watersyllables

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SEASON

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I haven’t seen how the wilting
Made you chase rivers and the savage
Churning of the waters on your body

Made you sob loud enough
To wake the dormant depths of other rivers

The mountain today is silent
All its mournful serenade are muted

everytime the stories you weaved
Are graceful as the flooding that took
Houses crops and dreaming of mud people

Stories of moon falling like fruits
Breaking like eggs and revealing the suns
You stole when you became nameless
In regions where everything dry
Is a celebration of abundance

Today in the savagery of your nakedness
In your honesty the crevices where
All those forcibly lost are found
Tagged named and are lost again

I felt them again
Like how it was back then
When wilting and greening
Is felt not seen.

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remembering

IMG_1355

today i’ll summon you
from the stubborn ocean current to
the drool mark on your pillow

i’ll name you
sadness

tonight we will gather
around the bonfire of
forgetting

not knowing why
we are here in the first
place

 

tomorrow

we will find each

other embracing like seaweeds

lost in sea secrets.

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Punctuation(s) in Lunar Conversations

for DJC

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

-Kurt Vonnegut

Whenever i hear sobs soft melody mingling in our conversation, i know that somewhere a funeral is being celebrated. Somewhere somebody is chasing somebody for no reason at all, somewhere somebody is drinking coffee, smoking in a salon, and realized that he or she is alone, most of the time. Somewhere a passing goes on unnoticed. Somewhere a funeral is a hole in the wall, as if it’s a hard to find delicacy restaurant.  Loss is like finding a new love, without reasons.

I haven’t seen how suddenly you grew your hairs long and thick, the neighbours said it happened one night, when the sea defeated the rivers and pushed it back to the mountains, you grew them long intentionally to lure the murkiness of the river to your bosoms, to shelter them from the onslaught of high tides. The people around spew stories that you command gravity with the pull of your slender hands, and that you can even open the earth when you wink, you are selfish they say, with all those treasures you knead with your feet.

The mountain today is silent

It’s mournful serenades are muted

That went with the stories in the flood

They took houses crops and dreaming

Of mud people

-Season

 

A couple of weeks ago a train took me straight from the place all the winged roosts to where you bi-locate, eating in gusto mussels in butter and fried faces of murdered pigs, i joined you and devour each other in conversation. After counting the empty bottles we shared, you stretched your arms and reveal a device for time travelling, and told me – in a few hours, in a different world, in a place where clouds resides on your feet, where trees go out to dine,  where short hairs are taboo, you will go, because in that world meeting is timed with hunger, and you said you want more. In a hallowed and metallic voice, you quoted a void.

 

You always have this excuse, that you’re not just going there for some existential means, you’re going there for professional reasons. Sorry, What was the question again?

–Gaspar Noe

 

 

You should know, i also came from a different planet altogether, it is found beside your red shoes outside of this store.  In my place stories are abundant, moons fall like ripened fruit rolling on the ground, breaking as if they are eggs that reveals the sun, we have all sorts of stories, and all mundane is grand, nameless, naked and honest.  That’s how i am.

 

I can open new universes at whim, for example, the umbrella that you are holding is also my umbrella with an emblem of my world, when you open it up to direct the rain far from your nape close to my hands, you’ll soon notice that the umbrella is different world, quickly.  It insulates us from the beeping and honking buses before us, our breathing will become measured, in slow motion, as if it’s listening to each other. Our voices as if they are dolphins summersaults out of your mouth, mingles in the air and dive back as if they are eagles in between our lips. In delight, we break the barriers of our umbrella, laughing out louder than the thunderstorms above us. Together we are typhoon, that most people doesn’t expect to make a landfall in their imaginations.

 

You held me back and told me – let’s not go there, memory will just inundate me in that specific corner.

 

Today in the savagery of your nakedness

The crevices where all those forcibly lost

Are found, tagged, and renamed, are lost again

-Season

 

It was the same month as this in the same gustiness of the wind, the same amount of rainfall, the same coldness, the same familiarity, the same silence, the same grandeur that i found myself sitting across a wooden table, the same memory, the same thing repeated over and over caught in time-space anomaly that i found you, with hairs shorter than now, looking at you in reverse telescope made you more distant, your voice as if they are light that travels from the space, reached me together with the morning.  We burned the night with our names in different adjectives, and then that device on your wrist bleep and carried you away, as if it’s a dream, then your hair grew too long suddenly, and took me in it’s bosom the way you lure the rivers away from the ocean. i know.

I know it’s surreal.

 

I Felt them again

Like how it was back then

When wilting and greening

Is felt not seen.

-Season

 

Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter could be said to remedy anything.
-Kurt Vonnegut

 

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TRANSIENT STORIES

“I felt the beginning of a passion, hopeless in the long run, but very nourishing, for identifying myself with people who were not my own, and whose lives were governed by ideas alien to mine.” V. S. Pritchett in A Midnight Oil

In-between, there’s always a space. Whether between places, words, and people. Everything has its own space, even water is being divided with water bubbles, and nights including its  dense darkness is littered with glitters. These spaces allowed us to breathe, and think, and do things in transition.

A couple of months ago, i lost more than images of childhood, memories of summer, and time spent uncaringly putting rolled tobacco on my young and succulent lips. Those secret travels i made with cousins, friends, and acquaintances, hunting for spiders, fishes, and monsters that came alive one dreamy afternoon, when every kitchen in the neighbourhood blackened with soot and festivities become pregnant with cooked sweet potatoes, bananas, and laughter.

Most of these memories were interspersed with finding love on a bicycle i used to pedal around the city- in quaint streets, in hidden passages, and in secret lairs where fierce red ants and psychotic bees reign supreme, this is where love are tested waging little wars of attrition. The love i found, i share it with the sweetness of banana cue and curled-up sugarcane molasses. It was long ago, where everything is about adventure, where the world is a big playground, and our poetics rhyme with sweets peddled in the streets.

Sweets are important to remembering.

On all souls day, sticky rice cooked with coconut milk and brown sugar is our way to remember the lives of those who left us, differently, or Dad said so. This manner of cooking to summon memory left me together with the departure of my father.

I only have a few important leavings – September 2010 and February 2011, in-betweens are trysts.

October is a good promise, your eyes they disappear when they are delighted with the idea of drifting, but still you are a  puzzle. Today, i no longer have the patience to solve puzzles or anything that has similarity to finding solutions to a puzzle, i don’t want to think too much. i would want to think of things outside puzzles, as it is the planet is a puzzle.

Tonight it’s going to be different. Something else blared from the beat-box

It’s ahum, hoo, ahum haa, aho ahoooooo, hooooo, howew.

it’s a soft jumpy and jittery music playing in the background.

Let me tell you a story of a horse, that most people mistook for a lot of things. Last week my neighbours’ child who came home late with all the dried-up puddle on his face, cried out loud even during meals, the kid who developed the talent to cry and cry while chewing his dinner gained the ire of the horse, whom the child called the greatest living painter ever for solving the class assignment the boy took from school, as a punishment for singing without any reasons and continuously after the flag ceremony. The assignment known as the greatest punishment since, is a conversation in colors that varies in tones and hues.

“Blue-curves-thinning-water-brushes-like-a-hair-on-the-cheek-of-midsummer-and-early-coldness.

White-absence-of-strokes-thickening-like-a-melody-of-distant-song-coming-to-life-on-the-canvass-of-your head.”

Or as how the village gossip got hold of the conversation.

The horse became a cow for plowing the wind as if it’s a ricefield, anticipating the coming of hunger. jumping, running as a melody – tom tom toom, tooom tom tom tom, pam poom taam. Paaa paaa pa pa ra pa pa paaaaa..

Last night somebody died, the horse became a holy person – an intercessor of God, a holy lawyer, a spoke-person of the recent dead, collecting money in bundles from the pockets of believers, the starry eyed redemption of the heavens.

It became a pusher for the chemically loaded, a gun on the temple of the head of the desperate.

Like a horse, our state in transition will assume names, weathers, and phenomenon, we will gallop. The horse is a story of transition, a story in transition, transient stories, the space between here and there, the significant pause before we continue our conversations, it’s the nose-bridge between our eyes. It’s the wrinkle that divides your palm in many chambers

Boom booooom booooom boom bombooom booooom.

travelling has it's own horizon that it keeps wherever it goes.

travelling has it's own horizon that it keeps wherever it goes.

One day the horse disappeared, and we dive into forgetting. What is color? what is distance? what are lies.

We became pure. No more music or the pounding of melodies. We lost everything.

How will i retell our stories?

A couple of months ago, i went on running hoping to catch the past the left me suddenly, i rode my bike and got lost in corners, i went after the breathing that left you. I went after the stories.

A couple of months ago is in-between, a stone i nibbled on my waking.

“The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.” Thomas Paine

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Appropriating Redemption.

What I’m saying here is not, I agree, poetry,   
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,   
under unbearable duress and only with the hope   
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
-Ars Poetica, Czeslaw Milosz

October 18

It was exactly on a day like this when you came down from the sky. The clouds were grey, with a hint of orange, and some streaks of blue. There were pocket storms all over you, there were small circles for thunder, lightning, torrid rains, and raging winds. Your body is littered with leaves, broken branches of unknown trees. On your feet is a swollen river.  Your knees assumed landslides, between your legs a typhoon slowly gathers strength, and gave havoc immediately above your hips.  Strangely you hand summoned a different season, winter in an unprecedented coldness.

I’m trying to re-imagine you. Your hair brown as a river, with curls like open-sea-waves has metallic yellow ribbon, with a real yellow butterfly roosting on it, desperately seeking  succulence. Your hair like rain, fell down until a few inches below your shoulder. The bag you carry on your back carried your burden in return. You told me the half-moon under your eyes were not borne from lunacy, sleeplessness has its own way of claiming your body,  that’s why that moon, you say, is in constant eclipse.

I looked down on your palm, it looked like it has been ravaged by wars, the lines were scarred, it has wounds, it doesn’t close easily, and is wet with tears. Your palm looked like a different continent altogether, forced to surrender, a broken republic.

February 16

I heard your heart caved-in.

You went to the bathroom, and cleaned the floor like you always do, i’m sure you were smirking in front of the mirror after seeing those little green molds silently starting a colony.

I’ve been away for 7 years. In those years i am always in some places that most of the times i didn’t bother to share. I almost died in one of the hospitals in an island across where you’ve been, those were psychedelic days, in high experiment, as if my budget is limitless as the string that held the kite back from reaching the blue above.

I’ve been communing with the sea, but never told you of the secrets i gathered from hermit crabs, from fireflies inhabiting mangrove nations. The wind has its own evening secrets, when the waters glow, the air around assembles to impregnate the churning below.

I never told you what happened when i went up there where guns grew wings.  Time moved around in slow-motion, in mud-pace. I spoke of the trees, one night  my voice rustled like thousand leaves, and trembled as if i’m a coconut tree about to give-up the bulging greens and oranges up my bosom. Sometimes i croaked like the frog under the rain, demanding reforms for the land that i’ve been skipping. Above, in that place, the earth becomes liquid under my feet.

I ate lamb stew i found under the stairs of your dreams.

Did i tell about my moving closer to piers of different countries? How i just shook my hand like a preacher, and moved my eyes to wink, to get my fair share of love near train stations, airports, and movie houses?

I didn’t get the chance to tell all of these, because i can’t be still. The familiar became unfamiliar.

I saw you again surrounded by loss, tubes going in and out of your mouth, machines musically disturbing beside you, and i touch your hands, your feet, your shoulder, and your forehead. You never opened your eyes again, nor your mouth, and something in me choked.

Then the coldness came.

Then i silently recalled our stories together as if they are photographs, slowly flipping through pages, from black and white to colors.

Pa, i spoke to you.

My breathing clots on my chest.

The secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably.

-Arundhati Roy

Listen to me.

Who have been walking with their shoes, bloodied and soiled by the faith of redemption. Who plunged themselves to the labels of excesses, and cry in silent for the hunger you felt is more than what is being sold in street corners.

Didn’t you lament on romances that got wasted by love in the vegetable kingdoms, where rats infests to feed their young somewhere hidden in the stench of the sewers.

Didn’t you talked about silence, and threw every single watches you own to the roof of houses you passed by every night you got yourself in one of those situations, that getting drunk is not just because of alcohol but by the smell of bodies charging against each other?  swear that you will submit to the eternity of time. Aren’t you noisy with this kind of silence? and your songs are gibberish.

Aren’t your knees became callous because you kneel in every chance there’s a cathedral in your mind and in every body else’s mind, and then you get shoved from behind, because all of these are prescribed by the preachers in glossy suits, and gel elated hairs.

News!

I am with you if you’ll jump up from the 10th floor of your dreaming and fall splendidly voiceless.

I am with you when you murder the language that will creep from the shadows of your wants.

I am with you when you berate the tv for misleading us with cartoon shows and write speeches to flood newsrooms of naked skeletons.

I will be with you when we will shove down our poetics to the throats and asses of those who have been wielding their names as if they own every mad house of the cities that we’ve been to.

This is where i will settle, in my dreams where i saw you with skinny legions, with eyes stretched back as far as china, and breathe-in, deep like it’s an unending well, without the bonanzas of wealth.

We will settle here, and we will kiss until we are drown in our own embrace, under the Technicolor evening, we will walk around and name every nameless, we will knock on their doors and sleep on their beds.

Soon we will fade in discontent.

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Rain Dancers Wear the Colors of Bruises.

After several days of contempt the clouds finally revealed its watery secrets.

I haven’t been musing for a long time, fates have been conspiring to prevent me from taking note of how people in real life interacts. Gestures have become mere gestures, it doesn’t have motives, it doesn’t have history.  I don’t even know what a specific color  a person is wearing represents.

Today it came back in deluge. rain makers are done.

A garden suddenly appeared before me, it has all sort of flowers, vines, and spices. The aroma stings my eyes and made me think of heaven. At the center is the chico tree of my youth, it is where i curved myself when breathing becomes heavy in anticipation of a juvenile meet-up, while the rain etched it’s tattoo on my back, like maps of lost treasures, overlapping each other trying to misled those who are on a long and short hunt.

I will then start to unlock meanings, and i will create new meanings from situations, events, and conversations.  I will also share naming the world in half, one for me – a continent founded on rivers, where houses will rise on books, stories as stilts, and one for your dreaming and drifting one that has wheels on it and  a pedal attached to it so you can roam around with the world you will name, when and where ever you want. Our world will be translated over and over.

This creature

Has hairs of summer

With delicate sorrow on her eyes

And communed in songs

To those that inhabit the underground

World

Bursting from nowhere like a sudden river, the tortured nights before me will stop, i will not grind my teeth to sleep, and i will not be as reckless as evenings induced in rhum, brandy, and all that’s bitter sweet. I will looked at my toes, and delight on the mud under my nails – i’ve been trailing foot paths without my slippers i only want comfort negotiated between my feet and the earth. I will linger in the sensation between my fingers every time they are about to clasp your frail hands. You should know your palm has lines that measures distance in touch.

I will murmur degrees of colors

To harvest the offerings

Of the street clinched

In our fists

It will snake like roads

To where dreams are relocated

Between our eyes.

secrets

Our quarrel is abundant as our questions that we would want to ask each other.  example our coming together is a conspiracy of the universe – our vocabularies are subservient to the wishes of the stars.

These are protracted speculations,  that cannot be settled anytime we are eternally distant and dislocated.

Last week i let go of my possessions, i let go of stories hidden between book pages. i concealed fragrances, and stench in papers and neatly placed them in my collection of fictions and intellectual ranting of dead poets, disturbed intellectuals, the cynical geniuses, brillian junkies and the freaks.

Las week i let go of myself, in whim. then i center a storm in this country that i also call my own.

Tomorrow, we will call on those who were absent, those who have been pushed to forgetfulness. We will remind them that after all that our revisionism is nothing but ordinary, of orders going against the tyranny of comfort.

To end this, i will slowly fold the envelope where you hide letters, i will delete numbers, i will clear my browser history. i will forget, how one evening i saw you surrendering laughter to strangers, as you whistle by the stairs, and click and click and click.

i will write on papers and send them out slowly.

I will take flight and fall like stones from the sky when i am old.

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Dreams and other Burning Constellations

let me stand next to your fire

I have one only one burning desire,

Let me stand next to your fire.

-Jimi Hendrix-

I will start this blog exactly the way i want it, at this state that i am into.

In unsuspecting places, things that are not supposed to be there suddenly reminds you without notice, it’s everywhere,  it’s on top of the table over the left corner of where i’m standing, or that statue that stands five feet away from me, or this pen that i am holding, or that dress, a fugitive dress that a lot of authorities and ordinary beings have been looking for, because it  is supposed to be thrown behind bars, as it is cruel and sadistic.

The absence, as what we knew of them, suddenly makes her presence felt.

Without notice also, we are suddenly transported to the valley of remembering where reminder is plenty, here you can faintly touch memories, you can faintly smell them, and taste them, you can even faintly see them.  They flow as rivers, and they hop like bunnies, they wriggle like leaves when toyed by the wind, grew as grasses, and brown as rotten fruits.  In this world people are exiles.

In this sort of place, people just tend to be alone, they are selfish with their own memories, they don’t even glance at each other. They eat on their own and keep joys to their own selves, They are people contented with their past.

In this world, people are uncaring of what is happening and what will happen, they laugh at long ago jokes repeated over and over.  In this world  rain is eternal for they are the memories of the valley.  In this world all that happened happens again, in private. However, it is only momentary, it ends in an hour. The length is not usually that long, it started with 15 minutes, a lot of people were apprehensive at first, they were afraid, because they don’t know how to deal with how they were before, they’re confused,  they don’t know what to do, where to begin and other necessary assumed mannerisms. It  went well for a few months until people suddenly succumbed to greed, they want more. There were protests all over, demonstrations of different gravity, because revisiting memories is not an option that time, they were impositions, they are dictates. After a few months into the protest the valley agreed to the demands of exiles.

What will happen to the world we momentarily left? Or what is actually happening right now to the world we unwillingly left?

I’ve heard it has sent out a party to hunt us, all of them were looking for us.  There’s pandemonium in the city, they want us back. They don’t ride cars anymore, they don’t eat fat, they don’t smile and they no longer have love. The world is sad as it is right now.

This world has been sad for a long time, even before we left them. This world resents it’s own presence, the people resent each other,  they kill, they rob, and steal not just possessions, but feeling as well.

The world whom we left, is, also better without us, it doesn’t need additional noises, it doesn’t need more sadness.

I’m not an exile i’ll tell you why, because i hover in-between worlds.

A lot of things can be a reminder, i see them as  something that occurs naturally, for most of them they are guilt, for me they are pleasures.

I don’t belong to any of the worlds. when i am confused where to settle, i only send postcards.

For now, let me just sing the melody of the void, in crescendo.

The Sun is the star at the center of the Solar System. It is almost perfectlyspherical and consists of hot plasma interwoven with magnetic fields.[10][11] It has a diameter of about 1,392,000 km, about 109 times that of Earth, and its mass (about 2×1030 kilograms, 330,000 times that of Earth) accounts for about 99.86% of the total mass of the Solar System.[12] Chemically, about three quarters of the Sun’s mass consists of hydrogen, while the rest is mostlyhelium. Less than 2% consists of heavier elements, including oxygencarbon,neoniron, and others.[13]http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sun

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Our Days of Nimbus

to where?

I am not done yet.

Inside me is like a room with dark drapes drawn across a bright day, it’s a sealed place where creatures who crawl, and fly cannot enter. In the middle is a coffee table, with books half consumed by fire, litters the left edge, then there’s a pencil over papers crowded with scribbles and other manuscripts. There’s supposed to be an ashtray not to catch what is left from cigarettes but to contain the ashes of burnt leftover love.

On the left is a small wardrobe, five steps from the coffee table a red rug starts to lead you to where my clothes are being kept, in snaking diagonal formation is a sentence “here meals are rehearsed from your memory”. You’ll just have to acquaint yourself to seeing things in the dark and you’ll see shirts, long sleeves, jeans, socks, under wears, pants, slippers, bags, bed sheets, towels, notebooks, pens, shoes, pillow cases, and to the delight of the gloomy-weather-worshipper is a sun block, mascara, tanning lotion, and lip balms – sometimes these are essential, who would know the ozone would want to open itself bigger and bigger?  Tacked on the wardrobe is the list of things that are sent out for laundry, and some little instructions how to wash them. Standing on top encased in glass is a battery powered latex  laser sword with an instruction “for alien invasion only”. Think, but don’t think too much, i don’t want you to get any idea, how things started and how it will move from here.

Perpendicular to this is a little bed, big enough to accommodate strangers that are lost,  this may be a quaint room but it still needs company. The sheets covering my bed is soft, with pillows that allows you to bury your head every night when dreams are too much to contain, when you grind your teeth, and talk before going deeper to dreamscapes.

Littering around my room are luggage; all sort of cases, and mountain bags, you know i can leave anytime i want. On the ceiling are lizards, made me think that they are couples, i always think of them as collectors of stories that happened inside my room. The stories might be too much for them, as yesterday i found a third one, and another spider on the corner. They need to have more and more allies, now they need cobwebs to capture despair that the lovely reptiles failed to catch. They capture dreams and re-dreamed them.

Outside is a veranda overlooking the river village, and where the river village looked back. the veranda made of wood creaks in protest every time i’m out to survey possible escape routes. A few meters below, before reaching the river is a minefield of sadness, you can see wilting flowers, dead animals among them, soiled clothes sticking out of the earth, a punctured tire, rotting boats, a broken tv, a spectacle, a wig, a colony of rats, the stench of decay, and a butterfly. it came to me one night and settled in my stomach, that every time we converse and every time i hear your stilettos echoing in the alley outside my door, the butterfly would convulse inside and i am reduced to worldlessness in your presence, everything in me crumbled like a poorly baked chiffon cake.

i saw you and then i think of delayed breakfast, fried eggs, toast cut in neat little squares, salt and pepper, cinnamon,  coffee with milk and brown sugar, delectable morning, and i think of hunger, because i am of the world that doesn’t have words for everything, my mouth doesn’t open to received gifts of nourishment, the joys of nibbling your crisp laughter, the glory of tasting the saltiness of your sweat, and the earth on your body. the high-heels calling my attention, the feet, the map before reaching the knees, and the hem of your dress, a curtain call for archers to bend their body, and words to keep the hollow of your form. That tiny curving nails set to abolish the repetition of verses coming from all direction, that tender arm is capable of doing all that is violent, tearing all that intrudes your territory, sending to martyrdom thirst and hunger, the vagabond distraction becoming still. You open roads against the shadow.

Directly under my bed is a secret passageway, where exit is the only thing allowed.

 

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
-Czeslaw Milosz

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FIERY UMBRELLA AND OTHER STORIES

Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters
On my wall

-The Beatles

I never thought that i will be having this sort of vision that i can actually hold mid way to where i am supposed to be today.  One that has real clothes, real scent, and one whose laughter reverberated long after it is gone, one whose sweats can actually crawl out of foreheads and one that you can actually wipe.

Unlike other things that are meticulously planned  way ahead of time – starting with appropriate time, places that leaves a lot of impressions that’s usually cliché, the kind of food to eat, how to position spoons and forks, what comes before and after everything, specific  gestures, and specific disposition. All of these are rehearsed over and over again. However this is predictable and boring. anything planned ahead is boring, to a certain extent.  the aesthetics of being spontaneous presupposes the thinking self according to Descartes, it is not from the modern world but came way ahead before humanity discovered correlation between slow and fast, of departures and arrivals, of risking big and bigger.

It is more natural for me to go without plans and develop directions and consensus along the way. considerations are always welcome, like how weather behaves, i am erratic as always.  I revolved around the belief that characters should not be under duress, it should have time to reveal itself.

I always give myself time to surrender and fall by allowing gravity to overwhelm me. To spare myself from other sickness – I try not to think too much, and be misconstrued along the way, as if there is only one truth for everything out there – regardless where we embarked, regardless of the route we took, we will end up somewhere the living and the dead converge and share spaces.

One of  the many reasons why i kept an umbrella is to project resiliency, to show as if i’m prepared, to perhaps have the last laugh also. there’s some sort of comfort to walk under an umbrella, there’s some sort of music made when rain would start to tick-tack on the cloth on the makeshift roof just an inch from my head. i too love the idea how an umbrella can delay burning too, and that wilting can come later.

Shot like a flower in the dance

-Charles Bukowski

 

I always love basking under the sun, i want the burning to happen equitably over my skin, i am from the equator, and my words are fiery, everywhere my stares fall, tongues of the motherland will become infectious with fire. However my world is also water, i am fluid, i extinguish fires. like water  i am unpredictable, unstoppable to a certain extent, and continuous, and consistent, and persistent.  Sun may reclaim me, but i will return over and over again and fall as rain.

Like what happened before with my decisions – i do them with certainty.  then settle with uncertainty following  my decisions. these are the necessary contradictions that i need.

That way i am good at being misconstrued, that way everything in me is needed with all it’s darkness and brightness, it’s lightness and heaviness.

Today, i like how the sun presented itself. Today i like the way how you came and stretched your arms. today i like the way how shameless i am. today i like all the smudges, the rice on your hair, and the sweats all over our body. as much as i want to measure everything with  steps and get lost somewhere, the limitation with being random, unless in total surrender, it is caught somewhere with  pre-arrangement.

Randomness is poetry.

Oh well.

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Hermit Stories

how to get directions.

We must speak of loss first

Let us examine how the ebbing left

You with fermented songs

How one morning you searched

And plundered the widening heaven

With stories of abandoning

Etched clearly when you stretched

Your mouth like a river 

      

-waterborne

I went up at the arrivals lounge full of resentment other than my own, the couple on my right side complained in silence  why the sun is so searing today close to being unforgiving. my left-side lovers are cool about the whole thing perhaps they took the weather as a premonition how their day would end. I am caught in-between, this is exactly the kind of scenario that i dread – finding myself in the middle of two loves. Outside, the sky threatens to pour out it’s long overdue discontent to all the widespread dryness. These are the things i cannot undo.

Oh well come on, hit me hard and low.

I just came from an island and instead of going around and loiter on its beaches, i decided that i will just sit down, take my pen, and started to waste away in a different world where inanimate become animated, and the animated become stiff, sturdy, rigid, and not to mention frigid. Like how i want to proceed these days, i went incognito.

Out of nowhere the phone screen stared at me and shouted ‘travel is the saddest of all pleasures.

Let me argue with myself first, In travel you’ll have to bear with absence, but then again,  you will have to open yourself with a new kind of presence, no matter how you want it, you have the island for yourself. What sort of absence are we articulating ? The long blank trail between people that doesn’t end somewhere?  The peculiar absence of the pushing and pounding of machines against machines, and the frightening bliss of silence traversing your bones? There is only mud on my feet, they’re thick, slippery, and earthy. The water buffaloes behind me rise in agony as the rain came like an infant’s embrace – very unforgiving.

The emptiness of the road and all it’s bareness is a strong metaphor of vulnerability, it is an endless stretch of longing.

However travel allows me to outgrow all of those things that has been bothering me for so long.  Every time i press my ears on unfamiliar walls, every time i turn doorknobs – i open places, i open new, distant, constellations – cobwebs, windows, sheets, and faces.  Every time i pay for bus tickets, i do not just send away money, or coins, i also shooed away nightmares, restlessness, sleeplessness, and all that pushed me deeper in my bed.

Travelling is relative to remembering and forgetting

We have different manners in travelling, we have all sorts of rituals and other beliefs. Some dwell with how they fold their shirts making sure that the scent of their love ones who left before dawn is intact in the cloth. Some chew their food incessantly and in precise rhythm of their lovers laughter. Some take photos, some simple and some as elaborate as metal puzzles.

You shall not forget. Dusk will peer into your
Window, tragic-eyed and still,
And unbidden startle you into remembrance
With its hand upon the sill.

 -Angela Manalang-Gloria

Travelling for me is a pilgrimage, just like writing, it is sacred as it is trivial, it is of both worlds. I set out to darkness waiting for somebody to arrive.  It is also the art of bringing together elements to form civilizations –  guava, chico, pomelo, durian, jackfruit, mixed with milk, breath, and gun powder to make mother wombs as valiantly explosive, bursting in spectacular colors. A race made of rainbows on your wrists, lips, breasts, and hips.

After a long travel, the long haul, the longest sleep, i will fall deeply like a stone, tenants will even moved under me – like millipedes, centipedes, rats, and other creatures of the crevices. They will use my body as a foundation, they will have Ferris wheel,  clowns, food joints, and even governments complete with fascism to strike down dissent of people questioning their exploits over my body.

I came back today – i catapulted myself to the familiar chaos,  of people cheering mistresses and philanderers, while jeering those who profess love in the open, i came back to unknowing. I’m back to all that is familiar.

My hand is that of alloy, with fingertips made of chrysanthemums, sunflowers, and thorns. My feet, they’re flightless birds, that only glide in short distances, but i have more elastic frog legs, i can leap higher then glide, they may be wingless, but it will bring me again to travel. My arms are horses they speed up to race with time and hunger, my heart is a kitten it can only purr,  but my mind is hawksbill diving to nothingness.

 

GIYA

 

Bukhara

ang imong palad

aron mobukhad usab

ang ubang palad

 

 

sa panganod sa dagat

ug sa langit

 

 

hangad ug ihapyod kini

sa imong dagway

lakip tanang suok

niini

 

 

aron mapukaw

ang tanan nga

nagpasalipod

sa mga anino

damgo balak

ug sugilanon

 

 

unya inata imong kaugalingon

aron matul-id ang tanan

nga nahiwi u gang tanan

nga nasaag miliko

misimang makatultol

sa karaan nga dalan

ug pamaagi

 

 

sa pagdamgo

sa pagmata

 

 

sa pakighinabi

 

 

Bukhara

Imong mata ug baba

Idungan sa tunglo

Sa subang sa adlaw

Ug mga bituon

 

 

Tawga ang mga bato sapa

Bukid lapok panganod kahoy

Ang yuta ug uban pa

 

 

Dawata ang

lain-laing dagway

sa pulong

 

 

tan-awa ang tabanog

tulin kayo nga mipauli

 

 

padulong

niining

 

 

ritwal.

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