Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Caught a great movie on the tube yesterday. I've forgotten how great As Good As It Gets was.. is...

And it's not so much as Jack Nicholson's character nearly resembles mine.. It's the humanity in Simon, Melvin, and Carol that made me saw my own.. my own imperfections, my own prejudices and my own partialities

I liked how incredibly flawed, yet how incredibly perfect they all were. The characters like most of us live in a less than desirable world which most of the time doesn't always turn out the way we wanted them to.

"I might be the only person on the face of the earth that knows you're the greatest woman on earth. I might be the only one who appreciates how amazing you are in every single thing that you do, and how you are with Spencer, "Spence," and in every single thought that you have, and how you say what you mean, and how you almost always mean something that's all about being straight and good. I think most people miss that about you, and I watch them, wondering how they can watch you bring their food, and clear their tables and never get that they just met the greatest woman alive. And the fact that I get it makes me feel good, about me." Melvin to Carol, on how great he thinks she is.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

-- The Truth The Dead Know by Anne Sexton --

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

something about unicorns and shamrocks...

deja vu perhaps?

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

A Bouquet Of Sharpened Pencils

In my fluctuating and somewhat temporal stint as an object of affection to another, I've come across the most creative, the most tacky, and the most depressing presents -- keepsakes or odes materialized, upon which they have heaped their undying (a rather gross, exaggeration, methinks) devotion and felicity.

Oh, how Austen-ish!

I've had poems (some even subtly erotic to some extent, but I won't go into detail about that, of course), an igorot barrel man figure, a standard issue teddy bear, books, cds, and what have yous, but I think I never gotten anything that is.... i'm searching for the right word... quaint?

I'll tell you what.

I would love to be given a bouquet of sharpened pencils.

Yes, that is be correct. A bouquet of pencils, indeed. Not flowers. Not candies. Just like what Tom Hanks virtually sent Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail.

Not endearing to some, but hey, to each his own right? I think that would be terribly romantic and yes, quaint. Janes and Annas would love flowers and candies. I'd choose pencils in a heartbeat.

I'd love mine to be those yellow Mongols I used to draw and write with when I was a kid.

I've loved pencils ever since my grandpa gave me a box for my first day of school. That was such a long time ago, when I think about it. While other kids had imaginary cartoon friends, I had five silent yellow ones safely tucked inside my special tin box. Sharpening them one by one was always a happy event and the loss of a pencil, whether I left it at school or had a classmate break it in two, was tragic. Each of my pencils were unique and served a different purpose. I'd use the yellow and purple one with the unicorn design when I wanted to show off in class. Or use the blue one with a bell, when I'm doing my homework. But I loved the yellow Mongols the best. I used them when writing very important big kid work, like practicing writing my name and doing curves and loops on penmanship exercises in school.

I probably drew and wrote my own universe with a magic pencil back then.

I still love the smell of freshly sharpened pencils -- that wonderful smell of wood and lead and your own nose for imagination. Sharpening one always takes me back to a time when life was innocent and carefree.

It's quite strange of me to wax such nostalgia over pencils. I've suddenly missed my pencils, I suppose. I was sitting in my veal fattening pen (read: my work desk) trying to remember the shortcut keys for the word processor. There are so many shortcuts when all I want to do is put a strike-through on a word. With a pencil, I could easily just flip my pencil over and vigorously rub away with the eraser.

I hope pencils don't end up as artifacts from a by-gone handwriting era. That would be incredibly sad.

I think I'll buy myself a box later when I get home, sharpen them till their tips glinted like a sword, and plant them like wooden flowers on a holder on my desk.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Anonymous Omnscience

There is no better place to feel a tad more liberating than in the commute. Most people would defer so, but I tell them otherwise. I keep telling my friends that years from now I will publish a novella of sorts about my (mis)adventures in the wonderful and often-times eccentric world of trains, buses, metros, and planes.

It's the freedom of being a stranger among strangers.

Anonymity is underrated. It's the omniscience of being an observer, a watcher, or, if i could stretch it a bit more, dare say a storyteller. I can invent the best and the worst about anyone.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

So If You Love Me

So If You Love Me

So if you love me you will tolerant
Be of the nature that is with me sent.
I cannot be a different thing although
For your sake, to win you, I would grow
Wings and shed thorns,
Be weed, or newly born,
Anything so to please you,
But I'm myself and cannot ease you.

Come kindly to me then, forgiveness use,
Do not heap on my patent-wrongs abuse,
For your sake I'd be different but am not,
For your sake I'd have other needs forgot,
But I am one
And they are of the sum
Of me, and will not set me free
From my desires, which still follow me.

Oh choose, and choose me wholly, so we be
All of imperfectness, but summary.
Be sum, no fraction, though a fraction may
Marvelous wonder easily convey,
Yet it's but part
And may not be the heart,
The whole is all of us, if we use not
All strata, love's geology's forgot.

Ruth Herschberger


Four days from now, it'll be October.

And in a few weeks, I'll be 26 and already I'm a basketcase.

The burden of years gone past are suddenly creeping up from behind to remind me that I am not getting any younger. Mistakes are chalked up as youthful follies and memories, like autumn leaves, swirl and dance about me.

October is such a melancholy month.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Missing Wits

My wits escape me today..

I don't feel like my usual self.

Like Peter Pan's shadow. Must I need stitching to keep it on?

Where exactly do my wits go when they tire of me?

Where are my wits?