yoko

Ayoko naman talagang malungkot. Ayokong maging dysfunctional. Ayokong
mahirapan. Ayokong maging purita. Ayokong makasakit. Ayokong masaktan.



Ayoko talaga...kaya lang bawal umayaw.

General Cleaning: Paghahanda sa Virtual Mode

Naranasan ko na yung makipagpalitan ng mga nakaw na sulyap. Nakapagtago na rin ako ng tissue, ballpen, pinagtasahan ng lapis, panyo, crumpled paper at kung anu-ano pa. Isangkatutak na mga bagay na kinolekta kasi feeling ko napapalapit ako sa mga taong gusto ko kapag naitatabi ko ang mga bagay na nahawakan, nagamit o nahingahan niya. Kanina lang naglinis ako ng bodega. Nakita ko lahat ng mga alaala.

Sentimental akong tao. Sa totoo lang kaya naging bodega ang dalawang kwarto sa bahay ko, hindi ko kasi kayang magtapon ng alaala. Kahit pa idispatya ko sa buhay ko ang kung sinu-sino, yung memories laging parang feeling ko kelangan kong itabi for future use. Pero kanina naitapon ko lahat. Inisa-isa ko muna. Mga litrato ni ex, mga highschool poems, mga nanlalagkit na lumang journals, picture ni ganito, picture ni ganun, souvenir sa ganito, souvenir sa ganun. Ultimo giftwrap ng unang regalo ng ex ko naitabi ko pa pala. Marami ring souvenir programs ng mga plays na nagustuhan ko, with matching tickets.

Tinapon ko lahat. Pati yung kauna-unahan kong dance shoes at koleksyon ko ng mga ticket ng bus. Syempre unang dahilan ko ayaw ko na ng kalat at nanghihinayang ako sa espasyo. Pero bukod dun, gusto ko na kasi makalimot. Ang labo kasi ng memorya ko. Malilimutin ako sa halos lahat ng bagay. Pero sa mga bagay na masasakit, photographic ito. Isa pa, hindi na kasi uso ang magpacute ngayon, magtago ng dahon, bato, straw, resibo at kung anu-ano pa. Ang pakyutan kasi ngayon virtual na. Naaastigan ako sa ideya na may non-verbal communication sa cyberspace to think na salita ang pangunahing elemento nito. E.g. ang pagtingin sa 'WHo's Viewed Me" with mental tally sheets kung ilang beses ka sinilip ng crush mo. Nakakatuwa at nakakaloka at the same time. May isang babae nagpopost ng kung anikanik na sweetsweetan songs dedicated sa isang lalaki na nagpopost din ng panunuyo songs kay babae. Di nila bineverbalize. Di din alam ng buong cyberworld. Pero nagkakaibigan na sila nang ganun.

Amazed ako sa cyberworld. At higit sa lahat, thankful ako. Natulungan akong hindi maging masyadong attached sa mga bagay. Yung tipong alam ko sa sarili ko na virtual lang ito kaya pwedeng mawala sa isang iglap. Kahit itong multiply account ko pwedeng mawala kasama na yung mga exchange of thoughts natin dito. Ganun din naman dapat sa real world eh. Madalas magtatago ka ng mga abubot para sana 20 or so years from now magkasabay niyong titignan ng kung sino man o kaya ididikit sa slumbook. Parang patunay kasi yun na nagbibigay ka ng sobrang pagpapahalaga sa kung sino man. Iyang ideyang 'yan nagdulot ng alikabok, ipis, lumot at anay sa bahay ko at sa isip ko. Kailangan na talaga ng general cleaning ng espasyo at ng utak, puso at gunita.

May kaibigan ako. Binigyan niya ko ng isang pahina ng brown paper galing sa journal niya. Sabi niya hahanapin niya daw yun sa akin balang araw. Neknek. Baka itapon ko na rin. Anu'ng silbi ng mga bagay-bagay kung hindi naman napapangalagaan ang relasyong nanggagaling sa kalooblooban mo.

Hindi naman ako bitter. Ayoko na lang ng attachments.

mmm...

mmm...

di maipaliwanag na sakit

dun sa isang blog ko dito, kinwento ko yung sakit ko. yung ang symptoms eh di ako mapakali. parehong-pareho dun sa pakiramdam kapag nag-eexam ka tapos ang mga classmates mo isa-isa nang nagtatayuan. ganun. yung parang gusto mo magCR na ewan.

umaatake na naman yung sakit kong 'yun. gusto kong tumalon-talon, umikot-ikot, tumambling-tumbling.

ang mahirap pa nito... di umuubra ang medicol.

Nakakasama ng loob ang multiply

Ang lupit naman ng multiply. Mula 11pm kagabi hanggang ngayon (timecheck: 6:30am), hindi ko nakalikot ang multiply. Bad trip. Mas productive, mas creative at mas emotional pa naman ako from midnight to 6am (promise may oras talaga. otherwise pilit).

Nagmemaintenance work daw kasi ang multiply. Pero bakit ganun? Bakit hindi na lang nung tanghali sila nagmaintenance. Naman oh! Ibig bang sabihin nito eh mas pinapaboran ng multiply ang mga nasa ibang timezone? western schedule pa ang kinoconsider kaya ganun?

Shet naman oh! Pati ba naman sa multiply may hegemony? Ganun?

Owmaygaligas!

Reverie

I thought it was impossible. But here you are sketching the outline of our abstract beginnings, mixing the words and marks to freeze events, to verbalize thoughts.

I never knew hands can be much more graceful than turning on pointe. But your hands make typing appear to be a perfect pas de deux routine. The rhythmic clicks accompany the swift and accurate movements of your fingers. Beneath your stained blue-green blanket, I watch your performance. But you wouldn’t have to know. With my eyes three-quarters closed I take pleasure in memorizing your moves. My God, what else can those hands do?

Shush everyone, every object, every idea, every distraction, every pain, every dream. Let the performer claim his stage. But can a poet be a poet without reading his verses? Can a poet be a poet without sharing his works? If you’d never let me read what you are writing in this ungodly hour, can you still be my poet? When does a poet become a poet? Is it during the conceptual process and negotiation with his MAC or when readers turn the pages of the published works of his creative mind?

Better yet, what is a performance? Does performance always have to be physical? Even in your absence I watch you perform hour after hour. Should the performer be kept aware of his audience? My covet viewings will never be revealed to you. And still, I am a witness.

The proscenium of your work area, your silhouette formed from dim streetlights escaping through the fibers of your ochre canvas curtains, the streaks of highlights from your monitor – damn such scene. Damn the blocking. Curse the stage direction that disturbs my sanity. I’d have cursed you, my remarkable performer, if I’d known you are aware of this enslaving act. But you are not. You perform without you knowing it.

I am getting used to sleepless nights in this marathon of secret performances. Sometimes you would even try to converse with me. Once you even moved closer to pull pillows I used to cover my face with, to check if I was still awake. A couple of times you glanced at me and smiled, seemingly so sure I was still up and seemingly so sure I was observing you.

I thought it was impossible. But it happens. I am stiffened by your performances, my poet. Stiffened, but not out of awe. I wouldn’t dare move for I know at one touch… the wooden furniture, the MAC, the graceful hands, and the outline of my poet with his eyeglasses will all instantly disappear. The stage will be left empty except for dim streetlights escaping from the fibers of my pink floral cotton curtains. At one touch, I know my spectator eyes will be staring at the sturdy wooden side-table with my pink-striped wallpaper as backdrop. Then I will be wrapped in my own pink sheets.

I’ll never let you know I take the best seat in your every performance. I’ll always keep my eyes three-quarters closed. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

No other way than to watch you enchant me, under my own direction.