The Literary Dumpsite: The words I eat always get regurgitated. | |
They say that a pen is mightier than the sword: that words on paper could pierce through the soul, whereas a blade can only cut through flesh. The same is true, I guess, when you're severely addicted to writing implements. I have amassed a collection of 28 fountain pens since I started getting in the habit a year ago, and the collection just keeps on growing -- I have 4 more pens waiting for me in the mail, along with 2 more bottles of ink. What got me into these pens, you might wonder, is their ease of use, versatility, and discipline of usage. I have used ballpoint pens since grade school, and used only one ballpoint throughout high school (a Waterman that my grandfather gave me upon graduation from grade school). However, I discovered the magic of using a fountain pen during one of my random bookstore scouring in Manila. And as the psychopathologist's diathesis-stress model, I succumbed to an incorrigible, expensive, yet auspicious addiction to fountain pens. And as of late, the addiction broadened to include dip pens.
As the diathesis-stress model indicates, I was predisposed to writing with fountain pens because of my light hand. I don't have an enormous pressure in my hand when writing, so the pen simply glides across the paper, hence writing with a fountain pen just makes it much easier for me to write. I could go on and compose 10 pages by hand without stopping from hand fatigue and strain. Now that is something one can't do with a ballpoint. Writing with a fountain simply precipitated the urge to write on and on, hence the clutter of sheets of paper around my room with random writing.
 One can't simply write with a fountain pen and expect it to blend in the crowd: the pen-and-ink combination simply makes the pen stand out from the crowd of twirly-stroked ballpoints. The solid, definitive bold line of the fountain pen distinguishes itself from the rest. Ink is something unique to fountain pens: you cannot simply just shun it away; the slight undertones of upstrokes and the solid shading of minuscules cannot be replicated by a ballpoint. Fountain pen ink has a much wider array of colours, hues, tones and even scents that regular ballpoints just can't have. The fountain pen clearly wins on versatility: one can have an entire battalion of ink bottles and replace colours every time one feels like it. Changing inks, however, takes patience and scrutiny that goes well beyond the means of ballpoint-dom.
And that is why I enjoy writing with fountain pens so much: the regiment one endures, the patience it takes to get a pen writing is painstaking -- almost like rearing a child. Fountain pens require much more attention than regular ballpoints: the intricate capillary action that delicately channels ink from the reservoir to the nib's tip is so precisely made that even the simplest of mishaps could spell disaster. A misaligned tine, feed channels that get clogged by dried ink, and scuffs on the barrel are all dreaded by fountain pen writers. We pay close attention in maintaining our pens, hence we develop a little obsessive-compulsive cyclothymic deep inside of us. The rigorous discipline in maintaining these pens is a force to be reckoned with. Top it off with that awe-striking appeal when I bring out my pen while taking notes (and eventually getting the attention of that cute classmate sitting beside me), I know that have the best writing implement I can have.
Alors je peux t'aimer tellement, très très fort sans savoir, et chaque mot qui bat, qui se met à toi serait le dernier mot que je disais. Quand vas-tu me dire que tu m'aimes? Ou pas, j'ai besoin d'une réponse. J'ai besoin d'une raison de vivre, une chose qui peut me mettre chaque jour. Toutefois, tu m'as dit qu'on est amis -- une folie à deux dont j'ai pas besoin. Je sais qu'il y a une fois, un jour quand on va réaliser cet amour -- désormais c'est un rêve, un rêve d'un coeur brisé.
Dis-le-moi, que tu m'aimes encore, que tu m'attendras, que tu seras là, qu'on ne sait que l'amour. Dis-moi qu'on finira jamais. It's been a year--a full 365 days since I was on the brink of death in a personal tragedy. It was a ruptured appendix, with a malevolent infection sprawling in my cavities that almost took my life, if it wasn't for the skillful hands of the surgeon who opened me up and cleared up the mess in me.
Life is a gift: and ever since that harrowing tragedy I learned how to take life day after day, to look at now more than yesterday or tomorrow. And summer will be over in less than a month; "Autumn Leaves", with its melancholy, grief-stricken tune will infest the airwaves again ubiquitously. And here will I be once again, just as sombre as the melody, bidding goodbye to summer and all the glory and warmth it has given. Here will I be again, emptied of all words, thoughts, and actions, feeding on the recalcitrant remnants of summertime daylight, longing for what had been. The stars, aglow with feigned urgence to consume their final flames, will glimmer faintly across the autumn sky, heralding darkness that will cover us in winter. And so it begins again: just as it commenced in the beginning of time, the complete revolution, the inevitable end and the inevitable start. I went biking with my brother today, and as with him, I would laugh so hard at anyone who says that Canadians--especially Vancouverites--are the friendliest people in the world. It might be true if you live in West Vancouver, or in the well-kept suburbs of uptown Kerrisdale where everyone is homogenous and uniform: white, atheist, 6-digit income, 7 SUV's and 4 European cars, and the list goes on. Heck, they wouldn't think much different from other people in Vancouver--they are the hollow men that T.S. Eliot referred to. But, in their homogeneity, they neglect the existence of the non-'native' Canadians: immigrants, exchange students, foreigners, refugees--I would gladly raise a firm, resolved and angry middle finger at them. And that is what exactly happened this afternoon after I fell from my bike near a white male-driven Cadillac Escalade near an Esso gas station.
It was my fault that I fell: the bike I was on was rather stubbly as it went on a downhill approach and it threw me over, imitating a scene from Saving Private Ryan with the fancy slow-motion details and all. I was about to pick myself up when a big bad black Cadillac Escalade pulled up in front of me, the driver knowing that I fell, honked at me and raised his hands up in some anguished display of impatience and frustration. "To hell with him," I thought: I was down, my knees buckling, elbows bleeding, and there was this gentleman in his air-conditioned fancy SUV trying to get through me. I finally got up, limping, and as I bent over to reach my bike, the driver honked again and raised his fist in some outrageous buggery. He saw how I fell, and a little patience was enough kindness for me, thank you very much. Thank God I didn't fall on my head or hit another vehicle--I would have gladly crashed my bike into his car and break my fall, but I was too considerate, and instead crash-rolled on the pavement elbow-first.
My brother went back to help me get the bike up and the good man still had his mocking face plastered on. I was limping but my spirits were flustered: I flashed a rigid, determined middle finger at the kind driver and limped away. See why Vancouver looked like a map from the game "Left 4 Dead" after the horrid loss in the Stanley Cup? Thank people like him. Thank those Vancouverites. As for me, I have a middle finger to calm, and painful wounds and bruises to allay tonight.
 | Writing. | Jul 15, '11 1:14 AM
for everyone |
In an e-mail reply to this blog a few years back, a reader told me how on earth do I manage to write so much in so little time. Of course, it was way back in October of 2008, when I had a gazillion of thoughts to jot on paper, and ultimately type on a keyboard. It was some sort of literary nirvana: I felt as if I could go on for an eternity just writing everything, descriptions, narratives, poems, articles, scribbles, sand drawings, doodles. I had this sort of unhealthy obsession with morphemes, words, sentences, syntactic structures -- they would go on haunting me in my dreams (I dreamt of making my way through a tropical forest of words -- literally). I was armed with a laptop, a fountain pen, and a notebook. And three years later, I find myself still clinging on those three objects, though they have changed, in order to put my sentiments, thoughts, and several literature-inducing paraphernalia. One thing changed, however: I haven't been as strong as I was a writer before. I used to be a faucet of thoughts (however random they may be), and I could just haphazardly scribble them on a nearby piece of paper to be re-read at home. Fast forward to July of 2011, when I have tons of proper writing materials sans thoughts and literature-inducing paraphernalia. Heartbreaking, it is, but I have to find my way through this jungle of words and syntactic structures and retrieve that writing nirvana I once treasured more than my social life. I have an urge to return to this heavenly state so perturbed by forces unknown. Okay, it might sound a bit too fluvial--hence this is the stream of thoughts--but I have to search for what keeps me away from what I used to do, and dispose of it as quickly as possible in order to give back room for such state that I dearly miss. Some people complain of a certain emptiness. I think I'm complaining of a certain overfilling. I've stuffed myself with too much that I haven't found room for what is really essential: and in doing so, rejected everything I have worked for, everything I learned to love.
I have lost this intimacy with my inner self: I am wrapped, entangled, em-branched with things unnecessary and trivial. And I have a pressing need to wring myself away from these things that bind me.
And thus with each caress Stroking my soul -- Distant warmth of amber soaked In the blessings of mid-August rain. Showers, droplets Plummeting at a speed My heart beats as fast -- For a moment I felt alive.
The proximal coolness Each raindrop -- each kiss Dampens -- the already wilt heart And hence I knew And hence we knew -- Summer bids its farewell.
| Ripples. | Jul 15, '11 12:43 AM
for everyone |
Ripples -- sigh of relief In an ocean mist of solitude Dejection and regret Where are you and your promises: Concealed beneath a wired fence Jumping, Longing, Fleeing From a devastation reaching the shore And at once each tidal wave -- A gift -- a curse -- a benevolent Entity -- a work of art crumbles On the sand Bitten by creatures Rescued by man.
| Rush. | Jul 15, '11 12:41 AM
for everyone |
Midnight sighs-- The whispers, hushed, silent: Roaring in the thunderstorms in me Swirling, unfurling A sweet rush spreading Building Exhaling In the dead of this living night.
I am alive.
What sweet caress would it be to hear your voice touch my ears; to give them life again, and take your voice with me, remember it all these years?
I yearn to speak words of adoration, to whisper psalms of admiration, to sing songs of love, to shout your name of pulchritude.
I need to soar with you higher and higher and higher until we could only see what has been you and me with nothing but love far lovelier than the greatest love we have ever known.
I need to see you in my dreams as if the day has never ended as if it lives through after our refreshing slumber for reality is better than the best dream I have ever had.
And if tomorrow, we find each other lost, our destinies, paralleled across time and space, it wouldn't matter, for if you love me as I do, then these foolish lines shall remind me of you. Low lit -- the fields chase the last glimmer of daylight away, scampering beneath the contour of the mountains in the distance -- purple hues frolicking among the pink and blue, the azure and the magenta; or what was left of daylight, all hopes of being with you. As slow as the fading beacon behind the mountaintops, forsaken. Night breaks, carefully the last glimmer of sunlight departs, welcoming the regime of darkness, blank, fully empty with a chasm filled with void. The day has parted without farewell, and furthermore it bid its own way. Distance called its sovereignty over us: two lovers parted by this daylight slowly making its way to you. And we are just as lucky: scores of lovers have died resolving their discrepancies -- we only face an adversary, albeit the power of time itself, and of this gaping distance between us.
And now how your smile haunts me, each day I'm away; but why must I miss you -- you broke my heart and turned me into something I could never be. I was desperate for your distant affection, I wanted you here with me no matter how hard might it be. I had to wait, but not for my entire life -- I couldn't stand going on with you -- without you.
"The greater the darkness, the greater the light."
And I'm starting to find the silver lining in this shadowy abomination. I'm so glad I came to my senses and figured out what I really wanted. Will winds that slowly freeze Call to thee in this wint'ry haze, In the crack of dawn just as these Today, tomorrow 'til the springtime daze?
Should I be afraid of ghosts I haven't seen, or of lies Ubiquitous, what one who boasts Of true love -- a lover's demise?
But promises -- though empty as I Who once loved you dearly than life -- Broken, remembered until I die, Still carry me through this senseless strife.
Lying down, amazed, I stared at the ceiling for a long time: splattered bulges of dark blue, hues of a warm summer night breezing through my room. It was completely dead silent; the time of night when the birds have retired, the stars have shone their last, but a faint blue creeping through the mountains. In summertime, midnight is a dark blue mystery, blanketing over the warm starless sky. Hadn't I lived in the city, the stars would have pierced the dark blue blanket high above. But at the wake of dawn, this is not light: this is just a fragment of what was the day, the ghost of sunlight creeping behind the mountains, into my room, into the contour of my tired body in repose.
I lay still, waiting for the faint summer glow to fade completely, an hour after midnight, when everything was supposed to be still, lying in peace, in a nocturnal repose.
I couldn't lay still: patches of light still creep through my mind, and I suddenly had the need to jot down these musings. When will it be light? I probably just didn't want to be tied down just yet -- I have so many things to do -- tons of dreams to chase, ambitions to pursue. And I didn't want to settle down just yet and commit myself to someone knowing that the world still has a lot to offer to me and I can't afford to risk all those opportunities by giving all of myself (or at least part of it) to you. I can't bid my dreams goodbye because of someone. I just suddenly figured out that my dreams and ambitions are more valuable to me. I know that we had the best time together, but I don't think I can still go on. In some strange and twisted way, you tend to weigh me down and I can't let that happen. I have dreams to live for, and though you're one of them, you make me want to let go of the more important things--everything I've ever worked for. You're making me put all of my effort I've given to waste. I didn't want to lead you on, and give you false hopes -- the same ones you gave me. I'm tired, broken, and sick. You have emptied me of all my strength; I've suffered needless pain to be with you. And most of all, this thing -- whatever we have -- does not make sense anymore. There's a limit where my faculties can understand such an absurd love such as ours, but this time it has gone beyond my human fathom. This makes almost no sense (if any at all), and I'm just tiring myself to keep up with you, trying to be with you. So please, just this one last time, listen to me, let me speak what I really do feel, the deepest, most sincere sentiments that I have: I can no longer go through this, I have to go. There are other things that I have to focus on and dedicate all of myself to, and this time it no longer includes you. I'm tired. For almost eight months now I've lost myself in your love, and though you're far away I felt the most special, unique kind of intimacy. Unfortunately I could not go on. You used to be everything I ever wished for, because I forgot what I really wanted in the first place. And it isn't you. I had to make this decision alone -- I was meant to do things by myself -- achieve all goals with the least amount of distraction.
I am very sorry. You are indeed very special, but I guess just not for me. I don't want to hold you back from where you might belong, just in case I might see you in another's favour. I would not stop you, I never would. You have to be somewhere else -- somewhere you know you'll be loved -- because I know I would never be enough for you. You would just constantly see things lacking in me. I have a career to build, an ambition yet to achieve, and in the little time frame that I have, I don't think I can still afford to have you around. I have lost enough, and I can't lose even more. Please grant me this final wish and let me rest. Let us rest. I am tired and so are you. I've given you my all. And you never kept most of your promises. I didn't need another heartbreak; especially one 10,000 kilometres away. It has been unbearable for me that I had given too much and exhausted all of my strength in keeping you with me. I did my best. And it was quite conspicuous that you didn't. It was plain to see that my fatigue has cost me quite more than I bargained for. And I'm sorry that I can't afford to lose any further. I need to redeem myself from the shame I brought myself. I could go on and on forever. I could point out everything about us that could have led to this downfall. After all these, however, I still wish for us to become friends: we are great, great friends and I never wished to create enmity against you. I hope you do understand. Everything I do is for our own good. I felt responsible for my own actions: I had to be the one to answer to my own transgressions, and the things in the past that I regret. And frankly speaking, choosing to be with you above everything in this world is on the top of my list. I have to let go of everything that impedes me from my way, all those things that hold me back. Everything that prevents me from moving on. I have already lost enough. Losing anything more will spell my demise. I have lost almost all my self-worth -- and I ask myself if it's deemed necessary -- and I hear a resounding "No" from myself.
O pagsintang labis ng 'yong kagaguhan, Sampon nang nagsabing ika'y 'sang bakulaw. T'wing ikaw'y nasok sa ulo ninoman T'yak na iyong hatid: kanilang kamatayan. Tout ce que je suis Chante au Seigneur qui m'apporte La nouvelle vie, naissance à moi. Mon esprit s'élance Sur les ailes de mon Seigneur. And so another month begins. I haven't noticed how time flies until I did today--tonight. In thirty minutes, May 2011 exits to usher a new month, along with it new hope, heartbreak, and triumph. Things do seem better, Manitoba just regained their long lost love: an NHL franchise; I have felt fully recovered from yet another harrowing surgery; and the world didn't end as predicted. Yet tradition states that people be wary all the time, for only the Father knows when and how.
Tradition, which served me well these pst few years, also dictates that I should be back to the penning table, doing what I should do best: write. And write have I never done this month. I feel so ashamed to have missed so many crucial turning points with my beloved hermosa, my dear kasipi, or my honoured mistress. I never planned on writing for a living (I might write about this sometime soon), but it has grown on me so fondly for years now. Hence I will never be willing to give up what little is left for me to do--to enjoy.
And so I come to rejoin my illegitimate lovers: words, sentences, paragraphs, discourse. So the Karlo Avenido is back from a gruesome week-long hiatus from everything. I had to undergo yet another surgery for my gallbladder which took me an overnight's stay at Burnaby General. I would have stayed for the afternoon had not the incision on my navel opened up, letting blood gush like the Red Sea on the crossing Egyptians. I jest. I'm doing much better now that a clot has finally formed to block the severed blood vessel (yes, it took me 5 days to stop bleeding profusely), and from much discomfort comes yet even more discomfort. The doctors have adjusted my diet to maintain a low-fat regimen, preferably none at all. Hence I'll spend the foreseeable future munching on granola bars and salad wraps (get this--with no dressing).
I've been praying for a cessation on my medical exploits ever since. I've always had this curse on me: this vile, lecherous beast of an annual malady has never reared its ugly head on me. Remembering far back in my childhood in the Philippines with the bouts of pneumonia, typhoid, dengue, and the Canadian debacle with a kidney infection two years ago, a ruptured appendix last year, and a cholecystectomy this year. Hoping that my prayers have been answered, I wish this would be the last time I'd see a doctor besides my routine check-ups, or the occasional social balls.
It's been a week and two days since my surgery and I still can't get around properly, probably since I'm too afraid of displacing this fragile blood clot on my navel and causing a river of crimson. Hopefully I'll be well enough before my summer session classes start next Tuesday.
So there, I'm back from the dead. Or so I thought. Floating up Drowning in the reflection at ease My dreams commence: A parallel reality
I stand Watching in awe (again) As always--kissing This solitary remnant Fragments Sent scattered Across this slumberscape
And I move slowly Towards you Hoping never To wake up | |
