Ang nais ko lamang iparating:
habang sinusuyo mo ang aking mga ngiti
sa huni ng kulit ng iyong mga mata;
habang hinahabi ng iyong boses ang
ikinalat kong kalituhan;
sa tuwing dumadampi ang kabanalan
ng iyong halik sa aking balikat—
Na ang pangako at
kagustuhan ay ‘di iisa,
na ang kaligayahan at
pananatili ay ‘di iisa,
na hindi natin kailangang isa-isahin
ang bunga nitong pagsinta
YOU ARE HIS
You Should (Not) Date A Writer
Action verbs. He employs the use of action verbs when practicing his craft. Action verbs invoke the feeling of movement and importance. He was so used to passive verbs before. Outside the page, the world was passing him by. But now, on the page at least, he commands these words and creates a clear picture of exactly what he wants. When you walk to the table, he stands and smiles. He steps forward to pull the chair out as you sit down. He carefully places his fingers around the rim of his glass and meets your eyes before he drinks.
Writers use action words because they make it easier for you to picture yourself doing them.
Introspection. He writes, but he does not write for a living. People are rarely afforded the great luxury of relying on their truest talent for income, but he tells you that he writes. He calls himself a schoolteacher, but he tells you that he writes. Then he asks you, while he takes a coaster and places it under his cocktail, what a person truly is. He asks you if a person is who they say they are or what it is they do.
Writers make you think because they want to stay with you long after they’ve left.
Metamorphosis. He shares titles but not details. He coolly laughs and tells you that his pieces are personal and that you will have to read them yourself. When you ask why strangers can read them but you cannot, he takes another sip from his cocktail and moves the coaster a bit closer to himself so he can lean back as he informs you that you are no longer a stranger.
Writers invoke change in their characters because they want you to believe that you — or they — can.
Skilled. His vocabulary is extremely eloquent and he boasts a better barroom disposition than you have experienced in the last — I don’t know how many years. The feeling that begins to flutter, flurry, and fly through your chest is unequivocal. He orders something unusual, like a Black Russian or a Tom Collins, and when you request a beer he says that surely a complex woman deserves a complex drink. You let the Cosmopolitan burn your throat.
Writers equip themselves with words for the same reason a knight fortifies his armor.
Characterization. When he offers his place to stay for the night he already knows how far you have to go to make it home, he already expects the excuse fumbled over your lips and when you think your feet fail you he puts his hand out and your fingers grip his palm. He smiles and in this smile you can see the weaknesses he spent the whole night hiding. You look into his eyes and see the compassion he really holds. He knew this is what would win you over and he knew this would be the point in the night you decided to sleep with him. When you slip your hand into his hand, your arm under his shoulders and your tongue into his mouth, he expected every moment.
He knows you because he wrote you. He created you. You are his.
Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family.
Choose a fucking big television,
Choose washing machines,
compact disc players,
and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health,
low cholesterol and dental insurance.
Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows,
stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of it all,
pishing you last in a miserable home,
nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish,
fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that?
Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting
"This is what it is to love an artist: The moon is always rising above your house. The houses of your neighbors look dull and lacking in moonlight. But he is always going away from you. Inside his head there is always something more beautiful."
Sarah Ruhl, Eurydice
From the album “Pelikula at Pundaquit”, Coke and Chino Bolipata on violin and cello.
"I throw around words and half-assed things for you and at you. I know. I forget, too, you see. I forget inanities I yawp like soiled sheets and jeans on my bedroom floor. The poesies, the quotes, the simplest of feelings obscured in metaphor and the shrug of the shoulder. I run with words to objectify as an observer while I lack emotional transparency. It’s my unfounded, dumbfounded rocket science. You look at the trail of skin we shed. You wait on signs by the flicker of my eyelids. But can’t you see? It’s all me. For you, for now."
"I wanted you. I’m a rabid hound and I could have wanted you selfishly. I could have made three summers out of you. I could have fiercely damaged you, allowed you to make a sinkhole of your rage out of my madness. You would be gone, like how you are gone now, but I would be laughing with how I wanted you. This silence you left could not take the place of that laughter."
Should loss hurt? I lost you. I don’t feel pain. Should emptiness hurt? I’m empty. I have no use for these answers. This emptiness doesn’t hurt either.
Maybe I do have questions. Where are you?
I used to say over and over that you’re cool. If I said I love you in place of You’re cool, would it have made a difference?
I think about the difference I could have made in your life.
Today I start feeding my curiosity about your resolve. You took your own life and I wonder if you had that sense of clarity, that you’re bringing it to somewhere better. I do not know what matters now.
I regret not having told you that I love you. I regret the ten years I have stalled when I could have hugged you in its seasons.
RACONTEUR X ARCHITECT II
- Raf: Did you always want to be an architect?
- Don: When I was young, if asked, I would say I want to be an architect. But now I'm not sure. I want to draw definitely. You?
- Raf: If I always wanted to be an artist? Or a writer?
- Don: Yes. Is being an artist something you gain? Or is it innate?
- Raf: No, I never knew what I wanted. For my high school ambition yearbook entry I wrote "to be a vampire", then crossed it out, afraid the nuns might not let me graduate.
- Don: Hahaha!
- Raf: I wrote "to be a doctor" instead.
- Don: Kulit mo lang.
- Raf: I grew up watching my Pa paint, and my Ma make clothes. I think I was just curious and interested. My siblings did not take on the curiosity and interest.
- Don: Yeah. Me too.
- Raf: And you drew, made drawings a lot when you were a kid?
- Don: I did! But now I'm not sure if I should be here, doing what I do. Oh, well.
- Raf: I have the same sentiment, wanted to unload. Thought about you.
- Don: You mean you don't want to write anymore?
- Raf: I could not, for the life of me, tell this to anyone, lest I'd be called a whiner. I can't complain, you see.
- Don: I get that. People will say you're lucky you do what you do.
- Raf: Yeah, I get that all the time. I just wanna hide myself in a cold place, y'know.
- Don: When I get lots of money, I will live in a tree house, somewhere where no one will find me.
- Raf: I told myself that this morning.
- Don: I bet you'll regain vigor after couple of days and start loving your job again. Then the cycle goes on and on.
- Raf: Right. Yeah. I hope so.
- Don: Are you sad?
- Raf: Yeah. But I'm a sad guy really. I was born with this.
- Don: You find comfort in sadness.
- Raf: Not all the time. Not lately.
- Don: Why are you exactly sad?
- Raf: I don't know.
- Don: There's a reason.
- Raf: There must be.
GIRLS WHO LIKE BOYS WHO LIKE BOYS
I am already selfish enough for
wishing my body was something
different, something other.
It is easier to love you this way
knowing that I can’t have you, that
I’m not the only one who doesn’t
have anyone to come home to.
You think no one notices how you
look at him but when I come
away from you I am sunburned.
Yours is the kind of desire that
scorches. I shower in the dark
to avoid all traces of you. I am
trying to be kinder to myself but I
am still a work in progress, a
lighthouse for the lost.
"‘Perhaps they were right in putting love into books,’ he thought quietly. ‘Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.’"
William Faulkner, Light in August