Silentium

I literally don’t know your middle name. does that
matter? what systems we arrange for intimacy, small
disclosures like miniature bridges, your mouth. not
what I’d anticipated. softer. to begin with,
I should tell the truth more. I could miss you,
and that’s a liability.
- Marty McConnell, Miniature Bridges, Your Mouth

***
i am thankful for the gift of hours and the memory that springs from such random acts of mercy. now in empty moments, alone and friendless in a strange room of white sheets, white walls, i can hold this gift up to white light, turn it in different ways and still be dazzled by its ever-changing colors.

even though i know i would always find myself back here in this place where everyone leaves from, says good-bye and turns away, the joy of shared mornings (and rare evernings) was a temptation i have unrepentantly fallen into. happy hour? anytime between seven until ten. it was a shared experience of milkshakes and ice cream, tea and poetry, theater tickets and lengthy text messages.

and always, always, animated conversations. always about those who matter most to you. always about that which is closest to your heart. i am never part of it, yet always taking part in it. i am the outsider looking in, my pockets heavy with privileged inside information. it could make me wealthy one day, if the currency would allow for an equitable exchange with your heart - that thing you keep away from me so cleverly, always just beyond my reach.

maybe i'm just dreaming. maybe i'm just an old hick reliving my glory days, when i believed i could put out with minimal effort for maximum effect.

those days are lost to me now.

already you are pulling away, slipping beyond my grasp. soon, i will have lost you to the waves of determination i have encouraged you to ride. soon, i will diminish from your sight, become a speck in the horizon, until i am no more part of anything.

***
I could miss you,
and that’s a liability.

it was an exercise in futility. is there anything more frustrating than trying to move one which is fixed, unmoving, and implacable in its resolve?

if the most desperate of efforts do not result in the desired effect, does one get any merit for trying?

***
note to self: what part of "no" do you not understand?

surely you must be used to this by now.

***
other note to self: know your place. remember it.

To his lost lover
Simon Armitage

Now they are no longer
any trouble to each other

he can turn things over, get down to that list
of things that never happened, all of the lost

unfinishable business.
For instance… for instance,

how he never clipped and kept her hair, or drew a hairbrush
through that style of hers, and never knew how not to blush

at the fall of her name in close company.
How they never slept like buried cutlery –

two spoons or forks cupped perfectly together,
or made the most of some heavy weather –

walked out into hard rain under sheet lightning,
or did the gears while the other was driving.

How he never raised his fingertips
to stop the segments of her lips

from breaking the news,
or tasted the fruit

or picked for himself the pear of her heart,
or lifted her hand to where his own heart

was a small, dark, terrified bird
in her grip. Where it hurt.

Or said the right thing,
or put it in writing.

And never fled the black mile back to his house
before midnight, or coaxed another button of her blouse,

the another,
or knew her

favourite colour,
her taste, her flavour,

and never ran a bath or held a towel for her,
or soft-soaped her, or whipped her hair

into an ice-cream cornet or a beehive
of lather, or acted out of turn, or misbehaved

when he might have, or worked a comb
where no comb had been, or walked back home

through a black mile hugging a punctured heart,
where it hurt, where it hurt, or helped her hand

to his butterfly heart
in its two blue halves.

And never almost cried,
and never once described

an attack of the heart,
or under a silk shirt

nursed in his hand her breast,
her left, like a tear of flesh

wept by the heart,
where it hurts,

or brushed with his thumb the nut of her nipple,
or drank intoxicating liquors from her navel.

Or christened the Pole Star in her name,
or shielded the mask of her face like a flame,

a pilot light,
or stayed the night,

or steered her back to that house of his,
or said “Don’t ask me how it is

I like you.
I just might do.”

How he never figured out a fireproof plan,
or unravelled her hand, as if her hand

were a solid ball
of silver foil

and discovered a lifeline hiding inside it,
and measured the trace of his own alongside it.

But said some things and never meant them –
sweet nothings anybody could have mentioned.

And left unsaid some things he should have spoken,
about the heart, where it hurt exactly, and how often.

***

only you have the power to lift my spirits with a smile, dash my hopes with a word.

your absence is the heavy burden i carry.

i will probably never hold your heart in my hand, yet i yearn for it like a lost part of myself - lost to me forever.

first a poem:

Seaside Improvisation
Richard Siken

I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don't
want them, so I take them back
and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists. The yard is dark,
the tomatoes are next to the whitewashed wall,
the book on the table is about Spain,
the windows are painted shut.
Tonight you're thinking of cities under crowns
of snow and I stare at you like I'm looking through a window,
counting birds.
You wanted happiness, I can't blame you for that,
and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy
but tell me
you love this, tell me you're not miserable.
You do the math, you expect the trouble.
The seaside town. The electric fence.
Draw a circle with a piece of chalk. Imagine standing in a constant cone
of light. Imagine surrender. Imagine being useless.
A stone on the path means the tea's not ready,
a stone in the hand means somebody's angry, the stone inside you still
hasn't hit bottom.

***
then a quote:

"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn." -T.H. White, The Once and Future King

***

and another one: "I'm writing you into the journal of impossible things." -Chris, inspired by Dr. Who, i guess?

***

why can't resorts be a bit friendlier to single, unaccompanied individuals who want to go on a holiday by themselves? i mean, i am willing to pay the rates. why should it be twin-sharing all the time? is it too far-fetched an idea for someone to want to go somewhere nice by herself?

there goes my plan for getting away to galera for a couple of days. yes, i'm looking at you, coco beach resort!

***

i've already ruled you out as impossible. it doesn't stop me from wanting you. in spite of myself. in spite of logic. in spite of the facts.

when it comes to you, my learning curve resets. everyday.

Silentium!
Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
(Translated by Vladimir Nabokov)

Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.

How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.

Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
take in their song and speak no word.

i'm not used to this.

so much of what we live goes on inside. for me, life is one moment of thought flowing or flitting into the other, depending on which landscape one's fancy discovers or returns to. i can spend hours on a book, gobbling up its contents and digesting them later. i love taking a moment to reflect on a moving passage in a piece of poetry recently discovered. oftentimes, thoughts pass unsaid, unwritten, unexpressed.

i am perfectly at home with solitude, the peace and freedom it offers. i have always been a quiet person, even when i was a child. it has its advantage: one becomes the most likely candidate for the role of confidante. the view from this vantage point is always a fascinating one. more than just being entrusted with secrets or being privy to thoughts otherwise usually kept hidden, the role of secret-keeper allows one to keep a piece of someone else's thoughts or feelings with your own, without having to necessarily part with yours - unless opinion or advice is solicited.

being quiet, however, has its drawbacks. sometimes the seemingly innocuous inquiry, "what's new with you?" becomes a conundrum with unforseen (to the inquirer) complications. in casual conversations among casual acquaintances, the polite answer would be, "oh, you know, nothing much. just the usual," before launching into some short vignette about whatever one's "usual" might be. among friends, the vignette may be a bit longer, the response a little less edited. i hardly play the role of storyteller, so when the opportunity presents itself i am unable to gracefully rise to the occasion.

***

it wasn't a casual conversation. neither are you a casual acquaintance; quite the contrary. i don't know how to answer that question without the response sounding too trite, off-tangent, or revealing too much. i can tell you, however, that you are not the first to complain about my inability to turn the tables around and open my mouth. it is only in retrospect that i realize i should have shared that interesting passage from the book i'm currently immersed in, or told you about the quick and fascinating lightning show i witnessed as i was making my way to work.

maybe i'm just making excuses. what we conceal is always more than what we dare confide.

i keep secrets, too.
***

Zane and I scrapped our original plan to see one of the entries to this year's Cinemanila, but made our way to Greenbelt instead to see Julie and Julia with Dia.



Julie and Julia is the film adaptation of Julie Powell's eponymous book, in turn a rendition of her blog which chronicled the progress of her self-imposed, 365-day foray into Julia Child's seminal cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Written and directed by Nora Ephron, the film juxtaposes the lives of these two women, both beginning with their movement into unfamiliar territory and their journey to self-realization through, you guessed it, cooking. Julia Child and her husband Paul are expats newly-arrived in Paris, while Julie and Eric Powell have just recently moved to an apartment above a pizzeria in Queens, a larger space than the one they left in Manhattan.

For want of something to do, Julia tries her hand at several acceptable occupations for married women in the sixties, attending classes in hat-making, studying French, then finally attending an advanced cooking class at Le Cordon Bleu. With the encouragement of her editor husband, Julia Powell, a cubicle employee for a government organization helping families affected by the 9/11 tragedy, embarks on a project: "365 days. 536 recipes. One girl and a crappy outer borough kitchen." Although more than a generation separates these women, the sentiment is the same - the desire to find one's calling and therefore define a self that is distinct and separate from one's role as wife, worker, etc.

The storytelling itself is simple and linear, even though it deals with two timelines. The narrative is a study on parallelism, and the cutting from one storyline to the next - from Julie's to Julia's, or vice-versa - not only serves as side-by-side comparison of these women's struggles and triumphs, but also as a cliffhanger, a break before a significant turn in the plot. There are a lot of funny moments in the film: in one scene, we see Paul Child literally crying by the door upon finding his wife vigorously chopping away a mountain of onions; in another, Julie Powell, in a fit of frustration over failing to do a recipe properly, is on the kitchen floor, crying and throwing a tantrum. The low points are rendered with very little melodrama: joy and pain war in Julia's features until she finally breaks down after finding out that her recently-married sister is with child, and from the quiet way her husband comforts her we realize that they are unable to have their own.

Larger-than-life and with a peculiar voice to match, Julia Child is splendidly and perfectly portrayed by Meryl Streep. I remember an acquaintance raving about her performance in this movie, "Meryl Streep disappeared; that is Julia Child on screen." Ms. Streep was more than able to capture the tenor of the iconic Julia's character. The subtlety of her approach made me see Julia as a funny character, but without the slapstick; her gestures were firm, decisive, but without grand gesticulation. Meryl Streep wore her character like a second skin. Amy Adams as Julie Powell was also impressive. As a young, married woman juggling the role of wife, employee, friend and daughter in 21st century New York, she echoes all the joy, frustration, insecurities, complex relationships of today's woman in her thirties with great sincerity and humor.

I fell in love with Stanley Tucci and Chris Messina as the main characters' incredible husbands. More than just an emotional prop, I believe that the role as husbands played by these fine gentlemen is astoundingly simple, yet extremely significant: they treated their wives with unswerving love and deep respect, and because they were confident about their place in life, the enthusiasm and support was real and sincere. With this as the backdrop, Julie and Julia flourished and ultimately succeeded in their own respective journeys.

I liked how the music was used as a subtle, invisible cue to gently transition the audience from one storyline to the other. It is only towards the end of the movie that one song, Time After Time, played out uninterruptedly through both Julie and Julia's storylines. The cinematography, too, was used to compare and contrast. In the first few scenes, in Julia's story, we see the Eiffel Tower in the background while the couple settles in to their new home. On the other hand, as Julie and Eric drive to their new home, the camera tilts to an old, rusting water tower as the car passes by.

Overall, Julie and Julia is a good movie, another Oscar-worthy material for lead actress Meryl Streep. Now, shoo and go see it!

***

there is a finite number of times that the heart can take rejection. with each one, the heart suffers a little death. i'm getting tired of trying to fit in somewhere i'm unwanted. i'm tired of seeing your retreating back.

i need a break.
***

question to the void: why does my neighbor choose the exact hour of my deepest slumber to crank up the volume and sing to his heart's content? i mean, really, there's plenty of time to do it; just not anytime during the late afternoon to early evening. can't be asking for much, can it?

god, it was so hard to go back to sleep, even tougher to wake up at the appointed time. i ended up coming to work later than usual again and missing a client call! grr.

***

do you think perhaps that the sting of sharp words is easily dismissed by offerings of sweet treats? i'm no longer a child, you know, despite my predilection to chocolates and sugary stuff.

ah, but you're not exactly having a smooth ride lately, have you? perhaps it's my proximity. should i expect more of these unexpected, hitherto unreleased outbursts? just wondering.

it's been a good day with you, nevertheless.

i was hoping to make good time with sleep yesterday after leaving the office early. after some leisurely "dinner" and the usual end-of-day rituals, i hit the sack around noon. the blissful idea of an eight-hour sleep was one of my last lucid thoughts before i succumbed to oblivion.

i was stunned to waking not many hours later. some disembodied voice permeated through my subconscious and startled me awake. it was decidedly off-key, definitely loud, and annoyingly persistent. there's a birthday party at the neighbor's apparently and, like most pinoy birthday parties, there is the ubiquitous videoke set up at the celebrant's home (indoors or outdoors, depending on the available space), open mike, with the volume turned up as high as anything. and like any typical videoke in any party this side of the world, this one featured a series of dubious belters aided either by alcohol, enthusiasm, or both.

i blearily consulted the clock: 4:00 pm. shit.

i tried to go back to sleep, i really did. i shut the windows, drew the curtains closed, put a pillow over my head. by the time the third singer was doing his best to make me abhor a novelty song even more (the title escapes me, and really, i have no wish to recall), i gave up.

i got up, had dinner, showered, and left. i arrived at the office four hours early, and a couple of hours before the rain started pouring.

well, thank goodness for small mercies, i suppose. i don't know if i'd have traded a full eight hours' sleep with getting caught in the rain. the point is moot in any case.


***

i cannot be trusted with words. my fevered imagination takes it and runs with it. very far. with me, a myriad of possibilities springs forth with one word. a universe explodes into existence where the word and all its possible connotations and conjugations become the stuff of sea, sand and sky.

a word of warning, therefore: please don't tell me things you don't really mean. with every word said and later refuted, it becomes increasingly difficult to question the probability of what could have been possible. it takes herculean effort to rip apart a universe, albeit a made-up one.

Poem Not Written in Catalan
Eric Gamalinda

Of all the things that are not eternal
I deny the patience of water, the divinity of salt, and the
persistence of the spider

I would like to write a suicide note in three and a half languages
and travel south on a Thursday towards
some form of life outside of earth

And although people will think I'm no longer there
I will live in geodesic domes
and count only in numbers below zero

Sometimes when I walk past trees in the city I hear them denying me
Normally this doesn't bother me but today
I'm not going to take any conspiracies

I deny bodies of water smaller than the Great Lakes
I deny any planet larger than America

I deny the fact that when I kill time, time is actually killing me
I am air, light, sound, all of which I deny
I deny the Buddha, I do not deny the Buddha

An exact copy of my life is being lived three million light years
away
If there's a way to prove it
If mathematics were the only religion

We are passing an era of turbulence
make sure your seats are in the uptight position

"When we come close to another a certain light ignites"

Love like an arsonist
steals into my life and burns down all my tenements

(In a court of law, love will deny me
and I can't prove a thing)

***
cross-posted in greatpoets