perhaps
perhaps
perhaps

Learning to Breathe Underwater
Saturday, 08.11.2001 : 12.35 p m

Under the shower at five in the morning to ease my worries and soothe my nerves. Running water is the solution to all our problems, and soap will be declared "the new tears". Tears have a chemical compound that can be fatal in high doses. Merely releasing this poison is a means of survival.

I want to talk to Tristan Tzara, so I can make sense out of all of this. Pablo Neruda... the evil bastard, he makes me cry, at the same time he saves me because the poison is released in doses. Under the shower at five in the morning. Rimbaud is soaping himself with tears. Clean, aren't we?I tell him. Terribly so, he replies. I need to talk to the manager. I am a reasonable girl. The water is cold. So are Neruda's stars. Neruda, Neruda, everything is Neruda today, it makes me feel faint.

Stars, fuck the poetry it holds, I can only stand under this shower... at five in the morning... there are no stars this morning, they left at about 3.48 while I was smoking lying dreaming philosophizing catastrophicating atop the roof of the car. Then, rain. The skies cry and shower their poison to the earth. the earth greens with rain. Therefore: poison gives life. As it's raining here in the shower. My papers are all wet: I was stupid to read under the shower. It's Callas in the background. Singing her throat off. No, her power comes from the stomach. She's crying too to get rid of the poison. Boolean algebra and baroque churches and Pascal and Mozart can all disappear. Go on, scat. Leave Beethoven. I feel like Alex ("Right, right, right... well well well") drinking milk in a room filled with Moloko-whatevers in 70's font. Crazy fonts.

I'm tempted to use fancy words like "in lieu" and "heart-shaped candies". Kant is not my hero. Today, he makes me sick. And guess what?! Know thomas Hobbes? He lied to me. I will stay here under the shower uttering a croak of dissent.

I'm learning to breathe underwater. Hey, what do you know? I high-fived a huge statue of a hand yesterday night in an attempt to understand Breton's juggled-up literary alphabet soup. Well, now, I am as everyone of you, still confused. Under the shower at five in the morning! So, what is the answer? What is the answer, tell me! I'm waiting. Just here. Just waiting. I'm waiting.

We all are.

-----------------------------
Samuel Beckett quote for all.
just think all this
one day all this
one fine day
just think
if one day
one fine day all this
stopped
just think
And yet another:
sleep till death/ healeth/ come ease/ this life disease
(thank you Emil for finally returning my Beckett books)
------------------------------

"I will lace my heart with Christmas lights."

PS. Just got an email from Quark. He won first place at the Palanca Awards for A Date with Jao Mapa. I have wonderfully talented friends. Congatulations, Herr Quarkipoo! Make you forever make eternal nonsense.

Free Coupons, Discounts, and Philosophy in the Streets.
Friday, 08.10.2001 : 05:16 p.m.

This morning, in all his orange glory, I saw Jollibee the mascot. He was standing on the sidewalk intersecting Makati Avenue and Paseo de Roxas. Jollibee, the icon of Philippine consumerism for fastfood outlets and nonbiodegradable food containers, pranced around in all his (her?) glorious, 6.5-foot tall bee-body.

If you haven't gotten it yet, Jollibee is supposed to be a bee, the counterpart of that clown McDonalds. Ronald McDonald is another story.

The girl standing beside the mascot was decked in the usual Jollibee uniform, the pinstriped blouse, blue unflattering pants and what they call the Jollihat, a demeaning, psychologically-masochistic hat with dangling antennaes similar to that of Jollibee's.

What had she to offer me, I wondered as I took the flyer she handed to me. It was a 20% discount off for softdrinks for every purchase of some other item.

"Always something for something, no?" I said to Jolligirl, who was obviously startled that I actually addressed her (I was quite early for work and had time to kill). "I mean that you have discounts that McDonald's doesn't offer, but it's always something for something." I wasn't really thinking of what I was saying, and anyway I despised Jollibee as much as its rival, but I said it to make her feel that at least someone was paying attention.

She recovered quickly and launched into her pre-prepared speech. "Jollibee does its best to offer its quality food for a low price."

"I'm sure Jollibee does," I said, procrastinating going to work, stretching the conversation. But I had to get to work sometime. So I said I had to go, and that I hoped she had a nice day ahead.

The girl smiled at me. "Listen. Here." She then shoved a coupon into my hand.

It was a coupon for a free ice cream cone at Jollibee.

I pocketed the coupon and said thanks. Jollibee waved at me. I wanted to hand out flyers, suddenly. Maybe I will, someday. It's an honourable profession.

So awhile ago at lunch I had a nice free ice cream cone coutesy of Jollibee.

Philosophy of the streets: Always something for something. And everything for nothing. Best things in life are free. Yum.

Now, here's a nice clever stubborn mouse.

And have a nice weekend.

The Raptuous Operatic Singer's Aria.
Wednesday, 08.08.2001 : 10:34 a.m.

I've found myself dreaming like a raptuous operatic singer. At night, I take sleeping pills and my dreams give me the feeling of Unreal Unreality, since I've been so used to dreaming with my eyes wide open. Now, I'm like Alice in Wonderland, thru the looking glass, meeting magical visionaries with visions so baffling. I've never considered sleeping pills before. Now, a new world is opening up from under my feet. Behind closed eyes, there is movement as passionate as summer nights. drawing on the left: "Big Intestines Small Intentions Wondrous Appetite" by Kala

Like everyone, I got into my death-obsession phase. I was eleven : at times, with the naive disillusions of an 11-year old, I wanted to die (in the non-morbid sense, just that innocent little wonderment attached to dying), I pondered endlessly about death (my sister psychoanalyzed me and came up with the conclusion that all this had stemmed from my fascination and empathy with the character Thui of Miss Saigon). It was a bizarre phase, but almost imperative.

I used to go to cemeteries, and still do sometimes, because I find them peaceful, and because you can almost hear the souls roaming around their tombstones. Cemeteries are filled with poetic assimilations. Tombstones sum up a person's life... there is a novel behind short descriptions. Almost as cunning as a haiku, or a tanaka. Here lies Katrine, beloved wife, mother, friend. Lie on the grass and put an ear next to a tombstone, and you'll know how Katrine liked to have her coffee in the morning, or what music she listened to, or how she cried at night for the not being strong enough to run away with her loved one...

I could write a novel just staring at one tombstone. And it wouldn't be about death, it would be about life. Or it would be about the concept that the line drawn across the two subjects are too thin.

Intelligence is an out-of-focus cat.

The image is Intelligence, for me. A cat staring into fish-eyed lens (this is not my picture nor my cat regretfully, it was taken by the Japanese photographer whom I've mentioned, and I lost the link).

I am thinking about Intelligence. Intelligence in writing. Why do we always have the neurotic need to name-drop, when it comes to writing? The need is ever-present, let's not be self-righteous, you know what I say is true. I am guilty on all charges. The need to mention the names of philosophers, artists and scientists, and all Greatness who have gone before us. The need to connect: to find Greatness in oneself, amidst our clumsy stumbling.

I compare this to washing my dirty soul and hanging it out the window for people to see. But the implications are so discreet. People walking below ask me, "Is that your laundry?" And I say, "No." But they've seen me hanging my soul. My words are already mixed with the names of my idols, molded into a constant stream of beautiful paragraphs. My paintings hint a bit of the Surrealists, the Dadaists, of all my influences. But they just hint. Me is the child who drew a man choking on a butterfly when I was 4.

I will, throughout my life, create, unabashedly hinting influences, reeking of shameless name-dropping. Even with my series of paintings and writings I'm so proud of: it's empty, egotistic, nothing to be proud of (Is Holden Caulfield reading over my shoulder, I wonder?). Being exposed to the world has made me competitive, shining lackluster. I think the only intelligent writing one can ever write about is love, one's love, because love is always original, and the story is never the same in degrees. Yes, to write about love. That is the best.

I long to see the first drawing I've made, the first poem I've drafted, back then when all was untainted, untouched. That was when I was intelligent. Now, it's empty competitiveness, comparison and overmentalization. I feel like part of me died when I started to learn. But it's the only way to live because people have come before us, and they all had something to say. It's the only way to live. And it is truly the marvellous way.

A Very Long Story About Necklaces and Rain.
Monday, 08.06.2001 : 2:48 p.m.

The common expression goes: "I got off the wrong side of the bed." I've never found any truth to this because my bed is against the wall, and there is only one side from which I can emerge from. That morning it rang true, though, for a non-believer. And spilling juice on the newspaper (and on my dog) was just the start of the events about to unfold.

I left the book I was reading on my desk. My Twilight Summer: A Play in Four Acts book (book count for Kala: 3 out of 7) which I've taken to reading in the train. It wouldn't have bothered me much normally, but I left my train card in that book, which I had been using to bookmark my pages.

So I started thinking of Dr. Muhata the African sorcerer Julien had told me about, as I lined up for a train ticket. I was still thinking of Dr. Muhata 15 minutes later as I was still on the line for a ticket. I was cursing Dr. Muhata (poor soul in Africa, he must have been coughing unceremoniously) when the train stopped in mid-tracks, a voice over the loudspeaker apologising for the "inconvenience".

Then followed little, random things that shouldn't bother you normally, but did bother you that day. My computer hanging, restarting, only to hang again. A long lunch line, only to be told they're out of tuna sandwiches...

So I had to meet people for dinner all the way in Quezon City. I left work early, and the moment I stepped out of Citibank Towers, it started to rain. I'm not talking cute little raindrops that go with the song. I'm talking fat, huge, cruel torrential rains that drench your spirit as much as your pitiless non-umbrella-ed head.

It was exactly like that scene in ol' Baz's Romeo and Juliet, wherein ol' Leonardo drops to his knees (dramatically) under the rain, shouting "I am fortune's fooool...!" I mentally tortured Dr. Muhata in my mind as I ran for shelter, using my jacket as an umbrella.

I was shivering in the train's torturous airconditioning for 15 minutes, then got off at my stop, then walked under the rain again. Cubao had its normal dose of flooding, so I had to walk many a ways through the throng of people haggling for jeepneys. Finally, I succeed and plumped into a taxi, thankful to finally be out of the rain, knowing that if I survived this dinner it would all be over.

***If everything seemed humourous so far, this is where it gets serious.

By habit, my hand flew to my neck to touch my necklace. My eyes opened in shock. My necklace wasn't around my neck !

Let me tell you about this item. My necklace is a key that's strung through a leather strap. I consider it my jewelry: it's the only thing I practically wear out of habit, aside from my watch, and it's certainly priceless; Julien gave it to me, and I've been wearing it ever since, I love that necklace as I love the person who gave it to me, and as some people commented: "It's such a Kala-thing to wear" (I don't know what that means, but thanks anyway, folks. Uh, I think).

I reacted ungracefully. I got out of the taxi. I had no other choice: I carefully retraced my steps under the rain. Not feeling the rain anymore, instead, I was numb to the events of my day, and I wasn't going to go home without that necklace. I didn't want to think of it lost somewhere inside the train, or all the way to Makati. Convincing myself that it probably fell somewhere... somewhere here, after I exited the train...just around here somewhere...

Twenty-five minutes later, my eyes stinging with tears (yep, I did cry, I was feeling very emotional, so sue me), my head asking me what in Judas' foot was going on with this day, I figured it was time to go home. Tired, drained, wet. I took a taxi and didn't bother with the dinner.

When I got home I remembered I'd left my house keys at the office. The perfect ending! So I found myself sitting on Mat's blue carpeted floor, while he fed his firstborn a bottle of milk (Hullo darling baby March!).

And that's when Mat gave me the dose of words I needed. The oasis in the middle of the desert. He laughed and made fun of me, of course, but few minutes later he was serious, telling me that I would lose bigger things along the way, more important things. That I would lose ideas. Dreams. Thoughts, words, pieces of spirit, pieces of soul. And then, what would you do? Would you just cry? Slump into a chair wailing about your bad luck? Be brave and smile about it?

That you have to have this little space around your heart. Imperceptive, but existing. That you should cram your heart with people you love and things you love and dreams and wishes and art and poetry...faces, places... but always having this little space, this little extra strength, to keep you going, even though you lose some on your journey.

A journey towards what, I don't know. I leave you with this thought. I'm not giving my opinion on what I think about what is written above: I'll leave that thought with you. To make the most out of it, for you to judge whether you agree or not. But I felt better. It wasn't just a necklace, but at the same time it was just a necklace. No, that thing was special. I couldn't understand, but there it was. And I sincerely thanked whoever or whatever was responsible for this day. With the blind faith that everything would turn out all right. Somehow.

And I mentally said sorry to Dr. Muhata, and he forgave me and we had a rhum coke somewhere in the Mozambique of my imagination. I was disappointed in myself, so sad, but with nothing else to do.

Reality kicking in. My neck felt bare without the necklace. Little things mean so much.

By midnight my brother was home and I entered the house. It was still raining, power was out so I lit some candles and I sat down next to him.

"This has been the longest day of my life," I told him in my saddest, most tortured voice, not caring if he was listening or not. "Guess what. I lost my necklace somewhere in fucking Cubao. Shit, no?"

Not looking up at me, turning the page of the book he was reading, he said, "You left it in the bathroom."

With extreme articulation I said "Wha...Haaehhg...whha...hauhgggg..."

"Yep, you were in such a hurry this morning you probably forgot. I put it in your room. Hey, can I borrow 500 pesos?"

And sure enough, there it was. Dr. Muhata was smiling at me in the shadows, saying "Gotcha!"

And that was the end of my terrible-slash-wonderful-day.

That night, I double-tied the knot of my necklace and hung it around my neck. Just to be sure, you never know. And I got into bed. I didn't care if it was the wrong side, or the right one. There are no wrong or right sides. It all ends well, anyway.