my favorite voice version
my favorite instrumental version
10.29.2011
10.22.2011
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
I am living. I remember you.
- What the Living Do, Marie Howe
10.21.2011
10.20.2011
| The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes. Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness, Like the flight of a moth which, had it known, Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame. Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety, The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored. I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride, The time when I was among their adherents Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting. But all of them would have one subject, desire, If only my own -- but no, not at all; alas, I was driven because I wanted to be like others. I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me. The history of my stupidity will not be written. For one thing, it's late. And the truth is laborious. - Account, Czeslaw Milosz |
---
| We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers. White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind Was too busy visiting sea after sea. We did not succeed in interesting the animals. Dogs, disappointed, expected an order, A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep. A person seemingly very close Did not care to hear of things long past. Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee Ought not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom. It would be humiliating to pay by the hour A man with a diploma, just for listening. Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what? That we used to see ourselves as handsome and noble Yet later in our place an ugly toad Half-opens its thick eyelid And one sees clearly: "That's me." -- At A Certain Age, Czeslaw Milosz |
10.16.2011
A Sunday's Haircut
Today, a handsome Korean man cut my hair. He was tall, but not too tall. His long hair was tied in a loose bun. He was wearing a crisp light blue polo which fitted his trim torso well, the cuffs rolled up to reveal the fibrous muscles of his lower arms. His ironed trousers clung just right and he accented his look with a tan medium-width belt. Come to think of it, I did not notice his shoes. But I liked his chunky black watch.
Whenever he was not looking at me through the mirror, I studied his face. Unlike other Korean men, his features were not very feminine. He had just enough eyebrows to frame his chinky eyes. Above his thin lips was a fair amount of moustache which suited him. His aquiline nose complemented the planar quality of his angular face. He looked a little Japanese, and he may very well be a little Japanese. He reminded me so much of Tadanobu Asano. I thought that the faint keloidal scars at the upper side of his jaw which looked like stitches from the past gave his face an interesting texture.
Most of the time though, I looked at his working hands. They were good hands. Not too long, not stubby. Not too smooth with just the right amount of veins showing. His hands worked in swift decisive but careful movements. I wondered at how his whole body worked in the same manner: two feet planted wide apart, facing my side, his upper body tilted backward while his arms were raised to support his hands clipping away. Once he dropped the comb, picked it up, blowed on it and wiped it on his trousers while softly apologizing. Such reverence for a mundane thing such as cutting hair. He made it almost ritualistic. Then he ran his fingers through my hair lightly and slowly. They never tugged.
I remembered you. I never said it but I thought you had beautiful hands. They were definitely softer than mine and I was slightly ashamed of that. I remembered your hands because they had a penchant of softly brushing away hair that would always find their way across my silly face. I remembered your hands and how they'd butterfly across moments I decide I will never put into words. I remember your hands as they dropped a mug on purpose while we were in a seaside resort. It was a cheap simple mug emblazoned with your zodiac sign -- and hers -- you shared the same. Lastly, I remembered your hands as they had been on the metallic table of a fastfood joint, flicking a cigarette, fidgety and ever so remote. It was the last time I saw them unadorned.
For the third time the Korean man asked me if I was okay. I thought it was customary practice in the salon, but that's not it, I realized. I've been coming here every two months for two years now and nobody since asked me that in the middle of a job. Maybe because he was new, it was his way of being friendly, I assumed. I was rather quiet the whole time just smiling a little when he'd look at me from the mirror, shyly revealing a bit of his laugh lines. I was relieved that the language barrier prevented further inquiry. Because, "Yeah," I told him, "I'm okay." And I wanted to leave it like that.
Whenever he was not looking at me through the mirror, I studied his face. Unlike other Korean men, his features were not very feminine. He had just enough eyebrows to frame his chinky eyes. Above his thin lips was a fair amount of moustache which suited him. His aquiline nose complemented the planar quality of his angular face. He looked a little Japanese, and he may very well be a little Japanese. He reminded me so much of Tadanobu Asano. I thought that the faint keloidal scars at the upper side of his jaw which looked like stitches from the past gave his face an interesting texture.
Most of the time though, I looked at his working hands. They were good hands. Not too long, not stubby. Not too smooth with just the right amount of veins showing. His hands worked in swift decisive but careful movements. I wondered at how his whole body worked in the same manner: two feet planted wide apart, facing my side, his upper body tilted backward while his arms were raised to support his hands clipping away. Once he dropped the comb, picked it up, blowed on it and wiped it on his trousers while softly apologizing. Such reverence for a mundane thing such as cutting hair. He made it almost ritualistic. Then he ran his fingers through my hair lightly and slowly. They never tugged.
I remembered you. I never said it but I thought you had beautiful hands. They were definitely softer than mine and I was slightly ashamed of that. I remembered your hands because they had a penchant of softly brushing away hair that would always find their way across my silly face. I remembered your hands and how they'd butterfly across moments I decide I will never put into words. I remember your hands as they dropped a mug on purpose while we were in a seaside resort. It was a cheap simple mug emblazoned with your zodiac sign -- and hers -- you shared the same. Lastly, I remembered your hands as they had been on the metallic table of a fastfood joint, flicking a cigarette, fidgety and ever so remote. It was the last time I saw them unadorned.
For the third time the Korean man asked me if I was okay. I thought it was customary practice in the salon, but that's not it, I realized. I've been coming here every two months for two years now and nobody since asked me that in the middle of a job. Maybe because he was new, it was his way of being friendly, I assumed. I was rather quiet the whole time just smiling a little when he'd look at me from the mirror, shyly revealing a bit of his laugh lines. I was relieved that the language barrier prevented further inquiry. Because, "Yeah," I told him, "I'm okay." And I wanted to leave it like that.
10.09.2011
I think I should relocate to where there is a season called fall and flowers look this way (photo and flower arragement by saipua)
10.08.2011
Of taking risks and cancelled trips and how my heart, I insist, is indefatigable
I hate that I am deliberately missing my Vietnam trip. A few months ago, on a spur of the moment, I booked myself piso fare tickets to Ho Chi Min City. I took the available seats as a sign because they coincided with the Angkor workshop dates perfectly. I applied this year and I was slightly more confident that I'd finally make it. But I did not make it (again) and now I am left with a 10-day trip at the end of November with nothing in particular to do.
I won't go for a number of reasons: One, the Angkor Workshop would take care of my food and lodging and without those, I would be really short of cash. Two, even if I can scrounge up enough for ten days, I am in no mood to move around Indochina alone. Been there, done that. I want company this time. Three, some of my friends whom I told about my booking just in case they'd want to meet up with me after the workshop did book tickets...on earlier dates. Errr, yes. Four, having decided I won't go, I already scheduled fieldwork in Ilocos for those dates.
From the start, I knew it would be a gamble so it's not much of a shock when Angkor emailed me. Still, I'm a bit sad that another opportunity has been jinxed and another ticket shall go unused. Also, I was supposed to go to Batanes with some friends for my birthday. I've been looking forward to it although with some temperance because of a previous devastating canceled Batanes flight experience. When a supertyphoon came on that particular date, even if in my heart of hearts I had an inkling something like this would happen again, it sucked nonetheless.
Now I'm reading about a new international photo workshop in Bangkok for October 2012. And this morning I was tempted to book myself another 12-peso HK or Incheon ticket for March. When will I tire of wanting things so badly and being disappointed in the end? Maybe soon but not yet.
I won't go for a number of reasons: One, the Angkor Workshop would take care of my food and lodging and without those, I would be really short of cash. Two, even if I can scrounge up enough for ten days, I am in no mood to move around Indochina alone. Been there, done that. I want company this time. Three, some of my friends whom I told about my booking just in case they'd want to meet up with me after the workshop did book tickets...on earlier dates. Errr, yes. Four, having decided I won't go, I already scheduled fieldwork in Ilocos for those dates.
From the start, I knew it would be a gamble so it's not much of a shock when Angkor emailed me. Still, I'm a bit sad that another opportunity has been jinxed and another ticket shall go unused. Also, I was supposed to go to Batanes with some friends for my birthday. I've been looking forward to it although with some temperance because of a previous devastating canceled Batanes flight experience. When a supertyphoon came on that particular date, even if in my heart of hearts I had an inkling something like this would happen again, it sucked nonetheless.
Now I'm reading about a new international photo workshop in Bangkok for October 2012. And this morning I was tempted to book myself another 12-peso HK or Incheon ticket for March. When will I tire of wanting things so badly and being disappointed in the end? Maybe soon but not yet.
A Prayer of Oscar Romero
It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.
The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work.
Nothing we do is complete,
which is a way of saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church’s mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything,
and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results,
but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders;
ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future that is not our own. Amen.
The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work.
Nothing we do is complete,
which is a way of saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church’s mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything,
and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results,
but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders;
ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future that is not our own. Amen.
10.06.2011
You did good, Steve!
I was never into techie geeks but...
I swooned. And besides, if you can be a rockstar in your own field and, in Steve Job's case, in the whole wide world, then you are rockstar enough for me. The world needs more ambitious people.
10.05.2011
Salinger, I’m sorry, but “Don’t ever tell
anybody anything” is a string of words
I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink
to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract
by laser from the ribcage of all of us
who ever believed it, who felt afraid
to miss someone, to be the last one
standing. “Tell everyone everything” is
not exactly right, but I do believe that if
your mother looks radiant in violet
you should tell her, or when a juvenile
sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles
and reminds you of a lover’s eyelashes,
you should say so. We are islands all of us,
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal
there’s someone in here we’re still alive!
So maybe it’s, “don’t be afraid.” We can
rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers,
wax that won’t melt, I mean it, I’ll draw up
a prototype right now, that burning ball
of orange won’t stop us, it’ll be everything
we dream the morning after, even if we fall
into the sea—we are boats, remember?
We are pirates. We move in nautical miles.
Each other’s anchors, each other’s buoys,
the rocket’s red, already the world entire.
- Catch a Body, Isle Bendorf
anybody anything” is a string of words
I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink
to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract
by laser from the ribcage of all of us
who ever believed it, who felt afraid
to miss someone, to be the last one
standing. “Tell everyone everything” is
not exactly right, but I do believe that if
your mother looks radiant in violet
you should tell her, or when a juvenile
sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles
and reminds you of a lover’s eyelashes,
you should say so. We are islands all of us,
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal
there’s someone in here we’re still alive!
So maybe it’s, “don’t be afraid.” We can
rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers,
wax that won’t melt, I mean it, I’ll draw up
a prototype right now, that burning ball
of orange won’t stop us, it’ll be everything
we dream the morning after, even if we fall
into the sea—we are boats, remember?
We are pirates. We move in nautical miles.
Each other’s anchors, each other’s buoys,
the rocket’s red, already the world entire.
- Catch a Body, Isle Bendorf
9.28.2011
i want to believe (this) again
This is the true joy in life, being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. Being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as I live it is my privilege - my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I love. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me; it is a sort of splendid torch which I've got a hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.
- George Bernard Shaw
- George Bernard Shaw
9.27.2011
so just a little confession: i am convinced i will never be good for anyone. it's not that i spread negativity on purpose but it's just that my aura may be emitting this kind of bad luck or something and anyone who i come in contact with is the unfortunate recipient of bad vibes. and i know because whenever people cut ties with me for long periods of time, it seems they turn all glow-y and buoyant--oh: fully functional and productive, let's not forget about that.
did i ever say i don't say "good luck" to anyone? it's been tested, whenever i say this to someone who has a very important endeavor to complete, that person usually fails or something just goes wrong. that's why to greet, i just say, "have fun!" or "enjoy!" even if sometimes these seem a tad inappropriate.
i dreaded group works in college because that meant anyone who'd be be groupmates with me would unfortunately get something less than he/she would prefer. i did fine in personal work, i even got high grades. but everytime other people get involved, it just does not work out the best of ways.
sometimes i choose to distance myself from people. even if i'm feeling extremely lonely and needy or just plain empty, i try to stop myself from initiating long chats or meet-ups for fear of depressing another person. and if other people seem to want my company, i go but if i knew they had another option, i'd do something to make them choose that other option.
sometimes i assess my life and my relationships, and truthfully i think that if, hypothetically, i would die right now, every single person in this earth that i know would go on without a big hitch. sure they will be sad for some weeks (and they won't be able to put a finger on it...it might be just that it seemed such a waste that i had such potential for doing something and making it big or being really something to someone but just.fell.short.) but they will go on. i'm trying to be relieved about that.
did i ever say i don't say "good luck" to anyone? it's been tested, whenever i say this to someone who has a very important endeavor to complete, that person usually fails or something just goes wrong. that's why to greet, i just say, "have fun!" or "enjoy!" even if sometimes these seem a tad inappropriate.
i dreaded group works in college because that meant anyone who'd be be groupmates with me would unfortunately get something less than he/she would prefer. i did fine in personal work, i even got high grades. but everytime other people get involved, it just does not work out the best of ways.
sometimes i choose to distance myself from people. even if i'm feeling extremely lonely and needy or just plain empty, i try to stop myself from initiating long chats or meet-ups for fear of depressing another person. and if other people seem to want my company, i go but if i knew they had another option, i'd do something to make them choose that other option.
sometimes i assess my life and my relationships, and truthfully i think that if, hypothetically, i would die right now, every single person in this earth that i know would go on without a big hitch. sure they will be sad for some weeks (and they won't be able to put a finger on it...it might be just that it seemed such a waste that i had such potential for doing something and making it big or being really something to someone but just.fell.short.) but they will go on. i'm trying to be relieved about that.
9.26.2011
9.22.2011
of omens
i bumped my knee on the lower edge of the dining table earlier tonight. now it's inflamed and has this big ugly bruise. owww. now i'm kinda concerned. i have lived long enough to identify personal manifestations of bad luck. or maybe it's just a sign of a very edgy subconscious. my friend olie once jokingly taunted me "listen to your body. your body is telling you something!" true enough, every time i hurt myself something more unpleasant follows. i once tripped, got my finger sandwiched between the door and its frame and got my head banged hard onto the ceiling of a tricycle when it lurched over a pothole all in the same day. of course, a few days later would come my personal 9/11. i hope this table incident would bring just a minor hiccup this time.
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