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Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Use LIVER and CHEESE in a sentence.

"Liver alone, cheese mine!"

Of all his jokes, I loved that one the best. I gave a hearty chuckle when I read that off my cellphone. 

*         *         *         *         *

That was a week ago.
 

Friday, April 15, 2005
Waxing poetic, waxing pathetic. (Otherwise known as: Blah. Blech.)

I am feeling a strange kind of peace.

It is the peace of a thousand words left unsaid, of knowing that not knowing is how things are supposed to be.

It is the peace that rocks me to sleep every sleepless, starless and silent night; the peace that whispers songs and sighs, every want and wish, of visions and dreams unrealized.

It is the peace of the hopeful, the peace that comes with the promise of resolution.

It is the peace, quite simply, of surrender.

...

So yeah, I am feeling a strange kind of peace. It's not so bad.


Sunday, April 10, 2005
Matthew 12:37

Scares the hell out of me.

Friday, April 08, 2005
"This is me, breathing."

Certified romantics own boxes. Lots of boxes:

Old angst-filled letters, testaments to young love and ghosts of heartbreak. Pictures, all flattering, all creased and worn around the edges (much like the memories they purportedly stand for). Dried flowers, withered and wafting death-scents, still beautiful in their own tired ways (a fate most females would be tempted to take). Holepunched bus tickets and an unused passport.

Candy wrappers. Report cards, flyers, red-marked essays. Pass-around notes, battered Sterlings and the wayward inkless pen. Borrowed paperbacks, gutted teen magazines, an unread copy of Eco's The Name of the Rose.

Pencil sketches on yellowing paper, mildew spots on wedding invitations. Dusty standard-issue fatigue pants; belt buckles, cross-rifle pins and swords marked with rust and restlessness. Certificates, trophies and medals; drafts of aborted novels, an incomplete wedding entourage, prescribed memorial service programs and an undelivered valedictory address.

Crystal elephants, snapshots of yellow gumamelas and coffee-stained mugs.

A white-collared green blouse with eighteen delicate butterflies, someone else's handkerchief and a sleeveless Sari-Sari two sizes too large. A blue cylindrical pillow, a promise written in velvet and broken by the passing of time.

This is my life. Bits and pieces of it, safe in cardboard castles. Sitting in quiet little corners.

......................

Mahal, you are

Shooting stars. Stares from the first row to the last, conversations with dark ceilings, furtive excursions and a four-month bout of Weird Questions. Swiss mocha doughnuts, pansit canton and ten-peso barbecues. Sapphire dreams and wooden chimes; asynchronous prayers and airmailed kisses. Smiles and whispers and breaths of fresh air.

This is us. You and me, together. Closing our eyes on nights when we sing songs of ourselves.

Friday, March 18, 2005
Why I Do This Thing I Do

(I've been to hell and back, to heaven and beyond... It's amazing how much a person can change - or not change - in so short a span of time... After letting this blog mildew for three excruciating months, clicking that ‘Publish’ button on this particular entry - which I have actually written seven months ago - is one satisfaction I won’t be denied. Watch out for extreme verbosity ahead; I have engaged in my usual word-splurge.)

 

·          I blog for Backspaced. And for Skyfaller. And for Paraluman and for The Displaced Probinsyana. With interesting bloggers/alter-egos like them... Why not blog? (I also blog for vanity, but hey, that’s an entire entry on its own. Hehe.)

 

·          I blog for catharsis. Perhaps it’s an untold love story or a host of unpublished literary attempts. Perhaps it’s an irrepressible political diatribe. Or perhaps it’s just a single and unremarkable account of a single and unremarkable day. Makes no difference. Everybody has something that needs to come out. Everybody needs a mental or an emotional toilet. I know I do. Don’t you?

 

·          I blog for diversion. Talk about taking the road less traveled. I can only imagine the dreadful fate that could have befallen me had I not been distracted by blogging: I could’ve graduated and gotten a soul-sucking job; I could’ve taken up sewing curtains or sticking needles in my arm; or I could be, horrors, married and living happily ever after. Ugh. It was a good thing I took some wrong turns; it made the journey more interesting, at least.

 

·          I blog for information. Blogs are great for stalkers fishing for details about their stalkees or simply for resourceful persons engaged in somewhat-scholarly study. How else could I have known Twinkle Twinkle Little Star has more than one verse? Or that there are ten things to consider in buying the perfect mattress? Or that yummy Rupert Everett was gay?

 

·          I blog for therapy. I rather blog than pay someone to nod his or her head when I say I’m losing my mind.  ‘Nuff said.

 

·          I blog for greater and more equitable social selection. Comedians, drama queens, gypsies, exhibitionists, tortured souls, fashionistas, sports enthusiasts, sex gurus, geeks, housewives, veterans, expatriates, students, activists, legal beagles, doctors, yuppies, politicos, pedants and pundits - all and more, just one click away. The blogiverse has a huge collection of characters in varying shapes, sizes and stages of insanity – surely there’s space for little ol’ me.

 

·          I blog for the fun of it. I don’t need to explain this one, do I? Wheeee.

 

I have blogged for novelty’s sake, in times of heartbreak and oftentimes out of kitsch. I have blogged for the thrilling wordplay, be I player or spectator, and the kick I get is equal to, if not more than, watching a La Salle - Ateneo basketball slamfest.

 

And you? Maybe you blog for retrospection, because it pays to revisit the past in pursuit of dreams that just refuse to die? Or maybe you blog for quiescence, because you need to retreat inside yourself every once in a while, with only words for comfort and company? Who's to say, really, that they know why people blog?

 

For some (myself included, I guess), blogging is an oblation. It is standing naked, arms wide open, for all the world to see. It is an offering, a votive testament to the mortality of man, which determines how far an individual is willing to go in the name of free expression. It allows an act of volition that spawns something shared, something beautiful, something intensely personal. (And it beats running around, undressed, in public.)

 

A number blog to cure their xenophobia. Might as well admit it: we fear what I don't know. Strange people in strange lands, strange cultures - it's really scary, how different a lot of us are from each other. And yet, blogging has a way of bridging worlds so that distance and diversity no longer matter. It is teaching us to step out, to take a journey, and learn the many ways by which strangers become friends. Until, slowly, the foreign becomes familiar and we're scared no more.

 

Blogging also honors joie de vivre. "That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet." (Emily Dickinson) Indeed, that life will never come again is what makes writing about it, both a choice and a celebration, even sweeter. So delight in every blink, in every hiccup and in every sneeze. You never know when one could be your last.

 

~o0O0o~

In the end, after everything that has been said and done, all these reasons amount to, well, nothing. Because sometimes, there's simply no reason.

 

People just blog. I just blog. Wala lang.






(P.S. I missed this. *sniff*)

 


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