tomatomaria's new clothes

signing out (i guess)

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 20:43:38 +0800

i'm sick of this blog. seriously. i realized how much the other day when i tried rereading some of my entries all the way to stuff i posted early last year and i can't get over how pretentious and totally fake i sometimes sound. i know that some people have enjoyed visiting this site but i really can't appreciate some of the stuff that's here. i have always sort of stuck to my primary blogging principle: that i should enjoy what i write and should be able to stomach reading what i've written X years from the time they were posted. but i don't feel that way now. far from it, actually.

i think my problem, mainly, is that whenever i encounter/read the work of writers who are new to me, i try to gauge how i can incorporate his/her originality and freshness into my writing. and that's where the shit starts, i guess. i mean, i could remember what particular 'era' i was going through just by reading a few lines from previous posts. and that, for me, sucks, really. big time.

i guess i'm going to stop posting here for some time. unless i really have something important to say, that is. i want something more from myself, something real and new. i've actually tried going back to Blogger the other day but it just wasn't worth it. i guess i could look into LJ or WordPress or wherever. maybe i'd be staying with Vox still but will put up a different account instead.

i don't know what i would do at this point, really. all i know is enough is enough and the bullshit has to stop somewhere.

just let me know if you'd like to follow me to where i'm headed. send me a private message, please, and i'll get right back to you.

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The nightmare that is VistaMar

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 16:20:25 +0800

You can tell if someone's a beach person if:

S/he has already stocked up on good bathing suits by January.
S/he calls swimsuit store attendants by their first names and knows stuff about their personal lives.
When you mention a particular swimsuit cut, s/he'd say, "Oh, that's so 90's"
Her/His beach pictures on his/her social network sites are categorized and carefully labelled.

Happily, I'm not much of a beach person. I think there's too much pressure involved in trying to be one and is too hard on the wallet. I go to the beach only once or twice a year, preferrably with people whom I truly like and am comfortable enough to wear a swimsuit in front of.

****

Last weekend, we set off for VistaMar, which turned out to be this uber-crappy place. If you are someone who is intent on spending a weekend at any kind of beach, avoid VistaMar at ALL COSTS.

No experience is devoid of lessons that have to be learned and applied to similar circumstances that would present themselves in the future. Since we haven't experienced anything remotely close to the nightmare that is VistaMar, I've made a list of the things we have managed to glean from this outstandingly terrible experience so that you may learn from what we have lived through:

1. When booking a room in a resort of any kind, ask them if sand will be available for their viewing pleasure. If there is none, calmly put the receiver down and post disparaging remarks on their site to warn other people who might be inclined to take pictures in websites at face value.

2. When booking a room in a resort of any kind, ask them that if you get there on time, will they be able to get everything you need ready? Would they be able to check if the AC is working or if the bathroom door opens when you turn the knob, not 10 times, but once? If they are incapable of doing these deceptively simple tasks, drop the call.

3. Ask if the payment is refundable if you don't find things to your liking.

4. When they are not to your liking and one of your friends tells the attendant that all of you were disappointed, don't contest her. Support the statement by looking at the attendant wearing your best, least endearing "I'm so disgusted and I just can't hide it" facial expression.

5.Don't trust the attendant when she says all the other beaches in the area are crappier than the one you're in. She's just a bitter freak who doesn't know better. Look at where she's working.

6.If you've brought a car with you, remember that you brought it for a purpose. And that purpose is not to sit around in the sorriest place ever and gripe about your fate. You have brains. Use them and take your friends asses, and yours, elsewhere.

7.Chances are, if your dignity has been trampled on, it won't happen a second time if you're smart and you know what you're doing. Look around and find something better.

8.Chances are, the next place that you find will not be that great but it'll be loads better than the place you've just left.

9. Enjoy things at this point. Look at the kids playing on the beach. Take pictures. Soak up some sun. And don't forget that there will always be next year. Next year, things'll be better. Have fun with your brothers and sisters and be glad that you're together.

10.When booking a room in a resort of any kind, ask them if there are any nearby restaurants in that area. If there aren't, ask them if you can bring food in your rooms. Ask them three times and make sure that your voice is real loud. Take care to remember this equation: Crappy Resorts = Crappy Attendants and if the phone attendant is deaf, then your summer vaca is screwed.

11.Thank God for loving and understanding parents because without them, you'd be eating sardines out of a can when you're supposed to be eating salmon.

12.When the place you'd be going to is three hours away from your residence, be sure to bring people whom you genuinely enjoy being with. Don't take trips with virtual strangers, don't take trips with people you never would like. Otherwise, you'd end up sleeping the whole time and when you're 80, your summers will be a blur to you and you'll never believe how shitty your life has been.

13.When booking a room in a resort of any kind, tell the attendant that before you go and pay for the room, they should go and taste the water in the bathroom of the room that you'll be paying for. Once they've done that, ask him/her what the water tastes like. Remind them that you are interested in swimming in the ocean but swimming and bathing are two very, very different things. Tell them that you are not a turnip; you don't need seasoning.

14.Lastly, NEVER go to VISTAMAR. It sucks and if the people I've gone with sucked,too, then the experience would have been excruciatingly bad. Luckily, I was among friends and really, because they were there, it made everything seem bearable. Good, even.

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round robin

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 21:20:44 +0800

I'm supposed to do an article today. I've finished gathering data but I just can't seem to start it. It's an article; unlike Paolo Coelho novels, it's supposed to begin somewhere.

I guess I'm having a hard time with it because it's something that's assigned -- there's an or else attached to it. My primary excuse for this, erm, difficulty is that I've been so used to writing on my own accord for so long that I don't know how well I'd fare if I have to write about a certain topic that I would never have thought to write about in the first place.

(Notice that I'm italicizing some words? That means trouble for me, alright. I've never been much of an, uhm, italicizer.)

But this is really my chance to act on something that I've been harping on for a considerable amount of time. And that something is... I want the right to write where I'm working now. Since this the one thing that I believe I can do well, I'd like to be able to exercise it in a place where I spend most of my time in. If I get to write about those douchey resorts, I'll get a chance to write on a regular basis for our company newsletter. As unbelieveable as it may seem to those who know me well, that would matter a lot to me.

But for now, I'd have to relax, let it sink in that this is a topic that's interesting for most people. And I get to write about it. I still have 'til Friday anyway.

I don't like it when people say they need inspiration to write about something. This may sound uber-cheesy but look around you, really. Write about the old woman who is wearing a red bow on her hair. Write about the mismatched couple crossing the street. Write about what it might feel like to be a bird. Write about things that disgust you, things that make you close your eyes in astonishment. Write about a bad memory. Write about a revelation. There are so many things, so many ideas that you must have about life, about death, about being where you are. So when I hear about people not writing because they don't really feel inspired, I think That's the most astounding load of crap I've ever heard. Amazing, what most people lie about.

I promised The Griffin that I'd watch them and I did go last Friday. It was Timog's EP Launch Bamboozling Party, so of course, The Outlaws (that's The Griffin's band) were invited to play. Buboy's dad died that afternoon but all four them still decided to go.

As I was sitting there, I noticed that most of the people there belonged to the younger set -- 17 year old girls wearing tight blouses and the guys, their fit jeans. I believe that when I grow old, I won't have the slightest whisper of a promise of being cool. I think I'd ignore teenagers most of the time and will absolutely refuse to speak to them. I'll probably turn out to be one of those oldies who have generation-biases. Yuck.

I see this girl, she's maybe 20-something but has an IQ of a teapot, dancing next to the stage. She's dancing then screaming the next minute and acting all friendly with the guests like it was her party we all were gratefully attending.

She bothered me so much because at that moment, I knew that there were some people there who appreciated what she was doing, which actually refutes the reasons why I go to places like those instead of those bars in the Makati or Eastwood area because in the places we go to, at least there're people who are there primarily because of the music. (long running sentence, i know.) Next on the priority list would most probably be cheap, or if you're really lucky, free beer. And this girl really shovelled in the shit for me. Pretty soon, it seemed like all the girls were uncontrollably raucous and flirty. Shit.

I don't mean to sound like a grandma who has her bloomers stuck up her ass but truth is, I don’t like having to be brainless to party. I don’t like having to shout into people’s ears to give piddling commentary. I don’t like needing to be intimidatingly gorgeous to look like I belong even remotely. I don’t like having to prove to others that I’m ridiculously hot and you are sooooo freaking not.

When I couldn't take it anymore, I went out and stayed in the veranda-like area. A perfectly sane night, ruined by some upstart. Jesus. An hour later. the party was done and the boys drank their last bottles of beer and we went home.

So far, three people we know have died this year. Actually, that's two people and one dog. One was a friend of a close friend (drunk driving); Buboy's father (stroke/heart attack); and Didi, the dog. At the start of the year, an officemate told me that this year's going to be a bad one -- lots of heartache and sickness. And in a way, I sort of believe her.

I've never had a formal discussion with any of my parents about death. I also suspect that what they say in those American novels is not true -- no one actually sits down with a parent while s/he explains why people die. Here in the Philippines, when you belong to the middle-class, nothing about death, or love, or sex is fully explained to you. It happens, you have to process it then you have to accept it. It's way of life here --- accepting what is, remaining silent in the face of loss.

Sure, I probably asked my parents questions. Standard ones like: Why is he in a casket? Where did he go? Why is he pale? And they probably said something like , He went to heaven. We'll all go to Heaven,sooner or later. Followed by warnings and thinly veiled threats.

But no one explains it really. All we have are these answers but they aren't ever enough. They say if it happens, it happens. But who says when? And why does s/he know that the cup had already runneth over, that there is nothing else, nothing more than that moment when their bodies are emptied out. You see them and say, Yes, this is he. Yes, this is she. But it's not. It's not the person you kissed behind the kitchen curtain, not the person who used to read stories to you at night, not the person who said he would be going out for a walk. The blankness of not knowing sometimes translates to a certainty: I will not be able to see them again. This is what saddens me.

I want to let you know that I've never really considered this as home. I realize that never is a strong word, but when you end up losing most of what you have always known to be your life, you get to see the other places you stay in as temporary resting stops. You begin to believe that your life is a nomad's life, no one's but your own.

I've been living here for more than two years now and yet some days, I get anxious and feel like I am not for this place, that I am too lost for it. Despite everything, this is what I have felt. I hope you understand that certain circumstances have given way to my initial feeling of doubt and that first time when I ran away, I felt like it wouldn't be the last.

But that Friday, when the boys played and I saw you all there -- the drama of the day not far from your thoughts, I am sure, but also making itthe reason for doing this. Inspite of a loss, you celebrated what you had left. On stage, all of you were pure passion and something else that was familiar to me but I could not pinpoint. And then J said, This is for Tito Rey and I almost cried then because at that moment, I knew what it was that I found so hard to name at first: it was the sense of belonging and trust, so complete in itself that nothing could ever break it. For the first time, too, I realized that I was in that circle, that I belong to it. 'Tis a novel feeling, something rare and good and honest. And I have you to thank for it.

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beach weather

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 22:18:19 +0800

Her body has never been right for beach weather. At the first signs of summer rays, she tries to take a peak at herself in the mirror. It never seemed enough enough; it was not the same as any other girls'. It was always her own --everytime much too flabby or lonely-thin, not particularly good for anything because it was so different.

Her breats were bigger than anyone else's, her arms a bit on the packed side. Then her stomach, her one presentable physical trait, translated smoothly to her legs, which are short and have served their time. Her feet are too small. Her body was so different from most girls her age that she would stand in front of the mirror for hours at a time, turning left then right, always hoping for a miracle or maybe, a certain contentment, which was also a miracle of sorts, if you think about it.

*****

She became aware of her body when she turned 13. Her family went to the beach that day; it was her birthday. She wore a black one-piece, with a yellow bow cinched tightly around her waist. She saw a man standing next to the sari-sari store. She saw him and what he did -- how his intense gaze travelled from her face to her breasts to her tiny feet. That look amazed her and she never saw another one like it in all her life. For the first time, she was aware and was afraid of what the sight of her body might mean to other people.

*****

There was one thing that she liked about her body --- she never had body hair. When she grew older, she saw one or two short strands sticking out of an armpit but that was that. It saved Mother money on buying pink disposable razors or those creams that other girls at the school gym slathered on their legs after showers. She told her Mother about this and she said, "But you get books, which are more expensive. What d'ya have to brag about?"

At 13, her body seemed stiff, like an iron board. Not good for ballet (Mme Marie always shouted at her; her plies always seemed strangely crooked). Not good for sports (Coach Al kicked her in the shin once for not running fast enough). Not good for making out, even, as Ron, her first boyfriend, put it.

******

She was afraid to touch it for some reason. Touching it was dirty, said Mother. Touching it was a No-No.

Do you want San Isidro to visit you?

But mother, why would he visit me if he doesn't like what I'm doing?

Susmaryosep! You will be the death of me.

And she was her mother's death. She remembers crying softly over her mother's body, cold after just 15 minutes. Then the afternoon after the burial, she inspected herself in the large mirror left in her mother's room. It was May, beach season. Who will go with me now? she thinks. She looks out the window, then faces it, her freed breasts heaving quietly. There are no passersby outside; no one can see what she has become, what she has grown into.

She puts on a bathrobe, a red silk one with a large gold dragon painted on one side. It is almost midnight. She feels it now that she is alone -- another summer, ending.

******

Five years after her mother's death and after 124 inspections, she looks at herself again in the mirror. She is confused and more than a bit bothered about the changes she is witnessing. Her arms are bigger now and are sagging. They remind her of pillows, which are in essence shapeless, out of control. There are cellulite marks on her thighs. She has also developed a decided paunch, which became noticeable in those slim cream skirts she used to love wearing.

Disgusting! she says to herself. She wonders how she managed to retain the vocabulary of a 13 year old while her body is lost its feeling of wholeness. She thinks that it has been unfair to her all these years: as if the ripeness escaped her in a weak moment, or, in fact, has never been.

******

Last year was different, she said. Last year, I was ready for the beach. I bought a black malliot and walked by the beach. I picked at seashells. I talked to little children who were making sand castles. One of them even had a moat in his. I was in control then. I went to the gym regularly and ate little.

She thinks of doing this again, immediately fantasizing about next summer, when she would be all tan and slim. In pictures, she would be smiling that open-mouthed smile that models always have.

But she remembers that last year was no good. Late last year, she discovered that her husband was tarrying on with one of his secretaries. And he had to pick that slim one, the one who looked like a panther who never had a thing to eat. The girl and her husband were having an affair at about that time when she and her husband decided to take a trip to the beach. She remembers all of this, an ugly flashback.

Sometimes, she feels that her life is like the movies; that it is the movies.

******

There was someone who once said that he thought everything about her was beautiful. She wonders now who it was exactly. College boyfriend? The trapeze performer? The punk?

She never remembers because the words always seem to float in space; not an afterthought, this time. Important enough to forget completely.

******

There was never a time when she was beach ready. There was only that afternoon when she was 15, two years after her first brush with lust. Her mother was missing. Her father was in the cabana, sleeping. Same beach, different year.

It was afternoon, close to 3 o'clock. Her brother said, if you hold your palm up like this, it would almost look like you're holding the sun. She tries it. Her brother runs, gets their camera.

In the picture, she is looking at her palm. Her face looks so peaceful, the way dying people's faces are peaceful. In the picture, she is ready to fly away. The light in her small hand was not important. Her body was of no consequence, was not included in the frame. That moment, she was beyond what was physical, beyond everything that saddened her. For once, she is ready for the outrageouness of things -- the idea of heaven, love, the ritual shredding of girlhood, accidents, parachutes, kisses -- suspended between worlds and the orange blankness of the sky.

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Clumsy Guys

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 21:44:19 +0800

The woman is crying like a dragon because I am a poet. No

wonder. Poetry is a sacred machine, a lackey of

an unknown deity who is killing as if by conveyor

belt. How many times I'd be dead, if I hadn't kept cool, taken it easy and

been completely arrogant, so I can with my own instrument

blot my wings out. Fly, fly ahead, sacred

object, that's not me, I am reading

The Times and drinking coffee with workers in blue

coveralls. They too could easily kill themselves. They scribble on a piece of paper

I have been killed by too strong a word,

my vocabulary did this to me. So don't tell me those guys

aren't clumsy. You find them in all

professions. Any pedestrian can

kill himself if he doesn't know what

a crosswalk is.

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happiness is?

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 21:39:02 +0800

I suppose I should confess: there are things I know in myself that are involved in the way I feel about Rosealice. I understand about the typing, for example. It has always seemed to me that if I could find the one thing I liked, really liked, to do, then I would be happy. And I am clear on this: that the thing doesn't have to be big or important. What I envision when I think about this is building little houses out of toothpicks: I do not mean that I actually want to do this, I only mean that it would be alright to want to do this. There would be no moral lack involved in wanting to build little houses out of toothpicks instead of wanting, for example, to be a doctor or a politician -- just to pick out at random a couple of important ambitions. Other people can choose to be doctors; in my imagining, being a doctor would be every bit as good as building little houses out of toothpicks. But -- and this is the point-- it would be no better. There would be no value attached. Only happiness, if you could call that a value. Are you happy? would be the question. -- Marie Sheppard Williams, The Sun,The Rain

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a story in a story

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 21:21:52 +0800

I used to want you to write about me; the way you wrote about her. Story after poem after tidbit of useless adulation -- I wanted all of those. But I never told you this because if I had, I'd feel selfish and stupid and, of course, who would want to feel that, right?

When he came, he did what you never could. On buses, he would write excerpts from poems he loved or lines that he made up on neon-green post-its and stuck them all over the back of the seat in front of us. And he would say, here's your mirage. Years passed, he wrote a book. He said I was in it and sent me the first draft. I snuck a peek at it but that was all. It's funny how I never really felt anything, seeing myself on paper. I expected to feel elated, bowled over, amazed, loved. It's not everyday that you would seem worthy enough for published words. But all these emotions refused to kick in. It was as if someone had left the window open all night and the next morning, there's an undeniable draft stuck to my throat. That was what I felt like. Stuck.

You see, I never know what I want and never know how to react when I have it. I don't even know why it was so important to me that you write for me or about me. I don't know. Maybe I wanted to see if you valued me as much, if you knew me enough to paste my body smack dab in the middle of a poem.

Last night, I read a short story entitled The Writer's Model by Molly Giles. It was about, well, a model who answered an ad posted by a group of writers. When she went to the place that was indicated in the ad, she saw that all the writers were men and they asked her the kind of questions that men are expected to ask. Questions like: How do you feel about your underpants? and Does size matter? Most were physical questions and the men didn't really care about things like menstruation or childbirth. And while they asked her those questions, they wrote on their small notebooks. They smelled her perfume and looked through her purse.

And sometimes, they would ask her situational questions, which was actually like being in a story already. And she would answer them honestly. The model narrates that the toughest part was during Free Form time, when she was permitted to talk about anything that affected her that day. But the writers got bored and yawned a lot or sometimes, they released the dogs they brought along with them, which, of course, frightened her. But she "fought the temptation to start making things up." And one of the most memorable lines in that short popped up:

"If I'm not careful, I thought in a panic, I will turn into a writer myself."

Then eventually, she grew tired. Gave up. She managed to venture into a lot of different vocations. Then one day, a space ship landed on her backyard. A Martian stepped out and said he "came a long way to study someone like her." She picked up her shot gun and told the Martian,

"Some things can't be studied, and there is no one like me."

I have mulled over this story this morning, remembering some parts and laughing at how ridiculous I suddenly seemed to myself. I'm happy now that you never wrote about me. I see your truth. I'd like to think that when it comes to me, your mind doesn't automatically go into 'artist mode'. This is because you see me more as a whole person, better yet, as someone real -- with real dreams and sentiments. You see my face but it's a face that you can't really write about or fully describe. A kiss from me is not the stuff of dreams but is wet and sloppy at times. My tears are not waves, no longer mysterious. This is my hand and that is my foot. Strangely, those facts are enough.

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Darkling,

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 11:28:24 +0800

When I saw you yesterday, all manner of expression eluded me. I could hardly believe it when they mentioned it: you are from the city I so love, the city that I have and will always call home. I could imagine you roaming those sultry streets. You, browsing a songbook bought from ROEX (our only local music store); you, walking home and being kicked by one of the city's many homeless children, foaming at the mouth with undescribable hunger; you, sitting on one of the plastic green benches in the Rizal Park, staring with innocent wonder at the fishball vendor who can't seem to stop picking his nose.

How poignant and raucous your thoughts might have been, growing up in that still and silent town. In my mind's eye, I see you as a student, your fertile grey matter being further influenced and molded by our city teachers who have been faithful to their singular vision inspite of knowing, KNOWING that they will not be accepted by schools anywhere in the world. The city streets made you. The air that wafts to and from every karinderya made you. Don't ever forget, my lord, your humble beginnings.

Oh, for a whiff of your seemingly sweet breath. It is hard for me to think of your singing mouth. Oh, your mouth! You --my world, my life -- must have tasted the sticky, sickly buns, always served cold from Gemini Bakery. How you could've shovelled that sweetness into your cavernous mouth-- it is a kind of beauty that I can only surmise. For a taste of your sweet lips, I would move heaven and earth.

My words are nothing next to your immensity,your sheer talent. I am crushed by the simplicity and truth-- yes, my love, THE PURITY-- of that immensely intelligent song.

How can fate be so cruel as to not let our paths cross. We are worlds apart, I know. You are of Hades and I am of the Netherworld. If ever you chance upon this insignificant piece of cyberspace, I beseech you... send me a private message. Then, and only then, will I believe in the hands of fate.

But for now, my sadness would only be eased by posting a video of you. Forgive my audacity. However you deny it, both of us know that your genius must be shown to the world:

Mukha Kang Sofa

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no cinderella

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 20:32:04 +0800

Two weeks ago, M and I got the idea that in order for you not to be left by anyone, you should render yourself indispensible in that particular person's life. Indispensible meaning: you have to make an irreversible mark on almost every aspect of that person's life. This idea was inspired by one of our friends who so loved the mussels M's mother baked that he professed that if he had a wife who cooked like that, he'd never leave her.

I've always believed that to keep a relationship healthy, you have to do away with certain role-assignations. We are, after all, living in a century where husbands cook and look after the kids while the wives go faithfully to their 8-5 jobs everyday. This is not an uncommon set-up and in fact, most of us would, in all honesty, like to uphold this particular way of thinking.

But let's face it: the people we'll be marrying would most likely come from families who are basically traditional, religious, and normal. Unless you'd be marrying a man or a woman who have been raised by colorros, you'd still have to practice certain norms.

My problem with this whole thing is: I was not raised to live a life of domesticity. Since I was brought up mouthing our only coherent family principle, which is Learn by Example, I could not find anyone reliable enough to look to regarding house-keeping matters because we always had a maid and my parents were too busy with their lofty activities to keep up with the rest of the floor-sweeping world.

Ergo, if there was a course called Normal Things That Girls Should Need To Know How To Do Or Else, there is no doubt in my mind that I would fail it wonderfully. On purpose.

I do not know how to do the following properly:

a) Wash clothes

Now I'm not a complete doofus. I know that coloreds go with coloreds and the whole 'do not yoke with whites doth which are not whites" laundry rules. What I don't know is how to properly scrub them. I had a housemate in college who once chanced upon me washing my underwear. She just sort of stood there and watched me, said "That's not the way to do it," then walked away. Since I've never had any discussions with anyone about my laundry habits, I've never really known what she meant. So if washing machines are out of the budget, I'm dead.

b) Cooking

Here's my personal calvary, my irredeemable waterloo. I don't know how to cook. I only know how to cook rice using a rice cooker. I don't know how to make things more edible, thus easier, for anyone's hunger pangs.

Again, another college boo-hoo: My roomate caught me making ready-to-cook Pancit Canton and laughed at me because the water in the pot that I was boiling was fit to make soup for an entire basketball team.

She likes telling that story, by the way.

c) Other Woman-Of-The-House Activities

I can make coffee but if I'm tired and feel like adopting my infamous log-scene-from-all-log-scenes pose, I can do absolutely nothing for you. I can't tie a tie or a bow tie. I can't press dress shirts. I can't give a satisfactory massage. (I'm just a glutton for negativity, aren't I?)

*****

Day 1: Project As-Domestic-As-I-Can-Friggin'-Get

So, this morning, I tried to bleach his white shirts, arrange his shirts in the closet, clean our room, sweep the living room floor. I managed to do the floors and the room but I just quit with the shirts. Just the mere idea of doing the bleaching and the organizing bamboozled me. I just could not find it in myself to be anything that would resemble anyone who would be a danged pleasure to live with.

So there. I quit the audition for normalcy. I quit bleaching white shirts. I quit the Find-The-Right-Tablecloth-For-Your-Unattractive-Table competition. I quit trying to know how to properly knot a tie. I quit thinking about how to make Sinangag taste just right. I quit.

Today I realized

that even if I tried, I would not be able to do all the things that would be expected of me, if I were to turn into a wife. There are some people who are cut for some tasks and I'd have to confess that I am not. Maybe this is the defeatist in me; maybe it's my inherent laziness, rearing its ever-present head. But really, if I can't do it, I won't. I will never try to be somebody I am not. If there are people out there who are happy doing those things, well, good for them. I guess I'm just too old and too cranky to do anything that might be against the way I normally operate.

But don't worry your sweet little head, I'll find other ways to make myself indispensible to you. And if I do, it'll be something with much more character than just getting the sheets clean.

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exercise #25

nobody@vox.com(tomatomaria) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 22:02:12 +0800

half the time, i fall in love with women. during those hours, i realize that they are so much more interesting than men. every woman seems to emanate mystery; especially when she is quiet, when you can't tell whether she is happy or sad. women have a look about them that makes you think of something soft and kind of blurry around the edges. this gives them an elusive air, both transient and unforgiving. makes them seem like they're the ones who are hard to hold on to; hard to keep.

****

today, i watched a woman cross the street. i could not help but notice the way her shoulders slumped a bit and her dress just sort of hung onto her body like a tired, sleepy child. her ankles were showing and they were very pale.

****

when women love, it is with a wholeness that is beautiful. see her stir her lover's coffee, a smile playing on her face once in a while. see her reading a book -- she bites her lip between sentences. when she sleeps, her left hand is nowhere near her body but is shot outward. it's almost as if she's reaching for something. she is.

****

it is a secret how women know when to love or move away. some do not admit to this; thus, the hurt. but we do know the exact moment a lover decides to turn away forever, or when the weather in his heart changes, or when a child learns that growing up is everything.

****

inspite of all logic, i still fall in love with men. or, more specifically, with one man. i love him even if i know that the sinews of his body hold no honesty. when he tilts his head to listen, i know it is not me he hears but maybe, the ocean, always something unreachable.

when he takes me in his arms, a home forms in that small space our bodies occupy. and it is different from the home i know that is inside me; far simpler than the secrets hiding between my legs, the outrageous twists of my wanting.

but this, with him, makes me feel final and whole. which is the greatest deception, really, because the real curse is that he can never belong to me, nor to anyone else, for that matter. none of us can ever keep any one of them --inspite of the shared fruit, the sudden fall.

such is the rule of the world.

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