I’ll walk my thoughts with a cigarette

My readers,

Too much vignettes I’ve been writing lately. Probably because I’ve been into Livejournal these days (made it three years ago and it’s only now that I’ve revived it for very personal reasons). Been listening to a lot of Up Dharma Down these days. Depress the hell out of me by singing the lines from The World Is Our Playground And We Will Always Be Home: I swear I belong / this is where I belong.

Triggers have been sent. I just woke up one day not feeling comfortable with my roommates. Our thoughts clash, our philosophies in a state of derision (because derisive is such an awkward word). Problematic enough that I’ve been planning to move to another apartment next semester. Problematic enough that I reside in the apartment to sleep and wake up. I even forgot my keys a while ago. Signs are surfacing. I’m not buying this shit anymore. It’s probably just me overreading things but I’d love to stay in another apartment and do (cook, smoke) anything I want.

And then I badly need a housemate. Like Sheldon Cooper, I do have a single requirement I’d rather not discuss here for the fear that my roommates would read this. We should have the same interests. That’s it. I don’t care if he’s limp or, I dunno, messy or anything.

My poetry class have exhausted me last weekend. I had to write five Tagalog poems under a theme I proposed (that is: tragedies in everyday life, where images of calamities should and must surface throughout the poems as organic as possible, and that it is a commentary with the mundane). It actually made me think: tragedies occur in the everyday. I’m proud of doing poetry for a while but I fear I should stop it. It’s too heavy to handle, too emotional, even. It’s not definitely as light as fiction. I’ll post it some time.

To bombard you with the mundane:

1. My wallet was lost last Tuesday. Contains several twenties. My ATM closed last June so I don’t have to worry. Sadly, all my Cinemalaya tickets are there. Memories: receipts, ID pictures. A condom. More receipts. My fucking school ID. How lame.
2. I’ve quit alcohol (thank god it’s working for a month and a half now).
3. I’m addicted to something else.
4. Health is at the least of my priorities! That’s… surprising! I jogged once last week, once two weeks ago, and I feel like I don’t have the will to run. Who am I running for, anyway? Back then I run for myself, to trim the fats and everything, but now I’d rather run away from myself because OH FUCK I’M RANTING.
5. Been skinning my lips again. I’ve been working on it, but it’s a sign of insecurity. Problems. Spaced-out days. The dry weather. Overanalyzing things. Stigmas. Issues. I’m getting moody sometimes. This is bad. Lips tell a lot, really. Basically you just have to stare at my lips to see whether I still function. (But that’s awkward.)
6. This is one of the lowest points of my life, but this is Livejournal shit I’d rather not write about.
7. For three months I’ve only went home four times. Last time I went home I slept for twelve hours, and then another twelve hours, then another. Dad thought I died. Friends have been calling me, asking where the fuck are you? Oh, I overslept.
8. I have one mushy line in my poetry, and it says (translated from the Tagalog): I’d want to tattoo your name in my body / under my eyelids / at my shoulders / at my nipples. It’s funny. No, I made up that nipple part.
9. When you do poetry and you’re shallow as fuck (just like me), you’re either of these: depressed-slash-suicidal or wide-eyed-romantic. You can’t go in between. You’re just either of the two. Labeling poetry classmates as these is a very honest pastime.
10. My professor in prose said you have to lose faith in something to know if you do have the passion for it. After a brief discussion on metafiction, I winced. I’m starting to hate the world (specifically the contexts I’ve been noticing in the world, in the society).
11. When blog posts start in you, as in “you, who shakes the bed with me,” it all gets whiny and mushy at the same fucking time.
12. Man, did that make you laugh.
13. Cloud 9 is made of win because they put cereals on it nowadays.
14. Seriously, this is one of the lowest points in my life. Friends aren’t friends anymore. I couldn’t disclose everything with them. Now friends should understand you, in a way, but most of them? They don’t.
15. See how the “you” sounded pedagogic? And mushy?
16. I haven’t watched too much Big Bang Theory that much (a couple of times, really) because I might get addicted to it. I get addicted to easily.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on August 5, 2010 at 2:19 am, filed under IRLs, Last song syndromes, Life at UPLB, Pensive shits, Sentemotional, Slang and random, Stress ball narratives, Stupid, Vignettes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

Haiku Moment

I’m probably under the influence of you-know-what but I promised to blog about this, that when I was at the Student Union building five hours ago staring at 7-Eleven with all the wit and memory Murakami ascribed to these convenience stores in After Dark, the guard splattered water on the window once, and the water slid down the glass, and that’s it. I liked the scene of people waiting at 7-Eleven during Ondoy, with the tropical flood and the rain gracefully pouring down like waves of hair in a midnight lust, the faces waiting, the fingers busy, the knees bent so long it longs to feel, and the tragedy in the bleakness of everything.

Now Crystal Castles’ Magic Spells is playing on my mind, and it started like a surprise of a knock on the door of someone they thought didn’t survive the flash flood at the neighborhood next to the river filled with pigs and garbage bags and the dirt of the mountains and the aftermaths of everything. Who cares about rat urine when all your belongings are lost, fingers clinging on the last fronds of a coconut tree? and who cares about crossing a stream of flood, torrential, whirlpools of furniture and memories (and how cataclysmic does it look like?), if your son waits for you on the roof of your house, waits with knees on his bowed head, ears waiting for the trickle of water as it climbs, as it kisses the second floor, as the floor grunts and his trunks wet, and his fingers started playing with the water, and he starts to look at the window and pray for his mother, for his stomach grumbles with the sky and the breeze.

It was a blink of the eye and the guard splashed water again, and never again will the first splash be the same with the second and third, because when I blinked there was nothing coming out of my mind, no spark. The water gushed down, and it was not as graceful.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on July 1, 2010 at 1:26 am, filed under IRLs, Last song syndromes, Life at UPLB, Vignettes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

A Day in New York City

I look pregnant with a full belly these past few weeks with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream on one hand and a remote on another, watching The Death of Mr. Lazarescu or 2 Days in Paris. So a couple of days ago my sister and I went for a walk.

We went to Manhattan’s Upper West Side and I’ve never seen such awesome graffitis/street art. I don’t understand why certain countries/cities prohibit them: for one, it could be a potent statement of a certain place’s culture. Compared to the Philippines which primarily has the words tite (penis), puke (vagina), phallic symbols, gang names and sexual stuff on lousy spray paint, this part of Manhattan is a haven for kickass graffitis.

At the subway while waiting for the train, an acoustic guitarist came singing his songs promoting his $10 album.

This guy by the name of Jason White looks like the singer-songwriter Sam Beam of Iron & Wine. I gave him a dollar even if he deserves ten (besides I don’t have that much money), and some other people at the subway toss dimes and lay bills for him.

I swear I’m gonna buy his album in the near future. And crush his balls when I see him again.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on May 18, 2010 at 6:52 am, filed under Art, IRLs, Last song syndromes, Photos and tagged Delancey, graffiti, guitarist, Iron & Wine, Jason White, New York City, singer-songwriter, street art, subway, Upper West Side. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.