Who has a title for this one?

First time, it was "Varying Distances" which I really liked, but the poem changed on me, and I don't think it fits now. The unofficial title is "Stories" but it doesn't seem right either... I don't know. I keep going back to that famous Cool Hand Luke quote, "What we've got here is... a failure to communicate." Insert appropriate southern accent. But here it is.

*****

Stories

1.

Once at the kitchen table, he told her one of his stories.
It could’ve been the declaration she wanted badly to hear,
but he gave no indication that it wasn’t just another tale.
So after the telling, she shrugged and said nothing: it was
too close for comfort. To her surprise, he shoved away from
the table, yelling, Dammit, what else do you want me to say?
It was then she realized she wanted to wrap her arms around
him and press her ear to his chest. The look in his eyes said
it was too late.

2.

Their story ended before it could really begin. It was fear
and arrogance that made her waste the time; as for him,
she really couldn’t tell. Perhaps she refused to see clearly—
she was steeped in her imagined sufferings and no one else
could be hurting as much. He had always been shy, and now
took to drinking away his inhibitions: he said what he wanted
and forgot it the next day. Besides, she couldn’t believe him
when it really mattered. Their hearts stretched and yearned,
afraid to trust.

3.

Leaving is a choice, he always believed. And if he had spoken
of this, she would’ve shook her head and cried, certain that
he never understood her. So he never asked her to stay, while
she can’t imagine how she can come back. Now, two thousand
miles away and in different time zones, they exchange stories:
she talks of the new and exciting things she’s done; he insists
nothing has changed since she left. Both say what they think
the other wanted to hear; they both hear what the other never
meant to say.

Who's who?

Some of the portraits I did when I was into people's faces. My problem most of the time is getting the relations/proportions just right, and as you can see, the nose can sometimes be too long, or the cheeks too puffy, the lips crooked...

I hate drawing hair too! I think that's the most difficult feature to capture, somehow it's almost impossible for me to draw it so that it looks real enough.

But, who's who? Can you guess? Here are some clues:

1. He was (still is?) full of angst in Seattle in the early 90's;
2. This guy is wanted in the Middle East;
3. The son of a great musician and songwriter;
   
4. She was a poet and painter, a beautiful woman all around.

Sadly, I think that your guessing all four will be better for my ego than yours--I have no prizes to give. Just humor me.

The Housewife

Once, in a small yard in the middle
of endless repetition, and the everyday
stretching like the white sheets drying
on the line,

she picked up a shell and put it against
her ear, longing for the sound of comfort.
But instead of humming surf, she heard
city traffic

and espresso machines hissing. She saw
a sea of briefcases and tall buildings, waves
of people rushing to the entrance of subways.
She saw

women in high heels and short skirts, up early
for breakfast meetings and business mergers,
their ears pressed to cellular phones, hands
busy with sheets

of paper. Reports, appointments, possibilities
stretching like the ocean. Everyday different
like their wardrobe; nothing but their careers
on the line.

That night she climbed into bed and lay
with her ear to her husband’s bare chest
and wondered what it meant that she heard
only his heartbeat.

*****

I wrote this around the end of February, when I wanted to explore another interpretation of Want versus Need. There are so many versions, I guess, and right now, I'm in the middle of a tug of war between these two, and sometimes they can be so far away from each other.

(What's the fifty-dollar word for polar opposites? Di- or dia-something. Somebody help.)

But this poem was borne of different images I wanted to explore; my only criteria then was to show the seemingly opposite worlds of where one is and where one wants to be. Is the grass always greener where you are not? If so, how and when do you get to satisfied, or even it's paler version, content?

In any case, how far can one put herself in another person's shoes? From the images in my head, the poem flew from my hands and took me in this direction. I am not a housewife, nor a career woman, and I don't mean either woman any disrespect.

Fear of Falling

I suffer from vertigo, which in my case, manifests itself as two or three straight days of unbearable dizziness, lightheadedness, and nausea. This happens every couple of months or so, usually suddenly, and with no relief except sleep. So every time I have an attack, I crawl to the nearest bed, sleep, sleep and puke, puke and sleep, and sleep some more--until I can open my eyes without my vision spinning like crazy.

Most people associate vertigo with acrophobia. For what is the fear of heights but a fear of falling? And isn't dizziness a fear of not feeling the ground beneath your feet?

I think that only in freefall are we really, truly helpless--desperate in the sense of no choices, no exits. And I am not talking about bungee jumping with its cords or sky diving with its parachutes. I am talking about a body acted upon by gravity, with nowhere to go but down.

No wonder I choose to sleep through an attack every time. And no wonder people would rather stay on firm ground.

But when does the fear of falling become a fear of flying?

*****

I left Japan for the Philippines 8th of October last year. Today, March 8th, makes it my 5th month back home.

Must be why I feel so out-of-sorts. What's your excuse?

I have been staying with my parents again: Our house of twenty-odd years, the same room that I share with my two sisters, the sappy pink walls, the twin beds, the old chest of drawers. Some things have changed, too: The middle sister has moved out, the youngest has her posters on the walls, my old bed is now my kid sister's, my drawer under lock and key.

I have been away from my parents for eight years before this. Four years of college, three working in Manila, and a year and a half partying in Kyoto. Now that I'm back, I don't know if it is still home, or a hiding place. I don't know if I am looking for and towards something that is not there, and missing what's right in front of me.

Is going away again the only way to know for sure? Take the plunge into unknown territory and find out?

As of a month ago, I only had four feasible (?) choices: (1) live at home, watch TV, grow fat and die of boredom; (2) grab the first available guy, get married, and pray like hell we don't have to live with my parents or his; (3) find work, any kind of work and begin being independent again and for good; (4) look for scholarships to study abroad (again). As you can see, that's not an awful lot.

But let's discuss option #3. I've applied to various jobs, both in my field and not. I've had four job offers (2 for my Japanese, 1 because of connections, 1 for my looks, and a whopping 0 in my field of environmental science) in the last three months. One wanted me pretty bad, but I wasn't really interested. The other made me feel a bit excited, but perhaps for the wrong reasons. All of them I rejected.

As for #4, well, ehrm. Did I ever tell you why I'm back from Japan in the first place? Oh boy. This is a whole new story, a whole blog, for that matter. Suffice it to say, I don't really want to further my degree in Environmental Science, for now. And believe me, I have brochures and application forms from about five different schools in different countries that lie on my desk gathering dust.

So, really, what do I want to do?

This month, somehow the problem seems more urgent. (Could it be the 6th-month itch?) Not only because I've gained weight or memorized the days of the week according to what's on TV; and certainly not because I've been thinking about marriage and having kids recently.

This month, I've been offered to go back to Kyoto, or to start anew in California. Both offers, of course, come with strings attached, and I don't know if these strings are a lifeline or a noose. No, I am being unfair. I don't know if I can learn to accept these strings and use them as a lifeline, and not fuck it all up and wrap them around my neck.

I just want to know: Am I being too selfish? If I am, am I entitled? Am I asking too much and not doing enough? And if I'm not doing all I can, is it because I don't think it's worth it, or am I just too scared?

Will these questions ever stop? There are so many things I don't know. But somehow, there are a handful of statements I can (almost) say without a question mark at the end.

1. I don't want to grow fat on my parents' couch watching TV and popping m&ms.
2. I don't want to marry the next available guy. At least, not yet.
3. I don't want to work just any job, just for money. I want to work on something that fulfills me and challenges me; I want to do work that I like.
4. Right now, I don't think that's being an environmental scientist.

It's funny how all of them are something I don't want. Funnier, how they almost make it clear what I do want, and these I can really say without any doubt:

1. I want to write and write well. Or simply give it the sincere attempt it deserves.
   
2. I want to make a life for myself. A life I want and in my own terms, not anyone else's.
3. I want a shot at love--the kind that could make me stupid, the kind I fear would hurt like hell, the kind I will never regret whatever the outcome.
4. I want to travel. I want to experience the world, and maybe find my place in it.
   

You'd think knowing what I want and what I don't want, I'd be well on my way to happiness or to the next course of action. Or at the very least, deep into the planning stage. But...

But what? Really, why aren't I? Isn't it high time I stopped sleeping through this confusing and dizzying stage?

Isn't it time I took the next course of action? Time I stopped being lazy, stopped being a coward, stopped thinking too much. I am tired of knowing but not doing anything. I'm tired of just sleeping through my vertigo. I'm tired of being afraid.

Somebody told me recently that life really begins once you go against your fears. I think he's right.

One, two, three. Jump!

Sometimes you can't make it on your own

Sometimes you can't make it on your own is a song from U2's 2005 album, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. For me, it is also the scariest combination of any 8 words in the English language.

*****

My only memory of the first Edsa revolution is of my Dad, wearing a yellow shirt, lifting me up in his arms and swinging me around until the room spun crazily--The Marcoses had fled Malacañang. I was five years old. I must have laughed with delight. I'm sure my parents did.

Years later, in college, I went to the various rallies to oust Erap. I read the papers, kept myself informed, had intelligent discussions. I chose the rallies I wanted to join. My best friend and I spent a night at EDSA before marching to Mendiola early the next day. I was proud to be part of that second Edsa revolution.

However, weeks after that January 2001 People Power revolution, Pro-Estrada groups staged an "Edsa 3" comprised mostly of the poor who voted for Erap. The new if fragile government dismissed the protests. Some said most were squatters who were simply paid to join the rally. The Archbishop made like Jesus and asked God to forgive them, for they know not what they do. Newspapers commented on nothing but the trash that littered Edsa Shrine after the masa had been dispersed. I was 20 years old and I cried.

Now, we have another president threatening us with Martial Law. We have another Proclamation, another 1081 poorly disguised as a 1017. There have been unexplained arrests and raids on newspaper headquarters. People are once again taking to the streets.

But now, I have to stop and ask myself, Where are we? How far have we come? More importantly, Why again and again and again?

You see, if I look back on Edsa 1986, I remember yellow confetti. Edsa Dos, I clearly remember a helicopter, circling overhead, dropping a load of soft white stuff wrapped in plastic. I had hoped they were sandwiches--I was hungry. But they were T-shirts advertising Commando Waterproof Matches. Another kind of confetti.

You see, if I look back on the between-Edsa periods, I remember the same things. There was the US Bases and now, the Balikatan. There was Ormoc, and now Guinsaugon. There was Honasan, and now the Magdalo Group. Corruption. Election fraud. The OFWs. The poor farmers. The underpaid schoolteachers. The dead grandmothers at Ultra. The children on the streets.

I can't help but ask, and ask with trepidation, What, really, has changed?

And I can't help but wonder that if we should succeed in ousting Arroyo, what would I remember of Edsa 3? Worse, what would I remember after yet another revolution?

I am not saying that we not do anything. I am not saying that we wait like martyrs and let everything run its course. I am saying that we have to do something more often. I am saying that we expect change because we are ready, and we deserve it.

I am not saying that these people power revolutions are useless. But they will be if we lie back and accept everyday indignities and only rise to revolt if we have been abused over and over and over again. Animals will fight back if they have no choice. Any people will revolt if they have the arms and the numbers. We Filipinos did it peacefully under threat of tanks and of being found dead in a marsh. We did it twice and in the biggest fashion. And we will do it again.

But maybe it's time we tried to do a little bit everyday. Maybe it's time we forgot our differences permanently, and not only during times of crises. Maybe it's time we stop counting what it will cost us, and what it'll give us back. Maybe it's time we simply give.

It's time remembered the important parts. Because I'm afraid it's true: Sometimes, you can't make it on your own.

*****

Hunger Strike
Chris Cornell, Temple of the Dog

I don't mind stealing bread
From the mouths of decadence
But I can't feed on the powerless
When my cup's already overfilled
But it's on the table
The fire is cooking
And they're farming babies
While the slaves are working
The blood is on the table
And their mouths are choking
But I'm growing hungry