Friday, May 26, 2006

how my boxes and taking a crap keep me sane.

see, this is the thing, i have boxes. these boxes give structure and order to my world. it's a framework i use so i don't feel like a schmuck every time i have to ditch.

saturdays belong to flag. even if my dad tells me i'd better seriously look for a place of my own if i insist on playing flag while there's a bad-ass storm ("you leave this house, don't come back"), i risk his anger and play. that's the extent of my commitment--saturdays.

if the team holds practice during the week, i'll have no qualms about being absent. my weekdays fall under the box labeled "work." there's no guilt associated with not showing up for the team.

things are neater this way. i can say "no."

sundays are for family.

notice that there isn't a box labeled "sam." the only alone time i have now is while i'm taking a crap.

the joy of winning.

winning is a beautiful feeling. but i have to confess that winning the first women's 8-on-8 championship (shameless plug, right there) pales in comparison to our semi's win over the rogues.

that game was scoreless after four hours, and both my body and spirit were crying out for rest. but i had no right to admit that i was tired because there were girls who were going both offense and defense. it frustrated me that time and again i couldn't bring my offense into the zone. we'd move, i'd bring them close, only to turn the ball over.

it almost came to a point where i didn't care who won or lost, as long as it meant the end.

but it didn't end, and we had to continue it the week after.

nothing compares to the feeling you get when you throw a long pass right down the middle to your receiver, who catches it perfectly then takes two or so steps to bring the ball into the endzone. that touchdown meant the end of an epic battle.

it's a pure, fierce joy that lasts a few seconds, unadulterated and distilled.
it's a violent happiness that demands release.
it makes you want to yawp barbarically.
it's a bottle of coke shaken like nobody's business.
it's so beyond words that my metaphors are getting messier with each iteration.

WHAAAAAAAAAT'S UP!!! YEAH! YEAH!

the rush is amazing. i mean, c'mon, finishing an article (no matter how hard to write) doesn't inspire fist-pumps, nor does it give you license to jump in the air or roll on the floor.

the analysis and comparison of the performatory aspects of poetry and rockstar-dom, or why i will never be adored by the masses.

an image on the television screen: a man stands with his head tilted skyward. his jaw hangs slack, his eyes are shut tight. sweat has plastered his shoulder-length hair to his forehead.
his name is john frusciante and he is jesus on guitar.

pay close attention to the tightness around his eyes. his music is translated in those few centimeters of flesh, with guitar riffs writing themselves in the creases and folds of his skin. lines appear and disappear in tune with the guitar's keening. the higher and longer it sings, the more he tries to hide himself behind his eyelids.

he hits his musical climax, he undulates against his guitar, and his face contorts in euphoria. we are voyeurs, we see him orgasm close up and he awakes to a million screams. there is a prurient aspect that marries the exhibitionist to the peeping tom.

a song is a means, not an end. the purpose of writing a song is for it to be sung, performed, preferably in front of the adoring masses.

writing poetry, on the other hand, is its own denouement. once written, it is over, done with. the act is the writing itself, and committing one's thoughts to paper is the performance. anything after is inconsequential, unnecessary.

an analogy: a rockstar is jesus turning water into wine, feeding the hungry, and preaching on a mountain. the rockstar is worshipped, and for worship to occur, two or three must be gathered.

an analogy: a poet is a sinner confessing misdeeds to the self. confessor and confessant are one and the same. the mouth does not have to say things aloud for the ears to hear.

an image on the television screen: a man pirouettes on the stage. his body is his instrument.

the poet does not, cannot pirouette. the closest thing is the movement of the hand on paper, assuming that the poet still uses a pen. loops, curves, and lines--the wrist dances as dictated by the shape of letters and the tempo of thought.

i could milk this some more. but i'm tired, the moment has passed, and this has been sitting on my desktop for too long. on to the next...

Monday, May 15, 2006

where the fuck is the moon?

the moon was beautiful last night. i accidentally saw her, and all i could come up with was "wow, the moon is nice."

the moon is nice? what the hell is that? i was looking for her tonight, i couldn't find her. but i did find something else.

behind cloud and concrete
[15V06]

i miss having beautiful thoughts—
she’s taken them from me, my words, my cadence,
my brief encounters with brilliance

she’s robbed me by hiding herself
behind cloud and concrete

i miss her jaundiced face,
scarred and beautiful


compare that to two months ago:

fruit of the moon
[16III06]

the moon is an overripe fruit
waiting to be plucked
from the night sky

human hands cannot relieve
her heavy succulence

thus she overflows and
stains the clouds yellow

*sighs* i really miss my early morning thoughts. odd hours are conducive to writing for yourself and nobody else. so is an empty house. i was digging through my folders and i found this:

[11IX03]

How do I start? By saying: “there is no beginning, no end, there is only now, and here”. Words stumbleovereach other, wanting to break loose, unborn children impatient to see the world. I cannot tell them to wait, or else they will vanish and become aborted thoughts only because I could not think of a proper beginning.

I like sitting in front when riding a jeep. I wanted to sit up front today, so I waited. I can be stubborn—the patience and the will are innate. Today, I also had the time.

Several passed me by, they were never the right ones. They had no space for me up front, and that is where I wanted to be. At last one came, but someone got there first, though I had been waiting longer.

That was fine. I could wait some more.
Another came. I took my place and I was where I exactly wanted to be.

Why do you like sitting in front?
Not just in front, but by the window. My right side hanging out, my face turned towards the unobstructed view. Half-in, half-out. Not really anywhere, just sitting in-between, I become a liminal category.
I like the wind and the sensation of flying and the minute risk of falling because I am not holding onto anything.
I like the in-between-ness, the illusion of movement though I am still.

It’s like writing, isn’t it?
How do I mean?
Words give me the illusion of action. Of doing something though I am not.
My fingers hold a pen or move across the keyboard and give voice to all the things I know I can do but will not.

word
play
comes
be
fore
play
The house is empty.

Am I sober? Does it matter? These thoughts are all mine. Whether I am sober or not, mine.

The house is quiet and I can hear myself clearly, my self and not my voice. If I speak, my voice seems foreign, intrusive, apart from my thoughts.
Empty,
empty--

fickle Eros has played
in your heart’s vacant rooms

leaving arrows without targets
lying carelessly on the floor
Another one of my exercises in temperance. Keep them short, how about:

Eros rose sore.
Ha ha.
Riding up front in a jeep is the same as sitting in the back of a trike.

I have had an idea, but I do not know how to state it briefly, so I must run off at the mouth now and edit later.

Does the night envy the moon of her light, borrowed though it may be?
We are both children of the sun but the moon has shared her secrets with you.
You do not burn, you reflect. Your body is a mirror.

I seem to be fascinated by light these days.
Black and white.
What would your whiteness feel like on my darkness.
Probably the same way the night feels in the luminous presence of the full moon.

Unlike the moon, you do not wax nor wane, you are simply here or not.
In plain view or absent.
True.
But that is physical reality, the corporeal realm.

Emotions wax and wane, ebb and flow.
So you could be here, couldn’t you?

Enough of that.
Enough of words.
Why?

love, our lips
and tongues
shall deal
in a currency
other than kisses
words words words words words. I have more, and there will never be enough.

let me photograph you
nude--
naked,
skyclad.

but nude is different from naked
nude, you are without shame and beautiful

yes, beautiful
beauty goes by many names
and i think that yours is one of them
Quiet! Work on it another time.
You’re reading too much of D.H. Lawrence.

What does he say?

“Give me the democracy of touch, the resurrection of the body!”
“Ravished! How ravished one could be without even being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions.”
Yes, but he also says

“it’s no good It’s no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. You’ve got to stick to it all your life. Only at times, at times the gap will be filled in. At times! But you have to wait for the times. Accept your own aloneness and stick to it, all your life. And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come. But they’ve got to come. You can’t force them.”
Yes.
Are you sober now?
Were you drunk, to begin with?
There are no beginnings or endings,
remember? Only now.
yeah, those were the days i was reading d.h. lawrence. now i'm reading stuff like freakonomics and the tipping point.

good reads... but i miss beautiful thoughts, is all.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

don't quote me.

caveat: the fun is lost if you don't know the nuances of Filipino.
from an e-mail i sent june 5, 2004:
for posterity and future reference (not that you really care).
presenting a list of fabulous samples of sam's communication skills:

1. "am i kasya?"
2. "was it butas?" / "is it nabutas?" (i'm not sure which, i was tipsy when i said this...)
3. "fucken putik on my legs, man."
4. "sa'n tayo magt-talk-talk?" (talk-talk, like usap usap, y'know?)
5. "you might have bitbited it." (i still maintain that "bitbited it" is shorter than "taken it with you")
6. "tawag the landline."

hopefully the list ends there. yeah, i'm bored. so?

...nope, the list doesn't end there. *sighs* i recently added

7. "i don't want to dikit it there."
llmarcelo [at] gmail [dot] com