my beloved bestfriend (middle), because of her incessant requests....
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Monday, November 24, 2003
Friday, November 21, 2003
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Monday, November 17, 2003
November 16
Dear Angel,
Please do not cry. Words do not suffice how deeply I have been touched by your kindness and sincerity. Not even all the words in all the languages in this world in all their simple and complex permutations are enough for me to express how much I value you. In a hundred years I would not be able to even begin giving back what I have taken from you. If only we both could live so long then maybe I would be able to touch your heart as well.
Angel, please do not cry. I leave you now wanting but knowing that we will see each other again. And, when we are together again, I will have eternity on my side.
Please do not cry, Angel, because I am not worth your tears. I have not the right nor the reason to let you shed even one. Yes deep inside I am weeping and always searching for you because you are my angel and I am about to leave you.
Dear Angel,
Please do not cry. Words do not suffice how deeply I have been touched by your kindness and sincerity. Not even all the words in all the languages in this world in all their simple and complex permutations are enough for me to express how much I value you. In a hundred years I would not be able to even begin giving back what I have taken from you. If only we both could live so long then maybe I would be able to touch your heart as well.
Angel, please do not cry. I leave you now wanting but knowing that we will see each other again. And, when we are together again, I will have eternity on my side.
Please do not cry, Angel, because I am not worth your tears. I have not the right nor the reason to let you shed even one. Yes deep inside I am weeping and always searching for you because you are my angel and I am about to leave you.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Yesterday night, for someone
My hands are not perfect but
If only they were warm enough to touch you and soft
enough to hold you
I would take your hand and you would know that the
way your hand fits mine is just about perfect
The words I speak are not perfect but
If only they were sweet enough to melt you and
brave enough to impress you
I would tell you so you would know that what little words
that do come out in their honesty are just
about perfect
I am not perfect but
If only the things I do were great enough and
the plans I make smart enough
I would ask you to be with me so you would know
that I want the time I have with you to be
just about perfect
But life isn't perfect
No matter how much I try
No matter what I do
My hands will neither be as warm nor as soft
My words not as sweet or as brave
Nor will I ever be as great or as smart to be just
about perfect
But you, for me, will be just about perfect
Because your hands are warm and soft enough,
the words you speak sweet and brave enough
and the things you do great and smart enough
to be just about perfect.
My hands are not perfect but
If only they were warm enough to touch you and soft
enough to hold you
I would take your hand and you would know that the
way your hand fits mine is just about perfect
The words I speak are not perfect but
If only they were sweet enough to melt you and
brave enough to impress you
I would tell you so you would know that what little words
that do come out in their honesty are just
about perfect
I am not perfect but
If only the things I do were great enough and
the plans I make smart enough
I would ask you to be with me so you would know
that I want the time I have with you to be
just about perfect
But life isn't perfect
No matter how much I try
No matter what I do
My hands will neither be as warm nor as soft
My words not as sweet or as brave
Nor will I ever be as great or as smart to be just
about perfect
But you, for me, will be just about perfect
Because your hands are warm and soft enough,
the words you speak sweet and brave enough
and the things you do great and smart enough
to be just about perfect.
Monday, November 03, 2003
Friday, October 31, 2003
Thursday, October 30, 2003
(a few months ago)
The Paradox Machine - first of several, unedited (this one though has a lot of ommissions) and unplugged, stupid but enjoyable, rough and still unfinished
1 - The Sponge
My mind is a sponge - not as spongy as before but still more absorbent than your average. It is responsible for this machine I call my body. It is the root cause, the main protagonist of a series of cause and effect relationships in a domino process that produces the clicking sounds that emanate from the keys on a board deliberately and accurately punched by my fingers that results in an electronic representation of letters on a 14-inch colored vacuum tube-powered monitor I have at my face. (Whew!) It is the god of my loins, though popular belief or certain radical feminists would assume otherwise. It is the power that coordinates hundreds of muscles from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes to effect a thrusting and pulling action that is required to liberate these loins, so to speak, and many other prerequisites for a healthy and exciting life.
And as with any other sponge, it absorbs. It absorbs things, ideas, opinions, colors, sizes, shapes, temperatures, pressures, volumes, densities and so on and so forth in any units of measurement and in any of the languages I'm familiar with. It is the grandfather of all sponges if ever there was one. It's like one of those blue super-absorbent "as-seen-on-TV" mops enthusiastically promoted by that guy so popular for his tacky knit sweaters. Infomercials as we call them. It is a dripping sponge. It drips endlessly. Out come thoughts and opinions of my own. Created, devised, and molded from anything and everything that it has absorbed. It is hardly original.
2 - The Original Sin
The very first mistake I was ever a part of began approximately 270 days before I first saw light. It most probably took place at night, lasting but a few minutes amid moans and growls and black silence. A mistake that resulted in a dream date of sorts between a long-tailed and very ecstatic sperm cell and a particularly picky egg cell. One that would soon split and then split some more until it reaches such a stage when it would weigh as much as seven pounds and begin to have the urge to breathe the air, see the sun and, possibly, make mistakes of its own.
The Paradox Machine - first of several, unedited (this one though has a lot of ommissions) and unplugged, stupid but enjoyable, rough and still unfinished
1 - The Sponge
My mind is a sponge - not as spongy as before but still more absorbent than your average. It is responsible for this machine I call my body. It is the root cause, the main protagonist of a series of cause and effect relationships in a domino process that produces the clicking sounds that emanate from the keys on a board deliberately and accurately punched by my fingers that results in an electronic representation of letters on a 14-inch colored vacuum tube-powered monitor I have at my face. (Whew!) It is the god of my loins, though popular belief or certain radical feminists would assume otherwise. It is the power that coordinates hundreds of muscles from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes to effect a thrusting and pulling action that is required to liberate these loins, so to speak, and many other prerequisites for a healthy and exciting life.
And as with any other sponge, it absorbs. It absorbs things, ideas, opinions, colors, sizes, shapes, temperatures, pressures, volumes, densities and so on and so forth in any units of measurement and in any of the languages I'm familiar with. It is the grandfather of all sponges if ever there was one. It's like one of those blue super-absorbent "as-seen-on-TV" mops enthusiastically promoted by that guy so popular for his tacky knit sweaters. Infomercials as we call them. It is a dripping sponge. It drips endlessly. Out come thoughts and opinions of my own. Created, devised, and molded from anything and everything that it has absorbed. It is hardly original.
2 - The Original Sin
The very first mistake I was ever a part of began approximately 270 days before I first saw light. It most probably took place at night, lasting but a few minutes amid moans and growls and black silence. A mistake that resulted in a dream date of sorts between a long-tailed and very ecstatic sperm cell and a particularly picky egg cell. One that would soon split and then split some more until it reaches such a stage when it would weigh as much as seven pounds and begin to have the urge to breathe the air, see the sun and, possibly, make mistakes of its own.
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Just now
Because in the words we speak there is infinity
And in the air we breathe there is forever
But in our tangible little lives there is only a second stretched to its limits
And our existence is just a ripple in history
And our shallow footprints last so much longer than we could ever imagine
But the impressions of our lives echo for a mere moments time
Because in the words we speak there is infinity
And in the air we breathe there is forever
But in our tangible little lives there is only a second stretched to its limits
And our existence is just a ripple in history
And our shallow footprints last so much longer than we could ever imagine
But the impressions of our lives echo for a mere moments time
Jeep (Sometime last year)
It was already 8 pm that interesting Thursday evening. I was on my way home waiting eagerly to catch the next jeep to pass. I stood there almost like a monument to all those who travel by public transport. Luckily, barely five minutes had passed when a jeep came roaring along the thickly asphalted road. It almost missed me, as I had been slow at waving my hand up high for the driver to see. I sat myself near the entrance where I could disembark quickly and easily. Within moments the vehicle was already packed to the hilt reminding me of the oft-quoted sardines in a can. I immediately began to swelter as the temperature began to rise. The heat of the man beside me made it even worse and my thick pants were not much help either.
Three men courageously clambered onto the rear end of the jeep. One of them hung perilously by only three fingers and seemed to be trying really hard to hold on as if his life depended on it, and in fact it did. The thought of this reminded me of the time a watermelon fell off a truck on its way to the wet market. No doubt his head would shatter in much the same way if he fell.
Amidst all these, there sat a woman, snug and comfortable, right in front of me. She stared blankly into space as her right hand slowly picked peanuts out of a greasy little brown paper bag she held in her left. The movement of her right hand as it moved up and down across her face and chest robotic and awfully eerie. In her left hand too were a bunch of flowers, orchids if memory serves, tied tightly into two bouquets. This made her look peaceful. Even more peaceful than a man I saw sleeping with his arms crossed on the MRT. She looked fazed, dazed or jaded even. Maybe even stoned. But she wasn’t because after finishing the bag of peanuts, she gracefully whisked away all the salt and crumbs that had been strewn all over her shirt and the bag on her lap.
I remember that I was once stoned but not on a substance that can be sniffed, puffed, injected or otherwise. Not on any substance that permeates the walls of the veins. Not on any substance that a dog at the airport could detect. I was stoned, or more precisely, addicted to the substance of a woman who I knew so little about. It was in a time of my life when I could still spare the exuberance of youth in exchange for a few highs.
What made her so addictive was the fact that I was never really able to fully absorb but only to taste her soft, sweet, almost naïve being once in a while. The withdrawal symptoms were massively painful, depressing even, yet the slightest hint of her bubbly aroma sent me back high into my illusion. However, as soon as she had left, I’d plunge straight back into the abyss from which I had just been plucked. It was almost torture except only to the mind. I remember how her long jet-black hair shimmered in the sunlight and how it seemed to flow like water out of her scalp and how so many men turned their heads to stare as she walked by.
But my addiction too had an end, the same way that my journey on the jeep had an end. I too had to disembark from that addiction and move on. I knew she was not for me and I was not for her. So I said to her goodbye in much the same way that I told the driver to stop, took one last long look before finally stepping off and on to pavement of the real world.
It was already 8 pm that interesting Thursday evening. I was on my way home waiting eagerly to catch the next jeep to pass. I stood there almost like a monument to all those who travel by public transport. Luckily, barely five minutes had passed when a jeep came roaring along the thickly asphalted road. It almost missed me, as I had been slow at waving my hand up high for the driver to see. I sat myself near the entrance where I could disembark quickly and easily. Within moments the vehicle was already packed to the hilt reminding me of the oft-quoted sardines in a can. I immediately began to swelter as the temperature began to rise. The heat of the man beside me made it even worse and my thick pants were not much help either.
Three men courageously clambered onto the rear end of the jeep. One of them hung perilously by only three fingers and seemed to be trying really hard to hold on as if his life depended on it, and in fact it did. The thought of this reminded me of the time a watermelon fell off a truck on its way to the wet market. No doubt his head would shatter in much the same way if he fell.
Amidst all these, there sat a woman, snug and comfortable, right in front of me. She stared blankly into space as her right hand slowly picked peanuts out of a greasy little brown paper bag she held in her left. The movement of her right hand as it moved up and down across her face and chest robotic and awfully eerie. In her left hand too were a bunch of flowers, orchids if memory serves, tied tightly into two bouquets. This made her look peaceful. Even more peaceful than a man I saw sleeping with his arms crossed on the MRT. She looked fazed, dazed or jaded even. Maybe even stoned. But she wasn’t because after finishing the bag of peanuts, she gracefully whisked away all the salt and crumbs that had been strewn all over her shirt and the bag on her lap.
I remember that I was once stoned but not on a substance that can be sniffed, puffed, injected or otherwise. Not on any substance that permeates the walls of the veins. Not on any substance that a dog at the airport could detect. I was stoned, or more precisely, addicted to the substance of a woman who I knew so little about. It was in a time of my life when I could still spare the exuberance of youth in exchange for a few highs.
What made her so addictive was the fact that I was never really able to fully absorb but only to taste her soft, sweet, almost naïve being once in a while. The withdrawal symptoms were massively painful, depressing even, yet the slightest hint of her bubbly aroma sent me back high into my illusion. However, as soon as she had left, I’d plunge straight back into the abyss from which I had just been plucked. It was almost torture except only to the mind. I remember how her long jet-black hair shimmered in the sunlight and how it seemed to flow like water out of her scalp and how so many men turned their heads to stare as she walked by.
But my addiction too had an end, the same way that my journey on the jeep had an end. I too had to disembark from that addiction and move on. I knew she was not for me and I was not for her. So I said to her goodbye in much the same way that I told the driver to stop, took one last long look before finally stepping off and on to pavement of the real world.
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