Miyerkules, Hulyo 20, 2011


Painting No. 29 is shown in the projector when I entered the lecture hall. The room is dark and full of people. I went to the back to look for a seat. None. I headed toward the front, scanning slowly for vacant seats. One chair is available in the left front row. I wanted a seat on the right because I’ll be able to have a clear view in that part. Anyways, I have no option but to settle next to the fat old lady.

I have no plans of viewing this exhibit, which I thought are suspended paintings in the walls. But surprisingly, the exhibit turns out to be a lecture, with the woman behind the podium explaining each pictures of painting.

I was walking in the Palm Bridge with no destination in mind. The people walking towards me are wearing white mask-like things which do not fully cover their hairs and faces. The white things which appear to be papers actually look like decorations. But all of them give me the impression of human aliens who make me felt alienated because I’m the only one around with naked face and hair. I continue walking up to the Freedom Park. There is one big plastic cover used for a tent, hindering my way so I step on it and mouth some bad words to the guy and girl holding the ends of the plastic. Walking slowly, I heard the guy said to his companion that his exhibit of 50 paintings is at the SU (Student Union) building. I found myself heading into that direction. 

Two kids are seated on a bench. The girl in Indian sit is facing the left side of the boy whose legs are dangling from the bench and face is bent towards the girl. There are two orange-colored structures behind them looking like a one story castle. An L-shaped fence surrounds the yard. That is painting number 29 entitled Memorialism.

I thought memorialism… what the heck, what a word. The old fat irritating lady elbowed me and said a long shhh. So I mouthed what I’m thinking. Anyways, I’m curious enough to give the picture a second glance. I did not waste my time lending my ears to the lady behind the podium because I’m not interested in her explanations how the artist who pisses me off during my walk goes about his drawing of the painting.

The kids are talking about maybe something funny because the girl is smiling. Suddenly, the girl sat up, circumnavigate the bench, get down from the seat, and walks toward the fence - the side fronting the painting. I’m not surprised that the elements move.  The girl touches the fence with her right hand. Her fingers were pricked by the barbed wire. She cried, and the boy worriedly walks towards her. He tried to console the girl but the crying won’t stop. So he touches the fence too. Let his fingers get pierced and shows his bleeding fingers to the girl. The girl smiled. The boy bends down his face in the act of kissing the girl. Abruptly, they were transformed into an adult, 40 or 50 years of age maybe, as their lips met. Then they walk tracing the fence with their fingers, the old woman walking with straight back, the old man lagging behind with a slightly stoop shoulders. They stopped at the area where they need to cross over a dangling line of maybe rope or wire. The old man lifted the line so the old woman can cross over but the she won’t bend her head. So the old man lifts the line higher and higher, his arms bleeding profusely because the line was made of barbed wire too.

I woke up. Get the dictionary at the bedside table and look for the word memorialism. There is no such word of course. I played Madam Auring trying to analyze the dream. Then I concluded maybe it’s the effect of repeatedly listening to Romeo and Juliet by The Killers. There’s a male and a female character but different theme or is it? I realized though that I’m an imaginative person (I wish I can say artist) making frozen scenarios move. 

Huwebes, Hulyo 07, 2011

The lost letter

Before I met you, I lurched in the darkness. 

My heart fought my mind so you can take part in my life.

My heart triumph was your bliss.

For someone who chooses to always forget events, I committed that scene in my memory. But I’ll not go over describing that physicality when you finally conquered me.

I knew more than love, you were elated because you felt like a hero saving one damned soul from the dark.

We were happy.

Happiness - I profoundly learned and understood the meaning of that word.

I was consumed. I became an addict. 

I grope tight. I held you with the intention of keeping you forever. 

I was like that because you’ve been my freedom.

But the time I felt free was the time you felt restricted. 

And you planned to break loose from what you called a jail. 

I let you go. I don’t have a choice. 

Then you came back.

You were the light I savored with close eyes. But I was changed. Yes, your light was more than welcome, but I learned to enjoy it with open eyes.

It was a bad idea - the first from all the wrong ideas that follow-because I became careless. I overlooked that you detest questions and repetitive ones at that.

I justified my actions; I’m good at that. 

Because the dark that I used to love was something I became to fear.  

The reason was intolerable. We fought a lot. 

But separation had never been an option because despite the situation we remained in love, really in love.

The sunflower – to mention it now will make no difference but it did a lot before.

I used to get comfort from anger. So when you did all those terrible things, I thought, do more until I get suffocated from rage, be consoled from it, so I can let you be. 

However, the things that I’m very familiar with before became all aliens to me.

Anger never gets me better. 

The thought of revenge never makes my days at peace. 

So now, I forgive you and I wish you happiness. 

Do breath now freely.

Maybe that will bring a domino effect and ill be one of the lucky pieces.

Goodbye light. 

I might welcome the dark again, but I dreaded it now. 

Or maybe I’ll just grab that another light-pretender in the horizon.

Maybe, when the time arrives that I can risk again, I’ll go for it all. 

For now, I’ll take comfort in the gray zone. 


Lunes, Hulyo 04, 2011

Prison Break

I’ve been addicted in the series Prison Break. The characters  follow me in my dreams. The series condensed me with this reality…not at all connected…but what to grumble for?

Breaking out from the past is nothing like visiting the place and exiting by the doors. 

It’s not that easy. There’s a need to plan. To fucking expose self to all the hellish details again. Not just once, but as many times possible until self can find the weak link to burrow holes through. Then make do with the agonizing crawl.

Once out, self do feel the sudden relief from all the binding stings.

Not for long though, because, past probably don’t want to be left behind. 

Self is again furious because in the plan, the ghosts will be sealed behind. Them, following through the hole and playing two-faced son-of-a-bitch is not at all a possibility. 

The very reason for beating such a sealed area, which is FREEDOM, is compromised.

Then, not able to let go of the idea of roaming around with restrictions, the planning again and the crawling, cycle repeating, until self realized that what have been the stimuli is just a word. Just a darn word.

At the end of it all, what will be found out?

Self doesn't want to be free at all.

Because the past, the agony and pain, the ghosts that weighed her down..

are exactly the things that gets her off.