coming home

much as he was afraid, there was no describing, not even a bit of telling, the anticipation he was feeling as soon he was to meet the people that resided in the island, as unknown to both of them, that relations in between them could have been in fact be bound by deeper ties than mere chance acquaintances. it was no home to him, as it never did cradle him in its warm arms to awakening, but it did comfort him, greatly, that whatever secrets the island held, or mysteries it withheld, he felt at ease, as if he was finally coming home to a land he was about to make his first step on. this was, after all, based on anecdotes from childhood, his unknown roots' home.

note: photo taken in salagdo-ong beach in maria, siquijor

discomfort and liquor

I would have awoken at my fastly becoming early morning rise at four in the morning were it not for a heavy migraine, a slight fever, and heavily heated eyes brought most likely by a confluence of the previous night's hard rainfall, late sleep, and the afternoon's taxing training workshop on farmers' rights. It was largely due to this combination of unfortunate events that made me miss a free trip around the fictional agricultural state of Mohadua for the following day's training workshop activities.

i can't make it. it's not really that i don't feel up for a trip to a fictional country but much of the time can be delved into assessing our current situation. i am truly hoping that something concrete and achievable can be reached after - perhaps some sort of a working group on the rights of farmers and plant genetic resources for food and agriculture. as this concept is significantly connected to the issue of conservation and sustainable use, then a framework that achieves to link these concerns. better and more complicated, a more comprehensive framework that links all concerns on biodiversity - conservation, sustainable use, rights, biosafety, biopiracy, access and benefit sharing, traditional knowledge, and what else have we...

my head suddenly bolts into a searing pain as thoughts came flying into my mind. i do have a lot of concerns - noble and intellectual ones, real and socially relevant themes - which i need to level-off with myself once more. the gestation of ideas in mind thrills me, excites me, at the same time send my head to throb too much. the agony of the migraine equates to an unlikely intellectual pleasure - i may have been during those instants a sadist and masochist in one - enjoying every bit of pain that the pleasure of thinking brings.


i hear the clinking of glasses below - an apparent exchange of spirits from a canterbury bottle with the cool icy vapor from a semi-crystalline drinking glass. it reminds me how much i have been missing the taste of liquor and the high that the basal liquid induces my mind to grapple on focus and clear thinking.

instability may have been the result of too much and too long sobriety. indeed, i must have a dip.

canterbury tastses much like bailey's... or like a chocolate bar with liquor having melted and combined to create a hybrid chocolate-liquor treat. he left the unfinished glass on the roundtable downstairs, and it was not enough to satisfy a re-budding craving. i refill the glass with another pour from the canterbury bottle. the spirit is stronger, minus the dilution by the ice.

would you call someone depressed if he drinks all by him or herself?

hmmm. most likely...

what if he seems to enjoy himself while drinking liquor alone?

well it might be...

and if he is laughing while drinking alone?

he or she most likely is.

you mean he or she would appear more depressed. i am confused. but alas, life can really be such, sometimes you can't tell based on what appears to be, when what we see can really be the opposite. you may see a person appearing to be laughing his heart out, but deep inside, he could be on the verge of losing hope and in tears. other times, you may see a person appearing to be in hopeless tears but is actually truly and dyingly happy.

he answers as if to humor me. i answer as if to humor myself. i end up the butt-end of the story. i look around, no, i don't see yet a prospect wife, and another glass of canterbury is not an option anymore. i see my ara-container humbly displayed on a table. without hesitation, i located a small bowl and poured a generous amount of the red-dyed ara, while thinking of the past, my present, and what the future possibly holds for me. the ara holds a story too and it will eventually wind up to become part of my story. i relieve the bowl of its contents and prayerfully engulf what i was thinking as a good blessing for a humbled man.

random replies

when are they leaving?
but of course, i
was unable to drop by
not that i forgot
but i just wasn't.

the apparent lack of options to leave and the obvious, of leaving.
we all know that.

and just as you are,
always
with the same reasons,
regularly like... you.

and why do you know?
as it is you to show and disappear at times unexpected
or simply never to

as i am told that i am
naturally that - bad
hurts - not to finally deny the possibility that i
may really be that - bad.
rather too early to be sentimental about -
your paranoia from your belief of normalcy

but there is a good point at what you said, that that is how i am or may be
and to mull this over - nights - while
looking far away from my window under the soft douse of a full moonlight...
or not the moon, but all the same,
to mull this over,
terribly,
tonight.

if there is a normal somewhere around the different you's i still recognize.
i'm staying until midnight.
with pleases you know i easily get scared
with random imaginations at hyperactive shadows at nights!

do unto them before they do unto you -
their default, our weakness
a lasting paranoia against selflessness in a dog-eat-dog urbanity
for a mistaken principle at survival

randomly applies.

vat sisaket

vientiane, lao pdr



prego per una vita buona...

fearless

it is when you put your heart in what you do and actually believe in what you think and say full-heartedly, that spurs the moment that you become truly fearless and fly.

push-tread-dead

i was at a loss of words when r told me in detail how his plans and dreams were slowly being torn apart by his frustrations in work and life - the unnecessary worries and the feeling that he is losing grasp and control over his creativity and decisions, and how the long years he mustered to rise from his weaknesses and gain identity of himself were being marred by uncertainties of ideals and processes. it was clear from me that c was either at a loss of what he wants to do or worse, he was already losing himself in the frustration. in frustration, where creativity could be spurned, the uncertainties he was facing were apparently hindering him from rising again. the obsession and compulsion of knowing how and being good at what he is disjointed from his present reality where the excellence he always aims for were always second-guessed away were, i believe, already taking a toll on him. he said he feels a need to re-assess where he fits in all this - a need to retrace his steps, take two steps back and see where his life is headed, his career is growing, and take the path where he said he has more control and can be more fully accountable for himself and his decisions - the sense of empowerment and control which he said, he clearly misses.


then i remembered faulkner stating once, "people need trouble -- a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it. artists do; i don't mean you need to live in a rat hole or gutter, but you have to learn fortitude, endurance. only vegetables are happy."

"one thing that is really frustrating you know is second-guessing people's intentions on what they want done, in a manner of speaking, on certain tasks in life..."

silence.

"...what i mean is it's like you're in an environment where your ideas, your thoughts exist in a parallel dimension that seem never to meet the world that most of the people you're with are in. what happens is that people are second-guessing most of the time."

"well, you can always talk about it directly, i mean, can't you?"

"it's possible but i don't remember it from ever happening, or if it did, as it is always the usual case with thoughts and words, it becomes temporal. it changes at the whim of a hype or a new thought. i guess that's where things become frustrating."

"legal work is also frustrating in a sense. i have been a bit diverted from it but one thing i think i am certain of with the law we have, not going to certain oral traditions that commonly exist too, is that there is a written code or set of words to indicate what the law states. the confusion may rise in the interpretation, but there is always some other sources to refer to in exploring what the intention of the law is."

"following your thought then, it may be just that things become frustrating when there seems to be no semblance of constancy or stability. i don't know really. you're made to believe about something and focus your time and energy on that belief or undertaking when suddenly you realize the futility of what you were doing."

"maybe you really do need a break... like what you said, assess your life, where you're going."

it occurred to me... "the torment of human frustration, whatever its immediate cause, is the knowledge that the self is in prison, its vital force and 'mangled mind' leaking away in lonely, wasteful self-conflict." a quote from elizabeth drew. the struggle we all are in for a better society, a struggle to empower each one from their adversities, and our personal struggles to rise from our own shortcomings... the dilemma that we become pretentious in our noble societal struggles knowing fully well how much we are confounded in our own sense of empowerment.

"a life of frustration is inevitable for any coach whose main enjoyment is winning," said chuck noll. and these frustrations are said to give birth to strength and creativity in humans. i believe in it as ideally it should... unless of course certain environmental concerns have deeply pulled him down in a state of helplessness.

"maybe we're right. i do need a break. thanks a for listening."

"no problem," thinking that i too needed a searching of my own.

to live

good friend k sent me a message unexpectedly about the purpose of living...

"the purpose of life is to be alive, not to gather objects, achieve, accumulate successes, or forge your body to fit a mold. it's simply to be alive. to touch, feel, sense, hear, see, and live in a dynamic flow of whatever arises in the moment; to accept the wild and crazy thoughts that go through your mind, your animal nature, your wisdom, the fears that arise and grip your chest, the laughter that brings tears, and the joy that takes you beyond yourself. to be alive is to meet and accept every part of yourself - the scuzzy, sweet, passionate, talented, or slow...? charlotte kasl (2005)"

...

just recently, he began noticing really small things about himself and his life that seem to fall and fit into fine niches in place -- still without a clear direction and purpose but clearly with a sincere intent to pursue the self-journey of what he believed to be his lost soul.





he always felt an unexplainable sadness even at times when the occasion called for a festive disposition. in his eyes, he knew persons he was talking to were part of an unexplainable feeling of deja vu -- it was as if once before he had met them. in most places he went to, he felt that he was just going back home but to a home he had never been in this present life. everything he left, he had to bear an unbearable loneliness of leaving a place that he felt cradled him to knowing -- perhaps, lifetimes before. it must be the interconnectedness of all lives on earth, as he heard oftentimes before. or the force at work as he had sufficiently understood from jedi films. the deja vu's, however, were too strong in a sort of dreamlike recurrences that there must have been some sort of a confederation of past lives into his present one. the feeling of somehow knowing peoples and places without any rational explanation was unbearably strong, he did not feel prepared head-strong to confront that his past may have already come to haunt him in this present life.





... and a pot spills menacingly beside him. he awoke from a deep sleep, in time to remember the child and the woman in the dream, and only to find out that both the child and the woman actually belonged to a culture of a community he visited days after. it must have been a foreshadowing of what was to occur where in the future he would come to feel the unexplainable feeling of deja vu with the child and the woman, as he usually felt in most of his minded years. it could have been a subconscious trace of a past life.





for surely, the people he met were just too familiar - were they too many coincidences in a present life or just fate that seemingly seeks to binds connections from past lives... he was not all too sure about all these. as he noticed he had been having a hard time recognizing faces in the streets with his glasses, he felt he was seeing more clearly inside of him and the simplicity he wanted that most people have come to accustom against. he must see clearly now and find his ways back to his homes.

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left

empty
unknowing
whether they have seen their flight
in nature's skies,
or in strangers' eyes they succumb
in early retirement
to heaven's light

blue

i am reminded
nature leans
in favor of creating
likeness
in women and blooms

playing in reverse

He was strangely calm when the phone message came that time when night and morning intertwined. It caught him dreaming still but nearly awake enough to notice and silence the beeping of the phone. The dream was far too interesting for his exhausted mind from previous days' excessive workings. He slept until a whiff of warm pancakes in maple syrup opened his eyes to the morning. The memory of the phone message hanging by a thread, he grabbed the phone from the bed clutter near his feet-side and curtly replied "bakit?" (why?) and went back honoring sandman's images of gliding through several laps in a pool, deja vu's of a previous day's seemingly miserable discussion, and the woman who never ceased to challenge the stutterer in him.







Years ago he was always found stuttering by the very thought of courting women who sparked the interest of his heart, but never did he spare an opportunity to pursue them, much as he enjoyed more looking and reciprocating his feelings from afar... at a distance. He knew there are risks involved in relationships and did not want pain to be a part of it. He was content that from this emotional distance he will still be able to be a part of these women's lives and form lasting impressions. This was enough to fulfill him, enough to satisfy his longings. Fly-by-night women satisfied his urges.







Witnessing them fall for others hurt him, but it was the lack of intimacy for another woman which seemed to have the deepest bearing. He knew, in one way or another he would have to make a move or grow old always shifting from one flower to another, wilting in the process without his own rose with him to grow. He was afraid to fly and he knew it. He also knew he was not ready to learn it, and the dream of loving was sideswiped from his ambitions to live.







Until that same morning, in a sudden epiphany upon his second waking, the message recurred in his mind. It was clear to him what the message meant but the reasons behind it intrigued him gravely. Nature taught him two basic reactions when faced with threat, either to fight or to flee. The paranoia the message created was almost enough to trigger his defense to run away, were it not for his resolve to stop playing safe and start taking calculated risks in life.





"Gimingaw ko nimo." (I miss you.)





It was still about taking calculated risks, true, and he thought this still entitled him to play it safe until he was able to plan the perils involved. He also needed to reconsider his feelings for other women he has feelings for, to make the playing field fairer for all. There is the one who makes him stutter, and another with whom he enjoys discussing about the world's usual and crazy realities, another seems to awaken the creative genius in him, while another makes him feel human and wanted. Little did he know that the game of love was no ordinary simple game and playing it would hurt him more. At the very least, he was taking his first steps again to fly...

"I would believe only in a god who could dance. And when I saw my devil I found him serious, thorough, profound, and solemn; it was the spirit of gravity ---- through him all things fail. Not by wrath does one kill but by laughter. Come let us kill the spirit of gravity. I have learned to walk: ever since, I let myself run. I have learned to fly. Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me." (friedrich nietzsche)

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