The end of something...

March is finally over! and I've never looked forward to anything more.

One more day at my old job, and finally I can focus on the new one. Yup, you heard it right, today is the 31st, my supposed last day on the job. But no, I have to go to work tomorrow morning. Did you know that pro bono is Latin for "big idiot"?

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Lots of news, not all of them good. Give me time to sort it out in my head.

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This new job that I have requires a writer. Which is not me. I am on the technical part, which means I do the research. Which is not bad. The writer on my panel is an asshole. He is condescending, arrogant, and bull-headed. He thinks he is the smartest person in the whole world. I think he looks like he has down syndrome.

I don't know about you, but I would actually rather have trisomy 21 than look like I have it when I don't.

And yes, this is the meanest thing I have said in public. (You should listen to the voice inside my head. Which is me. Which is worse than public me. Which is bad.)

And although it would be nicer of me to temper this mean comment by saying nice things about people with trisomy 21, I'd rather not. There are good people, and there are bad people. Smart people, stupid people, arrogant people, humble people, ad infinitum. And all these people can either have 46 or 47 chromosomes. Which is not their virtue, and not their fault either. We have no control over our genes, but we have control over our attitudes.

So I guess I'm saying, if you have to be a chauvinistic, condescending, arrogant asshole (which is completely your choice, by the way), you better be... I don't know. Is there a saving grace to this?

Ang labo. Basta. Die, creature! Die!

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God, who needs a drink?

The beginning of something...

Birth

I.
First night in -----
and the tail-end of winter.
My breath has become
a continuous stream of white
smoke and vapor combined.

II.
Is this how everything is begun?
An expulsion of breath
solidified into a word?

In the beginning was the Word
And gases swirled into this ground I walk on.

III.
And how to begin now
to tell a story long past--
When memory is silent
and only imagination
swirling inside my head.

IV.
Sometimes I run, my feet pounding
on the ground like a heart
throwing my feet on the air
only to pull it down again

as if I could run forever.
And if I did, won't I be back
where I started?

V.
And maybe my life began
with a kiss, then an expulsion
then a breath, a cry.

Theirs, too, who came before me.

Meanwhile, the earth moves
around and around the sun.
Who am I to talk of beginnings?

Oil hits $110 a barrel...

and I'm too busy to react.

Working two jobs is like... uhm, well, working two jobs. And I just have to survive March.

In other news, I found a biography on Matthew Arnold's "poetic life" at Booksale a couple of days ago. He quit poetry for duty is the gist, and I guess I bought it because I was scared how easy I could imagine myself in his shoes... Drama, no?

Anyway, I also realized that because of this blog, I no longer maintain a journal. And that's fucked up because what I write here is never 100% true. And if I don't write just for myself, where is that truth--my truth, anyway, going to end up?

Weird, weird, weird. Drama, drama, drama.

So if you don't hear so much from me from here, let's hope I'm writing somewhere else, something truer.

Bow.