Fortuities

The Feast of All Saints

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 14:10:11 GMT

Of all the things I truly appreciate is to hear mass with a priest who delivers an eloquent sermon. Today, I was lucky to hear one in which he explained why we should celebrate the Feast of All Saints.

In the first place, the saints have already their own individual feast days. And, it is not so much that we need a collective celebration for all the saints the Catholic Church has.

He explained that this is the day we are reminded of the other uncanonized saints who have come ahead of us but manifested in their own humble deeds their saintly ways. He was referring to those who were not in any church's altar that are flocked everyday by devotees, but those who were able to touch our lives the way the saints may have done. These saints may pertain to an old friend, a neighbor, a doting grandparent -- the ordinary people we have known and shared our lives with.

I understand this now.

Thank you, to the priest in Don Bosco this morning, for the enlightenment.

it's past 1 in the morning

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 17:51:48 GMT

And I'm blogging about being randomly strewn towards people I barely know.

Last Thursday, I sat next to Robert Alejandro on a jeepney ride to Alabang. We do not know each other, only that he added me in Facebook and invited me to an ATD Orientation in Powerbooks in Megamall in which I attended; but of which we did not speak a word to each other, at all. He must have waited for me to let him know I answered his invite, but then, I barely know him except for that he appears on TV sometimes.

Today, I have seen a former schoolmate at work, we have forgotten each other's names, but we have spoken like we have been bestfriends early on. I have seen him waiting in line for a jeepney ride in Pasong Tamo extension, and then on the same bus I took from La Union to here. We were too embarrassed to ask what we were called in high school. One of these days, I will shed my apprehensions and ask his full name and ask him more about what happened to all those people I have already forgotten about. Today still, I noticed this boy who came to the clinic whom I know is the current love affair of a girl I am not speaking to anymore. Last month, the boy who was behind me was E's (ex?) boyfriend. I wanted to ask him how E is doing these days but I might scare him away, for randomly asking him something when we barely know each other and for remembering his face and forgetting his name.

I have to get back to sleep now.

No

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 01:47:33 GMT

I just said no to a Shrine Guide job interview at the National Historical Institute in Manila.

Mali ba?

My Heart Breaks Everyday

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 05:30:57 GMT

And I can't get used to it.

home

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 13:46:04 GMT

My grandparents are here. They may be staying for good.

When they gather around with my parents and aunts and uncles after dinner to discuss random thing like how much it would cost them the minor renovations in La Union, who died or who married who, I feel sheltered, protected even. It is like they radiate a feeling of security (at least towards me, without them knowing) when they get together. Their talks can last long into the night and I get good sleep always, when I know that they're just outside my door, laughing over everyday banalities.

There really is no place like home.

moon river

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 12:59:05 GMT

My father used to sing me this song.

Moon River, wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style some day.
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker,
wherever you're going I'm going your way.
Two drifters off to see the world.
There's such a lot of world to see.
We're after the same rainbow's end--
waiting 'round the bend,
my huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.

I need him today. I need him to sing to me tonight.

the curious things in my head

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 06:32:43 GMT

I wish I knew you before them.

+

You lucky lucky girl.
I'm almost wishing you and I could trade places;
I be the past, you be the current flavor of his senses
so I could secretly feel smug,
and tell the world he once held me tighter, longer.

+

leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone.

Cram!

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 03:40:44 GMT

~~Gestern, ich habe nicht die Hausaufgaben gemacht.~~
Gestern habe ich die Hausaufgaben gemacht. (The verb stays in the second position in their normal sentence. I almost forgot that.)

What a bad student, I am, I know. That's why I'm cramming today.

The instruction was to answer the question: Was haben Sie letzes Wochenende gemacht? (10 Satze, im Perfekt)

Here's what I came up with:
1. Wir sind zu Hause geblieben.
2. Das Wetter schlect war.
3. Wir haben schwer gearbeitet.
4. Ate Sarah hat in der Waschküche gewaschen.
5. Ich habe im Badezimmer geputzt.
6. Mein Onkel hat das Arbeitszimmer abgeräumt.
7. Wir haben alles die Fenster zu Hause geöffnet.
8. Ronald hat den Rasen im Hintergarten gemäht.
~~9. Wir sind totmude.~~ 9. Wir waren totmude.
~~10. Um 9 Uhr wir haben geschlafen.~~ 10. Um 9 Uhr haben wir geschlafen.

Most of these were copied and pasted. Gah.

other people

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 09:48:29 GMT

I wish that everyone writes.

It makes them more "human" in a sense, when you learn about what they weep over or laugh about. Most times other people intimidate, without meaning to. But if you read about what they have felt during random incidences in their lives and knowing that they have written these in their own words and in their individual perspectives, you realize they're really just as vulnerable as you are, experiencing the same fears and small joys as you do.

my love for you is waning now darling

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 15:48:47 GMT

Apart from the full moon, there are only two other phases I notice of it: its waxing and waning.

Most of the time I allude it to the relationships I have with other people - be they platonic or not. Just a week ago, I felt this waning attachment to one person whom I recently found out has narcissistic tendencies. At the onset of course, was a "waxing" feeling of wanting to be associated with and spending time with said person but just like the moon, there is the eclipse of what once was an all-encompassing embrace.

Sebastian

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 03:31:49 GMT

You tell me you are holding a baby that already looks like a grown man, who looks mostly like... like Winston Churchill.

I cannot recollect how Churchill looks like anymore. So I click my magic Google for his pictures - and there he is, all round and bald, with thin but perpetually pouting lips. And a perpetually creased forehead. Ha and ha.

a soldiery sermon for me

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 02:30:32 GMT

There I was, walking the long walk home, from my on-call job that demanded my "services" for only eight hours in a week, twenty-four, if I'm lucky. I was dragging myself that day because I knew there was a sermon waiting for me at home - one that would not be delivered by a priest or either one of my parents but an uncle who deemed it necessary to remind me of my sensibilities.

There was an occasional sigh that punctuated my purposely slowed down gait and I made it a point to pass by Book Sale to momentarily forget what was in store for me the minute I stopped walking and reached Everlasting Street.

I felt like I was fourteen again, queasy with the thought that I was surely at fault and dreading the inevitable confrontation that came with being on the wrong side of the rational spectrum.

Of course, I had to text my shrink, if only to hear what wonders she has to say about my very high school situation.

"Pagagalitan ka ng soldier, how exciting," she said.

Upon reading the message, I imagined the rain clouds clearing overhead. And I smiled.

Why is it that...

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 12:00:13 GMT

My Mom and I feel most beautiful when we're tired?

After a long stressful/eventful day, or after brisk-walking together in the mornings, I notice this.

My brain is nagging me to live.

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 11:08:12 GMT

I watched someone die today.

He was only one person away from me. There were four of us occupying the waiting area and the three men were to my right, talking about how anti-poor the MMDA is during raids of illegal fishball/bananacue/what-have-you vendors and each had his own proposal as to the more humane way to treat them humble people and their wares. Then they shifted to the incoming elections, and naturally they were all anti-Bayani Fernando, and were rooting for Noynoy instead and one of them referred to Mar Roxas as Boy Padjak. I wasn't part of their banter, I was mostly their spectator and gave them a few knowing nods and a small smile that they did make sense to me and I agreed to most of their modest proposals regarding public welfare.

In the middle of their spirited conversation, Rico stopped talking, bent forward and fell on the floor, his head hitting the pavement. For a moment he was unconscious and then he started gasping for air with his tongue protruding. His two companions tried to lift him up and I shouted to the guard for help. There were a few drops of blood where his head hit the cold cement. It turned out his mouth smashed the ground and a tooth broke off, thus the blood.

He was already dead when he arrived at the hospital.

I later found out he was 57 years old. With the deadly blood pressure of 160/110.

My brain is still frantically nagging me to live. While I still have the time to do it.

“things (not) to be forgotten”

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 15:01:07 GMT

Dear R,

I purposely withdrew myself from you after I realized that I have lost, and to you most of all. Nowadays, I still cannot look you in the eye for fear that you might rub this matter to my face and I would only feel so much smaller.

At the onset I thought I was playing my cards right. You chided me for what you have called as my martyrdom and that I should be canonized for fervently believing that he would come home to me at the right time. As we both know, he never did. I was grateful you didn’t mention anything about the incident since it happened, and I remember now that we even quarreled the very night before. But with your silence comes this recurring thought: sometimes I imagine you saying, “I told you so” over and over.

And then you were right, again, when you told me that I shouldn’t be hopeful or relying on anything or anyone. I chucked your words out of my head and into my repository of “things to be forgotten” because even though I was heartbroken, I felt that I was still in the good side of the Universe and that it would grant me passes to study in Europe. Again, I was wrong in believing I would win this time around, that I could prove you mistaken, that there is nothing wrong in being hopeful over reaching out for things that would make you happy even if they were as far-fetched as Europe.

When the second bad news reached me, I felt I had to completely ignore you already because you were so good at predicting my downfalls. Yes, you might have opted not to directly point them out to me but it is just as well that I veered away from you because like I said, I do not like losing, especially losing to you.

Twice you have won, R, and I do not know when I shall be able to look you in the eye again and dare you to another match. My ego has been bruised and at the moment, I am still licking my share of wounds.

But when the time comes that I open my mouth to talk to you again, you can be assured I am ready to get into another match. If all else fails, I would gladly get into a fistfight or a drinking match to settle the stupid score.

I just absolutely hate it when you win.

Until then (and just you wait),
C

♥

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 06:20:26 GMT

I am not an inherently sweet or thoughtful person. Not in the least bit affectionate.

I am not the type who hands out small gifts to people randomly or the type who sees something nice and out of impulse, procures it because it might be liked someone I know.

The irony if it all is that I am surrounded by people who are.

Just the other day, someone replenished my TicTac. For no reason.

You know who you are, people. You make my heart all mushy and gooey. Thank you. You make me want to nourish the sweet gene in me. It is merely hibernating.

All things bright and wonderful

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 06:00:59 GMT

I went to the zoo last Saturday.

The goal was not merely because I wanted to catch up on my non-existent childhood or to count how many exotic animals this particular zoo has imported from God knows where.

All I wanted to attain was to see for myself what I’ve missed.

Very near to the entrance was a solitary elephant, with big flappy ears and a fat behind. I didn’t check if it was a he or a she.

To see it alive and walking and chomping on grass in real time just a few feet away from me got me thinking how important it is to experience things first hand. It is never enough to be wowed by coffeetable book versions or life-sized blowups of flowers or trees or animals. You have to hold them and feel the texture of their petals or barks or behinds. You have to share the same space they occupy and to see that there is a certain uniqueness in every living being that can only be fully appreciated when you see them with your own (myopic or not) eyes.

The zoo trip reminds me of a poem I used to recite when I was a kid.

All things bright and wonderful
All creatures great and small
All things wise and wonderful
The Lord God made them all.

I used to wave my arms as broadly as I could to encompass everything with the “All things” part of the poem. Today, I come to understand what this poem means.

Next time, I will know which to choose when I’m torn between curling up with a good book in my room and being offered the chance to get to walk around a different corner of the universe. Next time, the book can always, always wait.

I just wanted tyo say he's more Satanic than Rushdie's verses

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 09:29:07 GMT

"Lit (or: to the scientist I am not speaking to any more)"
Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz

Don’t say you didn’t see this coming, Jason.

Don’t say you didn’t realize this would be my reaction
and that you never intended for me to get all worked up,
because if that were true, then you are dumber
than Lenny from Mice and Men, blinder than Oedipus
and Tierus put together and can feel less
than a Dalton Trumbo character.

You put the Dick in Dickens and the Boo in kowski
and are more Coward-ly then Noël.

But you don’t understand any of these references,
Do you, Jason? Because you ‘don’t read’.
You are a geology major and you once told me
That, ‘Scientists don’t read popular literature,
Cristin, we have more important things to do’.

Well, fuck you.

Be glad you don’t read, Jason,
because maybe you won’t understand this
as I scream it to you on your front lawn,
on Christmas Day, brandishing three hypodermic needles,
a ginsu knife and a letter of permission
from Bret Easton Ellis.

Jason, you are more absurd than Ionesco.
You are more abstract than Joyce,
more inconsistent than Agatha Christie
and more Satanic than Rushdie’s verses.

I can’t believe I used to want to Sappho you, Jason.
I used to want to Pablo Neruda you,
to Anais Nin And Henry Miller you. I used to want
to be O for you, to blow for you in ways
that even Odysseus’ sails couldn’t handle.
But self-imposed illiteracy isn’t a turn-on.

You used to make fun of me being a writer,
saying ‘Scientists cure diseases,
what do writers do?’

But of course, you wouldn’t understand, Jason.
I mean, have you ever gotten an inner thirsting
for Zora Neale Hurston?
Or heard angels herald for you
to read F Scott Fitzgerald?
Have you ever had a beat attack for Jack Kerouac?
The only Morrison you know is Jim, and you think
you’re the noble one?

Go Plath yourself.

Your heart is so dark, that even Joseph Conrad
couldn’t see it, and it is so buried under bullshit
that even Poe’s cops couldn’t hear it.

Your mind is as empty as the libraries in Fahrenheit 451.
Your mind is as empty as Silas Marner’s coffers.
Your mind is as empty as Huckleberry Finn’s wallet.

And some people might say that this poem
is just a pretentious exercise
in seeing how many literary references
I can come up with.

And some people might complain that this poem is,
at its core, shallow, expressing the same emotion again,
and again, and again. (I mean, there are only so many times
you can articulate your contempt for Jason,
before people get bored.)

But you know what, Jason? Those people would be wrong.

Because this is not the poem I am writing to express
my hatred for you.

This poem is the poem I am writing because we aren’t speaking,
and it is making my heart hurt so bad, it is all I
can do just to get up off the floor sometimes.

And this is the poem I am writing instead of writing
the ‘I miss having breakfast with you’ poem, instead of
writing the ‘Let’s walk dogs in our old schoolyard
again’ poem.

Instead of the ‘How are you doing?’ poem, the ‘I miss you’ poem,
the ‘I wish I was making fun of how much you like Garth
Brooks while sitting in front of your parents’ house
in your jeep’ poem, instead of the ‘Holidays are coming around
and you know what that means: SUICIDE!’ poem.

I am writing this so that I can stop wanting to write
the ‘I could fall in love with you again so quickly
if only you would say one more word to me’ poem.

But I am tired of loving you, Jason
cause you don’t love me right.

And if some pretentious-ass poem can stop me
From thinking about the way your laugh sounds,
about the way your skin feels in the rain,
about how I would rather be miserable with you,
then happy with anyone else in the world.

If some pretentious-ass poem can do all that?
Then I am gone with the wind, I am on the road,
I have flown over the fucking cuckoo’s nest,
I am gone, I am gone, I am gone.

I am.

What was your childhood like?

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 11:16:56 GMT

Me: Nakapunta ka na ba sa zoo?
Maru: Di pa.
Me: Hindi ba't weird na hindi pa tayo nakapunta dun?
Maru: Ewan ko, ni hindi pa nga tayo nakapag-enchanted eh.

Nanganak ang anakngjueteng

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 15:01:08 GMT

I get a good laugh when hearing out other people's Tagalog vocabularies because I realize I am barely scratching the wide range of Tagalog words when I speak.

For instance, awhile ago I emailed Auntie Arlyn...

Me: Hi Auntie, I received this letter from Deutsche Bank. I almost forgot about it Auntie. But I don't understand what it says.
AA: That is the present balance of the bank account. If there are changes, they always send a copy. May anak na 4.33eur!!!!

May anak? May anak? It took me sometime to understand what that meant, until I figured that the supposedly untouched figures got "impregnated" by the interest rate and gave birth to 4.33 euros. Cool!

This laughtrip also happens more frequently when speaking to Ryan Beaufort Edward Julio, who has a very interesting collection of Tagalog words.

Me: So wag nang sasabihin, ganun?
RB: Wag na, baka maging lantang gulay pa sila pag nalaman nila.

Lantang gulay? Hahaha. I don't get to hear this often at home, really. So he provides me entertainment without meaning to. He peppers his talk with similar words such as, "bomalabs" aka malabo, "bwenas" aka swerte, "anakngjueteng", and when it comes to food, it's never "kinakain" but "binabanatan".

I also get to hear this slang when I work at Shaw. When Ryan Clemente had his haircut, people called him, "Boy Tabas". And for a few days he was always referred to as the one was "bagong tabas". Hahaha. When Kuya Larry morphs into a pain in the a, someone always asks him, "kung ilang gramo ang tinira niya kagabi." And, most of all, when I get sarcastic, they ask me, "kung gusto kong masampal ng boobs ni Dors". Great! Great diba!

Wala lang, natutuwa lang ako sa mga bagay-bagay. :P

Secret lives

Wed, 26 Aug 2009 04:38:46 GMT

I am full to the brim with other people's sordid secrets.

Of course, I don't intentionally investigate what goes on beyond their public portrayals of themselves but somehow, most of what they keep from the general public find their way to me, and I shake my head every time.

And I thought I was crazed already. Some people are so much crazier.

Please, if you have secrets, strap them tightly to your clutches or keep them guarded in your pandora's boxes lest they fly out. Choose the people you spill yourselves to.

Today

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 16:05:38 GMT

The shape of her soul is a square.
She knows this to be the case
because she often feels its corners
pressing sharp against the bone
just under her shoulder blades
and across the wings of her hips.
At one time, when she was younger,
she had hoped that it might be a cube,
but the years have worked to dispel
this illusion of space, so that now
she understands: it is a simple plane,
a shape with surface, but no volume—
a window without a building, an eye
without a mind.
Of course, this square
does not appear on x-rays, and often,
weeks may pass when she forgets
that it exists. When she does think
to consider its purpose in her life,
she can say only that it aches with
a single mystery, for whose answer
she has long ago given up the search—
since its question is a word whose name
can never quite be asked. This yearning,
she has concluded, is the only function
of the square, repeated again and again
in each of its four matching angles,
until, with time, she is persuaded
anew that what it frames has no
interest in ever making her happy.

“She Considers the Dimensions of Her Soul”
Young Smith

I am (un)happy to report to you (line from Alex) that I suck at planning at nasermonan pako. Hahaha. Spontaneity is where I thrive but gad, I think I piss people off because of it, maybe because my life is so "unarranged" right now and my ehem, "lifestyle" if you can call it that just doesn't fit in any planner. I'm sorry I'm like this. I have to grow up one of these days.

In other news, I went out with aphazia, can't seem to upload our pic here! Boo. And I got three NEW books!

All in all, this day makes me cringe but still.

tattooine

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 02:51:16 GMT

3. I want RED tattoos on my wrists.

This want is inexplicable. No reasons at all. Just that: I'd like to have tattoos before I die.

Tidbits

Tue, 14 Jul 2009 05:21:30 GMT

No work today.

It only takes me a day or two to sustain a mad feeling. And all of the reasons to hate fly out the window rather quickly. :P

An old high school classmate pops up in FB and says that the one conversation he remembers me by is me telling him I don't like seeing his cheekbones because they make him look skinny. This was in grade school. I do not even remember talking to him about physical appearances at all. The random things we remember. Surprising.

I don't like growing up

Sun, 12 Jul 2009 20:15:42 GMT

ciLinafaith
10/31/2006 2:56 pm

the world has moved since they gave us our names at birth, since kindergarten, since snot running unnoticed down from red noses, since going back and forth the swings to see who can go up higher, since puppy loves and puppy broken hearts, since blue skirts and long ribbons, since geometry and trigonometry.

the world has moved on since then and.. well, we either get left behind or move along.

we grew up fast didn't we.