How strange. This intro to a Mexican telenovela just started playing in my head last night. I have a vague memory of having watched the show in the afternoons when I was around 4 or 5, but aside from that I don’t remember any episode from the show, or what it was about. The show’s title, El Diario de Daniela, has floated around in my head for most of my life, without really being attached to anything. I finally decided to look it up, and was somewhat surprised to find that all these years I had been humming the melody correctly—note for note—in my head, right from 00:30. It’s strange, because I don’t really think about it, I don’t actually remember anything about it, and yet I’ve never forgotten it. And last night this intro just began playing in my head, snippets of its tune mixing in with Blur, Beach Boys, and the Swiss Army Man soundtrack. I wonder if it’s trying to tell me something. Maybe my mind is so hung up on the present and future that it’s decided to introduce some positive/neutral feeling of nostalgia for the past, if only to ground me.
Odd. Last night, too, I remember being hit by a vivid memory of this very particular scent. It was the smell of lotion from a brand called Bambini. They used to hand out samples of the stuff during school fairs back in 4th grade. I remember the smell flooding the classroom as girls ripped open their packets, eager to try them out; sweet and cloying, the kind of fruity smell that would give you headaches after a while. There wasn’t an image in my head, but the memory of the smell was very realistic. I almost thought someone in the house had bought a bottle of the lotion and was using it in the middle of the night.
I’m being haunted by insignificant sensations from my youth.
You opened a can of worms, my friend. You probably didn’t mean for that to happen, but it did. I can feel you inching farther and farther away from me, further proof of how guilty you’re probably feeling about everything. The way you acted that one night changed the way we would be for the rest of our days.. And I’m willing to bet every cent I have to my name that you know full well what happened—hell, you can probably pinpoint the exact moment you fucked things up. Know how I know? ‘Cause I can, too. I did. I knew it was happening. I saw it right before my eyes. I didn’t think to stop it, though. Probably because I thought you knew what you were doing.
No, scratch that—I hoped you knew what you were doing. I prayed that you were awake and aware of the way you set the drapes of my mind on fire, aware of the way the flames shone through the windows of my eyes. I pleaded with all of my heart: please tell me he’s doing this on purpose.
But you weren’t. No one ever claims to be when they’re drunk.
1. You are emailing me random “good mornings” and “thank yous” and “have a nice days” and it is starting to slowly drive me insane. Our thread has stuck its big toe beyond the professional line and is inviting all the other toes to get in on it. Instead of telling you off for being too personal, I actively reply to your emails as if we were long-lost long-time friends-not-quite-lovers rediscovering each other’s warmth. You smile at me from far away, stare at me a few seconds longer than is acceptable, and I basically do everything you do to me, to you. We’re playing the same game, on uneven playing grounds.
One major disadvantage I have: I am not married.
2. You tell me about your recent anxiety attacks and make no mention of the love I had for you just a few months ago. I give you life advice straight out of my ass.
3. You are, consistently:
a) bothering me while I am working, telling me that I deserve a break and that we should go for a smoke
b) providing me life advice about how I can go about my problems based on your working knowledge of things and life
c) constantly sharing your complaints, ideas, dreams, plans, experiences, opinions, and occasional lewd jokes and farts
d) tell me that I am not as worthless as I think I am, in a very roundabout manner
e) wait for me when I am not yet done with my work, and ask me if I will be taking the shuttle with you (which I shouldn’t really, but I do, every time you ask)
f) are ubiquitous in my life and are starting to seem like a long-lost phantom limb trying to reunite with my existence
g) keep telling me about these girls, and keep talking to me about this one girl, and I hate you for it for some reason I don’t understand
h) never answer me straight when I ask you why you do all these things for me
i) always, always look at me when you think I’m not looking
Lakas maka-wallflower ng buhay ko ngayon, tangina. Pakiramdam ko lagi akong nakakalimutan ng mga tao—yun bang mapapansin ka lang pag may kulang ka, or may ginawa kang mali. O kaya kung kausapin ka, wala nang ibang lumabas sa mga bibig kundi tungkol sa mga sarili nila. Ayaw na ayaw kong nararamdaman na balewala yung mga sinasabi ko, kasi hindi ako nag-aral sa UP para balahurain ng ganun. Namimiss ko nang makipag-usap sa mga taong nakikinig, nakakaintindi, at nagpapasensya sa’kin. Namimiss ko na yung mga panahong hindi ako ginagawang pader na pinagdadausan ng pataasang-ihi.
My lungs know more about me than I do.
Originally written and posted on Facebook 23 November 2014, with subtitle “bad romantic crap with no structure no edit no proper ending and lots of feelins, bcuz i’m a faggit”
Somewhere along the tangent of my lifeline, past the point where I looked at you and you looked at me (a point in time that will never happen again; say “tangent”), I lost my taste for whimsical things. The moon became a flat yellow button on a sparkly cloth of darkness, neither comforting nor enraging. It used to be so full and low, like pregnant fruit, like ripe words whispered into the dark woods where we sat at the outskirts and peered into nothingness while we talked about the future and skirted around the unmentioned “us”. After that point I disavowed the flowers in your hair that only I could see, the halo of the things I saw in you that made me want to grip your hand and fly you to Vega by any means necessary. Stars and clouds and the smell of you floating all around me, the interstellar dust of your thoughts and breaths flooding mysteries into my lungs—all that has been reduced to ordinary, standard-issue city dirt. I refuse to romanticize things that has anything to do with you, now. The point in which our lives touched has long since gone by; I am running in circles around my small world, and you are the freight train of silence travelling in a ramrod-straight line that sped past my face and caressed my cheek so lightly, ever so lightly, and will never do it again. One could argue that as a continually-moving tangent (say, a train) then the line will forever have a point of contact with the circle, for as long as it runs and never ends. But the problem is, you are not endless. You will keep running, and someday, our point of contact—the amount of skin that I can feel, the very presence of you—will run out. That is an immutable truth. So, the moment I abandoned my fervent relationship with moonlight and oceans and stardust and forests, I grew up and braced myself for the day you would leave. I pulled out all my good teeth and replaced them with iron nails, I traded in my spine for a backboard of tin sheeting. I refuse to be moved by you anymore. My world will continue to turn without you and your romance. Whimsy is no longer a thing I need, and is indeed something I could do without, if I want to survive losing you. If I keep turning random flowers into poems then I might turn my wounds into stories, and if I do that I’ll forget that wounds get infected and stories aren’t always read by anyone.
muscle to muscle and toe to toe
the fear has gripped me but here I go
my heart sinks as I jump up
your hand grips hand as my eyes shut
please break my heart
please don’t go
I’ll eat you whole
I love you so
I love you so, I love you so