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Dreams in Narrative

it's hard to move around when you're stuck being a ceramic.

“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 –

  1. hi, ive got an infection
  2. you know what my psychiatrist said?
  3. Let’s share something aside the moon
  4. So, what’s your favourite chaser?
  5. Do you know there’s a shampoo called gee you hair smells terrific, too bad you don’t know it?
  6. What is the square root of 3,789,987.987?
  7. You wan’t to disappear?
  8. I’m so cheap, you don’t have to bargain
  9. I need to measure the steps from your gate to your bedroom for feng shui
  10. 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!

POEM

Janet Russo

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

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RECLAIMING LETTERS

Like water, words are a wonderful conductor of energy.

-L. E.

 

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.

let’s start.

GARLIC

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.

the greening of the shrew

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.

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