I still don't have a reason

It's over.

There, everyone happy now?

Bring back my bonny to me

Universe, I bet you're rolling on the cosmic floor on your stellar patooty, but we need to straighten out this conspiracy thing.

First of all, you do not let it rain as if the world's going to cave in on itself any minute now, especially if I'm traipsing along Katipunan in my pink umbrella. You just don't do that, especially if it means I'll look like I underwent Japanese water torture right afterwards. The whole Plaster - Her - Jeans - To - Her - Legs look only goes for me when said jeans aren't dripping wet.

And Christ, you do not send lightning to whiz through my immediate area, sounding like it's cackling right beside me. I do not care to die by being zapped, especially alone, especially if that would mean I'll overcut all my classes because, frankly, Ateneo doesn't consider sudden death as an excused absence. I have known carcasses to yank themselves from their graves to trudge towards consultation rooms to have their oral exams.

And lastly, you do not make me go through all that hell just to let me find out eventually (dripping wet still) that classes have been cancelled -- because of the universe's glee? Armageddon? the Second Coming? -- oh no, because of a bleeping basketball game.

Get it?

And lastly, you do not send infestations of the Can't Move On, I Have Nothing, Nothing, Nothing If I Don't Have You kind when I sorely need a home.

Oh, bring back my bonny to me, you motherfucking idiot.

AHEM.

So, Universe. I'll give you a second chance. When I get home, that infestation better have cleared itself up, either by self-mutilation, auto-cannibalism, or by having to throw itself in front of my speeding trike ride home.

Butterflies better be coming out of my ass by the time this bloody miserable day is over.

That said, there's a reading of the greats at the Ateneo Art Gallery. Goodie -- I need me some Backless Beauties right away. That'll cheer me up loads.

*

Gahd, I hate your girlfriend or whatever discombobulated entity she calls herself nowadays. And you, Miss Discombobulated, I know your reading this. May the universe conspire with me to have the computer screen blow a fuse and send electromagnetic shards and SPAM right to your brain, straight through your itty-bitty eyes.

You give a little love

Wow, that was quick. Uh, thanks.

Now, keep 'em coming, Mr. Universe, Sir.

And it all comes back to you

Dear Universe,

I don't ask this of you much, but please conspire with me. I promise I'll be good. Hindi na po ako magmumura. Maghuhugas na po ako ng pinggan kahit hindi sinasabihan. I'll even do the Stepford Wife bit and you know how much even the thought of it makes my blood curdle. So please? I need this. PLEASE.

Yours,
Sasha

White means go

6:50 PM -- I have written so many words for women like me, like what I am now, this very moment. Alone in a corner of a coffee shop, open book of poetry on her lap, open notebook on the table. The pen rests on the starkwhiteness of the page. She smokes bent cigarettes every five minutes or so. She drinks her coffee as she glances at the door, trying not to look as if she were truly alone -- that by looking at the doorway once in a while, she can pretend (and the world with her) that someone is coming to meet her.

Her cellphone, too, lies open. Both of them are waiting. And she takes a bite from her slice of lemon cake. The phone's screen remains dark.

Another woman is at another corner. But she smokes her cigarette with the ease of one who knows that someone will meet her. Soon she will be gone and I, a woman I have written about so many times, would light another cigarette and turn another page.

07:04 PM -- The reluctant lover. (But only in her mind, only when they are not together.)

07:10 PM -- The only woman in a cafe of lovers. She has one mug all to herself, The others have to share. One cup of coffee, one white porcelain rim, for two bleeding mouths of bleeding hearts.

07:21 PM -- She waited with the smallest of hopes that soon, someone would come to end the waiting. But the reluctant lover caroums now the asphalt streets, successfully passing off as a legitimate human being. Bohemia in the corporation. Hail the metaphors.

She has to wait longer.

The book she has been reading has turned out to be a chore and all too soon, the words blur until they are white. There is too much of her coffee, and the crystal grains of sugar have refused to melt. The lemon cake crumbles. Even her cigarette offends her, and she puts it out, only half-consumed.

With her, with waiting -- things pale and darken at the same time. Knowing these things are just distractions, something to pass the time that just seems to crawl slower and slower that it sometimes falls still: the coffee can't be finishes, the cigarette doesn't burn, the page goes on and on and on. The knowledge that all these is something she'd rather not be doing. Shouldn't be doing in the first place.

She must finish her coffee, and only crumbs should be left on her plate. The book, open on her lap, can be replaced. There are two other books in her bag: poetry speaking of a requited waiting.

(She thinks now: all this talk about unrequited love, when poetry should be made about unrequited patience: waiting for the phone to vibratem waiting for the crumbs to settle, waiting for the coffee mug to empty, waiting for the cigarette to turn into ash, waiting for the books to turn to the last page, waiting for the rain to stop, waiting for the clock to strike ten, waiting for someone to come through the door with the spaciest of smiles just for her. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

It's 7:38 PM.)

8:28 PM -- The un-reluctant lover tells her that he is near. Now, Neruda glows again:

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and staring, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
(Sonnet XI)

and

Before I loved you, Love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among objects:
nothing mattered or had a name:
the world was made of air, which waited.
(Sonnet XXV)

How Pablo Neruda could have written a hundred sonnets for one Matilde Urrutia.

8:42 PM -- She should be disgusted with how much everything makes sense now. Even waiting in a parked car, while errands are run, would make her smile. The rain is opaque against the windshield and yet it leaves shadows on her jeans.

Oh, that smile.

And she thinks: Everything should be a familiar novelty, a novel familiarity. Even waiting for him to come back with a bag or two of bigas, while a Japanese love song drifts from the radio.

10:08 PM -- For the colorblind, white means go.

Just a lonely ghost burning down songs

Does anyone need a muse? 250 per hour lang, hindi pa ako hihingi ng komisyon pag patok yung tula / painting / kanta / nobela / short film / brownies / suicide attempt mo. Kailangan ko lang talaga ng pambayad ng rent. If you call within the next five days, babawasan ko pa ng bente pesos ang rate. San ka pa?

*

She said, "I can't set myself on fire." And he said, "Why would you want to?" And she sighed because he completely missed the point, and told him: "It's not a question of desire, love. It's nerve."

*

In a love nest, the rain beating against the roof sounds like rocks thrown at passing whores.

*

Maricchia wrote nod-til-your-neck-breaks bitch slaps to all ye men out there. I mean, er, loving advice. Click Me! and Me Too! That said, someone get me a plant. A cactus. I'm not asking for rent money. Yet.

You will always be the bread and the knife

The three of them tried to fit in a loveseat. The girls sat on either side of the boy, and both of them held a hand. Both of them called the boy, "Mine" although one (the one on the left) occasionally decided to be cute and called him "Min." The tall girl rolled her eyes.

The tall girl preferred to name herself Only and Mine nodded. And then she pointed to the other girl, the one with the pearls around her neck, the one who occasionally decided to be cute, and called her, "Other!"

Other gave a sweet smile and nearly curtsied. She nodded at Only. When the tall girl looked away to scribble on a leather notebook, Other threw her arms around Mine and whispered, "I'm Forever."

Mine tried to look like he didn't feel like ordering a six-pack, nodded like something scaly was biting his neck and turned to look at Only. He poked at her shoulder.

"Hey," Mine said. He tried to free himself from the python-grasp of Other.

Only smiled, a little distractedly. And she went right back to scribbling on her notebook.

"Hey," Mine said, again, as he finally pried Other's hands from around his neck. He was heaving now and was wishing more fervently for that six-pack. He tugged at Only's shirt, which was purple and billowy -- he remember she told him she'd bought it at a rummage sale for a hundred bucks.

Only blinked. She looked closely at Mine's face and saw the apparent look of constipation on his face. She looked beyond him and saw Other stitching her pearls on a wedding veil. Only grimaced.

"Hey, ----," Only said, referring to Mine, using the secret word they had for each other. "Listen to this." And Only went back to her notebook and started to speak:

"Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine . . .
- Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and -- somehow -- the wine."

Mine beamed. Only said, "Isn't it nice?"

"Who wrote it?" asked Mine, ignoring the click-clacking of Other's feet on the floor, which sounded suspiciously like the Wedding March.

"Billy Collins."

Mine tried not to kiss Only's cheek.

Other tapped Mine on the shoulder, not missing the opportunity to give him a little squeeze. "Min? What did she say?"

"Billy Collins," Mine With An E murmured.

"Oh," Other trilled and clapped her hands. "Isn't he a country singer or something?"

Mine sighed. Only smiled and went back to her notebook and scribbled, "Idiot."

"Well?" Other pressed.

"Sorry," Mine said. "I forget."

Beside him, Only shook her head and muttered, "Christ."

Drag me kicking through fast dreams

From Michelle (de Guzman)'s article at The Weekly Sillimanian, dated June 29, 2007:

We may not be wild but there are some interesting characters: 29-year old Mia (UP) with her hormonal mood swings, 17-year old poet-whore Sasha (Ateneo), 33-year-old abstract expressionist Pancho (UP), and the just recently-turned 30-year old Christian (La Salle) who baffled us with his dead poetess.

And for most of us it is not the crazy-slash-passionate antics (like falling in love with each other) that we will carry with us when we leave. It’s the inside jokes and the battles we fought within ourselves to give justice as “writers”. To quote Pancho’s “The First Slaughter”, we will remember the workshop for our “compact bleeding” and our other adventures.

I can only shake my head at the irony of it all. May isang line na wasak talaga. Hanapin niyo na lang, Ye Children of Dirty Minds.

PS - Hi to you Dumaguete peeps -- Michelle, Twiggy, Primy, Justine and RJ. :) Padalhan niyo ko ng pera, diyan ako sem break, :p And Sheng-a-leng: Pare, pasalubong naman o. :)

We can make it if we take it slow

"How does it feel, having to keep your face blank, when you listen to a poem being read, knowing that it was made for you, because of you?"

Through a quarter of McDo's Quarter Pounder: "Para kang natatae, dude, pero kahit mautot hindi puwede." Nguya. "Ketchup naman diyan o."

I'm tired of the weather

While waiting for my slot, Philo orals: "Uh, so Socrates went to the poets, because they were blabbing about how, uh, smart they were and, like, when Socrates went there, he found out that, like, they we're so kidding them. So Socrates said that, like, these poets think they know everything because they have, like, metaphors."

Panalo, ampu.

*

I have finally desecrated my legendary notebook. . .

. . . yes, that's how dreary my life is right now, that I spend money to tell you I've written on pieces of paper. Grabe na 'to.

Tonight it's gonna be easy

UNIVERSE, CONSPIRE WITH ME! RARR!

In the back road, we'll hold hands

It's gotten so bad that I'm no longer writing checklists by the day, but by the freaking hour. All hours accounted for for two straight weeks. And who knows what finals week would even bring?

All together now: "Ang hell week, parang pag-ibig..."

*

Public Service Announcements:

1) HEIGHTS Creative Talk on Transgressional Fiction, with Karl de Mesa and Norman Wilwayco, plus Khavn de la Cruz's creative presence, Mondomanila. Wahoo. Libre chibog. :)

2) Happy Mondays tonight at Mag:net Katipunan. Starts at 7, ends at 930. Usually. For more info, go here!

3) HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PANCHO! :) Beep beep. :p

Put them in a tree museum

I wish I could divide myself in two, that the long-dormant, rational, responsible Elisha Marjorie (who, nowadays, makes herself known in more frequent episodes of guilty depression / depressive guilt) could run around and do papers and reports and oral exams and portfolios, without needing to weedle for higher grades 'cause she done good, baby . . .

. . . while emo-perky Sasha with her curls in pigtails could raise the middle finger while she lies ensconced in he imaginary um-friend's bedsheets, a trashy novel in one hand, Pringkes and lethal mentoses juggled in the other. With the power to sleep whenever she feels like it, which is almost always, without Miss Sensible Elisha Marjorie doing oh-so-sensible cartwheel-rages in her head, as way of guilt trip, which is often always.

Oh my, the little conundrums in my miserable non-life.

I know who I want to take me home.

Walking dead.

*

COME TO THE HEIGHTS TALK ON TRANSGRESSIONAL FICTION OR CHOKE ON YOUR OWN BILE!

*

Still dead. But with definitely more stuff to do. Teachers who say that grades don't really mean anything should do everyone a favor and give As all around. Garr.

You got me suicidal

How long does it take a person to move on
from one oral examination to another?

*

From Digressions:

The girl he married had thought she wanted neither brute nor poet. She wanted someone she could walk all over, or someone who’d ignore her once in a while, someone who left the toilet seat up again or someone who forgot to take the trash, someone who forgot her.

But Robert came, Robert said hello, in his quiet grumble of a voice and she just shrugged and thought, what the hell? and said hello right back.

And before she knew it, hesitant hellos in public libraries, accidental first kisses, and fumbling sex whizzed by in a torrent of laughter and Neruda and oh so able hands until one day, with her sweating under the surprisingly merciless February sun, him holding his thesis draft in one hand and his grandmother’s ring in another, he said, “Marry me.” There, quite simply. No fuss at all. No promises of gathered sunlight in the palms of their joined hands.

I had to say yes.

*

GAAAAAAARGH. I'm about to have a nervous breakdown, kiddies. I hear Nikay giggling in a corner.

The Philippines and round about

A certain Palanca winner once said, "Lahat naman ng tao, ginagawa yun, di ba?" (or words to that effect) about the rite of people Googling themselves. Apparently, professors are human too (oh, yes, gasp) and so, they do it too.

So.

A little birdie told me that some of my words were misconstrued. Last June, I referred to Miss Bradley Ramoso as "dominatrix-librarian-esque." Now, I'm not apologizing right now because I said that with malice. (Wala pa yan -- hehe, jez kidding.) It's just that I think I hurt Miss Bradley's feelings, and so I apologize for that, and I'm praying I didn't hurt my grades in the process. (Nah, the utter deterioration of my grades is of my own doing. Really. Tama ba kasing matulog buong linggo?)

You all know I like the alter-ego set-up of the seemingly docile yet smart woman who could turn into a whip-wielding hottie in a blink of an eye. It's so . . . nyar and not in a decidedly kinky kind of way. (A couple of days from that said post, I called Miss Bradley cute. In a decidedly non-gay way, of course.) Hay. I want to be a dominatrix-librarian-esque person. :p

Hello, Miss Bradley.

*

I wonder what Rizal felt when -- if -- he signed that retraction? In the words of Joco, tanunging natin sila AHNdres Bonifacio and Georgia de Jesus. Winner.


*

A perky *wave* to all my professors who happen to stumble into my bloggie blog blog by Googling themselves. Mag-comment naman kayo sa tagboard ko o. :)

I still don't have a reason

From Sarj. Nyar. Harhar.

"To the now-18, whose emo prowess can stall the universe to make moments last longer. (Eww, cheesy.)"

Editress also drew the two other (aside from her) (grammar wonky at 8:30 AM) people who went to my 8-year-old-themed 18th birthday. Go lookie for it in her bloggie. :)

Thanks! :p

Nothing's changed at all

I might just keel over and die. Damn you, school.

*

"I want a new girlfriend," said Yaps.
"I want a new semester," grumbled Sasha.

I'm never gonna dance again

Dear all,

I may be legal, finally, but I don't have much of a life nowadays, thanks to Demon Institution, more popularly known as college. Aside from the mental bullshit in the form of papers galore, three oral examinations plus group reports here and there, the Oh-So-Benevolent admin decided to slap us with a dress code come October, and possible elimination of the smockets that has made our school the beloved line-toeing bastard that it is.

What life?

The only things that sustain me these days are The Simpsons, the 65%-off sale sa National Bookstore, and other metaphysical chu-chus that involve the letter L. (Libog, haha. LABO.)

Anyhoo, delubyo na sa labas, may 30-page paper pa ako sa Theology, tapos hahanapin ko pa yung appendix ni Aguinaldo.

Toodles, all.

Labs,
Sasha

PS: Joel, saan ako makakakuha ng Moleskine? :) Hindi ko naman susulatan, ipapa-frame ko lang, cuz is soo purdy. :)