Yours for next month

do you remember this?

(mine for next month:) f you did break up with someone you love, try to be philosophical. Do not attempt to be in touch with that person until July. I know that's a long time, but honestly, it won't help to call now, for you will only be rebuffed.

aye, GFTJ!

7th heaven, my apple-eating heathen.

7th heaven, my apple-eating heathen.

Has it been the 7th?
Has it really been that fast? I still remember that first time I came, and the first time I had my sock snapped and pushed to exaltation in your mouth. When the other night, I've had to rummaged for strength and call for Bravestar's Bear to engulf my sweat-laden body into yours. And after a few minutes of sleep, we were back on our backs. Breathing heavily, and excited, like we're doing everything for the first time. That you can na put out your smile on our face.

That was it. I can na describe the moment. Do I love you too much to render me brain dead and speechless? Do I ache for you that so your thoughts are congruently entrenched in mine?

That was it. Me, lying in bed, smiling dumb-founded. Me, days after, writing this, and smiling still.

train strains

train strains
12 May 09

I hate trains. It's my daily commute, and it has been a part of my life for some 10 odd years already. It was my awakening to the rabid commute to the farthest school I have ever been in, my A to B in the shortest amount of time, on regular hours. We push heavily starting from the steps on towards the ticketing, the balcony, then everywhere. The people, the masses, the multitude. It doesn't stop.

I used to take the bus / FX / jeep in the pre-MRT era. I loved it, and love it still. But the time convenience just affords my reality that I am always in rush; about the perplexities of my uncommon existence, and the rush to stay still.

For about a month now, I've had this strange relationship with trains. I will be there in the morning, waiting for her to arrive, amicably sitting and retaining my last thoughts from the night before. People walk passed; some stare at me. I look back without flinching a smile. Like I let my eyes gorge their silly thoughts, and silly dresses and silly walks. Then she arrives, sometimes on time, and mostly, not. Sometimes she arrives with a full hedge of life in her; those of turmoil, or those of gleam. And sometimes, there, empty, to be devoured by people just like me, to squeeze every inch of themselves and make her full, and let no other man come inside. I am selfish to want to get in right at that moment. I can wait, I know. But I am always in rush.

Inside, there is a mad sea of feelings. The hot and cold air swirl around and meet at some gully. Perhaps on my nose, or my lips where I can taste the foul air in the morning. Sometimes the air brushes my hair, and sometimes the sun glistens in my cheeks, and yours as well. Mornings can be a bit weary sometimes, especially for me, for lack of energy, from the nights I've spent exhausted, on your precious back. I can smile, and smile back at her. Because I know I am safe, inside her heart, where she turns and follows her rails. I notice eyes twitter around and look for others. Their stories, their lives, intertwined without knowing. Our lives. Back and forth. I've set my feet apart to stand still and sway gracefully inside her vessel. We dance, she and I, although she doesn't want to admit it. We enjoy balance amidst her rocky ride.

But just as every good passing moment comes, I arrive at my station; where I get off, and where I head out to graze and ponder my resiliency of un-attachment.

Beyond this, outside, people ruin the moment. We ourselves long for hurt, the urge, the shove, the persuasion, the want to antagonize, and so forth. I love the push. I love the riot. I love the turmoil. Hell, I wrote songs about it.

After that, once you're out, it's all calm, like anything never did happen. Just sweat on your brow, to know that there was that ride.

I used to hate trains sometimes, on what a wreck I can feel, from what can be made from a fleeting mad love affair.

Un Titled Number 3

"hello 'love', we meet again."

Drawings

I miss drawing for a reason.

Accidents

On Accidents.

There I was, alone in the lunch line, checking out the gallery of edibles. From the big 'palayok' of rice, to the trays of 'ulams' spread out, to the bananas hanging sweetly, I took serious thoughts on what to eat. It was my 4th day without 'baon' from home. Our cook took a nice long vacation, and I was left with the city lunches offered nearby our building.

A bright silvery tray, those used by caterers in weddings and other luncheons, called my attention, amongst the dozen of food laid out. Perhaps it was the sweet honey yellow 'something' that was attractive. I asked Mr. Cook what it was. "Isda po ba?" He said yes. There were other fishes in the sea, I thought. But this.. it was something bright, and perky, and smelled of butter. I could not resist butter, and lemon. I could already taste it, while still in line.

I took spoon and fork, and sat down near the big TV flat screen which was showing some slick B-movie action flick.

I sliced the 'fish meat' and noticed the heavy-ness in cutlery exploration. I thought, "Oh well. I'm hungry." That was that. I forked it down, then proceeded in mouthing it. Then, I felt a bit aghast that fishy meaty was a bit too meaty and chewy, in fact. Yes. As I've thought. It was chicken. Chicken meat. The last time I had chicken was when my friends playfully offered me chicken, while on a boat trip in the middle of the sea, in northern Palawan. Supposedly, they forgot the fish and cooked only chicken. You see, I don't eat anything meat.

Here I was, eating chicken, watching a movie with truck and motorcycle chases in tunnels. And I could've not eaten. But I already paid, and I was left with 20 bucks today. And there, the sobriety of economics and the notoriety of accidents.

- - -

18 Apr 09

This is 6 years from when my lola died. It was the first time, as I recalled, that I cried / sobbed / heavily. I remember that time, how oddly that I forget random things. They randomly knock to remind me of these. We were in the hospital corridor, looking mum. It was a Good Friday on a Catholic calendar. We rushed there straight from the ancestral house in Mexico, P.

My uncle opens the door. There, you can see her sleep. She would've smiled if she knew how to, after years of bearing down pain in bed. After those, stories of numbness and a broken spirit; all those that you've listened to. If I knew how to smile, when I saw her, I would have. Sometimes, death makes you smile, in a short while. Then afterwards, you'll feel your lungs collapse and it's harder to breathe. Her pale skin is glossed by tears. Everyone is looking at her, confined in an unflattering bed, in an unflattering white pale fluorescent light. No wonder hospitals invite gloom. Their feet shuffling around, indecisively.

I headed out, passed the nurses, passed the stairs, looking for somewhere to sit. I am at the lobby, grey and concrete. There I find my uncle, smoking. I did not smoke, but I wondered how it eases the loss.

I haven't cried in a long time, but there.