Sometimes I hate myself.
I can't be fully happy. Or rather I don't/won't allow myself to be fully happy.
I don't know why. I just can't let myself feel that bliss and stay in it for as long as I could.
Of course, this paranoia is further intensified by the fact that as soon as one aspect of my life picks up, another part of my life will all go shoooting down the drain. Believe me, this is a tried and tested formula.
Whatever.
This is my poem of the week:
Killing The Love (Anne Sexton)
I am the love killer,
I am murdering the music we thought so special,
that blazed between us, over and over.
I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.
I am pushing knives through the hands
that created two into one.
Our hands do not bleed at this,
they lie still in their dishonor.
I am taking the boats of our beds
and swamping them, letting them cough on the sea
and choke on it and go down into nothing.
I am stuffing your mouth with your
promises and watching
you vomit them out upon my face.
The Camp we directed?
I have gassed the campers.
Now I am alone with the dead,
flying off bridges,
hurling myself like a beer can into the wastebasket.
I am flying like a single red rose,
leaving a jet stream
of solitude
and yet I feel nothing,
though I fly and hurl,
my insides are empty
and my face is as blank as a wall.
Shall I call the funeral director?
He could put our two bodies into one pink casket,
those bodies from before,
and someone might send flowers,
and someone might come to mourn
and it would be in the obits,
and people would know that something died,
is no more, speaks no more, won't even
drive a car again and all of that.
When a life is over,
the one you were living for,
where do you go?
I'll work nights.
I'll dance in the city.
I'll wear red for a burning.
I'll look at the Charles very carefully,
weraing its long legs of neon.
And the cars will go by.
The cars will go by.
And there'll be no scream
from the lady in the red dress
dancing on her own Ellis Island,
who turns in circles,
dancing alone
as the cars go by.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Sniff. Sniff
I'm sick as hell. Runny and clogged nose. Teary eyes. Splitting headache. Sneezing every 10 seconds. Sorethroat. The works.
I hate it.
I just want to go home and sleep.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
The Seven Deadly Sins (minus two)
I just have to rip off these arts...they're so magnificently beautiful. More can be found at Blackeri.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
On My Way...Yeah.
| You Are 28% Abnormal |
 You are at medium risk for being a psychopath. It is somewhat likely that you have no soul. You are at low risk for having a borderline personality. It is unlikely that you are a chaotic mess. You are at low risk for having a narcissistic personality. It is unlikely that you are in love with your own reflection. You are at low risk for having a social phobia. It is unlikely that you feel most comfortable in your mom's basement. You are at medium risk for obsessive compulsive disorder. It is somewhat likely that you are addicted to hand sanitizer. |
Update on my 'Stalker'
As it turns out, hindi lang ako ang bininiktima ni 09204727727....Mga two days ago, nagsimula din siyang mag-miscol kay roommate Joedude...o diba, freakshow naman talaga.
Tapos kanina, on my way to the office with my officemate/friend Tina-pay, pina-check ko sa kanya kung alam niya yung number, and yes, my friends, nagmimiscol din pala sa kanya si 09204727727.
Tapos kanina, on my way to the office with my officemate/friend Tina-pay, pina-check ko sa kanya kung alam niya yung number, and yes, my friends, nagmimiscol din pala sa kanya si 09204727727.
Freakshow talaga. Tapon ko na kaya sa chatroom 'to ng mga GLBT community? Hehe.
And so the plot thickens...
- - -
25 nga pala ngayon. Sakin may significance, ewan ko na lang SAYO.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Daredevil
I've never been so scared in my life.
After three years of guilt-free skinlessness, who would've thought that in one night, every vestige of self-denial and false bravado that I've built would crumble.
After years of going through every imaginable zipless encounters without ever feeling any semblance of remorse or fear, I've never feared for my life more than I do now.
Every kiss that we exchange, where we both try to pull something out from each other each and every time, if not a bit savagely, brings me closer to my impending death. Death, all over again, that's for sure.
It's not as disconcerting as the others. We separate with a trace. Butterfly-like purple bruises ran their path along my arm. It's a cruel reminder that you had been here. You had been with me.
Still, it's not as if we were trying to steal whatever that we have. Maybe it's not so cruel at all. Maybe it's just right.
Ah. Disillusionment at its fever pitch.
Atleast, now I'm taking a real risk.
I understand that this is the make or break phase.
I'll make it or I'll break.
Sooner or later, I'll pay the price for this thin slice of happiness.
Ain't it grand?
After three years of guilt-free skinlessness, who would've thought that in one night, every vestige of self-denial and false bravado that I've built would crumble.
After years of going through every imaginable zipless encounters without ever feeling any semblance of remorse or fear, I've never feared for my life more than I do now.
Every kiss that we exchange, where we both try to pull something out from each other each and every time, if not a bit savagely, brings me closer to my impending death. Death, all over again, that's for sure.
It's not as disconcerting as the others. We separate with a trace. Butterfly-like purple bruises ran their path along my arm. It's a cruel reminder that you had been here. You had been with me.
Still, it's not as if we were trying to steal whatever that we have. Maybe it's not so cruel at all. Maybe it's just right.
Ah. Disillusionment at its fever pitch.
Atleast, now I'm taking a real risk.
I understand that this is the make or break phase.
I'll make it or I'll break.
Sooner or later, I'll pay the price for this thin slice of happiness.
Ain't it grand?
Thursday, April 20, 2006
The Age of Innocence
Mayron akong kilig kwento.
Nung Black Saturday pa 'to nangyari eh. After naming tumambay kayla Monyat nung gabi ng Good Friday, nag-decide kameng mag-breakfast somewhere at Tomas Morato. At siyempre, si Ryan ay nag-inarte muna pero sasama din pala siya. Ergo, McDonald's rin ang binagsakan namin kase yun lang ang bukas na kaya ng aming bulsa.
Siymepre mga coffee-happy ang mga kasama ko (Joi, Jhamie as usual, Ryan, and Monyat) at mukhang aabutan pa ata kame ng tanghalian sa Mcdo.
Well, umikot lang ang pinag-usapan namin sa mga bagay-bagay na tulad ng buntis ba talaga si ganito, talagang bang split na si ano at si ano, mga sexcapades ni Ryan, at siyempre ang penultimate Wasakan plans namin sa May. Pagudpod ba, Puerto, o Punta Fuego (parang may kwarta!!!)?
Anyway, at dahil kame ni Jhamie ay nakaupo sa dulo at may kakayahang makita ang lahat ng nangyayari sa Mcdo, may napansin kameng dalawang teenager na nagkakagustuhan banda dun sa harapan.
Siguro mga 12-13 years old lang sila tapos nagbe-breakfast sila kasama ng kani-kanilang kapamilyahan. Yung batang lalaki, (naka blue na t-shirt at may potensiyal na maging kuya paglaki niya) ay nakaharap samin ni Jhamie kaya kitang-kita namin na todo talaga yung titig niya dun sa girl na nasa kabilang table.
Yung girl naman na object of affection niya, nakatalikod samin, pero kitang-kitang rin namin na maganda siya at nako-conscious sa pagtitig ni binata. Ang ginagawa nung girl, ginagawa niyang pang-cover ng face yung hair niya at medyo umiiwas makipagtitigan.
At this point, siyempre, kinikilig na kame pareho ni Jhamie.
Ang saya-sayang magka-crush na ganun lang. Wala kang hidden agenda.
Hindi mo pa alam kung paano maramdaman ang masaktan.
Walang gamitan, walang plastikan.
Gusto mo siya, gusto ka niya. Malinaw.
Anyway, mukhang nagda-digress ako...balik tayo sa kwento ni binata at dalaga.
Unfortunately, naunang umalis yung girl, pero ang guy, talagang lantaran sinusundan ng tingin yung girl. As in. Kahit lumabas na yung girl, hinahabol pa rin niya ng tingin.
*sigh*
Naisip namin na sana magkita pa sila ulit. Sana magka-village lang sila or schoolmate. Tapos pag nagkita sila uli, magkakagulatan sila pero this time hindi na mahihiya si binata. Tatanungin na niya yung pangalan nung girl, pati yung phone number.
Sana.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Pasok Sa Banga
*eto na...my life, ladies and gents*
Sex Without Love
Sharon Olds
How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health—just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.
Sex Without Love
Sharon Olds
How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health—just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.
- - -
Song of the Fucked Duck
Marge Piercy
In using there are always two.
The manipulator dances with a partner who cons herself.
There are lies that glow so brightly we consent
to give a finger and then an arm
to let them burn.
I was dazzled by the crowd where everyone called my name.
Now I stand outside the funhouse exit, down the slide
reading my guidebook of Marx in Esperanto
and if I don't know anymore which way means forward
down is where my head is, next to my feet
with a pocketful of words and plastic tokens.
Form follows function, says the organizer
and turns himself into a paperclip,
into a vacuum cleaner,
into a machinegun.
Function follows analysis
but the forebrain
is only an owl in the tree of self.
One third of life we prowl in the grottos of sleep
where neglected worms ripen into dragons
where the spoilt pencil swells into an oak
and the cows of our early sins are called home chewing their cuds
and turning the sad faces of our childhood upon us.
Come back and scrub the floor, the stain is still there,
come back with your brush and kneel down
scrub and scrub again
it will never be clean.
Fantasy unacted sours the brain.
Buried desires sprout like mushrooms on the chin of the morning.
The will to be totally rational
is the will to be made out of glass and steel:
and to use others as if they were glass and steel.
We can see clearly no farther
than our hands can touch.
The cockroach knows as much as you know about living.
We trust with our hands and our eyes and our bellies.
The cunt accepts.
The teeth and back reject.
What we have to give each other:
dumb and mysterious as water swirling.
Always in the long corridors of the psyche
doors are opening and doors are slamming shut.
We rise each day to give birth or to murder
selves that go through our hands like tiny fish.
You said: I am the organizer, and took and used.
You wrapped your head in theory like yards of gauze
and touched others only as tools that fit to your task
and if the tool broke you seized another.
Arrogance is not a revolutionary virtue.
The manipulator liberates only
the mad bulldozers of the ego to level the ground.
I was a tool that screamed in the hand.
I have been loving you so long and hard and mean
and the taste of you is part of my tongue
and your face is burnt into my eyelids
and I could build you with my fingers out of dust
and now it is over.
Whether we want or not
our roots go down to strange waters,
we are creatures of the seasons and the earth.
You always had a reason and you have them still
rattling like dried leaves on a stunted tree.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Empty (Erica Jong)
. . .Who shall measure the heat and
violence of the poet's heart when caught
and tangled in a woman's body?--Virginia Woolf
Every month,
the reminder of emptiness
so that you are tuned
to your bodyharp,
strung out on the harpsichord
of all your nerves
& hammered bloody blue
as the crushed fingers
of the woman pianist
beaten by her jealous lover.
Who was she?
Someone I invented
for this poem,
someone I imagined. . .
Never mind,
she is me, you--
tied to that bodybeat,
fainting on the rack of blood,
moving to the metronome--
empty, empty, empty.
No use.
The blood is thicker
than the roots of trees,
more persistent than my poetry,
more baroque than her bruised music.
It gilds the sky above the Virgin's head.
It turns the lilies white.
Try to run:
the blood still follows you.
Swear off children,
seek a quiet room
to practice your preludes & fugues.
Under the piano,
the blood accumulates;
eventually it floats you both away.
Give in.
Babies cry & music is your life.
Darling, you were born to bleed
or rock.
& the heart breaks
either way.
violence of the poet's heart when caught
and tangled in a woman's body?--Virginia Woolf
Every month,
the reminder of emptiness
so that you are tuned
to your bodyharp,
strung out on the harpsichord
of all your nerves
& hammered bloody blue
as the crushed fingers
of the woman pianist
beaten by her jealous lover.
Who was she?
Someone I invented
for this poem,
someone I imagined. . .
Never mind,
she is me, you--
tied to that bodybeat,
fainting on the rack of blood,
moving to the metronome--
empty, empty, empty.
No use.
The blood is thicker
than the roots of trees,
more persistent than my poetry,
more baroque than her bruised music.
It gilds the sky above the Virgin's head.
It turns the lilies white.
Try to run:
the blood still follows you.
Swear off children,
seek a quiet room
to practice your preludes & fugues.
Under the piano,
the blood accumulates;
eventually it floats you both away.
Give in.
Babies cry & music is your life.
Darling, you were born to bleed
or rock.
& the heart breaks
either way.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Venia[1]
It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.
-William Blake
If I die, I forgive you. If I live we shall see.
-Spanish Proverb
I was a fool for seeking and daring to hope for YOUR absolution.
When I should’ve known for a fact that none would ever come.
Should you banish me to Cocytus,[2] there’s no need to bother, I have already banished myself a long time ago.
I would never throw away what matters.
There was nothing as mutable as what we had. Once had.
But you said that you will forget and I never will.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
And sometimes the echoes ricochet against you.
[1] Latin for absolution/forgiveness
[2] The 9th Level of Hell according to Dante’s “Inferno. This is where traitors are banished to freeze in the most cold realm of hell.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
My 100th Post!!!!
| Finish This Sentence... | |
| I am...: | bored. |
| My ex-boyfriend was...: | an okay guy, a bit stupid, but okay. |
| Maybe I should....: | just go home and sleep. |
| I love....: | the rain. |
| I don't understand....: | math. |
| I lost my....: | friend over a guy. Which is pretty fucked up, I know. |
| My boyfreind is....: | non-existent. |
| People say I'm...: | weird. |
| Love is....: | contra-natura. |
| Somewhere, someone is....: | getting pissed off by me. |
| I will always...: | love you. |
| Forever is....: | unattainable. |
| I never want to...: | be an 'other.' |
| I think the current President is....: | okay, despite what some people think or say. |
| When I wake up in the morning, I....: | check my phone for messages. |
| Life is full of...: | crock. |
| My past is incredibly...: | messed up. |
| I get annoyed when...: | things are not going my way. Who wouldn't? |
| Parties are for...: | people who love parties. |
| I wish...: | that I'm not... |
| My dog/cat is....: | are the best. |
| Kisses are the worst when...: | you don't like the person you are kissing. |
| Nice....: | is what I am, when I'm in a good mood. |
| Tommorrow I'm going to...: | drink. |
| I really want some....: | super salty junk foods |
| I have low tolerance for people who....: | use other people. |
| If I had a million dollars...: | I'd donate some of it charity. Really. |
| Take this survey Find more surveys You've been totally Bzoink*d | |
Ooh...Now I'm Scared
To quote Joey Tribbiani from Friends, "Oh my god, I got my very own stalker!!!!
Now, this may be a gross exaggeration because my stalker can be one of my long lost friends trying to be pa-cute. Anyway, this number: 09204727727, has been calling me since last month. If I am not mistaken.
This number usually does this miss call thing, which I always ignore because it's an unrecognized number, and I'm usually too busy doing nothing to text the number and try to find out he/she/its indentity.
Anyway, this morning, my 'stalker' had decided to be more aggressive and had missed call me around 3x so I was forced to text the number, at around 3:17 am, with this message: "Hu u? Please identify yourself."
At around 3:56 am, he/she/it texted back: "Is this CHEL TAMAYO of CONVERGYS?
Moi (3:58am): Yes. Who's this?
He/She/It (3:59am): They say, u r no longer working at CONVERGYS. is it true?!!
---at this point I tried calling the him/her/it, but he/she/it rejected my call.
Moi (4:04am): Who is this? Its kinda rude of you to ask me these questions when I don't know who you are. Just say who you are then I'd be happy to talk 2 u all day long f u feel lyk it. Ayt? And don't b a c0ward, f i'm calling u, u can answer the phone, i won't bite. d0nt w0rry. =p.
He/She/It (4:08am): Nevermind calling. Me Coward? No im not. I just want to know, what is the TRUTH! So please answer my question, thats all. R u still working at CONVERGYS? Tnx.
Moi (4:11am): Oh no, i think dats unfair. And yeah, ur chicken 4 not stating who you are and not answering my cols when I'm all willing 2 waste my load on you. Have a great day!
He/She/It (4:20am): Tnx u included mine 2 ur email. (note: wtf does this mean?). BDW, i will find a way 2 know ur email add and l8r on i will send u messgs thru my meail. have a nice day 2 CHEL. ('~')
- - -
Oh yeah, now I'm freaking scared. What if he/she/it got access to all of my info and sabotage me somehow? My main concern right now is to change or not to change my number. I've had this phone number for about 5 years and I'm not planning to change it for some wacko who's having too much fun at my expense. Anyway...should he/she/it contacts me again, I'll let you all know.
In the meantime, friends and wonderful readers of my blog, since I posted his/her/its number, you can try to do some Jennifer Garner moves on your own and help me find out this person's identity. And make him/her/it stop, otherwise I'd follow my officemate's suggestion to ... (I'll keep it my own little secret for now).
Monday, April 10, 2006
New Prospectus
Bwisit. May bago na namang KUYA. Yung sa reggae version ng Nescafe commercial. Napatunganga kami ni comrade Jhamie nung nakita namin. Ang POGI!!!! Pero sabi nga ni brutalgrace, sana beer na lang ang inendorse niya..hehe. (walang binatbat yung schoolbus ni champ)
Sana may magupload na sa youtoube nun!!!!
Friday, April 07, 2006
Click, click. Scribble, scribble
heehee.
How do I even begin writing this entry?
Let's just start with this:
Event: Canon EOS 30D Launch
Where: Intercontinental Hotel
When: April 6, 2006. 2-7pm
- - -
Eto lang masasabi ko. Masarap ang pagkain. Maraming cool freebies. At higit sa lahat, and I'm sure pati si Jhamie magco-concede, and daming K U Y A!
Boy Canon, you're the MAN!!!!! Magkikita din tayo...someday.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Extinguished
You know what they say that when the girl says it's over, it's over?
Well I'm killing whatever imprint you have left in me, little by little.
I'll catch your breath as lies pour out of your mouth, and hold my hand over your mouth so that your heartbeat will be extinguished little by little as I stop air from coming out of you.
You will die little by little.
I will not give you the satisfaction of that one final blow of death.
No.
All that I've given you I will take back, one by one.
Even if it kills you.
Me.
So I say it's over but I'm not yet done with you.
The sighs that I murmur during the moments when we were both in silent repose?
The air that I expel with each breath?
You'd better not let them wrap around you.
It could cost you your life.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Happiness. Sorrow. Pleasure. Love.
A drama based on an ancient Chinese proverb that breaks life down into four emotional cornerstones: happiness, pleasure, sorrow and love.
- - -
Starring:
Kevin Bacon (Love)
Brendan Fraser (Pleasure)
Sarah Michelle Gellar (Sorrow)
Forest Whitaker (Happiness)
Julie Delpy
Andy Garcia
Kelly Hu
- - -
Ka-abang abang ito!
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Adia (Sarah Mclachlan)
Adia I do believe I failed you
Adia I know I let you down
don't you know I tried so hard
to love you in my way
it's easy let it go...
Adia I'm empty since you left me
trying to find a way to carry on
I search myself and everyone
to see where we went wrong
'cause there's no one left to finger
there's no one here to blame
there's no one left to talk to honey
and there ain't no one to buy our innocence
'cause we are born innocent
believe me Adia, we are still innocent
it's easy, we all falter
does it matter?
Adia I thought we could make it
but I know I can't change the way you feel
I leave you with your misery
a friend who won't betray
I pull you from your tower
I take away your pain
and show you all the beauty you possess
if you'd only let yourself believe that
we are born innocent
believe me Adia, we are still innocent
it's easy, we all falter, does it matter?
believe me Adia, we are still innocent
'cause we are born innocent
Adia we are still
it's easy, we all falter ... but does it matter?
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Touching Each Other's Surfaces (Carol Jane Bangs)
Skin meeting skin, we want to think
we know each other scientifically;
we want to believe
it is objective knowledge
gives this conviction of intimacy,
makes us say it feels so right.
That mole below your shoulder blade,
the soft hair over my thighs—
we examine our bodies with the precision
known only to lovers or surgeons,
all those whose profession is explication,
who have to believe their own words.
And yet, having memorized each turning,
each place where bone strains or bends,
each hollow, each hair, each failure of form,
we still encounter that stubborn wall,
that barrier which hides an infinite vastness
the most sincere gesture can't find.
Nor does emotion take us further
than the shared heat of our bodies
aware of themselves,
the flattery of multiple desires.
We rest in each other's arms unexplained
by these currents of feeling rushing past
like ripples over a pool of water
whose substance never changes,
reflecting each wave, each ribboned crossing,
without being really moved.
We search each other's eyes so long
beyond our own reflections,
finding only the black centers,
the immeasurable interior we'll
never reach with candle,
never plumb with love.
Perhaps it is just this ignorance,
this absence of certainty, lack of clear view,
more than anything, brings us together,
draws us into and through each other
to the unknown inside us all,
that gray space from which
what we know of ourselves
emerges briefly, casts a transient
shadow across the earth
and learns to believe in itself just enough
to believe in some one else.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)