__
09194998649
I was here.
I saw you passed by outside and I followed. You saw me enter the cofeeshop, more than twice. I took my time buying a cup because I was stealing glances. I took a nearby seat and counted enough change for the fare home. I was relieved. I noticed you had a calculator and I was stupid to mumble something like I had to know the value of Pi, up to eleven digits after the decimal. But now you know I’m actually smarter than that.
You rang me up the next day. You liked me more and more. Shyly, I admitted feeling the same. We gave each other presents. You hated flowers, moreover, you wouldn’t give me one. I hated your bad days, and told you to pick your fights. You preferred the train because you avoid overreaching for lazy passengers’ fares. And I knew they’re called pushcarts for good reason, thank you, but still I liked to pull on them. But we counted the months. I sang you Your Song. And then you actually sang it better. We had plans. We gave each other morning and parting kisses.
Later, I got so down, when it took longer than expected to find another job, I waxed the floor and bought new rugs. You slipped on one, I was terrified you’ve broken more than a wrist. You did. You laughed it off and said you look more rugged with the cast. I agreed, not just because I was sorry. I drew a crack and from it emerge nuns, priests and trains, and I helped you in for baths, in dressing up for work. I enjoyed it, you didn't have to thank me much. We hoped for marriage. Someday, maybe.
Then came a difficult fight. I gave you a bruise, not before long did it turn from crimson to ugly violet. You were drunk and kicked down chairs.
It got better somehow with a long talk and lots of compromise. We missed each other, you approached me in a manner I knew too well. I pushed in early, you hurt a lot, we had to stop. I did it again and you yelled “Easy, Tiger!” In French. Well in any case, you wouldn’t have called me that if you hadn’t wanted it rough, I knew that too.
Anyway, by the time you're reading this, if you ever happen to read this, hopefully we each still pay half of the month’s rent. And that you never forget again your credit card in case I got too excited buying groceries pulling on carts at the supermarket . Forgive me if sometimes you have to mop the bathroom so often. I’m wasteful, I flood the floor and keep forgetting to close the tap. Don’t worry. I knew all along you burned my favorite dress shirt with the iron. And it’s OK, as long as I get to borrow yours. I secretly envy your good taste.
In the event that one of us had declared it over, I hope we didn’t fight too much on who gets to take care of Marcello. He’s not our kid (weren’t we contemplating on adoption), but our jack russell. You wouldn’t have agreed to naming our child Marcello anyway.
Either way, you must be absent-mindedly scratching your eyebrow now, I’m right, ain’t I? No, don't stop, it's cute. With a few potholes here and there, some uphills, a major quake or two (I hope not literally but who knows), I can’t say for sure if we’d still be standing. But whether I’m waiting for you outside (dinner's on me tomorrow, in that case) or not :-( , I should have told you earlier on when something’s not working pretty well...
It’s the bad plumbing here, you see, you should have taken the other stall.
Tee-hee.
For 09279877854
___
Friday, April 1, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Never
From the collector's notebook of substitutions
by Conchitina Cruz
Say grief: things that wander with the intention to return
Say maybe: things that entertain the possibility of always
Say afterthought: things that haunt rather than invade
Say souvenir: not erasure, but palimpsests
Say disappear: letter, sans serif, white, umlaut
Say collateral: not risk, mere substitution
Say document: proof and signpost
Say never: things that breathe easy elsewhere
***
Look for her poetry collection "Elsewhere held and lingered." One heavy reading. Poem after poem, napa-"shit, grabe ang galing" yata ako. Harrows you with its intense revelations and examinations of a self that survives?/perils?/fragments? itself due to an illicit affair.
The author surely ranks among the best of poets in the country today.
by Conchitina Cruz
Say grief: things that wander with the intention to return
Say maybe: things that entertain the possibility of always
Say afterthought: things that haunt rather than invade
Say souvenir: not erasure, but palimpsests
Say disappear: letter, sans serif, white, umlaut
Say collateral: not risk, mere substitution
Say document: proof and signpost
Say never: things that breathe easy elsewhere
***
Look for her poetry collection "Elsewhere held and lingered." One heavy reading. Poem after poem, napa-"shit, grabe ang galing" yata ako. Harrows you with its intense revelations and examinations of a self that survives?/perils?/fragments? itself due to an illicit affair.
The author surely ranks among the best of poets in the country today.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
One Thousand and One Nights
It may have been just a dream but I remember I woke up once in the middle of the night so haunted by those first two lines that I cried.
What is it about darkness that's so exquisite? Sometimes I feel it's partly conceit. That we're special and the universe somehow makes an effort, no matter how little, to make sure we suffer beautifully and to our satisfaction.
Maybe it's related to what Carl Sagan said in Contact that we feel so alone. Our solitude makes us aware of this imbalance, the improbability of our existence. It's either we invent a companion god (was it Nietzsche who said something like: there isn't enough love in this world to assign it to other beings), or we humble ourselves with the thought that it would be an awful waste of space if it were just us. And then there's this, we take small hidden pleasures in hardship. We anticipate. Like every civilization must have come up with its own version of apocalypse. Not for that light at the end of the tunnel, not for the lessons to be learned, just that basic reassurance that our position in the cosmos is that of frailty.
In the book One Thousand and One Nights (popularly, Arabian Nights), the primary story is that of a Persian king who weds a wife every day and beheads the one from the night before. That is before Scheherazade. She would tell him stories each night that would be cut short by dawn and this way the King was forced to spare her life. In the book, after one thousand and one nights, there are no more stories to be told, but the King has fallen in love with his storyteller and thus it ends happily.
Yet, I suspect,"one thousand and one" refers at the same time to infinity.
____
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Dahil Maulan (tama sisihin ang ulan!)
Sabi nga nila kung ayaw, maraming dahilan.
Kung tinatamad, mas maraming paraan.
Teka mali yata yun. Mga procrastination tactics ko talaga, I surprise even myself.
Anyway, pag maulan nga naman at may makakasalubong kang pogi sa daan. Haha. Joke lang. Sana lang may nakasalubong talaga akong pogi.
***
Sa Aawitan
Ilang beses bang bumagsak ang ulan nitong huling mga gabi
na nahuli ko ang aking sarili na nilalakad
ang daan mo pauwing bahay sa aking pagkakatanda?
At gaano ba katagal bago mawala o maging mali ang mga salita
sa kantang narinig natin sa inayos na lumang radyo?
Maiiwasan pa ba ito, nahihinto ako sa gitna
paakyat ng matatarik na kalsada dahil darating ang sandali
ng minsang nagtagpo ang mga labi, mabilis na saglit
at agad mawawala, mapapatanong bigla sa sarili
dahil inakalang ligtas ang panlasa sa guni-guni.
Kung naroon pa ang poste ng ilaw sa kalye bago ang huli
mong liko pa-inyo na pupundi-pundi sa ating pagdaan
at nasabi ko noon nabigyan ko ito ng kahulugan,
pwede ba akong maging hindi makakatotohanan at gaano,
maari bang nananatili pa ang awit para sa iyo.
___
Kung tinatamad, mas maraming paraan.
Teka mali yata yun. Mga procrastination tactics ko talaga, I surprise even myself.
Anyway, pag maulan nga naman at may makakasalubong kang pogi sa daan. Haha. Joke lang. Sana lang may nakasalubong talaga akong pogi.
***
Sa Aawitan
Ilang beses bang bumagsak ang ulan nitong huling mga gabi
na nahuli ko ang aking sarili na nilalakad
ang daan mo pauwing bahay sa aking pagkakatanda?
At gaano ba katagal bago mawala o maging mali ang mga salita
sa kantang narinig natin sa inayos na lumang radyo?
Maiiwasan pa ba ito, nahihinto ako sa gitna
paakyat ng matatarik na kalsada dahil darating ang sandali
ng minsang nagtagpo ang mga labi, mabilis na saglit
at agad mawawala, mapapatanong bigla sa sarili
dahil inakalang ligtas ang panlasa sa guni-guni.
Kung naroon pa ang poste ng ilaw sa kalye bago ang huli
mong liko pa-inyo na pupundi-pundi sa ating pagdaan
at nasabi ko noon nabigyan ko ito ng kahulugan,
pwede ba akong maging hindi makakatotohanan at gaano,
maari bang nananatili pa ang awit para sa iyo.
___
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Date A Guy Who Reads
Saw this cute post Date A Girl Who Reads by Rosemarie Urquico on tumblr.
There are some stuff here and there that's gonna sound arrogant but the original author intended it as a reply to another article: You Should Date an Illiterate Girl.
Her original post is here.
If you feel lazy going through the post and actively substituting the word "girl" and related words as you read along, below's the edited version for us gays, hehe.
***
Date a guy who reads. Date a guy who spends his money on books instead of clothes. He has problems with closet space because he has too many books. Date a guy who has a list of books he wants to read, who has had a library card since he was twelve.
Find a guy who reads. You’ll know that he does because he will always have an unread book in his bag. He’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when he finds the book he wants. You see the weird guy sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
He’s the guy reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at his mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because he’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. He might give you a glare, as most guys who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask him if he likes the book.
Buy him another cup of coffee.
Let him know what you really think of Murakami. See if he got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if he says he understood James Joyce’s Ulysses he’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask him if he loves Alice or he would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a guy who reads. Give him books for his birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give him the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give him Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let him know that you understand that words are love. Understand that he knows the difference between books and reality but by god, he’s going to try to make his life a little like his favorite book. It will never be your fault if he does.
He has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to him. If he understands syntax, he will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail him. Because a guy who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because guys who read understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Guys who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a guy who reads, keep him close. When you find him up at 2 AM clutching a book to his chest and weeping, make him a cup of tea and hold him. You may lose him for a couple of hours but he will always come back to you. He’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time he’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. He will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and he will recite Keats under his breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a guy who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a guy who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give him monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a guy who reads.
Or better yet, date a guy who writes.
____
There are some stuff here and there that's gonna sound arrogant but the original author intended it as a reply to another article: You Should Date an Illiterate Girl.
Her original post is here.
If you feel lazy going through the post and actively substituting the word "girl" and related words as you read along, below's the edited version for us gays, hehe.
***
Date a guy who reads. Date a guy who spends his money on books instead of clothes. He has problems with closet space because he has too many books. Date a guy who has a list of books he wants to read, who has had a library card since he was twelve.
Find a guy who reads. You’ll know that he does because he will always have an unread book in his bag. He’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when he finds the book he wants. You see the weird guy sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
He’s the guy reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at his mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because he’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. He might give you a glare, as most guys who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask him if he likes the book.
Buy him another cup of coffee.
Let him know what you really think of Murakami. See if he got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if he says he understood James Joyce’s Ulysses he’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask him if he loves Alice or he would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a guy who reads. Give him books for his birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give him the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give him Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let him know that you understand that words are love. Understand that he knows the difference between books and reality but by god, he’s going to try to make his life a little like his favorite book. It will never be your fault if he does.
He has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to him. If he understands syntax, he will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail him. Because a guy who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because guys who read understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Guys who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a guy who reads, keep him close. When you find him up at 2 AM clutching a book to his chest and weeping, make him a cup of tea and hold him. You may lose him for a couple of hours but he will always come back to you. He’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time he’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. He will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and he will recite Keats under his breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a guy who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a guy who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give him monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a guy who reads.
Or better yet, date a guy who writes.
____
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Ideal Guy Day ni Aleph
Disclaimer
Hindi kasi ako nakuntento sa isang ideal guy lang so ang ginawa ko para bongga, inisplit ko na lang sila sa marami, at nakasama ko silang lahat sa isang araw. Define malandi. I know right?
***
• At Home
The day starts with Zero.
Zero was the guy I homed in at the gay club I went to last night with my friends. He wears his hair long that it touches down to his shirt. A pretty guy, as one friend noted, but definitely straight-acting and with a nice gentle smile. If I had the chance to dance with him I would’ve put my hands on his nape, which would be so soft and smooth, would’ve ran my fingers through his mane. And when he least expected it, I’d have pulled on the roots of his hair, not too hard, but just enough to see his expression when he winces. Actually, I don’t know what had gotten into me but I also brushed lightly on his butt on my way out of the CR. 100 SLUT points for me. Later, I had the courage to talk to him and asked for his number. One big problem though: he doesn’t have a number. So he said. Isang malaking wehhh, di nga, tatawa na ba ako, hindi porket Koreano ka magaling kang magtaekwondo.
But I get it, he’s just being polite and no, he’s not Korean (but dang, koreanovela guys, gaganda talaga ng styling ng buhok nila). Funny thing is, I can’t really recall his face now. It must be the hair. I’m a sucker for that. And since it was my first time to go to a queer bar, I kind of wanted his number for a trophy/souvenir. Yun naman ang kalakaran doon diba?
Oy, enough time in front of the mirror, Aleph, you’re running late.
• At the Campus
Ikaw na, ikaw na talaga. Why do some people seem almost perfect? Buti na lang atheist ako kundi sasabihin ko na namang ang daya-daya ni Lord.
Exhibit A.
Group reports day. My jaw drops when he enters the room. So this is what he’ll look like when he’s already got an office job. Hmmm, eh kahit pagsesekyu papatusin ko, para lang makita sya araw-araw at mabati ng Ang ganda ganda ng umaga [andito ka na kasi], noh ser? Or if I’m his boss, patay kang bata ka, sigaw ako lagi ng : I’ll see you in my office now, Mr. Tiu! Repeat 5 times a day with You can take off your clothes, I mean ,your coat. *ahem, ang init ano ba ‘to...* Pwede ring 10-15 times if it’s a particularly stressful day. With the same slip.
Articulate with his ideas, opinionated but open-minded. Knows how to lead a group but has a warm presence. I’ve got this classmate who’s the perfect boyfriend material, except that he’s straight. Aigoo. And that’s the only thing that makes him flawed in my world, imagine that. He’s an unbelievable devourer of books, and I don’t mean it’s because he reads 10 books a week. Actually, it takes him months to finish a book he really likes, savor talaga. He likes Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow (shet, di ko nga matapos yun eh), delights in the tenderness and grace of a mind’s voice in Ishiguro’s novels, and practically is in awe of Borges, too. Surprisingly (or maybe I shouldn’t be surprised anymore), he’s a good reader of poetry too!
Despite the heavy work load now that the semester’s ending, how does he still manage to look like that? No pimples, no eyebags, I mean, come on! He’s gotta be feeling tired like all of us. But nada, it doesn’t show at all. Matalino ka na, yummy ka pa. Hence the conclusion: Pota ka.
Lunch break. Something sweet for dessert: the maintenance hunk in our building. Without so much as an ounce of effort but the gel in his hair, this scruffy lightly-bearded moreno guy never fails to look hot despite his crappy cleaner’s uniform. I know he’s catched me so many times already checking him out. Today he feels generous and lifts his shirt to reveal an awesome pack of non-gym ”laking-kanto” abs on a super duper flat tummy. He’s pretending to wipe his nose. Really now, really? I just died. (NOMG, I just channeled that hag Rachel Zoe.)
So back from the dead, I go to my remaining class for the day—it’s for 3 hours straight. Gawd. The only thing that makes it bearable is Boogs.
We call him Boogie ‘cause he’s a dancer (well, mostly hiphop and bboy), he loves football and badminton, has a good built, lean physique (imagine no abs, but still sexy) and ding ding ding, he’s gay. So what’s wrong with the equation here? Gusto ko man magbitaw ng linyang Let lips do what hands do that one time he tried to teach me how to do a routine hands-on, it seems to him I give off more of a friendship vibe. We get along pretty well in fact. He has this outrageous sense of humor that cracks everybody up and his lamest jokes are usually cute. Aside from
musicians, I think the funny guys are actually a smart group.
The only thing Boogs and I don’t agree on is football. My god, watching this sport bores the hell out of me. You know, theoretically, I can understand why basketball is exciting, but in football a game can end 0-0. That’s some crazy shit. Sorry Boogs, I’ll concede the players are hotties in shorts, fine (wallpaper nga niya si Yoann Gourcuff eh, pero mas type ko si Xabi Alonso), but I’ll skip the whole 90 minutes and just watch them swap sweat-drenched shirts with each other.
As the class wraps up, I basically force Boogs to drop me off at the mall. I tell him I have a date. But only after he annoyingly mocks my choice of movie does he agree. Nagsalita ang magaling, he probably doesn’t know he pronounces Hitchcock, Truffaut, or von Trier with such disturbing breathiness and relish. Despite being a movie snob and condescending to the tastes of the “lowbrow public”, I know for a fact Boogs actually enjoys watching the series of Step Up movies, plus Twilight due to a shirtless Taylor Lautner. Of course. Magkasama ba naman kami on all those occasions eh.
• At the Mall
Actually I have no date and I just lied to get a free ride. I’m just buying notebooks, pens and more paper. I’ll burn an hour reading at a bookstore probably and then meander down grocery aisles too. Plain ordinary happiness.
But if I have a date, let me think. I wish it would be a musician and we’ll drop by an instrument shop. He’ll pick up a few guitars, strum some chords and remark which ones sounded better. I wouldnt’ be able to tell the difference honestly. And when I see the price tag, sabihin ko bigla: Uy, ibaba mo yan! If I’m luckier, he’ll be a kick-ass band drummer who maintains a nicely trimmed stubble but is thinking of growing a beard. He’ll fix back his tousled hair with his fingers. Only recently has it grown long enough to be tied but I’ll stop him because I think the curlicues at the ends are divine.
Sigh. Shrug. Sashay.
I lean tentatively on the railing and see a flower stall. Maybe that someone could also know about flowers? At least more than me. He’ll tell me which are geraniums and lilies because I have no idea what they look like. Maybe he doesn’t like daisies that much, but he’ll stoop down to eye a bunch of yellow-greens I haven’t noticed yet, and tell me how beautiful these cymbidium orchids are. Which leaves me speechless. I love the color is all I could say. He adds, gusto ko rin yung brown & yellow variant pero ang ganda-ganda nitong chartreuse, ano? I’ll never be able to answer his question probably. Because I’ll just stare at him for a few stupid seconds since I’d like to kiss him at that point already and see him blush to a certain shade of red which only I would name.
Every time I’ll see that color, sasabihin ko sa kasama ko: Tangina, chartreuse yang kulay na yan, alam mo ba yun? Sabi ng boyfriend ko. Sinearch ko pa nga sa wikipedia eh. Stop arguing with me, sino bang bading sa’tin dito?
___
Hindi kasi ako nakuntento sa isang ideal guy lang so ang ginawa ko para bongga, inisplit ko na lang sila sa marami, at nakasama ko silang lahat sa isang araw. Define malandi. I know right?
***
• At Home
The day starts with Zero.
Zero was the guy I homed in at the gay club I went to last night with my friends. He wears his hair long that it touches down to his shirt. A pretty guy, as one friend noted, but definitely straight-acting and with a nice gentle smile. If I had the chance to dance with him I would’ve put my hands on his nape, which would be so soft and smooth, would’ve ran my fingers through his mane. And when he least expected it, I’d have pulled on the roots of his hair, not too hard, but just enough to see his expression when he winces. Actually, I don’t know what had gotten into me but I also brushed lightly on his butt on my way out of the CR. 100 SLUT points for me. Later, I had the courage to talk to him and asked for his number. One big problem though: he doesn’t have a number. So he said. Isang malaking wehhh, di nga, tatawa na ba ako, hindi porket Koreano ka magaling kang magtaekwondo.
But I get it, he’s just being polite and no, he’s not Korean (but dang, koreanovela guys, gaganda talaga ng styling ng buhok nila). Funny thing is, I can’t really recall his face now. It must be the hair. I’m a sucker for that. And since it was my first time to go to a queer bar, I kind of wanted his number for a trophy/souvenir. Yun naman ang kalakaran doon diba?
Oy, enough time in front of the mirror, Aleph, you’re running late.
• At the Campus
Ikaw na, ikaw na talaga. Why do some people seem almost perfect? Buti na lang atheist ako kundi sasabihin ko na namang ang daya-daya ni Lord.
Exhibit A.
Group reports day. My jaw drops when he enters the room. So this is what he’ll look like when he’s already got an office job. Hmmm, eh kahit pagsesekyu papatusin ko, para lang makita sya araw-araw at mabati ng Ang ganda ganda ng umaga [andito ka na kasi], noh ser? Or if I’m his boss, patay kang bata ka, sigaw ako lagi ng : I’ll see you in my office now, Mr. Tiu! Repeat 5 times a day with You can take off your clothes, I mean ,your coat. *ahem, ang init ano ba ‘to...* Pwede ring 10-15 times if it’s a particularly stressful day. With the same slip.
Articulate with his ideas, opinionated but open-minded. Knows how to lead a group but has a warm presence. I’ve got this classmate who’s the perfect boyfriend material, except that he’s straight. Aigoo. And that’s the only thing that makes him flawed in my world, imagine that. He’s an unbelievable devourer of books, and I don’t mean it’s because he reads 10 books a week. Actually, it takes him months to finish a book he really likes, savor talaga. He likes Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow (shet, di ko nga matapos yun eh), delights in the tenderness and grace of a mind’s voice in Ishiguro’s novels, and practically is in awe of Borges, too. Surprisingly (or maybe I shouldn’t be surprised anymore), he’s a good reader of poetry too!
Despite the heavy work load now that the semester’s ending, how does he still manage to look like that? No pimples, no eyebags, I mean, come on! He’s gotta be feeling tired like all of us. But nada, it doesn’t show at all. Matalino ka na, yummy ka pa. Hence the conclusion: Pota ka.
Lunch break. Something sweet for dessert: the maintenance hunk in our building. Without so much as an ounce of effort but the gel in his hair, this scruffy lightly-bearded moreno guy never fails to look hot despite his crappy cleaner’s uniform. I know he’s catched me so many times already checking him out. Today he feels generous and lifts his shirt to reveal an awesome pack of non-gym ”laking-kanto” abs on a super duper flat tummy. He’s pretending to wipe his nose. Really now, really? I just died. (NOMG, I just channeled that hag Rachel Zoe.)
So back from the dead, I go to my remaining class for the day—it’s for 3 hours straight. Gawd. The only thing that makes it bearable is Boogs.
We call him Boogie ‘cause he’s a dancer (well, mostly hiphop and bboy), he loves football and badminton, has a good built, lean physique (imagine no abs, but still sexy) and ding ding ding, he’s gay. So what’s wrong with the equation here? Gusto ko man magbitaw ng linyang Let lips do what hands do that one time he tried to teach me how to do a routine hands-on, it seems to him I give off more of a friendship vibe. We get along pretty well in fact. He has this outrageous sense of humor that cracks everybody up and his lamest jokes are usually cute. Aside from
musicians, I think the funny guys are actually a smart group.
The only thing Boogs and I don’t agree on is football. My god, watching this sport bores the hell out of me. You know, theoretically, I can understand why basketball is exciting, but in football a game can end 0-0. That’s some crazy shit. Sorry Boogs, I’ll concede the players are hotties in shorts, fine (wallpaper nga niya si Yoann Gourcuff eh, pero mas type ko si Xabi Alonso), but I’ll skip the whole 90 minutes and just watch them swap sweat-drenched shirts with each other.
As the class wraps up, I basically force Boogs to drop me off at the mall. I tell him I have a date. But only after he annoyingly mocks my choice of movie does he agree. Nagsalita ang magaling, he probably doesn’t know he pronounces Hitchcock, Truffaut, or von Trier with such disturbing breathiness and relish. Despite being a movie snob and condescending to the tastes of the “lowbrow public”, I know for a fact Boogs actually enjoys watching the series of Step Up movies, plus Twilight due to a shirtless Taylor Lautner. Of course. Magkasama ba naman kami on all those occasions eh.
• At the Mall
Actually I have no date and I just lied to get a free ride. I’m just buying notebooks, pens and more paper. I’ll burn an hour reading at a bookstore probably and then meander down grocery aisles too. Plain ordinary happiness.
But if I have a date, let me think. I wish it would be a musician and we’ll drop by an instrument shop. He’ll pick up a few guitars, strum some chords and remark which ones sounded better. I wouldnt’ be able to tell the difference honestly. And when I see the price tag, sabihin ko bigla: Uy, ibaba mo yan! If I’m luckier, he’ll be a kick-ass band drummer who maintains a nicely trimmed stubble but is thinking of growing a beard. He’ll fix back his tousled hair with his fingers. Only recently has it grown long enough to be tied but I’ll stop him because I think the curlicues at the ends are divine.
Sigh. Shrug. Sashay.
I lean tentatively on the railing and see a flower stall. Maybe that someone could also know about flowers? At least more than me. He’ll tell me which are geraniums and lilies because I have no idea what they look like. Maybe he doesn’t like daisies that much, but he’ll stoop down to eye a bunch of yellow-greens I haven’t noticed yet, and tell me how beautiful these cymbidium orchids are. Which leaves me speechless. I love the color is all I could say. He adds, gusto ko rin yung brown & yellow variant pero ang ganda-ganda nitong chartreuse, ano? I’ll never be able to answer his question probably. Because I’ll just stare at him for a few stupid seconds since I’d like to kiss him at that point already and see him blush to a certain shade of red which only I would name.
Every time I’ll see that color, sasabihin ko sa kasama ko: Tangina, chartreuse yang kulay na yan, alam mo ba yun? Sabi ng boyfriend ko. Sinearch ko pa nga sa wikipedia eh. Stop arguing with me, sino bang bading sa’tin dito?
___
Friday, February 4, 2011
Forgetfulness
Last stanza from Forgetfulness by Billy Collins
It was exactly a year ago and it was 5 AM; we were on the train station where an old woman kneeled by the edge of the platform as she took out mangoes from her groceries. She was counting and I counted with her.
A train passed by as words were uttered. I thanked you for the nice evening and I like you, really, maybe we should take this forward but whatever it is you replied, my mind insists on a sudden gust, rush of air that had already eaten your words.
The only thing that’s left vivid is the color of flowers that you had drawn on a milk carton, lost in the flood long time ago. I couldn’t be sure now. True. But what other color do flowers have in this season? On the other hand, how many mangoes was it again? Nine, I think. Weren’t you there too, did the guard took notice, and had he his whistle in his mouth as our foot strayed on the same yellow the mangoes were balanced precariously on?
I open my eyes and the night moves in with its uncertainties: toppled stacks of books, wall cracks innumerable under the moon, broken lines of thought. It’s you, and a not you, at the same time I conceive of.
_
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
It was exactly a year ago and it was 5 AM; we were on the train station where an old woman kneeled by the edge of the platform as she took out mangoes from her groceries. She was counting and I counted with her.
A train passed by as words were uttered. I thanked you for the nice evening and I like you, really, maybe we should take this forward but whatever it is you replied, my mind insists on a sudden gust, rush of air that had already eaten your words.
The only thing that’s left vivid is the color of flowers that you had drawn on a milk carton, lost in the flood long time ago. I couldn’t be sure now. True. But what other color do flowers have in this season? On the other hand, how many mangoes was it again? Nine, I think. Weren’t you there too, did the guard took notice, and had he his whistle in his mouth as our foot strayed on the same yellow the mangoes were balanced precariously on?
I open my eyes and the night moves in with its uncertainties: toppled stacks of books, wall cracks innumerable under the moon, broken lines of thought. It’s you, and a not you, at the same time I conceive of.
_
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