Friday, February 13, 2004

Being



A reworking of old posts and old poetry for Valentine's Day



Writing, I suppose, is a conversation with self. But what if the self has turned deaf in the deluge of too much happiness? Unlike the poet Pablo Neruda, words flee in my days of inspiration. Then also there are the specifications for the eventual tango with words: I can’t hear myself “talk” when music fills my head—which is the reason why, when I must write, there must be a total silence. The silence of late nights, for example, like now: when everything else grinds to a halt, and there is only the lull of the occasional passing cars and pedicabs to account for nocturnal noise, but nevertheless adds only to the rhythm of midnight quiet. Songs assault my senses, even the softest ones—Sarah McLachlan singing “Angel,” for instance, or Karen Carpenter harping on lost loves. So when I feel the urge to do my finger dancing on my computer’s keyboards, all else must bow to an imposition of quiet.



It is quiet now, and almost midnight, too. I am waiting to finally begin my writing, caressing the beginnings of sentences like prospective lovers, aching—somehow—for the coming of the flow. I haven’t written anything for the longest time now. Nothing so much that I could give my heart to and call “something.”



I have been so busy being in love. Five months now. Perfectly on the dot, too: Valentines Day marks half the year.



Poems have been easier to produce, like the Romantics, say, Fernando Maramag and his ilk. All of mine are sappy and dripping with sophomoric moaning for the flutter in my chest. There are stories in my head begging to get out. Essays, too. And deadlines beckoning. And still I do not do anything except pen down silly sonnets. But what was it that Mom Edith Tiempo once said? “Even when the writer just sits, he is writing.” I wish to believe that, but I know I cannot let it be the rationalization for this laziness. I must write.



First poem I wrote for M., it was something cute-cheesy:



all these in short, and shorter days,

the smell of your skin on my skin

cataloguing the indiscretions

of your secret tongue and my lips,

fevering for what holds: flicker of

eyes, brush of lips, scent of hair,

fire of touch, folds of clothes

signifying abandon. our lives,

you and i, denying the counting sun.

we are both, after all, eternity.





Eternity? Is there eternity now? My room now is a dark glow: somewhere around here, a lamp casts everything else in yellow softness. Everything’s in perfect order, in their places. The few magazines I have are stacked on the green sofa, categorized by name. My files are in their immaculately labeled purple envelopes, also stacked in order of importance on the low shelves near my apartment door. My books are arranged alphabetically on their shelves. The floor has been swept, and every corner wiped or brushed clean over the last weekend. The only hint of disorder is my desk a few feet away, but I let it be that way—the way the Japanese values the slight imperfection, Zen-like, in any piece of art: the perfection of a teacup, for example, marred intentionally by a “chip,” or a dent in the base.



I wrote something else in October: “The beginning of a letter in my head I’ve heard from somewhere else, I don’t remember where, yet it bears your face: ‘Do you know how much in love with you I am? I have fallen in love with you without taking a single step.’ I carry a mounting elation that borders on a certain sadness, close to tears as it seems: to have seen your face yesterday while I was walking home was enough of heaven—and enough of dangerously longing dreams that tell me I must touch your face, soon, or crumble in my silence. What is it of you that captures? Your eyes, perhaps, but they tell me nothing, except that you do not really see me yet, but I see you, and I can only dream of running my fingers through your hair, and touch your face, gently, the way the moon touches the night waves.”



Yet perhaps that is the eternal dream for lovers. The romance of bridging the distance between.



Now, on my bed, M. drapes a body falling deeper into sleep. I am so used to M.’s presence now; it has become what is normal. I can no longer sleep well when there is an absence beside me. Watching the still form toss and turn, I vaguely remember M. taking me to the fiesta karnabal in the vacant lot beside GSIS. We were two fools oblivious to the grime of the rigged games, and the bored looks of the browned hawkers. The “circus” was ho-hum. The “horror chamber” ridiculous. The “ferris wheel” nauseating. I would not take the “Octopus” ride because the metals were creaking and I was convinced that any minute then, the screws would come loose, crushing all passengers to their deaths. Or that if I sat on one of those contraptions, I’d get gangrene from the rust. But we were happy, like jaybirds in spring. Later, M. took me to the new bakery near St. Paul’s, and made me eat pastries. Has it been five months? It might as well be years. Being in love beats getting bored with life in this ridiculous little city.



January, I remember tumult and mildly trying times, as there should be, and I wrote this:



What I would give

For the kiss to be new again,

That same trembling that colored

That night, that bed—

Would fade as the yellow roses

You gave three nights later did.

Today, we speak volumes of

Tomorrows but always, now,

With the knowing smiles that we

Live only for moments, these stubborn

Minutes of utter conviction in an us,

—and love, that dainty,

dreadful thing, is nothing

More than you and I, trapped

In a shell, praising naked skin,

But knowing nothing more

Except this denial of days and nights

So slow they become old, and nothing.



But here we are still, and perhaps I must rest assure on the longevity of things, like love. Now, M. snores, just a bit. I laugh. The night continues. My mind, after the day’s delirium and portfolio of unfortunate love poetry, takes time to settle from its drugged waking sleep: everything else, yes, is a heady brightness, or incandescent colors this shade of smiling green.



But nothing really matters except that secret smile slowly breaking on your face. Love has become its own literature.


[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

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