Parks are bullshit

In a debut the mother was crying. She was trying to compose her message as the fountain behind her spews water like a geyser in the middle of Bryant Park. You could fit in a hundred debuts in the price tag, so her relatives couldn’t figure out if she was crying over the bills. She said she’s proud to have a grown-up girl. She said she would really love to go home. The debutante sits on her throne, watching the projected Skype conversation, webcam and all. At first, the people who attended didn’t fret in their seats, but they scavenged over an entire neighborhood of grilled chicken. They ignored the waiter’s warning that the buffet’s not yet ready, the chickens not yet carved.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on September 1, 2010 at 2:40 am, filed under Slang and random, Stress ball narratives, Vignettes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

Bays of August

Your slippers are squeaking, they’re absorbent and they squirt water in and out like a sponge. The dirt from the water forms in between your toes. You woke up the next morning and you saw your feet. It was disgusting. Dirt coagulated at the brink of the bays. It brought you back in the moviehouse where you almost slipped. Flocks of people watched and your feet stank. You squish them back and forth your porous slippers, all the rat pee and the dirt of destinations. It’s violating, a friend might say with that half wince on your feet. The squishing has been freezing your feet in the mall. You ordered coffee to fight the cold. You smoked a cigarette outside and your feet starts to wrinkle. The skin might come off your bone. In the supermarket you accidentally stepped on a yogurt that has been deserted for some time on the floor. Everyone hates picking things up. The yogurt cup exploded without a sound and it was graceful. It seemed orgasmic. Real fruit pieces mixed with orgasm. Your feet now stank of delicate yogurt and squish. You went home. Under the stained carpet is the key and you had to pick it up with your toes. The dirt of the city clung to your keys and it got cold and it smelled like soggy carpet. You wanted to wash your feet but the plumber hasn’t arrived yet.

On your way home you felt the stir of August, the millipedes uncoiling, crawling on the sidewalks. Sometimes it bothers you where to walk. You’ve spent your childhood listening to the hymns of the frogs. Every morning your breakfast comes with the whiff of the fragrance she wears and it brings you back to a million dates, that whiff of lightness.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on August 25, 2010 at 9:37 am, filed under Slang and random, Vignettes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

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.