could you be certain that it meant for you to find it?

But, oh, what nice, pleasant possibilities lie inside its four corners, what beauty, what hope? And you, who've been looking for beauty, for hope, how tempting to unwrap the beauty, the hope.