Archive for April, 2008

Loosening my grip

Friday, 25 April 08

Breathe in, breathe out. My head is still out of whack, but at least I am starting to see myself again… or at least a semblance of Steph. The image, though, is still ambiguous and fuzzy, and the cracks are still there. I need to just keep breathing till I figure out what to do. I just hope I don’t huff and puff too much and blow pieces of myself all over the place!

I was talking to a friend last night and I kept wailing to her over and over again, “I was fine last week. Everything was rosy and sweet. I was fine last week.” Life is unquestionably uncertain and the Universe has an unbelievably twisted sense of humor. I know it, you know it, even your Grandma knows it, and yet we all get surprised when the wheel turns and we find ourselves in the bottom rung. How did I get here?

My tarot card of the day is Heart. Yeah, it’s not from a normal deck; it’s from my friend Dori’s set. I try not to read my own cards, but I give in once in a while, pull out one when I need clarity. It does help you get a grip on your reality and see your situation with different eyes. Sometimes the cards that come out are so ridiculous; they kick me in the butt and drive some sense into me. How low should I go before I can go back up again?

Going back to Heart… it means, “Muscular thumping love. Hark the rhythmic beat of the core, feel the systems of flow, new life pumped into you. Self-love, a priority. Heart’s desire. Compassion without self-sacrifice. An open flower in your chest.” I always get this card. I guess I still don’t get it. I contemplate on all the statements and I can see how they can all relate to me… and I still don’t get it. I know exactly what to say when I’m reading someone else, but on me…? Forget it.

I am exhausted and depleted. My friend advised me to just breathe and just listen and sit still. Life is unpredictable and leaves us no breathing room, but I can try to loosen my grip and try not to take control of the uncontrollable and just learn how to breathe through it all. So here I go… gently breathing in and out… trying hard not to sound like my dear Darth.



Tuesday, 22 April 08

I’ve been up and down like mercury the whole weekend. I’m physically exhausted and I am mentally incapable of doing anything constructive, not even to put one foot in front of the other and move on. I’ve been trying to establish order or some kind of pattern within just so I could make sense of everything. I was never really good at this. My spirit growls in hunger and I have no idea how to feed it.

I wish that the weather would cooperate for once. I can’t stand any more of this heat. I feel pan-fried and desiccated and ready to be served up to some god to be consumed and discarded in bits and pieces. I need a massive blizzard to feel uninterrupted again. Now I understand that when an icy heart melts and no one is around or is willing enough to catch it, it goes away forever and leaves an unfathomable, frosty gorge in its stead.

I’m scared of having one of those days again. I still feel inept and pathetically ill-equipped to face another one of those curve balls the Cosmos tries to throw at you when you are not looking. I should have known this would happen. And here I am again, watching teardrops explode and enduring little earthquakes. I’ve seriously underestimated my capacity for feeling. Solitary confinement sounds incredibly logical at this moment.

Día del Libro 2008, Instituto Cervantes de Manila

Sunday, 13 April 08

Día del Libro 2008, Instituto Cervantes de Manila – Animé

For those of you who are based in Manila, please go to the International Book Day Festival at Insituto Cervantes, 855 TM Kalaw Street, Ermita (it’s near the LRT United Nations station), on the 19th of April, Saturday, from 10AM till Midnight. Booths will be set up to sell books and Spanish delicacies. Other activities are also lined up, such as film shows and performances.

El Día del Libro is based on a Catalan Holiday called La Diada de Sant Jordi (Feast of St. George), which is also known as el dia de la rosa (The Day of the Rose) or el dia del llibre (The Day of the Book). It is usually celebrated on April 23 and is considered as the Spanish version of Valentine’s Day since sweethearts are expected to exchange gifts to celebrate the occasion—-a man gives his girlfriend or wife roses, while the woman gives her boyfriend or husband a book. I think that it would be nice, though, if it were the other way around–if the women give the men roses and the men give the women books! hehehehe. I appreciate flowers as any other girl out there, but I am an incurable nerd and a geek! ;)

Happy perusing and see you guys there! :)

Longing for sleep

Monday, 7 April 08

The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized by Emily Dickinson.

The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.

Homesick for steadfast honey,
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.


Insomniac by Sylvia Plath (1961)

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole —
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon’s rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments–the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue —
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.