No, I really don't. Earlier today, we were at the St. Luke's Extension at Jorge Bocobo st., that U.S. embassy medical thingy. We were filling out forms to get us started on completing our medical requirements for immigration to the U.S. One of the questions on the form was "When will you be ready to depart for the U.S.?" or something like that. My dad told us to write "January 2009" because that's when I will be turning 21 (the age that would most likely render me ineligible for immigration with my parents).
It felt like getting hit on the head with a truncheon. I was dazed, barely able to articulate my sentiment: "But I thought you told me that deadline was just for the interview. That as long as I don't turn 21 before the interview, I could still leave for the U.S. at the age of 21."
My dad explained to me that - well, no he really didn't. He just repeated his earlier statement that I need to get to the U.S. before I turn 21. He doesn't seem to remember telling me the whole the-deadline-is-for-the-interview thing. And that was my dad. If he doesn't remember, that means it didn't happen. Even if it did. If I couldn't bring the phenomenon back to his memory by directly referring to it, what was going to? There was little I could do to protest. And I wrote "January 2009" on the fucking form.
And now I just don't know what to feel. I thought I was still going to be here for my birthday, for her birthday.
It's still about three months away, and I'm probably not going to get invited, but I've already been planning how I would look like in the unlikely event that I do get invited. What I would wear, how I would style my hair, what I would smell like. There must be, after all, that slim chance that I'll get invited. Come on. It's going to be her debut! And I'm the first guy who's ever told her I like her. And we have the same birthday for goodness' sake!
I've even been thinking about what to make for her. That's right - make. Buying something is out of the question. I like her too much to cheapen my gift into something I could actually buy. I would like her to know how priceless she is.
But what if ... what the fuck if ... I'm not here for her birthday anymore?
I've been really hoping that I would be.
I don't frickin' get it.
...
...
...
...
...
I could end my post here, actually. But there are still a couple more stuff I don't get.
First up! A couple of days ago, maybe a week back, she changed some things with her Multiply site. Her site title has now become "Caffeinated!" and her blog section has the header "caffeinated musings". Maybe the connections aren't as uncanny as the ones revealed before, but I used to be quite the caffeine person myself. In fact, in High-School, my friends and I called ourselves the "Coffee Club Society". And, yes, we had coffee *regularly*.
Ah, what the heck, we had coffee whenever our grimy little caffeine-thirsty hands got the smallest bit of chance to get a hold of our preeeeeccciiiiooouuusssssss.
Things have changed now, though. I don't drink coffee anymore. I'm depriving myself of all the unhealthy indulgences I've had before.
A more telling sign of a connection, perhaps, would be the "caffeinated musings" blog header. My own blog header in Multiply, which I wrote long before she changed her header, is "Melancholic Musings". Now, I don't know if she got the idea from my blog. Probably not, because the viewing history shows that she doesn't visit my site anymore. Although she could always view it logged-out, in which case her viewing of my site would not register on the viewing history. Anyway, in the unlikely case that she did get the idea from me, doesn't that mean I make an impression on her? Maybe not in the romantic way ... hmm ... probably not in the romantic way. Maybe not as someone who could be a potential partner (jeez! Am I really thinking these stuff?!). But at least I leave an impression on her, as someone who's got a way with words at the very least. Maybe not a very good way, but not a very bad way, either. At least she remembers what I have to say, even if she doesn't remember me as the one having said it. And that just gives me a feeling of accomplishment. I quietly celebrate that imagined triumph.
But that's just too much to hope for, I guess. Maybe she just thought up of it, all by herself. But then here would lie an even greater triumph: that would just show that we really think alike, without conscious effort for us to do so! Sheesh.
Another thing is that she recently just reviewed, also on her Multiply site, the movie Pan's Labyrinth by Guillermo del Toro. And what's so great with that? Ohhh, nothing ... except that I've been obsessing over that movie myself since Ma'am Sanchez showed it to us for CL111 class!
That movie plays an even greater role in furthering what could possibly be mere hallucinations of mine, in seeing this connection between the two of us. It was instantaneously that the thought struck me, that she resembles the movie's lead character Ofelia. At first I thought she physically looked like Ofelia, but upon further scrutiny, I found it wasn't the looks that she and Ofelia had in common. Or at least, it wasn't the looks that was the most important thing they had in common. It was how, I perceived, she herself was quite stuck as well, between a world where she wants to be and a world where she has to be. But which world is which, is quite hard to tell in her case, unlike in Ofelia's.
This, actually, was the original inspiration for the story I envisioned and which I plan to write, about a young girl who finds a magical kingdom where she is, or can be, queen (I put this under the working title "Kingdom Melancholia" on my stuff-to-do list, which I posted on my Multiply blog on October 23). Of course, I plan to let the story evolve into a story of its own, but my lead character there will undoubtedly be heavily influenced by this girl that has entranced me in real life.
So you can only imagine the joy, mixed with frustration, that blew me away when I found out she had reviewed and had liked the movie as well. There's such an incredible connection. But we're so incredibly disconnected.
I don't frickin' get it!!!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Paradise Lost
Why is it that our paths cross when I least want them to?
But I guess I should've expected it. I didn't see her yesterday, when I was wearing my favorite shirt. So what better way for the universe to thwart me (as it often does) than to make our paths cross today? Today, when I'm wearing a bunch of stuff I just pulled out of my cabinet because I'm going to a library in U.P. on a Saturday and there aren't going to be too many people there when I come and she's probably not going to be there when I come and I'm probably not going to stay long, anyway. I'm going to grab the books I saw yesterday, have the parts I need photocopied because we're not allowed to take them out anymore, and be gone.
But, tragedy of tragedies, I walked into the CAL library and she was there. In the library. On a Saturday. Yes.
On the table in front of her was, literally, a pile of books that would have reached up to my knee if it was on the ground. And a lot of papers. And I mean a lot. She was so absorbed in whatever stuff she was reading and writing that, for the first time, I had been in the same room with her without her giving me that look of weariness that I'm quite sure now is of me and my advances. Or maybe I just didn't see her do it. Because I myself avoided any chance of meeting eyes with her, and sat in one of the other tables so as to put her far behind me. So as to render myself needless of looking at her. Even if only for the few minutes I'd be there.
It was the first day of class and because it was an English class, I was only too happy to come to the classroom early. The nearest available seat was in the middle row, beside this girl with short black hair but long bangs hiding her face from me. I took it. As soon as I was seated, I snatched a look to the side and saw the pale face of the Chinese-looking girl beside me. She was wearing glasses and slouched her lanky frame in a shy position, as if to hide her being from me, from the rest of the world.
"Can I see your Form 5?" I started.
She didn't say anything. She just looked at me suspiciously, but reluctantly handed over her Form 5 as well.
"Twenty thousand Pesos!" I exclaimed. I also know her name now.
"Your batch's tuition is so expensive now, after the tuition hike." I continued. And I like her name.
I handed her back the Form 5. We didn't talk much for the rest of the semester.
I opened my notebook and looked at the titles of the books I tried to borrow yesterday for use in my term paper about John Milton's Paradise Lost. But I wasn't allowed to borrow them due to the new CAL library rule: ALL books are for ROOM USE ONLY.
THEY WEREN'T THERE!!! The three books I needed weren't there. All the other books I read yesterday but didn't need were there. The three books I needed weren't!
I looked again and found that, in fact, one of the books was there: The Complete English Poetry of John Milton. But it's an earlier edition than the one I saw yesterday. An earlier, brownish, vandalized, more battered-up edition. I opened to check if it will suffice as replacement. All the books of Paradise Lost, check. Line numbers and annotations, check. Good. Everything I needed was there. And more. Vandalisms also littered the pages. I gritted my teeth at this, but, what was I supposed to do? I took the book and went.
On my way back to my seat, I passed by her. There she was with all the books she needs for whatever infernal purpose. When I took my seat, I couldn't help but look back. She didn't see me. I wondered what she was so absorbed in reading.
But I guess I should've expected it. I didn't see her yesterday, when I was wearing my favorite shirt. So what better way for the universe to thwart me (as it often does) than to make our paths cross today? Today, when I'm wearing a bunch of stuff I just pulled out of my cabinet because I'm going to a library in U.P. on a Saturday and there aren't going to be too many people there when I come and she's probably not going to be there when I come and I'm probably not going to stay long, anyway. I'm going to grab the books I saw yesterday, have the parts I need photocopied because we're not allowed to take them out anymore, and be gone.
But, tragedy of tragedies, I walked into the CAL library and she was there. In the library. On a Saturday. Yes.
On the table in front of her was, literally, a pile of books that would have reached up to my knee if it was on the ground. And a lot of papers. And I mean a lot. She was so absorbed in whatever stuff she was reading and writing that, for the first time, I had been in the same room with her without her giving me that look of weariness that I'm quite sure now is of me and my advances. Or maybe I just didn't see her do it. Because I myself avoided any chance of meeting eyes with her, and sat in one of the other tables so as to put her far behind me. So as to render myself needless of looking at her. Even if only for the few minutes I'd be there.
++++++
It was the first day of class and because it was an English class, I was only too happy to come to the classroom early. The nearest available seat was in the middle row, beside this girl with short black hair but long bangs hiding her face from me. I took it. As soon as I was seated, I snatched a look to the side and saw the pale face of the Chinese-looking girl beside me. She was wearing glasses and slouched her lanky frame in a shy position, as if to hide her being from me, from the rest of the world.
"Can I see your Form 5?" I started.
She didn't say anything. She just looked at me suspiciously, but reluctantly handed over her Form 5 as well.
"Twenty thousand Pesos!" I exclaimed. I also know her name now.
"Your batch's tuition is so expensive now, after the tuition hike." I continued. And I like her name.
I handed her back the Form 5. We didn't talk much for the rest of the semester.
++++++
I opened my notebook and looked at the titles of the books I tried to borrow yesterday for use in my term paper about John Milton's Paradise Lost. But I wasn't allowed to borrow them due to the new CAL library rule: ALL books are for ROOM USE ONLY.
- The Complete English Poetry of John Milton
- Milton's Epic Characters by John Steadman
- The Moral Paradox of Paradise Lost by John Seaman
THEY WEREN'T THERE!!! The three books I needed weren't there. All the other books I read yesterday but didn't need were there. The three books I needed weren't!
I looked again and found that, in fact, one of the books was there: The Complete English Poetry of John Milton. But it's an earlier edition than the one I saw yesterday. An earlier, brownish, vandalized, more battered-up edition. I opened to check if it will suffice as replacement. All the books of Paradise Lost, check. Line numbers and annotations, check. Good. Everything I needed was there. And more. Vandalisms also littered the pages. I gritted my teeth at this, but, what was I supposed to do? I took the book and went.
On my way back to my seat, I passed by her. There she was with all the books she needs for whatever infernal purpose. When I took my seat, I couldn't help but look back. She didn't see me. I wondered what she was so absorbed in reading.
++++++
We were asked by the professor what our favorite poem was. I thought it only natural to answer "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe, whom my High School friends kept teasing me was me in a past life, because a big part of my writing style was inspired by him. Not to mention, we were both born on January 19. And, yes, The Raven really is my favorite poem. But it wasn't my turn yet to speak.
It was hers. And, lo and behold...
"I have two favorite poems, actually. The Raven, and The Bells, both by Edgar Allan Poe."
I fretted at this. My answer was not going to be unique anymore. Or at least I wasn't going to be the first to mention it. When my turn came, I mentioned a poem by a nobody, something I found in fictionpress, which, honestly, I did like as well. But not so much, I couldn't even remember the author's name. I just wanted to cite something unpopular so that I'm sure I will be the only one to give that answer. Haha.
But I took a secret delight in that. So she likes Poe, too, huh?
It was hers. And, lo and behold...
"I have two favorite poems, actually. The Raven, and The Bells, both by Edgar Allan Poe."
I fretted at this. My answer was not going to be unique anymore. Or at least I wasn't going to be the first to mention it. When my turn came, I mentioned a poem by a nobody, something I found in fictionpress, which, honestly, I did like as well. But not so much, I couldn't even remember the author's name. I just wanted to cite something unpopular so that I'm sure I will be the only one to give that answer. Haha.
But I took a secret delight in that. So she likes Poe, too, huh?
++++++
She must have seen me by now. I'm sure of it. She's just not saying a word. That's how she denies me: by not doing anything.
I saw one of the assistant librarians returning some books to their shelves. I thought it best to wait and maybe the books I need will get returned. I would have to endure being there with her for longer.
I started reading from the ghastly edition I had at the moment. Absent-mindedly, and perhaps in desperate want of a distraction, I started counting the syllables in each line of Milton's poem. Most of them had ten lines. But occasionally, an eleventh syllable spills over, and some lines would fall one or two syllables short of ten. There doesn't seem to be a pattern for this. Milton didn't confine himself too much in meter, I guess. But what have I learned that I could use in my term paper? Nothing. In essence I wasn't doing anything.
I could hear the turning of the pages far behind me. I wondered what was she doing at the moment.
I saw one of the assistant librarians returning some books to their shelves. I thought it best to wait and maybe the books I need will get returned. I would have to endure being there with her for longer.
I started reading from the ghastly edition I had at the moment. Absent-mindedly, and perhaps in desperate want of a distraction, I started counting the syllables in each line of Milton's poem. Most of them had ten lines. But occasionally, an eleventh syllable spills over, and some lines would fall one or two syllables short of ten. There doesn't seem to be a pattern for this. Milton didn't confine himself too much in meter, I guess. But what have I learned that I could use in my term paper? Nothing. In essence I wasn't doing anything.
I could hear the turning of the pages far behind me. I wondered what was she doing at the moment.
++++++
We were at the ground floor, by the photocopy lady. Upon dismissal in that English class, the professor had given us an assignment that we needed to photocopy, and those among us who didn't have classes right after went together.
I was having a conversation with some of my classmates about this book, Dune. I hadn't really read the book, but I got to play a computer game based on the book. Beyond that, I know nothing about that universe. Still, the people I was talking with were so enthusiastic that they managed to keep finding stuff I could relate to. We kept on talking and talking. But in essence, we were doing nothing.
When they started talking among themselves, and when their topics went far beyond my knowledge of the world of Dune, I inched away from their huddle and turned to the busy photocopy lady. I waited for her to finish, and thought that it was the most sensible thing I could do at the moment. And I thought that if they looked at me, I would probably look like the loser standing there all alone not talking to anyone, which I'm quite used to being branded as anyway.
But then again I wasn't alone.
I turned and saw her also waiting there, not talking to anyone, not doing anything. She seemed to regard the photocopy lady with eyes of - I now realized - perpetual observation. And weariness.
I was having a conversation with some of my classmates about this book, Dune. I hadn't really read the book, but I got to play a computer game based on the book. Beyond that, I know nothing about that universe. Still, the people I was talking with were so enthusiastic that they managed to keep finding stuff I could relate to. We kept on talking and talking. But in essence, we were doing nothing.
When they started talking among themselves, and when their topics went far beyond my knowledge of the world of Dune, I inched away from their huddle and turned to the busy photocopy lady. I waited for her to finish, and thought that it was the most sensible thing I could do at the moment. And I thought that if they looked at me, I would probably look like the loser standing there all alone not talking to anyone, which I'm quite used to being branded as anyway.
But then again I wasn't alone.
I turned and saw her also waiting there, not talking to anyone, not doing anything. She seemed to regard the photocopy lady with eyes of - I now realized - perpetual observation. And weariness.
++++++
In serious need of distraction, I stood and went back to the shelves. Maybe the books I need were there now. Surprise, surprise. They weren't. I passed by her table again on my way back to my seat. I saw that a lot of the books on her table were thick, black, hardbound books. When I took my seat, it struck me that that was how the edition I wanted looked like. Could it be that she has the books I need? Could it be that the universe is, once again, toying with me, and that happenstance is driving us both to pursue the same thing?
++++++
I was on the third floor of the CAL building, watching the activists' program on the second floor atrium. A semester has passed since I left her and that classroom for the last time, as casually as I leave it everyday. As if she had not enthralled me the entire semester. As if I did not need the reassurance I gave myself that this little crush would die soon. A semester of not seeing her has passed, and it still hasn't.
Activist leaders were coming up front to speak before the mass of people wearing red. I remembered my own glory days. Days of speaking before a mass audience like such. Days of being our High School's unconventional Student Council President. Unconventional because I dared to rebel. I dared to rebel against the CAT system. I dared to speak out against unbecoming actions of teachers. I dared to condemn my own batch for oppressing lower batches. I dared to be known as critical of the School's Administration. And before the year ended, I dared to punch a hole in our classroom's blackboard in protest of all that has been left unsolved.
But those days were long-gone. And when I look back at them, I can't help but see how, while I was condemning narrow-mindedness then, I had been quite narrow-minded myself. I was quite the revolutionary, yes. Ask my High School teacher and she'd tell you she seriously thought I'd end up as a rebel in the mountains if I go to U.P.. But those days were gone.
As I turned to leave the activists to themselves, they started chanting their usual chants. One voice stood out to me and stopped me in my tracks. It sounded like a little girl's voice, but yelling with all the confidence of an independent woman. I turned and saw her there among the people wearing red, screaming social change, screaming revolution as I did before.
Activist leaders were coming up front to speak before the mass of people wearing red. I remembered my own glory days. Days of speaking before a mass audience like such. Days of being our High School's unconventional Student Council President. Unconventional because I dared to rebel. I dared to rebel against the CAT system. I dared to speak out against unbecoming actions of teachers. I dared to condemn my own batch for oppressing lower batches. I dared to be known as critical of the School's Administration. And before the year ended, I dared to punch a hole in our classroom's blackboard in protest of all that has been left unsolved.
But those days were long-gone. And when I look back at them, I can't help but see how, while I was condemning narrow-mindedness then, I had been quite narrow-minded myself. I was quite the revolutionary, yes. Ask my High School teacher and she'd tell you she seriously thought I'd end up as a rebel in the mountains if I go to U.P.. But those days were gone.
As I turned to leave the activists to themselves, they started chanting their usual chants. One voice stood out to me and stopped me in my tracks. It sounded like a little girl's voice, but yelling with all the confidence of an independent woman. I turned and saw her there among the people wearing red, screaming social change, screaming revolution as I did before.
++++++
"Here it is." I heard the voice of the library's photocopy guy say, somewhere behind me.
"Okay, how much is it?" Her voice answered.
"Will you be having something else photocopied later?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll charge you later." said the photocopy guy, before the sound of his footsteps, I observed, placed him on his way back to the photocopy machine.
I couldn't help but look back at her. She still wasn't looking at me. I couldn't see the titles of her books from where I was, though. I decided to turn my head back at the aged book I was holding before we meet eye-to-eye. If she really had one or more of the books I needed, maybe I should just go there and talk to her. She would hate it, I know. But she wouldn't show it...much. She can't help but be diplomatic.
"Okay, how much is it?" Her voice answered.
"Will you be having something else photocopied later?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll charge you later." said the photocopy guy, before the sound of his footsteps, I observed, placed him on his way back to the photocopy machine.
I couldn't help but look back at her. She still wasn't looking at me. I couldn't see the titles of her books from where I was, though. I decided to turn my head back at the aged book I was holding before we meet eye-to-eye. If she really had one or more of the books I needed, maybe I should just go there and talk to her. She would hate it, I know. But she wouldn't show it...much. She can't help but be diplomatic.
++++++
She can't help but be diplomatic. Like me. That's what I found out the second time we were classmates. We talked more that semester, because we were groupmates in some of the group activities. But mostly she still kept to herself.
In one of those group activities, we decided to report on the status of religion in the Victorian Era of England. Well, actually, it was I who decided that our report would be on religion. I used to be Catholic, but had undergone what some people might call a "state of confusion", though I personally don't like using the phrase. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I had renounced religion and am now agnostic. And am now grabbing every opportunity I get to expose religion for the oppressive force it really is.
Being agnostic myself, I wanted to report on the alternative traditions prevalent in the Victorian Era, like deism, atheism and agnosticism. But I already had another topic assigned to myself, and I didn't want to monopolize the discussion by reporting on two topics. So guess who volunteered to work on the alternative traditions?
She delivered it better than I thought she would, actually. But I could still see the awkwardness with which a Catholic reports on practices usually considered taboo. After class, I asked her how it felt like, and if it was okay for her to report on such matters.
"It's okay. Because, actually, I'm in a state of confusion myself."
I wanted to pat her on the back right then and there. State of confusion, huh? I think I know the feeling.
In one of those group activities, we decided to report on the status of religion in the Victorian Era of England. Well, actually, it was I who decided that our report would be on religion. I used to be Catholic, but had undergone what some people might call a "state of confusion", though I personally don't like using the phrase. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I had renounced religion and am now agnostic. And am now grabbing every opportunity I get to expose religion for the oppressive force it really is.
Being agnostic myself, I wanted to report on the alternative traditions prevalent in the Victorian Era, like deism, atheism and agnosticism. But I already had another topic assigned to myself, and I didn't want to monopolize the discussion by reporting on two topics. So guess who volunteered to work on the alternative traditions?
She delivered it better than I thought she would, actually. But I could still see the awkwardness with which a Catholic reports on practices usually considered taboo. After class, I asked her how it felt like, and if it was okay for her to report on such matters.
"It's okay. Because, actually, I'm in a state of confusion myself."
I wanted to pat her on the back right then and there. State of confusion, huh? I think I know the feeling.
++++++
Right. Talk to her. Just check if she has any of the books I need. Go go go go!!!
I stood up, turned, and started walking, only to find out that she wasn't there by the table. Her books and papers were still there, though. But I decided against checking them myself, lest she returns and finds me going over the stuff she was reading. All the while I was thinking of these, I kept on walking. I couldn't stop prematurely, I would look stupid, especially to her in case she was watching. I kept going and going and going ... to the only other place in the library I've gone to that day: the shelves.
When I got there, I wanted to bang my head on one of the shelves and topple it, to create a domino effect that would bury me in hundreds of books. I started looking around for which shelf would cause the desired effect, but I saw something else. Within arm's length, beyond the shelf right in front of me, was her. She had her back turned to me and she was talking to the photocopy guy who was stationed there. Apparently, she was already paying. That means she'll leave the library soon as well.
As much as I had been wanting to be rid of her, I wanted to grab her then. She was so close. I could take one step to where there would be no shelf between us, and then I could grab her hand and ask her to stay. I could stare right into her eyes as if to make up for all the times I did not, and beg her to stay.
But she would deny that. She would deny me.
I stood up, turned, and started walking, only to find out that she wasn't there by the table. Her books and papers were still there, though. But I decided against checking them myself, lest she returns and finds me going over the stuff she was reading. All the while I was thinking of these, I kept on walking. I couldn't stop prematurely, I would look stupid, especially to her in case she was watching. I kept going and going and going ... to the only other place in the library I've gone to that day: the shelves.
When I got there, I wanted to bang my head on one of the shelves and topple it, to create a domino effect that would bury me in hundreds of books. I started looking around for which shelf would cause the desired effect, but I saw something else. Within arm's length, beyond the shelf right in front of me, was her. She had her back turned to me and she was talking to the photocopy guy who was stationed there. Apparently, she was already paying. That means she'll leave the library soon as well.
As much as I had been wanting to be rid of her, I wanted to grab her then. She was so close. I could take one step to where there would be no shelf between us, and then I could grab her hand and ask her to stay. I could stare right into her eyes as if to make up for all the times I did not, and beg her to stay.
But she would deny that. She would deny me.
++++++
"Got a few minutes?" I texted her one night. "I want to talk to you about something. I know you're weary of me by now, but this could be the last thing from me you would be weary of. Hehe."
"It's okay." She replied. With a smiley.
"I know, like me, you can't help but be diplomatic ... But I'll have to ask you to be brutally honest this time. Okay here goes ... You've known it all along, haven't you? Or at least you've suspected it?"
"Suspected what?"
"That I like you."
"It's okay." She replied. With a smiley.
"I know, like me, you can't help but be diplomatic ... But I'll have to ask you to be brutally honest this time. Okay here goes ... You've known it all along, haven't you? Or at least you've suspected it?"
"Suspected what?"
"That I like you."
++++++
I retreated deeper back into the shadow of the shelves. She was still standing there by the photocopy machine, having some trouble getting her coins or something. I kept my eyes fixed on her as I stepped behind the shelf that contained the books on John Milton, where I knew she would not see me even if she looked. But from where I could still see her.
I heard the wheels of a cart nearby. I turned and saw it was one of the assistant librarians, returning books to their respective shelves. I looked at the Milton shelf and the books I needed still weren't there. But in order not to look stupid to the assistant librarian, I pulled one of the books from the Milton shelf and opened it in front of me. My eyes, however, stared beyond the book, and beyond the shelf from where it came.
She had finished paying. She was on her way back to her table.
I closed the book. I tried to follow her. I emerged from behind the shelves and followed her. I was right behind her. She was so close. I could tap her shoulder. I could call out her name. I could quicken my pace and walk beside her and say hi.
She turned a corner and went back to her table. I kept going forward and went back to mine.
I heard the wheels of a cart nearby. I turned and saw it was one of the assistant librarians, returning books to their respective shelves. I looked at the Milton shelf and the books I needed still weren't there. But in order not to look stupid to the assistant librarian, I pulled one of the books from the Milton shelf and opened it in front of me. My eyes, however, stared beyond the book, and beyond the shelf from where it came.
She had finished paying. She was on her way back to her table.
I closed the book. I tried to follow her. I emerged from behind the shelves and followed her. I was right behind her. She was so close. I could tap her shoulder. I could call out her name. I could quicken my pace and walk beside her and say hi.
She turned a corner and went back to her table. I kept going forward and went back to mine.
++++++
She would probably hate me if she found out that I still had not given up. Not even after she told me she likes somebody else.
But the truth was, I had given up. The time draws near for me to leave this country. I'm not expecting us to be together. I'm not even expecting her to like me back. I just want to do one last thing for her before I go. Maybe just to make me feel like I left something behind.
I had given up. But that doesn't mean I have to stop liking her. No. It doesn't mean I get to stop liking her, either.
But she can't find out I'm planning something, or else she might think I'm still making advances. It is for this reason that I asked one of her friends if she (the friend) could promise not to tell anyone about what I was going to ask her.
"Yep," she replied in text.
"Do you know when her birthday is? It's just an item in my to-do list to do something for her before I leave this country."
"January 19."
"January 19! Haha. Very funny. Go ahead, make fun of me. Hehe. But, seriously, when is it?"
"Why? That's serious. January 19."
"No joke? So you didn't know that that's also my birthday?"
"Nope. Haha. Amazing, isn't it."
But the truth was, I had given up. The time draws near for me to leave this country. I'm not expecting us to be together. I'm not even expecting her to like me back. I just want to do one last thing for her before I go. Maybe just to make me feel like I left something behind.
I had given up. But that doesn't mean I have to stop liking her. No. It doesn't mean I get to stop liking her, either.
But she can't find out I'm planning something, or else she might think I'm still making advances. It is for this reason that I asked one of her friends if she (the friend) could promise not to tell anyone about what I was going to ask her.
"Yep," she replied in text.
"Do you know when her birthday is? It's just an item in my to-do list to do something for her before I leave this country."
"January 19."
"January 19! Haha. Very funny. Go ahead, make fun of me. Hehe. But, seriously, when is it?"
"Why? That's serious. January 19."
"No joke? So you didn't know that that's also my birthday?"
"Nope. Haha. Amazing, isn't it."
++++++
I took a look at the book in my hand, the one I picked up randomly. A Preface to Paradise Lost by C.S. Lewis.
But my mind was nowhere near the book, or Milton, or my term paper. It was on how the universe had thus far toyed with me and my feelings, drawing up all these illusions of an uncanny connection existing between me and this girl, only to regularly slap me in the face with the fact that we will never be together.
I looked back at the table where she sat. She wasn't there anymore. The papers were also gone. She had left. My heart sank. But my mind rejoiced. Good riddance.
The books she was reading were still there, though, stacked up in a pile. I got my things and moved to that table. Perhaps she really did have the books I needed.
I started going through the books in the stack. Jane Austen. Jane Austen and the War of Ideas. Jane Austen the Novelist. They were all on Jane Austen. Nothing on John Milton. Of course. She was doing her term paper on Jane Austen for the class where we were classmates.
I was sort of glad that she wasn't looking at books on Milton. If she was, that would just be another insult added to the myriads upon myriads of insults this obsession has already bombarded me with.
But she was gone. And I had best get my own work done.
I opened Lewis's preface again. And this time my mind was on the book. I was doing my term paper on the character of Satan from Paradise Lost, so I glanced at the table of contents for anything on Satan. Chapter XIII: Satan. How appropriate.
I turned to Chapter XIII and read on:
I shut the fucking book.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Though this may look like a short story, this is actually Creative Non-Fiction. In other words, this is a true story. Readers of my previous blog posts would realize that I dragged in some of the metaphors I've used in earlier posts into this composition. And I've also repeated a lot of what I already said in my previous posts. That's because I want this composition to stand on its own and be self-explanatory. And I'm not shitting about what's written in C.S. Lewis' preface. See for yourself. The book is A Preface to Paradise Lost by C.S. Lewis, published in London by the Oxford University Press, in 1965. Go to Chapter 13. That's page 94.
But my mind was nowhere near the book, or Milton, or my term paper. It was on how the universe had thus far toyed with me and my feelings, drawing up all these illusions of an uncanny connection existing between me and this girl, only to regularly slap me in the face with the fact that we will never be together.
I looked back at the table where she sat. She wasn't there anymore. The papers were also gone. She had left. My heart sank. But my mind rejoiced. Good riddance.
The books she was reading were still there, though, stacked up in a pile. I got my things and moved to that table. Perhaps she really did have the books I needed.
I started going through the books in the stack. Jane Austen. Jane Austen and the War of Ideas. Jane Austen the Novelist. They were all on Jane Austen. Nothing on John Milton. Of course. She was doing her term paper on Jane Austen for the class where we were classmates.
I was sort of glad that she wasn't looking at books on Milton. If she was, that would just be another insult added to the myriads upon myriads of insults this obsession has already bombarded me with.
But she was gone. And I had best get my own work done.
I opened Lewis's preface again. And this time my mind was on the book. I was doing my term paper on the character of Satan from Paradise Lost, so I glanced at the table of contents for anything on Satan. Chapter XIII: Satan. How appropriate.
I turned to Chapter XIII and read on:
"Before considering the character of Milton's Satan it may be desirable to remove an ambiguity by noticing that Jane Austen's --"
I shut the fucking book.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Though this may look like a short story, this is actually Creative Non-Fiction. In other words, this is a true story. Readers of my previous blog posts would realize that I dragged in some of the metaphors I've used in earlier posts into this composition. And I've also repeated a lot of what I already said in my previous posts. That's because I want this composition to stand on its own and be self-explanatory. And I'm not shitting about what's written in C.S. Lewis' preface. See for yourself. The book is A Preface to Paradise Lost by C.S. Lewis, published in London by the Oxford University Press, in 1965. Go to Chapter 13. That's page 94.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
January 19
I might still be in the Philippines for my birthday, after all. It turns out that I will only be ineligible for migration if I am 21 by the time the interview at the embassy is held. As it is, I can go to the interview before I turn 21 and still be here until the end of the second semester in 2009. I will, therefore, probably still be here to do something for the girl I'm obsessed with on her birthday.
Ah, yes. The whole idea of she and I having the same birthday. Let's just dwell on that. Let's just dwell on it for a moment. And let's ask questions of it. A good question, I guess, would be... WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT FRICKIN' MEAN?!
I am agnostic. I do not believe in stuff the explanations for which involve concepts of the supernatural. Heck, I don't believe in anything, which necessitates that I do not believe any thing to be impossible either. So while I do not believe that this whole phenomenon may involve concepts of destiny, God, Buddha, the stars, or holy macaronis ... well, I can't discount the possibility either.
It's too much of a coincidence. The first time I laid my eyes upon her, I felt a connection. As shitty as that sounds, let me explain. I've mentioned in one of my previous entries that her face is "right out of my childhood dreams." And this is not some sentimental joke. I think anybody who has ever heard of marriage or love has also had, at the back of his or her head, a vague picture of the "ideal" man or woman for him or her. Even if you do not believe that such a person exists, such a picture in your mind exists. And even if you meet a real person who looks like your "ideal" partner, he/she might not necessarily become your partner but his/her appearance will still appeal to you. It is that image that I'm talking about. When I first saw her, she looked exactly like my "ideal" woman. I did not feel struck by Cupid's arrow, or fall helplessly in love, or anything earth-shaking like that. Hell, no. I just liked her immediately because she looks like the girl I've always liked from my dreams. How often do dreams come true? I was just happy that one of mine did. That was why I tried to engage her in conversation right then and there. I wasn't hoping to be her boyfriend someday (yet), nor did I expect that my liking would escalate into an obsession. I just liked her. That was the connection.
And then things came one after the other. Everything about her just fascinated me. Her hair, no matter how she fixes it. Her fashion sense, which I think plays somewhere between conformity and deviance. The way she speaks, which is like the voice of a little girl speaking with all the confidence and authority of an independent woman. There is nothing in all of those things that connect her to me, but they just amaze me for no apparent reason. I want to know who she is. I want to know her beyond the face, beyond the deeds, beyond the looks, beyond the psychology. I want to know who she really is. I want to know her to her soul. I want to know why I feel so drawn to her.
And, of course, I mentioned in one of my previous posts that her two favorite poems were both by Edgar Allan Poe. Now, there's a long story about why I made a big deal out of that. But to cut it short, Poe is one of my favorite writers, after whom a large part of my poetry-writing style is modeled. And also, because reading him is like reading stuff that I had thought of by myself. And, not to mention, we were both born on January 19.
January 19! That explains a lot, doesn't it? She probably only likes Poe because she found out they have the same birthday as well! There's nothing supernatural about it! Right?
Well, that IS highly possible, yes. But, in order for her to give a damn about Poe, she would have to be interested in literature in the first place. Why couldn't she have just liked James Watt - also born on Jan.19 - and become an inventor or something? And that's another thing we have in common: we're both interested in literature. And even if she is interested in literature, there are other authors and poets born on January 19 like Julian Barnes, Nina Bawden, Rex Ingamells. Why, among all these people, did she have to choose Edgar Allan Poe to like? Why did she have to choose as I did, considering that there were also all those other authors for me to choose from? And why, oh why, did I have to fall for her of all people?
Of course, trying to interpret the whole phenomenon of the two of us being interested in literature and specifically Edgar Allan Poe doesn't end there. But whatever explanations we have, we'll keep bringing up the fact that she has the same birthday as Poe, and that I have the same birthday as well - which, by the way, is the focus of this post. So let's get back to that.
Why, in the first place, do we even have the same birthday? We can explain liking for Poe in psychological terms. We can explain my fascination with the little things about her as having its basis on my "ideal" woman image. We can explain our having revolutionary thoughts as a tendency for a certain subset of the generation of which we are both parts. We can explain how we have come to make those decisions as influenced by external factors. But we did not decide to choose our birthdays. No external factors could have influenced that. It can't be explained in psychological terms. It can't have its basis on my imagination. It couldn't have been a societal tendency. The only way to explain it is that it was just brought about by coincidence. And, like I said, it's too much of a coincidence.
Do not get me wrong, though. I'm not saying that we are "meant to be", or a "match made in heaven". No crap like that. In fact, if anything, given our present circumstances I perceive us as not meant to be, or if we are a match made anywhere it must've been in hell. Yes, that's it. We must've done some bad things in our past lives (or past life? Maybe we used to be one soul manifested as Poe) that merit punishment. Her punishment, it seems, is to be the unfortunate girl I would be obsessed with. I, on the other hand, am sentenced to living under all these illusions of such a "connection" existing only to be regularly slapped in the face with the fact that she and I will never be together.
Ah, yes. The whole idea of she and I having the same birthday. Let's just dwell on that. Let's just dwell on it for a moment. And let's ask questions of it. A good question, I guess, would be... WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT FRICKIN' MEAN?!
I am agnostic. I do not believe in stuff the explanations for which involve concepts of the supernatural. Heck, I don't believe in anything, which necessitates that I do not believe any thing to be impossible either. So while I do not believe that this whole phenomenon may involve concepts of destiny, God, Buddha, the stars, or holy macaronis ... well, I can't discount the possibility either.
It's too much of a coincidence. The first time I laid my eyes upon her, I felt a connection. As shitty as that sounds, let me explain. I've mentioned in one of my previous entries that her face is "right out of my childhood dreams." And this is not some sentimental joke. I think anybody who has ever heard of marriage or love has also had, at the back of his or her head, a vague picture of the "ideal" man or woman for him or her. Even if you do not believe that such a person exists, such a picture in your mind exists. And even if you meet a real person who looks like your "ideal" partner, he/she might not necessarily become your partner but his/her appearance will still appeal to you. It is that image that I'm talking about. When I first saw her, she looked exactly like my "ideal" woman. I did not feel struck by Cupid's arrow, or fall helplessly in love, or anything earth-shaking like that. Hell, no. I just liked her immediately because she looks like the girl I've always liked from my dreams. How often do dreams come true? I was just happy that one of mine did. That was why I tried to engage her in conversation right then and there. I wasn't hoping to be her boyfriend someday (yet), nor did I expect that my liking would escalate into an obsession. I just liked her. That was the connection.
And then things came one after the other. Everything about her just fascinated me. Her hair, no matter how she fixes it. Her fashion sense, which I think plays somewhere between conformity and deviance. The way she speaks, which is like the voice of a little girl speaking with all the confidence and authority of an independent woman. There is nothing in all of those things that connect her to me, but they just amaze me for no apparent reason. I want to know who she is. I want to know her beyond the face, beyond the deeds, beyond the looks, beyond the psychology. I want to know who she really is. I want to know her to her soul. I want to know why I feel so drawn to her.
And, of course, I mentioned in one of my previous posts that her two favorite poems were both by Edgar Allan Poe. Now, there's a long story about why I made a big deal out of that. But to cut it short, Poe is one of my favorite writers, after whom a large part of my poetry-writing style is modeled. And also, because reading him is like reading stuff that I had thought of by myself. And, not to mention, we were both born on January 19.
January 19! That explains a lot, doesn't it? She probably only likes Poe because she found out they have the same birthday as well! There's nothing supernatural about it! Right?
Well, that IS highly possible, yes. But, in order for her to give a damn about Poe, she would have to be interested in literature in the first place. Why couldn't she have just liked James Watt - also born on Jan.19 - and become an inventor or something? And that's another thing we have in common: we're both interested in literature. And even if she is interested in literature, there are other authors and poets born on January 19 like Julian Barnes, Nina Bawden, Rex Ingamells. Why, among all these people, did she have to choose Edgar Allan Poe to like? Why did she have to choose as I did, considering that there were also all those other authors for me to choose from? And why, oh why, did I have to fall for her of all people?
Of course, trying to interpret the whole phenomenon of the two of us being interested in literature and specifically Edgar Allan Poe doesn't end there. But whatever explanations we have, we'll keep bringing up the fact that she has the same birthday as Poe, and that I have the same birthday as well - which, by the way, is the focus of this post. So let's get back to that.
Why, in the first place, do we even have the same birthday? We can explain liking for Poe in psychological terms. We can explain my fascination with the little things about her as having its basis on my "ideal" woman image. We can explain our having revolutionary thoughts as a tendency for a certain subset of the generation of which we are both parts. We can explain how we have come to make those decisions as influenced by external factors. But we did not decide to choose our birthdays. No external factors could have influenced that. It can't be explained in psychological terms. It can't have its basis on my imagination. It couldn't have been a societal tendency. The only way to explain it is that it was just brought about by coincidence. And, like I said, it's too much of a coincidence.
Do not get me wrong, though. I'm not saying that we are "meant to be", or a "match made in heaven". No crap like that. In fact, if anything, given our present circumstances I perceive us as not meant to be, or if we are a match made anywhere it must've been in hell. Yes, that's it. We must've done some bad things in our past lives (or past life? Maybe we used to be one soul manifested as Poe) that merit punishment. Her punishment, it seems, is to be the unfortunate girl I would be obsessed with. I, on the other hand, am sentenced to living under all these illusions of such a "connection" existing only to be regularly slapped in the face with the fact that she and I will never be together.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Will Insults Never Cease?
I take to heart the question I keep asking in my previous post: "where shall I begin?" It is a question that I really am asking myself regarding this matter. I do not know where to begin the story of me and my ... well, the girl who has had the gravest misfortune of being the object of my affection.
So many other things have happened that I didn't put in my previous post: the time I asked for her cell-phone number, the time I asked her to review a story I wrote, the time I discussed an activist story with her. I just can't decide where to start. I can't decide what to put where.
In fact, today another significant development in this story occurred. I asked Dania, one of her friends, if she knew when the birthday of the girl I like was. I told Dania that it was in my to-do list to do something for the girl I like before I leave this country.
"Jan 19." Dania casually replied in text.
"Jan 19!" I said. "Haha. Very funny. [Go ahead, make fun of me. Hehe. But seriously, when is her birthday]?"
"[Why? That's serious]. Jan 19."
"No joke? So you didn't know [that that's also my birthday]?"
"Nope. Haha. [Amazing, isn't it]."
And this sucks because - one - I probably would've left this country by then. And - two - it just adds another one to the myriads upon myriads of insults that this obsession has already bombarded me with. It just uncovers more of the uncanny connection I have with this girl who doesn't like me, who doesn't show any signs of liking me in the near future, and with whom - even if she did like me - I can't be with for much long anyway.
Fuck you, universe. Fuck you.
So many other things have happened that I didn't put in my previous post: the time I asked for her cell-phone number, the time I asked her to review a story I wrote, the time I discussed an activist story with her. I just can't decide where to start. I can't decide what to put where.
In fact, today another significant development in this story occurred. I asked Dania, one of her friends, if she knew when the birthday of the girl I like was. I told Dania that it was in my to-do list to do something for the girl I like before I leave this country.
"Jan 19." Dania casually replied in text.
"Jan 19!" I said. "Haha. Very funny. [Go ahead, make fun of me. Hehe. But seriously, when is her birthday]?"
"[Why? That's serious]. Jan 19."
"No joke? So you didn't know [that that's also my birthday]?"
"Nope. Haha. [Amazing, isn't it]."
And this sucks because - one - I probably would've left this country by then. And - two - it just adds another one to the myriads upon myriads of insults that this obsession has already bombarded me with. It just uncovers more of the uncanny connection I have with this girl who doesn't like me, who doesn't show any signs of liking me in the near future, and with whom - even if she did like me - I can't be with for much long anyway.
Fuck you, universe. Fuck you.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Where Shall I Begin?
Where shall I begin? Shall I begin at the very beginning? That first day of class, and the first I saw you? That day when you were just a pretty girl in the room for me? But, by whatever forces are at work in the universe, what a pretty girl you were. The way you sat there and slouched your slender build and skinny arms, unmindful of how your posture seemed to ask me for an embrace. The way your black bangs fell from your thick short hair to the side of your face, denying me view of that which I shall soon discover to be right out of my childhood dreams. Dreams that have grown more and more jaded with age, the sole survivor being the image of that nameless face, made nameless by your existence. Shall I begin there? When I first talked to you, under the pretense of some academic concern...but secretly hoping to establish a connection. Shall I begin there?
Or shall I begin at the time I first weaved an illusion that such a connection existed? When you said in class that your two favorite poems were both by Edgar Allan Poe, whom I've always thought was me in a past life. Or have I really? Or was that also part of the illusion I weaved?
Shall I begin at how I watched you from a distance? How I took delight at things as petty as the way your pants were folded at the ends one day, or the absence of your glasses? How that ridiculously made me feel like I see more of you when you are without those things, which I find very charming on you anyway. Or shall I begin at how I allowed myself to be troubled by anything that remotely looks like a rival? How I fretted at every touch, every glance you gave another girl. How I watched you lean your head on her shoulder, or hold her hand, and how I wished she had been me.
Or shall I begin at that last class meeting, when the thought struck me that I'd rather see you do all those things than not see you at all? When I thought so hard about talking to you, possibly for the last time. When the harder I thought about it, the weirder I seemed to myself. When I stayed in my seat after dismissal, just to look at you for two more seconds. When I got up and left the classroom as usual, as if you had not just mesmerized me for an entire semester, as if I did not need the reassurance I gave myself that it was just a crush. It would die soon. It was just a crush.
Shall I, perhaps, begin at how your phantom met me at every turn? How that ever-present image of the absent you, fresh out of my dreams, always stood between me and other girls. How I could not bring myself to like any other anymore, forever haunted by the spirit of she who had captured mine? Shall I begin there? When, for days, I had vainly tried to force the hand of fate into crossing my path with yours. When, for days, I had taken to visiting all the places where I had accidentally seen you at least once, hoping that you would be there when I am once again. In front of the College of Business Administration. In front of Kalayaan residence hall. In the Shopping Center.
Or shall I begin at the times our paths actually did cross? And without conscious effort on my part to make them. That day by the photocopy lady in Palma Hall. That time I saw you in the stone tables outside the Faculty Center. How I wish I had said, at the very least, greetings at those times. But instead I just pretended not to know you, for fear that you might suspect my true feelings for you.
Shall I begin at the time I decided I would want to transfer to a program in the college where I knew you were in? Shall I begin at how, every day of the first week, I entered the college building with all the enthusiasm and anxieties of a high-school boy anticipating new adventures? And maybe a little romance? Shall I begin at how my blood ran cold when I found out we were classmates again? When you, as you often had before, seemed to behold me with a look of weariness that I couldn't quite decide whether or not was of me.
Shall I begin at the days spent admiring you from a distance as before? Worshiping you in silence as before. Speaking in class as if being listened to by no one else but you. Savoring the victory in each time you accept my simple offerings of candy. Drawing illusions at every time you talk to me.
Shall I begin at how I had heard your voice amidst many others? How I turned to see you one among the troop of people wearing red? How I observed as though observing a younger, optimistic, revolutionary me? How I knew then that we had more in common than just being English majors, than being in the same class, than Edgar Allan Poe. How I knew then that I was you.
Shall I begin at how every day I talk to you, I discover more about your being, about my feelings. How every encounter intrigued me further. How you trapped me in your paradoxes. You're a little girl, you're an independent woman. You're diplomatic, you're revolutionary. You're so familiar, you're so alien. You're me, but I'm not you. Anymore. Shall I begin there?
Or shall I begin at how I decided I couldn't bear it any longer? How, in my frustration, in my confusion, in all my love and hate and foolishness and weakness and passion I lost control. And confessed. And how you said...
"I like somebody else."
But I digress. Where shall I begin?
Or shall I begin at the time I first weaved an illusion that such a connection existed? When you said in class that your two favorite poems were both by Edgar Allan Poe, whom I've always thought was me in a past life. Or have I really? Or was that also part of the illusion I weaved?
Shall I begin at how I watched you from a distance? How I took delight at things as petty as the way your pants were folded at the ends one day, or the absence of your glasses? How that ridiculously made me feel like I see more of you when you are without those things, which I find very charming on you anyway. Or shall I begin at how I allowed myself to be troubled by anything that remotely looks like a rival? How I fretted at every touch, every glance you gave another girl. How I watched you lean your head on her shoulder, or hold her hand, and how I wished she had been me.
Or shall I begin at that last class meeting, when the thought struck me that I'd rather see you do all those things than not see you at all? When I thought so hard about talking to you, possibly for the last time. When the harder I thought about it, the weirder I seemed to myself. When I stayed in my seat after dismissal, just to look at you for two more seconds. When I got up and left the classroom as usual, as if you had not just mesmerized me for an entire semester, as if I did not need the reassurance I gave myself that it was just a crush. It would die soon. It was just a crush.
Shall I, perhaps, begin at how your phantom met me at every turn? How that ever-present image of the absent you, fresh out of my dreams, always stood between me and other girls. How I could not bring myself to like any other anymore, forever haunted by the spirit of she who had captured mine? Shall I begin there? When, for days, I had vainly tried to force the hand of fate into crossing my path with yours. When, for days, I had taken to visiting all the places where I had accidentally seen you at least once, hoping that you would be there when I am once again. In front of the College of Business Administration. In front of Kalayaan residence hall. In the Shopping Center.
Or shall I begin at the times our paths actually did cross? And without conscious effort on my part to make them. That day by the photocopy lady in Palma Hall. That time I saw you in the stone tables outside the Faculty Center. How I wish I had said, at the very least, greetings at those times. But instead I just pretended not to know you, for fear that you might suspect my true feelings for you.
Shall I begin at the time I decided I would want to transfer to a program in the college where I knew you were in? Shall I begin at how, every day of the first week, I entered the college building with all the enthusiasm and anxieties of a high-school boy anticipating new adventures? And maybe a little romance? Shall I begin at how my blood ran cold when I found out we were classmates again? When you, as you often had before, seemed to behold me with a look of weariness that I couldn't quite decide whether or not was of me.
Shall I begin at the days spent admiring you from a distance as before? Worshiping you in silence as before. Speaking in class as if being listened to by no one else but you. Savoring the victory in each time you accept my simple offerings of candy. Drawing illusions at every time you talk to me.
Shall I begin at how I had heard your voice amidst many others? How I turned to see you one among the troop of people wearing red? How I observed as though observing a younger, optimistic, revolutionary me? How I knew then that we had more in common than just being English majors, than being in the same class, than Edgar Allan Poe. How I knew then that I was you.
Shall I begin at how every day I talk to you, I discover more about your being, about my feelings. How every encounter intrigued me further. How you trapped me in your paradoxes. You're a little girl, you're an independent woman. You're diplomatic, you're revolutionary. You're so familiar, you're so alien. You're me, but I'm not you. Anymore. Shall I begin there?
Or shall I begin at how I decided I couldn't bear it any longer? How, in my frustration, in my confusion, in all my love and hate and foolishness and weakness and passion I lost control. And confessed. And how you said...
"I like somebody else."
But I digress. Where shall I begin?
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
The Vampire Hunter
I don't know what spirit possessed me when I wrote this poem.
We were given an assignment in Creative Writing class to write a poem. I spent two days working on one, carefully putting in the rhymes, paying special attention to the images I was creating, even integrating a hidden message amidst the lines. In short, intellectualizing the poem. After I had finished writing it, I read it and thought ... it was a boring read.
So I made another one, again spending two days. This time, in an attempt to connect with my audience more easily, I chose for my topic the romantic dilemma of someone who loves someone who loves someone else. I finished the poem and thought ... it was too trivial.
Ah, finally. Third time's the charm, alright. It was a charm indeed, but whether by the benevolent, or malevolent forces of the universe, I couldn't say. I thought of a topic: the black-and-white perception of good and evil, and the foolishness of it all. Then I unleashed my heart, letting it write its own hoard of sentiments. No intellectualization, no trying to connect with the audience. Let the words write themselves, let the words rhyme themselves, let the syllables arrange themselves in whatever meter they want. Within a day, it completed itself.
The poem had already gone through our workshop in class, and though a lot of my classmates liked it, I feel they only liked it because they are not very widely read, and that this was the first time they encountered this style. Some of my classmates' comments confirm this. But for the rest of the class, who have read quite a lot of poetry before, that includes the professor, they said they didn't feel like they were reading anything new. For either side, however, I felt that the deep, instinctive yet intellectual elements of the poem were lost on them.
Needless to say, my poem got decapitated for all its faults. I sat there and watched as sharks, frenzied with the slightest hints of blood, tore apart my creation - my baby.
And, looking back, I guess I was trying to write more of a short story than a poem. And I do acknowledge all the shortcomings of my creation. But the way that the words rhymed! The way that the poem makes the reader recite itself! And the images! I just can't dismiss them. I don't care if the trochaic rhythm signals the reader not to take the poem seriously (I didn't even know I was using the trochaic scheme!). I don't care that the images are too cliche (They were meant to be cliche! To be shattered at the end!). The poem has had an effect on me. And, though I wish to move on to creating something the genius of which would not be lost on its readers, this particular poem still captivates me. It had sown seeds in me. What these seeds shall grow into, I don't know. But I can feel them ... creeping, creeping ...
The Vampire Hunter by Andre’ Betita
T’was long ago, in a town, the name of which has been forgot
'Round one October or November, Terror was begot
Rumors had been on the spin of cattle going missing,
Of children being killed and taken in the darkness of the evening
Infernal howling kept the people all awake with fright
And even for the few who slept, dreams were mares of night
And more and more, people were reporting of some sighting
Of a cloaked and hooded man who, in the nights, was creeping
Creeping, creeping, always creeping, who was he they did not know
They found themselves, though, all agreeing this man had to go
Then came the call from Town hall, a statement by the Mayor
“The undead is causing dread! (at least so says the rumor)”
This set the stage for the rage of desperate people calling
For somebody, anybody, any hero heeding
Lo and behold, a Hunter, bold, seeking an adventure
Stepped up to meet the challenge and sought to kill the creature
So fearless Mister Vampire Hunter went to town one day
Looking for that beast of lore: the Vampire he must slay
He came to town with his tools: a special poison dagger,
A pistol made for killing ghouls with bullets made of silver
For the night he waited and waited, waited, waited and
Kept a sharp lookout for that savage ghastly beast of lore
Night fell at last, though it was starless, Hunter hunted still regardless
With only the red moon’s light, red moonlight as his guide
Trees gone leafless, branches swaying, monstrous fingers all beckoning
Fingers that seemed to summon the cloaked, hooded, creeping demon
For Hunter now, by the moonlight, Hunter now beheld the sight
Of a cloaked and hooded figure creeping like some cursed creature
Creeping, creeping in the farms, not yet causing any harm
Creeping, creeping ‘round the barns, not yet causing any harm
Not yet causing any harm
Watching from the darkness, Hunter, slipped and slid and stalked the creature
Waiting for a sign of sin to betray the thirst within
Until at last, then it happened, with a creepy grace of movement,
The creature mauled and killed a hen, picked the dead thing up and then,
Looked 'round to see if someone saw him, though the Hunter he missed seeing.
And with what seemed demonic speed, off to darkness went the fiend
Hunter quickly followed suit, stealthy though was the pursuit
And yet one thing made him wonder, there was something quite a bother
Why not feed right away? The easier to catch more prey
To what else was it taking, single helpless little Chicken?
The creature had not seen it coming, Hunter running right behind him
Dagger flashing, he was slashing. The creature hit the floor
And by the reddish moonlight, Hunter, saw the face of the creature
T’was a thing of ghastly horror, a mix of wounded flesh and bone
Of wounded, rotting flesh and bone
“This must be the face, oh surely, of undeath, so otherworldly!”
To himself went to explain he, Hunter did so certainly
Seeing lapse with the attack, the creature quickly creeping back,
Went and, without second thought, took the chance to flee
Hunter picked up pace and thought the creature’s efforts all for naught
The potent poison from the dagger flowed within the cursed creature
Not only would it slow him down, it could itself save the town
And drain the creature’s life away, not that it's needed anyway
Hunter, stalking once again, chased the creature to its den
He watched it enter and take shelter in a cave at town’s end
He heard it talking, giving warning, desperate voice echoing
As he expected, there were others, the creature would have fed
He listened in, what was it saying? And with whom was it talking?
It mattered not, so he thought, for now he found what he had sought
Inside the cave, the wounded man, was doing everything he can
With each and every dying breath, to get his kin away from death
His wife was there, expression bare, terror in her stare
And his two sons, his precious ones, for whom he truly cared
“Come, my love! Let us flee! The town has sent someone!
Oh, come my children! We must flee from that man who had come!”
No sooner had he finished talking than the Hunter, gently aiming
His revolver, pulled the trigger, going for the head
Body falling, sight was fading, blood was spilling, Death was winning
Kids were crying, Daddy’s dying, a silver bullet in his head
A silver bullet in his head!
It wasn’t long before the Hunter, coming to check the cadaver,
Heard the sobs and cries and whimper, of the sons and of the mother
Red moonlight shining on their faces, he saw they had wounds in places
Demon-spawned little wretches! The phenomenon amazes!
And as the kids and mother, stared back at him with horror,
He looked down at them, decided then, the bloodline had to end
T’was long ago, in a town the name of which has been forgot
'Round one October or November Terror was begot
We were given an assignment in Creative Writing class to write a poem. I spent two days working on one, carefully putting in the rhymes, paying special attention to the images I was creating, even integrating a hidden message amidst the lines. In short, intellectualizing the poem. After I had finished writing it, I read it and thought ... it was a boring read.
So I made another one, again spending two days. This time, in an attempt to connect with my audience more easily, I chose for my topic the romantic dilemma of someone who loves someone who loves someone else. I finished the poem and thought ... it was too trivial.
Ah, finally. Third time's the charm, alright. It was a charm indeed, but whether by the benevolent, or malevolent forces of the universe, I couldn't say. I thought of a topic: the black-and-white perception of good and evil, and the foolishness of it all. Then I unleashed my heart, letting it write its own hoard of sentiments. No intellectualization, no trying to connect with the audience. Let the words write themselves, let the words rhyme themselves, let the syllables arrange themselves in whatever meter they want. Within a day, it completed itself.
The poem had already gone through our workshop in class, and though a lot of my classmates liked it, I feel they only liked it because they are not very widely read, and that this was the first time they encountered this style. Some of my classmates' comments confirm this. But for the rest of the class, who have read quite a lot of poetry before, that includes the professor, they said they didn't feel like they were reading anything new. For either side, however, I felt that the deep, instinctive yet intellectual elements of the poem were lost on them.
Needless to say, my poem got decapitated for all its faults. I sat there and watched as sharks, frenzied with the slightest hints of blood, tore apart my creation - my baby.
And, looking back, I guess I was trying to write more of a short story than a poem. And I do acknowledge all the shortcomings of my creation. But the way that the words rhymed! The way that the poem makes the reader recite itself! And the images! I just can't dismiss them. I don't care if the trochaic rhythm signals the reader not to take the poem seriously (I didn't even know I was using the trochaic scheme!). I don't care that the images are too cliche (They were meant to be cliche! To be shattered at the end!). The poem has had an effect on me. And, though I wish to move on to creating something the genius of which would not be lost on its readers, this particular poem still captivates me. It had sown seeds in me. What these seeds shall grow into, I don't know. But I can feel them ... creeping, creeping ...
The Vampire Hunter by Andre’ Betita
T’was long ago, in a town, the name of which has been forgot
'Round one October or November, Terror was begot
Rumors had been on the spin of cattle going missing,
Of children being killed and taken in the darkness of the evening
Infernal howling kept the people all awake with fright
And even for the few who slept, dreams were mares of night
And more and more, people were reporting of some sighting
Of a cloaked and hooded man who, in the nights, was creeping
Creeping, creeping, always creeping, who was he they did not know
They found themselves, though, all agreeing this man had to go
Then came the call from Town hall, a statement by the Mayor
“The undead is causing dread! (at least so says the rumor)”
This set the stage for the rage of desperate people calling
For somebody, anybody, any hero heeding
Lo and behold, a Hunter, bold, seeking an adventure
Stepped up to meet the challenge and sought to kill the creature
So fearless Mister Vampire Hunter went to town one day
Looking for that beast of lore: the Vampire he must slay
He came to town with his tools: a special poison dagger,
A pistol made for killing ghouls with bullets made of silver
For the night he waited and waited, waited, waited and
Kept a sharp lookout for that savage ghastly beast of lore
Night fell at last, though it was starless, Hunter hunted still regardless
With only the red moon’s light, red moonlight as his guide
Trees gone leafless, branches swaying, monstrous fingers all beckoning
Fingers that seemed to summon the cloaked, hooded, creeping demon
For Hunter now, by the moonlight, Hunter now beheld the sight
Of a cloaked and hooded figure creeping like some cursed creature
Creeping, creeping in the farms, not yet causing any harm
Creeping, creeping ‘round the barns, not yet causing any harm
Not yet causing any harm
Watching from the darkness, Hunter, slipped and slid and stalked the creature
Waiting for a sign of sin to betray the thirst within
Until at last, then it happened, with a creepy grace of movement,
The creature mauled and killed a hen, picked the dead thing up and then,
Looked 'round to see if someone saw him, though the Hunter he missed seeing.
And with what seemed demonic speed, off to darkness went the fiend
Hunter quickly followed suit, stealthy though was the pursuit
And yet one thing made him wonder, there was something quite a bother
Why not feed right away? The easier to catch more prey
To what else was it taking, single helpless little Chicken?
The creature had not seen it coming, Hunter running right behind him
Dagger flashing, he was slashing. The creature hit the floor
And by the reddish moonlight, Hunter, saw the face of the creature
T’was a thing of ghastly horror, a mix of wounded flesh and bone
Of wounded, rotting flesh and bone
“This must be the face, oh surely, of undeath, so otherworldly!”
To himself went to explain he, Hunter did so certainly
Seeing lapse with the attack, the creature quickly creeping back,
Went and, without second thought, took the chance to flee
Hunter picked up pace and thought the creature’s efforts all for naught
The potent poison from the dagger flowed within the cursed creature
Not only would it slow him down, it could itself save the town
And drain the creature’s life away, not that it's needed anyway
Hunter, stalking once again, chased the creature to its den
He watched it enter and take shelter in a cave at town’s end
He heard it talking, giving warning, desperate voice echoing
As he expected, there were others, the creature would have fed
He listened in, what was it saying? And with whom was it talking?
It mattered not, so he thought, for now he found what he had sought
Inside the cave, the wounded man, was doing everything he can
With each and every dying breath, to get his kin away from death
His wife was there, expression bare, terror in her stare
And his two sons, his precious ones, for whom he truly cared
“Come, my love! Let us flee! The town has sent someone!
Oh, come my children! We must flee from that man who had come!”
No sooner had he finished talking than the Hunter, gently aiming
His revolver, pulled the trigger, going for the head
Body falling, sight was fading, blood was spilling, Death was winning
Kids were crying, Daddy’s dying, a silver bullet in his head
A silver bullet in his head!
It wasn’t long before the Hunter, coming to check the cadaver,
Heard the sobs and cries and whimper, of the sons and of the mother
Red moonlight shining on their faces, he saw they had wounds in places
Demon-spawned little wretches! The phenomenon amazes!
And as the kids and mother, stared back at him with horror,
He looked down at them, decided then, the bloodline had to end
T’was long ago, in a town the name of which has been forgot
'Round one October or November Terror was begot
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Dreaming on
For reasons I did not know and did not care to know, I sat slouched on a stool in one corner of this room so tall and so dark that no ceiling could be seen beyond the darkness above the two or three studio lights providing the people down below with the privilege of sight, no matter how limited. My elbows on my knees, my fingers locked together in a grip, I wanted so much for the night to end, or at least, for something interesting to happen before it does. I looked around and saw the staff all busy; some of them bringing the drinks in and out of the room, some panicking about the flow of the program, and some sighing in relief that their jobs were over and that they were about to take their well-deserved breaks - perhaps with people they think special. I could hear the applause from the hall adjacent to the room where I was. The program was almost over.
It was an event that I helped organize, but couldn't remember where it occurred, or why, or how, how the heck I managed to convince myself to abide by the formal dress code and wear a formal suit. All I knew was that the event was held on that day that comes every year, when the immortal universe imposes upon mortal humans the obligation of breathing cold night air that's thick with the nauseating stench of flirtation, infatuation, and everyone's favorite four-letter word. It made me sick that the people around me fell prey so easily to that invisible boss pressuring you to spend the night with someone you fool yourself into thinking special. But it didn't matter. I didn't care. I had taken off my necktie and had left it hanging there on my neck. The night was almost over. I couldn't wait.
Somebody called my name in a demanding tone that wasn't the least bit pleasant to my ears.
I turned and saw her enter the field of visibility that the studio lights provided in the middle of the darkness, wearing a black sleeveless gown, her long blonde hair tied in pigtails, her light complexion against the background of the darkness she just emerged from. She crossed her arms and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I hated it. I hated her. I hated the way she had been bossing me around all night. I hated the way she was doing it again. And I wanted to show her how much I wasn't enjoying my job, though I knew that she already knew.
I stood up and looked her in the eye with defiance. She held her ground and I locked stares with her for about four seconds, after which I looked away and kicked the stool at my feet, sending it flying into the darkness of the room. The staff took no notice. I did it partly because I didn't want to submit, and partly because I knew I would have to.
I knew what she wanted me to do and I proceeded to do it, albeit grudgingly. As I passed her on my way out of the room, she froze me in place with one word:
"Necktie," she said, without looking at me.
I realized that my necktie was still dangling from where it hung around my neck. Instead of wearing it again, however, I grabbed it, dropped it on the floor right in front of her in display of utter rebellion, and left.
I left the dark room and found myself in the hallway leading to the hall where the program was being held. On my way, I picked up from one of the staff members the last certificate to be handed out that night. I found the door to the hall, pushed it open, and felt all eyes turn to me. The entire hall fell silent, except for some rather loud whisperings. I saw the recipients - a man and a woman - already on stage, and by the looks of it, they had been waiting for me. I walked my conceited walk through the hall without looking at anybody. I made my way up the stage and approached the couple, whom, by the way, I personally knew. I handed over the certificate with a sincere smile. The man, knowing it was just typical me, returned the smile and we shook hands. The audience hesitantly applauded.
I was on my way out of the hall when I saw her again, standing at the door from where I came in, still with her arms crossed, and still looking at me with a stern expression, albeit one that didn't demand as much as before. My last job for the night was over and we both knew it. She couldn't order me around anymore.
I wanted to walk all the way right back into the dark room, but when I was about to pass her, she turned and started walking beside me. After ten steps or so, she extended her hand, still without looking at me.
I turned to see my necktie, all neatly rolled, on her hand. I took it without looking at her, and all the while keeping my pace.
Five more steps and she started slowing down. I also slowed down to match her pace.
It wasn't long before I felt her fingers making contact with mine, sending signals, making it clear she wasn't touching me by accident, asking for a reply.
At that moment, I felt something that I haven't felt for a long time. It was that concept that I used to hold in nearly divine reverence. But now it was nothing more to me than a series of chemical reactions in my body, facilitated by the hypothalamus, which was still clinging on to the failing residual traditions left by evolution.
I still hated the way she had treated me all night.
And I still refused to let anybody in.
But I held her hand.
She locked her fingers with mine, put her free arm around my own, and leaned her head on my shoulder.
I planted a kiss on her blonde hair and then leaned my head against hers.
We walked the rest of the way like that, side-by-side, hands locked together, leaning on each other, not saying a word.
And then I woke up, the image of her and that hallway completely gone, but the feeling just disappearing.
Notes:
This is really a dream that I had on the night of Feb. 6, 2008. That girl in my dream, I do not know her, or anybody that resembles her appearance and attitude, in real life. But for those of you who know the anime serial "School Rumble", I guess the best way to describe the girl in my dream is that she looked a lot like Sawachika Eri. And our interactions were much like the interactions between Sawachika and Harima Kenzy, except that my hostility towards her wasn't comical at all.
It was an event that I helped organize, but couldn't remember where it occurred, or why, or how, how the heck I managed to convince myself to abide by the formal dress code and wear a formal suit. All I knew was that the event was held on that day that comes every year, when the immortal universe imposes upon mortal humans the obligation of breathing cold night air that's thick with the nauseating stench of flirtation, infatuation, and everyone's favorite four-letter word. It made me sick that the people around me fell prey so easily to that invisible boss pressuring you to spend the night with someone you fool yourself into thinking special. But it didn't matter. I didn't care. I had taken off my necktie and had left it hanging there on my neck. The night was almost over. I couldn't wait.
Somebody called my name in a demanding tone that wasn't the least bit pleasant to my ears.
I turned and saw her enter the field of visibility that the studio lights provided in the middle of the darkness, wearing a black sleeveless gown, her long blonde hair tied in pigtails, her light complexion against the background of the darkness she just emerged from. She crossed her arms and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I hated it. I hated her. I hated the way she had been bossing me around all night. I hated the way she was doing it again. And I wanted to show her how much I wasn't enjoying my job, though I knew that she already knew.
I stood up and looked her in the eye with defiance. She held her ground and I locked stares with her for about four seconds, after which I looked away and kicked the stool at my feet, sending it flying into the darkness of the room. The staff took no notice. I did it partly because I didn't want to submit, and partly because I knew I would have to.
I knew what she wanted me to do and I proceeded to do it, albeit grudgingly. As I passed her on my way out of the room, she froze me in place with one word:
"Necktie," she said, without looking at me.
I realized that my necktie was still dangling from where it hung around my neck. Instead of wearing it again, however, I grabbed it, dropped it on the floor right in front of her in display of utter rebellion, and left.
I left the dark room and found myself in the hallway leading to the hall where the program was being held. On my way, I picked up from one of the staff members the last certificate to be handed out that night. I found the door to the hall, pushed it open, and felt all eyes turn to me. The entire hall fell silent, except for some rather loud whisperings. I saw the recipients - a man and a woman - already on stage, and by the looks of it, they had been waiting for me. I walked my conceited walk through the hall without looking at anybody. I made my way up the stage and approached the couple, whom, by the way, I personally knew. I handed over the certificate with a sincere smile. The man, knowing it was just typical me, returned the smile and we shook hands. The audience hesitantly applauded.
I was on my way out of the hall when I saw her again, standing at the door from where I came in, still with her arms crossed, and still looking at me with a stern expression, albeit one that didn't demand as much as before. My last job for the night was over and we both knew it. She couldn't order me around anymore.
I wanted to walk all the way right back into the dark room, but when I was about to pass her, she turned and started walking beside me. After ten steps or so, she extended her hand, still without looking at me.
I turned to see my necktie, all neatly rolled, on her hand. I took it without looking at her, and all the while keeping my pace.
Five more steps and she started slowing down. I also slowed down to match her pace.
It wasn't long before I felt her fingers making contact with mine, sending signals, making it clear she wasn't touching me by accident, asking for a reply.
At that moment, I felt something that I haven't felt for a long time. It was that concept that I used to hold in nearly divine reverence. But now it was nothing more to me than a series of chemical reactions in my body, facilitated by the hypothalamus, which was still clinging on to the failing residual traditions left by evolution.
I still hated the way she had treated me all night.
And I still refused to let anybody in.
But I held her hand.
She locked her fingers with mine, put her free arm around my own, and leaned her head on my shoulder.
I planted a kiss on her blonde hair and then leaned my head against hers.
We walked the rest of the way like that, side-by-side, hands locked together, leaning on each other, not saying a word.
And then I woke up, the image of her and that hallway completely gone, but the feeling just disappearing.
Notes:
This is really a dream that I had on the night of Feb. 6, 2008. That girl in my dream, I do not know her, or anybody that resembles her appearance and attitude, in real life. But for those of you who know the anime serial "School Rumble", I guess the best way to describe the girl in my dream is that she looked a lot like Sawachika Eri. And our interactions were much like the interactions between Sawachika and Harima Kenzy, except that my hostility towards her wasn't comical at all.
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