People say I’m crazy doing what I’m doing
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin
When I say that I’m o.k. well they look at me kind of strange
-John Lennon, Watching the Wheels-
Today i woke up to the smell of the ocean, it’s almost real as the salt crystals forming on my mouth straight to my left lobe. It must have been because my phone’s been ringing since 3am and registered a long distance call from the sea. Suddenly my room got inundated with the lapping waves of grief, caught in the turbulence of my non-drifting. the distant wharf, old and sagging is waiting for me, looking over the streets in anticipation of my arrival. it’s been a long time already, i felt that my feet is taking roots where i am right now, which is actually not a good idea, or is it?
Then silence came, secretly.
There’s this terrible atmosphere in my waking today, the electric fan seized the opportunity to call my attention by whirring and whirring angrily, and refused to let out wind to comfort me. the floor below me shifts, the wall around me closed in embrace, outside sea creatures pounded on my door in rhythm with my heartbeat.
Suddenly, like how things came together, everything stopped, even my longing for the sea and the wide ocean was suspended.
Then i remembered that i am half awake, i then went on to haul my eyelids up to the ceiling, the distant voices became clearer, above as if inside a dancehall the CFL flickered like a firefly, i felt nauseated and vomited what remained from indigested conversations. I mumbled to remember the topics i had these past few days with strangers and semi-strangers.
I had one about fishes that silvers into the sea, a fish that doesn’t have inhibitions and swallowed everything on it’s path, consuming everything without the need for cooking. taking-in everything without the need for revolt, i remember those nights, i became the sea nearing collapse, i had no sea weeds, corals, and other creatures, not even sea current, i only have one – the fish without inhibitions, devouring me without questions, swimming so low to my depths, eating what is left of the sea that is nearing death, including the lone island on the outskirts of my water.
A riot erupted, everyone raced to where i am, and drowned themselves in riot. I don’t know what has become of them, i don’t know what happened to them, all i know is that every time a storm is brewing in my belly when leaving happens, an immeasurable turbulence will start, towering waves clashing against each other, outdoing each other in violence, drowning each other, eliminating each other in water.
Slip down the darkness to the mouth
Damn the water burn the wine
I’m going home for the very last time
-Soundgarden, Let me Drown –
Today again, in the mid morning session with my muses, i started to rekindle breathing underwater, i imagined growing fins and abandoned my feet, i went on without my heart, just gills and guts, that way i’ll swim without the same preconceptions that i’m having right now, i will have glorious scales that i will flaunt. my thought somersaulted, and i glisten under the stars, proud with all my salty secrets. I will not grow tentacles as i don’t want to know what touching is all about, nor having words for random conversations, i don’t even want to growl, i just want a different silence. i just don’t want distance, i want to go deep, until everything else will disappear around me. my sight will be blue and the world around will turn white every time i close my eyes.
That old wharf will be immaterial, those boats will be useless,, not even those lights that signals arrivals and departures will be of use. don’t look for me, i will no longer go back to where the shore will start on my palm.
photos by Blue Canopy
“Imagine a world in which there is no time. Only images.”
-Alan Lightman, Einstein’s Dreams
Today, i’ve been limping, i envy amphibious living, i mean frogs can go hopping between stones agily, while i can only muster calculated steps, every time i stretched my feet after the other. you can see pain spelled on my face, like a misplaced stigmata. Unlike frogs, like other cold blooded animals they can go in and out of water as they please without effort. I also envy water, they can go low when it is necessary. Water also assume shapes, contours, and edges, it can freeze not as they please but only when temperature tells it to, it can murmur when at it’s boiling point. Today in my mute-land , i can only limp, turtle pacing to where the noise are roosting.
This is my tale, it is meaningless as other tales before this, the good thing about all of these meaninglessness is nobody asks questions, or else they will suffer the same fate as the tales it questioned. It’s utterly useless as well, why would you question something that is meaningless in the first place? For the sake of becoming align with the weight of being non-relevant? Wait – meaningless, useless, and irrelevant all in their glorious affirmative-negative state.
Haha. This is actually nsfw.
Last night, i’ve been with some of the kindred souls i’ve known in the 2 decades of my existence ;p i enjoyed listening to their stories, how most of their lives changed overnight waking up one morning and their hang-over never left, throbbing until today, an echo roaming inside their head that kept them puzzled what happened the night before, the kind of buzz that kept on buzzing long after they abandoned drinking on the same glass of wine.
One friend of mine stopped wearing socks out of guilt, another chose to retreat in corners and wait for random conversations, one decided to wear sleeveless shirts to show how tattoos become more define whenever he flexes, another one decided to hover above everyone else, becoming light as balloons. another one felt like an out of time wine merchant during the wedding at canaan, most became entertainers performing magic, belting out sonnets, love peddlers, seeking what ever cause they can make out of nothing, but, come to think of it, they are as disconnected as they are more inclined to talk to their gadgets, passionately.
In this world, artists are joyous. Unpredictability is the life of their paintings, their music, their novels. They delight in events not forecasted, happenings without explanation, retrospective. – Alan Lightman
Unlike most of them, i decided to become an observer participating only among the shadows. A token for everybody else.
Unlike others i don’t have to fake it.
I’m saying all of these because the limp disallowed me to dance and entertain others like those in the circus, i hate it when my pick-up line opens with –
- hi, ive got an infection
- you know what my psychiatrist said?
- Let’s share something aside the moon
- So, what’s your favourite chaser?
- Do you know there’s a shampoo called gee you hair smells terrific, too bad you don’t know it?
- What is the square root of 3,789,987.987?
- You wan’t to disappear?
- I’m so cheap, you don’t have to bargain
- I need to measure the steps from your gate to your bedroom for feng shui
- I’ll call your ob gyne
The other day, a girl with an eye-shaped-coming-all-the-way-from-china, prompted me to reconsider writing again – in random. How exactly random is random? Does randomness have a criteria ? Or does a criteria in itself contradicts randomness? I am always at ease with all things that is random. apparently the concept of tenure is now bigger than the idea of randomness. Don’t you think that the moment we invoke the idea of randomness, we are already limiting the possibilities? The what ifs? Is it dearth instead?
Thank you so much, you made me write again.
In this era of dis-association, in this era of persistent ironies, the need to connect becomes greater, and the necessity to ignore all misgivings is in no way correct, anyway let me write about this separately.
Limping for me is an excuse, secretly i’ve been praying that the heavens will inflict me with some sort of sickness aside from what i have right now straight in the head.
I would have wanted to become unproductive and see how the world will bid it’s time, in this harsh world where everything is random, everything done on impulse, my adoration will remain the same, sincere and erratic. Haha.
to her who showed me images and words in mixed commotion. salamat!
I shall not allure you
With dangling adornments
Nor entice you
With painted face
Nor dazzle you
With natty garments
I shall not please you
With a veneer belying my thoughts
No, i shall not come to you cloaked in false beauty
Only to disillusiones you later
I shall come bald
Like water, words are a wonderful conductor of energy.
i always find pleasure in bringing words together, as if i am out there scouting for all that is edible in different colors, textures, smell and tastes. all the elements in unison to celebrate meeting of hearts.
like cooking, writing for me is a ritual. it will start with invoking the void above among our constellations, that perhaps as it clash and collide a new world will take place. that for a moment i am caught in the dizzying rhythm of giving birth to new flavors, the ecstasy of having an emotion incomparable to other emotions, it is a warmth that grows inside us, something that we have long forgotten until an explosion occurs and rekindle the burning to cook and to write faintly about how we were being alone and the joys of living in the corners of forgetfulness. that for an instant, in sudden, in swift gestures of our hands, we met.
go to the market
as if you are going out to war
silent alert and deadly
chose which stalls sells the best garlic
mark them like how you marked enemy camps
eye those who are clinging
together think of them as cowards
who’ll fell apart without the others
think how you will
attack them how your knife will cut
through with precision separating them
then think again of those individual
garlic as the heart of your lovers
that you can peel, crush, and mince.
a couple of months ago, i wrote a lengthy letter, construction took almost a month, for a time, it almost became a metallic element, that will crowd a ring finger. it metamorphosed back and settled in the lines of my paper, whew! well, who among us still resort to writing everything on a piece of paper, on a 10 page paper that is.
the night before i completed my letters, i went beside a river, and howl under the incomplete moon above me, i stared in disbelief at myself on a broken mirror lying among the stones where the river once was. the dirt on my face glitters as if they are falling stars refusing to reclaim its place in the heavens. near my pouting lips are manuscripts, little fables, stories that rivers from my mouth.
that night i didn’t think of armani, and other names of designer gigolos, i didn’t wear them, as i don’t have them. you only have my honest essentials to the skin.
without my rituals, the intricacies of my crazines, i’ll be left with nothing, i’ll be cliche. if i will take back those letters i wrote, i wil ask my lawyer and send a demand letter. this time without a ritual.
this is how you’ll do it.
Prepare garlic and onion, chop cooked prawns with shells intact, use prawn stock to cook ground meat.
prepare yourself, chop your inhibitions with shame intact, use your sweat to cook your grounded ego.
let my tongue weave stories more vivid than your imagining.
from the sewers, stories came marching in like a revenge, with their huge flags, in bold letters, they’ve found me, and i became their unwilling target, they pushed me in the corners, violate me relentlessly, and tied me to a table, and offer me to the void of the planets.
they read before me irritating verses, enumerated my sins, and spoke lengthily of the obscurity of my silence.
These stories in vivid colors, i retorted – i did not seek solitude for religious purposes , but solely to avoid people and their laws, their teachings, their traditions, their ideas, their clamor, and their wailing.
What are the laws that kept me silent for a long time? the poetics of anger? or the poetics of poverty? the night just caught me somewhere.
The night became O
enclosing us in an eternal embrace
you spread your feet wide as your name, it is immense even in abbreviations.
pardon me, sometimes incoherence is an anthem that would want to stick its nose on your skins.
1. remember those months when hunger came like a delayed menstruation
2. think of all those who left you because poetry is a lie and a tragedy
3. think again and allow yourself to be lured again by the promises of words becoming flesh like a bladed weapon that cuts your chest open so the world can see how inglorious the beatings of your heart looks
4. count how many times you were made to believe that longing is alcohol induced and is manufactured by those who made us believe that we can don wings when remembering is a lightning – sudden and without notice
5. smile and recall the conversations you had with friends in onw hurried afternoon, and how everything was shared unabashedly without fear that tomorrow, all those kneeling around you will be inundated with grief , as if it is a gift that christmas failed to deliver
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
if you’ll start with number one, beside it is a line curving itself to the left and settled with a short flat feet below to support its eternal bow. the rest is going to be easy, utter it’s name without describing them, what is important is the first and the second. the 3rd is just an adjunct that you’ll have to deal with sooner or later. it doesn’t matter, you can call them relevant like discovering how a circle can bring you from one place to another, or the discovery of fire. or dismiss the 3rd as a glitch within a routine.
sequence is the establishment, it’s the dominant thought that’s been there since forever. finish school, get a nice paying job, buy a car, and marry a tycon. don’t write poetry, don’t get entangle in a conversation about butterfly effects, don’t talk about saving the world, don’t date stubborn intellectuals.
but such is the idea of sequence. the previous night i went out to observe some faithfuls, how one flushe- face girl ogled at the armani jacket of one towering guy preaching about the goodness of heavens. observing from a distance – sex would have been great if you’ll wear designer jackets, eat fruits for dinner, and show some bulge – in your pocket that is, fat cheque that is. Later, consistent with what sequence is all about – settle that all things in the world are immaterial to salvation.
how can you deal with sequence and establishment? prepare yourself as if you’re going to wage a war, asses the number of your armies, your hard ware, and the ideology behind waging a war. count your allies, remember they are temporary, you’ll lose them anytime within the duration of the war.
just keep them close and at bay. obviously there will be constant tensions.
while planning and developing a strategy, a leisurely walk will not hurt, it will give you time to rekindle and reconnect with the people around you, go visit old acquaintances, enjoy the idea of being incognito, learn how to disappear completely in a crowd, don’t wear anything fancy to attention.
it’s the infection that prompted me to write, it’s this virtual meet-up that pushed me to start clicking away on my pc, it’s this longing to talk, converse and connect, that prompted me to get soaked up with the idea that universal birth can be as easy as an infection on your thigh, ended with the dilemma of immobility.
then i went back to my manifesto:
unlike before, now, with you, the world gathers the letters singlehandedly, arrange them to form names, streets, sadness, world and all sorts of sickness, until it becomes a poem. the world becoming whole again.
with me, it doesn’t have to be the first, i can start with the fifth, of the nth counting, n doesn’t have to follow m, it’s a whim that pushes us what is to be done, it’s hunger and not the time that will tell us when to devour, and nibble.
don’t mind gossips.
asymptotic. nearing but never touching.
it’s a manifesto that doesn’t know how to start and what ending is all about.
don’t get stuck, move!
exactly a year ago today, i opened my world with leave takings, i’ve been raging about loss, and i’ve been raging about how the world should come together.
i’ve learned the essentials – weave foods out of nowhere, knit letters to form stories and start a memory.
speed is important, i’ve named them, segrated them, and summoned them at whim, so i can be close or far from anything that needs attention and details. I tend to speed up when i am far from the center of comfort, when i’m afflicted, and when i want to elude, and when i long for silence. stories are different when you find me in one place and in another place, suddenly.
there are times, when i go slow, or when i’m compelled to temper my pace, learning is different. when i am warped, caught and stuck, i always find it difficult to untangle myself.
moving is essential, just like poetry, like a good conversation, like a long kiss, like a tight hug. oh well