Stay Still

When in pain, some people are told
To run away and seek refuge
In foreign places, with foreign people
In a supposed search for their soul
As if pain strips us of our humanity
That you’d have to avoid it at all costs
As if pain detaches the soul from its earthly vessel
That you’d have to find it elsewhere
But what if while you’re sent away
Bathing in pain while skipping stones
Or climbing mountains, or skydiving
What if he comes knocking back
On your door step
With hand-picked flowers
And the familiar smell of cigarette smoke
Cloathing his bruised knuckles you used to lovingly hold
But no one is inside to answer
Because you were out there
Thinking that happiness is attached to places
Not to the people who make them happen
Thinking that loneliness is found in between pauses
Of breathing, and of conversations
Of those nasty distractions
You call moving on
What if you owned the pain and stayed still instead?

“The Type” by Sarah Kay

Let the statues crumble.

You have always been the place.
You are a woman who can build it yourself.
You were born to build

Swing, Swing

Playing tennis and moving on are one and the same
Tighten your grip
And you lose control
Swing blindly
And you miss your chance
At returning the shot
So you stand up
Own your position
Take a swing backwards
And launch the ricocheting orb
Back to where it came from
Crossing your fingers, albeit hoping
That it doesn’t return
You won’t be mistaken
You’ll know if you’ve done it right
The stance feels right
The contact feels right
Hell, even the popping sound feels right
Still, if you don’t
You’re in luck
Tennis is a repetition
All those mishaps
All those missed shots
All those sore muscles
Prepare you for your next big hit
Just don’t stop playing

An Ode to Donna’s Tikoy

Talo ang Hallmark
Sa ngiti mong may spark
Yung galing mo sa BS Arch
Kasing husay ko magpark

Yung aso mo kapag nagbark
Mawawala ang takot mo in the dark
Friendship nating walang question mark
Kayang talunin kahit loan shark

Tipping Point

She said didn’t love him
But when he spoke with her
It felt as if someone were reaching out
Asking her to hang on a little longer
To close her eyes and trust the universe
That her scattered bits and pieces
Are right where they are
At this point in time
She said didn’t love him
But when he opened up
It felt as if she were navigating
Through an uncharted territory
In pitch darkness, sans all fears
Cloaked in juvenile wisdom
Dauntless and yielding to the unknown
She said she didn’t love him
But she did

Inner Monologue

Maybe it’s my fault
For not saying anything
For not showing any depth
By only allowing happiness
To reverberate on the surface
But would you still
Blame me
If I told you that it’s difficult
To trust anyone, everybody
With the burden of
My damned introspection
Just this once
Please let my silence
Speak for me

Life on the Cusp

I sometimes find myself taking a hit for others and for my family, but none for myself. I find that really heart wrenching, albeit pretentious at some point. I reckon that if I keep sweeping the messes of my world under the rug, there will come a time that the rug itself will become so massive that it ought to overlap with my reality.

It’s silly but it’s a bit comforting to find out that your friends’ heads are wired up similarly to yours. It’s as if the choice were subconscious; to be with people who could understand you because a parcel of you is well ingrained within them long before you’ve even met. The number alone provides a feeling of safety, a certain guarantee that we’d make it out of our damned tragedies alive.

But there are times when the act of self preservation alone feels dragging and selfish. And there are instances when it is hard to distinguish the life line from the road to damnation. So I trod lightly in the gray area, shying away from the absolutes. However, even the broad daylight, the spectrum of gray hues are vast enough to get lost into.

On the darker days when my myopic vision clouds my judgment, I reread the essays in Life on the Cusp. It’s like a food for the soul, tailored for people who’ve made it past their mid-life crisis.

It’s a gem, really. It’s a confidant who tells you that some things are not mutually exclusive, an old friend who reminds you of the good times so you could make it through the bad ones, and a cup of coffee whose warmth hugs the heart.

Sanayan

Sinunod ko na naman ang isa sa mga payo ni Maam MLV nung naging propesor ko siya sa Arch 57. Sabi niya dati, kapag nagsisimula pa lang, magandang humanap ng trabaho sa mga maliit na kumpanya dahil natututukan ang bawat galaw mo sa isang proyekto. Kahit isang linggo pa lang ako sa pinagtratrabahuhan ko, napatunayan ko na agad na totoo ito.

Sa katunayan, kakauwi ko lang galing sa site visit. Wala nga akong ibang maisip kundi yung tuwang nararamdaman ko dahil napagtanto kong tama ako ng desisyon sa pinili kong kurso. Naisip ko na ayos lang sa akin kung sakaling katulad ng linggong ito ang magiging panghabambuhay kong kapalaran.

Ayos lang sa akin na mag-disensyo ng kung anu-anong espasyo. Ayos lang sa akin na paikutin ang mundo ko sa makulay na larangan ng arkitektura. Ayos lang sa akin na magpuyat para sa isang proyekto. Ayos lang sa akin na sumakit ang ulo dahil sa kakapiga ng mga ideya. Ayos lang sa akin na mataranta dahil sa ‘di makatarungang pangangailangan ng mga kliente at dahil sa papalapit na pasahan. Ayos lang sa akin na masanay maghintay at intayin upang may kasabay kapag kakain sa tanghalian. Ayos lang sa akin na ituring na parang nakatatandang kapatid lamang ang aking mga kasamahan sa trabaho.

Ayos lang sa akin ang ganitong takbo ng buhay.

Si Kuya Emman 2

I was looking for the files of past plates which I could include in my portfolio when I saw these…

The excessive use of exclamation points and question marks, the bright red font and the crude comments sure tore our spirits down. But just like what Rejean tweeted the other day, ”[Sir Litonjua and I] will meet again. Someday. Somewhere. And we will acknowledge that all this made us better persons.”

Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust

Blue Valentine is one of those emotionally disturbing movies that are almost too painful to watch.

It’s like an adult version of 500 Days of Summer. It’s a love at first sight kind of thing where the guy has this romanticized definition of love and the girl has this childhood trauma hailing from her family’s distorted representation of gender roles. But from that plot formula in chick flicks, it spirals down into a catastrophic depiction of falling in and out of love. The film also has cunniligus and an almost unwanted lovechild. And the guy gets the girl and then loses her in the marriage-falling-apart-and-the-inevitable-divorce-kicks-in kind of context.

If you thrive on dysfunction, though, then maybe this film is for you. It reeks of misogyny and by the end of the film, I massively abhorred Cindy’s damsel-in-distress character. I hated that she glorified her tragedies and let them define her as an individual. I hated that she did not empower herself to appreciate family life differently. I hated that she lit up when she saw Bobby at the liquor store. I hated that she projected her frustrations of not being able to become a doctor onto her husband. And above all, I hated that she chose to see Dean as a slacker rather than as the guy who stepped up to take care of Frankie who, by the way, was not even his.

Think of it as a variant of Robin’s “what’s my ‘but'” scene in HIMYM’s Little Boys episode. Dean was nice but he was a loser with no dreams of living up to his potential. Bobby had a brighter future, though, but he was also the quintessential epitome of the alpha-male-slash-asshole stereotype. Cindy got what she needed, but as the film draw to its conclusion, it seems like what she really wanted was entirely different.

But that’s the drill. At one point in time, we will blow the deal breaker quality of our future partner out of proportion. Maybe, an argument would trigger our “childhood issues” goggles and make it seem bigger than it actually is. Maybe, a heated debacle will make us want an out and not knowing how to casually express the need for space could be the marker for doom. I believe that Dean was a perfect fit to Cindy’s life. But she had not been able to let her husband in because she didn’t even love herself. So, it’s probably not about the premise of the “but” but the hamartia itself that we should be wary of.

Well, it’s either that or we could totally rock on the same wavelength as Rosa Diaz’s as our ticket to happiness.