Sprout (2012)

This is a very high school story, if there ever was one.   I decided to give it a try so as to give myself a break from all the other things I’ve been on to lately that tended to be more on the serious, psychological, and dark-themed persuasion.  I’d say it was cute, if you liked this kind of high school candy.  I’m sure many out there would like it.

Souhei, along with two other people, end up as boarders in Miku’s home.  Things get awkward at first – Miku wasn’t really willing to let strangers invade her cushy home-life.  But then soon enough she develops a crush on Souhei and thinks of him as her “fated person.”  Problem is, Souhei has a girlfriend, Miyuki.  Miku, while not exactly popular in school, finds herself creating an awkward friendship with Miyuki, who gets bullied and gossiped about.  And then there’s Hayato, Souhei’s best friend, who ends up falling for Miku.  It’s a four-way street from there.  The story goes through the motions of showing the awkwardness of youth, naivete, first love, and heartbreak through a dewy summer-themed lens to the background song Betty’s a Bombshell by Grouplove.  I rather liked this song.  As to the series, the pace was good – thirty minute episodes, so it went quite fast and didn’t get too boring.  The thing is, the actors (except perhaps for the Souhei kid) came off as stiff, cold, and awkward; as if they didn’t feel quite comfortable with their roles.  But come to think of it, given the themes, they were supposed to look awkward and uncomfortable, being teens trying to figure things out by trial and error, yes?  Oh well.   Anyway, it wasn’t all that bad.  It’s good for something light and cute, if that’s what you’re after.  Enjoy! 

Boat-rides

Boat-rides

I love the way he’d look at me

As though I was a pleasant surprise

Each and every time

His eyes would turn my way.

Our eyes would meet, he’d look away

Then find my gaze again.

What sublime secret

Language is this, spoken only

Between two people’s eyes and souls.

I’ve fallen for the way

He’d gently touch these

Silent undersea creatures –

The kindness and reverence

In his hands that I imagine

Could heal any hurt.

There he sits at the prow at ease,

Riding the waves of his home waters,

And speaking island song. 

I see him thus and feel unburdened.

I long for the sea salt-taste of his lips

On mine and his voice in my ear.

He has lived a short while yet, and yet

His wisdom is deep as the sea

That claims him.  I try to

Picture him in my mind and keep him

There away from the world.

But the world never stops pulling me

Back from this ocean I yearn to drown in.

I do not want to forget, but oh,

How quickly we forget

The things that never were.

Let me dive down deep

Into the memory of touch, sound, sight –

The only ocean in which

We two can meet.  

A Force of Nature: Office Crush

A Force of Nature: Office Crush

Sidelong glances,

Surreptitious looks,

Shy Good morning-s

Thank you-s and Excuse me-s. 

My favourite is the ungrudging view of

The landscape that spans the back of your

Neck , across your shoulders, back, and down

To the base of your spine;

Especially so when you raise

Your arms to stretch and

The earth beneath my feet shifts,

Strains, and flows in time with the planes

And valleys of your body.

I hope you’ll never notice me;

But when will you ever notice me

Planning my next move to elicit the thunder of

Your laughter, the lightning of your smile?

You are a force of nature as you

Pass by me at my desk,

Uncaring as any storm passing through.

(September 2012)

Eleven Minutes - Paulo Coelho

“Eleven Minutes” is the second book by Paulo Coelho that I’ve read.  First was “The Alchemist” which I read many years ago and that I found very philosophical and rich in imagery.  I’ve wanted to read more of Coelho’s work since then, and I’m glad I chose “Eleven Minutes.”

It was truly lyrical and absorbing.  It centered on Maria, a young Brazilian girl who grew up in a small town and who at a young age, had her eyes opened to the pain and disappointment of love.  Still, she dreamed idealistically and kept her hopes up for love.  In search of adventure and the fulfillment of vague but grand dreams of fame and fortune, she travelled to Switzerland where an uncertain future awaits.  There in the land of snow, clocks, and chocolate, circumstances eventually led her to become a prostitute.  In the practice of this profession she constantly questioned her fate, her identity, and the meaning and connection between sex and love.  Eventually she meets an artist who insists on being able to see Maria’s “inner light,” and the relationship that develops between them turns Maria’s world around.  What she believed of herself, her decisions, her destiny, and her understanding of pain, pleasure, and love will all be challenged.  She must then choose – to destroy a beautiful dream by letting it come true, or to let the dream remain as it is, unrealized and perfect.

I love the way the story is told.  It almost feels confessional, and that Maria is talking to you personally.  It also made me deeply admire the author’s insight, sensitivity, and honesty – he spared no punches in this book.  He presented the concept of sex and prostitution without any malice or condemnation.  He was also able to delve into the female perspective quite thoroughly (which I always find remarkable in a man) but also gave a candid and thoughtful male viewpoint.  There are moments in the book that felt almost prayerful; times when it felt like you were reading a history text; and even instances that were graphic and voyeuristic.  It’s amazing how the author put it all together and came up with something so coldly thought-provoking yet deeply emotional at the same time.

This book is not for younger readers, but is definitely worth reading and deserving of high praise.  I almost couldn’t let go of the book once I started to read.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Unscene #6

 

Unscene #6:  A dreamful young person asked me, "What's a kiss like?"  I laughed.

“The Kiss” (a sudden poem) 

I could tell you

love me because

I could taste

the Juicy Fruit

on your tongue. 

Though I could

slightly tell you

enjoyed tinapang bangus

for lunch. 

I don’t mind

if you don’t mind

the bitter

coffee on my lips.

Notes:  Juicy Fruit is a chewing gum; very sweet. 
Tinapang Bangus is fish preserved by salting; very salty and fishy.

Summer again

If I retraced the steps I took walking away

from you, would it matter?

If I took back the words I traded

with you, would it change anything?

I don’t want to live with regrets, these bitter

chunks of aftertaste in my mouth where

once I held your flavour. 

Now nothing seems sweet, and all

warmth is gone.  Nothing helps,

not even summer fruit, nor summer sun.

I run down tree-lined lanes

and smell blooming flowers but there is nothing.

Nothing now you’re gone.  You’re gone.

Sleeping Beauty

I would rather not see

the world without him

who shall love me.

This bed shall be haven

and Hell will not have me

until he finds me here,

under the dust I shall be.

What is a hundred years;

what is a moment? No, time

does not matter. It does not

hold me, does not

curse me. Still I shall wait

in dreams. In dreams I'll live,

as I'm dead awake. Unkissed,

untouched, until he.

Passing fancy

Passing fancy, I
catch the corner of your eye.
I’m yours and you’re mine
only for a little while.
Passing fancy, I
measure your breath with mine,
and your heart beating to my time.
I’m yours and you’re mine
only for a little while.
Passing fancy, I
bring you my flickering light,
but must take it back away by night.
Sip of this my spark and shine.
I’m yours and you’re mine
but only for a little while.

Strange love

I’m starting to see red. And I’m not talking about anger here. I’m talking about that annual human ritual called Valentine’s Season (in the Philippines, it’s a Season, not just a Day). Red hearts, red roses, red everywhere. Just like Christmas, people see it as something very special, worth noting, remembering, and preparing for. In a way, it’s a good thing. The idea of love is a good thing, yes? But oh, just like Christmas, love has always been an abused idea.


Ever since February began, I’ve been getting the same annual looks and questions from most everyone who’s acquainted with me – the undying “Do you have a date on Valentine’s Day?,” or “Any romance on Valentine’s Day?” And they always manage to imply that you ought to feel inadequate or alienated when your answer is “No.” Why? I’ve always wondered where the notion of love as the be-all and end-all of all things began. And if the idea has always been around, does that mean it’s true? Is it really necessary to look down upon people when they don’t have this “romance” in their lives? Can happiness only be measured by the presence of "romantic" love? It’s all so strange to me.


Someone once told me, there’s no real St. Valentine. He was a fictional saint “invented” by the Catholic church to promote and perpetuate the idea of romantic love so that more people would get married, hence, more income for the church. After all, people pay the church for weddings, and when the union bears fruit, the parents will have to pay for their children’s baptisms, confirmations, first communions, weddings, and so on and so forth. Sacraments aren’t exactly free of charge, and the church does need money (who doesn’t?), hence, St. Valentine – a very useful saint, indeed. I never got around to investigate this, but since it’s Valentine’s Season again, I just might try to look into it. It’s all so strange to me.


Love is everywhere again; or at least the IDEA of love is popular again. Nothing bad about that, right? Love is always a good thing, yes? But it has always been an abused and abusive idea. Too many people believe they are unhappy because they don’t have “romance” in their lives. So no matter how much they achieve, or how much good they contribute to the world, they feel unsatisfied. And too often in their desperation to find this idea of “love”, they end up in a lot of terrible situations. It’s all so strange to me.


Love is strange. Love is a stranger; at least to me it sometimes is. I’m not complaining though. I have all sorts of love in my life, strange and otherwise. And it’s more than enough strangeness for me.


Nevertheless, on the off-chance something good might actually come out of well-wishing, and for whatever it’s worth, Happy Valentine’s Season to everyone!

(posted elsewhere 11 Feb 2006)

Dizzy

Flutter from the pit

of my stomach,

I reel and the world

reeled with me.

Sway slow, slow

dance on my feet,

on my toes.

I float down the

depth of no

deeper than sleep.

And dream

and wake and

dream awake, I am

nothing but a-

flutter. In the pit

of my stomach

there is a feeling,

fading fast but

not fleeting. My love

all a-feeling,

had me reeling,

dizzy on my feet.

Yawn

Falling into sleep,

your kiss is the breath

flowing down my throat,

into my chest and back

out again. I exhale

with my mouth

open wide, my eyes

misting with cold

tears. You leave me

sleep-heavy thoughts

clouded by a thick fog

of the breath

I long to inhale again.

Time, Space, Blankness

Is it not unfair,

how you give me

this burden of words

and colors?

I never did ask

for any time. None of it was mine

in the first place; like you.


Is it not unfair,

that before this space came to be,

the empty moments were enough

for me to count?

I let them pass

without looking them in the eye.

They weren’t mine to fill

in the first place; like you.


It is so unfair

that I was given a puzzle to solve,

when it was never mine

to hang whole upon

my empty walls

in the first place; like you.


Now I have these steady moments

and this undecorated space

with no words nor colors.

And for the first time I look it

in its eye and notice

its blankness.

the next two minutes

I breathe
the passing moments
in another woman’s dress.
In the next two minutes,
I am beautiful
and beloved.
Her music is mine,
and the tears I cry
will be hers, too.
When she says
she loves you,
those are my words.
Let her say them for me.
I am voiceless
and unseen.
I hide, retreat into
her darkness;
and she is bright, brighter,
brightest. I shine,
sparkle; made free.
And in the next two minutes,
I am she.

Night - a tryst

one Night,

she and you will meet

in a dream.

though the Days

be dry and long,

Night will come.

the coolness of her kiss

brush your thirsty lips,

and her sigh

your breath.

you fall

into her arms.

sweet Night!

she rocks you slow

and whispers her love,

should you whisper yours.

she keeps you in her eyes

as you gently

close your own.

you’re home.

she’s in your dream

alone.

you’re home.

Paper Cuts

my skin

as any knife

can never do.

I bleed as no knife

could ever make me.

Fancy this cut,

so shallow;

hurts my bones,

bleeds my mind.

I am irrational

in my pain.

Outside I smile;

the wound so

small and silent.

You were the page

on which my story

should have been writ.

But you left me

nothing more

than this cut.

Why won’t it stop

bleeding?

These Wounds

Papa had to leave when I was thirteen years old. The job promotion for which he had been waiting for fifteen years finally came… at a price. He was to move to the provinces. He could take his family with him, sure, but it was the middle of the school year and all the good schools were in Metro Manila. So he left, and the rest of us stayed. From then on, we could only see him once a month, and he stays for only a few days before leaving again. I know that many people are in the same situation as mine. Giving your family a better life nowadays equates to leaving them behind. But how terribly do I miss my father, even today, nearly thirteen years from when he first left. I’ve never gotten used to it. The meals were never complete without him at the head of the table. Coming home from wherever is never the same without scouring the house for him so we could "mano". The nights were never as peaceful as when his horrific snoring would punctuate its stillness. The only thing that mattered was that he was with us. But he couldn’t be. Most people get used to such things, I know. But I feel that in my case, its very different. Whenever he leaves, it’s like being wounded. For the next three weeks, the wounds would slowly numb and won’t feel so painful anymore. Then Papa comes home and the wounds finally start to close, heal, repair themselves. Then he leaves, and the wounds are slashed open all over again. Do this over and over and over for around thirteen years… unbearable. Sore, bleeding, festering wounds that never heal. Sometimes I wish he didn’t come home; give me a chance to get used to not having him around; give my wounds a chance to heal completely before they are torn open again.

We have reaped the benefits of this sacrifice. We have everything we need and are able to get most of what we want. But without even blinking, I would trade thirteen years of comfort and luxury to have had my father at all my birthdays, at all my graduations, and at the dinner table every single night of my life.

(posted elsewhere 6 Sep 2005)

Ghosts

There have been very, very few men in my "romantic" life. I have long gotten over them; it's been years since I last saw or spoke to them. I wish them well, but don't wonder what kind of life they're living and I don't make any effort to find out. They no longer stir any feelings in my heart. Except annoyance and irritation.

I'm nothing special. I am just one of billions of people out there, trying to live my days out peacefully in my own tiny little corner of the world. Yet they seem to not have even made the slightest effort to forget about me. They follow me around online. Maybe they google me or something. I hate it. I wish they'd leave me alone. I wish they'd forget about me completely. I don't want them to be thinking about me anymore. I don't begrudge them their memories, but I wish they wouldn't act on them. Why are they so fixated anyway? Are all men like that? Do they constantly update themselves about their old girlfriends? Is it a matter of pride and vanity for them? How stupid!

Perhaps it's too much attachment, too much fixation. Or maybe too much bitterness. In any case, it's been years. GET OVER IT! People ought to be able to live their lives without dwelling too much on the past, and without getting too attached to anything in this world. We're all dying, after all. Life is too short to waste on people who would rather forget and be forgotten - that would be ME.

So to all the ghosts out there who keep haunting people from their past, move along. The grass must surely be greener, the fish more plentiful, the honey sweeter, the women less opposed to being the victims of stalking, there on the other side.

Poetry from "Beauty and the Beast"

Longing
By Matthew Arnold

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.


Acquainted with the Night
By Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.



Love Song
By Rainier Maria Rilke

How shall I hold my soul that it may not
Be touching yours? How shall I lift it then
Above you to where other things are waiting?
Ah, gladly would I lodge it, all forgot,
With some lost thing the dark is isolating
On some remote and silent spot that, when
Your depths vibrate, is not itself vibrating.
You and me - all that lights upon us, though,
Brings us together like a fiddle-bow
Drawing one voice from two strings it glides along.
Across what instrument have we been spanned?
And what violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest song.


I Arise from Dreams of Thee
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me -- who knows how? --
To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream, --
The champak odors fall
Like sweet thoughts in a dream,
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O, beloved as thou art!

O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fall!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale,
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My Heart beats loud and fast
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last!


She Walks in Beauty
By Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!


somewhere i have never travelled
by e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands