Contradictions

Once in a mall, a woman accidentally stepped on my mom's toes. The woman apologized rightly enough. Still, my mom shot a dark look at the woman’s retreating back and muttered, “You may be sorry, but my foot still hurts.”

For such a small person, she has mastered the art of looking down her nose at the stupid. “Stupid” being loosely defined as someone who doesn’t exactly fit in her idea of how one should be—in dress, behavior, decorum, etc, etc.

I’ve been stupid recently. Or on better days, labeled hopeless—after all, we can’t have anybody insulting her daughter. I got a tattoo, pierced my navel, refused to quit smoking, and the biggest no-no of all, quit graduate school in order to explore writing.

She was not happy, to say the least.

A year ago on my birthday, for example, I met her and my aunt for lunch at a Chinese restaurant. It wasn’t anything fancy, so I came in olive green pants that hung a bit too low, a shirt that was cut a bit too high, flip-flops, and a belt bag. I got the lecture on dressing my age—I’ll be 26 this year—and on being a dignified young woman. Ouch.

But I’ve seen her give matter-of-fact, bracing advice when a cousin was drowning in sympathy and self-pity. She still helps my other sister with her rent, as my sister is finishing her Master’s degree. She has generously offered that I study creative writing, and on her expense, when I should be earning my own way by now. And she has been nothing but supportive when I told her I got into my first ever writing workshop in Bacolod City next week.

It’s been 6 months since I’ve been back from Japan, and I’ve learned to slowly, slowly try to fix the fixable with my mom. As well as to patiently, patiently pray that she learns to accept the inerasable.

Today, for the first time in the past 6 months, I wore a tank that showed my tattoo while gallivanting at a mall with my mom. In was completely comfortable, and my mom didn't say anything. Funny how something as simple as that can reassure me that everything’s on its way back to all right again.

*****

I have these dangling earrings conspicuously shaped like old-fashioned keys. Every time I wear them, people can’t seem to help but comment, Why a key? And every time I answer, Because I like them, they seem confused—as if that could not be the only reason.

This confuses me. I mean, why the hell not? Isn’t it reason enough that I liked them the minute I saw them? Why do people expect there to be hidden meanings in things that seem a little bit unique, if not odd?

I drew my own tattoo and refused to choose from a catalogue simply because I don’t want to end up naked with somebody in the future who has the exact same design. But every time I tell people this, the next question inevitably becomes, What does it mean? It doesn’t mean anything—I stayed up late drawing tattoo designs one night, I really liked what came out, decided I’d have someone ink it into my left shoulder. That’s it.

I was with someone once who asked me why I loved him. Rattled, I rattled off some reasons which did not suffice—I was left feeling foolish, while he was probably unconvinced. Finally, I shouted, I just do! I realized then that I could name a few million little things, which added up still wouldn’t fully answer why.

It seems that liking something, or even loving someone, requires not only a reason, but a rationalization. The very much hidden romantic side of me refuses to accept this. About this, does anyone care to know why?

After Hours

After Hours

The moment I shut the door
I drop the act, wipe off my makeup.
Only the bathroom mirror is witness
to the transformation.

Without the veil of color I look
entirely different, not so happy.
Old, unsure, struggling: a sitcom
aired too long that nobody liked.

I wash my face; the lips unpainted
look cold, bitter and bloodless;
while the brow is furrowed with lines
that are not part of the script.

In the mirror I practice happy faces
but the reflection is distorted.
I have to stop myself from checking
again: my doors are firmly locked.

*****

Having nothing to do, or wanting to do nothing, most of the time, I have come to schedule my days by what's on TV. Pathetic, I know. But I'm making up for lost time: during four years of college, plus two more working in Manila right after school, plus the year-and-a-half in Japan, I have been deprived--that's almost eight years of no TV.

Can you imagine? I've read so many books, it's unbelievable. Case in point: There used to be this Book Sale branch in front of Ateneo that shared unit space with Filbar's, right? I used to buy books there every week (Classics, comics, romance novels, children's books, NY Times bestsellers, Rolling Stone back issues, National Geographic... you name it, I bought it.) that I was chummy with lady who manned the counter--to the point that she'd keep books for me if I happened to come in to "browse" and see something I like but not have the money for it. After coming back from Japan, the minute I got back to Katipunan, I visited ol' Book Sale, and guess what? It was gone. Obviously, it was my business that had been keeping it afloat all those years.

Anyway. TV is what keeps me busy these days. And here's the stuff I've been crazy about.

House came strongly recommended by a couple of friends. I watched my first episode last Monday, and it was great! House made me burst out laughing... before I could completely catch what exactly it was he said that was so funny! Which of course, would make me run the quip through my head again, and make me laugh all over again. His humor is that dry.

Also, I have just been watching Grey's Anatomy, and Patrick Dempsey is hot, hot, hot! I always thought he looked like Sean Penn, and as much as I love bad-boy Sean, I never had this reaction to him... Oh boy, I'm embarrassing myself here. But, God! I would love to be alone in an elevator with him, too! And if the title is indicative of any future exploration of Grey's anatomy by the hottie surgeon, then woohoo! I'd be willing to go under the knife, too.

I know, I know, this is beginning to sound just like the kind of blog I promised myself it wouldn't--the journal-ly, so-this-is-what-I-did-today kinda thing... But I can't help it! I seem to have all this excess energy that I can't seem to shake--and yeah, I know why. My sex life sucks. (My, my. It seems it isn't only Dr. House's humor that's dry around here...)

*****

Remember my previous post about two long lost friends, spanning bridges and scaling walls? This is why most of the time, you let sleeping dogs lie: The one lost through time and distance hasn't replied yet, but I heard he's really happy to have heard from me. The one where I scaled the wall, well, she replied, and... let's just say I got to the other side, and got slapped, big time. So I did my little dignified parting shot (with verbal slaps and a curse put in for good measure), and I've decided for now to lock that door and throw the key very very very far away.

I don't know if this is the right decision. Bah, c'mon, I'll say it: It wasn't the most mature of decisions, but damn, kick your sweet loving poodle long enough and it'll bite your ass, too. So, fuck it, yeah, I'm still mad about it.

Remember, it's better to let sleeping dogs lie. At least, 50% of the time.

*****

Oops. Let's go back to TV, it's a safer topic, I think.

I am rooting for the San Antonio Spurs to win another championship this year (Go, Spurs, go!). For them to successfully do this, it'd be a big help if they clinch the #1 spot in the Western Conference. However, the Dallas Mavericks, being also in the Southwest division, seem set to take that position from the Spurs. So far, the Mavs are only a game behind the Spurs in the standings, and it doesn't help that they've been on a 5-game winning streak, while the Spurs lost two straight of their five consecutive games at home. Both teams have four games left in the season. From now on, I'm watching the Mavs' games, too.

I'll be rooting for the other team.

Old dogs, old tricks

Old Dogs
Stephen Dunn

Those Trotskys of relationships,
perpetual revolution their motto,
their impatient hearts
dangerous to all that's complacent,

I understand them perfectly
and also why someone they've left behind
might travel all the way to Mexico
with a pickaxe to put an end to things.

It's human nature, after all, to want
to put an end to things.

And to start up again.

"Because you can't teach old dogs new tricks,"
Dinah Washington said,
"you got to get yourself some new dogs."
She was explaining her eight husbands,
and this was an argument for nine.

If I'd known any one of her old dogs
no doubt I'd understand why he might
have wanted just to lie on the couch
and go for short walks.

I've wanted to do nothing
as often as I've wanted to rise up,
rush into the night.

Falling in love produces such anxiety,
my friend says, thank God there's sex
for some occasional repose.
He lives for scattered episodes
with one woman at a time.

I understand that, too,

as I understand year after year
doing a few same things
in the same house with the same person,
settled and unsettled, in for the long haul.

*****

It was during a chat with a friend the other night, complaining about my almost nonexistent sex life, that I quoted a line (or two) from this poem. Or maybe it was a phonecall from another friend--she was complaining about losing a fuck buddy to a budding relationship that Buddy* didn't want to fuck up--that made me remember.

Or maybe it's because it's his birthday, and I imagine he understands all these things, too.

But it could also be as simple as having finished all my necessary submissions and thinking that I may never write again--that's how dried up I feel--and the best I could do is use somebody else's poetry to express how I feel, even just how I want to feel.

I emailed two long-lost friends today: one I simply forgot for a while, a natural enough product of time and distance; the other I lost because we deliberately put up walls and refused to take them down. So I built the bridge and scaled the wall--it is as easy as it sounds--but now, I am terrified of what I'll find on the other side, and that retreat might be impossible.

I understand the need for certainty and closure, as I understand the need to stir things up and keep oneself guessing. And I understand why, more often than not, it is less painful, if less satisfying, to stick to the status quo.

_____________________________
* name changed to protect the identity of fuck buddy.