Posts Tagged writing
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.
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.