A Trip Down Memory Lane.... Eh Not Really

 

Sunday. 10: 07 am. October 4.  I am currently  thinking of how to begin this entry but then,  by the time I’ve finished typing  this sentence  I  have  made my peace that this line is all you’ll ever get. (Hah!)  On a whim I decided to re-read my old entries, and oh boy, the amount of comedic horror awaiting.   It felt  weird and  wrong, like  I was reading an another person's diary.  She flaunts her feelings in romantic abando, with little concern about the world around her.   As much as I would like to deny any form of association with her I can't. At one point, I was her.  A friend once  said  that maybe this is me attempting to distance myself from all the emotions I once held strongly. That got me to pause.  A  proverbial light bulb moment, if you will.  So I thought I'd give this another try in the hopes that  if and when I look back on  this some day, I’d be able to with fondness and pride.  This time, let me try to see every detail without the lens of whimsy. If I'm going to do so,  I will have to  put  out the linchpin of this entire text before I divulge further. 

The guy I’ve liked for so long has finally tied the knot . Let me swallow the cringe that is threatening to spill over. 

Yes . a .fucking. cliche. 

 Let’s do that again.

The guy I’ve liked for a long time has finally tied the knot. Saying it twice certainly helps dull the edge. Anyway,  the truth of the matter is,  past the uneven heart rate when I first heard the news, I am fine. I am not drowning in misery  nor wallowing in a pit of despair. The tears haven't come. There are no lingering feelings of envy either. All things considered, I'm good. There is however a strong impulse to cut off all ties and simply forget.  Call it self preservation. Call me human.

Now,  can I say  "Congratulations!" and genuinely mean it?  I can.  In fact, I will. As to when I cannot say . I am not sure if  everyone is meant to know. He has always been a deeply private person. To date, I can only remember two things he shared that I can consider as personal, tidbits I happily keep in my memory.   To be fair, I didn't share a lot too.  Other than the fact that I'm good with my job and that I love poetry ( I don't think he remembers that detail ), he knows nothing about me either.  Oh ! he thinks I still love the Twilight series. hahahaha.  (My tastes have grown , okaaaaay) 'But you get the idea. 

You get what you give. 

 So. If you're curious about our "story", (Please,  you're not.  You know exactly how all tales of the unrequited end.)  the first thing I'll tell you is , there's no story.  In my native tongue,  “Wala  kaming kwento”. ( Wow. Tagalog hits differently, folks) 

Two subjects without a verb will never make a story.  

 He, I.  A period at the end. 

Picture two points plotted in different graphs. There you go , imagery.

There was never any semblance of  a "we "or  an "us". It has never felt right writing so. And yes,  I would like to keep even my pronouns as honest as possible. 

If you've reached this bit, then know that it has been  a week since  I've started this and I'm still stumped as to how to continue.  The days have certainly been busy but more than that , it just feels pointless   to look back on some of the things that no longer serve their  purpose. More so, if it didn't really serve you any to begin with. It becomes tiring. I'm done asking for an audience to have my feelings heard. I've told and retold friends so many times hoping I'd get a different answer each time.  I hope this didn't come out as aggressively bitter.  This is just me trying to break a bad habit.  Anyway,  Bamboo was right, much has been said. 

Emotions are noisy , messy, nasty tenants. I wish they can just fall in a single line just so I would know which one I would entertain, but they overcrowd and they don't know how to take turns.  Diplomacy isn't one of their stronger traits either .  They would argue and argue and argue.   I'm often at odds with them , but for now, I would like to  take a moment and leave them in peace, in their own space. 

Maybe the entire point of this entry is  that you figure things out when you’re supposed to figure them out .  Maybe that includes realizing how it went from pining for a person to pining for an idea, a wish. Or maybe when do  I see him again , all of this just goes out the window. I really don't know. I can't confidently say  I have figured it all out, and this is probably the one most honest thing I can  share.  So I'm going to stop worrying over future random hellos or future aches . He's happy.  I am too.

Mask

Open the door. Walk slowly. Put on your mask. Hold their hand. A sorry. A lie for what happened 54 minutes ago beyond that white door.  Stop thinking . put on your mask. Hold their hand. Someone is waiting downstairs. Someone you hope will never know. Someone you know will never forgive. Someone . Someone. Same one.  Walk slowly. Put on your mask. hold their hand.  Stop .  Only you could hear the ringing in your ears. The walls have eyes. Pray they remain blind. Talk to them now. Let go of that hand. It stings. You hurt. Say the words . Cover them with sweet powdered lies. They need to hear it. You don't. Nevertheless. Speak. You're not in confession box. Hear their thanks. Say goodbye. Swallow your guilt.  Clear your throat, practice your smile. Rehearse your blame.

White Blank Squares (Happy Anniversary)

On a moonless night, filled with thunderclaps I find myself sitting with my dog and watching the houses outside our windows be lit by threads of lightning. It was oddly comforting to sit still a midst the play of shadows as the heavens rumble.  My mind is quiet for once  and my thoughts become like white blank squares, ready to be smeared with any  color of my own choosing

And so I think about my father with his sanguine eyes, his roughened hands  and his patient heart. I think about how his strength fades by the day as grey hair covers his head in its entirety. He gave me the happiest of childhood. He will give me the saddest days of my womanhood.

I think about my mother with her acid tongue that burns me every now and then and her brow high enough to build a wall between us. Thinking about my mother is not always pleasant but truthfully quite easy to put into words,perhaps because she is a constant presence much like her care. Some days, it is almost a balm to my scars. Almost.

I think about myself as selfishly for as long as  the tempest outside would let me. I think of how I find beauty in my thoughts at each second my fingers connect with the keyboard, how I believe otherwise  the moment my head hits the pillow.  I think about how I am a bedrock for no one except maybe for this four-legged creature who faithfully watches the lightning with me. I think about my sewed-in mouth and my sometimes eloquent hands. I think about my labyrinth of a mind, how I get lost so easily. I think about loneliness too. It is inevitable when it is not others' understanding that is out of reach but your own.

But as the tempest tames, at each tick and tock,  I wonder what will it take to enclose into my palms whatever finite that I seek

Eight Slices of Life, Oven-fresh From a 24 Year Old Hearth.

Cotton Candy Cake.  Never trust his words. They're only good the minute he says them. They're cotton candy basically, sweet  fluffy, clouds on  a stick. It  makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside until the moment it dissipates in your mouth and you're left with nothing but a stained tongue and a ruined appetite for dinner. Note to self, it's fruits you should be going for, healthy and easily available.

Amish Friendship Bread.  Bread will always be a source of comfort just as much as the thought that within your plane of existence, there are fellow bread lovers too. Accept the fact that you will never be known as the spontaneous one, the enter-a-room-with-one-friend,-exit-with-ten type. You are however are a firm believer of cycles and processes.  After all , friendship doesn't always mean sprinkling powdered sugar together, sometimes it's the fermentation and the thawing that leave the deepest mark.

Chocolate roll.  The end parts are the most decadent. They're also the least likely you'll eat. Because  someone took the liberty of wearing a white coat along with the privilege of  getting the first slice and getting away with  leaving the plate, chocolate icing and all,  for you , in all your brooding glory, to wash.  So go buy yourself and your father each of your favorite slices and indulge. Apparently selflessness is not genetic.

 Raisin bread. Put your foot down and mean it. "No ma, I don't like raisins. Never have. Never will.  They're desiccated and weird and they taste like everything I don't ever want to put in my mouth. Why can't you understand that?!

Chocolate chip pancakes. You'll always be a comfort, just like all those cookies you sneak into my dreary breakfast. Still sweet and homely, but' you're getting softer now,fragile.  and it scares me everyday.

Garlic Bread. Garlic makes every sensory experience complete. Funny how a tiny clove can define a dish and command your senses' attention. Note to self, work on being a garlic.
.
Pepperoni pizza . So good it basically makes you dumb.  There is nothing to digest,nothing to think about  but gooey cheese and meat. A brainless food perfect on days your brain is working overdrive. It's a perfect reminder that it's  fine to just munch and be fascinated with the tendrils of mozzarella hanging between your teeth and that edible geometry

Cream puff.  Blessed be the days when it is perfectly clear  what it is that you want.

Heliotropism

His skin is summer and rough childhood. Warm and calloused, it is home.
His voice,  raspy, loud and so distinctly him that for a moment I saw his fingerprints floating in the air as he calls my name.
Ever the boisterous one, even the shyest of flora turns wherever he goes.
Flighty, down to the bone, adventure is what he constantly seeks.
In the land of snow, across the desert sand, beneath the murky fluid of his noodles
He is restless, even in his sleep
While I'm left awake, wondering where his soul could be sailing
While I'm left standing, feeling my roots crawl deeper and deeper into the earth.
Sturdy. Steadfast

Cirque du Freak : The LImb

I am split . Since consciousness grew and insights emerged, I find myself cut in half . Traversing  life, I exist  in control and  liquefied at the same time.  My hands stubbornly grasp the present and my feet are firmly planted on today's ground. Here it is happy. Here it is safe. But my head is minutes, days, years ahead of my limbs. Where my hands are steady and fisted, my head shifts through pages after pages of  meanings, death, or simply of being there, wherever that may be.  Where my feet casually strolls , my head races  towards every "what ifs"  By design , they are a unit. By design they are parts and I am their sum. Lately it has not been like such. Lately, it is all equations and rhetorics a mile a minute.   Lately , I am nothing but stiff joints.  So by the time my hands decides to cooperate and write, my head already convinced itself  that  there is truth to this claim; life is a circus. Every  tightrope situations,  cannonball dreams,  that despicable feeling of being fierce yet caged, and the  hopeful idea of stealing the show with daring grace.  Yet, my world is this makeshift tent, where I am still learning how to ride my unicycle. Balance you see, has always been my challenge.  From walking on my stubby one-year old legs to straining for the better part of my life between letting it all out and letting it all silently go. Practice is a must because falls are frequent. I trust that my safety net awaits but I know fully it could only hold on for so long. So I thread lightly with my earplugs secured to block out the rest of the world, because sometimes a simple "No !" can displace me. Still, I relish every chance I get to honestly tell about my anatomy and cannonball   dreams. In this space at least, I am a complete story.

Music Box

Have you ever heard a song so beautiful ,  you just know it will  forever be a part of your life's playlist ? It will never be enough that it grips your soul  for exactly 3:57 minutes. So you play it on loop, an attempt to engrave that fleeting art to your existence. Heh.... I 'm being overly dramatic, but you get my point.  Simply put though, hearing the sound waves is enough to make you go "oh my God this song" while clutching your heart , wiping your barely-there tears, and rejoicing for this one thing that humankind actually succeeded at, "playback"!  I'm getting side-tracked here . On to the point . This is an amateur attempt to review songs I love so much I could picture myself growing old with them. They are  secrets hidden in my music box, but I'm sharing them nonetheless because its a tragedy not to.  I am not a fan of, top-tens Thought Catalog is known for so consider this song randomly listed for the sole purpose of being favorites. Also interpretations are solely mine. I do not have the privilege of sharing fries with these artistes nor are we textmates, but they are master riddlers and they make me think.  So here we go...

Still - Elena Tonra (Daughter)

It's spiraling down
Biting words like a wolf howling
Hate is spitting out each others mouths
But we're still sleeping like we're lovers

Combine a hauntingly powerful melody and a dark poignant prose of  an undeniably true existential dilemma of being "stuck" with someone, in something, or somewhere that simply makes you unhappy. So of course this will be on loop.

In the Shallows - Elena Tonra (can we be besties?)
Dry your smoke-stung eyes,
so you can see the light.
staring at the sky
watching stars collide

I swear this woman is a walking heartbreak. She does not tug at your heartstrings, she rips , knots and rips them some more. Feminists may get an aneurysm from what the lyrics may be implying, 'I'll die if you leave", but it's a reality for some. It's an ugly truth that some of us get lost to our feelings , woman empowerment be damned. There is no grand orchestra ala Florence and the Machine  to speak the depth of the person's lament, instead there is a deceivingly light acoustics that await you and then... "le creys"





Featherstone by the Paper Kites
Past all the signs of the slow decline
Live like your love wasn't meant for mine
Now you've gone, now you've gone to a different life

This song is as good as any coming-of-age movie. A default tune during road trips, it speaks of nostalgia and hope, of growing apart and growing up. Why the title? I have no idea






Cosmic Love by Florence and the Machine
I took the stars from our eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you

Seriously, Florence Welch and Elena Tonra are founding members of the highly elite Happy-Songs-Are-For-The-Weak club.  The grandiosity of this song, so artfully made, convinces you that some things though unhealthy, insensible ( I took the stars from your eyes then made a map), consuming, can also be beautiful.

Awhile is Now

And so she tells herself..

"Chin up little girl. Show the world your tear-streaked face and smiling eyes. Let her hear your words and the sobs in between. Tell your story from the beginning to the climax down to the perennially desired denouement. Stand proud in your ripped clothes and mended soul because you have survived, and it is glorious. Your scars are your cartouche, intricate and permanent.

Look into a mirror, into a still lake,  or into a murky puddle, it doesn't matter because the truth is , you are beautiful. 

Put on your white dress and dance to your heart's content or don your black frock and finally say goodbye . Learn , make blunders , understand , and learn. Repeat  until your final breath. This is the vicious cycle called life.

On days your entire being says "I am tired", sit on a hammock and sip some tea. Feel your cheeks lift and your soul grow . You hear Veronica Shoffstall's written soliloquy loud and clear now ;

 "And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open with the grace of a woman not the grief of a child."

Inspiration : Veronica Shofstall's  After Awhile

Traitor

He is. Sin and redemption . Shame and pride. Torment and peace. Empty and overflowing in both anguish and strength, but not joy never joy.  Because for every fleeting moment that elusive creature is within his grasp , guilt always wounds,lashes,whips and tears. But he moves forward you see, tethered to  guilt  and shackled to rage, he soldiers on. He knows no other way than this.   He walks by my side as I prattle about what he missed while he was gone, or rather when he was lost. He keeps silent but this is expected. I hold his hand feeling the rope burns  as he grasps my hand firmly, And so we walked , our steps rhythmic and leisurely towards everything he shunned and everyone he has rightfully or wrongfully abhorred. He braves the crowd with their scrutinizing eyes and sharp tongues . Lies and truths mixing in the air as they murmur to each other as he passes by. For a moment, anger courses through me. I wanted nothing but to snarl and hurl every insult there is.  But logic prevailed and I held my breath, settling  for looking straight into their eyes instead. As if the mere act, will bore into their malicious skulls  that I feel no shame walking beside this boy. This broken boy turned into a lost  man over night  by a bloody circumstance. Their hushed tones speak volumes of contempt , twisted truths and false wisdom.  I am not surprised that I am being judged as well  , questioning my actions as though it is their birthright to do so. Destruction and betrayal they deem his future to be. Loneliness and hurt they expect mine to have. They see his claws , I see his scars. They feel only his anger, I feel his heart, tired and mangled. But I do not blame them , they are victims as well . In that crowded street,  we all are.  We walked seemingly without a care in the world . still, he holds my hand and for all the plainness that gesture brings, it means the moon and the world to me.

the post is closed on sundays

I have been playing this over my head. Where to say it, when to say it, how to say it without making it seem I'm expecting something, that I'm pathetic or stupid or creepy. So if I'm doing this the way I pictured it, we'll be sitting on our school's dank but oddly comforting hallway, you will probably be joking about something corny.  It doesn't matter, I'll laugh anyway. We'll talk about the most trivial of topics. You'll ask how my life is. I'd ask you too. We'll establish the balance we seem to easily set the past couple of years. And I would ruin it by blurting out " I love you, by the way". It's a crazy idea, but at least it's an idea. It might be good to just let it out. I have been feeling this and pushing it all in for too long now. But then, I'll think about your reaction and all of my insecurities and I'll end up not saying anything and start getting lost inside my own head (not a good place to get lost in, FYI)  So scratch blurting it out.

Rewind the tapes. Let's go mundane first. It's standard procedure I believe, when you're about to tell something life-altering. Not to mention, it's friendly and unalarming. You're at ease and I'm a basket case full of nerves but I'll play it cool and throw  sarcasm here and there

Next phase, reminisce. Because there is nothing wrong with two  friends looking back on their quest for awesomeness, armed with their own dreams and ideals but burdened by lacklusterness and idiocy. Nothing screams more fun than laughing at one's stupidity. I think you would agree too. And if I know you, as I think I do, you'll start craving for the might have been again. That we marched in that auditorium together, well not technically because D comes before L,but on the same day at least, with the same set of graduation of photos. I wanted it badly too, but much as it sucks what's done is done. I'll comfort you the best way I know how, with a good old tap on the head, eyes wide, I'll sternly say"you're almost there". Then I'll remind you  all of the good qualities you have of which you are too much of a male to admit. It suddenly feels to concrete for me, the way I can see you saying "thanks".

It's best to spend my honesty hour wisely so I'll continue probably by saying how happy I am we became friends. Unexpected, sure but treasured at the same time. So treasured that  it is the only thing stopping me from telling you the truth. But it's not time for that yet..... Maybe it is.

The gradual swing in our exchange, can you feel it? I hope you can. So you'll start asking what truth. You're not fooling me though. I heard your neurons synapse the minute I said truth. But I will say it for the record. I'm anticipating a good solid minute of  awkward silence and nervous laughs. And I'm sure by now. you're debating whether or not to bolt to the nearest exit. You won't though. You're too much of a gentleman for that.

I think this this is the part where I give you my guarantee. I'll break the silence first to end the awkward agony. I promise you that I know where I stand, the knowledge of your girlfriend is a high enough and strong enough barrier to keep me away. I said those things for the sole purpose of saying it. You reciprocating  is the last item on my agenda but admittedly the first on my wishlist. On second thought, I'll leave the wishlist
out. I'm not sure if you'll even ask how it happened. I'm not even sure I can answer. But I'll try to give you the big picture without all the melodrama. It was not brisk and exhilarating the way the books drilled it in my consciousness to be. It was more like walking. Steady.Normal. And , to a certain degree, unconsciously done. By now, you will be using your right to remain silent. As a good friend, I'll let you.

Wow. that was perfectly played. Now that I think about it though can I actually do this? Throw the ball on your side of the court because I'm so sick playing it on mine. Gamble the only thing I'm genuinely certain I have with you. My head clears, hormonal levels regulate and my courage meter empties. I don't think I can, atleast not face to face. Shall I send it through email? Too virtual. Text then, but it's  too informal and too long and I wouldn't want to make it a potential source of a fight. Snail mail. Handwritten=personal. Moreover it means less threat of actually seeing you . Perfect. When to send. Mondays and Thursdays are my pending paper report days. Tuesdays, Wednesdays,Fridays and Saturdays scream clinic duties . No matter ,I'll send it on Sunday. Oh wait, I just remembered the post is closed on Sundays.

Wanted: Senpai!

Read this on one of the countless Nodame forums I venture into. I just love reading the different takes of my fellow otakus on different topics. especially this one. Mainly because it answered the question that has been etched on my mind ever since I watched the beloved dorama. So the topic was: When did Chiaki fell in love for Nodame? As expcted the forum was a smorgasboard of biases, but I particularly fell in love with this one because it made me realize 2 things. For one thing it made me realize why I love this dorama so much. On the surface it may seem wacky and unrealistic, but if you look closely, you'll see it's totally grounded on reality. Secondly, it made me wish I was as lucky as Nodame and have my own Senpai... So a big Kudos to you fellow Otaku!

"It's an interesting question. Chiaki starts as such a chill, hyper-critical person, so that I would often ask myself "What, if anything, does Chiaki love?" And in the beginning, the answer is pretty much confined to Vieria-sensei and conducting, though at first, both of these are all about love of a dream. Chiaki starts this story as someone who seems confused about and sometimes isolated from many forms of love. He can love Saiko's voice, her instrument, but he seems to think of that as separate from Saiko the person.

I think this is how it starts with Nodame. Chiaki falls in love with her piano playing, despite it's messy and technically 'not good,' because through her playing, Nodame expresses the essence of pure, strong emotions, and I think Chiaki is starved for that. But he quickly realises he can't separate Nodame from her playing as he can with other people. Quirky, right-brained Nodame pours her love of life into her music, and this is the piece that has eluded rigidly left-brained Chiaki.

To me, Chiaki fell in love with Nodame's music first (nobody becomes self-aware overnight). The love Nodame poured into her music bound him to her in ways his logical self fought, even to the point where he tried to get her to approach her relationship with music in the way he did (which, in its judgment of what music should mean to her, was not the most loving thing to do). I think Chiaki believed, for a long time, that to actually acknowledge the person (perhaps any person) behind the music was terribly risky, and yet he intuitively knew if you couldn't acknowledge the person, you didn't really have music (this was his take-away from S-Orchestra). He wasn't just fighting loving Nodame because she was weird and hentai and didn't fit into his left-brained mode; he was fighting love (which, to my way of thinking, is all about acceptance).

I don't think there was a particular moment where Chiaki's love for Nodame became distinct from his love for her music. Rather, because this is a more realistic story about love that is not exactly 'first sight,' I think their love has developed just as a composer would develop a concerto: it's there as a motif at the beginning, it has its ups and downs, it grows and matures as it goes, until at the end, it is all one glorious expression of all the things that make up love.

So, if the essence of their love has been there since the beginning, the question is, when does Chiaki acknowledge the magnitude of Nodame in his life and start letting go of his internal struggle? When he internalises that Mozart is 'pink'? When he asks her to come to Europe with him? When he realises she, more than anyone else, has been the one to bring so many good things into his life? When he returns to Paris because he is worried about her? Certainly the necklace is a tangible symbol of his coming to terms with his weighty questions, but I think through his actions, he began letting go earlier. Like, maybe, when he took that first, enormous step out of character and started to cook for her.

And even in this, Chiaki is standing toe to toe with what it means to love. We get a laugh out of disgusted Chiaki cleaning her flat, but really, it's an example of Chiaki trying to impose his sensibility on Nodame. He thinks her flat should be clean, that nobody should live in a messy place. Nodame could care less. She's basically a person for whom life is big and clutter is comfortably part of the deal. Chiaki can't change that, and I think he comes to realise, for all he disparages it, he doesn't want to. He's able to let go of it and accept that part of Nodame pretty early on. Whew! Because love doesn't live in trying to make someone into a person she is not, especially when aspects of Nodame's big, cluttered life are essential to Chiaki.

The cooking is different, though. In a way, this is Chiaki's first real gift to her. Not that food = love, but that extending yourself to give someone something she loves is definitely an act of love."